The Tarrant Rose

by Veronica Heley

  There were tears on her cheeks. She brushed them away. The boy stirred, opened his eyes, and smiled up at her. Then he began to cough. Sophia lifted him in her arms. Aunt Nan proffered a bowl, and a handkerchief. The boy stifled his paroxysm at last, and let her take the handkerchief from his mouth. It was stained with blood. His head was hot. Aunt Nan gave him some soothing syrup, and he smiled at her. He was a nice child, and Sophia knew he was dying of consumption, and that there was nothing she could do about it.

  “Don’t look so sad,” said the boy. His voice was hoarse, but his face serene. “Tell me a story, instead. Tell me about when you were presented at Court, and the King had to decide whether you were an Amazon or a Rose, and he said you were a Rose. I like that story. I didn’t know what an Amazon was at first, but Mr. Denbigh read me some stories about Amazons and it was very interesting, but I like the way Father tells the story best.”

  “You know who I am?” Her hands pushed the hair back from his forehead, caressingly.

  “You are the Rose. No one else could have such a lovely smile and such gentle ways. You are going to marry Father, and live with us and be happy ever after.” He patted the bed at his side. “Will you sit with me for a while? Aunt Nan says you know lots of stories because you used to tell them to your brother. I wish I could meet him. Will you tell me about him, and about Tarrant Hall, and the Ram and the Rose?”

  An hour later, Sophia followed her aunt downstairs. The boy had had another coughing fit, but was now asleep.

  “How long has Philip known that the boy will die?” said Sophia.

  “He will not admit it, even though I have persuaded the doctors to stop pulling the lad about. Thomas knows, of course. He is resigned to it. One day Philip talks of taking Thomas to Hanover, or Brussels or Stockholm with him, and the next he says it might be best if I took the boy to Tarrant Hall next spring.”

  Sophia shook her head. “I don’t think he’ll live that long.”

  “Neither do I.” Aunt Nan sighed.

  Sophia sank onto a chair. Her head drooped. The pressure of her stays on her body increased, and she jerked upright. Perkins was lacing her ever more tightly; each week her dresses were being taken in at the waist. She sighed. Had Philip known that Thomas was dying when he made his bargain with her? She thought that such double-dealing was not beyond him, but that in this case he had been sincere. It was hard to maintain a high level of hate against a man whom you had learned to pity. The thought of Thomas … his affectionate nature … Philip’s love for the boy … Philip, lying on the ground, injured … oh, why had he not been someone as unimportant as herself? Why had all this to happen?

  She said, “Philip comes to see you every day?”

  “I sleep little, as you know. This room is so positioned that I can see everyone who comes up the staircase, or goes in and out of the library. If I am tired, I close my door and no one knocks; but if I am feeling lively, I leave the door ajar and then the gentlemen come in, if they feel like it, for a few minutes’ talk before they go to bed.”

  “What do you find to talk about?”

  “Politics, my dear. What else?”

  “My aunt Midmain says no woman should talk politics to men.”

  “Hmph!” said Miss Tarrant.

  “You think I should talk politics to Philip? I would not know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything. All you have to do is listen intelligently, and when he has learned to trust you, I daresay he will tell you everything, as a matter of course. To know a man’s secrets is to have power over him, but Philip will not give you that power until he is sure that you will not abuse it.”

  Sophia’s eyes narrowed. “Does he trust you with all his secrets, Aunt?”

  “Are you jealous of me, child? He trusts me with some of his secrets, and others I have guessed, but I do not know everything yet. It is like peeling an onion; you take off this layer and then the next, until you arrive at the truth of a man. Given time, he will tell me all his hopes and fears, but you could find out what he is made of before me, if you so wished. You are in a privileged position, are you not?”

  “I wish I had your privileges. I hardly ever see him, and when I do, it is in company.”

  “Then write and ask him to call on you at a time when you will be alone.”

  “We are to meet at the Dalbys’ tonight, I believe. He is engaged to me for the second minuet. Perhaps I will ask him then.”

  But it was not to be. Before Sophia set out for the Dalbys’, she had received a note from Philip to make his apologies, since he was unavoidably detained at St. James’.

  While Sophia jolted across London in the company of the Midmains, Philip was walking up and down one of the galleries in St. James’ with his uncle. The day had been spent in anxious consultations, interrupted now and then by hysterical outbursts from the Duke of Newcastle; the King was bewildered by the conflicting advice being given him. Carteret was so sure that His Majesty must stay in London—Newcastle was so sure that the King must flee—what was he to make of it?

  Philip and his friend Henry Lincoln were quietly working to bring the two sides together in a coalition Government. If only Newcastle could be prevailed upon to give Carteret office, and if only Carteret would accept such office … the strength of the Duke in the Commons would match the influence of Carteret over the King and in foreign policy to make an unbeatable combination. Mr. Stone was cautiously encouraging, but not optimistic. The Duke’s opinion of Carteret was not high, and Carteret’s opinion of the Duke. …

  “A superior clerk, Philip. He is very happy fitting his friends into places here and there. He is very fit for that sort of drudgery, I daresay; if he spends his time deciding on the merits of this man or that for a bishopric, then I daresay he has learned something of that business. But what is it to a statesman who is made a bishop or a judge or whatever? Newcastle is incapable of taking the wider view. His knowledge of international politics is negligible. Why, you know very well that he will never go abroad with the King, because he is afraid of being seasick! He speaks no language but his own, and resorts to tears when pressed. And you ask me … me! … to ally myself with such a man as this?”

  “It is the very qualities which you despise which have made him master of the House of Commons,” said Philip. “He bribes no one, but he places his friends to his own advantage. He has a solid majority in the Commons, who will vote whichever way he tells them to vote. The man who commands the Commons, commands the pursestrings of the nation, and in the long run that man must also command the King.”

  “I, and I alone, have the King’s confidence.”

  “That is very true. You have the breadth of vision, the education, the mastery of foreign affairs which he lacks. The King needs you; the country needs you … but both King and country also need the Duke. There is no getting away from him, you know. The man is your inferior in many ways, I grant you, but could you not use him to regain power? An alliance with him would give you what you lack at present, which is command of the Commons.”

  “Out of the question! I could never share power with that … nincompoop! Only look what happens when he is in charge of events. Our armies beaten, and the King implored … yes, on his bended knees Newcastle implored His Majesty to run away! The man is an incompetent fool.”

  “He is not a fool, but he does lack your particular quality of statesmanship, I agree. Now if you accept Newcastle’s offer of office in the ministry, then you are halfway back to power.”

  “I, accept office under Newcastle? Under that sniveller? I thought you had more sense, Philip. Never. I would never demean myself so as to … Ah! I see what it is. You have been listening to that snake Stone. What? Has Newcastle suborned you? What offers has he made you? I knew how it would be when you offered for that Tarrant girl instead of fulfilling your contract with Lady Millicent. It is all plain, now. You have betrayed me for …”

  “I have not betrayed you, Uncle. I work with Mr. Stone on the plan you
made to bring the Pretender here, alone. It seems I have inherited a good deal of your liking for playing the puppet master. I cannot hope to become the master of international events that you are, but I entertain a modest desire to be in the center of affairs. Mr. Stone is capable and intelligent …”

  “Which is more than can be said for his master.”

  And so it went on, hour after hour. Carteret would not move from his position, and neither, in the event, would Newcastle. Neither man would agree to serve with or under the other.

  The King retired to spend the evening with his mistress, and nothing had been decided. Philip left St. James’ only when the King had retired to bed; it was too late by then for him to go to the Dalbys’, but he was heartened, on his return home, by the news that Sophia wished to speak with him in private. Perhaps his luck had turned.

  His luck had not turned. That evening at the Dalbys’, Sophia had been accosted by Lady Millicent, all dimples and false friendship.

  “My word!” cried Lady Millicent. “Are we left all alone again? No Philip? I had heard rumors, of course, that he was spending all his time with another lady, but I had not believed that he would fail to turn up here at the Dalbys’. Does he not know that you have another admirer? Two, I suppose; if you count the gallant Sir John. What a monster of a figure he has, to be sure! And that daughter of his; positively crude. But what am I saying? Are they not friends of yours? Dear friends from the country? Ah, what one would give to be able to shed one’s old friends with one’s old clothes.”

  “What did you say about Philip?”

  “Why, didn’t you know? Oh, my dear, I see you know nothing! But that is always the way, is it not? We women are always the last to hear when our men are unfaithful to us. How pale you have gone! Won’t you take a seat?”

  “I am perfectly well, thank you. What is it you have heard about Philip?”

  “Nothing more than anyone knows.” She twirled her fan. “Oh, just look at that hooped skirt! Did you ever see anything more elegant? I declare she must have to go sideways through doors! Mine is not half so wide.”

  “What about Philip?” asked Sophia, through clenched teeth.

  “He goes to a certain house in St. James’ three times a week. It is run by an old friend of his; a very old friend of his. It is supposed to be a gambling establishment, but everyone knows that Philip doesn’t gamble, and it can’t be the company which takes him there, because they are most of them Jacobites, and so … I hear she is very pretty, with sparkling dark eyes. She was a singer once, but has no need to sing for a living now, if you understand me?”

  Sophia sat down. Her hands trembled so much that her fan dropped to the floor. Lady Millicent picked it up, and set it on the couch by Sophia.

  “Didn’t you know? Dear me! I would never have told you, if I had thought you so completely in ignorance. It has been going on for years, you know. On and off. She was in Hanover this summer, and came back to London with him, or perhaps on the next boat. Quite romantic. Everyone is talking about it. How clever Philip is, to take everyone’s attention off his chère amie by making out that he was in love with you. How soon are you to be married? Next week, is it not? Well, it is to be hoped, for your sake, that he ceases to visit her after you are married, but if he doesn’t, I am sure you will have sense enough to pretend that you know nothing of the matter. After all, men will be men, will they not?”

  “Yes,” said Sophia. “Thank you for telling me.”

  “My dear,” said Lady Millicent, sinking into a curtsey, “It was a pleasure, believe me.”

  Chapter Ten

  “The Earl of Rame!” He came into Lady Midmain’s drawing-room with a step which was lighter and swifter than usual. Even while he bowed over Lady Midmain’s hand, his eyes sought Sophia’s. His betrothed turned her back on him, and busied herself at the escritoire. Lady Midmain abandoned her newspaper to comment that it was later than she had thought and to bustle away, leaving the betrothed couple alone.

  He took two steps towards Sophia, and halted, his hand outstretched. “You asked to see me?”

  She picked up an invitation and read it with care. Would he notice that her hand was shaking? “I? Why should I wish to see you?”

  His hand dropped to his side. “Your aunt said that …”

  “Oh, that. That was yesterday. A thousand and one things can happen to change a woman’s mind from one day to the next. I cannot even remember now, what it was that made me wish to speak with you.”

  “Are you angry with me because I could not be at the Dalbys’ last night? Did you not receive my note?”

  She shrugged. “I may have done. I really cannot remember.” She drew some writing paper towards her, and began to write. “Please forgive me—I am very busy this morning.”

  He did not take the hint and go. Instead he walked around the room, picked up Lady Midmain’s newspaper, scanned it, and threw it down again.

  He said, “I am sorry if I have given you cause to feel neglected of late. The political situation is …”

  “I do not feel myself neglected, I assure you. I have plenty of cavaliers to squire me around. What you call your ‘neglect’ has suited me admirably.”

  Still he did not go. “How do you find your aunt?”

  “Very well, thank you.”

  “And Thomas?”

  “Dying.”

  She knew she had hurt him, for she saw his eyelids contract. At the same time, she felt her own throat constrict with tears. He walked away from her to the window, and took snuff.

  “Give me one good reason,” he said, “Why I should go through with this marriage.”

  The quill slipped from her fingers. “It would make a scandal.”

  “It would be assumed you had not come up to expectations. You asked me to release you. You said you had other prospects of marriage.”

  “My aunt would lock me in.”

  “Not if the affair were handled discreetly. I have business in the north. I could leave tomorrow morning for an indefinite period of time. I could write to Lady Midmain, saying I was detained and that the wedding must be postponed. She could have no reason then for being angry with you. She would continue to take you out in Society. The wedding can be postponed again and again. Some time this winter I shall be sent abroad, but by that time you should have landed yourself another husband. What do you say?”

  She stood up, and papers fluttered to the floor, unregarded. “It is too late … if I do not get away from this house soon … oh, my wretched temper!”

  “Is that an apology?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Come …” He extended his hand. Slowly she joined him at the window. “Yes, I thought so. You have not been sleeping well. Is something worrying you?” She shook her head. Pride forbade her to complain of his mistress. “Ring for your maid, and we will take a turn or two in the Park. When did you last go out walking?”

  Dumbly, she allowed him to summon her cloak and hat. They walked through the teeming, noisy streets to the Park, and sauntered by the lake. She looked at the ducks, and up at the trees, which had shed nearly all their leaves, and wished she were once more at home in Hamberley. They bowed to this acquaintance and that, but stopped to exchange words with few, for the Park was more or less deserted at this unfashionable hour of the day. At last he guided her to a bridge, on which he could lean and watch the leaves float on the water beneath.

  “You see,” he said, “it would be very easy for us to tear each other to pieces. If we do not marry, we will end up as mortal enemies. If we do … I do not know what will happen. I am not one of those men who marry a spirited woman in order to break her. I don’t want my home to be a battleground. Yet I feel compelled to marry you, in spite of the danger. I tell myself that with a little forbearance on both our parts, with the exercise of common sense. … Are you with me, or against me? If you are against me, then let us break off the match and say we are well rid of each other. If you are with me, then you must say so.” H
e waited, but she said nothing, her eyes on the water below. “I will not force you to marry me against your will. If we can agree on terms, then …”

  “Did you know that Thomas was dying when you asked me to marry you?”

  “No. Or at least, I did not consciously know.” He put his hand under her chin, so that she was forced to look at him. “Is that the cause of your anger? You think I tricked you? Yet you must know that I would not compel you to take me into your bed. I will swear it, if you wish. I will never enter your room uninvited, whether Thomas lives or dies.”

  She sighed, and lowered her eyes to the water again. “I do not know what I want. I do not know who I am. I used to know, but I don’t any longer. I am so tired, I could weep. All I can think of is escaping from my aunt, whatever the cost. I will marry you, if you still wish it, and I will try to keep my temper under control.” She knew she sounded unenthusiastic. She placed her hand on his, as it rested on the bridge. “There is my hand on it. I will try to be the sort of wife you want, although, come to think of it, I don’t know what sort of wife it is that you do want. My Aunt Midmain says …”

  “You need not take your tone from her, once you are married. She has done much for you; although I deplore her methods, the results are highly satisfactory. I doubt if there is another woman in Town who could have turned you from a hoyden into a fashionable lady in so short a time. However, you need see little of her once you are the Countess of Rame.”

  “But will that not be awkward for you, politically? Have you not arranged for Sir Gregory to get some post or other in the Treasury?”