11 Rumour And Supposition

Bertram was enjoying himself hugely. For several hours each day, he was immersed in the world of several thousand years ago, speaking and thinking and even dreaming in Latin, his head filled with the vivid imagery of the Roman poets. When he was forced back into the modern world by the presence of the ladies, he no longer resented the intrusion, as he had in previous years, for he had a serious project to occupy him, that of finding a titled husband for Bea.

By the middle of each afternoon, when the gentlemen had wearied of Cicero, Tacitus and Ovid, and even Fielding's obsession with the Caesars had receded marginally, they joined the ladies in the saloon, followed by gentle rides about the estate or walks in the overgrown garden on fine days, or parlour games and general conversation otherwise. Bertram generally sought out Bea and his friends, and watched as she exerted her charms on them. Not that she flirted — Bea was not that kind of girl. But she was lively and vibrant and fun. She had them all laughing, and she never flagged, her high spirits carrying them through dinner and then cards afterwards, until Lady Esther came to take her away.

"Time for us to retire, Beatrice," she would say.

Then Bea would look up, startled. "So soon? But I am enjoying myself so much."

Bertram could see his friends melt under such delightful treatment. Brockscombe had been willing to be beguiled from the start, but even Medhurst's eyes drifted less often towards the beautiful Miss Grayling. As for Fielding, he was already more than half way to being in love with her. And amusingly, Lady Esther clearly still supposed that Bea was chasing Bertram, for she smiled benignly on him whenever he was with Bea.

Bertram himself was not at first a target for any of the young ladies. He said nothing of the changed circumstances of his family, which might see him inherit an earldom one day, so at first he remained merely the heir to a modest estate. With so many titles and scions of wealthy families at Landerby Manor, and one who would be a duke in the fullness of time, a man worth no more than three thousand pounds a year was of little interest.

After a few days, however, he became aware of a change in their manner towards him. None of them were as open as Bea about their intentions, for they were as subtle and scheming as snakes, and their behaviour towards him did not visibly alter. Yet somehow they contrived to draw him into their toils. Miss Hutchison loitered near him as dinner was announced so that he would be obliged to escort her in. Miss Grayling invited him to make up a four for whist, and since she already had two other players organised, she effectively excluded Bea. Amusingly, Lady Esther sank that promising scheme by requesting the duchess, one of Miss Grayling's four, to join her own table. The duchess, no doubt entirely in Lady Esther's confidence regarding her hopes for Bertram, rose at once and called upon Bea to take her place.

It was Miss Hutchison who asked Bertram directly, wriggling to insert her bony body between him and Medhurst as they walked in the garden one afternoon. "I have heard a strange rumour about your uncle, Lord Rennington, Mr Atherton. I am sure it cannot be true…"

She paused, perhaps hoping he would intervene to rescue her from the unladylike act of repeating gossip, but he merely raised an enquiring eyebrow.

With an arch look, she went on, "No, it cannot be."

She tittered, in an irritating way that made him want to slap her. Why were so many women incapable of talking sensibly, saying what they meant without prevarication, and by all the gods, not giggling? If only they were all so straightforward as Bea!

"But then it came from my aunt," she persevered, "whose neighbour is a very great friend of Lady Rennington, so it must have some truth in it, would you not agree?"

"Since you have not yet told me what it is, I can hardly comment," he said.

"Why, that the earl's marriage is invalid and all the children are disinherited."

"Ah, that rumour."

"So… it is not true? Is that what you are saying?"

"I have not said anything of the sort."

"Then it is true? You are confirming it?"

"I have not said that, either. I merely said, ‘That rumour'. I am confirming that I have heard the rumour, that is all."

An ugly scowl crossed her face, and she stamped her foot. "Really, Mr Atherton! You play with words to belittle me."

"No, only to encourage you not to listen to gossip, Miss Hutchison. There is no profit in it, I assure you."

With a huff of annoyance, she swirled about and stamped away to find more promising ground for her attentions.

Bertram and Medhurst walked on in silence for some minutes, their feet marching in step on the gravel path. Ahead of them, Bea's clear voice drifted back to them, along with the lower rumbles of Brockscombe and the excitable tenor of Fielding, but the height of the untrimmed shrubs hid them from view. The gardeners had made a start on cleaning up the paths for the visitors, but had not yet tackled the wilderness beyond.

"If Birtwell and the younger boys were disinherited," Medhurst mused, "that would make your father the heir. Title, castle and vast income included. And you after him."

Bertram said nothing.

"It does explain, of course, the sudden interest. Miss H has it in mind to trade her fortune — a hundred thousand, is it not? — for an earldom."

"There is no guarantee it will ever come to me," Bertram said.

"Oh, but—?" Medhurst stopped, working it out. "How old is your uncle?"

"Five and fifty."

"Oh." He laughed suddenly. "Perhaps you should tell Miss H that. And Miss G, as well, for she has been hovering around you, too, of late. Have you any idea how annoying that is, Atherton?" He laughed again, and shook his head. "Here I am, quite prepared to be swept off my feet by the lovely Miss Grayling — Sarah," he added with a sigh. "But will she so much as look at me? She will not. She prefers to be a duchess, seemingly. Or failing that, since Embleton is clearly a hopeless case, a countess would do. You, with your possible great elevation, could take your pick — the beauty or the fortune. Both of them are eating out of your hand at the moment. And yet, they might as well be invisible, for all the interest you have in either of them. I truly think the only way either of them would attract your attention would be to speak to you in Latin. You are a hopeless case, Atherton, even worse than Embleton, and I cannot imagine why I remain on friendly terms with you."

"Because I correct your deponent verbs, that is why."

"Ah! Very true. And subjunctives, too. Lord, that passage from Cicero! I thought I would never get it straight. Very well, you remain the very best of good fellows, for now, but if you marry Miss Grayling, then all amity between us is at an end, and you become my mortal enemy unto death."

"Not Miss Hutchison?"

He pulled a face, and whispered in Bertram's ear, "You may have her and her hundred thousand pounds with my goodwill. Encroaching little baggage."

And Bertram whispered back, "I do not want her."

"Even if she speaks to you in Latin, in Alcaic metre?"

"Not even then… although… that would be interesting, for a while. It might get a little wearing at the breakfast table, however."

For the rest of the walk, they amused themselves by inventing verses suitable for such an occasion, and wondering what the Roman equivalent for Bath buns might be.

***

Bea could not remember so pleasurable a visit, or at least, not since Papa had married Mama. For the first time in years, she was not under the constant supervision of her stepmother, for Lady Esther had a new interest, one of far more importance than the marriage of her stepdaughter — she had a duchess to guide in her new r?le. The Duchess of Wedhampton was gratifyingly eager for Lady Esther's advice, for as the daughter of a duke and raised in a ducal family since birth, naturally Lady Esther knew precisely how a duchess should behave at all times, and how to manage a great house. From breakfast until they retired at night, the two ladies were almost constantly together, and Bea was left free to pursue her own interests. So long as she appeared to be continuing her pursuit of Bertram, her stepmother left her in peace.

It was gloriously freeing. She could wander at will around the house or gardens, with no need to sit decorously with a hated piece of embroidery in her lap. The formal gardens were like a wild kind of maze, with long-neglected shrubs towering over the paths. Within five minutes of leaving the house, one could be entirely out of sight, and Bea delighted in finding stone benches tucked away in odd corners where she could sit and contemplate her progress.

Or lack of progress, it might be said. Bertram very kindly took pains to ensure that she spent a great deal of time with his friends, but no matter how many games of whist she played with them, she could not feel she knew them well. Not well enough, at any event, to make a decision about marrying one of them. How difficult it was!

When she watched the Latin speeches, occasionally the decorous atmosphere dissolved into something more lively — calls from the audience, cheers and jeers, bursts of laughter, and a kind of verbal sparring between the speaker and another, rather like the cut and thrust of a fencing match. Even though she could not understand the Latin nor recognise most of the speakers from her high perch, she could detect the real emotion behind the words. Seeing the raw and open way the gentlemen behaved in such situations, and comparing it to the painfully restrained and polite way they behaved when amongst ladies was both a revelation and a frustration.

How could she ever come to understand the characters of the three names on her list when they showed her only bland civility? She wanted to see the real men behind the guarded appearance they presented in her company. They could be themselves with other men, so why not with her?

Only one man in the whole company was not bland, and that was Lord Grayling. Despite Bertram's warning that he was not looking for a wife, he seemed very drawn to the ladies, bestowing his attentions on all the unmarried ones in turn. Nor was it merely her imagination that suggested he was more drawn to Bea than to any of the others. After dinner, when the gentlemen returned to the saloon, he was always one of the first, would pass a few words with one or two of the others, but would then make his way steadily towards Bea and settle beside her until the card tables came out. At that point he would disengage, for he always played in the same four, but Bea could not mistake his interest in her.

She found him much easier company than the men on Bertram's list. He teased her gently, as a friend would, and laughed when she paid him back in his own coin. She felt she knew him well, and since he was a baron, she had no doubt at all that she would accept him in a heartbeat if he should offer for her. So while she allowed Bertram to steer her towards his friends, she kept Lord Grayling in her eye and in her mind, and nurtured her hopes.

There was only one of the names on Bertram's list that she had not got to know at all, and that was the Marquess of Embleton. When she had been introduced to him, he had made her an awkward bow. He had not the distinguished appearance which would befit his exalted rank, for he was small in height and slight in stature, his face pale and unmemorable. When she addressed him, he replied, "P-p-pleased to m-m-make your acquaintance, M-M-M… Miss F-F-Franklyn."

Oh dear. She smiled, and addressed two or three questions to him, to which he replied with the minimum of words, as might be expected for a man with such a defect in his speech. He was speedily reclaimed by Miss Grayling, who helpfully rushed in to guess each word he struggled with in a patronising manner which set Bea's teeth on edge. She wondered how the marquess bore it so patiently, but perhaps he was used to people treating him like an imbecile.

Since then, she had never had occasion to speak to him. He was a distant figure glimpsed at dinner or in the saloon, and although she thought he attended the Latin meetings, she never saw him speak. But one day, as she explored a new corner of the garden, a sudden turn in the path brought her face to face with him. He was sitting alone, deep in contemplation, on a marble bench facing a statue of a goddess or nymph of some kind. Perhaps it had once been part of a fountain, for there was a deep stone bowl surrounding it, but now the bowl was half filled with rotted leaves and weeds.

The marquess jumped up as she approached, and bowed. She curtsied, and would have walked past him at once, but the way beyond the bench was blocked by a fallen branch.

"What a peaceful spot!" she said. "I shall leave you to enjoy it in solitude."

She turned, intending to walk back the way she had come, but he said quickly, "Stay!"

"Do you want some company?" When he nodded, she went on, "I should have thought you would be glad to find yourself alone for once."

"Your c-c-company… welcome."

"How very kind of you to say so. I shall sit with you for a little while, and chatter away, because I always do. I cannot seem to help it. There is no need for you to speak unless you wish to, you know. I am quite capable of chattering for both of us." She settled herself on the bench and he sat beside her, smiling. "Of course, if you prefer me to be silent, I can try, I suppose, but I am not very good at it."

He laughed at that. "P-p-please… chatter away."

So she did, and although he said very little — in fact, she could not recall him uttering a word — he smiled a great deal and laughed occasionally, and altogether seemed not displeased. After a while, she heard distant voices. Having no wish to be found alone with him, for such a thing would cause endless speculation, she rose, curtsied, thanked him for his company and set off down the path. But whenever she saw him after that, he smiled at her and waved, even if there was no opportunity to speak.