Elizabeth Mansfield (7 page)

“Ape-leader?” Mr. Halford eyed his client suspiciously. “I’m afraid I have no familiarity with the jargon of the sporting set.”

“It comes from Shakespeare, I believe. Something about old maids being doomed ‘to lead apes into hell.’“

Mr. Halford frowned in disapproval. “I would hardly call Miss Caroline an old maid. Although she is twenty-four years of age—I suppose in your circles that would make her past her last prayers—I find her to be quite presentable.”

Kit knew a set-down when he heard one. Though he didn’t consider himself a member of what Mr. Halford called the “sporting set,” he realized his words had been as thoughtless as if they’d been said by one of the Corinthians the solicitor so evidently scorned. ‘‘I beg your pardon,” he said, shamefaced. “I’m sure the lady is very ... er ... deserving.”

“Yes,” said the lawyer in reproof. “Quite.”

“I assure you, Halford, I would be perfectly willing—happy, in fact!—to do for the Whitlows whatever you think is right.” Kit rose, hoping that this concession would be the end of the matter. “You have my permission to make them a bequest in as generous an amount as my uncle would have wished.”

“That
is
good of you, my lord! Very good indeed.” Mr. Halford rose also, his face beaming in relief. “You will, of course, see to it that Miss Caroline and her brothers are informed of your intention?”

Kit stiffened. “I? Why can’t
you
inform them?”

The solicitor shook his head. “Miss Caroline is very proud. She knows that her guardian failed to provide for her. She will therefore realize that this is an act of generosity on your part. ‘Charity’ might even be a more accurate word. She will not accept charity. She must somehow be convinced she has a
right
to the bequest. I don’t believe anyone but you will be able to convince her.”

“Damnation!” Kit swore. “Isn’t it enough that I’m willing to give it? Must I also beg her to take it?”
 

“I’m afraid so, my lord.”

Kit sighed in surrender. “Very well, Halford, give me her direction.”

“I don’t know it. But I’m certain your aunt Lady Whitlow will know where she is.” He jotted something down on a piece of notepaper and handed it to Kit. “Here, my lord—your aunt’s direction. I’m sure she’ll be a help to you.”

And now that very aunt was standing in her library doorway, arms akimbo and hat askew, glaring at him. “So, Kit Meredith,” she was saying in a loud, angry voice, “you have courage, I must say, to dare to show your face here!”

“You give me too much credit, ma’am,” he said, bowing. “I didn’t know it required courage to call on my aunt.”

Letty brushed by her sister and, aided by her cane, hurried into the room. “Kit, dearest boy!” she cried, throwing her free arm about him. “You’re as handsome as ever ... but so
thin!
Didn’t they feed you in the dragoons?”

Kit laughed, relieved that
someone
in the world cared enough to greet him with enthusiasm. “Aunt Letty!” he said, returning her embrace. “How good to see you!”

“Letty, you idiot, let the fellow go!” her sister ordered. “I’ll not permit you to make a hero of him, at least not in this house.”

Kit released himself from Letty’s grasp and, grinning, crossed the room to the other sister. “Why not, Aunt Martha? I
am
a hero, am I not?”

“I might have thought so once,” she retorted, forcing herself not to notice the slight limp in his walk. A war wound, assuredly, she thought, but she would not let it affect her. She faced him sternly. “Since you dispossessed poor Caroline, you are no hero to me.”

Kit winced. “That deuced accusation has been plaguing me for the past fortnight. Dash it, Aunt Martha, I did
not
dispossess poor Caroline! I did not know such a person as poor Caroline existed until the day I arrived at the Grange.”

Aunt Martha stopped short. “What are you saying?” she asked, staring at the young man in disbelief. “Caro lived at the Grange for a dozen years. Do you think you can make me believe that Clement never mentioned her? Not even in his letters?”

“My uncle Clement never wrote me any letters.”

“
Never?
I don’t credit it for an instant!”

“It’s quite true. I haven’t had a word from him since the day he and my father quarreled.”

Martha put a trembling hand to her forehead. “But ... you were his
heir!
”

“And he
adored
you. Always!” Letty added.

“He might have, when I was a child. But his rage at Papa must have flowed over to me, for he never spoke to either one of us again. I wrote him once or twice from Spain, but he never responded. That I was his heir came as a complete surprise to me.

Martha sank into a chair. “Let me understand all this. Are you telling us that you
didn’t
throw Caro out in the cold?”

“How could I? I’d never even heard her name.”

“Good God!” Martha muttered. “This puts a whole new light on the matter.”

“Not to me.” Letty beamed, clapping her hands together joyfully. “I
knew
our Kit could never act in so dastardly a style.”

“Thank you, Aunt Letty,” Kit said, sitting down beside her and taking one of her bony hands in his. “You are the only one who did.”

“Be that as it may,” Martha cut in brusquely, “we are still left with the problem of what’s to be done about poor Caro now. You will not believe it, Kit, but I was just about to depart for Shropshire to lay the matter squarely in your lap.”

“Were you? Then my timing is most fortunate, for not only have I saved you from a long trip, but I’m here to relay the news that the problem is solved.”

“Solved?” Martha eyed him dubiously. “How?”

“Just yesterday I arranged with Mr. Halford to supply to Miss Whitlow and her brothers the bequest that Uncle Clement intended them to have. The bequest is, I understand, large enough to provide for their present and future comfort.”

“Oh,
Kit!
”
Letty exclaimed, her eyes shining with tears.

Martha, too, was moved. “That was very good of you, my boy, I must say.”

But Letty’s joyful expression immediately faded. “She won’t take it, you know,” she murmured, half to herself. “Never.”

“
What?
”
Kit peered at her in dismay.

“She’s quite right,” Martha said, sagging back in her chair. “She won’t. Not Caro.”

“Why not?” Kit leaned forward, making an earnest plea. “It’s not charity, you know. It’s her due.”

“You can say all you like about her due,” Martha explained, “but she won’t accept it. The fact remains that Clement didn’t mention her in the will.”

“A mere oversight,” Kit insisted. “She must know what his intentions were.”

“Intentions are not facts,” said Martha glumly.

Letty nodded. “That’s so true. And Caro is very proud.”

“Yes, so I’ve heard.” Kit clenched his fists, wishing he could wring that blasted female’s neck. How, he wondered, would he ever rid himself of this irksome responsibility? He lifted his head and, with a last vestige of hope, pleaded, “But surely you both, between you, can convince her—”

“No, she won’t listen to us in this matter,” Martha said with finality.

“But, Martha,” Letty said, a note of optimism creeping into her quavery voice, “perhaps
Kit
himself could—”

“Yes,” Martha agreed, her eyes lighting up eagerly. “You must do it yourself, Kit. If there’s any hope at all of convincing the girl, it lies with you.”

Kit looked from one sister to the other, reading in their faces their complete—and completely groundless—faith in him. “Somehow,” He murmured, shaking his head in disgust, “I knew that’s what you’d say.”

EIGHT

Kit called at his aunt Letitia’s house that very evening, asking to be permitted to speak to Miss Caroline Whitlow. “I’ll see if she’s in,” said Letty’s butler, Melton, a small fellow who, elderly and frail as Letty herself, nonetheless moved with youthful energy. He led the visitor to the drawing room, where he left him to his own devices. Then he carried Kit’s card to the upstairs sitting room, where the family had retired after dinner.

Caroline was sitting at a round table in the corner, giving Gilbert a lesson on the division of fractions. On the other side of the room, near the fire, Letty was working at an embroidery frame, concentrating on keeping the pain in her gnarled fingers from altering the proper direction of her needle. Arthur sat deep in an armchair, ostensibly reading but in reality brooding over his dull existence.

Melton tapped on the open door to announce his presence and crossed the room to the table. “A caller, Miss Caroline,” he announced, holding out the card tray.

“For me?” Caro asked in mild surprise. But when she read the name on the card, surprise deepened to shock. “Good God! It’s
Crittenden!
”

Everyone looked up. “Then you must go down at once, my love,” Letty said calmly.

“Go down?” Caro rose to her feet in magisterial fury. “I will most certainly
not
go down!” She tossed the card back on the tray. “Return to His Lordship, please, Melton, and tell him that I am not at home. Not now. Not ever. Not to him.”

“Wait a minute, Melton,” Letty said, sticking the needle into her work and rising nervously from her chair. “Caro, dearest, you mustn’t send such a message. You don’t know... .”

“What don’t I know?”

Letty picked up her cane and hobbled across the room to the angry young woman. “I
told
Martha that I should be the one to prepare you, but she said Kit should tell you himself,” she said softly, putting a soothing hand on Caro’s arm. “You see, we’ve been quite wrong about him.” And she launched into a detailed account of what had passed that morning at her sister’s house.

Caro listened, but the way her lips were pressed together and her arms crossed over her chest as if to defend herself from an assault indicated to Arthur, who was watching the scene in fascination, that she was not impressed. Her next words proved him right. “I don’t wish to offend you, Letty dear,” she said tightly when Letty had finished, “but I’ve always felt that you are too fond of your ‘Kit.’ Naturally, since he’s your nephew, the family connection gives you every right to your affectionate feelings toward him. But I have no such connection. I needn’t accept his lame excuses, his belated attentions, or his charity. In short, I want nothing to do with the man.”

“But, Caro, he merely wants to explain to you that it’s
not
charity,” Letty argued, taking a deep breath to prepare herself for the exertion she knew she would have to expend to change the stubborn girl’s attitude.

Meanwhile, Arthur, quite unnoticed, slipped behind the butler’s back to the doorway. Signaling his brother to follow, he stole out the door and down the hall to the stairs. When Gilbert caught up with him, he said in an excited whisper, “Hurry, Gil! Let’s go down and get a glimpse of the dastardly Crittenden before Melton shows him the door!”

The two boys tiptoed down the stairs and made for the drawing-room doorway. The door, however, was closed. “You can’t unlatch it,” Gilbert hissed. “He’ll hear.”

“No, he won’t, if I’m careful,” Arthur mouthed, and he slowly turned the knob.

Inside, Kit did indeed hear the latch opening. He turned from the fire to discover two pairs of eyes peeping in at him through the small opening of the door. “Do come in,” he said, smiling. “I promise not to bite.”

The two boys entered sheepishly. The gentleman facing them was very tall and loose-limbed, with a manly face and kind gray eyes. Arthur liked him at once. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Didn’t mean to ... to ... spy on you.”

“That’s quite all right,” Kit assured him. “If
I’d
been dispossessed by a monster, I’d want to get a look at him, too.”

“You don’t look like a monster,” Gilbert said, also responding to the kindness in the man’s eyes.

“I hope not, indeed.” Kit ruffled the boy’s hair. “You must be Gilbert.”

“And I’m Arthur,” the older boy said, offering his hand. Kit shook it solemnly. “I hope this is a peace offering. I never meant to dispossess you, you know.”
 

“We know. Aunt Letty just told us.”
 

“Good. Then all is forgiven?”

Gilbert and Arthur exchanged looks. “As far as
we’re
concerned, I suppose it is,” Arthur said.

Kit’s brows knit. “But not as far as your sister’s concerned?”

Arthur dropped his eyes, saying nothing.

Gilbert, however, was less guarded. “You’re page one in Caro’s black book,” he said frankly. “She’s
really
down on you.”

“Dash it, is she? Even after Letty explained—”
 

“Your name’s too black to erase, I’m afraid,” Arthur admitted.

Kit’s brows knit in frustration. “But surely she’ll be willing, at the very least, to come down and
talk
to me?”
 

“No, she won’t,” Gilbert said.

Arthur nodded in glum agreement with his brother. “Not Caro.”

Their prophecy was confirmed by the butler, who entered shortly thereafter with Caro’s verbal message: she was not in to Lord Crittenden. Not now. Not ever.