"I beg your pardon, sir. I will not go to Brighton." She bit her lip.
Mr. Ash steadied his temper with an effort. "I am sensible," he said carefully, "that you have shewn more than your duty to my sister, but she cannot make you her drudge. I won't allow it."
Jane's eyes shone with tears. "Oh, Papa, it's very kind in you and in Aunt Hervey, too, but truly I'd liefer not go to Brighton. Insipid balls and routs. Card parties. Pic-nicking at Lewes and admiring the ruins for the hundredth time. It is not in my style."
"You cannot wish to dwindle into an aunt, Jane."
"No, indeed." She drew a shaky breath. "Marriage is the only comfortable state for a female, as things are. I am not obliged to go out as a governess, however, if I fail it, and I will not marry some puffing idiot merely to escape aunthood."
"That puts me in mind...young Wincanton has deserted you and fixed his interests with Miss Derwood. Indeed, Jane," he said crossly, "I do not know why you laugh so. Wincanton must have established you suitably."
Jane composed herself.
Mr. Ash eyed her warily. "You're a deal too nice in your notions, miss."
"I could not have borne Edward. If that is overnice in me, then you're just in your strictures."
Mr. Ash sighed. "If your affections was fixed on someone, if you'd a tendre for Meriden, now, I should not object to your staying. I can't like his nipfarthing ways, but the connexion must be considered eligible."
Jane had gone white. "Papa, do I understand you correctly?"
"Hrmphm. Proximity, you know. Dash it, Jane, I said 'if.'"
Jane said coldly, "I trust Lord Meriden and I are on terms of civility. He is a most eligible partí. If you suggest that I have lurked about here these last months in the hope of entangling his lordship in my coils..."
"Jane!"
"You have a very low notion of my character."
Mr. Ash had never been able to deal with his daughter when she took to her high horse. "Here, I say--"
Jane's mouth set in a hard line. "I shall consider Aunt Hervey's kind offer, sir, and give you my decision tomorrow. Goodnight."
Mr. Ash stared after her. He was wretched, for he doted on Jane, but he was also a stubborn man and in this he did not mean to be gainsaid. She was a pretty-enough young woman, and her means must make her more than eligible. Why she had not fixed on some inoffensive gentleman and established herself years ago he did not know. He did know he wished her safely wed.
* * * *
Jane spent a miserable and sleepless night. At first she was so angry with her father that she determined to defy him even if it meant a serious breach. She formed wild notions of setting up her own establishment in some remote part of the kingdom, like the Ladies of Llangollen, but she could think of no female friend to join her in exile. Her particular friends had all married.
That thought made her melancholic, and she wept and pitied herself and wondered if she ought not to have married Edward Wincanton after all. At least then she must have had children. That prospect brought Edward's gooseberry eyes and wet hands to mind, and she fell again into a rage, this time at the unkind fates.
Had she been Felix she would have broken every movable object in the room. Being Jane, she contented herself with pummeling her tear-soaked pillow until the feathers flew. She would have laughed at herself at that point had she been less frantic, but she buried her aching head in the covers instead and gradually grew calmer and began to think.
If her father, who was not fanciful, had believed her to be hanging out for Meriden, what must others be thinking--Joanna, Aunt Hervey, her brothers, the neighbours at home? As for Meriden himself...She thought of the green dress and the two mornings she had lurked in the garden, ready, she admitted, to be private with him, to pounce. She lay still for a long time and thought.
Meriden was not a dashing figure à la Vincent, nor had he his brother Harry's florid good looks. As Miss Goodnight had so reluctantly admitted, he was not romantical. But he had a certain quiet style, and his manners, though not formal, were better than Vincent's. She thought he must be equal to most situations. That he had made friends with his brothers and sisters in spite of Aunt Louisa's efforts argued a deal of address. No, not address. Kindness. At that point she stuck.
At last she brought herself to admit what it was. She liked him very well. In fact, she liked him better than any man of her acquaintance, and, what was even more lowering, she did not like him because of his kindness to Felix and the others, nor for his commonsense, nor for his undramatic acceptance of what must be very heavy burdens, for she had known other responsible, intelligent, kind men. What she liked was his sharp tongue.
She sat bolt upright in the bed and stared at the near dead fire. No one, surely, formed an attachment from such an unworthy cause. She prided herself on her judgement. True, she had imagined herself in love with Edward Wincanton's uniform, but that was when she was green and silly. Surely she knew better now. Affection must grow from esteem, not from a shared sense of the ridiculous. To base a marriage on...
Marriage.
I have been lurking and laying snares, she thought wretchedly. Papa is right. And Meriden has not shewn me the kind of distinguishing notice that would argue any partiality on his part. He enjoys my company, but he also enjoys Felix's company, and Miss Goodnight's, and his sisters'. I believe he is even beginning to like Vincent. Where is the partiality in that? He thinks of me as a useful female. An aunt. Good God, I shall have to go to Brighton.
* * * *
Jane's acquiescence--baldly given next morning after breakfast--seemed to her father so unnatural that he brooded over it off and on all day. What could she be up to? He had steeled himself for argument, even half-considered giving in to her. Tame submission was the last thing he had expected of Jane. Perhaps she was sickening for something.
During the jaunt to Fern Hall Mr. Ash remarked the decay and disrepair everywhere and imparted advice to Meriden on how to set things to rights. It even seemed as if his lordship was listening. But Jane's father's mind was on Jane, not on agriculture.
He went into his interview with Meriden that evening with his mind still on his daughter and found it hard to fix his attention on the less immediate matter of his nephews' education. Meriden offered him a glass of sherry, which he accepted, and a seegar, which he declined with horror. and, the requirements of civility discharged, waited courteously for Mr. Ash to begin.
Mr. Ash cleared his throat. "No doubt you're wondering why I wished for this private chat, Meriden."
His lordship made a polite noise.
"The thing is, I feel I must speak to my nephews' future."
"Which nephew?"
"All of 'em," Mr. Ash snapped.
Meriden was silent.
"Dash it, Meriden, you must admit things was badly left."
A flicker of amusement shewed in his lordship's eyes. "Certainly."
"Well?"
"You mean, I collect, to require some assurance of me--"
"Not my place to require anything," Jane's father said with dignity. "I'm sensible of your position as guardian."
"Thank you, sir, but I'm not sure you understand the position at all."
"Well, upon my word!"
Meriden ignored the outburst. "Legally, I can do precisely as I please. There was a letter of instruction directed to Harry, however."
"Do you mean to honour your father's wishes?"
"Will you read this document, sir?" He reached into his coat and withdrew a parchment sheet. Catching Mr. Ash's bewildered gaze, he said drily, "I assumed you must want to speak with me either of your sister or of her children, so I came prepared."
"Oh." An unnerving young man. Mr. Ash took the proffered document.
"I wish you will read it with your nephews in mind."
Mr. Ash read. It took him some time, for the letter was couched in flowery and obscure language. When he thought he had grasped most of it, he looked up. Meriden regarded him with raised brows.
"It ain't generous, but it's a deal better than nothing."
"You were assured, I daresay, that I intended nothing."
Light dawned. Lord Meriden, it seemed, was angry.
Mr. Ash leaned back comfortably. "No need to fly into the boughs. I don't scruple to admit, sir, that my sister sometimes shews less than commonsense. I assumed you would provide for your brothers in one way or another. Merely I wished to know some of the particulars." He tapped the paper. "This satisfies me."
"Does it?"
Mr. Ash blinked.
"You're easily satisfied," Meriden said bleakly. "It's a damned ungenerous document and so vague as to give me a very dim view of my father's understanding."
There ensued an uncomfortable silence. A dozen contradictory reflexions passed through Mr. Ash's mind. "But your father's intent..."
Meriden grimaced and said nothing.
Mr. Ash ran a finger inside his suddenly constricting neckcloth. He had come prepared to deal in form and found he must address himself to substance. Confound Louisa, he thought with justifiable wrath.
At last Meriden said rather wearily, "Well, I don't mean to devil you, sir, but I've some difficulty understanding their mother's wishes."
Mr. Ash gave a short bark of unamused laughter. "So I should imagine."
Meriden waited.
"Louisa will be brought to accept any reasonable plan," Ash said firmly. "I shall see to that, Meriden. You may set your mind at rest."
Meriden regarded him silently for a moment, then smiled a little. "I trust we may not disagree as to what's reasonable. I intend to have Felix prepared for one of the universities."
Mr. Ash stared.
"He is uncommonly bright."
"But his disability..."
"He'll require a companion, of course."
"Even so."
"'I dislike waste, Mr. Ash."
Mr. Ash rubbed his nose. A most unnerving young man. "Louisa will kick up a dust. I don't know the lad well. Musical..."
At that Meriden did smile. "Perhaps I should propose to train him in one of the musical professions--conducting would suit his temper. A mere university must then seem gentlemanlike and unexceptionable to his mother."
Jane's father began to laugh rather helplessly. "Dash it, Meriden, I believe you've taken m'sister's measure." Mopping his eyes, he said, still chuckling, "Do as you think fit. I'll give you what support I may. "
"I'm obliged to you, sir."
"You mean to send the twins to Harrow, I collect."
Meriden nodded. "Next year. They're badly prepared."
"No doubt. Wild as Mohawks, ain't they? I daresay you'll fix 'em in some respectable profession."
Meriden's mouth quirked. "Respectable? You cannot have made their acquaintance."
"Well, I have," Mr. Ash said feelingly. "I wasn't here above three hours last autumn but they contrived to bestow a hedgehog in my gear. My shirts was a trifle ripe, I can tell you. Ah, well, my Jack was just such a hellborn brat. I daresay they'll come round."
If Meriden viewed the prospect of rearing two Jack Ashes with less than enthusiasm, his expression did not betray him.
Mr. Ash went on obliviously, "It's early days yet to be speaking of young Thomas. My lord, I'm satisfied as to your intentions. Perhaps you'll inform me from time to time of my nephews' progress. And do not," he added with heavy good humour, "ask which nephew."
Meriden smiled politely. "You've not mentioned your nieces."
"But Louisa--"
"My sisters are nominally in my charge also."
"Yes, yes. Leave 'em to her ladyship."
Meriden looked troubled. "Would you, sir, if they were your daughters?"
Mr. Ash stiffened.
"I've no wish to offend you, Mr. Ash. Perhaps you've not observed it, but your sister is become something of a recluse. Maria has turned eighteen."
"Can't make her come-out in black ribbons."
"No. After September, however..."
"Lady Meriden," Mr. Ash said coldly, "will take her daughters with her to Bath."
Had he had proper feeling, Meriden must then have dropped the matter. Instead he said in caustic tones, "Bath is not London."
"Upon my word, sir, you have sold your London house."
"Houses may be let. And there are other choices."
Mr. Ash sniffed. "Do you fancy I'll spare you my Jane to lend your sisters countenance?"
"Miss Ash has been very kind."
"Well, I take leave to tell you, Meriden, you'll have to form other plans, for I am removing Jane directly. She is a good girl and not past her last prayers by any means. I intend she shall join her Aunt Hervey in Brighton for the summer. After that, we shall see. If Anna wishes to take her to London...be that as it may. My Jane is to be no one's duenna. I expect to see her suitably married and soon, too. Then, perhaps, you may think of foisting your sisters on her." He stopped because he did not like the dangerous look in Meriden's grey eyes. "Well, sir, you must admit, if you've any sense of justice, that I'd be a sad father to consent to any such scheme."
"Your daughter must do as she wishes, of course," Meriden in a colourless voice. "I had meant to establish my sisters with my cousin Georgy."
"Lady Herrington?" Mr. Ash was startled out of his wrath. That was high flying indeed. A fashionable and by all accounts pretty-behaved young woman. If Meriden was on such terms with his Devonshire cousins...
His lordship added, still without expression, "Not, of course, against Lady Meriden's wishes."
Mr. Ash said slowly, "I beg your pardon if I misunderstood, Meriden. The thing is, Jane has been much on my mind. To bury herself in Dorset for eight months..."
Meriden did not speak.
"She's a good girl."
"My sisters are sufficiently in her debt." Meriden rose, the ghost of a smile in his eyes. "Indeed we all are. I think Miss Ash far too young to chaperone anyone, sir. I'm surprized you considered it."
"I didn't," Mr. Ash said crossly. He rose, too.
He retired shortly thereafter, hors de combat, having made at least three people including himself thoroughly unhappy. Though he told himself he was glad to be rescuing Jane from thralldom, his victory tasted remarkably like defeat.
Chapter XIII
A letter from the Honourable Maria Stretton to her cousin, Miss Jane Ash. Bath. June 1816.
My dear Cousin,
Mama, Drusilla, Thomas, and I have removed to Bath at last--and, of course, Miss Goodnight. Thank you for sparing us Goody, for we should go on very ill without her.
Bath is the strangest steepest town, but sadly flat without our Jane, Every day we go to the Pump Rooms, and Mama drinks the waters. I must own, Cousin, I think it very Brave in her, for I cannot swallow more than a few drops myself. Even Goody makes terrible faces.
We do not go to the Assemblies. Mama says that would be Ramshackle behaviour. Perhaps she will take us after September. There are a deal of people to watch in the Pump Rooms and the Municipal Gardens. If they are all rather Old, I am sure they are very diverting to look at. Only think, Jane, a lady in panniers.
How do you in Brighton? Drusilla and I fancy you are gay to dissipation. If you wasn't our Best Friend we should be Envious. Do you think my Uncle will allow you to visit us some time? Mama said we wasn't to ask, but we miss you sadly.
Oh, Jane, the oddest thing. Julian has let Meriden--the house, not the land. He and Felix and Vincent will live at Fern Hall. Mama disliked the Idea, but Felix shall have his pianoforte and a new Tutor, and the twins will go to Julian in their Holidays. Vincent says they live in the stables anyway, so it can't do them an injury to leave Meriden. Fortunately he does not say so to Mama. It is sad to think of strangers at Meriden, but Vincent says it is only for two years.
Vincent is much Improved, Mama says, so I gather he has left off gaming. He visits us every week. Julian came once, but he and Mama had Words. I wish you was here, Jane, for you know how to soothe Mama better than me or Miss Goodnight.
Drusilla is no help. She is mad as fire with my Brother, too.
My duty to my Uncle and my cousins, especially Jack, and to your dear Aunt Hervey.
Yours, etc.
Maria
Post Scriptum: Julian is come, and he will frank this for me. He has took Miss Goodnight and Drusilla to the Gardens. I hope he will talk Sense to her, Dru that is.
PPS: Jonquil is not a rackety colour, even if Mama does think so.
* * * *
Julian missed Jane very much and thought about her too much. He had tumbled into and out of love with the beautiful eyes of the ladies of Portugal with the celerity of any other young officer, but his circumstances had always prevented him thinking of marriage. In the first flush of the illusory Peace, when he had bought Whitethorn, he had thought of it as a place where children might grow up happily, but marriage had not presented itself in his thoughts with any urgency.
He had remarked in a vague way Will Tarrant's domestic happiness. If he had followed the observation, he would have laid most of the credit to Peggy's gentle commonsense and not to any virtue in the state itself. He did not think of looking about for a bride.
This last winter in London his cousin Georgy, of whom he was very fond, had tried to turn him into a social lion. The damsels she strewed in his way had seemed to him universally insipid and fit only for balls and flirting. He did not object to flirting, but he had certainly been unfit for balls. To her credit, Georgy gave up the game quickly before their friendship shewed strain.
Thinking back, he could see that his boredom with these worthy young ladies had been due in part to his glum daytime sessions with Horrocks and in part to the ladies' extreme youth. They had all spoken pretty inanities with charm, but shewed a disposition to stare when he tried less predictable conversational gambits.
With Jane Ash, he reflected, such inanity as she was capable of grew from strategy. Only once had he seen her thrown into confusion, and that had been in the infamous fandango episode. He had been miffed enough that evening to try to overset her, and had instead found her chagrin delicious and her swift recover admirable. Nor was she easy to best in a duel of wit. Indeed, he thought, ruefully and sadly, he had met his match in more ways than one--and recognised the fact too late.
A Cousinly Connection Page 15
