by Jane Ashford
“I’ll fix this,” he interrupted. “It’s my fault. I’ll make it right.”
She was reminded of John’s insistence on responsibility.
“I’ll start at once,” Roger added. He was appalled. “You may depend on me.” In the future, he vowed, he would hold his tongue when he felt the impulse to place blame. It didn’t matter how difficult words were for him, he would resist.
“I don’t see what you can do. Contradicting anonymous letters is like trying to bat away fog.” She grimaced. “People always quote Shakespeare about the lady who ‘doth protest too much.’ It’s no wonder no one likes Queen Gertrude.”
“Queen…who?”
“I think we’ll have to avoid each other for a bit,” she said. The thought of going back to their distant acquaintanceship made her sad. But it had worked.
“On the contrary, we’ll announce our engagement. And let the insinuating coward of a letter writer go hang.” Roger grimaced. “That went too fast. I meant to propose in form. Will you get down so I can kneel at your feet?”
Fenella was torn between laughter and tears.
“Macklin thought… What I mean is, you must know how ardently I wish to marry you.”
“This news is pushing you to speak.”
“No, it’s not. I’ve been trying to do so for days.” He rode closer and reached for her hand. “I was on my way to ask when those interfering busybodies came to call on you.”
“They thought to help.” Fenella imagined the storm of gossip an engagement would rouse in the wake of those letters. “We can’t do it now.”
“That doesn’t sound like the intrepid woman I know. We can. We’ll simply face them down.”
Would she disappoint him now? Fenella wondered. As she had others. “It’s easier for you.”
“Are you saying that you don’t wish to marry me?” asked Roger quietly.
“No.”
“So you will? Once I make things right and prove myself worthy of your hand?”
“Of course you are worthy—”
“I will,” he interrupted. “You’ll see. I’ll begin immediately.”
Before Fenella could suggest that he take some care with whatever he planned, he was riding away.
Could she have done anything differently? She wondered as she rode home alone. Was there some action she could have taken, or refrained from taking, that would have improved their situation? She couldn’t think of any.
* * *
The following Sunday, Fenella stood in the churchyard after the service beckoning to John, who had scampered off into the long grass of the graveyard. She wanted to go, but her nephew had accorded that desire as much attention as usual. It was as nothing compared with the possibility of snakes among the headstones.
Her gaze strayed to Roger, who was talking earnestly to a group of their neighbors a little distance away. “He’s telling them that you absolutely did not encourage his late wife’s disastrous ride in the rain,” said a melodious voice at her side. “He’s been telling everyone this morning.” Fenella turned to find that the vicar’s wife had joined her. “I’d forgotten all about that ridiculous story,” the woman added. Apparently she still hadn’t received any of those wretched letters.
Lady Prouse came over to them. “Chatton is explaining how wrong he was to blame you for his wife’s death,” she said to Fenella. “He’s rather making a point of it. Do you think that’s…altogether wise?”
Fenella didn’t. But she didn’t see what she could do about it just now. She hid a sigh. For all the traits she admired in Roger, she could not accuse him of finesse. If she’d known he meant to do this, she wouldn’t have come to church today. Of course that would have roused another flurry of speculation.
“Did you tell him—” began Lady Prouse. She glanced at the vicar’s wife and fell silent.
She was glad Mrs. Cheeve hadn’t been told about the anonymous letters. The vicar’s wife enjoyed being excessively shocked. “Perhaps he’s sorry for having said it in the first place,” Fenella said lightly, as if this was a matter of indifference to her. She didn’t see what else to do. She shrugged, disavowing the vagaries of the male sex. “Excuse me, I seem to have lost my nephew.”
John had disappeared, taking advantage of his first foray outside the Clough House garden walls in days. She needed to fetch him and depart. Fenella walked through the gate into the graveyard. There was no sign of him. She moved around the corner of the church. It was a relief to be out of sight of the congregation. “John?” she called.
Roger appeared, following in her footsteps. He looked for her, smiled, and strode over. “I’ve been contradicting that stupid story,” he told her. He seemed proud of himself.
“Yes, and making everyone who’d forgotten think of it again,” Fenella replied. She couldn’t keep a touch of asperity out of her voice. “And wonder why you’re bringing it up. And so someone will mention the letters.”
Roger took a step back. When she put it that way… Well, he saw her point. He ought to have consulted Macklin before he began talking, he thought. Or his mother. Or both. He’d just been so eager to make amends.
“I must find John.” She called. “John?”
The boy popped up from behind a monument on the far side of the graveyard. “I’ve found a gigantic toad!” he called triumphantly. He held up the animal, its body much bigger than the palm of his hand. Its long legs flailed in the air.
John brought the creature over to them like a prize. It looked like every other toad Roger had seen—warty gray-green skin, bulging eyes, gangling limbs. He didn’t want to discuss toads. He wanted to explain to Fenella. She was gazing over his shoulder now. Roger turned to look and discovered the vicar’s wife, peering around the corner of the church as if searching for something.
“Show Mrs. Cheeve your toad,” Fenella said to John.
John did so. The vicar’s wife looked startled. She pulled back and disappeared.
A sound escaped Fenella. It wasn’t quite a laugh, Roger thought. Not exactly a sigh.
“I wish I had a cage to put it in,” said John. “I suppose I can hold it in the carriage.”
“I think you’d better leave it,” said Fenella, sounding harried. “It will be happier here.”
John slumped. “Someday, I’ll have a proper place to care for animals. With the right food and everything.” Sulkily, he set the toad down. It hopped quickly away.
“We must go,” said Fenella.
“When will I see you again?” Roger asked.
The vicar’s wife appeared again. Arm in arm with Lady Prouse, she walked toward them. The sight seemed to alarm Fenella. “Come along,” she said to John.
Roger’s heart sank. He’d put his foot in it again. Perhaps he’d said too much. Or chosen the wrong bit to tell. It was so hard to judge about that. And now she was walking away from him.
He followed her to her gig, trying to find better words. Most people had gone. His mother’s carriage wasn’t there. The vicar’s wife trailed after them for some reason. Macklin waited with their horses.
He handed Fenella into the gig as John jumped up on the other side. “I will come to visit your father.”
“That would be kind, but he’s not really up to visitors now.”
She used a polite tone that made Roger want to grind his teeth. Yet when she looked at him, he thought her eyes brimmed with sadness. Could that be right? She drove away before he could think of a way to find out.
Roger stomped over to his horse and mounted up. Macklin followed suit, and they rode together toward the castle. Roger wrestled with his temper. Anger hadn’t helped anything before. “You always say the right thing,” he said after a while.
“Hardly,” replied Macklin.
“No, you’re known for it. Everyone says you’re a master of conversation.”
“An
exaggeration.”
Roger ignored the older man’s humility. “I’m much more likely to say the wrong thing. I have a…a kind of genius for it. Words just pop out. And go on after I should stop. Because I don’t realize until afterward, mostly.”
“Are you thinking of some particular instance? Today?”
“I was trying to retract that stupid tale about Miss Fairclough that I was fool enough to start. Because…but I suppose you already know.” Roger sighed. His mother was probably aware as well. She tended to know everything. Though in that case, it was surprising she hadn’t mentioned the letters.
“Know?”
“About the letters.”
“What letters?”
“You haven’t heard?” Perhaps no one had dared bring the news to Chatton Castle?
“I don’t know what you mean,” Macklin said.
As they rode on toward his home, Roger explained.
When he’d finished, Macklin looked angry. “Despicable. I hate a sneak.”
“So you see why I was contradicting the story, but Fen—Miss Fairclough said I just made everyone think of it again.”
“Ah.”
“How can I deny the gossip without mentioning the circumstance?” Roger complained.
“You cannot, of course,” said Macklin. “But a subtler approach might be warranted.”
“Subtle!” Roger hated that word—that indefinable, unattainable state. Truthfully, he didn’t believe anyone really knew what it meant. People lobbed the term at him like a smothering pillow. “Can you teach me to be subtle?”
Macklin gazed back at him with sympathy and great kindness. And possibly a tinge of amusement? Roger tried not to resent that. “I don’t know, Chatton. Subtlety may be alien to your temperament.”
“My temperament can go to perdition! It’s been nothing but trouble.”
Macklin bit back a smile.
“You may think it a joke,” said Roger. “But from my side, it’s not.”
“I don’t think it. And I would be pleased to help you. It seems to me that we need to find this letter writer and expose them. We can make them tell the truth. Anonymous writers are cowards.”
“But difficult to root out.” Roger wasn’t optimistic about the chances.
“I may have an idea about that.”
His confident tone gave Roger hope as they rode under the arch into the castle courtyard.
Several miles away, driving the gig though the gates of Clough House, Fenella fought an urge to cry. Last night, she’d dreamed of kissing Roger again. Very vividly. But then today the sidelong glances of her neighbors had rasped. Her inner landscape felt like a battleground, she thought, and blinked more rapidly. “Are you all right, Aunt Fenella?” asked her nephew.
If John noticed her turmoil, it must be blatant. “Yes,” she lied.
“I can take the gig around to the stable, if you like.”
More than anything, Fenella wanted the solitude of her bedchamber. She handed John the reins. “Thank you,” she said, climbing down and striding into the house.
* * *
In the predawn dark the next morning, Fenella was roused from her bed by her father’s valet. “He’s much worse, miss,” Simpson said. Fenella pulled on her dressing gown and slippers and hurried to his room.
Her father lay limp, his breath an odd gasping rattle. His once-sturdy frame hardly raised the bedclothes, and his skin had gone ashen.
“I think this may be the end, miss,” said Simpson, his lined face creased with melancholy.
Fenella had known her father was failing, but she found she still wasn’t ready for this news. She’d thought he would hang on longer. Just yesterday he’d been arguing in his old fashion. “I must send for my sisters.”
The valet shook his head as if to say they’d never make it in time. “Better have someone go for the vicar.”
Fenella nodded permission for this errand. She had kept Greta and Nora apprised of Papa’s deteriorating condition. She’d even urged them to come and see him, though she knew such visits would be full of friction. Her sisters had passed off her concerns as overblown, as if Fenella, who was here on the spot, knew far less about their father’s capacities than they did. She’d send messengers south at first light. They must come now.
Taking her father’s hand, Fenella sat down beside the bed. “Papa?” The ends of his fingers were cold. He was drifting away from life. Despite their disagreements, she felt a pang of grief. “Papa?” she said again.
His eyes opened, though they didn’t seem to focus. “Mary?” he asked, naming her dead mother.
“It’s Fenella, Papa.”
“The stubborn one,” he murmured and closed his eyes again.
This was all he had to say to her, when she’d tended his sickbed for months, picked up his responsibilities on the estate. But this was the way it had always been between them. Nothing about her pleased him. If anything threatened to, like her skill with a gun, he turned it into shortcoming.
His disparagement had shaped the timid girl she’d been. It weighed on her now, when she was struggling with more unfair accusations. If this was her last chance to talk to him, what did she want to tell him about the twenty-three years she’d been part of his family?
Fenella realized that he’d opened his eyes again and was looking at her. “Can you wait a bit, for Greta and Nora to come?” Not what she’d meant to say and probably a ridiculous question, she thought. But perhaps the idea would hearten him. “I know they would like to see you.”
“Could have if they wanted to,” he growled. “Not bothered to visit.”
“They have a great deal—”
“Pack of ungrateful brats, all you chits.”
Could he really feel this way about his daughters? Surely not. “Mama told me once that you were over the moon when Greta was born,” she said. At the time this had been a bitter pill, since their father had been so disappointed by Fenella’s birth. Now, she wanted him to agree. “You adore Greta.” Certainly he’d always favored her.
His gaze had gone vague. It roved over the ceiling and the bed curtains as if he didn’t recognize the room where he’d slept for thirty years. “Mary oughtn’t to have left me with a dratted female on my hands,” he said.
“She didn’t want to, Papa.”
“Settled,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard her. “The last one might have been. Wanted her settled.”
This was a form of concern. She chose to see it that way. “I will be, Papa.” It was time to release grudges. What did it matter if he gloated? She’d give him what he’d wanted. “Chatton and I may be married. After all.” For now she would ignore the complications surrounding them.
“Wouldn’t listen,” he muttered. “Ran off and made me look foolish.”
Fenella leaned closer. “Papa, I’m going to—”
“Impossible girl,” he burst out, loud and angry. He lurched as if trying to sit up. But the effort was far beyond him. He fell back; his eyes closed.
His breathing hitched, paused for an ominous interval, then resumed. This happened again and again, the only sign of life. Then his hand went limp in Fenella’s, and his breath stopped forever. The ticking of the mantel clock was suddenly the loudest thing in the room.
Fenella sat on by his bed. Her mother’s death had been more sudden and shocking. Yet this prolonged decline turned out to be no easier, in the end. Death was irrevocable. And with this one she was an orphan. The weight of grief dragged at her.
And these were to be his last words to her, indeed his last on this earth. “Impossible girl.” Full of anger. No regret or reconciliation. No benediction before the end.
She folded her arms over her chest and listened to the clock mark off the passing seconds. Perhaps she was impossible. She’d never fit into the mold her mother had ready for her. Her sisters had f
ound her negligible. She’d certainly never satisfied her father on any count. If she’d told him about Roger earlier… But giving in to her father had never appeased him. There was always a new criticism behind the one she overcame, a demand she couldn’t fulfill. Their relationship was a long history of her failures. At this moment, it seemed as if she could remember them all.
Simpson put a hand on her shoulder. Fenella hadn’t heard the valet come in. “Vicar’s here.”
The Reverend Cheeve stood behind her. “My condolences for your loss.”
Fenella rose. There was nothing to be done about the past. Papa would never approve of her. They hadn’t found a way to resolve their differences. She had to go on from this empty place.
“I expect he made his own peace with God before the end,” said the clergyman.
He hadn’t made his peace with anyone, Fenella thought. But she didn’t say so. “Thank you,” she told him. She looked at the valet. “You’ll take care of his…him.”
“Yes, miss.”
“I must write my sisters.” Greta and Nora could come for the funeral.
Twelve
The sun rose. A new day began. And Fenella found that between one morning and the next, her life had changed. She’d been managing the household and the estate for more than a year, with few complaints and many marks of approbation. But it seemed now that her authority had rested on the presence of her father, upstairs, a tacit endorsement of her commands. Suddenly, the steward acted as if he wasn’t entirely sure she should be giving him orders, and the solicitor who had handled her father’s affairs put off all her inquiries with patronizing blandness. It was as if her status, indeed her very existence, had faded into obscurity with her father’s death. She’d moved from forefront to background. On top of her loss, this made everything feel like a strange dream.
Fenella knew that her father’s property was to be inherited equally by his three daughters. There was no title or entail to consider. He’d been a landed gentleman with a tidy fortune, not a peer. Fenella would become a woman of independent means, and though she was not glad that her father was dead, not in the least, the prospect was heartening. She would have decisions to make, once matters were settled. She expected the estate would be sold, and felt a pang at the prospective loss of her home. Yet it had never been a place of unalloyed happiness for her. She would find her own way when it came time to plan.
