by Mira Stables
It was no good. She looked down at the fingers clasping hers—and remembered how Lucy had clasped and kissed them. The ghost of Lucy would always come between. His proud head was bent to hers, the grey eyes ablaze with love. “Say it, my darling,” the deep urgent voice demanded. “Say, ‘Yes, Richard, yes I will marry you.’”
If only she could fling herself into his arms in eager acceptance, forgetting everything but her own need and his nearness. Instead she must deny her heart and refuse the gift that was all her desire. And she must do it in such terms that he would never ask her again, for never again, she was sure, could she summon the fortitude to say no.
She withdrew her hands from his grasp and gripped them tightly together. Somehow she steeled herself to look him in the face as she said composedly, almost coldly, “While I deeply regret the need to give you pain, my lord, my answer must be no. You will perhaps recall that at our very first meeting I informed you that it was my intention to stay single.”
Convinced as he had been that his love was returned, the shock was severe. But the Earl was not the man to give up at the first reverse.
“Such an intention may be changed,” he said steadily, “and recently I have felt that you were not totally indifferent to me. If you will assure me that I am entirely mistaken in this notion, I will not trouble you further.”
One simple little lie—and she could not bring herself to speak it. To do so would be to make him out a conceited coxcomb, and that at least he had not deserved. Surely she might spare him such humiliation? She said, “In less than two years’ time I shall be free to do as I choose, and I have made up my mind that marriage is not for me. I mean to devote my life to the service of the poor and the unfortunate.”
“There is no reason why you should not still do so as my wife,” argued the Earl. “Indeed you would find such work much easier as a married lady. There are still many conventions restricting the conduct of single ones, especially when they are young and attractive. If you have taken me in aversion there is no more to be said, but I have learned to love you with all my heart and I believe that together we could make a life that would satisfy your desire to serve others and bring great happiness to both of us.”
This was sheer torture. As so often before in their arguments she was left defenceless, for heart and mind alike agreed with his every word.
“I do not hold you in aversion, my lord,” she said quietly, striving to achieve a temperate and dispassionate air. “Indeed I have learned to like you very well, and to value your judgement and advice. But such feelings are not a foundation for marriage. I have never known a father’s sheltering care, and you have admirably filled that lack in my life. For this I am deeply grateful. But while I am fully sensible of the honour you have done me in seeking my hand in marriage, I cannot accept your very obliging offer.”
The last part of this rather stilted speech was lost on the Earl. He had listened with grave attention and even a faint stirring of hope to its opening phrases. But the remark about fatherly care bit deep, for it had all along been his own secret fear that he was too old for the girl.
“You need say no more,” he said quietly when she had made an end. “I regret the embarrassment I have caused you. Your position as my ward should have protected you from the distasteful task of having to refuse me. I can at least make some amends by promising that you shall not be troubled by further importunities.”
That was what she had wanted, wasn’t it? Wondering if hearts really did break under such a burden of wretchedness, Elizabeth said impetuously, “My lord, will you not let me go? It cannot be comfortable for either of us to be living under the same roof after what has just passed. Let me go home, at least for a little while,” she ended pleadingly, as she saw his lips set in the old grim way that portended refusal.
He looked down at her gravely, the beseeching eyes, the quivering lips, and was swept by a wild impulse to lock her fast in his arms and kiss her into submission—let her see that he was not near so senile as she seemed to think. He could not do it, of course. He had already transgressed unforgivably, since she had a claim on his protection. But if this was to be his mood then he had best set her beyond his reach before he succumbed to temptation.
“Very well,” he conceded, “it shall be as you wish. But not immediately. You are in no case to undergo the discomforts of so long a journey until you are fully recovered from the effects of your accident. Let us say in about ten days’ time. That should give you long enough to recover your full health. Until then I fear that we must do our best to overcome any awkwardness that we may feel in each other’s society. Fortunately Anderley is large enough. We need not meet except in company.”
He took her arm with calm impersonality to steady her for the descent. Bitter desolation filled Elizabeth’s heart as she submitted to this ‘fatherly care’ and to being installed once more in the phaeton. She longed only for her own room and the privilege of crying her eyes out in decent privacy. Instead she set herself to utter such commonplace remarks as her weary brain could devise in a gallant attempt to ‘overcome awkwardness’.
Chapter Eighteen
The Earl was even better than his word. Several days passed, and Elizabeth did not so much as set eyes on him. Lady Hester casually let fall the information that he was staying with Mr Christison. The two of them were planning the installation of a steam engine at the mill so that there need be no more fear of unemployment in times of drought. Richard favoured the scheme and had offered to put up some of the necessary capital. His sister was a little surprised that he had deemed it advisable to take up quarters at Millthorpe, but of course he was getting older, and no doubt learning the wisdom of conserving his energies. Elizabeth winced.
Mr Elsford, too, was gone, having taken himself off to Manchester, of all unlikely places. Miss Bentley’s Papa was known to have vast commercial interests in that rapidly growing town. So the household at Anderley had shrunk to a small feminine circle which offered little distraction to an aching heart.
They were at breakfast on the fifth day of the Earl’s absence, and Lady Hester, following her usual practice, was regaling her companions with sundry choice items culled from the columns of the Morning Post as she sipped her coffee. Suddenly she stopped short, choked on a scalding hot mouthful, and rose to her feet, her rather protuberant eyes staring in blank disbelief at an announcement appearing in the columns of that highly respectable newspaper which she indicated with a trembling forefinger.
“I don’t believe it,” she gasped, having at last succeeded in swallowing the coffee. “It can’t be true! Those odious Bentleys must have had the notice inserted. Timothy would never have allowed us to receive the first intimation of his betrothal through the columns of a newspaper!”
The paragraph which had so powerfully worked upon her Ladyship’s emotions was the usual formal notice of the engagement between her nephew and Miss Bentley. Miss Trenchard shook her head gravely over the discourtesy of modern young people and ventured to hope that at least Lady Maria had received prior information of the interesting news.
“I’m sure that Richard knows nothing about it, or he would certainly have ridden over to tell me,” declared the indignant lady. “And this is his heir! I vow it will serve the wretch right if Richard marries after all, for the thought of that silly little chit as the future mistress of Anderley is quite past bearing.”
Elizabeth and Miss Trenchard said all they could to soothe and comfort her, but with little success. She must sit down at once to write a note to her brother, in case the announcement had escaped his notice, and a groom must carry it to Millthorpe, though quite what she expected the Earl to do about the affair was not made clear. But half-way through her epistolatory labours she suddenly broke off, nibbling the end of her pen in silent brooding, the while she studied Elizabeth with a calculating gleam quite at variance with her usual amiability.
“And I shall tell him that it is his clear duty to marry,” she suddenly announced, startl
ing Elizabeth and Mary, who, thinking her absorbed in her letter, had been studying the offending notice and wondering how soon its appearance would bring down upon them a host of morning callers, all eager for further details which they would be quite unable to supply.
“He did once say something about reconsidering the position,” mused Lady Hester, searching her memory. “Perhaps he foresaw this very situation. Yes! It was the night that the Bassett child died. I remember saying to him that a wife would have been of the greatest assistance in such an awkward situation, and he certainly said that he would think about it.” She wrinkled her brow in the effort to recall further details of that conversation. Elizabeth could only stare and wonder. What sort of principles animated a lady who could calmly assert that a wife would be an asset in one’s dealings with a discarded mistress?
The morning proved to be something of an ordeal. As they had feared, a number of highly interested neighbours had seen the notice in the papers, and there was a steady stream of callers offering felicitations and asking about wedding plans. Lady Hester rose to the occasion magnificently. There was no hint of disappointment or annoyance. Her smile seemed unaffected, her voice quite natural, as she spoke of the “naughty pair, taking us all by surprise, of course”, and there was something graceful and amused about the impetuosity of youth and the news being quite delightful, and no, not in the least unexpected. One or two of the guests cast curious glances at Elizabeth and wondered if her pallor and subdued manner were the result of a disappointment over Mr Elsford, but since no one was so discourteous as to hint at such an idea, she remained in happy ignorance of their covert interest.
Nevertheless it was a relief when Harrison came to tell her that Lady Ann Ridsdale had called to enquire if Miss Kirkley would care to ride with her. Lady Hester smilingly consenting, Elizabeth thankfully excused herself and hurried out to greet this very welcome guest.
“Come and talk to me while I change,” she invited. “Such an uproar as we have been in all the morning, I could not have been more thankful to be rescued. Half the county must have called to find out when the wedding was to be.”
Ann gasped and stared, but before she could ask excitedly, “Whose wedding?” Elizabeth was enquiring if she had not seen the notice in the morning papers and went on to tell her about it, quite unaware that Ann had hoped for a far more interesting announcement.
It was good to be free of the house and cantering easily over the soft turf, and when eventually they pulled up to give the horses a breather, Ann had much to impart concerning the alterations at Millthorpe. She and Hugh had ridden over the previous day to watch the work in progress.
“I expect Richard will be taking you over to see the new engine when he comes home,” she added innocently.
Elizabeth could think of nothing less likely, and said that she did not properly understand machinery.
“Mr Christison is to give a feast for all the mill hands the night before the engine is started,” Ann went on. “It will be a great thing for them—no more short time in dry seasons—and he said they should celebrate in style, with buns and ale and dancing in the old tithe barn. I expect most of the Anderley servants will be going, too, since Richard is involved in the new venture.” She chuckled. “You will have to wait on yourselves that night, unless you come to dinner with us.”
Presently they turned the horses’ heads homeward. Ann was a little in front or Elizabeth would not have chosen to ride along the lonely path that ran by Bassett’s cottage. Someone was moving about in the garden enclosure. Lucy? She could not help shrinking from an encounter until she had grown more accustomed to her new knowledge. But the woman who was picking currants in the garden was middle-aged and a stranger to both girls, though she seemed to recognise them and bobbed a smiling greeting as the horses trotted by.
“What has become of Lucy Bassett?” asked Ann suddenly. “Are there new people living in the cottage?”
For the life of her Elizabeth could not prevent a certain amount of stiffness in her reply. “I think that must have been Bassett’s sister,” she said carefully. “I understand that Lord Anderley has arranged for Lucy to go to a post with friends of his in Knaresborough, in the belief that she would benefit from new surroundings.”
“That is just like Richard,” said Ann affectionately. “Nothing is too much trouble, no detail too small for him to see to it himself if it affects the welfare of his people. If there were more great landowners after his pattern we should hear less talk of revolution and a new social order.”
Elizabeth made no comment, but Ann cheerfully accepted her silence as unquestioning support for her own opinion. After a reflective pause she went on in a more thoughtful voice, “And I daresay there is a little more to it than that. If Timothy Elsford brings his bride to Anderley I suppose it would scarcely do for Lucy to be living within a stone’s throw, even if their child did die, poor baby.”
There was a thundering in Elizabeth’s ears that seemed to deafen and stun her. Through it she heard a beloved voice saying sternly, “She is as much a Scorton as you or I.” Her eyes were blurred and her hands were slack on the reins, so that it was as well that she was riding the gentle Sylva instead of mischievous Jackstraw.
“Wh-what did you say?” she demanded incredulously.
Ann looked slightly conscious and coloured faintly. “I’m so sorry, Lizbeth. I thought you knew. Well—we all did—when you were so good about helping Lucy. Hugh said you were simply great, and that Richard had at last found someone worth—” She stopped, went scarlet, and plunged hastily for a safer topic. “We thought you must know that Mally was Timothy Elsford’s child,” she said bluntly. And then, seeing Elizabeth’s white face, caught Sylva’s rein and drew both horses to a halt. “What is it?” she begged anxiously. “What have I said to shock you so? Truly, Lizbeth, it wasn’t so dreadfully wicked. He was only a boy, and spoilt and thoughtless, and Lucy, poor lamb, was a romantic dreamer. There was no question of rape, you know. They were just foolish boy and girl lovers. Richard was furious, of course—I don’t think he has ever forgiven Lady Maria for not looking after Lucy better—but it couldn’t be mended. He saw to it that Timothy settled a decent sum on her so that the child could grow up in modest comfort.”
And die—and be buried in the chapel of her ancestors—because one man thought more of comforting a bereaved mother than of convention or public opinion. And she, ignorant, priggish Elizabeth Kirkley, had presumed to set herself up in judgement on him, and in so doing had wrecked her own hopes of happiness.
A hard little sob broke from her. She was not even aware of it. But Ann’s friendly hand was grasping her arm and Ann’s eyes were anxious as she repeated frantically, “What is it, Elizabeth? Are you ill? Should we go back to Bassett’s cottage so that you can rest?”
A convulsive shudder shook her. Once before she had been taken to Bassett’s cottage to rest, and that had been the beginning of it all. Now her tale was told. She had but to retire in her shamed misery to Gloucestershire, and never, never return to intrude upon the world of Anderley. In the deeps of self reproach she even prayed that she might escape without again setting eyes upon its owner. Feverishly she gabbled a weak excuse about a passing faintness and made an effort to pull herself together and behave normally, so that Ann was partly reassured. If she noticed that Elizabeth was very quiet for the remainder of the ride she had the good sense not to fuss over her with repeated enquiries. She was guiltily aware that her frank disclosures had proved more of a shock than she had expected, and this worried her, for since Elizabeth was not a mealy mouthed prude to be turning up her eyes in hypocritical horror at such a tale, it could only mean that in some way she was personally involved.
But how? Surely she could not have cared for Timothy Elsford? It was all very puzzling. She had been so sure that Richard had meant to propose on that carefully stage-manage drive à deux, and had daily expected to hear the news of a betrothal between the two. What could have gone wrong? Yesterday, Richar
d, behind his customary friendliness, had seemed strained and distant, and there was no mistaking Elizabeth’s patent unhappiness, however she might try to hide it from her too perceptive friend. So both young ladies had good cause to wrap themselves in their own reflections, and parted presently in mutual goodwill and considerable misunderstanding.
Elizabeth was granted no opportunity for private brooding. They had been late in returning from their ride and already it was almost time to dress for dinner, which, in the absence of the master of the house, Lady Hester preferred to take early, country fashion. Indulgence in the orgy of repentance that might bring some relief would certainly leave tell-tale stains on her face. Somehow she must hold firm until it should be decent and reasonable to plead fatigue.
One fear at least could be dismissed as soon as she went into the dining-room. The small oval table in the window was set for three. So the Earl had not acceded to his sister’s request that he should come home at once to discuss all the implications of Timothy’s betrothal. He had, in fact, written to explain that he had been just on the point of setting out with Hector to inspect a working engine of a type similar to the one being installed at Millthorpe when her letter was brought to him, and since he could see no useful purpose to be served in fruitless discussion of what could not be mended, there was little point in breaking his engagement. He sent a civil message to his ward, trusting that she was now restored to her customary good health, and promising to put in hand the arrangements for her journey to Gloucestershire as soon as he came home. That would be in three or four days’ time, on the morning after the Millthorpe feast.
It all sounded very kind and thoughtful—positively fatherly in fact—and Elizabeth wondered why a creamy feather-light syllabub should be so difficult to swallow.
