A Cousinly Connection

by Sheila Simonson

  "Yes, indeed. I beg your pardon, Vincent."

  He eyed her warily. "So Julian must be at least a lieutenant."

  "Very likely a captain after so many years, if he exerted himself."

  "I don't know about that. Weedy sort of chap. No address."

  He did sound unprepossessing. Anyone foolish enough to call a young man of twenty little brother must want for common sense. And to laugh about it. He cannot be kind, Jane reflected. Poor Vincent.

  The conversation then proceeded to matters of greater moment, such as whether Vincent could be prevailed upon to take Drusilla to Astley's Amptheatre, and was that establishment open year round, and whether Mama would approve a lilac gown for Maria.

  "I could wear black ribbons on it, you know, cousin."

  "Lilac will do very well," Jane said. "And let us hear no more about black ribbons."

  Chapter VI

  London proved a thorough success, though the Stretton house gave Jane a pang. To see it shrouded in holland and echoingly empty could not be cheerful. But Jane's Aunt Hervey caught the party up in a swirl of schoolgirl treats that suited Drusilla and Maria very well. As that good-natured lady had fired off the last of her own daughters several years before, she was perfectly happy to have young people about again. Without offending against the forms of bereavement, she gave the girls an excellent time. Jane could only rejoice--and trust that Aunt Louisa would not examine the girls too closely when they returned home.

  Mornings were spent shopping at the cloth warehouses Jane patronised, where, as Maria naively remarked, there was a deal more variety to be found than in Dorchester. Lady Meriden had been generous. There was no stinting or making do. Drusilla thought fashion a great bore, and was far too young to wear the feathers and taffeties that did catch her fancy, but even Dru was persuaded to choose some becoming swatches.

  For herself Jane ordered up fabric for a walking dress which she chose partly because green became her and partly because the luxurious material would make up into a dashing rig. Convinced that the longer she lived in her aunt's household the more sober and sensible she would grow, she decided to forestall a sartorial descent to brown stuff and merino.

  I may shew the mentality of a housekeeper or governess, she reflected, recklessly buying frogs dyed to match her fabric and a handful of silver ribbon, but I refuse to look like one.

  When the girls gave signs of feeling guilty for enjoying themselves, Jane directed them to buy gifts for the twins. A small crise ensued, but Drusilla was dissuaded from selecting a working model of the guillotine for her brothers. Although Jane thought nothing would suit the boys' tastes more than to institute a miniature Reign of Terror, she did not wish to encourage them in blood-thirstiness or, indeed, Jacobinism. Leaden soldiers were substituted as unexceptionable.

  Jane took it on herself to select Felix's gifts. He must have music, of course, sheets and sheets of music. The trick was to find compositions that would suit his severe tastes and still lie within Miss Winchell's capacity to play for him. This proved a knotty problem. Finally Jane chose several Haydn sonatas she thought Felix might like and left the execution in the lap of the gods. She contemplated a musical box and rejected it as beneath Felix's contempt and purchased instead a small wooden flute-like instrument called a recorder. She had once heard a recorder played at a concert of ancient music. It seemed too simple a thing for Felix, but the tone must please.

  She then bethought herself of the coming holiday season. Lady Meriden must not be allowed to render Christmas hideous with excesses of grief. Although her own funds had by now fallen rather low, Jane spent what was left lavishly on books and games and puzzles and jars of boiled sweets. These purchases she concealed from everyone. As a sop to her conscience she bought two remarkably mournful black mantillas and a box of the finest camphor pastilles for her aunt.

  "I have quite outrun the cobbler, Papa," she confessed to her bemused father later, when the party had reached Sussex. "I know you will not object to advancing me monies for the winter. I shall repay you on quarter day."

  Jane's income--she had inherited a competence from her mother--usually proved more than sufficient to her needs, and she did not care to be running to her papa for pin money. However, he had a dislike of too much independence in females, and her request flattered his vanity, as she had known it must. He wrote her a handsome draught on his bank.

  "But to be gone from home at Christmas" he exclaimed, returning her kiss with a hearty smack. "I do not like it, Jane."

  "Dear Papa, nor do I. But you have Jack and Tom and Joanna and young Tomkin to comfort you."

  "Roast pork!" her father murmured. "Parsnips!"

  Jane laughed. "Joanna will soon learn to study your tastes. And only consider, Papa, if I were to marry a Scotsman or an Irishman, I would not be able to come to you on every holiday."

  "What Scotsman?"

  "I said 'if,' Papa."

  Her father grumbled something about encroaching foreigners. But the mention of marriage caught his attention. "Young Wincanton will wish to call on you." He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "He has bought Studleigh, you know."

  "Oh, no! Is Edward still hanging about?"

  "Yes, poor fellow. He holds you in greatest esteem, my dear, and you might do worse."

  "No, I might not." Jane bit her lip. She had nearly forgot Edward Wincanton.

  "Well, I shan't teaze you." Her father sighed. "You are not growing younger, you know, but there, I shall say no more on that head for it is not the least use."

  "No, indeed," Jane said cordially.

  "Did you execute your aunt's charge?"

  "Oh, yes. I sent a note to his lordship's man of business. When he called on me, I presented him with Aunt Louisa's authorisation. There was no difficulty. I am persuaded she might have removed anything at all, for it is clear that Lord Meriden has not yet troubled to visit the house."

  "An indolent young man."

  "It would seem so. It doesn't augur well for the future. I did not question Mr. Horrocks about his lordship's affairs, for it wasn't my place to do so, but I confess to curiosity. You see, neither my aunt nor my cousins know anything about the new baron."

  "It was an ill-managed business," Mr. Ash said shortly. "I told Louisa no good would come of it at the time."

  Jane's face must have shewn her puzzlement for he went on in a constrained tone, "There was bad blood between Meriden and his first father-in-law. Carteret undertook to raise the boy on the understanding that Meriden would have no say in the upbringing. It seemed dashed irregular to me. Louisa should have done her duty by the lad, but my father could not be persuaded to interfere--he never threw the least rub in Louisa's way--and Meriden was so incensed by Carteret's strictures that I scarcely liked to bring the matter up. After a few years, Louisa grew too much occupied with her own nursery to be looking after schoolboys."

  "In short, my aunt and uncle forgot the boy."

  "You've a sharp tongue, my dear. Take care it don't lead you to unbecoming ways."

  "I beg your pardon, sir," Jane said, but she had spoken too warmly. Her father would not pursue the subject further.

  It was a delight to Jane to shew her cousins the beauties of Walden Ash and, for herself, to ride Fairy again about her father's lands. Even the mangel-wurzels pleased her. So taken was she with her home that she might have succumbed to her father's entreaties to remain had she not endured another declaration from Captain Wincanton.

  This interview took place the second evening of her return. She had wandered out to the orchard and was reveling in solitude and the crisp October air when the snap of a twig below her broke her mood.

  "Miss Ash!"

  "Oh, dear. How do you do, Edward?" She infused a moderate warmth into her tone. After all, he must rank as a friend.

  "Dear Miss Jane, how we have missed you. What joy it is to find you at home once more."

  "Thank you. I believe I must congratulate you on having acquired a very handsome prop
erty."

  He had stopped puffing from the exertions of his climb and replied with some complacency, "Yes. I flatter myself that I have come into port at last. Hrmphm. But a house, you know, does not take on the character of a home..."

  "Edward, how is your dear mother?"

  "Very well," he barked, adding in softened tones, "I trust you have come back to stay, my wandering star."

  "No" she said crossly. "I have not come home to stay. I shall be off again to Dorset within the week. And it is most improper in you to be calling me such a name."

  "Miss Ash! Jane!" He flung himself on his knees. "Does my constancy mean nothing to you?"

  "Indeed I am very sensible of the honour you do me,"' Jane said in a colourless voice. Down, Rover.

  He grasped her hand in his own rather moist palm. "Damme, Miss Jane, I would offer you the moon, the stars..."

  "Edward, you must not. We should not suit. I beg you, get up!" Jane took a breath and went on in a less agitated manner, "You'll ruin your breeches in the mulch."

  He rose like a shot and brushed off his knees.

  "Edward, I have changed a great deal from the girl you first knew."

  "Not a jot," he roared. "Lovelier than ever."

  "What a bouncer! And I was not speaking of my looks but my tastes, my interests, my sentiments. You have persuaded yourself you love me, but you do not know me as I am now."

  "I can't know you if you're never here,"' he replied, so like a sensible man that she wavered, but he went on, "I shall worship you forever."

  "I am very sorry for you then, for, Edward, we should not suit." She began walking down the small slope in a determined way, and presently he followed.

  Her brothers were inclined to teaze her about her nautical lover, but she had perfected the art of ignoring them, so they soon left off, and she found herself again in charity with them.

  On her last morning at Walden Ash, she rode with her younger brother, Jack, through the wood above the home farm to visit the wife of her father's chief tenant. On their return, Jack enlivened the way with anecdotes --here he had run a badger to earth and there he had had a clear shot at a goshawk, truly Jane, and what a fine spot this was, Jane. There was not such fine sport to be had in France.

  That put Jane in mind of her brother's brief service as a volunteer in the Belgian campaign. The experience had transformed him from plain Jack Ash, a lad his friends were altogether too quick to stigmatise as old Jack Ass, to something of a local hero.

  Though Jack had not seen action at Waterloo, that did not prevent him speaking in a Crispin Crispian manner of the glorious battle and of the subsequent pursuit--which he had taken part in--of the broken Grande Armée. He bored his family very much. The dashing tales went down well with the wide-eyed damsels of the neighbourhood, however. Though she found his stories as tedious as the rest of the family did, Jane felt a deal of sympathy for Jack. He had been with the Duke in France. Nothing in his young life could equal that fact.

  "Jack," she ventured, "how well do you know the army?"

  He stiffened. "I say. What a question to ask."

  "I'm sorry. I only meant I know very little..."

  "Know more about the Navy, eh?"

  She reproved him with a glance. "I'd like to find out for Aunt Louisa something of her stepson's service, for she knows almost nothing about him. He will be coming soon."

  "Don't want to make too many howlers." Jack nodded sagely.

  "Just so. You'll have to fill in rather a lot of blanks." She gave him what information she remembered.

  He did not seem hopeful and told her, mincing no words, what he thought of the family's ignorance. "Something above a lieutenant. Might be a sepoy general for all you know!"

  Jane agreed meekly that it was scandalous.

  "Well, I shall do my possible for you, Jane."

  "Thank you, dear Jack, best of my brothers."

  He eyed her uneasily. "Dash it, Jane, my Aunt Louisa's a bad influence on you. You was never used to be sickening. By the where is our demi-beau?"

  "No, that is too bad of you, Jack. Vincent is snap up to the rig, a regular out-and-outer."

  He snorted. "Much you know." He was jealous of Vincent's polish and knew she knew it.

  "Vincent has tooled off to Brighton for the day, though of course it's sadly flat at this time of year. He is visiting his friend, Ned."

  "Ned Coldfield. Rackety fellow."

  "I daresay," Jane murmured, "but do not, I beg you, say so to Vincent."

  Jack grinned. "Not such a cawker."

  * * * *

  The return journey to Dorchester dragged out tediously. Vincent grudged them his escort, for he had some scheme afoot with his rackety friend, and Drusilla developed the toothache. At last, however, they reached Meriden, dispensed their gifts, were kissed, shouted at (by the twins), wept over (by Lady Meriden,) and sank back into the bosom of the family.

  Everyone had survived their absence. Indeed, life thereafter went on without major disaster through the holidays. The New Year, however, began with an unusually severe snowstorm. Every one--except the twins who built forts and pelted the grooms with water-soaked snowballs--grew edgy and short tempered. Lady Meriden announced that Maria and Drusilla might not put off their blacks until a year from their father's death, and Jane spent nearly a week coaxing her ladyship to a more reasonable frame of mind. Maria wept a great deal. Felix threw a tantrum so spectacular that he broke a clock, a vase, and two figurines. Drusilla renewed the toothache.

  As January drew to an end, Jane gave up hope of his lordship's coming and, rather draggled, set about civilising everyone again.

  Fortunately the snow thawed. She bore Drusilla off to the tooth drawer by main force. That battle won, she coaxed Felix, who had sulked in his tent for a week, to try some airs for her on the recorder, and set Maria to trimming spring bonnets. She could think of nothing to improve the twins and rather gave them up.

  February saw a diminished order restored, but Jane began to feel more than a little weary. She had not even had time to stitch up her dashing green gown. Every fortnight brought an indignant letter from her father threatening to fetch her home. She almost wished he would, but it was nearly time for him to oversee the spring ploughing, and she knew that only the prospect of her death or seduction would have dragged him from Walden Ash at such a time. Vincent, who might have enlivened the party, remained in London.

  Chapter VII

  It had become Jane's habit to rise early and, whatever the weather, walk in the small garden, returning for breakfast before the others came down. To be alone was luxury. March shewed its mixed mind in the extravagant yellows of forsythia and daffodil and the bleak roiling grey of the sky. Blustery. She inspected the unkempt beds where the crocuses had blown and the green fuses of newfangled tulips now pushed their tips through the loam, and felt the damp wind on her cheeks and wished for some sort of resolution.

  To be an oak round which her cousins twined could not, she decided, be good for her character, and to encourage them in dependence on her must certainly strike any right-minded person as wrong. Yet she could not bring herself to go. Apart from the family's needs, she liked Meriden Place. At home, Edward Wincanton lurked, ready to spring. It was all very troublesome.

  She entered the breakfast room frowning and did not immediately perceive that she was no longer alone.

  "Which of my sisters are you?"

  Jane started and stared at the man who had risen politely from his meal upon her entrance. He smiled and raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  "I fear you mistake me, sir," she said when she had gathered her wits. "I collect you must be Lord Meriden. I am Jane Ash, your stepmama's niece."

  "How do you do, Miss Ash, and I beg your pardon." His smile turned to a grin. "Shocking, isn't it? I don't believe I've laid eyes on either of my sisters in my life."

  "But you must know that Maria, the elder, is not yet come out," Jane said, rather severely for she was flustered. "They are both much
younger than I."

  "No, are they? Infants? I can't have mistaken the matter by so much."

  "I believe you are hamming me, my lord, and I must tell you that I am not at all witty before breakfast. You have me at an unfair advantage."

  "Then by all means let us see you fed," he replied composedly. "Shall I serve you?"

  "Thank you, no. That would give Turvey--your butler, you know--a very poor notion of your consequence, and I'm persuaded you can't wish your buttered eggs to congeal. Pray be seated."

  She busied herself with the chafing dishes and sat down, eating for a time in silence, for she was aware that she felt an unbecoming degree of curiosity. So this was the unfeeling monster. She kept her eyes on her plate for as long as she could bear it, then stole a glance at him.

  "Marmalade?"

  She felt herself flush. "No, thank you. You must have arrived very early, sir. I have walked in the small garden this past hour, and I heard no one."

  "I came last night. Late."

  "Disarming."

  "Yes. I breached the walls and took the keep without a struggle. Very tame."

  "Did you anticipate opposition?"

  "A skirmish, perhaps," he said lightly. "My brother Vincent at the barricades, at least. Where is Vincent, by the way?"

  "Will you know him when you see him?"

  "Oh, yes." His voice was bland. "F.H.C. rig, Byronic curls, slight pout. Vincent and I have encountered each other."

  In Hyde Park, Jane thought, where you, sir, were a damned dull dog. "Vincent is in Town."

  He made no reply to that but sat silent a moment, staring into his coffee cup and frowning a little. Jane had leisure to look at him unobserved.

  He was a thin man, rather taller than Vincent. Although he had the high-bridged Stretton nose, his features were less splendidly regular than Vincent's and more definite. His colouring was unremarkable. On his nose a small patch of skin was peeling. Jane wondered where he had found the sun to be burnt.

  "Vincent can't have known you were coming." She found herself defending the absent brother. "No one knew."