by Mira Stables
They were simple enough. A stone-flagged floor and white-painted walls set off to admiration a heavy oak chest of some antiquity on which was set a bowl of yellow pansies. On the wall above it hung two naval swords and between these a rather improbable looking painting of a sea fight. The Earl was still studying this battle piece through his glass when the serving maid returned to announce that Mrs Hamerton would receive him, and would he please to follow her to the parlour.
This was a pleasant square room with a low-pitched ceiling supported by heavy oak beams and with windows opening on to an orchard. Seated in a wheel chair beside a fire that made the room seem oppressively warm to the Earl was a tiny lady of a Dresden china delicacy, who extended a frail, trembling hand to the visitor and begged his forgiveness for not rising to welcome him. The Earl, bowing over the hand with a vague feeling that it would have been more appropriate to raise it to his lips, after the graceful fashion of an earlier age, realised that his gentle little hostess was lame.
He straightened his tall figure warily in deference to the beams which actually brushed his fair head, and smiled down at her, a smile which so softened the grim set of his lips that she found herself reversing her first impression of a granite façade, and smiled back at him trustfully, taking courage to embark on a soft flood of small talk, enquiring as to his journey and whether he would take some refreshment now or would prefer to wait and join them at dinner, which would be served within the hour.
Before he could reply a slight movement and a sharp cough from the deep window recess, where she had been partly concealed by the curtains, revealed the presence of a second lady. He half turned, expecting to meet his newest responsibility, but the lady who emerged from her retreat was certainly no daughter of Charles Kirkley’s. Sixty if she was a day, he decided, gaunt and weatherbeaten, with a complexion that resembled nothing so much as the softly crumpled leather of a well-worn saddle.
Mrs Hamerton was now submerged in a tangle of half-sentences—how could she have been so remiss—dear Clara must forgive her—she had been quite overset by the excitement of receiving a visitor—from which she finally emerged to present the Earl of Anderley to her sister-in-law. Miss Clara and the Earl, waiting with what patience they might until the gentle flow had subsided, considered each other thoughtfully. The Earl had a strong suspicion that he had now met the ruling deity of this feminine establishment and decided that she looked a sensible sort of woman. Miss Clara allowed the Earl to be a well-looking man, and old enough to handle a delicate situation with tact. She wondered what might be his business with their quiet household. Nothing but disaster and sorrow had come of their earlier dealings with Viscount Cheringham. Well—no—perhaps that was not quite true, for the child, Elizabeth, was the secret joy of her heart, though not for worlds would she have admitted it. And of course there was the house. The house and farm were Cheringham’s. She hoped that nothing had arisen to interfere with that arrangement. Surely Cheringham’s heir would not turn them out?
Mrs Hamerton was earnestly explaining to the Earl that Clara had seen to all their small affairs since dear William had died. She really didn’t know how they would have gone on at all without her support, so good and strong-minded as she was. Miss Clara, disclaiming gruffly, assured him that it was all a hum and asked her sister-in-law if she should summon Mattie to show his lordship to his room. The Earl protested politely. He would be very happy to dine with them, but could they not advise him of a decent inn where he could put up for the night?
“You’ll need to stop here,” said Miss Clara in her abrupt way. “There’s no such place this side of Wotton. I had William’s room made ready for you, and your man can have the coachman’s quarters. They’ve stood empty these two years since old George died, but they’re snug and dry enough.”
The Earl believed her. Everything about the place, within and without, spoke of good management. If Miss Hamerton was indeed solely responsible for the running of the estate, she was a very remarkable woman. He said everything that was proper in acceptance of the proffered hospitality, and trusted that the ladies would understand his preference for ridding himself of the dust of the roads before broaching the business that had brought him into Gloucestershire. Both ladies looked a little strained and anxious at this reference, but Mrs Hamerton only said that of course they would await his convenience, while Miss Clara offered to instruct his groom as to the disposal of the horses and to show him the quarters allotted to him. The Earl, mildly amused at her forthright manners, allowed her to have her own way.
Having completed her self-imposed task, Miss Clara did not return to the house but made her way instead to a corner of the barn where she found, as expected, her great-niece Elizabeth engaged in attending to the clamorous requirements of a litter of hound puppies. The pups, newly weaned, had not fully acquired the art of feeding themselves, and in introducing half-a-dozen milky mouths into the food bowls Elizabeth had spattered the thin gruel on the skirts of her brown cambric gown which was also liberally coated with dog hairs. There was a smear of gruel across one cheek and several strands of brown hair had escaped from their loose knot and hung about her absorbed face.
“Good God, girl!” exclaimed her exasperated aunt. “Get up, do! You look the most complete hoyden. Our guest has arrived, and your grandmother has ordered dinner to be served within the hour. There is scarce time to change your dress. Do, pray, leave those wretched pups and make an effort to appear a little more the thing for once.”
The girl made no attempt to obey, merely twinkling naughtily up at her aunt and saying, as she picked up a black and tan pup who had been pushed out by his more vigorous brethren, “I must just see that Jester gets his share. Our visitor must have made an uncommon good impression on you that you are suddenly become such a stickler for the proprieties. ‘More the thing,’ indeed! What will he say if he sees you smoking one of your cigars?”
“As though I would dream of doing so in his presence,” protested Miss Clara. “Now do stop funning, Lizbeth, and come into the house. That pup will burst if he eats any more.”
The girl got to her feet slowly, reluctantly. “Do I really She had even dared to indulge a dream that Viscount voice. The visit was more important than Elizabeth guessed. Cheringham might have seen fit to endow the child with a
Miss Hamerton closed her ears to the appeal in the wistful comfortable sum that would make it possible for her to marry have to come in to dinner, Aunt?” she asked. “Couldn’t I have a headache or a cold, and keep to my room? You know how I dislike meeting strangers.” despite the stain on her birth. Surely some honest gentleman might well be glad to marry so sensible and capable a girl if she were adequately dowered? Almost she regretted that she had not tried to induce the girl to follow the standard pattern of sweet insipidity instead of training her as her lieutenant and confidante.
When her first natural grief at the death of her brother had subsided, it had been born in upon Miss Clara that now at last she might enter into her kingdom. The only daughter in a family whose sons by tradition followed the sea, she had been born with a passion for the land. As a child she had tagged along with the bailiff who managed her father’s small estate. As she grew older she pored over the books that he despised. Drainage and crop rotation, roots and winter feeding, were her passion. By the time that she was twenty-five she was virtually managing her father’s establishment from behind the scenes.
When family duty had summoned her to the help of her brother’s wife after the accident which had lamed her, she had found a greater measure of freedom. Completely careless of other people’s opinions, William had allowed his sister a liberty of action almost masculine. But he would not countenance innovations. The land was not his own.
And then William had died, and his widow had only too thankfully relinquished the reins of management into Miss Clara’s eager and capable hands. With the young Elizabeth, newly emancipated from the shackles of school, as her willing assistant, she had at last been able to put
her own ideas into practice. She had succeeded to admiration. The farm had flourished. And if, somewhere along the line, her great-niece had shed the shy decorum of the debutante and had become almost as forthright and capable as her aunt, Miss Clara had counted that, too, a gain.
Now, for the first time, she was wondering if she had done wisely. Elizabeth might fit her present situation to admiration, but even Miss Clara was vaguely aware that the girl lacked the social graces that were accounted desirable in a young lady on the marriage mart. But it was no use regretting past errors. With characteristic good sense Miss Clara decided that a good dinner, punctually served, would do more to dispose the visitor in her great-niece’s favour than any regrets on her part.
“Of course you must come down to dinner,” she said firmly. “His lordship will certainly wish to see you, since he comes from Viscount Cheringham, who was acquainted with your Mama. So pray make haste, child. We should not be loitering here.”
She shooed the girl towards the house, and Elizabeth, surprised by the reference to her mother, so rarely mentioned, submitted with unaccustomed docility, even accepting without demur a suggestion that she should put on her best dress in honour of the visitor.
If this attempt at sartorial splendour was designed to impress the Earl with her gentle femininity, it signally failed of its intent. The white crepe dress had been chosen by her grandmother. It had a modest round neck and tiny puff sleeves, and it only succeeded in emphasising the contrast between the girl’s sunburned hands and face and the delicate white skin of her arms and bosom.
Since, further, she was accustomed only to female society, and was distinctly overawed by the Earl’s appearance in evening dress, she confined her conversation to the briefest of responses to his various remarks. The Earl found her gauche and heavy in the hand. Her looks he considered moderate, though her eyes, he conceded, were remarkably fine, being of a dark blue with long dusky lashes. Her accent was pure enough, and her manners would not put him to the blush, but she was certainly a dead bore. Plenty of scope here for Maria’s ability to apply a little social polish.
Dinner being done, the uneasy little party adjourned to the parlour once more. The two older ladies appeared to feel that they had now done all that hospitality required of them. Mrs Hamerton was fidgeting with a piece of tatting, her hands shaking visibly. Miss Clara fixed an expectant gaze upon the Earl and waited hopefully. The girl had crossed to the window and was gazing out towards the distant hills as though the interview was no concern of hers. Somehow her attitude of complete detachment was provoking. His voice sharpened a little as he plunged into his explanations with less tact than was his wont.
“When you received my message, you would no doubt realise that my visit was concerned with the estate of the late Lord Cheringham?”
Mrs Hamerton and her sister-in-law nodded, a trifle apprehensively. The girl seemed not to be listening. In growing indignation the Earl addressed his next remark to the back of that dark, disinterested head.
“No doubt you will be gratified to learn that he made due provision for his daughter.”
Mrs Hamerton pressed a handkerchief to trembling lips. Miss Clara actually smiled, and waited impatiently for further details. The girl continued to gaze out of the window. What was she thinking, he wondered. Believing herself to be illegitimate, did she find it impossible to forgive her father for the wrong she supposed him to have done her? He was suddenly, and quite irrationally, angry on behalf of his friend. How dare this ignorant country chit set herself up in judgement on one of the finest, kindest men he had ever known?
“Miss Elizabeth shows little interest in my news,” he said silkily. “Nor, if I may be permitted to say so, does she display even a seemly grief for her father’s death. She may, however, be interested to learn that she is not, in fact, Miss Hamerton, but Miss Kirkley. Yes”—for the girl had turned at last—“the Honourable Elizabeth Kirkley.” He drawled out the syllables in a voice that turned the courtesy address into an insult—and felt a momentary stab of remorse as he saw the girl’s shocked face.
“That’s not true,” she said fiercely. “I am Elizabeth Hamerton. My father was killed at Trafalgar. That’s his sword on the wall,” she added, as though this somehow gave proof of the truth of her statement. “I know nothing of Lord Cheringham. Why should I grieve for his death?”
“Nevertheless he was indeed your father,” said the Earl in a gentler voice. “I have all the necessary evidence. There would seem to have been a conspiracy of silence which has kept you in ignorance of your true parentage. Perhaps your grandmother or aunt would prefer to enlighten you, now that the facts must come out.”
There was a little sob from Mrs Hamerton. Slow tears were sliding down her cheeks. Miss Clara, still looking a little dazed by the unexpected revelation, said hesitantly, “They thought it best—my brother and his wife. It was given out that she was Geoffrey’s daughter. When they came here to live Geoffrey had just been killed. It was easy to pass her off as his.” And then, in an access of bitterness, “They had to invent some kind of a story. How could they ever have got the child into a decent school if the truth had been known?”
“If the truth had been known,” retorted the Earl, “there would have been no difficulty whatsoever. Cheringham’s daughter might command a place in the most select seminary in the land.”
But Miss Clara was not so easily silenced. Opposition merely stiffened her attitude. The hint of apology in her voice disappeared, and she snapped back, “And who was to say she was his daughter when the man himself had cast her off?”
“He had made very adequate provision for her,” said the Earl quietly. Not even his fierce partisanship could honestly defend his friend’s vacillation over the acknowledgement of the girl.
Miss Clara, too, fell silent, remembering that ‘adequate provision’ meant the home that she so loved. What would become of them all, now that the distant source of all their comfort was dead?
Into the little silence fell Mrs Hamerton’s voice, tear thickened still. “Do you mean that my Elizabeth was actually married to Viscount Cheringham, and that the child is legitimate?”
The Earl bowed his assent. “That is the truth of the matter, Madam.”
“Oh! How cruel! To let us believe, all these years—” Her voice broke completely, and she turned her face away from the Earl, fumbling for her handkerchief once more. There was a swift whirl of skirts as Elizabeth swept past the Earl and knelt beside her grandmother, warm young arms round the frail shoulders.
“Don’t cry, Gran. It makes no difference to me. I’ve been completely happy here with you, and who is going to care a pin whether I’m Elizabeth Hamerton or Elizabeth Kirkley? If it comes to that”—fiercely—“I’d much rather be Elizabeth Hamerton. The Hamertons have nothing to be ashamed of.”
The Earl did not miss the flash of scorn in the deep blue eyes, but having once controlled his mounting irritation, refused to be provoked into further unbecoming retort.
“My concern is not with the past, but with the future,” he said temperately. “Nor would it be proper for me to express any opinion on matters quite outside my personal knowledge. My task is simply to inform you of the arrangements that have been made for Miss Kirkley’s future.”
He paused for a moment, but Elizabeth appeared to be fully absorbed in petting and soothing her grandmother. Only Miss Clara was attending to him. He went on, quite unperturbed, “It was your father’s wish that you should take your proper place in society. To that end he has placed you in my charge until you reach the age of twenty-five, or until you marry, with my approval, before attaining that age. Since mine is a bachelor establishment, I propose to place you with my sister, who will, in due course, attend to all the details of your début. I shall be grateful if you will make your preparations for travelling as quickly as possible, so that I may see you safely established in London before returning to Westmorland.”
There was a brief but pregnant pause. Then Elizabeth rose t
o her feet in one smooth, supple movement and turned at last to face the Earl.
“I thank you for your condescension, my lord,” she said icily. “It is quite unnecessary for you to concern yourself further with my affairs. I shall not be accompanying you to London, or, indeed, anywhere else. This house has been my home for as long as I can remember, and I intend to remain here. I have no desire whatsoever to take any place in society, and see no necessity to bow to the wishes of a father I never knew. If, as I apprehend, you are in some sort my guardian until my twenty-fifth birthday, you may content yourself that I shall be well cared for by those who love me, and who have charged themselves with my welfare since I was born. And since I have no intention of marrying, you need have no anxiety on that head either.” She dropped him a tiny stiff curtsy, as though to signify that the matter was now closed, and turned back to her grandmother.
The Earl considered her thoughtfully. On the whole he sympathised with her attitude, though of course she could not be permitted to have her own way since he had given his promise to her father. He even felt a faint tinge of admiration. Roused to anger, she had forgotten her shyness and had rounded on him like the thoroughbred she was. His reply was mild, even conciliatory.
“I regret that it will not be possible for you to remain here, Miss Kirkley. No—do not argue. I quite understand that the realisation of your true circumstances has been a great shock to you, but I feel sure that a period of quiet reflection, together with the wise counsel of your grandmother and aunt, will bring home to you the advantages of—”
He was not permitted to finish. The girl flashed out at him in a passion of resentment, interrupting his measured phrases with scant courtesy. “If you will have it without roundaboutation, my lord, I utterly refuse to recognise the authority that you claim. You will not permit me to remain in my own home, indeed! How dare you presume to direct my life?” And then, simmering down a little under the Earl’s calm gaze, she went on more moderately, “I regret that I should have forgotten the consideration due to a guest, but the provocation was past all bearing. You have only yourself to blame if I have overstepped the bounds of decorum.”
