Reluctant Widow

by Georgette Heyer

  ‘But what a charming prospect for me!’ Elinor said, with awful irony. ‘Saddled with a ruined estate, crushed by debt, widowed before ever I was a wife – it is the most abominable thing I ever heard of!’

  ‘Oh, it will scarcely prove to be as bad as that!’ Carlyon said. ‘When all is done, I hope you will find yourself with a respectable competence.’

  ‘Indeed, I hope so too, my lord, for I begin to think I shall have earned it!’ she retorted.

  ‘Now you are talking like a sensible woman,’ he said. ‘Are you willing to be guided by me in how you should go on?’

  She looked at him in some indecision. ‘Is there no way in which I can escape this inheritance?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘But if I were to disappear, which I should like very much to do –’

  ‘I am persuaded you will not be so poor-spirited as to draw back at this juncture.’

  She swallowed this, and after a moment said in a resigned voice: ‘What ought I to do, then?’

  ‘I have already considered that, and I believe it will be most natural for you to take up your residence at Highnoons,’ he said.

  ‘At Highnoons! Oh, no, indeed, I had rather not!’ she said, looking very much alarmed.

  ‘Why had you rather not?’ he asked.

  ‘It would look so presumptuous in me to be residing there!’

  ‘Presumptuous to be residing in your husband’s house?’

  ‘How can you talk so? The circumstances –’

  ‘The circumstances are precisely what we all of us wish to conceal. It would be ineligible for you to remain under my roof, for mine is a bachelor-household.’

  ‘I have no desire to remain under your roof!’

  ‘Then we need not waste time upon that point. You might, with perfect propriety, seek refuge with some relative of your own, but you will be obliged to attend to a good deal of business, and since I shall be joined with you in that it will be more convenient if you are within reach of this place.’

  ‘I would not go to my relatives in such a predicament as this for any consideration in the world!’ Elinor declared, with a shudder.

  ‘In that case, you have really no choice in the matter.’

  ‘But how shall I go on in such a place?’ she demanded. ‘I am sure it is quite covered in dust and cobwebs, and very likely overrun with rats and black-beetles, for I saw quite enough of it yesterday to convince me that it has been shockingly neglected!’

  ‘Exactly so, and that is one reason why I should be glad to see you there.’

  The widow’s bosom swelled. ‘Is it indeed, my lord? I might have guessed you would say something odious!’

  ‘I am not saying anything odious. If we are to dispose of Highnoons advantageously, it must be put into some kind of order. I will engage to do what I can with the land, but I cannot undertake to set the house to rights. By doing that you will at once oblige me, and give yourself an occupation that will divert your mind from all these troubles which you imagine to be gathering about your head.’

  ‘To oblige you must of course be an object with me,’ said Elinor, in a trembling tone.

  ‘Thank you: you are very good!’ he responded, with unimpaired calm.

  A chuckle escaped Nicky. He grinned across the table at Elinor. ‘Oh, I beg pardon, but you know it is never the least use disputing with Ned, for he has always the best of it! He is the most complete hand! And I’ll tell you what! If you should find that there are rats at Highnoons I’ll come over with my dog, and we will have some famous sport!’

  ‘Now, Nicky, do hold your tongue!’ begged John. ‘But you know, ma’am, there is a great deal of sense in what Carlyon says. The place cannot be left without anyone to manage things, and I am sure I do not know who else is to go there.’

  ‘But the servants!’ she protested. ‘What must they think if I am suddenly foisted upon them?’

  ‘So far as I am aware, only Barrow and his wife were lately employed by Eustace,’ said Carlyon. ‘Which reminds me that you will do well to hire a couple of girls to work in the house. But you need entertain no qualms: Barrow has been at Highnoons for many years, and is necessarily conversant with all the circumstances that led up to the ceremony you took part in yesterday. He was greatly attached to my aunt, for which reason he has remained with my cousin. Neither he nor his wife is likely to cause you the smallest embarrassment. But I fear you will not find him an efficient butler: he was used to be a groom, and only came into the house when no other servant would remain there.’

  ‘You know, Ned, I think Mrs Cheviot should have some respectable female to bear her company there,’ John interposed.

  ‘Certainly she should, and I will discover one for her.’

  ‘If I wanted a respectable female to live with me in that horrid house, I should beg my own old governess to come to me!’ said Elinor.

  ‘An excellent suggestion. If you will give me her direction, I will have a letter conveyed to her immediately,’ said Carlyon.

  Elinor, feeling herself quite overborne, meekly said that she would write to Miss Beccles.

  ‘And you must not think that you will be lonely,’ Nicky assured her. ‘For we shall come over to visit you, you know.’

  She thanked him, but turned once more to Carlyon. ‘And what is to be done about Mrs Macclesfield?’ she asked.

  ‘It is very uncivil of us, no doubt, but I am inclined to think that we shall do best to let Mrs Macclesfield pass out of our lives without embarking on explanations which cannot be other than awkward,’ he replied.

  Upon reflection she was obliged to agree with him.

  Six

  Shortly after noon, resigned but by no means reconciled, Mrs Cheviot was driven to Highnoons by her host. They went in his lordship’s carriage, very sedately, and his lordship beguiled the tedium by pointing out to the lady various landmarks, happy falls of country, or glimpses of woodland, which, he told her, would later on be carpeted with bluebells. Mrs Cheviot responded with cold civility, and inaugurated no topic of conversation.

  ‘This country is not in the grand style,’ said Carlyon, ‘but there are some very pretty rides near Highnoons, which I will show you one day.’

  ‘Indeed?’ she said.

  ‘Certainly – when you have recovered from your sulks.’

  ‘I am not in the sulks,’ she said tartly. ‘Anyone with the least sensibility would feel for me in this pass you have brought me to! How can you expect me to be in spirits? You have no sensibility at all, my lord!’

  ‘No, I am afraid that is so,’ he replied seriously. ‘It is an accusation which has often been cast at me, and I believe it to be true.’

  She turned her head to look at him in some little curiosity. ‘Pray, who has accused you of it, sir?’ she asked suspiciously.

  ‘My sisters, when I have been unable to enter into their feelings upon certain events.’

  ‘I am surprised. I had collected that your brothers and sisters were all devoted to you.’

  He smiled. ‘You would wish me to understand, I dare say, that the strong degree of attachment which exists between us has aggravated a naturally overbearing disposition.’

  She was obliged to laugh. ‘I must tell you, my lord, that I find this habit you have got into to reducing to the most uncompromising terms what has been expressed with the utmost delicacy, quite odious! What is more, I am much disposed to think that if I had the toothache, and told you I was dying of the pain, you would be at pains to announce to me that one does not die of the toothache!’

  ‘Undoubtedly I should,’ he agreed, ‘if I thought you entertained any fears on that score.’

  ‘Odious!’ she said.

  They had by this time reached Highnoons, and were driving up the neglected carriage-way, between dense thickets of overgrown shrubs, and trees whose branches almost met ove
r their heads.

  ‘How forcibly it puts one in mind of all one’s favourite romances!’ remarked Mrs Cheviot affably.

  ‘The greater part of those bushes should be cleared away, and the rest pruned,’ he responded. ‘Some of these branches need lopping, and I have seen at least three trees which are dead, and must be cut down.’

  ‘Cut down? My dear sir, you will destroy the whole character of the place! I hope there may be a blasted oak. I do not ask if a spectre walks the passages with its head under its arm: that would be a great piece of folly!’

  ‘It would,’ he agreed, smiling.

  ‘Naturally! The house is clearly haunted. I have not the least doubt that that is why only two sinister retainers can be brought to remain in it. I dare say I shall be found, after a night spent within these walls, a witless wreck whom you will be obliged to convey to Bedlam without more ado.’

  ‘I have a greater dependence on the fortitude of your mind, ma’am.’

  The carriage had drawn to a standstill before the house by this time. Elinor allowed herself to be handed out of it, and stood for a moment critically surveying her surroundings.

  As much of the pleasure gardens as she could see were overgrown with weeds, and she gave them scant attention. The house itself, now that she saw it in the daylight, she found to be a beautiful building, two hundred years old, with chamfered windows, and tall chimneys. It was perhaps built in too long and rambling a style for modern taste, and much of its mellow brickwork was masked by thick tangles of creepers; but Elinor was obliged to own to herself that she was pleasantly surprised by it.

  ‘All that ivy shall be stripped away,’ said Carlyon, also surveying the frontage.

  ‘No such thing!’ said Elinor. ‘Only see how it overhangs some of the windows! I dare say one can scarcely see to set a stitch in those rooms on the brightest day! Then, too, consider how the least wind must set the tendrils tapping at the window-panes like ghostly fingers! How can you talk of stripping it away? You are not at all romantic!’

  ‘No, not at all. Come, you will take cold if you stand any longer in this east wind! Let us go in.’

  The door had already been opened by old Barrow. It was apparent to Elinor that this was not Carlyon’s first visit to Highnoons since he had left it in her company on the previous evening. Barrow looked at her certainly with curiosity, but there was no surprise in his face; and a glance round the hall showed Elinor that an attempt had been made to render it habitable.

  ‘Barrow, here is your mistress,’ Carlyon said, laying his hat down on the table. ‘Mrs Cheviot, you will find Barrow very attentive to your comfort. You will wish to see Mrs Barrow presently, I dare say, and to give her your orders. Meanwhile, I will conduct you over the house, if you are not too tired by the drive.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Elinor feebly.

  ‘Mrs Barrow and the young wench your lordship fetched over from the Hall have redded up the Yellow Room for the Mistress,’ disclosed the retainer. ‘Them not thinking Mistress would care to sleep in poor Mr Eustace’s room, not but what he didn’t take and die there, when all’s said. Howsever –’

  ‘Yes, that will do!’ interrupted Carlyon. ‘Mrs Cheviot, the book-room you have seen already. The dining-parlour is here.’ He opened the door into a room on the left of the entrance-lobby. ‘It is not handsome – none of the rooms here are large, and the pitch is everywhere low – but I have known it when it has looked very pretty.’

  ‘Ay, that you have, my lord,’ agreed Barrow, with a reminiscent sigh.

  ‘Barrow, be so good as to go and desire Mrs Barrow to send some coffee to the book-room for Mrs Cheviot!’

  The retainer having been thus shaken off, Carlyon led Elinor over the rest of the house. She found it rather bewildering, for it was made up of what seemed to be a multitude of small rooms, and very long passages. Many of the rooms were wainscoted to the ceiling, and the furniture was all old-fashioned, and more often than not coated with dust.

  ‘Most of these apartments have not been in use since my aunt died,’ Carlyon explained.

  ‘Why in the name of heaven did no one put the chairs under holland covers?’ exclaimed Elinor, her housewifely instincts quite revolted. ‘Good God, what a task you have set me, my lord!’

  ‘I know very little about these matters, but I imagine you will have your hands full.’ He added: ‘That may keep you from indulging your fancy with thoughts of headless spectres.’

  She cast him a very speaking look, and preceded him into the apartment which had been prepared for her use. This at least showed signs of having been scrubbed and polished, and, since it faced south, the pale spring sunlight came in through the leaded window-panes, and gave it a cheerful aspect. Elinor took off her bonnet and her pelisse, and laid them down on the bed. ‘Well, at all events, Mrs Barrow showed her good sense in her choice of bedchamber for me,’ she observed. ‘And who, by the by, is the young wench you brought over from the Hall, my lord?’

  ‘I do not know her name, but Mrs Rugby thought that she would prove a suitable and an obliging maid for you. You will of course engage what servants you deem necessary, but in the meantime this girl is here to wait on you.’

  She was touched by this thought for her comfort, but merely said: ‘You are very good, my lord. But, regarding the servants you have recommended me to engage, pray, how are their wages to be paid?’

  ‘They will be paid out of the estate,’ he returned indifferently.

  ‘But, as I collect, sir, that the estate is already grossly encumbered –’

  ‘It need not concern you; there will be funds enough to cover such necessary expense.’

  ‘Oh!’ she said, a little doubtfully.

  They were interrupted. ‘There had ought to be the hatchment up over the door,’ said Barrow severely.

  Carlyon turned quickly. The retainer was standing on the threshold, gloomily surveying them. ‘Hatchment,’ he repeated.

  ‘Nonsense!’ Carlyon said impatiently. ‘Situated as this place is in the country I see not the least need for such a display.’

  ‘When Mistress took and died,’ said Barrow obstinately, ‘we had the hatchment set up in proper style.’

  ‘Then pray set it up over the door again!’ said Elinor.

  Barrow regarded her with approval. ‘And the knocker tied up with crape, missus?’ he asked.

  ‘By all means!’

  ‘That’ll be primer-looking, that will,’ nodded Barrow, and went off to attend to these matters.

  ‘You are a woman of decision,’ remarked Carlyon.

  ‘I trust I have my wits about me, my lord. No good purpose could be served by offending the notions of these people.’

  ‘My cousin had so cut himself off from county society that I doubt of your being troubled by visitors.’

  ‘Indeed, I hope you may be right, sir!’ was all that she replied.

  They went downstairs again, and to the book-room, where a fire burned, and the coffee-cups had already been laid out. Carlyon declined partaking of this refreshment, but Elinor sat down by the table, and poured out a cup for herself. He walked over to the desk, and pulled a drawer open. It overflowed with papers, and after a cursory glance he shut it again, saying: ‘I must come here in a day or two, with the lawyer, and go through all these papers. It will be best, Mrs Cheviot, if you leave any that you find for me to deal with.’

  ‘Certainly,’ she responded calmly. ‘If you are an executor of that infamous Will, as I have little doubt you must be, you should lock up the desk, I believe.’

  ‘I expect I should,’ he agreed. ‘But as there does not appear to be a key to the desk, and I am persuaded I can trust you to keep all intact, I must dispense with that formality. I imagine there can be little here worthy of the trouble.’ He left the desk, and came to her, holding out his hand. ‘I shall leave you now, ma’am. Rest assured that yo
ur letter shall be conveyed to Miss Beccles without loss of time. I shall hope to see her safely installed here within a very few days.’

  She took his hand, but said with a little loss of composure: ‘Thank you. But you will not leave me alone here for long?’

  ‘No, indeed. If you should desire my attendance, send over to the Hall, and I will come. This affair has cast a good deal of business upon me, and I may be away from home for a day or two, but a message will soon bring me. I will send Nicky over in the morning to see how you go on. Goodbye! Believe me, though I have little sensibility I am fully conscious of the debt I owe you.’

  He was gone, and she was left in some lowness of spirits, wondering how she should contrive, and what would be the end of this strange adventure. A period of quiet reflection helped to calm the natural agitation of her mind; since she had consented to take up her residence in this mouldering house she must do as best she might. To this end she presently rang the bell, forgetting that the wire was broken. After an interval, she was obliged to go in search of the servants, and so found her way for the first time to the kitchens.

  These were old-fashioned, but she was glad to perceive that the floor and the table were both well-scrubbed. Both the Barrows were there, with a respectable-looking abigail, and a groom, who lost no time in effacing himself. Mrs Barrow was a woman of clean aspect, and comfortable proportions. She at once rose to her feet, and dropped a curtsy.

  Elinor thought it wisest to adopt an open manner with the Barrows, and she soon discovered that they were under no awkward misapprehensions as to the nature of her marriage. Mrs Barrow, having presented the abigail to her, sent the girl off upon an errand, and waited with her hands folded over her apron to hear what her new mistress had to say.

  Elinor said, with a little difficulty, that she must think it strange to have an unknown mistress set over her, in such circumstances, but Mrs Barrow at once replied: ‘Oh, no, ma’am! Not if my lord thought it right!’

  Such a dependence on Carlyon’s judgement in servants who were not his own seemed strange, but Mrs Barrow’s acceptance of his infallibility was presently explained by her informing Elinor that she had been a housemaid up at the Hall until her marriage to Barrow. She was more genteel than her husband, whom she plainly kept in order, and seldom allowed her speech to lapse into the broad Sussex dialect which came most readily to Barrow’s tongue. She at once volunteered to conduct Elinor once more round the house, and to show her in more detail than had Carlyon what could be cleaned or renovated, and what must be thrown away. ‘For, questionless, ma’am, things are come to a bad pass, and such as must make my poor mistress turn in her grave, but what can one woman do, when all’s said, and me with no help in the kitchen, and not bred to kitchen work? But it was for my mistress’s sake me and Barrow has stayed with Mr Eustace. Ah, there was a sainted lady, to be sure, and so nice in her ways – well, there, it does no good to talk, but what we have always said, and shall say, is that Cheviot blood was never no good, and never will be, and Mr Eustace was all Cheviot! A Wincanton, my late mistress was, and her late ladyship too, for they were sisters, and that attached you never saw the like! Her ladyship was younger than my mistress by two years, and old Mr Wincanton he left Highnoons to my mistress, and tied up, so they say, in his lordship.’