The Regency (50 page)

They had three more dikes to jump before they reached
Healaugh, and rode up the track to the Manor Farm, which
stood on a slight rise. There the steward was waiting to shew
Edward the breeding-ram he hoped to sell him.

‘
Now then, Maister Morland,' he said respectfully, squinting
up at Edward, framed by the bright, windy sky. ‘Ah've the
tup shut in t'barn all ready. Jed, coom and tek maister's
hoss!' He took hold of Vanity's bridle, and said, 'Now, Miss, if
you'd like to step into th' house, missus'll give you a sup o'
something, and a clean place to sit down until maister's
ready.'

‘
By no means,' Mathilde said quickly, swinging her leg free
and jumping down, much to the steward's dismay. 'I want to
see the tup as well.’

The steward looked embarrassed at her use of the word,
and said hastily, 'Nay, Miss, tha'll get dirty for naught. Sure
tha's not interested in sheep!'

‘
Indeed I am,' she said, smiling mischievously. 'I've read all
about Bakewell's methods in Mr Young's new book, which
I'm sure you've read —
The Husbandry of Three Famous
Farmers —
have you come across it? I quite long to see your
ram — I've never seen a pure-bred merino before.’

The steward had no more to say, only stared at her open
mouthed for a moment, before gesturing to the man Jed to
take her horse as well, and leading the way to the barn.
Edward offered her his arm, and as she caught up the long
end of her habit over her arm — for indeed it was very muddy — he murmured, 'That was very unkind of you!
You've shocked the poor man with your unwomanliness. But you haven't really read Arthur Young's book, have you?'

‘
Oh yes! Well, I've been listening to you and Mr James
talking about improving the flock night after night, and then
I saw the book lying on the table in the drawing-room —
I haven't read it all, but I've looked at the pictures,' she
admitted.

Edward laughed. 'That's more than I could get James to
do! He hates anything more serious than the
Gentleman's
Magazine!
So have you understood, then, why I'm interested
in this tup — ram?' he corrected himself hastily.

‘
Because Bakewell's methods produce bigger sheep with
coarser wool — very good for mutton, but not so good for
wool,' she said promptly.

‘
That's right. It's all right for long-staple weaving, but our
Morland Fancy needs fine, short-staple wool.'

‘
And the merino is a little sheep with fine wool, isn't it?
They come from Spain, don't they?’

Edward looked impressed. 'Quite correct. My dear
Mathilde, what a farmer's wife you would make!' A blush
spread over her cheeks, and it was fortunate at that moment
that she really did have to look down to see where she was
treading.

When they had looked at the ram, and Edward and the
steward had discussed it at a length even Mathilde began to
find excessive, they resolutely refused all offers of hospitality
within the farmhouse, remounted, and set off for home again.

‘
It's a fine little animal, don't you think?' Edward said
enthusiastically as they trotted the eager horses down the
track. 'The wool is so soft and short, I could hardly believe it!
It's one thing to read about it, and quite another to handle it.'

‘
And you mean to cross it with our ewes, to make their
wool finer?' Mathilde asked.

‘
That's right. I might even produce a new breed, and have it named after me — the Morland Merino, you know — like
the Gresley Longhorn!'

‘
But will one ram be enough to make all that difference?' Mathilde asked. They reached the end of the track, and she
halted Vanity as she contemplated the problem with a frown.
'Won't its blood be very diluted, mixed with so many hundreds
of ewes?’

Edward checked Thunderer and looked at her with delight.
'Oh my dear Mathilde, it's a peculiar sort of comfort to
discover that you don't understand everything about stock
improvement after all!’

Mathilde turned her head to smile at him. 'I told you I only
looked at the pictures!' she said. 'But I'd like to learn. You
could teach me, couldn't you, Cousin Edward?’

The sunlight, broken by the fast-scudding clouds, was
illuminating her hair, and shining through her golden eye
lashes, and Edward looked at her, suddenly heart-in-mouth,
realising how much he had come to love her over the last few years; not just as his young cousin and a pleasant companion,
but as a beautiful and desirable woman. She
is
beautiful, he
thought to himself fiercely, realising how far into his heart she
had burrowed, and how very, very painful it would be to root
her out. But she was a young woman, with all of her life before
her, and he was almost fifty, more than twice her age. What
right did a grey old man have to fall in love with a golden girl?
And there were other considerations, he reflected grimly.
Though he lived in every comfort at Morland Place, was
Fanny's trustee and sole arbiter of everything to do with the
house, the estate, and all its incomes, he possessed nothing of
his own. When the trust ended, he would inherit the sum of
six thousand pounds which, invested in the Funds, would
bring him an income of three hundred pounds a year. That,
of course, would be ample for his needs, as long as he
remained at Morland Place, which, under the terms of his
mother's will, he was entitled to do as long as he remained
unmarried. But on three hundred pounds a year he could not
marry and support a woman with no fortune whatever; he
could not even contemplate it as a possibility.

For the first time he thought bitterly of his mother, and
saw how monstrous it was for her to have left everything to Fanny, making no provision for her other children. William
and Harry were all right, of course, because they had their
careers, and Lucy and James were well-married, but Edward
— what thought had she taken for Edward? He had worked
all his life on and for the Morland estate. He had given up the
chance to go to university and have a career in order to learn
about the estate to which, everyone had assumed at that time,
he would be the heir. He had given his life to drudgery, had
grown grey in the service of the ancient house and the broad,
green acres, and now he was left the merest pensioner, unpaid
steward to a spoilt brat not even of his fathering.

Of course, another part of his mind might offer in expiation,
it was by his own choice that he had not married and
produced a family long ago. If he had done so, Morland Place
would have been left to him and his offspring: his mother's
monstrous will was the result of his long and chosen celibacy.
But that was no comfort now, and he thrust the excuse away
angrily. His mother had no right to place him in this intolerable
position. He was no better than a farm-hand, a beggar, a poor
relation!
And he had no right to think of Mathilde; sweet, lovely
Mathilde, who was smiling at him now, waiting for an answer
as these thoughts rushed through his head in a bare few
seconds.

‘
Teach you?' he said harshly. 'No, I don't think I could. It's
a complicated subject; not suitable for a female, in any case.’

He had spoken more abruptly than he meant, and saw that
he had wounded her. Her mouth trembled, and she lowered
her eyes, bewildered and hurt, and he wanted to cry out and
comfort her, tell her everything, how much he loved her, how
he would die to defend her from the least pain. But he
stopped himself, knowing that it was better so. Better if the
warmth were allowed to seep out of their relationship. Better
if there were no more rides together or games of chess. Better
if she came — oh God! — just a little to dislike him. If he
must root her out of his heart, let it be as soon and as
completely as possible.

They rode on in silence for a while, Edward keeping his
eyes away from her, his brow drawn, his mouth turned down
as he brooded over his troubles. Mathilde looked at him
covertly from under her lashes, as much puzzled as hurt by
his abrupt change of mood, and the sharp way he had spoken
to her. They had been such good friends that she could not bear
to be at outs with him, and after a while plucked up courage
to ask timidly, 'Cousin Edward, have I said something to
offend you?' He neither replied nor looked at her, and after a
moment she went on, unconsciously turning a knife in his
heart, 'Pray, pray forgive me if I have. I didn't mean to, for
the world.’

His arms ached with the longing to take her in them, but
he schooled his voice to cool politeness. 'Offended me? No, not
at all. There is nothing to forgive, I assure you.'

‘
But there is, I'm sure of it,' she cried eagerly, encouraged
by the fact of his answering, if not by the words. 'We had
been so comfortable before, and now you won't look at me.’

He turned his eyes painfully on her, and forced a brief, and
he hoped avuncular, smile. 'Not look at you? Nonsense!
You're imagining things. But I think we'd better hurry — I'm
sure it's going to rain.' He kicked Thunderer into a trot, and
thence to a canter, taking him ahead of Mathilde where she wouldn't be able to see his face. She followed, puzzled and
unhappy, and as he kept up a fast pace all the way home,
there was no opportunity for further conversation. It was all
she could do on Vanity to keep up with him; but at least, she
thought, if there were tears in her eyes, they might be put
down to the rush of cold air in her face.

*

The great wash was finished at last, and everything was put
back in its place, and the house was comfortable again. As she
looked about the drawing-room with pride and pleasure on
the first day afterwards, Héloïse, noticing her ward's pale
face, was seized with guilt.

Ma pauvre,
I have kept you indoors in all the dust, except
for that one ride you had, and you have wilted like a cut
daisy! I shall tell you what, though, my Mathilde: I shall have
the ponies put-to in the phaeton, and you and I and Nicholas
will drive into York, and do a little shopping. We shall call at
Enderby's, and see if they have any new muslins for a gown
for you, how would that be? For you have worked so hard
these last few days, you deserve at least a new gown.'