Keeping the Castle

by Patrice Kindl

  It had seemed the natural order of things. And I was one of the lucky ones. Why should I question it?

  “I beg your pardon, Lord Boring,” I said. “That was rude. Sometimes it is difficult to be a woman.”

  He rallied at my apology, responding, “Oh, but Miss Crawley, lovely as you are, surely you of all ladies cannot find being a woman to be a burden!”

  Ah well. He was charming, handsome, wealthy, and titled. I supposed it was a bit much to expect him not to be a fool like the rest of his sex.

  Having reestablished Lord Boring as my admirer and broken the seeming stranglehold my stepsister had had upon his company (for now that my posing sessions were completed, he reverted to his former habits, joining me as we sat or walked or rode), I turned my attention to other matters. I must find a way to spur Mr. Fredericks on to propose to Miss Vincy. I decided that, as Mr. Godalming continued to call at the castle and the Park, staring morosely at Miss Vincy and making occasional attempts to converse with her, I might as well make use of him.

  Perhaps this was wrong of me, but I could not quite forgive Mr. Godalming for first abusing me for being mercenary and then pursuing Miss Vincy with the identical motivation. Especially as he was quite wealthy already and did not need the money; it was nothing but greed. This being the case I engaged him in conversation when next I spotted him in the village. He was in Sturridge’s shop, frowning over the purchase of a handkerchief.

  “Choose the linen, Mr. Godalming,” I recommended, coming up behind him. “It will stand up to washing better than the silk.”

  He bowed and said in a lofty tone, “How do you do, Miss Crawley? I thank you for your advice, but I believe I am as good a judge of handkerchiefs as any young lady,” and proceeded to purchase the silk. Ah well. No one could say I hadn’t warned him—it was a cheap silk and would fade badly.

  The subject matter, however, gave me an idea. “Speaking of handkerchiefs,” I went on, “as we are such old friends, I hope you will not mind my saying that I think you were blind to the signals a certain young lady was sending you, only the other day.”

  He paused in the act of pocketing the new handkerchief. “Oh?” he said, his nose twitching like a rabbit’s. He licked his lips. “And which young lady was that?”

  “No, no, Mr. Godalming, you must not ask me that! I only wished to drop a hint. You have heard of the language of handkerchiefs now so popular in London and Bath?”

  “I—I believe so.”

  In truth, I myself had only recently heard of it from the Marquis, whose information had not been complete enough to tell me the details of what each gesture meant, so it was necessary for me to fabricate. However, this was of no importance, as Mr. Godalming, who had hardly ever left his home county, would be none the wiser, and I doubted that the practical and levelheaded Miss Vincy, who did move in fashionable society, had ever bothered her head with such a silly means of conducting a flirtation.

  “For instance, when a refined young lady wishes a gentleman to know that she would enjoy entertaining his attentions, she glances at him and then brushes her right cheek with her handkerchief.”

  “Is that so? Indeed, I did not know. I thank you for telling me. I shall be alert in the future.”

  “The glance may be brief,” I cautioned him. “A lady cannot be too obvious, you understand.”

  “Oh, certainly. Indeed!”

  After this conversation, it was a simple matter to achieve my goal. It only required that Miss Vincy, Mr. Godalming, Mr. Fredericks, and I be in company together.

  “Miss Vincy,” I said as we stood in the hallway of Gudgeon Park, “I beg you will look at Mr. Godalming’s cravat and tell me if it is not tied in the style of the Prince Regent’s friend, Beau Brummell.”

  Miss Vincy laughed and disclaimed any knowledge of how this famous dandy arranged his neckwear, but she looked as I had directed.

  “Oh!” I said, “you have a black smudge on your cheek. The right one.”

  Ever obliging, Miss Vincy raised a lace-trimmed handkerchief and scrubbed her cheek with it, perhaps a bit more vigorously than would be appropriate for a seductive signal. “Is it gone?”

  “Almost,” I said, “a bit more to the side . . . gently! You will take your skin off.” I continued, “But you have not given me your opinion of Mr. Godalming’s cravat.”

  She paused with her handkerchief to her cheek and looked again.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  She dropped her eyes. “Hush, Miss Crawley. He is looking at us.”

  Mr. Godalming was looking at us, thank goodness. Smiling broadly, he joined us within the twinkling of an eye. I raised my eyebrows and nodded by way of encouragement.

  “Miss Vincy and I were discussing whether or not your valet receives his inspiration for your cravat from the fashions of the Royal Court.” I doubted whether Mr. Godalming’s valet had any conception that there was more than one way to tie a neck cloth.

  Mr. Godalming, however, had no misgivings on the subject. “Why yes, I believe you are correct. Williams is very anxious that his young master should look as dashing as possible, even living in the country as we do.” Here he giggled and bowed to Miss Vincy, who cast an imploring look in my direction. I hardened my heart. This was for her own good, whether she knew it or not.

  “I hope you will excuse me,” I said. “I must speak to Mr. Fredericks for a moment.” I smiled sweetly at Miss Vincy and pried her detaining hand off my wrist. “I will be only a moment,” I assured her.

  “But—”

  She watched me go with despairing eyes, then resigned herself, allowing Mr. Godalming to find her a secluded seat where he could have her to himself. When I reached Mr. Fredericks I looked back. Her eyes were lowered to her clasped hands in her lap, while Mr. Godalming had draped his bulk over a nearby chair in a masterful attitude and was holding forth on some subject. Recollecting his courtship of me, I suspected it would be something about the cultivation of turnips. Either that or the treatment of liver flukes in sheep.

  Mr. Fredericks had the appearance of passing through the room on his way elsewhere. I nearly had to clutch at his sleeve to halt his forward progress. He had a pen in one hand and some papers in the other; evidently he was engaged in some business. He stopped and regarded me with a sardonic light in his eyes.

  “Well, Miss Crawley? Did you waylay me in order to lecture me on my manners? If so, I must beg off—I’ve a great deal of work in hand.”

  “No, certainly not. Have you been using the tails of your jacket as a pen-wiper again? I cannot believe the Baron has no blotting paper or old rags which would better suit the purpose. However, that is not what I wished to speak to you about.” I steered him to a quiet corner ideally suited for my purposes. We had an excellent view of the preening, gesticulating Mr. Godalming and only a partial one of the shrinking, reluctant Miss Vincy.

  “It is Miss Vincy I wished to speak of. I believe that we are both her good friends?”

  “I certainly am. As for you, Miss Crawley . . .” He broke off. “Well yes, I dare say you are,” he conceded. “She has not had many friends, of either sex. I am glad she has you.”

  Touched by this unexpected tribute, I spoke with real emotion. “Then I hope you will believe me that anything I do or say about her is with her best interests in mind.”

  He considered this. “Perhaps in your mind, that is so. But you are an interfering young woman, and I don’t trust you in the least when you are in this mood.”

  “The only mood I am in,” I said, annoyed, “is one of deep concern for Miss Vincy’s future. Look at her,” I commanded. Mr. Fredericks sighed, but looked.

  “I have spoken to Mr. Godalming. I cannot say that he confided in me entirely,” I said truthfully, “but he gave me the distinct impression that he was determined to woo and win her. And I am certain that he is so determined, not out of any appreciation for the qualities that you and I value in her, but rather for the fortune that will come with her.”

&
nbsp; Mr. Fredericks was silent, watching as Mr. Godal-ming puffed out his chest and laughed.

  “Mr. Godalming is not the man of delicacy or sensitivity either of us could wish to see become her husband. He would not care or understand about her feelings for her artistic work. He would expect her to produce an heir and supervise his household—that is all. He would not love or esteem her.”

  “Well, what of it?” he said. “Let him propose. She’s no fool. She’ll not have him.”

  I looked at him steadily. “Her mother is determined to see her married. If not to the Baron—and I have good reasons to think him indifferent to her if not actually averse—then to some other man, preferably one of whom she approves, in a respectable position in life. And you will have observed as well as I have that she is an obedient and dutiful daughter. Much more so, I will own, than I would be in her situation.”

  “Oh you! I’ve no doubt of that! You’d run rings around that detestable woman.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “Yes, I probably would, though you ought not to say it, either of her or to me.”

  He waved this away as being of no importance. “And what, pray, do you expect me to do about this situation?”

  Here I was forced to prevaricate a little. What I wanted, of course, was for him to marry her himself, but I could not say so. My gaze dropped and I shook my head.

  “I do not know. Perhaps you could talk to her? She thinks so highly of you, and values your opinion so. I have spoken of Mr. Godalming to her, but my words seem to have made little impression on her.” Strictly speaking, this was true. “You have known her longer than I, and she will accept your estimate of another man.”

  “What! I am to undertake delicate subjects of conversation with a young lady? I thought it was your belief that I was a blundering oaf without an ounce of tact in my body.”

  I smiled. “You are not tactful, Mr. Fredericks, I agree. But I believe that where you care for someone you will be a staunch and true friend. Sometimes a little blunt honesty from someone who cares for us is what we most need. And . . . and you are not an oaf. Rather the contrary, I am beginning to think.”

  He mulled this over in silence for a time. Then he stood up and said gruffly, “If I see any sign she is likely to yield to Godalming’s blandishments, I’ll talk to her. But I expect this is really all a plot to clear the field so that you can spread your nets to catch Boring for yourself.” Then he strode out of the room, leaving me tapping the toe of my shoe in irritation.

  14

  NOW THAT MR. GODALMING believed he had received a signal that encouraged him to press his suit, he ignored any genuine signals Miss Vincy sent in his direction. Her downcast face when he spoke to her, her turning away when he approached, even her abruptly leaving a room as he entered it—all these he attributed to shyness, to shame at her own boldness in having beckoned him to her side.

  In the next few weeks he called on her every day. If he could not find her at the Park, he followed her to the castle. If, in an attempt to avoid him, she went out walking or riding, he went walking or riding as well, until he had caught her up.

  Almost I repented of my interference in her affairs when I saw how distressed she was by his blind, unrelenting pursuit. Almost. For Mr. Fredericks also observed her distress. He saw Mr. Godalming herding his quarry into the conservatory, like one of his tenants’ sheepdogs harrying a ewe into a shearing pen. He watched as Mr. Godalming fussily adjusted a pillow for her back and fetched cups of tea and biscuits, insisting that she eat and drink when she did not want to. And as Mr. Fredericks watched, his brow knitted and his face darkened.

  But still he did not declare himself.

  One day when she was at the castle and Mr. Godal-ming had been circling her like an annoying gnat at a picnic, she broke away from him and, slipping her arm into mine, pulled me out of the room.

  “Please, Miss Crawley,” she said in a low, urgent voice, “may we not go, perhaps”—she paused, evidently trying to think of somewhere Mr. Godalming could not follow—“to your bedchamber?”

  “Yes of course, my dear,” I said, feeling guilty for my part in this persecution. “And if you wish, I can say that you were taken ill and must lie down for a while. He will have to go home sometime.”

  “No,” she said. “If I did that, he would tell my parents and they would call the doctor. I am rarely ill.”

  She sank down on a chair near the window and, as the daylight fell on her face I was shocked at how haggard she appeared.

  “Oh, my dear Miss Vincy,” I cried, repentant, “he will have to propose soon, and then you can turn him down. All this will be at an end.”

  She was silent and her head drooped. “Don’t you see?” I persisted. “When you give him your refusal, he will go and with any luck you will never see him again.”

  She passed her hand across her face, and I realized her eyes were reddened, as if with weeping. Surely a persistent suitor alone could not have reduced her to such a state.

  “Miss Vincy, what is it? Please believe that I am your friend. I would give anything—” I thought of the Baron and amended—“almost anything to make you happy.”

  She smiled, and a single tear coursed down her cheek and was dashed away. “I know that you are my friend. Please believe me that I value your affection.”

  “Then tell me why you do not send the odious Mr. Godalming about his business.”

  “I cannot,” she said. “If he does propose, I must accept. My mother—”

  “What? Oh Miss Vincy! It is all very well to be a dutiful daughter, but really, there are limits! Englishwomen of the nineteenth century are not cattle, not possessions to be bartered off to the first comer! Well,” I said, reconsidering this rash statement, “perhaps they are in a certain sense, but not literally so. Your parents may be disappointed at a refusal and therefore they may say bitter things to you. Legally,” I admitted, “they might also be entitled to lock you up in your room or even cast you out to fend for yourself clad only in your shift, yes, that is true. But in law they cannot force you to wed against your will. Unless, of course,” I mused, “they have bribed the parson, in which case—”

  “You do not understand,” said Miss Vincy. “I have given my solemn word of honor that if a gentleman of good name and fortune offers for me, I will accept. Oh, my mother would prefer the Baron for me, of course, or any other member of the aristocracy, but she knows that it will not—that he does not—In short, she has nearly lost hope on that account.” She kept her eyes low, not meeting mine.

  “But why? Why would you give such an undertaking, Miss Vincy?”

  Once again she rubbed at her eyes. She shook her head. “You do not understand. And I cannot tell you. No, my only hope is that some miracle occurs and he does not ask. And Mr. Godalming is the least of my miseries.”

  I stared at her, stricken. What had I done?

  I supposed that what she meant by Mr. Godalming being the least of her worries was that she had lost the Baron as well, which did not make me like myself any better. As I sat holding her hand, berating myself for my foolish meddling, I began to feel a certain irritation. Not with Miss Vincy, of course, but with Mr. Fredericks. Why on earth had he not done as I had intended him to, and made an offer for her himself? Really, he was the most aggravating man! He called himself her friend, he clearly admired her and enjoyed her company, and yet he would not do this simple thing to save her from a life of wretchedness as Mrs. Godalming.

  Well, I would go and tell him what I thought of him.

  “Miss Vincy,” I said, “lie down upon the bed and I will fetch you a glass of wine to help you compose yourself.”

  “But—”

  “I will say you are well save for a small headache. And I will send Mr. Godalming away.”

  It was this last promise, I think, that made her obedient to my command. Without another word she climbed onto the bed and leaned back against the pillows.

  Downstairs I looked about for Mr. Godalming, determined to b
e rid of him as soon as possible. He was nowhere in sight. I whirled about, straining to see if he had got past me and crept up the stairs. I should not have been surprised to discover him even now tapping doggedly at my bedroom door, determined not to allow Miss Vincy one moment of privacy until she agreed to become his wife.

  He was so absolutely not present that I began to fear that the boards of the trapdoor to our oubliette (a faithful copy of the secret prison into which the kings of old were wont to drop their enemies) had given way underneath his weight—lord knows they were rotten enough.

  The only gentleman in view was Mr. Fredericks, and I advanced upon him with the light of battle in my eyes.

  He regarded me with a quizzical smile. “Ah! I see that Zeus’ warrior maid, gray-eyed Athena, approaches, and she is in the devil of a temper. Is something the matter, Miss Crawley?”

  “Althea, not Athena,” I snapped, although I knew full well that he was making a reference to the Greek goddess, which, now I thought of it, was not what one would expect from the son of a shopkeeper. “Yes, there is something the matter!”

  “Perhaps you are still concerned about the way that Mr. Godalming has been doting on Miss Vincy, to her obvious discomfort?”

  “Yes, I am.” I subjected him to a hard stare. He was barely managing to hide a self-satisfied smile.

  “I think you will find that Mr. Godalming is no longer a matter of concern.” He lowered his eyes in mock modesty, affecting to flick an invisible mote of dust off a grubby sleeve.

  “How so, Mr. Fredericks?” Surely not the oubliette?

  “Inexplicably, Mr. Godalming has got the idea that old Vincy is fast approaching dun territory.” At my mystified look, he further explained, “Purse-pinched, Miss Crawley, on the rocks, dished, at low ebb. In short, Mr. Godalming believes that Mr. Vincy hasn’t a sixpence to scratch himself with. Naturally, being the sort of man he is, he promptly made himself scarce.”