Indiscretion (19 page)

‘That I could not allow
—
Caroline.’

Isabella, as Caroline was to call her companion, proceeded to be her guide about the village: the tour was soon accomplished, for Wythorpe was not extensive, but neither was it mean; it had an appearance of quietly thriving, and Caroline’s eye fell with appreciation on the cottage gardens, still bright even at this late season with their unknown flowers, on the beehives, the venerable benches worn glassy smooth, the stone walls that bowed out with the convexity of a baby’s cheek, the broad-wheeled wagons that went just a very little faster than walking pace. Still her chief satisfaction, on returning to the Rectory, was the friendship she had discovered with Isabella. And it was with the tender perception of friendship that she noticed how comparatively little Isabella spoke of Wythorpe’s chief landmark
—
her own home, the Manor, which was visible as a cluster of chimneys on the high ground to the west, at the end of an avenue of oaks
—
and how little eager she seemed to go back there.

That the regard was mutual was evinced over the next few days not only by the ready confidence Isabella extended to her
—
and this from a nature that, it was plain, tended rather to reserve
—
but by Aunt Selina’s benignly remarking, as Isabella’s neat figure passed the front parlour window again, that they had never seen so much of their niece before. The two young women spent much time together, exchanging life-histories: there did remain patches of marked reticence about Isabella, and these included her feelings about her home life; but quiet hints there were, and Caroline was soon in any case acquainted with the facts relating to the Milners of Wythorpe Manor, these being the common property of the neighbourhood in which they were first in consequence.

The family had long been prosperously settled in Huntingdonshire. If they were notable at all, it was for a habit of not distinguishing themselves; and as no firmer warrant for respectability could be imagined, they continued to enjoy the widespread esteem of their acquaintance, to be buried with due formality in the vault at Wythorpe church when they died, and to be absolutely forgotten straight afterwards. But Isabellas late father had been of a different stamp. He had sought to be a public man. He made no less than two whole speeches in Parliament: the first, much admired for its freshness of thought and force of expression, asserting that British liberty was a good thing, and French despotism a bad thing: the second, reaffirming these trenchant points. Having further benefited his country by raising and equipping a force of Volunteers (blue jackets, white buttons, yellow facings) to repel Bonaparte if he should ever reach Huntingdon, he was duly rewarded with a knighthood, and as Sir Henry Milner retired to his estate to nurse indifferent health, and to reminisce
—
sometimes to the less than total captivation of his hearers
—
about what Mr Pitt had said to him in the lobby back in
‘99.

In his private capacity Sir Henry had met with no less success. He was married early to a lady of good sense and firm principle
—
the sister of the Rector,
Dr Langland;
and she had borne him three children, who grew up creditably, influenced above all by Lady Milner’s desire that they should be well educated; for it was her strong if eccentric belief that for country gentlefolk to be chuckle-heads and boobies was not a necessity: it only looked that way. The loss of this lady to a consumption, some five years since, was universally mourned, and nowhere more so, it seemed, than in the heart of the widower; yet as time passed, and mourning was doffed, Sir Henry revealed an impetuosity and suggestibility of temperament that it had often been his late lady’s part to restrain, and that now went unchecked. He contracted a violent affection for a woman thirty years his junior: none other than the governess appointed to the instruction of his younger daughter; and to the consternation of his friends, would settle for nothing less than marrying her.

This second Lady Milner, being the choice of the first as governess to young Fanny, was naturally lacking nothing in attainments, and was of a respectable family: still, the injudiciousness of the match was felt. To the usual awkwardness of a young stepmother
—
actually younger than the eldest offspring and heir, and not much senior to the others
—
was added that of the dependant and employee suddenly transformed into mistress of house and family. Nor could she escape censure for the ready promptness with which she had accepted a proposal so materially advantageous. Sir Henry was good-looking for a man in his fifties, and had warmth and geniality to recommend him: still, even the most charitable observer could not have supposed that his suit would have been successful if he had had only his heart to lay at her feet, and not a knightly name, a mansion and park, and nine hundred acres. Not that there was much belief in a suit on the gentleman’s part: it being generally assumed that the young lady had gone all out to land him.

However, Sir Henry seemed happy with his new bride: but this felicity was fated soon to end, and not by the common matrimonial decline into indifference. A twelvemonth after his marriage, he was felled by a heart-stroke, and followed his first wife to the churchyard, leaving the former governess mistress of Wythorpe Manor, and all manner of complications in the bereft family.

‘Ah, Sir Henry should have thought of this,’ was the general remark: for there is nothing we so reprehend as lack of foresight in others, unless it be the detection of it in ourselves. It was not that he had encumbered the next generation with legal difficulties. He had settled a comfortable jointure on his widow, whilst the estate passed naturally to his son: nor were his daughters dowerless. But he had insufficiently considered that much more unstable currency, the feelings. Lady Milner must continue to live at the Manor, but in a very singular relation to her stepchildren, one of whom was the master of the house, whilst over the two girls she bore a sort of authority, surely very awkward for all parties in its ill-definition. Had there been friendship, or even cordiality, between the young stepmother and her late husband’s family, all such difficulties might have been swept aside; but this was emphatically not the case, and one hardly needed further evidence than the continual absences of Mr Stephen Milner, who seemed unable to bear being in the house.

Such at least was the general impression of what went on at Wythorpe Manor
—
but Caroline was eager to see for herself. It was proof of the recovery of her own spirits after the loss of her father, that her habitual curiosity was reviving
—
partly on behalf of her new friend, in whose situation she had a sympathetic interest; but also from sheer inquisitiveness. That she might learn something to the disadvantage of clever-stick Stephen Milner was, perhaps, a further incentive, and quickened her pulses when at last the Langlands readied themselves to call at the Manor and introduce her.

‘We had better, my dear,’ Uncle John confided to his wife, in what he considered a whisper, and what an auctioneer would have considered a good carrying voice for a busy market day, ‘we had better, for I don’t think Lady Milner is going to wait upon us, though that would be more the correct thing
—
much more. And I think poor Bella knows it. Dear me!’

Isabella was the first to welcome them at the Manor. Indeed she came running down the oak avenue to meet them, explaining a little bashfully that she had seen their approach from her window.

‘And I thought I should tell you, before you come in, that Captain Brunton is here again.’

‘Is he? It seems he has only just gone away,’ Aunt Selina said.

‘Who? Who? Oh, to be sure, Brunton. I remember him. He is a captain,’
Dr Langland
explained. ‘But, my dear Bella, why must you warn us? Is the Captain in bellicose mood, perhaps, standing by to repel all boarders?’ His snort of amusement sent a magpie flapping from the copper beech leaves overhead. ‘Or training his pistols on us from the porch-hood?’

‘I think Isabella meant to spare us the awkwardness of surprise,’ Aunt Selina said, ‘especially as
—
well, I had certainly concluded his visit to be over.’

‘It was, and now here is a new one begun, I suppose,’ said Isabella, lightly, but with a look that on any less gentle face would have appeared like dark discontent.

Well, and who is this Captain Brunton?’ Caroline asked, slipping her arm through Isabella’s.

‘A kinsman of my stepmother
—
Lady Milner.’

‘I believe he is a second cousin,’ Aunt Selina added.

‘Ah? One might suppose it a nearer relation,’ said
Dr
Langland, jovially, ‘they are so very thick with one another, are they not?’

‘Yes, Uncle,’ Isabella said, ‘they are.’

Wythorpe Manor revealed itself at a nearer view as a substantial Dutch-gabled house built of mellow limestone, not more than two hundred years old, with two projecting wings either side of a central porch. There were signs of formal grounds having once surrounded it, but now a lawn of luxuriant and decidedly uneven turf ran right up to the steps, which Caroline thought much pleasanter. Within, she was enfolded at once by a smell of old varnish, woodsmoke and beeswax, and was amused, on gazing round the lofty panelled hall, to fancy Mrs Catling being forced to live here, and suffering the agony of being unable to check it all for dust.

A comfortable morning room, steeped in autumn sun, was where they were received by their hostess. Such at least they must call her: but there was not much that was hospitable about the young lady who stiffly dabbed her fingers into Caroline’s palm and then swiftly reclaimed her seat by the fire. She was remarkably handsome
—
to the surprise of Caroline, who had uncharitably supposed that to enslave an old man of fifty, not much was required beyond the bloom of youth, and obligingness; but it was in a tall, high-chinned, black-browed style, more impressive than appealing: and she asked how Caroline did, and how she liked the country, and how she was settling in at the Rectory, in such an absent and mechanical way as suggested she was mentally ticking off a list of the requisite civilities. She was richly dressed, but seemed to have a finicking consciousness of it, and would suddenly turn her attention, when Caroline or her aunt was speaking, to rearranging the embroidered shawl over her shoulder, in a manner that made Caroline want fairly to slap her. Yet at the same time Lady Milner seemed always on the watch, observing every shuffle, interrogating every smile, with the result that her visitors became as unnatural as she was.

With her was a knotty, muscular, light-eyed man of thirty whose weathered complexion would have proclaimed the naval officer, even without the blue tailcoat and white waistcoat, and who sat stoically nursing a stocky leg and blinking as if on a long night-watch. Lady Milner introduced him with the words, ‘My cousin, Captain Brunton, late of the
Northam,’
and with the first hint of warmth or animation she had shown. He only blinked harder, and muttered a gruff greeting.

‘Well, well, Captain Brunton, had you no luck with their lordships at the Admiralty, hey?’
Dr Langland
accosted him. ‘I recall, when you were last here, you were going to wait upon them in hopes of a commission.’

‘No luck
—
as you say, sir,’ the Captain answered. ‘But I am still
—
as you say
—
in hopes.’

‘Dear, dear
—
I dare swear it is the worst of all times for a man like yourself, what with the peace, and more officers being turned ashore than given ships,’
Dr
Langland pursued cheerfully. ‘Must be dozens of half-pay captains lingering about the Admiralty corridors every day, hey?’

‘Dozens
—
as you say, sir,’ said Captain Brunton: prompting Caroline to wonder whether being at sea so long had turned the sailor into the semblance of one of his own parrots, able only to echo what had just been said to him.

‘What about the merchant service? That’s the other side of the peace, you know
—
there’ll be more trade upon the seas now. Of course, it must be odd to shake down to carrying cargoes of herrings after fighting the Frenchies so magnificently. I can see that. Well, at any rate, Captain, you have a comfortable safe harbour here, hey?’

Dr
Langland innocently beamed, but Captain Brunton only bowed shortly, whilst Lady Milner stirred and with a conscious look pronounced: ‘I am very happy to have my cousin stay, and my late husband would, I am sure, have felt the same
—
that is, that any connections of mine would always be welcome at Wythorpe, without reservation.’

‘I do not think Uncle John intended any such reflection,’ Isabella spoke up, ‘indeed I am sure of it, knowing him: for he is after all a true connection of the family.’

‘Ah, to be sure,’
Dr
Langland said, looking about him with amiable incomprehension, ‘I’ve known Isabella here, and the others, since they were half the height of my stick
—
nay, babes in arms
—
and yet the curious thing is it all seems to have passed in a mere twinkling. Why, I remember little Bella making a tea-party on the rug with thimbles, and scolding Stephen because he lolled about and would not sit neatly. Such a messy boy he was, and would not submit to have his hair combed, do you recall, Selina? Of course, that was before your time, my dear Lady Milner,’ the Rector concluded, with another unwitting, beaming look all about, whilst Captain Brunton blinked away at his watch, and Lady Milner, who apparently never blinked at all, seemed to freeze where she sat.

‘That reminds me,’ said Aunt Selina, ‘Stephen
—
do you hear anything from him? When can we expect him back at Wythorpe?’

‘I hear nothing,’ Lady Milner said. ‘I should be glad to, indeed: there is a deal of business that the steward cannot manage without the master’s approval, and he is forever troubling me with it.’

‘Ah, yes, I think Isabella would be glad of his return likewise,’ Aunt Selina said, ‘so she can proceed with her marriage plans, isn’t it so, my dear? You must both of you take this sad fellow to task when he comes home.’

It was a game attempt, Caroline thought
—
trying to make stepmother and stepdaughter feel they were in the same boat; but it was met with two different kinds of silence, and it would surely take a lot more than Aunt Selina’s gentle persuasion to heal the disaffection in this room. Isabella was quite altered in the presence of Lady Milner and her cousin: subdued and yet soured, like a bright candle overtaken by daylight; and Caroline could understand why. There was no ease about Lady Milner
—
only a stiff civility, a cold straining after correctness. Something about her unrestful glance suggested that her awkwardness had unhappy roots; but still one was discouraged from sympathy, and Caroline was just wondering how the visit was to be got through when a newcomer burst into the room, pursued by a yipping spaniel, and bringing with her a new atmosphere, like a gust through a door flung cheerfully open.

‘Uncle John
—
Aunt Selina, how long have you been here? You’re not about to go away, are you? Only I didn’t know
—
I was rambling round the garden and I quite forgot the time
—’

‘And without your shawl, I think,’ Lady Milner said reprovingly to the young girl, who had gone bouncing over to kiss
Dr Langland’s
cheek.

‘Oh, pooh, Augusta, it’s absolutely mild out, as you would know if you came away from that fire for a change. Ain’t it, Bella?’

‘I don’t know about
absolutely
mild,’ Isabella said, with a smile. ‘Something might be absolutely freezing or boiling, but mild suggests a relative term.’

‘Old Grave-Airs, how you talk!’ the girl cried, planting a boisterous kiss on Isabella’s cheek also. ‘And now
you
must be Caroline!’

‘I have told you before, Fanny,’ Lady Milner droned, ‘it is not proper to address me in that way.’

‘Why, I can’t call you Miss Howell any more, because you ain’t,’ said Fanny robustly. ‘And to say Stepmother or Stepmama would be just too fantastical, when you’re hardly older than Bella. Now then, how do you do
—’
Caroline’s hand was seized
‘—
and I’m Fanny, and I don’t mind
what
you call me, only I must say I was never so glad to meet anyone
—
no, go down, Leo!
—
because I have heard so much about you, which is a dreadful old stale thing to say but in this case
true,
and I have absolutely hundreds of questions to ask you.’

‘Dear me, I’m delighted, but I think you must have the wrong person
—
you must be thinking of Princess Caroline, or Lady Caroline Lamb.’

‘Oh, pooh to them
—
thought I
should
like to read this book Lady Caroline has written about Lord Byron, though they pretend it isn’t about him.’

‘Pray don’t waste your time
—
it is sadly dull and absurd.’

‘Oh, you have read it? But of course you would
—
you have moved in the world
—
and here we are dreadfully out of things, and have to go to Huntingdon even to get to a circulating-library, and then it is half stocked with sermons. And it’s bad enough having to listen to those, without absolutely sitting down and
reading
them as well. Oh, I do beg your pardon, Uncle John! Don’t take that amiss
—
some
of yours are actually quite interesting!’

Fanny Milner, who had plumped herself down beside Caroline on the sofa, was everything her stepmother was not, in terms of naturalness and animation. She was all in a glow from her exercise, her chestnut hair coming down in wild spirals, her skirts stained with mud: white-skinned, buxom, with a short nose and a determined chin, and a charmingly evident belief that her seventeen years had taught her all she would ever need to know.

‘The way Aunt Selina found you, and brought you here
—
I vow it is the most romantic thing. And then your father was actually in the Peninsula, and wounded! How surpassingly glorious! Papa had a godson at St Ives who was in the militia and made a great thing of it, but all he ever did was drill round the market-place, and then go and drink himself silly with loyal toasts.’

‘It is not right to speak so slightingly of the militia, Fanny’ put in her stepmother. ‘They were embodied to very good purpose.’

‘Pooh, I’ll bet Bonaparte would have made mincemeat of them. Well, he would
— 1
don’t mean I
approve
him,’ Fanny said, turning to Caroline with a roll of her eyes. ‘And now is it true your father was absolutely an actor on the stage once as well? How perfect!’

‘Well, opinions might differ as to the perfection of that,’ Caroline said, with a glance at Aunt Selina. ‘In the eyes of some people
—
who had eminently good reasons for thinking so
—
it was not at all respectable.’

‘I wouldn’t care for that,’ Fanny said decidedly ‘I have an absolute scorn for stuffy conventions
—
and, Lord, we are imprisoned by them in
this
place.’

‘Some conventions may appear stuffy,’ said Aunt Selina, ‘but there is usually a good reason for them. It is a convention, after a dull party, to say you have enjoyed it; but that is an act of consideration for your hosts.’

‘And so you get invited again, to another dull party,’ Fanny returned. ‘No, not for me: I shall just speak my mind.’

‘What if you hurt your hosts’ feelings by doing so?’ Isabella gently suggested.

‘Oh, well, when everyone is used to being open and honest, then no one will get hurt by such things.’

‘Ah, you imagine an ideal world, my dear,’
Dr Langland
said.

‘Of course, Uncle: what other kind is worth imagining? But do you not agree, Captain Brunton? About the dull parties?’

‘Parties? Oh
—
as to that, Miss Fanny, I am a dull fellow for parties in any event,’ Captain Brunton said; occasioning in Caroline a brief mental review, to see if there were any news that had ever surprised her less.