Authors: Mary Nichols
He helped her
to mount and they rode silently side by side towards Thomas, who was limping
along beside his cob, apparently having been thrown in his efforts to keep up
with them.
It seemed to be tacitly agreed among the members of the
ton that Miss Martindale would make her choice between Mr Devonshire and her
cousin, and her other would-be suitors quietly faded into the background to
watch developments. Consequently, in the next few weeks, Juliette found herself
escorted by one or the other gentleman to the theatre, to Bullock's Museum, to
Vauxhall Gardens and Astley's Amphitheatre, to soirees and routs and afternoon
tea parties, which she might have enjoyed if she had not been so conscious of
the fact that each was trying to outdo the other, and that wherever she was
taken by one
of them, sooner
or later, the other would appear as if by accident.
`You would
think the fellow would take the hint,' James grumbled, when Philip arrived
towards the end of a musical evening being held at Lady Grainger's house in
Park Lane.
'Hint, Mr Martindale?'
Juliette queried. 'What can you mean?' It was the supper interval and they had
repaired to the dining room for refreshments. Juliette sat holding a plate
containing a small pork pie and a plum tartlet in one hand and a glass of
cordial in the other.
James was at
her side, as he had been all evening. She wished he would go away so that she
could converse with other guests about the music, which had been very fine. He,
apparently, had been unimpressed and she wondered why he had bothered to
attend.
`Well, I mean
to say, the man should know by now he is not welcome.'
`Not welcome?'
she queried, looking at her mother who sat across the room, apparently deep in
conversation with one of her bosom bows, but Juliette knew she was keeping a
watchful eye on her. 'I think Lady Grainger would hardly have invited him if he
were not welcome.'
`Lady Grainger
is an empty-headed goose and will do anything and invite anyone if she is told
it is fashionable to do so. The gabble-grinders have made a meal of his mysterious
background and she must needs see the man for herself. Look at her now, gushing
all over him.'
`She is simply
being a good hostess. Really, Mr Martindale, I wonder what you can have against
Mr Devonshire that you dislike him so much.'
`Me?' he
queried lightly. 'I have nothing personal against him, nothing at all, so long
as he leaves you alone.'
He knew he had
gone too far when he saw her eyes flash and her cheeks colour angrily.
`Mr Martindale,
I shall be the one to say who is to leave me alone, not you. If you have
elected yourself my guardian, let me remind you that I have a father who is
very careful of me. Your services in that respect are neither required nor
wanted.'
`Oh, I did not
mean that. My concern is of a different nature entirely. It is simply that I am
abominably jealous when I see the way he looks at you...' He paused. 'He is not
half so rich as he would have you believe, you know, and what he has has been
acquired through dubious means.'
`By that, I
suppose you are referring to the story, that he has made his money in trade,'
she said. 'There is nothing wrong with honest work, Mr Martindale - I collect
you work for the War Department yourself. And Mr Devonshire has not spoken to
me of his wealth at all. Why should he? I hardly know him.'
`Oh, I don't
know,' he said airily. 'You seemed to know him very well that morning you went
riding with him in the park. When I saw you, you were certainly not riding.
Unless my eyes deceived me, you appeared to be in his arms.'
`I most
certainly was not!' she said, feeling her face burning at the remembrance.
Mr Devonshire
had taken hold of her as if he meant to kiss her, but he had desisted. It might
have been because he thought better of the impulse or it might have been
because he saw James in the distance before she did, but either way, she had
felt strangely empty when he had moved away from her, as if something
pleasurable which she had been about to grasp had been snatched from her. 'And
you should not have been spying.'
`Spying?' he
reiterated, his voice suddenly cold with suppressed anger. 'I hope you will not
repeat such an accusation in company, it might be misconstrued.'
She looked up
at him, wondering about his sudden change of mood, but then decided she must
have imagined it because he was smiling blandly at her, apparently perfectly
relaxed.
In repose, he
was a handsome man, Juliette acknowledged, but he was so rarely in repose that
she did not think of him as especially good-looking. Against Philip
Devonshire's languorous nonchalance, he was a firefly, always on the move. It
was as if he was afraid to be caught doing nothing for fear that others might
realise he had nothing of consequence to do.
`I think we
have exhausted Mr Devonshire as a subject of conversation,' she said, holding
out her empty glass to him. 'Would you please fetch me another lemonade?'
`Certainly, I
will. Please forgive me. I will not mention the gentleman again.' He took her
glass and went off to find a waiter to have it refilled, leaving her to nibble
at the tartlet and look around the overheated room. Philip Devonshire had left
Lady Grainger's side and was helping himself to a glass of punch from the bowl
on the table. James passed him on his way back with her lemonade, but the two
men did not speak.
James returned
to her side and spent the remainder of the interval telling her amusing
anecdotes of his time at Cambridge, where he had, as a result of the Viscount's
generosity, spent three happy years. It was as if there had never been any
discord between them; he did his best to be charming and attentive, but she was
left with the impression that it was something of an effort for him.
She was glad
when it was time to return to the music room for the rest of the concert, where
Philip Devonshire stood at the back, chatting to Lord Cavendish. She would have
much preferred his company to that of James and wished he would come and talk
to her, but all he did was to bow civilly across the room to acknowledge her
and she solemnly inclined her head towards him in response. Grand passions were
not made of such mundane gestures.
The following Sunday, a perfect blue and gold of a day,
Juliette was one of a party of young people riding out to Richmond for a
picnic. The ladies and their chaperons were in carriages, escorted by the young
men on horseback. Juliette and her mother went with Lady Carstairs and Lucinda
in a barouche with Mr Devonshire riding alongside, clad most devastatingly for
Juliette's peace of mind in close-fitting buckskins, top boots of shining brown
leather and a riding coat of Bath cloth. Mr Boreton, on a chestnut, stationed
himself on the other side of the carriage and set out to be agreeable to Miss
Carstairs.
A second
carriage followed with more picnickers and escorted by other outriders. Ahead
of them - a long way ahead - was a lumbering town chariot carrying several
hampers, two maids and a butler who were supposed to seek out a suitable picnic
spot and have everything prepared by the time they arrived.
James
Martindale arrived at the rendezvous driving a high-perch phaeton drawn by a
pair of spirited bays and was keen to show off their paces. 'Miss Martindale,
will you ride with me?' he asked. 'It is perfectly safe, you know.'
`I am sure it
is,' she said. 'But if you do not mind, I will stay where I am.'
`Pudding-heart,'
he said cheerfully and, whipping up the bays, he rattled off, taking the bend
ahead of them at breakneck speed and was soon lost in a cloud of dust.
`I do hope he
does not overturn that contraption,' Lady Martindale murmured. 'It looks
decidedly dangerous to me.'
`Oh, it is safe
enough in experienced hands, my lady,' Philip said. 'I do not suppose it is the
first time he has taken it out.'
`Have you
driven one?' Juliette asked him, her imagination conjuring up a picture of him
sitting like a god high above ordinary mortals and ordinary carriages, the
reins in one hand and a whip in the other, his fine figure outlined against a
deep azure sky. It was a very disturbing image.
`Yes, on
occasion, but the vehicle is not to my taste. It is too ostentatious by far.'
The vision
faded. How silly of her to think he would do anything so exciting, so
frivolous, as to drive a high-wheeled phaeton! No man had a right to look so
dashing and behave so sedately; it upset all her preconceived ideas that a
man's looks should mirror his character.
If he were to
behave like he looked, he would have kissed her in the park. Was he afraid to?
She would have been obliged to be outraged if he had, of course, but what was
that to the point? He had not even given her the opportunity to be angry with
him. Why she wanted to be angry with him, she had not the least idea.
`We shall find
him in the ditch before we ever reach Richmond,' Lady Carstairs murmured as
they continued on their stately way. 'What I cannot fathom is where he found
the money to pay for it. Last week he was trying to dun Carstairs for his rent.
That's the trouble with the slip-gibbets these days, they think buying horses
is more important than paying for a roof over their heads.'
`He told me he
had prospects,' Juliette put in. 'Perhaps they have materialised. A win at
cards perhaps, or a profitable transaction on the 'Change.'
She heard a
gentle chuckle just behind her and swivelled round to see Philip Devonshire
smothering a smile. She could not think what he found so amusing, but she would
not give him the satisfaction of asking. Instead, she began a discourse with
Lucinda on the merits of Miss Austen's second book, only just out, which she
held was much superior to the first and they arrived at the picnic site in
Richmond Park without incident to find James idly leaning against a tree. His
horses, still in their traces, were gently cropping the grass.
The servants
had everything arranged, with rugs and cushions and tablecloths laid upon the
grass and the wine bottles cooling in the brook. They feasted on capons and ham
and pies and tarts, with green salad, washing it down with the wine and
lemonade.
Afterwards, the
older members of the party dozed on their cushions while the young men played
cricket, watched by the young ladies, who spent much time comparing the
relative merits of those close to their hearts, while pretending to be entirely
indifferent.
Juliette, try
as she might, could not be so light-hearted. Marriage was much too serious to
be a subject for jest, especially if you felt you were being pushed one way
when you most decidedly wanted to go the other. And the memory of her parents
wrangling over it just would not leave her.
She watched the
game for half an hour, then strolled off alone, taking the towpath beside the
river. It was a warm cloudless day and very peaceful beside the lapping water.
A pleasure boat full of young people was being rowed downstream; a small
sailboat with a single occupant tacked its way towards Kingston; a dog snuffled
along the grass beside the path followed by its owner with a sporting gun
tucked under his arm, its barrel bent.
On the other
side, a barge loaded with osiers was being towed by a single plodding horse; a
skylark hovered, afraid to return to its nest while danger lurked. This was
England at its best, she thought, and stopped to breathe deeply and lift her
face to the sun.
The Season was
well advanced, many of the unattached young people had already attached
themselves, amid congratulations and wedding plans, but here was she with two
apparent suitors neither of whom had yet declared his hand. She wished
wholeheartedly that she were not an heiress, then she could marry for love.
She did not
love James Martindale, who unsettled her with his swings of mood and flickering
eyes, and Philip Devonshire had shown no sign of wishing to have her as his
wife. She told herself he was a cold fish, ignoring the fact that he had almost
kissed her. Almost.
Pierre had
kissed her. Poor, defeated, humiliated Pierre, who had nothing to gain, had
kissed her because his instinct had told him to. For the pleasure of it. He was
not concerned with dowries and settlements, land and buildings and the niceties
of propriety and etiquette. And it had meant nothing to either of them, she
knew that now. Beside Philip Devonshire, he was no more than a boy playing at
being a man.
It was as if
they were all being cold-bloodedly manipulated. But by whom? Her mother? Her
father? By other considerations such as the size of her dowry? Or was it Fate
who held the reins? Were they all waiting for something to happen that would
make everything clear? Perhaps she ought to make it happen, then she could
release the tension which seemed to be all around her, especially in her
mother. Mama was like an overwound clock. One day the spring would break and
the works fall out. In all her life Juliette had never known Lady Martindale to
lose her temper or to appear even a little ruffled. Now she started up at the
least little thing, snapped at her husband and found fault with Juliette as if
she had done something terribly wrong for which Lady Martindale could not
forgive her. If only she knew what it was!