by May Burnett
“They escaped that choice as we were never titled, and not close to the court. The head of the family, Jasper Bellairs, was very old during the worst of the conflict. According to family tradition he feigned senility, so as not to commit himself, and sent his young son to study abroad. Possibly the senility was not all feigned, or he died too suddenly to inform his absent heir of the cache in the wall.”
“I am very glad we can all sleep peacefully in our beds these days, without such agitation,” Mrs. Temple commented. “Just imagine our young men going off to fight, to keep the King on his throne.”
“I wonder how enthusiastically they would do so,” Miss Langley mused. “King George is hardly a romantic figure, compared to the Stuarts.”
“The King was considered very handsome and romantic in his youth, before he became so sadly stout,” Mrs. Temple recalled. “Happily we are more sensible in our enlightened century. Nobody could even think of cutting off a King’s head in modern times.”
“They did so in France only two generations past,” the Vicar reminded her, “and all those others, including young children. I do think it is less likely to happen again anytime soon. But who knows? Though we may not have Roundheads today, there are all too many malcontents agitating against the government, and the times are hard.”
“Are you talking politics at a dinner party?” Lord Laxeley joined their little group. “My aunt will not thank you for it.”
“Not politics so much as history,” Miss Langley said. “It turns out that the coins Miss Bellairs found in her wall date from the time of Oliver Cromwell.”
“Do they? But such things have been secreted throughout history, or there would not be so many treasures to be found.”
The Vicar raised his brows. “Many? That is the first treasure discovered in this neighbourhood for at least a century.”
“I wonder if there are any others, still hidden?” Margaret speculated. “That round hill on Sir Reginald’s property, beyond the pond, might well be an ancient burial site. I believe they often have that particular shape.”
“If so, my uncle is unlikely to give permission to disturb the rest of whoever is buried there,” Lord Laxeley said. “It cannot bring good luck to rob the dead.”
“Even the pagan dead?” Miss Langley asked. “Do you believe that they really can be disturbed after so many centuries, or that they are still in need of swords, necklaces or whatever else they were buried with?”
“I am glad we found those coins in a wall, and not clutched in the hand of some ancestral skeleton,” Margaret said. “As for letting the dead rest with their treasures, I am not sure how practicable that is, once the notion of a treasure’s existence becomes public. Someone or other will be daring or desperate enough to dig them up.”
“Egyptian burial chambers are almost invariably found empty when excavated, and there is speculation that the pharaohs’ own contemporaries were responsible in most cases,” the Vicar observed. “From what I know of human nature, it seems all too likely.” He turned to Margaret with a kindly smile. “You will be getting tired of talking about your treasure all the time. How is your sister, Lady Pell? I shall always remember her splendid wedding, one of the highlights of my tenure here in Bankington.”
Margaret assured him that her sister Emily was most happily situated, and had quickly recovered from the birth of young Lord Berleyford.
“I have already heard all about the infant’s beauty and strength and intelligence from your mother, Miss Bellairs,” Lord Laxeley said.
“You must pardon her pride in her first grandchild. Without Mother’s contribution, after all, the young prodigy would never have been born.”
“Her feelings only do her credit. It gives me great satisfaction to see your mother in such good spirits,” the Vicar said. “During your exile I worried about you, and especially her.”
There had indeed been ample reason for worry, as her mother had fallen into a long and debilitating decline. She might not be alive now, had the family fortunes not taken a drastic turn for the better.
“Perhaps you can advise my mother on the monument she plans to build in the graveyard, on my father’s grave?” Margaret suggested. “She is still searching for a suitable motto. Uniting piety and truthfulness is not always an easy task.” Had she said too much? But everyone here, including Lord Laxeley, would already know about her father’s gambling and selfishness.
“I see.” The Vicar’s glance at her was compassionate. “It is more important that the message should console the survivors, than that it be strictly truthful. It should not be hard to find something suitable, maybe on the theme of hope and forgiveness. If Mrs. Bellairs will accept my advice, I will gladly give it. I have always felt great admiration for your mother’s womanly qualities, Miss Bellairs.”
“Please call me Margaret, as you did when I was a young girl. I do not want to be on such formal terms with one of our oldest friends.”
“Yet you have changed so much, um, Margaret,” Vanessa Langley said. “It must be the society you keep these days. Not only are you so elegant, you carry yourself as proudly as a duchess.”
Margaret shrugged. “That is simple necessity if you want to hold your own in London society. It is all a silly game, and one tires of it eventually.”
“Does one?” Lord Laxeley regarded her thoughtfully out of calm hazel eyes. Margaret wondered if she had sunk herself in his esteem with her frank speaking, but did not greatly care. He was handsome and eligible, and her mother would already be considering him as a possible son-in-law; but she felt no strong attraction, her heart did not beat any faster since their introduction some forty minutes earlier. For a moment her lack of interest, and continued ennui, alarmed her. If there was nothing to fight or care for, life would lose all its savour.
“I would not mind playing this game for a Season, silly or not,” Miss Langley said wistfully. “Just to be able to say that I was there, later, when I have a family of my own.”
“You have lived in Derbyshire all your life, Miss Langley?” Lord Laxeley asked.
“Almost. Last year I visited my great-aunt in Bath. It is a pretty town, but not as lively as I had hoped.”
“Indeed, it is more suited to ailing dowagers than to young ladies in their first bloom.” He smiled at Vanessa, though he must be as aware as Margaret of her dowdy dress. The young woman blushed – on that extremely fair complexion her reaction was highly visible. Margaret hoped she would not take the Viscount’s routine flirtation too seriously. She rather liked Vanessa, and would be sorry to see her suffering a broken heart or unrequited feelings.
“Miss Bellairs,” Lord Laxeley said, “I keep wondering, is that brooch part of the treasure you found? It is not a style I have seen before, or that is in fashion today.”
“Since the treasure was dispatched to London under guard, the brooch cannot be part of it,” Margaret said firmly, glad that lying came easily to her, without any danger of blushes. She certainly had enough practice. The safety of her household, and of Anthony’s gold, demanded that she abide by the story she and Mr. Trey had painstakingly spread. “It is a family heirloom.” That was true enough. She added indirection. “Were you aware that my family spent two years with my paternal grandmother in Italy? She is a Contessa.”
“Ah, then the brooch is Italian? It makes sense, for ships have always been essential to the Italian way of life. Did you learn the language when you lived there?”
“Yes.” She did not want to monopolize the conversation like this, and turned towards Mrs. Temple.
Before she could make some suitable remark, Christopher Dorringley was announced. Every other pair of eyes moved from him to her, and back again. Margaret kept her face impassive, and though the young man’s eyes lit up, he did not approach her. Scant minutes later, dinner was announced. Mr. Trey came to lead her into the dining room, while Viscount Laxeley went to his aunt, and the Vicar extended his arm to Mrs. Bellairs. Dorringley escorted Betty Harris, who clung to him posse
ssively.
Chapter 10
William had observed the meeting between Doctor Dorringley and Miss Bellairs with as much interest as the local guests. While the lady displayed only well-bred indifference, the young physician was not equally in control of his features. Though he escorted Miss Harris to the dining room almost immediately after his arrival, his eyes strayed to the magnificent young lady at the other side of the table more often than was perhaps wise.
Had William possessed and lost the regard of Miss Bellairs, he might well act in similar fashion. Of course at his age he would be better able to camouflage his chagrin, especially with a girl at his side jealously observing every glance, every movement. If William could tell right away that Dorringley was still in love with Margaret Bellairs, this unfortunate fact could hardly escape the attention of Miss Harris. A pretty tangle, that. Miss Bellairs was well out of the affair, though doubtlessly she could bring Dorringley back to her side with a word or gesture of encouragement, as long as he was not yet engaged or firmly committed. Maybe she would – the young man was uncommonly handsome. If looks were her main criterion, she could hardly do better.
Of course Lord Laxeley was not ugly by any means. Though he could not compare in looks to the young physician, his rank made him the most eligible man present, and from what William had observed, he was likable enough.
“Everyone I spoke to asked about the treasure,” William told Miss Bellairs as the first course was served. “I assured them that I had only had a small glimpse, and that it is long gone to London.”
“Good,” she replied in a low voice. “It took me all Sunday to complete the inventory, though I write and draw fast enough.”
“You should have called upon me for help.”
“I could not help wondering how much the contents of the box are worth. A few pieces may have greater value as antiquities, than the mere gold content. And even though the box does not belong to me, there is a certain excitement involved in the unexpected find.” Her dark brown eyes reflected the light of the many candles on the table with a special splendour that was all her own. “I would not mind unearthing more treasures. Though it was you who actually found it, Mr. Trey, with your suggestion to tear down the useless wall. Have you made similar discoveries in the past?”
“Remember that I am only starting out in my architectural career. During my years in India I once found a mass grave, but they must have been poor people; not as much as a ring or amulet was left.”
“How gruesome.”
Looking across the table, William intercepted a venomous glare from Miss Betty Harris, directed at Miss Bellairs; a moment later her blonde lashes came down, and Miss Harris looked sweet and harmless again.
“If looks could kill,” William said, “you would be in imminent danger, Miss Bellairs. I would feel duty bound to evacuate you from the zone of hostilities.”
She smiled. “Oh, I am used to far worse. In London people smile sweetly and give no indication of enmity until a fatal barb is dispatched, and lodges in your flank. Someone who wears their feelings on their sleeve so openly can hardly be taken seriously.”
“With your talents and advantages, I daresay you must often encounter the jealousy of less favoured natures.”
“Mr. Trey,” she said severely, “please refrain from such overblown compliments. I had hoped to be talking to a sensible man for once. And it is not a matter of how much a person is favoured, you know. Ruth Harris is less pretty than her sister, and yet she is perfectly civil. Besides, any one of us may have hidden talents. There is no competition going on.”
“Isn’t there?”
“Let us talk of India,” she said firmly. “Where did you stay, and what exactly did you do there?”
“From a base in Calcutta, I travelled throughout the continent to inspect trading posts. It was interesting and instructive, but dangerous to my health.”
“Thugs and robbers?”
“More the strange and spicy dishes and drinks that played havoc with my insides. I also caught fevers, twice, that I only survived by the skin of my teeth.”
“Was that why you decided to return?”
“Not the main reason, but it was a consideration. Sooner or later another fever might have got the better of me. And if I barely survived, it was too dangerous to raise a family there. The climate is not suitable for infants – especially European infants. Many men sent their children home to stay with relatives, but that always struck me as cruel. Why have a family at all if you cannot live together?”
“Why indeed,” she said thoughtfully. “Although boys are sent off to boarding school early, even here in England.”
“Not as young as some of the children my acquaintances sent home – five or younger. At that age, a child belongs with his parents.”
“I agree. Hmm. I have not devoted much thought to these subjects so far.” She took a sip of the ruby-red wine.
His eyes rested on her white neck as she swallowed. “You are not eagerly looking forward to having children of your own?” It was too personal a question; she might well respond with a set-down for his presumption.
“I am fond of my little nephew,” Miss Bellairs said thoughtfully. “Yet when I first held him in my arms, I was not overcome with an overwhelming desire for a babe of my own. It will happen eventually, when I marry, but it can wait.” She took another sip of wine. “I can see in my sister’s case that once you are a mother, your child takes over so much of your life that everything else is shoved to the background. I might not know myself anymore.”
“That is nature’s way to ensure that the helpless young of our species are properly cared for. But not all women are so consumed with motherhood, especially in the classes where the caretaking can be left to servants. Some ladies hardly take notice of their children in the nursery.”
“Yes, I have seen cases like that, and hope I would never behave so. Children do need their mothers, while they are small. And yet a mother is rarely seen as a person apart from her children, whatever her previous character and interests.”
“I deny it. A lady as talented and vivid as you, for instance, would still attract admiration if she had a dozen offspring. Her husband would be her chief admirer.”
She laughed. “That would have to be a very unusual husband indeed. Men marry to have a chief admirer and acolyte in their wife, not the other way round.”
“That is only true for insecure fellows, who want a wife of weaker understanding and talents than their own. But have you never imagined a union of equals?”
“You are an idealist and dreamer, Mr. Trey. Such things never last. The pressure of society, its expectations and constant grinding of gossip, would eventually destabilize such a union, were it possible in the first place.”
“Not so.” Why was he arguing with Miss Bellairs, when he would much rather be flirting? But from her earlier reaction, she was tired of compliments. To take her arguments seriously was also a compliment of sorts. He certainly liked the way her eyes sparkled with animation.
Miss Bellairs put her fork down. “Can you come up with historical examples? A strong and powerful woman – like Queen Elizabeth, for instance, – is better off not marrying at all. Look how her rival Mary Queen of Scots was brought low by the men around her.”
“A queen would face special hurdles, to find a marriage of equals,” he conceded. “Just like a king. Henry the Eight could execute those of his wives who were not of royal blood. That alone would have prevented any proper balance in his unions. I suspect that happy marriages are rare among crowned heads, if only from the disparity in power.”
“These days that imbalance is not so great,” Miss Bellairs pointed out, “our King could not divorce his wife when he tried, let alone cut her head off. I am convinced he would have dearly liked to do that. A powerless monarch might have a happier marriage.”
“In theory,” he agreed. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“My mother seems unusually animated,” she changed
the subject again, “I am glad she is seated next to Mr. Langley, the Vicar. In our darkest days, he was always kind and helpful, though there was nothing much he could do, and he was preoccupied with his own wife’s illness.”
“I did not have a chance to speak to his daughter earlier, but she seems a pleasant young lady.”
“Vanessa? Yes, she is. She is a little younger than I, and was an inoffensive creature as a child. I believe that character does not greatly change after fifteen or so. When you have known someone in their youth, you have the most accurate picture of what they are like, even years later.”
“There is something to that,” he admitted, “and friendships formed in childhood tend to be the longest-lasting. However, I maintain that some people do change drastically in adult life, for better or worse. Especially if they are uprooted.”
“I was uprooted not so long ago,” she replied, “but I don’t feel that I have changed fundamentally. I am still the same person I was when I left Bankington years ago.”
“Have you considered that you may not be the best judge of your own transformation, Miss Bellairs? For instance, at that time you probably were not as elegant as today.”
“No, though I did my best with what I had. Elegance is hard to achieve when you have no money. But those are outward details that do not change the essence of a person.” She broke a piece of bread with her long white fingers.
“Not so – unlike a house with a new façade on the old structure, in humans elegance and poise work on the person’s essence, and become more than a veneer. And whatever adversities you encountered and survived in exile must have strengthened you, whether you were aware of the effect or not.”
“I wonder,” she murmured, helping herself to a dish of braised tongue. “Did your experiences in India strengthen you – fevers and all?”
William considered. “I suppose my adventures have indeed made me hardier. They also taught me when to give up, and retire from the field more or less in order.”