Clarissa and the Poor Relations (4 page)

As his young friend did as he bade him, Grandiston lounged on the wooden settle of the taproom playing negligently with his quizzing-glass looking very much the sporting gentleman.

He was aware that his one-time intended bride was preparing to retire in the bedroom above him but he doubted that she knew of her father’s plans.  When his dearest friend, Sir Ralph Petersham had confided his desire to betroth his daughter to him, he had looked at the sixteen-year-old beauty with astonishment.

As he observed her progress in the next two years as she tumbled off of her high spirited hunters, her imperious manner to all who would thwart her will, her gentle manner to her servants or social inferiors and her love of the estate and all its tenants, he felt that she was just the wife that he had always dreamed of.

They had fought and laughed together as they rode the farmlands together but only once had anything more than a sisterly feeling shown in her. It was when the rumour reached her, from a friend who had had her come-out in London the season before Oriana’s, of his flirtation, and supposed intentions towards a certain Miss Hazlehurst.

Oriana had tried to draw him out on the matter and when he had chosen to quiz her for her interest, she had flown at him angrily, saying she could not imagine any lady willing to marry a man as ugly as the devil himself. With others, Miss Petersham was the ice queen, but with him a raging virago.

Her jealousy had raised his passions -- but the war intervened. He could not look at events in Europe and do nothing. He could not speak to Miss Petersham while his future was uncertain. He accepted a commission and had spent the past two years in the mud of Portugal with the valiant forces of Wellington. Unfortunately, he found himself so frequently digging balls out of his body that Wellington himself sent him home. ‘For God’s sake man, a man’s system can only take so much. You’ve done your bit for war. I only wish I had.’

Oriana had never known his intentions but when he heard of her father’s death and her engagement to Charteris he felt that she had somehow betrayed him and herself by taking a rich husband. He was in England again before he knew of the scandal of the broken engagement and when he had applied at her home to find her he had met with the squirming equivocations of her brother. He had seen at a glance that young Petersham had behaved in some scoundrel-y fashion to his sister and it was only his breeding that had prevented him wringing out of him Oriana’s direction. Not whilst a guest in his house, but Grandiston had not yet finished with Fitzroy Petersham. Now barely two weeks later, Oriana Petersham lay upstairs in her bed, more beautiful and desirable than ever. He knew where she was bound, and like the General that his friends in the Regiment had called him, he slowly considered his strategy in this next campaign.

Sir Fitzroy Petersham received his sister’s letter with annoyance. He had tried to forget her existence in the year since her dreadful disobedience and the short-lived scandal of the broken engagement. That there would never have been a scandal had he not put the announcement of the marriage into the
Morning Post
without first consulting the prospective bride, he did not consider at all. As usual his sister, favourite of his late father and mother, had humiliated him. Oriana’s dashed popularity in her London season had meant that much of her acquaintance had continued to inquire after her and he had been obliged to prevaricate as to her whereabouts, passing it off as a visit to friends abroad. He could not well say that his sister would rather teach in a girl’s school than live with him and he worried that the daughter of one of his friends might one day be taught by his sister. However, most members of the
ton
had ignored the school which promised to educate young ladies in Latin and Greek and other subjects unnecessary, indeed, undesirable, for fashionable young ladies. He had suffered the visit from Grandiston and now he had to worry what next she would do. Would his friends accept a story of Oriana lending her companionship to a friend? Perhaps this might actually take the pressure off him; he could furnish her friends with her new direction.

He was a handsome young man of athletic build like his father, but without any strength of character on his dark good looks. He had been pleased to accede to his father’s dignities at the age of twenty- three, but apart from spending a great deal of money he had changed very little. He had taken to ordering the servants with all of his father’s imperiousness, but without his fairness, and knew himself to be despised by them. He fancied himself to be a sporting gentleman, but he was too craven in the saddle to attempt the heroics of his father or sister. His mother had indulged his sulks and he missed her greatly. He had many acquaintances, but no close friends, and he would have welcomed Oriana’s presence in his great empty house, if only so that he could bully her and allow her to run the estate as she always had. He was tired of his agent asking him to make decisions about his dashed tenants. Her contempt, however, he could not have borne. The servants, at least, could not display theirs’.

He had determined to go to London, but hoped to avoid another uncomfortable conversation with Grandiston. What concern of
his
was Oriana’s welfare? He behaved as though she had been consigned to his care. It was for her brother to decide upon her future. Yet again, Oriana had pre-empted his control of her and he did not like it but he could not well decide upon the right course of action.

As chance would have it, he was accosted in Albemarle Street by the Honourable Charles Booth, nattily attired in blue long-tailed coat and a yellow waistcoat.

‘Ah, Petersham.’

‘Booth. I thought you would be out of town at this season.’ Petersham had not given it any thought at all, for Booth was not one of his intimates and he was a trifle surprised to be hailed by him.

‘Visiting my mother. She’s been kept in town by an outbreak of measles in the younger sprogs. Met your sister on the road, the other day. She was looking in great beauty.’ said Booth easily. He was obliged to suppress a wider grin as he saw Petersham stiffen. Grandiston was always right. He’d said that the baronet would squirm at the mention of his sister. What mystery lay here?

‘Yes, indeed,’ was the reply, ‘she is bearing an …an old school friend company for some time. Viscount Ashcroft’s heiress, you know.’ Petersham was uneasily aware that he had just committed himself to accepting Oriana’s newest start in the eyes of the polite world.

Young Booth was a sporting gentleman and now he scented fear in his quarry even though he did not understand its cause. ‘Thought your sister was educated at home. Well I know she was, for your mamma passed on the governess to my sisters.’

‘Of course she was,’ said Sir Fitzroy testily, ‘I only meant that she met Miss Thorne when
she
was at school. I have an appointment, Booth, so I’ll bid you good-day.’

Booth doffed his hat. ‘Certainly, old boy. Misunderstanding - so sorry.’ He permitted himself a grin as he gaily bowled up the Street towards his club, twirling his cane and rehearsing and account of this meeting to recount to Grandiston who was presently ensconced there. His lively brain (when not befuddled with foul spirits) began to consider. Could they be going to Ashcroft? Surely not, for poor old Bosky (Viscount Ashcroft, to the uninitiated) had let it go to rack and ruin before his premature but unsurprising death.

He asked this question of Grandiston ten minutes later.

‘Well deduced, my boy. I believe that is just where they were going,’ said his friend smoothly.

‘I shouldn’t have thought that it was any place fit for ladies. There’s hardly been time to put it to rights since Bosky’s death and the last time I was there…

‘Yes, yes Light-skirts riding the backs of young bucks in betting races, champagne in washing ewers and every kind of dissipation imaginable. I’ve heard the scandal,’ interrupted Grandiston. He cocked an eyebrow at his young companion. ‘What I didn’t know, though, was that you were a member of that set, Charles.’

‘I was not.’ flashed Booth, ‘Oh, you’re joking Grandiston. I might have known. I went up there to collect a hunter that Ashcroft was selling. I never saw such a rum lot in my life.
They
may have fancied that they were enjoying themselves but it looked ludicrous to me. The doxies that they employed were a sure way to get the pox. I take my pleasure in safer places.’

‘Your friends must welcome the wisdom if not the morality of that last remark. It is time, my lad, that you got married and adopted a life of rectitude.’

Booth laughed but was not diverted. ‘If her suitors knew that she was at Ashcroft, I daresay that they would be posting to Hertfordshire in droves.’

‘I daresay,’ drawled Grandiston at his most dry, ‘but I trust, dear Charles, that the town may not know her whereabouts for some time.’ The message was unmistakable.

‘Oh, certainly, my dear sir,’ said Booth blithely, ‘you can depend upon me.’
‘I’ll let you know, Charles, when I wish the world to know,’ said Grandiston, his dark eyes glittering, ‘Then I’ll depend on you to spread the word.’

Booth was too much in awe of his older friend to question him too closely but he remarked. ‘I believe that Hertfordshire is pleasant at this time of year. I think Staines has a house there.’

‘Ahead of the pack, Charles, that’s the spirit.’ He poured another glass of wine; ‘Perhaps we should honour his Lordship with a visit.’

Lord Ferdinand Staines became aware of the imminent arrival of the new tenant at Ashcroft from an unimpeachable source, his mother. This lady was reclining on a lilac chaise, wearing a clashing orange robe over pale green gauze nightdress and a lace cap fastened over her suspiciously blonde curls. When her son entered, she went so far as to sit up and said, ‘Do you know that that girl is coming to Ashcroft?’

His Lordship could never see his mother’s attire without it being a shock to his superior taste, but he had learned that there was no point in giving her a hint. Just as well, he thought, that her stubbornness had been passed on to him as manly firmness. ‘Well, I suppose her brother must bring her to see for herself what a shocking state it’s in,
if
you mean Miss Thorne, as I presume you do. There is no need to get in a curl, mamma, I doubt that she will in the neighbourhood long enough to see her. The brother and I have it quite decided between us.’

His mother eyed her son with annoyance. Even on quite handsome men like her tall blonde son, his hair brushed into the fashionable Brutus, his boots with their mirror shine, that air of self-satisfied certainty was unattractive. Still less when directed at one who had dandled him on her knee. ‘Well, you are quite out there. She has sent a servant ahead of her and he has been putting the place to rights for her arrival. He sent off that London butler, who was there, packing – caught him stealing in the cellar, I believe – and set some village girls to clean. Obviously it is to be an extended visit.’

‘I can hardly believe it. How can you know this?’

She was glad to see the complacent look wiped from his face but she sighed. Men never had the least idea how things work in the country if it isn’t hunting or farming, or such like. ‘Well as it happens, Sullivan, the girl’s butler, is a local boy, related distantly to our groom. He was First Footman in the
old
Viscount’s time and left Ashcroft with Lady Clara when she made that ridiculous marriage to that philosopher, or whatever he was. Devoted to her, they say, but
our
Sullivan says the old Viscount still paid his salary to look after his daughter. Well, whatever that may be, he’s back and preparing the ground for that chit of a girl. Her mother was a foolish, forward creature far,
far
too indulged by her father. He never could stand his son, you know, and that may very well have ruined him. Your father would have it that he wasn’t a true Ashcroft at all, but for my money that was all talk - old Lady Ashcroft wouldn’t have behaved in that way until she had an heir
at least
. Mind you, the late Viscount didn’t at all resemble his father, but…’ she broke off as her son gave an impatient sigh, ‘But I don’t suppose,’ she said with dignity, ‘that you wish to hear about that. What do you propose to do about Ashcroft?’

Her son’s air of complacency returned and he sat down and crossed his legs, ‘
First,
I shall wait to see if all this servants’ gossip has any basis in
fact
mamma,’ he said it as if ‘fact’ were a word she was not acquainted with. ‘
If
so, I shall give the girl time to see how ridiculous it is for her to contemplate residing at Ashcroft which I shall carefully explain to her when first I set eyes upon her.’ With this he snapped his newspaper in front of him and began perusing it.

It is to be hoped, thought his fond mamma, that Miss Thorne would not greet his careful explanations with the same simmering resentment that they produced in her

Unaware of the machinations of members of the polite world, the ladies were wearily reaching the end of their journey. As they entered the park, Miss Appleby leaned out of the coach and said, ‘Look, there. What a handsome house, though thankfully not as large as I thought. She pointed to a square building with Roman columns at the front whose windows, at the front, she counted as eight.

‘Well, I was child when I was last here, but I
believe
that is the Dower House,’ said Clarissa.

‘Good gracious.’ shrieked Miss Appleby, faintly.

They could not well see the grounds but a quarter of a mile further up the drive, the large and looming shape of Ashcroft Manor appeared.

‘Well.’ said Miss Micklethwaite. ‘Impressive indeed.’

Though the moon was full and caught the windows in her gaze, Mrs Appleby lost count of them.

The door was opened and on the steps stood the redoubtable Sullivan.

‘I fancy you could do with some supper, ladies. It is served in the front saloon.’

The ladies walked into a hall that took their respective breaths away. A grand oak staircase swept up to the floors above from an Italian marble floor whose acreage astounded them. It was, however, excessively draughty so the ladies moved quickly towards the flickering candles and roaring fire, which could be seen beyond some doors that opened on to the hall. There some tea and a variety of warm dishes met their eyes and they went in gladly to refresh themselves. Sullivan be blessed.

Clarissa, however, had only partaken of a cup of tea and a pastry when she declared her intention to view the house. She begged her companions to make a hearty supper however and took up a candlestick to go unaccompanied but for Sullivan. She gave him some grateful words and then set off around the house, lately the seat of a Viscount and now unaccountably owned by an eighteen-year-old girl, scarcely out of the schoolroom.

When she rejoined the ladies she was in a better heart than was expected.

‘Well, there is a great deal of old fashioned furniture cluttering many of the rooms but I think you will be heartened at your accommodations tonight ladies. Such luxury. Sullivan has lit a fire in each bedchamber and placed hot bricks for our feet. The rest of the house is in a good state barring the West Wing which Sullivan says is riddled with damp and many other evils and should be shut up for the present. Still I feel we can manage with the remaining six public rooms and fourteen bedrooms. The linen closets are completely neglected, of course but we may soon see to that. Apart from cleaning, sorting the best furniture into the rooms that we choose to use and having the chimneys swept I daresay we shall have nothing to do, shall we, Sullivan?’ she said merrily.

Sullivan allowed his long, lugubrious face a brief smile, ‘As to that Miss Clarissa, I have yet to discuss the kitchen range - most uncooperative it is being. The only one who could manage it was Mrs Stebbings, the cook in the old master’s time. Then there’s the estate itself, miss. It quite breaks my heart to see it as it is now. The gardens need a proper overhaul miss, and the state of the tenants’ cottages. –Well, Miss Clarissa, I’m glad your poor mamma is not here to see it, for it would have broken her and no mistake.’