Enlightening Delilah (5 page)

Mr Haddon could not remember the Tribble sisters being so excited or busy over the arrival of their two previous charges. They seemed to have no time for him. Amy was practically always absent when he called, being pinned or fitted for something. Usually good-natured and sensible, Mr Haddon began to entertain some petty feelings towards this country squire who had put the sisters in such a flutter.

He felt unwanted. At last, a day before the squire was due to arrive in Town with his daughter, Mr Haddon announced he was travelling to Dorset to stay with an old friend. Amy, who was dashing through the drawing room with her hands full of swatches of silk and muslin, looked at him vaguely and said, ‘Oh, what a pity. You will not meet my squire when he arrives.’ And Effy started to criticize Amy for saying ‘my squire’ and did not appear to notice.

Mr Haddon left, feeling very low.

*   *   *

Sir Charles Digby sat in the library of his pleasant country mansion and wondered what to do next. He had made all the necessary calls on old friends and acquaintances in the neighbourhood. His steward had turned out to be a good choice, for everything was in order. Too much in order. There did not seem much for him to do. After the years of fighting, he hated the novelty of being idle. But he had promised himself a short time of leisure and enjoyment.

He found himself thinking of the Wraxalls’ sitting room and how pleasant it had been. There had been huge vases of country flowers, cleverly arranged, scenting the air. There had been an exquisite piece of sewing discarded on a chair and brightly coloured silks spilling out of a work-box. His memory of that room with its bright chintz curtains at the windows and the pretty furniture now made his own surroundings seem very gloomy and masculine. He had never got around to those redecorations he had planned with Delilah. The furniture which had served his father and grandfather now appeared massive and heavy, almost as if it absorbed the light. The curtains were of stiff dull red brocade, the colour of dried blood. There was no carpet on the well-sanded floor. The squire’s sitting room had boasted one of those flowery carpets, very jolly and cheerful.

Sir Charles decided that what his home lacked was a woman, a wife. He would like sons and someone pretty to sit with and talk to in the evenings. How incredibly exotic and beautiful Delilah Wraxall had become! An orchid among the English flowers of Kent. He remembered her as she had been at seventeen, plump and pretty and ingenuous, her eyes as wide and innocent as those of a fawn. He remembered talking to her at length and occasionally becoming irritated when it seemed as if Napoleon and all his threat to England meant so much less to her than a new recipe or the latest fashion from London. She had changed outside, but he was sure her mind had not changed. He dreamt of a woman, not necessarily beautiful, but with a clever mind and a certain something to excite his senses. He had no intention of following the example of most of his peers and looking for love and recreation outside marriage. He would expect the wife of his choice to be equally faithful. He thought again of Delilah. Evidently, she had become a dreadful flirt. Sir Charles despised flirts.

No, there was not even one lady in his immediate neighbourhood with whom he would be happy to settle down. He felt restless. The sunny weather only seemed to make him discontented. He remembered he had promised himself an extended stay in London on his return. There were so many plays and operas to see, so many army friends to look up. His best friend, Lord Andrew Bergrave, had pressed him to come on a visit to his fine town house in Brook Street.

‘Don’t even trouble to write,’ Lord Andrew had said. ‘I shall be in London right up until Christmas.’

And there were clever and witty and fascinating women in London society whose minds were surely of a higher order than those of the little misses of the neighbourhood.

Delilah. How his thoughts kept returning to her. The squire had made him feel uncomfortable. He should never have kissed her. But she had seemed so young and endearing and he had been going away and thinking he might never return.

He decided to start arrangements to go to London that very day. No need to tell anyone other than his steward. If the local worthies knew he was going, then he would have to endure another round of calls.

Beginning to feel more cheerful now that he had come to a decision, he made plans for his journey.

Delilah began to feel a certain pleasurable anticipation as the day of her departure drew near. She had never been to London. Of course, the idea of staying with strangers was a bit lowering. She did wish her father would tell her a little more about these Tribble sisters, but he was infuriatingly vague.

She called again on Mrs Cavendish to make her goodbyes.

‘So sensible of you to go,’ said Mrs Cavendish comfortably. ‘Everyone should go to London at least once.’

‘Have you been?’ asked Delilah curiously.

‘I made my come-out at the Season,’ said Mrs Cavendish. Her eyes suddenly became dreamy. ‘How wonderful it all was. Oh, the balls and suppers and carriages in the Park. What a fuss and flutter I was in, for my parents were expending a great deal of money, you know, and it was my duty to become engaged before the end of the Season. And I was so very dutiful. I would have settled on anyone at all suitable just to please them. In fact, I nearly accepted the hand of old Lord Lissom, who was quite twenty-five years older than I. He had wooden false teeth, quite off-putting. But one must always do one’s duty. And then my late husband arrived on the scene. It was at a Wednesday night at Almack’s. How surprised you look! But I was staying with my aunt, who was
very
good
ton
, and she was a friend of one of the patronesses, so I got my vouchers. John, my husband-to-be, asked me to dance. It was one of those hurly-burly Scotch reels where one does not have much opportunity for dalliance or conversation, but we knew then, from that first moment, that we were in love. I never looked back, never regretted it.’

Delilah looked at her wide-eyed, reflecting that the late Mr Cavendish had hardly been a model husband. He had left his poor wife a mountain of debt and she had had to sell her large and comfortable home and estates and all her jewellery to meet the costs.

Mrs Cavendish laughed. ‘You are thinking it was a poor sort of man to leave me in such straits, but we were very happy. You cannot do much about gambling, you know. His grandfather was a gambler. The Fatal Tendency missed a generation and then descended on my poor John. It is of no use telling gentlemen not to gamble, you know. They
will
do it.’

‘But did he never feel remorseful, ashamed of himself?’ asked Delilah.

‘Well, I suppose he sometimes did. But hardened gamblers are such charmingly optimistic creatures, you know. They are always quite sure that something will turn up to get them out of the mess. Strangely enough, something usually does, but it only makes them gamble harder than ever.’

‘Did you never wish you had children?’ asked Delilah.

‘I do now. But, of course, my John was not only my husband but my child as well. He was all I ever thought about and cared about. I fear you are too nice in your tastes, Miss Wraxall. No man is perfect. You must make allowances.’

‘Perhaps I do not wish to marry,’ said Delilah. ‘I do not see why one should if one does not wish to do so.’

‘Have you never thought that your father might have married again had he not had the care of you?’ asked Mrs Cavendish.

‘I never really thought about it,’ said Delilah, ‘until recently, that is. I suppose I
should
think about it. He seems quite taken with this Miss Amy Tribble. I imagine she is very beautiful. No, I did not consider such an eventuality. After all,’ she said with a light laugh, ‘there is no one in this village Papa could honestly be interested in.’

Mrs Cavendish was normally a happy and contented woman who had come to terms with the narrowness of a life of genteel poverty. But as she looked at Delilah’s laughing and beautiful face, she experienced a strong impulse to slap it, and was immediately shocked at her reaction.

There came a knock at the door. Glad of the diversion, she got quickly to her feet just as her little maid announced Sir Charles Digby.

Delilah rose and curtsied.

‘You are come just as I was taking my leave,’ she said.

As if to give the lie to her remark, the little maid entered again with the tea tray and placed it on a table.

‘But you must stay!’ said Mrs Cavendish.

‘Please do,’ said Sir Charles. ‘I fear I am driving Miss Wraxall away.’

‘No, I assure you,’ said Delilah. ‘I have much to do.’

‘Just some tea and then you may go,’ said Mrs Cavendish. ‘I have some blackberry jam to give you for your father. You know how much Mr Wraxall likes my blackberry jam. Now, Sir Charles! Are you settled in among us again?’

Sir Charles hesitated but decided not to say he was leaving. Had Delilah not been there, he would have told Mrs Cavendish in confidence. She was one of the few people in the village of whom he was fond.

‘I feel quite useless,’ he said with a laugh. ‘I came back expecting to find plenty of work to do, but on the contrary everything seems to be running smoothly.’

‘Mr Jenkins is a good steward,’ said Mrs Cavendish. ‘Will you be getting rid of him now you are back?’

‘That was the idea. But he has settled in so well that I do not wish to dislodge him. How do you fare, Miss Wraxall?’

‘Very well, Sir Charles,’ said Delilah. ‘I see you survived the wars without a scratch.’

‘I was very lucky. I fear I lost a great many friends.’

‘It must seem odd,’ said Delilah, ‘to return here with all those memories of death and bloodshed, heat and carnage and find us all quietly going about our tedious affairs as if the very security of England had never been threatened.’

He looked at her in surprise. ‘Yes, that is the case.’

‘Two years ago, I went shopping on market day in Drufield,’ said Delilah. ‘It was bustling and cheerful. There were chapmen selling their wares and children darting in and out of the crowds, and acrobats and strolling players and men selling gingerbread. There was a lame soldier begging for alms, moving like a dark shadow among the crowd. People turned away from him. It was not that they were precisely uncharitable people, but simply that he looked so lame, so bitter, so angry that he was about as welcome as a death’s head at the feast. Then he cried out, “I fought for you. I fought for this. My comrades are over there, dying in that dreadful country while you frolic at your ease.” It was quite shocking, you know, such a cry of frustration and pain.’

Sir Charles looked at her. ‘Did you give him anything?’

‘Yes,’ said Delilah, and fell silent. She had actually given the soldier the contents of her purse and so had returned home without buying anything.

He studied her, marvelling again at her extraordinary beauty.

‘It is all very sad,’ said Mrs Cavendish. ‘I was at Lady Framley’s the other day, and one of her guests began to talk about the war and was shushed into silence. “Ladies present,” said Lady Framley severely, as if the poor man had said something indecent. And yet, when the threat of Napoleon was at its very height, how everybody did cheer the redcoats!’

‘I am afraid the English have always loathed their soldiers except in times of peril,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Do you not see the signs outside the taverns now, “No Redcoats”?’

‘There is no fear that monster will escape from that island he is on?’ asked Mrs Cavendish.

‘I hope not. But I believe there is still great support for him in France. One wonders why. The country is in a shocking state and there are many women working in the fields because their men are dead.

‘Perhaps we owe Russia as much a debt as we owe the great Duke of Wellington,’ said Delilah. ‘If Napoleon had not decided to invade Russia, perhaps his great army would not have been so enfeebled. Now, I must beg you both to excuse me.’

Delilah curtsied to Sir Charles and made her way out, followed by Mrs Cavendish, who was shouting to her maid to fetch a pot of blackberry jam from the pantry.

When Mrs Cavendish returned, Sir Charles was standing by the window, watching Delilah climbing into her carriage.

‘Miss Wraxall has changed,’ he said. ‘When I knew her, she had no interest in anything other than feminine trivia.’

‘She has a good mind,’ said Mrs Cavendish.

Sir Charles swung round. ‘I am come to make my farewells, Mrs Cavendish. I go to London for a few months.’

‘We are very sorry to lose you,’ said Mrs Cavendish. She wondered whether to tell him that Delilah, too, was going to London, but decided against it. Miss Wraxall and her father had not wanted the news broadcast about; Delilah because, like Sir Charles, she did not want to be subjected to a round of calls and leave-takings; and the squire because he wanted to avoid questions about his supposed friends, the Tribble sisters.

‘What takes you there?’ asked Mrs Cavendish.

‘I promised myself a round of pleasure on my return,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Besides, it is time I found a wife and settled down.’

‘You do us a disservice,’ teased Mrs Cavendish. ‘Are there no ladies among the local belles good enough for you?’

‘I think I would like to try further afield.’

‘Well,’ said Mrs Cavendish slyly, ‘it could be you might meet one of our local ladies in London and fall in love and find you have wasted your journey.’

‘I doubt it,’ he said. ‘But pray keep this news to yourself. I have no desire to have to go the rounds and sit over endless teacups explaining myself.’

‘I won’t breathe a word,’ said Mrs Cavendish. She hesitated and then a desire to satisfy her own curiosity and also to find some way of getting Sir Charles and Delilah together in London made her say, ‘The squire has formed a friendship – or rather, reformed one – with a certain Miss Amy Tribble. She resides in Holles Street. I know we are very parochial here, but the squire is an old friend and I am anxious he is not going to make the mistake of marrying someone unsuitable. Would it be too much to ask you to call on this Miss Amy Tribble and send me a report?’