Mary Or The Perils 0f Imprudence

by Catherine Bowness

  “Thank you. That is very kind. Did you pick them yourself?”

  “Yes, I hope what I have done meets with your approval.”

  “I will send for a vase at once,” she said, taking the flowers and burying her nose briefly in the petals, their warm pink imparting a slight glow of colour to a face otherwise devoid of it. “Can I offer you some refreshment?” she asked, pulling the bell.

  “That will not be necessary; I have only recently breakfasted. How is she?”

  “The doctor tells me she suffered an apoplexy. I am afraid the card party was too strenuous for her and my – my conduct offended her; she was complaining of it when she collapsed.” Mary’s voice wavered as she confessed this.

  “My dear,” Marklye exclaimed, starting towards her. “You must not blame yourself.”

  “I believe I must,” Mary contradicted in a firmer voice, warding him off. “She did not like what she saw as my flirtatiousness with Mr Armitage.”

  “I did not either,” his lordship admitted with a rueful smile.

  “Well, you are both perfectly ridiculous,” Mary declared roundly, rallying. “I detest Mr Armitage; he is not at all the sort of man who appeals to me – and so I told her.”

  “And now you are telling me?”

  “Yes, although I cannot think it any business of yours.”

  “Unfortunately, it is not,” he conceded, adding, “I suppose you can like whichever man you choose – but I confess to being confused. Having, as I thought, rescued you from Mr Armitage’s clutches, I found myself wondering if I had misunderstood the situation and should not have interfered; I was no longer certain that you wished to be rescued.”

  “Indeed I did – and I am grateful to you. And,” she added, making a great effort to appear conciliatory, “thank you for coming to enquire after Lady Leland. It was a kind thought to bring the roses, which I am certain she will vastly appreciate.”

  “Is she on the way to recovery?”

  “I believe so; at first I was afraid that she would die – indeed I was not altogether certain that she had not already done so; she looked so very odd and, although her eyes were partially open, she seemed unable to speak. By the time the doctor arrived she was not precisely improved, but she was no worse and had fallen into an uneasy slumber; whilst denying that there was much he could do, he advised that she should be allowed to sleep – which she did, all night. I sat with her and, towards dawn, she woke. The doctor returned this morning and insisted on cupping her, although she argued with him at first. When you were announced, she begged me to send Brill up first to make her look respectable before she saw you. Will you come up, my lord?”

  “Indeed I will, if you are certain that she will not find it too taxing.”

  “I do not think she will if only we can refrain from arguing in her presence.”

  “That may be difficult but I promise I shall do my utmost not to rub you up the wrong way.”

  “And I shall try not to jump down your throat. Let me first make sure that Brill has done what her ladyship wished and that she is ready to receive you.”

  Clarkson, responding to the bell so quickly that Mary wondered if he had been standing outside the door, disclosed that Brill was still upstairs.

  “I will go up myself if you do not mind my leaving you here for a few minutes,” Mary told her guest.

  Her ladyship was propped up on a pile of pillows, modestly and charmingly attired in a silk peignoir with a shawl around her shoulders. For the first time in her life, her hair was neatly confined within a cap.

  “Have you brought him?” she asked as Mary entered the room.

  “He is waiting downstairs.”

  “Then pray let him come up at once. I have not permitted Brill to dress me up in this tiresome cap for my own amusement.”

  “No, indeed; but you look very fine, my lady; I did not know you possessed a cap; it is most becoming.”

  “Nonsense; no one my age looks fine when they are lying in bed - there is always something of the deathbed about them – and nothing, sadly, is becoming.”

  Mary shook her head but did not argue.

  When she returned, followed by the tall figure of Lord Marklye, the old lady smiled. “How enlivening to have a man in my bedroom once more,” she observed. “The whole room seems somehow both smaller and more vivid. It is very good of you to visit me, my lord.”

  “It is very good of you to receive me,” he said, lifting the thin hand and kissing it. “I see you have not lost your liveliness of mind nor yet your wit.”

  “I hope not,” she responded. “At first I could hardly speak at all, but I believe I am improving, in that respect at least, although my legs are as wobbly as a blancmanger.”

  “No doubt they will firm up in time,” he said gently, sitting down on the chair that Mary drew up.

  “I hope so,” she agreed, “but I find I am so glad to be alive that I hardly like to complain about any infirmity; it is enough simply to be here.”

  Marklye did not stay long, not wishing to tire the old lady, but promised to return the following day. He begged Mary not to bother to see him out as he was perfectly well able to remember the way down the stairs and was certain she would not wish to leave her ladyship’s side. Mary, taking this as evidence that he had no wish to be alone with her, thanked him for coming and bid him adieu in as neutral a tone as she could manage, although her spirits sank miserably.

  True to his word, he returned the following morning, this time bearing a box of small cakes which he told Lady Leland his cook had insisted on making, explaining that such delicacies had apparently helped her own mother recover from a similar illness some years ago.

  While he was sitting there idly exchanging the gentlest of small talk without Mary interjecting a word, there was a commotion downstairs. A carriage, drawn by at least six horses, judging by the degree of clatter with which they came to a halt, arrived followed by a loud rapping on the door.

  Mary’s spirits, which had been gradually reviving during the gentle conversation between her employer and Lord Marklye, fell once more. Nobody would travel a short distance with six horses and it seemed, therefore, only too likely that the visitor was Lady Benstead. She went to the window and, leaning out, observed, to her horror, a lady standing upon the steps engaged in an altercation with Clarkson. She could not hear the butler’s soothing periods but she could hear only too clearly the lady’s side of the conversation.

  “Do you not remember me, Clarkson? Kindly allow me to enter at once! I must see my mama without delay.”

  Lady Leland’s ears not having been in the smallest degree damaged by her collapse, she also could hear this.

  “Did you send for her?” she asked in an awful voice.

  “Yes, my lady. You were so very ill that I thought I must,” Mary muttered, shutting the window and returning to the bed.

  “I suppose you thought I was already dead – or like to be before the end of the night!”

  “Yes, I did,” Mary admitted, stung. “Although I prayed that it would not come to that, I was indeed afraid; I asked Dr Robertson for his opinion and, when he advised that I should inform your relatives, I wrote that very night – while you were asleep.”

  “I would not have slept so soundly if I had known what you were doing behind my back,” Lady Leland said severely.

  “I am sorry; I thought I was doing the right thing. In the morning, when you woke and seemed so well, I ran downstairs to retrieve the letters, but the footman had already taken them to the post. I did take the precaution of telling Clarkson not to let her in unless I was there – and, you see, he has not. She is still upon the doorstep. I will go down and tell her that you do not wish to see her.”

  “Who is this lady that you are so reluctant to see?” Lord Marklye asked, seeing how agitated both the women had become.

  “It is my daughter, Lady Benstead,” her ladyship said. “She was bound to hasten here as soon as she suspected that I was on my deathbed. Why, she m
ust have set off almost before she finished reading the letter. I daresay she had her bags packed in advance ready for just such an eventuality. She would have wanted to make sure that my will was in her favour if there was the remotest likelihood that I was not already dead,” she explained to Marklye.

  “I take it she has travelled some way?” he persisted.

  “Yes. I dare swear she has journeyed all night,” Lady Leland snapped with a startling want of either sympathy or gratitude.

  “It seems unfeeling to send her away without furnishing her with so much as a glass of water if she has come a long way,” he suggested. “Does neither of you wish to see her?”

  “No,” they replied in unison.

  “In that case, would you object if I spoke to her? This is a large house – can she not be accommodated somewhere for one night without incommoding either of you?”

  “No. I will not have her here unless she engages not to utter a word on the subject of my will. Since I am certain she will be unable to adhere to any promises you may be able to extract from her, I really do not think she should be allowed to cross the threshold.”

  “Very well. Would it distress you if I were to offer her a bed for the night? It is a long way for her to travel home without pause.”

  “She can put up in an inn,” her ladyship said.

  Marklye looked across at Mary, standing on the other side of the bed.

  “Should we not show compassion?” Mary asked the old lady.

  “She showed you none,” Lady Leland snapped.

  “No; but we should not allow ourselves to be forced into unchristian behaviour on account of a desire for revenge,” Mary said primly.

  “Very well; if you bear her no ill feelings, I shall not either, but I would prefer her not to be in this house as I shall be subjected to pleadings and sobbings for which I doubt I have the strength just at present. If you truly wish to offer her sanctuary, my lord, I will not attempt to prevent you. But, Mary, if she goes to his lordship’s for even one night she is almost bound to disclose to him what we have been at such pains to conceal. Are you prepared for that?”

  “Yes, but I do not think she will. She cast me out in order to protect herself and the rest of the family from shame; I see no reason to suppose that she will have changed her mind on that score.”

  Chapter 31

  Mrs Porter was another guest who returned from the card party in despair as a result of meeting Miss Best for she could not help noticing that the young woman, no more than a lowly companion and by no means in her first youth, cast a spell over every man present.

  Her daughter would not be in competition with the companion on the marriage market but it was nevertheless a painful reminder that there were bound to be a great many exceedingly pretty débutantes – some with fortunes to rival Susan’s. She wished that their visit to Sir Adrian’s garden had not culminated in the girl disgracing herself quite so comprehensively for, before the disaster of the cake, their host had seemed quite taken with her. Mrs Porter now realised that, however much he had appeared to like Susan, his admiration was insignificant when compared to what could only be described as his infatuation with the odious Miss Best. The fact that persons of the meanest intelligence could see that he had not the smallest chance of winning her hardly made any difference; he had eyes for no one else.

  As for those Armitage men: the younger was also hopelessly smitten with Miss Best’s cerulean eyes; the elder was not the kind of man Mrs Porter would have wished to dangle after her daughter in any event as, not only was he a profligate, but also indubitably a fortune-hunter.

  Susan was less affected by Miss Best’s allure than either her mother or her host. She had already guessed that the companion was a Beauty since the moment she had met Marklye in the hall shortly after he had pulled her from the river. Quite without vanity herself, she would never have considered setting herself up as a rival to such a woman although she was forced to admit to herself that her heart had sunk slightly on first beholding her. The very idea of sharing swimming lessons with such a goddess was dispiriting.

  They had not exchanged more than a few words as Miss Best had been monopolised by Mr Armitage throughout the evening but it had been clear that she found his hot glances stimulating. The fact that Mr Armitage had reiterated his offer of marriage repeatedly and at high volume – although he had been turned down in a similar manner - gave Susan hope that the companion would be snapped up soon, possibly by Mr Armitage, with whom she had clearly had previous dealings; this would leave Sir Adrian free and no doubt, after a decent interval, he would recover from his infatuation and begin to look around him again.

  Although more than half in love with Signor Pontielli – and much affected by his hot gaze – she had conceived a burning desire for Sir Adrian’s approval; he was the only man, apart from her father and her host, who was tall enough to enable her to look up rather than down. He was also gentle and considerate and seemed to be interested in what she had to say. She had valued his help over the best way of playing the rather rowdy game of loo and had, indeed, gone into supper on his arm.

  It was two days later when Lord Marklye brought a new - and unexpected - guest into the small dining room as Susan and her mother were sitting down to nuncheon.

  “This is Lady Benstead, Lady Leland’s daughter,” he explained as he made the introductions. “As you know, her ladyship was taken ill after the card party and Miss Best naturally wrote to her relatives. I was visiting Lady Leland this morning when Lady Benstead arrived and I am happy to say that she has done me the honour of accepting my invitation to spend a night here before making the long journey back to her own home.”

  “I was exceedingly sorry to hear that her ladyship had been taken ill but understand that she is now on the mend,” Mrs Porter said, quite correctly, but with ill-concealed astonishment for why, if this was Lady Leland’s daughter, was she not staying in the same house? It was surely large enough.

  “Yes,” Lady Benstead said at once in an angry tone, correctly interpreting Mrs Porter’s bewilderment. “I have been told that she is on the road to recovery but, as I have not seen her myself, I am unable to be certain.”

  “Perhaps she is not yet well enough to receive visitors,” Mrs Porter hazarded, beginning to suspect that there might be a complicated and possibly distressing history between mother and daughter and hoping that she was not to be forced to listen to a recital of it.

  “She received his lordship,” Lady Benstead contradicted on a rising note, “and he is not even related to her.”

  A small but pregnant silence greeted this statement; Lady Benstead broke it by addressing Marklye in a voice now trembling with imminent tears. “It is very kind of your lordship to take me in but I do not understand how that odious companion is permitted to dictate who shall and who shall not see my poor mama.”

  “I daresay the excitement of seeing you may have been thought too fatiguing for Lady Leland in her present state of health; most likely you will be able to see her tomorrow,” Mrs Porter murmured pacifically.

  “Have you met the companion?” Lady Benstead enquired in an awful voice as his lordship began to carve a large side of beef.

  “Only once – on the evening of the card party,” Mrs Porter admitted, hoping to put a lid on Lady Benstead’s increasing agitation by denying intimate knowledge of the woman.

  “She has insinuated herself into my mama’s affections,” Lady Benstead declared, causing the lid to wobble alarmingly, “and no doubt hopes to inherit a large sum of money.”

  No one finding anything to say in reply, Lady Benstead continued with a certain grim satisfaction, “She has, has she not – and you all know? That female is no better than she should be, indeed considerably worse, and my mother is a fool to harbour such a snake in the grass. Now we see how truly wicked she is; it is all of a piece.” Lady Benstead, having delivered herself of this at one and the same time clear and yet curiously obscure piece of information, burst into tears, dragg
ed a scrap of lace handkerchief from the depths of her bosom and began to sob noisily into it.

  Lord Marklye, whose face had been growing more and more thunderous as his new guest cast aspersions upon Miss Best, laid down the carving knife and fork, and said, “My lady, I am sorry that you are distressed but I cannot agree that this is the right place, or these the right people, with whom to share your displeasure.”

  He looked beseechingly at Mrs Porter, no doubt conceiving it to be a woman’s duty to minister to another female rapidly descending into hysteria.

  Mrs Porter, responding to her host’s appeal and not unsympathetic to Lady Benstead’s apparently visceral dislike of the companion, rose from the table and put her arm around the weeping woman.

  “I daresay you are fatigued from your journey as well as subject to considerable anxiety about your poor mother’s state of health,” she said with more sympathy than either her host or daughter would have expected. “I am persuaded it would be advisable for you to lie down upon your bed for an hour or two. Have you any hartshorn, my lord? I own I do not keep it, not being given to such sensibility myself.”

  “I daresay some can be found,” his lordship agreed smoothly, privately deciding that the doctor must be sent for and hartshorn obtained that way. In his bachelor establishment, he had not thought to provide such a thing.

  He rang the bell and Mrs Porter, casting him an agonised glance, took Lady Benstead by the arm and led her from the room.

  It was some time later that all pretence of eating was abandoned; his lordship and Susan found their appetites had evaporated and neither Mrs Porter nor the vexatious new guest returned.

  When the doctor arrived he was despatched upstairs.

  Lord Marklye, whose mood had by no means improved, suggested that Susan take a walk “to get away from the house for a little” as though the explosive nature of Lady Benstead’s humour might result in the whole edifice combusting. Delighted to be given permission, she set off for the wood at once, pausing only to put on her bonnet.