by Vanessa Gray
“My young miss,” scolded Louisa, “I will expect you to—”
Hardily Faustina interrupted. “Aunt Louisa, let her alone! You’re thrusting her out into the public eye with no experience at all. And, what is outside of enough, handing her over to the notice of that ogre! No wonder she’s flown up into the boughs!”
Louisa’s attention was diverted, and Faustina felt the waves of her aunt’s strong displeasure sweep over her bowed head. She thought forcefully of other things, and was rewarded at last by her aunt’s discovery that Julia had taken to her heels and fled upstairs, hand to lips to stifle her sobs.
And in due course Faustina herself was left, like sea wrack on the beach, to recover as best she might.
When silence had settled upon the house once more, she crossed to the library door and tapped lightly. Upon hearing her father’s voice bidding her enter, she slipped inside.
“Oh, it’s you,” said Egmont in tones of relief. “Be sure to close the door behind you. Never thought I’d wish for a lock on my study door — in my own house, mind you.”
“But the day has come?” suggested Faustina lightly. She added, in an altered tone, “Oh, Papa, what are we going to do?”
Egmont was broodingly silent. A decent man, he was outraged by the actions of his outrageous sister-in-law. But by the same standards, he was bound strongly by family pride to pull the various erring individuals under the Kennett shield, and, somehow, put a smooth exterior on the whole situation.
“I don’t suppose she is packing?” said Egmont hopefully.
Faustina’s look of despair was answer enough. “Oh, Papa, if you only knew how Pendarvis feels about the little girl!”
Surprisingly, he said, “But I do. He told me. And believe me, his daughter is not the way to the earl’s heart.”
Dryly Faustina said, “I don’t believe my aunt is much concerned with his heart. Only his hand.”
The companionable silence between them lengthened. Finally Egmont cleared his throat, a sure sign of an impending statement of which he was unsure. “Do you think that Louisa in fact intends to marry that child to Hugh?”
Faustina shook her head. “I really cannot tell, Papa. If Julia did not exaggerate the great blow to my aunt’s pride in London…” She took a few quick steps around the room. “Papa, it doesn’t make sense. How would marrying Julia off restore my aunt’s self-esteem? I’m sure I do not quite see how, sir.”
Egmont puffed his cheeks in and out, a sign of distress of mind. “No more do I, my dear. But depend upon it, Louisa is not the scatterthought that she appears. And if her sole aim is to establish that daughter of hers… well, I suppose miracles do happen!”
“Well,” said his daughter at last, “I suppose it will all come out. Do you think there’s more behind her leaving London in such haste?”
Egmont considered. “I hope not. I think I might write to Ned. But I hardly know how to ask him what bee his mother has in her bonnet now.”
“What can we do?” Faustina asked again. She had the most extraordinary sense of dread hovering just out of sight.
“One thing I wish you could do, my dear,” said Egmont. “Keep that child from developing any kind of tendre for Hugh.”
“Oh, I agree. I think,” she continued, “that there is no danger along that line.”
“Hugh is an embittered man,” pronounced Egmont, “and while he is all civility, I think that child deserves a better chance.”
“Bitter,” said Faustina, the comers of her lips turned down. “I should say he is.” Her thoughts dwelt without pleasure on the scene at the Green Man, where she had first seen the earl after his return. Her father watched her with uneasiness, but kept silent. If she wanted to tell him the subject of her clearly unpleasant thoughts, she would. In the meantime, he decided, he would simply stand buff. All things had a way of working out, he had learned, and this would too.
“It’s a big problem, though,” said Faustina slowly. “You see, Louisa is so determined to draw the earl into her orbit.”
“I noticed,” said Egmont dryly.
Faustina glanced at him sharply. “And Pendarvis was extraordinarily civil… today.”
“You mean he may not be another time?”
“Indeed I mean so.”
“Then we had best keep Louisa more confined.”
Faustina laughed outright. “And how do you propose to do that?”
Egmont grinned. “My dear—”
“No! My dear Papa, there is very little I would not do to please you. But trying to control my aunt is beyond everything! Unless…” She grew thoughtful, and in a voice suddenly altered, she added, “Suppose that my aunt does provoke the earl. And the earl tells her what he thinks — which I am persuaded will not be flattering above half — then she will have to leave!”
Egmont eyed her with growing disapproval and a lively understanding.
“But you know all she came for,” pointed out Faustina, “was to land the earl!”
“I do not like to hear you use cant expressions,” said Egmont automatically. “But… No, it won’t do. I can’t believe that her purpose was to marry Julia to the earl. At least, to begin with. But I will admit she was ever one to turn circumstance to her advantage.”
Faustina did not respond at first. “Then,” she said slowly, working it out, “Julia was right? The loathsome yellow captain offered for the Smith girl, and Aunt Louisa could not face her friends?”
“And,” said Egmont with heavy distaste, “she’s trying her hand out with Hugh.”
“To keep her intriguing sense alive? I would suspect that she is well practiced along that line.”
“Faustina,” said Egmont sharply, “leave the intrigue to Louisa. Plots have a way of going off like a faulty gun. In all directions. And I do not want you hurt in the mishap.”
He smiled at her affectionately.
“Believe me, Papa,” said Faustina, “I do not have a devious mind. But if straightforward persuasion will suffice, then I can promise you one thing. Julia will not marry Pendarvis. Does that satisfy you?”
Chapter 6
Lady Waverly, however careless of the truth as a rule, was correct in one detail. It was true, as she thought, that Helen Astley, the only daughter of the vicar, was away from home.
A fact that was fortunate from Lady Waverly’s point of view, since she disliked Helen Astley with vigor and considered her, besides, a possible rival in her newly hatched scheme of snaring the earl for Julia — but a fact that the vicar considered mischance.
His letter to his daughter at Horton House in Hampshire, where she was visiting her mother’s relation, left no uncertainty in Helen’s mind. If the earl were indeed home, a widower, then it was time that she come home to Trevan, as well. Who knew what might happen? And it was a certainty that nothing was happening in Hampshire.
Successfully hiding a strong sense of relief, Lady Horton, married to Helen’s cousin, would not let her go home without suitable escort. So it was that the Astley carriage, heavy, old-fashioned, and not quite comfortable, lumbered down the road with all possible speed toward Trevan.
Helen occupied the comfortable comer, as was her right. She was a thin girl of plain appearance. Already, lines of sullenness and disappointment were etching themselves lightly around her mouth. She had been an only child, bom of parents already past the point of youth, and her mother had died while Helen was still so young that she scarcely remembered her now.
The vicar, conscious of his fortunate marriage to a member of the Horton family, kept the links of kinship well furbished. Unfortunately, Helen’s character and person were more Astley than Horton, and as a result, happiness had so far eluded her.
Her thoughts as she jounced along the rough road were not felicitous. Lady Horton had insisted that her own niece, Mary Bidwell, accompany Helen to Trevan. Helen’s abigail rode in the facing seat, huddled into a comer to leave as much room as possible for her mistress’s cloak and her bandbox and her small pile of book
s, and, when Helen complained of headache, the heavily feathered hat that bound Helen’s brow too tightly.
Aubrey Talbot, the sole gentleman whom Helen’s aunt could cajole into the responsibility of accompanying the ladies on the road, rode his sorrel horse ahead of the carriage, and thought long thoughts.
Three days on the road, he reflected lugubriously. Three days out of his life, accompanying that lumber wagon called a coach, sleeping in ill-favored inns. Helen Astley’s aunt had been in such distress about sending the ladies home unescorted, and the vicar’s message, as relayed in part by Helen, seemed of the utmost urgency. So Aubrey, always kind and often more gentle than he should be, set out with the Astley coach on the road to Trevan.
He found that the rigor of mind, which had set in the afternoon of the second day, stood him in good stead. Helen’s complaints slid off his mind as though unheard, and now, the third day, he knew they were almost in sight of their destination. He dared not rejoice, not yet. A mischancy journey at best, he thought gloomily, and if they arrived at Trevan without further incident …
He became aware that the carriage was slowing. “Begging your pardon, sir,” said Clay, the coachman, drawing the vehicle to a ponderous halt, “but Fd be grateful if you could give me your opinion of yonder wheelhorse.”
Aubrey and his man Peasley dismounted and considered the animal in question. Aubrey pursed his lips and gave a slight whistle. “Fetlock’s swollen a bit. You are quite right to worry about it” He stood up and looked about him. “Pretty desolate place to have a breakdown. How far are we from Trevan, do you think?” Clay gave himself over to figuring. After a lengthy process, he gave as his estimate “Twelve miles. And more lonely, so to speak, ahead than behind us, sir.”
Aubrey did not know what to do. If the horse were his, he would turn back to that last town and settle for the night, until his horse could rest. He was at a disadvantage, however, since he was responsible for two delicately nurtured females, and that inn where they had baited at noon, while possible for an armed gentleman and his attendant overnight, was no place for his charges. But possibly a private house in the vicinity could be approached.
Bidding the coachman wait, he walked back to the carriage, where Helen had dropped the leather curtain, and greeted him, “What’s the trouble, Mr. Talbot? Why are we stopping here? I am sure we ought not to linger on the way.”
Briefly he informed her of the swelling on the horse’s fetlock. “I really think, Miss Astley, that we ought not to go on.”
“And what else can we do?” she asked petulantly. Aubrey looked beyond her to Miss Bidwell, calm and quiet in her corner. Really the journey would have been abominable had it not been for Mary’s quiet common sense.
Mary answered the appeal in his eyes. “You really will not wish to ruin your father’s horses,” she began reasonably enough.
“I want to go home. That is what I wish.”
“But if we cannot go on—”
“Mary, I wish to go home. Mr. Talbot, instruct Clay to go along and not whine so over nothing. I know he wants to go back and drink at that grubby little inn. I won’t have it.”
She withdrew her head from the window, and Aubrey stood helplessly outside. There was nothing for it, he decided at last, but simply to go ahead. He longed, quite as much as Helen, to be done with this interminable ordeal.
Inside the coach, Helen was uneasily conscious that she had done the wrong thing. Her father would not take it kindly if one of his horses came home lame. There was little enough money in the Astley household. She had really put much hope in this latest visit to Hampshire. She was past twenty, and it was high time she was marrying. Her mother’s family were bound to arrange it, she thought crossly, and never looked at herself for the reasons why they failed.
Aubrey Talbot himself was scarcely eligible, so she thought. At first glance he had little fortune, possessed only of what passed as a competence. She did not know exactly what she wanted from marriage, but she did not wish, yet, to settle for an unexceptionable young man like Aubrey Talbot. It might come to that, she realized in a burst of painful honesty.
Mary Bidwell watched through her long lashes the emotions racing across Helen’s face. Long experience in sickrooms, first her mother’s for six years, and then, as the Bidwell family realized her usefulness, at a succession of tedious bedsides — Aunt Maud’s, Uncle Warrick’s, and the last, Cousin Penelope’s — had taught her much.
Cousin Penelope had been a strain, and Mary was glad enough to come with Helen to Trevan at the request of Lady Horton, born a Bidwell.
Helen, now that the coach was once more under way, even though at a slower pace, had dropped off to sleep, head back against the squabs, her mouth open.
Mary, too tired herself to think properly, lost herself in gloomy reflections about her own future, or lack of it.
And then it happened.
The coach slowed, and the men ahead shouted. Their words were incoherent, rough on the wind, and blown quickly away before Mary could hear.
Helen wakened at once, and her words were clear enough. “What is the matter? I suppose Clay has found some way to pay me back for making him miss his drink. Well, I won’t stand for it!”
Mary’s sweet nature suffered a severe strain. “Helen, if the horse is lame, we cannot go on. Let us see what Mr. Talbot thinks best to do.”
“He doesn’t know anything!” muttered Helen, but Mary had left the coach and did not hear.
They were stopped on the heights of Dartmoor. The coach was drawn to the side of the road, and stood like a castle turret on the horizon. Around them stretched miles of rosy gorse, colored by tiny pink flowers that could not be distinguished unless she stretched down to look. The air was brisk but very clear, and the clouds sped high in great mountainous towers overhead.
Mary’s spirits began to rise, and she realized how depressed she had been without knowing it. She was not one to think of herself first. Any bent she had in that direction had long ago been burned away. But she was conscious, just a little, of wishing she had been invited on this journey, and not simply told it was her clear duty. But there was little else she could do. She had no money of her own, and without money there is little room for pride.
Far away she could hear gulls screaming over the bay, and closer at hand the curlews exploded out of the gorse. If she could just step as far as the edge of the cliff and look out upon the broad water below, she thought, the air would brush away the cobwebs draped over her mind by the closeness of the carriage.
But there was Helen.
Dutifully she turned back to the coach. Helen’s voice was rising ominously. “I know you told me the horse would go lame. What am I supposed to do about it? Climb out and put hot fomentations on it? It’s up to you and Clay to take care of me.”
Aubrey Talbot wore a harassed expression that bespoke more than one discussion of the sort. Trembling on his lips was a sharp retort, but he could not bring himself to utter the words. He should have insisted on turning back, he supposed, but in truth he longed to be elsewhere, and his mind was not on the present situation. Elsewhere — the thought crossed his mind — not any particular place, but only elsewhere.
His three-day journey, once undertaken, could not be abandoned, but his secret thoughts, always more amused than was suspected by all but his closest friends, ran along the lines of bands of brigands or smugglers carrying Helen off. It was the only relief he could expect Mary Bidwell spoke at his shoulder. “She’s really too tired to think,” she said soothingly. Her smile was kind and tolerant, and Aubrey shook his head.
“You’re as tired as anyone,” he said gruffly, “and yet you manage.”
“I’m used to it, you see,” she said carefully. “It makes all the difference.” She looked away. “What do you think it best to do?”
Aubrey’s attention was again riveted on his dilemma. “Send Peasley for horses. The town we just came through is closest, and we must simply wait it out.”
Ev
en though usually diffident, when the occasion arose Aubrey could be as decisive as anyone. At length it was decided that Peasley should go back to bring a job team, while Aubrey and the grooms stayed with the coach, keeping a sharp eye out for highwaymen. Within moments his man disappeared in the distance. The ailing horse was out of the traces, and Clay and a groom were discussing with a wealth of technical knowledge the exact moment when the horse had strained his joint, the probable disposition of the injury, and then launched upon a spirited disagreement as to the proper method of treatment.
In the meantime, Mary spoke gently to Helen. “Come now, let us walk away from this distressing scene, Helen. It will do you good. I so long to see the bay, and although I suppose it is an old and familiar scene to you, I confess I have never seen the channel in my life.”
“It’s not the channel,” said Helen, “but only Lyme Bay.” She descended from the carriage. “I suppose you think I’m unreasonable,” she said, after they had begun to stroll toward the cliff edge, “but truly it is this abominable journey that has put me off.”
“I know that,” said Mary quietly. “Never mind, it will soon be over.”
And then, she thought, I shall have to find someplace else to go. I do not know how long Helen will want me to stay…
Helen began to instruct Mary on the geography of Devon, and truly, when she tried, she could be charming, thought Mary. She was well informed, although a trifle pedantic, and if things went right, she was no more than ordinarily thoughtless.
They reached the cliff edge. Mary caught her breath. The broad expanse of water shimmered in the bright sunlight, reflecting all colors of blue, like shot silk.
Far off, three boats of a fishing fleet tacked toward land, accompanied by wheeling clouds of gulls. Where the girls stood on the cliff top, the cries of the gulls sounded faint and far off. Mary stood entranced.
