When she and her aunt retired to the withdrawing room, however, she found herself trembling a little. Aunt Fan gave her one piercing look and made her sit on the small sopha. "What's wrong?"
"Oh, aunt, nothing at all. He--Colonel Falk--surprised me, of course. He likes the house."
Aunt Fan snorted. "What's that to the point? How is he?"
Emily gathered her wits. "Tired from the journey, I think, but otherwise well enough. He told me I looked like a housemaid."
Aunt Fan gave her a queer look but for once did not pursue the subject.
Presently Sir Henry and Mr. Wheeler joined the ladies, and in the fullness of time Richard entered. He looked a trifle rumpled, as if he had been climbed over by small enthusiastic persons.
"How are the children?" Emily smiled at him.
"Beautiful."
Emily laughed. "I know that. Were they glad to see you?"
"I think so." He didn't look as if he had serious doubts. His eyes were bright. "They will be pestering you to bring them to me tomorrow. To carry off their Belgian loot, greedy little beasts. I wonder what they'd expect if I went to India?"
"You're not..." Horrible phantasies assailed Emily's mind. Sir Robert Wilson had promised that his brother-in-law would retire.
"Lord, no," Richard said hastily. "I'm out of it now, thank God. That's what kept me so long in London."
Emily meant to be absolutely sure. "You've retired?"
"Yes. As of the end of the month. Sir Henry." He turned to Emily's father who had stood listening to this little exchange with indulgent twitches of the eyebrows. "How do you, sir? I have to thank you for your good offices. The cottage is precisely what I want."
Sir Henry was heard to rumble a few doubts. He still thought a cottage a paltry dwelling for a gentleman, and he made that clear, but Emily could tell that he was not displeased to see his tenant. Richard also said all the right things to Aunt Fan, whose delight in the meeting was betrayed largely by the gruffness of her exclamations and the way her back hair began to fall down. Aunt introduced Richard to Mr. Wheeler. Emily had half forgot the vicar's existence. Rag-manners, she told herself, vexed to have forgot so elementary a courtesy.
The company settled in with an air of spurious cosiness. Richard sat on Sir Henry's right hand, for Emily's father was going a little deaf in the left ear, Aunt Fan, aburst with questions, on Richard's right, and Mr. Wheeler, with the faint discomfortable look of one who finds himself intruding on a family reunion, on the sopha next to Emily. In good time every one was provided a glass of sherry, for Sir Henry did not believe in ladies drinking eyewash like ratafia.
Conversation rambled. The weather, everyone agreed, was the best in years, perfect for campaigning--Aunt Fan--and haymaking--Sir Henry. Hay led Sir Henry to horses and thence to Amy's equestrian prowess. Richard received Sir Henry's moving tribute to his daughter--"Good bottom, young Amy, steady hands, always throws her heart over a jump"--with the merest hint of a grin. He turned the conversation neatly from Amy to Matt with a question for Mr. Wheeler about Matt's Latin verbs--how had he found out about Matt's verbs, Emily wondered, bemused--and Mr. Wheeler spoke at length on the defects of modern education. A perfectly safe topic. Sir Henry's eyes glazed, Richard listened, Aunt tapped her foot. Mr. Wheeler worked his way gradually from Caesar to grouse shooting.
At the word grouse Sir Henry woke up and contributed a comment on Squire Talbert's coverts. That produced a little mild controversy to which Richard did not contribute. Sir Henry was in a tactful mood, however, and before Emily reached the screaming point he turned the question kindly to the state of Richard's health, and thence, after only a few cluckings about the inconvenience of one-handed existence, which Richard bore with resigned composure, to a chance recollection of Chelsea Hospital, Ranelagh, and a set piece on the horrors of London in August.
That was too much for Aunt Fan's patience. She cut off Sir Henry's monologue with a single well-chosen phrase and plunged at once without transition into a series of questions about Water-loo, which somehow, as with most of Aunt's military conversations, turned into a lecture. Emily's heart sank.
In truth her aunt's expertise, which was genuine and based on passionately thorough reading and reflexion, embarrassed Emily, and she was ashamed of her shame. Why shouldn't Frances Mayne study military history if she found it interesting? It was not a very shocking eccentricity, surely. If only her aunt were not so intense. If only Aunt Fan's intensity did not render her vulnerable.
Emily listened to a masterful analysis of the charge of the Union Brigade with the pious but not very strong hope that Richard would restrain his satirical impulses. To her relief and surprise he listened politely enough and in one of Aunt's infrequent pauses for breath allowed that he wasn't a cavalryman.
"It's Bevis's opinion you should be seeking, ma'am. He was on General Picton's staff."
Aunt's eyes shone. "I had forgot that. Lord Bevis, eh? I've met him."
"Shall I give you his direction? I believe he is fixed in Paris with the occupation forces."
Aunt demurred. His lordship would be far too busy--she could not presume on so brief an acquaintance. And so on.
Richard's mouth gave a slight betraying twitch at the corners, but he said gravely, "I'm sure Bevis would be flattered to hear from you, Miss Mayne. He is not at all high in the instep, you know, and he remembers you very clearly. I think you ought to write him at once."
"Well then, I shall." There was a whiff of defiance in Aunt's voice, but Richard still did not smile.
He was, Emily concluded, far too pleased with the unsought opportunity to wreak vengeance on Bevis. She turned a laugh to a cough in the nick of time.
"This business of the Imperial Guard, now," Aunt went on, relentless. "What think you, sir?"
"Frances," said Sir Henry. "That is quite enough."
Emily gave her father a glance which she hoped expressed her heartfelt gratitude, but he was not looking at her. Indeed, he had been watching his sister and Richard from beneath twitching brows for some time. Now he rose.
"Time to be going home. Thank you, my dear." This to Emily. "An excellent dinner, as usual. Wheeler!"
Mr. Wheeler started and blinked. He had, all unnoticed, fallen asleep. How he could, Emily thought, indignant. Then justice compelled her to admit to herself that an outsider must have missed the tensions that had kept her on edge throughout Aunt Fan's military excursion.
"Time to go," Sir Henry repeated, authoritative. "Colonel Falk, I have my carriage and mean to drive Mr. Wheeler to the vicarage. Shall you ride with us?"
Richard had, perforce, risen when Sir Henry did. He accepted Sir Henry's offer. Emily thought he was relieved not to have to walk the half mile to Watkins's cottage. He looked very tired. She hoped Aunt Fan might not cross-examine him all the way home, but her hope was dim.
Richard thanked Emily quietly and said good night. Mr. Wheeler was rather more fulsome with less cause. Aunt Fan looked pleased with herself and only slightly guilty.
Emily stood at the door as her guests descended to the waiting carriage. Her father was the last to leave. As he bent to kiss her, Emily murmured, "Thank you, Papa."
"That young man should be on his sickbed. Estimable woman, m'sister. Sometimes wants good sense. Good night, my dear. You have a lively time ahead of you."
27
"Down, Papa. want down."
Richard lifted his son from the paddock gate one-handed and set the little boy on the grass. Tommy was bored with pony watching. He wandered a few steps down the lane in search of dandelions.
In the paddock, the redundant groom, who was soon to be absorbed into Sir Henry's stables, was giving Matt and Amy a last schooling on their ponies. Amy sat the sidesaddle with reluctance. Matt was showing off.
"He'll break his neck," Emily murmured.
"Not likely." Richard leaned on the gate.
They watched the young riders for a while in companionable silence. Emily had spent most of the day in Winc
hester with her aunt. The entire time they were in town she kept imagining she would return to find Richard gone, yet here he was, relaxed and sunburnt, leaning on the paddock gate as if his continued presence were in no way remarkable. He had been "home" nearly a week.
Nothing untoward happened in the paddock. Amy took three low jumps. Matt kept his heels in. Tommy ate a dandelion and decided he didn't care for the taste. It was all wonderfully routine. Presently Richard made his farewells and doubled back in the direction of Watkins's cottage.
Emily had resolved to keep her courtship at a low key. She told herself she didn't want to frighten Richard off, and indeed she did not wish to distract him from his pleasure in the children's company, which was unequivocal and warmly returned. Amy and Matt would cheerfully have camped in Watkins's cottage with him.
A pattern had already developed. Every day Emily brought Amy and Tommy in the gig as far as the cottage. They were met at the gate by Matt, who had morning lessons with Mr. Wheeler in the vicarage. Then they all took tea together in the cottage kitchen, the pewter mugs dripping sweet tea that was mostly milk on the oak table and the children chattering and gobbling bread and butter. Afterwards Emily would go on about her daily rounds alone. In an hour and a half or two hours she would return to find the children ashriek by the swing or sprawled on the Turkey carpet as Richard concocted a story for them, or seated at the round oak table in the kitchen in a marathon of spillikins.
Richard was very bad at left-handed spillikins. The children thought that hilarious. They were unselfconscious with him, even Matt, who was a little inclined to self-importance. Tommy took to his father without the coy shyness that sometimes afflicted him with strangers. Amy and Matt didn't spare Richard their squabbles, but they seemed to quarrel less at the cottage. The novelty had not yet worn off.
After their games Emily would load the reluctant children into the gig and take them home for a nuncheon and a nap. Later, when the weather permitted--and it was surprisingly pleasant most of the time--Amy and Matt would ride in the paddock and Richard would stroll over from the cottage to watch them. A natural routine. Almost they were turning into a family. Emily was afraid something would break the spell.
There was one fly in her ointment. Richard would not dine at Wellfield House. He declined her invitations with fair grace, but Emily was secretly hurt, especially when he did agree to dine with Sir Henry, Aunt Fan, and Emily at Mayne Hall. She complained to Aunt Fan when the ladies had withdrawn.
"He's probably heard the talk."
"What talk?"
Aunt Fan pursed her lips. "People gossip, Emma. So far no one is indulging phantasies, but you'll have to be circumspect. If Colonel Falk were to dine with you every night, or even several times a week, you could kiss farewell to your character."
Emily's cheeks burnt. "What a pleasure it is to live in a civilised society."
"My dear, that's the way of the world. I'd be cautious with your mother-in-law, if I were you. She has a malicious tongue, and she has never approved Amy and Tommy."
Emily bit her lip. Aunt Fan was right. The elder Mrs. Foster and Emily had maintained an armed truce for years, and the woman was a born gossip. "I mean to marry Richard, Aunt."
"Yes, I know," Aunt Fan said calmly.
Emily stared, resentment churning in her bosom. So much for concealment. So earthshaking an announcement ought to provoke at least a mild exclamation.
"You are going about it with a fair degree of finesse." Aunt pulled out her workbasket and took up a shift she was stitching for one of the cottagers' wives. "Don't rush your fences."
Emily fairly drowned in a wave of astonishment. "You approve?"
Aunt Fan threaded the needle. "From a worldly viewpoint it is not a good match."
Emily made an impatient noise.
Aunt smiled and bit off her thread. "I should not let worldly motives govern my judgement if I were you. He is an estimable man."
Emily sighed. "And Matt likes him."
Aunt's eyes twinkled. "That is certainly a consideration."
Emily felt her mouth twitch in an answering smile. "I won't rush my fences, Aunt Fan, but to tell you the truth I'm impatient. Perhaps I should invite Richard to dinner every night."
Aunt Fan set a row of neat stitches. "Unwise, Emma. He might feel constrained to offer. Then you'd always be wondering--."
"Whether he made his offer freely. I was joking, Aunt." Emily heaved a sigh. "It astonishes me when I consider that Richard and I have spent a grand total of twelve days in one another's company--and we have known each other nearly three years. I do know him. I fell in love with his letters."
Aunt gave a sympathetic cluck.
"Do you know how he spends his time?"
"With the brats."
Emily shifted on the chair. "The rest of his time."
"How?"
"Practicing great Os with his left hand like a schoolboy. Amy and Matt find it mightily amusing." Emily sniffled.
Aunt Fan set her sewing aside and handed Emily a square of lawn embroidered in scallops. "Pull yourself together, my dear. Don't want to alarm Henry."
Emily blew her nose and pulled herself more or less together. It was one thing for Aunt Fan to guess her feelings, but quite another to betray her feelings to her father. He might accept Richard as a tenant and even grudgingly allow him some rights as Amy's father, but Emily knew very well that Sir Henry would kick up a dust at the prospect of his daughter wedding an unemployed army officer, even one with a pension. And though he had shown surprising complaisance about Richard's irregular connexion with the Duchess of Newsham, Emily did not for one moment suppose Mayne of Mayne Hall would embrace any bastard eagerly as a son-in-law.
Sir Henry and Richard left their port early, and Sir Henry appeared to have been well entertained. Emily gave Richard a ride home in her gig. He did not propose marriage, but he joked with her in his wry way, very much at his ease. Emily had perforce to be content with that, though she began to wonder if her tactics were right after all.
By and large, however, she was content with the routine of her courtship. The intrusion next day of Sir Robert and Lady Sarah into the children's morning tea ruffled her more than it ought. Sir Robert was expansive, even jocular, but Lady Sarah, though she made no criticism, was plainly appalled by Watkins's cottage. They did not stay very long. Richard saw them off and returned to the kitchen, whistling perversely through his teeth.
Tommy had finished his milk and demanded a last push on the swing before he consented to go, so Richard took him into the garden.
"We didn't have our story," Matt grumbled through a mouthful of crumbs. He, too, disapproved the intrusion.
"Not with your mouth full," Emily corrected automatically.
"Why did Lady Sarah call on Papa?" Amy wiped away her milk moustache fastidiously. She still was not overfond of milk. "I thinked--thought she was your friend, Mama Em."
"She knew your father a long time ago, remember?" Emily felt her tongue tangle with hypocrisy and stopped and started over. "Sir Robert Wilson was very helpful to your papa when he was hurt in Belgium. I think they wished to assure themselves that Colonel Falk is well."
Amy was bored. "May I get down, please?"
Emily nodded.
"Me, too?" Matt swiped at his face and scrambled from his chair, but Amy dashed ahead of him out of the back door and into the sunlit garden.
"Me, too, Papa!" she shrieked.
"Me, too!" Matt crashed after her.
Emily remained. She stared at the crumb-bedecked table so long Peggy McGrath had to ask her twice if anything was wrong, but of course not. Everything was splendid.
Two days later McGrath walked up to Wellfield House with a note from Richard, who had ridden over to Knowlton and would not be back in time for the afternoon riding exercise. Apologies. No explanation. He owed his sister a return call, but the break in their pleasant routine struck Emily as ominous.
28
"Richard! A pleasant surprise
. Come in, come in." Sir Robert greeted him cheerfully.
His brother-in-law entered the bookroom dusty from his ride and unsmiling.
"Ought you to have ridden this far so soon?" Wilson's outstretched hand dropped. Something was wrong. "I could have sent the carriage for you, you know. Sarah will be glad to see you again, and the duchess has just come as well." He heard himself chattering and broke off.
"Timely." Richard took a paper from the breast pocket of his riding coat. "This came in the post, sir. I wish you to read it."
"Sir?" Bewildered, Wilson took the sheet of paper and read the clear, clerkly hand through twice. "I don't see...Whatley is Newsham's man of business."
"So I surmised."
"I don't understand," Wilson repeated.
"Don't understand what?"
Wilson was still blank with incomprehension. "The duke's reasons."
Richard gave a short, ugly laugh. "Does he need reasons? What do you suggest I do?"
Wilson gathered his wits. "I didn't foresee...that is--"
"He's offering me a bribe to leave the country."
"I daresay it can be construed that way." Wilson glanced at the letter once more.
"How else can I construe it?"
"As a settlement."
"I don't require a settlement of Newsham." Richard's voice was cold with fury. "I require to be left in peace. And I do not choose to take my children to North America."
Wilson drew a breath. "Now, don't be hasty."
"Thank you." Richard took the letter from him. "I can see the sort of advice I may expect from you. Good day, Wilson."
"Why must you leap to conclusions?" Wilson fairly shouted. "By God, you try me too far. Give me the blasted letter."
"There's no point."
"The letter, if you please." He held out his hand. After a moment Richard shrugged and gave it back. He stalked over to the nearest window to glower down at the formal garden.
Wilson reread the letter. It was couched in language as formal as the garden. "It may be that Newsham has come to feel he owes you a settlement," he murmured, thinking aloud. "This could be taken as proof..."
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