‘She is insufferable, is she not? What odds she spends the morning telling us how her days were spent “at the Hub of Society”.’ Celia was a good mimic, and pitched her voice just slightly off key.
Sarah laughed.
‘I could not tell,’ continued Celia, ‘whether she was unable to see that she set up people’s backs, or whether she knew and enjoyed doing so. To be fair to Mama, she knows Lady Darwen, who is a pleasant enough lady, but the Awful Lavinia has not been encountered since she came out. I am sure Mama had hoped for an improvement and regrets her invitation.’
‘Probably, but …’
‘But what, Sarah?’ Sarah coloured. Celia thanked Horley, her maid, and dismissed her. ‘Tell me.’
‘Do not think I am not very grateful for the invitation here, Cousin Celia, but I am very obviously here to make up the numbers for dinner and such, whilst not in any way drawing attention. I would guess Lady Mardham selected Miss Darwen for the same reason, since she clearly did not “take” during the Season. In that way she is the ideal guest. Unfortunately, in all others she is simply ghastly.’
‘Oh dear. I fear you may be right, Sarah.’ Celia was again made aware that Sarah Clandon was no fool. ‘That is just how Mama would have planned it. She was certainly disappointed when she saw how very beautiful Marianne is become.’ Celia sighed. ‘This whole party was designed to show me off, as though any man in possession of his wits would look twice at me. It is embarrassing.’
‘I do not see why they should not.’ Sarah was pragmatic. ‘You are very pretty.’
‘And very lame. What man would want to marry a girl who cannot dance, cannot even be a châtelaine capable of walking round his house with the housekeeper?’
‘A man who sets greater store by who you are than how you look.’
‘Oh Sarah. I should have you with me always to stop me wallowing in self-pity. Now, let us go down and be admired forthwith.’ Celia stuck her chin in the air with a look as ridiculously haughty as Miss Darwen’s, but ruined the effect by giggling.
*
They arrived in the hall just as the fishing party left the breakfast parlour. Richard Mardham came and gave his sister a brotherly hug, and told her he would catch her a lively brown trout for her luncheon.
‘I am all anticipation, brother-dear. How shall I pass the morning other than by day-dreaming about fish?’
‘If you are rude, miss, I shall give my catch to Cousin Sarah.’
Sarah murmured that she very much enjoyed fresh fish.
‘Of course, if we are successful, Miss Clandon, you may be faced with eating fish at every meal for the next three days,’ remarked Lord Levedale, drily.
‘Trout fillet, trout pâté, trout, er, soup?’ Celia suggested.
‘Exactly, Miss Mardham.’
‘Well, I draw the line at trout sorbet.’ Celia pulled a face.
‘I should jolly well think so,’ declared Lord Deben. ‘Only a really “odd fish” would like that, eh. Mind you, I had an uncle whose favourite dish was lampreys. Revolting! Er, the fish, not the uncle, you understand. My Mother said the cook nearly resigned when asked to prepare them.’
‘I think some king died from eating lampreys.’ Lord Pocklington frowned, dredging up this fact from the recesses of his memory.
‘Not surprised. Did not kill my uncle though. Influenza did for him.’
Lord Levedale’s lips twitched, as much from the expression on the faces of the two young ladies as from Deben’s diversion on his relative. Miss Mardham’s lips were compressed, and her eyes danced. Miss Clandon looked amused but indulgent.
Mr Mardham, slightly shocked at Lord Pocklington exhibiting a knowledge of history, recommended that the gentlemen be upon their way, and the two ladies wished them ‘good hunting’, although Celia murmured that ‘hunting fish’ sounded most irregular, and rather primaeval. The ladies entered the breakfast parlour, and Celia’s appetite dwindled instantly, for it was occupied by Miss Darwen and Sir Marcus Cotgrave. Miss Darwen smiled at the new arrivals.
‘Ah, there you are at last. I was saying to Sir Marcus that so few ladies have the ability to rise from their beds with any degree of celerity, although of course, you do have a reasonable excuse, Miss Mardham.’
The smile lengthened. In one succinct sentence she had accused Miss Clandon of sloth, and highlighted Miss Mardham’s disability. It did not, however, have quite the result she was expecting from Sir Marcus Cotgrave.
‘It is very courageous of you to come downstairs so early in the day, Miss Mardham. Do you perhaps take a rest in the afternoons?’ He gave her a look which combined solicitousness and unwelcome admiration.
‘Courageous? I hardly think the term applicable, Sir Marcus. I am not suffering from some debilitating disease which curtails my strength. I shall not faint from exhaustion because I rose before nine of the clock, and I most certainly shall not need to recline for the afternoon to restore myself for the evening.’
He looked relieved, and yet, she thought, vaguely disappointed. It struck her that he wished to see her as unbelievably fragile so that he might control her every moment in a cloying despotism. Perhaps his late wife had come to depend upon him so greatly that recreating that situation made him feel at ease. It did not appeal to Celia in any way at all.
‘Being “brave” is not a ladylike attribute,’ asserted Miss Darwen. ‘A degree of stoicism is to be admired in the face of adversity, but an active bravery, as opposed to the passive form, smacks of hoydenism. It is the prerequisite of the male to show courage and protect ‘the weaker vessel’.’
‘My choice of words might have been unfortunate, ma’am,’ conceded Sir Marcus, though without conviction, and Celia despised him the more for not standing up for himself. Miss Darwen accepted his surrender with a gracious inclination of the head.
‘Are you not fishing with the other gentlemen, sir?’ enquired Miss Clandon, seeking to divert the topic.
‘I enjoy fishing, Miss Clandon, but in peace and solitude. The “young bucks”,’ and he smiled in an avuncular fashion, ‘would not find me good company, nor I be happy amongst them. I am thus at the disposal of you ladies, to direct upon any quest that might assist you.’
‘What a pity dragons are completely extinct in Gloucestershire, Sir Marcus.’ Celia could not resist picking upon his offer, ‘for a “quest” for a missing volume of a novel, or a skein of silk that has slipped within the depths of a sofa, sounds so terribly mundane.’
‘Dragons are a complete fabrication, you know.’ Miss Darwen commented, as though Celia thought that dragons might still linger in far flung shires such as Yorkshire. ‘One hears of large bones being found in rocks, but I give no credence to it, for it makes no sense. How could a bone get inside a rock?’
There being no obvious answer to this conundrum, the other three persons gave no reply, and Miss Darwen was contented.
It was at this juncture that Miss Burton entered, her smile sunny, her attitude one ready to be pleased, at total variance to Miss Darwen.
‘I do hope I am not too late to breakfast,’ she said, eyeing the table. ‘I am such a sleepy-head as a rule, but this morning I rose betimes and have been writing to my Papa.’
‘The cupboard is not, Miss Burton, bare.’ Sir Marcus indicated the sideboard with a ponderous flourish.
‘Oh good. Have we a plan for the morning? It is such a lovely day we are surely not to be cooped up indoors?’
‘The weather is decidedly clement. We might take a turn about the gardens and then essay a little sketching, if there are materials enough for everyone.’ Miss Darwen saw herself as the senior young lady, and thus in charge, regardless of the fact that it was neither her house, nor her gardens, and she was the guest.
‘But Celia …’ Marianne Burton glanced at her former schoolfriend, ‘… you will not be able to come with us.’
‘Has Miss Mardham a conveyance, a Bath chair or some such?’ Sir Marcus looked about him as if one might be concealed in the breakfa
st parlour. ‘I am perfectly happy to offer my services to push, rather than utilise a servant.’
Celia did possess a Bath chair, which had its uses, but was remarkably uncomfortable to sit in for any length of time, and was very bumpy when moving. It was used sparingly.
‘If you cannot come out with us it will spoil our morning,’ sighed Marianne, as Celia wondered if she might deny any method of getting about the gardens.
‘There is a Bath chair, but I would prefer simply to take my time walking to the end of the terrace, and set up my sketching materials ready for when you return. You must remember that the gardens are familiar to me, and not to you. Should you find any particularly fine specimens of flowers or leaves which we might draw, then bring them back to me.’
‘That sounds an excellent scheme.’ Sir Marcus was contemplating not having to entertain the other young ladies and devoting himself to Miss Mardham. ‘I shall give you my arm and carry your pencils, and remain with you, Miss Mardham, to fetch anything you might have forgotten.’
Celia’s heart sank, but Marianne beamed at her with such unaffected delight that she felt guilty for wishing she might take back her suggestion.
*
By the time the trio of young ladies joined Celia beneath the spreading boughs of a beech at the end of the terrace, half an hour later, Celia could have cheerfully requested that the attending footman should strangle her unwanted companion.
Instead of letting her walk with her stick at her own pace, he had taken it from her, with a tolerant smile, telling her that his arm was far more secure. He had then not so much walked as crept along the path at a pace which left Celia convinced they had been overtaken by a snail, and which she actually found more awkward, since his crooked arm was not at the level she could lean upon with any ease. When they reached the shade of the trees, where the footman had been instructed to place a seat and some chairs, he almost pushed her onto the seat, where he could sit comfortably next to her, or rather uncomfortably, as she saw it. He then went back himself to bring sketching books and pencils, and set them upon the small table.
‘You see, Miss Mardham, I know just what you require, since my dear Clarissa had just such equipment for her artistry. Myself, I was never adroit with pencil or brush, but they are accomplishments which young ladies study, are they not, and so I was forgiven. My own accomplishment was, and is, an ability to recite verse.’
To Celia’s utmost horror, he then proceeded to recite stanza upon stanza of Alexander Pope in a dull voice which was not a monotone, but managed to give stresses in the most unexpected places which ruined any rhythm in the verse. He was still droning on as the other girls drew near.
‘Ah, Pope!’ declared Miss Darwen, ‘Eloisa to Abelard, is it not? I prefer his Ode on the Spring. ‘Lo! Where the rosy-bosomed Hours, Fair Venus’ train appear, Disclose the long-expected flowers, And wake the purple year!’’
‘But that is Thomas Grey,’ murmured Miss Burton.
‘Oh no, you are wrong. It is Alexander Pope.’ Miss Darwen shook her head at Marianne Burton, secure in the knowledge that what she thought was always so, and that Miss Burton was an empty-headed doll.
‘I am sure it is Grey.’ Miss Burton did not back down, although her voice had a trace of doubt which made Miss Darwen smile.
‘You may be sure that I am—’
‘You know, it is Grey, ma’am.’ Sir Marcus, frowning in concentration as he attempted to recall the poem, did not see that Miss Darwen would brook no opposition.
‘Are you telling me that I am wrong, Sir Marcus?’ Miss Darwen looked at him as if his temerity was boundless.
‘I think I would rather say “mistaken”, ma’am.’ Sir Marcus gave her one of his rather patronising and paternal smiles. Whilst Celia had curbed any response upon receipt of one, Miss Darwen pursed her lips and gave him a stare that had wilted stronger men. He wavered. He was sure that he was correct, but this frightening young woman unmanned him. His smile faded. ‘However, I make no claim to being always correct.’
Miss Darwen took this as surrender. Celia, meanwhile, had spoken quietly to the footman, who absented himself, and returned a few minutes later with a slim leather-bound volume, and presented it to her with a bow.
‘Thank you, Joseph.’ Celia opened the book. ‘I think this ought to be easy to resolve. Yes, here we are. Ode on the Spring. This, by the by, is a book of the poems of Thomas Grey.’ She spoke sweetly, and placed the book upon the table in front of Miss Darwen. Sir Marcus gave her a look of profound gratitude, which she did not want, but Miss Darwen gazed at it as if it were a poisoned chalice, and then glared at Celia.
‘It is the height of rudeness to place a guest in the wrong.’
‘But I have placed a guest in the right, have I not, Sir Marcus?’
Sir Marcus made an indeterminate noise which he hoped would appease both ladies, and showed him as lily-livered to each.
‘I have brought yarrow and bear’s breeches to draw,’ announced Miss Clandon, in an attempt to change the subject.
‘Those are the common names,’ responded Miss Darwen. ‘You mean achillea and aconitum.’
‘Acanthus,’ mouthed Celia, whilst Miss Darwen was staring at Miss Clandon, and grinned. Sarah Clandon kept a straight face, but it was a struggle.
The ladies began to draw, and Sir Marcus, not daring to spout more poetry lest Miss Darwen begin another onslaught, felt superfluous. He sat, making the occasional comment comparing his late wife’s style with Miss Mardham’s, but was clearly out of place. Had there been but Celia, her cousin, and her friend, the morning would have been spent in light-hearted chatter, and been most enjoyable. As it was, it was dominated by Miss Darwen instructing them upon how they might improve their work, though she kept her own at an angle where it was not easily seen by her companions. It was with no small degree of relief that Celia finally announced that it must surely be time for luncheon, and they ought to go and see if there was fresh fish upon the table.
Chapter 6
In fact the fishermen did not arrive back at the house until mid-afternoon, though bearing a good display of trout, which was to be sent down to the kitchens. Lord Pocklington had caught the heaviest, and Mr Mardham had caught the greatest number. Lord Levedale claimed to have ‘let a few escape’ so that the ladies would be spared the trout sorbet, which made Miss Burton giggle.
‘But we may ask the other gentlemen whether these escapes took place before or after the number of fish caught reached a reasonable number, my lord.’ Celia smiled at him, and he felt his stomach give a little flip. He smiled back, instinctively.
‘What’s that?’ demanded Richard Mardham, who had been attending more to Lord Deben’s description to Miss Clandon of a particularly long ‘fight’ on his line.
‘Did Lord Levedale permit any of the fish that took his hook to escape before you all had a fine catch, Richard?’
‘I don’t know about that so much, Celia, but there was a brute of a fish quite early on, on the first beat we tried. It must have been at least six pounds, but he got away just before he was landed.’
‘He would have been tough,’ declared Lord Levedale, with a nonchalant gesture, but his eyes were dancing, ‘and there must have been a hole in the net.’
‘A net without holes, sir, is not a net,’ riposted Celia, with a prim smile.
He grimaced, acknowledging the hit. Just for a moment he forgot anyone else was in the room.
‘Pedant,’ he murmured, appreciatively.
Celia’s smile came very close to a grin, and then, suddenly, she looked startled, and blushed. Her heart was beating far faster than it ought. She looked away.
‘Would someone kindly remove these dead creatures before I have to leave the room?’ Miss Darwen pulled a face.
‘Almost a reason to keep them here,’ muttered Celia, under her breath, and Lord Levedale, who caught her words, frowned. He wondered what Miss Darwen had done to upset her.
‘At least Levedale caught only trout,�
�� disclosed Lord Pocklington, ignoring Miss Darwen. ‘Deben here pulled something devilish ugly out of the river.’
Lord Deben covered his face with his hands in mock horror.
‘The shame of it. I had hoped you would keep that secret, Pocklington.’ He lowered his hands, revealing a rueful countenance. ‘I dare not even describe the thing in front of ladies.’
‘It was a fish though, my lord?’ Sarah Clandon had been largely silent, but was curious.
‘It had a head, tail, gills and fins, and it swam, so I suppose it counted as a fish, Miss Clandon, but not one I would care to eat, or indeed meet again.’
‘Was it huge?’ Miss Burton shuddered.
‘Oh no, no more than about six inches long, but its head was too big for its body and—’
‘You said you would not describe it in front of ladies, sir,’ Miss Clandon reminded him, with a soft smile.
‘Oh Lord, so I did, My apologies. Shows just how much it cuts one up, catching a thing like that.’
‘Deben is talking about a bullhead, Celia. Remember when you came with me once, years back, and I got one on my line? You screamed for ages.’
‘I recall the incident distinctly. I was, I hasten to say, but ten years old, and my wicked older brother here, tried to drop it down my neck.’ Celia did not wish to appear too pusillanimous.
‘You did not, did you, Mardham? Dashed unpleasant thing to do.’ Deben shook a finger at his friend, but was grinning.
‘My little sister.’ Richard Mardham shrugged, as if that were reason enough.
‘My brother Bovington once put a spider in my bed. He was berated most vehemently for it.’ Miss Darwen disliked being on the periphery of conversation, and her mouth opened to continue.
‘I never possessed a sister,’ Lord Levedale interjected. ‘Tell me, Mardham, are there open and closed seasons on baiting them?’
‘Oh, there was never a closed season, Levedale, and they rise to almost any bait you care to use.’ Brother looked at sister, and grinned, mischievously.
‘Unfair,’ declared Celia, ‘and do not think I was in every case the victim. One night Richard put a sheet over his head and came to my bedchamber making frightful ghostly noises. It gave me a terrible fright, and I threw the water glass from on top of my nightstand at him.’
Bless Thine Inheritance Page 6