by Vanessa Gray
Then, of course, followed the thought — what would she do with it? She barely remembered Highmoor. She remembered the great uncle with the powdered wig and brocade waistcoat. She had a dim recollection of hot gingerbread, in a vast room that must have been the kitchen. But she had heard only today that the house had a fine prospect, and presumably she could live there. If she did remove to Highmoor, what would she do there? Her family would stay here, and here she was needed. Needed by all from Lady Rothwell down to Cook, and loved by the people she saw every day. What was there more in life that she could want?
Highmoor, while it was pleasant to think of as her own place, yet right now rattled emptily in her thoughts.
There was no point in going over her ideas like a squirrel in a cage. She snatched up her shawl, conscious only of the need to be alone. She paused near Lady Rothwell’s sitting room door with the commendable intention of telling her stepmother where she was going, and paused, forming her words in advance. The door to the sitting room was ajar, and Chloe hesitated too long.
Lady Rothwell’s voice floated clearly through the air. “Sophy,” said Lady Rothwell fretfully, “don’t bother me now. I am writing a letter to Sister Hensley in London, and I wish to get this off today.”
Sophy’s voice came through also, curiously adult. “I guess you will probably tell Aunt that we are coming to London in time for the Little Season.”
Lady Rothwell said, crisply, “That remains to be seen. No, I am not writing my sister about that.”
Chloe was rooted to the floor. She could not interrupt, for it would indicate that she had overheard too much, nor could she pull herself away.
Sophy’s voice came clear as a bell. “Well then, you’re sending for Francis. Is that right?”
Lady Rothwell laughed, but said no more. Chloe, cheeks burning because she had been eavesdropping, fled from the hallway as though she expected either Sophy or Lady Rothwell to come out upon that instant. She hurried down the stairs and out of the house. She paid no heed to where she was going but crossed the broad lawn, seeking with the instinct of a wounded animal the shelter of the forest. In this case the shelter was only a small copse of birch trees at the foot of the lawn, but she was glad to be out of reach of curious eyes.
Her unalloyed joy at having a house of her own, a legacy from her unknown uncle, was tarnished around the edges by Sophy’s remarks about suitors flocking to wed not Chloe, but her legacy.
Not only Sophy’s cruel words but Edward’s, as well, had cut. They had implied that, no matter whether Chloe had stayed for the entire Season in London or not, she would never have attracted a suitable match.
Her thoughts ran in undisciplined channels, the familiar ruts having been left behind long ago. Since the announcement that she now owned Highmoor, it seemed to her as though she had entered a strange country, in which all landmarks had vanished or unaccountably changed shape.
She reached the end of Rothwell land, where Davenant land began. She looked beyond, where the path disappeared into a hedge, reminding herself that this, at least, was real.
She could not from here see the towers of Davenant Hall. Sir Richard was probably just now a very happy man. If his cousin’s information was correct, by now Richard would have offered for one of the three ladies he was reported to be hanging after in London. Chloe had no doubt that if Richard offered marriage he would be immediately accepted. She could not imagine any one refusing Richard.
She shivered, and thought she must turn back before it started to rain. Glancing at the sky, however, she saw that no cloud marred the bright blue heavens over her head. The storm raged only in her emotions.
3
Sir Richard Davenant, at that moment was, if not exactly unhappy, yet far from feeling elated. As a matter of fact, his forthcoming marriage existed at the moment only in Dame Rumor’s eye. Although many people envied him his choice among at least three of the leading belles of London, yet he had left them all and turned his back on London. This day, he was spending his first day in five years at Davenant Hall.
His factor, having been in Davenant service for many years, was efficient and honest. Richard had no complaints about the management of his estate in his absence. Glancing over figures, ledgers, and plats of the various farms under his ownership, he found everything in order. He dismissed his factor with praise for his endeavors, and wandered through the house.
The Holland covers had been removed, and now Richard could see signs of absentee ownership. There was nothing really wrong with the house or its furnishings. His staff had taken care that moth had not eaten nor dust corrupted. But it seemed as though a film lay over everything. Richard even ran a finger along the top of a marquetry cabinet to prove to himself that there was dust, but his finger left no trace. All in his mind, he reflected sourly. Richard was ordinarily a cheerful person, tolerant and possessed of maturity arising from self-wisdom. He knew he had a tolerable presence, was not ugly, and possessed certain graces. His fortune was ample, though not spectacular. His experience was wide, having spent five years on the Continent diving into untrodden ways as suited his fancy.
He was not a vain man, but a realistic one. He had very little doubt that had he offered for any of the three ladies whose names had been coupled with his, he would have been readily accepted. None of the three was in her first Season, and in fact had been out for two or three years.
As he walked through the corridors of his own house, peering into rooms, spending time in others, part of his mind made note of items wanting attention. The furnishings seemed sterile, without life. His tastes had been changed by his experience abroad, and while the furniture was good and in fine condition, yet much of it did not please him.
He blamed his malaise on his surroundings, at coming home and revisiting the scenes of his youth. But yet there was a deeper reason, and he knew it well.
At length he faced it. He had returned to London with the idea that he was of mature years, and must, for the sake of his family name, contract a matrimonial alliance. He had spent only a short time in London, hardly long enough for Mrs. Hensley to write to her sister, and yet his welcome in the salons of the ladies who made London society what it was, was instantaneous and warm.
The entire field of matrimonial eligibles was laid out for his inspection, and he had been unable to make up his mind.
There were three ladies, at the end, who were clearly open to offers. Richard was fully aware that they expected — indeed, all London expected — that he would offer for one or another of them within the next fortnight. But, at the end, he could not bring himself to choose. He told himself that it was simply a matter of making up his mind — and he needed to get away to think. Hence, he gave swift instructions to make Davenant Hall ready for his arrival, and he followed hard upon the heels of the messenger.
Richard was a man of direct action, and he had given much thought to the qualifications he would require. He had seen marriage as a duty, and a project to be accomplished. Yet there was something missing, and he had, in what could only be considered cowardly fashion, left London and come down to Kent, on the pretence of needing to arrange his thoughts. He was not getting very far with the task.
Summoning Dall, his butler, he informed him that he was going to pay a courtesy call on Lady Rothwell. With a half quizzical smile, he said, “I suppose Lady Rothwell still lives?”
Dall agreed that Lady Rothwell indeed still lived. Lord Rothwell had been gone these five years. That left Miss Chloe Rothwell and the new Lord Rothwell. Strange it was to think of fat Edward, who had followed Chloe and Richard on their cross-country jaunts up the stream to fish, his fat little legs unable to keep up with the others, as Lord Rothwell.
“You said, Miss Rothwell? Miss Chloe Rothwell?” Richard demanded.
“Yes, Sir Richard.”
“Then she has not married?”
The butler agreed. Sir Richard turned his winning smile upon his butler and said he would be back for dinner. He started down the d
rive. He chose to walk when he could, and had not even thought of riding.
Partway down the drive, memory jogged his elbow. He turned abruptly to the right and dove into a path almost hidden by brambles. The old shortcut had grown over, and he found his way hard going. He would have to send one of the men with clippers to clear the path if he were going to travel this way again. Once out of the thicket, however, the way cleared, and he quickened his pace. By the time Chloe had reached the rustic bridge, still out of sight from Richard’s view, he was striding on a path that would lead him directly to the bridge. He breathed deeply of the fresh morning air.
It was good to be home again! By the time he had followed the path where it dipped into a valley and began to rise on the far side, he decided he was a fool to leave Davenant Hall again. At the top of the far rise, a small copse held some fine trees. It did not look quite the same as he remembered, and he stopped, puzzled. The trees had thinned themselves and saplings still stood as dead trunks. These too would have to be cleared out. There was much work to do here!
Beyond the copse at the end of the path was a gate, separating Davenant land from Rothwell land. With the familiarity of an old friend, he unlatched the gate and strode through. There should be, he remembered, a stream flowing right here, and a bridge ...
The bridge was where he expected it to be, but it had an added ornament. As he drew near, he could see the slender figure leaning on the wooden rail, almost invisible in her gray morning gown, the color of early mist. He would not have seen her had it not been for her buttercup-yellow shawl.
He stopped for a moment, hesitating, wondering whether he would be welcome on Rothwell land after all these years. He was conscious of being an intruder, and yet something in the abject posture of the damsel at the bridge reached him, and he could see that the lady was in obvious distress of mind. Conscious of a rising tumult in his chest, he strode rapidly toward the bridge. The only thought in his mind was to help. But memory, in its subtle way, whispered things in his ear, and although he did not listen, yet he was aware of a meeting which might be — diverting.
He stopped at the edge of the bridge, not to startle her. He spoke then, saying, “Is there anything I can do?”
She was very close to him, so close he could see the woven threads in her shawl, but her face was still hidden. As he spoke, she turned, startled by his approach, and lifted large gray eyes to his face. The appeal in them, naked and distressed, was sufficient to move him strongly. In fact, he thought later, he was moved as by a thunderclap. He recognized her at once.
Richard, strongly exercised, cried out, “Chloe!”
“Richard?” she quavered, and held out both hands in appealing welcome. She found she could not speak. There were too many things to say, and not enough time — nor the right time — to say them.
For him, the years of absence from Davenant Hall, the years of traveling the highways of Europe, and the byways, had fallen away as though they had never been. Even his recent weeks in London, had you asked him, were erased from the tablets of memory. Chloe stood before him, the trusted, dear friend of his childhood, and he knew the source of his restlessness. He had come home — all unknowing, but following a sure instinct — home to Chloe Rothwell.
His first impulse was to share with her his new understanding, as he had long ago shared all his thoughts and dreams. But being the kind of man he was, thinking of others before himself as a matter of course, he managed to keep a rein on his tongue and hold back the words that first occurred to him.
Chloe stood before him, her hands imprisoned in his. She made no attempt to draw away, nor even to hold back the tears that ran freely down her cheeks. She was the most appealing, the most unhappy, the most —
“Richard,” she stammered, “you’ve come home. They said”
Restraining his first, nearly overpowering impulse to fold her in his arms and bid her weep on his shoulder, he merely tightened his grip on her fingers and said with concern, “What is the matter? Some tragedy? Has Lady Rothwell ...?”
“No,” Chloe managed at last to say, “it is only my own foolishness. But you’re back! And I’m told I must congratulate you!”
It was a measure of Richard’s heightened state of mind that he at once took Chloe’s congratulations for his own acuteness of perception in seeing that Chloe was the one woman in the world for him. It did not occur to him that Chloe was speaking of his forthcoming marriage to one of the three in London. They had been wiped from his mind as though they had not existed.
He said, “Chloe, you were never foolish, and I refuse to believe that your tears are caused by your own foolishness now. I wish you could confide in me. Can you not see your way clear to do so?” Seeing that she did not respond, but only hung her head and tried to pull her hands away, he coaxed gently, “The way we used to confide in each other?”
But he let loose of her hands and felt suddenly bereft.
He had been too abrupt, he thought, trying to make her confide in him after an absence of five years. She had no reason to believe that he was the same man he had been when he left, and of course he wasn’t. But he was taking his fences too fast. To cover the awkward moment, he teased her gently. “Remember all the times that we had together? You may have forgotten, but I have not. I never betrayed your confidence then.”
“Nor I yours,” faltered Chloe. She was prey to conflicting emotions. On one hand, she wanted to throw herself upon Richard’s sturdy chest and tell him everything she was thinking, but he was not the same man he had been. He had been away for so many years, and now he had given his heart, or at least his hand, to someone else. She had no further claim on him, not even the strong claim of childhood friendship.
Richard too was caught up in the spell of remembered past. He said, “Remember the time we invaded the chicken house, and set the hens to sleeping?”
He waited until her remembered mischievous smile with the dimple high on the left cheek appeared, and, thus encouraged, he continued, “We set the chickens to sleeping, tucked their heads under their wings, I remember now, and set them rocking back and forth asleep, when they should have been laying eggs for your father’s breakfast.”
“It was my idea,” she said, gurgling in remembered amusement.
He continued in this vein until he saw that she was quite restored to good humor, and then, losing his taste for a formal call on Lady Rothwell, said, “I think I shall wait to make myself known at Rothwell Manor for a short while, unless you wish me to go back with you now?”
“No!” she said, and then cushioned her sharpness with a smile. “No, I don’t.”
“Then that’s settled,” he said. “You need not think I will relate our meeting to anyone else.” She thanked him with a glance, and turned to go back to the house. He stayed on the bridge, watching her until she disappeared at the edge of the birches. He was rewarded by seeing her turn just before she vanished from sight, and wave at him.
Thus satisfied, he turned and strolled leisurely back to Davenant Hall. She had not only routed his uneasiness, his dissatisfaction with the world as he saw it, but she had also worked a miracle, so it seemed. For the first time in many days, he began to whistle as he strode through the small woods and across the valley. His mood was unaccountably cheerful, and this time he knew what he wanted.
4
Back at Rothwell Manor, the day was moving forward in its appointed rounds. Cook’s tooth was steadily improving, and whether the remedy might have been the oil of cloves that Chloe had applied during the night, or whether it was the threat of a painful trip to the tooth drawer, really made no difference. Cook was in the kitchen, the pastry for dinner that night had its usual lightness, and her husband Field had lost his worried frown.
The day passed, the evening tea tray was brought in, and the Rothwells eventually trooped up to their various bedrooms in good humor. Chloe herself could not have remembered a word that was said.
Her thoughts were, for the first time in years, totally abs
orbed in herself. She could remember every detail of the flowered waistcoat that Richard wore at their meeting that morning — how elegant he looked, his graceful ways, his careful dress. His figure was stocky, and she knew that Fashion declared a tall, willowy stature was most to be desired. Chloe thought, quite simply, that Fashion was wrong — the ideal would certainly be a square, sturdy pair of shoulders, an air of total competence.
She was sure, in some recess of her heart that, had she told Richard all that was in her heart, he would have remedied all in some way. But, remembering that he was planning to marry someone else, her tongue was tied.
She slept soundly that night, and although she had hoped to dream of Richard, to bring him once more close to her, she did not.
Again, breakfast at Rothwell Manor proceeded without her. Lady Rothwell announced with satisfaction that she expected that her nephew Francis would shortly arrive for a visit. “For you must know that I have sent for him. I am sure he could have no plans that would prevent him from coming — only the ordinary fribbles of entertainment.”
Edward said, with a touch of sourness, “We’ll have a few days’ grace before he arrives, that’s a blessing.”
Lady Rothwell lifted her eyebrows. “I expect him here tonight, tomorrow at the latest.”
Edward protested, “But it takes two days from here to London by post, and I’m sure he’s not going to drop everything”
His mother interrupted. “But I sent my letter yesterday morning by messenger. I hope I know that it takes two days, and I did not wish to rely on the mail. I sent a letter to my sister Hensley by special messenger, and I’m sure she would have had it last night.”
Lydia said bluntly, “What is he coming for? He just stands around and never says anything. He is so dull!”
Lady Rothwell chided her, “Francis is a very elegant man. He can tell you a great many things about how to go on in London. His breeding and his manners are impeccable —”