Knowing exactly how Tom felt about him, Ginsham’s feelings of chivalry suddenly revolted at the thought of continuing the deception of his innocent love. He stared helplessly into her adoring eyes, striving within himself, then lowered his gaze. “I must tell you, Miss Chuddsley, that I discovered afterward that Tom had orchestrated the whole. So I am no more a hero than I was yesterday.”
“Oh!” uttered Miss Chuddsley, obviously taken aback. “But why would he do such a thing?”
Exceedingly uncomfortable, Mr. Ginsham muttered something about cock-brained fools and romance, unable to meet Miss Chuddsley’s gaze as his words dwindled to a stop. It took Elvira some minutes to digest this revelation, and her eyes began to blaze, while poor Mr. Ginsham, swallowing rather convulsively from time to time, tensely waited for her verdict.
“Oh! The perfidious wretches!” she cried at last, startling both Mr. Ginsham and her aunt, who had been reading quietly in the corner. “I never knew they were so black at heart! But I should have known it would be so, for Lenora has behaved outrageously to poor Mr. Barnabus, courting his good opinion while nourishing the most callous feelings—she had the impudence to tell me that she considers him to be nothing better than a gargoyle, if you please! Which I know to be the most shocking untruth, for she fairly fell over herself in trying to disengage my affections for him, all so she could attach him to herself!”
She jumped to her feet and began to pace about the room, both her companions regarding her with the utmost astonishment. “And Tom—employing common thieves to pretend to endanger his life, to lure you into a farce of the most odious kind—and for what? To make a fool out of me! I, who have been like a sister to him! I, who have never done him the least harm—excepting when I made him break his arm because I was too afraid to go for help when he was caught in Sir Wallaby’s tree, but it was his fault for hoaxing me into stealing the apples, so that is neither here nor there—But it is all of a piece! I am persuaded they have no thought but for their own amusement, no matter the cost, and I will stand for it no longer!”
She stamped her foot. “Lenora may have cheated me out of Mr. Barnabus’s affections, for I fancy it was she who kept him from calling to take leave—indeed, I should not be surprised at her having pretended not to care for him at the last out of pique, for he was becoming most assiduous in his attentions to me, I assure you, and must have expressed his ardent wish to see me once more—but she has merely the satisfaction of seeing the back of him, for he left her just as well as he left me!”
She rounded on Mr. Ginsham, who shrank back into his chair as she shook her little fist at him. “And Tom, who was ever a disagreeable boy, thinking to bamboozle me with this horrid trick, fancying me to be such a goosecap as to swallow such a story! And that he caught you up in the trap as well—you, who have ever been his truest friend!—Oh, I could choke him!”
This ferocity drew a startled exclamation from her aunt, to whom she directed a curt apology, but continued to hold forth for several minutes on the scandalous dealings of two such false friends, until she had torn the two young Breckinridges’ characters to shreds, and finally her anger seemed to burn out. Still, she paced back and forth in grave silence, her brow furrowed, while two pairs of wary eyes followed her.
At last, she stopped in front of Ginsham, her blue eyes intently searching his own. “But you did fight those men.”
Mr. Ginsham, having run the gamut of emotions during her tirade, from shock to disbelief to awe, was startled out of his admiration of the hitherto unknown fire his love possessed to say, “I did.”
“And you were, indeed, wounded.”
He nodded, glancing at the bandage on his arm as if to satisfy himself of its reality. “Yes.”
“And you did mean to rescue Tom.”
“Not that he needed it, the dev—” He shut his lips tight and cleared his throat, gazing with great humility upon her. “That was my intent, yes, Miss Chuddsley.”
She smiled, and it was like a beam of sunlight through the clouds. “Then you are a hero, Mr. Ginsham! And I daresay you have been one all along, and I never knew it.” Mr. Ginsham’s heart thumped with relief and hope as she held out her hand to him. “We were both deceived, but you deserve honor for your part, for you acted, I am persuaded, from the purest motives.”
He stood, taking her hand and bowing reverently over it, then looking into her eyes with wonder at how he had never seemed to have truly seen her before.
Miss Chuddsley, responding to his worshipful gaze with heightening color, seemed at last to recollect herself, reclaiming her hand and glancing away. “It is a pity Mr. Barnabus was not there with you last night.”
“Barnabus?” repeated Ginsham, stunned out of his dream.
She glanced at him with an arch look in her eye. “Yes, Barnabus. ‘Tis a pity he had quitted town for, had he been present, he may have seen through the nonsense and put a stop to it.”
Mr. Ginsham’s heart plummeted, and his jaw tightened infinitesimally, but he took the blow with fortitude. “Perhaps you are right. It is a pity I mistook his day, or he could well have been present at the farrago last night, for he did not depart until this morning.”
She looked quickly up at him. “But you told me he had gone yesterday.”
“So I did,” he said manfully, “and I’m terribly sorry, for it seems he missed his chance to take leave of you. I had the deuce of a surprise when he sauntered in yesterday afternoon to bid me farewell.”
Several emotions flitted across her face, chagrin and relief among them, and Mr. Ginsham, unable to read her mind, felt certain that she was lost to him at last, and all through his foolishness. With this belief, he prepared to take his leave of her, but she said suddenly, “It doesn’t signify,” and favored him with such a sweetly apologetic look from under her lashes that he could not repress a flutter of hope.
She shrugged a pretty shoulder. “I’m sure he will be missed, but I should always regret the loss of any of my friends.”
This last was said in so conciliatory a manner that Mr. Ginsham dared to fan his hope. Grasping his hat and gloves to his chest, he said, “I had planned to ask you to go driving with me this afternoon, Miss Chuddsley, but as my arm is—well, you know—I wonder if you would do me the honor of accompanying me on a walk in the park? The bluebells are lovely just now,” he added with rare inspiration.
“I can think of nothing more delightful, Mr. Ginsham!” she answered, smiling angelically.
Receiving approbation from her aunt, who seemed still to be in shock at the revelation of her mild niece’s true character, Miss Chuddsley took her dazedly beaming suitor’s arm and went with him out into the sunshine.
Tom, oblivious to the consequences of his actions upon his character, departed two days later for Branwell, confident that he had left things well in hand with his friend and, having received certain assurances from Sir Joshua, that his mother and sister would be excellently safeguarded.
Sir Joshua had taken Tom aside before leaving the Wraglain’s ball, informing him of Lord Montrose’s appearance, and of Mrs. Breckinridge’s interaction with him. Tom had not hesitated to share his exact feelings on the matter, and there followed a hushed discussion in a quiet corner regarding the advisability of Tom’s returning home and leaving the females of his family unprotected.
The outcome of this discussion was that Sir Joshua, on his own insistence, became almost a fixture in his sister’s house, coming to drive out with the ladies, or turning up just in time to attend them on errands, and placing himself entirely at their service.
“My dear Joshua,” said his sister one afternoon, primly pleased at his activities, “I begin to suspect an ulterior motive for your assiduous care of me.”
“You need not scruple to ask if I do, my dear. Lord Montrose has proven himself dangerous to your guests, and by association, to you, and with Cammerby away, and Tom gone back to B
ranwell, you are none of you protected,” he said, with disappointing honesty. “I am merely doing my duty as a faithful brother.”
Her budding hopes quite crushed, Lady Cammerby was moved to remonstrate. “I did try to warn you about him.”
“You did, dear, and I was unwise to heed it,” he acknowledged handsomely. “Now I must bear the consequences.”
“But you do not dislike the consequences, I am persuaded,” she said, not one to give up easily. “None could believe you merely tolerant who has seen your enjoyment of my guests’ company.”
“I hope I am more the gentleman than to let my boredom show, Amelia,” he said gravely.
She colored, biting her lip, and at last he relented, casting her a humorous sideways glance. “My dear, forgive me, but you are too easily gulled. Indeed, I wronged both you and the Breckinridges, on my first acquaintance with them, and I am at least gentleman enough to admit my fault in that.” He turned, taking his sister’s hands and kissing them. “I believe I shall have reason to count myself indebted to you in the not too distant future, for requesting me to deliver your letter to Branwell.”
Eyes bright, Lady Cammerby beamed at her brother. “I knew how it would be, Joshua! I did tell you it would serve you right!”
“And I hope it does,” he said, turning to straighten his cravat in the mirror. “But while you are congratulating yourself, Amelia, you must recall that you never suspected me of hanging out for a young wife.”
Bowing politely, he left her blinking in consternation in the hall.
Mrs. Breckinridge, though seemingly resigned to Sir Joshua’s chivalry, behaved in a punctiliously civil manner whenever he called. As he had gotten wind of Lady Castleton’s speech with her at the ball, he thought he knew the reason for this formality, and made coaxing her out of it a kind of game.
“Allow me to help you with your pelisse, Miss Breckinridge,” he said one day, as they prepared to depart on an errand, “for your mother seems to be in a terrible hurry today.”
“I am in no hurry, sir,” said Mrs. Breckinridge stiffly, arrested with her foot on the bottom step of the house.
“I see that I mistook the matter,” he said from the doorway, patiently waiting until Lenora had donned her bonnet and gloves and preceded him out the door. “Miss Breckinridge and I are simply too slow.” Mrs. Breckinridge maintained a dignified silence as they came down to join her, and just deigned to take the arm offered her. They had gone only a few steps when Sir Joshua asked civilly, “Are you cold, Mrs. Breckinridge?”
“No, I am not.”
“I must beg the indulgence of our long acquaintance and declare that I do not believe you. Indeed, you must be frozen to walk so rigidly.”
Her mouth tightened, but that irrepressible dimple belied her. “Your solicitude, though misplaced, is most appreciated, sir.”
“As always, ma’am, you are all that is generous.” He noted that her shoulders relaxed a trifle, but her chin remained decidedly up. “Ah, I begin to understand you, ma’am, and must beg your patience with my obtuseness,” he said, still eyeing her askance. “You obviously fear a nosebleed.”
His countenance remained only tolerably composed as she turned glittering eyes on him.
“There can be no other cause for your holding your nose in the air,” he said with an air of innocence, “for not even I have courage enough to accuse you of being stiff-rumped.”
The glitter changed to a gleam and her mouth twisted in an abortive effort to keep from laughing. “Oh, you odious man!” she said at last, and joined him in a chuckle, while Lenora smiled affectionately on them both, and he was pleased to discover that once down from her high ropes, Mrs. Breckinridge found it nearly impossible to ascend beyond reach again—at least until solitude offered her a period of reflection.
Lenora betrayed no qualms in being in Sir Joshua’s company, and especially seemed to enjoy driving with him in Hyde Park, or to various sites around the city, or even as far as Wimbledon. Having lost, so she believed, the companion of her youth—Elvira had most stubbornly persisted in not speaking to her—she had been in very real danger of a decline, until Sir Joshua offered himself as a most excellent confidante. He, in turn, was gratified by her trust, for she shared with him all her excitements and interests, and the joys she had experienced while in London, and she so artlessly encouraged him to speak that he found himself imparting his most cherished memories, and without pain, for the first time in many years.
“We were married only three years, when she was taken from me,” he confided on one of their long drives.
“Oh, how tragic, sir! I am so sorry.” She hesitated, and he could sense her desire to know more striving with an unwillingness to pry. “What was she like?” she at last enquired in timid accents, hastening to add, “Or does it pain you too much to speak of her?”
Touched by her sincere concern, Sir Joshua replied, “No, my dear. On the contrary, I imagine my feelings will experience some relief in sharing my Rachel with you.” Encouraged by her smile, he continued, “She was a lovely woman, in all respects. She had hair the color of corn silk, and eyes as blue as a mountain lake. Her laughter was music, and she was as gentle and graceful a lady as one would wish.”
“She sounds perfect,” said Lenora in a small voice.
“I thought her so, indeed,” answered Sir Joshua reflectively, “but I have lately considered that just as none could compare with her, none ought to be compared to her.”
This notion seemed to enliven his companion, who observed, “Indeed, sir, there must be many kinds of love, to fit with the many kinds of perfection.”
“Just so,” murmured Sir Joshua, casting her a glance of approbation.
Lenora glanced up shyly. “Was she much younger than you, sir?”
“By several years, but I do not think that age has anything to do with suitability in marriage, do you?”
“I should think not, sir,” answered Lenora, with decision. Again, she seemed to struggle for some moments before bursting out with, “Did you love her terribly?”
He smiled at her choice of adverb. “If you mean deeply, yes, I did. I do not mind telling you that it broke my heart when she died.”
“As well it must!” she cried, looking up at him sympathetically. “I always knew you had a tragic past, sir.” Instantly, she colored and turned away. “Forgive me! That was unfeeling.”
“But there is nothing to forgive, Miss Breckinridge, because it is true.” He bestowed a warm look upon her. “I do have a tragic past, but it is past, and I have had many years to grow accustomed to life as it is without Rachel.”
Lenora kept her gaze trained on the horses’ heads. “Are you—do you ever—could you think of marriage again, sir?”
“There was a time, not so very long ago, that such a thought was impossible.” He glanced sideways at her. “But, more recently, it has not seemed so.”
He was rewarded with a bright smile. Settling happily back in her side of the curricle, she said, “Tell me about your home. Wrenthorpe Grange, is it not?”
“It is. My estate is near Painswick, in Gloucestershire.”
“Such a romantic county!” breathed Lenora. “In truth, I know only what I have heard, but I should think the countryside to be most beautiful. I should love to see it.” A dazzling thought struck her. “Does your estate have a wood?”
He nodded. “While the demesne encompasses mostly fields, the Grange has a large park, which boasts a lovely wood.”
“An ancient, mossy wood, with great creaking trunks and sinister shadows?” she asked with suppressed excitement.
“I have not been accustomed to consider them sinister,” he began but, glancing down, perceived a look of disappointment rapidly displacing the rapture on her face, and hastily rephrased his negative answer. “But I am certainly biased, having been resident there my entire life—for upon reflection
, I do not doubt my wood must certainly be sinister under the right conditions.”
“Indeed!” she cried, once more entranced. “I, myself, have been deceived by a sunny day in an otherwise gloomy wood.”
Entering into her feelings, he said, “I am persuaded that all that is needed to render my wood perfectly sinister is a howling wind and ominous skies.”
“Just so.” She nodded approvingly, bestowing upon the wood her approbation, and moved on to the romantic possibilities of the residence. “And is Wrenthorpe an old house?”
“Very,” declared Sir Joshua, fully aware of her expectations by this time. “The original building dates from the sixteenth century, and you may depend upon its being utterly shrouded in vines and lichen.”
Lenora shivered in delight. “Tell me at once if there are secret passages!”
Here, he was at a loss, for he was an honest man, and could invent no sufficient answer on the spur of the moment, and so was obliged to answer apologetically, “I do not believe the Grange boasts any secret passages.”
“Then there must be a ghost,” she declared positively.
“I do not know of one, but it is entirely possible that I have merely never seen it,” he replied cautiously.
These unsatisfactory answers checked her enthusiasm for a moment, but she presently recovered enough to ask, “Is there by chance an oubliette?”
“Not to my knowledge,” he owned with chagrin but, bidden by a sudden inspiration, he hastened to add, “But, you see, my dear Miss Breckinridge, that I have never looked for such things.” Her gasp of astonishment produced an apologetic shrug. “I fear I lack imagination—a failing that must be mended, to be sure.”
“An absolute necessity, sir!” cried Lenora, turning fully toward him. “That one could live one’s entire life in such a romantic place as Wrenthorpe Grange, with ivy and lichen, and—and a sinister wood, no less—and never think to search for secret passages? It makes me shudder to think of it!”
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