by Jane Rubino
On Thursday, Mr. Vernon returned from London and brought Miss Vernon with him, as Miss Summers absolutely refused to take her back. (I am sure that by now you have learned the motive of her conduct and cannot disapprove it, as it was done on behalf of our cousin Lucy.) They arrived just as we sat down to tea, and might have been with us earlier had my generous husband not undertaken to bring Miss Manwaring as far as Billingshurst.
When her daughter entered, Lady Vernon was the very picture of self-command, though earlier she had been shedding tears and pouring out her anxiety to Reginald. No doubt because the arrival of her daughter must expose him to all of her failures as a parent, which could not be evident while Miss Vernon was in London. She greeted her daughter with composure but without any tenderness of spirit. Miss Vernon’s address was perfectly civil. She did not sit with us for ten minutes, however, before she burst into tears and ran from the room. Lady Vernon followed and reappeared again, only coming down to announce that Miss Vernon was very fatigued and that they would dine in their apartments. She made a pathetic show of concealing her misery, which tried my patience sorely, but fortunately we were not subjected to it for the entire evening.
I was able to see more of my niece on the following day. She is very pretty, but not at all like her mother. She has quite the Vernon cast of countenance, the oval face and mild dark eyes of her father. There had been a portrait of Sir Frederick somewhere in the gallery, which my dear husband was compelled to move in order to make way for a likeness of my grandfather. It had been done not long after Sir Frederick was knighted, and his age cannot have been much older than Miss Vernon is now, so the resemblance is rather striking.
I cannot think that a girl with so little in the way of fortune or accomplishment is truly the object of Sir James Martin, despite her mother’s schemes, yet although she has had a wretched education and a poor example in her mother, she may not be too young to amend her defects. She is not entirely without merit, as she has made herself useful in any number of small tasks, and her little cousins have all grown very fond of her. I am persuaded that Mr. Vernon foresaw that her temperament would be suitable to tending to them (as we have yet to engage a governess) and elected to bring her to Churchill on that account. Mr. Vernon is always putting the children and me above anything—I do not think that there is a husband who is his equal!
When Lady Vernon departs Churchill for London, which I hope will take place very soon, perhaps the children and I may come to you in Kent, and I will contrive to bring Miss Vernon with me so that you may determine for yourself whether she would do for a governess. I assure you, my dear madam, that, though she is wanting something in elegance, there is nothing coarse about her, and she has the sort of modest and obliging disposition that would never presume upon your goodwill and notice.
Lady Vernon has said something of fixing herself in town. She retains the residence on Portland Place, and if her extravagance does not allow her to keep it up, I am certain that Mr. Vernon would take it off her hands, for the convenience of having an establishment when business obliges him to go to town. If, however, Lady Vernon regards his generosity with the same obstinacy that ruled her when she and Sir Frederick were obliged to get rid of Vernon Castle, I have no expectation that he will succeed.
I remind Reginald constantly that it is his duty to wait upon you and my father, and hope that when he comes to Kent you will be successful in keeping him there. When I asked how long he meant to be with you, and whether he would spend the entire season in town, he professed himself quite undetermined. Yet there was something in his look and voice that contradicted his words. I confess I do not like to see him go to London when I know that Lady Vernon means to be in town.
He has resumed his practice of walking up and down the shrubbery with her, and I suspect that she would like to fix him before he goes away—but of this I will say no more, for a great deal may happen between now and then. I can only hope that he will see in Miss Vernon’s want of elegance and sophistication all of the neglect and selfishness of the mother.
Your affectionate daughter,
Catherine Vernon
Reginald did not share his sister’s opinion of their young guest. Though he had not allowed her to be pretty when she first entered the house, he now conceded that it was only the difference between Miss Vernon and her mother that had biased his judgment. Indeed, she was pretty, nay, beautiful, her figure and carriage were graceful, her manner unassuming, and her patience and good humor toward her young cousins were highly to her credit. Once or twice, Reginald believed that her pensive expression brightened when he approached, but she invariably hurried on before he could utter anything beyond a “Good morning.” This piqued Reginald more than any outright flirtation could have, and his remorse at having misjudged her developed into a keen interest in knowing her better.
He resumed his habit of walking the grounds with Lady Vernon solely to engage her in conversation on the subject of her daughter. Lady Vernon did not spare herself in addressing Frederica’s amiable qualities, but always with such a tone of discouraging Reginald’s interest so that, though once inclined to regard a union with Sir James Martin as highly advantageous to Miss Vernon, he now began to think that it was she who was too good for him.
When he ventured to give a hint of his opinion to Lady Vernon, she would observe that a young woman’s ability to attract a suitable match would always be hindered by indigence, and that an offer of marriage from any gentleman in possession of a good fortune was not one that a poor young woman could easily dismiss. “The matter of our poverty is one that I cannot address with equanimity—it is too closely united with my husband’s passing. Perhaps, after his injury, I ought to have pressed Sir Frederick to make those amendments to his will that would have confirmed his intentions regarding our fortune, but I always believed that Charles would honor them—no less than you would if your sister’s fortune had been left to your discretion—and at the time I was reluctant to introduce any subject that would suggest that I anticipated anything but my husband’s complete recovery.”
“But what of Miss Vernon’s happiness?” he replied with some warmth. “Surely that must be a consideration in marriage?”
“Happiness will always be a consideration among those who can afford it,” replied she, with a gentle smile. “But for a young woman who has been left with nothing, to be both unhappy and poor is far worse than to be unhappy and rich.”
chapter thirty-five
One morning at breakfast, about a fortnight after Miss Vernon’s arrival, Catherine had been perusing a letter from her mother, which was a reply to her most recent communication.
I would be happy to think that the arrival of Miss Vernon will expose Reginald, at last, to all of Lady Vernon’s failings and vanity, but I dare not be easy until he returns to us. Continue to urge him as much as you can and discourage Mr. Vernon from any sort of family feeling that would have Lady Vernon prolonging her visit. He must know that you cannot come to us while she is with you, and we are both very eager to see our dear grandchildren once more.
“Reginald,” said Catherine as she laid down her letter. “Our mother expresses a wish to have you at Parklands. When you write to her next, you must assure her that you mean to go to them before you settle in town.” She then recited several extracts from the letter, punctuating these with pointed observations that he had been with them “so very long” and that “it has been above six weeks since you came to us,” which were meant to remind Lady Vernon of the duration of her own visit.
Reginald did not hear above two words; he was engaged in observing Miss Vernon’s pensive countenance as she gazed out the window at the barren flower beds. “I think,” he said to her in a low voice, “that you find Churchill Manor very much changed, Miss Vernon.”
He was doubly rewarded, for not only did she turn her expressive eyes upon him but she replied as well, though only to say, “Yes, sir.”
“‘Changed’?” Catherine exclaimed. “We hav
e done nothing at all but put a carpet and some shelves in the nursery.”
“I suspect that Miss Vernon does not address what has been altered but what has been neglected.”
“Neglect?” cried Charles, with an uneasy glance that comprehended both Lady Vernon and her daughter.
“I refer to the greenhouses, Charles, which I think might be almost as fine as the ones at Parklands, if they were brought back to use.”
“Oh, the greenhouses,” rejoined Catherine. “Mr. Vernon’s grounds man left us, and those who worked below him in the greenhouses are better off tending to their own fields and farms. Hothouses are good for nothing but growing melons and strawberries and the like, and Cook may get those from the village or the farms. I am not in favor of the current notion that everything put on the table must come from one’s own orchards and gardens. To be sure, it is very useful to have a cook who can keep a kitchen garden and to grow a few herbs for one’s own use, for one cannot forever be calling upon the apothecary. I daresay Mr. Lavery nearly poisoned little Charlie with his receipt when our dear boy had a congestion of the chest.”
“Miss Vernon’s interest goes beyond a few herbs.” Reginald smiled. “I believe that she has made a serious study of botany. You might allow her to take a few liberties with the plant beds and the greenhouses, I think. Would you not like to look forward to a few plants and flowers in the spring?”
“Oh, I am as fond of plants and flowers as anybody who ever lived! Miss Vernon may explore the plant beds and the greenhouses as much as she likes. I am sure that no harm can come of it—there may be some way to turn the beds into sandboxes! And perhaps she may show the children how to make a few sachets or mosaics.”
“Are you a simpler,” Reginald inquired of Miss Vernon with a smile, “or a sampler?”
“I cannot lay claim to either talent,” she replied. “My own handiwork might pass for that of a five-year-old child, and I have never poisoned anything beyond a rat. But that,” she added, “was only out of some childish experimentation with woodruff and sweet-root. I do not think that I am inclined to poison anything now.”
Lady Vernon checked a laugh. She perceived that Reginald was diverted by the reply, though Catherine declared that it was “a very odd subject for the table.”
Frederica begged her aunt’s pardon and asked if she might examine the greenhouses. Catherine readily gave her consent, and when Frederica withdrew, Lady Vernon said, “You must forgive Frederica. Her pursuits have always been solitary ones—gardening and books and music—excellent pastimes in themselves, but they do not promote ease of conversation.”
“Miss Vernon is musical?” Reginald inquired. “Why does she not play? The instrument in the drawing room is a superior one and will likely go out of tune if it is not used, as Catherine does not play at all.”
“Frederica always preferred the little pianoforte in the dressing room that Mrs. Vernon now occupies—I am certain that it will be a very convenient arrangement when the children begin to play.”
“But as they do not play, I can see no reason why Miss Vernon may not use it for practice—Catherine is not always in her dressing room. You would not object, would you, Catherine?”
Catherine was not entirely happy with the proposal. She liked to have her mornings undisturbed so that she might write her letters and then proceed to do nothing in peace and quiet. “I shall have the instrument moved to your apartments,” she said. “The furnishings in your dressing room can be arranged to make a place for it by the window. My niece may practice as much as she likes in that part of the house.”
Lady Vernon thanked her sister-in-law, yet when she withdrew Catherine declared, “You are very generous with my instrument, Reginald.”
“You would not deny her the occasional use of what had been hers,” replied the brother. “She can do no more harm to the pianoforte than to the gardens, as both have been allowed to lie fallow. And while she is with you, you will have the enjoyment of a little music and Churchill will be free of rats.”
chapter thirty-six
Upon entering the greenhouse, Frederica experiences an equal measure of happiness and dejection; the place must always hold happy associations for her, and yet she saw at once how far five months of neglect and disuse had annulled all of her effort.
The enclosure was still sound, and the rows of forcing beds in good condition, though the earth was dried up and covered in desiccated vines and leaves. Still, Frederica thought that something might be done with it, that the leaves and dried vines could be cleared away and the soil properly worked so that something might be planted. At the end of one of the long enclosures, several bundles of herbs had been hung to dry for the kitchen and for various eaux de toilettes and balms, which Frederica had tied upon the very morning of her father’s death.
She took a dusty apron down from a peg and tied it round her waist, and then sat upon one of the beds, to determine how it might be worked.
She heard a quick step along the rows and looked up to see Reginald deCourcy advancing in her direction. She dropped a curtsy and turned back to the beds, supposing that he meant to walk on.
To her surprise, he stopped and addressed her. “These were very fine greenhouses. I cannot think why my brother allows them to fall into decline unless his notion of landscape is for everything to grow in a wild and random fashion.”
“There is very little in nature that is random—even when neglected, there is some order to every growing thing.”
“You reply as one who thinks first in a scientific manner. But take this plot, for example,” he said, pointing to one of the beds where an irregular scattering of tendrils poked through the earth. “There is no system here.”
“You must be patient, sir. I put the bulbs down myself last year, to force them here and then remove them to one of the plots in the spring. When they bloom, this row will be yellow tulips and those will be white crocuses. Plants, like people, are not always as they first appear—only in time will their nature be revealed.”
“Yet there can be little deception in plants—a tulip is always a tulip, and a crocus cannot be other than a crocus.”
“Yes, if you judge candor or deception only by the exterior. Then you see only the bloom and yet the roots that support it may be corrupt—and in such a way as may ruin the entire garden.”
Reginald smiled in so warm and congenial a manner that Frederica felt emboldened and asked him to describe the grounds and gardens at Parklands. She listened raptly as he gave a comprehensive description of the deCourcy estate. “My father took a very active interest in the property when he was in health.”
“Then I wish him a very speedy return to it,” she said. She bound up two bundles of dried herbs. “This is agrimony and this one is dried peppermint. A strong brew of agrimony root and leaves is said to ease a congestion of the lungs, and peppermint tea will settle the stomach and promote digestion. I will write down the receipts for Sir Reginald, and directions for starting your own plants, if they are not grown at Parklands.”
He thanked her and, eager to prolong the conversation, tried another subject. “You get on very well with my nieces and nephews.”
“Yes. I am sorry to have not known them before now. It is fortunate that they have one another for companionship, as the move to Sussex must be a very great change for them. Mr. and Mrs. Vernon may live in as quiet a manner as they like, and the children will not be lonely.”
“And were you lonely?”
“I never felt the want of companionship when I was a child, but now I do think it would be nice to have a sister or, even better, a brother.”
“Better? I am not sure that Catherine would agree with you.” He smiled.
“Oh, a sister is as pleasing as a brother, to be sure, but I cannot help thinking a brother would have been more useful to my mother in her situation.”
“Though it gave Catherine the advantage of her own household, I am very sorry that her good fortune came at the expense of yours,” he r
eplied gravely. “Your father and mother have always been held in high regard by my Uncle deCourcy. His good opinion is always rooted in temperance and moderation.”
“That makes his opinion more valuable than the sort of immoderate flattery that springs up everywhere.”
Reginald wondered if she was thinking of Charles Smith. “Do you not think that flattery has its motive?”
“And so does censure.”
“They are very different.”
“Their language is very different, but can one’s character not be equally misrepresented by excessive praise as by undeserved reproach?” she inquired.
Reginald smiled and fell into step with her as she completed her tour of the beds. Her conversation and opinions had elevated her even further in his esteem, and he began to think seriously of Catherine’s urging him to return to Parklands—until he addressed his parents frankly, and put an end to all expectations that he would marry his cousin Lavinia, he could not be at liberty to make his addresses to a lady of his own choosing.
chapter thirty-seven
In most cases, a fortnight would be too soon for any spirited young man to fix upon a marriage partner unless he possessed the sort of reckless nature that would stake all future happiness upon an infatuation; yet while Reginald deCourcy possessed a warm and occasionally headstrong temperament, he was no more inclined to offer his heart because he had been warned against it than to bestow his hand because it was urged upon him. His feelings for Frederica Vernon had been helped along by her mother’s purposeful dissuasion and by his own compassion for her situation, but they might as easily have reversed if Miss Vernon had truly been ignorant, dull, or proud. Her beauty alone would not have secured him, but her accomplishments and her obliging manners bespoke a genuine superiority of mind, and her melancholy situation engaged his sympathy. While always attempting to be cheerful, particularly before the children, Miss Vernon must be unhappy, Reginald concluded. The loss of her father, her want of independence, the prospect of a union toward which she was disinclined, must make any sensitive young woman unhappy—and yet how could he object to her situation when he had allowed his family to anticipate his own marriage to Miss Hamilton? He had been very wrong to permit all of his family to presuppose a union that he knew would never take place.