'Chicken broth, Miss, for dinner today, as I understand your lady mother prefers it to more hearty soups. But there will be others. I like to provide simple fare as well as elaborate dishes. Jenny here is coming along well with her pastry, and as we have so many good apples this season she will be making apple pie.'
'The plum pie and apple charlotte yesterday were excellent,' Elizabeth said. 'I had to sample both, they were so tempting.'
Cook smiled, but took this as her due.
'Come and inspect the still rooms, Miss.'
When Elizabeth escaped her head was reeling. She had never before seen so many preserves, neatly ranged on shelves and labelled and dated in Cook's neat handwriting.
*
She met Lord Clifford in the Great Hall, and he said he was on his way to the morning room for a nuncheon before he had to go and deal with some problem on one of the farms.
'I really don't think I could eat anything,' Elizabeth said. 'Cook has just been displaying her preserves, and I have lost my appetite. I no longer wonder why cooks can be so thin, working all day with food. One doesn't afterwards want to eat it.'
He laughed.
'But you must eat something. Just a thin slice of ham, and perhaps a peach?'
Henry, he said, had taken his curricle out. Lady Palgrave had escorted Lady Markby to visit a neighbour she had discovered she had met many years ago. Annamarie was still confined to her room.
'So we are deserted. How did you get on with Cook? Was her menu satisfactory?'
'She knows much more about it than I do! I can't think why you asked me to talk to her.'
'Someone is expected to, if only to approve her plans, and Cook would think it very odd if I did not ask one of the ladies. Do you not manage Markby Court for your mother?'
Elizabeth gave a wry smile.
'I am deputed to do what Mama does not care to do. And she does care for what is put on the table.'
'So how do you occupy yourself, when not attending to her wants, which I can see takes up considerable time.'
'I read, my lord, sometimes attempt to draw, though I am not accomplished at that, and I play the piano. Reading, though, has always been my greatest pleasure and solace.'
'What of these schools I have heard mentioned? Do you perhaps teach there occasionally?'
'I did, at first, but now I have some ladies, a pair of spinster sisters, who do this in Markby village, in their own home, and a widow who does the same at the other village nearby.'
'Not conventional teachers?'
'Mine are not conventional schools. We teach anyone who wishes to learn to read and write. They are not like Dame schools, and my pupils do not have to pay. I pay the teachers and provide all the necessary books and other materials. I have also established small libraries so that the pupils may continue reading when they are proficient.'
'So who are your pupils? Are they poor children?'
'Some, if they have the desire and the energy after working a long day in the fields. I don't take the very young, I wait until they can show some desire to learn. Poor children have to play their part in the family almost as soon as they can toddle, if only feeding the hens and collecting eggs. But you must know that. Mostly my pupils are farm labourers, sometimes farmers and their wives, or servants who never had the opportunity to learn when they were children. Older pupils cannot learn in regular schools.'
'Why? What made you do this? And of what benefit is it to provide books for these people?'
'I believe everyone who wishes should have the opportunity to read books. And once they can read, they need to maintain the skill.'
'What gave you the idea?'
'I began to think of the plan when I found my maid Meg crying one day, because she could not read the letter her brother had sent her. She had to ask me to read it to her. Her brother and Will, her sweetheart, had both joined the army. They were in the Peninsula, but neither of them could write and read. Her brother managed to send word occasionally when an officer could write in his name, but Will, she said, could not bear to send his love in words others would write and read.'
'Yes, I can understand that. I often wrote letters home for my men, and they were diffident about expressing their feelings. Are Will and Meg now married?'
'No, both boys, and they were only youngsters, died at Vittoria. Meg is still with me, and I doubt she will ever be wed. She clings to the memory of poor Will, refusing to even look at another man.'
'There are many women grieving after these wars, not only Englishwomen. All because of the insane ambition of one man to rule the entire continent. But these libraries, what sort of books do you provide, and do your pupils enjoy them?'
'I make certain there is a good selection. Novels, poetry, books of travel, books about the world. I have men reading Gibbon's Decline and Fall, and Adam Smith's Wealth of Nations.'
'How can farm labourers understand such?'
Elizabeth shook her head.
'Because they were born poor and disadvantaged does not make them unintelligent.'
'True. And how about the novels. The Minerva Press, I assume? Don't your maids become dissatisfied when they read such lurid stories? Want to have similar adventures?'
'I see you have sampled these novels yourself, my lord!'
He laughed.
'I admit it. Out of curiosity, and because I found Annamarie reading one. I wished to make certain they were suitable.'
'And did you forbid them?'
'No, but I am beginning to wish that perhaps I had. They may be the cause of her fantasies.'
'My pupils, I am sure, as I do myself, know it is fantasy, another world into which they can escape for a while. If that gives them pleasure, I am content. But I have novels by other, older writers too, Richardson, Defoe, Sterne, even Walpole, and some essays.'
'You are playing with fire. These people will not be content to remain in their present station of life. Do you wish to promote the sort of revolution we saw in France?'
'How can you think it would? The situation here is quite different! Our people are not peasants, serfs. If it encourages them to try and better their lot, once they have some learning, I wish them well!'
'Then we must disagree. But I must leave you, I have to visit the farm.'
*
Lord Clifford arrived back at the house to hear that the curate, Matthews, was waiting for him in the estate office.
'What does he want, Dawson? Is it something to do with the services tomorrow?'
'He didn't say, my lord, but he seemed discomposed, uncomfortable. Perhaps I should warn you, the dogs are in there too.'
Sighing, Lord Clifford decided not to change out of his riding clothes yet awhile. If this were a parish matter he might have to go out again.
In the estate office Mr Matthews was pacing up and down, watched cautiously by the dogs who had retreated for safety to the kneehole under the desk. He swung round with a start as the door opened and his lordship entered.
'My lord!'
Sensing safety, the dogs leaped up towards Lord Clifford with barks and yelps of welcome. He patted them, and ordered them to sit, which they did with panting tongues and adoring eyes. He turned to the curate.
'I am sorry to have kept you waiting. Pray be seated. Will you have a glass of claret, or Madeira?'
'Thank you, my lord, but no.'
He collapsed into a chair beside the big desk, and stared at his feet, breathing hard, while Lord Clifford poured himself some wine.
'Well, man, what brings you here? Is Dr Fleetwood unable to preach tomorrow?'
Matthews started, as though he had been a long way off, and began to twist his hands together. He glanced up at Lord Clifford, and immediately looked away, appearing to find something of great interest at the far side of the room.
'Oh, no, my lord. Nothing of that nature. Indeed not. I would not need to trouble you if it were, I think. In fact, I believe the good Doctor is preparing a sermon on the right education of young men.'
'Oh, he is, is he?'
And would, if he followed his normal practice, offend all the men who had been granted any form of education, whether at the university, with private tutors, or at village dame schools. Briefly he wondered what Elizabeth would make of such a sermon.
'Well, what is your business with me?'
The young man squirmed, twisting his hands together, and looked anywhere but at his lordship.
'I feel, that is, I believe, it is my duty, my duty as an honourable man,' he began, and stumbled to a halt.
'Well, Matthews, what is your duty? Surely it cannot be difficult to speak of it?'
The curate took a deep breath, and looked directly at his lordship for the first time.
'You found me in a compromising situation, alone with your ward, yesterday,' he said in a rush. 'I must, in the circumstances, as an honourable man, make amends. Mend her reputation, that is. Make her an offer, of marriage, my lord.'
Lord Clifford tried not to let his amusement show. The idea of Annamarie wed to a curate, expected to run affairs in the parish, was one to give him unholy joy.
'Do I understand you wish to marry my ward?'
'Good heavens, no! That is, my lord, I had never ventured to think such a thing. I did not contemplate marriage. And she is far above me. I am only too aware of that. But I feel I ought to give her the protection of my name. After being alone with her. I have but a tiny income as well as what I earn, but sufficient to afford to keep a wife.'
'And a dozen hopeful children?'
He blanched.
'My lord! I – I – well, I was thinking that we might postpone the actual wedding until Miss Kirkland is a little older, and then, of course, as a man of God, I would remain celibate.'
He could not help it. The very idea of a frustrated, married but celibate Annamarie made him laugh aloud.
'I do beg your pardon,' he said, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes. 'What the devil do you think my precious ward would say to such an arrangement?'
Matthews looked puzzled.
'She is a female,' he said.
'Have you ever – no, of course you have not. Foolish of me. Do you believe women prefer the state of celibacy?'
'I have not considered it, my lord,' he said, sounding offended, 'but I have been given to understand females, ladies, that is, do not enjoy – well – the er, intimate side of marriage.'
'Then you have been misinformed,' Lord Clifford said bluntly. 'If husbands are clumsy, impatient, careless of their wives' feelings, then the act is not enjoyable for these unfortunate ladies. Not all husbands are inconsiderate, though. I think my ward would expect to have a normal relationship with any husband.'
He stopped, trying not to laugh. What the devil had brought this on, that he was on the verge of instructing the pathetic Matthews on the art of seduction?
The curate was blushing, trying to loosen his cravat with trembling hands, and Lord Clifford decided to take pity on him.
'How many times has Annamarie sought you out, as I am convinced she did yesterday?'
'Oh, we have met a few times, when I have been walking in the woods. Such exercise encourages me to think, my lord. But these meetings have all been accidental, as I am sure was yesterday's. But people could misinterpret them. Miss Kirkland's reputation could be sullied if they became known. So I feel honour-bound to offer amends.'
'Then forget it, sir! My ward, I am sorry to say, is adept at contriving such meetings, however closely she is watched. You are by no means the first young man she has attempted to enslave, though I doubt she wishes to marry any of them. Go home, forget her, you have in no way even dented her reputation. Besides, I would not consider permitting her to marry you. Please don't be offended, that is no reflection on you, but she needs a strong, perhaps much older man to control her.'
Matthews frowned, and then breathed a sigh of relief.
'I – well, I wanted to do the honourable thing,' he admitted, 'but I had not been ready for marriage.'
Not ever, if he maintained his present intentions and revealed them to prospective brides, his lordship thought. He rose to his feet and held out his hand to the curate.
'I honour you for your good intentions, but now go away and forget it.'
*
Lord Clifford appeared to be in an excellent mood when they met in the white parlour before dinner. They were all present. Annamarie, looking uncharacteristically subdued, was dressed in a demure white muslin gown with the minimum of embroidery round the hem and kept close to Lady Palgrave. Henry, attempting to talk to her, received no more than brief smiles, and eventually he walked away in frustration, and began turning over the leaves of a book on one of the small tables. Elizabeth, who had left it there, wondered what he found of interest in an old book of recipes she had found in the library, and been reading in an attempt to increase her knowledge of the dishes Cook was preparing for the dinner party.
After dinner Annamarie, who had been monosyllabic during the meal, escaped when the ladies left the dining room. Henry, coming into the parlour later, looked round for her and then, seeing she was not present, excused himself to go and knock balls around in the billiard room.
Had they quarrelled? Elizabeth could only hope so, though if Henry remained in the sulks it would make life rather uncomfortable for the rest of them. They were only at Crossways on his behalf, even if Lady Markby did not realize it.
It was the same on the following morning, when the entire party drove in two carriages to the village church. Henry was told brusquely by his mother to go in the open carriage with Lord Clifford, while the four ladies used her travelling coach. His attempts to escort Annamarie into the church were frustrated by Lady Markby demanding his arm for Lady Palgrave, while his lordship supported her. Mr Matthews, standing beside Dr Fleetwood as he was greeting his flock at the entrance to the church, studiously avoided looking at Annamarie, and she kept her head covered and her face hidden by the hood of a cloak she had insisted on wearing, though the day was fine for late August.
Dr Fleetwood's sermon, on education and its inadequacies, particularly in imparting good religious principles to young men, was tedious and long-winded. Elizabeth tried to listen, and not permit her thoughts to stray, but when the good Doctor implied that education was wasted on females, who should always be guided by their menfolk, she found herself clenching her fists in anger. How could Lord Clifford endure the man? Presumably the living had been in the gift of his father, who must have appointed Dr Fleetwood, but surely he would wish to have someone more amenable, more in tune with modern thought, than this prosy old man.
She chided herself on being too harsh and disrespectful. Glancing across the pew to where his lordship sat, she saw he was sitting with his head back, eyes closed, and a smile on his lips. She had a strong suspicion he was partially asleep and almost giggled when she wondered whether he might snore.
At that precise moment he opened his eyes and looked straight across at her. She blushed furiously, he grinned, and she hoped he could not read her mind.
Back at Crossways Lady Markby declared herself too fatigued to remain downstairs, and retired to her room, attended by Lady Palgrave. There were advantages in being a despotic old lady who cared for nothing but her own comfort, her daughter considered, and braced herself for an uncomfortable afternoon.
'Do you wish to go to Evensong?' Lord Clifford asked when they were eating fresh rolls and cheese set out for them in the morning room. Annamarie mutely shook her head.
'I have the headache,' she whispered. 'May I retire, Crispin?'
'I wanted to tool you about the lanes in my curricle this afternoon,' Henry said, surprised. 'You said you wanted to go out with me, and so far there has been no opportunity.'
'Not today, please, Henry. I am feeling much too ill to be able to enjoy it.'
He frowned, but said no more, and after she had retired to her room he vanished too.
'Do you not feel obliged to attend Evensong?' Elizabet
h asked, rather surprised.
Whenever she had stayed at other houses the owners had always felt it essential to spend most of Sunday at church, and expected their guests to do the same. At home at Markby Court her mother was punctilious in sending Elizabeth to every service, though she was frequently too ill to attend all of them herself.
'One of Fleetwood's sermons every week is enough for me. And if, as he sometimes does, he hands the pulpit over to Matthews, it is even more excruciating. The man is timid, confused in his logic, and has a somewhat scanty knowledge of theology.'
'Did your father appoint both of them?' Elizabeth could not refrain from asking.
'Yes, but I am working on some of my friends in Parliament to find Dr Fleetwood preferment. He would adorn some cathedral with his pomposity, I can't help thinking. Then poor Matthews might be better able to do himself justice. I have to tell you,' he went on, grinning, 'the poor man came here yesterday, to say he had compromised Annamarie by being alone with her, and offered to marry her to save her reputation.'
Elizabeth gazed at him in astonishment.
'The poor man! He felt compelled, no doubt, after being found alone with her?'
He chuckled.
'Yes. He didn't at all wish it, and he proposed a long engagement and then a celibate marriage.'
Elizabeth choked on a piece of roll, and Lord Clifford patted her gently on the back.
'The man should have been a monk,' Lord Clifford said. 'Annamarie, it is already clear, is no aspiring nun. Well, everyone else has found occupation for the afternoon, so shall we take a brisk ride?'
*
For the next few days, until the dinner party, Annamarie was subdued, and barely spoke to Henry. She spent most of her time in her room, saying she did not feel well, needing to rest, and Henry, unable to talk with her except at mealtimes, went out on Lord Clifford's horses on lonely rides.
Lord Clifford's Dilemma Page 8