A Country Wooing

by Joan Smith

  “I take full responsibility for my own life, not Robin’s. I’m not the one planning to marry an Anglin. Though Robin is, I trust, a gentleman, you forget he was never an officer. I don’t know what had been between the two of you before my return. Of course, he bears a strong superficial resemblance to Charles, and that must always attract you, eh, Anne? I happened not to be born with a hero’s face and physique, but by God I’d rather be my ugly self than a beautiful sham.”

  “Robin is not a sham!”

  “I wasn’t talking about Robin, then. Of course it’s Robin who trails your skirts these days. Always running to you the minute he’s bolted his wine. Unless I make a dash to your side, he’s there before me, but I truly don’t believe it to be love on his part.”

  Realization dawned on Anne that a misunderstanding had gotten loose between them. He thought she was romantically interested in Robin, and she had mistakenly supposed his reference to “my woman” meant Miss Anglin. When the truth tumbled into place, she felt foolish and elated and sorry all at the same time. She was especially sorry she had thrown Charles in his face, for that was what she had done in her fit of jealousy.

  She swallowed convulsively and tried to find a graceful way out of the mess. “You said ‘us both’—I mean, about marrying the Anglin girls.”

  Alex’s stiff shoulders relaxed; a slow smile crept across his face. “Annie,” he said, his words a caress, “is that what had you in a pelter? I am greatly flattered.” He drew her into his arms slowly, gazing at her face all the while as she gazed back silently. He pulled her head to his shoulder and held it there, gently patting it.

  “Oh, Alex, you are a goose!” she said. Her voice trembled with emotion. “Robin is like a young brother to me.”

  He tilted her chin up to him, and they stood in the moonlight. She felt as if they were alone in some beautifully forgotten corner of the universe. The old familiar hawthorn bushes that edged the yard of the assembly hall provided concealment from the street, and behind them the curtained windows cut them off from the dancers.

  Her blood quickened as Alex gazed at her. Then his head descended slowly, irrevocably, to hers, obliterating the moon and the view and worldly cares. She was crushed against him, his lips bruising hers with a hungry, devouring kiss that was unlike gentle Alex in its ruthlessness. Her response was alien to her as well. She felt a wild and heady excitement, a flame licking through her veins, heating her vitals, and urging her on to some unknown madness.

  When he finally stopped, she could only stare at him in wonder. “You’ll never know how long I’ve imagined this, Annie,” he said in a husky voice.

  “I never ...” She stopped and shook her head in confusion. She had never imagined, never dreamed of, such a thing.

  “I know,” he said. “I imagined enough for us both. Is our argument over?’’

  “Yes, all over.”

  “Good. Who won?”

  “I did; I had the advantage of knowing what we were arguing about, you see,” she said, and withdrew from him. They strolled arm in arm along the covered walk, talking. She was acutely aware of the new intimacy between them, sensed it in Alex’s more revealing manner.

  “We both won. You deserve a handicap, being pitched against a professional soldier like me. The very worst soldier there ever was, too. I hated pulling the trigger. I let dozens of Frenchies escape when I could have plugged them in the back. I daresay I’d be court-martialed if Hookey ever found out how I carried on. I couldn’t help thinking that like me, they had families and a girl or a wife back home and probably wished they had never seen the shores of Spain.”

  “You’re too kindhearted to be a soldier. I don’t know whatever possessed you to enlist.”

  “Don’t you, Annie? I thought you were beginning to understand why.”

  “Robin told me about the fights with Charles. I think it was awful, the way he plundered Penholme.”

  “I’m demmed sorry I let myself be driven out, but who would have dreamed Charlie would die so young? Anglin’s knock about the London mortgage has me worried. You don’t suppose Charlie mortgaged it on us, too, do you? I can’t believe it.”

  “How would Anglin know?”

  “He knew about the second mortgage on Penholme— the exact amount.”

  “He doesn’t know whether Ronleigh Hall is mortgaged.”

  “Still, I must go back to London with Rosie and Exmore and find how things stand there. If Charlie didn’t mortgage it, I must do it myself. We won’t need it for a few years, till Loo is ready to make her bows. You don’t care about going to London for the Season, do you?”

  “I never miss a Season!” she joked, for, of course, Alex knew she had never had one in her life, and it was as clear as crystal that he intended to marry her, even if he hadn’t said so.

  They soon reentered the hall. The assembly became suddenly very enjoyable to Miss Wickfield. She regretted when it was over. She and her mother were taken home in Alex’s carriage, and at some point during the evening he had settled on going to London with the Exmores the next morning and staying with them for a few days. They would all stop at Rosedale on their way to see if the ladies had any commissions for him.

  “White crepe or anything of that sort,” he added with a secret smile.

  “Going to pawn your gold toothpick, Alex?” she asked. “You know I have no money.”

  “The mystery of the gold spear is solved. Rosie says it’s part of a game—fiddlesticks, I think. A gilt stick is a feature of importance. All the crack to have a real gold stick, so she pocketed it. She wanted a memento of Charles.”

  Anne thought it was rather a solid gold stick Rosie wanted but was in too good a humor to say so. “I see.”

  “I offered it to you first, and you didn’t know enough to grab it,” he reminded her.

  “I didn’t particularly want a memento of Charles.”

  “I noticed,” he said, and applied a light pressure to her fingers as he left the ladies at the door.

  Now, is that what he was up to? Anne wondered. She began to think Alex was more devious than she had ever suspected. He had been testing her, and without even knowing it, she had passed—because she had stopped caring for Charles ages ago. Her only feeling for him now was one of deep disgust.

  Chapter Eleven

  When Alex had his carriage stopped at Rosedale on his way to London next morning, Rosalie did likewise, leaving her husband alone while she took her leave of the Wickfields.

  “Was it not a famous party last night?” She laughed, in a gay mood to be returning to her beloved London. “I had two country dances with Albion, and my arm is sore this morning. He nearly wrenched it from the socket going down the line. I like him excessively, much better than if he tried to be genteel, like his wife. What a blight the woman is, to be sure. He is a splendid barbarian, but that wife—my, has she a tongue, do you think? I didn’t hear her say boo to a goose the whole night long. But she will come along. She dropped her spoon and took up her fork as soon as ever I raised an eyebrow at her. The girls are quite unexceptionable. I shan’t blush to present them. We shall cover up Miss Maggie’s bran face with rice powder—poor creature, her freckles positively glow. The other will do as she is, after I have my coiffeur take her crimped locks in hand.”

  “Is there anything we can do for you in London?” Alex asked when he could edge in a word.

  Before the ladies had time to answer, Rosalie spoke again. “I’ll send you a brochure on the Carlton House tables, Aunt Alice. I still have it somewhere around the house. It will look very good just there, where I told you. And in the meanwhile you may as well have the paper hangers in, for you will not be happy with these dim walls.”

  “Don’t worry if you can’t find it,” Mrs. Wickfield answered.

  “I shan’t forget you either, Annie,” the duchess promised.

  “I can’t think of a single thing I want. Very likely something will come to me as soon as the carriage leaves the door.’’

&nbs
p; “Widgeon!” Rosalie laughed. “I mean your beau. Now that we have Robin and Alex settled up with the Anglin soeurs, I shall have all my mind free to find a parti for you. It cannot be impossible,” she added in a voice that suggested it would be a daunting task all the same.

  Her bright eyes flashed from Anne to Alex as she spoke. “I have the cleverest idea,’’ she rattled on as she saw the two exchange a secret smile that was so much more convincing than mere words. “We shall stop at the Anglins’ palace en passant and see just how vulgarly overdone it is. Crystal chandeliers all over, red velvet drapes, and spanking-new everything, I make no doubt.”

  “I haven’t heard Albion has his place open to tours,” Alex said ironically.

  “Another goose!” Rosalie exclaimed. “I shall ask them if you can perform any little commission for them in the city, and then you will have a chance to stop again on your way home and make eyes at Miss Anglin.”

  “Officious, sis. Albion goes up to London at least once a week. He was telling me so just last night.”

  “Still, he will not take it amiss that Lord Penholme honors him with the offer,” she pointed out. “He’ll be flattered to death.”

  Alex just shook his head. “We’d best be getting on,” he suggested. “Exmore is waiting in the carriage.”

  “Lud, you don’t have to worry about him. He will be sound asleep by now,” Rosalie said. But she was eager to leave and got up from her seat.

  The Wickfields walked to the carriages with their guests to exchange half a dozen good-byes before returning to the saloon with that little feeling of letdown that always remains behind when one sees others off on a trip.

  London was some seventy miles away. With the delay of stopping at Anglins’, where Albion was sharp enough to find a commission to ensure Penholme’s return, it was late evening when the carriages pulled up to the door of Exmore’s mansion on Belgrave Square. The duchess’s first thought was to look over her invitations; her second was to run up to her children, as it was too late to have them brought down. She did love them, the more so as they had both had the wits to have been born boys and secure the family title.

  The first feature of the house that took Alex’s attention was the gas light. It gave off such unaccustomed brightness that it seemed impossible night had fallen outdoors. He had never seen gas light before. It had just been coming into vogue when he had left three years ago, and this was the first home he had visited that used it.

  His amazement pleased both his sister and Exmore very well. They took him from lamp to lamp, turning the adjustment knob higher and lower to show him how it was capable of giving as much or as little illumination as was wanted. Exmore extinguished one lamp to demonstrate how it was lit, a procedure that caused not only Alex but also Rosalie to take a long step backward, though the jet of flame that leaped out was not so dangerous as he had supposed it must be.

  “It gives a dandy light, but still, I think it must be very dangerous,” Alex decreed. “And there are pipes under the ground to deliver the gas, you say? We’ll be fortunate if half of London isn’t blown sky-high with it.”

  “They’ve been using it in factories for a few years now with no trouble,” Exmore assured him. “It’s actually safer than conventional lighting. The war has cut down the supply of whale oil and Russian tallow, thus raising the price. Insurance rates are cheaper with gas, too. It is the coming thing—mark my words. They have it lighting the streets of St. Margaret’s Parish in Westminster—it attracts a crowd each night to see it. Why, there are over twenty miles of gas mains in London already. The day isn’t long off when the entire city will be using it.”

  “Is it a government-run thing?” Alex inquired. “I’m completely out of it, from having been abroad so long.”

  “It was inaugurated before you left,” Exmore pointed out. “It is a private business with a charter from the government. The Gas, Light and Coke Company, it is called. It started in 1812. I’m surprised Charles didn’t mention it to you. He took an interest from the start. A bunch of sharp businessmen got it up, with bankers and some noble patrons to finance it. It was a German fellow got it all started—Albrect Winzer was his name—but he’s anglicized it to Albert Winsor now.”

  “We got these sweet little fixtures to go with it,” Rosalie told her brother, and took him from one metal bracket to another, each with its own glass globe to magnify the light and protect the surroundings from the direct flame. “It cost a fortune, which is why we would like to get the money you owe us,” she added in a low aside beyond her husband’s hearing. Such a plethora of excuses had been put forward for needing the money that Alex scarcely listened.

  The Exmores had no social engagements that evening, so the time was passed en famille, with an early retirement to recover from the weariness of travel. In the morning, Rosalie was much of a mind to send her brother off to her husband’s tailor to outfit him in a higher style before parading him before her friends, but Alex told her that was not his intention. As already stated, he had come on business, and without even the pleasure of a strut down Bond Street on his arm, she had to let him go.

  His first stop was the handsome red-brick family home on Berkeley Square. He was loath to enter it when he saw the knocker off and the shutters closed. He stepped into a house nearly black, leaving the front door ajar till he got the lamps lit. Exmore had mentioned Charlie’s interest in the new gas light, but his interest had not extended to having it installed in his own home. Alex lit several candles and stood in the airless room looking about for ghosts of Charles. He half feared his brother would have ransacked the place, sold off plate and pictures, but his spending had not reached quite that pitch.

  Things were intact, as far as Alex could tell. He had actually spent very little time in London. He made a cursory inspection of the family quarters, then returned to the study, where business papers were usually kept. The desk and drawers were empty—not so much as a bank statement or a bill. The family’s man of business would have been here before him, of course. Alex locked the house and went straight to the office of Snelgrove and Snelgrove, where no Snelgrove had worked for one hundred years, the firm having been taken over by in-laws named Naismith.

  Mr. Naismith the elder was a gaunt man with straight white hair pulled severely across his scalp. He ushered Penholme into his office with a welcoming smile that reminded Alex of the rictus he had seen on dead soldiers in Spain. Alex had never had occasion to meet the man before, but Naismith had served both his father and Charles, so was acquainted with all the family business affairs. Penholme was made to feel at home with a glass of sherry and a cheroot cigar, treats saved for noble clients.

  “I was happy to learn you are safely returned to us, milord,” Mr. Naismith began, lending a social air to the occasion by a reference to matters in the Peninsula. This was not why Alex had come, and he reverted directly to business. Though the firm handled only London matters of finance, Naismith knew enough of the general situation that he inquired discreetly as to whether Penholme would be able to set the Hall to rights.

  “I hope so. We’re heavily mortgaged,” Alex admitted. “There is the London house to fall back on, however. I may find it necessary to take out a small mortgage on it.”

  Naismith’s pale eyes blinked. “Ah, another mortgage...”

  Alex’s heart plunged. “Another mortgage?” he asked in a sepulchral tone.

  “There is the mortgage for eight thousand the late earl took out some months before his death. The place is worth more—ten thousand, I should think—but eighty percent is already a heavy mortgage, the heaviest your brother could raise at the time.”

  Once, at Badajos, Alex had found himself cut off from his army, caught behind the enemy line with only his batman, the two of them surrounded by enemies. He had thought he would die that night. He could hear not a dozen feet away from him French soldiers talking. He knew the taste of fear, of panic, and he tasted it now at the back of his throat. It was a sharp, dry sensation, accompanied
by a heightened awareness of irrelevant details around him. In Spain that night, he had noticed how brightly the stars shone, had been minutely aware of a sharp stone digging into his leg as he sat cramped and silent.

  Now he looked at a bad picture of Anne Hathaway’s cottage, and knew he would remember for the rest of his life the exact lineaments of it. The three chimneys, the left part of the house higher than the right, the thatched roof. At Badajos, he and Lehman had escaped by crawling on their bellies like snakes, inching forward an inch at a time, fearing every rustle of the grass, just waiting to be discovered and killed.

  He saw no means of exit this time. He was surrounded by debts, and the money he had been counting on was gone. Another eight thousand pounds poured down the bottomless pit of Charles’s senseless spending. What had ailed him, that he could waste the family money so wantonly? Lowering his eyes from the picture on the wall, Alex saw Mr. Naismith regarding him with a commiserating eye.

  “It cannot be impossible to raise a small sum,” Naismith suggested hopefully. “How much do you urgently require? You mentioned a small mortgage.”

  Alex was reluctant to go into all the disagreeable, impossible details till he had time to think. “I’ll look over my accounts and let you know.”

  “These bills waiting for payment,” Naismith went on, pulling out a great folder stuffed with unpaid bills, “can wait. Tradesmen, for the most part. I paid off your brother’s gambling debts from the bequest the estate came into from your uncle Cyrus Fender last year. I knew you would wish to have them taken care of as soon as possible. I also kept up payments on the London mortgage.”

  Alex knew vaguely he had once had an uncle Cyrus Fender. He didn’t know the man had died, and he had not thought the family would inherit anything from him. With an apathy born of despair, he inquired how much it had amounted to.

  “Ten thousand pounds,” Naismith said calmly.

  Another fortune sown on the winds by his brother. His delightful, charming brother, whom all the world loved. Another ten thousand on top of the eight thousand mortgage on the house. There couldn’t be another creature in the country who spent such sums, unless it should be the Prince of Wales, and he, at least, had the whole country to support him.