“Reginald is too blind, and you are too little in Lady Vernon’s company to see how artful she is,” Catherine protested to her husband. “One is too apt not to look beyond a gentle, frank, and even affectionate manner to see the deception beneath it.”
“And what would be the purpose of such deception?” inquired Charles.
“To reverse all that Reginald has heard of her. With that happy command of the language which is so often used to make black appear white, she has even persuaded him that she is fond of her daughter—and yet why does she come to us and leave Miss Vernon in London? How many successive springs did she divert herself in town while Miss Vernon was left in Staffordshire to the care of her governess and servants? Oh, if only she had been left rich! She would have been the object of so many lovers that she would not think to engage in a flirtation with one who is ten years younger than herself!”
Charles could make no reply, for what would his wife have said if she knew how far he had exerted to keep Lady Vernon from being left rich, and that he was attempting to promote the very union to which Catherine so strenuously objected?
chapter twenty-eight
While Lady Vernon was being abused by her sister-in-law, she and Wilson walked to the parsonage and retrieved a long letter from Frederica.
Miss Vernon to Lady Vernon
Wigmore Street, London
My dear Madam,
The separation from you, at this particular time of the year, is made bearable by the company of some friends from Staffordshire. I have had the pleasure of seeing Anne and Mary Clarke, who are now Mrs. Frank Edwards and Mrs. Phillip Edwards; they were married only two days ago, and were in town to pass a few days before departing for a honeymoon in Brighton.
Mrs. Johnson, upon learning that I had been visited by acquaintances from Staffordshire, pressed me to introduce them to her, and she invited all of us to drink tea at Edward Street. Her latest scheme is to have the sort of salon where people of fashion come together. She fills up her drawing room with people and Mr. Johnson hides away in his library. It is not my notion of conjugal felicity, but for them it appears to be a very effective arrangement.
She is as silly as ever, but I have discovered that Mr. Johnson is not the ogre that he was made out to be. On my most recent visit, Mrs. Johnson invited me to examine the library, as her husband was not at home. I was looking over an edition of Mr. Darwin’s The Botanic Garden when Mr. Johnson appeared. I immediately begged pardon, and I remarked upon the excellence of his collection, which is far superior to the library at Miss Summers’s. He made some gruff reply. “Mrs. Johnson tells me that Sir Frederick left you enough to get all the books you like—of course, there is no sum that will replace an excellent parent.” He then hemmed a bit and said that I may borrow any of his books if I promised to return them in good time, and that if Mrs. Johnson ever had more people than I could bear to put up with in her parlor, I was welcome to make use of his library.
I confess that I do not find him an ill-looking man, and if a gentleman’s taste and refinement can be inferred from his library, Mr. Johnson is a very superior person. His efforts to make some sort of conversation with me were awkward, but not at all coarse or ill bred, and after inquiring how I passed my time at Miss Summers’s, he asked whether I had any particular friends.
“I am particularly friendly with Maria Manwaring. She does not go to school, but I hope to see her now that she has accompanied her sister-in-law to town.” I did not realize my error until I had uttered the words. The gentleman gave a sort of sigh and made some remark about the evils of making a bad match.
I replied that a bad match may have been formed with the very best intentions, and that it was an unhappy situation when the penitence that the errant party must feel was aggravated by a more general censure. “And in any case,” I added (though I cannot believe my boldness in speaking so), “I do not think that the censure ought to comprehend someone who was only a child at the time of her brother’s marriage.”
Mr. Johnson hemmed once again and then said, “If this person—Miss Manwaring—is a particular friend of yours, I cannot object—indeed, I do not object to anything at all. I keep out of the way entirely. Mrs. Manwaring was a very good sort of girl at one time, but nothing will ruin a good disposition like a bad match.”
I did not think that I ought to give an opinion on the subject, so I merely thanked him again for the offer of his library and joined Mrs. Johnson once more.
My uncle was in town last week on some matter of business, and he called at Wigmore Street, but I saw nothing of him. I dare not hope that his business was anything that might benefit us or that he has had any change of heart where we are concerned—or any heart at all.
Please give my warmest regards to Miss Wilson.
Your obedient daughter,
Frederica Vernon
From the window of his study, Charles Vernon spied Lady Vernon walking slowly down the avenue, leaning upon Wilson for support. Her regular visits to Sir Frederick’s grave were becoming a source of irritation to Vernon, as he was persuaded that they were done as a reproach to him. If, he reasoned, Lady Vernon would not so regularly indulge her misery she might turn all of her energies toward the heir to Parklands, who was one of the richest young men in all of England. Her beauty had been proof against her trials, and when she exerted her full powers, there was no lady more charming. Lately, however, she chose not to exert; instead, she would spend much of the morning in her apartments or walking to the churchyard, often not joining the family until dinnertime. In the evening, her spirits did revive, but it would take more than a few hours of clever conversation after dinner to reverse the effects of many hours’ seclusion. Vernon did not doubt that Reginald admired her, but that admiration must be hurried apace to love if an offer of marriage was to be made before one or the other of them took leave of Churchill.
Lady Vernon’s lassitude was not affected to plague Charles Vernon, but rather it rose from a perplexing fatigue, which often left her not well enough to leave her apartments until after noon and with no appetite at all until dinner. She concluded that the return to a place that held both the happiest and unhappiest of memories must have the sort of violent effect upon her emotions, which, in turn, put a drain upon her health.
It was a visit to the parsonage that suggested to Lady Vernon that her symptoms might have a more astonishing origin. While she was there, Mrs. Barrett happened to call, accompanied by her eldest daughter, who was two or three years older than Frederica, and her youngest, who was a lively boy of six. As the other five Barrett children had remained at home, Lady Vernon found herself particularly struck by the great disparity in the ages of the eldest and youngest Barretts, and she began to wonder whether the enervating symptoms that had distressed her for so many weeks might be set down to something more than unhappiness and exertion.
Her first impulse was to reject the notion as impossible, and then to wonder whether it might be possible, and at last to acknowledge that it must be—that after so many years of wishing for, and at last despairing of, an addition to Sir Frederick’s family, this hope was to be fulfilled at the most incongruous time!