The Spanish Marriage (27 page)

“Absolutely impossible,” Rowena agreed solemnly.

“But you’re paid to put up with my whims, you poor child.
Well, perhaps your cousin and I can amuse each other, and if Lyndon does not
arrive in time for the party we shall simply enjoy it ourselves. Perhaps I will
even proclaim your cousin — what was her name? — to be the guest of honor.”

“She would probably be so honored she would blush herself
into extinction.”

“Likely enough,” Lady Bradwell agreed, and settled the hated
spectacles on her nose, leaning back into her pillows and searching for her
knitting. “Well, if you won’t take my wretched John, perhaps your cousin will.
A good woman would be his making, but I don’t think I could saddle you with
John in good conscience.”

“Nor saddle Lord Bradwell with me, ma’am. But I warn you
that just now Margaret don’t seem too keen on the idea of marriage; nothing is
so daunting to the spirit as to be badgered to wed.”

“If we were to propose the proper party to her, I imagine
her delicacy would disappear very quickly. It generally does,” Lady Bradwell
observed to her knitting.

“It might at that. In which case I can only suppose that no
one has ever proposed the proper party to me.”

“No, only toadish baronets like that Slyppe fellow, and
foolish barons like John.” Lady Bradwell sighed. “Well, go along, child, and
don’t worry about me. I shall be a paragon of invalid virtue. Word of a
Bradwell, I shall not read, I shall not stir; I shall sit here and very likely
bore myself to death over this shabby genteel knitting.”

“You are a wonderful woman,” Rowena assured her dryly. “I
shall be up again in a little while.”

Miss Cherwood departed to give her cousin the good news,
then returned to her desk in the office to face again the cards of acceptance,
the lists from Cook, the bills from various merchants in the village, and the
baffling intricacies of who to seat with whom at dinner.

o0o

At the evening meal Lady Bradwell and her eldest son John,
Lord Bradwell, were introduced to Miss Margaret Cherwood and expressed much
delight in the acquaintance. Margaret, having a hazy romantic notion that as
the cousin of Lady Bradwell’s companion she should strive to appear as humble
as possible, carried only a gauze shawl over her peach-colored evening dress,
and shivered quietly in the chill of the dining room until Rowena arrived to
send a maid after something more substantial. Lady Bradwell was charmed with
the girl’s open, affectionate manner and her obvious respect and admiration for
her older cousin. Lord Bradwell, on his part, swore that the two young ladies
were first-raters, that he could see no difference between Miss Cherwood, in
pomona-green crepe, and Miss Margaret in her peach gauze.

“Devilish hard put to say which one of you ladies is the
handsomest,” he protested, this fulsome compliment rolling awkwardly enough
from his usually inarticulate lips to convince all of his sincerity.

“The choice is obvious, my lord.” Rowena returned easily. “Your
mamma, as always, outshines all of us.”

Lady Bradwell, demure and fragile in blue and gray, her hair
hidden beneath a charmingly frivolous lace cap, stared down her nose with
dignity at her companion, and denounced her for the basest sort of liar.

The company, thus, was in the best of spirits as they sat to
dine.

Margaret, whose knowledge of the behavior of ladies and
their companions came only from watching her mother’s friends, and from the
pages of novels, was surprised by the free and easy, unaffected relationship
between Lady Bradwell and her cousin. Since Lord Bradwell seemed to find
nothing extraordinary in their manner toward each other, Margaret was prepared
to accept things as they were. It did occur to her, however, that Lord Bradwell
was not, in his own phrase, one of the downy ones, and that while his temper
was sweet and his manners gentlemanly, his considered opinions on matters
beyond the home farm and the stables were not to be relied upon.

Shortly after, when they had each had tea and a few
biscuits, Miss Cherwood announced that it was far too late for Lady Bradwell to
be downstairs. “If you wish to attend the party, ma’am, you must conserve your
strength.”

“You, miss, are an abominable bully.” Lady Bradwell turned
to Margaret, protesting, “You see how ill I am used in my own home, child?
Well, all right, I suppose I shall never hear the last of it if I do not retire
gracefully. Good night, dearest.” She offered a cheek to her son to kiss. “Good
night, Miss Margaret. I shall enjoy having you here, I think.” She smiled again
at the girl, then gave her arm to Rowena. “Lead on, tyrant.”

“O no, ma’am!” Meg could hear Rowena explaining patiently as
she led Lady Bradwell from the room. “You have the cases mixed.
You
are the tyrant and
I
am the tyrannized. I
do
wish you will strive to recall...”

“Wonderful woman, your cousin.” Lord Bradwell observed to
Margaret. “Keeps Mamma in line with barely a word at it. More than I could ever
do, I assure you. Game of backgammon?” Margaret mutely assented, and they were
finishing the third game when Rowena reappeared to suggest that perhaps they
too should retire early. Lord Bradwell said all that was awkward and cordial in
his good night, and retired to the library, where he was obviously much more at
home. The Misses Cherwood were able to make their way to Rowena’s rooms for a
comfortable coze.

“But still no sign of the plaguey, prodigal Mr. Bradwell,”
she mused as they climbed the stairs.