The Parson's Pleasure Page 16
“You can dispense with the story, Tucker,” Christopher said wearily. “I heard the whole plot, and you will never be able to convince me that you are not a most unsavoury character. I expect you know that. Now. Hand over the money."
Tucker realized in a second that the rector knew of his plan. He turned pale. “Give me yer hand, yer honner— I think I'm gorma shoot the cat,” he said pitifully.
Seeing the pallor in the groom's face, and realizing he was indeed about to lose his dinner, Christopher helped him over to a bale of hay and told him to lie down, still watching him carefully. He waited until Tucker's colour returned before speaking again.
“You needn't try to gammon me. I'm not the halfling you think. I'll have the money now,” the rector said, extending his hand.
“I wasn't going to hurt the horse, sir, I swear I wasn't,” Tucker said rapidly, hoping somehow to keep the money. The rector looked implacably down at him. There was no impatience in his expression, but Tucker knew that he had lost.
“It near breaks my heart to part with such a roll o’ soft,” he said sadly, handing over Robert's money.
“You should have thought about that before you took it,” was the rector's only comment.
“How was I to know you was such a fly cove?” asked Tucker defensively. “It's not like you was likely to twig my rig, not a nib cove like you. How did you know?” he asked.
“It took just one meeting with you to see that something havey-cavey was afoot,” said Mr. Bennett wearily. “It was merely a matter of time."
Tucker's look became ugly again. “An’ what's it to you if I want to tap a shy one on the shoulder? That old gager deserves what he gets!"
“Undoubtedly he does,” Christopher replied, “but that doesn't mean you should be the one to benefit by it. And you may take it as an unwarranted kindness on my part that I do not report you to the magistrate!"
“You're not going to call in the boman prigs?” asked Tucker incredulously. “Don't try to gammon me, guv'nor."
“You have my word on it,” the rector assured him. “I have no particular fancy to see your face up on the gallows every time I go to market for the next month or so."
Tucker paled at the thought. “What'll I do now, guv'nor?"
Mr. Bennett looked at him thoughtfully. “You may stay on as you are,” he said after a moment, “as long as you remember that I will be watching you and will know if you are up to something. I cannot guarantee that I will be so kindly disposed the next time, so it would be in your interest to behave."
Tucker was dumbfounded. He felt a need for explanation. “I wouldn'a taken to this lay if times hadn'a been so rough, guv'nor. It's not much better than a monkey's allowance they gives you here,” he added bitterly.
“You have a roof over your head and food to eat,” said Mr. Bennett sharply. “That is more than many people can say. I would not be so quick to despise it.” He was weary of Tucker's bitter company.
Placing Robert's wad of money in his coat pocket, he nodded curtly to the groom and left the stables.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Lord Babcock had enjoyed the ball immensely. After his first daring waltz with Lydia, he had not looked back. He had danced with her twice more, and had, in short, made something of a spectacle of his feelings for her. But that had not deterred him. The feel of her in his arms made him oblivious to the stares of his guests.
He had not been oblivious to his mother's stares, but he had carefully avoided her eyes, and whenever she had approached him he had made certain that someone else was too close for her to speak freely. Most of the evening he had been able to avoid speaking to her at all, and he had made sure that she was gone to bed before he had completely dropped his guard.
The afternoon following the ball found him dreamily sipping his chocolate and humming one of the waltzes. It was as he was lowering the cup from his lips that his mother appeared for her breakfast and barked at him in a voice he had never heard before.
“Cecil!"
The severity of this greeting caused him to lose his mouthful of cocoa in a fine spray over his mother's linen tablecloth. His hand began to shake, causing the cup to clatter in its saucer. He hastily put it down and tried to appear innocent.
“Good morning, Mama.” He smiled nervously. “I hope you enjoyed a good night's rest."
His mother did not appear mollified. “I hope you realize,” she said, “that I will not be able to sleep or hold my head up in this county until you right your disgraceful behaviour of last night."
Her son looked shocked. Had it really been all that bad?
“How could you have behaved so?” his mother asked before he had a chance to deny anything. You have slighted your intended bride unpardonably."
Babcock decided not to pretend he did not know to whom she was referring. “I protest, Mama. I led Miss Oliver out for the first dance, as was proper."
“Only to make a spectacle of yourself by then dancing three—I counted three!—dances with Miss Willoughby, and no more with Claire. It will not do, Cecil."
Lord Babcock decided to be straightforward. “Mama,” he began stoutly, “I have decided that I will not be happy with Miss Oliver as my wife."
“Happy!” exclaimed his mother. “We are not put on this earth to be happy,” she remarked scornfully.
“Of course not, Mama,” Babcock agreed respectfully. His mother was always reasonable. There was no point in telling her that he was in love with Lydia. That was not at issue.
Lady Sitchville knew what was in his mind, but she could not relent. The Sitchville name was what mattered uppermost.
“You will call on Lord Oliver and Lady Sally this afternoon,” she ordered. “You will make your request for Claire's hand. It has gone on long enough, and that will put an end to it."
Lord Babcock's heart sank, but he knew better than to argue. He had his duty. “As you wish, Mama.” He sighed.
As his appetite was by now gone, he rose and went to his room to prepare for his call on Claire. He chose his most sombre day attire, a dull grey. He reflected that if he had been going to propose to Lydia, he would have worn his new, spotted, mauve waistcoat.
Claire had been sitting at a window near the front of the house since breakfast, trying to keep her attention on the book in her hands. It was hard to understand the words when her heart was following the rhythm of the waltz in her head. For in spite of the apparent hopelessness of her love for Christopher, she was still elated by the memory of that dance. It had tapped a joy within her that had never before been tapped, and her efforts to control it with logic were failing.
It was in this mood that she heard a caller at the door. For a moment she thought it might be the rector, but her spirits dropped like a stone when she saw Lord Babcock enter the room. Her parents were still upstairs, having been worn out by the previous evening, so she had to receive him alone. This did not disturb Babcock, though she could tell that his mind was in a turmoil. After her greeting, he began to pace the room in an agitated manner.
“Claire,” he began at last, “I mean M-m-miss Oliver. No, dash it, Claire!” he said firmly.
“My lord!” Claire exclaimed, in mock indignation. If she had thought by this to squelch any further intention of his to speak, it did not work. He did not acknowledge her response, and Claire could see that he was in a frenzy of composition. She decided to let him take his time.
“We have known each other for many years,” he said in a cajoling tone. “We have always been such pleasant friends ....” His words trailed off as if he did not really know where to go from there.
Claire turned away to hide a smile. It appeared as if Babcock were here to propose, but she could see right away that this was not how he would begin if that were his intention. She could help him out of his difficulty by stopping him, but a small demon in her could not resist prolonging his discomfort.
“Is that all we have been?” she asked in a pitiful voice, her back still to him. “Friends?"
“Of course, that is, the very best of friends, of course,” he babbled. “You must know by now that I cherish the greatest respect for you, a great warmth of feeling that I can only consider—” Babcock had been going to say “fraternal,” but Claire spoke before he had the chance.
“My lord, you honour me,” she said, her voice sounding as if she were overcome by emotion and her hand held out behind her as if for him to take it.
Babcock gazed at that hand with horror. He had to clarify matters. “No, I don't!” he squeaked. “I mean, of course, that I do—that is, you mustn't think of it that way,” he pleaded.
Claire was enjoying herself enormously. She wanted to turn around to see the expression on his face, but she was afraid to give herself away.
“How can I not?” she asked, gratitude in her voice. “All your manifold attentions, your kindnesses. So obvious, too. Everyone must be aware of your intentions."
“Surely not!” Babcock protested desperately. “You know how people will talk, er, exaggerate! My attentions to you have been in no way, er, exceptional, I think. Quite normal, in fact. Yes, quite normal.” Babcock hoped that this described them accurately.
“Yes, I suppose under the circumstances, they have,” said Claire, and before Babcock could ask what “circumstances,” she turned dramatically towards him and smiled affectionately with her arms outstretched. The look of fear on his face caused her to turn her back again rapidly to hide her mirth.
“Circumstances?” was all he managed to say in a strangled voice.
“You need not attempt to conceal your feelings,” she answered. “I have been aware of them for some time now.” And to his alarm, she began to weep quietly.
“You have?” he asked, astonished. “How did you know? That is, you mustn't let it distress you. I did not mean to cause you pain; you must understand that. Perhaps I have acted foolishly, but I didn't know ... you must believe me ... this has been all so unexpected. My parents ... but I...” Babcock strove to say the correct thing, but he was so confused by now that he had no idea what that might be.
“My pain!” exclaimed Claire in mournful tones. “You speak of my pain!” Again she turned to face him, deciding that it was time for one more twist of the knife, and then mercy. “You who have been so noble and have done me such an honour."
Babcock thought, have I proposed? He couldn't remember .... He was perspiring profusely.
“But it will not do,” Claire continued. “I cannot bear to have you go on, knowing the pain that you will soon feel. I am so loath to wound you, but I must. You will forever have my gratitude, but I cannot do as you wish."
“My pain?” Babcock asked in a fog, unable to make head or tail of the conversation.
“I cannot accept your kind offer,” Claire said with finality.
“You can't?” Babcock said, unsure whether to be pleased or affronted.
“No,” said Claire. “There is ... another.” She said this dramatically for effect, but it made her think of Christopher, and her heart leapt perversely as her mind sobered.
“Well” exclaimed Babcock, not knowing quite how to take this information. But as his mind cleared from the confusion of the past many minutes, he began to feel relief. He was able at last to respond with grace.
“This comes as a grave blow to me, as you must know,” he said, but second by second, he was beginning to feel the joy that release and new hope can bring. Trying to keep a sombre face, he backed towards the door, unable to wait a moment longer to leave. “I will always preserve the greatest affection for you in my heart.” This was delivered in great haste as he backed out the door. Then, hardly waiting for his “Good day” to be returned, he ran out the door of the house, calling for his horse.
Claire held her breath, listening for the sound of his horse galloping away. Then she burst out in laughter. The burden of years had been lifted and she had enjoyed every second of the episode. She could not stand to keep the joke to herself any longer, however, and ran upstairs to share it with her parents.
Lord Babcock, meanwhile, was heading towards Sitchville Park in a state of happy bewilderment, but suddenly he reined in his horse. He hesitated for only a moment before changing his direction to coincide with the route to the Willoughbys’ cottage. “Men are not put on this earth to be happy,” his mother had said. But surely there was no harm in it if it just so happened! His hesitation had been over whether to return to the house for his mauve waistcoat, but in spite of feeling at a disadvantage without it, he decided he would somehow manage.
Less than half an hour later, the Honourable Robert Willoughby walked into his drawing room to be greeted by the near-hysterical raptures of his wife and the sight of his daughter holding hands with Lord Babcock in front of the fireplace. It was quickly explained to him that his daughter was to have the honour of marrying the young man who stood before him, with such happiness and pride in his demeanour.
Robert could not speak. His good fortune struck him dumb, and he fell into the closest chair before he could take it all in. Sophia chastised him for not expressing his consent for the match, so he hastened to give it.
“Of course, of course,” he assured them. “It's just caught me by surprise. I never knew there was anything going in that direction,” he continued ingenuously, unaware of the embarrassment Babcock was likely to feel.
“I was too afraid to aspire so high,” Lord Babcock said with evident sincerity, bowing to kiss Lydia's hand. She blushed with happiness.
“Yes, yes,” Robert said dismissively, uncomfortable with flowery expressions of young love. “All very right and proper, I'm sure. Well, we will be happy to count you as one of the family, Babcock,” he said, rising to his feet and clapping Babcock on the back.
He could already envision the possibilities of such a connection. He planned to become quite close with Lord Sitchville, his future fellow father-in-law.
Sophia was obviously in seventh heaven. Her Lydia, her pride and joy, was making a match that would throw all others in the shade. And to such a young gentleman! His fortune was staggering, but on top of that he was a model of propriety. She could not have been happier.
Robert was feeling the glow of better prospects. He was even, for once, in complete accord with his wife. They smiled at each other with their first shared joy in many years.
There were many congratulations all round, and mooning looks exchanged by the young people. Sophia was too strict to let them be alone, so eventually Lord Babcock was forced to take his leave without a private moment with his love. He bid them a reluctant farewell.
“You cannot imagine my regret at having to leave home at such a time, but it will only be for a few days."
“You're off somewhere?” asked Robert in a voice of paternal bonhomie.
“Why, yes,” answered Babcock, “to Epsom, for the Derby. Our horse is favoured to win, you know. In my opinion, he cannot be beat!” Then turning to his new fiancée, he bade a fond farewell, not noticing the suddenly greenish hue of Robert's face.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It was well into the afternoon when Claire, having resumed her reading, was interrupted by Robert Willoughby. He dashed into the room, desperation in his face.
“Uncle Bobby!” Claire exclaimed. “Whatever is the matter?"
Robert looked about him distractedly, hardly knowing where to begin. He whispered anxiously, “Where are your parents?"
Claire relaxed. It was obvious to her that no one had been hurt, as had been her first fear. Robert was frightened of being caught out in something, a much less disturbing occurrence.
“You need not worry,” she told him. “They have gone upstairs and are both resting."
Robert sat down suddenly by her and grabbed her hand. “You've got to help me, Claire. The most terrible thing has happened."
His obvious
anxiety alarmed her again. He had never spoken to her this way before, no matter what his scrapes.
“What is it, Uncle Bobby? Of course, I will help you. What has happened?"
Robert looked her squarely in the eyes, his face white with fear. He rasped, “Babcock has offered for Lydia."
Claire waited for one second, then burst out laughing. She was surprised to see that her uncle's expression was still the same.
“I will admit, Uncle Bobby, that the news might be enough to cause some alarm,” she said when she could speak again, “but is that any cause for this degree of anxiety?"
Robert shook his head impatiently. “No! No!” Then he said with greater control, “That's not the trouble. I'm no fool. The match couldn't be better. Lydia fancies him too, it's plain to see. It's just caught me off guard. I wasn't expecting it.” He wrung his hands, clearly disturbed.
“Then I am afraid I do not see the problem.” Claire was searching for some reason for his behaviour. “Surely Aunt Sophia cannot object!” she exclaimed.
“Of course not, girl! Use your head! She thinks he hung the moon. No. The problem is the Derby! “ Desperation was in his voice again. “You've got to help me. Something must be done or I'll be ruined. I'll never be able to explain it to Sophia. She'll kill me, or if she doesn't someone else will. You've got to help!"
Claire's heart sank to hear him mention the Derby. Horses were his greatest weakness. She knew his capacity for getting into trouble, though she still did not see how it related to Babcock's proposal to Lydia.
“You've got to tell me what you have done, Uncle Bobby,” she said firmly, “if I am going to be any help to you. It has something to do with the Derby, does it?"
“That's what I've been telling you, isn't it?” he asked impatiently. “It's the money. I've got to get the money back from Tucker. Call the whole thing off."
“Tucker!” exclaimed Claire. So this was what her uncle had been doing in Lord Sitchville's stable all this time. “What money have you given to Tucker?"
“For a bet,” her uncle said, avoiding her direct look. “I told him to place a bet for me on a sure winner—and it's not Sitchville's colt. It's Sir George's."