Come Be My Love

by Diana Brown

  "She is indeed pliable. It is an excellent quality for a woman who by her very nature must bend her ways to those of a man."

  "She is indeed," father agreed keenly. "I shall be sorry to lose her. It will be a lucky man whom she consents to marry."

  I had heard no more. I did not stay to listen, for I was devastated by what I had overheard. Father's behaviour was clear. Now I knew why he had taken Cassy to Oxford, why he had invited Mr. Pomeroy to Seton Place—not for Paul but for Cassy. Well, his object would never succeed, for I knew Cassy detested that pompous fool of a man. She would never have him.

  Yet two days later I saw Cassy run from the small morn­ing room in the back of the house. She had taken to sitting there in an attempt, I believe, to escape the man who had that very moment, she was later to confide in me, sought her out in her hiding place and made his request for her hand. I was tempted to ask whether, on a matter of such import, he had been able to confine his speech solely to a proposal of mar­riage, but one look at Cassy's overwrought expression made the jocularity die from my lips.

  "Oh, Cassy, don't. That silly little man—he isn't worth it. Don't allow him to upset you. Now that you have refused him, he will be forced to leave Seton Place, and I, for one, will not be sorry to see him go."

  "But—I did not refuse him."

  "You jest, Cassy. What do you mean, you didn't refuse him. It's not like you to vacillate—or to play with the affec­tions of even one so foolish as Mr. Pomeroy." I tried desper­ately to understand. "I suppose you didn't like to hurt him. I know you are kind, Cassy, but you must be firm. You must tell him unequivocally that there is no hope. A woman must be quite clear in matters such as this."

  "But Alexandra, you must understand," Cassy cried out in great agitation. "I consented to be Mr. Pomeroy's wife."

  I stared at her without comprehension. Only when Cassy began to sob did I try to make myself understand her predica­ment. Father had been right; she was soft and pliable, she would not willingly hurt anyone; but in this instance it must be done. I held her close and tried to soothe her.

  "Don't worry, Cassy. You can explain in the morning to father, and he will tell Mr. Pomeroy that you have thought the matter over and have decided you are not for one an­other."

  "But I can't, don't you see? It is papa's wish, and mama's also. They spoke to me only this afternoon. They said he is a good man and has a good income and wishes to purchase a house in Oxford and to have a . . . a wife and a family." Cassy had blurted this out in one breath and then she burst into tears again. I did also. The idea of Cassy, dear, gentle Cassy, married to that odious man. It could not be. It would not be.

  "They can't make you marry him, Cassy. It is you who have to say the words at the altar. You can never say them to Mr. Pomeroy."

  "But I have no choice," she said, pulling distractedly at an already-sopping handkerchief. "Papa says it is unlikely that anyone else will have me. I'm not pretty, and I have little to offer in the way of money."

  "That does not signify, and it is no reason to take such a . . . such a popinjay as this incredible bore. It is far better not to marry, Cassy, than to be the wife of such a man."

  "I know that, Alex, but papa has given me to understand that I don't have the choice of remaining unmarried."

  "What do you mean? Of course you may choose not to marry."

  "No. He says he can't have us at home after we have reached our majority, and he cannot be expected to support us forever. The boys will have to support themselves in their pro­fessions, and we girls must marry if husbands are found for us. He says it is all we can do, all we are fit for. And he says he sees no other opportunity for marriage for me. He . . . he was quite blunt about my appearance and my . . . my lack of spirit. He said . . ." Her voice heaved so she was barely able to continue, "he said that I was lucky to have such a fine man offer for me and that . . . that he was very fond of him and looked upon him as a son already."

  "But this is ridiculous," I exploded. "I doubt he is five years younger than father—a son indeed. I've always thought father a hard man, Cassy, and at times devious, but I cannot believe him to be completely heartless. He must see that no woman in her senses would want that nincompoop. If he doesn't see it, he must be made to see it. If you won't speak to him, I shall."

  "Don't, Alex, don't. It will be worse for you and it won't help me, I can assure you. I've told you before the world is made for men and for their desires. We have no option but to do their wishes."

  "That is not so. I cannot believe it to be so, otherwise I would . . . I would see no point in living. I cannot believe that we have no choice. If you do not want Mr. Pomeroy for a husband, then he must not be forced upon you."

  "I pray it will not be so," said Cassy fervently, "but I fear it will be."

  Prayers on the subject of matrimony, I knew from my own experience, rarely received first attention, and I felt a more forthright means must be adopted. Thus the following morning I sought out my father in his study.

  He was seated at his desk examining the year-end ac­counts brought that day by the bailiff when I entered, but he greeted me quite affably and asked what he could do for me.

  "It's about Cassy, father. She can't marry that . . . she can't marry Mr. Pomeroy," I blurted.

  He stopped, pen in midair, his brown eyes widening in annoyance. "I can see no reason why you should speak to me of Cassandra's marriage plans, Alexandra. She has not indi­cated to me that marriage with Mr. Pomeroy is offensive to her in any way."

  "That is because she is afraid," I explained. "Afraid that she has no choice in the matter and that you will not listen to her. Surely you can see, father, that Mr. Pomeroy is not a man capable of making any woman happy, let alone one of your daughters."

  He put aside his pen with a deliberate motion and he rose from his chair, his face flushed. "I can see no such thing, my girl, and I will not have you insulting a guest under my roof. Mr. Pomeroy happens to be a very learned man, a man of integrity and now a man of substantial means."

  "And when did he acquire these means, father?"

  "An uncle of his died early this year and left him quite a considerable sum. He spoke to me of it when I visited Paul in the spring."

  "So that is why you took Cassy to Oxford with you. You had thought him a good match for her. Can't you see him for the pedantic fool that he is, money or no money?"

  Father's face reddened to such an extent and his eyes bulged in a fashion that made me think him about to have an apoplectic fit, but then he seemed visibly to control himself. When at last he spoke it was in slow and measured terms.

  "Your sister, Alexandra, is not an attractive woman. If you do not know it, I can assure you that it is so. My sister Maud has confirmed my opinion. She told me that no one looked at Cassandra twice while she was with her in Salisbury and that she would be lucky to find a husband at all. We may know her as a pleasant creature, but the fact is that she does not show to advantage when she is with others. I observed this for myself in Oxford and was only glad that her shyness, which amounted almost to cold indifference, did not deter Mr. Pom­eroy in his resolve to offer for her. He had mentioned to me that now he had the means, he was of a mind to marry and have a family. I considered that a commendable decision, and I consider it fortunate that Mr. Pomeroy finds Cassandra fit to be his wife. She will have a comfortable home and a good and, I am quite sure, a devoted husband, and, God willing, in the course of time there will be children to bless that union."

  I could not reply. My eyes welled with tears, whether from anger or sadness, I could not say. His description of Cassy rang in my head: a "pleasant creature" who did not "show to advantage," barely fit to be the wife of that odious man. Our Cassy who was so sweet and gentle—was that really all he thought of her? Did he merely wish to rid himself of another child?

  He must have taken my silence for acquiescence, for he continued in a gentler tone, "I try to do the best for all my children, Alexandra, and I expect my children, in t
urn, to trust my judgement. For the boys, apart from Thomas who is my heir, there must be professions. Paul, I believe, now under­stands his role in life, though he has given me difficulties. Now that Mr. Pomeroy is to become a family member, he has promised to write to a relative of his in Northumberland in the hope of securing a living for him. And for you girls there must be marriage. I shall see that it is as advantageous as your settlements will allow. I do not wish my daughters to marry unsuitably. I wish to find steady, reliable husbands for each of them, men of my own persuasion, but it is not an easy matter.

  I assure you that it is not. I am not a rich man. I cannot settle a great deal of money on you. Therefore I must be reasonable when offers are made.

  "As I said, it is not an easy matter." Father was warming to his subject now, pacing the floor with his hands clasped behing his back, "but I consider that I have done well. Eu­genia is happy with George Ramsey. The Ramseys are, per­haps, as a family not quite up to the touch of the Cox-Nevilles, but they are satisfactory in other respects and Eugenia is handsomely provided for. I have no doubt that Cassandra will be equally well settled with Mr. Pomeroy."

  I thought of George Ramsey, who, it was already whis­pered, was seeking excitement or solace with certain girls of notorious reputation in the neighbor-hood and spending inor­dinate amounts of his time away from home. A fine husband he was turning out to be, but as father had said, the Ramseys were satisfactory in other respects; they were rich and they were Tories. Mr. Pomeroy undoubtedly qualified as a son-in-law on the same grounds, with the added advantage that he had not been demanding in the matter of the marriage set­tlement.

  "What did he get, father, Mr. Pomeroy—what did he get?" I blinked back my tears and clasped my hands tightly so that he could not see that I was shaking with indignation.

  "What do you mean, what did Mr. Pomeroy get? Do you mean in the way of a marriage settlement?"

  I nodded.

  "It is hardly a matter to be discussed with you, Alex­andra," he reproved, "but, nevertheless," here he looked self-satisfied as he meticulously straightened the papers on his desk, "let us say that Mr. Pomeroy was quite understanding in that regard. He understood that while my estate is not exten­sive, I have a large family, all of whom must be provided for. He took into account that Cassandra comes from good stock, good Tory stock, that she is healthy and young, capable of becoming a good mother and a thrifty housewife. He realizes the benefits of the match, the importance of a connexion with the Cox-Nevilles—he was certainly not insensible to that."

  As he spoke, I could see father outlining the advantages point by point to Mr. Pomeroy. He had sold Cassy, just as he might have sold a mare from his stables. But it had not hap­pened yet, and if I knew anything about it, it never would. I suppose he planned to rid himself of me in the same manner. That would not happen, either.

  I took a deep breath as he finished speaking. "I can assure you, father, that if there is anything that I can do to stop Cassy from making this terrible mistake, you may be certain I shall not hesitate to act. You have my word on it. I do not intend to stand silently by and see my sister given in marriage to just anyone who will meet your terms. The marriage vows say to love, honour and obey. How could these vows possibly be applied to Mr. Pomeroy? No, no, it is far better that Cassy remain single than marry him. I know it is what she would prefer."

  Father must have been convinced that he had won my approval, for I could tell as I spoke that my obdurate stand surprised him as much as it angered him. He made no attempt to disguise his fury.

  "You will do nothing in this matter, Alexandra, nothing at all. I will not stand for your interference. You have no idea of what it is for a woman to remain a spinster all her life. And as for you, my girl, when your turn comes you will marry the suitor I choose for you or you will not stay under my roof. I cannot be expected to provide for the female members of this family ad infinitum, nor should Thomas be saddled with a gag­gle of unmarried sisters to support after I am gone. He will marry when a suitable connexion is found, and the Cox-Neville name and estate will be his to carry forward. It cannot be depleted by impecunious spinsters; I will not allow it. Nor have I any intention of making the same mistake as my own father by settling money on you as he did on Maud. Her money will, of course, revert to the estate eventually—as long as we do not upset her. Nevertheless, I consider my father set a very foolish precedent in allowing Maud an independent in­come. Had he not, she would have settled down as a woman should instead of—but that is another matter and does not concern us now.

  "You may have some romantic notions of marriage in your head, but marriage is nothing but a civil contract. Only the weak marry for love. I was a fool to allow Bladen to put all this learning into you. It has made you impertinent and con­ceited. Your time would have been better spent in cooking and needlework than in philosophy and debate, and so it shall be from now on. You will go no more to Charteris but stay at home and do as your mother and I bid. You may go now. I want you neither to speak to Cassandra nor to any of your brothers and sisters. I will not allow you to cause disobedience and dissension. You will stay in your room. I shall apologize for your absence to our guest."

  With that he took up his pen and returned to his ac­counts. To be forbidden Charteris! Not to see Crumpet again, or Lady Bladen . . . or Darius. To have lost my fight for Cassy and all that, too, was more than I could bear.

  "Father, please . . ."

  "The matter is closed. I have nothing more to say to you. Go to your room and shut the door quietly as you leave."

  He spoke without looking up. I could gain nothing by staying. As I left, I found mother outside in the hall. She must have heard everything that had occurred by her expression-worried, shamefaced, too—yet I had no right to blame her. How could she do anything after all these years of obeying father's every whim? Probably he had been foisted upon her as Mr. Pomeroy was now being foisted on Cassy. She might not have liked it any more than Cassy did, but she had accepted it and no doubt she now expected Cassy to acquiesce in the same manner.

  "Mother . . ." I appealed, but she shook her head and held a finger to her lips, begging my silence. I knew it was fruitless to pursue the matter. Despondently I climbed the stairs to my room.

  It was, I discovered, a relief to be alone. I could not have faced Cassy after my failure. I had accomplished nothing ex­cept to confirm that she was right: there was no hope for a reasonable solution. Cassy had understood that all along. She understood everything better than I and, unlike me, she ac­cepted the inevitable. She knew only an immoderate fool uses his tongue to cut his own throat.

  I sat in the window seat looking out at the stark outlines of the trees silhouetted against the slate-grey sky, clean cut and strangely beautiful. My eyes swept the bare horizon until they rested on Charteris atop the hill. So I had sat once before years ago, the day I had first fallen in love with Darius.

  I rose abruptly and went over to my table to gather to­gether paper and pen. That was where my solace lay. Yet I could not continue the story I had begun, a story of a woman rising to triumph, to live happily ever after. It was a myth. If I were to write a myth, let it be a classical myth. Cassandra, daughter of Priam and Hecuba, beloved of Apollo who gave her the gift of prophesy and then cruelly ordained that none of her predictions should be believed. I would write Cassandra's story. Cassy had predicted the outcome of my interview with father, yet I had not believed her. She had also predicted that she would have to marry Mr. Pomeroy; that I still refused to believe. Something must prevent it.

  It was from Paul, who slipped in to see me unbeknownst to anyone, that I learned the engagement had been an­nounced and the wedding fixed for Boxing Day.

  "But why so soon?" I gasped.

  "Mr. Pomeroy wants to return to Oxford to find a house before the beginning of Hilary, and father decided it best that Cassy go with him. Father has paid for the special licence, so there's no doubt of his wish to hasten to tie the knot. Perhaps he's afra
id that you will upset his plans."

  "I would if I could, Paul, but there is little I can do except feel for Cassy, and she does not even know of that."

  "There you are wrong, Alex. Cassy knows of your talk with father, everything, in fact. She told me how much she appreciated your speaking on her behalf, how much she ad­mired your courage, but she is quite resigned to the match now."

  "Resigned to the match! What joy!"

  "Don't fret so, Alex. It won't help. Believe me, Cassy would not want it."

  I attended church with the family on Christmas Day, and father, in the spirit of the season, invited me to join them at dinner, but he saw to it that I did not talk to Cassy, who was pinioned at the side of her betrothed throughout the entire evening. I had hoped to gain a word with her when the gentle­men took their port after dinner, but father must have divined this, for he dispensed with his favourite part of the evening, an unheard-of sacrifice, in order to join the rest of us at coffee in the drawing room. It was scarcely a festive occasion. Even the prospective bridegroom was quieter than was his wont, which was a boon, while Cassy said not a word. Father, as though to fill the silences, spoke a great deal with a gaiety I was sure even he could not possibly feel. Mother's smiles were forced and indiscriminate. It was her way of making all appear nor­mal and happy, a festive family Christmas.

  Though we could not speak, my eyes met Cassy's from time to time. There I saw nothing except the resignation of which Paul had spoken. When she kissed me good night, she pressed my hand as though comforting me, yet she was the one who should have been comforted.

  That night, long after everyone was asleep, I lay wide awake thinking of her when, suddenly, there she was.

  "I came to tell you to stop being so sad on my account," she whispered. "It won't be so bad."