by Joan Aiken
“But, sir,” replied Juliana, so firm in her intention of not acceding to her grandfather’s plan in any way that she did not trouble to inform him what a very repulsive picture he was painting of this eligible suitor, “if you have not seen this gentleman since the American war, which took place nineteen years ago, how do you know he has not remarried?”
“Amn’t I telling you? Do not be continually interrupting me, miss! He was married at eighteen—wife died of typhoid fever—striken with sorrow—wouldn’t look at another woman—vowed never to marry again.”
“Then—if he has taken so firm a resolution—how can he possibly be brought to marry me—someone whom he has never even laid eyes on?”
“Don’t you worry your head—I’ll soon persuade him!” growled her grandfather. “I daresay he’ll heed what I say soon enough. Always had a regard for the young whelp, and he for me…”
Sir Horace heaved a sudden sigh, thinking of those far-off times in the American war, and for a moment he looked a much young man.
“What is this gentleman’s name? And where does he reside?” coldly inquired Juliana, thinking how unlikely it was that by any persuasions a confirmed and disconsolate widower should be brought to marry again. Her grandfather would be disillusioned soon enough; the man was certain to object to the plan; as Partridge had said, there was no need for Juliana to put herself in a taking.
“His name is Augustus Arpel. And as for his residence, I do not know it; I told you, he is working for the government as a courier; they will know where to find him at the Foreign Office. He always had a clever head. Ay, ay, he’ll do famously,” Sir Horace muttered to himself. “I’ll invite a letter to him directly, before I set out for Beccles.”
“Beccles, sir?”
“Ay, miss, Beccles. I was to have set off today—a fine deal of trouble you have put me to. On account of your cantrips I was obliged to defer my departure by a day, which was not at all convenient, let me tell you.”
And Sir Horace informed Juliana, who listened in some dismay, that Lord Lambourn’s express had caught him on the eve of his annual departure to visit his estates in Norfolk, where he proposed staying for five or six weeks.
She was not at all happy at the thought of remaining at Flintwood alone.
“Oh, sir! May I not accompany you?”
“No, you may not, miss! Are you clean out of your wits? A fine time of it I would have with you along, getting in my way at every turn. No, no, you must bide here, sew your sampler and mind your book—learn to ride on horseback—occupy yourself somehow—you had best get Hurdle to instruct you in her housekeeping ways. You have only yourself to thank, after all! Had matters been otherwise you would have been in town accompanying your cousins to all their ridottos.”
And the General bustled off to harry the servants about his packing, insult Clegg by rechecking all the meticulously arranged estate papers which he would take with him, and give Mrs. Hurdle unnecessary instructions as to the huge hamper of provisions with which he was equipped for the visit to his manor house at Beccles. Juliana discovered with relief that he would not be passing through London, but would travel by way of Oxford and Cambridge, where he proposed to spend nights with old friends; so that at least he would not hear any more tales of her own and her mother’s misdoings in the metropolis.
His train of two carriages, one for himself and one for servants and baggage, departed before noon, and Juliana was left to her own devices in the house, which suddenly seemed singularly large and empty, and notably silent, once the General’s energetic presence had been removed from it.
However the sun shone; the birds sang; daffodils were tossing their yellow heads in the formal garden to the side of the house; it would be folly to spend her first day restored to this beautiful spot in entertaining dark thoughts of kidnapping, adultery, theft, and attempted murder; instead Juliana ran upstairs and put on Miss Ardingly’s renovated velvet riding habit, then repaired to the stable, where she told Goatcher, the head groom, that she had her grandfather’s permission to learn to ride on one of the quieter horses, and asked which he would recommend.
“Bless you, missie, the powny that rolls the lawns and drives ’ud carry you a fair treat while you’re a-learning, and he’s mild an’ biddable as an old kitchen table. I’ll have him saddled up in the shake of a lamb’s tail.”
So the pony was brought out, and Juliana happily spent the rest of the day walking, trotting, falling off, laughing, and remounting; by dusk she had three times risen to the trot, and was stiff, triumphant, and exhausted.
“We’ll have ye out cubbing, come autumn time, missie,” said Goatcher. “Now you’d best go and have a bath and ask Mrs. Hurdle to put some of her bean-flower essence in it, else you’ll be eating your breakfast off’n the mantelshelf!”
While Juliana was eating her solitary supper that evening, Mrs. Hurdle said, “There, missie, I clean forgot, in all the scuffle of Master’s going, there’s been a letter as came for ye two days agone; since you was expected home, we kept it for you.”
Captain Davenport! was Juliana’s first hopeful, joyous thought; but when she opened the folded paper she saw that it was signed “John Murray” and was from the publisher’s office in Albemarle Street. The writer expressed his great regret at having been absent from the office on the occasion of Miss Paget’s visit, and his grief at the news of her father’s untimely death; went on to praise The Vindication of King Charles I in terms of the most unqualified enthusiasm; hoped that if Miss Paget herself ever considered taking pen in hand to formulate some literary or historic essay, she would honor Mr. Murray by allowing him to be its first reader; and lastly begged her to accept the enclosed draft, which was moneys outstanding on the last book by Mr. Charles Elphinstone; the advance of the new book would be prepared and ready for forwarding during the next few weeks. “Your esteemed father’s life of Villiers sold very well,” Mr. Murray concluded, “and I am very certain that this new work will do even better.”
Out from between the pages fluttered a draft for eight hundred pounds!
Juliana was so astonished by this that she sat for many minutes regarding it in silent amazement. Was this, she fleetingly wondered, the reason for her mother’s persistent interest—the wish to profit from her ex-husband’s works? But, no, that seemed too improbable. She showed the note to Mrs. Hurdle, who presently came to take her tray.
“Look at this, Mrs. Hurdle! It is money that my father earned by his book writing!”
“Well, there, miss, fancy that! He always was a clever one, the young master. Mr. Clegg will cash that for you, I daresay, and then you can buy yourself a new pelisse. I wonder that your auntie never saw you properly fitted out while you was in town.”
“Oh, my old one will do for down here,” said Juliana.
However, she did take the draft to Clegg, who promised to cash it for her at a bank in Winchester, and meanwhile gave her fifty pounds on account.
“Though what I will do with fifty pounds down here,” Juliana said, laughing, “it has me in a puzzle to imagine!” However, she tucked the notes into a pocket which, country-fashion, she wore under her skirt.
Several days now passed in peaceful occupations: Juliana continued with her riding lessons, helped Mrs. Hurdle mend the household linen and make new aprons for the maids, picked spring flowers in the garden, walked in the forest, and read extensively in her grandfather’s library. She could see, now, where her father must have acquired his taste for history; the library at Flintwood was singularly well furnished in that respect; some historically minded member of the family must have expended great pains in acquiring an impressive number of volumes, and Juliana happily spent her evenings in this room, climbing up and down the steps, candle in hand. The only volumes lacking from the collection, she sometimes sadly thought, were her father’s own works.
On the fifth day, as she was trotting the garden pony across
the grass sward at no great distance from the house, and was endeavoring, without success, by means of thumps from a hazel wand, to persuade him to change his heavy trot to a canter, she noticed a horseman coming up the drive. He came closer; she could recognize him now; it was Captain Davenport! Seeing her, he took off his hat and waved it; then turned his horse in her direction. So they met in the middle of the grass.
“You see me as yet a very indifferent horsewoman!” Juliana said, laughing, to cover the excited thumping of her heart. “However, I persevere, and my will, at least, is quite as strong as the pony’s; I am in hopes that after a few months I shall make him mind me well enough to canter… But, Captain Davenport, what brings you here? I had thought you fixed in London.”
“You bring me, dear Miss Juliana,” he replied, his ardent gaze fixed on hers. “I felt that in London, without your nearby presence, I was but half alive; so I posted down to visit my friends in Southampton, and have lost no time in riding over to see how you did. Tell me your news? Were you kindly received by your grandfather? Was he displeased at your return? Will he receive me, do you suppose?”
Juliana explained that her grandfather was from home, away in Norfolk. Captain Davenport’s face fell very much at this intelligence.
“In that case,” he said doubtfully, “as you have no chaperone, perhaps it will not be correct in me to call on you?”
“Well, I can see no harm in our riding up and down here,” said Juliana hopefully. “I daresay all the servants have their eyes glued to the windows, so they can see that we are behaving with perfect propriety.”
A smile touched his features; but faded again. “Dearest Miss Juliana! I love your sportive wit,” he said. “But, in truth, I deeply regret the General’s absence. I had hoped—I had planned to speak to him—” He paused, looked at Juliana, and said simply, “My most earnest wish was to ask your grandfather if I might be permitted to pay my addresses to you. It cannot have escaped you, Miss Juliana, that I entertain those sentiments towards you which—which are not sufficiently nourished by friendship alone! My feelings are of a deeper nature! I had wished to ask for your hand in marriage.”
Juliana blushed rosily. The fact that she was on horseback when she received this declaration, however, helped her retain command of her feelings, which might otherwise have become tumultuous. She drew a deep breath, shortened her reins, and said after a moment, with a fair assumption of calm, “Sir, you do me great honor. And—I cannot deny—that for myself I would be happy to receive your proposals in the most favorable spirit! But I am afraid that with my grandfather it might be otherwise. He has announced his intention to marry me off to a distant connection of his, a widower.”
“Damnation!” cried Captain Davenport. It was the first time she had seen him lose control of his temper; she liked him for it. “To marry you—you, peerless in your youth and beauty, to some ageing, gouty, snuffy dotard—how can he perform such a heartless act?”
“Oh, very easily, I fear,” said Juliana. “He is only too anxious to get me settled and off his hands.”
“But in that case, do you not think that, if he knew of it, he might be favorable to my suit? If his principal aim is to see you settled?” Captain Davenport asked earnestly. “If I were to write to him, for example?”
“You could do that, I suppose,” Juliana said, a note of hope in her voice.
“I will do so directly!”
“But I am bound to tell you, Captain Davenport, that I am not at all certain of his approval. He is not disposed to regard me with any favor at the moment, and I think the very fact that you—that you are so obliging as to wish to offer for me—might be enough to put him against the match.”
He looked dismayed, but said, “No matter. Perhaps he is not so hard-hearted! I will write forthwith—if you will be so kind as to give me his direction in Norfolk?”
Juliana had been forwarding her grandfather’s letters for some days; she said, “It is the Manor House, Staitheley, Beccles.”
“I go to write on the instant,” said Captain Davenport, and turned his horse about. Then he paused, took Juliana’s hand, kissed it, and inquired with the most respectful devotion, “Until I hear from him—may I continue to visit you? Flesh and blood would find it hard indeed to be so near and remain away!”
“I do not see any objection to your coming,” she said after thinking it over. “We can ride here, in the park; there is surely no harm in that?”
“Those words make me the happiest man in Hampshire,” he said, and put spurs to his horse.
Juliana rode slowly toward the stables.
During the next three days, Captain Davenport’s handsome figure and his dapple-gray horse became a familiar sight in the park at Flintwood. For hours together he and Juliana rode slowly to and fro under the spreading oaks, or across the sheep-cropped turf, to and fro, to and fro, talking about places in Italy that they both knew, about books they had read, poems and plays and writers they admired. Juliana told him about her father’s writing, and about the money she had received from John Murray; she discovered that “Charles Elphinstone” was a writer Captain Davenport had long admired, and, while not depreciating the eight hundred pounds, he trusted that she might receive considerably more for the next work, which he was sure deserved it. They discussed the revolution in France, and its effects on the people there. They talked about London society, and about each other: an inexhaustible topic.
On the third day Mrs. Hurdle said rather doubtfully to Juliana at breakfast time, “Lord knows, miss, I don’t wish to pry, nor to deprive you of any harmless diversion, for you seem to me as decent and sensible a young lady as ever stepped, but does Master know of this young gent as keeps coming a-calling? Clegg and me was wondering if it is right for him to be coming here day after day in such a regular manner, with Master away.”
“I think we are doing no harm,” Juliana told her, “for the gentleman came to my aunt’s house in London—and also he has written to my grandfather asking if he may pay his addresses to me.” She felt, a little guiltily, that she was prevaricating somewhat here, but the housekeeper’s brow cleared at once.
“Sure if the young man’s known to Lady Lambourn and has writ to your grandpa, that’s quite another matter, miss! I only thought it best to ask, seeing how mighty great you and the gentleman seemed to be becoming with one another. You’ll pardon the liberty, miss, I’m sure.”
“Indeed I will. You did very right, Mrs. Hurdle,” said Juliana, feeling even more hypocritical.
However, later that morning Captain Davenport arrived with a very long face. Juliana could see at once from his bearing that something was greatly amiss.
“Oh, what is it?” she cried, when their horses met, halfway up the drive.
“It is all over!” he groaned. “My hopes are at an end!”
“Why, what has happened—has he answered your letter?”
“He has written—in such language—utterly withholding his consent to my desires—to my presumptions, as he calls them; he has pronounced my doom in no uncertain terms; oh, how can I endure it?” he cried out in anguish, and he clasped his head in his hands, but, his steed becoming restive, he was obliged to lay hold of the reins again.
“My grandfather gave you no hope at all?” said Juliana, aghast.
“None—none! He is unalterably set on your marrying this elderly acquaintance of his; he has no pity at all for our youth and our tender affections.”
“It is strange—it is very singular that he has not written to me also,” said Juliana.
“He has done so, my dearest love; doubtless you will receive the epistle tomorrow; in my letter he said that he had written you in the most peremptory terms, bidding you abandon all thought of marrying me and cease having any communication with me. You are to dismiss me from your thoughts.”
“Heaven help me, how am I to do that?” cried Juliana. “I must be
obedient to my grandfather—I owe him my physical duty—but my thoughts, my affections, are my own, and they will forever be yours, my dearest Francis! Even wed to another, I shall never, never forget you.”
And she fixed her eyes upon his grave and handsome features, as if determined to learn them by heart. A miserable silence ensued, of no short duration.
“There is but one thing,” said he at last, in a hesitant manner, “that we might do—but no, I dare not suggest it.”
“What is that?” she asked eagerly.
“You may not like it, my dearest—indeed, I am sure you will not—but I see no way out of this coil otherwise. You will be married off to this aged stranger, and I, for the rest of my days, must eat out my heart with longing for my lost love.”
“What are you suggesting?” said Juliana with a beating heart.
“Why, that we should travel to Scotland and be married there—that we should elope.”
“Elope!”
“I do not, in the general way, approve of such headstrong, indecorous, precipitate behavior,” said he gravely, “but in the present circumstances, what other course have we? Your grandfather is not to be persuaded! Yet, after all, I am engaged in a respectable calling—I come of an old and well-established family; I am able to support you; there can be no real objections to our marriage; and, once it is an accomplished fact, I hope that the old gentleman may be brought to accept it readily enough. It is only that he has taken this obstinate notion into his head—as old men will!—that he wishes you to marry this friend of his, I daresay a most unsuitable parti; once he is obliged to set this scheme aside, there is no reason in the world why he should not countenance our connection.”
