Maulever Hall (13 page)

Lady Heverdon smiled her ravishing smile: “Perhaps you will. But I must be off for my own ride—what a pity you cannot accompany me, Miss Lamb.”

VII

Left alone, Marianne sewed busily for a while, enjoying the hot sun and the quietness, broken only by the buzzing of bees in her favorite yellow climbing rose and, far off, the call of a cuckoo. She finished the last seam and leaned back more comfortably on her rustic seat; soon she would go indoors and try on the dress, but, just for a moment, it was restful to sit here, eyes half closed, and accept the impartial blessing of the sun.

“Minerva sleeps!” The arch voice woke her and she opened startled eyes to see Mr. Emsworth standing over her, a red rosebud in his hand. “For she was the Goddess of housewifery, as I am sure you know, Miss Lamb, and wise as you are, I believe that I find your domestic competence even more admirable. What order, what blessed reason you have brought to this household; what happiness to Mrs. Mauleverer, who loves you, I believe, quite like a daughter, and will, I am sure, treat you like one. And when I think of how dreadfully I misjudged you at our first meeting there is nothing for it, my dear Miss Lamb, but to go down on my knees and ask your forgiveness.” And absurdly, amazingly, he did so, first carefully selecting a dry paving stone for his clerical black knee. “Forgive me, Miss Lamb!” His shovel hat was under one arm, the other held out the rosebud to her.

She looked at him in amazement. “Mr. Emsworth, have you taken leave of your senses?”

“No, my dearest, my esteemed, may I not say my adored Miss Lamb, I have come to them at last. It is true that for a while worldly considerations have held me back, but what are considerations of this world compared with those of the spirit? Your conduct in the village is such as to outweigh the mystery of your past—and, besides, what right have I to cavil where my patron and patroness are satisfied? If Mr. Mauleverer and his mother choose to treat you as a member of their family, that is good enough for me. No, Miss Lamb, when you are mine you shall never hear a word of censure as to the past. It shall be my pleasure, my privilege, to protect you from the world’s slanderous tongues. I have consulted my bishop and he is of a mind with me in this; the Mauleverers, I know, will approve, the good people of the village will be delighted, and what do we care for the rest of the world? Together we will toil in the vineyard to which God has called us; your hand in mine will strengthen me, I know, for the good work, and I will be the oak to which, frail and tender vine that you are, you shall cling through storm and trouble. After all”—his voice was suddenly practical—“if you have remembered nothing so far, it is extremely unlikely that you ever will—Dr. Barton agrees with me on this point, and even if you should do so, it might be better than one fears
...
and, if not, why, you will easily be able to forget it again. Mrs. Mauleverer has often urged me, for the sake of my little flock, to marry again, and will be delighted, I am sure, by our news. Who knows, they may even give you a dower of some sort. Do you not think so?”

She had listened to him so far in helpless astonishment, but now he paused for her answer and occupied himself by t
aking
a large white handkerchief from his pocket and tucking it under his knee, shifting, as he did so, into a slightly more comfortable position on the hard flagstone.

“Am I to understand that you are asking me to marry you?”

He looked up in surprise at the disdainful note in her voice. “Yes, Miss Lamb, with passion, with adoration, with devotion,
I am asking you to be my wife. The unfortunate past shall be forgotten in the future’s ecstasy. The bishop will marry us,
I am sure, and in the cathedral, if you wish it. Mrs. Mauleverer will continue your dear friend; Dr. Barton says it is the best possible thing for you. It is only to say yes, my dear, my exquisite Miss Lamb, and see what a prospect of happiness opens before us.” And once again he held out the rosebud to her in his thin and yellow hand.

“Do get up, Mr. Emsworth,” she said impatiently. “You will catch rheumatism if you kneel there much longer.” And then, as he rose, somewhat creakily to his feet: “I can say, with truth, that I have never been so surprised in my life. That you—you of all people—should make me such an offer.” She paused for a moment, remembering all the bitterness of their first encounter, then continued: “I am only sorry that when you consulted so many other people about this project of yours, you did not think to consult me. Mr. Emsworth, I would not marry you if you were the last man on earth.”

The rose dropped to the ground. “Miss Lamb!” The vicar was angry now and she changed her tone suddenly. Fool that she was, she was in no position to make an enemy of this silly man. She rose and held out her hand to him: “Forgive me, Mr. Emsworth, I spoke in haste. You have surprised me so much with this flattering proposal that I did not think what I was saying
...
But I am sure that if you think a little, you’ll be grateful for my refusal. How can I think of marrying, plunged, as you yourself have said, as I am in mystery? No, no, I will not take advantage of your goodness so, nor let you live to regret it as you must do. Suppose I was to remember? Suppose you were to find yourself married to a servant maid, or—who knows—something worse. The bishop is very kind, Dr. Barton very encouraging, but I will not so risk your happiness and my own. Just think who you might find were your parents-in-law?”

“Of course,” he admitted, “I had thought of that. But, Miss Lamb, your beauty, your virtue, your many qualifications to be a clergyman’s wife
...
”

He was winding himself up for another great set speech but she cut him short: “I shall never forget your goodness, Mr. Emsworth, but, believe me, it is impossible. I cannot think of it, nor can I imagine how the bishop came to give his consent.”

“It is true,” he said thoughtfully, “that I did have some difficulty in persuading him. And you really think you might remember?”

“At any moment,” she said untruthfully. “And, just think, Mr. Emsworth, I might be quite a different person when I
had. I might care nothing for good works and think only of dress and amusement. Then where would you be?”

“Do you truly think so?”

“I am almost sure of it. Look what I am doing now. This is no charitable work I am busy with: I am sewing for myself. I am vain, Mr. Emsworth; I am frivolous. In my heart, I am sure of it.”

He took a step backward. “Miss Lamb, I do not know what to say.”

She held out her hand to him. “Let us shake hands, then, and part friends. Mark my words; you will live to be grateful to me.”

Taking her hand in his clammy one: “I believe that I am so already. And”—he looked suddenly nervous—“shall we say nothing of this?”

“Nothing.”

He took his leave so hurriedly that she rather suspected he was afraid that even now, at the last moment, she might change her mind and decide to accept his rash offer. Alone, she allowed herself the luxury of laughter at the absurdity of the scene, but was interrupted, almost at once, by the appearance of Lady Heverdon, still in her riding habit.

“
What, still at work! What a diligent girl you are to be sure. But I am positive you would rather be interrupted by me than by that petrified bore of a vicar. Did he tell you the news of the election, or was he too busy with his canting talk of blankets and the Holy Ghost? I cannot bear that man.”

Marianne could not help laughing. “He is not exactly charming, poor Mr. Emsworth.” What a blessing that Lady Heverdon had not arrived a few minutes sooner. “But what is the news of the election?”

“
As bad as possible, in Exton at least. No wonder poor Mauleverer was so glum yesterday. The election, and the Reform Bill, are all in all to him, are they not?”

“He is certainly very much concerned about them,” said Marianne temperately. She would not, even by implication, commit herself to agreement with what she well knew was in Lady Heverdon’s mind. Her Ladyship, she was sure, had decided that Mauleverer had delayed his proposal until the election was over. Well, it was very likely true, but she did not feel inclined to encourage her by speculation. Instead, she bent assiduously to her sewing, and Lady Heverdon wandered away to pick herself a nosegay, returning, however, to complain of the heat of the sun and the tedium of the day.

“I declare, it is going on forever. I told Mauleverer last night that he would owe me the most devoted attention when this election was over, and indeed I do not mean to spare him. Heigh-ho, what a dead bore politics are—and if, as I fear, his precious election has gone against him, he will need to be distracted. I intend to take him about the countryside on a series of visits: I am quite scandalized to find how little he is known in the district. That poor old card-sharping mother of his has been, I think, more of a liability to him than he has quite recognized.” Her tone said, more clearly than words, that when her time came she would change all this. “But he is generous to a fault,” she went on, “and too goodhearted to see what all the world does. Do you not find
him
the most handsome of men, Miss Lamb?”

“With that dreadful scar?” Marianne bit off her thread. “Hardly.”

“Oh, you are a hopeless rationalist! You need to see with the eyes of the soul, as I do, to recognize Mauleverer’s real worth. Do you know what Merritt thought fit to call us yesterday?”

“No?” Marianne did her best to suggest that she did not care either.

“Beauty and the Beast. Poor Mauleverer, he would scarcely be flattered if he knew, though truly I do not think he cares a jot about his appearance. Only look at the way he dresses
.
Fenner said he would be ashamed to let his groom wear one of my poor Mauleverer’s coats. But I intend to get him to Weston when we go to London, and then we shall see ... It is almost sinful to do so little with so elegant a figure. Truly, I think him the best built man I know, and you are at liberty to tell him I said so.”

“I shall scarcely have the opportunity,” said Marianne dryly.

“Why not? Don’t think I am not aware of those early morning colloquies of yours, and indeed you seem made to be a confidante. I have no doubt you know everyone’s secrets in this house, so quiet as you are, and so demure.” And, her voice and look suggested, so plain and mousily dressed.

“Secrets?” Marianne laughed. “I know what Mr. Mauleverer hopes to get for his hay this season, and when he means to begin the wheat harvest.”

“There you are! Indispensable Miss Lamb. I do not know how we shall manage without you.” And then, conscious of having said more than she had intended, she hummed a few bars of “Dost Thou Remember” and moved away across the
garden, bending gracefully as she went to pick here a pink and there a sprig of lavender for her bouquet. Left alone, Marianne sewed strenuously for a few minutes. The engagement must be as good as settled after all, or surely Lady Heverdon would never speak so definitely. And her doom, too, was sealed: “I do not know how we shall manage without you.” Well, it was only what she expected, but this recollection did not seem to make the certainty any less unpleasant. How happy, after all, she had been in this big, rambling ill-organized house, where she had found so much to do, and so many friendly faces. No wonder the idea of leaving it was so painful to her. But leave it she was sure she must, and she resolved that however bad Mauleverer’s mood might be this evening she must steel herself to making her request about the bay mare.

Afternoon drowsed into evening. The shutters that had kept the drawing room cool all day were thrown back. The changing bell rang, and still there was no sign of Mauleverer. Conferring with the cook as to the advisability of keeping dinner back, Marianne lingered as long as she dared in the cool kitchen, hoping that she might see Mauleverer ride into the stable yard. One glance at that expressive face would be enough to tell her how the election had gone. But it was no use; Mrs. Manning was becoming restless and thinking of her sauces, and there was no further excuse to stay. She ran upstairs and changed as quickly as she could into her blue dress, whose daily alternation with the green one had not, she knew, escaped Lady Heverdon’s quizzical eye. She was standing at the open window, brushing her hair in the last glow of the sun when Mauleverer rode into the stable yard. He must have come down the slope of the moor when she was fastening her dress and so she had not realized he was so near. Her first instinct was to draw back into the shadows, but already he had glanced up and seen her there, her hair loose about her face, the brush in her hand.

“We are beaten, Miss Lamb. Horribly beaten!”

“Oh dear, by very much?” She leaned down to hear him better.

“Deplorably! And I am equally late and shall be in blackest disgrace.” He jumped down from his horse. “Make what apologies you can for me, Miss Lamb.” He was gone and she returned to her mirror to pin up her hair with hands that, absurdly, trembled. Why was her color so high, why were her eyes so bright? It was relief, of course, that Mauleverer was bearing defeat so well. But then, she should have known that he would.

She tapped on Mrs. Mauleverer’s door to deliver her son’s apologies, although she very much doubted whether it was mainly for his mother that they were intended, and then went on to Lady Heverdon’s room, only to find that she had already gone downstairs. Following, she found her arranging the sweet-scented bouquet she had picked that afternoon in a vase in the drawing room, scattering, as she did so, a little storm of water drops on the polished mahogany. She made a charming picture, Marianne thought, with her fair curls brushing the flowers as she arranged them. Now, hearing the door open, she started, colored, turned and said, in tones
of purest disappointment: “Oh, it is you, Miss Lamb.”

“Yes. Mr. Mauleverer sends his deepest apologies: he is but now returned, but will be with us, I am sure, directly.”

“And the election?” Lady Heverdon had lost interest in her task and dropped the flowers on the table.

“Lost.”

“Oh dear.” Lady Heverdon made the face of a frustrated child, then turned, suddenly wreathed in smiles as the door opened once more and Mauleverer appeared. “Oh, my poor Mauleverer.” She went toward him, hands outstretched. “I hear that we are to condole with you.”

“Why, yes.” He took her hands and smiled down at her. “But it is not the end of the world you know. We have lost a battle, but not, I think, the war.”

“And what, pray, do you mean by that?”

“Why, that the news from the rest of the country is very different. Exton has merely proved what I have always known, that it is not fit to send a member to Parliament—at least not under the present system. But the wind of change is blowing irresistibly elsewhere. We shall have, I think, an immense majority in the new House, and should carry all before us.”

“Oh, how exciting!” As she looked up at him, blue eyes wide with enthusiasm, Marianne was amused to remember her heartfelt sigh that afternoon: “Heigh-ho, what a dead bore politics are.” There was no doubt about it, she was a most consummate actress. No wonder if Mauleverer was fooled to the top of his bent. Anyone would have thought that the results of the election were the most important thing in the world to her. But she was spared the necessity for any further demonstration of enthusiasm by the entry of Mrs. Mauleverer, who had, Marianne now realized, lingered to the very last to avoid the possibility of a tete a tete with her son. Of course, they had not met since yesterday’s painful scene over the card table. But it was all forgotten now in the excitement
of the election news and the little flurry of walking in to dinner. When they were safely settled, with Lady Heverdon, as usual, at Mauleverer’s right hand, she bent toward him with her sparkling smile. “I am to be a petitioner to you,” she said, “on Miss Lamb’s account.”

“Miss Lamb?” A puzzled frown drew the black eyebrows together.

“Why, yes. She is too modest, I believe, to speak up for herself, but she has had her eye, this age, on that bay mare that eats her head off in your stables.”

“The bay mare, Sadie?” He sounded more puzzled than ever, and darted a quick characteristically irritable glance at Marianne.

“Yes. She has decided she is a horsewoman and wishes to show us her form. I am sure you can have no objection?”

“Of course not, if Miss Lamb wishes to ride. Indeed, I cannot think why we have not thought of it sooner. But not on the bay mare, Miss Lamb.” At last he was speaking to her directly. “She is no mount for a lady.”

“And I am no lady,” said Marianne, irrationally furious at having her request thus anticipated.

He laughed. “I’ll not argue that point with you, but if you will meet me in the stables tomorrow morning I will see if I cannot find something fit for you to ride.”

“Jim Barnes says the mare needs exercising,” she said mutinously.