Authors: Elsie Lee
“No, I think not,” Emily began, but Sharlie bore over her.
“Of course we did, Emily—at Aunt Eliza’s when we were about ten. She was vastly annoyed with us,” Charlotte said severely, “not but what she was always annoyed with anything we did.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Emily agreed weakly, “but why must we leave Bath, mama? There is Miss Dunning and Mrs. Fawcett and Dr. Ambrough—and it seems as though we would be more trouble than assistance. Extra meals and chamber service, after all, when they already have so much to do.”
Lady Stanwood eyed her sharply, but she said only, “When you have children, my love, you will understand better. I daresay, Georgie, Edmund and Louisa might go on satisfactorily without me, but it is a different matter with Geoffrey. I am sorry, but I cannot be easy to be away from him at this moment.”
“Yes, mama,” Emily sighed, dolefully.
For her part, Sharlie was never happier than when they set forth early the next morning. By seven o’clock they were turning through the modest gateposts of Stanwood Hall, and wearily seeking their chambers for freshening before dinner. Lady Stanwood had instantly visited the sick rooms, and when at last they sat down at table, she was as dismal as her daughters had ever seen her.
“Geoffrey is so full of measles, I don’t know where it will end,” she said, “and here is your father gone to London to be out of the way of infection—but will he think to send Sir Henry Halford? It is his heir, after all, but depend upon it,” bitterly, “your father will be enjoying a snug dinner and a look-in at Watier’s or Boodle’s.”
“Well, but if the measles are dangerous at twenty-three,” Sharlie pointed out, “how much more dangerous at papa’s age ... and you know Dr. Ambrough is very sound. Papa has every confidence in him.”
“Yes,” Emily put in softly, “and everything will go on more smoothly tomorrow when Beamish and Tinsdale and Maria arrive, Mama. It is every way sad they could not make our pace because of the luggage, but Sharlie and I are here, and I will brush your hair
at bedtime
. You know that always makes you ready to sleep.”
“Yes.” Lady Stanwood looked at her daughters with sternly controlled lips. “You’re good girls,” she said abruptly. “No woman could ask for better. Let’s have tea and go to bed.”
Sharlie was out to the stables and riding over the estate before breakfast next day. Within two days (though nothing was said) all of Stanbury knew that Miss Sharlie had received an offer of monumental distinction, and rejected it. The village was riven in twain, although loyally behind her. One half was proud she’d had the chance for a rejection, and the other half was sad he hadn’t suited, while agreeing that Miss Sharlie wasn’t to be married off like a sack of meal.
“She might change her mind,” Maria confided. “He takes getting used to before you see he’s right handsome, and he startled her like, but he understands horses and all those languages she learned with Sir Geoffrey.”
“Wot about Miss Em’ly, then?” Maria’s mother inquired.
“
You wrote she was the Belle of Lunnon, but she looks peaked to me. Is she sickening for summat?”
“She’s unhappy to leave Bath,” Maria admitted. “She was the belle there, too. Eh, the house was never quiet unless they were out. Mr. Bigglesworth and the Captain were for riding escort to her ladyship, but Mr. B. had never had the measles and the Captain’s leave was ended—he had to return to London.” Then,
very
casually, Maria added, “If so be there’s a letter for me, Ma, you’ll take it in and keep it safe till I come. ’Tis a friend I made in London, I’d not like to lose word of the news from her.”
“Letters? Eh, very grand we be with our Lunnon friends!” Her mother pretended scorn, but Maria knew she was in high gig over her daughter’s success as an abigail. Few of the Stanbury locals had ever been privileged to visit the metropolis. Maria’s descriptions cast glory on her family, as well as affording absorbing details of town life to their friends ... but she was still not giving anything away, such as the guinea Miss Emily had slipped to her, “for your trouble in watching for a letter. I know I should not,” Miss Emily’s eyes filled with tears, “but he is going off to that horrid war, and you do see how I shall be agonized unless I have some word?”
The first weeks were necessarily restricted. Lady Stanwood devoted herself to her measly offspring, Sharlie plunged into the estate affairs left unfinished by his lordship’s precipitate departure, and Emily drooped disconsolately. Only a few of the neighbors had had the disease and might dare to call. She missed the busy excitement of the past months, desperately missed Eustace, and was altogether useless. There was literally nothing Emily could
do
to amuse herself, aside from sewing and embroidery. She was no great reader, could not tell one card from another for a game of Solitaire; the heavy late summer heat made walking uncomfortable, nor did she care to stroll without someone to talk to. Lady Stanwood felt very sympathetic for her loneliness, while at the same time exasperated. There was not even the bugaboo of Algy Whipsnade; the Squire’s wife had instantly informed Lady Stanwood of his betrothal to a suitable young lady from Oundle.
Despite her relief at being away from Bath and constantly busy, Sharlie was less happy than she’d expected. It was certainly good to supervise byres and barns or ride the land among old friends who made no reference to romance, but she found herself recalling
the duke far more often than was comfortable. She missed his astringent comments that always threatened to cause unladylike giggles under the eyes of Almack patronesses. She wondered what he would advise in this or that estate matter; his knowledge was greatly superior to hers. She remembered the way he sometimes took her seriously, and sometimes laughed at her gently. The deep voice, expressive eyes, charming smile, were all too clear in her mind, as well as the hand guiding her in a waltz or instructing her in handling the ribbons. Most of all she remembered Bascombe and his mastery of Ajax when drawing off the bull.
If
she had been going to marry him, Bascombe was the house of all she’d ever seen that she felt would be a happy home. It would be too small to contain an adequate nursery—Sharlie blushed at her thoughts—but Julian had said he would build whatever she wanted wherever she liked, he’d even tear down his horrid castle and replace it.
Julian—was a nice name, it suited him and his air of authority. Lord Wrentham’s Christian name was Cedric. “Good God, it’s as bad as Eustace,” Sharlie said to herself—not that it mattered. “What’s in a name? A rose by any other...”
The nursery recovered from the measles. Geoffrey took another ten days and was disastrously limp when pronounced cured. His convalescence proved more onerous than his bed of pain. Sir Geoffrey was impatient, imperious, demanding, and—said Sharlie—an utter beast!
“Merely because he is not yet fit to be in the saddle or walk as far as the stream in search of a fish, why must he fuss and disapprove? Demanding an account of what
I
have done,” she said hotly, “when papa trusts me implicitly! Mama, I wish you will remind him he has no authority. Stanwood does not yet belong to him—thank God!”
“So say I,” her brother retorted, “and you’d better marry someone, because I won’t have you telling me how to go on! I’ll tell you what, Sharlie: you’re a shrew!”
“How can you say such a thing,” Emily cried, running to put her arms about Charlotte. “Papa does trust her, he depends on her, which is more than can be said for you, and she is NOT a shrew. She’s the sweetest, dearest, person in the world, and you are lucky to have her, because you would
not
know how to go on, let alone being weak as a kitten.”
“That will DO!” said Lady Stanwood, awesomely. “If you wish to quarrel like children, you will remove to the nursery. I have the headache.”
“Oh, poor mama! Of course you do after nursing this ungrateful monster,” Sharlie sympathized. “Come away, Geoff, and let Emily take care of her. If you’ve the strength, I wish you would walk to the stables with me. I fancy one of papa’s hunters is throwing out a splint.”
“Oh, very well,” he agreed ungraciously. “I collect you admit there are
some
things I understand better than your highness?” But he followed her from the room, and Sharlie contrived to keep him amused for an hour of consultation, until they returned in perfect charity with each other. The happy suggestion from Emily, of teaching Sharlie the intricacies of piquet—“because I am hopeless with cards”—filled the evening.
Nevertheless, Stanwood Hall was on edge in a way formerly unknown. The staff walked warily and avoided loud voices. It was understood that Sir Geoffrey was fretting with inactivity. “Resty is what ’e is,” said his Tiger wisely. “We’d ought to be orf to town, where ’e’d find a few larks, but there—’e ain’t got the strength yet.”
The one letter Emily had received, smuggled by Maria, completely unstrung her with the news that Eustace had reached Lisbon en route to join Wellington. This caused her to cry herself to sleep, and arise with such a dismal face as agitated her mother. “No, I have not the measles, mama. I’ve already
had
them.” For Emily her tone was snappish.
Charlotte was equally snappish. “I suppose it’s Eustace being posted again,” she said privately to her sister, “but you know full well neither papa nor mama would allow you to throw yourself away on him, charming or not.”
“No,” Emily suppressed a sob, “but at least he is
young.
All you’ve got is that ugly old widower, and perhaps Lord Wrentham, if he ever offers.”
“Imbrie is NOT old and ugly,” Sharlie flared, “and if I wouldn’t have him, I certainly wouldn’t have the Earl of Waxe.”
“Girls!” Lady Stanwood’s voice cut across the melee. “Calm yourselves! What has put you in a tweak? I declare I do not know how I shall survive. Here am I, worn to the bone—my children squabbling, and your father arrives this evening for dinner. I am not prone to the vapors,” she said with dignity, “but your behavior may easily induce them.”
“Oh, poor mama!” Both girls ran forward penitently. “How hateful we are, forgive us?” Sharlie said remorsefully. “Emily, take mama to her chamber and brush her hair. You are so clever at it, where I am all thumbs—and I will send word that we must have
all
her favorite dishes for dinner, as well as MacLean’s finest blooms for the centerpiece.”
Under such soothing ministrations, Lady Stanwood allowed herself to be led away for a few hours of repose—but it did not answer, for upon Lord Stanwood’s arrival, Sharlie attacked him on the grounds of selfishness. “You think only of yourself—what about Mama, who has had to deal with everything?”
Lord Stanwood opened his pale blue eyes very wide. “Damme, what else should she do? That is the wife’s responsibility. Lud, you don’t expect
me
to run the risk of infection?”
“No, I’ve no wish for your illness, sir. I doubt not it would overset all of us,” Sharlie shrugged. “Merely, it would be
helpful
if you returned to Park Street, taking Geoffrey with you; and allowed us time to regain our strength.”
“Well, ’pon my soul, that’s a pretty welcome!” his lordship exclaimed indignantly. “What’s come over you, Sharlie?”
In the connubial bedchamber, Lady Stanwood told him. “She’s in love and doesn’t know it,” she sighed. “So is Emily—and she
does
know it. God knows what’s to be done, Robert.”
Nor was his lordship of any assistance when his lady poured out the facts. “God bless my soul,” he muttered. “Rejected
Imbrie?
Good God, Nelly!”
“Well, she did,” Lady Stanwood could not repress a faint sniffle, “not but what I’m positive she regrets it already, for she is so impatient and waspish as passes belief—but what’s to be done?”
“Lud, Nelly, how should I know? It was agreed you’d do what was best for the girls, but I must say you’ve managed very ill,” Lord Stanwood frowned. “Here’s Sharlie rejecting the first catch in England, and Emily fixing her mind on a penniless nobody.”
Lady Stanwood’s eyes filled with tears. It was the first time in twenty years he’d seen his wife weeping. Naturally, he went to pieces at once. “Now, now, my little love,” he patted her shoulder anxiously, “we’ll come about. You’ll see.”
Such affectionate condolence sent his wife into suppressed sobs. “Sharlie
told
me Eustace was in love with Emily,” she sniffed against his stalwart shoulder, “and I
told
her Imbrie didn’t care for Emily, nor Emily for him, but it didn’t answer. Oh, Robert, it is all my fault, and I should have consulted you at the outset.”
“Well, why didn’t you?”
“Because you’d have put your foot into it somehow—not that it matters now, and I suppose they will both get over it, but it is very lowering to my spirits, Robert, even though my strategy was right. Imbrie did follow her to Bath, where he
never
goes and I am sure I cannot wonder at it, for his mother is a most dismal female—but however, he did come and he did make Sharlie an offer.”
“What of it, if the silly chit won’t have him? Had you given me a hint, I’d have talked her round.”
“Exactly what I feared, for you must know that it was her utter unconsciousness that attached him,” Lady Stanwood said. “I own that had you returned to us from Newmarket, been available to receive Imbrie’s offer, all might have been different.”