Golden Barrier

by Mira Stables

  The sound of the stable clock striking four brought this pleasant little interlude to an end. Uneasiness showed itself again in Katherine’s rather pale little face. The fondling hand grew still. Presently she crossed to the stable window and peered out. There was no sign of the young Dorseys. She turned to Dermot in some uncertainty.

  “They said they would be back by four o’clock,” she said slowly. “The carriage is to take me up at the half after and we were to have some refreshment first. If we don’t go back to the house soon, I’m afraid someone will set out to look for us, and then it will all come out. Not that I would mind that, but I did promise not to tell—and they are sure to blame me.”

  Dermot looked at her compassionately. He had a pretty fair notion of the means that had been used to win her consent to remaining in the stable, all alone, for a whole afternoon, while the heedless pair were off about their own concerns. In any case that remark about ‘not telling’ and ‘blame’ was a dead giveaway.

  “I take it that it was my aunt who was not to be told,” he probed gently.

  Katherine nodded.

  “Then it is perfectly safe to go back to the house,” he told her. “My aunt has driven out. Visiting, I must suppose. The carriage passed me in the avenue as Nelly and I were returning. The best thing you can do, if you wish to avoid notice, is to write a note for my cousins saying that as the time was so far advanced you have gone back to the house with me. No one will think it in the least strange, I promise you; and if Emma and Thomas have gone down to the village they may well have forgotten all about the time—and you—and might not be home till dusk. You can leave the note on that stool. They are bound to find it there.”

  Katherine hesitated briefly. It was difficult to accept that her new acquaintances could be so careless and forgetful, even when their own comfort was at stake. The knowledge that she would not have to face the formidable Countess, who might have asked questions that she could not answer, tipped the scales. Presumably the promised refreshment would be dispensed by the housekeeper, who was unlikely to ask any questions at all, especially if she, Katherine, returned to the house with a member of the family. She nodded agreement to Dermot’s suggestion and accepted the offer of a leaf from his pocket book and the stump of a pencil for the writing of her note.

  Chapter Two

  “You do me too much honour, milord,” said Katherine punctiliously. “Pray do not think me the less appreciative that I feel myself obliged to decline your very obliging offer. Your friendship I must always value, but our tastes and our dispositions differ so widely that as life partners I feel that we should never suit.”

  This elegantly phrased set-down quite failed to abash Viscount Sandiford. “Oh, come, Kate,” he told her cheerfully. “You can’t treat me like that. Why! I’ve been counting on you this age past. You can’t just reject me out of hand. It’s not to assuage your pride, is it, because I paid some attention to the Melling chit last night? A pretty little creature, but she has not one tenth of your wit and charm. It was just that she seemed a little lonely, and I took pity on her.”

  “Most commendable, I am sure,” returned Katherine drily. “It is a pity that she has not one tenth of my expectations either. We might then have been spared this rather mawkish scene.”

  Lord Sandiford chuckled richly. “That is what I like best about you, Kate. You deal as straight as a man. What an excellent swordsman you would have made if only the pastime were permissible to your sex.”

  “Meanwhile I must make do as best I can with my wits and my tongue,” retorted Katherine, tartly, “and do not think to flummery me with yours. We have dealt extremely together, largely because you can always make me laugh—not only at you, but at myself. A priceless asset. As I said, your friendship I shall always value. But if you imagine that this partiality blinds me to your dealings with the muslin company, to your hopeless addiction to gaming, or to the fact that your pockets are wholly to let and your estates grossly encumbered, permit me to inform you that it does not. I am not innocent little Miss Melling, Julian. Despite my claims to gentility, I was bred up in business circles. I am twenty-two years old and wide awake to the time of day. I believe that you have a liking for me, and to that belief you owe the degree of patience that I have shown you. But that liking would not have prompted you to propose marriage if it were not for the money bags. It is not the first time that I have met this situation. Probably it will not be the last. But the answer is still and always, no. Somewhere in the world there may exist a man who would take me without my father’s money. Till then; thank you, but no, thank you.”

  “Well, that is plain speaking indeed,” said Viscount Sandiford, still quite unruffled. “But in common fairness, my dear Kate, have you ever considered the other side of the picture?”

  One could not but like his good-tempered way of accepting a sharp snub, thought Katherine. If, indeed, he had accepted it.

  “I am not your dear Kate,” she countered, “but you may show me the other side of the picture if you feel that it will help me to a more just appreciation of my fellows.”

  “Never mind the other fellows,” said his lordship bluntly. “Take one like me.”

  Katherine was too kind-hearted to retort that she had no intention of doing so. In any case, her companion was already in full flood of eloquence.

  “Only son. Brought up to believe that it was my duty to marry. Eventually,” he put in, hedging slightly as he saw Katherine’s amused expression, and remembered that he was already eight and twenty. “Very old family—succession to consider—that sort of thing. But a wife is an expensive item. Couldn’t expect the poor girl to moulder away down at Sandiford all the time. Place is practically falling down. All right for a few weeks in the hunting season, but pretty Spartan even then for a gently bred girl. And one wouldn’t marry any other sort.”

  For a moment it seemed as though the blood of that long line of proud ancestors stiffened his indolent pose, and Katherine treasured an unconscious compliment. Mongrel bred she might be—according to her father—but this suitor, at least, did not share that opinion.

  “That means we spend a good part of the year in Town,” continued the earnest orator. “My bachelor apartment is very snug, but not big enough for two, so I must hire a house and servants to run it. Even if we content ourselves with a female cook instead of a proper chef, we must have a butler and a kitchen boy, and at least half a dozen female servants. All this apart from the expense of setting up a small stable. Nothing ostentatious, naturally, but I couldn’t have m’wife driving hireling commoners. Then there would be her dress bills to be paid. My mother always paid hers, I know. Only time she and my father really quarrelled. Stuck to it that Madame wouldn’t oblige her with any more gowns until the bill was paid. So what with one thing and another you can see that it would soon run into several thousands—and that’s without the cost of entertaining. Do you wonder that a fellow looks about him for a partner that’s pretty well inlaid? Can’t expect him to stand that sort of nonsense without a bit of support, can you now?”

  Katherine compressed her lips firmly to conceal a strong inclination to smile at this ingenious bit of special pleading. It would be a mistake to show any trace of sympathy with his predicament; would only encourage him in the belief that she might change her mind. She said primly, “I can see that you have been giving a good deal of thought to the question of marriage. If, as you say, you believe it to be your duty to marry, such consideration is very necessary. But your attitude confirms me in the belief that I am not the right partner for you. I would certainly expect any prospective husband to be in a position to support me in modest comfort. If he had not the means to do so, then he would be obliged to master his natural impatience to make me his bride until he had made shift to remedy the deficiency.”

  “What! Even though you had more than enough for the pair of you?” exclaimed Lord Sandiford in genuine amazement.

  “Perhaps the more so for that reason,” returned Kather
ine firmly. And as he made no attempt to conceal his puzzlement, she went on quietly, “I am not of your order, milord. In the circles in which you are accustomed to moving I am well aware that such marriages as you describe are commonplace and perfectly acceptable. Generally speaking, one party contributes the wealth, the other brings rank or an ancient name. All I am saying is that it is not the kind of marriage for me. You must remember that I grew up in a different world. My father was the third son of a country squire of modest means. He was given a good education and left to make his own way in the world. You know how well he used his talents and his opportunities. That is why you are here with me today. But I, if ever I marry, will choose a man of my father’s stamp. His fortune may be modest enough, but like my father he will work and study to improve it. Nor will he despise the honest toil that forwards his prosperity. Such a man would consider it his right to support his wife. If she chanced to be well-dowered he might even prefer that her money should be tied up in trust for her children.”

  That was going a bit too far, she thought. She was making this mythical suitor sound positively priggish. But Julian’s nonchalant good humour was quite equal to the situation. He was prepared to discuss the case with genuine interest.

  “Shouldn’t think so for a moment,” he objected. “Not that fusty sort of fellow. Wouldn’t want his children coming into the world all hosed and shod. He’d want ’em to learn to stand on their own feet, and not be depending on inherited trust funds. Besides, he’d want to set the money to work to make more. You’d do far better to settle for an easy-going fellow like me, and so I shall still hope to persuade you. But no use trying to do so while you are all taken up with this paragon of all the hard working virtues. Who is he? Do I know him?”

  “For all I know you may well do so,” Katherine told him. And then, at his startled expression, she relented and added, “I certainly don’t. He’s just an idea. I haven’t even imagined what he might look like. And since you seem to understand his reactions to trust funds and idle wealth, you seem to know him just as well as I do. Why don’t you take a leaf out of his book? You’ve brains enough if you would only apply them. You might even achieve the relief of your financial necessities by a simpler means than marriage.”

  “But my good Kate! So much virtue! I should die of boredom before the year was out. Or I should be driven to such excesses by way of relief, as would quite set society by the ears. Which reminds me that I am appointed to drive Lady Snattisham in the Park this morning, and if I don’t wish to set her at outs with me, I had best bid you farewell. Don’t dream too long over your paragon; I promise you he would be a dead bore and most unamusing as a husband.”

  Julian certainly had the knack of getting over awkward ground lightly, reflected Katherine, when he had made his airy farewells. There was certainly no suggestion of the rejected suitor about his jaunty bearing as he ran lightly down the front steps.

  Lady Julia came in quietly. “You rejected him, I suppose? Not that it would have been a good match for you. His social position is everything that is to be desired, but he is all to pieces, of course. And, while he has an engaging personality, his morals leave a good deal to be desired. You were right to refuse him. But the thing is, my dear, that you have refused so many offers, and two of them really brilliant ones. Your situation is difficult, I allow. No girl wishes to be sought for her expectations alone. But I do not believe that such gentlemen as Mr. Beldon or Sir Robert Pendridge would have paid their addresses if your appearance and personality were not pleasing. Perhaps I am being foolish beyond permission, but it seems to me that even now you have still not outgrown your childish diffidence. Do you remember how I was forever urging you to set a higher value on yourself? Yet here you are, twenty two years old, nearing the end of your third highly successful season, and you still cannot bring yourself to believe in the sincerity of your friends and admirers.”

  “I might have believed in it more easily if I had not suffered one or two disillusioning experiences in my early teens. Because I was a quiet, docile child, a good many adults seemed to think that I was stupid, too. Once I actually heard the mother of one of my school friends describing Papa’s circumstances to an acquaintance, while I was standing plainly in her sight—and wondering how best I could creep tactfully away. She said that she had encouraged Hildegarde to invite me home for the holidays because one never knew when a man of such wealth and influence might not prove useful. I liked Hildegarde; I still do, but I don’t think I ever felt quite the same towards her afterwards. None of the other incidents were quite so blatant, but an impression once made”—and if she had spoken truth she would have admitted that it dated back to that unfortunate visit to the Priory before she had even gone to school—“reinforced by a hint here and there, and it is difficult to believe that any one is disinterested.”

  In a sudden access of feeling she turned sharply on her chaperone. “Even you, my love. Be honest, now. I know that you love me dearly, as indeed I love you, who have been the nearest to a mother that I have ever known. But can you be disinterested? Does not your comfort rest to some extent on the allowance that Papa pays you while I am in your charge? Both you and he express your pleasure in my modest social success, but do you never wonder what will become of you if I choose to accept one of these gentlemen who honour me by requesting my hand in marriage?”

  She dropped on her knees and buried her face in her chaperone’s lap. “Oh, dear Aunt Julia! Don’t you see how the money distorts everything? Even your kindness.”

  “Of course I do. And you are perfectly right. I have often wondered what would become of me when you were no longer in my charge, because, you know, one so soon becomes accustomed to the standard of comfort that your father’s generosity has provided. But at least you can rely upon your Papa. Undoubtedly he will make provision for me—probably an annuity—so you have no need to fear any partiality on my part if I commend one of your suitors too highly or seem to disparage another. Poor child.” She smoothed the bowed head. “What I can see is that you are quite worn out with all the excitements of the season, and sorely in need of a period of rest and relaxation. Will you not change your mind and come with me, after all, to Brighton? The sea air must have an invigorating effect, and I do not mean to be very gay. A few concerts and assemblies, perhaps, but, to be honest, I am more interested in the libraries and the coffee drinkings and, of course, the shops.”

  Katherine pulled herself out of her temporary abandonment. “Dear Aunt Julia,” she said affectionately. “You should rather be berating me for ill-humour and intemperate speech, than uttering soothing noises. But at least I will not burden you with my presence in Brighton. You shall enjoy a well-deserved rest. I will go down to Hays Park to Papa, as we arranged.”

  “And your future plans?” reminded Lady Julia gently.

  Katherine moved restlessly. “I do not know. I feel I cannot endure another Season, just frittering my life away in following the social round. I know that it pleases Papa, but he has no notion how boring it is, nor how hollow is the success that he rates so high. Perhaps I may have more chance to talk with him, now that he has largely withdrawn from his business interests; perhaps, even to convince him of the futility of my present way of life. For surely the chief object of making one’s debut and following the dreary routine is to catch a husband. And I do not think that I shall ever marry.”

  Lady Julia flung up her hands in horror. “My dear child! You cannot be serious. What else is there for a woman to do? You can only spend so much of your time in good works. You have already enjoyed every cultural opportunity that one can readily call to mind, and you cannot indulge in extensive travel since conditions on the continent forbid. If you do not marry—and even an arranged marriage would be better than none, since you would at least have the comfort of your children—you will dwindle into a religious minded spinster, whose only interest lies in deciding whether or no the Vicar has a tendency towards Rome. When your father dies—and it is in the natur
e of things that he will pre-decease you—you will have the added occupation of changing your will as the whim moves you. Surely even the Season, with the possibility that you may yet find a husband to your fastidious liking, is better than that?”

  “Much better,” agreed Katherine, laughing rather wryly at the picture that her aunt had conjured up. “Almost you persuade me to recall Lord Sandiford.”

  “And I daresay you could beckon him back by lifting an eyebrow,” nodded Lady Julia. “But you’ll do better than Sandiford. Poor boy.” She expended a brief sigh, tribute to his lordship’s easy charm.

  “Aunt Julia, what does become of all the débutantes who don’t marry?” said Katherine suddenly. “I suppose most of them have families who will support them in a fashion. They will be spinster aunts to their more fortunate sisters’ children. Useful and put upon, their comfort little considered. But how about girls like Camilla Westwell? She is perfectly beautiful, you will agree, of high pedigree and quite charming. But worse than penniless, because she has three sisters treading on her heels. What will become of her if she does not receive a respectable offer. For I am a little acquainted with her, and I fear that she has not received one yet.”

  “Her Mama is too eager, and does the girl disservice thereby,” said Lady Julia, reluctantly. “It is very sad. Everyone knows the state of Westwell’s affairs, and four daughters is a cross for any family to bear, especially as the estate is entailed and will go to a cousin. Left to herself the child might well have achieved a modest match. She is, as you say, quite charming. But Mama was maladroit, following up the smallest sign of interest with an eagerness too great; which only served to frighten possible suitors away.”