“Shalton did that lot, I think,” Gideon said, glancing at the box. “I told him just to organize things by whatever means he thought right, but I don’t think this ought to be kept with the documents and records in this room, you know. Set it aside somewhere, if you will—or no, wait.” Another thought struck him. During his trip from London, he had tried to think of a way to make peace with Daintry, and it occurred to him now that she might be amused to read a novel written by a noblewoman of the previous century. He did not think the tale would impress her very much, but he hoped she would appreciate both the source and the author. “Wrap it up, Barton. I know someone who might like to have a look at it. Ned,” he added, observing that Shalton was watching them, “leave that for now. I’ve an errand for you.”
Daintry received the brown-paper wrapped parcel from Clemons that afternoon when she went down to the stables with Charley to visit Victor and Cloud.
“What on earth is this, Clemons?” she asked in astonishment.
Glancing quickly around, the groom said, “The same fellow as brung that letter before brung this today, Miss Daintry.”
She looked for Charley and, seeing the child happily engaged in discussing Victor’s points with Teddy and his cousin Todd, she quickly moved a short distance away, set the bundle down on a bench, and untied the string. Opening the brown paper just enough to read the top page of foolscap, she saw inscribed there, “The Handsome Duke by Harriet Slocum, Lady Thomas Deverill.” The last three words had been written in a slightly altered version of the same copperplate as the rest. Observing that a folded piece of paper had been laid on top, she removed and opened it.
Deverill had written, I did not have the slightest notion what else to do with the enclosed, and though I doubt it compares with the work of the admirable Miss Haywood, I send it in hopes that it will amuse you. Perhaps if it makes you laugh a little, you will find it in your heart to forgive one who has only your best interest at heart, and had signed with the single letter D.
Daintry replaced the covering carefully, retied the string, and called to Charley that it was time to return to the house. The child came at once, and for a wonder showed not the least curiosity about the parcel her aunt carried. Indeed, she seemed preoccupied, but when Daintry asked if anything was amiss, she looked up with her usual sunny smile and said, “Oh, no, not in the least. It must be nearly suppertime, don’t you think?”
Daintry had no time to look at the manuscript until that evening, for immediately after supper Lady St. Merryn insisted that she help draw up a list of persons to be invited to her wedding, and before this task was well in hand, had thought of a number of others that must be accomplished before the date could be set. “And to think your father wants me to arrange it for next month,” she said. “It cannot be done, not without it would be the shabbiest thing, for it is much too much for my nerves.”
“Just as if,” Lady Ophelia said when Lady St. Merryn had gone up to bed at her usual early hour, “your mama thinks she will have to manage every detail by herself.” Setting aside her knitting, she took her journal out of her reticule and moved to the writing table.
Seeing that she was thus occupied, Daintry excused herself and went to her bedchamber, unwrapping the manuscript and setting it on the little table near her window while she fetched a branch of working candles to light the pages. She intended to read only a chapter or so, remembering her great-aunt’s comments about the skill of the writer and finding that it was just as Lady Ophelia had observed. The writing was not only inept but was peppered with meandering little observations that seemed to have nothing to do with the tale that slowly began to unfold. Had the author not been Deverill’s grandmother, she would have stopped after no more than half an hour’s reading; however, because it was Harriet Deverill’s work, the parenthetical remarks of the narrator began to seem at first rather amusing, giving one rare insight into the writer’s personality, and so she read on.
Harriet seemed to have had a high opinion of herself and of her ability to manipulate her world as she chose, and it soon became clear that Lady Fanny, the heroine of The Handsome Duke, represented the author’s view of herself, although surely Harriet had never been so beset by villains as poor Lady Fanny was.
Daintry lit more candles when the first ones guttered, and read on. When a casual reference to one of the characters as something of a Jacobite caught her eye, she began to read more carefully. Fifteen minutes later, her attention became riveted to the page as excitement vied with dismay for preeminence in her emotions. The sky was gray with the first light of dawn before she turned the final page and sat back, staring with unseeing eyes at the untidy pile of papers and chewing her bottom lip, wondering if anyone else would believe she had found the key to the Tarrant-Deverill feud in such an unlikely source.
Twenty-two
DAINTRY SLEPT LATE THE following morning, but as soon as she had dressed and eaten, and without saying a word about Harriet Deverill’s novel to anyone else, she went in search of St. Merryn. Learning that he was closeted with his steward, she was forced to contain her soul in patience for yet another hour and a half, but having given orders that she was to be informed the moment he was alone, she was able at last to beard him in his book room, where she got to the point straightaway.
“Papa, I have discovered what began the feud, and it is all a parcel of nonsense.”
“What’s that?” St. Merryn looked up at her from the papers he had been reading, peering over his spectacles. “I am very busy, girl. A number of things transpired while I was in London that must be attended to now. What are you nattering on about?”
“The feud, sir, with the Deverills. I know what caused it. It was the fault of only one person, and she is long since dead.”
“She? What can you mean, Daintry? Upon my word, I wish you will talk sense. How can you know anything about it?”
“I’ll tell you presently,” she said, for she had decided that if she were to inform him at once that the answer lay in an unpublished novel written during the previous century, and by a woman at that, he would order her out of the room. Instead, she said, “It was Deverill’s grandmother who conceived the whole thing, sir. She was blindly jealous of Aunt Ophelia, whom she saw as her chief rival and as the only obstacle preventing Tom Deverill from proposing marriage to her. She did not believe Aunt Ophelia had no wish to marry, you see, for in point of fact, such a notion was foreign to most people then, just as it is now,” she added with a speaking look.
“I hope you won’t be telling me at this late date that you don’t wish to marry, for I don’t want to hear it,” he said testily, “and what did Harriet’s notion of Ophelia have to say to anything? Harriet got to marry Deverill, did she not?”
“Yes, but not for several years after she had arranged a quarrel between two good friends. I am not sure just how she put the matter to Tom Deverill, but you told me yourself that he was suspected of having connections to the Jacobites, and somehow she led him to believe that Grandpapa had threatened to expose him if he did not leave the field open for him to pursue Aunt Ophelia. You see, Grandpapa wanted her fortune, but Tom Deverill really loved her and was willing to give her up rather than drag her into the scandal Harriet had convinced him Grandpapa would brew if he did not yield. There was even a duel, sir, though it was given out that the two men fought over a card game or some such thing, because of course, gentlemen never admitted fighting duels over ladies. What with all the rules of good manners and proper conduct, Tom Deverill never did confront Grandpapa directly about the supposed threat to expose him—just as Harriet had known he would not—but he did let it be known that he was furious with his longtime good friend for betraying their friendship.”
“Utter nonsense,” St. Merryn snorted. “My father would never have done such a thing, and Deverill must have known it. Damme, they were best friends!”
“Yes, sir, but think how disillusioned Tom Deverill must have been even to think his friend would make such a threat. And
if, the few times they did talk afterward, they talked at cross purposes—which might very easily have happened, you know—he would never have found out that Grandpapa knew nothing whatsoever about any threat. All Tom Deverill knew for a fact was that Grandpapa wanted more than anything to marry Aunt Ophelia for her fortune. He knew Grandpapa did not love her, and so he thought it entirely possible that greed could lead Grandpapa to threaten a scandal that would reflect as badly upon her as it would on Tom Deverill. So Tom Deverill, being noble about it all—and to my way of thinking, rather stupid—gave her up and turned his fury on the whole Tarrant family, refusing to speak to anyone in it and passing the anger on to his son, who is now trying to pass it on to his. You must end it, Papa, for it’s all wrong.”
“You must have windmills in your head, girl. Where did you get such a nonsensical notion?”
“Deverill’s grandmother wrote a novel, sir,” she said, knowing there was nothing more to be gained by equivocating. “It was never published because it is very badly written, but if one accepts that the heroine of the tale represents Harriet Deverill, one sees just how she convinced Tom Deverill to believe Grandpapa would betray him unless he gave up any claim to Aunt Ophelia’s hand and left the way clear for Grandpapa to win her. Harriet made Tom believe his best friend was really his worst enemy.”
“What? Upon my word, girl, a novel? How can one fool woman have created the Deverill feud? That must be nonsense.”
“You told me yourself that Tom Deverill was thought to be a Jacobite. He risked losing Deverill Court if such an accusation was laid before the authorities, did he not?”
“Oh, that might be true enough,” St. Merryn admitted, “but as to any plot to throw Ophelia into your grandfather’s hands, that must be nonsense, for no such thing ever happened.”
“No, sir, but it might have if she had not been so set upon remaining unmarried. At all events, surely you see that we have got to end it now.”
“Upon my word, girl, why should we do any such thing?”
“Why, it was founded on a lie, sir. It cannot be allowed to continue. You simply must speak to Jervaulx.”
“Pooh, nonsense, it was none of our doing, even if this stuff you’re prattling has any truth in it. A Deverill began it, so only a Deverill can end it, but if you think you can get that stiff-necked Jervaulx to apologize for anything—particularly for something you’ve got out of some damned romantical book—you’re fair and far off, my girl. He won’t listen to you now any more than he did when you made a fool of yourself in his courtroom.”
“But if you went to him and explained, surely—”
“Upon my word, what will you say next? I shan’t go near the fellow. Didn’t I just tell you it is not my business to do any such thing? They began it; let them try to end it.”
“Then I shall talk to Deverill.”
“You will not. I’ve never heard of anything so improper! You are to marry Penthorpe, my girl, and you’ll be making no assignations with anyone else until you’re safely riveted. What you do after that is Penthorpe’s business, not mine.”
She did not give up easily, but he soon lost his temper, and when he ordered her out of the room, she went to seek solace of her great-aunt. Lady Ophelia heard her explanation of what had occurred more than sixty years before and agreed that Daintry had interpreted the novel in the most likely way possible.
“But who would have thought Harriet had such spite in her?” the old lady said. “Still I suppose the size of my fortune did lend credence to any tale she might have whispered to Tom.”
“Papa says he does not believe a word of it.”
“I shouldn’t be at all surprised if the money don’t add into that as well,” Lady Ophelia said with a glint of amusement in her eyes. “He won’t mind if it goes to Penthorpe, but his enmity has become so familiar to him, I doubt he’ll relinquish it easily.”
Daintry was still trying to sort this out in her mind when Lady Ophelia added bluntly, “What are you going to do about it?”
She sighed. “I do not have the least notion. Perhaps if settling the feud could make a difference to my future, I might decide more easily, but it will not affect me in the least. Papa insists I am to marry Penthorpe, and I did give him my word.”
“You do not want to remain single,” Lady Ophelia said gently. “That has long been perfectly obvious to me.”
“Has it, ma’am?” Ruefully, she added, “It has not been so obvious to me until recently. If I were more like you, perhaps the single state would do very well for me, but I have come to believe that I am singularly unsuited to it. I know you must think me a sad disappointment—”
“Merciful heavens, child, why should I think anything of the kind?” Lady Ophelia demanded indignantly.
“I should be failing your teaching quite miserably.”
“You would be doing nothing of the kind.”
“But you’ve always wanted me to be an independent woman!”
“I still want that,” Lady Ophelia said matter-of-factly, “but just what do you think the term means, my dear?”
“Why, one who lives on her own, of course, and who can look after herself and be quite contented doing so. What else could such a term possibly mean?”
“Do I live by myself?”
“No, but you could do so very well, ma’am. Of that I have not the least doubt.”
“Nor do I, but although I choose to live under your father’s roof, I am nonetheless independent.”
“But I do not want to continue living under Papa’s roof. I want an establishment of my own just as badly as Davina does. I want to be my own mistress, to make my own decisions, and to control my own life, but since practically none of those things is likely to occur unless I break my word to Papa and insist upon living alone or with a lady companion, I must accept what is available, which is marriage to Penthorpe. At least as his wife, I shall be mistress of my own establishment, and I do not think he will prove to be a difficult husband, do you?”
Lady Ophelia did not answer at once. Instead, she subjected Daintry to a long and searching look. Then she said, “Do you love Penthorpe, my dear?”
Daintry said quietly, “I have come to the conclusion that to care deeply for a man leads only to a constant pulling of caps, which is no good way to live and does not lead to independence of any sort whatsoever. Penthorpe is kind and he says he wishes to marry me. In good conscience, there is no more to be said, for I cannot cry off from this betrothal even if I wished to do so, which, I assure you, I do not.”
“An independent woman, my dear, is one who makes her choices freely and has the luxury to choose what will make her happy. That does not mean that she fails to heed the requirements or wishes of those who are dear to her, or that she ignores either her sense of honor or her deepest feelings. She takes all such matters under consideration. You expressed the thought earlier that I might be disappointed in you. I tell you now to your head that the only way you can disappoint me is by settling for second best when true happiness lies right within your grasp.”
Daintry swallowed hard. “I-I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t you? Then perhaps you had better consider the matter a bit more carefully. I must go and change my gown. Lionel Werring is going to dine with us this evening, and he has invited me to drive into Bodmin with him and back beforehand so that I can select a book from the subscription library there.”
Feeling a sudden, strong need to get away from the house, Daintry sent an order to the stable to have Cloud saddled, went to her bedchamber to change to her habit, and was halfway down the stairs when she thought of Charley. Realizing the little girl would think herself ill-used if she were to discover her aunt had gone out without her, Daintry went back upstairs.
When she entered the schoolroom, Miss Parish looked up from the atlas she was perusing and said cheerfully, “Good afternoon, Lady Daintry. Here is your aunt come to visit you, Charlotte.”
Charley got up at once from the bench by
the schoolroom table where she was working, and Daintry said, “I wanted a gallop, so I came to see if you would like to ride with me.”
“Oh, yes!”
Miss Parish coughed behind her hand and said apologetically, “I’m afraid not today, my lady. She has got a little behind in her work, you see, and must make up the lessons she missed.”
Grimacing, Charley plopped back down on the bench by the long table, saying crossly, “Papa came up here this morning! Can you credit it, Aunt Daintry? It must be the first time he has ever set foot in the schoolroom, and it had to be today. He is no longer here, of course, for he and Mama have gone to Plymouth to look for their house for the summer, but before he left, he came to see me, and why? Just to blight my life, that’s why.”
Daintry chuckled. “You have no one to blame but yourself, darling, but if I remember correctly, you have complained any number of times that he pays no heed to you. I should think you would be grateful for his attention.”
“Not this kind of attention,” Charley said. “I’d have liked it much better if he had taken me to Plymouth to help look for a house, but of course, there was no reason for him to think of any such thing, and when I told him I wanted to go, he just said such matters were no business of mine. So here I sit.”
“Well, if you get caught up today, we can ride tomorrow,” Daintry promised. She left at once, just as glad to have the time to herself, and was soon lost in her own thoughts.
When she returned, refreshed by the exercise but without having come to any acceptable decisions, she found Charley at the stable feeding carrots to Victor and talking with the stableboys. Learning that it was nearly dinnertime and remembering that Sir Lionel Werring was to dine with them, Daintry did not wait for her but hurried inside to change her dress for dinner. She had no more opportunity to be alone with her thoughts until she lay in bed that night, but though she had meant to sort things out then, she was much too tired to do so, and soon fell fast asleep.
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