“What must be nonsense?” There was a sudden sharpness in her friend’s tone that Maria was not accustomed to hearing. “Pray, don’t be so teasing, Maria! You can surely tell me.”
“Why, of course, even if I hesitate to voice my suspicions to Grandmama. It did seem to me that they were deliberately attempting to bring the two of us — Mr. Somerby and myself — together. But that can’t be so, for Mama has told them I am as good as betrothed to the Viscount; and you might imagine that she left them in no doubt of her strong approval of the match. They would scarce attempt to go against her wishes — no, I must have imagined the whole! I tell you what it is, Mandy — I’ve reached the state when I suppose everyone about me is busy matchmaking on my behalf! Perhaps it’s a delusion which afflicts females who are practically on the shelf,” she added, with her usual wry humour.
For once, Amanda seemed slow to respond. She was silent for a moment, a frown creasing her brows and all the animation drained from her face. At last she spoke, as if with an effort.
“No, I believe you are right, even though it does seem a strange way for Mr. and Mrs. Reddiford to act. If it were not for your arranged betrothal — and there is nothing certain about that, by what you tell me — I think Mr. Somerby and you would be vastly well suited. He is exactly the kind of gentleman for you, now I think of it,” she concluded, somewhat glumly.
“Unfortunately, one seldom has the good sense to bestow one’s affections on the most suitable person,” answered Maria, serious in her turn. “But poor Mr. Somerby!” she exclaimed, in a livelier tone. “Is no account to be taken of his inclinations? He is not of a disposition to be bent to another’s purpose, I am sure. And there are plenty of pretty girls in this neighbourhood from whom he may choose — even if he has not done so already.”
Amanda raised her head suddenly. “Oh, do you think he might? But no, I haven’t noticed anything like that. Still, one can never be sure,” she added, thoughtfully.
Maria laughed. “Come, we have speculated enough on that subject for one afternoon and shall be guilty of gossiping if we go further. Have you finished Miss Burney’s novel Cecilia yet? Do you like it as well as Evelina?”
“Not quite — there’s less liveliness,” replied Amanda, in her old manner. “But these heroines are so proper, Maria! I quite despair of ever living up to their standards! One cannot imagine them ever having a hair out of place, or — or leaping over stiles in the way I do! But I dare say,” she added, with a sudden return to gloom, “that I behave with less propriety than most girls in real life — at any rate, Mama often says so.”
“All Mamas are fond of making remarks of that kind,” said Maria, consolingly, “so there’s no need to let it cast you into flat despair. I like you as you are, Mandy — don’t ever change.”
Amanda said she doubted if she could, and the conversation took a more light-hearted turn.
The following morning brought a letter from Lady Cottesford suggesting that Maria should return home before long, in case the Viscount arrived back in Alvington while she was still absent. A new mood of defiance seized her, and she wrote back to say that it would do the gentleman no harm to discover that she was not always at hand to be picked up or thrown down like an old glove. She determined to prolong her visit for at least another week or two, in the hope — a forlorn one, she realised in her heart of hearts — of teaching him a lesson.
Meanwhile, she continued to enjoy herself amidst all the entertainment that was offered her. The Reverend Theodore Somerby was almost as constant a companion as was Amanda Paxton, and she saw that her grandmother was pleased at this. But she herself had been observing the young clergyman very closely, and she fancied that Mrs. Reddiford was altogether on the wrong tack.
It was not until late in February that Maria returned home. Her mother was reproachful; Viscount Shaldon had been back a week or more, and had already called several times to ask when she might be expected.
“He looked prodigiously disappointed, too,” concluded Lady Cottesford, “when I was obliged to tell him that I could give no certain date. Did he not, William?”
Sir William shook off the torpor which had been slowly creeping over him ever since consuming an excellent dinner, and gave the question careful consideration.
“Well, since you ask, m’dear, I’m bound to say that it didn’t strike me quite in that light. Seemed to have something on his mind, certainly, but whether it was disappointment—” He broke off and shook his head. “But there, females are evidently superior to the male sex as thought-readers, for they’re constantly at it, so maybe you’re right.”
When next Maria saw Neville she, too, found him abstracted, though he was civilly attentive as always. After an absence of five weeks, she thought she saw a change in his looks; there was a drawn expression about his mouth and a lack of lustre in his eyes. She wondered if it could be the result of too much dissipation in London, and felt a sharp pang at the thought that among his diversions there might have been one or more females of easy virtue. Although a well-bred girl was not supposed to know anything of such matters, Maria had heard gossip of the way in which the Earl amused himself in Town. With such an example before him, it would be scarcely surprising if the son should follow suit.
The notion gave her pain. Her return to Alvington had brought back all the doubts which had tormented her before, and which she had partially succeeded in putting away from her during her stay in Oxfordshire. If he truly wished to marry her, why did he not speak? And if he did eventually declare himself, what was she to answer?
She was almost relieved when snow fell a few days after her return, filling the lanes calf-deep with its crisp, white mass and cutting Alvington off from the neighbouring villages. As she looked out on trees, shrubs, fences and outbuildings transformed by this unstudied artistry, her weary spirit found a measure of tranquillity. He would be unable to visit her at present; and during his enforced absence, the questions which constantly tormented her might be allowed to rest in abeyance.
For ten days the lanes remained deep in snow. Then the thaw set in, bringing with it slush and mud underfoot which made travelling difficult, even for short distances. March was into its third week and daffodils were dancing in the gardens of the Manor before the roads were back to their normal state, and travelling possible.
But still he did not come.
CHAPTER VII
The reason for this was that he had set out for Rye a few days after the weather improved. The Earl had for some time been waiting impatiently to pay a promised visit to friends in Leicestershire, and at the first sign of the roads being in a fit state for travel, he had departed, telling his family that they might expect him back when they saw him. This gave Neville the chance he needed — but did not desire — to visit his wife.
Reluctant as he was, he knew he must go. Dorinda was expecting their child in little more than a week from now, and his absence at such a time must certainly bring reproaches and the kind of scene from which he flinched even in imagination.
The journey was subject to tiresome delays, owing to the bad condition of the notoriously difficult roads in Kent at this season. Indeed, he almost abandoned the idea of attempting to get through when he reached Tenterden and was informed that parts of the road through Wittersham were flooded. Having come so far, it seemed profitless to turn back, however; so he pressed on, taking a more circuitous route where necessary to avoid obstruction and arriving in Rye five days after leaving Alvington, weary, travel-stained, and dispirited.
It was dark by the time he reached the cottage, and he could see that inside the lamp was already lit. He hesitated for a moment, unwilling to face whatever awaited him within. How had he come to be entangled in this way, for God’s sake? Why were all his decisions forced upon him by others and never the outcome of his own inclinations? Falling in love with a pretty girl was one thing; but why must it entail responsibilities which he decidedly did not want — the responsibilities of a wife and child?
There was no help for it now. He shrugged in a fatalistic way, and raised the knocker on the door.
No answer came for some time, so he knocked again more insistently. He heard a footstep, the door was slowly opened, and Mrs. Lathom stood on the threshold.
Clad in black bombazine, in the dim light she reminded him of a raven or some other bird of ill omen. She stared at him in silence almost as though she did not recognise him at first. When at last she did speak, it was in a hoarse croak which heightened the resemblance that had sprung to his mind.
“You!”
She shot the one word at him and made as if to shut the door in his face. Alarmed, he thrust forward hurriedly, almost pushing her aside as he forced an entry. He closed the door, turning to look anxiously into her face. It was pale with dark rings round the eyes, as if she had not slept lately.
“What is it?” he asked, urgently. “Dorinda? Is aught amiss?”
“You!” she repeated, making the word sound like a curse. “What do you care about my poor child? Haven’t you neglected her from the start of this unhappy marriage, making your father’s illness an excuse for leaving her alone during long, weary months, for not giving her a wife’s rightful place by your side, in your own home? As if a father’s needs should come before those of a wife, even if what you told us was the truth, which I take leave to doubt! Yes!” she continued, seeing from his expression that she had made a hit with this remark. “Yes, it is just as I thought, and you were ashamed to own her, too much of a coward to take the responsibility for your actions! Well, now it’s too late — you can do her no more harm! My darling — my lamb—”
She broke off and clasped her arms around her body in an agony of grief.
“Oh, my God!” he said in a whisper. “What are you saying? What do you mean? Is she—”
Her arms dropped to her sides as the fierce anger ebbed from her, leaving her cold and drained.
“Yes. She died giving birth to your child. I buried her two days since.”
“Dead!” repeated Neville, sinking heavily into a chair.
She sat down opposite him, and for a while neither spoke.
“The child was not due until the end of this month, or so you told me,” Neville said at last, dully.
“It was born prematurely. My poor girl — No, I can’t speak of it, she suffered so much—”
Her lips trembled and she covered her face with one hand.
“I — I am sorry—”
“Sorry!” She was transformed again into the virago who had met him. “What good can your sorrow do — even if you were capable of feeling genuine sorrow for your loss, which I’m convinced you are not! You never valued her, or you’d have defied your parent and kept her by your side, where she belonged! You desired her, lovely as she was” — her face contorted — “and you married her because she was too virtuous for there to be any other way! Don’t think I didn’t detect your lies in the end, but I kept silent for her sake. You — there are no words bad enough for what you are!”
He winced. “You misjudge me, Mrs. Lathom. I did love Dorinda. As for the rest — you can’t know how difficult my life is, how subterfuge is forced upon me by an autocratic parent—”
“We all have the strength of mind to act rightly, do we but choose to exercise it!” she interrupted, scathingly. “You are weak, Mr. Stratton, and your behaviour has been contemptible! Who knows? Perhaps my poor, darling girl is better out of it. Hers would have been a miserable marriage, and at least she was taken before her poor heart was quite broken!”
He stood up. “There seems no use in my staying longer, ma’am. It’s plain that my company brings you nothing but added pain and grief.” He hesitated for a moment. “You will have been at some expense, which is properly my affair. You must allow me to—”
She flung out a hand in fierce repudiation. “I want nothing from you — nothing! But what do you mean to do about the child?”
Neville stared, his face paling. “The — the child?”
“Yes, the baby — your son.” Her tone softened. “Poor lamb, he is very frail and, I fear, cannot long survive his mother. But you are wealthy, and can purchase expert care for him, and there may perhaps be a slender chance…”
She shook her head mournfully, then gestured to him that he should follow her. “But you’ll wish to see him. Come.”
In a daze, Neville followed her into the kitchen, where a bright fire burned, safely guarded from the wooden cradle which was set before it. Mrs. Lathom knelt beside the cradle and gently moved back the covers to reveal the occupant.
Neville stooped, peering inside the hood; and now he was conscious of a thin wail, only a thread of sound. He gazed in shocked disbelief at the tiny, wizened, monkeylike figure of his son. Could this monstrosity really be the outcome of his and Dorinda’s union? Dorinda had been so lovely; and he himself was always spoken of as a well-looking man. Was it possible that two such personable people could produce something that bore so little resemblance to a human being?
He stood upright, breathing with difficulty.
“It’s — it’s not very big, ma’am, is it? And — and don’t look too healthy to me — though I’m no judge of such matters, of course.”
She was busy rearranging the covers as she answered. “No, I fear the poor little mite may go at any time — but there! Who knows, with the kind of care you can provide for him, once you have him at home—”
“But — but—” stuttered Neville, rendered almost speechless for a moment, “but I can’t take it home with me, ma’am! What in the world would I do with a — a baby?”
She stood up, her face hardening. “What would you do with him? Tend him, care for him, be a father to the poor motherless little creature!”
“You — you can do far more for it than I can, ma’am. There — there’s no female in whose care I can place the child—”
“You have a mother, I suppose?” He nodded. “And she is grandmother to your son, just as I am. Will she not order matters for you in regard to reliable nurses and a good doctor?”
“You don’t understand. My mother knows nothing of my marriage, let alone of a child. I — she — it would be too great a shock.”
She stared at him with so much incredulity and loathing that he involuntarily stepped back a pace from her, afraid of he knew not what.
“You — do — not — want — your — own — child?”
The words came out in a staccato utterance which gave them added emphasis.
Neville gulped. “No — yes — that’s to say, no such thing!” he blustered. “Of course I want it, but not now. Later, perhaps, if it lives, when it’s older.”
The words tailed off as his eyes slid away from the harsh, accusing light in hers.
“So now you’ll abandon the child as you abandoned the mother! No matter — better that he should die than live to call such a man father.” Her tones were quiet now, grave as a hanging judge’s might be. “Go! Leave this house, which was a happy place before you entered it with your blandishments and deceits. Let me never set eyes on you more. Go! And may God forgive you — I never can.”
She pointed towards the door. Nothing loth, he turned to obey her; then stopped in his course, clumsily pulling out his pocketbook.
“But you must have money—”
Hastily he extracted a handful of banknotes, thrusting them towards her. “Take this. I will bring more soon, when I come again to see how the child fares—”
“I want nothing from you — nothing! As for the child, you have repudiated him, and that is an end! Should he be spared, he is lost to you for ever. Go, go, I tell you, before I do you a mischief!”
He fled, pausing only to drop the banknotes on a table in the parlour as he passed through.
Once outside, he hurried to the inn to take a post chaise for Tenterden. He would sleep at the White Lion tonight. He could not wait to leave Rye behind him, and everything that had passed there.
Later, when he was sitting d
own in a snug, low-ceilinged parlour beside a brightly glowing log fire, about to begin on a dinner of mulligatawny soup, saddle of mutton and apple tart washed down with a bottle of claret, he began to feel more his own man again.
He had been greatly shocked at the sudden news of Dorinda’s death. She had been a lovely creature, sweet, gentle, yielding; and in other circumstances, she would have made him a most suitable wife. He had loved her for a time with all the affection of which he was capable; but lately, he admitted to himself, the first bright intoxication had faded, leaving him with nothing but a sense of guilt when he was absent, boredom when he was with her, and panic lest his father should come by some chance to learn of the marriage. He had never known an easy moment, he thought resentfully, since he had stepped into that vast church at Rye to promise what he could never hope to perform. The whole affair had been doomed from the start, and he might thank his lucky stars that he was well out of it. The child would die; the woman had said there was scant hope for it, and judging by its appearance, she was certain to be right. That would mean — he poured himself another glass of claret and held it aloft so that the candlelight caught its mellow ruby depths — that would mean that this indiscreet marriage of his could remain for ever a secret.
He drained the glass. His principal feeling now was one of relief that the whole episode was finished.
“There’s been more than enough of this damned nonsense,” stated the Earl, when he returned from his visit. “The Cottesford gal must know her own mind by now, and if she don’t, she deserves to die an old maid. What d’ye think, m’boy? Has she a tendre for you?”
“Well, sir,” replied Neville, diffidently, “without wishing to sound too much of a coxcomb—”
“For God’s sake, don’t mince matters!” snapped his father. “You must know how the land lies. Will she take you or won’t she? Because if you don’t think she will, draw off, and we’ll look elsewhere. It’s the best match of the lot, mind, and I’d set my heart on it, but a bird in the hand’s worth two in the bush. Eh? What d’ye say?”
A Regency Scandal Page 8