‘Not at all, my dear chap.’ It was not quite true, but the fellow was being jolly decent, teaching Celia to drive, and that was the cause of the delay. ‘We should get a good bag today, and before you start upon “partridge cake” and such, let me tell you Cook is expecting enough birds to do for a fine dinner on Tuesday. They will have hung nicely by then.’
‘Partridge pudding,’ murmured Lord Deben, and Mr Mardham wondered whether his friend had been thinking of food whilst contemplating the wallpaper.
‘Quite possibly, Debs.’
With which he led the gentlemen to the gunroom to select the guns of their choice.
It could not be said that Lord Levedale accounted for many of the birds, not that he proved a poor shot but rather he did not raise his gun very often, and thus quite a few Gloucestershire partridges lived to fly another day. Lord Pocklington, by contrast, kept his loader and the gundog very busy. When they eventually returned, with enough of a bag to keep Cook dressing birds for half a day, everyone agreed it had been an excellent day’s sport.
*
Miss Darwen was in buoyant spirits. She considered herself rather a good toxophilite, among the many other things at which she excelled, and had no doubt that she would shine among the other ladies. The Ninny had already admitted that she had never held a bow in her life, except one made of ribbon, which Miss Darwen thought a very weak joke, but had caused an uncommon degree of amusement among certain of the other guests. The Poor Relation was the quiet sort who was probably fearful of nasty, sharp arrows, and The Cripple was patently unable to participate. It was unlikely that the older ladies would take part, and if she were to lose to any of the gentlemen that would be perfectly acceptable because … they were men. She could look coy and ladylike and murmur about how much stronger they were. If she beat them she could be ‘Diana the Huntress’. All in all, it promised to be a very good day, and suggesting it had been inspired. It did not occur to her that it would be far better to win in a closely fought contest with archers of comparable skill. All that mattered was that she won and was the centre of attention. Had one enquired of several members of the party, they would have preferred her to be the centre of attention by being the target.
She was seated next to Lord Levedale at dinner, which enabled her to tell him all about her past successes at the butts in inexhaustible detail, but even she became aware that whilst being polite, he was only half attending to her. This was disappointing, but at least he had been equally quiet before the meal, and had not engaged any of the ladies in conversation other than his hostess.
He had been discussing Celia’s aptitude as a whip, making much of how sensible and safe a driver he expected her to be, and praising Lady Mardham for her wisdom in agreeing to her learning. He had realised early in his visit that her ladyship liked to think that everything was going well because she had arranged it so.
Lady Mardham did not know what to make of Lord Levedale. In her more hopeful moments she thought his attention to Miss Burton was a feint to distract from his gentle wooing of Celia, but, she asked herself, why would he think that necessary? Or was he doing so to keep Mr Wombwell from breaking the girl’s inexperienced heart? She could not fathom it at all. The driving lessons were, at the least, A Good Sign, and if anything would show poor Celia in a good light, it would be to do with horses, even now. Her lord had reported that the viscount had put a lot of thought into the design of the phaeton, and was eager to be involved with the purchase of a pair to go between the shafts. That, she told herself, was not the act of a man who was disinterested. His manner this evening was almost melancholy, and she wondered what had occasioned his lack of spirits. Had she even had an inkling that it was because he found himself falling ever more deeply for her daughter she would have been ecstatic, until she got to wondering why that made him miserable.
*
The truth of the matter was that Lord Levedale was in an impossible position of his own making, as he knew full well. If only, he thought, he had followed his instincts from the start. Instead he had brushed them aside in an effort to do the right thing, and thus done the wrong thing, utterly. He was pretty sure that Miss Mardham liked him, though he would not go so far as to say that she was in love with him. After all, she was without experience, and her feelings might be acute, but just ‘calf love’ that would fade as quickly as it had appeared. Deep down he did not think that the case, but he was not himself so well versed in love that he could judge for certain. If her feelings were genuinely engaged, then had he been honest with himself he might now be contemplating requesting an interview with Lord Mardham that had nothing to do with buying horses. Two weeks was a very short time in which to have come to this momentous decision, an almost laughably short time in fact, but he would be requesting permission to pay his addresses in form, not whisk Celia Mardham down the aisle within the week by means of a special licence.
However, he had refused to believe his own feelings, and had resolutely set his sights upon Miss Burton. That young lady did not, thankfully, appear bowled over by him, but might rightly think herself slighted if he abandoned her now. Celia Mardham was hurt by his pursuit of her friend, as her outburst today had proved, and the last thing in the world he wanted to do was cause her unhappiness. In the beginning he had told himself that marrying a beautiful girl with money that would save the family pile was perfectly in order, even if he did not love her, since he was not in love with anyone else. Now he was in love with somebody else. Was his happiness worth setting at nought for the sake of his profligate sire, and the ancestors in the family vault? More importantly, was Celia Mardham’s? If he was not sure of the answer to the first question, he was perfectly clear about the answer to the second. After all, he had promised his spendthrift parent that he would see if he and Miss Burton would suit, and no more. Well, they would not. If he put aside family duty – and it was easier to say than do – then before he made his feelings obvious to Miss Mardham he had to disengage from Miss Burton in such a way that it seemed a natural and gradual step, not some random breach. Women were complicated beings and he wished for a moment that they were more like men. Then he could have simply gone to the one and then the other and explained he had made a perfectly honest mistake. Had they been men, though, he would not be in this situation at all. He would sleep on it.
In fact he lay awake much of the night, and when he dozed, his dreams were tangled.
Chapter 12
‘The old man in the village’ was perfectly correct. The next day dawned with every sign of being a perfect September day. Dew spangled the cobwebs on the shrubbery, and a cock pheasant stalked boldly across the lawn. When the maid opened Celia’s curtains, Celia sighed. She wished it was raining. For all Lord Levedale’s advice, she foresaw embarrassment and being patronised. If she did not shoot well, there would plaudits for having ‘done ever so well, considering’. ‘Considering’ was one of those words she had come to hate.
She came down to breakfast a little before Sarah, who had become even more quiet over the last couple of days, and appeared preoccupied. Lords Deben and Levedale were in the breakfast parlour, where their natural male preference for few words over the repast lay trampled in the dust by Miss Darwen’s unstoppable conversation. They both cast Celia looks of desperation, but she could not think of any way in which she might help them. She advanced into the room. Miss Darwen was in the act of pouring herself a third cup of coffee.
The idea hit Celia like a bolt of lightning. It was reprehensible in the extreme, but it might save the gentlemen. She contrived to stumble a little as she passed Miss Darwen’s chair, and grabbed the back of of it, pulling it so that Miss Darwen was pouring coffee not into her cup but onto the table and thence onto her skirt. She exclaimed, and rose quickly, shaking her skirts to avoid the hot liquid penetrating her petticoats, and with a furious reprimand to Celia upon being so clumsy. She nearly toppled Celia properly as she did so, and Lord Deben, who was the nearer of the gentlemen, leapt up to prevent her fa
lling.
‘I am quite all right, thank you, my lord,’ declared Celia, and there was the tiniest hint of a smile in her eyes. Lord Levedale noted it, and knew what she had done.
‘You are alright? It is I who have suffered, and yours is the fault! I will have to change my gown, and, oh, it is soaking into my … person.’ Miss Darwen was outraged. ‘How could you be so clumsy, even you?’ She threw down her napkin with which she had been dabbing at the brown stain, and almost ran from the room.
‘You are a wicked young woman, Miss Mardham,’ murmured Lord Levedale, with a slow smile.
‘It was the only thing I could think of that would rescue you and Lord Deben, my lord.’ Celia was all wide-eyed innocence.
‘”Rescue’?’ Lord Deben caught on. ‘Oh, I should dashed well say you have, Miss Mardham. And put yourself at risk to boot. A heroine is what I would call you. That … woman, had been going on and on and on from the moment she walked in. Quite put a fellow off his breakfast.’
‘You see, sir? Lord Deben appreciates me.’ She was looking at Lord Levedale, and dimpled.
He laughed, and the smile lengthened, and sparkled in his eyes, but his words were gently chastising.
‘All very well, Miss Mardham, but you did put yourself at risk, and for what? If you had fallen, you might have been hurt.’
‘Life is full of “ifs”, sir,’ she lifted her chin, and challenged him, ‘and “if” we never risked anything we might as well be put in the family vault anyway.’
‘Bravely said, Miss Mardham,’ applauded Lord Deben.
‘Some things are worth a risk, I will agree, but all you did was save two bachelors from a ruined breakfast.’
‘All? Well, in my case I was nearly ready to jump out of the window.’ Lord Deben sought to lighten the seriousness.
‘But we are on the ground floor, and you would have merely landed in the flower bed, three feet from the window ledge, my lord.’ Celia giggled.
‘Might have landed in a spiky plant, rose bush, that sort of thing. So you definitely saved me, ma’am.’ He grinned.
‘And the only “award” we can make you is to offer you a cup of coffee. May I pour one for you, Miss Mardham?’ Lord Levedale’s eyes had not left her.
‘You may, sir, as long as you do not spill it.’
*
It was nearly eleven o’clock when the two straw butts were dragged into position, and the targets secured to them with hazel thatching pins. Miss Darwen, who had been forced to change her raiment even down to her corsetry, was in no mood to ‘take prisoners’, as Lord Pocklington remarked with a shudder. Her lips were tightly compressed, which Lord Deben said was at least one advantage, though, he added, the looks she gave Miss Mardham made the arrows look like ‘blunts’.
Chairs were brought out so that Lord and Lady Mardham, and those others not competing, might watch in the manner of some mediaeval competition. A chair was also brought out for Celia, and Lord Levedale saw that it had no arms to it. She glanced at him, and her look warned him to keep the secret.
‘We ought to draw lots to see who is matched? There are eight of us so …’ Miss Darwen was already taking charge. Somehow it seemed less irritating to let her get on with it.
‘Nine,’ announced Celia.
‘You? You cannot take part,’ Miss Darwen snorted.
‘I can. I will do so from a chair.’
‘Well, that gives you an advantage.’
‘In what way, Miss Darwen?’ Lord Levedale had opened his mouth to speak, but it was Lord Deben who voiced the question first.
‘Well, it is … obvious.’
‘Not to me. Explain.’ Lord Deben, who had been most certainly terrified of Miss Darwen for a fortnight, appeared to have overcome his dread of her quite suddenly. Lord Levedale wondered if the coffee incident had been the catalyst. Sarah Clandon’s eyes widened, and she smiled.
‘Er … she will have a more stable position from which to draw the bow and loose her arrows.’
‘But the chair is limiting in the drawing of the bow,’ interjected Lord Levedale, keen to show that Deben was not alone.
‘And besides,’ Miss Darwen ignored him, ‘it makes the numbers uneven. We cannot have nine.’
‘Oh, for Goodness’ sake, I will make the tenth,’ declared Mr Wombwell, already bored with the proceedings.
‘Thank you, Mr Wombwell.’ Celia nodded her thanks.
‘Anything to oblige, Miss Mardham, and to get things moving.’
As a hint, it failed. Miss Darwen had to make out tickets with the names of the contestants, and have Lord Mardham draw them from a basket.
‘Mr Mardham shoots against Sir Marcus, Lord Deben against Lord Pocklington, Lord Levedale against Miss Clandon, Mr Wombwell against Miss Mardham, and I take on Miss Burton.’ Miss Darwen’s smirk made it clear she might as well have a walkover.
In this instance, she was right. Miss Burton, who had to be assisted to nock her arrows, and who could not draw her bow to its capacity, dropped short of the target three times, missed once, hit it twice near the edge, and managed to get one arrow into Miss Darwen’s target. Her final shot was, however, close to the bull, and she was delighted.
‘Back to ribbons for me, I think,’ she gurgled, and made a pretty curtsey to Lord and Lady Mardham. It was agreed by everyone except Miss Darwen, that she had entered into the spirit of the event, and tried hard.
The gentlemen removed their coats so as not to constrict their movement, or indeed, split the seams.
Lord Deben rather unexpectedly beat the sports-mad Lord Pocklington, who took his defeat in good part. He clapped his friend warmly upon the back, and suggested, with a grin, that as Deben was the shorter, he had a lower centre of gravity and was thus obviously a better design for an archer.
Mr Wombwell lost to Miss Mardham, and was not helped by his Mama sitting with her hands over her eyes, fingers barely parted, and gasping every time he loosed an arrow. Lord Deben whispered to Miss Clandon that the last person he was likely to hit was himself, so her maternal nerves were pointless. By the same token, however, it did not help Miss Mardham that Sir Marcus sighed heavily every time she nocked her arrow.
Richard Mardham was a far better shot than Sir Marcus, but that gentleman was still suffering from the shock of Miss Mardham taking part. He was quite glad to step down because he could then sit by Celia and, with a mixture of entreaty and command, try and make her see that to have proved her point was foolish but noble, and that to ‘risk permanent injury’ by taking part in later rounds was ‘unthinkable’.
To this, Celia, white-lipped with anger, answered that unless the chair was likely to collapse beneath her there was no likelihood of injury, and that she had every intention of remaining in the competition until defeated by a better archer.
Lord Levedale had watched the other participants, and although he had never handled a bow before, he made a fair attempt, with one shot falling wide and short, but all the others at least hitting the butt, and three of those in the inner, and one in the bull. Miss Clandon scored very highly, to Lord Deben’s delight, and Miss Darwen’s surprised annoyance. Lord Levedale made the error, however, of trying a little too hard with his draw, and extending his left arm so that it slightly everted, and the bowstring caught him smartly down the inner part of the arm. He winced.
‘That will mark me as the novice idiot,’ he murmured, and rubbed his arm.
‘Is it bruising, my lord?’ enquired Celia, with concern.
He rolled up the sleeve to the elbow, revealing a pale forearm already disfiguring with a dark purple bruise.
‘Oh dear. I ought to have warned you about that. It is an easy mistake to make.’
‘Indeed you ought, Miss Mardham.’
She beckoned a servant, and sent them away to bring witch hazel and a cloth. When they returned she bade Lord Levedale present the forearm and bathed the bruise with the witch hazel.
‘It will help the bruise come out, my lord.’
‘It ap
pears to be doing that pretty well without assistance, ma’am.’ He was watching her dabbing tenderly at his arm, and was very aware of her touch. It made the discomfort worthwhile.
‘You must keep this bottle and apply the tincture before retiring, and as far up the arm as the bruising occurs, sir.’
‘Yes, doctor.’
‘There. That will suffice for the present. You may roll down your sleeve.’ Celia thought that sounding calm and medical would prevent him noticing that her fingers trembled very slightly. It did not.
It was only now that Miss Darwen realised that the field of ten had become five.
‘An ideal opportunity for you to retire, Miss Mardham,’ whispered Sir Marcus, close to her left ear. She shook her head, and he sighed.
‘We can either each take three arrows and compete against the others in turn, or one person gets a bye.’ Miss Darwen disliked the latter idea, and was relieved when the more complicated plan was adopted. She did end up ‘confused’, as she claimed, declaring, with a simper, that she had won, and Miss Clandon was shown at the bottom of the table, when in fact of all the archers, it was Miss Clandon who had not lost a round.
‘You must have your board upside down, Miss Darwen.’ Lord Deben did not sound as if he believed that at all. He was a such a good-natured fellow that to hear him with an edge to his voice was most disconcerting. ‘I think you will find that in fact, Miss Clandon is the champion.’ He glanced at Sarah Clandon, and his look held admiration, and more.
‘I am not sure … perhaps … oh yes, an easy mistake.’ Miss Darwen could have taken up her bow and committed an act of violence, although she was not quite sure whether she wished first to shoot Lord Deben or Miss Clandon.
‘Well,’ Lord Mardham rose, and extended his hand to Sarah, ‘we ought to have a prize.’
‘As long as it is not this bottle of witch hazel,’ murmured Lord Levedale, and winked at Miss Mardham.
Lord Deben stepped forward with a rose, held cautiously, and presented it to Lord Mardham with a bow, in the manner of a herald.
Bless Thine Inheritance Page 13
