by Robin Helm
“And how did you like Miss Oliver?” asked John.
“Very well. She is a sensible woman.”
“Does she indeed rank that high in your esteem? You can give no higher praise. I shall begin picking out your wedding-present immediately.”
“You may pick out a wedding present any time you please, but you will not be giving it to me for a long, long time. Miss Oliver will not be my bride.”
“You disappoint me. I thought that a rational mind was your highest ideal for a wife.”
“I do not want a silly wife—what reasonable man does? But it is not all I want. I fear I will be hard to please in the matter of matrimony. And Miss Oliver, admirable as she is, does not tempt me to change my single state.”
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Two days later the Knightley brothers, with Arthur Dudley in tow, travelled back to Donwell. They started off much later than they had planned, as Arthur was late. He excused himself by saying that his man had packed the very waistcoat he had meant to wear. “Had to unpack every trunk to find it,” he said, looking down at it with undisguised approbation. George and John both stared at the article in question, a garish striped affair that neither would have worn under any circumstance. Only slightly less astonishing was the array of luggage Arthur arrived with for a few weeks’ quiet stay in the country.
“Good of you to invite me,” Arthur said to John as they finally set off. “London was getting to be suffocating. Always being lectured if I kicked up any kind of lark, and it was no good going to gaming houses—word always got around to my mother. Why should she lecture me? My father did much more in the way of gambling when he was young than I ever did. At any rate, I will be glad to be at Donwell Abbey where no one knows me, and word can’t get back to the family if we find ways to amuse ourselves. You must have some larks, eh? Or does your brother cut up stiff? He looks a sober fellow.”
John’s forehead creased in a worried frown. Judging by Arthur’s chatter, he was going to be a rare handful. For a moment he regretted the invitation. Then Maria’s dimpled face appeared before his eyes and the earnest clasp of her hand on his as she had said, “Oh, thank you, Mr. Knightley, for your help with Arthur! It will be such a relief to me to have him out of London for a little while. And you will earn my mother’s gratitude as well!” Yes, it would be worth it all to get on the good side of the Dudleys. And with the Dudleys, the Clares and the other families who had influence. It could only further his aspirations—in the law and in society—if he was connected to the Dudleys.
“George is as good a fellow as ever breathed,” said John. “I wouldn’t say that he ‘cuts up stiff,’ but he doesn’t go in much for wild behaviour. A quiet dinner with friends or a good book in the library is more his style.”
“Oh?” said Arthur. “He looks like a sportsman—that bay hack he’s riding is magnificent.”
“He is a sportsman when he chooses to be. He doesn’t keep hunters anymore, but he will join in the hunt sometimes if someone lends him a horse.”
It was not long before John envied George riding on his own. Arthur’s conversation centred around himself: his exploits, his friends’ exploits, great boxing matches he had seen, sparring matches he had won (these stories were fewer in number), successful bets he had made, and women he had pursued.
Arthur’s first sight of the Abbey garnered some praise from him. “Upon my word, it is a grand old pile isn’t it? I daresay there have been some famous parties here sometimes! I suppose you weren’t at Edgerton’s ball last year—no, you wouldn’t have been. Your great hall puts me in mind of his. But as I was saying—this party of Edgerton’s. The butler was drunk and fell down in the stairs. There was never anything equal to it! I don’t suppose your butler has ever done anything like that.”
John was unable to repress a smile at the thought of Donwell’s staid and respectable butler Baxter falling down drunk. “I’m afraid we’ve never had anything quite so lively happen here.”
“Ah, well, we have a few weeks in which to change that, eh?” Arthur winked at John, who stifled a sigh and bid a footman show his guest to his bedchamber.
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“And how do you plan on keeping him out of mischief?” George looked out of the library window at the late-setting sun. The brothers had retreated to their favourite place in the house as soon as their guest had bid them goodnight. George’s dog Homer sat at John’s feet, eyes closed in bliss as John stroked his head.
“I haven’t the foggiest notion. I count myself fortunate that he retired to bed at so early an hour tonight. I can hardly expect him to do so every day.”
“No, nor to bury himself in the library and commence a frenzy of improving reading.”
John snorted. “Nothing more unlikely. If I own to having committed myself to this endeavour of keeping Arthur out of trouble without due consideration, will you help me decide how to fill his days?”
“Well, you may have my advice, at any rate. Go for long rides. Walk into Highbury. Take him to fish in the lake. Play cards for the usual Donwell stakes. Go see the Roman ruins at that place—you know, not far from Windsor. Play billiards. Busy yourself with visiting people on the estate; if he does not wish to accompany you—as I doubt he would—he will be obliged to fill his own time.”
“He will think it all deadly dull.”
“So he will. The only event approaching an entertainment is this invitation that arrived today for a ball in Highbury next week. It will be very rustic compared to London parties, but after a week of tedium it may seem positively thrilling.”
By the end of the first week of Arthur’s stay, John was exasperated. Never had he been put to such shifts to amuse anyone, let alone one who showed no appreciation for all his efforts. One small mercy was that Arthur was used to keeping late hours, so he slept until almost eleven each morning. The rest of the hours must be filled up somehow. John, with an eye to the gratitude of the Dudleys, did everything in his power to get his guest to enjoy more wholesome pursuits than he habitually indulged in. Riding, exploring the country, and sketching were all tried in turn without much success. Billiards, indeed, he did show some aptitude for, and to the surprise of neither brother, he was a willing card player. He was, however, disgusted by the lack of any pecuniary advantage to winning.
“It’s George’s decree at Donwell, and it was my father’s before his: no playing for money.”
“What is the point of playing at all, then?”
“We play for other things.”
“Such as?”
John grinned. “Play with us this evening and see.”
The bait worked. That evening the three men played Speculation, and Arthur found that losing meant that he was required to read a long book or do some activity out-of-doors. His interest in playing evaporated at such appalling stakes, but as the Knightley brothers appeared to take his reluctance for a want of courage and spirit (“It is not everyone who is willing to risk play for something they are unable to perform,” George informed him kindly), he was induced to take his chances. As it happened, he won twice and lost three times. This meant that John would be forced to spend an hour visiting the Bateses, George would need to re-read Paradise Regained, and Arthur would be required to read Sir Charles Grandison, write a letter to his mother, and go for a ten-mile ride with John accompanying him. As far as it went, card playing with Arthur had been a good notion.
On the other hand, George’s suggestion of walks into Highbury met with less success. Arthur had rather turned up his nose at the selection of wares at Ford’s, and the proposal that the Crown should enjoy some of their custom was met with open scorn. After that, John had not troubled to introduce him to any of the families in Highbury. He remembered Arthur recounting with relish the prank he and some friends had played on some poor grocer during an excursion to Shoreditch—stealing apples from him and then pelting him with them. Arthur was not likely to do such a thing without the support of the other troublemakers, but the
thought that there was the slightest chance of him engaging in some similar trick made John discourage visits to the village.
One afternoon George returned to Donwell to find his brother pacing the lime walk.
“And what have you done with Arthur?” said George, falling into step beside John. “Murdered him?”
“Not quite. Baxter came in while Arthur was regaling me with stories about the drunken exploits of his cronies and told me that William Larkins wanted a word with me in the library. I went, of course, and it turned out he only wanted to know where you were. I had no idea, but I took the opportunity of slipping out of doors and spending a few moments on my own. Where have you been?”
“Visiting the Woodhouses. Sorry for not informing you. I thought I ought not to give Arthur the opportunity to invite himself along. His waistcoat alone would startle Mr. Woodhouse too much.”
“And how are the family at Hartfield?”
“Very well. Miss Taylor and the girls were there, too. I suppose I should start calling Isabella a young lady instead of a girl—she will be at the ball tomorrow.”
“Surely she is not old enough for that?”
“She is nineteen now. I suspect the only reason you think of her as younger is that there have been no balls for you to observe her at. The times you do see her, she is in the company of her governess and younger sister. And of course, Mr. Woodhouse still thinks of her as one who has only recently escaped the nursery.”
“True. And when I was home last Christmas, I did not see her at all: she was ill with that dreadful attack of the influenza.”
“Well then, the sight of her may surprise you. Are you coming back inside with me?”
“Not yet. I know now what Milton meant when he said, ‘Solitude is sometimes best society.’ I do hope the Dudleys will feel indebted to me for the extremities to which I have been put to keep their cub out of mischief.”
“I have no doubt they will bestow many blessings upon your head.”
“I would far rather they bestow their blessing on my marriage with Miss Dudley.”
George’s eyebrows rose. “Gone as far as that, has it?”
“No, no—not if you are asking if I have broached the topic with her yet. Only talking about my wishes.”
“You relieve my mind.”
John stopped walking. “You dislike Miss Dudley?”
“Let us say rather that I am not yet convinced that she is ‘part of your soul, your other half.’”
“Whoever said you needed to be convinced?”
The belligerent tone caused George to respond placidly, “No one.”
“Quite right! As if I would look to you for advice on marriage.”
“No reason why you should,” said George.
“Well, then,” said John, and muttered a little under his breath; the only words George could distinguish were “bachelor,” “hermit,” and “won’t trouble himself.”
George let him murmur until he was silent again and then said, “Shall I make your excuses to Arthur for dinner? You can escape for a few hours, at least.”
“No,” said John, still slightly petulant. “I have a responsibility to uphold.”
“All right then,” said George pleasantly. “I ought to go find Larkins.” He waved his hand in farewell and left his brother standing in the tree-lined avenue, scowling.
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John had still not totally overcome his bad humour by the next evening as they were dressing for the ball. His aggrievement over his brother’s lack of support for his contemplated marriage was compounded by a summer rainstorm cancelling his plans for an afternoon of fishing with Arthur and resulting in another few hours’ worth of stories with Arthur as the protagonist. John suspected that his guest was running short of anecdotes; several of them smacked of fabrication.
He was tempted to excuse himself from the ball due to a headache, but when he expressed this thought to his brother, George said, “You are not seriously thinking of abandoning your responsibilities to the Dudleys now?”
To which of course he had to reply that he would never do such a thing. If, however, Arthur did not care to go…
But Arthur did care to attend and spent so long in getting dressed that John commented that his chief reason for going must be to show off his clothing.
Highbury lacked a proper assembly room, but the ballroom at the Crown was an acceptable substitute for one. Acceptable, that is, to the citizens of Highbury and Donwell. Arthur was less impressed, and John was a little worried that he might make some slighting remark about it to the good folk who were being introduced to him.
As it happened, however, Arthur’s public manners were civil enough to pass muster, and John relaxed and began to look about for old acquaintances to talk to. The dancing had not yet begun, and the younger set were standing about in groups, waiting to be paired off by design or chance. He saw Miss Gilbert and some other young ladies giggling in a corner, and Newcomb and Cox and some other young man he didn’t know watching the girls from the far end of the room. He was beginning to feel too old to join in with the prattle of the youthful fellows. Miss Bates and the Woodhouses’ governess, Miss Taylor, were chatting over by one of the windows and he went to pay his respects to them.
They greeted him kindly and asked after William Larkins, Dr. Hughes, and others they knew at Donwell. John was just telling them about his last visit to Mrs. Hunt when Isabella Woodhouse joined them. To say he did not recognize her would not be quite true, but she did look changed. She had always been elegant and engaging, but there was a maturity about her that he had not noticed before. Perhaps being dressed for a ball and away from Hartfield really did make a difference.
The musicians began to tune their fiddles and the anticipatory buzz of a couple dozen hopeful dancers became an underlying hum. John felt a slight pang that Miss Dudley was not present for him to dance with, but he was too well-trained to refrain from dancing out of a sense of pique.
He turned to Isabella. “Miss Woodhouse, would you do me the honour of dancing the first two dances with me?”
“I will,” said Isabella, smiling.
John thought he could not have done better. He knew Isabella well enough that he did not have to wrack his brain for things to say to her. They chatted easily about her father’s health, her twelve-year-old sister Emma’s artistic pursuits, and Miss Taylor’s recent short visit to her relations in Kent. If he could not dance with Miss Dudley, John thought, the next best thing was to dance with a nice young lady who was not a stranger. Isabella was old enough to be a real friend now, and if she was not the soul of wit, at least she had a cheerful disposition and plenty of common sense.
In a moment when the dance demanded nothing from him, he looked around for Arthur.
“Whom are you seeking?” asked Isabella.
“My friend, Arthur Dudley.”
“The young man who came in with you? There he is, dancing with Letitia Gilbert. Is he a friend from London?”
“Yes. He has been here for over a week now, and he will probably be here for a week or two more.” John paused, considering what he might say about Arthur that would not be considered slander. “I fear life in the country is somewhat monotonous for him—I am often at my wits’ end trying to think of things to fill his time. This ball is relieving me of the task for a few hours, at least. But one cannot hope for a ball every evening!”
“Perhaps we ought to arrange a picnic for him to attend—I am sure Miss Gilbert would come, and Mr. Newcomb, and a few other friends, as well as yourself and your brother. It is a rather tame entertainment, but perhaps better than always being indoors with the same few people.”
John sighed gratefully. “That would be excellent! I am sure Mr. Dudley would find it exhilarating in comparison to what he has been doing for the last week. He is used to having more society, you see.”
“And perhaps you are, as well? You must find Surrey sadly flat after living in the bustle of Town.”
“On the contrary, I like being at Donwell. It is restful—or it would be if I was not always trying to entertain my guest.”
“I am sure being a barrister means you lead a busy life.”
“It is not the work so much as the society. I have been busier than usual in the last month, and it is a relief to be at Donwell and not have to go out and mingle with people all the time.”
“I am sorry the ball came to interrupt your rest.” Isabella looked genuinely regretful.
“Oh, this is not a trial. The room is not full of strangers, and as I said before, the felicity of having other people entertain my guest for me outweighs all the inconvenience of dressing up and going out.”
“I suppose dressing for a ball is a grander affair in London. Mr. Dudley’s clothes are very colourful, and his hair…” she struggled to find the words. “His hair is very elaborately arranged.”
John laughed. “His clothing is considered colourful in London as well. And the new style of arranging his hair is called the ‘frightened owl’—a style which I could never conceive trying myself. I do not want to spend more than a few moments in combing my hair, whether I am in London or anywhere else! I would rather not need hair waxes or pomades or anything beyond a comb to make myself look presentable, as unfashionable as that might be.”
“If it is any consolation, Mr. Knightley, I do not think you would ever seem unfashionable. I would say your appearance is tasteful. And your hair is very nicely combed!” There was a glint of humour in her eyes.
“I thank you,” said John. “I have been remiss in not telling you that you look very well this evening. You would not be out of place at a London ball, either.”
Isabella blushed and thanked him.
When the two dances were ended, John asked Miss Gilbert to dance. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur ask Isabella and he was glad. It would be good for Arthur to get to know a wholesome, sensible girl, instead of the sophisticated flirts he was surrounded by in London.
