A Little Folly (8 page)

‘I don’t know – but I fancy Sophie may have set him thinking, perhaps, of his late wife, and that is all the reason he was struck with her,’ Louisa said. ‘And yet it occurs to me – Mr Tresilian
might
marry again: there is nothing to prevent it; he has an easy fortune, and though he has a peculiar provoking sort of temper, that might be no obstacle to a woman who could see past it.’

‘Tresilian and Sophie? It is an intriguing notion. – But no, I know Tresilian as well as anyone, and I am almost sure that romance is quite dead for him. And even if it were not, I cannot imagine Sophie consenting to the steady, plain sort of life that Tresilian could offer. – There is Kate besides. He cherishes her to such a degree that he would surely not bring a wife to The Ridings, and see Kate relegated to that second place in his duty and affection, which must necessarily be her lot. No, he would not do it.’

‘I confess I cannot picture him in the character of a lover: he would be too inclined to laugh at himself; and I suspect a woman generally requires a man who is in love with her to be made satisfyingly miserable by it. But, then, Kate might not be an impediment – Kate might marry also.’

Valentine did not answer this directly, only shaking his head and remarking: ‘I fear Tresilian shelters her too much: you can plainly see the difference between her and Sophie, in ease and manner. Lady Harriet, of course, I do not mention: it could hardly be expected that she should match
that
degree of elegance and self-command. It can only be admired, as an example, from a distance.’

There was no doubting, from Valentine’s look, and the urgent tone in which he pronounced these words, that the admiration he referred to was his own. It suggested more strongly than ever that any lingering attachment to Kate must take its lean chance in the new world opened to his mind by their cousins: even suggested, perhaps, that when he came to fix his heart, it would be on a woman possessing Lady Harriet’s qualities. That he should fix his heart on Lady Harriet herself was, of course, out of the question: their enterprise of living, bold though it was, surely did not run to impossibilities.

F
rom their first arrival, Sophie had remarked on the inviting views that opened up beyond the park. Certainly Pennacombe House was situated at the foot of some beautiful rolling country – though Sir Clement had always lamented his ancestors’ not building on high ground, presumably because from a hill one could always look
down
; but, as Louisa knew, the green richness of Devonshire was equally rich in mud for a good part of the year. The strengthening spring continuing dry, however, it was possible now to make an exploring-party without the addition of stilts.

A family picnic on the downs must be, Louisa supposed, a very mild amusement for someone of Lady Harriet’s experience: yet it was this that occasioned a notable lifting of her spirits. Valentine had just chosen a spot for the laying-out of their collation, and Tom had agreed that it was famous, the very thing, and could not be bettered, when Lady Harriet burst out: ‘No, no – not here.’ With a rueful smile she went on: ‘Forgive me, I know I have no right to dictate – but do look around: we are so beautifully free of the world – except
there
.’ She pointed to a fold of pasture, above which could just be seen a cottage roof. ‘Is it not a pity? If we were to descend a little further towards that covert, then I think it will be quite out of view – and we shall be free.’

‘I’m sure I have no objection,’ Sophie said. ‘But, my dear Harriet, we have walked a fair distance: will you not be tired?’

‘Tired? Not in the least. This is so magnificently refreshing – I feel new-made.’ There was indeed a brilliancy in Lady Harriet’s look, a glow in her complexion, that Louisa had not seen before: it was engaging; though she felt it was a little hard on the blameless cottage, which belonged to Mr Tomms the bee-keeper, supplier of excellent honey. ‘But you are too gentle, Sophie, to reproach me as I deserve. At Lyme, Miss Carnell, I was always the first to declare myself fagged: I wanted to walk, and then complained I was unable to walk. I was a great trial to your cousin’s patience. But you need not fear a revival of
that
vexing creature: she is gone. Mr Carnell, will you indulge me in going a little further?’

‘If indulgence were called for, Lady Harriet, I hope you might always depend upon it from me,’ Valentine said, smiling, ‘but as it happens, I think you have chosen best.’

He gave her his arm as they made the descent; and as the roof was blotted from sight, she cried: ‘There – it is complete. Now there is nothing but us, and the living earth – just as it should be.’

Her enthusiasm was infectious; though Louisa had to suppress a smile at a notion of wild nature that could be fulfilled in a Devonshire meadow, with the busy Dawlish road just beyond the ridge, and behind them the manservant bringing the laden picnic-basket.

‘“Under the greenwood tree, who something something me”, tum-te-tum the weather,’ Tom remarked. ‘Shocking memory for poetry.’

‘Now, let us sit down on the grass, with nothing to remind us of the world; and forget everything,’ Lady Harriet said, looking round at them all with rapturous urgency. ‘See if you can do it.’

‘Everything?’ cried Sophie. ‘I am afraid there will be nothing left of me.’

‘Oh, but there will – there will be the essence, and that is what we so sadly lose.’

Tom, once his coat-tails were properly arranged, looked as if sitting and thinking of nothing were comfortably within his range of accomplishments.

‘Are we not permitted to remember the good things of the world, Lady Harriet?’ Valentine asked, with a look at once smiling and serious. ‘The pleasant, the hopeful – the beautiful?’

‘Ah, no,’ said she, shaking her head, ‘they are the most delusive of all.’

Louisa, in trying to think of nothing, found she had never thought of so many things at once in her life; and was glad when Tom brought the experiment to an end by declaring that he was famished for pigeon-pie.

Among the countless thoughts that had crowded into her mind, that of Pearce Lynley was not the least prominent. Cold meat and hock effected its temporary banishment; but the unwelcome theme was taken up by Sophie who, drawing closer to her, began: ‘Louisa, do you mind if I ask? Indeed, I don’t know why I say that, because I always
do
ask. That very impressive gentleman Mr Lynley – is there something in the nature of an attachment? I could not help but observe, when he dined the other day, that he had eyes only for you during the whole evening.’

‘I dare say he did,’ Louisa said. ‘The eyes of a strict overseer for an apprentice, perhaps, or a cat for a mouse-hole.’

‘Dear me – revealingly expressed,’ laughed Sophie. ‘I was right then to call it something in the
nature
of an attachment. I confess I did not find him as agreeable as Mr Tresilian – though he is undoubtedly well-bred, and has a great deal of air and address, and is uncommonly handsome; and I take him as having a large fortune.’

‘Just so: you have now enumerated all Mr Lynley’s attractions; he could hardly have done it better himself, though I am sure he would be willing to try. I may as well say that Mr Lynley
considers
there is an attachment: it was a match much promoted by my father, whose feelings about the matter are the only ones Mr Lynley regards as important; and I am tolerably certain that he intends making me his wife, whenever his judgement deems it appropriate.’

‘Ah, so that’s how it is! And you intend refusing him, I collect.’

‘I would hope I have already given him sufficient hints of my feeling to make a proposal unlikely. But Mr Lynley is not a man to pick up hints: probably it is too much like stooping.’ With a little bubble of irritation, directed less at Sophie than herself, she added: ‘You are about to tell me, perhaps, that I ought to be flattered by the admiration of such a man, even if I cannot return his sentiments.’

‘I should hope not,’ Sophie said earnestly. ‘Undoubtedly I would be flattered, because that’s the kind of goose I am; but as you have told me, you have lived retired, and known little society – so I would be more concerned if you
were
quite overwhelmed by the first eligible man to approach you. There are many more Mr Lynleys in the world, believe me.’

‘That is what above all I should not wish to believe. – But come – you don’t mean that you have any inclination towards him?’

‘No, no: only that when a man favours me with his attentions, I cannot help liking it, even if I cannot like him. Utterly nonsensical of me, I know. And as for proposals, they are so very exciting – at least, the four I have had were so—’

‘Four?’ put in Tom, overhearing. ‘I thought it was three.’

‘There was one I didn’t tell you about, and now kindly return to your pie, sir. – No, there is something very beguiling about a proposal: just the proposal in itself, without its leading to anything. For to accept one, of course, is to exclude the possibility of any more.’

At this Lady Harriet slightly turned her head, and Louisa saw a look both wry and sorrowful cross her face, before she returned her attention to Valentine. He was talking of London – with a very creditable appearance of knowledge for someone who had scarcely been there in his life. Louisa did not take what Sophie had said with entire seriousness: her cousin was habitually light-hearted, which Louisa felt was a different thing from being light-minded; and though Sophie had spoken warmly again of Mr Tresilian, she remained convinced that nothing was to be apprehended in that quarter. – The real imperviousness of Mr Tresilian’s temperament, and the apparent disposition of Sophie to like liberally without feeling deeply, preserved her from any anxiety. But in one regard Louisa found herself unyieldingly serious. She might imitate Sophie’s method of dressing her hair, and even emulate her happy nonchalance towards those great questions of life that Sir Clement had always believed difficult beyond his children’s capacity; but no matter how hard she tried, the prospect of a proposal from Mr Lynley was not something Louisa could conjure as exciting or beguiling.

Still, her mind remained supple enough to wriggle away from the question until she was unavoidably confronted with it: which happened the very next day. She had stayed at home while Valentine and their guests took their morning walk, recognising that a consultation with the housekeeper was long overdue; and having looked over the accounts, ordered the meat and flour and candles, and shrugged off the spectre grumbling over her shoulder about their increased spending, she had seated herself with a book when Mr Lynley was announced.

‘I am glad of the opportunity to speak to you alone,’ he said, after his usual austere civilities; but what came next, though equally unwelcome, was widely different from what she had anticipated. ‘I am in possession of some intelligence about one of your guests, which, while unpleasant and even abhorrent, I feel I have a duty to communicate to you. The special position towards you and your family in which I have the honour to be placed, by the confidence of your late father, renders it absolutely necessary; not to speak of my own feelings, which are engaged in such a manner that I cannot stand silently by, where I may warn, advise and protect.’

He left a pause, which she presumed was to be filled with her acknowledgement and gratitude, but Louisa, as much surprised as displeased, gave him only the very limited satisfaction of saying: ‘Go on.’

‘I have nothing to say of your cousins: your choosing to acknowledge the relationship is, as I have previously remarked, a matter for you and Mr Carnell to balance between your own inclinations and the wishes of your father. But there is no tie of blood to plead the case of Lady Harriet; and there, I am afraid, you have erred greatly, though I think inadvertently, in receiving her as a guest at Pennacombe, where a scrupulous regard for propriety has always been the admirable rule. – I thought, on first hearing the name of Lady Harriet Eversholt, that I had heard it mentioned in some undesirable connection, but I could not be sure: so I took the trouble of writing a confidential friend in London, who has a broad knowledge of the affairs of the town, to see if he knew anything of her history. I am sorry to be the bearer of this news, Miss Carnell,’ Mr Lynley said, walking to the fireplace, and looking more triumphant than sorry, ‘but Lady Harriet is a woman whose situation is such that even her rank cannot rescue it from disrepute. I should be willing to spare you the details, if you would be content to believe that I have this on the strongest authority, and to accept my word that the acquaintance should not have been begun, and must now be discouraged as far as it lies in your and Mr Carnell’s power.’

‘I am sorry, Mr Lynley, but I cannot accept your word, or anyone’s, on such a matter. I would be most perturbed if someone were to decline
my
acquaintance, simply because someone else had told them they must do so. I must know the grounds on which you seek to make this prohibition; but I should add that Valentine and I know Lady Harriet’s circumstances pretty well.’

‘That I crave leave to doubt,’ he said, frowning down at her. ‘But since you compel me, I must ask whether you know why Lady Harriet travels alone, though her husband is living.’

‘Certainly: Lady Harriet is separated, though not formally, from her husband – Colonel Eversholt, an equerry in the royal household.’

Mr Lynley’s eyebrows rose. ‘He has been an equerry, though my understanding is his services are no longer required, such is his reputation. – But surely you have said enough, Miss Carnell, to corroborate me; and if you have not reflected seriously on this, as I can only conclude you have not, then I urge you to do so now. The separation is not, as you remark, made formal, which consigns Lady Harriet to a very dubious status – a married woman, yet one who goes about independently. But even a woman legally separated from her husband – even one nobly born – cannot be an entirely unobjectionable figure in society. There is a loss of that complete respectability, which a young person in your position cannot too strictly enjoin as a condition of your acquaintance.’

‘Mr Lynley, I hope I shall never begin setting conditions on my acquaintance – unless that they be pleasant and amusing. And if this is all you have to urge against Lady Harriet, then assuredly you have wasted your time. I am sorry for that, and I would be more sorry if you had undertaken these researches at my request, instead of by your own choice.’

‘You astonish me. I can only suppose your want of experience, and Mr Carnell’s likewise, has inclined you to this liberality of judgement; that it proceeds from an innocence of what is fitting, rather than a disregard of it. If such is the case, I must be sensible that further enlightenment may give you pain; but I cannot do justice to my conscience without telling you all. Miss Carnell, the circles in which Lady Harriet has been accustomed to move are those to which tolerance would accord the title fashionable, though I should rather call them rakish. Believe me, I have no pleasure in speaking of this; but how do you suppose Lady Harriet supports herself ?’

‘Oh, she is obliged to keep a faro-bank,’ Louisa said, with the easiest unconcern.

Mr Lynley stared; but he quickly recovered at least the appearance of composure and, shaking his head, said in a tone of superior forbearance: ‘Well, well, I perceive you have heard those words, but plainly have not attached any proper meaning to them. If you knew—’

‘I know very well what a faro-bank is, Mr Lynley,’ cried Louisa, all the more indignant because he had inadvertently touched on the truth. ‘And I dare say it is not what some people would consider respectable; but then we are country-bred, and may perhaps be narrow in our views about such things. My chief feeling is that it is a great pity Lady Harriet has to live in that way: it does not alter my opinion of her in any other direction. If
you
do not wish to continue in her acquaintance, then that is up to you: I do not consider myself in the least entitled to direct your choice – any more than you are entitled to direct mine.’

Her anger on Lady Harriet’s behalf, though real enough, was now diverted into a much stronger channel: against Pearce Lynley, against all the presuming arrogance with which he oppressed her, against all the harsh, cold certainty he represented – and even, perhaps, against that one overbearing influence, which until now she had only permitted herself to regret. – Finding herself on the verge of actual bitterness against her father shocked her: she was silent, where she had meant to go on. – Mr Lynley’s look of high mortification sufficiently revealed how unexpected, and ungratifying, had been her rebuff of what he doubtless considered his good offices: whether he read a more flattering remorse in her silence she could not tell – for at that moment Valentine entered the room.