“I think that perhaps she is not totally indifferent to me,” Neville finished.
“Capital, capital!” The Earl rubbed his hands together as one who has made a good bargain. “Go to it then, boy. Waste no more time, and let’s see a betrothal by Easter. And I won’t take any more put-offs, mind.”
Maria was walking in the garden along a path sheltered by a grey stone wall beside which daffodils and tulips bloomed. She was deep in thought and did not hear Viscount Shaldon’s step until he was almost beside her. She turned then, a trifle startled, and spoke breathlessly.
“Lord Shaldon! I — did not expect you. How do you do? Isn’t it a lovely day? Spring has come at last, and, as usual, one finds it difficult to believe that only a few short weeks since, all this” — she gestured towards the flower beds — “was covered in snow.”
“Indeed it is a beautiful day, ma’am. May I walk with you for a while? There is something I wish to say to you, and we may be quite private here.”
She glanced quickly up into his face, then looked away as she felt the colour come into her cheeks. He took her hand and she did not resist, her pulse leaping at his touch.
“Perhaps you know what it is,” he continued, with smooth assurance, “for my attentions over so many months must have been plain. Miss Cottesford — Maria! You must allow me to tell you how very much I admire you and wish to make you my wife. Dare I hope — is it possible that—?”
He left the sentence unfinished merely for artistic effect; he knew well enough that indeed he dared to hope, and that it was almost certainly possible that she could love him.
The look she turned upon him was so radiant that for a fleeting moment she almost appeared beautiful. He put out his arm to encircle her waist, but before he could do so, she stepped aside.
“Wait. Please!” Her voice trembled a little. “Do you — can you tell me truly — do you — love me?”
He could tell her anything that was necessary to his purpose, and proceeded to do so with all the eloquence at his command. It was enough. She wished to be convinced, so she allowed herself to believe him.
After so many months of doubt and longing, she was betrothed at last to the only man she had ever loved. That night, she sat down to write a long and slightly incoherent letter to her friend Amanda Paxton.
About a month after his betrothal to Maria, Neville reluctantly made another journey to Rye. He would have preferred to take Mrs. Lathom at her word and never set foot in her home again; but feelings of guilt, combined with fears of what the outcome might be if he neglected to provide her with funds, urged him to return there. He told himself again and again that he had nothing to fear. He had kept the woman in ignorance both of his title and of where he lived. She would not know how to find him, even if she had now changed her mind since the first bitterness of her loss in which she had dismissed him for ever. Still, it was as well to take every precaution; and should he find, as he expected, that the child had since died, then the journey would be amply justified. He would be able finally to put aside all remembrances of that ill-considered marriage and to know for certain that it could forever remain a secret.
He arrived in Rye towards midday and wasted some time in pacing its quiet cobbled streets before he could nerve himself to approach Mrs. Lathom’s cottage. As soon as he arrived before it, he knew that no one was within. The shutters were up before all the windows, the front step was dirty instead of being freshly scrubbed, and the whole place wore a neglected air.
In spite of this, he rapped loudly on the door, repeating the knocks several times at intervals when he failed to get any answer. As he at last paused and drew back to survey the outside of the house for a second time, he detected a movement in the window of the adjoining cottage. A woman’s head appeared briefly from behind the shelter of a curtain, before being withdrawn.
He paused, debating with himself whether it would be wise to pursue enquiries next door. To his knowledge, Mrs. Lathom had never had anything to do with her neighbours. She had told him that curiosity was not welcomed in the town, but it seemed unlikely that comings and goings could entirely escape neighbourly observation. He decided that there would be little risk to himself to put a few questions concerning Mrs. Lathom’s present whereabouts, so accordingly he knocked on the door of the adjoining cottage.
There was evidently some reluctance to answer, although he saw the curtain move again. After he had knocked a second time, he heard a bolt being drawn back and the door opened a few inches to reveal a wrinkled, leathery face surmounted by a mobcap. Its owner viewed him suspiciously without speaking.
“I beg your pardon for disturbing you,” he said, with his most disarming smile. “I called next door to see Mrs. Lathom, the lady who lives there, but the house seems to be shut up. I wonder, do you have any notion where I may find her?”
The woman shook her head vigorously and was about to shut the door, but Neville deftly interposed a foot.
“Forgive me, but my business is pressing and I know of no one else whom I could ask. Can you not help me?”
“Folk mind their own business in these parts, young man,” replied the woman, in a grating tone that set his teeth on edge. “Pays best. Be off with ye.”
“Oh, but—” He was about to explain his relationship to Mrs. Lathom, but thought better of it. “I mean her no harm,” he finished, lamely.
“That’s as may be. If she’d wanted ye to know where she’s gone, reckon she’d have told ye. Shift yer foot.”
Neville produced a guinea from his pocket. Her eyes gleamed at the sight of it, and she hesitated just as she had been about to force the door shut.
“Don’t know where she’s gone, so it’s no use for ye to ask. She left about a month back, that’s all I know.”
He placed the coin in her hand, which closed over it almost before it had left his own.
“Are you quite sure you cannot say where she went? It’s a matter of importance.”
“Told ye, didn’t I? She left in a carriage one morning, and that’s the last I see of ’er.”
“And did she — can you say if she had a baby with her when she left?”
“Ay, and a trunk and some parcels. Ye’re askin’ a mort o’ questions, young man, an’ that’s all I can answer. So shift yer foot, afore I do it a mischief.”
Neville hastily removed his foot and began to thank her; but his speech was cut short by the door slamming in his face, and a moment later he heard the bolt rammed home.
He turned away, feeling depressed. That Mrs. Lathom should have vanished without trace was of small account to him; in fact, it made matters simpler. It showed that she really did mean to sever the connection between them. He was not so satisfied to learn, however, that the child had been with her. This might only mean trouble in store.
As he returned to the inn to take a post chaise for his homeward journey, however, he found his usual sanguine outlook returning. Mrs. Lathom had assured him that the infant had only the most slender chance of survival; since she had left Rye with it a month since, the odds were that by now it had already expired. He need trouble himself no longer. Everything was at last working out for the best, he thought, even though it had been a devilish close thing.
CHAPTER VIII
Maria’s letter telling of her betrothal was read by her friend Amanda Paxton with a decided feeling of relief. She would have liked to think that this was entirely for Maria, but she was too honest not to acknowledge that a part of it was on her own account, too. She had felt uneasy ever since Maria had confided her suspicion that Mr. and Mrs. Reddiford were attempting to promote a match between the Reverend Theodore Somerby and their granddaughter. Why this should have made her uneasy was a matter which she shied away from analysing, but she was glad to be free of the feeling. She sat down at once to write an enthusiastic, congratulatory reply. Too impatient to leave her letter to be taken to the post office by the footman at his regular time for dealing with the mail, she determined to walk down wi
th it herself. The post office was only a mile away, just a pleasant distance for a stroll on such a bright morning, she thought, as she hurriedly donned a cloak; for in spite of the sun, there was a chilly wind.
She had reckoned without the treachery of April weather, however, for on her return journey black clouds rolled over the sun. Presently it began to rain, slowly at first, then with increasing violence. She pulled the hood of her cloak over her chip hat, an engaging creation tied with lilac ribbons, and looked about her for shelter. She knew there was little hope of finding any, for she had left the last of the houses behind, and there would be no other building until she reached Hewletts’ farm in about another quarter of a mile. She reflected ruefully that by then she would be wet through, anyway, and might as well complete the journey home. Seeing nothing that would serve to protect her from the elements, she shrugged philosophically and went on her way.
She had covered another hundred yards or so in extreme discomfort when she heard the sound of a vehicle approaching from the rear. Turning hopefully towards it, she saw that it was a gig, and the driver was the curate, Mr. Somerby. Thankful that here was someone she knew who could offer her a lift, she raised an arm in greeting, an appeal to which he instantly responded.
Unfortunately, her sudden movement swept the hood back from her head. A gust of wind caught her bonnet, which flew into the air before landing on the ground several yards from where she stood and then went bowling merrily along the puddle-strewn road.
Impetuously, she darted after it, uttering aloud several highly unladylike phrases borrowed from her brothers’ sporting vocabulary.
Meanwhile, the curate had reined in his docile old mare and leapt down to join in the chase. Easily outpacing her, he retrieved the bonnet with a lucky swoop and held it towards her.
She surveyed it with repulsion. It was now a sorry sight, limp and dripping, its pretty lilac ribbons covered in slimy mud.
He shook his head sorrowfully. “I fear this will never be the same again, Miss Paxton. But pray let me help you up into the gig, where at least you’ll have the shelter of the hood.”
He suited the action to the word, assisting her with one hand while retaining his hold on her ruined bonnet with the other.
“Whoa, Brownie,” he commanded, as the ancient mare in the gig’s shafts moved forward at a sluggish pace. “If you’d be good enough to take the reins, ma’am? Now, the question is, what shall we do with your bonnet?”
“I don’t think anyone can do anything with that frightful object!” declared Amanda in disgust. “It’s spoilt beyond recovery.”
“In that case, shall we inter it decently in the ditch?” he suggested, smiling.
He continued to smile after he had abandoned the bonnet and climbed back into the vehicle to start the mare on its way again.
“I daresay,” remarked Amanda, somewhat resentfully, “that you are laughing at me, sir.”
He made an effort to assume a more serious expression. “Not at you, ma’am, assure you. I could not be so heartless. But the circumstances, you know…”
“Don’t think I blame you,” she interrupted, quickly. “I must have looked so droll, chasing along after that wretched bonnet!”
Overcome by the thought of the absurd picture she must have presented, she went off into peals of laughter. He looked at her doubtfully for a moment, then joined in, and for several moments they gave way to uninhibited mirth.
They were recalled to a more sober frame of mind when they were passed by a coach coming in the other direction. Two pairs of eyes glued to the window showed that its occupants were missing nothing of the unconventional scene presented to them.
“Oh, dear,” said Amanda, weakly, attempting to wipe her eyes with an already wet handkerchief, “I think that was Mrs. Baydon and her daughter, and they are sure to mention to Mama that I was conducting myself in an unseemly fashion!”
“Let us hope they‘ll be more charitable,” he replied, equably. “But I feel sure that once I’ve explained the circumstances to Lady Paxton, she will quite understand.”
“I don’t think you can be very well acquainted with Mama, sir, or you wouldn’t be so optimistic!”
“No?” He smiled at her again; and she thought, not for the first time, what an engaging smile he had. “Well, I must hope to improve our acquaintance in time. But tell me, Miss Paxton, do you usually choose to walk abroad in such weather?”
“No, even I am not so stupid! But when I set out, the sun was shining brilliantly, and you must know I’m an incurable optimist. I wanted to post a letter, and could not wait for one of our footmen to take it.”
“I see.” He said nothing for a moment, speculating a little about a letter that was so important that its writer could not wait to send it away.
Amanda was following her own train of thought.
“I trust,” she remarked presently, with a slight blush, “that you didn’t overhear my comments when that odious bonnet blew away! I daresay you may know that I have two brothers, and I fear I’ve a regrettable tendency to make use of some of their expressions whenever I become excited over anything. Mama is always reproving me for it, but it’s difficult to break all at once with the bad habits of one’s childhood, don’t you think?”
“You’ll probably be surprised to learn, Miss Paxton,” he replied, with a twinkle in his eye, “that there are times when I am afflicted with a purely temporary deafness. Before you commiserate with me, allow me to point out that this disability has frequently been the means of saving an otherwise awkward situation.”
She laughed heartily. “Oh, Charlie and Freddy would say you were a right one, sir! How very much obliged to you I am!”
He gave a slight bow. “Yours to command, ma’am. I collect your brothers are undergraduates at Oxford? It is my own University” — as she nodded — “a fortunate coincidence.”
“Well,” said Amanda, with sisterly candour, “I don’t know how fortunate those in authority may find it to have Charlie and Freddy there! They’re not precisely scholarly, you know, and are rather given to what they term kicking up larks!”
He shook his head with a mournful expression that was belied by the irrepressible twinkle in his eye. “Dear me — most regrettable. And so unusual, of course, in young men of that age.”
Once again, her laughter bubbled over. “Oh, you are the — the most complete hand, sir!”
Sir Robert Paxton’s butler was not only a well-trained man, but he had also survived service for many years in a household that sheltered three such ebullient young people as Miss Amanda, Master Charles and Master Frederick. He therefore allowed no flicker of surprise to disturb his countenance when Miss Amanda presented herself on the doorstep looking — as he afterwards confided to the housekeeper — as like a drowned rat as anything else he had ever set eyes upon. Lady Paxton was not so stoical, however. She emitted a faint shriek when her daughter entered the parlour with Mr. Somerby in attendance.
“Gracious goodness! Amanda! What in the world have you been doing now?”
“Mr. Somerby will explain, Mama, but as you see I must go up and change,” replied Amanda, as she beat a hasty retreat, leaving a wet patch on the carpet from her dripping garments.
The curate did explain in a calm, matter-of-fact way which reassured Lady Paxton that her daughter had not, after all, narrowly escaped a watery grave, which had been the first explanation to occur to her.
“She is such an impetuous child,” she complained. “As though her letter could not have waited! But I am most grateful to you, Mr. Somerby, for bringing her home. Dear me, now I come to notice it, you are very wet yourself. Pray let the footman take your overcoat to dry, while I procure some refreshment for you.”
The curate protested that there was no need for her to take so much trouble; but Lady Paxton insisted, and after handing over the overcoat to one of the servants, conducted her visitor to the book room where Sir Robert Paxton was sitting. The Reverend Theodore Somerby was already becoming
a firm favourite with Amanda’s father; so the two gentlemen passed an agreeable hour together, at the end of which the curate was invited to partake of a cold collation with the family. Amanda presented herself at table looking fresh and appealing in a primrose gown of Indian calico draped at the neck with a white gauze neckerchief, and with her chestnut curls restored to more seemly order.
“But if only you could have seen yourself when you walked in earlier!” her mother said later, in tones of strong reproof. “Your hair wet and bedraggled, blown about all over your face, and as for your clothes and shoes… Well, words fail me! You looked for all the world like some wild gypsy girl! What Mr. Somerby must have thought of you, I can’t imagine!”
But Amanda had seen herself in the mirror in her bedroom after she had rushed upstairs, and it had occurred to her then to echo her mother’s doubts. To be sure, he had been very pleasant, but what had he thought of her?
She was not the only young lady in the neighbourhood to be asking herself this question at that particular time. The comparatively new arrival in their midst was an eligible bachelor with good looks, a pleasing address and, it was understood, creditable connections. Of course, he was no great matrimonial catch — his private income was believed to be comfortable but not large, and he was only one of the minor clergy. But in a neighbourhood where unmarried baronets or peers were remarkably scarce, he was a sufficiently interesting prospect for several Mamas to eye him thoughtfully and include him in their invitations; while, as for their daughters, they were quite ready to follow their parents’ lead. Mrs. Baydon, therefore, found receptive ears for her little piece of gossip about seeing Amanda Paxton and Mr. Somerby sharing a gig and seemingly delighted with each other’s company.
It earned Amanda several unfriendly looks when she attended an Assembly ball in the local town several days later. She had been escorted there unwillingly by her brother Charles, at present on vacation from Oxford. He was a year older than herself and a young man with a preference for sporting pursuits rather than the more genteel social occasions. His mother had insisted, however, as at the last moment she was unable to chaperone Amanda herself because of a severe headache.
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