by Carola Dunn
“He is fond of his nephew, I believe,” responded the baronet cautiously, looking round to be sure that Lady Whitton and Lady Gant were safely engaged in conversation. “I have sometimes thought that he may hold Miss Whitton in some affection also, for which I am heartily sorry since he is bound to be disappointed.”
“Indeed?”
“I daresay you are unaware of the shocking muddle in which the late Sir William left his affairs? While I inherited the title, the property went to his eldest daughter. It must be plain to a person of the meanest intelligence that he intended to make a match between me and my cousin Selena.”
“I am to wish you happy then?”
“I must confess that I have not yet actually requested my cousin’s hand, though she must certainly be aware that such is my intention. I have thought it best to allow our acquaintance to ripen.”
“Let me urge you, my dear Sir Aubrey, to lose no more time! I am sure Selena is much impressed by your modish appearance and elegant address, but alas! the attractions of a viscountcy may in the end outweigh any personal superiority.”
“I believe you are right, ma’am, though I am loath to think that worldly considerations might prevail over Miss Whitton’s natural duty to obey her father’s wishes. I will press my suit before Lord Iverbrook’s return."
“I wish you every success, sir,” said Mrs. Parcott warmly. “Mama, we must not outstay our welcome. I hope, Lady Whitton, to call on you again while I am fixed in the country. Such a shame that Selena had to leave before we could enjoy a good cose."
As the widow swept out with a rustle of skirts, Lady Gant trotting at her heels, Lady Whitton collapsed into a chair and fanned herself.
“Oh dear,” she said, “oh dear. Lady Anne is a trifle high in the instep, to be sure, but I have seen her on terms of perfect amity with Lady Gant these thirty years. Now why did she cut Amabel in that unkind way, and insist on taking Delia along with her? Oh dear!”
“I thought Mrs. Parcott charming,” said Sir Aubrey with a simper. “I suppose she is left in easy circumstances?”
“Lady Anne must have heard some spiteful tale about Amabel. A young and pretty widow living alone is bound to become the butt of scandalmongers. What a pity that she does not choose to return to her parents, though I must say that to be obliged to listen constantly to Lady Gant’s chatter would try the soul of the most patient of mortals. Poor Amabel!“
“If she were purse-pinched she would have to return home. However, the settlements may be tied up in such a way that she is forced to remain single. Dear Aunt, I can no longer restrain my feelings. May I have your permission to address my cousin?”
“Address your cousin? Whatever do you . . . oh, you mean to propose marriage! To Selena?” Lady Whitton looked at him in astonishment and doubt. “Selena is her own mistress, you know. I confess I have seen no more sign of an attachment in her than I have in you, Aubrey, but for what it is worth, you have my permission to approach her.”
* * * *
Four days passed before Sir Aubrey ventured to avail himself of Lady Whitton’s permission. Not only did Selena show no sign of attachment, she treated him with nothing above common courtesy. Often, in fact, she carelessly ignored his presence in a way he found rather daunting. However, the viscount might return at any moment, so when the perfect opportunity presented itself, he seized it.
He was admiring his reflection in the antique mirror over the fireplace, a favourite occupation, when Selena came home from the fields and entered the drawing room. Swinging round, he bowed with a flourish.
“Cousin!” A suspicion of a frown marred his brow as he noticed that she was clad in her working clothes, most unsuitable for receiving an offer of marriage. “May I beg the favour of a word with you in private?”
Selena looked around the room. “It would appear so, sir, since no one else is present. Where is my mother?”
“Surely, being cousins, we may dispense with a chaperone.”
“Third or fourth cousins, but by all means. I merely enquired as to Mama’s whereabouts. If you do not know, pray tell me and I shall ask Bannister.”
“I understand my aunt went out gathering herbs, attended by Polly. I cannot conceive why she should, since the gardens grow little else. But, Selena, allow me to express . . ."
“There are certain plants that will not flourish under cultivation. Is Delia not returned from Bracketts? She spends half her time there, I vow.”
“No!” the baronet shouted. “I beg your pardon, cousin. You must make allowances for the emotions of a man half crazed by love!”
“Did you fall for Amabel? I had not realised it. I must admit she is as beautiful as ever, and as catty!”
“Certainly not! I mean, Mrs. Parcott is beautiful but though I did not think her—ah—catty, I have not fallen. Selena, my adored one, have you not guessed how I admire you?”
“To tell the truth, cousin, I thought you had little admiration to spare for anything but your own countenance. Oh, I beg your pardon, that was as catty as anything Amabel ever said. I am very flattered, sir, by your kind words. Now I had best go and change my clothes.”
“Do not leave me! You look charmingly in that . . . in that particular shade of blue, which matches your eyes to perfection.”
Her hazel eyes cold, Selena said scornfully, “You are unobservant, Sir Aubrey. Pray excuse me."
He seized her hand.
“Selena, cousin, let me speak. You have so bewitched me that I do not know what I am saying. All I ask is the honour of offering you my hand; my heart you have already. Marry me, Selena!”
“Thank you, sir, but I think we should not suit.” Not without a struggle, Selena disengaged her hand and stepped back.
“Indeed we should. I shall relieve you of the burden of running Milford, and you will be Lady Whitton, like your mama. It is what Sir William undoubtedly intended when he left the farm to you, knowing the title would be mine. It was his way of saying, ‘Marry my daughter, Aubrey, and take care of her for me.’”
“Poppycock! Insofar as Papa had any say in my upbringing, he brought me up to take care of myself. And the farm. And what is more, I do not believe he even knew of your existence. So accept my refusal, if you please. I do not wish to hurt you but I cannot suppose that I should ever have for you those feelings which a wife ought to have for her husband.”
“I shall not abandon hope,” he said sulkily. “Pray believe that your maidenly reserve does you no disservice in my eyes. I took you by surprise, I fear, but I shall give you time to consider my offer. After all, no female wishes to dwindle into an old maid.”
He went out through the French doors into the garden. What a gapeseed the man was, thought Selena, to suppose she might be won over by an insult! She had a thousand times rather “dwindle into an old maid” than marry a posturing fool more interested in her land than herself. Baronet Whitton he might be, but he would never add “of Milford Manor” to his title.
She changed quickly for dinner that evening, donning a gown of bronze silk that accentuated the true colour of her eyes. Throwing a Paisley shawl about her shoulders, for there was a hint of autumn chill in the air, she went to her mother’s room.
Lady Whitton was seated at her dressing table, tying the ribbons of her crêpe lisse capote under her chin. Polly was brushing the grass-stained walking dress her mistress had been wearing, and Peter, already in his nightshirt, bounced on the bed.
“Hello, Aunt Sena,” he said. “I comed to say goodnight to Grandmama. Her bed bounces better’n mine does but why because has it got dragons on the curtains?”
“To guard Grandmama when she is asleep, of course. Actually, I think they are supposed to be peacocks; the brocade is so old and faded it is hard to make them out."
“Your Grandpapa always said they had guarded three generations of Whittons, from draughts at least!” said Lady Whitton. “He never would let me replace them.”
“You shall have new ones tomorrow, Mama, if you will d
o but one thing for me.”
“Oh no, I have grown accustomed to them and I should miss them. But what would you have me do, dearest?”
“Give Sir Aubrey his marching orders!”
Polly drew a quick breath and stopped brushing. Peter, hearing the note of wrath in his aunt’s voice, decided not to ask what marching orders were. In her reviving indignation at her cousin, Selena forgot their presence.
“What has he done to put you in a tweak?” asked her mother resignedly.
“He had the gall to tell me he considers the Manor to be rightfully his, and that he intends to gain possession by marrying me!”
Polly dropped the brush with a clatter and, red-faced, bent to retrieve it.
“I don’t like Uncle Aubrey too,” said Peter. “He always pats my head and tells me to run along. Timmy Russell says . . ."
“Polly, pray take Master Peter to Nurse,” requested Selena sharply, suddenly aware of her audience. “Goodnight, Peterkin. Give Grandmama a kiss now and off you go."
The child obeyed, reluctantly. At the door he turned and, peeking past the maid’s skirts, said with a wicked grin, “I’ll tell Uncle Aubrey to run along for you, Aunt Sena.”
“Ooh, you’re a cheeky one, Master Peter!” exclaimed the maid, and ushered him out.
“Now, what did Aubrey actually say?” asked Lady Whitton. “Admittedly his understanding is not superior, but I cannot credit it that he is so lacking in address as to tell you such a thing without wrapping it up in clean linen.”
“Oh, he swore that he adored me, admired my blue eyes, and claimed that Papa had wished him to offer for me else he’d not have left me the Manor. He wants to relieve me of the burden of running the farm, just like Iverbrook with Peter. Men,” said Selena bitterly, “are all the same.”
Her mother refrained from pointing out that most females wished to be relieved of their burdens. “It sounds as if he expressed himself with propriety. Have you taken him in dislike because he mistook the colour of your eyes?”
“Of course not, Mama, though if he truly loved me he’d have been a little closer! No, that was bad enough, but when I refused him he said he’ll not despair because I shall not like to dwindle into an old maid! You cannot expect me to meet him with complaisance after such an insult!”
“Oh dear, I am sure you must have misunderstood him. Even Aubrey could not be such a nodcock as to say such a thing to a young lady he wishes to marry! Selena, how can I ask him to leave? He has no home, no friends in England, and no other family.”
“Do you know why his father was sent abroad?” Selena’s curiosity momentarily overcame her resentment.
“I believe he ran off with a gypsy girl. And from the family’s point of view made things worse by insisting on marrying her. No great sin, you see.”
“Cousin Aubrey has nothing of gypsy looks about him.”
“No, luckily he took after his father. He was always paid an allowance, your papa told me, but he has certainly not the means to put up at an hotel.”
“So he is to live here at rack and manger, hanging upon my sleeve, while he insults me with impunity?”
“As heir to Sir William’s title, he certainly has a claim to our hospitality, my love. Doubtless when he discovers that you are adamant in your refusal of his offer, he will look about for some suitable occupation, or perhaps return to Jamaica.”
“Jamaica is not far enough. I wish him at Botany Bay!”
“You will, however, continue polite to him, Selena. No guest in this house shall be treated with discourtesy.”
“Oh very well, Mama. I daresay there may be other young ladies in the world who are forced to reside in the same household with a rejected suitor! It is fortunate indeed that he never appears at the breakfast table, for I don’t believe I could face him with equanimity at that hour!”
Selena found it difficult enough to bear with Sir Aubrey that evening. She did not experience the anticipated embarrassment; she had too little regard for him to feel concern for his feelings. But mannerisms that had previously seemed laughable now irritated her unbearably: the way he called her mother “dear Aunt”; his habit of checking his appearance in the mirror every ten minutes; the hare’s foot with which he dusted the snuff from his shirt front; his crooked little finger when he sipped his tea.
Every time he spoke, she wanted to contradict him. He ventured a remark concerning the weather in the West Indies. Selena immediately recalled that Lord Iverbrook had said the precise opposite. He lavished effusive praise on Delia’s performance upon the pianoforte.
“I must suppose,” retorted Selena, “that you had little opportunity in Jamaica to indulge your taste for music. Delia’s playing is nothing above the ordinary. Indeed, her friend Jane plays better.”
Delia cast her a hurt glance and launched into a long and involved Haydn sonata.
Before she retired to bed, Selena went and tapped on the door of her sister’s chamber.
“Delia!”
“What is it?” Dressed in a white cotton nightgown, Delia was brushing her long blond hair.
“Let me do that. Do you remember when you were little and Phoebe and I used to quarrel over who should brush your hair? You were the best doll we ever had.”
“I wish my hair would curl, like yours. When I go to London in the spring I shall have to put it in papers every night, and use curling tongs before balls and parties.”
“Before grand parties, perhaps, but it is beautiful as it is, so smooth and silky. Dee, I’m sorry I was rude about your music. Your playing is perfectly unexceptionable and gives me much pleasure, though I admire your singing more. Only I could not listen to Cousin Aubrey flattering you in that odious way.”
“I play like an angel in heaven!” She giggled. “I ought to have studied the harp. I don’t heed Cousin Aubrey, Selena. Clive says he is a toad-eater and a rasher-of-wind.”
Selena laughed. “Young Clive has a discerning eye. Do you like him?”
“Clive? Why yes, when he does not try to come the high and mighty. He is even handsomer than Cousin Aubrey, is he not? But I do not mean to wed him. Somewhere, there is a man who is as romantic as he looks, and next year, when I make my come-out, I shall meet him and we will fall in love and marry and live happily ever after.”
“I hope so!” said Selena. “Goodnight, and sweet dreams.”
* * * *
Suppose it had been Hugh, not Aubrey, who had asked for her hand. Selena lay gazing into the darkness, wishing she had asked her mother for some chamomile tea. She heard the clock in the hall below strike one.
Would Hugh expect her to live at Iver Place, or in London? Or would he want to move into the Manor, take over her farm, just like her cousin? For the umpteenth time she told herself it was useless to speculate. He had not asked her, and doubtless never would. He enjoyed his gay and carefree life as a bachelor, and if he ever decided to marry there must be dozens of beautiful, rich, and aristocratic damsels waiting to pounce on the handkerchief when he dropped it.
Not to mention Amabel Parcott.
* * * *
She woke to a damp morning. A mist hid the river; when she looked out of her window, the big oak at the bottom of the garden seemed to be growing on the edge of the world. Dew dripped from leaves and eaves, flowers hung their heavy heads, and the smell of woodsmoke permeated the still air.
At breakfast, Delia announced that she was going to spend the day with Jane.
“We’re going to the old quarry to pick blackberries,” she said. “Clive has a friend staying and they will both ride with us.
“Can I go too?” begged Peter.
“No, it’s a grown-up party. Besides, I took you last year and you ate so many berries you got a tummyache. And Nurse cut up stiff because you stained your clothes.”
“You can come with me if you like, Peter,” said Selena. “I must choose which lambs to send to market next Monday. I wish I had more pasture, so that I could enlarge the flock.”
“Can
I ride Leo, Aunt Sena? Can I, please? Leo likes sheeps.”
“He looks more like a sheep than a lion,” Delia remarked thoughtfully. “A sort of cross between a sheep and a horse.”
“That’s enough!” said Lady Whitton hastily, seeing Peter about to rise to the bait. “Delia, ‘cut up stiff’ is not a ladylike expression. Pray mind your tongue, child.”
“Clive says it!”
“Clive is not a lady,” Selena pointed out unanswerably. “Peter, I have some letters to write before we go, so you will have time to learn your lessons. Tell Finny you are to be dressed for riding by ten o’clock.”
Selena retired to the library, mended her pen, and set to work. Half way through the second letter, there was a knock at the door.
“Come in.”
“The post, Miss Selena.” Bannister deposited four or five missives on her desk.
The first one she opened necessitated rewriting the letter she had just finished. That done, she read a long epistle, full of complaints and grievances, from the cousin with whom she had shared her one London season. Setting it aside to be answered later, she turned with relief and interest to the third in the pile, addressed in an unknown hand. She broke the seal, and as she unfolded the sheet a small slip of paper fell to the floor unnoticed.
She looked first at the signature: Archibald Hubble. Hubble? Wasn’t that the Carricks’ lawyer?
‘Madam,
“Whereas you, Miss Selena Whitton, Spinster of Milford Manor in the County of Oxford, were appointed by the Last Will and Testament of the late Honourable Gilbert Carrick to be Sole Lawful Guardian of his Son and Heir, Peter Carrick;
I have the honour to inform you, madam, that on this day, the Fifth of September, in the Year of Our Lord eighteen hundred and eleven, a Suit was entered in Chancery in behalf of Hugh Carrick, Fourth Viscount Iverbrook, of Iver Place in the County of Buckingham, challenging the said Last Will and Testament of his Brother, the heretofore mentioned Gilbert Carrick, now deceased, with regard to the said Guardianship of the heretofore mentioned Peter Carrick, Son and Heir of the heretofore mentioned Gilbert Carrick and Heir Presumptive of the heretofore mentioned Hugh Carrick, Viscount Iverbrook;
