Elizabeth Mansfield (4 page)

“I can’t help it,” Lady Branscombe muttered in an under-voice. “I am irked beyond words that she did so little to keep Tris from dashing back to London.”

“It is more Tris’s fault than hers,” Tris’s mother said in the girl’s defense. “He’d set his mind quite firmly on going back to town. I don’t believe
anyone
could have changed his mind. I very much fear...” Here her soft voice faltered.

Madge Branscome fixed a wary eye on her friend’s face. “Fear what?”

Lady Phyllis’s eyelids flickered nervously as she pulled a large, lacy handkerchief from the bosom of her dress. “I very much fear the boy has set his heart on some female in London.”

“It would serve Julie right if he has!” Madge Branscombe’s full bosom heaved in distress. “During Tris’s entire visit, did she once wear any of the new gowns I had made for her? No! Did she do up her hair, blacken her lashes or behave in any way like a girl trying to attract a man? Of course not! All she did during the entire fortnight was bicker with him. Honestly, their perpetual wrangling makes me wild. Sometimes I want to wring the girl’s neck!”

“I know. They do seem to be always squabbling.” Phyllis’s eyes filled with tears. “Do you think,” she asked with a pitiful tremor, “that they will not marry after all?”

Lady Branscombe winced. “If he’s given his heart to another, I suppose not.”

“I know he seems to be behaving like a deuced coxcomb,” Phyllis admitted, “but he can’t actually have come to love someone else! He just
can’t
!
Perhaps he’s only gone off to ... to keep an assignation with a... a...”

“If you’re trying to say the word
paramour,
Phyllis Enders, then just say it! This is no time to be mealy-mouthed.”

“Well, I don’t like to believe my son has a paramour, but I suppose that would be preferable to his falling in love with someone suitable. If he affianced himself to a proper sort of female, what could we do then?”

Madge dropped her head in her hand. “I have no idea,” she mumbled in discouragement.

Lady Phyllis dabbed at her eyes with one corner of her huge handkerchief. “You don’t think, do you, that it’s time to admit that the matter is hopeless?”

Madge Branscombe threw her friend an angry glare. “I refuse to give up. We must not admit defeat. So long as the boy remains unmarried, there’s still a chance—”

The smaller woman shook her head sadly while unwittingly twisting the handkerchief into a tight coil. “But, my dear, it may already be too late. During this past fortnight, I too looked in vain to discern a sign of a romantic spark between them, but there was never anything remotely affectionate. It’s our fault, you know. We raised them too closely. They’ve become utterly uninteresting to each other.”

“It
is
our fault.” That was a difficult admission for Lady Branscombe to make; her whole body seemed to sag. “We should have kept them apart. If we’d forbidden them to associate, they would
then
have been delighted to defy us.”

“Yes. I should have played Montague to your Capulet.

But that chance is quite lost. By this time, Tris is so accustomed to the sight of your beautiful Juliet that he doesn’t even notice how lovely she is.”

They both sighed together with the same hopelessness and fell silent with the same rapt concentration. The two women often showed this sort of similar reaction to the circumstances of life. Though their looks were very different, their tastes were very much alike. They’d become friends in girlhood, when they’d attended the same school. Phyllis, though she was the daughter of an earl, had from the first fallen under the spell of Madge Selwin, who, though her family had no titles, was the most clever and strong-willed girl in the school. Phyllis’s delicate reticence was a perfect match for Madge’s robust decisiveness.

The friendship grew even stronger with time. One month after Phyllis married Sir Charles Enders, Madge wed his cousin, Edward Lord Branscombe. (It was often remarked by people who knew them well that Madge Branscombe had chosen for her husband a man whose character was very like her friend’s: a reticent, wistful fellow who permitted himself to be led round by the nose by his overbearing wife.) After their wedding, Madge convinced her husband to purchase Larchwood, an estate within walking distance of Enders Hall. From that time onward, there was rarely a day during which they did not spend some time together.

Each woman had one child, Lady Phyllis first with Tris, and three years later Lady Branscome with Juliet. Both ladies were widowed a few years later. Each declared with perfect sincerity that she could not have borne her loss without the support of the other. Through all the vicissitudes of their lives, they had remained fast friends. They could not have been closer if they’d been sisters.

But having similar tastes does not imply having similar characters. Not at all. Phyllis was as different from Madge as sugar from pepper. In the rains of life, one would dissolve in tears and the other explode in temper. This evening’s conversation was a perfect example. In the matter of the betrothal between Tris and Julie, Phyllis was quite ready to surrender to fate, but Madge Branscombe was made of sterner stuff. “I shall never say die. I’ll not give up,” she said loudly.

“Shush!” Phyllis hissed. “You’ll wake the girl.”

“What if I do? Honestly, Phyllis, you mollycoddle her too much. Not that I blame you. Delicate flower that she is, she sometimes seems more your daughter than mine.”

Phyllis sighed. “I hoped she
would
be my daughter. What did you mean when you said you won’t give up? I don’t wish to give up either, but I don’t see what we can do.”

“We can go to London,” Madge declared with sudden decision. “We can take Julie and go down for the season. We didn’t believe a come-out was necessary for a girl who was already betrothed, but since matters are not proceeding as planned, we’ll give her one.”

Phyllis blinked her misted eyes. “But, Madge, I don’t quite see—”

“Don’t you? It’s simple. Giving her a season in town will make it possible to thrust the girl in Tris’s path. Just leave it to me. He’ll find her in his line of vision everywhere he goes.”

“Yes! Oh, yes!” Phyllis clasped her hands to her breast, causing her handkerchief to flutter through the air like a pennant. Hope, that beam of sunshine, dissipated the clouds that had shrouded her eyes. “Madge, you’re a genius! What a positively wonderful idea! When Tris comes upon her in those surroundings—in those London ballrooms, dressed in the most beautiful town finery we can contrive, prettier than any of those London chits and being pursued by hordes of swains—why, he’ll see our Julie in a whole new light!”

Madge threw her a look of scorn. “I wouldn’t count on hordes of swains, my dear. Julie hasn’t any of that flirtatiousness necessary to attract hordes. But I certainly hope the rest of what you envisioned will come to pass.”

The words had scarcely passed her lips when the carriage drew up at Enders Hall. Lady Phyllis glanced at the sleeping girl. “Tell her good night for me,” she whispered to her friend before climbing down. “I’ll see you tomorrow, and we shall make our plans.”

But Julie was not asleep. She’d heard every word. She knew that eavesdropping was a wicked misdeed, but since she herself had been the subject of the conversation, she hadn’t been able to resist listening. She soon discovered that the maxim
eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves
was quite true. Everything she’d heard during the endless ride had filled her with disgust.

The most troubling part was her mother’s plan to take her off to London. She’d never wished to have a London come-out. She had no love for the whirlwind that constituted the “season” in town. Too shy to enjoy the noisy routs and fetes and balls of London’s social life, she knew that the experience of a London debut would be nothing but torture to her. Furthermore, her mother’s timing could not have been worse. When an interesting gentleman had finally moved into the Amberford environs and offered the promise of some excitement, that was the time when her mother decided on London! What an irony!

As if all this was not bad enough, there was Tris to consider. He was in love! How would he feel if both mamas descended on him in town? He didn’t need meddlesome mothers interfering with his courtship.

As the carriage continued to rattle its way toward home, Julie’s mind raced about trying to concoct schemes to avoid the horrid future her mother was devising for her. There had to be a way to prevent the interfering pair from dragging her to town. There had to be.

But she could think of only one thing to do. That night, before going to bed, she sat down at her writing desk, cut herself a fresh nib, and dashed off a note.
Dear Tris,
she wrote.
Something very dreadful is occurring. This matter is most urgent. Come, if only for your own sake. Please do not fail me, or we shall both be in dire straits. Hurry! Julie.

5

The next morning, despite a heavy sky and a light rain, Julie took out her horse. She loved her morning rides. She often rode with Tris, but she was just as content to ride alone. With Tris, she had to keep up a flow of conversation or worry about the condition of her hair. He always teased her about looking unruly. Alone, she could think her own thoughts, go at her own pace, and allow her hair to blow about as it willed, or, as now, to hang about her face in flat, dripping strands. This was just the sort of ride she liked, for she could go wherever she wished without a care for how she looked. Today she hadn’t even bothered to put on her riding habit. She’d worn an old, dark skirt of heavy broadcloth, cut so full she could ride astride instead of sidesaddle, and she’d thrown her faded green wool shawl over her shoulders to keep off the rain. And of course she hadn’t bothered to wear a hat. It didn’t matter. No one would see her; no one else in town would be out riding on a day like this.

This morning she let her horse meander along the bank of what the Amberford natives called their river. It was, in reality, nothing but a stream that flowed from the north highlands down past the property line of Wycklands, through the town itself and on to the south, past the western boundary of Enders Hall. In a dry summer it dwindled to a mere trickle, revealing the rocks and rubble that made its bed, but in spring, when the winter runoff swelled its flow, it became a gurgling, rushing torrent, overspreading its banks and rampaging down the spills, as it did now. She loved to watch the water come bubbling over the stones, splashing and burbling along in a kind of happy hysteria. It was a sight to bring one joy, despite the rain.

In many places the water’s overflow covered the banks, and she had to ride unusually close to the tree line. Occasionally a low-hanging branch grazed her face and had to be brushed aside. One such branch, much larger than the others, had to be bent and held firmly down to permit her to pass. When she passed and let it go, however, it caught the hem of her skirt on its tip and sprang up with vigor, pulling the garment up with it and revealing Julie’s legs, bare except for a pair of brief pantaloons and her boots. The horse, feeling a tug, stopped. Julie pulled at the skirt, but it would not come loose. She lifted herself to a standing position on the stirrups but couldn’t reach the skirt’s hem. Even when she bent the branch, the tip remained out of her reach.

At that moment, to her horror, she heard the sound of hoof beats squelching on wet ground. “Good morning, ma’am,” came a pleasant male voice. “You seem to be in difficulty. May I be of assistance?”

She looked round to discover that the rider was the very man who’d taken her breath away the night before. Of all the men in the world, Lord Canfield was the last one she wanted to encounter at this moment. He looked, of course, as marvelous as he’d seemed last night. He was wearing chamois breeches, a tweed riding coat and a tall beaver which he was tipping politely. She wanted to die! She knew she looked a sight, with her dripping hair, her skirt lifted up above her knees, and her legs—bare!— hanging from the horse
astride!

“Let me help you,” he said, urging his horse between hers and the tree.

“No, please,” she said, choked, turning away her head. “Just ... go away!”

He laughed, stood on his stirrups, reached up and released the skirt. “There,” he said, tipping his hat again. “No trouble at all.”

She pulled down the offending garment, swung a leg over the horse so that she sat sidesaddle and lowered her head. “Th-thank you, my lord,” she mumbled miserably.

“Why, it’s Miss... Miss Branscombe, is it not?” he asked, peering at her through the raindrops and the strands of hair that fell over her face. “We met last night, I believe.”

“Yes, I believe we d-did,” she managed.

“This is good luck,” he said cheerfully. “I’d hoped to encounter you again.”

“That is k-kind of you to say,” she said, pushing tendrils of hair back from her eyes and throwing a quick glance at his face, “but I would have preferred a less humiliating encounter.”

“Why humiliating? Anyone might have gotten caught in these deuced brambles.”

“Perhaps,” she said ruefully, “but not many would have revealed such... such bare legs.”

“True,” he agreed with a chuckle, “but not many would have such pretty legs to reveal.”

Though she knew he’d meant the remark as a compliment, she couldn’t take it so. It was too intimate for so brief an acquaintance. “I would have preferred,” she said as proudly as her overwhelming embarrassment permitted, “that you hadn’t seen them at all, even if they’d been covered with stockings and petticoats. Which, to my everlasting shame, they weren’t.”