A Cousinly Connection

by Sheila Simonson

  Jane and her father exchanged glances. Aunt Louisa was entitled to a Scene--a grand tableau even--but not an entire folio. Jane could see her father's determination to fly to Lyme Regis harden. She felt sorry for Maria. The child had always gone in awe of her mother's many ills, but the supreme tragedy Lady Meriden now enacted clearly terrified her. Indeed, I am unfair, Jane thought. Aunt has great sensibility, and her sufferings are always real.

  Jane took a deep breath and without scruple cast her father and Miss Goodnight to the wolves. "Dear Aunt" she pronounced, "you will wish to tell Papa all. I shall ask my cousin to shew me to my room. And if it is not too much trouble," she added, softened by her father's harassed grimace, "Papa will be needing a light nuncheon. The day is really most inclement, and he must be fortified if he is to go on to Lyme Regis."

  Mr. Ash breathed his relief. Lady Meriden reproached Jane with a mournful glance, but her unrepentant niece merely gave her a kiss and slipped from the salon with Maria firmly in tow.

  In the room assigned her, Jane was relieved to find a cosy fire and the light streaming wetly in undraped windows. Her trunks had not yet been brought up. She poured steaming water into a generous porcelain bowl. "Now, Maria, tell me everything, my love."

  Maria burst into tears.

  Jane allowed her cousin time for a healthy cry and, meantime, washed her own face and smoothed her unruly curls into order. When she was as satisfied with her hair as she could be in damp weather, she settled a handsome Norfolk shawl about her shoulders and pulled the girl down beside her onto a sopha that fronted the hearth.

  "I am very sorry for you, Maria," she said firmly, "but crying will not help, besides blotching your very nice complexion."

  Maria gave a startled sniff and wiped her eyes, which were grey and long-lashed and by far her best feature.

  "Now, tell me how things are left and why Aunt Louisa is so overwrought. Lord Meriden, that is, your papa has surely left you all well provided for. I cannot think otherwise."

  When Maria's face clouded again, Jane said with asperity, "Maria, you must not turn yourself into a watering pot for at least ten years."

  Maria gave a damp chuckle.

  "That's better. Now, I collect your brother...what is his name?"

  "J-Julian."

  "Yes. Your brother Julian...Why do I keep wanting to call him Vincent? Oh, that is the next brother. Up at Oxford when I last saw you, was he not? He must be nearly one-and-twenty now." She gathered her thoughts. "Very well, then, Julian has succeeded to his father's honours."

  "He is the greatest b-beast in nature," Maria stammered. "Such a cold letter he has sent Mama, and he is to have everything. Vincent and the younger boys are cut out entirely. Mama is at her wits' end."

  Jane stared, taken quite aback. "But surely your father..."

  "Papa," said Maria bitterly, "did not make a new will upon Harry's death, so all the provisions he directed Harry to implement by name are quite overset, and the eldest surviving son must take all. Except Mama's portion, of course. That was settled on her daughters. Drusilla and I shall be well enough, but the poor boys! And Vincent! He is mad as fire and means to...to do something dreadful. Mama is so worried, cousin. What are we to do?"

  Jane swallowed. A pretty coil. "But surely Lord Meriden cannot be without proper feeling for his brothers..."

  "Ah, but he can!" Maria burst out. "When Mama married my father she felt she could not undertake to raise three stepsons. She was only nineteen, after all, and not strong. Vincent was a sickly infant and Harry and Julian were so lively. I believe they set fire to the nursery drapes. Harry was heir and had to stay at Meriden, of course, so Mama asked that Julian be sent to his mother's family--Lord Carteret, you know--and he was. Julian has never come to Meriden since. Indeed he does not know us at all. How can he care for brothers he has never seen? And Mama! How he must hate Mama!"

  She paused, much agitated. "Depend upon it, his grandfather will have set him against her, for Carteret, you know, was used to think Papa had dealt ill with his daughter, the first Lady Meriden. Truly, Jane, Mama is sometimes inclined to...to exaggerate, but in this instance she must be said to have cause for her fears."

  "Have you met this new Lord Meriden?" Jane asked after a moment.

  "No. I saw him once. In London. He paid a courtesy call on Papa. I caught a glimpse of him as he left, but all I remember is a peculiar green jacket and the b-back of his head. His hair is mouse-brown like mine, but straight."

  Jane smiled slightly at the inconsequential nature of this intelligence.

  "Vincent met him in London," Maria went on. "He said Julian is a damned dull dog. Not up to the rig."

  Jane repressed a grin. A direct quote, no doubt. Reprehensible Vincent to use such language in his sister's presence. He sounded a delightful tulip. From what Jane recalled of Vincent, he had been as sporting mad as his brother Harry and in a fair way to inheriting his father's ill luck at cards. Very much in the Stretton style. His strictures, of course, meant exactly nothing, but it was unfortunate that the two brothers had not hit it off.

  She settled the shawl again about her shoulders--really, it was the draughtiest house--and gave Maria's hand a comforting pat. "It all sounds most irregular, but I'm sure something will be worked out when the beastly baron arrives. Let us go down to Papa and my aunt. They must have said everything three times by now, and I shall see that Papa takes a nuncheon. Otherwise, he will be wholly overset too, and that, I assure you, is a greater trial than my aunt's megrims."

  Apparently her matter-of-fact tone helped, for Maria went down with her in tolerably good spirits and even ventured to ask for the pattern to Jane's traveling dress.

  Privately Jane thought that what had promised to be a brief visit was going to extend further than she wished or intended, for either Aunt Louisa was right in her imaginings and someone would have to make Lord Meriden see to his obligations, or Aunt Louisa was the victim of a heat-oppresséd brain, in which case her children must surely need help.

  Jane's consolation was that Edward Wincanton, balked of his prey, would surely fix his attentions on some more nautically-minded female in her protracted absence.

  Chapter IV

  When Margaret Tarrant's child, a daughter, came at last, Will's brothers' plump wives descended on the Tarrants in a storm of cackle that drove Will out of the house and off to Whitethorn. He was soon soothed with a glass of claret and one of the black cheroots Margaret would not allow him to puff in the house.

  "I say, Ju, this is the life."

  "I like it. Indeed, I'll be sorry to leave it."

  Will choked, "You're not marrying?"

  Julian looked blank. "Leave the house," he said, after a moment, "not my wild bachelor existence. What an ass you are, Will."

  Will was not to be trifled with. "What is this? I collect you must go off to London and Devon."

  "Dorset."

  "Wherever," Will snapped with a Yorkshireman's fine disregard for lesser counties. "These other properties must be visited, of course, but surely you may live where you choose."

  Julian shook his head. "I wish I could."

  "What's to prevent you? Or don't you choose to stay here? I daresay your great Dorset manor is much finer than Whitethorn," he added in a hurt tone, "but you'll not find a tidier piece of land than this in England."

  "No, nor better company."

  Mollified, Will took a last luxuriant puff and threw the seegar butt inaccurately at the fender. "Well, then."

  "The truth is, Whitethorn is the only property I own that is in shape to be left without my supervision," Julian said crossly. "If I can rely on what Horrocks says..." He broke off, frowning, then shrugged. "I'll have to go to Meriden."

  "You can't," Will muttered.

  "Certainly not before my goddaughter's christening. One of each now. Very discerning of you. What are you going to call her?"

  Will regarded his friend over the rim of his glass. "Julia."

  "Good God--horrible! L
ike a parrot-nosed Roman matron. Julia Augusta Claudia Victoria, I daresay. You didn't throw in Alexandra and Cleopatra, too?"

  "Julia Margaret Sarah," Will said sternly, then relented. "It does seem rather Spartan. No offence, old man. We'll christen her Julia and call her Margot."

  "Very pretty."

  Will waxed paternal. "She's got black hair and great long lashes. Pretty as she can stare, Ju, or will be when she's not so red in the face."

  "A diamond of the first water," Julian said gravely.

  Will grinned. "Takes after Peggy, thank God. Imagine a girl with my chin. Don't have to imagine. Only have to look at m'sister, Sarah." He sat up. "Damn your eyes, you've pushed me off the subject again. You wasn't set on removing to Meriden last week. Why the change? And don't feed me rot about overseeing estates, you landless nobody. The only estate you ever supervised was this one. Much better hire a good agent."

  "So you don't think I can put the screws on my tenants to the manner born?" Julian smiled.

  "No, I don't. Never knew a softer touch. Sneck up, friend. What is it? The damned family, I daresay."

  Julian was silent.

  "They've no claim on you," Will said explosively.

  "That's just the trouble."

  "What do you mean?"

  "My father made no provision for my brothers at all--and there are five of 'em."

  Will described the late Lord Meriden in profane detail.

  "Just so," Julian agreed. "An abominable old windsucker. But it wasn't entirely his fault. Because of the entail, Harry's predeceasing him has thrown everything into confusion. It's not quite as terrible as if my father'd died intestate, but it puts every thing off onto me. I bagged the lot, and the lot includes my brothers." He added wryly "You're not the only one suffering an attack of parenthood."

  "D'you mean you'll have to see to their upbringing?"

  Julian rubbed his forehead. "Vincent, I fancy, is down from Oxford, but he seems not to have any fixed object in life. The others except the youngest are mere schoolboys. Or should be. From what I gather, they're being educated at home."

  "Then direct your man of business to ship 'em off to school."

  "Sight unseen? Would you do that, Will?"

  "No," Will said glumly. He brightened. "What of Lady Meriden? Her brats, ain't they?"

  "Vincent isn't. I was inclined to leave matters in her hands," Julian said slowly, "but that was before I corresponded with her. I wish you will read this letter, Will, and tell me what you think."

  He got up clumsily and riffled through a pile of papers. Finally he handed his friend a black-bordered screed that reeked of otto of roses.

  Will squinted. "Sorry. Can't make it out."

  "Try."

  Will persevered. At last he laid the letter down. "Touched in the upper story," he said simply. "See what you mean. Plain fustian."

  "That was after I wrote to reassure her. Her first was even stranger."

  Will shook his head.

  * * * *

  The christening went smoothly. Julian had graduated to a walking stick. Peggy kept hovering near him during the ceremony. If he lost his balance and fell, she wanted to be at hand to catch the baby, but, as Will told her afterwards, the godfather shewed the greatest aplomb, even holding young Margot rightside up, so that no one would ever have imagined him the raw recruit he was. This was said in Julian's presence, after the guests and kinsfolk had taken themselves off.

  Peggy bridled. "I thought you did very well, Julian, and we're much obliged to you." She looked so much like an indignant pigeon that both men smiled at her.

  "Your daughter drooled on my sleeve," Julian murmured. "I took it as a sign of affection."

  "Toad-eater." Will made an idiot face at his complacent child and tickled a pink foot that had somehow emerged from the yards of white embroidered lawn.

  Peggy scowled at him. "Don't set her off. She cried for half an hour when your sister insisted on jiggling her about, and I've only just got her quietened."

  Will desisted, and the baby yawned hugely and went to sleep.

  "What a blessing she's not colicky like Willie." Peggy settled back in her chair and smiled at their guest. "Well, Julian, very lordly, I must say. I've not had a chance to felicitate you."

  Julian grimaced. "Please don't." He reached into a pocket and drew forth a neatly done up box wrapped in silver paper. "I must leave in a moment, but I've brought my goddaughter a gift."

  Peggy took the packet, smiling. "Did you send poor Mrs. Bradford into York to buy this? It's very kind in you, Julian, but I hope it's not another silver cup. She has half a dozen."

  "No." He looked rather wary. "Not a cup."

  Peggy pulled the paper loose and sat speechless, staring at the exquisite object in her hand. A tiny casket, jewel-studded and wrought in gold, lay on her palm.

  "What is it?" she whispered.

  Julian reached over and pressed one long brown finger against a minute catch. He lifted the lid and there, in a black velvet foil designed to set off some priceless Renaissance jewel, lay an ordinary string of coral beads. "Unexceptionable, I think. I'm told they're for teething."

  "0h, it's too lovely. But surely this casket is an heirloom?"

  "No," he smiled. "That is, I had it from my grandmother, but I believe she was given it by one of her cicisbei. An Italian gentleman of advanced years with clocks on his stockings and padded calves. He conceived a hopeless passion for Grandmère in his youth and fought a duel with my grandfather when they were both young and silly. He and my grandfather became excellent friends in later years, and spent hours together prosing over the more boring Roman philosophers." His eyes danced. "Grandmère, you know, was a Frenchwoman and a great belle in her day. She must have driven the old marchese wild."

  Peggy's brown eyes shone. "How romantical. I don't know how you can bear to part with it."

  He shrugged. "What use should I put it to? It's a lady's bauble, my dear. I could pop my tie pins in it."

  "Or sell it for a king's ransom," Will interrupted grimly. He had been staring at the box with a lowering expression for some moments and now reached down and took it from his wife. Peggy squeaked in alarm.

  "I won't have it, Julian," he snapped.

  "How fortunate that I'm not giving it to you."

  "I've seen that sort of thing. King Joseph's baggage train after Vitoria. It's Cellini, I collect."

  "It may be," Julian said coldly. "I don't know. I do know I had it as a gift from a lady who did not go about putting price tickets on her gifts or anyone else's. I'm free to give it where I choose, and if I choose to give it your daughter that's my affair."

  Will set the casket down with deliberation. He had flushed scarlet as Julian spoke, but he was now white as his neckcloth. "My daughter is very much obliged to you, Lord Meriden. Or is it Lord Bountiful?" He turned on his heel and stalked from the room.

  Peggy watched him leave, her lips compressed in a severe line. "Oh, don't look so stricken, Julian," she said after a moment. "Windy Will."

  He gave a rather twisted smile. "I'm sorry."

  "Well, so am I."

  He got up, leaning heavily on the stick. "You might tell Will from me that giving goes two ways, and that I'm not the only Lord Bountiful hereabouts."

  "I know," she said gently. "But he needed to help you. He feels so guilty."

  He stared. "What about?"

  "About selling out before Waterloo."

  "Why the devil should he? Does he fancy another corpse would make the world more wonderful? Or another cripple?" he added, bitter.

  "I don't wish to seem coldhearted, but I must say I agree with you completely."

  He looked so startled that she smiled. "There, I've sunk myself beneath reproach, and since I'm being tactless, I'll compliment you on how well you're getting about."

  Julian smiled, too. "Peggy, what a pity it is you're so thoroughly married. We'd deal famously together."

  "So we would," she said with affection. "Perha
ps I'll murder Will. You'd best go home now, and leave me to deal with my stiff-necked husband. Don't worry. He knows he's behaved very ill. And I thank you for my daughter's gift--or should I say cadeau?"

  He grinned.

  "It must be as lovely in its way as the lady who gave it you."

  "It is," he said gratefully. "She was very beautiful and very kind. It reminds me of her."

  Peggy blinked hard. "Then I begin to value it, and someday my daughter will value it as she ought. Just now, however, I think she'll prefer the coral."

  "So do I."

  She went with him to the door and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Don't worry about Will."

  But it was nearly two weeks before Will came round and then only because he chanced on Thorpe, who mentioned, in passing, that Julian had fallen again.

  "Bust his damned leg," Thorpe grumbled.

  "Good God, when?"

  "Round about t'end of t'week."

  Will forgot his dignity and rode off to Whitethorn.

  "I don't know that he'll see you, sir," Mrs. Bradford said doubtfully. "He's cross as crabs."

  "Just shew me in."

  She disappeared into the bedchamber and after a moment beckoned to him. Julian was propped up in bed and surrounded by ink-stained papers. When Will entered, his mouth tightened.

  "If you've come to jaw at me over that damned box, you can turn round and march back out."

  "Well, I haven't," Will said mildly. "Thorpe said you've broken your leg."

  "No. I tore something."

  "How?"

  "I thought I was ready to ride. I was wrong."

  Will curbed his exasperation. "I'm glad you've not broken it."

  "I nearly told the damned sawbones to chop it off and be done with it," Julian said in the same flat voice.

  "You'll be laid up here for a time?"

  "It means starting over again with the walking." He summoned a smile that went nowhere near his eyes. "You're stuck with my presence until the New Year, I'm afraid."

  "Excellent," Will said gruffly. "Care for a game of chess?"

  Julian opened his eyes wide, and Will flushed, grinning a little. Julian always beat him.