Death at Gallows Green
Page 28
“Worse than that,” Bradford said wryly. He opened a drawer, took out a leather cigar case, and carried it to Charles. “She does not approve of my choice of wives.”
“I have my pipe, thanks,” Charles said absently, shaking his head to the cigars. “She does not approve of Miss Ardleigh?”
“Unfortunately, no.” Bradford took a cigar, lit it, and sat down across from Charles. “It appears that the lady is too modern for Mama—and a little too common.”
Charles gave an odd chuckle. “Too common, eh? Your mother has interesting standards.”
Bradford pulled on his cigar. “It’s very annoying,” he said. The conversation with Mama had taken place several days ago, but he was still stinging from its effect. “It seemed to me the perfect answer to a vexing question. A lady of means, whose property adjoins that of the manor, whose person is reasonably attractive, and whose wit—” He waved his cigar. “You understand.”
“I do, indeed,” Charles said soberly. “Property, proximity, personableness. It would seem that your mother would applaud your choice.”
Bradford sighed. “So it would. However, she does not. She has forbidden it.”
“Owing to—?”
Bradford stood and paced restlessly to the window, which gave onto the green slope of the west lawn. Eleanor and Patsy, his younger sisters, just returned from Paris, were playing a savage game of croquet.
“Owing to Mama’s assessment of the lady’s costume and character,” he said, feeling petulant. “She wears bloomers and rides a bicycle. And there was apparently some sort of rumour about her and the constable.” He went back to the chair and dropped into it, stretching out his legs.
Charles did not respond immediately. When he did, his voice was serious. “And do you intend to respect Lady Henrietta’s interdiction?”
Bradford laid his head back against the chair and frowned at the ceiling. “Respect it? Of course I will respect it. I could not marry someone of whom Mama and Papa did not approve. Mama would make life impossible for us both, and Papa would very likely cut off my allowance.”
“And what of your heart?” Charles’s question was mild.
“My heart?” Bradford gave a short laugh that expressed only a small part of the bitterness he felt. “Is any man in my station allowed to have a heart? If I am to marry, it will be someone like Hermione Poulett or Madeleine Dyke, neither of whom has the wit of a windlestraw.” He pulled on his cigar and blew out a puff of blue smoke. “If I marry, which I doubt,” he added, staring up into the cloud. “The idea of it puts me in a cursed funk. I cannot abide a witless woman.”
Charles stood. “I take it, then, that you did not call on Miss Ardleigh, as you planned?”
Bradford shook his head gloomily, reflecting that he had acted a cad. “Sent her a note saying I’d been called to London. Coward’s way, of course.” He sighed. ”But what could I do?”
“What indeed?” Charles said.
Bradford stirred uncomfortably. “My most immediate problem is how to repay the money you loaned me.”
“Not to worry,” Charles said. He seemed to study the fire. “I presume that you would not take it amiss if I should call on Miss Ardleigh?”
Bradford stared. “You?” He caught cigar smoke in his windpipe and began to cough. “You?”
Charles turned, half-smiling. “Is it strange that I, too, should find Miss Ardleigh attractive?”
Bradford felt suddenly and uneasily envious. “Strange?” He coughed again. “Not strange, old chap. Utterly mystifying.” He went to the sideboard, unstoppered the whiskey decanter, and poured two glasses. “I had given you up for a bachelor—and now to find that you fancy the very lady to whom I had yielded my heart!”
Charles’s eyes were merry. “If you will pardon me, Marsden, your heart has the constancy of a crocodile—and about as much tenderness. And I have remained a bachelor only until I found a woman worthy of my interest.”
Bradford turned, glasses in hand. “Worthy of your interest! Charlie, my dear fellow! She’s a peach, as the Americans say. A good woman. A fine woman. The two of you should be damned happy together. If she’ll have you, that is.” He handed one of the glasses to Charles. “But what of the constable? Are you not concerned about their rumoured connexion?”
“The constable is to marry the widow of the murdered sergeant,” Charles said.
“So the way is clear for you.” Bradford lifted his glass. “But she still may not have you. She’s a deuced independent woman. Worst I’ve ever met. And too clever by half. But I’ll drink to your success, Charlie, my boy.”
“Thank you,” Charles said, and they drank.
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A Note About Beatrix Potter
The much-beloved illustrator and author of many delightful children’s stories, Beatrix Potter lived a suffocating early life, much as she describes it in Death at Gallows Green. Twentynine at the time this fiction takes place, she was still a creature of her Victorian parents and increasingly aware of her isolation. “I wonder why I never seem to know people,” she wrote sadly in her journal. “It makes one wonder whether one is presentable.” She spent her time avidly pursuing interests in photography, drawing, and mycology, surrounding herself with the animals she loved.
But by the late 1890s, Beatrix began to pursue the publication of The Tale of Peter Rabbit, written for the child of her former nursemaid in 1892. After the little book was rejected by six publishers, she decided to publish it herself, selling copies to friends and relatives at one-and-twopence a copy. In 1902, Frederick Warne & Co. offered to publish it, and any other stories she might write. During the next ten years, Beatrix wrote and drew, became engaged to her publisher (who tragically died), and began to spend more time in the Lake District near Sawrey. She eventually used her writing income to buy a little farm there, and finally, at the age of 47, married William Heelis, a local solicitor. For the thirty years of their marriage, she managed their farm, raised sheep, and lived out the fantasies of her early life. But she didn’t write any more stories.
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DEATH AT GALLOWS GREEN
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DEATH AT ROTTINGDEAN
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DEATH AT EPSOM DOWNS
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WORK OF HER OWN
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