by Mira Stables
“You have certainly convinced me that you stand in great need of proper guidance,” acknowledged the Earl coolly. “And since you wish to dispense with roundaboutation, permit me further to inform you that by the terms of your father’s will, this house is now at my disposal. It is not within your power to remain here without my consent, Miss Kirkley.”
There was a little gasp of utter dismay from Miss Clara. The Earl went on pleasantly, “However, so long as you remain biddable I shall be only too happy to leave Mrs and Miss Hamerton in undisturbed occupation. I am already convinced that the place could not be in better hands. When you have thought things over, I trust that it will not be necessary for me to make any changes.”
Chapter Three
“Really, Richard, it is quite impossible, I promise you.” Lady Maria picked up her novel, indicating, she hoped, that this tiresome discussion was now closed. The Earl leaned over and removed it from between her slender white fingers. She sighed, and prepared to defend her position.
“In view of her recent bereavement I cannot take her into society, even if I were willing, which I most certainly am not. She is too old to be kept in the schoolroom, and as for your notion that she might fill the place of a daughter in my establishment, it is really too absurd. I had never the least wish for a daughter, and had I ever been so misguided as to think of adopting one, I should not choose a girl who, if I am not mistaken, which is extremely unlikely, is both secretive and obstinate. Indeed I feel positively ill at ease in her society. All she ever says is ‘Yes, ma’am,’ and ‘No, ma’am,’ and ‘Indeed, ma’am,’ and all the time her eyes flash blue fire.”
Her ladyship shivered artistically, but seeing that her brother was about to speak, hastily abandoned histrionics and hurried on with her diatribe. “She has no social graces whatsoever. She can neither dance nor sing nor play cards, nor even converse, so far as I am aware. And surely even you must have realised that she is quite impossibly dowdy.”
“That at least is scarcely her fault, and can easily be remedied,” put in the Earl as his sister paused for breath. She paid no heed.
“To bring me such a creature at the very height of the season, when every day is positively crammed with engagements, and to expect me to devote my time to showing her how she should go on! No, Richard. It is too much. Take her up to Anderley to Hester, and keep her well hidden away until she has learned her A.B.C. Get a dancing master for her, and a governess—no—she is too old for that—well then—a companion, some woman of good sense and good taste who will teach her how to dress and do something about her complexion. Then bring her back to me next year and I will engage to do my best to get her off your hands. There! That is a handsome offer, and it is all you will get from me.”
“Has it ever occurred to you, Maria, that you are totally and irredeemably selfish?” enquired the Earl.
“But of course, my dear. How else could one live in any degree of comfort? How else could I understand you so well?” returned his sister sweetly. “For if there was ever a man entirely compounded of selfishness, he is standing beside me at this moment and preventing me from taking a sorely needed rest. You do not care for the social round, so you simply withdraw from society until you are almost a recluse. You dislike politics so you only fulfil your hereditary duties when one of your philanthropic friends is trying to force some reform or other upon us all. You despise women for their incurably shallow and frivolous dispositions, so you have abjured marriage, and it is extremely bad for Timothy, let me tell you, to be given the notion that he will inherit Anderley, for it is quite likely that in your dotage you will suddenly decide to marry just to disoblige him. If that is not selfishness, I do not know it when I see it.”
“I am sure you are quite right, my dear,” said the Earl with disarming meekness.
“And if you are trying to imply that I have no pity for a lonely orphan, let me point out to you first that she is your responsibility, which you have just failed to shift on to my shoulders, and secondly that she will be far happier at Anderley. Her interests are purely rustic. At Anderley she may ride all day if she wishes, and I am sure that Hester will be delighted to secure the services of such an accomplished veterinarian for those horrid little dogs of hers, and you will have the satisfaction of knowing that at least one of your sisters is pleased with your newest protégée.”
The Earl, who had listened attentively, if with twitching lips, to his sister’s masterly dissertation on selfishness, now ventured to interpolate a soothing comment.
“Timothy, at any rate, seems to have taken to her,” he suggested.
“Timothy!” snorted that gentleman’s mother. “He admires her horsemanship and talks to her as if she were one of his more disreputable cronies. She permits him to use the most unsuitable language in her presence with never a hint of censure. No wonder he says she is quite a good sort of girl. It is perfectly clear to me that he simply does not see her as a girl at all.”
“For that we should perhaps be grateful,” said the Earl rather dryly. “I would not care to see him making her the object of his attentions at this stage. Later, perhaps, when she is a little more awake to the time of day, we might see how they suit.”
Her ladyship bridled angrily, and promised her brother that such a match as he envisaged would never have her blessing.
“No?” queried the Earl. “I see no particular objection. She is quite a considerable heiress, and her breeding is perfectly respectable. It would not be a bad match. And Timothy, you know, is a very expensive young man. But we shall see. Let him come to me as usual in August. Miss Kirkley can practise her social graces on him. And one thing at least you shall do for me. See that the girl buys suitable clothes. I cannot have all the world declaring that my ward—God help me—is a dowd. Now come, Maria, you know very well that you will enjoy spending my money. And though it grieves me to be obliged to pay you compliments, I will freely admit that your instinct for fashion is rarely at fault.”
A reluctant smile curved her ladyship’s mouth. “We-ell,” she hesitated, “but what about her mourning?”
The Earl frowned over that, but finally decided that if the girl was to be kept secluded at Anderley for several months they might, for once, run counter to established precedent. “Besides,” he concluded, “I really cannot face the prospect of seeing her about the place clad always in funereal black, and Charles would have been the last man to wish it. Nor would it serve at all in educating her taste for fashion.”
Lady Maria thereupon engaged herself to furnish the orphan with a wardrobe that should be the envy of all feminine beholders, and the Earl went off to find his charge and to break to her the news of the change in her immediate prospects.
It was received with complete indifference. She betrayed no interest in Anderley, its whereabouts and inhabitants, the sister who kept house for him or the kind of life that she would lead there. The Earl could not refrain from silent tribute to such admirable tactics. During his military career he had frequently studied the behaviour of the peoples of occupied countries. Miss Kirkley’s demeanour reminded him forcibly of certain aristocratic ladies of those countries. The conqueror’s presence must be endured, but he could be snubbed and ignored, his friendly overtures not so much rejected as simply unnoticed, until he was thoroughly ill at ease and almost apologetic. Such tactics would not work with him of course. He was merely appreciating the instinctive behaviour that was the outcome of the girl’s breeding. ‘Bon sang ne peut mentir,’ as the French had it. The Earl was beginning to consider Miss Kirkley as a person in her own right rather than as an inherited obligation. She was certainly not the spiritless creature he had first thought her. There had been, at times, a gleam in the blue eyes that betrayed the rebellion raging behind the icy restraint. It seemed likely that her sojourn at Anderley might be enlivened by an occasional brisk engagement. He viewed that prospect with amused satisfaction.
Since there was no hope of ridding herself of her unwanted guest by any other
means, Lady Maria made all haste to accomplish her share of the bargain. Elizabeth was hurried from one select establishment to another. Rich silks and velvets, fine linens and dainty muslins and gauzes were purchased with what seemed to her reckless extravagance. Shoes for all occasions, gloves, silk stockings, fans and ribbons, the requirements of a lady of fashion seemed endless. She soon found it necessary to abandon the pose of cool boredom with which she had embarked on the shopping expeditions. One could not help being interested in the accumulation of so many treasures, and if all had been left to Lady Maria’s choosing she would have bought only such shades as were ‘dernier cri’—principally bronze-greens and saffron-yellows—which had the effect of turning fading sunburn to a dirty sallowness. Every feminine instinct rebelled, as also the practical good sense inculcated by Miss Clara. If so much money were to be spent on fashionable clothes, then she would choose colours that she would enjoy wearing, even if details of style and cut must be left to the more experienced lady. Calmly but definitely she rejected the brown velvet that Lady Maria had selected for her riding habit, and indicated a sapphire blue which accentuated the blue of her eyes. Lady Maria admitted defeat. It was the first of many tussles between the two ladies. Lady Maria emerged from the campaign with a strong notion that her brother was not fully aware of the magnitude of his undertaking. A young woman of twenty-three with a definite will of her own could not be cowed into submission so easily as a chit of seventeen or so. But this opinion she kept to herself, fearful lest the Earl should change his mind about removing the trying creature to Anderley.
To Elizabeth the days seemed endless. There were weary hours of standing patiently to be fitted while Lady Maria’s dresser instructed the two sewing women who had been engaged to complete her new wardrobe as soon as possible. No entertainment was devised for her, for Lady Maria’s many engagements left her little enough time to be grudgingly bestowed upon the shopping expeditions. Sometimes she took refuge in the library, browsing among the musty books that no one else seemed to care for. At least it was peaceful there, and she discovered an old road-book of Gloucestershire with which she assuaged her homesickness.
Only in the early morning hours was there any pleasure to be found in this new existence. Then she would go riding in the park, attended sometimes by a groom, but more usually by Timothy Elsford. They were Timothy’s horses that she rode, and with Timothy alone did she a little discard her reserve. From their first accidental encounter in the stable yard they had been on the easiest of terms. A carelessly kind offer of a mount suitable for a lady had been eagerly accepted, the innocent Elizabeth never giving a thought as to why so dashing a blade as Mr Elsford kept such an animal in his stables. Chance had brought him to the park where Miss Kirkley was quite unwittingly demonstrating that, whatever the shortcomings he had heard his Mama bemoaning, her horsemanship was of the first order. Nothing could have established her more firmly in his regard, and an admiring comment from one of his particular friends serving to endorse his own opinion, he was very happy to ride with her whenever no more attractive occupation offered. A light-hearted young man of considerable charm, he kept her in a ripple of amusement by an artless flow of comment on the various notabilities who chanced to cross their path. Elizabeth found herself lifted quite out of her despondency, and since he was so obliging as to answer all her questions with exemplary patience—the role of wiseacre being new to him and therefore tolerably amusing—she was much inclined to think him as goodhearted as he was entertaining, and to count him her sole friend in her lonely exile.
Indeed there was only one subject on which they found themselves at odds. Mr Elsford held to it firmly that his uncle was a very good sort of man. He might be a trifle strait-laced and inclined to view life much more soberly than did his ebullient nephew, and he certainly had an odd kick to his gallop when it came to matters of reform and philanthropy, but there was no one better to help one out of a fix. To Elizabeth’s fierce denunciation and accusations of blackmail and bullying he turned an amused but disbelieving ear. She must have misunderstood. His uncle was the kindest of men. When she learned to know him better she would find him the most indulgent guardian, with only her own good at heart.
“I am his heir, you know,” confided Timothy, “and though there is not the least need for it, for my father was pretty well to pass, he makes me a spanking allowance, as well as giving me the run of Anderley whenever I choose to go. No, depend upon it, Miss Elizabeth, you are quite mistaken in him.”
And Elizabeth, feeling that his attitude, if ill-informed, at least did credit to his own warm heart, made no further attempt to shake his allegiance.
Chapter Four
“No,” said Elizabeth defiantly. “I will not.”
One eyebrow lifted gently, and the corners of the firm mouth were tucked in as though to restrain a smile. Otherwise the Earl surveyed the rebel with his customary imperturbability.
She knew very well that it was foolish to fall into disputation with him, yet she could never resist the temptation. Each time that she had tried to assert her own will his reasonable arguments had defeated her at all points and forced her into reluctant submission. It would have been far more dignified to have maintained her original pose of passive silence, but she was too young and too passionate to pursue such tactics for long. Moreover she was beginning to find a strange exhilaration in the contest between them. So far, she conceded fairly, she had been outmanoeuvred and discomfited in each engagement, but one day she would emerge the victor, and it was the last battle that counted.
“It is quite unreasonable,” she went on now. “I am no longer a child to submit without question to the dictates of my elders.”
The Earl, accepting unmoved the reference to his advanced age, said kindly, “I doubt if you ever did that, Miss Kirkley, even as a child. Certainly not after you had learned to talk. And I strongly suspect that even in infancy you kicked and screamed whenever your will was crossed. I can only be thankful that you were not in my charge at that period in your career. I should have been quite at a loss as to how to deal with your tantrums at that tender age.”
“But not now?” she enquired with dangerous meekness.
“Why, no. I do not anticipate any unusual difficulty,” he smiled back.
“By blackmail, I suppose, as usual,” she said bitterly. “If I do not obey you, you will threaten to evict my family from their home—which by every natural right is far more theirs than yours, for they have worked for it and cherished it, while you have merely inherited it, quite undeservedly, to add to an estate already by far too vast for one man to own.”
The Earl might have pointed out that he had not in fact inherited it, but merely held it in trust for her. He did not do so. It would be a pity to end so promising a skirmish too soon. He relished the battles of words and wits quite as much as did his ward.
“Would you say, ‘quite undeservedly’?” he enquired earnestly. “You do not feel that my patient endeavours on your behalf merit some small recompense?”
Her indignant face was answer enough. “No?” he smiled. “And as for your remarks about my estate, can it be, my dear Miss Kirkley, that you harbour revolutionary principles in your bosom? Keep them to yourself, I do beg of you. They will certainly not serve to advance you in your social career.”
“As I have repeatedly assured you, my lord, I do not wish for a social career. And I care not at all for all these useless accomplishments that you are so determined to thrust upon me. What, for instance, is the use of learning Italian?”
“It is generally accepted,” said the Earl solemnly, “that a knowledge of foreign languages is the key to a vast treasure house of literature.” He raised that mocking eyebrow at her.
“Bah!” said the lady. “Don’t waste that fustian on me. You don’t believe a word of it.”
“Really, Miss Kirkley,” said the Earl in pained reproach, “I can only suppose that you have picked up this indelicate manner of speech from my nephew Timothy. Pray r
efrain. It will not—”
“Serve to advance my social career,” snapped Elizabeth. “I am aware.”
“And do not interrupt me,” he went on coolly. “That is ill-mannered. I was about to observe that it will not be necessary for you to acquire a thorough knowledge of Italian. All that is needed is familiarity with a few words and phrases appropriate to the discussion of the fine arts. These, pronounced with confidence and an impeccable accent, will convey the impression that you are perfectly at home in the language.”
“And that is what I detest above all. I could respect a sound knowledge of the Italian tongue, even if I, personally, can see little use for it. But to be acquiring a few words like an educated parrot, merely to create a false impression of a culture one does not possess, is what I have no patience with. Pretentious folly!”
The Earl studied her curiously. She was, he decided, quite surprisingly lovely when she was moved to indignation. Maria had spoken of eyes that flashed blue fire. He acknowledged the accuracy of the description. For himself it was the enchanting profile that he found attractive—the straight little nose, the short full upper lip that seemed to invite kisses, and the dimpled determined chin. She was putting out promising petals of undeniable charm, this unwanted ward of his.
“If you could choose your own curriculum of studies, what would you choose?” he asked suddenly, on a note of genuine friendly interest.