Читать книгу Lady Polly - Nicola Cornick, Nicola Cornick - Страница 8

1817

Sir Godfrey Orbison did not understand women. Never having entered the bond of matrimony and being devoid of close female relatives to guide him, he was ill-equipped to deal with a goddaughter he considered to be both foolish and ungrateful.

“You refused him because you did not love him?” Sir Godfrey’s black brows beetled together and he glared fiercely at Lady Polly Seagrave, his tone incredulous. “What is that to the purpose, pray? A fine situation if one had to love one’s intended spouse! The material point is that he is heir to the Duke of Bellars, and as such must be a better prospect than life as a penniless spinster! Aye, and a spinster who is fast approaching her dotage!”

The Dowager Countess of Seagrave was fluttering her hands in distress, but Lady Polly allowed herself a small smile, her elusive dimples peeping for a moment. She knew her godfather’s ill temper would not last long for he was incapable of bearing a grudge and was so fond of her that she could get away with most things. Turning down her fifth suitor of the Season and the nineteenth eligible proposal of her life was, however, testing his indulgence to the full. And he was her trustee, along with her elder brother, and as such could cut up rough about her allowance if he chose. In eighteen months she would be twenty-five and should be mistress of her own fortune, but if Sir Godfrey chose to make her a penniless spinster, it was within his legal powers to do so. Clearly some tact and charm was called for.

She dropped a small curtsy and smiled at her godfather beguilingly. “Dearest Sir Godfrey, you have been like a father to me since my own papa died, and I do thank you for all your guidance and advice! But I am persuaded that you could not really wish me to marry John Bellars! He is a pleasant enough man, if as dull as ditchwater, but it is old Lady Bellars who would be the rub! Why, she has him completely under her thumb and is the most mean-spirited woman—”

“Humph!” Sir Godfrey opined.

“And she is penny-pinching, too!” The Dowager Countess of Seagrave put in, hastily improving on her daughter’s theme. “I hear she keeps young John on a tight rein, for all that she has no real control over his fortune! And,” she added artfully, with a flash of her dark eyes, “was it not Augusta Bellars who tried to snare you in your salad days, Godfrey? She pursued you quite violently, as I recall! They were taking bets in the clubs that she would catch you!”

Sir Godfrey’s choleric gaze kindled again. “Gussie Grantley! Yes, b’God, I’d forgotten that! Tiresome woman, forever wheedling herself into my company, telling everyone there was an understanding between us! Well…” he sighed heavily, “…can’t be doing with that connection in the family, then. Why, she might view this as a second chance to catch me!”

“It is not to be contemplated!” The Dowager declared, smiling as much with genuine amusement as relief. The thought of the widowed Duchess of Bellars pursuing the elderly Sir Godfrey afforded her much secret amusement. In her experience, men often had a much-inflated view of their own attractions.

Sir Godfrey’s gaze had fallen on Polly again, demurely sitting with her chin in her hand smiling at him. Fond of her as he was, he was obliged to view her as another example of an unsatisfactory female.

“All the same, Poll, this won’t do, you know! Nineteen suitors, all worthy men, and not one of them up to your expectations!” Sir Godfrey cleared his throat, intent on delivering a homily. “I thought that you would take Julian Morrish when he offered this Season—damned…harrumph! Dashed silly not to! No better man in the whole of London! And Seagrave took Morrish’s rejection that badly, I know…”

The Dowager Lady Seagrave cleared her throat delicately. She had been quick to see her daughter’s discomfort, for the colour had come rushing into Polly’s ivory complexion, making her look suddenly more animated and much prettier. That was how she used to look, Lady Seagrave thought with a sudden pang of regret, remembering a time five years before, when her daughter had been a bright and vivacious debutante rather than a cool and withdrawn young lady with a reputation for pride. The young Lady Polly had been an appealing girl, drawing quite a following to her with her lustrous cloud of dark hair and expressive brown eyes. She had not lacked for offers, but none of them seemed to meet her exacting standards. No man in five years had been able to persuade her of the merit of his suit.

As for Julian Morrish, that had indeed been an unfortunate affair and one which had caused ill feeling within the family for several weeks until Lucille, the Dowager’s daughter-in-law, had interceded with her husband to forgive Polly. Nick Seagrave had been furious that his close friend, Julian Morrish, had been rejected by his sister. Everyone knew Morrish to be a fine man and one to whom no possible objection could be made on the grounds of rank, consequence, fortune or reputation. Polly’s behaviour had put a great strain on the friendship between Seagrave and Morrish, and an even greater strain on relationships within the family. Polly’s other brother, Peter, had strolled into the breakfast-room one morning and remarked that he would rather face the French again at Waterloo than be the butt of his brother and sister’s ill humour.

“I think, perhaps, that it would be wise for Polly to retire for a little now, Sir Godfrey,” the Dowager Countess said hastily, seeing that her daughter’s colour was still high. “We go to Lady Phillips’s ridotto tonight, and you know how Polly tires easily these days! Polly, my love—”

In response to her mother’s meaningful nod, Polly got up, pressed a kiss on Sir Godfrey’s whiskery face, and slipped out of the room. Her spirits had taken a tumble. The mention of Julian Morrish had been an unfortunate one.

Once out in the deserted entrance hall, Polly leaned against a marble pillar and rested one hot cheek against its coolness. She had known that Sir Godfrey would be angry at Bellars’s dismissal, especially as it followed on so swiftly from the fiasco of Julian Morrish. And she had been as upset as anyone at the necessity of rejecting Morrish, knowing it would cause difficulties for Nicholas Seagrave in particular. Yet, she could not have accepted Morrish, not whilst the spectre of Lord Henry Marchnight persisted in imposing itself between her and every eligible man she met. A tear slid from the corner of one of Polly’s closed eyes and she swallowed what seemed to be a huge lump in her throat.

Immediately after her estrangement from Lord Henry five years previously, Polly had been in very low spirits. She had berated herself fiercely for the lack of courage and the lack of faith that had led her to refuse to elope with Lord Henry. She had a curious feeling of loss, as though she had thrown away something priceless, something that would never be recaptured. The expression on Lord Henry’s face as he had left her that night, the stony withdrawal, the contempt for her weakness, had haunted her for a long time. It was only later, when she was older and understood her loss all the more, that she realised that his love for her had been far more mature than the girlish passion she had thought that she had felt for him. She had simply not been ready to accept the full responsibility of his love and all its implications, not ready to defy her family and run away with him.

The most acute elements of her misery wore off with time, particularly as Lord Henry was absent from Town much of the time and his path and Polly’s did not cross much for several years. Whenever she heard news of him it would invariably involve some highly coloured account of his amatory adventures, for he appeared to have become a thorough-going rake and wastrel. Polly’s heart ached when she heard the tales, as though some part of her could not relinquish Henry for good. And then, the previous summer, her dormant feelings had been stirred into life again.

Lord Henry had been in Suffolk that summer, at the same time that Polly was at Dillingham with her mother and brothers, and it was inevitable that they should be in each other’s company. Each tried to avoid the other as much as possible, their meetings made awkward by the history that lay between them. To Polly’s horror, she had discovered that her childish infatuation had somehow transformed itself over the years into a frighteningly strong attachment. She realised that Lord Henry had unconsciously influenced her refusal of every offer of marriage over the past five years, and that since she was unable to marry him now, she would marry no one.

The realisation made her even more self-conscious in his company and she cursed her inability to match Henry’s smooth detachment. Her original refusal to elope with him was now an awesome barrier between them, making the re-establishment of cordial or at the least civil relations between them well-nigh impossible. When Lord Henry had said, that fateful night, that he would never approach Polly again, he had meant just that. They were obliged to exchange a few words when they met in public, but he seldom sought her out. Then, of course, there was his reputation as a rake, which made every chaperon blench. Although many of his escapades were probably exaggerated, there was no doubt that he had become very wild and would not be considered a suitable escort for any unmarried lady. And now, there was an even more potent and unexpected reason why she could never hope to re-attach his affections…

The sound of voices at the main door stirred Polly from her thoughts. She straightened up to see her sister-in-law Lucille taking her leave of a couple on the doorstep and hurrying into the hall, pulling off her gloves. As Lucille’s eyes adjusted to the sudden shade, Polly came forward to greet her.

“Oh, Lucille, I am glad to see you back!” Then, as her sister-in-law fixed her with a rather too perceptive gaze, she said hastily, “Who were those people? They looked a little eccentric!”

Lucille laughed. “The lady was a Mrs Golightly, who is a friend of Miss Hannah More, and was telling me all about her work with the Bettering Society! They work to improve the condition of the poor, you know! And the gentleman is a poet, Mr Cleymore, who is accounted quite good, I believe, although I cannot understand his work! They are complete originals, but not people of fashion!”

“Who cares a button for that?” Polly said stoutly. One of the things she particularly liked about Lucille was her lack of interest in worldly concerns. She would befriend people because she liked them, support causes because she believed in them, and gently rebuke even the most high-ranking Dowager who ventured to criticise her for her quaint interests. Lucille had grown in poise and confidence since her marriage to Nicholas Seagrave, Polly thought now, but she retained the innocent interest she had in everyone and everything. It was a quality that added to her novelty value in the eyes of the ton, who were always seeking fresh amusement. Lucille, with her slightly eccentric ways, had been a gift to such jaded palates. And the final titillation, of course, was the dreadful, brassy Cyprian who was Lucille’s twin and had done her utmost to embarrass her sister, seeking her out at public events and trying to hang on her coattails. Lucille had dealt with all the pitfalls most admirably, Polly thought with a smile, taking her sister-in-law’s arm and steering her towards the green drawing-room and away from Sir Godfrey and the Dowager Countess.

“Do you have time to take tea with me?” she asked hopefully, and Lucille’s observant blue eyes scanned her face once more.

“Of course! Medlyn, tea for two in the Green Room, if you please!” She turned back to Polly. “But what has happened, Polly? You look quite blue-devilled! Oh, I know—” She wrinkled up her nose. “John Bellars has made you an offer and you have refused him! And…” she cast a glance towards the closed door of the blue drawing-room “…your mother and Sir Godfrey are on the high ropes over your behaviour!”

“Sir Godfrey has rung a peal over me,” Polly admitted ruefully, as they went into the Green Room. “How did you know that Bellars was about to make me a declaration, Lucille?”

“I guessed,” Lucille said serenely. “And I suspected you would refuse him. The only one I thought you might have accepted was Julian Morrish…”

Polly sighed. “I did think of accepting,” she said reluctantly, “for I like Julian very well, and had I wanted a marriage based on mutual respect and liking, it might have served. But—” she shook her head “—I could not do it, for—”

“For you are still in love with Harry Marchnight,” Lucille finished for her, disposing herself elegantly in a wing chair and looking at her sister-in-law with a rueful amusement.

Feeling a prickle of envy at the casual way Lucille mentioned Lord Henry, Polly sought to defend herself. “It is not that I am in love with him, precisely—”

The door opened to admit Medlyn with the tea. Lucille poured neatly and passed Polly a cup.

Once she had thanked him and the door had closed again, Lucille turned back to Polly.

“Come now, Polly, do you think you can cozen me? It may be that you originally suffered from a schoolroom infatuation for Lord Henry, but I am sure you have discovered that this has turned to something far more profound.”

“You have not forgotten what I told you at Dillingham in the autumn,” Polly said sadly. “I was being foolishly self-pitying! It was simply that your own wedding made me feel sorry for myself and I regretted the opportunity I threw away! But that was all over a long time ago! It is of no consequence!”

Lucille studied her sister-in-law over the rim of her teacup. “But I am concerned for your happiness, Polly! All these gentlemen you refuse are so very eligible and do not take their rejection lightly! You know that you are getting a reputation for pride! And what are you to do if you do not marry?”

Polly shrugged, a gesture which her mother deplored. “Oh, I shall devote myself to studying and good works! And if I miss the excitement of the Season in years to come, I shall set myself up as a chaperon for daughters of rich cits wishing to marry well!”

Lucille sensibly chose to disregard most of this. “Do you think,” she said carefully, “that there is any likelihood of yourself and Lord Henry making a match of it? He has told me that he still holds you in the greatest esteem—”

But Polly was shaking her head violently. “Oh, no, Lucille, that is impossible! Why, I am sure he had nothing but contempt for my poor-spiritness in refusing to elope with him five years ago and now I imagine he scarce thinks of me at all!”

She broke off, evading Lucille’s eyes. Impossible to explain to her sister-in-law that the most potent reason that Lord Henry could no longer have any interest in her was because he had quite obviously formed a romantic attachment to Lucille herself. Polly wondered just how innocent Lucille could be. She had no doubt that the attachment was one-sided and entirely emotional rather than physical. But how could Lucille not have noticed that Lord Henry was forever in her company, seeking her views and advice, valuing her opinion? Why, even Seagrave himself had commented humorously what a lapdog Harry Marchnight was becoming, forever following his wife about.

Polly searched rather desperately for a change of subject. “Do you think that you shall be joining the Bettering Society, Lucille?”

“Probably not,” her sister-in-law answered. “Nicholas has suggested that we travel a little at the end of the Season, and since I am still awaiting my wedding trip, I thought to encourage him! But—” she returned to the previous subject with an obstinacy for which she was well known “—we were speaking of you, Polly, not of myself! If you truly feel that any awkwardness with Lord Henry must be in the past now, why do the two of you spend all your time skulking behind trees or pillars in an effort to avoid each other? It makes matters very difficult for the rest of us! Why, Nicholas was saying only the other day that he wished to ask Harry’s advice on those greys he was thinking of buying, but he hesitated in case you accidently bumped into him! Could you not speak to Lord Henry and put an end to this, Polly?”

Polly stared in disbelief.

“Speak to him,” she echoed faintly. “Whatever can you mean, Lucille? Oh, I could not!”

Lucille’s brows rose at this missish response. She knew that Lady Appollonia Grace Seagrave was a well-brought-up and entirely orthodox daughter of the nobility, but had not thought her merely a pretty ninnyhammer.

“Well, upon my word, I only meant that you should discuss matters with him—clear the air!” she repeated patiently. “After all, you are both adults and cannot be forever behaving in this foolish manner! You yourself have said that it is all in the past! I apologise if I have offended your sensibility, but I should think that one slightly embarrassing encounter must be a small price to pay to be comfortable together in the future! If you truly believe that there is no hope for the two of you and you do not wish to try to re-engage his feelings, explain to Lord Henry that you have no wish to continue in this absurd way and that you should both regard the past as over! That way you may start afresh as friends!”

Polly sighed, reaching for the teapot. It was hopeless to try to explain to Lucille that gently bred ladies simply did not seek a gentleman out in order to engage him in a conversation of an intimate and personal nature. Disagreements such as the one Polly had with Lord Henry were simply to be ignored or endured. Lucille, who had earned a living as a schoolteacher before her marriage to the Earl, had no time for what she saw as the pointless prevarications of polite society, but Polly could no more approach Lord Henry than fly to the moon.

“You are great friends with Harry Marchnight,” Polly said lightly, trying not to let her envy show. “I doubt I could achieve your familiarity with him!”

“No, but I am a married lady—” Lucille broke off at Polly’s irrepressible burst of laughter, arching her eyebrows enquiringly. “Why, whatever have I said?”

“Married ladies are precisely the type Lord Henry prefers, so I hear,” Polly said drily.

“Oh, but—” For a moment Lucille looked confused, before regaining her poise. “Oh, no, it is not in the least like that! I am glad to have Harry’s esteem, but that is all there is to it! Why, to suggest anything else would be pure folly!”

Polly smiled, unconvinced. It was true that not even the ton, with its penchant for intrigue, had suggested anything improper in the relationship between the two, but that did not mean that Lord Henry might not wish it so. Lucille, totally absorbed in her husband, would be the last person to realise. Polly, thinking now of the consuming passion between Lucille and Nick Seagrave, shifted slightly in her chair. They were always perfectly proper in their behaviour in company, but it only needed one look…Polly sometimes thought that if any man ever looked at her with that explicit mixture of warmth and sensual demand she would faint dead away. But perhaps Lucille was lucky. Perhaps she was the unlucky one, hidebound by a conventional upbringing in a house where preserving the surface calm had always been all important.

The problem of Lord Henry Marchnight twitched at the corner of her mind again. Lucille was right, of course. Polly did not delude herself that there was any chance of re-establishing a rapport with Lord Henry, and under the circumstances, it was both foolish and pointless to be forever dwelling on the past. Perhaps she could at least try to put matters to rights. If she could find the right words to convey a genteel acceptance that they had both been young and foolish…It might suffice and put an end to awkwardness.

“I will try to speak to Lord Henry if I have an opportunity,” Polly agreed hesitantly. “I understand what you mean, Lucille. It is just so difficult…” She despised herself for her lack of spirit, even as her mind shrank from the thought of broaching such a personal subject with someone who was, to all intents and purposes, a stranger. Yet Lucille was also right that their social circle was relatively small: to try to avoid someone was always difficult. Friends always seemed to have other mutual friends or acquaintances and an invitation or chance meeting could prove awkward.

Lucille took a biscuit and poured a second cup of tea. “I own it will be a relief to have the matter settled,” she said with a candid smile. “Then I may stop worrying about you and turn my attention to Peter and Hetty! They are causing me great concern!”

“It must have been a great blow for Hetty when Mrs Markham’s ill health led to the postponment of the wedding,” Polly commented, secretly glad that Lucille had turned the subject. “But what do you mean, Lucille? How can Peter be giving you cause for concern?”

Lucille frowned. Polly’s brother and her own foster sister had been intending to wed that spring, but the marriage had been delayed indefinitely since Hetty’s mother had succumbed to the dropsy.

“You know how silly Hetty became at the start of the Season,” Lucille said, a little crossly. “Of course, she is very young and I think her head was turned by all the attention she received, but I thought that once she had returned to the country she might regain some of her natural sense! But only today I have had a letter from her telling me that Lord Grantley is in Essex and paying her lavish attentions! And your brother is as bad, Polly, for instead of posting down to Kingsmarton to see Hetty and untangle matters he persists in staying in Town, and last night at Lady Coombes’s ball he was paying the most outrageous attentions to Maria Leverstoke…”

“But I thought she was Lord Henry’s flirt,” Polly said, studiously picking an imaginary thread off Fanchon’s latest confection, and politely avoiding a description of Lady Leverstoke that might have been more appropriate but less discreet.

Lucille made an airy gesture. “That may be so, but she seemed smitten enough with Peter last night! He is become the most dreadful philanderer! You are for Lady Phillips’s ridotto tonight, are you not? Only watch, and you will see just what I mean!”