The Byram Succession (15 page)

“Oh! Thank you! Yes. Of course I will,” said Alethea, rather disjointedly, and still seemed to be poised on the edge of flight.

“Please don’t run away,” he begged, but lightly, easily, as though it was no great matter. He felt suddenly and fiercely alive, his mind working at racing speed, every faculty alert. “I promise not to distress you with further importunities. But even if you won’t marry me, surely you would still
help
me? Are we not friends again?”

She assented to that, promptly if a little doubtfully. Friendship—with a man whom one loved to distraction—was like to prove both costly and painful.

“Then will you please consider my position?
My
reputation is just as much in question as yours. I will allow yours to be your own affair. But unless our betrothal is puffed off within the next few days, I shall be in ill-odour indeed. I shall be marked down as an unprincipled blackguard. Society will cast me out. No more invitations from careful parents. Young ladies will look the other way or plead previous engagements when I ask them to dance with me. ”

She was looking quite anxious, his funny little love. But she was no fool. Better not try her credulity
too
high, though the bubbling eagerness within him was urging him on to ridiculous audacity. He drew a solemn face. “You, if you were willing, could help me in this.”

“Could I?” she said doubtfully.

“Why, yes. If I promise not to tease you with my attentions, would you consent to visit my parents at Byram? That would put my position in a much more respectable light.”

“Would it?”—even more doubtfully.

“Why, of course it would!” This time that inner exhilaration ran away with him. “Everyone would see that I had done my best to make an honest woman of you. When no betrothal ensued, they would probably lay the blame on my father.”

“But that would be wrong,” she said simply, bewildered by his changing moods.

“Little my father would care! He’s a great gun, for all his quiet ways. You’ll like him, I think. My mother and Rachel—my sister-in-law—you must love. No one could help it. And Byram is beautiful at this time of year, with the corn ripening and the heather just coming into bloom. Please say you will come!”

She scarcely noticed that he was already taking her consent for granted. In this mood it was difficult to refuse him anything.

“I must go home first,” she pondered. Then, more firmly, “Papa and Mama must be told the whole of this scheme of yours. Then, if they approve, I will come.”

FIFTEEN

Everyone was so
understanding, so helpful. Aunt Maria, having been favoured with a heavily expurgated account of the interview in the Green Saloon, decided that all was not yet lost. Privately she saluted his lordship’s nerve in treating her niece to such a farrago of nonsense. As though the heir to a dukedom would ever be so ostracised! But the thing was that Alethea seemed to have swallowed it, and far be it from Aunt Maria to undeceive her. She commended the girl’s decision to consult her parents, said that, for her part, she thought Alethea owed his lordship such reparation as lay in her power, and offered the services of Hetty to support her niece in the anxious business of staying with such exalted personages.

Papa listened to all she had to say, remarked mildly that he believed his lordship to have sound principles and a well-informed mind, but said that if Alethea did not feel that she was ready for marriage then her father was only too happy to keep his daughter at home for as long as she chose to stay. As for visiting Byram, she and Mama must decide between them what was proper. He could not help feeling that it would be a pity to miss so rare an opportunity. Byram was very old, very lovely. He was sure she would find much there to interest her.

Alethea, while wholly subscribing to this last remark, if from quite a different point of view, began to feel slightly hunted. She had expected Papa to be wholly opposed to the scheme and she felt that she needed either strong opposition or firm support to help her make up her own mind, for by this time she didn’t know whether she wanted to go or not. Damon had insisted on driving her home, with Hetty to play propriety, pointing out that this would be the least that the interested would expect of him in the way of correct behaviour. He had also done a great deal more, driving down to the Wells twice to enquire how she did and on one occasion putting up overnight at the George and Dragon in Speldhurst in order to drive Mama out in the new phaeton with which he had replaced the wrecked curricle. His behaviour had been exactly that of a gentleman concerned to fix his interest with a lady. He brought her flowers, entertained her with the latest news of her London acquaintance, escorted her on a very prosaic household shopping expedition and strolled with her in the Rectory garden. But since she could not be sure whether he was sincere or merely play-acting, she was more bewildered than ever.

Mama—well—Mama had fallen in love with Damon, or so her husband declared, vowing that he had never seen such an arrant flirtation in his life. The day of Alethea’s home-coming, Mama’s chair had been set in the garden under the walnut tree for coolness. The two of them had come to her there, outlined against the blaze of a westering sun, so that she was dazzled and could see few details. Her first impression of Damon had been of a tall man, dark, and, she thought, very proud, despite the informality of buckskins and driving coat, who still walked with a slight limp.

Their first exchanges had been purely formal but when Alethea had been despatched indoors with the kindly suggestion that she should change her carriage dress for something cooler, Damon had looked full at his hostess and come straight to the point.

“Forgive me, ma’am, if I sound abrupt, but I have a good deal to say in a very short time. Your daughter is not one to dawdle over changing her gown.”

She gave him a little smile for that, but her eyes were watchful. “From what I have
not
said,” he went on, “you will have guessed that there is no engagement between us. Miss Forester declined my offer on the grounds that she would not be pushed into matrimony just to satisfy convention.”

“A very sensible reason,” she observed seriously.

It was his turn to smile, though only briefly. “I should perhaps add, ma’am, that I mean to do all in my power to induce her to change her mind. With which end in view I have persuaded her, by slightly devious means, to visit my parents at Byram next month. She will tell you all about it herself, will, in fact, only consent to the visit if you and her father approve. What
I
want to say, ma’am, is, will you help me?”

She looked him over long and thoughtfully, and he endured the scrutiny patiently, never once thinking of a scarred face, intuitively aware that, like her daughter, this woman would see beyond the surface.

Presently she said quietly, “If I like you I will help. But it is early days to be sure. You love her?”

“With all my heart, ma’am,” he said rather grimly. “But I was fool enough to discover it just too late. I proposed to her chiefly on grounds of suitability—common interests—shared principles—I daresay I need not enlarge on that head.”

“But you did not tell her that you loved her.”

“At that moment, ma’am, I was not aware that I
did,”
he said, a note of exasperation creeping in.

“Ah!” she said wisely. “I see. It is because she refused you that you suddenly became so fond. Denied you, she was more desirable.”

He swung round on her with what she privily described to her husband as a positive snarl of fury, then remembered that she was a woman, a delicate one at that, and Alethea’s mother. He said quietly, “I cannot blame you for saying it. It is what anyone might think. But it is not so. When Miss Forester refused me, I behaved very badly. I flung it at her that it was because of my scarred face that she could not endure the thought of marrying me. It made her very angry. She said—what she did then—it’s no good, ma’am, I can’t explain it sensibly, but it was like coming out of a dark prison cell full of nightmares and horrible imaginings into clean sunlight and cool air,” he finished simply.

Mrs. Forester, who could imagine very well what her daughter had done and was becoming increasingly aware of a certain desire to imitate the shameless hussy’s behaviour, said softly, “I see.” Then, rousing herself to a slightly more militant attitude, added briskly, “There is just one more point, my lord. You have spoken of suitability—community of tastes and principles. You said nothing of rank and fortune.”

The silence this time was uncomfortable. At last he said slowly, “I know we are not equals in rank. But we have been bred up in the same tradition of duty, integrity and service to our people. Would you punish me for being the son of a Duke?” And then, sensing her sympathy, went on audaciously, “We can none of us help our parents, ma’am.”

The twinkle in her eyes reassuring him, he finished gaily, “As for fortune—well—there’s no use denying my father would rather have seen me wed an heiress. You are a country woman, ma’am. You will understand that a place like Byram has a hungry mouth that is always in need of filling. But there are things of more value than money, and Byram may go short of the stuff for once. If I can persuade
—when
I persuade your daughter to marry me,” he corrected, the black head tilting defiantly, “I shall be more than content. She has a gift above gold, even above rubies. How many women are there, do you think, who can give a man his faith again? A man bitter and disillusioned as I was. And not even because she loved me, but from innocent warm-heartedness.”

Mrs. Forester entertained some very strong doubts about that last statement, but the poor boy seemed to believe it, bless him. She said slowly, “It will not be easy. Speak to her, now, of love and she will not believe you. She will put it down to your noble nature, or some such folly.”

“In any case I have promised not to pester her with unwanted attentions.”

Mrs. Forester laughed, a soft gurgle of sound that made him smile in return though he could see nothing funny in what he had said.

“How
truly
noble!” she mocked. “But my dear boy, there are more ways than one of wooing a girl. I can see I shall have to take your education in hand.”

“Then you will help?” he demanded eagerly.

“Indeed I will. To the best of my ability.” She held out her hand, laughing up at him, and he clasped it firmly in token of alliance. Eyes brimming with mischief, she tugged gently at the captive hands so that he came, puzzled, to kneel beside her. Gently she put up her other hand to the crisp dark hair, tweaked it lightly, kissed the scarred cheek and said softly, “Do you think I do not know my own daughter?”

If Alethea had entertained any lingering thought of evading the Byram visit they were banished when the Duchess’s letter of invitation arrived. Its tone was simple and friendly. She was invited to spend the whole of August with them. There was mention of a projected visit from Marianne and James during the latter part of her stay, which the Duchess hoped would add to her enjoyment of a quiet country holiday. And in her closing paragraph she suggested that perhaps Alethea’s father would like to spend a week at Byram before escorting his daughter home again. She understood from her son that Mrs. Forester was not yet able for so long a journey, a fact that she much regretted. She would hope to have the pleasure of making her acquaintance at a later date, having heard so much about her from her son. Meanwhile their Chaplain at Byram would be happy to exchange pulpits with Mr. Forester if that would be helpful.

It would have taken a much harder heart than Alethea’s to quench the eager delight that shone in her father’s face at this proposal. There was no more talk of whether she should or should not go. Preparations were set in hand and all was bustle. Mama and a rather wistful Susan were comfortably established in their apartments in Worthing and Hetty packed Alethea’s trunks for a month’s stay in what Papa teasingly described as ‘the barbarous borders’. Papa had shed twenty years in his anticipation of such a holiday as he had never dreamed of, and made even his rather half-hearted daughter laugh with his ridiculous, solemnly uttered warnings as to the customs obtaining in the north.

A suggestion that a good supply of flannel petticoats and warm shawls would be a great deal more useful than all those flimsy gowns that Hetty was folding so carefully might be heard with filial respect, even if disregarded, since Papa was a north-countryman by birth. But the offer of a chain-mail hauberk, his dearest treasure, to be worn beneath those same gowns for fear of border reivers and moss-troopers reduced her to helpless giggles.

Papa, however, seemed to feel that his high spirits had betrayed him into going beyond the line of what was pleasing, and reverted to his more usual manner. And this time his daughter was hard put to it
not
to laugh, for the reverent voice in which he recited the names of the towns through which she would pass on the Great North Road, “Stilton, Stamford, Grantham, Newark—names redolent of history! The very stones will speak to you,” put her irresistibly in mind of the way in which he pronounced the Benedicite.

SIXTEEN

Papa was
at least so far right in that Alethea enjoyed the long leisurely journey far more than she had thought possible. For the most part she travelled in that same carriage that had once served as an al fresco dressing room, Judd on the box, positively cheerful these days, since he found Hetty an entertaining sparring partner in their off-duty hours. Sometimes his lordship would join her for an hour or so; sometimes, if the weather and road conditions permitted, he would coax her to ride with him. The little brown mare, most inappropriately named The Mudlark, had been brought along for her especial use, if she chose to ride. A young groom, whom Alethea vaguely recognised, led her when she was not required and seemed to be responsible for her welfare.

The constantly changing scene, the exercise and the busy posting inns all helped to raise Alethea’s spirits. Everything was fresh and novel. There was ample food for her lively curiosity. And in answering the many questions and pointing out the various places of interest along the way, it was not long before Damon was re-established on almost the old friendly footing.

Almost, but not quite. His behaviour was beyond praise. Her comfort, and Hetty’s, was provided for in every detail, with a forethought that was as thorough as it was unobtrusive. When the two of them talked together he so managed it that the chosen topics were interesting, amusing, even controversial, but never personal. Yet despite his care, he sensed in her a wariness, a reserve that he could not penetrate.

Once, in a careless moment he betrayed himself. They had arrived betimes in Newark where they were to rest overnight, and he had persuaded her to stroll out with him to view all that remained of its castle. As they returned, she expressed her regret that they could not stay longer in the town, so much as there was to invite exploration. Quite unthinkingly Damon suggested that the next time they came that way she might stay for as long as she pleased. He saw her check in her strolling pace, then move on again, saying quietly, “You forget, my lord. When next I come this way, I shall be with my father—and he will be in haste to get back to Mama and to his parish duties.”

But arrived at Byram she lowered her guard a little. She was naturally shy, a trifle overawed, and Damon was an old friend among so many strangers. She could turn to him with confidence for any information necessary to her peace of mind and know that he would not laugh at her or despise her ignorance of the ways of great houses. So two weeks passed very pleasantly, and even the weather smiled upon them. There was no need for flannel petticoats, thought Alethea with a smile, though it was certainly much cooler than in Kent, a coolness that she found invigorating. They drove out to visit several beauty spots in the neighbourhood, rode together every day, and, on the two occasions when the weather was really hot, went boating on the lake. The Duchess apologised for not holding parties in her guest’s honour, pleading laziness, which was manifestly untrue, and explaining that there would have to be parties when Marianne and James arrived and, with the weather so fine, it was a pity not to take advantage of it.

“We must have a picnic on the island before you go home,” suggested Damon, careful not to fall into error again. “Edward and I were used to spend most of our holidays there when the weather permitted—and the grown-ups! We even built a log cabin there, so that we could sleep in it and play Robinson Crusoe. I wonder if it is still standing.”

It was the first time that he had spoken to Alethea of his brother, and since he said no more and made no attempt to land on the island, Alethea judged that the pain of his loss was still acute. She knew from Lady Rachel that the two had been very close. Damon, the younger brother, adoring and copying the older one, Edward fiercely protective.

“Damon has never really forgiven what he felt was the throwing away of Edward’s life,” she had said sadly, “and when he failed in his brave attempt to save our son, his whole disposition seemed to change. He is more himself this summer than he has been since Edward’s death. A happy marriage will, I believe, bring back something of the dear, lovable boy over whom we have all grieved so deeply.”

This was coming too close. Alethea said rather stiffly that she sincerely trusted that his lordship would soon find a suitable marriage partner with whom he might achieve this felicity.

Lady Rachel did not appear to notice any withdrawal of intimacy. “I shall be so thankful, both for him and myself,” she confided. “I cannot desert the Duchess, whom I dearly love, but my brother needs me so much more.”

“Your brother?”

“Yes, my dear. His wife is so very frail. Indeed, we fear the end cannot be far away. The lung sickness, you know. And two small children—the youngest a mere babe. You can see how I am torn.”

Alethea could. And her tender heart grieved for the sad little family. But it could not change her feelings about marriage with Damon.

It was not quite so easy to ignore the Duchess’s remarks. The Duke, who did not employ an agent, preferring to keep matters in his own hands, generally vanished into the estate office after dinner. The rest of the party amused themselves with books and needlework or music and card games, as the mood took them. On this particular occasion Damon had gone off with his father. Rachel had been singing, her voice not very powerful but sweet and true. The song done, she remained at the piano, drifting gently from one melody to another, her fingers idling over the keys. The Duchess sat watching her for a little while before turning to Alethea to say, “I shall miss her so very much when she goes, but I think she will be happier with her brother. She dearly loves children and those poor little mites need her more than I do. I fear I have been selfish in clinging to her companionship for so long. But you and I go on very comfortably together, do we not?”

Alethea could only blush and stammer what she hoped were appropriate thanks and pretend to be unaware of the underlying significance of the pleasant words. Approval—acceptance—could scarcely have been more blatant. In one way it made her very happy. But when one felt bound to disappoint these innocent hopes, one felt the meanest of traitors. And the Duchess was such a dear. The sight of her anxious, loving eyes dwelling so tenderly on her tall son tore at Alethea’s heart. She began to think gratefully of the impending arrival of Marianne and James. It would be easier when there were other guests to distract the attention of these lovable ladies from her guilt-stricken self.

Marianne and James were due to arrive on Thursday. There were but three more days to be endured. Surely she could hold out for
so
long against the gentle but inexorable fingers that were thrusting her into Damon’s arms? For she still believed that her original decision had been the right one—and Damon had given her no reason to think otherwise.

On Wednesday night the Duke took a hand in the affair, telling Alethea over dinner that he had received a letter from her Papa and suggesting that if she could spare the time to come with him to the library after dinner, she might like to read it. But when he had settled her in a comfortable chair and told her that Papa hoped to arrive on Saturday, he made no attempt to give her the letter. Instead he said gravely, “My child, how does it come about that my son believes you to be practically penniless? Your father, feeling it to be his duty under the circumstances, informs me that you are, on the contrary, a very considerable heiress.”

Alethea’s head went up proudly. Duke or not, she could not see that it was any business of his. Then she remembered that he was also her host and Damon’s father. She said with dignity, “My parents, your grace, did not wish me, in my first season, to be exposed to the attentions of fortune hunters when they could not be at hand to guide and advise me. It seemed to them wiser that word of my inheritance should not be bruited abroad. I naturally submitted to their wishes.”

He studied her thoughtfully, a gleam of appreciation in the grey eyes so like his son’s. So she had a temper. Good! And had it in control. Even better. He said quizzically, “There was no romantic notion of persuading my son to declare the world and wealth well lost for love?”

The blaze in the soft brown eyes quite startled him. By the Lord Harry, he thought, if she had a sword, she’d spit me for that! There was a long pause before a perfectly colourless little voice said, “No, your grace. Nothing of that kind.”

Inwardly he saluted the child’s demeanour. But since Damon had told him the whole, he must move carefully. “You relieve my mind,” he said gently. “I had judged you to be above such romantical folly, and am thankful to have my opinion confirmed. Though if my son had known the truth, I might have been spared some extremely boring, not to say disrespectful homilies on the value that should be set on character and disposition as opposed to mere money. All of which I heartily agreed with before he began. Not that it spared me anything. However, I daresay you and he will settle the business best between you. I’m no hypocrite, Miss Forester. If you decide to marry my son, I won’t pretend that your fortune won’t be very useful. I
can
honestly say that I’d have welcomed you thankfully without it, since I think his happiness lies in your hands. Don’t look so distressed, child,
I
won’t tell him. Good night. Sleep well!”

Alethea could only be grateful for dismissal, since she was left without words. She slept very badly indeed—for a girl not yet twenty—and was wide awake by six o’clock. She had never left her room so early before, but she could bear inaction no longer. She put on her riding dress, moving softly to avoid rousing the sleeping Hetty in the adjoining room, and went quietly downstairs. The servants were already astir. A surprised abigail brought her a glass of milk and an apple and Bellamy, Damon’s deerhound, came pleasedly to greet her. The huge creature had, from their first introduction, taken it upon herself to escort the visitor in all her comings and goings when her master was unable to do so. Only Alethea herself was unaware of the singularity of this behaviour. The entire household had noticed it with emotions that ranged from amused interest to downright awe, and it had done much for Alethea’s prestige. Presently the two of them made their way to the stables. Alethea had been told that The Mudlark was entirely at her disposal—she had only to ask Belling to bring her out. She did so now. A brisk canter would at least distract her thoughts if it could not solve her
problem. In
the event it actually underlined the problem, since Toby Belling seized the opportunity of begging her pardon for
his
share in the accident that he had helped to bring about.
Now
she knew why she had half recognised him. She must have seen him about the livery stables, though how he now came to be in Lord Skirlaugh’s service was still a puzzle. He was only too eager to explain. But as his remorse, his gratitude for an inexplicable forgiveness and generosity, his adoration for his new master, spilled over in tumultuous and slightly incoherent phrases, she struggled anew to escape from those relentless voices that urged his lordship’s claims. Here was a man worthy of any woman’s love. Who was she, to demand that first he must love her?

James and Marianne were late. Alethea was already changing her dress for dinner when the soft, urgent tapping at her door announced her friend’s arrival, and Marianne, glowing and breathless, came in. Her first exclamation was one of concern. “My dear—you look worn to the bone! What
have
you been doing? Oh dear! It will be very awkward if the air at Byram doesn’t suit your constitution!”

At this point Alethea, recognising the signs, hastily dismissed an interested Hetty and assured her friend that she was perfectly well and happy to see
her
in such high bloom.

“Yes, I daresay,” said Marianne quite brusquely. “But you, my love! What’s amiss? Is Uncle Hugo being difficult? I was afraid of that. I have looked each day in the Gazette, hoping to see the announcement of your betrothal.”

Alethea turned on her almost fiercely. “Would
you
accept a bridegroom because Tina’s foolish play-acting had forced him to offer for you?” she demanded. “He doesn’t really want me, certainly doesn’t love me. You told me yourself that his choice was already made. Do you think me as selfish and greedy as Tina that I must snatch at the offer of high rank, just because sheer chance has flung it at my feet?”

“But”—said Marianne. And stopped. She was horrified that a few careless words of hers should have caused such mischief. She, at least, would meddle no more. But Damon should have the truth of the matter before she slept that night. Hastily she fell back on woman’s ever-ready excuse. “My love, I must change my dress. Uncle Hugo will be cross if we keep dinner waiting. We were dreadfully late arriving. One of the horses cast a shoe and the smith’s fire was out. We can talk later,” and fled.

“I don’t know whether to hug you or shake you,” said Damon. It had proved impossible to talk with him privately during the evening, since the newly arrived pair were the centre of attention, but Marianne, knowing that she would not rest until her confession was made, had taken the desperate course of going to his dressing room before he retired for the night. His expression of shocked incredulity had swiftly vanished at the trouble in her face, though he could not wholly check a speculative conjecture as to what his valet would think.

“Yes, I think it must be the hug,” he decided thoughtfully. “To be sure, if you had not meddled—yes, yes, I
do
understand precisely how it came about, you need not explain again—we might have been betrothed by now. On the other hand I would certainly have missed a very rare, a very wonderful experience. And
no,
I am
not
going to tell you what it was. But it could buy you forgiveness for far worse crimes.” He stooped and kissed her cheek. “Now—be off with you, before my reputation is wholly ruined. The thought of having compromised two young ladies at one and the same time, and one of them my own newly-betrothed cousin, is too much even for my sangfroid, while if James discovers your present whereabouts I shall undoubtedly receive a politely worded invitation to meet him in the cold, depressing dawn—and he a Marine and a first rate marksman! But don’t forget to explain our arrangements to him in careful detail. Marines
do
so like to have their orders cut and dried!” With which parting jibe he cautiously scanned the corridor to ensure that the coast was clear and pushed her hastily through the door.