by Jane Rubino
Reginald walked up to Frederica and made his petition, and to everyone’s surprise, Lewis deCourcy claimed Miss Manwaring, who seemed not at all discomfited by the request. Smith would have nobody but his wife, and Manwaring, left to sit with the dull Mrs. Vernon or dance with the equally dull Claudia Hamilton, chose the latter.
Sir James put a chair beside the pianoforte and Lady Vernon attacked him at once, while her fingers danced over the keys. “You are a fine relation! What possessed you to write such a note! ‘To work for my bread’! What would Mrs. Vernon think if it had fallen into her hands?”
“She would put poison in my teacup.”
Lady Vernon replied to this with a toss of her head and fixed her eyes upon the keyboard once more.
“How pretty she looks! And young deCourcy is the picture of triumph. He knows that he has cut me out.”
“Perhaps he only rejoices because he has got to your teacup.”
Sir James laughed. “No, he will revenge himself upon me by marrying Freddie—that is as far as his imagination can take him. It will be an excellent match for them both—he will give her consequence and she will give him sense.”
“I do not think that Mr. deCourcy is wanting in sense.”
“Say rather that he does not want natural abilities. His education and understanding are good, but sense will always be vulnerable when those closest to us are weak-minded or prone to idleness or resentment or vice. In the company of a father who was too frail to exert his authority, a mother possessing neither education nor talents, and a sister whose fondness took the form of flattering his vanity, his understanding became susceptible, and he was encouraged to form opinions too hastily and express them with too little restraint. That is precisely what a prudent wife will guard against.”
“You must not be severe upon him, James. All gentlemen do not possess your high degree of gravity and restraint.”
“If I am to be grave, do not provoke me to laugh. I must look like one who has had his hopes dashed.”
Lady Vernon made no reply, and after completing a reel, she complained of fatigue and withdrew from the instrument.
There was a pause as the ladies all considered whether one of them ought to take a turn at the instrument and each waited for another to surrender her enjoyment and her partner for the sake of the others. Vernon took advantage of this lull to observe how very cloudy a day it had been, and whether it boded rain or snow, and whether the drive back to Billingshurst was above an hour.
Mr. Lewis deCourcy immediately made the civil observation that the comfort of the ladies must be considered and that there were horses and servants who had been called out at very short notice for the sake of everyone’s pleasure—they must be thought of as well. Another round of dancing was therefore forfeited in favor of a collation of fruit and cakes and tarts, which had been sent by Mrs. Chapman.
While the Vernons were bidding adieu to their guests, Sir James took the opportunity to walk up to Reginald. “I have played a mean trick on you—you must forgive it, for my cousins’ sake. It will ease Lady Vernon’s mind considerably if we attempt something like friendship. You cannot refuse to pardon one who asks for it so readily.”
“I can only conclude that the readiness with which you ask for pardon comes from the number of occasions that have afforded you practice,” Reginald replied.
“Far too many! Fortunately, my relations and friends are an exceptionally forgiving lot.”
Mr. and Mrs. Vernon were both very surprised to walk back into the room to see Reginald and Sir James shaking hands. “Mrs. Vernon!” cried Sir James. “What an excellent party! I am delighted that my own taste for the impromptu did not inconvenience you—so excellent a dinner! I did not have one half so good at Lord Millbanke’s last week, and he keeps three French cooks just for his large parties.”
Before Mrs. Vernon could decide whether or not she ought to be mollified, Sir James continued. “I fear that I must end my visit prematurely and must leave for London very early tomorrow. You will none of you be down for breakfast, save for Mr. deCourcy—and I invite you, sir, to share my chaise, as it will be more suited to the weather and the state of the roads than your curricle. I will say good-bye to you, Vernon,” he added, “and ask you to indulge me so far as to allow me to make my adieux to my fair cousins tonight so that they will not feel obliged to see me off tomorrow.”
Mr. and Mrs. Vernon supposed that Sir James meant to make his offer for Miss Vernon and withdrew, she resolving never again to be caught without provisions for a dozen guests and he wondering how long it would be before the fishmonger had another such fine supply of whitebait.
Reginald bade them all a good night and expressed a wish that they might all meet in London very soon, then left them alone, his state of mind far more sanguine at the end of the day than at its beginning.
When he had gone, Frederica gave her cousin a kiss and advised him to depart from Churchill a better man than when he arrived, then allowed her mother and cousin to say their farewells in private.
“I hope that I shall be able to take Freddie’s excellent advice,” Sir James declared when the door had closed upon her. “I hope that I shall leave here a happier man, at least.”
“You have never been unhappy, James.”
“You are quite right. But I anticipate the particular satisfaction of taking my mother’s advice. There is no triumph so complete as seeing the surprise of a parent who has got past expecting anything like compliance.”
“I think that you can no more be compliant than my aunt can be surprised, unless her advice is of some consequence.”
“It is. Mother has urged me to marry for so long that I am certain she has quite given up on the prospect.”
Lady Vernon experienced something like sadness at his pronouncement. As the husband of another, the playfellow of her youth and her foil and confidant would be lost to her forever. “And who is the lady?” She affected something like her old playfulness of tone. “Not Miss Claudia Hamilton, surely. Or one of the Misses Millbanke?”
“Oh, no! I can allow for some shortcoming in my companions, but never in a wife—there, nothing less than perfection will do. I am such a good-for-nothing that I must have a wife who is exceptional in everything.”
“I confess I am very curious, cousin. I can think of nobody in our range of acquaintance who is anywhere near perfection—save Freddie, perhaps, and you have resigned your role as her admirer.”
“Yes, but there is someone very near Freddie who will suit me even better.” To Lady Vernon’s astonishment, her cousin became very grave. “My dear cousin—my dear Susan—I valued and esteemed Sir Frederick, you know that I did. I am acutely aware of what is due to his memory and I would never address you if to do so would be to trespass upon his wishes for your future happiness. I know that Freddie would approve, and Mother would be truly indebted to you for the very great honor you would confer upon her by taking me off her hands.”
Here he paused and looked at her expression before deciding whether he should continue.
Lady Vernon was dumbfounded. She had always liked her cousin—nay, she loved him—with all of the warmth and affection of two people who have known each other since childhood. No match could suit either of them better, for she was inured to all of his faults and he was so in love as to be persuaded that she had almost none at all.
“I have forgot,” Sir James continued, “the fervent assurances that I love you beyond expression. You will forgive me if I have overlooked what ought to be said at the outset. Though I have been said to be on the verge of marriage with every eligible young lady in England, I am quite a novice at the business of proposing—nor do I have any ambition to become a proficient.”
Lady Vernon needed no such assurance. That Sir James loved her, she was certain. But would he have offered his hand if he knew that it would obligate him to Sir Frederick’s unborn child? “I am not yet out of mourning.”
“I am not proposing that we elope, Susan. That
is for the likes of Charles Smith and Lucy Hamilton. I only ask for the permission to hope.”
“I would be very wrong to encourage such a hope. My own prospects are so uncertain that yours may be injured by affixing your fortunes to mine. Did you not pronounce marriage to be a business transaction that one should not enter without a promise of a return? I encourage you, as a cousin who has loved you all her life, to aspire to a happier and richer union than I can offer.”
“I do not look to be enriched by marriage, only to be happy. I entirely comprehend your hesitation, but you need have no anxiety on Freddie’s account,” he hastened to assure her. “Tomorrow I journey to London with deCourcy and I will impress upon him any of Freddie’s perfections that have escaped his notice—it will take far less than thirty miles to accomplish. They will be married in six months.”
“A great deal may change in six months,” Lady Vernon replied. “Your nature and inclinations are such that in half a year’s time you may regret your offer to me.”
Sir James was affronted and almost angry. “When have I ever wavered in my devotion to you? When have I ever given you cause to think that I would tender my proposals to anyone without sincerity? I do not deserve such censure.”
Lady Vernon had never seen him so carried away by emotion. “I beg your pardon, cousin. I do not censure you—indeed, I have always relied upon your devotion.”
“And you may continue to rely upon it. If six months’ time should bring about any change in me, it will be that of a more determined attachment.”
“If that is true, you will not object to postponing your addresses. In six months’ time, if your attachment is not what you declare it to be today—if some circumstance should arise that would make you unwilling to renew your proposals—you will suffer neither reproach nor blame from me.”
“I assure you that in six months the only regret I will feel is the loss of so much time to suspense and anxiety when I might have been happy and secure. But it is no sacrifice—indeed, as Frederick has been gone barely six months, it is no more than is due to his memory.”
Lady Vernon was resigned to her cousin’s determination to be happy and decided that it was better to let the passage of time, and the event that it would bring about, test the depth of his fidelity. She extended her hand and he kissed it, both perfectly satisfied that the matter was resolved.
Volume III
London and Kent
chapter forty-two
While their conduct and companions had been very different, Sir James Martin and Sir Frederick Vernon had shared many qualities in common, and chief among them was optimism. No problem was insoluble, no obstacle insurmountable, nor was any misery permanent.
Sir James, therefore, woke on the following morning certain that time would resolve all in his favor. It had been unfeeling of him to address his cousin in a place that must recall both her happiest and unhappiest days, and there were other considerations that made her hesitation perfectly natural. In making so early a second marriage, she would certainly incur the censure of the world (which he had once advised her to heed), and she could not think of marrying before a match for Frederica might be secured. His efforts would better be directed toward bringing Frederica and Reginald deCourcy together—once their attachment was a settled thing, Susan would have only her own future to think about.
He wrote a handsome note to Mrs. Vernon thanking her for her hospitality and expressing his desire to reciprocate it should she ever come to London, and another more affectionate one to his cousins, apologizing once more for his mischief and insisting that they must always regard him as one who had only their best interests at heart.
The gentlemen had an early breakfast, their baggage was secured, and the carriage set off at nine o’clock. The weather was favorable to Sir James—that is, there was just enough drizzle and fog to slow their journey, and Sir James had ample time to promote Miss Vernon’s beauty, refinement, and accomplishment.
“She is superior in every way, and I may speak as one who has known her since her birth, though not”—Sir James smiled—“as one who was ever a suitor. Lady Vernon and I were brought up almost as brother and sister, and our families were always on very intimate footing, which, I suppose, began the gossip that I had not married because I was waiting for my young cousin to come of age. I was very wrong to let it go on as long as it did, as it only added to speculation. A gentleman of fortune must be married—his friends and neighbors will have no peace until he is.”
“But if you never meant to make a proposal for Miss Vernon, why, when I addressed Lady Vernon on the subject, did she not contradict me?”
“I suspect that my cousin was so very shocked that you believed the gossip that she did not know what to say. And supposing that the rumor had come to you by way of Mrs. Vernon, she did not wish to impugn your good sister’s information. I am quite certain that when addressed on the subject, Lady Vernon thought only to defend Miss Vernon as deserving of the addresses of a gentleman in my situation and not to deliberately suggest that I was her object.”
Reginald could not clearly recall what had been said and, after a moment, decided that this had indeed been the case.
“But so it is with parents,” Sir James continued. “By them we are taught, from the moment we think of marrying at all, that we cannot marry without some attention to money. And yet if they might only consider the unequal matches that are the result of it—the years of unhappiness that follow a union fashioned out of a parent’s ambition—perhaps they might consider the very great advantage of a son-or daughter-in-law whose character and abilities may be superior to wealth.”
“You speak with a great feeling for the subject.”
“There was someone I liked,” Sir James replied gravely, “who suited me in every regard. But her fortune was not what my father—an excellent parent in every other respect, and a gentleman always worthy of the highest regard—wished for me, and I allowed his desires, if not to rule me, at least to cause me to hesitate just long enough for another to win her heart and her hand. I have not found anybody I liked quite as well ever since.”
Reginald was struck by the unexpected sincerity of Sir James’s manner.
“It is a lesson,” Sir James continued, “not to let ourselves be ruled by others in the matter of our happiness, nor to place fortune above true felicity.”
“But that is spoken like a rich man, who may do as he likes.” Reginald smiled.
“All the more reason that I ought to have done as I liked when the opportunity was before me.”
“You cannot reproach yourself for honoring your father’s wishes.”
“I can reproach myself for giving so little credit to his affection by supposing that he would feel a lasting resentment if I married against his ambition. I allowed myself to think that he would prefer me to be rich rather than happy. If I had spoken at once, if I had made my feelings plain, he might have attempted to argue me out of them—he might have attributed them to youth, as I was very young at the time—but I believe that he would have yielded in the end.”
“There was no objection to the lady’s character?”
“None at all. She was unexceptionable in every regard.”
After a few moments, Sir James continued with a smile, “The result is that I have made myself the fodder of the gossipmongers and the matchmakers. The rumors of an engagement to my young cousin came out of it, and will not end until she comes to London and engages the attention of some young man or other. Not all young men can be the fool that I was, nor can every father be so ambitious. A young lady of Frederica’s beauty and accomplishment, of such excellent disposition and character, will not be disregarded for a want of fortune.”
Reginald could say no more than “Indeed, no.”
As Reginald was only to stay in London until the following morning, Sir James invited him to pass the night at his house in town, and Reginald accepted with pleasure. The journey gave Reginald an opportunity to understand that Sir Jam
es was very different from what gossip had pronounced him to be; he had been said to be thoughtless and giddy, and yet every expression had shown him to be civil, intelligent, and amiable.
They decided to stop at Portland Place in order to turn over Lady Vernon’s portrait to her housekeeper. The door was answered by this woman, who greeted Sir James with genuine warmth and commissioned the footman to take charge of the parcel.
Then, to their very great surprise, the housekeeper declared, “Lady Martin has been awaiting you in the front parlor. She would have you join her.”
“Mother!” Sir James cried, throwing open the door to the parlor. Lady Martin was sitting beside the fire, needlework on her lap and two plump cats at her feet.
“Well, you have got here! You may kiss me—I cannot get up. Do not tease Kit! You are Mr. deCourcy,” she addressed Reginald. “There, the bother of deciding which of us must request an introduction is done with. I have some slight acquaintance with your father and mother, sir, and I hope that they were in health when you saw them last.”
Reginald was surprised, but not displeased, with the lady’s address, which despite her easy manner retained an air of elegance.
“My father has not been as strong as I would like, but Miss Vernon was kind enough to send a few receipts, which I hope will give him some improvement.”
“Excellent! She is an excellent girl—but a superior mother will invariably produce a superior daughter. If I had a daughter, she should have been a very superior girl, and nothing at all like this reprobate whose company you have been compelled to suffer all the way from Sussex. Sit down—why do you stand there? I will give you some tea. Do you stop at my son’s house?”
“Yes, ma’am, Sir James has been kind enough to ask me to stay for the night. Tomorrow I proceed to Parklands.”
“Well, one night in his company can do you no harm.”
“I am very surprised to see you here, Mother,” said Sir James. “I cannot account for it.”