A Scandalous Secret (11 page)

But the thought of Alastair’s betrayal was a festering sore which grew daily more painful to Dorinda. And whatever Lizzy might say, there seemed no other reasonable explanation for his unusual behaviour of late.

His uncharacteristic distraction and increasing withdrawal from her were bad enough. After all, they had been used to tell each other everything. Now he scarcely spoke two words to her in the course of a day - he who used to dote on her! Even more disturbing were the mysterious letters he had been receiving, followed by his visits to London. He had been to town no less than five times in the past two months. It was unheard of!

‘If he has a ladybird in town,’ Elizabeth said slowly, ‘it should not be too difficult to discover. Such secrets are notoriously hard to keep, and you may be sure that someone of our acquaintance will know of it.’

‘I can hardly ask one of my friends anything so indelicate,’ Dorinda protested.

‘Of course not,’ Elizabeth agreed. ‘However, I could make discreet enquiries. Lord Maples would very likely be aware of any goings-on in that quarter.’

‘Lord Maples?’ Dorinda was shocked. ‘Of course, you are probably quite right, though I never even considered....
Oh!
How odious men are!’

‘But I thought that Oswald was a very paragon of all manly virtues.’

Dorinda put up a hand in mock defence, acknowledging this hit. ‘Must you rub salt in the wound, dear sister?’ she asked. ‘Let me own that Oswald is not as congenial as I had first believed.’

‘You are no longer planning our nuptials, then?’ Elizabeth continued to quiz her.

‘I have acknowledged that your reading of his character was more accurate than mine.’ Dorinda pouted as she confessed her error. ‘But you must admit that he
is
excessively handsome.’

‘I never denied it.’

Dorinda sighed. She felt inexpressibly weary. Nursing her daughter might account for some of her fatigue, but Selina was much improved. This continued want of spirits and appetite was rooted in something deeper. The fact was, she did not know whether she wanted to discover the truth about Alastair. She felt that she could not bear it.

‘I beg,’ she said at last, ‘that you will not even so much as
hint
anything to Lord Maples. I am mortified as it is, without him being privy to my position.’

‘It will not be at all difficult for him to guess that something is wrong,’ Elizabeth pointed out, ‘if you continue to display that long face, my dear.’

‘No doubt he will think I have gone into a decline.’

‘I would say that you are determined to present just such an appearance.’

Dorinda fingered the fringe of her gown, wondering what armour one could don to fight blue devils. ‘Perhaps,’ she said, not bothering to deny her sister’s accusation, ‘the squire’s party tonight will lift my spirits.’

‘I had quite forgotten that we were engaged at the manor tonight,’ Elizabeth remarked. ‘It will certainly offer us a much-needed diversion — if my constitution is strong enough to endure so much time spent in the company of the squire’s hen-witted daughter.’

‘Gwendolyn is very pretty,’ Dorinda admonished her sister. ‘She is very popular with the gentlemen.’

‘A pretty girl is
always
popular with the gentlemen,’ Elizabeth replied, in the derisive tone which she occasionally employed and which grated so on Dorinda’s nerves. ‘And if she but laugh and blush at the appropriate moment, she may marry a prince - though she have no more brains than a bedpost!’

One could not wonder at Elizabeth’s low regard for men in general, but there was a curious bitterness about her - a hard, uncaring manner so at variance with what Dorinda knew of her warm and kind-hearted sister. Perhaps it was the only way she could cope with her painful memories, but still Dorinda found it disturbing, especially since she had noticed it more frequently than usual in the past few days.

‘You are too severe, Lizzy,’ was all she could find to say, however.

‘No, no, Dorrie, I assure you. A mistress may be clever, but a
wife -
to be truly agreeable to a man - must be stupid.’

‘Lizzy!’ Dorinda laughed in spite of herself. ‘You really should not say such things!’

‘Forgive me.’ Elizabeth was contrite, her mood changing on the instant. ‘For a moment, I quite forgot your own unhappiness.’

‘I declare, you are much more ill-tempered yourself lately. It is not at all like you.’ She sighed, thinking that it used to be such a happy house; now everyone in it seemed to be out of sorts. ‘I hope you have not caught Selina’s cold.’

‘I am perfectly well, Dorrie. Do not add me to your list of worries, my dear. Perhaps it is the weather.’

‘Perhaps,’ she echoed, unconvinced. ‘Whatever the cause, your visit is not the success I had hoped. I do not know what has come over us all. And inviting Lord Maples here was definitely not the most inspired of my schemes. I am so sorry.’

‘Oswald need not concern you, either.’ Elizabeth hugged her reassuringly. ‘A nuisance he might be, but I am quite capable of putting him in his place.’

‘But you are not happy, are you?’

‘Not when I see my only sister in such distress. I still believe that there is some other explanation for Alastair’s strange conduct.’

‘Time will show which of us is proved right.’ Forcing herself to be more cheerful, she added, ‘The squire’s party is just what we need to lift our spirits. It could not come at a better hour.’

Chapter 7

Squire Thornwood’s house was a sprawling edifice, constructed in a hotchpotch of styles: a smattering of Jacobean, with a touch of Palladian influence, and a latest addition of sham-Gothic pretensions. Yet the whole was comfortable and inviting, though hardly a model of architectural unity or taste.

His family was similarly constructed. The squire himself was a Shakespearian relic - a round and jolly Falstaff, full of fun and gig. His wife was placid and smiling - and in remarkable health, considering that she had buried five of her children in their infancy. The two surviving offspring consisted of Peter, a young man of three-and-twenty, with more polish but less spirit than his father; and Gwendolyn, a lively, empty-headed girl in determined pursuit of any eligible gentleman who could be persuaded, cajoled or gulled into wedding her.

The Thornwoods were among the oldest and most respected families in the neighbourhood. They were part of the landscape, as it were, and nobody could remember a time when a Thornwood had not resided at Rosedale Manor. Good, God-fearing Tories, they were the sort of people who made the English gentry the pride of the surrounding country-folk.

After a considerable delay in their departure, while Dorinda searched frantically for her missing reticule, the party from Merrywood arrived at the Manor. They were the last of the small but select company invited that evening. The other guests consisted of Lady Penroth and her daughter Enid, the Reverend Mr Wardley - and Dominick Markham.

It was just the sort of unremarkable country dinner party that would normally have been Elizabeth’s delight, without any of the scandalous undercurrents that often made gatherings of the
haut ton
in town so uncomfortable for her. But this was rather different. For with Dominick present, it seemed that the greatest scandal to be hidden was her own.

As for the gentleman himself, he gave her a look of such unconcealed loathing when he entered, that she very nearly turned and ran away. Suppressing this urge, she soon recovered herself enough to present at least a semblance of outward composure. It transpired that she need not have fretted herself, for Mr Markham thereafter proceeded to ignore her completely. In fact, for the remainder of the evening, he devoted almost all his attention and energy - not to mention his considerable address - to Miss Thornwood.

It was really quite sickening, the way the two of them flirted and laughed incessantly. Not at all the thing, as far as Elizabeth was concerned. She would have liked to box the ears of the pair of them!

‘A handsome couple, are they not, my dear Lady Dansmere?’ Mr Wardley remarked, discerning the object of her fascinated gaze.

‘Charming,’ she replied.

‘Miss Thornwood could not do better.’ He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Mr Markham has an excellent understanding, and not a penny less than twelve thousand a year.’

‘Indeed?’

‘It would be a fine thing for him, as well,’ the matchmaking clergyman continued, unconscious of his auditor’s lack of enthusiasm for the subject. ‘The Thornwoods are one of the first families in the country - and for the grandson of a poor tailor from Bridgewater to marry so advantageously—’

‘Do you think it likely?’ Dorinda, who was standing beside Elizabeth, displayed far greater interest than her sister.

‘Not so certain,’ Mr Wardley quipped, ‘that I would wager a great deal upon it.’

Dorinda pursed her lips. ‘Miss Thornwood is a fine girl. But she is young and rather....’ She foundered a little, apparently lost for a suitable description.

‘Silly?’ Elizabeth supplied helpfully.

‘Certainly not!’ Her sister shot her a look of reproach. ‘But I fancy that a more mature woman would suit him better.’

‘The gentleman does not appear to agree with you.’

Mr Wardley gave something resembling a titter. ‘It seems we must await developments to see which of us has the right of it.’

Dorinda was inclined to argue her point further, which afforded Elizabeth a blessed opportunity to direct her attention elsewhere. Lord Maples was approaching her at that moment, and she gratified him with her most encouraging smile. His response was immediate.

‘This is a far cry from a London
soiree
, is it not?’

‘True.’ She eyed the company around them. ‘Insipidity wears a more fashionable dress there.’

He laughed, as she had known he would. He was incapable, of course, of suspecting any insult to himself or his acquaintance in her remark. But she found his air of condescension irritating in the extreme. However, he had his uses. At present, his greatest asset was his ability to distract her from Miss Thornwood’s too-easy conquest of Mr Markham. Oswald might be an ass, but he was also a Corinthian and a man who knew how to be agreeable when he chose. He engaged her in a light, inconsequential conversation, reciting the most scandalous
on dits
concerning his friends in town. Though some of his comments were rather warm, she could not help laughing at times. If their
tête-à-tête
drew its own share of attention, she ignored it, just as she pretended not to notice the excessive familiarity of Oswald’s look and voice, and the proprietary air with which he took her arm.

She soon grew almost as weary of his rather vicious brand of humour as she had been of Mr Wordley’s speculation concerning Mr Markham’s social and amorous ambitions. It was a blessed relief when dinner released her from the attentions of both vicar and viscount.

The Thornwoods must have gone to considerable trouble and expense in order to impress their titled guests. The meal was pleasantly ostentatious, but not for the faint-hearted. After the bowl of steaming mulligatawny, Elizabeth was lost in a bewildering culinary bombardment of turbot, beef, mutton, Italian sausage, Spanish olives, Russian caviar and French pastry. On the heels of such a feast, a cup of tea was essential for the ladies, while the gentlemen adjourned to partake of stronger refreshment.

For the next half-hour, Dorinda was monopolized by Gwendolyn and Miss Penroth. Elizabeth was therefore constrained to suffer the cold formality of Lady Penroth and the eloquent inanities of Mrs Thornwood. The former did nothing but boast of her excellent family connections, while the latter babbled of everything from the price of bread to the curious behaviour of the seamstress who had made up her new gown.

At length the gentlemen returned, and it was not many minutes before Mr Markham was seated beside Dorinda, making polite enquiries as to her health and that of her daughter. He offered no such courtesies to Elizabeth, who was seated a mere three feet to his left.

‘I was very sorry to learn that you had lost your brother in Spain, Mr Markham,’ Dorinda said gently, it being her first opportunity to offer her sympathy. ‘It must have been a sad blow for you and your aunt.’

‘It was a difficult time, Lady Barrowe,’ he admitted. ‘All the more so, as my mother survived Tom by only a fortnight. Her constitution was never strong, and the shock ... But I am sure that you understand. You know what it is to lose those near and dear to you.’

‘Our mother,’ Elizabeth interjected, ‘died when my sister was but three days old. I myself was a child of five. We neither of us remember her at all.’

‘And your father?’ he asked, turning to address her for the first time.

‘My father lived rather too long,’ she answered bitterly. ‘He outlasted any affection I ever had for him. I could not pretend to feel any grief at his passing.’

‘Lizzy!’ Dorinda hissed, clearly shocked by her sister’s alarming candour. Elizabeth did not blame her, and really could not account for such unprecedented honesty. For some reason, she had wanted to provoke the man beside her, and she could not doubt that she had succeeded admirably. He looked thoroughly disgusted.

‘May we have some music, Papa?’ Peter Thornwood asked loudly, putting an end to this unusual discussion. ‘Perhaps Miss Penroth would consent to play for us.’

Having on previous visits been the victim of more than one of Miss Penroth’s musical misadventures, Elizabeth was relieved to hear Peter’s mother quash this proposal.

‘I fear the pianoforte is sorely in need of tuning,’ she said
languidly. ‘It would hardly do justice to Miss Penroth’s abilities, my dear boy.’

Peter retired reluctantly, but Gwendolyn was apparently struck by a novel idea. ‘I know!’ she cried suddenly. ‘Let us play cap verses!’

After a brief debate on the merits of this diversion, compared to those of commerce or whist, Miss Thornwood’s suggestion was approved, the squire requesting only that they be restricted to but two lines of verse each.

‘After all,’ he said jovially, ‘we do not pretend to have the poetic gifts of Milton or Mr Southey.’