by May Burnett
“So can I,” she murmured, and proceeded to demonstrate exactly what she meant, to their mutual satisfaction.
Chapter 12
Idleness is an invitation to the devil, but sweet for all that.
Maxims for Young Gentlewomen, by A Lady, London 1823
Anthea had stolen away to the greenhouse with a book.
Lady Desborough did not allow her daughters to read in the daytime. There were too many other tasks that took precedence: practicing the piano, cutting and arranging flowers, entertaining guests, writing and answering letters and invitations, fittings, brewing home remedies, - the list was long. Even more than in her children she abhorred inactivity in servants, and would rather make up some unnecessary task to keep them busy, than see anyone in her employ idle.
“We must set a good example,” she had told Anthea more than once. “Indolence leads to all manner of ruin, not to mention obesity.”
“Surely there is little danger of that. Nobody in our family is fat,” Anthea had once dared to object.
“Because we are always out and about. And obesity is not the only danger. Think of your great-aunt Eugenia.”
That eccentric lady had refused visits, never budged from her house even in sunny weather, and professed to have insufficient energy to get up from her sofa when relatives forced their way inside on rare occasions. Despite this sedentary life she had lost rather than gained weight over her last years and died in her late fifties, a year before Anthea’s come-out.
“I have wondered if she let herself go like that because she had nothing to live for, as a widow without children.”
“Nonsense. Others in her position, including unmarried spinsters, carry on perfectly well and derive considerable enjoyment out of life, even in old age. Eugenia was just too indolent and weak to make an effort.”
Anthea had several nooks in the house where she could read undisturbed by her mother’s admonitions. The greenhouse was one of her favourite hiding places, though getting somewhat cool in this autumnal season. To compensate, she had slipped a warm old redingote over her walking dress.
She was nearing the end of her current book. The hero and heroine had overcome several unlikely adventures through even more improbable coincidences and were finally confessing their love to each other, plighting their troth with fervent vows and declarations. Sir Renaud, the hero, went down on his knees before the angelically fair Melissande, assuring her of his eternal devotion.
Anthea paused, allowing the book to sink onto her lap. Inevitably she compared the romantic scene in her novel with the occasion on which Silas had asked her to marry him. He had not gone down on his knees, of course – not even one knee – he would have scorned that as awkward and silly. Anthea rather agreed; she had no wish to bring any man to his knees. It was absurd anyway, given that the marriage vows exacted obedience from the wife but not the husband. A man kneeling to his lady was merely a remnant of the medieval practice of chivalry, which had worshipped women as an ideal, but had nothing at all to do with marriage and the relationship between husbands and wives.
“Will you marry me, Anthea?” Silas had casually asked as they walked, her gloved hand upon his sleeve, after a vigorous waltz that left Anthea slightly breathless. “I have already spoken to your father, he has no objections.” She had looked around the ballroom, noted the envious glances of several fellow debutantes. Her head had been addled from the dance and the two glasses of champagne she had consumed on an empty stomach. She should have put her decision off, kept him dangling at least overnight, so he would not take her for granted.
She might have, had he not been so very handsome and eligible. Yet, weren’t looks deceptive? If Silas dressed up in armour he would appear the very picture of a handsome medieval knight, but inside he would still be the same arrogant modern man. A little chivalry would undoubtedly improve him, but it was too late at his age to instil such ideas. His mother had ensured that he considered himself the sun around which all others revolved as distant satellites.
Anthea shivered. The greenhouse was really getting too cold for reading. In her own world she was the sun, and Silas the moon. He would try to impose his own cosmology onto hers, soon enough. It would not be easy to withstand him once she was removed from her own ground and surrounded by his acolytes, such as her future mother-in-law.
Twin suns circling each other – was such a thing possible? That would have been ideal. Unthinkable with Silas, however.
After her breathless “Yes,” Silas had immediately announced their betrothal to the family, and sent a notice to the Morning Post. Anthea had been swept away on a tide of visits, preparations, felicitations. There had been no time or occasion for second thoughts. At least her family had rejected Silas’ suggestion to celebrate the wedding in early summer, and fixed January as their wedding date. Her father did not want to rush the settlement negotiations, and her mother was strictly against early weddings. Supposedly they could give rise to unpleasant gossip, for reasons Lady Desborough refused to spell out.
The very next day after her acceptance Silas had brought her that huge emerald ring, from the Winstanton jewel collection. He must have removed it from the bank vault or asked his mother for it. Had Lady Winstanton chosen the ring? It was not a palatable thought, but now that Anthea knew Silas and his mother better, she would not have bet against it. He had not made any romantic declarations and promises on that occasion either, now she came to think of it. If Renaud went overboard with his adoration, was Silas too far on the opposite of the scale?
The ring had been a little tight when she put it on her finger. When she said as much to Silas, he had merely remarked, “You will get used to it.”
Sir Renaud would surely have offered to have it resized.
She forced her attention back to the book. My life would be worthless without your love, Melissande. I cannot conceive of my existence without your sweet countenance and lovely voice around me every day henceforth. You are my heart, my hope, my consolation.
Hmm. Did any man ever speak like that to his beloved? Would she want Silas to talk to her like that? If he did, he would no longer be Silas, but a completely different man in his body. She tried to picture her brother talking like that to a girl – just as ridiculous. Charles Denham, just possibly, though he might put the romantic sentiments less extravagantly. Jonathan and Cherry? Her imagination shied away from her sister and brother-in-law engaging in love talk. That was too private, and none of her business.
Once they were engaged, Silas had taken her around the park in his phaeton twice, and danced with her several times at the last balls of the season, before leaving town for his country estate. There had been some perfunctory talk of preparing it for her. She had received permission to answer any letters he might write to her in the interval before this visit to her home for the whole of October, but he had not written. Anthea was not surprised or particularly disappointed. What feelings he had for her would hardly be expressed in writing. Only, did he even have feelings for her, other than the complacent satisfaction of having concluded an advantageous bargain?
And what of her own feelings? Melissande in the book was as madly devoted to her Renaud, as he to her. Could she expect Silas to be more in love than she was herself? He had never sought any expression or confirmation of her feelings, she realised. Accepting a man surely implied that a girl was fond of him, as asking for her hand implied the same about his own affections. Or was she taking too much for granted? Should she have insisted on a declaration of her fiancé’s devotion, before accepting him? Probably, but it was too late now.
Anthea tugged at the emerald ring. Was it cutting off the blood flow to her finger? If that were truly the case she would have had to remove it before now, surely. Yet all of a sudden she was desperate to take it off, as though her life depended on it.
Not matter how hard she pulled the ring would not pass over her knuckle, though it moved upwards a little, revealing a pink-red indentation in her skin. This would not d
o. She could have the ring resized on her own, without telling Silas. First it had to come off, however.
Anthea hid her book on a shelf under the dense leaves of a tropical plant, and sought out her mother. The Countess was consulting with the housekeeper in the latter’s office, going over the menus for the coming week. Mrs Brockless respectfully dipped her head at her. The Countess raised her brows at the unexpected interruption.
“Mother, do you know how to get off a ring that is too tight?”
“Show me.”
“It needs to come off immediately, or you’ll have a permanent mark there,” Lady Desborough pronounced after inspecting Anthea’s finger. “If it is not too late already. How was this problem not discovered earlier?”
“I did mention to Silas that it was tight, but he merely said that I would get used to it.” Despite herself, the words sounded a little plaintive.
Mrs Brockless’s eyes opened wide.
Her mother frowned in irritation. “Men can be so impractical. You should have come to me straight away, in town it would have been an easy thing for any jeweller to have it loosened.”
“But how do I get if off?”
“Grease,” Mrs Brockless advised. “We can soak your hand in a mixture of cold water and butter or lard. If you’ll come to the kitchens with me now, -“
“I would prefer that you do not do this in front of cook and all the kitchen staff,” the Countess said. “It might give rise to unnecessary gossip.”
“As you say, my lady. If Lady Anthea goes to her room, I can send up her own maid with a bowl of the greasy liquid, or merely the ingredients.”
“Yes, that will have to do.” Lady Desborough sighed. “I will go with you, Anthea, we are finished here – the almond cakes will be fine for Friday, Mrs Brockless.”
As they climbed the broad staircase to the first floor, Lady Desborough asked, “Why did you discover the tightness of the ring just now?”
“I knew all along that it was not comfortable. It occurred to me that I could have it resized without telling Silas, but it would have to come off first.”
“Without telling Silas? Is your relationship so troubled, that you would have to hide such an insignificant detail from him? After all, the ring belongs to his family.”
“Maybe I would have preferred a ring that belonged to me alone, and was made to size just for me.”
Her mother stopped and looked at her for a moment, but said nothing else until they reached Anthea’s rooms. Her maid was there, mending a tear in a flounce. Anthea immediately dispatched her to the kitchens.
“Anthea,” her mother began once they were alone, “can it be that you are having second thoughts about your engagement? I suppose they are very natural during that time of adjustment between a betrothal and a wedding. If you need advice, you know you can always apply to me.”
Anthea already knew what her Mother’s advice was likely to be, but she tried. “I confess that I am not very happy with Silas these days. You see how little attention he pays to me, now that he is assured of my hand. The more I know him, the less I see to admire in his character. I cannot help doubting whether we can be happy.”
“My poor child.” Lady Desborough shook her head. “I am certain that ninety-nine out of a hundred brides feel similarly. Men have flaws – serious flaws, all of them, and the sooner you realize it and make your peace with the fact, the better.”
“Yes, I know all that. If I wanted a perfect man, I would not have accepted Silas, and would search in vain for the rest of my life. I am not naïve, Mother. But granting that all men have faults, there are great differences in degree. My father is perhaps not perfect, but his flaws must surely be less obvious and inconvenient to the females in his life, than … than my fiancé’s. There are good men – Jonathan, Cherry’s husband, seems to be one, or both the Denhams. Is courtesy and respect too much to expect of my own betrothed?”
Lady Desborough pursed her lips. “Cherry’s husband is a mere businessman. And other men may well hide serious flaws that you cannot even conceive of. Believe me, nobody is perfect. Silas is young, healthy, handsome, rich and titled. Expecting him to be considerate as well is probably asking too much, don’t you think?”
“No,” Anthea’s voice trembled a little, “I cannot agree, Mother. I fear I may have been mistaken in what is important in the man one is to marry.”
“That is unfortunate. But your girlish confusion is not grounds to dissolve your betrothal, Anthea, put any such notion out of your mind. It would be most detrimental to your prospects to jilt Silas, without any strong and public reason. That you like him less than you expected is not such a reason. This discovery usually happens after the wedding, but it is the fate of nine women out of ten. They can still find happiness in their children.”
Anthea’s maid returned with a bowl on a tray. Under her mother’s watchful eye, she attempted once again to remove the ring. It hurt a little, even with the grease. When she succeeded at last, the red line at the base of her finger remained clearly visible.
“Put the ring securely in your jewel-box, until it can be altered,” her mother commanded. Anthea wiped the jewel, and her wet hands, with a cambric handkerchief before obeying her mother’s injunction. At last her mother took her leave, to Anthea’s relief.
Easy for her mother to say she would find happiness in her children. What if they turned out to be miniature versions of Silas?
Chapter 13
Do not ask the question if you are not prepared to hear the answer.
Maxims for Young Gentlewomen, by A Lady, London 1823
The ladies had withdrawn at Lady Desborough’s signal. The butler placed the port on the table before leaving the gentlemen to their private discussions.
Looking around him Charles reflected, not for the first time, that they were an ill-assorted group with few interests in common. During the previous nights, conversation had been desultory and the men had soon joined the ladies in the drawing room.
“Isn’t your business suffering from such a long absence?” Lord Minton asked Jonathan Durwent. “I always understood that in trade, it was essential to be constantly at hand for emergencies.” Typical of this stripling to set himself up as an expert amongst older and wiser heads.
“That might have been the case some years ago,” Durwent said tranquilly, “but my affairs have since reached a point where I have had to delegate day-to-day decisions to reliable subordinates. I have thus regained a measure of freedom. Your father does not constantly deal with every small decision of your holdings either, I dare say he relies on capable factors.”
“Everyone who can afford it does so, but it is hard to find honest and able assistants,” Sir Christopher remarked. “And even the best require a measure of supervision and control.”
“Very true.” Jonathan took a sip of port.
Lord Winstanton grimaced and cracked a walnut.
“My solicitor is coming down for a visit tomorrow,” Lord Desborough said to Durwent, “we should schedule a talk in the late afternoon, if that is convenient for you.”
“I am entirely at your service, of course.” There was a sardonic gleam in Jonathan Durwent’s eyes. What was that about?
“If the outcome of your discussions should touch my interests,” Winstanton said to Lord Desborough, “I would prefer to be told sooner rather than later.”
The Earl regarded him with faint hauteur. “How could it possibly concern you?”
“But you told us -,” Peter blurted, and stopped himself at a glare from his parent. “Never mind.” He turned to Durwent and frowned. “Just our luck, I suppose, that when our sister was discovered she turned out to be married to a wily businessman.”
“Under the circumstances, that is indeed a great piece of luck,” Sir Christopher’s voice was dry. “For a child lost at such a tender age, it is a miracle that she survived in the first place; an even greater one that she was educated as a lady, and prosperously married without the benefit of her family name
or any dowry. The far greater likelihood would have been for her to perish in some workhouse, or labour as an uneducated scullery maid in the inn where she was abandoned. And given how very attractive she is, she might easily have slipped into a less than respectable life at some point.”
Lord Desborough and Durwent recoiled in horror at this assessment, while Winstanton’s face looked wistful for a moment.
Charles suppressed a smile. “We must conclude that a benevolent providence watched over your child, Lord Desborough.”
“Cherry’s life was not always easy,” Durwent said, “though indeed it could have been infinitely worse. She has developed strength of character and resolution under adversity. You will forgive me if I prefer not to contemplate the harrowing might-have-beens you have delineated, Sir Christopher.”
“No, indeed,” Lord Desborough agreed. “During the early years after her loss, these possibilities terrified my imagination. Now that I know Cherry as a person, such ideas seem even more loathsome.” He drank, returned his glass to the table. “She is like and yet unlike what I imagined. While Cherry resembles her mother in looks, her character is different, and her health far stronger, for which I am grateful.”
Winstanton quaffed more port, looking unutterably bored.
“And of course she is soon to present me with my first grandchild,” the Earl continued, determinedly looking at the bright side. “Let’s drink a toast to her health.”
Everyone followed this suggestion without demur, though Winstanton and Minton were merely pretending to wish Mrs Durwent well, if Charles was any judge.
“Let’s also drink Lady Anthea’s health,” Durwent proposed. “She is a charming young lady and deserves a happy future.”