‘You do not seem shocked, Rachel. Or not as shocked as I imagined you would be,’ Edgar Meredith ventured, shattering the still silence in the room. ‘I own I was worried you might scold your old papa.’ The notion seemed to leave his humour unimpaired.
Rachel raised her ice-blue eyes to his face. His weak, appealing smile faded and he visibly flinched beneath that fleeting, freezing stare. Then his eldest daughter’s contempt was turned on the crumbling embers in the grate.
Edgar hurrumphed deep in his throat, rubbed at his grey, bristly chin. He pushed himself from his armchair, and began pacing the room with an attempt at a jaunty step. ‘I said to your mama it is no momentous disaster. And I can see that my sensible girls are in accord with their papa’s calm and reasonable view,’ he continued, happily regarding the three solemn young ladies perching awkwardly on the very edges of their chairs in Windrush’s impressive library. No one looked at him, not even little Sylvie. Her head was bent towards her fingers clasped in her lap while her slippered heels beat backwards against the base of the chair, one after the other, one after the other, in relentless rhythm, until suddenly her mother shrieked, ‘For God’s sake stop that, Sylvie, I implore you! My nerves…’
As his wife quickly turned her face away to the wall again to shield from sight her red-rimmed, puffy eyes, Edgar resumed quickly, ‘Yes; no momentous disaster. We are not poor. We are not ruined. We simply must relocate and revise our plans a little. In fact, those wedding guests who are presently in town and have made it clear they are loath to miss out on the other highlights of the Season by journeying to stay for some days in Hertfordshire will be relieved…nay, delighted by the change of venue. The Winthrops’ ball might not, after all, clash with June’s dates. Beaulieu Gardens is appointed well enough to receive any amount of eminent guests, and is so centrally positioned for everyone…’
‘Then we must rejoice, must we not, that we shall, after all, not incommode any of them.’ Rachel’s slow, stinging sarcasm cut off any more of her papa’s persuasion. Stiffly she pushed out of her chair, clasped white-knuckled fingers in front of her, in a pose that could have been mistaken for humble. ‘Tell me again, Papa… Yes, please do repeat, very precisely, what you have done, for I find I cannot quite comprehend that anyone…anyone…but especially not a fond father and devoted husband would act in so…so selfish, so stupid, so irresponsible a way as to have jeopardised…’
‘Don’t dare give me that insubordination, miss!’ Edgar roared into his daughter’s audacious tirade, making his wife grip the chair arms and blink rapidly at the wall. June’s head bowed almost to her lap to hide her glistening eyes. ‘I shall do as I wish with my own property, when I wish, without being lectured on the subject by a female who has no right to ever challenge my behaviour…’
‘I have every right. It was mine! By birth it was mine!’ Rachel breathed in a raw, choking voice. ‘You have gambled away what was lawfully mine.’
Edgar approached her, bristling defensively beneath her rage and disgust. Their heights were almost equal, so to impress on her his superiority he expanded his chest on a deep breath and jutted his chin. ‘No, miss…it is…was…mine,’ he corrected in a clipped tone. ‘It is mine until the day I die; thereafter is it…was it…yours. As you see, I still breathe, and shall continue to do so, despite that fact that I know how very much you desire to choke the life from me.’ His mouth tightened as he saw the betraying tide of rosy colour staining his eldest daughter’s complexion. His voice quivered with authority and emotion as he resumed, ‘I say again, in case you are at all unsure of my meaning, that I shall do as I will with my own chattels. Never shall I beg leave to act from dependants who benefit from the shelter and support I provide. I refuse to be upbraided or nagged…’ This was addressed to his wife. ‘And I refuse to account to any of you for my gambling or my drinking or for any other masculine pleasures in which I might decide to indulge.’
His wife stabbed at him a reproachful look at that particular dictum which he patently chose to ignore.
‘Oh, Papa…you’ve done it on purpose… You’ve never forgiven me, have you?’
The statement was ragged with perception yet very quiet and this time Edgar’s sallow cheeks regained sanguinity. But his resolve was unimpaired by his eldest daughter’s awful accusation. Steadily he continued, ‘I say again, we are not poor. We are not ruined. The day any of you is ejected, impoverished, on to the street because of my doing is the day you may berate me for failing in my duty as head of this household. Until that time, if you wish to continue to partake of my protection, I will hear no more of it!’ With that parting shot he marched from the room, and with a final flourish banged the door shut as he went.
‘I said stop that noise, Sylvie!’ Gloria Meredith screeched at her youngest daughter as the sonorous silence was shattered by the rhythmic tattoo of feet again beating time.
Sylvie jumped, quivered in her seat for a moment, then rushed from the room, stifling a sob with a thumb stuck in her mouth.
After a strained silence, Gloria cleared her throat and quavered, ‘You should not have spoken to your father in that tone, Rachel. It was very bad of you. I’m not saying he’s blameless, but gentlemen will always gamble and will always suffer misfortunes at the tables. Properties have changed hands thus since time immemorial. Your papa has been…unwise and…unlucky, but, as he says, it is not the end of the world.’
’Unlucky!’ Rachel spat. A grim smile skewed her shapely lips. ‘Do you really believe this has anything to do with luck?’ She stalked off to the window, feeling freezing cold yet consumed with a fiery rage. Her mind was crammed with a million seething thoughts yet she seemed unable to say more because a well of murky despair was stagnating her intelligence. There was still a corner of her consciousness that wanted to believe it a mistake…a joke… But one sweeping glance, encompassing her mother’s blotchy countenance and June’s slumped, quaking shoulders, deprived her of that possibility. Oh, it was real. Closing her eyes, she forced herself to find coherent speech. Words scattered through her stiff lips in brusque sentences. ‘I should say this has been cleverly schemed at. Father’s not been unlucky. Losing Windrush is just part of his grand plan. He wants to settle old scores and ease his conscience. It’s the fault of that conniving Irish bastard.’
‘Rachel!’ Gloria Meredith sharply remonstrated, standing up. ‘I’ll hear no more of this…this talk. You forget yourself and who you speak to and are become coarse and vulgar out of bitterness! You heard what your papa said. The Earl won fair and square. There were witnesses to the whole game. Your uncle Chamberlain was there. So was Mr Pemberton. You have no quarrel with the integrity of those two gentlemen, surely? Your father has stressed he has no grievance with Lord Devane…no accusations to make about the way play went that night…’
Rachel gave a bleak laugh. ‘No; he has no accusations to make. But I have. That Irish—’ She swallowed, fought to dissipate her bile. ‘That Irish major fooled me too. I thought he meant what he said to me at the Pembertons about quietening the gossips and smoothing over past unpleasantness. His intention, of course, is the exact reverse. He has now made us the butt of beau monde derision and has certainly taken his revenge on us…me. And my own father has allowed him…conspired with him in it to ease some notion of past indebtedness. I would guess, despite what has occurred, he still likes him, too.’ She gazed at her mother with huge, soulful eyes. ‘I would guess he still likes him a deal better than he likes me…his own flesh and blood.’
Gloria, arms outstretched, started towards her daughter, but Rachel spun away and avoided her. She pulled a hand across her cheeks, and choked a laugh. ‘I think Devane knew very well when he got into that game and realised that my father had no cash with which to bet that, whilst drunk, he might stake Windrush. As you say, Mama, country seats have ever been won and lost on the baize. He knew that this property is my inheritance. He knew that losing it to him would devastate me more than knowing the estate had been accidentally
razed to the ground. Since we returned here from London you have asked me several times if Lord Devane and I were now friends and I didn’t properly reply. Now I shall. I know without a shadow of a doubt that we are not friends, Mama. In fact, I can confidently state that we are about to become the bitterest of enemies.’
Chapter Seven
‘Don’t go, Rachel, please. There’s no need. I truly don’t mind being married in London and I know William won’t object. As Papa said, it does have certain advantages for the guests…’
‘I don’t give a tinker’s cuss about the guests, and neither should you! It is to be your day. Yours and William’s. Don’t you dare write and tell him there is to be any change,’ she hastily interjected as the thought occurred to her. ‘You shall be married at Windrush, as originally planned. Windrush shall be my inheritance as our ancestors planned. The status quo is to be maintained, that is what I have planned. All will be well again, I promise,’ Rachel concluded with a mettlesome smile and a toss of her golden head.
June looked unconvinced so Rachel gave her sister’s arm a little encouraging shake. ‘Don’t look so terrified,’ she admonished. ‘I’m the one who must soon do battle with the Irish usurper.’
‘Don’t speak so, Rachel! You know Mama and Papa will be angry if they again hear you cursing his lordship.’
‘I wasn’t actually swearing, although I’ll confess to being plagued by the desire where he’s concerned. An usurper is just a fancy term for a thief…a mean embezzler, which justly describes him.’
‘Well, don’t let them hear you say that either,’ June warned on a grimace, her eyes sliding to the chamber door. ‘Papa maintains he isn’t dishonest, and won’t hear a word doubting his integrity, and Mama agrees with him.’
‘Well, she would, wouldn’t she?’ A scoffing little laugh escaped Rachel. ‘Our poor mama is of that downtrodden generation that thinks once a woman is wed she relegates her ideas, her beliefs, even her character beneath her husband’s, however biased and bigoted he might be. So, if you intend retaining any degree of independence and identity, within connubial bliss, ponder on our parents’ relationship and let it be a salutary lesson to you.’ She finished the homily on a humorous look and an exaggerated finger wag.
‘Is that wrong, then, Rachel?’ June hesitantly queried. ‘Wanting to be like Mama? Accepting a wife’s role is to be loyal and dutiful and perhaps even subordinate to the man she loves? Is that stupid?’
‘No…well, not necessarily…’ Rachel muttered with vague impatience, for she had no wish to be seriously lecturing or setting standards in her sister’s marriage. ‘Anyway, William is a different kind of man to our chauvinistic papa. He is younger…more liberal and progressive in his views on women’s dues and their capabilities. He holds no prejudices against the women derogatorily termed blue-stockings by the less intelligent and well read, and I know he supports Elizabeth Fry in her prison reforms for women and children, for we’ve discussed it before. He’s also not unsympathetic to Princess Caroline and the poor woman’s plight at the hands of her gross consort.’
‘It seems you know more of his politics and beliefs than I do, then,’ June said with uncharacteristic tartness. ‘For I don’t recall us ever having such a conversation.’
‘That’s because, when with you, he is too busy admiring and adoring you to speak of such mundane things,’ Rachel soothed, whilst patting down the clothes in her trunk. ‘He is a man in love. He wants to entertain and woo his beloved. You, my dear, have inspired an envied, elusive love match. You will have time enough, once the honeymoon is over, to talk of Government policies and the price of bacon. William is a fine man. He cherishes you. You won’t be bored, even when being cosy and comfortable together. I like him very much.’ Rachel sighed in conclusion.
June twisted a smile. ‘And he likes you. At one time I thought perhaps a little too well—’ She broke off as Rachel flapped a dismissing hand.
‘Get away! I’m far too old for him! I look to be at least four years his senior! He is grateful to me, that is the most of his consideration. And so he ought to be! After all, I bestowed on him the honour of an introduction to my beautiful, sweet sister. You were surrounded by admirers last year during the month we were in London. I swear poor William thought he might be beaten off by one of those distinguished fellows in Life Guard regimentals. You were barely visible at times for a battalion of red coats.’
Piqued by the hint that her beloved looked like a boy, June quickly advised, ‘He is nearly twenty-four, you know.’ She sighed. ‘T’was only ever him I wanted, in any case. But I confess to liking the look of a military man.’ A sidelong look accompanied, ‘I always swooned over the Major in his Hussar’s uniform. I know I was only thirteen when he was courting you, but I suppose it won’t hurt now to say that I was very jealous that you had him. I used to dream that some day…’ The disclosure tailed off. Instead she revealed, ‘When Connor would visit, expecting you to be home, only to discover you’d gone out with Isabel, I would shamelessly traipse after him, you know. If Papa or Mama were at home they’d try and trap him until you returned. But if Sylvie was in the nursery and no one was about but me, I’d be delighted to have him to myself. I’d falsely promise you’d soon be back and he’d simply smile in that way he has that just tilts a corner of his mouth.’ June’s lips slanted in an unconscious yet studied approximation of what she was describing. ‘Then he’d linger a while, and he’d ask how my lessons went.’ Despite receiving no response from her sister, June knew she was stirring Rachel’s interest. What she’d always feared was that her beautiful older sister might be amused by her schoolgirl crush on Connor.
June had spent her formative years in her charismatic, headstrong big sister’s shadow. The difference in their ages had once prevented her sharing Rachel’s glittering social life. She remembered that Rachel and Isabel, born just eighteen months apart, had been inseparable. Even now, with no sibling here between them, getting Rachel’s full attention was rare and complimentary. June hadn’t once thought this romantic little tale might bond them in a bittersweet reminiscence. Softly she continued, ‘There was one occasion he caught me spying on him late at night through the banisters at Beaulieu Gardens.’
Rachel folded the dress in her hands, made neat the edges, before turning to look at June. ‘I never knew you ever noticed him like that. You never said.’
‘I often wondered why you never noticed him like that,’ June ventured to say with rare pithiness. ‘At thirteen I vowed if I had him, I should never stand him up when he came to take me out. I vowed I would never leave him idling at a loose end in case another young lady caught his eye. But then I was too…naïve…I suppose, to realise that you didn’t care if another lady lured him away, for you didn’t really love him at all…did you?’
‘I wasn’t standing him up. I was…I was making him aware I wasn’t prepared to be always there…waiting…when he and Papa had nothing better to do with themselves,’ escaped Rachel in a hoarse whisper. It was followed immediately by, ‘What did he say when he caught you spying on him? Probably told you to go away, I suppose. He never seemed very interested in children…’
‘Oh, no, he was kind. He waited till you and the other guests—it was Aunt and Uncle Chamberlain and some other, very grand people who were with you—had gone into the drawing room, then he came over to talk to me. It was as well Mama didn’t spot me there, at close to midnight, in my nightgown and bare feet. I expect she’d have had a purple fit.’
‘No doubt…’ Rachel murmured, but continued begging June with a look for further scraps of the story.
‘You’d been to the opera with a Lord and Lady someone or other. I know it was The Magic Flute by Mozart, for Connor gave me the theatre programme and the white rose from his buttonhole. He looked quite magnificent, I thought, with his sleek black hair and that scarlet coat…’ June shifted on the bed where she was sitting. ‘I still have the programme and I pressed the rose. I don’t know why I’ve kept them so long�
��six years… How odd. Now I’m about to be a bride, not you. I’m in love…yet still I have keepsakes from another man.’ The peculiarity was stressed by a widening of her honey-coloured eyes. ‘I felt sure he would tell you he had given me those momentoes. I thought between yourselves you might have found my daft infatuation amusing.’
‘No, he never told me,’ Rachel said softly. ‘I never knew…’ She shook out the gown she had just carefully folded, then refolded it exactly as it had been and smoothed it before placing it into the trunk. With a complete change of tone she laughed. ‘It’s as well, then, he has since shown himself to be unkind, or we might now all be languishing in thrall to that cheap Irish charm he employs.’
Something in her sister’s shrill tone moved June to reassure her. ‘No matter that you didn’t much care for him, I’m sure he adored you, Rachel. I recall how he would look at you. I used to wish that some day someone would look that way at me…’
‘Well, now you know better than to be taken in by any such nonsense,’ Rachel returned briskly. ‘Bovine-eyed regard is simply clear evidence of a beast-brain.’
‘I noticed the way he was looking at you when you came in together at the Pembertons’ soirée…’
‘He played his part well, did he not?’ Rachel interrupted busily. ‘All smooth solicitude and sophistication. And I never guessed it to be the prelude to his revenge. I feel quite foolish now about that. You see, June, damning proof; he is still a beast…a monster, in fact. And to my chagrin I expect I shall honestly become quite beastly myself as I battle to recover what is rightfully mine…ours. You will be married here in Hertfordshire. There is no doubt of that. Soon I shall return with the deeds to Windrush. There is, indeed, no doubt of that, either!’
Mary Brendan Page 9
