‘Yes,’ agreed Mr Kennet, perceiving the wisdom of this. ‘And I’ll give her my poor Charlotte’s garnet brooch for a bride gift, what’s more! I can’t lay my hand on it at the moment, but I’ll send it. Where are you putting up, my dear?’
Sir Julian, perceiving that Miss Trent was quite stunned, took her hand in a comforting hold, and said: ‘She will be staying at the Christopher, sir. And now I think we must take our leave of you.’
Mr Kennet brightened still more at finding that he was not expected to entertain his grandchild and her betrothed to dinner, and said that if she liked she might come to visit him again before she left Bath. ‘But I won’t have your cousin Joseph coming to batten on me!’ he added, suddenly querulous.
‘Which leads one to wonder,’ remarked Sir Julian, when he had extricated Miss Trent from the house, ‘what is to become of Joseph!’
‘What is to become of me?’ said Miss Trent, wringing her hands.
‘You are going to marry me.’
‘Yes – I mean – But poor Mama! Bertram! Dear Ned! I have no right to be so happy when I have failed so miserably!’
He lifted her up into the curricle. ‘My little love, you have not so far given my circumstances a thought, but I must inform you that I am accounted to be extremely wealthy. Bertram, and Ned, and Tom shall go to Eton, and Oxford, and anywhere else you may choose; and Clara shall have her lessons on the pianoforte; and your mama shall have a dozen maids; and –’
‘Good God, you cannot be as rich as that!’ cried Miss Trent, quite frightened.
‘Much richer!’ he averred, mounting on to the box beside her.
‘But you must not marry me!’ she said, in great distress. ‘There must be dozens of eligible females whom you should rather marry!’
‘I am not the Grand Turk!’ he protested.
‘No, no, but you know I have no expectations!’
‘I know nothing of the sort,’ he said, possessing himself of her hand, and kissing it. ‘You are to inherit your grandmother’s pearls! But if I were you,’ he added, gathering up the reins, ‘I would not build too much upon that garnet brooch, my love!’
Full Moon
LORD STAVELY PREPARED to descend from his chaise.
‘We will stop here,’ he announced.
It was certainly a charming inn. It stood at the end of the broad village street, with two great elms behind it and roses rambling over its old red-brick frontage. It was not, of course, a posting-house, which did not incline the two postilions in its favour. One of them said: ‘If we was to drive on for another mile or two, we’d likely find a decent house for your honour to bait at.’
‘My dear good fellow,’ replied his lordship, ‘you have no more notion of where we are than I have. Here we will stop. I like the place.’
The village seemed asleep in the moonlight, not a soul stirring. But the sound of carriage wheels brought the landlord out of the inn, all anxiety to oblige. Lord Stavely, alighting from the chaise, said: ‘Arcadia, I presume. Tell me, what is the time?’
The landlord, slightly taken aback, said that it lacked but ten minutes to the hour.
‘But what hour?’ asked his lordship.
‘Why, nine o’clock, sir!’
‘How shocking! Am I anywhere in the neighbourhood of Melbury Place?’
‘Melbury Place?’ repeated the landlord. ‘Yes, that you are, sir; it lies only a matter of ten miles from here, though the road’s tricky, as you might say.’
‘After the experiences of today, I should probably use a more forceful epithet. I imagine it will take me nearly an hour to reach the place. Obviously it behoves me to dine here. Or am I too late for dinner?’
The landlord was not one to turn away distinguished custom from his door. This gentleman, with his high-crowned beaver hat, his driving-coat of many capes, worn negligently open over a neat blue coat, a cut Venetian waistcoat, and the palest of fawn pantaloons, was plainly a member of the Quality. He assured Lord Stavely that, if he would step into the coffee-room, dinner should be served him in a very few minutes. A qualm then attacked him, and he faltered: ‘I’m sorry I can’t show your honour to a private parlour, but there’s only Mr Tom in the coffee-room, after all.’
‘Then if Mr Tom does not take exception to me, I shall do very well,’ said his lordship. ‘I wonder if I should remain here for the night? Shall I endear myself on my host by presenting myself at past eleven o’clock at night?’
‘They do keep very early hours up at the Place, by what I hear, sir,’ offered the landlord hopefully. ‘Was the Squire expecting of you, sir?’
‘He was, and I trust still is. Your manner leads me to fear that he will not be pleased by my tardy arrival?’