Lady John (19 page)

“Matthew, what you said a moment ago. Think: you said Miss
Casserley regarded you as tolerable enough, and that your advantages outweighed
your disadvantages.”

“Do you disagree?” he teased.

Olivia stared down her nose. “As far as I am concerned, my
lord, your only disadvantage is a tall blond woman with reforming ideas. But
along with providing your Miss Casserley with an alternative to yourself don’t
you think it would be a good idea if you made it appear that your disadvantages
were overtaking your advantages at last?”

Light began at last to dawn for Menwin. “Livvy, you sweet
little devil,” he murmured appreciatively.

Her smile answered his.

“In other words, those faults which my fiancée deplores,
such as my levity and—what has she termed it—my regrettable frivolity, as
evidenced by this phaeton, could be enlarged upon to encourage her dislike of
me?”

“And of course, the famous Polry tendency to extravagance.”

“Well, there at least, with my father and brother Dick, she
has a point. After all, sweetheart, had my father conducted his affairs in a
more businesslike fashion I should not find myself now, affianced to Miss
Casserley, seeking a way to break the engagement.”

“In which case we should certainly find ourselves with a
chaperone at this moment. I begin to think that widowhood has its uses after
all.” She retucked her hand in his arm, and as their carriage covered the last
few miles of their trip the two of them seriously discussed Lord Menwin’s
faults and how best to display them for Jane Casserley’s disapprobation.

The party rendezvoused at an inn recommended for the purpose
by Lord Christopher, where a picnic nuncheon of cold meat, fruit, and pasties
had been prepared; then the three vehicles drove a short way into the park,
were secured, and the passengers descended to ramble, looking for an
appropriate place to sit and eat.

Lady Bette was brimming with a simmering fury at her
brother, while Tylmath appeared only bored. Lady Susannah and Lord Kit looked
as though they both of them would burst into tears or laughter in a minute, and
regarded their companions from the barouche with a sort of fascinated horror
which did not communicate itself to either Miss Casserley or Mr. Haikestill.
These two, pleased in each other’s company and under no injunction to
dissemble, presented a calm and cheerful aspect to the rest of the party. And
Olivia and Menwin, observing their companions, strove to emulate the distant
amicability of two strangers who have spent an hour in each other’s company;
they were modestly successful in this, at least.

“My God, Livvy,” Lady Susannah drew her aside. “I trust you
and Menwin fared better than Kit and I did! Had you heard them! Miss Casserley
going on about improving works—all chock full of John Wesley and the
improvement of the toiling class, and antislavery and even John Knox! And your
equally dreadful Mr. Haikestill quoted from Montesquieu or Rousseau or
Robespierre—one of them anyway—and they had the loveliest chat imaginable, all
of it cloud-cuckooland and plans to send Bibles to the poor and I know not
what. Kit and I kept silent as churchmice and hoped no one would think we were
there. Had either of them thought to ask me what I thought of nourishing the
spiritual hunger in our peasantry—”

“I wonder Miss Casserley does not start a soup kitchen,”
Lord Kit murmured over her shoulder.

“Belike she cannot stand the smell of onions,” Susannah
opined harshly. “A good book smells so much nicer, do not you think? Livvy, I
only hope that you and Mamma and Menwin remember us in your prayers.”

“I assure you, you will come directly after Mamma and
Matthew, and just before his Grace of Wellington and the poor King,” Lady John
answered composedly.

The luncheon passed off well enough; the ladies drank
lemonade, the gentlemen beer from a bucket provided by the innkeeper. The
pasties were acclaimed to be triumphs of lightness and flavor, and the fruit
was fresh. Afterward, when Lady Susannah announced that she, for one, was happy
to doze in the shade, the others went off in groups to walk along the paths
admiring the river. Lord Menwin, mindful of his position as Miss Casserley’s
betrothed, bespoke her for a walk and the two of them set off; Menwin surprised
his fiancée by speaking only of boxing matches and tailors, two subjects they had
never before discussed.

Mr. Haikestill, appropriating Olivia’s company, walked with
her for a quarter of an hour discoursing on the beauties of nature. Olivia
would have preferred to have the beauties without the narration, but Haikestill
was determined to exhibit his botanical knowledge to her, and Lady John, with a
sigh, permitted him to do so.

“There is, as Mr. Cowper has had it, so much to be seen in ‘Nature’s
Unwearied Power,’ “ he sighed at last. “How peaceful this is! And how lucky I,
to have secured you at last! A fortunate day, indeed! I spent the drive here in
pleasant conversation with Miss Casserley: what an informed mind she has! And
now, to be vouchsafed this time in your company must make my happiness
complete! There,” Haikestill pointed through the shrubbery to where Menwin
walked with Miss Casserley; he was talking in an unusually loud, and bumptious
voice, of racing. Mr. Haikestill frowned. “There goes a fortunate man, my dear
Lady John. I wonder if he knows it? A well-informed mind, a virtuous
disposition, and a most excellently pretty person, all combined in his future
bride. I trust Lord Menwin is sensible of—”

“Indeed,” Olivia countered, unable to restrain herself. “I
hope Miss Casserley apprehends her good fortune in Lord Menwin.”

Mr. Haikestill regarded his companion with surprise.

“Well, sir, I did know Lord Menwin in Brussels, and I—I
understand the regard in which he was held by his companions there.”

“Ah, but you are very kind to recall it, my lady,”
Haikestill assured her, easy once again. He reached for her hand, which for
some reason was out of his grasp at just that moment. His hand dropped
awkwardly again to his side. “The regard of
soldiers,
the respect of his commanding officers, is very well for a man, but I
have heard as well that Lord Menwin is prey to several regrettable vices—”

“Vices, sir?” Olivia purred.

Haikestill nodded portentously. “I grieve to say it, Lady
John, but I am informed by no less an authority than Miss Casserley herself
that Lord Menwin is prey to his family curse of extravagance. Indeed, his
estates are so much encumbered that he had to apply to his grandfather, the
Earl of Mardries, for relief.”

“I had understood that it was the present Lord Menwin’s
father who was responsible for the debt, sir,” Olivia countered, still
sweet-voiced. Inwardly she was wondering how the saintly Miss Casserley managed
to reconcile gossiping about her fiancé’s affairs with a perfectly strange man.

“I said it was a family failing, my lady. Further, Menwin
seems to lack that concern for his fellow men which his title obligates him to
share with all men of goodwill. But there, it is as I have always said: the
title alone does not ennoble the man, and the greatest Duke in the land is no
better than the least farmer on his bit of property.”

“Probably not,” Olivia agreed. “But I cannot believe that
the title will necessarily make him the worse of the two.”

Haikestill regarded her with surprise. Then the crease in
his brow smoothed itself, and he told her cheerfully that he would not mind
what she said, since she was by far too pretty to worry herself with such
serious matters. Olivia suppressed the strong urge to slap her companion, and
stared directly in front of her for some minutes, endeavoring to regain her
temper. Haikestill continued to speak all during that time, and she was
completely unconscious of what was said.

“Dearest Lady John,” was the next thing she heard. “You
cannot doubt the sincerity of my feelings in the matter. I have hoped—nay, I
have been convinced that you would feel likewise, upon consideration—”

Olivia blushed. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Haikestill. I was
woolgathering. What are we discussing?”

For the first time in their acquaintance, Olivia saw Quincy
Haikestill truly and totally discomfited.

“Lady John, I was asking you to be my wife,” he said
sternly. “But there,” he continued more lightly, “you need not give me your
answer this afternoon. I will call again in Queen Anne’s Street tomorrow and
you may give me your answer then. I shall hope by this time tomorrow to be the
happiest of men.”

Olivia stared at him, quite taken aback.

“Mr. Haikestill, I think perhaps you have mistaken
friendship for a very different emotion,” she began at last, and was
interrupted by Haikestill, who enthusiastically assured her that he was
altogether certain of his feelings, and that she must not hesitate on his
account.

“Certainly, I understand that you are not a young girl,
although you have retained many of those youthful mannerisms which make your
person so charming and lively.” He spoke, however, as if those mannerisms, all
very well in a young woman, would be purged immediately she was made wife. “A
young girl would not do for me,” he continued. “I wish to align myself with a
woman who understands the serious purposes of marriage. I need not add that
your lovely person, coupled with the experience that your first, unhappy
marriage has bestowed upon you, make you completely irresistible to me.”

It took Olivia a moment to frame an answer. She had never
thought to receive a proposal couched in terms that actually angered her, but
as she stood in the center of the pathway her hands curled into fists, and it
was difficult to contrive an answer to Haikestill’s plea without completely
abandoning every precept of propriety.

At last, “I suppose I must thank you,” she began, “for what
I collect is meant to be a flattering offer. I must also reject the offer, and
hope that this will cause you very little discomfort. Upon further reflection
you will understand, I think, that we are unsuited to each other. My ‘youthful
mannerisms,’ as you call them, are more the product of the way I look at the
world than of my age. And where you could have gotten the idea that my first
marriage was an unhappy one, except in your own mind, Mr. Haikestill, I cannot
say. But the most important thing is that I do not believe that we should suit.
As you so flatteringly pointed out, I have been married before. Drawing from my
experience, sir, I long ago determined never to marry where no love was.”

“But I assure you, my dearest Lady John,” Haikestill
insisted with the slightly harassed air of a man who sees unbeatable certainty
crumble about him, “I assure you that my affection is very real.”

“I thank you, sir,” Olivia said stiffly. “But I assure you
that my feelings for you are not those I should wish to have for a husband. I
am fully conscious of your worth; I should like to continue as your friend but
I cannot offer or accept more than that.”

Very definitely, Olivia turned their direction back to the
grove where Lady Susannah sat. For some moments they walked in silence, but by
the time they had reattained the clearing, Mr. Haikestill had sufficiently
recovered to give a lecture on the life span and growth of the English yew.

o0o

Miss Casserley, walking with her betrothed, was undergoing
an uneasiness of mind which was quite unfamiliar to her. It had always been her
way, and a matter of pride to her, to determine upon her course and stick to it
through all adversity. But as she cast a sideways glance at her companion,
prating of the auction at Tattersall’s, Miss Casserley wondered if perhaps she
had not taken on a greater project than even she could manage. A long time ago
Jane Casserley had determined to marry a man of sense, but it seemed that there
were very few such in the circles in which she moved. Or more precisely, in
those circles in which her mother moved her. Most men were frivolous pleasure
seekers, she had concluded at last, and oblivious to the fact that life was a
serious business. When her parents had broached the idea of Menwin as a husband
she had consented. After all, one had to marry someone, and this man, who had
been a soldier, seemed to have a reasonable outlook on life. It would be a
sensible arrangement: she would give Menwin an heir; he would give her the
money with which to accomplish her missions.

Only, Miss Casserley had become aware, of late, that Menwin’s
mind seemed to be wandering. This afternoon, indeed, he had not spoken of one
serious thing, and when she had begun on a favorite topic of hers, a school for
the training of chimney sweeps, Menwin had gone so far as to turn the subject
again, to music. Thence to dancing. Thence, again, to horses. The formal
distance of manner which had been between them had changed in an afternoon; today
he seemed uncomfortably close and jocular. Thinking longingly of her refreshing
conversation in the barouche with Mr. Haikestill, Miss Casserley sighed.

“Tired, my dear? We shall turn back,” Menwin offered
promptly. “Have you given any thought to how you would like our house
decorated?”

“Decorated? Why, do you not like it as it is now?” she asked
in surprise.

“Why, of course. But as you are the bride, I should have
thought you would prefer to make the house over for yourself and—”

“My lord, I assure you I know many better uses for money
than that,” Miss Casserley snapped contemptuously.

Menwin gave an idiotish laugh. “To be sure, m’dear, so do I.
Now, this filly I was telling you of—”

By the time they reached the clearing Miss Casserley had
become convinced that either her husband-to-be was gravely ill, perhaps even
mad, or that she, herself, had been mistaken. Much as it pained Jane to admit
to such a thing, she feared the latter might indeed be the case.

Mr. Haikestill and Lady Bette were to be found talking of
trees, or rather, Mr. Haikestill was talking and Lady Bette was listening with
an air of polite ennui. Lord Christopher lay under a tree with his hat drawn
over his eyes, and Lady Susannah and Lady John Temperer sat nearby, talking
quietly. Miss Casserley, with the briefest of apologies, left Menwin and went
to join Mr. Haikestill for a few minutes’ improving conversation. Menwin,
naturally, took the opportunity to join the other ladies where they sat.