Bless Thine Inheritance

by Sophia Holloway

  ‘The prize, my liege.’

  ‘Excellent. Then here is your prize, Miss Clandon, as the best archer in the Meysey tournament.’ He presented it with as much of a flourish as Lord Deben. Sarah blushed, and mumbled something about ‘luck’.

  ‘Oh yes. That last shot against Mr Mardham was a fluke, to be sure.’ Miss Darwen sounded as sour as she looked. She was ignored.

  Lord Mardham might hand her the rose, but Sarah had eyes only for the gentleman who had thought to pick it for her. Lady Mardham frowned, and suggested that they now all adjourn indoors and make ready for a light luncheon ‘to celebrate’. Lord Mardham then had the idea that Sarah should, as victor, or rather victrix, take the seat of the lady of the house atat the head of the table. His lady, he declared, would happily vacate the place on this occasion. Whether happy about it or not, Lady Mardham did as he wished, and a highly embarrassed Sarah took ‘the seat of honour’. Perhaps embarrassment was the reason for her lack of appetite, or at least that was what Lady Mardham hoped.

  *

  As soon as the meal was ended, Sarah took her ‘prize’ upstairs to put in a glass of water, although she had every intention of pressing it upon the morrow. Then, whilst the others went back into the garden, Celia with Sir Marcus hovering about her to her great agitation, she sought the privacy of the book room and attempted to write a letter. There she sat with steepled fingers, gazing at a Meissen group upon the mantelshelf. It depicted a shepherdess, lamb and crook in her hands, and with a lovelorn shepherd at her feet. The pragmatic Sarah disliked the piece, because the shepherdess was dressed in a gown decked in knots of ribbon and wore an ornate hat, and the shepherd was in a blue coat with gold buttons, and very white stockings that would have been suitable garb for a ball, thirty years past. It did, however, have relevance to her cogitations.

  Sarah was unsure what to do. Had her Mama been on hand it would have been so much easier, but although she attempted to write to her understanding parent, everything Sarah wrote came out in a jumble and was cast into the hearth. Lord Deben was not, she conceded, as intelligent as Lord Levedale, as handsome as Mr Wombwell, or as athletic as Lord Pocklington. He was, however, worth more than the combination of all three in her very humble opinion. There was a kindness to him that lit him from within, and when he smiled at her, Sarah felt warmed by the light of it.

  She had told herself, repeatedly, that his thoughtfulness was exhibited to all the young ladies, and that her own predisposition towards him was making her feel that there was some indeterminate but wonderful connection that was lacking in his relations with Cousin Celia, and Marianne. He had undoubtedly been bowled over by Marianne’s beauty upon first meeting her, but Sarah did not blame him for that in the least. What man could not fail to be struck by such a staggeringly attractive young woman? And yet … she smiled to herself at the recollection of how, when the other young men had been vying to attract the attentions of Marianne Burton, Lord Deben had held back, had made sure that she and Cousin Celia were not left as mere bystanders. He treated her cousin as he would a sister. Was she fanciful to think that he did not treat her in quite the same manner? There were times when their eyes met, and then her insides performed strange revolutions, in a nice way. The last few days she was sure he had been watching her, and today … He had thought of the rose, he had stood up to Miss Darwen to make sure that she, Sarah Clandon, was acknowledged as the winner, and he appeared more delighted than if he had won the competition himself. There was even the tiniest suggestion that he had sent one of his own arrows a little astray in the final round, knowing that if he won they would be equal, and would need to shoot again. Was it fanciful to think he did not want to beat her, or make her think he let her win?

  ‘Perhaps I am imagining it. I must be imagining it.’ Sarah chided herself, and put away pen and paper with a sigh.

  Lady Mardham entered the room to collect a list which she just knew she had left in the drawer of the escritoire, just as she had previously known it must be by the clock in the green saloon, and before that within the pages of the book that she was endeavouring to enjoy because her friends did so.

  ‘Sarah dear, whatever are you doing here? I had thought you would be upon the terrace with the other young people. Have you a headache?’

  ‘No, no, ma’am, I assure you I have not. It is just …’ Sarah did what she thought best, and confided in Lady Mardham, since she must stand in loco parentis during her visit.

  Lady Mardham listened in horror as her recent suspicions were confirmed. Lord Deben had not figured at all in her plans for Celia, but that he should show any inclination towards Cousin Cora’s dab of a daughter was unthinkable. How would it look if Sarah Clandon emerged from this sojourn with her relations with the likelihood of an offer, whilst Celia’s hand remained unsought? It was too, too shaming.

  ‘Are you sure, my dear? You are, after all, inexperienced, innocent. You might easily misconstrue mere polite attentions for something … something else.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. That is why I am so confused. I am persuaded there is more, but realise that I am ignorant of so much. Do I let him see that I am not indifferent to him, or …’

  ‘You must not put yourself forward, my dear child. That would be ruinous. Might I suggest you continue as you have thus far, and let me see for myself how he behaves. I stand as your dear mama would, in her absence, and would not wish you to overstep the mark, however innocently.’

  ‘I will willingly be guided by you, dear ma’am.’ Sarah smiled shyly, glad that the burden was at least shared.

  ‘Then go and put on your spencer and join the others, there’s a good girl. I will think upon this.’

  The last phrase was heartfelt. As Sarah went away, Lady Mardham sat down and tried to calm her disordered nerves. If what the girl said had any basis in fact … no, she must be imagining it. She had no experience of men, could not tell … and yet …

  Taking a deep breath, Lady Mardham got up and took the obvious course. She went in search of her husband.

  ‘You will just have to write to Deben’s father and tell him about the Calamity about to Befall. Tell him to warn Deben off, call him home or something.’ Lady Mardham wafted her hands about in a vague gesture.

  Lord Mardham’s eyebrows rose in consternation.

  ‘Write to Eskdale and tell him to … No, I most certainly will not. Good grief, can you imagine what he would think? After all, we invited the girl to stay with us. How can we then say she is beneath Deben’s touch? Besides, Clandon might be a younger son, but his birth is good, and Deben cannot be in need of a rich wife. He is also, by the by, of age, so Eskdale could not stop him marrying whomsoever he wishes.’ He paused, and said, gently, ‘It strikes me that whilst no great match, it would be perfectly acceptable, my dear.’

  ‘Perfectly acceptable to Cora Clandon,’ snorted Lady Mardham. ‘Absolutely! Can you not see how she must gloat over that … that Nothing of a daughter … catching the heir to an earldom, when our poor, poor Celia remains upon the shelf.’

  ‘Never saw your cousin as the gloating sort. She might fall upon your neck with gratitude, but gloat? No, she would not do so.’

  ‘So you will do nothing?’

  ‘I will do nothing, other than give the chit my heartiest congratulations if the the thing comes off.’ Lord Mardham did not shout or bluster, but his wife knew when he would not be moved upon a subject.

  ‘And see me, and our poor dear Celia, the laughing stock of the county,’ Lady Mardham sniffed, turned on her heel, and stalked out.

  She considered writing to Lady Eskdale herself, but some of what her lord had said made painful sense. Lady Eskdale, with whom she was not upon more than nodding terms, might well wonder why the Clandon girl had been invited to Meysey at all. She could not be told it was to provide Celia with company without rivalry.

  The problem remained uppermost in Lady Mardham’s mind all through dinner, where she took especial notice of Lord Deben’s manner towards both Sarah and
the other young ladies. He was sat next to Celia this evening, and was unfailingly polite and entertaining, but Lady Mardham noted with disquiet that when he had cause to look across the table his eyes dwelt a little too long upon The Poor Relation.

  When she retired for the night, she instructed her maid to plump up her pillows, so that she might ‘have a thinking night’. Lady Mardham was convinced that her very best plans and ideas always came to her propped up in bed. She ignored the fact that it had been one such nocturnal cogitation which decided her upon having the morning room repapered in lilac and fuchsia stripes. The result had not been happy, and had involved a positive explosion of ire from her lord, and the removal of every very expensive sheet of it just in time for the arrival of the matching curtains.

  Lady Mardham was not an unfeeling or unpleasant woman, but she was one with very strict priorities. At the top of her list came herself, followed by her son, her daughter, and her then husband. Whilst her conscience pricked her over the course of action she was about to take, she solaced herself with thought that it was best for Celia, and of course for herself, and that she would not have had to take the step had her spouse not been peculiarly unhelpful.

  Chapter 13

  Although she usually broke her fast in the comfort of her bed, Lady Mardham presented herself for breakfast, much to the amazement of the senior footman, who almost dropped a chafing dish of mushrooms. Mr Richard Mardham choked over his coffee, and had to be patted firmly upon the back by Lord Pocklington.

  Lady Mardham cast him a mildly reproving look, and graciously partook of tea, toast, and a coddled egg. Her presence had a damping effect upon the conversation of the gentlemen, who had addressed their appetites in suitable silence, but thereafter had been arguing good-naturedly over the likeliest spots to provide good sport with a twelve bore. Her ladyship appeared impervious to the change in atmosphere, however, and sat in regal state, embarrassing her son further by chastising him for attempting to drink his coffee when it was patently too hot.

  He cast the other men a look of apology. At least they all possessed, or had possessed, mothers, and would understand that mothers always treated one as if still in short coats. He would rather scald his mouth than linger in the breakfast parlour with his parent. Shortly thereafter he rose, and made his excuses, which signalled the others that breakfast was over.

  Lady Mardham sat quietly to await the young ladies. She wanted to speak with Sarah before she encountered Lord Deben, and this guaranteed it. In fact Sarah entered before any of the others, for she did not feel very sociable just at present. She stopped upon the threshold, seeing Lady Mardham, and made a small ‘oh’ sound as she gave a little curtsey and bade her hostess good morning. She was aware of an agitated feeling in her stomach.

  ‘Good morning, my dear. A fine morning, is it not? I am so glad you are up betimes, for I wished to have some private word with you, upon the subject we discussed yesterday.’

  Sarah wondered why Lady Mardham was not more open, since they were alone.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Sarah came and sat, which at least prevented her knees from knocking.

  ‘Now, I paid particular attention to Lord Deben’s manner last evening, as I said I would. You were so very right to consult me, my dear child, before opening yourself to an awkwardness.’

  Sarah’s heart sank.

  ‘I see, ma’am.’

  ‘I do not blame you in the slightest, for you have nobody with whose manner you might compare Lord Deben’s, other than the gentlemen here at present. He is the most considerate of others, which is very taking, and I can quite see that his ability to make one feel the only focus of his thoughts when he converses with one could lead to … a misapprehension. However, I observed him talking to poor Celia, and to Mrs Wombwell, and he was attentive, in the nicest of ways, to each. What you must do, my dear, is keep a hold upon your natural inclination in his direction, lest you place yourself in a difficult situation, and expose the both of you to acute embarrassment. I do not, of course, say that you should refuse to converse with him. In so small a gathering that would be both rude and obvious. You must simply behave circumspectly, and whatever you do, do not wear your youthful heart upon your sleeve.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am. I did not see, could not see, things in the wider context as you do. I am sadly ignorant.’ Sarah could suddenly not face food. ‘If you will excuse me, Lady Mardham.’

  She got up, gave a tight smile, and withdrew. Only when she had closed the door behind her did she take a deep breath to hold in her tears, and rush up the stairs to the privacy of her bedchamber.

  Lady Mardham regarded a half-eaten slice of toast accusingly, and sighed. It was for the best, but there was a twinge of guilt.

  *

  Sir Marcus Cotgrave had spent a troubled night. Miss Mardham’s wilfulness troubled him greatly, and a small voice in his head warned him that although suitably youthful, she possessed a steeliness of character that would not make her the sort of wife he wanted, one who would defer to him in all things, be guided by him in all things. Despite this, her physical deformity, which was so unsightly, made him feel the need to protect her all the more. She was not capable of looking after herself, and her ‘outbursts of independence’ must be the result of her not being given the security of constant supervision and care. Yes, that was it. He must not be put off from his intention, which would make him happy, and keep her safe. Just thinking of the things she had undertaken since his arrival made his blood run cold. She had attempted to walk, outside, and over treacherously riven flagstones, without human support; she was risking life and limb each time she went out for those terrible driving lessons, and to cap it all, she had tried to join in an activity as if she were in some way a normal young woman. Her self-delusion was dangerous, but increased his pity for her. Given firm but gentle control, once taught to depend, he could make her safe, and she would come to dote upon him in gratitude.

  This more rosy, and entirely fictitious, picture enabled him to finally fall asleep.

  The morning began bright, but there were leaden clouds to the west, and the air was oppressive. A thunderstorm might be in the offing later. Sir Marcus rehearsed his declaration three times before his mirror, and then went to enjoy a late breakfast, ready to propose as soon as he could find Miss Mardham alone.

  For a lady who could not move about with any ease, she proved remarkably elusive, and he eventually found her, unexpectedly, in the library, actually reaching up upon one tiptoe to select a volume.

  ‘Miss Mardham!’

  His sudden exclamation nearly made her fall over from shock.

  ‘Goodness, Sir Marcus, how you surp …’ Celia got no further. Sir Marcus had trod swiftly across the room, taken the book from her hand, and laid it upon a table.

  ‘You must not. You cannot. Dear Miss Mardham, you appear dangerously unaware of the risks you run.’ He dropped to one knee, with a slight grimace. ‘I offer myself to you as guide, devoted always to your welfare, conscious always of your limitations. I will keep you from harm, teach you to accept the life that lies before you, enfold you in a love that protects.’

  Celia was appalled, not only by the act of his proposal but by the picture he drew of what he could ‘offer’ her.

  ‘I beg you will get up, Sir Marcus,’ she managed, in a constricted voice.

  ‘When you have said yes,’ he declared.

  ‘Then I fear you will miss dinner, sir.’ He was genuine, which was in some ways the most frightening aspect of all, and to refuse him baldly smacked of being ungracious, but he had proved amazingly impervious to hints.

  He blinked, not understanding. It occurred to her that Lord Levedale would have comprehended her in a heartbeat. Imagining Lord Levedale upon one knee brought colour back into her white cheeks.

  ‘Give me your answer first, my dear.’

  ‘My answer, Sir Marcus, is no, and I am not, and will never be your “dear”. We should not suit, sir, I assure you. I am conscious of …’
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br />   ‘No. You are not conscious of so many things, my child. You do not see, from the ignorance of youth, the dangers and pitfalls about you. You have to marry me.’

  ‘I most certainly do not.’ She was now not so much stunned as flustered. ‘What you offer me is a cage, a box as close as a coffin. I cannot and will not live my life that way. It is far better to take “risks” as you see them, than exist like that. Please, I beg of you, get up, and we will forget this unfortunate interchange ever took place. I wish you well, Sir Marcus, and life for you would not be well if I shared it with you.’ She gripped her stick with both hands, not so much to steady herself as keep her hands from trembling

  He looked at her in disbelief. She was refusing him. Even as this sunk in, the small voice in his head heaved a sigh of relief. Slowly, he got up, and dusted the knee of his trousers.

  ‘I think you are mistaken,’ he said gravely, but with a crack in his certainty. ‘However, an offer is an offer, just that, not a demand.’ This, from the man who had just said that she ‘had’ to marry him. ‘I am sorry, sorry that you do not see a future with me, and sorry that I have unsettled you by my protestations.’

  ‘You will be thankful later, Sir Marcus.’ Celia controlled herself, and sounded calm again.

  His response was a twisted smile and a bow, and then he withdrew. Celia sat heavily upon the nearest chair. She had just received a proposal of marriage, and rejected it. It was without doubt the right decision, but it was a momentous event nonetheless. It took her some minutes for her heartbeat to slow, and for her to feel able to face the world impassively.

  Celia had no wish to reveal to her Mama that she had refused Sir Marcus. She could imagine the peal that would be rung over her for her short-sightedness. Having created the situation whereby she might receive an offer, it would sound churlish to say that she had turned one down. Any offer should be grasped and clutched to her bosom, she had no doubt, and the ‘excuse’ that the man drove her to distraction would cut no ice.