“That sums it up quite nicely. Rather than accept a local man, she schemed to trap Symington, believing that all her dreams will now be fulfilled.”
“Good. That gives us a starting point. She will be surprised to learn that Symington has avoided London for years. He dislikes crowds, noise, filth, and the shallow posturing of Society.”
“To say nothing of the importuning hordes,” she added, grinning.
“All gospel, by the way. What specifically does she expect to find in Town?”
“As to the city itself, I doubt gold-paved streets and fairy-tale castles would surprise her. She sees it as a collection of glittering ballrooms and pleasure parks.”
“The only pleasure park left is Vauxhall, but the highest sticklers are shunning it these days. Since the Vauxhall Bridge opened, it has been overrun with undesirables. Even the entertainment is now aimed at the merchant classes. In fact, it may cease to exist altogether. The Reverend Barrett recently inherited the place. Believing its operation to be incompatible with his position in the world, he plans to auction it next month.”
“I’ve seen no notice in the paper.” She glared suspiciously.
He cursed under his breath, then shrugged. “I have many correspondents.” Actually, Sedge had mentioned it. Sedge had conducted many a discreet liaison in its darker byways over the years, so its slide into mediocrity had saddened him. But it was again time to shift the focus. “How does Cecilia feel about Society itself?”
“It consists of hordes of males ready to fall at her feet in admiration,” she said wryly. “She expects to be the subject of at least one duel a day.”
“Doesn’t she know that dueling is illegal?”
“I’ve mentioned it, but she hears only what she wishes to hear.” She shrugged. “As far as she is concerned, the only thing that might interrupt incessant partying would be secret assignations with passionate admirers – all very chivalrous, of course.”
“Of course. What about museums, theater, opera, and the daily social calls on other great ladies?”
She laughed. “I told you her fantasies were ridiculous. I have tried to convince her that London differs from Cumberland only in scope. The activities are much the same, though formal entertaining occurs more frequently. One of her objections to country life is paying calls. Talking is so boring, and the endless gossip so trite. Unless conversation focuses on her appearance or her accomplishments, it is of no possible interest.”
He nodded. “So what does she consider to be endless gossip?”
“Who is expecting a blessed event, the mischief children get into, the difficulty in finding good servants…”
“In other words, the things ladies always discuss,” he said, interrupting. “What about the details of who is courting whom?”
“That is more interesting, of course. But only because she believes that she can win any man she wants, so she looks down on the puny efforts of others to snare a husband.”
“So we can add arrogance to her fantasies.”
She glared. “Cecilia is a sweet girl who has a core of common sense about most things. Only on this one subject is she lacking.”
“I did not mean to impugn her nature,” he quickly claimed. “But I need a very clear picture of her expectations if we are succeed. What about the other activities?”
She resumed her pacing. “Cecilia would abhor museums. I don’t know about theater, for she hates reading anything but novels. But she would probably enjoy the farces. And I believe the theater offers another arena in which to display one’s beauty and conquests, so she would likely approve. You must understand that she has always been the neighborhood beauty, so she expects everyone to pay homage to her. And she may even believe that a prince will demand her hand.”
“He would have to be foreign, then,” he said with a laugh. “Our own princes are aged roués who are being forced into wedlock only because Princess Charlotte’s death leaves us with no heir to the throne. Emissaries are already swarming over the Continent. But even if the royal family allowed them to choose an English lady rather than yet another German princess, I doubt any of them would make acceptable husbands.”
“Too true. I sometimes wish we could manage a London Season. The shock might convince Cecilia that she will be happier living here. Our neighbor truly does love her.”
“I would try to arrange it if it were not already too late. Now that she has staged her compromise, we cannot allow her near Society.”
“I know.” She frowned.
“Does she expect to live permanently in London after marriage?”
“I do not know if she has worked out the details, though she certainly expects to spend every Season there. And she has heard that Brighton is popular. Is it true that the Regent has built a fairy tale palace there?”
“The Pavilion.” He rolled his eyes. “It is an abomination. We had best not describe that, for it would certainly appeal to someone with Cecilia’s fantasies. However, repeating the comments others have made of the building might have the proper effect. Grotesque monstrosity is one of the kinder descriptions.”
“It would be better to call it dull, or a waste of money. She is drawn to both underdogs and the unusual.”
“Very well. I have convinced Symington to remain abed until tomorrow. He can begin his campaign then.”
“You can start tonight, sir,” she countered. “I will expect you at dinner. We rarely dress when dining en famille, so you needn’t fret over your limited wardrobe. In the meantime, I must chide Cecilia for this latest start.”
“Do not be too hard on her,” he warned, unlocking the door. “If she digs in her heels too firmly, she may ignore anything we say.”
Checking to see that the hall was clear, he slipped out and reported to Sedge.
CHAPTER TEN
Randolph left Sedge to his tray and joined the family for dinner. It was just as well that Sedge was remaining upstairs, for his temper was still hot. Faced with Cecilia and Fosdale, he would likely say something he would later regret.
Though he agreed with Elizabeth that they must tackle Cecilia immediately, he deliberately arrived in the drawing room at the last minute. Thus he avoided any tête-à-têtes before he could form impressions of the family. So far, he had met Fosdale twice and Cecilia once, all under confrontational conditions. He had yet to see Lady Fosdale.
The oddity of his position was responsible, of course. As Symington’s friend, Whitfield’s employee, and Elizabeth’s suitor, he had been given a decent room. Yet only Elizabeth had made any pretense of welcoming him. Though he had decided upon arrival to take his meals with Sedge, he had never been offered an alternative. Elizabeth’s order had been his first invitation to join the family.
Elizabeth was entering the drawing room as he descended the stairs. Lady Fosdale’s greeting hinted that the girl had not eaten with them in weeks. Another oddity. He knew she had nursed John Coachman through his critical period, but several days had passed since his fever had broken, and he had now improved enough to move out to the stables.
Lady Fosdale strongly resembled Cecilia, though her blonde hair was liberally streaked with gray, making her eyes appear bluer. But she lacked Cecilia’s vibrancy. However much he deplored the chit’s actions, London would proclaim her a diamond if she ever managed a come-out – not that he would admit that aloud.
Both ladies greeted him coolly. The flare of fury in Cecilia’s eyes made him regret taunting her earlier, but his smile must have hidden his disgust, for she soon relaxed. Or perhaps flirtation was so automatic that she tried it on everyone, he decided, as he led Elizabeth into the dining room.
Dinner seemed interminable, though it was actually one of the shorter meals he had endured in company.
“I will send for a special license in the morning,” announced Lord Fosdale over the soup.
Randolph glanced at the windows. Despite their heavy draperies, he could hear the rain beating upon the glass. For the first time since his arrival, he prayed for it to con
tinue. No messenger could travel in this weather.
“No one can be spared for at least two days,” said Elizabeth calmly. “The steward needs every available hand to clear that debris jam on the river. The only footman not helping is Ted, who is too young and too forgetful to send to London on his own.”
“Then I will find someone else.”
“And risk flooding the fields so badly that no crops will grow this year? Half of them are already under water. Every able-bodied man in the valley is clearing debris or repairing roofs damaged in last week’s gale.”
Fosdale frowned.
“Two days should make no difference.”
“Speak for yourself,” snapped Cecilia. “My marriage is far more important than a couple of silly fields.”
“Elizabeth is right,” conceded Fosdale, flashing a quelling look at his younger daughter.
“Why waste money on a special license?” asked Lady Fosdale. “Surely Lord Symington will wish a London wedding.”
“That would cost far more than a license and take too long to arrange. Even calling banns here would take too long, for he would need paperwork from his home parish before we could begin.” Steel threaded Fosdale’s voice. “No lord would tolerate such a delay after compromising a lady.”
Randolph nearly choked over the lie. An immediate marriage would declare to all and sundry that something havey-cavey had precipitated the union, thus tarnishing the reputations of both parties. No heir to a duchy would consider it unless the girl were increasing.
But Fosdale’s reasoning was clear. He wanted an immediate wedding to prevent Symington from escaping his clutches. Holding it here would both reduce the expense and prevent his wife from joining Society. He wondered why the man didn’t just pack them all off to Scotland. It would be far faster than sending a messenger to London for a license.
Not that he would suggest such a thing.
At least Elizabeth had won a brief reprieve. Bless her for finding a way to delay the messenger. And he must remember this tactic. Fosdale’s purse seemed to take precedence over everything. He met her eyes and smiled.
Lady Fosdale stifled her disappointment at missing another opportunity to see London. “An immediate wedding means we must waste no time in gathering your trousseau, Cecilia. And yours,” she added, turning her eyes to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth glared back.
Randolph changed the subject before Elizabeth’s temper exploded. This must be why she had been avoiding her family. Was Lady Fosdale also anxious to see the last of her daughter, or had Fosdale delegated her to apply pressure as a way around his own pledge? “The Chaucer is in excellent condition, my lord. The parchment is foxed, of course, and several corners are missing, but that is inevitable, considering its age.”
“I know it is in excellent condition,” he said sharply. “Despite his considerable failings, my father took care of his books. How dare the duke imply otherwise!”
“The duke never makes assumptions,” he snapped, then realized that he was out of character again. An employee would not speak so. He forced his hands to relax. “Proper care does not always suffice to protect ancient works, as even the most scrupulous collectors know. Just last autumn, a mouse damaged Symington’s first edition of Shakespeare’s Othello. He was furious.”
“He has a temper?” asked Cecilia.
“At times.”
“And when would those times be?” asked Elizabeth, giving him an opening, though he could not like using it. He needed to think more carefully before speaking. What portrayal of Symington’s character would discourage Cecilia without giving Elizabeth a permanent disgust of him?
“Whenever carelessness damages one of his prized possessions or someone threatens one of his friends,” he said quietly. “He was so furious that he demanded the severest penalty from the culprit who let the mouse in, refusing to accept even reasonable excuses.” He did not mention that the fault had been his, a fact he’d known the moment he found the creature. He now ate all meals in the dining room lest crumbs again entice pests. And he no longer opened the library windows after dark.
“So he would protect his wife,” said Cecilia smugly.
“Only if he cared for her. But do not think that a pretty face will sway his opinion,” he added, noting the arrogance in her eyes. “He judges solely on actions and character. He despises coercion, so any attempt to control his behavior is doomed to failure. In fact, Whitfield is the only man I know who has any influence over him. He complained for much of our journey that the duke had ordered him to London for the Season.”
“What?” Cecilia sounded like she had swallowed something rotten.
“He usually avoids Town, for he hates Society, preferring quiet study at Orchards. Surely you know that he shares the duke’s love of books and scholarly pursuits.”
Cecilia was coughing into her serviette.
Elizabeth signaled a footman to refill her glass. “One must applaud a man who knows his own mind and resists efforts to force him down paths not of his choosing. Coercion is abhorrent in any form.” She flashed stony looks at Cecilia, Fosdale, and finally himself. “Any man can benefit from opposing tyranny, whatever its disguise.”
“Very true, but one must judge tyranny separately from the goal it pursues. A man can repudiate coercion, yet freely choose the same path for himself.” He held her gaze for a long moment.
Further reply was delayed by the arrival of the next course.
Elizabeth was digging her heels in again. He must convince her that his offer was made by choice and was not solely the result of honor. It would take considerable effort, particularly if her parents tried to press her.
But that was for later. Now they must convince Cecilia that she had made a grievous mistake in attaching Symington, though he would say no more about Symington’s character. Far better to cast doubt on the tales Cecilia read. Perhaps his position as a book expert would add weight to his criticisms.
A glance at Elizabeth proved that her thoughts were moving in the same direction. It was almost as though he could read her mind. Smiling, he began a spirited debate, comparing Thomas Love Peacock’s novels to the Waverly books. As expected, Cecilia declared that neither author could compare to her beloved gothic tales.
“They are quite exciting,” agreed Elizabeth. “As long as one remembers that they are fantasy stories set in imaginary places. And even those that seem to be sited in England are often wildly exaggerated. Since one would never recognize our own Lake District from their descriptions, I cannot believe they do any better with London.”
“You miss the point,” swore Cecilia. “No writers live here, so they cannot know the truth. But everyone is familiar with London.”
“Talk about fantasy! Wordsworth lives only a few miles from here. Not only is he visited by many of the top writers in the country, but both writers and artists consider the Lake District an ideal place to spend a holiday. Yet you are right that most writers know London. Shelley wrote only recently that Hell is a city much like London – a populous and smoky city.”
“Hardly surprising that he fled to Switzerland, then,” said Cecilia. “But he is so scandalous that I can hardly consider his opinions seriously.”
“In his personal life that is true, though he wed the girl in the end. But we have drifted far afield. My point is that stories like your romances, which are pure fantasy, have no need to portray real settings.”
“Not all romances are fantasy,” protested Randolph. “While many of the gothic tales published by the Minerva Press bear little resemblance to the real world, I have found the writings of Jane Austen and Mary Selkirk to be quite enjoyable and true to life.”
Elizabeth flushed, but she was looking at her plate, so he could not tell why. Was she upset that he did not condemn all novels? But making such a comprehensive misstatement would prove that he was close-minded, allowing Cecilia to ignore his words. She had already ignored Shelley, on the excuse that his elopement with a fourteen-year-old girl mad
e his opinions unsound. His wife’s suicide the following year had worsened the scandal. Shelley had ignored it, married the girl, and returned to England, where the Examiner had welcomed him and was now printing his poetry.
Elizabeth pulled his mind back to the discussion. “Miss Austen was indeed true to life. Alas, the two books just published were the only others she had completed before her untimely death. She will be sorely missed.”
“By some, perhaps,” said Cecilia. “I find her stories rather boring, for nothing much happens.”
“But that defines much of their appeal.” Elizabeth ignored her father’s protest. He was clearly irritated by this topic of conversation.
“Very true,” said Randolph. “Her characters are delightful, for their attitudes and behavior match many of my friends. I derive the same satisfaction from Mary Selkirk’s work, for I can always find people I know on the pages.”
Cecilia muttered something that sounded like, “What a boring life you must lead.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “They appeal to similar readers because they tell realistic stories about realistic people – which are far more believable than tales of mad abductions and of questionable rescues from improbable places by heroes who must be horridly uncomfortable to live with. And enduring constant upset must be quite disagreeable for the heroines.”
Fosdale was ready to burst into derision of all books, so Randolph changed the subject. They had given Cecilia enough to think about for the moment. “Is constant rain usual for this part of Cumberland?” he asked his host.
“Not this prolonged.”
“Symington is becoming concerned about his baggage coach. It was cut off when the bridge washed out near Parinfel, but he had expected it by now despite this rain.”
Fosdale frowned. “It might have met with other difficulties – all roads are suffering this year. More than one is blocked by mud, so much depends on the route they chose. The shortest detour would take them west to the coast, though I expect that road is quite treacherous at the moment. The best route would circle through Keswick. Yet there are people who might direct them via Carlisle.”
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