by Joan Smith
Had this been Lord Wickham’s second visit instead of his first, she would certainly have recommended his taking a wife, but she was not yet at that stage of intimacy, and the conversation veered to other topics.
“A charming assembly last night, was it not?” Wickham said, to draw Cecilia into the talk.
“I wonder that you left the party so early, if you liked it,” she replied saucily. Her sparkling eyes told him, “You may have cozened her, but I am not so easily fooled.”
“Having had my two dances with the most charming lady there, the rest was all futility. Mrs. Meacham will forgive my saying so, I trust. Her own lovely girls are much too young for an old Benedict like myself to presume to show an interest.”
Mrs. Meacham would have forgiven him for attempted murder when he was behaving so handsomely. “My two hussies have a certain set of lads in their eye, you must know,” she said.
Before Cecilia could turn this opening to any use, a servant appeared with wine and macaroons. Lord Wickham felt he had done the pretty with the hostess and turned his attention fully to the younger lady. “Miss Cummings, you are missing some fine riding weather. A pity you hadn’t brought your mount with you.”
“Alice has an old cob in the stable. You are welcome to it I’m sure,” the hostess mentioned. “Of course Bricks is ancient. The girls don’t ride much, since we removed from the Maples.”
“I have several mounts at the Abbey, if you would like to borrow one while you are here,” he offered.
There was a little chicanery in presenting this as a new idea, for she had already refused the offer the evening before. Cecilia began to understand that his courting of Mrs. Meacham was to make himself appear respectable. The challenging gleam in his eye confirmed her suspicion.
“You are very kind, but I cannot think—”
Mrs. Meacham cut her off in mid-speech. “That is mighty handsome of you, milord. Now there you are, Cecilia. There is plenty of room in the stable, and I can easily spare a groom, so you need not let that hold you back.”
“You forget, ma’am, my team are in the stable,” Cecilia pointed out.
Mrs. Meacham immediately gave a lengthy enumeration of the stalls, and the cattle in them, and ended up saying, “And that leaves two boxes standing empty all the live long day.”
“I’ll have Lady sent over this afternoon,” Wickham said. A smile of triumph rested on his arrogant face. “A tidy bay mare. Not up to my own weight. I shall accompany you on your first outing, to let you in on her little tricks.”
“A tricky one, is she?” Cecilia said, quizzing him boldly. “I wonder why that does not surprise me.”
“Well, she is a lady,” he riposted. Mrs. Meacham frowned at this non sequitur, but no one noticed. “Shall we say tomorrow morning, Miss Cummings?”
“You forget tomorrow is Sunday. We shall be at service in the morning.”
“Ah yes, so we shall.” A muscular spasm around his mouth betrayed his mood, without quite forming a smile. “Three o’clock then, if that suits you?”
She was torn between a very real desire to ride, and a wish to show Wickham a lesson. He was accustomed to having his own way—that much was patently obvious. He had come in and charmed Mrs. Meacham to do his bidding with a shower of insincere compliments. She wavered a moment, and while she wavered, Mrs. Meacham rushed in and settled the affair.
“There is no need to send Lady over this afternoon, Lord Wickham. Why do you not just bring her with you tomorrow afternoon, and save a trip?”
He shot a triumphant look at Cecilia. “An excellent idea.” Before any further demur was possible, he was on his feet, excusing his hasty departure, but he had a meeting with his man of business. A charming visit... He would call tomorrow at three... And he was gone.
“Well now, that was mighty handsomely done of him,” Mrs. Meacham declared, and glanced at the window. “There goes Sally Gardner again. She is like a dog after a cat. She’ll be galled that he was here. Aye, he’s fooled her this time. She has no excuse to go barging into his solicitor’s office. She’ll stay gawking in at the milliner’s window next door till he comes out.”
Cecilia glanced out the window and saw a sharp-nosed lady of provincial cut, staring at the solicitor’s closed door. She wore a frustrated face. “I ought not to have borrowed a mount on such short acquaintance,” Cecilia said. She feared she was talking to herself, for her companion had run to the window, monitoring Sally Gardner as closely as Sally was monitoring Wickham.
Mrs. Meacham heard, and answered. “Short acquaintance? You forget I have known Lord Wickham forever. Not well, you know, but as a neighbor. There is nothing in his loaning her to you when he cannot ride her himself. It is a pity he goes so little into society nowadays. Many a fine party was thrown at the Abbey when his wife was alive. She was quite a proverb for hospitality. She had the place done up after her marriage. That was only six years ago. I cannot think it is so bad as he says.”
Cecilia took up her embroidery and the two ladies settled into the companion chairs in the embrasure of the bay window for easier surveillance of the High Street. “What was she like?” Cecilia asked.
“Very pretty. Adrianna Heathmore is who she was before marriage. Her papa was a merchant. They say he made a monstrous deal of money in trade, but when they came here, he had sold out and set up as a gentleman on a nice estate about five miles north of the Maples. No one took much note of them at first, but then they sent Adrianna to London to make a debut, and that is where she landed Wickham. Her folks were thrilled to mince meat. She was a blonde girl, very pretty.”
Cecilia listened closely. If he liked blondes, then perhaps Martha might interest him. “Did you know her well after her marriage?”
“Not well. She did not mix a great deal with the local crowd. She was back in London on the slightest pretext and had the Abbey full of her and Lord Wickham’s friends. We were invited to a few large dos. They seemed a happy couple.”
“Why do you suppose she left him? I would not think a merchant’s daughter would have any regrets at marrying a lord, and a lord with an Abbey besides. She seemed happy, you say.” The idea occurred to her that the heavy partying might have been Wickham’s idea. From there it was an easy leap to imagine that he had taken a lover, and that was the cause of the rupture.
Mrs. Meacham had nothing to offer but conjecture. “Everyone thought she must be twopence short of a shilling to do anything so foolish. I expect she found us a dull lot. The man she ran off with—Gregory was his family name—was only a commoner, though a vastly rich man. She ran away with him to Italy—well, she knew her swell London friends would cut her dead. We all thought, when Wickham left, that he had run after her, but it turned out it was not Italy he went to first at all. It was Egypt and Turkey and such outlandish places. She and her Mr. Gregory bought up a villa in Florence, and that is where she died. Of a fever, folks said, but it wouldn’t surprise me if she just died of partying every night.”
“He does not speak of her at all. I have never even heard him mention her name, though he did say he was a widower. Of course I don’t know him well.”
“Pride, that is what is keeping him close on the subject. I would not advise you to mention her to him. The Wickhams are all as proud as Spanish grandees. There never was such a scandal in the family before. At least her dying saved the disgrace of a divorce. She never married Gregory, you know, but just lived in sin with him. I don’t know how a Christian girl could do it.”
A motion in the street distracted her from her story. “He must be coming out. There is Sally dropping a bag of buns all over the street. Ha, she has outdone herself this time. She has dropped a bottle of something, too—it is running down the gutter. What can it be? It looks like marbles. Olives! It is olives, nasty things, all pickled in brine. And here comes Lord Wickham. But she is out of luck. Mr. Cosby is helping her pick up the buns. They’ll be brushed off and put on the table, or I miss my bet.”
“That one won’t see
her table,” Cecilia said, when a mongrel grabbed one in its jaws and ran off. Lord Wickham entered the cobbler’s shop and came out with a long box.
“He is buying a new pair of top boots,” Mrs. Meacham conjectured. Cecilia was more interested to notice that he had good reason to drive his phaeton. It wasn’t deference to his call on her that caused it.
Their conversation was broken off by the entrance of the girls, back from the vicarage, and eager to hear all about Wickham’s visit. They had news of their own to relate as well. Andy Sproule had been at the vicarage. He had seen the Spanish dancer again and was looking forward to the new performer slated for that evening. The gentlemen, including Lord Wickham, planned to return to Jack Duck’s again that night. Any good Wickham’s visit had done was undone by this disclosure.
“We shall send out the invitations for our rout next Saturday evening,” Cecilia said, to keep their spirits up. Her own mood was one of grim determination.
It seemed no less than treachery that Wickham had come to see her, buttering up Mrs. Meacham and slyly arranging to return the next day. Why had he done it? The answer was clear to a six-year-old. He wanted to enjoy a ‘trifling’ friendship with her, and that would require her hostess’s cooperation. He was deceiving Mrs. Meacham into thinking his intentions were honorable, but between themselves, she was to understand it was not to be taken seriously.
Such conniving was hardly a new thing in the world. But it annoyed Cecilia that her best efforts, and she had put forth at least a very good effort, had produced so little effect. Wickham should be a little smitten with her by now. He was a cold, heartless man. She would not make any effort to hand him to Martha. That poor innocent lamb would be torn to shreds by him. He had very likely driven his wife to fleeing. He must be stopped, before he ruined Dallan and Wideman and Sproule. This case was proving to be her most difficult yet. It was because she had three young couples to manage, she told herself. But she knew it was not so. The spoke in her wheel was always Lord Wickham.
Chapter Seven
Once Lord Wickham’s visit was over, Saturday was but an indifferent day, and the evening was dismal. The knowledge that the gentlemen were enjoying themselves at Jack Duck’s did nothing to dissipate the gloom. Cecilia spoke bracingly of next Saturday, but no one save herself felt any certainty that next Saturday would be any better than this one.
There was a feeling afoot, not actually stated but inferred, that Cecilia was making more progress in securing a suitor for herself than for her cousins. She would be riding with Lord Wickham tomorrow, but if they so much as got walked home from church by their beaux it would be a wonder.
“You forget,” Cecilia pointed out, “tomorrow afternoon Lord Wickham will not be leading your fellows astray. If their customary pastime is to traipse about after him, they will be at loose ends. I cannot believe Wickham means to bring such a retinue on our ride.”
This gave sufficient encouragement that Mrs. Meacham sent out for a green goose, to be prepared in case of company.
Cecilia said, “You will be seeing the gentlemen at church tomorrow, I trust?” This was confirmed.
“Then you must encourage them to escort you home.”
“Henley does bring me home—when he is there, I mean,” Martha said, with an air of complaisance.
“Kind of him,” Cecilia replied, trying to control a sneer. “As he is a fan of Wickham’s, be sure to tell him that Wickham will be calling for me later in the day. If you can convince him I meant no slur on his tailoring, that might induce him to remain.”
“He will very likely stay if Lord Wickham is coming. Nothing is more likely to make him stay,” Martha said.
For the remainder of the evening they discussed arrangements for next Saturday’s rout. There were to be ten couples in all, and six sets of parents. Enough to allow dancing and cards respectively. Melancholy was kept at bay by this planning, and at eleven they retired.
At church on Sunday there was a surprise in store for the village. Who should go striding down the aisle to his family pew but Lord Wickham. Every head in the place turned, and every eye stared, as though he had been a tiger on the loose. It occurred to Cecilia that his coming might have something to do with herself, but really attending church was not necessary to lend their flirtation an air of respectability.
Soon her mind wandered down a different path. The Abbey was five miles from Laycombe. If he meant to call for her at three, he would have to move quickly to get home, take lunch, change, and return to the village. This was putting himself to more bother than merely dropping in while he was making a call to his solicitor!
A chat with Kate Daugherty after the service enlightened Cecilia as to how matters really stood. Lord Wickham had met her papa yesterday in the village. The vicar had done some strong hinting for a new organ, and Wickham had promised to attend a service to judge for himself whether one was required. The Daughertys had invited Wickham to take his mutton with them. He had brought his riding clothes with him and would call on Cecilia after lunch, bringing Lady with him.
While the ladies stood chatting together outside the old stone church, their gentlemen came up to join them, one by one. First came Sproule, a tall, thin, tow-haired young man. His interest in Mohammadanism never kept him from church. His own brother was in Holy Orders, and his whole family was religious. Next came Wideman. Dallan hung back a moment, perhaps because Miss Cummings was of the group. But when Lord Wickham headed toward the same party, he fell in with him and they came together to give their greetings.
Dallan bowed stiffly to Cecilia and said, “Good morning, ma’am,” with only the remnants of a sneer.
The sneer soon faded when Wickham said to her, “A fine day for our ride, Miss Cummings.” Dallan looked nonplussed, and turned aside to speak to Martha. He was soon complimenting Cecilia on her bonnet in a much warmer tone, and when she returned a compliment on his jacket, he began to find her a pretty good sort of woman.
“Daresay Stultz made my jacket a trifle tight about the waist,” he admitted to Martha. “Mama can let it out.”
A regular caravan set out for Meacham’s house three blocks away. Sally Gardener took the ill-advised idea of trying to crash the charmed circle, but Mrs. Meacham diverted her to warn her she had best get a good grip on her reticule, in case she should drop it. This jibe was softened by an offer of a drive home, which Mrs. Gardener accepted on behalf of herself and her daughter. At Meacham’s, the group divided, with Sproule, Kate, and Wickham continuing to the vicarage. They would all return after lunch.
Dallan and Wideman accepted an offer to remain to lunch with the Meachams, and as Wickham was lost to them for a few hours, they arranged to drive out with the girls. Sproule and Kate, they were sure, would want to be of the party as well. They would all drive halfway to Tunbridge Wells and back. It sounded a flat enough outing to Cecilia, but her cousins considered it a treat of the highest order. There was much dashing talk between the gentlemen of their bits o’ blood, sixteen miles an hour, and a mention of a race which would likely come to nothing, but made them feel bang up to the mark in front of Cecilia, whom Dallan now permitted to be top o’ the trees.
They could not set out till Wickham had come, but as he did no more than stand at the door bowing and offering Cecilia his arm, they were soon off on their jaunt halfway to Tunbridge Wells. Mrs. Meacham whispered aside to Cecilia that she must feel free to invite Wickham back to dinner if she wished. Cecilia decided to wait till they had returned and see if the others were remaining.
Lady was a frisky, silk-mouthed filly. As there was no mounting post, Wickham had to lift her into the saddle. It was a lady’s saddle, brown with blue trim. She wondered if it had belonged to his wife. “You were to alert me to her tricks,” Cecilia reminded him.
She made a pretty picture, looking down on him from the horse’s back, with the sun lighting her youthful face. There was health as well as beauty in her countenance and a general air of charm in her fashionable outfit. A feeling of
well-being came over him, as if life might be worth living after all. Some elemental emotion had already assaulted him when he sat in the old stone church, where he had sat so many times in happier days. But that had been more nostalgic. Out in sunny nature with a pretty young escort, it felt like a new beginning. He must tread softly or he’d find himself in danger. “You must know a lady uses no tricks, ma’am,” he replied lightly.
“You leave me to deduce that a gentleman does, then, as your pretext for escorting me on my first ride was to introduce me to Lady’s quirks.”
“Ah, a gentleman, that is another matter. We are all full of tricks,” he laughed. “That is a very becoming riding habit, by the by,” he added, skimming his eyes over her lithe body, that sat with natural grace on horseback.
“Thank you. Am I to assume flattery is one of the tricks I must be on guard against?”
“An Incomparable—do they still use the word?” She nodded. “An Incomparable like yourself must have received enough compliments and flattery to distinguish between them. You notice I did not compliment your bonnet. I don’t care for it. It is too severe. That glowing face deserves to be surrounded by flowers.”
“That is plain speaking to be sure, but for riding, flowers and feathers are a nuisance. In what direction do you mean to ride?”
Compliments and complaints, both rolled off her like water. Her obvious indifference to his opinions intrigued him. He didn’t want her undying devotion, but she should be at least a little interested in his feelings. “Toward the Abbey, if you have no objection.”
They cantered out through the west end of the village into a countryside brimming with golden sunlight, burgeoning with leaves and blossoms in early spring. The fresh greenery spoke of rebirth after a long, dark winter. Above them, birds soared in the azure arc of sky and chirped their mating call from every branch.
