She nodded, dropped a light kiss on his brow, and said: “Indeed she is! Now, in a little while you will see Lucilla for yourself: Maria is going to go with her, and Ninian, to the theatre this evening, which will leave us to enjoy a comfortable cose.”
He blinked at her. “What, is the young man here too?”
“Yes, he is putting up at the Pelican, but he will be here to dine with us.”
“I don’t understand any of it!” he complained.
“No, it’s the most absurd situation,” she agreed mischievously. “And the cream of the jest is that now no one is trying to prevail upon them to become engaged they are going on together perfectly harmoniously—except, of course, for a few breezes! Schoolroom stuff!”
She went away then, to change her walking habit for an evening gown, and when she returned she brought Lucilla with her. Lucilla was looking very pretty and very youthful, and when she curtsied, and said how-do-you-do, with her enchantingly shy smile, Sir Geoffrey’s disapproving expression relaxed a little, and by the time Ninian presented himself he was regarding Lucilla indulgently, and drawing her out in a paternal way to talk to him. His sister was not surprised, for being himself a great stickler he was always predisposed to favour girls whose manners showed them to be well-taught and well-bred. He was at first a trifle stiff with Ninian, but Ninian’s manners were very good too, so that by the time they rose from the dinner-table Sir Geoffrey had forgiven him for such signs of incipient dandyism as his uncomfortably high shirt-points, and his not entirely felicitous attempt to arrange his neckcloth in the style known as the Waterfall, and had decided that there was no harm in the boy: no doubt he would outgrow his desire to ape the dandy-set; and the deference he showed to his elders showed that he too had been strictly reared. Sir Geoffrey noted, with approval, that both he and Lucilla treated Annis with affectionate respect; but when the theatre-party had left the house, Annis saw that he was frowning. After waiting for a few moments, she said: “Well, Geoffrey? Is she the sort of hurly-burly girl you expected?”
He did not answer immediately, and when he did speak it was to say, with a hard look at her from under his lowered brows: “I wish you may not have got yourself into a scrape, Annis!”
“Why, how should I?” she asked, surprised.
“Good God, have you windmills in your head? That child you’ve chosen to befriend is no orphan lifted out of the gutter, but a member of a distinguished family, heiress to what I judge to be, from what she told me, a considerable fortune, and brought up by an aunt who may be as foolish as you say she is but who has lavished every care, attention, and luxury on her! What, I ask you, must be her sentiments upon this occasion? To all intents and purposes you have kidnapped the girl!”
“Oh, gammon, Geoffrey! I did no such thing!”
“Try if you can to persuade the Carletons to believe that!” he said grimly. “They can hardly blame you for having taken her up into your carriage when you found her stranded on the road, but they must blame you—as I do!—for not having restored her to her aunt when you discovered what were the rights of the case! You had not even the excuse of believing that she had been ill-treated!”
She was shaken, but made a push to defend herself. “Oh, no, but when she told me of the sort of pressure Mrs Amber was bringing to bear on her—and not only Mrs Amber but the Iverleys too!—I realized, which I daresay you don’t, that she felt herself to be caught in a trap, and I pitied her from the bottom of my heart! If Ninian had had enough resolution to have told his father that he had no wish to marry Lucilla the case might have been different, but it seems that no member of Iverley’s family dares thwart him, because they are all of them afraid that if he flies into a passion he will suffer a heart-attack, and very likely die of it. A contemptible form of tyranny, isn’t it? But I fancy Ninian has begun to recognize it as such, for when he returned to Chartley, having left Lucilla in my charge, he found the whole house in an uproar, not one of his loving family, as it appears, having made the smallest attempt either to conceal the fact of Lucilla’s flight from Lord Iverley, or to point out to him that since Ninian was with her it was extremely unlikely that she had run into any kind of danger. I collect that he had put himself into a rare passion, but so far from its having prostrated him he was in high force, and rattled Ninian off in fine style, without doing himself the least harm. So Ninian lost his temper, packed up his gear, and came back to Bath—to protect Lucilla from the machinations of ‘a complete stranger’! And I can’t say I blame him! Poor boy! He had had the very deuce of a time with Lucilla, and to find himself the target for recriminations and abuse was rather too much for him. He had done his best to persuade her to go back with him to Chartley, but, short of taking her back by main force, there was no way of doing it. And I don’t think he could have done that, for she would certainly have fought him tooth and nail, and nothing, you know, could revolt him more than the sort of public scene that would have created!”
“But this becomes even worse than I had supposed!” exclaimed Sir Geoffrey, deeply shocked. “Not content with having embroiled yourself with the Carletons you have created a breach between young Elmore and his parents! It was wrong of you, Annis, very wrong! I might have guessed you would do something freakish if I permitted you to leave home! Elmore, too! I had not thought it possible that such a well-mannered lad could be guilty of the impropriety of quarrelling with his father!”
“My dear Geoffrey, you’re quite out!” she replied, rather amused. “I haven’t embroiled myself with anyone, and I had nothing to do with Ninian’s quarrel with Lord Iverley. Indeed, I carefully refrained from advising him not to be quite so docile a son, though I was strongly inclined to do so! To own the truth, I was astonished when I discovered that the worm had turned at last, for although he is in many respects an excellent young man I did think him lacking in pluck. I shouldn’t wonder at it if this episode makes Iverley hold him in respect as well as affection. The best of it is that having accused Ninian of having ‘abandoned’ Lucilla to a complete stranger he can’t now rake him down for having come back to protect her. As for Mrs Amber, I wrote her a polite letter, explaining the circumstances of my meeting with Lucilla, and begging her to grant the child leave to stay with me for a few weeks. According to Ninian, she was enjoying a prolonged fit of spasms and hysterics, but although she has not yet done me the honour of replying to my letter she has signified consent by sending Lucilla’s trunks to Bath.”
He could not be satisfied, but continued to enumerate and to discuss all the evil consequences which might result from what he termed her rash action until, in desperation, she induced him to talk instead about his children, with particular reference to little Tom’s tendency to croup, and what were the best methods of dealing with it. Since he was a fond father, it was not difficult to divert his mind from matters of less importance to him, and he was still talking about his children when Lucilla and Miss Farlow came in. Lucilla was in raptures over the play she had seen. She thanked Annis over and over again for having given her such a splendid treat, and disclosed that it was the very first time she had visited a grown-up theatre. “For I don’t count the time Papa took me to Astley’s, because I was only six years old, and I can only just remember it. But this I shall never forget! Oh, and Mr Beckenham was there, and he came up to our box, and made the box-attendant bring us tea and lemonade in the interval, which I thought so very kind of him! What an excessively agreeable man he is, isn’t he?”
“Excessively,” said Miss Wychwood rather dryly. “Where, by the way, is Ninian?”
“Oh, when he had handed us into the carriage he said he would walk back to the Pelican! I fancy he had a headache, for he became stupidly mumpish, and didn’t seem to be enjoying the play nearly as much as I did. But perhaps he was affected by the heat in the theatre,” she added charitably.
“I’m sure it’s no wonder if he was,” said Miss Farlow. “I was quite affected by it myself, but a cup of tea soon revived me. Nothing so refreshing as
tea, is there? So very obliging of Mr Beckenham! Such a gentlemanly young man!”
Sir Geoffrey uttered a sound between a snort and a laugh, and as soon as he was alone with his sister solemnly warned her not to encourage Harry Beckenham to dangle after Lucilla. “Another of your here-and-thereians!” he said. “I don’t like the fellow, and never did. Very different from his brother!”
“I certainly shan’t encourage him to dangle after Lucilla,” she replied coolly. “But I shall be astonished if he isn’t the first of many to do so!”
“I wish to my heart you may not find yourself with the devil to pay over this business!”
“Oh, don’t make yourself uneasy, Geoffrey! I promise you I am well-able to take care of myself.”
“No female is able to take care of herself,” he said positively. “As for not making myself uneasy, I must point out to you that it is you who make me uneasy! But so it has always been! You had always a love of singularity, and how you expect to get a husband when you conduct yourself in such a headstrong, skitterwitted fashion I’m sure I don’t know!”
On this bitter speech he took himself off to bed. He was not alone with his sister again until the moment of his departure next morning, and then he contented himself with saying severely that he was far from easy about her, very far from easy. She smiled, and planted a farewell kiss on his cheek, stayed on her doorstep to see him mount the steps into his chaise, and then went back into the house, heaving a thankful sigh to be rid of him.
Her prophesy that Harry Beckenham would prove to be only the first of Lucilla’s admirers was soon seen to be correct. She took Lucilla to Mrs Stinchcombe’s party that evening, and had the satisfaction of seeing her protégée make a hit. She took Ninian too, knowing that no hostess would cavil at having a young and personable gentleman added to her guests. Both he and Lucilla enjoyed themselves very much, although he was at first a trifle on his dignity, feeling that such a juvenile party was rather beneath his touch. But superiority soon wore off, and before the evening was half over he was joining in all the ridiculous games with which the dancing was interspersed, and earning great applause for the skill he displayed when playing span-counters.
He accepted with obvious pleasure an invitation to join a riding-party to Farley Castle, suggested to him by the elder Miss Stinchcombe. The party was to be composed of some half-a-dozen young persons, and it was proposed that after they had inspected the ancient chapel there they should partake of a nuncheon, and ride back to Bath at their leisure. “It’s a place any visitor to Bath ought to visit, because of the chapel, which is very interesting on—on account of its relics of—of mortality and antiquity!” said Miss Stinchcombe knowledgeably.
The effect of this sudden display of erudition was spoilt by her close friend, Mr Marmaduke Hilperton, who very rudely accused her of having “got all that stuff” out of the local guide-book. Since Corisande was known to be far from bookish, this made everyone laugh, and emboldened Ninian to confess that he himself was not much of a dab at antiquities, but would dearly love to ride. He then drew Mr Hilperton aside, to ask him which of Bath’s livery stables was the best; but at this point Miss Wychwood, who had strolled over to the group, intervened, saying that she could mount him on her own hack. He coloured up to the roots of his hair, stammering: “Oh, thank you, ma’am! If you think I’m to be trusted not to lame your horse, or to bring him in with a sore back! I promise you I’ll take the greatest care of him! I’m excessively obliged to you! That is—won’t you be needing him yourself?”
“No, I have other fish to fry tomorrow, and if you are joining this expedition I may do so with a quiet mind,” she answered, smiling at him. “You will see that Lucilla doesn’t come to any harm, won’t you?”
“Yes, to be sure I will,” he responded promptly. “But there’s no need for you to be anxious about her, ma’am; she’s a capital little horsewoman, I promise you!”
When she saw the cavalcade off on the following morning, Miss Wychwood knew at once that she need have no qualms either on Lucilla’s behalf or the mare’s. Lucilla had a good seat, and light hands, and easily controlled the mare’s playful friskiness. It seemed too that there would be no want of solicitous escort for her, judging by the way Mr Hilperton and young Mr Forden jostled one another in the effort to be the first to throw her up into her saddle. Miss Wychwood watched them clatter off, all in the best of spirits, and obviously looking forward to a day of unrestricted pleasure—unless they regarded Seale, and Mrs Stinchcombe’s elderly groom, bringing up the rear of the procession, as restrictions, which, indeed, they would be if youthful high spirits prompted their charges to indulge in any dangerous feats of horsemanship. Mrs Stinchcombe had told Annis that Tuckenhay could be trusted to look after Corisande; and Annis knew, from her own youthful experience, that Seale was more than capable of dealing with Lucilla, if excitement should lead her to show off her proficiency in the saddle to her new friends.
She herself spent the morning first writing a long overdue letter to an old friend, and next with her housekeeper. She was inspecting some linen when Limbury came upstairs to inform her that a Mr Carleton had called, and was awaiting her in the drawing-room.
Chapter 5
Five minutes later, Miss Wychwood entered the drawing-room, having paused on the way to assure herself, by a swift, critical glance at her reflection in the long looking-glass in her bedchamber, that she was presenting just the right picture of herself to Lucilla’s uncle. She was satisfied with what she saw. Her gown of soft dove-gray silk, with its demi-train, and the little lace ruff round her throat, were exactly the thing, she decided, for a lady of consequence and mature age; but what she failed to perceive (for she never gave it a thought) was that her beauty was enhanced by the subdued colour of her gown. She considered gray to be a middle-aged colour, and if it had occurred to her that her luxuriant golden locks hardly belonged to a lady past her prime she would undoubtedly have hunted through her wardrobe for a suitable cap to wear over them. Not that a cap could have dimmed the glow in her eyes, but that did not occur to her either, because familiarity with her own beauty had bred contempt of it. She would have preferred to have been a brunette, and was inclined to think her golden loveliness a trifle flashy.
On entering the drawing-room, she paused for a moment on the threshold, surveying her visitor.
He was standing before the fireplace, a powerfully built man with dark hair, and a swarthy complexion. His brows were straight and rather thick, and under them a pair of hard gray eyes stared at Miss Wychwood, their expression one of mingled surprise and disapproval. To her wrath, he raised his quizzing-glass, as though to appraise her more precisely.
Her own brows lifted; she moved forward, saying with chilling hauteur: “Mr Carleton, I believe?”
He nodded, letting his glass fall, and replied curtly: “Yes. Are you Miss Wychwood?”
She inclined her head, in a manner calculated to abash him.
“Good God!” he said.
It was so unexpected that it surprised an involuntary laugh out of her. She suppressed it quickly, and made another attempt to put him out of countenance, by extending her hand and saying, in a quelling tone: “How do you do? You wish to see your niece, of course. I am sorry that she is not at home this morning.”
“No, I don’t wish to see her, though I daresay I shall be obliged to,” he replied, briefly shaking her hand. “I came to see you, Miss Wychwood—if you are Miss Wychwood?”
She looked amused at this. “Certainly I am Miss Wychwood. You must forgive me if I ask you why you should doubt it?”
And if that doesn’t make you apologize for your incivility, nothing will! she thought, waiting expectantly.
“Because you’re by far too young, of course!” he replied, disappointing her. “I came here in the expectation of meeting an elderly woman—or, at least, one of reasonable age!”
“Let me assure you, sir, that although I don’t think myself elderly I am of very reasonable age!”
“Nonsense!” he said. “You’re a mere child!”
“No doubt I should be grateful for the compliment—however inelegantly expressed!”
“I wasn’t complimenting you.”
“Ah, no! how stupid of me! I recall, now that you have put me so forcibly in mind of it, that my brother told me that you are famed for your incivility!”
“Did he? Who is your brother?”
“Sir Geoffrey Wychwood,” she answered stiffly.
He frowned over this, in an effort of memory. After a few minutes, he said: “Oh yes! I fancy I’ve met him. Has estates in Wiltshire, hasn’t he? Does he own this house as well?”
“No, I own it! Though what concern that is of yours—”
“Do you mean you live here alone?” he interrupted. “If your brother is the man I think he is, I shouldn’t have thought he would have permitted it!”
“No doubt he would not had I been ‘a mere child’,” she retorted. “But it so happens that I have been my own mistress for many years!”
The flash of a sardonic smile vanquished the frown in his eyes. “Oh, that’s doing it much too brown!” he objected. “Many years, ma’am? Five, at the most!”
“You are mistaken, Mr Carleton! I am nine-and-twenty years of age!”
He put up his glass again, and looked her over critically before saying: “Yes, obviously I was mistaken, for which your youthful appearance is to blame. Your countenance belongs to a girl, but your assured manner has nothing to do with infantry. You will allow me to say, however, that being nine-and-twenty years old doesn’t render you a fit guardian for my niece.”
“Again you are mistaken, Mr Carleton! I am neither Lucilla’s guardian, nor have I the least ambition to supplant Mrs Amber in that post. I conclude, from your remarks, that you have come here from Chartley Place, where, I don’t doubt, you have heard—”
“Well, that, Miss Wychwood, is where you are mistaken! What the devil should take me to Chartley Place? I’ve come from London—and damnably inconvenient it was!” His penetrating gaze searched her face; he said: “Oh! Are we at dagger-drawing? What have I said to wind you up?”
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