Meriel sealed her note with two wafers, laid it aside, and looked down at the table, aware that Juxon’s gaze was lowered like her own. She felt a spasm of pity for him in his isolation and his dislike of everyone but herself, and she resolved never again to show her irritation with him, always to be patient, kind and gentle like Wychwood. If he should discover the truth about Wychwood, she would deal with him.
At the other end of the room, the plan for the canal’s extension was still being discussed. Meriel, seeing that everyone thought she had said her piece already, and forgetting that she had meant to take full part, drifted away into thoughts of the hot strong beauty under Auriol’s shirt, but she was soon disturbed by a brief dying-down of all conversation at the table.
“Well?” she said, looking up at the silent, attentive faces of her Closet; and the sight of them filled her with guilt. Her voice when she spoke was higher than usual. “Have we yet come to any conclusion on this head?”
“I think not, just as yet, Marquis,” smiled Juxon.
A gust of wind blew through the open window, and rattled the papers on the table, giving Meriel an unexpectedly dreadful sense of being entirely unprotected.
CHAPTER NINE
Six Weeks Later
Month of Flowers had gone by and Month of Roses had begun, and the Marquis had still not offered for the hand of Berinthia Winyard.
Lady Berinthia sat on the window-seat in Saccharissa’s drawing-room one warm afternoon, trying not to think about the future. There was a book in her hands, and on a daybed behind her the Marchioness was dozing with her mouth open. The room smelt of peonies and beeswax, and the lowered blinds glowed mustard-yellow. From outside in the court there came the sound of young Maids of Honour laughing, but otherwise all was quiet. Tonight, there would be two strenuous parties for the Marchioness and her protégée to attend.
It had taken Berinthia some time to realise that in spite of Saccharissa’s most pointed invitation to spend a season with her at Castle West, her marriage to Meriel was not a settled thing. Brought up in the discreet and formal traditions of the Island Palace, she had supposed that when the Marchioness wrote that her son was in need of youthful companionship and that she hoped he and Berinthia would become fast friends, it was simply a light-hearted Westmarch way of saying that marriage settlements had already been drawn up. Her aunt Southmarch had told her not to depend on Meriel’s making her an offer, but she despised her aunt and had paid no attention. Her uncle the Marquis, whom she disliked rather than despised, still assumed that Meriel had told his mother to make the match.
At first, Berinthia had been delighted by the comparatively relaxed atmosphere of Castle West, the laxer etiquette, franker intrigue and less obvious hypocrisy, but now it seemed to her that the freedom she enjoyed only exposed her to humiliation, because Saccharissa enjoyed it too. She was nineteen and clever, and it had not occurred to her till now that she was inexperienced, or that Westmarch would be so very, inconveniently different from Southmarch. That a Marchioness Dowager should presume to arrange a marriage for a ruling adult Marquis against his expressed wish was extraordinary; that, having tried to exercise power so openly, she should contemplate the failure of her plans with no more than a few wails of regret, was more extraordinary still. It seemed that the Marchioness of Westmarch was nearly as secure as a man: she did not need to hunt power with beauty by stealth, and a couple of mistakes did her no particular harm in the eyes of the world, though, of course, it laughed.
Having seen all this and been the victim of it, Berinthia’s original contented desire to occupy Saccharissa’s place grew into a sweet, piercing passion. In her frustration, she was beginning to think that considered even simply as a man, her cousin Meriel had more to recommend him than she had ever thought; and when she was a widowed matriarch, and the effective ruler of Castle West, she would make no mistakes.
“Oh, whatever can possess that boy?” murmured Saccharissa, yawning as she woke up from her nap.
Berinthia jumped, and did not turn round. Hearing the familiar sounds of the Marchioness fidgeting her veil and shawl, looking round for one of her medicines, she tore a page of her open book slowly in half. She said, “Dear ma’am, I haven’t the least notion what can possess him.”
“Oh my love, did you hear me then? I fancy I must have been dreaming.” The Marchioness recrossed her ankles on the daybed, admired her new shoes, then looked sharply at Berinthia’s back. “Well, I daresay you think I am growing to be a dead bore on the subject, but why will he not pay his addresses to you? You are so handsome, my dear!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“He was always selfish and disobliging. Whatever can he see to object to in you?”
“I am not his choice.”
“Oh, fiddle. What has that to say to anything? I wonder you can be so vulgar, Berinthia.”
“You have told me many times,” said Berinthia, closing her book and facing her at last, “that so far from being selfish and disobliging, my cousin is everything that is gentlemanlike and amiable.”
“And so he is!” said Saccharissa. “But I am his mother.” Berinthia laughed, and Saccharissa, at first insulted, then decided to be pleased.
“You and he would deal extremely, Berinthia, you know.”
“I daresay you are right ma’am.”
“It is Juxon’s fault entirely!” snapped the Marchioness suddenly, raising herself a little. “Why would he not consent to Meriel’s being contracted when he was a boy, before his — his tastes had been formed? I might have seen him suitably betrothed years and years ago, and been a grandmother I daresay, by now, not but what as a woman I should have disliked that excessively, but no, what must Elphinstone needs do but appoint that odious, insinuating mushroom Governor, with all his underbred notions of allowing the boy to make his own choice! He seems not to know that Meriel is Marquis of Westmarch. And I was prepared to compromise! I was persuaded you must be his own choice, for you have everything to recommend you to a young man’s fancy, and not only to one’s judgement, dear Berinthia!”
“I have heard him say that breeding cousins don’t improve the stock, ma’am,” said the other: boldly, according to Island Palace ideas, not because to repeat a coarse remark was immodest, but because to report any comment accurately was supposed to be naive.
“Oh, the wicked creature that he is! Not but what in my own family it was no good thing. All the Quartermans are eccentric, almost mad, except me, and of course Meriel must needs take after them. What are you laughing at, child?”
“It is so ridiculous, ma’am.”
“Oh, my dear,” said Saccharissa quietly a moment later. “Yes, I see just how it is. Your nerves are discorded. But I shall never send you back to Bury Winyard without — without some eligible parti to your credit, if Meriel will not come up to scratch, as he would say himself. Do not, I beg of you, distress yourself.”
“I don’t distress myself.”
The Marchioness continued to be serious. “Indeed, I hope you will stay here with me, my love, and not go back to the Island Palace. You and I can never be bosom-bows, indeed, you are young enough to be my grand-daughter and it would be perfectly ridiculous if we could be, but I am most sincerely attached to you and odiously lonely, Berinthia, because girls like Dorinda and Rosalba are not at all the same — my father held himself on so high a form that although he was the most shocking nipcheese in Eastmarch and forced us even to darn our own stockings, I never learnt how — how to converse with those not — not quite of my own rank. A man might be the pink of gentility, but if he was not closely connected with one of the Four Families, Papa would think him of no more account than one of the footmen. He kept us entirely secluded, you know, because of his top-lofty notions, and how it enraged him to discover that his friends considered Elphinstone to have made an indifferent match when he married me. A Quarterman ought to be good enough for God, let alone a Longmaster. Oh, how I did hate him, how grateful I was to Elphinstone for choosing me a
lmost as though he loved me, though to be sure it was in a fit of pique, and bringing me here, and you I am sure must enter into my sentiments on this head, I could not bear to leave Castle West ever again, even for a day, indeed I never do so!”
“I know, ma’am,” said Berinthia, appalled by this display of emotion.
“And Meriel will make a far, far less disagreeable husband than Elphinstone, and even he never beat me as my father did my mother. And in many ways Meriel is all that is generous, he always tells me that I should be able to sport a little blunt at whist, or faro, when his father would never let me play anything but casino, because he used to say that considering that I was Corydon Quarterman’s daughter I was damnably expensive! I had no fortune, you know, none at all.”
“Oh, none at all? How very —”
Saccharissa’s major domo came into the room, and coughed. The Marchioness, fretting still, did not notice him, but Berinthia looked up eagerly at the interruption.
“My lady Marchioness,” the man said, “his lordship the Marquis is in the saloon, he asks me to say that he desires to speak with Lady Berinthia.”
It took both women a moment to understand, and it was Berinthia who replied. “Does he? Tell him I shall be with him — presently, if you please.”
When the man retired, Saccharissa, who had been lying on her daybed as though she were frozen to it, attempted to sit bolt upright and cried, “My love! Oh, I could scarcely believe my ears. Such a good-hearted boy as he always was, for all his faults! To speak with you alone, Berinthia!”
“Yes, it seems he does wish that, ma’am.”
The Marchioness flopped back with one hand in the small of her back. She was like a doll, thought Berinthia, with a rag body and a polished wooden head.
“Vastly improper that would have been thought in my young days,” continued Saccharissa. “So often as I have observed that when one is on the point of despair, quite exhausted with longing for something, it comes, if one will but pray, and protest! Come here, come here child, let me look at you.”
Berinthia got up slowly.
“Yes, I daresay that gown will do very well, though if only the boy had thought to give me a little warning of his intentions you might have put on the cherry-coloured sarsnet with the white sash, which would have been by far more suited to the occasion. Do but allow me to re-tie your plait, my love, there’s no time to ring for your abigail — not but what he will never notice what you are wearing, or how untidy your hair is, for as I must be thankful to say, he is not the least bit addicted to the muslin company and knows nothing about such matters.”
Berinthia presented her long braid to the Marchioness and sat down on a low stool beside the daybed. Her hands sweated as, without talking, Saccharissa deftly retied the ribbon, combed out the ends, and let it fall once more down her back.
“Well, shall I do, ma’am?” said Berinthia, rising.
The Marchioness lay down again, and folded her hands on her breast. “Excellently well! Give me my vinaigrette, child, and do you remember to look unconscious in his presence. Only blush a very little at the right moment, to show that you have maidenly reserve. Oh, how much I envy you.” She paused. “For your sake, child, I shall not even object to removing to those horrid dower-rooms in Chapel Court.”
When Berinthia was gone, Saccharissa cried into her own hair, and tried to chide herself with the reflection that there was no need for tears and she had always been a fool. Once, her emphatic, inconsequent manner had been charming, and no one had thought her a fool. The Marchioness took two drops of laudanum to calm herself, and soon fell deeply asleep in the dim-lit room.
Berinthia walked through the yellow ante-chamber and into the saloon, and when the footman closed the door behind her, she was annoyed to see in a mirror that she was already blushing as Saccharissa had told her was right. Then she saw Meriel, standing at the end of the room, holding on to the mantelpiece and looking down at the grate.
“Cousin Meriel,” she said, in her deep, sweet voice. The sound of it, and Meriel’s uncouth pose, oddly helped her to gain composure. She noticed that her cousin was not wearing the formal clothes suitable for making a proposal of marriage, but thought nothing of it. She had no intention of complaining about such a little thing as Meriel’s habitual riding-dress, when they were married, for she did not believe in wasting energy.
Meriel released the mantelshelf, stood up straight and faced her. “Cousin.” She came across the room, and Berinthia waited with her hands clasped in front of her. “Will you allow me to sit with you a while, ma’am? I have something of the greatest importance to say to you.”
“But of course,” the other replied, making a very slight curtsey. Her glance upwards was calmly sensual and a little amused. It had attracted many men, and repelled or disconcerted others. Today Meriel was touched by it, not irritated, and she hoped sincerely that she would not hurt Berinthia too much. She had once thought her cousin a terrifying woman, and had wondered how any man could find such a determined though well-behaved female taking.
She thought now: I had no sense of the ridiculous about my situation then, and she took Berinthia aback by squeezing her hand as she kissed it.
“Sir?”
Meriel looked up at her, rising from her bow. “You’d make a famous Marchioness, cousin, I wish I might marry you.”
“What?”
It was the first ill-bred comment Meriel had heard from Berinthia, and she liked her for it, though she was embarrassed by her own behaviour.
“I beg your pardon! It was infamous of me to have put it just like that, so quickly. I was taken aback for the moment because you are so — well, beautiful, anything you please. Berinthia — Lady Berinthia — I know that you must be expecting me to, to ask permission to pay my addresses to you, but I’ve come — to tell you why I cannot, and I hope to spare you the greatest possible degree of mortification!”
Berinthia cried out: “Spare me the greatest — good God, I think you must have less elegance of mind than anyone I ever met!” Stopping, putting a hand to her cheek, she saw Meriel step back.
“Cousin, I’m aware that I have not done as much as I ought to prevent my mother’s misleading you. Believe me, I’m sorry. Please, Cousin Berinthia! If you are thinking your outburst has shocked me, it’s no such thing, indeed I have a very good opinion of you, now more than ever!”
Silence fell, and they both breathed quickly. At last Berinthia said through stiff lips, “I am obliged to beg your pardon, Westmarch, for having shown a want of maidenly reserve.”
“Did my mother tell you that was what you ought to show? It’s not true, it can be a devilish nuisance. Shall we not sit down, cousin? It’s the stupidest thing for us to be facing each other like a couple of duellists!” Meriel smiled to comfort her cousin, and Berinthia’s lips parted with surprise.
“As you wish, sir!”
They moved over to a sofa by the wall, sat down, and looked out over eighty foot of empty polished floor. Berinthia was rigid; Meriel worried, but relaxed.
“Don’t you wish to demand an explanation of me?” Meriel said.
“Have I a right to one?”
“Yes, indeed.”
Berinthia wanted to cry with anger, but she would never do so. She realised now that although she had tormented herself with superficial doubts, she had never feared secretly that she would not marry Meriel in the end.
She said, “Well sir, having once shown as little sense of propriety as you have yourself, I may as well go on as I began. Why did you not tell me till now that — that you wish you might marry me — if things were otherwise, as I collect? Why not when I first came, why not weeks ago? Do not tell me you knew nothing of your mother’s wishes!” She stopped, paralysed for a moment by the realisation that she, a Winyard, had spoken her true thoughts. It was Meriel’s fault for being frank himself.
“Cowardice,” said Meriel.
The far doors opened and Berinthia thought furiously that never in her life
would she be safe from untimely interruption. Once in a day was surely enough. But it was not a servant who entered this time, it was Maid Rosalba Ludbrook.
“Oh!” the girl cried on the threshold. “Oh, Marquis — Lady Berinthia — forgive me, I, I, I left a scarf, on this chair. I am so very sorry! No one warned me! I’m sorry.”
The three of them were immobilised.
“It is of no consequence, Maid Rosalba,” said Meriel.
Rosalba had never heard such a cool reserve in the Marquis’s voice before. Her lips trembled.
Meriel did not mean to be unkind and was not especially annoyed: it was only that the girl in the doorway had surprised her by not seeming at all like the little tender creature she would have wanted to possess had she been a man, and had thought of with rather guilty but pleasant affection for weeks. A trick of the light made Rosalba look plump and brown, and her expression was certainly stupid. Meriel, thinking of a period two months gone, was curious.
“Forgive me,” whispered Rosalba.
“To be sure we do,” said Berinthia. “Perhaps you will now relieve us of the honour of your presence?”
“There’s no need to talk in that style,” Meriel told Berinthia lightly, getting up. She did not approach Rosalba, but said: “Indeed, ma’am, don’t be thinking you have committed an unpardonable crime! It is no such thing, we’re not even vexed.”
“Yes, Marquis!”
When Rosalba left, she almost slammed the doors.
“The deuce,” said Meriel, sitting down again.
“Deuced unfortunate!” agreed Berinthia, altering her position on the sofa. “Have you a taste for bread and butter, cousin? How kind you are! I had not thought you to be so good-natured.” Her voice shook a little.
“No, I haven’t, though I shouldn’t call her that.” Meriel turned her head. “Good God, you can’t be thinking that’s the reason for my being unable to marry you?” Meriel then remembered that once it had been, or that at least, she had wanted it to be the reason.
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