Band Sinister Page 22

  “I hardly think we can argue any such thing, having cancelled several important engagements to come here to rescue you from your folly.”

  “Well, that’s not our fault,” Amanda said. “It’s a shame you didn’t give me the benefit of the doubt.”

  “You have lost that,” Aunt Beatrice said, voice dreadfully measured. Amanda sucked in a breath as though she’d been struck. “You will now do precisely as I tell you or I shall wash my hands of you both, once and for all. You will leave this place at once. You will return to your own home, where I shall remain with you to discuss the future. Let me remind you, you live by my charity. If you disobey me, you will not hang upon my husband’s sleeve one more day. Not one!”

  Amanda was breathing through her teeth. Guy could barely breathe at all. He forced the words out.

  “Yes, Aunt. We’ll come at once.”

  PHILIP KICKED THE DOOR open as Guy was packing. It was proving quite difficult to do that and not cry at the same time.

  “Guy? What the hell?”

  “Well, we’re going home. That’s all. We would always have had to.”

  “You can’t let that pair of sanctimonious bullies dictate your movements.”

  “We don’t have any choice.”

  “I’ve offered you a choice,” Philip said. “And if Amanda’s already being talked about as my mistress—”

  “I can’t stop the world thinking my sister is your kept woman, but I damned well won’t give them more reasons to think it!” Guy wiped furiously at his eyes. “And if you hadn’t spent your entire life in this perverse effort to have everyone think the worst of you—”

  “Are you seriously blaming me for this debacle?”

  “You and Lord Corvin and the Murder want to be talked about! Can you not imagine how dreadful this is for Amanda?”

  “I’m afraid I’m rather busy imagining how dreadful it is for you, while you throw your youth on the fire as a sacrifice to the domestic gods,” Philip snapped. “How will you and I see each other again? What are you going to do, sit at home with Amanda till you both dry up and blow away?”

  “What else should I do? Abandon her? You said you understood!”

  “I don’t understand why you’re clinging to the proprieties when they’re pulling you down!” Philip almost shouted. “That’s not a life-preserver, it’s a sodding anchor, a metal weight, and you will drown if you don’t let go!”

  “It’s not my choice! I am trying to do my best for my sister—”

  “Do you even know what she wants? Did she ask you to give up your life, happiness, the man who loves you, for her?”

  “She doesn’t have to!” Guy shouted, and they stared at each other, the words ringing off the walls. “She doesn’t have to,” he said again, more quietly. “Because she comes first, I told you that, and—and first among equals doesn’t mean anything at all.”

  “No,” Philip said. “I see that it doesn’t. And you did indeed tell me that. So, since I have always promised to take no for an answer, there is nothing left but to bid you good day.”

  “What? No, wait. Philip—”

  “You’ve made a decision,” Philip said through his teeth. “I am trying to respect it, and myself, and indeed you. That will be a great deal more easily done from a distance.”

  THE RETURN TO DRYSDALE House was accomplished in a miserable silence, at least on the Frisbys’ part; Aunt Beatrice and Lord Paul talked more or less continually. David Martelo was nowhere in evidence as they left, and Guy had to help manoeuvre a white-faced, silent Amanda into the carriage unaided, and then out at the end of the journey.

  The house smelled stuffy and unused. It had to be aired, and Mrs. Harbottle summoned, and bedrooms made up, and a bed for Amanda in the parlour since she could not safely manage the stairs, and the kitchen fire lit, and all of that kept Guy sufficiently busy that he had no time to think. Then there was dinner, which was awful, and a solid hour of prayers for repentance and improvement, which Guy thought Amanda might have walked out of, were it not for her leg. He didn’t seek Amanda out for private speech that night. He didn’t want to leave her alone in her misery, but he was too afraid he’d break down himself, and have no way to explain why.

  The next day was much the same. Guy spent it out in the vegetable garden, pulling weeds and repairing the ravages of a month of inattention. Amanda made her way up and down the path on crutches, face drawn and set with determination.

  “Ought you not be resting?” Guy asked her.

  “Dr. Martelo advised me to place weight on it.”

  No ‘David’, Guy noted, and didn’t dare ask.

  There were more prayers, more lectures. Guy had hidden the copies of Darkdown in a cupboard, unable to bear it if Amanda was rebuked for reading novels. He extracted one and took it upstairs in secret to read, but the first mention of the cruel Sir Peter Falconwood left him curled on his bed in agonising misery, because all he could think about was Philip’s teasing voice, the touch of his hand, the warmth in his eyes.

  He’d done the right thing. He knew he had, and he was sure that Philip would see that when he wasn’t so frighteningly angry, but the knowledge did absolutely nothing to soothe the jagged hole in his chest, where he’d ripped out his heart and left it behind at Rookwood Hall.

  There wasn’t even anyone there, as they learned from Jane. Sir Philip had left the very same day as them, setting off back to London on horseback with his household coming after in conveyances. He hadn’t wasted any time in going back where he belonged.

  On the third day, their misery was slightly alleviated by the announcement that Lord Paul would be leaving them.

  “I shall return to London in order to make arrangements to establish my daughters at the house in Bath,” he pronounced. Naturally, there was no offer to let Amanda convalesce in a pleasant location where the waters would do her good. “Lady Paul has most generously agreed to remain with you in order to give you her countenance. I hope you will demonstrate your gratitude.”

  Guy managed some polite murmur. Amanda didn’t speak, but when Aunt Beatrice and Lord Paul were busy with the apparently complex arrangements for his departure, she jerked her head at the garden, and Guy followed.

  “You’ve been avoiding me,” she said without preamble as they sat on the bench at the far end. “Please stop or I’ll go mad.”

  “Sorry. It’s just so awful.”

  “Isn’t it. I am so tired of living under these people’s thumb, Guy. So tired of it.”

  “So am I, but what are we going to do?”

  “Sir Philip said we could stay with him.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You know what everyone would think.”

  “They already think it,” Amanda said. “And it doesn’t matter anyway. Nobody will ever marry me, no decent man, I’ve seen to that. So why shouldn’t we? I could be very shocking and scarlet and write books, and Sir Philip wouldn’t care in the slightest, and Aunt Beatrice would have a stroke, if we’re lucky, and—and you’d be happy, darling. Shouldn’t one of us be happy?”

  Guy could feel the blood draining from his face. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, Guy. I have watched you, and I’m not entirely ignorant, and I talked to Sherry—in confidence, you know—because I needed to understand, and he was awfully helpful and explained all sorts of things that nobody ever tells one. Do you love him? Sir Philip, I mean. Not Sherry.”

  Guy put his face in his hands. Amanda put her arm round his shoulders, giving comfort in the way that should have been his job. “Dearest, you know I don’t mind in the slightest, don’t you? If you were happy. I’ve never seen you so happy in my whole life as you were at the Hall, or even just when Sir Philip walked into a room. You looked—you looked right with him and Sherry said exactly the same about Sir Philip with you, and we both think it’s marvellous, actually.”

  “But it isn’t,” Guy said, muffled. “I doubt I’ll ever see him again.”

  “Then you’re stupid. You can’t just
sit here in Yarlcote forever. Write to him. Please, Guy. It’s such a mess, but you could be happy.”

  “No, I couldn’t be. Not if I left you behind, and not at the price of everyone thinking the worst of you. I couldn’t.”

  “Wouldn’t it make a difference if we knew it wasn’t true? Didn’t you tell me that once?”

  “Then I was wrong. The way Aunt Beatrice spoke to you—she had no right. And the way they both spoke to Philip, sneering at him, insulting him in his own house. It isn’t tolerable. I’m not surprised he’s turned his back on society, I’d like to do the same, but... I can’t just ask Philip to keep us, Manda. You must see that. Look, Aunt Beatrice will go away eventually. Things will settle down.”

  “If you think you’ll ever be allowed to see him again, you’re wrong,” Amanda said. “Can you imagine if she found out you’d visited the Hall? And she’d find out, she probably has spies all over this horrid place. Someone here wrote letters about me, didn’t they? A nice juicy piece of gossip to people in London who were probably so thrilled by the latest on-dit that they couldn’t wait to share it. It’s hateful. I wish I hadn’t put the Murder in my book. They’re about the only people I can think of who don’t deserve it.”

  “No, they don’t. Manda, what about David?”

  Amanda’s mouth tightened. “What about him?”

  “I thought—well. That you were getting on.”

  “So did I. Only, then Lord Paul arrived shouting imprecations at him as though he were a stable-boy for presuming to take my arm, while Aunt Beatrice harangued me as a common stale, and I dare say that put him off. He—he didn’t even say goodbye, Guy. He just went away, and we left and—and—”

  Guy twisted to get his arm round her. Amanda leaned into him and cried, and he held her, whispering promises of everything being all right that he knew very well weren’t true.

  Two more days passed with no sign of Aunt Beatrice leaving. She had spent much of her stay writing and receiving letters, to whom Guy didn’t know or care. He wanted to write to Philip and didn’t dare to. That was contemptible, in his own house. But he didn’t know Philip’s direction in London, and if he’d found it out he couldn’t have borne the possibility that someone might report back, and anyway he didn’t know what he’d say. I’m sorry. I miss you. I love you. There’s nothing I can do about it, but I love you. I hope you’ll be happy. I don’t think I will be ever again.

  We get better. He reminded himself of that again and again. Philip had promised him that he’d get better from a doomed love affair and Philip had never lied to him or let him down. Only Guy had done that.

  On the Friday night, Aunt Beatrice announced that they would be accommodating another guest.

  “My chaplain, Mr. Dent. A man of the highest moral standards and a tower of strength to the repentant sinner. There is a living in Easterbury’s possession which will fall vacant imminently—it is a post for a married man, requiring a woman’s aid, and the incumbent, a widower, has no daughter. The Marquess has most generously consented to let Lord Paul put forth Mr. Dent as a candidate. He will arrive tomorrow. A room must be prepared; kindly see to it.”

  “Yes, Aunt,” Guy managed. Amanda kept her mouth shut, but her eyes were snapping, and she broke into violent speech as soon as they were alone in the garden the next day. Guy thanked heaven for the sun, which kept Aunt Beatrice indoors for the sake of her complexion.

  “Are we really going to let her invite people here willy-nilly? To our house?”

  “It may be ours but she’s been paying for its upkeep for years,” Guy said. “Yes, it sticks in my craw too, but she cannot possibly be meaning to stay much longer. She’ll want to go to Bath. I can’t imagine why she’s invited her chaplain here, except that I suppose we can expect more sermonising—”

  “Can’t you?” Amanda asked. “I can. A post for a married man? A bribe of a living? A man of the highest moral standards who stoops to pick sinners out of the gutter?”

  “Oh,” Guy said. “Oh, no.”

  “I will not marry some ghastly oleaginous toad mouthing Bible verses to make other people miserable. I will not.”

  “He might be young and handsome and kind-hearted?” Guy offered.

  “But he’s Aunt Beatrice’s chaplain, so he’ll be just like her. Bowing to those above and treading on those below. I shan’t, Guy. I won’t.”

  “No, you won’t. But—” He bit back What are we going to do? It was time to stop asking that and start deciding it. “Right. We have your ten pounds, Manda. That’s enough to rent a cottage somewhere near a school, say, if I could get a job as a schoolmaster. And I don’t know how long it would take you to write another book—”

  “I’ll be quicker next time,” Amanda said with a firm nod. “And they might even give me more than ten pounds, if the first one has sold. I wish I knew if people were buying it. Lord Corvin said he was going to write to people and say how shockingly rude it was about him. But that would work, wouldn’t it?”

  “If I found a job before too long. We couldn’t afford a maid, but—”

  “I can do without.”

  “I can sell my books,” Guy said, needing to match her sacrifice. “And some of the furniture, maybe? That’s ours. We could make probably another fifteen pounds that way, and that will buy your paper and keep us afloat till I find work. And if—if we weren’t dependent on Aunt Beatrice, and we weren’t here, and nobody knew us, I could see Philip. He could visit, if he didn’t mind a cottage. In school holidays and so on.” If Philip even wanted to see him again, but since Guy was building a castle in the air anyway, he might as well include its king. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

  “Of course I wouldn’t. That would work beautifully,” Amanda said stoutly. “I could cook and clean when I’m not writing. Guy, please can we? I know it’s an awful lot and most of it will fall on you, but I can’t go on like this. It’s not bearable.”

  “No, it isn’t. I’ll look at newspaper advertisements tomorrow, and write to schools. And I could write to my old tutor as well, couldn’t I? I’m sure I’ll find something, Manda. Everyone needs Greek and Latin.”

  “And you know so much. I’m sure you could do it.”

  Six weeks ago, Guy would have doubted that. He’d been quite happy in Amanda’s company, keeping well away from the world’s eyes. He didn’t love the idea of seeking positions and the inevitable rejections, let alone the prospect of unruly boys and the drudgery of teaching. It would be long hours, poorly paid, unrewarding at best. But it would be self-sufficiency, even freedom, and he was not going to hide from the world any more. He’d taken a far worse leap into the dark and risked far more for Philip and he was blasted—no, he was bloody well going to do this.

  “Then we’re agreed,” he said. “If Aunt Beatrice is arranging a marriage, we say no. Unless this chaplain is charming and eligible and you want to reconsider. Scratch your nose if you decide you’d like to get married after all.”

  Amanda sniffed. “I had better not catch a cold.”

  MR. DENT ARRIVED IN the early afternoon. He was not charming at all. Amanda hissed, “He’s a walking sepulchre!” and Guy found he couldn’t improve on that description. The man couldn’t be more than thirty-five but bore himself as though he were fifty. He had a face like a gravestone, long and angular and severe, and a voice to match. There was no humour in his expression, no warmth, and he nodded with funereal gravity as Aunt Beatrice introduced her unfortunate niece.

  He couldn’t want a wife with a reputation, Guy thought, unless he was truly desperate for a living. There were a lot of curates waiting their chance, and if this living was in the Marquess of Easterbury’s gift, it might be a plum. Or perhaps he wanted someone to chastise, a fallen woman who would always be obliged to him for his condescension in stooping to pick her up. Guy balled his fists behind his back and practised courteous refusals in his head.

  They endured prayers and a sermon on the subject of Redemption and Good Works, through which Amanda sat w
ith narrowed eyes, and then Aunt Beatrice ordered tea for them all in the parlour. Mr. Dent assisted Amanda with a hand on her arm, and Guy composed a refusal that was significantly less courteous.

  “Well,” Aunt Beatrice said. “I dare say you may have realised that I invited Mr. Dent here for a reason beyond the care of souls. He is my chaplain of three years’ standing, and he is prepared, as his vocation directs, to extend forgiveness to a sinner.”

  “That’s very kind of him,” Guy said. “But, Aunt Beatrice, I think we’ve had enough forgiving.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Amanda isn’t to blame for the gossip about Sir Philip. Before that—it was years ago. I think if you’re going to forgive someone, you should do it, and not keep dragging things up afterwards, or it isn’t really forgiveness, is it? And I’m afraid I don’t see what Mr. Dent here has to forgive us for at all.”

  Amanda was looking at him with an expression of glowing adoration he hadn’t seen since he had mended her favourite doll at the age of ten. “Thank you, Guy. Well said.”

  “You interrupted me,” Aunt Beatrice said icily. “Mr. Dent, in the spirit of his ministry, has agreed to take Amanda’s hand in marriage. He will give her the protection of his name, and as his wife she will learn discretion and good conduct. There is an excellent living available, which—”

  “No,” Amanda said. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I don’t want to hear about the living. It’s very kind of Mr. Dent to offer and I’m sorry he had a wasted journey, but I would have said if you’d consulted me. No.”

  “You will kindly hear me out, young lady!”

  “No, she won’t,” Guy said.

  Mr. Dent raised a hand. His features were somewhat tense, but his voice remained controlled. “Perhaps I may speak. Lady Paul intends that the proposed arrangement would suit both parties. Miss Frisby is in need of shelter and masculine guidance”—Amanda made a strangled noise—“and I require a helpmeet who is ready and willing to fulfil the many duties of a minister’s wife. I have no doubt such a marriage would suit us both.” He got that out with every appearance of sincerity, although Guy noticed he didn’t look at his proposed helpmeet when he said it. “However, Lady Paul, I’m sure as a mother you understand that any young lady wishes to be sought for herself. Perhaps I might have a few moments alone with Miss Frisby to put my case in person.”