Elizabeth Mansfield

Matched Pairs

Elizabeth Mansfield

Copyright © 1996 by Paula Schwartz.

Published by E-Reads. All rights reserved.

www.ereads.com

Every couple is not a pair.

—Old English Adage

1

Tris did not anticipate a quarrel with Julie about his plans to wed another girl. If there was one thing about which he and Julie were in complete agreement, it was that they would never wed each other. Nevertheless, he felt uneasy as he paced round the summerhouse, the capes of his greatcoat flapping in the chilly March wind.
Not that there’s any reason for unease,
he told himself.
We’ve always sworn that we would never marry, no matter what our mothers said.

This interview would not have been necessary at all if, nineteen years ago when Juliet Branscombe was born and he, Tristram Enders, was merely three years old, their mothers had not officially betrothed them. But they had. The two mothers, with wicked premeditation, had had the banns read at church and had even sent an announcement to the
Times.
Later, when the two victims were old enough to understand what their mothers had done, they had quite understandably rebelled. Since they were more like squabbling siblings than lovers, marriage between them was out of the question. “We don’t have to comply with a compact in which we had no part,” Tris would often declare.

“Just because our mothers arranged it,” Julie would agree, “it doesn’t have to follow that we must accept it.”

Tris truly believed that arranging a betrothal between children was ridiculous. “No one makes birth-matches anymore,” he’d said more than once.

“Royalty, perhaps,” Julie would add, “but no one else.”

“It’s been out of fashion for centuries.”

“Leg-shackling children at birth! Medieval, that’s what it is!”

Thus they’d made a pact that, when the time was right, they would join forces and reject their mothers’ plan. That was the one matter on which they’d been in agreement for years. So there was no reason for Tris to feel so deucedly uncomfortable now. No reason at all.

He turned and peered out past the hedges that separated Enders Hall’s north field from Larchwood, the Branscombes’ property. A stile that provided an opening between the hedges gave him a view of the grounds leading to the rear lawns of Larchwood, but there was no sign of human movement anywhere. What was keeping the girl?

He’d sent her a note asking her to meet him at the Enders’ summerhouse, but he hadn’t told her why. He’d chosen the summerhouse for the meeting because it was a place he knew would be safe from prying eyes. It stood at the far corner of the Enders’ northernmost field, where the slope of the land kept it from being seen from either house. In summer the structure was beautiful; graceful and delicate, it was a cool retreat, with its open sides shaded by flowering vines that covered its latticed balustrades and its carved posts holding up a sloping hexagonal roof. But in other seasons it looked bare, as it did now. Today—on a day so chill and gray it was more like February than March—the place was depressing. The ornamental trees and shrubs that shaded it in summer were still bare of leaves, and there was not yet a sign of flowering on the vines. There was not a touch of color anywhere. Tris shivered as the winds, still wintry-sharp, blew a swarm of dead leaves about his legs.

Expelling an impatient breath, he leaned against a post and looked about him. The rolling lawns of his family home were just beginning to shed their winter dullness. Bits of green sprouts could be faintly seen pushing up beneath the frost-dimmed grass and glimmering along the edges of the shrubbery.
I
shall be in London when spring comes,
he thought with a momentary twinge of sadness.
I’ll miss seeing the colors burst forth.

The thought brought his primary problem right back to his consciousness. Why was he so reluctant to tell Julie what was on his mind? There was no reason to believe that she would not be in complete sympathy with his intentions. She’d always felt as he did on the subject of their mothers’ oddities.

Tris recalled a conversation he’d had with Julie after his mother had ordered him to give the girl a heart-shaped locket on her seventeenth birthday. Julie accepted the gift without comment, but she’d known perfectly well that the gesture had been forced on him. Later, when they were alone, they laughed about it. “How dreadfully sentimental our mothers are,” Julie said, carelessly swinging the silver bauble by its chain. “Did they really believe I’d be so moved by a trinket that I’d fall in love with you?”

“They’re sentimental fools,” he said, “both swooning over courtly love and chivalric behavior. I can’t convince them that I’m not a white knight.”

“Nor am I Elaine of Astolat. As if a heart-shaped bauble could inspire love! I sometimes think they actually
believe
in nonsense like charms and amulets and talismans. The trouble is that they’re both too fond of literary romance.”

“Fond? They’re positively looney!” Tris declared. “One can see it in the names they gave us. Tristram, indeed. What sensible mother would name a son Tristram? I’m surprised your mother didn’t name you Isolde.”

“Heaven forbid!” Julie gasped. “Juliet is bad enough. What would you have done if your mama had named you Romeo!”

Tris shuddered at the very thought. “Romeo! I’d have been laughed out of school!”

Conversations like those did not mean that Juliet Branscombe and Tristram Enders were close friends. In truth, they often wondered if they really liked each other. Having been brought up together on adjoining estates and encouraged to do everything together—play together, study together, attend church services together, celebrate birthdays and holidays together—each claimed the other was often not only uninteresting but positively irritating. The one matter on which they agreed was that they could never have been, were not now, and could never be, lovers.

“We know each other too well,” Tris would often remark.

“Much too well,” Julie would second. “There’s no excitement.”

“No suspense.”

“No mystery. Not the slightest tinge of mystery.”

Thus they were in complete agreement that a match between them was not to be thought of. So there was no reason for him to feel like a scoundrel for having fallen in love with someone else. Julie would not care. She didn’t want him anyway. He was quite certain of th—

“Tris?”

He turned in time to see Julie climbing over the top of the stile. The girl was her usual disheveled self. Her yellow bonnet had blown from her head and was hanging against her back by its green ribbons, thus allowing long strands of hair to blow wildly about her face. Her cheeks were ruddy from the cold wind, and the shabby old dull-green shawl, which she was clutching to her throat with one gloved hand, blended perfectly with the dead grass of the lawn behind her.

Julie jumped down from the stile with a clumsy thump of her muddy boots and waved his note at him. “What’s amiss?” she asked as she hurried toward the wide wooden steps of the summerhouse. “I had to tell Mama a fib about where I was going.”

“Nothing’s amiss.” Tris frowned down at her uplifted face in disapproval. She was a pretty little thing, with that silky auburn hair and those light hazel eyes that always seemed to be seeing something in another world. Any man would find her lovely if she had the least idea of how to show herself off. But he would not say that aloud; he rarely said anything kind to her. “Put that bonnet back on your head,” he growled in disgust. “You’ve let the wind make a fair hodgepodge of your hair. We may have to disentangle the strands from your eyelashes.”

“Thank you, sir, you flatter me as usual,” she responded dryly. “You, on the other hand, look very fine. You haven’t dressed that way just for me, I’d wager.”

“You’d win that wager. But never mind my clothes. What dreadful fib did you tell your mother?”

“I said I was going to call at the vicarage. Mrs. Weekes is, fortunately for us, ailing.”

“Mrs. Weekes is always ailing. Call on her before you go home, and then you’ll not have fibbed.”

“That, Tris Enders, is a liar’s reasoning,” she retorted. “A fib’s a fib.” Then she looked up at him inquiringly. “If nothing’s amiss, why did you send me this cryptic note?”

“I wanted to speak to you before I left.”

She blinked. “Oh? Are you going away?”

“I’m going back to London this afternoon.”

“Again?”

He nodded. The uneasy feeling, suddenly returning, caused him to look down at his boots.

“To see
her,
I suppose,” Julie said, peering at him suspiciously.

“Her?” His eyes shot up to hers, his brows lifted in amazement.

“Your Miss Smallwood.”

“Good God! You
guessed?”

Julie shrugged. “Well, your one and only letter from town was so full of her...”

“Oh.”

The girl studied him with interest. She’d known him all her life but she’d never known him to care for a girl. Had he actually fallen in love at last? “Since you’ve been home less than a fortnight,” she ventured carefully, not wishing to sound as if she were prying, “I must assume you are so impatient to return to town because you have a real
tendre
for your Miss Smallwood.”

“I wish I
could
call her mine,” Tris said ruefully. “Cleo has yet to accept me.”

Julie’s eyes widened. “You’ve already
asked
her?” The matter must have progressed farther than she thought!

“No, not yet. That’s what I intend to do, however, when I get back to town. Ask her.”

“Oh. I see.”

Though this response was given in one brief, quiet exhalation of breath, Julie was finding Tris’s news staggering. Tris was truly in love! And intending to wed! Astounding!

Julie hadn’t ever given thought to what such a development might mean to
her.
She’d always found Tris irritatingly high-handed, argumentative, and critical, but though they were longtime adversaries, she had no good reason not to wish him happy.
Good-bye, good luck and God bless,
she ought to say to him. Why not?

But of course it was not that simple. There would be consequences that were certain to be unpleasant, not the least of which would be to face their mothers at last about the birth-betrothal. Facing their mothers would be far from easy. Tris’s mother, Lady Phyllis, was soft-voiced and sweet, but she wore an iron determination inside her velvet glove. And her own mother, loud and overbearing, would surely make a scene. Julie hated scenes. The prospect of this one was so dreadful to contemplate that it tightened her chest.

Trying to catch her breath, she sat back against the balustrade and studied Tris with a furrowed brow. He was changing right before her eyes. He seemed to have suddenly become older than his twenty-two years. His face seemed leaner and less irritatingly mischievous than it had been just yesterday, when they’d been forced to dine with their mothers at the Branscombes’ table. She couldn’t even detect that annoying dimple that always appeared in his left cheek when he smiled. Today he looked... well, different. He was only of average height, but today he looked almost tall. It wasn’t merely that he’d dressed for town, his usually tousled dark hair brushed into a modish Brutus and his new beaver hat with its stylishly curled brim set on his head at an especially rakish angle. Nor was it that that his shoulders looked broader than usual in the caped greatcoat he’d thrown over them. It was just that he seemed, all at once, more knowing, more purposeful, and more... more manly. Was it love that had done it? She wondered. Did love have the power to make one more mature?

“It’s too cold to stand about,” Tris was saying. “Let’s walk.”

He offered his arm, but she shook her head. In silence, they set off together along the gravel path that edged the woods shared by the two estates. Julie gathered her thick wool shawl more closely about her shoulders but let the wind blow her long auburn tresses freely about her face. “Tell me about her,” she requested suddenly, feeling both fascinated and repelled.

“About Cleo?” He gave a careless shrug. “Not much to tell. Cleo’s beautiful, of course, but in a different sort of way from the usual beauties.”