Mary Or The Perils 0f Imprudence

by Catherine Bowness

  She found Signor Pontielli in his usual place on the log. He jumped up as soon as he saw her and took her hand. She wondered if he was going to begin the afternoon with kisses and was disappointed when he insisted, a little peremptorily, on a singing lesson.

  “When do you expect your papa to return?” he asked, at last abandoning the lesson after she had made her painful way through several scales – why were scales required for the voice as well as the keyboard? It was easy to play them on the pianoforte since the notes were there and all she had to do was run up and down them but far more difficult when she must somehow find them for herself, even if he did support her on the violin.

  “I do not know. He said, when he left, that he would only be away for a few days but we have had no word. Why do you ask?”

  “I have been thinking about how we should proceed and have come to the conclusion that it will be difficult, if not impossible, to meet when he is here; no doubt there will be a full programme of entertainments which will not give you the opportunity to wander off by yourself.”

  “I should not think it would make much difference,” Susan replied. “He is Marklye’s friend and they will most likely spend their time together; I hope they may take me if they go riding but very likely they will not. I daresay having a girl hanging around might cramp their style a trifle.

  “Did you know that Lady Leland, the old lady who is Lord Marklye’s nearest neighbour, was taken ill recently?”

  “I did hear that, yes. You can be sure that the latest news will always reach the servants’ hall quickly. Is that likely to make a difference to when your papa returns?”

  “No, of course not; it is nothing to do with him. But, just as we were sitting down to nuncheon, Marklye brought in an elderly lady who, it seems, is Lady Leland’s daughter.”

  “Why has she come here? Should she not more properly be accommodated in her mother’s house?”

  “Well, you would certainly think so but apparently she has taken a dislike to her ladyship’s companion. When she arrived at her mama’s house Marklye was there, visiting Lady Leland – in point of fact I should suppose he was visiting Miss Best, for it’s my belief that he has formed an attachment to her and cannot keep away, in spite of her flirting outrageously with another gentleman at the card party. In any event, I suspect there was a disagreeable scene and his lordship brought Lady Benstead here – presumably in order to save Miss Best from being insulted, which would no doubt be of the first consideration to him,” she added with unusual acrimony.

  “Lady Benstead?” Signor Pontielli asked. “The new guest is Lady Benstead?”

  “Yes, do you know her? She is Lady Leland’s daughter.”

  “No, of course I do not; why in the world should I know Lady Benstead? She is a noblewoman.”

  “Yes; but you might have taught her daughter at one time.”

  “I did not,” he answered flatly. “What sort of a person is she?”

  “Excessively lachrymose and emotionally incontinent,” Susan said with a young woman’s almost startling absence of sympathy. “She came in complaining about Miss Best who had, I understand, refused to let her enter the house. Surely Miss Best is not in a position to do that? I should imagine it was on Lady Leland’s orders.”

  “If the old lady is unwell, I should not suppose that she would be capable of making decisions of that kind while Miss Best may know that seeing Lady Benstead would upset her ladyship – perhaps even make her ill again.”

  “I should think it would be bound to,” Susan replied. “As I understand that the main purpose of the card party was to announce that she had changed her will in Miss Best’s favour, one is bound to conclude that there is little love lost between the old lady and her daughter. If Lady Benstead did not know about the will before she set out, she soon will and, from what I have seen of her, will make an enormous fuss about being dispossessed in favour of a paid companion whom she already dislikes.”

  “I see. The companion’s stratagem has been strikingly successful, has it not? Having persuaded the old lady to change her will - and presumably reluctant to wait much longer to come into her money - she has contrived to render her so ill that she is more than likely to die within the week.”

  “Oh, I don’t believe she would have done any such thing. Miss Best is excessively pretty and she had all the men eating out of her hand at the party but it was clear that she is deeply attached to the old lady – and the old lady to her.”

  “If she is so pretty I am surprised that she is relying upon an old lady to feather her nest; you would have thought that it would have been easier – and quicker – to attach a man.” Signor Pontielli’s tone was disapproving; it seemed that he was another who took exception to Miss Best although, since he had never met her, Susan suspected that his condemnatory attitude would change dramatically if and when he did set eyes upon her.

  “I think you wrong her,” she argued mildly. She had not been much taken with Miss Best herself but she had not thought her a fortune-hunter and was surprised at Signor Pontielli’s harsh judgment of a person he had never met.

  “You see the good in everyone,” he said in a different tone, taking her hand and stroking it. “I suppose I have grown cynical. How long is Lady Benstead staying?”

  “I am not certain; I think Marklye is hoping it will not be for more than one night but, unless her health improves as a result of the doctor visiting, I cannot suppose that he will like to turn her out so soon.”

  “No; I suppose both he and your mama will be taken up with ministering to her, particularly if she is unwell. I have been thinking that we should elope before your father returns but, now that Lady Benstead is here, I am convinced that we should lose no time; her presence is an unexpected stroke of luck which we would be foolish not to take advantage of.”

  Susan was a little shocked by this sudden bringing-forward of a scheme with which she had gone along in the belief that, if it were ever to take place, it would not do so for some time. She had contrived to persuade herself that her father, although he would be bound to veto her marriage to a music teacher at first, could eventually be brought to accept the idea because of his oft-repeated wish to see his daughter happy. She knew, of course, that this was stretching the logical conclusion to his avowed desire to unrealistic lengths: he would be most unlikely to believe that she would, in the end, be happy as Signora Pontielli. Indeed, she was not altogether convinced herself, particularly after the card party, which was the first occasion when she had spent an evening amongst persons of the same rank as herself.

  Although she had been shy and uncertain how to behave, and although she had been outshone by Miss Best, she had, at a deeper level, felt comfortable amongst those people. Both Sir James and Lady Armitage had been agreeable, Mr Charles Armitage – when he had managed to tear his eyes from Miss Best’s countenance – had been friendly and encouraging, speaking to her as though she were quite grown-up and listening to her opinions gravely; and Sir Adrian, although clearly besotted with Miss Best, had sat beside her at the loo table and helped her to play a game with which she was not familiar; indeed they had formed a sort of informal partnership, she showing him her hand and he advising her whether to discard or elect to play it.

  Signor Pontielli had warned her that they would be poor and she had not, in the heat of the moment, thought that she would mind so long as she was with him but, in truth, Susan was not a particularly romantic young woman and she could not help but be aware of all that she would lose if she married a man who not only could not keep her in the style to which she was accustomed but would very likely have trouble keeping her at all.

  “Oh! Is that not a little soon? She will only be here for a couple of days.”

  “Have you changed your mind?” he asked anxiously.

  “No, of course I have not,” she replied automatically because, when accused of changing one’s mind, most people’s instinct is to deny it.

  “You do not love me,” he went on fierce
ly, pressing his lips to her hand.

  “You know I do,” she murmured as his kisses moved to her wrist and so, by gradual degrees, upwards to her mouth.

  “Then let us flee tomorrow,” he begged.

  “Marklye is giving a dinner party tomorrow,” she told him, advancing this as a reason not to leave so soon.

  He took it differently. “The very thing! It will be child’s play to slip out when everyone has gone to bed. Will you? Will you come with me? I will hire a travelling chaise and have it wait outside the gates just before midnight. The guests will all have left by then, will they not? They keep early hours in the country.”

  “Yes, yes, I am sure they will have gone by then. But …” She did not finish the sentence for his kisses had wrought their familiar magic and she was no longer in a state where she could think of anything but him.

  Chapter 32

  Mary had watched from the window as Lord Marklye spoke to Lady Benstead on the doorstep. She could not hear what he said as, no doubt conscious of the watching eyes and listening ears above, he spoke in a low voice.

  It was a long time since she had seen Lady Benstead and, from this angle, she could not discern her face, shadowed as it was by a large hat. She noticed, however, that the now more than middle-aged woman, who was buttoned into a becoming but somewhat shabby pelisse, had not lost her figure.

  She could hear Lady Benstead’s impassioned periods only too clearly. They took the form of repeated demands to see her moribund mother interspersed with imprecations on the wickedness of her mama’s self-serving companion.

  Marklye met each one with another soothing period of his own until, after some fifteen minutes, which seemed to Mary - and no doubt to his lordship - more like several hours, the visitor dissolved into tears. This, as Mary knew, followed her ladyship’s usual pattern: having lost the argument, the next weapon in her armoury was anguish expressed by means of copious tears shed without a sound save for the occasional melancholy sniff. Lord Marklye, no doubt experienced in the wide variety of emotionally tyrannical tactics exercised by females on a losing wicket, recognised the signs, took her ladyship’s hand in his and bent towards her, every muscle indicating sympathy and concern.

  Mary, fascinated, resolved never again to underestimate his lordship’s ability to manage women although it was plain that he had misunderstood her and used the wrong approach for she had not capitulated but, on the contrary, confronted him. She found herself wondering idly what he should have done to ensure her surrender; the answer came instantly and was as quickly rejected.

  She waited until they had entered the carriage and the vehicle had moved off before she returned to Lady Leland’s side.

  “I am sorry that I sent for her. I thought it was for the best.”

  “No doubt it would have been if I had died but you revived me, my dear, by rediscovering your voice.”

  “I dispute that. You revived by yourself – indeed I am surprised that my first efforts did not send you post haste to the hereafter. What would you like me to do now?”

  “Goodness knows! Marklye has come to the rescue again; is there no end to his resourcefulness, I wonder?”

  “No, I should not suppose so; he is a ‘verray, parfit gentil knyght’, is he not? How fortunate that he was here when she arrived but I cannot leave him to deal with her; now that she has arrived, she will not go home until she has obtained satisfaction, seen you and banished me once more.”

  “In that case I shall be obliged to see her. I will write him a letter, explaining something of the circumstances, and ask him to call to discuss what we should do. You are quite right that it would be outrageous were we to leave him to deal with her on his own. He knows now that she is my daughter but he does not, I conjecture, know where you fit into the farrago.”

  “No; until half an hour ago he had never, presumably, heard the name Benstead.”

  “Indeed. My dear, I think the time has come to take him into your confidence. I am aware that he has some inkling of the reason why you were obliged to find refuge somewhere. If you are to marry him, he must be made privy to the whole story, including your antecedents.”

  “No doubt that would be true if I were to marry him but, since that is most unlikely, I cannot see that he needs to know.”

  “Do you really object to his knowing your real name? Surely the harder confession is why you were compelled to abandon it - and he already knows that.”

  “Not precisely. He guessed and I did not deny it – that is all.”

  “Very well, but is it not worth it to tell him the truth? Then, when he makes you a renewed offer, you will not feel forced to reject him on account of your guilty secret. Would you not like to be his wife, Mary? Pray answer truthfully.”

  Mary’s face twisted as though someone were squeezing her. She opened her mouth to speak but shut it again without a word having passed her lips.

  “If he does not ask you again, you will suffer no more from having admitted that you care for him than you will if you insist upon keeping your lips closed and the secret locked in your bosom. It is in any event perfectly plain to me that you are wildly in love with him. I suppose it is pride which makes you reluctant to admit it, but pride will not sustain you for the rest of your life if it prevents you from accepting his offer.”

  “He will not make another; I rejected him so forcefully – and uncivilly – that I am convinced he will not try again.”

  “He is neither half-witted nor an idealistic boy; I am persuaded he has not remained unwed because he has been repulsed by dozens of harebrained females but because he has not before met one he wants. He will ask again and, since you made a complete mull of it before, this time you must be prepared.

  “Fetch paper and pen and I will dictate a letter requesting he call upon me without delay – when I will explain all; that should bring him. I will tell him only that I have quarrelled with my daughter; you must tell him the rest.”

  Lord Marklye was not the only visitor during the days immediately following Lady Leland’s collapse; both Lady Armitage and, separately, her elder son called, the former to enquire after her friend, the latter to renew his suit. Mary declined again and begged Mr Armitage not to hold out any hope that she would change her mind. She was aware, as she said the words, that she had said much the same to Lord Marklye in spite of wishing that he would do so. Mr Armitage attempted to kiss her, she slapped his face and, when she had finally managed to drive him from the house, told Clarkson that he must not be allowed to set foot inside again.

  Lady Benstead, having been visited by the doctor on several occasions and supplied with every sort of paregoric known to man, managed to totter down Lord Marklye’s stairs after a couple of days.

  “I hope I am not trespassing upon your kindness, my lord,” she began, having drawn something of a blank with Mrs Porter, whom she had found to be a singularly unsympathetic woman.

  “Not at all, but would you not be more comfortable in your own home?” he enquired politely. He had not himself found her a burdensome guest since she had kept to her room and he had fallen back on the excuse that a gentleman with whom she was unacquainted would be of little help in the sickroom, particularly since her complaint seemed to be hysterical in origin.

  “I am determined to see my mama before I leave; after all, that is why I came,” she said.

  “I shall be calling upon Lady Leland later this afternoon; would you like me to carry a message?”

  “What use would that be? She never replies. I am afraid that she has been bamboozled by that evil female.”

  His lordship’s lips tightened and he turned away to look out of the window.

  Lady Benstead ignored this clear sign that her host did not wish to join her in vilifying Mary and continued, her voice rising dangerously, “You cannot conceive how I have suffered at her hands. It is she who has turned Lady Leland against me; very likely my poor mama has never seen any of my letters; I am certain they are destroyed before they reach her.”r />
  Lord Marklye said, apparently addressing the window, “I would prefer it if you would refrain from denigrating Miss Best in front of me; I have formed a high opinion of both her and Lady Leland.”

  Lady Benstead uttered a little shriek. “You must be all about in your head if you have been taken in by that – that harpy!”

  “Are you acquainted with Miss Best?”

  “I was used to be. She is a most improper person – but I daresay men like that kind of female; what I cannot at all comprehend is how my mother has been so deceived.”

  “I do not think it would be easy to deceive Lady Leland; she may be old but she is remarkably astute. In any event, she and Miss Best seem to be extremely comfortable with each other,” his lordship said pacifically.

  “That is because she has pulled the wool over poor Mama’s eyes. If you had the least notion of what a degraded person she is you would have nothing to do with her. She has corrupted my mother with her falsely winning ways, no doubt, and you too. Is she still so pretty?” she added rather surprisingly and in an almost wistful voice.

  The Viscount turned at that and fixed his eyes upon Lady Benstead’s countenance, which was beginning to show signs of her rising distress in the form of uneven streaks of red over her cheeks and on her chin. “I only met Miss Best a few weeks ago. Certainly she is excessively pretty.”

  “No doubt that explains why you have fallen under her spell. Do not you be deceived too!”

  “I appreciate your concern,” his lordship said ironically.

  “But, like all men, you care more about a pretty face than a true heart,” she muttered with some bitterness.

  “Miss Best has a true heart as well as a pretty face,” he said gently.

  “She has not!” she cried, her voice rising to a shriek. “She is all selfishness and thoughtlessness. Do you know what I fear? That she has insinuated herself into Mama’s affections and persuaded the old lady to change her will in her favour?”