England's Green And Pleasant Land

21

England’s Green And Pleasant Land

    It was very early. A washed-out sky of palest blue showed above a mass of grey-white low cloud that here and there veiled the tops of the green English hills. Raffaella walked slowly to the top of a low, rounded hill, sat down on the grass, and hugged her knees. Before her spread a suitably Romantick view of shadowed hills, green countryside, and the gleam of a small lake. Or rather, mere. Beresmere. Raffaella stared at it, her mouth tightening. It was Mr Beresford’s country, and, according to the chatty landlady at the little local inn, his lake. Enquiry at the nearest town of any size, quite some distance away, had elicited the information that it was scarcely more than a pond and that much closer at hand, indeed within easy visiting distance of their own salubrious establishment, lay the much more beautiful This-mere and That-mere, what all the ladies and gentlemen liked to see. Raffaella had replied firmly that she was not all the ladies and gentlemen, and what was the way to Beresmere, please?

    Now she propped her chin on her knees and asked herself grimly what on earth she imagined she was doing here. And whether the months in London setting the tongues a-wagging had been, after all, so much camouflage…

    After quite some time she said sourly to the damp English air: “I think I was at least partly sincere. But had that been the only reason, I should never have bothered coming back to England at all.”

    A further period passed in sour rumination. The point that Mr Beresford did not in the least resemble her Black Warrior was made, more than once. So also was the point that if he had such a sense of his position as to sheer off when he learned the facts of her true parentage, her having come into the possession of an independence was unlikely to change his mind. The fact that absence did not make the heart grow fonder in the world of reality was stressed, too. And eventually Raffaella said aloud, in an exasperated voice: “I don’t know if I’m in love with him or not!”

    Indeed, did the man that she thought she might be in love with even truly exist? There were the looks, and… well, the intelligence, and then, he had a certain charm, when he bothered to exert it, and certainly a sense of honour, and a sense of decency, and if the way he had spoken of his young cousins was any indication, he was fond of children… But really, she had seen so very little of him: did she even know the real Jack Beresford? Raffaella was honest enough to admit that no, she very probably did not. But also honest enough to admit that not knowing the person had never yet stopped anyone falling in love. But had she truly fallen in love? Her thoughts were going round and round in circles. Oh, dear… She hugged her knees, and frowned at the view, and with a part of her mind hoped it wasn’t going to rain, and with another part of her mind wondered how they were all going on, at the country house in Portugal that was no longer hers…

    Lilian Quarmby-Vine stared at her sister. “But Eudora, she hasn’t come to us!”

    Eudora went very white. “What?”

    “Dare say she changed her mind,” drawled Bobby Quarmby-Vine. “Probably down at Brighton after all, adding a few odd princelings to her train.”

    “Keep out of this!” snarled his aunt.

    Reddening, he said: “Don’t see why you’re so concerned, Aunt Eudora. She ain't your responsibility no more, is she? Damn’ good thi—”

    “Bobby, I think that will do,” said his mother on a tired note.

    “It is a damn’ good thing,” he said sulkily. “Very well,, I’m going!” he added loudly.

    “I apologise for him,” said Lilian with a sigh, as the door closed loudly after his scowling form. “He and Susannah are going through a little rocky patch.”

    “If you mean, she’s started to ignore him now the brats have come, I’m not surprised,” said his aunt sourly.

    “It’s not like that at all,” replied Lilian with dignity.

    Eudora gave a hard laugh, but said: “Don’t bother to tell me what it is like, thanks. Well, Raffaella’s declared intention was to head for Derbyshire, but if she is not here— No, stay, she may have stopped off at Hortleberry Grene.”

    “Er, the Jerninghams are with his cousins in Kent this month,” she murmured. “Katie said they intentioned staying several weeks.”

    Grimly Eudora responded: “In that case, she must have headed straight for Cumberland.”

    Lilian swallowed. “Surely she— Well, what can she envisage?” she said weakly.

    “Anything. Bowling up to Mr Beresford’s front door and asking to see him, very like.”

    “Dearest,” she said, swallowing again, “Bobby is right in a way, you know: it is no longer your responsibility. And if she did not tell you of her intentions… ”

    “Yes: it was a clear signal to me to keep my nose out of it, was it not?” she said sourly.

    Lilian gave her a straight look. “I think it was, Eudora.”

    Sighing, Eudora said: “Very well. I give in.” Wearily she untied her bonnet strings.

    Lilian did not feel very much better about the matter, the more so as there was a depressed droop to her sister’s shoulders which she had never before seen on Eudora. But she nodded firmly, and rang for tea.

    Raffaella and Aunt Eliza Figueiredo walked slowly down the little main street of the obscure village of Mellyn Halt, arm-in-arm. There was very little to see, but the little old lady, though anxious that Raffaella might not be warm enough in that light muslin, was apparently happy that it was all so unlike Portugal. Raffaella had obligingly draped a shawl over her arms, and had not pointed out that if in the details of its architecture the place was unlike Portugal, it was not in essence so dissimilar: small, the people’s dwellings very poky and cramped, the streets in bad repair, and the livelihoods of the entire populace apparently dependant on the custom of the gentry from the large neighbouring properties. Well, and on the travelling gentry who happened to come this way, who were few. The walk having so far resulted in precisely nothing, though she had not truly expected anything, she now found herself saying: “All of these people live on the crumbs left by the local gentry, I suppose you realise?”

    Poor Aunt Eliza looked at her in bewilderment. “What can you mean, my dear? Crumbs?”

    Perhaps the idiom was not the same in Portuguese? Raffaella rephrased her remark but got the same reaction. “Never mind,” she said with a sigh.

    “It seems quite a prosperous little place,” she faltered.

    “The sun is shining, Aunt Eliza: you are seeing it at its best.”

    Aunt Eliza looked around her dubiously. “I suppose so. The children look quite chubby and well fed, my dear.”

    Suddenly Raffaella smiled at her and hugged her arm. “So they do! Look, shall we cross over and look in the window of that funny little shop?”

    Thankfully Senhora Figueiredo agreed, and they crossed over.

    They were strolling on again, when the old lady said pleasedly: “Look: a carriage!”

    It was a barouche, with the hood down, holding a middle-aged lady in black and a young woman, and facing them, with his back to the horses, a gentleman. Raffaella went very red, and did not wave, or twirl her parasol airily, or any of the things she had pictured herself doing at such a moment.

    The barouche went by at a sedate pace. The old lady remarked happily that they looked quite pleasant. Ooh, look, they were pulling in at the inn!

    Raffaella tugged at her arm. “Yes. Who cares? Come on, let’s see what’s down this way.”

    Noticing nothing wrong, the amiable Aunt Eliza accompanied her happily.

    Raffaella’s heart beat very fast and she told herself angrily that she did not care, and that probably that girl was someone that Mrs Beresford was hurling at his head, and if he had not noticed her it was her own fault for not waving, and— Such-like. And why should he notice her? Doubtless she was she last person he would expect to see in his local village street! He had not changed at all. No, well, why should he have? …Possibly he was actually married to that fubsy-faced little creature in the carriage: after all, there had been sufficient changes in her own life, in the three busy years since she had accepted Érico’s proposal, and if London Society appeared to have lost track of him, well, that did not mean he had been doing nothing in the interval… She was a fool to have come here. Or at least, a fool not to have stopped off in Derbyshire and dragged all he knew out of Bobby Q.-V.

    Back at the inn, Aunt Eliza’s English was not nearly good enough to permit of her interrogating the landlady, but that didn’t matter: the woman poured it all out anyway. They had missed the local lord of the manor, such a handsome gentleman, and his mother had been with him; she (the landlady) remembered her as a bride…etcetera and so on.

    Finally Raffaella croaked: “Yes, we saw the barouche. Um, who was the other lady?”

    She was a Miss Sherman, and pretty as a picture, and if you asked her (the landlady), it would not be long before they heard good news! Because she was only a second cousin to Mr Beresford, see! And given that his mother had brung her up from Bath, special, to spend the summer—

    “Very appropriate,” croaked Raffaella.

    The landlady launched into an encomium of Mr Beresford, his Uncle George, his late father, his late grandfather— Raffaella let it flow over her. If he was not married, then she would— She did not quite phrase it to herself as “make one last attempt.” She would give both him and herself the chance to see if, after all, it might be possible. Because, having come all the way to Cumberland, it would be very stupid to turn round and retreat without making any effort at all, wouldn’t it?

    Mr Bobby and his father being out and about the place, and Lilian having gone off to pay calls in the next parish, it fell to the lot of Eudora and Susannah to entertain the unexpected visitor. Mr “Val” Valentine appeared not a whit abashed by this, nor yet by the fact that the Quarmby-Vines had not received the letter announcing his intention of dropping in on Bobby on his way from wherever it was he had been, to wherever it was he was going.

    His destination was soon revealed to be Blefford Park—the which was in Oxfordshire, so one could only suppose he intended a stop or two on the way, but neither Eudora nor her niece-in-law asked about this. No, well, “old Ferdy” had urged him and Shirley Rowbotham to get on up to his Pa’s place in August, stay on for the deer-hunting, but thing was, Munn was so dashed stiff!

    At this Eudora could not forbear to say: “I understood it was His Grace’s habit to depart Scotland the instant the weather cooled.”

    Mr “Val” grinned. “Aye, but thing is, Miss B.-D., it’s the waitin’!”

    Eudora gave in almost completely, and smiled. And Susannah, who had been eyeing the very fashionable Mr Valentine askance for some time, found the strength to quaver: “Is—is this the Keep of Munn, sir?”

    “Oh, aye! Shockin’ place! Well, decent house, y’know. But stiff—! They say,” he said, shaking his head, “that Blefford Park was like that, in the old earl’s time.”

    “Worse,” said Eudora drily.

    “Hard to imagine, ma’am,” he said, shaking the head of glossy dark curls again.

    “So if you did not go to the Keep of Munn, sir, where did you go?” ventured Susannah.

    “Eh? Wrote all that to Bobby,” he said in surprise. “Oh, no: of course. You never got me letter. No, well, me and Shirley had been staying with his brother, Ceddie Rowbotham, y’see, and he was asked to make up a party for a bit of fishing, little rough shootin’—nothin’ much. Said we might as well tag along. Well, have to admit, after dashed Brighton it seemed like a godsend. Lady Rowbotham’s decided that since Geddings is still not taken young Jane might as well have him. Sir Ceddie’s dashed annoyed with her. Well, fellow’s old enough to be the girl’s father, and then, his mistresses are scattered the length and br— Oh, er, beg pardon, Mrs Bobby,” he croaked, becoming suddenly aware of the expression on Susannah’s round pink face. “Er, well, thing is, whole world knows about Geddings.”

    “Yes; he would be quite unsuitable for little Jane R.,” agreed Eudora on a firm note.

    “Lor’, yes, ma’am! Only, her La’ship won’t see it.”

    “So Sir Cedric and Mr Shirley and yourself got on out of it: very sensible,” said Eudora kindly.

    “That is just so like all the gentlemen!” burst out Susannah bitterly.

    “Absolutely,” agreed Eudora firmly. “In fact of the male in any walk of life.”

    “I say!” said Mr “Val” with a broad grin. “You ain’t half hard on us, ma’am!”

    “Am I? You explain to us, then, why Sir Cedric was so glad to get off to wherever it was,” said Eudora dulcetly.

    He winked. “Never said you was wrong, Miss B.-D.! –Sir John Stevens’s place. Not Laingways, out of course: his little shooting-lodge, s’pose you could call it. Cumberland. Not all that far from Jack Beresford’s place.”

    Eudora’s jaw had sagged.

    “Some very decent trout fishing to be had up that way,” he added wisely.

    “Cumberland?” said Susannah very faintly.

    “That’s it, Mrs Bobby. Only bought it a couple of years back. Wouldn’t say it was in terribly good repair, and not hardly enough room to swing a cat, but we was comfortable enough. Has a decent woman in to cook: well, simple enough fare, y’know, but I dare say you will not find a better rabbit pie the length and breadth of England.”

    Susannah swallowed. “Indeed? How—how pleasant,” she said faintly.

    “We was quite a merry crew. Pity Sir J. ain’t got a hostess, Mrs Bobby: you and Bobby would have enjoyed it. Comfortable, y’know? Reminded me of nothing so much, Miss B.-D.,” he said, suddenly turning to Eudora, “as that place of Dick Marchant’s in Portugal. Dare say they never dress for dinner from one year’s end to t’next!” He grinned happily. “Speakin’ of which, bumped into your cousin, Senhora Baldaya, in the village. Dare say she may have written to say she was stayin’ on there for a bit?”

    Susannah was incapable of speech. She looked frantically at her aunt.

    “No,” croaked Eudora.

    “We—we knew she intentioned tuh-touring the lakes,” lied Susannah valiantly.

    Suddenly Eudora put a long, cool hand over Susannah’s small, hot, sticky and agitated one, and squeezed it hard. “It’s all right, my dear. Mr Valentine knows all there is to know of the rather involved history of Raffaella and Mr Beresford. I think this is his way of trying to break the news tactfully.”

    Mr Valentine cleared his throat. “Yes, ’tis, actually. Known old Jack most of me life, y’see. Dare say I should have just come out and said it. Sorry. Only I thought perhaps the little Senhora might not have let you know what she was up to.”

    “No. What is she up to?” demanded Eudora on a grim note.

    He swallowed, but explained bravely: “Well, she and the old Portuguese aunt was staying in the village for a bit, but she has taken the property next Jack’s for a spell. Quite a decent house, dashed sight bigger than Sir John’s little lodge, but nothin’ like Beresford Hall, out of course. Belongs to a family called Hailsham: never lived there in living memory, don’t think. Anyroad, the agent was dashed glad to get a let for it. So she’s moved in.”

    Eudora passed her hand over her forehead.

    “Sir Ceddie did say,” said Val, clearing his throat yet again and eyeing her sideways, “that it was odds-on whether the attraction was Jack or Sir John; but to my mind, no two ways about it: chasing Jack again. Wish I could say I think she’ll succeed, this time. No, well, he hasn’t spoken to me about it, but, um, he’ll be thinking of the family name, y’see.”

    “That,” said Eudora grimly, “is certainly what we had gathered. It is entirely understandable.”

    “Yes,” said Mr Valentine gratefully. “Er—and thing is, his ma’s in residence. Sticking to him like glue. Got one of the Sherman gals installed. Face like a rabbit,” he ended glumly.

    “A—a rabbit?” faltered Susannah.

    He make the requisite grimace, the front teeth well over the bottom lip. Susannah recoiled.

    Eudora took a deep breath. “May one ask if Raffaella has yet managed to speak with Mr Beresford?”

    “Not as of the time I left, no.” He shook his head sadly. “Personally, I think she’d do him all the good in the world—brighten his ideas up, y’know. Well, as I say, he hasn’t said a word to me on the subject, these three years past. But then I thought, why not ask to Sir J. to have a word? Think she respects his opinion, y’know; and he was dashed good to her during that shockin’ business with João Baldaya.”

    “The very thing!” breathed Susannah, clasping the hands to the bosom. “An older gentleman, whom she respects!”

    “No,” he said glumly. “Well, thought so, meself. But could have saved me breath. He looked down that nose of his—don’t know if y’know him, Mrs Bobby? No? Tall fellow, with one of them noses made for lookin’ down. Large. Bit hooked. Dare say he’s been doing it so long he don’t know no more when he’s at it. Said in his experience—which meant he was more experienced than yours truly—in his experience, no good ever comes of interfering in such cases. So he wasn’t about to, and advised me not to. What I mean is, in so many words. ‘I advise you not to do so, either.’” He scowled. “Redundant, y’could say.”

    “It certainly was!” she agreed with feeling.

    Eudora had gone very pale. “Sir John refused to help?” she said tightly.

    “In a nutshell.” He grimaced sourly. “Lost me rag: shouted at the fellow: ‘Ho, what it is, you want her for yourself.’ Didn’t go down too well at all. Then I had to apologise. Not the thing, shoutin’ at one’s host. Anyroad, fellow said he looked upon her in the light of something rather less than a niece.”

    “He actually said that?” said Eudora tightly.

    “Aye. Sounds like him, don’t it?” owned Mr Valentine gloomily.

    “It does, indeed.”

    Silence fell in the pleasant sitting-room of Sommerton Grange.

    Eventually Susannah squeaked: “Did you—did you venture to speak to Cousin Raffaella, Mr Valentine?”

    “Yes. Think you can guess what her reaction was, ma’am.”

    “N— Uh—” She looked frantically at Eudora.

    Mr Valentine also looked at Eudora, and cleared his throat. “She laughed, Mrs Bobby.”

    “Oh, dear! I am so sorry! It was—it was a very caring thing to have done, dear sir!”

    “Yes,” said Eudora, suddenly getting up. “Excuse me, will you? I’ll get the servants to get out and look for Bobby and Peter. They were only after rabbits, dare say they won’t be far.”

    Mr Valentine and Mrs Bobby looked limply at each other as the door closed after her.

    After a moment he admitted glumly: “Shouldn’t have repeated what Sir Ceddie said, about it being odds-on she was after Sir John rather than Jack.”

    “But you made it quite clear that she was interested in Mr Beresford,” Susannah assured him on an anxious note.

    “Aye, well, hope I did.”

    “I think,” she said, licking her lips, ”that it was the news that Sir John refused to—to help, that upset her.”

    “Aye, I thought that, too,” he said glumly. “Wish I’d never said it.”

    “You were doing what you thought best,” said Susannah kindly. “Would you care for some more tea?”

    Gratefully Mr “Val” allowed her to freshen his cup and urge more cake upon him. Then listening gratefully as she told him all about the receet for the said cake, reflecting that there was, after all, something to be said for the undemanding sort of woman what was only interested in receets and brats. So long as she did not have a face like a rabbit, out of course.

    Miss Bon-Dutton’s bag was packed and her coach was waiting on the sweep. Nevertheless her relatives made one last effort to detain her.

    “Keep out of it,” said Mr Quarmby-Vine shortly, his pleasant face very flushed.

    “Eudora, dearest, that is not an order, that is Peter’s best advice!” said Lilian hurriedly.

    “Really? It sounded like an order, to me.”

    “It wasn’t, y’fool!” he shouted. “The thing can only result in further hurt to your feelings, and if you imagine that little baggage will listen to a word you say—”

    “My feelings,” said Eudora grimly and untruthfully, “are not in question.”

    “Look, she married old Baldaya in the teeth of everyone’s best advice, and any young woman who can take that sort of step is not in need of your help or counsel!”

    “She will ignore you, dearest,” warned Lilian anxiously.

    “She is making the most utter fool of herself; and with the Rowbothams staying in the district there is not a hope that it will not be all over London—no, given Sir Cedric’s connections, all over diplomatic circles as well—within the month,” said Eudora grimly. “Nevertheless I shall do my best to nip it in the bud. There is a chance she may not become the laughingstock of all Europe, an I act now.”

    “Will they gossip about it, do you think?” said Lilian dubiously. “I always thought Sir Cedric Rowbotham was a sensible man.”

    “Possibly he is, but he certainly owes Raffaella no consideration. And that brother of his is a burbling imbecile.”

    “Ye-es… But if he is a friend of Mr Beresford’s—”

    “He is not. Or not sufficiently close to care. I grant you Val Valentine may not spread the story. In fact, I thought he seemed genuinely concerned for his friend. Shirley Rowbotham, however, is in another category altogether. Added to which, as I think I wrote you from Portugal, he was clearly épris in that direction himself.”

    Lilian swallowed. “That would be very spiteful,” she murmured.

    “I have no reason to suppose he is otherwise. I’m going,” she said grimly.

    “Write us, Eudora,” said Lilian limply.

    Savagely Eudora pulled on her gloves. “An I succeed or not, you mean? Very well.” Grimly she pecked her sister’s cheek. Grimly she stalked out.

    After quite some time Mr Quarmby-Vine uttered: “Look, Lilian, I have to say it. Is Eudora so damned concerned about Raffaella because she’s going the same way as your damned cousin Eloise Stanhope?”

    To his astonishment his wife did not fire up at him for this outrageous suggestion. “No,” she said with a sigh. “I think her reasons are sufficiently complex, but I am quite sure that is not one of them. Well, firstly, once Eudora has set her hand to the plough, she will not look back.”

    “Yes, but for God’s sake, Lilian! The girl’s no longer her responsibility! Dammit, married twice, a brat of her own?”

    “And something like fifteen years Eudora’s junior. Think about it, dearest.”

    “Eh?” He counted on his fingers. “Um, twelve or thirteen, I suppose,” he concluded feebly.

    “Mm.”

    “Are you telling me she looks on Raffaella like a daughter?” he croaked.

    “Something very like that, my dear,” said Lilian, sighing again.

    “Now, don’t bawl! It ain’t as if Eudora hasn’t had her chances!”

    “She wasn’t in love with any of them,” said Lilian wanly.

    He eyed her uneasily. There had been a slight but definite emphasis on the “them.” “Uh—John Stevens? Is that the trouble?”

    “Yes,” said Lilian, suddenly sitting down. She produced a handkerchief and blew her nose fiercely. “I am not bawling,” she warned.

    Mr Quarmby-Vine tottered to a chair. After a moment he admitted: “I suppose she put him off. Didn’t offer him enough encouragement.”

    “Mm,” agreed Lilian dully.

    “Uh—God. Susannah was bleating something about Eudora’s being annoyed with him because he wouldn’t agree to talk Raffaella out of the thing; but that ain’t it, is it?”

    Lilian blew her nose again. “Not entirely, no. Eudora is very jealous over the relationship that seems to have developed between Raffaella and Sir John in Portugal during the last year. On the other hand, Susannah was right: she is very annoyed with him for not agreeing to intervene with Raffaella: and I am very sure that she has told herself that that is all she feels towards him.”

    After quite some time Peter Quarmby-Vine managed to croak: “You may well say her reasons for rushing off to Cumberland are complex!” He hesitated. “Uh—how far did it go, between Sir John and Raffaella, do you think?”

    “Dearest, I don’t know. But Lucinda Wedderburn writes that the general feeling in Lisbon is that his supporting Raffaella through the horrid court case is an indication that warmer feelings might develop between them in time.”

    He rubbed his nose. “Mm. Well, that’s not so bad.” He eyed her uneasily.

    “Peter, it is the most utter mess, and if Eudora is not admitting to herself she’s in love with the man, she will never exert herself to attract him should Raffaella show the slightest preference there!” she cried bitterly.

    Or even if she don’t, thought Peter Quarmby-Vine sourly. Quite.

    Eudora looked up in horror at the huge bulk of Hailsham House. It might not be the size of Beresford Hall, but it was a very large country house. How much must Raffaella be paying for it, for God’s sake? She did not know the precise amount the General had left her, but she was aware that the court case in Lisbon could not have been inexpensive. And the hire of the fashionable town house this last Season had undoubtedly cost a very great deal. Stupid girl!

    The house appeared to be fully staffed. Certainly a liveried footman opened the front door, and there was another in the front hall. And where had all this furniture come from? Oh—she must have taken it fully furnished. Well, that would have put its price up considerably. Grimly Eudora allowed herself to be shown into a small downstairs sitting-room while the footman went to fetch his mistress.

    “Cara!” said the well-known liquid voice with the gurgle in it. “Such an unexpected pleasure!”

    “Is it?” replied Miss Bon-Dutton at her grimmest.

    Raffaella came forward smiling. “One must live somewhere, after all, and why not here?”

    “Raffaella, stop this nonsense!” shouted Miss Bon-Dutton.

    “Sit down, Eudora,” replied Raffaella calmly.

    Miss Bon-Dutton sat, glaring. “How much is this damned place costing you?” she demanded baldly.

    “Well, quite a lot,” she said airily, “but I managed to beat the man down considerably.”

    “Just let me remind you, you have little Bella’s future to think of, now. Um, how is she?” she added lamely.

    “Perfectly splendid. She is having her nap just now, or I would have brought her down.”

    “Yes. Good,” she said feebly. She took a deep breath.

    “Eudora, I know you’re cross, but—”

    “Is this why you came back to England, after all?”

    “Um, well, partly. I suppose I would not have come merely to spite the cats,” she admitted.

    “And the fact that Jack B. was not in London for the Season suggested nothing to you?”

    Raffaella blinked. “Um, well, I thought that possibly he—um, that he did care, and—um—that was why,” she ended lamely.

    Eudora took another deep breath. “Whether or not he is rusticating with a broken heart, the situation has not changed in essentials. Your background is no more acceptable than it was when you married old Baldaya.”

    “No, but at least am I not quite penniless.”

    “Mr Beresford is a very rich man. I don’t know how much you in fact know of the family, but his father was very comfortably off indeed, and in fact a shrewd man, who invested wisely. Then some years back Mr Beresford inherited a very large fortune from an old bachelor uncle. Whatever the General left you, it will not weigh for an instant with the Beresfords.”

    “If you are come to warn me that his mother is in residence—”

    “I have come to warn you,” said Eudora tiredly, removing her bonnet, “that you are on course to make yourself the laughingstock not only of English polite circles, but of those of the whole of Europe. You do know Sir Cedric Rowbotham and his brother have been staying in the neighbourhood?”

    “Sicuro. But I do not care if I do become a laughingstock. I do not give a fig for the polite circles of Europe,” she said, shrugging the rounded shoulders.

    Eudora ran a hand through her crushed dark locks. “No. In that case, Raffaella, I suggest that you ask yourself very, very seriously just how suited you are to be the wife of a man like Jack Beresford. Because he does care about the polite circles of Europe, and in especial those of England. –If you don’t mind, I should like to be shown to a bedchamber.”

    Raffaella got up quickly and rang the bell. “Of course: you must be tired. I’m sorry. It was very kind of you to rush to my rescue, dearest Cousin, but you really should not have. I am capable of thinking for myself of all the sensible points you might make.”

    “Thinking of them, no doubt. But are you capable of thinking about them?” said Eudora heavily as the footman came in. “Don’t say anything more, Raffaella. Just try and consider, not merely what you want, but also the possible consequences of getting what you want.”

    Raffaella licked her lips. “What if I’m not sure what I want?”

    Miss Bon-Dutton sighed. “God. May we talk it about later? –Pray don’t bother to come up with me,” she added as Raffaella offered.

    “Very well. Have a good rest, dear Cousin,” said Raffaella on a dubious note, allowing the footman to show her out.

    It would not have surprised Miss Bon-Dutton, on awakening from a heavy sleep, to discover that Raffaella had invited half the neighbourhood to dine that night. But she had not: they were alone, apart from old Aunt Eliza. The little old lady retired early, and the cousins were free to talk.

    “Piquet?” said Raffaella on a melting note.

    “No. You know I’m hopeless at card games.”

    “I shall not suggest chess!” she said with a laugh.

    Eudora winced. Raffaella had not the temperament for chess: she was by far too impatient, and not capable of thinking sufficiently in advance— Yes, well. “No, and pray do not suggest spillikins, either. We had best get it over with. Did I only dream it, or did you actually say you were not sure what you want?”

    “Yes. I mean, I did. Um, the thing is, I can see as well as anyone that I hardly know Mr Beresford,” she admitted in a low voice.

    “But?” said Eudora on a sigh.

    Raffaella licked her lips. “I’m not sure that there is a ‘but’. Um, well, he is very—very attractive,” she said, her voice shaking a little.

    “Handsome fellow, mm,” agreed her cousin neutrally.

    “Yes. I suppose he is the type that I have always admired.”

    “Er—ye-es,” said Eudora cautiously.

    Raffaella went very red. “He does look a little like Gianni, if that is what you are thinking! But not as pretty, I assure you!”

    “No?”

    There was a short silence.

    The Senhora Baldaya poked at the carpet with one little slippered foot. “Much more manly,” she growled.

    Eudora swallowed a sigh. Quite.

    “The thing is, Eudora, I think I am in love with his looks!” she burst out.

    “Yes. Well, you would not be the first. No, don’t eat me: I am not needling you. If young women did not fall for young men because of their looks the human race would doubtless have died out long since. And vice versa, of course.”

    “Um, yes,” said Raffaella on an uncertain note.

    Eudora was silent, frowning over it. At last she said: “I do know that talking pays no toll. Nevertheless, I shall make the effort. Let us suppose that all other things were equal, and you did marry him. The first few years would doubtless be very pleasant, but after you had become accustomed to the looks, exactly how much do you imagine the two of you would have in common?”

    Raffaella bit her lip. “Dear Cousin Eudora, you cannot perfectly understand, because you are not a married lady.”

    Miss Bon-Dutton went very red, but replied with dignity: “I am not, however, blind nor a gaby. Let us say, after you had become accustomed to the looks and whatever conjugal delights might be supposed to go along with them.”

    “Yes,” said Raffaella meekly. “I’m sorry. Um… I do not know him well enough to say; is that what you wish to hear?”

    “No. Is it the truth, however?”

    Raffaella gnawed on that pouting red lip. Eventually she admitted: “I am almost sure I would find he irritated me. He is a very conventional man. That time he drove me out behind his team…”

    “Yes?” prompted Eudora, as nothing more seemed to be forthcoming.

    “I cannot remember whether I spoke of it or not. I certainly thought about it. He struck me forcibly, in spite of the looks and the dashing Corinthian nonsense, as a very ordinary man. With—with very ordinary interests and hopes.”

    “You did say something of the sort. Miss Hewitt and I had the impression that it counted in his favour.”

    “It did, because at the time I was persuaded he was just a vain man-about-town.”

    “Mm.”

    “He likes children,” said Raffaella in a low voice. “He told me a great deal about his little cousins in Bath.”

    “Yes. On the other hand, he has certainly been used to lead a very fashionable life,” said her cousin cautiously.

    Raffaella frowned over it. “I see. You mean, he would want both?”

    Eudora did not ask her to explain or endeavour herself to elaborate; she merely nodded.

    “Most men do, I suppose you will say!” she said with a cross little laugh.

    “No. But most men from our walk of life, yes. In essence, my dear, he would desire the exact same sort of life as Charles Q.-V. does: most of the year at home on the estates, very likely varied with a round or two of country visits to like-minded friends, and perhaps two or three months in London to catch up with all the fashions and the gossip, take in the theatre and the opera, and so forth.”

    “Yes. And why should I not desire precisely that?” she said, sticking out the rounded chin.

    Miss Bon-Dutton eyed her thoughtfully. “Do you?”

    Raffaella’s little fists clenched. After a long moment she admitted: “It is so paltry!”

    Eudora was not altogether surprised by this avowal. She nodded slowly.

    “Of course I enjoy the parties and the flattery, and as you know I love the opera; but certainly this last Season in London I would find myself wondering at the end of every evening why on earth I was bothering.”

    “Mm. Did you have any picture in your head of what you might prefer instead?”

    The big eyes sparkled with unshed tears. “My house!” said Raffaella angrily.

    Miss Bon-Dutton’s elegant jaw sagged. “Your— Oh, God. Your house in Portugal?”

    “Yes!” she said fiercely. “I don’t care about the stupid money or the stupid jewels: horrid João Baldaya could take them all with my good will, if only I could have my house back!”

    “Did—um—did the lawyers try to put that to him?”

    “He would not agree,” said Raffaella grimly. “There is no point in discussing it, Eudora.”

    “No-o. Well, no. But surely, if that is what you want, you would be better off returning to Portugal and investing your inheritance in a small property?”

    Raffaella tried to smile. “You are being too rational about it, dearest Cousin.”

    “Er—very like. But there must be other houses.”

    “I know. I suppose I thought… Well, I don’t know that I did think, really. I just— I just decided,” said Raffaella in a trembling voice, “that I would make one last effort. But I suppose I—I was hankering after the might-have-been.”

    “Mm,” Eudora allowed, biting her lip. “I think so. Er—well, you have been under a strain. A death is always a shock, no matter how much we think we are prepared for it, and then, the strain of the court case on top of it: it was hardly unnatural, my dear.”

    “Very like. In a way, I was endeavouring to relive my giddy youth,” said Raffaella sourly. “At the least, to have that Season in London over again.”

    “Something a little like that, yes,” agreed Miss Bon-Dutton cautiously.

    “Don’t look at me like that, Eudora, I am not about to eat you,” she said tiredly. “I did say, did I not, that I had already thought of every point you might possibly make?”

    “Mm.”

    “Don't advise me to give it up,” she warned.

    “My dear, if you can see— No, very well,” she sighed.

    Raffaella stared into the fire. After a very long time she said: “If only I could see him again! At least it might help me to decide whether I truly want him!”

    “Mm.”

    “I did call, you know.”

    Eudora looked at her in horror.

    “Well, his mother is there: it cannot be said that he has no hostess, can it?” she said defiantly. “She was overpoweringly gracious—of course she must have known that I’d taken this house, so her strategy was well prepared. But there was no sign of him at all, and she did not even mention his name.”

    Eudora sighed, but owned: “I am not surprised.”

    “Local gossip has it that they have held several dinner parties, but they have certainly not invited me,” she added grimly.

    “No.”

    “So I shall just have to ride out and about when he is out and about, shall I not?” she said airily.

    “Raffaella, for God’s sake! There is some very rough country hereabouts!”

    “Yes, but my Yellow Pillow can be trusted to walk slowly round it.”

    “Or balk at the sight of it, throwing you off its back!”

    Raffaella shrugged. “I cannot at the moment think of what else to do. Can you?”

    Eudora rather thought she could, actually. She did not say so, but got up, sighing, declaring her intention of retiring.

    Raffaella rose, and came up very close. “Dearest Cousin, perhaps I should not mention it, but if Mr Valentine called at Sommerton Grange, you must know that Sir John Stevens has a little shooting-box in the district.”

    “So?” said Miss Bon-Dutton, raising the fine eyebrows.

    “Well, um, perhaps not an invitation to dinner, though with Aunt Eliza to play propriety it could not be thought inappropriate; but should you care for me to arrange a little picknick or some such?”

    “Arrange as many picknicks as you wish, Raffaella,” she said colourlessly. “Though as the English weather cannot be trusted to stay fine, they may not be such successes as your Portuguese picknicks were. Goodnight.”

    Raffaella grasped her arm tightly. “You cannot leave it at that!”

    “I’m sorry: I am still rather tired after the journey.”

    “Eudora, do not attempt to pull the wool over my eyes! Admit you want to see Sir John again!”

    “I have no interest in seeing Sir John again, but that need not stop you inviting him. Goodnight,” she said firmly, pulling out of her grasp and walking out.

    Raffaella rushed after her. “Eudora, he is a highly principled man, and very intelligent, and very gallant! And you may claim looks do not count, but he is so striking-looking! And you would him make the most wonderful hostess!”

    Eudora had taken her candle. She mounted the stairs steadily with it. “I do not aspire,” she said, glancing down briefly, “to be any man’s hostess. Goodnight, Raffaella.”

    “Then you love him!” cried Raffaella angrily.

    Eudora mounted the stairs quietly, ignoring her.

Next chapter:

https://raffaella-aregencynovel.blogspot.com/2022/11/resolution.html