by May Burnett
Celia went about her preparations, puzzling about this unexpected development, and increasingly curious. She made time to pay an extended farewell visit to her grandmother.
Her uncle’s old but well-maintained travelling coach was ready and packed in short order. Although they departed at first light, around four in the morning at this time of the year, the whole household watched them drive off.
As the travellers endeavoured to ignore the jolting over potholes and furrows, Sir Mortimer showed his niece the invitation he had received from the Hon. Mrs. James Ellsworthy, to join them for a visit of some weeks in their country home in Sussex.
“Who are they?”
“I have not met the family, but they are close friends of the Marquis de Ville- Deuxtours. You remember, the man who sent me that most excellent cognac?”
“The one with a huge castle in the Loire Valley?” Celia had regarded her uncle’s marquis as a mythical being, and was astounded at this evidence that he existed in the realm of ordinary mortals. “Even so, why would they invite us?”
“I do not know the details, but I understand there is a common interest. They have also been wronged by your father at some time in the past.”
“That makes even less sense,” Celia complained.
“I looked up the Ellsworthy family in Debrett’s Peerage when I received the letter. Our host is the younger brother of the seventh Earl Amberley, and may yet be the eighth earl, as the current one has only a daughter so far. But they are both still comparatively young men. The Marquis will also be staying with them, according to Mrs. Ellsworthy’s post scriptum, as well as Lady Minerva Ellsworthy, the youngest sister of the earl.”
“These people sound far above my touch,” Celia said with a tinge of apprehension. “Earls and Marquesses?”
“That was my main reason to accept the invitation,” her uncle said frankly. “You are wasted on the yokels of our own village, and as you said yourself the other day, the only titled men we meet there are too old, and all married. This visit will enable you to mix with young people of a more refined society, and you will soon find that you can hold your own with them.”
“I hope your confidence is justified, Uncle.” Celia vividly remembered her school days, when most of the well-born girls had mercilessly mocked her for her brewery fortune. It was little use having backbone and trying to hold your own, if the majority was set against you. “Do they know all about my father, and the breweries?”
“Of course. If they invited you anyway, it is because they want to meet you. Hold your head high, my dear.”
They continued to converse on several other subjects and had been driving for a considerable time when the coach drew to a sudden stop in the middle of the road.
“Beg pardon, Sir, Miss,” their grizzled coachman shouted without descending from the perch. “There is a dead gentleman lying in the ditch yonder. Should I do something about him, or drive on?”
Uncle and great-niece looked at each other in astonishment.
“We’d better investigate,” Sir Mortimer said heavily, reaching for the door. “Stay here, Celia.”
Paying no attention to this ridiculous command, Celia nimbly jumped down from the other side, and hurried to the prone figure of a tall man half hidden by the high grass, not far from a bushy hedge running by the road’s side.
“He still breathes,” she said in relief, after watching carefully for a moment.
“Those riding boots come from a master,” her Uncle commented, looking the unconscious man up and down. “Undoubtedly a gentleman. Is he just drunk, I wonder, or did he have an accident? Probably both.”
Now that her attention had been drawn to it, Celia also noticed the faint scent of alcohol, and fastidiously wrinkled her nose. Experimentally she shook the gentleman’s arm, finding it surprisingly heavy.
“Sir! Wake up, Sir!”
A faint groan was the only answer. She touched her hand to the man’s brow, finding it cool to the touch. Closer examination revealed a darkening bruise on the side of his skull.
“Thrown from the horse when he tried to take that hedge intoxicated,” her uncle decided. “He’s been exposed for a while already, and may die if we leave him here. Young fool! Of course his spine may also be broken, in which case he’s done for. Otherwise he’ll probably recover with a nasty headache.”
“Well, let’s get him to the coach,” Celia said. “We should be quite close to our destination, and these hospitable Ellsworthies will surely be willing to shelter him, as well as ourselves.”
The mechanics of the rescue had all three of them sweating, and the coachman swearing, by the time the two men managed to heave the big brute into the carriage, while Celia was holding the horses’ heads. If the stranger had not woken up enough to take a few dizzy steps, propped up between the coachman and Sir Mortimer, it would have been quite impossible. As soon as he felt the padded seat of the coach under his rump he fell insensible again, forcing Celia and her uncle to squeeze into opposite corners as best they could. A good thing, Celia thought, that her uncle was still slim, and not portly like so many of his contemporaries.
“I’ll be glad to arrive soon,” Sir Mortimer said, wiping his brow. “The fellow weighs several tons.”
“Apart from the moustache, and needing a shave, he looks fairly handsome,” Celia observed, scrutinizing the pale features with interest. “Strong and fit, so he will recover soon, I do hope.”
“You have a good heart, child. For all we know this accident is his own fault. The drunkenness most certainly is.”
“Even so,” Celia said obstinately, wondering what colour the stranger’s eyes would prove to be. “You realize that we have already had an adventure, a mere few hours after setting out from the Manor? We should travel more often.”
Sir Mortimer snorted. “God forbid that this should become a frequent occurrence. The coat is also of top quality, now I look at it. A rich gentleman like that really ought to know better than fall into such a scrape.”
“So should a poor man,” Celia said. “Even more so, because passers-by are more likely to assist a well-dressed stranger than a shabby, slovenly one.”
“We would have done our Christian duty, I hope, even in that case.”
The carriage had resumed its jolting way, albeit more slowly. The movement led the man to groan again, and he finally opened his eyes – hazel, – to cast a confused, bleary eye on the dim interior of their coach.
“Good morning,” Celia said, keeping her voice low and soothing. “You have had an accident. May we know your name and direction?”
“R-rook”, the man said, closing his eyes again, as though even this light was too much for them. “Who are you?”
“I am Sir Mortimer Conway, Mr. Rook, and this is my great-niece, Miss Celia Conway.”
“Charmed,” the man slurred without re-opening his eyes. Presently a loud snore filled the interior of the coach. Its two wide-awake passengers were greatly relieved when some ten minutes later the carriage drew up outside a large country house of grey stone, built in the solid style of Queen Anne’s reign.
The coachman attached the stairs and they extricated themselves from the coach with some difficulty, with the large snoring man still taking up far more room than a single person had any claim to.
A beautiful blonde lady in her late twenties came out of the house to bid them welcome, introducing herself as their hostess, Mrs. Ellsworthy, in an unpretentious and kind manner. Sir Mortimer gallantly kissed her hand. “We need to beg hospitality for a stranger as well as ourselves. Not four miles from your Hall we came across an unconscious man, who had apparently fallen from his horse. We got him into the carriage with some difficulty. I hope you have some able-bodied servants who can get him out again?”
“What’s that?” Mrs. Ellsworthy approached the carriage and looked in, her expression quickly changing to mingled dismay and amusement. “Oh dear. I know this gentleman.”
“So much the better. He told us his name
was Rook.”
“So it is,” Mrs. Ellsworthy said with an odd little smile. “I do hope he is not too badly hurt.”
“He was also quite drunk, I think, when he fell,” Sir Mortimer observed with disapproval.
Mrs. Ellsworthy briskly issued her orders, and the sleeping man was forthwith carried into the house on a detached door by four grooms. Despite their size and wiry strength, it was no easy task. “Take him to the green room,” Mrs. Ellsworthy instructed, before conducting Sir Mortimer and Celia to their own, perfectly pleasant apartments on the first floor. She invited them to join the family at breakfast as soon as they had settled in, and hurried off to check on the disposal of her supernumerary guest.
Chapter 9
“Mrs. Ellsworthy took our unusual arrival in her stride,” Sir Mortimer said to Celia shortly after, as they were wandering about the house, looking for the breakfast room. “A real lady.”
Celia could only agree. “I liked her immediately, she is very kind.”
Turning a corner, they encountered three young children, led along by a nursery maid in a crisply starched white apron. The two parties stopped and stared at each other in mutual surprise.
“Good morning,” the smallest child, a brown-haired girl, piped up. “Are you come across the channel with a baby?”
“Not at all, we come from Kent, on this side of the channel,” Celia replied. “I am Celia Conway, and this is my Uncle, Sir Mortimer Conway. We are looking for the breakfast room.”
“We can show you,” the boy said, and the third child, a girl with a profusion of blonde ringlets and big blue eyes, started to jump up and down, for no reason that Celia could make out.
The brown-haired girl seemed inclined to pursue the conversation, but before she could do so, the nursery maid explained, “The breakfast room is down those stairs at the end of the hall, after that you must turn to the left, Miss.” She then firmly shepherded her charges in the direction they had been going. “You cannot miss it,” she called back over her shoulder as the group disappeared round a corner.
“What charming children,” Celia said. “This seems a lively household indeed.”
“They all seem to be about the same age. Triplets? That would be very unusual,” Sir Mortimer commented.
“The blonde girl looks like a miniature version of Mrs. Ellsworthy.”
Following the maid’s directions, they soon found the breakfast room. It already held two good-looking young gentlemen. The one with chestnut hair and cheerful air turned out to be the master of the house, Mr. James Ellsworthy; while the dark-haired, superbly elegant one was the mythical Marquis in person, far younger than Celia had imagined such an exalted personage. She made her most correct curtsy, but his friendly smile quickly put her at ease.
“Glad to see you have arrived safely,” Mr. Ellsworthy told them. “Have you seen Charlotte, my wife, yet? I wonder what is keeping her; she is normally the earliest riser in the family.”
“She welcomed us upon arrival, and I imagine she is busy with the wounded stranger we brought with us,” Sir Mortimer said.
“Oho, who can that be?” the Marquis exclaimed. Celia marvelled at his complete lack of accent. He spoke English like any other gentleman, though he possessed more liveliness and charm than the average Englishman. “Tell us all.” That was quickly accomplished. When Sir Mortimer explained that the stranger had given his name as Mr. Rook, and sported a moustache, the other two men exchanged a quick look, without interrupting.
“That strange gentleman is well known to us,” Mr. Ellsworthy said when Sir Mortimer finished, “but I am concerned at your description of a head injury, those can be dangerous and complicated. If you will excuse me, I will have a look at him myself, and make sure that our local physician has been sent for, though Charlotte will no doubt already have seen to it.” He was gone in a trice.
“More tea, Miss Conway?” the Marquis said. If he was also concerned at Mr. Rook’s fate, he was hiding it well. “Did you know that I was acquainted with your grandfather, although briefly? Please accept my condolences at his loss. I first met him and your uncle five years ago.”
“And I have called upon you in your magnificent castle since then,” Sir Mortimer added. “How is your little daughter?”
A shadow crossed the young nobleman’s face. “Monique is not as strong as I could hope, but so far holding her own.” Celia liked the more serious expression on his handsome features. Though still under thirty, apparently he was not just a fashionable fribble.
“I had written to ask your advice on a particular matter some three or four weeks ago,” Sir Mortimer said to the Marquis, “but my letter went to France, and probably has not caught up with you as yet.”
“Not yet, but since we are now meeting in person, that is no great matter. I do not know what advice I can offer a man of your years and experience, but I am of course entirely at your service.”
“My thanks, but later will do,” the baronet said, with a sidelong glance at Celia. “In the meantime I will have some more of those excellent kippers.” While he was addressing himself to this dish, the Marquis described the planned ball to Celia, asking for the second dance. Just as she blushingly promised it to him, a tall, fashionable young lady appeared in the doorway, causing the two gentlemen to jump up from their seats.
“Oh please sit back down,” she said, sounding sleepy still, although the hour was close to eleven already. The Marquis lost no time in making correct introductions. So this was Lady Minerva, their host’s younger sister.
“Miss Conway and her uncle found an unconscious man in a ditch, on their way here,” the Marquis said, “a man who gave his name as Mr. Rook.”
Lady Minerva paused in the act of pouring tea into her cup and looked at him with an arrested expression.
“Oh! Why was Rook unconscious? Is he hurt?”
“We surmise that he was thrown from his horse. The physician is being sent for,” Sir Mortimer explained.
“He did wake up briefly a couple of times, and he is big and solid, so I expect he will recover,” Celia said consolingly. “I was more concerned about his cool temperature than the bump to the head when we found him. I wonder how long he had been lying there in that damp ditch.”
“That road sees very little traffic, it was a merciful dispensation that you came by and immediately rendered help,” the Marquis said. “If he was exposed like that, you two may well have saved his life.”
“We did no more than any other Christian would have done,” Sir Mortimer claimed modestly.
“And all I did was to hold the horses still. He would have been much too heavy for me to move,” Celia said. “He does not look fat, but from what I observed, was very hard to budge.”
“Muscle is heavier than fat, and Rook is a keen sportsman,” the Marquis said absently, regarding Celia with fascination.
Lady Minerva was also looking at her oddly. “Do you know that Mr. Beecham described you as more mature than other girls your age?” she said. “I see he was right. I hope we will be friends, Miss Conway.”
“Of course I would be honoured, Lady Minerva. You know Mr. Beecham? I have only met him once, a few days ago, but he seemed a most genteel and intelligent young man.”
“You think so?”
“He is just the right age, around thirty, to talk sensibly, and not yet old enough to moralise.”
“He is also an excellent listener and conversationalist,” Lady Minerva concurred.
“What unusual consensus,” the Marquis observed somewhat drily. “Beecham is to be envied, to have won the approbation of two such discerning young ladies.”
Sir Mortimer put down his fork, done at last with his kippers, eggs and bacon. “Now, Celia, there are many intelligent and sensible men in the world, including men of much higher station. You should take your time and look around carefully, before you settle on any one.”
Celia bit her lip. “Of course, and I was not looking at Mr. Beecham in that light, Uncle. At his age he
is most likely married already.”
“No, not yet,” the Marquis murmured with a quizzical look at the two girls.
“What about Mr. Rook, is he a good conversationalist, Lady Minerva?” Celia asked.
“When he bothers to exert himself.” Lady Minerva put her napkin down and stood up with an energetic motion, her former sleepy air completely gone. “I want to see for myself how he is doing. The food can wait. I see you are done, Miss Conway – would you like to come with me?”
“Yes, I would also like to see if he is better. Mrs. Ellsworthy had him carried to the Green Room, wherever that is,” Celia offered. The two girls went out side by side.
+++
“We are left all alone,” Alphonse said to Sir Mortimer. “Would you care to tell me now what you had written in your letter?”
“It may look presumptuous, and if you want nothing to do with my request, I beg you to say so frankly,” Sir Mortimer began. “But I am concerned about Celia’s prospects, especially now it looks possible that my scoundrel of a nephew might be coming back to England. Even apart from that, in our quiet corner of Kent there are no young men worthy of her. She has been educated as a lady, and the Conways – apart from Peter – are good enough for anybody.” There was a slightly challenging note to the last statement.
Alphonse nodded, and the baronet went on. “At that school in Bath she was mocked for having inherited her grandfather’s breweries, and I fear the experience has given her a dislike of polite society. I believe Celia is too proud to mix with people where she does not feel welcome. Most likely she will end up throwing herself away on some professional man.”
“That would not be a tragedy,” Alphonse said gently. “A man like Beecham, for instance, would make an excellent and steady husband for any woman. But your great-niece is very young yet – not even eighteen, I believe? Is it not premature to worry about this now?”
“The sooner she is happily married, the more relieved I shall be,” Sir Mortimer said gloomily. “But while her father is alive, he might forbid the banns or extort money for his consent. I am hale yet, but I am close to sixty. What if I should drop dead, and Peter take over the Hall? It is entailed on the nearest male relative.”
