The Country Gentleman

by Hill, Fiona

  Maria was protesting, “But was not it insured? Surely Lloyd’s…?”

  Dent shook his head. “I assumed as you do…The owners assured me…But in fact—” He fell silent, then spoke again. “Naturally I reserved some part of your funds to meet your needs while the ship was yet at sea. Of which funds, some four— Some four—” Mr. Dent’s voice caught in his throat; he coughed, drank, coughed again. “Some four hundred pounds still remain.”

  “Four hundred?” Anne echoed, almost inaudibly. It was a pittance, a nothing. Twenty pounds a year to live on, and Maria to keep as well, not to mention—

  “If I had any money,” Mr. Dent was saying, “God knows I would give it you gladly. When I think of Sir James’ trust in me, when I recollect—” Mr. Dent shuddered and could not go on. Anne understood for the first time that his eyes were pink from crying. Probably this was not the first call of this nature he had made that morning. Her initial flare of anger at him softened: If she knew anything, she knew that Mr. Dent wished her nothing but good. If he had erred, he had done so from a generous wish to enrich her, nothing else. The realization of what his feelings must be eased hers a little.

  “Dear sir,” she said in a low tone, “I beg you will not distress yourself. I am fully conscious of your many kind acts—”

  But as Mr. Dent looked like weeping again, she stopped. “I recommend to you, Miss Guilfoyle,” he said, swallowing hard, “that you remove to Northamptonshire at once and take up residence at Overton again. Your Uncle Frederick will, I am certain, gladly receive you, and I believe that if you remove at once, I can persuade the owners of this house to restore to you the balance…” His voice faded away again before he added, as delicately as possible, “You see, to stop here any longer would be a gross extravagance, given your—given your position.” Here Mr. Dent once more produced his capacious handkerchief and this time buried his whole face in its folds.

  Maria had never ceased to hold Anne’s hand. Now she squeezed it valiantly and whispered, “Do not think of me, my dear. I shall do very well.” For, as anyone could tell from the colour of Mrs. Insel’s face, she lived entirely dependent of Miss Guilfoyle.

  Anne straightened. “Nonsense,” she said. “I had rather take up pickpocketing than live with Frederick. No doubt he would take me in—and you too,” she added, with an answering squeeze to Maria, though in truth she doubted it very much, “But it is not to be thought of. Mr. Frederick Guilfoyle deeply insulted my father, my mother, and me. I will not return to Overton.”

  What she was really thinking as she made this proud declaration, was that she had to provide not only for herself and Maria, but for Dolphim, and her abigail, Lizzie, and Cook, and Mrs. Dolphim, who kept house, and the parlour-maid, Minna, and John Coachman, and that little Sally he had just taken to wife, and…The world seemed to waver before her. To think she had waked that morning with nothing on her mind save breakfast!

  “If you would consider it,” Mr. Dent was saying, his voice brimming with anguished shyness, “Mrs. Dent and I would be extremely honoured by your presence in our household. Both your presences,” he added to Mrs. Insel, though obviously wondering at the same time he said it where on earth he would put these ladies should they accept. “It is only the most humble cottage in—”

  “Bless you, Mr. Dent,” Anne broke in firmly, “but we could not think of so burdening you. We will never forget your generous offer.”

  “But in that case,” Mr. Dent objected, though ceasing to urge his most recent suggestion, “where in the world will you live?”

  Anne was silent, thinking. Could they traipse about like gypsies, stopping first with one friend, then another? It might answer for the summer, but—how would she pay the servants, how cover the expense of travelling? And how long could—

  “Cheshire,” Maria Insel declared.

  “My dear?”

  “We must take your great uncle’s house in Cheshire.”

  “Gracious God! I had completely forgot it,” Anne exclaimed.

  “I too. Since this morning, I have no thought but…” Mr. Dent subsided. The truth was, unless his son assisted him, he was destitute.

  Maria, for the moment the only one of the three not in danger of dissolving into tears, inquired as calmly as she could whether Mr. Dent had ever visited Linfield.

  Mr. Dent had not. Mr. Herbert Guilfoyle had been in the habit of coming up to town once every five years (the ladies heard this number with a shiver) to transact his business with Mr. Dent. In the most recent years, advancing age having made travel inadvisable, Mr. Guilfoyle had sent his steward, an excellent man by the name of Rand, if Mr. Dent’s memory served him.

  But did Mr. Dent know anything of the property?

  Only that it was a fair one, well run from the look of the proceeds (here Mr. Dent named a good figure of income likely to be seen in a year), a dairy farm in chief, he rather thought, with some dozen or fifteen tenant houses. Mr. Guilfoyle, a younger son and a lifelong bachelor, had bought it as a youth and there resided till his decease.

  But the house? Had it a park? Gardens? A view? Any amenities?

  Mr. Dent confessed his ignorance, but added that, since Mr. Guilfoyle had been an admirer of Robert Owen, the house was at the least likely to be healthful in its situation, and well maintained.

  But were there gentry in the neighbourhood? A manor house, a squire? How distant was it from Chester? Were there servants?

  Of all these questions, Mr. Dent could answer only the last, and that vaguely: There were some servants, he did not know how many. Mr. Rand, he trusted, was still in charge, for Mr. Dent had orders to pay him from the estate.

  At this point, Anne at last recovered her tongue enough to ask, “And Mr. Henry Highet, who is to be deprived by our coming—if we come—of a rich inheritance; what do you know of him?”

  Mr. Dent knew nothing; a country gentleman, he speculated, shrugging his shoulders.

  But what, in that case, did Mr. Highet know of Anne Guilfoyle?

  Mr. Dent was equally uninformed on this point. Whether the gentleman was acquainted with the terms of the will or no, he could not say.

  “We thought,” Mrs. Insel hesitantly put forward, “you see, we thought that if he did know, perhaps he might not be so—so rejoiced to meet us as one hopes a new neighbour will be.”

  But Anne spoke before Mr. Dent could pronounce an opinion on this head. “If he prove uncivil, we shall pay him in kind,” she said briskly. Maria was relieved to hear in her tone something of her wonted vigour. For the first time in half an hour, she released Anne’s hand. “If civil, then we likewise. Perhaps, at all events, we shall not need to stop there very long. Perhaps”—her voice began to fluctuate—“we need not go at all. We must reflect. We must consider.”

  She wants to talk to Ensley, thought Maria.

  Mr. Dent stood. “If you will forgive me—”

  The ladies, standing also, set him at liberty to go. He went, but not without turning to Anne, taking her hand, and saying in a very low tone, “Reflect and consider indeed, dear ma’am, but remember also that each day in this house…”

  But he could not bring himself to finish his sentence, and hurried away.

  Two

  Lady Celia Grypphon was famed among the London ton on three accounts: one, the brilliance of the conversation at her small, select dinners; two, the excellence of the sweetmeats at same; and three, the absolute thrall under which she held Charles, Lord Grypphon, her husband. Her ladyship was near forty years of age, my lord not yet twenty-nine. The former was small and pinched, the latter broad and easy. She was not pretty nor showed any sign of ever having been so (nor, in fact, had ever been so), while he, though overlarge perhaps, was possessed of a set of distinctly attractive, rough, and friendly features, and a high, pleasant colour. Her ladyship was (even her closest friends admitted it) impatient and frequently ill-tempered. Her lord repaid her, and every one, with unfailing kindness and good humour. She ignored him. He doated on her. She set
him down. He smiled upon her. In short, theirs was a marriage of which every one understood the wife’s share, but no one the husband’s.

  Yet Lady Grypphon was far from being a mere shrew. On the contrary, she often showed her friends a ready generosity with both sympathy and—when need was—money, that many who are publicly more affable would do well to emulate. Her tact was such that both men and women frequently confided in her, unburdening their souls in great secrecy and anguish. Then, confessions made, they found themselves calmed by her shrewd good sense and her apparent invulnerability to shock. More than one subsequently guided himself by her sound advice. She had won many friends in this way; and yet, even among these, all were baffled by the incomprehensible hold she kept upon the gentle Charles. They could not, it appeared, imagine he liked her for the same reason they did; and so the marriage remained a mystery.

  Anne Guilfoyle liked Lady Grypphon particularly because she had been among the first in the beau monde to regard Anne and Ensley as an established pair. She never invited one to dine without the other. There was no trace of irony or condescension in her voice when she met Anne in the Park or at a shop and, as was her invariable habit, politely inquired how Ensley did. Moreover, her kindness to his lordship was marked: Often she had bestirred herself to whisper his name in an influential ear, or to introduce him to some person of consequence, and so further his career. There was no better means than this to ingratiate oneself with Anne. Altogether, Celia was one of her oldest and most valued friends.

  And yet Anne was in no humour to see her tonight. Celia might have an excellent heart, but it took so much energy and resolve to penetrate to it (especially on such an evening as this, when the company was to be rather larger and even more brilliant than usual) through the thicket of black wit and sharp observation she threw up round it that Anne determined actually to avoid her and seek out Ensley. Dressing for the evening, she thought herself much recovered since the afternoon, though still tender and anxious and very far from understanding how she must meet her difficulties.

  “How pretty you look,” said Maria, standing up as Anne came into the drawing-room. “Turn round.”

  Miss Guilfoyle obediently turned, showing the Princess Charlotte drapery over the shoulders of her silver satin gown. Mrs. Insel was, as usual, in lavender.

  “Lovely,” said Maria.

  “I am pale,” said Anne. “Dreadfully.”

  “Lovely,” the loyal Maria repeated, wistfully fingering the silver satin as if, after tonight, they might neither of them ever wear satin again. Anne caught her wistful look and hurried her to the waiting carriage.

  Lord and Lady Grypphon occupied a large, elegant brick house in Portman Square. Her ladyship, lately avid for all things Oriental, had fitted it out in hand-painted Chinese wall-papers, and filled it with highly worked brass tables, curious scrolls, and exotic poufs. Miss Guilfoyle and Mrs. Insel stepped into the Pekin Saloon together, but Anne was at once urgently called to join a hot debate on the Alien Bill, while Maria faded quietly in the other direction. Anne entered the fray with a sense of relief, glad to think for a moment of something other than her own reverses, but even as she vigorously refuted Sylvester Frane’s contention that the Bill was poorly written, her eyes frantically scanned the swelling company for Ensley. She had sent a note round to his house already that afternoon, but he had never answered; she supposed he must have been working (he had gone from Sidmouth’s office to become an Undersecretary in Lord Liverpool’s, and the Prime Minister himself had recently, though subtly, suggested he might soon rise to Second Secretary). He did sometimes work straight through the evening; but Celia had said nothing of his sending his regrets, so Anne told herself he must arrive soon.

  He did arrive, though not particularly soon—the company was just on the point of going to the table—and with Lady Juliana Canesford so close upon his heels that Anne almost thought they had come in together. Lady Juliana, moreover, clung so maddeningly near to him that he could not avoid taking her in to dinner. He gave Anne a discreet glance of complicity and despair as he offered the silly girl his arm. Anne was left to go in with Tom Maitland, who was certain to drink himself into helpless idiocy before the second remove.

  And indeed, her dinner partner very shortly too foxed for conversation, Miss Guilfoyle found nothing better to interest her in the dining-room than a very excellent cold sole pie for which she had, alas, no appetite. Ensley was on the same side of the long table as herself, but at the other end, so that he might have been in France for all the good he did her. At last, after what seemed an eternity, the ladies withdrew. Anne was able, as she went past Ensley, to whisper into the ear Lady Juliana had finally been obliged to relinquish, “I must speak with you privately.”

  Ensley moved back a little from the table and smiled down upon her. He was as tall and as fair as on the night they had met at Almack’s, but in other ways the years that had gone by since could be seen in his face. His pale, crinkly hair had begun to creep up his forehead, and a fine net of reddish lines showed at the corners of his blue eyes. Still, it was an intelligent face, and a handsome, amiable one, and Miss Guilfoyle could not even tonight look upon it without a thrill of pride and fondness. Now Ensley put a hand lightly on her wrist and murmured, still smiling, “Mind-reader! I must speak with you. Excuse yourself in twenty minutes and go to Charles’ library. I’ll be there.”

  Anne turned and followed the other ladies to the drawing-room. Already she felt better. Even if Ensley had no brilliant solution to suggest, it would be such a relief to tell him, to hear his kind, sympathetic murmur and rest her head against his shoulder. When her mother had died he had been consolation itself. As she counted the minutes till she could quit the drawing-room and steal upstairs, she remembered to wonder what exactly it could be that he had to tell her. It must be about rising to Second Secretary. Perhaps he had been with Liverpool that afternoon. And her spirits lifted even higher as she thought of the figure he would cut, the speeches they would write together, the fine work he could do.

  She was thinking this as she crept into Grypphon’s library. Ensley had reached it ahead of her. The night being hardly cooler than the day, she discovered him standing by the open windows, his back to her, trying to get a breath of air, she supposed. She walked noiselessly halfway across the room before he knew she was there and turned round.

  “It’s Liverpool, isn’t it?” she demanded at once, glad to defer her bad news some few minutes longer. “Has he advanced you?”

  But to her surprise, Ensley looked first confused, then unhappy. He had not come away from the windows but stood there with his hands behind his back—twisting and wringing them, she knew from long acquaintance with his habits. “What is it?” she asked sharply.

  “It is nothing to do with government, Anne,” he said at last, very gently. She did not like this gentleness, which seemed to presage something painful. She went to a settee covered in dark Morocco and abruptly sat.

  “What is it, then?”

  Ensley came nearer to her and brought his hands forward, where he proceeded (for a change) to squeeze and twist them in full view. “I—” He went to the door, which she had left ajar, and shut it. Then he sat down beside her and carefully took up one of her hands; his own were damp and cold. “My dear, I have been obliged to offer for Lady Juliana. I am so sorry not to have been able to tell you before, but I—”

  “I beg your pardon?” asked Anne. She had heard him, but what he said seemed not quite to make sense. “You have been obliged to offer what to Lady Juliana?”

  Ensley blinked and began to knead her hand. “Marriage, dear Anne. I was waiting to know whether she would ac—”

  Anne gave her head a violent shake, as if to clear her brain of dust, or cobwebs. “Forgive me, sir, but—Lady Juliana who, exactly?”

  “Canesford.” He seemed a little taken aback. “Lady Juliana Canesford. Lord Balwarth’s daughter. I thought you were aware…” His voice trailed away, but he reached up to Anne�
��s cheek, cupped it lightly and turned her face towards him. An instant later he took his hand away and looked down at his fingers in mild amazement, then again at her.

  To her infinite chagrin, Anne realized she had been crying. It was her tear that had amazed him. Making a tremendous effort, she resolved to govern her feelings and regained, after a moment, a certain measure of self-command. “I wish you very happy,” she said, her voice low but fairly steady.

  “Anne—”

  “Indeed I do.” Angrily, she dashed another tear away from the same troublesome eye. “You must forgive me. I was not expecting…” She obliged herself to smile and to look full at him. The treacherous tears dried up. “Are you satisfied with the match? Did you—” She had been going to ask about the settlement, but the words froze in her throat. She found she could not look long at Ensley’s face without risking tears again, and so stood and strolled to the window. The room gave upon the Square. A crowd of carriages was rolling up opposite. “Another of Lady Mufftow’s crushes,” she observed, turning back a little to Ensley.

  Now he rose and came near her. “My dear Anne, this changes nothing between us. You know it does not. Except that I must play the bridegroom for two or three months— But that you understand. The wedding is fixed for October. My dear girl—” He broke off, and muttered, “My father is in worse and worse straits. I could not delay—”

  “But sir, no, of course not. You have done perfectly right; indeed you ought to have done it before.” She did not know where the words were coming from, or how she could say them so reasonably, but was only grateful to find them coming. “We have often spoke of this; you know my thoughts. It is only— You will think me a great goose, but I had not realized it was to be Lady Juliana. She is—” Again she faltered, but soon continued, “She is very young. Does she quite understand the nature—the nature—” But here she found she could not go on.