On the night in question, Sir William and his wife, Lady Florence Bilson, were entertaining two newcomers to the district. They were Mr Wilson Croker and his accountant, Mr Pipes. The former had been introduced to Sir William by a business acquaintance in Liverpool, and the latter always went along as an essential attachment to his employer, for Mr Croker hardly went anywhere unless there was some opportunity for doing business. The two men were a study in contrasts: Mr Croker was young, handsome after a fashion, genial, and exceedingly well-dressed, while his companion was middle-aged, plain, dour, and wore a suit that must have been made at least a decade ago. His entire demeanour was odd to say the least.
In the company gathered at the Bilson mansion were several local dignitaries and socialites of varying degrees of importance in the community. They included the mayor, his wife and some members of the council, a local member of Parliament and his wife, a county lawyer, and two civil engineers with their wives, as well as Mr and Mrs Robert Gardiner and their pretty young daughter, Miranda.
Unbeknownst to most members of his family, but actively encouraged by his wife, Robert Gardiner had begun to take a great deal of interest in the building industry. Disappointed that he had not been entrusted with the control of his father’s Commercial Trading Company, which now flourished under the management of his sister Caroline and her son, he had hoped to inherit the family property, Oakleigh Manor. When, however, that too had slipped from his grasp, Robert, in a fit of pique, had decided to sell his shares in the family business and invest the money in what was becoming a booming new enterprise: building mansions for the newly rich.
Although they had neither wealth nor influence on such a scale as would have warranted their inclusion in the Bilsons’ guest list, their connection to two of the most renowned families in the county, the Darcys and the Fitzwilliams, gave them the necessary cachet. That and the fact that while Robert was not known for his business acumen or quick wit, his elegant wife was a most entertaining purveyor of county gossip, had seen them invited to many a social function.
Conversation around the dinner table was for the most part of a general nature. Predictably they began with the weather and the health of the Queen, and progressed to topics like the imminent collapse of British agriculture and the possible bankruptcy of many individual farmers. Almost everyone had a view on such matters. However, when it came to buying land cheaply as a consequence of the agricultural recession, there were not as many people prepared to offer an informed opinion. Sir William pointed out that there were bargains to be had if one knew where to look and, turning to Mr Croker, invited him to tell their guests how successful he had been.
“I think many of our friends would be quite surprised to learn that you appear to have had very little difficulty finding people prepared to sell up and move, is that not so, Mr Croker?” he asked, and Mr Croker smiled broadly and nodded.
“Oh, certainly, Sir William, I have been myself astonished at how ready people are to sell, when it is pointed out to them how they can advantage themselves and their families by selling out at the right time. I had expected a good deal more resistance in the country, but this has not been the case. My accountant, Mr Pipes, has been able to demonstrate to many landholders the enormous advantages of selling while the market is up,” he replied, inclining his head in the direction of Mr Pipes, who with the merest bow acknowledged the compliment in his employer’s statement.
“And do you hope to buy up land in this part of Derbyshire, too?” asked a woman at the end of the table.
“We hope to; that is certainly our intention, but we have not made any purchases yet. There are some good prospects, though, and I intend to pursue them assiduously,” Mr Croker declared, adding, “I was up looking at two of the places Mr Gardiner suggested might be worthwhile, in particular, a property in the Lambton area, Oakleigh Manor.”
Robert and Rose exchanged knowing glances, but Miranda could not hide her astonishment. Clearly, she had no knowledge of their schemes.
“And what was your opinion of the property, Mr Croker?” asked Rose.
“Well, I haven’t reached a judgment on either place, Mrs Gardiner, perhaps because in both cases I have not spoken with the owners yet, but I will say that Oakleigh Manor is a fair prospect,” Croker replied. “The land available is small, admittedly, but it is very happily situated and conveniently accessible by an excellent road. I should certainly have liked to have met the owners, but they must have been away at the time I was in the area. I saw only a rather dark young woman gathering plums in the orchard, probably one of the maids; she was eating as many as she was collecting, taking advantage of the absence of her mistress, no doubt,” he quipped.
At this, Rose Gardiner laughed and said in a penetrating voice, “Oh no, she was not, Mr Croker, you are indeed mistaken; that was no maid, it was the lady of the manor. Teresa Courtney is the daughter of an Italian flower farmer and is exactly the sort of person who would be seen standing out in the garden eating plums! It is so like her; she has no understanding of her position at all.”
The silence around the table and Robert Gardiner’s red face was sufficient to demonstrate the general embarrassment of the company, and soon afterwards, Lady Bilson rose and withdrew, followed by the rest of the women, leaving the men to continue their conversation over the port. This, however, did not appear to convince Rose that she had gone too far. As the ladies gathered in the drawing room, she continued to ridicule Mrs Courtney’s “quaint taste in clothes and rustic manners,” which she attributed to her “foreign antecedents.” Resplendent in her fashionable gown of silk and lace, she proceeded to describe the embroidered wedding gown that Teresa had worn and recalled for the benefit of anyone who cared to listen the fact that the church was overflowing with scented flowers—leaving the congregation in no doubt that the bride’s family were flower farmers.
Plainly upset by her mother’s unpardonable rudeness, Miranda left the room to walk out onto the terrace. By the time the gentlemen joined them, the ladies had turned their attention to someone other than Teresa. Later, Miranda, who had been in conversation with Mr Croker on the terrace, returned to the drawing room, although she was not inclined to join the rest of the ladies.
On the journey home, she took her mother to task. “Mama, I really do believe you went too far tonight; all that talk about Teresa being a flower farmer’s daughter and her wedding arrangements—I think you were being very unfair,” she said in a quiet but determined voice.
“Unfair?” Rose was outraged. “Whatever do you mean, Miranda? I said nothing that was untrue; I am sure she has no objection to being known as a flower farmer’s daughter; it is what her family does. They certainly do not conceal it, and I am quite prepared to wager that she is very proud of it.”
“She may well be; they are her family, but I am not,” said Robert, interrupting his wife, “and I would ask, Rose, that you try to remember that Jude Courtney is my nephew before you ridicule his wife at the next dinner party we attend. I cannot comprehend it; can you think of nothing more useful than sniping at them? It does us no good at all; everyone will assume that your remarks are prompted by envy, because Jude has inherited Oakleigh.”
Rose was unaccustomed to being reprimanded by her husband and was clearly put out by his reproof. She snapped back quickly, “Ah well, perhaps we should have let Miranda marry him; that would have pleased you, I am sure, because that way you would have finally got your hands on Oakleigh Manor. You have been obsessed with it for years.”
This time Robert was furious. “Don’t be ridiculous, Rose,” he said angrily, “it is you who are obsessed with it. You have never ceased to complain about my mother’s will and now you have taken to abusing my late sister Emily and her son and daughter-in-law. I have said nothing to denigrate them, even though I will confess I have been hurt by the fact that I was not considered by either Mama or Emily. Yet you have been unceasing in your disparaging comments addressed to anyone and everyone we meet. I am mortifi
ed by your conduct and must ask you to cease this futile campaign.”
Even Miranda looked shocked; she had hardly ever heard her father speak to her mother in such censorious terms. But it seemed that this time, Robert was not to be gainsaid. When Rose attempted to make light of it, claiming that it was only a joke, he would have none of it.
“Perhaps that was your intention, but as I am sure you would have noticed, the effect of your words was quite the opposite. Even the Bilsons, who are not the most cultivated of people, were embarrassed by your remarks, and I suppose you were not aware that the mayor’s wife is herself of Italian descent. We have no knowledge what trade or industry her family was engaged in, and your insensitive remarks may well have offended a very important personage in this town. I know that he never spoke a single word to me after the ladies had left the room.”
Following that revelation, nobody spoke a single word during the rest of the journey, and when they reached the house, they went their separate ways to their rooms. For the first time in her life, young Miranda Gardiner felt some modicum of admiration for her father. She had long felt heartily ashamed of her mother’s unworthy behaviour, but with little hope of seeing her suitably put down. Despite the inevitable discomposure she had felt at witnessing the conflict between her parents, her feelings were of relief.
At breakfast on the morrow, Miranda found herself alone. Her father had already eaten and left the house, and Mrs Gardiner had elected to take hers in her private sitting room. Her maid had been seen taking a tray upstairs, and Miranda, who was familiar with her mother’s methods of domestic warfare, decided to ignore her family and please herself. It was a fine morning, with a light breeze blowing across the vale, and Miranda could think of nothing better to do than take her horse out for a ride. Since there was no one of whom to ask permission, she went down to the stables and asked for her horse to be saddled up, while she went upstairs to change into riding clothes.
Chapter Seven
When Robert Gardiner left the house that morning, his mind was in a state of confusion. He was certain only of one thing: After the mortification he had endured on the previous evening, he needed to get away from the house, from Rose and his in-laws, and he needed to think.
He had never been much of a thinker. Unlike his brother and sisters, Robert had never spent much time in contemplating either the purpose or the value of any of his actions; rather, he had been frequently faced with situations in which the consequences of something he had done had caught up with him, and in the ensuing days and weeks, he had needed the assistance of his family or friends to deal with them.
Since the death of his mother, he had found himself isolated; unable to turn to any of his siblings for advice, he had left most of the significant decisions affecting their family to his wife and his father-in-law. Quite obviously, this strategy had failed and he needed to find another. It was a realisation that he was loathe to admit to anyone, particularly not to his elder brother Richard, whose reputation and standing in the community made it impossible for Robert to approach him without suffering the most extreme embarrassment. His sister Caroline on the other hand was, he thought, likely to be less judgmental.
* * *
When Caroline Fitzwilliam saw her brother alighting from his horse and approaching the house, she was at once amazed and afraid—amazed that he had come, for it had been many months since Robert had visited them, and afraid that this visit must therefore mean bad news! Could something have happened to Rose or, God forbid, Miranda? Caroline was filled with trepidation as she went out to greet him.
For his part, Robert could not help but recall his visit to his sister Emily over twenty years ago, when he had first thought himself irrevocably in love with Rose Fitzwilliam. He had been afraid that his humbler origins, being the younger son of a man who had made his fortune through trade, with no pretensions to a professional qualification, unlike his brother Richard, would cause either Rose or her parents to reject his suit.
When he had admitted as much to Emily, she had scoffed at his fears and given him the encouragement he needed to proceed with his proposal. Then Rose had accepted him, and Robert’s reaction had been more one of relief than romantic euphoria, like a man waking from a nightmare.
Now, with Emily gone and his marriage in what could only be termed a parlous state, Robert could not fail to see the irony of his present visit to Caroline. He had come to ask for her advice, and the reason for his concern was the very opposite of what it had been twenty years ago.
Caroline, seeing his grave face as he stood at the front door, feared the worst. Someone was dead. She was aware that Rose’s father had been ill but did not believe he could have died so suddenly.
“Robert, my dear brother, you look so dejected. What is it?” Taking his hand, she drew him into the hall, and as they went in to the sitting room, Caroline called to the maid to order some tea. When her brother said nothing, she was surprised, for she had expected some dire announcement. Yet, as he remained silent, she persisted, “Robert, has something happened? Is it Sir James? I had heard from Lizzie that he was ill, but I did not think it was that serious…”
He interrupted her gently, placing a hand upon her arm, “No, no, Caroline, it is not Sir James, and no one is ill—unless it is I, myself.”
“You?” She was shocked. “How are you ill? Have you seen a doctor?” she asked, well aware that her younger brother was not renowned for his sense of responsibility.
“No, I have not,” he replied, provoking a warning about the foolishness of ignoring the early symptoms of disease.
“Why haven’t you, Robert? You should at the very least talk to Richard…”
But this time Robert waited until she had finished and then decided that it would be simpler to start over again. “Caroline, I am not ill, that is, not in any physical sense, and before you think I have lost my mind, let me say it—no, it is not that either. I do not believe I need a doctor, but I do need your help with a problem.”
“A problem? Is it money?” she asked, for she knew that in the past, many of Robert’s problems had to do with money or the lack of it.
But he shook his head vigorously and said, “No, it is not money. If only it were, it would be much easier to resolve.”
“What then?” His sister looked quite bewildered.
Robert appeared tongue-tied, and as the maid brought in tea and cake, Caroline thought he looked like the confused young brother they had had to rescue from a variety of scrapes and wondered what could possibly have happened to make him look so miserable. Waiting until the maid had left the room, haltingly at first and then in a torrent of sometimes incoherent words, Robert told her everything. By the time he had finished, so bleak was his tale, Caroline was unsure whether she should be relieved that his affliction was not a disease or should wish with all her heart that it was.
* * *
“At least with a disease, one can offer some comfort, there may have been some hope of a cure,” she said when relating the circumstances of her brother’s visit to her husband that night. “Oh Fitzy, it is a terrible tale. The way he tells it, he has had very little contentment and scarcely any happiness in his marriage over many years. It would seem that Rose takes notice of no one but her father, and even Miranda appears to have little affection for either of her parents. Poor Robert, I know he is not the most sensible of men, and he is as much to blame for his predicament as anyone, for there is no doubt that he has been weak and indecisive, but even he does not deserve this.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam was sympathetic but cautious about becoming involved in the coils of his brother-in-law’s tortuous problems. He had never been comfortable with the arrangements of Robert’s life with his in-laws, and being at a time of life when ease and comfort meant everything to him, Fitzwilliam had no inclination to confront them. He spoke with a degree of caution, hoping to warn his wife of the possible pitfalls of the situation.
“I have been aware that Robert was not as happy in his
marriage as one might have wished him to be, but I did not know that things had reached such a pass as this. He has not helped his cause by his past behaviour towards Mrs Gardiner and Emily. I know that neither Darcy nor Lizzie would wish to be involved in helping him. He has lost their respect a long time ago,” he said.
“But he is my brother, Fitzy. I can hardly turn him away when he comes to me for advice,” Caroline protested.
Fitzwilliam nodded; he knew well that, with her generous heart, Caroline could not refuse any appeal for help. “What advice did you give him, my dear?” he asked, genuinely interested to know how she might have counselled her brother. Her answer surprised him.
“I did not know what to say. His circumstances were so dismal and his mood so despondent, I could not think of anything worthwhile which might bring some prospect of improvement to his situation. Oh Fitzy, I felt so helpless; never having suffered such misery myself, I had no suggestion to make that might have given him hope. All I could do was to offer words of comfort, yet he needed something more. If only Emily were here, she would have known what to say. He told me how he had gone to her when things had first started to go wrong and she had advised him to take Rose away, perhaps to London, where they would have a better chance of a life together away from the influence of her parents.”
“Sage counsel indeed, but I doubt if Robert followed her advice,” her husband responded, and Caroline had to agree.
“Indeed it was, but of course, Rose would not hear of it, and Robert, being unwilling to argue, had never mentioned it again. He understands now that it was his initial lack of will that has made things much worse than they need have been, but I fear it may be too late.”
Legacy of Pemberley (The Pemberley Chronicles; Pride and Prejudice Sequel Series) Page 8
