The Dutiful Daughter

by Vanessa Gray

  17

  No one ever knew, except the two participants, what transpired behind the closed door. Lady Rothwell and Francis each kept the secret, but it was clear that Lady Rothwell’s grim look abated only slightly, and Francis’s look of a cornered rabbit was crossed now by a look of dogged hopelessness.

  From that moment on, Chloe seemed to run into Francis at every turn. When she emerged from the kitchen wing, after giving instructions to the servants, Francis waited for her. Were she to go in to borrow a book from the library, Francis would be waiting when she emerged.

  Chloe was fond of Francis for the most part, but this grim tracking, coupled with the look of misery in his eyes, began to wear on her. She would have told Francis frankly to leave her alone, but she strongly suspected that Lady Rothwell was behind it all, and Francis was no more fit to stand up against his aunt, than — than she herself was, she finally decided.

  There was one place, she had discovered, where he would not follow her. Not that it was a haven for Chloe, for it was Lady Rothwell’s sitting room.

  Lady Rothwell had long ago formed a habit of being read to by Chloe one hour in the morning and one hour in the afternoon. Lady Rothwell said comfortably, “Having the reading in two sections like this breaks up my day nicely.”

  She was immensely satisfied with her arrangement, without thinking that it also broke up Chloe’s day so that she could count on no stretch of time that was uniquely her own.

  This day Chloe took a book from Edward’s shelves, Taylor’s Life of Christ, and carried it into Lady Rothwell’s sitting room.

  To Chloe’s surprise, Lady Rothwell told her to close the door. Chloe did so, and advanced to her usual low stool. Lady Rothwell said, “I wish to talk seriously to you, child. I have noticed some things that I do not quite like.” The tone of her speech was chiding, as one would speak to a wayward child.

  “I have not thought you ungrateful, Chloe,” said Lady Rothwell. “I have brought you up as my own daughter, never showing favoritism —” ignoring totally the fact that Lydia and Sophy had no household duties, and Chloe had the entire running of the house on her shoulders — “and I speak to you now as I would to my own daughters.”

  Chloe said, submissively, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You were allowed your governesses long beyond the normal years, for your father wished it so. I myself do not see the reason for so much education for a female child, but he would have his way. Also you had part of a Season in London, and it certainly is not my fault that the Season was cut short.”

  Chloe’s heart sank within her. She hated every word that Lady Rothwell was saying, and for the first time she could remember she formed little phrases to refute Lady Rothwell’s statements. But yet she did not speak.

  Lady Rothwell rolled along. “Now, Chloe, it grieves me to see that you are begrudging Lydia a Season in London. Even a small piece of gaiety, the Little Season. You are reluctant to have Lydia enjoy herself.”

  Stung, Chloe retorted, “But Edward says she must not go.”

  Lady Rothwell waved Edward aside as though he were so much dust in the air.

  Lady Rothwell’s voice took on a new tone, speaking in sorrow. “Now, Chloe, you are making me very unhappy by your treatment of Francis. It is the dearest wish of my heart that our families be allied, yours and mine. We have worked as one family since you were small and I came here as your stepmother. Now I wish to see a closer tie. Yet you scorn Francis, my own nephew, when I have made all the arrangements for your marriage.”

  She spoke further in this vein, and her gently sad tone worked powerfully in Chloe. It was not the first time she had heard this tone from Lady Rothwell, for at every turn as she was growing up, Lady Rothwell had known by instinct how to bring her stepdaughter to her knees. There had been very little waywardness to begin with, and Lady Rothwell was now satisfied that she had successfully routed any trace of that fault out of her stepdaughter.

  At length, Lady Rothwell brought up what she considered the ultimate good. “You will be safe with Francis,” she said with wild illogic, “for the fortune hunters will no longer pursue you. We will be rid at last of Mr. Invers and Mr. Stoddard, and whoever else comes to you, for you know they must have only your legacy in mind.”

  Her insensitive assumption that Chloe was without charm except for the money she had fallen heir to was not intentional, but it was typical of Lady Rothwell. By the end of half an hour, Chloe was totally cowed and unfit to speak. Her sense of guilt, for wanting something for herself of her own legacy, flooded her with tears. Lady Rothwell, not coldly but merely as a woman who was used to having her own way, moved on then to the subject of Lydia’s gown.

  In Chloe’s confusion of mind, she thought that Lady Rothwell was asking Chloe to buy Lydia’s ball gown, the one that Edward had given permission to have made for Lady Partridge’s ball.

  Lady Rothwell, intent on her own pursuits, believed that she had obtained permission from Chloe to purchase Lydia’s entire London wardrobe. It was not the first time over the years that Lady Rothwell and Chloe had allowed their minds to march along different tracks.

  Lady Rothwell, seeing Chloe still weeping, told her very kindly, “You are a good and dutiful daughter, and I am pleased with you. Now, Chloe, pull yourself together. We have half an hour left on our reading time. I need to settle my mind, for you will not believe how much this conversation has taken out of me. Taylor is just the man to do it. Let us not waste any more time. Open the book.”

  Chloe thought, this half hour promised to stretch into eternity. Her mind was certainly not on the words she was reading, and Lady Rothwell sighed heavily in obvious resignation at Chloe’s failing performance.

  But the half hour was over at last, and Chloe fled. She hurried to her room. Nimrod was not there. This was his time for the kitchen, where Cook made much of him. The puppy was growing fat, and it was useless to tell Mrs. Field not to spoil him. Nimrod had a roguish way with him. In his shameless way, he had told Cook that she was the most important person in his universe. He had made a slave of her.

  Chloe washed her face, trying to repair the ravages of tears. It was not the first time that Lady Rothwell had reduced Chloe to a shattered sense of worthlessness. It was simply that she was an insensitive woman, set in her own ways and incapable of lavishing affection on Chloe.

  Chloe could remember, however, her loneliness after her own mother’s death. There were endless days and nights alone, except for her nurse, and then Lady Rothwell had arrived as her father’s second wife. To do Lady Rothwell credit, she had mothered the little girl over the bad times, and those days Chloe often suspected were the happiest of her own life.

  It was not until Edward’s birth that Chloe found herself imperceptibly relegated to the status of stepdaughter. Her father’s regard, which was totally affectionate and approving, may have influenced Lady Rothwell’s adverse feelings. But by the time Lord Rothwell died, Chloe was sufficiently grown up that Lady Rothwell began to lean more and more heavily on her for running the house.

  Richard had not come to call at Rothwell Manor for some time, and Chloe began to feel that Lady Partridge’s analysis was correct. He had gone to London. The purposes of his trip to London, Chloe did not wish to think about.

  She could not settle down to anything. She moved from window to fireplace to bed to wardrobe, picking up a book and setting it down, picking up her needlework and setting it down, and finally going to the window once more. The reading of Jeremy Taylor’s Life of Christ may have settled Lady Rothwell’s nerves, but it had had a damaging effect on Chloe’s.

  She looked out across the empty lawn, a view that often gave her much pleasure, but not this day.

  At length, she saw from the window Francis heading toward the front of the house. She knew that Francis was caught in the same trap that she was, Lady Rothwell’s firm intention of allying them by marriage. She felt sorry for Francis, but she felt even more intent on her own feelings.

  If Franci
s were going toward the front of the house, then she knew where he would be for a short time. She quickly snatched up a shawl and hurried down the back stairs.

  Leaving the house by the kitchen door, out of sight of Francis, she slipped toward the herb gardens and then toward a small path that led into the coppice. She did not see the tiny puppy staggering hopefully after her. Her step was slow as she moved cautiously away from the house, lest Francis had changed his mind and retraced his steps.

  She had not gone far when she heard whimpering behind her. She turned around and saw the panting puppy, tottering on his stubby legs, desperate to catch up with her. She picked him up and cradled him in her arms, stroking his head and talking in quiet tones. He responded by licking her face and trying acrobatically to get down to the ground. She held him tightly, and hurried away from the house. She saw Edward’s factor approaching the house by a path that would have intercepted hers, and she didn’t want to see him.

  She didn’t want to see anybody, as a matter of fact. She slipped through the gate, past the rose garden into the home woods. She hurried along the path until she reached a point that had been a favorite of hers in times past. The same log was there, and she sat on it. The path continued on, and would eventually reach Richard’s boundary. It had been at one time a well-traveled path between Rothwell Manor and Davenant Hall, for Richard and Chloe both. Now, it was beginning to be overgrown, for there was no need to use the path any more. She sat on the log and began to relax, letting the cool moist air of the woods calm her. The air rose around her, redolent of moist earth, decaying leaves, and the green smell of growing things.

  Stroking the puppy’s head, she allowed her thoughts to come out. “You’re the first thing that anybody has given me in years. You’re the first puppy I’ve ever owned, and I’ll be forever grateful to Richard for his thoughtfulness.”

  The puppy grew tired of licking her face, of telling her with every fiber of him that she was the idol of his life, and at length she set him down at her feet and watched him.

  He was a hunter born, although he had no experience. Yet he knew what he should do, for the echoes of his ancestors rang in his head. A squirrel, flickering across the trail, galvanized Nimrod into action. He set out after the animal, hopelessly outclassed, and yipped. The squirrel, halfway up the tree and safe, turned and loosed a volley of defiant chattering at the small dog that had dared to chase him.

  Nimrod, suddenly not so brave, retreated at once and sat on Chloe’s slippers. From that safe vantage point he barked furiously at the squirrel.

  If Richard had given her the puppy to serve as a diversion, he had succeeded, for now Chloe found the antics of the puppy amusing. Her laugh rang out in the woods, and for a short space she lost her cares.

  Now she said to the dog, “Highmoor might be just the thing for us. If we went there, I would take you along. I think I could easily promote you,” she said, fancifully, “Chief Dog at Highmoor. How does that sound?”

  Nimrod agreed that it was no more than his due, and turned to growl again at the squirrel.

  Chloe reflected on Lady Rothwell’s recent speech. She was putting inordinate pressure on Chloe and Francis both. “A marriage has been arranged” — how often Chloe had read those words in the Gazette. The announcement of a marriage was always, in Chloe’s mind, a happy event.

  Now for the first time she caught a glimpse of what loomed behind those five words.

  Were there always such brouhahas? Were there always family drudges to be gotten rid of, or family butterflies to be safely bestowed on a household that could thence take over the responsibility for a girl that her own family could not control? She understood Lady Rothwell’s wish to have Lydia make her bow in London society. Lydia was a thoughtless, irresponsible child, and if she were married to someone, then her husband could look out for her and Lady Rothwell could turn her thoughts to Sophy.

  It was perfectly clear, and full of common sense. But there was little consideration for the inclinations of those who were to wed.

  Was there never such a thing as two persons finding their affinity in each other? The bald words in the Gazette gave no hint that love was any part of a marriage, and suddenly she had a pixyish view of the two parties to a marriage as being no more than parcels of land, fields, woods, and mansions allying themselves to each other at the altar. Her downtrodden sense of humor also showed her these two parcels of real estate standing up, bowing to each other, and beginning to waltz at Almack’s. The fanciful idea restored her mood, somewhat. It was all very well to laugh, yet she saw no way out of her own dilemma.

  Suddenly she noticed that Nimrod was not in sight. Alarmed, she began to look for him. Who knew what kind of a trap he might fall into in the woods? She wondered whether the game warden had been able to keep out poachers. There might be a snare set illegally for rabbits, and she called quickly to Nimrod. She heard his barking and heard a squirrel chattering and then a jay screaming in alarm, and she knew the strong likelihood that Nimrod was at the root of the disturbance. She tried to follow the sounds, but Nimrod had slipped through the underbrush on a track that she could not follow. She scrambled through the bushes, the brush tearing her hair and rending her morning gown.

  She stopped to listen, and then pursued the sound further. At last she caught up with the dog. Her alarm vented itself in scolding, and she picked him up. She clutched him to her shoulder and started back toward the path. From the safety of her shoulder, Nimrod barked defiance at these animals that had eluded him, and retired at last, winner of the battle.

  When she got back to the path, she knelt on the ground. Her gown was already ruined, and a little more mud would not hurt. She held the dog firmly in both hands and began taking the burrs out of his silky hair. Nimrod, feeling this was a very superior kind of game, wriggled energetically. She laughed, scolding him, and finally, holding him firmly, said, “I always find it useful, Nimrod, to count my blessings, and I commend the practice to you.”

  His barking stopped, and he licked her face. Her laughter gurgled at last, and the man who was watching at the edge of the path was enchanted. Nimrod, aware of the man before she was, turned his head and barked, and Richard stepped forward into view.

  “If you must count your blessings, Chloe, then they must be few indeed,” he said.

  She hardly knew which way to look. Her hair had escaped from its pins, her dress was muddy and torn, and she could not smooth her hair back for the puppy was still engrossing her attention.

  She began to apologize. “I didn’t know anyone was around, and he got away, and I had to go after him.” Her voice died away.

  Richard said, “Do you come here often?”

  She said, “Yes, it’s quiet here.” She did not know that there was a lonely note in her voice, one that wrung at Richard’s heart strings.

  He said, “Without observers, you can be yourself. Is that it?”

  There was a note in his voice that she had not heard before, and she did not quite understand. Fearful of taking Richard too much for granted, she withdrew into herself. He watched the shadow come over her face again and hurried to explain. “Your self is engaging, indeed, and I am privileged to witness this. I especially like that fetching gurgle that escapes you when you’re amused.”

  Unused to compliments, she flushed. She must turn the subject away, lest she reveal too much of her own thoughts. “I thought you had gone up to London,” she said quickly. “Lady Partridge had said that you had gone.”

  Richard, puzzled, said, “Why should I go? The mail service is quite satisfactory.”

  Richard was just now in a dilemma. He had had a disturbing letter from Aston, his man of affairs in London. The news was worrisome, and in a way crucial. He had come to inform Chloe of the letter’s contents, but when the moment came his heart failed him.

  The subject that had come to her mind unaware leaped to her lips. “I should like to see Highmoor,” she told him, “for that is, after all, one of my blessings, is it not?”


  Richard, feeling that she must read the contents of his letter right through his jacket, was startled. Chloe hardly noticed, and continued, “Perhaps I can stop in at Highmoor on my way to London in the autumn. I was only a child when I was at Highmoor, and I don’t remember the first thing about how to get there.”

  Richard said, “Highmoor lies not far from my cousin’s place — Lady Theale, you remember her.”

  Chloe said, “Oh yes. We had such good times when she used to visit here.”

  Richard, gently, said, “I thought you did not want to go to London?”

  She looked away. “I’ve changed my mind,” she said in a remote voice.

  Suddenly suspicious, Richard demanded, “Why?”

  Her lips trembled and she said, “I cannot tell you. I cannot say even to my Great Friend. But I must go to London.”

  He watched her, sensing her great distress, and longing to demand that she tell him everything. But he must hold his tongue, lest he say too much.

  He took the puppy from her and held him close. He was rewarded by a warm tongue licking his hand. “Enough of that.” Surprisingly, the small dog obeyed instantly, and, with a sheepish expression, abandoned his display of affection. Richard said, “You spoke of counting your blessings. The pup, I hope, is one? Or is he a nuisance?”

  She cried, “He is a darling, darling blessing! He asks for nothing, you see.”

  Unwittingly she revealed to him more than she knew. His Chloe was beset by people who always wanted something from her. She gave far more than she received, he thought darkly, and especially with Aston’s letter in his pocket, the full irony of the position struck him with force. The time had come.

  He began, “I have something I must tell you ...”