“Exactly so. Then it will not be thought odd if we travel there together. We will need to stop one night on the road and there, fuelled perhaps by too much claret, I reveal that I have long nurtured a secret passion for you. To my astonishment, you admit to similar feelings for me. Thrilled by our new-found love, when we arrive in Oxford we impulsively obtain a bishop’s licence and marry immediately. There! What do you think?”
She had to smile at his eagerness. “It’s ingenious, certainly. The secrecy part… yes, that will work very well, for we are both private people who don’t show our feelings readily.”
“Precisely!” he cried happily. “Then you like the idea? We can polish it up a little on the way to Oxford.”
“I’m not sure about the impulsive marriage, however.”
“Oh.” His face dropped immediately. “You do not think it believable?”
“We’re neither of us impulsive by nature, or at least, we’ve given the rest of the world no reason to think us so. In such a situation, suddenly discovering that a regard is entirely reciprocated, an entirely unforeseen circumstance, one might indeed act impulsively. After all, we’re both of age, so there’s no need to wait. But it would raise questions, I believe, and that’s what I fear the most.”
“Ah. Then I must think again,” he said, his expression downcast.
“I think the story only needs to be modified a very little to make it entirely credible. We can say that we decided, upon reflection, that we didn’t want the fuss that would inevitably arise, and so we decided to marry at once to forestall it. Whichhas the virtue of being true,” she added. “At least this way, if there is a fuss about wedding clothes and so forth, it will be after the wedding.”
“Yes… yes… no fuss. I like that. And it is certainly the case that we should both hate it. Do you think there will indeed be a great to-do about it?”
“I’m afraid so,” she said. “The Merrington ladies love a wedding.”
He rubbed his face with his hands. “We must bear it as best we can, I suppose.”
***
Lance was amused to find Charlotte Merrington becoming increasingly responsive to his flirtation. Whether it was the competition from the squire’s daughters or simply her own inclination, she now hovered around him like a persistent wasp. She was deeply involved in the running of the household, but it was surprising how often her duties brought her to the precise room where Lance was. If he was at his easel, she would be tidying the flower arrangements in the library. When he went to the still room to clean his brushes, she materialised out of nowhere to help him and within a few days had taken on the task entirely. If he sat in a quiet parlour to write letters, she would be flicking a duster about. In the evenings, she openly recruited him to sit beside her at dinner, and hung about him afterwards. One day, when he had borrowed a carriage to go into Brinchester, she found an excuse to accompany him there. Most worryingly, she no longer reminded him that he was engaged, and he felt obliged to do the reminding himself, by mentioning Patience at every opportunity.
In truth, he was not best pleased with Patience just then, for he had still had no further reply from her, and he was beginningto wonder whether she might be regretting their betrothal. She would not be the first girl of eighteen to cry off, but that would not make the humiliation any easier to bear. Even now, he was suffering from her neglect, for the lack of letters had been noticed.
“Three letters for you today, Lance,” Charlotte said, putting her head round the door of the breakfast parlour. It was the middle of the afternoon, and he had sought refuge there to compose yet another letter to his betrothed. “Do you want them here or shall I just leave them on the hall table? Or I can take them up to your room, if you like.”
“I will have them here,” he said, just a little too eagerly.
“Your mother, your eldest sister and the dotty aunt in Plymouth. Still nothing from Lady Patience.”
His spirits plummeted. What was the matter with the girl? Why did she not write?
“I expect she is having too gay a time to write letters,” Lottie said. “Is she still at Holtwell Abbey?”
Lance had to confess that he had no idea. “Probably she is at Pentavon by now,” he said. “I wonder if she is ill?”
“Her mother would write if there were anything of that nature,” Lottie said comfortably. “I am sure she is perfectly well, just… too busy to think about her beloved, hard at work in Brinshire.”
“I am busy, too, but I still find time to write to her,” Lance said waspishly. “I thought women were supposed to be better letter writers than men.”
“They are, as a rule,” Lottie said. “Even if your Patience is one of the exceptions, I wonder at her not even making the effort for you. IfIwere engaged, I should be thinking about my future husband every moment of every day, and if we were apart, I should be writing to him constantly. But there, we are alldifferent, I suppose. I do not mean to criticise her, for I am sure she is all that you describe her.”
But when she had gone and Lance opened his other letters, he felt for the first time a twinge of real alarm.
After the usual family news, his mother wrote,‘Dearest boy, I have received some information which concerns you, or rather it concerns Lady Patience. We dined recently with the Braxwells, and Lady Braxwell is friendly with the Wiltshire Staverleys. They are cousins of some sort, I am hazy on the exact connection. The Staverleys were at Holtwell Abbey recently, and noticed Lady Patience much in company with a Mr William Pardow, heir to Viscount Pardow. He was much enamoured of her, and she did nothing to discourage him, according to Mrs Staverley. She was astonished to hear that the lady is already spoken for. I do not suppose there is anything to worry you in such a report, for in such a large and no doubt lively company, it is easy to mistake matters and make incorrect assumptions, and I am sure that Mrs Staveley has misunderstood the situation. However, I think it proper to inform you of the report.”
He was thoughtful as he dressed for dinner that evening.
“What do you make of this?” he said to Denny, passing him the letter to read while he tied his cravat.
“Hmm. I always did think the whole business was smoky.”
“I know what you think, but Patience is engaged now, so what game is she playing? I cannot like this.”
Denny sat on the bed, rereading the letter. “I see nothing here to raise alarm. She is enjoying a mild flirtation, that is all, just as you are, my suspicious friend.”
