Dame Durden's Daughter

by Joan Smith

  Thorne’s real concern was that Carlton would tell Saymore the whole history of the Bath episode. Saymore was very fond of Edith. God only knew what he would do if he ever learned the truth. Have to tell the Dame Saymore was jealous of him, to prepare her in case the story came out. He’d say it was all a lie, and the Dame would believe his story—a Doctor and a minister of the Church of England—above Saymore’s. The fellow really acted damnedly jealous at times. The fact was he was hankering after Edith himself. A fool could see as much. But, of course, he’d never marry her. A duke might marry anyone he chose and wouldn’t be likely to choose a prissy little armiger’s daughter. Still, he was plenty jealous of the man who would marry her and might well use the Sally Cuth­bertson affair to break the match if he could. It might even have some bearing on the Tisbury living! He’d have to tred softly with Saymore, and, thank God, he had the Duchess and Lady Sara in his pocket.

  He went out of his way to be amiable to Edith and her mama that evening to make them think better of him. “What’s new at the Hall?” Edith asked the old familiar question.

  “I stayed only a moment. Lord Canton had come to call, and I didn’t stay. It is a great pity, that daughter of his. I took her into the garden to try to gauge the extent of her condition. I fear she is hopelessly simple. Quite a child, pulling flowers apart and watching the fish play. A very child—a sweet, innocent child.”

  “It is a great pity. Did you see Saymore?”

  “We are to call him Helver, my dear. No, I didn’t see him. I don’t like to bother him with my small problems. You and I shall manage our affairs at the Vicarage, and very happy we shall be doing it.”

  “And very busy.”

  “That is true. There are half a dozen christenings and a few marriages. I don’t think I’ll ask you to press that mat­ter of St. Michael’s just for the present. One thing at a time. There is much to be done here, and I have my writ­ing, too. The Theological Society has asked me to prepare an article for publication in their journal. My thesis on heterodoxy is to be compressed into a few thousand words for the next quarterly.”

  The aspect of marriage with Dorion that most pleased Edith was that it would put her into the middle of village life. So cut off and lonesome as she had been, she did look forward to that with some pleasure. To hear him speak of christenings and marriages and know that she would be present almost made her think she could be happy as Mrs. Thorne. Helver had been acting so badly of late, coming daily to pester her and flirt with her, that she saw no possi­bility of his settling into a suitable mate. Dorion’s talk of his writing, too, made her aware of his mental superiority to not only herself but most of the village. She softened to the extent of smiling at him, and he relaxed almost visibly.

  “I’m glad you’ve given up the idea of St. Michael’s, Dorion. It is really too much to ask.”

  He noted her approval and was quick to follow this lead up. “It was conceited of me to think I could tend to their spiritual needs more than another. I shall undertake to give a hand to the chap who gets it, though.”

  “That would be nice of you.”

  “Then there is the Duke of Saymore, whom I shall en­deavour to help out in his private affairs.” Edith looked her disagreement with this. “Don’t scold me, Edith. I like him very much, but it is no secret he is—well, not so fine an example as he could be to his people. Why, even his be­havior to you is not quite what one could wish at times. We shall show him the true happiness to be found in the married state and try to bring him around to more proper behavior. I mean by example only. I shan’t preach to him. I know he dislikes that.”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “And we shan’t forget your mother, either. She must come often to visit us, and we shall come here, too, of course.”

  He talked on in this happy vein till Edith was half con­vinced he wasn’t as bad as she thought. She could find happiness, leading a useful life among the villagers, with an admired and respected husband. If only Dorion would give up once and for all the idea of taking over another parish, she could find some measure of contentment. Un­like her fiancé, she did not look forward to the visits from Helver with anything but dread, especially if they were to take the personal, intimate trend they had been taking. But she could manage that. Tell Helver outright he must not come too often. Dorion would hate it if he ever found out, but scandal must be avoided; and, if her husband was too much locked up in his ivory tower to see the danger, it was her duty to circumvent it.

  The Dame, Dorion and herself spent a quiet evening to­gether in a happier state than they had done before. As Helver did not come pouncing down from the Hall to call Thorne to account, he assumed he had escaped free from Carlton’s visit.

  * * *

  Chapter 16

  Helver knew the step he was considering to be a dangerous one and mulled it over in his mind that evening and the next day as he made his rounds with Forringer. He left an hour earlier than usual in the afternoon, returned to the Hall and dressed himself in visiting clothes to call at the Court. In his jacket of blue Bath cloth, bis­cuit-coloured trousers and his shiny Hessians, he was an impressive sight.

  “Such a determined face in such handsome dress! You look very much like a man with a purpose,” Travers joked him as he walked to the door. He looked a shade paler today, too.

  “I have somewhere to go,” he replied stiffly.

  Travers was a little worried to hear this. “Where?” she asked.

  “To the Durdens’.”

  “Oh. Doctor Thorne is still there, is he?”

  “I hope so. It is Thorne I have to see.”

  Travers' worries mounted to alarm. Alone of his family she knew there had been something troubling him lately. She had noticed his antipathy to Thorne and suspected its cause. Her whole desire was that he marry Edith, yet she did not wish to see him do anything foolish or downright wrong. She didn’t think he had rigged himself out in good clothes to impress Thorne.

  “Be careful,” she warned.

  “I am walking on eggs, Travers. Keep your fingers crossed for me.”

  “What is it, Helver? Tell me; it helps to talk things over with a cool, old head.”

  “You wouldn’t approve. I’m not sure I approve myself, but it must be done."

  “Helver, don’t . . ."

  “Not to worry. I’ll be back soon, one way or the other.”

  “It isn’t a duel!” she gasped. The “one way or the other” had a suggestion of “dead or alive” about it due to the grim tone in which it had been uttered.

  “Well,” he considered it a moment, “not a duel with pistols. A battle of wits, shall we say?”

  “Oh, well in that case you’re safe,” she said, breathing easier. “Though Thorne is a cunning rascal—up to any trick.”

  “Up to a few that surprised even me, and I thought I was the shadiest gent in the village.” With a wave and even an effort at a smile, he was off. Travers went up to her room and prayed for half an hour.

  Helver found Edith and Thorne together in the living room, writing a list of guests for the wedding. The Dame was busy in the stables, poking her fingers into rotting wood and estimating the cost of replacing it.

  “Your Grace,” Thorne said, jumping up to make him welcome with a handshake. He looked warily at Helver, trying to read his mood. He remarked the careful toilette and wondered what could account for it. Helver usually called in his working clothes, but he knew this afternoon was to be a turning point in his life and had honoured it in this fashion, perhaps with a view to making himself more attractive to Edith. Its effect was rather otherwise; she as­sumed he had taken such pains because he was off to chase some new flirt. She schooled herself to prefer Dorion’s plain black suit and not to compare their walks as they both came into the room.

  “Edith and I were just making out our list of wedding guests,” Thorne ran on nervously. “You will see the Duchess’s name leads all the rest. I have convinced the Dame that for this special occas
ion past enmities must be forgotten. It will be a first visit for your mother, I believe."

  “It will be a first invitation,” Helver answered, taking a seat between Edith and Thorne. He noticed they had been sitting on separate seats, Edith on the settee, Thorne on a chair. There wasn’t a loverlike instinct in the man’s whole body.

  “It will not be a last,” Dorion said. “I hope we may continue on sociable terms with the Hall after the mar­riage.”

  “How is your mother?” Edith asked.

  “Fine. A little lonely. Carlton came yesterday and took Annie home.”

  “Dorion said he was there but didn’t say Annie was leaving.”

  “For some reason, Carlton was anxious to get her home at once,” Helver said, with a hard stare at Dorion that sent the Doctor to inward trembling.

  So the news was out. “That child must be a trial to him,” Dorion said, quick to establish his innocence. “I was walking about the garden with her to relieve your aunt Sara of the burden and was very impressed with her child­ishness. I hadn’t been much alone with her before and hadn’t quite realized the extent of her condition. It is very sad.”

  “Yes, for in her position she might easily be taken ad­vantage of. They must exercise the greatest vigilance to protect her. She is not wise enough to realize the danger inherent in fortune hunters and will take up with anyone who is kind to her.”

  “No gentleman would consider her a possible bride!” Edith said. Helver and Dorion exchanged a speaking glance.

  “One would think her condition would protect her—and so it would, from a gentleman,” Helver replied.

  “Certainly,” Dorion added firmly.

  “So, Dorion,” Helver turned to face Thorne head on. “You are thinking of moving into the Vicarage? You will want a little work done there before you move your bride in."

  “You did mention redoing my study,” Thorne replied, happy to see the Lady Anne fracas pass from considera­tion. He assumed this was to be the end of it. A gentle, indirect hint that it was known, and a tacit warning about such carryings on. “I happened to notice some nice oak lumber at . . ."

  “You misunderstood me,” Helver corrected. “It was Eddie’s saloon I wished to redecorate for her. Decide what you want done to it, Eddie—anything within reason. Or for you, beyond reason. Would you like some chandeliers, a marble fireplace, new carpets . . ."

  Thorne’s eyes bulged, but Edith pokered up at once. “I think such refinements would look out of place in a vicarage. The room is well enough as it is.”

  “Not good enough for you, Eddie. Like your husband, I want the best for you.”

  “It is a trifle small,” Thorne began, foreseeing a whole new addition to the house.

  “Indeed, it is,” Helver agreed, with a wicked light com­ing to his eyes. “As this selfish fellow,” he laughed to show he joked, “has taken over your saloon, I think I must re­build you a new one.”

  Edith noticed Helver’s satirical face and frowned heavily. “If you insist on spending money on us, do as Dorion wishes with his study.”

  “But I want to do something for you. Dorion under­stands my feelings,” Helver said and knew from the avari­cious, calculating expression on Thorne’s face that he knew very well what was implied.

  “In that case you will leave it as it is,” Edith said.

  “As far as that goes, you will not likely be there for long. A gentleman of Doctor Thorne’s accomplishments will get on quickly in the world if he conducts himself wisely. At Salisbury, a cathedral city, and so close to us, there are better positions going than the living here.”

  Dorion’s heart speeded, and he looked at Helver with a new interest. “Those positions are largely a matter of pa­tronage,” he said.

  “What better patron than a duke?” Helver asked.

  “I own to some degree of ambition,” Thorne allowed. “I would like to do better for Edith than a small village vicar­age, and I believe my own background warrants it.”

  “And as you mentioned, you won’t even be able to set Eddie up a carriage on the small salary that goes with Tis­bury.”

  “I don’t mind walking,” Edith said at once. “And as far as that goes, Mama would always let us use her carriage. Dorion uses it all the time.”

  “Still, a better position at Salisbury would allow Dorion to take care of his wife for himself. A man likes to do that, you know, Eddie,” Helver informed her.

  “Have you a particular position in mind?” Edith asked directly.

  “No, but the Dean is getting on. He came to call a few weeks ago—I mentioned it to you, Eddie. I was forcibly struck at his infirmity. It is spoken of that he is close to retirement, is it not, Dorion? His leaving will open up va­cancies all down the line.”

  “I have heard it mentioned,” Dorion agreed. “I don’t think it likely the post would be offered to me, however.”

  “Oh, no, but lesser posts will be open, which is what I had in mind,” Helver said nonchalantly and sat back to peruse the list of wedding guests, or to pretend he was doing so.

  Dorion regarded him suspiciously a long moment, then spoke. “The Duchess did mention putting in a word for me.”

  “I shouldn’t think Mama has much influence,” Helver remarked innocently.

  “Not so much as yourself,” Thorne said, consideringly.

  “Actually, I believe the Bishop appoints the Dean. The Crown, through the Prime Minister, appoints bishops, but the Dean is appointed at the discretion of the Bishop,” Helver said.

  “The Don of Lazarus College is influential, too, and a good friend of mine,” Dorion mentioned. “A man who traffics a good deal in affairs of this nature is the Marquis of Abelmore. It was he who had Jackson made Archdeacon at Salisbury. A word from him would secure the post if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Ah, yes, Abelmore, a good chap,” Helver said. “Quite a friend of my papa’s. A pity Papa isn’t alive. But you’ll make your way without him, Dorion. Keep your eye out for a post in the diocese of Salisbury, and you’ll work your way up the ladder in time.” Helver was a little surprised to see Thorne’s ambitions ran so high. It was clearly the Deanery he was interested in, despite his lack of having performed any lesser offices.

  “I am not a young man to waste years in being a vicar of here and a rector of there. My having spent two years at the law before entering the church was a mistake. But it broadens the background. I think my case is rather a spe­cial one. It is not every dean who has his doctorate, with a double first.”

  “That’s true,” Helver allowed.

  “Abelmore is the fellow to approach, all right. I am not personally acquainted with him, however,” Dorion said.

  “I am not well acquainted with him myself.”

  “But he was a close friend of your father. That will mean something.”

  “You can’t expect Helver to approach him on the mat­ter, Dorion,” Edith interrupted. “Really, you have only been Vicar for a few days; it is nonsense to think you have a chance of becoming a dean.” Her relief at Dorion’s hav­ing settled down was routed. He was more ambitious than ever, unreasonably so, and why was Helver egging him on?

  Dorion shot a scowl at his fiancée, warning her to si­lence.

  “No, I shouldn’t like to do it,” Helver agreed.

  Dorion’s spirits had soared at the mention of becoming a dean. It was a position of prestige and influence and a very good base from which to fly to the Bishop’s seat. He longed to kiss the Regent’s hand, to live in a palace and be called “His Lordship.” To see it all float within his grasp and to float away again for lack of daring and persistence was not to be borne. He looked at his bride, and he looked at the Duke, his two aces, and he figured the most advan­tageous manner in which to play his hand. Saymore would not do it for himself, but he would do it for Edith—anything within reason, or beyond. If only the simple girl would urge him on; but, no, she sat twiddling a pen be­tween her fingers, not even looking at the Duke.

  �
�Well, Edith, it seems we are not to move to Salisbury,” he said. “It will be walking along the dusty roads of Tis­bury for you for a while yet.”

  “I don’t mind,” she repeated once again.

  “We mind it for you, do we not, Your Grace?” Dorion asked.

  “Certainly we who care for her would wish to see her better settled. But then you know, Doctor, it removes her from Tisbury, and I shouldn’t like that.” He looked at Edith and smiled lazily.

  She switched her head and applied pen to paper, feeling acutely uncomfortable.

  “It is not an impossible distance to travel,” Thorne began his urging. “Very close, as you mentioned yourself. Edith would come often to visit her mother, and I hope you would not abandon us entirely yourself.”

  “I don’t think the Dame would like me to come calling on a married daughter,” Helver pointed out.

  “I am not so jealous,” Thorne assured him. “You must always be welcome at the Deanery.”

  “But would I be welcome by Mrs. Thorne?” Helver asked, looking a question at Edith.

  She could scarcely believe the tenor of the conversa­tion. She glared at Dorion, waiting for him to express his outrage at Helver’s suggestion.

  “You and Edith have been friends from childhood. There is no reason friendship need go by the boards on my account,” Thorne said.

  “I am happy to hear that is your view,” the Duke said and looked towards Edith. He read the anger in that quar­ter and continued to Thorne. “It would take a deal of ef­fort to talk Abelmore around. I shouldn’t like to think it was all for nothing.” He turned back to Edith, looking pointedly at her now, letting his eyes wander over her from head to foot in a manner there was no pretending to misread.

  Edith stared at Dorion. He swallowed and sought for a way to deal with his two aces. The Deanery was close enough to taste, and he liked the taste very well. Saymore’s reputation was such that neither his intentions nor their seriousness were doubted for a moment. He had al­ways wanted Edith; he was now offering his help to get the position of Dean in return for continued friendship with her. More than friendship—an affair was what he meant, but perhaps some pretence at misunderstanding could be made so as not to turn Saymore off completely.