by Ann Barker
‘Oh, think no more of it,’ replied the other carelessly. ‘I am sure I have not. But come, let us talk of more interesting topics. You know perfectly well that I am longing to know how matters stand between you and that charming doctor.’
Emily turned upon her an expression that was wholly baffled. She might have described the doctor as many things, but charming was not one of them.
For a moment, an impatient look crossed Mrs Hughes’s lovely features. Then, trying another approach, she said, ‘Has he proposed yet? I made sure that he would do so this afternoon. In fact, I was telling Gareth of my suspicions as we were walking behind you.’
‘And did he entertain the same suspicions?’ Emily asked.
‘Oh yes,’ responded Mrs Hughes, with a ruthless disregard for the truth. ‘In fact, I believe that it was his idea to invite the doctor today, to give him that very opportunity.’
‘That was very kind of Sir Gareth,’ answered Emily, finding that this notion hurt, but not really understanding why.
‘Oh, Gareth can be the kindest of men,’ replied Mrs Hughes blithely. ‘So much so, that many ladies have mistaken his kindness for something rather more … intimate, shall we say? And of course he cannot bring himself to repulse them; especially if they are past their last prayers.’ She stopped abruptly as if she had suddenly realized the infelicitous nature of what she had just said. ‘Of course, I do not mean you, dear Miss Whittaker,’ she went on rather awkwardly. ‘You are already spoken for. Though even there, I fear, dear Gareth can sometimes be rather naughty – testing just how faithful some ladies really are, you know. Of course, I am never jealous. I know where his affections really lie. And here we are, back at the White Hart Inn. What a lovely chat we have had, have we not? Such a pleasure to hear all your views.’
Emily was left reflecting that in fact, it had been Mrs Hughes who had been doing most of the talking, and half the time, she had been saying things that it had given Emily no pleasure to hear.
Mrs Hughes had not failed to notice that Emily had had a much better view of the gentlemen on the journey there, so on their return, she insisted on taking the backward facing seat. Mrs Trimmer was noticeably tired, and after Emily had assured her that she had no particular desire for conversation, the clergyman’s wife closed her eyes and dozed. Mrs Hughes exchanged desultory conversation with her cousin whilst Mr Trimmer and Sir Gareth kept a careful eye on a rather tired Oliver. This left Emily free to think her own thoughts for much of the time. Almost inevitably, in view of what had taken place during the day, she found herself thinking about the baronet. She found that she only had to think about Sir Gareth Blades, the smile in his eyes and the touch of that strong hand, and the colour came to her face, her breathing became shallow and her heart began to beat twice as fast as usual.
How kind he had been that afternoon, and how sensitive to her needs! She did not need Mrs Hughes to inform her that Sir Gareth Blades was kind. She had seen that in evidence in his care for his nephews, his sensitivity to her father’s feelings, even in his forbearance over Lord Stuart’s silliness. Might not his attentions to her spring from that same well of kindness; a kindness which had also prompted him to include Dr Boyle in the outing, believing him to be the man of her choice?
The problem with this theory was that there had been things that Sir Gareth had done and said which, if proceeding from kindness, could only indicate kindness of a very odd nature. Flirting with her, for example; looking at her ankles; even kissing her beneath the imp. Of course there was always the possibility that a society man might think that by showing an ageing spinster such attentions, he was being kind.
This was a lowering reflection, but it made no difference to the way that she felt about him. She had been aware for some time that she was becoming fond of him; she had not really understood the nature of this fondness until that afternoon when he had offered to be her brother, and she had refused him. The affection that she had for him was of a very different nature.
I must be in love with him, she told herself in wonderment. It was such a powerful moment of self-awareness that she found herself looking at the other occupants of the barouche, certain that those around her must have picked up some signal from her. It was almost surprising that Mrs Trimmer should still be dozing, and that Mrs Hughes should be gazing idly at the passing scenery. For Emily, this new understanding meant that nothing could ever be the same again. The fact that Sir Gareth would never ever glance at a plain clergyman’s daughter of thirty except to be kind to his old friend’s sister made absolutely no difference to her feelings. Nor did the appearance of the elegant lady whom she had met so recently, and who was clearly intimate with the baronet; quite how intimate, she did not dare guess.
She had never before had any personal experience of love. She had learned something of its nature by observing the very real affection between Nathalie and her handsome husband, but naturally these observations were at second hand.
At one time, she had considered marrying Dr Boyle for all kinds of reasons of expediency. Now, she could hardly believe that she had even contemplated such a step. It almost seemed as if her love for the baronet had transformed her into a completely different person. All at once, to her astonishment, she realized that she could not marry the doctor, or, indeed, any man; for if she could not have the man whom she had met and fallen in love with so recently, then she did not want anyone at all.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The following day Emily woke up to the sound of heavy rain, and when she opened the curtains and looked up at the leaden sky, she could only be thankful that the expedition to Gainsborough had already taken place. It had, after all, been a very enjoyable occasion, despite Mrs Hughes’s barbed comments.
She had a suspicion that she might have dreamed about Sir Gareth the previous night. I love him, she said to herself and, as she prepared to rise, she allowed her mind to savour the occasions when their eyes had met and she had almost felt as if they might be kindred spirits. She was still thinking about these times and staring into space when Mary arrived with hot water.
‘Kindred spirits indeed,’ she muttered to herself, as she pulled on her grey gown. ‘Who am I trying to deceive?’ But she could not stop smiling all the same.
As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she paused in some surprise, for she could hear voices proceeding from within the drawing-room. It was far too early for a social call.
As she approached the room, Canon Whittaker, hearing her footsteps, opened the door and said, ‘Come in, my dear.’ Then turning to the other occupant of the room, he said, ‘Here is Emily. I know that she will be prepared to do her Christian duty, whatever her personal feelings.’
On entering the room, Emily found that her father’s visitor was Mr Fanshawe. She went forward to shake hands with the young clergyman. ‘How is Nathalie?’ she asked as she did so, trying to ignore her father’s reproachful Mrs Fanshawe, my dear! ‘I do hope your arrival means that she is feeling better.’
Fanshawe smiled, but it was a smile tinged with anxiety. ‘She says she is better,’ he replied, ‘but I really did not want to leave her. You know how she falls prey to foolish imaginings. The dean has summoned me, and I have to tell you, Miss Whittaker, that I was very close to writing back and telling him that he must manage without me.’ (Here, there was a tsk tsk sound from Mr Whittaker.) ‘But Nathalie told me that she would be happy for me to leave her if she could be sure that you would come to her. And the dean himself suggested in his letter that you might perhaps come again.’
‘Then of course I shall go,’ Emily told him. ‘When would you like me to leave? At once?’
Mr Fanshawe looked very guilty. ‘I would not presume so far as to expect that,’ he said respectfully.
‘But you would be grateful if I did,’ she surmised.
‘You are forgetting your grandfather, Emily,’ said her father reproachfully.
‘I could sit with him now, Papa, whilst Mary packs my things,’ she suggested. �
��Are you to remain in Lincoln?’ she asked Mr Fanshawe.
He shook his head. ‘The dean wants me to attend to certain duties in his living in Louth,’ he said. ‘Nathalie has my direction.’
So it was that in a very short space of time, Emily found herself setting out for Mablethorpe again, but with different feelings from on the first occasion. For one thing, the first time she had travelled to Mablethorpe, she had had company, for she and Nathalie had travelled together. This time, however, she was alone and furthermore, the weather did not favour her, for the rain which had begun early in the morning continued relentlessly throughout the whole of the journey.
She had brought with her The Mysteries of Udolpho, which Nathalie had lent her, and which she had only managed to read very slowly, partly because she had to be secretive about it, and partly because she wanted to savour it and make it last. After a short time, however, she set the book down on the seat beside her in Mr Fanshawe’s comfortable carriage and thought about the young woman that she was to visit.
She had been very sorry to hear that yet again Nathalie was prey to imaginary fears. She did so hope that all would go well. She had visited far too many homes where either mother or baby had died in childbed for her to be foolishly optimistic on that score. But after all, Mrs Fanshawe did have youth and general good health on her side, and her husband was able to ensure that she had the very best treatment.
Nevertheless, Emily was conscious of an oppression of spirits as she travelled, and put it down to a combination of the depressing weather and fears for her friend. Even as she came to that conclusion, however, another picture came into her mind – that of a dark-haired, well-built man with a deep voice and a smiling mouth. Would he still be there when she returned? Could her every hope of happiness so quickly have become dependent upon the actions of another?
‘Nonsense!’ she exclaimed out loud, and picked up the novel again, but when at one point she leaned back and dozed, she woke up thinking of Sir Gareth’s face.
Her welcome by Mrs Fanshawe made up for all the inconvenience of the unexpected journey. ‘Emily! Dearest!’ Nathalie exclaimed, laughing and crying at the same time as her visitor was shown into the sitting-room which had been put aside by the landlady for her use. ‘How I have longed for you! Your letters have been cheering, but they are not the same thing as having you here in person.’
This effusive welcome, so unlike any kind of behaviour that Emily had been accustomed to in her own home, took her a little aback, but did her heart good nonetheless, and she returned her friend’s embrace willingly. From this, as much as from the evidence of her own eyes, she could tell that Mrs Fanshawe’s pregnancy was well advanced.
‘I am so glad that I was able to come,’ she replied. ‘You are looking very well.’
‘You mean I am looking like an elephant,’ Nathalie answered teasingly. ‘Do go up and put off your bonnet, and I will order some tea.’
Emily was pleased to find her friend in such good spirits, but she was not deceived. She had found during her previous visit that Mrs Fanshawe was capable of being in alt one day and then being very low the next, and she therefore prepared her mind for dealing with a bout of depression before too long. Furthermore, although she had said that Nathalie was looking well, there was a waxiness about her complexion that Emily could not like.
The following day was bright and sunny, and Nathalie, responding to the sunshine like a summer flower, was all smiles; the next day though, the weather was wet again, and they had to stay inside, and the expectant mother was then inclined to indulge in morbid imaginings. In order to raise her spirits, Emily told her a little about the new arrivals in the cathedral close. She did mention Sir Gareth in passing, but she did not tell Nathalie his name. If asked she would have been hard put to it to say why she was so secretive.
After their luncheon, Nathalie went to lie down, but Emily, tired of being inside, put on her outdoor clothes, and went out to look at the sea. Mablethorpe was only a little place, hardly more than one street, so it did not take her long to get to the water’s edge, and breathe in the sea air, whilst the waves came rolling gently in, and the rain fell in a fine mist.
As she walked along beside the breaking waves, her mind wandered to Lincoln and the people that she had left behind there. Would any of them enquire about her or miss her? Or would they simply be thankful not to have to include the drab little spinster in any of their entertainments? The very idea filled her with dismay.
Certainly Mrs Hughes would not be sorry at her absence. She would be spending her days ingratiating herself with the baronet, flirting with him in her practised London way. No doubt if she ever left him alone, Jennifer Cummings, prompted by her objectionable mother, would be ready to make cow’s eyes at him on every possible occasion.
She paused in her walking, astonished at her own thoughts. Where had that bit of cattishness come from, she asked herself. She scarcely knew Mrs Hughes, and as for Jennifer, the girl had never done her any harm.
Determinedly abandoning this line of thought, she turned round and began to walk back. This time, she made herself think instead about the prison visiting that she had missed, and about the Kennedy family, and what assistance she might reasonably offer them over the coming weeks.
On arriving back at the house where they were lodging, she took off her bonnet and cloak in the hall and gave them to the landlady with a word of apology. ‘I did not think it was raining so much as that,’ she confessed.
‘Ah, it’s that fine rain,’ replied Mrs Sealey, taking Emily’s outdoor things. ‘It gets into everything. I’ll get these dried in the kitchen. Missus is upstairs. I did pop in to ask if she wanted anything, but she said no.’
Emily thanked her and went up to her room and as she passed the door into Nathalie’s chamber, she heard the unmistakable sound of crying. At once, she tapped on the door and went in.
Nathalie turned to look at her. Even with her eyes drowned in tears, she still looked ravishing. ‘Oh Emily!’ she sobbed. ‘Oh, I am so glad you have come back! I have wrestled and wrestled with my conscience, but it will not do! I must tell someone of what is such a burden to me.’
‘Nathalie, my dear,’ exclaimed Emily, her voice full of concern. ‘What is it? What can have happened to distress you so? Is it bad news from home, perhaps?’ She thought about her walk that afternoon and tried to remember whether she had seen anyone who might have been coming with tidings.
The other woman shook her head. ‘No, no, there has been no news.’
‘Then what can it be? When I left you, you were a little low in spirits, but not like this.’ She got up from her place on the bed, and went to a drawer where she knew Mrs Fanshawe kept her handkerchiefs.
‘That was before Mrs Sealey spoke to me,’ Nathalie answered, taking the handkerchief and wiping her eyes.
‘Mrs Sealey told me that she had spoken to you, but she said that she had asked you if you wanted anything,’ Emily replied.
‘Yes, she did, but that was not what has upset me,’ said the other. She paused, twisting the handkerchief in her hands. At last, she added in a low voice, ‘She told me about a girl from a family of her acquaintance who had got herself into trouble.’
‘Well, that is very distressing to be sure,’ Emily remarked, after waiting for a few minutes to see if there would be anything further. ‘But, my dear Nathalie, surely you must know that such things do happen?’
‘Yes, I know,’ Nathalie agreed in the same subdued tone. ‘This girl met a … a man who led her into bad ways, and when he left her, she lied to her parents about who was responsible. Then the innocent man that she blamed denounced her.’
Again there was a long silence. ‘That was very wrong of her, to blacken his reputation,’ Emily agreed. ‘She will have to live with the consequences of that falsehood.’
At this point Nathalie burst into tears again. ‘But she will not do so for she died yesterday,’ she declared, the words barely audible through her sobs.
Making a sudden decision, Emily rang the bell, and on hearing Mrs Sealey’s footsteps in the corridor, went to the door and stepped outside. ‘Mrs Fanshawe has been much overset by the sad tale you told her earlier,’ she said. ‘Would you be so good as to send up some claret to lift her spirits?’
Mrs Sealey looked very anxious. ‘I wouldn’t have upset the lady for anything, ma’am,’ she assured Emily. ‘To be sure I had forgotten how very sensitive she is.’
Emily smiled reassuringly. ‘Of course you are in no way to blame,’ she said. ‘But the claret would certainly help.’
When Mrs Sealey had gone, Emily went back in and sat down next to Nathalie, taking her hand. ‘I have sent for some claret for you,’ she said. ‘I know that Mr Fanshawe left several bottles here for the sole purpose of building you up.’ She paused briefly then went on, ‘I can well see how the sad tale of that young lady might be distressing to you, but pray recall that your own circumstances are so very different.’
‘Yes, but they might not have been,’ Nathalie replied. Gradually her crying subsided until she was calm again. When Mrs Sealey brought the wine, Emily took it from her whilst the other lady slid off the bed and went to stand looking out of the window.
‘I’m very sorry if … That is, ma’am, I … I beg your pardon,’ said Mrs Sealey, looking anxiously at Nathalie’s back.
‘It’s all right, Mrs Sealey,’ Emily said quietly. ‘She’ll be better presently. One of your excellent dinners will do her good.’
The woman brightened at once. ‘I’ll go and see about it straight away,’ she said.
It was while Emily was pouring out the wine that Nathalie began to speak, and now her voice was calm. ‘There is something that I must tell you,’ she said, ‘but you must promise by all that you hold sacred not to reveal what I am to say, for it would mean the ruin not just of myself but of Ernest as well.’
