Two in the Bush

by Judith Hale Everett

  Tom, whose countenance had assumed an almost wooden politeness, rolled a distressed eye in his mother’s direction, and she hastened to reassure him. “Sir Joshua is Lady Cammerby’s only brother,” she said, stressing the solitariness of her friend’s relations, which seemed to comfort her son. “He is a perfect gentleman, and I have every expectation of your getting on famously.”

  Thus soothed, Tom managed a wan smile to his hostess. “I am all delight, ma’am.”

  But once alone with his mama, as they ascended the stairs to dress for dinner, he whispered tightly, “I’ve come to do my duty by you and Lenora, Mama, and I knew full well that would mean dancing and doing the pretty, for I have not forgotten my promise to squire you to assemblies, but I will tell you to your head that if you’d warned me I’d be thrown in head-first, I’d have spent an extra day at Twinny’s.”

  She patted his hand affectionately. “And we would not have blamed you one bit, dear, but what has me in a puzzle is how you supposed me to have warned you, when I had no notion of your coming before your time, until you had come.” He was visibly consternated by this just remark, but she went on serenely, “I would cry off this evening, my dear, to make you more comfortable, but Lenora is so looking forward to it—your sister is simply wild about dancing!—and tonight is to be her first time at Almack’s. We were unable to attend the opening night of the season, you see, but if you do not care to go, and Lady Cammerby is unsuccessful in securing Sir Joshua’s escort, I hardly know how we shall contrive, for we would be left quite unprotected.”

  Affronted by the insinuation that he would put his comfort before that of his family, Tom did not think to question why a party of two matrons and a young lady had need of protection at Almack’s. “What do you take me for, Mama? I am not such a care-for-nobody that I’d thrust a spoke in your wheel just to save myself annoyance! We shall all go to Almack’s, and dance, and do the civil, and shall enjoy ourselves immensely!” he said with dignity.

  Mrs. Breckinridge pressed his hand and beamed upon him. “How good you are, Tom, and for that, I give you my promise that I’ll not to throw you in head first again, at least while you are in London.”

  He grinned at her. “If I know you, Mama, something—entirely out of your control, of course—will occur to throw me on my ear, no matter how faithfully you promise.”

  They parted in the corridor, and Tom, never one to fuss overmuch about his appearance, arrived in the empty drawing room with several minutes to spare. After glancing over the pages of the day’s newspaper, he took a moment to peruse the paintings on the walls, of much younger versions of Lady and, he assumed, Lord Cammerby, and two fine young boys. He was absorbed in this task when the door opened behind him and he turned to find a tall gentleman with a rather stern countenance, whom he fancied he recognized as the man both Mrs. Breckinridge and Lenora had described in their letters.

  “You must be Mr. Breckinridge,” said the gentleman, extending a hand. “I am Sir Joshua Stiles.”

  Tom acknowledged this, shaking Sir Joshua’s hand, and they stood back, taking each other’s measure.

  Sir Joshua said, “I see little of your mother in you. You must take after your father.”

  “I do, sir,” answered Tom, stiffening slightly.

  Correctly interpreting this alteration in Tom’s manner, Sir Joshua remarked, “I did not know your father personally.”

  His unintentional emphasis on the last word impressed Tom to disclaim, “I take after him only in appearance, sir.”

  “I have no doubt,” Sir Joshua said, smiling in a disarming way. “You have nothing to fear from me, young man. All I know of your father is hearsay, and I seldom rely on such stuff.”

  Put off his guard, Tom admitted, “I would I could say he was wronged, sir, but I haven’t heard a rumor about him that wasn’t true.”

  At that point, Lenora and Mrs. Breckinridge entered the room, and the conversation was necessarily diverted into less awkward channels, helped on by Mrs. Breckinridge’s resolution to be on her best behavior in Sir Joshua’s presence. The talk centered on Lenora’s expectations of a fantastical evening, her visions of Almack’s Assembly Rooms having been embroidered by Elvira’s rapturous description of opening night. None too soon for more than one person in the room, Lady Cammerby entered, and the butler announced that dinner was served.

  The group being small, and the elders indulgently willing to remain silent, Lenora’s running account to her brother of all the delightful outings she had attended quite dominated the conversation. When she turned to a list of all her expectations for his visit, Tom’s eyes began to bulge, and Mrs. Breckinridge thought it expedient to try and save him, but Sir Joshua anticipated her by turning the conversation, abruptly but politely, to the farm at Branwell, and Tom’s plans for breeding.

  “Have you been to Branwell Cottage, sir?” inquired Tom, no more surprised than pleased.

  “Briefly. I had the honor of losing myself in the country a few months ago, and ended at your door.” Tom and Lenora both stared at him, and his handsome smile lit his face. “I had a letter to deliver from my sister, but I was at the mercy of the most abominable luck, and wandered for what seemed like hours. I was even beset by no less than two herds of recalcitrant animals, a lame leader, and—” with a meaningful glance at Mrs. Breckinridge, “a wagon stuck in the mire.”

  “One may imagine your temper must have been sorely tried, sir,” said Mrs. Breckinridge, in deepest sympathy.

  “It was, ma’am.” He turned his eyes to her, reassuming his grave demeanor. “But if I was so ungentlemanlike as to be uncivil, even in so vulnerable a moment, I should hope that I have been forgiven.”

  She blushed, caught unawares by this sincere apology, and suddenly found the contents of her plate vastly interesting.

  “You delivered the letter!” cried Lenora. “But Sally said you found her in the garden!”

  He cleared his throat. “I believe my arrival was unanticipated.”

  “No one was there to receive you at the door!” pursued Lenora, leaning forward over her plate in her chagrin. “And you being lost, and weary to the bone, I am sure. Someone should have been there to offer you refreshment, and rest! Oh, sir, it was unforgivable in us!”

  “Do not give it another thought, Miss Breckinridge. Sally, I believe you said her name was, received me very kindly, and far from being tired, I was pleased to have the delight of traversing your garden path, which afforded me a view of a most pleasant farm, and sheds on the property.” He turned to Tom. “What do you plan to do with them, Mr. Breckinridge?”

  Needing no further encouragement to enlarge upon the theme dearest to his heart, Tom readily expatiated his plans for the farm and animals, and Mrs. Breckinridge’s eyes flew from one to the other as they carried the conversation for the remainder of the dinner, with only a few interjections from an eager Lenora. Sir Joshua’s interest was gratifying, and Tom’s knowledge left nothing to shame, but Mrs. Breckinridge felt a twinge of pain watching them. This was a conversation that Tom could have had with his own father, but had not, and never should have, even had Bertram lived. But the megrims could not flourish in light of Tom’s evident enjoyment of the interchange, and she ended the dinner quite satisfied with everything.

  After dinner, they set out together to Almack’s, walking in the mild evening, and again Mrs. Breckinridge’s pride in her son was justified when he offered his arm to Lady Cammerby, and the other to her, and walked with them, giving such assiduous attentions to his hostess as to make a most pleasing impression. Her attention was divided, however, between admiration of her son’s excellent manners and an itching desire to hear what Lenora and Sir Joshua were talking of. The low murmur of their conversation pulled at her ears, and it was only with great self-control that she did not turn her head to hear what was said.

  Almost immediately upon their entering the ball room, Mr. Ginsham came
to greet them, along with a Miss Diana Marshall—one of their numerous new acquaintance—a circumstance which proved to enliven Mr. Breckinridge exceedingly. When Elvira joined their party, the evening promised to exceed expectations, but the young ladies sought for Mr. Barnabus in vain. After inquiry, Ginsham confirmed that the stammering young man “was no dancer, desiring rather to study his books against the time he stood for exams.” This information could not but injure him in the eyes of his admirers, and it was only with much whispered discussion and general large-mindedness that the ladies were finally able to acquit him of unheroic character. This was accomplished by their discovering that devotion to the future public good was, in fact, more romantic than spending every available moment in agreeable activity with one's heart’s desire, because, of course, one's devotion would be torn between the two occupations, thus enhancing one's tragic attractions.

  The preservation of Mr. Barnabus’s character thus accomplished, neither Elvira nor Lenora had cause to repine his absence, for both young ladies were soon surrounded by their admirers, who gave their minds little opportunity to wander. Tom, partaking of the attractions of Miss Marshall, in addition to those of several of her pretty friends, found the assembly far more enjoyable than he had thought possible, and began to congratulate himself on the great good sense of his coming a day ahead of schedule. Though he was not in general keen on dancing, he possessed a natural talent for it that distinguished him as a most desirable partner, and neither Miss Marshall, nor any of the other ladies he stood up with were made to regret the circumstance.

  Seeing her children so happily engaged, Mrs. Breckinridge settled into a seat along the wall with the other chaperones, and thought to spend the evening in conversation, but a certain set of broad shoulders kept catching her eye, and she found herself unable to focus on the vapid chatter of the matron beside her. The lady did not seem to recognize Mrs. Breckinridge’s lack of attendance, but prattled on as if she were reciting a laundry list, leaving her companion free to observe, fascinated, the machinations of two ladies in particular who seemed to be vying to gain Sir Joshua’s attention for their very plain daughters. No matter how forbidding his aspect, or strained his civilities, the girls took turns chatting in what looked to be the most hen-witted manner, giggling and simpering and gazing up at him through their lashes. Consternation was writ plain on his face, but neither the girls nor their mamas—one of which Genevieve recognized as Lady Castleton, a rival from bygone days—heeded it, instead gaining encouragement, perhaps by imagining the other as the cause of his annoyance.

  The press of bodies hid Sir Joshua from her view from time to time, but she spied him dancing with each of the girls and then with their mamas, with no visible enjoyment, until at last he ducked into the refreshment room, and did not reappear. As the minutes lengthened, Mrs. Breckinridge smiled to herself, envisioning him hiding under the refreshment table rather than endure the overtures of these fair maidens—or their mamas.

  She was surprised, then, to find him at her elbow, requesting the honor of a dance. Smiling archly, she said, “How low you stoop to ask a matron such as I! Surely there is some young thing wishing most sincerely to dance with you.”

  Tension bled through his polite mask. “But I have asked you to dance, have I not?”

  At that moment she chanced to see Lady Castleton bearing down on him, her face set, and taking pity on him, allowed him to lead her into the set. They moved through one or two figures of the dance in silence, but she could not long refrain from quizzing him. “It must be difficult to bear, being so much in demand as you are.”

  “Perhaps you may now understand why I am not often available to escort my sister to the assemblies.”

  An attempt to hide her smile only revealed a telltale dimple. “I confess I had imagined you taking refuge behind a handy curtain somewhere, sir, but I suppose such extremes will not always answer.”

  She thought she saw his cheek twitch. “They are most determined ladies.”

  “And you are too much the gentleman to give them the cut direct,” she observed, assuming a thoughtful expression. “Perhaps I may be of service to you, for a change, sir. I am not averse to giving rather more pointed hints. You must only say the word, and I shall do my poor best on your behalf.”

  “I would give your offer some serious consideration, ma’am, but I am persuaded your efforts would be in vain, merely clearing the field for a new onslaught. I fear that until I am no longer viewed as a matrimonial prize, I shall continue to be a victim.”

  “If that is the complexion of the matter, sir, I can still hope to be of use to you. I must only think of some way to destroy your character.”

  “Oh, no, that will not answer, ma’am, unless you divest me of my fortune as well. For as long as the worth of a man is great, his sins are counted as negligible.”

  “Then you must gamble away your fortune. I have it on the best authority that it is easily done at White’s or Watier’s, or even more expeditiously in any number of quiet little houses in St. James’ Street.”

  “An interesting notion which I shall forego, ma’am.”

  “You have no aspirations to waste your substance, sir? How odd in you. I had accounted it all the rage for rich men to outrun the constable.”

  “No, somehow I wish to end my days in comfort, having never dipped in a certain infamous river, and with something more than debt and dishonor to leave to my posterity.”

  “Then endurance is your only recourse, sir, for age and infirmity must surely discourage at last.”

  He chuckled. “It has yet to deter the most dogged, ma’am. I fear they shall badger me until I am dead.”

  “Or married, sir—although to some it is one and the same. But, their opinions notwithstanding, marriage could prove the more desirable fate for you. Perhaps you ought to look about you for some eligible spinster with whom you would not be too disgusted to spend the small remainder of your life.”

  “There are far too many for my liking, ma’am, but I do not scruple to tell you that I’d as lief take my chances with death. At least while I wait for the end, I may hope for happiness.”

  “Hope is but a dream, sir, if such delightful females as there are here do not entice you.”

  “I did not say all the females here did not entice me, ma’am, but only those with mercenary mamas.”

  She smiled graciously and said, “You may feel secure in the knowledge that I will never throw Lenora at your head.”

  He looked down, meeting her eyes. “I flatter myself that you will never have the need to, ma’am,” he said evenly. The dance ended, and he led her off the floor.

  Something about his last words had disturbed her, but as he bowed her to a chair she said lightly, “Perhaps if you danced with Lenora, your admirers would be more effectively deterred.”

  “Your solicitude is most moving, but I am unable to dance with Miss Breckinridge, though not for lack of trying. The happy effects of your tutelage, ma’am, are that she has been engaged all the evening.”

  Smiling warmly, he bowed, and left her to consider why her spirits felt suddenly impaired.

  It was not before many more outings with Mr. Ginsham and Mr. Barnabus that Lenora and Elvira began to chafe at one another, for ownership of the hero naturally belonged to the heroine, a role each was more than eager to assume, but that neither wished to relinquish, even to her bosom friend.

  “Ginsham makes no secret of his admiration for you, Elvira, and you cannot deny that you like him,” said Lenora one day, as she walked with her friend in the park.

  “I like him, Lenora dear, but so may any number of young ladies. Liking has nothing to do with love, you know.” Elvira nodded prettily to a passing gentleman. “I may like several gentlemen, but will bestow my heart upon only one.”

  “Poor Ginsham,” Lenora said reflectively. “His heart will be quite broken, you know.”

 
Elvira glanced quickly up at her. “Surely not. If he does feel strongly for me, it is only calf-love, and he is such a lively fellow that I cannot believe he could ever be long cast down.”

  “But the sunniest optimist may suffer from disappointment, my dear.” Lenora sighed gustily. “He is destined to join the ranks of broken men, ghosts of their former selves, bravely concealing their tragic pasts from heedless eyes.”

  Elvira’s pace slowed. “You refine too much upon his attention to me, Lenora, depend upon it. He could not suffer so on my account.”

  Perceiving a note of uncertainty in her words, Lenora pounced. “You do not see his eyes upon you, Elvira, when you are not looking. I, who am in a position to see all, could not be more convinced that he pines for you.”

  “Oh,” said Elvira, her cheeks flushing pink. They walked in contemplative silence for several minutes, brightening only to acknowledge an acquaintance or two as they passed. Suddenly, Elvira straightened and said, rather hurriedly, “It doesn’t signify, Lenora, if he pines for me, for I feel nothing but friendship for him. Oh, it is tragic indeed that his love must be unrequited, and I would not hurt him for the world, but my heart has been won already, and I cannot give it again, can I? Poor Ginsham must find his true love in another, for I am destined for Mr. Barnabus!”

  With pursed lips, Lenora hastened to catch up with her friend, whose pace had quickened as she spoke, but she did not deign to reply to this idiotish speech. Clearly, her dear Elvira was deluding herself as to her feelings for Mr. Barnabus or, at the very least, his feelings for her. For Lenora could not be more certain that their hero had chosen neither of them—yet—and if only Elvira could be made to know her own heart, the way would be clear for Lenora to win Mr. Barnabus.

  The remainder of their outing being singularly unproductive, she parted civilly with her friend, but entered the house on Hill Street with a determination to take matters into her own hands, for Mr. Ginsham, amiable though he was, had proven himself absurdly cowhanded in his courtship of Elvira. He was only a man, after all, and could not be expected to understand that to capture a young lady’s heart, he must captivate her imagination, but with the odds against him, his time was running out. She pulled off her bonnet and set it on the dressing table with decision. She would simply have to guide him, for his own good.