Dame Durden's Daughter

by Joan Smith

  Edith couldn’t find the heart to agree with this. She had hoped to see him come again; but, of course, it would be a beautiful, worldly lady such as the Baroness he would be interested in.

  “It’s a fine day, Edith. Why don’t you go and pick us some berries? The bushes where our land meets Saymore’s have some good elderberries. I’ll put up my cordial this week.”

  “All right, Mama.”

  “Take Sally with you,” the Dame added.

  Sally did not usually go to pick berries with Edith, and she suspected the servant was being sent on this occasion in case she should happen to run into Helver. For that same reason she was eager to go alone and did so, making the excuse to Sally that the best bushes were a mile away, and she could ride faster than walk, as they must if Sally came along. She did not bother explaining this change of plans to her mother, however.

  She picked berries for an hour, filling her container while she looked occasionally across the meadow for a sign of Helver’s bay mount. It was four o’clock, and she was about to go home when she spotted him riding past several feet away. He didn’t see her and she didn’t call him, as she did not like to act directly against her mother’s wishes. That much conscience remained to her. She would not throw herself in his way. She just stood and watched how well he sat his mount, how gracefully they moved to­gether, how in tune with nature. Then his horse spotted hers, tethered to a tree, and whinnied, calling Helver’s attention to her. He immediately reined in and turned in her direction, smiling and waving.

  “Hello, Eddie. Is the femme fatale sunk to picking gooseberries?” he joked.

  “No, elderberries for Mama’s cordial; and you should have yours picked, too. Look at them all going to waste.” She pointed to his land, where the berries drooped in the sun.

  “Help yourself if you wish. Mama doesn’t make cordial, thank God! Has the Dame stuck by her decision not to have the May Day party?” He got down from his mount and pulled a few berries from the bush to toss into her basket.

  “Yes. She lacks a queen. No girl in her right mind would do it.”

  It darted into Helver’s head that Lady Anne was well qualified on that score, but, with some new sense of deco­rum, he didn’t say it. “That’s too bad. By the way, we have a visitor at the Hall. Lady Anne, Carlton’s daughter, is staying with us. Do you think I might bring her to call on you one day?”

  Helver had observed Eddie’s growing up, and, while he hadn’t liked it a bit at first, he had been impressed enough that he thought of her from time to time and had been wondering if he should call again. The Dame didn’t like him, he knew, but Lady Anne formed a good excuse; and it would also pacify the relatives who were always pinch­ing at him to be nice to the visitor.

  “I guess it would be all right if she came with you,” Edith said with a memory of her mother’s delight that he wasn’t hanging around the Court.

  This answer revealed to Helver just what he thought, that the Dame disliked him. “Did she dislike my coming the other day?”

  “Oh, no, she said it was very civil.”

  “But it would be better if I not come again?” he asked.

  “You know Mama,” she laughed deprecatingly.

  “And worse, Mama knows me! What a trial it is, being always suspected of villainy.”

  “And you innocent as a newborn tiger!”

  “And you sharp-tongued as an old cat all of a sudden. What’s gotten into you? You didn’t used to pester me, whatever about the others.”

  “You didn’t used to dangle after fast widows in those days.”

  “Yes, I did. Can you forget my passion for Widow Ma­lone? But you refer, I collect, to the Widow De Courcy?” He looked closely at her as he asked this. “Who has been busy running to you with tales of my doings? I suppose it is all over the village. I would have thought young ladies of tender years would be spared.”

  “Oh, no, we are the very ones who are particularly warned away from those of your ilk.”

  She gave him a saucy smile, but there was no smile in return. He looked quite angry. “Bluebeard and Henry VIII and the Duke of Saymore, you mean?”

  “Well, I think those two gentlemen married their ladies, didn’t they? Whereas you, of course, don’t bother.”

  “I just have my way with them, you mean?” he asked in a significant voice. Edith’s back was to a tree and, advanc­ing towards her, Helver leaned his arms on the tree, with her caught in their circle. His head loomed over hers, and his eyes held a wicked gleam. “Aren’t you afraid of me, Eddie? All alone here with miles and miles of nobody. Old Bluebeard Trebourne, you know—God only knows what I might do to you.”

  She looked surprised for an instant, then burst into de­lighted laughter. “You’re trying to scare me, Helver Tre­bourne! As if I’d be afraid of you.”

  “What, you don’t believe the stories of my monumental debauchery?” he asked, stepping back and lowering his arms. “There’s a facer for me,” he answered, laughing. “I made sure I had you trembling in your boots, as you were when I chased you with that green snake we found by the creek.”

  “You didn’t really put it down my neck when you caught me."

  “No, and didn’t really drown you in the creek, or push you out of the tree either. A model of propriety when you take a look at my record. I did everything but beat you. In fact, didn’t I box your ears once?”

  “No, you didn’t!”

  “I did, though. Remember when my cousin Larry came that summer and pelted around with us? You took quite a shine to him. You must remember.”

  “I remember Larry. He used to bring me candy.”

  “So he did, and would never give me a bit—you, either. We were squabbling over something or other, and you took Larry’s side. I gave you a sharp box on the ear. You cried buckets.”

  “I think I do remember it now. And Larry beat you.”

  “He tried to, and you lit into him like a termagant. The two of us sent him home with his cork drawn. Lord, how did I remember that? It must have been ten years ago, at least. I wonder why you kept coming here to run around with me. A glutton for punishment, that’s what you were. Do you still ride here as you used to?”

  “Yes, all the time.”

  “We’ll likely be meeting often, then. I come home this way from my jaunts with Forringer. Usually at about this time.”

  “I’m usually here earlier.”

  “How much earlier?”

  “Around three o’clock usually,” she said, her eyes spar­kling, for she sensed the conversation was not so casual as it sounded and sensed, too, that she was doing something her mama would strongly disapprove of.

  “Three o’clock. I expect I’ll be coming home a little earlier since Lady Anne is with us. Must do the pretty, you know.”

  “Yes. Well, my basket is full. I’d best be getting home.”

  “Yes. Eddie—I’ll bring Lady Anne to see you tomor­row instead of meeting you here."

  It was out in the open now. They were to meet in the meadow by prearrangement, and she felt a wild and sinful pleasure in it. She thought it pleased Helver, too. Making formal calls was too tame for him. She was correct in her surmise that it pleased him. It did, but he hardly knew why. His romantic fancies at the time were centered around Milady. He helped Eddie onto her mount, and stood looking after her as she rode away. She looked back over her shoulder and waved at him. The only thought in his mind was that she was going to drop her berries if she didn’t look sharp about her.

  At Saymore Hall the relatives, rather than finding it un­usual Helver should take Lady Anne to visit an eligible lady twice as attractive as herself, thought it a wonderful idea.

  “If the two girls hit it off, it will get Lady Anne out of our hair,” Sara said. “The Dame won’t send Eddie here, but she’ll ask Anne to the Court likely.”

  It was possible for mongrels to call at the Court; other­wise the ladies would have been quite alone. In fact, the purebred Durdens even visited mongrel homes
when it was perfectly clear the visit was bestowing an honour. It was only when worldly wealth and titles gave the mongrels the idea they were equals (there was no such a thing as a better) that they declined to visit. This cut them off from close intimacy with all persons who should have formed their natural circle of friends; but it maintained their dig­nity and, in the Dame’s view, superiority.

  Helver brought Lady Anne to call, and the simple child sat in a corner looking at Edith’s old picture books and eating sugar plums while the grown-ups conversed. It was not a fruitful visit. With the duke and an earl’s daugh­ter under her roof, Dame Durden unbent enough to sit and talk and take tea with them, so that conversation was stilted and unnatural. Helver expressed his regret that the May Day revels were not to be held, which caused the Dame to look at Lady Anne with a new interest; but May was already so close to being on them that there was no time for the requisite preparations.

  He next made the unfortunate faux pas of enquiring whether she had made her elderberries into cordial yet. This was possible of an innocent interpretation. Helver knew she annually made it, but a certain guilty start in her daughter’s eyes made her wonder. She had found out Sally had not accompanied Edith to the meadow, and as soon as the noble visitors had left, she put her suspicions to Edith.

  “Did you meet Helver when you were out picking ber­ries?”

  “Yes, he happened to go by, Mama. He stopped for a minute.” Edith blushed up to her eyes with shame and guilt, causing her mother a great deal of not unnatural worry.

  “Odd you didn’t mention it.”

  “I forgot,” Edith said. She was a wretched liar.

  “Have you been meeting him regularly, Edith?”

  “No—no, indeed, I have not, Mama!” This at least had the ring of truth.

  “It was just the one accidental meeting, then?”

  “Yes. That is—I met him one other time, by accident.”

  “You find the meadow a felicitous place for accidental meetings, I see. I’ll have no more of this, Edith. I’m disap­pointed in you. You know what Helver Trebourne is. An unprincipled rake. The whole village talking about his chasing after that De Courcy creature, and you already turning deceptive the minute he is back. He means to do you no good. If he were interested in anything but mis­chief, he wouldn’t be meeting you there. He’d come to your door like a gentleman.”

  “But you said you didn’t want him coming here!”

  “I don’t. But if he were interested in marriage—well, he isn’t, so there’s no point in talking about it. All that will happen is that you’ll get a fast reputation that will give Doctor Thorne a disgust of you.”

  Edith stared. Was it possible her mother would actually permit her to marry Helver if he asked? Edith didn’t ask. How could she, when Helver had never said a word about marriage or anything of the sort? And the Dame couldn’t have answered the question if she had asked. He was a mongrel, but, from having lived out her entire life in the shadow of the Hall, some awareness of its importance had invaded the secret recesses of her mind. No denying it would be fine to have a Durden as next Duchess of Say­more. Why shouldn’t the real aristocracy take its place in Society? This rationalization was knocking at her mind, begging entry, and who is to say whether it might not eventually succeed; but secret meetings in fields were something else again.

  “So you are not to go near the east pasture again, Edith.”

  And just yesterday Edith had as well as told Helver she would see him there and that he shouldn’t call at the Court. She frowned to see how her plans were all going awry; but it was, of course, impossible to confess to Mama the depth of depravity to which she had allowed herself to sink. “Well?” her mother asked sharply.

  “All right, Mama.” Edith knew she had done wrong to agree to meet him. Likely Mama was right, and she would only end up ruined if she went ahead and did so. She re­called the snickers behind the Widow Malone’s back, and, as he was apparently quite openly seeing Lady De Courcy, no good could come of the meetings. She resolved to push Helver Trebourne out of her mind and reform herself, then promptly went to her room and remembered every word and look that had passed between them since his re­turn.

  For two days she dragged around the house like a bruised herb, and for two days Helver waited in the meadow from three o’clock to three-thirty; wondering why she didn’t come. That sheer fickleness was at the bottom of it never occurred to him. She often came, she said, but not every day. The Dame was keeping her busy. He was disappointed and, on the third day, rather angry. On the fourth day he didn’t bother going home by the meadow; he purposely went a mile out of his way to go home by the spinney. Unlike Edith, he didn’t have all day to consider the matter. He was extremely busy, well into the building project along the river and taking a keen interest in the brick homes going up. Forringer, too, was deeply involved in this; and with both so busy, it was necessary to hire an assistant bailiff to tend to the more routine chores. The ap­pointment of this man caused a new ripple of gossip.

  “Who will you have for the post then?” Forringer asked the Duke.

  “The men are better known to you than to me. Who’s the best man for the job?”

  “There’s Joe Sparks—a bit brighter than most and a good worker.”

  “Joe Sparks from the west quarter? I don’t remember that he was ever good for more than riding like a wild man and chasing the petticoats. An old crony of my own.”

  “Aye, well one of the petticoats has caught him, over a year ago, and made a man of him. Young Bessie Moog. They’ve one babe in the nursery and another on the way. He’s settled down to a good worker.”

  “Oh, a family man. Married Bessie Moog, eh? She was a pretty little wench.”

  “She still is.”

  “Very well, let’s give Joe a try.”

  With his new status as assistant bailiff and his growing family, Joe approached Helver about acquiring one of the new brick homes. It was a little larger and fancier than some of the others. Joe was ambitious, hard-working and clever. Helver meant to hold on to him; and to achieve this he let Joe add a bedroom and a few items of outside ornament. He stopped occasionally at Joe’s present cot­tage on matters of business, and it was soon circulating that the young Duke had taken a shine to Bessie Sparks and seen fit to make her man a bailey and give them a new house.

  Dame Durden went more often than usual to the village these days, taking her daughter with her as she didn’t dare leave her alone; and they heard all details of the appoint­ment. Edith’s shoulder drooped even lower than usual. Her mouth formed into its sad line, but all the same she listened with interest to the gossip. The Dame felt action was called for before she lost her looks entirely, and the action taken was to issue an invitation to Doctor Thorne to spend a few days at the Court.

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  Doctor Thorne came to Durden Court with the greatest goodwill in the world to make himself agreeable to Edith and her mama and to cast himself a little in the Duke of Saymore’s way if it should be possible, with an eye to being appointed Vicar of Tisbury. He was tall and thin, with a face not unhandsome—rather pale from being so often buried in his books but with bright, in­telligent eyes.

  He took Edith to the village in her mama’s carriage, rode with her in areas other than the east meadow, for he had been informed of the danger lurking in that quarter, and read to them in the evenings. It was diverting to have some company other than Mama and the servants to talk to, and Doctor Thorne was a good talker. As a man of the church, he tended to discuss religious matters a little more than was entertaining to laymen, and to discuss them, too, in an elevated style not always com­prehensible to his audience. But Edith knew she was not a clever girl and tried to learn from him. He was a kind and patient teacher, explaining to her matters in which she tried to become interested.

  Edith didn’t realize it, but Dorion Thorne was making love to her. That he chose to do it by sermons and theo­logical talk was perhaps
a little unusual, but for him it was as good a way as any other. Edith liked him best in the pulpit. After a few days of roundabout romancing in the general duties of a Christian, Dorion felt it was time to bring the matter to a head. The Dame had conveniently excused herself to give him the opportunity, and the two sat in the main saloon discussing those attributes that con­stituted a good, useful life.

  Dorion’s path was cut out for him: he was to be a good shepherd as soon as he could find a fold in need of one; but Edith realized as she listened that her life was of no use to anyone. There was some imputation of selfishness on her part in the discussion; Dorion mentioned subtly her advantages in birth, breeding and worldly goods and asked, in effect, what are you doing to repay the Lord for all this. All she was doing was to moon around after a rake; and, while she didn’t say so, she knew it and felt it was not enough.

  By minute, shifting degrees the Doctor gave her to understand that her real task in life, as a woman, was to align herself with some man with a mission. It was not till that instant that Edith tumbled to his intentions. He was the man and his the mission with which she was being asked to align herself.

  “In short, Miss Durden, I am asking you to be my wife.”

  The first ridiculous thought to flit into her head was that there was no “in short” about it. It had taken him an hour. She looked at him, half flattered and half horrified. She no more wanted to marry him than she wanted to marry the Archbishop of Canterbury; yet she respected him, knew him for a good, worthy man. She could not offend him.

  “I cannot think I would be the proper wife for you, Do­rion," she said, blushing.

  “You must allow me to be the best judge of that,” he answered playfully, assuming as a matter of course that it was only her awareness of her own inadequacies that led her to object. “I realize that in marrying a young girl I would need to give you some help in coming to understand your duties. I am willing, more than willing, to give you the guidance you will require. Indeed, it will be one of my chief pleasures to do so,” he added, as a sop to romance.