Sir Charles gave her a thorough look before saying, “General Tilney said his wife had been dead nine years. You lost her at a time of life when motherly care is most wanted.”
Eleanor felt this deeply and also felt a little gratitude to Sir Charles for his acknowledgement. “My mother was an excellent woman.”
“I am glad she was spared from suffering a long, tedious illness. That is always a trial to one’s family.”
Eleanor had been grieved—was still grieved—that her mother’s illness was so sudden and short that she had not been there in time at the end to say goodbye. Still, perhaps Sir Charles was trying to condole her the best he could. It was more than her father ever did.
“I would never have wanted my mother to suffer, but for my own selfish sake I wish she had lingered a little longer. I arrived only long enough to see her in her coffin.”
She would not give in to despair now; those violent bursts of grief that followed her mother’s death were long in the past, even though at times the heart-bursting pain still struck.
“Miss Tilney, you are not tired, are you?” he asked when she had fallen a little behind, lost in her sad thoughts. When she demurred, he added, “Let us go into the avenue, over there where the trees look older, like your Scotch firs, perhaps?”
What harm was there in crossing where the grass was the longest and wettest? Her shoes and stockings were already wet, her gown already ruined. She agreed dutifully, her muslin train tattering with each step. As she walked with Sir Charles, Eleanor tried to put it out of her mind how many times Philip had walked her mother’s grove with her, listening to all of her remembrances until they became sweet rather than painful.
* * *
When she was freedfrom talk of improvements, their cost, their importance, and their meaning to a baronet who wished to be in Parliament and host many parties that would overlook his newly modernised grounds, Eleanor turned her day gown over to her lady’s maid with many apologies. Once she was dry and presentable again, Eleanor went to the library to find the book she left behind.
If Philip is there working, I shall not bother him.
When she entered, she found Vaughan with his feet on a stool and the rest of him hidden behind a newspaper. He peeked over its edge, and when he saw it was her, he smiled and gestured to the chair nearest to him.
“You, I do not mind,” he said by way of greeting. “If you stay, you will either read quietly or talk pleasantly.”
“I did not come to trouble you, you know,” she said while she took her volume of Hume and sat near him.
“Did you come to look for Brampton?”
Eleanor had enough practice in not acting affected when someone mentioned Philip. “I came to get my book, my lord.”
Vaughan nodded a tight-lipped, disbelieving smile. “Well, he has taken his mathematics to where he won’t be interrupted.”
She wondered if Philip had spoken of his affection for her, or if Vaughan could simply see it. The Tilneys and Bramptons had all known each other as children, some with bonds closer than others. Philip was friends with them all, save for Frederick. Vaughan was closest to Philip, and she was always slightly on the outside of the group, being the only girl. A gulf had widened between Frederick and Vaughan as they had grown up, and in the years since her mother died, she had grown closer to Henry. And to Philip.
“You were wise to stay inside today,” she said as a distraction.
Vaughan lifted his eyes. “I am finally out of London; I do not need the asthma to trouble me before I leave for Kent.”
Eleanor never knew what to say about the subject of the summers Vaughan spent with his married lover while her husband went elsewhere. “I wish you a pleasant time with your friends. They shall be glad to have you with them.”
“Thank you.” He folded over his newspaper and looked at it thoughtfully. Thinking he must wish to be alone, she started to part from him, but he held out a hand. “Miss Tilney, I might regret saying this—youshall wish this unsaid, but I cannot leave on Thursday, leave you and Brampton and Sir Charles—” He looked terribly uncomfortable. “Given how your father—given how you are circumstanced, the last thing I would want to do is hinder you from being your own mistress...”
Vaughan looked undecided. “My lord, whatever you wish to say,” Eleanor said, “simply speak it.”
“It is no secret that Sir Charles could be a marital prospect for you. Will you give me your honour that if you marry him, you will not tempt Brampton into adultery?”
Eleanor tried to get above the shock of being so insulted to answer him. “You assume I would forsake my wedding vows?” she said with quiet fury. “This is a disgraceful insult. Aside from what little you must think of me—”
“I think highly of you, madam.”
“—Mr Brampton is an honest man, a virtuous man—”
“Nobody denies he has those qualities, and that is why I had to speak.”
“But you deny thatIam honest, virtuous.” Eleanor felt her throat tighten and the sting of tears in her eyes. “You think I will marry to oblige my father, and then break those solemn oaths and tempt Mr Brampton into adultery!”
“I am sorry, Miss Tilney, I have done this all wrong.” The viscount looked contrite, but even if he regretted speaking his thoughts, that he had thought them at all wounded Eleanor.
