Stranger at the Manor by Mary Kingswood
17: Evening At The Manor
Phyllida could not remember every word that had been said, much as one might not remember the cut of a knife even though the lancing pain is unforgettable. Even so, she told him as much as she could remember. Roland thought she had been dissatisfied with their life together. He had apologised for not being an adequate companion! But it was Viola’s words which stung the most — ‘scrabbling round for any husband you can get…how despicably selfish to abandon your brother… you are thinking of nothing but yourself… selfish, selfish, selfish…’
“It is selfish of me to marry, I suppose,” she said sadly.
“Every marriage is a selfish undertaking,” he said. “How could it be otherwise? No one marries solely to please others, nor should they. Even an arranged marriage is a matter of mutual benefit. Is it selfish to wish for it? Is my cousin selfish to want to marry again? Of course, but he will also provide his wife with a great house, clothes, jewels… all those worldly objects that some ladies desire above all things. And, most importantly, security. Marriage will be greatly to her benefit, even if John’s concern is mostly for himself.”
Phyllida sighed. “It is true that I was thinking of myself above all.”
“I hope you were considering me just a little, too,” Peter said gently. “I am very sorry that your brother is distressed by your marriage, but if you have diminished his satisfaction in life somewhat, just think how much you have improved mine. On balance the overall amount of satisfaction in the world has increased, not reduced. Dr Beasley will do very well, you may be sure, once he has grown accustomed to the change. Some men dislike the least alteration in their lives, but one cannot keep everything exactly as it is indefinitely. Besides, think how absurd it would be for you never to marry in case it might inconvenience your brother.”
That brought a little laugh. “That would be absurd.”
“Exactly so. The Broughtons will look after him very well, and when we have got our feet back on the ground, we shall find a little cottage in Great Maeswood, and Dr Beasley may see you every day if he wishes. In fact, he may take tea with us every evening, and eat his dinner with us on Sundays, with my goodwill.”
“That sounds lovely,” she said, suddenly wistful. “A little cottage… we could manage very well with just a couple of maids, for I can cook, you know. How cosy it will be!”
“That will be just the start, my dear. When this business of mine is successful, which it will be, I shall buy you a bigger house, with more servants — and a cook. I shall not want you spending half your day in the kitchen.”
“I do not mind cooking. It makes me feel useful. I have never been one to sit about embroidering fire screens.”
“No, you knit socks,” he said, making her laugh. “As for Miss Viola Gage, do not regard her. You have been useful to her as a friend who could always be called upon, and perhaps she is cross that you will no longer be at her disposal. She is a lady who cares very much about her position in society, I think, and it may rankle that you have improved your status. Perhaps there is some jealousy there, too, that you have a husband and she does not. She will soon become used to the new circumstances.”
She sighed again. “You make it sound so simple, but I do not like to upset people, Peter. I have spent my life trying very hard not to upset anyone.”
“And now the only person you must not upset is me, my dear wife, for I shall be a stern husband indeed if you do not tell me thrice daily that I am the most wonderful specimen of manhood in existence, and the cleverest, and the handsomest.”
She giggled. “Thrice daily? And if I flatter you so abominably only twice a day?”
“Ah, then see what dreadful punishment I shall inflict upon you… like this.” He pulled her tight to him so that she could barely breathe and kissed her with fierce passion.
When in time he released her, she gasped, “Goodness, Peter, I shall never say such things if that is to be the punishment for omission. Do we have to go down for dinner? Might we just stay here so that you may inflict such penance upon me repeatedly?”
“No, because now we move to an even worse stage of punishment — tickling!”
And after that, they fell into playfulness like a pair of children.
~~~~~
Since the Manor was as full as it could hold, no one came to help Peter or Phyllida to dress for dinner, so they helped each other into their evening finery, and teased each other about their talents or otherwise as valet and lady’s maid.
With Lord Silberry to draw the company’s attention, Peter had supposed that he and Phyllida would be able to lurk in a corner that evening. In this he was much mistaken. The discoverers of the Bartwell paintings were not permitted to escape the attention of the company, and their sudden marriage was an even greater wonder. He was asked many times how it had come about and what had made him settle on Miss Beasley as the partner of his future life.
How could he explain? How could he describe the fizzing happiness he felt whenever he was with her, the way her liquid brown eyes melted him inside, the joy of calling her his wife? “We get along so well,” he said lamely, and saw the way people’s eyes looked from one to the other wonderingly. What did they see? A mousy woman and a slightly portly man of middle years, of no consequence to anyone, except each other. Whereas he saw a woman of rare courage and beauty — and passion, he had discovered. Although what she saw in him he could not imagine.
The Scottish wedding puzzled the company, too. Why so sudden? Why rush off to Scotland? And was it a proper wedding, they wanted to know, with the unspoken question as to whether they were legally married at all. Peter floundered his way through the explanations, skirting round the question of Christian and the orphanage, diverting people when all else failed with his plans for the coach building business. But that only made them disdain him, for they were gentry to the core and a man who worked for a living was beneath them. Banking… well, that was just about acceptable, but coach building was too much a real trade to be respectable.
At dinner, he was able to sit beside Phyllida, but on his other side was the lady with the loud voice from the Great Hall, whose name was Lady Jennett. She had come to Shropshire, she told Peter in such ringing tones that half the table could hear, to consult with Dr Broughton about her health.
“I suffer from most indifferent health,” she said, between large mouthfuls of roast pork, “and no one understands my troubles as Dr Broughton does. I see him three times a week, which keeps the worst of the palpitations at bay, and I sleep so much better — no more than three or four awakenings every night, and the pains in my belly are quite gone. Can you reach that dish of duck for me, if you will?”
“The wine sauce is rather rich, Lady Jennett,” Peter said nervously, not wishing to inflict dyspepsia on an already weakened constitution.
“Oh, I am never troubled in that way. I can eat and drink anything, and if I do happen to take something which disagrees with me, I have Dr Broughton’s own receipt for a reliable purgative. Thank you, I will take a little more. And another spoonful again, if you please.”
Peter watched with not a little admiration as she ate and drank her way through a quantity of food that would have prostrated nine parts of the population.
When the ladies had withdrawn, the squire called Peter to sit beside him. “So you took pity on poor Miss Beasley, eh? I suppose with your history you had few choices. Well, she is an inoffensive creature who will take good care of you, I am sure, although I like a woman with more spirit, myself. And younger, too. I do like them young.”
“How was Bath?” Peter said hastily, happy to seize upon a subject less insulting. He was not much interested in his cousin’s matrimonial pursuit but felt he ought to enquire.
“A nightmare!” the squire said at once. “An unspeakable nightmare. Bath, let me tell you, is no very safe place for a respectable man, for it is full to overflowing with predatory females and rapacious card-players. One meets the most mild-mannered old gentleman, a deacon, say, and what is more harmless than a man of the cloth, eh? Or a good-humoured admiral or general, perhaps. But sit down to cards with them and they will have the last shilling you possess, and end up eyeing your coat, too. Rapacious, every last one of them.”
Peter could not help laughing at his cousin’s outraged expression. “But the women… were there none at all to your taste?”
“Oh yes! One in particular, the prettiest child you ever did see, barely out of the schoolroom but well-grown for her age, and would make a very comfortable armful indeed. The most enchanting head of blonde curls, too. Not much between her ears, but then one does not marry for conversation, does one? But her mother—! Lord, what a torment she was, and slippery as an eel. I thought she was merely heading me away from Charlotte, but no, she had her sights on me herself, the brass-faced baggage. She came within an ace of getting her claws so deep into me that there would be no escaping her. Another day, and she would have had me headed straight to the altar. We got away in the nick of time. I cannot imagine where I am to find a bride, Peter. It is too difficult when every fresh young chick has a rabid mother hen protecting her.”
“Perhaps you should consider the advantages of marrying an older woman with no over-zealous guardian,” Peter said. “Someone closer to your own age, who has some experience of life.”
“Why would I wish to do that? No, I like them young and innocent. Always have done.”
“Which was your favourite wife of the three?”
“Oh, Jane, without a doubt. Mad as a March hare, and whenever we disagreed, which was very often, she gave as good as she got. Lord, we had some fights! But pluck to the backbone. Now make no mistake, I was very fond of Philippa and Lilian too, God knows. Loved them both dearly. But Jane was something special to me. You remember her, I am sure. We saw more of you in those days.”
“I do remember her,” Peter said. “She was as wild as you were, and encouraged you in all your excesses. She had spirit, certainly, but she was not exactly a calming influence on you. Lilian, on the other hand, seemed a little too meek. But Philippa — now there was a sensible woman. Another such as that would suit you admirably, I should say.”
“It is true that everything went on very smoothly when she was mistress here,” the squire said thoughtfully. “But where would I find another like her, eh? Remarkable woman, but that came from having no children of her own, I daresay. It gave her more time to attend to the household management. Did you know she even looked for these paintings of yours? The Bartwell paintings. She traipsed about looking for them… went to see the Bartwells, and asked all about, but never found out a thing about them. We all thought they were gone for good. Ha! You did a grand job there, Cousin, you and Miss Beasley. Who would ever have imagined that they were tucked away under my own roof the whole time? And what an extraordinary thing to do. There must have been some insanity in the Bartwell line, for no sane person would do such a thing. It is a pity they cannot be sold separately but they look excellent in the Winter Drawing Room. Have you seen them? They seem pretty dull to me, but all these artistic fellows from town are in raptures over them. But what was it you went north for — some other business you thought might turn a profit, I understood.”
“A coal mine, Cousin, but there is some uncertainty as to ownership.”
“Ah, well, never mind that. I never expected anything to come of your investigations, you know. Look, Henry is getting rowdy. Shall we join the ladies and have some card play?”
~~~~~
The following morning, Phyllida was determined to return to Great Maeswood to talk to Roland and Susannah, and see what could be done to reconcile her brother to her marriage. Peter wanted to talk to Preece, the smith, so he extracted Christian from the bowels of the servant’s quarters, where he had been making himself useful carting buckets of coal about, and together they set off to walk to the village.
It was not the best of days, for although there was no rain, there was a sharp wind, and having no clothing sturdy enough to withstand it, Phyllida was chilled to the bone before she arrived. Peter and Christian turned off onto the Glebe lane, where the smithy was, and Phyllida carried on to Whitfield Villa. A few women out shopping curtsied to her and one called out, “Congratulations, madam! Wish you very happy.” The news had got about, then.
She found the Villa in disarray.
“Oh, madam, I’m right glad you’re here,” Mrs Haines said, twisting her hands together. “Dr Beasley was took right bad last night and—”
Phyllida’s heart stopped. “Taken bad? Where is he?”
“In his bed, madam.”
Phyllida raced up the stairs without even bothering to remove her bonnet. Her tentative knock on the door brought a ringing “Enter!” from within. Roland was propped up in bed looking pale but alert, with Dr Broughton in attendance.
“Ah, now here is a welcome visitor,” Dr Broughton said, rising from his seat beside the bed. “This will lift your spirits, sir. But do not be alarmed, madam. We have averted the crisis and the patient is already on the mend, as you see. His heart will last him a good long while yet, I am confident of it. But such good news you brought back from your journey! Pray accept my congratulations on your marriage. May you and Mr Winslade be as happy together as my dear Susannah and I.”
Phyllida thanked him, although she hardly knew what she said, and took the seat he had vacated.
“I shall leave you two to chat for a little while. I shall return in ten minutes.”
Dr Broughton slipped out of the room, and Phyllida was left alone with her brother.
“Roland, I—”
“My dear —”
There was an awkward silence. “You speak first,” she said.
“I only wished to say,” he said, sounding a little breathless, “that I wish you very happy, Phyllida. It was rather a shock, that was all… no warning… no time to prepare myself, you see, and I do not quite know how I will go on without you, but I am sure I wish you and Winslade a happy life together. I hope you will forgive me my foolishness.”
“Oh, Roland, the blame is entirely mine,” she said, fumbling for a handkerchief. “I should have sent word… and with all the other changes here… giving up your medical practice and having Dr Broughton here, and then his lovely little daughter arriving and she is such a dear, but it is a disruption. It cannot be otherwise. And then Dr Broughton’s own marriage and now my news… naturally it threw you into a relapse! I am so sorry, dear! I never meant to hurt you so, truly I did not, but I was so far away and—”
She stopped abruptly. What was she saying? She did not regret her marriage, not for one single second, so why was she talking as if she would not have married Peter had she been at home? Yet it was only what she had said to him in Scotland, that if she returned home unwed, Roland’s influence on her, and Viola’s too, would prevent her from ever having the courage to take the plunge. Even her voice had shrunk, she realised with horror. She had turned instinctively back into mousy Miss Beasley, and it would not do — it very much would not do.
Straightening her spine, she went on, “I am very sorry I gave you such a shock yesterday, Roland, but I do not think there was any way I could have prepared you for such a surprising change in my circumstances. Indeed, it has been just as much of a surprise to me to find myself contemplating matrimony after all these years. Whoever would have thought it? But I do not wish you to be made uncomfortable by it, so I shall make sure that Susannah orders your favourite dishes for dinner. I shall make a list for her, and Mrs Shinn knows just how to cook everything. You will see that you will go on just as well as before, and I shall not be going away, not really. Peter and I will settle in Great Maeswood as soon as we can find suitable accommodation.”
“You will live in the village? Oh, that will be such a comfort, Phyllida… such a great comfort.” And to her horror, he gave a convulsive sob and his eyes softened, as if he were about to weep. “I have missed you, my dear. It would distress me beyond measure if you were to go away altogether.”
Fortunately, Dr Broughton returned just then, relieving Phyllida of any need to respond, but she felt ill-prepared for such an assault on her compassion. She could not — would not — regret her marriage, but her brother’s words filled her with guilt. She had made him ill, and it was all her fault.
Susannah was waiting on the landing for her. “Can you stay for a while? I should so like to talk to you.”
“And I you. Perhaps we could talk while I pack up the rest of my things to be sent to the Manor,” Phyllida said, glad to have a practical matter to deal with. “Then you will have my old room for a guest, if you wish.”
“Must you live there? I should far rather have you and Peter than a guest. Samuel and I are agreed that we should like it very much if you would continue to live here.”
“How kind you are! I will talk to Peter about it, but we must stay until after the ball, at least, and I do need a few things from here.”
“Let me get Thomas to find a portmanteau, then, and we can pack together. I have so much to say to you, Mrs Winslade — my, how well that sounds! I am so happy for you, I cannot tell you. There was no time yesterday to say very much — everything was in such a spin, I hardly knew which way was up — but I do congratulate you and wish you joy. Such wonderful news! And you must have been married just a few days before me, so— There you are, Thomas. A portmanteau for Mrs Winslade, if you please. Goodness!” She lifted the lid of the press and pulled out a couple of gowns. “Your old clothes are so…”
“Dull? Boring? I shall have to get new ones, I suppose, and return these of your stepmother’s.”
“Oh, keep them. Lilian hardly needs them in the grave, does she, and Papa will never notice. They suit you very well — you look quite different. You may be able to retrim these old ones, but…”
“I know. So much brown and grey and deep green and black.”
“The colour of shadows,” Susannah said, pulling out one gown after another and laying them all on the bed. “When I paint, I use just such dark colours to create shades and dark corners.”
How appropriate, for that was just how she had been as mousy Miss Beasley — scuttling about in the dark corners. Not any more. She was not a mouse any longer — was she?