A Regency Scandal

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  Dorinda’s image faded, to be replaced by one of the Earl after being informed of his son’s intentions. With difficulty, Neville controlled a shudder.

  “I know; but I tell you I can’t face him, Ned! You don’t know what it is to have a sire like mine, who rules his household relentlessly. Lord Lydney is more easygoing, more approachable. Besides, you’re in possession of your own fortune, whereas I am dependent on my father for every penny. Why, if I go against his wishes, he will most likely cut me off without a shilling! And even though I shall inherit in time, I don’t see the old man turning up his toes for some years to come, and how should I live in the meantime? You can have no notion how carefully I have to go with him.”

  “On the contrary, I have a very good notion, since our acquaintance stretches back almost to the cradle,” replied the other drily. “But I fear I can offer no other advice than what I’ve already given — not that advice isn’t a tricky thing, and probably best ignored. You must find your own solution to the problem. It’s perhaps a pity that you should have declared yourself to the fair Dorinda before being informed of your father’s own plans for you.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t have done so, I daresay, had not the mother forced my hand. Of course, I love Dorinda to distraction, so sooner or later I should have spoken, I suppose. But—”

  “But you had rather,” cut in Lydney, in an ironical tone, “it had been later than sooner, eh? Oh, well, forget about it now, old fellow. Come and take a look at the latest addition to my stable. A sweet goer if ever I mounted one, and a downright bargain at eighty guineas, as I’m certain you’ll agree.”

  Neville’s anxieties were not lessened that evening by a conversation with his father after dinner, when they were sitting confidentially over their wine.

  “Saw Cottesford this morning, by the way,” remarked the Earl. “Told him what I’d in mind concerning that chit of his and yourself. Seemed surprised, but no objections — at least, none to signify.”

  “What do you mean, sir?” Neville clutched eagerly at what looked like a straw. “What objections did he raise?”

  The Earl drained his glass before replying. “Oh, some nonsense about the gal herself consenting to the match. Wouldn’t force her, he said. Well, no need to, if you play your cards right, eh? I told him there was no haste — give you time to win her over, and all that kind of thing. Damme, you wouldn’t be my son if you didn’t know how to recommend yourself to a female. And on that head,” he added, with a laugh, “I’ve no doubts. No reason to think your mother ever played me false — for one thing, wouldn’t pay her to. For another, you’re as like all the Strattons as you can stare — only take a look at all those devilish family portraits lining the staircase. Same red thatch, same features; even the eyes are the same colour in most of ’em. Strong strain, undoubtedly.” He broke off and seized the decanter. “Fill up your glass, m’boy.”

  Neville obeyed, wondering if another glass of wine would give him the courage he needed to make his confession.

  “So there it is,” concluded the Earl. “All fixed up right and tight — only thing you need do now is start courting the chit for all you’re worth. Make a beginning tomorrow — take her riding. I collect from her father she sits a horse well enough, and the weather’s fine at present. Not doing anything else, are you? I didn’t think you would be, so wasted no time in asking you first, but settled that you’d present yourself at the Manor about eleven.”

  Neville nodded weakly in acceptance of this high-handed treatment, but beneath his calm exterior seethed the familiar feelings of frustrated rage. To have his time disposed of as if he had been the merest schoolboy, not even to have been consulted first! For a moment the wine seemed to choke him, and he set down his glass, spilling some of it.

  “Clumsy of me,” he muttered, dabbing at the table with his napkin. “Father, I—”

  He paused, lacking the courage to continue; but seeing the Earl waiting with raised eyebrows, he made a feeble attempt to say something of what he felt.

  “I — I am not at all attracted to Miss Cottesford, as I think I mentioned before. Must she be the one? There are a score of other young ladies whom I would prefer to wed.”

  “Name one.”

  “Well…” Neville searched his mind for a name that would serve, any name but Dorinda’s. “Well, there’s Miss Cavendish, for instance.”

  The Earl snorted. “Cavendish is nothing near as warm a man as Cottesford, let me tell you. And there are three other gals in that family, if I’m not mistaken, whereas this Cottesford chit’s an only child, like yourself. D’ye mean to tell me you fancy yourself in love with the Cavendish gal?”

  Neville shook his head vigorously. “No such thing, sir. But I only thought I’d prefer her to Maria Cottesford.”

  “Yellow curls and big blue eyes, that the one? Saw you dancing with her last night. Yes, well, daresay you would prefer her, but we’re speaking of marriage, as I said before. Matter of business — do the best for yourself. Love!” The Earl snorted again. “Plenty of opportunity for that outside marriage. Told you so yesterday — if you need telling, but you’ll be the first Stratton who ever did, I shouldn’t wonder! No, m’boy, I’ve given some thought to this, and it’s the best match for you by a long way, believe me. You’ll be a fool if you don’t do your damnedest to get the gal.”

  There was nothing more to say. Neville had selected Miss Cavendish’s name more or less as a random example of a young lady whose social and financial standing made her an eligible match for a nobleman’s son. If his father considered her a less interesting proposition than Maria Cottesford, then what in the world would he think of a marriage with Dorinda Lathom, who had no worldly advantages whatsoever? Neville recalled Edward Lydney’s advice, and thought bitterly that he might in the end have no choice but to give up Dorinda. Supposing he never went to Rye again, walked out of her life as suddenly as he had entered it? Mrs. Lathom did not know who he was or where to find him; he had been careful to keep those matters a secret from her, even telling her that he lived in an adjacent county rather than naming his own.

  Characteristically, he pushed a decision away. He had to visit Maria Cottesford tomorrow, and that was a sufficiently gloomy prospect for the moment.

  The Cottesfords lived in an ample, stone-built manor house dating from Tudor times and situated about five miles distant from Alvington Hall. Neville rode there through lanes fragrant with May blossom. Birds chirped and fluttered at his approach, and on either side of him stretched fresh green meadows dotted with buttercups and daisies, above which bees hovered, murmuring. Overhead, a cloudless blue sky gave promise of a perfect June day. It was impossible not to catch some of the brightness of his surroundings, to feel his gloomy, morose mood gradually giving way to one of more optimism. Something would turn up to ease him out of his difficulties, he reflected; in the meantime, he must make the best of it and tread warily, as he was quite accustomed to doing.

  Maria Cottesford was in her bedchamber, having just stepped into her riding dress. It was in the height of fashion, a pretty cherry-red garment with a bodice fashioned after the masculine style with revers and epaulettes, and a full skirt which allowed freedom of movement. Nevertheless, she grimaced as she considered her reflection in the long mirror, far from pleased with her appearance.

  “Something’s wanting, Jenny,” she remarked wryly to her personal maid. “Now, I wonder what it can be? I know — corn-coloured curls, melting blue eyes, and a nose at least an inch shorter!”

  “Go along with you, Miss,” scolded Jenny, who had been abigail to Maria for the past eight years and was very fond of her mistress. “If you’re not always running your looks down! Reckon you’re fishing for compliments!”

  Maria shook her head. “I don’t think there are any fish in those waters, so I’d be wasting my time. But you must know that my governess was always warning me against the sin of vanity. Which is another reason,” she added, reflectively, “why I always considered her a sin
gularly imperceptive female. If she couldn’t see that vanity was the least likely to be my besetting sin, what hope was there for the poor creature to solve my character at all?”

  “A Miss Prunes and Prisms, she was!” declared Jenny, with a sniff. “But only see, Miss Maria, how well it will look with this.”

  She produced a tall riding hat in dark blue velour trimmed with a band and rosette of cherry red ribbon. She placed the hat on Maria’s head, tilting it this way and that, standing back to assess the effect of each new angle.

  “There!” she exclaimed, satisfied at last. “Now what d’you say to that?”

  Maria examined herself critically. “Tolerable,” she pronounced presently. “The portrait may not be a masterpiece, but the frame is charming. And thank you, Jenny, for all your trouble.”

  “No trouble at all, Miss Maria. Do you—” She hesitated a moment, wondering if perhaps even she was privileged enough to say what was on the tip of her tongue.

  “Do I what?” prompted her mistress.

  “Do you want to look specially well this morning?”

  Maria smiled wistfully. “Do I? Perchance I do, Jenny-penny.”

  It was the old name she had used in her childhood. The abigail caught her hand for a moment.

  “And so you do. Believe me, you do, Miss Maria.”

  She handed a pair of gloves and a whip to her mistress, watching her go from the room with the anxious look of a bird for its fledgling.

  Maria walked slowly downstairs, trusting that her measured steps might place a check upon the rapid beating of her heart. She knew he was here. She had watched his arrival from the window of her bedchamber, pressing her face against the glass and thereby temporarily flattening the nose she disliked so much.

  Yesterday her father had told her that Lord Alvington favoured a marriage between his son and herself. She had listened almost with incredulity, saying nothing at first.

  “What do you think, my love?” Sir William asked gently. “It would be a brilliant match for you — that goes without saying — but worldly advantages count for little without affection. I would be the last to force you into a marriage against your inclinations. But I believe I don’t need to tell you that.”

  “No, Papa, indeed you don’t.” These two understood one another very well, being cast in a similar mould. “Did Lord Alvington say whether Viscount Shaldon himself wished to many me? Or is he to seek my hand merely in obedience to his father’s wishes?”

  “You know enough of the man, I think, to realise that he would approach the subject in a practical manner and say nothing of any feelings involved. So I can’t answer that question, I fear.”

  “Well, I find it difficult to believe that the Viscount has been captivated by my personal attractions,” replied Maria, with an attempt at lightness.

  “Do you indeed? Well, I do not. Let me tell you that the man who makes you his wife will gain an inestimable treasure. I can say this without any fear of its going to your head — which is more than most fathers could say of their daughters.”

  She leaned forward to kiss his cheek. “Dear Papa! But you are too partial, you know. For my part, I thought yesterday evening at the ball that Viscount Shaldon was more taken with several of his other partners than with me.”

  “You can’t know that. He chose you for his partner at supper, after all.”

  “Yes, so he did,” agreed Maria, reflectively. “I was quite taken by surprise, I don’t mind admitting.”

  “There you are, you see. But I am not nearly so concerned to discover his feelings at present as yours. Could you care for this young man, do you suppose?”

  “Oh, yes. I don’t think that would present any great difficulty.”

  He looked at her sharply, undeceived by the careless tone.

  “So you’re already favourably inclined towards him,” he said, quietly. “Well, Alvington gave me to understand that there was no haste in the matter. He spoke of allowing time for his son to recommend himself to you. It’s for you to decide, as I made plain to him. If you truly wish to wed young Shaldon, then the match has my blessing. But think well, my dear.”

  Maria’s thoughts had certainly centred on the Viscount since this conversation, but she could not claim that her thinking was the rational process which her father had meant to recommend to her. She had been in the state of heightened emotion which had swept over her at the ball, so that she was scarcely aware of her surroundings, or even of what was being said to her. Her mother several times reproved her for absentmindedness, guessing at the cause but not the degree of involvement of her daughter’s feelings. She tried very hard to induce Maria to talk about the proposed marriage but met with small success.

  “I cannot at all understand the girl!” complained Lady Cottesford to her husband. “She should be overjoyed at such a prospect; and here she is, looking as gloomy as if all her hopes were shattered, instead of quite the opposite.”

  “Leave her alone,” he advised. “I’ve told her that she’s free to choose for herself. I expect she wishes to have time to consider.”

  “Time to consider such an offer? Why, any girl in her senses would jump at it!”

  “Maria’s not any girl — she’s got more sense than most of ’em. Besides, you may say it’s a brilliant match, and so it is from a worldly point of view. All the same, I have some doubts about young Shaldon. Don’t know him well, of course, but it strikes me there’s a lack of bottom in that boy. Plenty of charm and all that, but lacks staying power, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “You speak of him as if he were a horse! But if you’re to set your face against the match—”

  “Fustian, m’dear. All I want — and you, too, unless I mistake — is our daughter’s happiness. I propose to allow her to be the judge of that, so I beg you won’t try to influence her in any way. I shan’t myself.”

  She had to be content with that, and was gratified to notice that her husband’s reception of the Viscount when he came to call was not lacking in cordiality. Maria joined them after an interval, dressed for riding. Lady Cottesford looked her over appraisingly and decided that she appeared to advantage; she might not be a beauty, but there was no fault to be found with the trim figure and graceful carriage.

  Unhappily for Lady Cottesford’s hopes, Neville’s thoughts were too full of Dorinda for him to appreciate anything about his present companion except her ability to manage her horse without any assistance from him. As they made their way along little-frequented lanes and bridle paths, they kept up a spasmodic conversation which in no way reflected the inner feelings of either. Afterwards, he could recall very little of what had been said, but it did appear to him that for a female Maria was unusually well informed on the topics of the day. What was even worse, she expected him to have opinions upon them. She mentioned the trial of Warren Hastings, which had begun in February of the preceding year and was still continuing. Did he not think it shameful to pillory a man who had done so much to restore order in India?

  Never having given a moment’s thought to the matter, it was not an easy question to answer; but with his usual adroit avoidance of controversy, he said that it did seem so, certainly, although one could not judge until all the evidence in the case had been heard.

  She flashed him an impatient glance at this remark and looked for a moment as if she intended to dispute the point. But as her eyes rested on him, they softened, and to his relief she changed the subject.

  They met frequently during the weeks that followed, though usually in the company of others. The Earl would have ordered matters otherwise, but Sir William held back from causing the neighbourhood to link his daughter’s name prematurely with that of the Viscount. He was determined that she should not have her hand forced in any way. The more he saw of Viscount Shaldon, the more he doubted that this would be a happy marriage for Maria, even though the girl herself showed signs of partiality which were plain to an understanding parental eye. A good marriage required affection on both sides, thought
Sir William uneasily, and so far he could detect no sign of any such feeling in Shaldon. The young fellow was always attentive and all that, but his civilities lacked the warmth of a lover. Had Maria hit on the truth when she had asked whether the Viscount wished to marry her merely to oblige his father? And if so, what should a responsible and loving parent do in such a case?

  It was of no use to try to share these doubts with his wife, whose calmer judgments had been quite overset by the brilliant prospects ahead for a daughter whom she had almost despaired of seeing married at all. She would have agreed with him insofar as Maria must not be persuaded into any marriage, however brilliant, that would be distasteful to her. She might not have been ready to admit this at once, but in the end he knew she would have come round to his point of view. Although she had never quite understood her clever daughter, she had always truly loved her. But once his wife realised, as he did, that Maria was in a fair way to being head over heels in love with Shaldon, his scruples would have seemed ridiculous in her eyes.

  It came as something of a relief to Sir William, therefore, when the Viscount announced one morning that he would be absent from home for a few weeks as he was going down to Brighton with his friend Edward Lydney. Maria bore the news with fortitude, wishing him a pleasant stay in her usual calm way. Lady Cottesford alone looked disconcerted, though she hastened to echo her daughter’s sentiments, adding that he could be sure of a welcome at the Manor whenever he returned.

  For some time Neville had been searching for an excuse that would be acceptable to his father for absenting himself from Alvington; but it was not until Lydney mentioned that he had hired a house in Brighton for the summer that the opportunity came.

  “You’ve only to invite me to come down with you for a while, and my father can’t well refuse. Damn it, he’ll scarcely care to make it known that he don’t choose to let me out of his sight! And then I’ll be free to go to — well, never mind where, perhaps you’d best not know — but, anyway, to Dorinda.”