‘No, dear Lord Lanford,’ May corrected him. ‘It will not be a very special occasion. It will be the occasion of the year, if not of the decade.’
Then with one last smile which Harry was all too aware any man would remember until his dying day, May turned on her heel and went into the ballroom to dance her promised dance with Lord Rawley of Ewell.
* * *
Between the three Danbys the subject was now hardly mentioned simply because they dared not believe their luck. To have got this far was achievement enough, and bearing in mind those who opposed them most people would have been content with leading Lord Lanford and his mother to this point. But not the Danbys. Herbert Forrester had chosen well, for the family whom he had selected was thoroughly resolute while at the same time fortunately blessed with both a sense of humour and imagination, qualities which they all found they had called on to the full during the short but intense campaign.
Fate had also smiled on the Forresters by sending them Lady Patrycia ffitch-Heyes as an accomplice since not only did she possess the necessary motivation to help in the mounting of the drama but she was also so well placed in Society that she could both advise the protagonists properly and help in the formulation of each subsequent move. The idea of the special party to mark the announcement of Lanford’s betrothal had in fact been hers, although she would have been the first to admit that ideas were one thing but the execution of them quite another, and that without May’s consummate natural skills as an actress they would never even have been able to get as far as they had.
Now all they could do was watch and wait and see if the fish had swallowed the bait hook, line and sinker. An announcement later that week in both the Morning Post and the London Gazette of Lady Evesham’s forthcoming social plans made it clear that such was the case, although naturally the Danbys were informed in the first instance when they received a personal visit from Lady Evesham designed especially to discuss the glittering party she had planned around the announcement of her son’s engagement. Not that the matter of Harry’s and May’s betrothal was ever referred to, even indirectly. The whole dialogue was conducted in that curious code members of Society delight in employing when discussing matters of social and personal import, where in fact the whole key to these conversations may indeed be found in the motto the less said the better. Daisy Evesham simply announced that she intended throwing a fin de Saison party during Goodwood week which as she said might be rarver fun and since the party was being thrown for the Danbys as well – although the actual reason for this munificence was not of course specified – she would need to know whom they might like to see included on the guest list.
Alice Danby, who was of course totally prepared for each and every move Daisy might make, naturally played the part she was expected to play in the circumstances, that of dumb cluck, as Herbert Forrester had initially described it, simply going with the swim and saying yes to every proposal with which Daisy wished her to agree and no to the ones with which she was meant not to. Not unnaturally the result was that their meeting was over in double quick time with Daisy leaving the Park Lane house believing as always that she was well in command. There was however still a small percentage of her which doubted the suitability of the proposed match since Daisy would have greatly preferred to see her son marry into his own kind, but since she so adored her wretched only child she would, in the end, be happy to forgo her social ambitions in order to satisfy his whims. Thus, since he was obviously determined to marry the girl who had been universally acknowledged as the Belle of the Season, Daisy realized she had to swallow her social pride and give him every encouragement.
Which was why Daisy was particularly delighted when she heard that their Royal Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Wales would be pleased to attend the dinner party and dance to be given by the Earl and Countess of Evesham at Petworth Castle on the penultimate night of Goodwood, the race meeting which traditionally heralded the end of the Season.
* * *
By now Emily Persse was sitting in the rest room on Oughterard station waiting for the dogcart from Glendarven House to come and pick up herself and Minnie, who had found crossing the Irish Sea too much for her frail constitution and was still suffering the after-effects, even after their long train journey across Ireland. So while her maid sat quite still in one corner of the room with her handkerchief still clasped to her mouth Emily tried to imagine once again exactly what she was going to say to her father and mother in order to explain satisfactorily not only why she was returning home unbetrothed and thus unable to help rescue Glendarven, but also why she was returning home early, before the end of the Season proper and before everyone who was anyone had retired to their country estates.
While they were waiting a large woman called Mrs McGann who lived in a cottage on the Glandarven estate came in and sat herself down with a heavy sigh in the opposite corner to them. When she had wiped the rain from her face and eyes with the end of the shawl she had wrapped round her head and nodded a greeting she looked again and saw who it was who was seated in the dark of the far corner.
‘Now if it isn’t the Lady Emily herself,’ she said. ‘Din’t we hear yous was coming home soon, so we did? But then aren’t you a little previous? For din’t old Mikey himself say there was still a fair old bit to go yet before ye did? Come home that is, am’t I sayin’? And who’s this wit’ yer? For I do not remember seein’ her attendin’ you afore, do I?’
‘This is Minnie, my maid from London who was sent across with me, Mrs McGann,’ Emily replied, looking out of the window to see if there was any sign of the dogcart yet since the last thing she wanted was a grilling from the nosey old woman opposite. ‘And no, the London Season is all but done now, which is why I’m returned.’
‘Ah, ’tis almost done, is it?’ Mrs McGann said, eyeing Emily from under the fringe of her shawl. ‘And you’d had your fill of their fancy ways, had you?’
‘I had so, Mrs McGann. And I fell a little out of sorts.’
‘Sure your maid there doesn’t look too strong neither now, does she?’
‘Poor Minnie has found the long journey all a little too much for her. She’s never travelled at all before, because she has always been in service in my patron’s London house. Ever since she was a child.’
Emily gave another anxious glance out of the window, praying that old Mikey would hurry up since they had now been waiting nearly half an hour.
‘Is it wondering you are where old Michael himself is, is it?’ the old woman asked. ‘Won’t I tell you so? For isn’t he gone over to the market first to sell on two of your father’s hunters?’
‘I see,’ Emily said, managing to keep her poise. ‘Thank you. No, I had thought he would come straight to the station to meet the train.’
‘Now if tings were as ever they were, wouldn’t he just do that? But den tings are not, so he cannot, can he? Otherways wouldn’t he have been here waitin’ for yous as ever?’
Emily would have died rather than ask Mrs McGann why things were not as ever they were, so rather than continue the conversation she smiled politely at the old woman and excused herself, saying that she had seen a dogcart on the top of the hill leading down to the station which she imagined must be Mikey.
‘Ye’ll find him changed too, old Michael, won’t you just?’ Mrs McGann gave as her parting shot. ‘For he’s not been the same for months now, has he? And may God in his infinite mercy help yous all.’
There was of course no sign of the dogcart, but Emily could no longer bear sitting in the stuffy little waiting room and being forced either to guess or ask the old crone what precisely was her meaning. Besides, Emily considered she would have to be entirely stupid not to surmise that the family fortunes had worsened as surely they might have been expected to do, seeing that she herself had been sent to England principally to get herself engaged to be married to the richest man she could. So rather than have to suffer any more innuendo she decided she would prefer to brave the summer rains and wai
t outside under the little shelter provided by the overhanging roof in the station yard.
Happily they did not have to wait much longer, particularly as far as Minnie was concerned who was now fast developing a streaming cold on top of her travel sickness, for after about another five minutes Emily did in fact see the Glendarven dogcart breast the hill and then weave its slow way down to the station below.
But it wasn’t the spritely Mikey of old who let himself down slowly off the cart to greet his mistress and her maid and to load up their bags. For every one of the six months Emily had been away he looked as though he had aged a year. Gone too was his immaculate turn-out and in its place he looked almost like a beggar, with the seat half out of his breeches, the sole nearly off one of his boots, and his thornproof jacket gone at the elbows and cuffs. His leathery old face was heavily stubbled, his pipe upside down and unlit, and there was an altogether overpowering smell of drink.
‘Ye’ll never forgive me, will ye, Lady Emily?’ he said, lifting the luggage into the back of the cart. ‘Have I ever been late for you before? Never. Never once. And who’s this little slip of a thing? Sure what sort of place does she imagine herself in when not even old Mikey can get to the station on time?’
After Emily had introduced the ailing Minnie to her old groom and been helped up into the cart they headed slowly for Glendarven with old Mikey berating himself constantly for his unpunctuality. As they made their way back up along the quiet deserted road, Emily began to get the distinct feeling they were being watched, but try as she might she could see no sign of anyone in the surrounding countryside.
‘If you were busy, Mikey, could you not have sent Riordan to collect us?’ Emily enquired. ‘I know he’s not the driver you are, but since it’s only the dogcart I wouldn’t have minded.’
‘God help ye, Lady Emily, but if dat’s what you’re askin’ den ye’ll not be knowin’ the half of it, will yes? Poor old Riordan’s long gone to Amerikey, did ye not know? Didn’t he last out as long as he could, for isn’t it the very last thing any of us would want? To desert yer father particulelarly wit’all his troubles? But den Sean Riordan has the nine childer, does he not? And if a man is not paid for his labours den how can he see his childer fed and clothed? He can’t, can he? Which is why he’s workin’ his passage to Amerikey, is it not? And why his wife and the childer are to follow on after him?’
While old Mikey talked on, mostly inaudibly now to himself, Emily fell into a deep despair as she realized that things must have worsened considerably for Sean Riordan the most loyal of men to take himself off to America. And here was she who was meant to be the saviour of her family returning home not only without the means of redemption but also allegedly in disgrace. As her old family home came into view she was sorely tempted to leap from the dogcart and run away to hide her shame in the great range of mountains that surrounded Glendarven House.
But of course she did no such thing, even when she saw the state into which the estate and the gardens had fallen. As soon as the cart turned through the great old iron gates with the two crested falcons enwrought within their design and into the long drive, Emily’s despair turned to horror for instead of six months it looked as though no-one had been near the place for six years. Along the redbrick walls of the kitchen garden her mother’s prize but unpruned roses had shot and were covered in some disease, while the whole drive was potholed and infested with weeds. Even the home paddocks which were always kept in prime condition for the horses to run out in the summer looked as though they hadn’t been topped or tended since the spring, standing full of docks and nettles and uncleared manure. Neither was there a sign of the usual large herd of sheep which always grazed behind the horses, and of the horses themselves instead of the usual half dozen happily summering hunters there were just two, standing miserably under one of the large oaks sheltering from the teeming rain.
Everything everywhere was overgrown and untended. The beds around the house itself were choking with bindweed and mare’s tails while the grass which had always been so lovingly tended by Sean Riordan was uncut and also clogged with weeds. Grass even grew up through the stones of the graceful flight of steps which led up to Glendarven’s ever open and always welcoming doors, and along which for the first time in Emily’s living memory there was no-one waiting to be seen. No vagrants calling for their usual handouts, no villagers seeking advice on their personal affairs, no tenants waiting while the evening shadows fell to ask their landlord for some favour or perhaps some leniency they had come to expect down the years, or even an address in England to which they could direct some emigrating relative.
‘Where is everyone, Mikey?’ Emily finally asked as the old groom came round to help the ladies disembark. ‘What has happened to this place? The first thing I hear at the station is that you were taking two of my father’s hunters to market, but I had hoped it was because it was time for them to be sold, rather than because they had to be sold on – but from the look of the house—’ Emily stopped, too shocked and upset to continue, while old Mikey himself suddenly became overcome, turning away to wipe his nose and eyes on the sleeve of his coat. ‘Come along, Minnie,’ Emily said, pulling herself together. ‘We had better go and see for ourselves what is going on.’
When she did discover exactly what was happening all she could immediately think was that she should have ignored Lady Devenish’s advice and married Captain Pilkington notwithstanding. Had she done so she would have been able to send everyone she now found in the hall and the drawing room, the dining room and up the staircase, packing with a wave of her hand. Get along with you! she would have told them. Go on away out of here – you no longer have a call on my family!
The people she would have sent on their way were the brokers and the bailiffs, the valuers and dunners who were running free through her beloved Glendarven, men in ill-fitting suits and bowler hats armed with notepads and pencils, unpaid bills and long outstanding invoices. They were everywhere, talking loudly in ringing tones as they picked up and inspected particularly fine pieces of silverware, scrutinizing through magnifying glasses the signatures on those paintings which still hung on the walls, opening and closing the doors of the bureaux and commodes which remained, trying out the dining chairs, even feeling the wear of the pile on the rugs on the hall floor. Already there were signs of loss, such as various good pieces of furniture which had gone missing as well as several fine paintings, including the great hall picture in its gold frame by Thomas Lawrence R.A. of one of her father’s great-grandfathers in full military uniform painted shortly after the battle of Waterloo. In its place was a damp rectangular mark left on the wall and the old nails upon which the picture had once so proudly hung.
Emily stood quite still in the midst of all this activity, with the sniffing and snuffling Minnie a few steps behind her. No-one seemed to notice them, or if they did they paid them no heed, so eager were they to see for themselves the value of the contents of the house and particularly the paintings many of which as Emily well knew were considered to be particularly fine.
Then her father came into the room. Seeing him was an even greater shock for Emily than seeing the house itself, for her father seemed like old Mikey to have suddenly aged most dramatically, his previously grey hair and moustaches turned to snow white, his back which had always been ramrod straight now bent and his eyes, which although near blind had been clear and bright, covered with a milky film. Nor could he any longer find his way around his house because with most of the main items of furniture already either removed or displaced all his familiar landmarks had gone leaving him only able to stumble his way about, or to negotiate a room by walking with one hand out to touch the wall which was what he was now doing.
‘Pappa?’ Emily said, but at first he seemed not to hear her so she tried once more, raising her voice well above the noise of all the brokers’ men or bailiffs or whoever all the strangers were. ‘Pappa?’
‘Emily?’ He turned his unseeing eyes towards her, like an
old blind dog raising a forlorn muzzle, trying to direct himself towards a favourite and familiar voice. ‘Emily – is that you, child?’
‘Yes, Pappa, it is me. I arrived back from England a few minutes ago.’
‘I am very glad, Emily. For I heard you were on your way home. Now come over here to my side if you would, and give me your hand. I have need of a guide.’
‘I was wondering exactly what was happening, Pappa?’ Emily asked once she was by his side and her slim hand in his broad one. ‘Who are all these people?’
‘These people have come to be paid. The bank foreclosed, d’you see, if you know what that means. New manager, know the sort of thing, he was appointed shortly after you left and it seems he’s not a man to be kept waiting. Apparently old Drew – the agent – old Drew made a mess of things. Made a right pig’s ear so they tell me.’
Although they loved each other Emily and her father had never been close, yet somehow they had always been empathetic. Wherever they were in the field, they each instinctively knew where the other was and what they were doing, so Emily could now sense just how her father felt. He was finally himself at bay. The hunter was finally the prey, and it was now his turn to face the pack with courage and with dignity. With Emily back unbetrothed gone was his last chance of survival. Now all he could do was surrender to the inevitable.
I wish with all my heart I had known things were this bad, Emily thought to herself. If only someone had written to me and told me. If only. Two such silly words.
‘I know what you are thinking,’ her father told her. ‘And you must not. This is nothing to do with you, you know. This is not your funeral. This is mine.’
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