Keeping the Castle (13 page)

At last Miss Vincy became animated enough that her scarf fell back and revealed her entire face. Her mother, noticing, leaned forward to lift it back up again, but was prevented.

“Please, Mother,” Miss Vincy murmured. “It is so
hot
in here, I cannot bear it.” Her mother darted a swift glance at Lord Boring. In a yet lower voice, so low I could barely hear it, Miss Vincy added, “He
knows
what I look like.”

“Yes, but,” her mother retorted with a venomous look at me, “he had no one with whom to compare you earlier.” This was spoken loud enough that Mama and I could not even pretend not to hear.

Miss Vincy leaned away from her mother and tucked the scarf into the neckline of her dress. “No woman could be ashamed of being outshone by Miss Crawley, Mother,” she said in a quiet but carrying voice. “I hope it will not embarrass her if I say that I think she is quite the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. I should very much like to paint her portrait.”

I thanked her, and, on her mother moving away for a moment, took the opportunity to go and sit next to her and join in the examination of her artwork.

“Oh, how lovely! You are very talented. Look how clever this drawing of the children is! And this stretch of moor and mountain—it’s beautiful,” I cried, delighted by lively scenes captured from the windows of an inn or coach.

“You are most kind. But of course, I had a good teacher,” she said. “He was exceptional not only as an artist but as an instructor.”

I laughed. “Miss Vincy,” I said, “I do not doubt that, since you tell me so. But you could give
me
the finest drawing masters in the world and I would still never be able to—“

Her mother interrupted me.

“He was
presuming
, Miss Crawley,” she said sharply. “And so he was dismissed.”

Rather taken aback, I murmured something in reply and the matter of Miss Vincy’s tutor was dropped. I could not help but wonder if his presumption lay in attempting to engage the affections of his wealthy pupil, which would not suit the ambitions of her mother. However, Mrs. Westing began herding her company towards the card tables, and, as the stakes were reputed to be pretty high in her games, we soon found it time to go home.

I came away with a great deal of sympathy for the difficulty of Miss Vincy’s position and admiration for the dignity with which she bore it, even though it was obvious that both her mother and
his
mother were determined that she should be Lord Boring’s bride. The feelings of the young lady herself were more difficult to judge. True, when he spoke to her, her eyes dropped and her color rose, but this might have been due to simple self-consciousness. I could not be certain if her affections were engaged or if she was merely obedient to her mother’s wishes, but in either case I pitied her.

However much the two mothers might scheme, they had not the power to bring about the marriage without the consent of the two most interested parties. Assuming that Lord Boring’s income derived from his property rather than from his mother, which I had no reason to doubt, he was free to act as he wished. And all Mr. Vincy’s wealth was unlikely to tempt him, as he clearly did not admire
her
. If Miss Vincy in fact had some preference for her banished tutor, that would only be yet another reason against the match. I therefore bid her good-bye with a warm smile and a pressing invitation to call at the castle.

And call she did. Evidently Mrs. Westing had no objection to the Baron visiting us, so long as he had the protection of Miss Vincy’s presence. Instead of the inevitable Mr. Fredericks accompanying Lord Boring and the Marquis, we now had the inevitable Miss Vincy, which in my opinion was a vast improvement.

She began my portrait, for which I sat under the pear tree in the courtyard with Fido on my lap and my embroidery at hand. I had proposed this arrangement, as I needed to be getting on with my work on the Great Hall tapestry and sitting for a portrait otherwise involved a great many hours of doing nothing in the same position every day. However, she complained that the frame was so massive that it quite hid me from view, so it had to be set to one side and I could only accomplish my mending by fits and starts.

Prudence and Charity were at first annoyed at Miss Vincy painting my portrait, but after the first visit they ceased their complaints, discovering that they could propose a short stroll around the gardens, which Miss Vincy and I were unable to join, occupied as we were with painting and posing. Being an uncommonly determined young woman, Charity often convinced the Baron to accompany them on these strolls, from which she returned smiling and complacent.

I hoped that she was not getting her hopes raised too high. Miss Vincy, on the other hand, seemed to think that something might happen in that quarter.

“Miss Charity Winthrop enjoys the Baron’s company, I believe,” she said one day as we sat in dappled shade, she hard at work dabbing her brush on the canvas, I hard at work sitting still.

“Ye-es,” I agreed. Certainly she enjoyed monopolizing his attention. I wasn’t sure she listened to anything he said.

“She is a young lady of some fortune,” Miss Vincy said.

“Yes,” I agreed again.

She paused and laid down her brush for a moment, watching them as they strolled at a distance. “Who knows what may happen there?” she said, and her expression was both thoughtful and serious. I was beginning to think I was quite wrong about her tutor—even direct questioning about him and his current circumstances did not produce his name or description from the lady.

“Nothing at all, I should think,” I said, rather stiffly.

Because really, it was perilously close to an insult. If Miss Vincy was going to suffer pangs of jealousy for the Baron’s sake, how dare she feel them on Charity’s account, with
me
sitting right in front of her?

11

THE PORTRAIT WAS NEARLY finished at last, and none too soon for me. I was beginning to grow uneasy about the Baron. Oh, not that nonsense about Charity, indulged in by Miss Vincy! That was too ridiculous to consider even for a moment.

But—Charity was certainly spending more time with him than I. I could have wished that he would have made more strenuous efforts to evade her. He might, for instance, have insisted upon remaining and reading to us; it would have been a great kindness to me, in dispelling the uncomfortable thoughts that
would
creep in during my involuntary idleness. I was beginning to fancy myself neglected and ill-treated.

I even wondered if this project, this painting of my portrait, was all an invention of Miss Vincy’s to keep me away from the Baron. But no. Although Miss Vincy was more prone to spend her time with me in earnest effort than in conversation, I felt that I was beginning to know her. Such a subterfuge was beneath her.

And besides, her devotion to her work was obvious
. She
was
minutely observant of every line and curve and texture of my face and figure, and I, having nothing else to occupy me, was equally observant of
her
. Frequently she lost all sense of passing time, so intent was she, and I had to ask several times for a moment’s rest from my pose, because she did not hear when I spoke. Though she would not allow me, or anyone else, to see the work in progress, it was clear that her art was important to her.

I almost envied her. The world, at least the provincial, day-to-day world in which I live, does not honor those who
make
so much as those who
own.
To be a wealthy landowner of good family is to belong to the most respected class of people in England, and therefore in the world as a whole. Yet when we look back upon the past it is the artists and thinkers whose names are remembered and whose legacy is honored, not those who are merely wealthy and well-bred.

I felt a stirring of guilt, looking at Miss Vincy.

She was a good and gentle creature, as well as a talented and intelligent woman, who would make the Baron a better wife than I. Beauty is a coin squandered by time, but Miss Vincy’s virtues would last throughout her life.

I was almost certain that she loved him, and had quite dismissed the tutor from my mind as a serious contender for her heart. From time to time, when she thought herself unobserved, she would allow a wistful look to steal across her face, and her hand would stray to a fine gold chain around her neck. She would withdraw a locket from her bodice which, when open, revealed a lock of hair—similar in color to His Lordship’s—and press it to her lips. Perhaps after all, I thought, it would be the noble thing for me to withdraw, to give him up to her, as being the better woman.

“Miss Crawley, I pray you, think happier thoughts!” interjected Miss Vincy at this point in my musings. “You are twisting up your face like a wad of paper you are about to cast into the fire. I cannot capture the shading of your eyelid if you scowl so.”

I apologized and composed my face. My mind I composed by reminding myself that Miss Vincy must, like all of us, face disappointments in life. And she was very, very rich, while I was not.

If I died an old maid, or married a man of only moderate fortune, Mama would lose her home and Alexander would lose his inheritance, not to mention our servants and perhaps our tenants being turned away. If either of these fates befell Miss Vincy, what would occur? Why nothing, save that her mother would most likely expire from spleen and disappointed ambition.

And besides, marriage would be the enemy of Miss Vincy’s artistic abilities. In a short time the duties of a wife and mother would swallow up all the time and energy she now expended on her art—especially if she married a nobleman with a large estate and extensive social obligations.

Hence, it was preferable in every way that
I
should be the one to marry the Baron.

“Splendid,” Miss Vincy said. “Whatever you are thinking about right now, go on thinking it. You look perfectly lovely.”

So I went on thinking it, until Charity and Lord Boring returned, bringing with them Mr. Godalming.

Mr. Godalming had obviously come in order to have a look at the heiress. I imagine that he had gone calling at Gudgeon Park several times with this end in view, only to be told repeatedly that she was here, and so he had at last decided, even tho’ determined to never darken our door again, to storm the castle walls in order to achieve his objective.

He evidently wished to make it clear that I was not the object of his visit, for he greeted everyone else effusively and only made one small, cold bow in my direction. Anyone would think (I thought to myself) that he had proposed and been refused. On the contrary, I had accepted only to have him withdraw his offer.

Looking at the situation in this light, I felt much more comfortable about meeting him again in the very garden in which our interview had taken place. Why, the man was a cad! And now
he
had come to assess the possibility of wedding Miss Vincy, solely on mercenary grounds. I smiled upon him in an aloof, forgiving manner.

I could tell that Miss Vincy’s appearance was a blow to him. Too wise to trust his weight to one of our tottery chairs, he perched atop the rim of a dry fountain in the center of the garden and studied her out of the corners of his eyes, heaving great, plaintive sighs like a beached whale. It never ceases to astound me how often an unattractive man like Mr. Godalming considers himself above marriage to an equally unattractive woman.

After engaging in several attempts at conversation with her as she bent her head over her work, and having those attempts rebuffed with perfect courtesy, he evidently came to the conclusion that the heiress was not to be easily gained. He shot a swift look at me and licked his red lips. I shuddered. After having had the pleasure of Lord Boring’s attentions these past few months, I felt that I had had a narrow escape.

“I bring you some news,” he said at last. “I had the honor to call first at Gudgeon Park, where they informed me that Mrs. Fredericks has just had notice that her son will soon be returning to our neighborhood.”

Were I not still under orders to hold my pose, I should have looked at Lord Boring in surprise. He had said nothing about recalling Mr. Fredericks.

Miss Vincy looked up and stayed her brush.

“How lovely,” she said softly. “I shall be so glad to see Mr. Fredericks again.”

I raised my eyebrows at this response. “I did not know you were acquainted,” I said. “Of course I know your father is, but I assumed it was a business relationship.”

“Oh, certainly I am. Papa thinks so highly of him. He has come to dinner often at our house in London. Even Mama regards him as a sensible young man. And he is knowledgeable about painting and drawing, as well. He has said . . .” She blushed and lowered her eyes to her canvas again. “He has said kind things about my work.”

Well! My gaze sharpened. I looked long and hard at Miss Vincy. Aware of my consideration, she turned away and began wiping down her brushes with a rag.

“I must not keep you any longer,” she said, “Pray get up and move about. I fear you will be cramped from sitting still so long.”