by Mira Stables
He found Mr. Morley well-informed—which he had expected—and entertaining—which he had not. He was witty, mildly cynical, and had a knack of describing some of the country’s more inept politicians in one or two devastating phrases that stripped them of pomposity and self consequence and exposed them for the bumbling incompetents that they had shown themselves in their conduct of the late war. He spoke with deep concern of the steady deterioration of affairs in France. Finally, as he replenished their glasses, he enquired with some diffidence as to Julian’s future plans. Did he think of going back to India?
“Not immediately. My uncle left me his home, Pittsfield House in Surrey. Near Caterham. It is not very large, but there are three farms. I must make the acquaintance of my tenants and ensure that all is well with them before I make further plans.”
Mr. Morley nodded. “There I envy you,” he said simply. “Growing up as you did, it comes naturally to you. I make no doubt your tenants will confide in you without loss of time. No doubt they will try you out at first to discover if you’re a green ’un—an easy touch as I would phrase it. But once they have decided that you are awake to the time of day, your troubles will be over. It is a relationship of slow growth, like most things in country living, and can never be acquired late in life. You say I have made a success of Wellasford. The house—perhaps. But as regards the land I am a mere cypher. The tenants are polite—and completely remote, as only your English rustic knows how. I am obliged to employ a bailiff; to content myself with dutiful curtseys and pulling of forelocks; and I shall never bridge the gap between us; never know if they are content and well cared for, or if my bailiff is cheating me wholesale and causing them to suffer hardship in the process.”
There was a note of sincere regret in the half-laughing complaint. Moreover it was one that Julian perfectly understood, and it won his sympathy, even though at the same time he was aware of a certain degree of satisfaction that some part of Wellasford still clung to the old loyalties. He reconciled these conflicting feelings as best he could, agreeing that country folk could be remarkably cross-grained and enquiring after various old acquaintances who came into this category and after Mrs. Beechey who did not. The answers were in general satisfactory though, as was only to be expected, time had left certain gaps in the community.
“I don’t suppose you’d care to ride over to Little Wittans with me,” suggested Mr. Morley tentatively. “Young Thorpe is one of your awkward customers. You’ll remember his father—as decent a fellow as you’d meet in a month of Sundays. The boy went off to America to seek his fortune. Seems he didn’t find it—and been blue as megrim ever since he came back. Edgewick advised me against letting him take the place over, but there was his mother to think about as well, and I didn’t care for the notion of turning her out. He’ll be about your age—Thorpe. Maybe a word with you would cheer him up. Certainly old Mrs. Thorpe would be both pleased and proud to welcome you.”
Put like that it was difficult to refuse, especially as he had no other engagement to plead as excuse. “Just comfortable time before dinner,” announced Mr. Morley cheerfully. “You’ll take pot-luck with us, won’t you?” And seeing Julian’s surprised face and swift glance at the mantel clock, added, “I dine at three, after the fashion of my boyhood. You will be accustomed to keeping fashionable hours, but I daresay you’ll be pretty sharp-set by the time we’ve ridden to Little Wittans and back.”
To decline an invitation so phrased must be both hurtful and ill-bred. Julian, who could perfectly well administer a crushing snub when he felt it to be necessary, smiled pleasantly and thanked his host.
Chapter Two
The ride was surprisingly pleasant. Despite his advancing years Mr. Morley proved to be an accomplished horseman. Julian had reckoned as much at first sight of the good-looking bay that was led out for his use. He swung into the saddle without the aid of groom or mounting block and his neat, spare figure moulded itself to his mount’s easy action so that horse and man seemed to be one. The negligent ease with which he controlled the powerful animal was impressive, and when they let the horses out on a tempting stretch of turf, Julian was hard put to it to keep up with the flying bay.
The visit to Little Wittans proved abortive. It went smoothly enough, though Julian was considerably embarrassed by old Mrs. Thorpe’s insistence on referring to him as the young master. But her son was not at home, having taken some young calves to market, and she doubted he would not be back before milking time. One could not help noticing that the farm and its buildings were in an excellent state of repair and that, so far as a cursory survey went, both crops and stock were flourishing. A good landlord made for good farming thought Julian bitterly, remembering the tumbledown state of some of the buildings in his father’s day. The tenants, at any rate, had benefited by the change of ownership.
But such reflections were futile. He drained the tankard of home-brewed ale that Mrs. Thorpe had insisted that they try, expressed the hope that it had not made him so top heavy that he would fall off Warlock, and bade his hostess farewell, gently evading her eager suggestions that the gentlemen should ride over again when Will was at home. “Which he mostly always is, your honour, ’cept just sometimes on market days.”
They trotted off briskly, Mr. Morley explaining that he had made something of a fetish of punctuality and did not care to be late for meals. “No use training your servants with such pains and then setting them a bad example,” he remarked sensibly, and allowed the bay to break into a canter.
It was strange and a little odd to sit down to a meal at Wellasford as a guest. Fortunately Mr. Morley did not use the family dining room, explaining that he preferred the small breakfast parlour with its view across the rose garden to the trees of the park. “Except when we are a large party,” he added, “which is rarely. My daughter shares my liking for a quiet going on.”
Julian felt a faint stir of surprise. He was almost sure that the lawyer had described Mr. Morley as a bachelor. Or perhaps he had just said that there was no son to inherit the estate. Yes, that was it. Julian could remember the very dubious expression with which Mr. Edgewick had conceded that this might be a deciding factor when trying to persuade Mr. Morley to sell. Well—that dream was over. There was no question of selling. And if there was no son to inherit, it seemed that there was a daughter. No mention of a wife, though. Perhaps Mr. Morley was a widower. He wished that he was a little better informed about his host’s circumstances. One could blunder badly through ignorance. A swift sidelong glance showed him that the dinner table was laid for three. Presumably Miss Morley would join them for dinner.
Even as the thought crossed his mind, Mr. Morley said smilingly, “I trust that Anna will not keep us waiting, after all my talk about punctuality. I daresay she is changing her dress.”
On the last word an expression of almost ludicrous dismay crossed his countenance. “Dress!” he repeated feebly. “I forgot to warn her! Well, indeed, I did not really know, did I? That you would be dining with us, I mean.”
He looked so shattered, so different from the brisk and competent man of affairs, that Julian felt quite sorry for him. He was on the brink of suggesting that he should make a hasty departure and not, after all, stay to dinner, though to speak truth he now very much wanted to stay. Not only because he was, as Mr. Morley had prophesied, exceedingly hungry, but because his curiosity had been aroused by that gentleman’s obvious agitation. But it was already too late. The door opened gently and a girl came into the room.
For a moment Julian forgot all about the behaviour proper to a gentleman in the presence of a young lady who was also, he supposed, his hostess. His mouth dropped open and he frankly gaped. If he had had any coherent thoughts about the girl’s appearance, he would have concluded that she had come down to dinner in her dressing gown. It was a loose, flowing garment in a rather charming shade of green, with huge sleeves that hung in points to the floor. Hair that was dressed in two thick plaits accentuated the dressing gown effect, save
that the ends of the plaits were bound with some kind of filigree work of gold, set with sparkling coloured stones. The green gown had a plain round neckline, and a heavy gold necklace, beautifully worked and obviously of great antiquity, circled the base of the girl’s throat and gave Julian the clue to the mystery. Mr. Morley’s passion for the ancient and the beautiful, so plainly to be seen in his restoration of Wellasford, had been extended to guide his daughter’s choice of costume.
For a moment the lady was the most composed of the three. She had coloured to the roots of her hair at the realisation that there was a stranger in the room, but she betrayed no other sign of embarrassment or nervousness, coming forward placidly while her father struggled with a medley of apologetic and explanatory phrases and Julian pulled himself together and executed his best bow. She appeared to follow her father’s disjointed account without difficulty, and only said quietly, “It is a pity that I was not forewarned. I would have ordered one or two side dishes. Now, I fear, it will indeed be pot luck. But you must blame Papa, sir, who is so much put about by his neglect that he has not even remembered to tell me your name.”
This prosaic approach exerted a powerfully calming effect on Mr. Morley. He sighed in a relieved sort of way and presented Lord Wellasford to his daughter Anastasia in due form.
The dinner was indeed a good deal simpler than the meals that were customarily served in more elevated circles. The first course consisted of rump of beef with dumplings, a roast fowl and cod with oyster sauce. This was removed with a boiled tongue, an apple pie, a dish of curd cakes and a bowl of fresh fruit. There were no elaborate garnishes, but in marked contrast with many more elegant dinners the food was beautifully cooked and the hot dishes were piping hot. Much to the gratification of his host, Julian did ample justice to this good plain fare. The gentlemen enjoyed an excellent claret, but a jug of rich creamy milk was set before Miss Morley, and her father drew her attention to this once or twice, adjuring her to drink it all up. She obeyed him, but Julian thought she did not relish it over much. And small wonder. The girl must be four or five and twenty, surely too old for such nursery treatment. He noticed, casually, that she partook very sparingly of such dishes as she selected and declined pie and cake in favour of a peach. She also declined his own offer to prepare this fruit for her, biting into it with relish so that the juice ran down her chin.
This minor contretemps did not distress her. She grinned impishly at her father who was inclined to draw a solemn mouth over her hoydenish tricks, and told him that half the flavour of the fruit was lost in the careful preparation. Julian promptly took issue with her on this head, rather meanly quoting the pineapple as a prime example of the opposite view. This she was obliged to concede, but made a prompt recover by asking him demurely how often he ate pineapple, and whether he did not think that a good English apple, in its prime, was best eaten as God had intended when he gave man hands and teeth.
This frivolous interlude did much to lighten the rather solemn atmosphere in which they had begun the meal. It proceeded in leisurely fashion, Miss Morley negligently eating grapes while the men-folk attended to the more solid viands and cracked a second bottle of claret. Talk ran merrily on a number of subjects, although Miss Morley’s unusual choice of costume was not one of them. Julian found her perfectly conversable. She had a well-informed mind and contributed her share towards the various exchanges, though she left the initiation of new topics to the gentlemen. She was not the kind of female who appealed to him—too plump for his taste and seemingly devoid of feminine artifice. He preferred something kittenish and coy. But he thought her manners very pleasing—frank without being forward—and he admired the quiet dignity with which she had carried off the awkward situation created by her peculiar costume. As a matter of fact it was quite an attractive sort of costume in its way, the colour ideally chosen to set off the wearer’s fair skin and those great ropes of golden hair. He tried to visualise her dressed in the current mode but found it difficult since her loose draperies concealed her figure and he could not imagine how such a quantity of hair could be arranged in a fashionable style, so he abandoned idle speculation and turned his attention to his host who was asking his views on the merits of claret as opposed to the heavier burgundy which was more universally popular.
He did not notice that Mr. Morley was gradually withdrawing from the talk, occasionally tossing in some comment or question that set the ball rolling again, and then studying the animated faces of his table companions with a very thoughtful air. It was he who skilfully turned the talk to Julian’s recent experiences in India. The young man’s own vivid interest was infectious. He talked easily and well, and Miss Morley’s rather heavy countenance glowed into something approaching beauty as she poured out her eager questions.
Presently Mr. Morley broke across a slight pause in the recital to say gently, “If you will excuse us, my dear, there are one or two matters that I would like to discuss with his lordship before he leaves us. And though the moon is at the full, the roads are none too safe after dark. Footpads and highwaymen have been pretty active of late, their numbers augmented by the scaff and raff of the army who have no gainful occupation now that the war is over.”
The girl rose immediately, her brief vivacity dying, her face composed in an expression of decorous courtesy. “Yes, indeed,” she said. “I have been very remiss. Pray forgive me, milord, and permit me to thank you for a most enjoyable talk. I wish you a safe journey.” She curtsied formally and withdrew with dignity, her long skirts sweeping behind her as Julian sprang to open the door.
He found himself quite indignant on her behalf. Her father seemed to treat her as something between a doll to be dressed for his pleasure—for surely the girl herself had never evolved that peculiar rig—and a child scarcely out of the nursery. But after all it was no bread and butter of his and he was unlikely to visit Wellasford again. He resumed his seat, declined a suggestion of port or madeira to round off his dinner but accepted another glass of claret and waited politely to hear what his host had to say.
That gentleman did not hesitate. “First I would like to explain about Anna’s dress,” he said simply. “I would not have you think her an eccentric. As I daresay you have realised, anything of beauty and antiquity holds a deep fascination for me. I don’t know if you noticed the necklace she was wearing. It is Roman work and dates back to the second century. But to be brief, I have devoted much of my leisure to collecting jewellery, china, silver and gold ornaments, most of them designed centuries ago. But many things are perishable. Unless it has been very carefully kept, any kind of fabric is likely to crumble at a touch. So where dress is concerned I have had originals that appealed to me accurately copied and Anna humours me by wearing them when we dine alone. I was sadly at fault in not warning her that tonight we would not be alone, and in exposing her to possible discomfort. I owe you thanks for treating the matter as the merest commonplace and for setting the poor child at her ease.”
“Well as to that, sir, it is your daughter herself who deserves your thanks. I confess that her appearance was something of a surprise. But her dignity of bearing, her complete absence of self-consciousness made acceptance both easy and natural.”
Mr. Morley looked pleased. “I thought you were hitting it off very comfortably together,” he observed. “Anna does not go into Society enough. My fault, I fear. We go on so contentedly that I do not urge her to a life that would deprive me of her company. She did have a Season in Town when she was eighteen. My sister took her to a great many parties and showed her all the sights, but by what I could make out the child didn’t care for it above half. Certainly she seemed thankful enough to come home. And since then I have been a good deal occupied, partly with business affairs, partly with”—he hesitated briefly, then plunged boldly on—“with my arrangements to take over Wellasford. The question of Anna’s future did not seem particularly urgent. Indeed it was only tonight, seeing her so self-possessed in a dilemma of my making, that I realised how f
ast she is growing up.”
Julian would have said that she was definitely grown up, though he could not see that it was any concern of his. He assumed an expression of polite interest and sipped his claret.
Mr. Morley fell silent for a moment, then raised his head suddenly and jerked out, “I said I would never sell Wellasford, and I hold by that. At my death it will go to Anna, who is my sole heir. Watching the two of you tonight, so pleasant and affable together, the thought came into my head—how if you was to marry? No!” as Julian choked on his wine, his whole attitude indicative of protest, “Hear me out if you please. It was only a thought. You are free to do as you wish and nothing would persuade me to put pressure on Anna. But there could be no harm in the two of you becoming better acquainted. You might decide that you were pretty well suited after all. And if you did, well—that would bring Wellasford back to you and give Anna a husband that I’ve taken quite a liking to. In the general way I’ll admit that I’ve some prejudice against your sort, and good reason for it, but you strike me as being rather out of the common run. Not above being civil and pleasant despite your disappointment over Wellasford, and a shrewd head on your shoulders unless I’m sorely mistaken, which isn’t likely. Too short acquaintance to be sure of anything else, but you might make my Anna a good husband if you gave your mind to it, though I’ll allow that it’s not for me to decide. All I’m asking is that you should think it over for a bit, because if you should fall in with my views there’s one or two things that it’s only right you should know.”
He lapsed into silence once more, occupying himself with replenishing their glasses.
Julian was not so much thoughtful as slightly dazed by the bombshell which had burst upon him without warning. His first reaction had been to repudiate the whole idea in terms which would certainly have put an end to any hope of further cordial relations with his host. But Mr. Morley had been wise when he insisted that his guest take time to think things over. Was it so outrageous after all? Certainly not in its initial stages. He was only being asked to improve his acquaintance with Miss Morley in order to give the pair of them an opportunity of discovering whether a marriage between them might prove agreeable to both. Put in that way it was no more than fair business dealing. He could offer a title, the old house in Surrey and a comfortable fortune. Miss Morley could give him back Wellasford. That temptation was a strong one. He had been willing to pay a high price for his old home. Was this price too high?