Indiscretion (24 page)

‘It sounds delightful,’ Caroline said. ‘All that one could wish.’ She was sure this must come out grotesquely stiff; but Isabella smiled and thanked her with a squeeze of the hand. ‘And
—
and where do you suppose you will be married?’

‘Oh, at Wythorpe, to be sure. My hope is that Uncle John will perform the service
—
that would be perfection; but all these things can be discussed and planned properly now
—
now that Stephen is acting like a rational creature at last, and Richard is on his way home. Oh, and I shall be able to introduce him to you, Caroline: that will make me so pleased and proud on both sides. I know you will like him. Well, in truth I hate it when people say things like that
—
when someone says to me, “You’ll love this book,” I am immediately prejudiced against it
—
but you know what I mean. Which is another expression I deplore, incidentally. Isabella, you are talking too much. I know. Well, stop it then.’

It was impossible not to be pleased at this access of spirits in her friend, or the happiness that obviously produced them; and yet so troubling was her secret knowledge, so subversive of the very foundations of that happiness, that Caroline was hard put to it to maintain her composure until the arrival of the gentlemen established a general conversation. Before then, however, Isabella made a confidence that further disturbed her peace of mind: for, with an expressive roll of her eyes towards Lady Milner
—
who was giving Aunt Selina a full account, in a depressingly fretful tone, of the continual headaches, megrims, and nervous disorders to which she was subject, and to which medical science had proved itself utterly unequal
—
she murmured to Caroline: ‘I’m ashamed to say it, because brides should be sorry to leave home, but I shall be so glad
—
so relieved and thankful
—
to be taken away from this house.’

Talk turned to other subjects until the close of the evening: even so Caroline was so preoccupied she was unable to contribute much beyond commonplaces, and she fancied that Stephen Milner noticed, and observed her with a speculative eye. But it was Aunt Selina, in the carriage home, who showed that she had remarked it too, though with a misinterpretation of her niece’s silence that left Caroline hardly knowing whether to laugh or cry. Patting her hand, Aunt Selina said: ‘Dear me, all this talk of weddings. If I were a young woman, I dare say it might make me quite wistful, and wonder whether there was anyone for me like the splendid Mr Leabrook. But there will be, my dear: there will be.’

Now: let me see. Caroline, wakeful, unrefreshed, and dressed, after a night of dragging torment interrupted only by a doze in which the same harrying thoughts visited her as dreams: Caroline, sitting at her window, solaced only by the novelty of watching the sun rise (for she is such an habitual late sleeper that the dawn to her is a sort of exotic phenomenon like an erupting volcano): Caroline, aching, strives to extract some conclusions from the night’s long inward debate.

Memory, revived memory, is the unhappiest part. She has forced herself to go over every moment of her association with Richard Leabrook in order to make sure
—
to make doubly sure
—
that her own conduct was not at fault in that dismal episode. Of course she has long settled this in her mind; but the new light in which she must see the man
—
the loved, trusted, and respected fiance of Isabella
—
has caused her to review it. But painful as the process of recollection was, it has not modified her first assessment, not at all.

Yes: I flirted with him and was flattered by him. But I can confidently say that I was
not
such a wily, irresistible siren and temptress that I provoked a virtuous man into a completely uncharacteristic lapse of morals.

Nor can she accept that her own judgement in this is hopelessly
naïve.
Caroline has not lived in her father’s rakish world without learning all about the ways of men and maids. She knows what gentlemen feel quite free to get up to, before marriage, and even after: things that would destroy a woman’s reputation utterly, but which, if discreetly managed, are regarded as little more than a natural consequence of masculinity. Still the fact is not altered. The adventure Mr Leabrook proposed to her in Brighton cannot be excused as a youthful folly, when he is a mature man who plainly knew what he was doing. Nor can it be argued that he might suppose himself free to stray, according to the tenets of a worldly society: for the girl he is engaged to is Isabella, and she is not worldly, and it is a love-match; and she could only think of her fiance behaving in such a manner with bewilderment, dismay, and wretchedness.

Still, what troubles Caroline the most is what angered her the most, that night at the Brighton ball: the fact that Mr Leabrook so little valued her as to treat her like a piece of disposable goods. Philandering is regrettable, but that cold and calculating unconcern was detestable. And that, she realizes, is why she cannot rest with the idea of Isabella marrying Richard Leabrook. A man so insensible to the feelings of others must, as a husband, be the dealer of misery at last.

Of course, not all her uneasiness is for Isabella. She is not saint enough to disregard her own plight
—
the awkwardness and unpleasantness of meeting Mr Leabrook again, the difficulties in which it may place her, and indeed the not knowing just how
he
will react in turn. Should she say, ‘Ah, yes, we met briefly at Brighton,’ and attempt to carry it off so? But then this is begging the question
—
the one unavoidable question that has kept her from sleep.

Should I tell?

It would be simple enough; and here there are no alternatives to fret her. If she does tell what happened at Brighton, it must be to Isabella, plain and direct. During the night her mind has hovered longingly about Aunt Selina. The notion of confiding the secret to
her,
and letting her decide what to do with it, is tempting
—
too tempting. It is the worst sort of chicken-hearted half measure, palming the responsibility off on Aunt Selina, who has been infinitely too kind to her to merit such treatment. No, if I am to make the disclosure, it must be to the person it concerns.

And then
—
then what?

Imagination shrinks from the consequences, but they must surely be profound. Isabellas view of her fiance must be transformed
—
perhaps to the point of destruction: bitter thought! Isabella, in all the joy and pride of her approaching nuptials, to be so knocked down! And what must be the effect on their friendship? Caroline might say, and mean, that it was because of that friendship that she spoke: still it is hard to see their relation emerging uninjured, even if not spoiled entirely.

Caroline again: However, I must not let that be my first consideration. I must think what’s best for Isabella.

Yet even now, with the sun almost above the trees and the first stirrings audible in the kitchen downstairs, she is no nearer to deciding what that is. She only knows she cannot bear being imprisoned with her thoughts any longer.

Snatching up her bonnet and pelisse, Caroline ran out
of
the house, and was soon striking out across the field-paths with the dew still spangling the turf, and actually before breakfast
—
a revolution that, she reflected wryly, would be all round the village before the grass had dried. She had no thought of a destination as she plunged on: nor was she sure, when she lifted her head, exactly where she was, except that these dark-ribbed fields belonged to the home farm of the Manor. But exercise itself gave her a feeling of purpose, and all at once the thought of the Manor completed it.

She would go there, now. She would go and see Isabella, and
—
well, at the sight of Isabella’s face, surely the decision would be made for her. She thought it likely that she would just pour it all out: then it would be done. Whatever the consequences, there must be virtue in a plan of such directness.

She orientated herself, after some trouble, by fixing on the church tower, and followed a cart-track that must lead to the north side of the Manor park. Yes, here was the park fence: and here, to her mild annoyance, was a stile. She had a poor opinion of stiles, and never felt her town upbringing more than when trying to get over them gracefully. But at least no one was here to witness her wobbles, she thought, springing up; and then the extraordinary thing happened. With her right leg already over the stile, she found the skirt of her petticoat had somehow caught fast around the lower step on the other side, as neatly and tightly as the upholstery on a chair-seat. After some ungainly and even excruciating manoeuvres, Caroline found to her horror that she could not move. The straddling posture meant she could not go backwards and down without actual dislocation; and the petticoat was one of her new ones, good Irish linen, and sturdily resistant to her fiercest tugs. ‘Oh, for the days of poverty,’ she muttered, ‘when my petticoats would tear at a touch!’ And indeed she was inclined at first to laughter at her predicament: but as the discomfort overcame the absurdity, and as a thick raincloud began to creep across the sun, her mirth gave way to vexation and even panic. She was assailed by a vision of her being stuck on top of this stile, and no one coming to look for her or chancing by, and rain and darkness falling
—
but this was ridiculous. She was on a well-used track on the Manor estate: even if she could not contrive to get free, someone must come by. Just as she was clearing her throat to shout for help, the truth of this was proved in unwelcome fashion. Striding across the park towards her was Stephen Milner.

He was the very last person she wished to see her in such a nonsensical distress, and she could have cursed the heavens, which were now scattering cold rain. As he came up she actually thought of trying to pass off her awkward perch as a comfortable rest in the middle of a stroll: but her flush of pain, and his grin of recognition, had already told the tale.

‘Mr Milner,’ she said, with as much dignity as she could muster, ‘I cannot move.’

‘Yes, I shouldn’t wonder if you can’t,’ he said, walking slowly all round her, and examining her judiciously like a farmer at a cattle-market.

‘I would be obliged if you would help me to get down.’

‘Eh?’ he said rubbing his chin. ‘Oh! to be sure. Only
—
I was just wondering whether I might make some puns about your living in high style
—
or, is this what’s meant by stylish dressing? Or, whether you consider this a step in the right direction
—
or, I had never thought you one to sit on the fence
...’

She regarded him flatly. ‘Have you done?’

He thought for a moment. ‘Yes, thank you. So, it looks as if your nether garment is caught
—
absolutely pinned. How
did
you manage that?’

‘Yes, an interesting technical question, isn’t it, but perhaps we might discuss it when I am safely on the ground?’

‘Hmm. I shall have to hoist you right up while you disentangle yourself

‘Very well, whatever it takes,’ she said crossly: he was enjoying this just as much as she had feared, and now there was the embarrassment of having literally to put herself in his hands. However, he lifted and held her up with a surprising deftness and grace; and once she was safely unhooked, set her down with no more satirical a remark than: ‘The trick, I imagine, is to gather all your skirts up as you step over: though never having worn skirts myself, I can only guess.’

‘I’m obliged to you, sir,’ she said, trying for composure, whilst conscious of being draggled, out of breath, and red in the face. ‘You are an early riser this morning.’

‘A good thing for you I am — except I’m not. I haven’t been to bed. I went for a ramble down to the Ellington brook.’

‘Why?’

‘To see the herons, of course. Now for your explanation
—
though I suggest we proceed to the shelter of that tree, while this shower passes.’

‘Explanation?’

‘Of
your
early rising.’

She moved towards the tree. ‘I don’t have to explain myself to you, sir.’

‘Of course you don’t. How long had you been caught on that stile, by the way?’

‘Not long, not long
...
Mr Milner, do you think we might be serious for a moment?’

This came out almost without her volition; and once she had said it, she did not know how to go on. The impulse had been to ask him something about Isabella and Mr Leabrook, something that would help anchor her decision: something like, what did he really think of his sister’s husband-to-be? But there was no making any such approach natural and innocent: it surely invited the counter-question, why she was asking.

‘I can bear it for a moment, certainly’ He offered her his handkerchief. She looked at it in suspicion and surprise: was he expecting her to begin crying? And indeed, was he clairvoyant?
—
for she did feel like it, for no definable reason. ‘Your face is wet,’ he added in explanation.

So it was, from the rain: beads were falling from her brows and eyelashes. Caroline mopped her face, feeling oddly comforted.

‘Actually it looked very nice. Like dewdrops on a flower or something. Yes, a compliment. Never fear, I’m going to undo it. I can tell you haven’t been sleeping either, because you look rather drawn. I hope the Wythorpe mutton didn’t disagree with you.’

Again she hesitated. There was a sudden and profound dread upon her, of Stephen Milner’s knowing what she had to tell. Even though she had not been at fault, Caroline found she could not bear to think of that Brighton episode being exposed to his eyes. Swiftly she imagined a train of consequences: she revealing it to Isabella, Isabella heartbroken, the engagement off, tears and trouble
—
trouble,
above all. And Mr Milner’s direst predictions, of course, coming true. She could almost see the superior shake of his head.

And she did not want that. It did not weigh more heavily with her than Isabella’s happiness, but it did weigh heavily
—
enough to plunge her into deeper confusion. Nor could she say precisely why she cared so much for Stephen Milner’s opinion of her, especially given his infuriating habit of claiming to know all about her beforehand: but there it was.

‘The mutton
—
the mutton was very good,’ she said. ‘It was a most enjoyable evening altogether, Mr Milner, thank you.’

‘Thank
you.
This is us being serious, is it? Well, it’s not so very bad. A little dull, but not so bad. Let’s see, we should talk about the weather too, and wonder when the rain will stop, and remark that it was quite a wet summer. In truth, and in all seriousness, I’m in no hurry to get back to the Manor, because Isabella will be plaguing m
e
about the wedding.’

‘Well
—
I dare say she will,’ Caroline said, suppressing a start. ‘You agreed last evening to make the arrangements.’

‘I did, didn’t I?’ He sighed. ‘Must have been the wine.’

‘You don’t mean you have changed your mind?’

‘Oh, I can’t do that to Bella. But I still think she is in too much of a hurry’

‘Really?’ Here at any rate was an unlooked-for opportunity. ‘Do you entertain some doubt of the gentleman’s suitability?’

‘Leabrook? Oh, he’s thoroughly eligible. Has a good name and a comfortable property, which suggest he ain’t after Isabella’s fifteen thousand, and all his teeth. Isabella adores him. I dare say they stand as fair a chance as anyone else of surviving matrimony’