Maulever Hall

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  It is always disconcerting to find oneself less indispensable than one had thought, and Marianne found Mrs. Mauleverer’s persistent urging of Emsworth’s suit increasingly trying. The last straw came one windy September morning when they were busy putting the summer’s crop of dried lavender into bags—a ladylike occupation which Mrs. Mauleverer particularly enjoyed. “I have written Mark about you know what, my dear.” Mrs. Mauleverer tied a neat bow of purple satin ribbon round a bag and put it on one side. “I am sure he will agree that it is the very best thing you can do. I told him how much I should miss you: I really think I should have to have a little excursion—to Cheltenham or maybe even Bath to recover the tone of my spirits. If you were to be married at Michaelmas I could make an autumn tour of it, before the roads get too bad. I am sure Mark will think that best: I explained to him that you were hanging off merely, I was sure, for my sake and that such a plan, if he were to propose it, would leave you free to follow the dictates of your heart.”

  Marianne could hardly believe her ears: “You told him that?”

  “What a pretty blush! If Mr. Emsworth could only see you now ... he would renew his suit at once. But there is no need to be in such a fidget, my dear. After all, Mark is in some sort in the position of your guardian, strangely circumstanced as you are. And you may be sure I gave you every credit for propriety of behavior. Naturally you were quite right to refuse Mr. Emsworth when he came to you so unprepared, but the case will be quite other when he comes to you with my sanction and Mark’s, which I daily expect. Of course, best of all, as I told Mark, would be for him to come down and play a father’s part in seeing Mr. Emsworth on your behalf. Not, of course, that you are in a position to demand much in the way of settlements, but what is reasonable I am sure Mark would get for you.”

  “My dear madam.” Marianne could contain herself no longer. “I do beg you will write Mr. Mauleverer again and tell him there is not the slightest necessity for him to be putting himself out on my behalf. I am only sorry that you have so misled him. I have told you, surely, often enough, that this is no question of maidenly coyness on my part. Can you honestly remember how Mr. Emsworth treated me at our first meeting, and still imagine that I could, for a moment, consider marrying him? I told him when he spoke to me that I would not marry him if he were the last man on earth, and I meant it.”

  “Tut, tut,” said Mrs. Mauleverer. “ ‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much.’ Poor Mr. Emsworth, how long, I wonder, will it take him to live down that deplorable mistake of his—and that reminds me of another point that Mark might be instrumental in settling for you: there is the question of the child. I do not quite know how Martha would bear to part with him, and, truly, Mr. Emsworth has never seemed particularly eager to take charge of him ... But Mark will know what is best to do; he always does. If only he would come, that is, but, frankly, I have no great hopes of it, what with that miserable Bill, and Lady Heverdon still, as I understand it, in London when one would have thought she would have been visiting some of her fine friends, like those discourteous Lashtons. Do you not think it monstrous that the Countess has never invited me to visit her?”

  Marianne thought it entirely understandable, considering the awkward circumstances attendant upon the Countess’s visit to Maulever Hall, but this minor irritation was lost in her major annoyance over Mrs. Mauleverer’s totally misleading letter to her son. She was almost enraged to the point of sitting down and writing him, herself, to explain how matters really stood, but how could she? If he came down, she would have to explain herself in person, but, as Mrs. Mauleverer had said, it seemed most unlikely that he would do so or, indeed, that he would take any notice of what must, she told herself, seem to him a trivial matter and no concern of his.

  In the meanwhile, she did her best to disabuse Mrs. Mauleverer of her idee fixe by being curt to the point of rudeness to Mr. Emsworth when he called next morning on a transparent pretext connected with his next tithing day. The result of this was very far from being what she had hoped or intended. Having finished the business that brought him, Mr. Emsworth turned suddenly to Mrs. Mauleverer: “My dear madam, I have a request—a humble petition to make to you. My dear—may I say my adored—Miss Lamb is angry with me, and, I fear, with cause. I have been waiting, on your hint, for some word of sanction—of approval from Mr. Mauleverer, whose word must, of course, always be law with me. Indeed, were I to think that the alliance I am contemplating might be unpleasing to him, I would stifle the passion that beats here”—he laid a damp yellow hand on his black waistcoat—“I would tear it from my heart rather than displease my esteemed, my revered patron. But that, as we all know, must be far from the case. Mr. Mauleverer’s behavior to Miss Lamb—so distinguishing always, so, if I may say so, almost brotherly—why, it was one of the first things, I believe, that opened my eyes to the virtue, the excellence, the solid worth that lay so ready to my hand. No, no, I cannot think Mr. Mauleverer would be adverse to my suit, but, madam, passion cannot be denied forever, nor do I blame Miss Lamb for being angry with me for what must have seemed to her a deplorable delay in pressing my suit. Young ladies, I know, make a practice of saying ‘no’ the first time, but that does not mean that they are not awaiting—may I say eagerly awaiting—a repetition of the offer, sanctioned, of course, by their friends. I know I was too sudden at first, but I have done my best, for these last weary weeks, to make amends for that by the assiduous delicacy of my attentions. Indeed, these have been such, I think I can say, that the whole village is in momentary expectation of a happy announcement. I fear I may have laid my esteemed, my adored Miss Lamb open to some breath of scandal. No wonder she is angry with me. I must—I owe it to myself and to her to make amends. Mrs. Mauleverer, may I have your permission to address a few not I hope ill-chosen words to your interesting young friend alone?”

  At some points in this oration, Marianne had been hard put to it to refrain from laughing, but now, as Mrs. Mauleverer got to her feet, dropping skeins of embroidery silk in all directions, she felt very far from laughter. “Dear madam, do not go. Mr. Emsworth can have nothing to say to me that I would not much rather hear in your company, and I certainly have nothing to say to him that you cannot hear.”

  “Come, come child.” Mrs. Mauleverer shook out her skirts preparatory to leaving the room. “That is drawing it a thought too high. No, no, Mr. Emsworth has spoken very properly, very properly indeed. He is entitled to an interview and, let me warn you, my dear”—this in an undertone which Mr. Emsworth was supposed not to hear—“gentlemen like a little coyness well enough, but best not carry it too far. I am sorry we have not heard from Mark, but you may trust me to see you well enough through the whole business.” And with these would-be reassuring words, she got herself fairly out of the room.

  Mr. Emsworth had been standing by the window, pretending not to hear what Mrs. Mauleverer said, now he crossed the room and took Marianne’s reluctant hand. “At last,” he said, “at last we are alone.”

  “Yes, Mr. Emsworth?” She must go through with it now.

  “Miss Lamb!” His voice was thick with spurious emotion. “My dear—my esteemed—may I not say my beloved Miss Lamb? I am come back to you, you see, and with the approval of your honorable patroness. I hope, during these last weeks, I have contrived, by the assiduous delicacy of my attentions to convince you of the depth of my regard, the sincerity of my passion. You have noticed, I am sure, how punctiliously I have escorted you home, with what burning yet genteel ardor I have awaited you at the church door on Sundays, what pretexts I have contrived to visit you here. I can tell you that my attentions have not gone unobserved elsewhere: the whole village is talking of your good fortune, Miss Lamb; my housekeeper asked me, only last week, when the happy day was to be. I hope you will get on well enough with Mrs. Culham, by the way, for she has been with me ever since my dear wife’s lamented death and knows all my ways. Besides, her presence at the vicarage will free you for those parish activities that do you so much credit.
We will have a school, I think, instead of a mere Bible class—your education, I am sure, is quite sufficient for the rudiments that are all these poor children need—and perhaps sewing classes for the older girls ... The bishop gave me a hint only the other day that something of the kind might prove beneficial in these disturbed times. ‘An unmarried vicar,’ he said to me, ‘is almost an insult to the Almighty.’ And he left me in no doubt that his wife, Lady Fanwell herself will call upon you. ‘Of course, as he said, ‘it would be pleasant to know that the girl’s family are not such as to disgrace her in her new position,’ but I assured him that I had it on Dr. Barton’s authority that there was little chance of your remembering anything now. So we will just forget the past and go forward into the future, hand in hand, confident in the knowledge of God’s blessing—and the bishop’s.”

  At last he paused. Marianne had learned that it was no use trying to interrupt him when he got launched on one of his orations, but now her chance had come. “Mr. Emsworth, you are forgetting something.”

  “No, no,” he interrupted her, “be assured I am not. I have thought of everything. Mrs. Mauleverer will act as mother of the bride—it will be a most genteel ceremony, for Mr. Mauleverer, I am sure will give you away; the wedding breakfast is to be held here, at the Hall—we will not invite many guests, of course, but a sprinkling of my good friends will come, I know, and wish me joy. And if it is of settlements you are thinking, be assured that I am generosity itself: you shall not suffer for the dubiety of your antecedents, nor yet for your lack of dower. Though of course if Mr. Mauleverer were to decide to give you some small token in recognition of your services—well it would not be unwelcome—we would not say ‘no,’ would we, my love?”

  “Mr. Emsworth, I am saying ‘no’ now. I told you, plainly, when you came to me before, that I would not have you, and I do not see what reason you have to imagine that I might have changed my mind.” She had heard, as he was speaking, a bustle in the house that suggested the arrival of visitors: At all costs she must put an end to this .painful and ridiculous scene. “I am sorry if the courtesy I owe to your cloth has deluded you about my feelings, Mr. Emsworth, but believe me when I say, once and for all, that I will not marry you. And now, with your permission, I will leave you.”

  But he had her hand again. “I know how it is,” he said with the falsely benevolent grin she had grown to loathe. “You think me too calm, too rational, too collected. The ladies, I am told, like a little show of passion; they must feel their power—and ours. They must be carried off their feet by the demonstration of our love. It is not, perhaps, quite in the usual run of clerical behavior, but for your sake Miss Lamb—Marianne—what would I not do?” The hot hand pulled her to him, the soft and blubbery lips closed on hers. He was stronger than she would have thought and her struggles were unavailing for a breathless, intolerable moment. He tasted of Dr. James’s powders, and smelled of camphor. Then, suddenly, he had let her go and stood over her, gasping a little, like a fish out of water.

  “I am sorry if I intrude,” said a cool voice behind her, and she turned to face Mauleverer. “My mother sent me to give you my blessing, Miss Lamb, but I wonder if that is exactly what you want. Are you”—he paused—“welcoming Mr. Emsworth’s attentions?”

  “Thank God you are come. I do not seem able to convince Mr. Emsworth that I do not intend to marry him. Will you stand my friend and do it for me?”

  “Willingly, if that is what you really want. He is not a bad match, you know.” He spoke as coolly as if Emsworth were a thousand miles away, instead of facing him, moist and scarlet with confusion. “The vicarage is his for life as, I have no doubt, he has told you. My mother thinks it an admirable match for you.”

  “I know she does.” Marianne gave way at last to her anger. “I know that, circumstanced as I am, I should be grateful to anyone who will take the risk of having me, but I’ll not make a Smithfield bargain of myself for all that. As for you, Mr. Emsworth, I would be grateful for your proposal if your behavior had not put gratitude out of the question.”

  “Yes,” said Mauleverer thoughtfully. “I have yet to learn, Emsworth, that it is the part of a gentleman to force his attentions on so visibly reluctant a young lady.”

  “Reluctant fiddlestick.” Emsworth had regained his composure. “Miss Lamb chooses to play it coy with me, no doubt for reasons of her own, but we shall come to an understanding yet. As you yourself have observed, my dear Miss Lamb, you cannot carry your goods to every market.”

  “That will do.” Marianne had known, if Emsworth did not, that Mauleverer was holding fury on a tight rein, now he let go. “Leave us, sir, before I say something your cloth—if nothing else—will make me regret. And I warn you, if I bear of you troubling Miss Lamb again, by even so much as one of your insinuations, I will give you the horsewhipping you deserve, cloth or no cloth.” He walked over to the door and held it open. “Good day, Mr. Emsworth.” And then, closing it behind him. “Miss Lamb, I wish I could have spared you that.”

  “Thank you,” she said mechanically. “It does not matter.”

  “Not matter! Of course it does; that you should have been exposed to such insult, in my house—but I think he will not trouble you again.”

  She could laugh now. “I am sure he will not. You arrived most opportunely. I do not know how to thank you...”

  “Then do not trouble yourself with trying. I consider it my fault that you have been so ill-used. To tell you the truth, I thought I saw how the wind was blowing before I left here last time, but—forgive me—I thought—I imagined—I had reason to believe—that you were not averse to Emsworth’s suit. There seemed no need for interference, since I look on you as a young lady who is amply able to look after herself. It was only when my mother wrote me of your obstinacy in refusing our esteemed vicar, and of her own enthusiasm for the match, that I thought I had best come and see you had—well, fair play. I am glad I did.”

  “You mean you are come all this way on my account. It is too good of you.”

  “Not at all. I consider myself responsible for your wellbeing, Miss Lamb, until you find yourself a family, which, I take it, you are no nearer doing.”

  She shook her head. “I have almost given up hope.”

  “Never do that, it would not be like you. And now, I think we must go and break it to my mother that she is to be foiled of her romance. It is really very inconsiderate of you, Miss Lamb. She had it all planned, even down to the decorations in the church and the dishes for the wedding breakfast.”

  Marianne could not help laughing. “I am sorry to disappoint her.”

  “Never mind, perhaps we shall have another romance to offer her. She certainly seems convinced of it. And that reminds me: Lady Heverdon sends her kindest regards.”

  IX

  To Marianne’s relief, Mrs. Mauleverer’s delight at her son’s unexpected visit quite outweighed her disappointment at the failure of Mr. Emsworth’s suit. “I think you foolish, my love, and so I told Mark, but he seems convinced that you mean what you say, and I have promised that Mr. Emsworth shall trouble you no more. At all events, it is delightful that I shall not be losing your company. But only think of Mark coming all this way merely to arrange your affairs for you: frankly, I had no idea that he would come. There have been times when I have written and urged him to visit me—and on matters of far greater moment too—and not had so much as an answer for my pains. But I think I know how it is; your business is merely his pretext; he has news, I am sure, about the course of his suit to Lady Heverdon.”

  And over luncheon, which was an unusually elaborate meal that day, in honor of the traveler, she teased him unmercifully with questions designed to elicit some declaration of how matters stood between him and the beautiful widow. He answered them all readily enough: yes, indeed he had seen Lady Heverdon frequently; she had taken an elegant set of lodgings not far from his own rooms in Mount Street. No, he did not think she had yet decided where she was to live; he was still settling h
er late husband’s estate, which had been left in considerable confusion. No, she had no house of her own, but was thinking of buying one in London when the estate was settled; in the meanwhile she seemed to amuse herself well enough, despite the emptiness of town. “And, of course, it is not so dead as it usually is at this time of year, owing to the excitement over the Reform Bill. I had the honor to escort Lady Heverdon, one day last week, to listen to the debate in the House.”

  “Did she enjoy it?” Marianne could not help asking.

  He laughed. “She said it reminded her of the Black Hole of Calcutta, and could not imagine how our legislators survived being cooped up for hours on end in such an atmosphere. I think she enjoyed the visit we paid, next night, to the play a good deal more.”

  Mrs. Mauleverer, who had drooped at the mention of politics, brightened up at once. “Oh, the play: I am sure Lady Heverdon is an admirable critic of the drama.”