by Mira Stables
“A mill!” proclaimed the shorter of the pair in gleeful surprise. “Well, I was always one for a good mill, and this pair look pretty well matched. What d’you say, Jos? Now that we’ve found his Lordship, our business with him may very well keep for a little while.”
But his companion was made of sterner stuff.
“Your business may keep, Charley. Mine won’t. I’ve been waiting to execute this ’ere warrant the best part o’ three week, and no mill is going to stop me now. ’Oo’s to say ’e wouldn’t make an opportunity to slip out o’ the room while we was all taken up wiv the fight? A fine dance he could lead us, for I doubt ’e’s got the ’eels of both of us if it came to a chase. No. I’m for doing my dooty without delay,” and he laid a magisterial, if slightly grimy, hand on his Lordship’s arm, and cleared his throat portentously.
It was at this point that Dermot intervened. Unused as he was to dealings with writs and debt collectors, it had taken him a moment or two to appreciate the full possibilities of the situation. It was disappointing to be obliged to forego his personal vengeance, but it certainly looked as though he could safely leave Lord Sandiford’s immediate future in the capable hands of Jos and Charlie. He could scarcely be expected to feel any sympathy for the wretched debtor, trapped in the toils of his own reckless folly; but one faint hint of fellow feeling remained. Despite his still simmering wrath at the treatment meted out to Katherine, he could spare Lord Sandiford the humiliation of having his rival see him haled off to prison.
He said politely, “Under the circumstances, milord, I suggest that we settle our differences at some future date. I will leave you to the entertainment of your new visitors, and will bid you au revoir.”
Chapter Fourteen
Mr. Winfield wasted no time in returning to the Priory and going to call on Katherine’s Papa. His dealings with Lord Sandiford had prevented him from dwelling at length on the possible course of an interview devoted to so important and delicate a business. On this homeward journey he did give a good deal of thought to his approach to Mr. Martenhays, but never got beyond the opening periods of his speech because so much depended on his listener’s reaction. When he considered how he should go on if Mr. Martenhays rejected his appeal out of hand, he found himself wholly at a standstill. Katherine was of age, it was true, but Dermot, appreciating the deep affection between father and daughter, doubted if he could woo the girl in despite of her father’s objections. She was a gentle creature. To be torn between father and lover would hurt her sorely. He could only hope that his recent services would incline Mr. Martenhays favourably towards him, and that a willingness to be patient—which went sadly against the grain—might eventually persuade that genial but irascible gentleman to consent to his suit.
It was heartening, then, to be given a welcome that vied with that accorded to the Prodigal Son. Mr. Martenhays did not exactly send his servants scurrying to provide every possible comfort for his unexpected guest, but there could be no mistaking his satisfaction in seeing him. He voiced it himself.
“Never so pleased to see any one in my life. Have you been down to your mill yet? They had the wheel running yesterday for the first time. Good progress they’ve made, despite your desertion. But it’s a proper man, they say, whose fellows stick to the task he’s set them without him breathing down their necks all the time. Still, you must be longing to see for yourself. Did you come down post? Then it’ll do you good to stretch your legs and catch a breath of fresh air. Shall we go?”
So great was his enthusiasm that they were half way to the new mill before he remembered to ask after Katherine. He partly excused himself by explaining that he had received a letter from her only that morning, but Dermot did not feel that the moment was appropriate for an intimate approach.
Striding along beside his friend, he managed to break into the flow of enthusiasm for long enough to suggest that after visiting the mill Mr. Martenhays should come on to the Priory and take pot-luck with him; when he would undertake to bring him up to date with his daughter’s progress, and such other items of Town news as might prove of interest. Mr. Martenhays agreeing that they would both be ready for a bite by the time that they had dealt faithfully with the mill, and that certainly the Priory was more conveniently placed for their refreshment, the matter was amicably settled, and they were able to devote the whole of their attention—or, in Dermot’s case, a part of it—to such vital matters as the height of the dam, the fall of water going over the wheel, and the amount of machinery that it might be expected to drive.
So absorbed was Mr. Martenhays in these calculations that it seemed as though Dermot would never find an opportunity to turn the conversation into the channel that he desired. Even the excellent meal, supplied by a rather flurried Hilda, taken by surprise by her master’s unexpected return, and now faced with an extra guest, did not stop the enthusiast. Between mouthfuls he discoursed cheerfully on the great mills of the North; not to be compared with this small enterprise, of course, and vastly profitable to their owners.
“At a vast cost in human misery,” returned Dermot soberly. “Which is partly what I had in mind when I planned this one. I daresay it will not be very profitable, though I trust it will not run actually at a loss; but it will create much needed employment here, in the countryside, instead of herding the people into those grimy towns where the sun never seems to shine. I went to school in the North and I have seen something of them. Indeed it was the memory of the many small mills on the banks of some of the Lancashire rivers that gave me the idea for this one—though they, of course, are mostly cotton spinning mills.”
Mr. Martenhays chewed thoughtfully, considering this confession with suitable gravity. There was a faint air of diffidence about him as he replied, “No reason why you should not show a respectable profit, but you need a business head to run the thing. Wouldn’t mind having a touch at it myself, and you could trust me not to grind the faces of the poor. Put in a bit of capital, too. Tell you what, my dear fellow, if you were to think of taking in a partner, I hope you’ll give me the first refusal.”
This presented Dermot with the opportunity that he had been seeking ever since his arrival. “You are very good, sir,” he said warmly. “To be associated with you could bring nothing but pleasure and satisfaction. Perhaps we can consider the matter at our leisure. At the moment I have a much more vital business to put before you. Perhaps I am in the wrong that I plan to broach it under my roof, rather than under yours, but I can only plead that my impatience will brook no more delay.”
Mr. Martenhays pricked up his ears hopefully. This was more like it—could surely only mean one thing.
“You have my full attention,” he assured.
This was as well, for the story was long and involved. It began with the dismissal of the tinkers, when Dermot had first recognised in Katherine the girl of the Priory tapestry. It even admitted to some small annoyance with her conduct at that stage in the affair, and then went on to speak simply of his growing affection for her, as their acquaintance developed, and came thus to the nub of the matter with his decision that he could not speak of marriage to an heiress.
Mr. Martenhays uttered a disapproving grunt at this point, but Dermot then went on to explain the reasons that had taken him to London, which produced a more benevolent air in his listener, who felt that he could claim at least part of the credit for that very reasonable move.
Here the story suddenly faltered. Dermot had meant to tell of the course of events in Town, leading up to and including Katherine’s abduction, feeling that this might well influence John Martenhays in his favour; but suddenly it struck him as a mean trick to play on an honest friendly fellow. He would win his bride by fair means. If Martenhays refused his consent, he would tell him straight out that Katherine was of age and that he planned to approach her directly. After all, if she loved him as he loved her, neither money nor filial devotion should be allowed to separate them.
He said abruptly, “Events in London tended to j
ustify my action, but that is a long story and may well keep until we have settled a much more important matter. In Town, sir, I came to know your daughter even more intimately than had been possible here. We were forever meeting at parties of different kinds. I grew to love her so much that my scruples about the inequality of our fortunes seemed less vital. At any cost I want her for my wife, and I humbly beg your permission to pay my addresses to her.”
Mr. Martenhays did not keep him in suspense. “For my part,” he said promptly, “I know no man I’d rather give her to. Though for a sensible fellow you talk a deal of rubbish. So—your fortune does not match mine. And neither does your age. By the time you are sixty turned, who’s to say that you won’t be a regular Midas or Croesus, or whoever the fellow was, that was so well inlaid? You’re willing to work and to deny yourself luxuries in order to cherish your estates. That’s the style for my taste. I once told you that I couldn’t abide Sandiford because he was an expensive idler, and that such a one would never do for my prudent Katherine. It wasn’t just because his pockets were to let. That wouldn’t have mattered if he’d tried to bring himself about. But so far as I could see, all he thought of was dipping his fingers into my coffers; which is as near stealing as makes no odds, even if you do dignify it by talking of marriage settlements. You, on the other hand, appear to be well able to support a wife in modest comfort, which is all that she has the right to ask. Some day in the future—the distant future, I trust—Katherine will inherit the bulk of my fortune. But to permit that distant prospect to hold you back from making the girl an offer, is the kind of high-minded folly that I have no patience with. I respect you the more for putting it aside.”
Dermot heaved a sigh of relief. It was vastly comforting to have his motives so well understood. He pushed the decanter towards his guest. “Your glass is empty, sir. Let us drink to the hope of a closer alliance between us.”
“As to that, I always said we should be in partnership,” retorted Mr. Martenhays, re-charging his glass. “Both in farming matters, and now in this mill business of yours. And, as I say, there’s no man to whom I’d rather entrust my daughter. But the final word doesn’t rest with us. Katherine is a good, biddable daughter, but in such an important matter I wouldn’t try to persuade her against her will. If she likes you well enough, then you may take her with my blessing. But it will be for her to decide.”
As though there was any doubt about it, Mr. Martenhays thought amusedly, and the pair of them smelling of April and May for weeks before Katherine’s sudden flight to Town. Some lovers’ tiff, that, he supposed, now happily composed.
He sipped his wine. “But you were to tell me of your dealings with Lord Sandiford,” he remembered. “I take it that he resented your interference.”
“He did not show it,” acknowledged Dermot. “On the surface we were amazingly cordial. Though neither of us missed an opportunity to taking the wind out of the other’s eye.”
Mr. Martenhays grinned. The notion of his daughter holding herself delicately aloof while the two contending warriors sparred for her favour could not but please him.
This mood of jovial complacency was shattered by Dermot’s account of the abduction of his daughter, and the plot to force her into marriage with Lord Sandiford. His brow grew thunderous, and, once he had accepted the shocking truth, his questions came abrupt and trenchant. An abstemious man, he refilled his glass again and yet again, as he listened, and was deeply concerned to learn how the rescue had been effected so smoothly, and the danger of a resounding scandal averted. When the tale was done he relapsed into a brooding silence that lasted several minutes. Dermot, respecting his mood, awaited the verdict quietly.
It came with characteristic honesty. “I have not guarded the girl as I should. Selfish to leave her so much to Julia, kind and careful as she is. Sandiford and others of his kidney might reasonably conclude that I was not over-concerned with my girl’s happiness. I should have opened up the house in Arlington Street as soon as she made her come-out. Julia could easily have been persuaded to live with us until such time as Katherine chose to marry; and my fatherly care for my child would have been apparent to all. I did not give enough weight to such considerations, being too taken up with my agricultural toys, and am sadly at fault.”
“Katherine does not think so, sir,” assured Dermot comfortingly. “She said you might scold her for being too naive and trusting, and for being taken in by a knave, but she told me herself that if I had not come to her rescue she could have relied absolutely upon your support. ‘I would never have yielded,’ she said. ‘I would never have consented to marriage with him. And my father would have been the first to support me in that decision.’ She knew that she could perfectly rely upon you, sir, so there is no reason to blame yourself.”
“That’s my Katherine,” acknowledged Mr. Martenhays quietly. “A generous creature. But her generosity does not absolve me from blame—nor make me backward in acknowledging my debt to you.”
Words failed him. He thrust out a hand and clasped Dermot’s in a painful grip. “I will not try to say it, lad, but if ever I can serve you in any way, you have only to ask. As for a marriage between you and Katherine, it is, as I said, for her to decide. But I shall be the first to rejoice in such a union, if it can be agreed. And now may we stop harrowing up our emotions and revert to practical matters? It is in my mind to go with you when you go up to Town. Or rather not with you, where I suspect that I should be deucedly in the way, but at the same time. I shall go to Arlington Street, and if you and Katherine settle affairs comfortably between you, you will know where to find me. And I shall be in a position to arrange matters smoothly for an early wedding. If that is your desire,” he finished, with a teasing twinkle.
Chapter Fifteen
The last of the Season’s big ‘squeezes’ thought Katherine, studying her reflection in the mirror, as her maid set the diamond circlet on her carefully dressed hair. Her mood was one of resignation rather than of festive eagerness. Of course she must go to the party, converse, laugh, perhaps even flirt a little. The social whirl could not be expected to come to a halt because one insignificant girl was in low spirits.
She dismissed her maid, and yielded wholly to her dismal reflections. In three days’ time she would be going home again. And what had her flight from home achieved? Only confirmation of the knowledge that she was hopelessly in love with Dermot Winfield. And he? Once or twice she had ventured to hope that he showed a certain partiality for her society. Probably that was just because he felt at ease with her, and reckoned her father as his very good friend. Their talk was not entirely limited to topics acceptable to the ton. They could speak of the Priory and of Hays Park; even of the new mill that Dermot was having built. Probably Mr. Winfield found such talk a refreshing change from the artificialities of social chatter. She had almost convinced herself that it was no more than that, especially since they had shared that midnight adventure. She had indulged the hope that it would serve to draw them closer together, but instead, she had scarcely set eyes on him since he had brought her back to Lady Julia. Certainly she had never thanked him properly for the tremendous service that he had rendered her. But how could she have done so in the middle of a formal party? The only time that she had been able to exchange a few words with him had been at the Selby’s ridotto. And now he was gone out of Town.
She and Lady Julia had received an unusually large number of morning callers that day, all eager to canvas every aspect of the shocking news of Lord Sandiford’s apprehension for debt. There had been avid curiosity, and a certain degree of malice, in some of the remarks that were addressed to Katherine. She had striven to preserve a mildly interested and sympathetic front, saying that the event was not wholly unexpected, and trusting that his lordship would find some means of compounding with his creditors that would permit of his early release. To speak truth, she actually did feel a little sorry for him. Whatever he had purposed against her, he had been completely out-manoeuvred, and she still
found it difficult to believe that Julian, her laughing, light-hearted cavalier, would ever really have meant to hurt her. And at least he had been loyal in one respect. No mention of her discreditable adventure had got about. By now, it would have been easy enough to read the signs if that had happened. But no. Her social life ran as smoothly as ever, if only one could be rid of these sensation hunters who were all so eager to probe her reaction to poor Sandiford’s troubles.
It was one of them, a Mrs. Swann—whose daughter, alas, no swan, but very much an ugly duckling, consistently outshone by Katherine—who let fall the news that Mr. Winfield had gone out of Town.
“Excused himself from the Garnett’s rout last night on the plea of urgent business at home. I’m sure I’m not surprised. The only wonder is that he has lingered so long. The first time in all the years I’ve known him.”
Katherine might have taken some comfort from this, but Mrs. Swann was not done with her. “You will scarcely know how to fill your programme tonight, Miss Martenhays, with both your regular beaux missing. Though I daresay it will be easier for a young lady of your standing”—her expression breathed the word ‘expectations’—“than it would be for such as my poor Amabel who is so painfully shy.”
Since that was not Katherine’s opinion of Miss Swann, whom she thought pushing and at times insolent, she was able to restrain her sympathies. She returned a pleasantly non-committal answer, and was thankful when the last caller departed, acknowledging, however, that there had been a good deal of truth in Mrs. Swann’s taunt about wondering how to fill the gaps in her programme. It was with no particular expectation of enjoyment that she presently drew her cloak about her shoulders, ready to join Aunt Julia in the hall.
Sometimes, when that eventful night was done, she wondered superstitiously if her choice of dress and jewellery had done anything to influence its course. Surely not? It had been simple common sense to try to raise her spirits by wearing a new dress. Only it had been a dress of blue silk that made her eyes look blue, and reminded her insistently of the sapphire pendant. She hesitated only briefly. Why not? It might well be her last opportunity of wearing the charming jewel. This was the last big party of the Season, and she did not think that she would return to Town next year. Nor would she venture to wear it at home where Mr. Winfield might see it. Tonight he would not be there. The pendant matched her dress so beautifully, adorned the plain neck-line, and went well with the circlet of diamonds in her hair. It was the work of a moment to clasp it round her throat, pull up her cloak to hide it from Aunt Julia’s enquiring interest, and scurry down to the hall, suddenly armoured with some sort of secret courage, almost as though the pendant was a talisman that would help her to endure an evening of considerable social discomfort.