“Oh, no, no! Indeed, you misjudge her, Papa! If she is an unusual girl, recollect that to dear Lord Spenborough she was more a son than a daughter!”
“Ay! It is an unhappy thing for a girl to lose her mother! No more than twelve years of age, was she? Well, well! You are very right, my dear: allowances must be made for her. I am very sensible to it, particularly now, when I should have wished above all things that I could have brought your mother to you!”
Fanny was too much astonished at having her opinion deferred to by him to do more than murmur a confused assent.
“It is an unfortunate circumstance that she should be lying-in when her presence must have been a comfort to you.”
“Oh, yes! I mean—that is, it was so kind of her to have spared you to me!”
“No question of that! I never knew your Mama to give way to crotchets of that kind. Besides, you know, a tenth lying-in is by no means the same thing as a first. One does not make a piece of work over it! She will be sadly disappointed, however, not to receive better news of you than I can carry to her. Not that my hopes were high. After three years, it was scarcely to be expected. A sad pity, upon all counts!” She hung her head, blushing deeply, and he made haste to add: “I don’t mean to reproach you, my dear, however much I must wish it had been otherwise. I daresay Spenborough felt it?”
She replied in so suffocated a voice that only the words “always so considerate” could be distinguished.
“I am glad to hear you say so. It is no very pleasant thing to know that one’s possessions must pass into the hands of some trumpery cousin—no great thing, the new Earl, is he?—but I hold him to be as much to blame as you. What a freak, to contract inflammation of the lungs while the succession was still unsure! I never knew such improvidence!” He sounded indignant, but recollected immediately to whom he spoke, and begged pardon. “There is no sense in dwelling upon the matter, to be sure. For your sake, it is a great deal to be regretted. Your rank must always command respect, but had you been the mother of a son your consequence would have been enhanced beyond anything, and your future decided. As things have fallen out, it is otherwise. I don’t know, Fanny, if you have any thoughts on this head?”
She gathered her forces together, and replied with tolerable firmness: “Yes, Papa. I have the intention of removing to the Dower House, with dear Serena.”
He was taken aback. “With Lady Serena!”
“I am persuaded it is what Lord Spenborough would have desired me to do. She must not be deserted!”
“I imagine there can be no question of that! She has her uncle, and that aunt who brought her out, after all! Spenborough, too, was saying to me this morning that he and my lady hoped she would continue to make this her home. I own, I thought it handsome of him. To be taking a firebrand into one’s family is not what I should choose!”
“Hartley and Jane—Lord and Lady Spenborough, I mean, have been everything that is kind: Serena is fully conscious of it, but she knows it would not do. If you please. Papa, I believe it to be my duty to take care of Serena!”
“You take care of her!” he ejaculated, laughing. “I wish I may see it!”
She coloured, but said: “Indeed, it is she who has taken care of me, but I am her mother-in-law, and the most proper person to act as her chaperon, sir.”
He considered this, and yielded a reluctant assent. “It might be thought so indeed, but at your age—I don’t know what your Mama will say to it! Besides, the young lady, with that fortune at her back, will very soon be snapped up, temper and all!”
“She has too strong a mind to be taken in. I don’t fancy she will be married for a little while yet. Papa.”
“Very true! Nothing of that nature can be contemplated for a year at least. You will keep strict mourning, of course. Your Mama was inclined to think that you should return to Hartland for that period, for however much you may be known as the Dowager Countess, my dear, it cannot be denied that you are by far too young to live alone. We had some notion that when you put off your mourning, and will no doubt be thinking of setting up an establishment of your own, you might take one of your sisters to live with you. But that is to look some way ahead, and I don’t mean to dictate to you! There is something to be said for this scheme of yours, after all. You have been used to be the mistress of a great house, my dear, and you would not like to be living at Hartland again, in the old way. No, I am much disposed to think that you have hit upon the very thing to make all straight! That is, if you believe that you can be comfortable with Lady Serena?”
“Oh, yes! So very comfortable!”
“Well, I should never have thought it! I only hope she may not get into a scrape. You will be blamed for it, if she does! Her character is unsteady: that was plain when she made herself the talk of the town by jilting Rotherham! You were still in the schoolroom, but I well remember what an uproar it caused! I believe the wedding cards had actually been sent out!”
“It was very bad, but, indeed, Papa, I honour her for her resolution in drawing back before it was too late! Dear Lord Spenborough wished the match to take place, but nothing, I am persuaded, could have been more ineligible! He liked Rotherham because he is such a great sportsman, and such a splendid rider to hounds, and he could never be brought to see that he would be a dreadfully harsh and disagreeable husband! He would have made Serena so unhappy! He is the most hateful man, and takes a delight in vexing her! You must have heard the way he speaks to her—the things he doesn’t scruple to say!”
“Ay! And I heard her too! A very improper style she uses towards him! Let me tell you, Fanny, that there is something Very displeasing in that bold manner of hers! She expresses herself with a freedom I would not tolerate in one of my daughters.”
“She has known him since she was a child—has never stood upon ceremony with him! If she is sometimes betrayed into unbecoming warmth, it is his fault, for so unkindly provoking her! And as for temper, I am sure he has a worse one than hers could ever be!”
“Well, it’s plain you have a fondness for her, my dear,” he said indulgently. “For my part, I would not be in Rotherham’s shoes at this moment for something! He may think himself fortunate if he comes off without a scratched face, I daresay!”
But when he joined her in the Little Drawing-room, Rotherham found Serena quite composed. He said, as he closed the door: “What now? Am I here to be entreated, or abused?”
She bit her lip, but said: “You would not be moved by either, I suppose.”
“Not in the least, but I am quite at your disposal if you wish to continue quarrelling with me.”
“I am determined not to do so.”
He smiled. “That resolution will be broken soon enough! What do you want, Serena?”
“I wish you will sit down! Ivo, what is to be done?”
“Nothing.”
“You cannot mean to accept the Trust!”
“Why not?”
“Good God, one moment’s reflection must be enough to make you see how intolerable it would be! For both of us!”
“I can see why you should think it intolerable, but why should I find it so?”
“You don’t want for sense, so I suppose you are trying to provoke me! Can you doubt that the story will be one of the on-dits of the town within a week? My Uncle Dorrington will take care of that! Everyone will be talking about it, and—laughing at it!”
“This is a new come-out for you, Serena!” he said admiringly. “You were never used to give a straw for what anyone might say of you!”
She flushed, and looked away. “You are mistaken. In any event, to have everyone watching us would be detestable!”
“Let ’em watch! They will be tired of it by the time you are out of black gloves, and in the meanwhile it won’t worry me.”
“To have everyone conjecturing?”
“Lord, Serena, I’ve been food for conjecture any time these dozen years! There have been some very good stories made up about me, too.”
She lo
oked despairingly at him. “I know this humour too well to suppose it is of the least use to continue talking. You mean to fob me off by pretending not to understand me.”
“No, I don’t. I understand you very well, but you’re refining too much upon it. There’s nothing remarkable in my being appointed to be your Trustee: everyone knows I was one of your father’s closest friends, and no one will be surprised that he chose to name me rather than that old fool, Dorrington, or the rasher of wind your aunt married!”
“No—if it had not been for that wretched engagement!” she said frankly. “That is what makes it so intolerable! Papa’s intention is—is blatant!”
“You can console yourself with the reflection that it is I, and not you, who will be a laughing-stock for the vulgar,” he said grimly.
“How can you talk so? I promise you, I don’t wish you to be put into such a position!”
“Don’t waste a thought on it! I’m inured!”
“Oh, how odious you are!” she exclaimed, with suppressed violence.
“That sounds more like you!” he said cordially. “I thought it would not be long!”
She controlled herself with a strong effort, not lost on him, tightly gripping her hands together in her lap, and clenching her teeth on her lower lip.
“Take care, Serena! you will go into strong convulsions if you bottle up so much spleen!”
She was always quick to perceive the ridiculous, and gave a gasp. Her eyes did indeed flash a challenge, but her sense of humour got the better of her temper, and she burst out laughing. “Oh—! At least own that you would provoke a saint!”
“I never tried to. You are no saint!”
“No, alas!” she sighed. “Come! don’t tease me, Ivo, pray! Is there no way of upsetting that infamous Will?”
“I should imagine not. I’m no lawyer, however. Consult your father’s attorney! I warn you, he returned no very encouraging answers to your uncles, when they appealed to him. I daresay it might be upset if I were to contravene the Trust, but I shan’t.”
“If you were to refuse to act—?”
“I shan’t do that either. You wouldn’t get control of your fortune if I did, and that’s what you chiefly want, isn’t it?”
“Of course it is! My father gave me £250 a year for pin-money, and that was very well while he lived, but how the deuce am I to support myself on such a sum?”
“Don’t try to bamboozle me, my girl! Your mother’s fortune was settled on you.”
“Ten thousand pounds, invested in the Funds! The whole of my income will be less than £700! Good God, Ivo, I daresay Papa must have spent as much on my hunters alone!”
“Oh, more! He gave a thousand guineas for that flea-bitten grey which carried you so well last season. But you will hardly hunt this year!”
“This year! No! But am I to be reduced to penury all the days of my life?” she demanded. “What if I should remain a spinster? Has any provision been made for that contingency?”
“No, none. I looked particularly at the Will to be sure of it,” he replied. “A damned, ill-managed business—but I suppose he thought there was no fear the point would arise.”
“He has certainly done his best to thrust me into marriage with the first man who is so obliging as to offer for me!” she said bitterly.
“You are forgetting something, my love!”
She looked mistrustfully at him. “No! Your consent must be obtained!”
“Just so! But make yourself easy! I shan’t withhold it unreasonably.”
“You would do anything to spite me!”
“Well, if I do, you will have a very good case against me, and will no doubt be able to break the trust. Meanwhile, let me give you a piece of advice! If you don’t wish to afford the world matter for gossip, assume the appearance at least of complaisance! How you came to make such a ninnyhammer of yourself, for all those fools to gape at, I know not! Rail at me in private if you choose, but in public behave so that the interested may believe you to be very well satisfied with the arrangement, and see nothing in it but what is natural and comfortable.”
She was obliged to acknowledge the good sense of this advice. “But for the rest—! How shall I do? Can I support myself on so little, Ivo?”
“You might do so on much less, but from what I know of you you would not. But what is all this talk of supporting yourself? You don’t mean to set up your establishment, do you? That your father never intended!”
“No, I don’t—but if I did you could not prevent me! At least I don’t have to win your odious consent for anything but marriage!”
“You don’t, but if you indulged in any such folly your debts would very soon teach you the unwisdom of flouting my advice,” he retorted.
Her bosom swelled, but she said nothing.
“Well, what do you mean to do?” he asked.
“I shall remain with Lady Spenborough,” she answered coldly. She discovered that he was frowning, and raised her brows. “Pray, have you any objection?”
“No. No, I’ve no objection. You won’t feel yourself straitened, at all events, while you live under her roof, and she has been so handsomely provided for that she may well support you. But-here?”
“At the Dower House. I perceive that that displeases you! You must be ingenious indeed if you can hit upon a plausible reason to account for your disapproval!”
“I am not displeased, I don’t disapprove, and if you show hackle again without cause, you may expect to have your ears boxed as they never have been yet—more’s the pity!” he said savagely. “Live where you choose! It’s all one to me. Have you anything more to say?”
“No, I have not, and I should be very happy to think I need never say another word to you for as long as I live—and of all things in the world there is nothing—nothing!—so abominable, and contemptible, and cowardly, and ungentlemanly as persons who walk out of the room when one is addressing them!”
He had opened the door, but at that he burst out laughing, and shut it again. “Very well! But I warn you I shall give as good as I get!”
“You need not tell me that! If you don’t disapprove, why did you scowl so?”
“My habitual expression, possibly. It was unintentional, I assure you. The thought in my mind was merely that it would be better for you to remove from this vicinity. To be situated at the Dower House cannot be anything but painful to you, Serena, believe me!”
She said impulsively: “Oh, I beg your pardon! But how could I guess you meant nothing but kindness?”
“A home-thrust!” he interjected.
“No, no! I didn’t mean it so! Only, in general—but never mind that! I know it must be painful to remain here, but I think that is the kind of sensibility I ought to overcome. And, you know, Ivo, my cousin is not quite up to the trick!”
“So I should imagine.”
“He is a very good sort of a man in his way, and he wishes to do just as he ought, but although he has always been the heir-at-law he was not bred to succeed Papa, and I fancy he never expected that it would come to that, so what with that, and Papa’s not liking him above half, he has never been put in the way of things here, and the truth is that he’s not fit to go!”
“What is that to the purpose?”
“Why, don’t you see? I shall be able to help him in a thousand ways, and to school him a little, and to see that all goes on as it should!”
“Good God! Serena, take my word for it, you would be very ill-advised to undertake anything of the sort!”
“No, you mistake, Ivo! It was my cousin’s own suggestion! He told me that he hoped I would remain at Milverley, and put him in the way of things. Of course I would never do that, but I was a good deal touched, and I don’t doubt I can be just as useful to him if I live with Fanny, at the Dower House.”
“Nor do I!” he said, with the flash of a wry grin. “If your cousin wants information, let him seek it of your father’s agent!”
“I daresay he will, but although Mr Morley is
an excellent person, he was not bred here, as I was! It is not a part of him! Oh—! I express myself so clumsily, but you must surely know what I mean!”
“I do!” he said. “It is precisely what I meant when I counselled you to remove from this neighbourhood!”
3
It had been the wish of both Fanny and Serena to have removed themselves from the great house as soon possible after the funeral; but in the event several weeks elapsed before they at last found themselves installed at the Dower House. This house, which stood on the fringe of the park, and at no great distance from the little town of Quenbury, was a pretty, old-fashioned building, which had been inhabited until some fifteen months earlier by Serena’s elder, widowed aunt. Upon the death of this lady, it had been lived in by an old servant only, the various schemes for its occupation by this or that distant relative having all of them, from one cause or another, fallen through. It was discovered that some repairs and renovations were needed to make it properly habitable. Serena ordered these to be set in hand immediately, forgetting her altered status at Milverley. Her cousin found her in conference with the estate carpenter in the dismantled drawing-room at the Dower House, and when they rode back to Milverley together startled her by saying: “I am glad you have given your orders to Staines. If I had not been so much occupied yesterday, I should have desired him to come up to see you, and to do whatever you may require of him.”
She felt as though she had received a slap in the face, and gasped, “I beg your pardon!”
He assured her very kindly that there was not the least need of apology, but she was deeply mortified, knowing herself to have erred in a way that was most likely to cause resentment. She tried to make further amends; he said that he perfectly understood; reiterated his wish that she would always look upon Milverley as her home; and left her with a strong desire to hasten the preparations for her departure.
But even had the Dower House been ready for instant occupation, it would scarcely have been possible for her to have left Milverley. The task of assembling all her own and Fanny’s personal belongings proved to be a far more difficult and protracted one than she had anticipated. A thousand unforeseen difficulties arose; and she was constantly being applied to by her cousin for information and advice. She could not but pity him. He was a shy, unassuming man, more painstaking than able, who plainly found the unexpected change in his circumstances overwhelming. That he might succeed his cousin he had never regarded as more than a remote possibility; and since the Earl had shared this view, he had never been granted the opportunity to become familiar with all the details of a great estate. He came to it from a far more modest establishment, where he had been living in quiet content with his wife, and his youthful family, and for many weeks felt crushed by the appalling weight of fortune, lands, and title. In Serena’s presence, he had the uncomfortable sensation of being a nonentity, but he was really very grateful to her, and knew that he would have found himself in a worse case without her, since she could always explain the meaning of the mysteries uttered by such persons as agents and bailiffs. With these he had not learnt to be at ease. He knew himself to be under close observation; they assumed that he had knowledge which he lacked; he was afraid to appear contemptible by confessing ignorance; and relied on Serena to make all plain. She thought he would do better when he had his wife beside him, for it appeared, from the many references to Jane’s capabilities, that hers was the stronger character. But the new Countess was not coming to Milverley until their London house had been disposed of. She seemed to be very busy, and scarcely a day passed without her writing to know whether she should sell some piece of furniture, or send it to Milverley; what he wished her to do about the new barouche; whether she should employ Pickford’s to convey all their heavy cases to Milverley; and a dozen other problems of the same nature.
Bath Tangle Page 3