by May Burnett
“He said he was very sorry, and hoped that you would eventually forgive him,” Mrs. Harris relayed the result of this unsatisfactory interview. “He claimed he mistook his heart. He thought it was free for a new love, but has since seen his error.”
In short, her mother confirmed Betty’s worst fears. “But he is not engaged to Miss Bellairs, is he?”
Her mother shrugged. “Frankly, I don’t think she would take him now. With her new aristocratic connections, and the treasure as well as a dowry, she can look much higher. I hear that when they leave Bankington, Mrs. Bellairs and her daughter will be joining a house party at Amberley, as guests of the Earl and Countess. Lady Amberley is Lord Pell’s older sister. If Miss Bellairs married Dorringley after all, it would only be out of sentimentality, and that is not my estimation of her character. She will want a title, mark my words, like her sister. Mrs. Dorringley seems more hopeful about a possible reconciliation, but I think she is deluding herself. She cannot see her son as other than irresistible.”
“Miss Bellairs is not such a fool as to take Christopher back,” Ruth agreed with this assessment. “She cannot possibly want to live in a household with Mrs. Dorringley as her mother-in-law. You are well out of the affair, Betty, and can easily find someone less capricious, if not quite as handsome.”
“Beauty in a man is neither necessary, nor particularly conducive to a happy marriage,” their mother pronounced. “With your own pretty face and dowry, Betty, this setback is hardly reason for despair. You are only eighteen.”
Betty did not want anyone else. She would take Christopher back after she had got rid of Miss Bellairs, but not too quickly. She would make him grovel first. “Are the Dorringleys still coming to our dinner party?”
“Yes, it must go forward, as we cannot put off the other guests at such short notice. It will be awkward, but I hope I can rely on your sense of decorum, Betty.” Mrs. Harris said the last somewhat doubtfully. “I had rather you begged off yourself, with a headache, than have you enact some scene. A dinner is not the place for melodrama.”
Betty nodded tersely. Ruth looked sceptical, but their mother was satisfied and left the girls alone.
“Do not say one word,” Betty hissed.
Ruth ostentatiously opened her book to the current page and ignored her simmering twin. Even so, she managed to irritate Betty without saying anything. Her very posture was expressive of I told you so.
Betty closed her eyes and thought hard. She had to act quickly, before this nightmare went any further. ‘Mistaken his heart’, indeed! What utter nonsense! To profess himself in love with a girl who scorned him was not only foolish but utterly humiliating, both to Christopher and to herself. It was not to be borne. He must be made to see the error of his ways.
That horrible woman had far too much self-assurance for a debutante, even a superannuated one. She behaved more like a young matron than a maiden. Maybe, Betty thought hopefully, because she no longer was a maiden? In a hot-blooded country like Italy, among dangerous strangers and villains, anything was possible. How well had Margaret Bellairs been chaperoned during those years of her absence? Nobody in Derbyshire could vouch for the innocence of her life and conduct – all right, her mother had been with her, but it stood to reason she would not always have been alert. And a mother would shield her child, no matter how much of a hussy she might have been when nobody was the wiser; her account would be considered biased.
Someone had mentioned the other day that the Bellairs ladies had lived in the household of an Italian Count, some kind of distant connection. Would any Italian Count allow a beautiful, bold girl like Miss Bellairs, living under his roof for all that time, to preserve her virtue? Everyone knew how wicked those foreigners were.
It would be best if any suspicion did not come directly from Betty, as her dislike for Margaret was common knowledge. And mere words might not be sufficient. Something like a letter … a document … found by someone absolutely rigid in their morals, and above suspicion, where motive was concerned… who, how, when?
While her oblivious twin was immersed in a gothic novel, Betty concocted a tale no less lurid or dramatic.
Christopher would soon learn that his beloved Margaret had feet of clay.
***
Picking apples in the orchard, destined for a pie, Margaret wondered if the Vicar could really wish to spend so much time consoling her mother, on top of all the other duties the man must surely have. She herself had requested him to do so, of course, and her mother was unwontedly animated and talkative of late, completely unlike the pale wraith she had been during those dark days in Verona.
She carried the full basket to the kitchen and returned with another, to continue her unaccustomed labour. A cotton apron protected her dress, too elegant for the garden – though picking and arranging flowers was considered a ladylike pursuit, harvesting apples was decidedly not. No matter.
Currently Mrs. Bellairs’ hopes centred on Lord Laxeley, the most eligible and distinguished young man within many miles. “What could be more encouraging, than that he should also be musical?” she had said at least five times since the dinner party at Milldale Manor. “I saw his face during your performance, Margaret, he was most impressed. With just a little effort you can easily secure his affections. It must have been destiny that he should have chosen to visit his uncle for the first time in years just at the same time when we are back also.”
The news relayed by the Vicar, that the Viscount with his aunt and uncle would attend the Vicarage dinner, had further encouraged these hopes and speculations. In vain did Margaret remind her mother that they barely knew the young man, and that a taste for music was not in and of itself a guarantee of interest or romantic compatibility. As critical as she had been of her daughter lately, Mrs. Bellairs would not admit that any gentleman could know Margaret without paying her court, or fervently desiring to make her his wife.
Margaret liked Lord Laxeley well enough, but felt no spark of romantic interest in him. Surely when she met the man she was destined to marry, it would be different – she would feel her heart speed up, her breath hitch. She had not experienced those symptoms since her youthful infatuation with Christopher, but she well remembered how it had been. Not always comfortable, if she was honest with herself. Was she too old and mature these days, to succumb to such an effervescent fever?
She wiped a red-cheeked apple with her clean handkerchief and bit into its flesh. The sweetness was enhanced by a tart note, and the juice was refreshing. She had become quite heated from the work, though the day was overcast and temperate.
Was it possible that love manifested itself with subtler signs once a woman attained the age of reason? At fifteen and a half, when she first experienced palpitations at the sight of Christopher’s dishevelled locks and classical profile, Margaret had been a silly child, unable to judge the true character of the man. Or boy, rather, as Christopher had been seventeen at the time, and thoroughly spoilt by his doting mother.
Looking back, she had had a lucky escape. She would be Mrs. Dorringley now – the younger Mrs. Dorringley – had her father not gambled away his substance, and forced his family into ruin and exile. Would she be happier than she was now? She might have one or two handsome children, but she would have nothing to look forward to for the rest of her life, than Bankington and maybe the occasional holiday by the seaside. No wider society, no London concerts, daring fashions, house parties at Amberley; she would not be fluent in Italian, she would not have her treasure or her lanky dog. Yet that other Margaret that she might so easily have become, would never have known what she missed.
It was moot to consider that now. If the nineteen-year-old Margaret would have happily married Christopher, at twenty-two she had learned to value herself better, and wanted something else. Something more. Not a title and fortune – but a man who let her be herself, active, adventurous. Who would be there to catch her if she stumbled, but allow her to jump or climb as she pleased. Who would not expect her to ca
ter to his comfort all the time, as though it was the only thing that mattered, and defer to all his opinions. Who would listen to her views attentively and not interrupt her, as so many gentlemen did.
In fact, someone rather like Mr. Trey.
She stopped, apple in hand, to consider this startling notion.
Of course, he was not one of her suitors – though, why not? He was a gentleman, and free, from what he had told her. It would be a terrible misalliance in her mother’s eyes, now that Emily had made such a grand match; but before that, an architect would have been considered a suitable if not brilliant match.
Margaret had always wanted a title, and since moving in her sister’s circles, had rather taken for granted that this desire was within her reach; that she could have a title as well as a man who suited her in all other ways.
But if it came right down to it, what was more important, the title or the man?
It was not as though she had to decide the matter right away. Mr. Trey would not make the slightest move towards her without clear encouragement. Under their peculiar circumstances, where they consulted and talked every day, it would be highly improper and unprofessional if he tried to fix her affections. He would not want to make her uncomfortable, by going one step beyond the bounds of their developing friendship.
Was she fooling herself, that he was interested? She might be as vain as her mother, who deluded herself that all men they met admired her daughter. Yet from the way Trey sometimes looked at her, his affections might be engaged. Whether anything came of it must be up to her.
Pulling herself together, she delivered the last of her apples to the kitchens, and took off the apron. Upon being told by Tom that a lady visitor was waiting, she quickly checked her appearance, and repaired to the drawing room. She could barely conceal her surprise when she recognized Mrs. Dorringley, Christopher’s mother.
“Good morning, Ma’am,” she said coolly. “What can I do for you?”
“So cold, Margaret? When I have known you since you were a toddler? But so it goes, children grow up and change. And we, the older generation, sometimes make mistakes, even though we think we are acting for the best.”
“If you are referring to the lie you told your son, that I had married elsewhere at the time of my family’s misfortunes, set your mind at ease. I have long forgotten the matter. It was a blow then, but now I believe it may have been for the best.”
“My son does not think so, Margaret. He is deeply unhappy. Just when I was confident that he was finally past his infatuation with you, and he had agreed to look elsewhere, you had to come back. He won’t even talk to Betty Harris since he heard you play that time at Milldale Manor. I have never seen poor Christopher so melancholy and listless. All the progress he had made is completely shattered.”
“I am sorry to hear that, Mrs. Dorringley, but fail to see how it concerns me, or what I can do about it.”
“You could marry him,” Mrs. Dorringley said. “Don’t you feel anything for my son, after all those years of youthful adoration? He is more handsome today than he ever was then.”
Margaret stared, stunned by the woman’s effrontery. “It is your own doing as much as his, that I am not his wife at this moment, Ma’am. You must hold me excused from wanting to throw my future away on a family that has treated me so shabbily in the past.”
“What else could I do when I heard you were ruined, with nothing left but debts? I acted as any concerned mother would, in the interest of her son and future grandchildren.”
“I see. And now that I have a handsome dowry, augmented by the treasure we recently found in the wall, you are still acting as a responsible parent, I suppose. Your mercenary motives are all too evident.” Margaret had rarely spoken to an older person with such rude, almost pleasurable frankness.
“You mistake me – it is Christopher’s happiness that concerns me, the dowry is a secondary consideration. How could I have foreseen that he would pine after you so long, all those years? He claims that I permanently ruined his life, when I would do anything for my son. It is most unfair.”
Margaret shrugged. “That may be, but I do not love Christopher. This mission is futile, Ma’am, a waste of time for both of us. Please tell your son to forget me. He missed his chance, and I am no longer interested. One cannot have everything one wants, not even with a mother as devoted as you.”
Mrs. Dorringley’s eyes narrowed. “Is that your last word?”
“Certainly. To be honest, when I consider everything, I thank the Lord I did not marry into your family.”
Mrs. Dorringley swept out with colour staining her cheekbones, her lips tightly pressed together. Margaret looked after her with an ignoble spark of satisfaction. How many bitter tears she had shed because of that selfish woman! This absurd scene did not begin to balance the scales, but it felt good to get at least a tiny bit of her own back.
Chapter 18
William arrived at the Vicarage on the dot; punctuality was an ingrained habit. The prospect of seeing Miss Bellairs again, in evening finery, was an added inducement. There might even be a chance to hear her play the piano – for that he would gladly have walked several miles.
His feelings for the young lady were deepening in an alarming fashion. Now that he knew her better, he had a less idealised picture, but the complex reality was even more fascinating. Margaret Bellairs had a temper, a strong will, and too much energy for the sedate life of a society lady. She could be mercurial and even volatile, but a core of good sense reined these tendencies in, unless she was tired or extremely provoked. Her mother seemed unable to understand her nature, and must be a severe trial to Margaret. To his regret, there was nothing he could do except offer his broad shoulder for the aggravated beauty to rest on – only figuratively, alas – and distract her until her irritation dissolved like clouds in sunlight.
He would not have changed a single hair on Miss Bellairs’ head, let alone anything about her character. That light in her brown eyes, animated by intelligence and imagination, had him tied in knots. He would not easily forget her once this job ended, and feared that he would keep comparing other ladies to Margaret for years to come. They would all fall short, of course. It was unfortunate, but he could not regret their acquaintanceship. In the meantime, he would treasure every second spent in her company.
The Milldale party had arrived early. Lord Laxeley was complimenting Miss Langley on her appearance, with some reason. Unlike all previous times when he had seen the redheaded girl, tonight she was elegant in an eau-de-nil gown that emphasized her delicate fair skin, and allowed the top of her firm round bosom to peek out, without being in any way fast. Her hair was dressed with short ostrich feathers dyed in a matching colour, that could not have been easy to obtain in this rural fastness. Tonight she almost rivalled Miss Bellairs in style.
He guessed the reason when the Bellairs ladies arrived – minus Mrs. Carney, who had cried off. Mrs. Bellairs stared at the gown and feathers worn by her young hostess, and then looked wide-eyed at her own daughter, who was wearing a peach-coloured dinner gown and a simple flower arrangement in her dark hair. Mrs. Bellairs started to speak, but thought better of it at the last moment. Was it possible the dress and feathers so flattering to Miss Langley belonged to Margaret? The colour would certainly suit her too.
This dinner party was small and intimate, compared to the previous entertainments he had attended in Bankington. Only the Vicar and his daughter, Mrs. Bellairs and Margaret, Sir Reginald and Lady Milldale, Lord Laxeley, and himself, eight in all. William wondered at his inclusion in such a select group. As the hostess, Miss Langley had placed the young Viscount at her right side; the Vicar sat between Lady Milldale and Mrs. Bellairs, leaving Margaret Bellairs as his own partner. They exchanged smiles as the first course was served, but in such a small group, conversation soon became general.
“Do you always carry that cello with you when you travel?” Miss Bellairs asked Lord Laxeley. “I miss the piano on which I practice in London, an
d have been thinking of taking up a second, more portable instrument.”
“Whenever I travel for more than a week the cello comes along,” Laxeley said. “What smaller instrument were you thinking of, Miss Bellairs?”
“Possibly the flute or the mandolin,” she replied, only be interrupted by Sir Reginald.
“You must come and play on our pianoforte, Miss Bellairs! I should have offered before, but I forgot that you must have lost your own instrument at the Hall, um, earlier. Then you need not begin anew on some other instrument, and wrestle with it like a beginner.”
“How very kind,” Mrs. Bellairs answered for her daughter. “Margaret will enjoy that.”
“Thank you,” Miss Bellairs said to Sir Reginald, but from her tone William gathered that she was unlikely to take advantage of the offer. She was too proud to accept favours easily.
“Maybe you could practice a duet with Lord Laxeley and his cello?” Mrs. Bellairs suggested with a broad smile. Her daughter looked momentarily appalled at such blatant matchmaking.
“I prefer to play by myself,” she said repressively, then, with a look at the Viscount’s face, added, “when I play, I completely lose myself in the music. Having to accommodate my pace to another’s is difficult for me.”
“Then maybe you would like to play with me?” Lord Laxeley asked Miss Langley, who had been listening in silence. “I could bring the cello here, so you could use your own instrument.”
Blushing rosily, Vanessa Langley murmured her pleased agreement to this suggestion, while Mrs. Bellairs frowned at her daughter.
“We have a flute that used to belong to my late wife,” the Vicar recalled. “She had not played it for at least twenty years, so I do not know if it is still in good condition. You are most welcome to try it out, Margaret, to see if it suits your needs.”