Love's Way Page 5

  “Did he not tell you he was to leave early this morning?” I asked Emily, for the day and hour of his departure had been known for a week.

  “Yes, he did,” she admitted. “I had hoped to come yesterday, but Aunt Hennie had the migraine, and of course it would not do for me to run about the countryside unchaperoned.”

  That she had been doing just that for the past several years caused not so much as a blush to stain her cheeks, the hoyden.

  “Certainly not,” Mrs. Crawford seconded her. “Cousin John would be highly displeased with such unladylike conduct.”

  “We would have been happy to fetch you, Emily, if you had let us know,” I said, with a withering glance which I hope gave the duenna the idea we were not fooled by imaginary migraines.

  “You do keep a carriage, do you?” the brazen woman asked, as though to imply we were of that class that walked through the dust to pay our calls on foot.

  “Yes, ma’am, we do, and both of them happened to be sitting idle yesterday,” I retaliated.

  “As it happened, we were extremely busy all day yesterday with Mr. Gamble’s cartons arriving from India,” was her next sally.

  I expect a little of my interest peeped out at this speech. Nora and I had been conjecturing wildly on this score for several hours.

  “Artworks,” she explained briefly. “Statues, gems, ancient Indian manuscripts. He has brought many scholars back with him, to be employed at the museums and universities.”

  “Meanwhile Edward tells me they are trying to clean up the Hall,” I replied. “How are the tiger and elephant? I do hope they have not made a muddle of the artworks and manuscripts.”

  “Many botanical and zoological specimens of all sorts were brought back, to be studied and examined. They will be happy to receive them in London,” she said with a blighting stare.

  “Exeter Exchange do you mean?” I asked, “to be added to the menagerie there?”

  “John brought me a monkey,” Emily said brightly, having at last found an item of interest that did not appear to have been disqualified by the Tartar.

  “How many scholars did he bring?” Nora asked. She wished to be polite but was bursting with curiosity, like myself.

  “A dozen or so,” Hennie answered. “No doubt vulgar gossip has exaggerated the whole business. I see Grasmere is no different from Windermere. The town whispering about the lord of the village.”

  “There is of course some talk about Lord Carnforth, due to his—illness,” I answered in a sweet tone.

  She bridled up like an angry mare, sparks shooting from her cabbage-green eyes. “I was referring to Cousin John,” she said.

  “You cannot mean to tell me Lord Carnforth has passed away, and we not hearing a word about it!”

  “Certainly not. Gossiping about their betters is what I meant, Miss Barwick. John will soon be the lord of the village,” she explained patiently.

  I opened my mouth to agree that we gossiped about not only our betters but the inhabitants of Carnforth Hall as well, but Nora got in before me. “How is Lord Carnforth?” she asked, in a conciliating spirit. I was left to read her injunction against further rudeness from the manner in which she snapped the mesh out of her netting.

  We listened to an outpouring of imaginary ailments besetting the earl, of which overdrinking made up no part, for ten minutes, at the end of which time I had got my temper under control sufficiently to offer our guests a cup of tea. I could hardly believe my ears when the creature refused! Why on earth had she bothered to pay this call, if only to insult us?

  I did not press her a second time. She did not invite us to call on them at the Hall, nor did I intimate that any second call from Mrs. Crawford would be a joy to us. Throughout the last tense minutes of the call Emily sat like a wind-up doll, receiving and obeying instructions passed silently from her aunt’s green eyes. When the black-mittened hands reached for her reticule, Emily arose and began what was obviously a rehearsed speech.

  “It was pleasant chatting with you again, Miss Barwick,” with a little duck of the head and a chilly smile that included Aunt Nora. “No doubt we shall meet again.”

  “Unless Mrs. Crawford plans on taking you away from the district entirely, I expect we shall meet again in the village, Emily,” I replied, every jot as civilly, for I would not give the pair of them the satisfaction of knowing I was furious.

  “Cousin John does plan to take Emily to London to visit relatives, but not in the immediate future,” the Tartar answered, with a smile of triumphant spite, and a stronger than ever whiff of onions as she opened her lips to bid us adieu.

  Then they were gone, leaving Aunt Nora and me to regard each other in offended confusion. “Not even a cup of tea would she take!” Nora exclaimed, when she had recovered speech. “I cannot think what she is about. The Barwicks are every bit as good as the Gambles—an older family if it comes to that. Our ancestor, Chloe, sat in Parliament long before that woman’s ancestors knew who they were. Just because the nap is off our carpets doesn’t mean we are nobody! To refuse a cup of tea in such a pointed way!”

  “I believe that was what is known as a farewell visit, Auntie. And good riddance too. The onion-breathing dragon was serving us notice we are to cast out no further lures to Miss Two-Face to join us here at Ambledown.”

  “I am surprised Emily would take it so meekly, after the amount of friendship that has been between us lately.”

  “You forget she has been given a monkey to replace us. We cannot hope to compete with such a lively companion. This is all Gamble’s doings, of course.”

  “I had that impression.”

  “Let him take her to London. The sooner the better. I don’t care if we never see her two faces again.”

  “Poor Edward, he will take this hard,” she sighed dismally.

  I doubt very much he had thought of her since his departure. “I suppose Gamble thinks to nab a title for her, taking her to London for a Season. He’ll have to dig into his pockets to provide a dowry, if that is his aim.”

  “He must be well to grass, bringing back so many things from India. The shipping fees alone would amount to something. Mrs. Partridge will know what he is worth. The banker has a set of rooms on her second story. I shall drop by next time I am in Grasmere.”

  Chapter Six

  The rumours of strange doings at the Hall continued, as did the caravans bearing oriental splendours for Carnforth Hall. Mrs. Partridge rolled her eyes, gasped, and admitted that fifty thousand pounds had been transferred from a London bank to Gamble’s local account. She would not venture a guess as to what portion stayed in London, but clearly he was a Nabob—and not a chicken Nabob either.

  Of the Nabob himself and his women we saw nothing till church on Sunday. We always had the black carriage dusted off for church, considering our yellow tinker’s wagon to be of insufficient grandeur and excessive frivolity for this ecclesiastical occasion. The neo-Indians came in Carnforth’s old rig, not so much grander than our own, though I must own the pair of grays hitched to it took the shine out of Dobbin and Belle. They were not Carnforth’s team, but obviously belonged to Gamble.

  Emily had been redone from head to toe, stuck into a fashionable gown that was surely from London, in a shade of blue that was nearly white, just tinted, like ice. It was simply but elegantly designed, showing her figure off to better advantage than her muslin round gowns had ever done. All the accoutrements were of the finest—blue kid slippers, blue gloves, a dainty bonnet with two short curly ostrich feathers that bent forward and tickled her left cheek. Really she looked inordinately elegant and beautiful, as though she no longer belonged here in Grasmere but was ready to take London by storm. I could not imagine who had made such a chic gown for her. Certainly not our local modiste, Miss Brown, who has exactly four designs in her repertoire. Gamble stood like a bridegroom by her side, smiling, solicitous to find the page for her in her book.

  There, in church, was where the man’s full plan hit me in the face. Jack Ga
mble planned to marry Emily. Tom Carrick, for once, was right. That was why she was being weaned away from Edward and such low company as Nora and myself. That was why the onion-eating chaperone had been installed, to protect Emily and John from any hint of scandal. The gifts of monkeys and gowns were all to allay her hatred and fear of him, to pave the way for her accepting him as a husband. I was a little surprised at his choice. I had thought Black Jack Gamble would select a more dashing female, but there—what lady of good reputation would have him? He was planning to set up as a reformed character—who would have thought to see him in church, for instance?—and was using his little cousin to lend him respectability.

  The revelation took my breath away. I had thought he only wanted to break off her infatuation with Edward for social and financial reasons. When the congregation stood up for the hymn I was slow to join them, and when they sat down I remained standing in a daze, till Nora gave my skirt a tug. At that point I looked around to see I stood above the throng, with half the crowd tittering at my foolishness and the other half politely pretending not to notice that Lady Emily, despite her fine feathers, was amongst the titterers, till she received a black-mittened poke in the ribs.

  My aversion to Gamble was reaching a pitch that was positively un-Christian. It soared a little higher when the person selected for honour by the Nabob after the service was none other than Captain Wingdale.

  When I described this gentleman as a retired sea captain, you perhaps got a wrong idea of him. He is not retired due to his age but due to having cornered enough prize money that he no longer requires the salary paid by the Royal Navy. I cannot think more than a handful of men in the whole kingdom actually enjoy to spend their lives at sea on a bouncing deck, with a tightly restricted company.

  Wingdale was in his early forties, still in the prime of life. He was dark haired, ruddy of complexion, with deep lines around his eyes, which I imagine to have been formed from looking into the sun to read the weather. He was broad-shouldered, of military bearing, but with, of course, no uniform.

  The “Captain” is an honourary title now. He wears jackets of excellent material and an exaggerated cut, the shoulders padded, the waist too tightly taken in for comfort I am convinced. I suspect a corset might account for that wasp waist that a lady could envy. One has always the impression when looking at him that he is pulling in his stomach and expanding his chest as hard as he can. Such a big, barrel chest is not natural, except in baboons or gorillas.

  There is nothing amiss in his cunning. He is as shrewd as can stare, and not totally without social graces either, though he is betrayed at times into ungenteel utterances that hint at a past less refined than the present. Oh, and there is no Mrs. Wingdale, which makes him more than tolerable to all families with an aging daughter to be disposed of.

  Nora and I were accosted by Tom Carrick. We strolled to within eavesdropping distance of the Nabob and the Captain. Also within nodding distance of the Tartar and Emily, though their heads were kept carefully averted. No nods were exchanged.

  “I suppose you will be attending the tea party for Rush-Bearing come next Saturday,” Tom said, in his hearty, loud voice.

  “Is it that time already?” I asked. Rush-Bearing occurs early in August. It is a festivity that is fast dying out, but at Grasmere it is still done. In the olden days it had a practical purpose—strewing fresh rushes on the church floor—and was done by adults. It has dwindled (since the church now has a stone floor) to a symbolic affair, with children carrying rushes and flowers in a procession to the church, where the minister reads a service. The children sing and are later entertained with a tea-party, also attended by the more ardent adult parishioners.

  Being a spinster of the parish I am one of the ladies usually stuck to manage the whole affair. It is the singing practice that consumes most of the time. When a spinster has the identical chores of a wife, as I have in managing Ambledown (with a few of the husband’s chores thrown in for good measure), I don’t know why it is I am thought to have all manner of time free, but so it is. Charities, social gatherings, all these trivial church matters fall upon a handful of us spinsters and widows. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if Eleanor Glover married her husband to escape her share of these dull jobs. I cannot see any other advantage that accrued to her in the match.

  “Why, it was announced this morning, Chloe,” Tom reminded me. I must have been wool-gathering at the time. I had not heard the announcement.

  “Yes, I’ll be there,” I said, inclining my head to try to hear what was causing Wingdale and Gamble to guffaw as though they were at a men-only rout, when they were still on church property. Everyone was staring at them.

  When Nora began speaking to Tom about Edward’s trip, I listened quite shamelessly to the other party. Wingdale was inviting Gamble to one of his assemblies. The reply, imperfectly heard, was that Emily might enjoy it.

  There was no difficulty in overhearing Emily’s opinion. She squealed in delight, in a most unladylike manner that caused the Tartar to silence her with a sharp, “Emily!” The Captain then mentioned some other features of Wingdale Hause, including the meals, which he described as being “something quite out of the ordinary”, as indeed they are from all reports. I have never personally deigned to set a toe inside the establishment, and never will. Where else can you pay a guinea for tough roast beef, reheated potatoes, and wine that bears a strong resemblance to turpentine?

  There was more loud talking and louder laughing, the whole carried out in voices raised high enough to indicate the speakers’ disregard for the opinion of bystanders. This particular brand of arrogance is often practiced by underbred tourists, but outside of Wingdale himself it has been kept under control amongst the local people. At some point during the conversation, Tom turned around to direct a scowl on the speakers and ended up nodding to Emily, as the gentlemen paid him no heed.

  This dangerous encroachment of our presence had the effect of the guardians getting rid of Wingdale so they could hustle their ward off home. It was perfectly clear this was their intention—to avoid speaking to us. In a fit of pique I said, in a low voice, that they should put the girl under lock and key to keep her safe till they convinced her to marry her cousin. The cabbage-green eyes narrowed at me, glinting maliciously. I stared back at her but did not intend to be the first to speak. While still staring, I observed from the corner of my eye that Gamble too had overheard my speech. His black head turned slowly, as though he could not quite make up his mind whether to admit it. He exchanged one quick, guilty glance with the Tartar, then turned his obsidian eyes on me.

  If looks could kill I would have been destroyed on the spot. He was furious, and trying hard to hide it. It didn’t take much cunning to realize why. He was angry that I had figured out his strategy with regard to Emily, his plan to subdue her unwillingness with trifling luxuries and social diversions till he could persuade her to have him. “Miss Barwick, is it not?” he asked, after a long moment of subjecting me to his scrutiny.

  I nodded and replied in an affable tone, “Mr. Gamble, if memory serves.” Next I turned to Emily, deciding to further discommode the guardians with a little teasing. “Emily, how grand you look today. We were all wondering who the Incomparable was in church. We hardly recognized you. You do recognize me, I hope? Chloe—Edward’s sister. You remember Edward.”

  She blushed to the roots of her blond curls and muttered, “Good morning, Chloe,” then directed a plea for instructions on Mrs. Crawford, who reached out her black mittens to get a physical grasp on the girl’s arm, as though I might seize her and carry her off by main force. I could not repress an ironic smile at this, and didn’t try very hard either.

  “I believe your chaperones are anxious for your safekeeping, Emily. I shan’t detain you longer. Good morning.” I swept a general curtsey in the direction of their party, took Tom’s arm for support to my nervous legs, and left, while my escort inveighed against the bad manners being practiced by “certain people who should know be
tter.” In my state I thought he meant myself, but further remarks showed it to be Gamble’s group he had in mind.

  I did not expect to see those certain bad-mannered people again till next Sunday, unless it happened they were met in the village. To my considerable surprise, two of them descended on us that same afternoon at Ambledown, about two hours after luncheon. We sat in the garden under a spreading copper beech tree, gasping in the heat of a warmer than usual summer. Poor Edward would be sweltering as he clambered over the fells.

  When I saw a little blue phaeton darting down the road, pulled by a pair of cream ponies, I took the notion a travelling group of players had come to town. Nothing else in my experience could account for so lively a turn-out. It was not long dawning on me (as soon, in fact, as a blonde lady and a dark gentleman were descried) that the couple were from Carnforth Hall. “On their way in to Wingdale Hause for a piece of stringy mutton,” I said to Nora.

  “Too early. It is some social call. Perhaps he is taking Emily to visit Lady Irene Castleman. Tom mentioned at church that she is back.”

  I appeared to have missed quite a bit of gossip at church, but I disliked to admit it. It was not unusual for Lady Irene to visit her summer home on the lake, however. She usually came for a few months every year to escape the tedium of a summer in London. She was some kin by marriage to Lord Carnforth, married a cousin of his, I believe. She was a widow, one of those aging ladies determined to be youthful till she snared another husband. I fancy it was a hard job to keep up any semblance of youth, but she had nothing more demanding to do with her time. No tea parties at the church for her.

  I don’t know which of us was the more surprised when the carriage slowed down to make the turn off to Ambledown. We are situated at the crest of a gentle slope, which gives us a good view of the road below. “They’re coming here!” Nora exclaimed in horror.