by May Burnett
Winstanton scowled at him. Charles raised his glass with a degree of enthusiasm he hoped none of the others would note. She was a sweet, unaffected girl, deserving of so much better than the young Viscount who had unaccountably won her hand.
“And let’s not forget to drink to our kind hostess,” Sir Christopher added once they were done.
“This is getting positively mawkish,” Peter whispered to Winstanton, but Charles’ sharp hearing easily caught the comment. “Who wants to drink to their own women?”
“Who would you suggest we toast, Lord Minton?” Charles asked.
For a moment Peter looked nonplussed, but caught himself. “Er – we might drink to all lovely ladies, wherever they are. But frankly, I would rather talk of horses and hunting.”
“No need to tell us that, we know you,” his father said sardonically. “But as you bring it up, is that showy grey stallion you bought at Tattersall’s the other day your idea of a suitable hunter?”
Lord Minton flushed slightly, and set his chin. “He came highly recommended.”
“By the bosom friends of the horse-coper, no doubt. Not that I care, as long as you keep him away from our mares. A gelding might have been better value.”
“Next time take someone better versed along to Tattersall’s, to ensure you are not taken in,” Winstanton said to the younger man, who shot him a reproachful glance.
***
The men were taking longer than usual to join the ladies, so Anthea’s nightly piano performance was mercifully delayed.
Lady Amberley was sitting apart, reading a letter she held far away from her face. With any other woman Anthea might have suggested acquiring pince-nez, but one did not offer gratuitous suggestions to the dowager countess.
When Anthea sat down on the chair next to her, Lady Amberley put the letter in her lap and looked up questioningly.
“Aunt,” Anthea said, keeping her voice low, “I come seeking your advice.”
Lady Amberley gave a short laugh. “You are the only one of your generation who wants it, it would seem.” She folded her letter and tucked it into the embroidered reticule dangling from her left wrist. “If you want to know how to make your betrothed mind you better and act the devoted swain, I am afraid I cannot help you. He was headstrong and heedless even as a boy, and Albinia spoiled him dreadfully. It is often the case with only sons, especially when the father dies early. Silas will be the kind of husband who is always away at some house party or other, which has some benefits at least. You can console yourself with the reflection that devoted spouses who importunate their wives with constant attentions become just as tiresome over time.”
Anthea winced at this plain speaking. “That was not the subject I had in mind, Aunt Amberley.” She hesitated for a moment before plunging on. “I have noticed that Lady Winstanton shows a decided coolness towards my sister Cherry – or Madeline, as she was baptized. Do you have any insights into her reasons?”
“She does, doesn’t she?” Lady Amberley smiled briefly. “That is all old history, before you were born, but I suppose there is no harm in telling you. Albinia detested Lady Mariah, you know. Not without reason. I was not particularly fond of her myself.”
“Lady Winstanton has never mentioned that she was acquainted with Cherry’s mother. Are you certain of your facts?”
Lady Amberley raised one of her elegant brows.
“Of course you are, I beg your pardon.”
“Just so. Lady Mariah Desborough was very conscious of her birth and fortune, and even as a young girl she had a way of attracting any man she chose to smile at. I didn’t understand it then, and I don’t now – neither she nor her daughter have classically beautiful features, they look pretty, no more. Be that as it may, she was irresistible to men and revelled in her popularity. Most other debutantes of her generation were desperately jealous.”
“Oh. I had somehow pictured her like a younger version of Cherry, who is perfectly pleasant, and not at all proud,” Anthea ventured.
“Only outwardly. Mariah was a bit of a coquette, and broke hearts right and left. She was furious when the old Earl arranged the marriage to your father without consulting her wishes, and made it plain that she considered herself ill-used. I suspect your father had a difficult time of it with her, though he has never uttered a word of complaint or criticism in my hearing.”
“I see,” Anthea said, though she could not picture her father with a resentful young wife.
“Albinia is some three years younger than Mariah, so she was not a direct competitor. But the previous Lord Winstanton was one of Mariah’s most determined suitors, and sorely disappointed when she married elsewhere. Even years after her disappearance, long after his own marriage, he was known to reminisce about Mariah’s incomparable charm, particularly when he was in his cups.”
“Oh dear. His wife cannot have been pleased about that.”
“Naturally not.” Lady Amberley looked across the room, where Lady Winstanton sat next to her hostess, her back very straight, stitching at her embroidery. She smiled a trifle maliciously.
Anthea’s glance passed from her future mother-in-law to Cherry and Cecily. They were talking with Mrs Trevor, who was pouring tea in her sister’s stead. “It is strange that Cherry is so much darker in colouring than any of us,” she said idly.
“If you are thinking she might be a cuckoo in the nest, disabuse yourself of the notion,” Lady Amberley told her. Anthea, who had not thought anything of the kind, started a little. “The old Earl made sure of that, packing Mariah off to the country with your father as soon as the marriage had been celebrated, and not letting them return until she was with child. He was hoping for an heir, of course, nothing must interfere with the succession. Madeline was born some eleven months after the wedding – everyone followed these events with interest at the time. No, she is definitely your sister, despite the darker colouring.”
“I had never doubted it,” Anthea returned, half regretting her impulse to engage her older relative in this shocking discussion.
“She looks a bit younger than her age. I suppose in theory she might be Mariah’s daughter by another man, after her disappearance,” Lady Amberley said judiciously. “But the way Mariah carried on when the doctors confined her to bed during the last two months and were gravely predicting the worst, I very much doubt she would have willingly borne another child, or been strong enough to do so. It would have been a great problem for your father had she long survived, unable or unwilling to conceive again. Some suspected him of making away with her for that reason, especially as the old earl had died just before the child’s birth. Mariah was in mourning for her father when she disappeared.”
“They suspected my father?” This notion was inconceivable to Anthea.
“Yes, but it was just speculation, empty talk. Only to be expected in such a case – it was quite a scandal at the time. But your father had witnesses that he had been elsewhere, and there was the statement of her servants that the young Countess had fled with a lover; in view of the less than happy marriage it sounded plausible enough.” She paused thoughtfully. “From what I understand, those same servants absconded with the jewels and money Mariah carried with her. I wonder if they are still alive, prospering from their ill-gotten gains? They should certainly hang. Maybe it is not too late to catch and convict them. I shall suggest as much to your father.”
It might be weak of her, but Anthea hoped that these miscreants were beyond justice. “That throws an entirely new light on things.” she said. “I had suspected that Lady Winstanton worries that my sister’s reappearance might diminish my dowry.”
“Does it?” Lady Amberley threw her a penetrating glance. Anthea shrugged uncomfortably.
“How perfectly ironic. For Albinia, it must be like the dead hand of Lady Mariah reaching out from the past to spoil her triumph in her son’s splendid match. Now I think on it, it will likely strain even the Desborough fortune to transfer all Lady Mariah’s inheritance to her daughter.
But since her husband is already rich, it should be possible to arrive at some arrangement to mitigate the effects. Your father will have considered all that, and Durwent,” she spoke grudgingly, “does not appear unreasonably grasping.”
“What if Lord Winstanton does not want to go through with our marriage, if my dowry is less than he had expected?” That would make it so easy for Anthea … she could look again, and would be held blameless for circumstances beyond her control. Now that she had a whole season behind her, she had a far better idea of what – or who – might suit her. A tall figure with laughing green eyes passed fleetingly before her inner vision.
“Don’t worry about that, it won’t happen,” Lady Amberley said bracingly. “He could not do better than you and he knows it. In any case, a gentleman cannot jilt a lady, at least not without overwhelming cause. And even then, he would make an enemy of your father and all his friends and relations. Winstanton is not such a fool as that.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“Of course,” Lady Amberley emphasized, “it is almost equally difficult and most unadvisable for a lady to jilt her betrothed. I would strongly recommend making the best of your situation. We all must learn to do so sooner or later.”
Anthea was glad when the gentlemen entered the drawing room at that point, even though she would have to play the sonata she had practiced earlier in the day, with which she was not yet entirely comfortable.
Chapter 14
Regular attendance at Church is excellent discipline in good times, and brings consolation in misfortune.
Maxims for Young Gentlewomen, by A Lady, London 1823
“We shall be leaving for Church at half-past nine tomorrow morning,” Lady Desborough announced in the drawing room. “Our guests are very welcome to join us, or do whatever else they prefer to do with their time on a Sunday morning.” The family had no such choice; Anthea would have received the scold of her life, had she refused to accompany her parents. She had never tried, as she rather enjoyed the weekly excursion to the nearby village.
“You want to know how many carriages will be required, naturally enough,” Sir Christopher said. “I shall rest and read the papers, if you don’t mind.”
“Count me out too.” Silas sounded impatient with the very idea. “It will be time enough for prayer and piety when I’m close to my deathbed.”
Lady Desborough was beginning to frown at this lack of enthusiasm.
“I would like to attend,” Cherry offered, “unless your vicar’s sermons are uncommonly long?”
“No, he is fairly succinct as parsons go,” the Earl reassured his daughter. “Are you quite sure you are up to it?” He cast a worried look at her midriff.
“I am in excellent health.”
“If you don’t feel well I shall bring you back early,” Jonathan added.
“I am going also,” Charles Denham announced, somewhat to Anthea’s surprise. “I would like to meet the local Vicar afterwards, if you would be so kind to introduce me, Lord Desborough.”
“Certainly, if you wish. You will find Dr Twombley a most cultivated and intelligent man.”
“Does he have a family?” Sir Christopher asked, with a significant look at his grandson. “Sons, or maybe daughters?”
An odd question, what could that possibly matter? Anthea scrutinized Charles’ face, but it gave nothing away.
Lady Desborough shook her head at the baronet’s question. “Dr Twombley only has a sister and his aged mother. The good vicar practices celibacy, after the example of the early Church fathers.”
“I shall beg off,” Lady Amberley announced, “I feel a possible cold coming on. Nothing is more certain to worsen it, than sitting for over an hour in a draughty church.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” Lady Desborough said. “We have a tisane that is very efficacious in heading off colds. I shall have Perkins bring it to you presently.”
“Thank you.” Lady Amberley did not sound overly grateful. Had her cold merely been a polite fiction?
“I shall remain to keep you company,” Lady Winstanton said to her.
“How obliging, but pray do not change any plans on my account.”
Jonathan looked questioningly at Mrs Trevor and Cecily, who had not spoken yet. “Oh, we always go,” Cecily told him. “Aunt Hester would never let me hear the end of it if I decided to stay at home. The children will also be in our party.”
“It is so important to inculcate good habits from an early age,” Lady Desborough said, with a critical look at Silas. “You are coming, of course, Peter.”
“Why don’t you go riding with me instead?” Silas asked him.
Peter was obviously torn. Casting a glance at his father’s face he began, “Well, one must keep up appearances –“
Silas interrupted, “Nobody will care if you are there, with such a big crowd from the Hall.”
Peter wavered for a moment more. “All right. I shall give the order for the horses to be saddled by eight.”
Lord Desborough’s lips were pressed together and he looked displeased, but Anthea knew he was not going to upbraid his son in the presence of guests.
Did her betrothed not realise he was sowing discord in her family? Maybe she could give him a gentle hint. “Silas, are you at leisure now? I would like to talk to you.”
“Oh?” He bowed. “I am of course at your service. What can it be?” The polite words held a distinctly ironic tinge. Anthea clenched her fists and had to relax them again with a conscious effort.
She gestured to the music room, deserted at this hour, and preceded him.
He looked down at her, his arms crossed in front of his chest, leaning against the piano.
“I am not sure what you think you are about, Silas,” Anthea said, “but could you not see that my father in particular was displeased that you encouraged Peter to miss Sunday Mass? It is one of our most important family traditions. Do you want to provoke a conflict between my brother and my parents?”
Silas shrugged dismissively. “What affair is it of yours, pray? Why are you trying to meddle? Peter is of age. It is high time he cut the apron strings and became his own man. Do not imagine you have the right to criticize my actions. You will be my wife, and vow obedience. I shall be master in my home, Anthea.”
“I am beginning to think our engagement may have been a mistake.” She could not quite keep her voice from trembling. “You never spoke to me like that before we were betrothed. Since then you hardly pay me any attention, and now you treat me like a servant you can command.”
“Mistake or not, you will go through with the wedding. You regret that I am not constantly in your pocket? Why don’t you encourage me to dance attendance upon you, with some token of your affection?” He grasped her round the waist, pulled her against his hard body, and roughly put his lips on hers. The sensation was completely unlike the two chaste kisses they had exchanged on previous occasions. Anthea was indignantly gasping for air, when Silas made to slip his tongue between her lips. She clenched her teeth firmly together just in time, struggling to wrench herself out of the embrace. It was no use – she was powerless against his cord-like strength.
After a few endless seconds he released her. “Come, Anthea, you can do better than that. I didn’t expect you to be a bloodless and frigid tease. Have you so little in common with your sister?”
“My sister?” She looked at him in confusion. “Do you mean Cherry?”
“She would not act like a shrinking violet, I’d wager.”
Anthea was almost choking on her outrage. She took a deep breath. “She probably would object, if anyone tried to maul her at a moment when she was already angry. Have you so little address, or affection for me? I never required or expected declarations of devotion, but I insist on common courtesy and respect. Without those, I cannot marry you, Silas.” She searched his features, hoping for any softening.
He laughed her reproach off. “Very dramatic. The truth of the matter is that you have to marry me, as I hav
e to marry you at this point. If you are not more forthcoming with your favours, I shall find them elsewhere – until our wedding; then you must not think you can escape submitting to me.”
“Submitting?” Anthea did not like the sound of that. “Just what do you mean?”
He stared at her. “Can you really be this ignorant? Ask your mother, and try to be less coy and wooden the next time I try to kiss or touch you. It is expected of a betrothed couple, after all.”
Anthea was grinding her teeth in frustration. “If you are dissatisfied, I shall not hold you to your promise.”
“Mere theatrics – spare me, Anthea.” He turned on his heels and left without another word.
Anthea sank down on a settee, desperately trying to make sense of what had just happened. From all she had ever read or believed, gentlemen did not treat their brides like that. Lord Orville would never have spoken such hurtful words to Evelina. None of the heroes in the novels she had read would dream of behaving thus. Could it be that Silas was not the hero in the story of her life, but the villain? It could not be; he looked so handsome, even now – yet she had not felt any inclination to let his tongue delve into her mouth, as he seemed to think was his right. Disgusting. Would he do that often, when they were married?
If Silas had tried this manoeuvre in other circumstances, more slowly and carefully, she might have permitted it in the spirit of experimentation. Her feelings and pride were more bruised than her lips. But were her feelings not just as important as her body? She closed her eyes to replay the scene in her mind. When and where had it all gone wrong?
“What are you doing in here, all alone?” Cecily stood at the door, Cherry behind her. “We saw Silas leave, but you did not come out.” She peered at Anthea in the dim light. “You are not crying, are you?”
“Of course not.” She was glad it was true, that she was more angry than sad.
“I suppose Silas has been an ass,” Cecily said matter-of-factly. The two women entered, Cherry closing the door behind her. Cecily lit the candles on the mantle, giving Anthea a few precious moments to compose herself.