Allison Lane (17 page)

Both ladies greeted him coolly.  The flare of fury in Cecilia’s eyes made him regret taunting her earlier, but his smile must have hidden his disgust, for she soon relaxed.  Or perhaps flirtation was so automatic that she tried it on everyone, he decided, as he led Elizabeth into the dining room.

Dinner seemed interminable, though it was actually one of the shorter meals he had endured in company.

“I will send for a special license in the morning,” announced Lord Fosdale over the soup.

Randolph glanced at the windows.  Despite their heavy draperies, he could hear the rain beating upon the glass.  For the first time since his arrival, he prayed for it to continue.  No messenger could travel in this weather.

“No one can be spared for at least two days,” said Elizabeth calmly.  “The steward needs every available hand to clear that debris jam on the river.  The only footman not helping is Ted, who is too young and too forgetful to send to London on his own.”

“Then I will find someone else.”

“And risk flooding the fields so badly that no crops will grow this year?  Half of them are already under water.  Every able-bodied man in the valley is clearing debris or repairing roofs damaged in last week’s gale.”

Fosdale frowned.

“Two days should make no difference.”

“Speak for yourself,” snapped Cecilia.  “My marriage is far more important than a couple of silly fields.”

“Elizabeth is right,” conceded Fosdale, flashing a quelling look at his younger daughter.

“Why waste money on a special license?” asked Lady Fosdale.  “Surely Lord Symington will wish a London wedding.”

“That would cost far more than a license and take too long to arrange.  Even calling banns here would take too long, for he would need paperwork from his home parish before we could begin.”  Steel threaded Fosdale’s voice.  “No lord would tolerate such a delay after compromising a lady.”

Randolph nearly choked over the lie.  An immediate marriage would declare to all and sundry that something havey-cavey had precipitated the union, thus tarnishing the reputations of both parties.  No heir to a duchy would consider it unless the girl were increasing.

But Fosdale’s reasoning was clear.  He wanted an immediate wedding to prevent Symington from escaping his clutches.  Holding it here would both reduce the expense and prevent his wife from joining Society.  He wondered why the man didn’t just pack them all off to Scotland.  It would be far faster than sending a messenger to London for a license.

Not that he would suggest such a thing.

At least Elizabeth had won a brief reprieve.  Bless her for finding a way to delay the messenger.  And he must remember this tactic.  Fosdale’s purse seemed to take precedence over everything.  He met her eyes and smiled.

Lady Fosdale stifled her disappointment at missing another opportunity to see London.  “An immediate wedding means we must waste no time in gathering your trousseau, Cecilia.  And yours,” she added, turning her eyes to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth glared back.

Randolph changed the subject before Elizabeth’s temper exploded.  This must be why she had been avoiding her family.  Was Lady Fosdale also anxious to see the last of her daughter, or had Fosdale delegated her to apply pressure as a way around his own pledge?  “The Chaucer is in excellent condition, my lord.  The parchment is foxed, of course, and several corners are missing, but that is inevitable, considering its age.”

“I know it is in excellent condition,” he said sharply.  “Despite his considerable failings, my father took care of his books.  How dare the duke imply otherwise!”

“The duke never makes assumptions,” he snapped, then realized that he was out of character again.  An employee would not speak so.  He forced his hands to relax.  “Proper care does not always suffice to protect ancient works, as even the most scrupulous collectors know.  Just last autumn, a mouse damaged Symington’s first edition of Shakespeare’s
Othello
.  He was furious.”

“He has a temper?” asked Cecilia.

“At times.”

“And when would those times be?” asked Elizabeth, giving him an opening, though he could not like using it.  He needed to think more carefully before speaking.  What portrayal of Symington’s character would discourage Cecilia without giving Elizabeth a permanent disgust of him?

“Whenever carelessness damages one of his prized possessions or someone threatens one of his friends,” he said quietly.  “He was so furious that he demanded the severest penalty from the culprit who let the mouse in, refusing to accept even reasonable excuses.”  He did not mention that the fault had been his, a fact he’d known the moment he found the creature.  He now ate all meals in the dining room lest crumbs again entice pests.  And he no longer opened the library windows after dark.

“So he would protect his wife,” said Cecilia smugly.

“Only if he cared for her.  But do not think that a pretty face will sway his opinion,” he added, noting the arrogance in her eyes.  “He judges solely on actions and character.  He despises coercion, so any attempt to control his behavior is doomed to failure.  In fact, Whitfield is the only man I know who has any influence over him.  He complained for much of our journey that the duke had ordered him to London for the Season.”

“What?”  Cecilia sounded like she had swallowed something rotten.

“He usually avoids Town, for he hates Society, preferring quiet study at Orchards.  Surely you know that he shares the duke’s love of books and scholarly pursuits.”

Cecilia was coughing into her serviette.

Elizabeth signaled a footman to refill her glass.  “One must applaud a man who knows his own mind and resists efforts to force him down paths not of his choosing.  Coercion is abhorrent in any form.”  She flashed stony looks at Cecilia, Fosdale, and finally himself.  “Any man can benefit from opposing tyranny, whatever its disguise.”

“Very true, but one must judge tyranny separately from the goal it pursues.  A man can repudiate coercion, yet freely choose the same path for himself.”  He held her gaze for a long moment.

Further reply was delayed by the arrival of the next course.

Elizabeth was digging her heels in again.  He must convince her that his offer was made by choice and was not solely the result of honor.  It would take considerable effort, particularly if her parents tried to press her.

But that was for later.  Now they must convince Cecilia that she had made a grievous mistake in attaching Symington, though he would say no more about Symington’s character.  Far better to cast doubt on the tales Cecilia read.  Perhaps his position as a book expert would add weight to his criticisms.

A glance at Elizabeth proved that her thoughts were moving in the same direction.  It was almost as though he could read her mind.  Smiling, he began a spirited debate, comparing Thomas Love Peacock’s novels to the
Waverly
books.  As expected, Cecilia declared that neither author could compare to her beloved gothic tales.

“They are quite exciting,” agreed Elizabeth.  “As long as one remembers that they are fantasy stories set in imaginary places.  And even those that seem to be sited in England are often wildly exaggerated.  Since one would never recognize our own Lake District from their descriptions, I cannot believe they do any better with London.”

“You miss the point,” swore Cecilia.  “No writers live here, so they cannot know the truth.  But everyone is familiar with London.”

“Talk about fantasy!  Wordsworth lives only a few miles from here.  Not only is he visited by many of the top writers in the country, but both writers and artists consider the Lake District an ideal place to spend a holiday.  Yet you are right that most writers know London.  Shelley wrote only recently that
Hell is a city much like London – a populous and smoky city
.”

“Hardly surprising that he fled to Switzerland, then,” said Cecilia.  “But he is so scandalous that I can hardly consider his opinions seriously.”

“In his personal life that is true, though he wed the girl in the end.  But we have drifted far afield.  My point is that stories like your romances, which are pure fantasy, have no need to portray real settings.”

“Not all romances are fantasy,” protested Randolph.  “While many of the gothic tales published by the Minerva Press bear little resemblance to the real world, I have found the writings of Jane Austen and Mary Selkirk to be quite enjoyable and true to life.”

Elizabeth flushed, but she was looking at her plate, so he could not tell why.  Was she upset that he did not condemn all novels?  But making such a comprehensive misstatement would prove that he was close-minded, allowing Cecilia to ignore his words.  She had already ignored Shelley, on the excuse that his elopement with a fourteen-year-old girl made his opinions unsound.  His wife’s suicide the following year had worsened the scandal.  Shelley had ignored it, married the girl, and returned to England, where the
Examiner
had welcomed him and was now printing his poetry.

Elizabeth pulled his mind back to the discussion.  “Miss Austen was indeed true to life.  Alas, the two books just published were the only others she had completed before her untimely death.  She will be sorely missed.”

“By some, perhaps,” said Cecilia.  “I find her stories rather boring, for nothing much happens.”

“But that defines much of their appeal.”  Elizabeth ignored her father’s protest.  He was clearly irritated by this topic of conversation. 

“Very true,” said Randolph.  “Her characters are delightful, for their attitudes and behavior match many of my friends.  I derive the same satisfaction from Mary Selkirk’s work, for I can always find people I know on the pages.”

Cecilia muttered something that sounded like, “What a boring life you must lead.”

Elizabeth shrugged.  “They appeal to similar readers because they tell realistic stories about realistic people – which are far more believable than tales of mad abductions and of questionable rescues from improbable places by heroes who must be horridly uncomfortable to live with.  And enduring constant upset must be quite disagreeable for the heroines.”

Fosdale was ready to burst into derision of all books, so Randolph changed the subject.  They had given Cecilia enough to think about for the moment.  “Is constant rain usual for this part of Cumberland?” he asked his host.

“Not this prolonged.”

“Symington is becoming concerned about his baggage coach.  It was cut off when the bridge washed out near Parinfel, but he had expected it by now despite this rain.”

Fosdale frowned.  “It might have met with other difficulties – all roads are suffering this year.  More than one is blocked by mud, so much depends on the route they chose.  The shortest detour would take them west to the coast, though I expect that road is quite treacherous at the moment.  The best route would circle through Keswick.  Yet there are people who might direct them via Carlisle.”

Randolph frowned, turning the conversation to the effect the weather would have on planting, even if the blockage on the river was quickly dispersed.  Jacob, the undercoachman driving his baggage coach, was both intelligent and resourceful.  He would not have been misdirected all the way to Carlisle.

Another gust of wind rattled the windows.  Jacob would not be traveling after dark in such a storm, but he would arrive shortly – with luck, tomorrow.

He had a plan that would postpone his exposure and take care of Fosdale’s insistence on sending for a special license.  He could not allow word of Symington’s
faux
betrothal to escape the valley.  But success demanded that he meet the baggage coach before it arrived at the Manor.

A few innocuous questions started Fosdale on a monologue of estate problems.  The earl thought nothing of monopolizing a conversation with so inferior a guest.  Nor did he care a whit about cutting the ladies out entirely.

They seemed accustomed to hearing a litany of complaints over dinner, for no one tried to deflect Fosdale’s tirade.  All ate quickly and efficiently, their eyes rarely rising from their plates.  Lady Fosdale had not said a word since Fosdale’s quelling glance at the mention of trousseaux.  The girls could expect no wardrobe from their clutch-fisted father.

He could not imagine either his mother or his grandmother allowing one person to dominate table conversation.  Nor would they have allowed business discussions during dinner.  Did Elizabeth know no better, or did she find it easier to let her father dictate table manners?

The question raised the entire issue of Elizabeth’s training.  For his own part, he had no complaints, finding her delightful in every way.  But his feelings would not influence others.  Since her parents had never entered Society, would she understand the expectations of the
haut ton
?  He must discover some way of asking the question that would not insult her.  And he must do it soon.

Regardless of his own preferences, his grandfather demanded obedience.  Whitfield would insist on a London wedding, probably at Westminster.  Never mind that the groom preferred a quiet country existence.  Never mind that his father was confined to bed.  The Dukes of Whitfield had married at Westminster for centuries.  He would not be allowed to break with tradition.

So Elizabeth would have to endure at least part of a London Season.  And she must comport herself properly – not that he had any real fears on that score.  She believed that Jane Austen and Mary Selkirk offered realistic portrayals of Society.  Both relied heavily on manners in devising their plots.

But that was for later. 

The ladies retired to the drawing room.  He declined port, excusing himself to check on Symington’s condition.  His escape allowed him to relax for the first time in hours, though he did not immediately head upstairs.  Time was short, so he must give Cecilia additional food for thought.  And Elizabeth could probably use some assistance.

“You know I have no intention of wedding anyone!”  Elizabeth’s voice carried beyond the drawing room as he approached.
Damn!
  Even in this brief interval, Lady Fosdale had raised the issue.  Somehow, he must convince the woman to drop the subject.