Mary Or The Perils 0f Imprudence

by Catherine Bowness

  “I have grown so accustomed to your swift changes of mood that nothing would surprise me,” he returned rather acidly.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, surprised by the mordancy of his tone. “Do I take it you think me like my parent in ways other than my appearance?”

  He laughed at that. “Thank you for pointing it out! I own I had not thought of it. In the light of that and – as your friend - I feel bound to ask whether you meant what you said yesterday about Mr Armitage?”

  “That he reminded me of my father? Yes. Papa is a gamester, a drunkard and a womaniser.”

  “You do not love him?”

  “Papa? I own not a great deal although I daresay I should be quite cast down if something happened to him.”

  “Mr Armitage?”

  “Of course I do not! Whatever put such a notion into your head? I despise him and indeed I have instructed Clarkson to bar the door to him for his behaviour is abominable. He believes that his looks – which are already on the wane – will permit him to achieve precisely what he wants from my sex. He is mistaken.”

  “You do not …? His looks are still remarkable.”

  “I am indifferent to them.”

  “I thought …”

  “Grandmama did too, which leads me to suppose that I must have behaved shockingly the other night. I did not mean to; my temper got the better of me – as I am afraid it often does. You are both mistaken.”

  “I cannot tell you how relieved I am to hear it.”

  “Have you constituted yourself my guardian now? I suppose you think to save me from a miserable marriage like my mama’s by warning me against Mr Armitage. You presume too much, my lord. Pray, what business is it of yours if I choose to throw myself away on a degenerate?”

  “Unfortunately, none, but I wish it were otherwise.”

  Mary said nothing but her anger vanished to be replaced by a mood of tentative hope. Surely such a remark must imply that he had not quite given up the idea of becoming her official protector - or did he simply think of himself as an older brother?

  They had by this time reached the path down which they had been meandering when she told him of her parentage.

  “Have you nothing to say to that?” he asked, clearly put out by her sudden laying down of arms.

  “I do not know what to say,” she admitted, “for I am not certain what you mean. Do you feel that you have become, as it were, an honorary part of my family and, as a result, believe it to be your duty to advise me in the manner of an older brother but are – no doubt wisely - reluctant to do so in case I bite your head off again?”

  “Is that how you understood my remark?”

  “What else was I to make of it?”

  “In view of my ill-timed offer of marriage, once again inescapably connected with Mr Armitage – whom I wish at the devil - and your unequivocal refusal, it does not seem to me that much can be made of it other than that it was a bitter reflection on the situation between you and me. I spoke aloud when I should have held my peace.”

  Mary’s small flicker of hope died. She did not think it surprising that he should not wish to run the risk of being rejected again but she wondered whether, now that he knew her parentage – the daughter of a volatile and weak-minded woman and a degenerate man – he might be thanking Providence that she had refused. He had surely not waited until he was nearly forty only to tie himself to a female from such an exceedingly unreliable stable.

  Or was it, she wondered, because he had now a much better idea of her youthful foolishness and to what impropriety it had led; parents such as Lord and Lady Benstead were unlikely to sever all connexion with a daughter unless she had done something completely beyond the pale – which she knew she had – but which she had begun to hope he would overlook – or even find amusing. No, he could not do that but, if he cared for her, had he not implied that it was too long ago to refine upon – that she had paid her penalty to Society and, indeed, that his own youthful peccadilloes had been both more frequent and more damning?

  She was disappointed but not surprised. She had known all along, in spite of Lady Leland’s argument that her fall was so far in the past that it no longer mattered, that it would make it impossible for any man to consider marriage with her.

  And yet there were times when she surprised on his face a look which convinced her that he cared nothing for anything but her; that he would consider the world well lost in exchange and, at such moments, she found, to her astonishment, that she felt exactly the same. She had not expected to be affected in this way by a man; in spite of Marklye’s apparently deep-rooted fear that she found the handsome Mr Armitage attractive, she did not; her heart did not beat faster, her limbs did not tremble and her brain did not dissolve when he was near; she had no wish whatsoever to feel his arms around her or his lips on hers. Lord Marklye was another matter altogether and her tendency to flare up at many of his remarks was merely a form of defence or even of confusion. She snapped at him because she wanted him to overcome her resistance but was too proud to admit it.

  “Can we not be friends?” she asked weakly. She could not ask for more; he must ask for more and seemed reluctant to do so.

  “Of course; I am surprised you feel the need to ask.”

  She shrugged unhappily and said, abandoning hope in that direction, “How in the world did you persuade my mother to meet me?”

  “I shall not disclose that; it is between her and me, but it was not difficult; indeed, she almost jumped at the chance to be reconciled.”

  “With her mother I am sure, but with me?”

  “Yes; with you too. You were her lost daughter and now you are found.”

  “She had too many daughters,” Mary observed with some bitterness. “I had always the feeling during my childhood that she would have been thankful to be rid of several of us.”

  He smiled. “She may have felt that from time to time; nevertheless, I believe she loved – and still loves – each one of you. In the carriage on the way here she could hardly sit still for impatience. She asked me several times how you looked and what kind of a person you had turned out to be. It was very affecting to see the way you fell into each other’s arms. I believe she felt she must cast you off to save your sisters from the ignominy that would be bound to attach to your family after your rash action.”

  “Yes, I am certain she did although, now that they are all married, I had hoped that she might soften towards me.”

  “Very likely she would have done eventually; your grandmother’s illness and my intervention simply brought it forward. But I should not be surprised to learn that she was afraid of what she might feel when faced with the child she had felt forced to jettison in order to save the others.”

  Chapter 34

  Lady Benstead returned to Marklye in a very different mood to that in which she had set out. Smiles now breaking out with the same frequency with which tears had threatened before her visit to the Dower House, she declared to Mrs Porter, who was drinking lemonade on the terrace with her daughter, that his lordship had insisted upon her remaining for a few more days.

  “All’s well that ends well,” she announced, sitting down with something resembling a bounce. “I came here, as you know, as a result of the news that my mama was excessively ill. I am happy to tell you, having now seen her myself, that she is vastly improved, so much so that she has every intention of attending his lordship’s party.”

  “That is excellent indeed,” Mrs Porter agreed pleasantly, wondering what was coming next. After all, the truth was that, although Lady Benstead had indeed come to Kent on account of her mother’s illness, she had come to Marklye’s house on account of her mother’s refusal to allow her to enter the Dower House.

  “I believe you met my mama the very evening she was taken ill,” Lady Benstead pursued.

  Mrs Porter began to suspect that Lady Benstead’s opening remark had merely been the introduction to the intelligence that she actually wished to impart. Unfortunately, Mrs Porter’s
knowledge of her ladyship’s temperament, admittedly scanty, made her doubt that it would be possible to divert her from this intention.

  “Yes; a charming lady,” she admitted warily.

  “And you met her companion as well?”

  “We did,” Mrs Porter conceded, changing her response slightly. Having been subjected to repeated and prolonged diatribes on the subject of the deplorable character of the companion ever since Lady Benstead had arrived, her mood at the time as dejected as it was now elated, Mrs Porter hoped that the culmination of her ladyship’s communication would not be too protracted.

  “She is my daughter!”

  This announcement, although not greeted with perhaps quite the response for which Lady Benstead had been hoping, nevertheless produced a definite increase in interest.

  Mrs Porter was shocked, indeed horrified, by this disclosure but, not given to emotional outbursts either on her own or others’ behalf and rendered uncomfortable as soon as one threatened to take place, she murmured ambiguously, “Only fancy!” for she was uncertain whether the identity of the companion was the climax or whether this was merely the precursor to it. Had Lady Benstead known all along whom her mother’s companion was or had she suddenly, upon at last being permitted to enter the house, found a previously lost daughter? As the story became more complicated and the connexions between the characters more intimately entwined, the difficulty for the listener was how to receive such news without making a response that would later turn out to be inappropriate.

  Susan, who had, for altogether different reasons, briefly wished the companion at the devil, was astounded by this revelation and exclaimed with what, judging from Lady Benstead’s expression, was the correct degree of astonishment, “Goodness! So she is Lady Leland’s granddaughter. She did not tell us that when she announced …”

  She came to an abrupt halt, realising belatedly that the companion-granddaughter’s elevation to heiress – thus supplanting the daughter - very likely explained not only the hostility Lady Benstead had met with at the Dower House but also a good deal of the expressed resentment that those at Marklye Hall had been compelled to listen to, almost without interruption, for the past few days.

  “Yes,” Lady Benstead said with meaning – although what meaning? It was still difficult for either of her hearers to be certain whether her ladyship was satisfied at last as to the reasons (unmaternal and unfilial) for her having been obliged to take refuge at Marklye Hall or whether they were expected to rejoice at the unmasking of a daughter. Judging by the smiles and the satisfaction, which hinted more at joy than despondency, they supposed it to be the latter.

  “And here is the best of all,” Lady Benstead’s gratification appeared at last to reach its zenith. “We are all reconciled: I have my daughter back - and my mama!”

  “Yes, that is good news indeed. Is she your only daughter?” Mrs Porter asked, unable to express unalloyed pleasure in this restitution and seeking to expand the subject to cover her lack of enthusiasm.

  “Oh no; I have seven.”

  “Seven!” Mrs Porter repeated faintly, imagining, perhaps, being obliged to deal with six more versions of her own child.

  “Are they all so beautiful?” Susan asked and received a dazzling smile in return.

  “Yes, or rather, they are all excessively pretty, although I have always thought the two eldest were the most remarkable. Miranda is the second. I am told they take after me,” Lady Benstead could not resist adding with a sort of preening vanity, which evidently irritated Mrs Porter for she said disapprovingly, “In looks?”

  “Oh, yes – and of course I take after my mama, who was accounted a great Beauty when she was young.”

  It was difficult for her listeners to know quite how to respond to this catalogue of Beauties; certainly they could all agree that the companion, who appeared not to be called Mary Best but Miranda Benstead, was indeed much blessed in this regard; Lady Benstead herself retained a high degree of pulchritude, particularly when she was happy, but there was little comeliness remaining to Lady Leland save for a finely sculpted set of bones and the confident manner of a woman who has once been much admired.

  Mrs Porter, who had sought to imply that, the trivial nature of beauty apart, it was to be hoped that none of the daughters had inherited much else from their mama, took refuge in silence, possibly intended to shame Lady Benstead but just as likely due to her natural ineptitude in dealing with matters so replete with difficult emotions.

  In this she was destined to disappointment; Lady Benstead, although excessively sensitive to overt criticism, was too taken up with herself and her newly rediscovered daughter, to notice subtle barbs. More importantly, she was a woman who had never judged other women by any criteria other than their looks; whatever faults her children possessed paled into insignificance beside the primacy of appearance.

  Later that afternoon, abandoning her mother to Lady Benstead, who had embarked on a long and tangled history of the marriages of seven of her daughters – Mary or Miranda being the only one still unwed -, Susan went for her accustomed walk to the wood where she found Signor Pontielli in the usual place.

  He rose at once and enfolded her in his arms. During a pause in his effusive and prolonged greeting, she revealed that her mother had received a letter from her father that morning, promising that he would rejoin them within a couple of days.

  “That is excellent news,” Signor Pontielli said, although he did not sound particularly pleased. “I know how much you have missed him. Did he say exactly when you might expect him?”

  “No; he is always excessively careful not to make promises which he may not be able to keep. It would be wonderful if he manages to get here in time for the dinner party.”

  “Do you think that likely?” he asked, clearly dismayed.

  “It is impossible to predict,” Susan said soothingly. “Very likely he will arrive afterwards.”

  “It is very sudden,” Signor Pontielli complained. “I have already arranged for the travelling chaise to be waiting for us at midnight; if your papa arrives late he may wonder what the coach is doing there.”

  “Oh, he will not turn up in the middle of the night – he would consider that excessively ill-mannered. What I meant was that I daresay it will be the next day.”

  “I see.” Signor Pontielli resumed kissing her so that when he murmured, his lips against the beating pulse in the hollow of her neck, “Are you still prepared to leave then even if you think he may arrive the next day?” he received the answer he sought.

  “Yes; it is better so; I own I would find it difficult to leave when he is here; somehow breaking his trust does not seem quite so bad when I have not seen him for a few days.”

  “Does it seem so very bad to you? I would not have you come away if you have the least doubt.”

  The truth was that Susan had grave doubts about running away at all; she knew quite well how wrong it would be and, while she feared her mother’s anger, it was her father’s heartbreak which she dreaded so much that she could hardly bear to contemplate it. If he had only recently returned and the joy of being reunited with him was still fresh in her mind, she did not know how she would find the courage to creep away while he slept. Since the evening of the card party, when Sir Adrian had been so kind to her, she had become aware that her future would be a great deal safer – and a vast degree more comfortable – by his side than by the music master’s. She was certainly not in love with Sir Adrian and the sight – or even the thought – of his large, bony face and loose-limbed body did not cause her to tremble and melt as Signor Pontielli’s handsome person did.

  She was in point of fact perfectly content with the situation as it was: the clandestine meetings in the wood were delightful to her. Becoming Signora Pontielli and being obliged to live in a far less comfortable manner – and no doubt do her own cooking as well as washing both her and her husband’s clothes – did not appeal to her half so much as stolen meetings saturated with kisses and endearments
.

  But she could not admit to her doubts; if she could not bear the thought of her father’s heartbreak in the future, neither could she bear the disappointment Signor Pontielli would suffer in the present.

  “No, no, of course I have no doubts about being with you, Vincente; it is only that it seems so soon …” Her voice died away hopelessly until he stopped her mouth with kisses.

  “But I cannot wait for ever – we cannot wait for ever – in such uncertainty,” he argued. “The summer will come to an end and I shall be sent away. What shall we do then?”

  “I do not know,” she admitted, “but I daresay you will be asked to come to our house and continue to teach me at least until the spring when I am to be presented. I do not think my playing or singing has improved so much that my parents will consider that I do not need more instruction,” she added with a faint self-deprecating smile.

  “You do yourself less than justice,” he cried, seizing her hand and covering it with kisses.

  “Perhaps I should pretend I play even worse than in point of fact I do - if that were possible,” she murmured, stroking his beautiful cheek.

  “I think it would be best to elope,” he said, drawing her into his arms and recommencing the caresses which she found so dreadfully hard to resist. “And I think we should go immediately after the dinner party as we planned. It is an ideal time - no one will suspect anything and you will be able to slip away once everyone has gone to their chambers for the night. Will you fly with me tomorrow, dearest girl?”

  “Could we not delay it for a week or two?” she pleaded.

  “You do not love me as I love you,” he accused, his kisses becoming fiercer so that she began to believe that being obliged to peel potatoes would be a price well worth paying for such delight.

  “Should we not try speaking to Papa and only run away if he absolutely refuses to consider it?” she asked, returning to a more conventional method of arranging a marriage; if Papa would agree, she would be absurdly happy whereas, if he were forced to make the best of his daughter’s elopement, she felt she could never be sure that she had not broken his heart. She did not want to hurt – or indeed lose - either of the men she loved and wished, above all, that she could somehow have both.