*
Lord Levedale was, had she but known it, in as muddled a state. What worried him was that although he had many questions, he did possess some of the answers. He had told himself that he had offered to teach Miss Mardham to drive, was putting his efforts into giving her this independence, because he could offer her nothing else. If he was to save Silvertons he must be successful with Miss Burton, who thus far seemed quietly receptive to his approaches, though Wombwell was making strenuous efforts to supplant him. In a bizarre way, the less he wanted to marry Miss Burton, the stronger were his efforts to achieve the goal. It was as though the more he saw the path to his own happiness, the more he stepped aside from it, because it would be selfish, and trod purposefully upon the path of duty. That Miss Burton might find life as a ‘duty’ wife less than entrancing had occurred to him, but he had told himself he was just making excuses.
Actually being alone with Miss Mardham was going to complicate things enormously, and it was all his own fault. He had told himself that he would control his feelings easily enough, since they had but a week’s knowledge of each other, even though that was after he had driven her to the dowager’s and enjoyed every second of the outing. It was then that he had formulated the driving plan, when aware of the ‘danger’. He was an idiot. The pleasure of the interlude to old Lady Mardham was as nothing to the lesson. This last hour had been emotionally intense. He had never felt so very aware of another person’s physical being, never wanted every excuse for the slightest of touches nor tingled when they occurred. He felt so drawn to her, more relaxed than with anyone he had ever met, and simultaneously tense with an excitement which made it hard to concentrate on anything but how beautiful she was, in body and character. There had even been moments when she had looked at him and he had struggled not to take that sweet face between his hands and kiss her.
‘Damnation,’ he muttered, as he tossed his gloves onto the table in his chamber.
*
It was an expletive that might well have been repeated by Mr Wombwell, and Sir Marcus Cotgrave. Miss Darwen would not swear, of course, but was equally annoyed. All three had watched Lord Levedale set the little pony trotting off with uncharitable thoughts, and all three were mystified as to why he was ‘making up’ to two young ladies at the same time.
Mr Wombwell was the most resentful. Having discovered that The Money Pot was worth enough to see him clear of his debts, he had resumed his pursuit, which had led to much hand-wringing by his parent. He could not tell her his reasons for overlooking the girl’s plebeian ancestry and so she ‘bleated’ at him whenever they were alone. Having only dropped the flirtation for a couple of days, it was most irritating that in that short time Levedale had joined the lists vying for The Money Pot’s hand. After all, the man lived in deepest Devon and was interested in farming, so what possible need had he for money? He was also distracting The Money Pot. There was no other possible reason why she should be accepting his own experienced advances without any sign of becoming lovelorn. Mr Wombwell knew he could be pretty irresistible, and by now would have expected a girl as innocent and inexperienced as Miss Burton to be watching him whenever she thought he was not looking, her eyes filled with yearning, his name being murmured into her pillow at night. The process had such an inevitability to it that it was almost boring, and he was seriously considering giving up ingénues. The chit evinced no sign that she was desperate for him, and the only reason must be that part of her was taken up with Levedale, who was making a play for an heiress he did not need, damn him.
On top of which, most inexplicably the man now appeared to be chasing after the Mardham chit. There was no other explanation for his offering to teach her to drive in that ridiculous rustic cart. What sort of deep game was Levedale playing? Well, with luck the hobbledehoy would form a passion for him, and Mardham, if he had any sense, would soon be muttering about ‘man of honour’ and ‘doing the decent’, since there was no other way he would ever get the girl off his hands. That would hoist Levedale by his own petard, and leave the path clear for himself with The Money Pot.
Sir Marcus Cotgrave viewed the driving lessons as a threat, for Levedale was young and personable, which might turn a girl’s head, but he also saw them as wilfulness on Miss Mardham’s part, and very dangerous. He believed, totally, in what he had said to her. All ladies were delicate, although having encountered Miss Darwen he would now concede there were tough exceptions. Miss Mardham was so much more fragile than other young women. He knew how to care for such fragility, and was both taken aback and disappointed that she had not immediately recognised this. He had come to Meysey intending to convey his abilities to treat her as if made of eggshell, and have her place her future into his safeguarding with a grateful, pretty smile. Thus far she seemed to be regarding his thoughtfulness as insulting. These driving lessons would not make his wooing any easier, even assuming she did not end up dead in a ditch, and why Levedale should have thought up the idea, when he was patently chasing the Burton girl, was a mystery.
Miss Darwen was perhaps the most mystified of the trio. She had conceded, reluctantly, that The Ninny was pretty enough to attract a man, until he realised that she was simply a beautiful, empty shell. She was therefore working hard to keep Lord Levedale from his pursuit of the girl, for his own good as much as her own advantage. The Cripple ought not to be a rival at all, and keeping her in her place had been a matter of pleasure, not necessity, especially since Miss Mardham clearly refused to acknowledge her inferiority. Now she would have to rethink her strategy. What Miss Darwen could not in any way comprehend was why Lord Levedale, an otherwise sensible and seemingly honourable man, appeared to be going out of his way to rouse tender emotions in the breasts of two women at once, one of whom being a girl no man would select as a partner in life. This madcap idea of driving lessons took up his time to no purpose. That he might be doing so from any feeling of altruism did not occur to her, since she had never entertained an altruistic thought in her entire life. It was obvious to her that he had the best option already before him, and she was ready to accept his offer and direct him straight to her Papa as soon as he made his declaration. Men were such fools.
Chapter 11
Marianne Burton set pen to paper to write once more to her Papa. She had promised to be a frequent correspondent and it was now a week since her last letter. In part this was because her time had been taken up as a good guest, and in part because she was unsure what to say that might not worry her parent, or leave him as perplexed as she was herself. However, a promise was a promise, and so she would write.
Dearest Papa,
This leaves me in the best of health and I hope reaches you in the same. I have been quite occupied here at Meysey though you would say it was time spent in frippery things. I often sit with Celia and her cousin who is the one I told you was poor and plain. She is actually a nice girl called Sarah who is very good at Spillikins because she has a very steady hand and only fails when Lord Deben smiles at her.
Or when Miss Darwen cheats, thought Marianne, as on the previous evening, when she had ‘accidentally’ nudged the table just as Sarah Clandon made her move upon a stick that would have won her the game, and the pile of sticks moved to make any successful extraction impossible.
Miss Darwen whom I said was a bit superior because of her London experience and too much jewellery has not proved very nice. She says very cutting things about poor Celia which is unfair not least because poor Celia cannot easily get up and walk away as I said to Celia herself.
Marianne did not like to say that Miss Darwen said cutting things about herself also, because it would upset Papa, and she knew that she was not very good at countering the barbs. Instead, she smiled sweetly, and pretended that she had not heard. She made no pretence of being clever in terms of knowledge, but she was not stupid, and it was obvious that Miss Darwen’s words and actions set up the backs of the other members of the party. Lord Levedale had remarked that he thought her own manner of ignoring
the insults reflected very well upon her, which was nice. This was where the letter became difficult.
Mr Wombwell is very attentive but I have remembered your warnings about him, dearest Papa and do not take his flowery compliments to heart. He is most amusing but not in any way kind. Lord Levedale is much the nicer and very polite. He does not set as much store upon how he looks but is more the true gentleman I am sure.
In fact he paid court to her as much as Mr Wombwell, and, she thought, with as little interest of heart. Yet he did not seem to want her to fall in love with him. It was most peculiar. With Mr Wombwell it was some rather unpleasant game, but with Lord Levedale … she was unable to think of an answer.
The weather today was quite overcast but Lord Levedale still gave Celia a lesson with the pony and cart which is a bit old-fashioned and is very kind. Lord Mardham says that he will buy Celia two little ponies and a nice low phaeton so that she can drive herself to see her Grandmama who lives in the Dower House.
Mr Mardham has taken the gentlemen out this afternoon to shoot Sir Marcus Cotgrave though did not accompany them saying that his shoulder was too stiff. The weather for tomorrow is supposed to be better because an old man in the village knows about such things and said so to Lord Mardham. We are going to have an archery contest which will be splendid fun. I hope I do not hit anyone but it would be nice to hit the target.
I am having a lovely time but of course miss you very much.
Your loving and obedient daughter,
Marianne
She was enjoying herself, but a part of her wondered why, when one of the other ladies mocked her, one gentleman was trying to ensnare her for sport, and another was paying court to her seemingly against his natural inclinations. In fact it was because most of the other members of the party were about her own age, and at home with Papa there was not the opportunity to giggle with another over the extravagances of a fashion plate, or discuss novels, or watch the ‘dance’ of the way people related to each other. She was also learning a lot. Mr Wombwell and Miss Darwen were, for example, remarkably similar, in that they were blinkered to the feelings of anyone else. Marianne had never encountered anyone quite as selfish. It isolated them, and they either did not notice or did not care. The one dressed very well, whilst the other only thought that she did, and they would have been horrified to have been seen as alike, but they were. As an only child, Marianne had not had to share, or think of others as those with siblings must do, but her governess had been swift to reprimand her for selfishness, and now she saw how wise Miss Rye had been.
Rather more lowering was discovering that being beautiful was no guarantee for finding love. Sarah Clandon was not beautiful, but Marianne was fairly sure that Lord Deben was decidedly smitten with her, and she had done nothing except be herself, and like him in return. Perhaps, thought Marianne, as she sealed the letter, Cupid’s arrows had struck them. She laughed to herself, and hoped that more tangible arrows did not strike anyone on the morrow.
*
Celia’s daily driving lesson had not started well. She was certainly mastering the essential skills, and Lord Levedale had sought out a gateway so that she might learn to negotiate a narrow opening with ease. It could not be said that Celia was in a mood to receive instruction, however, and her agitation was sensed by old Pom the pony, who was unusually fractious. When Lord Levedale held open the gate the cart positively shot through, and so close that he had to step back smartly to avoid being crushed. He gave Celia a very considering look as she pulled up.
‘Perhaps you ought only to drive when you are not out of temper, Miss Mardham.’
‘I am not out of temper,’ she said, with a scowl.
‘Pom thinks you are, and so do I. Do you want to try the gate again, or wait until later?’
‘I will try again, my lord.’ She pursed her lips, turned about, and made another attempt, which was better in that he was not so likely to be run over, but lacked finesse. She came to a halt, and he shut the gate and climbed back into the cart to sit facing her.
‘You are not my usual pupil this morning. What is it that has set you on edge?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You are a very poor liar, Miss Mardham, which is, of course a compliment.’
‘Then you ought to keep it for Marianne.’ The response was out so swiftly. She gasped at her own waspishness, and he frowned. She closed her eyes for a moment, and then said, in a very small voice, ‘I am sorry, my lord, that was unforgivable.’
‘Not unforgivable.’ He wished he could explain everything, but it would sound all wrong.
She thought his silence was because, whilst he might forgive her, he was disappointed in her.
‘I hate myself sometimes, you know.’ She was staring straight ahead, between Pom’s ears.
‘Why?’
‘Because I am not me.’ She sighed. ‘I know that makes no sense, but it is too difficult to put into words.’
‘Try.’ He took the reins from her grasp, and as his hand touched hers it lingered for a moment.
‘It is not just my leg that is deformed, you see. The accident has deformed “me”, the way I feel, the way I lose my temper. I was, I think, an even-tempered person, much more likely to smile or laugh than be angry and sharp-tongued. I am afraid that one day I will forget how I was.’ She took a deep breath, and swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘It is not everyone else’s fault that I cannot do things, although I do wish they would not keep reminding me. Sometimes I get angry with them for that and sometimes I get angry with myself for feeling angry. How foolish is that!’
‘Not foolish at all, Miss Mardham.’ He thought it rather heart-breaking.
‘I am becoming so bitter and twisted, like my limb, that I will end up as unpleasant as Miss Darwen,’ she said, sadly.
‘You will never be in the slightest way like Miss Darwen,’ he said, with vehemence. ‘You berate yourself for the anger that stems from your frustration. She would never do so, in your place. There is nothing generous about her, just self-opinionated self-worth. Now, tell me why your anger has come to the surface this morning.’
‘Because she proposed the archery competition, and I would so much like to join in.’ Celia bit her lip, and there was a slight catch in her voice. ‘I want to be part of life, not just observe it.’
Lord Levedale struggled with himself. Each lesson it was harder to hold back from her; every day he wanted her the more, but this was greater than mere desire. He wanted to hold her in his arms and reassure her, promise her that everything would be all right, as though he could perform some miracle, which he could not. She felt not only that her physical disability made her unlovable, but that she was unworthy of love because of her anger, which stemmed from frustration, and her fighting her limitations, not a meanness of spirit. He could not tell her just how worthy of love she was, that he was already falling deeply in love with her. The best he could do would be to solve her problem for the morrow.
‘Why can you not do so? You can stand.’
‘I could not balance, drawing the bow. I would be lopsided, or unsteady upon the dreaded patten. Have you ever drawn a bow, sir?’
‘I confess that it is something I have not done, so if I am asked to join in, please stand well behind me.’ There was a flash of a smile and then he was serious once more. ‘But could you not join the competition sat upon a chair, one without arms like a dining chair?’
She pondered this.
‘I suppose so. But Miss Darwen would say that was cheating and …’
He halted the pony cart and looked squarely at her.
‘This is nothing to do with her, just you. Forget she exists. If you wish to join in, do so, and to be honest, nobody else would think you gained any advantage.’
‘Miss—’
‘If you mention her name again, Miss Mardham, I am driving you straight home, is that clear?’ he spoke severely, but his eyes did not chastise.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. And for your in
formation I could not give a fig for what she thinks, and I doubt anybody else does either.’
‘No, sir.’
‘And I am not a schoolmaster.’
‘No sir.’ At last there was a trace of a smile upon her lips.
‘So no more, “yes, sir”, and “no, sir”.’
‘No … my lord.’
‘Good girl. I mean …’ She was looking at him in such a way he dare not say anything more. He must think of Silvertons, of those long-dead ancestors, anything but how much he cared about her.
‘I think I could manage the gate properly, now,’ she said, softly.
*
Upon their return from driving, Lord Levedale retreated to his bedchamber, ostensibly to change into garb suitable for shooting. In fact he did so without any thought as to what he was putting on, and it was a good job that his valet had the dressing of him. Welney thought his master particularly preoccupied, and not happily so. It distressed him, because he considered Lord Levedale a good employer and generally an open and cheerful person. He therefore even forbore exclaiming when his lordship ran his hand through his locks in an act expressive of his mental perturbation.
‘There we are, my lord. And I hope as you bag a good number of birds.’
Lord Levedale thanked him, rather abstractedly, and went down to join the hunters. Welney shook his head and tutted.
Mr Richard Mardham was in a very good mood, and laughing with Lord Pocklington. Lord Deben was seemingly studying the wall, with a rapt look on his face, and Mr Wombwell, whom Mr Mardham could not avoid inviting upon the shooting expedition, was inspecting his nails.
‘Ah, there you are, Levedale.’ Mr Mardham looked up the stairs as he heard the tread.
‘I am sorry. Have I delayed you?’
Bless Thine Inheritance Page 12
