The Weeping Ash (37 page)

“Ma'am, allow me to make known to you my friend Mrs. Fanny Paget, whose husband, Captain Paget, has been chosen by George to lead our troop of volunteers. Mrs. Paget is a dear neighbor of mine whom I see much less than I would wish to,” and to Fanny she said, “Fanny, this is Lady Mountague, who resides at Cowdray and knows, I believe, every soul in the countryside, so it is very shocking that she does not yet know
you
!” and smiling, blowing a kiss to Fanny, she floated off to replenish the plates of a hungry-looking trio of ladies in the corner of the room.

“Come and sit by me, my dear,” said Lady Mountague, patting a velvet seat beside her. She was a kind-looking, gentle-faced person, very pale, dressed in black, with a quantity of soft gray curls, rather haphazardly arranged under a widow's cap. “I have been looking at you across the room for the last ten minutes and admiring your beautiful carriage! I only wish their governesses could have instilled such deportment into
my
daughters when they were your age. But—forgive me—you are a married lady, though you hardly took old enough for it. Now I am going to be very inquisitive and find out all about you.”

Lady Mountague was as good as her word. In five minutes she had elicited all the Herriard family history and discovered a second cousin of her own who was related to Fanny's mother's eldest sister's husband. After that she went on with the same eager interest to a review of the Paget family ramifications. “Paget, Paget, was there not a branch of them at Romsey?
General
Paget of course I know all about, and his brother the other general, Sir Henry (no better than he should be, that one, I may say!), but your husband was from the Romsey branch, I understand? Did not his mother remarry on his father's death and have another son by her second husband?”

“Yes, ma'am, but he is dead. I believe he perished in rather sad circumstances.”

“Ah yes—that was it. I believe I heard that there was something rather discreditable about his end—or that your husband did not do his part as a brother, was that it?”

This was news to Fanny, though not surprising, but she said simply:

“I know nothing about it, ma'am.”

“Very properly said, child; my indiscreet old tongue tends to run away with me. But now tell me about the wealthy cousins who let you have the house—and are there not some more cousins out in India, children of that old rip, General Sir Henry?”

“Yes, indeed, ma'am, and they may be coming to live with us,” responded Fanny, eager to get away from the subject of Thomas's past wrongdoings. She and Lady Mountague enjoyably discussed the possible ages and dispositions of Carloman and Sarah, as Lady Mountague believed the twins to be called. She had heard they were in their late teens, whereas Fanny tended to think of them as children.

“I wonder if they will really come? It is such a long way to India! And if Buonaparte is really in the Red Sea—they must come all the way around the Cape of Good Hope—”

“Well, they are young; when you are young, travel is a pleasure, not a fatigue. My husband was a great traveler, even to a late age. Unfortunately he fell into the river Rhine and was drowned,” Lady Mountague disclosed matter-of-factly. “So, having no house and no husband, I must e'en occupy myself nowadays with my neighbors,” she went on, turning her deep-set gray eyes on Fanny and smiling with a sudden unexpected radiance. “I live in a small house in Cowdray Park, where I go on very comfortably, and I hope that you will come to visit me there as soon as possible, Mrs. Paget. Will your husband allow you to visit me?”

“Oh yes, ma'am, I am sure he will,” murmured Fanny, remembering Thomas's homily to the effect that Lady Mountague “might prove a most useful patron and neighbor.”

During the next two hours the more energetic of the lady guests, or those who had a talent for organization, tore up old sheets and rolled them into bandages, as a long-term precaution against the possible siege and bloody defense of Petworth. A plan was prepared whereby, if the French army were to be seen advancing over the Downs, all the families who resided in outlying farms should be informed by courier and transported to the comparative security of Petworth House.

Fanny was introduced by Lady Mountague to numerous other guests—Mrs. Holland, Mrs. Milsom, Lady Sefton, Lady Susan Coates; presently she was able to sit down comfortably beside kind Mrs. Socket and help to make a list of provisions to be stored in the church.

Lady Mountague presently declared herself tired and called for her carriage, bidding a kind farewell to Fanny and declaring that she should soon give herself the pleasure of inviting her young neighbor to come and spend the day. Fanny likewise would gladly have gone home but could hardly do so without Thomas, who was still closeted with most of the other males in the library. She looked for Bet, but the latter had found a handful of congenial younger people, visitors and relatives of the house; they were playing games together and she was not at all anxious to leave.

“Oh, gracious me, Stepmama, why in the world should you wish to go home?” she demanded impatiently. “We are all just about to take part in an archery contest!”

Indeed the younger members of the party had all strayed out through the French windows onto the grass.

“Where is Mrs. Wyndham?” Fanny inquired, thinking that she might ask Liz if it would be in order to send a message to Thomas in the library. Perhaps he would give permission to her to walk quietly home by herself.

“Mrs. Wyndham went into the garden to order targets to be set up,” somebody said. “She went up toward the Grecian Pavilion.”

Wearily, Fanny walked out to look for Liz. The cooler atmosphere outside, and a chance to be by herself, refreshed her; she turned to her right, following the direction indicated, and strolled toward the end of the house, where there was an informal pleasure garden with clumps of rhododendron and lilacs, and larger trees. Liz was nowhere to be seen.

“Why—as I live and breathe—it is George's lovely neighbor—the bewitching Mrs. Paget! What a surpassing piece of good fortune that I should have become fatigued by all those wiseacres in the library and escaped for some fresh air! Dearest Mrs. Paget, you look precisely like some delicious wood nymph—a dryad, slipped out from the trunk of one of the trees to take a turn among the narcissus and the lilies—which
you
so much excel in beauty!”

Fanny spun around, startled out of her wits by this address. Confronting her, having come strolling around a big clump of pink rhododendron, was that Major Henriques whom she had seen on two previous occasions, once at Petworth House, once walking with Liz Wyndham. “A shallow-minded fellow—never trust him,” she remembered Liz had said of him. Indeed Fanny herself had felt an instinctive dislike and distrust of him—there was something disconcertingly cynical, far too knowing, in the expression on his swarthy face; his eyes, as they studied her, seemed full of a rather unpleasant amusement, as if he had caught her out in some discreditable activity.

“How—how do you do, sir,” she stammered. “I—I was looking for Mrs. Wyndham.”

“Of
course
you were,” he agreed, the laughter in his voice wholly belying his words. “You were out among the trees looking for our dear hostess, and not at all hoping that some woodland god would come galloping down the glade for a little charming sylvan dalliance! But will not
I
serve instead? Truly I am only too anxious to serve you, Mrs. Paget—in any way I may—and have been, I promise you, ever since I first set eyes on your enchanting countenance!”

“Pray, sir,
pray
do not be talking so,” said Fanny, greatly disconcerted. “Indeed I am not used to it and do not like it—it—it is most improper! I—I would remind you that—that I am a married woman—you should
not
be addressing me thus!”

Indignantly she pulled away the hand that he had taken and had been about to raise to his lips.

“Now come, come, what's all this to-do about?” he said teasingly. “A married woman? Of
course
you are! That is why I did not expect such missish airs from you! For heaven's sake, my sweetest creature—my angel—where is the harm in my taking your hand, in my telling you that the charms of your person have stirred up such a fire in my heart that I cannot rest until I have expressed it thus—”

So saying, he attempted to repossess himself of her hand, but Fanny, with an inarticulate exclamation of distress, broke away from him and turned back toward the house. She could not run—she could not even walk fast, her corselet was too miserably constricting and uncomfortable; the reminder of this indignity, and the thought that Thomas, did he know of her present situation, would consider it just the sort of scrape to be expected of her—had even
anticipated
it—made her all the more desperate. She was half sobbing as Henriques came up with her in two strides and barred her escape.

“Nay, my charmer, you do not evade me as easily as that!”

“Sir, pray,
pray
leave me—
indeed
I wished to find Mrs. Wyndham—somebody said she had gone this way—”

“Find Mrs. Wyndham!” he mocked her. “Why, you sweet simpleton, can you not be aware that dear Liz invited you to the house for
my
sake, because I told her that I so longed to get a glimpse of you at closer quarters? Liz and I, you must know, are
very
good friends!”

Really stunned at this, appalled at such a revelation of duplicity, she stood stock-still, staring at him, while the blood drained from her face.

“I—I do
not
believe it!” she stammered naively.
Could
lively, laughing Liz have betrayed her in such a way—have so misread her character? “It
cannot
be the truth.”

“Psha, my dear, you are almost too much of an innocent to walk this earth! Come, come, you bewitching little Puritan, give me a kiss—
do
—what is all this coil about?”

And he was again attempting to slide his arm about her waist. Fanny gave a slight scream—tried to struggle, pulling away from Henriques—and found herself suddenly face to face with a young man in a gardener's apron who was walking quickly down the path, carrying in his arms a bundle of bows, arrows, and targets.

“What is the trouble, ma'am? Can I help you?” exclaimed this individual.

Major Henriques let out a heartfelt oath under his breath.

“It is nothing,” he said hastily. “The lady thought she saw a snake—but she was mistaken! See, ma'am—there is nothing to be frightened of, nothing at all!” he added with an irritable laugh, and he said to the gardener, “These delicate fine ladies are wont to think they see bogeys in every bush!”

“Yes, sir,” said the young man stolidly. He did not move away but addressed Fanny. “May I help you back to the house, ma'am?”

“Oh, thank you, Talgarth—indeed I am perfectly well—or shall be in a moment—I came out to look for Mrs. Wyndham—”

“She is just coming down from the Grecian Pavilion, ma'am; there, you may see her dress among the trees.”

And indeed next moment Liz appeared coming down the hill, also carrying bows and arrows. She called:

“Set the targets up outside the drawing-room windows, Talgarth—” And then, her eyes falling on the white-cheeked Fanny and the scowling Henriques, she exclaimed:

“Why, what is the matter, my angel? Are you not well?”

“No—that is—I came to find you—to tell you that I must return home—”

Fanny could not bear to meet the eyes of Liz Wyndham. The thought of the latter's duplicity—surely the startled concern in her voice
must
be pure histrionics—the situation was not to be borne! Pulling herself together with a strong effort, Fanny said in a low voice:

“I should be so much obliged, ma'am, if you could send a servant to ask my husband if he is ready to return home, and—and if he is not, inform him that I find myself rather tired and under the necessity of taking my leave.”

“I will tell him myself,” said Liz. Handing her burden to the gardener, she tucked her arm through Fanny's and led her solicitously indoors. Major Henriques had already removed himself from the scene; Talgarth, after another concerned glance at Fanny, carried off the archery equipment.

“What is the matter, my dear friend?” Liz asked quietly as they walked along at a slow pace. “Was that man making himself objectionable?”

“You knew—you knew that he would,” Fanny burst out. Then they passed in through the French windows and she could say no more, for there were several people about. Quietly detaching her arm from that of Liz, she moved to a chair and sat on it, feeling sick and giddy. Liz stood staring at her for a moment with a doubtful, troubled expression, then said simply:

“I will deliver your message,” and went off to the library.

After a few moments she returned, looking even graver, and reported:

“I am afraid that Captain Paget is not ready to leave yet. When I said that I would have you sent home in one of our carriages he gave his permission.” She suppressed Thomas's angry rider, “
What, making a damned nuisance of herself again, is she?
” and ordered a servant to see that a conveyance was brought around. Fanny thanked her and apologized for the trouble she was giving.

“Not the least trouble, my dear child. But I wish I knew what was in your mind—why do you look at me so strangely?” she added in a low voice.

Fanny could not reply. There were too many people within earshot—she shook her head miserably. How, in any case, could she explain that she felt betrayed, outraged? Liz might not even understand what she meant. Next moment the servant returned to announce that the carriage waited. Fanny, observing that Bet was outside on the grass, laughing and excited among the archery contestants, murmured her thanks again and took her leave, saying that she would not attempt to drag off her stepdaughter, who could return later with Thomas. The last impression she carried away with her was quick, warm pressure of Liz's hand on hers and the words whispered in her ear: