Anna Jacobs (20 page)

Like the Dowager, Eleanor allowed herself to be diverted from the dangerous topic, but she, too, had noticed that Bea had avoided answering her question directly. She had also noticed how sad her aunt was looking. “I adore them! Before I’m very much older, I intend to go up to London myself and have some clothes made for me by a fashionable modiste. These are ravishing! I like the apricot one best. It’s such a pretty colour.”

Beatrice fingered it wistfully. That was what she had been wearing the first time she’d really talked to Serle, the day Boris came up to town to confront his wife. She’d always liked the gown, but didn’t think she could face wearing it again for it would stir up all her memories of him. She tried to smile. “Yes. It used to be my favourite, but I’ve worn it too often, I feel. And what do you think of Tilly?”

“She seems nice enough. I’m going to introduce her to my Betty when she gets back from the village. They’re bound to become great friends, just as we are. Why, I dare say they’ll tell each other all their secrets - just as we do.”

Beatrice looked at her with narrowed eyes and Eleanor smiled with such an innocent expression that she at once became suspicious. However, she didn’t wish to probe any subject deeply just now, so she continued to show off the new garments and bonnets, and talk about London parties until it was time to get changed for dinner.

She didn’t allow herself to think of Justin Serle coming to Satherby. Well, not much. That prospect was too difficult to face at the moment. And anyway, surely he would refuse? Yes, of course he would. She was counting on that.

* * * *

During dinner, Eleanor asked casually, “What’s Mr Serle like, Bea?”

Beatrice choked on her fish and it was a moment before she could respond. “Why do you ask?” She saw that Eleanor was wearing her most guileless expression, which definitely meant she was up to something.

“Well, you’ve invited him down to stay, haven’t you, Grandmamma?” Eleanor turned to the Dowager again, “And I knew you’d met him in London, Bea.”

Beatrice had regained control of her emotions, if not of her colour. “Yes, I have met him once or twice. He’s about thirty. Elegantly dressed, but not - not a dandy. Tall, dark, not handsome exactly, but very,” she sighed and gazed into the distance, “very distinguished looking.” After a pause, she added without thinking, “And he’s a marvellous dancer. The easiest person I’ve ever danced with, I think.”

Eleanor said nothing, but did not fail to notice every nuance of that description. Or the sighs that accompanied it.

“Is he a man of sense, though?” demanded the Dowager, who had also been listening carefully. “Does he know what’s due to his position in society?”

“Oh, yes. He’s very - very - “ Beatrice wanted to say autocratic, but thought this would not appeal to Eleanor. “Yes, he does,” she finished lamely.

The Dowager nodded, only partly satisfied, but diverted by the reference to dancing. “I like a man who can show a neat leg. Your grandfather was an excellent dancer, Eleanor, as I was myself in my younger days.” She looked down at her twisted hands and sighed briefly.

Beatrice’s heart was wrung for her. Her aunt never complained, but was obviously in a lot of pain. She must not let the old lady down.

Eleanor kept her own counsel about certain suspicions that were beginning to form in her mind about Bea. She would see what she could get out of Tilly. She rather prided herself on her ability to elicit information from people without their realizing it. Finding out would keep her mind from her own problems.

She was missing Crispin quite dreadfully, though he’d only been gone a few days. However, she’d already received a letter from him, sent via Anders, and that had cheered her up greatly. Her first love letter! She knew it by heart already. And it was much more satisfying than the flowery language used in novels, for it talked of real things and of their future together. As well as his love for her. Tears of joy had come into her eyes when she first read it.

Whatever it took they were going to spend the future together, she vowed. She and Crispin would find some way to win her grandmother’s consent to their marriage.

* * * *

The next morning, the Dowager joined them for breakfast, which showed she was in fine fettle, for she rarely left her own suite before eleven o’clock. She uttered a crow of triumph as she opened her mail. “I thought he’d come round!” she exclaimed gleefully.

Her two young relatives looked at her questioningly.

“That Herforth fellow. The one with the silly name. Crispin. The heir. You know the one I mean!”

“Yes, Grandmamma.” Eleanor kept her eyes down and started to butter a piece of toast. “I remember you mentioned him.”

“I wrote to him while you were away, Bea, inviting him to come here for a visit and learn about the estate, and do you know, the fellow had the impudence to turn the invitation down! Well, he’s come to his senses now. See!” She read from her letter. “Conscious of the honour of your invitation ... regret that I was unable to accept immediately, but have now arranged matters to be taken care of in my absence ... quite see the necessity for getting to know Satherby ... happy to be with you as soon as I receive word.

That’s a bit more like it! He shows some proper feelings, at least.”

“And shall you send him word to come, Grandmamma?”

“Of course! He can come next week. We’ll make up a house party. Serle won’t refuse me, and the Smeathleys are going to be staying here as well.”

Beatrice and Eleanor exchanged puzzled glances. Who were the Smeathleys? Lady Marguerite rarely invited people to stay. She had been declaring for years that she was too old for house parties. Who wanted to face strangers over breakfast? she always said scornfully. Who wanted to spend all day entertaining people who would be better off staying at home and keeping their own houses in order.

“Who are the Smeathleys, Grandmamma?” Eleanor thought it best to change the topic, afraid she might betray how happy the news of Crispin’s coming visit had made her if she tried to speak of him.

“What? Oh, yes. Better tell you about ‘em. They’re connections by marriage, relatives of your Uncle Alfred - the one who died so young. Pity I ever allowed him to marry my poor Harriet, but there you are. How was I to know he’d get himself killed without producing an heir? No use crying over spilt milk. She didn’t live very long, either. Nice girl, my Harriet, but she was never strong. She was a bit like you, Bea, not one to look after her own best interests. Good thing she had me to sort her life out. Good thing you’ve got me, too! I can still hold my team together and don’t you think otherwise!”

She was obviously in high spirits and was just as obviously plotting something. “The Smeathleys,” she went on with a smug smile, “are a church family. It was Johanna who put it into my mind that a cleric might be just the thing for Beatrice here. She likes looking after the poor, helping the sick, all that sort of thing. Might as well do it to some purpose.”

Beatrice stared at her in horror.

“The Smeathleys have a son,” the Dowager continued. “He’s turned thirty now. Good age for an ambitious cleric to marry. And this one’s ambitious. They’ve got some hopes he’ll end up with a bishopric. He’s apparently well regarded. So I told them to bring him down here to meet Bea.”

Beatrice, who had been growing steadily paler, could keep quiet no longer. “Aunt! I told you I have no wish - none at all! - to marry. I’m too set in my ways. And - and I’m happy here.”

“Well, you won’t be able to stay on here after I’m gone, will you, so you’d better make up your mind to give this fellow a serious looking over. I won’t force you to marry him if he turns out to be a nick-ninny or a mealy-mouthed Bible-spouter, but you owe it to me to look him over, at least.” She paused, stared at her niece and added quietly, “Don’t you think?”

Recalling the way the Dowager had once begged for her help and how she’d let her down, Beatrice could only swallow and nod miserably. “I’ll be happy to - to meet him,” she said in a low voice. “But don’t expect too much of me. Please.”

“We’ll look him over together,” her aunt said soothingly.

Eleanor intervened to keep the Dowager’s attention away from poor Bea, who was looking terrible and who was definitely hiding some guilty secret. “Grandmamma, if the Smeathleys are coming here so that Bea can look their son over, why is Mr Serle coming?” she asked, judging her time to a nicety.

Lady Marguerite choked over her cup of tea and had to have her back patted before she could respond. She fixed a stern gaze upon her granddaughter. “Hmm. I suppose you’ll have to be told some time. Sit up straight and pay attention.”

Eleanor did as she was told.

The Dowager chewed her lip for a moment, then said, “Well, Eleanor, I’m thinking of finding you a husband as well - a good match, mind. Someone worthy of a Graceover. You’re the right age for marriage. That’s why Bea went up to London, to look over some of the eligibles. As I’d expected, she thought Serle the most promising. Good family, that! I’d also hoped she’d find a husband for herself while she was at it; I settled a decent dowry on her, least I could do, and Johanna says that there was some interest, but it seems no one caught her fancy.”

The last was said with heavy sarcasm and a look which made Beatrice feel as if her aunt were heaping coals of fire upon her head. She could only stare down at her plate and long for the meal to end.

Eleanor clapped her hands, still intent on diverting attention from her poor aunt. “What fun! You’ll have to tell me everything you can remember about Mr Serle, Bea! Every little detail. I shouldn’t at all object to being married, Grandmamma, as long as he isn’t ugly, or too old, or unkind.”

She sat back with the air of one willing to oblige and she remained in a highly cheerful mood until the meal ended. If her grandmother believed it was time for her to marry, that was one hurdle got over. The fact that it was Crispin she intended to marry need not be mentioned as yet.

Watching her aunt surreptitiously, Eleanor decided poor Bea needed some time alone, so she talked about the beautiful display of lily-of-the-valley in the South Wood, not to mention the fritillaries along the water meadows, until Beatrice said she thought she would go for a stroll and look at them. “And I hope you don’t mind, Eleanor,” she ended, “but I’d like to be alone for a while. I did nothing but meet people while I was away, and - and quite frankly, I’d welcome the chance for some peace and quiet.”

“Oh, you go, Bea. I don’t mind at all. I’ve got a new piano piece to practise.” Eleanor turned to leave, then swung back again. “But would you mind if Betty and I asked Tilly to show us all your new clothes again first, so that we can study the latest fashions? I shall want to look my best for Mr Serle, shan’t I?”

“Do what you like!” Beatrice fled for the woods, horrified at the jealousy which had seared through her at Eleanor’s innocent words. She couldn’t think how she’d face him and her only hope was that he would refuse the invitation and stay well away from Satherby.

Surely he would?

Chapter 11

The day after his abortive attempt to propose to Beatrice, Justin went to Lymsby to see how she was recovering. He’d decided that if things didn’t go well with his attempt to propose this time, he’d confide in Lady Ostdene and ask for her help. He didn’t come to this conclusion without considerable thought, for he disliked betraying his vulnerability to anyone.

Beatrice was not indifferent to him! Surely he couldn’t be mistaken in that? The way she reacted to him. The way she felt in his arms. The way their bodies moulded together when they were waltzing. But he couldn’t understand why she’d become so agitated when he tried to press his suit.

He remembered the way they’d sat and laughed together in the icy water of the pond and his confidence rose. Then he recalled the way she’d avoided his eyes the previous day, changing the subject and generally rendering it impossible for him to declare himself, and his confidence sank again.

At Lymsby he handed his horse to a groom and walked up the steps to the front door, feeling nervous. Inside, he was shown into a salon and left to wait. Several minutes dragged by and he began to prowl around the room. It wasn’t like the Newthorpes to keep a visitor waiting. Perhaps something was wrong?

When Lady Ostdene came in at last, looking worried, Justin’s heart lurched. “Is Miss Dencey all right?” he asked before he could prevent himself.

Johanna looked surprised at the abruptness of this greeting. “It’s kind of you to call, Serle, but I’m afraid you find us at sixes and sevens today.”

“Miss Dencey?” he prompted, his voice harsh with anxiety. “She hasn’t taken a chill, has she?”

“Bea? Oh, didn’t she tell you? She left this morning. She decided to go back to Satherby, said she was homesick.”

“What?”

Anger had made his voice over-loud, and Johanna blinked and stared at him, jerked out of her own worries. “Is something wrong, Serle?”

“I came to see Miss Dencey,” he said stiffly. “I expected ... she knew I was coming and she made no mention of any plans to leave.”

“Her decision was rather sudden,” Johanna agreed, studying him closely.

“She’s taken no hurt from her drenching, though?”

“Oh, no. Bea’s never ill. She has the most robust health of anyone I know, and Eleanor is much the same. My mother ascribes it to the excellence of Satherby’s air and general situation.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” He began to fiddle with the braid on the arm of the chair on which he was sitting, wondering what to say or do next.

Johanna’s attention was now fully engaged. “I think you’d better tell me about it,” she said softly. “I’ve never seen you like this before, Serle.”

He smiled at her ruefully and gave in to the temptation to confide in someone. “I’ve never felt like this before, Lady Ostdene.”

“Like what?” She held her breath and watched indecision and worry flit across his face. She was glad to see that he’d lost that cool detached look he’d worn for so long. “It often helps to talk to someone,” she coaxed, “and you’ve known me long enough to trust me, surely? I’m almost like an honorary aunt by now.”