The Bumblebroth (17 page)

At her first words, William's brow had lowered, and now his jaw went rigid. "When Mathilda told me that she thought you would have reservations about the match, I did not credit her."

"Reservations! Have you entirely lost your memory, William? It is Lady Pamela who owns Westbury Manor, not her mother. Foolish boy! You have been wasting your time and have bungled the whole affair."

"You will be wasting my time if you mean to go on like this any longer." His warning was not entirely lost upon his mother, for she swallowed whatever she had been about to say. "You will wish, of course, to call upon my intended bride as soon as possible and make it clear how eagerly you welcome her into the family."

"I shall do no such thing! That woman is a hoyden! I am surprised that you have so little feeling for your mother as to try to foist her upon me."

"Doing it much too brown, Mama." William's tone would brook no argument this time. "I suppose the source of your displeasure is in having your own plans overturned, but I would not mourn them overlong if I were you. I think Gerald will someday oblige you if you give him time enough to discover his own mind. But that is another issue, and none of our business, after all."

William paused and pretended to consider. "Perhaps it would be best if you did not call upon Mathilda immediately. Not until you have grown more comfortable with the notion, at any rate. I would prefer that she not be distressed by your lack of enthusiasm. When, however, I have judged the time is right, I shall take you to wait upon her myself."

Then, rising before she could issue any further protest, he said, "Now, if you will excuse me . . . " He circled his desk and assisted her from her chair. "I have one or two matters of business to attend. I shall see you at dinner."

Lady Westbury's body went rigid as he offered her his support. She refused to take his arm, and instead, swept away from him and out the door.

There, William thought. The cat was out of the bag again before he could prevent it, but he still trusted in his ability to bring things about. He was used to handling his mother. Mattie was likely to be the more difficult of the two, no matter what she had said about being weak.

There was a firmness in her meekness, he had noticed before, almost as if the protective shell she had erected about her was as strong as steel.

"Well, we shall see," he said to himself. "Once the news gets around— and now that my mother is in possession of it, it will be certain to do so— we shall see how that affects my Mattie."

Chapter Ten

Mattie's reaction came more quickly than William could ever have imagined, for Lady Westbury's words were related faithfully to her by Mrs. Puckeridge. The rector's wife had the good fortune to appear on her ladyship's doorstep soon after her quarrel with William.

"She's a hoyden!" Lady Westbury exclaimed to her visitor in red-faced indignation. "Nothing but a hoyden to have set her cap at my son. Westbury had his eye, quite properly, on dear Lady Pamela until that creature used some trickery to snatch him from her own daughter."

Mrs. Puckeridge, who did not for one moment believe that Lord Westbury had been tricked into anything, still felt hurt that the duchess had withheld the news of the engagement from her— she, who was to have been her principal confidante.

"You say that the engagement will soon be announced?" she asked, with the bitter taste of gall invading her mouth.

Lady Westbury was only too glad to have someone sympathetic to whom to pour out the gross injustice of it all. "I suppose Westbury will announce it, no matter what my feelings are upon the subject. He has instructed me, if you please, to call upon Her Grace to welcome her into the family. But I have told him in no uncertain terms that I should rather die than do so."

"I can see why you would be hesitant," Mrs. Puckeridge commiserated. It was not often that Lady Westbury got her just deserts, so Mrs. Puckeridge could be forgiven a small feeling of satisfaction now. Her own sense of betrayal could be held responsible for the fact that its degree was so slight.

"You must be dreadfully disappointed that Westbury Manor will not be returned to the Norton patrimony."

Lady Westbury bristled, but she could not conceal the tenderest feature of her injury. "I had thought to have Westbury make it into my dower house. Norton Abbey is so drafty in winter. You would hardly credit how fiercely the chimneys smoke! And I bitterly resent seeing that woman cosily ensconced in a place that ought by all rights to have been mine."

Mrs. Puckeridge tut-tutted, but before her sympathy could have any lasting effect upon Lady Westbury's sensibilities, she added, "And now there is no possibility that the house will ever be yours. What a pity!"

Lady Westbury must have detected some hint of gloating in her visitor's voice, for she eyed her askance and quickly amended her story. "But, of course, my principal concern is for my son. How he could have proposed to a woman older than he, I cannot fathom! He could not be thinking of his inheritance. The Norton line has continued uninterrupted for centuries, and he must produce an heir."

"But surely the duchess is still of an age to bear him children?"

This reminder did nothing to smooth Lady Westbury's ruffled feathers. "No doubt she is," she conceded in spiteful accents, "but it would be quite improper for her to do so. Think of the tongues that will wag if she does! And I shall have to bear the mortification of it. I might as well take to my bed and declare myself an invalid, for all that I'll ever dare show my face in London again."

"Tsk-tsk," Mrs. Puckeridge murmured, perfectly aware that Lady Westbury never bestirred herself to travel as far as the metropolis under the best of circumstances. She took her leave presently, her wounded feelings only partially comforted by Lady Westbury's come-uppance.

Less than a day passed before she hurried to Westbury Manor to relate this conversation to the duchess. Mattie was first astonished, then hurt to learn that William had announced their engagement as if it were a fait accompli.

"She called me a hoyden?" Mattie asked, an ache over William's betrayal momentarily overwhelming her other reactions. "But Lady Westbury is quite mistaken. I am not engaged to marry her son."

"No?" Mrs. Puckeridge showed signs of disappointment. "Lady Westbury seemed quite certain that you were."

"No, I most assuredly am not. I could not accept— that is, I could not think of marrying again, even if Lord Westbury did me the honour, which of course, he did not."

Mattie felt a blush stealing painfully over her features as a result of this lie. She had not quite known how to respond to such impertinence. She had not had time to consider or to prepare for such a sudden confrontation.

The last twenty-four hours she had spent in an unhappy fog, never once thinking that William would spread the word that he had proposed.

Mrs. Puckeridge was eyeing her with distinct suspicion, as if some slip of the tongue had given away the true state of affairs.

Mattie drew herself up and said in her haughtiest tone, "Lady Westbury does me great wrong if she could suspect me of such evil intentions. And it wounds me greatly to think that a neighbour of mine— moreover, a lady who has been a guest in my house— who has sat in my parlour and drunk my sherry — could call me a hoyden!"

A strong sense of outrage had replaced her injury. What right did Mrs. Puckeridge have to bring her such unwelcome tidings?

"If you will excuse me," Mattie said, "I must get back to my duties. I must— "

You must leave, a quiet voice whispered in her ear. She must get away from all these spiteful people.

But where? A second voice challenged the first; but the first retorted, Go to Bath. Didn't Cosmo say he would be happy to have you visit him?

"I must pack," Mattie said to Mrs. Puckeridge, a quiet determination filling her with strength. "Pamela and I will be travelling tomorrow."

"Oh?" Mrs. Puckeridge perked up her ears at the news. "And where will you be going, if I may ask?"

"Of course you may," Mattie answered smiling. She had no intention, however, of supplying the information her visitor wanted. "You must feel free to ask whatever you wish."

She rose then, and Mrs.Puckeridge had the grace to excuse herself with a hint of shame on her countenance. But Mattie was too distressed to derive any comfort from it.

A hoyden! she repeated to herself, as she climbed the stairs to Gilly's room. How dare Lady Westbury talk about her so!

By the time she had reached Gilly's door, however, Mattie had realized that she must not ask Gilly to commiserate with her. How could she tell her friend what had occurred without giving all away?

The thought that she had no one to turn to in her distress increased it, but Mattie did not mean to waver from her plan. She would go to Bath to escape the cruel tongues, which had already dared to invade her house. Then, once Lady Westbury saw that Mattie had no intention of marrying her son, she would be forgiven, and the whole affair would blow over.

But Mattie knew she must not take Gilly with her to Bath. Gilly would be stunned by the announcement that Mattie meant to travel without her, but Mattie would not be able to conceal her broken heart from her dearest friend in any other way.

With a sigh, she smoothed her dress and prepared to confront Gilly with the strange news.

Gilly greeted her, on her own part, hiding the concern she had lately been feeling on Mattie's account. She had not missed her underlying sense of excitement, nor could she have ignored Mattie's quite recent unhappiness. Clearly, Gilly thought, Mattie had discovered her own sentiments with regard to Lord Westbury, had seen that her feelings could only lead to bitter disappointment, and her heart had been broken as a result.

Gilly was not surprised, therefore, when Mattie announced her intention of travelling to Bath.

"I think that is a splendid idea," she responded, hoping that a change of scenery would do Mattie good. "You can introduce Pamela to Bath society, which will be an excellent preparation for London. There, the circle of girls her age will be much smaller. The entertainments will be more circumscribed and nicely refined. She will not be tempted to run wild the way some girls do in the larger city."

"My thoughts precisely," Mattie said, although Gilly could see that she had never entertained the notion. "Pamela will perhaps show to advantage in a smaller circle. And I daresay, the waters will do me some good. I feel in need of a cure."

"Do you, dearest? Then I hope you will consult a medical man as soon as you arrive."

Mattie promised to do so, though she regretted making the suggestion that her spirits were low. She did not like the look of worry on Gilly's face.

Anxious to erase it, she smiled as brightly as she could and said, "You must know that Cosmo has been after me this age to visit him in Bath. He will be happy to know we have taken up his invitation."

"Yes, you must write to him directly. When did you think of going?"

"Tomorrow," Mattie said decisively. When Gilly stared at her in shock, she added apologetically, "I ought to have mentioned it earlier, but— "

"No need, my dear. It is only that I had promised the vicar I would help him with his canvas, but that can wait." Gilly had recovered from her shock and was eager to forward Mattie's plans. For the first time, she began to wonder if anything particular had occurred to result in such a sudden removal.

"Is there anything I can do to help you, my dear?" She did not want to appear to question her too deeply. In matters of the heart, she knew that it was best not to pry.

"No, nothing," Mattie said. "In fact— " She averted her gaze. "Perhaps it would be best if you were to remain here. It is not," she added quickly, "that I will not miss your company, but I know that you do not care to travel and in that way you could continue your work for the vicar, while I— "

Gilly suppressed a brief pang. "Yes, while you . . . .?"

Mattie glanced up, and the pain in her eyes tore at Gilly's heart. "I think it is time I learned to manage on my own, don't you?"

Gilly forced a light laugh. "I do not think my presence would keep you from managing quite perfectly, and I do not foresee any difficulties for you. But you are quite right that I do not care to travel, and I should keep my promises."

Mattie threw her arms about Gilly's neck and gave her a quick hug. "I rely too heavily upon you. You know that I do."

Gilly returned the embrace. "You always say so, but, my dear, I think you underrate your own abilities." Then, holding Mattie away, she added, "But by all means, go to Bath and amuse yourself. Such a diversion for you is long overdue."

And then, Gilly hoped, just perhaps Mattie would meet a more eligible gentleman who could turn her thoughts from Lord Westbury.

William learned of Mattie's removal next morning when Gerald came into his library with a scowl on his face.

"What's the worry, bantling?" William coaxed him. "Lost some money on the horses? I warned you not to bet on Wilton's filly."

"No, it's not the horses," Gerald grumbled, throwing himself roughly into a chair. Its legs scraped the floor with a grating sound.

"Hold on," William warned him, hiding a budding concern behind a joking tone. "If you break that chair, our mother is likely to lock you in the cellar for a fortnight. Then you would miss all the schemes you've got planned."

"She might as well lock me in the cellar, though she would never do such a thing, and you know she wouldn't."

"And why 'might as well?'"

"Because I've nothing to do anyway."

"Ah," William said on a long, drawn-out note. He pushed his chair back from his desk and propped up his booted feet. "Now we are getting somewhere. Why, so suddenly, are you bereft of all activity, when your face has hardly been seen in these parts for the past three weeks?"

Gerald's cheeks took on a ruddy tone. "You're exaggerating. Why, I've been here. As much as you ever are, anyway."

"Which is to say, hardly at all. I admit it freely. But we are straying from the point, and you have not answered my question. But— " William held up one hand as if to excuse himself— "you will say that I am damned impertinent to ask so many questions, and that I should be the last to insist on hearing all your secrets. So you may tell me to go to the devil, and I will try to take it in good part, although I should warn you at the outset that my feelings will be so injured I just might slip into a decline."