High Garth

by Mira Stables

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ann eventually cried herself to sleep. Her dreams were shattered. He did not love her. He seemed almost to hate her. Only hatred could explain those cruel words, and her one thought was escape. She must leave High Garth at the first opportunity, for to stay on in the face of such bitter aversion was more than she could endure. She slept badly and woke heavy-eyed and unrefreshed.

  But work must go on, and at least everyone was too busy to comment on her sickly looks and her lack of conversation. Patrick, too, was silent, the twins unwontedly subdued, though she could not decide whether this was due to last night’s unpleasantness or to shyness in the presence of a stranger. Fortunately that gentleman was in the best of spirits, even unbending so far as to compliment Jim on his weather lore, and his flow of talk covered the silence of the others.

  Ann set about her tasks mechanically. There was plenty to do, since pride would not permit a sore heart to excuse indifferent cooking, but for once there was no joy in the work. And Philip, as though sensing her preoccupation, was in his naughtiest mood, employing his energies in drawing ingenious red herrings across the paths of instruction. He celebrated his release from lessons by blowing a series of ear-piercing blasts on his new whistle, startling Janet into dropping a jug of batter. Ann impounded the whistle, reminding the sinner of his promises, and he stumped off in a fit of the sullens.

  Somehow the day dragged its weary length away, and at least the supper over which she had taken such pains earned hearty commendation from Mr. Fortune.

  “There’s naught to beat good fresh victuals cooked plain, without a lot of fancy kickshaws and French folde-rols,” he told the company.

  “And a glass of brandy to aid the digestion?” suggested Patrick, waving an inviting hand towards the parlour.

  “A very good notion,” accepted Mr. Fortune affably. “There’s one or two matters I’ve a mind to talk over with you, and no time like the present, for I should be on my way tomorrow.”

  Good manners enabled Patrick to conceal his pleasure at this information. Not only did he find his guest exhausting, however well-intentioned, but he was burningly anxious to set things right with Ann, and that meant that he must have her to himself for a little while—a difficult thing to achieve at any time in that busy household and quite impossible while he was encumbered with his duties as host.

  He established Mr. Fortune comfortably beside the parlour fire and poured brandy for both of them, wondering what scheme was to be laid before him. Probably some suggestion for improving his starveling acres which would require capital that he had no hope of raising. He settled himself to listen with courteous patience, sipped his brandy and was thus startled into a choking fit when his vis-a-vis said bluntly, “It’s about the girl.”

  By the time that he had recovered his breath, Mr. Fortune was in full flow, and though Patrick had missed the opening phrases there could be no misunderstanding the gist of the gentleman’s remarks. “and though I’m not suggesting for a moment that she’s not just as safe under your roof as she would be under mine, it won’t do. People’ll talk. And all the more because you live in this damned remote hole.”

  “Are you not a little late in reaching this conclusion?” asked Patrick quietly.

  Mr. Fortune scratched his chin. “Aye. You have me there, lad,” he admitted. “I should have had her out of it months ago. Truth is I was deeply involved just then in a very tricky bit of business. Business that might interest you, but we’ll talk of that another time. Add to that the fact that she’s an independent piece and that I’ve no legal hold over her, and you’ll see my difficulty.”

  Patrick nodded, not unsympathetically. “And how do you propose to persuade her to your way of thinking? For I am happy to tell you that she finds her work congenial and shows no inclination to desert her post. As you have probably seen for yourself.”

  Mr. Fortune hesitated for a moment, eyeing his host’s hard-bitten countenance doubtfully, and then, characteristically, plunged on.

  “Aye. I’ve seen it. And I’ve seen more than that.”

  He paused hopefully. But though Patrick’s mouth tightened ominously he only raised an eyebrow in mild enquiry. A little put out by this unco-operative attitude, Mr. Fortune decided to waste no more time on preliminaries.

  “Don’t tell me you’re not tail over top in love with her, for I’d not believe you, me having seen the way you look at her when you think no one’s watching. And if she’s not nutty on you, then she’s only fit for Bedlam. What else d’you think has kept a lass of her quality in thrall to a poverty stricken hill farmer these six months past?”

  Plain speaking with a vengeance, thought the slightly dazed Patrick. He could not protest over his own share in the indictment, but the idea that Ann might have developed a tendre for him was arrant nonsense. The hurt inflicted by Lavinia Errol’s jilting had cut deep and, in his solitary existence, had festered. Patrick could not envisage a ‘lass’ of Ann’s ‘quality’ finding him attractive.

  He strove to speak temperately. After all, Mr. Fortune was, in some sort, Ann’s guardian, and had a right to enquire his intentions. And he was guiltily aware that he had behaved badly in allowing her to stay on at the farm once he had realized that he was in love with her. Just as well as Mr. Fortune did he know the damage that tattling tongues could do to a girl’s reputation, but he had yielded to the temptation to keep her close and safe, where he could enjoy her warmth and her loveliness and know that though she could never be his, at least she had not given heart and hand to another. He blamed himself entirely, quite forgetting Ann’s own reluctance to go. He said quietly, “So far as my own feelings are in question, you are perfectly correct. I would give all I possess for the right to ask for Miss Beverley’s hand in marriage. Unfortunately, ‘all I possess’ is not sufficient to enable me to support a wife in even modest comfort. She is happy here at the moment, yes. She is young and healthy and the life is new to her. She enjoys the novelty and makes light of privations. But I have seen what such a life can do to a woman, even such as are bred up to it from childhood. A life of unremitting toil, premature ageing, ill-health and, all too often, early death. Do you think I would bring that on the girl I love? No, Mr. Fortune, I was wrong to allow her to stay. Use your best persuasions. Perhaps she will agree to go with you when you leave us tomorrow.”

  Though he had yielded so promptly to his guest’s view of the matter, it was rather astonishing to find that gentleman beaming at him with a geniality that seemed a little excessive under the circumstances, but his mood was too grim to allow of more than a faint, bleak surprise. Moreover Mr. Fortune was replenishing the glasses and obviously settling down to discuss the business in further detail, while all that Patrick desired was to put an early end to the interview and seek a decent solitude.

  “Well now,” Mr. Fortune began, hitching his chair a little nearer and dropping his voice to a confidential note. “Since we’re all agreed so far, let’s you and me consider a little further. I don’t mind telling you that I came up here in two minds. But I’m inclined to like the cut of your jib, so there’s one or two things I’d like to put to you before you come to any rash decisions. Only I can see as you’re one that will poker up with family pride as soon as I touch on personal matters, so I’ll just ask you to hear me out fairly and not go off at half cock before I’m finished.”

  Patrick wondered vaguely just how much more personal the fellow could get, but, anxious only to make an end, gave the required undertaking and steeled himself to patient endurance.

  “Well first of all there’s this family feud with your uncle.” He saw the suddenly arrested expression on his host’s face, and went on, half apologetically, “No, young Ann knows nothing about it, and it’s no bread and butter of mine, you’ll be saying. But your uncle’s my very good friend—in the way of business, of course—and when he found that I planned to visit you, he charged me with this message. The quarrel, he said, and it no more than a trivial thing at wo
rst—just a spat between brothers—was ’twixt him and your father. If your father had not died untimely it should have been healed e’er this. In so far as he was at fault he regrets it. But he has no quarrel with you. Indeed, as a younker, he liked you pretty well. And when all’s said and done, you’re his heir, choose how. He’d like to heal the breach between you, have you spend a part of each year at Encliffe. Since the place must come to you some day, you’d best know something of the running of it.”

  There was a long silence. Then Patrick said gravely, “I have no quarrel with my uncle, nor do I know the rights and wrongs of the dispute. My father was never an easy man. I would be happy to see a foolish feud buried. But I do not count myself my uncle’s heir. He is not so far gone in years that he might not yet sire an heir of his body.”

  It was Mr. Fortune’s turn to gape and choke. Surely the young man realized that it took two to make that kind of bargain?

  Patrick took pity on him. “I might reasonably have expected to inherit my father’s estate,” he pointed out. “I would be foolish indeed to count upon succeeding to my uncle’s dignities. Moreover I have an odd fancy for making my own way in life, and waiting about for dead men’s shoes is not my notion of enjoyment.”

  “Quite so. And very creditable. But you’ll allow that your present occupation offers small promise of profit. And, as you yourself admitted, none at all of marriage.”

  “We will leave my marriage out of this discussion, if you please,” interjected Patrick coldly.

  Mr. Fortune shrugged. “As you wish. And I suppose next you’ll say that you’re not interested in making your fortune, since you are already possessed of a large holding in railway stock which, unless I miss my guess, will eventually make you a wealthy man without any effort on your part.”

  “You appear to be remarkably well acquainted with my affairs,” said Patrick, keeping a tight hold on his rising anger. “Was my uncle your informant?”

  Mr. Fortune had the grace to look slightly ashamed. “He was. But only because both he and I are involved in the development of those same railways. And let me tell you, young man, that though it may be pockets to let with you at the moment, you may yet live to be thankful for your Papa’s far-sightedness.”

  There could be two opinions about that, thought Patrick wearily, and thought it was a reasonable explanation, it did nothing to soothe his growing resentment at what he felt to be an intolerable intrusion upon his private life.

  His mood was in no-wise softened when Mr. Fortune added reflectively, “Married Esther Donnington, too, for his second, didn’t he? And she fell heir to her father’s railway holdings if I remember aright.”

  “Your memory is excellent, sir. Though how all this concerns you I cannot imagine. However, if it will satisfy your curiosity, my father married Miss Donnington with my mother not six months in her grave. I myself never met the unfortunate lady, who died at Philip’s birth, but I make no doubt that your insinuations are fully justified. For your further information, his mother’s dowry—these all-important railway holdings—will go to Philip when he comes of age. Pray do not hesitate to ask if there are any further details of my family history that are of interest to you.”

  But irony was wasted on Mr. Fortune. He merely shook his head reproachfully and adjured his host not to be in such a hurry to show hackle. “I’m a plain man and I don’t believe in wrapping things up in a lot of fancy words to make em sound better. Which is why I asked you at the outset to give me a fair hearing,” he reminded. And Patrick, who thought that he had already shown commendable self-restraint, sighed, and waited for him to continue.

  The interruption, however, seemed to have thrown him out of his stride. He sat sipping his brandy thoughtfully for several minutes before he again launched himself into speech, and when he did so his voice lacked something of its former assurance.

  “When I set out to come to this wedding, my first notion was to take Ann straight back with me. I’m not saying she’d have come willingly, but there’s ways and means of managing that young woman when you know how. I’d only to make out I needed her badly enough and she’d have thought it to be her duty. Well, what with meeting your uncle—which I didn’t know till then that he was your uncle—and hearing about how you was placed, and then with one or two hints young Barbara let fall, I decided I’d come along and take a look at you myself. Which, barring your trick of pokering up when an older man offers you good advice, and your pig-headed obstinacy in refusing a helping hand from your own flesh and blood, I’ll admit I’m not ill-pleased.”

  For a moment amusement ousted annoyance. Patrick grinned and bowed mock acknowledgement.

  Mr. Fortune ignored this irrelevant impudence and pressed on. “I’m to be wed again in two months time,” he confided. “I’d reckoned on Ann being happy enough helping Amelia to buy her fal-lals and furbishing up the town house, and then, when we went on honeymoon, I’d thought to place her with some lady of fashion that would take her about a bit in Society. Lady Broughton says such arrangements are quite commonplace and perfectly respectable. Give her the chance to meet some eligible gentleman of her own sort. Never pretended to gentility myself, but the Beverleys may hold up their heads with the best.”

  He looked up enquiringly, but there was no response. To all appearances Patrick was lending only a polite ear to his remarks. Exasperated, he plunged on, “What’s more, she’s not a bad looking girl when she’s dressed right. You should have seen her at her sister’s wedding. Your uncle was quite taken with her. And you yourself will admit that she’s a good housekeeper. Once it gets about that she’s well-dowered too, she’ll have no difficulty in finding a husband.”

  He waited, hopefully. Patrick said civilly, “An excellent scheme, sir. As you say, the lady will have no difficulty in finding a husband under such circumstances. The trouble is more likely to arise in fending off unwanted suitors.”

  “And that’s the rub,” retorted Mr. Fortune smartly. “If she’s already set her heart on some other man, I’d just be wasting both time and money, wouldn’t I? For she’s an obstinate piece as I daresay you’ve discovered, and once her heart is given she’ll never change. Now you don’t seem to care over much about money, but let me remind you that time lost is gone for ever. If I’d married my Amelia thirty years ago as I wished to do, I’d maybe have had grandchildren of my own by now, and not be fretting myself to flinders over one headstrong chit. So just you take a lesson from me, young man, and don’t go wasting the best years of your life!”

  “But surely it is Miss Beverley’s future that we are considering,” suggested Patrick, clutching at the last shreds of his self control. “I am scarcely qualified to give advice, but if I stood in your shoes I should waste no time in putting your excellent scheme into effect.”

  He rose. It was shockingly ill-bred to indicate so plainly that he had had enough, but it was the simple truth. If the fellow kept on, tempting him almost beyond endurance, so reasonable, so plausible, he could not be answerable for his behaviour.

  The hint was taken. Mr. Fortune, apparently conceding defeat, allowed himself to be conducted to his bedchamber. But as Patrick bade him goodnight he seemed to decide on one last throw. “Well—if you must choke yourself on your own pride, you must. But I promised Mary I’d do my best for her girls, and it’s a promise I’ll keep, for all your looking murder-ripe. Twenty thousand pounds I settled on Barbara and mean to do as much for Ann. With more to follow when I pop off the hooks. So just you think that over. And now I’ll bid you goodnight and you can take yourself off.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “I’ll hap the fire, Janet. And I’ll be away early in the morning. Goodnight, my dear. Don’t look so sorrowful. We’ll come about again, I promise you.” Patrick hugged the bowed shoulders and dropped a light kiss on the wrinkled cheek. Janet was a darling, but the need for solitude was paramount. Nor could four walls contain his frustration, the fierce craving for the girl he loved, the urge to snatch at offered happi
ness regardless of pride and principle.

  He walked down to the pool where he had first faced up to the knowledge of his love for Ann Beverley, and alone in the darkness fought out his battle with temptation.

  He could not do it. Mr. Fortune, well-meaning but insensitive, could not understand his scruples. And it was small comfort to know that it was scruples—principles—call them what you would, that had laid the snare in which he was now held fast. He had held aloof, done everything in his power to hide his love. What, now, must Ann’s feelings be, if, as soon as he was informed that she was an heiress, he proposed marriage? Any girl with an ounce of spirit would send him to the rightabout in no uncertain fashion. Who could believe in a disinterested love under such circumstances? Temptation suggested that there might be something in what Mr. Fortune had said about those railway holdings paying off handsomely. Why not declare his love and ask her to wait for him? The fellow had sounded devilish convincing. But even if he was right, it must surely be several years before one could hope to reap that promised golden harvest. It would be unfair to ask a girl to wait so long while the years of her youth slipped away. A girl, moreover, who now had the opportunity to move in society where she might meet a far more eligible partner.