by Fiona Hill
Lord Marchmont had come down pretty hard on him, as had Isabella’s father. It had been evident from the first he was not to be permitted to waltz out of this bind as planned. Between the two of them they seemed determined to make a good husband of him, as well as a useful member of society. There was talk of his taking a seat in Parliament. He was obliged to write to Mrs. Butler, explicitly severing his connection with her. He was made to take an oath to give up gambling. His comfortable bachelor lodgings were to be got rid of, his housekeeper turned off. Lady Trevor made small-talk with him. Lady Elizabeth began to establish an astringent, bantering tone in her conversations with him—the start of a lifelong relationship. And Isabella herself no longer fluttered her eyelashes at him, looking soft and silly; on the contrary, she spoke her mind clearly and mildly, addressing him with a modest kind of shyness but no trace any more of coquetry. She still kept to her own room at night—until, as she put it, they understood one another better. The honeymoon, it seemed, was over before it had begun. De Guere was beaten.
But he could have bolted, if he had wanted to. He might have fled to the Continent, simply vanished, leaving Bella in the lurch (and she deserved it, turning tables on him as she had! he reflected) and his cousin Marchmont to make over his estates to whomever he liked. It had become clear to him in any case that Lord Marchmont was going to pursue Lady Elizabeth in spite of her sister’s foolish elopement; half the sting of the scandal had been taken out of it anyhow by the fact of her having returned a married woman, rather than a ruined girl. He could have bolted—as he reminded himself dozens of times—but he did not.
The fact was, he rather liked Isabella, now that he began to see what she was made of. He liked Isabella, and he rather liked her father, who for all his righteousness was a tough old bird, not given to scoldings or rantings but rather determined to look to the future and make of it what he could. Indeed, Sir Jeffery found a certain pleasure in being “made over.” He was almost as curious as anyone else to see if they would succeed in reforming him. It was a game, for the moment, and certainly one that had the charm of novelty. At the very least, he told himself, he would play out his hand till he had had the benefit of his conjugal rights—for Lord Trevor had been waiting for the happy couple at the Black Horse Inn when they came back from the wedding, and it had not seemed quite right to initiate their conjugal relationship while being hauled back in disgrace by Marchmont and the old man. In fact, de Guere rather doubted Lord Trevor would have permitted it, marriage or no marriage. And since their arrival at Haddon Abbey he had fared no better in his attempts to get close to his bride: she eluded him nightly, asserting (he could hardly deny it) that in spite of their legal relationship they did not know one another very well. But he was coming to know her, and she him. Thus far it was rather an interesting adventure for Jeffery, who was never one to let circumstances get the better of him in any case. Besides, he liked seeing Marchmont obliged to deal with him as family again. In that connection de Guere was hard to swallow, and he knew it. Lady Emilia fairly squirmed when she found herself seated next to him, or alone with him in the breakfast-room, and Jeffery enjoyed watching her. No, he was not of a mind to turn tail just yet.
Besides all the considerations above, he was now in the interesting position of being married to an extremely well-dowered young lady. Ought he to take to his heels before discovering just how well-dowered? Sir Jeffery rather thought not.
Such, approximately, was the state of affairs Lord Halcot found when he returned to his home with Lord Weld in tow. We left his young lordship, if the reader will recall, in a state of extreme excitement regarding Amy Lewis. Only the most rigorous self-discipline had prevented Charlie from giving up the search for Bella altogether and posting home at once to speak to Amy. Rarely had he been so happy as on the day when word came from England informing them Isabella had been found. Rarely, for that matter, had Lord Weld been so happy, for Charlie’s company, he had found, was not a privilege his enjoyment of which grew as time went on but rather quite—quite—the contrary. This, added to their mutual relief at knowing Bella to be safe, made their return to England a swift and agreeable one. Lord Weld would have stopped in London and stayed there, but Halcot insisted on extending his parents’ hospitality to the man who had done so much for his sister and dragged him up to Warwickshire with him. Anyhow, as he pointed out, Marchmont and Lady Emilia would almost certainly be there, too, from what his father had said, and surely Lord Weld wanted to see them?
Lord Weld admitted he did and reluctantly finished out the journey with Lord Halcot. He was indeed glad, on reaching Haddon Abbey, to be reunited with his excellent friends. His second inquiry (after making sure of the welfare of Isabella, and Emilia, and Marchmont himself) was whether or not Lord Marchmont had offered for Elizabeth as yet. “Done what?” demanded Emilia, gasping. The three of them stood alone in the Abbey’s vast Green drawing-room.
“Lady Elizabeth,” repeated Weld mildly. “I thought surely you must have had time to offer by now, old man.”
“Have you decided to—” Emilia began.
“Dear God, Weld, you’ve not been in this house ten minutes and look what you’ve done already!” broke in Marchmont. “Not only haven’t I asked Lady Elizabeth, I also was waiting to tell Emilia till I had. What’s happened to your manners, old man? You’ve been hanging about with our friend Charles too long, that’s what it is, very bad form—”
“Oh, and I should like to have a word with you about that, my friend,” Weld interrupted indignantly; indeed, all three of them were speaking nearly at once. “What did you mean by sending me off with that young…er, cub, while you went off yourself with Lord Trev—”
“Jemmy, answer me before I throttle you!” Emilia demanded. “Are you meaning to offer for Lizzie or are you not? Why haven’t you told me? What are you waiting—”
“One question at a time,” laughed Marchmont. “It’s a fact I had decided to ask Lady Elizabeth—”
“You had! Oh Jemmy, how could you know that and not tell me?”
“But now that I’ve spoken to Trevor and got his approval and all—”
“Oh, you have! Beastly, beastly! Jemmy, when will you learn to take me into your confidence the moment, the very moment you—”
“But now that I’ve done all the preliminary work, I’m not so certain I ought to ask her just yet. When we are alone together—”
“Yes?” Emmy prompted breathlessly, as he hesitated.
“Well, she seems nervous, as if she’s always looking for something to say. As if she’d rather I didn’t ask. I’m certain she knows it’s on my mind—though I don’t know if Trevor’s mentioned it to her. I rather think so, though with all the excitement over Lady Isabella…”
“Do you mean you aren’t sure if she’ll accept you?” asked Emilia.
“Well, yes, to put it bluntly.”
“I don’t believe my ears,” Lord Weld now interposed. “Do you mean to tell me you two have been in this house together four days now and never yet discussed this matter until I brought it up? I say, you positively need me! I don’t know how you managed before I came along.”
“Don’t blame me,” Lady Emilia defended herself. “I’m perfectly receptive—now don’t say I’m not, Jemmy—but this man simply refuses to entrust me with anything more exciting than his opinion of the weather. A dozen times I’ve tried to bring up the subject—”
“You have?” exclaimed her brother.
“I certainly have, the subject of Lady Elizabeth exactly—and all to let you know how obvious it’s become to me the girl is head over ears in love with you—”
“She has a funny way of showing it, if that’s the case,” countered Marchmont, “for this very morning, when I caught up with her in the East Garden, she talked to me without drawing breath—for thirty minutes straight. About poultry, if you will! Poultry! How to raise it, how to cook it, how to serve it…frankly I felt very queasy before she was finished, and certainly not at all of a mind
to introduce the topic of love.”
“I am sorry, my dear,” said Lady Emilia primly, “but I can only assure you there is not the slightest doubt in my mind of her feelings towards you. For reasons which are fast becoming entirely mysterious to me, this girl has taken it into her head to believe you the most charming and admirable man she has ever met, and the very idea of her refusing you—”
“I’d like to hear her do it,” interjected Warrington Weld fiercely.
“—is preposterous,” finished Emilia. “So no more foot-dragging, my boy, the next time you’re alone with her, out with it and no nonsense, is that understood? And if she brings up poultry or shellfish or topsoils, well so much the better. You just tell her topsoils always make you amorous and carry on from there, do you hear me?”
Lord Marchmont had heard her—and so, very nearly, did Lizzie, who came into the drawing-room to welcome Lord Weld the moment she had finished saying hello to her brother. Lady Emilia and Lord Weld (two minds with but a single thought) instantly attempted to quit this room together, leaving Marchmont alone with Lizzie; but they were foiled in this scheme by Lizzie’s determination to make sure Lord Weld was comfortable in the chamber assigned him. She insisted on accompanying him up the stairs herself, and would on no account allow Emilia to fulfill this hostess’s duty herself. “For my whole family owes Lord Weld a debt of gratitude, and we feel it very keenly…quite as much as if it were he who had found my sister. I am sure you would have,” she told him as she drew him from the room, “if they had gone to the Continent instead of to Scotland.” She put her arm through his in a friendly, confidential way and added sotto voce, “For the sheer heroism of passing a week alone with Charlie you ought to receive a medal at least. No, do not deny it, dear sir. I know how it must have been. You will be wanting a bath after your labours, and perhaps a week or two of conversation with the nation’s greatest savants, till you’ve recovered somewhat, I daresay. Does that sound appealing?” With these words she led him off, leaving Emilia to scold her brother on the subject of Keeping Secrets.
Lord Halcot for his part had not been home two hours before he again set out. He was on his way to the Nestling, of course, having first taken a minute of his father’s time to discuss what he planned to undertake there. The idea that his son might someday marry Amy Lewis had naturally often occurred to Lord Trevor. It was not so overwhelmingly attractive an idea as to make him inclined to push for it, but on the other hand, it had distinct advantages, and did not at all seem to him a bad thought. Its chief appeal was that it would unite the lands surrounding the Abbey with those owned by his lifelong neighbour, Lord Lewis. The two properties being adjacent, this could not fail to increase their worth. And then he rather liked the thought that Halcot would be allied with a family he knew and could trust implicitly. Coming on the heels of Isabella’s mad alliance, this aspect was doubly comforting. Lord Trevor’s only concern, then, was for Charlie to make certain this marriage was really what he desired. He advised his son to wait at least another se’ennight before speaking to Miss Lewis; but since Halcot would not hear even of so short a delay as this, Lord Trevor merely gave his consent and his good wishes and sent the young man on his way.
Poor Charlie suffered a severe attack of nerves while he waited for Amy in the drawing-room at the Nestling. He kept looking and looking at his reflection in the pier-glass, combing his butter-yellow hair with his fingers, and starting furtively from the glass each time he thought he heard a sound in the hall. By the time Miss Lewis actually entered he was as close to fainting as she—and she was very close indeed, for she had made up her mind to say something to him, and it was not going to be pleasant for her. In fact, when she caught her first glimpse of him, she very nearly gave up all thought of carrying through her resolve, for he was so handsome, she thought, so lean and tall and graceful! His liquid blue eyes smiled meltingly upon her even through his nervousness. Must she really relinquish him after all? Could she bear it? But she straightened her shoulders (and went a shade paler—Charlie thought her very beautiful, but quite a good deal more pallid than he had recalled) and made up her mind to it again.
Then (after the formal courtesies had been exchanged, and Miss Lewis explained both her parents were occupied—going over household accounts with the steward, as it chanced) Lord Halcot cleared his throat with a painful, cracking harrumph and began, “Miss Lewis, will you permit me to speak of a matter of some significance to me? I understand from my mother you have not been quite well, but—”
“Please be easy on that head,” she interrupted, going a shade whiter. “I feel perfectly recovered. In fact, I had been meaning to speak to you on such a matter—”
“If you don’t mind, I think I’d best bring this up first—”
“But it may be the same thing; in fact I think it must be. I want you to be perfectly comfortable with me, sir, and never fear that I can be otherwise than—” She stumbled trying to get the words out, then forced herself to clarity, “—otherwise than happy if I know that you are happy. So if it is a question of marriage—”
“How did you know?”
She looked away. “I heard…on the balcony…well, if you please, I had rather not discuss it—” Tears came to her eyes. “I guessed it, that’s all, and I—I wish you very happy!” With this she turned away altogether, and took a few halting steps towards the door.
“But how can you wish me very happy when it is you—” He stopped, puzzled. “Miss Lewis, won’t you let me speak as I had planned? I’ve been thinking how to put this since France!”
“Oh, I beg you will not call me Miss Lewis,” she cried frantically. “It simply makes me miserable! Just because you are taking a wife does not mean we can no longer be friends, I hope.”
“Well, under the circumstances, I should hope you are right!” said he with a kind of laugh. “But do you mean to say—do you accept me, then?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I say, have you accepted me? Am I to understand…since you speak of my being married, does that mean—? Oh, I wish you had let me deliver the proposal as I’d prepared it! Now I’ve made an awful botch of it!”
But Amy was staring at him with her mouth open. “You don’t mean—” she commenced, and stopped.
“I don’t? But I do!”
“You haven’t come—” In a whisper, she resumed, “You haven’t come to offer for me, have you?”
He hesitated only an instant, but it seemed an eternity to her. “But naturally I have,” he answered at last, very mildly. “What else?”
“What else? Oh, my—my dear!” she exclaimed, confusion and joy so overcoming her that she sank down upon a settee. “What else? Never mind what else—I shall tell you sometime when we are very, very old. I thought—but never mind. Oh Charlie, give me your hand, I beg you! You have made me very, very happy.”
Lord Halcot seated himself beside her and gladly took the proffered hand. In the half-hour that ensued he repeated not once but twice the entire text of the proposal he had prepared; and she accepted not twice but thrice. Then they went off together to confront Lord Lewis with news they had every good reason to believe would please him, and later that afternoon Amy returned with Halcot to the Abbey to be present when he announced his happiness to the family there.
That evening, after supper, Lord Marchmont and his sister encountered one another by chance in the large, dim library of the Abbey. “I was hoping for something by Mrs. Radcliffe,” said Emilia, “or perhaps Walpole. All this matrimony is having a decidedly depressing effect on my spirits. I believe a little terror might pick me up.”
“You ought to get married yourself,” commenced Marchmont. “Then you wouldn’t find—”
“No, thank you,” she said crisply. “But while we’re on the subject, why are you here looking at books and not elsewhere looking at Lizzie? I thought you’d made up your mind to speak to her at last.”
“Dear God, Emmy, don’t you think there have been enough betrothals an
nounced for one day?” he asked. “There is such a thing as timing, you know.”
“Oh, pooh,” she said. “Do you mean Halcot and little Amy? That’s only one. I should think a healthy family ought to be able to absorb—oh, seven or eight betrothals in a day, at the least. Why don’t you try them? Go and find Elizabeth.”
“It’s after ten.”
“My goodness, aren’t we rustic? In London after ten would mean time to go out and begin the evening. Surely Elizabeth hasn’t gone to bed!”
“No, but my dear Emilia, don’t you think we would be stealing Charlie’s thunder if we were—if she were to accept me, and we wanted to let the others know?”
“You can’t still imagine she is going to refuse you!”
“It isn’t impossible, believe me. I appreciate your kindness in pretending to find the notion absurd, but the last time I broached the topic with her she turned three different shades of ivory and looked as if she were about to swoon. When she gave me permission to address her father on the topic she wouldn’t even look at me. Kept staring at her plate. Went all crimson.”
