Bless Thine Inheritance

by Sophia Holloway

  There was another option for him. Miss Clandon was uninspiring, but not ugly, she was quiet but not lacking in intelligence, and appeared pragmatic rather than romantic. He knew she had no prospects, and thus must be inclined to accept an offer from a gentleman who could offer her the elegancies of life, a house to oversee, and companionship. He resolved therefore, not to opine over what he might not have, but rather make a push for what still lay within his grasp.

  *

  Sarah had enough to deal with without Sir Marcus Cotgrave. She had cried, but then resolved to be a sensible girl. After all, she did not want to embarrass Lord Deben, for whom she retained the most tender feelings. It was her own silly fault, she told herself, for letting her own emotions sway her reading of his. Lady Mardham had saved her from making a terrible faux pas that would have seen Lord Deben lose any respect for her. She would remain friendly, but not give in to doing as she had in the past week, and looking at him frequently, or smiling to encourage him to sit with her, or letting herself imagine what it would be like to be sat very close to him, just the two of them, at liberty to talk of anything they wished.

  At luncheon she toyed with the food upon her plate, still having little appetite, and sat on the same side of the table as he did, so that she might not inadvertently give in to gazing at him. She was still acutely aware of his presence.

  For his part, Lord Deben thought Miss Clandon a little pale, and wondered if the excitement of the previous day had meant she had not slept well. Perhaps she had the headache? When she got up from the table, he looked at her, and she could not help but look at him. His spaniel eyes questioned, looked worried, and Sarah wanted nothing more than to burst into tears. Marianne however, wondered if she might come and turn the pages of her music for her, since she wanted to improve the pieces upon which Miss Darwen had commented adversely earlier in the visit. At least, thought Sarah, she would just be with Marianne Burton.

  In this she was wrong, for after barely ten minutes Sir Marcus Cotgrave sidled into the music room as inconspicuously as he could, which therefore drew attention to him even more, and sat upon a rather hard chair to listen. Marianne frowned. She did not enjoy playing for others very much, and most certainly not when going over the parts where she was most inclined to go wrong.

  ‘I wish he would go away,’ she muttered after a while, as Sarah turned a page.

  ‘Would it help if I took him away?’ whispered Sarah.

  ‘Please,’ breathed Marianne.

  Sarah stepped back from the piano, and smiled at Sir Marcus. He did not see that her smile was rather sad.

  ‘I wonder, Sir Marcus, if you might oblige me in a small matter?’

  ‘Dear lady, behold me at your entire disposal.’ He did not quite sweep her a bow with a flourish, but she felt he might as well have done so. She then had to think swiftly, because she had no real idea what service he might perform for her.

  ‘I find that … that there is a herbaceous shrub in the garden which I am sure that my Mama would like to have in her own borders, but I am uncertain as to its name. You must be much more knowledgable, and if you do not know it yourself, then you will know in which horticultural volume I should seek it.’

  The whole thing sounded very false to her, and Marianne had to cough to hide her giggle, but to Sir Marcus it was as manna from Heaven. Here was a young woman who saw, and accepted, male superiority.

  ‘I shall do my poor best, Miss Clandon, but you are perfectly correct. I will be able to find it in a book for you should its name not come immediately to mind.’

  ‘Thank you. Perhaps we ought to go outside now, for there is most likely a storm brewing.’

  ‘And young ladies are afraid of thunder, ah yes.’ He offered his arm, which she accepted, inwardly cringing, ‘but do you know, the thunder is of no consequence? It is the lightning which can cause catastrophic harm, to buildings or indeed persons.’

  As they left the room, Marianne heard him saying that he had once seen a cow that had been struck by lightning. She returned to her sonatina with relief.

  They were just about to step outside, and Sir Marcus was wondering whether Miss Clandon ought to put a cloak about her, ‘just in case’, when Lord Deben and Mr Mardham emerged from the billiards room. Lord Deben looked at Miss Clandon. She was still pale, still looked vaguely unhappy, but she was going outside with Sir Marcus?

  Richard Mardham, who was aware that as the son of the house he was in part a host not just to his friends, was guiltily aware that he had rather ignored Sir Marcus, and so asked him if there was anything he might care to do after his ‘walk’. While he did so, Lord Deben took the opportunity to speak, in a low tone, to Miss Clandon.

  ‘Is there any way in which I might be of assistance, ma’am? Forgive me, but you do not seem quite yourself today.’

  She looked rather lost, he thought.

  ‘No, no, my lord. It is very kind of you, very kind, but Sir Marcus has offered … The name of a plant … I am quite well, I promise you.’ Her words were disjointed.

  She was a quiet girl, and he liked that calmness she possessed, but the young woman before him was not calm at all. In fact she looked as if on the point of panic. A thought struck him.

  ‘Are you afraid of thunderstorms, Miss Clandon? It is a very common thing, I assure you, and the thundery oppression can give those of the strongest constitution a nasty headache. You ought perhaps to lie down, when you come in from the garden, if that is the problem.’

  ‘Are you ready, Miss Clandon?’ Sir Marcus turned to her.

  ‘Yes, Sir Marcus.’ She gave Lord Deben one glance, though she knew she should not do so, and he thought his heart might break then and there.

  *

  Lord Deben was on the other side of the table during dinner, and Sarah Clandon was next to Sir Marcus, who realised that the house party would not go on forever, and so was making up for lost time. Having seen that she appreciated the male propensity for being correct, he regaled her with a succession of stories in which he had been right in the face of opposition. She listened, attentively as he saw it, but it was just the veneer of politeness.

  Lord Deben had learned to read Miss Clandon, and he saw beneath the politeness. There was desolation, and when by chance she looked across the table and saw him looking at her, she averted her eyes and bit her lip. Had he offended her in some way? He could not imagine how that might be. She had been the happiest of beings yesterday when she won the competition and he had found her the rose. When she had looked at him he had been bowled over by the confiding nature of her smile that seemed just for him. He would have sworn that she knew he cared for her, and his feelings were reciprocated. So why, today, was she near to tears, and like a person drowning in despondency? Why did she avert her gaze?

  Lord Deben was happy when those about him were happy. He strove always to keep them so, because his simple philosophy was that it was the most valuable thing in life. Thus, when they were unhappy, Lord Deben fell into despondency himself. Nothing had quite prepared him for how important it was to keep Miss Clandon happy, and so now he was almost distraught.

  *

  Miss Darwen, on the other hand, could have crowed. How were the mighty fallen! Only yesterday The Poor Relation had usurped her place, the victory that ought to have been hers. Today she was, for whatever reason, cast down, reduced to listening to the boring Sir Marcus, and Miss Darwen was as pleased as if she had arranged the misery herself. This made up, in a very small way, for the feeling she had that somehow she was losing control of the situation at Meysey. Yesterday had been a particular disappointment, but not the most important.

  Flirtation or no flirtation, Miss Darwen was coming to the conclusion that Lord Levedale was not serious about The Ninny. She had done well in that direction, but had thus ‘divided her forces’ and not paid enough attention to his relations with The Cripple. She had worked upon the logical premise that he was simply taking pity on the girl, but this had been a mistake. Yesterday he had spoke
n up in support of Miss Mardham, and against herself, and although he returned from the driving lessons on occasion with a thoughtful look, on others he seemed dangerously happy. These lessons were conducted without so much as a groom, which was scandalous, but meant that perhaps The Cripple, whilst seated, was luring him into mistaking pity for attraction. She might have an ugly gait and a stick, but Miss Mardham was cleverer than she had thought, and highlighting her disability had not of itself done more than annoy her. Miss Darwen decided that she must act more forcefully, and also settle the score over the spilt coffee. She would think up A Plan.

  It was at this point in the evening, just as the ladies withdrew, that the storm broke. Heavy drops of rain hammered the windows and rattled the glass, and out of nowhere came a flash so bright that even as she blinked, the light was visible on the inside of her eyelids, followed within moments by a loud crack of thunder. Her hand went to her cheek, and she let out a squeak. Miss Darwen was afraid of thunderstorms.

  *

  Lady Corfemullen put her hands over her ears, and shut her eyes. Marianne Burton sat with her fists clenched in her lap, resolutely trying not to cry out, and Celia, seated on a sofa next to Sarah, gripped her hand.

  ‘I have no particular liking for storms, but am generally sanguine about them,’ she whispered. ‘That crack was unpleasantly close, however. It quite hurt my ears.’

  The door opened. Lord Mardham led the gentlemen into the drawing room.

  ‘We thought that in the circumstances, you ladies might prefer our presence rather earlier, so …’ His words were cut short by a massive flash, a thunderclap that reverberated, and an enormous crash that made the room shake. Lady Corfemullen passed out, and slipped to the floor.

  For a moment afterwards everyone was transfixed. Then Miss Darwen started laughing hysterically, Lady Mardham and Lord Corfemullen went to Lady Corfemullen’s aid, and Mr Wombwell, looking out into the darkness, exclaimed ‘Good God!’

  A very sculptural pine tree just to the side of the driveway had been struck, and cloven in two. The smaller part remained standing as a needle shape pointing skyward, but the greater part of the trunk had burst apart and fallen, the branches aflame, to land upon the gravel. The top of the canopy, however, had crashed onto the roof of the billiards room, which formed part of the single storey west wing.

  Copthorne burst into the room in a most un-butler like manner, his face pale.

  ‘My lord, a tree—’

  ‘We know, Copthorne.’

  ‘If fire catches in the roof, my lord—’

  ‘Yes, yes, have the staff fill buckets.’

  ‘Do you have a pump, my lord?’ enquired Lord Levedale.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about some form of grappling hook?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘A grappling hook could be used to pull the top of the tree from the roof and prevent the spread of the fire, and it would be an easy matter to put out the flames in the boughs if on the ground. Failing that we need a ladder so that water can be thrown onto the roof and keep it wet.’

  ‘Yes, yes of course.’

  ‘Gentlemen?’ Levedale looked about the room. ‘Our presence is required outside. Ladies, remain within doors. Copthorne, find rope, a hook, ladders, that sort of thing.’ He glanced fleetingly at Celia, and then almost pushed the butler from the room. The other men followed.

  Lady Mardham continued to fan Lady Corfemullen, Miss Darwen carried on laughing, and the other ladies crowded to the narrow window on the left side, from which they could see the stricken tree even through the rain running down the panes. Meysey was the sort of house that had grown over the centuries, with additions according to wealth and vogue. The core dated from the mid-seventeenth century, having been built by the Sir Rufus Mardham who disapproved of dancing. A century later a Mardham who thoroughly approved of entertainment had added two single storey wings, stepped fractionally forward of the central portion and each with a narrow window that looked across to its mirror image, and remodelled the front with a portico and large sash windows, so that its origins were concealed. On one side was the music room and a new withdrawing room, and on the other a library, reducing the previous one to a book room, and a billiard room. It was onto this end that the tree had toppled.

  ‘We will burn in our beds!’ declared Mrs Wombwell, histrionically.

  ‘I hardly think any of us are contemplating going to bed, ma’am,’ responded Celia, a little acerbically, and trying to make out the figures in front of the house. If something could be done swiftly, the fire might not spread to the building, and confine itself to the branches. Mrs Wombwell then began to sob, and wring her hands at the risk facing her beloved son. Celia doubted he would do any more than organise servants with buckets, lest his clothes become dirty, and was far more concerned for her brother, and for Lord Levedale. It soon became clear that a ladder was being placed against the library wall, and two figures climbed up onto the shallow angle of the roof. Both were in shirtsleeves. Another man positioned himself upon the rungs to hand up buckets. One then proceeded to douse the roof and nearest flames while the other appeared to be trying to pull branches with a rake.

  The scene became infernal, with a backdrop of forked lightning and crashing thunder, and the foreground, red-lit by fire, full of people.

  ‘Who is it on the roof?’ queried Sarah, straining her eyes.

  ‘I am not sure, but I doubt not my brother will be one. Is it … no, there is Pocklington at the base of the ladder, and I think Lord Deben is the man part way up. ‘Ooh!’

  At that moment the branches on the roof moved, sending up sparks, and there was a warning cry to watch out below. Everyone who could, fell back. The men with the ladder pulled it away, and then Celia watched as the pair upon the roof hauled at a rope. The angle of the fallen tree was changing, but they were perforce, pulling the danger towards them. Sarah gave a sharp cry as the top of the tree slid precipitately down the roof, and Celia gripped her stick very tightly. The men on the roof moved as fast as they could to the side, but one slipped in doing so, and slid off. The drop was no more than ten feet for a man of average height, but the tree followed him down, and for a moment he was lost to view.

  ‘Who is it? Are they alright?’ gasped Marianne.

  ‘I do not know. Look, someone has gone to help them.’ A figure dashed forward, an arm protecting their face from the heat, and pulled the injured man away from the flames, even as every available bucket of water was cast upon the fire.

  ‘Come, let us go into the hall. Sarah, you know where the housekeeper’s room is. I know there are salves and bandages kept there. Be quick.’ Celia could not be quick but she knew what was needed. Sarah dashed away, and Marianne and Celia went into the hall. As Celia entered, the front door was pushed open and Deben and Pocklington supported Richard Mardham into the hall. They were all of them streaked black with soot and sodden with rain, and there was blood on Mr Mardham’s face. Celia caught her breath but did not exclaim.

  ‘Do not be too distressed, ladies. We look worse than we are,’ managed Lord Deben. ‘Mardham has hurt his ankle, but otherwise it is just rain, soot and a few burns.’

  ‘Can you help him up to his chamber, gentlemen?’ asked Celia. ‘It would be better to disturb the leg only the once.’

  ‘Yes, indeed, ma’am. Come along, my dear chap.’ Lord Pocklington adjusted his arm about her brother’s shoulder, and the trio made their way, with some grimacing on Richard Mardham’s part, to the stairs.

  Sarah returned with a box as Celia followed on.

  ‘There is Carron oil in the box, which will be useful,’ noted Sarah. ‘How wise to keep some ready in case of accidents in the kitchen.’

  Celia nodded.

  ‘My brother has hurt his ankle, Sarah. I think the other injuries are superficial. At least I hope so. Marianne, could you fetch up a dish of water, and then stay in the hall. If there are other burns and scrapes, send them upstairs.’

  Marianne nod
ded, and disappeared.

  Celia wished she could move faster. Sarah was already laying out bandages when she entered the room. In some ways it was fortunate that the gentlemen had been formally dressed for dinner, since removing a shoe and cutting off a stocking were far easier than removing a boot.

  ‘How is it, Richard?’

  ‘Hurts like the devil, my dear, but I’ll live. Ow!’ He exclaimed as she touched the swelling ankle.

  ‘Can you move your toes?’

  ‘Oh yes, but do not ask me to move the foot, I beg.’

  ‘I shall not. We will send for Dr Stour, though hopefully it is twisted rather than broken. Now, what injuries may be attended by “amateurs”?’

  He held up his hand, which had redness along one edge from little finger to blackened wrist bands.

  ‘I tried to protect myself. Thankfully, I was so wet, and Deben here got me away before the flames found much of me.’

  ‘That was very brave of Lord Deben. Now, this will sting.’ She was correct, and he hissed as she applied a lint pad soaked in the liniment to the injury.

  Meanwhile, Marianne had brought up a dish of water, and clean cloths, and Sarah attended to the other two gentlemen. Lord Pocklington had singed eyebrows and a blister on his forehead. Lord Deben had abrasions from branches, and a burn to his hand. She administered to them impartially, focusing upon the wounds, but her heart beat the faster when she took Lord Deben’s hand tenderly in her own. She dare not look him in the eye.

  ‘It was a very brave thing you did, sir,’ she murmured.

  ‘Same as anyone would have done,’ he said, watching her, and winced.

  ‘Who was on the roof with you, Richard?’ Celia was pretty sure that she already knew the answer.