Sally James (6 page)

Unable to solve these puzzles Mary went to bed, but morning brought no enlightenment, and she spent the day in a fret of apprehension that Mr Knowle would appear. However, dinner-time came and there had been no visit from him, and after the meal Mary went to fetch her shawl in readiness to walk to the manor.

Sir Ingram had not appeared at all that day, and Mary felt an irrational disappointment, but Teresa seemed not to care, saying it was just like him to be unpredictable. They set off to walk the short distance between the two houses, and had almost reached the front door when a smart chaise drew up beside them and Sir Ingram leapt down to greet them.

“Well met, Miss Wyndham. Are you fully recovered, Teresa? Servant, Wyndham. I discovered that my friends, Paul and Belinda Ward, were coming to this party, and so I remained with them.”

Paul and Belinda, children of a neighbouring landowner, were old acquaintances and Mary turned to greet them as they followed Sir Ingram out of the chaise. Then they all entered the house to be met by Caroline and her husband, and found that there were already a dozen or so people present. Mr Knowle detached himself from a group and came across to Mary, nodding coldly to Sir Ingram and the others before drawing her away, saying that Mr Johnson, the vicar, who was in another room, had a message to give her for her father.

“He will not be staying long, and so asked to see you as soon as you arrived,” he explained.

Caroline had organised dancing in her largest parlour, and card tables were set up for those of her guests who did not care to dance. After chatting for a while with Mr Johnson, Mary was whisked away to dance by Paul Ward, a man a few years her senior who had known her all her life.

“It was a surprise to see Ingram,” he began. “First time, to my knowledge, that he’s been in this part of the world. I believe his father knew yours?”

“Yes, at Oxford. Is he a great friend of yours?” she asked curiously.

“We belong to the same clubs,” Paul replied, “but he’s a bit older than I am, and has his own set. Very popular with the men as well as the women,” he added, laughing. “He’s an excellent whip, and shoots even better. And though he looks slight he can hold his own with anyone in the ring.”

“A
non pareil,
in fact,” Mary commented briefly, and turned the conversation onto other subjects.

As the dance ended she found Mr Knowle waiting to claim her attention.

“Miss Wyndham, pray will you spare me a few minutes?”

Unable to refuse, Mary felt her heart sinking as she realised what was to come. Mr Knowle led her to the room where refreshments were laid out, secured a glass of orgeat for her, and then, remarking self-consciously that it was an exceptionally clear night and there were many stars to be seen, suggested they stepped outside for a breath of fresh air.

“I do not dance, so I hope you will not refuse me this,” he went on. “Not that I disapprove of it, mind, if not indulged in to excess, and so long as these shocking new dances such as the waltz are not permitted, but I do not consider it wise for a parson to partake of such pleasure. It sets a bad example.”

Mary made a noncommital reply and permitted him to lead her onto the terrace that ran along the whole of this side of the house. There were already two other couples there, and Mary was certain that one was Teresa and Matthew, but in the half light she could not see clearly, and Mr Knowle drew her away to the other end of the terrace.

“I think you must know what I have to say to you,” he began without preamble. “I have your father’s blessing and permission to pay my addresses to you, and so I am not acting hastily, unduly swayed by the beauty of the night, as I understand many men are! Mary - I hope you will permit me to call you that - I have for long admired, nay, loved you, and found in you all the most estimable qualities to be desired in a wife. I am asking you to make me the happiest of men by consenting to marry me. I realise that at the moment in my present humble position I have little to offer you, and that has constrained me from approaching you earlier. Now, however, I am about to be given the living in a small village near Bristol, and I shall have a home fit to take you to as well as an income, added to my own small means, which will keep you in comfort. I can say, without undue pride, that I hope to advance further in my chosen profession, and I know that you will adorn whatever position you are called upon to fill beside me. Mary, I trust that your answer is favourable?”

Mary took a deep breath, then slowly shook her head.

“I am sorry, Mr Knowle,” she answered in a low voice. “I - I cannot contemplate leaving my father. He needs me, and I must remain with him. I am aware of the honour you do me, but it would not be possible.”

“Your sentiments do you credit, my dear. I take it that you do not have a personal aversion to me? That you might consider my offer if circumstances permitted it?”

“I - I have not really thought about it,” Mary replied, wishing that somehow the ground would open and deliver her from this embarrassing situation. She did not love Mr Knowle, but she respected him. How could she indicate that without giving him hope for the future? She had not fully made up her mind to reject him, but she did not wish to encourage him unless she could really offer hope that eventually she would accept him.

“Well, who knows what might make it possible?” he said cheerfully. “I have not yet seen my new parish but I am told that the house is commodious. Possibly your father, if he realises that your happiness depends on it, would consent to come and live with us, and then our problems would be solved. You give me hope, my dear, and I am content for the moment. I shall be removing to Bristol in a month or so and trust that we can come to a decision before then.”

Without giving her time to reply he turned to walk back into the house, and Mary, uncertain what she could have said, thankfully remained silent. When they entered the room, however, she found Sir Ingram with a small group of people seated there partaking of refreshment. He cast them a swift look and smiled mockingly at Mary before rising in a leisurely fashion to invite them both to join the group.

After a few minutes while Mr Knowle made stilted conversation, and Mary remained silent, the strains of a waltz tune came from the parlour.

“May I dance with you, Miss Wyndham?” Sir Ingram asked, and Mary, unable to resist a somewhat guilty glance at Mr Knowle, who had pursed his lips slightly, nodded assent and went off with him.

“He does not look the successful lover,” Sir Ingram whispered in her ear as they circled the room. “I cannot believe that he did not take advantage of the starlight to make his offer?”

Mary frowned at him.

“You are impertinent, Sir,” she said quietly. “The fact that you have power over Teresa does not give you the right to dictate to me!”

“I would not dream of it,” he murmured softly. “I can only give you advice, and that is not to marry the curate! If you want a better match, from the worldly point of view, there are many men who would be willing and able to give you all you wanted. But even more important is the fact that within a month he would drive you to despair. Can you contemplate forty years of his platitudes for breakfast?”

Despite herself Mary giggled at the thought, then remorsefully tried to excuse Mr Knowle.

“He is stiff and shy with strangers, Sir Ingram. You judge him on too short an acquaintance. And I beg that you will refrain from giving me advice I do not desire and can do without!”

“On your own head be it, then,” he replied with a laugh, and to her relief changed the subject, asking whether Teresa had said anything about her plans for the parrot. “I cannot see my aunt’s dogs accepting such an addition to the ménage with complaisance, and had rather hoped Teresa would be willing to send the creature back to town.”

“I do not think that likely,” Mary replied with a laugh. “She was maintaining today that he would be her only comfort while she was, as she put it, exiled from all her friends.”

“Then I can only hope Aunt Hermione does not teach it even worse language than it possesses at present. Oh yes,” he said in response to Mary’s look of surprise, “the old lady was brought up in a far less squeamish age than our own, and her language can be exceedingly colourful when she is roused to anger.”

“Then I am surprised you can entrust Teresa to her,” Mary commented.

He laughed. “When you meet Aunt Hermione and Teresa’s mama, you will appreciate my problems,” he told her.

There was no time for Mary to ask how in the world he expected her to meet either of them unless Matthew were permitted to marry Teresa, for the waltz ended, he led her off the floor, and the opportunity for private conversation was finished.

Chapter 4

Within a few days the arrangements had been made and Sir Ingram, who had accepted the Wards’ invitation to stay with them, rode over to warn Teresa to make ready to leave on the following day.

“We are meeting your mama at Reading, providing she does not keep us waiting. Aunt Hermione writes that she will be pleased to have company for a few weeks.”

“A few weeks! That is like to mean months,” Teresa responded gloomily. “When will you allow me to return to London?”

“That depends on your behaviour, in part,” was all the satisfaction she received.

When he had departed Teresa went reluctantly to her room to pack her belongings, and Matthew began to make his own plans for journeying to Cheltenham. Mary realised what he was about and sought for him, finding him in the stables.

“You cannot go with them,” she said firmly.

“Why not? She is still terrified of him. Although he has behaved discreetly while he has been here, and she has been under my protection, I cannot expect him not to ill treat her once she is in his power!”

“You are being melodramatic!” Mary declared. “He will not harm her.”

“He has previously beaten her, and she believes he has attempted to kill her,” Matthew insisted. “Oh, I can see he has bamboozled you with his surface charm! All women are alike and fall under his spell!”

“Excepting Teresa!” Mary rejoined sharply. “Truly, Matt, it would be more discreet for you to follow in a few days. Teresa will be with her mama in a few hours - “

“That is what
he
says!” Matthew interrupted.

“Oh, you are totally unreasonable! You behave like a dog protecting a bone rather than an adult contemplating marriage! Sir Ingram can prevent your ever marrying Teresa, or for many years, at least, but he has not said that he will. If you can behave sensibly now and show you are capable of retaining Teresa’s affections, he might relent, but if you annoy him he is less likely to. Is he proposing to remain in Cheltenham himself?”

“Is it likely?” Matthew asked scornfully, but Mary could see that her words had had some effect. She said no more, and merely nodded when that evening Matthew somewhat shamefacedly told her he had decided to travel to Cheltenham two days later than Teresa.

On the following morning Teresa bade a tearful farewell to Mary when Sir Ingram’s chaise appeared. Freeing herself from the clinging embrace Mary hurried from the room, leaving the lovers alone for the last few minutes. She intercepted Sir Ingram in the hall and detained him with what she realised were inane remarks. He eyed her with amusement and allowed her to ramble on until she could think of no more to say.

“Now that we have discussed the weather, and the state of the roads - both, incidentally, unchanged for the past week - and the health of all our mutual acquaintances, do you think my cousin and your brother have had sufficient time for their farewell scene?” he enquired politely.

Mary laughed, tried to disguise it as a cough, and cast him a look of reproach. “It is only kind,” she managed.

“I have no intention of dragging her away by her hair, but since they will have ample opportunity of meeting in a few days time it might be kinder to cut short this painful moment.”

“They will not be able to meet alone,” Mary pointed out. “You have decreed that.”

“But it is possible to be alone in a crowd, when waltzing for example,” he said softly, and Mary was furious to feel herself blushing.

Turning away abruptly she led the way into the parlour, and soon Teresa was driven away, her parrot raucously protesting at this upheaval with a spate of words Mary had not previously been privileged to hear from it.

For that day and the next Matthew miserably frittered away the time, favouring Mary with a monotonous catalogue of Sir Ingram’s faults and Teresa’s perfections, so that when early on the following morning he rode away she was thankful to see him go, and be able to return to the calm routine that had been so rudely shattered.

A week later, having received no word from Matthew in the meantime, Mary walked to the manor to visit Caroline. It was a bright, sunny day, and she walked slowly, taking note of the gentle breezes, the fragrant scents of summer, the sounds of insects and the twittering of the birds, and the distant cries from the farmworkers bringing in the hay. Yet despite the perfection of the day, she felt dejected, a rare state for the normally contented Mary.

Caroline was not in the garden and Mary went to seek her in the house, to be met by a worried looking Arthur descending the stairs.

“Mary, Caroline sends her apologies, but she has a severe headache and is resting.”

Mary looked at him anxiously. “Another headache?” she asked, for Caroline had been suffering from incapacitating headaches for some months. “I thought they usually came at night?”

“They have done until this week, and were not very frequent, but she has had two in the last four days and both have lasted all day,” Arthur said distractedly. “I don’t think you ought to see her, she is best kept completely quiet.”

“Of course, but is there anything I can do? What of the children? Can I take them for a walk? I don’t suppose Betsy has time.”

“Would you? They miss not going if Caroline for some reason cannot take them,” he replied, and it was soon arranged.

They walked through the small park that surrounded the manor, and then across some hay fields, collecting bunches of wild flowers. When Mary decided they had gone far enough, she turned into the woods that separated the farm land from the main road into the village, and they wandered along beneath the trees, thankful for the shade, until they reached the edge of the woods and clambered over the stile into the road.