Agnes wished that he would stop, wished that she could find some way of curtailing his declaration, each word of which rendered the sinister Marquess both more vulnerable and more appealing, but she could not speak for the lump in her throat. She had never received a marriage proposal in her life and had not, in truth, expected one until the moment before he began to speak. Consequently, she had not, even as a young girl, imagined how she would deal with such a thing.
“I am not young,” he went on. His promises not seeming to have done the trick, he embarked upon a list of his faults, hoping perhaps to win her that way. “But neither am I so very old that I have not many years before I enter my dotage. I have been, as you know, dissolute and – in short I have many regrets about the past - but I promise that I have turned over a new leaf and I will strive – always – to be worthy of you.”
“Oh, pray, pray …” Unable to bear to listen to his pleas, Agnes at last managed to force a few broken words past the lump in her throat. She was almost moved to accept, so touched was she by this evidence of his finer feelings. But there was a reason why she did not, and that reason was stronger than her pity.
“Pray do not go on, my lord.” Having begun and having, at least momentarily, stemmed the tide of his avowal, she continued, her voice trembling, “I am sensible of the honour you do me and humbled by it. I do not deserve such an accolade, truly I do not; I am as weak and selfish as the next woman. It is only because of my position that I have not had the opportunity to be as self-indulgent as perhaps a richer person might have. It is, I am persuaded, because you know my situation that you believe what you have to offer in the way of rank and wealth may induce me to give you an affirmative answer, but it cannot because I know, or at least I suspect, that where one loves and the other does not, there unhappiness will surely follow. I must, with great reluctance, say no.”
“But could you not one day progress to loving me? I am willing to wait. Indeed, I am prepared to take the risk that you will never love me as I love you. Or is your objection based on the fact that you love another?”
Ignoring the last question for she could not bring herself to answer it, she replied to the first, “I could not bear that you should entertain that hope for you would only, in the end, be disappointed. It is better that you know now that I will never love you in the way that a wife should love her husband – that – in short, in the way that you deserve to be loved.”
“How can you be so certain? You are so very young – so untried. We have not known each other long; at my age, I have no doubts about my sentiments but, forgive me, I do not believe that you know the nature of love – it is by no means impossible that it will grow; all I beg is that you do not give me an absolute refusal now; do me the kindness to think about my offer.”
“I cannot,” she repeated. “Pray do not compel me to a step I am determined to resist.”
She choked as she spoke and she thought, not only of another bad man who seemed to have reformed, the sight of whom made her heart beat faster, but also of her friend, who had, unwisely, given her heart to the Marquess. She could marry Danehill, she did not any longer dislike him, indeed his declaration had moved her deeply and she did now believe that he was capable of redemption, but she could not offer him hope when another had already lodged in her heart. She did not for a moment suppose that her sentiments for this other were reciprocated but she knew, innocent and untried though she was, that becoming the wife of a man who was, on the most optimistic assessment, second-best, would be a recipe for misery.
He scanned her face and she, swallowing, forced herself to meet his eyes without flinching. After a moment, he nodded and raised her hands to his lips, first one and then the other, before rising and saying, “Thank you for your honesty. I will not conceal from you that you have broken my heart.”
“I know it and I am sorry from the bottom of mine.”
When he had gone, she picked up her sketchbook and turned to the page where the Marquess’s likeness stared out at her. Drawing a trembling breath, she began to wield her pencil, adding, taking away and altering the features until the face she had just seen stared back at her in all its humanity.
Then she turned back to the first one of Louisa and began to improve on that. It was in profile but it was still surprising how much character and how much of the emotional chaos which she suspected was presently raging in her friend’s breast, could be depicted.
Would they, could they, make a match of it if she removed herself, she wondered? And how long would it be before he would forget her, Agnes, become so indifferent to her that he could meet her in the future as his wife’s friend? And would she, Agnes, truly be comfortable with seeing her friend and her rejected suitor happily married to each other? Would she not sometimes – often – think of what she had spurned and regret her hastiness?
Of course it would not be so difficult if she was, herself, happily married, but that was unlikely. Who would want to marry her?
The difficulty lay in her own feelings for she had, unfortunately, already bestowed them on a man whom she could never marry; neither he nor she could wed without a fortune. In any event, she had no evidence that he would consider her as a possible wife even were she endowed with as many thousands as Louisa; well, perhaps he would for, on his own admission, he had already approached innumerable heiresses without success. But there was no point in thinking that way: he could no more marry her than she could marry him even were there a modicum of affection on both sides.
But, once more, she found herself in need of a safe haven. She could not remain in Louisa’s house for her presence chafed her friend horridly and there would be little hope of the Marquess transferring his newly awakened heart if the original object of his affections remained before his eyes.
No, she would have to leave. Almost completely penniless, she did not see that there was any alternative but to go back to the cottage and beg for asylum at least until she had found another position. She was well aware that, if she did that, she could not then demand they pay her wages but she thought that, if only they would provide her with bed and board for a short time, she would consider that sufficient.
She closed her sketchbook, wiped her eyes and went to the desk where she had, earlier, observed there to be paper, pens and ink with which she could write a letter.
She sat down and composed a short missive to Louisa, explaining that Mr Armitage’s report of his mother mourning her absence had convinced her that she should go back, at least in the short term. She thanked Louisa for her loving generosity, said how much she had enjoyed being, for a brief period, a part of Society and expressed the hope that they would always continue to be friends. But, since she did not want Louisa to beg her to return immediately, she stated firmly that she did not wish to return: although she had met with great kindness from everyone she had met, she had come increasingly to the conclusion that her future did not lie with such elevated persons and she wished, nay she insisted, that Louisa leave her alone for the time being while she thought about her future.
She would send for her trunk later – her belongings seemed to be in constant flux at the moment – but, for the time being, had taken all she needed to be going on with in her small valise. As she wrote these words, she thought how absurd it was for she had no one she could send for the trunk; would it not be better to arrange for its removal at once so that she need have no more contact with the big house? But how could she do this? These were not her servants to command, her trunk remained unpacked and she wanted to be on her way well before the riding party returned.
She sanded her letter, sealed it and left it on the mantelpiece where she hoped someone, possibly Mr Newbolt, would see it before too long. Then she went upstairs, running rather in the manner of a rabbit for fear of meeting Danehill again, packed the small bag with as many necessaries as she could cram into its less than generous proportions, put on her pelisse and hat – one way to carry them – and ran down the stairs again in the same apprehen
sive manner and out of the front door, nodding at the footmen as she passed but vouchsafing no explanation.
Once outside, where the air was still and the late summer sun made it uncomfortable to be buttoned into a woollen pelisse, she ran to the side gate which would take her the short route across country.
Once in the relative safety of the field, she dropped her pace and walked steadily until she came to the gate on to the lane which led to the cottage.
The door was opened by Jess whose face broke into smiles immediately.
“Oh, Miss, it’s good to see you. Her ladyship has been very low since you left; she’ll be so pleased. They’re just sitting down to nuncheon – she and Sir John – in the morning room.”
“Oh, thank you. I’ll go in. Jess: I suppose you have moved back into your room, have you not?”
“Yes, Miss, but, if you’ve come back to stay, I don’t mind moving out again; it’ll be so good to have you here again!”
“Thank you. I don’t know; I’ll have to ask her ladyship’s permission, but I own I am hoping that I can come back for a little while. But don’t do anything yet – let me speak to her ladyship first.”
“Yes, Miss. I’ll bring another plate and glass.”
Jess darted off towards the kitchen and Agnes put down the bag at the bottom of the stairs. She did not think she would take it in because its presence might alert the Armitages to her hope that she would be able to stay before she had been able to ask permission.
But, as she was tucking it discreetly against the wall, a voice said, “Does that bulging bag mean you are intending to move back in?”
She started guiltily and straightened to see Sir John standing in the doorway of the morning room. The sun was behind him but she thought he looked much less like a walking corpse than when she had last seen him.
“Yes; good morning, sir, that is …”
“Don’t tell me you’ve quarrelled with them up at the big house?” he asked.
“No; your brother told me that your mother missed me and I thought I would pay her a visit; that is all,” she replied in a low voice, not wanting Lady Armitage to hear.
“We all missed you,” he said on a different note. “Even Jess has been unable to smile. Do you wish to move back?”
She nodded. “I wanted to put it to your mother. I won’t, of course, in the circumstances, expect to be paid. I just …”
He interrupted her. “You should expect to be paid – and you will be. I will see to it this afternoon, I promise. Good God – of course she will want you back; she has found me an exceedingly poor substitute although I have tried to amuse her, but I fear my presence chafes her; it reminds her, I believe, of what she – we – have lost.”
“I am sure she is glad to have you here,” she tried in a mollifying tone.
“I suppose she is glad that I am not dead but I am not by any means convinced she enjoys living with me, particularly in such cramped conditions. My brother is looking for someone with whom she can lodge closer to London so that he will be able to visit her more often.”
“Yes, he told me that. Do you think that will answer?”
“I don’t know but I suppose we can’t stand here whispering in the hall for much longer without alerting her to your presence. You had better come in.”
The Baronet turned and walked, with, so far as Agnes could see in the rather dark hall, a firm step back into the room from which he had emerged.
“Mother!” Sir John said in a loud voice. “Look who I found in the hall!”
He stepped back to allow Agnes to enter the room and Lady Armitage turned, saw her former companion and burst into tears.
“Oh, my lady!” Agnes said, going forward.
“I think those are tears of joy,” Sir John explained, moving away and resuming his seat at the head of the table.
“I am so pleased to see you!” her ladyship cried, getting up and throwing her arms around her companion. “I have missed you dreadfully!”
“And I you, my lady,” Agnes said.
“Oh, I am sure you cannot have done so,” the older lady contradicted. “Why, you must have been having such a riotous time up there!”
“Riotous? Not exactly, but it has been enjoyable. I came to see how you are.”
“Have you come to tell me you have a beau? Perhaps you are engaged to be married?”
“No; in point of fact, Sir John guessed my purpose which, apart from seeing you, my dear lady, is to ask if I can move back in with you for a short time while I look for a new position.”
“My dear, of course you can; Jess will not mind moving back in with Mrs White. That is, John, may she move back, at least for a time?”
“I believe I have already given permission – out there in the hall. I am sorry that I spoke so hastily the other day – it was never my intention to drive you away, Miss Helman, and I have regretted my words ever since. Pray move back at once and stay for as long as it pleases you and my mother.”
“Thank you, sir – and thank you, my lady. Tell me what you have been doing while I have been away.”
“There is nothing in the least interesting to relate about what I have been doing,” her ladyship responded. “But you see how much better John is! Tell us, rather, what you have been doing.”
“Yes, I am glad he has made such good progress,” Agnes said, allowing her eyes to rest on the Baronet for a few moments.
He did look better: his hair was cut, his face was closely shaved, his clothes were clean and neat, although not precisely dashing in style, his skin a healthier colour – the yellow having been replaced by a warmer tone - and his form, so far as she could see now that he was sitting down, noticeably less cadaverous.
Chapter 28
It being such a warm day, luncheon at the big house was served by the lake again but this time Louisa did not hurry to join the party. It had been too hot for riding and she felt almost suffocated by the heavy folds of her habit. In spite of having galloped hell for leather and been amongst the first riders over every gate and hedge, she had not enjoyed the exercise and, far from being either stimulated or relaxed, as she normally was after a morning on horseback, was afflicted by the most crushing sense of doom.
She had not expected Agnes to go with them; if she had, a suitable mount would have had to be found for such an inexperienced rider as well as a habit and, Louisa being considerably larger, one of hers would not have fitted unless it had undergone extensive alteration – something that should, she supposed, have been predicted and undertaken in advance. But she had expected the Marquess to be of the party; the fact that he had chosen to withdraw, without offering any explanation other than that he had decided not to ride that day, had, as soon as she discovered it, crushed her hopes conclusively. She had tried to persuade herself that he paid so much attention to Agnes only because he felt sorry for her, but she had known – how could she not have done when she saw his expression as his eyes rested on the smaller girl? – that he had, incomprehensibly, conceived a tendre for the humble parson’s daughter. His crying off the ride struck her as being prompted by his desire to spend the morning alone with her friend – and why did he want that so much? Was he planning to make her an offer or simply attempt to make love to her? Louisa did not know but she did know that it was Agnes’s not riding which had made him cry off too.
Hot and uncomfortable, Louisa wanted to take off her habit as soon as possible; any compliments which her mother – and he – had given her last time on how well she looked – no longer meant anything. She knew she did not look well today: her face was red and perspiring from the heat, her hair, beneath the supposedly fetching hat, was damp and her skin was itching from its prolonged encasement in the stiff cloth.
She found Annie waiting in her chamber and allowed her to remove the offending garment and provide her with a jug of tepid water to sponge her flaming skin. She put on a white muslin gown, trimmed with pale blue ribbons, permitted Annie to brush and re-dress her hair and went downstairs,
much improved in appearance but not at all in temper.
“Ah, there you are, my dear!” her mother exclaimed as soon as she reached the group gathered beneath parasols in the shade by the lake. “What have you been doing all this time? Everyone else is here.”
Louisa cast a jaundiced eye over the throng and noticed that Agnes was not although the Marquess was. He was talking to her father and looked no different from when she had last seen him except that, to her eye, he wore an air that was both more proud and more condescending. Such a look convinced her that whatever approach he had tried with Agnes had not been successful and he had taken refuge in his consequence.
“Agnes is not here,” she said to her mother.
“Oh, no, nor she is! I wonder where she can be – busily drawing somewhere, I expect. Will you look for her – remind her that luncheon is served – or shall I send Potts?”
“I will go,” Louisa said and made her way through the chattering people to the Marquess.
As she approached, her father slipped away, no doubt thinking he was leaving his daughter with her primary suitor and not wishing to be in the way.
“Where is Agnes?” she asked.
“I have not the least notion,” the Marquess replied, his expression discouraging.
“What have you done with her?” She was convinced that he was lying and was suddenly afraid of what might have happened while she was out.
“Done with her? Why, what should I have done with her?” he asked, his face taking on a look of stony disapproval.
“You stayed behind in order to be with her, did you not? What transpired between you?”
“I hardly think that is your concern, Miss Newbolt. Am I obliged to tell you precisely what I have said and done while you have been out? Of what are you accusing me? Is it your belief that I have done away with her and, if so, why?”
Agnes Or The Art 0f Friendship Page 23