by Mira Stables
But these conversations were brief. Inevitably, whenever some promising avenue opened before them, they would be interrupted. If it was not Tina herself who broke impatiently across their discussion, then it was one of her many puppets. For to Damon she seemed to manipulate the household in Berkeley Square as though they had no separate existence. Even his cousin Marianne danced to her piping and would only say plaintively, when he taxed her with it, that it was more comfortable to fall in with Tina’s wishes than to run counter to them.
Nevertheless his knowledge of Miss Forester’s character had advanced to the point at which he was considering, quite coolly and rationally, whether she would make him a suitable wife. He was not, of course, in the least in love with her. He had finished with that sort of nonsense once and for all when Elinor Coutance had jilted him. But he had definite ideas about the qualities that were desirable in a wife and it seemed to him that Miss Forester filled the bill quite admirably. She had dignity and self-control. She could converse sensibly on a number of topics not wholly feminine, and her gratitude to her aunt for giving her a season in Town inclined him to think that her disposition was gentle and affectionate. He knew from experience that she kept her head in emergency and showed practical good sense. He thought his mother would like her—and that was important. His father would certainly object to her lack of fortune. All the world knew that the Duke was not a wealthy man. His personal tastes were simple-many a well-to-do merchant would have thought his private expenditure ridiculously inadequate. But he had one insatiable passion—Byram. And Byram had a voracious appetite. The park and gardens, the farms and cottages, were famous throughout the land, and the old house was maintained and tended with unceasing care and at heavy expense. Its owner was not likely to welcome a penniless daughter-in-law, however admirable her character and disposition, though no doubt he could be brought to acceptance in time.
What would be Miss Forester’s view of the proposition? She struck him as a level headed kind of girl who was unlikely to take a huff because he was not prepared to make pretty love speeches or vow undying passion. And without undue conceit, she could scarcely hope for a better match. She was not a beauty, though for his own part he liked her looks—far preferred them to her much vaunted cousin’s. When she was happy and absorbed—which was most of the time—her face had an animation that gave the illusion of beauty. On the rare occasions when he had seen her cast down—disappointed, perhaps, or a trifle home-sick—he had been conscious of a strong urge to take her in his arms and console her as one might a child. Yes, he decided contentedly, he was really quite fond of the girl. And if, at the thought of the comforting kisses that he would bestow upon that soft young mouth, some feeling much warmer, much fiercer than mere fondness quickened his pulses, it was sternly suppressed. He was endeavouring to estimate the advantages of a marriage of convenience from Miss Forester’s point of view, he reminded himself.
From such details of her home background as she had let fall, he pictured a genteel family of limited means managing, with the assistance of the wealthy aunt to give the elder daughter a season in Town so that she might have the opportunity of forming an eligible connection before it was time to fire off the younger one. He heartily approved of such prudent planning. But there did not seem to be any promising suitors dangling after Miss Forester, so unless she had some romantic notion about falling in love she might be willing to consider his offer. There was the younger sister to be established, he remembered, and the brother in the diplomatic service was probably pretty expensive. A girl with a strong sense of duty would take all that into account.
Would it suffice to outweigh the one factor he had so far left out of his calculations? Would a young girl, gently bred and fastidious, find it possible to contemplate marriage with one so shockingly scarred? To be sure Miss Forester was one of the few people who never made him feel self-conscious about his appearance. He did not think she found him actually repugnant. But marriage was vastly different from occasional social encounters.
He shrugged, and abandoned speculation. There was only one sure way of discovering the answer to his doubts. But to give himself a fair chance, he felt he would like to make some attempt to fix his interest with the girl. Alethea. He tested the name aloud and liked the sound of it. How like the unpleasant Miss Newton to shorten it to the commonplace ‘Thea’! That same Miss Newton was going to be a most damnable nuisance in any attempts he might make to better his acquaintance with her cousin. Let her but suspect what was in his mind and she would make the poor little thing’s life a misery. He could not so expose the girl he hoped to persuade into marriage. A fine start that would be! He decided to enlist Marianne’s support and went off at once to seek her out.
Marianne was delighted to be chosen as his confidante though disappointed at his prosaic approach to the business of marriage. Privately she thought that he was, perhaps, more attached to Miss Forester than he himself realised, since he was prepared to face his father’s displeasure at the news that his choice had fallen on a penniless girl. Well—not precisely penniless, perhaps, but Marianne, who had naturally heard a good deal more about Alethea’s home life than had Damon, doubted if her marriage portion would be above two thousand pounds. She commended his intention of paying some court to the lady of his choice before approaching her parents for permission to make her an offer, suggested one or two expeditions that would offer opportunities of téte-a-téte, and pledged herself to do all in her power to ensure that these were granted him.
It proved to be surprisingly difficult. Whether from notions of proper conduct or from fear of annoying Tina, Alethea slipped skilfully away from anything approaching intimate conversation with Damon and stuck closely to Marianne. And if, by careful contrivance, Marianne managed to secure for him a few minutes alone with her, Tina was sure to break in upon them.
Tina was quite unperturbed by Damon’s kindness for her dull little cousin. It was obviously pure charity. Unless, she thought amusedly, he was trying to make her jealous, in which case he should have chosen someone a good deal more attractive than Thea. What she did find irritating were his references to that incident on the Tunbridge Wells road. There could be no denying that he had been much impressed by Thea’s behaviour on that occasion. Tina began to turn over in her mind various schemes by which she could present herself in a similarly favourable light.
The only success that the two conspirators achieved was a steadily growing friendship between Alethea and Marianne, which was very comfortable but not what they had set out to do. Yet it was this friendship which was eventually destined to bring about that much desired téte-a-téte. The two girls had reached the stage where confidences came easily, and as girls will, they talked often about the married state. They had been spending a wet afternoon in Marianne’s room, Alethea trying on her friend’s dresses and bonnets, a proceeding which reduced them both to helpless laughter, when Alethea suddenly said, “I just don’t understand it. You’re so pretty, so loveable. I know from Aunt Maria that you’ve had any number of chances. Don’t you like men?”
Marianne hesitated briefly. She had guarded her secret so long. Only her mother knew of her unwavering loyalty to James Borrodaile. But now, at last, James was on his way home. Her heart was light, she was in the mood to talk of wedding plans and Alethea could be trusted not to chatter indiscreetly. So the whole story came tumbling out.
She had known the Borrodailes all her life—Alethea would remember meeting Jennifer and Martin at her party—but Mama had felt that she must have at least one season in Town and meet other gentlemen before committing herself irrevocably to James. She had nothing against the match—indeed she was very fond of James—but Marianne was so young. And life as the wife of a serving officer, with its long separations and its grave anxieties would be very hard. Let them wait a little while, be very sure that the attachment between them was strong enough to withstand the strains that would be put upon it. So they had waited. And the waiting had stretched for four
interminable years, while Marianne had learned the truth of Mama’s warning words, and learned, too, that parting and anxiety had only strengthened her love. Sometimes she would hear nothing for months. Then would come a whole bundle of letters when the blockade had been briefly broken. And now the long ordeal was almost over and they hoped to be married in the autumn.
Alethea listened wide-eyed. So much heartache and loneliness behind the pleasant facade of Marianne’s smooth young face! She said slowly, “You must love him very much.”
Marianne smiled a little. “Yes,” she said. “I wish now that we had not allowed Mama to persuade us into waiting. If anything had happened to James”—she broke off, with a little shiver. Then said cheerfully, “But it didn’t. He will be home any day and then we shall plan our wedding. I shall ask you and Jennifer to be my bride’s maidens.”
Alethea expressed her pleasure in the invitation but said hesitantly, “Not Tina? She was your friend before I was.”
Marianne laughed outright. “Very definitely not Tina. Can you imagine any bride in her senses inviting comparison with Tina? You and Jennifer are quite pretty enough. Tina would steal the scene entirely. As for friendship”—she hesitated for a moment, then said slowly, “I know she is your cousin. Perhaps I should not say it. But Tina’s friendship lasts just so long as she has use for you. My usefulness—and poor Kit’s—is almost done. She needed us only to draw Damon into her circle.”
Not even family loyalty could bring Alethea to deny the truth of this. “Is your brother very much hurt?” she asked diffidently.
Marianne shrugged. “He doesn’t quite believe it yet. Nor realise what a fortunate escape he has had. If he had been a Duke’s son—!”
“People are so different,” said Alethea lamely. “Tina has beauty and wealth in plenty. So she yearns for high rank—the one thing she hasn’t got.”
“And won’t get from Damon,” retorted Marianne, in tones as near malicious as her soft voice could manage. “He doesn’t even like her. If she but knew it, his thoughts are turned in quite another direction.”
Alethea looked both intrigued and alarmed. “Heavens! I hope I’m safe home again before he announces his betrothal,” she exclaimed lightly. “Tina would be quite unbearable,” and then, coaxingly, “Who is she? Do I know her?”
But Marianne refused to be drawn, vowing she had said too much already.
“Well, I hope, whoever she is, that she will make him happy, for the poor man has had more than his share of ill-fortune.”
Such a splendid opportunity to put in a little special pleading on Damon’s behalf was too good to be missed. “Yes, indeed,” agreed Marianne with enthusiasm, and launched into a diatribe against that horrid wretch Elinor Coutance who had thrown Damon over after playing cat-and-mouse with him for months. “And Tina thought to entrap him by her beauty in just the same way,” she ended scornfully. “Do you think she would have any use for him if he were just plain Mr. Hardendale? And scarred as he is? Have you not seen how she cannot endure to look at the injured side of his face but moves always to his right hand? Oh—she does it skilfully, casually, but she does it. And imagines he doesn’t notice! Poor Damon! He told me once—it was in the early days when they still feared for his sight—that he would have endured even that loss, almost thankfully, if only the child had lived. It was dead when he brought it out, you know, the baby. Suffocated by the smoke, they said.”
A glance at Alethea’s face, the brown eyes misted with pity, decided her that she had said enough on this head. “Marriage will give his life a new meaning,” she went on briskly. “And she will be a fortunate girl who marries him, despite the scars.”
“I shouldn’t think she would notice them,” returned Alethea. “They are not near so bad as he seems to imagine. After a little while one simply forgets them. They are part of him, but oh! such an unimportant part compared with his courage and his kindness.”
That augured well for Damon’s hopes, thought Marianne happily. But Alethea was not done. “For my part,” she pronounced judicially, “I would rather be wary of his pride.”
“Pride?” exclaimed Marianne, startled and indignant.
“Yes,” returned Alethea firmly. “It is not really the scars that he resents so much as his own failure. If I were his chosen bride, that is what I should fear—his demand for perfection. How could any girl ever come up to such a standard?”
TEN
That was baying at the moon with a vengeance, thought Alethea, walking sedately homeward with Hetty. But a girl must have some kind of shield against a man who was not for her, and who, scars or no, could win her heart without even trying. She had tried to hold aloof because he must surely succumb to Tina’s loveliness. Now, at least, she could be thankful that he stood in no such danger. But still he was not for her. She was grateful for Marianne’s warning, though she earnestly hoped that it had been dropped by chance and not because she had betrayed herself. In self defence she had hastily devised the first criticism that she could reasonably level at the man who far too frequently invaded her thoughts.
She could not even have said when first she had begun to sense the truth. It had certainly not been a case of love at first sight! And though he had been kind to her since, had taken her part against Tina and shown himself sympathetic to her tastes, when had she first discovered that it was not just his sympathy and his kindness that she craved? She only knew that when other gentlemen became assiduous in their attentions she had found herself comparing them with his lordship and then, rather ashamedly, treating them with an undeserved coldness; pleasant mannered young men whom she had liked very well at a distance. One had tried to steal a kiss—and had his ears boxed for it.
Because it was generally known that her expectations were small, she was spared the attentions of the gazetted fortune hunters. For that she was grateful. It must be horrid to be courted for one’s money. Just as horrid, she thought shyly, as being pursued because one was the son of a Duke. But even without the attraction of wealth she could have taken her choice between three or four gentlemen, respectable matches all, if not precisely of the first stare. What ailed her, then, that she must find them all insipid and boring when compared with a certain astringent gentleman who was not likely to concern himself with the insignificant Miss Forester?
It seemed as though her mind was to be schooled to thoughts of marriage that day, for the subject was raised again at the dinner table. Mr. Newton, dining at home for once, was in unusually benign mood, essaying one or two mild pleasantries on the infrequency of these cosy domestic evenings and vowing that he had not seen either his wife or his daughter for a sennight at least and his niece only at the breakfast table. This remark might have goaded his daughter into sharp retort, reflecting as it did upon her own less energetic habits, but fortunately she was not listening, being deeply absorbed in contemplation of the costume she meant to wear to attend a military review. Mrs. Newton said placidly that when they removed to the country at the end of the month he would soon be complaining that he could never escape from chattering females. They discussed one or two arrangements connected with the closing of the town house and Mr. Newton then turned again to his niece, declaring that he could scarcely believe she was so soon to leave them and inviting her in the kindest way to travel with them into Dorsetshire. “I believe you would enjoy it,” he assured her. “Very pretty scenery, and you would be company for this wilful little puss of mine who always complains that there is nothing to do in the country.”
This alluring prospect did not tempt Alethea to snatch at the proffered treat. She thanked him politely and, she hoped, with some semblance of regret, but explained that she was needed at home. Mama and Susan were to spend a month in Worthing in the hope that the sea air would be beneficial to Mama’s health. To Alethea would fall the responsibility of looking after Papa in their absence.
Uncle Matthew commended her sense of filial duty, brushing aside her protests that it was no such thing, that she and Papa would
also make holiday, after their own fashion.
“Poking about in musty old churches, I suppose,” jibed Tina, who had emerged from her abstraction in time to resent her father’s remarks about filial conduct.
“If you had some equally unexceptionable interest, you would not be forever complaining of boredom,” returned her father severely. He turned again to his niece. “But how does it come about, my dear, that out of all the gentlemen who have been so ardently paying court to you these weeks past, you’ve not found one to outshine your Papa? For well I know there was more than one trying to fix his interest with you.”
Alethea blushed scarlet. For once she had cause to be grateful to her cousin, who drew her father’s fire by saying languidly, “Perhaps the gentlemen required rather more in a wife than just proper notions of filial behaviour. For my part I can imagine nothing more boring than a female who is for ever prosing on about duty and principles.”
This speech had the double effect of bringing sharp rebuke upon the speaker and putting an abrupt end to Uncle Matthew’s genial mood. With the skill of long practice, Aunt Maria initiated a discussion on the concert that they were to attend that night, and Alethea’s matrimonial prospects were not mentioned again.
