Mr Forster's Fortune (16 page)

‘I will say no more about it, then, my dear,’ he assured her, quite softly. ‘And if he does put the question to you – well, you can always say that
your uncle will not hear of your getting married – nay, not even a betrothal – until you come of age. That, I think, will be a very good test for him. And if I am wrong – if, indeed, he really does esteem you – then, believe me, Cess – two years is not so very long, I know. If he really does esteem you he will be quite prepared to wait.’

Mr Forster pushed open the squeaking door, which projected
at an even more jaunty angle than ever, and stepped inside his great-uncle’s dingy chamber.

‘Who’s that?’

The tremulous voice from the mattress sounded harshly suspicious.

‘It’s me – Forster, uncle. I wanted to check
that you were well.’

Mr
Simon Forster uttered a few expletives, which his great-nephew interpreted as meaning ‘I’m no better than I should be and have no need of visits from the likes of people like you.’

Mr Forster gave a wry little smile and sat himself down,
uninvited, on the stool. He perched himself cagily upon it. One of the legs was shorter than the others. It could catch the unwary entirely by surprise.

‘What day is it?’ demanded the invalid.

‘It is Sunday, uncle – the day of worship and public rest.’

‘Ha.’ The old gentleman emitted a bitter little laugh. ‘Rest? Rest, you say? And who am I to rest? I do nothing but rest these days
, yet I can get no rest. Every day is a Sunday as far as I’m concerned.’

He emitted a chesty cough, which lasted for several minutes.

‘I am come to see whether there is anything I can get for you, uncle. Would an apothecary be able to help you, do you think? Or shall I hire a chair to take you to the bath?’

‘Nah.
I want no apothecaries and I want no chairs. I want nothing at all. I keep saying I’ve got everything I need right here. Don’t you bother about getting things for me. I am perfectly happy on my own.’

‘If it’s the expense you are worried abou
t, uncle, then think of it no more. I have the kelter. I will pay for one myself.’

The old man almost spat upon the
floor. His nephew eyed him with distaste.

‘I don’t want your
kelter and I don’t want no apothecary either. I managed perfectly well before you even appeared, young man. I don’t need any help from you. In fact, don’t bother about coming back to see me. I really have no desire at all for you to come.’

Mr Forster rose to go.

‘Well, like it or not, I have appeared now and I shall carry on visiting you, uncle. The only way you will avoid me is for you to pack up your bags and go – and I fear that you are no more capable of doing that than I am capable of flying to the moon.’

His great-uncle gave a
sardonic laugh, which set him coughing once again.

‘Well, if you must, you must,’ he acknowledged, ruefully. ‘And you’re not a bad lad, after all. Aye, come back to see me when you will. It won’t be for much longer, that’s for sure.’

Mr Forster acknowledged his invitation with a quick nod and made a hasty retreat down the stairs.

Cecily
was seeing Alfred off. He was catching the coach from the York House Hotel and she had set out with her aunt in order to wave him goodbye. But hardly had they gone fifty yards than Mrs King’s bootlace had snapped and she had turned to go back home.

‘You and Lady Cecily had better go on ahead,’ she had advised them, a little
acerbically. ‘I shall have to find another lace and I mustn’t hold you up. I have some new ones some... Or I could change my boots, I daresay – that may be just as... I have a feeling I brought my nankeens... or was it my...? But you had better go on ahead. You will not want to miss the coach, and... I know how you hate to be late.’

Cecily had been of a mind to return to the house with her but Alfred had so eagerly taken her arm that she
had felt obliged to continue with him, rather than creating a stir. He had said nothing to his parents about her refusal of his offer, though his early departure from Bath had left them wondering, and concerned. He had determined on leaving Cecily to handle things as she chose.

He
gave his cousin a hug - an unexpectedly warm and lingering hug – before clambering inelegantly into the coach. It startled her a little.

She came across
Mrs King, newly shod in her second-best walking shoes, just outside the pump room with Mrs Springfield. Her aunt was listening eagerly to the merits of a delightful new fringing material which had recently appeared in the window of Garner-Broad’s. She thought that her niece might like to join them in seeking it out but Cecily begged a slight headache and gained her permission to walk back home on her own. Mrs King was pleased to do so. Perhaps her niece was sorry to see Alfred go after all? Perhaps he had not spoken to her yet? His mother was sincerely hoping so. The promotion of their marriage was her constant concern.

It was almost
as she reached the door that Mr Forster overtook her, walking from the same direction that she had just come from. He did not seem too happy.

‘Will you walk with me, Lady Cecily?’ he asked her, sounding a little brusque. ‘I wondered whether we might take a turn about the gardens for a while?’

Surprised by the tone of command in his voice, Cecily immediately acquiesced and walked obediently at his side. His arm remained stubbornly at the side of him. She did not dare to request it.

‘Is – is everything all right, Mr Forster?’ she enquired anxiously, as his initial command had been followed by a somewhat morose silence. ‘Only you seem – well, you seem rather distracted this morning.’

Mr Forster let out a deep breath, stopped with a jolt, and looked directly at her.

‘I hope that you have not been playing with my affections, my lady,’ he said, a little more loudly than wa
s strictly required. He was standing not a foot away from her after all and the street, just then, was silent. ‘I shall be most angry to find you’ve been leading me a dance.’

Cecily felt
the blood drain from her cheeks. She felt completely taken aback.

‘Whatever do you mean, Mr Forster? Why on earth would you think that I’ve been leading you a dance?’

They crossed the road and entered the park. Mr Forster was walking so quickly that Cecily was almost having to run to keep up with him.

‘Don’t play the innocent little miss with me, my lady,’ he
retorted. ‘I know what’s been happening between you and your cousin. I have eyes that I can see with, and I do not like by half what my eyes have seen you do.’

‘My cousin? What –
why ever – are you jealous of my friendship with my cousin, Mr Forster?’

‘Your friendship? Is that what you call it – your friendship? Well, it’s a very intimate friendship as far as I
can see – much more intimate than any of the friendships that I have ever known between a woman and a man – sitting with him on a bench yesterday, holding his hand; embracing him this morning, just you and him, in the middle of a public street; walking with him, arm in arm, dancing with him (if one can actually call the ponderous military drilling that the wretched man performs, ‘dancing’) flirting outrageously with your fan – I have seen behaviour towards your cousin that no man could possibly misinterpret. What is it you are hoping to get from him, my lady? He must be exceedingly rich. He must have a tremendous sum to tempt you with. I cannot think for one moment that you’ve actually fallen in love.’

Cec
ily stopped in her tracks and stared in shocked disbelief at her accuser. She could see that he was feeling confused, hurt, miserable and exceedingly angry and that he did not know which sensation should prevail. Alfred! He was jealous of Alfred! So
that
was why he had earlier seemed so cold. She realised in a flash that he had withdrawn from the scene at the self same time that Alfred had appeared. She had not thought of it before. But Alfred? Alfred, of all people! He was her cousin, for goodness’ sake. Why ever might he think her susceptible to
him
? Did he not realise that she felt nothing of the sort?

’Please, spare me the
acting from those innocent eyes of yours.’ Mr Forster was shouting once again. ‘Would you have me think you an ingénue? Well, I can tell you this instant that it really will not do. You will have to do better than that, my lady. You do not convince me of your innocence at all.’

Now, had Mr Forster raised his concerns with her in a rational and measured way
, Cecily would have been more than happy to explain everything away to him. After all, now she thought of it she had to acknowledge that, from a lover’s perspective at the least, her relations with Alfred might possibly be seen to have been a little – well, close. Yes, it was true. She
had
taught him the language of the fan. Yes, she
had
walked out with him and allowed him to take her home. Yes, she
had
held his hand the previous day as they discussed her situation on the bench and yes, she
had
even allowed him to hug her, unchaperoned, in the street. She’d had very little say in the matter, to be honest. She could hardly have pulled away from him at the very moment of his departure. Mr Forster must have seen them. But really – to think of her preferring
Alfred
to
him
! It was almost laughable. It would all have been simple enough to explain. She would happily have told him the whole situation as far as Alfred was concerned, happily received and returned his admission of overwhelming love for her, and readily and most happily agreed to be his wife. But Mr Forster had not raised his concerns in a measured way. In fact, he was being quite odious towards her. Yes, she found him attractive and yes, she craved excitement, some danger in her life. But did she really wish to ally herself with someone quite so unpredictable as this? And was Alfred really the main impediment to their developing relationship? She remembered the unwelcome intelligence about the parlous state of the Barnhams’ bank account. She remembered the flutter of a brightly coloured gown. She could see the anger on his maddeningly handsome face, hear the sneer in his infuriatingly compelling voice. And the thought of all these things, the injustice and unfairness of it all, his arrogant assumption that he could order her around when it was he, Robert wretched Forster, who was entirely in the wrong was sufficient to rouse her normally ridiculously mild temper into a frenzy of indignation and the levelling of some similar accusations of her own.

‘Oh, so you think I have been leading you on
, do you, Mr Forster? You think me a flirt and a cheat, looking for the best prospect, keeping you both on a string? Well, I must say, your hypocrisy leaves me breathless, Mr Forster – totally and utterly breathless. For, do you know, sir, that the self same accusations can equally be levelled at
you
?’

Mr Forster blanched, and then reddened.

‘What... whatever do you mean?’ he demanded, curling his upper lip in annoyance. ‘A flirt? A cheat? I resent that, Lady Cecily. I have never cheated anyone in my entire life before.’

‘
Huh. Your morality does you credit, sir, I’m sure – it provides your guide for everything you do. But I fear your morality is letting you down, Mr Forster. It certainly does not satisfy my own expectations of how a gentleman should behave. It does not stop you from dangling after other rich ladies of a very dubious nature. It does not stop you from hunting down
my
fortune, does it?’

‘A fortune hunter?
Is that what you think me – a fortune hunter? After
you
? Ha. If only you knew. But, my dear lady, you are sadly misguided. I can tell you for free that no fortune hunter would consider an income of a mere two hundred a year at all worthy of pursuit. Sadly misguided, I am sorry to have to say. Two hundred a year is not a fortune. It is certainly insufficient to tempt a gentleman like
me
.’

‘Two hundred a year? What ever are you talking
about, Mr Forster? My income is greater than two hundred a year. Why, it is six hundred a year, and more.’

‘Six hundred? My dear Lady Cecily, I know not what they teach you at the establishments they laughingly call schools for young ladies, but arithmetic can most certainly not be high on the
ir curriculum. For any boy of eight years old will most definitely be able to tell you that the income on six thousand pounds is nowhere near six hundred pounds in a year.’

‘Six thousand? But why do you think I have only six thousand
? I was left six thousand by my mother, to be sure – but I inherited a good deal more than that from my grandmama several years ago, which I’ve been building on ever since. I have almost twenty thousand pounds, Mr Forster. I don’t know why you could ever have thought it less.’

Mr Forster stared at her
speechless, his face a mixture of horror and astonishment. Six hundred a year? Twenty thousand pounds? Why, a sum of balsam like twenty thousand pounds would have made a material difference to his prospects from the very start. Twenty thousand pounds?