Miss Lindel's Love (17 page)

“I still don’t understand why you didn’t agree. I would have, in an instant.”

“I don’t think you would have. To have a husband that you adored but who despised you? I wouldn’t wish anyone to suffer that torture. Besides, that is no fit fate for either of us. We are young, we are blonde, we have nothing to be afraid of.”

“Except Mama,” Lucy said. She turned again to the mirror, “Do you think she’ll be angry?”

“No. But she might not let you go to Medley until after the winter assemblies. I think the sight of you like this might reanimate her ambitions of a good marriage.”

“They’ve certainly awakened mine. I look ... I look...”

“Say it,” Maris urged.

“I look so pretty.” Then the tears came.

Maris still had a damp patch on her shoulder when she led Lucy downstairs to meet Mrs. Pike to escort her to Finchley Old Place, both their cloaks over her arm. Mrs. Pike turned, her usual affectionate scoldings drying on her lips. “Good God in heaven!” she exclaimed, the first time she’d taken the name of the Lord in vain in her own house.

“You asked me to persuade her out of her cap, ma’am,” Maris said.

“What next, Maris? Water into wine?” She held out her arms to her daughter and Lucy flew down the last few stairs.

“You’re not angry, Mama?”

“Angry?” She cupped Lucy’s face in her hands, gazing at her with wonderment. “I confess I should have said no if you had asked me for permission. I would have been wrong. But what have you done to your dinner dress?”

“Maris said no one is wearing tuckers anymore except for old maids and invalids.”

“Quick, put on your cloak before your father sees. I don’t object but he surely will.”

It was too late, however. The vicar came down the hallway to bid his wife and daughter a pleasant evening. He did not appear to notice that Lucy’s figure was considerably more on display than was usual. He did abjure her to wrap up well and held his wife back a moment when she would have followed the girls at once out the door.

“What did he say?” Lucy asked tremulously when Mrs. Pike joined them in the garden.

“One believes one knows a man after more than twenty years of marriage.” She seemed dazed.

“But what did he say, Mama?”

“He reminded me that the daughters of Israel adorned themselves to dance before David and reminded me that his mother’s jewelry was still in the bank. A very fine set of garnets and some quite good pearls, Lucy. They will become you very well.”

Dealing with the question of Miss Menthrip, however, took more ingenuity than a few clips with a scissors and some determined yanking of stitches. The chief problem was money. Neither the Pikes, with their many sons, nor the Lindels, after their recent expenses, had any to spare. “I can pay the doctor’s bill,” Mrs. Lindel said. “But I don’t know where to lay my hands on enough for this trip to Bath.”

“Must it be Bath?” Mrs. Pike asked. “Surely there are lesser spas.”

“No, he said that the water at Bath is the most efficacious in the matter of weakened lungs. We should also have to find someone to accompany her hence. In her present state, she cannot be expected to find lodgings or fend for herself.”

“I’ll go,” Lucy said, only a breath faster than Maris.

“Yes?” Mrs. Pike answered. “And what of your brother?”

“There’s no point in discussing it until we find the money,” Mrs. Lindel reminded them. “Is there anything in the parish funds? Might not some charity money be diverted to this cause?”

Mrs. Pike shook her head regretfully. “There’ve been many calls on the parish these last few months. Mr. Pike says that at most we may offer a widow’s mite but no more until next year.”

Sophie had been listening intently. “It won’t do any good to send Miss Menthrip to Bath if she must still live in her cottage when she returns. Not two windows fit tightly in their frames and the door rattles with every breeze. She’ll only fall sick again if these matters are not mended. I know she meant to have them seen to this year but now someone else must do it.”

“I hate to say this,” Mrs. Lindel said, “but perhaps the almshouse is the best place for her.”

“Couldn’t she live with us?” Sophie asked. “I’m very fond of Miss Menthrip.”

Maris caught the glance that passed between the two mothers. Neither of them could afford to add another person to their households, and even if that were not the case, adding an elderly woman famous for her sharp tongue and freely offered opinions would not be a gain to harmony. The best answer would be to keep her in her own house, snug and independent, but that solution still required money.

Did she know anyone with money to spare? She was not on terms with any of the grand people she had met in London to solicit their assistance. The wealthy nobles of England already received countless charitable requests; the plight of one old woman would not stir their hearts. The great charitable institutions did not hand out funds, preferring to absorb the deserving poor into their rigid embraces.

“I will ask Mr. Pike to poll the parish committee when it meets next week. Perhaps some of them will be able to determine a course for Miss Menthrip’s relief.”

“Miss Menthrip doesn’t wish for charity,” Maris said.

Mrs. Pike scoffed. “Such pride is foolish when a case is desperate. If she is destitute, she must take charity and be properly thankful.”

“True,” Mrs. Lindel said. “I’m afraid her pride must go to the wall in this instance. I sympathize with her very much; I should feel much the same. Yet one must face facts.”

Maris knew, in her heart, that the two mothers spoke truthfully. Yet she could so easily imagine herself an elderly spinster without a relation in the world in such straits as those of Miss Menthrip. She could only hope that she could summon the same proud spirit Miss Menthrip showed. How much better to keep one’s pride, even if, strictly speaking, one could not afford to.

“Does Miss Menthrip own her cottage outright?” Maris asked.

“She holds the freehold, Maris, but the ground is only on a ninety-nine-year lease.”

“Who owns that, then?”

“Why, his lordship, of course.”

“Of course.” She remembered hearing about that arrangement, so strange, so English, when she was a little girl. She’d spent quite some time trying to puzzle out how one could own a house but not the land. What if you wanted to move? What if there was an earthquake and your house fell into the ground?

Perhaps it was this mention of Lord Danesby that put a plot into Maris’s head. But the mixture of the parish committee, Lord Danesby’s ownership of the land, and their need for money turned and tumbled in her brain. Lord Danesby had money. Lord Danesby sat on the parish committee.

But how could she introduce his name into this conclave? To mention him, even in passing, would distress her mother. If Mrs. Pike did not already know the tale of Maris and his lordship, either Mrs. Lindel or Lucy would soon inform her of it. Maris knew she must take great care to look unconscious of any connection between them when Mrs. Pike questioned her about him.

In the end, though, it was Sophie who brought him up. “I don’t know why you don’t just ask Lord Danesby for the money. He must be rich enough to send dozens of ladies, old and young, to Bath or anywhere else for that matter. He’s in residence now; Mr. Cosby told me so. Why don’t you ask Lord Danesby?”

“No,” Mrs. Lindel said.

“Out of the question,” Mrs. Pike said.

“Goodness, no. How could we?” Lucy asked.

“Why not?” Maris said, echoing her sister, who, she vowed, would receive an especially lavish present from her older sister this year. She did not want to see Lord Danesby herself. The part of her life when she would hide behind tree trunks and peer around corners to catch a glimpse of him had ended. Yet, as he had the resources to send Miss Menthrip on a trip that might save her life, it seemed sensible to ask him for it.

“He’s a single gentleman,” Mrs. Pike said. “It would be most indelicate to approach him with such a suggestion. If he had a wife, of course, it would prove a different matter. But bachelor gentlemen are not interested in charity cases.”

“It’s not a charity case,” Sophie persisted. “It’s Miss Menthrip. He has a fortune; why shouldn’t he use some of it to help Miss Menthrip? You could ask him, Mrs. Pike.”

Mrs. Pike refused, holding up her hands. “Impossible, we are not on calling terms with Lord Danesby. How could we be with no lady of the house upon whom we might leave cards?”

Sophie turned to her mother. “You could call on him, Mother.”

“Such things are better left to the vicar. Perhaps Mr. Pike could call upon his lordship tomorrow?”

“Impossible. Mr. Pike is away to visit his old friend Mr. Ratliff, recently given a living in Bruxton parish. They are going to visit the bishop and shall not return for several days at least. I am not even certain he will be available to attend the parish committee this month.”

Maris did not know how much her mother had told Sophie of why they had not returned to London or why their visit to Yorkshire was so prolonged. Yet she didn’t suppose it would have mattered very much to Sophie if she had known of the incident at Durham House. She had a very straightforward brain. If one needed money, one went to people who had it. She didn’t want sympathy and halfhearted assistance but action. Maris entirely agreed with her yet boggled at the idea of seeing Lord Danesby again. She’d rather hoped she’d never be forced to speak to him, however often she might glimpse him in the distance.

As the Pikes took their leave, with much discussed but little settled, Maris drew Lucy aside. “Be ready to walk with me at half past ten tomorrow. I have a matter of great importance and need your help.” “Certainly,” Lucy said, agog. “What it is?” “Tomorrow. Don’t fail me. Wear the blue dress.”

* * * *

By embroidering ceaselessly upon every detail of her London experiences, Maris managed to keep Lucy from wondering where they were headed for quite some time. Eventually, however, her attention was distracted from a description of Durham House’s grandeur. “Surely this is the drive to Finchley Place?” she exclaimed. “Maris, where are we going?”

“To see his lordship, of course.”

“To see ... ? Oh, no, no, no!”

“Come now, Lucy, don’t fail me. I must see him about Miss Menthrip and I must not go alone.”

“You tricked me. Oh, Maris, how could you? I can’t go. What would my mother say?”

“She’d say you did right in not letting me go alone. I don’t know why you are making such a fuss. He’s just a man like any other. A bit better-looking perhaps but nothing to be frightened of.”

“How can you say that? This is Lord Danesby you are speaking of. Lord Danesby.” If Maris had not taken a firm hold of Lucy’s wrist, she would have darted away home, heedless of her dress and dignity alike.

“What of it? He can’t eat you. You needn’t even speak to him beyond a civil how do you do. But I must not go to Finchley Place alone, not after what passed at Durham House. I’m very sorry indeed that I tricked you into accompanying me but you must see that I need you, Lucy.” Privately, Maris thought she’d been quite right in not telling Lucy where they were going immediately. They never would have come even this far if she had.

As it was, it took nearly as long to walk the drive up to the house as it had taken to reach the drive itself. Lucy’s knees were apt to give out and Maris could feel her friend’s trembling through their linked arms. If Maris had been delivering Lucy to a dragon’s den to meet the usual fate of virgins, she could not have been more terrified. Maris tried to be kind, remembering that Lucy had not spent any time at all in Lord Danesby’s company. She still thought of him as an unattainable ideal, uncorrupted by contact with ordinary mortals.

Maris was happy to discover that while she could remember feeling just that way, no trace of hero worship remained, search her soul as she might. Kenton Danesby was a man, nothing more.

His house stood on a sward of perfectly shaved grass, as though it had grown there. Of red brick touched with pale Caen stone, it wore its stone traceries and large, glittering windows with the confidence of a woman who knows her jewelry is not only genuine but beyond price. Parallel staircases flowed down from the front terrace as though eagerly inviting guests to enter.

For a moment, Maris felt a pang of loss. This house, smiling at her in the golden sunshine, could have been hers. She could have known every corner with the love such beauty demanded as its due.

Then she smiled at herself, realizing it was fortuitous that she’d not seen Finchley Place before his lordship had proposed. She might have been able to resist him out of altruism but not his house.

Then a baying of hounds shattered the peace and quiet of the countryside. Lucy gave one shriek before she turned and fled, skirt hiked high, bonnet tumbling down her back, for the shelter of the trees beyond the lawn.

Maris stood her ground, though it sounded as though the Devil’s own pack headed toward her. They came around the corner of the house, a brown and white flood, every liver-colored nose lifted, every whip tail a-wag. At once, they raced loping over the emerald grass to surround her in a panting, sniffing, never-still pack. She patted and petted every one she could reach—there were no more than ten, if so many—saying,
“
Yes
,
sir. Good boy. Down, sir. Indeed you may sniff my gloves. Good boy.”

Then one, impatient for his need of attention, nudged her hard behind the knees and she stumbled, falling to the ground. One hound yelped as she put her hand down on his paw. The rest, intrigued by this new stage in their acquaintance, pushed closer to see what she’d do next. Maris laughed when one hound, not content with sniffing her hands, licked her face, pushing his long nose under her bonnet to do so.

Kenton, coming around the house in pursuit of his dogs, saw a lady in distress and advanced at a run to school the animals. Then he heard her laugh, ringing out, carrying with it all the joy and happiness in the world, and he paused, unsure if he was asleep or awake. How often had he awakened in the night over the past months, hearing that laughter fading along the corridors of his mind? He called himself a fool when he returned to himself, for why should the thought of losing Miss Lindel’s laughter cause him any distress? Yet always in those first moments after waking, he knew despair at his loss.