The evening at Landerby Manor drifted gradually to an end. The ladies retired soon after midnight, and although some of the men were still playing cards and seemed to be settling in for the night, Bertram and his friends took the opportunity to retreat to their bedchamber. In the early days of their gatherings, when only the dozen or so enthusiasts had attended, Landerby Manor had been so neglected that they had been obliged to squeeze into the few weatherproof rooms. The chapel had served as study, dining room and saloon, and three large bedrooms in the east wing acted as dormitories. The habit had stuck, and even though many more rooms had been made habitable, Bertram, Medhurst, Brockscombe and Fielding still shared a room, comfortably provided with ancient and patched old chairs and a tray of decanters. With brandy poured, they settled down to discuss the evening.
“So tell us more about Miss Franklyn,” Fielding said eagerly. “Her father is here, I noticed.”
“And her stepmother, Lady Esther,” Bertram said. “Daughter of the Duke of Camberley. What do you want to know about Miss Franklyn?”
“Why isn’t she married?” Fielding said, which made the others laugh.
“She is not very pretty,” Medhurst said, pulling a face. “Almost as bad as that fish-faced heiress… what was her name?”
“Miss Hutchison, and you’re far too fastidious,” Fielding said. “Miss Franklyn has far more interesting qualities — liveliness, for instance. Atherton, did you get a single word out of those two inanimate objects sitting beside you at dinner?”
“The Miss Pikesleys are not strong conversationalists, it is true,” Bertram said with a shrug. “They are restful dinner companions, however.”
“Who wants restfulness when one could have Miss Franklyn?” Fielding said. “Give me a girl with a bit of life inher any day, and she has such a sweet smile. Don’t you agree, Atherton?”
“I have never thought about it before, but… yes, she does,” Bertram said, rather surprised by the discovery.
“So why is she not married?”
“She was betrothed to my cousin Walter for some time, but that fell through so—”
“Wait — which is Walter? The middle one?”
“No, the eldest. That fell through, as I say, and so Miss Franklyn was at rather a loose end and I invited her here to make some new acquaintances.”
“Why did it fall through?”
“Does it matter?” Bertram said testily. “Circumstances change, that is all.”
“I believe it does matter,” Fielding said, sipping his brandy thoughtfully. “I should not want to waste my time pursuing her if she is a flighty minx who will lead me on and then drop me without notice, but I believe she would suit me very well, and now that I have a living and six hundred a year—”
“My good friend, I am very sorry to disillusion you, but Miss Franklyn has forty thousand pounds and is not destined for a country parsonage, I assure you.”
Fielding’s face fell. “Ah, what a pity. Still, I may enjoy that lovely smile for the next month, even if not thereafter. But she would do for one of you fellows, with a fortune like that. Medhurst, as a younger son, such a sum would be very useful.”
“It certainly would.”
“Does that make her a little prettier?” Fielding said mischievously.
Medhurst had the grace to look a little ashamed. “I can certainly allow her to have a sweet smile under such circumstances. Oh, to have a fortune of my own, and be able to marry where I please!”
“Which would be Miss Grayling, no doubt,” Bertram said. “What is her portion?”
“Five thousand!” Medhurst said in despairing tones. “A mere trifle, and not enough for me, even if she could take her eyes off Embleton for long enough to notice me.”
“Ah, the trials of a young man contemplating matrimony,” Bertram said lightly. “Take my advice and steer clear of the wedded state. It is far better for one’s peace of mind.”
“It is all very well for you, Atherton,” Medhurst said. “You need not whistle for funds, and you have never been in the petticoat line, so you remain above the fray. But for those of us who value the opposite sex and would like nothing better than to share our lives with one, it is far too difficult to find one who has the appropriate combination of rank, fortune and appearance.”
“You make such heavy weather of it,” Brockscombe said. “It is obvious how we should proceed. Medhurst, you must marry Miss Hutchison and her hundred thousand pounds, a sum which will easily compensate for any lack of beauty, and Fielding may marry Miss Grayling, whose modest portion is well suited to a parson’s wife.”
“And what about you?” Fielding said.
“Why, I am going to marry Miss Franklyn, of course,” Brockscombe said.
He grinned at them, and Fielding and Medhurst railed at his choices with great fluency until the brandy decanter ran dry. Only Bertram was silent, unaccountably unsettled by all this discussion of Bea. This was what he had wanted, after all, for her to marry one of his friends. So why did he now feel so uneasy about it?
***
