Thirteen
Zanthe’s first sight of the celebrated Mr Kemble was not encouraging. He was still a fine-looking man but, in spite of the heavy greasepaint he wore, it was obvious that he was considerably older than the actress portraying his mother, while his self-conscious and studied delivery had the effect of rendering her extremely sleepy. Her attention wandered, and she amused herself with studying the other members of the audience.
The play was very well attended. She soon picked out many of her acquaintance: Mrs Weatherspoon and her three daughters sat in a box with Lord and Lady Kilmarnock, Mrs Preston, and Miss Tarleton, all of whom were gazing rapt upon the stage, with the exception of Lord Kilmarnock, who was enjoying a comfortable nap. She stifled a giggle as a loud snore escaped him during one of the great actor’s interminable pauses.
In another box, there sat an elegant party comprising Mr Fallowfield and a middle-aged couple unknown to Zanthe. The lady was not handsome but extremely graceful and exquisitely dressed. The other gentleman seemed vaguely familiar to Zanthe, but she could not tell why until he leaned across the box to speak to Mr Fallowfield and she was struck by the resemblance between the two men. Was this another member of the Fallowfield family? Even as the thought crossed her mind, the unknown gentleman cast a keen glance in the direction of the Brookenby box. He stared for a moment at Susanna, who was sitting between Margery and Miss Cholmondeley, stifling a yawn with one mitten-covered palm, and then he bent to murmur in the lady’s ear. She lifted her lorgnette and seemed to study the girl for a moment before letting it fall, with a sigh, as though it were too heavy for her.
It came, therefore, as no surprise to Zanthe when, as soon as the curtain closed upon the first part of the performance, the three rose as one from their seats and left their box. Presently, a knock fell upon the door of Mr Cholmondeley’s box, and Mr Fallowfield and his friends entered.
‘I beg you will forgive this intrusion.’ Mr Fallowfield bowed over Zanthe’s hand. ‘May I present my cousins Lord and Lady Fallowfield, who are most anxious to make the acquaintance of your young charge?’
Mr Cholmondeley stood and held out a hand to assist Margery to rise. ‘You will wish to be alone. Come, Miss Brookenby, let us go in search of refreshment and leave these good people to talk in comfort.’
There was a silence for a moment after their departure. Then Lord Fallowfield, who had not taken his eyes from Susanna’s face, said, ‘I came prepared to denounce an imposter, yet now I find myself looking into my brother’s eyes.’ He cleared his throat and dashed a hand across his eyes. ‘My dear, dear child.’
His lady laid a hand upon his arm. ‘Very true, my dear Sir, a pronounced resemblance. Remember, however, that it is perfectly possible that this young person is indeed Richard’s daughter and yet still not entitled to style herself a Fallowfield of Trenton Hall.’
Zanthe was about to intervene when Susanna spoke in her tranquil, pleasant tone. ‘I regret, my dear Ma’am, that it is not my custom to carry my parents’ marriage lines and my own birth record in my reticule when I visit the theatre. However, if you mean to imply, as I must suppose you do, that I might be your brother’s love-child, I can refer you to Mr Holland of Lincoln’s Inn, who is my attorney and principal trustee.’
‘Old Holland knows of this?’ Lord Fallowfield flushed suddenly with anger. ‘And he never breathed a word!’
‘No doubt a matter of client confidentiality,’ interposed Zanthe soothingly.
‘Aye, aye, no doubt, but I had thought in a case such as this—’
‘Furthermore,’ continued Susanna, unperturbed. ‘I have never “styled” myself a Fallowfield of Trenton Hall. I call myself Fallowfield because it is my name and, if you still doubt it, you may apply to my other trustee, Mr Peter Frost, who is, I think, not unknown to you.’
‘Peter Frost!’ Lord Fallowfield appeared stunned. ‘Good God!’
The lady shrugged her elegant shoulders. ‘Oh, if Peter is to vouch for you, I have no more to say.’ She turned to her husband. ‘We must acknowledge the dear child and bring her into the Family.’ She smiled at Susanna, but her eyes were cold. ‘You will come to us, of course. Lady Brookenby must acknowledge our superior claim.’
‘You are very good, Ma’am. But I have lived very happily for seventeen years without the countenance of the Family, and I have no desire to leave Lady Brookenby’s protection.’
Mr Fallowfield laughed. ‘My dear Rosemary, you have met your match at last! I congratulate you, Susanna.’
Lord Fallowfield frowned at his cousin. He took Susanna’s hand and held it between his own. ‘Well, we can discuss the matter at another time. For the moment, it is natural that you should prefer to remain with the friends with whom you are familiar. But, believe me, nothing has given me so much pleasure in years as to discover that I have something of Dick still left to me. I was very fond of him, you know.’
‘I never knew him, but Mr Frost has spoken to me about him. I’m afraid he was very wild.’
‘Aye, but there was no vice in him, you know. It was just high spirits, and then—’ he lowered his voice, ‘—the drink.’
‘Do not forget to tell her he cheated at cards.’ Lady Fallowfield’s nostrils flared in distaste. ‘And killed a man.’
‘It was a fair fight, Rosemary!’ Mr Fallowfield remonstrated. ‘I was his second, along with Peter. I should know.’
‘I deplore the practice of duelling. And over a female whom he should not have— However, I shall say no more.’
‘If only that were true,’ murmured Mr Fallowfield.
When the Fallowfield party had left the box, Zanthe regarded her young friend with some amusement. ‘Susanna, I am quite in awe. You handled that terrifying female so coolly. I am inclined to believe you would even be able to face my mother-in-law without trepidation.’
‘Lady Fallowfield has no power over my person, my fortune, or my future. Why should I be afraid of her?’
‘A very good question, and one I have frequently asked myself regarding my own dragon of a mama-in-law. But, however much I tell myself she has no power, as you say, over my person, fortune, or future, I continue to stammer and stutter and behave like a perfect ninny whenever she looks at me.’
‘I cannot believe that.’
‘Well, you shall have the opportunity to see for yourself. I imagine she will shortly be arriving in Bath.’
‘Really? Miss Brookenby did not mention it.’
‘She does not know—yet.’
‘Oh?’
‘Remember when I told you I would soon be bringing up my heavy guns?’
‘What—oh, yes, in the Sydney Gardens. Why?’
‘Because, my dear, she is my heavy guns. If I cannot get my darling Launceston to rescue me from a rake, he shall rescue me from a dragon!’
They were both laughing when Mr Cholmondeley and Margery returned to the box. It was apparent that they had passed the time very pleasantly. Margery had that glow of beauty that comes even to a plain woman when she is happy, flattered, and feels herself beloved. The gentleman’s good spirits carried him out of his usual shyness, and he proved himself to be a witty and entertaining host for the remainder of the evening.
The next morning, Zanthe, having breakfasted in her room, came down to find Margery dressed with unusual care—in her prettiest round-gown of bronze-green crepe, with a deep embroidered border at the hem, and a stiffened bodice ornamented with a tucker of Mechlin lace. She was sitting by the fire in the morning-room with an air of suppressed excitement.
‘Ah, ha! Do we expect Mr Cholmondeley this morning, by any chance?’
Margery pressed a hand to her mouth, her eyes bright. ‘I think—I believe—oh, Zanthe—last night he was so very—he did not say he should come this morning, but—’
Zanthe was laughing as she caught Margery’s hand in hers. ‘I could kiss the man! In a little less than a month, he has turned my stern, serious sister into a babbling idiot who cannot string a sentence together
. It is quite delightful.’
At that moment, a most exquisite voice was uplifted, filling the house with joyous song. ‘The child is practicing for the concert,’ said Margery, unnecessarily. ‘Such a lovely sound!’
‘Indeed, I don’t think it was an idle boast when she claimed to sing even better than her mama. Oh, I wish you could have seen, last night, how she routed poor Lady Fallowfield, horse, foot, and artillery!’
‘She is the most redoubtable girl. I think, you know, it derives from her singleness of purpose. She really does not care about anything apart from her singing, so approval or disapproval means nothing to her.’
‘Well, I am determined to be more like her. You and I, Margery, have been too much affected by what other people think of us. What can anyone do to us, after all?’
‘By other people, I suppose you mean Mama?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose I do.’
They fell silent for a few moments, listening to the lovely trills and arpeggios that floated down to them. Then Margery said, as though the words were forced out of her, ‘I shall never forgive her if she tries to stop me from—I won’t let her spoil it this time, indeed I won’t’
Zanthe lifted her head and stared at her sister-in-law wonderingly. ‘This time, dearest?’
Margery laughed, but her eyes were suddenly full of tears so that it was a rather watery effort. ‘You would never have guessed that Mr Cholmondeley is not the first gentleman to pay me very decided attentions, would you?’
She was perfectly correct, but Zanthe hastily disclaimed: ‘Oh, it does not surprise me in the least, but how comes it I never heard a word about it?’
‘It was so long ago. It is a very strange coincidence, that he, too, was a clergyman. He was a curate and—well, perhaps it is not such a coincidence. I met him, just as I did Mr Cholmondeley, while engaged in charitable work.’
‘And he wanted to marry you?’
‘Yes, but Mama would not hear of it. He was very poor but, I think, quite handsome and such a good young man.’
Zanthe suddenly jumped to her feet as though her feelings could only be relieved by movement. ‘Oh, it makes me so angry! Why should girls have their futures decided for them by parents who care nothing for their happiness? Why do we allow it? You might have been happily married for what—twenty years or more—with children, even grandchildren by now and, instead, you have spent that entire time waiting upon a mean-spirited, encroaching old woman who—’
‘Zanthe, you must not say such things.’
‘Why not? We both know they are true.’
‘Perhaps I am reserved by a Higher Power for even greater happiness.’
‘Oh, Margery, I hope so, I truly hope so.’
But as the morning wore on and no Mr Cholmondeley appeared, Zanthe became more dejected, and Margery had difficulty keeping back her tears.
‘I must have misunderstood him,’ she said at last. ‘Or perhaps he has been detained.’
‘Yes, I am sure that is all it is. He has been detained. Shall we walk to the Pump Room? Perhaps we will meet him there.’
‘Yes, that is what he meant, I am sure.’
But when they arrived at the Pump Room, they found Miss Cholmondeley alone, bewailing to anyone who would listen that her brother had been suddenly called away from Bath and she did not know when he was to return.
Fourteen
‘I wonder when we may expect Mama-in-Law,’ remarked Zanthe, moving away from the window, where she had been inspecting the weather, to sit down opposite Margery at the breakfast table. She had finally disclosed to her sister-in-law that the Dowager proposed to descend upon them.
It had been a little difficult to arrange for the Dowager’s advent without directly inviting her. But newsy letters dropping hints of the Viscount, the Reverend, Signora Villella, and even Sir Marmaduke had done their work. The Dowager had written in the strongest terms to Zanthe demanding that she and Margery should return to Lincolnshire. When she received nothing but excuses in return, she announced her intention of descending upon them to see for herself what was going on.
A cloud passed across Margery’s face. ‘Oh, Zanthe, is it wicked of me to dread her coming?’
‘No, of course not. But just remember that you are quite safe. There is nothing she can do to you. If she threatens to cut you out of her will, tell her you do not give a button for her money. You will always have a home with me, you know, and I firmly believe that Mr Cholmondeley will soon return to make you an offer.’
‘You are very right. I won’t let her intimidate me—I won’t. Zanthe, you won’t leave me alone with her, will you?’
Zanthe reached out across the polished mahogany and clasped her sister’s hand warmly. ‘Of course, I will not. But remember, dearest, that she is nothing more than a selfish, stubborn, old woman. She has no authority over either of us.’
But Zanthe was not so sure of this when, at around four o’clock in the afternoon, a post-chaise drew up outside the front door and disgorged the Dowager Lady Brookenby in all the grandeur of black bombazine, jet beading, and veils of crepe that hung like seaweed from her high-poked bonnet.
Custom, and a natural desire to do what was right, brought both women out of the house to welcome the new arrival upon the doorstep. Zanthe was a little pale while Margery looked ready to sink, but they greeted the Dowager with all the respect due to her, Zanthe going so far as to kiss her withered cheek.
‘I knew how it would be,’ the old lady said as they were all seated in the drawing room taking tea. ‘What kind of mourning do you call that, my fine Lady?’
Zanthe reminded herself that she was no longer a child and had no need to be afraid of the red-faced old lady scowling at her. She shrugged one shoulder, which was tastefully encased in a little puffed sleeve of white muslin sprigged with a design of flowers in pink and green. ‘I do not call it mourning at all, Ma’am.’
The Dowager’s lower lip was thrust forward, and her little eyes were alight with malice. ‘I see.’ She rounded suddenly upon Margery, who had been sitting, unnoticed, in the background. ‘And what is this I’m hearing about you, Miss?’
‘About me, Mama?’
‘Before I left Lincolnshire, I received the most impudent letter from some penniless parson you have been encouraging to dangle after you.’
‘Mr Cholmondeley is not penniless, Mama. He has a very good living in Lancashire.’
‘Do not contradict me, Margery! Where he has his living is beside the point. Did you know he had asked me for permission to address you?’
Margery, looking ready to faint, whispered, ‘No, I did not know he had written to you.’
‘Over a week ago. Impudence! I told him what I thought of him, believe me!’
‘You refused without even asking me—? Oh, that is why he went away!’
‘I knew what he was after. Sniffing around an heiress! That’s what!’
Margery found her courage, lifted her head, and said in a firm voice, ‘That is not true.’
Lady Brookenby glared at her. ‘Do you tell me you really contemplated marriage to some snivelling mendicant priest, a low-church, methodistic parson?
Margery's eyes had filled with tears but, at the insults to her suitor, she stiffened. ‘Mr Cholmondeley is neither snivelling nor methodistic. He is the finest and best man I have ever known, and I am going to marry him!'
'Are you, Miss? Are you indeed? And will this fine fellow still want to marry you when he finds out that you will bring him nothing but the clothes on your back?'
Zanthe interposed, saying, 'I beg your pardon, Mama, but is that quite true?’ She fished in her reticule and brought out a legal-looking letter adorned with a red wax seal. ‘I have here a letter from Mr Silverman, Brookenby's man of business, you know. When I realised that Mr Cholmondeley had fallen in love with Margery, I took the liberty of writing to ascertain from him exactly how matters stood regarding the settlements. Let me read this passage to you: “Regarding your jointure, I have
sold out of the funds as you requested”—no, that is not it—ah, this is the part: “Pursuant to your enquiry”—blah, blah, blah—“you may inform Miss Brookenby that under the terms of her grandmother's will”—blah, blah, blah—oh, yes—“the monies that would have accrued to the deceased daughters of the house had they married will consequently accrue to her upon her marriage.”’
The Dowager’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘I knew from the moment my son brought you home to Baguely that you would be nothing but a trouble to me.'
'But surely, Mama, you would not want to keep Margery from the settled portion that is her due? And a very respectable sum it is, too.'
'Zanthe, is this true?' Margery seemed quite aghast.
'Yes, indeed. Five thousand pounds. But I recommend you do not tell poor Mr Cholmondeley so until after you are married, for it might scare him off again.'
The dowager changed her tactics. She drew out her handkerchief, wiped a non-existent tear from her cheek, and said in a feeble voice, 'Six children I brought into this world, and five of them have preceded me out of it. The Lord said, “In pain you shall bring forth children”: and only a mother knows the truth of that. And now the one child I have left to me tells me she wants to desert me in my old age. There were many people ready to tell me I was fortunate to possess a daughter who would tend me in my declining years. Now see what has come of it. Oh, it is hard to have an ungrateful child. “Thus they have repaid me evil for good and hatred for my love,” saith the Lord.’
‘Oh, Mama, how can you say that? You know I do not hate you,’ cried Margery, wringing her hands in distress. ‘But this is my last chance to be happy. If Mr Cholmondeley loves me, and—’
‘Loves you? Does he love you more than your mother, who bore you, tended your hurts, taught you your prayers at her knee, and nursed you through scarlet fever?’
Zanthe could bear it no longer. ‘Yes, he does,’ she burst out. ‘For he wants Margery to be happy while all you want is for her to be a maidservant and a nursemaid and—and—a burnt offering!’
‘How dare you?’
A Match of Hearts: A Regency Romance Page 9
