Devotion

by Meg Kerr

  “Oh, but of course I do!” said Pen politely. “I have heard a great deal about you from Mrs. Bennet.”

  This assertion could not but give Lady Catherine pause, however she gathered her forces and continued. “Perhaps you know then that I am the mother of Miss Anne de Bourgh, who is not only of superior birth but is also the sole heiress of Rosings Park in Kent and extensive property besides.”

  Pen thought this a singularly odd beginning to a conversation but agreed that she had heard Miss de Bourgh mentioned as a very charming young lady.

  “But are you not aware that my daughter is engaged to Viscount Marlowe?”

  “Viscount Marlowe!” said Pen in amazement. “Are you sure you are not mistaken?”

  “Miss Harrington, I am not to be trifled with,” said Lady Catherine irately. “Nor will I accept dissimulation from you. Two days ago a most outrageous fabrication reached my ears, and I instantly determined to come to Meryton to require you to retract this falsehood. It was reported that you are on the point of being married to Lord Marlowe. But I assure you that if he paid you any attentions at all, which I most emphatically doubt, they proceeded from nothing more than idleness.”

  “It is no falsehood,” said Pen with a bitter sigh. “It is quite true. And Mrs. Bennet says I must be sure to get him because he is rich and I am so poor, and he says no one but him will have me because he has destroyed my reputation.”

  “Did you not hear me say that he is betrothed to my daughter?”

  “Oh yes, but I thought there must be some error. Perhaps there is more than one Viscount Marlowe.”

  “There is only one, and he has made an offer of marriage to my daughter and it has been accepted.”

  “Do you really mean it?” said Pen, brightening.

  “I am not accustomed to such language as this. Do you doubt my veracity?”

  “Oh no, Lady Catherine. It’s just that Lord Marlowe wrote to me only two days ago to insist on our elopement. He says I must be ready on Friday and he will come for me. I cannot help thinking that one of you must be wrong.”

  “Elopement!” said Lady Catherine with unadulterated astonishment. Then recovering herself she added severely, “There can be no foundation for this contention. It must be nothing more than a slander spread abroad by Mrs. Bennet and yourself.”

  “Here is his letter,” said Pen, extracting it from her pocket and handing it to Lady Catherine, for she had walked over to Longbourn that afternoon to discuss it with Mrs. Bennet.

  Lady Catherine took the sheet of paper with very evident distaste and disbelief, and after hesitating for a moment she looked it over. She instantly recognized Lord Marlowe’s handwriting, for she was herself in frequent correspondence with him, and the letter itself was perfectly clear.

  She was very close to being dumbfounded by the revelation of Lord Marlowe’s treachery, and although it perhaps ought to have prompted the generation of new thoughts, its stunning effect on her mind prevented her from forming a fresh purpose.

  “Miss Harrington, I forbid you to marry Lord Marlowe.”

  “I must not marry him?”

  “I forbid it absolutely.”

  “Dear Lady Catherine!” cried Pen, falling on her neck in tears, “you have made me so glad! Every body has said I must marry him. Mrs. Bennet thinks it is no harm to elope with him, for one of her daughters eloped and got a husband, but I don’t want to, indeed I don’t!”

  To this uncommon, indeed inconceivable, demonstration, Lady Catherine responded rather feebly, first attempting to make Pen sit up straight and then giving her a handkerchief. It was long before she could detach the grateful Pen from her person and even when she had accomplished this feat she found that her shawl remained uncomfortably damp. Pen was discovering that affection she could not confer on Lord Marlowe flowed freely towards Lady Catherine and she clung to her arm and with very little encouragement would even have bestowed several kisses on her.

  After these disclosures Lady Catherine felt certain that she could not encounter Mrs. Bennet with any thing like ease or detachment. She allowed Pen to see her to her carriage and was unable to prevent her placing a parting kiss on her cheek. She even raised her hand in farewell in answer to Pen’s euphoric waving as the carriage drew away.

  Mrs. Bennet was waiting when Pen made her way back to the drawing room, and was completely unprepared for the news that Lady Catherine had forbidden the elopement. “Why should Lady Catherine have it all her own way?” she objected in great irritation. “I say you have as much right to marry him as her daughter does and perhaps more. I have heard nothing of their engagement.”

  “But they seem to want him, and I do not.”

  When Mrs. Bennet after copious argument found that the matter was conclusively settled, she said, much offended, “Very well, very well. I am sure I do not care about it. Every one must do as they choose. But I don’t know whom you will get to marry you if you turn eligible gentlemen away in this fashion. Do not expect me to go to the same trouble again to find you another one.”

  Lord Marlowe heard of Lady Catherine’s peregrinations in the neighbourhood that day when he sat down to dinner with the Delafords, and gave a very perceptible start that was observed only by Frank Delaford, who was looking in his direction. He was unaware that his danger had passedfor it stood to reason that Lady Catherine would contemplate following up her invasion of Longbourn with a second one of Netherfield. Her intention had been subverted not by weariness, for in such a cause she would never had allowed physical or mental fatigue to impede her, but by a desire for meditation; and her carriage had swept off from Longbourn towards London without a detour. As he eat his soup he concluded that his resort of greatest safety and advantage, his acropolis, so to speak, from which he might defend his honour and his claim to the hand of Miss de Bourgh, was his own estate in Surrey. Early in the morning of the next day, which was Friday, he departed thither, before the Delaford family was up to bid him good-bye.

  Frank watched his retreat from his bedroom window, with vast satisfaction. Pen also was at her window, later in the day, expecting Lord Marlowe’s carriage to appear for the elopement. It did not, for which she was very thankful, and for which she identified her debt to Lady Catherine.

  ∞

  ∞

  ∞

  ∞

  ∞

  ∞

  CHAPTER

  30

  London, July 1816

  ∞

  ∞

  ∞

  ∞

  ∞

  ∞

  Nothing could have exceeded Mrs. Gardiner’s perplexity when Lady Metcalf called and left her card. The Gardiners were living in Harley Street, having a few months since removed from Gracechurch Street, but they did not belong to the social circle of their neighbours, and lived quietly between frequent visits with the Darcys and the Bingleys. Mrs. Gardiner was not so overcome by bafflement that she failed to respond by sending in her card to Lady Metcalf, and when she had done so she settled down to wait for the invitation which she supposed would follow. The London season was over and the Metcalfs ought to have been at their, or someone else’s, country house. The incident was entirely puzzling, and became more so when Mrs. Gardiner received an immediate note that her ladyship would call on her the following day.

  The visitor arrived and was conducted to the drawing room where Mrs. Gardiner greeted her with as much curiosity as courtesy. She had heard of her beauty from her two nieces, and also of her retiring demeanour; but the latter was not much on display, for Lady Metcalf approached her with as open a countenance as if they had long known each other. “You must wonder why I have called on you in this way,” she said without preamble. She spoke carefully, and with a trace of a rural accent. “You will want to hear my excuse, and I have two.”

  When Mrs. Gardiner found her voice, which did not
very soon occur, by good fortune she remembered her manners and invited her guest to a comfortable seat and offered her refreshment, all the while inquisitiveness nearly devouring her. Lady Metcalf did not long make her suffer however.

  “I wanted to thank you,” she said, “for your kindness to Johnny, to Mr. Amaury. You cannot know how gratefully I feel it. I have been very afraid for him and you have lifted a weight off my heart.”

  “But how do you know Johnny?” said Mrs. Gardiner.

  “I was born and grew up on his father’s estate, Ashbury Park in Surrey. My own father was a tenant farmer there. That is not where I first met Johnny though; I knew him later.”

  So many questions crowded Mrs. Gardiner’s thoughts that she did not know which one to ask, with the result that the most trivial of them first made its way to her lips. “Surrey? I thought the estate was in the North.”

  “I never heard of there being any property in the North.”

  “How strange, then, that I should think the family came from there. What could have led me to believe that? Perhaps it was that Amaury’s mother came from Northumberland, and I have got it mixed up.”

  “Johnny’s mother was a servant at Ashbury Park. She came from Ireland.”

  “Yes, of course! then I have quite confused the point. It does not signify, however, I’m sure. Mr. Gardiner and I came to know Johnnynot exactly by chance; we grew first to like him, and then to have a deep regard for him and to wish for his success in life, in another setting than the one he had seemingly chosen.” She wished to speak guardedly but honestly, not having any idea how much Lady Metcalf knew of his history.

  “He wrote to me that he was become an agent for your husband’s house on the Continent.”

  “Just so.”

  “I am glad he has left England. I feared what might happen if he stayed here longer.” Mrs. Gardiner was uncomfortably mute in reply to this statement, for she was not certain she understood her guest, and did not like to appear to understand her if she did. “My second reason to call on you is to tell you that I am very ashamed of my part in bringing Johnny and Miss Darcy together.”

  After a pause during which Mrs. Gardiner felt as though she would never comprehend any thing again, she suddenly realized that Lady Metcalf was referring to the ball. When Lady Metcalf saw that a little light had crept into the other lady’s mind she continued, “When I arranged that Johnny was to be let in to the house to see her, I did not know the harm that would come of it. You must think very badly of me, but I wish I had never done it. If there is some way I can make amends, I want you to tell me of it.”

  “I do not know what can be done about it,” said Mrs. Gardiner slowly. “It was certainly wrong of you to help Johnny in a way that so injured Miss Darcy, but Johnny was wrong and Miss Darcy was wrong as well. And if we wish to spread blame it can go even further than that. We are all hoping for the best, whatever that may be. I will remember your offer of assistance, and will let you know if there is need of it.”

  “Thank you,” said Lady Metcalf. She rose from her chair. “I should not stay longer. I have no right to ask you not to tell any one that I came here and what I said to you, but I think it would be better if we did not speak of it, either of us.”

  “I very much agree with you,” said Mrs. Gardiner. She saw her visitor to the door, and then returned to the drawing room to drink a restorative cup of tea and ruminate on what she had heard. Later, sitting with her husband after dinner, she asked, “My love, did not Johnny tell us that he was born in Scotland?”

  Mr. Gardiner, who was absorbed in a book of accounts, answered without raising his head, “Yes, I believe so.”

  “Do you not think Scotland a large distance from Surrey?”

  “Yes, I should think it not much less than four hundred miles.”

  “And do you not think there might be a vast number of isolated villages and remote farmhouses in England between Surrey and Scotland?”

  “No doubt.”

  “And that it would be less troublesome to conceal an unmarried young woman from Surrey who was with child in, let us say, Oxfordshire, than in Scotland?”

  At last Mr. Gardiner looked up. “What is on your mind, Mary? You are asking me some very odd questions.”

  “It is an odd affair. Lady Metcalf visited me today, as I told you she had said she would.”

  “And in what respect does Lady Metcalf contribute to this confusion, which already seems sufficient?”

  “Her father was a tenant on Lord Marlowe’s estate.”

  “Was she indeed? I do not think that is common knowledge.”

  “Very likely not. Neither Elizabeth nor Jane has ever said anything about it. The Marlowe estate is in Surrey.”

  “Nowhere near the North of England.”

  “Exactly. And I ask you again, why would the late Lord Marlowe have taken the trouble to send the girl all the way to Scotland when the next county would have done admirably? After all, he acknowledged the child and supported him until his death.”

  “What do you wish me to gather from this cross-examination? Perhaps it was the girl’s choice to go home.”

  “Her home was in Ireland.”

  “Ah; I begin to perceive your misgivings on this subject. Yes, it does seem peculiar when looked at in this way.”

  “Do you think there is a possibility that there was another reason for Johnny to have been born in Scotland?”

  “Where was he born? Do you recall what he said?”

  “Ayton, I am fairly certain.”

  “Ayton; I believe it is about ten miles from Berwick,” said Mr. Gardiner, “and near to Lamberton. Lamberton Toll?”

  “Lamberton Toll indeed,” replied Mrs. Gardiner.

  ∞

  ∞

  The following day Mr. Gardiner summoned his chief clerk, to whom he had often entrusted important commissions, into his office at his warehouse. “Mr. Haywood, I have a task for you.” Mr. Haywood intimated that he was at his employer’s disposal. “I should like you to go to Ashbury Park in Surrey, to Lamberton in Scotland, and to Canterbury.”

  “In that order, sir?”

  “As to the order you may do as you like. But I wish you to start at once.”

  “Very good, sir. It’s a fine time of year for a bit of travelling.”

  Mr. Gardiner then gave him some particular instructions, and dismissed him on his journey. If Mr. Haywood did not quite step from the warehouse directly into a coach, he nevertheless set off on his errand with great expedition.

  He returned in good time with a thick sheaf of papers in his wallet, which he ceremoniously handed to his employer. Mr. Gardiner looked them over. “Very good, Mr. Haywood, very good. You have done an excellent job. Not a word of this, you understand.”

  “It’s a very delicate subject, sir,” said the chief clerk. “I shall say nothing to any one, of course.” And he took up once more his everyday duties.

  John Amaury, in France on Mr. Gardiner’s business, was recalled to London and asked to present himself promptly at Harley Street for dinner. He was always sure of a welcome there, but the Gardiners greeted him with even more affability than was their custom. It was immediately clear to Amaury that some thing had occurred to excite their spirits although they persisted in pretending for a time that all was as usual. It had been their intention to impart their news to him after the meal, but their false composure could not endure even to the end of the soup.

  “It is no good,” said Mrs. Gardiner, looking at her plate.

  “I find it excellent,” said Amaury. “You have a proficient cook.”

  “That is not what I meant. I knew I should not be able to eat a morsel.”

  “Nor I, I am afraid,” said her husband. “Johnny, I hope you are not famished, for we have a communication that it seems can wait no longer. Come into the drawing room with us.
Mary, tell them to keep the soup warm.”

  Amaury followed his friends out of the dining room in a state of mystification and a little hunger, and when they were all seated Mr. Gardiner commenced speaking without any delay. Producing a packet of papers he said, “I have here copies of entries in three registers, the Old Toll House in Lamberton, the Ayton parish church and the parish church at Ashbury Park. The entry from Lamberton Toll House shows the legal common law marriage of John Marlowe, bachelor, to Kathleen O’Neill, spinster, on November 14, 1790. There are two subsequent entries from Ayton church. The first shows the birth of John Marlowe, their son, on the first day of February 1791, and the death of Kathleen Marlowe on the fifth day of February.” Amaury was immobile in astonishment, too amazed for his tongue to have the ability to form a remark. “The register of the church at Ashbury Park shows the marriage of John Marlowe to Elizabeth Brewster on the twenty-fifth day of February 1791 and the birth of their son Thomas on September 30, 1791.”

  Amaury had grown continually whiter as Mr. Gardiner spoke, until Mrs. Gardiner thought he might faint. “Johnny, are you unwell?” she asked. He scarcely heard her.

  “My father – married my mother?”

  “There can be no doubt of it,” said Mr. Gardiner. “The evidence is unassailable.”

  “But why, why then did he conceal it? He lived more than twenty years after. He never told me. Nor on his death did he make any confession of the truth.”

  “I believe he may have done so. I have also a copy of your father’s will, proven in the Canterbury court. As you told us, Johnny, it says, “to my son Thomas in recognition of the great loss he has suffered”, and leaves to him all your father’s property which was not entailed, which in conjunction with the registers is highly suggestive. And I have a statement from the housekeeper at Ashbury Park (my clerk Mr. Haywood it seems has unsuspected talents for blandishment) that when days after your father’s death his London solicitor brought the will to your brother there was with it a sealed letter, addressed to the son in the father’s hand. She did not know what had become of that letter, but it may have contained your father’s acknowledgement of you as his true heir.”