by Jude Morgan
‘Well, I must say that puts rather a different complexion on it, Mr Lynley,’ said Mrs Spedding, dimpling, ‘and though my anxieties have not been great, simply because I could not believe evil of anyone bearing your name, still anxieties there were. – And I dare say, from what you have told me, that they might well be married from your grandmother’s house: which is a pretty sort of compliment to her. And if she were to do something for them, to be sure that would be very agreeable. Sophie has an ample fortune – but I’m sure you will forgive the natural tenderness of the parent, Mr Lynley, when I wonder whether your brother brings anything comparable to the match.’
‘Francis has nothing,’ Mr Lynley said crisply. ‘He had a portion from Mrs Poulter, but that, I assume, is gone. But you may be assured, ma’am, that he will not marry solely on the fortune of Miss Spedding. I have a strong presentiment, as I said, that Mrs Poulter will wish to settle something on him; but I am quite prepared to make up the deficiency myself, without conditions. The happiness, the security of your daughter requires no less.’
Here, indeed, was Mr Lynley acting handsomely: Mrs Spedding plainly felt it, and was all smiles, civility, and relief – seemed indeed in a way to considering Sophie’s elopement a thing not to be regretted at all, but to be rejoiced in.
‘However,’ he went on, ‘if you have any disquiet, Mrs Spedding – any presentiment that my brother’s conduct may not be all that the solicitude of a mother could wish – then I shall undertake their pursuit at once. Enquiries have yielded nothing yet, but they may do: and there is my suspicion of Nottinghamshire as their destination to proceed on. I can certainly try to catch up with them, to dissuade them – to stop them, if you wish it. I should say,’ he added, and this time he did meet Louisa’s eyes, ‘that I do not consider myself in a position to control my brother’s affairs. But if you wish me to make the attempt, I am ready at once.’
Mrs Spedding hesitated – but not long: as everyone must agree, both parties were of age, and there could be no question of compulsion, if such a pursuit were undertaken. It might even be making them see as criminal what was only thoughtless and headstrong, and driving them to excesses of defiance that had never been their intention. – They must await the result; but Mr Lynley hit upon the happy notion of sending a trusted family servant post-haste up to Nottinghamshire, there to report back by letter immediately what he found at Mrs Poulter’s house. This he undertook to commission at once; Tom and Valentine, meanwhile, put their heads together over their knowledge of coaching-inns and livery-stables in the vicinity, in case the hire of a post-chaise for Nottinghamshire might be discovered by enquiry; and Mr Lynley seized the moment to address Louisa apart.
‘I have been forced to be brief,’ he said, ‘and to concentrate on practical matters. But I wished to say to you that I am sorry: deeply sorry, if you have been hurt by my brother’s conduct.’
‘I … hurt, Mr Lynley? Indeed I cannot conceive how. – I am concerned for my aunt, of course: but for myself I do very well, thank you.’
‘Here is a turn-about!’ Mr Lynley said, eyeing her closely, and with something of a rueful smile, on features she had never considered susceptible to it. ‘I talk of my feelings: and you cannot express yours.’ He said no more; but he took and pressed her hand with a gentleness that suggested his silence came more from tact than triumph; and some minutes after, having made sure they were unobserved, drew forth a letter from his pocket.
‘What is this?’
‘He left it for you. If there is anything useful in it, of course you will make it known. Otherwise – well, it is yours.’
He took his leave shortly afterwards; and as soon as an opportunity arose, with Valentine and Tom still deep in coach-roads, and Mrs Spedding in the niceties of a trousseau, she escaped upstairs to tear open the letter from Francis Lynley.
Note, rather. It was very short: though even before she had reached the end of it, Louisa felt that she had done with letters for ever, and never wished to read another word inscribed by human hand.
My dear Miss Carnell –
Sophie says she will be writing you – so you will know all. Still I cannot refrain from addressing you – in private as ’twere. Because in you I know I will find comprehension. While everyone else is clucking, you will be smiling. Now, mark me, I think very well of Sophie: I mean us to be happy, as far as that means anything. But still – you know the shifts we must be put to in this world. We must do what we can to maintain ourselves. Look at you, at Silver’s Hotel: the fellows told me what an unconscionable time you were upstairs with Colonel E. – but then your brother was in that scrape with Lady H., and so you did what had to be done. I admire you for it. We shall remain very good friends, I am sure.
F.L.
Chapter XXIII
It was long – yet it was not long – before Louisa recovered from the blow administered to her by Francis Lynley’s note. There was a world of indignation, mortification and disgust to be got through: very horrible it was; but if there had been more substance, there would have been more struggle. The man who could believe this of her, and could say it to her, was not to be rewarded with the attention that even a furious attack on her would merit. – That could be answered: this could only be dismissed. She soon tore the note across, and let it lie on the floor.
Only then began, however, the true anguish. Pearce Lynley had spoken of her not expressing her feelings: the real difficulty lay in defining them. Yet in spite of the stinging and misting and ineffectual wiping of her eyes, Louisa could see very clearly that this was an evasion.
From the moment of finishing Sophie’s letter, her feelings had been plain. Vanity: vanity profoundly wounded; and even the cheerful insult she found in Francis Lynley’s note had only probed at the same flinching spot. Not so long ago she had been in the piquant position, as she thought, of being an object of regard and fascination for both the Lynley brothers: if she had not known then, she knew now how beguiling she had found this. – The present reversal was complete. Pearce Lynley was to marry a woman with whom, despite her ineligibility, he was much in love: Francis Lynley to marry a woman with whom, she suspected, he was not very much in love, for the sake of her fortune. If her affections had been at all engaged to him, then she must here acknowledge a lucky escape: – here was his true character revealed.
And so, a nonsense to feel herself alone, and no one else alone! It was as much a delusion as Valentine had suffered over Lady Harriet. And perhaps after all she was judging too hastily. Francis Lynley had been the victim of early influences, which had directed him towards this duplicitous course: it could not excuse, but it could explain. With such a prickly consolation, with such an acid balm, did Louisa try to soothe her spirits; and succeeded only in driving them to a greater agitation. In place of the earlier numbness, she was now in thrall to a restlessness so acute that it was torture to sit still. Worse, there was no one to whom she could unburden herself. Valentine had been too absorbed in his own unhappy adventure of the heart to pay much heed to the progress of hers. But on forcing herself at last to return downstairs, she found that remaining here, even in silence, was unendurable – where nothing was to be talked of but Lieutenant Lynley and Sophie. Her one wish was to be out of the house; and at last she was presented with an opportunity.
Mrs Spedding suddenly bethought herself of Mrs Murrow, who would be expecting to see her today. Of course there must be a suspension of her usual engagements; but her dear friend really must, she said, be informed of the reason, or else she would think the worse – as if Mrs Murrow ever thought anything else. If Mrs Spedding wished to pen a little note, Louisa suggested, she would be happy to take it over to Portman Square herself. Her aunt gladly complied; the note was soon written, and the carriage was offered, but Louisa said she would rather walk. Exercise, fierce exercise, only would do; and before leaving, she told Valentine aside that she intended to take a turn about the park on her way back, to clear her head.
Released, she set out, and
was at Portman Square almost before she knew it. The footman to whom she handed the note told her the family were at home, but she quickly declined to step in. Mrs Murrow, like a toothache, was a thing in any case to be avoided; but it was Miss Astbury whom she specially did not wish to face today. Indeed, Louisa wanted to see no one: returning, she flinched from the faces she passed in the busy, glaring streets, as if they had been so many burning torches thrust at her. She must shut it all out; exclude everything but the vigorous stride of her legs, and the corresponding activity of her pounding mind.
She had torn up that infernal note from Francis Lynley, but it soon reassembled itself in her thoughts. Could he really have believed that of her? – that she had resorted, with Colonel Eversholt, to the ultimate persuasion? If so, it said much for the tenor of his mind. Either it was fixed in finding the worst, the most discreditable in every situation; or else Francis Lynley, under the raffish scepticism, was actually a prig. Swiftly, and with blinding vividness, did it all pass before her: – her relation with Francis Lynley; begun with a disposition on her part to think well of him, and ill of his brother: pursued with this disposition always uppermost, so that every evidence was twisted to suit it. It might well be that in the beginning he had assessed her as a possible candidate for the advantageous marriage that was to secure him from dependence either on his brother or on his own exertions; but at last, he had found her wanting – in fortune, perhaps, and in reputation. He had certainly known of Valentine’s involvement with Lady Harriet – might well have heard of his financial losses, and judged the connection to be imprudent; and then seeing her at Silver’s Hotel, had needed nothing more to convince him that Sophie Spedding, who had never been associated with anything more scandalous than flirtation, would better suit his plan. Yes, it made perfect sense; and it was not the least part of the great revision of assumptions being forced upon her to realise that Francis Lynley had consulted his interests, where his brother had consulted his heart.
And Mr Lynley had even warned her against him – spoken of his not being formed for happiness; but, of course, his voice was like her father’s, and not to be listened to. With flaming cheeks she recalled the scene of the Astbury ball, and the dance she had so proudly, defiantly, performed with Francis Lynley. That dance formed a more apt figure for their relation than she had known: her dancing prettily around him, he happy to admire her – but no chance, no possibility that they would ever dance together.
But she was far from fixing all the blame on him. The greater portion must be hers. If she had not supposed herself in love with him, or liable to be so, she should not have thrust herself into such intimacy. It was an intimacy which had bred the assumption that she must always be first in his regard; and its inevitable result, the wounding of her vanity, and this painful revelation of the thoughtless, coquettish part she had played.
Well, no doubt as the news of the elopement spread, she would find herself – having made no secret of her partiality – smirked at and whispered about. But no one could consider her more of a fool than she thought herself. Valentine, if mistakenly, had loved. She had only delighted in power – as Mr Tresilian had said. What he would think was a further twist of anguish – though a moment’s reflection convinced her that he was the last person in the world to crow over such an unhappy vindication. It was not in his nature: – and he might, besides, be a prey to similar sensations when he discovered that Sophie had made a secret contract, if he was as inclined to her as Louisa suspected. Fortunate for him, though, his perpetual caution, which had held him back from any declaration: she was wrong ever to have deplored it.
Reaching Hyde Park, she found some relief in the open spaces, the more generous air. – Still there were people, strolling, on horseback, in carriages, smiling and chattering: exhibiting all that ordinary indifference, that everyday disposition to be not displeased with life, which strikes like a calculated insult on the mind conscious only of its own suffering. Preparations, besides, were under way for the gala this evening: wooden stands were being put up, with a deal of hammering and sawing: ropes and lanterns were being strung between the innocent trees. It would look very well at night, no doubt, but by day it had a tawdry appearance; and even the grass, already punished by the exceptional gatherings of this exceptional summer, resembled a species of green dust, and gave off no freshness. Valentine had spoken of going home: now she seized on the idea. She summoned the peace of Pennacombe – the stone walls, the rooks calling in the avenue, the familiar groan of the staircase, the wind that sometimes reached them, salt-laced, from the sea at Teignmouth. It did something – but fell short, like a wish for the simplicities of childhood.
Quickly she turned aside; someone was moving towards her across the turf, and she did not wish to see anyone she knew. Then she felt her arm lightly touched, looked round, and saw it was Mr Tresilian: and that was different.
‘Valentine said I might find you here,’ he said. ‘Lord, you look exhausted.’
‘Not at all,’ she said; but she realised how fatigued she was, and was glad to take his arm. ‘Valentine – then you have seen him?’
‘Briefly. I called at Hill Street, and found – well, a certain degree of disturbance, as you must know. Your aunt was good enough to tell me what has happened, enjoining me to the strictest confidence – as if it will not be all over town in a day. But Valentine and I managed a few words.’ He smiled faintly. ‘And we shook hands.’
‘Oh, thank heaven.’ Here, if anywhere, was some comfort. ‘I have been so grieved … But are you truly reconciled?’
‘For my part, I never wished to be anything else. But I did fear that his hostility would not be quickly overcome. I am glad; though he did mutter something about talking more of it, which I do not quite understand.’
‘He means the debt, Mr Tresilian. It is his settled intention to repay it, as soon as possible – it is our intention, indeed. We cannot rest easy until then.’
‘Oh, the money, you mean,’ he said indifferently. ‘No, he seemed more himself – and that was my chief concern.’
‘He is,’ said Louisa. ‘At least, he now recognises the truth. He saw them together, at Hampstead. No, he did not speak to them. He merely saw – and it was all that was needed.’
‘Brutal,’ sighed Mr Tresilian, after a moment, ‘but perhaps the best way – the only way. Well, let them go to blazes together. I do not suppose Valentine will forget quickly, but the pain will go, at last. – My other concern—’ He stopped, and looked searchingly into her face. ‘Tell me to go and boil my head if you like. But when I heard about young Lynley and Miss Spedding – my thoughts turned at once to what you must be feeling. And so I had to seek you out. Ah – I’m sorry,’ he said, as she was silent, ‘I had better go and perform that unlikely culinary operation.’
‘No, no, I don’t mind, I – I only wonder why you should be so concerned. I was greatly surprised, to be sure, and I hope that all turns out well – but it is nothing of any great consequence to me.’
‘Really? I should be glad to know it. Yet I do not think you would be walking here alone, and fagging yourself half to death, if it affected you so little. I must imperil my head again – and say that I rather suspected you were in love with him.’
‘What absurd things you do say,’ spluttered Louisa, in great confusion. ‘There was never anything in my acquaintance with Lieutenant Lynley to suggest – to suggest—’
‘There was a good deal to suggest, to the observant eye.’
‘Well, then, as you are so uncivil as to keep badgering me about it,’ she said, fighting a ridiculous urge to cry, ‘I shall have to say that I was certainly not in love with Francis Lynley, as far as I am aware.’
‘Ah. As far as you are aware.’
‘Yes, and don’t be so provoking, Mr Tresilian. I should certainly hope to know if I were in love with someone.’
‘I suppose so,’ he said softly. ‘I do not mean to intrude. I only wish to be assured that you are not hurt.’
There was a gentleness in this that brought the tears even closer; but she was able to suppress them by looking up at his own grave, thoughtful face, and turning her mind to what he must be feeling. ‘You have my assurance. And as we are being candid, Mr Tresilian,’ she said, ‘I must confess to feeling a similar anxiety for you.’
‘For me?’ he said, his whole scalp lifting in surprise. ‘I thought – I wondered if you were a little attached to Sophie. Even,’ she added, attempting a smile, ‘without quite knowing it.’
‘Lord. What curious creatures we are, in our assumptions. Well, I confess I was not delighted when I heard the news; I feel she might do a great deal better than him. But as for any attachment to Miss Spedding …’ He shook his head.
‘Call it a certain fascination, then. That I am sure was obvious – to the observant eye, as you put it. Indeed, I—’ It seemed a time to put aside caution: she made the leap. ‘I had a presentiment – if you will forgive me – that she put you in mind of your late wife.’
His glance was keen – but she saw he was not offended. ‘You are perceptive,’ he said, after a moment. ‘There is a resemblance, and it came often to mind. But a difference also. Sophie is naturally gay-spirited, which is why I do not much fear for her, even married to such an unsatisfactory dog as he is like to be. But Maria’s was not a happy nature, in truth.’
