by Mira Stables
So he was deeply disappointed when her engaging confidences, her spirited arguments and the laughter that lurked in the grey eyes even if it did not always find utterance, were suddenly exchanged for the polite reserve with which she now treated him. He was not to know how roughly Kate’s coarse suggestions had opened her innocent eyes to the ambiguity of her situation. Charm he never so wisely there was no restoration of the former easy relationship and he was eventually driven to enquire if he had offended her in some way.
She did not pretend to misunderstand him, but her eyes were lowered to the hands lying lightly clasped in her lap as she said slowly, “Indeed, no, my lord. But now that I am accustomed to the ways of polite society I realise that my manners were much too free. Because, in your courtesy, you have treated me as you treat your sister, I have used towards you a familiarity bordering on the presumptuous. This is a grave fault and a sad return for your generosity. I beg your pardon for it and am trying to govern my conduct more seemly.”
“If you’re going to talk that kind of fustian, my girl,” said his lordship wrathfully, “you will make me regret that I ever invited you to come to the Place. I never thought to hear such arrant nonsense from one I judged to be a sensible wench. You are doing an excellent job with Mary. She is happier than ever she was in her life. How else should I treat you but as her equal? As for my “generosity,” it is fortunate for you, Miss Wayburn, that I am not your brother. Many an impudent small sister had had her ears boxed on lesser provocation. Let us have no more of this rodomontade.”
She smiled and asked him what that meant. There was a glow of content in the fine eyes when he praised her influence on Mary, but it was evident that she did not accept his reassurances; that the old confiding trust was gone. He realised that she was troubled in some way but it seemed to him wiser not to press her too closely. He settled himself to the evening’s task, trusting to time and patience to set all to rights.
Chapter Five
The change in Lissa was in part explained when Mr. Hetherston came to call upon his lordship. That good man had pondered long before committing himself to an interview which was bound to be difficult, demanding of much diplomacy, a quality which he felt was not his strong suit. But the unpleasant hints and rumours which had reached his ears indicated that it was clearly his duty to intervene and neither the awkwardness of the business nor the likelihood that he would hopelessly alienate his patron’s grandson must be allowed to deflect him from the course indicated by his conscience.
The preliminary courtesies of a morning call having been dealt with, he set about his task without delay. In frank terms he related the stories that were going about the village, consequent, he suspected, upon the dismissal of Kate Stucker. But these, he informed his host, were comparatively unimportant. The Williams family had joyfully joined in the defamatory chorus but neither they nor the Stuckers carried much weight with local opinion, the Stuckers, in fact, being heartily disliked. The malicious gossip would die a natural death when Kate Stucker found fresh employment and Bertha Williams’s hair resumed its natural colour. There was an uncanonical twinkle in the good man’s eyes as he confided to his lordship that only the strongest representations on the part of his wife had prevented him from preaching a sermon on the dangers of vanity. His lordship grinned companionably but was too much disturbed by his report to enter fully into the humour of the situation. Nor did he find much comfort in soothing assurances that Mrs. Wayburn was well able to deal with open slanders and had far more friends and supporters in the village than had her enemies, for Hetherston had warned that there was worse to come. He controlled his mounting anger and waited, with ominous patience, to hear it.
The Vicar plunged on courageously. “What is much more unfortunate is that some of these rumours seem to have percolated beyond the village. I have received a number of hints from members of my congregation, and on Sunday morning Mrs. Wetherley actually took me to task for countenancing your flagrantly scandalous conduct. I assured her that there was nothing in the least scandalous but, on the contrary, a great deal that was both admirable and charitable, but I fear that I did not succeed in convincing her,” he ended sadly.
His lordship got up and crossed to the long windows that opened on to the terrace, turning his back on the Vicar. It might seem impolite, but it was better than giving vent to the pithy description of Mrs. Wetherley’s ancestry, birth, morals and conduct which was seething on the tip of his tongue and was certainly not suited to clerical ears. He stood there for some minutes, lean, strong fingers tapping a brisk tattoo on the glass, what time he mastered his temper. When at last he turned and came back to the hearth, murmuring a word of apology, his voice was perfectly controlled, but there was a look in his eye and a set to his mouth that reminded the Vicar forcibly of the Most Honourable the Marquis of Wrelf in one of his black rages. Perhaps there was not the same sound and fury, but never before had Mr. Hetherston seen in him this strong resemblance to his grandsire. He was uneasily aware that he would not care to cross this easy-going friendly young man in such a mood and devoutly hoped that his tactful persuasions would suffice.
“I would have thought that the local—gentry—” said Lord Stapleford icily, his tone turning the word into an insult—“even if they credited me with the seduction of an innocent child under my own roof, might at least have considered it unlikely that I would permit my mistress to become the intimate friend of my sister. However I accept your word for it that they do so believe. As for Mrs. Wetherley, she and my grandfather are bosom bows, and her nature is such that she would delight in making mischief if she could. If she goes tattling to him she is more likely to receive a sharp set-down,” he added thoughtfully, a gleam of cold amusement in his eyes as he recalled his last conversation with his grandfather. “But that is hardly to the point. It is Miss Wayburn’s good name that we have to consider. Let me say at once that I would be loath to disturb the present arrangement. So far as my sister is concerned it is working far better than I had dared to hope. I believe that Miss Wayburn, too, is benefiting from the wider opportunities that are open to her. Miss Parminter, I know, is much impressed with her abilities and character.”
That certainly gave the business a new aspect. The Vicar had entertained some notion of suggesting that Lissa might be sent to a respectable seminary as compensation for losing her agreeable position. In view of the Viscount’s remarks he now dismissed this solution and offered his rather more complicated plan.
“I beg you will not take offence, my lord, if I speak freely,” he began with considerable diffidence. “Both of us have Miss Wayburn’s interests at heart and if I seem to rebuke you for certain ill-judged actions I trust that you will bear that fact in mind.” He looked up, half appealingly, at the set countenance. The dark eyes met his with a trace of hauteur. Viscount Stapleford was not accustomed to having any of his actions called in question. The Vicar sighed. At least the young man seemed prepared to listen, and that was more than his grandfather would have done.
“In your dealings with Miss Wayburn I believe you to have acted on impulse—a generous, a chivalrous impulse, I make no doubt, but hastily conceived. There would have been no harm in that, since the girl was quite adequately chaperoned by Miss Parminter. The trouble has arisen largely because of your behaviour when first you came to Stapleford. Had you mixed with such of the local people as feel themselves entitled to be received at Stapleford Place, accepted some of their invitations and entertained in return, eaten their dinners and danced with their daughters—perhaps, especially, danced with their daughters—I believe that you would have escaped this scandal broth entirely. You must be aware that your unexpected arrival here caused a considerable stir. A good many reasons for it were imagined and freely discussed, and your behaviour in shutting yourself away added fuel to the fire of speculation. Add to this that you are one of the most eligible young men in the country. Heirs to Marquisates do not grow on every bush. I daresay every Mama of a marriageable daughter w
ithin twenty miles has bought her girl a new gown at the very least in the hope that she might catch your eye. Instead of which you shun them all and take into your household a girl of unknown birth and doubtful respectability. Yes, I know the girl is a good girl, as innocent as your own sister. But do you wonder at it that disappointment and jealousy were only too eager to seize upon the first suggestion of scandal and to spread it abroad with relish?”
He had begun his speech diffidently enough but had warmed to the task as he went on, forgetting the culprit’s exalted rank and speaking as he might have done to a son of his own in similar circumstances. Now he was guiltily aware that he had quite forgotten the respectful approach that was his lordship’s due and prepared himself to endure the expected set-down with decent composure.
It did not come. Glancing up at that dark forbidding countenance he saw that the look of arrogance was gone. His lordship was pulling thoughtfully at a rather long upper lip, and as he met the Vicar’s doubtful glance he even smiled a little. “I do seem to have made rather a cake of myself, don’t I, Sir?” he said pleasantly. “No excuse to offer either. If I had given the matter a moment’s thought I should have known how it would be. Now pray don’t think me a conceited coxcomb as well as a congenital idiot. I mean only that I should have remembered how it is in small communities. You are quite right, of course. I should have shown myself at the Wetherleys’ musical soirée and gone about more in general, but to speak truth I came down here in search of an anodyne that might heal my self-disgust and hoped to find it in solitude and hard work. No need to look distressed,” he interpolated cheerfully, “I find myself recovered almost unaware. And now that you have rung your peal over me, tell me how I may mend matters.”
Mr. Hetherston blinked, scarcely believing that he had heard aright. In his younger, more poverty-pinched, days, he had frequently eked out a meagre pittance by tutoring scions of the nobility who found difficulty in gaining admission to the academic groves. He had grown accustomed to arrogance, even rudeness, and at best to a total lack of consideration for his own sensibilities. The Viscount was, of course, considerably older than the unlicked cubs of Mr. Hetherston’s memory, but to accept in good part the raking down that he had received and then to admit its justification argued a sweetness of disposition both rare and admirable. Since the Vicar had never been privileged to hear the Marquis of Wrelf in full flow of vituperation he was blissfully unaware that to Lord Stapleford his rebuke had seemed excessively mild.
He beamed upon this promising young man with genuine liking. “If you could bring yourself to do so, it is not too late to rectify the position,” he suggested tentatively. “It would, of course, be fatal to plunge into a sudden whirl of social activity, but attendance at one or two functions with perhaps some show of hospitality in return would do much to redeem your reputation. If, without labouring the point, you could casually mention the improvement in your sister’s health and spirits now that she has a companion of her own age to share in her activities, and even drop a hint that it is this comfortable state of affairs that now leaves you free to pursue your own inclinations, I feel that you would soon be restored to favour with Mrs. Wetherley and that Miss Wayburn would come to be regarded as a positive benefactress.”
The Viscount regarded him with considerable respect. “You know, Sir,” he said with a grin, “I cannot help feeling that you have mistaken your path in life. You have either chosen the wrong profession or the wrong Church. In the Diplomatic Service or as a Jesuit Father you would clearly have reached the heights. As a simple country parson your talents are wasted. I notice with interest that it is I who am charged with the task of telling all these polite lies. Not that I blame you—but what part do you play in this little comedy of manners?”
There was certainly more than a suggestion of smugness in Mr Hetherston’s smile as he protested solemnly, “Not lies, my lord! Surely you would not deny the improvement in Lady Mary’s spirits, nor fail to give the credit where it is so clearly due? It is equally true that Miss Wayburn’s constant attendance on your sister renders Lady Mary less dependent on your society and so does, in fact, leave you more free to follow your own inclinations; while if those inclinations are not social, you are not bound to say so. Indeed it would be sadly ill-mannered to do so at a social gathering. I certainly hope you will guard your tongue at the party which my wife is giving next week and which we hope you will honour with your presence. Nothing grand, you know. Just a few conversable friends to dine with perhaps a little music and a rubber or two of whist afterwards.”
They were on such famous terms by this time that Lord Stapleford did not attempt to hide his horror, grimacing in mock agony as he said, “I’d be more than happy to eat my mutton with you and Mrs. Hetherston any day of the week. But I can guess only too accurately who your ‘conversable friends’ are likely to be and the prospect terrifies me. However, if I must be sacrificed on the altar of propriety I don’t see why you should have all the fun. I shall certainly invent a few ingenious tarradiddles of my own. How would it be if I were to drop a hint that I chance to be acquainted with the circumstances of Miss Wayburn’s birth and find in them nothing that precludes intimacy with my sister? I daresay, you know, that she was born in much the same way as any other infant, so that is just as true as the rest. I’ll lay you handsome odds that your ‘conversable friends’ would instantly credit me with an exact knowledge of her parentage. I have only to look sufficiently embarrassed and vow that my lips are sealed and within the sennight it would be common knowledge—known, of course, only to a few intimates—that she is the daughter of a lady of quality by one of the royal princes and that there is a strong suggestion that the pair were secretly married.”
He chuckled mischievously at the Vicar’s horrified face and patted him soothingly on the shoulder. “Perhaps I will not go quite so far as that. But I will not promise not to promote some such notion if chance offers.”
Chapter Six
The pattern of life at the Place changed slightly after the Vicar’s morning call. Lord Stapleford announced that his pupil’s progress was such that the evening lessons should now be extended to include the rest of the schoolroom party and that they might perhaps read aloud scenes from such of Shakespeare’s plays as Miss Parminter thought suitable. Lissa found this much more amusing than her solitary readings but missed the intimacy of the times when she had been free to talk as she wished, to ask questions that she could not put to anyone else and to feel—and this was the nub of the matter—that his lordship enjoyed her society, shared her sense of the ridiculous and even, she ventured to think, quite liked her as a person, regardless of her anomalous social position.
The riding lessons continued whenever the weather permitted but apart from this they saw little of his lordship who seemed to be increasingly involved in social engagements, until Lady Mary, grown bold in her new self-confidence, charged him with desertion and wondered wistfully, but with a wicked dimple that delighted him, if he found the Wetherley girls or Lady Sophia Retford more amusing than herself and Lissa. Her brother pulled her ringlets and informed her that it was not at all the thing to beg so brazenly for compliments. He did not tell her how deadly dull he found his truly heroic efforts to undo the harm caused by his earlier casual behaviour, or how often he wished that the evening reading might be prolonged in the informal family gatherings that would preclude the need to do the polite to some haughty dowager or, worse still, to invent empty compliments for her daughters.
Admittedly there were some moments of compensation. In early December hard frost set in and the lake in the park froze. After three days his lordship decreed that it was safe for skating. Lessons were abandoned, even Miss Parminter joining in the general excitement, for this was a rare treat. Skates were hunted out and the entire party set out for the ice where they disported themselves with varying degrees of agility. Lissa, picking herself up from one of her frequent tumbles, wondered admiringly how it was that Miss Parminter managed to look e
ven more dignified as she glided about the ice than she did on dry land, while his lordship—but perhaps one had better not refine too much on the perfection of that tall athletic figure. She was becoming increasingly aware that his lordship intruded all too often into her private thoughts.
Having tried out the ice on his family—or his family on the ice—his lordship, deciding that his character was now sufficiently re-established, sent out invitations to the young folk of the neighbourhood to attend a skating party the following day, adding that while he knew it was shockingly short notice, no one could foretell how long the hard weather would last and they must make the most of it. Since he was engaged to call on Mrs. Wetherley, he, himself, carried the invitation to her daughters. Both young ladies were seated with their Mama in the drawing-room when his lordship was announced, though only Miss Phoebe was to be regarded as really “out,” the sixteen-year-old Clarissa being still in the schoolroom. They fell at once into raptures over the delicious scheme, begging their Mama with pretty impulsiveness not to deny them the offered treat. Mama, eyeing them fondly and proudly and hoping that Lord Stapleford was properly impressed by the charming picture that they presented, arms gracefully entwined about each other’s waists, appealing faces lifted to hers, said that she would think it over. She added, with unwonted indulgence, that they might go and look out their skates in case her decision was favourable. A further appeal from Miss Clarissa having been promptly quelled by a sharp nip from Miss Phoebe, the sisters withdrew with becoming shy curtseys, the whole effect rather spoiled by Miss Clarissa’s neglecting to close the door properly before commencing to upbraid her sister in an audible whine, vowing that her arm was already showing the bruise.