13 Difficult Times

A t dinner that evening, Izzy was firmly detached from any of the men who seemed inclined to crave her company, and placed between Ruth Plowman's sister and a stiff-backed aunt of Sydney's who looked her up and down superciliously, and then ostentatiously turned away from her. Izzy always relished a challenge, however, so she set herself to entertain the sister to the utmost of her ability.

Miss Marion Plowman was a shy girl who said little and appeared terrified to find herself in such company. One of the cousins on her other side helped her to food, and although she thanked him readily enough, she initiated no conversation with him, and he soon lost interest in her, leaving her to Izzy. Her first thought was to draw the girl out a little.

"Where did you live before you moved here, Miss Plowman?"

"Carlisle."

"An interesting place. I have been there two or three times, and always found some amusement there. Did you reside in the city itself, or somewhere nearby?"

"In the city."

"Very wise. The country is pleasant enough in summer, but in the winter, there is nothing like a town, properly provided with pavements, of course, for keeping one sane. There is always some entertainment to be found, even in bad weather, whereas in the country an inch of snow means that everyone shuts themselves away by the fire, too timid to venture out. Your father's business was nearby, I take it?"

"Pa's got mills all over the north," she said, with obvious pride. She had the same accent as her sister, perhaps a shade more muted, but she spoke in an odd, slow way, with pauses so long between words sometimes that Izzy wondered if another one was coming at all.

"And do you miss city life — the assemblies, the theatre, card parties, dinners with good friends?"

"Oh, no!" she said, sounding almost shocked. "I love it here. I walk a lot. The air is… invigorating."

Izzy laughed. "You mean the wind howls round."

"I like wind. I like rain too."

"Then no wonder you enjoy living here. But you must miss all your friends."

"I have no friends. Only family. Ruth, mostly."

She said it without a hint of shame, as if it were commonplace to have no friends. Izzy was shocked beyond measure, for she could not imagine having no friends at all. She had a little notebook with the directions of all her acquaintances, and almost every page was filled. She already had a second book waiting to be filled likewise.

"And is Ruth your best friend?" She nodded. "You will miss her when she marries."

She shook her head. "I'll go with her." But she threw an anxious glance towards her sister on the other side of the table.

"Until you marry yourself, I suppose," Izzy said.

"Oh, no! I'll never marry…" A long pause, as she struggled for a word. "Never!"

Well, that was a very decided opinion. Izzy could see that she was a shy creature, and not especially pretty, but there was bound to be a man who would find her attractive, especially if her father had more fields to tempt a suitor.

It was tiring work trying to extract information from a girl who clearly found conversation a labour, so Izzy set herself to entertain. Since Marion enjoyed country life, it was outdoor escapades which rose to her mind. She described the rides with humiliating tumbles, the picnics spoilt by rain, the fishing expeditions where someone fell in and the carriage drives where one or other dashing curricle driver had ended in a ditch. She soon had Marion giggling. Since some of these tales featured Sydney, and since half the table stopped talking to listen, he was soon the focus of much good-natured raillery.

"If you go on in this way much longer, Lady Farramont," he called from across the table, "you will have Miss Marion Plowman believing that I am an incompetent buffoon." He smiled as he spoke, but there was an air of affront in his tone.

"Very well, sir, I shall embarrass you no further," Izzy said. "Let your experiences stand as an awful warning to young men who think to impress young ladies with their daring exploits, that they should practise assiduously first."

"Let them stand also as a warning to young ladies," he shot back, "not to encourage young men to attempt such daring exploits."

"Oh, but I won handsomely by your failures, for I got excessively good odds," Izzy said demurely, raising a ripple of laughter around the table. "Besides, what are we here for but to provide amusement for our fellows?"

"You are provoking me to amuse the company with some of your exploits, Izzy," he said archly. "That would pay you back in your own coin, would it not?"

"Indeed it would, and I could have no complaint to make in having the tables turned on me so comprehensively, but I do not think we should try the patience of the company by talking across the table any longer. It is abominably rude, and for my part I apologise profusely."

He laughed. "Very clever, Izzy, but I shall have my revenge later, you may be sure. Yes, Mother, I am done. Pray forgive me."

With more laughter, the company returned to more general conversation, and Izzy found herself the focus now of the aunt's attention, drawing her away from Marion Plowman, who sat through the rest of the meal in silence.

Once again, Izzy was dispatched to the instrument when the ladies retired. Tonight the card tables were deployed early, so as the gentlemen returned in twos and threes, they were scooped up and steered to tables before any of them could launch into a song.

She understood it well. A wife cut loose from her moorings was a clear threat to any men of amorous tendencies, in the eyes of their wives. She had not the remotest interest in any of them, not even Sydney any longer, except as a foil for her to exercise her own conversational powers, but there was no convincing the women of that. In the circles where she normally moved, her liveliness was valued — indeed, she was invited everywhere because of it. But the Davenports were in many ways disagreeably provincial. Such behaviour only served to convince her the more that Sydney would never have suited her.

After a while, she noticed that Ruth Plowman was sitting quietly nearby, listening to the music thoughtfully. When she came to the end of the present piece, Izzy rose and went to sit beside her.

"Not playing cards, Miss Plowman?"

"Not tonight. I'd like a walk on the terrace, I think. Do you want to come?"

"That would be pleasant."

They fetched shawls against the wind, and then found the one corner of the terrace that offered some shelter. There they sat on a marble bench.

"What is on your mind?" Izzy said gently.

"This wedding," Ruth said bluntly. "I don't want it at all. I never did, but Pa persuaded me, and… well, he's used to having his way, and it's not as if Sydney's old or ugly. I can't object to him as a man. But he only wants me for that wretched field—"

"Two fields and some trees," Izzy said.

Ruth laughed. "Aye! And now that you've made me see how demeaning that is, I don't want him at all. But Pa says if I don't have him, he'll make Marion take him, and she doesn't have the strength to stand up to Pa, so she'll end up doing what he wants and hating it."

"Would she hate it?" Izzy said thoughtfully. "I can see that she might be wary of marriage in general, but there are worse fates in life than to be married to Sydney Davenport. I almost married him myself, so I cannot quite see that it would be any sort of punishment. Sydney has the ability to make any woman happy, it seems to me."

"It's not that side of it that bothers her. It's the rest of it — running a house like this, managing the servants, entertaining… It's daunting."

"Is it?"

Ruth chuckled. "It's all very well for the likes of you who were born to it, and I'll have a go at anything and not mind if I get into a muddle just at first, but Marion's not like that. She's awful shy, my lady, and she's had problems talking all her life. Not just knowing what to talk about, but actually getting the words out at all. She's not stupid, but she's not suited to being the wife of a proper gentleman like Sydney. But come Friday, one or other of us is going to have to marry him."

"But the banns have been read for you ," Izzy said. "No one can simply change one bride for another. If you refuse to marry Sydney, the banns will have to be read all over again for your sister."

She shook her head. "Pa's thought of that. He's got a licence for Marion. He went to Carlisle for it, weeks ago, when I had a wobbly moment."

"Well, he is a very determined man, but a lady can be determined, too. No one can force you to marry against your will."

"Easy for you to say," Ruth said ruefully. "I suppose no one ever made you do anything against your will. I could stand up to him, but Marion can't, and I don't know what to do about it. I suppose I'll marry him myself, in the end."

"Well, it seems foolish to me," Izzy said impatiently. "Marriage is too important to be left to other people to decide. But if you truly want to avoid this marriage, then you have only three options. Firstly, you can stiffen your sister's spine so that you stand united in refusing to wed."

Ruth shook her head sadly.

"Alternatively, you can persuade Sydney to back away."

"I have already jilted him, and he seems undeterred. He told my father just before dinner that he regards himself as bound, and he will marry whichever of us arrives at church on Friday."

"Oh, for heaven's sake! That man is hopeless! Well, then, only one course remains open to you. You must do what I always do in times of difficulty — run away."

"What? How can I possibly do that?"

Izzy stood up, too irritated to sit still any longer. "Then I wash my hands of you, Ruth Plowman. You will marry Sydney on Friday to spare your sister, and you will all three of you spend the rest of your lives wondering if you made the right choice, and believe me, that is like living constantly under clouds, knowing that in a different life you might have walked in perpetual sunshine. I do not wish that for anyone."

"No," Ruth said slowly. "I don't mean that I don't want to run away. I mean how can I? How can it be done?"

"Ah," Izzy said, smiling. "In that case, you may leave everything to me."

***

I an gazed at Harringdon Hall, so starkly modern, with its stately tree-lined drive and fashionable landscaped parkland, complete with an extensive lake. The two wings to either side of the house gave it an imposing frontage, and extra accommodation. Perhaps Izzy would like something of the sort at Stonywell? If he could ever get her back there, of course.

The brightly-painted carriage with the coat of arms on the door attracted immediate attention. A footman rushed out first, then a second, and finally the butler.

"Rumble, is it not? I remember you from Bruton Street. How are you keeping? And Mrs Rumble?"

"Very well, my lord. Both of us very fortunate as to health. Most gracious of you to enquire. Ah, such happy days in town! I well remember you and the young master going off to balls and such like. The family has not made the journey south for some years now. Are you staying with us, my lord?" he added, eyeing the boxes on the back of the carriage.

"I cannot say at present. Is Mr Sydney Davenport at home? Or if not, perhaps Mr or Mrs Davenport would see me."

"I shall enquire, my lord. Please step into the hall out of this wind."

The hall was the usual affair, with modern tiling and some statuary that Ian thought inferior to that at Stonywell. There were a couple of good paintings in niches, however. He was examining one of them closely when he heard steps behind him.

"Do you like it?"

He turned to see Sydney Davenport's smiling face. "I do, yes. Someone has excellent taste."

"My father. Heavens, Farramont, it is good to see you!" He caught sight of the carriage through the window. "That is a very… er, smart carriage. Not your usual restrained style at all."

"It is Izzy's, which she abandoned in Durham. I thought she might like to have it back whenever she tires of hired post chaises."

"You have just missed her. She left on Wednesday."

Ah. So that was one question answered, and Ian could not decide whether it was good news or bad. If she had left, then she had not reached an understanding with Davenport, but that could only mean she had set her hopes on Osborn. He had always been the greatest threat.

Davenport went on, "She has gone to Lochmaben. Her mother is there, so it will be quite a family reunion."

"Lady Rennington is there? That is excellent news. Perhaps she and the duchess between them can exercise a calming influence on Izzy. But she was travelling with Mrs Hearle and a Mr O Bayton. Did they go with her?"

"Izzy arrived with Sophie Hearle, it is true, but she is still here." Davenport frowned. "I think you must be mistaken about Bayton. Sophie's brother is recovering from illness somewhere."

Ah, Sophie Hearle's brother . That was why the name was so familiar — she was Miss Bayton before her marriage. He had a vague memory of a colourless girl trailing in Izzy's wake five years ago, but then they were all colourless beside Izzy.

"That was the name in the inn register."

"There was a manservant with them, a rough-looking fellow by the name of Barty. Perhaps you misread the name. He accompanied them to Lochmaben and returned on Thursday. No, Izzy went off with Miss Plowman and Miss Marion Plowman."

Ian gazed at him, stunned. "Who?"

Davenport laughed. "Come into my book room and I shall tell you all about it. You find us as agitated as a stirred anthill, and all because of your wife. Are you staying? You will not go on to Lochmaben tonight, surely?"

He could perhaps reach there before dinner, but he would need a change of horses. "How far is it? And where is the next posting inn on the road north?"

"Twenty miles to Lochmaben, and fourteen miles to the inn, and I cannot even offer you any of our horses, for they are all out today. Do stay! I am sorely in need of a friendly face, for we are all at odds with each other."

"It seems I will have to stay, if you have room for me. Perhaps the room that Izzy had?"

"That can be arranged. Sophie Hearle was sharing with her, but she preferred a smaller room, so Izzy's room is empty just now."

He gave the orders, and then led Ian through a curved colonnade to one of the wings of the house. Davenport's study was a small corner room, looking out over a part of the lake. He pushed a glass of Madeira into Ian's hand, then sat him in one of a pair of leather chairs on either side of the empty hearth.

"Now, where shall I start?" Davenport said. "Izzy was only here for two days, but she managed to disrupt all our carefully laid plans."

Ian gave a bark of laughter. "That sounds like Izzy. Tell me first who the Miss Plowmans are."

He listened quietly as Davenport told the story, surprised by Davenport succumbing to a pragmatic marriage, but entirely unsurprised by Izzy's part in events. He had already had to smooth over the disruption at Harfield Priory after her secretive departure, and then settle Marsden's outraged feelings. It was utterly in keeping to find the same trail of devastation here.

But there were still unanswered questions. "The Miss Plowmans left willingly with Izzy, I take it? She did not kidnap them, or anything?"

Davenport almost choked on his Madeira. "Ha! A very pretty idea you have of your wife! No, amusing as that would have been, she did not need to kidnap them, for they went with her freely. They each took a portmanteau of clothes and waited at the bottom of the drive for the carriage. She had borrowed our travelling carriage, so it was large enough for all three of them. We knew nothing about it until they were looked for before dinner. James Coachman returned the next day with a letter for Mr Plowman. He, of course, flew into a towering rage. He has gone to Lochmaben to try to get the girls back, but I imagine the duchess will be a match for him. Not that it will help him even if he brings them back. If a woman is so desperate to escape matrimony with me that she runs away, nothing would prevail on me to marry her under such circumstances."

That cut like a knife! Was that not precisely what Izzy had done — run away to escape matrimony with Ian? But he would not think about that. He would not give up until all hope was lost.

"I should have been married by now," Davenport went on morosely. "Yesterday, it was to have been, and there should have been a ball last night to celebrate. Now we have an ocean of white soup to drink and a mountain of lobster patties, and no one to eat them. Half my relations have gone home in high dudgeon, taking their wedding gifts with them, Mrs Plowman has been weeping incessantly and my parents…" He sighed heavily. "They seem to have aged ten years in the past two days, and they were both in poor health already."

"Did they want this marriage so badly, then?"

"They want me to marry someone , to produce the necessary son and heir. I am the only son, so—"

"I have never understood this obsession with sons," Ian said sharply. "You have cousins, Davenport. The line will not go extinct if you have no son of your own."

"I know, I know, but the desire for grandchildren of their own eats away at them. And then there is this land that Plowman has offered for Ruth's dowry. It used to be part of the estate, many years ago, and Father is obsessed with bringing it back into the fold before he dies. You may say it is absurd, and I would agree with you, but there is no convincing my father of it."

"Why not simply buy the land?"

"Too expensive. We have not your resources, Farramont. So you see how we are placed here. I do not blame Izzy, for she only spoke her mind, after all, but it cannot be denied that we are in a sad state. I am very glad to have you here, though, for we can end the evening with brandy and maudlin reminiscences, and remember a time when life was not so damnably difficult ."