by Vanessa Gray
But then, child, you did not like it? Perhaps I had best send for Mr. Potsworth.”
Since Mr. Potsworth, Lady Thane’s man of medicine, had only one cure for anything at all, and that was a course of the nastiest waters on the face of the globe, Clare shuddered and assured Lady Thane that she was fine—just a little tired, that’s all.
“Well,” said Lady Thane at last, “I shall hope to see an improvement, or I shall indeed see that Mr. Potsworth has a look at you.”
The air of gentle melancholy that descended upon Clare pervaded even her solitary hours, of which there were few indeed. Lady Thane, whether warned by Lady Melvin or not, now vowed she could not do without Clare at her side every moment. And Clare was glad enough to abide by the rules. Nothing suited her. She even lost interest in the perils of Julia and the uncommon wickedness of the Demon of Sicily. It reminded her too much of her complaints against Choate.
A part of her insisted upon being fair to her guardian. What else was he to do with her? She was in .great comfort, with a lady to give her countenance and who cared about her, and she had all the freedom that could be used by a young lady in mourning.
But, said her impish other self, he trapped her on the matter of the ceiling. How had he known that Tom was watching her? She knew that Tom talked to anyone who would listen, and Benedict was eminently underhanded when he took advantage of her servants.
Her thoughts revolved more than she liked around Benedict. But they always returned to the point where they began—what was she to do?
She missed her grandmother; there was no question about that. Even the abbey was not the same, and she had no wish to return to the home she had known when the hub of it was no longer there. But of course she could not wish Lady Penryck back, now that she was out of her pain.
She would be seventeen soon. And that meant, according to Mr. Austin, eight more years during which she must obey the whims of Lord Choate. Not until she was twenty-five would she be mistress of her own money, of her own life. She would not live that long, she was sure, for melancholy thoughts could prove fatal—at least, they often were within the boards of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels.
There was of course one other way open to her. She had not given it as much thought as it deserved, regarding her own marriage as simply a vague arrangement that would have pleased her grandmother.
She had been sent to London to effect such an arrangement, but it did not truly have reality to her. Now she began to devote considerable thought to the subject.
And almost as though to help her along on her conjectures, a caller was announced. “Lady Thane begs you will come down at once,” said Budge. “Sir Alexander, Ferguson has come to call.”
It was not such an outstanding event as all that, Clare reflected. Sir Alex had called before, to take them for a drive, to escort them to tea at the Assembly Rooms, but it was certainly fortuitous that he arrived just at the time when Clare was at such loose ends.
Checking her ringlets, bound back by a broad ribbon, and approving her sober appearance in the dark gray round gown she wore, she hurried down the steep, carpeted stairs to the drawing room.
She found Lady Thane and Sir Alexander chatting comfortably over teacups, and Lady Thane welcomed her with one hand outstretched. “I brought you down to meet Sir Alexander,” she said, “because he has brought some fruit, hearing that you were not feeling quite the thing. I wanted him to see that you were truly in good health, although perhaps not quite as vivacious as I should like to see you. But of course,” she added belatedly, remembering Lady Penryck, “it is not right that you should be precisely vivacious. But...”
She grew so involved in her remarks that, recognizing that she would never make her way out of them, she dropped them entirely and took up another subject. “When do you think your cousin Miss Warfield will marry her Scot? You are acquainted with him, I know. Does he not wax impatient?”
Sir Alexander Ferguson answered, after due consideration. “I should imagine that he does wish to have his. future settled, and have Miss Warfield—then, of course, Lady MacCrae, as she will be—installed in his home. I do not know which castle he will set up as his main seat. Perhaps it will be Kelso, or on the other hand, it might well be Tolquhon, for he has added a wing to that building within the past few years. Yet, then too, there is much to be said for Cruden, for it is a very pleasant seat in the summer, with the refreshing breezes from the sea. But of course, one wouldn’t take a delicately nurtured female to such an isolated spot in the winter...
He sounded so like Harry Rowse’s imitation that Clare was hard put not to giggle outrageously. But her thoughts, deliberately summoned up to provide a diversion from amusement, fell upon Sir Alexander Ferguson as a lifelong companion. She knew she could marry him if she wished. He had been most devoted and constant in his attentions.
However, a lifetime of “On the other hands” had less than no appeal at all. But perhaps she could manage something. She fell silent and listened to the seductive hum of her scheming brain.
21.
Not until it was over did Clare realize that the Bath interlude was more of an idyll than she knew. The long lazy days, the stifling rigidity of each day’s schedule, the lack of excitement, had, in retrospect, a certain charm, and she was grateful, later, for the interval of quiet.
She gave serious consideration to her future, and while she did not think she could manage to live a life with Sir Alex, yet marriage was the one way she could escape from the yoke of her wicked guardian. She had no very clear-cut plan, more like a vague desire that something would turn up to show her what next to do.
But when it came, she did not at first recognize it. The catalyst came in the form of a letter to Lady Thane from her daughter.
“Listen to this,” said Lady Thane at breakfast. “Clare, here’s a letter from Harriet—I suppose it will be full of humdrum...”
Her voice died away as she began to peruse it. When she was halfway through she began to voice little wordless sounds, and by the time she had reached the end of the letter, Clare sat stiffly with her coffee cup arrested in midair, her attention riveted.
“What is it?”
“It’s infection! That’s what it is. Harriet says little Braintree is deathly ill, the nurse is down with it, she herself is faltering with the fever, and she begs me to come to her!”
“But of course you must go!” cried Clare with instant sympathy. She knew that in spite of what Lady Thane said, her world revolved around Harriet, and while she might like her better at a distance, still, when the clarion call sounded, Lady Thane was at once ready to respond.
“I shall pack,” she assured Lady Thane, “and we will be on our way at once.”
Lady Thane, who had risen to relieve her feelings by a few brisk steps, sank down again in the chair. “It won’t do. I must not take you, Clare, into a house of infection. For whatever ailment they have, Harriet feels that she has contracted it, and certainly I could not expose you to such peril.”
“But you must go...”
“And so I shall. But what shall I do with you? Choate expressly charged me with your care. I really should not desert you.”
“But you know that you are needed there by Harriet much more than I need you. Do let me give Hobbs instructions to pack for you. I shall stay here, and be all right.”
In the end Clare prevailed, for it was clearly Lady Thane’s first duty to travel to Harriet at once. Fortunately, Clare’s recollection that Lady Melvin was in town brought Lady Thane to send an urgent request that that lady come to see her.
“For I vow, Lady Melvin,” she said when her visitor was announced, “I do not know which way to turn. I cannot leave, and yet I cannot stay.”
It was the kind of situation that Lady Melvin relished. She was able to solve the entire problem, set all to rights, and bask in the reflected credit without in the least inconvenience to herself.
“Of course you must go. If I had a daughter I should not hesitate in the least
In fact, I judge I should already be on my way, with orders to send on my baggage as soon as it was ready. But I have just the solution for Clare.”
“Then you will take her,” said Lady Thane.
“No. I dare not, you know, for Sir Ewald is cross as a bear with his gout already, and another person introduced into the household would certainly send him flying. But suppose Clare were to stay here, in this house, and Miss Peek come to stay? Lord Choate thought she was eligible enough to lend Clare countenance in Dorset. I myself did not quite agree, and as it turns out I was right,” she added obscurely, “but if I keep my own eye on the establishment, then I think Clare will take no harm. Do you not agree?”
Lady Thane, beset by anxieties and a haste to be gone, agreed hurriedly, and Lady Melvin sent her on her way soothingly.
But Lady Thane was not so lost to her duty as to forget what she owed Lord Choate. She scrawled off a hasty letter, sending it posthaste to Lord Choate at Marianna Morton’s home in Essex, where it was said Choate was helping his beauty to prepare a fete for her mother’s tenants.
“Please be assured that under no other circumstances could I be persuaded to desert my post,” she wrote. “But you must agree, and I am sure if you do not that Mrs. Morton could tell you what a mother’s fears—of course, it is a grandmother’s, I mean—can be, and I must fly to dear Harriet. But Clare has promised me faithfully that she will not peep out-of-doors unless Lady Melvin herself accompanies her. It is the best I could do, although I do not quite like to leave Clare so cloistered, for she has an impatient temperament and once she is resolved upon something, she does not like to wait upon events. Not that I expect any events. But I am so overset that I hardly know what I write, except that I am doing the best I can. Yours faithfully, Helen Thane.”
So urgent were Lady Thane’s instructions to her messenger that, upon being told at Morton Chase that Lord Choate was in London, he scarcely stopped for refreshment in the servants’ hall at the Chase before taking again to the road.
The letter reached Benedict at a peculiarly inopportune moment. He had drunk deeply the night before. He remembered that he had gambled heavily, but he would not have known whether he had won or lost except for the scattering of green bank notes over the floor of his bedroom, like leaves on the forest floor. He had flung himself the night before on his bed without undressing, although Grinstead did manage to remove his boots before being cursed out of the room, and now, holding his head as he sat on the edge of the bed, a half-empty cup of excessively strong coffee on the night table, he stared at the letter in his hand.
“What the devil does the woman mean!” he muttered. His valet, rightly judging that he was not expected to comment, opened the curtains another six inches, allowing the daylight to reach his lordship’s eyeballs in minute stages.
Choate set himself to read the letter once again, puzzling out, this time, the words he had found illegible the first reading, and cursing the system of education that did not require females to write so one could read them.
The upshot was, he decided, that that abominable brat was once again alone in Bath, of all places in England where he did not wish to see her adrift. Notwithstanding the assurances of Lady Melvin, as transmitted by Lady Thane, he held no conviction that Clare would stay meekly in the house on the Crescent. He had little experience of her common sense, but more than enough of her rebellion and her defiance, and her—
“Good God, Choate!” said Ned Fenton from the doorway. “I knew you won last night, but surely you didn’t intend to throw all the green around like that? Looks like a lawn in here!”
Struck, Benedict looked up and noticed the bank notes for the first time. “I had no idea! Did I win all that?”
“Luck was phenomenal,” confirmed Ned. “Never saw anything like it.”
“Lucky at cards, they say.” Benedict spoke wryly, and Ned glanced quickly at him.
“I know the rest of it, Benedict, and if we hadn’t been friends from our cradles, I shouldn’t dare to say what I think.”
“Then don’t, Ned,” groaned Benedict “I venture to say we are agreed. But you see there’s no way out.” A gesture from Ned reminded him that Grinstead was still in the room, and Benedict roused himself. “Sweep up this mess,” he commanded. “I shall require breakfast in a quarter of an hour. Ned, join me?”
Hardly waiting for Ned’s nod, Benedict handed him the letter. “Read it, and see if it says what I think it says. My head’s like a gas bag this morning, and I fear I may float up to the ceiling in a moment.”
While Benedict plunged his head into a basin of cold water, Ned pored over the letter. “She writes ill—’
“And ill news too,” spluttered Benedict, reaching for a towel blindly. “I don’t know what I shall do.”
“By the looks of it,” said Ned at last, in a judicial manner, “your ward is alone in Bath. I can’t think that Lady Thane would be so careless as to leave her thus.”
“She isn’t,” said Benedict. “If you will read the last page, you will see that Miss Peek, who has as much character and backbone as a wet sponge, will be with her. And Miss Peek—so Lady Thane says—will prevent that brat from stepping outside. I wish I may see the day that that happens!”
Ned watched his good friend dress. He had much to think over, and it was a strong desire in him to make a suggestion or two to Benedict. But long experience had taught Ned that Choate did not relish being told of his faults—and in fact Ned could see only one. But that was a major fault, and over breakfast his tongue could no longer obey his better instincts.
“You were certainly over the eight last night. The drunker you got, the better your luck was. I believe you left young Acton without a feather to fly with.”
“Too much the worse for him,” gritted Choate. “He had no business to wager so deep. I rather imagine he would not have plunged had he not thought that he would get the better of me with the help of liquor. You cannot expect me to turn back my winnings?”
“I am not such a sapskull as to think that,” said Ned with vigor. “Nor do I quarrel with your idea that Acton would pay back anything he had won if you were at a disadvantage. That family always runs a bit close to the wind.”
Choate dismissed the entire Acton family with a wave of his hand. “What am I to do, Ned? Bedeviled by two women, and I don’t quite see my way clear ahead. Bassing, take away this food and bring me some more strong coffee.”
Ned said thoughtfully, after he had watched Choate down a steaming cup of coffee, “It seems noticeable to me that you are drinking far too much for a man who is to be married to a raving beauty this fall. Wasn’t there some kind of affair she was having at her country place? You missed that, I think?”
“I wasn’t there, if that’s what you mean. I can’t say that I felt the want of it.”
“I know you’re going to take offense at what I’m going to say...” began Ned.
“Then don’t say it,” recommended Choate.
“But,” Ned continued doggedly, “I think you don’t want to be married.”
Benedict regarded the bottom of his coffee cup. Looking around, he saw that Bassing had left the room, and he roused himself to pour another cup. “Whether it is better to drown in port or drown in coffee, that is the question,” he paraphrased. “You are quite right. I could wish my parents had not been so anxious to settle my future for me. But then, Miss Morton has expected to marry me since she was in leading-strings, and I know not how many she has turned off, waiting for me.”
Not many, thought Ned, but this time he was wise enough to remain silent. For if Benedict did not know that Miss Morton’s sharp tongue and domineering ways had turned away more than one suitor, leaving only the most desperate of fortune hunters to linger, then Ned was not going to tell him. Faithful to Choate she might be, but temptations galore she did not have.
“What am I to do, Ned?” repeated Benedict. “The brat will not stay where I put her, and I am in honor bound to take charge of her. And I ca
nnot think it would be wise to place her in the charge of Marianna, after our marriage.”
“I quite agree,” said Ned earnestly. “But, can you not explain to your ward—”
“Explain nothing!” exploded Choate. “She has wit enough to know what she should do, yet she persists in putting me in the wrong. I thought her safely at Penryck Abbey, in the charge of her own governess—against my better judgment, for I had wished to bring Mrs. Duff to her.”
Ned, remembering well Primula’s formidable companion-governess, shuddered.
“Through some device she managed to convince Miss Peek to take her to Bath, where she promptly fell in with that rake Rowse.”
Ned nodded sagely. “That’s why Lady Thane went down.”
“Exactly,” said Benedict. “And now the brat has fobbed off Lady Thane—”
“Come now,” protested Ned. “You can’t blame your ward for the plague, or whatever, in Cromford’s nursery.”
Benedict, still fuming, ignored him. “That brat has been nothing but trouble!” he said, bringing down his fist upon the table, so that the cups jumped, and one overturned, spilling coffee across the white napery. Benedict hardly noticed, and Ned reached for the bell pull.
“You said ‘bedeviled by two women,’ ” said Ned, after the mess had been cleared up and they were alone again. “You mean Lady Thane? It seems to me that she has been more than amiable.”
“No, no, of course I don’t mean her. I mean Marianna, who’s after me now to take her to Italy on our honeymoon. And that ward of mine.”
“I wonder why you take on so about her.”
With an obvious effort Benedict pulled himself together. “You are right,” he said at last. “I am far too irritable lately, and you are a true friend to put up with me when I am so disagreeable.” He smiled then, the rare one-sided smile that transformed his usually stern face.
