A Country Gentleman

by Ann Barker

  ‘And then,’ he went on regardless, ‘added to every other folly, you have wilfully encouraged the attentions of Rake Riseholm.’

  Lavinia opened her mouth to protest that she had done no such thing. Before she could do so, she realized that to say anything would be to incriminate Isobel. The wisdom of this thought was confirmed when Thurlby spoke again.

  ‘Unfortunately, for my mother’s sake, I cannot send you packing as I should very much like to do. Apart from anything else, Mrs Stancross’s frail state of health means that there is nowhere to send you. Indeed, I am forced to wonder whether the seizure she suffered had anything to do with you.’ No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he realized how unreasonable they were. Even his own mother had taken him to task for expressing this very sentiment in jest.

  To Lavinia, his words were not only shocking, but cruel as well. Everything else that he had said to her could have been excused by the misleading appearance of events. This last comment, however, was utterly unfair. What was more, it brought back to Lavinia’s mind all the upset of those last few days, when Aunt had been so ill, and Uncle had turned to her, even though she did not know what to do any more than had he. During this last speech, Thurlby had walked towards her. Now, utterly frustrated by his refusal to listen, as well as hurt by his assumptions, she slapped him across the face.

  ‘How dare you!’ she exclaimed, her eyes filled with tears that were as much from anger as from distress. ‘You know nothing about the circumstances prevailing in my uncle’s household, or about my reasons for taking the stage. Nor do you know anything about the degree of my … my acquaintance with Lord Riseholm. You know nothing at all, and you will not even listen!’

  She whirled around and, ignoring his voice calling her back, she ran to the door, threw it open, and hurried up the stairs to her room, her vision so blurred by angry tears that she could hardly see where she was going.

  Chapter Eight

  It was in a mood that was a strange combination of anger, apprehension, injured innocence and defiance that Lavinia went downstairs that evening, accompanied by Isobel. After she had fled the earl’s presence and attained the sanctuary of her room, she had sat on her bed, half expecting that despite what he had said about not turning her out, a servant would arrive at any moment and tell her to pack her bags. The message never came and eventually, she came to the conclusion that his retribution would fall upon her in some other way.

  Over and over again, she told herself that he should have been prepared to listen. She had had good reasons for acting as she had done. It was quite unfair of him to condemn her unheard. Unfortunately, every time she came to that conclusion, she heard again the whack that her hand had made as she had struck him. Her palm had still been tingling when she had got to her room. How must his cheek have felt?

  Isobel came to find her, yawning after a restful sleep, and, seeing her friend’s stormy expression, demanded to know what had happened. Lavinia made no mention of Lord Riseholm, or of Thurlby’s reference to Isobel. She certainly said nothing of the slap, judging that her friend would merely find this entertaining. She simply told her about how his lordship had expected them to have gone collecting grasses with Miss Wheatman. She also said how angry he had been about their travelling on the stage in disguise, and mixing with the likes of Benjamin Twizzle.

  ‘He is the most infuriating man in the world,’ Lavinia concluded. ‘He makes such sweeping judgements and does not even bother to listen.’

  ‘It comes of being stuck in the country all year round,’ Isobel replied, making a sweeping judgement of her own. ‘People who live in the country tend to be very stuffy and old-fashioned, and are inclined to think that they know best about everything.’

  ‘I know I did wrong, but he should not have condemned me unheard,’ said Lavinia. Again she heard the sound of her hand against his cheek, and she coloured slightly.

  ‘I do not see that you did wrong at all,’ Isobel declared. ‘To assume another identity on the stage was a wise precaution.’ A wicked look came into her eye. ‘Shall I make him fall in love with me just to teach him a lesson?’ she asked. ‘I’m sure I could.’

  ‘I really don’t care what you do,’ answered Lavinia. ‘If you want, you could make him pine away until he’s as … as skinny as Benjamin Twizzle,’ she added, which notion made them both laugh.

  In preparation for her next meeting with Lord Thurlby, Lavinia armoured herself by dressing very becomingly in primrose silk. As she studied her reflection in the mirror, she found herself considering a very curious circumstance. She knew that she was not as bold or as adventurous as Isobel, but after an initial moment of surprise, Lord Thurlby’s anger had not frightened her at all. It had made her want to square her shoulders and face up to him. What was more, it had occurred to her that when he was angry, he looked particularly manly and vigorous. When he had drawn a deep breath to try and keep his temper, for instance, it had been impossible to ignore the breadth of his chest. She remembered observing him from the window of the carriage on their way to the Hall. He had certainly cut a fine figure on horseback.

  It came as something of an anticlimax to discover when they got downstairs that his lordship would not be joining them. ‘He begs our pardon, but he is engaged to dine with some gentlemen this evening,’ said Miss Wheatman, in the tone of one who feared that she was inflicting some grave disappointment upon her auditors.

  ‘Indeed,’ replied Lavinia, her voice as glacial as might have been expected from one of the patronesses of Almack’s had the earl turned up at its hallowed portals in top boots and a riding coat.

  ‘He was all for calling off his engagement,’ Miss Wheatman hastened to explain. ‘I told him that that must not be thought of. It is a regular thing, you know, and what with your arriving unexpectedly and then his mother having to rush away, he did not have the opportunity to send word that he would not be coming. Indeed, he looked very disconcerted about the matter,’ she went on. ‘Although that might have had something to do with the door.’

  ‘The door?’ echoed Lavinia. Isobel, having lost interest in the conversation, had wandered over to look out of the window.

  ‘Yes, he walked into his dressing-room door, apparently,’ replied Miss Wheatman. ‘His cheek was quite reddened.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Lavinia, momentarily conscience-stricken. Then, recalling his unkindness earlier, she added callously, ‘I dare say he was drunk, in which case, serve him right.’ Ignoring Miss Wheatman’s gasp of shock she went on, ‘Shall we go in to dinner?’

  The moment of meeting the earl could only be postponed, not cancelled indefinitely, and so Lavinia decided that whatever Isobel wanted to do, she herself would go down to breakfast. This decision had nothing to do with not antagonizing his lordship further by going against the customs of the house, of course. It was simply that she wanted to get an unpleasant encounter over as soon as possible.

  Lavinia was a little afraid that Isobel might refuse to go down with her, but to her surprise, the other girl was quite ready to do so. ‘I want to further my plans to entice the vicar,’ she explained. ‘Let’s make an arrangement to visit some of those ruins that we were talking about.’

  ‘I thought that you had decided to make Lord Thurlby fall in love with you,’ said Lavinia, a little puzzled after the previous evening’s conversation.

  ‘There’s safety in numbers,’ Isobel replied airily. ‘Shall we go down?’

  All four members of the party were present at the breakfast table that morning. Lavinia had been a little apprehensive about having to confront Lord Thurlby if he was still sporting his reddened cheek. Fortunately the mark had faded away completely. If she had hoped that the subject would not be mentioned, however, she was to be disappointed.

  ‘I am glad to see that your face is better, my lord,’ said Miss Wheatman. Lavinia, who had just taken a mouthful of coffee, narrowly avoided choking, and thereby drawing attention to herself.

  ‘You are very good to enqu
ire,’ the earl answered blandly.

  ‘You must take great care not to do such a thing again,’ Miss Wheatman went on.

  ‘You may be sure that I will be on my guard on another occasion,’ he responded, glancing at Lavinia, with whom he had only exchanged the briefest of greetings.

  ‘I hope your head is feeling better too, my lord,’ Lavinia said sweetly.

  ‘My head?’ he asked, frowning.

  ‘I quite thought that your head might have been hurting you after—’ she began, then broke off, as if aware that she had overstepped the mark. ‘That is to say, gentlemen do sometimes have bad heads in the morning, do they not?’

  ‘Really, Miss Muir,’ said Miss Wheatman in shocked tones. ‘I told you last night that I was convinced his lordship never overindulged in such a way.’

  ‘Oh. I did not know,’ said Lavinia innocently.

  ‘Then you would do well to say nothing on the subject,’ he replied.

  ‘Should we all therefore avoid speaking about matters we know nothing about?’ she enquired swiftly.

  Miss Wheatman, sunnily unaware of the tense atmosphere, offered the earl more ale before he could make a reply, and the moment passed.

  When the meal was over, the earl got to his feet, excusing himself as he had some estate business to see to.

  ‘What are your plans for today, ladies? Will you hunt for the grasses that you did not collect yesterday?’

  ‘Oh no indeed,’ responded Miss Wheatman. ‘We found plenty later on, did we not, Miss Muir?’

  ‘Really?’ said the earl, raising his brows as he looked at Lavinia. ‘I was not aware of that.’

  ‘You did not give me an opportunity to tell you,’ she answered, lifting her chin.

  He flushed.

  ‘It only remains to identify them, which in some ways is the most exciting part,’ Miss Wheatman continued happily, once more unaware of the unspoken communication that was taking place under her nose.

  ‘Thrilling,’ Isobel murmured as she stirred sugar into her coffee.

  ‘I am glad to hear that you are looking forward to it,’ said the earl ironically, inclining his head.

  Isobel looked up at him through her lashes. ‘I can think of many more exciting ways of passing the time,’ she said saucily.

  ‘I make no doubt,’ he answered, narrowing his eyes. Her flirtatious manner caused his mind to clutch fleetingly at a notion somewhere at the back of his mind, but there was not time for him to grasp what it might be. He turned again to Lavinia. ‘Miss Muir, I would value a conversation with you later on, when you are at leisure.’

  ‘A conversation is an interchange when both have an opportunity to speak, my lord,’ Lavinia replied with dignity, looking him straight in the eye.

  ‘I am aware of that,’ he answered, bowing to the ladies before leaving the room.

  ‘Shall we perhaps walk into the village?’ Miss Wheatman suggested.

  Both the other ladies agreed and they parted company with Miss Wheatman in order to make their preparations. ‘We can make sure that we look in at the vicarage,’ Isobel said, as they were putting on their bonnets. ‘I want to establish my personality in the vicar’s mind. By the end of the week, he will not be able to think of anyone but me.’

  Lavinia made no response. As they came down the stairs, they heard the sound of voices in the hall, and reached the bottom step to see the back of an unknown gentleman as he was admitted into the drawing room. Glancing at each other, they took off their bonnets and laid them on a table by the window before following him.

  Lord Thurlby and Miss Wheatman were already in the room, conversing with two young men. ‘Ah, ladies,’ said Thurlby, inclining his head to Lavinia and Isobel. ‘You must allow me to present to you Mr Hawkfield and Mr Laver.’ He did not look particularly pleased. The two young gentlemen made their bows.

  ‘Mr Hawkfield,’ said Isobel in an interested tone. ‘I have heard that name before.’

  ‘I am the nephew of the Earl of Riseholm, ma’am,’ replied the young man. He was a little like Riseholm in looks, but his countenance was not lined, his face was rounder and he was not quite so tall. There was in addition a twinkle in his eye which seemed to indicate that he had a far from serious disposition. Mr Laver was a much slighter man, with hair of a distinct shade of ginger, and a rather foxy expression to match.

  ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’ Lord Thurlby asked. He had no real need to ask the question. He knew perfectly well why the visitors were there. They had obviously heard about the arrival of two young ladies in the district, and had come to investigate.

  The men in question were about ten years younger than himself, and although Laver was a near neighbour, living just the other side of the village, he had never called before. The other was not known to him, but one look convinced him that Mr Hawkfield was cut from the same cloth as his rakish relative. Maybe Lord Riseholm had even informed them about his, Thurlby’s, two female visitors.

  Mr Laver blushed, his heightened complexion, together with his bright hair, making him look like some kind of living beacon. ‘As to that, sir, er … my lord, it has occurred to me that … um …’ He put his fingers inside his neckcloth and pulled at it as if it were too tight. He glanced at Lord Thurlby, who returned his look with a bland expression. ‘We are … are nearly neighbours, after all,’ he went on. ‘Just … just paying my respects, don’t ye know?’

  ‘That is very civil of you,’ Lord Thurlby replied. ‘No doubt you thought to find me alone here, and came to … ah … succour me in my solitude.’

  ‘Oh, ah … exactly,’ responded Laver, sounding relieved.

  Hawkfield laughed. ‘I can see that you understand perfectly, my lord,’ he said impishly.

  Thurlby inclined his head. On the whole, he liked Hawkfield’s roguish honesty better than Laver’s disingenuous deceit, but he would have preferred to give neither gentleman house-room. Nevertheless, mindful of his duties as a host, he sent for refreshments, and soon they were all enjoying a glass of wine, and discussing the beauties of the Lincolnshire scene.

  ‘I have a small hunting box to the north of the county,’ Mr Hawkfield was saying. ‘My uncle’s principal seat is in Berkshire.’

  ‘You must mean Riseholm Halt,’ Isobel remarked. ‘It is said to be very impressive.’

  ‘You have not visited it then,’ observed Mr Hawkfield.

  ‘Not as yet,’ Isobel admitted, lowering her eyelashes. Thurlby, exchanging remarks with Miss Wheatman, did not overhear this exchange.

  After they had finished their refreshments, the two young men rose to take their leave.

  ‘We were about to walk into the village,’ said Isobel. ‘So I suppose that we had better bid you adieu.’

  The gentlemen glanced at one another. ‘How delightful that sounds, does it not, Laver?’ said Hawkfield. ‘It so happens that we have no other calls upon our time this morning. May we accompany you?’

  ‘Indeed you may,’ put in Miss Wheatman.

  Thurlby thought of the business that he needed to transact, and one or two tasks that ought not to be left for too long, and sighed inwardly, sensing an end to peace. Perhaps naively, he had hoped that with Miss Wheatman on the premises, he would be able to get on with his usual concerns, leaving the young ladies in safe hands, and largely forgetting about their presence, except at mealtimes. He now perceived that he would have to take a more active role in proceedings. ‘It sounds such a refreshing prospect that I believe I will come as well,’ he said, mindful of his responsibility.

  It was therefore as a party of six that they set off for the village a short time later. ‘We can take refreshments at the Horseshoe,’ said Thurlby. ‘They do a tolerable cheese platter.’

  It was about half-a-mile’s walk to the village, and they made a cheerful party. Isobel, with two young men to charm, was in high gig, and soon set about playing one off against the other. This left Lavinia to walk with Miss Wheatman and Lord Thurlby.

  ‘Such a lovely time we h
ad yesterday, did we not, Miss Muir?’ said Miss Wheatman. ‘See, my lord,’ she went on, pointing, ‘that was the very meadow in which we found our grasses.’

  ‘Really?’ said the earl, looking attentively towards where she was pointing. ‘I had never thought about grass having different varieties.’

  ‘And yet you must be used to different crops,’ Lavinia pointed out. ‘Wheat, barley, corn, and so on.’

  ‘True enough,’ the earl agreed, looking at her with an arrested expression on his face. ‘I had not supposed that you would know anything about crops, Miss Muir.’

  ‘Yes I do,’ she replied. ‘Do you not remember that you told me about them when I stayed here before?’

  ‘I confess that I do not recall,’ he answered. ‘I have too many memories about the bull, and almost shooting you.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ she replied. ‘What a charge I was.’ There was a brief, telling silence. ‘You are thinking that I still am, I suppose,’ she added, her tone regretful.

  He was saved from replying by Miss Wheatman, who asked him a question about the ownership of the land around the church.

  On arriving outside the vicarage, Isobel said, ‘Do let us call in. The vicar may want to join us for lunch.’

  ‘And my niece, of course,’ Miss Wheatman put in. ‘We must not forget her.’

  ‘No, indeed,’ Lavinia agreed, throwing Isobel a meaningful look.

  And so, in the end, there were eight around the large round table which the landlord of the Horseshoe prepared for them in a private room. Isobel somehow managed to manipulate the situation so that she ended up sitting next to the vicar, whilst Miss Tasker took a place on the other side of the table.

  Lavinia found herself next to Mr Hawkfield, whilst Lord Thurlby was at her other side, with Miss Tasker to his left. That lady did not appear to be at all disturbed that her fiancé was being charmed by another woman. Instead, she devoted herself to her conversation with his lordship. She seemed to keep him very well entertained, for he smiled a good deal, and Lavinia noticed that he was listening attentively to what she was saying, often nodding in agreement.