A Cousinly Connection

by Sheila Simonson

  Or was it? Sometimes he thought he would abandon Meriden and Fern Hall and Rosehaugh, and all the tedious labour thereto appertaining, fling himself on his horse, and dash off à la Vincent to Brighton. Or, less dramatically, write to Jane. But what could he say?

  Could he explain that he might very well murder his stepmother if Jane did not at once, with her gift of laughter, come to his rescue? Or that he had a handsome title, a scandalous name, a large load of debt, and an extravagant number of dependents to offer her, and would she please come at once to his rescue?

  Julian was in the habit of valuing himself rather coldly according to his desserts, and in that summer his opinion of his merits had sunk dismally. Partly it was that, like Othello, his occupation was gone, and he was frightened by his lack of qualification for the work he had taken on. And it had depressed him to let Meriden.

  He did not regard Lady Meriden's strictures, but he knew his grandfather Carteret would have thought ill of him for leasing his principal seat to a parvenu, however amiable. Better to scramble along in gentlemanly debt forever than sink so low. But the money meant he could repair Fern Hall for Vincent and perhaps pay off something of the encumbrances. More significantly, he could repair some of the injuries his father's neglect had wrought in the estates now and not in the dim future when his tenants' trust must be forfeit and his own sense of justice numbed.

  He had let Meriden. If Jane, by some quirk, should wish to ally herself with such disabilities, he could hear in his mind Mr. Ash's response--an outrage to his daughter's consequence. And so it must be.

  All the same, Julian was tempted. The thought of some blade of fashion insinuating his way into Jane's regard and carrying her off to a debtless, carefree life in London--such a life as his cousin Georgy led--set Julian's teeth on edge and pushed him almost into action.

  It was only consideration of Jane that prevented him. He needed her far more than she needed, or could possibly need, him. Her father might dither about her unwed state, but it seemed to Julian that she could marry or not marry at will. Surely the gentlemen of England were not grown so dimwitted as to overlook a woman of her worth, and, as for Jane herself, perhaps she had formed a distaste for marriage. There was nothing, he surmised, to prevent her living a pleasant and useful life quite unwed.

  And there was also nothing, nothing whatever, to indicate that she regarded him as anything other than an occasionally conversable cousin-in-law. She had gone off with her father meekly. Jane was not meek. Probably she had tired of Strettons, of Meriden Place, of him.

  When he reached that point in his unhappy reflexions, Julian usually threw himself into one of the tasks of supervision he could have delegated to Vincent, and rode until he lamed himself or, more unforgivable in Thorpe's eyes, his horse. There would then ensue a brangle with Thorpe. Julian would puff off his fury, come to his senses, apologise, and, leaving his groom to recover equanimity, set about doing whatever work he should have been doing in the first place.

  Visiting Bath was one of the tasks he had willingly sloughed off on Vincent. However, it soon became apparent from Vincent's reports that his sisters were not happy. Drusilla was homesick. Reluctantly, he decided he had best make his peace with her. How that was to be accomplished he did not know, but he felt sorry for Drusilla and knew he would have to try.

  When he presented himself in Laura Place of a Saturday morning, his stepmother was fortunately still abed. As the girls and Miss Goodnight had breakfasted, he proposed a walk in the Municipal Gardens. Maria had the sniffles and decided to write letter so he set off with Miss Goodnight and Drusilla, Miss Goodnight chirping and Drusilla sullen.

  The day was sullen, too--grey and sticky and vaguely threatening rain. Bad for the hay, he thought absently. They made their way past the abbey and down the steep steps to the gardens.

  "And how is Felix?" Miss Goodnight was saying, puffing a little from the steep descent.

  Julian forced his thoughts back to Bath. "Well, thank you. He found the remove a little disturbing, but he's used to Fern Hall now and gets about without confusion. Mr. Thomas still comes to him."

  Miss Goodnight nodded. "Excellent. He must not be kept from his music. And Vincent?"

  "Working virtuously. I fear it's dull for him. He wishes for the excitement of Brighton at this season."

  "Jane don't like Brighton above half," Drusilla said flatly.

  Julian could think of nothing to say to that. He ushered the ladies down one of the paths. The roses were in full bloom.

  "She writ it," Drusilla went on. "Didn't she, Goody?"

  Miss Goodnight assented, fluttering a little.

  "I wish Jane was here. It's so dull without her, and besides she can always talk Mama out of the dumps."

  "Dear Jane," Miss Goodnight said soulfully.

  A constrained silence ensued. Julian began to feel battered.

  Abruptly Drusilla turned on him, her face damp and red with the heat. "Why did you let Meriden?"

  "Cupidity."

  "I don't know what that is, but I want to go home!" Her face crumpled and she ran off down the rose-bordered path, weeping.

  Miss Goodnight said in her gentle light voice, "I wish you will go to her, sir. She needs you. Do not regard me. I shall sit on this bench quite cosy and await your return."

  Glum and guilty, Julian left her and went in search of his sister. He found her on the stone bank of the Avon glaring down at the fish and sobbing sporadically.

  "Dru, come along with me." He touched her arm, expecting her to pull away. To his horror, she turned to him instead and began to weep lustily onto his waistcoat.

  He led her to a nearby bench and patted her shoulder clumsily.

  "Oh, Julian, I'm so unhappy!" She sobbed a few more times and subsided into sniffles.

  "Then mop your eyes and tell me why before that gentleman over there with the swordstick decides to run me through."

  She gave a hiccuping chuckle.

  "That's better. Here, take my handkerchief."

  She tidied herself and blew her nose with vigour.

  "You know, Dru," he said cautiously, "you couldn't return to Meriden without your mother, and she assures me she intends to keep her household here."

  "I hate Mama."

  Julian bit back a rebuke and regarded her tear-smeared face, feeling rather helpless.

  After a moment she said in a dreary voice, "Oh, I don't, of course. You needn't look so troubled. Jane would tell me to bite my tongue. But I don't like the Pump Rooms, Julian, and there's nothing else. I'm too young for the Assemblies, even if Mama would countenance dancing. I miss our gardens and my pony and our musical evenings and Jane. I miss Jane!"

  "Yes, but Jane has her own life to lead."

  Drusilla sniffed. "Catching a husband. It's not fair. What does Jane want with a husband? She don't need p-protection. Jane is equal to anything. And besides she's too old."

  "No, my dear, she is not," Julian said wryly.

  "Oh." Drusilla stared at him. "Well, when I'm grown I shan't want a husband. I shall be a great explorer like Lady Hester Stanhope or the Rose of the Pyrenees. You know. Goody is always jawing about her."

  "Lady Wilbraham? She was a widow."

  "Then I'll be a widow."

  "An excellent plan. Shall you murder the man or trust to chance?"

  "You're funning me." Drusilla stiffened. "I hate you, Julian. I thought you was on my side."

  "I hope I am."

  "Then take me away from Bath. Take me home." Her large blue eyes, just now bloodshot, pleaded with him.

  He said as gently as he could, "I can't, Drusilla. It's let."

  "Did you have to?"

  Julian was silent. He had a fair regard for Drusilla's intelligence and did not wish to fob her off with half-truths.

  She looked at the toe of her slipper. "Mama says it's just cheeseparing and...and shabby-genteel economy. I don't believe that, only, Julian--" Her voice thickened. "I didn't think you was a traitor."

&nb
sp; Julian said carefully, "I didn't have to let Meriden. I had a choice, Dru, and perhaps I judged wrong. What do you know about mortgages?"

  "Oh."

  "There are rather a lot. I'd prefer fewer. I have Vincent and the boys to think of, you know. In a few years, perhaps sooner, Vincent will be needing his own establishment. My father wished him to have Fern Hall."

  "But you've moved everybody there."

  "A house that's lived in stays in better order than a house that's left to rot. Because I let Meriden, I can repair Fern Hall and be sure that Meriden is cared for as it should be, too, and not left half-closed and understaffed." He took a breath.

  "Why didn't you use the Dower House? It's empty, and at least we should be able to see Meriden."

  Julian hesitated, frowning.

  "I know," Drusilla blurted, with uncommon shrewdness. "Mama wouldn't let you have it. Of all the paltry things--"

  "I didn't ask," Julian interrupted. "Don't take on so, Dru. Meriden's only let for two years."

  "Two years!"

  "Lord, you'll be eighteen then and doomed to a season of balls and routs, won't you? It's very bad of me. Can you think of another solution?"

  Drusilla sighed. "No. I'm sorry I called you a traitor, for I can see you're being sensible. I wish Mama was sensible. I wish I was sensible."

  "You're very well as you are."

  "Do you think so?" She brightened. "Julian! The very thing! I'll come to Fern Hall and act as your housekeeper." She stared at him wide-eyed, daring him to laugh at her, but he had seldom felt less like laughing. "I know all about it--counting the linen and bottling the soft fruit and keeping the keys to the wine cellar. And I've a head for figures. Everyone says so. I should sing for you whenever you liked and...and be civil to Felix."

  Julian cleared his throat. "It's very kind in you, Dru. "

  "But you don't want me."

  "I'd like it very well. Your mother would have a few objections."

  "Pouf! You don't care what Mama thinks!"

  Julian was taken aback by her certainty. "Does she believe that? She's wrong. I prefer to live on good terms with her, and so should you, Drusilla. She's your mother."

  "I wish I was an orphan."

  Involuntarily Julian grinned. "I've been feeling that way myself. If everyone could be orphaned at birth, life would be much simpler."

  Drusilla gave a snort of startled laughter.

  "We should go back to Miss Goodnight. Be civil to your mother, and try to like Bath, at least for now. I've decided to take the twins to Harrow in the autumn."

  "May I come? Oh, famous! Jane took us to London, you know. When you closed the Town house last autumn."

  "Did she?"

  "Yes, Maria and me looked like crows, all in black, but we had a splendid time with Jane's Aunt Hervey. Oh, Julian, shall I write Jane and tell her?"

  "No!" He spoke more sharply than he had meant to.

  Drusilla's face fell.

  "You must not be troubling Jane, Drusilla."

  "Why do you call her Jane when we talk and Miss Ash when you speak with her?" Drusilla asked, starting a hare.

  "Perhaps because she always called me sir," Julian snapped. "Now, attend to me for a moment or I'll rap your knuckles. You're not to say a word to anyone about this. Not even Polly. If, er, anyone got wind of our plot..."

  "You mean Mama, I collect."

  "You're a deal too quick, miss. Stop giggling. You're confusing the gentleman with the swordstick."

  "I wish you had a sword," Drusilla said fervently.

  As it happened Julian did--rusting away in an attic at Whitethorn. "Good God, why?"

  "I could swear on it, like Hamlet's ghost."

  "Oh. Well, rest, perturbéd spirit, and if you don't stop whooping like that I shan't be able to shew my face in Bath again. Come, not a word to anyone." He stole a quick look at her now smiling face. "And I think you'd best try to look downcast. You ran off wailing like a banshee. Miss Goodnight will sniff out our secret at once if you return too cheerful."

  Instantly Drusilla's face became a masque of woe.

  "Excellent," he murmured. It occurred to him that Drusilla would someday be a force to reckon with. He hoped she would wait a few years to exercise her wiles.

  * * * *

  Jane did not like Brighton. She did not like the young men her aunt put her in the way of meeting. They paid her graceful compliments, one danced magnificently, one brought her posies in silver holders, one read her poems of his own composition. She endured their attentions. She was courtesy itself. She even agreed, when the invitation came, to go once again to the Prince Regent's pavilion, there to swelter through a concert of ancient music in toplofty company.

  Indeed Jane was conformable, pretty-behaved, docile. She curbed her tongue, she was sweet, and she did not fool her Aunt Hervey at all.

  "Are you sickening for something?" her aunt demanded shortly after Jane had been cast into the dismals by Maria's letter.

  "No!" She caught herself. "That is, thank you, Aunt. I'm well enough. The weather is a trifle gloomy, is it not?"

  Aunt Hervey gave her a strait look. "I must say, you was never used to be dull company. My dear, are you homesick?"

  Jane essayed a smile. "Aunt, I am sorry. You've been kindness itself, and I'm making you an ill return. I'm not homesick. How could I be? Joanna is so puffed up in her own consequence, I'd liefer keep away from Walden Ash. Truly I'm just blue-devilled."

  "If I didn't know it was nonsense, I'd say you was in love."

  Jane did not reply.

  "Well. Who is it, my dear--Meriden?"

  Jane startled her aunt--and herself--by bursting into tears.

  Aunt Hervey comforted her, and when she had at last had her cry out, sat next her on the chaise longue regarding her thoughtfully. "What was your father about, I wonder, to drag you home? An unexceptionable connexion."

  "Aunt!"

  "No need to fly into the boughs with me." Jane's aunt pursed her lips, "I thought John was up to something ill-considered, but I did wish for you, my sweet. Hervey is not the liveliest company these days, and I miss my girls."

  "I came very willingly."

  "Then the more fool you." Unexpectedly she added, "I met your young man last winter at one of Georgy Herrington's musical evenings. Not just in the ordinary style, perhaps. The limp must be considered a sad blemish..."

  Jane said nastily, "Did you examine his lordship's teeth? 'A good horse but a trifle short in the hocks.'"

  "Jane!"

  "I beg your pardon." The dreary mood descended again.

  "I've nothing to say against Meriden," her aunt continued in a milder tone. "He is not a man of his father's stamp, but that must be to the good. Not but what his late lordship was a dashing blade in his day." She frowned and added cautiously, "My dear, this man is so very quiet."

  Off guard, Jane blurted, "Then he must've been on his best behaviour when you met him in London. He has the most deplorable, ill-timed, sharp-tongued sense of humour. Aunt, what in the world shall I do? He regards me as a...a cousinly connexion."

  Aunt Hervey stared.

  "I'm besotted," Jane wailed. "No. That's not true. I was besotted with Edward Wincanton. I don't know how to explain. The thing is, we go on so comfortably, Meriden and I. Lord, that sounds as if he were an elderly uncle, and I don't in the least think of him as an uncle. The thing is," she said, rushing it, "we laugh at the same things."

  There was a pause, Aunt Hervey said firmly, "You should never have left Dorset."

  Jane swallowed to ease the ache in her throat. "I left because I found out my feelings, and I think...that is, I know he cannot return them, and if I stayed I should have begun to cast out lures, which is what everyone would think I had been doing all along. He is too good a man to be snared. Aunt, I can't bear it."

  "I must say, I had never thought you lacking in commonsense," Aunt Hervey snapped, indignant. "A fine time to be developing scruples. The world is ordered for the conve
nience of men. They have every advantage. To be balking at the few poor weak weapons available to you--"

  Jane broke in upon her without apology. "We aren't speaking of Men and Women. We're speaking of me and Julian Stretton."

  Her aunt was unimpressed. "And you're unique and he's a paragon. Tschaa! I hope honour will make you a pleasant bedfellow."

  "Aunt!"

  "And don't take that missish tone. My dear Jane, I am very sorry for you, and I'm sure Meriden is a good kind of man, but you might consider this. You are a handsome, lively young woman of excellent birth and comfortable fortune. All the obligation would not be on your side, if Meriden were the most eligible partí in the world. Which he is not. His name is under a cloud of scandal, his lands are debt-ridden, he has a parcel of dependent brothers and sisters to look out for, and he is stepson to the most tiresome woman it has been my fortune to meet, even if she is your father's sister." She drew a breath. "Indeed, Jane, he would be fortune's child to win you."

  Jane laughed reluctantly. "What a splendid KC you would have made, Aunt. It's no good, however. I may be hen-witted and a traitor to my sex, but I will not lurk about setting snares for Lord Meriden." She recalled the episode of the Spanish guitarra and how rapidly the tables had been turned on her, and smiled a little. "He would perceive my duplicity directly, in any case, for he is quite the quickest man of my acquaintance. I should like to keep his friendship at least."

  Jane's aunt looked depressed. "Your scruples don't forbid you to write to his sisters, I hope."

  "Why, no. They must think it very odd in me if I were to turn the cold shoulder, for we are such old friends."

  "And if they was to come up to Town, you would not refuse to see them?"

  "No, but I see where your thoughts are tending, best of my aunts, and it will not do. Maria and Drusilla are fixed in Bath. If Aunt Louisa comes to Town I shall certainly visit her. I shall not use the girls for my own ends, however."