Keeping the Castle

13



RELEASED FROM MY DUTIES to Art, I found the Baron almost pathetically grateful to be called away from Charity’s side. The next day when Miss Vincy and the gentlemen from Gudgeon Park came to call, I chose a moment when Charity was out of the room to suggest that I was in need of a brisk walk over the moors after so much long sitting. I said that I believed Miss Vincy would likewise benefit from the same exercise. She agreed, tho’ with a smile and an affectionate shake of the head—she had after all walked here from the Park only a few moments before.

Lord Boring quickly volunteered to accompany us and Mr. Fredericks followed suit. Prudence, who disliked exercise, declined to join us, as did my mother, who preferred to remain at home with Alexander. On hearing Mama’s declaration, the Marquis elected to stay and keep her company. By unspoken agreement we went quickly and quietly, only slackening our pace when we had left the immediate castle grounds. I began to turn onto a path that led through a small copse of trees when the Baron said in an expressionless voice, “Ah, yes. One of Miss Charity’s favorite walks.”

“Oh!” I said. “You are quite right. So it is. Perhaps, as you have spent a good deal of time with my stepsister lately, you would prefer to try something different? The cliff walk for instance? I know Charity dislikes it—it is rather windy.”

“By all means!” agreed the Baron. Then, remembering his manners, he added, “If it is agreeable to you, Miss Vincy, that is.”

Miss Vincy said that she would be pleased to walk the cliffs, as she had never done so before, and we soon gained the path that led towards the sea. Her artist’s eye was delighted with the sun glittering on the placid sea far below and the vast panorama laid out before us. The wind, however, was powerful enough to necessitate our each taking a gentleman’s arm to steady us, and I called Fido back to me, away from the edge. I took care to secure the Baron’s arm and, as the other two proceeded ahead of us, I was pleased to note how happy she seemed, pointing out details of the scene below. She looked quite attractive, with the wind in her hair and her color high.

The Baron said, “You have grown fond of Miss Vincy, I think?”

I turned to him. “Oh I have! Very fond.”

“Yes, she seems genteel enough—surprising, really, given the father. ’Tis a pity about the smallpox,” he mused. “Without the scars she might have been tolerable-looking, but with them—!”

“Oh, but there is so much more to Miss Vincy than her looks or her parentage,” I cried, feeling a prick of annoyance on my friend’s account. “Fie, Lord Boring! Do not make me think that you see so little below the surface!”

I was not smiling as I said it and he reddened. “I beg your pardon. I was only thinking that few men will want to marry her save for her fortune. We men, you know, are more apt to be beguiled by a lovely face than a worthy nature.”

“Only to discover your mistake,” I retorted, “after the first six months of marriage.”

He laughed. “Oh I doubt many men who marry for love look past the first six months.”

“Then, Baron, men are greater fools than I thought.” I said this with a good deal of vigor, and Lord Boring looked a little taken aback. I could not repent of it, however.

“Of course,” he said after a brief silence, “some young ladies combine great beauty with great good nature,” and he smiled, with the clear intention of paying me a compliment.

“Oh?” I enquired testily. “They may be rarer than you think.”

We walked for a time without speaking, during which I mentally shook myself all over and came to my senses. What was the matter with me? I had always known, ever since I was thirteen years old and men first began to look at me, that beauty was power, the only real power (other than cash in hand) that a woman could possess. I knew it was transitory, and must be used shrewdly and well in the few years it lasted.

It had seemed the natural order of things. And I was one of the lucky ones. Why should I question it?

“I beg your pardon, Lord Boring,” I said. “That was rude. Sometimes it is difficult to be a woman.”

He rallied at my apology, responding, “Oh, but Miss Crawley, lovely as you are, surely you of all ladies cannot find being a woman to be a burden!”

Ah well. He was charming, handsome, wealthy, and titled. I supposed it was a bit much to expect him not to be a fool like the rest of his sex.




Having reestablished Lord Boring as my admirer and broken the seeming stranglehold my stepsister had had upon his company (for now that my posing sessions were completed, he reverted to his former habits, joining me as we sat or walked or rode), I turned my attention to other matters. I must find a way to spur Mr. Fredericks on to propose to Miss Vincy. I decided that, as Mr. Godalming continued to call at the castle and the Park, staring morosely at Miss Vincy and making occasional attempts to converse with her, I might as well make use of him.

Perhaps this was wrong of me, but I could not quite forgive Mr. Godalming for first abusing me for being mercenary and then pursuing Miss Vincy with the identical motivation. Especially as he was quite wealthy already and did not need the money; it was nothing but greed. This being the case I engaged him in conversation when next I spotted him in the village. He was in Sturridge’s shop, frowning over the purchase of a handkerchief.

“Choose the linen, Mr. Godalming,” I recommended, coming up behind him. “It will stand up to washing better than the silk.”

He bowed and said in a lofty tone, “How do you do, Miss Crawley? I thank you for your advice, but I believe I am as good a judge of handkerchiefs as any young lady,” and proceeded to purchase the silk. Ah well. No one could say I hadn’t warned him—it was a cheap silk and would fade badly.

The subject matter, however, gave me an idea. “Speaking of handkerchiefs,” I went on, “as we are such old friends, I hope you will not mind my saying that I think you were blind to the signals a certain young lady was sending you, only the other day.”

He paused in the act of pocketing the new handkerchief. “Oh?” he said, his nose twitching like a rabbit’s. He licked his lips. “And which young lady was that?”

“No, no, Mr. Godalming, you must not ask me that! I only wished to drop a hint. You have heard of the language of handkerchiefs now so popular in London and Bath?”

“I—I believe so.”

In truth, I myself had only recently heard of it from the Marquis, whose information had not been complete enough to tell me the details of what each gesture meant, so it was necessary for me to fabricate. However, this was of no importance, as Mr. Godalming, who had hardly ever left his home county, would be none the wiser, and I doubted that the practical and levelheaded Miss Vincy, who did move in fashionable society, had ever bothered her head with such a silly means of conducting a flirtation.

“For instance, when a refined young lady wishes a gentleman to know that she would enjoy entertaining his attentions, she glances at him and then brushes her right cheek with her handkerchief.”

“Is that so? Indeed, I did not know. I thank you for telling me. I shall be alert in the future.”

“The glance may be brief,” I cautioned him. “A lady cannot be too obvious, you understand.”

“Oh, certainly. Indeed!”

After this conversation, it was a simple matter to achieve my goal. It only required that Miss Vincy, Mr. Godalming, Mr. Fredericks, and I be in company together.

“Miss Vincy,” I said as we stood in the hallway of Gudgeon Park, “I beg you will look at Mr. Godalming’s cravat and tell me if it is not tied in the style of the Prince Regent’s friend, Beau Brummell.”

Miss Vincy laughed and disclaimed any knowledge of how this famous dandy arranged his neckwear, but she looked as I had directed.

“Oh!” I said, “you have a black smudge on your cheek. The right one.”

Ever obliging, Miss Vincy raised a lace-trimmed handkerchief and scrubbed her cheek with it, perhaps a bit more vigorously than would be appropriate for a seductive signal. “Is it gone?”

“Almost,” I said, “a bit more to the side . . . gently! You will take your skin off.” I continued, “But you have not given me your opinion of Mr. Godalming’s cravat.”

She paused with her handkerchief to her cheek and looked again.

“What do you think?” I asked.

She dropped her eyes. “Hush, Miss Crawley. He is looking at us.”

Mr. Godalming was looking at us, thank goodness. Smiling broadly, he joined us within the twinkling of an eye. I raised my eyebrows and nodded by way of encouragement.

“Miss Vincy and I were discussing whether or not your valet receives his inspiration for your cravat from the fashions of the Royal Court.” I doubted whether Mr. Godalming’s valet had any conception that there was more than one way to tie a neck cloth.

Mr. Godalming, however, had no misgivings on the subject. “Why yes, I believe you are correct. Williams is very anxious that his young master should look as dashing as possible, even living in the country as we do.” Here he giggled and bowed to Miss Vincy, who cast an imploring look in my direction. I hardened my heart. This was for her own good, whether she knew it or not.

“I hope you will excuse me,” I said. “I must speak to Mr. Fredericks for a moment.” I smiled sweetly at Miss Vincy and pried her detaining hand off my wrist. “I will be only a moment,” I assured her.

“But—”

She watched me go with despairing eyes, then resigned herself, allowing Mr. Godalming to find her a secluded seat where he could have her to himself. When I reached Mr. Fredericks I looked back. Her eyes were lowered to her clasped hands in her lap, while Mr. Godalming had draped his bulk over a nearby chair in a masterful attitude and was holding forth on some subject. Recollecting his courtship of me, I suspected it would be something about the cultivation of turnips. Either that or the treatment of liver flukes in sheep.

Mr. Fredericks had the appearance of passing through the room on his way elsewhere. I nearly had to clutch at his sleeve to halt his forward progress. He had a pen in one hand and some papers in the other; evidently he was engaged in some business. He stopped and regarded me with a sardonic light in his eyes.

“Well, Miss Crawley? Did you waylay me in order to lecture me on my manners? If so, I must beg off—I’ve a great deal of work in hand.”

“No, certainly not. Have you been using the tails of your jacket as a pen-wiper again? I cannot believe the Baron has no blotting paper or old rags which would better suit the purpose. However, that is not what I wished to speak to you about.” I steered him to a quiet corner ideally suited for my purposes. We had an excellent view of the preening, gesticulating Mr. Godalming and only a partial one of the shrinking, reluctant Miss Vincy.

“It is Miss Vincy I wished to speak of. I believe that we are both her good friends?”

“I certainly am. As for you, Miss Crawley . . .” He broke off. “Well yes, I dare say you are,” he conceded. “She has not had many friends, of either sex. I am glad she has you.”

Touched by this unexpected tribute, I spoke with real emotion. “Then I hope you will believe me that anything I do or say about her is with her best interests in mind.”

He considered this. “Perhaps in your mind, that is so. But you are an interfering young woman, and I don’t trust you in the least when you are in this mood.”

“The only mood I am in,” I said, annoyed, “is one of deep concern for Miss Vincy’s future. Look at her,” I commanded. Mr. Fredericks sighed, but looked.

“I have spoken to Mr. Godalming. I cannot say that he confided in me entirely,” I said truthfully, “but he gave me the distinct impression that he was determined to woo and win her. And I am certain that he is so determined, not out of any appreciation for the qualities that you and I value in her, but rather for the fortune that will come with her.”

Mr. Fredericks was silent, watching as Mr. Godal-ming puffed out his chest and laughed.

“Mr. Godalming is not the man of delicacy or sensitivity either of us could wish to see become her husband. He would not care or understand about her feelings for her artistic work. He would expect her to produce an heir and supervise his household—that is all. He would not love or esteem her.”

“Well, what of it?” he said. “Let him propose. She’s no fool. She’ll not have him.”

I looked at him steadily. “Her mother is determined to see her married. If not to the Baron—and I have good reasons to think him indifferent to her if not actually averse—then to some other man, preferably one of whom she approves, in a respectable position in life. And you will have observed as well as I have that she is an obedient and dutiful daughter. Much more so, I will own, than I would be in her situation.”

“Oh you! I’ve no doubt of that! You’d run rings around that detestable woman.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Yes, I probably would, though you ought not to say it, either of her or to me.”

He waved this away as being of no importance. “And what, pray, do you expect me to do about this situation?”

Here I was forced to prevaricate a little. What I wanted, of course, was for him to marry her himself, but I could not say so. My gaze dropped and I shook my head.

“I do not know. Perhaps you could talk to her? She thinks so highly of you, and values your opinion so. I have spoken of Mr. Godalming to her, but my words seem to have made little impression on her.” Strictly speaking, this was true. “You have known her longer than I, and she will accept your estimate of another man.”

“What! I am to undertake delicate subjects of conversation with a young lady? I thought it was your belief that I was a blundering oaf without an ounce of tact in my body.”

I smiled. “You are not tactful, Mr. Fredericks, I agree. But I believe that where you care for someone you will be a staunch and true friend. Sometimes a little blunt honesty from someone who cares for us is what we most need. And . . . and you are not an oaf. Rather the contrary, I am beginning to think.”

He mulled this over in silence for a time. Then he stood up and said gruffly, “If I see any sign she is likely to yield to Godalming’s blandishments, I’ll talk to her. But I expect this is really all a plot to clear the field so that you can spread your nets to catch Boring for yourself.” Then he strode out of the room, leaving me tapping the toe of my shoe in irritation.