by Jane Rubino
Frederica could not conceal her surprise, nor prevent herself from exclaiming, “Mr. Lewis deCourcy! I cannot believe it!”
“Then I have no hope that anyone else shall, until we are married,” Maria replied with a blush. “My fortune is so little and the disparity in our ages so great that everyone will dismiss it as gossip. And when they are persuaded it is true, everyone will think that his suit is foolish and my consent is grossly mercenary.”
“I do not think so; I know you too well. When I look back, I do recall signs of his preference—he was certainly very attentive to you when we were all together after my father’s passing. But it was not an occasion where any of us were disposed to be curious. You must tell me all: How did it come about?”
“It came upon me very gradually. I have always known Mr. deCourcy through my brother and have always thought very highly of his abilities and character. In the past year, many situations have thrown us together a great deal and he declares that he came to Billingshurst on purpose to determine whether I could ever regard him as a suitor. He tells me that only a conviction that my brother and Eliza wished me to marry much higher prevented him from declaring himself sooner. But what do you think? Am I very foolish for abiding by my heart?”
“No, how could I think so? My own parents’ marriage was one where there was a disparity in age and fortune, but in taste and disposition they were so well suited as to make everyone forget it.”
“I hope that the deCourcys can forget it. Mr. deCourcy told me privately that he seized upon the idea of having me accompany you to Parklands Manor in order to have me known to his family.”
“When does he intend to tell them of your engagement?”
“He will speak to my brother first—very soon, I hope—and then he will come to Parklands. Will it not be amusing to have me the aunt of the Hamilton girls?”
The girls indulged in some mirth at the notion of Lavinia and Claudia Hamilton compelled to address Maria as “my Aunt deCourcy,” though it was agreed between them that Lucy would think it was great fun.
chapter forty-six
The first view of Parklands Manor came from the west, where an expanse of cherry and walnut trees gave way to a wooded area that formed the beginning of a park. At the road’s highest point, a clearing presented the traveler with a commanding view of the deCourcy estate. In its beauty and aspect, it reminded Frederica of Vernon Castle, although Parklands Manor was far more imposing than what her family had owned in either Staffordshire or Sussex.
Their carriage made a winding descent into a valley with a broad stream at its lowest point, and passing over a wooden bridge, it ascended once more to the lodge, where the travelers were obliged to depart from the public road. As they approached the main house, the span of valleys behind, dotted with copses and fields, came into view, and Frederica exclaimed over the great variety of flora, naming each tree and shrub with awe. How, she wondered, could Reginald deCourcy ever wish to be anywhere else!
The party was ushered into a vast entryway, calculated to impress upon the visitor the owners’ wealth. The young ladies were suitably impressed, although the children, released from the tedium of the journey from town, immediately began to slide upon the polished marble and dash in and out of the many rooms until the nursery maids collected their charges and shepherded them away.
Mrs. Vernon then directed their attention to the many doors that opened from the hallway to the saloons and drawing rooms, the parlors for music and billiards and breakfast, and the grand dining room and the “main library, as there is a second, devoted entirely to my father’s particular volumes.”
They were left to collect around the fire in the larger of the drawing rooms while Mrs. Vernon inquired of her mother and father.
“Lady deCourcy is indisposed and has confined herself to her dressing room, but Sir Reginald is somewhere upon the grounds with Mr. deCourcy.”
“Reginald has not gone back to London?” said Mrs. Vernon with great pleasure.
“No, ma’am.”
Mrs. Vernon announced her intention to go immediately to her mother and instructed the housekeeper to have Miss Vernon and Miss Manwaring shown to their apartments.
When Mrs. Vernon entered her mother’s dressing room, she found the lady in great distress. “Oh, I am so glad you have come!” cried Lady deCourcy. “Reginald is resolved upon leaving tomorrow—he will not be persuaded otherwise. You must talk him out of it. He has made us so very wretched—he vows that he cannot marry Lavinia. Oh, my poor sister Hamilton—to have Lucy marry so imprudently and now to have Lavinia’s hopes dashed! Your father has been scarcely able to rise from his bed.”
Mrs. Vernon did not think to observe that her father’s scarcely rising from his bed was a considerable improvement over his never rising from it.
“Sit down, my dear girl. What can we do? How are the dear children? I made every argument I could think of—the obligation to his family, the expectations of Lavinia, and the slight to Lord and Lady Hamilton. Nothing will sway him. ‘We would not suit’ was all he would say to defend himself. ‘You would not wish me to marry without any thought to my happiness.’ How can he put his happiness above his duty to all of us? I am certain that if I had not been guided by my parents and had only my own happiness to consult, I should never have married your father. And where am I to go now when your father dies? Lavinia would not object to keeping me here—indeed, there are several apartments in the west wing that would do very well for me. But Lady Vernon would send me away—and yet even that might be borne if she were not ever to be addressed as ‘Lady deCourcy.’ How am I to endure it? Indeed, there is no mother fonder of her children than I have been, but I would almost rather survive my son than see him marry ill!”
“But what has he told you of Lady Vernon? Has he asked your consent to their marriage?”
“He has said nothing of her at all, but I am convinced that he is bewitched by her, for I gave him a very broad hint—I asked him if he had succumbed to another attachment while he was with you, and he would neither confirm nor deny it. And he spoke so favorably of his time with you, even praising Lady Vernon’s daughter and making her out to be quite a paragon of beauty and accomplishment! Ah, you know what they say—to court the mother, you must flatter the child! So, you have brought the girl with you? And her friend as well—Manwaring’s sister! After all that was said of Lady Vernon’s conduct at Langford, to think of a friendship between them! It is a very inconstant world—very inconstant—and I do not know how we are to abide it if people will not keep to their own sphere. But perhaps if Mr. Manwaring does not have to look after his sister in London, he will pursue Lady Vernon as he did at Langford—and if she had so little restraint in the country, she will have none at all in town—then, perhaps, Reginald’s eyes will be opened to what she is.”
While they were engaged in hopes for Reginald’s being disillusioned and made miserable, Miss Vernon and Miss Manwaring were ushered up the gleaming oak staircase and through a maze of lesser flights and landings until they were brought to a wing that had a series of doors on one side and a series of windows on the other.
The apartments that the friends were to share were well proportioned, the furniture was handsome, the walls prettily papered, and the aspect pleasing, but with the sort of simplicity and want of ornamentation that suggested that the room was reserved for inferior guests.
The two girls decided to take a turn in the open air, and after donning sturdier shoes, they struck out across one of the lawns toward a high hedge that formed a border between the small park and the greenhouses. Two gentlemen stepped into their path, one leaning upon the arm of another. Miss Vernon recognized Reginald deCourcy by his form, and as the gentlemen approached, she saw in the other a similarity of countenance and figure (though the countenance was pale and the figure bowed and wasted), which pronounced him to be Sir Reginald deCourcy.
The ladies dropped a curtsy, and the elder gentleman, seeing the look of recognition upon his son
’s face, immediately applied to him to make the introductions.
“Miss Frederica Vernon,” he pronounced, and if Sir Reginald was surprised to see that the beautiful young lady in half-mourning was the daughter of a woman against whom he had been so prejudiced, he gave no indication of it. He bowed politely and said, “Cook has brewed me tea according to your receipts every day.”
“I hope they have served you well, sir.”
“Indeed they have. I have been able to get out again and enjoy my grounds. The house is a grand one—I know it is, for everybody says so, and I cannot think that so universal an opinion on any one subject can err—but I much prefer the out-of-doors. And your friend, I think, is Miss Manwaring?”
Miss Vernon said that she was.
“My brother has spoken very highly of you, Miss Manwaring, and his commendation is never bestowed idly,” the gentleman said.
“It has the advantage of consensus with the world in general,” added Reginald with great civility, “and therefore cannot err.”
Miss Manwaring blushed, and as the path that took them toward the house narrowed, they were obliged to walk in pairs. Sir Reginald offered Miss Vernon his arm, and she concluded from his son’s look of surprise (as he offered his own arm to Miss Manwaring) that it had been some time since his father had been the provider, rather than the recipient, of such support.
“January and February are too early in the year to see the true beauty of the place,” said Sir Reginald. “When all is in bloom, it is a remarkable sight, but you will get some notion of the excellence of the forcing gardens and the size of the orchards, and tomorrow, in the light, I will take you to the summer house, where we drink tea in fine weather. But I will not confine you to Parklands. We keep a handsome phaeton that gets too little use. You ladies must take advantage of it on any day that is fine, for even in the winter Kent is full of beauties. It is quite the garden of England, do you not think so?”
“I do. And I thought the same of Staffordshire and Sussex, sir—indeed, when I was first taken to the apothecary gardens in town, I was quite ready to call London the garden of England as well.”
Sir Reginald laughed and proceeded to inquire, with genuine interest, about her knowledge of plants and flowers. Had she studied Latin? Had she read Withering? Had the fuchsia been introduced to Churchill Manor?
Miss Vernon felt all of the compliment of his inquiries, which went beyond casual civility. She was equally pleased to understand, from the little of their conversation she overheard, that Reginald addressed Miss Manwaring with equal courtesy, and that her replies conveyed her taste, her understanding, and her superior manners. However he might regard Robert Manwaring, Reginald deCourcy must conclude that his sister was a very intelligent young woman.
They were six to dinner, and yet there were thirty covers and an array of silver plate and a great many attendants. If the two country girls were inclined to overlook some particular symptom of privilege, Lady deCourcy did not hesitate to call it to their attention, and her conversation consisted principally of remarks such as “I daresay you have not seen such superior cos lettuce,” or “I would be very surprised if Mrs. Manwaring can ever get her hands upon such crayfish as these.”
Reginald often blushed for her, but her daughter and husband felt no embarrassment; she had no consciousness of her mother’s incivility and he had ceased to listen to her for many years.
If the elder gentleman’s remarks were less frequent, they were more civil. He had always been fond of society, but a spell of ill health, which his wife had encouraged along to infirmity, had kept him from the sort of company that he had enjoyed in earlier years. He found Miss Vernon to be a beautiful girl, her manners refined, her conversation thoughtful and fresh, and her knowledge of growing and groundskeeping profound.
The desserts were laid and Sir Reginald deferred to Miss Vernon, whose receipts had aided his digestion so well as to enable him to eat a handsome dinner for the first time in a year. Miss Vernon smiled at the compliment and, expressing admiration for the yield of his pinery, suggested, “There is nothing so good for the digestion as pineapple, except perhaps for the extract of carica papaya before it ripens.”
Sir Reginald took a slice of the pineapple and began to recount a few tales of the West Indies. The young ladies listened with intense interest, though Lady deCourcy seemed impatient to withdraw and once or twice seemed about to rise when a question from one of the girls or from Reginald (who was astonished at his father’s excellent appetite and spirits) delayed her. At last she stood, and the other ladies followed her to the drawing room.
The party was made lively and noisy by the entrance of the children, and Lady deCourcy turned her attention entirely to them and her daughter.
“How very tall our Charlie has got in the months since you left for Sussex. Lady Penrice called on her way to Ramsgate and told the wildest tales of how tall her grandson Frank had got—six months younger than Charlie and she vows he was half a head taller! She has got a house at Ramsgate and means to have them all with her until summer, as she says London is full of influenza. How long does Charles stay in town? Nobody can remain in health very long in London. The air is so bad! He must, on no account, bring the influenza here among the children. How is the air in Sussex? Is it a very dirty place?”
Miss Vernon, who was showing little Kitty how to cut some gold paper, felt a warm blush overspread her cheeks.
“It is not as fine as Parklands,” her daughter replied.
“And the people? They are a very yeomanlike set, I gather?”
“There is no society. The Parkers are ten miles off, which is too far to go to mix with people who are only moderately genteel. Mr. Parker was in trade.”
“Trade is a terrible thing,” declared Lady deCourcy. “It encourages those who engage in it to be ambitious above their class.”
The gentlemen entered as she uttered this remark, and she called immediately for their opinion. “Catherine tells me that there is nobody in her neighborhood but for the Parkers, who made a great deal of money in trade. Do you not agree that she is very poorly situated? Would it not be best to have her and the children home again with us?”
Reginald glanced at Miss Vernon, who was bent over her work. “You forget, madam, that the hospitality of the Parkers was acceptable to my cousins and my uncle.”
It was not in Lady deCourcy’s nature to feel embarrassment. “Perhaps, and yet Billingshurst cannot be as pleasant as Parklands.”
“I agree with you, madam,” said Reginald with a smile. “I cannot wish to be anywhere else at present, and indeed I very much regret that I must leave you all tomorrow.”
“If you regret it, then you ought to stay,” his mother replied. “There is nobody in town.”
“My sister’s husband is in town. If, Catherine, you have a letter for Charles, I will bring it, and I will be happy to do the same for Miss Vernon, if she desires to send any message to her mother.”
Lady deCourcy declared that neither Catherine nor Miss Vernon could have anything to write, and that it would be enough for Reginald to tell Charles that they had all got safely to Parklands, which Charles could report to Lady Vernon whenever he happened to call.
“Catherine need not write,” Reginald replied, “but we must let Miss Vernon decide for herself.”
Miss Vernon favored him with a grateful smile and, consigning the amusement of the children to Maria, went to a little desk in the corner to compose her letter.
Miss Vernon to Lady Vernon
Parklands Manor, Kent
My dear Madam,
We have arrived safely in Kent to find Mr. deCourcy still at home, though he will stay only until tomorrow.
You will want to know something of Parklands. It is very beautifully situated, and as far as the grounds are concerned, nothing has been transformed that ought to have been left alone, and nothing has been neglected that ought to have been improved. The interior is the work of Lady deCourcy, however, and it is Langfo
rd all over again, with three items crammed where one would do and everything for show. The apartment that I share with Maria appears to be a chamber reserved for her inferior company and therefore has only such furnishings as are necessary for comfort without needless embellishment and display.
We were introduced to Sir Reginald, and he is not the fearsome object that I expected to find. In his person, he gives every appearance of having been a very commanding figure when in health, but illness has made him frail—this decline, however, appears to be reversing, as he has been able to take some exercise and to dine with the family, which I understand has not been his custom.
His manners are formal and old-fashioned but without any condescension. His welcome to Maria and me did not make me feel such an intruder as Lady deCourcy has—she does not want anybody but her daughter and the children, but if the weather is fine enough for walking, we will not be in her way.
Be assured, my dear Mother, that even if all were as it should be, were my aunt affectionate and her mother’s welcome effusive, I could never be happy if I had not left you in the very capable and obliging hands of my Aunt Martin and Miss Wilson.
Please give my love to both, and write to me as often as you can.
Your affectionate daughter,
Frederica Vernon
chapter forty-seven
Reginald called at Portland Place immediately upon his arrival in town and was admitted to the drawing room, where Lady Vernon reclined upon a sofa, wrapped in shawls and with an open book on her lap. She extended her hand to him, and he bowed and gave her Miss Vernon’s letter, urging her not to delay the pleasure of reading it on his account.
Reginald studied Lady Vernon while she read her letter. She was pale and her movements languid. He recalled some remarks of his mother’s about influenza and inquired after her health as she folded the letter.
