by Jude Morgan
Kate’s spirits continued so high after the first dances, however, that she was soon to be seen urging her brother out of his seat, and in the direction of Sophie Spedding, who had no dearth of applicants for her hand, but who assented at once on beholding Mr Tresilian’s bow, with a smile whose brilliance could be felt across the room. Mr Tresilian could not be said to dance easily; but he looked so surprised at his doing it at all that the effect was not uncongenial.
On the set’s ending, she went to him, meaning to tell him how pleased she was, but her temper must still have been unsettled, for she could only remark: ‘Bonaparte defeated, and Mr Tresilian dancing – this is a memorable week indeed.’
‘Ah, you are not the only ones to undertake the enterprise of living, you see,’ he said, seating himself and consulting his watch. ‘And now that it is over, I can say the experience was not so very bad, all in all. Though I confess I did begin to feel a little jaded about the third or fourth minute.’
This was excessive even for him. Louisa could not believe in the indifference of so much indifference: she noted his flushed looks, and the heightened blue of his eyes, and would willingly have given the tantalising question more attention. But no: – like a stone in the shoe, or a cold draught blowing, the presence of Pearce Lynley could not be ignored. He was now walking, or rather patrolling about, in clear sight of Lady Harriet seated alone: making it equally clear that he would not dance, and would not speak to her. – This was beyond bearing. Louisa politely refused several requests for the dance just beginning, and took the seat by Lady Harriet’s side.
‘My dear Miss Carnell, don’t tell me you are tired already.’
‘No: only tired of ill-mannered presumption,’ Louisa said, in a carrying voice. ‘And even where there is dancing, I hope I shall never forget civility, and the value of cordial conversation.’
Lady Harriet’s dark eyes seemed to see much; but she said only, with a gentle smile: ‘I’m sure you never do. Still, I regret to see you sit out; though to be sure there will be many more dances for you.’
‘Believe me, I shall not mind if there are not,’ Louisa said, seeing from the corner of her eye Mr Lynley drawing stiffly away.
‘I do not mean only here. You have youth, fortune, beauty and spirit; and I do believe you are not vain of them. In society, trust me, they would secure you such attention as would leave you very little time to sit by with the old married ladies.’
It was said with all Lady Harriet’s quick, quiet grace; but Louisa was so little accustomed to compliments as to be thrown into some confusion. The picture of herself thus presented was too strange for vanity to find a likeness there; but the very words, even if there were scant truth in them, fortified her further against the overweening proprietorship of the man stalking about at her back. – She had not long, however, to hesitate over a reply. Suddenly Valentine was before them, and inviting Lady Harriet, with a deep bow, to dance; and Lady Harriet, after what seemed a momentary shake of the head, was accepting him.
Louisa watched them take the floor. They were well matched in their lustrous darkness of looks, in their height, and in their grace: such must be the reaction of any who beheld them, even knowing the unfortunate circumstances of the lady; and Valentine’s gallantry in refusing to see her neglected was surely to be admired. If there was anything to cause disquiet in the sight, it was very soon thrust aside by a feeling much more distinct and bracing, as Mr Lynley took the seat by her, uninvited, and pronounced: ‘And now she is actually dancing! I should not have believed it, even of her. It is a private rather than a public occasion, to be sure: but to expose herself in this way – a woman in all the dubiety of her situation – shows her to be more shockingly dead to propriety than I had supposed.’
‘I do not observe anyone else being shocked, Mr Lynley – everyone seems too preoccupied with enjoying themselves. And Valentine and I would never, I hope, have a guest in our house, and then set limits on what that guest could do.’
‘Allow me to remark, Miss Carnell, that you should not need to. A sense of what is right and fitting should operate on both sides, to the prevention of such unseemliness. – Indeed, I cannot restrain myself on this matter – on other matters also: I must beg, Miss Carnell, that you will favour me with a word in private. Let us step back into the parlour.’
There was real urgency in his tone; and though a part of her wanted to retort that it would surely be unseemly and improper for them to take themselves off, she restrained it as childish. – If he wished to speak to her seriously, she was no less willing to address him in the same terms. She rose, and with a stiffness of back that even he could hardly have emulated, went before him into the parlour, where the noise and gaiety of the dance, appropriately, was distanced and subdued.
‘I must take what may seem to you an inopportune moment to speak to you,’ he said, closing the door almost to, ‘because of the course of my own affairs. I may not be much longer at Hythe. I anticipate an early removal to town; and that being the case, I must have things made plain between us.’
‘To town? Not bad news, I hope,’ she said, with very effortful civility.
He gave a bare shrug. ‘As I have said, I must engage a reputable governess for Georgiana; and then there is my brother. His ship is in, and he intends lodging in London; but he is doubtless distressed for funds. It will be best if I take a house in my usual neighbourhood – I have acquaintance who will secure it – so that Francis can be decently accommodated with us there, while we consider his future.’ His expression, as he sat down, was that of a man contemplating an ill-cooked meal. ‘I have friends who possess influence in the Excise, for example, that might be exerted on his behalf. Or something else might be found to settle him. Above all, he must be forestalled from applying to my grandmother. Her health is not equal to that trouble again.’
‘Certainly it sounds as if you have a good deal to arrange, Mr Lynley; and so I’m sure there should be nothing to delay your departure.’
‘Only yourself, Miss Carnell,’ he said, with a penetrating look. ‘Some of the things I have to say to you on that score you will not like. But believe me, I urge you to these considerations not in any spirit of criticism but out of a wish – a cherishing wish – to protect you: to protect you from error and danger – to protect you, perhaps, from yourself.’
‘You say I shall not like some of the things you say: I have rather a presentiment I will not like any of them. Your disapproval of Lady Harriet’s presence you have already expressed – and have now demonstrated, I should add, with a disregard for her own feelings that I find difficult to reconcile with the actions of a gentleman. I assume you have further reproofs ready; but before I hear them, I must ask what right you suppose yourself to have, Mr Lynley, to make them?’
She had stung him: it was with a flush, and unwonted quickness that he answered: ‘My right is surely plain – though I should consider it more an honour. The implicit trust placed in me by your late esteemed father, whose watchful care of you I have the happiness to consider now a portion of my own duties—’
‘It is not at all. Dismiss that from your mind, Mr Lynley, I beg of you. I do not stand in need of a guide or guardian.’
‘Allow me, with the greatest respect, to dispute that. You have lost a great prop and stay, after all—’
‘Mr Lynley, you force me to be truthful. I know you admired my father: you considered him, I think, a great and singular character; but I must assert that in that character was comprehended much harshness, injustice, and even cruelty. Perhaps you think I should not say this: indeed, I don’t want to; it gives me every pain that disloyalty can inflict. But you must at least consider that not every proscription placed on us was well meant: that in his forcefulness there was a love of power, and of directing for directing’s sake, which was no less apparent in the arrangements he saw fit to make for our future. Yes, there has been a loss; but if you and I are to understand each other at all, you must recognise that there has been a gain
also.’
Even through the mist, half anger, half wretchedness, that swam in her vision, Louisa saw that Mr Lynley’s mind was struck – that he was actually listening; and it was with some caution in his tone that he at last said: ‘I do not dispute your right to say this, Miss Carnell, not at all. My knowledge of Sir Clement was that of a family friend; but yours, of course, was different in kind and degree, and must be honoured. I do not doubt there were oddities and excesses in his temperament: there are few, very few, of whom that cannot be said.’ He paused as if mentally reckoning the number, and limiting it, on reflection, to himself. ‘And you have, indeed, helped me to a better understanding. If your father’s treatment of you was all you say – and I do not doubt you –’ with a hasty bow ‘– then I fear he did, most regrettably, and with the best intentions, sow some unhappy seeds. A little more moderation might have prevented all this.’ Rising to his feet, and pacing, he gave an inclusive wave of his hand. ‘It was, perhaps, inevitable. This reaction – this rebellion you are suffering—’
‘I am not suffering, I am enjoying it. Though, really, if an impromptu dance for twenty couple is to be accounted evidence of rebellion—’
‘I refer to all of it. All of those misjudgements – those lapses of decorum I have been constrained to observe at Pennacombe since my return to the county. Consider, Miss Carnell: on my very first call here, I encountered you in such a situation as can only be described as—’
‘Up a tree,’ Louisa said; and, at his mortified look, ‘Do go on, Mr Lynley.’
‘I refer to a trifling instance; but I might with much greater pertinence point, though I have refrained from doing so, to your putting off blacks after six months. To be sure mourning is a convention that can be too scrupulously observed; and I hope I can forgive the natural desire of a young woman to look well, which cannot long tolerate a restriction on dress, even at the expense of conscience.’ He seemed to take encouragement from Louisa’s silence at this; though it was rather as if a man should conclude that there was not going to be a storm, because the air was so very still. ‘But when it is added to these other deviations – of which, yes, I count the acquaintance with Lady Harriet Eversholt not the least disturbing – then I cannot help reprehending the course you are set upon, even though I understand it in part.’
‘Very well; you have set out my failings, and I am ready to own them, Mr Lynley, if you will now undertake not to suffer another moment’s anxiety over them. You have done your duty by my father, and we have spoken enough of that. Now let me bear the consequences myself.’
‘That is exactly what I do not wish. You asked by what right I spoke; and I should have said, by the right of my attachment to you. If I did not esteem you so highly, I should not be so careful of you. You have a lively and developed mind – indeed, your father used to lament to me that you spent too much time with books –’ he quenched at once the reminiscent smile this occasioned ‘– and though you are inclined to a certain playfulness of fancy, I know you to have abundant sense, discernment and discretion; indeed, with no disrespect to Mr Carnell, I have always considered yours the greater portion. These are qualities I know how to value; and I should not wish to see them neglected, in a mere giddy rush after novelty and pleasure.’
‘I thank you for the compliments, Mr Lynley – all the more so, as they are plainly wrung from you quite against your inclination. But an attachment that seems chiefly to consist in knowing what is best for me is not one I can bring myself to prize; and its proceeding so little from the heart, and so much from the will, reassures me that it will cost you scarcely any pain to give it up, as I earnestly hope you will do.’
There was no pacing now: he was all rigid, sharp-jawed attention. ‘Miss Carnell, I hope I know my own worth. I do not consider my attention and regard as something either to be lightly bestowed, or lightly abandoned: that is not my nature. Nor is it in my nature to see my true esteem and affection slighted with any of that indifference you attribute to me. A man must value himself very poorly, who could receive it so.’
‘Then I am sorry,’ she said, feeling as if she had stepped out on to a path that looked merely a little wet, only to find it treacherously iced. ‘I have no wish to injure your feelings, Mr Lynley; and if, as you insist, they are more developed than I have had any evidence to suppose, then my regret is all the greater. But I hope I value myself also – though the sense of self-worth has never been encouraged in my upbringing; and therefore I cannot simply accept the attentions of a gentleman, either because my father told me to, or because the gentleman tells me I ought to.’
‘This is still to place my attentions in a very disparaging light,’ he said, frowning. ‘I do not think when your father was alive you would have expressed yourself so, Miss Carnell. And I cannot help but conclude that this alteration is the result of an influence – recent, ill-advised and pernicious – that I was right to mistrust from the very beginning.’
‘I could not express myself when my father was alive, sir, because I was afraid of him – afraid for my brother’s sake and mine; and just now I heartily wonder that that fear never turned to hate. But here is another charge to lay at my father’s door, perhaps; for if, Mr Lynley, you gained any impression that your sentiments were returned, it must have come from him. I apologise if I did not make it plain then that I do not care for you; but apology is superfluous now, for I am telling you very plainly that I do not; and if this is to inflict a wound, I am convinced that your vanity will very soon repair it, to the perfect restoration of that splendid self-regard, which you have been good enough to recommend to me as one of your attractions.’
As unfortunate punctuation, a loud, shrill laugh carried from the drawing-room at that moment. The incensed glare that Mr Lynley threw in its direction was, Louisa saw, at least partly intended for her; and its force was little diminished when he turned back to her, and said with an almost crackling composure: ‘You refer to my vanity: I would prefer to call it pride; however we name it, you may be assured that it will prevent the renewal of these addresses, which are apparently so unwelcome to you. The vigilant care for your interests, which I consider was enjoined upon me by your father, I relinquish likewise; though, believe me, Miss Carnell, with no very sanguine hopes of how you will fare without it.’
He was gone: gone altogether from the house, as she discovered when, after sitting frozen and breathless for some unguessable time, she returned to the drawing-room. The dance was still in lively progress, but she could only creep to the furthest chair, and hope to escape notice while she tried to collect herself.
It was done: relief, overwhelming relief, there must surely be, at the simple ending of suspense. Yet for now a stifling multiplicity of feelings pressed on her – just as a number of gentlemen began urging her to dance, when she wanted only to be still. There was nothing of positive regret – nevertheless, she had given pain, and she could take no satisfaction in that. Anger remained: – anger at Pearce Lynley’s presumption, and anger with her father that he had ever placed her in this position. An alarming emotion this last; and crowding close behind it, and refusing to be denied, was guilt – guilt muttering to her that she was an unnatural, ungrateful daughter, who deserved never to know peace again. But one sensation she did not recognise: it wore something of the aspect of freedom – something even of power; and though it hovered in the background, there was that in its look which suggested their acquaintance would soon ripen.
Chapter IX
The dancing continued until the early hours, but Louisa sought her bedroom by midnight; and there Valentine soon came tapping.
‘Are you quite well?’
‘Oh, yes: only fatigued. Go back to our guests, Valentine, you’ll be missed.’
‘They’re footing it happily without me. Your midshipman declares he will not leave off until he sees the sun.’ He came in and sat on the foot of the bed. ‘Lady Harriet was concerned about you. She feared there had been some dissension – some unpleasantness – an
d that she was the cause.’
‘Not at all – not in the sense of being to blame. She was referred to this evening in terms I found objectionable. But that was only one of my manifold errors, which I have had the pleasure of hearing recited.’
‘Pearce Lynley, I collect,’ Valentine said; and then, with a darkening expression: ‘I hope the man was not insulting to her. If so, I shall—’
‘No, no,’ Louisa said hastily, ‘nothing of that. He was – he was simply being Mr Lynley, with all the officious propriety one expects. But we had a very uncomfortable interview, in which he declared himself to me, as far as such a man can, and I rejected his addresses. – Dear me, his language is catching. Well, all is made plain between us, at any rate.’
‘Good,’ said Valentine, firmly. ‘Good, first and above all, because you have exercised your free choice – which is a wonderful thing, is it not?’
‘Yes,’ she said – but the wonder of it was still clouded. ‘I am afraid, though, you are not to be rid of me yet; and you must be a little troubled, lest I contract a habit of rejecting eligible gentlemen.’
‘Rid of you? Such talk.’ He saw she was perturbed, and squeezed her hand. ‘Look here: now, I can say it. I can say that I should have hated to deliver you into the matrimonial custody of Pearce Lynley. But I have been careful not to influence you in either direction. No, I want us to enjoy life together a good while yet – to taste the world fully, as we resolved to do. And not just here. Louisa, I have been talking to Tom. He tells me, with regret, that he and Sophie must return to London – Lady Harriet also. But this need not be an end: rather, a beginning. Our cousins very much wish that we would go with them.’
