Practical Heart, page 12
It was several days before Gillian found an opportunity of speaking to Lord Yates. That poor young man was so confused—first, as to Felicity’s feelings for him, and second, as to her circumstances—that he dared not return to call at The Haven—though it would have been a natural thing to do, in view of Miss Felicity’s supposed indisposition. Gillian finally caught up with him at a rout-party, and insisted on drawing him into a small study, vacant for the moment. She had thought of asking Miles to speak to Courtney, but it went against the grain with her to beg his assistance—particularly because she knew it was exactly what he expected of her, and of all womankind. Therefore, she herself approached Courtney in as straightforward and manly a manner as was possible—first revealing Felicity’s affection for him and later explaining the Viscount’s financial position, which she felt sure would not weigh with him once he understood it.
She was correct. The young lord, enlightened as to the state of his beloved’s overwrought emotions, resolved immediately to remove her—and her father, if necessary—from her unmerited poverty. If anything, the revelation of Sherbourne’s straitened circumstances increased Courtney’s regard for Felicity: “The dear, brave girl!” he had exclaimed. “How she must suffer!” And he was determined to rescue her.
Unfortunately, the “dear, brave girl,” was by now paralysed with fear of the prospect of another meeting with the object of her affections. She refused to go anywhere, and Cordelia—oddly enough, as Gillian reflected—seemed to encourage her in this resolve.
“It is only kind,” Cordelia would say. “You see how frightened she is of him. I expect you will do best to let the matter drop altogether; surely it is past remedy.”
There was an odd, sly look about her eyes when she said this sort of thing; Gillian observed it carefully, but said nothing. She refrained, for a few days, from pressing Felicity. After some time had passed, however, she began to employ all her various arts of persuasion—wheedling, cajoling, explaining—until at last Felicity succumbed to the barrage. She was careful, though, to exact a promise from Gillian, that Lord Yates should know precisely for what purpose he was visiting The Haven. “For if you lure him here on some pretence,” she said, “and then force my company upon him, I know I shall die.”
Gillian promised accordingly and set about arranging the call. In the meantime, however, they had another visitor to The Haven. It was Miss Grouse, and she arrived alone, asking particularly to see the Viscount.
“To what circumstance do I owe this pleasure?” inquired Valerian, when he had entered the drawing room. Miss Spencer stood hesitantly in the doorway, uncertain whether to stay or go. Propriety seemed to demand the one, but Miss Grouse looked rather as if she would prefer the other.
“Your Lordship, I know this will sound exceedingly odd, but might I speak with you…alone?” Miss Grouse said at last.
“I was just on the point of leaving,” said Gillian, relieved, in spite of her curiosity, to know what she ought to do. “Excuse me, I beg.”
“Your Lordship,” said Thomasina, as the doors closed behind Miss Spencer, “I have come to—that is, I am afraid I shall be obliged to be excessively frank with you. I am sorry.”
“On the contrary,” said he, toying nervously with his cravat, “I find the candour you and your father display most refreshing.” He was in an agony to know what had brought her to make this startling visit, and did not even think of offering her tea or coffee.
“I understand that you and my father have made an—agreement of sorts,” she began.
“O no!” Valerian objected, much too hastily and loudly. “We did, indeed, discuss the possibility of an—agreement, as you say—but it is by no means settled as yet…”
“Please, I beg you will not be delicate with me. It is—O dear, this is more awkward even than I had expected.” She paused for a moment, staring hard at the reticule she held in her plump, be-ringed hands. “I had no knowledge of the offer my father made,” she said at last, looking up and fixing her round eyes on the Viscount. “If I had been aware of it, I should have stopped him directly.”
“My dear ma’am, this is most…distressing,” said the Viscount, almost writhing in his discomfort.
“Oh, not because I should be especially averse to marrying you!” she burst out. “It is only that—”
“But there has been no final decision made!” Sherbourne interrupted involuntarily. “There was only the possibility, the potentiality, the…Not, as you say, because of any special aversion to you, my dear ma’am, but these things—take time…” Muteness overtook him with a gleeful vengeance, as if in compensation for the many times she had failed to do so in the past.
“My Lord, I wish you will say no more,” Miss Grouse took up emphatically. “I do not think you understand!”
“Oh, but I do, I assure you…” Again he found himself at a loss for words.
“But you do not!” She stood up on these words, leaving her reticule on the settee, and began pacing up and down and speaking with determination. “My Lord,” she commenced, “my father is a man of resolution. He was born in squalor, and has lifted himself to his present position with great difficulty. He has become excessively wealthy, and excessively powerful; he is not at all accustomed to having his wishes ignored. My Lord,” she continued, after striding for some time in silence, “my father is determined that I should marry. Whom I marry is of no great importance to him, but that I should marry is crucial. Though,” she added, with more than an edge of bitterness, “it has become clear to me recently that he should be pleased were I to marry a peer. In any case, my Lord, the plain fact is—and my father knows this very well—that I do not want to marry. Not a peer, nor anyone else.”
“Miss Grouse!” was all the Viscount could think to say.
“Yes, I know it is terribly shocking,” she went on, essaying a smile and succeeding only partially. “Young ladies of all stations are expected to wish to marry—for what reason I am not entirely sure. I am not a romantical young woman, sir, so I cannot marry for love. Nor does necessity press me to find a husband to keep me; I am my father’s only heir. And if young ladies wed in order to escape the bondage of their parental homes, then I think they are foolish beyond permission, for by what I have observed marriage only constrains them more painfully than ever. So you see, my Lord, that the only motive I might have for marrying would be to oblige my father, and I will tell you very frankly, sir, that I am not of a mind to oblige him to such an extent. Do you understand, then, that it is from no particular dislike of you that I object to this scheme?”
The Viscount could hardly speak for gasping with astonishment. “I understand—that is, I believe I can enter into…but Miss Grouse,” he faltered finally, “whatever will you do with your life?”
Miss Grouse seated herself at last upon the settee. Once more she stared at her reticule, and once more at the Viscount. Her mouth worked anxiously; it was evident she was struggling inside herself to find her next words. At last, however, her lips settled into firmness and, gripping her purse so tightly that her knuckles went white, she spoke with, at least, the appearance of calm.
Chapter X
“I want,” said Miss Grouse, slowly and carefully, “to be an apothecary.”
The Viscount regarded her in wordless fascination.
“I have never,” she continued, speaking more easily now that this declaration had been made, “confided this to anyone—not even to my father, my Lord. I am sure he would die if he knew.”
Valerian disregarded this speculation and said simply, “Is that all? Is that all you want from life?”
“Does it sound mad to you?” she asked rhetorically. “I suppose it does. But that is the truth—it is all I want, all I have ever wanted.”
“But—why?”
Thomasina shrugged. “I don’t really know. Ever since I first stumbled upon a book of medicine, the subject has attracted me almost irresistibly. I find it…the most interesting study on earth. I have hoarded up hundreds of volumes about it—and chemistry, and illness…Of course, I keep them hidden from my father.”
“And yet,” Valerian said, beginning to recover from his shock, “surely he would not be so very displeased?”
“On the contrary, sir. He has always desired me to be—domestic and feminine, like your daughters, my Lord,” she added, with a hint of distaste she could not conceal. “He seems to have this notion that women—all women—are frail, and romantical. I have been a great disappointment to him.”
“But you say he does not know of your—desire.”
“No, he does not,” she replied, “but he does know I am reluctant to marry. I should not really mind marriage, after all.” she went on, “if only, somehow, I might be permitted to pursue my studies as well.” She paused and sighed almost wistfully.
“Perhaps,” Valerian suggested slowly, “we could arrange things so that—”
“No,” she interrupted, “I know what you are going to say, and it will not do. The wife of a viscount has a great many obligations, no matter how one tries to get round it. And then to have two stepdaughters, and grandchildren no doubt…No, it simply will not do. I’ve thought it out at great length, you know.”
“Well, then—have you—have you arrived at any conclusions? A scheme which will work, perhaps?”
“Yes, I have.” Again Miss Grouse looked very grim, her round face setting itself into incongruous firmness. “I have thought, my Lord…I shall be willing to pay your debt myself, and to require nothing in return.”
“My dear ma’am!” exclaimed Sherbourne, shocked all over again.
“Yes, I know it sounds extraordinary but consider, after all, what it is worth to me. And I shall have very little difficulty in finding the money, you know. I have more jewels and trinkets than the most elegant woman would know what to do with.”
“It is quite out of the question,” Valerian said flatly.
“I beg you will give it some thought,” she pleaded.
The Viscount, no longer having any reason to fear Miss Grouse, felt a sudden rush of compassion for her. “My dear ma’am,” he said, quite sincerely, “I am in sympathy with your feelings, I assure you. I am—moved by your offer, and grateful that you should make it, but there is no possibility of my accepting it. However, I hope you will allow me to assist you in attaining your goal. I believe,” he continued, thinking, “we may yet be of help to one another, if we work together.”
“How is that, sir?” she said, obviously disappointed with his rejection of her scheme.
“Well for one thing, John Abernethy is an old acquaintance of mine.” Miss Grouse’s eyes lit up at this mention of the eminent physician. “I should be glad to speak to him of your—case, as you might say, for you.”
“O, my Lord, that would be heavenly!” she cried, exhibiting more enthusiasm than he had ever expected to see in her. “And yet, what is the use of it, when my father will never permit it?”
“Miss Grouse, we must all take risks to achieve our heart’s desire. Sooner or later you must confess your leanings to your father.”
“I could not!” she exclaimed, without meaning to.
“Then I shall do it for you. And that, my dear ma’am, is what I can do to assist you. Now, as for your assisting me—I wonder if you might consent to play out a sort of charade, as it were, for a week or two?”
Thomasina was confused for a moment; then she said, “O, for my father’s benefit, you mean?”
“Precisely. And for mine, of course. We shall—let me see, I shall come and beg to see you privately, so that he will think I am offering for you. Then I will report to him that though you have not yet given me an answer, you have promised to think of it. I may gain considerable time that way.”
“But will it help?” she asked. “Have you any prospects at all?”
“Certainly, my child,” he said grandly. “Any day now, I expect someone to offer for one of my daughters—someone rich, that is.”
“I see.” She sat thinking for a moment. “My father will browbeat me continually, you know,” she pointed out. “Do you suppose it will be a long time before one of the suitors speaks out?”
“Not at all,” he assured her.
“Because my father will be furious with me when he learns I have not accepted you; he is a difficult man to fob off.”
“I know,” Valerian said feelingly. “Indeed, I know. But I promise you, even if I have no means to settle my debt to him, after a week—a fortnight at the very most—we will drop the masquerade. I shall revoke my offer, or some such thing.”
The two of them spent some time refining the details of this scheme. Miss Grouse trembled to think of the treatment she would receive from her father during the next week or two. She was even more frightened of what he would say when the Viscount revealed to him her secret, cherished avocation. The Viscount himself was soon in a state of high glee; he had not expected to get off so easily from this business of offering for Thomasina.
“It seems,” he later told Miss Spencer, “that she is no more interested in the prospect of breeding little Grice than I was; could anything be more perfect?”
“Grice?” Miss Spencer inquired.
“Yes, you know. Little grandchildren for Grouse. O!” he cried, nearly clapping his hands together, “it is wonderful. Such a relief, such a burden lifted, so many hopes renewed!” And he went on to inform her of Miss Grouse’s aspirations.
“Well, this is some comfort,” Gillian remarked, when he had done. “Still, I think we will do best to arrange the meeting between Felicity and Courtney for as soon as possible.”
“O, indeed,” he concurred, “the earliest opportunity.”
“Will tomorrow do?”
“I see no reason why not. I shall be sure to be from home.”
“Good; then we are agreed. And I shall endeavour to keep Cordelia out from under their feet as well.”
“Perhaps I may suggest that she accompany me on an excursion,” said the Viscount—but when the morning came Cordelia declined her father’s invitation.
“I had much rather stay home and read,” she said sweetly. Gillian, who was looking on, thought she heard that note of slyness again. “But I thank you, Father.”
Sherbourne shrugged and went out alone. Miss Spencer felt obliged to remain at The Haven, “just in the event that something goes awry,” as she explained. She had hesitated when it had been time to write to Courtney, to advise him that Felicity had consented to meet him. After all, it was hardly proper that she should send him a private communication. After toying for a short while with the idea of bribing Trigg to deliver it unobtrusively, she realized that the simplest solution was to ask the Viscount to write the note, and this he had done. Courtney had sent no answer, thus causing Gillian some anxiety, but he arrived punctually at two o’clock, as requested.
Miss Spencer led his Lordship into the drawing room, and then went off to fetch Felicity. This was accomplished with some little difficulty, owing to the fact that Felicity’s legs were trembling so they hardly supported her. In due time, however, they reached the drawing room, and Miss Spencer extricated her hand from Felicity’s damp clutch, claiming that she “was obliged to confer with Mrs. Trigg upon some domestic matters.” Feeling a little as though she had thrown a Christian to the lions, she shut the door upon her charge and Courtney and again went upstairs, determined to keep an eye upon Cordelia until the interview had been concluded. Cordelia’s behaviour had been more than a little peculiar. Her almost tragic demeanour had given way to a smile and posture that quite suggested a woman with a scheme on her mind. In any case, it would do no harm to keep her under surveillance when possible.
Unfortunately, the doorbell croaked mightily even before she had reached Cordelia’s bedchamber, and Trigg opened to admit Mr. Miles Lawrence. Gillian hastened down the stairs.
“My dear sir,” she said in a whisper, “you could not have chosen a more inopportune time to call!”
“And I am delighted to see you, Miss Spencer,” he said, kissing her hand in courtly fashion. “Is there any particular reason why we are whispering, or is it merely that you consider it romantical?”
Gillian smiled in spite of herself. “Yates and Felicity are closeted together,” she said, gesturing towards the door. “Do, please, go away.”
“But I’ve come to plot with you,” he objected. “My, my, but this is a jolly household since you’ve come into it! I recall a time when there was hardly a scheme to speak of at The Haven.”
“It you insist on talking, come in here,” she said, pulling him rather unkindly towards the room across from the drawing room. It was the one that contained the broken pianoforte and all the dust. “It would not do,” she explained in a somewhat louder tone, when they had shut the door to the hall, “to let them hear us. It would make it seem as if we were eavesdropping.”
“Which reminds me: why aren’t we?”
“Because there is no need to. Whatever they say to one another, we shall know soon enough.”
“I admire your restraint, General.”
“I wish I could feel similarly about your memory, sir. I believe I entreated you not to call me General.”
“Did you? How like you that is!” he exclaimed, charmed. He turned his warm gaze upon her. “Do you know, I admire you altogether, Miss Spencer? Have I told you?”
Again, he had struck that note of sincerity Gillian found so unnerving. “I believe you have,” she said, hurrying to add, “What was it you wished to see me about?”.
Mr. Lawrence shook his head wonderingly, keeping his eyes fixed upon her countenance. “Such a remarkable woman,” he said, as if to himself, “and yet so reserved. A great pity.” He continued in another tone altogether. “I must know when you wish me to abduct Vaughn. Will tomorrow do?”
“Tomorrow?” asked she, trying to ignore the earlier part of his remarks. “I suppose so…though I haven’t thought of how to make off with Cordelia.”
“I am certain you will do, however,” he said pleasantly. “Shall we say tomorrow, then, at the White Lion, Cobham in Surrey?”
