by Robin Helm
He was not quite a paragon, in his brother’s opinion: he had some of the follies of youth, like an arrogance that was hard for George to endure, and a rather hasty temper. These faults, George had often thought, might be mitigated by marriage with a good woman. He wondered now if this Miss Dudley would be the one to accomplish this.
John welcomed his brother with more enthusiasm and less teasing than usual, and when the formalities of greeting were over and some refreshment offered and accepted, he introduced the subject uppermost in both their minds.
“I take it you are willing to attend the ball I wrote you about?”
“I am at your service. A small ball, you said?”
“Yes. Just a private ball at Eastbury House—I secured an invitation for you from Lady Clare.”
“Oh?”
“She is the mother of Miss Dudley’s particular friend.”
“Ah, yes, Miss Dudley. I don’t recall hearing the name before you mentioned her in your letter.”
“No, I don’t think you would have. Her father is a baronet with an estate—rather ramshackle, I fancy—somewhere in Hampshire. A couple of married daughters, two sons, and Miss Maria.”
“I take it that Miss Dudley—Maria, is it?—is well worth looking at.”
“More than that. Worth knowing. Intelligent and witty. High social standing. More or less the prize of the marriage mart this season.”
“You must have seen her frequently, then.”
“Yes, very frequently in the last few weeks. I may say I have attended no fewer than five parties, two concerts, and an excursion to see Blanchard Hall.”
George’s eyes widened. “Never seen you leave your own fireside so much.”
John grinned. “Never seen a lady like this before.”
“Well, then, I certainly ought to meet her. For the first time in years I am looking forward to a ball.”
“You won’t dance, of course,” John complained. “I know you. You will just stand there looking glum.”
“Glum? I am never glum.”
“Bored, then. However, fear not. I will find some old dowager for you to sit next to and entertain.”
“What an enchanting prospect. However, I beg you will not put yourself to so much trouble.” George put his glass down and leaned back in his chair. “I wonder that you are going home at all for the Long Vacation if you have such an enticement to stay here. But you said in your letter that you wanted to talk to me about that.”
“Yes. You will not mind, I hope, if I bring a guest with me to Donwell for a few weeks?”
“By no means. Donwell is as much your home as mine. Whom are you bringing?”
“Dudley. Miss Maria’s brother—the younger one. I think his Christian name is Arthur.”
“He is a great friend of yours, then?”
“No, not particularly. In fact, not the sort of fellow I would choose to spend much time with. However, Miss Dudley is anxious for him to be out of London for a while. He—he is a little wild, you see. Nothing too serious, but rather excessive in his drinking and in gambling for high stakes.”
“And the idea is that the dull society available in rural Surrey will keep him sober?”
“Something like that. I was anxious to be of use to Miss Dudley, you see.”
“I do see. I hope he may not lead the citizens of Highbury into dissipation.”
“Oh, I think not. He is very young—only twenty—and I imagine he is more inclined to debauchery when among his cronies.”
George stifled a sigh. He had been looking forward to the weeks spent with his brother at Donwell, but now instead of the companionable comfort of his brother’s presence, he had the prospect of a tiresome stranger imposing himself on the Abbey.
“Will he ride his own horse, or were you thinking that I should send to Donwell for the carriage in order to convey you both there?”
“No, I thought I would try out my own new curricle and pair.” John looked too self-satisfied for George’s taste.
“Spending a bit recklessly, aren’t you?”
“I knew you would say that,” said John testily. “No, I am not spending recklessly. It is high time I have a carriage of my own. And before you ask, I did not go into debt and the horses were ones that Ellison was selling—and you know how good a judge of horseflesh he is. Not that I need answer to you for my expenditure.”
“Indeed, no,” returned George. “it must be the creeping senility which you so eloquently referred to in your letter that is causing me to play the heavy-handed father. I beg your pardon. I look forward to seeing this new acquisition of yours.”
_______________________
In spite of the ball being held in the summer, Lady Clare’s dance was well attended. The weather was still warm, and all the ladies who were not dancing were plying their fans, while the gentlemen felt more justified than ever in continually offering to fetch cups of punch for their partners.
Miss Maria Dudley was indeed beautiful. George could not blame his brother for his infatuation. Her dark hair and blue eyes, and the added attraction of a dimple that flashed when she smiled, made her appearance striking, and her vivacity was in contrast to the languor some of the other young ladies. John introduced him to her, and it was not lost on George that the lady’s interest in him seemed to increase when she discovered that he was the older brother who lived at Donwell Abbey.
John had not, after all, found a dowager for George to entertain, but George discovered a few acquaintances among the guests and managed to amuse himself without having to retire with the card players to the room adjoining. Whenever he could do so without being obvious, George watched his younger brother across the ballroom floor. John did his duty by dancing with several ladies, but his eyes continually strayed to wherever Miss Dudley was in the room. When he at last was accepted by Miss Dudley for two dances, he looked as pleased as when he had been given his first hunter.
“I have yet to see your new curricle,” said Miss Dudley as she stood across from John, waiting for their turn to join the dancers in motion. “I hope you mean to take me up in it someday for a turn around Hyde Park.”
“Of course. The day I return from Donwell with your brother I shall call for you. Unless you would care to come tomorrow morning?”
“I fear not. Mama insists upon my resting the day after a ball.”
“Do you mean to say that even a glittering star such as yourself needs to rest? I find it hard to credit.”
The dimple showed itself. “That is too flattering of you, Mr. Knightley. Glittering star I am not.”
“I stand corrected. However, you must allow me to say that you are a star nonetheless: “‘the northern star, of whose true-fixed and resting quality there is no fellow in the firmament.’”
“Very neat. I suppose you remember what happened to Caesar at the end of the speech where he describes himself thus?”
John was thrown into confusion. He had utterly forgotten the context of the quotation, but now it came back to him. His brain refused to conjure up a witty response, and he said lamely, “I promise not to murder you, if that is what you mean.”
Miss Dudley laughed. “Ah, you relieve my mind. I can now acquit you of wishing me grievous harm. I had rather take Richardson for my guide than Shakespeare: ‘A man who flatters a woman hopes either to find her a fool or to make her one.’”
“But that charge cannot be laid at my door. ‘By God, I cannot flatter’—and I do know the context of that Shakespearean speech! Believe me when I say that I do not imagine that any compliment I could pay you could possibly be flattery.”
“How I wish I could bring Mama to your way of thinking! She has the opposite belief—that no criticism leveled at me could be anything other than absolute fact.”
The droll look with which she said this made John laugh, and he quickly countered, “‘O most pernicious woman!’” which surprised a giggle out of Miss Dudley.
It was obvious to George, watching from across the room, that the
enchanting Miss Dudley appeared to have his brother on a string. It was also clear to him that she was a heartless little flirt. While she danced with John, she had eyes for no one but him, and seemed to convey that there was nothing on earth so fascinating to her as whatever he was talking about. George was too far away to hear what they were saying, of course, but he could see them bantering and laughing with each other. During the next dance, when John had a different partner, George watched Miss Dudley dance with another young man. She looked just as happy to be dancing with him as she had with John, and when the dance ended she said something quietly to him that made his face light up. A sense of foreboding crept over George.
John, for his part, was elated for himself and irritated with his brother. He had known that George would not dance, but he thought he might have put himself out more. Part of his reason for inviting George had indeed been so that he might meet the incomparable Maria. But another, almost equally strong reason was so that he could fall in love himself. George was always sequestered away at Donwell with no eligible young ladies anywhere nearby, growing old alone. He was settling into middle age much too rapidly—it would do him good to be in love and provide a mistress for Donwell. In the giddiness of his own infatuation, John was eager to see everyone around him matched up as well. He had allowed himself to hope that George would meet a lady who would so awaken his admiration that he would instantly ask her to dance.
But there George was instead, talking sedately to Major Thomas, while ladies of all ages eyed him in varying degrees of furtiveness and positioned themselves near him in case he would be inclined to ask to be introduced to them. George could, no doubt, have won any one of them—he was handsome, wealthy, and honorable. “He will not take the trouble to invest in his own happiness,” muttered John, and went over to his brother to see if he could provoke him into doing such a thing.
“Is Arthur Dudley here?” George asked before John could say anything.
“No. I thought he would be, but it appears he cried off.”
“I see you had your dances with Miss Dudley.”
“I intend to have more.”
“Do you? How very optimistic you are. It seems that there are any number of young bucks waiting to ask her to dance.”
“At least I know you will not be of that number.”
“I think I may break with tradition and ask her. She is, after all, very beautiful.”
The corner of John’s mouth quivered. “I think I will punish you for that.” He glanced around and saw a lady passing. “Miss Oliver!”
The young lady paused and turned toward the brothers. She was a plain-faced woman of about twenty-eight, but she had an intelligent eye and a ready smile.
“How do you do, Mr. Knightley?”
“Very well, I thank you. May I present my brother, Mr. George Knightley? He hopes to engage you for the two next dances.”
There was a triumphant grin on John’s face, as George could not do otherwise than bow and smile pleasantly as the lady accepted and offered her hand for him to lead her over to where the set was forming.
George managed a quick glare at his brother from behind Miss Oliver’s back and then resigned himself to a half-hour of boredom. His customary politeness moved him to converse a little with the lady, and he was pleased to find that she was neither inconveniently shy nor unbecomingly forward. After they had exchanged views on the decorations, the musicians, and the quality of the punch, George asked her if she knew Lady Dudley and her family.
“Oh, yes, I have known them forever. She and my father are cousins, you see, and she is my godmother.”
“Is that so? I have only met them this evening.”
“You are seeking information about Miss Dudley, are you not?” There was a wry smile on Miss Oliver’s face, and George wondered if men frequently asked her for an introduction to her beautiful relative.
“My brother has been speaking so much about her that I have a natural curiosity. She has many friends, I suppose?”
Miss Oliver deliberated a moment before answering. “She has a wide circle of female acquaintance. Whether they could be called friends is open to question.”
“I understand. More popular with the gentlemen than the ladies.”
“She is very pretty,” said Miss Oliver by way of justification.
“So she is. Sometimes I think it is unfortunate to be too attractive.”
“I agree. I think she had been better off with a squint and a multitude of freckles.” She caught herself and looked at him a trifle anxiously. “I can’t think why I should say such a thing to a stranger, except that you seemed to be the sort of man that would not repeat an ill-considered remark, nor think it was said from spite. I really am not one of those gossipy females.”
George smiled. “Yes, I know those kinds of women. ‘With every word a reputation dies.’”
Miss Oliver shuddered. “How deadly accurate Mr. Pope can be!”
“Never mind. I had already determined that you are not a rumourmonger. I will purge from my mind all you have said if you will answer one more question. Miss Dudley’s brother—Arthur, I believe, is his name—does he suffer similarly from a surfeit of good looks?”
“Not to the same degree, I think. He is a handsome fellow, but he is more celebrated for his untamed behaviour than his appearance.” Miss Oliver noted the furrowing of her partner’s brows and added, “The knowledge seems to disturb you.”
“He is shortly to become my guest for a few weeks. I believe his sister persuaded my brother to get him out of Town for a little while.”
“I hope you will not think me a flatterer if I say that you seem well able to handle Arthur. He is more spoilt boy than evil genius.”
George thanked her for her good opinion with a small bow, and then the demands of the dance put an end to their conversation.
John usually attended balls with reluctance, coming away early and complaining all the way home about the noise, the heat, and the crowds. At this ball, however, John was keen to stay until the last of the guests began to call for their carriages. He took punctilious leave of Miss Dudley and collapsed into the curricle beside his brother.
“I admire your endurance,” said George. Danced nearly every dance, didn’t you?”
“Nearly,” agreed John. For a few moments he was silent, and George had time to hope that he was content with the pleasures of the evening and would not feel the need to interrogate his brother. It was not to be.
“Well?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t be obtuse,” snapped John. “What did you think of her?”
“Ah, Miss Dudley, you mean? Very beautiful girl, as you told me.”
“Is that all you can say about her?”
“A very sociable young lady, as well.”
“Yes, that was one of the things that first drew me to her. She is so kind to everyone, and polite even to those she could have no real interest in.”
“Yes, I saw her chatting very cheerfully to a variety of young men.” George wondered if the hint would be lost on his brother. It was.
“Oh, indeed,” said John. “She spoke to William Harcourt with commendable patience—he is the most intolerable bore imaginable. I saw him laughing away with her while I was dancing with Miss Maberley. She told me later while we were dancing that he was as dull as cold mutton, but he would never have guessed her true feelings from the way she was talking with him.”
Worse and worse, thought George. The girl was obviously a minx with a very lovely face, but John had little experience of women and was completely taken in. Not that Miss Dudley would have any real intention of wedding him, but there was a danger that John would be hurt. Arrogant young goat that he was, it would probably do him good. Still, something in George shrank away from the idea of his brother’s first serious attachment ending in mortification. John was not one to take embarrassment and disappointment in a calm and rational manner. He would be more likely to do something foolish—challen
ge someone to a duel or offer marriage to a totally unsuitable female.
On the other hand, if George were to express his concerns John would probably rise to the defense of Miss Dudley, and his pride would keep him from acknowledging his mistake until it could no longer be denied. Then he would turn sulky. No, George thought, it would be better to wait upon events before saying anything. At least John could not propose marriage if the lady was not at hand. He was safe for the time being.
“I may not be at Donwell for long,” said John, breaking into his brother’s thoughts. “Perhaps not more than three weeks.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t want to leave Mar-Miss Dudley for longer than that. You must have seen how many suitors she has. I don’t want her to forget about me. I could return to find her engaged to a Duke!”
“Oh, I think that unlikely,” said George. A duke, he thought, would likely be more worldly-wise than his brother and have too much of a sense of self-preservation to fall for the charms of a twofaced schemer. John took his words with a different meaning.
“You think so?” John’s face brightened. “I know that she is fond of me—you must have seen how she was laughing with me—but I didn’t know it was so obvious that even you could see it!” He chuckled. “I would love to hear what Harcourt would say if I am the one to win her. You know he was up at Cambridge with me and he prided himself on always obtaining the best of everything. You can be sure he will be sick with envy—for the first time in his life—if I win the day!”
George was profoundly thankful that they would very shortly be traveling away from London. His only fear was that the slowness of life in the country might lead John to pine after Miss Dudley and imbue her with even more unreal virtues than he did now.
