A Little Folly (15 page)

‘I am not sure. If you mean to marry for money, then I suppose it is sensible – but altogether cold and mercenary; and I cannot quite believe you serious.’

‘Why, it is only doing what everyone does, more or less. Oh, if there is love also, then so much the better – I presume, anyhow: for all my reputation, I have never known what the poets call the pleasing passion, unless you count that piece of youthful folly I have tired you with. But love in a cottage is, I am reliably informed, not a prescription for happiness.’

Louisa was at a loss how to judge this. Everything in her, of both reason and sentiment, had taken his part entirely, in hearing his narration: everything in it accorded so well with what she knew of Pearce Lynley that she could only wonder she had not guessed at such a truth before, behind Mr Lynley’s veiled disdain and dark hints about his brother’s character. She could only conclude that this last declaration of his, and the half-playful, half-scornful look with which he had said it, was the result of more disappointed hopes, and a more embittering experience than he would allow.

Supper being over, she was detached from Lieutenant Lynley – though she would gladly have had more of his company – by Sophie, who besought her aid with Tom. He had lately affected an eyeglass; but had the greatest difficulty in fixing it, and keeping it in; and had been tussling with it throughout the evening, to such painful effect on his face that it looked as if someone had attacked him with it. Louisa was to join her entreaties to Sophie’s, that he abandon the innovation, even though he had heard it was quite the latest and smartest thing. They were successful at last, though not without some difficulty; and Louisa would have enlisted Valentine’s aid, if he had been anywhere to be seen.

‘Why, I think he took himself off,’ Tom said, regretfully consigning the eyeglass to his pocket. ‘Meeting The Top at the club, perhaps. They are a good deal together, those two: which is no surprise – sterling fellows, both. Hardly know which I love best.’

The discourtesy of his leaving their aunt’s party, and the thought of Valentine choosing to spend his time instead with so vacuous a companion as The Top, were equally disturbing to Louisa: – but she would not allow herself a conscious reproof. Lieutenant Lynley’s story had sharpened her distaste for sitting in moral judgement. She was reminded of an earlier promise to herself – to take notice of Georgiana’s governess, Miss Bowen, who had been confined to her pupil’s side the whole time. Seating herself by them, she took care to address her remarks to Miss Bowen as she would to any other guest – not with total success: Miss Bowen, pale, plainly dressed, reserved, seemed bent on maintaining her subservient place. But she had surprisingly large grey-green eyes, which when she lifted them revealed a strong spark of intelligence, and even force; and Georgiana manifested a notably decreased tendency to pout, sneer and toss her head, which suggested that Mr Lynley had perhaps chosen well. A chance remark about reading revived something that had been niggling at Louisa ever since she had spoken with Miss Astbury; and she found herself abruptly asking: ‘Miss Bowen, what do
you
think of Lord Byron? Do you think the genius of his works in any way vitiated by – well, what is rumoured of his private character?’

‘No: I think that is a great nonsense,’ Miss Bowen said promptly.

‘I am glad to hear you say so. There is such humbug talked – and surely no true critic would sit down to assess the worth of a poem or a book on such grounds.’

‘I agree. The true critic, indeed, would do better to put aside the adulation that the undoubted novelty and energy of Lord Byron’s poetry excites, and address instead its very real weaknesses.’

‘Weaknesses? I do not understand you.’

Miss Bowen smiled a little. ‘I do not deny that he has genius, and it may in time achieve a fuller expression. But there is a want of unity and design in his works, which one would hope to see corrected; and sometimes taste is sacrificed to a desire for cheap effect. In this last he might profitably learn from the graver, purer style of Mr Wordsworth, the poet of the Lakes.’

‘I have read a little of his work,’ said Louisa, by which she meant she had not read any. ‘Is he not accounted rather dull?’

‘He can be: that is his weakness. I am not setting one up against the other. That would be as superficial as judging an author by his private life.’

‘Yes: certainly it would,’ said Louisa, who was beginning to find Miss Bowen rather formidable, and certainly not in need of any such reinforcement of self-esteem as she had hoped to communicate.

‘You need not agree, you know. These are simply the opinions of Mary Bowen: they are there to be challenged.’

Louisa was about to agree to this – but saw that that would not do; and very soon made an escape, on the pretext that she was wanted by her aunt. It was an unlucky choice: – Mr Lynley was with her; and Mrs Spedding surrendered his company at once, cheerfully remarking that, as such old acquaintance, they must have a great deal to say to one another.

This appeared, at first, so very far from the case that they sat in silence for a time that would have been for Louisa unendurable, if the prospect of speaking to him had not been equally vexatious. Her opinion of him tonight had been set upon a see-saw: the idea that he might really have loved her, and that he might seek to assuage his wound by a hasty declaration in another direction, could not fail to move her in some degree; but her conversation with his brother had reminded her of the character of this man over whom she had such apparent power, in all its cold officiousness. It was this aspect of Mr Lynley that came to the fore when at last he spoke.

‘I could not help but observe, Miss Carnell, that you sought to engage Mary Bowen in conversation. I have no doubt that this was kindly meant; but you need not give yourself the trouble. It is very well understood that she appears here as nothing more than companion and preceptor to Georgiana’s youth: it would be a very unhappy derangement of propriety if she were to be addressed in any other way – unhappy on all sides; for no one knows better than Miss Bowen herself what is appropriate to her position, and it cannot be to her comfort to have these matters set at variance.’

‘As to that, Mr Lynley, I can make no more courteous reply than that I talk to whom I choose. If I made Miss Bowen uncomfortable, I am not aware of it.’

‘It would not be her place to betray it. It was her strong sense of these distinctions, alongside her other qualifications, that led me to engage her as governess. Her father was secretary and librarian to the scion of one of our noble houses; and thus, though of modest birth herself, her upbringing has naturally produced in her a consciousness and comprehension of due degree that cannot be too highly commended.’

‘Then I myself lack this comprehension: very well, Mr Lynley – leave me to the consequences of it. I am sure you cannot fail to recollect the substance of our last conversation at Pennacombe, in which you forswore these attempts to oversee my conduct.’

‘I recall it,’ he said, his eyes very pale, ‘and it has been, and remains, my settled resolution never to allude to that conversation again. I would be grateful for the acknowledgement, Miss Carnell, that the reference came from you.’

‘Certainly, whatever you wish: only if we are to meet at all on tolerably civil terms, you must stop observing me in this way. I have seen too much of the urge to direct and control for me to like it, even when it is represented as responsibility.’

His chin went up. ‘You have, of course, been having a long conversation with my brother.’

‘Yes: I do not suppose
that
escaped your observation either. But you need not fear, he has not told me any tale of woes or wrongs, or spoken of you with anything but respect. I now understand the shadow attaching to Lieutenant Lynley’s name; the circumstances surrounding his departure from Mrs Poulter’s house: nothing pleasant: but nothing so very dreadful either.’

‘Not in consequences – for luckily the scheme was discovered. But there is much to reprehend in the betrayal of my grandmother’s trust, the heedless unconcern for her repose of mind—’

‘Which he is very sensible of, Mr Lynley.’

‘I see. You are a swift convert to his cause: so I shall not even ask the question, whether you found much that was improving in my brother’s conversation.’

‘He has contracted, I think, an unhappily cynical turn of mind – but that I conceive a result of the influences operating on him. If a man is to be always mistrusted, it is not wonderful that he falls out of the habit of believing in anything himself.’

‘I think trust must be earned.’

‘And I greatly wonder what your brother would have to do finally to earn it,’ Louisa cried. ‘Really, Mr Lynley, I could like you a good deal better if
you
had ever committed an impetuous folly.’

‘I consider that I have,’ he said, with a full look that seemed to blister her; and, with only the shortest of bows, walked away from her.

Louisa was not sorry, after all, for the musical party to end; and even envied Valentine his masculine privilege of going on somewhere, when she was afraid that sleep would not be soon summoned. She occupied herself by taking up her volume of Byron, and reading it again with an eye for unity and design; but she was not convinced – and was preparing some smart replies for Mary Bowen, when at last she heard Valentine come in. She saw with a start that it was past three in the morning: he had never been so late before. His footsteps sounded in the passage, and then paused outside her door, as if he had seen the candlelight, and was about to tap and come in. But this was less and less his habit; and after a further pause, in which she could not be sure whether she detected a sigh, he moved on to his own room, shutting the door softly.

‘I
t was very obliging of them,’ said Mr Tresilian, referring to the arches, banners and garlands with which the principal streets of London were now decorated, ‘but they need not have made such a fuss about our coming. Just a trumpet or two would have sufficed.’

‘Oh, my dear sir, you are very welcome indeed,’ said Mrs Spedding, ‘but I think those preparations are in honour of the visit of the Allied Sovereigns, who began landing at Dover yesterday – oh, but you are funning. You looked so grave I mistook you! Well, you have certainly come at the most remarkable time. There will be the Tsar of Russia and the King of Prussia – Tom, have I got those the right way round? – and Prince Metternich and any amount of generals. It will be a gala – quite a gala. And to think at this time of year there is usually not a soul to be seen in town!’

Mr Tresilian, Kate and Miss Rose had called at Hill Street as soon as they were settled at the Golden Cross Hotel – a venue that Valentine allowed as acceptable, though not as elegant as Stephen’s; but both he and Tom were amazed as to how they had secured rooms there. ‘For everywhere was full – shockingly full. Only by a word in the right ear, only by a useful connection could one get a decent berth anywhere.’ Mr Tresilian deferred to their superior knowledge, but resolved the mystery quite simply by saying that he had asked the landlord if there were rooms, and given him a half-sovereign as he did so, and that had seemed to settle the business.

‘But, my dear Tresilian, how long do you intend to stay?’ Valentine pursued. ‘The comforts of an inn-lodging, even the best, are limited; and I have been asking around for a decent house, and there is nothing – simply nothing.’

‘We shall stay as long as there are interesting things to see,’ Mr Tresilian said. ‘As for lodgings, my banker writes me that he can secure us some pleasant rooms for Monday, hard by Lombard Street.’

Valentine winced a little at the naming of an address so very City, and so little fashionable; but on the whole he was unreservedly delighted to see his friend, and was thoroughly cordial to Kate and Miss Rose: and while the visitors were occupied with Mrs Spedding, he murmured to Louisa: ‘I am glad he has a new coat. He would have appeared excessively countrified in that old blue thing without a waist; and you see how well he looks when he takes a few pains.’

Louisa said nothing: she had never thought Mr Tresilian looked ill in his old coat; and she could only suppress a sigh that Kate’s new gown and spencer, fresh complexion, and bright shy glances, went quite unremarked.

As for Sophie, she was extremely attentive to Mr Tresilian, asking with great minuteness after his neighbourhood, his household and his ships. In his replies he was agreeable – but composed; as if, Louisa thought, he were setting out to measure and test his own fascination. He cordially accepted Mrs Spedding’s invitation to dine with them later; but once there, it was the Carnells to whom he devoted his chief attention. Naturally enough, perhaps: they were the oldest of friends, and he had many things to tell of their Devonshire neighbourhood: items of news, and the kind regards and compliments of their neighbours. To all of this Valentine listened with a very limited patience; and when Mr Tresilian added that he had ridden over to Pennacombe House most days, to see that all was in order there, Valentine snapped with a little laugh of irritation that there was not the slightest need for him to be fussing with that, as the steward knew his business very well. – After this Mr Tresilian was less inclined to talk to his friend, and more to observe him quietly. Louisa, who could not bear to have Valentine thought ill of, and least of all by Mr Tresilian, at last intervened on his behalf, saying at dinner, with attempted lightness: ‘You must think, Mr Tresilian, we have become thoroughly townish. But the fact is, there is always such a great din of talk here that one becomes somehow deaf to country news, much as one likes to hear it. You will soon find it so yourself.’

‘I do not think I shall find anything of the kind,’ he said, ‘but I congratulate you. That piece of tact was ingeniously worked out.’

‘I’m sure Valentine did not mean to offend—’

‘He did not: and even if he did, he can always rely on you to avert it. So, have you seen Pearce Lynley in town?’

‘Yes, we have met the whole family. Well – I find London is a smaller world than I had imagined, and there is really no escaping the acquaintance,’ Louisa said: conscious that, for various reasons too ill-defined to be examined, she did not wholly wish to.

Mr Tresilian nodded. ‘Yes: we had better leave a card,’ he said, with an expression of fathomless gloom. ‘What I would really like to do some day is leave a blank card – perfectly blank – on every hall table.’

‘What would be the purpose of that?’

‘Benevolence. It would furnish everyone with the opportunity for intriguing speculation: it would promote sociability, as they would be asking their friends if they had got one too: and children could draw on them. I always longed to draw on calling-cards when I was a boy, but it was never allowed. How does Lady Harriet?’ he added, with a sharp look.

‘Tolerably well, I think: we have seen little of her,’ Louisa said carefully.

‘I wondered if she were reconciled with her husband. Oh, yes, I know her history: Valentine told me when we were at Pennacombe. He was always harping on that string.’

‘I do not think a reconciliation likely. Colonel Eversholt continues very violent, they say. But Sophie, you know, is her great friend, and she could tell you more of that, Mr Tresilian.’

‘Oh! it doesn’t signify,’ he said quickly, as if a little breeze had blown through him. ‘Lady Harriet is doubtless much occupied with her faro-bank; and that is not one of the sights we are bent on taking in. Oh, yes, we mean to be thorough country visitors, you know, and to go steadily about, gaping at everything from the lions in the Tower to the dear fat Prince himself, and grumbling about the prices. I told Valentine so: naturally his delight is not to be expressed.’ Mr Tresilian’s face was impassive: probably only someone who knew him as well as Louisa did would have seen the devilish spark in his eye. ‘Well, Kate is all excitement – and I hope that the change and novelty, at least, will do her good. She has been a little low. And though we had the greatest difficulty in persuading Miss Rose to accompany us, rather than stay at home and live on boiled nettles, I want her to drink the full measure of the experience, now we are here.’

‘I doubt she will thank you for it,’ Louisa said, glancing across at Miss Rose, who had been placed next to her old nemesis, Tom, and who was resisting his gallant delight in her company with every self-hating weapon in her armoury. ‘Or, rather, she will thank you in such terms as will make you feel more uncomfortable than if you had done her an injury.’

‘Oh, yes, that is certain,’ said Mr Tresilian, easily. ‘But I cling to the hope that somewhere, underneath it all, she may at last enjoy herself. I could cheerfully knock her on the head, sometimes: but still, allowances and all that. I remember my father telling me she was a great beauty in her day. You needn’t stare: you people who have beauty can never quite conceive it in others.
I
was a beauty in my day, and a baronet once called me an enchanting faun – but there were objections to the match, and my bloom quickly faded.’

Diverted as she was, she had a moment to register the strangeness of Mr Tresilian’s referring to
her
as a beauty; but his talk was so steeped in the ironical that it surely meant nothing.

Louisa and her cousins were much with the Tresilians over the following days, for all were eager to witness the spectacle of the foreign princes, and they made up a regular party to view the processions and parades. Valentine accompanied them sometimes; but he yawned even at the sight of the Tsar driving in the Prince Regent’s chariot to the Carlton House banquet, agreeing with ready cheerfulness, when Mr Tresilian accused him of having no sense of history.

‘I must ask Valentine to take me on one of his town jaunts,’ Mr Tresilian remarked to Louisa, thoughtfully. ‘There must be a powerful attraction in them: they cannot all be dressing up, jawing, and lounging. Mr Spedding, perhaps you will secure my admittance.’

‘Certainly, my dear sir, nothing easier: would like nothing better. But I must caution you, Valentine goes the pace – Lord, he goes it! Frankly, I flag, and want my slippers by midnight. But he will always go on somewhere.’

‘I wonder where,’ Mr Tresilian said mildly; and Louisa found herself avoiding his eye. His words –
a powerful attraction
– had stirred in her an uneasiness she did not wish to acknowledge.

There came the morning when the Tresilians were engaged, in moving to their new lodgings, and Tom with an unbreakable appointment at his tailor’s; so it was Valentine who accompanied Louisa and Sophie to see the Allied Sovereigns riding in Kensington Gardens. The crowd along the avenue to the Serpentine was greater than any they had yet seen – greater, noisier and, under the hot midsummer sun, more feverish. As well as the Tsar and the Prussian King, General Blücher was part of the mounted procession, and he was the next best thing to Wellington himself: there was a yell and a surge to get near him; and suddenly being part of the crowd was not exhilarating, but disturbing. Louisa felt herself carried along in the press, with her toes just drumming on the ground: she kept her arm firmly looped in Sophie’s, but Valentine was borne away from them by a cross-current in the throng, and his head bobbed out of sight. There were screams, and even the horses of the bodyguard began to rear and plunge: Louisa saw a woman stumble and fall: the sensation of stifling powerlessness was dreadful. Dragging Sophie with her, she managed to fight her way to a break in the crowd near the trees, and burst free; and at that moment a tall, broad-chested gentleman in a military coat appeared before them.

‘Miss Spedding,’ he said, his glance just grazing over Louisa. ‘Are you hurt? Your companion?’

‘No – no, I thank you, Colonel Eversholt,’ Sophie said, recovering after her first start. ‘Only a little draggled. A shocking squeeze, is it not?’

‘Shocking, dangerous and ill-planned. There is a great deal of rabble here beside the better sort. – Here they come again. Pray get behind me, or you will be swept up.’

The wild surging of people was so powerful and unpredictable, however, that at last Louisa and Sophie had to shrink against the trunk of a tree, whilst Colonel Eversholt stood with his arms braced back to protect them. The situation was too novel and alarming for Louisa to take much note of the introduction to a man of whom she had heard so much; but as the press of people began to disperse, she found a moment to take his measure. There was nothing in his impressive figure to suggest a man of five-and-forty; his large, strong-boned face was handsome too – but an uneasy face, furrowed and bleak, with a complexion that spoke of wine and long nights.

‘You will pardon the proximity,’ he said, as he stepped away. ‘A necessary measure. You are unaccompanied?’

‘No, no – my cousin is with us, but we became separated,’ Sophie said. ‘I hope he is not hurt. – Oh, wait, I see him – good heavens, he was carried almost to the gates. Thank you again, Colonel, for your assistance.’

Colonel Eversholt’s unrestful gaze turned to Louisa. ‘I do not have the honour.’

‘Gracious, of course – this is Miss Carnell,’ said Sophie, who appeared uncharacteristically nervous in his presence. ‘My cousin – my very dear cousin – from Devonshire. Louisa, my dear, Colonel Eversholt. Who is the husband of Lady Harriet – whom of course you know.’

‘Carnell?’ The colonel repeated the name with a certain bright, hard interest: then bowed. ‘Your servant, Miss Carnell. So, you are acquainted with my wife? The acquaintance was formed, perhaps, in Devonshire?’ He had a peculiarly gentle, painstaking, almost tender way of speaking, suggestive of a man picking his way across hot coals. ‘I am aware she spent the spring in the country.’

‘Yes: Lady Harriet was our guest for a short time,’ said Louisa, aware, with the acutest discomfort, that Valentine was making his way towards them.

‘Then accept
my
thanks for your hospitality. I must do this, as it were, at one remove, but still I hope I know how to value polite attentions to my wife. I know, of course, she is returned to town, and have seen her; but such is my peculiar position, Miss Spedding, that I must ask you, her particular friend, how she does.’

‘Oh, as to that, I saw her – it would be on Tuesday, or perhaps Wednesday, in Bond Street – at any rate, yes, I think she is well, Colonel Eversholt, quite well.’

‘You think? Miss Spedding, I had expected more: I am only the deserted husband, but you are the favoured friend, who must be admitted to a far greater knowledge of her affairs than I.’ He smiled a dull, seething smile. ‘I press you unfairly, perhaps. For all I know, you too may be excluded from her intimacy: I hope not, for your sake. It is a very unpleasant thing, when it happens. One is made to feel quite the villain of the piece.’ He turned as Valentine called out to them. ‘You spoke of a cousin?’

‘Yes – Mr Valentine Carnell of Pennacombe,’ Sophie said. ‘Louisa’s brother, you know.’

‘Ah, brother,’ said Colonel Eversholt, softly. – Valentine was now before them, apologising for losing them, anxious for their safety, but his flow of words stopped as Sophie introduced their rescuer.

‘
You
are Colonel Eversholt,’ Valentine said, turning pale to his lips.

‘I am, sir.’ The colonel surveyed, or inspected, Valentine, with one cool sweep of his pale eyes. ‘You speak as if it were a matter of surprise to you. Yet I do not think we have ever had anything to do with one another – have we?’

‘No,’ Valentine said, recovering himself a little. ‘But I have the honour of her ladyship’s acquaintance.’

‘Oh, I know
that
,’ Colonel Eversholt said dismissively, turning away from him. ‘Miss Spedding, Miss Carnell – I shall not be needed now, though I would advise you to go home as soon as you may. The crowd may gather again. If you
should
see my wife, Miss Spedding, pray give her my compliments.’ To Valentine he tendered a short bow. ‘I am glad I was able to be of some assistance, even though it was not my place to do so. You should take care of your own, Mr Carnell, and not go a-wandering: that is my advice to you.’