The Unlikely Rivals

by Megan Daniel

  “May I escort you, Cousin?” asked Derek. “I should like to pay my respects to your mother and confess a dark desire to meet your Mr. Collins.”

  “His name ain’t Collins,” said Neil. “It’s Kneighley. And what the devil should bring him to Bath is more than I know!”

  “Come with us, by all means,” said Saskia. “You may tell me whether I am right in the characterization.”

  “Poor Mr. Kneighley,” sighed Trix. “I’m sure one really ought to like him, or at least respect him. He is such a worthy man.”

  “Which is what makes it so particularly difficult to admire him, is it not?” said Derek with great perspicacity.

  “Exactly!” she answered. “How well you understand everything, Cousin Derek.”

  They had reached Laura Place. Saskia took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and entered the house. Voices drifted from the sitting room. The deep, ponderous tones of the rector of Eynshant could be clearly distinguished.

  “Naturally I should not wish to be thought unmindful of my filial duties.” Saskia gave an involuntary shudder. “Of course, in a large sense, my family is comprised of the whole of my parish flock. My children. My brothers before the Maker. Yet I could not reconcile it with my conscience to neglect the temporal needs of those whose blood I am privileged to share. It was necessary for Mama to come to Bath, and I could not consider allowing her to make the trip unescorted by her only son, with her health in such a fragile state. I was, at length, persuaded that Pitchley would serve the faithful sufficiently well during my absence. I would scarce have considered leaving for so much as a day had that not been the case, as I’m sure you are aware, ma’am.”

  “Quite, sir,” came the faint reply.

  “Poor Mama,” whispered Saskia. “We must rescue her.” She stepped into the fire. “Here we are at last, Mama. Did you think we had fallen into the river? Why Mrs. Kneighley! What a pleasant surprise. And Mr. Kneighley. How do you do, sir? And you have brought your charming sister. How pleasant. Have you rung for tea, Mama? Trix, do go and ask Jannie to send up some of her lovely speculaas.”

  Mr. Kneighley had risen gravely to his feet to take her hand. But his eye was on Derek, whom he studied with scarcely concealed curiosity and concern. “This is Mr. Rowbridge,” she explained. “Our cousin.”

  “Cousin? I was not aware that you were possessed of any English cousins, my dear Miss van Houten,” said Mr. Kneighley.

  “Nor were we,” she answered with a forced laugh. “It seems our Great-aunt Hester is fond of surprises.”

  Derek offered the clerical gentleman his hand. "How do you do Mr. Coll . . . uh, Kneighley.” Saskia choked on a stifled giggle. How odious he was, she thought, to make her laugh. And look, his eyes were twinkling! She shot him an accusing glare, but it was intercepted by Ware with the tea tray. She busied herself with die cups and plates. “What has brought you to Bath?” she inquired of the rector’s mother. “I hope you are not unwell, ma’am.”

  “Alas,” sighed Mrs. Kneighley from the depths of her layers of shawls. “My constitution has ever been frail, you know, my dear. It is the reason I so particularly wish dear Delbert to be settled with a wife. Soon I shan’t be able to take care of him myself as I should wish. And he is the kindest son. The tiniest complaint from me and nothing would do for him but to bundle us all off to Bath at the first opportunity.”

  Anyone with less personal knowledge of Mrs. Kneighley than Saskia had might have accepted this at face value, for the lady fit the image perfectly. She was wilted. Her shoulders drooped with carefully studied grace; the pale hand that lifted the delicate teacup seemed scarce able to support the burden. She sighed deeply and frequently. The effect was heightened by the flowing crape with which she was lavishly draped, the color of wilted roses. A wan little smile was meant to— and sometimes even did—convince the viewer how bravely she stood up to the vicissitudes and ignominies fate chose to heap upon her poor head. A regular daughter of Job, thought Saskia uncharitably.

  Mrs. Kneighley’s breathy monologue continued. “And then there is my sweet Griselda, poor child. She was so anxious for a little frivolity. But then what girl isn’t? I hear Bath can be very gay. Do you find it so, my dear?”

  As the “poor child” of a daughter to whom she referred was fully thirty years of age, was unfailingly critical of “frivolity,” and was scowling ominously at her mother, Saskia had little trouble divining the true reason

  for this inconvenient visit to Bath. And it was with great difficulty that she hid her annoyance.

  They had come to spy on her, and she knew quite well it was Mrs. Kneighley’s doing. Delbert Kneighley, in his arrogance, would never entertain the tiniest fear that Saskia might be tempted by the pleasures and the gentlemen of Bath. His mother knew better. Under that drooping exterior lived a will that refused to be crossed. She had decided that Saskia van Houten would make a suitable daughter-in-law, and that was that. Now, with a wealthy aunt in the background, she was more convinced than ever. She would brook no interference with her plans, and she had come to Bath to see that there was none. What a mother-in-law the woman would make!

  Mr. Kneighley was conversing stiffly with Derek. A more pointed contrast between two gentlemen could scarce be imagined. The weasel and the wolf, she thought with a stifled giggle. No, that was unfair. Despite his new sartorial splendor, there was nothing wolfish about Derek. He was more of a cold fish.

  She turned to Mrs. Kneighley. “Yes, we find Bath pleasant, ma’am. We already have a numerous acquaintance and have received a flattering number of invitations.”

  “Indeed?” she replied with something less than her usual languidness.

  “I have just been saying the same to Mr. Kneighley, Cousin,” said Derek. “We were speaking of the assembly. He and Miss Kneighley will surely wish to join in the ‘frivolity.’ ”

  “Oh, I scarcely think . . .,” she began, glaring daggers at him. “You forget, Cousin Derek, that Mr. Kneighley is a man of the church. I am sure he does not care for dancing.”

  ‘Ton do me an injustice, my dear Miss van Houten,” said Mr. Kneighley. “Though not, of course, putting myself in the way of occasions of dancing as would, naturally, be sadly improper for a clergyman to do, still

  I consider the ability to dance creditably to be an accomplishment without which I would deem myself sadly lacking as a completely rounded social individual. There are those societal duties of which none of us may acquit ourselves. I fancy I am able to ‘sport a toe’ on the floor for a respectable country dance without disgrace either to myself or to the lady I have the felicity to claim as my partner.”

  “Quite,” said Derek with a wry smile.

  The others were left with nothing whatever to say on the subject.

  The visit went on interminably. Rembrandt took exception to Mr. Kneighley’s right foot and the rector’s frantic attempts to heat him off were useless. Derek disengaged the bulldog with a single firm word. His reward was a scowl from the rector.

  Neil was reminded to continue with the Ovid translation he had finished days before. Beatrix was gently chastised for her finery and reminded of the sin of vanity. The twins, putting in a belated appearance, were adjured not to give their sister any trouble and to read a sermon nightly. It was only by the sternest of looks from Saskia that Willem was kept from retorting in a very rude manner.

  And, most odious of all, Mr. Kneighley begged as his right the opening dance with Saskia at the assembly. She could not refuse without being positively uncivil, and some of the joy of anticipation went out of the evening.

  “And may I count on the first dance with her beautiful sister?” Derek asked Beatrix.

  “Oh, you know I’m not, Cousin Derek,” she demurred. “But I had hoped you would ask me.”

  Mrs. Kneighley leaned toward Saskia’s ear. “A budding romance? Quite proper, I should think. A frivolous young girl like our Beatrix should settle early.”

  “What nonsense!” Saskia answered, sur
prising herself with her sharpness. She hurried to soften her words. “I’m sure you are mistaken, ma’am. Trix is far too young to be firing her interest just yet, and our cousin is not at all the sort of gentleman for her.”

  “A girl's heart does not always follow her head. They have not all got your good sense in these matters, my dear.”

  Yes, thought Saskia fiercely. Good sense is all-important in such things. And Mr. Kneighley represented good sense. He was bidding Mama a ponderous good-bye, to her vast relief. At last he and his ladies were gone. Derek took his leave as well, and Saskia walked him to the hall.

  “Well, Cousin,” said Derek, “your characterization cannot be faulted. Mr. Collins to the life.”

  The mood for such trifling was dead in Saskia. "Yes, but Mr. Collins was a very worthy man after all. I’m sure I shall like being a Mrs. Collins when we are married.”

  “Married!” he exclaimed. “Surely not! Even you could not deal with such a clown.”

  “Even I? How dare you! What do you know of me? I shall marry whom I please!” And why ever am I saying these horrid things to him, she thought, when I don’t please to be married to Mr. Kneighley. “He is far more of a gentleman than you have ever shown yourself to be. And he is not a clown!” But he is, her mind shouted.

  "You are quite right, Cousin. It is no business of mine. Obviously the two of you are perfectly suited!” He pounded his beaver onto his auburn locks, bade her a stiff good day, and stalked out.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hester Eccles hadn’t enjoyed herself so much since the Padishah of Turkey was courting her. To be sure, the scale of the current entertainment could hardly compare with that raree show. It had entailed gifts of a dozen fresh-killed oxen daily and gilded peacock’s eggs borne by black Nubians. Coffee had been strewn on the road before her house each morning, and janissaries guarded her door each night. Yes indeed, that had been quite something. Too bad the Padishah himself had been such a disagreeable man, forever cutting people’s tongues out and such. She’d had to hire another bodyguard to protect herself from him.

  This little Bath diversion she’d concocted was tame by comparison, but then she was a good deal older now and no longer up to such extravagance. Derek and Saskia were entertaining her very well. They might even get Rowbridge Manor for her, though they were making precious little progress. But there was time and to spare, and watching them circle around each other like a pair of wary pups was diversion enough for the present. That match looked to turn out better than she had dared to hope.

  All the bustle of visiting and shopping and introducing Cornelia and the girls about had made her feel quite young again. Beatrix was a stunner, of course, and hardly worth investing great effort in. The girl would look lovely in a Hessian sack! But the older girl, now there was more of a challenge.

  Lady Eccles had been almost distressed by her first sight of Saskia. Frowning at her cousin, she had looked so stem, pinched even, and older than her years, with mousy hair and an equally mousy gown. But she was divinely tall, with an elegant figure, and she did have those remarkable Rowbridge eyes.

  Dressing Saskia had taken considerable thought, but it had produced the desired results. She could carry off smart colors and styles more dashing than most of the Bath misses littering the town. She had good taste to match her good sense, and her confidence grew with her attractiveness. Actually, she had something more than her sister’s undeniable prettiness. She was handsome.

  And then there was the nephew. Distressingly sober for a Rowbridge, but a fine young man nonetheless. Wherever could all that responsibility have come from? But Lady Eccles was pleased with him. She had always considered the Navy to be a profession that required a man to be handsome, elegant, and agreeable. She’d seen straight off that he was the first. He’d become the second as soon as he had rigged himself out in style. Now she was learning that he could be the last when it suited him. And it seemed to suit him more often lately.

  She smiled a pleased smile and pulled deeply on her hookah, savoring the pungent smoke and letting it drift about her head. She would drink her goat’s milk, then set out for Laura Place. The girls could accompany her to the Pump Room this morning.

  Before she could reach for the gong to summon Rahjim, he slid silently into the room. “Pardon, Ladyship, but visitor, he will not go away.”

  “Visitor? Who can be calling on me at this hour?”

  “A Mr. Banks, Ladyship.”

  Her head came up; her eyebrows shot up; finally the

  comers of her mouth curved up into a delicious smile. “Ahhhh,” she sighed with great satisfaction. “Show Mr. Banks in, RahjimShe straightened herself to her full majesty, towering over the room from atop her howdah and fixed her eye on the door.

  The gentleman entered in Rahjim’s wake. He was very old, and he leaned heavily on a blackthorn stick, but he was no suppliant at her throne. He fixed an eye steely as her own on Lady Eccles. There was, however, a glimmer of a smile in their depths, a smile the lady returned.

  “Ah, well, I suppose I ought to have known,” she said.

  "If you could just put me in touch with Mr. Banks,” said Derek Rowbridge to Mr. Dawes in the agent’s offices in Westgate Street.

  Mr. Dawes scowled all over his scrawny face, pulling his thin grey eyebrows down to a ludicrous degree and straightening to his full five feet. He was not at his best this morning. His normal routine had been upset, and Mr. Dawes was a man who set great store by routine. Heaven alone knew why he should, for a more boring daily round could scarce be imagined.

  He had—quite suddenly it seemed—become an elderly man, and new business was not coming his way. His day consisted of sorting through a thin supply of mail, arranging it into neat piles as though it had some importance, then moving an unimpressive number of papers and documents from one side of his desk to the other. He would painstakingly sharpen a pen to sign some paper with a flourish it did not merit

  Once or twice a day he would exchange pleasantries or grumbles with his equally boring and very inept clerk. The tenor of the exchange was dependent on the quality of the breakfast set before Mr. Dawes by his sister, who did duty as his housekeeper. This morning the eggs had been dry, the ham greasy, and the sirloin gone. The hapless clerk had been thoroughly grumbled at.

  Now Mr. Dawes was thrown off his stride altogether. First there had been that young woman striding un-

  anticipated and unannounced into an office that, to Mr. Dawes’s certain knowledge, had seen no female presence in half a century. An impertinent young woman, she’d Seen too, with a foreign name but demanding as any Englishwoman, asking him all sorts of irrelevant and unbecoming questions about Rowbridge Manor, questions to which he had no answers. He had got rid of her with a rudeness he disliked.

  Now here came this smooth-looking gentleman, gloating in the name of Rowbridge, smug in his youth and his health, and wanting to be told what the agent '■'Ould not tell him because he did not know. So he bluffed.

  “No, no, no, quite impossible, my good sir. Quite im- oossible, indeed. Simply out of the question,” he blustered.

  “Would you mind telling me why it is out of the question, Mr. Dawes?” Derek asked coolly.

  The cheek of the fellow, thought the agent. Coming in here, calling himself a Rowbridge, and making these unseemly demands. The grey eyebrows worked excitedly; the eyes raked Mr. Rowbridge from head to foot. But it was no good. It was distressingly clear that the young upstart was not to be put out of countenance. Mr. Dawes gave up.

  “Because I do not know Mr. Banks,” he admitted. “I have never set eyes on him, and that is the truth.”

  Disappointment cut deep in Derek. He tried a few more questions, but it was clear they would lead him nowhere. He reluctantly took his leave of the unhappy agent.

  Moments after Derek had left, the clerk tapped at Mr. Dawes’s door. “Beg pardon, sir,” he said, “but there’s a gentleman in the street wishing to speak with you personally.”

&nbs
p; “Well, who is it? Why doesn’t he come up? I do not conduct my business in the public thoroughfare!”

  “It’s a Mr. Banks, sir. He refuses to come up. He said

  · . . well, he said you could damn well come to him, sir.”

  “Banks? Did you say Banks?"

  “Yes, sir. Banks, sir.” The poor clerk was wondering what evil deed he had committed to have earned his - current position.

  Much as he might dislike the idea, Mr. Dawes was in no position to keep Mr. Banks waiting. He provided a goodly portion of Mr. Dawes’s income. He descended to tie street.

  “So you’re Dawes,” growled the very elderly, very bald man from the depths of a sedan chair. He studied the agent outrageously, sighed importantly, and added, “I don’t suppose I should have expected anything more.”

  “May I serve you in some way, Mr. Banks?” the agent asked stiffly.

  “D’you think I’d have put myself to the misery of seeing your face if you couldn’t? I’ve got a job for you, and you’ll do it and keep your mouth shut about me into the bargain.” He reached deep into his layers of coats and pulled out a pair of sealed letters. “You had some visitors today.” It was not a question.

  “I did, sir. They were asking about Rowbridge Manor.”

  “I know what they were asking about. I want these notes sent to them. Get that turkey-cock of yours to carry them round at once. And tell him not to mention me!” He put the letters into Mr. Dawes’s hand, signaled to his chairmen, and was carried away before the agent could protest.

  When the protest did come, Mr. Dawes found himself alone in the street, spluttering at the air. He handed the notes to his “turkey-cock” of a clerk with curt orders to see them delivered at once, then set off for the Bull and Boar and the consolation of a pint