Beth Andrews (21 page)

‘There is only one way to be sure,’ Sir Jasper suggested.

‘I shall get the landau ready,’ Julian said. ‘Shall we all go?’

The moving piece of prose which set so many people rushing for their conveyances was received at the abbey with equal surprise, though it did not produce a demand for horses nor a general exodus.

It was Mr Woodford who made the discovery as he sat with Cassandra and Rosalind at breakfast. The two women were talking — as women are wont to do — about the wedding. They paid little heed to the
Gazette
until the gentleman drew their attention to it.

‘I think you should see this, Rosalind,’ he remarked, frowning.

‘What is it, Uncle?’

‘Utter nonsense, I should say.’ Mr Woodford proceeded to deliver a brief lecture on the sad decline in modern journalism. ‘Such a smattering of half-truths and downright lies, couched in the most execrable language! How one misses Dr Johnson.’

While he was absorbed in his own effusiveness, Rosalind had time actually to read the offending notice. She blinked. She grew hot, then cold. She shook her head in bewilderment, then read the words once more. After reading it for the third time, she was convinced that it was not, after all, an illusion.

‘How can this be?’ she wondered aloud. ‘Who could have … How could they have made such a mistake?’

‘They must issue an apology,’ Mr Woodford said. ‘I will write them a letter this very day.’

‘What is it? What is wrong?’ Cassandra asked, quite put out by this mysterious message which had so upset everyone.

‘I still cannot believe it.’

‘But what does it
say?’

‘It says….’

‘Someone is coming.’ Cassandra tilted her head to one side, listening.

Rosalind had heard the noise too. It was a quiet morning, and visitors were still few at the abbey, so the sound of an approaching carriage was enough to halt Rosalind in the middle of her explanation. Her voice trailed off. Julian usually arrived on horseback, unless he brought Mrs Plummer or his uncle with him. She had scarcely enough time to consider this conjecture when voices in the hall indicated that those very same persons had indeed arrived.

‘Miss Powell!’ Cousin Priscilla exclaimed, bustling forward. ‘Such happy news! Why did you not tell us? So creditive as you have been ... I cannot secret it.’

Trying to disentangle the ravelled skein of her words, Rosalind soon realized that she spoke of the announcement she had just read. Oh dear! Did everyone know of it? Seeing the smiles and the look of expectancy on the faces of the two gentlemen behind her, however, she needed no further affirmation that they, at least, were conversant with the situation.

‘I assure you that I knew nothing of this, ma’am,’ Rosalind said vehemently. ‘I cannot imagine who could have perpetrated such a dreadful hoax.’

Once more her explanations were interrupted by the sound of an approaching carriage. In this instance, it seemed to be driven by a regular Jehu, for the clatter of hooves was pronounced and the gravel being churned up might have been the result of a whirlwind.

‘Who can that be?’ Cassandra exclaimed. Nobody else was likely to be paying a call at the abbey. Indeed, they had no other acquaintance in the country to visit them.

‘Someone in a great hurry, it seems.’

Sir Jasper, who made this comment, exchanged a speaking glance with Julian which made Rosalind eye them both with suspicion. Something they knew which she did not. What kind of game was Julian’s uncle playing now?

They were all still as statues, anticipating the entrance of the next player in their little comedy. Nor did they have long to wait. It was mere seconds later when a loud pounding assaulted their ears. Someone was seeking admittance, and would obviously not be denied. Debenham must have opened the front door pretty quickly, for they soon heard a loud stomping advancing towards them at a rapid pace, and Debenham’s voice calling out to the stomper, asking him whither he was going and whether he thought this house was his own residence.

‘I do not need you to announce me!’ the person he addressed called back to him, his voice loud and strong. ‘Go about your business, my man.’

Hearing that voice, Rosalind wondered at the contrariness of her own heart. Even as it rose into her throat, it quailed at the thought of the coming confrontation. If only she could run away! If only she might disappear behind the green satin curtains at the narrow gothic windows, like a spectre flitting through the walls. Instead, she stood with her feet planted firmly: about to face both her greatest joy and greatest fear.

Standing in the doorway, a crumpled issue of the
Gazette
in his clenched left hand, was Richard St George. He was plainly livid, and magnificent (at least to one person there) in his wrath. He greeted no one, and the assembled company was suspended in anticipation and failed to remark upon it — or to offer their own greetings.

‘Are you responsible for this, ma’am?’ His gaze was fastened upon Rosalind as he held out the offending document. ‘Is this your doing?’

With the exception of Cassandra, who was truly ‘in the dark’, all eyes now focused upon Rosalind. She did not notice them, however, and was therefore spared any self-consciousness which she might have felt. It is wonderful how efficacious total rage can be in times of distress.

‘I?’ She flung the word at him like a gauntlet. Battle was now fairly joined. ‘What reason could I possibly have to play such a foolish trick?’

‘What, in heaven’s name, is happening? What are you all talking about?’ Cassandra wailed, almost beside herself with frustrated curiosity.

‘You might, perhaps, have thought to trap me into marriage,’ St George replied, ignoring her plea. The fire in his eyes died down to a dim glow and he seemed more hesitant.

‘Marry you?’ Rosalind actually took a step forward, her fury building to a crescendo worthy of Signor Rossini at his loudest. ‘I would scorn to ally myself to the likes of you, sir! The very thought is disgusting to me.’

The gentleman thus addressed caught his lips between his teeth. Whatever he might have said to this would never be known, for at that moment they were interrupted by the arrival of the final member of their cast. For the third time that morning, the sound of carriage wheels was heard upon the front drive.

‘Who is it now?’ Cassandra demanded of nobody in particular.

‘A person of great interest, I’ll wager,’ Sir Jasper answered her, while Julian went to her side and began to whisper in her ear.

Whoever it might be, Rosalind no longer cared very much. Her emotions were in such turmoil that, whether it were the Archbishop of Canterbury or Satan himself, she would have met either of them with equal temerity. In fact, it was neither of these august personages. The latest addition to their happy band, who entered the room but a minute or two later, was a woman: one somewhat advanced in years but very well preserved. She was clearly a person of quality, and one whom Rosalind had never seen before in her life. A panting Debenham stood behind her. It seemed he was fated to be denied the opportunity of announcing anyone today. In the end, it was quite unnecessary, for St George revealed her identity with one simple word:

‘Mama!’

* * * *

‘Lady Bettisham!’ Mrs Plummer exclaimed, displaying her usual cheerful smile. ‘How good it is to see you again. It has been a long time.’

Lady Bettisham looked the lady up and down, taking in her usual piebald appearance, and not even the most generous onlooker could describe her appraisal as in the least encouraging.

‘I cannot recall having ever met you before, madam,’ she answered with icy disdain.

‘No.’ Mrs Plummer stepped back a pace. ‘Now that I think on it, you never could.’

‘That was not well done, indeed, Mother.’ St George was clearly not pleased. ‘That lady is our cousin, Mrs Plummer.’

‘It is not a connection which I care to acknowledge.’

‘If I were you, ma’am,’ Rosalind said, addressing Cousin Priscilla, ‘I would not mind such ill-bred persons. You clearly lose nothing by severing any connection with such a disagreeable relation.’

Lady Bettisham reddened alarmingly at this description of herself. Before she could respond in kind, however, her son forestalled her.

‘What are you doing here, Mama?’

‘I have come,’ she declared, stiffening her back as though prepared for resistance, ‘to save you from contracting what is clearly a terrible
mésalliance.
Who,’ she continued, ‘is this “Miss Rosalind Powell” to whom the notice in the
Gazette
claims that you are betrothed?’

‘I am Miss Powell,’ Rosalind answered for him.

Lady Bettisham turned to face her, treating her to much the same inspection as she had just inflicted upon Mrs Plummer. But this time the object of her scorn gave her back look for look without flinching, in a manner to which the peeress was plainly not accustomed. She returned her gaze to her son, therefore, directing her remarks to him.

‘This woman is clearly an adventuress, who has used her undeniable beauty to entrap you, my poor boy.’ She paused for a moment, perhaps diverted by a hastily stifled giggle from Cassandra. ‘But have you no thought for your family name? Have you no consideration for duty and honor? I could not believe it when I went to your lodgings, only to learn that you had run off to be with this woman. If you marry her, you are no longer my son!’

‘I would advise you to say no more, ma’am.’ St George’s brow darkened, his lips growing pinched and white as he listened to his mother’s speech. ‘Kindly remember that you are speaking of the woman I love.’

‘You have taken leave of your senses,’ Lady Bettisham cried.

‘If I have, it is no concern of yours.’

‘Of course it is my concern. I am your mother — your own flesh and blood.’

While they were speaking, Rosalind moved from her spot in the centre of the room and came to stand beside St George, so that they stood together, facing his mother.

‘It is a pity,’ she said to the older woman, ‘that you did not remember that fact before, ma’am.’

‘I have nothing to say to this person.’ Lady Bettisham averted her gaze from the couple before her.

‘But I have a great deal to say to you, Lady Bettisham,’ Rosalind replied. ‘You may not care to look at me, but you shall hear me this day.’

‘How dare you address me in such a fashion?’ The other woman twisted her neck about again, to fix hard blue eyes upon the girl she had chosen to despise.

‘I know something of your character, madam,’ Rosalind’s bosom heaved in her righteous wrath. ‘Sir Jasper has informed us that you were well aware of your son’s purpose in coming into Buckinghamshire.  You knew that he intended my seduction, nor had you any qualms about it. Oh no! You found it quite amusing, I believe.’

Lady Bettisham shrugged carelessly, in a manner much like her son. ‘Young girls must take their chances. If they are foolish, that is not my affair.’

‘A rake must also take his chances,’ Rosalind shot back. ‘You cared nothing that the lives of two innocent young women might be ruined, but now that the tables have turned, you are all concern. If I have ensnared your son, you have no cause to object to it; To the victor the spoils.’

‘You impudent strumpet!’ The lady’s anger could not be disguised. ‘Will you allow her to speak to me in this insolent manner, St George?’

‘She would not have done so,’ her son reminded her harshly, ‘had you not chosen to interfere in my affairs, and to insult this lady in the most intolerable fashion.’

‘Your son would have been better had he been born to a she-wolf, rather than to such a woman as you,’ Rosalind said, warming to her theme. ‘You never cared for his welfare, never gave him the affection which every child deserves from its mother. But now that you fear his actions may stain your precious family name, you thrust yourself into his life with no other intention than to separate him from someone who loves him far more than you have ever done!’

This impassioned discourse seemed to rob Lady Bettisham of breath, for she was silent for some seconds afterward. This gave her son time to digest the last words which Rosalind had spoken, at which point he seized her by the shoulders and spun her around to face him.

‘Is it true?’ he demanded. ‘Do you love me, Rosalind?’

‘Yes,’ she said simply, having gone too far now to deny it.

‘Thank God!’ he cried, and before the assembled company, he completely abandoned any pretence at decorum, drawing Rosalind fully into his embrace and pressing a passionate kiss upon her upturned lips.

‘St George!’ his mother cried, scandalized.

Rosalind, meanwhile, had completely forgotten her adversary and everyone else in the room. She was lost in the inexpressible joy of feeling his arms about her once more and savoring the wonder of his kiss. When at last he raised his head, it was to her alone that he spoke.

‘My dearest dragon,’ he said huskily, ‘how can you possibly love me, knowing all that you do of me?’

‘How can I help but love you?’ she asked, lifting a hand to stroke his cheek. ‘I have never seen a man who so needed to be loved.’

‘And I have never known a woman who had such love to give,’ he whispered. ‘I love you with all my heart. I cannot conceive what I have ever done to deserve you, but if you will do me the honor of becoming my wife, I shall be the happiest and proudest man in England.’

‘But I do not believe in spotless leopards, nor in reformed rakes,’ she quizzed him.

‘Marry me,’ he urged, ‘and I will make a believer of you yet, my little doubter.’

‘Are you quite certain that you wish to marry me?’

‘I have never been so certain of anything in my life. Besides,’ he added wickedly, ‘we are officially betrothed. It says so in the
Gazette.
So you cannot cry off now, my love. Despite the repugnance which you very properly expressed but a few minutes ago, you
must
marry me.’

‘Very well, then. I will.’

He would have kissed her again, but his mother interrupted this tender scene with words which were anything but romantic.