The silence was amicable, but eventually Miss Clandon set aside the pen, and folded the letter.
‘There. Lord Mardham has offered to frank it for me, and it will soon be on its way to Spain. I worry about my brother very much, though I know that it is pointless. I am so very conscious that news is tardy. I am writing to him today, but perhaps he was in battle three days since and …’ She bit her lip.
‘If you are close, might I suggest that somehow you would sense if anything … untoward had happened to him, Miss Clandon.’ Lord Deben was unsure if this was possible, but it was the best he could offer in solace.
‘Perhaps. It is foolish of me to have such a feeling, let alone admit it out loud.’ She sighed.
‘I think it not at all foolish, and can only say that I feel honoured that you have made me privy to it. I shall not breath a word to anyone about it, I promise you.’ He felt the mood was too sombre and serious, and suggested that they ought to join the other members of the party, in case their joint absence occasioned remark. In order to prevent any scandalous thoughts, he opened the door for her, and did not follow until he had counted to forty, which seemed a decent number.
*
Since the morning was inclement, and the gentlemen had no inclination to go out in the rain, everyone was confined within doors. Marianne was sorting out skeins of muddled silks for Lady Mardham, and Miss Darwen was expounding upon the efficacy of crushed cucumber for the complexion. Celia was sat with a book, but could not read it in peace. Her mama and Lady Corfemullen were nearest to the fire, which cheered an otherwise damp, grey morning.
Sarah Clandon entered, which gave Miss Darwen pause for but a moment before she continued her lecture, for that is how it sounded, and smiled at Marianne, surrounded by knots of colour. She offered to help, and had just sat down when Lord Deben entered, and found no other gentlemen to be present.
‘Oh,’ he exclaimed.
‘My brother and Lord Pocklington have gone to play a game of billiards, my lord, if you seek them,’ offered Celia, looking up from her book.
‘Thank you, Miss Mardham.’ There was relief in his voice, and he withdrew with a brief bow to the company of ladies.
He found his two friends, and also Mr Wombwell, who, since he no longer desired to flirt with Miss Burton, had no entertainment on offer among the ladies. He did not look very interested in the game, nor was he included in the conversation, which centred around Lord Pocklington’s newly redecorated hunting box in Leicestershire. Lord Pocklington looked up from his shot as Lord Deben entered, and enquired where he had been hiding.
‘Got lost,’ lied Lord Deben, determined not to reveal he had been in the same room alone with Miss Clandon.
‘Lost? Here? Good Lord, Debs, do you need a map?’ Richard Mardham was incredulous.
‘Well, I got lost to begin with, and then I … er, got to looking at your family portraits. There are some very pretty women among them, but a couple of very rum-looking chaps in breastplates. They did not look at all clubbable.’ Deben was thinking of one particular painting he had noticed about the house.
‘”Clubbable”? I should say not. That was probably Sir Rufus Mardham or his son, Edward. They sided with Cromwell in the Civil War, and by all accounts were the most miserable types, who disapproved of dancing, and sang psalms a lot. I really ought to apologise for them.’
‘No point in apologising for dead ancestors,’ remarked Lord Pocklington, sensibly. ‘Live ones are a different matter. I have an uncle, and Mama is always apologising for him. Cannot take his wine, and always falls asleep under the table after the first bottle. Snores too. She tried not inviting him, but he is her only remaining brother, so it became difficult.’
The conversation broadened to embarrassing incidents the young gentlemen had witnessed, and Mr Wombwell stalked out.
‘Well done, Debs,’ declared Mr Mardham, laughing. ‘We could not ask him to leave, but all he did was stand there and look down his nose at us. Most off-putting it was. I am sure I missed a cannon because of him.’
*
Mr Wombwell was beginning to wish he had not accompanied his mama to Meysey, for all the advantages of eluding his creditors. The other men were not of his set, and the women could be of no interest to him. He had no great love of shooting or fishing, and the rain pattering down the window panes echoed his mood. He met Lord Mardham emerging from his book room. Lord Mardham did not like his guests to look dismal.
‘What is the matter, Wombwell? You look as if you had dropped a guinea and picked up a farthing.’
‘I … dislike the rain, my lord. It depresses spirits.’ Mr Wombwell did look suitably depressed.
‘Well, do not look at it. Here we are with pretty girls in the house, and Miss Burton worth a tidy sum at that, and you are looking miserable? I thought you quite a hit with her the other night.’ Lord Mardham, in total ignorance of his lady’s machinations, simply sought to make his guest the happier.
‘Tidy sum?’ Mr Wombwell raised an eyebrow, and something in his look made Lord Mardham suddenly wary.
‘Well, you know, she is not some penniless orphan upon whom we have taken pity.’ Lord Mardham appeared a little flustered, and Mr Wombwell could see he was back-tracking.
‘Ah, I see.’ He saw far more than Lord Mardham would have liked, and resolved to find out more. Miss Burton had become unworthy of his attentions by her birth, but a sufficient financial inducement could see him overcome his scruples, most unscrupulously.
*
Miss Burton herself had by this time ceased untangling threads, having been handed a letter from her father. Excusing herself, she went to sit in the window seat and read the paternal missive.
My Darling Girl,
I received your letter and was delighted to hear that you have settled in well with Lord and Lady Mardham. I know that you will conduct yourself with propriety and do your old Papa proud.
Actually seeing how ‘showing off’ gewgaws is detrimental is far better than merely being told about them, and to find that it can happen amongst the most well-bred young women should be a salutary reminder. You will never fall into that error, not that I thought it very likely, for you were ever a good and obedient girl. Far better to wear a little and of the best quality than festoon oneself with trumpery, like an over-decorated mantelshelf.
Marianne giggled, imagining Miss Darwen as a mantelshelf. At least if she were, she would be silent.
What you say about poor Miss Mardham is distressing, for I know you hold her in affection and have a soft and kind heart. Since, however, she is being strong, so too must you be strong, and remember that however calamitous her accident, it did not, thank the Heavens, prove fatal.
Sir Thomas had taken some time considering his next words.
This Mr Wombwell, whom I discover from consulting with Sir Hamilton Tyne, is a connection of the Dukes of Bedford, has, my dear, somewhat of a reputation, and not a good one. His habit is to single out innocent young ladies, and try to make them fall enamoured of him, whereupon he casts them aside. It is distasteful for me to have to warn you, my Child, but be very cautious how you take what he says to you. A man of sweet words need not be one of sweet nature.
Of the other gentlemen you mentioned, I cannot say that I know much, except that Lord Levedale is reputed to be a steady young man, not given to excesses, and is the heir to the Earl of Curborough.
Saying any more looked a little as if he were pushing the viscount at her, and Sir Thomas hoped that singling him out in a mild way might show Marianne that here at least was a gentleman she might encourage in a modest manner. Sir Thomas felt a little aggrieved that the Mardhams had invited a man who was, to put no finer point upon it, a rackety rake, to stay with them whilst his Innocent Lamb was in residence. Since Marianne was so beautiful she was the most likely to receive Wombwell’s dangerous attentions. Sir Hamilton Tyne had not minced his words, and given such a lurid account of the man’s seductions, and reports of his deceptive good looks, that
Sir Thomas had suffered a most dyspeptic night and in the small hours had even contemplated setting off next day to rescue his only child from Meysey.
The morning had brought calm good sense, and so Sir Thomas restrained his paternal impulses, and restricted himself to a letter. Sir Thomas sighed. He missed his daughter’s presence in his house, and although he was keen to promote her achieving a good marriage, he secretly wished that the event might not take place in the too near future.
For myself, I have been taking lessons from Preston, the gamekeeper, and can report that not only have I not shot any person, but that I brought down a woodpigeon on the day of your departure. Your Papa will never be an outstanding shot, but it is to be hoped he will not disgrace you, and may even be bringing pheasants home from the shoots. I know that roasted pheasant is a favourite of yours.
Enjoy your visit to Meysey, my dear Child, and do not forget your Papa at home. I await your next letter with interest.
Your ever loving,
Papa
Marianne hugged the letter to her bosom. She was not only a dutiful daughter, but close to her sire, and although she had got used to being apart from him during her schooling, she did not like to think of him rattling about their house on his own. His warning upon Mr Wombwell was timely. Marianne was very inexperienced, and Mr Wombwell made a girl feel very honoured when he sat and talked with her. At the same time there was something about him which Marianne could not describe, but it had tempered her liking of him. He was most entertaining, and of course a very dashing man of the world, but once or twice she had seen something in his expression which almost frightened her. That he had dropped her the past two evenings had been a mixture of regret and relief. Lord Levedale, who had for the most part replaced him in entertaining her, was far less intense or – she had no other word for it – predatory.
‘I will be careful, Papa,’ she whispered to the letter.
*
There was another letter delivered from father to progeny, and this one was received with far less pleasure. Lord Levedale had groaned inwardly when he recognised his father’s angular hand upon the direction, and gone to his bedchamber to read it in private, fearing that his face may betray his emotions as he read the contents. It was also a away of avoiding Miss Darwen, who seemed to appear out of the woodwork wherever he went in the house, like some malevolent spirit, ready to talk at him, and, even, which was far worse, simper.
As he set his foot upon the first stair he heard the rustle of skirts and winced, but then came the tap of a stick, and he turned with relief. Celia was shutting the door of the yellow saloon behind her. Her brows were slightly drawn together.
‘Miss Mardham, are you in some discomfort? I ask because my groom broke his arm a few years ago, and he says it aches when the weather turns damp.’
‘I confess that it is not the best weather for me,’ she admitted, ‘but if I am honest, the main reason for my poor humour is not an aching bone, but a collection of bones in a living person.’
‘The Darwen.’
‘Yes, my lord, just so. She has just suggested that as soon as it stops raining “everyone goes for a walk to clear the cobwebs” and liven them up. She looked at me so smugly, too.’
‘You must miss the freedom. I know you were a horsewoman, but did you also enjoy walking, Miss Mardham?’
‘Oh yes. I like the open air, and would frequently walk across the park to the Dower House to see my Grandmama. Now I have to order the carriage and there is no spontaneity.’
‘If you would like spontaneity, Miss Mardham, I am sure your brother would lend me his tilbury. That has a canopy to it. It is not raining sufficiently for you to become very wet, and it would not take long to make ready. I put myself at your disposal. You might visit your grandmother and still be back for luncheon.’
‘That is a very generous offer, sir, but you have a letter in your hand. You must have been about to read it.’
‘And I may still do so. I can send round to the stables and have learned all that the letter contains before the tilbury is at the front door.’
He saw her waver.
‘Be spontaneous, ma’am.’
‘Yes, I will. Thank you. I must ask Mama of course, but … fifteen minutes?’
‘I shall speak to your brother, and fifteen minutes sounds a sufficient time.’ He smiled at her, and she smiled back, then opened the door into the saloon again. The sound of Miss Darwen’s discordant voice just reached his ears. He went in search of Richard Mardham, and thereafter sent a message to the stables before taking the stairs two at a time. He rang for his valet once he reached his chamber, and then sat at the dressing table to read his sire’s letter. His mood changed as he broke the seal, and the appellation made him pull a face.
My dear Boy,
I hope by now you have made yourself popular at Meysey, and especially so with the beautiful Burton chit.
‘Good Lord, has he no scruples?’ exclaimed the viscount. It also occurred to him that the way to be popular might be by ejecting Miss Darwen from an upper window, but that was a wicked thought that only Miss Mardham might fully appreciate. He shook his head. She was there again, in his thoughts, even as he tried to be unemotional and sensible. He read on, and his expression grew dismal.
I had a damned unpleasant interview with Ruyton yesterday. I nearly turned the man off, however many years he has been the family man of business. His animadversions upon what courses of action are open to us were lacking in respect, and unspeakably forthright. Our situation remains awkward in the extreme. The Bank has been put off until Christmas, but if we cannot pay them at least the Interest in the New Year, they are threatening to call in their loans forthwith. The acreage is already mortgaged up to the hilt and there will be nothing for it but for us to sell up the house and contents. What your poor dear Mother would say I cannot bring myself to think.
‘Oh yes, bring Mama into it. Trust you to do so, when you ignored her for years and went your own way. Very rich, Father, very rich!’
This estate has been in the family for centuries, and it grieves me that we have come to this pretty pass.
At this point Lord Levedale nearly tore the sheet in two. The persistent use of ‘we’, ‘our’ and ‘us’ bound him tightly to the situation, although it was grossly unfair. It was clearly used to apply pressure, and Lord Levedale resented it. Deep down, however, there really was a duty, not to his father, or to his brother, but the ancestors who had built the manor upon which Silvertons now stood, who had built the Jacobean house which had been the precursor of the house reputedly designed by a student of Hawksmoor a century ago, and had made the estate flourish. If he had been in love with another young lady it would have been different, but he was not. Miss Burton would solve at least all the immediate problems, and if he was circumspect, and took all control of the estate from his father, they might yet come about in a few years. A small voice in his head questioned the premise that he was not in love with another, but he dismissed it. He told himself firmly that he was no more in love with Miss Mardham than with Miss Burton, but knew it was a lie. They had met but a few days previously, and he could not be in love with her upon such a short acquaintanceship. It was rather that he had a propensity towards her, an inclination to love her, one which he must overcome. It would not, perhaps, be easy, for there was a mutual understanding that sprang from he knew not what.
‘I must treat her as a friend, not as lover would treat her.’ Even as he said it, he wondered what it would be like to hold her in his arms and see her smiling up at him, and the spark of desire for her flickered as if to prove it would not be easily snuffed out.
I intimated to Ruyton that an advantageous match might be in the offing, and he thought this might be our salvation. I did not name the young lady of course, nor the exact figure, but it was enough to keep the man from wringing his hands like a Cassandra, and foretelling doom and insolvency.
I am trusting to you to do the right thing, Levedale.
&n
bsp; Your loving father,
Curborough
‘Begins with a lie and ends with a lie, and the middle part full of duty. Damn it all!’ Levedale ran his hand through his chestnut hair and swore, long and hard. It was a devil of a fix, made the worse by the presence of a young lady with a lame leg.
Chapter 8
Celia was ready before the fifteen minutes had elapsed, and Lord Levedale found her seated in the hall, in bonnet and pelisse. She looked quite excited, and he thought how sad it was that something as simple as going across the home park upon a whim should be a cause of such delight. He did not, of course, know that it was as much the company as the outing which made her glow with pleasure
‘Behold me, ready on time, my lord. Never let it be said that ladies are always late.’ She hoped she did not sound pert.
‘Not all ladies are prone to tardiness, but there are those who dawdle, or spend an inordinate time before their looking glass.’
‘You speak from experience, sir?’ she quizzed him. It seemed so natural to engage in gentle verbal jousting with this man.
‘Not very much, Miss Mardham, but enough to make me applaud your promptness. ‘
She stood, and as she walked to the door, he came to walk at her side, on the opposite side to her stick, and offered his arm, not as vital support, but as a gentleman to a lady. He looked down at her, as she looked up, and yet again a frisson ran through him. Was there a hint of a blush?
The rain had diminished, but it was still wet.
Bless Thine Inheritance Page 8