The Parson's Pleasure Page 3

  Claire, not realizing what a hornets’ nest she would stir up, hastened to soothe his temper. ‘I understand that Mr. Bennett is a younger man than Mr. Twickenham, so perhaps he will be easier to converse with."

  “No, they're all alike,” replied Bobby, though he looked somewhat relieved at the news. “Still, if he's a younger one, he might be a little more humble—something they could all use, a little humility."

  “Now then, Uncle Bobby, you know perfectly well that nothing could exceed the humility of Mr. Twickenham. Why, I am sure that Papa frequently wished he would speak up a little more for himself."

  “Don't let that fool you, niece. That was the face he put on for your father. That old hypocrite knew where his bread was buttered. He also knew that he would never get a farthing out of me, no matter what Sophia wanted. Oh, he knew how to ingratiate himself with her, all right, but he wanted nothing to do with the likes of me. The feeling was mutual, too."

  Though Claire had never observed the old rector display such behaviour, she felt that her uncle's revelations had a certain ring of truth. It could never have been a pleasure, or even have done much good, for Mr. Twickenharn to speak to her uncle, who was entirely unreceptive to such counsel. But in justice to her uncle she had to admit that they had long suspected the former rector of less than pure motives in his attention to the Oliver family. Lord Oliver had no livings at his disposal, but he was rich and well connected, and that was enough to recommend him to a dependent clergyman with some ambition.

  “No, I didn't have much use for old Twickenham,” Bobby continued, “though he let loose with a good story or two when he had enough port under his belt. You know why I called on him the way I did?” he asked. “It wasn't to please Sophia, oh, no. It was because it tickled me to keep him away from his fishing.” He laughed at the remembrance.

  Now in a lighter mood, Bobby decided the moment was right to tease his niece. “They say that Babcock is coming back from London for good,” he said, with such a suggestive tone in his voice that Claire started and blushed with annoyance.

  Cecil Sitchville, Viscount Babcock, was Lord Sitchville's eldest son and heir. Slightly older than Claire, he was an unimaginative young man who, because of his responsible position, had decided that it was his duty to marry a lady of the county. It followed logically, therefore, that Claire, who had the highest standing of any single lady in the area, should be favoured with his choice. Since he calmly and arrogantly assumed that his suit would be welcomed by anyone, he had persistently comported himself as though the engagement were a fait accompli whenever he returned home, this in spite of the fact that he received no encouragement from either Claire or her parents. He seemed to assume that he had only to speak and his bachelorhood would end, and he was waiting until the day he should desire this to be so.

  More than once Claire had had occasion to be glad of her independent means, a circumstance which would allow her to give a resounding “No” when that most unpleasant day should arrive. Meanwhile, whenever Babcock was in the county, his steady attentions were embarrassing and ever a source of irritation. Claire's uncle was dimly aware of this, although he wondered whether her irritation was due to the fact that the viscount had not yet spoken. Her blush of annoyance now convinced him that there existed some reason for discomfort.

  When Claire did not answer, Robert proceeded with his teasing. “They say he will be coming home to learn the estate business in preparation for taking over the management of part of Sitch's properties. If that's the case he ought to be marrying soon. Quite a matrimonial prize, that one. Heir to the largest fortune in the county, not to mention all those horses. Wonder who he'll expect to stand up with him?”

  Claire was grateful for the sudden entry of her mother into the room, which put an end to Robert's speculation and spared her from having to answer, for Uncle Bobby would not tease her in her mother's presence. Claire found it annoying that even her own uncle should be under a misconception about her relationship with Lord Babcock. She knew that he would not be able to understand her complete lack of interest in the young man, so she had no intention of discussing it with him. But she admitted to herself that it would be a rare person who could understand her complete indifference towards such a matrimonial prize, and she had enough sense to realize that the Willoughbys, in their dependent state, would be the last to do so. For at least the hundredth time, Claire thanked her stars for her financial independence. She would rather be plagued by fortune-hunters than in need of accepting the first offer to come round.

  CHAPTER THREE

  In due course, Lord Oliver made his call upon Mr. Bennett and extended an invitation to dine the following week. But, amused by his ladies’ curiosity, he had not been very forthcoming with answers to their many questions about the new rector. In reply to queries about his appearance, he merely said that he was neither quite so short nor quite so pear-shaped as Mr. Twickenham. And since Mr. Twickenham had been very short and pear-shaped indeed, this left much room for conjecture. The ladies settled between them that the new rector was of medium height and of slight build, with perhaps a gentle bulge in the middle, since any clergy of their acquaintance had shown the benefits of dining often at others’ tables. They were divided over his dress, Lady Sally imagining a barely suppressed dandyism and Claire expecting a puritan severity such as that affected by Twickenham. The baron enjoyed this speculation and laughed heartily at their attempts to get his confirmation, but he refused to give anything away. He did allow that his call had been unusually entertaining and enlightening, but would not elaborate, leaving mother and daughter to suspect that there was something more than a little amusing about Mr. Bennett.

  The week passed without any of their questions being answered, for the Willoughbys, a possible source of information, had yet to meet the rector, Mr. Willoughby having not performed his social duty to the reverend gentleman. Thus it was that when their dinner guest was announced, Claire was stunned to see a tall, athletically built young man enter the room. As he moved closer, she perceived that he was not only tall, he was the tallest man she had ever met. He was simply but elegantly dressed in fawn-coloured trousers and a dark tailcoat with velvet lapels, which was unbuttoned according to custom. His waistcoat was silk, dark like his coat, his cravat white. The tips of his collar were worn at a modest height, and the tying of his cravat showed that neither too little nor too much attention had been given to it. His bearing and his style had a hint of the military, which drew attention to the expanse of strong chest, an expanse which would have been plainly evident without them.

  His face was distinctive rather than handsome, with lines that attested to both humour and sensitivity, but there was a trace of some care, some worry, consciously hidden. His hair was cut short, and curled naturally. From this first meeting, Claire had the overall impression of a pleasant personality; but there was something more she could not interpret. Then she realized to her surprise that the politeness in his countenance was designed to conceal the anticipation of an evening spent in boredom! Lord Oliver greeted his guest and then turned to present the Reverend Mr. Christopher Bennett to his family. When the rector took the hand she offered him, Claire lowered her eyelashes and blushed to think of the meek, languid Mr. Bennett of their imaginings.

  Mr. Bennett was not totally blind to the reason for this confusion, since the surprise that usually greeted his six feet, four inches was frequently followed by embarrassment. In spite of being accustomed to this kind of reception, however, he did notice that a blush became Miss Oliver very well. He had caught a glimpse of deep blue eyes before they fell, and silently complimented her on her choice of dress, a fine white lawn gown cut straight across the breast with pink embroidery, the colour of which seemed to match the bloom in her cheeks. As for Claire, she thought she must be becoming quite provincial indeed, if meeting a clergyman, however different from her expectations, could throw her into such a flutter.

  Following the instructions, general conversation was ex
changed about the weather and the difficulties Mr. Bennett had encountered—or not encountered—in finding the Oliver property, until dinner was announced. All the while, Lady Sally could not keep her gaze from wandering to the top of Mr. Bennett's head as she compared his size to the familiar things in her drawing room and speculated upon his exact height.

  At first Mr. Bennett was inclined to think that there was something peculiar about his hair, but being of a quick mind, he guessed what she was about. So when he offered her his arm to take her in to dinner, he bent his head and whispered obligingly, “That would be six-foot-four, Lady Sally."

  Lady Sally gasped and blushed upon being found out, but after turning and seeing the smile on his face, she rapped his hand with her fan. As she told her husband later, she had not felt so young in years.

  You have no right to be so saucy,” she whispered back to him. “You know very well that it is quite improper in a clergyman."

  Mr. Bennett only chuckled by way of reply.

  After he had led her to her seat and was making his way to his own, Lady Sally managed to whisper to Claire, “He is quite handsome. What a shame that he is to be wasted on Lydia!"

  Claire glanced at the rector in time to see a cocked eyebrow and a twitch of his lips, and she suspected that he had caught her mother's words. As he seated himself opposite Claire, he looked up and caught her watching him. The frank amusement in his expression put her out of countenance and she busied herself with her napkin until Lord Oliver began to speak.

  “Bennett,” he said, and then paused. “That is Avonley's name, I believe."

  Mr. Bennett acknowledged the statement with reserve. “My cousin John is the eighth earl. My father was his uncle."

  Lord Oliver darted a look at Lady Sally who was making an effort to conceal the consternation this response had aroused in her. Then he renewed the conversation.

  “Would your father have been the Honourable Sylvester Bennett?"

  Mr. Bennett nodded.

  “I never knew him,” said Lord Oliver. “He was somewhat older than I, but I remember hearing quite well of him. An experimenter, was he not?"

  Mr. Bennett seemed to warm to the praise of his father. He smiled and replied, “He was interested in everything and tried his hand at it all—mechanical devices, science, architecture—a host of other subjects. Some of his plant studies are still considered to be definitive."

  “You seem quite young to be his son,” observed Lord Oliver.

  “Yes, I believe I was quite a surprise to both my parents, but they held up under it quite well.” He smiled gently. “Unfortunately, they have both been gone these fifteen years."

  “Your cousin I have met from time to time at Lord Sitch's residence. They are on quite good terms,” said Lord Oliver without any particular emphasis.

  The rector resumed an air of reserve and replied, “They are bosom companions, in fact. You perceive that I owe my present position to my cousin's influence. I was made his ward upon my parents’ death.” This was said with a stiffness and lack of expression that belied the gratitude in his words. He did not elaborate, or seem to wish to discuss his family further, so they conversed briefly about his educational background. Lord Oliver found many similarities in their experiences to discuss, and warming to his guest, he began to take an interest in his opinions.

  “Are you acquainted with Mr. Copley, Lord Sitch's man in Parliament?” asked the baron, refusing to cater to Lord Sitchville's vanity by using the new name.

  “One has heard of him, naturally,” replied Mr. Bennett with an evident lack of enthusiasm, which Lord Oliver noted with approval. Mr. Copley was not a favourite of his, for the man had been quite outspoken in support of repressive measures after the attack on the Regent. “It is my understanding that Lord Sitch ... ville,” the rector continued with a strange emphasis, “has more than four boroughs in his gift."

  He was referring, Claire knew, to the electoral system in which the vote was given solely to landowners. There being few of these in some areas, the power to send a member to Parliament could rest with only a handful of men—or a single man.

  “Yes,” Lord Oliver answered dryly, “and two of them are little more than cow pastures."

  “Would there be Jersey or Guernsey cows in those pastures, Papa?” inquired Claire seriously, but with a twinkle in her eye.

  “I am not sure, my dear.” He turned to her with a smile. “Why do you ask? Is it pertinent to our discussion?"

  “That remains to be seen,” she said, glancing again at their guest. “I am conducting a study to determine whether Jersey or Guernsey cows are more likely to return a Tory member to Parliament."

  “And what will you do with this information?” her father asked, amusement lighting his face.

  “Why, encourage the propagation of the other breed, of course,” she stated firmly, not fearing to show her true political leanings.

  “My dear, I fear you will shock our guest,” said the baron, laughing, but Claire saw that Mr. Bennett had joined with Lady Sally in the fun. His look of anticipated boredom was gone and he had begun to relax in their company—indeed, seemed truly to be enjoying himself.

  “Not at all, Lord Oliver,” said Mr. Bennett warmly, smiling at Claire in such a way that she knew he was in complete agreement with her. “I perceive that Miss Oliver has sound views on the subject."

  They continued discussing politics happily until the mention of Princess Charlotte's death introduced the topic of succession.

  “Such a scramble there has been amongst our aged dukes to marry,” Lady Sally said with a laugh. “Lady Sitch—Sitchville—tells me that Kent has been more fortunate than Clarence, who has ended up with a most unpleasant-looking wife. How ill-mannered it was of him to desert his mistress after all these years. It will serve them all right if the Prince outlives them."

  “I don't fear that for them,” said Mr. Bennett, “since his corpulence is now such that he no longer rides. It must, in the long run, damage his health."

  “Well, we shall see who it will be,” said Lord Oliver. “There is but a year's difference between Kent and Clarence, and they have both fathered innumerable children. I foresee no difficulty in their producing an heir."

  “But you know how it is, my dear,” Lady Sally reminded him. “Those who produce effortlessly out of wedlock, for some reason do not have the same success when it really matters. I will be content to see one healthy, legitimate child for every ten that Clarence has had with Mrs. Jordan."

  Throughout this conversation, Claire had observed Mr. Bennett and noted the amusement on his expression. His air of reserve had dropped completely, and it seemed that he had, for the moment at least, forgotten the care that he had appeared to have when he arrived. She was glad to see him blossom in their company. He was enjoying the conversation, the nature of which Mr. Twickenham would not have considered proper to have with ladies present. Right now he was laughing unreservedly at one of Lady Sally's more outrageous remarks.

  “I suppose what we really ought to be concerned with,” her father was saying, “is what politics each would adopt if made king. For instance, would Kent truly remain the radical? We could use a reformer."

  “It does not matter much, dear,” said Lady Sally with a smile. “He is such a Whig that I'm certain any child he has will become a confirmed Tory. Children always rebel against their parents’ wishes. Do they not, Mr. Bennett?"

  “Unjust and unfair!” cried Claire, with a laugh. “You can certainly not accuse me of that!"

  “Of course not, love,” replied her mother. “I was merely testing Mr. Bennett to see which of us he would feel it necessary to support—you because it would be just, or me because of my age."

  Claire was doubly pleased to see that their guest knew the only proper response to Lady Sally's teasing—laughter. The lines in Mr. Bennett's face showed that he was accustomed to smiling, perhaps often enjoying the ridiculous that too few people seemed able to recognize. Only rarely had an outside
r been able to break into the Olivers’ extraordinary intimacy and join in their fun, but this man had penetrated it in a matter of minutes. His broad smile answered Lady Sally's impudence, but as a mark of acknowledgment to Claire, who also displayed a clever tongue, he raised his glass.

  “A glass of wine with you, Miss Oliver,” he proposed. And as they raised their goblets to their lips, their eyes met and they both smiled. Warmth filled Claire, but whether from the wine or his smile she did not know.

  As the evening wore on, the Olivers learned that Mr. Bennett had had a commission in the military.

  “You must have been involved in the recent hostilities with Napoleon,” remarked Claire who had heard of little else during her season in London.

  To her surprise, an air of restraint once more descended upon Mr. Bennett.

  “No,” he replied, “I was in America."

  “Oh,” Claire said, her dismay at that reality showing.

  Mr. Bennett nodded in her direction. “Very good, Miss Oliver. There are not many young ladies who would even know that we had been there.” This was said with a certain sarcasm, barely concealed, for he was referring to the war that had started in 1812, in which the British participated only half-heartedly, greater concerns being elsewhere.

  “An unfortunate business,” Lord Oliver said uneasily. “You were back too late to join Wellington in Europe, I take it."

  Mr. Bennett inclined his head again. “Precisely. My regiment was in the middle of the Atlantic when the duke was at Waterloo.” He stopped speaking for a moment, then continued, “After that, there did not seem to be much point in my staying in the army, so I sold out."

  'I confess I am curious to see the Americas,” said Lady Sally, trying to restore cheer to the conversation, “though of course I never shall."