A London Season (3 page)

“She won
’
t. Trust Bella for that!” said Sir Edmund, unfeelingly. “But to return to Cousin Sophronia, she certainly did seem set upon leaving her property within the family
—
which reminds me, George,” he added a little diffidently, “that should you find your brood becoming more of an expense than you
’
d bargained for, you must remember that their fond uncle has no dependants of his own, and is now far wealthier than he has any need to be!”

“Thank you, Edmund, but don
’
t think of such a thing!” said Yoxford cheerfully, for indeed, his revenues were such that he could afford to keep his large family in luxury as well as comfort, and he did not in the least begrudge Sir Edmund the unexpected windfall of Lady Emberley
’
s legacy. “I
’
m only glad that the Emberley money
has
come to you
—
old ladies have been known to get strange fancies, and leave things oddly.”

“As a matter of fact, she did leave things oddly,” said Sir Edmund, with a slight frown. “That
’
s one reason why I must visit Cheltenham: to look into the matter for myself. But now, it
’
s high time I paid my respects to that brood of yours!”

And rising from his armchair with loose-limbed grace, he directed his steps towards the schoolroom and nursery, to be received there with boisterous delight by Edward, the eight-year-old twins, and little Maria, for all of whom he had remembered to bring home presents from abroad, not forgetting a length of richly plum-coloured Lyons silk for Miss Merriwether, and some caps prettily trimmed with Brussels lace for Nurse Barker.

Unaware either of the relief occasioned by her departure in the bosom of Miss Madden (and, to a lesser degree, that of Miss Mary), or of the apprehensions still rendering Lady Yoxford uneasy at the prospect of her arrival, Miss Persephone Grafton continued to fume and fret while her guardian conferred with the post-boy and John Digby. The latter, who had been travelling up behind the chaise in the dickey, had got down when his master did; he was knowledgeable about horses, and had been with Sir Edmund for years, frequently combining the functions of valet and groom, since Sir Edmund disliked having many servants around him, except when protocol and etiquette demanded it. All three men now stood talking judiciously, examining the horses and the state of the road and glancing up at the sky, while Persephone waited with growing impatience to hear the result of their cogitations.

At length Sir Edmund returned to her and swung himself up into the chaise, apparently unaware of the discontent plainly visible on her pretty face, so that she was obliged to repeat her imperious question as the vehicle moved on. “Well, and what
was
the matter?”

“Nothing of very great consequence
,”
said Sir Edmund, with the attractive smile that had melted many a female heart, although it totally failed to charm or mollify his present companion. “But after the offside horse stumbled in that pothole, the post-boy fears he may go lame unless he
’
s carefully nursed along. And what with the shoe that was cast when we were half-way on the second stage from Bath, and the condition of these country roads after the rain, I
’
m afraid we are already behind the time when I thought to arrive in Cheltenham. John reckons we shall be the best part of another hour on the road. I have to call on a lady in Cheltenham
—
Miss Radley is her name
—
and I fear I shan
’
t have time to take you first to the Plough, where we are to spend the night, so you must come with me. But I trust my business with Miss Radley won
’
t take long.”

Persephone sniffed slightly and said, morosely, “What does it signify, in any case? What do you care for
my
comfort or convenience? Why
should
I go with you to visit Miss Radley?” she continued, rather pleased to find a grievance upon which to seize. “Who
is
this Miss Radley?”

Experienced diplomat as he was, Sir Edmund sighed inwardly. In the changeable weather of this time of year, a journey of any distance was always likely to be interrupted by various delays and minor accidents to carriage or horses, and Miss Grafton bore very ill with such setbacks. Sir Edmund was beginning to
find his ward
’
s company excessively trying, and was at a loss to account for her determined dislike of him. Her attitude all day, and indeed the previous evening as well, had veered between moody sulks and fits of outright temper, interspersed with accusations of harsh tyranny on his part. Like Miss Madden, he could not imagine why Persephone seemed so set against going to London. He realised he knew little about young ladies, but surely it was the dream of any schoolroom miss to shine in Society? And shine Miss Grafton undoubtedly would, if he were any judge of the matter!

“Miss Elinor Radley,” said Sir Edmund, “is a lady who until recently was companion to my late cousin, Sophronia, Lady Emberley. Lady Emberley, who lived in Cheltenham, was close on eighty when she died, and I fancy that Miss Radley is of fairly advanced age herself, so you see, it wouldn
’
t do for me to visit her later in the day than the usual hours for a social call. Old ladies dislike having their settled habits disturbed, and she would think it very uncivil of me to visit her late.”

“But you came to Bath to take me to London!” objected Persephone. “Why should you concern yourself with
her
?”

Resisting the impulse to tell her that is was none of her business, Sir Edmund patiently explained, “Because in her will, Lady Emberley made me her heir and forgot to make any provision for Miss Radley. I had thought as much from my correspondence with her man of business, a
Mr.
Stanfield, and when I called briefly upon him on my way down to Bath he confirmed it. That
’
s a state of affairs which must be remedied at once, and I asked
Mr.
Stanfield to let Miss Radley know I would call upon her today and hoped she would receive me. So I must go there directly we reach the town.”

There was a pause, during which Persephone was evidently following her own train of thought, for she then observed gloomily, “It doesn
’
t seem fair.”

“What doesn
’
t seem fair?” inquired her guardian.

“Everybody leaving
you
their fortunes!” She shot him a hostile glance. “I mean, you inherited Grandpapa
’
s baronetcy, did you not?
And
his estate! It
’
s not right, when I was his granddaughter and you are only a nephew!”

“My dear child, you
’
re under a misapprehension!” said Sir Edmund, relieved to have discovered, as he thought, the cause of her ill humour. “Surely Miss Madden explained that your grandfather very properly left the bulk of his fortune to you?”

Persephone responded with a sulky nod.

“So you may set your mind at rest upon
that
count!” Sir Edmund continued. “He could not help leaving the estate to me, you see, because it is entailed. I assure you, I
’
d as lief
not
have it, but as his closest male relative I had no choice in the matter. Everything else, however, is yours, and that makes you a very rich young woman.” He wondered whether to add a little homily on the wisdom of being wary of fortune-hunters, but decided he was not yet on good enough terms with his ward to risk it. Better leave that to Isabella, at some more propitious moment.

“But not a baronet, though.” Miss Grafton was sticking to her guns.

“Well, no
—
should you wish to be
Sir Persephone
?”
inquired Sir Edmund, gently teasing.

For the first time he saw a faint glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “Don
’
t be ridiculous! Though I shouldn
’
t mind being
Lady
Persephone. That would sound pretty!”

“Alas,” said Sir Edmund gravely, “you should have thought of that before your birth, and aimed at the family of a duke or earl for your own, not a mere baronet!” He was pleased to hear this mild pleasantry draw the ghost of a chuckle from her, and continued, lightly, “Of course
—
not that one would advocate this as grounds for matrimony!
—
should you find yourself with a titled husband some day, you would be able to call yourself Lady So-and-so: whatever his name may be.”

At this, however, the brief sunny gleam in her eyes instantly vanished, and she said crossly, “Who cares for that? Such Stuff!”

While Sir Edmund agreed, he was a little surprised to hear this opinion expressed by a young lady of only eighteen who showed no other conspicuous signs of maturity. However, he said encouragingly, “Well, that
’
s very laudable and level-headed of you!” Perhaps, after all, this was the time for the homily? “I may as well say now, Persephone, that you are likely to have a great many young men at your feet, eligible and otherwise, and
—”

“Well, I don
’
t want them!” snapped Persephone. Then a cautiously wheedling note entered her voice, and her pretty
brow wrinkled as she said thoughtfully, “I suppose I
cannot
have control of my fortune until I am one-and twenty?”

“No,” said Sir Edmund firmly.

“Really not?”

“Really not.”

“Oh, it
’
s too bad!” she exclaimed pettishly.

“Why
—
do you think I mean to play the part of wicked uncle, and keep you without a proper allowance?” he asked, still gently quizzing her in an effort to draw her out of the dismals. “Come, Persephone, surely you don
’
t suppose that you will want for anything suitable to a young lady of birth and fortune making her debut in London!”

“London!” uttered Persephone, in tones of the deepest distaste.

“My dear,” said Sir Edmund gently, “I wish you will tell me why you are so set against going to London?”

She evaded the direct question, and resorted to counterattack. “You don
’
t know
anything
!” she cried, fiercely. “You don
’
t know anything about it at all!”

“No,” Sir Edmund agreed, “and I can
’
t help wishing I did. Won
’
t you tell me? We are your own family, you know. I won
’
t eat you! Nor will your Cousin Isabella
—”

“Her! She doesn
’
t even like me!” interrupted Persephone.

“Oh, but indeed she does!” Sir Edmund assured her. Here, perhaps, lay the real root of the trouble: Isabella, who, in the heat of the moment, had no doubt expressed herself pretty forcibly at the time of the Unfortunate Business. Knowing his sister
’
s real good nature, he felt that Persephone was labouring under a misapprehension, and was only sorry that the matter had rankled so long. “I fancy she may once have given you a scold, my dear, but that
’
s all in the past, and she is most sincerely attached to you. You know that she doesn
’
t enjoy very stout health, or she would have brought you out last year
—
but now we mean to engage some suitable lady to help her take you about to all the routs and parties. And I promise you we won
’
t accept anyone for
that
post unless you yourself like her,” he added shrewdly.

His carefully judged words, however failed of their effect. “Some old cat, of course!” commented Persephone, flinging herself back less than elegantly against the squabs of the post-chaise. “But it is all of a piece! Thinking you can
—
can cajole me with routs and parties! Overbearing my wishes, just because I
’
m not of age! Tearing me from all closest to my heart!” she continued, warming to her theme. “Wrenching me from those I hold most dear!”

This was a little too much for Sir Edmund, who could not help mildly protesting, “Really, Persephone, you cannot have wished to remain at the Miss Maddens
’
seminary all your life! Of course you hold the good ladies in affection, and I
’
m glad of that, but
—
”

“Oh
them
!”
Persephone dismissed the Miss Maddens. “They were old cats too! At least
—
” as her conscience momentarily smote her
—
“at least, Miss Madden was. Miss Mary was more of a nice, soft old
pussy-cat
!
But I didn
’
t mean them. I
have friends
in Bath!”

Sir Edmund hoped she would expand upon this theme, even if it meant he had to listen to a string of confidences about her girlish friendships at school, but she appeared to recollect herself suddenly, and in answer to his look of inquiry merely tightened her lips, adding, bitterly,
“
True
friends!”