The Country Gentleman

by Hill, Fiona

  Instead, “Oh, la,” she said, when she could say anything, “I hope we shall not pine quite away. Surely there must be assemblies in Middlewich?” she suggested, suppressing a shudder at the thought of the sort of company which must likely be met with in such a place. “And how far distant is Chester? If none of the other families in the neighbourhood arrange dancing-parties and the like, I at least mean to. Anyhow, we are not so frightened of an evening at home as you may think, are we, Maria? I daresay we shall do very nicely, and become quite settled here,” she concluded—for the Highets might as well understand, if they did not already, that she and Maria were not fly-by-nights, but intended to make Linfield their home.

  Mrs. Highet received Anne’s cheerful, confident speech with a darkening of the brow that confirmed the latter’s suspicions of her motives. The conversation moved on to further inquiries and answers on the subject of local life, and the evening passed peacefully enough. The ladies withdrew when the meal was done to permit Mr. Highet his glass of Port; but he did not leave them alone above twenty minutes. After this the guests stopped only half an hour more; for though the clouds of the late afternoon had broke up again, and it was moonlight, the sky here was so prone to be overcast that one felt one ought to go when one could, rather than risk a dark journey. The party being small, the Linfield ladies escorted their guests to the front hall and good-byes were said there all round. The only additional circumstance of the visit worth noting (and some doubt might even attach to its worthiness: Miss Guilfoyle, for example, did not trouble to mention it later to Maria) was that when Mr. Highet and Miss Guilfoyle shook hands and said good night, Miss Guilfoyle felt a shock of pleasure in the touch of Mr. Highet’s warm hand which quite astonished her. Her face actually reddened (had anyone seen it—it is possible Mr. Highet saw it, though doubtful, since his own expression continued mild and bland) and she hastily thrust the guilty hand into the grip of her other almost as if to hide it.

  But that was all.

  The next five days at Linfield were taken up with tours of the tenant farms, inspection of Mr. Rand’s books, the arrival of the (quite useless) furniture from Holies Street, and of the (quite useful) Dolphim with it. Both ladies’ colds passed off quickly; which was fortunate, for they had several callers. Lady Crombie, notably, condescended to pass fifteen minutes enlightening them as to the various achievements of her progeny. The rector visited with his wife, and Mr. and Mrs. Hartley Ware of Stade Park (a very considerable property, Miss Veal afterwards remarked), and some few others, not one of whom seemed to have the least interest in any affair or topic which did not touch his own life directly. Anne’s evenings were taken up with reading about techniques of agriculture: “I dip freely,” she wrote to Lady Holland, “into my great uncle’s substantial collection of literary works on farming, and come up (as Fortune dictates) with piggeries, or seed drills, or muck.” All of which she wrote only for the joke of it, because in truth she found her reading very interesting, as she had always found interesting any branch of learning or science.

  On Sunday she suggested to Maria that they invite Mr. Mallinger, who at least read something, to dine with them; but Mrs. Insel seemed gently averse to this and Anne gave up the idea for the moment. Instead they merely went to church—where Mr. Samuels preached a quite unexceptionable sermon on Sacrifice—and returned to dine alone. The rain held off, the haying went forward, the Highets (except for a nod in church) stayed away. As for that unaccountable rush of pleasure Anne had felt when Mr. Highet clasped her hand, she soon dismissed it with a laugh and a mental shrug. Perhaps the hall had been draughty and what she really felt was a shiver. Anyhow, it was of no consequence. She determined to forget it. Even if she had not, an event occurred to chase it from her mind: Just before noon on the Monday, Dolphim came into her study bearing George, Lord Ensley’s, so familiar card.

  Five

  Anne went to Ensley with both arms out and was immediately enfolded in his well-remembered embrace.

  “My dearest,” breathed he into her golden hair. “My darling!”

  But strange—very strange—to say, this fond apostrophe, the low, vibrant timbre of the voice that uttered it, the faint scent of the soap the speaker’s laundrywoman used on his linen, and the fragrance of the boot-polish favoured by his valet, rather disturbed than reassured Anne. She stepped back (though pretending to do so to look at him) really to get away from him.

  “How do you do, Ensley?” she heard herself ask, not at all in the easy, affectionate tone she had intended to adopt. She allowed him, as they stood a little apart in the middle of the chintz-bedecked drawing-room, to retain her hands in his; but hers were cool and lifeless.

  “You seem angry at me,” was his answer. He scrutinized her. She turned her gaze uncomfortably aside. She had forgot how fine his blue eyes were, as well as how closely they could observe her. “Tell me why.”

  But, “I am not angry,” Anne said, at the same time firmly removing her hands from his. “Not at all. I was delighted to receive your note, and to know you were coming. You look well. How was your journey?”

  Again he ignored her question. Instead, “Delighted to know I was coming, perhaps, but now that you see me,” he persisted, “not so delighted. Why is Dolphim with you? What is this Linfield?”

  With a resentful sense that he had no business reading her so easily, “You mistake me,” she said. “Sit down, my dear. Is there any thing you would like fetched? Wine? Have you lunched? If I am subdued”—she drew him to a sofa opposite the French doors—“it is only that I am tired. I slept poorly last night. I could never be sorry to see you; that you know.” With this she stroked his hand a little, and smiled up into his eyes.

  But Ensley was not the least satisfied. “Anne, why have you removed here?” he demanded bluntly. “It is my marriage, is not it? You quitted London almost as soon as I told you. I can only surmise—”

  Miss Guilfoyle left off smiling and abruptly jumped to her feet. This time there was no pretending she was not angry. “You can only surmise,” she repeated scornfully, rounding on him. “Exactly, my lord. You can only surmise that your life is the spring of every event in mine. It does not occur to you that I have a life independent of yours”—this was very unfair to Ensley, who on the contrary loved her so well precisely because she did have such a life—“with its own incidents, and its own reversals. As it happens, my fortune has been lost.” And she went on, a little less heatedly, to explain the sinking of the Maidstone, and her inheritance of Linfield.

  “My poor girl.” When she had done, Ensley reached up a hand. Anne allowed herself to be drawn down into the comfort of his encircling arm, and leaned her head against his shoulder. His solidity, the scent of his hair oil, the brush of his lips atop her head all began to soothe her at last, and for some moments they merely sat still, while his lordship murmured indistinct consolation.

  Then, “But that blackguard, Dent!” he remarked. “What the devil did he mean staking all your money on such a risky business?”

  Anne, though not enthusiastically, defended Mr. Dent, pointing out he had ruined himself as well and (more persuasively) that he would be quite unable to pay her back, should she take him to law. “He would only end in the Marshalsea,” she finished listlessly. “I should not be a penny the richer for it. Anyhow,” she went on, vigour returning to her voice as fear of appearing pitiable before Ensley urged her to a show of spirits, “I rather enjoy Linfield. I never realized before how exhausting endless sociability can be. The house is not quite what I like, to be sure, but I look forward to setting my imprint upon it. And you cannot imagine what a pleasure it is to be able to read and read without interruption—no tiresome callers, no foolish parties—”

  “For the love of heaven, stop!” Ensley exploded at this point. This time he rose from the sofa and began to pace nervously over the room, speaking as he went. “I see your face, yet you expect me to believe you are happy here? I find you in a house of which the kindest thing that can be sa
id is that it is clean, and you ask me to imagine your pleasure in improving it? I, who have known and loved you ten years—ten years, Anne”—he stopped to turn a stormy, serious face upon her—“am to credit that you feel relieved, refreshed, disencumbered by your removal from intelligent society? Be angry with me if you will, but at least do me the kindness to acknowledge I cannot be turned away by such gammon as that!”

  Anne stood. It was painful to argue with Ensley but impossible to admit he was right. “I do not know why you should imagine,” she began, “that the only intelligent society in England is to be found in London. A person may live in the country and yet pursue all manner of knowledge. A thinking life can, thank God, be lived in any—”

  But he had heard all he could bear. He strode to her, seized both her hands, and begged, “Come home with me, Anne. For the love of common sense; for love of me; by all that is, and has been, and always will be between us, come home.”

  Anne had begun to listen raptly. She was silent for a moment, as if expecting him to say more, then tilted her lovely face up to him and asked, simply, “How?”

  He had already started to smile at her again, reassured by the return of life to her hands, and the lightening of her upturned brow. “There is nothing easier in the world, nothing more natural,” he said. “I shall take a house for you and you will live in it. I shall give you all you need, and you will want for nothing. Everything will go on between us just as it was, and all this”—he waved a hand at the neat, genteel parlour—“will vanish like a dream.”

  Miss Guilfoyle was still gazing up at him, but something had changed in her eyes. Poor Ensley could not read them fully at first, but he saw at least that his plan did not suit her. The fact was, something had gone slightly wild inside Anne Guilfoyle’s orderly head. Though she knew as well as she had ever known—knew incontrovertibly and with every ounce of logic in her—that Ensley could not, must not, and would not marry her, she also knew (quite suddenly, and utterly against all sense) that she wanted him to do so, must have him do so, and would never forgive him if he did not. She had never known two things so mutually exclusive so perfectly well in her life. From the battlefield where these two ideas warred with each other, she was able to wrest for now only the following rather homely words: “Ensley, is that all you can suggest?”

  He blinked at her, innocent and nonplussed. “If you can think of a better solution,” he at last brought out carefully, “I shall be glad to hear it.”

  In the seconds before his lordship answered Anne had recovered, if not her reason, at least her sense of fairness. He had never promised to marry her, never even hinted at such a thought. On the contrary, it had always been understood between them he would not. How reprehensible in her, then, to blame him for not offering now! How peculiar; how unreasonable. She struggled for self-command and gained enough to say, in a voice tolerably calm, “No, it is not that I know a better solution, only that—” She reminded herself of his countless kindnesses to her, the two or three thousand evenings they had passed together. “Dear Ensley, you must understand I cannot like the idea of living on your bounty,” she resumed. “It would not suit me at all.” She strove to soften and sweeten her words by her tone, succeeding a little. “It is better for me to stay here. You will come to see me often, and I shall pass every minute of the two months allotted me in London. I daresay we shall succeed, over the year, in passing quite four or five months together. It is not ideal, but it is the best we can do.”

  Encouraged by her tone (though still wondering what that was he had seen in her eyes), Ensley remonstrated, “But how can you characterise such a plan as ‘living on my bounty’? Is not everything I have yours? Would you not do the same for me if our situations were reversed?”

  “If I did, would you accept it?” Anne inquired, with a touch of her former sharpness.

  He ignored this and spoke on, “If you fear my doling money out to you, let me give it you all at once. A house, an easy competence, enough to keep Maria and all your servants—I shall give it you once for all, and you will administer it as you like.”

  “You cannot afford such a thing,” was her first, smiling objection. Preposterous as it was, she admired the generosity of his idea.

  “But indeed I can, that is just the beauty of it. Inside three months I shall be married, and whatever I had of straitened circumstances will be over,” Ensley declared warmly. “It will mean nothing to me to endow you so, the merest—” But he broke off as he saw storm clouds in her face again, and asked, “What is it?”

  “Can you think,” Miss Guilfoyle snapped, backing away from him as if he had been Lucifer himself, “can you think I would consent to take that woman’s money? Live on her money? Can you think it?”

  But Ensley only pointed out, mildly and simply, “Why not? I am.”

  “You—” But, making an heroic push, she forced the angry words down and answered instead, “That is your choice, sir, but it will not do for me. I think, if you will excuse me, it will be better if we do not talk any more just now. Perhaps to-morrow. How long do you stop?”

  “I had hoped to set out again tonight, taking you with me,” Ensley muttered ruefully.

  “Can you spare a night or two?”

  He looked uncertain. They both knew he was thinking of his duties to Lady Juliana. But he said, “Mais oui, pour faire plaîsir à ma Minerve.”

  “Good,” she said shortly. “Then I should like very much for you to go away now and come again in the morning. I had meant to put you up here, of course, but this is a small house as you see, and I need some time alone. Will you mind very much?”

  “I am yours to command,” he bowed.

  Even this empty formula grated on her; she murmured, violently subduing an impulse to scream, “Then please do go away. I am not myself now.” She put a hand to her temple. “My head aches, and I should be sorry…sorry to say good-bye to you in this state.” Then, more naturally, she added, “Pray forgive me.” She put her little hand into his and whispered, “I do not understand myself, to say truth.”

  Ensley, though he did not like it, was obliged to accept this arrangement for the moment. He bowed again, kissed her gently on the forehead, and walked out of the house.

  He left behind him a woman who had never known such confusion. Had she blamed Ensley for taking her for granted? Very well then, witness his headlong pursuit of her into Cheshire, testimony to the reverse. Had she other complaints to lay at his door? She searched their history together. He had comforted her in her grief, rejoiced with her in her small triumphs, puzzled with her over her difficulties, petty or great, and helped her through. He had been unfailingly tender, affectionate, kind. In this business of his marriage, he had done only what they agreed he must do. And yet she was angry at him! That, at least, she could no longer deny. More than angry: She was furious, outraged, inflamed. How dare he suggest—? How dare he offer—?

  But when her thoughts had reached this point she obliged herself to calm down. She climbed the stairs and shut herself into one of the small sitting-rooms there. A tolerably cosy room, she noticed. She made herself think of the furnishings in an effort to regain her tranquillity. She lifted the lid of a small mahogany box sitting on a Pembroke table and discovered a sticky cluster of long-forgotten comfits. The box made a pleasant, clopping sound as it dropped shut, and she opened and closed it a while, at the same time resisting a rising wave of frustrated tears.

  “I will be calm,” she said aloud. “I will be calm.”

  Then she recommenced her meditations, starting with What did she want from Ensley? His love? He did love her, or else why dash up here? Respect? He respected her most sincerely—or why ask her, as he often did, to write his speeches? Did she wish him to understand her? Who understood her better? Did she desire—

  She desired him to marry her. That was it. Wriggle away from it as she might, this was what she came back to. She wished him to marry her. But he could not marry her. And anyhow, she had always said she did
not particularly wish to be married. Wedlock seemed to her to carry very few privileges, and the loss of a great deal of liberty. She did not want children: People under the age of sixteen could seldom hold her attention long, and it seemed rather clumsy to have a baby and wait sixteen years for it to become interesting when there were so many adults about ready-made. She would be able to live with Ensley, to be sure; but the truth was, she liked her solitary life, and viewed its theoretical disruption with dismay. Society would no longer look askance upon her connexion to his lordship—but the society she cared about already did not, and she didn’t (she told herself) give two pins for the rest.

  Then what tormented her so?

  It was a measure of the keenness of her distress that she actually went to Maria Insel to ask for help. In whatever concerned herself and Ensley, her policy in the past had always been quite the opposite: If some thing really puzzled her in his behaviour, if a decision regarding him teased her dreadfully, she might—might—set an oblique question to the discreet Celia; but she never unburdened her heart to her, nor even permitted anyone else to see that she was in doubt. This grew, not from a lack of faith in her friends, but from a proud desire to manage her own affairs. Anyway, she knew Maria thought on principle that every woman ought to marry, and therefore could not be impartial.

  But Maria was here, and Celia (who had sent to say she had another obligation but would try to come soon) was not. Therefore…

  After luncheon, she invited Mrs. Insel to walk in the considerable park that lay between Linfield and the road. The day was warm, the sky softly grey, and Maria, who had tactfully been busying herself with a variety of household tasks during the last week, was glad of an opportunity to explore the grounds. So the two ladies set off at a brisk pace, following a small path into the woods and turning at random as it intersected with other paths, then carelessly following these.