The Aim Of A Lady

by Laura Matthews

  George contemplated the glass of wine in his hand and attempted to describe Alonna. “She is taller than you, and a few years younger, with blond hair and blue eyes. Rather pretty, I think, but she would never be the season’s beauty. She dances well and has the usual accomplishments.” He shrugged helplessly. “Lord, I don’t know how to describe her, Diana.”

  “Does she share your interests? Can you talk to her easily? Does she prefer life in the country or in town?”

  He looked thoughtful for a moment, fingering a gold fob absently. “I think the reason I have considered marrying her is because I can talk to her. She doesn’t want for sense. I have not visited her in Hampshire as yet, but she speaks of the country fondly. Yet she is at home in the city as well, though she is inexperienced in society. I think you will like her.”

  “I am sure I shall. But, George, you must remember what we decided long ago in the event of your marrying. I shall move into the Dower House so that you may have the Park to yourselves.” There was no trace of sadness or anger in her voice or countenance.

  “Hardly something we decided. You have always proclaimed that you would do so, and I have never seen the least need. Besides, everything is far from being settled.”

  “I see what it is,” she taunted. “You wish for me to make a scene so that you may reconsider your decision and martyr yourself to your sister!”

  His brown eyes lit with appreciative mockery. “What it is, Diana, is that I fear I am too old to marry such a child. She is very trusting and open, and I am not sure that I should not offer for someone a little more ... experienced. Alonna is not just out of the schoolroom you understand. She must be close on twenty. Lady Franston died a year ago and had been ill for some time before that, so Alonna has only recently been brought to town.”

  “You are only five-and-thirty, George. Would you like for me to come to town with you to meet her?”

  “Heaven forbid! Though I had thought of it,” he said sheepishly, “and I had intended to leave for town with Ellis in a few days.” He frowned uncertainly. “I do not like to leave him here alone with you, Diana, but I have begun to feel rather ... anxious to speak with Alonna.”

  “Are there others paying court to her?” she asked curiously.

  “Yes, and I do not like to leave her in doubt of my intentions any longer than is strictly necessary.”

  “Lord Alma will not like it, but I fear you must go. I shall keep him entertained until he’s ready to depart.” She rose to leave him and placed a hand affectionately on his arm. “I wish you well, George.”

  “Thank you. I would stay a few days, but I had a letter today from Cranmer ... well, I shall speak with Ellis.”

  * * * *

  Lord Alma was aghast. “You do not intend to leave me here with your sister? No, that’s too much, George. Who will play propriety for her? Or do you intend to trap me into marrying her?” he asked bitterly, a hand creeping gingerly toward his aching bottom.

  George gave a snort of laughter. “I assure you, Ellis, that my sister does not concern herself overmuch with such matters as propriety, but I will have Mrs. Lewis from the village come in to stay if it will calm your overwrought nerves. I really must go to town.” His troubled frown was not ignored by his friend.

  “Oh, never mind me. I’m wallowing in self-pity just now because you have not as yet had my dinner sent up,” Alma reminded him with a grin.

  George lifted a brow in query. “Someone must have come and found you asleep.” He rang and gave instructions for his friend’s meal. “I know it is rude of me to desert you, and I had no intention of doing so, but Cranmer’s letter indicated that Lord Vallert is buzzing about Alonna rather seriously, and I should kick myself if I missed my chance.”

  “There will be other ladies,” Alma retorted philosophically.

  George shook his head slowly. “If so, I wonder that I have met no one in the last fifteen years that I considered marrying.”

  “Oh, go to London, you gudgeon,” Alma said gruffly. “I shall manage very well here, I have no doubt. How long do you suppose it will be before I can ride?”

  “Several weeks, I should think, before it’s comfortable. Diana offered to teach you to shoot a bow and arrow.”

  “Has she no tact, either?” asked his exasperated friend.

  “Enough, I should think. She fences, too.”

  Alma regarded him perplexedly. “Do you fence with her?”

  “Yes, but not very often. She’s a beginner and would not provide much sport for you, but she’s eager to develop the skill.”

  “George, I thought you told me she was not unfeminine.”

  George smiled benignly down at him. “When you see her in her fencing outfit ... well, forget it. Perhaps it is well that you will not.” The invalid’s meal arrived then, and there was some debate as to the easiest manner in which for him to eat it. Chagrined, he eventually did so while standing up.

  George rang for a deck of cards and the two men played an awkward game of piquet after Alma finished his meal. The wounded man lay on his stomach on his bed, wrong way about, and the cards were placed on the counterpane. The inconvenience of his posture began to tell on Alma’s nerves after a while and he pushed the cards away from him with annoyance.

  “I think I had best return to Stillings tomorrow, George.”

  “I understand how you feel, old man,” his friend agreed sympathetically, “but it really cannot be done— even in a carriage. Diana will keep you amused. And if you think of her as a younger brother you will not feel so blue-devilled. It was a mistake to bring you here,” he sighed, “and I would not have done so, except that when it actually came to my considering marriage I thought perhaps Diana would be comfortably settled first. But she has had sufficient opportunities and I should have left well enough alone. She tells me she intends to move into the Dower House if I marry, and it does not appear to trouble her in the least. In fact, she seemed genuinely pleased that I had found someone I wanted to marry. You have no pressing engagements, have you?”

  “No, nothing of moment.” Alma drew his hand through his black hair absently. His black brows above intensely blue eyes were expressive of his emotions, and they were now drawn up in self-mockery. He ran a hand gently over his aching wound. “I am in some pain, George.”

  “Lord, why did you not say so?” George rose abruptly and gathered the cards together. “I shall have Diana bring you some laudanum right away.”

  “Has my man arrived with my clothing?”

  “Yes, while you were asleep. Shall I send him to you?”

  “Please. And do not bother your sister—my man can take care of me.”

  “As you wish. I shall speak with you before I leave in the morning. I regret the inconvenience to you, Ellis.”

  “I appreciate your understatement, Savile. I shall remember in future to accept any invitations to your home with great caution.” His sardonic tone did not obscure the fact that his face was pinched with pain, and his host hastened to send for his valet.

  When Rodgers arrived, George bid his friend sleep well and slipped out the door into the candle-lit hall. He felt restless and in need of company, so he asked where his sister might be found and joined her in the music room. She was seated at the harpsichord playing a haunting tune of the countryside. George seated himself comfortably on the upholstered settee and closed his eyes until she had finished the piece.

  “Is something the matter, George?” Diana asked with concern.

  “I cannot shake the feeling ... no, nothing is wrong. Ellis is having some pain but his man has gone to him. I am leaving in the morning, Diana. I told Ellis I would have Mrs. Lewis come in while he is here for the sake of appearance. You will not mind?”

  “No, she’s a dear soul. Do not delay yourself; I will go to her in the morning. Come, sing with me a while.”

  Diana started to finger a more cheerful song and her brother joined his voice with hers. The strains of their music reached Alma in his bedchambe
r as he drifted into a restless sleep.

  Chapter Three

  “No, Papa, there can have been no mistake on Lord Vallert’s part,” Alonna Sanfield said angrily. Her blazing eyes lifted from the announcement in the Herald. “I realize he had your permission to pay his addresses to me, but I did not accept him. It is beyond anything for him to have sent an announcement to the Herald. You will have to have him retract it.”

  “Now, now, my dear. Let’s not be hasty. He’s a good young fellow—nice manners, pleasant spoken, plenty of the ready,” he exhorted bluffly.

  “I had thought him pleasant enough myself, Papa, until this!” Alonna jumped up from her chair in the breakfast parlor and paced restlessly about the room. “I will not be forced into marrying him just because he has been so rash as to place the announcement. How dare he!”

  “You are not getting any younger, Alonna. It is time you were married. You could not do better than Vallert, I assure you,” her red-faced parent blustered. “So he was a trifle premature; it only shows how eager he is.”

  “It shows how unprincipled he is,” his daughter retorted coldly. “I have not been in town so long as to wear my welcome thin as an unmarried lady in society. My sisters each had sufficient time given them to make a match of their choice, and I hope that you do not intend to rush me into marriage now that Mama is dead.”

  Her father had the grace to flush, but a sly gleam entered his eye as he said, “I take it you are waiting for some other young man to come up to scratch, miss.”

  Alonna did not allow him to see that he had discomfited her. “I will not marry Lord Vallert after this fiasco, Papa, so you must have him retract the announcement of our engagement.” She walked from the room with all the dignity she possessed.

  It would destroy her, she thought. How could he do such a thing? Lord Vallert had recently essayed a whirlwind courtship of her; and she had tried desperately, in her inexperience, to keep him at arm’s length. When he had called to offer for her he had been elegantly dressed and self-assured; her refusal had left him nonplussed. The handsome, aristocratic face had become blank and then flushed. “You cannot understand, Miss Sanfield. I wish for you to be my wife.”

  Alonna had not meant to laugh, and could have throttled herself for having done so, but he had looked too ridiculous. “I assure you I do understand, Lord Vallert, and I am honored by your offer. Though our acquaintance has not been of long duration, I do not believe we would suit.”

  His eyes had grown furious at her laugh, which he considered the ultimate in insults. “We should become better acquainted during our engagement,” he said stiffly.

  “That is putting the cart before the horse,” she answered sensibly, with an attempt at a conciliating smile.

  “Your father has given his permission.”

  “That is hardly enough to ensure a successful marriage,” Alonna said quietly. “In this case it means merely that he would not forbid me to marry you, not that I must. Please understand, Lord Vallert, that I hold you in esteem and do not wish to offend you, but I cannot marry you.”

  “We shall see,” he had muttered as he bowed and left the room.

  Alonna had not expected any repercussions from this proposal. It had taken place two days previously and she had not seen Lord Vallert in the meantime. His placement of the announcement had been done in a fit of pique, she imagined, but it would nonetheless cause her great embarrassment. An immediate retraction was obligatory, and even that would cause a great deal of talk in London. When a footman came to announce callers, she had them denied. The headache which she used as an excuse was fast becoming a reality.

  There had been no hesitation in refusing Lord Vallert. It was not that she really supposed that she had made any impression on George Savile, though that was her fondest wish. He was much older than she, some fifteen years, but she had enjoyed his company so much that she found Lord Vallert and his contemporaries dull in comparison. Nevertheless, she knew she must appear inexperienced and unsophisticated to Savile, who had spent the greater part of his adult years in London and at the country seats of his numerous aristocratic friends. She had not seen him so very many times, at that, though she treasured each encounter and replayed it in her mind often enough. Now what would he think of her when her engagement was announced one day and withdrawn the next.

  * * * *

  George took leave of his sister and friend in the morning, which was the day the announcement of Alonna’s betrothal appeared in London. He continued to feel the sense of urgency which had been generated by his friend’s letter and covered the sixty miles to the capital in less than seven hours.

  Behind him he left a sister determined to entertain his friend to the best of her ability, since she still suffered a certain amount of guilt in relation to the incident, and a friend determined to avoid any further contact with his sister, since she had provided him with sufficient pain and embarrassment to last his dignified self a lifetime. It was not a propitious beginning.

  When Alma responded to a light tap on his door Diana stood in the doorway and bid him good morning. “I hope you are not still in pain, my lord,” she said when she met his unwelcoming scowl. “I can send for Mr. Thatcher if you wish.”

  “That will not be necessary, as my man assures me the wound is healing well enough,” he replied stiffly.

  “I’m glad to hear it. Do you plan to stay in bed today?” she asked curiously.

  “I had not decided as yet.”

  “If you should like to get up now, I shall wait for you and you can walk with me to Linton to speak with Mrs. Lewis. George would like her to stay while you are here,” she explained, a mischievous smile playing about her lips. “Are you so dangerous?”

  He choked quietly where he lay on his stomach in the fourposter. “Not in the least, Miss Savile, and especially when I am wounded.”

  “Then come. It will do you more good to walk with me than to lie about your bed. If you are tired later, I will read to you.”

  Alma cast her a malignant glance and said stonily, “I am quite able to read, Miss Savile.”

  “Excellent, Lord Alma. I’ll send your man to help you and will wait for you in the music room.” Before he had time to protest she softly closed the door.

  He entered the music room nearly a half hour later to hear her play the concluding notes of a song which she hummed in accompaniment of herself. She looked up with a smile and he hesitantly returned it. “It does feel better to be up,” he admitted grudgingly. “I fell asleep while you and George were singing last night.”

  “How flattering! Perhaps you will sing with me this evening.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Lord Alma,” Diana said, as she rose from her seat at the harpsichord and came around to him, “was George wrong when he told me you would not hold a grudge for the accident?”

  “No, of course not. It was as much my fault as yours.”

  “Then you are still upset that I took out the arrow,” she surmised. “You should not be. We all find ourselves in undignified positions at times and it is better to laugh at them than to suffer from them. I assure you, it did not damage your consequence in my eyes or George’s, so you must be the only one to regard it so.” She extended her hand to him, her eyes smiling kindly.

  Alma gave a rueful grin and shook her hand. “As you say, Miss Savile. Let us forget it.”

  Diana nodded. “I think you will like Linton. The River Granta flows by and then through the Park, and there are the most fascinating old buildings—a timbered inn, a gabled house with raised plaster work and thatched cottages. The Guildhall and the church are both worthy, too.” She continued to enlighten him concerning local history as they passed into the park and through an ancient clapper stile with bars that fell at a touch to let them pass over and then slipped back again. Diana led him first to the thatched cottage where Mrs. Lewis lived and disappeared inside when he chose to walk about alone.

  Mrs. Lewis, the widow of a naval officer, welcomed
the young woman warmly and offered her a cup of tea. The widow had resided in Linton for most all the years of Diana’s life and was a fixture in the village. She was short and round, with apple-bright cheeks only slightly wrinkled by age.

  “Such a lovely day, Miss Diana, and I hear your brother has returned to the Park,” she chirped happily as she prepared the tea for them.

  “Been and gone,” Diana laughed. “He hastened to London this morning.”

  “But he had only just arrived! I know you were looking forward to seeing him.”

  “Yes, but his business was urgent. He had invited a friend to stay and I have come to ask if you will join me at the Park for a few weeks, Mrs. Lewis. Lord Alma has been injured and George thought it would be best if you could come to stay, since his lordship cannot very well leave.”

  “Is that he?” Mrs. Lewis asked as she watched a stranger stroll down the street. “He does not appear to be ill.”

  “No, he is feeling well enough, but the injury necessitates his remaining. He cannot ride or drive for a while.”

  “I see,” her companion said, though she obviously did not. “Well, Miss Diana, there is nothing I would enjoy more than to stay with you. When shall I come?”

  “I will send the carriage for you and your luggage after luncheon, if you can be ready by then.”

  The two women sat for a while and drank their tea, discussing the village and its recent happenings, before Diana excused herself to join Alma. “We are saved,” she grinned at him. “Mrs. Lewis can come.”

  “I am grateful,” he sighed comically. As he walked along beside her, a bit of a limp appeared when he tired, though he was enjoying the warm sunshine.

  “Let me show you the church,” she offered when she noted his limp. It was frustrating that he could not sit down to rest hut he could lean against the arches resting on their Norman pillars. He hesitated to do so, determined not to show his weakness, but followed her lead when she rested against the cold stone. She pointed out the brass portrait of Nicholas Paris (“when we were children we called him Nick”) done in 1427 in armor with a lion and a sword. There was also the curious last-century family group in marble depicting a man holding his wife’s hand over a skull. The wife leaned on an hourglass, with a daughter in black and white above, and below there were eleven children kneeling in rows, five of them plump figures in nightdress and six in ghostly drapes. “I find that most unsettling,” she admitted, her finger pointed to the latter.