The Unlikely Rivals

by Megan Daniel

  Chapter Two

  The next few days saw Saskia van Houten in a mighty struggle with her conscience. She did not feel she ought to go jauntering off to Bath, leaving her family to shift for themselves. But her more selfish side longed to grasp at the chance of a few days free from the constant demands of running such a clamorous household. Her baser self finally won the battle, goaded on by the prospect that perhaps her wealthy Aunt Eccles might, after all, be induced, or cajoled, or at least goaded, into doing something handsome for the van Houtens. So she packed her few simple gowns into the least battered valise that could be found in the attic, held a long colloquy with Mrs. Jansen, the round Dutch housekeeper, left pages of instructions with Beatrix and lists of admonitions with the twins, and prepared for her holiday.

  The whole family was in front of the snug (a euphemism for far too small, Saskia thought wryly) cottage in Eynshant, the Oxfordshire village which the van Houten family called home, to see her into the elegant chaise- and-four which her great-aunt had sent for her. Even Mama had been pried away from the exciting trials and tribulations of her poor Magdalena to wave a handkerchief in farewell.

  Rembrandt, the family dog, made it as far as the porch where he settled into a half-snooze, opening one eye every now and then to see if anything of interest was going forward, then closing it again when he discovered that it was not. To be sure, the unusual arrival of a coach-and-four had warranted an investigation, a few snuffles, and a loud bark or two for the horses’ benefit. But even such a magnificent equipage could not hope to compete with his very own well-chewed pillow pulled into a bright patch of sunshine on a warm spring morning.

  Mrs. Jansen, who was much more a member of the family than a mere housekeeper, bustled about the carriage like a hen. She must make certain there were enough rugs to ward off any chance draft and place a hot brick for Saskia’s feet. She loaded the overflowing hamper which she had filled with enough bread and cheese, oranges and sour pickles, hard-cooked eggs, macaroons, and cream buns to feed six hungry men, then she engulfed Saskia in an enveloping hug.

  “Pas op, lieveling” she warned in Dutch.

  “Of course I will be careful, Jannie,” replied Saskia. “What can happen to me, after all?”

  The twelve-year-old twins frisked about the luxurious coach, Willem admiring the beautiful team of bays and sneaking them lumps of sugar from the kitchen, Mina oohing and aahing over the postboys, in their silver and grey livery, who were scarce older than she. Give that one a few more years and the gentlemen would be pounding down the door. Despite a still-strong hoyden- ish streak, she was already bidding fair to outdo Beatrix in beauty.

  Cornelius, the oldest boy in the family at eighteen (going on eighty, Saskia sometimes thought) had strolled out of the library and stood in his usual stance, a book under one arm, a finger tucked securely between the pages to mark his spot. Neil was the scholar of the family and it was obvious he was eager to get back to his book. It was probably some terribly exciting tome on the romance of higher mathematics.

  “Say, Sask,” he said with sudden interest. “Do you think you might look out a copy of Carey’s Basics of Aerodynamics for me while you’re there? Couldn’t find it last time I was in Oxford, and I really must have it, you know. It’s got all his theories and his diagrams of bird flight. Give a look, will you?”

  “Carey, Basics of Aerodynamics,” Saskia muttered, mentally adding it to an already absurdly long list of trifles she’d been asked to “look out.”

  “And yes, Trix,” she cut off her sister before she could speak. “I have your blue muslin for matching. I promise not to return without your ribbons. And Mina’s sugarplums. And Willem’s new crop. Some camphorated spirits for Jannie and Miss Austen’s latest novel for Mama. Now, have I forgotten anything?”

  “Of course you have, silly,” cried Beatrix. “You are to bring us back Aunt Eccles’s fortune, of course.” The smile that brought the pert dimples to Beatrix’s face erased any taint of selfishness her words might imply.

  “And shall I look out for a rich husband while I’m about it? Why stop at only one fortune, after all?” she teased.

  “That would be very nice, darling,” said her optimistic mama, who saw no reason at all why the feat should not be easily accomplished. “I’m sure you would like it very well ”

  ‘In any case,” Beatrix went on, “you are to buy yourself a new spring bonnet, an extravagantly fetching one.”

  “Oh, but there is no need to now, when yours becomes me so mightily,” teased Saskia, adjusting the ribbons on the pretty confection of yellow chip straw that was perched at a jaunty angle over her brown waves. The bonnet went some little way toward dressing up the plain brown merino pelisse, beginning to fray at the cuffs and hem, which covered an equally plain orchre muslin round dress of several summers’ wear. While she looked neat as a pin and entirely proper, Miss van

  Houten was scarce a threat to the fashion queens of the day.

  With a final round of embraces she stepped up into the chaise and rolled away at last, waving out the window until she rounded a bend and could no longer see the little family group dispersing into the house.

  The first primroses were already peeking out of the hedges, and the rolling hills glowed with the rich new green of spring as Saskia began her adventure. She leaned back against the luxuriously upholstered squabs and wallowed in the freedom of this unexpected holiday. She began to hum a little tune, some vague accompaniment to the birdsong that followed her.

  This mellow mood lasted nearly half an hour and carried her the half dozen or so miles that separated Eynshant from Oxford. But even before the towers of the university town were clearly in view, she had reverted to her usual mental stance of worrying what was to become of her family.

  As the oldest and most sensible offspring of two very merry and impractical parents, it had long since fallen to Saskia to run the household. They all acknowledged her as its actual, if not titular, head. To be fair, it was the exertions of Mama, toiling over her annoying left-wing quill, which put bread on the table, and Saskia was at great pains to create an atmosphere to encourage her prolific output.

  But the London publishers of this, the enlightened nineteenth century, were still medievally clutch-fisted when it came to paying their authors enough to live on, especially when they were women. More than once, Saskia had been forced to make the incredibly dreary trip to London on the Common Stage to tussle with a particularly recalcitrant publisher over the question of monies due.

  One could not exactly call the van Houtens poor. Their cottage, though more than a little cramped with five children and a dog, was cozy and comfortable. The neat little kitchen garden that was Beatrix’s special

  domain provided fresh vegetables and berries and other good things, and Mrs. Jansen, who had adamantly refused to allow them to leave Amsterdam without her, always contrived to fill the larder and the table with the most delicious of treats and to keep the boys in hand- knitted socks.

  True, the draperies were definitely threadbare, and they had recently taken to using smelly oil lamps in a few of the rooms. It was shocking how high the price of wax candles had climbed. But they managed to go on quite cozily for all that. The present was not the problem. It was the future that caused Saskia endless anxiety.

  What seemed to be her most pressing worry just now was brought to mind by the august towers of the colleges of Oxford rolling into view. Neil, her oldest and most brilliant brother, would soon be ready for university and how on earth it was to be paid for was a mystery. But he absolutely must go; his brilliance must not be wasted. He had long since outstripped Mr. Kneigh- leys efforts to teach him. The pompous young rector struggled to believe himself on top of the situation, but it was abundantly dear that Neil had learned everything the man had to teach. Why, he could already talk three strong men to distraction in any discussion of aerodynamics, and once give him a sticky problem in mathematics and his deep blue eyes glowed with the pure joy of searching out
the answer.

  And though Neil’s education might be the most pressing of her worries, it was by no means the only one. The twins were both in need of stronger guidance than she could provide. Willem would never be a scholar like his brother, but a stint in a good school might go a long way toward curbing the wild streak that had grown so markedly the last two years.

  Saskia knew well that she should have disciplined the boy with a sterner hand. But it had seemed impossible somehow. When Papa had died, mischievous little Willem, the quintessential Dutch boy and so much his fa-

  ther’s son, had been knocked totally off-balance. He had climbed into a shell thick as a tortoise’s, where even his twin sister, so much a part of him, could not reach. And when, after nearly a year, he had finally begun to emerge and show signs of his former liveliness, Saskia hadn’t the heart to put the least curb on him.

  Unfortunately, Mina (Wilhelmina when she was naughty—which was lamentably frequent—because she disliked the name heartily) idolized her twin brother and followed him into every sort of scrape and start. The girl had turned into a regular hoyden. It was high time she had a governess who could instill in her the proper sort of behavior that her sister seemed unable to do.

  And then there was Beatrix. Saskia could never help smiling when the image of her sister crossed her mind’s eye. Who could contemplate such perfect beauty, such a lively spirit, and such a completely amiable nature with anything but joy? Trix was like the colorful wildflowers lining the road Saskia was traveling, seeming to laugh brightly as they bobbed their heads to the breeze.

  But Saskia’s smile quickly soured and the tiny frown lines appeared on her smooth, wide brow. What was to become of Trix? Such beauty should—indeed mustl—be allowed to shine. The girl should, by all rights, make a brilliant match if only one absolutely necessary attribute were not totally lacking. There would be no fortune, no dowry at all, to go with the soft hand and sparkling eye of Beatrix van Houten. In her more optimistic moments, Saskia believed that such a handicap could be overcome if only Trix could be seen by the right sort of gentleman. Surely a man of birth and fortune who truly loved her wouldn’t let her lack of dowry stand in the way of marrying such a treasure. And her birth was certainly good enough to marry into the highest of families. Her mama had been a Rowbridge, after all.

  But what chance was there for Trix, to even meet such a gentleman, stuck away as she was in Eynshant, totally wasted, in the little country hamlet? Mr. Kneighley seemed blind to her charms—indeed Saskia sometimes suspected him of being more than a bit short-sighted, for he did have a terrible squint, though he was far too vain to be seen in spectacles—and there were few other single gentlemen in the neighborhood.

  Of course there was Freddie Winslow, the Squire’s son. He was as smitten with Trix as it is possible for a young man of nineteen to be, which is to say considerably. But he was a desperately silly, frippery sort of fellow much given to such fancies as Cossack trousers of a vitriolic yellow, cut so full he looked like he was swimming whenever he strolled down the village High Street, and cravats grown higher and staffer and more intricate daily till they threatened his sight if he turned his head too quickly. In short, he was an impertinent young coxcomb, and Saskia couldn’t bear the thought of her beloved young sister sinking to that. The young man was currently up at Oxford, but their close proximity to the university town made it simple for him to toddle home whenever he liked. And he liked far too often for Saskia’s peace of mind.

  Even Mama needed looking after, for when in the throes and tales, she was prone to forget that night follows day and that one must eat and sleep if one is to work effectively.

  Whichever way Saskia twisted her mind in thought, bending it to the task of finding the perfect answer to all her worries for the future, it inevitably led her back to the only real solution that seemed viable. She must marry. The thought gave her no joy. Not that she didn’t believe in the efficacy of marriage. Her own parents had been perfectly suited and deliriously happy together. Perhaps it was that which caused a frown to shade her face now. She had had a wonderful example of what marriage could be, and she had no desire to settle for less.

  It might seem odd to the casual observer that Saskia van Houten had been allowed to reach the ripe old age of one-and-twenty still single. She had certainly not lived a life entirely devoid of suitors. In fact, Papa had

  used to tease her unmercifully about what he called the flocks of unfledged young ’uns, or their Dutch equivalent, fluttering around the door. She had turned down several very advantageous offers for a quite simple, straightforward reason. She had never yet been in love.

  She had actually tried very hard to fall in love once with a certain French cavalry officer stationed in Amsterdam, and she came fairly close to succeeding. Papa, thoroughly anti-French, had been set against the young man, which of course made falling in love with him that much simpler and more attractive. But when it became evident that the fortune he expected to go with her hand would not materialize, and it was borne in on the young man that a half-English wife would do his military career no good, Saskia’s charms seemed to hold less appeal than before. He quickly forsook them for those of a well-dowered, well-connected Dutch lady and began his rapid rise in the ranks.

  Saskia, try though she might to mourn his loss, couldn’t seem to force herself to grieve more than a week. She lost not a single ounce over the affair, and cried considerably less than a whole bucket of tears over his defection. She thus easily recognized that she had not really been in love at all.

  Now, at what she considered her advanced age, she truly thought herself beyond romance. Any marriage she might contract now would be one of convenience only, entered into with a steady hand and an eye toward bettering the future of the family that depended on her, and with no frippery considerations such as love allowed to color her decision. She knew she was being very com- mon-sensical to consider it in this light. She couldn’t think why the notion should make her feel so horribly low.

  She gazed out of the carriage onto the bursting green countryside in an attempt to give her thoughts a brighter direction. This was supposed to be a holiday, after all, and she would not spend her entire time in these constant worries. She hied to fix her attention on

  the passing beauty, and even succeeded in noting that the English countryside, which she had never tired of, was at its very best in April.

  A quick movement caught her eye. She turned her head just in time to catch a glimpse of a weasel darting across the road and disappearing under a hedge. As the carriage rolled past the spot, the pointy little face of the creature bobbed up to peer at her, looking for all the world like Mr. Kneighley peering over the top of his pulpit of a Sunday morning, and she was plunged right back into her unproductive train of thought on the question of marriage.

  For Mr. Kneighley seemed to be the only current candidate for the post of husband to Saskia and savior and protector of her family. Though only a country rector, his post was a well-remunerated one, and he also had an independent income from his family. And though Beatrix insisted that the squinty-faced little rector was not nearly good enough for Saskia, he had offered and must in all conscience be considered.

  There were certainly inducements to accepting him. He had often hinted that he would have no objection to sending a brilliant brother-in-law to Magdalen College, his own alma mater, and he might be able to exert some steadying influence over Willem—even though the boy loathed him. And then, the rectory was but a five-minute walk from the van Houten cottage, and Saskia would be able to run the household almost as effectively as she did now.

  But, oh dear, he was as dull as ditch water and so unbearably pompous and prosy that Saskia often wanted to scream with vexation. What a dreadfully boring life such a marriage would be. She wasn’t at all sure she could bear it

  She gave an involuntary grimace as the scene of the evening before sprang to mind, for it was then that Mr. Kneighley had chosen to make his declaration in for
m. Saskia had, with some trepidation, seen it coming for months and had been at great pains to keep him from

  coming to the point. The Lord knew why he had chosen to speak at last unless, Saskia thought with a wry smile, he felt somehow threatened by this holiday of hers in Bath. Indeed, one never knew what mischief such as she might get up to in such a gay place. She might take it into her head to elope with a gouty grandfather—provided he could be urged away from the curative Bath waters long enough for the ceremony to be performed— or waltz the night away with an aged baronet, romantically discussing the various manifestations of chronic indigestion.

  In an effort to be fair to Mr. Kneighley, she admitted the improbability of his harboring any jealous fears about her trip. He was far too filled with self-importance and had far too high an opinion of his own worth to entertain the vaguest notion that Miss van Houten could find anyone she might prefer to himself. He had paid her the supreme compliment of asking her for her hand in marriage, and what more could a young woman in her position desire?

  It had been the sheerest mischance that Mr. Kneighley, walking up through the garden from the Rectory, had come upon Saskia quite alone in the morning room, penning a letter with becoming concentration. The ostensible reason for his visit was to bid her a final adieu and to bring her a copy of Fordyce’s Sermons to beguile her weary hours in the carriage, which book she had unaccountably left behind.

  But the rector had never been a man slow to recognize opportunity when it faced him head on, and finding Saskia alone, he put on his homily-speaking voice and plunged into his long-prepared sermon on the felicity of marriage and his admiration of her person. Saskia, momentarily struck quite speechless by his eloquence—or was it his absurdity?—could make not the slightest move to staunch the flow and the rector, before he was many minutes into his monologue, was so encouraged as to somewhat gingerly lower his unromantieally scrawny person to its knees. His mama had informed him that