The Stanbroke Girls

by Fiona Hill

  Weld looked annoyed. “My good man, what possible reason could Lady Emilia have for supposing Miss Lewis’s feelings are other than what they are?” he asked. “If ever there were an unprejudiced well-wisher in a scenario, that well-wisher is Lady Emilia. You ought to thank her for taking an interest, come to that, for she had no reason to. Why, come to think of it, I believe she told me she’d brought the question up to you quite directly.”

  “I certainly don’t recall it.”

  “One morning at your parents’ home, it was, I think. She and Marchmont went calling on you—remember it, because they purposely discouraged me from joining them. Something about leaving Marchmont alone with your sister…Excuse me, old chap, I suppose you’ve seen the wind blowing in that direction, in any case?”

  “The wind blowing—?”

  “I mean, you’ve doubtless realized Lord Marchmont is deeply—well, that he admires your sister very much?”

  “What, Elizabeth? Or Bella?”

  “Oh, my God!”

  “What do you mean, Lord Weld?”

  But his lordship put his head in his hands and prayed silently for coffee. When he did answer, he only said, “Never mind, dear boy, pretend I never said it.”

  “Said what?”

  “Perfect, ideal. Thank you. Now about you and Miss Lewis—”

  “Look, if you don’t mind my sharing a little confidence with you—” Charlie burst out.

  “Not at all, why should I?” lied Weld.

  “Then the fact is, Lady Emilia herself took a fancy to me once upon a time, and that was when she conceived of Miss Lewis as a rival. It was nothing to do with Amy herself, I’m sure. It was only the kind of thing a woman in love—well, a woman infatuated, at all events—does tend to imagine. So that’s why I cannot take her testimony seriously; you understand, don’t you?”

  But Lord Weld had begun to be a little angry. “Lady Emilia take a fancy to you?” he cried, on the point of leaping to his feet. “I never heard of anything so ludicrous. Whatever gave you such a thought, sir?”

  “Ludicrous?” echoed Charlie hotly. “I’ll thank you to choose your words more carefully, my lord. And what gave me the thought was her coming to me and suggesting that we sometimes overlook what’s right under our noses…something about speaking out and taking risks and declarations and—”

  He stopped. “And?” prompted Weld, suspiciously.

  “And…er, timid ladies.” Charlie was silent again. Lord Weld almost fancied he might be thinking, from the furious, unfamiliar expression on his face. “Well now that we’re talking of it,” he finally brought out, “I wonder if she wasn’t speaking about Amy all along after all.”

  Weld flung his hands heavenward, as if in a gesture of thanksgiving. “My dear boy, I shouldn’t be the least bit surprised. Do you see now? She was trying to tell you even then that Amy loved you. You have only to dash back to Warwickshire and gather her up. In fact, why don’t you go now? The sooner the better, after all. He who hesitates is lost. A stitch in time saves—”

  But Charlie broke in on this stream of wisdom. “Go now?” he demanded, outraged. “What a shabby suggestion! When my sister is still in danger? A very pretty idea you must have of me, my lord. I wonder who you think—”

  “Yes, very well, all right then,” soothed poor Weld, his white hands patting the air as if to calm this storm. “You’re quite right, I was a beast to suggest it. I don’t know what came over me, I assure you. Now here, at last, is our breakfast—or at least, if it is not exactly ours, it is to be pawned off as such, and we are destined to eat it I perceive. So let us break bread, and keep peace with one another, shall we?” And with these mollifying words, and with a sinking sensation caused by the sight of a greenish glaze on the long-awaited ham, Lord Weld restored amity and order to his little search party.

  The author is not as common mortals! Miles of water, leagues, forsooth, of terrain, boundaries both political and natural melt under the author’s scrutiny—fly away and are made nothing by the turning of a manuscript page. What would not the ordinary being give to own this power? To peer one moment through a keyhole in Tangiers, the next into the eyes of a Chinese monarch; to listen on page forty-three to the words of a filthy assassin, and on page forty-four hear the first remarks of a lisping babe. Even the weeks and years fall away beneath the pen: who was young and laughing in Chapter Two is old and bent in Ten. By Chapter Twenty he’s mouldered away in his grave: he counts himself fortunate if he is so much as a good taste in the mouth of a worm.

  Take note, for example, of the ease with which our scene now shifts from Paris to Penrith; for it was in that tiny Cumbrian town that two earls of our acquaintance namely Trevor and Marchmont, found themselves on the morning in question. Darkness had overtaken them there on the previous night, stopping them a mere forty miles from the Scottish border. They had heard on the previous afternoon—with emotions most conveniently described as mixed—of a young couple fitting perfectly the descriptions of Bella and de Guere, who were travelling together northwards under the name of Amor. This awkward name, which of course signifies love in Latin, was so obviously the handiwork of Isabella that neither gentleman could doubt that Mr. and Mrs. Amor were in fact none other than the couple in question. Their being obliged to stop so near to their goal was consequently all the more vexing, and they rose from their beds before dawn to be on the road again—on horseback, for the distance was not forbidding, and it was much the fastest way—in time to see the day break. Naturally they could not gallop all the way: they paced themselves at a brisk, steady trot, but not so hurried as to prevent conversation. So it was that when they had been riding along an hour in silence Lord Marchmont, weary of the monotony, drew up alongside of Trevor and proceeded to speak as follows:

  “I wish there were some way for Emilia to communicate with me. I am sure she is very happy, of course, with your family, but since I am all she has in the world, I do not like to be out of her reach.”

  “Of course, she could send a courier to us, if it were necessary,” observed the older man, “and there is sure to be a letter from Haddon Abbey” (naming his family home) “awaiting us at Gretna Green.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Marchmont, but with a sigh—for he was wishing to be able to hear from Elizabeth as well as from his sister. “I am certain she is perfectly fine, in any case, for Lady Elizabeth has always been extremely kind and amiable to her,” he went on, thinking to speak of her, at least, since he could not speak to her.

  Perhaps Lord Trevor guessed at some of this, for his next words were, “Indeed, it appears your sister and Lizzie have become fast friends. I am glad, for Lizzie has had enough of solitude. Bella and Amy Lewis were always too young for her, and Charlie too old, I’m afraid. The neighbourhood of Haddon Abbey is so sparsely supplied with gentlewomen, I’m afraid Elizabeth grew up very much alone.”

  “Her character does not seem to have suffered by it,” observed Marchmont. “Perhaps, on the contrary, she is the stronger for it.”

  Lord Trevor assented to this possibility, and for a few minutes the gentlemen rode on in silence. Then the older man spoke again. “You’ve grown fond of Lizzie yourself, have you not?” he suggested lightly.

  “I have,” said Marchmont, but with a gasp in his voice, as if he were nearly choking. The oddly strained note did not escape Lord Trevor, and it rather made him smile to hear it. He was remembering his own keen discomfort when, many years before, it had been necessary for him to ask permission to offer for Lady Trevor, who was then the Honble. Miss Georgiana Blessingdon. Old Sir Ralph, her father, had been a terrible tartar; he had seemed almost intentionally to make it difficult for the young man in any way he could. Poor Trevor had attempted twice and failed twice to bring up the question to the old grouch before he at last succeeded, and even then Sir Ralph had grilled him as if he might be intending to carry Miss Blessingdon off to a life of exquisite squalor and pain. Lord Trevor, fortunately for Marchmont, was not one of those men who say,
“I had it hard; let him suffer through it as I did.” Quite the contrary, it was his habit to learn by his experience, remember its aches and difficulties, and then to try to spare others as much as possible the hurts he had had to endure. He was, it will be perceived, a man of mercy as well as a man of justice, and accordingly he now took pity on the squirming young man beside him, and brought up the ticklish subject himself.

  “If I understood you aright, in fact, you were about to bring up her name in London, just before we left. I rather fancied—” he went on, then stopped.

  “Yes?” said Marchmont, when the silence had become too much.

  “I rather fancied you wished to ask for her hand, sir. Could that have been the case?”

  Marchmont exhaled a sigh of pure relief. The morning seemed suddenly six times brighter than it had done. If they had not both been on horseback he might very well have embraced the other man. “That is exactly the case, Lord Trevor. I should give her everything…that is, I should love her as my life—no, better. And Emilia loves her, too, and as far as property, she will be provided for in any extremity, and as for dowry, I require none; in fact, I should be glad of an opportunity to do something for you…and, of course, she would be Lady Marchmont, a not inconsiderable title,” he rushed ahead. “But perhaps you see it differently? Do you object? Do you consent? Oh for God’s sake, sir, as you are a Christian, put me out of this ridiculous misery!”

  Lord Trevor laughed and looked at the other with a wide, frank smile. “I could not wish for a better son-in-law than you, I am sure,” he asserted, “and as for a dowry, Lizzie will have her portion whether you want her to have it or not.”

  The day was now simply dazzling; Lord Marchmont felt tears in his eyes. “I thank you sir,” he said, not once but five times running. “I hope you can excuse my selfishness in asking in the midst of this—calamity. I had meant to wait, only when you mentioned—”

  “I opened the topic myself,” Trevor assured him. “You need feel no embarrassment. But tell me, how does my daughter encourage you? Has she accepted you already?”

  “Lord no, sir,” said Marchmont, almost shocked. “I haven’t even offered. I was waiting to speak to you first, naturally. Anyway, I have it from Lady Elizabeth” (merely to speak the name made him smile) “herself that she will not accept any suitor unless you have told her to do so.”

  Lord Trevor felt this quite deeply and was visibly affected—for after all, Isabella’s astonishing and ruinous flight had wounded him cruelly—and he murmured to himself, “She is a good girl, a good woman.”

  Regretting that his words had occasioned this saddening parallel Lord Marchmont quickly continued, “I am not without hope, however. She has encouraged me sometimes, though sometimes she has almost seemed to dislike the idea. And then again…well, she does seem to look on me with a particular, kindly—” He floundered, well out of his depth.

  In a gentle but cautionary tone Lord Trevor broke in, “If she is not ready to answer you, you must not rush her, my boy. No good can come of forcing a decision she is not prepared to make.”

  Lord Marchmont agreed, feeling strangely young and humble.

  “A marriage lasts a lifetime, you know. You will wait until she is certain, won’t you? Say you will, my friend, for I fear much for the happiness of my younger daughter. To see the elder make a false move too would be more than I could bear, I think.”

  Lord Marchmont found himself much moved by these simple words and perceived anew what an awesome enterprise a marriage was. For a moment the responsibility of it seemed too much for him, but then he remembered Elizabeth’s eyes and felt at once he could no more easily live without than with her. Accordingly he nodded to Trevor in a sober but joyful silence. After a few more miles he reached quite suddenly for the other man’s hand, and held it with his own as a brief, tender salute.

  14

  When Lady Isabella caught the bouquet of flowers tossed to her by her unthinking brother—the reader remembers those flowers, I hope: they were few in number, but pretty and fresh, and tied with a velvet riband?—she counted them, found there were five, and knew that Sir Jeffery de Guere would arrive to collect her at five the next morning. It was the signal agreed upon between them; and never, Bella felt, had she managed so excellent a performance as she had that day in the girls’ sitting-room, when even the observant Lizzie had believed her crushed and repentant. It had again cost her a pang or two to be obliged to deceive not only her sister but also her brother and her dearest bosom bow; but if the course of true love ran smooth there would be no songs or stories about it, and Bella could not then have known how to carry out her elopement. As it was she had read about it dozens of times, and was quite as prepared (she thought) for its hardships and sorrows as for its joys.

  She was resolved that her elopement should be the finest ever contrived; and when she had achieved it she meant to write a three-volume novel recording its origins and its perfections. Its consequences she worried about very little, for she reasoned they must come when they would, and be what they were, and as they could not be planned there was no need of dwelling upon them. Perhaps she was right; certainly she was not the only young lady who ever dismissed love’s consequences as the least interesting of its various aspects. She had still some misgivings; she did not quite see why she oughtn’t at least to try to enlist her father’s support for a marriage to de Guere, but Jeffery had been adamant. Isabella put the thought out of her head.

  In keeping with her intention of carrying out her adventure in the most correct fashion possible, she kept herself up all through the night before her departure by reading Sir Walter Scott, writing interminable, passionate epistles to her beloved (which she later presented to him, and which he managed somehow to forget in the coffee-room of the Old George in Aylesbury), and praying to St. Agnes, the patron saint of young maidens, in whose power she did not entirely believe, but who might (one never knew) be able to do her a good turn anyhow. When the violent storm began about three o’clock—the Rain of which we have heard so much already—Isabella welcomed it: at least the furious pounding of the water made it easier to keep awake. Then, too, it was good to have a violent storm as backdrop for her adventure; it made a nice touch, she felt. And lest any reader suspect her of hypocrisy, be it known that, even when she found herself, at a quarter till five, huddled on the pavement in front of Haddon House all but drowning in this ghastly deluge—even then, I say, she did not revile the downpour nor wish it one drop less than it was.

  Sir Jeffery did at last arrive, in a carriage owned (if Bella had only known it) by the obliging Mrs. Butler, and driven by Mrs. Butler’s coachman, too. They would accomplish the first leg of their journey in this, then travel by post-chaise. Sir Jeffery, who did not keep a carriage himself and certainly had no funds with which to buy one for this occasion, had nevertheless wished to avoid hiring one—for that would have made it a simple matter to trace his direction and then his whereabouts, and he did not wish to be found quite so easily. No, it suited his purposes best to let a little time go by before he and his prey (as he supposed her) were discovered. That way there could be no question but that she had been compromised. She would clearly have been ruined; Lord Marchmont would drop the family; all would be well. So, he went to Mrs. Butler with a pretty honest account of his plans and, finding her disposed (for a little money) to assist him, borrowed of her her carriage and coachman—which he passed off to Bella as belonging to an unidentified friend.

  To say truth, Isabella could not be troubled to consider this detail carefully. She was, when Sir Jeffery drew up before her, not only waterlogged, but in a state of over-excitement superior to any even she had known heretofore. She was practically in a fever. She was not so perfectly obtuse and dim-witted as not to be thoroughly scared by the fact that she was now leaving behind her every kind of safety and security she had ever known; nor did it escape her that she was entrusting her innocence and virtue to a man she had never even heard of last Christmas; but h
er courage (as she styled it) did not fail her, even though she trembled while she reached for his arms—and she left Haddon House behind her without a whimper. Heroines do not whimper. Isabella was a heroine first, last, and always.

  Pity Sir Jeffery, dear reader: this was a fact he had reckoned without. Yes, I say pity him, villain though he is—for the poor man never dreamed, when he laid his vicious plans, of being led such a dance as now awaited him. De Guere, doomed devil, was but a pasteboard scoundrel—a peasant, a peon, in the world of machinations. True, he could seduce a countess in seven days, start to finish; true, he had tasted the charms of many a schoolroom miss; but in Isabella he had come up against a veritable queen of romantic calculation—and the foolish fellow never even noticed. Silly man, he was just not well-read enough in romantic novels. If he had been, Isabella could never have tripped him so easily. What he had in mind—simple, innocent rogue—was a quiet, classic abduction. Find the girl, remove her from her home, carry her off to an inn or some such, keep her there a day or two, let oneself be found by the proper authorities…and voilà, without further strain or effort on your part, the girl is ruined, the dirty work done. Neat. Painless. Effective. Sort of thing one hears about over port, after dinner. Family wishes to hush it up, avoids to that end prosecution of the abductor—but can’t after all prevent its being an open secret in good society, which likes nothing so much as marking the occasional fall from grace of one of its members. To Sir Jeffery it seemed without flaw, mere child’s play: it even had the advantage of affording him some pretty pleasant companionship, and the promise of some interesting nights.