A Match of Hearts: A Regency Romance (8 page)

Zanthe’s
first sight of the celebrated Mr Kemble was not encouraging. He was still a
fine-looking man but, in spite of the heavy greasepaint he wore, it was obvious
that he was considerably older than the actress portraying his mother, while
his self-conscious and studied delivery had the effect of rendering her
extremely sleepy. Her attention wandered, and she amused herself with studying
the other members of the audience.

The play was very well attended. She
soon picked out many of her acquaintance: Mrs Weatherspoon and her three
daughters sat in a box with Lord and Lady Kilmarnock, Mrs Preston, and Miss
Tarleton, all of whom were gazing rapt upon the stage, with the exception of
Lord Kilmarnock, who was enjoying a comfortable nap. She stifled a giggle as a
loud snore escaped him during one of the great actor’s interminable pauses.

In another box, there sat an elegant
party comprising Mr Fallowfield and a middle-aged couple unknown to Zanthe. The
lady was not handsome but extremely graceful and exquisitely dressed. The other
gentleman seemed vaguely familiar to Zanthe, but she could not tell why until
he leaned across the box to speak to Mr Fallowfield and she was struck by the
resemblance between the two men. Was this another member of the Fallowfield
family? Even as the thought crossed her mind, the unknown gentleman cast a keen
glance in the direction of the Brookenby box. He stared for a moment at Susanna,
who was sitting between Margery and Miss Cholmondeley, stifling a yawn with one
mitten-covered palm, and then he bent to murmur in the lady’s ear. She lifted
her lorgnette and seemed to study the girl for a moment before letting it fall,
with a sigh, as though it were too heavy for her.

It came, therefore, as no surprise to
Zanthe when, as soon as the curtain closed upon the first part of the
performance, the three rose as one from their seats and left their box.
Presently, a knock fell upon the door of Mr Cholmondeley’s box, and Mr
Fallowfield and his friends entered.

‘I beg you will forgive this intrusion.’
Mr Fallowfield bowed over Zanthe’s hand. ‘May I present my cousins Lord and
Lady Fallowfield, who are most anxious to make the acquaintance of your young
charge?’

Mr Cholmondeley stood and held out a
hand to assist Margery to rise. ‘You will wish to be alone. Come, Miss
Brookenby, let us go in search of refreshment and leave these good people to
talk in comfort.’

There was a silence for a moment after
their departure. Then Lord Fallowfield, who had not taken his eyes from
Susanna’s face, said, ‘I came prepared to denounce an imposter, yet now I find
myself looking into my brother’s eyes.’ He cleared his throat and dashed a hand
across his eyes. ‘My dear, dear child.’

His lady laid a hand upon his arm. ‘Very
true, my dear Sir, a pronounced resemblance. Remember, however, that it is
perfectly possible that this young person is indeed Richard’s daughter and yet
still not entitled to style herself a Fallowfield of Trenton Hall.’

Zanthe was about to intervene when
Susanna spoke in her tranquil, pleasant tone. ‘I regret, my dear Ma’am, that it
is not my custom to carry my parents’ marriage lines and my own birth record in
my reticule when I visit the theatre. However, if you mean to imply, as I must
suppose you do, that I might be your brother’s love-child, I can refer you to
Mr Holland of Lincoln’s Inn, who is my attorney and principal trustee.’

‘Old Holland knows of this?’ Lord
Fallowfield flushed suddenly with anger. ‘And he never breathed a word!’

‘No doubt a matter of client
confidentiality,’ interposed Zanthe soothingly.

‘Aye, aye, no doubt, but I had thought
in a case such as this—’

‘Furthermore,’ continued Susanna,
unperturbed. ‘I have never “styled” myself a Fallowfield of Trenton Hall. I
call myself Fallowfield because it is my name and, if you still doubt it, you
may apply to my other trustee, Mr Peter Frost, who is, I think, not unknown to
you.’

‘Peter Frost!’ Lord Fallowfield appeared
stunned. ‘Good God!’

The lady shrugged her elegant shoulders.
‘Oh, if Peter is to vouch for you, I have no more to say.’ She turned to her
husband. ‘We must acknowledge the dear child and bring her into the Family.’
She smiled at Susanna, but her eyes were cold. ‘You will come to us, of course.
Lady Brookenby must acknowledge our superior claim.’

‘You are very good, Ma’am. But I have
lived very happily for seventeen years without the countenance of the Family,
and I have no desire to leave Lady Brookenby’s protection.’

Mr Fallowfield laughed. ‘My dear
Rosemary, you have met your match at last! I congratulate you, Susanna.’

Lord Fallowfield frowned at his cousin.
He took Susanna’s hand and held it between his own. ‘Well, we can discuss the
matter at another time. For the moment, it is natural that you should prefer to
remain with the friends with whom you are familiar. But, believe me, nothing
has given me so much pleasure in years as to discover that I have something of Dick
still left to me. I was very fond of him, you know.’

‘I never knew him, but Mr Frost has
spoken to me about him. I’m afraid he was very wild.’

‘Aye, but there was no vice in him, you
know. It was just high spirits, and then—’ he lowered his voice, ‘—the drink.’

‘Do not forget to tell her he cheated at
cards.’ Lady Fallowfield’s nostrils flared in distaste. ‘And killed a man.’

‘It was a fair fight, Rosemary!’ Mr
Fallowfield remonstrated. ‘I was his second, along with Peter. I should know.’

‘I deplore the practice of duelling. And
over a female whom he should not have— However, I shall say no more.’

‘If only that were true,’ murmured Mr
Fallowfield.

When the Fallowfield party had left the
box, Zanthe regarded her young friend with some amusement. ‘Susanna, I am quite
in awe. You handled that terrifying female so coolly. I am inclined to believe
you would even be able to face my mother-in-law without trepidation.’

 ‘Lady Fallowfield has no power over my
person, my fortune, or my future. Why should I be afraid of her?’

‘A very good question, and one I have frequently
asked myself regarding my own dragon of a mama-in-law. But, however much I tell
myself she has no power, as you say, over my person, fortune, or future, I
continue to stammer and stutter and behave like a perfect ninny whenever she
looks at me.’

‘I cannot believe that.’

‘Well, you shall have the opportunity to
see for yourself. I imagine she will shortly be arriving in Bath.’

‘Really? Miss Brookenby did not mention
it.’

‘She does not know—yet.’

‘Oh?’

‘Remember when I told you I would soon
be bringing up my heavy guns?’

‘What—oh, yes, in the Sydney Gardens.
Why?’

‘Because, my dear, she
is
my heavy
guns. If I cannot get my darling Launceston to rescue me from a rake, he shall
rescue me from a dragon!’

They were both laughing when Mr
Cholmondeley and Margery returned to the box. It was apparent that they had
passed the time very pleasantly. Margery had that glow of beauty that comes even
to a plain woman when she is happy, flattered, and feels herself beloved. The
gentleman’s good spirits carried him out of his usual shyness, and he proved
himself to be a witty and entertaining host for the remainder of the evening.

The next morning, Zanthe, having
breakfasted in her room, came down to find Margery dressed with unusual care
—
in
her prettiest round-gown of bronze-green crepe, with a deep embroidered border
at the hem, and a stiffened bodice ornamented with a tucker of Mechlin lace.
She was sitting by the fire in the morning-room with an air of suppressed excitement.

‘Ah, ha! Do we expect Mr Cholmondeley
this morning, by any chance?’

Margery pressed a hand to her mouth, her
eyes bright. ‘I think—I believe—oh, Zanthe—last night he was so very—he did not
say
he should come this morning, but—’

Zanthe was laughing as she caught
Margery’s hand in hers. ‘I could kiss the man! In a little less than a month,
he has turned my stern, serious sister into a babbling idiot who cannot string
a sentence together. It is quite delightful.’

At that moment, a most exquisite voice
was uplifted, filling the house with joyous song. ‘The child is practicing for
the concert,’ said Margery, unnecessarily. ‘Such a lovely sound!’

‘Indeed, I don’t think it was an idle
boast when she claimed to sing even better than her mama. Oh, I wish you could
have seen, last night, how she routed poor Lady Fallowfield, horse, foot, and
artillery!’

‘She is the most redoubtable girl. I
think, you know, it derives from her singleness of purpose. She really does not
care about anything apart from her singing, so approval or disapproval means
nothing to her.’

‘Well, I am determined to be more like
her. You and I, Margery, have been too much affected by what other people think
of us. What can anyone do to us, after all?’

‘By
other people
, I suppose you
mean Mama?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose I do.’

They fell silent for a few moments,
listening to the lovely trills and arpeggios that floated down to them. Then
Margery said, as though the words were forced out of her, ‘I shall never
forgive her if she tries to stop me from—I won’t let her spoil it this time,
indeed I won’t’

Zanthe lifted her head and stared at her
sister-in-law wonderingly. ‘This time, dearest?’

Margery laughed, but her eyes were
suddenly full of tears so that it was a rather watery effort. ‘You would never
have guessed that Mr Cholmondeley is not the first gentleman to pay me very
decided attentions, would you?’

She was perfectly correct, but Zanthe
hastily disclaimed: ‘Oh, it does not surprise me in the least, but how comes it
I never heard a word about it?’

‘It was so long ago. It is a very
strange coincidence, that he, too, was a clergyman. He was a curate and—well,
perhaps it is not such a coincidence. I met him, just as I did Mr Cholmondeley,
while engaged in charitable work.’

‘And he wanted to marry you?’

‘Yes, but Mama would not hear of it. He
was very poor but, I think, quite handsome and such a
good
young man.’

Zanthe suddenly jumped to her feet as
though her feelings could only be relieved by movement. ‘Oh, it makes me so
angry! Why should girls have their futures decided for them by parents who care
nothing for their happiness? Why do we allow it? You might have been happily
married for what—twenty years or more—with children, even grandchildren by now
and, instead, you have spent that entire time waiting upon a mean-spirited,
encroaching old woman who—’

‘Zanthe, you must not say such things.’

‘Why not? We both know they are true.’

‘Perhaps I am reserved by a Higher Power
for even greater happiness.’

‘Oh, Margery, I hope so, I truly hope
so.’

But as the morning wore on and no Mr
Cholmondeley appeared, Zanthe became more dejected, and Margery had difficulty
keeping back her tears.

‘I must have misunderstood him,’ she
said at last. ‘Or perhaps he has been detained.’

‘Yes, I am sure that is all it is. He
has been detained. Shall we walk to the Pump Room? Perhaps we will meet him
there.’

‘Yes, that is what he meant, I am sure.’

But when they arrived at the Pump Room,
they found Miss Cholmondeley alone, bewailing to anyone who would listen that
her brother had been suddenly called away from Bath and she did not know when
he was to return.

‘I
wonder when we may expect Mama-in-Law,’ remarked Zanthe, moving away from the
window, where she had been inspecting the weather, to sit down opposite Margery
at the breakfast table. She had finally disclosed to her sister-in-law that the
Dowager proposed to descend upon them.

It had been a little difficult to
arrange for the Dowager’s advent without directly inviting her. But newsy letters
dropping hints of the Viscount, the Reverend, Signora Villella, and even Sir
Marmaduke had done their work. The Dowager had written in the strongest terms
to Zanthe demanding that she and Margery should return to Lincolnshire. When
she received nothing but excuses in return, she announced her intention of
descending upon them to see for herself what was going on.

A cloud passed across Margery’s face.
‘Oh, Zanthe, is it wicked of me to dread her coming?’

‘No, of course not. But just remember
that you are quite safe. There is nothing she can do to you. If she threatens
to cut you out of her will, tell her you do not give a button for her money. You
will always have a home with me, you know, and I firmly believe that Mr
Cholmondeley will soon return to make you an offer.’

‘You are very right. I won’t let her
intimidate me—I won’t. Zanthe, you won’t leave me alone with her, will you?’

Zanthe reached out across the polished
mahogany and clasped her sister’s hand warmly. ‘Of course, I will not. But
remember, dearest, that she is nothing more than a selfish, stubborn, old
woman. She has no authority over either of us.’

But Zanthe was not so sure of this when,
at around four o’clock in the afternoon, a post-chaise drew up outside the front
door and disgorged the Dowager Lady Brookenby in all the grandeur of black
bombazine, jet beading, and veils of crepe that hung like seaweed from her
high-poked bonnet.

Custom, and a natural desire to do what
was right, brought both women out of the house to welcome the new arrival upon
the doorstep. Zanthe was a little pale while Margery looked ready to sink, but
they greeted the Dowager with all the respect due to her, Zanthe going so far
as to kiss her withered cheek.

‘I knew how it would be,’ the old lady
said as they were all seated in the drawing room taking tea. ‘What kind of
mourning do you call that, my fine Lady?’

Zanthe reminded herself that she was no
longer a child and had no need to be afraid of the red-faced old lady scowling
at her. She shrugged one shoulder, which was tastefully encased in a little
puffed sleeve of white muslin sprigged with a design of flowers in pink and
green. ‘I do not call it mourning at all, Ma’am.’

The Dowager’s lower lip was thrust
forward, and her little eyes were alight with malice. ‘I see.’ She rounded
suddenly upon Margery, who had been sitting, unnoticed, in the background. ‘And
what is this I’m hearing about you, Miss?’

‘About me, Mama?’

‘Before I left Lincolnshire, I received
the most impudent letter from some penniless parson you have been encouraging to
dangle after you.’

‘Mr Cholmondeley is not penniless, Mama.
He has a very good living in Lancashire.’

‘Do not contradict me, Margery! Where he
has his living is beside the point. Did you know he had asked me for permission
to address you?’

Margery, looking ready to faint,
whispered, ‘No, I did not know he had written to you.’

‘Over a week ago. Impudence! I told him
what I thought of him, believe me!’

‘You refused without even asking me—?
Oh, that is why he went away!’

‘I knew what he was after. Sniffing
around an heiress! That’s what!’

Margery found her courage, lifted her
head, and said in a firm voice, ‘That is not true.’

Lady Brookenby glared at her. ‘Do you
tell me you really contemplated marriage to some snivelling mendicant priest
,
a
low-church, methodistic parson?

Margery's eyes had filled with tears but,
at the insults to her suitor, she stiffened. ‘Mr Cholmondeley is neither
snivelling nor methodistic. He is the finest and best man I have ever known,
and I am going to marry him!'

'Are you, Miss? Are you indeed? And will
this fine fellow still want to marry you when he finds out that you will bring
him nothing but the clothes on your back?'

Zanthe interposed, saying, 'I beg your
pardon, Mama, but is that quite true?’ She fished in her reticule and brought
out a legal-looking letter adorned with a red wax seal. ‘I have here a letter
from Mr Silverman, Brookenby's man of business, you know. When I realised that
Mr Cholmondeley had fallen in love with Margery, I took the liberty of writing
to ascertain from him exactly how matters stood regarding the settlements. Let
me read this passage to you: “
Regarding your jointure, I have sold out of
the funds as you requested”—
no, that is not it—ah, this is the part:
“Pursuant
to your enquiry”—
blah, blah, blah
—“you may inform Miss Brookenby that
under the terms of her grandmother's will”
—blah, blah, blah—oh, yes—“
the
monies that would have accrued to the deceased daughters of the house had they
married will consequently accrue to her upon her marriage.
”’

The Dowager’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
‘I knew from the moment my son brought you home to Baguely that you would be
nothing but a trouble to me.'

'But surely, Mama, you would not want to
keep Margery from the settled portion that is her due? And a very respectable
sum it is, too.'

'Zanthe, is this true?' Margery seemed
quite aghast.

'Yes, indeed. Five thousand pounds. But
I recommend you do not tell poor Mr Cholmondeley so until after you are married,
for it might scare him off again.'

The dowager changed her tactics. She
drew out her handkerchief, wiped a non-existent tear from her cheek, and said
in a feeble voice, 'Six children I brought into this world, and five of them
have preceded me out of it. The Lord said, “
In pain you shall bring forth
children”
: and only a mother knows the truth of that. And now the one child
I have left to me tells me she wants to desert me in my old age. There were
many people ready to tell me I was fortunate to possess a daughter who would
tend me in my declining years. Now see what has come of it. Oh, it is hard to
have an ungrateful child. “
Thus they have repaid me evil for good and hatred
for my love,”
saith the Lord.’

‘Oh, Mama, how can you say that? You
know I do not hate you,’ cried Margery, wringing her hands in distress. ‘But
this is my last chance to be happy. If Mr Cholmondeley loves me, and—’

‘Loves you? Does he love you more than
your mother, who bore you, tended your hurts, taught you your prayers at her
knee, and nursed you through scarlet fever?’

Zanthe could bear it no longer. ‘Yes, he
does,’ she burst out. ‘For he wants Margery to be happy while all you want is
for her to be a maidservant and a nursemaid and—and—a burnt offering!’

‘How
dare
you?’

‘Well, I dare because this is my house
and you are just a guest in it.’

The Dowager rose from her seat in
offended majesty. ‘I will not stay where I am not welcome, Zanthe. I may say
that your conduct has not improved since you removed from Baguely Hall. It is
no more than I expected.’

‘Mama, pray do not leave like this.
Zanthe will apologise. Will you not, Zanthe?’

Aware that her intervention had
distressed her sister-in-law and achieved nothing, Zanthe swallowed her pride.
‘I beg your pardon, Ma’am. I should not have spoken so to you. Naturally, you
must stay here with us while you are in Bath.’

The Dowager, possibly reflecting on the
cost of the hotels in Bath, sniffed disagreeably but sat down again. ‘Very
well. But remember, Zanthe, “
Thou shalt rise up before the hoary head, and
honour the face of the old, and fear thy God
.
”
’

‘I daresay,’ said Zanthe, gloomily.

A kind of peace having been declared,
the three ladies retired to their respective bedchambers to change before
dinner.

Zanthe, superbly attired in gold satin
and spangled voile, walked into Margery’s room, just before they were to
assemble in the drawing-room, to find her sister-in-law being laced into a
hideous gown of yellowish-brown wool, with a high collar and long tight
sleeves.

‘Ah ha! I knew it!’

Margery started. ‘What—whatever do you
mean?’

‘Why are you wearing that dreadful, old gown
instead of one of your pretty new ones?’

‘Oh—Mama—’

‘Don’t bleat “Mama” at me,’ Zanthe told
her sternly. ‘Quite apart from the fact that the colour makes you look as
though you were upon your deathbed, that wool will be horridly hot and itchy on
this warm evening. Take it off at once.’

‘What shall I wear?’ asked Margery
meekly.

‘Why, the crimson sarsenet of course.
And
your new velvet turban,
and
the Norwich scarf I gave you
and
—’

Margery began to laugh. ‘No more! I
understand.’ She lifted her eyebrows and said archly, ‘All flags flying?’

‘All flags flying,’ confirmed Zanthe.
‘Promise me you will throw that gown away, for I doubt if any of the
maidservants will want it.’

‘I could give it to Martha Critchlow,’
said Margery dubiously.

‘You could, but probably even she would not
wear it. Why don’t we give the poor woman a nice gown instead?’

‘You are very right. We will cut this
one up and use it for dusters.’

‘That’s the spirit. Now finish dressing
and come downstairs.’

‘Will you wait for me?’

‘Of course, goose. Besides I want to see
Mama-in-Law’s face when she sets eyes on you in that gown.’

Margery chuckled. ‘She may go off in an
apoplexy.’

‘We can only hope! Now hurry.’

Some fifteen minutes later, they entered
the drawing-room to find the Dowager, Susanna, and Parry already assembled. The
atmosphere could hardly have been called cosy. Lady Brookenby, seated in a
winged armchair by the fire, was glaring at Susanna who, quite unconcerned, sat
with a sheet of music upon her lap, humming quietly under her breath. Parry,
stretched upon a sofa on the other side of the fire, was perusing a volume of
the
Gentleman's Magazine
. The old lady glanced up as the door opened to
admit Zanthe and Margery. Her eyes were instantly riveted upon her daughter,
and her hands tightened upon the arms of her chair until the knuckles were
white.

‘What is that you have on?’

‘It is one of the new gowns Zanthe
purchased for me when we arrived in Bath,’ answered Margery with commendable
coolness.

‘I thought I told you to wear the brown
kerseymere. Go and change into it at once!’

Her daughter blenched but, catching
Zanthe’s encouraging eye, she lifted her chin and said, ‘I am afraid that is
not possible, Mama. We cut it up to use for dusters.’

‘Kerseymere for dusters! Are you mad,
girl?’

‘It was not genuine kerseymere,’
remarked Zanthe, bestowing a sweet smile upon the Dowager. ‘Merely fustian.’

The old lady turned her venomous gaze
upon her. ‘I will thank you to keep quiet, Zanthe. How you dare face me rigged
out like some hussy from the theatre, I do not know. “
As a jewel of gold in
a swine's snout, so is a fair woman which is without discretion
.
”
’

Not to be outdone, Zanthe answered
swiftly, ‘And “
It is better to dwell in the wilderness, than with a
contentious and an angry woman
.”’

For one glorious moment, it seemed to
Zanthe that her mother-in-law really would go off in an apoplexy. Her cheeks
were purple, and her little eyes fairly scorched her impudent daughter-in-law. Zanthe
pretended not to notice and merely said, ‘Have you met our pretty little
visitor, Ma’am? Parry, did you present Susanna to Lady Brookenby?’

Parry looked up from his journal and
yawned. ‘What was that, Zan? Oh, yes, I made the introductions just as you
would have wished.’

The Dowager sank back into her chair,
her mouth compressed. But, as she really could not find anything disagreeable
to say about Miss Fallowfield, she swallowed her ire. ‘I take it all this
finery is not intended to be worn for an evening at home,’ she said, indicating
Zanthe’s satin and jewels. ‘It is too much to expect that you would spend the
evening with me when I am newly arrived, I suppose.’

‘I had hoped, Ma’am, that you would be
persuaded to accompany us to the Gala at Sydney Gardens tonight, for the King’s
birthday, you know. It is a lovely, warm evening, and there will be music and
fireworks.’

‘Pray, do come, Mama. Signora Villella is
to sing,’ urged Margery. ‘You should hear her while she is in Bath, though, to
be sure, you will do so at the concert.’ As her mother made no reply, nor even
looked at her, she continued rather desperately, ‘You remember I wrote and told
you of the concert, do you not, Mama?’