by Vanessa Gray
The three of them entered the salon to find Lady Rothwell and Sophy in an amicable discussion about Lady Partridge’s journey. Lady Partridge was going to Bath, and Sophy could think of nothing else. Sophy’s voice came clearly through the door as the three approached from the stable to the hall. “Lady Partridge knows all about what’s going on in London —”
Lady Rothwell interrupted her. “My sister Hensley keeps us informed, and I must tell you that there is much my sister could tell us if she only would. She has sworn me to secrecy on some things, but —” The three entered the room, and put a stop to the conversation by their entrance.
Lydia, judging by her enraptured face, was lost in her own dreams of cutting a wide swathe in London within a few months. She had never been quite reconciled to Edward’s dictum that London would be hers two years hence.
She felt perfectly able to take on all the fashionable world, if she only had the right clothes, and the right introductions to society. Aunt Hensley would furnish the latter, and Chloe’s generosity would have to provide the former. Lydia just now was picturing herself in a gown fashioned of the new, nearly transparent muslin, carrying a swan’s-down muff, flirting with faceless and innumerable lords. One, of exalted status and unfathomed wealth, had just sworn eternal devotion to her, and she was loftily refusing him ...
Edward said, “Lydia, are you all right? Have you got the headache? Your face is screwed up! Are you in pain?”
Lydia descended from her cloud-landau with a sickening thud, with a strong resentment toward her brother. Edward would always spoil things if he could, even if he did not know, as just now, that he was thwarting her dreams.
At length the Rothwell carriage stood at the door ready to carry its passengers back to the manor. Richard, handing Chloe up into the carriage, promised he would bring her the puppy in a few days. “Have you thought of a name for him?” he asked.
She had not given it much thought, but she said, “Perhaps Nelson would be a good name, for he too had a handicap that he overcame.”
Richard considered seriously for a few moments, and then said, “Perhaps Nelson would be a good name except it would always call attention to the flaw.”
“I quite agree. It is best for the puppy’s peace of mind that we ignore his lop ear.”
Richard said, quirking an eyebrow, “Wellington? That is much too heavy a responsibility to bear. Very few heroes could walk in Wellington’s boots.”
Lady Rothwell said, “What’s all this about a puppy? Chloe, you’re never going to have a puppy? I cannot think that I will like it.”
Chloe, for once, did not heed her stepmother. Richard, with a slight smile, said, “How about Nimrod, the mighty hunter?”
Chloe, remembering the tiny dog that was far more affectionate than heroic, chuckled. She rarely laughed aloud, usually expressing her mischievous amusement by a smile, or even a twinkle in her eyes and the appearance of the dimple on her left cheek. Both Edward and Lady Rothwell were startled to hear her peal of laughter.
The carriage was set in motion then, and trundled down the drive out of sight. Richard was pleased with his afternoon. He had seen Chloe in Davenant Hall, which opened up gratifying vistas for the future.
He had fathomed her private wish, unknowingly touched the spring that opened up her heart in his direction. The puppy was an inspired gift, and would provide many an opportunity to keep close to Chloe. She would need to ask him questions about the puppy’s upbringing, and he would certainly have to make daily inquiry as to the health of the small dog.
He could still see in his mind’s eye the glowing happiness warming her expression, shining from her speaking eyes, as though he had reached to the sky and brought down a star for her to hold.
He turned and walked up the steps into his house, past Dall, holding the door for him. Chloe’s extraordinary happiness over the small gift opened up a certain amount of insight into the life she lived at home. If a puppy meant so much to her, it spoke volumes about an arid existence. He was angry and pleased at once. How dared they keep her from the rich life that should be hers? By the time he reached his book room and closed the door behind him, he realized something else.
He stopped dead still on the carpet, and felt the shock of recognition. For the first time in years, he was in love. He had regarded Chloe these last few days with affection, with indignation on her behalf, and with a determination to make her his bride. It was a suitable match, especially since she trusted him and he knew her well. It was a match born of disgust at the shallowness of London, of the knowledge that his true life was to be spent here on his estates and not in the city, and based upon a praiseworthy desire to rescue Chloe from her abominable relatives.
But there was more to it now, and he groaned mentally. He had not expected such a grand passion to hit him, as he was nearing the age of thirty. This time, this love bore no resemblance to the love of his green years, nor to the feelings he had experienced toward various Cyprians of his close acquaintance. He was in love, head over heels, for the rest of his life. Now all that remained was to convince Chloe that he had no designs on her money. He knew her well enough to know that he must tread softly with her, approach her gently, and persuade her gradually. If she once took against him, he would have the devil’s own time in bringing her back into his arms.
But, knowing for the first time his true feelings about her, his reflections turned rosy.
His dreams would have been rent in shreds could he have heard Lady Rothwell on the way home. She knew for a fact, she told her family, that Sir Richard went to London to offer for Penelope Salton. Her sister had with her own eyes seen the two of them going into a fashionable shop on Oxford Street, with Penelope’s mother Lady Salton beaming upon her daughter’s suitor.
“The die has been cast,” announced Lady Rothwell, “and we’ll have a new Lady Davenant before long!”
13
The residents at Rothwell Manor, having returned from their outing to Davenant Hall, pursued their own interests. Each of them was unaware of the depth of feeling hidden behind the impassive features of their recent host. It was as though Richard’s deportment served in some way as a reflecting mirror.
Edward felt that he had found a fellow spirit, interested in the same things he was — good horseflesh, conservative management of the estates, and a certain right-thinking political bent.
Lady Rothwell found him an attentive gentleman, with an open hand for hospitality and a recognition of her as his nearest neighbor, one to whom much attention was due.
Lydia’s mind, beset by the swirling temptations of the world, was prey to all the imaginings of her romantic and quite shallow nature. She was not overly influenced by the novels that Sophy had purloined from Edward’s box, for she was not so foolish as to think that wicked noblemen and damp grottoes were apt to come her way in the ordinary event. But Lydia believed firmly in her own magnetism, and in the philosophy of love at first sight. Her dreams were shapeless, and her rosy thoughts swirled in chaos. The result was that Lydia felt she had moved a step closer to her dream of conquering all London. She had made a good start with Sir Richard, so she told herself.
Chloe remembered the sunshine, the warmth of Sir Richard’s welcome, and the comfort that she felt on her visit to Davenant Hall. She remembered the total devotion of the puppy. Richard’s smile came into her musings more than once, and she reflected that she was in grave danger of feeling more for Richard than he was willing to accept. She recognized Richard as a solid rock to which she could cling if need be.
But Lady Rothwell had ruined the entire visit, cast a shadow over her satisfaction with the outing, and in fact thrown her into a blue-deviled mood. If Richard had in fact decided to marry, and that quite soon, then Chloe’s acceptance of Richard’s attention had to stop almost before it started. Her mood was dark and gloomy, and she emerged with difficulty from it in order to respond to the endless demands of running a house of the size of Rothwell Manor.
Waylaid i
n the hall by Miss Sinclair, the seamstress who had come from town to help with the mending, Chloe was presented with the problems of ruined bed linens. There had been none bought for some time, and they were now showing the signs of wear. Miss Sinclair lifted her hands helplessly and let them fall. “I can’t do anything with this, at least to make it usable as a sheet. I can cut it up into pillow casings, and perhaps that would be suitable for the servants, but what do you want me to do?”
Chloe, with some difficulty, brought her mind to bear on the ragged sheets. There was no question but what she must seek Lady Rothwell’s instructions on this. Bidding Miss Sinclair wait, she searched out her stepmother. Lady Rothwell was in no mood to consider sheets. She told Chloe, with an unjust air of reproval, “You must not spend your time on such small housekeeping chores, but let Miss Sinclair do what she wants to. Although I think it’s time we found a new seamstress to do the linen, for Miss Sinclair will be busy enough with our new gowns for our journey. I feel that Miss Sinclair is not as good a seamstress as we would find in London, but we must make do with what we have.”
Chloe, with a feeling that she had strayed into an alien country, echoed blankly, “Journey?”
Lady Rothwell was impatient. “You know that we are going to London in the fall. This was all arranged. My sister Hensley is looking about for a suitable house for you to take, roomy enough and with a good address, that will be available in time for the Little Season.” Chloe, with a cold feeling somewhere in the region of her stomach, said, “So soon?” Then she recollected a word that Lady Rothwell had used, and the whole scheme opened up before her. She herself was to take the house in London. This was part of the new plan that Lady Rothwell had laid out, designed to put Chloe’s legacy to the best use.
“I do not wish to go to London,” she said, hoping she sounded more firm in her voice than she felt in her mind.
Lady Rothwell’s reaction could have been predicted. “Not wish to go? I would think that you would enjoy London, but then perhaps you see it as a stage for your own endeavors. I really don’t know how I can break the news to Lydia. If there’s one thing she has her heart set on, it’s going to London in September. I certainly thought that this was all settled.”
Lady Rothwell’s raised eyebrows emphasized her remarks.
Chloe said, in confused, broken phrases, “I didn’t know — I don’t remember — I don’t remember — I —”
“I was about to tell you, Chloe, that my sister has found just the house for us. I believe she has already begun the negotiations. It will be very embarrassing for her to have to break them off. I certainly thought you knew what you owed your family.”
Chloe faltered. “I could not take a house in London ...” Her voice trailed away. She had the unsettled feeling that the ground was sinking beneath her feet and there was no place secure to step.
Lady Rothwell said, “I can well imagine that you would not wish to go much in society, but you certainly would not be so mean-spirited as to prevent Lydia’s having her Season.”
Chloe fixed her eyes upon a flower in the patterned rug. She dared not look at Lady Rothwell, for she did not want her stepmother to see the tears that had sprung to her eyes. Lady Rothwell, on the theory that hammering home one nail is not nearly as good as five nails in the same spot, continued, “Think about it, Chloe. You owe a great deal to me and my family. To think of all the sacrifices we have made, and taken you in as though you were one of us — now you can repay me. For the first time you have it in your power to do something for me and you balk. I had thought you more generous.” Chloe began to tremble inwardly, and the tears overflowed.
Murmuring some word of excuse, she turned and fled, tears blinding her as she raced down the hall. Miss Sinclair called to her, but Chloe dashed up the stairs and sought the refuge of her own room. She closed the door behind her, and for the first time in a long time she turned the key in the lock. She had no wish to undergo the scrutiny of either Sophy or Lydia at this moment. She stood in the middle of her room, not seeing her surroundings, and gave vent to the strongest language she knew. “I wish I had never heard of Highmoor!” She threw herself on the bed and gave way to wracking sobs.
In the meantime, Francis Hensley, having gone to London for a couple of days, returned. He had no wish to return to Rothwell Manor, but his fear of both his mother and his aunt guided his actions. However, somewhere he had found sufficient stiffening in his spine to enable him to stand up to Lady Rothwell. Before she had the chance to greet him, he said point-blank, “I do not wish to marry Chloe.”
There, he thought, I’ve said it. His knees were shaking, and he hoped that was the end of it, for he could not endure more. Lady Rothwell, for her part well pleased with the impression she had made on Chloe, and dismissing Chloe’s tearful distress as being temporary only, turned her talents to instructing Francis in his duty.
Lady Rothwell was not a hypocrite. She believed what she said, and although sometimes it took some convincing for her to be persuaded of the truth of her position, once convinced, she had no backward glance.
She had told Chloe what she considered only the truth, that she, Lady Rothwell, had spread her benign influence over Chloe as though it were an umbrella. She did not give full thought to the fact that Chloe as a Rothwell daughter had every right to live there. Lady Rothwell had not been overly jealous, but her late husband had held a special place in his heart for Chloe and Lady Rothwell had been forced to treat Chloe as one of her own, and this was still a barrier in her mind. Lady Rothwell considered her three children as true Rothwells, and Chloe, who was entirely biddable and of a sweet nature, had been unable to stand up to Lady Rothwell’s ambitious family feeling.
Now Lady Rothwell bent her severe glance on her nephew.
“I seem beset by ungrateful persons,” she began in a matter-of-fact voice. “I have put you in the way of financial security for the rest of your life, and you balk at the fence. I had thought you had more bottom than this. Chloe is already in a susceptible state, and I wish you now to go and seek her out. I will expect to hear of your engagement before dinner tonight. Your mother has arranged for a house in town, and I should like to see you settled before September.”
Francis, opening and closing his mouth without a word, looking unhappily like a fish, all but backed out of the room, as though leaving the presence of royalty.
An unhappy and inarticulate man, he was conscious of a great struggle within his breast. He was torn between his formidable aunt, who was asking the impossible of him, and certain troubles of his own. Francis had no wish to marry Chloe, and he was as sure that she did not want to marry him as he was sure of anything. He was a realist, and knew that many a marriage was founded on financial considerations, but he was able to manage well enough on the small income left to him. He had no need to be leg-shackled, and he was in no danger on his own of falling into Parson’s mousetrap. But his circumstances, ordinarily comfortable, had changed in the last month. Normally a moderate man, and one alive to all the pitfalls of the darker side of London, last month he was inveigled into a game of chance, where his ordinary caution had not played him true. The game was in a private house, and his luck ran against him. He thought, it could have been a crooked game, but he wasn’t able to prove it against his host. He had played for deep stakes and was at this moment under the hatches. He had hoped to get out of his debts, and given time he certainly could have. But Julian Stoddard held his vowels, and Stoddard himself had other plans.
Stoddard, in a position to enforce his demands on Francis, promised to forgive half of Francis’s debts if Francis were to get him access to Rothwell Manor, where Julian Stoddard, with Francis’s help, would pursue the heiress Chloe.
Francis, every fiber repelled at the idea of Stoddard and Chloe, had very little choice.
While Stoddard was a very real peril, Lady Rothwell was closest at hand, and Francis, his aunt’s injunction still ringing in his ears, went to find Chloe.
With the frank
ness of old acquaintance, Francis sympathized with Chloe’s tears. His own woes were similar to hers, and Lady Rothwell loomed like a specter over the two of them.
At length, Francis, the words forced from him by his rising misery, said, “We could run away.”
Chloe, with a rueful little laugh, said “I wish we could. Where shall we go? To Gretna Green?”
Francis paled.
Chloe instantly regretted her playfulness. Putting a hand on his, she said, “I did not mean it, Francis.” But Francis, still laboring under Lady Rothwell’s injunctions, managed to stutter out a proposal. Chloe, recognizing that Francis was a pawn, as she herself was, turned sweetly to him and said, “We wouldn’t suit.”
Francis allowed a look of unbounded relief to cross his undistinguished features. Half of his unwieldy burden was lifted, and he could certainly do no more.
Perhaps Stoddard would reconsider. It was a forlorn hope, as Francis could have understood on reflection. The last day or two in London, he had run into Stoddard, who had put the situation before him in unvarnished terms. But Stoddard himself had called previously, received a very frosty welcome, and retreated. Surely even Stoddard would know that his alliance with Chloe was out of the question.
Francis moved the rest of the day in a growing, and quite unreasonable, euphoria. Chloe had refused him, and Lady Rothwell must see he could do no more. If the lady was not willing, then nothing Francis could do would change her mind. She did not want to marry him any more than he wished to get married himself.
Stoddard, in London yesterday, had accused Francis of not paving the way well enough for him, but now there was still no sign of Stoddard, and grasping at a hint that Stoddard had given, Francis with unreasonable optimism decided that Stoddard had changed his mind.