The Autumn Rose

by Fiona Hill

  “But on the contrary, sir,” Susan said; then, reflecting that perhaps it was he who did not desire her company, added, “Of course, if you had rather be solitary—”

  “Never, dear ma’am!” he broke in at once. Lady Susan had been crying just a bit—mainly for shame that she could not do her parents’ bidding—and was, strangely, the prettier for it. A few tears seemed to alleviate the squint that marred her beauty, as if it were the relief of crying those cramped muscles round her eyes had been wanting all along. It was a warm day, too, and the strong sunshine pouring into the saloon fell brightly on her blond head, lighting up her features. All in all, Pettingill was struck with the idea that she was good-looking—an idea that had evaded him during their occasional encounters in London society. As was his habit, he immediately began to calculate what sort of a wife she might make him—how much they could expect to have a year, whether or not she was sturdy and healthy enough to bear him many children, what consequence her family held and whether it would outshine him too much—all manner of consideration. It ought to be pointed out that Sir Sidney had not the least notion of presumptuousness in this: to him marriage was something of a mathematical equation, wherein one factor (himself) and the solution (a happy life) were known, and the second factor (the woman who was to marry him) had yet to be discovered. The poor man had no head for algebra, and was therefore obliged to apply the ancient schoolboy’s method: try everything, one thing at a time. If it would not answer for him to wed Lady A, he must consider Lady B, and if Lady B proved inappropriate, there was always Miss C, or her sister D. Thus, in his automatic appraisal of Lady Susan Manning there was nothing either to offend her (if she did not care for the idea) or to please her (if she did). It was the purely mechanical operation of an eminently orderly mind. The machine was so well-oiled, in fact, that Pettingill could continue to speak smoothly and pleasantly even while it ran. He did so in this case. “I perceive you have sustained some injury, madam,” he said solicitously, sitting down opposite to her after a slight bow. “I hope it is nothing grave.”

  She assured him it was not. “And you, Sir Sidney; are you only just arrived in Hampstead? What a pity you could not have joined us for breakfast; it was delicious.” Her conversation was not, perhaps, brilliant, but she was in fact glad to be talking to someone after the disgrace and embarrassment of the morning. It was not until Lady Safford returned to the drawing-room and found the two together, however, that Susan talked to Sir Sidney with any object in mind. Her instinct, upon her mother’s entrance, was to fall into her habitual quietness while her parent spoke for her; to her surprise, Lady Safford sat with them only a few moments, and said almost nothing. When she rose to depart, she leaned down as if to kiss Susan’s cheek; what she actually did during this moment was to whisper two words: “Encourage him.” With this injunction to spur her along, Lady Susan did a good deal worse in thinking of things to say to Pettingill—the luckless girl was quite nervous after her defeat of the morning—though the gentleman scarcely noticed the change. In addition to her nervousness, Lady Susan could not guess why her mother should suggest such a course of action; it was not until hours afterwards, when the mystery had been frankly explained to her in the privacy of Lady Safford’s chamber, that she understood her supposed partiality to Pettingill was meant to make Seabury jealous. If she had doubts as to the likelihood of such a scheme succeeding, she kept them to herself. All she said to her mother was, “Certainly, mamma.”

  The object of this interesting scheme was, while Susan sat about encouraging his appointed rival, absorbed in a conversation of his own with Lady Caroline Wythe. They spoke, as they were meant to, mainly of Amy and Mockabee, but many little glances between them, shy and brief but perfectly recognizable, voiced the pleasure each felt in the company of the other. They had never, as Caro noted silently, been out together in open country: it was a pity, for they kept the same pace naturally, seemed to chuse without discussion the same paths; in short, agreed in every particular. As to their audible exchanges, these were more complex. Lord Seabury was of the opinion that Miss Meredith ought to be separated from the baron at once, possibly returned to the home of her Aunt Meredith; Caro was of a different mind. “I beg you will believe me, sir,” she said. “I thought just as you do, at first, but reflection persuaded me it would defeat our purpose rather than serve it. I hesitate to speak ill of your cousin, but the truth is—well, after all, the truth is that her nature is a little contrary. On the first occasion, for example, of my discovering her sentiments towards Mockabee, I endeavoured to open her eyes to his true character. So far from trusting me, she thought I was trying to spite her. She even supposed me jealous!”

  The viscount considered this while they climbed a gentle slope. “It may be that her mind is turned against you,” he said at last, “but that she will listen to me. At all events, I think it is my duty to try at least to address her directly on the subject. If she scoffs, so much the worse for me; but perhaps she will not.”

  “I understand your thinking, but I must insist you are too sanguine,” Caro replied. She described to him the incident at the Opera, when they had observed the baron with Lady Embrey. She appended this caution: “It is well to remember, moreover, that once you admonish her on this head she is likely to include you on her list of adversaries. Your first move, whatever it is, ought to be your strongest; for afterwards you will be impeded by her mistrust.”

  “This is wise,” Seabury said simply. They had gained the crest of the small hill and stood for a moment, side by side, feeling a mild warm breeze brush their faces. The trees were too thick with leaves to stir in the wind; they were as still as trees in a painted landscape, heavy with the fullness of ripening summer: tender, fresh, and green. “Look at the sky,” his lordship murmured, and Caro surveyed that empty blue dome with as much appreciation as if she had never seen it before. This moment sank deep into both their memories; it was to be recalled by each under more trying circumstances, and remembered with a sensation of peaceful gratitude. Like all such moments, it struck neither of them, while it lasted, as being in any way extraordinary. It endured, none the less, much longer than the memory of any joyful meeting, any parting word or glance ever begged or wrested or contrived at great pains; such is the capricious nature of the mind.

  Lord Seabury resumed his train of thought while they descended the incline and pressed on through a tangle of spiky undergrowth. “I suppose the other logical move, since it may be foolish to attempt to sway Amy, is to approach Lord Mockabee. You will appreciate my unwillingness to do so, however; there is hardly any correct or pleasant way to accomplish such an errand. The very idea of it is an insult, as Mockabee would be quick to recognize.”

  “True—and yet, suppose I were to speak to him?”

  “I am sorry, but I do not see the advantage—” he began.

  She interrupted eagerly, “Lord Mockabee and I are neighbours in Berkshire, you know; we were acquainted at—” she faltered as the precise circumstances returned to her—“at quite a young age. If I made no mention of you, it is not impossible he would oblige me willingly. All I need do is dwell upon my concern for Amy’s happiness, point out how impressionable a young girl may be, perhaps flatter him a little regarding his attractiveness…I shall not do so without your approval, of course, but I think it may answer.”

  “You are generous to make such an offer,” he answered slowly, “for I know no reason why you should be at pains to protect Miss Meredith. Still, I feel somehow as if I were casting you into a lion’s pit. May not Lord Mockabee misunderstand?”

  Caro, whose growing desire to be of use to Seabury was all that made her so hopeful regarding the baron’s supposed cooperation, did not quite take her companion’s meaning at first; her zeal caused her to reject automatically any protest on his part, whether she comprehended it or not. “I shall be very clear, I promise you. Besides, what other alternative have we?”

  He paused before responding. “There is one solution, th
ough it is rather drastic, which cannot fail.”

  “To wit?”

  “I might offer for Amy myself.”

  Caroline was silent. “I seem to be scarcely able to speak today without a risk of offending you,” she brought out at length, “but does it not occur to you that your cousin might—for whatever extraordinary reason, dear sir—refuse you?”

  Seabury, who had very little of vanity, was not in the least offended. On the contrary, Caroline’s phrase “for whatever extraordinary reason,” interested him far more than any uncomplimentary aspect of her objection. He had no leisure to contemplate it at the moment, however, for they had by now been walking quite a long time, and it was dawning on him that they really ought to return to the house. He could not, indeed, remember in retrospect what precisely had induced him to leave it in such a harum-scarum manner; it was not at all like him. He might even have imperilled Lady Caroline’s good name by whisking her away so indecorously; and certainly it did not look well in him to have quitted Susan’s vicinity before the physician had made a pronouncement on her ankle. The more he considered it, the more reprehensible his behaviour appeared. For this reason he ceased to amble on as the whim took him and instead bent his steps (and Caroline’s) directly towards home. In answer to Caro’s last remark, he merely said, rather absently, “Perhaps.” Lady Caroline mistook his absent tone for a return of his customary reserve and aloofness, however, and this impression was strengthened by his sudden turn homewards. Distressed, she sought at once to repair her error, before it caused (as had another rash remark of hers) a prolonged uneasiness between them.

  “I did not intend, dear sir, to suggest Miss Meredith would be likely to refuse you,” she began. “I am miserable if I did so; I beg you will forgive me! If Amy were not infatuated with Mockabee—if she manifested more prudence in her attachments, and less girlish wilfullness—the idea would be unthinkable.”

  This interested Seabury even more deeply than her earlier qualification, but he hardly knew what to say to it. He assured her he had not felt slighted (though in terms so formal that Caro was not convinced), then added, “In any case, it has ever seemed to me that even more important than the virtues of the wife, or the attributes of the husband, is their suitability to one another. It signifies no disrespect—”

  Caroline jumped in to answer him before he could end his sentence. “This is precisely my feeling, my lord!” said she. “How should you and Amy ever be happy together? It would be a shame, a dreadful shame!”

  “To say truth, I never imagined we should suit, Lady Caroline. Were I to offer, it would be purely from a sense of responsibility to her. As for happiness—we should be obliged to rely on time and habit to bring it.”

  “I am afraid time and habit have a false reputation,” she replied, “for instead of bringing happiness, I have never observed them to do anything but remove it. Naturally, a gentleman’s principles are his own,” she continued, “but I find it hard to credit that it may ever be anyone’s duty to enter permanently into an unhappy union. In the case of Amy Meredith—” and here she knew perfectly well she was going too far; but she could not seem to stop the habit of hasty speech in spite of that “—so many other acceptable solutions may be reached that it would be absolutely barbarous in you to make a human sacrifice of yourself. Besides,” she concluded, desiring somehow to lessen the intensity of her argument, “there is Lady Susan.”

  They were in sight of the house now, and it would be difficult to say who was the more dismayed by the impending termination of their discourse. Determined to satisfy as much of his curiosity as should be possible in the remaining yards, Lord Seabury demanded rather sharply, “And what has Lady Susan to say to it?”

  The question confused her. Did Seabury mean to deny his longstanding intimacy with Susan? Perhaps he had really made up his mind not to marry her after all! Or, more likely, he was piqued at Caro’s continued interference into his privacy and code of conduct, and only sought to silence her. Whatever the case, she eluded the necessity of replying pretty well, for they were now so near to the door that she could say with good reason, “Oh, dear! Before we go in, pray tell me if I may speak to Lord Mockabee as we discussed. Soonest is best, I think, so if you approve I shall do so this afternoon.”

  Seabury’s handsome mouth tightened before he spoke, but in the end he assented. It went against the grain with him to yield the burden of such a responsibility to anyone else, and particularly to a woman. Still, Caroline had presented her logic forcefully, and in the case of so unscrupulous a gentleman as the baron, unconventional methods might be justified—or even necessary. Lady Caroline thanked him for his permission as if he had granted her a great favour; it was indeed an unusual speech for her, who was so little accustomed to asking permission from anyone at all, still less to being grateful for it.

  They were greeted, upon their return, by a scolding from Lady Beatrice, who had perceived their approach to the house from a window in a front sitting-room upstairs. She had slipped out alone, she said, upon seeing them; but the two hours previous to this had been taken up by the annoying business of keeping Miss Meredith and Lord Mockabee from being tête-à-tête. Mrs. Henry and Miss Windle, it seemed, were engaged in another of their needlework competitions, and could not be bothered with such minor details as tending to their charges. “And you two!” Lady Beatrice continued, warming to her subject, “I cannot decide which of you surprises me more! Did I not expressly desire you, only last night, to devise some means of separating Amy from Mockabee?”

  Both parties owned that she had.

  “Then what has kept you from it?” she demanded, her wide face reddening with indignant anger. “When I request a thing to be done, I expect someone to do it, and no shilly-shallying. Do you know what I have been obliged to do today?”

  They owned they did not.

  “I have been obliged to ride out on horseback,” she pronounced majestically. “At my age! With my figure! Do you know how long it had been since I last rode out in such a fashion?”

  Still trying hard to look ashamed, Caro and Seabury said they could not guess, looked at one another and burst out laughing.

  “All very well for you to laugh,” said Lady Beatrice, looking (in spite of her words) pretty near to giggling with them. “You two are the cause of my undergoing such a humiliation. Lord Mockabee invited Miss Amy to ride; and she, you may be sure, was very willing. What was I to do but insist upon accompanying them? I declare I thought my legs would fall off, and the poor horse—!”

  Seabury, who cared as much for horseflesh as the next man, was a little alarmed at this, though he could not help but laugh again anyhow. “Is it really two hours though, since we quitted the house?” he asked a moment later.

  “Quite,” Lady Beatrice informed him. She did not, as he had expected her to do, follow this with a harangue regarding how remiss he had been in the business of Lady Susan’s ankle; he could not imagine how or why he escaped this. Caroline knew very well the answer to that puzzle, and her consciousness made her blush. “Anyhow, I trust by now you have hit upon an ingenious scheme for thwarting this incipient disaster,” Lady Beatrice prompted after a pause.

  “Not exactly,” said Caro, acquainting her with the pertinent points of their discussion on this head. It was agreed among them that Lord Seabury ought to go and greet the newly arrived Sir Sidney, and to look in upon Lady Susan; while Lady Beatrice and Caro returned to the front sitting-room. Once there, Lady Beatrice very firmly requested Miss Meredith’s assistance in responding to a letter she had just received—Lady Beatrice was so fatigued she could barely hold pen to paper, whereas Amy was so young such an effort was nothing to her, etc. Amy left with misgivings, for she had been alone with her adored baron no more than fifteen minutes; but even in that short interval their conversation had achieved (in her estimation) a tone of intimacy hitherto unprecedented. She did not like to leave Mockabee when so warm a note had finally been established—particularly not if it were Car
oline who would remain in her absence.

  In truth there was not so much in that conversation to please Miss Meredith as her youth and inexperience caused her to imagine. Lord Mockabee was not a man to play with fire unless the prize for doing so were great; what he had been trying to do, in fact, was to make certain Amy was really as plump a chicken as she appeared to be. To do this he had turned the topic to her family. He supposed, he had said, they gave her all the ribands and baubles she desired?

  “Oh, dear,” she had cried. “My cousin Seabury attends to that; he is very generous with me it is true—although,” she added pettishly, “he insists I am not to have a fur-lined cloak until next winter, which I must say I think very small of him.”