by CE Murphy
Sour Ruth, though, already sensitive to the likelihood that she, of all the Dover sisters, was the least likely to wed, thought that Elsa was having unkind fun at her expense, and, to everyone’s astonishment, fled the front garden in tears. Even Mr Dover, accustomed to and unworried by the histrionics of his many females, rose from his place at the table to gaze after his middle daughter in concern, and Elsabeth, who had intended to mock herself, gathered her skirts and ran after her sister.
The eldest two Dover girls shared a room, as did the three youngest. Their door was locked when Elsa tried it. Troubled, Elsabeth leaned her cheek and palm against the old polished wood and called, “Ruth? Please let me in.”
A hard cry answered her. “As if I could stop you coming in if you wished. What is a locked door to you?”
Elsabeth trailed a fingertip to the lock, but sought no twist or fall of the tumblers. “Very little,” she admitted, “but my sister’s pride is a great deal. Ruthie, forgive me. I was truly thinking of myself when I spoke. I meant no hurt.”
Footsteps fell inside the room, though Ruth’s voice remained muffled. “But you are able to laugh about it, Elsabeth, because you know you are in no danger of remaining unmarried. We all know Captain Hartnell admires you greatly.”
“Ruth.” Elsabeth, struck with a genuine curiosity, murmured, “Would you care for such a man yourself?”
The door she leaned against came open with such suddenness that Elsabeth was obliged to catch herself on the frame lest she fall into Ruth’s arms, and Ruth looked of no mind to catch her. Her cheeks were streaked with the evidence of tears, but her colour was high and her gaze incredulous. “Captain Hartnell gives all appearance of being a man of frippery. His greatest ambition seems to be to make you laugh, and he spends an inordinate amount of time polishing his boots. What interest could I have in such a man?”
“He is very handsome,” Elsabeth offered tentatively. “I do not care for handsomeness,” Ruth replied with such grandeur that Elsabeth felt foolish for having suggested it. “I am only concerned with character. No, Elsabeth, I am not interested in the Captain Hartnells of the world, and the Mr Web-bers would not have me. For one in such a position as ours, there is very little left.”
“I did not know you felt so strongly,” Elsabeth said quietly.
“You have never cared enough to learn.” Ruth shut the door gently in Elsabeth’s face, and did not bother to lock it again.
Nor did Elsabeth try to open it; she merely stood, swaying slightly as she gazed at the painted-over grain, and recognised with dismay that her middle sister was entirely correct. Burdened by that knowledge, she returned to the sitting room, where, house-cleaning abandoned, the whole of her family sat awaiting news of Ruth’s condition. Their unusual attentive silence as Elsabeth entered the room caught her tongue, and she could find nothing to say until Mrs Dover, sharply, demanded, “Well?”
“She is overwrought,” Elsabeth said with a startle. “The excitement of the upcoming ball, no doubt, and Captain Hartnell’s visits, and the knowledge of what Mr Cox’s position in our lives means. She will be all right in a little while.”
Comprehension swept the whole of the Dover family’s faces; even Tildy and Dina looked relieved to understand Ruth’s outburst. Almost at once, their chatter returned to normal, with Mrs Dover’s piping tones rising and falling above them as Mr Dover retreated once more behind his newspapers. Under their prattle, Elsabeth sat beside Rosamund and murmured, “Rosa, did you know that Ruth is unhappy?”
Thoughtful surprise drew a line across Rosamund’s forehead. “Yes,” she said slowly, “but I have always supposed that being unhappy was what made her happiest. She works so hard at it, after all.”
“Yes, but I thought that was only because it’s how she is. But it’s more than that. She’s afraid,” Elsa whispered. “As afraid as any of us are, of never marrying, of being a burden, or of being bereft. I never knew.”
Nor, from the tender pain that marked Rosamund’s face, had she. She made to stand at once, but Elsabeth stopped her with a hand on her arm. “She turned me away. I think perhaps she wishes to be alone now.”
“Or perhaps that’s what she wants us to believe, and hopes someone will come to her.” Rosamund stood after all, departed the sitting room, and returned so swiftly and with such poorly hidden anxiety on her pretty features that Elsabeth knew Ruth had sent her away as well. No one else noticed her distress, and she busied herself with embroidery so that it would remain unremarked-upon.
Ruth did not emerge until Mr Cox’s carriage kicked up dust on their drive, and when she did, she looked more severe than usual: her hair, often bound tightly, lay so thin against her skull that Elsabeth was certain the strands were strained to breaking. Her face was no longer flushed with anger’s colour, but pinched and white, and her gown, which tended toward conservative in the best of times, had been altered so that a high collar impressed itself against her throat. She did not speak, nor was she spoken to, though Rosamund offered her a hand, and, for the first time Elsabeth could remember, Ruth obliged by coming to sit with her instead of taking a seat where she could grimace disapprovingly at all of them.
Outside, carriage wheels rattled and came to a stop on the drive as horses’ hooves stamped a few times, then settled. Mr and Mrs Dover exchanged glances and stood as one, but it was the latter who spoke grimly as they all trooped toward the front doors: “Very well, girls. Let us go to meet our doom.”
(20)
If anything was to give hope in Mr Cox’s arrival, it was the elegance of his carriage. Painted black and gilded hither and thither, it gleamed in the afternoon light; the inner rims of the wheels, painted red, did not seem to be diminished in colour by the dust of the road. A finely postured driver sat at the front, and a set of four dappled greys spoke of both wealth and speed. Rosamund’s hand crept into Elsabeth’s and squeezed, and the entire Dover family held their breath with anticipation as they waited for the carriage to disgorge its occupant.
The man who emerged was by no means as elegant as his means of arrival. Tall, but given to a certain softness, he wore a vicar’s suit in a size too small, and the broad black hat of his profession sat upon the top of his head as if it had lost a struggle to escape. Rosamund took a small, quiet breath; Leopoldina, at the other end of the line of sisters, was not so discreet, and squeaked with amusement.
Even Mr Dover hesitated, peering into the carriage as if he expected it to issue another, more suitable option as the choice for Reginald Cox. When no one else came forth, Mr Dover stepped forward. “Mr Cox, I am Mr Dover. It is our pleasure to receive you here at Oakden. May I introduce my wife, Mrs Dover?”
Mrs Dover curtsied nicely, then released a surprised trill of laughter as Mr Cox seized her hand and pressed a heavy kiss against it. “Mrs Dover. It is my honour. I have so long wished to visit the lands that will someday be my own.”
Mrs Dover’s laughter turned directly to a wheeze, almost a cough, and Mr Dover murmured, “How forthright you are, Mr Cox. Such candour is so often lacking in our society. May I introduce my daughters, Miss Dover, Miss Elsabeth, Miss Ruth, Miss Matilda, Miss Leopoldina.”
Cox seized Rosamund’s hand with as much vigour as he had taken Mrs Dover’s, and though she was far too polite to protest, Rosamund sent a brief, wild glance toward Elsabeth, who saw cords stand out in her eldest sister’s neck before Cox moved on to her.
His hands were cool but damp; his mouth, fleshy against her skin. Elsabeth had to spread her fingers widely to prevent herself from wiping them against her skirt when Cox released them. Down the line he went, breathing heavily over each girl and smacking his lips together after each sentence as if he had offered a profound proclamation. “Surely it is a danger to have so many daughters of such beauty. God is generous in his gifts but cannot like a father to hoard his women-folk himself; I am sure He intends for each of your daughters to find an honest husband to guide her through her days. Indeed, I can only believe that He has now
sent such a man to one of them, through His grace and love.”
By this Elsabeth correctly took him to mean he meant to marry one of them; she exchanged a look of alarm with Rosamund and found Mr Dover’s eyes on them in an expression of genuine horror. Mrs Dover, with unlikely skill, murmured, “How right you are, Mr Cox, as it seems our dear Rosamund is very soon to be engaged to a gentleman who has been at Newsbury Manor for some weeks now.”
“I see,” replied Cox, and, wasting no time, fixed his gaze upon Elsabeth. He had not even crossed the threshold yet, she thought with distaste; he might have at least made a pretence of—of what, she did not know. Propriety, perhaps; a pretence of propriety, and not that he had come to a horse market to buy himself a broodmare. As she considered these unpleasant thoughts, Cox, without taking his eyes from Elsabeth, said, “My most beneficent felicitations to you upon the auspice of your impending engagement, Miss Dover. You will not be in my parish, of course, but I should consider myself most fortunate if you were to consider me, your dearest cousin, as the servant of God to speak the marriage vows over you and your intended.”
“Oh,” Rosamund said faintly, and sent a wide-eyed look toward Elsabeth. “I am sure the offer is most generous, Mr Cox, but I am hardly in a position to be making arrangements yet.”
Mrs Dover could not be said to do anything so obvious or crass as wincing, and yet there was something in the shift of her shoulders and tightening of her throat that suggested that she had been struck by a blow. Mr Cox returned his attention to Rosamund so greedily that Elsabeth felt that she had been released from a heavy weight, and wondered that her feet were still firmly pressed to the ground. She might have called the sensation relief, had Mr Cox not at that moment begun a veritable speech to Rosamund. “Of course you cannot yet make such arrangements; I fear that looking too far ahead is both my gift and burden alike. Let me assure you, however, that having recently been graced with a fine parish as a gift from my patroness, the Lady Beatrice Derrington, that I am most utterly suited to perform such ceremonies, and nothing could give me, or, I dare say, the Lady Beatrice, more pleasure than to see a family member well wedded. You will be well wedded, will you not? For I, and I should dare say the Lady Beatrice, could only expect that you will marry well, even far above your station, or I am sure that otherwise you could consider a marriage of equals or”—and he glanced down as if in modesty, save for that his small eyes glittered as he spoke—“to one whose recent fortunes might be said to outstrip your own.”
By this time, Mr Dover looked as though he wished very much that he had not invited Mr Cox to stay at Oakden, an expression in which he could indulge himself, for it was clear that Cox would not look away from the daughters Dover unless prodded to do so. Rosamund, whose kind heart would not permit her to be rude to Mr Cox, began a stammering reply, but her father, his face now perfectly schooled, took it upon himself to interrupt her before she might be forced into saying something damning.
“Candid indeed,” Mr Dover said. “Mr Cox, we are behaving unconscionably, keeping you standing outdoors after your long journey. Let us retire to the house. There we shall dine and you can tell us more of your patroness. I do not know the Lady Beatrice.”
“Oh, she is an extraordinary woman,” Cox promised as he was escorted within. “Such generosity, such wisdom, such clear expectations of those in her employ. I will be happy to tell you— oh, but she would not approve of this; it has been some time since Oakden has been updated, has it not? Well, my patroness is an understanding woman, as benefits one of her station and intelligence; she could not expect country cousins to keep up to the standards of London. Still, one might do something about the flagstone here....” His further commentary was lost to the insides of the house as Elsabeth hung back with her sisters and mother, the latter of whom grew pink with indignation.
“Those stones have lain upon the floor at Oakden since it was built!” snapped Mrs Dover. “They are imbued with history. Five generations of Dovers or more have walked those floors! How dare he—”
Ruth, unexpectedly, replied, “They are worn, Mother,” and, with this observation, passed into the house behind Misters Dover and Cox, leaving behind four startled females.
Mrs Dover, after a moment’s silence, continued on almost as if Ruth had not spoken. “And certainly they should be a little worn, after decades of service. Why, if everything was to be replaced the moment it showed a little wear, how might we ever dress ourselves? We are not so fine as to buy new gowns when a thread loosens or a stain appears! Why—”
“Oh, but, Mamma,” Dina said breathlessly, “we will have new gowns for the ball, will we not? We cannot be expected to host a ball and wear the same dull things that everyone has seen us in before! You know as well as I that a bit of pretty ribbon will not be enough to turn Captain Hartnell’s head, nor any of his brothers in red!”
“You know that those gowns have been purchased already,” Mrs Dover replied severely. “The need for new ballgowns is a different matter entirely. Come, girls. Elsabeth, you must make yourself as pretty as possible for dinner; I believe you have already caught Mr Cox’s eye, and we might all be so fortunate as to be allowed to stay in our home if one of you girls should marry him.” Upon this entire reversal of her earlier position regarding Mr Cox, Mrs Dover entered Oakden with Tildy and Dina on her arms, and did not look back to see if Elsa and Rosa chose to follow.
They did not: Elsabeth swayed where she stood, and finally murmured, “‘One’ of us girls, but not her beloved Dina, nor Tildy, Dina’s shadow, and not Rosa, who has prospects, nor Ruth, who has none. Oh!” she cried as Rosamund drew a breath of dismay, “I do not mean to hurt you, Rosamund. It is only that it is Dina who wishes most to marry, and Tildy who wants it next most because it is what Dina wants, whereas I myself should rather remain unmarried and your bosom companion than wed any man I have thus far met, and yet it is I who am to make myself pretty for that odious man.”
“Mr Archer no longer seems so dreadful, does he?” Rosamund received Elsabeth’s sour glance with good graces. “Perhaps he is only nervous, Elsa. Perhaps he will become more... appealing...as he becomes more comfortable with us.”
“If it would not mean leaving you alone with him, Rosamund, I should come down with a sharp fever at this very moment and suffer from it for the entirety of Mr Cox’s visit, even if it should mean missing the ball Leopoldina has instigated.”
(21)
Elsabeth did not, to her mother’s chagrin, take any especial care with dressing for supper, nor, to her own chagrin—if not surprise—did Mr Cox improve as he became more comfortable with his surrounds. Indeed, while he praised everything from dinner to daughters with great excess, none of what passed his lips could be considered on its own; it must all be examined in regard to what Lady Beatrice might think, and while, for his own part, each aspect of Oakden was most suitable, it must all be made more suitable in order to live up to his patroness’s standards. They were not to fear, Mr Cox assured them; Lady Beatrice would regard Oakden as charming and quaint, appropriate for a small country manor kept by a family without much income, but in due time—due time! he insisted ingratiatingly to Mr Dover—it would come to him, and, as he was a man bestowed with such honourable patronage as the Lady Beatrice’s, something would have to be done.
“And yet,” Ruth put in whilst the remainder of the family sat in appalled silence, searching for a response to Mr Cox’s cheerful, if not instantaneous, dismissal of Mr Dover from their lives, “yet one would not want the Lady Beatrice to imagine the proprietor of a small country manor to be above himself; I am sure she has a very great understanding of place in Society. One could hardly place a hearth such as graces Her Ladyship’s drawing room—”
—for Mr Cox had gone on at some length about the magnificent size and cost of that very hearth; it was, they were all informed, of Connemara marble, and wide enough to stand inside, arms outstretched, without touching either side; this he knew because he had tried, before, of cour
se, the hearth had been lit, and now on all days save the very warmest, a fire banked within its enormous hollow, in order to warm the room for Lady Beatrice’s invalid daughter Annabel, who was frail and easily chilled, but otherwise a jewel in the crown of the Empire, and no doubt sorely missed in London Society by those who had never met her—
“—in Oakden’s modest halls,” Ruth continued, “without overwhelming it and making a small country family look as though they had pretensions of grandeur. Surely, it is better to show that one who lives in a house such as Oakden understands her place in the world, and can show all due deference to the great ladies such as your patroness by accepting her own less grandiose station with grace.”
“Beauty and intelligence both,” Mr Cox said to Mr Dover. “Surely, you are blessed in your daughters.”
Mr Dover, who, with the rest of his family, had observed Ruth’s quiet argument with increasing astonishment, said, “Surely, I am. Ruth, perhaps, after dinner, you will select something for Mr Cox to read to us.”
Matilda groaned, and Elsabeth, mindful of Ruth’s pleased blush, kicked her under the table. Tildy’s eyes widened in offense and Leopoldina giggled; Rosamund, who would never stoop to kicking, frowned, a rarity that quelled even Dina. Ruth, gaze fixed on the table, murmured, “I should like that very much, Papa,” and, when the meal was done, selected a passage of sermons that caused Dina to sag across the drawing room chaise. Cox’s soporific voice droned on as Mr Dover settled back with a sigh, his eyes closed as the women slowly took up embroidery or letter-writing; all save Ruth, who sat nearby, hands clenched in her lap as she leaned toward Cox in her intensity.
Upon the conclusion of the first sermon, Leopoldina stabbed her finger so hard with a needle that there was no more reading that night; instead, lying on the chaise with her finger wrapped and elevated, she whispered, “Mamma, will I be well enough for the ball?” with such tremulous pathos that Elsabeth coughed away laughter.