A School for Brides (9 page)

The morrow dawned clear and dry, and good news came from both Gudgeon Park and Crooked Castle: Lady Boring was delivered of a little girl and Mrs. Fredericks of a little boy. While it was too soon to be certain that the dreaded childbed fever would be avoided, the children and mothers alike were pronounced healthy and whole.

Miss Winthrop set out for Yellering Hall with Miss Pffolliott and Miss Mainwaring and a determined glint in her eyes. Miss Pffolliott was to accompany them as far as the post office, while Miss Mainwaring's role was more of a silent witness. Should Lady Throstletwist seem likely to withdraw her promised invitation, Miss Mainwaring could, by her very presence, shame her into honoring it.

However, this proved unnecessary. Lady Throstletwist was resigned to her fate—both Mrs. Fredericks and Lady Boring might be momentarily distracted by family affairs, but they were great ladies in the small society of Lesser Hoo. She could not afford to offend Lady Boring, whose revenge could be terrible, and did not wish to disappoint Mrs. Fredericks, of whom she was fond. She wrote out two gracious little notes, one to the young gentlemen and one to Lady Boring, congratulating the latter on her daughter's safe delivery, and begging the former to look upon her home as theirs for so long as they might wish to remain in the county.

Miss Winthrop, hoping to soothe any fears the lady might have for her housekeeping allowance, assured Lady Throstletwist that the young gentlemen were keen sportsmen and anxious to present their kind hosts with the results for their table.

“Why, I believe that Lady Boring's cook still has not exhausted the birds they brought with them from Scotland,” offered Miss Mainwaring. “They are fine shots.”

“You're in the right
there
,” Sir Quentin, husband to Lady Throstletwist, interposed. “We dined at the Park a week ago. Never ate so much grouse in my life.
Crème de grouse
soup, grouse pie, kippered grouse, grouse cutlets. Even that candied dish they gave us for a sweet—that tasted a good deal like fowl to me, m'dear, no matter
what
you say.”

“Yes, yes, dear,” said Lady Throstletwist hastily. “You must equip them with your fishing tackle, and perhaps we can introduce a little variety in their offerings.”

“Probably foul the lines and lose my flies that I've tied,” grumbled the old knight. “
I
know what young men are, nothing but a pack of buffleheads. Most likely get bored and throw my entire kit into the stream—”

“We shall be charmed to entertain Mr. Crabbe and his friends,” cut in Lady Throstletwist, fixing her husband with a stern eye. “When one grows older, you know, one has a tendency to become rather
set in one's ways
. It will be good for us to have some young blood around the house for a change.”

“Oh, very well,” said Sir Quentin morosely, and offered no further objections—at least, not while the ladies' visit lasted.

While Miss Mainwaring was dispatched to Gudgeon Park with the notes and Miss Winthrop walked home, Miss Pffolliott was having adventures. She had collected the mail, partly grateful to find no love letter to embarrass her before Mrs. Hodges, and partly regretful at the same circumstance. She was returning to the school, walking briskly and enjoying the fine late summer day, when a man stepped out from behind a rough stone wall and barred her path.

She shrieked in alarm, dropping her burden of letters and bills on the path before her.

“My dear Miss Pffolliott! I must apologize for alarming you,” cried the man, doffing his hat and bowing. “I had no notion that I would startle you so.”

“But—who are you, sir?” she demanded, gathering together her scattered wits and correspondence.

“Can you not tell?” he asked in a reproachful tone. “Does your heart not inform you?”

She looked at him in bewilderment. He was a gentleman with the look of a dandy gone a little to seed. His clothes were fashionable and costly, but rather too tight, and he moved stiffly, as if they constricted him. His hair was a dull, dead black that somehow made it look like a wig. His face would have been handsome, if it were a little less fleshy.

“
I
know,” cried Miss Pffolliott, pleased to have solved the riddle. “You are the stranger at the inn!”

His face darkened, and Miss Pffolliott clutched the mail to her bosom and backed away.

“No, no, do not go! You are right, of course you are right! I am nothing but a stranger to you. I hoped that you would know—that your womanly heart would enable you to guess my identity the moment you looked at me. But I ask too much. Can you forgive me?” And the enigmatic gentleman dropped to one knee in front of her, spreading his arms in appeal.

“Sir, you are alarming me,” Miss Pffolliott said, looking desperately up and down the path, hoping to see a farm laborer or even a villager's child approaching. Alas, she appeared to be alone with the stranger.

“Ah, my ardor is my undoing, I see. I shall leave you. A thousand, thousand pardons for causing the smallest tremor of fear in your mind. Wait!” he cried as she moved to pass him and continue on her path. She halted, regarding him as she might a rabid dog in her path. “Take
this
as a symbol of my esteem for you.” He produced a rather disheveled rose from his waistcoat and presented it to her. She accepted it, as there seemed no way to avoid it, and then began steadily edging away.

“I shall see you again, soon! And
then
you will not be frightened,” he called after her as she hurried off. She increased her speed, and soon began to feel an uncomfortable cramp in her side. Having rounded a sharp bend in the path, she paused, gasping for breath. Cautiously, she peered around a small stone cottage and found that she could still see him.

“Well
that
certainly went well!” she heard him say. He kicked the wall and began to curse.

AS SHE WALKED
toward Gudgeon Park, Miss Mainwaring was in a state of mind that nearly approached happiness for the first time in nine months.

Her uncle, Mr. Hugh Fredericks, had written kindly to her after the death of her parents in the cholera epidemic, offering her a home in England with him and his new wife, and she had gratefully accepted. She had left the indigo plantation that was the only home she had ever known, traveling from remote Nadia in Bengal Province to the noise and excitement of London, and then to remote Lesser Hoo in Yorkshire. It had all been rather disconcerting.

But in truth, she had been glad to go. India had become a sad and lonely place, and her parents had always intended to send her to England when she was old enough; the colonial society was limited in Nadia and even in Bengal Province as a whole, and they had thought it best that she attain some of the polish of an English gentlewoman. She could shoot and ride; she could face a prowling tiger or a displaying cobra with a cool eye and a steady hand. Her parents, however, refused to believe that these skills, useful as they were, would be of any utility in attracting and securing a husband.

At the age of eleven she had been utterly scornful of the necessity of making a respectable marriage, preferring to imagine herself climbing the Himalayas or trekking through the desolate Great Rann of Kutch with only a parasol-and-cool-drink-carrying servant for company. However, in the intervening years, she had gradually put away these dreams and had begun to wish for an English gentleman with exquisite manners and a faultless frock coat who would whisk her away from the narrow, stultifying society of back-country Nadia. Her mother and father had been happily married, and now, living with her uncle and aunt, she had the opportunity to observe yet another affectionate and successful marriage. She wondered if a husband and a home of her own would help to fill the empty place that the death of her parents had left in her heart. Since it was the highest ambition a young woman of her station could reasonably aspire to, her own desires began to form themselves to their preordained fate.

But, as the other young ladies in the Winthrop Hopkins Academy had hastened to inform her, Lesser Hoo was every bit as lacking in eligible bachelors as Nadia, Bengal Province—at least, until recently.
Now
, of course, there was Mr. Hadley. Oh, and the other young gentlemen, too, but in Miss Mainwaring's mind the other gentlemen were but a drab background, against which Mr. Hadley blazed like a comet. His manners were impeccable, as was his dress, and he had soon differentiated himself from the others by his intelligent questions about life on an indigo plantation. The English, or at least the English she had so far met, did not seem to know or care about the world beyond the shores of their island; no one else had probed much further into her prior life than to venture the suppositions that India was hot and had elephants.

Mr. Hadley had never been to India, but his father had investments there, and Mr. Hadley was interested in everything she could relate to him. But she believed that he was interested for
her
sake as well, and his attention did not flag when she spoke of personal, private matters—of the endless indolence of the rainy season, for instance, or the play of moonlight filtering through the bamboo forest, or the pleasure she took in her pet pangolin. This could not possibly help him understand the fluctuations of share values in the East India Company, yet he listened and laughed and told stories of his own childhood.

Such inconsequential conversations may be the pebble in the path of the stream that alters its course, the pivot that shunts the lives of young people in one direction or another. Shared laughter and confidences, a sense of recognition between two people who were so recently strangers, and their fate is changed. Miss Cecily Mainwaring was in love, and she believed her love to be reciprocated.

Her eyes were bright and her spirits high as she carried the happy news to Gudgeon Park that Mr. Hadley (and Mr. Crabbe, of course) could remain in Yorkshire indefinitely. The empty place in her heart was close to being filled.

The household was, not surprisingly, in considerable disarray. Lord Boring and the young gentlemen visitors had been driven to a defensive position in the library whence they dared not stir, only venturing forth to attract the attention of a footman to obtain supplies of food and drink. The female portion of the staff had deserted them and was clustered about the nursery and the Baroness's bedroom. Miss Mainwaring was first escorted to have a quick peek at her aunt by marriage and her child, propped up on a multitude of pillows in bed. Miss Mainwaring almost burst out laughing; mother and daughter looked nearly identical, only varying as to size, with indignant, protuberant eyes and thin, wispy curls pasted to their foreheads. After listening to the new mother's complaints about the heartlessness of men, and husbands in particular, for some minutes, she admired the pop-eyed infant and made her escape.

Downstairs in the library, the gentlemen were pathetically grateful to have their tête-à-tête interrupted. They attempted to lure her to a seat by the fire, proffering a cup of lukewarm tea and a half-eaten plate of biscuits. Miss Mainwaring, however, protested that she must not stay. She had delivered her message, and such exclusively masculine company without her hostess or indeed any female present made her uncomfortable; she considered it best to withdraw.

Nevertheless, she could not resist revealing the contents of the note before taking her leave. “Lady Throstletwist begs you please to come and stay with her for as long as you wish!” she said. She risked a swift glance at Mr. Hadley to gauge his reaction.

Mr. Hadley's color rose. He stared, not at her, but at the floor.

“How kind,” he said, his voice so low it was almost drowned out by Mr. Crabbe's jubilant cries and Lord Boring's reproaches at being abandoned in his hour of need. “Unfortunately,” he said, his voice growing a little louder, yet still looking anywhere but at her, “I shall not be able to take advantage of Lady Throstletwist's delightful invitation. I fear . . . I find that I may be required at home.”

The other men fell silent, looking at him in surprise. Then they looked at Miss Mainwaring. Miss Mainwaring turned scarlet and fled.

Miss Pffolliott had to give herself a stern talking-to in order to gather up enough courage to walk to the post office again the next day. She told herself that she was prepared for anything and would not be startled again. She left the house with her head high and her stride resolute. However, she had not even reached the drive leading to the main road before the clipped yew bushes parted and a man stepped out in front of her.

Miss Pffolliott shrieked.

“Excuse me, Miss! Oh, beg pardon, Miss Pffolliott, I did not mean to frighten you.” It was Robert the footman, looking most uncomfortable and clutching a silver salver, on which lay one folded sheet of paper.

“Oh, Robert!” Miss Pffolliott clasped her hands to her breast and took a deep breath.

“'Tis that a gentleman wanted me to give this to you, private-like.” He cast a troubled glance down at the contents of his tray. “Only . . . Only, Miss? I think perhaps you oughtn't to read it. I think what you ought to do is to tell me to give it to Miss Quince.” He looked at her with anxious eyes. “Don't
you
think so, Miss? She'd know the proper way to respond to—to whatever it is.”

The rapid beating of her heart had slowed during his speech, and she began to collect her wits. Really, it was quite presumptuous of Robert to give her advice on how to conduct her private affairs. It was all very well for Miss Asquith to make a pet of him and chatter away as though to an equal, but he was a
footman
! While she, Miss Pffolliott, was a lady, daughter of an old and respected family.

And if she were to allow Robert to show the note to Miss Quince, that would necessitate all sorts of awkward explanations. Why, Miss Quince would ask, had she not shown the previous letters she had obviously received? No, she would deal with this herself.

“That will do, Robert,” she said coldly, and held out her hand for the note. “And I will thank you not to mention this message to anyone else,
especially including
Miss Asquith.”

“Oh, Miss!”

“That will do, Robert!”

Defeated, Robert held out his silver salver, and then disappeared once more into the shrubbery.

The note read:

My poor, poor darling! How I must have frightened you! I cannot cease from reproaching myself. I beg you to believe that it was the last thing I wanted! My devotion overcame my good sense—it has been so long that I have dreamt of seeing you. Only tarry for a moment by the bridge over the stream on your walk today, long enough to tell me that you forgive me, won't you, my dear?

Your desolate lover

Miss Pffolliott read this missive and walked on, thinking. So that man
was
the person who had been sending her the letters. Disappointing, really. Somehow she had pictured him as having much better hair. And yet . . . it was so romantic to have a secret lover, one who called her a poor darling and was overcome by his feelings upon the sight of her. It made her feel like the heroine of a novel. Surely it could do no harm to speak to him? She could tell him that he must approach her like a gentleman and ask for a proper introduction.

Yes! That would be best. She began to walk faster.

The bridge, built of local stone, crossed a small stream in open moorland, so Miss Pffolliott flattered herself that she would have plenty of advance notice and would be able to keep her emotions well in check without screaming in that humiliating fashion. She looked around, but could see no masculine figure nearby, or any figure of any kind. Even the ever-present sheep were apparently occupied elsewhere, and the birds had fallen silent and hidden themselves. How long would the “moment” he'd requested last, given that it would require many tedious minutes for him to approach within shouting distance?

She halted on the bridge, looking around discontentedly. The only sound was the faint murmuring of the water below. Surely there never was a place more solitary, more deserted, more absolutely uninhabited by—

“Hullo!”

Miss Pffolliott screamed.

The voice came from
below
her. She peered over the stone parapet to see a head poking out from under the bridge, like the troll in the fairy tale emerging to devour one of the Billy Goats Gruff.

“Egad, I've done it again!” The troll clambered out into the watery sunshine, revealing itself to be the selfsame gentleman who had accosted her on the preceding day.

“Many, many apologies, my dearest! I seem doomed to terrify you. I was—er, I was inspecting this stream, to see what manner of fish it might contain. Might like to put in a bit of time with the old rod and reel, you know! And it was awfully nice and shady.” He fanned himself with his hat, demonstrating the need for shade. “However, all that is beside the point.” Here he sank onto one knee and clasped his hat in his hands beseechingly. “
Can
you ever forgive me, my love?”