Heir to Rowanlea

by Sally James

But it was her slighting reference to his farm and machinery that hurt most. He had a mechanical bent, and had soon seen how many of the new ideas being introduced could alter farming in a manner previously undreamed of. Conscious of his responsibilities to his nephew, should that young man still be alive, Mr Norville refused to permit Harry to experiment on the broad acres of Rowanlea, but handed over one of his own farms, where Harry had installed a tenant who had the same enthusiasm as he did himself for new ideas.

  Together they had introduced new methods of cultivation, followed Robert Bakewell’s methods in stock breeding, and generally attended the sheep-shearing festivals on Coke of Holkham’s estates, where they met farmers from all over England, and even from across the Atlantic, and discussed new ideas. Harry’s constant refrain was that the success he achieved could be multiplied many times over if he could only extend these methods to more land, but his father, while proud of his efforts, remained sceptical of their wider application and bade Harry be content with one farm, for after he inherited his father’s lands he might do as he wished.

  Reflecting bitterly on the vain ambitions of her mother, for he was encouraged to hope that without them Elizabeth would be only too willing to accept his offer, and the lack of understanding displayed by her reference to his experimental machines as mere toys, he strode back into the saloon, grasped his greatcoat and whip, and set off for the stables, to resume his intended engagement to join some friends and drive his curricle for several miles along the Oxford road. They were a group of young men determined to emulate the far more exclusive Four Horse Club, but in his present mood Harry found he could not endure the thought of their sedate progress. He was an excellent whipster and wanted to drive at what, for most other drivers, would have been a foolhardy speed.

  * * * *

  Harry’s fury was such that before he reached the stables he changed his mind and went instead to Bond Street. His mood demanded more vigorous action than a sedate drive, and even if he abandoned his friends and took his own road, he knew that the traffic on any road out of London would be such to prevent him from achieving the speed he craved. A session with John Jackson, if the master allowed it, would be more to his taste.

  The champion, however, on seeing Harry’s set expression, shook his head sorrowfully.

  “Never fight when you’re angry,” he advised. “You’ll run risks and more likely than not leave yourself open to hits. Take it out on the punching bag, and when you’re calm I’ll take you on for a round.”

  Harry ruefully accepted this advice, and after half an hour of imagining the punching bag was Lord Fenton and several other of Elizabeth’s admirers, was permitted to face Jackson himself.

  He half expected the champion to treat him gently. Jackson occasionally allowed a favored pupil to score a hit, and when it became clear that was not to be, Harry grew somewhat despondent, inattentive and lacking any defense. When he left his guard wide open and Jackson, with an almost perfunctory tap on the chin, floored him, he lay there for a moment and wondered whether he would be better advised to return to Sussex, forget Elizabeth, and become a hermit.

  “Come, Mr Norville, that was not like you. Now I will give you more advice.”

  For half an hour Harry, rather bemused and wondering why he was being singled out, had the benefit of Jackson’s attention as he demonstrated a variety of moves and counter moves. By the time he left he knew his technique had improved, and the glow of achievement did something to banish his gloom. Elizabeth might change her mind. There was no certainty Fenton or the others would offer for her. His father might discover he was the rightful owner of Rowanlea. All he had to do was be persistent.

  * * * *

  Charlotte went slowly back to the sofa where she had resumed her seat, but instead of reading her book she sat there thoughtfully biting her lip. She was aware Harry had been hanging after Elizabeth these past six months, but assumed he was adopting the same attitude towards her as most of the other young men in the neighborhood, and it was merely another form of rivalry amongst them. She certainly had not realized it was so serious, and he had actually made her an offer. Part of her was annoyed he should be attracted to such an insipid female, but far greater contempt was reserved for a girl who could reject the offer of so magnificent a being as Harry, and for such a paltry reason as the uncertainty of his inheriting a title. Mrs Maine’s acid comments she dismissed as irrelevant, for she was well aware many of her mother’s friends considered Harry wild to a fault, indulging in all kinds of crazy pranks and dangerous sporting pursuits, but to her he was perfect, the epitome of all the fictional heroes she had ever sighed over—dashing, debonair, handsome and fun-loving, always ready to encourage her own starts, and to rescue her from the unforeseen results of many of them.

  This hero worship of her cousin did not preclude Charlotte’s quarrelling with him frequently and heatedly, for they had been brought up together for the past eight years. When her own father had died, Lady Weare had come to live with her widowed brother and care for his children along with her own. But however violent their quarrels, they were always prompt to come to the defense of one another, and Charlotte fumed at the thought that Elizabeth was not only physically out of reach of retaliation, but also safe from it because she could never divulge to anyone else what she had overheard.

  The problem of what to do occupied her for some time, and it was only after concentrated but fruitless cogitation that Charlotte picked up the romance she had been so avidly perusing when she had been interrupted. The miraculous rescue of the beleaguered heroine and her rapturous delight at the discovery that the hero had not, as she had supposed, been enamored of the enchanting young duchess, failed somehow to hold Charlotte’s attention, and when she reached the final page she cast down the volume with an exclamation of disgust.

  “What a fudge!” she declared aloud to the empty room. “As if real people ever behaved so! Or real wolves could be distracted by so nonsensical a trick!”

  Then she fell into a reverie, wondering how it might be contrived to imprison Elizabeth in the old ruined church tower in Rowanlea woods, and make it impossible for Harry to rescue her. The reflection that finding a pack of wolves in southern England might be an insuperable problem caused her to utter a gurgle of laughter as she perceived the absurdity of it all, but she was soon serious again in renewed contemplation of Harry’s misfortune.

  Elizabeth was not good enough for him, but how could he be made to accept such a point of view? It seemed he had been asking her to marry him for some time now, and would not easily desist. Certainly no representations from Charlotte would influence him.

  Reluctantly, since she had always tended to regard Harry’s desires as of paramount importance, she conceded that if he truly wished to marry Elizabeth she must endeavor to bring about such a conclusion, but for the moment the means of achieving it escaped her, and she went upstairs to change for dinner still in a thoughtful mood. They were going to the theater that evening and she was looking forward to it. Harry was to escort them, and perhaps Elizabeth would be there. She might have some opportunity of doing something to help Harry.

  Chapter 2

  Charlotte had never been to a theater in London before, and when they entered their box at the Theater Royal she looked round in awe. There were tiers of boxes all around, and many were already occupied by fashionable members of the ton.

  “The theater is less than ten years old,” Lady Weare told her. “I remember the old one, which was smaller, but it was pulled down to build a bigger one.”

  “Which is the Royal Box?” Charlotte asked.

  Harry, who was sitting moodily beside her, pointed.

  “There, child. Are you thinking of the man who tried to shoot the King? It was almost two years ago, and two shots were fired from the stage pit. Neither hit him, of course, and he insisted the performance must continue.”

  Charlotte shivered. “How terrible.”

  Harry bestirred himself to point out some of the most
fashionable people, but suddenly he stopped. Charlotte looked at him, puzzled, then she saw Elizabeth and her parents had entered a box almost opposite theirs, and they were accompanied by Lord Fenton and another young man she did not know. She cast a worried glance at Harry, who was looking daggers at the young men, and struggled to think of something to distract him. Nothing served, however, he merely grunted at all her remarks, and in the end she gave up and chatted to her mother and uncle until the play began.

  She was absorbed, but rather irritated by the lack of silence from the audience, making it difficult to hear the actors.

  “Oh, why cannot they all stop talking!” she exclaimed.

  Harry laughed, rather sourly.

  “The ton don’t come here to watch the play,” he said. “They come to see and be seen.”

  “Then they are very rude.”

  At the first interval Harry quickly left the box, and a few minutes later she saw him enter Elizabeth’s. He spoke briefly to her parents, then turned to her. Charlotte could see even at this distance that Elizabeth smiled at him while shaking her head, and a moment later she had taken Lord Fenton’s arm and departed. Harry gazed after her, then his attention was recalled to Mrs Maine as she tapped him on the arm with her fan. She appeared to be chiding him, and with a quick shake of the head he swung round and followed Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth and Lord Fenton returned just as the second Act began, but Harry did not return to their box until the second interval. Then he came in, and with just a brief word hauled Charlotte to her feet and told her they were going to walk in the corridor behind the boxes.

  Outside, he marched her briskly towards the corridor behind the opposite boxes.

  “Are you hoping to see Elizabeth?” she asked.

  “No. Indeed not. Why the devil should I be?” he demanded, but as they strolled, this time at a more decorous pace, he paid her little attention while he scanned the faces of other strollers.

  They were late back to their own box, and Charlotte, suspicious, leaned across to her mother and whispered.

  “Did Elizabeth leave her box?”

  “No, my dear. Were you hoping to speak to her?”

  Charlotte disclaimed, and tried to bring her attention back to the play, but without success. Harry was clearly unhappy, and she wanted to help him, but could not decide what to do. Might Elizabeth relent if she went to tell her how miserable she was making Harry? Then Charlotte shook her head. It would be to no avail. Elizabeth, or her parents, had determined she was to marry both a fortune and a title. But surely, somehow, she could be persuaded to accept Harry.

  * * * *

  Charlotte cudgeled her brains on the way home, and during a disturbed night. It was not just Harry’s problems which kept her awake, but the noises in the Square. She was used to the peace of the country, but London seemed to be full of noise both day and night. Carriages passed all the time, the horses’ feet clip-clopping on the cobbles. Men going home late were sometimes singing, sometimes talking and shouting to one another. At dawn she fell into a deep sleep, and was woken by her maid, Jenny, who brought her chocolate and some thin slices of bread and butter, and reminded her Lady Weare was planning to take her shopping that morning.

  Lady Weare took Charlotte to one of her own favorite modistes and ordered what Charlotte considered an impossibly large number of gowns, walking dresses, riding habits, driving dresses, day and evening gowns, and several ball dresses. Then they drove to Bond Street to purchase bonnets, gloves, slippers and shawls, fans and reticules, so that Charlotte’s head was in a whirl. Despite her previously expressed indifference to fashion, she could not help but be impressed, and having been given ample opportunity of inspecting the elegant costumes being displayed in Bond Street by ladies of the ton, felt the faint stirrings of a desire to appear likewise arrayed in the latest mode.

  Back in Grosvenor Square Jenny was still unpacking the luggage they had brought from Sussex, and the many parcels which had been delivered from the morning’s shopping. They were both admiring an especially fine pale pink muslin shawl when a commotion outside Charlotte’s door caused her to start in surprise. Charlotte dropped her hairbrush and went swiftly to the door and opened it, to reveal James, her twelve-year-old brother, writhing in the grip of an incensed Harry who had seized him about the waist.

  “You little varmint! I’ll teach you to play such damned tricks!” Harry was saying wrathfully.

  Lady Weare’s door opened, and she came out onto the landing. She was an older version of Charlotte, slightly plumper, and with paler blue eyes. Her own dark hair showed not a trace of grey, for she was still only in her mid-thirties, having been married straight from the schoolroom. Her curls were more rigorously confined than Charlotte’s but still they peeped from beneath the fetching caps she wore.

  “Harry! James! What in the world is the matter?” she exclaimed.

  Harry looked up at her, fury in his face, while he maintained his grip on James.

  “Only that James has attacked Pritchard, my groom, and in all likelihood he’ll be unfit for work for several days! And no one else can control my greys to exercise them.”

  “It was an accident, I tell you!” James exclaimed indignantly. “The fool should not have been coming out of that door without looking!”

  “What happened? You, Harry, tell me.”

  “James could find nothing better to do than entice two of the stable lads into the mews to play cricket with him,” Harry began in tones of acute disgust.

  “There was an old bat there, lying about doing nothing. And I happened to have my ball in my pocket,” James said, his injured accents proclaiming that the coincidence of these facts should explain the inevitable sequel to the meanest intelligence.

  “But how does the groom come into it? Why should James attack him?” Lady Weare asked in bewilderment.

  “He went to see what the noise was, and James struck a ball which hit him full in the face.”

  “He should have had more sense than to come slap out of the door without looking,” James repeated. “Then the silly gudgeon has to try and catch me, and falls over the ball and hurts his ankle. You can’t blame me for that either!”

  “Is the man badly hurt?”

  “Badly enough,” Harry replied. “It will be days before he is fit again, and what shall I do with my greys?”

  “Exercise them yourself,” Charlotte said. She was becoming a little tired of Harry’s moods, much as she sympathized with him. “Or sell them. You really cannot blame James for what seems to have been an accident.”

  “He should not have been playing cricket there in the first place!”

  “Where else am I to play it?” James demanded reasonably. “I am not permitted to play in the square gardens for fear of hurting some stupid flowers—”

  “Or breaking windows, as you did last year,” his mother commented. “I think you are somewhat at fault, James, though naturally you could not have foreseen the accident, or intended it. You will apologize to Harry and to the poor man you hurt, and promise me not to play cricket for a week. And you must not take the boys away from their work, for then they will be in trouble too. Now you will go to bed straight after supper.”

  James opened his mouth to argue, and then, recognizing the implacable note which only rarely appeared in Lady Weare’s voice, closed it again. He turned to climb the stairs leading up to his and his tutor, Mr Williams’s rooms, and then seemed to recall something.

  “It would never have happened if you hadn’t been in such a miff you refused to take me out with you!” he flung at Harry. “Oh, very well, I’m sorry, you know I didn’t intend any harm.”

  Lady Weare sighed.

  “I do hope he contrives not to get into too many scrapes while we’re in London,” she said worriedly. “I decided I couldn’t leave him at Rowanlea Manor with only Mr Williams for company. That would have been too cruel.”

  “He’d be best at school, ma’am,” Harry said bluntly, and she nodded reluct
antly.

  “I begin to think so, and he wishes to go to Eton with the Rector’s boys. I do hope Mr Williams can find enough diversions for him in London. Is your man receiving all the attention he needs? Good, then you must change quickly if you are not to keep your father waiting for dinner.”

  * * * *

  Harry and Charlotte were both abstracted at dinner. Lady Weare asked Charlotte if she were tired from so much shopping, and was only partly reassured when Charlotte denied being weary. Harry replied briefly to his father’s observations, and stared blankly at the dishes set before him, doing them less than justice even though some of his favorite dishes had been set before them. He had just refused a helping of boned knuckle of veal when Mr Norville, impervious to the lowered spirits of his son and niece, began to give his opinions on the recently concluded Peace that had been signed with France and ratified that month.

  “It’s a scandal we should be forced to give back all our gains,” he proclaimed. “What have we to show for nine years of war, hey? Ceylon and Trinidad. Pah! What the devil use are either of them to us, that’s what I’d like to know. Addington’s a fool. Pitt wouldn’t have agreed to it, that’s for certain!”

  “Surely everyone wants peace,” Lady Weare commented mildly. “We were left on our own and could not have continued the war when all our allies had made peace separately.”

  “They’ll soon realize their mistake. The damned French will not rest, they’ll want to regain their full influence in Naples, and control of Venice, and what they have returned to Portugal.”

  “Father, now it’s possible to travel to France, ought not one of us to go?” Harry interposed suddenly.

  “Go to France? What the devil for? I had a great deal too much of it when I made the Tour. Oh, is that what you want? Never thought you were anxious to go, my boy. I don’t imagine you’d find many new farming techniques either, they’ve been too busy with revolts and fighting!”

  “I don’t,” returned Harry, “I never even thought of anything like that, but now we’ve an opportunity of discovering just what has happened to cousin Frederick. We ought to take it while we may, for like you I do not believe the Peace will last for long.”