Love Among the Spices Page 13

  I have written to Sir Edward upon this matter.

  Your humble servant, Myrah.

  Marianne did indeed resist confessing the truth to her aunt, although she had no means of explaining her distress otherwise once Mrs. Sotherby had been informed of the call. The good lady’s dudgeon was beyond words, for it was tremendously shocking to her that a young man had appeared in her absence to make an offer of marriage–here, after all the precautions she had taken to leave Marianne safeguarded at home and about the village!

  “I want to go home,” Marianne had insisted. “Please, I cannot stay here any longer.” Despite her puffy face, she was presentable in second-best muslin, a sign, Mrs. Sotherby hoped, that her heart was not too deeply touched.

  “It is not possible, Miss Marianne,” she answered. “It is scarce but two weeks until we go into town and you will be safe enough from the gentleman’s attentions now–”

  “I cannot bear it, Ma’am,” Marianne replied. “I simply must go home.” Tears continued, and even the placid counsel of Charlotte and the timid sympathies of Julia produced no alteration in Marianne’s opinion. Her tears and prayers had exhausted the young woman and left no desire to be among even the kindest of strangers.

  In the company of the manservant James, she was taken by carriage, then by post, to London; where she was returned to Evering House and her father’s care. Sir Edward was waiting for her in the hall when she arrived, instead of in the library as usual. There were additional lines in his countenance, no doubt prompted into existence by this latest trial.

  “Well, Marianne,” he sighed, for he had already received her cousin’s letter.

  “Papa,” she said. “You know it all, I suppose. Oh, Papa, I did not mean for him to propose–I did not even know he would be in the village–”

  “Hush, hush,” he answered, softly, as the first signs of tears appeared in Marianne’s eyes. “Let us have no more mention of it, daughter.” He passed his arms around her and kissed her atop her curly head, its bonnet dangling free past her shoulders. “Let us forget it and think upon other matters.”

  Had these words been the last upon the subject, Marianne might have felt at ease more quickly. She was surrounded by her drawings and bird’s nest, the familiar faces of Madge and Letty, instead of reminders of the pain in Adam's eyes before he turned away. But it was not a matter to be treated lightly by her aunt, whose letter arrived but a day later and sent the good woman forth from her own house to Evering with all haste.

  “Sir Edward!” she declared, breathlessly, when ushered into the morning room. “It is but too true! I have a letter from Myrah–” Here she paused for breath, and took notice of her niece seated near the fire.

  “Miss Marianne!” she said.

  “Good morning, aunt,” Marianne replied. Sir Edward was bristling already in anticipation of the conversation to follow.

  “How could you allow such a gentleman to call upon you–at Norland Park of all places! And while your cousins were all away–it is sly and deceitful by any estimation–”

  “I did not know that he called to propose!” Marianne interrupted, impatiently. “I had no notion of his intentions. And the whole family was not away, for Dorothea and her governess were at home, too.” She did not mention that they were not present for the interview which took place, however.

  “I am only surprised at your refusal, since you were so taken with him in his shop,” her aunt retorted. “A proposal! And this after sending you away from this shopkeeper and that bold young officer who evidently followed you as well–”

  “Neither of these gentleman followed me,” said Marianne, although she had her doubts about the full truth of this statement regarding one of them. “Captain Lindley’s regiment is encamped there, so he could not help being present. And as for Mr. Nimbley, he is not a shopkeeper, he is the younger son of a baronet–so you should be pleased in his interest, I should think.” With that, she flounced from her chair and out of the room.

  Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s mouth remained agape for a moment longer over her niece’s willful response and heated tone. “A baronet,” she declared, at length. “Well, that is an improvement over the regiment–although a younger son is generally not to be encouraged unless there is a fortune or fine prospect concerned. But there are exceptions in every case and at least–”

  Sir Edward’s face grew dark. “Do not speak of this matter again to Marianne,” he said, cutting Mrs. Fitzwilliam's narrative short. “It has been a very unfortunate experience altogether; and I do not wish her to be reminded of it. Is that quite clear?”

  “If you wish me to keep to it secret, of course I shall oblige–there is no question of that,” said Mrs. Fitzwilliam, testily. “Nevertheless, Sir Edward, I would advise you to have the whole story. Have Flora speak to her on the matter, for it will not do to have secrecy upon this subject with regards to Marianne’s reputation. Although,” she reflected, “since he is apparently a gentleman, I suppose there is less fear that he will expose her to any scandal by mentioning it.”

  “I will have Flora speak to her,” Sir Edward relented. “Indeed, I do not have a choice but to do so.” He ran one hand wearily across his forehead. The last few days had been trying, since the arrival of the letter from Mrs. Sotherby. He had sent Marianne away to avoid unwanted attention and it had followed her there. What was the point of such efforts if they were all to be wasted? It was enough to try the patience of any man, much less one worn by his son's career and his elder daughter's brief dalliance with the publishing trade.

  “Of course, Mrs. Sotherby is perfectly willing to chaperone her any time Lady Easton is not inclined to go out,” ventured Mrs. Fitzwilliam. “Charlotte and Julia are perfectly obliged to stand up with their cousin, if you like.”

  “We shall see,” grumbled Sir Edward. “Whether Miss Marianne will go out again at all this Season remains to be seen as well. Good day, Madam.” He retreated to his library before Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s shock could manifest itself in the form of a reply.

  Upstairs, Marianne was not reflecting upon an imprudent match, but upon the heated words she has spoken to young Adam Nimbley. Had she been too harsh upon him? What was she, after all, but a young woman unable to live out her ambitions? A young lady in London society who must be content to lay aside her interest in beetles and cocoons for a life spent embroidering cushions and keeping household accounts.

  It fluttered through her mind that she had cared for him. No, it was too impossible! She could not care for anyone who would prefer to have her in a London drawing room instead of a country cottage–how could they possibly love each other when the cares of a career in Society were ever upon them?

  Yet, it was not enough to explain the sharp pain in her chest at the thought of their friendship ruined. The memories of their exploration of the woods in Kent, brightly colored with all the vivid shades of her mind, were now unbearable to recall in the wake of Adam's pain.

  It was a dreary thought for Marianne at this moment, more so than even the drawing room of embroidered cushions. Being a teacher or milliner might be more agreeable to her than sharing Adam Nimbley's unhappiness as a barrister. A missionary among the leper colonies of India or the tribes of the northern Americas would give her more pleasure and more accomplishment than knowing her place in society had brought him to such a passionless choice–all to please her in his eyes!

  As a tear escaped from her eye, she lay quietly without sobbing upon her coverlet. The droplet shone fiercely in the light filtering through the window, creating a sparkling gemstone which obscured her vision of the bird’s nest displayed upon the sill. The afternoon of its retrieval seemed long ago; as if Marianne had passed through another age since that moment. Perhaps she was growing up, something which would please her relations more than even a proper match.

  In her carriage bound for another call, Mrs. Fitzwilliam contented herself with Marianne’s current safety from the attentions of this young man, however well-titled he might be. Surely
the young man would be detained in the country a few weeks yet, while her niece’s nerves recovered from the shock. And perhaps by then, another, more suitable match, would endeavor to attract Marianne's notice.

  “At least,” she reflected, “we shall have nothing more to fear from the officer, now that she is safe in London.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Young Adam Nimbley returned to London a fortnight later; outstaying even the family of Sir Allen himself at their invitation, with the excuse of his uncle’s detainment on the coast of Sussex to explain his willingness to accept.

  In reality, it was the fear of seeing Marianne in London which kept him there longer; and the knowledge that she was gone from this village which made him incapable of stirring for more than a half-hearted dinner or the short distance between his room and the library.

  He had promised his father he would keep their friend’s engagement; and so he returned before the appointed date, his arrival timed in such a manner that he avoided seeing his father for several hours.

  Sir George had a strict policy in household regarding dinner; in that both he and his children were to dress for it, it was to be served at seven on the chimes, and no one was to be late for the event. It was one of the few habits of which the genial old man was fastidious, as if the final remnants of his rank and gentility dictated a daily effort to observe both.

  With a joint of mutton and a bottle of wine, he presided with good appetite over the table that evening, although the same could not be said of his son. Anne, in her new frock, was present: a gawky, thin girl all elbows and angles, who was said to be promising by her day instructors at the Ladies’ Academy.

  “Am I to attend the party at the Luftons?” she asked. “The invitation was extended to us all, you know, Father; and it is but a small party for supper and cards. There shall be other young girls there who are not yet out, so it is quite proper.”

  “Is it?” enquired Sir George. “Is it? I do not know if I hold with this old-fashioned idea of letting the younger set go about with the older before their place is made. Lady Nimbley would say so as well, I fancy; for your mother was a fashionable woman and wouldn’t wish to see us forget our place.”

  “What do say you, Adam?” pleaded Anne. “May I not go? The Luftons are very fashionable people and wouldn’t ask me if it were not proper.”

  Adam looked up from his plate of salad and mutton, only half-touched since its serving. “I do not know,” he answered, faintly.

  “John would know,” said Sir George. “At Oxford, he sees all the best families. Went visiting with a Mr. Nash of some means, who was quite taken with him because of some of the praise from his professors. He would know whether it’s fashionable or not.” With this prideful praise of his son’s accomplishments, Sir George returned to his dinner.

  “But what do you think, Adam,” continued Anne. “Is it not proper?”

  Adam smiled, but did not answer. He was preoccupied during the courses of the meal; and scarce noticed Anne’s departure to the parlor afterwards, as his father’s manservant poured two glasses of claret for father and son.

  Sir George took a sip from his glass, savoring its contents for a moment. “Good year, that,” he said. “A fine bottle, sir. Drink up,” he urged, motioning towards his son’s glass.

  It remained untouched, however, although Adam’s fingers touched its stem, turning it this way and that in a slight motion.

  “I’ve had a letter from John while you were away,” said Sir George. “Seems he’s getting on well. Both professor and dean alike have taken to him; he’s got a promising mind, they say. Good thing in a gentleman, for I do not want the title carried on by some nabob whose head is better occupied with carrying a hat about the streets in parade.”

  “John always possessed a good mind,” answered Adam. “He would use it well, I think, when he finds a reason to do so.”

  Sir George drained his glass, then took a second in his accustomed habit. “Come now, no need to be so disconsolate,” he urged his son. “You’ll show them an equal performance at Oxford when you’re away.”

  Adam cleared his throat. “I would like to go away, sir,” he said.

  “Of course you would,” said Sir George. “And in another year, there will be time enough to set you up handsomely there. Then we shall see about getting you a suitable career.”

  His son’s lips twitched, then words emerged, hoarsely. “No, Father. I mean away from here. To another place. This week; or next, or perhaps a month from now.”

  Sir George paused in the act of another sip. “Go from home again?” he said. “You’ve just been away, my boy. You’ve scarce been home but above five hours. And now you declare that there’s nothing for it but a longing to go again?”

  “It is not what it seems, sir–” began Adam.

  “What it seems is ingratitude, my boy,” the baronet blustered, but he paused at the sight of his son’s unhappy countenance.

  “What is it that bothers you so?” he continued, not unkindly. “You’ve not been yourself, not in weeks. I bid you go with your uncle because I thought it was some excuse to leave the city; but if it is more serious than that, you must tell me.”

  In response, his son leaned forward, meeting his eye with a fervent gaze. “I would go into the world, sir,” he answered. “It does not matter where, so long as it is far, far away from here. A place where I can make my own name by bringing back native specimens or rare plants or seeds never before planted in the soil of England–”

  His father shook his head vigorously. “Nay, nay, that’s more of the science talking through you,” he said. “Let’s have no more of this, for the law’s decided upon, Adam. I would see you well provided for when your brother has the title and house–”

  “And I would see myself an honest man content with his living,” Adam replied. “The fortune shall make John happy, sir; but the law can never make me happy. I shall be miserable forced into a career of any sort except for this one.”

  Pain was visible in the baronet’s eyes. “But there is nothing to be had for you there,” he said. “There’s no money in traipsing about the world, catching up insects or fruits to bring back like a curiosity for a London drawing room. I’ll not stand by and see you ruined.”

  Adam shook his head. “I will find something, Father,” he said. “I’ll find something. Whether it be a little volume or some essays upon my observations. There are journals–newspapers–societies which pay for such perspectives. I might find favor in one of the peerage who sponsors foreign exploration; they might even publish my work.” Reaching across the table, he grasped his father’s hand.

  “I must make my own way in this, Father,” he said. “I have something to prove and I will prove it.” His tone was firmer than in the past, something which touched Sir George’s weakening will.

  "Well, sir?" he asked, after a moment's silence. His voice was faint, although a note of hopefulness remained in its tones.

  The baronet was quiet still longer; gazing past his son as if the answer must be written upon the walls or on the invisible barriers in his own mind.

  "You have my permission," he answered. "Go, then. Go and see what you can make of it." These last words tumbled out with haste, the begrudging regret of a man who obviously wishes he did not have to say these things, even for the reward of his son's gratitude expressed in a fervent smile and the pressure of his hands around his father's own.

  “How would you go about this?” said the baronet. “You cannot simply board the post and be gone to some foreign land.”

  Adam hesitated. “I would go aboard on one of the merchant ships,” he said. “The Drake’s Arms leaves Dover in a couple of days, bound for Dominica,” he said. “It is not very remote, perhaps, but from there I shall find a new point of beginning.”

  “Your uncle takes you, then,” murmured Sir George. “Quite right, I suppose. But you should not be away long? The explorers I have read about, they are often gone long. When they come bac
k at all,” he added, gloomily.

  “Only a short time,” Adam answered. “I cannot say how long; except that when I accomplish what I intend, I shall return. And in the meantime, I shall write you and Anne, and John at Oxford.”

  “Yes, John,” recalled Sir George. “He can help you, perhaps; you must write him while you are gone.” He patted his son’s hand as the boy’s fingers tightened around his own. Perhaps it was the repeated warmth of his son's manner, or something else which prompted the baronet's countenance to soften.

  “There is something more to this business than a young man’s wanderings, isn’t there?” he said. “There is a young lady at the bottom of this, I think; a heart that needs forgotten for a Season, perhaps?”

  The color in Adam’s cheeks was proof enough, even before he answered. “There is a little of that, sir,” he answered. “I am ashamed to say that I was not what I wished when I addressed her. And that her words to me were painful in their very truth.”

  His father nodded. “Then I suppose a young man has the right to spare himself a little pain in the wake of such matters,” he said with a sigh. “If you will not allow me to purchase you a commission in the navy or the army, then there is nothing else but your uncle’s business to carry you away.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Adam. “You are indeed the best of fathers to a son not worthy of his name–not yet.” He spoke with a smile resembling his old one, these words a jest despite the feeling in his breast that there was truth in them.

  “If nothing else, when you come back you’ll have a name at Oxford, what with your letters to John with all his favor,” said Sir George, “and the law shall wait, you know.” These words were more to comfort himself than his son, who had resolved in the deepest chambers of his hearts that the career of law was done for him once and all.