by Jane Ashford
“The Indians,” breathed Joanna, her interest caught at last.
“Yes,” responded Erland, smiling at her warmly, “do you…”
“Tell me about the country,” said her father. “It is coniferous forest?”
Erland nodded, turning away from Joanna a bit reluctantly. “For the most part.” He paused, and his eyes grew faraway. “The river we traveled this trip was called the Kootenay by the natives. I don’t recall what that means; I am not well acquainted with the native language unfortunately. But the water was unlike anything you can see in England: pale green because it comes down from the ice fields and glaciers. Snow and ice stays the whole year on some of the mountains, yet the valleys are green and lush.” He sighed. “It is beautiful.”
Joanna echoed his sigh; Mr. Rowntree nodded wisely. “The elevation,” he murmured.
“Yes,” agreed the younger man. “The mountains rise almost straight out of the plains to the east, an amazing sight, and the river is right among them. I can’t describe it properly, it is so breathtaking. I wish you could see Thompson’s journals. He tells everything so well.”
“Ah, wouldn’t that be splendid,” cried his host. “I must tell you, Mr. Erland, that ideas are the chief joy of my life. To exchange opinions and observations with a man such as he would indeed be exciting.”
As always when her father began to go on in this way, Joanna felt bored. Her thoughts turned back to London. It was nearly twelve and Peter would be married now and they would be at the wedding breakfast. She wondered what his wife was like and whether she was prettier. I hope she is not very tall and blond, she thought. If she is, she will make me look like a wretched little dab of a thing, and I shall feel even worse. She knew very little about the woman Peter Finley had chosen over her. They had received the news via an announcement in the Morning Post, and they knew only that Adrienne Denby, now Mrs. Finley, was the sister of Sir Rollin Denby, a man one of their neighbors characterized as an “ugly customer,” whatever that meant. He had added that Miss Denby’s portion was substantial and that young Peter was doing very well for himself in that regard, though he might still regret the match.
Joanna frowned. She had not understood why he said that either, though several others in the room at the time had looked at each other significantly. But she indignantly rejected the idea that Peter had married for money. He did not care for such things. Had he not been ready to marry her, with next to no fortune at all? Joanna sighed. No, Peter had simply fallen out of love with her when he met someone he liked better. And hard as that was to bear, she hoped he would be very happy. She herself would dwindle into an old maid, she supposed, looking after her brothers’ children and, possibly, knitting. I must learn to knit, she decided. She assumed a martyred expression and sat up a little to catch a glimpse of her reflection in the drawing-room mirror. It was very affecting. She sighed again, then noticed that Mr. Erland was looking at her with a smile on his lips, and blushed fiercely, looking down.
Their guest stood. “I must go,” he said. “I am sorry, but I was with my bailiff when I heard Frederick calling for help. He will be impatient.”
Mrs. Rowntree rose immediately. “And we have kept you from your business. You should not have allowed it. But I hope you will come to dinner one day soon.”
Mr. Erland professed himself grateful for the invitation. “My uncle’s old housekeeper is not much of a cook.”
“Mrs. Smith?” Mrs. Rowntree laughed. “I daresay not. Do you get on with her?”
“I am terrified of her,” replied Erland, and everyone laughed.
Any other father might have inquired why his youngest son had been calling for help, but Mr. Rowntree said merely, “Come whenever you like.” His tone was very cordial. “You’re a great addition to the neighborhood. An intelligent man. You must attend one of my meetings. I have recently formed a Philosophical Society to discuss topics of general interest, you know. Several fellows of the Oxford colleges attend. My eldest son is trying for a fellowship at Magdelan this year. A very bright lad, if I say so. Has some wonderful ideas. Thursday nights. Just come along.”
“Why not come to dinner this Thursday?” asked his wife. “Then you can join the meeting afterward.” She smiled at him. “Or not. Just as you like.”
“Of course he will join us,” said Mr. Rowntree. “A splendid idea. Do come.”
Mr. Erland bowed his thanks and accepted, then took his leave of them. When he was gone, Mr. Rowntree said, “A fine young man. Not at all like most of the frippery fellows these days, interested in nothing but some ridiculous oversprung vehicle or the height of their collars. I approve.” He turned toward the door. “I must go back to my study, my dear. I am working on a very interesting little problem, very interesting indeed.”
His wife nodded. “Of course, George. The sulfate of ammonia.”
He whirled. “What? What did you say?”
“Sulfate of ammonia?” repeated Mrs. Rowntree. “You said when you…”
“That’s it!” cried her husband. “Sulfate of ammonia!” And he rushed out of the room without shutting the door behind him.
Mrs. Rowntree looked startled for a moment, then shook her head and laughed. She went back to sit beside her daughter on the sofa. “I agree with your father,” she said, “though for different reasons, I fear. Our new neighbor is a very pleasant young man. Didn’t you think so, Joanna?”
The girl shrugged but said nothing. “Really, Joanna.” Her mother frowned at her. “You were very quiet. You should try to talk more when we have guests.”
Joanna looked at her reproachfully, but the older woman did not notice. She was looking thoughtful. “Perhaps we will give a dress party to welcome him to the Abbey. He could meet all his neighbors at once, and we could give him a proper welcome. Yes, I think that would be nice.” She glanced at her daughter. “You would like that, would you not, Joanna? We can have some of the young people and perhaps organize a bit of dancing. After all, you are to come out in the spring. You should learn how to go on in a crowd.”
“I couldn’t dance,” answered Joanna dramatically. “I pray you won’t ask it of me, Mama.”
“Don’t be silly. You love dancing.”
“No more.” The girl looked down and shook her head. “I shall never dance again.”
Her mother made an exasperated noise. “I have no patience with you when you are in one of your romantical moods, Joanna. Try for a little common sense, I beg you, and do not be mooning about the house all day. Go for a walk, or take your mare out for a good canter in the fields. I must go and see how Nurse is getting on with Frederick.” And with that, she left Joanna alone again. The girl leaned back on the sofa once more. But her motive for watching the clock was gone, and it was indeed a fine June day. The scent of early roses drifted in through an open window. After a few minutes, Joanna jumped up and went to fetch a sunshade. She would go for a walk down to the stream and look at the water lilies. They would match the melancholy of her mood precisely.
Two
The next day was Sunday, and though Joanna tried to convince her mother that she was too ill to attend church, Mrs. Rowntree would have none of it. She and her parents set out in the gig at nine and reached the Longton village church as everyone was going in. There was no time to chat before the service, for which Joanna was grateful. Though most of their friends had seen the announcement of Peter Finley’s engagement, and many had known of the vague agreement between her family and his, Joanna felt somehow worse now that he was actually married. It made everything so final. She dreaded facing the neighbors after church.
Reverend Williston’s sermon seemed woefully short to Joanna, by no means a usual occurrence, and all too soon the family was filing out into the churchyard again. Her father stopped to remind the rector of the meeting on Thursday, and Mrs. Rowntree fell into conversation with one of her friends; all Joanna’s hopes of rushing di
rectly to the gig and driving straight home were dashed. As she shifted impatiently from foot to foot beside her mother, there was a tug at her sleeve. She turned to find her best friend, Selina Grant, standing behind her and followed the girl a few steps away.
“Oh, Joanna,” said Selina in a dramatic undertone, “are you all right? I was thinking of you all through yesterday. I wanted to come, but Mother kept me at lessons and errands the whole day.”
Joanna hung her head and looked stricken. Selina, a romantic damsel one year younger than herself, had entered actively into her feelings during this difficult time, and it was into her sympathetic ear that Joanna poured all her troubles and anxieties.
At her downcast expression, Selina pressed her hand.
“Well, I think it is all very stupid,” said a sturdy voice behind them. They turned to find Georgiana, Selina’s younger sister, standing there. A young lady of only fourteen summers, she had as yet little interest in affairs of the heart and found her sister’s airs tiresome. “Who would want to be married, after all?”
The two older girls looked at her reproachfully, and Selina said, “Keep your voice down, Georgiana, please.”
“Huh,” sniffed Georgiana.
Selina pulled Joanna a few steps away from her. “Joanna, I must speak to you,” she hissed. “I have news.”
“What is it?” asked the other girl.
Selina pressed her hand again. “Oh, my dear! If you can only bear it.”
“What nonsense,” said Georgiana, who had followed them blithely. “You know, Selina, Mama says that if you don’t soon outgrow these missish freaks, she’ll have to send you to Miss Rich’s academy for a year to have some sense put in your head. I heard her tell our aunt so only last week. Who cares a fig whether Peter Finley comes home, I say? He’s nothing but a slowtop. He doesn’t even ride well. Remember when he was thrown into the horse pond at the Annandales’ hunt? He—”
“Comes home?” Joanna interrupted. “Here?”
Glaring at her sister, Selina nodded. “We heard of it only yesterday evening. Our housekeeper is very friendly with his. She has had orders to prepare the house. They are arriving this week.”
Joanna put a hand to her mouth. “Oh no.”
Selina nodded sympathetically. “I thought you would wish to know immediately. To prepare yourself, you know.”
“What rubbish!” exclaimed Georgiana, and she flounced away in disgust.
Watching her go, Selina shook her head. “I cannot think how I came to have a sister so lacking in sensibility. Can she be a changeling, do you think?”
But Joanna had no time for Georgiana. “Oh, Selina, what shall I do? I am bound to meet them sooner or later; this is such a small neighborhood. How can I face him?”
The other girl clasped her hands before her. “Oh, I know how you must feel. But you must be strong. You must not allow your feelings to show. They say she is very proud and unpleasant, you know, and I’m sure she would be rude to you if she knew of Peter’s attachment.”
“Attachment,” echoed Joanna, laughing hollowly.
“He was attached to you,” insisted her friend. “Anyone could see that. I am certain she entrapped him. I daresay Peter will be miserable in his marriage.” Her expression reflected satisfaction with this notion.
“Oh, no,” replied Joanna softly. “I could never wish that.”
“Well, it will be his own fault. They say she has a sharp tongue and is used to her own way. We shall see.” She looked wise.
“Who says? Where have you heard these things?”
“My Uncle William. Did I not tell you? But no, I have not seen you since their visit last week. I meant to come Friday, but Mother insisted that I go with her on some stupid errand in Oxford, and we returned too late. And then yesterday, I told you…”
“But what did he say?” asked Joanna impatiently.
“Well, I have told you most of it. My uncle says the Denbys were a very rich family. Her father was a nabob, in India, you know. He made piles of money there—in trade of some kind.” Selina’s pug nose tried to point superciliously. “And he left his two children very well off. But the son, Sir Rollin, gambled all his money away. And they say his sister wouldn’t help him at all. She kept all her money for herself.”
“How horrid!” exclaimed Joanna. “If Gerald or Frederick needed money, I should give it to them instantly.” She imagined herself doing so, with great magnanimity.
“Of course you would,” agreed Selina. “But she is very proud and hard, you see. And my uncle said that she has been hanging out for a husband these three years at least. She is older than Peter.”
“No!” said Joanna, shocked. “How old is she?”
“Five or six and twenty, my uncle says. And no one in London wished to marry her because she is so disagreeable. I am sure she ensnared Peter in some low way.”
“Your uncle told you all this?” asked the other, wide-eyed.
Selina colored. “Well, no, not precisely,” she admitted. “I heard him talking to Mama. I couldn’t help it—the drawing-room door was wide open, and they were speaking quite loudly.”
Joanna disregarded this, shaking her head and murmuring, “Oh dear, poor Peter.”
Selina was about to go on when they were joined by Constance Williston, the daughter of the vicar. Constance was some months older than Joanna, and whether because she had been at school in Bath or because she was a slender, willowy blond, Joanna and the short, freckled Selina disliked her. Constance had been home from school for a month, and they had resolutely ignored her overtures.
“Good day,” said Constance pleasantly. “Isn’t the weather splendid?”
“Yes, indeed,” answered Selina quickly, moving closer to Joanna. “Not at all hot.”
“No. In fact, I was thinking of taking a walk this afternoon, to see the flowers in the fields. Would you care to come with me? We could have tea afterward at my house.”
“I’m sorry,” said Selina, “I can’t today.”
This ungracious reply made Joanna frown a little, but she also said, “I—I can’t either. I promised Mama I would help her with, ah, something.” Joanna flushed and felt guilty.
Constance’s eyes dropped. “Ah, too bad. Another time, perhaps.” And she turned and walked away.
“Oh dear,” said Joanna. “Perhaps we should go.”
“Why? She would only go on and on about some weed or other, and we could not talk about anything important with her there. No, we must hold a conference and decide what to do.”
“There is nothing we can do,” sighed Joanna.
Before Selina could protest, a male voice interrupted them. “Good morning, Miss Joanna,” said Jonathan Erland. “A lovely morning, is it not?”
Joanna turned to face him and agreed without much enthusiasm. Mr. Erland wore a different, newer coat of dark blue superfine today, but it was hardly more modish than the other she had seen. Everything about him bespoke his provincial travels.
Selina inched forward, and Joanna presented her. Her friend’s sandy brows went up when she heard who the stranger was. “You are going to live at the Abbey?” she cried. “Oh, how can you? I am sure it is haunted. All those crumbling ruins behind.”
Jonathan laughed. “Well, the ruins may be haunted, to be sure. The old monks, or nuns—I’m not precisely certain which it was—may still be angry about being evicted. But I doubt they come into the house. It’s such a dashed uncomfortable place, no sensible ghost would set foot in it.” He grinned engagingly at the girls, but they returned his gaze blankly.
Then Selina shivered. “Well, I do not understand how anyone could live with acres of crumbling ruins practically in one’s back garden. Why hasn’t someone cleared them all out, I wonder?”
“What? And spoil the atmosphere of mystery that surrounds the place?” asked Erland, still smiling.
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br /> Selina seemed much struck by this. “Would it? Yes, I suppose so. But still, all those old walls and pits; does it not make you shudder to see it every day?”
“I fear my sensibilities are too hardened,” he replied. “But Mr. Rowntree may grant your wish. He plans to get up a group to clear it out, I understand.” Erland turned to Joanna. “Or at least so thoroughly categorize it that no ghost will be left an inch of space. Isn’t that so, Miss Joanna?”
“Oh, I—I don’t know,” stammered Joanna.
“He does. Will you join the digging party?”
The corners of Joanna’s mouth turned down. “I shall not be asked. Father thinks me quite heedless and silly.” There was a trace of bitterness in her tone.
Erland blinked. “Ah. Well, I daresay it will be a dull, dirty job.” Sensing constraint, he changed the subject. “I believe your mother mentioned that you are fond of riding, Miss Rowntree?”
Joanna nodded.
“I, too,” he continued. “Perhaps one day soon you will join me and show me the best rides hereabouts. I should be grateful; I am quite bored with the ones I know.”
Joanna shrugged. “All right,” she said rather ungraciously, “if Mama approves.” Privately, she thought that she would not. Joanna had never been allowed to join such expeditions.
“Of course. And you must come also, Miss, ah, Grant.”
“I hate riding,” said Selina positively.
“Ah.”
“Selina,” called Georgiana from behind them, “we’re going.”
Her sister turned with an angry sigh, then shrugged and said good-bye. “I shall walk over to see you later this afternoon, Joanna,” she said as she left.
“I see that your parents are also ready to leave,” said Erland when she was gone. “May I escort you to them?” He offered his arm, and Joanna took it, but her mind was far away, wondering when the Finleys were coming home and how she could greet them with even the appearance of calm.