Family Affairs

13

Family Affairs

    The Earl and his daughter rode companionably over the fields, Jenny chattering happily, and Jarvis merely listening and putting in a word or two. When she seemed to have run down, he said: “Jenny baba, listen, I’ve had an idea about your lessons—”

    They rode on slowly, Jenny listening obediently.

    Somehow or another, over the past weeks, these morning rides together seemed to have become a habit. The Earl was under the fond delusion that only Tonkins, of the household at Maunsleigh, was aware of the direction in which his master had taken to riding every morning, and why.

    … “Do you think she would?” asked Jenny hopefully.

    “There can indubitably be no question!” said Miss Amanda eagerly before anyone else could speak.

    Miss Marsh’s face was very red. If only she had known Jenny was suddenly going to come out with this scheme—!

    “I am sure she would!” cried Lacey Somerton, clapping her hands. “Why, it is a splendid notion! It would solve your problem, and it would be a little extra income for dear Miss Burden!”

    Katerina pulled herself together. “Ideal,” she agreed.

    “Yes, but Jenny,” said Susi-Anna in a strangled voice: “Miss Burden is not a schoolteacher.”

    “No, but she was used to teach Polly when she was Jenny’s age!” urged Lacey.

    “Yes,” agreed Janey uncertainly. Well, it was true that it would be a nice little extra income—and, after all, the summer holidays were nearly upon them, it could not be for long... But what if Miss Burden did affect the Earl? It would be so painful for her!

    “I really do not think I could ask her,” said Miss Marsh in a strangled voice. “After all, she is a lady.”

    Miss Lattersby and Miss Bottomley-Pugh looked at her gratefully and wished they had thought to say that.

    Jenny swallowed. “Oh.”

    “Oh, pooh! She will not care a fig for that!” cried Lacey. “Wait here, everyone: I will ask her!”

    The young ladies were at the gate of Bluebell Dell, admiring Jenny’s pony, Jenny having ridden over ostensibly to meet her sister after her Italian class. Susi-Anna, Janey and Katerina watched in some dismay as Lacey forthwith rushed inside.

    Miss Bottomley-Pugh, with an effort that was certainly visible to Janey, then began kindly to admire the pony.

    Miss Burden had gone very white as the beaming Miss Somerton panted out her request.

    “What do you think, dear Miss Burden?” she ended eagerly.

    “Teach little Jenny?” echoed Miss Burden faintly.

    Belatedly Lacey recollected Miss Marsh’s warning that Miss Burden was a lady. “Um—I dare say it would only be for a few weeks, until her mamma says she may start her summer holidays. But—um—the alternative seems to be to send her away to a school, and I know Susi-Anna is very upset over that.” She looked at her pleadingly.

    Miss Burden swallowed hard. “I—I suppose... But Lacey, I have never had the sole responsibility for teaching a child of her age.”

    “But you have taught Polly and your nephews, have you not?”

    “Um—yes... Um, Lacey,” she said, going very red, “has her mamma given her permission to ask me?”

    “Well, I am not absolutely sure,” she said with a smile. “I think it may have been her own idea, for certainly Susi-Anna seemed very startled by it. But come out and speak to her: she is just at the gate!”

    Miss Burden blenched. She had managed so far to avoid Jenny, though of course she had seen her in church. She had told herself repeatedly that she was being foolish, and it was not the little girl’s fault. Nevertheless, whenever the skinny figure on the brown pony had appeared at the gate of Bluebell Dell, she had refrained from strolling out to see her pupils off.

    “If—if you should not like it,” said Lacey, suddenly going red, “I shall tell her so. She—um—she did not realise that as a lady, you might not care to be giving her her schooling.”

    Miss Burden pulled herself together. “Of course I should care for it, Lacey. Come along, let us speak to her.”

    They went outside forthwith, Lacey all smiles again.

    Jenny was of course in her habit, and looked quite neat: but the severity of the garment made the resemblance to the Earl very pronounced. Miss Burden found that her throat had closed up as his slanted amber eyes looked at her pleadingly and the high, little girl’s voice said: “Good afternoon, Miss Burden. I hope you don’t dislike the idea.”

    “Good afternoon, Jenny,” she replied, swallowing hard. “If you wish to come to me for some lessons, you would be very welcome; but you must have your mother’s permission, you know.”

    “If you would truly not dislike it, dear Miss Burden, I am sure Mamma will write you a note,” said Susi-Anna.

    As the other girls, save for Katerina, who was waiting for her father, departed in a bunch, Jenny smiling and waving from the back of the pony, Janey said tenderly, putting an arm round her waist: “Dear Miss Burden, come inside.”

    Miss Burden did not say that she did not need the supporting arm, for on a sudden her knees felt as if they might give way. She allowed the two girls to help her back inside and sit her down on the sofa.

    Janey sat beside her, very close, and put her arm around her again. “Lacey doesn’t realise. I couldn’t stop them,” she said simply.

    “No,” agreed Midge faintly. “I—” Suddenly she burst into tears.

    Katerina came to sit on her other side, and the two girls waited, only proffering handkerchiefs, until the tears had abated.

    “Hutton should never have told you!” concluded Janey bitterly.

    “I’m being silly,” said Midge faintly, blowing her nose. “And it was not he. Letty told me.”

    The girls exchanged startled glances.

    “Lady Ventnor told her because—um—he had sent me those stupid black hens,” said Miss Burden, going very red.

    Janey and Katerina exchanged glances again, but did not make any further reference to the Earl or to his daughter: just made her put her feet up, and had Hawkins bring in a pot of tea.

    But when Mr Bottomley-Pugh’s curricle appeared in the lane, Janey jumped up and escorted Katerina out, taking the opportunity to say: “So! She does still affect him!”

    “Yes. I thought she must.”

    “I am sure it was not just—just ladylike hesitation over the teaching, or some such,” Janey added.

    “No, I agree: it was much more than mere embarrassment.”

    “Katerina,” hissed Janey, clutching her arm: “I am absolutely sure the horrid woman is come into the district to catch him!”

    “Yes. Don’t worry, Janey, I have an idea she will not succeed.”

    Janey looked at her in some indignation, but as they had come up to the gate could not ask her what on earth gave her that idea, for Mr Bottomley-Pugh was watching them benignly from his curricle.

    ”I wish I might tell Janey the whole,” said Katerina thoughtfully as they drove away. “She has a brain under those frivolous chestnut curls, you know.”

    “And a tongue, too,” he grunted. “No: best keep it in the family, me dear.”

    Katerina sighed a little, but agreed.

    “Hm,” said Kitty slowly.

    Her daughters looked at her fearfully.

    “Well, now!” she said brightly, smiling at Jenny. “I think this might be the very thing!”

    “Oh, thank you, Mamma!” gasped Jenny in astonishment.

    “I shall drive over to see her tomorrow morning: I think more than a note is warranted.”

    “Yes, Mamma. Thank you, Mamma,” they said meekly.

    Some considerable time was spent, the next morning, before Kitty was satisfied with her appearance. Eventually she achieved the effect she wished for, the which would indicate tacitly to Miss Burden the width of the gap between the social positions of their two selves. Not to say, rub the creature’s nose in the fact that a schoolmistressly little frump could give up any ludicrous hopes she might have conceived of becoming the Countess of Sleyven. The walking-dress was a smart dark green, the three flounces and the bodice trimmed with narrow pipings of lilac. The silk bonnet was a matching dark green, under which the red curls glowed charmingly, softened by a bunch of artificial lilacs just peeping over the brim.

    Miss Burden was sitting quietly in her front parlour, dressed in a rusty-looking black wool, when her caller arrived. She rose looking positively chastened, so Kitty felt her choice of dress entirely vindicated.

    Kitty’s shrewd brain had worked out several possible explanations for Miss Burden’s agreeing to accept Jenny as a pupil. One was that she did affect Jarvis Wynton but knew nothing of Jenny’s true parentage. On the whole, with Hutton having been in her employ last summer, that did not seem likely. Another, more likely, was that she did not affect the Earl and knew but did not care that he was Jenny’s father. And there was, of course, the possibility that she did know, did affect him, and was doing it in the hopes of worming her way into his affections. In the which case she would speedily find her efforts misplaced: the allowance he paid for Jenny was due to his own damned pride, and not to any sort of paternal feeling. Added to which, thought Kitty with a malicious sparkle in her eye, if Jarvis was thinking seriously of the creature, he would be furious to discover she had taken his illegitimate daughter under her wing! It did not occur to her for an instant either that Jarvis had been seeing Jenny every morning for over a fortnight, or that Miss Burden had found it impossible to refuse, when the little girl had been waiting at the gate.

    “This is too kind, Miss Burden!” she smiled as Miss Burden murmured that she would be happy to take Jenny.

    “Not at all, Mrs Marsh,” said Midge politely.

    Further expressions of polite hypocrisy passed on both sides, and it was agreed that Jenny should come to Miss Burden five mornings and three afternoons a week. For a remuneration which Miss Burden did not admit aloud she felt to be substantial and which Mrs Marsh did not admit aloud she was both relieved and astonished to find accepted without haggling.

    “So she’s started, then?” said Mr Bottomley-Pugh.

    “Yes. And mind you, it was not Mrs Marsh’s idea,” said Katerina.

    “Ho, weren’t it, though?”

    “No. Although I do admit that she seems to have placed Susi-Anna—Miss Marsh, I should say—that she seems to have placed her with Miss Burden for conversation classes expressly to spy upon her. Though Miss Marsh herself is innocent as the day is long.”

    So, one would have said, was Katerina Bottomley-Pugh, to judge from the flower-like oval face and great limpid cornflower-blue eyes. Mr Bottomley-Pugh gazed upon his offspring with considerable approval. “Aye. Then it was the little girl’s own notion, hey?”

    “No: it was Lord Sleyven’s.”

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh’s substantial chins dropped.

    “Yes, truly: Jenny frequently meets him out riding in the mornings. She,” said Katerina composedly, “appears to believe it is a fortunate coincidence. But I do not think so.”

    “No...” he said vaguely. ‘You’re sayin’ that the Earl ’imself told Jenny to get Miss Burden to give ’er ’er lessons?”

    “Yes.”

    “Ar.” He rubbed his bulbous nose slowly. “Then ’e does fancy her, I’d say. Well—getting ’er together with his little daughter?”

    “Yes,” agreed Katerina, trying not to look sympathetically at him. “I thought it indicated that, too.”

    “Did she say it were his idea to Miss Burden, me lovey?”

    “No. I got it out of Susi-Anna, later.”

    “’Ere, you didn’t ask straight out, did yer?” he gasped.

    “Certainly not. I,” said his daughter sedately: “am not a noddy.”

    Nor she was: Mr Bottomley-Pugh beamed upon her.

    Lady Judith looked at Mrs Marsh’s invitation with an expression of distaste.

    “I am rather tempted,” murmured Dr Golightly with a twinkle in his clever eyes.

    “Polly wishes to go,” noted Simon.

    “I think that ‘Miss Polly’ would be more appropriate, Simon, until she is actually your sister-in-law,” said his mother with a frown.

    Simon rose, looking defiant. “In any case, I am going. I would not miss it for the world!” He went out, a horrible scowl marring his pleasant countenance.

    “Mamma, forgive me, but I think it is unwise to treat him as if he were a boy,” said Dr Golightly.

    Lady Judith flushed. “Possibly if he were to behave like a man, one would not fall into that trap, Arthur! The Dean is most displeased with him, you know.”

    “I am sorry to contradict you, but I do not think that is so,” he said firmly. “My father is certainly worried about his failure to choose a path in life.”

    “Arthur, sometimes talking to you is like—like trying to move a great block of granite! You put me forcibly in mind of your late uncle—and yes, come to think of it, of our Cousin Sleyven! Hard and unmoving!”

    Dr Golightly looked at her in surprise. “I am sorry to have given you that impression, Mamma. I know this is a worrying time for you, with Simon having left the Church, but— Well, if there is something else on your mind, I wish you would tell me: perhaps I might help.”

    In reply, Lady Judith glared at the invitation from Mrs Marsh, her hands clenched. Dr Golightly did not say it, but at that moment she also brought their Cousin Sleyven forcibly to mind.

    “Is it Mrs Marsh?” he murmured.

    “I— Well, she is clearly here to entrap Sleyven.”

    “I think that is very likely indeed,” he said calmly. He waited, but she did not say anything else. He took a deep breath and said: “Mamma, I do regret for your sake that I could not have fallen in love with a woman with tastes and temperament more compatible with yours, but I cannot say that I am sorry that Polly has agreed to be my wife.”

    “No, of course!” she said, very red. “Pray do not be absurd, Arthur! Why, a man cannot marry to please his mother! It is a recipe for disaster!”

    “Indeed,” he agreed, the twinkle returning. “And between us, Mamma, I would hate to be married to Lady Paula!”

    “Yes, of course, my dear. And we are all very fond of dear Polly. It is not that.”

    Arthur Golightly thought it was, a little. He looked at her kindly and did not press the point.

    Lady Judith gnawed on her lip. “Does Simon affect the elder Marsh girl?”

    His jaw sagged. “Uh—I believe he hardly knows her, Mamma. What makes you think he may do?”

    “I told him expressly last week that I did not wish for the acquaintance, and yet he insists on accepting this invitation!”

    “I think that is only because he wishes to meet the Russian Prince,” said Dr Golightly, swallowing a smile. “Besides, he is bored and has time on his hands; and,”—he hesitated, but said it—“he is irritated when you try to tell him what to do.”

    “Yes,” she said flatly.

    There was a short silence.

    “Dearest Mamma, I apologise for having said I was tempted to go to the woman’s dance. Of course I shall not, and nor will Polly nor the Langfords. Polly merely expressed a wish to meet the Prince.”

    “Mm. Well, I dare swear he will be at the Pattersons’ dinner.”

    “Yes.” Dr Golightly waited again.

    This time Lady Judith took a deep breath and said: “You never met Josiah Wynton, did you? Nor his family, I think?”

    “No, indeed.”

    “They are—” She stopped, and took another breath. “I think you know Mrs Newbiggin, from the town?”

    “Of course, Mamma,” he said in astonishment.

    “Mrs Wynton is very like her, but entirely without the amiability,” said Lady Judith grimly. “As a matter of fact, she puts me forcibly in mind of Mrs Rumbold, but I think you do not know her.”

    “Er—the seed merchant’s wife, would that be?”

    “Yes. The most grasping, avaricious female in Nettleford. Well, you may ask anyone,” she said, flushing up. “They say in the town that she would not give her grandmother a groat if she were starving.”

    “I see...” he said slowly.

    “The sons,” said Lady Judith, swallowing, “were not sent to a decent school, and— In short, they have come under the influence of the mother and her family all their lives—more so, since their father’s death, I dare say. Her father was in trade; I cannot recall what. exactly.’

    She was, of course, talking about the Wynton boys, the eldest of whom was Cousin Sleyven’s heir, and not the Newbiggins or the Rumbolds. Dr Golightly nodded. “I see. But have you met the sons, Mamma?”

    “Yes. When I was in town staying with your Aunt Julia I made an opportunity to visit. They live at Reading, in the town itself; in quite decent style, but... The eldest son is nearly your age. He is very much the same sort as his mother and has married a shrewish, loud and—and unladylike woman.”

    “Mamma, have you been brooding over this ever since you came back from town?” he said with concern.

    “Not brooding, Arthur, that is ridiculous! I— Well, it has been occupying my mind, yes. I do not particularly wish to see a man like that occupying the position which was once my father’s. And he is certainly entirely unfit to occupy it!” she said with a shudder. “I did try to be fair-minded about it, Arthur, I promise you! I went to Reading with the best of intentions and an entirely open mind, but...”

    “Mm.” Dr Golightly rose and walked slowly up and down, his hands linked behind his back. Eventually he said: “What did Father say to all this?”

    The Dean’s wife replied grimly: “You know what he is, Arthur. First he said that it was unfortunate but hardly our concern, and then he went into one of his funning moods.”

    Dr Golightly knew that the Dean would have preferred his wife to occupy her mind with the affairs of their own family, the Deanery and the Cathedral rather than with those of the august family out of which she had married: he had disliked her brother intensely and her father almost as much. And with good reason: they had been cold, unlikeable personalities, and Arthur Golightly doubted very much that they would have given their starving grandmothers a groat, either.

    “I see. I can understand that you must find it very worrying, Mamma. Have you spoken of it to our Cousin Sleyven?”

    “Yes,” she said grimly. “Not two days since. He shares my sentiments, I can assure you. The eldest Wynton boy has refused point-blank to learn anything about the management of the estates.”

    “If he is as unsuitable as that, Sleyven should think seriously of marrying.”

    “That is what I said to him,” admitted Lady Judith. “Not that I— Well, he has no mother, and his sister is not interested, so— But he took it quite well. He said that Miss Patterson might make a conformable wife. What do you think?”

    “Mamma, I think if he truly said that, it is quite frightful.”

    Lady Judith blinked.

    “Do not try to tell me you were not wholly in love with Papa when you married him!” he said, smiling.

    “Well, yes. Irritating though he is. But—well, Sleyven is not a boy, Arthur.”

    “I really do not think that the human passions or the human heart change so radically, with time,” he said tranquilly.

    “The passions become less urgent, surely?” she said, frowning over it.

    “Is it that? Perhaps it is, in part. But is it not also that we become more afraid of giving in to them? Well, to illustrate the fact that a man of Sleyven’s age may feel just as keenly as a man of my own—or, indeed, of Papa’s when he met you,” he said, smiling at her, “I shall tell you a rather sad little tale. Polly and I drove over to call on Miss Burden a few days back, and when we arrived several of the young ladies who come to her for language classes had just finished a lesson, including Miss Bottomley-Pugh. Mr Bottomley-Pugh was come to collect her, and was taking tea with Miss Burden. Wearing,” he said on a rueful note, “his heart on his sleeve, poor man.”

    “Good Heavens, Arthur! That—that hearty cit from Nettleford House? Why, he must be fifty if a day!”

    “That is my point, Mamma. Did you not hear that he sent her a dozen French hens?”

    “That is not amusing, Arthur!” she snapped, going very red.

    “Er—it was not meant to be, I do assure you.”

    There was a short silence. A thunderstruck expression began to creep over Lady Judith’s face. Arthur merely watched her. Finally she said, drawing a very deep breath indeed: “Arthur Golightly, you are as devious and underhand as your father!”

    “Oh, hardly,” he murmured.

    Lady Judith managed to ignore that. “Miss Burden? Another older man seeking her favours with hens? Tell me that you introduced that story with no ulterior motive, Arthur Golightly, and I will throw that clock at your head!”

    Arthur smiled. “The story occurred to me, it was entirely relevant to the theme of middle-aged passion, and I thought that if you read rather more into it, it would not come amiss.”

    Lady Judith licked her lips. “I own, I have been thinking of Miss Burden for Sleyven...”

    “So I thought. Colonel Langford and I have had a word on the subject,” he said, eyeing her cautiously, “and he is very sure that Sleyven is deeply attracted to her.”

    “Then why in God’s name is he talking of offering for that milk-and-water Patterson creature?”

    “According to the Colonel, he has convinced himself that Miss Burden’s unique quality will not do for the Countess of Sleyven, and that milk and water has at least the advantage of being a quietly ladylike combination.” He shrugged a little.

    “Pray do not shrug, Arthur, it makes you look exactly like your father! –Quietly ladylike? What are you talking about?”

    Looking dry, Arthur told her of Miss Burden’s marching up to Maunsleigh with Hutton and his Lordship’s reaction to it.

    Lady Judith frowned. “Yet he affects her?”

    “The Colonel is utterly sure of it. And I think she has feelings for him: Mrs Langford believes that she is very much attracted to him, but was utterly shocked by finding out that he fathered Mrs Marsh’s youngest child: that is why she returned his hens. And, according to the Colonel, why Sleyven has been like a bear with a sore head ever since. Which, if you think about it, he has,” he noted thoughtfully.

    “I would not say—”

    “I think to ourselves it shows itself by a certain coldness and withdrawal. Once or twice I have had a glimpse of a most charming man, under the formality.”

    “Yes,” she said. chewing on her lip.

    Dr Golightly waited, watching her think it over.

    “What can I do?” she said at last.

    “Various schemes have suggested themselves to me, all more or less mad,” he said calmly.

    His mother looked at him uncertainly,

    “You could simply take Miss Burden up and endeavour to groom her into the semblance of what Sleyven wants, without revealing to either of them that that is what you are up to.”

    “Yes,” said Lady Judith shortly, reddening.

    “One can think of a thousand objections, mm. Or you could do it, but take him alone into your confidence. –I grant you it would not be easy to face him with a statement of your intentions.”

    “It most certainly would not! But,” she said slowly, “it may, after all, be the course of common sense.”

    “Mm. Or you could take Miss Burden alone into your confidence.”

    “Arthur, she would not! Even if I could bring myself to— I do not know her very well, but I am sure she would see it as combining to entrap the man!”

    “I am very sure you are right.”

    Lady Judith swallowed.

    “If he is thinking of Miss Patterson, I would say there is little time to lose.”

    “You are right. Arthur, are you sure that Miss Burden affects him?” she said grimly.

    “I think it might be best if you spoke to Mrs Langford about it, Mamma. I am very sure she thinks so, yes.”

    She hesitated; then she said, her jaw firming: “Yes, I had best speak to her first. If I am convinced that Miss Burden does care for him, then I shall speak to my cousin.”

    “Good. Possibly the best solution will be a formal proposal, with the proviso that Miss Burden go to you, or perhaps that you take her up to town to Aunt Julia, for a little town bronze.”

    “Indeed. –I don’t think I shall ask how long this has been in your head,” added his mother limply.

    Arthur laughed a little, came and dropped a kiss on her forehead, and went out, smiling gently.

    Lady Judith stared numbly at the invitation from Mrs Marsh, no longer seeing it at all.

    Arthur Golightly went tranquilly into his father’s study and told him what he had done.

    The Dean’s handsome, high-coloured face turned an alarming shade of purple. “For God’s SAKE, Arthur!”

    “Sir,” he said steadily, “I know you do not care for Mamma’s concerning herself with Wynton affairs. But she was brought up with very definite ideas about her family’s position and duties. For myself, I don’t care a fig if this Wynton is the most impossible cit that ever walked: he can lord it at Maunsleigh in a pink velvet waistcoat and drink Grandpapa’s sacred port out of a tankard with his breakfast, as far as I’m concerned. I did it for two other reasons: firstly, for the sake of the people. If our cousin’s heir has refused to come and learn the duties that he may expect to inherit, then he must be a very poor sort of a man indeed, and the tenants and all the people on the estate will fare very badly at his hands. And then, I did it for Mamma: she is clearly very unhappy about it.”

    “It’s her age,” he said sourly.

    “Er—oh. Well, possibly that is partly it, sir, yes. But not wholly.”

    “Look, you don’t realise it, but we’ve had enough of Wynton this and Wynton that and damned Maunsleigh t’other in this family to last us out several lifetimes, Arthur!”

    “I understand that, sir. But your attempts in the past to persuade Mamma that Maunsleigh is no longer her business have clearly failed. And I have to say that I think it would be unnatural of her not to take an interest in her old home.”

    “And in short, you have out-manoeuvred me!” he said sourly.

    “Yes. There are hundreds of people on the Wynton estates who may suffer if this fellow inherits.”

    The Dean sighed. “Yes. Very well, Arthur. You’ve made your point. But just leave me out of it, please.”

    His son looked at him steadily. “I am sure that Mamma will not ask you to accompany her when she interviews her cousin. The presence of a third party, whilst it might be of a certain comfort to Mamma,” he noted in a steely tone, “could on the whole only tend to increase the embarrassment of both sides. And I am sure that Mamma will leave you out of it entirely, if that is your wish. But in your shoes, sir,” he said very firmly indeed, “I would ask myself, what is the usual consequence of middle-aged spouses’ leaving each other out of their respective affairs?”

    “Get OUT!” he shouted, turning a strange violet shade.

    Dr Golightly returned, unmoved: “Papa, all marriages have their ups and downs, but you and Mamma have one of the happiest that I have ever seen. Mamma’s age may well be making her somewhat emotional, I grant you. But—”

    “Oh, go away, Arthur, you’ve made your damned point,” he groaned.

    Dr Golightly went over to the door. “What about farming, for Simon?”

    “Oh, so you’re prepared to take him on, too, are you? Any more of my responsibilities you would care to take on your shoulders, Arthur?”

    “No. In fact, as I think you are aware, I wish not to have your sorts of responsibilities when I am your age.”

    “Arthur, with your brains, you could be Archbishop of Canterbury by the time you’re my age!” he shouted.

    “I’ve thought of it. But attaining that position requires a greater amount of hypocrisy than I am prepared to devote to it.”

    “You could do more good—”

    “No. I’m sorry, Father; but we have already discussed this, have we not?” he said politely, going out.

    The Dean slumped at his desk, passed his hand wearily over his face, and sighed.

    … Mrs Langford was able to confirm to Lady Judith that Midge still very much affected Lord Sleyven. She smiled awkwardly. “We try to encourage them to see a little of one another, but I am afraid they both tend to refuse our invitations if they suspect the other is coming.”

    “Yes.” Lady Judith took a deep breath. “I shall speak to my cousin.”

    Mrs Langford smiled politely, but it was clear to her visitor that she did not think it would do any good.

    “I shan’t come in,” said the Dean as the barouche drew up on the main sweep at Maunsleigh. “But I’ll be back to collect you after I have seen Waldgrave.”

    “Yes. Thank you, David.”

    The Dean patted her hand. “Good luck, darling.”

    Lady Judith gave him a shaky smile and got down.

    The Earl had been surprised to receive a note asking if he would be at home to his cousin at such-and-such a time, but had replied politely that of course he would. He was waiting in the library for her, and saw her to a chair near the long windows that gave onto a terrace and a view of sloping green lawns.

    He took the chair next to hers. “Would you care for tea?”

    “Not just yet, thank you. I need to speak to you on a serious matter, Cousin Sleyven.”

    “Yes? If it is about young Simon, the lease of one of the farms near Turpen’s Way is vacant. There is a decent house, though not what he is accustomed to.”

    “No!” she said, very startled. “Er—thank you very much, Cousin. I own, David and Arthur think that perhaps we should consider farming for him. But I am not here to talk about Simon.”

    “No?” he said politely.

    Lady Judith looked at the cool, composed face. and felt her heart sink. Nevertheless, she struggled on: “I spoke to you recently of my visit to your cousin Josiah Wynton’s family.”

    His mouth tightened fractionally. “Indeed.”

    “The younger Mrs Wynton would undoubtedly be very glad to be the mistress of Maunsleigh, but that did not mean she was eager to urge her husband to learn the duties that go with the title. Though she was eager enough to invite herself to be your guest,” she noted drily.

    “So you said at the time.”

    There was a short pause.

    Lady Judith took a deep breath. “Cousin, you mentioned that you had been thinking of marriage.”

    “Yes,” he said levelly. “Would not you, in my shoes?”

    “Certainly. But not, however,” she said firmly, “with Miss Patterson.”

    The Earl returned coolly: “Oh? You think we should not suit?”

    “No. Though I have no doubt whatsoever that you would do your duty by her. Speaking as a woman,” said Lady Judith, looking him in the eye, “I cannot imagine a worse fate.”

    The Earl blinked. “That is very flattering.”

    “Sleyven, do not pretend you do not know precisely what I mean!” she said, forgetting an earlier promise to the Dean not to become heated.

    “Er—well, yes. A marriage of convenience would not suit every woman. But Miss Patterson does not strike me as, shall we say, a woman of very strong preferences.”

    “If you imagine that that will make it easier for her, being married to a man she does not love, and who does not care for her. you have a very strange notion of the female nature!” said Lady Judith roundly.

    “Then perhaps I do. Many couples manage to rub along together tolerably well in arranged marriages.”

    “It may look so from the outside, yes. But I think any girl would have to be remarkably thick-skinned to be comfortable in such a situation. Miss Patterson does not strike me as particularly thick-skinned.”

    “Er—no, very likely not. But if she has not fixed her interest elsewhere, do you not think that in time I might persuade her to fix it with me?”

    Lady Judith’s nostrils flared angrily.

    “Er—without meaning to blow my own trumpet, or exaggerate my powers of attraction,” he said, a little startled.

    “What you mean is, the poor girl would be eating out of your hand! Yes, very likely she would, without exaggerating your powers of attraction!” she said crossly. “And you would be bored out of your skull with her after six months of marriage!”

    The Earl had been smiling a little. He frowned suddenly, and said: “I assure you that I should not let it show, if I were.”

    “No,” she cried angrily: “you would retreat into that cool, calm shell of yours! For myself, I would rather die than be married to that!”

    The library rang with silence.

    Lady Judith swallowed, but glared at him defiantly.

    “Cousin,” he said faintly at last, “you need only the full regimentals exactly to resemble that full-length portrait of the first earl at the head of the main stairs.”

    “Do not be frivolous with me, Sleyven!”

    “I’m sorry. I—um—I admit I failed to put myself in the woman’s position in this arranged marriage you have depicted so vividly.”

    She continued to glare.

    “I’m not being frivolous: I do see what you mean,” he said, frowning over it. “But I am not a monster, I think?”

    Lady Judith sighed. “No, but you are a man who does not love her. Is that not more than enough?”

    “Yes, I suppose it is. So what do you advise I do? Write to damned young Wynton again?”

    “No,” said Lady Judith, taking a deep breath. “Offer for Miss Burden.”

    The Earl went very red.

    Lady Judith cleared her throat. “I admit I have talked it over with Mrs Langford. And—um—Arthur has spoken to Colonel Langford.”

    “Has he, indeed? You do surprise me. Tell me, Cousin, does the Dean know what you are up to?”

    “Yes,” she said tightly. “He dropped me off, and will call for me in about two hours’ time.”

    He raised his eyebrows slightly. “I see.”

    “Miss Burden,” said Lady Judith very firmly indeed, “in my opinion, would not be an ineligible choice.”

    “No? But I think you do not know her very well?”

    “If you mean to imply that she was not born to the life, of course I agree. That is a matter that can be overcome.”

    “Do you think so, ma’am? But there are other matters, it seems to me, that might also need to be overcome.”

    Lady Judith had flushed deeply. But she took a deep breath and said: “More than one, indeed. May I speak frankly?”

    “I was under the impression that you were already being frank, Cousin. But you may say whatever you like to me.”

    “Thank you. Then I shall say that Mrs Langford is quite sure that Miss Burden cares for you, Cousin.”

    There was a little silence.

    “And does Mrs Langford have any suggestions as to how she may be made to admit that to herself?” he said politely.

    “No, but I do,” replied Lady Judith firmly. “Offer for her. Tell her you love her.”

    “Mm.” He chewed on his lip.

    “It generally works,” said her Ladyship on a dry note.

    “Er—so one is led to believe.”

    Lady Judith looked carefully at his face. It did not give very much away, but— “I see. You’ve done something stupid, haven’t you? What was it?”

    “You are very sharp,” he said, passing a hand over his face. “I have done several very stupid things. But assuming that Miss Burden could overlook that stupid thing I did in the past and which has come home to haunt me, I don’t think my more recent behaviour has done much to argue my case. I—I made a fool of myself. I suppose I let her see that I... I wanted her,” he said in a low voice, swallowing.

    His cousin stared. “In God’s name! What did you do?”

    “Well, I suppose nothing that would shock yourself, or—or any experienced woman. She was shocked and furious. Um, well— Dammit, I’d better tell you about the business with the wall.”

    He did so. Lady Judith’s face crinkled into a smile. “Most of the maidens in the county, ladies or not, would not have been averse to such attentions!”

    “She was shocked and furious,” he repeated dully.

    “Mm. Not to be indelicate,” she said shrewdly, “I think possibly she was shocked as much by her own feelings as your action.”

    “Do you think so?” he said, looking at her with sudden hope.

    “Oh, indeed. But getting her to admit it to herself, as you so rightly said, is another matter.”

    “Yes. Then there was the episode at the damned strawberry picknick. I—um...”

    “Never tell me you did it again?”

    “More or less, mm. She was mad as fire with me. She threw Mrs Marsh in my face. And then I made it worse by proposing to her on top of it.”

    “When she was in a rage with you? You idiot!” said his cousin roundly.

    The Earl smiled lamely. “Yes.”

    After a moment Lady Judith said limply: “I do beg your pardon.”

    “No—don’t. I think, if you would not dislike it, I shall ring for tea, now.”

    “Thank you,” she said, a trifle limply.

    He rang for tea, and proceeded to draw her out on the subject of her sons and their general recalcitrance and specific refusal to follow the paths in life on which she had believed their feet to have been safely set.

    “You have side-tracked me,” she said wryly, setting her cup down. “We were talking of Miss Burden.”

    “Mm. Since that episode at Verne Lea,” he said stiffly, flushing, “I have had time to regret my offer and to be thankful that it was not accepted.”

    “I see. I don’t wish to be unkind, but could that have been sour grapes?”

    “I don’t think so,” he replied tightly. “It is not a dish which I am in the habit of offering myself.”

    “No,” she said, her lips twitching slightly. “Well, we have a few obstacles to overcome, have we not?”

    “Cousin Judith, it does not seem to me,” said the Earl with difficulty, “that Miss Burden would make a suitable Countess of Sleyven.”

    “No? My brother’s late wife was a ninny. I admit my mother was an admirable woman, of much good sense. But Miss Burden could not possibly do worse than Rose—and at that, she was not so very bad!” she said with a smothered laugh. “Inane, merely.”

    “I think she was a Gratton-Gordon? –The senior branch,” he said on grim note.

    “A daughter of the Marquess and Marchioness of Wade: yes. So you object to Miss Burden’s birth?” she said with a frown.

    “Do not you?” he returned levelly.

    Lady Judith hesitated. Then she admitted: “Initially, when I heard that you might be épris in that direction: yes, I did. But I have got to know her, a little, since, and heard a deal about her. Her birth is respectable enough not to be a factor.”

    “If all other things were equal, perhaps not,” he said, frowning.

    “At least she will not flirt with the damned Prince of Wales under her husband’s own roof!” said Lady Judith with feeling.

    “Er—oh. Did she?”

    “Yes. Well, strictly speaking, it was her papa-in-law’s roof: it was back in the days when His Majesty was still known in Society as Prince Florizel. It was a mindless flirtation rather than anything venal, but— Well, Rose was mindless,” she admitted ruefully.

    “Cousin Judith,” he said heavily, “I have seen Castle Wade.”

    “The family does not—”

    “And Gratton Hall. Lady Rose Gratton-Gordon, like yourself, was born into a life of great houses and great names.”

    “True. But it is not Miss Burden’s birth, but, to be frank, the freedom of the sort of life which she has been accustomed to lead, which I would see as the greatest barrier to her comporting herself suitably as your wife.”

    “Yes. Walking all over the countryside unescorted, and... Well, she has very little notion of how a lady should go on,” he said with a sigh.

    “I think it is not that,” she said shrewdly. “Rather, that she knows, but does not care.”

    “Exactly. And her dress— Well. She has very little money.”

     “But it will show, if a woman of very little means is possessed of taste and cares about her dress.”

    “Quite.”

    “These things may be learned,” she said calmly.

    The Earl hesitated. “I have thought of that, I must admit. But I think she is much too proud to—to knuckle under,” he said, chewing on his lip, “and learn them. And besides, there is no-one to teach her. Well, Mrs Langford has mentioned in my hearing that she has very little influence over her.”

    “I will do it,” said Lady Judith simply.

    Her cousin’s jaw sagged.

    “The boys are grown, I have no daughters and, as David will tell you, I have not enough with which to occupy myself. –There is a limit to what I can do in my position as the Dean’s wife without encroaching upon the preserves which the Bishop’s lady considers hers,” she noted drily.

    “Mm, I see that. Well, it is very generous of you, Cousin,” he said lamely.

    “I am not doing it out of generosity. I do not wish to see Mrs Wynton lording it in my mother’s place. And,” she said more gently, “both David and I would wish to see you happy, Cousin.”

    “Thank you. I... The thing is,” he said huskily, “could we be happy? We—we seem to fight whenever we meet.”

    A great light dawned on Lady Judith at this point. “I see!”

    “She is... Contumacious, best describes her.”

    “Mm. Cousin, it is very difficult to say what I think about that without being entirely indelicate!” she said with a laugh in her throat.

    He looked at her in some surprise. “Oh,” he said, his colour rising. “Yes, I see. But where two people who arouse such aggressive emotions in each other marry, very often the result is passion interspersed with endless quarrels.”

    “Yes. But I think it would be very much up to you to see that your marriage did not turn out like that.” She looked at his face. “Miss Burden does not strike me as a termagant. I think, once she is sure of your love, she will not fight you any more,” she said gently.

    “Perhaps you are right,” he agreed hoarsely.

    Lady Judith saw his fists had clenched on his knee. “I am sure of it,” she said kindly. “Now, I have given some thought as to how we might best go about it all, and although I might merely endeavour to take Miss Burden up, I doubt very much that that would work. I think the first move must be yours.”

    “Yes,” he said, the strong nostrils flaring. “But she will not.”

     Lady Judith suppressed a sigh. “You have scared her off,” she said flatly.

    “Yes,” he admitted, going very red.

    “You must be gentle with her. Try—well, for Heaven’s sake: try offering her a few bunches of flowers! I am sure Arthur has stripped the Deanery garden bare, this past year!”

    “Mm.”

    She rose, looking uncertain. “I cannot do it for you.”

    “No,” he said wryly.

    Lady Judith looked at the clock. “I think it will be some time before David can get here. I shall take a turn in the grounds, if I may?”

    “Of course.” He opened the French door for her.

    “Thank you.” She hesitated, and then said: “Once she has learned to trust you a little, I think you will find the task of introducing the topic of her learning the duties that befit her new position not so difficult, after all.”

    “Cousin Judith,” he said with a sort of humorous resignation: “I shall find it, on the contrary, a Herculean task. Do you always demand so much—indeed, more than he can compass—of a fellow?”

    Lady Judith bit her lip. “David has always said that I am too exacting. And—and set my standards too high,”

    “My father was used to say the same of me,” he said wryly. “A Wynton trait, no doubt.”

    “Well, yes!” she agreed with a startled laugh. “Er—but I cannot see how else to go about it, Cousin,” she said lamely.

    “No. Nor I. Thank you,” he said, taking her hand and raising it briefly to his lips. “I shall be forever in your debt, Cousin.”

    Lady Judith smiled a trifle limply, told him not to thank her until something had come of it, and hurried into the garden. Thinking that one could scarcely tell the man such a thing, but perhaps he should try kissing the maidenly Miss Burden’s hand, so, and smiling down into her eyes, so: for even a mere cousin found him, when he focussed the full force of his personality upon herself, quite overwhelming!

Next chapter:

https://thepatchworkparasol.blogspot.com/2022/12/rural-enjoyment.html