A Regency Scandal

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  “Oh!” She scrambled to her feet, assisted by a hand from the curate. “Oh, how do you do, Mr. Somerby?”

  The children began to clamour for more, but were silenced by their mother, who bade Kitty take them out into the back yard for a few moments. She then offered her visitors a dish of tea, but they refused courteously, knowing how scarce such a commodity was in that house.

  “I looked in to speak to you about the christening, Mrs. Joliffe,” continued the curate. “Perhaps we can settle upon a time and date at present? But if that is inconvenient in any way, I can easily call again tomorrow. I have no wish to intrude upon Miss Paxton’s visit.”

  “Oh, but I was about to go in any case,” said Amanda, hurriedly, “as Mama may be already waiting for me in the carriage.”

  “I think perhaps Mrs. Joliffe and I can conclude our business in a very few moments?” He looked towards the woman as he spoke and she nodded. “That being so, perhaps you will allow me to escort you back to your carriage, Miss Paxton?”

  Amanda inclined her head and waited while he made arrangements for the baptism of the latest member of the Joliffe family. It was over in as short a time as he had promised; and after he had emptied his pockets of some sweetmeats for the children, they both took their leave.

  Once outside, he offered her his arm. She hesitated a second, looking shyly up at him in an unaccustomed way before laying her gloved hand upon it.

  At first they spoke of the weather, of Amanda’s recent visit to Maria Cottesford’s home in Buckinghamshire and of the forthcoming wedding there.

  “To which, somewhat to my surprise, I have been bidden,” he said.

  “No doubt that’s because you are so particular a friend of Maria’s grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Reddiford,” she replied. “I am to be a bridesmaid. I do hope I may sustain the part with credit and not do anything too frightful, as I fear I’m only too prone to do!”

  His eyes twinkled down into hers. “Are you thinking of what I’m thinking?”

  She laughed, feeling suddenly at ease with him again. “Oh, the way I chased my bonnet in the rain that day!” She put up her hands to the creation she was wearing at present. “You know, I have the strongest doubts that this one is not set properly upon my head. Poor Mrs. Joliffe has no mirror in her room, and I was obliged to manage without.”

  “Well, since you mention it, I must admit that it is a trifle askew, ma’am — but nothing to signify, assure you.”

  She withdrew her arm from his and tried to remedy the defect. “Oh, dear,” she said, ruefully. “I don’t care a jot, myself, but Mama is always complaining that I pay no heed to my appearance.”

  “Permit me to assist you, Miss Paxton. The nice adjustment of ladies’ headgear was unfortunately omitted from my education, but I think I may claim that I’ve a tolerably straight eye.”

  “Oh, if you will, please!”

  She turned towards him without the slightest affectation or coquetry and stood patiently waiting for him to adjust the bonnet. A muscle moved in his cheek as his hands untied the ribbons, set the bonnet at the correct angle, and fastened the ribbons again; otherwise he gave no sign of the considerable upheaval which was taking place beneath that calm exterior.

  “There, I think that will pass muster,” he said, stepping a cautious pace away from her.

  She thanked him in a rush of embarrassment, for the experience, slight though it was, had not left her unmoved.

  They walked on in silence for a little while, then he turned towards her in an impulsive way that was not characteristic of him.

  “Dare I hope I’m forgiven now, Miss Paxton, for whatever unwitting offence I committed on the night of the Assembly ball last month?”

  She started, for she, too, had been thinking of that night.

  “I did think you might have waited before leading out someone else!” she exclaimed, in her usual direct manner. “My odious brother had stepped on my gown and torn it during the preceding dance, so I was obliged to go and pin it up — and there you were, when I returned to the ballroom, dancing with Berenice!”

  His face lengthened. “Oh, dear, so that was it! But, you know, I thought you were reluctant to dance with me at all. Your manner when I first applied for the honour — you hesitated over accepting—”

  “Because,” broke in Amanda, “I was trying to make that stupid boy Charlie understand that I wished to be let off from dancing with him, that’s all, but he wouldn’t take my hint, because he was set on having a practice dance with me before taking out Sue Veryan — and you see what came of it!”

  Mr. Somerby did see, and he looked at her in such a very meaning way that Amanda held her breath. But before he could make any further explanations, Lady Paxton’s carriage drew up beside them and they were obliged to terminate the conversation at what each felt to be its most interesting point.

  Unfortunately, opportunities for resuming it did not present themselves for some time. The two met at frequent intervals in church or at evening parties attended — so it seemed to both — by the whole neighbourhood, so that there was no chance at all of being private. And although Theodore Somerby often at this time paid calls at Oakley Park, he was such a welcome visitor to Sir Robert that the squire gladly monopolised his company without once realising that perhaps the young clergyman came there for some other reason than to enjoy a comfortable masculine chat.

  It was gradually borne in upon Mr. Somerby that desperate measures might be needed before he could gain the private interview with Miss Paxton that he so much desired. Although he was a gentle person, much given to reflection, he could act resolutely when the occasion required it; but one thought gave him pause. Had he mistaken her? When he came to review all their dealings together, he could not positively state that she had ever given him reason to suppose that she felt anything warmer for him than friendship. She was such an artless girl, so apt to say the first thing that came into her head, that a man might well draw false conclusions.

  Thus his natural diffidence held him back from contriving a private meeting, and the weeks went by until he could bear the waiting no longer. So it was that when next he presented himself at Oakley Park, he was less calm than his outward appearance suggested. He had come with the fixed intention of seeing the master of the house, and inwardly he had misgivings. He knew that he could not be considered a brilliant match for the squire’s daughter. He was certainly of good birth and education, and in possession of a moderately comfortable private income; but he had neither title nor lands to his name and was at present an obscure clergyman with a meagre stipend. It would not be surprising if Sir Robert wished to look higher for a son-in-law.

  Once closeted with Sir Robert in the book room, he lost no time in making his position clear to the squire. Sir Robert stared in amazement, pushing up his spectacles on to his forehead in a way he had when he was taken aback.

  “God bless my soul? Amanda — little Mandy! And does she return your sentiments, Somerby? What does she say — eh?”

  The curate lost colour a little. Sir Robert’s amazement did not seem to promise well for his cause.

  “I have not taken the liberty of addressing myself to Miss Paxton without first obtaining your permission, sir.”

  “Very proper — quite right.” Sir Robert nodded. “Only sometimes, you know, impulse outruns discretion in such cases. But you’ve acted just as you ought, my dear fellow, and it’s what I’d have expected of you. Well, now, and has the dear girl not given you just a hint? For she’s one to rush in where angels fear to tread, our little Mandy, and for all the notions of propriety her Mama has tried her best to instil, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that she’d done the wooing herself, dashed if I wouldn’t!”

  He laughed, and all at once Theodore Somerby felt more relaxed.

  “What am I to answer to that, sir?” he asked with a smile. “To say that your daughter has given me any positive encouragement is to pronounce myself nothing better than a coxcomb. To seek her hand in ma
rriage without being persuaded that she will not be totally averse to hearing me must be the action of a fool.”

  “Answered like a true academic!” chuckled the older man. “Well, Somerby, you’d best settle the matter with my daughter, for she’s the prime judge in this affair.”

  “And I can take it, then, that you would have no objection, Sir Robert?”

  “Not the least in the world, my dear fellow. If Amanda has had the good sense to fix her affections on you, I shall be prodigiously glad of it, for she might have chosen a much stupider man whose conversation would have been a penance instead of a pleasure. Off you go, then, for I’m sure you’d be wishing me at the devil were it not for your cloth.”

  It was a fine, warm day and Amanda was in the garden cutting some roses. A trug lay at her feet half-filled with blooms of velvety red and yellow shading to amber. Their fragrance wafted up to him as he halted beside her, a scent that was often to come back in memory across the years which still lay before them.

  She started as he came up to her, pricking her finger on a thorn.

  “Oh!” She looked ruefully at the spot of blood appearing, but only because she did not choose to look directly at him. “You startled me.”

  “I am sorry. May I look?”

  He took her hand, inspecting the tiny prick for a moment before dabbing it with a clean handkerchief which he drew from his pocket.

  “It’s nothing,” said Amanda, smiling as she attempted to draw her hand away.

  He retained his hold upon it, and she looked half-shyly, half-expectantly into his eyes.

  “I wish to keen this hand, Miss Amanda. Will you not give me leave? I think you must know already how deeply I admire and respect you, but now I have your father’s permission to tell you openly of my feelings. I cannot know what your own may be, whether you can at all reciprocate my love. I can only hope that you are not totally indifferent to me, that you will not reject one whose whole happiness is bound up in you—”

  “Oh, no, indeed I won’t!” exclaimed Amanda, breathlessly. “That’s to say, dear, dear Mr. Somerby, indeed I do love you most sincerely — and, oh, I thought you were never going to speak! I was quite at my wits’ end!”

  She paused to look at him meltingly with her soft hazel eyes, wondering if he would think it quite proper to embrace her, which was at that moment the thing she most desired in the world. But a clergyman in love is very much as other men are; and Amanda, finding herself suddenly crushed in strong arms and kissed most delightfully, was profoundly glad of this.

  CHAPTER X

  Maria Cottesford and Viscount Shaldon were married in July, on a sultry day with storm clouds threatening on the horizon. As they stood before the altar, the first peal of thunder sounded, followed by a flash that gave an eerie light to the interior of the church. Amanda Paxton, who was one of the bridesmaids and looked charming in a gown of soft pink lawn with a white frilled neckerchief, started so violently that she dropped the bride’s bouquet, which had been handed to her at the start of the ceremony. It was retrieved for her quickly and without ostentation by the Reverend Theodore Somerby, who was seated close at hand.

  The bride remained calm throughout the ceremony, although the storm rumbled overhead, at times almost drowning the words. She looked a trifle pale in her ivory satin gown, but perhaps that was the fault of the colour, which did not become her. The rain beat mercilessly down upon the congregation as they left the church and hastened to their carriages.

  “Happy the bride that the sun shines on!” commented one dowager, acidly, as she thrust her daughter before her into their waiting coach. She had permitted herself at one time to have some hopes of the Viscount for her daughter, and therefore felt entitled to a small show of malice. “And if there’s anything in the old saying, my dear, she’ll have little enough cause to rejoice, even though she is a Viscountess.”

  It did not occur to Maria that she had little cause to rejoice until some months after her marriage. At first, the expression of her own deep love concealed from her the lack of any but a mere physical response on her husband’s side. They were together, and that sufficed to make her happy. If he showed no particular urge to stay in her company but frequently passed his days and evenings apart from her, she told herself with her characteristic tolerant common sense that it would be a great mistake for husband and wife to live in each other’s pockets. It was natural that a man should prefer sometimes to have the company of others of his own sex, rather than to devote all his time to riding, walking, or sitting at home with his wife. So that he might have no feelings of guilt in leaving her alone so often, she cheerfully resumed her old interests and friendships, reflecting how fortunate she was that marriage had not removed her to any great distance from her parental home.

  She did feel, however, that it was a pity they were obliged to live at Alvington Hall. She would have preferred a home of their own, away from the Earl’s domination. Now that she was within the sphere of his influence, she realised how much Neville was under his thumb; and she sometimes wondered a little uneasily how long she could keep a still tongue in her head, or whether there might not come a crisis when she herself would find it necessary to have a confrontation with the Earl. She hoped sincerely that by the exercise of tact and diplomacy she could avoid this; but she was not the young woman to allow herself to be intimidated when any issue of real importance was at stake. Meanwhile, Alvington Hall was sufficiently large for the married couple to have their own set of apartments, so at least they were not obliged to be always in company with the Earl and Countess.

  The first doubt which Maria felt about her marriage came when, in October, she had news to impart to her husband which she was sure must give him joy. They had dined with the rest of the family that evening and afterwards retired to their own private withdrawing room, which had been decorated in the bride’s taste with a grey-blue damask paper and hangings of rose coloured silk. Neville sprawled in an upholstered satinwood armchair with a copy of the Gentleman’s Magazine while Maria seated herself before her embroidery frame. After a while, she looked across at him.

  “My love,” she said, quietly. “I’ve something to tell you, if you should not be too engrossed in your magazine just at present.”

  He raised his head and tossed the book aside.

  “No, devilish dull, if you must know. What is it you want to say?”

  His tone was not inviting, but Maria pushed her work aside and moved over to a chair close beside him.

  “Perhaps you can guess,” she continued, smiling softly at him.

  “No, damme, Maria, don’t set me to guessing games after dinner! If you’ve something to say, then for God’s sake say it, and have done!”

  This was worse; for a moment she considered delaying the communication until he should be in a more receptive mood. But she was so excited by her news and understandably eager to share it with the one other person most concerned, that she decided to persevere.

  “Oh, you are a bear,” she said, with a rueful twinkle in her eye, “but I fancy you will be as delighted as I am myself when you know.”

  “Which is likely to be never, at this rate,” he returned in a surly fashion, evidently not catching her drift.

  “Oh, dearest! But perhaps I have teased you enough, only I felt sure you would guess. We are to have a child, Neville. I waited to tell you until I was quite sure. There! Is not that wonderful news?”

  He sat up straight in his chair. “A child?”

  She laughed softly. “Well, don’t look so amazed. It does happen, you know.”

  He made no reply for a moment, but started to pace up and down the room, while she watched him in surprise.

  “A child,” he repeated, at last. “Well, so long as it’s a boy, I’m sure my father will be pleased. In fact, he’s been asking lately if there were any signs.”

  “Never mind your father!” Her voice trembled between indignation and distress. Are you not pleased?”

  He paused in his pa
cing and gave her a long scrutiny. There was no warmth in his eyes.

  “To be sure — oh, certainly. I will go and tell my father at once.”

  And before she could say any more, he had gone from the room.

  For several minutes she sat quite still, staring into space. Presently, she felt a salt taste on her lips and realised that the tears had been trickling unheeded down her face. He had shown no delight, no involvement even, in her news; worse still, he had uttered no word of tenderness.

  From that moment, she began to realise that she had failed in her attempt to make her husband love her as she loved him. Just for a while, the future seemed bleak indeed, and her wonderful news of no account. But she was a courageous young woman, and too proud to show how deep the hurt went. There was a child within her; boy or girl, it mattered not to her, for was it not his — and hers? A child to think about and plan for eagerly during all the long months of waiting, a child who might perhaps for a few short years return some of that affection which its father had rejected.

  The Earl certainly was pleased at the news. He increased his son’s allowance yet again — it had been augmented on the marriage — gave orders for the nursery to be refurbished and put in readiness, and presented Maria with a heavy old-fashioned necklace set with diamonds and rubies, which she disliked, though she thanked him politely.

  “Belonged to m’mother,” he said, “but the Countess never wears it, and you may as well have it now as wait for it when she’s gone. But mind, m’dear, it must be a boy. Set your thoughts hard on that, and you’ll bring it off, right enough. An heir for Alvington, eh? Well, that son of mine may be more of a man than I supposed, after all!”

  The Countess said little; but occasionally when Neville was absent and Maria had no other company, she would go and sit with her daughter-in-law for a while. Hers was not an intrusive presence; she liked to listen while Maria played on the new pianoforte which had been a wedding present from her grandparents, or to sit quietly working on her own embroidery while Maria, too, plied her needle. Only once did she pass any opinion of her own on the forthcoming event.