The Wicked Guardian (13 page)

She passed over the glaring faults lightly; by listening to her, one might imagine that strolling down a badly lit path was understandable, to be left sitting alone on a marble bench in the dark was unexceptionable, and to drink lemon squash laced with champagne was no more than a rector’s daughter might do.

She fell silent, contemplating her own errors. But Miss Peek, believing in the virtues of confession, urged her gently on.

So it was that Miss Peek heard the story of Benedict’s furious rescue, his equally furious escorting her back to the lighted house and sending her upstairs to straighten her gown.

“But that does not seem so villainous to me,” she said. “But perhaps I do not rightly understand this. It seems to me that you owe Lord Choate a great deal, my child—your reputation at the very least.”

“But that is not the half of it!” exclaimed Clare. “Just listen to this. While I was upstairs putting myself to rights, I heard through the window my own name. And of course I must hear what was to follow. And that woman said that Benedict could not abide me, that I was a nuisance and a spoiled brat, and he was sorry that I was related to him, since I brought such sh-shame on the family name!”

Clare dropped to her knees beside Miss Peek’s chair. The tears had begun to flow now, and the face she turned up to her governess was streaked and reddened. Miss Peek was put forcefully in mind of the first time she had seen Clare, who was in disgrace with cook for making off with the raisins for her cookies.

“My dear Clare,” she said softly. “It was that bad? Who on earth could have been so
misguided
and so vulgar as to tell such untruths?”

“But it was not untruths!” insisted Clare. “For you must know it was Miss Morton who said so, and she was quoting Benedict, and she is his betrothed! Surely she told the truth?”

Miss Peek coughed gently. “Surely she is ill-bred to pass on what after all must have been a very private conversation between Lord Choate and his intended wife. Very wrong!”

“So you see, if he is so misguided as to say all those things, knowing that she is a sad rattle, then I cannot believe that he knows what is best for me!”

Detecting signs of overt rebellion, Miss Peek hastened to extinguish the first sparks. “But, my dear, he is your guardian, and no matter what you think, he is responsible for your welfare. And you must be guided by him.”

Clare leaped to her feet and took a quick turn around the room. Then, with swirling skirts, she faced her governess, and clenching her fists, delivered herself of her final judgment: “Lord Benedict Choate is a wicked,
wicked
guardian!”

1
5
.

Clare’s confession had unburdened her soul, and Miss Peek’s practiced methods provided the unguent to heal her wounds. But it would be wrong to believe that Clare had now agreed to submit to the cruel destiny that had brought her Lord Benedict Choate.

Resignation was not a vital part of Clare’s character, and Choate, driving back to London, was mistaken in his satisfaction at the way things had turned out. Clare Penryck was settled in her ancestral home, with her governess, and since she had gotten her own way, he believed, she would now subside and bide her time until, with Miss Peek’s further governance, she would be ready to make her appearance once more in London society.

A lurking thought told him that London would not be quite the same without Clare, but he steeled himself to facing a world of order and security, without unpleasant alarm every time he caught sight of her, wondering what) she would do next to set the world by the ears.

But while he moved in a rainbow world of his own false hopes, Clare retreated into her own thoughts, and they were far from iris-hued.

She was not harried by Miss Peek, and she had been right to wish for her company. Miss Peek, glancing from time to time at her dear Clare, forbore to reopen the subject that she was quite sure was uppermost in the girl’s mind. But, she thought comfortably, if time were allowed to shroud the untoward events with its healing veil, it would be the best cure of all.

Miss Peek found sufficient employment in turning out closets, since Clare had given her freedom to do what she would, and setting the household to rights. So there were linens to mend, china to wash, carpets to be beaten, herbs; to be gathered and dried, holland covers to be installed in the rooms that were consigned to idleness.

And while Miss Peek hummed through her day, totally contented, Clare employed herself with turning over every slightest incident of her sojourn in London. It was a mistake to have acceded to Grandmama’s wishes, she believed now, and yet she would have longed for London had she been kept at home.

But no matter in what direction her thoughts ran now, she found that sooner or later the thin, elegant face of her guardian swam into her mind’s eye. The heavy black brows, the suggestion of a faintly curled lip, the dark eyes blazing with pent-up fury, and the slightly contemptuous expression with which he regarded her when he was in, charity with her—all this weighed heavily upon her.

She could not forgive him for what he said behind her back. He had told Marianna Morton that Clare was hanging out for a rich husband!

And while part of that was true, riches meant little to her. To be without a feather to fly with was, of course, a way of life abhorrent to any female. But to give her heart away for a fortune was equally derogatory, and untrue. And Marianna was spreading Benedict’s words around London with the speed of a grass fire.

It was too callous to be borne!

And although she gave due consideration to Miss Peek’s glossing over the overheard words as exaggerated and in any case not relevant, yet they had wounded her far deeper than she would admit.

And especially now. For her guardian had dealt with her summarily—or he would have, had she not defied him in the matter of Miss Peek—and made sure that she would not come to London to be in the way, before his marriage to Miss Morton took place.

Of course, Grandmama’s death required the year of mourning, and Clare was too realistic to rail against that But it was Benedict’s clear satisfaction at getting her settled in the depths of the country, his obvious relief at disposing of her so easily, and the clear prospect of forgetting her as quickly as he left the White Swan in town—Clare felt all this as deeply as a saber wound.

She was not reconciled to her situation, nor, she promised herself darkly, would she ever be. It was while she was still moodily turning over the London affair that Lady Melvin came to call once more.

“I’ve brought you some reading to keep you occupied,” she said gaily. “I subscribe, don’t you know, to the circulating library in London, and they send me books. I vow I do love to read, and here is the new one from Mrs. Meeke, and there’s a great selection. I have read them all, so you need not hurry with them. But only see what riches are here!”

She set her basket on the table, and delved with both hands into its capacious depths. Talking all the time, she gave rise to doubts in Clare’s mind as to when she could find time to read, with her tongue wagging thirteen to the dozen. But the basket contained some gems, Clare noticed, and soon the two were deep in discussion of their favorites.

Clarentine,
and Miss Edgeworth’s
Leonora. Midnight Weddings. Bewildered Affections. Irish Girl.
And a foolish novel that Clare had read at Lady Thane’s—
Self-control.

“A promising month of reading ahead for you,” announced Lady Melvin triumphantly. “I told your guardian I should look out for you. But you will tell Lord Choate when you write him that I kept my promise, won’t you.”

“I do not plan to write him,” said Clare in a muffled voice.

Lady Melvin looked blank. “Not write to your guardian!” exclaimed Lady Melvin. “I should think you must! How else will he know that all is well with you? While Mr. Austin is all very well, yet Lord Choate should not take the word of a man of affairs! It would not suit. But then, I am persuaded that you are merely funning, and you really intend all the time to behave just as you ought.”

Clare could think of no reply to this. Fortunately, it was not required, for Lady Melvin had more to say. “He is such a man, of the first consequence. You must know that I have a cousin in Kent, at Sevenoaks, near Choate’s main residence, and she is full of the most exquisite examples of Choate’s kindness. His tenants, all in the village, speak of nothing but his great condescension.”

“It is too bad that they lead such meager lives that all they talk of is their landlord.”

Lady Melvin frowned. “But of course you know him better even than they do,” she recovered rapidly. “Pray tell me—I know I haven’t had a chance to visit with you without interruption since you returned from your gay visit to the capital—I imagine you had many many offers, did you not!” She smiled archly.

Clare resolved to play the part to the hilt. Recklessly, she said, “It was such a gay life, you know. Several parties a day. Routs, drums, card parties. Sightseeing.” She was doing it too brown, she thought, ashamed. Lady Melvin really meant well.

“But I did miss Grandmama,” she added with a rush.

“Of course you did. But you didn’t mention any eligible men. Of course, Lord Choate would be a magnificent match, but there is no chance of that?”

“No, no. He is betrothed, you know, to Miss Morton. A very fashionable lady.” But one who will lead him a merry chase, she thought darkly. A veritable shrew.

“Well, too bad your mourning will keep you in Dorset, but I expect that before too long we will be hearing news of your marriage.”

“There is no one in sight, Lady Melvin.”

“Lord Choate will see to it that there is. Believe me, he will want you settled in your own establishment, and there is no one with more influence than Choate and his sister, Lady Lindsay.”

“I would rather seek my own destiny,” said Clare, unconsciously quoting one of the books in the basket. “There was,” she added mendaciously, “a wealthy baronet about to offer for me. But I haven’t made up my mind about him yet.”

Lady Melvin nodded wisely. “Oh, yes, I see. But you will, you little minx. Anyone as pretty as you will have them swooning at your feet when you return to London.”

As pretty as I am, thought Clare in despair, my beauty will fade fast—I have Marianna Morton’s word for it.

She visited for a longer while with Lady Melvin, and when Miss Peek came to join them, she rang for tea and macaroons.

Her thoughts romped away again, while Miss Peek and Lady Melvin mulled over the respective merits of Fanny Burney’s heroines and those of Miss Maria Edgeworth. And her thoughts, this time, moved on to bear some unexpected fruit.

Her frustrations and her regrets came to a sharp focus. She realized that Lord Choate loomed too large in her thoughts for comfort. And, always the realist, she decided that the only way to deal with Lord Choate’s presence in her thoughts was to put him in his place.

It would take some doing, she knew. First she would have to decide exactly what his place was, and then...

His place was at present atop a pedestal. While she had no part of putting him there, yet there he was—witness Miss Peek’s admiration, and Lady Melvin’s rhapsodies. But Clare herself knew him to be arrogant and selfish, unfeeling and ruthless.

She did not need a large audience to witness her victory. She shrank from a public humbling of Lord Choate—she at least knew how it felt to be, even unwittingly, a public spectacle. Nor was she a cruel rattle like Marianna Morton. But she longed to point out his various grave flaws to Choate himself.

She had told him before, but her words had had as little effect as a gnat. But if he could
somehow
be brought to
admit
his grievous faults...

The humbling of Lord Choate! It was a capital scheme! She began busily to put her mind to it, and by the time Lady Melvin rose to take her leave, Clare was committed to the project.

Just how she could accomplish this would have to wait upon further thought. But for the first time, she looked to the future.

After Lady Melvin’s departure, Miss Peek fell upon the books in the basket. “My goodness, this is going to be a fine read,” she said, critically surveying a three-volume edition of
Woman, or Ida of Athens.
“Only, I do wish Lady Melvin did not feel it necessary to sip chocolate while she reads. Look here at this great brown smear.”

“Let us hope,” said Clare absently, “that she does not accuse us of carelessness. She is quite apt to do so, you know.”

Miss Peek looked thoughtful, and then decided, “It will make no difference now. She would never believe us if we told her we had not read it I am sure no one could resist Miss Owenson.”

Then, something in the quality of Clare’s silence spoke to her. “My dear?” she queried gently. “Did Lady Melvin say something to you to bring you so low?”

“Well, in a way she did. She had nothing but the most
fulsome
praise for Choate. And I do feel it unhandsome in her to try to tell me just how I should regard a man whom I know much better than she could ever hope to!”

“I quite agree, my dear,” said Miss Peek promptly. “I suppose she spoke of his address, his impeccable courtesy?”

“Of course she did, Peeky. She knows nothing else of him. Her cousin knows him, and of all the flat-headed toadies her cousin is...!”

Miss Peek smiled gently. Her cap was awry, from her efforts in sorting out the books, and she put up both hands now to set it straight “But you, of course, told her of his sterling character and his eminent fairness? His meticulous attention to your welfare?”

Clare stared at her. She had not suspected her companion of such a mischievous sense of humor, but to her great surprise, she saw that Miss Peek was entirely serious.

“I should have asked you to declaim upon the subject of his character. You see much more in him than I do.”

“Well, no doubt you are right,” said Miss Peek indulgently. “But I do think, my dear, that you would do well to cultivate such thoughts of him as would show off to advantage. It is no use to swim against the tide of popular opinion, you know.”

“But popular opinion does consider him cold, you know. And full of his own importance.”

But Miss Peek was already glancing surreptitiously at the books that she had chosen for her first afternoon’s reading, and gave only scant attention to Clare. When Clare took a book of her own, and the two ascended the stairs to the upper floor, each went to her own room, to revel in solitude—Miss Peek to plunge into the vicissitudes of
Woman,
and Clare to set her book down on a table and walk to the window.

She found herself too much in sympathy with the beleaguered heroine of the romance to read about her with any enjoyment But one thing she did know—and that was that any young female so placed that her guardian rode roughshod over her sensibilities was a poor thing if she did not retaliate in whatever way occurred to her.

Schooled in romance, Clare’s first thoughts were of a kind to make Miss Peek, had she known them, turn pale and grasp at a nearby chair for support. Clare could not elope to Gretna Green—there was no one to elope with. She could not flee the country, going to lose herself in Paris, for Napoleon was still at war with England. And the ever-present remedy in the books she knew well—to fall into a fit of swooning—would not serve.

She toyed, for the next few days, with various plans to rout Benedict. But when the wildest of her ideas were subjected to a realistic light, she saw the flaw in them.

Each of the plans she had in mind was aimed at escape from the hateful yoke of the wicked guardian—to live without the burden of his decrees that limited her into a close confinement.

But she already had that. There was nothing that Benedict had arranged that she wouldn’t have arranged herself, had she had the power. She was living in her own home, and if her life was constricted, it was not Benedict’s fault, but only the fault of the required year of mourning. She did not resent the mourning for her grandmama, but she could not blame Benedict for it, either.