The Dutiful Daughter

by Vanessa Gray

  Unfortunately for Lydia, her sense of timing had played her false. She had been enjoying the dance and her flirtation with the London dandy, and the dance was over before she was aware it was coming to a close. She had spoken loud enough for Julian to hear, but the violins fell silent midway in Lydia’s remarks. So, by an evil chance, did everyone else in one of those odd silences that occur in company now and then.

  Lydia’s callous remarks, indeed, as her brother told her later, her vulgar words, rang out with the clarion sharpness of a battle trumpet. The effect upon her involuntary listeners was notable.

  First came embarrassment, and everyone looked in different directions so as to avoid catching anyone else’s eye. Then, as Chloe understood her sister’s statement fully, she felt as though the floor beneath her had suddenly given way. Her knees shook, and she was as shamed as though she had suddenly stood without clothing in the midst of an assembly.

  She lost her wits. Her eyes mirroring shock, she moved blindly as though in a fog, and turned instinctively to the only help she knew, Richard.

  Richard, for his part as appalled as she, but recognizing not only Chloe’s need but his own need to protect her, was already threading his way through the crowd to stand by her side. He took her hand and felt it icy within his warm fingers. He pressed her hand reassuringly, and murmured words that neither one of them remembered.

  Then suddenly the tableau in Lady Partridge’s ballroom came to life. Lydia’s gaffe was by common consent ignored. Indeed, it was such a shocking event that no one could quite take it in. However, the frenzied search among all the hearers for safe subjects to which to turn the conversation had a two-fold result.

  The topic that nobody dared mention — Lydia’s heartless remark — was even more clearly etched in the minds of the company. It would be taken out, at leisure, to be turned over, discussed in depth, and torn to shreds, seeking all the titillation that could be gained from it. The second was that, to all intents and purposes, the ball was over. An insistent need arose among all the participants to launch upon their discussion of the topic that was uppermost in their minds, and for satisfactory discussion privacy was needed.

  Edward, as soon as his feet could move, bore down upon his mother with ponderous indignation. To do Lady Rothwell credit, she was as horrified as was possible to her, and her heavy features turned grim. She did not carry her dismay to the point of blaming herself for Lydia’s casual treatment of the conventions, or even, as Edward would put it strongly to her later, for Lydia’s flouting of the standards of common decency.

  Chloe was hardly aware that the ball was over. Scant ceremony was afforded their hostess, and in some respects the Rothwell departure took on the nature of headlong flight. Richard, with some disgust, noticed that Julian Stoddard and Thaddeus Invers both had dissociated themselves from the Rothwells. Neither was to be seen, and only Lydia’s dull flush told him that she realized the enormity of her behavior.

  Richard stayed with Chloe while the carriage was hastily brought to the entry, feeling her hand clinging desperately to his. He was prey to mixed emotions, foremost among which was to hold Chloe close to him and let her sob her heart out, and the second was to take Lydia over his knee and give her the sound spanking she richly deserved.

  On second thought, Richard began to wonder whether Chloe could cry, for he mistrusted the look of vague remoteness that lay in her eyes. He was sure she did not know where she was or who stood nearby. He released her hands so that Francis could help Chloe into her cloak and hand her into the coach. Richard watched the carriage go down the drive, in haste, and his heart went with it.

  Within the coach, Lydia sat in her corner, subdued for once. Sophy, hastily summoned from upstairs, sat circumspectly silent, aware that something untoward had happened, but since she had been too far away from the scene of action, she did not know exactly what.

  Even Lady Rothwell could think of nothing to say. After she had wailed, “Lydia, how could you?” she slumped in the seat. For perhaps the first time within memory the Rothwells returned home from a party in utter silence.

  Chloe did not notice. The only sound she could hear, above the rhythmic pounding of hooves and the rattle of harness, was Lydia’s remembered voice. “Because of Chloe’s fortune ... All go London”. The horses’ hooves set the words to their rhythm. Chloe’s fortune — Chloe’s duty to her family — Chloe’s fortune. It was almost a litany in her mind. And in the way of litanies, the words soon lost their meaning, and only the grievous hurt that Lydia had inflicted remained. Chloe was not sure she had not sustained a mortal wound.

  At last they got home and dismounted from the coach. Still in that state that was akin to sleepwalking, Chloe walked into the house, climbed up the stairs. She was vaguely aware that Bess fussed over her, got her undressed, and into her nightshift. The maid, although no word had been spoken, was aware that something was amiss. She would find out in due course, but just now, she was alarmed at Chloe’s vacant stare. Hastily descending to the kitchen, she warmed up some milk and brought it back. Forcing her mistress to drink it, she got her into bed.

  Chloe lay back among the pillows, weary to the point of collapse, but she could not sleep.

  21

  Lydia’s words rang ominously through Chloe’s mind, rather like the tolling of a church bell. Sleep escaped her, and she stared, unseeing, into the darkness.

  But Chloe was not the only inhabitant of Rothwell Manor that night who could not sleep.

  On the ground floor, Edward, in his book room, was giving vent to his anger. He was already furious because of Lydia’s indiscretion, to call it by a kind name, but he had that evening had even more unwelcome information thrust upon him.

  Lydia herself had exasperated him. He took his position as head of the family with great seriousness. He believed that he alone knew what was best for the women of his family, for he was in the last analysis responsible for them. He was worldly enough to know that Lydia seriously damaged the family’s reputation. If Julian Stoddard chose, he could make a shambles of the Rothwells’ pretention to breeding, for even if Lydia’s remark was not exaggerated, as it could well be, it was bad enough so that Lydia’s thoughtlessness might be remembered and held against them for a long time.

  The responsibility thrust upon Edward when he was only fifteen had been heavy, but he had discharged his duties well. The need for economy had dictated that the governess for the girls, Lydia and Sophy, must be dismissed, for Lady Rothwell said that she could take it on herself to instruct them in the proper ways.

  He now was forced to see that he had made a great mistake. His mother, while well-bred and aware of what was proper, yet allowed her emotions to rule her head, and she was foolishly fond of her own girls.

  Now he could see how grave was the result of his leaving his younger sisters to his mother.

  Lydia had been revealed to be a prattler, a feather-headed peahen, telling the family business to the world. Unjustly, he blamed Lydia for the sudden silence that had framed her ill-guarded remarks. Even so, it would have been a disaster had no one else heard the remarks except the man to whom they were addressed. Edward’s heart sank when he remembered that Julian Stoddard had been the recipient of Lydia’s confidence. He disliked and mistrusted the man, quite rightly, and he was quite sure that, in Julian Stoddard’s hand, Lydia’s remarks could be made public to all of London.

  Edward’s affection for Chloe, while not obvious, was strong, and his conscience told him that not the least harm done by Lydia’s wagging tongue was the blow that was struck to Chloe’s self-esteem. He climbed the stairs like a man suddenly grown old.

  And Sophy! Edward had been given much to think about.

  Now, in his dressing gown, facing a dying fire in his room, he turned over in his thoughts the interview with Francis. They had scarcely gotten into the house, and the carriage had barely rumbled away to the stable, when Francis had followed him into the book room. Francis was laboring under strong emotion.

>   Edward said, “Don’t blame me for Lydia’s stupidity —”

  “Of course not. Hardly know how to tell you.”

  Edward was bitter. “Nothing you can tell me will make any difference.”

  Francis continued, doggedly, “It’s not good news.”

  Edward replied, “Whatever news you’ve got, if it’s about Lydia, I’ve already heard the worst.”

  Francis stood silent for a moment, and then he burst out, “Not Lydia. Sophy.”

  Edward, startled, exclaimed, “What can Sophy have done? She was not at the ball.”

  Francis agreed. “No, but she was at Lady Partridge’s.” Then, without malice but with rigid righteousness, he told Edward what he knew about Sophy’s evening.

  “The waltz!”

  Francis said, “Hardly respectable at Almack’s, you know. Had it not been for the Czar ...”

  Edward had read about this in the London journals. Czar Alexander of Russia, through his considerable charm, had made the waltz respectable at Almack’s. But only a very few dared even yet to venture upon the Continental steps, which were considered indecent by many.

  Sophy, at the age of thirteen, was too precocious, so Francis said. Leaving Edward to mull over the iniquities of his women, he added, “Thought you should know. Not the thing at all.”

  He was gone, shutting the door behind him. Edward, placing his head in his hands, swore. By the time he arrived upstairs, he had made up his mind that he would do his best for Chloe, the only member of his family who showed any sense at all. Now, he removed his dressing gown, placed the screen in front of the fireplace, and crawled into bed. He was not at all sleepy. Was ever a man beset in such fashion? He spared a thought of envy for Richard Davenant. There were no women in his life, unless he was to be leg-shackled soon to his bride from London. Edward, pulling up the covers, pictured to himself Sir Richard Davenant sleeping the sleep of the just and untroubled.

  In this he was wrong. Richard was not blessed with the sleep that Edward envied. He sat now in his study before a late fire, burning low. The woebegone look in Chloe’s eyes haunted him, and he was sorely troubled. He was gratified beyond words by Chloe’s turning to him in her blind need. He could still see her searching eyes, and the way they fixed on his face as he started toward her across the room. This, he believed, told him that she was far from indifferent to him. He was her Great Friend, she told him often, but he was quite sure that her feeling for him went deeper than that. If she turned to him in her despair, then she would turn to him at all other times.

  He was aware of certain information that could assure her that he was not a fortune hunter. The letter from Aston, that had burned in his pocket the other day, held certain hints. Now he possessed an additional report from his man of affairs in London, relating certain rumors running through the city like wildfire. The news of Miss Rothwell’s legacy was common conversation in London. But, said Aston, he was not satisfied. He had set his agents to seek out the truth. And the last sentence in Aston’s letter, while as uncommitted as any attorney’s statement, suggested caution in the matter of Miss Rothwell’s legacy.

  Richard could not warn Chloe against an unknown suspicion. But he also had had enough of seeing his dear Chloe beset on every hand. The fury he had felt to begin with over Lydia’s informing the world that the Rothwells considered Chloe’s fortune to be theirs, even though it came from Chloe’s mother’s family, had stirred him to the depths.

  Clearly things were coming to a head. Chloe must be removed from that abominable household — before Lydia’s tongue drove Chloe past rescue. Now, spurred by Aston’s veiled hints, Richard believed it was time to look further into Chloe’s affairs. His cousin Nell, now Lady Theale, lived a short distance from Highmoor. Theale would know the truth, and Richard, abandoning his pose of dear friend, wrote a letter to Lord Theale. Then, feeling he had done all he could, he went to bed.

  Chloe, unaware of Edward’s resolve to do his best for her, and equally unaware that Richard was taking action on her behalf, still could not sleep. She tossed and turned. The trancelike state that Lydia’s indiscretion had induced in her was wearing off. How could Lydia have brazenly counted on Chloe’s fortune for herself? Chloe had not refused to go along with Mama’s ideas. But to have the outcome so clearly expected, without the formality even of Chloe’s offering, was more than Chloe could stand. She realized that she had let Lady Rothwell assume that she would provide Lydia’s Season in London for her. But she had not realized that they were taking it for granted as though there were no choice.

  It was not that Chloe wanted them to beg her on their knees for her generosity, but still it was a sore trial. Lady Rothwell had made no bones about keeping Chloe’s duty before her eyes, but it was not for Chloe’s benefit, but for the benefit first of Lydia and Sophy. Lady Rothwell, even in pressing Francis’s suit for Chloe’s hand, and Edward, backing Thaddeus Invers — all these were still more signs that her family thought first of themselves, and only, when all else failed, thought of Chloe herself.

  Chloe had felt guilty over even the thought of ordering books from London, or ordering new clothes for herself, but there was no question in Lady Rothwell’s mind that Chloe’s fortune could be used to pay for Lydia’s wardrobe in London. Chloe had turned down Francis’s offer, and if Edward were to press her on Thaddeus Invers, she would tell him that she would not accept Thaddeus Invers either.

  But it was Julian Stoddard that Chloe feared the most. When Stoddard’s eyes fell upon her, she felt somehow soiled in a way that she did not understand. But she believed now, after Lydia’s incredible blunder, she would probably be done with Julian Stoddard.

  However, the subject of Chloe’s fears, a few miles away in his bedroom at the inn, was also wakeful.

  He regretted Lydia’s indiscretion, most particularly because he was with her at that moment, and the harsh light of public attention thus fell full upon him. He wished it hadn’t. Julian Stoddard had a devious mind, and over the years had grown to prefer working in an unseen manner rather than overtly.

  He now had Francis under the hatches, by means of a marked deck in a private residence. If it had not been in the home of someone whom he trusted, Francis would not have entered the game. Francis had little enough money, but he clung to it with all the conservatism of his Tory ancestors. Julian had been able to get Francis into his debt, and now he had promised to let Francis off if he could get Julian into the Rothwell circle. Julian’s object was to marry the heiress.

  Now Julian was having second thoughts. The public notice at Lady Partridge’s ball was too much. There were too many men who came to Chloe’s rescue — Julian had a strong recollection of Francis and Sir Richard Davenant and Edward converging on Chloe and getting her out of the ballroom. It would be surprising if he — Julian Stoddard — were allowed near Chloe again.

  Julian particularly disliked the look in Davenant’s eye. He had a healthy respect for the man, and considered him dangerous.

  Yet Julian was loath to let Chloe’s fortune slip through his fingers. There must be another way. He turned his mind to various devious schemes until he found one that suited him. He was in a way relieved that all this had happened, when he thought about it, for he did not wish to be leg-shackled. But the money, if he planned well, could come to him without the necessity of marrying the lady. If his luck held, and he had supreme confidence that it would, he would get out of this even better than he had thought. He sank, with satisfaction, into restful slumber.

  For her part, Chloe drowsed. She woke with a start. Her dream was disturbing, and as she sat up in bed and reflected on it, it was even more unsettling. She had dreamed of being all alone. There was no one there, no one to answer when she called, and in her ears she still heard the cry of fear with which she had awakened.

  She did not wish to go back to sleep, and got out of bed. She put on her robe, stirred up the fire, and added another small piece of wood to it. She wrapped the eiderdown around her and sat up until dayb
reak.

  The dream was more than disturbing. What did it mean? Did it mean that she must not go to live at Highmoor where she would be all alone, cut off from her family?

  What then did she want? Her family had revealed themselves as selfish, but still they were her only kin. She was afraid of the lonely dark, and she determined, eventually, to overlook her troubles. It was not a matter of choosing what was best. It was choosing the lesser evil. Besides, she told herself wearily, Lydia was young and thoughtless and only repeated what she had heard.

  Chloe, at last, having made her life less unpalatable, fell asleep in her chair, where Bess found her in the morning.

  22

  The next morning, when Chloe awakened, stiff and far from rested, to a gray day, threatening rain, she was convinced that she had misread the whole affair. She must overcome her hurt feelings. She could not abide an existence isolated from her family.

  Highmoor, nonetheless, hung in her thoughts. It was like a desert mirage, unreal but lingering in the thoughts as the embodiment of hope and peace.

  She sent Bess away and was dressing slowly when a knock sounded tentatively at the door. Lydia, waiting until invited, sidled in. She wore an unaccustomed air of diffidence, and she searched Chloe’s face for a reflection of her mood.

  Lydia had come to apologize. She was truly regretful about her misbehavior of the night before. She was not so lost to decency that she overlooked the devastating effect that her remark had made on her family. It was not for a small reason that the Rothwell party had hurried home, and she had heard all she needed to hear on the subject the night before. Lydia was truly regretful, although she could not believe her mother’s ominous fear that she had ruined her Season in London.