Keeping the Castle (17 page)

14

NOW THAT MR. GODALMING believed he had received a signal that encouraged him to press his suit, he ignored any genuine signals Miss Vincy sent in his direction. Her downcast face when he spoke to her, her turning away when he approached, even her abruptly leaving a room as he entered it—all these he attributed to shyness, to shame at her own boldness in having beckoned him to her side.

In the next few weeks he called on her every day. If he could not find her at the Park, he followed her to the castle. If, in an attempt to avoid him, she went out walking or riding, he went walking or riding as well, until he had caught her up.

Almost I repented of my interference in her affairs when I saw how distressed she was by his blind, unrelenting pursuit
. Almost
. For Mr. Fredericks also observed her distress. He saw Mr. Godalming herding his quarry into the conservatory, like one of his tenants’ sheepdogs harrying a ewe into a shearing pen. He watched as Mr. Godalming fussily adjusted a pillow for her back and fetched cups of tea and biscuits, insisting that she eat and drink when she did not want to. And as Mr. Fredericks watched, his brow knitted and his face darkened.

But still he did not declare himself.

One day when she was at the castle and Mr. Godal-ming had been circling her like an annoying gnat at a picnic, she broke away from him and, slipping her arm into mine, pulled me out of the room.

“Please, Miss Crawley,” she said in a low, urgent voice, “may we not go, perhaps”—she paused, evidently trying to think of somewhere Mr. Godalming could not follow—“to your bedchamber?”

“Yes of course, my dear,” I said, feeling guilty for my part in this persecution. “And if you wish, I can say that you were taken ill and must lie down for a while. He will have to go home
some
time.”

“No,” she said. “If I did that, he would tell my parents and they would call the doctor. I am rarely ill.”

She sank down on a chair near the window and, as the daylight fell on her face I was shocked at how haggard she appeared.

“Oh, my dear Miss Vincy,” I cried, repentant, “he will have to propose soon, and then you can turn him down. All this will be at an end.”

She was silent and her head drooped. “Don’t you see?” I persisted. “When you give him your refusal, he will go and with any luck you will never see him again.”

She passed her hand across her face, and I realized her eyes were reddened, as if with weeping. Surely a persistent suitor alone could not have reduced her to such a state.

“Miss Vincy, what is it? Please believe that I am your friend. I would give anything—” I thought of the Baron and amended—“
almost
anything to make you happy.”

She smiled, and a single tear coursed down her cheek and was dashed away. “I know that you are my friend. Please believe
me
that
I value your affection.”

“Then tell me why you do not send the odious Mr. Godalming about his business.”

“I cannot,” she said. “If he does propose, I must accept. My mother—”

“
What?
Oh Miss Vincy! It is all very well to be a dutiful daughter, but really, there
are
limits! Englishwomen of the nineteenth century are not cattle, not possessions to be bartered off to the first comer! Well,” I said, reconsidering this rash statement, “perhaps they are in a
certain
sense, but not literally so. Your parents may be disappointed at a refusal and therefore they may say bitter things to you. Legally,” I admitted, “they might also be entitled to lock you up in your room or even cast you out to fend for yourself clad only in your shift, yes, that is true. But in
law
they cannot force you to wed against your will. Unless, of course,” I mused, “they have bribed the parson, in which case—”

“You do not understand,” said Miss Vincy. “I have given my solemn word of honor that if a gentleman of good name and fortune offers for me, I will accept. Oh, my mother would prefer the Baron for me, of course, or any other member of the aristocracy, but she knows that it will not—that he does not—In short, she has nearly lost hope on that account.” She kept her eyes low, not meeting mine.

“But
why
? Why would you give such an undertaking, Miss Vincy?”

Once again she rubbed at her eyes. She shook her head. “You do not understand. And I cannot tell you. No, my only hope is that some miracle occurs and he does not ask. And Mr. Godalming is the least of my miseries.”

I stared at her, stricken. What had I done?

I supposed that what she meant by Mr. Godalming being the least of her worries was that she had lost the Baron as well, which did not make me like myself any better. As I sat holding her hand, berating myself for my foolish meddling, I began to feel a certain irritation. Not with Miss Vincy, of course, but with Mr. Fredericks. Why on earth had he not done as I had intended him to, and made an offer for her himself? Really, he was the most aggravating man! He called himself her friend, he clearly admired her and enjoyed her company, and yet he would not do this simple thing to save her from a life of wretchedness as Mrs. Godalming.

Well, I would go and tell him what I thought of him.

“Miss Vincy,” I said, “lie down upon the bed and I will fetch you a glass of wine to help you compose yourself.”

“But—”

“I will say you are well save for a small headache. And I will send Mr. Godalming away.”

It was this last promise, I think, that made her obedient to my command. Without another word she climbed onto the bed and leaned back against the pillows.

Downstairs I looked about for Mr. Godalming, determined to be rid of him as soon as possible. He was nowhere in sight. I whirled about, straining to see if he had got past me and crept up the stairs. I should not have been surprised to discover him even now tapping doggedly at my bedroom door, determined not to allow Miss Vincy one moment of privacy until she agreed to become his wife.

He was so absolutely not present that I began to fear that the boards of the trapdoor to our oubliette (a faithful copy of the secret prison into which the kings of old were wont to drop their enemies) had given way underneath his weight—lord knows they were rotten enough.

The only gentleman in view was Mr. Fredericks, and I advanced upon him with the light of battle in my eyes.

He regarded me with a quizzical smile. “Ah! I see that Zeus’ warrior maid, gray-eyed Athena, approaches, and she is in the devil of a temper. Is something the matter, Miss Crawley?”

“Althea, not Athena,” I snapped, although I knew full well that he was making a reference to the Greek goddess, which, now I thought of it, was not what one would expect from the son of a shopkeeper. “Yes, there is something the matter!”

“Perhaps you are still concerned about the way that Mr. Godalming has been doting on Miss Vincy, to her obvious discomfort?”

“Yes, I am.” I subjected him to a hard stare. He was barely managing to hide a self-satisfied smile.

“I think you will find that Mr. Godalming is no longer a matter of concern.” He lowered his eyes in mock modesty, affecting to flick an invisible mote of dust off a grubby sleeve.

“How so, Mr. Fredericks?” Surely not the oubliette?

“Inexplicably, Mr. Godalming has got the idea that old Vincy is fast approaching dun territory.” At my mystified look, he further explained, “Purse-pinched, Miss Crawley, on the rocks, dished, at low ebb. In short, Mr. Godalming believes that Mr. Vincy hasn’t a sixpence to scratch himself with. Naturally, being the sort of man he is, he promptly made himself scarce.”

“Oh, but—no one would believe
that!
Look at their coach, their servants, their garb! Why Mrs. Vincy’s dresses alone—!”

Mr. Fredericks looked amused. “My dear Miss Crawley! I had no idea you knew so little of the world. Why, I could name fine gentlemen, and ladies, too, not twenty miles from here who haven’t a feather to fly with, but who nevertheless put on a brave show. There are all sorts of ways to look as though you are flush with funds when in fact you’ve scarcely enough in your pockets to jingle as you walk. It wouldn’t do, you see, for a man like Vincy to look poor. His lady, his daughter, his servants and equipage must be superbly got up, with everything bright and shining about them, or, you see, investors will lose confidence in him.”

“Then . . . then you mean . . . it is true?” I asked, aghast.

“Oh, Lord no. Vincy is a sly dog. He’s had some close calls over the years, of course, but you wouldn’t see him letting Mrs. Vincy go out in public in a cheap frock when times were thin. Not that
she’d
stand for it for one moment, anyway, even though she brought nothing to the marriage but her name and lineage.”

“I see,” I said, much relieved.

“Godalming was worried he’d compromised himself, given the amount of attention he’d paid to Miss Vincy. Which, if she thought him anything other than a nuisance, would be quite true. And of course the old lady thinks she’s got him roped and tied.”

I opened my mouth to berate him for referring to a gentlewoman in Mrs. Vincy’s position as “the old lady,” but he forestalled me.

“Oh, you know perfectly well that you don’t like her either. In any case, I advised him to invent urgent business calling him to York. Then he can lay low until they leave.”

“Until they leave! But this is high summer. Mr. Godalming has an estate which must be attended to. I thought— I had hoped that they would stay many months longer.”

He shook his head. “Not now. Since Mrs. Vincy has lost all hopes of catching the Baron,” here he regarded me with what I can only describe as a baleful gaze, “and the only other local marital possibilities for her daughter are now exhausted,” here he looked at me again, “they will leave soon. She will wait a few weeks, both for decorum’s sake, and to make sure Godalming will not return, but leave she will, and soon.”

“I see,” I said, and left him.

So immense was my sense of guilt that I brought Miss Vincy an entire glass of wine unadulterated by water, some of the last of the great wine cellar. I longed to beg her pardon, but I could not bear to admit how greatly I had been at fault.

I eased the door open gently, fearing she might be asleep, and found her bent, unconscious of my intrusion, over a letter. At first she read the letter and then she kissed the locket with the twist of hair which depended from her neck.

“Oh, my dearest, my darling,” she murmured.

I stamped my feet a few times to ensure she knew of my presence.

“Oh, Miss Crawley! I did not hear—is Mr. Godal-ming gone?” She slipped the letter back into her pocket and the locket back into the neckline of her dress.

“He is,” I said, handing her the goblet. “I do not believe he will cause you any further trouble. Mr. Fredericks has spoken to him.” I thought it best not to mention exactly
how
he had dissuaded Mr. Godalming from annoying her further.

“Bless him! Mr. Fredericks is such a good friend, much better than I deserve.”

“Nonsense,” I said briskly, thinking of Mr. Fredericks’s failure to propose. “You deserve far better, but we must do our best with the materials at hand.”

“Miss Crawley,” she said, laughing a little, “you are most unkind to Mr. Fredericks! He admires you greatly, you know.”

“Pooh! Nothing of the kind! He is as rude as possible to me, and never fails to point out my faults, which, according to him, are legion.”

“But you do the same to him, you know you do! Indeed, I think you two are much alike. We live in an age of manners, when it is accounted a virtue never to speak plain. But you and Mr. Fredericks pay no mind to such conventions; you say what you think.”

My jaw dropped open. I knew I had a ready tongue, but
really!
“I? I am as rude as Mr. Fredericks?
I?”

The tears in her eyes had receded and she was laughing. “Do you know, Miss Crawley, if I had suggested the same thing to Mr. Fredericks—that you are alike in that way—I believe he would have responded in exactly the same way, both in phrasing and intonation.”

At least I had gotten her to forget her troubles enough to laugh, and I thought it worth it, even at the expense of being the object of her laughter.

15

“A BOLT FROM THE BLUE.” I have sometimes read of an unexpected event described in this way, and now I know exactly what is meant by the phrase.

A blue sky, a sunny, mild day. The usual list of worries and troubles runs through one’s mind, but nothing that cannot be overcome, nothing that will not reach a satisfactory conclusion eventually, if not today, why then, tomorrow. An ordinary day, in fact. And then lightning strikes from out of that innocent blue sky and all that remains is the smoking ruins of one’s every hope and every dream.

Busy with my household duties, I allowed Charity to snare Lord Boring and take him off for a stroll about the grounds. I had become resigned to the fact that I could not trust him to refuse her overtures when I was not available, and Mama and I had a great inventory of linens before us that morning. How was I to know the danger? How could I have guessed?

They were gone for a long time: several hours, in fact. Mama and I concluded, correctly, as it happened, that they had gone to the Park. At last they returned.

“Boring, go and speak with Stepmama,” Charity ordered as soon as they were within doors, and Lord Boring obeyed.

“Mrs. Winthrop, may I have a word with you in private?” he said, avoiding my gaze.

“Why certainly,” Mama said, looking a bit surprised. They retired to the little boudoir near the dining hall, leaving a startled silence behind.

Or at least, a startled silence on my part. Charity sat down and clasped her hands in her lap, with a smug look on her face. Prudence knew that something of great moment was in the air. She cast enquiring glances at Charity, which Charity ignored.

At last, unable to bear the suspense, Prudence said coyly, “And so, dear sister, have you any
news
you wish to tell us?”

“Thank you, Prudence,” Charity replied, “but I think it best if we wait for Stepmama.” Both sisters darted sudden looks in my direction, which were immediately withdrawn.