She glanced at him triumphantly, and he gave a roar of laughter and rumpled her hair. “Trelenny, you really are a goosecap. Imagine your using such powerful logic. Unanswerable, I promise you. I shall henceforth regard the Romans with a certain caution to my enthusiasm. How could it be otherwise after this major flaw in them has been pointed out to me?” His eyes danced with amusement.
“Now you’re laughing at me. I see nothing funny in it. A careless group of people at the very least, and who knows what at worst?” Her very eyebrows quivered with her fervor.
“I could tell you, if you were interested,” he teased.
“I’m not, thank you just the same.” She turned her back on him and delivered Stalwart into her groom’s hands. “I suppose you will wish to come in and take tea with Mama.”
“She will expect me to do so, of course, but if it will inconvenience you...”
“Not in the least,” she replied haughtily as she led the way toward the house.
“And, Trelenny, you should not be reading Glenarvon. You are far too young for such stuff, if there is any age for it, which I doubt.”
“Little you know,” she murmured; and, when he had been treated to her indifference over the tea table, she settled herself in the wing chair in her bedroom and finished the scandalous book. Not that she understood a great deal of its scandal because she had little knowledge of the people ridiculed and she had no intention of asking her mother for Mrs. Waplington’s letter to decode the work.
The book was old hat to London society by now, having been out for some months, and Mrs. Waplington had debated the wisdom of sending it to her old friend; but the desire to exhibit her intimate knowledge of the participants had won over her better judgment. And though Trelenny believed that her mother had set aside the book as unworthy of her attention, in actual fact Mrs. Storwood had read every line with a horrified interest which would have astonished her daughter. After all, Mrs. Storwood had reasoned, she was not impressionable as her child was and she, too, knew Lady Holland and Lady Melbourne, if she had no acquaintance with the younger members of the cast. Sometimes it seemed to her, from the snippets of gossip her friends sent, that the haut ton had run mad and that she was better off in the country. At other times she ached with regret at her daughter’s exclusion from the brilliantly lit ballrooms, the chatter-filled saloons, and the elegant playhouses. How well she remembered the days when Mr. Storwood was courting her against the backdrop of London’s gaiety...
* * *
Chapter 2
“Wetherby, have we one of my sister’s sidesaddles about still?” Cranford asked as he dismounted at the Ashwicke Park stables.
The groom rubbed a hand thoughtfully over his chin and cocked his head. “Mayt be, sir, and then mayt not. Want I should have a look-see?”
“If you would. I’ll be back a little later. Is my father at home?”
“Yes, sir. Leastways, he’s not rid out.”
With a nod, Cranford consigned his horse to the groom and trod purposefully toward the house. There was no use allowing the viscount to believe that his son’s suit with Miss Storwood was prospering, since it most emphatically was not. Although Cranford had not yet discussed the matter of marriage with the young lady herself, they were both well aware of his intentions. How could she not be, when he had approached Mr. Storwood for permission to court his daughter? Cranford was also aware that both Trelenny’s parents were in favor of the match. Only the daughter was not! But it went against the grain to offer for her when she was so patently indisposed to his suit, and he refused to speak of it with her when she gave him not the least encouragement. The silly child had every intention of refusing him, he could feel it in his bones, and he had no desire to hear her say so, the ungrateful imp.
The warm September sunlight barely penetrated Lord Chessels’ study, for he kept the draperies drawn while he worked there. There was no similarity between father and son. Lord Chessels was of only medium height and his son towered over him, while the harshly drawn features of the older man had found a kinder expression in the aristocratic nose, high cheekbones, and firm jaw of the younger. No lines of irritability scored Cranford’s forehead, and his eyes, although almost black, held none of the fierceness of his father’s. Cranford, as always, wore an impassive countenance in his father’s presence. Lord Chessels lifted preoccupied eyes from the accounts he was studying. “It’s you. Have you been to Sutton Hall?”
“Yes, sir.
“And the matter is settled at last, I hope.” Lord Chessels’ questioning brow rose with a hint of impatience.
“No, far from it.” It took an effort for Cranford to subdue the resentment which rose in him at his father’s condescending attitude, and he walked to the far end of the room, where he idly twirled the enormous globe. “I have not yet asked her because she does not welcome my suit.”
“Nonsense. How can you know unless you put the matter to her?” his father asked with undisguised annoyance.
Cranford clamped his teeth together and did not reply for a long moment. In his youth he would have spoken his mind with little regard for the respect due his father; he was more cautious now. His body still tensed with resentment as it always had, but he was more the master of his emotions now. “You have seen very little of Trelenny, of course, Father. She’s as transparent as a pane of glass, and she finds me a very dull fellow.”
The cold light in his father’s eyes spoke volumes. “You are boring her with your antiquities. Ladies aren’t interested in Roman ruins and Latin verses, Cranford. I would have thought you would know that…but perhaps you’ve forgotten.” Lord Chessels drummed his fingers against the desktop “Her parents are in favor of the match. She will do what they wish.”
“I think not. They won’t force her, and God knows I don’t want an unwilling bride. They have some influence, of course, but she’s a willful girl. Perhaps in time she will accustom herself to the idea, though I admit I am not particularly hopeful on that score.”
“Ha! You would be delighted if she refused you,” the older man growled. “I can’t see what you have against the girl. Takes after her mother a good deal in looks, with that blonde hair and those blue eyes. And you can see in Maria Storwood that there is no fading over twenty years’ time. Still a beautiful woman, with a fair understanding and considerable natural grace. What is there to balk at in that?”
“I take not the least exception to Mrs. Storwood, who is a lady of refinement and good breeding. Her daughter is a hoyden.”
“She’ll settle down when she produces an heir for you. They always do,” Lord Chessels replied smugly.
Again Cranford’s body stiffened and a muscle in his jaw twitched. “Do they, sir?”
The viscount raised his eyes sharply at the note of sarcasm in his son’s voice. “Just see that you win the girl, Cranford. Remember, it was your mother’s fondest wish.”
The young man’s eyes dropped before the triumph in his father’s gaze. “I’ll do what I can. If you will excuse me, sir.”
“Certainly. You’ve kept me long enough from important matters.”
Unmoved by the hostile dismissal, Cranford bowed formally, and quietly let himself out of the room. Since his mother's death several years previously, he had spent a fair amount of time at Ashwicke Park, but it had not been largely pleasurable time. The house itself he loved, with its fourteenth-century fan vaulting and oak paneling. Nor could he fault his father for the care he took of the house and grounds. They were, in fact, an obsession with the older man. No incipient decay was left unattended; servants were dismissed peremptorily for any carelessness in their duties to maintain the ancient building. Granted to the Ashwicke family at the Dissolution, the old abbey had been successfully converted into a magnificent residence and the current Lord Chessels was nagged only by the persistent belief that all of the former abbey grounds should be encompassed by his estate. But the king had seen fit in his wisdom to split the lands between the Storwoods
and the Ashwickes, the latter gaining the more valuable property, and no subsequent families had intermarried to combine the two. Lord Chessels was determined to see this gross oversight corrected in his lifetime.
Cranford himself had no such desire, either to combine the lands or to marry the Storwood heiress. Both were matters of indifference to him, as were his father’s wishes on the subject, but he could not be so sanguine in ignoring a match his mother had looked upon with favor. Of course, Trelenny had been only fifteen or sixteen when Lady Chessels had died, and his mother could not possibly have known what kind of young lady she would become. Her wish was based on the fondness she had for Trelenny as a child, as a younger friend for Clare, and also on her friendship of many years with Mrs. Storwood. It would be comforting to think that were she alive today, she would share his own dismay at Trelenny’s behavior; unfortunately, he feared she would not.
Ashwicke Park was not the same without his mother and sister. The lifelong antagonism with his father now colored his stays there, unrelieved as they had been in the past by the loving concern of Lady Chessels and the charming enthusiasm of Clare. Cranford wandered into the drawing room and stood by the traceried gothic window, looking out over the park. Although he could easily envision Trelenny galloping about the estate, he could not summon an image of her presiding over the tea tray or seated at the Broadwood pianoforte. Not once had he heard her play, and he had a sinking feeling that she did not know how. His mother and Clare had entertained the family circle and guests alike with their delightful performances, leaving all (except the usually slumbering viscount) enchanted. Since these occasions were among the few pictures of domestic harmony which Cranford could call forth from his own memory, the fact that Trelenny did not fit into them was more than discouraging. It was depressing.
Impatiently he spun about and headed for the stables, where he learned that Wetherby had found an old saddle of Clare’s stored in a little used cabinet under a variety of worn blankets. The groom watched him curiously as he studied the design of the horn, knee rest, fork base, and cantle. “Is someat wrong, sir?”
“Hmm. Certainly it is not a particularly safe or practical seat. Put it on Luckless if you will.” Cranford ignored the groom’s horrified expression and stood thoughtfully tapping his long fingers against a bench, his eyes unseeing but his mind rapidly considering and rejecting various innovations. When the groom called his attention to the fact that the horse awaited, Cranford nodded and, oblivious to the sensation he caused, swung himself onto the sidesaddle, muttering, “Damned awkward.”
The stable staff watched with astonishment as he put Luckless through his paces and eventually disappeared from their sight as he rode along a wooded path leading uphill. Although he did not return for half an hour, the men and boys made no comment and avoided one another’s eyes as they went about their work. Definitely the young master had changed since his mother had died, but out of respect for their memory of him as a reckless youth they would not discuss the matter. If they could overlook his penchant for bringing home broken jars and muddy old coins, at his age, then they could try to overlook his riding out on a sidesaddle!
Even though he was an expert rider, Cranford found it difficult to adapt himself to the seat required by the saddle. Jumping was particularly difficult as his knees did not find the purchase they ordinarily had. Luckless, unused to the strange balance of the load he carried, attempted several times to unseat his rider, and very nearly succeeded when they jumped a low wall onto descending ground. Cranford returned to the stables more thoughtful than he had been when he left.
Unfortunately, Lord Chessels had tired of his work on the estate books and had determined to have a ride before dusk. He was just swinging himself up onto his bay stallion when his son rode into the stableyard. An angry red suffused his face to an accompanying roar. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Attempting to assess the safety and practicality of a sidesaddle, sir.”
“Don’t you think perhaps you should be wearing a skirt?” his father asked in a voice laden with sarcasm.
Cranford considered the suggestion. “Yes, you are undoubtedly right, Father. It would be impossible to consider the safety without taking into consideration the wearing apparel used in conjunction with the sidesaddle.”
Infuriated, Lord Chessels raised his whip, and, for the second time that day, Cranford automatically moved to protect himself. He twisted the whip from his father’s grip and tossed it to the ground. The movement was unexpected, but Lord Chessels in his fury lashed his hand across the young man’s face. Cranford sat perfectly still in the ridiculous saddle, the red of the handmark vivid against his white face. In a cold, detached voice he said, “You were always one to act without sufficient information. Miss Storwood complained of the insecurity of a sidesaddle in our rough part of the country. In an effort to ... accommodate her, I am endeavoring to work out a saddle with a better seat. I had hoped that she might be pleased with such a service on my part.”
Lord Chessels merely sneered. “More fool she if anything you do pleases her.”
“Doubtless it was a vain hope," Cranford replied stiffly. His voice dropped to a murmur. “I am sure you would prefer a daughter-in-law who rides astride.”
The older man’s eyes narrowed, but instead of replying he dug his heels into the bay and rode off at a gallop. When he was out of sight, Cranford dismounted but did not touch the whip which lay at his feet. Instead he allowed Wetherby to lead Luckless to his stall, instructing that the saddle be taken to the workshop. “Tell Gillray I will be by tomorrow morning to discuss some changes I wish him to make in the saddle. And have the chestnuts ready in half an hour. I’ll be taking the phaeton.”
“You be wantin’ me to come with you?” Wetherby asked eagerly.
“No, not tonight.”
The scene between father and son had been witnessed by all, and Cranford received encouraging smiles from the men he passed as he headed back toward the house. Without a glance, he avoided the whip where it lay in the dirt, and when he returned some time later, dressed in an elegant coat of navy with light gray pantaloons and Hessians, it was still there. Expressionlessly he climbed into the carriage and gathered the ribbons in his hands. The snapping of the whip under the wheels of the phaeton caused an audible sigh from the apparently occupied stable staff, but not a muscle moved in Cranford’s impassive face.
Wetherby grunted as the phaeton gathered speed. “You seed him. And you heard him,” he declared belligerently to no one in particular. “There’s nothing amiss with young Mr. Ashwicke. He’s a-fixin’ the saddle for Miss Storwood. A man can’t know what needs a-fixin’ without he tries it hisself, by God. And I’m a-willin’ to take on any man who thinks otherways. Just say one word agin him…” Adopting the stance he considered most appropriate to a fighter, and looking for all the world like a bantam cock, Wetherby stared a challenge at his co-workers.
“Back down, big fellow,” the coachman called jocularly. “Ain’t a one of us thinks any different from you. He be worth a dozen of his pappy, and so I’d swear on a stack of Bibles. Only one of you tells his lordship I said so, and I’ll break his neck, I will. Give over, Wetherby. Young master may be an an-tee-quary but he’s a right-un.”
~ ~ ~
Once the phaeton had gained the main road, which ran from Shap to Kendal, Cranford found himself caught up in the melancholy atmosphere of the chain of mountainous moors over which he passed. Darkness was falling, but the last rays of the setting sun touched on the uncultivated land with a mysterious light which never failed to fascinate the young man. It was at such times of day when he could most easily imagine those Roman settlements which had spread over Britain so long ago. Kendal itself might well have been the Roman station of Concangium, and Cranford had studied with avid curiosity the Roman inscriptions and altars that remained there, the urns found in the riverbank, and the stones and pieces of Roman bricks occasionally thrown up by the plow. Esp
ecially interesting to him were the coins and seals, particularly the one supposed to be Janus quadrifons and the medal of Faustina. After the disruptions of the day Cranford spent a pleasant hour lost in the mysteries of the past before he began the descent to Kendal, seated on the west bank of the river and flourishing with all the prosperity the changing times could muster for the mercers, sheermen, cordwainers, tanners, glovers, tailors, and pewterers who plied their trades there. Its two main streets, neatly paved, crossed each other and were lined with shops and manufactories. The knit stockings, Kendal cottons, and linsey woolsey the town was famous for could be the more easily forgotten at night when the darkness obscured the evidence of trade, and the warm glow of light issuing from the public rooms of the King’s Arms invited the visitor to join the merriment within.
But it was not to the inn that Cranford directed his pair. He crossed the stone bridge leading out of town and continued a short distance along the main road. Though the light from the carriage lamp seemed feeble in the blackness, he had no difficulty in discerning the drive which gave onto the road from the left; he’d been this way before. There was nothing exceptional about the house he approached. It might have been any one of the modest homes of the wealthier tradesmen, a classic stone structure of a pleasing simplicity and symmetry with well-kept lawns and flower borders. The buildings were out of sight of the road, but no one in the neighborhood was unaware of their existence. And yet it was the best-kept secret in the north of England.
The groom who appeared at the sound of the approaching carriage lifted the lantern he carried close enough to allow him a careful look at Cranford, and his suspicious countenance softened into a welcoming smile. There was nothing tightfisted about Mr. Ashwicke; though it was evident that he was not one of your particularly well-heeled gentlemen, he never grudged a handsome gratuity for the care of his horses. “Fine night, sir. Shall I be giving them a good rub-down?”
Holiday in Bath Page 2