Bless Thine Inheritance

by Sophia Holloway

  I should also add that I am still, in part, hoping to fulfil your request, by setting up my nursery in the near future, but that is still dependent upon the young lady, and her parents, accepting my suit.

  That was as far as he had got. What he had to do now was explain to a man who had never thought of duty to his name until he had dragged it down into the dust, why his own refusal to submit to it was laudable and not reprehensible.

  ‘Damn it, why should I apologise to him?’ muttered Lord Levedale, but the need remained.

  It is not a requirement to be deeply in love with the woman for whom one offers. This I accept, but to offer for a woman when deeply, and I believe irrevocably, in love with another is morally wrong. My attachment to the Family estate is strong, but does not override every other feeling.

  I realise that this will disappoint you, but suggest that you listen to Ruyton, do what you can to salvage some shreds of the family past from the sale room, and live quietly within your means, perhaps at the Slapton property.

  At this he smiled, wryly, imagining his sire’s outrage at the thought of living in a five-bedroomed house with stabling for a hack and four carriage horses, in what he had termed ‘Dismal Devon’.

  You have created this situation and then placed the burden of extricating us from it squarely upon my shoulders. If I have failed to achieve your aim, consider that it is not entirely my own fault.

  I remain, Sir,

  Your Obedient Servant

  Levedale

  That was as false as could be, but there, it was done. Now he could look to Miss Marianne Burton, and find the words to explain he had tried to like her enough to marry her, and had failed. He groaned, and this time it was not because of his hand. Those were not the words, for a start.

  He went downstairs, flexing the bandaged right hand cautiously. Celia was just emerging from one of the smaller saloons and saw the action.

  ‘Your hand gives you discomfort, my lord.’ It was not a question.

  ‘I have had to write, Miss Mardham, and it objected.’

  ‘I am not at all surprised, sir. Might I remove the bandage and apply more of the Carron oil. It should not be allowed to dry out. I was remiss yesterday, in not asking to change the dressing, but we were, perforce, distracted.’

  ‘You are in charge, Miss Mardham.’

  ‘Then I shall send for my requirements, and be in the breakfast parlour in five minutes. Even the changing of a dressing to the hand is not really a public thing.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am. I will be there. How does your brother, by the way?’

  ‘A poor patient, or rather most “impatient”, my lord. The better part of a day in bed with the limb elevated has done much good to the injury, but not his temper. He was persuaded to take breakfast in his bed, but will be downstairs before long. He was never one to be cooped up.’ She smiled. ‘Now, I must order my salves. Do excuse me, sir.’

  He bowed, and she went to send Joshua below stairs. He awaited her in the breakfast parlour, and turned a chair sideways to the table. Miss Mardham returned a few minutes later, followed by the footman, who remained in the room, clearly at her behest.

  ‘Now, my lord, we will see if you have caused any damage by your too early use of the hand.’ The liniment, lint and bandaging were set upon the table, and she sat before him and began to unwind the bandage from his hand.

  ‘I think I might apply a fresh dressing each morning, sir,’ she commented, as the palm was revealed. ‘That is a little dry, but it is showing signs of healing. The redness is decreased for the most part on the fingers, and it is the palm itself where your writing has exacerbated the inflammation. Might I suggest that you refrain from commencing any major treatise for another week.’

  ‘I can promise you that, Miss Mardham.’ He was watching the top of her head, bent over the injury, thinking how much he would enjoy her ministering to him each day, though it was something which took no more than a few minutes. When the hand was bandaged once more, Celia stood up.

  ‘If the weather worsens, sir, I fear Pom will remain in his stall for today. I am very conscious that the number of lessons remaining available must be limited, and, despite your comments yesterday, I still believe I need your supervision.’

  He was equally conscious of time passing – and as regretful.

  *

  Mr Wombwell was under the distinct impression that Levedale’s interest in The Money Pot was dwindling, and whilst he loathed the idea that his own charms were not sufficient to turn a rival into a non-starter, his situation was that he was quite prepared to increase the determination of his own pursuit to fill the void. He took advantage of Miss Burton being alone after breakfast, Miss Mardham and Miss Clandon having disappeared within the house. He had not, however, considered his Mama. In total ignorance of why her son had resumed his charming of a young woman so clearly beneath him, she could only assume that by some odd bewitchment he found her irresistible. It was clearly her duty to protect him. She therefore followed in his wake, and came to sit with Miss Burton, and sought to enter into conversation with her. Her son’s hints were not subtle, but they were ignored.

  ‘I was wondering, Miss Burton, if you had plans for the autumn? After you leave here.’ Mrs Wombwell spoke with a patently false degree of interest.

  ‘I am returning to my Papa, who has missed me these last few weeks, ma’am, and I do not think we have any immediate plans.’

  ‘Ah yes, Sir Thomas. He must be a good judge of wine.’

  ‘He is rather one who employs good judges of wine, ma’am.’ Marianne caught the note in Mrs Wombwell’s voice. She had heard it before.

  ‘A general does not lead cavalry charges, does he, Miss Burton,’ purred Mr Wombwell, standing up for Sir Thomas. His effort did not quite work.

  ‘Does he not? I confess I know nothing about battles and soldiers. Miss Clandon might know.’ She looked slightly unsure. ‘Papa says that many people judge a wine upon the bottle, and do not really understand what lies within.’ She said it innocently, but Mrs Wombwell wondered whether the chit was making some very subtle but scathing comment.

  ‘Does that mean he ensures his bottles have the best labels?’ tittered Mrs Wombwell.

  ‘I think, ma’am, that he ensures that contents and label are suitably matched, but I have no knowledge of business, and of course Papa leaves all that to his employees. All he does these days is oversee the quarterly profits.’

  The word ‘profit’ sounded well in Mr Wombwell’s ears.

  ‘It is right that you should stand apart from such things. Business is no part of a lady’s life, Miss Burton.’

  ‘Nor a gentleman’s.’ Mrs Wombwell was looking at her son.

  ‘Papa says,’ announced Miss Burton, as if he were the Oracle of Delphi, ‘that if one looks at the most aristocratic gentlemen, their forebears found their way to prominence by fighting for the winning side, paying for the best hospitality, or turning the blindest of eyes. I am not sure to what, but that is what he says, and before every silver spoon existed, there was a wooden one.’

  ‘Most philosophical,’ murmured Mrs Wombwell, with a twisted smile.

  ‘Indeed, I should like to meet your Papa,’ declared Mr Wombwell.

  Marianne smiled. She was perfectly sure the feeling was not reciprocated.

  *

  Sarah Clandon wanted to go home. She also wanted to stay as long as Lord Deben remained at Meysey, and in neither situation could she be happy. A small voice in her head said that over the last few days, since she had obeyed the instructions of Lady Mardham and been more distant, Lord Deben had not been his normal self. In any other man she would have said his mood was thoroughly miserable, but perhaps that was because she herself was miserable, and viewed anything regarding him in an odd way. She was certainly seeing the path that Sir Marcus Cotgrave was taking, and it led straight to the altar. It made her all the more miserable because she knew that she ought, for very sensible reasons, let him reach the point of a decla
ration, and say yes. The thought filled her with gloom, but she had neither money nor looks, and no realistic chance of an offer based upon ‘deeply felt affection’. Just at this moment she could not face the word ‘love’ in connection with anyone except Lord Deben. She could enumerate so many things that made her love him: he was kind, sweet natured, normally a happy person, and thoughtful; he was handsome, in her eyes, with those spaniel brown eyes, and well proportioned figure; and if he had been afraid of Miss Darwen, nobody could accuse him of physical cowardice having seen his brave act in rescuing Mr Mardham from among the flames of the burning tree. She had been so very proud of him the other night, it had taken all her strength not to tell him how very, very greatly she admired him, all her strength to keep from kissing his grazed cheek.

  Reality was not Lord Deben. Reality was Sir Marcus Cotgrave, and the mere thought of kissing that particular cheek made her shudder, but it was all there was. Mama would tell her to be practical.

  *

  Celia found Sarah, gazing out of the window. It was raining persistently now, which would mean no driving, but in a gently melancholic fashion that echoed Sarah’s mood.

  ‘I was looking for you, but you slipped away after breakfast.’

  ‘I am sorry, Cousin, was there something you wished me to do?’

  ‘Oh no, it is just … What is the matter? You have seemed so different these last few days.’

  ‘Nothing. Or rather, nothing that anyone can help me resolve.’

  ‘But can you not even tell me what it is, Sarah?’ Celia sounded genuinely concerned, and Sarah took her hand.

  ‘I can tell you, because we are friends.’ She paused for a moment. ‘I think Sir Marcus is going to make me an offer.’

  ‘Oh no! How awful!’

  ‘Not awful in some ways, I am afraid, and I have not the luxury of being able to afford to refuse him.’

  ‘‘Luxury’? I do not understand.’ Celia was confused. ‘You do not like him.’ A frown creased her brow.

  ‘No. I do not, but part of me thinks that whether I do so or not is … irrelevant.’

  ‘But how could you marry a man you did not like, perhaps not even respect, Sarah?’

  ‘By considering the alternatives.’ Sarah sighed, and gripped Celia’s hand. ‘I know he has looked at me because you made it clear his suit was not welcome. I am, as always, a second choice. I do not think him a fool. He must realise that a young woman would not happily commit to a future at his side unless there were no alternative. In me he has found such a one. I have no prospects, Celia. Mama did not expect me to find a husband by coming to stay with you, but I am reasonably sure that she would greet any offer with huge relief.’

  ‘Even from a man of similar age to your papa?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sarah bit her lip. ‘You see you have at least the prospect of living with your parents and then, should your mama have cause to go to the Dower house, why, you would go too. You have that much security. There is Charles, my brother, who is in the army, but even purchasing his majority is currently likely to be beyond him, even with Papa’s aid, and he is thus inclined to volunteer for dangerous tasks in the hope of a field commission. I worry about him a great deal. Even if, as I pray, he returns safely, and one day inherits Three Elms, there is little beyond two small farms to rent out for income. He will want a wife and children of his own, and I would be a real burden upon him, Celia.’ She sighed again. ‘So you see, if Sir Marcus does make me an offer, I feel I am duty bound to consider it most carefully.’

  Celia shook her head.

  ‘It is all so unfair.’

  ‘I must try and look upon the brighter side. Since he is so much the elder, I must have reasonable hope of outliving him and then living quietly and comfortably as a widow.’

  ‘Oh Sarah!’ Celia had a catch in her voice, half laugh and half tears. ‘Listen to yourself. The best you can dream of is widowhood.’

  ‘Not the best I can dream of, Celia.’ She blushed, and whispered, ‘I can dream of someone kind and thoughtful and … someone like Lord Deben. I know it is merely sweetness of temperament and true gentlemanliness, but he makes me feel as important as everyone else here.’

  ‘Do not I do so?’ Celia looked worried.

  ‘Ah yes, but I meant, among the young men. Cousin Richard is … cousinly, Lord Pocklington is bemused because I do not like horses, or hounds, or dead birds, and Mr Wombwell treats me as if I were a speck of dust upon the sleeve of his coat to be brushed away and forgotten.’ She did not mention Lord Levedale, because she thought it clear that he had eyes for Celia alone, Marianne notwithstanding. ‘Lord Deben has always treated me as if I were an equal to you, or your Mama, or … any other lady. It is his way, I know, and not specific to me, but …’ She sighed.

  ‘He is a very nice man,’ agreed Celia.

  ‘A very nice man,’ echoed Sarah, with a sigh. ‘However, one has to be sensible. I just wish being sensible were not so grim.’

  *

  Sir Marcus watched Miss Clandon during luncheon, so obviously that Lord Deben became quite annoyed and scowled down the table at him. He did not think that Miss Clandon liked being stared at in that way, and he most certainly thought it intrusive, especially as she was much as she had been on the day they had arrived. That day she had been trying to pretend she was not there at all, and he felt that after a while she had unfurled, like some little flower. If she had been a flower, her petals were starting to drop, and she looked worn. Some burden afflicted her, and Cotgrave, the insensitive swine, was taking advantage. For a while Lord Deben actually wondered if he might take Sir Marcus aside and warn him off, but then he thought how he had no right to do so. At the end of luncheon he therefore went to make a fourth at cards with Richard Mardham, Pocklington and Lord Corfemullen. Sarah watched him leave, and felt strangely abandoned. She retreated to the small saloon, but knew she would not be alone for long. Indeed, it was only a couple of minutes before Sir Marcus entered, and feigned delighted surprise.

  Sarah watched him, with a depressing sense of inevitability, as he came towards her. He had a look upon his face, a confidence tempered by just that shade of doubt. After all, she thought, he had already been refused once during his stay. She tried to compose herself, and as he drew close he thought how very restful she looked.

  ‘Miss Clandon, I find you unoccupied. You are so industrious a young lady I had thought to see book or needlework upon your …’ He suddenly felt embarrassed at saying ‘lap’ or even ‘knee’, and amended his sentence, ‘ … in your hand’.

  ‘I was thinking, Sir Marcus.’

  ‘That is fortuitous, since there is a matter I would raise with you, upon which I would ask you to think.’

  This was it. Sarah’s sad smile remained, and she nodded.

  ‘Of course, Sir Marcus.’

  ‘Miss Clandon, I am in the unfortunate situation of not still being married.’

  Had it not been her to whom he was saying this, Sarah could have laughed. As a way of beginning a declaration it was … probably unique.

  ‘My natural inclination is for the comforts and gentle contentment of marital union, the opportunity to care for a lady, to have those tasks in life most suited to the distaff taken from my unwilling shoulders. You have struck me as a most competent young lady, restful, understanding of the strengths that pertain to each gender. To be plain, I feel that I would be very happy if you would accept my offer of marriage.’

  Sarah sat very still. She had but to say yes and her future was secure. The trouble was that it felt secure in the manner of being a prison cell into which she must step. For a minute she could not breathe. She could not do it, not right now, not today. She could not, would not, for all that it was the obvious answer to her situation.

  ‘I would ask you to give me a little time, Sir Marcus, before I give you my answer. I am of course honoured, but this is the most important decision of my life, and I would be rash in the extreme to make my choice without the greatest thought.’ She s
miled, and he did not see that it was a desolate smile. ‘I think we both understand that this is not a match based upon the tender passions. We have not got to know each other well, but that is something that obviously comes with time. You do understand?’

  ‘I understand, and commend your good sense, Miss Clandon. Indeed it is one of the things I admire in you, one of the many. I can only say that I think we will deal extremely together, and anticipate your answer with excitement.’ He did not look excited. He lingered, and for a terrible moment Sarah thought he considered ‘a little time’ to mean minutes. In fact did he not quite know how to end the interview, and eventually cleared his throat, mumbled something unintelligible, and left the room.

  *

  Sarah could not bear to be with the others. She felt crushed, oppressed by good sense. She had no feelings for Sir Marcus Cotgrave. How could she have, when her poor heart was already given to another? Unreciprocated it might be, but her love was real and deep. To mope in spinsterhood for a man who had merely shown her kindness, and thereby be a burden upon her parents and then her brother, was not sensible. She must cast dreams aside, and face cold facts. Sir Marcus had made her an offer. She had put him off so that she might compose herself, but to do more would be foolhardy. The course open to her was not one she wished to take, and it seemed so cruel when a far better future had been glimpsed, imagined, and faded like a dream upon waking. She was profoundly miserable.

  On impulse, she went upstairs, took up cloak and bonnet, and slipped back down and out into the soft September rain that fell in fine drops that permeated clothing almost by stealth.

  Chapter 18

  Some quarter of an hour later, Lord Deben, who had been wondering whether writing Miss Clandon a note would be too forward, entered the room where the other young ladies were sat bent over stitchery, and remarked upon her absence.

  ‘I have not seen Cousin Sarah for some time, my lord. She was a little pallid after luncheon. Perhaps she is laid upon her bed.’ Celia berated herself, silently, for not sending to find out if this were the case.