Miss Lindel's Love

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  “Miss Menthrip doesn’t wish for charity,” Maris said.

  Mrs. Pike scoffed. “Such pride is foolish when a case is desperate. If she is destitute, she must take charity and be properly thankful.”

  “True,” Mrs. Lindel said. “I’m afraid her pride must go to the wall in this instance. I sympathize with her very much; I should feel much the same. Yet one must face facts.”

  Maris knew, in her heart, that the two mothers spoke truthfully. Yet she could so easily imagine herself an elderly spinster without a relation in the world in such straits as those of Miss Menthrip. She could only hope that she could summon the same proud spirit Miss Menthrip showed. How much better to keep one’s pride, even if, strictly speaking, one could not afford to.

  “Does Miss Menthrip own her cottage outright?” Maris asked.

  “She holds the freehold, Maris, but the ground is only on a ninety-nine-year lease.”

  “Who owns that, then?”

  “Why, his lordship, of course.”

  “Of course.” She remembered hearing about that arrangement, so strange, so English, when she was a little girl. She’d spent quite some time trying to puzzle out how one could own a house but not the land. What if you wanted to move? What if there was an earthquake and your house fell into the ground?

  Perhaps it was this mention of Lord Danesby that put a plot into Maris’s head. But the mixture of the parish committee, Lord Danesby’s ownership of the land, and their need for money turned and tumbled in her brain. Lord Danesby had money. Lord Danesby sat on the parish committee.

  But how could she introduce his name into this conclave? To mention him, even in passing, would distress her mother. If Mrs. Pike did not already know the tale of Maris and his lordship, either Mrs. Lindel or Lucy would soon inform her of it. Maris knew she must take great care to look unconscious of any connection between them when Mrs. Pike questioned her about him.

  In the end, though, it was Sophie who brought him up. “I don’t know why you don’t just ask Lord Danesby for the money. He must be rich enough to send dozens of ladies, old and young, to Bath or anywhere else for that matter. He’s in residence now; Mr. Cosby told me so. Why don’t you ask Lord Danesby?”

  “No,” Mrs. Lindel said.

  “Out of the question,” Mrs. Pike said.

  “Goodness, no. How could we?” Lucy asked.

  “Why not?” Maris said, echoing her sister, who, she vowed, would receive an especially lavish present from her older sister this year. She did not want to see Lord Danesby herself. The part of her life when she would hide behind tree trunks and peer around corners to catch a glimpse of him had ended. Yet, as he had the resources to send Miss Menthrip on a trip that might save her life, it seemed sensible to ask him for it.

  “He’s a single gentleman,” Mrs. Pike said. “It would be most indelicate to approach him with such a suggestion. If he had a wife, of course, it would prove a different matter. But bachelor gentlemen are not interested in charity cases.”

  “It’s not a charity case,” Sophie persisted. “It’s Miss Menthrip. He has a fortune; why shouldn’t he use some of it to help Miss Menthrip? You could ask him, Mrs. Pike.”

  Mrs. Pike refused, holding up her hands. “Impossible, we are not on calling terms with Lord Danesby. How could we be with no lady of the house upon whom we might leave cards?”

  Sophie turned to her mother. “You could call on him, Mother.”

  “Such things are better left to the vicar. Perhaps Mr. Pike could call upon his lordship tomorrow?”

  “Impossible. Mr. Pike is away to visit his old friend Mr. Ratliff, recently given a living in Bruxton parish. They are going to visit the bishop and shall not return for several days at least. I am not even certain he will be available to attend the parish committee this month.”

  Maris did not know how much her mother had told Sophie of why they had not returned to London or why their visit to Yorkshire was so prolonged. Yet she didn’t suppose it would have mattered very much to Sophie if she had known of the incident at Durham House. She had a very straightforward brain. If one needed money, one went to people who had it. She didn’t want sympathy and halfhearted assistance but action. Maris entirely agreed with her yet boggled at the idea of seeing Lord Danesby again. She’d rather hoped she’d never be forced to speak to him, however often she might glimpse him in the distance.

  As the Pikes took their leave, with much discussed but little settled, Maris drew Lucy aside. “Be ready to walk with me at half past ten tomorrow. I have a matter of great importance and need your help.” “Certainly,” Lucy said, agog. “What it is?” “Tomorrow. Don’t fail me. Wear the blue dress.”

  * * * *

  By embroidering ceaselessly upon every detail of her London experiences, Maris managed to keep Lucy from wondering where they were headed for quite some time. Eventually, however, her attention was distracted from a description of Durham House’s grandeur. “Surely this is the drive to Finchley Place?” she exclaimed. “Maris, where are we going?”

  “To see his lordship, of course.”

  “To see ... ? Oh, no, no, no!”

  “Come now, Lucy, don’t fail me. I must see him about Miss Menthrip and I must not go alone.”

  “You tricked me. Oh, Maris, how could you? I can’t go. What would my mother say?”

  “She’d say you did right in not letting me go alone. I don’t know why you are making such a fuss. He’s just a man like any other. A bit better-looking perhaps but nothing to be frightened of.”

  “How can you say that? This is Lord Danesby you are speaking of. Lord Danesby.” If Maris had not taken a firm hold of Lucy’s wrist, she would have darted away home, heedless of her dress and dignity alike.

  “What of it? He can’t eat you. You needn’t even speak to him beyond a civil how do you do. But I must not go to Finchley Place alone, not after what passed at Durham House. I’m very sorry indeed that I tricked you into accompanying me but you must see that I need you, Lucy.” Privately, Maris thought she’d been quite right in not telling Lucy where they were going immediately. They never would have come even this far if she had.

  As it was, it took nearly as long to walk the drive up to the house as it had taken to reach the drive itself. Lucy’s knees were apt to give out and Maris could feel her friend’s trembling through their linked arms. If Maris had been delivering Lucy to a dragon’s den to meet the usual fate of virgins, she could not have been more terrified. Maris tried to be kind, remembering that Lucy had not spent any time at all in Lord Danesby’s company. She still thought of him as an unattainable ideal, uncorrupted by contact with ordinary mortals.

  Maris was happy to discover that while she could remember feeling just that way, no trace of hero worship remained, search her soul as she might. Kenton Danesby was a man, nothing more.

  His house stood on a sward of perfectly shaved grass, as though it had grown there. Of red brick touched with pale Caen stone, it wore its stone traceries and large, glittering windows with the confidence of a woman who knows her jewelry is not only genuine but beyond price. Parallel staircases flowed down from the front terrace as though eagerly inviting guests to enter.

  For a moment, Maris felt a pang of loss. This house, smiling at her in the golden sunshine, could have been hers. She could have known every corner with the love such beauty demanded as its due.

  Then she smiled at herself, realizing it was fortuitous that she’d not seen Finchley Place before his lordship had proposed. She might have been able to resist him out of altruism but not his house.

  Then a baying of hounds shattered the peace and quiet of the countryside. Lucy gave one shriek before she turned and fled, skirt hiked high, bonnet tumbling down her back, for the shelter of the trees beyond the lawn.

  Maris stood her ground, though it sounded as though the Devil’s own pack headed toward her. They came around the corner of the house, a brown and white flood, every liver-colored nose lifted, every whip tail a-wag. At once,
they raced loping over the emerald grass to surround her in a panting, sniffing, never-still pack. She patted and petted every one she could reach—there were no more than ten, if so many—saying, “Yes, sir. Good boy. Down, sir. Indeed you may sniff my gloves. Good boy.”

  Then one, impatient for his need of attention, nudged her hard behind the knees and she stumbled, falling to the ground. One hound yelped as she put her hand down on his paw. The rest, intrigued by this new stage in their acquaintance, pushed closer to see what she’d do next. Maris laughed when one hound, not content with sniffing her hands, licked her face, pushing his long nose under her bonnet to do so.

  Kenton, coming around the house in pursuit of his dogs, saw a lady in distress and advanced at a run to school the animals. Then he heard her laugh, ringing out, carrying with it all the joy and happiness in the world, and he paused, unsure if he was asleep or awake. How often had he awakened in the night over the past months, hearing that laughter fading along the corridors of his mind? He called himself a fool when he returned to himself, for why should the thought of losing Miss Lindel’s laughter cause him any distress? Yet always in those first moments after waking, he knew despair at his loss.

  “Get by, sir,” Maris said. “Let me up, you foolish creatures.” She looked past the milling dogs and saw him. Suddenly, she smiled, sharing her amusement at the farce of her position. “I meant to be very dignified, Lord Danesby. As you see, I have failed.”

  He reached out both hands over the dogs’ backs, helping her to her feet. For a moment, she stood with her hands clasped in both of his. He searched her face. Barring a muddy smear from an inquisitive nose, she looked just as she had in London. No, not quite. Her gaze met his without a trace of self-consciousness. No shyness made her look away while a blush burned itself out in her cheeks. Nor did her hands quiver in his. His sense of loss, of having just failed to catch a precious stone tossed to him, engulfed him once again. Maris Lindel was no longer in love with him.

  She took her hands from his grasp on the pretext of shaking out her twisted skirts. “You look well,” she said. “Have you had a pleasant summer?”

  “Very pleasant, Miss Lindel. The racing was excellent.”

  “And now you prepare to hunt?”

  He looked down at the dogs and laughed. “With this motley crew? I fear not. I don’t actually enjoy hunting anymore, not since I took a bad spill in Quorn country. I wasn’t hurt very badly—barring a broken arm—but I had to shoot my horse. It happened to be one I was especially fond of.”

  What in heaven’s name possessed him to go babbling out that morbid story? He had, in spare moments, envisioned their next meeting. Kenton had promised himself that he would be suave, putting her at her ease, and charming her without apparent effort. He wanted, he supposed, to instill in her the same sense of loss he felt, to know what she had refused. Seeing her now, he realized how childish that ambition was. He didn’t want her to suffer even an instant of what he felt now, the knowledge that he’d been an utter fool and showed no signs of improving.

  “I can understand how that might put you off hunting,” Maris said. She looked over her shoulder. “Might I trouble you to return your dogs to their pen, my lord? My friend, Miss Pike, is easily alarmed and dogs frighten her. All except Gog and Magog, her father’s pugs.”

  “Certainly.” He put two fingers to his lips, whistling sharply. Did a slight gleam of admiration appear in Maris’s eyes? “My kennel man will come collect them.”

  Hudnall and Dominic appeared, deep in conversation. Kenton felt a pang of jealousy when Maris seemed to appreciate the sight of Dom’s tall form. He supposed Dom was a rather good-looking chap, if you took away that air he had of not being quite present. He introduced them somewhat ungraciously but neither seemed to notice.

  “It’s a delight to meet you at last, Miss Lindel,” Dom said, bowing over her hand.

  “There seems to be a young lady in the trees over there, Dom,” Kenton said. “Would you be a good fellow and reassure her that the dogs will soon be kenneled?”

  “I’ll even undertake to bring her down from the tree. What is her name?”

  “Lucy Pike,” Maris said. “She’s rather nervous of dogs and of Lord ... and of strangers.”

  “I’m entirely harmless, I assure you.”

  Kenton and Maris watched Dom lope off in the direction of the trees, “Never tell me that Miss Pike is afraid of me?”

  “Yes, my lord. You are rather an intimidating person to a young miss fresh from the country.” Her smile was slightly ironical, a new expression which charmed him as much as her wide-eyed simplicity did.

  “You were never intimidated by me, Miss Lindel, or indeed by anything.”

  “You are wrong, my lord. But you called me Maris once upon a time.” Was she flirting with him? He decided she was but, lowering thought, only as she might have flirted with a fossilized friend of the family.

  “A gentleman is allowed to use a lady’s Christian name when proposing to her. He reverts to her surname when he is refused.”

  “Then you must certainly continue to call me Miss Lindel.” Without the slightest acknowledgment of his reference to their past, she gave a last shake to her skirts and straightened her bonnet from its drunken pose over her left ear. “There. Now that I am respectable again, shall I tell you why I have called?”

  “You’re not respectable just yet.” He reached out to rub away the mud from her cheek only to have her flinch away before he could touch her. For the first time, her eyes shifted away from his gaze.

  “Will you come into the house for some tea, Miss Lindel?”

  “You are very kind, my lord. I shall wait for my friend, if I may?”

  “This house is yours,” he said, reverting to the grand phrase of Spanish hosts. He’d said it before, to other guests, but he’d never meant it quite so earnestly. Whatever she wanted, and he felt sure she wanted something or she never would have come, she could have.

  * * * *

  “So that’s your Miss Lindel, is it?” Dom said as they waved to the back of the landau taking the young ladies home.

  “Yes.”

  “How soon do you leave for Bath?”

  “Tomorrow. Do you care to accompany me?”

  “In the same spirit that Miss Lindel accompanies her elderly friend? To assist you and see you come to no mischief?”

  “The mischief’s done,” Kenton said. “If I hadn’t been such a fool in town ...well, it’s all spilt milk now. But I hope to show her a better side of me in Bath than she saw in London. I think she liked my roses at any rate.”

  “So she’ll be your betrothed by—what—Tuesday next? Three days for a special license and then ‘ring out wild bells.’“

  Kenton sighed deeply. “In a romance, perhaps. But there’s a harder task ahead of me than slaying a dragon or redeeming the Holy Grail. I have to make her fall in love with me again.”

  Chapter Twelve

  To Maris’s surprise, her mother had not scolded her for approaching his lordship with the problem of what to do with Miss Menthrip. On the contrary, she praised her. “That was very well thought of, Maris. You showed great courage.”

  “He’s not an ogre,” she said, finding it odd that she should find it necessary to defend Lord Evanesby to her mother in the same words she had used to Lucy. “I knew he would find it in his heart to be generous.”

  “I did not mean that he would be cruel or indifferent to Miss Menthrip’s plight, though I would not have thought to approach him in the matter. If there were a lady at the manor, perhaps I should have done so.”

  “Is it only women who care what becomes of those less fortunate? I am certain there are many fine philanthropists who are men.”

  Mrs. Lindel merely smiled at her daughter’s heat. “I imagine there are many such, though I have had not heard that his lordship is among their number. Yet you must admit it took some courage on your part to speak to his lordship at all, after your last meeting.”

&
nbsp; “Mother,” Maris began, feeling the time was ripe, “what did Uncle Shelley say to him?”

  “Uncle Shelley?”

  “When he was in London, I know he called upon his lordship.”

  “Did he? I’m afraid we never discussed it. My brother assured me that he felt the matter was closed and no good purpose could come of pursuing it further. He thought it very well done of you to refuse his lordship’s kindly meant offer. I agree with him. It would have made you look guilty.”

  “How do you know I’m not?”

  Mrs. Lindel laughed. “Don’t be so foolish, Maris. Even if I were blind and irretrievably stupid, you’re not the sort of fool who throws her cap over the windmill and counts the world well lost for love. Lord Danesby may be your beau ideal but you are, I hope, a properly raised girl.”

  “My... my beau ideal?”

  “You have been in love with him, or rather the idea of him, since you were fifteen, have you not? You and Lucy Pike both.”

  Maris stared in disbelief at her mother. Was this the sweet, rather vague woman she’d lived with for so long? Mrs. Lindel laughed again, this time at her dumbfounded daughter’s expression. “Don’t tell me you didn’t think I knew? When every scrap of paper in your room had some variation of ‘Lady Danesby’ scrawled over and over upon it? When I found drawings of your supposed monogram on the edge of every picture you sketched? I may not be clever, my dear, but I’m observant.”

  Maris chuckled at herself and then laughed with her mother. “Did you ever see the description of our wedding I wrote for the Gazette? Twelve white horses drew the carriage, if you please, while no one less exalted than the Archbishop of Canterbury performed the ceremony. I believe the King was in attendance, miraculously restored to full health,”

  “Did doves hold up your veil?” Mrs. Lindel inquired. “When I was going to marry the doctor’s son, doves were to hold up the edges of my veil and two marchionesses were to carry my train, I was to be married in Westminster.”

  “The doctor’s son? I never heard this tale.”