10 Dinner At Landerby

"What are you doing?" Bertram hissed, as they weaved through the crowds filling the saloon. "He is not on the list!"

"He is a lord and unmarried," Bea hissed back.

"But not on the list." He drew her aside into a quieter corner of the room. "Trust me, Lord Grayling is not looking for a wife."

"Mama says that no man ever is, right up to the point he proposes. Besides, the duke said he has an eye for the ladies, so that means—"

"Bea, if we are to succeed in our objective, you must listen to my advice. Grayling is not hanging out for a wife, and if you persist in flirting with him so outrageously—"

"I was not flirting with him!"

"Well… allowing him to flirt with you, then, you will not only be wasting your time, you will put off the ones who are on the list. No man likes to know that he is a woman's second choice. Come and meet Medhurst and Brockscombe, and get to know them before you start homing in on a particular target. But no flirting, mind — just be yourself."

Before they reached them, however, a slender man with dark hair jumped in front of them. "Atherton! Is this the neighbour you told us about? Won't you introduce me?" His accent was marked, but Bea could not quite place it — somewhere in the south of England was all she could say for certain.

"Of course," Bertram said, but the tone was clipped. "Miss Franklyn, allow me to present Mr Herbert Fielding, the newly installed parson of… where is it?"

"Higher Brinford in Brinshire… somewhere between Staffordshire and Shropshire, and I'm not installed yet. The wheels turn very slowly in ecclesiastical matters. How do you do, Miss Franklyn. Delighted to make your acquaintance, quite delighted. I hope you're pleased with Landerby Manor?"

Before Bea could answer, Bertram cut in impatiently, "Yes, yes, but I have promised to introduce Medhurst and Brockscombe to Miss Franklyn, and you are holding us up, Fielding."

"We shall have plenty of opportunities to talk, Mr Fielding," Bea said kindly, even as Bertram tugged at her arm, and muttered, "Come along!"

Lord Thomas Medhurst was a pleasantly-featured man who smiled benignly at her but his eyes often slid past her to gaze about the room. Viscount Brockscombe was far more attentive, a tall, well-built man with a jolly face and booming voice, who paid her florid compliments while busily exercising his wit at the expense of others in the room, then laughing at his own humour. Since Mr Fielding had followed them, and joined in with his own more subtle style of wit, Bea was kept well entertained until they were summoned to dinner.

This was held in the echoing Great Hall, the stone floor and great height of the ceiling making it feel cool after the crowded and overheated saloon. Bea found herself with Lord Thomas on one side of her and Lord Brockscombe on the other, which she suspected was exactly as Bertram had intended. He was directly opposite her, with one of the duchess's plain cousins on either side of him. Mr Fielding was on that side, too, waving cheerfully at her as he took his place. The marquess, still looking bewildered as if he was not sure quite what he was doing there, was seated beside the duchess, with one of the very pretty girls on his other side, smiling winsomely at him and throwing triumphant glances at some of the other girls less fortunately situated. Her eye fell on Bea, hesitated momentarily, then passed on, uninterested.

The meal passed slowly. Lord Thomas spent most of it ogling the very pretty girl beside the marquess, who tossed her blonde curls and laughed every time the poor fellow opened his mouth. Viscount Brockscombe was better company, for he teased Bea unmercifully with every tired jest about Yorkshire that he could think of, but at least he was attentive, and very willing to fetch her this and that dish to try. When she could divert his mind into other channels, he was helpful in identifying the other guests.

"Who is the blonde girl beside the marquess?" she asked him in a low voice.

"That is Grayling's sister, the Honourable Miss Grayling. Did you not meet her in town this spring? She has just made her come out."

"I never saw her, that I can remember. We move in different circles."

"Yes, that would be it. She never got vouchers for Almack's, and Grayling was outraged by that, positively snarling about the Patronesses, but one has to behave to be admitted there. Since Grayling has been reviling them all over town for years for excluding his older sister, it was not very likely that they would take the younger to their bosoms, is it? She failed to take, too, which was another crime to set at their door, apparently."

"I did not take either," Bea said uncomfortably. "Not everyone does."

"Oh, indeed. Or wants to, I dare say," Lord Brockscombe said easily, not at all discomfited. "But Grayling had been touting it that she was bound to make a great match the instant she set foot in town, so it was a blow to his pride that she did not."

"She is so pretty," Bea sighed. "I cannot imagine why she did not have suitors three deep around her."

The viscount laughed, and raised an eyebrow. "You think men only look for beauty in a wife, do you? Hmm." He glanced at his friend, whose eyes were still fixed on Miss Grayling. "Well, some do, perhaps, but most of us are more sensible, and look for other qualities — a large fortune, for instance. A hundred thousand pounds trumps a pretty face any day of the week."

He laughed at his joke, or at least Bea hoped it was a joke. And yet, was that any different from her own attitude? She was attempting to trade her forty thousand pounds for a title, and as high a rank as possible, so she could hardly blame a man who bore a title for looking for a wealthy wife. That was the way of the world, but it left an unpleasant taste in the mouth, nevertheless. For the first time, she wondered at her own ruthlessness. Was it really so important to be Lady Something? Would it not be just as wonderful to be Mrs Something, so long as he was a gentleman? It was the man attached to the name that mattered, surely? Was it not?

And yet, if it were all about character, how was she to judge? It was all so difficult!

***

The evening at Landerby Manor drifted gradually to an end. The ladies retired soon after midnight, and although some of the men were still playing cards and seemed to be settling in for the night, Bertram and his friends took the opportunity to retreat to their bedchamber. In the early days of their gatherings, when only the dozen or so enthusiasts had attended, Landerby Manor had been so neglected that they had been obliged to squeeze into the few weatherproof rooms. The chapel had served as study, dining room and saloon, and three large bedrooms in the east wing acted as dormitories. The habit had stuck, and even though many more rooms had been made habitable, Bertram, Medhurst, Brockscombe and Fielding still shared a room, comfortably provided with ancient and patched old chairs and a tray of decanters. With brandy poured, they settled down to discuss the evening.

"So tell us more about Miss Franklyn," Fielding said eagerly. "Her father is here, I noticed."

"And her stepmother, Lady Esther," Bertram said. "Daughter of the Duke of Camberley. What do you want to know about Miss Franklyn?"

"Why isn't she married?" Fielding said, which made the others laugh.

"She is not very pretty," Medhurst said, pulling a face. "Almost as bad as that fish-faced heiress… what was her name?"

"Miss Hutchison, and you're far too fastidious," Fielding said. "Miss Franklyn has far more interesting qualities — liveliness, for instance. Atherton, did you get a single word out of those two inanimate objects sitting beside you at dinner?"

"The Miss Pikesleys are not strong conversationalists, it is true," Bertram said with a shrug. "They are restful dinner companions, however."

"Who wants restfulness when one could have Miss Franklyn?" Fielding said. "Give me a girl with a bit of life in her any day, and she has such a sweet smile. Don't you agree, Atherton?"

"I have never thought about it before, but… yes, she does," Bertram said, rather surprised by the discovery.

"So why is she not married?"

"She was betrothed to my cousin Walter for some time, but that fell through so—"

"Wait — which is Walter? The middle one?"

"No, the eldest. That fell through, as I say, and so Miss Franklyn was at rather a loose end and I invited her here to make some new acquaintances."

"Why did it fall through?"

"Does it matter?" Bertram said testily. "Circumstances change, that is all."

"I believe it does matter," Fielding said, sipping his brandy thoughtfully. "I should not want to waste my time pursuing her if she is a flighty minx who will lead me on and then drop me without notice, but I believe she would suit me very well, and now that I have a living and six hundred a year—"

"My good friend, I am very sorry to disillusion you, but Miss Franklyn has forty thousand pounds and is not destined for a country parsonage, I assure you."

Fielding's face fell. "Ah, what a pity. Still, I may enjoy that lovely smile for the next month, even if not thereafter. But she would do for one of you fellows, with a fortune like that. Medhurst, as a younger son, such a sum would be very useful."

"It certainly would."

"Does that make her a little prettier?" Fielding said mischievously.

Medhurst had the grace to look a little ashamed. "I can certainly allow her to have a sweet smile under such circumstances. Oh, to have a fortune of my own, and be able to marry where I please!"

"Which would be Miss Grayling, no doubt," Bertram said. "What is her portion?"

"Five thousand!" Medhurst said in despairing tones. "A mere trifle, and not enough for me, even if she could take her eyes off Embleton for long enough to notice me."

"Ah, the trials of a young man contemplating matrimony," Bertram said lightly. "Take my advice and steer clear of the wedded state. It is far better for one's peace of mind."

"It is all very well for you, Atherton," Medhurst said. "You need not whistle for funds, and you have never been in the petticoat line, so you remain above the fray. But for those of us who value the opposite sex and would like nothing better than to share our lives with one, it is far too difficult to find one who has the appropriate combination of rank, fortune and appearance."

"You make such heavy weather of it," Brockscombe said. "It is obvious how we should proceed. Medhurst, you must marry Miss Hutchison and her hundred thousand pounds, a sum which will easily compensate for any lack of beauty, and Fielding may marry Miss Grayling, whose modest portion is well suited to a parson's wife."

"And what about you?" Fielding said.

"Why, I am going to marry Miss Franklyn, of course," Brockscombe said.

He grinned at them, and Fielding and Medhurst railed at his choices with great fluency until the brandy decanter ran dry. Only Bertram was silent, unaccountably unsettled by all this discussion of Bea. This was what he had wanted, after all, for her to marry one of his friends. So why did he now feel so uneasy about it?

***

Bea woke early, restless and discontented. Even the weather was downcast that morning, for rain fell steadily, blurring the panes so that the view from the windows was reduced to muted shades of brown and green, with no distinguishing features. She paced about her room until Harper came to dress her, and then went down to breakfast with her parents.

Her stepmother was deep in conversation with the duchess for the whole meal. The gentlemen rose to leave one by one, her father amongst them, and other ladies came and went, but the two remained side by side, their voices a low murmur. From what Bea could hear, it was all domestic matters — sheets and coals and the dinner, and something about musicians. That was promising! Perhaps there would be dancing.

"Mama, shall I—?"

"Oh!" Her stepmother looked up, startled. "Are you still here, Beatrice? I shall be occupied with her grace for some time yet. You can find something with which to occupy yourself, I am sure. Your tapestry, perhaps."

"Might I take some exercise in the Long Gallery, Mama?"

"An excellent idea, but do not overtire yourself. The other ladies will be in the saloon when you have finished."

Eagerly she rose, and, knowing now how to find her way about, made her way to the gallery. It was rather a beautiful room, she decided, divided into three by sets of elegant pillars and with a prettily decorated ceiling. Without the glorious afternoon sun, the room was less magical but it was easier to admire the little lacquered cabinets and Chinese vases that were dotted about. In front of the hearth was an intricately carved wooden fire screen and a dusty harp stood forlornly in a corner.

She had made four circuits and was about to begin a fifth when a burst of male laughter drew her notice. Where had that come from? The eastern end of the gallery, she thought. With hasty steps, she made her way there but all was quiet again… no, she could dimly discern a voice, just one this time. But another burst of laughter told the story — the noise emanated from behind the door at the furthest end of the gallery.

Creeping nearer, she tentatively turned the knob. It squeaked violently, but another burst of noise concealed it. She pushed, it opened, and immediately the noise was all around her. Or rather, below her, for she was in a little gallery above the chapel. Tiptoeing further in, she could look down on the rows of chairs and the tops of the men's heads. They were facing forwards, towards where the altar should be, where Mr Fielding was declaiming with great spirit — in Latin. Now and then, someone from the audience would make a remark, also in Latin, and the crowd would laugh or jeer or murmur approving noises. And sometimes Mr Fielding would say something which brought on the laughter.

And oh, what fun it looked! How she longed to know what they were saying, and why it was funny or sometimes not funny at all. Occasionally she caught a familiar word — ‘Caesar' was mentioned several times, and she knew all about him! Or rather, them, for were there not several Caesars? And quite a few words sounded like they had come from one of her Italian songs. Not that she knew any Italian, for Mama had made her learn the songs by rote, but she recognised the words, even if she had no idea what they meant.

There were several dusty chairs in the little gallery, so she cleaned one with her handkerchief and sat down to listen, mesmerised, as the ancient words rolled about in the air. Very foreign to her ears, but some of the gentlemen put a lilt to them that reminded her of the Italian singers she had heard perform in London or, once, at Marshfields. The signora had stayed for several days, performing each evening but eating with the family, and her accent, even when she spoke English, had had just that cadence. No, that was not quite right. Some of the words sounded vaguely familiar, but the rhythm was different. It was intriguing! How she wished she understood it.

One voice rose above the others, authoritative and commanding, so that the room fell silent. Bertram! He started to speak… no, to recite, for it was clearly poetry of some sort, even she could tell that from the rhythm and tone. But oh, such beautiful poetry! The words rose from his lips and filled the air with a kind of music, weaving itself around the pillars that fringed the chapel and over the heads of his silent audience, rising to enfold Bea in its majesty. Such power in his voice! Such glorious balladry that held her transfixed and enchanted.

Eventually the recitation came to an end, and the audience erupted in cheers and foot-stamping, and many cries of appreciation. Amongst the rattle of words, she caught a familiar one — ‘Horatius'. Horace! The very man whose writings she had been reading, although not like this… nothing like this! The translation, however elegantly worded, could surely not compete with the unearthly beauty of the Latin.

The gentlemen settled down, and Mr Fielding began to speak again, although now he was reading from papers, and it sounded dull by comparison with Bertram's melodious cadences. The audience was quieter, listening attentively, she supposed, for every now and then there was a low murmur of approval, but nothing more.

She began to lose interest, and after a while, since nothing more exciting offered in the chapel, she crept away and set off to explore the rest of the house.