Authors: Jude Morgan
Up and up she looked, because he had never seemed so tall: unreachably so. The look he gave her was rueful, speculative, not unkind
—
but it seemed to come from such a great distance that her heart failed at the notion of speaking across it.
‘Well, well,’ he said softly, ‘the curse of being always right! Trouble I said, and trouble it is!’
And again not unkindly, but seeming to leave a scrupulous distance between them, he found the door for her.
‘My dear, you have told me it is the truth, and I believe it is the truth,’ concluded Aunt Selina staunchly that night, after Caroline had poured out the whole story to her. She had waited till an unusually strong egg-nog, mixed by her own experienced hands, had sent her uncle into a doze over his
History of the Council of Trent
(margins generously sprinkled with explosive scrawls of ‘Ah!’ and
‘indubitably’),
for she did not want the unworldly Dr Langland’s mind fretted with the matter, or her own with trying to explain it to him. Aunt Selina listened solemnly, exclaimed appropriately, and responded loyally. ‘And now what I want you to do is get a good night’s sleep, and let it all rest until the morrow. My one concern is that your health should not suffer from all this upset: you are already quite pale.’
Thus her dependable aunt, with one of her neat, dry kisses. And yet and yet. If anyone was pale, it was Aunt Selina. Plainly the whole thing shocked her: not simply her niece being propositioned in that way, but
anyone
being so propositioned: the very ideas of seduction, duplicity, and intrigue seemed to taint the pure air of the Rectory. And Caroline, for all her aunt’s assurances, could not help wondering whether now, at last, those regretful thoughts of cuckoos and nests were passing through Aunt Selina’s mind.
For Caroline the next day, two short letters. From Maria Downey:
Ma chère
Caroline — I
write you from Hethersett and thus with a certain degree of delicious secrecy
—
maid’s brother entrusted with smuggling out missive for a bribe of sixpence no less and so on. Of course you will know that Matthew has gone post-haste to Brighton to beat at Aunt Sophia’s closed door and equally closed heart. Yes
—
yes, I heard all about it,
and
whom he blames for the catastrophe
—
and my dear, I may as well say I cannot believe it of you
—
there is something tasteless and provincial about it which I really do not connect with you. Not that I would blame you if you had told our aunt
—
dear, dear
—
Perdita from Snow-hill forsooth
—
what
was
he thinking? Anyhow I declined to go jaunting off to Brighton when I am comfortably settled here with the bountiful hospitality of the Leabrooks
—
you know I am quite a favourite with the garrulous Mrs L for some reason
—
perhaps because I don’t mind her endless chatter, since it saves
me
the trouble of talking
—
for, my dear, you know me and trouble.
—
So, I told Matthew I would stay till the end of the week as we first agreed — thus I hope I may be able to call and see you BUT (oh, those capitals have quite worn me out) but this is very much contingent
—
a word I have never written before in my life by the by
—
because now one hears even more scandalous tales about you! — you wicked creature! I don’t know what to believe but also, my dear, do not greatly care. I am the least moral creature in existence, and all I would like is the pleasure of your company again,
if
it can be managed. — Perhaps when I come to pursue your provoking long-legged friend at Wythorpe Manor? (Yes, I confess I am struggling, but I will get his heart in the end — or at least a little bit of it.) In the meantime, love and whatever you like — and oh! you wicked creature
—
Yrs ever M.D.
From Fanny Milner:
My dear Caro — I told you I did not believe a word of it. And now I have heard from Bella what you said — and I am vindicated.
Yours,
my dear Caro, must be the true account: and what a deceitful devil is Richard! I am shocked and disgusted at him. True fidelity is so vital — once sincerity is gone, so must be that respect on which alone the affections of the feeling heart repose: I know Charles would agree: it is one of our sacred beliefs. I may as well say Isabella continues in a much confused state — wretchedly torn and distressed; and in the meantime Stephen — what can I say? I cannot tell
what
he is thinking or which account he believes: only that he is dismally out of patience with what he calls ‘the whole boiling’, and is insistent that it must be settled somehow. He has summoned Richard (O! I should not write his treacherous name thus) to come for a thorough talk with him and Isabella — and he (Leabrook let me call him) is expected here any moment. Do you know that Augusta, after she got over the usual vapours, has actually kept rather quiet and sensible — is much concerned for Isabella — she even surrendered her seat by the fire for her! My dear Caro, rest assured I shall do everything in my power on
your
behalf — even if that can only be to let you know what happens. Courage, my dear friend! We shall smite the Philistines! Leo has a thorn in his right front paw by the by.
Yours most affectionately, FANNY.
· · ·
Caroline took what heart she could from these messages; still she could not be easy for a moment with the thought of what must be going on beneath the Manor roof today. Her aunt, observing her restlessness, at last found a task for her. She was to go and call upon a young woman who lived in Splash Lane, and tactfully ask her if she would come and do needlework at the Rectory two days a week. The young woman was maintaining the fiction that her husband, a carter, was on a long visit to relatives, when in fact he had deserted her to chase an actress from a strolling company who had acted
She Would and She Would Not
in Farmer Chivers’s barn. Having fulfilled her errand, and found the young woman to be pitifully devoted still to the contemptible weasel who had impoverished her, Caroline turned for home thinking some hard thoughts about the perfidy of the male sex in general. But it was two particular members of that fraternity whose images, like wraith courtiers, went backwards before her as she walked. Richard Leabrook: what further lies might he be telling about her at this moment? And Stephen Milner: would he believe them?
This question produced in her a deep, sounding anxiety
—
which in turn set off a gust of irritation. She had done nothing wrong: it was nonsense to agonize as if she had. More important, surely, was self-belief. Did she have that? Do you have that, Caroline? Yes, came the conclusion, just as the woody flutter of a ring-dove startled from a tree above alerted her to the approach of rapid hoofbeats.
For a moment, turning, she thought Richard Leabrook was actually going to ride her down, and in that moment registered a pure surprise that life should include such melodrama. But it does not, and he did not. He reined in, he touched his hat: his superb face wore little more expression than boredom; yet there was an angry jut to the cheekbones, and something seething beneath his unraised voice as he said: ‘Miss Fortune. You are to be congratulated on your success.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘That’s because I haven’t told you yet,’ he said pleasantly, unpleasantly. ‘Miss Fortune, you will be glad to know
—’
he quieted his restive horse with a savage jerk on the reins
‘—
that the wedding is off. Yes: all our plans are destroyed, Isabella is in tears, and there is to be no Christmas wedding as she had hoped: instead, an indefinite postponement. Well, are you glad?’
‘Yes
—
assuming such a rudely posed question requires an answer, yes, sir, I am glad. But I am glad as I would be at a spell of sunshine
—
because it is simply a good thing, not something I intended or brought about.’
‘Very pretty. Very tedious. Well, you were on your way to the Manor to find out the results of your efforts, I’m sure, so I’ve spared you the trouble. It was Milner who insisted the wedding be put off. Hm!
Now
he chooses to be decisive!’
There was a sharp contempt in his voice that pricked her beyond self-possession. ‘If you were a better man, Mr Leabrook, I would call that unworthy. Mr Milner cares for his sister’s well-being. It’s lucky she has such people about her.’
‘You would count yourself amongst this angelic host, of course. Despite what your jealousy has done to her. Oh, come, don’t give me that look: what else are we to call it? From the moment you first set eyes on me again it has been plain that you would not rest content
—
you must be meddling
—
heaven knows why. Is it regret for saying no in Brighton? I may as well say I have long repented that moment’s folly: I must have been bored indeed.’
‘Mr Leabrook, you cannot insult me any more than you did that night. That is what I cannot forget
—
the insult
—
and it is what you, it seems, cannot understand. Since you maintain that you sincerely love Isabella, I ask you to consider how you would feel if she were so treated by a man.’
‘But, my dear Miss Fortune,’ he said, with a small laugh, ‘you must see the difference. Isabella is a well-bred young woman of fortune: you are a mere soldier’s get, brought up one jump ahead of the streets, and accustomed to hiring yourself out one way or another.’ He touched his hat again. ‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of unpleasant truths.’
‘Ah, now a mystery has been solved. When I first met your mother, I wondered at her vulgarity, for it was a quality that you for all your bad character seemed to lack: but now I see the family resemblance. Good day, sir — I don’t imagine we shall meet again.’
‘Don’t be so sure of that. There is a postponement, there is a temporary separation — Isabella says she requires time to think: and if she has the sense I believe she does, those thoughts must surely turn to the attractions of a good marriage, against those of a dubious friendship. You have not won yet, Miss Fortune.’
It was of
no use crying after him, as she wanted to do, that she had no thought of winning or losing: his opinion of her — if you could call outright hatred an opinion — was confirmed. What she really needed to know, and dreaded to find out, was the opinion of her prevailing at the Manor. The postponement of the wedding suggested that her story had been taken into account, if not absolutely believed; but she still could not suppose that she would be warmly welcomed there by anyone except Fanny, and it was with a heavy tread that she entered the oak avenue that used to be her favourite walk.
Not Fanny but Lady Milner came hurrying out to the hall. ‘Miss Fortune, how do you do? You find us a little disturbed domestically again, I am afraid, and so your welcome may not be all that civility should dictate. I hope you are quite well? I realize,’ she added, with a rare anxious tinge of humour, ‘that these formalities may seem rather absurd at such a time — but really I don’t know what else to do! And how to explain to you—’
‘Well, I have just seen Mr Leabrook. He was ... informative.’ ‘I see.’ Lady Milner’s eyes — surprising, inky violet eyes — shyly searched her face. ‘I may as well say, Miss Fortune, that I think this postponement a good idea, no matter what the — the real facts of the matter are. Mr Leabrook emerged from his private interview with Isabella looking furious and was barely polite. It was not, between ourselves, the way I would wish to see a gentleman behave, even if he considered himself — well — wronged. He said if there were any shadow of suspicion attaching to him, then he did not see how they could go on. I do not think he quite expected Stephen to say so promptly that, in that case, the wedding should be put off. But of course by then
—’
‘This,’ cried Stephen, flinging open the drawing-room door, ‘is exactly what I loathe about the whole business. All this whispering together in corners like a set of surreptitious witches. Come in, Miss Fortune, and let us all talk openly and frankly, for this concerns you quite as much as anyone.’
‘Oh, yes, Caro, you must come in, and you must know you are vindicated!’ cried Fanny, abandoning an operation on her spaniel’s paw. ‘Bella, tell her
—
tell her she is absolved and shriven!’
‘Fanny, stop being sensibilitous for one minute,’ snapped Stephen, who was in his shirt sleeves. ‘And, Bella, leave off that writing.’
‘My dear Stephen,’ Lady Milner said hesitatingly, ‘your coat
—’
‘My coat? It is on the floor, ma’am, where I threw it, because I am excessively hot and bothered and in a mood to throw something.’
‘I must get these letters written,’ said Isabella, who was seated with a sort of stiff diligence at the writing-desk. ‘There are people to be informed
—
things that must be cancelled
...’
Her large, clouded, unhappy eyes, having wandered everywhere else, met Caroline’s for a stinging moment, then veered away.