by Joan Smith
They exchanged remarks on the beauty of the day, and after a mile, Wickham asked if she had yet determined the length of her stay.
With her mind half on nature, Cecilia said heedlessly, “There is no saying how long it will take—that is,” she added, flustered, “I am not sure how long, as yet.”
“On what does it depend, if it is not presumptuous of me to inquire?”
“Different things,” she said vaguely. “I am visiting about here and there till the Season opens.”
“But the Season opens next week.”
“I shall not go at once if I am enjoying myself here,” she said, and chatted on to distract him. “I have just come from a delightful visit with relatives in Kent. Their daughter married only last month. Before that I was with a school friend up north. She, too, married before I left.”
“Marriage appears to follow hard on your heels. I wonder it has not caught up such a lovely lady before now.”
A smile curved her lips, to hear the old familiar refrain. “One never knows. Marriages, they say, come in threes.” Kate, Alice, and Martha, they would all have a husband soon. Lord Wickham wondered about that smile. It was not the smile of gratification at his implied compliment. What was the mystery about her visit? “How long it will take...” That sounded as if there was one particular reason she was here. “I don’t count myself quite an old cat yet, you know,” she added.
“A mere kitten,” he assured her. “One never implies a single lady is anything but a girl, whatever her age, unless she chooses to put on her caps and set up as an acknowledged quiz. I have a chit of an aunt in her forties who never misses a ball and still wears pink ribbons in her hair.”
“Compared to your aunt, I am a mere infant. I wonder you mention her at all in connection with my case,” she teased.
“Age cannot be a subject for avoidance with one so young,” he assured her, but he noticed she was tender on the subject all the same. How old was she? Not a deb, certainly. “You cannot be more than twenty,” he said leadingly.
“Oh until she is married, a young lady never goes past twenty,” Cecilia replied lightly. “But if I were married, I would be two and twenty. Shocking, is it not?”
“Shocking,” he agreed. “And you still ride and dance. I expect you have a Bath chair on order, awaiting your next birthday.”
“It is not nice to tease an ape leader, sir.” Cecilia smiled and rode on. “Oh, what is that beautiful place there on the left?” she asked later.
Below them in an emerald green valley nestled a gray stone building—old, low, rambling. Vines climbed up the left facade, encroaching on the leaded windows that sparkled in the sunlight. To the left, a porte cochere arched in a graceful curve, terminating in columns. On the right, set back some distance from the main building, the relics of a ruined chapel stood erect, with blue sky visible through the unglazed lancet windows. A flock of pigeons, disturbed by some domestic emergency, suddenly fluttered in a silver rustle from the roofline, swooping and soaring about in the air at random before returning to their perch.
“How lovely!” she sighed. “That is what is so particularly enjoyable about riding in an unknown district. One occasionally comes across these marvelous views. What is the place called?”
“St. Martin’s Abbey,” he said simply, but with a trace of pride in his voice. “My place.”
“I thought it was five miles away! We have not come more than three.”
“It is five miles by the main road. We’ve taken a short cut. We can leave the road here and ride through the meadow. There’s a fence ahead. Lady can take it—can you?”
With her eyes and mind full of the sight before her, Cecilia found no slight in the question, though she counted herself an excellent horsewoman. “Lead on,” she said, and cantered along beside him.
“The Abbey is very old,” he said. “Four hundred years old. Outside of necessary repairs and some small additions, it is not much changed from the original. Some walls had to be knocked down inside to enlarge the rooms in one wing. The monks’ rooms were hardly more than closets, just space for a pallet and a prie-dieu, but that was done long before my time. From here it looks as it must have looked long ago.” He reined in and they stopped to admire it.
“It is so beautiful, I wonder you could bear to stay away so long,” she said softly.
“I couldn’t. Not any longer, I mean. It is why I returned.”
This, and your wife’s death, Cecilia thought to herself. But aloud she inquired about the extent of his lands, and he pointed into the distance, describing his acreage. She thought they might ride closer to the Abbey, but Wickham rode west, warning her of the fence to be taken. “Perhaps you would like to come with your cousin one day and look over the place,” he suggested, when she was again by his side.
“I would love it of all things!” It seemed all Lord Wickham’s unsociable habits were being overturned. Her triumphant smile was for this, but as he watched her, he felt a qualm of misgiving and hoped she didn’t misread politeness into something else.
“Over there are some of my tenant farms,” he continued, indicating a row of thatched cottages. For a man who spent his days in pleasure and his nights in dissipation, Wickham managed to keep his estate well tended. Of course a good bailiff could do that.
They rested awhile, enjoying the view. While they were still there, a farmer came pelting up behind them. With a bob of his head he said, “G’day, sir. Mum.”
“Blackie,” Wickham said with a smile, and talked with him a moment. Their easy conversation told Cecilia that Wickham was no stranger to his tenants. She let her mare wander a few paces away to champ the grass and could not hear their actual words, but the tone was friendly.
Soon Wickham joined her. “Blackie has discovered a barrow in the west pasture. Very fortunate! If it had been in ploughed ground, it would have been destroyed. Would you care to see it?”
His air of eagerness suggested that he wanted to go there at once himself, and she agreed. “These old barrows are some sort of burial ground from ancient days, I have heard,” she said as they advanced. “Are they Roman?”
“No, they are much earlier. Neolithic, in fact. From what Blackie has described, it is a small grave, so we cannot expect a great haul. Perhaps a few flint arrowheads, a beaker if we’re lucky. But there is always the possibility of a real find.”
The barrow proved not very interesting. It looked like no more than a gentle swelling of the ground, about eight feet long and four wide, but after Wickham had examined it for a moment, he seemed satisfied. Blackie soon joined them, mounted on a donkey and carrying ropes, stakes, and shovels. “Will I start digging her up?” he asked hopefully.
Wickham gave him a jeering look. “On the Sabbath? It must wait till tomorrow, but you’ve earned your monkey today.” He passed a gold coin to his tenant. That seemed to be the man’s real interest, and he set about roping off the barrow for the morrow’s dig. Cecilia felt it would have been done at once if she were not there.
They turned around and began to reverse their ride at a leisurely pace. “Have you found many old graves?” she asked.
“Three, thus far. Nothing very exciting, but every one adds something to our knowledge of the past. I became a little interested in archaeology—I am no expert—during my travels. Being in Italy aroused my interest as to Roman ways, and the Roman occupation of Britain, then of course I wondered what had preceded the Romans. After my return, I began to study all this more systematically. In Italy, and Greece, too, it is not uncommon for farmers to unearth real treasures while tilling the land. Unless the pieces are fully intact, they might be cast aside as rubbish, or if they’re domestic vessels, they might be used in the kitchen.”
“I’m surprised they would still be usable.”
“They’re made of clay. It doesn’t deteriorate quickly. I had the most amazing experience in Italy. I stopped at a farm house for a drink near Perugia, and wine was poured from an Estruscan vase—a beautiful thing. T
he man told me he had dug it up in his olive orchard. I began scouting around after that and came across some few items of interest there and elsewhere. Later, near Athens some local workmen were disassembling a derelict temple and hauling away the pieces to reuse elsewhere. I managed to claim some statuary, not in the best repair, but I gathered up what bits and pieces I could find and have some hope of restoring them. My ignorance and eagerness tell me they are the work of Praxiteles, but no doubt Lord Elgin will disillusion me when he comes to view them.”
These would be the ‘stark naked’ statues Mrs. Meacham had complained of. Cecilia was beginning to see that Wickham had been misjudged by his neighbors. He was more a scholar than a lover of statues of naked ladies. Neither did she believe his time was completely given over to amusement and dissipation. As she had no notion of revealing her former opinion of him, she said, “Let Elgin get a glimpse of them and you have lost them forever. He’ll add them to his collection.”
“To be fair, he gave the Elgin marbles to the British Museum.”
“Beware of Elgin bearing gifts. They cost the government thirty-five thousand pounds.”
“The rescue cost him more than that. He had the deuce of a time getting them home.”
“I have heard that story often enough, from his own lips,” she said.
“My pieces will no doubt end up in a museum as well, but I don’t see that it cannot be done here, in Sussex. At the moment, I’ve hired artisans to try to patch them together. They’re working in my barn, which don’t please my shepherds. I have one nearly perfect piece, which I shall keep to myself. It’s a faun, done life-size in marble. Perfect, but for the left rear foot, which is missing. I dug for days, but couldn’t find it. Pity.”
Wickham continued discussing his travels and his hobby in an intelligent manner, urged on by questions from Cecilia. She had not seen him so animated, so natural, and so likable before. She began to conjure again with the idea of having him replace Dallan, but felt it would require hard work on Martha’s part. She would have to study up on this archaeology business to excite his interest. At the very least, he must be coerced to lessen his attentions to Dallan and Wideman.
She said, “With all your archaeological activities, I am surprised you find time to be an habitué of Jack Duck’s Tavern, Wickham.” During the ride he had asked her to dispense with his title.
“One cannot mope about the estate forever. Jack Duck’s is a mere diversion.”
“You would have me believe no one ever invites you out?” she said archly.
“They were used to, when I first returned. Taking mutton with a bunch of married folk—dull stuff.”
“Surely there are some unmarried ladies in the vicinity.” She was struck with the idea that if he could not care for Martha, and really she was too provincial for him, she would find a wife more in his own style. She was soon imagining a note of wistfulness in his voice when he spoke of his married neighbors. Why should he not remarry? He was still young and not the loose fish sort of gentleman she had been told. He struck her as a serious person.
“I expect so,” he replied, but with no enthusiasm.
Having less wisdom than Mrs. Meacham, and more gall, she said, “You would find your neighbors less dull if you were married yourself, perhaps.” She peered from the side of her eyes to see his reaction to this.
His jaw firmed to concrete. He shouldn’t have shown her the Abbey. She had read too much into it. At two and twenty, she was looking for a husband, not a flirt. After a noticeable pause he said, “I have been married. Did I not tell you I was a widower?”
“Yes, but surely that does not preclude your marrying again?”
“I have no thought of marrying,” he said, in a cool voice.
“A man in your position ought to think about it, Wickham. You will want a son and heir.”
“I have an heir. My cousin will make a fine earl. The name and title will not vanish.”
She had spoken of marriage more than once, and now this powerful persuasion. Of course a man wanted a son and heir, which required a wife. Eventually he would marry someone like Miss Cummings, someone of his own class, with more town bronze than the local girls. She was a much more attractive lady than he had planned to take as wife, but there was no reason a bride of convenience need be an antidote after all. He even admitted that she provided the sort of companionship he had been missing since his return. In time, his feeling for her might have become serious, but to have her boldly put herself forward in this manner got his back up. No, he definitely did not want a managing woman on his hands. He made it perfectly clear that he had no interest in marrying her.
Cecilia accepted her initial rebuff with good will, but persisted. “If it is only the company of married people you spurn, perhaps you will accept an invitation to a rout party of single people at my cousin’s house next Saturday.”
“It is very kind of you to take pity on me, but it happens I have company coming to the Abbey next weekend,” he answered unhesitatingly and without apology.
This was an unpleasant jolt. Cecilia didn’t consider herself a proud woman, but to have her invitation rejected so positively, without even a pretense of regret, annoyed her. “I trust your company will not include Dallan and Wideman?” Lord, the party would disintegrate before it ever began.
“No, it is friends from London,” he said vaguely.
She relaxed to hear it. All was not lost then. Yet something was definitely lost. The gathering would hold nothing of special interest for herself. The happy mood had fled, as had Wickham’s gallantry. They rode directly back home, with no further compliments to Cecilia. When he left her at the door, he declined a glass of wine. He didn’t refer to the invitation for her to come to the abbey. Cecilia was in a fit of pique when she joined Mrs. Meacham. The others had not yet returned.
Mrs. Meacham told her the Gardeners had dropped in and asked a million questions about Lord Wickham. “It was better than a raree-show to watch them. Sally was in the boughs to see you ride off with him when she has been throwing her bonnet, as well as every parcel she carries, at him this past year. I invited them to our rout party.”
“Miss Gardener will be wasting her time. Wickham has declined,” Cecilia said.
“Declined? Oh dear, then our little party is all to pieces. He will haul the lads off to Jack Duck’s.”
“No, he has company coming from London—older company I imagine. The suitors should be safe. We must wring an acceptance out of them today.”
“We’ll make them stay to dinner. The green goose is roasting. Wideman loves a green goose.”
“Wideman is not the real problem, ma’am. It is Dallan.”
“I know it well, and he’d have preferred mutton, but we had that last Sunday and again on Wednesday.”
When the suitors returned close to dinnertime, famished from the fresh air and exercise, Dallan did not refuse the invitation to sit down to dinner. And when Cecilia casually mentioned that Wickham would be busy next Saturday evening, he did not refuse the invitation to the rout either. Definite acceptances were obtained from all three gentlemen. Andy Sproule and Kate stayed to dinner as well.
Dallan even condescended to a game of jackstraws with the others in the evening. He was in good humor, and told Martha before he left that he’d drop around sometime before she left for London if he had time. He might want her to pick up something for him. With this piece of impertinence she was well pleased.
Chapter Eight
Both Dallan and Wideman came to call the very next morning. The fact that Wickham was engaged in digging up his barrow was held to account for their alacrity. Soon a worse notion occurred to Cecilia. Wideman behaved decently. Though the younger, he was more sensible. It was Dallan whose behavior caused a spasm of alarm. Soon she understood it was herself who was the cause of this call. Intent on showing off in front of the dasher, Dallan was at his very worst. He sprawled in his chair, he assumed a bored expression, and worst of all, he fairly ignored Martha a
nd directed what few remarks he chose to make to Cecilia. His tone implied that they two cosmopolitans were as one in disparaging provincial life.
“So you are off to London, Miss Cummings. I envy you. You must be bored to flinders here.”
“Not at all. I find Laycombe very interesting.”
“Just so,” he said, with a jeering and conspiratorial smile that said, why else would you be leaving? “You plan to remain overnight?”
“Yes, too much of the day would be eaten up in travel if we did it in one day.”
He hooked his arms over the back of his chair and said, “My rig makes it in ninety minutes. Sixteen miles an hour. It’s a consolation to know decent entertainment is close at hand.”
Yet she knew perfectly well a trip to London was a great occasion for him. “I have often heard such a speed boasted of, but have never been in a rig that achieves it,” she replied coolly.
“My nags do it with no trouble. Wickham’s team beats even mine.”
Cecilia, uncomfortable with Martha’s accusing eyes on her, was lured into poor manners. “His team must be worth a fortune then, for I have not heard even the most lying braggart mention a speed above sixteen miles an hour.”
“Well, his can do it, for he beats me in a race, and mine do sixteen.”
“Indeed! Excuse me, Mr. Dallan—”
“Call me Henley.”
She avoided this pitfall by not calling him anything. “I must speak to my woman about the packing,” she said, and made an excuse to leave the room for a moment, so that Dallan would take the empty chair by Martha.
She returned five minutes later to find Martha, the gudgeon, had moved to sit by him. He paid her little heed, but fiddled with the ribbon of his quizzing glass, dropped it, looked at his fingernails, then finally honored Martha with a word. “You might pick me up a new snuffbox in London, Martha.”
Thrilled to be recognized at last, Martha immediately expressed her delight and asked what sort of a box he would like.