“How are you, Mrs Price? But you need not answer for I can see how well you look. I am glad to see you out of full black at last, for although it suited you very well, a little variety is probably welcome, is it not?”
She laughed at that. “True, although I now have decisions to make every day. Shall I wear grey or shall I wear lilac? Black or black or more black makes life simpler. And how are you? Are you still at Uncle Arthur’s?”
He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I am, and I would have left weeks ago except that they are so anxious to be rid of me that it makes me suspicious. However, I have found out nothing at all about my sisters, and all my subtle enquiries are turned aside.”
“Then try being unsubtle,” she said, with a smile. “It is surprising how much people will reveal if one asks directly. Curiosity is my besetting sin, so I always ask if I want to know something.”
“But they turn the subject whenever I say anything that veers close to the matter,” he said. “Clearly they do not want me to know. I even suggested that there might be an additional bequest for my sisters from my father’s will, and might I have the details of the lawyers or agents handling their affairs, but Tilford merely said that he and his solicitor in Somerset would handle any legal matters. So I have given it up. It is as Kingsley said — my sisters, if they still live, know how to contact me, should they wish it, and since they have not, I must presume that they do not.”
“Or else that they are dead,” Lucy said.
“Or that, yes. But I do not imagine I shall ever find out.”
13: Thoughts Of Marriage
Leo had more or less decided to return to Bath. He had, in fact, more or less decided to return to Bath on an almost daily basis since he had left Longmere Priory to inflict himself on Laurel and Arthur. He was not wanted at either house, he had invitations enough to other houses and he had a perfectly good house of his own, yet there he still was, and he was acutely aware of the reason.
Lucy Price.
Every time he thought about leaving, he remembered that he would not see her again if he did so, and the idea was dropped. Something about her drew him powerfully, and he could not tear himself away from her side.
He had barely appreciated her when they had lived under the same roof. Meeting for breakfast, and then again in the evening, and occasionally at other times too, he had assumed that she would always be there. Even when she was in irritating attendance on Mr Cockcroft or Sir Giles Mathom, he could watch her and admire her from a distance. Sometimes he was close enough at dinner to hear her merry chatter. And sometimes, if he were patient, there would be half-hours spent in quiet conversation with her, when he could talk to her about anything that troubled him, and listen to her troubles in return.
But now he had been torn from her company, and he was as bereft as the time his first pony had died, and he had not quite known what to do with himself, and had mooned about at a loose end, lost and lonely, for weeks. But this was ten times worse. He sat night after night with Laurel and Arthur and whatever uninteresting guests they had invited, and yearned for Lucy’s lovely smile and her animated face. Then he went to bed and lay awake thinking about her, until he fell, exhausted, into sleep and vague but terrifying dreams where she was nowhere to be found.
He grew concerned about his own wellbeing. From the age of nineteen or so, he had always had an interesting female to pursue, but none of them had kept him awake at night. In fact, if one of them failed him, or drifted out of his orbit, or, as more usually happened, her husband turned up, he simply shrugged and turned his attentions elsewhere. It was nothing but an amusing game to him. He enjoyed the chase, but that was all. With Lucy, the chase was not enjoyable in the slightest and his lack of success was making him miserable. It was very worrying.
As long as he stayed in Market Clunbury, however, he was bound to meet her often. Despite his abrupt departure from the Priory, he was still invited everywhere and still had unmarried young ladies pushed into his view, like horses for inspection. The only difference, he noted, was that the young ladies were no longer the prime candidates, but a rather poorer selection — the spinsters of well above twenty, the ones with buck teeth or freckles, or the widows with two or three children. They might as well not have bothered, for he had eyes only for one person, whose presence made an evening a gloriously delightful one, and whose absence made an evening a dreary waste of time.
And so he stayed on, and although he had left the Priory, he found some excuse to visit every day, either to see Gussie, or to take the Miss Hardcastles out in his carriage.
Once when he went to see Gussie, he found Lucy there too, pretending to work at some sewing, but in reality chattering away to Gussie as if they had known each other for ever. When Franks opened the morning room door, their heads were bent together, Lucy telling some story and Gussie’s face alive with merriment, more animated than Leo had seen her for an age. He was almost sorry when his name was announced and the two sprang apart, their faces settling into more placid expressions. Gussie smiled and held out her hand to be bowed over, but Lucy’s face closed up altogether, as it always did nowadays when they first met. Given ten minutes, he could usually cajole her back to her customary good humour, but it hurt him that she was initially so reserved.
But then he had a piece of luck. Gussie was called out of the room on some domestic matter, leaving him alone with Lucy. He was not one to waste an opportunity.
“Where are your charges today, Mrs Price?”
“They are upstairs with Miss Hardcastle, who is trying to instill musical competence upon them, an effort almost certainly doomed to failure, I regret to say. They are not quite so bad at the instrument as I am, but they practise so irregularly that I fear they will never be truly accomplished.”
“They are a trifle wayward,” he said, “but so it often is with young ladies of that age. You manage them masterfully, however. Your set down of Deirdre at the assembly was a pleasure to behold.”
“Oh, you observed that, did you?” she said, blushing in the most delightful manner. “Wayward… that is a kind word for the sort of cruelty they inflict on the young men who admire them. It is no way to treat honourable men who may be viewing them as possible wives and mothers. Would a man wish to marry someone so capricious and manipulative?”
“Perhaps they will grow out of it,” he said. “One cannot expect wisdom from girls just out of the schoolroom.”
“No, but one does expect decorum and good manners,” Lucy said crisply. “And honesty, above all. But they are very silly sometimes. I cannot make them out at all, and their admirers are even more confusing. They will pay court to one, and then to the other, and then back to the first. Mr Exton is the only one who seems fixed in his attentions to Deirdre, whereas Mr Cherry veers about dreadfully, and the two elder Mr Smythe-Hunters also. And now there is your friend, Mr Coylumbroke. Perhaps you may understand the masculine mind better than I, Mr Audley. Are any of these gentlemen serious? Need I be concerned?”
“As for Mr Coylumbroke, you need not worry about him. He is repaying his host’s hospitality by being attentive to the daughters of the house, but he will not ensnare either of them. The elder Smythe-Hunter is expected to aim for a title, so you may disregard him. The younger will be going into the army soon, so you may disregard him also. Mr Exton… perhaps he may be serious, although his father is not keen on the match. Mr Cherry I cannot speak for. He has not shown any discernible preference, or none that my eye can detect, anyway. Does that help?”
“Oh yes!” she said, her face lighting up. “That is perfectly clear. You see, I cannot make out young men in the slightest. They are a mystery to me. They speak such smooth words, and yet as often as not they mean nothing at all. My sister Annabelle had one such admirer, who drew her in and talked of love and seemed quite sincere, but then he turned away from her and left her broken hearted and she had not the least idea why. Had she simply misunderstood him? Or did he deliberately set out to deceive her? Or p
erhaps something changed and he could not honour his beguilements? That was the worst of it, not knowing, you see. And now he has turned up at the house in Cheshire where she is governess, and what is she supposed to make of that? And he seems just the same, as amiable as he ever was three years ago, but of course she cannot trust him at all now. And there was Fanny’s young man, too, who vanished as soon as it was known that we were all penniless, even though he has a very pretty fortune of his own. Sometimes young men are cruel too, so perhaps Deirdre and Winifred have the right of it, in being cruel in their turn,” she ended sadly.
“You do not really believe that?” he said gently.
“Oh no, not really. I am just angry for Annabelle, because she has to deal with this betrayer all over again, and for Fanny. They deserve better. But you understand, I am sure, why I am so mystified by young men, for who would treat a woman that way? I am so glad I have you to explain it all to me, Mr Audley. You cannot imagine how grateful I am.”
And this exchange warmed his heart for the rest of the day.
But the following day, just as he was about to set off from West End House to walk to the circulating library, for Lucy sometimes went there on a Wednesday, the footman sidled up to him in the hall and coughed.
“Yes, Harold, what is it?” There was usually some message from Laurel — a certain caller expected, to whom she wished to introduce him, or guests for dinner and would he mind not being late — so he carried on buttoning his gloves.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but there’s a gentleman to see you, sir, in the ante-room.”
“Does the gentleman have a name, Harold?”
Wordlessly the footman proffered a card. ‘Mr Henry Dunbar, Stoneleigh Hall, Shropshire,’ he read. Well, that meant trouble, if Henry had come here to see him instead of writing. And he had been in Bath, last he had heard of the fellow.
“Very well. I shall see him. Help me off with these gloves, Harold.”
Thus divested, he made his way to the small parlour set aside for the reception of guests not deemed appropriate for the drawing room.
The Honourable Henry Dunbar was a tall, rail-thin man on the wrong side of forty, both fashionably and expensively dressed, but then Leo paid him very well for his services. He had been appointed as a secretary many years ago, and had risen to be the estate’s chief man of business, looking after Leo’s many investments and holdings, as well as his two principle residences. Leo liked him very well, for he was the only one of his many advisers who had always treated him as a person of sense and never patronised him, even when he was a bewildered boy of ten.
“Henry, my dear fellow! How good to see you! How are you? And Mary?”
“We are well, I thank you. And you, Mr Leonard? And Miss Augusta?”
“Perfectly well. But you did not come all this way to enquire after my health, or Gussie’s. What crisis is upon us?”
“Not a crisis, more of… an opportunity. Mr Nightingale is dead. Stoneleigh Hall is free again, and this time I hope you will reclaim it and make it your home, at least for part of the year, instead of this peripatetic life you have been following ever since Miss Augusta married. And really, Mr Leonard, if I may speak freely, it is not too soon for you to be thinking about marriage for yourself.”
“No,” Leo said slowly. “No, it is not too soon at all. In fact, the timing may be perfect, Henry.”
“Aha! Might I hazard a guess that you have a lady in mind? Oh, you have! I can see by your face. Well, well, well. This is a new turn for you, Mr Leonard. Who is she?”
Leo laughed, not at all disconcerted. “If you do not mind, I shall not answer that question just yet. I should like you to meet her without preconceptions.”
“As you wish. But what are your instructions for the Hall? Do you wish to go there to see it for yourself? Or shall I make an initial assessment of what will need to be done? You will want to refurbish, I am sure. Or perhaps you wish the lady to see the house?”
“How many servants are left?”
“Almost a full staff. The butler retired two years ago, but there are still six footmen. And Mrs Grace and Mrs Donaldson are still there.”
“Excellent. Tell them I shall be bringing a number of guests for a visit quite soon to look over the house, just for the day. They will need to provide refreshments.”
“Of course. How many guests?”
“Perhaps twenty or so.”
“And there may be a particular lady amongst that number?”
Leo laughed in delight. “Oh, I certainly hope so! I should like her to see her future home. But I have not spoken yet, so you will keep that very quiet, Henry.”
Henry bowed, but his eyes twinkled in glee, and Leo guessed that Mary Dunbar, at least, would be apprised of the great secret that had come into her husband’s possession.
Leo was rather gleeful himself. His intentions had not before crystallised so clearly, but now that his estate was unexpectedly empty and ready for a mistress, he knew exactly what he would do. He would marry Lucy and establish his home at Stoneleigh Hall at last.
~~~~~
Lucy’s day had started inauspiciously, with Janet tearful after a quarrel with Lally, Augusta’s lady’s maid. Lally had trained in the household of a countess, and thought herself several levels above Janet, who had never even been to London. It was an opinion that Janet took the greatest exception to, and so the two could be depended upon to have a professional disagreement at least twice a week. Usually Janet managed to defend her position robustly, but today Lally had bested her and reduced her to tears.
Then breakfast was tense because Mr Kingsley had received another letter relating to Mr Audley and the clergyman’s daughter, which put him quite out of temper.
And then Mr Exton arrived, wearing his best coat and his boots polished to an unusually high sheen, and requested a private interview with Mr Kingsley.
This sent Deirdre, Winifred and even Augusta into a spin.
“He is here to offer for one of you girls, he must be,” Augusta said, fluttering her hands in excitement. “Oh, my goodness! But which one? He has not distinguished either of them particularly, has he, Lucy?”
“Well, I am not—”
“He will ask for me, I am certain of it,” Deirdre said triumphantly.
“No such thing!” Winifred said. “It must be me, it must! You do not even like him, DeeDee, you know you do not. You just like to flirt with him.”
“Well, perhaps I do, but he has been doing more than flirt with me,” Deirdre said, smirking. “He is quite in love with me, he as good as said so.”
“He did not! He did not!” Winifred wailed. “He is in love with me, he must be, and you are just a spiteful, jealous—”
“I am not! You are just a pathetic little liar, Winifred Kingsley, and no one will ever want to marry you.”
“Stop it at once, both of you,” Lucy said firmly. “You are distressing your mama, and you know she must not be upset. Sit down again, and concentrate on your stitchery. You do not want Mr Exton to see either of you flustered or screaming at each other.”
For perhaps two minutes, they sat, pretending to sew while scowling at each other. Lucy could not be sure, but she thought Winifred put her tongue out at her sister.
But then Augusta said, “If it is an offer, then you might each consider how you will answer Mr Exton’s addresses. Your papa will of course tell you whether you may accept him.”
“If it is me he asks, I shall accept him,” Winifred said softly.
“He will ask me, and I mean to take him,” Deirdre said loftily.
“No, DeeDee, no,” Winifred whispered. “You do not care about David in the slightest.”
“Of course not, but if I accept him it will bring William up to scratch. Then I shall choose.”
“You cannot do that—” Lucy began, but Deirdre waved her aside.
“They would both do anything to win me, so I shall accept whichever offers first, and then throw him over if I change my mind.”<
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“Really, Deirdre,” Augusta said. “What a dreadful attitude!”
Winifred tossed her sewing aside. “It is not fair! Tell her, Mama! Tell her she is not to accept David when she does not care about him one bit!”
“I shall accept him if I want to,” Deirdre retorted.
“Well, if you betroth yourself to David, then I shall get William to propose to me, and then you will be sorry!”
“You would not dare!”
“I would so!”
And then, to Lucy’s horror, they fell on each other with slaps and hair-pulling and screaming, while she tried in vain to pull them apart.
It was only Mr Kingsley’s stern tones that restored order. “What bedlam is this?”
The two girls sprang apart and curtsied, Winifred still tear-streaked, while Deirdre somehow looked as innocent as could be.
“I have had Mr Exton here wishing to pay his addresses to you, Deirdre,” Mr Kingsley said. “I told him that you were too young to consider matrimony as yet, and I see that I was correct to do so. However, I have told him that if he is still of the same mind in a few months time, then he may speak to you. It is a pity I sent him away, for if he could see you now he would run away from you as fast as his legs would carry him, and consider himself fortunate to have had such an escape. Frankly, I cannot imagine what man of sense would want anything to do with you. Either of you.”
And with those quelling words, he stalked out of the room.
14: Stoneleigh Hall (May)
‘Carloway House, London. My dear Lucy, here we are settled again in town, although the children were very tiresome on the journey and Robin is a little cross. Perhaps another year we shall leave them in the country, where their daily routine will not be disrupted, and they may see their Grandpapa and Great-Aunt Mary every day. Your two charges sound quite troublesome and wild. Very likely they have been spoilt by their papa, and their step-mother can do nothing with them. Such an awkward position, to be a step-mother of girls almost grown up, but really the only way to bring order to them is by the greatest firmness, for their own sake. I am very upset with Margaret. Not a word for months, and then all she can say is that she walked to church by herself. Really, I despair of her. She might make a little more effort for her own sisters. Must finish, for we are invited to Marford House this evening, and Robin will be beside himself if I am late. Yours, Rosamund.’
The Chaperon (Sisters of Woodside Mysteries Book 2) Page 13
