Cousin Cecilia (13 page)

The day finally arrived, the company reached St. Martin’s on schedule, and at six o’clock, Mrs. Meacham and Miss Cummings were admitted by the butler. The guests were abovestairs making their toilettes for dinner, and Wickham was belowstairs to greet them. Mrs. Meacham was on nettles to find herself amidst such smart society, but he noticed that Miss Cummings was no more than pleasantly eager.

“How lovely the abbey is,” was Cecilia’s first remark, after being greeted. The entrance retained some of its severe, ecclesiastical character. In an embrasure where once had stood a Christian effigy, there was a marble bust of some ancient Greek god or Roman emperor. This, she assumed, was one of Wickham’s archaeological finds. To her left, the doorway showed a handsome saloon bathed in the light of the setting sun. Elegant striped sofas, the gleam of polished mahogany, and the glitter of sun on brass appointments gave the room an air of fashionable prosperity.

Wine was served, and before much could be said, the guests joined them. Wickham noticed that Miss Cummings was not only known to most of them, but greeted with enthusiasm.

“So this is where you are hiding yourself,” Lady Elgin smiled. “I wondered that I have not seen you about town, Cecilia. Everyone has been asking for you. Your mama is not in town yet either. I shall be calling on her as soon as she arrives. Come and sit beside me and I shall tell you all the
on-dits
about your beaux. You will be coming to town for the Season, of course.”

“Indeed I shall, ma’am. I am looking forward to it.”

Sir Giles Middleton and his lady had to borrow her for a little catching up on gossip, and even Mr. Harpur, a studious antiquarian from the British Museum, said he was happy to see her looking so well.

Till dinnertime, there was no discussion of the marble antiquities at all. It was Wickham, and of course Mrs. Meacham, who felt like outsiders as the others spoke of the new crop of debs, of weddings and house parties, and other social matters. When they trouped in to dinner, Lord Elgin rushed to partner Cecilia. Over the soup, he told her in a loud voice, “You must charm that statue of a grace out of Wickham for me, my dear. I don’t know how I came to miss it at the Erechtheum. It belongs with the Elgin marbles certainly. I shan’t be happy till I have it.”

“You know I would if I could, but you must not imagine I have that sort of power over Wickham. We are only new acquaintances.”

With a laughing look from one to the other, Elgin said, “No doubt that is why you are invited to greet his guests. Fear not, I shan’t tease him, but I get a whiff of April and May here, do I not?”

“Only April, sir, and that whiff comes from the garden, no doubt.”

“Very well, I shan’t say a word till you are ready to make the announcement. You have chosen well, Miss Cummings. You are the very one to get Wickham back to town, where he belongs. We could have used a few influential gentlemen interested in antiquities when we were fighting Parliament for money to buy the marbles. The Philistines rule the roost there.”

Wickham couldn’t overhear all the conversation, but he got the gist of it and was satisfied to hear Miss Cummings assert the absence of any romance between them, even if Elgin didn’t believe her. No doubt Sally Gardener had led him astray. She was a byword for gossip mongering. He also denied the charge of courting Miss Cummings when Lady Middleton teased him on the same score.

“For shame, Wickham,” she said, cuffing his wrist. “Why are you dallying? Someone else will steal her away from you if you don’t look lively. Miss Cummings is extremely eligible, you must know. A lovely gel.”

It seemed the general consensus. All of London loved Miss Cummings, which made it unlikely she’d come to the country to find a beau. Wickham was struck by the universal approval of the notion of their being romantically involved. As he thought about it, it seemed odd that everyone should have made that assumption. It soon occurred to him that Miss Cummings might have set the notion afoot herself, to put some subtle pressure on him. The idea of inviting her here was his own; he could not lay that in her dish, but she was clever and might have decided to put the evening to use.

He made some subtle effort to discover this when the ladies went to the saloon after dinner, and the gentlemen remained behind with their port and cheroots. Finding an opening was the easiest thing in the world, for his guests seemed more interested in Miss Cummings than in his marbles.

“Are you making a match with Miss Cummings?” Lord Elgin asked him point blank.

“No, in fact, we are no more than acquaintances. It is her cousin, Mrs. Meacham, who is my friend.” This evasive tactic lent a slight hue of pink to his cheeks, which Lord Elgin interpreted as he wished.

“Ha ha, I cannot imagine what the secret can be, unless you are afraid all of London’s bachelors will come crashing down on your head to interfere with the match. There will be cracked hearts aplenty if you nab her. But I shan’t say a word. You may rely on my silence.”

“I would appreciate it, as there is really nothing to tell. Where did you get such an idea?” He waited to hear if Miss Cummings had done anything to instigate or support it.

“I have the use of my eyes. How could any man resist her? If the idea has not occurred to you, then let me put the bee in your bonnet. You could not do better than marry Miss Cummings. It would be a double benefit in that she would bring you to London, I make no doubt, and you would keep her there instead of running around the country, looking to make a match. She is away too much.” This was a reference to her matchmaking tendency for others, but Wickham frowned in confusion and quickly quit the subject. He could find no hard evidence that Miss Cummings had willfully set the idea afoot.

When the gentlemen went to the saloon, Lady Middleton asked Miss Cummings to play for them. The gentlemen took up the cry, and Cecilia agreed without demur, providing Lady Middleton would honor them with a song. It was at the piano player that Wickham gazed during the concert. Miss Cummings was a talented amateur. She played with charm and liveliness, and looked exceedingly pretty with her raven head bent over the keys. He already knew her to be pretty. He had heard this evening that she was also rich. He could see she was easy in conversation with sensible people, and now he saw that she had other accomplishments as well.

When his natural partiality was added to this list, Wickham began to think Lord Elgin might be right, and she would make him a very good wife. He wondered why she had sat on the shelf so long, why it should be necessary for her to jaunter around the whole countryside, looking for a match. There must be something amiss with the girl. An unsteadiness of character seemed the likeliest thing. She could not settle down to one gentleman. That, of all faults, was the worst one for a man in Wickham’s position to consider. To be jilted by your own wife once was a grave misfortune. To be so treated twice would turn the tragedy to farce. But Miss Cummings was too worldly to actually jilt her husband. She would conduct her affaires with discretion. Strangely, this idea was equally repellent, though, he certainly thought in terms of taking a mistress himself.

After the concert there was some general conversation. The tea was brought in and soon the party was over. It was deemed to have been a success, and Wickham accompanied Mrs. Meacham and her cousin to the door, reiterating his thanks.

“I thought we would get a look at your marbles,” Mrs. Meacham mentioned.

“I expect your guests spent the afternoon conning them?” Cecilia said. “I would have liked to see them, too.”

“Then you must return tomorrow and see them at your leisure,” he said. The offer seemed unavoidable. “My guests must leave in the morning. Come early and stay to tea. Perhaps your daughters would like to come as well, ma’am?” he suggested to Mrs. Meacham, making it a safe, family party.

She knew her girls had about as much interest in a set of busted statues as they had in politics, but they would like to see the abbey. “That would be delightful!”

“I shall look for you around two, then.”

He shook their hands, thanked them once again, and they were off.

As the carriage took them home, Mrs. Meacham drew a great sigh of relief and said, “That wasn’t so bad as I feared. I don’t think I quite disgraced myself as Lord Wickham’s hostess.”

“You did admirably, Cousin.”

“And tomorrow will be much easier, with only ourselves there. I cannot believe Lord Wickham is as rackety as we thought. Surely Lord Elgin is top of the trees, and the Middletons are related to a bishop.”

“I believe we judged him harshly. He has promised me he will not go to Jack Duck’s in the future.”

“Well now! It seems you have great influence in that corner, Cecilia. Lady Elgin speaks of a match between the pair of you, but I told her it is no such thing. He has not spoken to you... ?”

“Certainly not.” Cecilia hurried on to wonder how the girls were enjoying Kate Daugherty’s birthday party and by that simple ploy directed the conversation away from Wickham and herself.

Great news awaited them when they reached home. Kate had received an offer from Andy Sproule. The wedding date was set for June.

Happy as Alice was for her friend, it soon came out that the gleam in her eye had another cause. “George said, ‘I don’t know what we are waiting for. I am a year older than Andy. Must we wait till Martha goes before we are shackled?’ I don’t see why we should.” With that unromantical proposal she was
aux anges.
“He will be speaking to you soon, Mama. Must I wait for Martha?”

The only sad face in the room was Martha’s. Henley had said nothing of any account, except to ask half a dozen times why Cecilia had not come.

“It seems hard for Alice to have to wait... I wonder if this will nudge Henley into a proposal,” Mrs. Meacham said, slanting a curious eye at her elder daughter, who immediately burst into tears and fled to her room.

“It will, eventually,” Cecilia prophesied. “With both Andy and George out of circulation, he will soon find himself lonesome.”

“And now that Lord Wickham has promised not to go to Jack Duck’s, he shan’t have that diversion. I expect I shall see both my daughters bounced off before you leave, Cecilia, or at least promised.”

“The company we have coming for the assembly Saturday evening might hasten the offer. We shall make Martha the belle of the ball. That will open Dallan’s eyes. He always likes to be in fashion, and if London beaux favor Martha, he will realize she is worth catching.”

“You really are a wizard!” Mrs. Meacham declared, and kissed her a resounding smack on the cheek.

“We shan’t wait past the end of summer,” Alice declared. “If she can’t bring Henley up to the mark by then, I will marry George.”

“I doubt it will take that long,” Cecilia assured her. “But are you quite sure, ma’am, that he is a suitable parti for Martha? Do you not find him a trifle unsteady?”

“It is just a phase he is going through,” Mrs. Meacham told her. “He used to be better behaved, and he will be better again once he gets over this notion of being a fashionable buck. There was never anyone else for Martha. Henry wanted it, you know. If she can get him, they will have my blessing, and so will you, Cousin.”

Cecilia already knew Martha to be determined in her quest, and if Mrs. Meacham thought it would do, she decided that those most intimately involved knew best. She would arrange the match if she could. She had arranged more difficult ones in the past.

It had been a full evening, and after much discussion of both parties over cocoa, the ladies went to bed. Cecilia’s plans were proceeding excellently. There was not a reason in the world to be feeling so flat. What could cause it? Was it the repeated wish of all her friends at the party that she should finally be settling down? They seemed quite concerned for her. If she left off marriage much longer, folks would begin calling her a spinster. Well, Dallan already had.

She had not found the arrangement of her cousins’ matches so enjoyable as usual. She would like to have blamed Wickham, but as she considered it, she admitted that any enjoyment in the affair had centered around him. Lady Elgin had hinted that he would make her an excellent parti. She had not a doubt in the world that she could have him if she wished. Without even trying, she had got farther than any of the other ladies who lived nearby and had constant access to him. Was it time to give off helping others and help herself?

She would observe Wickham carefully tomorrow and see if she could be happy with him for a lifetime.

Chapter Eleven

It is not to be imagined that Kate Daugherty stayed away from Laycombe the next morning. She spent an hour at the Meachams receiving their congratulations, expressing openly her own delight at having got her offer from Andy, and making plans for the wedding. Nor did she forget to tender a shy thank you to Cecilia, whom she felt had been a great help to her.

When Sally Gardener issued from her house, the girls took the idea of telling her and any other neighbors who happened to be out the great news. They put on their bonnets and went into the street. Cecilia remained behind, congratulating herself on Kate’s betrothal, and planning how to help her cousins to the same condition.

The pleasure of a trip to St. Martin’s was outshone by Kate’s visit, but it was by no means despised. The carriage was brought around at one thirty, and at the appointed hour, it drew up in front of the abbey. Mrs. Meacham now felt quite at home amidst the grandeur and smiled her friendly smile at their host.

“G’day, Lord Wickham. Here we are as we promised. A dab of culture will do these hussies no harm,” she told him. “If they know a Greek from a Roman, it is more than I do, but what we are all eager to see your broken statues. Not the naked ones, mind.”

Cecilia bit back a smile at this lowly description of the artworks and went with the others to view those pieces deemed fit for the eyes of virgins and widows. She could discern little difference between the Grecian originals and what Wickham called the “inferior” Roman imitations, but at least she was interested to learn, which was more than could be said of the others. Their only wonder at the exhibition was that anyone would bother bringing home such rubble, when the monument maker at Reigate could fashion a new piece at a very good price. The angel with spread wings guarding Mr. Meacham’s grave—now that was a statue!