Agnes Or The Art 0f Friendship

by Catherine Bowness

  “You have been pursuing her for the last few days,” she said, her face growing red and hot again beneath his contempt. “Did you try to make love to her – or did you make her an offer which she has refused? Where is she?”

  “How should I know? I am not her keeper but I will tell you, since you seem so concerned about her, that the last time I saw her she was sitting in the library with her sketchbook. She looked, at the time, quite well and healthy. If aught has befallen her, I am not the culprit who has caused it.”

  “The library?” she repeated, turned on her heel and walked rapidly towards the house.

  When she reached the library, its cool, dark space calmed her slightly. She stood in the doorway and looked round; there was no sign of either Agnes or her sketchbook; nor was there any sign of a tussle: none of the chairs was overturned, the curtains hung straight and the shelves were as full of books as usual. But, as her gaze travelled round the room, she saw the letter propped up on the mantelpiece and recognised her friend’s writing immediately.

  She guessed, even before she reached it, something of what the letter would say. It was addressed to her; she broke the seal and spread out the single sheet.

  “Dearest Louisa,” she read, “I have received word from Mr Armitage that his mother has been very low since I left. I have gone to the cottage to ascertain her state of mind for myself and to try to offer her what comfort I can. To this end, I have packed a few necessaries and intend to stay there for some days while I decide what to do.” There followed a passage concerning her uneasiness at finding herself amongst what she called ‘such elevated persons’ and finished, “I hope you will not mind that I have left most of my effects upstairs for the time being. I will write again in a few days’ time to let you know where you should send my trunk. In the meantime, I hope that its continued presence in your house will not be inconvenient.

  “I must thank you again for your exceeding kindness in allowing me to stay and apologise for rushing off without bidding you good-bye in person but I am sure that you will understand.

  Ever your devoted friend, Agnes.”

  ‘What to do’, Louisa thought with rising panic; what did she mean? Whether she would accept Lord Danehill? Was that what she was thinking about? She had not mentioned seeking another position and, having first taken refuge from the Armitages with her, now appeared to have sought asylum under their roof. There could be no other explanation than that whatever had taken place between her and the Marquess that morning had driven her forth. Well, Louisa thought bitterly, she was bound to accept him in the end for what poor girl, possessing only one – black – evening dress and in desperate need of the most menial and tedious employment would turn up the opportunity of becoming a Marchioness? And what now for her, Louisa?

  Of course there were plenty of other impoverished peers who would be only too happy to acquire her dowry, even if they were obliged to put up with her as an accompaniment, but she did not want any of them. She wanted only one: the thrice-cursed Danehill.

  She crumpled up the letter and threw it, with some force, into the fireplace before leaving the room, shutting the door with a decided snap and striding back to the party beside the lake.

  She went, again, straight to the Marquess.

  “She has gone!” she announced.

  “Gone?” he asked, turning white. “Gone where?”

  “How should I know? She left a note saying she could not face meeting you again and must flee for her own safety. What have you done to her? Have you hurt her?”

  “I? Good God, no! But where has she gone? Did she not say?”

  “No; only ‘somewhere where such as he may not find me’,” Louisa said, watching his face with vicious satisfaction. “You had better tell me at once what you did – or said - to frighten her so much.”

  “Nothing,” he repeated. “And she was not frightened when I last spoke to her – not in the least. I think you are making all this up because you are jealous and want to see me suffer.”

  “Would you suffer if aught had befallen her?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

  “Of course I would; so would anyone in whose breast beats a human heart. Do you truly not know what has become of her because, if that is the case, a search party must be sent out at once. But, if you are simply trying to unsettle me, I say, beware, Miss Newbolt: jealousy can – and very often does – cause untold pain to the one who allows it to take hold. I believed her to be your dearest friend.”

  “She was – is,” Louisa corrected herself. “And I blush to think that someone, another guest, has caused her such distress that she has fled rather than face him again.”

  “What did she say in her note?”

  “You know she wrote one, do you? How do you know that?”

  “I do not – I am guessing. And, now that I think about it more coolly and suspect you are trying to lay the blame for her disappearance on me, I suspect she has gone back to the cottage whence I collected her that first afternoon.” As he spoke, he watched her face, his own eyes half-closed, and nodded. “That is where she has gone, is it not? For God’s sake, admit it, for, if you will not, I will myself tell your father that she has run away and beg him to send out a search party. You will look exceedingly foolish when she is discovered, quite safe and well, but surprised, back in her old room at the cottage.”

  Louisa said, “It is because of you that she has fled, is it not?”

  “I see no reason why she should have done; I should imagine, on the contrary, that it is more likely to be on account of you. She is the sort of girl who, for love of her friend, would remove herself from the competition. Yes, I see I am right.”

  Louisa dropped her eyes and took a step back, suddenly aware not only of the shocking way she had behaved but also how comprehensively she had burned her boats with Danehill. If he had ever been inclined to make her an offer, he would not do so now.

  “Is this scene prompted more by love of and anxiety for your friend or jealousy?” he asked more gently.

  “Jealousy,” she muttered, seeing nothing for it but to throw herself upon his mercy, although, if Agnes was right, he would be disinclined to show any.

  “You will get over it,” he said roughly but with surprising kindness, “As will I, no doubt. Whatever the dramatists say, I don’t believe anyone ever died of love, but it’s probably not love on your part, is it? It’s pride.”

  “Partly,” she acknowledged. “But I am also anxious for my friend whom I do love dearly, whatever you may think.”

  “I have not – and would not – harm a hair of her head,” he said. “I promise you that. Now, since I have been so understanding, would you confirm that she has gone to the cottage and has neither thrown herself in the river nor run off down the road to heaven only knows what fate?”

  “So she told me.”

  “In that case, I am afraid we will both have to accept her disappearance with as good a grace as possible.”

  “I will tell my mother,” she said and turned away.

  It was not easy for Louisa to swallow her pride and to continue entertaining her guests after this. She did not again speak to the Marquess but he, to her surprise, told no one else of her behaviour so that, ashamed as she was of the way she had spoken to him, the humiliation which he could so easily have heaped upon her did not occur. For this she was grateful and found herself thinking, a trifle viciously, that Agnes had been wrong. The man was not only not sinister but seemed to be positively merciful.

  She tried to persuade herself that this revelation should render him boring in her eyes, should immediately remove the attraction provided by the danger which had initially surrounded him, but it did not. Judging him now to have constructed a false cloak of wickedness, she began to think that he was a good man, a man with a heart, and that, far from being the sort of whom women should be wary, he was the kind who would make an excellent husband.

  She wished that he had lighted upon her but he had not and, as he had pointed out, sh
e must learn to live with that. On the other hand, if he truly loved Agnes, which it seemed likely that he did, then it clearly behoved her, as a good friend, to try to bring about a match which would make him happy - and most likely her too for, if his affections were truly engaged, she had no doubt that he would stop at nothing to make her friend happy. Since she could not have him herself, she had much better try to persuade Agnes to do so and she rather suspected that this could only be brought about if she, Louisa, were to say that she did not want him; only then would Agnes feel free to accept him.

  She came to this conclusion when she was changing for dinner and, realising it was too late to go down to the cottage now, resolved to speak to Agnes as soon as possible on the morrow.

  Chapter 29

  Lady Armitage expressed herself delighted at the prospect of Agnes returning to shelter under her roof; even Jess, who had to vacate her room once more and move in with the cook, seemed pleased. No one asked Mrs White for her opinion and, since she rarely strayed outside the kitchen, no one except Jess was in a position to observe her expression on being told she must make room for the maid again.

  But, once the transports of delight had calmed, both Lady Armitage and her son were curious to know the reason for Agnes’s sudden and unexpected return.

  They skirted around the subject for some time before her ladyship drove her son from the room and asked Agnes if there had been some unpleasantness up at the big house which had driven her out.

  “No,” Agnes said slowly. “Not precisely unpleasantness but I was beginning to find it a little awkward as one or two of the gentlemen,” she thought it would be less particular if she mentioned more than one, “seemed to take an interest in me which I think Louisa found upsetting. She did not say anything, but I – somehow I felt it would be better if I left for a little while.”

  “If one of them seemed particular in his attentions would you not have been wiser to remain there?” Lady Armitage asked. “After all, surely you would welcome an offer?”

  “No, not in the circumstances,” Agnes said firmly. “Everyone was exceedingly kind to me and I have done a great many sketches. May I show them to you?”

  “Yes, of course, my dear,” the older lady said at once, perceiving that her former companion was disinclined to confide in her.

  Oddly enough, it was Sir John who elicited something of the truth from her later. Driven from the room by his mother, he went out in the carriage and, on his return, requested she attend him in the morning room. He wished, he said, to speak of her position.

  She rose at once and, on receiving a nod from her ladyship, preceded him into the morning room.

  “Pray sit down,” he invited, drawing a chair out from the table.

  He was, she noticed, much stronger and had begun to behave more like a gentleman in charge of the household rather than an invalid. He walked with something approaching what she assumed had been his old grace and his movements had acquired confidence and precision. Recently returned from wherever he had been, he had colour in his cheeks, his dark hair shone and his eyes, previously shadowed by pain, were bright.

  “You look well, sir,” she said.

  “Thank you; I am much better. But what of you, Miss Helman? Why have you come back to us as a mendicant when a short time ago you could not leave fast enough – and indeed disappeared without collecting your wages.”

  “I am sorry. If you would rather I did not rest my head here I will go somewhere else.”

  “Where? There must, I take it, be a reason why you have left another household in short order? Did you quarrel with Miss Newbolt?”

  “No, but I had the impression that my presence was not helpful to her.”

  “Indeed? Why in the world not? Do you mean that one of her suitors – perhaps the one she wanted – decided he preferred you?”

  “I .. yes, although I daresay it was nothing really – just a .. a passing fancy.” Lady Armitage had approached the subject so tactfully that it had not been difficult to evade the question but the Baronet made no bones about it and went unerringly to the heart of the matter. Unless she was to tell an outright lie, she could not avoid answering.

  He looked at her searchingly. “I doubt it. I should think, on the contrary, that whoever it was fell in love with you and made you an offer. Have you accepted?”

  “No – and that is why I could not stay.”

  “May I enquire why you refused? Was it on account of your fear that accepting would displease your friend?”

  “No, that was not why I turned him down, although that was why I left. I was afraid that Miss Newbolt would soon guess what had taken place and that – in short that she would be disappointed and .. displeased, as you put it.”

  “So, rather than accept an offer of marriage, you have decided to return to the hovel where you spent some time ministering to a rather depressed old lady, for which service you have not as yet been paid a single penny? Many people would find such conduct incomprehensible.”

  “If they did – do – that only shows that they understand nothing at all,” she snapped, flushing and turning away from the Baronet’s penetrating gaze.

  “Don’t tell me you have sworn not to marry without romantic feelings?” he asked in a scornful tone.

  “I should not dream of telling you any such thing, sir,” she retorted. “And I wish you would stop quizzing me on the matter. I am a grown woman, in full possession of my faculties, and I believe it is my business whether I choose to marry or not.”

  “Indeed! Forgive me! It is simply that – well, I am sure I do not need to remind you that it ill becomes beggars to aspire to be choosers.”

  “That is your belief, sir, and one which you have admitted prompted you to make offers to a number of women in the past, for none of whom you harboured romantic feelings – at least so you have told me. It is not mine.”

  “Yes, it was my belief and I own, now, that I am relieved that none of them accepted. I shall not make another offer of a similar nature. Indeed, I doubt that I shall marry at all for I cannot afford to marry a poor woman and it is unlikely that I will wish to marry a rich one.”

  Agnes looked up, startled. “So you own you have come round to my way of thinking? That marriage without love is little short of a form of slavery – a – I could not contemplate it.”

  “Nor I. I am a recent convert to your way of thinking and I must own that it is you who has persuaded me. I hold you entirely responsible for my forswearing of wedlock. Who was the man?” he finished abruptly.

  “I do not consider that is any of your business,” she returned.

  “No? I have met most of the guests and, if you tell me his name, I may be able to advise you to change your mind, assuring you in the process that sometimes love grows, or, alternatively, congratulate you on your judgment.”

  She shook her head. “It would be unfair if I were to divulge his name for then you would have information which – in short, he does not deserve that.”

  “You think I would blackmail him?”

  Agnes jumped. “No.”

  “You think me an honourable man, then? The sort who would not stoop to blackmail? And yet previously you were of the belief that I would not hesitate to marry a woman for her money. I suppose I was that sort of scoundrel – the latter sort – although I trust I would never resort to extortion. I hope I have changed.”

  “What did you wish to speak to me about? Did you intend to tell me that I can only stay a few days while I find another position? If that was it, I entirely understand.”

  “No, I did not. I wish – and my mother wishes – that you would stay for ever. However, we cannot reasonably expect it. I do not know what wages you agreed with her when you began – and certainly you have not received any – but I went, just now, to the bank and have here a sum which I think is not unreasonable recompense for what you have done.”

  He stood up, put his hand in his pocket and withdrew a bundle of notes which he laid upon the table and pushe
d towards her.

  She stared at it, looked up at him, flushed and jumped up, knocking over her chair with the violence of her movement.

  “I cannot, sir; that is far too much.”

  “You have not as yet counted it so, unless you are remarkably adept at guessing from the size of the bundle how much is there, you cannot know.”

  “It looks too much, particularly when I consider how excessively short of the ready your family is. How,” she added curiously, “did you manage to lay your hands on such a large sum?”

  He laughed. “Oh, I am so much better that I was able to rob a fat gentleman in Tunbridge Wells. Pray take it.”

  “You did not!”

  “Whatever makes you say that? I thought I was the most odious man of your friend’s acquaintance and, in your eyes, a scoundrel who would stoop at nothing to please himself.”

  “Neither of those descriptions makes me believe you would resort to common robbery, sir. In any event, you began by saying you had visited a bank.”

  “Ah, yes, the gentleman was coming out and, looking extremely pleased with himself, alerted me to the likelihood that he had just withdrawn a goodly sum. I followed him down the road a short way before hitting him over the head with my cane.”

  “A likely story! Are we to expect a visit from the Bow Street runners soon?”

  “No, I don’t think anyone saw me. I pocketed the blunt and came home at once.”

  “Well,” she said, lifting her chin and giving him a challenging stare, “I cannot possibly accept money acquired in such a manner.”

  She pushed it back towards him and he threw back his head and laughed.

  “No, of course you could not! Dear me, I dread to think what will become of you in this wicked world. You are too good for your own good, you know. You will not marry a man you do not love and you will not accept tainted money. Dear Miss Helman, will you please accept the wages which you are owed. My family has a bad reputation for running up debts but we have always prided ourselves on paying our servants properly.”