The Dutiful Daughter

by Vanessa Gray

  “Why?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I just don’t like him.”

  The conversation, as so many at Rothwell Manor were, was interrupted. This time it was Francis who came after her, sent by Lady Rothwell. Richard scooped up the puppy and set him back in the basket. Putting the lid down firmly upon the howls from within, he handed her the basket. “I cannot abide that idiot Hensley,” he said, and beat a hasty retreat.

  16

  Lady Rothwell had sent Francis to fetch Chloe because Lady Partridge had arrived. Chloe, lifting up the lid of the wicker basket a crack and sticking her finger inside to quiet the puppy, hurried with Francis to the back of the house. She thrust the basket into the hands of Chubb, the second footman, and said, “Take care of it for me, please. I trust you with his life.”

  Chubb, startled, took the basket thrust upon him and backed away.

  Francis asked. “What is that?” He did not wait for an answer. “Hurry up, Chloe! Aunt was quite anxious.”

  In the Green Salon, Lady Partridge sat comfortably on a chair, a dish of tea and a plate of cakes beside her. Sophy and Emma sat on a loveseat beyond, their arms around each other’s waists, whispering in each other’s ears. Lady Partridge had come in person to deliver her invitation to the ball. She welcomed Chloe warmly, for the girl was one of her favorites. She wondered sometimes whether Chloe knew all that was going on around her, for Lady Partridge took a dim view of some of Lady Rothwell’s stratagems. But Lady Partridge felt, both from inclination and from conviction, that it was not her place to interfere.

  She said, “You’re looking better than yesterday. I hope your headache is gone?”

  Chloe greeted her and reassured her as to her health.

  “I came to be sure that you were coming to my ball, a week tomorrow. It will be the last time I have a chance to entertain before we travel to Bath.”

  Lady Rothwell said, “There’s no question but what we will come, but I do hope — although it is none of my affair — that you will not consider asking Invers, Lady Partridge?”

  The lady chuckled. She was more than ordinarily indulgent, but she was also a very shrewd woman. “You’re speaking of competition for Francis. You’re afraid of Invers? I think Chloe has more sense. She’ll not take Invers. In fact, I think I know —” she dissolved in chuckles again, and her words were lost in the rolls of fat. But she added, “If you take her to London, you’ll find more competition than Francis, I warrant you.”

  Lady Rothwell sent Chloe out of the room on an errand, and then said to Lady Partridge, “She’ll be riveted to Francis before then.”

  Lady Partridge lifted an eyebrow. “So soon?”

  Lady Rothwell said, “There will be an announcement in the Gazette before we go to London. I will not see it any other way. Lydia has her heart set on the Little Season.”

  Lady Partridge said, “I wonder whether she is not too young for it yet?”

  Lady Rothwell reflected that the sooner Lydia was married off, the sooner her dear Sophy could come out into society and dazzle them all. Whatever other faults she may have had, she could not be blamed for a low opinion of her own family.

  Her errand accomplished, Chloe returned to the drawing room and sat down. Lady Partridge noted the glow on Chloe’s cheek. While she did not know the cause, she had a strong feeling that it had something to do with Sir Richard Davenant.

  Lady Partridge had watched the two of them drive off yesterday, and wondered whether the headache was a ruse to get Sir Richard alone. Then, she remembered Chloe’s pale face and shaking hands, and she knew that the headache was real enough. Besides, she had every confidence in Chloe’s integrity, and was positive the girl would not stoop to a device such as that. It was more the style of Lydia or Sophy.

  Lady Partridge tried to let Chloe down easy, and by adroit maneuvering, moved the conversation to Sir Richard. Sir Richard was apt to come to her ball, she told Chloe, if he hasn’t gone to London. “I understand that Charlotte Venable is expecting Sir Richard to return to London any moment, and then an interesting announcement is to follow.”

  Lady Rothwell, feeling left behind at the post, interrupted quickly. “My sister Hensley says it is not Charlotte Venable —” but Lady Partridge interrupted.

  “No matter. I shall ask him to my party anyway. The party is to celebrate our going to Bath, and if he doesn’t come, there’ll be parties when I return. And probably we’ll be giving many a party to welcome his bride to the neighborhood.”

  She began the complicated maneuver of getting to her feet. “Come, Emma, my dear, help me,” she said. “We have much to do to get ready for the ball, and besides pack for our trip. Sophy, will you be able to go with us?”

  Lady Rothwell said, “We must see what Edward wishes to do.”

  Lady Partridge glanced shrewdly at her. She had heard that Edward was getting more tyrannical every day. And Lady Rothwell’s bowing to his dictum bore out that gossip. But Sophy wailed, “Edward’s a tyrant!”

  Lady Partridge, as accustomed as she was to the Rothwell family, yet had strict ideas of decorum. Her own Emma, while the apple of Lady Partridge’s eye, would never have railed against a member of her family else it would have gone ill with her. “Rothwell is of course within his rights. I should never allow Sophy to come along with my dear Emma without her guardian’s approval.”

  Emma, whose affection for Sophy was strong but not entirely approved by her mother, feed her mother with tear-drenched eyes. “I don’t want to go if Sophy can’t go,” and would have continued except for the light in her mother’s eyes. She thought better of her protest.

  Lady Partridge, for her part, was loath to deny her daughter anything, and gave in, a little.

  “Well, well, Emma,” she said, “perhaps I could speak to Rothwell myself. I’ll do that much.”

  Lady Rothwell, sitting in silence while this exchange took place, was conscious of a growing antagonism toward her only son. Edward, in his position as head of the family, was taking entirely too much upon himself. First, he had been thwarting Lydia’s wish to go to London, but Chloe’s legacy had taken care of that. While Lady Rothwell had not obtained Edward’s permission for Lydia to go to London, if Chloe were to offer to finance Lydia’s journey, then Edward would not have the excuse that he had used up to now — that they could not afford it. Lady Rothwell anticipated a struggle with Edward, but she had no doubt that she would win out in the long run. Now, with Sophy about to be unhappy, Lady Rothwell made a silent vow to work it out for Sophy as well.

  Lady Partridge got up to leave, and with Emma in her wake swept toward the door. Lady Rothwell, escorting her as far as the door, said, “I will miss my young Sophy. There is so much life to her, you know. But Sophy wants to go to Bath, and I am determined she shall.”

  Chloe, hardly aware that Lady Partridge was leaving, heard the conversation at the fringe of her mind and gave it no heed. At the center of her thoughts was a certain Miss Charlotte Venable. She had thought that Penelope Salton was going to receive Richard’s offer, and now Miss Venable’s name had come up. Chloe could not remember the latter, and only vaguely the former. Penelope Salton was more of a threat to Chloe than the unknown Miss Venable. Miss Salton was a tall, jolly woman, clearly made to live in the country, surrounded by horses and dogs and a dozen progeny. Chloe disliked her at first thought, and, even more, she disliked the idea of having her as a close neighbor. At Highmoor, she would be far removed from Richard’s wife.

  The idea of setting up to live at Highmoor uncurled from its sleep just a little. It had quivered only slightly when she first thought of it. It was as though it were dormant, waiting for its time to rouse. Now, it was stirring. It was more a longing, so far, than anything else, for Edward had said it was an ineligible plan. But Richard’s cousin, Lady Theale — Chloe suddenly remembered — lived not far from Highmoor, so Chloe would not be entirely alone. If Lady Theale were within visiting distance, the idea of living at Highmoor was a little more f
easible than it had been.

  She returned to the present with a thud. She was far from alone at this moment. Lady Partridge had gone, but Edward had arrived. Lady Rothwell and Lydia together gave him the news of Lady Partridge’s invitation, as Francis entered.

  “A ball, tomorrow a week, and we’ll have hardly time to get ready to go.”

  Edward, after hesitating, to emphasize his authority, agreed that they might go. Lady Rothwell plunged ahead to arrange dresses for them all. Her planning was vocal. “I can wear my green again, if Chloe can put some lace insertions at the neck. I understand this is the latest fashion. The seamstress in town is going to be busy with Lydia’s gown and I myself will be perfectly satisfied to wear my old gown again.”

  Edward, his ears prickling up in alarm at the idea of new gowns for all, listened with a frown between his eyebrows. Lady Rothwell unfortunately ignored Edward’s glower. “Miss Sinclair will have Lydia’s gown, of course, and Chloe’s to do all in a week, and we must get in there before all the rest of the ball guests get to her. And Sophy’s gown —”

  Chloe protested. “I can wear the one I have. It’s not been worn above two times. This is just a country ball, from what Lady Partridge said, and there’s no need for me to have a new gown.”

  Lady Rothwell, intent upon her own daughters, passed this by. Edward, slow in comprehension and unbelieving, bellowed, “Sophy!”

  His younger sister leaped into the air, startled out of her wits. But Edward was not addressing her directly. He advanced toward his mother. “Sophy is thirteen, ma’am. She is not going to London for at least four years,” Edward pointed out carefully. “She is not going even to a country ball. She still belongs in the schoolroom!”

  Lady Rothwell’s face darkened with anger. But Edward continued, “Miss Addis should never have been dismissed.”

  Lady Rothwell said, menacingly, “You’re giving me a headache.”

  Edward, bent on his own thoughts, said, “With all due respect, ma’am, that’s nothing to what the females of my family are giving me!”

  Fearful that her mother was losing the battle, Lydia joined the fray. “You’re miserly, Edward,” she pointed out. “I can’t go anywhere without a new dress. I can’t wear an old dress, for I have never had one. Edward, can’t you see?”

  Lady Rothwell backed her up, and Edward, who was not basically a bad fellow, desiring the good opinion of his family and seeing that good opinion departing on the waves of a mere bolt of cloth, relented. “A dress for Lydia, I’ll agree that far, but that’s all.” He glanced at Sophy as he finished, and turned to leave the room.

  Sophy was at this point possessed by her native shrewdness. She kept very quiet in her corner, her plump face expressionless. She knew instinctively that this was the best course to pursue. Had a tantrum been called for, she would have obliged the company. But she correctly assessed Edward’s mood as one of intransigence, and knew that any opposition would only set him harder in his ways.

  Edward said that she was not to attend Lady Partridge’s ball. Sophy herself knew that according to all the canons of society she was in fact too young. On the other hand, it was an event that she did not care to miss. If her friend Emma, two years older, was to attend, then Sophy, having no doubts about her own worth, was going to go, too.

  Sophy had no fear of Edward. The subject was not closed yet. He had said Lydia was not to have a new gown, but he had relented. The ball was only one incident in Sophy’s mind. Her true goal was to travel with Lady Partridge and Emma to Bath. She was prepared to do whatever was necessary to gain Edward’s permission. If it meant giving up the ball, then so be it. It was the trip, rather than the immediate entertainment, that motivated her.

  Sophy was too much like her mother not to understand the basis of intrigue. She could readily see the principle of giving the appearance of defeat while setting up another ploy. Sophy was equal to her mother in understanding; all she lacked was experience.

  Chloe, for her part, would in the ordinary way have dismissed the wrangling as the ordinary give and take among a family. But something had happened to change her feelings, though since the change was at the moment only slight, she did not recognize it as a harbinger of things to come.

  Francis, an unwilling spectator, was stirred to his depths. He was usually inarticulate, bringing forth monosyllables as required, but at this point he had some opinions. He did not hesitate to air them.

  Like many men of limited intelligence, he clung to convention as to a wave-swept ledge in a storm. Propriety girded him about, for after all, one had to know where one was, didn’t one? If the strengthening barriers were broken down, he would have nothing to guide him. He was an honest man, of limited intelligence and few inner resources. Thus he clung to convention, outraged at the attitude of his cousins, who flouted the known rules of society.

  “A child at a party?” he cried, outrage in every syllable. “I must say it’s unheard of. I can’t imagine, Aunt, that you would countenance such a thing. Not heard of. Out of the question.”

  Lady Rothwell, bending a severe eye on him, said, “It is only a country affair, after all. I see no harm in Sophy’s going, and I do not like your implication.”

  Francis, daunted as usual by his aunt, fell back on the things he knew. “It is simply not done. Word gets out, no matter how secret you think it is. I wouldn’t like to be ashamed of the family. My own family, but there it is!”

  Lydia, with an eye to her own main chance, joined the protest. “If Francis snubs me in London on account of Sophy, I will just die. Francis won’t be ashamed of us, unless Sophy spoils it for everybody.”

  Sophy cried out in outrage, “I’m not going to spoil anything! What difference can it make in London, anyway, if I go to a party in Kent?”

  Francis, joining battle, said severely, “Half the county will be there. And if you go to Lady Partridge’s ball expecting me to dance with you, I’ll tell you this. I’ll leave before I’ll be shamed by my family.”

  Sophy cried out, “No one will hear about it!”

  Francis said, pale but stubborn, “My mother will hear.”

  Lady Rothwell, an unaccustomed frown appearing between her eyebrows, said, “I suppose you will tell her.”

  Francis answered quite simply, “Better me than somebody else.”

  Chloe, quietly, interposed. “Perhaps we shouldn’t go to London this autumn.”

  Her remark was in the nature of a bombshell falling in the midst of a startled group.

  Lydia cried out in agony, “Not go to London? That’s impossible!”

  Lady Rothwell protested. “I never knew, Chloe, you had such a mischancy sense of humor. I know full well you have only your family’s interest at heart. But it is not kind to upset Lydia by the mere thought of not going to London.”

  Chloe faltered, “I — I didn’t mean —”

  Lady Rothwell, seeing with satisfaction that Chloe’s defense was crumbling, continued, “I know that if there is one thing you are, it’s unselfish, and loving and generous. You would not take out your own feelings on your sister, for I know you could not live with Lydia’s misfortune heavy on your heart.”

  Chloe, unreasonably daunted, said no more.

  Lady Rothwell, seeing she had prevailed once more, began to make plans with Lydia to go to town to Miss Sinclair, to get her gowns made. Chloe scarcely noticed that Lady Rothwell was speaking in the plural.

  Chloe said privately to Francis, “Will your mother mind having us in town with her?” Chloe knew well that Lady Rothwell had in mind taking a house of their own. But Chloe, always cautious, thought it would be better to stay, at least at the beginning and for the Little Season, with Mrs. Hensley. If they were to go to London again in the spring, then would be time enough to see about a house of their own.

  Francis, with surprising vigor, exploded, “She won’t like any hoydenish conduct, that is sure. Got to hold her head up, after all.”

  Francis glanced gloomily at Lydia and turned his
solemn gaze to Sophy. Francis was a man of immense tolerance simply because he knew he was not of the first quality of intellect, and was content with life as he lived it. Yet he was becoming more and more distressed. He had been brought down from London for the express purpose of offering for Chloe, to keep her inheritance in the family. He did not like the assignment, but his ordinary obedience to his mother and his aunt worked against him. He saw now that Lydia and her mother had gotten out a fashion book and were pouring over it in total concentration. He shuddered. He could not help but feel for his cousin Edward — all these females around him, each one, except of course Chloe, bent on thwarting Edward’s every wish.

  Francis summoned sufficient words to say as much to Chloe, bending toward her lest the others hear.

  At that point, Lady Rothwell looked up and saw Francis talking with Chloe. She noted a flush mantling Francis’s face, and leaped at once to the wrong interpretation. Francis at that point was saying to Chloe, “I didn’t mean to count you among the females.” He was anxious lest she misunderstand him, and earnestness turned his cheeks pink.

  Lady Rothwell called across the room, “At least Edward will have some good news, won’t he? Francis, you had best put the announcement in the Gazette at once.” Lady Rothwell smoothed her hair back in an odd, preening gesture. She had pulled it off, she thought. Francis had offered for Chloe! “At least, the sooner the announcement gets into the Gazette,” she added, “we’ll get rid of those others — Mr. Invers and that terrible Mr. Stoddard.”

  Chloe, assessing rightly her stepmother’s thoughts, said, very gently, but distinctly, “I am not marrying Francis.” She got up without a glance at Francis and left the room.

  Lady Rothwell, put in the wrong, was struck by the need to do something. She told Lydia and Sophy to leave the room. “I have something of purpose to say to Francis.”

  Recognizing the determination and steel will of Lady Rothwell in her tone of voice, Lydia and Sophy, surprisingly with one thought, scuttled from the room. Sophy, characteristically, took a quick glance over her shoulder as she left and closed the door behind her. She had seen Lady Rothwell advancing upon Francis. And Francis, standing bolt upright, his eyes fixed upon his approaching aunt, reminded Sophy of nothing so much as a frightened hare.