by May Burnett
“Please be frank,” she invited gravely. “You do not believe I would be happy with Lord Winstanton?”
“You are too fine and sensitive to be happy with a man of his coarse fibre. I fear he would quench that cheerful, happy spirit which is your greatest adornment. From what I have observed, he is not worthy of you, Lady Anthea.”
She did not contradict him, merely nodding thoughtfully as he stopped speaking. “That is not the way my cousin Cecily and my new sister put it, but they have offered similar assessments.”
“Then I beg you, as a sincere and devoted friend – even though we have not known each other long – to take their advice under serious consideration.”
She did not reply, but the way she sat beside him, in silent contemplation, encouraged him to continue. “I speak without selfish motives, as I would not dare aspire to your hand even were you free. All I wish for is to see you happy and contented.”
“But with a different man than Lord Winstanton?”
“There are good men in the world, Lady Anthea, though possibly not many who truly merit your regard.”
“I hope there are – but are there good men in the ton? From the few times a lady meets a suitor during the Season, it is very difficult to gain an accurate picture of his true nature.”
Charles did not reply. The very question indicated that she was seriously thinking of giving Winstanton his marching orders. He felt unreasonably elated.
“It can lead to unpleasant gossip, ending an engagement,” she said slowly.
“Nobody who knows and admires you would believe that sort of gossip.”
“That still leaves almost the entire population of the British Isles unaccounted for,” she said pragmatically. “Such a step cannot be taken without due care and consideration.”
She was right, of course. Four years abroad were not enough to have forgotten the corrosive nature of society gossip. For a young lady born into the first circles, avoiding censure would be a constant preoccupation.
“Whatever happens, your family and friends will always stand by you,” he said in partial reassurance. “There are some junctures in a life where we must do what we feel is best, without regard to the malice of strangers.”
She nodded thoughtfully, but did not pursue the thought. “Here is our next destination, the cottage of the Bottons. He has rheumatic fever and she suffers from palsy. Their fourteen-year old daughter runs the household as best she can.”
“Poor girl,” Charles muttered. It was a timely reminder not to focus exclusively on the comparatively facile problems of the aristocracy. Tragedy was to be found all around them.
“Her name is Ellen,” Anthea said. “Come on, Mr Denham, let’s try to bring her some small relief.”
He nodded tersely as he prepared to follow her into yet another cottage.
Over the course of their visits his admiration for Lady Anthea grew by leaps and bounds. She truly cared about these people and their problems and talked to them with true interest without condescension, and was greeted with genuine welcome rather than resentment. Anthea dealt competently with details of sickness and infirmity, betraying not a whit of impatience or disgust. Most young people of her strapping health and beauty would struggle to find the right words when shown a burst abscess or handed a nauseous home-brewed concoction, but she was never at a loss.
If only she had not been an earl’s daughter, she would make the ideal bride for him … but those were mere daydreams. Even if she gave Winstanton a well-deserved boot, she was still out of reach.
But if he could not be anything else, he would be her friend. It sounded as though she could use one.
Chapter 23
In adversity you find out who your true friends are (if any).
Maxims for Young Gentlewomen, by A Lady, London 1823
The note Silas had received asked him, politely enough, to see Lord Desborough in his study at four. He eyed it suspiciously, but it contained no clues regarding the subject his future father-in-law planned to discuss.
Had Anthea gone straight to her father, complaining of his threats and asking for his support to break the betrothal off? It did not fit his estimation of her character, but it was possible. No, most likely this note only concerned the dowry, in view of Cherry’s enormous claim. Peter had told Silas all about the discussion with his father. Sometimes it paid off to cultivate the clueless and garrulous.
His brain weighed options, arguments, and the expected reactions. At least he was forewarned, which always helped when he confronted people of vastly different values, who presumed to judge him by their incomprehensible standards and priggish mind-set. It had taken Silas years of practice, but by now he took pride in routinely fooling them.
“Hello, Silas, good of you to come,” the Earl greeted him politely enough.
So Anthea had not complained of his threats, or his reception would have been much cooler, or hotter. He relaxed a little.
“I am at your service, naturally,” Silas returned with an easy smile. “As your future son-in-law…”
The Earl did not contradict him, but the way he scrutinized his features betrayed a shade of doubt. Silas broadened his smile another fraction.
“You asked me to inform you immediately, if there was any problem with Anthea’s settlements,” the older man said.
Ah. So there it was.
“And are there any problems?” Silas kept his voice even, unconcerned.
“Unfortunately it will be necessary to curtail her dowry by half.” The Earl did not sound particularly regretful. “We were not reckoning with Cherry’s existence when her dowry was settled on her. Anthea is not yet of age; as her guardian I can revise the provisions.”
“I see,” Silas said neutrally, his brain working furiously. Peter had told him that Lord Desborough was determined to safeguard Anthea’s portion. Nor was it like the Earl to draw back from a signed and sealed contract. The marriage settlements could not be unilaterally altered, irrespective of Anthea’s age.
“If you feel that in view of these changed circumstances the engagement should be dissolved by mutual consent, I would quite understand,” the Earl continued suggestively, watching him keenly as he spoke.
So that was it – he was testing Silas! Either Anthea herself or some busybody must have sown doubt about Silas’s commitment to the marriage. The dowry was safe enough.
Now that Silas knew what he was about, it was child’s play to take his cue. His answer had been carefully thought out in advance, for just this situation.
“How can you even suggest it, Sir? I count myself a very lucky man to have won the hand of your daughter, and would not renounce if over mere financial considerations. Anthea herself is the real treasure, over and above her dowry.”
The Earl appeared nonplussed. Good. Silas was only just getting into the spirit of his performance. “She is a delightful girl – young woman, I suppose I should say – and even if her dowry were entirely lost, I must confess that I would still in honour feel bound to marry her, after the way we have been carried away … But I am saying too much.”
The Earl’s brows contracted in sudden anger, exactly as Silas had anticipated.
“Are you saying you have debauched my daughter, Winstanton? I won’t believe it!”
“Sir, it was not my intention … but she is so very attractive, and innocently open with her favours … and we are to be married so soon… surely there is no real harm done.” He put an apologetic look on his face, inwardly revelling at the Earl’s impotent fury. “Whatever you decide about the dowry can be handled by our respective solicitors. But the marriage must certainly go forward. Anything else would not be compatible with my honour.” Take that! He was not to be caught out by an old fool like Desborough. If he allowed Anthea’s family to end the betrothal, he would have to begin the tedious courtship routine all over, with some other woman. Not if he could help it, and he always got his way; everybody kept underestimating him.
The Earl was silent for ove
r a minute, wrestling with his dismay and anger, but realising that Silas had him over a barrel.
“I hold you entirely to blame,” he said at last. “My daughter is young and innocent, and you had no right to go beyond kisses at this stage. A man of experience and savoir-faire does not get carried away like that.”
“I am sorry,” Silas said, trying to look rueful. He considered adding that Anthea was too pretty and irresistible, but that might be overdoing it; besides, he had not been spending so much time in her company that it would sound credible. “I fear I was already thinking of her as my wife. Is there anything else you wanted to discuss?”
“Not now,” the Earl returned, still visibly upset. “You’d better go. Don’t worry about the dowry.”
So his guess that the dowry was untouched had been on the mark. Silas nodded, hiding his satisfaction, and left the study. After this stroke, nothing Anthea might do or say would prevent the marriage. It would be fun to crush her naïve hopes and force her to accept the inevitable.
Prudently, he did not whistle until he was well away from the Earl’s study.
***
Anthea, who had been whiling the afternoon away with a new subscription novel, was summoned to her father’s study forthwith. Upon perceiving his set features and flashing eyes, she felt a first vague frisson of alarm. What could be the matter? She had toyed with the idea of appealing for his help, as Cherry had suggested, but obviously this was not an appropriate time.
“I have just had a talk with Silas,” the Earl said sternly. “He is not worried about your dowry, as you feared. However, I am shocked and disappointed at what he told me - that you have already been intimate, three months before the wedding date … Have you any idea how very imprudent that is?”
Anthea stared at him. “Intimate?” At the very idea, a blush stole over her whole body. “Did he say so? It is not true!”
“Don’t lie to me, Anthea.”
She was so hurt at the injustice of the accusation and his cold tone, that her throat closed up and tears welled in her eyes.
“I am not lying,” she managed to say after a moment, her voice shaky. “Winstanton is. He threatened to do it, so that I would not be able to break off the engagement.”
“That makes no sense whatsoever. He would be slandering himself as well as you.” The Earl sighed. “I suppose an innocent of your age was no match against an experienced man of the world like Silas. It is not the end of the world, as you are to be wed soon; I only hope that you will not bear a seven months babe, as your sister Cherry is about to.”
“There is no chance of that.” Why would he not believe her? It was her word against Silas’s, and she was his own daughter. Was it just that Silas had been able to get his story in first? She was wringing her hands in distress, and forced them apart by an act of will.
Against hope, she tried once again. “Papa, please believe me, Winstanton is a wicked man who would make a terrible husband. I have been most unhappy already, and on the verge of breaking with him. This tale is his way of forcing me to marry him after all. Ask Cherry, she overheard him threaten me with just this slander when I tried to return that ugly emerald ring to him.”
“I don’t want to hear any more,” he said coldly. “Your unrepentant attitude is almost worse than what Silas told me-“
“Because I have nothing to repent of!” Her voice rose. “Except a foolish engagement to a heartless scoundrel!”
“You will go to your room right now, and remain there until further notice, contemplating your behaviour. I am truly saddened and cannot understand you at all.”
His face was closed, his mind clearly made up. At that moment at least, there was nothing more she could do. She was in disgrace, for something of which she was entirely innocent. She had not even allowed Silas to put his tongue between her lips, and now she was supposed to have done that… the disgusting things Cherry had described. Just as well she had explained, or Anthea would not even know what her crime was supposed to be. She ineffectually wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, as she went stumbling up the staircase on the way to her room.
“Lady Anthea! Are you all right?” Charles Denham’s innocently enquiring face, full of genuine concern, was right before her, only slightly blurred by the tears still welling from her eyes.
With an effort, she tried to compose herself.
“I see you are not. Is there anything I can do? It pains me to see you unhappy.”
“Yes, actually,” she took a deep breath. She needed to focus, deal with this catastrophe, rally allies to her side. “Could you send my sister Cherry and my cousin Cecily to my sitting room in later in the evening, before they retire? I probably won’t be at dinner, and I urgently need their counsel.”
“Why not right away?”
“They are out with my Mother now, paying calls.”
He nodded briefly. “What about your mother and your aunt, Mrs Trevor?”
Anthea dreaded to think what her prudish mother would say or do. “They will come to me in any case, but I need to consult my friends.”
“I will send them to you without fail.” Denham left, and she continued upstairs, heaving a sigh of relief. Her father might not believe in her, but she was not quite alone, or without resources.
She would not allow Silas to win, even if she was ruined and shunned. Tis latest perfidy proved him unfit to be anyone’s husband. He would no doubt find some desperate woman to take him on eventually, who already had Anthea’s pity – but first she had to escape from his clutches.
Chapter 24
Losing your illusions is far more painful than losing your purse.
Maxims for Young Gentlewomen, by A Lady, London 1823
It had been over two years since Anthea had been confined to her rooms, for some minor infraction long forgotten. She paced her sitting room as she waited for the inevitable confrontation with her mother. The dim light of the afternoon was waning, but it seemed too much effort to light the candles on the mantelpiece.
Supposedly she was an adult, soon to be married and become the mistress of a large household. Why was she being punished like a naughty child? It made no sense. Contemplating the unfairness of her position, tears welled once again, and she made no effort to wash them off or wipe them away.
If she focused on her anger, her sense of betrayal, she might be strong enough to stop crying. But not right away. It was shattering, this sudden reversal from a beloved daughter to a supposed delinquent – a fallen woman, in her parents’ eyes, she thought bitterly. She knew better than to expect her mother to believe her, when her father had not. In her mother’s world the kind of cunning Silas had practised was unimaginable.
How could anyone suppose she had willingly engaged in those disgusting embraces with Silas? According to Cherry the act was not necessarily pleasurable, especially the first few times. Why on earth was Anthea even suspected of doing something that went so completely against her inclinations?
She had never in her life felt so thoroughly alone and abandoned. If only Cecily had been here, but the other ladies of the house were engaged on a series of afternoon calls, during which they would also distribute invitations to next week’s dinner party. A dinner party in honour of the Earl’s newly found eldest daughter, Lade Madeline, and her husband. The week after that, her mother had planned another dinner party in honour of Anthea’s forthcoming nuptials to Silas. As though that betrothal deserved even a moment’s celebration! Mourning would be more appropriate.
Her throat felt sore and constricted, as if a band was being tightened around it, choking her. She stopped her pacing to pour water from her pitcher into a glass, and slowly sipped it; the liquid was blessedly cold.
“I curse you, Silas Goffroy,” she murmured. She wanted to shout it out loud, but if she were overheard, that might only lead to being treated as a madwoman. She could not afford the slightest additional weakness.
How had she been so taken in? But maybe she was too hard on her younger self. An
yone seeing Silas for the first time, especially in his impeccable evening attire, would assume him to be as elegant inside as outwardly. He had a charming smile and could play the serious or playful suitor to perfection. At least he had done so in London; here in Kent the mask had begun to slip, out of boredom and the sense that she was already won, she had to assume. She might be young and inexperienced, but her parents had also been deceived, were still deluded even as her own vision had cleared.
It was close to dinnertime already. That her maid had not come to her was a bad sign – what had the servants been told? Were her parents unaware that even if Silas’s story had been true, it would be beyond foolish to let the servants know about his accusations? Or had their momentary anger overcome common sense, and was everyone in the Hall discussing her fall from grace, her wanton nature? It seemed all too possible.
Dinnertime came and went, without her mother, and without any food. Anthea was not physically locked in – should she simply go outside and act as though nothing at all was the matter, as was in fact the case? Head high, giving the lie to Silas’s accusations? No; going against her father’s edict would only worsen her situation.
She found the glass in her hand empty and looked at it blankly, before setting it down on the tray. Finally her tears had stopped, but she must look a fright. Maybe it was for the best that she was missing dinner; she would easily survive missing one meal. She always had a box of chocolates in her rooms, but did not have the heart to find it, her appetite was low. So this was how people started to go into a decline - missing first one meal, then many, hiding themselves away in shame and humiliation.
She was not so abject, and had no intention of going into a decline. Anthea poured cold water on a linen cloth, and carefully washed her face. After drinking another glassful of water, she found her chocolate box after all and ate three pieces, one after the other, defiantly.
