“I shall be walking in the Park as before,” he said, “upon the same afternoon as the girl I once met over the discovery of a bird’s nest. Upon the same afternoon until the day I must leave London, before the end of June.”
“I shall remember,” she answered. She felt him touch her hand briefly before rising and moving away. His scarlet uniform vanished in the direction of the supper room, until it was quite beyond her sight.
Flora would join her in a moment’s time, she feared; for she had undoubtedly observed the whole exchange from across the room. As of yet, her sister had not escaped the conversation of their good aunt and her daughter, the blue feathers of Mrs. Sotherby’s headdress continuing to sway with enthusiasm.
She remained seated in an effort to regain her composure before rejoining the party at the card table. Head upright, cheeks crimson, she was lost in her own thoughts before she became aware of the conversation taking place but a short distance behind her, between a group of gentleman standing together.
“... and such letters he writes! He’s a clever observer, my boy. A bright mind fit for Oxford’s ranks if he ever returns from Dominica. “ These words caught her ear immediately, bringing to mind a vivid picture of Adam Nimbley’s imagined surroundings.
“How long has he been there?” asked Lord Easton. “I confess, I did not notice he was not in society much this Season; of course, John was also but little when he was not in Newmarket.”
“Ay, for John has his term to finish in fine favor–but then, John has been impressed by his brother’s writings upon the whole business. He has shown some of the sketches and passages to one of the professors at Oxford, who wishes to recommend them for publication in one of the scientific journals. High praise indeed and with every–”
“A journal of science?” Here, Marianne interrupted, rising from her seat and moving around the sofa. “They publish articles upon insects–upon foreign discoveries?”
The group of gentleman turned their attention to her with surprise, with the exception of Lord Easton.
“Has this subject captured your notice, Miss Stuart?” he asked, with brotherly affection. “ You were ever fond of nature and scientific endeavors, as I recall. Gentlemen, permit me to introduce Miss Marianne Stuart, my sister in law. Miss Stuart, the baronet Sir George Nimbley and Lord William Eddard of Cambridge.” The two gentlemen bowed.
Marianne curtseyed, a clumsy action which conveyed her surprise over the name of the first gentleman. “Then it is your son,“ she said, slowly, in an attempt to sound less hasty, “who has received such an honor?“
“Indeed; my youngest boy, Adam,” said the baronet. “He would be here tonight except for this sudden turn of exploring. I am scarcely in society anymore, but Adam receives all our invitations with the deference owed our kind friends.” He leaned heavily upon his cane after this statement, puffing slightly for breath.
“Lord Eddard is quite a scholar of science himself,” said Roger. “He shares your enthusiasm on for nature, Miss Marianne–in fact, he himself has penned a little volume on the subject of British beetles.”
“If young Nimbley chances to bring home a new species, I shall be very pleased to see it,” said Lord Eddard. “If nothing else, to spread my own fame as one of the first to look upon the rare Dominica's Nimbley beetle before the great minds of Oxford’s scientists and botanists can steal the credit.” This produced a hearty laugh from the baronet, although the humor of the other two men was expressed in genial tones.
Marianne spoke up again, her voice timid. “I wish your son well in his endeavors, sir,” she said. “A young man willing to risk his career and name in such fashion ... must be a very forthright gentleman.”
“Ay, that’s Adam,” said the baronet. “Slow to form his opinions, but with a force of character when he makes up his mind. Principled, that’s the thing; a good sense of propriety for his father’s name and none too humble for knowing there are those above him." He thumped his cane on the floor with these words. "I’ve always said, if John’s station and quickness of thought could be merged with Adam’s steadfastness and clever mind–well, there should be no man in England to match.”
His voice was brimming with pride; in his words, Marianne sensed familiar snatches of Adam’s character: his fears for her reaction to his uncle’s trade, the humility in his proposal, even the general shabbiness of his appearance in comparison to other young gentlemen in society.
A force of character when he makes up his mind. Then something–or someone–had indeed turned Adam Nimbley’s course from the law and fixed him upon a truer passion. A daring decision which fixed a young man as cautious as Adam to such a brave course, she realized.
“I believe we shall bore Miss Stuart if we continue on this subject much longer,” said Lord Eddard. “Lady Easton mentioned recently that you have been in Kent, Miss Stuart,” he continued. “I hope that the experience in the countryside was enjoyable for a young lady no doubt eager for London’s society?”
“Yes, sir,” she answered, in a low voice. “It is a pleasant country in Kent. And I was–I was very happy there for some weeks.”
“I see Lady Easton is here–I should speak with her and tell her the news,” said the baronet. “It has been such a long time since we spoke, for I never go out any more; only Adam and Anne have the honors. Good evening, Lord Easton. Lord Eddard–Miss Stuart.” He bowed to them all, bestowing another round of genial smiles before limping in the direction of Roger’s mother.
“A good and kind man,” observed Lord Eddard. “’Tis but rare to see him in society nowadays; for it is but his sons whom I encounter–and the daughter, who will soon be out, I suppose.”
“I believe, Miss Marianne,” said Roger, in a teasing voice, “that your patroness yonder is hurrying this way to protect you, no doubt from the savage topics which a scholar like Eddard might discuss.”
Mrs. Fitzwilliam joined them at this point. “Miss Marianne,” she said, “You must come–there is a vacant seat at Lord Hepperly’s card table and they greatly desire you to fill it–”
“But I am not a card player,” Marianne protested, glancing in the direction of the baronet, who was now conversing with Lady Honoria. “And I did promise Flora to speak to her–”
“Nonsense; Lady Easton can wait, my dear.” Mrs. Fitzwilliam took hold of her niece’s arm and drew her towards the card table in question, where the Lord Hepperly’s round, beaming countenance shone at the head of a crowd consisting of Lady Russell, Mrs. Phillips, and her eldest daughter now Mrs. Tickering.
Lord Hepperly showed no more interest in Marianne than in the rest of the party, much to her preference, and the general mood of the table was dull. Although her hand was far too light, Marianne paid little attention when her neighbor informed her of the fact, continuing to play in a preoccupied manner until the end of the hand.
By then, however, there was no sign of the baronet, nor of Lord William Eddard. As for Flora, she was upstairs in the nursery attending little Edward on account of a runny nose reported by his nurse, and the constant lingering of Mrs. Fitzwilliam and Mrs. Sotherby prevented Marianne from seeking her out at all.
“What a long evening this has been,” complained Mrs. Sotherby afterwards, snapping open her fan in the carriage, where Julia leaned half-asleep against one side. “I believe I’m quite worn out from the conversation of Mrs. Russell at the card table–upon my word, I’ve never met a woman who can converse at such a rate and with such tiresome turn of phrase at hand!”
On another occasion, Marianne might have bit her tongue in order to refrain from making a comparison to a certain lady of Mrs. Sotherby’s own neighborhood who was held in high esteem–but such a thing did not occur in Marianne’s present state.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The end of May arrived–the Season in London began to wane beneath the threat of summer’s heat–and no new letter arrived for Marianne from Adam Nimbley, although she looked hopefully in the direction of each epistle born
into the breakfast room or library by Letty or Madge.
Perhaps he had changed his mind; had decided that Marianne’s refusal meant his letters were being tossed aside unopened. These thoughts plagued her as she walked restlessly along a row of London shops, as if seeking relief in her choice of activity. If it were only possible to write him–to assure him that his letters were not unappreciated. Such a possibility was barred by distance, and, unfortunately, the same propriety that Adam Nimbley had cautioned her more than once to observe.
On this afternoon, she made her way to India Trading Tea and Spice shop, on the pretense of seeking a soothing blend for Sir Edward’s lingering cold. It was an excuse to enter the place again, for she had passed its doors so many times, half-fearful of the memories and feelings connected with it.
Today, however, such thoughts would be as pleasurable as they were painful. She pushed open the doors and stepped inside, finding it the same as when she had first entered. The dim atmosphere heavy with the scent of black and green teas and the heavy perfumes of the curious red and yellow spices on prominent display.
Behind the counter, the clerk Grovner offered her a polite smile. “Shall I make a selection for you today, Ma’am?” he inquired.
“A small packet of orange and black tea leaves, please,” she said. “And a–a little of the tumeric, please.” In response, the clerk moved swiftly into action, his pencil tucked behind his ear in the fashion of ciphering mathematicians.
Marianne lingered near the atlas as she waited. Her fingers touched the pages, open to the image of Dominica–not by accident she was certain. Perhaps even the shop’s clerk had seen something of the world and turned the page in curiosity for his master’s nephew’s journey.
The shop’s door opened again and admitted a stout woman in an elegant afternoon costume. She was remiss in collecting one of her purchases, it seemed; and as she laid claim to her tin of tea, she was greeted by a man emerging from the shop’s adjoining chamber.
“Why, Lady Carlton,” said the man. “Forgetting your Darjeeling? What a grave error that would be for your morning’s cup!”
“I should never consent to go without it, Mr. Nimbley,” she answered. “I am surprised to see you here and not abroad on business–or is it young Terrence who must go forth from London these days?”
So this was Adam’s uncle–Marianne turned away from the open atlas to steal a glance at the man behind the counter, a firm muscular form clad in an expensive green coat and cravat.
“Young Terrence is to be a scholar at Cambridge, Ma’am,” answer Mr. Nimbley. “It is I who shall carry on with business in the Orient. But speaking of travel, I have had a letter from my nephew, Sir George’s younger son. You have heard that he is abroad?”
“Indeed, I have heard something of it,” the woman answered. “That he has taken a curious notion to study the native creatures in foreign lands and is planning to come away with some of them.”
“He has done more than that, Ma’am,” said Mr. Nimbley. “His notes upon the subject are to be published by the Linnaen Society in one of their journals.“
“The Linnaen Society,” repeated Lady Carlyle. “Pray tell, are those the scholars of beasts and birds alike?”
“Naturalists, my lady,” answered Mr. Nimbley. “The brightest in England. It seems even the naturalists and botanists of Glasgow’s university have taken an interest in young Adam’s works. His brother John has lent the sketches sent to him for scientific minds to observe and–” he lowered his voice for emphasis, “–I do not mind telling you that a certain lordship of great connection with the Royal Society has requested to meet him when he returns.”
As he spoke, he drew a letter from his coat pocket, unfolding it as if to confirm the accuracy of his statements. With a pang, Marianne recognized Adam’s handwriting before turning away again hastily.
“Such an honor,” said Lady Carlyle. “Sir George must be vastly pleased with the whole matter; for his eldest John does well at school and cuts a fine figure in London and Newmarket, I understand.”
“That he does, Ma’am,” answered the merchant. “Ah, here is your little tin of tea, Ma’am. I trust you shall enjoy it.”
“Much obliged, Mr. Nimbley,” she answered. “Good day to you.” A moment later, the stout figure bustled forth from the shop, leaving Marianne the lone patron before the atlas.
“Good day, Ma’am. Have you been served?” Walter Nimbley’s kind voice was addressed to herself, she realized. Turning around, she offered him a faint smile.
“Yes,” she answered. “The clerk–he has gone to fetch my tea leaves, I think.”
The man nodded. “Very good,” he answered. She noticed his hat beneath his arm, the riding cloak draped across his forearm. He was setting forth again upon business, no doubt to one of his ships or delivery wagons.
“Good day,” he said, with a bow as he exited the shop. He did not notice the disappointment in Marianne’s face as she turned away again.
So he had written to others, but not to herself. She had anticipated such an end to her letters, since the pain of feeling and reason would make him repent writing to a young lady who refused his offer. The sting of its event, however, brought her to the edge of tears as she stood there. She would not know the end of his adventure, except through snatches of conversation in society; and with the Season over, she would not again have a chance to see any of the Nimbley family except occasional glimpses of Adam’s uncle.
Her fingers turned the pages in the atlas, changing the scenes of geography to a region unfamiliar to her eyes after weeks of tracing Dominica’s shores. She was in the act of turning them still further when the clerk reappeared with her packages.
Even in her unhappiness, she was pleased for Adam. He had once claimed he would never even aspire to the heights of a Glasgow professor of naturalism; and now, such professors would seek him out to learn what new forms of life he had encountered. Envisioning his triumph sent a pleasant glow through her frame almost as readily as the reminder that she would not know of it made her sink lower than her previous disappointment.
*****
“Mama had thought it an excellent idea for you to come to us before the Little Season,” said Mrs. Sotherby. “If such a plan is agreeable to Sir Edward, than we shall offer you a seat in our carriage when we return in July.”
She was walking along with Marianne in the Park, having invited her cousin on an outing which included Julia and Dorothea, who was much occupied in a lively game of cricket with some of her cousins. Here also was Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s middle daughter, a Mrs. Lydia Linnet who was far more matronly in her plump, faded appearance than the active Mrs. Sotherby, with a brood of six children ranging from seven years of age to a girl barely old enough to be ‘out’ in proper society.
A reunion of Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s daughters was not an outing which fit Marianne’s tastes, but it would get her out of doors for a change–something Sir Edward never believed he would be pressing upon his daughter.
Marianne, however, had been avoiding the Park with the knowledge that she must at some point encounter Captain Lindley here. Her heart’s pace grew faster with the recollection of his words upon these walkways, the uncertainty of her feelings with regards to the answer.
That she cared for him was certain; but that their minds and hearts were as alike as he claimed, she was not as certain. For was his ease of manner with regards to propriety not quite consistent with his need for such connections to secure a living?
Would she be doing him good by accepting such a proposal, given his acceptance that there must be a prolonged separation between them? Perhaps they would be content afterwards in the countryside, with him established in some quiet career by Roger's hand and herself free of London's tiresome wheel by keeping house in a country cottage.
These thoughts troubled her as she lay awake at night, traveling back and forth between these visions of her future. It seemed wrong to her, to agree to such a separation, although his retur
n promised her a release from London and a marriage of mutual minds.
But now, the disappointment of Nimbley’s absent letters took her mind away from every other trouble regarding her heart's decision.
“Did you hear me, Miss Marianne?” asked Mrs. Sotherby, her tone assuming a scolding manner. “You gave no answer at all; I suspect your head is somewhere else entirely although it appears right enough on your shoulders.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” she answered. “That is–I do not know if my father will consent. And until his health is better, I should not like to leave him.” Sir Edward’s cold was trifling enough, but she did not really wish to find herself at Norland Park again.
“Well, we shall hope that he will agree,” comforted Mrs. Sotherby. “You would be a great favorite at Mrs. Hendricks’s parties, I believe; and come September, we should bring you to London again. All but Charlotte, of course–for she shall be married and at Goldenrod by then.”
She released Marianne’s arm to her cousin Julia and stepped ahead on the path to speak to her sister and elder niece who were approaching a stone bench near the tree. The children’s game had grown noisy, attracting Marianne’s attention even as Julia claimed it with equal persistence.
“I do wish Charlotte would choose something other than pink silk for her bridesmaids,” she complained. “For I do not look well in pink at all; and I cannot convince her to change her mind despite my best efforts.” This, she added, in a lower voice.
“Perhaps the other bridesmaid might help you persuade her,” suggested Marianne, her eye focused not on her cousin speaking, but on the cricket ball pitched clumsily by one of Lydia’s young boys.
“Oh, it is no one whose opinion is of consequence to her–only our cousin Harriet is to stand up with her. And Harriet’s complexion is perfectly amiable to anything,” she sighed.
The trials of Charlotte’s wedding decisions and the general interference of Mrs. Sotherby in such matters continued as they approached Julia’s mother and aunt in conversation. Here Julia was content to release her cousin in order to claim her mother’s parasol since Mrs. Sotherby was much engaged in reading aloud a letter written by their niece on the subject of her ill child.
Love Among the Spices Page 17
