Bething's Folly

by Barbara Metzger

  He had started the evening with a confident smile and a friendly enough greeting to anyone he actually knew. As the time wore on, however, and an appalling number of identical-looking young women were paraded past him, his smile turned almost wooden, his welcomes to mere “How-do-you-do’s?” and his thoughts to those of desertion—or patricide!

  The young women all looked the same, he thought with dismay. Whose idea was it to dress every debutante in white or the most faded-looking pastels? It only served to make the brunettes’ complexions seem muddy and the blondes’ look sallow. Most of them greeted him with their eyes on his shoes, so he did not even know what they looked like. How was he going to put a name and a face together to ask one to dance?

  There was no need to worry yet, he was relieved to learn as the receiving line dwindled. The first dance was arranged for him with his cousin Margaret since, the Duchess explained, that seemed the most comfortable way to open the ball, without having to bother about titles and ranks. She squeezed his arm and left him to go make introductions among the young people. He could see his own chums and many of the fellows in scarlet uniforms already paired off, ready to do their duty as soon as he took the floor. Ave Caesar, he repeated silently to himself as he crossed the room to his aunt and Margaret by her side. He had time to notice how fine his cousin looked, even if she was wearing white lace, and told his aunt so, winning at least two friends in the lion’s den.

  “No, Maggie, I meant it,” he went on as she took his arm and they walked to the centre of the floor. “Damn, but my own cousin is the prettiest girl here! What luck!”

  “Have you seen Robert this evening?” Margaret grew serious as the music started.

  “Your brother Robert?”

  “Of course my brother Robert! Don’t be dense. Have you seen him?”

  “Yes, his collar is too high. The boy is turning into a regular Tulip. But what is this all about?”

  “Well, I have to ask a favour, for him, since he obviously has not. Do you mind?”

  “How should I know if I mind until I know the favour? Come, Maggie, out with it; what scrape are you two involved in now?”

  “No, Cousin Alexander, it’s nothing like that! It’s about a girl, a Miss Sophie Devenance. Robert wishes—prays—that you please not ask her to dance with you this evening.”

  “Goodness, child, is my reputation so bad? I don’t even know Miss Sophie Devenance!”

  “Yes, but Robert does! He is going to offer for her soon, and that is why you mustn’t dance with her!”

  “I may be dense, Maggie, but why shouldn’t I dance with Robert’s intended? I would like to know the girl who is to become my cousin.”

  “But, Alexander, don’t you see; if you ask Miss Devenance to dance, she will never be permitted to accept Robert until you marry. If there is the least possibility of your offering for—”

  Carleton missed a step. “My God, is it as bad as that? Do they all know? I must be a laughing-stock!”

  “No one is making fun, Cousin Alexander, but only a fool would not see the opportunity, so please, will you do Robert this favour? It means a great deal to him.”

  “Surely, Margaret, and with my blessings, if you could just point her out for me—No, I take it she is the blonde beauty dancing with Robert now, for the looks they are exchanging are positively sickening.”

  “Yes, that is Miss Devenance, and Robert will be much relieved. I told him he could count on you, if you only knew how things stood.”

  The music stopped and Carleton took Margaret’s arm to lead her back to her mother. Margaret looked up to see one corner of his mouth twitching with a smile, and the merriment returned to his blue eyes. “Of course,” he said, “just as I know I can count on you, for I have a favour to ask in return—Maggie, will you marry me?”

  “But, Cousin, this is my engagement ball!” Margaret replied, then giggled in a manner quite unsuitable for an affianced lady, as her mother’s reproving expression reminded her. “Poor Cousin Alexander, is it so awful?” she asked seriously. “I am sure I must know some one or two women you could—” She turned to scan the room but was interrupted by Carleton’s, “Oh, no, you don’t! I have enough matchmakers around me now. I’ll pick my own partners, thank you.”

  Even that amount of dignity was to be denied him, he realised as his mother appeared at his elbow, making him known to Miss Althea Chasmont, at which his breeding forced him to ask that young lady to dance.

  Miss Chasmont, Carleton learned from his questions, was the niece of a neighbouring baronet. Yes, she liked to dance; no, it was not too warm. Carleton ransacked his mind to find a topic for conversation since Miss Chasmont was obviously not willing—or able—to make the effort. Gods, he thought, what are young women interested in? The ones he knew concerned themselves with love, money and gossip, none suitable here. Before the silence could grow more embarrassing for them both, he complimented Miss Chasmont for not being one of those females who ruined the pleasure of the dance with incessant chatter. Her “Thank you, my Lord” took care of the rest of the dance. Carleton had, of course, to find Miss Chasmont’s aunt and return the young lady to her side, where, just as surely, his own mother was waiting.

  The young lady offered to him this time had a sweet smile, but she could not dance. Their attempts to find mutual acquaintances in London were constantly interrupted with her apologies, his claims of fault, her demurrals.

  “Well, shall we stand aside for a moment or two?” he finally asked in desperation and was rewarded with another of the sweet smiles. Conversation went somewhat better—her elder brother having been some four years behind Carleton at Eton—until the music stopped. The Marquis looked hopefully for one of his friends, but none was close by so he had to go through the routine again and again, greeting his mother after each dance with noticeably less enthusiasm. There was the young woman whose nose was her best feature, thankfully separating her eyes; the one who stammered and blushed the whole dance; the one so bedecked with flowers that he could hardly get through some of the dance steps without mangling a posy.

  His last partner before dinner was the prettiest of the lot and the most talkative, if an inquisition was a form of communication. Hoping to please him by showing interest in his home, he charitably assumed, and not for baser reasons, she quizzed him on the age of the Hall, who designed which wing, when the title had been conferred.

  Carleton had some vague knowledge of all this but not enough to satisfy Miss Smythe-Warner’s curiosity. Luckily it was a country dance, so changing partners granted him a reprieve.

  When the figures of the dance brought his cousin Margaret to his side—not entirely by chance, as he had purposely joined her set—he was desperate.

  “Maggie, sweet cousin, if you won’t marry me, at least go down to supper with me.”

  “But I can’t, Cousin Alexander, I am promised to Mark for supper. Besides, Father is going to announce the engagement at supper! Isn’t there anyone else you could ask?”

  His humourless smile was her only answer as he returned to his original partner for the closing bars of the dance, his mind working feverishly. He could see his mother with a cluster of women at the ballroom’s exit nearest the library—and then, inspiration! Miss Smythe-Warner was promptly returned to her mama, with his promise to research the history of the castle for her. Before his mother could get a word in, he muttered something about family records ... library, at once ... mustn’t wait for him, he’d be down directly, and disappeared down the hall and through the library door.

  SIX

  “Whew!” Carleton took a deep breath in relief. He leaned against the library’s door and wiped his face.

  “Congratulations on your escape,” said a soft voice from shadows across the room, followed by an amused little laugh.

  Carleton’s dismay was genuine. “I am sorry to intrude, madam, I shall leave at once. I did not expect this room to be occupied.”

  “No, don’t go. Of course you would not think the
library occupied, not with so many empty heads hanging about. Oh, perhaps I should not have spoken. You are not a friend of Lord Carleton’s, are you? No, I see you are no London Dandy, all done up in frills and glitter.”

  “Thank you, ma’am, and no, I am, um, not exactly a friend of Carleton’s. But you have an advantage on me, madam; won’t you come into the light?” he asked as he moved farther into the room.

  She put a book down on a side table and took a step or two forward, moving her hand from the candle it was shielding. Carleton was dumbfounded. Where had this—this stranger come from? She was small and brown-haired, with a turned-up nose and no great beauty—in fact, her looks were out of favour with the current concept of prettiness—but there was so much that was unique about her that Carleton could only stare for a minute. For one thing, her colouring was downright healthy, no, not sun-coarsened, only fresh, alive. Her hair had glimmers of gold in it which could only have come from sunshine. Her gown reinforced the whole image; a lively, happy yellow, it was completely unornamented except for a single silk daisy at the center of the décolletage. The gown was gathered under the small bust, then fell straight to the floor Another daisy tied in a long yellow ribbon of the same material caught the curls at the back of her head. What was most surprising, however, was that she was looking him straight in the eyes and laughing happily from a full, generous mouth, not blushing at his admittedly rude stare, or tongue-tied with shyness.

  “You see?” She laughed. “Not your delicate English rose, only a common countryside daisy, so you need not flee from me, too.”

  “Most assuredly anything but common,” he said, the first thing which came to his extremely bewildered mind. Surely he must have noticed anyone as lovely as this on the receiving line! Who in the world was she, and where was her chaperone, and, most of all, whatever was she doing in the library alone with him? “Please forgive my impertinence, but most of the company has repaired to dinner, and I am sure your mother must be worried over you. May I escort you to her?”

  “Oh, no, it is Aunt Claudia who is my chaperone—my mother is long dead—and I assure you that my aunt has completely forgotten my existence. She deposited me at the side of a veritable dragon and immediately found the whist tables. No, she will only recall that I made her arrive so late she missed some time playing. There will be no dragging her from the tables for hours, so here I am, unconventional as it may seem. I did say I was repairing a flounce.” And dimples appeared at the sides of her mouth as she unconcernedly sat down in one of the leather chairs.

  Unconventional was not the word Carleton would have used, for the exquisitely simple gown hugging her perfect figure had not a single flounce, frill or furbelow to its design. Besides, chaperones existed solely to protect such innocence from ones like himself! Carleton knew that his very presence would compromise her reputation, even if she was not aware of it. He looked into wide brown eyes filled with dancing gold specks and forced himself to try again. “I am certain even Aunt Claudia could not approve of your being closeted in the library with me,” he said bluntly, thinking to himself, what an understatement.

  “Well, then I won’t tell her! Will you? No, I see you are much too kind for that. Even if she does hear of it, I am sure it can’t signify. She believes in the prevailing philosophy: If you don’t think about something, it does not exist. That way she banishes all unpleasantness. Like some demented Descartes, non cogito, ergo nihil.”

  “Never tell me you read philosophy,” Carleton exclaimed, smiling in spite of himself. “That’s doing it too strong.”

  “Why, sir, didn’t you study philosophy? My father used to instruct me and talk about what interested him. I must confess not much comes my way since his death, and I never did appreciate Aristotle, in spite of my father’s wishes.”

  “In the Greek, I suppose?” Carleton asked, finally taking a seat near hers, resolved that in for a penny, in for a pound. Supper would take nearly an hour, at least, and he would enjoy this unique company while he could and worry about extricating himself later. He deserved that much of a reprieve, he felt.

  “Aunt Claudia would certainly be furious with me now, you know,” said the young lady, not appearing to worry over that at all. “She practically ordered me not to appear bookish to anyone, but, yes, Papa had me taught Greek, and Latin, and all the things he was taught.” The dimples reappeared. “Lest you think me unnatural, he also found someone to teach me embroidery!”

  Carleton laughed out loud, for the first time this evening, he realised. “Your father must have been an interesting man, Miss ... Miss...?”

  “Bethingame, Miss Elizabeth Bethingame. And you, sir?”

  “I ... I am still wondering why you were not in the ballroom.” Carleton redirected the conversation quickly, trying to cover his evasion. “You are obviously dressed for a ball, to be seen and admired, so why are you in the library? No one has offended you, I trust?”

  “Yes, you could easily be a knight come to rescue a lady in distress,” she said seriously, studying his face. Then she remembered his question. “This whole ball offends me! I know I must take Ellie’s gown out to be admired, but—No, I see you do not understand, and I am sure you do not wish to hear my problems. Yours must be equally as pressing, to remove you from the company in such a manner.”

  “No, I assure you, Miss Bethingame, my difficulties were only temporary. Please go on, perhaps I might find a way to be of assistance, shining armour or not.” He assumed she was going to confess something about straitened circumstances, borrowed clothes, an orphan’s plight. He smiled encouragingly.

  “How kind you are!” She gave him a grateful look, which aroused his sympathies even more, until she started to speak. “It’s those wretched Carletons and their highhanded summons, as though we were all cattle at auction, to be inspected by their lordling before purchase! Aunt Claudia pestered me to death—even threatening to call Uncle Aubry down on me—until I agreed to come. Then Ellie felt it would do her good, so I had to stand for endless fittings, wasting even more time. You see, Ellie is now Mademoiselle Elena, but she used to be my governess’s niece until my father sent her to study under Monsieur Blanc. She had so much talent it would have been wasted as a country seamstress. Now she is trying to establish a clientele in London, and if I was seen in one of her creations and—and took—it must reflect on her. Only I do not wish to be noticed, and I refuse to have anything to do with this—this shopping expedition to find Lord Alexander a proper wife.”

  Carleton’s anger was in danger of reaching epic proportions—at his family, all gossips in general, and this righteous little hell-cat in particular. Thinking to take her down a peg, he asked, “What makes you think that Lord Carleton would be so interested in you that you have to hide in the library?”

  “I am not hiding, merely waiting for the proper moment.” Her chin went up and her eyes flashed. “Carleton would be interested in the Folly, all right, unless he is a ninny like the rest of them out there. That is Bething’s Folly,” she went on, fiercely, proudly, “the finest stud farm in the county and soon in the country.”

  Carleton’s anger was replaced by amazement. The girl was so unselfconscious she didn’t even realise what a stir she herself would make, reserving her pride for a piece of property. Now he placed the name, and the Folly, and was interested indeed! Old Lord Bethingame had been a completely indifferent farmer but an avid horseman, not for hunting but for racing. He had visions of the scientific selection of studs and mares, improved conditions for foaling and training colts, champion lines of winning horses and dynasties of expensive offspring. He sold off huge plots of Bething Manor’s unproductive acreage, keeping only what he needed to raise fodder and for pasturage. He went completely into debt to renovate his barns and stables, to purchase blood stock. No one thought he could make a go of it and some considered him crazy, calling his scheme Bething’s Folly. The name must have stuck, although Carleton believed he had heard of some fine horses coming from the stud recently. H
e did not recall anything about Lady Bethingame, but he was aware that Lord Bethingame had died some years before. Carleton had never concerned himself with the Folly beyond that, even though it was within an hour’s ride of Carlyle Hall. His father would know the complete history, he was sure, and Margaret must be of an age with Miss Bethingame, and he planned to make enquiries. In the meantime he could not help asking the lady herself if she was perhaps betrothed to someone else that made the high-handed Lord Carleton so ineligible a suitor for her—and Bething’s Folly. She was not betrothed, she declared indignantly, and astonished him even further by stating her intention to remain unwed.

  “But Miss Bethingame, surely you cannot run the place alone, and must eventually wed anyway...”

  “You are sounding suspiciously like Uncle Aubry,” obviously no compliment. “I am nineteen, sir, and have been managing Bething’s Folly for two years now. We are beginning to show a profit. We have excellent prospects for this year and great plans for the future. Do you think I would let my father’s dream become a rich man’s plaything, or be sold to pay a poor one’s gambling debts?”

  Carleton considered. Under English law, a woman’s property did become her husband’s at marriage, to do with what he would, so he had to acknowledge Miss Bethingame’s statements. He just could not believe some handsome young fellow had not come along to change her mind. “And Uncle Aubry?” he asked.

  “He is furious the Folly didn’t come to him along with the title, though he never approved of it in the first place. He is positive I cannot manage it, even when he sees that I can. Furthermore, he sees no reason to bother with my welfare and is determined to marry me off—most likely for a handsome settlement—to a widower friend in Lancashire who needs a mother for his three children. The widower is not even interested in racing.” That was truly a scathing denunciation, from Miss Bethingame’s tone of voice.