“I did not recommend him for the position. He thinks I did, that is all.”
“Then why is he getting it? He has been kind enough to me in his fashion, but he is a lightweight, when all is said and done.”
“The Duke of Newcastle has given him the post, thinking thereby to earn my gratitude. He misjudged me, as it happens. It is a matter of indifference to me whether your uncle receives a post in the Treasury or nothing at all.”
“The Midmains live beyond their income, and have spent a lot of money on me in one way or another. I suppose I owe them something.”
“I don’t think so. Lady Midmain will be amply repaid by being able to refer to ‘my niece, the Countess.’”
“But why … I beg your pardon. My aunt has told me again and again not to talk politics to gentlemen.”
“Not every man who moves in Society is a fool, as I said before. If you choose your company wisely, you may talk politics as much as you please—if it interests you.”
“It interests you, and therefore it interests me. No, I am not being truthful. I find it a fascinating subject, and I have noticed that my aunt Midmain, although she deplores my speaking of it, is also interested in politics.”
“Your aunt would have adorned the post in the Treasury which is to go to her husband. The Tarrant women have more than their fair share of intelligence and spirit.”
“Then I may ask you questions? Yes? Then why does the Duke of Newcastle seek to attach you to his party?”
“Because I own a great deal of land, and can therefore influence the election of men to the House of Commons. It is as simple as that. Also, his party is weaker—not weak, but less strong—in the House of Lords, and he would welcome my personal influence there. That is why he encourages me to put forward my bill to increase the penalty for smuggling.”
“I do not understand about that. You must know it cannot succeed, for too many men in the Commons have relatives or friends who benefit from Free Trading.”
“True, it will fail. Nevertheless smuggling is an iniquitous practice, and one day will be stamped out by military action, if steps are not taken to deal with it through the Preventives.”
“But why do you concern yourself with such a measure while the country is facing much greater problems?”
“I am concerned with those, too. Who is not? But what can I do?”
“Fight.”
“No, my arm is too weak. You said so yourself.”
“To command troops, you do not need to wield a sword,” she said, scornfully. He bowed. She thought he smiled, but he had turned his head away before she could be sure. She bit her lip. “Oh, I am sorry,” she said. “I have broken our truce again, have I not? Tell me this; do you mean to vote with Newcastle in future? I would not wish to make any faux pas, politically, as your wife.”
“I am not sure. I would prefer to remain outside the party lines. I owe my uncle a great deal; certainly I owe him more than I owe Newcastle. Neither man is faultless, but both have their points. I hope very much that I need never choose between them, and if I am sent abroad soon the contingency need never arise.”
“You are not anxious for power, then?”
“Not that sort of power. I lack my uncle’s sweeping powers of invention, or Newcastle’s love of administration. I like to be occupied, and to know what is going on; sometimes to pull a string here, or push a man into action there; but I do not want the center of the stage for myself.” He smiled at her. “And before you say that I am not fitted for the center of the stage, I will do so. I need to be kept occupied, and by great good fortune, it appears that I shall be given a post which will occupy me without tying me to the fortunes of one party or the other. Now what of you? What is your goal in life?”
She looked up at the trees, and down at the water. She turned her back on him and looked all round her. She shook her head and sighed.
“I wish I knew.”
The wedding day approached. Sophia was apathetic, but dutiful. She no longer felt the urge to lose her temper and scream, even at Philip. She went wherever her aunt Midmain was invited, and was mildly amused to learn that “the Tarrant Rose” had won a reputation as a charming girl. Her frequent visits to her Aunt Nan and to Thomas were put down to her credit, and greatly increased her popularity. She had become, in short, the latest “rage.”
She saw much of Marjorie Bladen, because Sir John had taken to calling on Lady Midmain several times a week. The Bladens lodged with an elderly aunt of Sir John’s in the City, and seemed determined to make a lengthy stay in Town. Sir John had spent a good deal of money on equipping his daughter with a new wardrobe, and made sure that she was seen everywhere. He made no secret of the fact that he wished to marry again, and that he felt a grown-up daughter was a hindrance to his plans. The sooner he could get her married off the better, he confided to Sophia; but not to just anyone; the man should have a title, or at the very least, a respectable fortune of his own.
Poor Marjorie did not seem to be enjoying her visit to London. She was not as adaptable as Sophia, either in mind or figure. She continued to behave in exactly the same way as she had done in the country, and to look like a rosy-cheeked milkmaid, dressed in someone else’s finery. Her conversation was all of Hamberley and what the country might be looking like, and fears that Betty the cook might not have remembered to make enough rose-hip syrup against the winter. She went to the opera and said it reminded her of the doves in the dovecote at the end of her herb garden; she went to balls and said she doubted she would ever get the hang of the quadrille. She stared at Sophia’s hooped dresses and wondered aloud how Sophia had learned to manage them.
“You’ll never catch a husband at this rate,” said Sophia, who was at once exasperated and amused by her friend’s stolidity.
“I don’t need to,” replied Marjorie. “I am going to wait for Jasper. Oh, I know I may have to wait for years, and that it will be difficult to persuade Father to accept the match even then, but I don’t mind forgoing my fortune, and Jasper doesn’t mind, either.”
“But your father has other plans for you, doesn’t he? Did I not hear him talk about a match with young Lord Courtenay? He is very pleasant, I believe, and would make you a far better husband than my hotheaded rebel of a brother.”
“He might,” said Marjorie, folding her lips.
“Then there is Mr. Dalby, who is pining for a sympathetic listener. Why don’t you talk to him about farming, instead of sitting mum when he calls?”
“I shall marry Jasper, or die an old maid.”
“Your father will not allow you to …”
“Some men never grow up,” said Marjorie, with a wisdom beyond her years. “My father is just like a spoilt child. He wanted Tarrant Hall, and because he couldn’t have it, he spoiled his chances of marrying you. He took a dislike to the Earl of Rame, because he conceived that Philip had made him look foolish. I have told him that it will do no good talking wildly about taking revenge on Philip, but he will do so. I blame that man Farrow in part. If he were not in my father’s service, I am sure things would have been smoothed over long ago.”
Sophia was silent. She did not like the development, either. Sir John had brought Mr. Farrow to Town with him, and talked to anyone who was prepared to listen about the unfairness of the former bailiff’s dismissal. Mr. Farrow went with Sir John wherever his master went, and was frequently seen whispering in his ear. What was perhaps even more sinister, was the recent appearance of the “Death’s Head,” Greenwood, as a footman in Sir John’s entourage. Farrow and Greenwood were very close. Neither Marjorie nor Sophia liked the men, but there was nothing they could do about the situation.
The two girls had been sitting alone in the drawing-room, but presently Lady Midmain came in, and company began to arrive. Sir Benjamin, Mr. Dalby, and then Mr. Carramine, with Sir Gregory Midmain standing on tiptoe to whisper in his ear … Mrs. Dalby locked in confidential talk with Lady Lincoln … Lord Lincoln looking somewhat jaded … and then the bu
tler announced the Earl of Rame and Miss Tarrant, and the company fell silent.
This was the first time that Miss Nan had visited her married sister, although they had exchanged messages through Sophia. Miss Tarrant advanced into the room at the Earl’s side, smiling, perfectly at her ease. Lady Midmain rustled to her sister’s side, and they kissed each other’s cheek. Miss Nan was looking very distinguished in her new black silk, her bright eyes and ready smile contrasting attractively with her white hair. Most of the company could already claim acquaintance with her, and as Lady Midmain introduced the rest to her sister, Sophia saw that she need not have feared what might happen if Miss Nan were to go about in Society.
“What a remarkable woman your aunt is,” Lady Lincoln said to Sophia. “So sympathetic, so distinguished, and yet so self-effacing. It is no wonder that Philip adores her, but I doubt he will keep her. Dowry or no dowry, she will be mistress of her own home before long.”
“Who? I don’t understand?”
Lady Lincoln smiled, and indicated with her fan where Mr. Carramine was busily settling Miss Nan into a chair. “He is always to be found at Philip’s house, nowadays. Didn’t you know?”
No, Sophia had not known. The Tarrants had been close neighbors with the Carramines, they had constantly been in each other’s company, and yet Sophia had never seen anything to indicate that Mr. Carramine was enamored of her aunt. Could it be so? Might the removal to London, the Earl’s patronage, and the new dresses have opened Mr. Carramine’s eyes to her aunt’s attractions? It did look very much like it. Was Sophia pleased? She could not say. She thought her chief emotion was one of surprise.
There was no time to dwell on the matter, for here came Sir John Bladen to pay his respects. He bristled at the sight of the Earl, and put his hand on his sword.
“Good Gad!” said Sir John, with a jocularity which verged on insolence. “I hardly recognized you, my lord. Fine feathers, eh?”
Like Lord Lincoln, the Earl was in Court dress, having called at Lady Midmain’s on his way to St. James’. Because he was in Court dress, he was not wearing a sword. Would he take exception to Sir John’s tone? He decided not to do so. He raised his eyebrows, bowed, and turned away to speak to Sir Gregory.
Sir John could not let well alone. He caught at the Earl’s sleeve. “Did you hear that I have taken on two men who used to be in your service? Your bailiff, and a footman who used to work for you. They have some pretty tales to tell of you. What do you say to that?”
“Merely that I hope they will serve you better than they served me.” The Earl bowed again, and moved a step away from Sir John. It was apparent that he wished for peace.
“Talking of service,” said Sir John, so loudly that everyone stopped talking to glance his way. “I hear you have been paying attentions to my daughter of late. You will allow me to tell you, my lord, that I find such attentions undesirable. I will not have my daughter served as you have served Miss Sophia.”
“What?”
“What does he mean?”
Sophia saw that Sir John meant to be offensive. Had he been drinking? The insult had been given in front of everyone, and must be answered. The Earl’s hand had gone to his side, as if seeking his sword. Marjorie had her hands over her mouth, her eyes reflecting Sophia’s horror. No one seemed to know how to avert a duel. The Earl’s arm was not strong; Sir John would know that. Miss Nan caught Sophia’s eye, and indicated what she must do.
Sophia moved between the two men, taking Sir John’s arm in hers, and drawing him away to the fire. “Indeed, Sir John, you must not be angry if Philip speaks with Marjorie, for he does so at my request. Only see what a little polish has done for us country mice. Do you like this new silk? It came from Lyons, I believe. A glass of claret? It is your favorite. Come, sit down beside me, and tell me all the news of home. How did the harvest go? Did you need extra men?”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Philip bend over Marjorie, talking. The frightened look had gone from the girl’s face, and she listened, her hands clasped and eyes lowered. She frowned, and raised her eyes to the Earl’s face, seeming to ask a question without words. He turned his shoulder on the room and maneuvered the girl into the window. Now Sophia could not see Philip’s face, but she could still see Marjorie’s, glowing in sudden radiance. The girl had both her hands on Philip’s arm, and was talking … pleading with him? Philip’s head went from side to side. He moved round, so that he could review the room, but everyone else had plunged back into conversation. Marjorie still clung to Philip’s arm, talking. He was still shaking his head but smiling, too, as if with a little more persuasion he would do whatever it was she wanted. There; the minx had won her point, and what was more, she had gone on tiptoe to kiss Philip’s cheek. How dared she! Sophia herself had never … and he was actually laughing as he bent to receive her caress.
The Earl and the Lincolns were leaving. Marjorie stayed by the window, looking out on the street. Philip was at her side, bowing over her hand, saying something about haste. He would leave his carriage for Miss Nan, and go with the Lincolns to Court. He had time for Marjorie, it seemed, but none for Sophia. Sir John bristled at her side. What could she do? She smiled, and said what seemed to be appropriate, and wondered how much more of his unfaithfulness she was supposed to accept. First the lady in St. James’, and now Marjorie … perhaps Sir John had been right. …
Sir Gregory was at the Earl’s side, eager to establish himself as a man of importance. “What, off to Court again? Is the King going to Hanover? They said he would, yesterday, but today I hear the contrary. Are there to be celebrations for the King’s birthday at the end of the month, or are there not? That is what I asked the Duke. Newcastle, you know. We are on the most intimate of terms. I can tell you, in confidence, that the Duke is a very worried man these days.”
“What do you think of that, Philip?” Lord Lincoln’s eyes were bright with mischief.
The Earl appeared bored. “By Gad, what should I think? I never meddle in backstairs politics.” Lord Lincoln put his handkerchief before his face and emitted a sound which was something between a sneeze and a cough. The Earl’s mouth twitched. “I have far more important things to think about than politics. My speech, for instance. I have to give my speech next week, and it is worrying the life out of me. Ought I to commit it to memory, that is the question? His Majesty was kind enough to ask me to read part of it to him last night.”
Lord Lincoln winked at Sophia. “Almost burst a blood vessel, laughing.”
The Earl shook his head. “I only hope that my peers will not give me the same reception.” He bowed over Sophia’s hand, and left with the Lincolns, still smiling.
“What was all that about?” Sophia demanded of Mr. Carramine, who was now waiting for her to turn to him.
“Don’t you know? Ah. Perhaps better not. Your aunt Midmain’s not a fool by any means, but your uncle might blab anything to anybody. First-class booby. No offense meant, of course. My congratulations; you handled Sir John well. Unnecessary and indeed inconvenient to have a duel at this moment. Besides, Philip might easily kill him.”
“How? His arm is not strong?”
“The challenged person has the right to name his weapons, has he not? Philip is a crack shot, I believe.” He nodded. “Keep Sir John cool, if you can. He’s an ignorant man and a fool, and I don’t like his association with Farrow and Greenwood, who feed their master’s ill-humor. They think they know something which might embarrass Philip if it were generally known. Perhaps they do. Perhaps they don’t. Better not to bring it out into the open, anyway. Trust you to see that they do nothing foolish. Don’t look so surprised. You could manage any man, if you so chose.”
But not Philip, she thought. I don’t understand him well enough.
It was the night before the wedding, and Lady Midmain was giving a formal dinner for all those most closely involved. Two courses, each consisting of ten dishes, were set on the board, and removed before sweetmeats. Everyone except Sophia,
suffering in tightly-laced corsets, did justice to the food. Philip pressed her to eat this and that. His attentions to her were remarked on with smiles and, now and then, a bawdy jest. Sophia smiled and said everything that was polite, and wondered what would happen if she were to faint.
She did not faint, but it could not be said that she understood the business which was transacted in Sir Gregory’s study afterwards. The lawyers explained the settlement which Philip was making on her and her heirs, she was told how much pin money she was to have … talk of reversions, of if’s and an’s and in the case of the death of … or alternatively in the event of … She smiled and signed her name where indicated, and gave her hand to the lawyers each in turn, and wondered why they all wore the same kind of wig. Were there two lawyers, or only one? No, there was only one. Why had she thought there were two?
Someone was holding a glass of wine to her lips. She drank. It was Philip, of course. He noticed everything. She looked up into his face and wondered what he was thinking. Had he turned to the lady at St. James’, and to Marjorie Bladen, because his future wife had barred him from her bedroom? Had he done it to make her jealous? And if so, did she feel jealous? She did not know.
Her Aunt Nan was at her side, looking anxious. Sophia smiled, and said wasn’t it foolish of her to feel faint, and ought they not to rejoin the guests? Then back into the drawing-room. A curtsey to a great-aunt here, a curtsey to Lord Carteret, who seemed to have forgiven her for not being Lady Millicent, because he smiled at her. … Who was Lady Millicent? Sophia could not even remember what she looked like. …
A chair was set beside her, and she sank into it. Philip, again. The noise was tremendous. She smiled, and said yes, she was a little tired. Faces came and went, but Philip stood over her, taking the burden of conversation on himself. Only then it was Marjorie Bladen’s turn to pass before her, and there was something in the girl’s face which made Sophia look up. The girl was smiling up at Philip, but the smile was not the sort of smile which you gave acquaintances or even friends; it was the smile of conspirators, or lovers. Yes, Marjorie’s smile was full of meaning, and Philip—the traitor—was stepping away from Sophia’s side, drawing Marjorie away, while he chatted to her lightly about the state of the roads … and the false jade was passing a closely-folded note to Philip, and he was taking it and sliding it into his pocket, still talking. No one but Sophia, watching so carefully, could possibly have seen it. Then Marjorie was bending to kiss Sophia, and Sophia jerked her head back. And Philip had noticed her rudeness, and Marjorie’s start of surprise, and he was placing his hand on Marjorie’s arm to prevent the girl from showing her alarm, and talking all the time. And the room grew hotter, and Marjorie’s anxious face sank back among the guests and at last people were leaving, and Philip had gone, too. Where? To his mistress at St. James’? Or to meet Marjorie somewhere in the City?
The Tarrant Rose Page 20
