A Cousinly Connection

by Sheila Simonson

  Peggy shook her head. "Go on, my dear. Jane's Aunt Hervey..."

  Drusilla eyed her suspiciously. "Well, she said Julian should go about in Society, and all the ladies would throw their caps at him, and he'd be wed in a trice, and of course I was horrified. Only think what sort of dismal female he might be trapped by. I was quite cast down. Then all at once I saw what a good idea it would be if he were to marry Jane."

  "Good for whom?" Peggy asked.

  "Oh, for everyone."

  "For Drusilla?"

  Drusilla stiffened. "Yes. And Maria and Felix and the twins, and Vincent, even, but especially Julian. He needs Jane."

  She spoke with such conviction that Peggy was startled out of laughter. "My dear, you can't know that."

  "Yes, I can. He's been blue-devilled ever since Jane left us."

  Peggy was silent. At last she said slowly, "'Even if that were so, Drusilla, what of Jane herself?"

  "You mean, I collect, that we should be a nuisance to her. You sound like Julian."

  "You haven't discussed this with Ju!"

  "No, but he kept saying we were not to be troubling Jane forever, that she had her own life to lead."

  "He may be right."

  "He's not. She loves us and had the greatest care of us before Julian came. She even took me to the tooth drawer."

  "That does argue devotion."

  Drusilla nodded emphatically.

  "But, my dear," said Peggy, who felt in over her head, "even if she is devoted to you, that doesn't argue she's devoted to Julian. A man and woman don't marry to make their brothers and sisters comfortable. At least," she added cautiously, "I've never heard of such a thing."

  "I daresay you think Julian's not romantical or dashing like Vincent. Jane don't care for that. She likes my brother. They was always joking together and looking for each other. And besides, if she can't love him, she's paltry, for Julian is--"

  "I'm fond of Julian," Peggy interrupted. "You needn't catalogue his virtues for me, but, well, tastes differ. A woman can like a man without wishing to be married to him."

  "I wasn't bent on forcing them to it," Drusilla said in a small voice. "Only how could they find out whether they were suited if they never saw each other? Oh, if only my Uncle John had not come for Jane. We were all so happy!"

  "I'm sorry, darling." When Drusilla had composed herself, Peggy added, "But you know, Dru, I don't see much sign that they're in the grip of passion. They're both very polite--"

  "Polite." Drusilla looked glum. "It's my fault. Julian was never used to be so formal with Jane. I daresay he feels obliged to her."

  On that dismal note the discussion ended, and Peggy drew Drusilla off onto other subjects before that intrepid damsel should create further conspiracies. Nevertheless the seed was planted, and she found herself watching her new friend and her old friend.

  From watching, it was a short step to contriving to set them occasionally in each other's sole company. For, she told herself, echoing Drusilla, how can they know they're not suited if they never see each other?

  By the time a week had passed, some of Julian's appalling formality had melted, and Jane shewed less constraint in his company. Peggy saw what Drusilla must have observed. Friendship. Whether the attachment was more than that, Peggy could not judge, but she decided to put the matter to the test. Shamelessly she set about to contrive the proper circumstances. Lambs to the slaughter.

  * * * *

  Mrs. Ellen Bradford was set on marrying a foreigner from Huddersfield, one Jeremy Thorpe, by special license in St. Jude's, Yeading. It was rumoured, though not widely credited, that the groomsman was to be a real lord.

  For once rumour had the truth of it.

  Mrs. Bradford's dour sons and Methody daughter had not welcomed the prospect of an ex-trooper, ex-poacher step-father. For a time it seemed that the marriage must founder on the rocks of their overweening pride, the kitchen at Whitethorn rang with lamentations, and Vincent complained of a cold breakfast.

  When it became apparent that Mrs. Bradford and Thorpe wished to remain in his service, Julian came up with the happy plan of leaving Whitethorn--house, stables, bog, sheep, and all--in their joint charge for as long as they should wish to keep it for him. Thus there was no financial impediment to their bliss. Mere pride. Julian had racked his brains for days trying to come up with some suffocating degree of consequence to bestow on Thorpe, but it was Peggy who suggested the special license. Nothing like that had ever occurred in St. Jude's.

  Once Peggy had suggested the license, and Vincent was despatched to York Minster to secure it, it occurred to Julian to offer his services as groomsman. He made the offer rather tentatively. For all he knew, Mrs. Bradford would be offended and Thorpe embarrassed.

  Not so. They leapt on the idea, Mrs. Bradford with uncharacteristic and appalling glee and Thorpe with a sort of amazed delight that made Julian feel small and silly. And glum.

  He did not wish to lose Thorpe, and he definitely did not wish to dance at anyone's wedding--but if Thorpe could make an heroic sacrifice for him, he did not see that he could do less in return.

  When Peggy began to compose the groom's party, however, Julian drew the line--or tried to.

  "Good God, Peggy, he's my friend."

  "Will has known Thorpe for years."

  "That's not to the point, and you know it."

  She raised her brows.

  "Dru may come," he grudged.

  "And Jane."

  "I hope I may attend Thorpe's wedding, in proxy for Arty and Horatio," Jane murmured with a delightful gleam in her eyes.

  He assented. Indeed it would not have been in his power to refuse her anything when she looked at him like that.

  Miss Goodnight assured him that she loved weddings of all things and felt she might dare to represent Lady Meriden. "Now, that is doing it rather too brown!" Julian began to feel flustered. "I beg your pardon, Miss Goodnight, but if you come, it must be in your own right. My esteemed stepmother--"

  "Lady Meriden stands very much in Thorpe's debt," Miss Goodnight pronounced. "Whether she knows it or not."

  He regarded her helplessly. He was sure by now a conspiracy was afoot and resented it on Thorpe's behalf. When Vincent announced his firm intent to come, too, Julian exploded.

  "I won't have Thorpe's wedding turned into a May game for your amusement."

  Vincent blinked. "No, I say, dashed obliged to Thorpe. Found m'sister, didn't he? Never knew a better man for doctoring horseflesh either. And," he finished triumphantly, "I fetched the license. Dash it, Ju, you can't stop me."

  "Oh, can't I? Peggy, this is your doing..."

  She said gravely, "Will and I should come in any case, Julian. We are so well acquainted with the bride and groom that it would be Will's duty as squire."

  Julian felt his neck go red. He had forgot that Will, as head of one of the oldest families in the region, must command far solider deference than a mere newcomer to Whitethorn.

  "True," he muttered, "but I swear you're up to something. Perhaps Will should stand as Thorpe's groomsman."

  She gave him a tranquil smile. "No. Thorpe is your particular friend. No one disputes that. But he is a very good man, and you must allow the rest of us to felicitate him properly. He does not have any family, I believe, and Mrs. Bradford has too much. He will feel safer with an impressive contingent on his side of the aisle."

  "Your staffwork is beyond reproach, General Tarrant."

  "As usual." Will laughed heartily.

  Peggy bridled and grinned.

  Julian looked from one to the other.

  "We like Thorpe," Peggy said gently.

  "Very well. If he agrees And if anyone," He glared at his brother and sister, "causes Jem Thorpe the least embarrassment, I will personally fling him or her into Tanner's Bog."

  Chapter XIX

  At Peggy's request Jane rode to and from Thorpe's wedding on horseback, with Meriden and her cousins. The carriage would be too crowded, Peggy said. Georgy
Herrington's travelling coach was long gone. Will was free of splints at last; and Jane, however suspicious, did see that he mustn't be jostled. After some hesitation she agreed to the plan.

  In fact, only Vincent rode with Jane and Drusilla to the inn to change for the ceremony, for Meriden had gone on ahead to make some arrangement with the vicar. On the return, however, he joined the party.

  Drusilla and Vincent were in tearing high spirits, chattering and laughing, probably because they had behaved with stultifying decorum at the wedding. They rode ahead. Meriden accompanied Jane, but said very little. Jane thought he regretted losing Thorpe to wedlock, though there had been nothing of regret in his public manner.

  Far from degenerating into a bear-garden affair, the ceremony had been perhaps overly solemn, for the vicar seemed to regard the license as not quite proper, and Mrs. Bradford's numerous kin were dour by nature, but the wedding breakfast had turned downright jolly.

  As was his duty, Meriden had toasted the bride, who bridled, and, less conventionally, the bridegroom. Thorpe had been looking a trifle dazed, but he broke into what Jane could only consider a devilish grin in response to some obscure military allusion in the toast. His lordship also led Mrs. Bradford, or rather Mrs. Thorpe, through the first dance with aplomb and a few winces while Thorpe, a little bosky, partnered a beaming Peggy Tarrant. It was all very respectable, and Meriden had the tact to remove the nobs before the promising aura of goodwill that emanated from Mrs. Thorpe's softened kin should be clouded by too much gentility.

  It was an index of Meriden's kindness that he had kept his sense of humour--and everyone else's--strictly curbed, but Jane could have done with a spot of comedy. She cast her escort a sidelong glance. He was watching Vincent and frowning a little. Jane chuckled.

  Startled, he looked over at her with the beginning of a smile. "What is it?"

  "What a Friday face! A wedding, sir, is a festive occasion, as opposed to funerals which are not." She added in gentler tones, "You look as if you had lost your best friend."

  "It's not quite that bad. I'd have preferred them to come to Dorset, but Mrs. Bradford--that is, Mrs. Thorpe--would not like to live so far from her family."

  "Besides," Jane said dulcetly, "only consider what must ensue if Mrs. Thorpe and Mrs. Pruitt were thrown together."

  "Good God!"

  "You are a humbug, sir."

  He smiled. "Your exquisite reason, ma'am?"

  "You once assured me you had a way with housekeepers."

  "It was a hasty generalisation."

  He looked so rueful that Jane laughed aloud. "Do I take it Mrs. Pruitt has proven less than biddable?"

  "She didn't care for the remove to Fern Hall." His horse started at a hare, and he steadied it with absent-minded competence. "Nor did your father."

  Jane bit her lip. "Papa never knows when to let well alone."

  "Do I take it you do not dislike the move?"

  Almost Jane retreated into courtesy. Almost she said it was not her right to censure his judgement. She caught herself, however, for she was weary of setting up barriers.

  "I think it a very sensible course, sir. Meriden is a devilish house to run, as I know. Not but what I enjoyed my brief fling at domestic authority."

  "Did you?"

  "Yes," she said firmly, "and it has been very difficult returning to guest status, especially among the snakes and crocodiles."

  "What!"

  "My Aunt Hervey has succumbed to the Egyptian mode of decoration. It is all the crack, but I find it difficult to dress under the gaze of basilisks."

  He laughed at that. "So I should imagine."

  They continued for a time in silence. Drusilla and Vincent, impatient of their dawdling pace, had now disappeared from sight. Jane stole a glance at Meriden, but as he was bending over his horse's neck she had only a view of his shoulders--excellent shoulders but not expressive.

  She cast about for something further to say. They had reached the stone wall that formed the southeastern boundary of the Whitethorn property. Beyond the wall stretched the bleak expanse of gorse-dotted hillside upon which Drusilla had so nearly come to grief.

  "My lord," she said without thinking it through, "What made you settle on this country?"

  He straightened and looked at her with raised brows.

  "I beg your pardon. It's interesting but not, well, prosperous."

  "Neither was I," he said drily and, after a constrained moment, "Whitethorn is small but it has possibilities. I thought it would be pleasant to live near my friends."

  "Will says you would have gone very far in the army."

  "Will has an excellent imagination. I would have sold out in a few years."

  "Oh. Why?" Jane asked timidly.

  He was silent for some time. At last he shrugged. "Indolence."

  "Well, of all the Banbury tales!" Jane snapped. "I collect you had had your fill of campaigning and had made up your mind to cultivate your cabbages. Indolence, indeed."

  He pulled up short and, grasping her bridle, caused her horse to halt, too. "Jane," he said in tones of exasperated amusement, "will you marry me?"

  Jane blinked. "Yes."

  They stared at each other.

  Meriden had gone rather pale. Jane felt strange. Detached. Only it was difficult suddenly to breathe, and she did not see very well.

  Presently he let her reins drop, and they rode on some way in silence.

  Jane cleared her throat, but found she could not articulate.

  "This is not very loverlike," Meriden said abruptly. "I beg your pardon, Jane, but are you sure?"

  "Yes."

  He drew an audible breath. "Then come along. If we stay in this lane we shall find ourselves in company."

  "Good God, the carriage!" Without further ado Jane set her mare at the wall. She cleared it and called back, laughing, "Come along yourself."

  They were very soon over the brow of the hill and out of sight of the lane. The country dipped and rose again, and at the top of the second rise lay another wall. Jane eyed it.

  Meriden shook his head. "No. This is not a rout, my love. We'll dismount in good order and go for a little stroll. If you have no objection."

  "I'd like to take the wall, sir," Jane said wistfully. She met his eyes, which were very bright, and laughed. "Very well, a stroll. Un...unexceptionable."

  Presently they found a stile. Meriden slid to the ground and tied his horse. When he came to the mare's side and looked up at Jane, smiling, her heart turned over.

  "Julian..."

  "Good God, at last! I thought I should be sirred to death."

  "Be serious."

  "If you insist. What is it, mía?"

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "I had scruples, you see."

  "Do you mean doubts?"

  "No. Scruples. I was afraid I might be thought to have entrapped you. "

  For a moment his face went quite blank, then he leaned his forehead against the offended mare's neck and began to laugh helplessly.

  Jane sat still, looking down at him. What a deal of time to have wasted. If Drusilla had not run away...it didn't bear thinking of. She reached down and touched his hair and, with the beginning of a smile, gave a tug.

  "Ouch!"

  "I was attempting to twine your locks about my fingers. It is said to be a loverlike act. Unfortunately your hair does not twine."

  He grinned. "Shall I put it in curlpapers for you, wretch? Are you coming?"

  "Yes, please." She slid down and, finding her hands conveniently upon his shoulders and his conveniently about her waist, initiated an embrace.

  Her mare whickered and nudged them.

  "Damned animal," Julian said rather breathlessly. He tied the horse to a bush. "Well, shall we suit?"

  Jane nodded.

  "Good." He helped her over the stile and scrambled after her.

  "Where are we going?"

  "Do you know, I've no idea. Would you like to see Tanner's
Bog?"

  "Of all things. Perhaps we can contrive to get comfortably lost."

  They walked along, skirting an occasional gorse bush, in happy silence.

  "Jane?"

  "Yes."

  "I should've chased off to Brighton after you. I wanted to."

  "Why did you not?" she demanded, indignant. "It was the longest, most miserable summer of my life."

  Unfortunately, before he could satisfy her with a suitably loverlike explanation, he stumbled on a clod and sat down hard on his biscuit-hued breeches.

  "My dear, have you hurt yourself?" Jane bent over him.

  "Yes," he said crossly. "I've sat on a bit of gorse."

  Jane stifled a giggle.

  "You may laugh, madam."

  "I'm sorry."

  He looked up at her. "I meant to fling my debts and encumbrances at your feet, but I've flung myself instead. Very romantical, as both my sisters would say."

  "S-so it is."

  He did not rise.

  "Shall I help you up?"

  "Not just yet."

  "Oh." Wild notions of racing for help flashed through Jane's mind. If he had lamed himself again...On the other hand...She gathered up her skirts and sat beside him.

  "Mind the gorse."

  "Yes. Julian?"

  As he turned to her, she leaned over and kissed his nose, which as usual displayed a pink patch where the skin had peeled. "I have wished to do that for a long time."

  His eyes gleamed. "Well, I have wished to do this for a long time." He kissed her very thoroughly on the mouth and, proximity working its way, they proceeded to become better acquainted.

  Presently Julian, his mouth against her loosened hair, murmured, "Jane, are you sure you have no objection to my encumbrances?"

  "Mmmm. Positive."

  "Excellent. I only mention it because one of them is just now leaping over the stile and will be upon us directly."

  Jane started and made to draw back.

  "I thought you had no objection."

  "Julian! "

  "Hush." He kissed her eyebrow and straightened in a leisurely way, keeping an arm about her shoulders.

  Purposefully Vincent strode toward them, his romantic black curls tumbling over his perfect forehead au coup de vent and his shirtpoints flashing in the light.