The Autumn Rose

by Fiona Hill

“My dear sir, that is not my meaning!”

  “What is your meaning?” he demanded.

  “It is, that you are in need of a wife, Lord Romby. And no matter how you deny it, no matter how you hide your loneliness behind that brave, crusty shield, I shall always know you are sad and sorry until you have a wife to aid you. A wife to comfort you, as the tender ewe comforts her lambs! A wife to bear you up, as mighty beams support the roof! A wife to—”

  “How will it be if I simply round up a piece of mutton and some trees?” he broke in. She ignored him.

  “A wife to shelter you, as—as the skull does the brain! A wife to nourish you, as the sap does the towering elm. A wife—”

  “Sap and skulls, eh?” he cackled. “Now you begin to arrive at the heart of the matter!”

  “Lord Romby, you are incorrigible! How long will you refuse all human warmth?”

  “Oh, human warmth!” he exclaimed. “Now this is more promising! You suggest I chase after the old petticoats again, eh?”

  “Hardly, dear sir.”

  “I was quite a champion in that line at one time,” said he reflectively, while his companion hid behind her fan. “Naturally that was some while ago—though I fancy there are still a few ladies here and there who would not be sorry to find my card sent up to them late one night. If I had a bit more blunt to work with, you know, I promise you I could do great things—but I wax poetical and bore you, I see.”

  Miss Windle was too much discomposed either to affirm or deny this hypothesis.

  “You know, Miss Windle, you surprise me,” Romby went on. “I never figured you for such an understanding gal. Most ladies faint at the very mention of—”

  “My lord, I pray you will not continue!” cried the poor good lady, feeling herself very near to tears. “I know you are teasing me, but it is very bad of you to carry the joke so far.”

  “Joke? Teasing?”

  “Please, sir, I scarcely know how to continue in the face of such raillery.”

  “Raillery?”

  “Lord Romby!” she burst out suddenly, with a kind of authority only a former governess of little boys can command. “I shall not be trifled with an instant longer. Lord Romby, I know how difficult it is for you to confront your—more tender sentiments, and because I know it, and because I can read into your soul a little better than—than certain other people—I am come to offer myself as—” her voice threatened to fail her but she recovered it by a savage effort and concluded, “as your wife!”

  There was a pause; then, “No!” exclaimed his lordship.

  “Yes!” she affirmed.

  “No!” he repeated.

  “But yes, I do,” asserted she.

  “By God, I know you do,” he snapped out. “What I mean is no. You offer and I say no!”

  “No!” she gasped out. “You are not serious.”

  “But yes,” he insisted.

  “Not—ever?” asked she incredulously.

  “Not ever. You might even say never.”

  “Never?”

  “Just so. Now you have gone and said it, just as I said you might.”

  “This,” she began, then checked herself and was silent a full minute. “This,” she repeated at length, “is very bad.”

  The old man looked at her warily at first, but presently his glance softened. “I am sorry,” he brought out gruffly, to his own surprise.

  Miss Windle did not appear to hear him. She sat staring at the fireplace, which happened to be before her, and was absolutely still. After a good three minutes of this (during which Romby had started to believe she was dead) she roused herself suddenly, rose without a word, and quitted the drawing-room. Lord Romby, with more tact than he had exercised in the entire twenty years previous to this moment, waited until the doors were shut to burst into laughter.

  Frustrated lovers abounded that day in London. Sir Sidney Pettingill, more stunned than saddened, had wandered away from Rucke House that morning to find himself, not a very long time later, in Conduit Street. Perhaps he had slipped into an invisible groove formed, through the years, by Lord Seabury’s many passages from one place to the other, for Pettingill somehow discovered himself directly before the Marquis of Safford’s establishment, and had no sooner made note of this circumstance than he found himself actually knocking on Lord Safford’s door. Mildly surprised, he observed vaguely that he had sent his card and compliments up to Lady Susan, and even the ten minutes he waited for that gentlewoman in the small drawing-room did not, somehow, provide sufficient time to orient himself. He was not in the least alarmed when Susan came in—no, not alarmed at all; but her arrival did come as something of a minor shock. He was positive, thinking about it later, that it was not something he had planned. It was pleasant to see her, at all events.

  That bright look about her hair which he had first remarked in Hampstead he now saw again, and saw with delight. What a lovely smile the girl had, too! Somewhere he had heard—had he not?—that she was over five-and-twenty years old; but he could scarcely believe such a tale looking at her now. “My dear ma’am,” he said genially, taking the hand she extended and making a portly bow above it. “I am so glad you are at home!”

  There was a particular sparkle in Sir Sidney’s eye that immediately made Susan feel quite as cheerful as her caller. “I should have been sorry to miss you,” she answered demurely. She seated herself and begged him to do the same. She was prepared to embark upon the usual round of polite inquiries and devoirs when Sir Sidney burst out with extraordinary enthusiasm.

  “My dear Lady Susan,” he exploded, without other prologue, “will you do me the honour to be my wife?”

  “My dear sir!” Vastly confused, Susan blushed and averted her eyes. Presently she added in a murmur, “You are in earnest?”

  “Perfectly,” he said—or rather, a spirit within him caused him to say, for it seemed to him that he had utterly lost control of his own behaviour. He waited breathlessly.

  “You have spoke to my father?” she asked.

  “Not at all. I—” His speech became a little halting as the mysterious spirit seemed, momentarily, to desert him. “I am afraid this is—well, it is all rather spontaneous, if you follow me. Will you marry me, Lady Susan? I should be the happiest man on earth. I know I do not deserve you,” he tacked on as an after-thought.

  “Not deserve me! Oh dear! I must ask Papa,” said she, all in one breath. Literal-minded as she was, she assumed he referred quite plainly to the fact that his rank and family were of less consequence than her own. She had no very clear idea of what constituted a good match, but she was pretty sure that whatever it might be, it was what her father wished her to make. She could not guess, moreover, how the marquis would receive the notion of a son-in-law other than Seabury. She must ask.

  But Pettingill instantly objected, “No, it is I who must ask his lordship. I ought to have done so before. I wonder why I did not? Is his lordship at home?”

  Lady Susan was about to pull the bell-rope and send a footman to find out when a better thought struck her. “You truly desire to marry me?” she asked, facing him. “You will not run off the moment you are left to yourself?”

  “Certainly not,” he replied, almost indignantly.

  “Then I must go and find Papa myself. Wait here,” she said, vanishing before he had time to protest. With a sense of boldness that invigorated her as nothing had ever done before, Lady Susan marched through the house on Conduit Street looking for her father. Sir Sidney was not a handsome man; she did not deceive herself on that point. He was not a brilliant man, or an ambitious one. In all these aspects he was distinctly inferior to the man her papa had chosen for her, Lord Seabury—but Sir Sidney had one advantage the viscount could never hope to have: he adored Lady Susan. Heretofore when Susan had read of love gleaming in a young man’s eyes she had been quite at a loss to understand what could be intended by the phrase. After meeting Sir Sidney’s glance this afternoon, however, it made sense to her. This was the first and,
as it happened, the last time in her entire life that Lady Susan made an independent judgement of what was best for her—but she did make it, and it is to her credit that she did not attempt to suppress or ignore it. On the contrary, she sailed directly into her father’s presence (he was examining accounts in his study) and announced, “Sir Sidney Pettingill is here, Papa, and wishes to marry me. I should like him to do so very much, sir, if you have no objection.”

  That the marquis was surprised need not be mentioned here; nor, indeed, need all his initial remarks be detailed. They were what they ought to be: how could this be, why should she wish to marry Pettingill, what of Seabury and so forth. Mostly they were interrogative in nature, but when he had obtained some answers he took time to make a statement of sorts. “I desire you to be happy, my dear, and it is on account of that desire that I do not dismiss this extraordinary proposal out of hand. However, I think you must take some time to consider; I must speak to your mother and Pettingill—and to Seabury, for that matter, if you decide to accept Sir Sidney—”

  He would have continued but she broke in, “Why must you talk to Lord Seabury, Papa? He and I are not betrothed. I gave him a perfectly good opportunity to come forward in Hampstead, you know, and if you want my opinion, he purposely resisted. It was not terribly kind of him, either. Perhaps he has decided to remain a bachelor.”

  “You seem to know your own mind on this matter, my dear,” said Safford, much struck since her entrance to the study with just this observation. “How will you feel if Lord Seabury continues to be received in our house, if I still work with him in Parliament? Will you then not feel painfully the force of what once existed between you? Does it amount to so little as that?”

  She thought for a moment. “Frankly, Papa, I do not expect I shall pass much time in London once I have married Sir Sidney—if I do marry him, that is. He has a lovely estate in Dorset you know—he told me all about it when we met in Hampstead—and I expect I shall chiefly reside there. I hope the loss of me would not weigh heavily upon you and Mamma. Of course you would always be welcome in our home.”

  He was silent. Then, “You are not afraid to disappoint Seabury?” he asked.

  “Dear Papa—I know it is only natural for you to be a little prejudiced in my favour, but quite candidly I think Lord Seabury has given us some reason to believe he does not really wish to marry me. Seven years is…” she paused delicately, “a long time to wait, after all.”

  Safford squinted at his daughter, who squinted back. “You truly suppose you will be happy with this young man?”

  “I am certain of it.”

  “Well then, my dear, you had better arrange for me to speak with him myself.” As he said this he reached across his desk for her hand, and presented her with a wide smooth cheek to kiss.

  “Oh Papa!” she cried, availing herself of this opportunity. “I am very happy indeed!”

  Rucke House, May 21st

  Dearest Angela,

  I have but a moment to write before the coach leaves. My next letter will come to you from Bessford, since that is where I am going. Little Amy Meredith has run away! Seabury thinks it may be with Mockabee, as I do too—only privately, for I do not wish to alarm him any more than need be. What a morning we have had!

  Seabury at first refused to let me come to Bessford, but Lady Beatrice intervened in my behalf. Her friend Walfish will follow us later. Windle comes too; perhaps the excitement will make her heartache easier to bear. My cold is all but gone, so have no fears on that head. Oh dear, they are looking for me—

  Best love to all,

  Caro

  P.S. This is all in confidence of course. Officially we are in Hampstead.

  C.W.

  Chapter XII

  “I simply cannot credit it,” Lady Beatrice said for the third time that day. Lord Seabury’s coach and four, with Seabury, Windle and Caro inside, was just in the act of pulling away from the marchioness’s house in South Audley Street when her ladyship decided to repeat her phrase a fourth time and then to burst out impatiently, “I instructed you two to separate Amy from Mockabee. How can you have allowed this to happen?”

  “For one thing, dear ma’am, just because Mockabee is out of town at the moment does not prove that it is he who has abducted Amy,” said Seabury, not entirely in the best of spirits himself. “And for another, how could Lady Caroline and I have prevented it? We had not the slightest hint of it.”

  “Actually,” Caro brought out with reluctance, “I did wonder why Amy was so very cheerful when she left London. Such a catastrophe as this, however, was quite beyond—”

  “Ah, you see!” Beatrice cried, jumping in upon this admission. “She did have a hint after all. Why, Caroline, why did you not mention it to me? Why? It is most vexatious!”

  “Lady Caroline, as I imagine she was about to say, could have had no notion of such a disaster as this one; it is a thing that could not occur to a gentlewoman,” Windle defended her. “Begging your leave to say so, madam,” she added, with an injured glance at the lady opposite her. Caro and Windle shared a seat; it was Seabury, across from them, who was obliged to make room for his majestically proportioned aunt.

  Lady Beatrice returned Miss Windle’s gaze with a regard not altogether kind, and went on (pointedly addressing Seabury), “None the less, I entrusted Amy to your care. I hope you will not deny that you have failed dreadfully.”

  “This sort of bickering can achieve nothing, madam,” said his lordship coldly. “I pray we may desist from it, particularly since we are not likely to reach Bessford before sundown.”

  “What a stick you are, Seabury. It is your least attractive trait.”

  The viscount steadfastly refusing to be drawn into another quarrel, Lady Beatrice eventually recovered her temper and confined her remarks to milder topics. Conversation was something less than brilliant nevertheless, since no one in the coach could really be interested in anything other than Amy Meredith’s disappearance. The note from her aunt informing them of the disaster had revealed very little of use, other than that the girl was gone. Apparently she had simply packed up and removed all the clothes she had brought from London, leaving not even so much as an explanatory letter. Her disappearance had been noticed about midnight, when she failed to come home from the house of a family in the neighbourhood, where she had said she was dining. The neighbouring family, when questioned, disclaimed any knowledge of a dinner invitation to Amy—and so the trail stopped dead. Seabury had made his decision to hurry to Bessford not so much because he had real hopes of picking up her scent in that locality as for lack of alternatives. Of course the innkeepers near Bessford and Canterbury should be interrogated; but if that resulted in nothing he would be obliged to try something more desperate, perhaps even to call upon the gentlemen of Bow Street.

  All the time Lord Seabury’s coach was bearing down upon Bessford, the Marquis of Safford was frantically endeavouring to find its owner. When he received no answer to the notes he sent round, he visited Rucke House himself. He was told that his lordship had gone to his house in Hampstead. The marquis sent a letter there, and toyed with the idea of calling in person; however, political business prevented his quitting London. He urgently wished to speak to Seabury before the announcement of Lady Susan’s impending marriage should appear in the Gazette. He desired to explain the matter to the younger man face to face, and to preserve if he might the friendship they had shared for so long. He would never have given permission for the item to appear so soon if he had imagined Seabury might be out of town. Late at night he yielded, though sadly, to the inevitable, for the announcement would appear the following day.

  The object of all this concern, utterly ignorant of it, arrived in Bessford with the rest of his party a little after eight o’clock in the evening. The older Miss Meredith greeted them with tears on her cheeks; she had scarcely stopped crying (Mrs. Henry informed the newcomers) since the younger Miss Meredith had vanished. Lord Seabury attempted to comfort her, and at the sa
me time to draw out from her any helpful information she might have forgot or overlooked. She was not, after all, an especially clever old lady: there was some possibility that she would deem inconsequential a detail that would later prove crucial. His lordship, however, succeeded in eliciting no such intelligence from her; she had absolutely nothing to offer, save a heart full of self-reproach and remorse.

  In the area of remorse, however, she could not surpass the redoubtable Mrs. Henry. Miss Windle, on first gazing into the eyes of her ancient competitor, expected to find there some vestige at least of her customary hauteur; but she found none. She discovered instead as meek and rueful a glance as could possibly survive in an eye habitually so icy; in fact, Mrs. Henry looked positively mortal. Of course there is no failure more violent and spectacular, if one is a chaperone, than to have one’s charge run off with a person or persons unknown; still, Miss Windle had expected Henry to stand up to the crisis with a trifle more spirit than she manifested now. The cause, at least in part, of Henry’s extraordinary mildness was revealed to Windle, during a private interview, within an hour of her arrival in Bessford.

  “I am afraid you must be very tired, Miss Windle,” murmured Mrs. Henry to that lady while the others clustered round Miss Meredith, “but I shall make so bold as to request a word with you alone in spite of that. I hope you will not disappoint me. It is a matter of some significance.”

  Miss Windle, exhausted by the journey indeed, was nevertheless surprised and curious. “As you like,” she returned obligingly, but not without a distinct sensation of continuing mistrust of Henry. The two ladies slipped off into a tiny dining-room downstairs. This was, indeed, the only common room in the house besides the one Miss Meredith and the others occupied, that place being made to serve as drawing-room and sitting-room, music-room, library and study. The house was really hardly bigger than a cottage.

  Mrs. Henry very civilly offered Miss Windle a chair; she herself remained standing, and paced throughout the chief portion of the interview. “This is not a pleasant matter for me to discuss,” Henry began, beginning also her wanderings through the cramped room, “but I am advised by my priest to do so, and do so I shall.”