‘My love, he is a fine young man of good breeding, and Celia will be far happier living the life of a country lady where she may entertain at home, and her neighbours will soon be used to her infirmity. A month ago you would have been delighted to think that she would receive a good offer, and moreover it appears she is delighted by the arrangement.’
‘Well, I am not. To think of That Woman gloating as Jane claims Celia’s inheritance, it is too much. I will not have it, I tell you.’
‘And how otherwise are you going to conjure up a husband for Celia? Put an advert in the Gazette?’
‘Of course not. You must Do Something, my lord.’
Short of kidnapping some wealthy man, he could think of nothing, and so he told her. Tears ensued. Deep down he knew he ought to be firm, but Lady Mardham was quite capable of making his life a misery for weeks, and he disliked that intensely. He had therefore capitulated, but felt he was being unreasonable and unfair to Levedale, and, more importantly, his daughter.
*
Lord Levedale entered the drawing room with beetling brows, and was clearly not in the mood for conversation. He spoke briefly to Mr Mardham and Lady Corfemullen but requested permission to withdraw before the tea came round. Small talk eluded him.
As he reached the stairs his name was called, and he turned. Lord Curborough was staring at him.
‘I wish for words with you, in private, Levedale.’
Lord Levedale did not want to say anything to anyone, least of all his progenitor, and put his foot upon the first stair, but then sighed and turned about. He led the earl to the book room. He did not look in the least filled with filial affection when he shut the door and looked at his sire.
‘Well, sir, and to what do we owe this pleasure?’ he enquired, sarcastically.
‘That is no way to speak to your parent,’ grumbled the earl, hoping to gain the moral high ground from the start. He failed.
‘It is when you only show an interest in me when it affects yourself. I say again, why have you come?’
‘To prevent you making a fool of yourself, my boy, and ruining us into the bargain. Had I even a suspicion that you would show such a complete lack of sense … the young woman is a harpy, there is no getting past it. I have encountered her for but a few hours and that much is clear. You have been presented with a beautiful, biddable and wealthy girl, and only by some act of self-destructive lunacy could you have preferred the Darwen chit. The family will not be able to settle more than five thousand upon her at best, and in my view it would take three times that to make her worth the misery.’
Lord Levedale was rendered speechless for a full minute.
‘You think that … Miss Darwen?’ Lord Levedale laughed rather mirthlessly. ‘If you had spent more than “a few hours” in her company you would realise that all the money in the Royal Mint could not make it worth marrying her.’
‘But …’ Lord Curborough looked blankly at his son, and then a horrible suspicion dawned upon him. ‘There is only her. Good God, my boy, you cannot count Mardham’s lame filly.’ Hs voice rose in volume and register. ‘But she’s a cripple.’
Lord Levedale’s expression hardened.
‘For Heaven’s sake keep your voice down. For your information, Miss Mardham suffered a near fatal fall from her horse, and as a consequence has endured, still endures, much pain and discomfort. Her left leg is shortened, and stiff. She is not incapacitated in her faculties, nor in any other physical form. A broken leg is not hereditary.’
‘She is abnormal.’ Lord Curborough snorted. ‘One may pity her, but it is unthinkable that you would … breed with such a female.’
Lord Levedale had spent several if not many, very pleasant daydreams thinking about just that, and had had recourse to splashing his face with very cold water to cool his ardour.
‘She is the young woman I love, and my feelings are reciprocated, fully. I have, for reasons not yet explained, had my suit rejected by Lord Mardham. If I find that you have interfered, sir …’
‘I have not.’
‘ … I shall lift not even a finger to save you, or Silvertons.’
‘Well, if you married The Girl With the Limp, you would not be in a position to help, so that is no threat.’
‘I am meeting again with Lord Mardham in the morning after breakfast. It appears Lady Mardham is the one to have taken my offer badly, and I will attempt to make my case with his lordship once more. If that fails, then all I can see is the prospect of waiting until Miss Mardham comes of age, and may marry whomsoever she likes.’
‘Without a penny to come with her.’
‘If needs be, yes, and I would settle all I possess upon her and any children, should I predecease her. Not a penny would go to you.’
Lord Curborough’s reply involved loud and unpleasant words, which left Lord Levedale untouched. They parted at odds, and each departed to his bed where they neither fell asleep quickly, beset as they were with worrying thoughts. Before he rang for Welney, however, Lord Levedale wrote a very short note, and pushed it under the door of Miss Mardham’s bedchamber. It contained but the two words ‘Permission refused’.
Chapter 23
Celia awoke to find her dream was reality, and lay in bed too happy to even open her eyes and start the day. Eventually she rang for her maid, and stretched, cautiously. Her leg felt a little stiffer than usual first thing in the morning, but otherwise she felt quite well.
Horley entered, and picked up the folded note from the floor.
Celia’s happiness evaporated.
‘Which gown would you be wishful to wear, Miss Celia? Miss CeIia?’
Celia tried to think. Nothing happened. There was a terrible void.
‘I do not understand,’ she murmured to herself.
Horley cast her a thoughtful look and did not repeat the question.
She tried again, but thoughts came slowly. Why should Papa turn down her one chance of happiness? Had he not even encouraged the situations in which the romance had developed? Then the truth dawned. It must be money. Lord Levedale did not look poor, but if his investments came below those stipulated by Grandpapa Mardham’s Will …
‘Pass me my dressing gown, please, Horley.’
Horley did so, and helped her mistress rise from her bed. She was always a trifle unsteady getting up.
‘Thank you. I will return shortly. I must see Mama.’
With which Celia took up her stick and hobbled to the door.
Lady Mardham was enjoying her morning chocolate, but upon Celia entering her room, she spilt it upon the counterpane, and went ‘Oh’ in a worried voice.
‘Do you hate me, Mama?’’
‘Of course not, my poor child. Do not be histrionic.’
‘Then tell me why, after repeatedly saying how marriage is important, frees one, you have prevented my chance of marriage?’
‘You have had two offers, my love, which shows you are marriageable after all.’ Lady Mardham did not look her daughter in the eye.
‘No, Mama, it shows one man was desperate and the other the only man to ever appreciate me for who I am, not how I look and walk.’ Celia suppressed a sob.
‘You do not understand. A marriage is not “freeing” if one is impoverished.’
‘Are Lord Levedale’s coats patched? His stockings darned? Does he look “impoverished”?’
‘Appearances can be deceptive, my poor Celia.’
‘Not to that degree. Look at his horses.’
‘That would tell me nothing.’
‘No. Perhaps not to you, but to me, and Papa must know. This is about the Will, is it not?’
‘You cannot marry a man who has no money, dear.’
‘I would rather marry a man with “not enough money to please you” and be happy, than remain a spinster, dependent upon the family.’ She stopped, as an idea occurred to her. ‘And if I am not permitted to marry Lord Levedale then I will wait until such time as I am of age. I will not marry anyone else.’
That Celia might consider actually waiting for Lord Levedale had not crossed Lady Mardham’s mind.
‘You speak in heat. When you have had time to consider …’
‘I love him, Mama.’
‘You think you do, but in only a few weeks …’
‘I love him, and in keeping us apart you wound my heart.’ Celia cracked, and had she been able, would have run from the room. Instead, her tears flowed as she left, slowly, her limp more than usually pronounced.
Back in her room, Horley was waiting.
‘There now, Miss Celia. You sit yourself down and compose yourself,’ urged Horley, comfortingly. Celia sat, and blew her nose, and sniffed. When the tears had ended she took a deep breath, and with the inhalation came a thought. Her voice was firm when she spoke.
‘I am driving to the Dower House, Horley. A morning dress, if you please, and my grey pelisse and lilac bonnet.’
‘Yes, miss. But her ladyship may not be up early, miss. You will go after breakfast?’
‘No. I would rather await her in the Dower House.’
*
Thus, half an hour later, Celia was assisted into the little pony cart, with the faithful Pom between the shafts. She declined a groom, and drove alone, not wishing for company on the way there, nor other ears to hear her upon the return. If she had to wait a year to wed Lord Levedale, then if he would wait for her also, she would do so, but oh, how she considered it a waste of life. If anyone could help her in her predicament it was Grandmama. She thought that the old lady had rather liked Lord Levedale, and if she had, then woe betide Papa, or Mama, if they tried to stand in Grandmama’s way. Celia only hoped her grandmother would see matters in the same light as herself.
The shutters were still drawn across the reception room windows when Celia arrived. There was nobody to hold Pom, or help her down from the cart, so she looped the reins about the brake, and descended cautiously. Then she went to the pony’s head.
‘Now, Pom, old fellow, I am depending upon you. Be a good boy and do not think of leaving.’ She patted his neck, and went to ring the doorbell firmly. She heard it resounding through the quiet house. It was a maid, with duster in hand, who opened the door, as Chorley emerged from the the servants’ quarters, still pulling on his coat.
‘Miss Celia! Her ladyship is still taking breakfast in her room, miss.’ He sounded rather shocked.
‘It is alright, Chorley. I will await her in the morning room. I would not have her rushed, but it is imperative that I speak with her.’
Chorley, with the wisdom of over three times Celia’s years, considered these statements contradictory. If he told his mistress that Miss Celia was downstairs and it was ‘imperative’ that she speak to her ladyship, then Lady Mardham would of course rush. If he did not say anything, he would be berated later. He sighed.
‘Yes, Miss Celia. I will have Jane open up the morning room for you in a trice.’ He nodded at the waiting maid, who was all agog.
‘And can you have someone sent to the stables so that the pony can be attended to, please?’
‘Yes, miss.’
So Celia waited, rehearsing all that she wanted to say. It was nearly half an hour later when the dowager entered the room.
‘Well? What on earth can have you on my doorstep at dawn, miss?’ It was some three hours since the dawn, but Celia was not going to argue. Grandmama did not sound pleased to see her.
‘I had to come. Grandmama, only you can help me in this fix.’
Lady Mardham, reading her granddaughter’s face better than she could have guessed, sniffed, and sat down upon a sofa, patting the seat beside her.
‘Best you tell me about it then.’
Celia’s sentences melted. Grandmama might sound frightening, but this was Grandmama at her most understanding. Celia took a breath, managed ‘You see …’ and buried her face in her grandmother’s rather narrow bosom.
*
Lord Curborough did not enjoy his breakfast, being too concerned that his son and heir might eschew it altogether and closet himself with Lord Mardham without him being able to be a third at the interview. He feared the boy could be too damned persuasive, and a night’s repose might well have brought Mardham to the realistic conclusion that any offer was better than none, and the girl was scarcely likely to receive another. That interfering to dissuade Lord Mardham from changing his mind was entirely contrary to his only remaining son’s fervent wish and future happiness did not concern him a whit. The boy was young enough to get over it. He sat in silence with Sir Marcus, who approved of such behaviour at the breakfast table.
Lord Mardham had come, eaten, and departed some time previously, before Lord Curborough made his appearance. Lord Levedale entered, and halted upon the threshold.
‘Has Lord Mardham breakfasted?’
Sir Marcus nodded, and waved a forkful of roasted beef in the general direction that would indicate the library. Lord Levedale did not even acknowledge his father’s presence.
‘Thank you.’ He withdrew, and Lord Curborough, muttering, cast down his napkin, made an excuse to Sir Marcus, and stomped after him. He had to ask a footman for the direction of the library, and entered without knocking. Lord Levedale, who had not taken up an offer to be seated, turned, and glared at his father.
‘This does not concern you, sir.’
‘It does, by Heaven, and I am honour-bound – honour-bound I say – to ensure that Mardham is fully aware of the facts, the unpleasant facts.’
Lord Mardham blinked, and wondered what on earth these facts might be. Levedale had at no time given any inkling of being less than an honourable man, and indeed Lord Mardham felt very guilty at refusing him, in the light of his actions upon the night of the fire and the previous day.
‘I beg you will not wash our dirty linen in public, sir.’ Lord Levedale was thin-lipped with anger, and the request sounded more of a command.
‘I must be honest,’ declared the earl, giving what his son thought was a poor impression of an early Christian martyr.
‘Might we all three sit down, my lords, and speak plainly but without heat?’ Lord Mardham was now fully aware of the antipathy that crackled between father and son. Both looked at him, and sat, very upright, in chairs as far apart as possible.
‘I am seeking to find out why Lady Mardham, and I can only assume it is her wish, objects to me as a husband for your daughter, sir.’ Lord Levedale was trying to remain calm. ‘I can see no reason why she might think my character deficient.’
‘I can assure you that there is no reflection upon your character, in any way, in the decision, Levedale.’ Lord Mardham felt acutely embarrassed.
‘Then is it simply that I am not wealthy enough? My income is steady, and my outgoings likewise. I do not think that Miss Mardham seeks to live at great expense in Town so …’
‘Of course, by the time he inherits, the earldom will be but a name only,’ interjected Lord Curborough, with a peculiar mix of gloom and satisfaction.
Lord Mardham looked stunned. It was hardly normal for a man to advertise the imminent financial ruin of his house.
‘Er …’ he managed.
‘Through no fault of mine. I live within my means, and—’ Lord Levedale got no further.
‘Through every fault, sir, because you have failed to do as you were told.’ Lord Curborough’s tone was biting, and his complexion became choleric.
‘I have every intention of making the likely future of the estates known to Miss Mardham. If she is content to live modestly …’
‘Penny-pinching, he means,’ murmured Lord Curborough in the voice of a Cassandra. ‘And if Silvertons remains, devoid of its treasures but still in our hands, she will be faced with leaking roofs, perished plasterwork and a great deal of damp and mildew which must be harmful to a delicate creature. You would not be a caring parent if you exposed your only daughter to that.’
‘My lord, my Father is trying to put you off simply because he desires me to play the fortune hunter and drag him
out of the River Tick.’ Any pretence at speaking ‘without heat’ was gone. Lord Levedale’s voice was raised.
‘And that is a son’s duty,’ cried Lord Curborough. ‘Would not you expect the same, Mardham?’
Lord Mardham could not even begin to envisage such a scenario. He therefore said nothing.
*
Celia did not say much during the short journey back across the park, focusing on her driving so that her grandmother should not be jolted. The pony cart was, after all, not the well sprung and deeply upholstered vehicle in which she was used to travel. Lady Mardham sat very straight, and silent not through displeasure but because she was thinking. Eventually she did ask one question, though she was certain of the answer.
‘Your heart is engaged, patently, but I have to ask, child, if you have encouraged it to be so because Levedale is the one man who is likely to offer you the chance of marriage and a household of your own?’
‘I love him because he sees Me, Grandmama, not the limp, but the real Me, and loves Me. He is my chance of happiness. I have had another offer for my hand, but that was Sir Marcus Cotgrave.’
‘Cotgrave? But he is nigh on Mardham’s age, and a bore to boot.’
‘He is, dear ma’am, but offer for me he did. I refused him, because I would rather remain single to my dying day than be his “replica” wife, and he wanted to prevent me doing anything without him, as though I were a vase that might smash. He wanted me to be totally dependent upon him so that he could feel powerful, I suppose. Well, I would not, could not. Papa would have agreed to my marriage to Lord Levedale. It is Mama who has forbidden it, and she is thinking of the inheritance, not me.’
‘And you would marry Levedale with his meagre however many thousand a year.’
‘Yes, ma’am, for I do not want a Society life, an expensive life. How could I function in Society? No, I would be more than happy in Devon, living quietly as he does, with him, the man who has my heart.’
‘Then we must ensure that you get the future you deserve and desire.’
‘Can you persuade Papa to let me marry and ignore the inheritance?’
‘Leave things to me, my dear.’
Bless Thine Inheritance Page 26