by Anthea Bell
“And so you are the cousin who is chaperoning Miss Grafton about? Well, well! I had heard of the musical heiress, to be sure, but I had no notion that you were any connection!”
“The connection,” said Elinor, maintaining her tone of civil coolnesss, “is very remote, and is on different sides of the family of Persephone’s guardian, Sir Edmund Grafton.”
“You must know, Miss Grafton,” Charlotte was meanwhile informing Persephone, with easy friendliness, “that Miss Radley was quite the kindest governess my sister and I ever had! Miss Radley, you must tell us all your news! I think I have already told you mine, except that Papa died five years ago.” Elinor murmured formal condolences. “And so now we are all fixed in London, except that Grenville comes and goes between town and Royden Manor, but the house there is more or less shut up, because he doesn’t wish to be at the expense of maintaining a full establishment in the country. How happy Mary will be to know that I have met you! She has a little boy now, and a dear little baby, and because she is expecting another child very soon she does not go out much at present, but you must call upon her. We were both very sorry when you left the Manor so suddenly.”
“I was obliged,” said Elinor, carefully, “to leave in order to take up the post of companion to Lady Emberley, an elderly relative of mine.” For some reason that Persephone could not fathom, she looked straight at Mr. Royden rather than at Charlotte as she spoke. And now something occurred which Elinor had been fearing for the last few minutes, but which she saw no reasonable means of averting: she was going to be left alone with Mr. Grenville Royden. Lord Conington was approaching with a friend; introductions were made, and very soon Persephone and Charlotte had both been borne off into a quadrille. Looking round rather desperately for a familiar face, Elinor saw a lady whom she had recently met, and, grasping at any straw, was moving away to greet this acquaintance when Mr. Royden said gently, “Oh, don’t go! I should so much like to talk over old times with you.”
His tone might be gentle, but Elinor realized with some indignation that he had actually taken her firmly by the elbow, and she could not pull away without creating a most unseemly little fracas. He released her only when she turned to face him. “Well!” he continued. “To think of you being here, and in the part of a chaperon! Within the sacred halls of Almack’s, too! Who would ever have thought it?”
Her head came up. “I think we need not discuss the matter, Mr. Royden.”
“Mr. Royden? Oh, so formal!” He laughed at the fiery glance she shot him. “Oh, don’t agitate yourself—you’ll allow that I could hardly resist that! So here you are, in the company of Grafton’s ward. Did you know he and I are neighbours in the country? No, perhaps not, but so it is.” Now that she thought of it, Elinor did recollect that during her brief period at Royden Manor, the name of Waterleys, which she now knew to be Sir Edmund’s place in Hertfordshire, had been mentioned as that of a neighbouring estate, but the circumstance had been of no interest to her at the time. How strange to think that, long ago, she had been so close to Sir Edmund without ever meeting him ... or no, more likely she had not, she reminded herself prosaically, since he would have been abroad at that time.
She was brought out of her thoughts by Mr. Royden’s voice, that very irritating hint of amusement still in it. One might suppose, reflected Elinor, summoning all her dignity to her aid, that he would at least be abashed to meet her again, but evidently it was no such thing! For he was continuing, in the same tone, “Grafton, and the Yoxfords—you have certainly done pretty well for yourself, Elinor! You move in elevated circles indeed! But you haven’t asked me what I am doing in London.”
“Escorting Charlotte to parties, I suppose.”
“Well, yes, but I’ll be frank with you, Elinor. After all, were we not once upon very close terms? I feel sure frankness cannot offend you! I’m here to get Charlotte a husband.”
“I should imagine,” said Elinor, quite tartly, “that Charlotte will be well able to do that for herself, for she has the most engaging manners, and is sure to take.”
“Ah, but you don’t quite understand me, my dear. Just any sort of husband will not do! Mary married well enough, but not very well—and he’s a prosy fellow, her husband, and doesn’t seem to care for me, I can’t think why! No, it’s a rich husband I need for Charlotte—rich, and well-disposed towards her only brother, if you understand me.”
I suppose you mean that you have been running through your inheritance.” She could well believe it; improvidence had been one of Mr. Royden’s more notable characteristics as a young man, though as she ruefully recalled, she had been so blind to any faults of his that such mundane matters had not seemed to signify at the time.
“Let’s say, the estate was pretty much encumbered already, and I’ve no fancy for entrenchment, or much liking for the life of a country squire. A wife with a handsome dowry might do the trick, but then, matrimony’s not in my line, my dear Elinor—never was.” Miss Radley suppressed the gasp of indignation that nearly escaped her; Grenville might be baiting her, but she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her rise to his bait! “No, a rich and obliging husband for Charlotte is the thing, and would pull me out of the suds nicely!” He glanced at his sister, talking to Lord Conington with unselfconscious ease during an interval in the dance, and remarked, “Not such a connection as that, of course; I can tell I’d be setting my sights too high there, and besides, the talk is that Conington’s infatuated with your pretty Miss Grafton. However, this is a very fortunate meeting, Elinor, for it occurs to me forcibly that you and I might be very useful to one another.”
“How so?” she inquired glacially, not troubling to hide her dislike of this style of conversation.
“Why, you may introduce Charlotte into the Yoxfords’ circle. She won’t put you to the blush; she’s pretty enough, though not so beautiful you need fear her outshining Miss Grafton! But Mary and her prosy husband don’t move in the first circles, let alone the fact that Mary seems to be forever in an interesting condition, and—well, let’s say the matter of a—er—suitable husband for Charlotte is becoming tolerably pressing!”
“Poor Charlotte! I collect that she is ignorant of these delightful plans for her welfare! Well, I am sure she will be very welcome in Upper Brook Street, for she is grown into a charming girl,” said Elinor, decidedly relieved to find that an introduction was all that was required of her. More, however, she could not do—and would not if she could, as she told Mr. Royden, matching his own frankness. “You seem to care more for money than for her happiness in marriage!”
“Ah, but then money is important in matchmaking, is it not!” inquired Mr. Royden blandly. “As I’m persuaded you must know.” She was far too much mortified to make any reply to this, and in a moment he added, “But you haven’t asked me what I can do for you!”
“Nor do I mean to!”
“I’ll tell you, all the same,” said Mr. Royden, close to her ear. The whole distasteful conversation had been conducted in a tone of such confidentiality that no bystander could have caught their words, which made it, somehow, even more nightmarish. “I can keep my mouth shut, can’t I? Or not,” he added reflectively, his gaze turning towards the door.
Following the direction of his eyes, it was with extraordinary relief that Elinor saw Sir Edmund enter the room and look about him. He was impeccably clad in a blue dress-coat with gilt buttons, a waistcoat of a lighter shade of blue, and pale-coloured pantaloons strapped under the feet. On locating her among the onlookers at the side of the floor, he came towards her with a smile that made her heart lift. It immediately plummeted again as Mr. Royden repeated, very softly, “Or not, as the case may be.”
From the circumstance of their estates marching together on the borders of Essex and Hertfordshire, the two gentlemen were slightly acquainted, so she had no need to perform introductions, for which she was thankful; just then she felt she could not have uttered another word. To her immense relief, Mr. Royden soon took his leave
and walked away, and Sir Edmund, noting her pallor, caused her to sit down and procured her a glass of orgeat. She sipped it thankfully.
“There, is that better?” he asked, looking at her with concern. “What was the matter?”
“Oh, nothing!” she said quickly. “The—the heat of the room! As Persephone noticed too, it is a very warm evening for the time of year!”
Sir Edmund, who knew a civil falsehood when he heard one, let this pass, but regarded her with no lessening of his concern. She was very glad when he suggested an early return to Upper Brook Street, and when Persephone concurred. Miss Grafton was still regretting the tightlacing to which she had succumbed, and Elinor was thankful indeed to attain the solitude of her own bedchamber after an evening which had quite cut up her peace. And for that, she acknowledged despairingly, she had no one but herself to blame!
But even exhausted as she was by the mingled emotions that had beset her that evening, it was a long time before Elinor could fall asleep. She lay tossing and turning in her bed, hearing the tall clock upon the landing strike the hours, staring unseeingly at the faint squares of light that the moon, scudding through clouds beyond the oblong panes of the big sash window, cast on the ceiling of her room, as her mind went over not just the day’s events, but also those of a summer eight years ago.
Who could ever have thought of her meeting Grenville Royden again? She caught herself up: ridiculous to think in such a way! She could have thought of it, and so she should have done! What was more natural than that Mr. Royden should come up to London from Essex, to squire an unmarried sister about town? The fact was, she had never stopped to think that by now her former charges must be grown up. She still imagined them as little girls of thirteen and ten, just as they were when she last set eyes on them. To think of Mary’s being married! Her conscience smote her, amidst her own turmoil of feelings, for having failed to ask Mary’s married name and her direction, but she would make up for that when Charlotte called in Upper Brook Street.
She supposed, however, that the main reason why she had failed to anticipate such a meeting was sheer reluctance to bring that summer at Royden Manor back to mind. She made up for the omission now, deliberately tormenting herself with the memory of her own folly. Eight years ago, listening to sermon after shocked sermon, lecture after lecture from her aunts, both severally and together, some obstinate streak of individuality deep within her had stoutly if silently maintained that it was only folly, not utter wickedness, to have fallen so helplessly, hopelessly in love with her employers’ eldest child and only son. Sent down in disgrace from Oxford three years earlier, for some misdemeanour which his parents carefully avoided mentioning, although a parlourmaid had hinted to Elinor that it was a very shocking affair to do with the most disreputable class of female, he had never settled to anything since. By chance, young Elinor had overheard one angry scene between Grenville and his father, with old Mr. Royden raking down his son for his idleness and lack of interest in the estate. The agricultural troubles following the end of the French wars had hit Royden Manor hard, and the older Elinor could now sympathize heartily with Mr. Royden’s vain attempts to make his land pay its way.
But at the time she had been wholeheartedly on Grenville’s side when he complained to her, bitterly, of his father’s unreasonable behaviour in expecting a young gentleman of fashion to apply himself to so dreary a matter as estate management. No, the thing was to employ a steward to take care of all that! He supposed his father thought to force him to stay at home by making him such a wretched allowance! His having spent the whole of it for the current quarter, when that period still had six weeks to run, was the circumstance which had brought him to Royden Manor just when the new young governess arrived to take up her post. So he had some reason, he assured Elinor, to be grateful to his father after all! That, naturally, was music to her ears. How could she believe, for an instant, what Meg the parlourmaid had hinted about a woman of the town and a baby—when Grenville so plainly adored her, just as she adored him? Mere servants’ gossip! She was very glad she had given Meg a setdown, and refused to listen to any more improper remarks!
What easy game she must have been, she thought ruefully. She could still remember, only too clearly, every moment of those brief weeks of bliss: the first time he put his arm round her waist, out in the orchard where she and the little girls were picking cherries, and he had playfully demanded his share, with a significant glance at her lips. She had been so afraid that Mary and Charlotte would notice how the mere, fleeting touch of his hand made her tremble! And there was the day when she slipped out of the schoolroom and he kissed her for the first time, in the succession house at the end of the garden. Her cheeks burned as she remembered, all too clearly, the ardour with which she had returned his kiss. Good God, she would not have denied him if he had wanted to take her there and then, among the forced melons and pineapples. (Such luxuries, beloved of Mrs. Royden, from whom her son inherited expensive tastes, were one of the reasons why Grenville’s father found retrenchment so difficult.)
She had felt a good deal of distress—not that she could now allow that to be much to her credit. She was betraying her employers’ trust, she was no fit example to her pupils—but how could she help it, she had asked herself? She was sure that love conquered all, and he thought so too, positively urged her to think so, said he could not live without her, either. She wondered if he had ever really meant, however fleetingly, to marry her. He had certainly assured her that once the knot was tied, his parents would soon come round to the idea of the match. And the notion of being actually married to him, the prospect of such amazing, incredible, life-long bliss, had so dazzled her as to make her blind not only to virtue but to common sense as well!
Once again, in her mind, she went over that stealthy flight in the post-chaise brought to the Manor gates at dusk; she could still remember how she had trembled as she stepped up into it and into his arms. And then came the bedchamber upstairs in the inn on the Great North Road. She had been a little surprised, at first, that Grenville had not bespoken two rooms—but when it became clear what his intentions were, had she resisted? No, she had not. What Grenville wanted, Grenville should have, and she would give it gladly! How ungenerous to insist on waiting for a mere formal ceremony, when he desired her so much! She knew, in some separate part of her mind, that she was doing wrong, but if it didn’t feel wrong, how could she care? And here her memories became such as to cause the blood to rise to her cheeks yet again. In point of fact, she had not particularly enjoyed the experience. Quite apart from her own innocent ignorance, Grenville Royden was not the most skilful and certainly not the most considerate of lovers. But she could hardly have known that, and was only pleased to have made him happy; the idea of their future life together made up for any momentary disappointment. What was that phrase of Shakespeare’s? The heyday in the blood ... well, she had let it govern her to the exclusion of all else, which she now supposed was wickedness, just as they had all said. Very certainly it was foolish beyond permission!
She had also occasionally, and sadly, wondered how long Grenville would have kept her with him if they had not been discovered next morning. Perhaps he had even meant his father to discover them? Certainly the elder Mr. Royden had no difficulty in following their trail, and in catching up with them before they so much as left the inn. The most dreadful thing of all, still clear to her mind in every mortifying detail, had been Grenville’s ready acquiescence when his father pointed out where his duty lay; his turning on her when she protested, and asking whether she really thought he could marry a penniless girl who would let herself be tumbled so easily? He hoped he had a better notion of what he owed his family! The absolute brutality of this had made her feel quite faint, and had been a little too much even for old Mr. Royden, happy as he was to find that he was going to have no trouble with his son and heir over this peccadillo. The old man had given her five guineas to see her on her way to her aunts’ house. She would dearly have liked to fl
ing them in his face, but knew she could not, without being left alone and perfectly destitute.
The shock of rejection had, at least, the advantage of numbing her to some extent during the hours, days and weeks of disgrace and constant scolding that followed. It must be hushed up, the aunts all agreed, it would be hushed up ... but that did not mean they had the least intention of holding their own tongues in private. Aunt Elizabeth arrived from London, to add her voice to those of Aunts Jane and Matilda. She was not surprised, she stated with gloomy triumph, to find that a girl who refused such a very respectable offer of marriage as Elinor had done was capable of this, too—but neither did her lack of surprise prevent her from expressing her sense of horror and outrage at interminable length. An atmosphere almost worse than one of mourning pervaded the house: there were whispered consultations, a letter too urgent to be entrusted to the mails was sent by special messenger, and a portentous solemnity settled upon Elinor’s aunts as they awaited the answer. It was almost a relief when that answer came, and Elinor was dispatched to Lady Emberley, to undergo yet more hours of strictures.
But even Sophronia Emberley could not continue in that vein for ever, and there was only one of her, whereas there had been three of the aunts to take turns in scolding. And there were small, practical things for Elinor to do about the Cheltenham house: that helped. She had grown up that summer, but too painfully. It had taken her a long time to teach herself how to raise her spirits and make the best of things. But she did find, at last, that by an effort of the will she could inure herself to the references Lady Emberley was in the habit of making to the shocking past—though it was certainly rather hard, when the Reverend Mr. Spalding became so intimate a friend of the old lady, to discover that he too had been regaled with the entire story, and to have to endure solemn reproofs from him, mingled with his ponderous attempts at courtship. With another effort of will, however, she contrived to persuade herself that she found that very diverting. Over the years, she had discovered an inner strength in herself, on which she could rely.
