The Weeping Ash (25 page)

“Now, my love, tell me—are you afraid of your husband?” demanded Liz Wyndham. “I saw you turn as white as your fichu when George spoke of him—and I have heard that he is an exceedingly severe, quarrelsome individual—is that what troubles you? Will he scold you for this scrape?”

“Oh, ma'am—yes! I—I am sorry to seem impolite—when—when you have been so very kind”—Fanny's voice faltered and a couple of tears, mortifyingly, slipped down her cheek—“but, indeed—the thought of what he will say when he hears about this—fills me with
dread
! He will be—he will be quite shockingly angry—”

“Humph! About the accident in the park—or the visit to this house?”

“Both, ma'am, I fear. He sets so much store by my bearing him an heir—since he has daughters, but as yet no son—and—and—”

“And, besides risking the baby's life, he will believe that his innocent little wife has been dragged willy-nilly into a foolish escapade among the most immoral set of loose-living people between here and London,” Mrs. Wyndham completed the sentence. “Well—well then, it seems we must contrive that news of your mishap does
not
reach his ears.”

Fanny doubted if such concealment would be possible, but when Dr. Chilgrove came in and examined her he was bracingly reassuring about her condition—“Not a penny the worse, my child, I give you my word!”—and contributed an item of news that immediately sent Fanny's spirits bounding up, for he went on, “Now we won't trouble to tell your husband about this, my dear, for he'd be up in the boughs directly—I know his fidgety ways—and besides, it would mean sending a messenger posting after him, for he's not at hand; I saw him, with all his scurvy wretches of impress fellows, posting off along the Brighton road as if the Devil himself were at their heels.”

“Oh,
what
a fortunate circumstance,” breathed Fanny. “He was, I know, planning to go to Brighton quite soon, as soon as the summons should come—”

“I have heard of this Brighton affair,” remarked Chilgrove. “All the men of the town standing on their rights not to be impressed, hey? A sticky time the press officers will have of it, if they try to take all those sturdy rogues of Brighthelmstone fishermen—I do not at all envy them the task. Depend upon it, your husband will hardly be home tonight, my dear.”

“In that case,” said Liz Wyndham, “Mrs. Paget had best remain here, where we can look after her.”

Dr. Chilgrove would have endorsed this suggestion, but Fanny was so alarmed at the idea that it was agreed she should merely pass the afternoon at Petworth House and then, when she was sufficiently rested, be transferred to Mrs. Socket's residence. That lady accordingly went home to inform her husband of the mishap, enjoin him to silence about it, and air bedding, heat warming pans, and prepare a room for Fanny; and a servant was dispatched to the Hermitage to inform Mrs. Strudwick that her mistress would be spending the night at the Rectory. This in itself seemed such a wild departure from normality that Fanny was alarmed all over again, but Liz Wyndham told her firmly that she would be far better to pass the night under the roof of a sensible woman of mature years who had children herself and knew how to go on rather than be left to the ineffectual care of a parcel of servants and schoolroom misses. It did then occur to Fanny that she herself had a resident nurse just installed at the Hermitage, but various reservations in her own attitude toward Mrs. Lily Baggot, plus a doubt as to whether Thomas would wish that person's attentions diverted from his mother's needs, disposed her to keep silent on this head.

Liz Wyndham sat down by Fanny and said, “Now I mean to make the most of your visit! I have been so much wishing that I could make your acquaintance, do you know! For the two previous occupants of your house were my dearest friends, and I miss them sadly. I feel that Fate must have intended us to meet.”

“Oh, did you know my husband's cousin Juliana? I have so much wanted to know what she was like. She must be the kindest creature!” Filled with curiosity, Fanny forgot to be on her guard and was soon chattering away unrestrainedly.

She could not help being charmed by Liz Wyndham's friendly, caressing ways and ingenuous directness.

“Will your husband be
very
angry if he hears that you have been allowed to meet me?” she inquired straightforwardly. And when Fanny, blushing and distressed, admitted that she could hardly imagine the depth of Thomas's ire and outrage, Liz said, “Well, I am sorry for it, for
your
sake, because that makes him sound such a disagreeable, narrow-minded man, and I pity you deeply at being obliged to live with him.
Is
he very disagreeable?”

“Oh yes—very,” sighed Fanny from the bottom of her heart. “You cannot conceive how disagreeable.”

“Poor Fanny! Well, you must just conceal this visit from him. Nobody wishes to be involved in deceit, it is so tedious and vulgar, but these mean, ill-judging puritanical characters force it upon us. What concern is it of
his
, pray, if George and I choose to remain unmarried?”

Fanny could not help wondering why they did so, but delicacy prevented her from asking; however Liz continued as if the question had been visible in her face: “Really we prefer it, my dear, because it removes the necessity of entertaining such dismal, prune-faced, quizzy persons as your husband; and there is no lack of the other sort, I promise you! We have more friends than we can contrive to see. We have had Mr. Fox here, times out of number, and Mr. Creevey; the Seftons, and half the Melbourne clan—it is true Creevey complains about the damp sheets and the servants' free-spokenness, but he returns again and again. Prinney, too, used to be a great friend of George's, but these days he is grown too fat and lazy to come over from Brighton.”

Fanny could only gaze, wide-eyed, at this recital of great names.

“The truth is,” Liz went on reflectively, “that George is not partial to the married state. The thought of it makes him nervous. He was engaged once to the most beautiful girl in England—Lady Maria Waldegrave—oh, a diamond of the first water!—but he cried off. That was nine years ago. I do not think he will marry now. There is something about the stiff decorum and formality of wedlock that does not sit with him. If he were married we would have to spend half our time at Egremont House in Piccadilly and give grand dinners to the
ton
and spend hours worrying about who takes in whom to dine, and whether barons' younger sons walk in before viscounts' elder daughters. Here we see only our friends, comfortably, as we choose. George has offered to marry me, it is true, but I have said no any number of times; what would be the use
no
w
? That would not make his sons legitimate, which would be the only practical consideration. And George does not give a rap for that; let his brother William's son get the title, he says. The boys will be sufficiently provided for in a practical way.”

Fanny was astonished at this novel view of marriage and lay gazing wonderingly at her hostess.

“But
your
husband,” Liz went on. “You say he is anxious for an heir?”

“Oh, indeed yes, ma'am—”

“I wish you will call me Liz, child—everybody does! And may I not call you Fanny?”

Strangely, at this casual invitation to intimacy, Fanny gave an involuntary sob.

“What is the matter, my love?” Liz was greatly concerned and came to pet and comfort her with a rustle of muslins and a waft of delicious fragrance. “Do I tire you? Is my chatter oversetting you? Had you rather be left alone?”

“Oh
no
, ma'am—dear Liz—it is just—I
know
my husband will never, never allow us to be friends—so what is the use of our even learning each other's names?”

Liz Wyndham puckered up her broad, smooth brow.

“Well, as to that—who knows? Perhaps we may contrive to meet somehow. And then, your husband is not a young man, after all. He was married before, was he not?”

“Oh, yes. I have three stepdaughters, two of them older than myself.”

“Disgusting,” said Liz with indignation. “What was he thinking of, to marry a child of your age?” And she immediately answered her own questions. “He wanted a young, healthy wife who would provide him with a son. Strange, is it not, how men will always be wanting what they have not got? Once he has an heir, two to one but he will never look at the boy twice in a day, or care what becomes of him—witness George with his four!”

“Four, ma'am—I thought you said three?”

“Ah, but he had a son and daughter by another lady, you see—my great friend Elise Reynard, who lived in the Hermitage before your husband's cousin. Indeed George built it for her.”

“Oh, the French lady who died?”

“That one, yes.” Liz fell silent a moment.

Fanny found herself wholly confused by the Earl of Egremont's relationships but resolved not to ask any more questions on what was evidently a sad theme.

“So your husband wishes for a son,” Liz resumed presently in her meditative manner. “Well then, for your own sake, dear Fanny, I hope that you succeed in providing him with one.”

“Oh,
so
do I!” Fanny shivered at the thought of Thomas's disappointment if the baby proved to be a female. “Disappointment” would hardly be the word for it, she thought.

“Does he abuse you in bed?” Liz said with a sudden, very penetrating look. Fanny gasped and turned white. She had not expected ever to divulge to a living soul the anguish that she went through behind the closed door of her bedroom; to have her painful secret thus calmly brought into the open gave her an almost physical shock.

“I—I cannot—I cannot talk about it. No, not even to you,” she said, when she was a little collected.

“Poor child.” Liz looked at her compassionately. “You do not think that talking would help?”

Fanny shook her head.

“You see,” she managed after a moment or two, “I should begin to pity myself. If I were to talk about it. And that would never do.”

Liz stood up and began pacing hastily about on the handsome Exeter carpet. Her round, smiling face was clouded; she turned and looked perplexedly at Fanny.

“Perhaps—if you present him with a boy—he will be better to you. Do you think?”

“Very likely,” Fanny said without confidence. “But if I should bear him a girl—”

“If you do bear him a girl—Have you
no
one to turn to? Your father, your family?”

“No. Papa is dead. And my sisters must live with relatives. Poor things, they have no money; they are all unmarried.”

“Anybody would think we women were slaves!” Liz burst out. Then she laughed at herself. “Listen to me! I am so lucky—who am I to complain? But, oh, it makes my blood boil! Well, there is nothing for it, my dear—if matters become too bad at home, you must run away to us! Come to Petworth House. We would look after you charmingly, I promise you.”

“Good—good heavens!” Fanny stammered. “But, ma'am—but, Liz, only consider! It is not to be thought of! My husband could sue through the courts for my return—”

“And expose himself to all that scandal and gossip? I am sure that kind of man would die rather than do so.”

Fanny did not believe that Liz's estimate of Thomas was at all correct; she thought he would fight, most tenaciously, for anything he considered his right, at whatever cost.

“Oh, I never, never could do such a thing,” she sighed. “But thank you for making the offer. It was very kind in you.”

“Oh well,” Liz said optimistically, “it is odds but he'll die soon, of falling from his horse; or one of those poor fellows that he caused to be impressed will escape from the navy and come home to shoot him through the head. Or some such thing. And then you will be a comfortable and well-established widow, and we shall be able to see each other as often as we wish, and I shall find a charming second husband for you. So do not be too downhearted!”

She smiled at Fanny, who did her best to smile back, and, feeling a little recovered by now, she mustered up spirit to put a timid request.

“Ma'am—dear Liz—Mrs. Socket and I are so much beholden to your brave gardener for running out and catching our horse's bridle—he incurred a great risk of being dashed against the wall—might I, would it be possible just to see him for a moment and thank him? Mrs. Socket's groom I frequently see, but I am not at all likely to encounter the other man again—”

“Andrew Talgarth? Of course you may thank him,” agreed Liz Wyndham, rising to pull at a bell rope. “I am very glad you asked it, for I am desirous of doing so myself. He is such an excellent young man! George has the very highest opinion of him—thinks he will become another Repton—and is in the habit of asking his views on all manner of topics, so I daresay it was no surprise to
him
that it was Andrew Talgarth who ran forward and stopped the horse.—Oh, Towson, will you discover where Andrew Talgarth is, if you please, and have him sent here? Mrs. Paget wishes to thank him for her rescue.”

“Yes, ma'am. I believe Talgarth is in the library, ma'am. I will have him sent here directly.”

Fanny was somewhat amazed to hear that Lord Egremont's gardener was to be found in the library; Liz, however, explained.

“Talgarth is forever reading Tusser, or Lawson, or
The Gardener's Labyrinth
, or some such work, and he has even learned enough Latin from the boys' tutor to study Pliny on the art of gardening; George encourages him to make use of our books. After all, as George says, what is a library for, if not to provide instruction for one's household?”

While Fanny was reflecting that there was no end to Lord Egremont's unexpected qualities, Andrew Talgarth made his appearance. It was plain that his curly black hair had been hastily disciplined with a wet comb; otherwise he looked much as Fanny remembered him from their first meeting in the Hermitage garden: brown-faced, weather-beaten, grave, but with a latent smile in his very blue eyes. He stood in the doorway, neither bashful nor overeager, and said politely: