A Country Wooing (17 page)

Alex realized this great compulsion to get back to Penholme was irrational, but like a wounded fox seeking its hole, he felt an instinctive desire to crawl home and lick his wounds, to staunch the flow of life-giving blood. He should stay in London, put the house up for sale, the furnishings at auction, start that breaking up of the family inheritance that must inevitably now occur.

It broke his heart to do it. He must at least consider it in peace and quiet awhile, to see if there was any possible way to avoid such a drastic, calamitous step, and Naismith had not rushed him at all. The clever thing to do, of course, would be to court Miss Anglin, but he had never been one to put cleverness above right.

He knew he must retrace his steps within a few days, and the journey was uncomfortable with his shoulder still not completely healed, but he felt an atavistic need to be home, to see that the children were well, the place not burned down around their ears. But most of all, he wanted to see Anne. How could he tell her? What possible words could he find to soften the blow?

Chapter Twelve

Penholme’s commission for Albion was no more than to bring him the most recent papers, and with Rosalie a willing ally in the plan, she parted with her own copies. Alex was in a deep study all the way home. He noticed neither the traffic, the pretty countryside, nor the jostling of the carriage. As they passed through Winchester, he realized they were getting close to home, and firmed up his plan to ingratiate himself with the Anglins, for Robin’s sake. This was done by stepping in to take a glass of wine with them.

As his tired eyes looked around the luxurious house, he felt none of Rosalie’s amusement at the appointments. Everything bright and new, and of the most expensive, if not always of the most refined taste.

Albion glanced at the papers brought and reached into his pocket to produce the payment. That would amuse Rosalie, too, but in his present mood, it impressed Penholme favorably. “I make it just two pence beneath a shilling. Don’t worry about the change,” he said.

“That’s quite all right—really, I—”

“Take it, or I won’t feel right asking you to bring us anything another time,” Albion insisted. This being the case, Alex insisted Albion take his two pence change.

“And now, how about a glass of wine to wet your whistle?” Albion asked. “Or an ale, if you prefer.”

“An ale would do the job,” Alex agreed.

“I’m not a lover of the grape myself. Truth to tell, I like the grapes well enough, but it seems a pity they must destroy them by turning them into wine. I see the ladies narrowing their eyes at that notion,” he laughed. “You gels go ahead—have wine, if you can stand the brackish taste of it.”

The ladies had wine and sat nervously watching, praying their father would not give their noble caller a disgust of him. That they might institute some polite talk themselves did not occur to the mother and occurred to the daughters only to be rejected. Their fears proved unfounded. Before Penholme left, he had invited the whole family to the Hall for a short visit. They were astonished at the invitation, but not at all reluctant, and agreed to go in two days.

“You’ve thrown my household into a pelter, Penholme,” Albion laughed. He considered the invitation no less than the prelude to an offer for one of his gels, but that Penholme scarcely glanced at Marilla made him think young Lord Robin was the best he might hope for. “The ladies will spend the night pawing through their wardrobes and their trinket boxes, deciding what gewgaws to wear.”

“If they come just as they are, they will do you credit, sir,” Alex said, smiling.

“I don’t stint on dressing them up. A heifer is always brushed to a sheen before a show, as folks say,” he declared with awful candor. Maggie gave an embarrassed smile.

A stray caller seldom got away from the Anglins’ without having food pressed on him. A nobleman who issued an invitation was urged to remain to dinner, and when this was refused, a meal very much like a dinner was served on their laps as they sat at the sofa.

Alex made one more stop before going home. Remembering Albion’s idea that Sawburne might be sold up to pay the arrears on Penholme’s mortgage, he called on his solicitor and told him to draw up papers handing it over to Lord Robin. He was to take them to Penholme for signing the next morning. He hoped the Anglins’ visit would result in an engagement between Maggie and Robin.

The visit caused Penholme’s carriage to pass Rosedale after dark. As he was not expected back so soon, no eye was focused on the road in anticipation of his passing. He was tempted to stop, but bringing bad news to trouble sleep seemed inconsiderate. He went directly home to jog the servants into work for the pending visit from the Anglins.

Robin’s first move after becoming an official landowner was to post over to Rosedale. Alex had not revealed the full extent of the situation in London, so the only news Robin brought was good news. Alex was home, and though he hadn’t mentioned coming to Rosedale, he would certainly do so. Anne thought so, too, and rather wondered that he hadn’t stopped the evening before.

“I didn’t realize you were to get Sawburne so soon, Robin,” Mrs. Wickfield said. “I thought it would be a year or so.”

“Alex says I have shaped up so quickly he has no fear to let me run it myself. He brought the solicitor home with him and we signed the papers this very morning. The Anglins are coming to stay with us for a few days—Alex has given the nod to my offering for Maggie.”

Lukewarm congratulations were offered.

“Mind, she hasn’t said she’ll have me, nor have I spoken to Albion. I don’t relish that part of it, I can tell you.”

“Is the whole family visiting, or just Miss Maggie?” Anne asked.

“The whole kit and caboodle. It’s as good as a proposal—or an acceptance.”

“Are you quite certain you want to offer for her?” Anne asked.

“Well, I think I do. I like her awfully, Annie, and was only waiting to hear what Alex and Rosie and everyone had to say about it, for it would be dashed uncomfortable having a bride no one would speak to. Alex thinks it’s a capital idea, and, of course, Rosalie will be in alt. I daresay that’s why Alex gave me Sawburne, so I’d have a roost to take my chick to.”

And a rich father-in-law to pay off the mortgage, Anne silently added. That was Miss Maggie’s great charm. But if Alex could afford to go through with giving Robin Sawburne, she might at least rest easy that the news in London had not been too horrid. She felt she would be receiving a visit herself soon and changed into her good blue mulled muslin to receive it. She put on her blue slippers with a wad of cotton to cushion the tacks, but no caller came.

By four in the afternoon, tempers at Rosedale were wearing thin. “That is odd,” Mrs. Wickfield said. “I made sure we would hear from Alex by now. It’s a pity I told Cook to prepare the green goose. I wouldn’t have done it just for us.”

Anne’s hackles were lifting at such cavalier treatment. “He might at least have brought the brochure on the Carlton House table,” she snipped.

Her mother stared at such foolishness but felt along with her daughter that Alex was developing a very odd kick in his gallop. A delay in the rendering of bad news she could understand, but the news in London was obviously good, so why didn’t he come? The green goose was served and eaten. Twilight came and slowly receded into darkness.

By eight, Mrs. Wickfield’s annoyance had escalated to a vague, unfocused anxiety. “Maybe one of the children is sick,” she mentioned.

Anne’s tone became more waspish as the evening progressed. “Robin would have told us. More likely Alex is riding herd on the servants, preparing the house for Anglin’s visit,” she said, sneering.

Mrs. Wickfield was unaccustomed to irony from her daughter and unwisely said, “Very likely that’s it.”

“I hope he doesn’t have the gall to bring them here tomorrow,” Anne said, and punched a pillow out of shape on the sofa beside her.

“My dear, he will bring them for a certainty. I’m glad you mentioned it. I must tell Cook to bake up some sweets. We must greet Robin’s fiancée with respect. I hope he doesn’t bring them for lunch. A tea we can manage with no trouble.”

Anne hadn’t a thing to say against Robin’s fiancée, except that she was sister to Miss Anglin, preferred by Alex. She knew she could not treat the girl with friendliness, whatever about respect.

At Penholme, both the brothers and all the rest of the family were indeed in a bustle of activity to impress Robin’s intended. There was much moving of furnishings and changing of linen and polishing of silver to remove the traces of decay. The Anglins arrived in state the next morning with four horses and two outriders. They came late in the morning, just before lunch, and after they had eaten, Robin undertook to amuse the ladies with a drive, while Albion entertained himself with an unguided tour of the house, where he busily reckoned up the worth of what he beheld. No pencil or paper was necessary for this procedure. His mind was like an abacus, keeping each figure in its proper column as he swiftly tallied up the value of paintings and furnishings and kept track of square footage of the Hall as he went along. He shook his head in wonder at a set of black rags hanging in a blue suite. Some family legend, very likely. If he heard a scream in the night or beheld a headless ghost parading the halls, he would know where it came from.

Left to his own devices, Penholme decided to test his wounded shoulder on his bay marc. His real aim was to be by himself for some more solitary thinking, but as all his troubles were being concealed from both guests and family till the visit was over, he claimed it was only a ride for pleasure and exercise.

Robin delivered the Anglin ladies to Rosedale, the first—the only—place that occurred to him, and sat down with all his usual familiarity to request a cup of tea. Mrs. Wickfield tried valiantly to conceal her daughter’s coolness by an excess of friendly solicitude for her guests’ preference for milk or lemon in their tea. She offered the macaroons and short cakes so often that even Maggie, a good eater, was replete.

Anne was unhappy that Mrs. Anglin didn’t saucer her tea or drop a single aitch that could be condemned. The sisters, especially Miss Anglin, behaved with such propriety that not a single charge of vulgarity could be raised against them. The worst to be said, and it was mere caviling, was that Miss Maggie had freckles—even they were confined to the bridge of her pretty little nose.

With a vast show of indifference, Anne finally brought herself to inquire of Robin, “Where are your brothers today?”

“Willie and Bung have gone trout fishing,” he replied.

“She means Alex,” Mrs. Wickfield explained bluntly.

“Alex has decided it is time to try his mount.”

“He hasn’t gone out on horseback with that arm!” Anne exclaimed.

“Yes, but his bay’s a tame mount, and he promised to take it easy.”

“You shouldn’t have let him go!”

“Truth to tell, I thought he was only hacking down here,” Robin said. “I was sure we’d find him with you. Has he not been to see you since he got back?”

“No, we haven’t seen Penholme for a few days,” Anne said coldly.

Robin noted the demeaning “Penholme” and wondered what could be the cause of it. Alex had been acting odd ever since his return. Obviously he and Annie had had a falling-out over something or other.

“If he ain’t here, he’s bound to be at the stream,” he told her. “That’s where he always goes when he wants to be alone.”

“Fishing with the twins, you mean?”

“No, not the lake, the stream—the little creek that runs by the spinney. He always goes there to sulk, and he’s been in a bad skin lately. I wish you would go and cheer him up.”

“If he wants to be alone, then I shan’t disturb him,” Anne replied blandly, but it took all her fortitude to sit sipping tea after hearing this. She felt in her bones something was wrong. Something had happened in London.

Robin sensed her mood and soon ushered the guests out the door. Mrs. Wickfield turned a sapient eye on her daughter. “You’d better change into your habit. You don’t want to get your second-best dress covered with horse hair and the stench of the stable.”

Anne’s chin assumed a mulish angle. “I am not riding today, Mama.”

“Go on, ninnyhammer! Something happened in London. You’d best get busy and discover what it is.”

“What has obviously happened is that Rosalie has convinced him to marry Miss Anglin. Why else are they visiting Penholme? Why else is he ashamed to come to see me?”

“The Anglins are there because Robin is marrying Maggie. I begin to wonder what has happened to your common sense, Annie. Now, get along with you, and don’t come home without discovering what’s ailing Alex, you hear!”

“I’m not going to chase after him.”

“He might be lying on the cold ground with his wound bleeding for all you know. Go on, before I have to go myself.”

With the pretext of an errand of mercy, Anne went so fast she left her good blue muslin lying in a heap on the floor and forgot to change her shoes.

When she found Penholme neither wounded nor bleeding but sitting calmly on a rock, staring into the stream, she felt foolish at having come pelting after him, the more so when he showed no pleasure at the interruption. In fact, he scowled quite openly, which threw her into a fit of indecision. Having come this far, she could hardly turn and leave without at least saying hello. She swallowed her pride and tried to make it look like a casual encounter.

“Oh, hello, Alex. I was just exercising Lady.”

“How did you know I was here?” he asked, undeceived.

This cool question prevented her from dismounting. She remained aloft and stared down at him. “What makes you think I was looking for you? The day is so fine, I just came out for fresh air.”

“I stand corrected. As you’ve accidentally stumbled onto me, why don’t you stay awhile?”

Her impulse was to gallop away, but a closer inspection of his weary face softened her pique. There was clearly something very wrong. He offered a hand to help her dismount, but mindful of his shoulder, she clambered down by herself, wondering if a recrudescence of his old wound had him hipped.