Bath Tangle

5

It was hardly to be expected, Serena thought, that the several ladies of their acquaintance in the neighbouring district would spare her a description of the Boxing Day Assembly, and greatly did she dread being obliged to listen either to animadversions on Rotherham’s manners, or to bitter criticisms of Lady Laleham’s encroaching ways. But the weather saved her. A week of incessant rain made quagmires of all the roads, and rendered the paying of morning calls ineligible. They were undisturbed by visitors at the Dower House until Spenborough had himself driven there one afternoon to announce to the ladies Jane’s safe delivery of a son.

He was a fond and an excellent father, and could scarcely have been more delighted if the child had been his first son, instead of his fourth. Fanny and Serena tried to say all that was expected of them, and succeeded so well that he found himself very much in charity with them both, and confided to them that the happy event had relieved his mind of considerable anxiety. “For, you know, with the shock of my cousin’s sad death, and all the exertion of disposing of the house, and the bringing of the children to Milverley, there is no saying what might have happened. But Jane is equal to anything!”

They reiterated their congratulations; he beamed, and thanked, and said: “Extremely obliging! I knew you would be glad, and determined you should be the first to be informed of the event. We mean the child to be given the name of Francis, and we hope, Lady Spenborough, that you will consent to be one of his sponsors!”

Fanny, quite pink with pleasure, said that she would be most happy; and Serena, seeing that she was really gratified, determined to forgive Jane for cutting up the South Lawn into a formal flower-garden, and even suggested that Hartley should stay to dine at the Dower House. He needed no persuasion; a message was sent to the stables; another to the kitchen; and he sat down in a wing-chair beside the fire to discuss, over several glasses of sherry, the doctor’s opinion of Jane’s constitution, the midwife’s admiration of her fortitude, and the very diverting things the elder children had said upon being informed that God had sent them a new brother.

It was some time before these topics had been talked out, but at last he could think of no more to say on them. He said that he must not go boring on, complimented Fanny on her cook’s way of dressing a haunch of venison, and suddenly remarked: “So Rotherham took his guests to the Assembly on Boxing Day! I wouldn’t believe it when Dr Cliffe told me so, but it seems to be true enough. I saw Orrell the other day, and he vouched for it. A queer start, wasn’t it?”

“It was a scheme got up for the entertainment of the young people,” said Fanny calmly.

“Ay, so I understand. No harm, of course, but I shouldn’t have thought Rotherham the man to condescend so far. I am not particularly acquainted with him, but he has always seemed to me pretty high in the instep: one of your haughty care-for-nobodies! However, Orrell assures me he was very civil and amiable. That Laleham woman was mightily set up by his standing up with her daughter, and not seeming to care for anyone else, but walking off to the card-room immediately. Orrell says it was a study to look at the faces of the other mamas! But he came back at tea-time, took in his cousin, and afterwards solicited some girl that had no partner to stand up with him, which was thought to be very goodnatured in him, and lowered the Laleham crest a trifle! This Rhenish cream is most excellent. Lady Spenborough: a capital dinner! I shall tell Jane I get nothing so good at Milverley!”

Fanny could not help glancing across the table to see whether Serena partook of her own astonishment. She could detect nothing in her face but a look of approval; and when, after Spenborough had left them, she ventured to ask her if she had not been very much surprised, she received a decided negative.

“You were not? I own, I could hardly credit my ears. I had no notion that he cared so much for your opinion!”

“No, indeed, and nor does he!” Serena answered. “The outcome would have been the same whoever had taken him to task. When he does such things as that it is not from any conscious idea of his own consequence, or a contempt for persons of inferior rank, but from a sort of heedless arrogance, as I told him. He had the misfortune to lose his father when he was still a schoolboy: a most estimable man, I believe. Papa was used to say that everyone stood in great awe of him, because he was such a grand seigneur, but that pride in him didn’t lead him to offend people by any careless manners, but to treat everyone with the same punctilious courtesy. We should have thought him very stiff, I daresay, for he was held to be old-fashioned even when Papa was a young man. But Lady Rotherham was insufferably proud! You never knew her: I assure you, she was so puffed up with conceit and consequence that there was no bearing it: She brought up all three of her children, and in particular, of course, Ivo, to believe themselves so superior that they might behave as they chose, since a Barrasford must be beyond the reach of censure! As for considering the feelings of others, such a notion can never have entered her head! Her selfishness was beyond anything, too! Everything, she thought, must give way to her whims. One cannot wonder at Ivo’s arrogance: the only wonder is that it should be unconscious—not rooted, as it was with her, in conceit! He was never taught to think of anything but his own pleasure, but his disposition is not bad, nor does he mean to offend the sensibilities of others. It is all heedlessness! If he can but be made to see that he has behaved badly, he is sorry for it at once.”

“Oh, Serena! When I am sure he was ready to murder you for having presumed to tell him his conduct was not gentlemanly—!”

“No, no, you are mistaken, Fanny!” Serena said, laughing a little. “He didn’t wish to murder me, but himself! Oh, well, perhaps me, but much more himself! He knew what I said to be true, and that is what wounded his pride, and made him smart so.”

“Do you think so?” Fanny said doubtfully.

“I know it! Don’t imagine that he instantly set about mending the matter because his conduct had given me an ill opinion of him! He did it because it gave him that ill opinion. He has the faults of his mother’s temper, but at the bottom he is more his father’s son than hers. Papa always held to it that with that upbringing, and all the toad-eating “and nonsense that surrounded him when he was by far too young to perceive the folly of it, it said a great deal for his character that he grew up to care so little for pomp and dignity, and of all creatures to dislike most those that flatter him. You will never see Ivo in company with any of the odious hangers-on who fawn on great men, administering all the time to their vanity, you know. He holds such stuff in utter contempt. It was otherwise with his brother. If you had but seen Captain Lord Talbot Barrasford—in all the magnificence of silver lace, for he was a Hussar!—plainly thinking how much his regiment was honoured by his having joined it—! I used to wonder how he contrived to maintain his precious dignity when compelled to quarter himself in some Spanish hovel. Oh, I should not be saying so now, I know! He fell in action, very gallantly, I believe, and if he was not much mourned, at least he must be respected. People say that Augusta was very like him, as a girl. But she had the good fortune to marry Silchester, who is a sensible man, and by the time I was old enough to become acquainted with her she was much as you see her today—with a good deal of Ivo’s unconcern with what people may be thinking, and quite unaffected. I don’t mean to say she does not know her own worth, but it is something she takes for granted, and scarcely thinks about.”

“Oh, yes! She quite frightened me, at first, with her odd, blunt way of talking, but I have always found her perfectly kind, and have never doubted that she has a heart!”

Serena smiled. “None of the Barrasfords has what is generally meant when people speak of warmheartedness. If you mean, as I collect you do, that Rotherham’s nature is cold, I think I had rather say that it is fiery! He is a hard man, certainly. I shouldn’t turn to him for sympathy, but I have known him to be kind.”

“I suppose, when you were betrothed, he must have been, but—”

“Oh, no, not when he fancied himself to be in love with me! Far from it!” Serena interrupted, laughing. “He would like to be much kinder in the execution of his duty as my Trustee than I could permit!”

“Why, what can you mean? You yourself suspected that the arrangement was made at his instigation!”

“Well, yes, while I was in such a rage, I did,” admitted Serena. “Only, of course, I soon saw that it could not have been. I’m afraid it was poor Papa’s notion of a clever stroke. The match was so much of his making that he could not bear to abandon it.”

“I know it was a splendid one, but did he care for that? It was not like him!”

“Well, I suppose he must have cared a little, but the thing was that he liked Rotherham, and believed we should suit, because he was an honest man, and there was no flummery about either of us! You know what Papa was, when he had taken a notion firmly into his head! I don’t think anything could have brought him to believe that Ivo was as thankful to be out of a scrape as I was. I never supposed that the pair of them concerted this infamous scheme because Ivo wished to win me back, and as soon as I was cooler, I knew, of course, that Papa would not have done, it to give Ivo an opportunity to be revenged on me.”

“Revenged!”

“Well,” said Serena, reflectively wrinkling her nose, “he has not a forgiving nature, and there’s no denying I did deal his pride the most wounding blow when I cried off. So, when I heard Papa’s Will read, I thought—oh, I don’t know what I thought! I was too angry to think at all. And then I believed that he wouldn’t refuse to act because he meant to punish me for that old slight by using the power he had been given in a malicious way. To own the truth, I thought he would be pleased when he discovered that I had been obliged to sell my horses, but I was quite out! He was very much vexed, and tried to make me believe he could increase my allowance. But I had gone into that with Perrott, and I knew better—which vexed him more than ever! He would certainly have given me a larger allowance, and never told me it was his own money, and you will agree that however improper that may have been it was very kind!”

Fanny said in a wondering tone: “Perhaps he is fond of you, Serena!”

“Yes, when he is not disliking me excessively. I never doubted it,” said Serena coolly. “It is the sort of fondness one has for an old acquaintance, who shares many of one’s ideas and tastes. At the moment, however, I expect dislike has the upper hand. He will come about!”

Nothing was heard of Rotherham until the end of January. The weather continued to be dull, and wet, one leaden day succeeding the last, and exercising a depressive influence on the spirits. Fanny contracted a severe chill, and seemed unable wholly to shake off its effects. She continued very languid, complained of rheumatic pains, and found the days intolerably long. The novelty—for such she had felt it to be—of being mistress of her own house had worn off; and the monotony of the life she was leading made her fretful. The only variations that offered were the occasional visits of neighbours with whom she had nothing in common; and her only amusements were playing cribbage or backgammon with Serena, or going up to the great house to play with Jane’s children. The Countess always had a kind welcome for her, and she could be merry with the children; but a fatal flaw attached to her visits, and caused them to become less and less frequent. She could never be in Jane’s company without being obliged to listen to her complaints of Serena. She knew no way of silencing Jane. “I wish that you would drop Serena a hint,” were words that always made her heart sink. It was not that Jane undervalued Serena, or was not sincerely attached to her, or was unsympathetic. No one, Jane was careful to assure her, in the calm voice of infallibility which so much exasperated Serena, had a greater regard for her, no one could be more certain of her wish to be of use to her cousin, or could more thoroughly appreciate the painful nature of her feelings, but—! Gentle though she was, Fanny would have leapt to Serena’s defence, had she not felt, too often, that Jane had right on her side. As Hartley grew in self-confidence, he naturally depended on his cousin less and less. He inaugurated new customs without consulting her and, since he was inclined to be consequential he contrived—unwittingly, Fanny believed—to convey the impression that he thought his innovations a vast improvement on anything that had been done by his predecessor. Fanny tried to convince Serena that he did not mean to seem to slight her father, but her attempts at peacemaking only drew down the vials of Serena’s wrath upon her own head. Serena, fretting quite as much as Fanny at the boredom of her days, found an outlet for her curbed energy in riding about Milverley, detecting changes (none of them acceptable to her), discovering omissions, and chatting with tenants, or discussing improvements with the bailiff just as she had always done, and so rubbing up against her cousin half a dozen times in a week. To make matters worse, she was far more often right than he; and whereas he, lacking the late Earl’s geniality, was not much liked, she, inheriting it, was loved.

Serena, having more strength of character than Fanny, did not wilt under the trials that beset her, but tried to overcome boredom by throwing herself even more energetically, and much to her cousin’s dismay, into the Milverley affairs. Could she but have found a congenial companion with whom to exchange ideas, she might have refrained, but no such person seemed to exist in the immediate neighbourhood. She became increasingly impatient with Fanny; and the very fact that she seldom allowed her exasperation to appear exacerbated it. There were even days when she felt that she and Fanny conversed in different languages, and that she might almost have preferred to have been cooped up with her aunt. She would have found herself opposed to nearly every one of Lady Theresa’s opinions; but Fanny had no opinions. When Lady Theresa, an accomplished and conscientious correspondent, wrote that Lady Waldegrave was dying of water on the chest, Fanny could be interested, and would discuss the sad news at far greater length than Serena thought necessary; but when lady Theresa informed her niece that retrenchment was all the cry now, and that it was an open secret the Opposition meant to launch an attack on the tax on income which the nation had endured for ten years, some saying that it would be proposed that the two shillings in the pound now exacted should be reduced by as much as half, Fanny had nothing to say beyond a vague: “Oh!” As for Lavallette’s rescue by three British subjects, which, Lady Theresa asserted, was at the moment the only topic to be hotly discussed, she thought an escape very exciting, but never reached the smallest understanding o[ the wider aspects of the case.

Serena was beginning to think that she could even welcome Rotherham in his most quarrelsome mood when the post brought her a letter from him. It informed her in the curtest terms that Probate having at last been obtained, he should call at the Dower House some time during the following week, when he expected to be at Claycross, to explain to her the arrangements which had been made to enable her to draw her allowance as and when she should require it. He was hers, etc., Rotherham.

“Oh, good God, still in the sullens!” exclaimed Serena disgustedly tossing the single sheet on to the fire. “And what does he mean by saying coolly that he will call here some time next week? If he comes without having the civility first to discover when it will be convenient for us to receive him, Lybster shall say that we are neither of us at home! I will not endure his high-handed ways!”

Fanny looked alarmed, but, fortunately for her peace of mind, circumstances made it impossible for this amiable plan to be put into execution. Rotherham drove himself over from Claycross in his curricle, reaching the entrance to the grounds of the Dower House just as Serena, mounted on her mare, approached it from the opposite direction.

Rotherham reined in, and waited for her to come up. She was looking extremely handsome, in a severe black beaver hat of masculine style, with a high crown and a stiffly curled brim, but the expression on her face was decidedly stormy. Perceiving it, Rotherham instantly said: “Good morning, Serena. Who is the latest unfortunate to have incurred your displeasure?”

“My cousin,” she replied curtly. “It is apparently enough for him to discover that some practice has been the custom at Milverley for years for him to overset it!”

“I pity him!” he said.

Her smouldering eyes, which had been running over the points of the two well-matched bays harnessed to his curricle, lifted to his face, and narrowed. “Is Lady Spenborough expecting you?” she demanded. “She has not told me so, and I have had no letter from you since the one you wrote to inform me that you were coming to Claycross.”

“You could hardly have done so, since I have not written another to you.”

“It would have been more civil in you to have discovered when it would be convenient for us to receive you!”

“Accept my apologies! It had not occurred to me that you would so soon be filling your days with engagements.”

“Of course I am not! But—”

“Have no fear! I do not expect to take up many minutes of your time.”

“I hope not, indeed, but I am afraid you will be detained for longer than you may have bargained for. I must change out of my habit before I can attend to you. No doubt Lady Spenborough will be found in the drawing-room.”

She wheeled the mare, and rode through the gateway. He followed her at his leisure, and within a few minutes was shaking hands with Fanny. She said something about sending to find Serena, and he interrupted her, saying: “I met her outside the gate, and the fiend’s own temper she was in. I don’t envy you!”

She replied, with dignity: “I am very much attached to Serena, Lord Rotherham.”

“And resent my sympathy?”

“I cannot think that you know—or have ever known—how to value her,” she said, almost trembling at her own boldness.

“Oh, I know her virtues!” he responded. “She would have been well enough had she ever been broke to bridle.”

She could not trust herself to answer him. A slight pause ensued; he then said, with the abruptness which always disconcerted her: “Is she at loggerheads with Spenborough?”

She hesitated. He had picked up a book that lay on the table, and was idly flicking over the pages, but he raised his eyes from it-directing a piercing look at her. “Well?”

She was a little flustered by this compelling glance, and the imperative note in his voice. “It is often very painful to her. Lord Spenborough means to do right, but he is not always—does not always know how to tell her what he means to do—in—in a way that won’t offend her!”

“I can guess! Spenborough’s a fool, and has the misfortune to succeed an excellent landlord.”

“Indeed, he is fully conscious of that, and also—I fear—that his people do not like him as they like her!”

“Inevitable. I told her at the outset to remove from this neighbourhood.”

“Perhaps she should have done so,” Fanny said sadly. “She is made to feel sometimes that he holds her Papa’s notions cheap. But I am sure he does not mean any such thing!”

“Pretty well for a man who never came to Milverley but as a guest on sufferance! But it won’t do to bolster Serena up in such ideas as that!”

“Oh, no, no! Nor would she ever say such a thing to him, or to anyone, except perhaps me! She is most loyal to him. Even when she disapproves of something he has done, and—and is told of it by one of our people—one of his people, I should say—”

“Ay, there’s the rub, eh? You need not tell me she gives ’em no encouragement! I know Serena!”

“Perhaps,” said Fanny wistfully, “she will grow more accustomed to it, in time.”

“She will never do so,” he replied bluntly. “How do you go on with Hartley and his wife, Lady Spenborough?”

“They are always very kind and civil, I assure you.”

“It falls to your lot to keep the peace, does it? You will not succeed, and, I repeat—I don’t envy you!”

She said nothing, wishing that Serena would come in, and wondering how to entertain this uncomfortable guest. No topic of conversation occurred to her; after another pause, she said: “Perhaps I should send someone to find Serena. I am afraid something has detained her, or—or—”

He laughed suddenly. “No, don’t do that, I beg! Having fallen into her black books for not having craved her permission to call here today, I plunged rather deeper by assuring her that my business would not take up more than a few minutes of her time. This, I fancy, led her to suppose that I was in haste, and so she warned me that I should be kept waiting while she changed out of her habit. Do you care to wager any sum on the length of time she will take over that operation? I will lay handsome odds against the chance of her appearing under half an hour.”

“Oh, dear!” she exclaimed, looking more dismayed than amused. “Oh, pray do not quarrel again!”

“Against that chance, I lay no odds at all. Are you moped to death here?”

She jumped nervously, startled by the sudden question. “Oh—! No, no! Sometimes, perhaps—the weather has been so inclement! When the spring comes we mean to do great things with the garden. It had been sadly neglected, you know.”

He complimented her upon her show of snowdrops, saying they were more forward than those at Claycross; she was encouraged to pursue the topic; and in the safe discussion of horticulture twenty minutes were successfully spent. The butler then came in to announce that a nuncheon awaited my lady’s pleasure; and Fanny, desiring him to have a message carried to Lady Serena, conducted Rotherham to the breakfast-parlour. He continued to converse amiably with her: she thought she had seldom seen him so affably inclined, and was considerably astonished, since nothing, she felt, could have been more calculated to put him out of temper than Serena’s continued absence. When Serena did at last sweep into the room, she waited, with a fast-thudding heart, for the expected explosion. But Rotherham, rising, and setting a chair for Serena, said, in the voice of a man agreeably surprised: “Why, Serena, already? I had thought it would have taken you longer! You should not have hurried: there was not the least need!”

One look at Serena’s face had been enough to tell Fanny that she was in a dangerous mood. She quaked; but after a moment, while the issue trembled in the balance, Serena burst out laughing, and exclaimed: “Detestable man! Very well! if you are not in quarrelling humour, so be it! What’s the news in town?”

The rest of the visit passed without untoward incident: even, Fanny thought, pleasantly. Serena was lively; Rotherham conversable; and neither said anything to provoke the other. They parted on good terms; and Fanny, perceiving how much good the visit had done to Serena’s spirits, was even sorry that it would not soon be repeated. Rotherham was returning immediately to London, for the opening of Parliament, and was unlikely to be in Gloucestershire again for some time.

The ladies settled down again to the uneventful existence which was their lot, almost the only alleviation to the monotony being the frequent visits of Emily Laleham. Little though she had known it, Serena had for long been the object of Miss Laleham’s awed admiration. As a schoolroom miss, she had had glimpses of her, riding with her father, and had thought that surely no one had ever been more beautiful, or more dashing. She worshipped from afar, wove wonderful stories around her, in which she rescued the goddess from extremely unlikely perils, but never, in her wildest flights, had she imagined herself on terms of quite ordinary friendship with her. But Serena, amused by her ingenuousness, had encouraged her to repeat her visit to the Dower House. She needed no pressing, but thereafter was always finding excuses to call there.

But by the end of February even the mild diversion provided by Emily’s visits came to an end, for the Lalehams removed to London, Lady Laleham being quite unable to endure more than three months in the country. Only the schoolroom party remained in Gloucestershire, a house in the best part of town having been hired by Sir Walter for the season. “For my coming-out!” said Emily proudly.

“Very kind of Papa!” smiled Serena.

“Oh, yes! At least, it is Grandmama’s, of course. I wish she could be there to see me in my Court dress!”

“Your grandmama doesn’t live in London, I collect?”

“Oh, no, she lives in Bath! And I love her dearly!” said Emily, in an oddly defiant voice.

March, coining in like a lion, saw Fanny the victim of neuralgia. Jane came to visit her, but this attention was marred by an air of graciousness which conveyed a strong impression of a great lady condescending to her humbler relations. Jane was beginning to assume consequential manners, and was unwise enough to tell Serena that she did not think it quite the thing for her to ride “all over the country” with only a groom for companion. Spenborough could not like it. “I told him I would certainly drop a hint in your ear.”

“Drop one from me in his!” flashed Serena. “That I am not an attorney’s daughter on my preferment!”

The encounter was one of many. Uneasy tension lay between the two houses; there were frequent quarrels; Serena’s temper grew brittle, and several times she snapped at Fanny. Then, one wet afternoon, she found Fanny weeping softly beside the fire in her bedroom, and was aghast.

“Fanny! Dearest Fanny, what is it?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing!” Fanny sobbed, trying to hide her face. “Pray, do not—! I didn’t mean—It is just that I am a little low!”

Serena was on her knees before her, holding her hands comfortingly. “It is not like you! I’m sure there must be some reason—Oh, Fanny, it is not because I was cross?”

“Oh, no! I never meant to vex you, only I am so stupid!”

Filled with remorse, Serena soothed and petted her back to tranquillity. “I am the most hateful wretch alive! To turn on you, merely because Hartley had enraged me! I don’t know what I deserve!”

Fanny dried her eyes. “It was silly of me. I know how hard it is for you to endure Hartley. And Jane is growing so conceited! Even I feel it, and it is much worse for you to have her behaving as though she had lived at Milverley all her life! Rotherham told me you ought not to live here, and he is quite right.”

“Much he knows!” said Serena scornfully.

“But he does know, Serena. I have seen how much it rubs you, and it’s no wonder! I wish it were possible for us both to go away!”

“But—” Serena stopped suddenly. “Good God, what a pair of goosecaps we are!” she exclaimed. “Why—oh, why the devil don’t we go away? It has been intolerable here ever since Christmas. You have been unwell, I have been cross, and the plain truth is that we are finding life a dead bore. We will go away!”

“But we could not!” gasped Fanny. “Not to London, while we are in mourning! I know Mama would say I ought not!”

“Not to London, no! We could very well go to Bath, however.”

Fanny’s eyes widened. “Bath?”

“Yes! And not even your mama will think it improper, because you will go there on the advice of Dr Cliffe, to drink the waters! We will hire a house for six months or so, and if we cannot go to the Assemblies, at least there will be the libraries, and the Pump Room, and—”

“Serena!” breathed Fanny, awed.

Serena laughed at her. “Well? Shall we do it?”

“Oh, Serena, yes! Milsom Street—the shops—the London coach coming in—the Sydney Gardens—!”

“And some faces other than our own to look at!”

“Yes, indeed! Oh, what a delightful scheme! Now, where,” said Fanny, her woes forgotten, “should you like to hire a house? And how must we set about it?”