Bless Thine Inheritance

by Sophia Holloway

  ‘You find me heartily bored, my lord. That new novel Maria Edgehill recommended is perfectly atrocious.’

  ‘I have some news that will interest you my dear, and may alleviate your boredom.’ He took her by the elbow and guided her into the book room. ‘I have been closeted with Levedale.’

  Her eyes widened.

  ‘Oh, do not say he—’

  ‘In less than a week? My dear, be sensible. He wishes to teach Celia to drive.’

  ‘But she cannot. I mean, she cannot climb in and out of carriages without the greatest difficulty and—’

  ‘He has thought of that. In fact he has thought of almost everything.’ Lord Mardham gave a wry smile, and explained what Levedale had said to him.

  ‘The pony cart is small, and impractical for three, so if he did take her driving, there would be no groom. Having said which, they would only be within the park, and he is not the type to take liberties. I am much inclined to agree to his proposal and I beg you will not fly up into the boughs over the proprieties.’

  ‘Fly up into the boughs? Why, my lord? It is of all things an excellent notion.’

  ‘It is?’ He looked confused, having been prepared for remonstration rather than approbation.

  ‘Yes, of course. I had been worried that he was paying rather too much attention to the Burton girl, but perhaps he is playing a cautious game, and of course he is being almost hounded by the awful Darwen chit. I only wish we had some excuse to send the girl home. It is all very well her not being any form of rival to poor dear Celia, but she is quite poisonous, you know. She ruins conversation at dinner.’

  ‘Oh, I do not know. I was quite entertained last night, hearing her tell Gerald Corfemullen how to avoid being cheated by his servants. His face was a picture.’

  ‘She cannot be stopped, that is the worst of it. You know she even makes Cora’s girl look charming.’ Lady Mardham shook her head. ‘What a pity we cannot find an excuse to rid ourselves of her. However, what you say about Levedale is all to the good. Celia always appeared in a good light when with her horses. There is hope for us yet avoiding That Woman’s daughter inheriting your Papa’s money.’

  ‘More to the point, it might see Celia established, but we must not pre-empt the issue. Nothing may come of it in the end.’

  ‘We shall see.’ Lady Mardham was quite prepared to become involved if necessary. ‘You just tell Lord Levedale he has our blessing.’

  ‘That, my dear, sounds far too much as if we are treating the offer to teach her to drive as a proposal of marriage already. I shall inform him that you see no objection to his teaching Celia to handle the reins in form, even without the chaperonage of a groom, as long as they remain in the park itself and do not venture onto the public roads. Oh, and it will mean buying a pair of ponies and a low-slung phaeton.’

  ‘It is her birthday at the end of the month. It would be a nice present.’ Lady Mardham beamed at him, and returned to her book, which suddenly seemed far better.

  *

  Celia Mardham did not look at Lord Levedale when he entered the drawing room with the other gentlemen after dinner, though it took an effort of will. She was feeling beleaguered, having endured a trying conversation with Miss Darwen, who was telling her about the exhibition she had seen at the Royal Academy, or rather, whom she had seen also viewing the paintings. The notables were all people Celia felt she would never meet, and the others were people of whom she had never heard. Listening was a chore. She had also the beginnings of a headache, in part from Miss Darwen’s droning, but she told herself that the other part was definitely not because Lord Levedale had been sat next to Marianne at dinner and had flirted with her throughout. There was no doubt about it, and it both confused her and made her feel very low. All she wanted to do now was go slowly upstairs to her bed.

  He came towards her, smiling, but in response she looked reproachful. He felt guilty.

  ‘Miss Mardham, you look fagged to death. I hope I can bring you good news before you retire.’

  ‘Good news, my lord?’

  ‘I have been thinking, about today, and … being spontaneous. How would it be if you could drive yourself to the Dower House, whenever you so desired?’

  ‘Drive myself?’

  ‘Yes. If the vehicle were suitable, not something high and with a considerable step, and you learned to drive, you could have some independence.’ She looked interested, but a little wary of being pleased. ‘I have spoken with Lord Mardham, and he and your Mama have given permission for me to teach you to drive, if you will accept learning from me, and in a little pony cart.’

  Her heart gave a jolt. It would be a form of independence, and he was offering to teach her. The only question was, in view of his pursuit of Marianne, why was he doing so?

  ‘I … Would it not be an imposition, sir?’

  ‘It would not. You know it would not.’ The way he looked at her made her head spin rather than throb. ‘And your Father has said we, he, would be happy to order you a low phaeton from Gloucester, and you could have a pair of small ponies to go between the shafts, and for your birthday, which I gather is quite soon.’

  ‘At the end of the month,’ murmured Celia, in a daze.

  ‘Will you? Will you agree?’ He sounded eager, and she nodded.

  Miss Darwen, too involved on the far side of the room in telling Lady Corfemullen how to get wine stains out of muslin, disliked the look, and the way in which Celia looked back. On top of the way he had entertained The Ninny throughout dinner, it quite ruined her evening.

  Chapter 9

  The next day was Sunday, and so the pony cart could not have the additional step put in place by the blacksmith, but Lord Levedale was assured that it would be taken into the smithy first thing on the Monday morning. Miss Darwen, who clearly felt that she had not been assiduous enough in her attentions, dogged Lord Levedale to the point where he thought the only answer might be to throw a stick and yell at her to fetch it. She prevented him talking with Marianne Burton by nigh on commanding her to play the piano to entertain everyone, and Miss Burton was too overawed to refuse. She then gave a running commentary upon the performance in a stage whisper, which was highly disconcerting to both the pianist and the audience. Mr Wombwell, who had volunteered to turn the pages for Miss Burton, spent a considerable time restoring that lady to equanimity. As little as Miss Darwen did he appreciate Lord Levedale’s approaches to The Ninny, or, as he called her, The Money Pot. His methods were, however, rather more subtle. Marianne, bearing her sire’s warning in mind, received his compliments with pretty grace, and enjoyed them, but did not take them as seriously as he thought.

  When Lord Levedale was placed next to Miss Mardham at dinner, Miss Darwen was sat immediately opposite, and her conversation was so wayward that both he and Miss Mardham were mesmerised into listening. Sir Marcus, to Miss Darwen’s left, gave up and applied himself to his food, but Lord Deben, struggling manfully to keep up with her and be gentlemanly, barely ate a thing. She began by warning of the dangers of eating too many ices, because they ‘froze the digestive tract’, and in one sentence then passed on to religious tracts and how they proved that educating the masses and teaching them to read was the first step to the guillotine. When Lord Deben tentatively suggested that a high rate of literacy was not reported to have existed among the sans-culottes, she gave him a withering look, and said that one could not believe everything that came out of France now that it was led by ‘That Monster Napoleon’. Unable to think of an answer to this, Lord Deben looked desperately across the table to Miss Clandon for some form of moral support. Her look suggested he had made a good point, and he felt a lot better, but he was now way behind in the conversation, because Miss Darwen was talking about French spies. Lord Levedale could not hold back from asking, across the table, if she had ever met a French spy.

  ‘I do not know, my lord. How could I do so, since they are spies, and by nature dissimulate? I can say that the young man who served me at the perfumiers I hon
oured with my custom in Bond Street short-changed me by a shilling, and he had a French accent.’ She said this as if it were proof positive that he must also be sending copies of troop movements and government documents to Paris.

  Celia Mardham swallowed a sugared plum, whole, and her eyes watered. Her father seemed to find Miss Darwen a constant source of entertainment, and gave clear signs of hanging upon her every word. Lady Mardham, in contrast, would have far preferred that she be afflicted by a putrid sore throat which robbed her of her voice and would necessitate her returning immediately to her parental home.

  *

  Sir Marcus only heard of the driving lessons when Lord Mardham and Lord Levedale had departed for Gloucester on the Monday morning, and he became quite agitated, walking up and down, muttering ‘It will not do, it really will not do’. He then went in search of Celia, whom he found sat with Miss Clandon upon a stone bench by the terrace door, where they were hiding, most reprehensibly, knowing that it left Marianne to suffer from Miss Darwen. They were discussing ‘The Affliction’ and how her presence was ruining the party. At the sight of Sir Marcus’ face, Celia gave a sigh.

  He bowed, and made a stilted compliment about the two young ladies forming a composition not unlike a classical marble statue. Sir Marcus requested a few minutes with Miss Mardham upon a serious matter, and Sarah looked at Celia, who frowned, but nodded. Sarah wondered for a moment if the man was going to make a declaration, but if he was, then his expression was far from adoring. She made an excuse that she wanted to gather some greenery for the arrangement of flowers in the dining room, and walked along the path that turned with the angle of the house. It was there that she came, most unexpectedly, upon Lord Deben. He did not look happy.

  ‘My lord? Is something the matter?’

  He looked at her, and the look reminded her of her father’s spaniel, who had a gaze of entreaty that would melt a heart of stone. Her heart was most definitely not of stone.

  ‘I did not come here to be lectured by … a gorgon, or is it a harpy? My Greek mythology is rusty.’

  He was obviously rather ruffled, and Sarah spoke soothingly.

  ‘Of course you did not, sir, and it is very wrong of Miss Darwen to do so.’ No other person fitted any of the words in his description. ‘She is but this Season’s debutante and you are a man of the world…I mean …’ Sarah faltered, which was unusual, for when she did speak, she was normally quietly sure of herself.

  ‘I know what you mean, Miss Clandon.’ He did. For all that he found females incomprehensible, he knew just what she meant. ‘But to remonstrate with her, even if I could formulate the right sentences, would be bad form.’

  ‘And you are always the gentleman, my lord.’ The compliment was heartfelt, and he coloured and disclaimed in a mumble. When he dared look at her their eyes met, and he was struck yet again by a feeling of peaceful contentment edged with excitement.

  Sarah, not knowing how best to soothe Lord Deben’s shredded nerves, and indeed self-esteem, tried diverting his mind from his mistreatment, and regaled him with Sir Marcus’s cumbersome compliment.

  ‘It made me feel as if I were semi-clad and had the tip of my nose missing, which was not at all nice.’

  ‘Good Lord, I should say not!’ exclaimed Lord Deben, rather forcefully, since his mind was filled with the thought of Miss Clandon ‘semi-clad’, though nasally complete, and it overwhelmed him. As a distraction, it worked totally, but not as she had intended.

  She was somewhat startled by his vehemence, and then his cheeks turned red, and for no reason that she understood, she blushed also.

  Lord Deben wished there was a seat. He felt he ought to sit down, if not lie down. He felt hot, and a bit dizzy, and was trying not to focus on the images created in his brain whilst they crowded one upon the other; Miss Clandon, loosely draped in diaphanous fabrics, and holding aloft an urn, which was what he associated with Greek females; Miss Clandon, similarly draped, and sat, in a curvaceous way, upon a rock with some chain about her ankle. He gulped.

  ‘Andromeda.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

  ‘Or was it Aphrodite? No, a goddess could magic a chain away.’ He was talking to himself, but Sarah worked out his train of thought, and the pink cheeks became scarlet.

  ‘My lord!’ She was caught between horror and amusement. It did not occur to her that he had deliberately conjured up thoughts of her en déshabillé, and in some ways it was funny, had it not been so personal.

  His eyes widened. He saw that she saw what he was thinking.

  ‘I am most terribly sorry, Miss Clandon,’ he gabbled. ‘Unintentional … would not insult … banish immediately …’ Well, he would try, though they were the sort of thoughts that made for a fellow drifting into a reverie with a rapt look on his face. He sincerely hoped that she had not imagined the same degree of ‘semi-clad’ that he had done, and told himself that neither Andromeda nor Aphrodite were customarily depicted ‘disporting themselves’. He was only half correct, but it made him feel a little better.

  They stood there, embarrassed and yet vaguely elated by being able to be united by thoughts without effort. Her bosom rose and fell rather more quickly than usual, he noticed, whilst concentrating on not noticing it. There was silence between them. Miss Clandon was the first to make a recover.

  ‘I acquit you of any intent, my lord, I promise. Perhaps it would be best if we returned indoors, and ordered refreshment. I will do so via Miss Mardham, who may be hoping for her own means of escape.’

  *

  Miss Mardham was most definitely wishing that she might escape. Sir Marcus did not, thankfully, sit down beside her, but stood before her and decried both her recklessness, and even more so that of Lord Levedale, whom he castigated as ‘thoughtless in the extreme’.

  ‘When I heard, Miss Mardham, I cannot convey to you in terms strong enough, since they would be unthinkable in front of a lady, how appalled I was. My dear young lady, you must have been captured by your own imagination, but it is impossible. You cannot do such a dangerous thing as drive yourself.’

  ‘You think I would prove incompetent, Sir Marcus?’ Her flash of anger was barely concealed, but he was not actually listening to her.

  ‘In your condition, with your … problem … it would be to risk your life upon every journey.’

  ‘We are talking about driving a pair of ponies and a low-slung vehicle that would be most unlikely to overturn, and I would not be driving at pace. The risk is very small. I might as well fear to step outside the house lest I trip.’

  ‘And for that reason you ought never to do so without someone upon whom to lean for support. You are inclined to be too brave, Miss Mardham, too daring. It must be a temptation, I allow that, for you do not wish to see your life as inhibited, but—’

  ‘I very well aware of my life being “inhibited”, sir, I assure you, and whether I “wish” to acknowledge it or not changes matters not one jot.’

  ‘Then I beg that you will see sense over this ridiculous idea of driving.’

  ‘It is not for you, Sir Marcus, to beg or otherwise. My Father, who is a man of sense, has found no reason to forbid either my learning to drive, or thereafter driving myself, with a groom. If he is content—’

  ‘He has been seduced by Lord Levedale’s enthusiasm for the plan. Lord Levedale can have no understanding of what it is to live with someone who is infirm, the extreme fragility . . .’

  ‘I am not a china ornament,’ Celia interjected, but Sir Marcus was too lost in his own argument.

  ‘… that renders treacherous the actions that normal persons find simple. He has developed this ludicrous idea merely to show himself in the light of—’

  ‘Enough, sir.’ Celia stood, grabbing the back of the bench to steady herself, and pushing away the hand that he thrust towards her. ‘I am not in a fatal decline; not so weak that every single action must be undertaken with someone on hand to guide me. You have no right to interfere, nor judge the actions of my
Father, Lord Levedale, or indeed, those I choose myself.’ Her voice shook a little.

  Sir Marcus looked as though he had just awoken to the idea that she was not simply going to agree with him, as a man and therefore wiser, and meekly give up the idea. He blinked in bafflement, and then attempted to extricate himself from the situation by a series of jumbled self-exculpatory phrases. Of these, Celia made out ‘only trying to see that you come to no harm’, ‘no disrespect to Lord Mardham’, and ‘once you have calmed yourself’. This last had the reverse effect, since it was putting the ‘blame’ for not agreeing with him upon her female weakness and inclination to hysteria.

  Sarah Clandon saw the situation in a glance, and hurried forward, suggesting that Sir Marcus withdraw.

  Thinking that she meant Celia was about to dissolve into some distempered freak, he obeyed upon the instant, leaving Celia tight-lipped and fuming.

  ‘I am sorry, Cousin Celia. I ought not to have abandoned you, but he looked as if what he had to say was serious but private.’

  ‘What he had to say,’ murmured Celia, through gritted teeth, ‘was impertinent in the extreme. How dare he tell me how to live my life; how dare he treat me as though I were his sick wife reincarnated. Oh Sarah, he makes me so very, very angry.’ With which she sat back down upon the bench, and wept with frustration.

  *

  In blissful ignorance of the awkwardness at Meysey, Lord Levedale drove Lord Mardham to Gloucester, where he intended to visit Courts, the coachmakers. Lord Levedale was well aware that it was also the opportunity for Lord Mardham to discover whether he was right in letting him teach his daughter to handle the reins, but had no concerns. He knew himself to be a decent whip, competent and tidy, without being ridiculously daring.

  Their conversation ranged over a selection of topics, mostly quite general, and at no time was Miss Mardham’s name mentioned by either until they reached the premises of Messrs I & J Court in Northgate Street. Mr Joseph Court came out of the workshops to greet them as soon as they had crossed the threshold. Lord Mardham had been a good customer over the years, and was one of Mr Court’s more illustrious patrons. His lordship explained the commission, and Lord Levedale, slightly to Lord Mardham’s surprise, drew a folded sheet from his pocket, on which he had drawn a sketch of his idea.