The Dutiful Daughter

by Vanessa Gray

  Lady Rothwell regarded him sternly. “Well, it’s time you did. What are you going to do? Your future has to be settled.” Francis did not reply. In fact, his breathing grew more labored, and she doubted whether he could speak. “What about your future? What are you going to do?”

  Francis looked up, his eyes clear and innocent, and he said, “I’m going to Brighton.”

  She allowed an expression of disgust to escape her, and added with the candor of a near relative, “You’re a fool, Francis. Are you going to end up an aging rake? Without kith or kin, no children to carry on the Hensley name? Francis, you have to think of this! Don’t fidget! Why did you come down so quickly?”

  Francis said, without guile, “It wasn’t my idea. My mother sent me.”

  Lady Rothwell rose to her feet and began to pace the room, wringing her hands. Francis watched her with a mixture of apprehension and interest. He’d never seen any one literally wring their hands before, unless it was on the stage. His thoughts skittered on to the most recent play he had seen.

  A memorable event it had been, all things considered, for Covent Garden had produced an extravagant Allegorical Festival, called The Grand Alliance, in honor of Emperor Alexander, who was in London. Richard Coeur de Lion, Richard played by Mr. Sinclair himself, a pas de deux by Monsieur Soissons and Mrs. Parker — a grand evening indeed! And then, to top it all, the unexpected appearance of Princess Caroline, wife of the Regent, and — it was clear to everyone — the bane of his existence, appeared at the Gala just after the Regent and his guest were seated. It could have been embarrassing all around ...

  Francis was brought back to the present with a jerk. Lady Rothwell, taking firm hold of herself, realized that Francis must be forcefully handled. She was essentially a lazy person, yet she hoped that she would always rise to the occasion when it was a question of what her family needed. And just now, she was intent upon keeping Chloe’s money in the family.

  She met the issue forthrightly. “Francis, you know that Chloe has inherited Highmoor?” Francis nodded dumbly. “And Chloe’s fortune would go to her husband. It might as well be you.”

  Francis looked at her with the patient resignation of an ox, and objected, “But that’s Chloe’s money.”

  Lady Rothwell glared at him. “We are nearing the end of June, Francis. By August, I expect to hear that you and Chloe are betrothed. Then she can go with you to stay at your mother’s, and Lydia will have her Season in London.”

  Francis, always a stickler, protested, “But Lydia is too young. She has no business in London.”

  Lady Rothwell eyed him with disgust. “She wants to go, Francis. I will see that she gets there. Chloe knows her duty, and I hope you know yours, too.”

  Francis squirmed in his seat. He had no idea that his duty would ever bring him to offer marriage, at least not for another fifteen years.

  But Lady Rothwell as always overbore him. “Chloe’s money will stay in the family. I’m determined on that. You must marry sometime. Why not Chloe? Certainly no other heiress is apt to come your way.”

  Her scorn did not leave him unmoved. He stared at his hands and moved them restlessly on his knee.

  Lady Rothwell, sensing her advantage, came to stand over him. “You are in sole possession of the field. There is no other suitor here, and I must say that is fortunate.”

  Francis thought for a long time before he said, “I always liked Chloe.” Then, catching sight of his aunt in the last stages of exasperation, he said, humbly, “But will she like me?”

  Lady Rothwell exploded. “It is up to you to make her like you. Make yourself agreeable. I’m sure you can do that much to assure your own future.”

  Francis appeared not to have heard her, for he repeated, “I always liked Chloe.” Then, he added, unwittingly tossing a bombshell at his aunt’s feet, “So does Julian Stoddard.”

  Testily, Lady Rothwell inquired. “Where does Julian Stoddard come into this?”

  Francis said, “Well, you know, I just mentioned —”

  “You mean you mentioned Chloe’s legacy to Julian Stoddard? I can’t believe it!” Francis’s silence spoke for him, and Lady Rothwell was left in no doubt. “You did.” Her features settled into grim lines, and Francis knew he had made a mistake. Lady Rothwell, in her agitation, resumed pacing the floor.

  Francis, in an effort to remove guilt from himself, said, “Mother didn’t tell me not to.”

  Lady Rothwell, quite properly, ignored this. She had thought that a leisurely courtship and betrothal, before the Little Season, would keep Chloe occupied. Certainly, with the announcement of the betrothal in the Gazette, Chloe would be safe from all fortune hunters. She did not consider Francis in that category.

  Then, perhaps next year, with Chloe safely married to Francis, they could take a house in London, and could launch both Lydia and, at the proper time, Sophy as well. She reviewed what she knew about Julian Stoddard — none of it good. Stoddard’s breeding was good enough, if not spectacular, but his habits left much to be desired. An inveterate gambler, as were many of his peers, yet even Lady Rothwell had heard that Julian Stoddard was more than ordinarily anxious to win. There had been a time when he had left London abruptly, and did not return until certain ugly whispers died down. Perhaps Stoddard would feel that Chloe’s legacy was not worth his attention. She demanded of Francis, “Was Stoddard winning when you talked to him?”

  Misery in his eyes, Francis responded, “Yes, Aunt, he was.”

  With only a final exhortation to pay more attention to Chloe than was his usual habit, Lady Rothwell dismissed Francis and they did not meet again until teatime.

  Edward did his best with Francis. But upon one subject after another, trade, politics, the state of health of the King, or whatever else, he received only monosyllables. It was Lydia who obtained more than ordinary attention from Francis. Francis seemed overcome by shyness every time he looked at Chloe, and welcomed Lydia’s questions about the fashionable world as though she were approaching across the desert with a glass of water in her hand. Finally Lydia came to a subject that even Chloe listened to.

  “Which lady did Sir Richard finally offer for? He was here this morning, but we got nothing out of him.”

  Francis answered, “Don’t know. None, I think, at least now.”

  Chloe was cast down at the mention of Richard’s prospective bride, but there was a ray of light in Francis’s answer. If he hadn’t so far offered, then Chloe could still call him friend without presuming too much.

  Sophy interrupted, saying, “If he can’t make up his mind, there must not be much difference between them.” Shrewd beyond her years, yet not mature enough to hold her tongue, Sophy was at once in trouble with both her mother and Edward. Chloe busied herself, as was her habit, with the mechanics of tea. Pouring, passing small plates of tiny cakes, refilling cups, she hardly heard the conversation going on around her. She caught a phrase now and then that gave her the gist of the conversation. The vicar had discovered, so he had told Edward, a crypt beneath the small church of St. Stephen’s. He wished to look into its contents, for he thought perhaps there might be a Crusader grave, but he was waiting permission from his bishop to conduct the investigation. Edward, to Francis’s horror, thought that a visit to the church would be of benefit to his sisters.

  “What good would that do!” cried Francis. He was stirred beyond his usual monosyllables. “To go and look into a hole in the floor? That strikes me as ridiculous. I’d think it was best to keep the ladies from even knowing about such a thing.”

  Edward said, “I am always seeking educational experiences for my sisters. Books are well and good, but there is nothing to take the place of real experience.”

  “Experience!” exploded Francis. “To go and look at a moldy cellar is one I don’t need!”

  Edward, however, proceeded on his own way, making his own plans. “I think we might have a picnic, visit the church, and make a day of it.”

  He turned to his mother. “What do
you think, Mama? I think we owe ourselves a day of enjoyment. We have not had time to celebrate Chloe’s good news.”

  Lady Rothwell, drawing herself up on her dignity, said, “You claim it is educational. I suppose it is, and I must — so I am told — bow to your superior knowledge of what is the best education for young ladies. I myself would believe that a child, particularly of Sophy’s sensibilities, would have nightmares for months after looking into a moldy grave.”

  Edward was indignant. “It is not a moldy grave, from what the vicar tells me. It is a crypt, well lined with bricks ...”

  So intent had they been on their conversation that they had not noticed the arrival of a visitor. Not until Field ushered Sir Richard into the salon were they aware that Richard had come to call. He had heard the last few phrases of Edward’s prosy discussion of the educational value of a crypt beneath the church. It did not appeal to him.

  His eyes flew at once to Chloe, and he was unpleasantly surprised. Chloe was presiding at the tea table, but what disturbed him more than anything else was the withdrawn expression on her face. Yet those around her were her nearest family. Her stepmother, her half-brother and two half-sisters, and a cousin. What was there in this family group that was so distasteful to Chloe that she must retreat into herself and, so to speak, close the door after her?

  He told himself, soothingly, that it was no doubt simply the mention of a crypt below the chapel that had distressed her. He glanced at Edward as he crossed the room to pay his respects to Lady Rothwell, and, not for the first time, wondered what kind of machinery moved inside the man’s head.

  Lady Rothwell, twittering, said, “Chloe, give Sir Richard a dish of tea, and perhaps one of those small cakes. They are not up to our usual standard, Sir Richard, for Cook has decided she had a deadly toothache and so we must put up with the inconvenience, but I wish she had taught one of the kitchen helpers to make cakes the way she does.”

  Richard moved across to the tea table, his eyes fixed upon Chloe. He was not a man of extraordinary sensibility, but there was clearly some unease in this room. Chloe rang for more tea, and he waited beside her. Edward was moving along, planning the details of his expedition to the crypt. “We have something to celebrate, after all,” he said to Sir Richard. “Perhaps you don’t know about Chloe’s good fortune.”

  Chloe did not seem, to Richard’s eyes, to be the recipient of a great deal of good fortune, but he said politely, “I wish I may know what it is?”

  Lady Rothwell, coming down heavily, said, “It is a legacy. An elderly relative whom she did not know at all, which makes it all the better, you see, for there is no grief connected with it, has left her a small fortune. But then, Sir Richard, you have only a slight interest in this part of the country, for I should imagine your life in the future will lie more in London.”

  Richard raised an eyebrow. “I had not thought it would.”

  Lady Rothwell, intent upon repelling Sir Richard’s possible claim to the fortune that she already envisioned in Francis’s hand, said, “But when you marry, then I should be surprised if the new Lady Davenant would wish to spend any time at all in this rural backwater.”

  Richard, vulnerable to Chloe’s pure look of misery, was becoming nettled with her stepmother. “On the contrary,” he said. “I wish Miss Rothwell happy with her good fortune.”

  She did not look up until the new pot of tea arrived. With dignity, she filled his cup. She lifted her eyes, involuntarily, and caught his smile warm upon her, reassuring and altogether comfortable. Suddenly she felt much better. She heard the subject of the expedition to the crypt being renewed, but the discussion went by as though she were behind a wall.

  She scarcely heard Richard inviting himself on the expedition. Sophy, always pert, said, “Well then, we’ll have to go soon before you go back to London.”

  Sir Richard, with courtliness, said, “I won’t be returning to London for some time.”

  The response to his statement was all that he could have desired, and much that he would not have wished.

  Lady Rothwell, prey to uncertain alarms, cried out, “But why?”

  Edward said, civilly, “What good news, Davenant! I have been sorry to think that we would not enjoy the constructive interchanges that we spoke of when you called yesterday. I shall certainly look forward to learning much from your conversation.”

  Sir Richard managed not to wince, and turned to Chloe. To his delight, the dimple high on her left cheek, which he had forgotten over the years, revealed itself, and he knew of a certainty that she was hiding her amusement.

  He did not understand Lady Rothwell’s reaction, for why should she be ruffled if her neighbor decided to live in his own house for a few months?

  After the least interval required by civility, he took his leave.

  He turned at the door to find Chloe’s eyes fixed on him, and in them he read a clear message of appeal. He smiled at her reassuringly, and was out of the house and down the gravel drive before he tried to sort out his thoughts. Indignation rose as a spring tide. He was aware of a strong feeling that Chloe’s position in that household was not what one might expect of the oldest daughter of the house. Now that he looked back, he could not remember that Chloe had said a word. She had sat at that abominable tea table, served tea, and in all ways acted much like an upper servant-companion. To serve without fuss, to be present without participating — he did not like it.

  He reflected on Chloe’s legacy. It had not made a splash in London, for he would have heard of it. Society in England was a tightly knit group. There were only a handful of great families, a double handful of families of importance, and hardly above a hundred more who might lay claim to serious consideration. These families, fewer than two hundred in total, kept a watchful eye on each other. A legacy in this closely knit group would be common knowledge in a very short time.

  Chloe’s fortune, had it been as rich as a nabob’s, might have ruffled him, but in the ordinary way his own wealth was more than ample for his needs and whatever domestic responsibilities he might take upon himself.

  As evidence of the knowledge shared among these families, all at Rothwell Manor clearly believed him to be on the verge of offering himself in marriage. How surprised Lady Rothwell would be, he thought with a smile, to know that London, in the last few days, had receded to a vast distance and he could hardly remember the three women he had been considering.

  But that idiot Hensley! What was he doing here?

  Then the thought struck him — Hensley had come down to offer for Chloe, the heiress. Could this be? By the time he strolled into his own entrance hall, he believed that Hensley’s attentions to Chloe were with purpose. The surge of indignation, bordering on fury, that swept over him was enough to shake him. He knew now the wife he wanted. He remembered what he believed to be her look of appeal as he had left her. Surely she shared his feelings!

  Tomorrow he would offer for her and set everything in order. The only thought in his mind was that by tomorrow at this time his future and Chloe’s would be bound together, and settled.

  6

  It rained in the night and spoiled prospects for the outing. Chloe sighed with relief. She had no wish to visit a moldy crypt. But she knew that she would be accompanying Lydia and Sophy, if Edward thought it was their duty to receive whatever education could be borne on dank air.

  Although the outing itself did not appeal to her, yet Richard’s expected presence on the expedition both delighted and worried her. It was a chance to see Richard again, and she was beginning to realize that a glimpse of Richard was all that was required to make her day a happy one. And yet, if he were going to marry someone else —

  Her thoughts reversed themselves. He was going to stay down in Kent for some time, he said, and surely that did not mean he was in a headlong rush to return to London to his love. But then, her pendulum thoughts told her, he is getting the house ready for his bride.

  While Richard, at Davenant Hall, was waking with a whistl
e on his lips, Chloe’s mind moved lower and lower, until her mood matched the leaden skies.

  She was not sure why she felt so miserable. The household staff, predictably, was more upset than ever. Francis’s valet, Grimsby, conscious of his superior standing in the social scale, had nourished a strong feud with Edward’s valet and the butler. By the time that Chloe descended to the kitchen, Grimsby had joined open battle with Field, and she could hear the words of the butler. “And what’s more, that fancy wax of yours is standing in the way of my silver polish, and it would be just too bad if you made a mistake — and I would not be responsible for it.”

  Upon Chloe’s entrance, both fell silent. Chloe made a mild inquiry about Mrs. Field’s tooth.

  Field, grateful for the interruption, said, “I fear it’s the tooth drawer for her, Miss Chloe. All night she moaned, and I got not a wink of sleep.”

  Chloe said, “You should have called me.”

  Field, raising his eyes to heaven in a martyr’s gesture, said, “I’d cut off my hand before I’d disturb you again, Miss Chloe.”

  Promising to go upstairs and take a look at Mrs. Field, Chloe turned and came face to face with Miss Sinclair, the village dressmaker, who was brought in at times to help with the mending. Mending was beneath Miss Sinclair’s dignity, as a rule, but she wished to keep her hand in, in a household where two eligible young ladies would be going to London within the foreseeable future. There would be a great many gowns to make for Lydia, and probably for Sophy, and surely Miss Sinclair would be the first person they would turn to. A present tedium would result in a future windfall. Thus ran her reasoning.

  Chloe, after a deadly session with Cook, who moaned, would not agree to go to the tooth drawer, and indeed refused to consider any reasonable means of alleviating her great pain, came down the back stairs from the attic to find a summons from Edward.

  Edward, a well-meaning young man, was fond of his half-sister, and ingratitude was a word that he did not recognize. Possessed of less ambition than his father, Edward wished only to see those around him in good health and prosperity and untroubled of mind.