They parted in the entry hall, and he spent the afternoon riding out with a shooting party. At dinner, he was seated again beside Sally, whom he knew from her visits to the Continent during the peace celebrations before Bonaparte’s escape and to Brussels before Waterloo, and whose flirtatious manner amused him. When the dancing began, he made a point of searching out another old acquaintance for the first set. Later, he danced twice with Daintry but saw by the distant look in her eyes that she was holding herself aloof, and, understanding that she was protecting herself, he made no effort to break down her shell.
Daintry was mystified by her own behavior and not a little confused by Deverill’s. The incident in the field had caught her off her guard, for she had never expected to react to any man’s kisses in such a passionate way, and she had spent the afternoon trying to make sense of what made no sense at all.
He had kissed her as if he really cared about her, but when she responded, he had stopped and had even talked as if he wished he had not done it. Well, she too wished it had never happened, or if not that precisely, at least that it had not affected her the way it had. Clearly he had singled her out for conquest and then had experienced second thoughts once he suspected that she might be developing strong feelings for him. And thanks to her faithless passions, she had behaved like a fool.
He had certainly proved he could stir those passions as no man had ever done before. But did she have feelings for him, or was she being fooled by her own love of a challenge and the lure of forbidden fruit into suspecting she had them?
Dinner brought a reminder of his past when he flirted outrageously with Sally Jersey—whose husband clearly lived under the cat’s paw—and afterward he had asked several other women to dance before he had asked her. Moreover, when they danced, he had treated her with extreme civility. Had he already gained what he wanted from her? Had he wanted only to prove he could attach her interest, and now wanted nothing more to do with her?
She looked for Susan but did not see her, although she saw Sir Geoffrey dance with several women, including his cousin. He seemed to be behaving with all his customary charm again, but Daintry was not even tempted to ask him about Susan, for she was certain he would enjoy nothing so much, after his humiliating afternoon, as to snub her soundly.
She went up to her bedchamber earlier than had been her habit at Mount Edgcumbe, stopping along the way to bid good-night to Lady Ophelia in the card room, and to tap at Susan’s bedchamber door. There was no response, and when she tried the door handle and found it locked, she decided her sister must have also decided to retire early.
The following morning, although she and the other members of her family were ready to depart early, they discovered that the Seacourts had gone even earlier. There was no sign of Deverill either, and as the carriage rolled away down the gravel drive, Daintry fought to keep from looking back at the house in hopes of catching a glimpse of him. Instead, she looked across the bay, at Plymouth, where rays of sunlight through gray clouds gathering overhead glistened on marble buildings and slate roofs, making the town look as if it had been frosted with snow.
As their journey progressed, Daintry waited for Davina to mention the previous day’s incident, even to scold her for allowing Deverill to single her out in such a manner for his attention, but Davina was uncharacteristically silent, replying in monosyllables to those conversational gambits initiated by Daintry or Lady Ophelia. She had not even objected to taking the forward seat, which she generally disdained to occupy, deeming it fit only for servants, children, or Daintry.
Charles rode alongside the carriage, and even when it began to drizzle some distance from Tuscombe Park, he insisted that he preferred to ride. Daintry thought there must have been a falling-out between her brother and his wife, but she was too preoccupied with her own affairs to think much about theirs.
The more she thought, the more confused she became, but one perception stood out from the rest, that so long as she continued to wonder if Deverill’s interest in her stemmed from the fact that he was forbidden to approach her—or if her interest in him might stem from that same fact—there could be no progress in their relationship. Thus, the feud was now an encumbrance that must be removed. But if she could disarm it, what then?
It was possible, of course, that she might discover their attraction to be a mutual and lasting one; however, it was more likely, particularly in view of his past and the faults she had already discerned in him, that the same whimsy of fate that had resulted in three broken engagements would cast its shadow again. In any event, she decided, staring out at the mist swirling down from the moor to envelop the carriage, if she were to keep her distance and concentrate on resolving the mystery of the feud, she would be giving her thoughts a more proper direction, and although Deverill might continue to view her as an objective, at least the path to the future would be less cluttered.
Abruptly, she said to Lady Ophelia, “Have you kept a journal all your life, ma’am?”
The old lady had been watching the descent of the mist outside the window. Turning, she said, “Not my entire life, certainly. One generally does not attempt such things until one has been released from one’s leading strings.”
“You know perfectly well what I meant. When did you begin?”
“Oh, I suppose I must have been about Charlotte’s age when I first decided to keep a journal. Mostly foolishness then, what I wrote, but very earnest and self-important. I had not yet come to realize at that time that my prospects for a brilliant future were limited. I have no particular gift for writing, so I did not aspire to become a second Eliza Haywood or Fanny Burney.”
“But you tell stories as delightful as theirs, ma’am. It seems a great pity that more people cannot enjoy them.”
“They would not be the same written down. I talk better than I write, for I am able to judge the effect by watching my listener’s face. When one writes, one must hope one’s readers understand, and I never had much faith in them. Indeed, that is one thing I always admired in Harriet Deverill. She had no gift either, you know, nothing that made her work stand out or even that made anyone desire to publish it—and of course Tom Deverill would not—but she did try. I became a student instead, and should have done very well at Oxford, I expect, had it occurred to anyone to allow me to enter there.”
Daintry chuckled at the thought of her formidable aunt assailing the hallowed gates of Oxford University, but she did not want to dwell on that topic. Gently, she said, “Would you object if I read your journals? I know I would be fascinated.”
The old lady’s eyes narrowed but there was amusement, not displeasure, in her expression. “I suspect, you have no interest in the earlier journals, miss, merely in the ones beginning before, oh, let us say sixty or so years ago?”
Daintry could feel warmth in her cheeks but she said firmly, “I would be honored if you would let me begin at the beginning and read every single one, Aunt Ophelia, but I will not conceal from you the fact that I hope to find a clue to the roots of that ridiculous feud somewhere within them.”
“You won’t do it,” Lady Ophelia said flatly. “How can there be a clue when I never knew the least thing about it? Men do not confide in their wives, let alone in the women they only hoped to wed. Whatever it was that set those two at odds, it was nothing that they confided to me.
“But still, Aunt, I might learn something about the men themselves, don’t you think? You must have written down your impressions of them.”
“Oh, yes, I am quite sure to have done that,” Lady Ophelia said, chuckling. “Nincompoops, the both of them.” She hesitated, then said, “My journals are reservoirs of my private thoughts, you know. I never meant them to be made public.”
“Nor would I do such a thing,” Daintry said indignantly. “You know I would not. I do understand that I am asking leave to invade your privacy, ma’am. Pray, if you do not like it, say no more. I shall not take offense.”
She meant it, but when her great-aunt made no effort
to continue the conversation, she found it difficult not to demand to know if she did not trust her. Later she was glad she had held her tongue, however, for that evening when she was preparing for bed, Lady Ophelia came to her, wrapped in a flowing robe of sky blue wool, and carrying two slim volumes beneath her arm.
“These are my journals for the year of my come-out and the one following it, the years I first came to know Lord Thomas Deverill and your grandfather. As you will see, they figured no more prominently than a dozen other gentlemen. I was,” she added, lifting her chin, “rather a popular young woman.”
“I do not doubt it, ma’am.”
“Well, it was due only to my vast inheritance, I can tell you, for I doubt I ever met a new acquaintance without hearing the amount whispered by someone nearby, and I know for a fact that there were wagers made in the London gentlemen’s clubs on a weekly basis, as to whom I would choose. But, thanks to Papa and Sir Lionel Werring, I fooled them all,” she said placidly. “Your grandfather thought Papa was crazy, for he could never believe any woman capable of managing her own money. He coveted it in the worst way and was always giving me advice that I did not want or need. Years later, of course, he saw that it would be far easier for him—or for his son, I suppose—to manage your mama.”
Lady Ophelia did not linger, and Daintry, shooing Nance out the door as soon as she was dressed for bed, opened the first volume. But within an hour, she had come to the conclusion that her great-aunt was right. The journals would be of little help in her quest for information about the feud.
The writing was detailed, but its focus was not the social world or even the personalities of people her aunt had met. The journals had formed an outlet instead for her feelings about a society that wanted its women to be silent and decorative, and that denied them even the simplest of the rights it granted to men. There were frequent references to novels written by women of the mid-eighteenth century, novels that Daintry knew were scarcely ever read by young women of the present day.
She had read most of the books, though had her father ever read them, he would have forbidden her to do so. Their heroines did not behave in the manner now expected of a young lady of quality. Closing the first journal and blowing out her candle, she lay back against her pillows and tried to imagine Eliza Haywood’s once famous heroine, Miss Betsy Thoughtless, stepping across the threshold at Almack’s or being accepted by members of the beau monde into their homes.
She failed, for despite the fact that Betsy had been shown the error of her thoughtless ways and, after many adventures, had married Mr. Trueworth, Miss Haywood’s boldly expressed views of such sexual and social concerns as abortion, divorce, and marriage laws, not to mention the double standards governing men’s and women’s behavior, simply did not bear discussion in most polite gatherings of the present day. Indeed, as Daintry knew well, the so-called polite behavior of even twenty years before—when men and women had been more outspoken than they were now—was now thought to have been remarkably uncivil.
It took her nearly a week, reading whenever she found time to do so—frequently in a small unused back parlor, so as to remain undisturbed—to finish the two volumes and learn that although the particular information she sought was not there, Lady Ophelia had described the two gentlemen, albeit briefly, in just the manner one might have expected. Deverill’s grandfather she had liked well enough, while deploring his politics. He was a follower of Tobias Smollett, who believed in retaining a strong monarchy, undermining Parliament, and using citizens like pawns in a chess game. According to Lady Ophelia, Tom Deverill, while professing to love her, had seen himself as a monarch and her as a woman to be mastered. Daintry decided that if old Deverill had truly been the man her great-aunt described, he must certainly have been infatuated ever to have considered marrying her.
She wondered if the present Deverill saw her in the same way his grandfather had seen Lady Ophelia. Remembering that he had said she needed breaking to bridle, she rather thought that was the case, though she doubted that he was infatuated with her.
Lady Ophelia had dismissed the fourth Earl of St. Merryn even more flatly as a man who cared only for money, who counted her dowry in his mind as he prated sweet nothings in her ear. From the succinct notations of the social events she had attended, Daintry realized her great-aunt had been extremely active during both London Seasons covered by the journals, but since she had hoped to read lovely gossipy bits about the famous people of that time, she was sadly disappointed.
Closing the second volume at last and setting it aside, she wondered if there was any point in reading another, and decided there was not. Her time would be better spent, she decided, attempting to compile a list of those persons most likely to know anything about the feud, whom she might question. Nance entered the little parlor while she was considering these possibilities.
“Miss Charley is looking for you, my lady.”
Daintry smiled. “And, being Charley, I suppose she has got every servant in the house searching high and low for me.”
Nance chuckled. “That she has. Says she has leave from that new governess of hers and wants to ride over to Seacourt Head to visit Miss Melissa, and she’s that certain you will go that she’s already ordered the horses saddled. Shall I go up with you to fetch out your habit?”
“Yes, please,” Daintry said, getting up and putting away her list, “but first, tell me something, Nance. Do you know anyone hereabouts who might remember the beginnings of the feud between the Tarrants and the Deverills? About sixty years ago, I think.”
Nance frowned. “Before my time, that was, but my old granny might recall the Tarrant side. She were a housemaid here at the time, and what Granny Popple knows about this family would fill volumes, did she know how to write it all down. Not that she would ever do such a thing, even could she write her letters,” Nance added hastily. “Knows her place, does Granny.”
Nodding, Daintry gathered her things and preceded Nance to her bedchamber, where she found Charley waiting. Smiling at the child, she said, “Are you not supposed to be with Miss Parish, studying your lessons?” The new governess, a vast improvement on the old one in Daintry’s opinion, had arrived at Tuscombe Park during their absence, and seemed to have settled in nicely.
“Miss Parish said Aunt Ophelia wished to discuss my lessons with her, and gave me leave to go riding. Of course,” she added with a calculating gleam in her eyes, “I did not tell her I mean to ride to Seacourt Head.”
“Nor shall you do so,” Daintry said, turning so Nance could undo her buttons.
“But I told Melissa I would ride over frequently, and I’ve not been over once since she went home! Please, Aunt Daintry.”
“No, and there is no use in widening your eyes at me, for I am not to be won over by such tactics. You may ride with me to visit Granny Popple in the village.”
Nance said, “She is not in the village, my lady. She’s gone to stay with my sister Annie on the moor, at Warleggan Farm.”
Daintry nodded. She knew Annie’s husband, Feok Warleggan, for he was one of her father’s tenants. “Is your granny ill?”
Nance laughed, helping her into her habit skirt. “No, miss, she’s meddling, is all. Feok has a brother, and Granny’s took it into her head that he’d make me a fine husband if he gets hired on at the mine again. But I’ve no use for Dewy Warleggan, though I do have to be civil to him now if I’m to visit Granny. He’s in a fidget because he’s got to work the farm now, but he ought to be grateful he’s got any job at all, to my way of thinking.”
Charley said, “I’d rather visit Melissa. May I not go alone, Aunt Daintry? I am quite old enough to ride a mere seven miles by myself—with my groom, of course.”
“I said no,” Daintry said, looking at her in such a way that the child grimaced again and sighed in defeat. “Will you ride with me, or do you prefer to return to the schoolroom?”
“With you, of course, only don’t let Granny Popple pinch my cheek and tell me how plump I am getti
ng. I am not fat, and she makes me think of a witch testing a child for the oven.”
Nance said, “That will be enough of your sauce now, Miss Charley. My granny never was no witch, and she’d not thank you to be going about saying she were one.”
“Good gracious, no,” Daintry said, laughing. “You mind that impudent tongue of yours, or we’ll have Feok Warleggan throwing us right off his farm.”
“As if he would,” Charley and Nance said in unison. They looked at each other then and laughed, and Daintry, shaking her head at both of them, shooed her niece out the door, following as soon as she had snatched up her whip and hat from the dressing table. She and Charley found Clemons waiting with the horses, and were soon on their way, the groom following placidly behind.
Three-quarters of an hour later, they arrived at the farm cottage, a haphazardly built, two-story building of whitewashed cob with a thatched roof. As they approached the front door, Annie, as buxom and rosy-cheeked as her sister, opened it with a beaming smile, and bobbed a curtsy. “Saw you from the kitchen winder my lady. Good day to you, Miss Charley. You’ll be stepping into the hale, you will, and I’ll be fetching me granny, for she’ll not want to miss bidding you a good day.”
“It is Granny Popple we have come to see,” Daintry said, following Annie into the tiny hale, or parlor. The room was used only on very special occasions, and it smelled of soap and beeswax. The furniture consisted of three painted wooden chairs against the whitewashed cob walls, a large table kept beautifully clean by constant scouring, and a corner-cupboard with a glass door, containing numerous knickknacks. A pair of china spaniels and two brass candlesticks decked the mantelpiece.
They were not left long to wait before Granny Popple, a wizened little woman with eyes that looked like tiny polished lumps of coal, came in hobbling on her stick and pulling her shawl more tightly around her scrawny shoulders.
Amanda Scott - [Dangerous 03] Page 17
