The Country Gentleman (22 page)

“Oh, excellent.” Miss Guilfoyle either verified the presence or inspected the cleanliness (it was not clear which) of her ten fingernails before adding, “I hope we shall not be too much discommoded with bride visits and that sort of thing. Although—” She looked up in confusion, and there was upon her face an expression of almost shyness which Mr. Highet (though it is doubtful whether Miss Guilfoyle knew this, for she was looking not at him but out the French doors) observed with visible satisfaction, “I wonder where, exactly, such a visit might be paid?” she finished dubiously.

“If you mean, here or at Fevermere, the question has crossed my mind as well. I have no wish to uproot you, but as you will no doubt be returning to London to set up an establishment of your own very shortly, it seems to me foolish for you to keep up Linfield as well.” Speaking haltingly at first he continued, “If it would not discomfit you too much, there is quite a wing of Fevermere my mother and I can spare to you and Mrs. Insel. Some few of the Linfield servants, perhaps, will come with you. For the others, I happen to know that Mrs. Ware’s brother—recently widowed, alas—is looking for a house to let in the neighbourhood of his sister, for himself and his children. He would be only too glad, I think, to take Linfield—and as he has no wife, perhaps the estimable Miss Veal…”

He paused suggestively, and Anne took up, “Oh indeed, it would mean a new life to her!” She had not failed to notice his generous, unprompted inclusion of Maria in her plans, and her gratitude made it a little harder to say what she nevertheless felt she must: “Mr. Highet,” she
commenced, standing and (in spite of her recent long walk) restlessly moving across the room, her back towards him, “there is one aspect of my life I must make clear to you. If you lived more in London you would know it yourself, for it is well understood among the
ton
; but as you do not…” Her restlessness drove her quite to the French doors, where she stared out at the terrace and the dark woods beyond. A new note of resolution, almost of ruthlessness, sounded in her voice as she presently went on, “I have a friend there with whom I am on, and have for ten years been on, extremely close and particular terms. This gentleman, whom you have met—”

She was quite startled—almost frightened—to hear his voice suddenly interrupt, “Ensley, you mean.” There was sternness in his tone, she thought. He went on, coldly and as if the matter slightly disgusted him, “I am quite aware of your special bond to him. It neither concerns me nor touches our agreement.”

She expected him to say more, but he did not. She had kept her back towards him while he spoke. When at length she turned, she found him poised at the door. She partly crossed the room to him, saying in a low voice, “I felt I should mention it.”

Mr. Highet bowed in silence. In his face she saw that same quality she had heard in his voice—sternness, she called it to herself—and it surprised her a little. She felt she had displeased him, which was not her wish. She gave what she hoped was a conciliatory smile.

“Should you like me to go with you to your mother, to tell her our news?” she asked, to turn the topic.

“That will not be necessary.” Frowning, his features taut, Mr. Highet presented almost a new countenance to
her. She had never imagined him to have so much—what? Pride? Anger?

She essayed another smile. “You are very kind to offer to take Maria in as well as myself.”

He said only, “Not at all”; but his scowl softened a little.

“She holds you in the highest esteem,” Anne went on, still smiling. “I know she will be glad to hear of our—our alliance. You have not yet had an opportunity, I suppose,” she added, through a chain of thought invisible to Mr. Highet, “to speak to Mr. Mallinger?”

“Not yet. I shall go to him, perhaps, when I leave here.” His expression relaxing yet more, “I doubt money is at the root of it, however. It exasperates me, for I fear he will leave us. I should hate to lose him.”

“Oh, I do not think he will leave,” Anne replied a little mysteriously. “I expect by Christmas, say, he will be right again.”

Mr. Highet appeared to have heard this with only half an ear. His scowl at last quite gone, he told her in much warmer tones, “You know, I hope, that we shall always be glad to see you at Fevermere, Miss Guilfoyle. Even so soon as Christmas, you may wish to return. Or if not, whenever you do like to come, you must stay as short or as long as you please, and bring any party you care to. Only give the house a little warning, and—” His brow darkened again as he went on, “I do think it would be inadvisable to bring Lord Ensley here again. In fact, that is my condition. I will ask you to observe it.”

Anne murmured, “Willingly, sir,” and set herself to regain, through charm and smiles, the ground she had somehow lost again; but this time Mr. Highet’s scowl vanished
more readily. A few more pleasantries, Mr. Highet’s assurance he would ride to Chester to-morrow to see his man of business about the contract, and the gentleman took his leave. This time Miss Guilfoyle bowed while Mr. Highet put out his hand. But they smiled at their awkwardness, and Mr. Highet did not take his hand away as she had done upon that earlier occasion. Instead he put the other out as well, took both hers (though very briefly), smiled, released her, and was gone.

The wedding of Mr. Henry Highet and Miss Anne Guilfoyle took place in the rectory of the Reverend Septimus Samuels, at two-thirty
P
.
M
, on 25 November, Year of our Lord 1816. In attendance were Mrs. John Insel, Mrs. Archibald Highet (the bridegroom’s mother), and Mrs. Samuels. The bride’s Uncle Frederick had sent, to represent him, a letter congratulating his niece on having found “a way out of her difficulties” (her first intimation that he knew she had been in them) and, a week later, a silver bowl Anne recognised as having once belonged to her mother for a wedding gift. From Celia Grypphon—who of course knew her situation rather more intimately—came a letter equally congratulatory and a good deal warmer. Anne having written to her exactly the terms upon which she entered matrimony, Celia agreed the offer was a godsend, and only urged her to return to London as soon as ever she could. Lady Grypphon meanwhile would scout for a house to let. As for Ensley, Celia reported him looking much more cheerful since this news had come. Ensley reporting the same to Anne directly, it appeared they were all of one opinion.

How then to account for the weak knees, the racing heart, the damp brow with which Miss Guilfoyle faced
Mr. Samuels? Sentiment—sentiment and superstition were the culprits the bride scornfully put them down to herself. She urged herself to think of Ensley, but the thought did not steady her. “Clunchery! Sheer shatter-headedness!” ran her inward apostrophe, while she listened to Mr. Samuels’ caution that the estate of matrimony was not to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly; but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God.

She glanced at the man beside her. Well, he looked sober enough. Indeed she could not read his face at all: Handsome, heavy, impassive, his features were composed into the same sleepy mask she had seen an hundred times. When he said, “I will,” when he took his vows, his voice was deep and calm. His hand, enfolding hers, was warm; hers, taking his, cold and moist. Mr. Highet could hardly hold Anne’s finger still enough to slip the ring upon it, so much did it tremble. She was relieved to be licenced to take his hand again, a moment later, and hold it through the rest of the ceremony—for she felt giddy and faint, and his large paw reassured her. At the conclusion of the ceremony they looked into one another’s eyes for the first time. Anne felt dimly that she had done some thing, some momentous thing, she could hardly say what. Then Mr. Highet leaned down and drily kissed her dewy forehead. He led her out of the rectory into the fresh air, which she eagerly gulped. His mother, following, cried a little; Maria appeared at the rectory door a moment later and begged the elder Mrs. Highet to come in.

Left alone, the new-married pair smiled at one another. Anne, much restored by the fresh, cold air, raised an eyebrow and said, with an almost childish glance of mischief, “Well, it’s done!”

“Done indeed. And now—” He leaned down, looming dizzily over her. His breath fell warm on her ear. “Off to London with you whenever you like! You may go tonight, if you care to; I’ll brave the neighbours’ noises.”

Whether it was the chill of the day penetrating her numbed limbs at last or some deeper coldness, Anne, curiously, heard him with a shiver, and a sensation of ice in her veins. Almost chattering, “I should like a cup of tea first,” she told him, “if it’s all the same to you.”

“Oh, indeed! Dear ma’am, you must be frozen out here, without so much as a shawl.” He bundled her solicitously back indoors, saying, “I did not mean to hurry you, you know. Only to make you easy. Stop as long as you like,” invited her husband, concluding generously, “Stop a week! It is all the same to me.”

In the event, the new Mrs. Highet passed near a fortnight more in Cheshire before journeying to town. She had her remove from Linfield to conduct, she said, and her installation at Fevermere. Moreover, Celia had found and was preparing for her a house in London, which also needed time. Besides, she did not like to expose Mr. Highet to the gossip and pity a parish must shower upon a husband so soon deserted by his wife. Mr. Highet iterated his willingness to endure it for her sake; but Anne insisted and stopped on.

As she had foreseen, Charlotte Veal had been far from sorry to hear of the change in Linfield’s tenantry. Mr. Rand was wild with relief and delight at the prospect of serving a gentleman again. In fact, dry eyes were general
throughout the house. The London servants were overjoyed to know they would soon return to their old haunts and friends. Nor did Anne and Maria quit the place with any excess of sorrow. The house had been too small and plain. Anne never even unpacked the vast majority of her Holies Street things—which was fortunate since, though they had been transported a long way to little effect, at least they did not need packing up again.

Fevermere, the ladies had found upon being invited to explore it, was far more substantial. Three or even four times the size of Linfield, it was fitted out with plenty of plush carpets and brocaded draperies; its walls were hung with papers and silks; its furniture was—though scarcely elegant or modish—pleasant, abundant, and not vulgar. Mr. Highet had not exaggerated when he said an entire wing might be made over to them. Their part of Fevermere was by itself nearly as large as Linfield. They could be quite as private (even lonesome!) there as they liked, meeting Mr. Highet and his devoted progenitrix only at meals—or, if they wished, not even then, for the kitchen was happy to send whatever they desired to their suite.

As for Mrs. Highet the elder, she was a long way from making the newcomers feel they were rude to keep out of sight. On the contrary, she was full of thoughtful suggestions as to how they could make their wing discrete. She pointed out that one of their larger sitting-rooms might well be changed into a drawing-room for the reception of guests, and promised to undertake the alteration herself while they were gone. She even proposed the conversion of a parlour near it to a dining-saloon, so that (save for kitchens and stables) they might be quite independent. Her concern in all this was naturally, as she often remarked, for them. She knew her daughter-in-law had
lived solitary many years and easily conceived how little a change in habits must appeal to her now. The two Mrs. Highets had neither of them cared to discuss explicitly the oddities of the recent marriage, but Anne knew the other was in full possession of the facts, and so bore her clumsy shifts and thin solicitude with amused tolerance.

Mr. Highet continued quite the same towards Anne as ever. She saw him at dinner, but not often at any other time, for (she having entrusted to him the management of both estates) he had no longer to consult her on decisions, nor to lend nor to borrow of her. Their intercourse, curiously, was rather more than less public after their marriage, for the reason that it all took place at Fevermere, where the senior Mrs. Highet constantly dogged her son. Once or twice Maria Insel contrived, on a narrow pretext, to detach that venerable lady from the other two after dinner. But Maria would have been disappointed to know her efforts had no observable effect on Mr. Highet. He remained towards his wife as friendly, serious, and ever so slightly obtuse as ever.

Only once, just before she at last took her leave for London, did he seek her out privately. One morning he sent a note up with her chocolate requesting an interview in her sitting-room at a given hour. She came to him with a head full of trunks and boxes, coaches and inns, for she had been directing the preparations for her journey. She found him thoughtful and even slower of speech than usual. He apologized for taking her from her tasks, then,

“Madam, I am come to ask before you go, whether you are content with the—” he faltered, “the step we have taken together; or if, on the contrary, you have come to doubt its wisdom. I pray you speak frankly, for I don’t know when I shall see you again.”

Anne, surprised, thought a moment. It was a question she had already considered, of course, but she did not wish to answer hastily. Presently, “I have no regret,” she said, “though I am sometimes amazed to realize my situation. But six months ago, I was single and independent. Since then I…” Her thoughts having turned to Ensley, and how his marriage in some ways precipitated hers, she fell silent. At length, “Much has happened. But doubts—no, I have none. It gratifies me to watch you administer the joining of the estates. You demonstrate such zeal, enjoyment, and ready ability, as is a delight to see. For myself, I confess I anticipate my return to London with the keenest pleasure.” She hesitated almost imperceptibly but did not add that, at the same time, it rather saddened her to think of quitting Fevermere. It was an emotion she did not fully understand, and as such seemed wiser to keep to herself. “But you, sir. Since you are kind enough to pose it, permit me to return the question, and urge upon you the same candour.”