The Byram Succession

by Mira Stables

  “I just wanted to tell you myself that Mama and I perfectly understand how it came about. It was an accident, and no possible blame can be attached to you. Lord Skirlaugh himself explained the circumstances to us in a perfectly straightforward fashion. I liked that young man. You were extremely fortunate to be in such good hands. So just make haste and get well quickly, for you will have a great deal to do in these coming weeks.”

  His expression was grave and he spoke with unwonted earnestness. Alethea was puzzled, for how could she be held to blame for the accident? But she was still a little hazy from the effect of the medicines that the doctors had prescribed and it never occurred to her to seek another interpretation of Papa’s words. Then Hetty came in with a cup of broth for her patient, and Papa rose to take his leave, thanking Hetty for the care she had given his little girl. Alethea supped her broth and eased her aching limbs and wondered why neither Aunt Maria nor Tina had been to enquire how she did. Tina’s neglect was not, perhaps, unexpected, and Aunt Maria must be very busy with all the preparations for removal to the country in addition to her other engagements, but surely she might have found two or three minutes to visit her afflicted niece. But perhaps she had done so, and she herself had been asleep at the time.

  When she enquired of Hetty, that discreet personage only primmed up her mouth and “couldn’t rightly say.” It was obvious that she could say a good deal if she so chose, but she contented herself with reminding Alethea that the doctor had said that she was to be kept quiet and had straitly forbidden all visitors. Alethea felt a vague sense of discomfort. Could she, in some way, be in disgrace with her aunt? The accident must have caused a good deal of extra work and possibly some small anxiety, but it was not like Aunt Maria to take a pet for something which was not really her fault. She lay and puzzled over this strange behaviour until sleep claimed her.

  Morning found her much restored. Only Hetty’s firm insistence kept her in bed until the doctor had called. Fortunately he was pleased to say that she might get up for a little while during the day, though she must guard against over-exertion and lie down upon her bed if there was any sign of the headache returning. No sooner had he departed than she pushed aback the coverlets and climbed rather gingerly out of bed. On the whole, she supposed, she had escaped pretty lightly. She wrinkled her nose at the mirror, which showed a pale, peaked little face with a spreading yellowish purple bruise above the right temple. She rather thought she would stay indoors for the remainder of her sojourn in Berkeley Square! She had no wish to flaunt that doleful visage about the town.

  Hetty, returning from escorting the doctor downstairs, exclaimed indignantly and shooed her back to bed. “And there you’ll stay, miss, like a sensible girl, till you’ve eaten your luncheon. Hebe’n me’s got it all made up to dress you between us, and Hebe to do your hair so’s it’ll partly hide the bruise. Your aunty says you’re to receive his lordship in the Green Saloon.”

  Alethea stared. “Receive his lordship? Do you mean Lord Skirlaugh?”

  Hetty looked guiltily conscious. She tried to carry it off with a high hand. “Why, who else, miss? Hasn’t he called each day to enquire for you? The mistress said you was to see him as soon as the doctor gave permission, and mightily thankful she would be when”—She broke off short, aware that her tongue had run away with her.

  “Thankful when what?” said Alethea slowly, sure now that something was very wrong, something that she did not understand. And when the maid did not immediately answer, “Thankful when I am gone?” she queried sorrowfully. “So much trouble as I have made?”

  That brought Hetty to startled life. “No, miss, she never!” she gasped in convincing indignation. And then, quite unexpectedly, grinned. “It’s my belief your aunty would have been well enough pleased with the way things’ve fallen out,” she confided, “if it hadn’t been for Miss Tina kicking up such a rumpus and neither fit to hold nor bind.”

  “But why?” begged Alethea, wholly bewildered. “She cannot be jealous, just because I was involved in an accident—or does she think that I contrived the whole thing on purpose to become the talk of the Town?”

  There was the briefest possible hesitation. Then Hetty said slowly, “No, miss. She knows very well you didn’t. Because she did.”

  Alethea put a hand to her head. That blow must have affected her brain. The girl could not have said what she had heard. But Hetty went on, “That wheel never came off of its own. Miss Tina had persuaded one of the lads from the livery stable to meddle with it. But his lordship being nobody’s fool and finding this linch-pin or whatever they call it had been near sawn through, nor it didn’t match the one in the other wheel, began to make enquiries, and someone remembered seeing this lad hanging about the carriages. It all came out then. Give Miss Tina her due. She’d thought she would be the one riding in the carriage. Seems she’d taken a fancy to being a heroine. Your uncle was in such a taking as I never saw—said he’d never heard such a crack-brained notion in his life and she was only fit for Bedlam. He packed her off to her Grandmama the very next day, for all her weeping and cajolery. Told her she could be thankful Lord Skirlaugh didn’t choose to lay an action against her. Her Mama went with her to see her safe to Hoddesden which is where old Mrs. Newton lives, and very retired, too, which won’t suit Miss Tina. Hebe went with them—your aunty and her got back late last night—and says she is talking very wild. The last thing was that she’d decided to marry Sir John Boothroyd after all, because if there was one thing she couldn’t abide it was the thought of you being married before her. But I shouldn’t think that’ll hold,” she ended reflectively.

  “Nor any need for such impetuous haste,” said Alethea absently, her thought more concerned with assimilating the startling information that Hetty had disclosed, “since there is no immediate prospect of my marrying.”

  An odd expression crossed the older woman’s face. She opened her mouth as though to say something further, thought better of it, and closed it again.

  “So that is why Aunt Maria didn’t come to see how I was. You might just as well have told me, Hetty. I had begun to imagine something quite horrid.”

  “But you’d not have been satisfied with half the tale,” said Hetty shrewdly, “and I was on no account to talk about the accident. Now just you lie quiet till it’s time for your medicine. Your aunty will be in to see you in a little while. She took breakfast in bed this morning. Tired after the journey, not to mention Miss Tina’s sulks.”

  Despite Hetty’s explanations and assurances it was a rather anxious face that Alethea lifted for her aunt’s kiss when that lady made her tardy appearance. To be sure she was in no way to blame for Tina’s banishment, but she quite expected to find Aunt Maria in the lowest of spirits and to have to exert all her energies to soothe and cheer the poor lady, no easy task when one was feeling a little low oneself.

  But it turned out to be no such thing. Aunt Maria was possessed of that happy disposition that can put unfortunate happenings quite out of mind as soon as the visible evidence is neatly tidied away. Tina had been very naughty, but she might safely be left in the capable hands of Grandmama Newton, and Aunt Maria could devote herself wholeheartedly to the much more entertaining business of guiding her dear little niece at this critical juncture of her affairs. Not that she anticipated any difficulty. Girls could take foolish notions into their heads, but not Alethea, always so sensible, so tractable. In which happy confidence the good soul trotted briskly into her niece’s room and embraced her warmly.

  By the time that Aunt Maria had exclaimed pitifully over the invalid’s wan looks, recommended a soothing lotion for sundry part-healed scratches and expressed her gratitude to the Providence that had preserved both victims of the accident from serious and lasting injury, any lingering doubts were banished from Alethea’s mind. Whoever might hold her in some way blameworthy—as Papa’s consoling remarks had suggested—Aunt Maria’s affection was as warm and unclouded as ever.

  She settled down in a chair
beside the bed and enquired with deep interest what dress the girl proposed to wear for the all-important interview.

  Alethea stared. “I had not particularly thought about it. Is it so important? I thought his lordship was but paying a courtesy visit to enquire as to my progress. In fact I couldn’t understand why I must receive him in solemn state in the Green Saloon. As for my dress”—she chuckled—“which do you think would best set off my unusual colouring?” And she pushed the hair away from her temples to exhibit the ugly bruise.

  Aunt Maria shook her head reprovingly. One’s appearance, one’s dress, was never a matter for jesting. “I think the cream sendal with the apricot velvet sash will be the most suitable,” she pronounced judicially. “It strikes just the right note of restrained elegance. Strong colour would only make you look paler, and though a little romantic pallor may be allowable under the circumstances, I would not wish his lordship to think that your constitution is sickly. Not but what he would still have to offer for you. However, you are a sensible girl and will understand that he has also to consider the succession.”

  She broke off to consider it, with deep and patent satisfaction. Her dear little niece to be a duchess some day. One could not condone Tina’s behaviour, of course, but really things could not have fallen out more fortunately!

  Every vestige of colour fled from Alethea’s face. Her eyes looked enormous—dazed. It was a full minute before she could master her whirling thoughts, control her voice to say, with some semblance of calmness, “Do you mean that Lord Skirlaugh intends to make me an offer? Is that what he is coming for?”

  “But of course, my dear. What else?” returned her aunt complacently. “He drove down to Tunbridge Wells the very next day to seek your Papa’s permission to pay his addresses. Everything of the most correct. For all their quiet ways, the Byrams are very high sticklers. But you will not object to that. And from what your uncle says, your Papa took quite a fancy to him. Your Mama was naturally a little overcome by so much excitement, and was not able to receive him. But it was at his suggestion that your Papa travelled back to Town with him so that he could see for himself that you were going on comfortably and reassure your Mama. I daresay that was what raised him in Clement’s estimation, for such thoughtfulness, you know, augurs well for his character as a husband.”

  She elaborated happily on the qualities that went to make a good husband, all of them, she was sure, to be found to a marked degree in Lord Skirlaugh’s disposition, quite unaware that her niece did not hear a word, being wholly preoccupied with the task of reducing her own chaotic emotions to order.

  Why should she feel nothing but dismay upon learning of his lordship’s intentions? A few days ago such a prospect would have brought only rapturous anticipation. What was wrong? First Papa, then Hetty, as she now realised, had been well aware of the situation. Suddenly she recalled Aunt Maria’s carelessly turned phrase. ‘He would still have to offer for you.’ That was it! It was not because he loved her, but for some other reason. Perhaps he blamed himself for negligence and felt responsible for the accident. But that was ridiculous!

  Forgetful, for once, of the demands of good manners, she cut across her aunt’s rambling discourse to say crisply, “Yes, ma’am, I daresay his lordship is truly amiable. But why did you say that he would still have to offer for me even if I was of a sickly habit?”

  Aunt Maria stared at her in frank surprise. “But my dear child! Of course he must do so. Perhaps your memory is still a little clouded. I know it was so when they brought you home—indeed, I believe you were scarcely conscious. But his recollection was perfectly clear, and even had he wished to repudiate his obligation to you he could not have done so, for you were seen, you know.”

  Alethea was feeling more and more bewildered, but she was determined to solve the puzzle. “Who saw us? And when?” she demanded.

  “Why several people, I believe,” said Aunt Maria, puzzled in her turn, but anxious to be helpful. “There were the Ingesters. His lordship had you carried to their house as soon as he was able to summon help. And they sent for their doctor, so he saw you, too, of course. But I am sure they are all perfectly to be relied upon not to tattle. And the others who saw you were quite inferior persons who either would not dare or would not be believed. Don’t look so anxious my love. The announcement of your betrothal will make all smooth, I promise you.”

  “But what is there to tattle about?” demanded Alethea desperately. “Surely there is nothing shameful in being involved in a carriage accident?”

  Her aunt stared again, then broke into an indulgent smile. “I see you don’t remember,” she said. “Even if you did, you are such an innocent little puss that you would scarcely credit the significance that evil-minded persons might read into your little adventure. My dear, it was not until next day that his lordship was able to summon assistance. What with the storm, so that there was no one about, and his own injuries, which made it impossible for him to walk, it was as much as he could manage to get you to shelter. Indeed, your uncle vows that his efforts must have been positively heroic.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial note. “But the fact remains, my love, that you spent the whole of the night alone with him in the Ingester’s hay barn. Of course he must marry you. You would be utterly ruined else.”

  FOURTEEN

  Lord Skirlaugh, calling in Berkeley Square punctually to the appointed hour, was received by a young lady outwardly composed, inwardly distracted to breaking point by her own conflicting feelings. Aunt Maria had reasoned, argued, pleaded, scolded and finally wept at finding her gentle biddable niece irrevocably set on a course that could only bring her to social ruin and make life extremely uncomfortable for her family. Alethea remained unmoved. She was truly sorry that her conduct should bring discomfort upon her kind aunt but, she pointed out soothingly, they would be removing from Town almost at once and by next season it would all be forgotten.

  “Scandal is never forgotten,” said Aunt Maria gloomily. “Just when you think you have lived it down it rears its ugly head again. You are ruining Tina’s chances you know, as well as your own.”

  With true nobility Alethea refrained from pointing out that in that case Tina would be well served. “Any girl as lovely as Tina will always have chances,” she said gently.

  “If only she would hold by her determination to marry Sir John,” sighed Aunt Maria, momentarily diverted. And then, perceiving another line of attack, “But if you persist in bringing scandal upon us all, I daresay he will withdraw his suit.”

  “Not if he truly loves her,” consoled Alethea. “As for me, surely you would not have me marry where there is no love, just to satisfy convention?”

  “The love would come after marriage,” urged her aunt eagerly, proffering the familiar placebo as though it were wisdom fresh-minted. “And you would have a position of the first consequence. Think how well suited you are—your principles—your tastes—oh—it would be the happiest of marriages, I promise you!”

  If only they would leave her alone to think things over calmly! If only she knew more about the girl whom his lordship had planned to marry! Perhaps he was only substituting one marriage of convenience for another which had suddenly become more necessary. If that was the case, why not accept the suggestion that love would come after marriage, snatch at the chance that was offered her, and make the best she could of it afterwards? In the recesses of her troubled mind she heard a voice—it might have been Papa’s—say quietly, “Because it would not be an honest bargain.”

  At that her aching heart flared into passionate resentment. “Perhaps not. But it is I who would be the loser by it. I would give all my heart in exchange for dutiful kindness. Oh, yes! He would be kind. His pride would ensure that I was well treated. A hollow mockery of the warmth of love that can permit two people to argue and differ and squabble and yet be so truly one that they can laugh at themselves as they do it.”

  “Love can be an embarrassment, a heavy burden to a decent man, if it is given unas
ked,” said the voice dispassionately.

  But they gave her no peace—no time to refute that argument—to settle in her own mind what was best to be done. They never left her alone. Aunt Maria, Hetty, Hebe, neither of whom dreamed that she would refuse so magnificent an offer. Each in her own way brought pressure to bear. The two abigails, not knowing of her dilemma, fretted her with their assiduous attentions. They were careful not to mention the expected caller or his business, but their barely suppressed jubilation as they went about their duties all too plainly betrayed their knowledge. Wearily she allowed Hetty to fuss over her with a cup of supporting broth, question which slippers she would wear, sprinkle her handkerchief with scent; agreed that Hebe might curl her hair, “Just this once, miss, to help hide the bruise.” By the time that she was dressed and ready to go downstairs to the Green Saloon (“I chose it especially, because it is on the ground floor and would spare his lordship the trouble of climbing the stair with his bad leg,” Aunt Maria had said reproachfully) she had not been allowed so much as five minutes for quiet reflection. She felt more like a mechanical puppet with a set part to perform than a living, breathing girl, and the headache that the doctor had warned of had returned in full force. Yet if she admitted to it, the whole thing would be to face again. Better to go through with it now and have done.

  She seated herself in one of the elegant gilded chairs which were a feature of the room and gazed blindly at the pages of a journal which Hetty had thoughtfully placed in her hands until the sound of the door bell, followed almost at once by the approach of halting footsteps set the colour flaming briefly in her white cheeks. Then, as Ponting announced her visitor, the painful colour subsided and she steeled herself for what she must say.

  Alas! In her miserable turmoil of indecision, she had not allowed for Damon’s injuries. He did his best to minimise the limp, little dreaming that it served him far better than his normal free-striding arrogance, but he had resigned his stick into Ponting’s keeping, feeling it to be slightly incongruous to a proposal of marriage, and walking without its support was both painful and difficult. So Ponting was able to report, to such of the domestic staff as he judged worthy of the confidence, that miss had flown to meet her lover like a bird to its mate.