‘It gave me a black eye, and then smashed and we had the house in uproar. What was more, my father took his hand to me in the morning.’
‘For frightening your sister. Quite right too.’ Lord Deben nodded, approvingly.
‘Er, no, for waking him up and giving Mama hysterics. It was only a jape, and I paid a heavy penalty for it.’ It clearly rankled, even years later.
‘I, on the other hand, was given a glass of warm milk, and a bag of sugar plums next day,’ dimpled Celia. ‘The rewards of virtue.’
‘The rewards of courage, Miss Mardham.’ Lord Deben swept her a bow. ‘Not many young ladies would dare throw things at a ghost.’
‘Well, it was in some ways a very impractical thing to have done, for had it been a ghost, the glass would have gone straight through it,’ admitted Celia. ‘I confess I was most alarmed when I awoke to see this white phantom at the end of my bed, and throwing something was purely a natural reaction, as was the scream.’
‘Will somebody kindly remove the fish.’ Miss Darwen’s slightly off-key voice was raised in strident demand. Celia Mardham was far too much the centre of attention.
‘Do you still obey “natural reaction”, Miss Mardham?’ murmured Lord Levedale, and looked her straight in the eye. Her comprehension was instant.
‘I have learned to curb it, alas,’ she whispered back.
‘What a pity. It would have been worth seeing, especially using a fish.’
Celia suffered an inexplicable coughing fit.
*
Lord Levedale was seated opposite Miss Burton at dinner, divided from her by what he considered a singularly revolting piece of silverware depicting three very smug looking putti in unsustainable poses, each holding a cornucopia into which flowers from the Mardham gardens had been tastefully arranged. He was conscious of the thought that he hoped Miss Mardham had not been responsible. The young lady herself was at the further end of the table between Lord Corfemullen and Lord Pocklington, and Lord Levedale told himself that this was a good thing. Having decided to keep away from her, he had gravitated towards her far too easily after the fishing. On his own right hand side sat Miss Clandon, and to his left, worryingly, Miss Darwen.
Miss Clandon did not put herself forward, and Lord Levedale, whilst normally commending quiet modesty in a young lady, tonight wished that she was the opposite. There might then have been a chance for him not to have been monopolised by Miss Darwen. As it was, when he did try and engage Miss Clandon in conversation, Miss Darwen interjected before any response was made, and dragged the subject back to herself, which was her favourite topic.
‘Have you had any recent communication from your brother in the Peninsula, Miss Clandon?’
‘Alas, my lord, he was always an infrequent correspondent, even when at school, and time has not improved matters.’
‘I have never left a letter without a response for longer than three days, even when, as a child, I had the severest of toothaches and was in perfect agonies with it,’ declared Miss Darwen. ‘The importance of a prompt reply was impressed upon me by my governess, and how right she was.’ She paused very briefly as she was offered more wine, and Lord Levedale took his chance and turned back to Sarah Clandon.
‘The exigencies of campaigning, and the difficulties of sending any missive back down the lines of communication must stand as his excuse, ma’am.’
‘Oh yes. I—’
‘There is never any valid excuse for poor manners in the matter of letters,’ pronounced Miss Darwen, authoritatively. ‘I myself have castigated my brother, Bovington, for dilatoriness whilst up at Oxford, for he had our Mama in a perfect worry when he did not answer her epistle when he contracted the mumps.’
‘It is a common childhood illness, I believe.’ Lord Deben, seated on Miss Darwen’s other side, had been talking with Mrs Wombwell. The strident tone of Miss Darwen had, however, distracted him. Catching the phrase ‘perfect worry’, he offered a consoling thought.
‘“Common”, Lord Deben?’ Miss Darwen turned her pale green glare upon him. It was singularly unnerving. As many men before him had done, he crumbled.
‘Er, as in frequently suffered,’ he gabbled, ‘or rather, many people get it. Had it myself at Eton, and the infirmary was positively packed with boys.’
‘My brother was not a schoolboy.’ Miss Darwen said the word ‘schoolboy’ as if it were a lower form of life. ‘He was educated at home, by tutors, and was considered an exceptional student at the University.’
Mr Richard Mardham, who had been a year above Lord Bovington at Merton, choked over a mouthful of buttered crab. He remembered the young gentleman as having indeed been exceptional, but rather for the inventiveness of his escapades rather than his intellectual ability.
Much as Lord Levedale wished to ignore Miss Darwen, he thought it only fair to come to Deben’s aid.
‘Such contagious complaints flourish wherever people live in close proximity, ma’am, and school is where a majority of boys are likely to encounter it.’
‘My Father,’ added Miss Clandon, bravely re-entering the conversation, ‘said that recruits in his regiment seemed more prone to ailments than those soldiers of some years service.’ It earned her an encouraging smile from Lord Levedale.
‘Soldiers,’ sniffed Miss Darwen, evidently setting them even lower than schoolboys. She then, to the consternation of her unwilling auditors, brought the subject back to her views on the epistolatory art. ‘Most soldiery are illiterate, of course. The ability to correspond with clarity and on diverse subjects is one of the things which marks a gentleman, or a lady. My governess, a most superior woman, was used to write me three letters each week as an exercise, letters covering many topics to which I was expected to construct suitable replies, and if I fell short of her high standards I had to repeat the attempts until she was satisfied. I well recall one which discussed the poetry of Mr Wordsworth, the efficacy of lavender in cases of headache, and how to express condolences to a bereaved person whose distant relative has deceased. The degree of sympathy is quite awkward. I was reminded by my preceptress that whilst in most cases the loss occasions practical inconveniences, the wearing of black gloves, or abstention from dancing, there are some relationships that are closer than the mere family tree might indicate. A beloved great aunt who has been as a grandparent might be much mourned. My own Great Aunt Theresa …’
Miss Darwen was apparently inexhaustible, and a great believer in the benefit that the wisdom of her nearly twenty years of life would be to others. Lord Levedale glanced at Miss Clandon, and saw her bite her lip, her eyes twinkling. He had put her down as the sort of girl who was quiet because she had nothing to say’, but revised that opinion. She was, perhaps, simply an observer more than a participant, through habit or inclination.
Lord Levedale was about to find out there were worse things than having to listen to Miss Darwen. He was about to be hunted by her.
*
Lavinia Darwen had arrived at Meysey feeling suitably superior, being the only young lady to have experienced a London Season. That it had not ended as her parents would have hoped was evident from the absence of the announcement of her impending nuptials in the Gazette, but she chose to overlook this. The invitation to Meysey had been seen by her Mama as an opportunity to seize victory from the jaws of defeat, and she was on the strictest of instructions to bite her tongue and try her hardest to attract some interest from among the gentlemen of the party. Privately, Miss Darwen thought this unlikely, since she had seen the gentlemen in London, and had found them all ‘wanting’. It was not that she did not come up to scratch with them, she had decided, but that none had been worthy of her hand. Lord Deben she dismissed as a dolt, Mr Mardham was a ‘thoughtless boy’, Lord Pocklington was sports mad to the exclusion of all else, and ‘That Man Wombwell’ was rude and unpleasant. By this Miss Darwen meant that he had actually avoided dancing with her.
Lord Levedale had not been in Town and was new to her. She assessed him, in the man
ner of a wolf selecting a lamb. He was a little too tall for her liking, and if she had a preference it was for fair men with a greater wave or curl to their hair, but his figure was good, his manners appeared to be guaranteed to please, and he was available. Miss Mardham was beneath her consideration. Lord Levedale’s apparent desire to please her must spring from an excess of pity and gallantry, since no man in his right mind would choose a cripple over a woman strong of mind and limb. It was unfortunate of course that the Burton chit was such a pretty little empty-head, but Miss Darwen knew that her own strengths lay in the sharpness of her mind, and the decisiveness of her actions. The less well-disposed towards her, of which there were many, would have said rather that she was marked by the sharpness of her tongue, and a total lack of consideration for anyone else, but of course she did not listen to such people.
Having decided upon her course, Miss Darwen made her plan with a near military precision which would have won plaudits in Horseguards.
*
In pursuance of her prey, Miss Darwen had to isolate Lord Levedale from those upon whom he might otherwise focus his attention, and divert it to herself. The most obvious way in which she might achieve this was by hovering in his vicinity, so that she could intervene, or more accurately, intrude, at will. She was a young woman for whom the term ‘self-doubt’ had no meaning. That her methods had scared away potential suitors in London, and ensured that she had come away without making friends among her peers, did not occur to her.
When the gentlemen joined the ladies after dinner, Lord Levedale went to sit beside Miss Burton, and began to entertain her in a gentle fashion. He felt as if he were talking to a child, for she was a wide-eyed innocent, and very naïve. She must be about the same age as Miss Mardham, for he had overheard that they were friends at school together, and yet he could not jest as he would with Miss Mardham. Marianne Burton would have looked blankly at him. She was easy to please, unaffected despite her amazingly good looks, and did not interest him. He told himself he must try, must apply himself. After all, many men married young women for whom they had no wild passion.
He wondered at himself. He had never actually suffered ‘a wild passion’ for any female, so why had that thought hit him now?
‘… and my Papa says that he would not care for me to waltz, unless I was a married lady and my partner was my husband.’
‘I have waltzed at Almack’s.’ Miss Darwen, seeing her opportunity, sat upon the chair nearest to the sofa. ‘Of course I only did so when one of the Lady Patronesses, the Countess Lieven, said that I might do so. It is not, as some fear, a fast dance at all, and my Mama had no objections to me learning it. I should not care to see it at public balls, however, not that I attend them, because those of less gentlemanly upbringing might try and take liberties.’
Lord Levedale thought that any man who actually wanted to take liberties with Miss Darwen ought to be carted away to Bedlam.
‘Almack’s,’ breathed Marianne Burton, reverently, which was just what Miss Darwen wanted. ‘Oh, it must be wonderful.’ With little hope of a London Season, Marianne turned it into the stuff of dreams.
‘It can be crowded, hot, and with too many Mamas,’ remarked Lord Levedale, prosaically.
‘There speaks the man.’ Celia joined the conversation, to Miss Darwen’s annoyance.
‘You, of course, will not have entered its portals, Miss Mardham.’ Miss Darwen’s lip curled.
‘No, and it would be pointless if I did, since I can neither waltz nor stand up for the cotillion or any other dance,’ Celia snapped at her.
The curl increased, because Miss Darwen felt superior, and had, she decided, made Miss Mardham show herself in a poor light, as well as highlighting her disability.
‘And Celia was ever such a good dancer,’ added Marianne, which did not help matters.
Lord Levedale saw Miss Mardham cringe, ever so slightly, and her hand upon her stick gripped it convulsively. He did not blame her for her intemperance, but rather wished there was something he might say that could help. There was nothing. His expression hardened, for he felt impotent when he wanted to be supportive.
Miss Darwen saw the look, and misread it as disapprobation. When she retired, she did so confident that she had bested both The Ninny and The Cripple, and was half way up the stairs when she stopped, and listened intently.
Mrs Wombwell and her son were in the hall, speaking in low voices, or rather Mrs Wombwell was speaking, and the words floated up, just sufficiently audible to be made out. Miss Darwen held her breath.
‘… she assures me that although the girl is perfectly respectable, properly educated, and of course very beautiful, her father comes from trade, my dear, Trade!’ Mrs Wombwell’s voice went up an octave on the repetition. ‘He is a Member of Parliament now, though that need not mean so very much. I recall another such who was … well, anyway, he has a knighthood and a little estate, and perhaps to some that might make her acceptable, but Lady Mardham said the girl was not for the likes of those with good lineage and “nice” requirements. She is most certainly not for the likes of a Wombwell, with connections to a dukedom and two marquessates on the distaff. Imagine having a man who sold things as your Papa-in-law!’ She made it sound as if Sir Thomas Burton sold vegetables in the street. Lady Mardham had not, obviously, intimated to her dear friend that Marianne Burton was the heiress to a fortune of fifty thousand pounds. It was an irrelevancy, unless one was short of money, and the Wombwells had always been perfectly well-heeled.
‘Then if she is so tarnished, why was she invited in the first place?’ Mr Wombwell sounded cheated. He had no serious intentions, of course, but even playing with a young woman others knew to ‘smell of the shop’ was too much.
‘Oh, I suppose because poor Celia cannot get out to make friends with other girls now, and they were friends at school. She is a really lovely girl, such a pretty face. Poor Celia.’ Mrs Wombwell cast her son a furtive glance.
‘She would be lovely, but for that disgusting limp. It is repellent. She cannot even sit with grace. It is not her fault, I admit, but she will end her days a spinster, and understandably so.’ Mr Wombwell, having been treated with coolness by Miss Mardham, was not disposed to think of her in a generous manner.
Thus Mr Wombwell dashed the silent hopes of his parent that he might take to Celia, and she be the catalyst for him ameliorating his wild lifestyle. It had not been a very strong hope in the maternal breast, but she sighed, nonetheless.
Miss Darwen could have laughed out loud with delight. Here was just the proof, as if proof were needed, that she was right to dismiss Celia Mardham as a rival in any way, and ammunition, should Miss Burton’s looks trump her lack of incisive wit.
Chapter 7
Lord Deben, who described Miss Darwen to Lord Pocklington as ‘terrifying in the extreme’, tried to keep out of her way for the next couple of days as much as possible. This led to him advancing cautiously into rooms, and either withdrawing upon some very flimsy excuse if she were present, or placing himself as far as possible from her and sitting very quietly. Sarah Clandon observed this behaviour, and found it amusing. She was alone in the blue parlour on the Saturday morning, writing a letter to her brother, when Lord Deben peered round the door, and breathed an audible sigh of relief.
‘She is not here, my lord, not under the table, nor lurking in an alcove.’
‘Oh dear! Dash it, Miss Clandon, am I that obvious?’
‘To me, sir, yes, but then I am renowned for being sharp-eyed.’ She smiled at him.
‘Ah. I beg you will not reveal your observations to everyone else. If “She” found out …’ He shuddered. ‘You must think me a very cowardly specimen, ma’am, but I assure you I am not as lily-livered as I seem. It is just I have no idea how to … deal with a young lady of her ilk.’ He looked a little crestfallen.
‘To be fair, sir, I doubt many of us know, for she is … most unusual.’
‘You appear sanguine enough, Miss Clandon.’ There was a t
ouch of admiration in his voice.
‘But that is easy when she has rarely spoken to me, or rather at me. I am too insignificant.’
‘Surely not!’ Lord Deben, who had actually noticed Miss Clandon more than anyone else over the last few days, was shocked. She was a quiet young woman, restful, and with a very gentle smile that made him feel, most peculiarly, as if everything in the world was all right.
That smile grew now.
‘Oh, I assure you that I am. Terribly insignificant. And especially to Miss Darwen.’ It was the first time the lady’s name had been mentioned, but it had not been needed.
‘I … you are busy, and I ought to leave you to your letter.’ Lord Deben wanted so much to remain in the room he just knew he ought to leave.
‘I am writing to my brother, although it may be months before any reply is forthcoming. Please feel free to remain, sir. I am sure that sitting in the same room, as long as we are, of course, on opposite sides, could not be seen as inappropriate, and this room has the definite advantage of not containing Miss Darwen.’
He blinked, smiled, and sat, at first a little stiffly, in a large wing-backed chair. Sarah Clandon resumed her letter, initially conscious of being watched, but soon lost in her epistle. As she relaxed, so to did Lord Deben. His gaze rested easily upon her in profile. She had a straight little nose that had the veriest hint of turning up at the end, and a smooth brow. Her hair was fine, and looked soft. It was a mousey sort of colour he could not describe, but he liked it. He liked everything about her. He had never looked at females, having been in awe of every one of them since his redoubtable nurse, and his Mama. They were impossible to predict, like an unbroken horse, and would be as likely to burst into tears as berate one over something omitted or committed that had been entirely unintentional. The nearest he had come to treating one as friendly was Miss Mardham, having encountered her as barely beyond being an invalid, and somehow not as a woman. Miss Clandon was friendly but he was also, much to his surprise, very aware of her femininity. It made him feel confused, excited, protective and several other things that he had not previously experienced. Had it been explained to him that these were the signs of falling in love, he would have panicked, but since he had told nobody, he remained in blissful ignorance.
Bless Thine Inheritance Page 7
