Playing to Win (33 page)

Still, she was feeling so lonely for
Trevor that she always greeted Mr. Henry with pleasure. It was a
relief to have company to distract her. She assented to each and
every expedition he proposed, because it was also a relief to get
out of the house. Left to her own devices, she had a lamentable
tendency these days to mope. Thank God she was not left to her own
devices often. Mr. Henry arrived punctually at 2:00 every
afternoon.

Chapter 22

"Miss Feeney, you possess such keen
sensibilities! Such elegance of mind!" Eustace Henry exclaimed,
pushing back the lock of hair that had fallen, inevitably, across
his forehead.

Clarissa, with difficulty, repressed a
sigh. "I only said what I suppose a dozen others must have
said."

They were exploring a very scrubby and
uninteresting patch of ground that Eustace had assured her was a
Roman ruin. It did not strike Clarissa as a particularly good
example, and since she did not wish to hurt Mr. Henry’s feelings by
sharing that opinion with him, she had simply remarked, in a
general sort of way, how difficult it was to imagine Romans in
Britain. It was her comment on the hardships one would face, moving
to this island from a warm and sunny clime, that had excited
Eustace’s admiration. But everything she did or said seemed to
excite Eustace’s admiration.

"You do not realize how your comments
betray the inner workings of your soul," Mr. Henry assured her
feverishly. "You are always concerned with others’ welfare, others’
feelings! Even the Romans, who are no longer here to benefit from
your solicitude. You cannot imagine how charmingly it strikes an
observer."

"Thank you," she said, as quellingly as
she could. Uttering any sort of disclaimer usually caused him to
expand upon his theme, so she dared not chide him for his
absurdity. Instead, she walked a little farther along the narrow
footpath and tried to think of some topic that her companion could
not twist into a paean to her virtues. Eustace instantly rushed to
her side and attempted to assist her, as if she were incapable of
negotiating the rough ground without his guidance.

It was bitterly cold today. The terrain
around Islington had turned bleak and dun-colored during the past
fortnight, as if the land itself was turning up its collar against
the oncoming winter. She supposed she might form a different
impression of the ruined villa at another time of year. Or with a
different escort. A picture of Mr. Whitlatch at her side intruded,
and she found herself imagining the outrageous comments Trevor
would make, and how they would have laughed so hard that they would
never feel the cold. It was impossible to be bored in Trevor’s
company. This time, she did not succeed in repressing her
sigh.

Mr. Henry, observing this sign of
discontent, rushed into anxious speech. "It looks quite different
in Spring, but I thought you should see it without all the grasses
and flowers in the way. It’s easier to see the outline of the walls
at this time of year."

Clarissa eyed the surrounding hillocks
doubtfully. "Is it?"

"Oh, yes! Only fancy, we are standing
in the very spot where some Roman matron spun her cloth or stirred
her pots!" Eustace waved energetically at a row of what appeared to
Clarissa to be ordinary rocks. His eyes shone with enthusiasm. "It
makes one think, doesn’t it?"

"Yes, indeed," said Clarissa politely.
It certainly made her think. It made her think she was mad to allow
Mr. Henry to drag her all over the countryside on these expeditions
to nowhere. So far he had shown her the Sadler’s Wells Theatre
(which might have been interesting had it not been closed for the
winter), the local waterworks, a tile kiln, and every scenic
overlook within ten miles. It was very kind of him to take her out
so frequently in his father’s gig, and it certainly was preferable
to languishing about the house and waiting for Mr. Whitlatch to
return from London. Still, she feared that being seen so often in
Eustace’s company was giving rise to gossip in the village. He had
become extremely particular in his attentions, without ever coming
to the point.

For the next forty minutes or more, Mr.
Henry stumped vigorously over the uneven ground, gesturing,
exclaiming, and discoursing with real excitement, and a fair amount
of knowledge, on the Roman occupation of Britain. Clarissa listened
in tolerant amusement. It was impossible not to sympathize with his
eagerness. He really seemed to have made a study of it, poor boy,
and clearly he had few opportunities to indulge his pet
subject.

"You ought to go to Rome yourself one
day," she told him, smiling.

"By Jove, don’t I wish I could!"
Eustace exclaimed, with genuine feeling. "And Athens, as well! And
Egypt! What I wouldn’t give—" but he stopped short, his face
reddening. "I beg your pardon; I daresay it isn’t very interesting
to a female."

"I own, I had rather see Venice and
Florence," Clarissa admitted. "I’m afraid I don’t know much about
antiquities."

She was soon sorry she had said that. A
kind of glow came over Mr. Henry, and he launched into a jumbled
recitation containing so many facts, and dates, and exotic names,
that Clarissa became completely bewildered. Eyes shining, face
flushed, and hair flopping repeatedly into his face, Eustace was
the picture of schoolboy intensity. But they were standing on a
barren outcropping in a windswept field on a very cold day.
Clarissa, lacking the warmth that his hobby horse gave Eustace,
eventually began to shiver as she listened. She comforted herself
with the thought that at least in extolling the perfections of the
ancient world, he had given the subject of Miss Feeney’s
perfections a rest.

A blast of icy air whistled across the
turf, so cold she thought it could almost lift the skin off her
face. Her teeth began to chatter. Clarissa, rendered desperate,
interrupted her companion. "M-Mr. Henry! I beg your pardon, but
m-might we remove ourselves from the wind a t-trifle?"

His face fell, almost ludicrously, from
dreamy-eyed rapture into an expression of dismay. "Good God! I have
kept you standing in the cold! Oh, Miss Feeney, I am a villain! I
don’t know what I deserve! Oh, pray, take my arm—take my coat—allow
me to assist you!"

He was simultaneously chafing her hands
and struggling out of his greatcoat, and Clarissa could not help
laughing as she tried to pull her hands away.

"No, really—this is quite unnecessary!
Mr. Henry, don’t be absurd. I will b-be fine directly I am back in
the c-carriage! Oh, for the love of heaven!" This, as he lost his
balance and toppled over onto the rocky ground, inadvertently
pulling Clarissa down on top of him. She kicked and wriggled
impotently as he snatched at her in a panic.

"Miss Feeney! Are you all right? Oh, my
God! I will kill myself if I have hurt you! Miss Feeney! Miss
Feeney!"

"Let me go, you nonsensical boy!" she
gasped. "Of course I am unhurt! Let me go!"

But they had both become entangled in
his voluminous driving coat, and were struggling at cross-purposes.
Clarissa finally wrenched herself free and sat very hard on the
ground beside Eustace, feeling thoroughly ruffled. Mr. Henry, half
in and half out of his coat, and extremely red in the face, managed
to sit up, seize her hand, and embark on a lengthy apology. She
listened with what patience she could muster to his bitter
animadversions on his own clumsiness, his stupidity, his
unworthiness to serve as her escort,
et cetera,
and when she
felt she could bear no more, she interrupted him again.

"Thank you; that will do! You did not
pull me down on purpose, after all. Only help me to rise, and I
will gladly forget this extremely embarrassing
incident."

She had instinctively spoken in a
schoolteacher’s tone, and was instantly sorry for it. But Eustace
obeyed her, just as her charges had always done. "You are too
good—too kind," he uttered in a choked voice. He started to remove
his coat again, but seemed to think better of the impulse, and
instead offered her merely his arm on the way back to the carriage.
By the time he had assisted her into the gig and silently tucked a
lap robe round her, his expression had become morose. He untied his
horse, clambered up beside her on the box, and gloomily started
them down the lane.

"I know you think me nothing but a boy,
and a silly boy at that," he said bitterly. "Whenever I am with
you, I seem to behave like a perfect gudgeon."

It was quite true, but Clarissa was
touched by his evident distress. He really was a very nice young
man. She was ashamed of herself for treating him like a child; she
had no business doing so. "Nonsense, Mr. Henry," she said gently,
and smiled at him. "It was a stupid accident, but it might have
happened to anyone. Pray do not think of it again."

He turned to her, his enormous brown
eyes filled with despair. "I will never be worthy of you, however
hard I try."

Clarissa was so startled by this sudden
assertion, she could think of nothing to reply. She stared at him,
wondering if she had heard him aright. Was this the moment at
last?

Mr. Henry appeared to be in the grip of
strong emotion. His eyes searched hers hungrily, and he raked the
lock of hair off his forehead with one impatient hand. "I know my
case is hopeless. But if I had any chance of winning you, I would
do anything! Anything!"

This was the moment. He was going to
propose marriage to her. This was what she had schemed for, hoped
for, dreamed of. And yet the strangest sensation of panic raked
through Clarissa. She was conscious of a strong, irrational impulse
to jump out of the gig and run away.

She found herself stalling, stammering,
"Mr. Henry, pray—pray do not put yourself in a taking. You and I
are friends, are we not?"

Eustace’s expressive eyes burned like
liquid coals in his suddenly pale face, and two spots of color
flamed high on his cheeks. The intensity of his emotion was painful
to behold. "Friends! It will—it will
kill
me—to always
remain your friend!"

Clarissa then sat in stunned silence,
wondering what on earth was the matter with her, while Eustace
relieved his pent-up feelings in a flood of heated eloquence. In
addition to his high-minded worship of the ground she trod, he told
her of his circumstances, of his hopes of securing a post as clerk
to a local solicitor, of how there would not be much money at first
but how very diligently he meant to work, of where they might live
and how they might contrive.

He had dropped the reins long ago, and
now caught her hands in a deathlike grip. Somehow he even managed
to get down on one knee in the confines of the narrow box. Clarissa
was painfully aware of the spectacle they would present to any
chance-met stranger, with Mr. Henry kneeling, oblivious to the
world, in the driver’s side of the gig as his father’s horse ambled
placidly along between the shafts! But Eustace was misconstruing
her sudden blush and disjointed exclamations. He was taking her
confusion as encouragement.

"Miss Feeney—Clarissa!" breathed Mr.
Henry, his eyes shining with hope. "Only say the word, and I will
wait forever!"

Clarissa stammered something
incoherent. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was hurt
the sensitive feelings of a shy, dreamy-eyed boy who believed
himself to be in love with her. And of course she didn’t want him
to wait forever. She either wanted to marry him and be done with
it, or refuse him and be done with it. Until this moment, she had
had every intention of accepting him with alacrity. Now her tongue
seemed to cleave to the roof of her mouth and she stared helplessly
at him, completely flummoxed.

"This—this is so sudden," she said
feebly. The remark sounded absurd to her own ears, but Eustace’s
eyes lit with delirious joy.

"You do not say ‘no’!" he exclaimed.
"Oh, dear Miss Feeney, that is all I ask! You have not refused me!
Oh, that is more than I had hoped for!"

Clarissa became aware that a farmer’s
cart was rounding the corner ahead of them. She blushed furiously,
tugging urgently at Eustace’s hands. "Mr. Henry, pray—!" she
gasped. "There is someone coming!"

He struggled back onto the box beside
her, his face as flushed as hers, but beaming. She dared not raise
her eyes for fear of reading sly knowledge in the unknown farmer’s
face. Scarlet-cheeked, she stared at her toes.

Mr. Henry seemed to think she was
behaving with maidenly decorum. He picked up the reins with an
elaborate air of unconcern and pretended to drive, although the
vicar’s horse required no directions to take them back toward the
village and was, at any rate, an animal unreceptive to
suggestion.

"I suppose I ought to tell you," he
said shyly, "that I am not precisely of age yet."

Oh, dear. Clarissa hardly knew whether
to feel glad or sorry. There was no hope whatsoever of the vicar
and his wife consenting to their only son’s engagement—at least not
to her. Mrs. Henry’s animosity toward this penniless, unknown girl
was so thinly veiled that Clarissa felt deeply uncomfortable around
her, even while attending church.

She cleared her throat. "Then perhaps
we should not be having this discussion," she suggested
faintly.