by May Burnett
“She can remain here to help guard the estate. As long as there are servants permanently in residence, she will be cared for.”
Margaret could not like that idea, but from her appearance the dog had been so poorly treated that even that fate would be better than what she was used to. The dog had begun to lick her hand with a long pink tongue. Should she let it?
Mr. Trey looked at her nonplussed expression with amusement in his grey eyes. “You did not have dogs here when you were a child? In this big house?”
“My father disliked them and mother upheld him, though my sister and I begged for a puppy or kitten all through our childhood.”
“Then Mrs. Bellairs may not like Berry either.” He looked at the dog, frowning. “If you are not going to keep her, it would be cruel to raise her hopes. She comes from a farm in the next parish. I heard of her in the inn.”
“Of course we are going to keep her. I am no longer a child, and Anthony left me in charge of the household. She can be my dog,” Margaret said decisively. As though understanding her words, Berry tried to put her paws on Margaret’s shoulders and lick her face as well, but she escaped this further intimacy with a deft sideways turn.
“Down, Berry,” Mr. Trey said in his deep voice, and the dog immediately obeyed.
“She might look prettier after a bath,” Margaret said doubtfully. “That fur needs brushing.”
“A job for Tom, the footman. He’d best not wear too much, one inevitably gets wet.”
The kitchen maid brought out a flat pan filled with broken pieces of bread and warm milk. “It is all we have,” she said apologetically, “I’ll have to get bones and offal from the butcher, a dog needs meat now and then.”
Berry licked the pan clean within seconds and glanced around for more.
After giving orders to wash the animal forthwith and arrange for more suitable feeding, Margaret repaired to her rooms and sketched for a while. She drew Berry from memory, but was dissatisfied with the expression. Berry would serve for a series of canine character studies, she decided.
An hour later her mother and Mrs. Carney were up at last, and breaking their fast in the morning room. Margaret joined them, and accepted some more food, as she wondered how best to break the news of the guard dog. It might be better to wait until the end of breakfast, so as not to spoil the peace of the meal with arguments. That was bad for the digestion, her mother often declared.
A letter from London had been delivered. It was directed to Mrs. Bellairs, in Emily’s writing. Counting the days, Margaret concluded that it must have been sent off well before her account of the treasure had arrived.
Mrs. Bellairs perused the page in silence. News about the baby’s rapid growth and society gossip, no doubt. Margaret dabbed some butter on her bread.
“It cannot be!” Mrs. Bellairs cried out in a tone of deep horror.
Margaret started. “What is the matter? Are Emily and little Marcus all right?”
“Yes, yes,” her mother said impatiently. “It is Sir Conrad! My nephew, your cousin!”
“He is not – dead, is he?” Margaret asked.
“No, but just as bad! He is engaged! To Miss Merridew!”
“A very suitable match,” Margaret observed with a shrug. She had first met Sir Conrad Bolland in Verona, when he had called upon his relatives in the company of Lord Pell, thus unwittingly leading to her family’s present security. He had been infatuated with Margaret for a while, but that was long in the past.
“He could have been yours, Margaret! A rich, handsome young baronet – a Bollard! And you whistled him down the wind! I could tear my hair out. What else do you expect in a husband, Margaret? In what possible way was he not suitable or good enough? And now that insipid girl, Jane Merridew, will be Lady Bolland. She will take precedence of you at dinner, look down upon you as a spinster, when it could all have been yours!”
Margaret tried to possess herself of patience during this tirade, but her own temper was rising dangerously. She intercepted a warning glance from Mrs. Carney and mentally counted to twenty before venturing a reply. Still irritated, she had to begin counting again.
“There you sit silent like a column, with nothing to say for yourself, when such horrid news comes to us! Oh, I have no patience with you, Margaret! So many chances, and you throw them all away! Miss Merridew to be Lady Bollard, the very title my poor mother bore!”
Margaret would have expected her mother to feel a certain amount of chagrin at the news, but she was surprised at the depth of her emotion. Since her rejection of Sir Conrad’s advances many months ago, it was only to be expected that he would look elsewhere – her cousin had been intent on marriage, and there were many pretty girls in society only too eager to wed an amiable and rich young man.
“Some people have reservations about marriage between first cousins,” Mrs. Carney said, but Mrs. Bellairs paid no attention to the remark.
A bark from outside reminded Margaret of her purpose in joining the older ladies for a second breakfast. “We have a dog now,” she said baldly. “I got her as a guard dog, to protect us against more burglaries. Her name is Berry.”
“A dog?” Her mother’s blue eyes stared into hers. “Without consulting me beforehand? You know your father never wanted dogs or cats in this house.”
“Father is dead, his wishes are no longer binding,” Margaret replied, some of her irritation emerging in her tone. Had her mother forgotten that they had discussed the possibility of a guard dog only the other day? “Anthony entrusted the safety of the household to me, and in that capacity I decided that we need a dog. It is a fait accompli; you will get used to it soon enough.”
“What an unnatural, selfish girl you are, Margaret!” Were those tears swimming in her mother’s eyes? “If only Emily were here, she would enter into my feelings! What have I ever done to deserve such callous treatment? An ungrateful child is like a serpent’s tooth.”
“I leave you to lament my lack of consideration.” Abandoning her half-eaten scone Margaret got up from the table, feeling her cheeks burn. “I shall take my new dog for a walk.”
“Good idea.” Mrs. Carney reached out for the sugar. “I look forward to seeing the animal later.”
Mrs. Bellairs looked at her companion reproachfully, but Mrs. Carney had never shown much patience with her excess of feeling. “A dog may be just what this household needs,” she added, drawing the widow’s wrath on her own head while Margaret made her escape.
As she walked along the meadows of the estate, tugging the still damp and playful Berry on an improvised leash, she counted to almost five hundred before she felt able to consider the scene with her mother dispassionately. With one daughter already married to a Marquis and her grandson a Viscount, why was her mother so very anxious to see Margaret settled? They no longer were in danger of starvation, a real possibility only three years earlier.
Margaret had been ready and even eager to accept Sir Conrad, or any other rich and titled gentleman, when they were so desperately poor. Without the spur of poverty, marriage suddenly was far less attractive or urgent. Her mother found her recalcitrance perverse, but Margaret wanted more than security. In fact, the main reason why marriage seemed at all desirable these days was the prospect of escaping her mother’s authority. Margaret’s dependent situation chafed on her spirit, her pride.
Yet would marriage be all that preferable to her present life? Had she married Sir Conrad, for instance, Margaret would have to defer to him over the breakfast table, as she now deferred to her mother, or at least was supposed to. She felt no love or particular admiration for her cousin. For all his good looks and travels, Conrad was at heart a thoroughly commonplace young man, who nevertheless expected to dominate his own household. Miss Merridew, a shy young debutante who looked up at him worshipfully, would suit him infinitely better. Why could Margaret’s mother not see that?
But then her mother’s judgement was poor where men were concerned. She was still attempting to rehabilitate the m
emory of a weak and deeply flawed spouse. As though Father’s selfish wishes deserved the slightest attention, now that his death had released his womenfolk into a happier existence. It defied belief that the bitter experiences of the past years had not destroyed her mother’s ingrained deference towards all gentlemen, but there it was.
Margaret was at the end of her tether, where her mother’s rebukes and constant carping was concerned. They had never been so frequent, so concentrated, as now. In recent months her mother’s attention had been distracted by Emily’s pregnancy and the baby, and in Italy she had been too depressed to care what her daughters were up to. Margaret had not sufficiently appreciated her freedom.
Over lunch, her mother and Margaret were both punctiliously polite, almost like strangers. Neither had quite forgiven the other.
“Did Emily write anything else of consequence?” Margaret asked over the soup.
“You can read her letter for yourself.” Her mother rummaged in the reticule hanging from the back of her chair, and stiffly handed Margaret the close-written sheet.
Her eyes flew over the expected news of young Marcus thriving, the new cook working out very well, their projected move to the country. Towards the end, Emily wrote, by the by, Marianne has invited us to Amberley for the whole month of November. I have accepted for all of us.
Margaret’s hand grew rigid as it held the letter. During their childhood, as the older and bolder sister she had always been the leader, the one who decided what to do. Now Emily, two years her junior, was the one who arranged her life. Margaret was a mere afterthought, included by Lady Amberley because she came along with the Pells, willy-nilly. A poor relation, no matter how well that status was camouflaged by her family’s punctilious courtesy.
Though November was hardly the best time of the year to visit Amberley in the lake country, the prospect was not unpleasant in itself. Margaret was fond of Lady Amberley, who had been kind to her, and had greatly eased her introduction to fashionable society. But the difference in status – and in particular, Margaret’s lack of a husband, – had hitherto prevented a true friendship between her and the good-natured Countess.
Margaret put the letter down on the table and pushed it away. She was tired of being anyone’s dependent.
Chapter 15
In the afternoon the older ladies set out to call at the Vicarage. Mrs. Bellairs had arranged to view additional villages’ graveyards, this time in Mr. Langley’s company. Margaret declined once again to join the expedition, claiming a need to write letters, and breathed a sigh of relief when she found herself alone with Berry.
She was in the Conservatory, sketching the lazy hound stretched out in an inelegant sprawl on the stone floor, when Miss Langley called upon her. Berry jumped up, abandoning the pose before Margaret had quite caught in on paper, and sniffed suspiciously at the visitor. Vanessa Langley endured this canine investigation with calm aplomb. Margaret put away her pencils and sketchbook and offered her guest the only available seat; most of the better furniture, as well as all the good pictures of the Hall, were long gone. The wrought-iron bench was hardly comfortable, as they had not yet got around to replacing the missing cushions, but Vanessa made no complaint.
“My mother and Mrs. Carney are even now on their way to meet your father at the Vicarage.”
“I know,” Vanessa said. “Father talked about it during lunch, he has already jotted down a number of suggestions for the text on your father’s monument.”
“How very kind of him. Mother will appreciate his advice. She has always had the greatest respect for Mr. Langley’s judgement.”
“Father wants me to arrange a small dinner party with you and your mother,” Vanessa confided. “Quite soon.” Her expression was less than enthusiastic.
“You don’t want to do it? I sympathize. Listening to talk about grave monuments for a whole evening cannot be considered very entertaining.”
“No, that’s not it,” – was Vanessa blushing again? Her almost transparently fair skin showed even the slightest embarrassment. It must be a severe trial to the poor girl. “Of course I shall be pleased to arrange the dinner; in fact I came to bring you the invitation. But I also wanted to consult you, Miss Bellairs.”
“Do call me Margaret, have we not known each other since we were young children? I think of you as Vanessa, rather than Miss Langley.”
“I know, and you said to use your given name at the Milldales’ dinner. But you are so very different from the girl I used to know, - an elegant stranger who has seen something of the world and moves in the first circles. It feels disrespectful to use the first name, but I shall do so, Margaret, since you wish it.”
Could the girl really be this guileless? Despite being only two years older, Margaret did not know her well. Her secret romance with Christopher, the family’s growing financial troubles, and Vanessa’s care for her ailing mother had stood in the way of any particular intimacy. Vanessa had not yet been out when Margaret’s family had fled to their Italian relatives.
“If you want my advice on any subject, I am entirely at your service.” Margaret hoped it was about her impossible clothes. Poor Vanessa was once again dressed years out of date; though to be fair, here in the countryside sartorial standards were considerably less stringent.
“For a balanced table I need to invite gentlemen as well. Do you think Lord Laxeley would be willing to honour us with his company? It is such short notice, and he is a Viscount – I do not want to be forward. Mr. Trey seems very genteel, but as you see him daily at your house, you may not be anxious to meet him again in the evenings? The only other bachelor I can think of is Doctor Dorringley, and I don’t want to invite anyone who could make you feel awkward.”
Margaret was surprised at the girl’s willingness to consider her wishes in the matter. “I like Mr. Trey, who is most helpful and gentlemanly, and have no objection to dining with him any evening that you care to invite him. Lord Laxeley could not possibly consider your invitation forward, as you are acting in the capacity of your father’s hostess, as mistress of the Vicarage. He may accept or decline, considering the short notice, but there is nothing to prevent you from asking him. It would be polite to invite his uncle and aunt as well, of course.”
“Yes, I was going to.”
“As for Doctor Dorringley, he is an old friend of my family, and from my side there is no reason in the world not to invite him. But I cannot guarantee that he feels the same – I had rather not say anything more on that head.” In fact, she had already said too much.
“I see,” Vanessa murmured. Margaret rather doubted that she did. Despite her words, she hoped that Christopher would not be invited. She had no wish to further rebuff him, and neither did she want to see Christopher’s parents, especially his interfering mother.
“If I can help in any way with the preparation of your dinner party, please do not hesitate to call upon me. Over the last year I have accumulated a great deal of social experience, though more as guest than hostess. And if you will not be angry at me for speaking frankly...?” Margaret broke off before completing her impulsive comment, for in her experience people were almost always annoyed at candid speech, no matter how much they denied it.
“Pray do so,” Vanessa invited with a slightly apprehensive look.
“You are very pretty, and could be doubly so with slightly more fashionable dresses and more flattering colours.”
“Oh, is that all?” Vanessa grinned. “I know that perfectly well. Until now I simply did not find clothes terribly interesting and important. But if you can advise me how to look as elegant as you do so effortlessly, I am certainly not going to take offense.”
“It is supposed to look effortless, but it really isn’t. However, it might be an interesting challenge to make you look stunning for your party, with the materials at hand.”
“The party is in two days,” Vanessa warned, “that leaves almost no time. That is, unless you already have other plans? But the Harris dinner is not until Thu
rsday night…”
Margaret noted with interest that there was one local entertainment to which she had not been invited. Just as well, perhaps. She would have feared to find poison in her soup.
“It is enough time, if you put yourself into my hands.”
“Why would you want to help me?” Vanessa asked. “You have so many things to occupy you – the house to be repaired, your music, your drawing, and your friendships in the fashionable world.” She spoke as though she imagined Margaret’s life to be overflowing with important avocations, when surely the Vicar’s daughter and hostess must have her own, considerable duties.
“Don’t forget, training my new dog to behave in polite company,” Margaret said ruefully. Berry was at that moment exposing her belly to the visitor, legs in the air, and tail thumping the ground. Miss Langley had evidently won the dog’s full trust and approval. “Everyone will tell you that I have an artistic nature. You are an uncompleted masterpiece in need of my talents. But don’t fear that I consider it my life’s work; a few pointers, a few hours of consultation, and I shall pass on to my next project.”
“It would be a kindness,” Vanessa acknowledged. “I admit that the other day, at the Milldale dinner party, I wished – for the first time, mind you – that I were dressed more à la mode.” Margaret had a shrewd suspicion that it had been Lord Laxeley who had induced the girl’s sudden self-consciousness.
“We are only an inch or so apart,” Margaret said, “let us check in my wardrobe, if I see anything that would suit your very different colouring.”
“Not pink?” Vanessa said.
“Pink is insipid, and reminds me of piglets. No, you need certain shades of green, yellow, some blues, possibly grey or black.”
“I noticed that the Harris girls wore a lot more roses and flounces than you,” Vanessa observed, “but they did not come close to the effect of your gown.”