by Carola Dunn
“Oh, can’t they!” My lord Iverbrook lounged in a chair in the corner of the narrow chamber. The scene was providing quite as much amusement as he had foreseen. “Still, never mind, Dimbury. Lady Whitton will find a prescription to settle your stomach.”
The valet eloquently ignored him.
“Sir, if you saw his linen! Ready made, I am certain of it.”
“The exigencies of life in the Indies. It is your duty to remedy the defects in his wardrobe,” said his inexorable master.
“That will not be easy,” said the viscount. “Sir Aubrey, or ‘the Bart’ as the servants call him, is purse-pinched if not quite at point-non-plus. His intention is to marry Miss Whitton and allow her to feather his nest.”
“Tallyho, a villain, a money-grubbing villain! In that case, Dimbury, it is your plain duty to make the Bart look ridiculous.”
“Sir, there is nothing I can do which can possibly make him look more ridiculous than he makes himself.”
The quiet conviction of his tone silenced Mr. Hastings momentarily, but he made a quick recover.
“Then, Dimbury,” he sighed, "since you will not do this small thing for our kind hostess, we shall have to return to the inn.”
The valet blenched. His ears still rang with the boom of the landlord’s voice, not to mention his wife's.
“Sir!” he said reproachfully.
His master took this for capitulation.
“All you need do is keep his things clean and in order, and you have my permission to filch the worst of the waistcoats.”
Iverbrook laughed, and let the subject drop. “When are you getting up, Hasty?” he asked.
“My dear Hugh, it cannot be a moment past nine o’clock! This is unconscionably early, even for the country.”
“Gammon! I want to introduce you to my nephew this morning, and later I must ride out with Selena so that she can explain the lambs to me."
“Explain the lambs? Lambs, Hugh, are baby sheep,” Hasty said kindly. “You know, mutton? Wool? Baa, baa.”
“These lambs are going to market, whither I have offered to accompany them. Hence Miss Whitton is to tell me what prices she expects to get, as I have wagered that I can do better.”
“So Miss Whitton inflates her price and you lose. You have been rusticating too long, my lord. Your wits are wandering.”
“Selena is incapable of deceit. I’d as soon distrust you, Hasty.” Mr. Hastings raised his eyebrows and directed a speculative look at his friend. He swallowed the last of his chocolate, pulled off his nightcap, and announced, “I’ll come with you."
“Do! Perhaps Delia will join us. Her mother was saying at breakfast that she ought to go out today, having watched Peter most of yesterday.”
“You have breakfasted already? Heaven help me, I am fallen among heathen! Really, my dear chap, this is going too far. I suppose next you will invite the Bart to go along?”
“Certainly not. Like yourself, the Bart does not appear before noon. Besides, the man is such a flat he can neither ride nor drive.”
This news so startled Mr. Hastings that he was deprived of speech, and in that condition Iverbrook left him, with a parting admonition to Dimbury to bustle about.
He went up to the nursery, where he found Selena reading to Peter from a book of fables.
“Why because did the fox want the grapes?” Peter asked disapprovingly. “Foxes eat chickens and rabbits, not grapes. Hello, Uncle Hugh. Do you know any foxes which likes grapes?”
“I don’t believe so, but next time I meet one I’ll ask him.”
“That’s a silly story, Aunt Sena. I want to get up."
“You know Grandmama said not today, darling.”
“But I’m right as a trivet. And I won’t go out alone and I won’t eat berries and climb trees and go near the river. So why because can’t I?”
“Grandmama will come and sit with you in a little while and you can ask her.”
“Coward!” said Hugh with a grin.
“You see if you can find a story this wretched child will not argue with!”
“I’m not a wretched child.”
“Peter, if you will hush a minute, I shall tell you about Robin Hood. Selena, I invited Hasty to ride with us. I hope you do not object?”
“Of course not. Mr. Hastings seems to be a most gentlemanly person, and his manners are such as must please the most exacting critic.”
“Lady Anne Russell, for example. Do you think Delia will like to go too?”
“I’ll ask her. Now do tell Peter your tale before he bursts with curiosity. Be good, Peterkin.”
* * * *
A gusty wind was blowing when the four riders set out. Cool but refreshing, it tore a few yellowed leaves off the still green trees and tossed them at the horses’ hooves. Clouds of swallows swooped and darted over the river, collecting the last of the summer’s gnats before departing to winter in warmer climes. A solitary grey heron rose among them on stately wings and flew upstream, mournful in its aloneness.
Mr. Hastings soon learned more about lambs than he had any desire to know. Delia found the subject equally tedious. She suggested that they should ride into Abingdon to see if the Circulating Library had any new novels, and the gentleman accepted with alacrity.
Delia had quickly decided that Mr. Hastings’s restrained elegance made her Cousin Aubrey look like a crow in peacock’s feathers. Perhaps that was somewhat less than accurate, since Aubrey was undeniably handsome while Hasty’s round, good-natured face bore no marks of distinction. Nor was there anything romantic in his style and bearing, but he looked every inch a gentleman of fashion, and behaved likewise, and she was proud to be seen with him.
As they rode over Abingdon Bridge, Mr. Hastings noticed ruins on the opposite bank. Nearest the bridge nothing was left of the buildings but scattered blocks of stone, surrounded by grass where a flock of coots grazed. Beyond, built right onto the water, the remains were in better repair.
“A castle?” he enquired.
“No, the abbey,” breathed Delia, eyes shining. “Is it not sinister? I have always wanted to explore but Selena is not interested in such things.”
“I shall arrange an expedition,” said Mr. Hastings promptly. “We will drive over, I shall treat you to luncheon at the Nag’s Head, and you shall explore all afternoon.”
“Not the Nag’s Head,” objected Delia, unexpectedly practical in the face of such a treat. “It is a common tavern, though its situation in the middle of the bridge is excessively romantic. The Crown and Thistle would be better.”
“The Crown and Thistle let it be. On the next fine day . . ."
“After the apple harvest. Selena says they must be picked next week.”
“The next fine day after the apple harvest,” agreed Mr. Hastings nobly, wondering how long that would be. He had come into the country on a whim, and had scarcely looked to stay more than a few days. “And now, show me your lending library and let us see whether the latest works of Mrs. Meekes and Kitty Cuthbertson are on the shelves.”
“Do you like Mrs. Cuthbertson’s novels? I had thought gentlemen read only Latin and Greek histories, and books about farming. Is not Santo Sebastiano the most delightful thing in the world?”
A twinkle in his eye, Mr. Hastings realised he had hit the mark.
“Certainly,” he assured her. “My sister and I read it together and I shall never forget Lord St. Orville swooning at Julia’s feet!”
“I have never swooned,” regretted Delia, “and I cannot imagine Clive swooning at my feet, or even Cousin Aubrey, let alone Gilbert or Hugh. Have you ever swooned, sir?”
“No, no, indeed I have not! That sort of thing is best left to romances!”
Delia had to agree that it would be most inconvenient if gentlemen were to make a habit of falling into faints.
* * * *
Selena and Lord Iverbrook finished discussing the marketing of lambs and went on across the fields. Some were being ploughed for winter wheat or root crop
s, in others crows, seagulls, and pheasants quarrelled over the last gleanings from the harvest. They rode for the most part in silence, enjoying each other’s company.
“We are not far from Bracketts,” said Selena eventually. “I ought to go in and report on Peter’s progress. Will you dare Lady Anne with me?”
“If you will protect me, though I think I have not yet had the misfortune of falling under her absolute censure."
“If you had, you would know it, though in general she is more tolerant of the failings of gentlemen than of mere females. She cannot approve of me, for it is excessively unladylike to be a farmer, yet as I am beyond redemption she no longer frowns on me. With poor Delia it is otherwise. Lady Anne has hopes of her becoming a demure, well-bred young lady like Jane, so every slightest backsliding from the highest standards of propriety calls forth reproof.”
“Your mother does not take snuff at such interference?”
“Can you imagine Mama taking offence, for I collect that is what you mean? I doubt she knows how. She and Lady Anne are not close, for their characters are so very different, but the Russells were a great comfort when Papa died, and Phoebe too, and Mama sees only her kindness.”
When they reached Bracketts, a lovely old Tudor mansion, they left their horses in the care of a groom in the stables, where they met Clive.
“Is Delia not with you?” he asked. “I hope she is well. Oh, I ought to have enquired after Peter. I beg your pardon.”
Selena rescued him from his confusion, informed him of Peter’s progress, and said that Delia had ridden into Abingdon with Lord Iverbrook’s friend.
“Indeed!” Clive frowned. “I was going that way myself, but I will take you into the house first, if you like, so that you need not go round to the front door.”
“No, hurry after them. I expect your mama will forgive us for entering by the back way, since we bring good news.”
“Good news?”
“Peter,” Selena reminded gently, and bit her lip to hide her smile. “Off you go."
“Mooncalf!” snorted his lordship as the youth dashed off.
They found the Russell ladies in an elegantly appointed salon. Crocodile legged occasional tables in the latest style displayed bibelots of delicate Limoges porcelain, and the lacquered bamboo furniture looked too fragile to support a full-grown man, let alone the stout and hearty master of the house.
Miss Jane Russell was engaged in embroidering a slipper, while her mother read to her from a volume of sermons.
Lady Anne regally pronounced her delight in Peter’s recovery, firmly dismissed the viscount (“Mr. Russell will be happy to see you in the gun room."), and sent Jane on an obviously fabricated errand to the nursery.
“And now, Miss Whitton, we may enjoy a comfortable cose,” she declared. “I do not like to see you ride alone with Lord Iverbrook, but I expect you will say that I am a trifle old-fashioned.”
Since Selena did not dare say anything of the sort, she continued after a pause.
“After all, he is practically a member of your family, poor Phoebe’s brother-in-law. And though it would not do for Delia, you are of an age where it may not be considered utterly compromising.”
Selena thought of Delia going to Abingdon with only Mr. Hastings for escort. How could she have let her go? At the time it had seemed unexceptionable.
“I have been hoping for several days to see your dear mama, but since she is undoubtedly occupied with her grandson, I venture to speak to you, Miss Whitton. I fear I was shocked, yes, I must say shocked, to meet with Amabel Parcott in your house!”
“But why, ma’am? You and Mama have been acquainted with the Gants since before Amabel and I were born, have you not?”
“I cannot possibly tell you why, my dear Miss Whitton. It is not the sort of thing one repeats to an unmarried girl. You may tell Lady Whitton that I shall not permit Jane to visit Milford Manor while this unfortunate intimacy persists, and I advise her to send Delia to Bracketts if the woman shows her face again. Knowing your mama, I place no reliance on her denying the creature entry."
“You must also know, ma'am, that Mama does not listen to gossip and scandalous rumours!” Selena rose to her feet.
“I washed my hands of you, Miss Whitton, several years past.” Lady Anne’s dispassionate voice changed not a whit. “Delia, however, is not beyond hope of making a respectable alliance. I beg you will ask Lady Whitton to heed my advice.”
“I shall report your concern, ma am. Pray excuse me now. We are expected at home.” She curtseyed unsteadily.
“Good-bye, Miss Whitton. I hope you will not come to regret your stubbornness.”
Selena fled. Outside the door she paused, leaning against the wall, unsure whether she was angrier with Lady Anne or with herself. Why had she defended Amabel Parcott, when what she really wanted to do was to scratch the cat’s eyes out?
She wished she had not brought Iverbrook with her. Whatever the relationship between him and ‘Bel,’ she could not tell him of Lady Anne’s vague accusations, and he would most certainly want to know why he had been blatantly excluded from their conversation!
He did. He was in a teasing, charming mood, and as they rode homeward he tried to trick Selena into revealing the secret. He made her laugh in spite of herself, though she managed not to give anything away. By the time they reached the Manor, she had resolved to tell her mother what Lady Anne had said and then to put it out of her mind. She had enough reasons to avoid Mrs. Parcott without giving credence to the latest on dit.
They entered the house by the side door.
“I must change,” said Selena. “I do not know what possessed me to present myself to Lady Anne in my riding dress. It is the sort of rag-manners she abhors and I should have remembered it.”
“I shall go straight up to Peter, since I think it unlikely that he will object to my attire.”
“Uncle Hugh can do no wrong. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”
Selena stepped into the entrance hall and came face to face with Lady Gant.
“My dear Miss Whitton, so pleased you have returned, we have but now arrived and your butler was saying that he will see if Lady Whitton is at home, we are come to ask after the poor little boy of course such a dreadful pity no permanent nervous damage I trust?”
Half listening, a polite smile frozen on her face, Selena watched out of the corner of her eye as Amabel sailed forward, ravishingly beautiful in buttercup yellow silk. She did not see the hunted look on Lord Iverbrook’s face, or his stiff bow, only the way the widow raised her glowing eyes to him, and her full, inviting lips.
“Dearest Hugh,” she crooned, “how delighted I am that your nephew is better. You must have been quite distraught with worry! I have been thinking of you constantly.”
Selena did not want to hear the viscount’s reply. “Won’t you come into the parlour, ma’am?” she invited. “I expect my mother will be down in a minute.”
“And where is dear Sir Aubrey such a charming gentleman and so good-looking what a delightful addition to the family, I knew his father but I never did find out perhaps you know?”
Selena barely heard the question, and certainly had no intention of unveiling her cousin’s gypsy mother. Lady Gant was not in the least discomposed by the lack of response but rattled on.
Why am I always wearing my oldest clothes when she arrives? wondered Selena.
Mrs. Parcott took the viscount’s hand and half led, half pulled him to the French doors, where she stood close beside him, pointing out something in the garden or on the river. Lady Whitton came in and freed Selena from the chatterer. Tentatively she moved towards the pair at the window, dreading to overhear, longing to interrupt. Sir Aubrey arrived and waylaid her with an endless description of something he had seen in the village, she could not tell what. Iverbrook laughed; he found Amabel amusing; he must be in love with her.
“No, Bel,” he was saying, but Selena could not hear him, “it’s no use playing off those tricks on me. I
shall not escort you to the assembly in Oxford. I have no intention of going at all. What an impudent minx you are! I beg you will cease to visit here while I am here.”
Selena watched her looking up at him saucily.
The fifteen minutes proper to a courtesy call stretched into half an hour. At last the visitors rose to take their leave.
“I shall come on Monday to enquire after your grandson, ma’am,” said Mrs. Parcott, glancing sideways at the viscount.
“What a pity that Lord Iverbrook will not be here,” put in Sir Aubrey. “He is to go to Abingdon market.”
The widow flashed him a look of gratitude.
“Or perhaps Tuesday, if that is more convenient,” she went on smoothly.
“On Tuesday we begin the apple harvest,” said Selena.
“I adore picking apples, I vow! ‘Tis the only country festival I can abide. I shall come and help you without fail. Good-bye, Selena, and thank you for the invitation!”
Defeated, Selena retired to her chamber to change.
Iverbrook went up to the nursery, annoyed with Selena, annoyed with Sir Aubrey, and above all annoyed with the Merry Widow.
Peter took one look at his face.
“Are you in a miff, Uncle Hugh?” he asked.
“Not with you, at any rate. How are you feeling?”
“I want to get up. Timmy Russell says only girls stay in bed when they’re ill.”
“What does Grandmama say?”
“Tomorrow. That’s the day after today. Tell me about Robin Hood? Please, Uncle Hugh?”
Uncle Hugh complied, dredging details from the depths of his memory and making up the bits he could not remember. After the new story, Peter wanted to hear again the one he had told before. Not unnaturally, it emerged somewhat differently this time. Peter did not hesitate to voice his disapproval.
“Stories is s’posed to stay the same,” he insisted. “You said Maid Marion has long black hair.”
“I made a mistake,” said his uncle firmly. “Her hair was most definitely short and fair and curly.”
“Like Aunt Sena’s?”