Your devoted husband,
Charles Vernon
Sir Reginald’s letter to his wife was more to the point; they had so little to say to each other that even the most significant communication did not extend beyond a concise disclosure of the facts.
Sir deCourcy to Lady deCourcy
Berkeley Square, London
My dear wife,
You have long looked toward the prospect of Reginald’s marriage and you will be pleased to know that all of the prudent encouragement has not been given in vain. Reginald has made an offer to Miss Vernon and she has accepted him. I have given my consent, and Lady Vernon has likewise given her blessing. I will leave it to Reginald to solicit yours, and will trouble you for a few lines to Miss Vernon and her mother.
Your devoted husband, etc.,
Reginald deCourcy
Charles Vernon had spent so freely that the portion he agreed to settle on his niece represented more than half of what remained of the money bequeathed by his brother. His desire to preserve it long enough for Catherine to come to London and coax her father back into prudence and sense had him fabricating some urgent business at Churchill Manor. He could not meet with Sir Reginald’s agents and attorneys while he was in Sussex, and so immediately after dispatching his letter to Catherine, he made some remarks about a matter of business at the family estate that could not be resolved by correspondence and required his immediate attention. He promised to return in three or four days’ time, which, he calculated, was all that would be allowed for Catherine to receive his letter, apprehend the urgency of their situation, and come to town.
Reginald arrived at Berkeley Square to find Charles gone and his father engaged with his uncle, so he decided to call at Portland Place. His carriage drew up beside Sir James’s and the two gentlemen greeted each other and were admitted together.
Sir James was at once aware of some disruption in the household, for the footman’s livery was half-buttoned and his wig askew, and Miss Wilson appeared from below with a shawl thrown over her nightdress and a tea tray in her hands.
“Miss Wilson!” Sir James cried. “What is the matter?”
She immediately handed her tray to the footman with orders that he take it up and ask Lady Martin to come down, then showed the gentlemen into the drawing room. She bade them sit, in a manner that did credit to her self-command.
“What is the matter?” Sir James demanded once more, with more feeling than civility. “Why is there no fire? Why are the drapes still drawn? Has someone been taken ill?”
Lady Martin bustled into the room, her dress disordered and her hair hastily tucked under a cap. Her face revealed her exhaustion, but her eyes were bright and her expression joyful. “What do you mean by coming upon us so early—it is only eleven o’clock! Why do you not stay in bed until noon anymore? You mean to become steady and sensible just to plague me. If it is your influence, Mr. deCourcy, I cannot protest. Come, sir, and we will have a comfortable chat—for my Frederica has only just got to sleep and I do not think you would have me wake her. As for you, James, you may go to Susan—she is very comfortable now, and when she heard that you had come, she decided that she would as soon see you now as later—but you must not keep her long, for she is very weak and will not stand much conversation.”
Sir James, filled with notions of influenza and putrid fever, hurried to his cousin’s apartments, not even stopping to knock on the door before he entered. He found Frederica fast asleep upon the sofa and Susan sitting up in her bed, her beautiful face very pale, and holding a bundle in her arms.
Sir James’s shock cannot be described, but his self-command, always concealed by his facade of merriment and nonsense, rose to support him, and drawing a chair beside her, he looked at her searchingly, assuring himself that she was not in danger, and then turned his gaze upon the child.
“Well!” he declared, attempting to affect his old buoyancy of tone. “Who is this? I beg you to introduce me, cousin.”
“May I present you to your cousin, James Frederick Vernon.”
“Excellent! You must let me hold him—have no fear, I will not break him—there! You are surprised, no doubt, that I know how to hold an infant—it is a delightful thing to have everyone think one so trifling and silly, their expression of surprise when one says or does anything in a sensible fashion is excessively diverting. What an excellent little fellow! I declare, he has the Martin forehead and the Vernon chin! Why, what will this mean for Frederick’s line? The little fellow must precede Vernon—and do you know what that means?”
“I do.” Lady Vernon smiled.
“‘I do’—an excellent phrase. And as you, young man, are now the head of the family, I would be very happy to hear it from you. I ask your consent to marry your mother. I have asked once, but your mother—for some unaccountable reason—put me off. She seemed to think that some mysterious and unacceptable circumstance might come to pass that would make me regret my offer! But if you approve me, she cannot refuse. See how he grasps my finger! He has given his blessing—it is how an infant will express his consent, I am quite sure of it. What a perceptive little fellow he is! I declare, he can all but talk, but if he could I am certain that when I asked him if he would consent to our marriage, he would say ‘I do.’”
chapter sixty-two
Charles Vernon had gone to Churchill Manor with every intention of wringing from it all the income he could, and a sincere desire to apply himself, at this late date, toward the administration of the family property. The desire was stronger than the sincerity, and had he behaved as he ought, and come into his inheritance honorably, he would nonetheless have been ill equipped for the responsibility.
He returned to London full of plans for exploiting his last resource to find Sir Reginald gone to call upon Lady Vernon, and a letter from Catherine.
Mrs. Charles Vernon to Mr. Vernon
Parklands Manor, Kent
My dear husband,
Your letter surprised me beyond measure. Can it be true that Reginald and Frederica are engaged? Perhaps Lady Vernon’s ill health has been the result of her parting with Reginald—yet while it is far better than if Reginald had married Lady Vernon, I am equally confounded by his credulity and her pretense, for I must think that her eagerness to come to Parklands was only to understand precisely how rich the wife of Reginald deCourcy must be—and having succeeded in ingratiating herself with Reginald’s parents, she set out to steal him away from her mother. It seems that she is Lady Vernon’s daughter after all.
My mother is very angry that you have provided our niece with a dowry—she is quite of your opinion that it is unnecessary, and a very great imposition, as she is enriched at the expense of little Frederick, Kitty, and Regina. In fact, she is so angry as to insist that we think of changing Frederick’s name to something else, as she does not wish to hear anything like “Frederica.”
In her present state, she cannot think of coming to town—even in her happiest disposition, London is odious to her, and with all of the talk of influenza, I do not think it would be a fit place for the children. In any case, we should likely no sooner be settled than my father’s spell of good health would give way, and we would all be compelled to return to Kent—but as you are no longer with the banking house, why may you not come to us?