The Country Gentleman (30 page)

She hurried the little party out of the chilly darkness (they had arrived an hour or two past sundown) and up to the great oaken doors, where Trigg—a stout, amiable man, with a face as round and red as a radish, who had served as butler at Fevermere more than a dozen years—bobbed energetically to the ladies, and beamed to see the master safe at home. Mrs. Highet the elder waited impatiently while solicitous inquiries were made all round as to the respective healths of the travellers, the estimable Mrs. Trigg (plagued, alas, by rheumatism), and Trigg himself, and while the last-named collected the coats and hats of the first. When finally all this had been accomplished, Mrs. Archibald dropped an heavy paw round Maria’s shoulders and, leading the party into the wide front hall, trumpeted, “Now Mrs. Insel, I’ll wager I owe this visit to you. When Henry wrote that you were all coming, I said
to myself at once, it’s that sweet Mrs. Insel contrived it, thinking we would be lonely up here. But we’d have been snug enough! When we don’t go to Staffordshire, Staffordshire comes to us. You had no need to do it.” She gave Maria’s arm a playfully reproving squeeze and, ushering them all through the front hall, concluded, “Still, all’s well that ends well, isn’t it? I’ll have tea sent up to your rooms, shall I? And your dinner sent up there too?” With more urgency than tact, she instructed a footman to carry the ladies’ baggage to their wing, at the same time physically prodding Maria in that direction.

Anne looked uncertainly to her husband. Despite the inauspicious scene in the little library, the three of them had had quite a merry journey together. They had sung Christmas carols till their harmonies were perfect, set one another conundrums, dozed companionably or sat in a friendly silence. On the first of the two nights they had passed on the road they had all been tired and gone quickly to bed. But on the second, only Maria went upstairs early: Anne and Mr. Highet sat up quite late, alone in a private dining-room, arguing over a bottle of wine about Mr. Knight’s project to reclaim the forest at Exmoor. What pleasant company he had proved! And—particularly over the wine and the flickering, smoky candles—how very well-looking he was. He was not the best-informed man she had ever argued with, nor the most acute. But he held his own. What was it Celia had said, that one would not wish to live with Lord High Fol-de-rol any how? And Celia had thought…But no. Anne kept a careful eye on Mr. Highet throughout the journey. Though it was true she often found his warm gaze fixed on her—even, perhaps, admiringly—what else had he to
look at? As to the warmth, surely he also looked so on Maria? In truth, he was simply a warm, affectionate man. Consider, for example, how much trouble he was taking for Maria’s sake. She must not misinterpret these elements of his nature as particular signs of his regard for her. Though he did respect her. He had said so when he offered for her. And like her, she rather thought. But—

Her mind ran restlessly over and over what little she knew of his feelings for her. For—and this was the more true the farther they came from London—she was increasingly aware of how very much she liked him. Perhaps it was only loneliness since letting go of Ensley (this was the first time in ten years she had quitted town without informing him). But she did not think so. The more she considered it, the more she believed there were plenty of reasons to like Mr. Highet for his own sake. He was generous (witness his aid to her when she first came to Linfield), kind (his coming to London with Maria’s letter), scrupulous (his conduct towards her since they married), and even—after his own fashion—intelligent and humorous. Besides all that, she began to remember (and indeed, once or twice in the coach as he brushed her by chance, to experience again) the odd sensations his presence, his touch had produced in her early on. Why, he was handsome! In the rocking carriage she had watched him sleeping across from her and felt a distinct attraction to him, open mouth and all.

With all this in her thoughts, she was more conscious than ever of the humiliating possibility that his principal feeling towards her now was pity. She had felt, as they approached Fevermere, almost as if she were coming home. But it was not in her to insist on dining at the family
table when Mrs. Highet so plainly suggested she ought to remove to her rooms. So she hesitated, and was profoundly relieved when Mr. Highet placed a hand on his mother’s arm and said coaxingly to herself and Maria,

“Surely old travelling companions must not be parted so soon? Refresh yourselves a little and come dine with us.”

Politely, after a glance at Anne, “If it will not disturb Mrs. Highet—” Maria answered.

With all eyes upon her, “Bless you, my dear!” Mrs. Archibald trumpeted. “I should be delighted, delighted! I only thought you might be tired, that’s all. That’s the all and end of it,” she added, laughing as if she had made a very good joke. “Four for dinner! Off I go to tell Cook. Now you scamper up and wash the dust off you, my chickens, and—” She turned, arm outstretched. “Henry, dear, would you come with me?”

Mrs. Highet’s elder son arrived at Fevermere with his wife and their extremely considerable brood about three the next afternoon. Acquaintance with them gave Anne a much clearer idea why Mrs. Archibald had fled into Cheshire with her younger son, for Mrs. Thaddeus Highet was as managing a female as Anne had ever laid eyes on. Not that she wondered at it—with seven children, six of them boys, she supposed one would be obliged to be managing—but the household at Foxleigh (this was the name of the Highets’ estate in Staffordshire) could not have been comfortable for the old lady.

Anne herself got on with Selina well enough: Conversation with her was chiefly a matter of nodding and smiling while Selina interrupted herself to call to one child or
another—as for example, “My dear Anne—I hope I may call you— Excuse me! William, put Charles down at once and come to me!—may call you Anne, since we are really sisters— Oh, pardon me! Arthur, I told you to leave that infernal noise-making thingummy at home, and now how does it come to be here? Put it away at once! Give it to Nurse, if you can’t leave it alone. —What was I saying? Oh yes, we are sisters, really! But I started to say, I am so terribly sorry I have been unable to do more than—Charles! At your age! I expect a big boy like you to have better sense than to dangle out a window like that. Come down this moment! I am so sorry, Anne, it is really their father’s fault. He will wind them up so, with his jokes and his teasing, and then of course he goes off where it’s quiet and leaves them to me. But as I was saying, I feel absolutely ashamed we have not met sooner. That is my fault, I admit, for— Stay here, Anne!” She jumped up suddenly and ran to the other end of the room exclaiming continuously, “Oh dear dear dear dear dear!” till she reached the window and snatched the persistent Charles from the jaws of death.

Anne found it easier to converse with her brother-in-law, who had some of Henry’s traits, though in many ways they differed. In fact, the two together made an interesting study for her. Equally large as his brother but rougher-featured and (Anne thought) much less handsome, Thaddeus had a bluff good-humour and heartiness which, though apparent in Henry, were refined in the latter (Anne considered) by his more thoughtful character and an innate gentleness the older man lacked. Thaddeus had inherited his mother’s loquacity. He had not what Anne now recognised as his brother’s habit of close, quiet
observation: Altogether he was more voluble, more convivial than Henry. He had a natural taste for clowning which he frequently indulged among his children. In time Anne came to consider Selina’s complaint well-founded, that her husband “wound the boys up,” then left her to deal with the consequences. Mr. Thaddeus Highet bore his wife’s complaints with cheerful indifference.

Towards herself he showed a degree of polite interest and friendly curiosity that made it easy for her to talk with him, and soon to feel she knew him. If any of the Staffordshire Highets wondered at her living in a different wing of the house than her husband, none mentioned it to her. All accepted Maria easily, Thaddeus chaffing her about her constant work (she was never without a bit of embroidery or filagree), Selina adroitly putting her to good use as a sort of auxiliary governess-nurse.

In this last Maria willingly complied. She liked children; and anyhow, being within a few miles of Mr. Mallinger made her anxious to such a degree that any diversion was welcome. Having arrived on a Saturday evening, the London party had slept late Sunday and forgone church, so that she had not seen him there. But see him she would: if not by chance on some earlier occasion, then on Christmas Eve, when he and Miss Veal and Rand and some half-dozen others were to come to a family supper. The very idea of it made her tremble and gather her grey shawl more closely about her. She had at first wanted to excuse herself from all such festivities on the grounds of her mourning; but to do this, Mr. Highet had pointed out, would be to have the whole story of her earlier deception out. This being so, Maria could only thank him for making her realize it, and think to herself what a very good friend Mr. Highet was.

In light of the fact that it was Maria’s welfare which had brought Anne into Cheshire again, by the way, it was remarkable how little attention she paid to that lady. Mrs. Archibald Highet having happened to mention that Mr. Mallinger was expected to join them on Christmas Eve, Anne vaguely considered that the matter would thenceforward take care of itself—that Mr. Mallinger, given the opportunity to renew his acquaintance with Mrs. Insel, would somehow also renew his suit, and this time succeed in it. The real subject of her reflections in these days was Mr. Highet. How patiently he played with the children! Amazed, she watched him crouch down and submit to be blindfolded in the centre of the room, then tapped and teased in a game of Hot Cockles. He pretended to wonder where on earth that slipper could have got to while the children passed it round and round, every moment giving away its position by their squeals and chortles. The Highet brood had been joined on Monday by three girls belonging to a couple named Framouth who (Mr. Framouth having been at Oxford with Thaddeus Highet) had come to swell the Christmas party. Accustomed to houses in which the nursery held children in an exile sterner than Bonaparte’s, Anne looked on in astonished horror as Fevermere fell under the thrall of a pack of screeching urchins. But when she herself was asked to join a game of Forfeits and (under stringent urging from Mr. Highet himself) consented, she soon found herself pointing and laughing every bit as loud as the children, and even submitted to stand up and sing “Mary Had a Little Lamb” to win back her reticule.

She was aided in this undignified performance not only by the example of Mr. Highet (who had had to hop up and down while whistling “Hot Cross Buns” in order to
regain his watch fob) but by his obvious delight in her participation. A dozen times she caught his eyes warmly fastened upon her, a smile in them and on his generous lips, while she thought up forfeits and challenges for the children. Under such a friendly gaze, she could not but unbend and enjoy herself—though she wondered now and then what clever Miss Anne Guilfoyle would have thought (a year ago) of the giggling lady now rolling upon Mrs. Highet’s drawing-room floor. But she shrugged such questions off, taught the children how to play Backgammon and Speculation, and was soon as much a favourite with the Framouth girls and little Augusta Highet as their Uncle Henry was with the boys.

In the evening the older children were permitted to sit up and dine with the adults. The Wares came to dinner also, and Mrs. Ware’s brother (who had indeed been glad to take Linfield and was living there very comfortably) with his older offspring, so that they sat down quite twenty to table. Afterwards, Miss Ware proposed dancing. So much acclaim greeted this suggestion that the carpet was promptly rolled back and all the music in the house that might serve eagerly ferreted out. Miss Sophia Ware, most conveniently, played proficiently but was too bashful to care to dance. She willingly seated herself at the pianoforte at nine and never rose till past eleven. Anne danced a quadrille with George Highet (the favourite nephew of his uncle), a minuet with Thaddeus Highet, a country-dance with Mr. Ware, and a rather wild gigue with his son. But her most memorable turns upon the floor were a pair of waltzes she danced with her husband, who proved to possess a surprisingly light and elegant foot for a man so large. After the first, Selina Highet took her aside
and (emboldened by the punch? inspired by the figure Anne and Henry had cut upon the dance floor?) asked “if by any chance the Henry Highets expected a happy event?”

Anne’s immediate instinct was to glance down, alarmed lest her slender waist should have thickened without her noticing it. But,

“Oh, no, my dear!” murmured Selina, laughing. “You are as slim as a girl, I’m sure! I only wondered.” And she gave Anne a rather coy glance from behind her fan—a glance which seemed to say, “You and I know every woman longs for a baby! Come, tell me!”

Anne shook her head, looking down again. Though her natural reserve disliked the forwardness of the question, it did touch upon a matter which had been on her mind in the last day or two. It was a strange thing, but she could no longer remember how she had come to be so sure she did not wish to have children. Perhaps she had only caught the Nursery Madness which seemed to hold Fevermere in its grip; perhaps it had more to do with seeing how delightedly Mr. Highet received his nephews; in any case, she found herself nearer to liking the idea than she had ever been before. And she was not so very old! She had turned nine-and-twenty in September; but many women bore children long after that. Still looking away, “No,” she answered Selina, in a tone which did not invite her to ask again. But her eyes sought out Mr. Highet a moment later and she coloured consciously when, seeming to feel her gaze, he looked round at her.

The second waltz ended the evening. Mr. Highet presented himself to claim it from Anne with a humorously deep bow, grandly swept her onto the floor, clasped her
lightly in his arms, and whirled her so relentlessly that she felt quite giddy. She kept her eyes on him to ward off even a worse vertigo, and all the time they turned she felt his warm hand on her waist, and thought of Selina’s question.