by Darcy, Norma
To add to her misery, Mr. Peabody arrived midway through the afternoon, resplendent in a strawberry and white striped waistcoat that assaulted the eye in such a manner as to test the limits of even Miss Blakelow’s self control. Aunt Blakelow made an excuse to leave the room leaving her niece in high temper that she would abandon her to this man’s relentless ardour. That Aunt Blakelow thought that she should marry him was becoming increasingly clear. Thorncote’s future was by no means certain and if she became Mrs. Joshua Peabody, both of the elder Blakelow spinsters would have a roof over their heads.
“My dear Miss Blakelow,” he said, coming into the room with hands outstretched. “Your aunt is feeling indisposed and has gone for a lie down. I hope that nothing serious is amiss?”
She reluctantly gave her hands to him and consented to having them kissed but pulled them away again as soon as she was able. “Nothing at all,” she replied blandly, her eye kindling with irritation as she remembered the way her aunt had hastily vacated the room. “Won’t you sit down, sir?”
“Thank you,” he said, taking the chair she had indicated, that was half the room’s length away from hers.
“Are you alone this afternoon?”
“Yes, the girls have walked into Loughton to purchase some ribbon and the boys are gone fishing. Since his lordship bought Ned and Jack fishing rods, they seem to have found a love for it. And they go to escape from talk of the ball,” she added, smiling.
“Ah yes, the Holme Park ball. Well, I have received my invite. Do you go, ma’am?”
She shook her head. “No. I do not go to parties.”
“I am sorry that you shall not be there but knowing your peculiar circumstances as I do, I cannot wonder at it.”
Miss Blakelow felt her temper rising. “Indeed? Do my circumstances mean that it is unseemly for me to dance?”
“Oh, no, no. I merely meant that you would not want to draw attention to yourself, giving rise to the sort of gossip that one must deplore. For although I condemn the nature of ‘our little secret’ and its having come about, I would wish to protect you from the harsh lash of public opinion. And it is on this subject that I come to you today…no, no, my dear, do not look so vexed…your aunt wrote to me and asked me to come.”
“My aunt?” repeated Miss Blakelow blankly.
“Yes. She is worried for you. Apparently you had a mishap at the assembly rooms last week.”
“I was a little hot and felt faint, that is all,” she replied, becoming a little annoyed at her aunt’s interference.
“She said you were hallucinating…and, might I say, fantasising about the man who―”
“Mr. Peabody, I was hot and I fainted,” said Miss Blakelow, her bosom heaving with anger. “That is the sum total of the events.”
“And I understand that Lord Marcham used the occasion to foist his attentions onto you,” said Mr. Peabody haughtily, looking down his considerable nose at her.
“Hardly,” she retorted, “he stopped me from falling down the stairs.”
“And had his arms about you. Your aunt is concerned that his attentions are becoming very marked and that you return his affections. Is that so Georgiana?”
Miss Blakelow struggled to keep her anger in check. Was this man to know everything about her? Was there no part of her life that was sacred? Had her aunt told him about everything she did? Who she saw? When she used her chamber pot? She remembered that painful scene when he had first discovered her past, he seemed to revel in every detail of the affair, as if he somehow derived pleasure from imagining her so vulnerable and entirely alone with a man.
“Mr. Peabody, you have been good to us since Father died. Indeed, you have been very good to me too, but that does not give you the right to question my private life.”
“Oh, but I think it does. Your father bade me look after you.”
“Yes, and you have done so. But I am a grown woman and I am quite capable of making my own decisions.”
“Forgive me, Miss Blakelow, but I must disagree. Given your past transgressions, I hardly think you can know what is best for you. Your decisions have been anything but successful thus far.”
“I was nineteen, sir,” she said indignantly.
“Yes, nineteen and innocent as to the ways of men.”
“You can say that again,” retorted Miss Blakelow. “But I am fully alive to them now, I can assure you.” You and your groping hands have educated me to that, Mr. Peapod, her mind added furiously.
“But I am willing to put your past behind us. I am willing to put your youthful follies down to inexperience and although many a man could not forgive such an outrageous slip from delicacy, I am prepared to put my reservations aside and offer you the protection of my name. I am convinced that your passionate tendencies have been cured and that you are now a reserved young woman who I would be pleased to call my wife. I am aware that there will always be this awkwardness between us arising from the knowledge of your past indiscretions but I promise you that I will do everything in my power to evict them from my mind.”
“You are too good,” she answered with barely disguised sarcasm.
“I have been brought up to see the good in people where others believe all hope is lost. I understand that your brother is to be married and intends to bring his bride to live at Thorncote. Your aunt has asked me if I will take your brothers and sisters into Goldings. And I replied that I would. And your aunt too, if you wish it. My mother is concerned that the children will plague her, but I have assured her that they are extremely well behaved and pleasant young people―although Ned is a little belligerent and Jack needs schooling to whip him into shape and Marianne is a little too vivacious for a girl of her age―” He stopped and smiled. “But we may discuss all this once we are married. You will wish to order bridal clothes and to that end I will leave you some money―”
“Mr. Peabody,” she interrupted hastily, “you hardly allow me to answer. Indeed, I am grateful for the very great honour that you have done me by asking me to be your wife but I must tell you again that it is impossible.”
“You have no choice, my dear,” he replied, “where will you go? You have run from one relative to the other until they are all used up. You are penniless. You are friendless. You have no-one.”
A steely light entered her eyes. “I have a little money and my own wits and I can assure you that they will serve me well.”
“Perhaps they might. But what of your family? Do you have enough money to feed and clothe and house a family of five? Never mind about the debts that young William is piling up in London.”
“Mr. Peabody, I don’t wish to pain you, but I don’t love you.”
He looked at her blankly. “Love? My dear Miss Blakelow, of course you don’t. I wasn’t expecting that you did.”
“You do not love me?” she asked.
He chuckled. “Yes, yes, women like to hear things like that, don’t they? Certainly I do, my dear, I’m very fond of you.”
Miss Blakelow turned away. “I must be allowed to think.”
“Naturally, I will leave you to make your preparations.”
“Mr. Peabody, I have not accepted you, nor have I agreed to my family living with you. I must have time to consider. You do understand?”
He rose to his feet. “Of course, of course. Take as long as you need. I understand that it must be a difficult decision for a woman who has been single for so many years. So now I will leave you, my dear, and return tomorrow.”
* * *
“You can’t do it!” cried Marianne, “I won’t let you!”
Miss Blakelow sighed. “I have not yet decided that I am going to do it. But you must own that it would solve all our problems.”
“But you’d have to kiss him and…and submit to…other things,” said Marianne, a comical look of disgust on her face.
Miss Blakelow, who had been considering that very unappealing fact herself, tried to be sensible. “I am not romantic, Marry…at least, I cannot afford to be. Mr.
Peabody is offering to give us a home at Goldings…all of us.”
“I cannot live with that man,” said Ned, tossing a ball of wool at the wall and catching it as it rebounded into his hand. “I will not live with him.”
“We do not have much of a choice,” said Miss Blakelow simply.
“You do have a choice,” Kitty pointed out, “Lord Marcham.”
Miss Blakelow coloured despite herself. “Lord Marcham is not willing to loan us the money to set Thorncote to rights. I had hoped he would see it as an investment but it seems that he is not interested in helping us.”
“He will if you marry him. He said so,” returned her sister.
“I’d rather live at Holme than Goldings any day,” said Ned. “Lord Marcham may be a rakehell but he’s not a bore.”
“No, and he’s handsome,” put in Lizzy, arranging a shawl around her shoulders. “And he has a very good figure.”
“And he has bought us new dresses for the ball,” added Kitty.
“Why won’t you marry him, George?” asked Marianne.
Miss Blakelow felt uncomfortable as five pairs of eyes swivelled in her direction and stayed pinned to her face. “Because I can’t.”
“Why?” asked Lizzy.
“Does it have something to do with when you lived in London?” asked Jack, lounging in one of the window seats.
“Yes,” said Miss Blakelow, “it has something to do with that.”
“What happened, George?”
Miss Blakelow looked down at her hands. “I was extremely foolish, that’s what happened.”
“You fell in love,” guessed Marianne.
Miss Blakelow was silent.
“Yes,” said Kitty, “…with a man who was…unsuitable.”
“Why unsuitable?” asked Lizzy.
Miss Blakelow sighed. “Because he was married already and he did not tell me.”
“Oh.”
“His wife was an invalid and lived in the country. Because I was supposed to marry another man, a wealthy man who was considerably older than I was, I kept my love for this man a secret…and thus, no-one was able to warn me what he was…a rake.”
“What happened?”
“I was ruined,” said Miss Blakelow shortly, bringing that particular subject to an abrupt close, “which is why I cannot marry Lord Marcham. Mr. Peabody knows what happened because father told him, against my wishes, I might add, but he told him nonetheless. Mr. Peabody is kindly prepared to disregard the past.”
“Magnanimous of him. But no doubt he will remind you of the fact every moment of the day,” murmured Ned with astonishing insight for one so utterly inexperienced in the ways of the world.
“He is a kind man…and he has been good to us.”
“He is a pompous, conceited bore,” said Ned.
“Why do you not tell Lord Marcham your story?” asked Lizzy.
Miss Blakelow shook her head, imagining the scene, imagining the look of disgust that would come into his eyes; the same look that had come into another man’s eyes when she had told him. “I can’t.”
“But he is a man who does not care for public opinion. If anyone is likely to understand, it is him,” said Ned.
“Yes, and he’d probably congratulate you for doing something half so daring,” laughed Marianne.
Miss Blakelow stood up. “I cannot. You are young…you do not fully understand.”
“We do understand,” said Ned, “you fell in love and you made a mistake. Women do it every day.”
Miss Blakelow’s lip trembled at this young man who was growing up before her eyes. “In my experience, men are not so forgiving. Mr. Peabody is an unusual case. I must go and think.”
“What is there to think about? Go and find the earl and tell him that yes please we would like to come and live at Holme Park…” said Ned.
“And that we would like to learn to box like he does…well Ned and me anyway…please…” put in Jack.
“And that we won’t spend all his money on dresses,” said Kitty with a giggle.
“And that you will marry him just as soon as it can be arranged…” said Lizzy.
“And that you love him,” added Marianne simply.
Chapter 22
“Isn’t that Peabody?” asked Hal Hockingham of his brother as he rode up to him.
“I do believe it is. What a coat to be sure,” marvelled his lordship, riding a magnificent grey horse into Loughton high street, “a pea green coat for a Peabody.”
Hal chuckled. “You are too cruel, Robbie.”
“I would be a lot less cruel if he weren’t so damned worthy,” he replied. “He always looks at me as if I were recently excreted from the back end of his horse.”
Hal laughed. “And so you were.”
“Thank you,” he responded lightly. “Good morning Peaham.” He tipped his hat intending to pass on.
“Indeed it is,” replied Mr. Peabody from atop his gig as he gathered the reins into his hands. “A very good morning indeed.”
“You are jolly today, Mr. Peabody,” observed Hal with a friendly smile.
“I am the happiest of men. Miss Georgiana Blakelow has agreed to be my wife.”
The earl’s grey horse skittered at the sudden tug his master performed upon the reins and it took his lordship a moment to calm his startled mount. He glared at Peabody from under a thunderous brow. “What did you say?”
Mr. Peabody smiled smugly. “I have already sent an announcement to the papers. I am the happiest of men. Not even you can kill my mood today, my lord. Well, I must be off. I have arrangements to make. Two hundred guests and very likely more. A grand affair and the lady dressed in the finest clothes Loughton can buy. I will send you an invitation, never fear.”
“Don’t bother,” recommended the earl savagely.
“You have lost Marcham. The game is up. The lady is mine and I intend to give her a babe to swell her belly just as soon as I can.”
It was fortunate that Hal placed his hand on his brother’s arm at that moment, for his lordship had started to move toward the portly gentleman with such a grip on his riding whip and such a vicious look on his face that Mr. Hockingham feared for the other man’s safety. “Not here, Rob,” he murmured.
His lordship wrestled with the urge to drag the man from his carriage and throttle the life from him with his bare hands. “You had better watch your tongue, Peabody, or I swear…”
Mr. Peabody smiled into the furious face of his lord. “I see that you can remember my name when you wish to, my lord. Well good day to you both. I must get along. The wedding will be at Goldings at the end of the month. I am off to buy the lady a gift. What say you to pearls? Or are they too young for a lady of Miss Blakelow’s advanced years?”
Hal gave him a chilly smile as his brother whirled his mount around in the direction they had just come. He heard the sound of rapidly retreating hooves as his lordship urged his horse into a gallop. “I believe that pearls are the established gift, sir. Good day to you.”
He turned his own horse around, following his brother who was by now practically out of sight. It was no very great difficult task to guess where he was going. He urged his horse towards Holme Park and mentally sent Miss Blakelow his sympathies.
* * *
His lordship threw the reins to a groom and ran lightly up the front steps at Thorncote house to knock imperatively upon the front door. On being told that Miss Blakelow was not receiving visitors, he barged past the startled butler and strode into the hall, calling out her name.
John took one look at the earl’s face and instantly abandoned any vague plan he may have had of throwing his lordship out of the house; if he was not much mistaken, Lord Marcham was in a rare old taking. He quietly closed the front door and watched with a wry smile as their lordly neighbour took the stairs two at a time. There would be fireworks before the day was through or his name was not John Maynard.
The earl found Miss Blakelow in her bedchamber, seated by the window with a book.
He entered the room and virtually slammed the door behind him. She started and the book fell from her hands, her eyes wide and her mouth open in surprise.
“How dare you barge in here?” she demanded, standing up swiftly and reaching for her glasses from the dressing table.
“Don’t you dare put those damned things on!” he fumed, her spectacles irrationally becoming the focus of his anger.
Miss Blakelow glared at him and pointedly disobeyed him, pushing them over her ears. “I need them to see with and I do not take orders from you―”
“You see perfectly well without them,” he muttered, as he flung down his gloves upon the corner of the bed and strode towards her. He took her spectacles from her face, dropped them to the floor and very deliberately crushed them with his heel, mashing the twisted metal and broken glass into the carpet.
She gasped. “How dare you destroy my property?” she demanded, her bosom heaving.
“And this!” he said, yanking the ribbons of her cap from her hand and flinging it onto the fire. The low flames took it and swamped it in a riotous dance of golden heat. “There is only one thing your ugly caps are good for, and that is kindling.”
She was speechless with anger. It took her several moments to summon the words to convey her feelings. She moved towards the door and opened it, her hand upon the doorknob. “You are insufferable. Get out of my room and get out of this house.”
He stared at her for a moment from across the room, tight lipped, rigid with anger. “Well, madam, I hear that congratulations are in order,” he said in no gentle voice.
Miss Blakelow blinked at him. “Congratulations?” she repeated frostily. “For what?”
“Your engagement. Do you pretend to be ignorant of it?”
“I do not know what you mean.”
“Don’t you, by God?” He flung away to the window and stared out for a moment before coming back to face her. “And am I to receive an explanation as to why you have accepted that pompous idiot Peabody, when you have so roundly rejected me?”
Miss Blakelow stared at him for a confused moment and then she closed her eyes as the realisation dawned on her that Mr. Peabody had taken her vow to think about his offer as an acceptance of it. As angry as she was with Mr. Peabody for forcing her hand, she was fast becoming even angrier with Lord Marcham’s assumption that she needed to ask his permission before accepting another gentleman. And just because she had seen fit to turn down his offer, did not mean that she needed to justify to him or anyone else why she wished to accept another man, however pompous they may be. She calmly folded her hands before her, forming a desire to teach his lordship a much needed lesson.