The vicar, Mr. Wheeler, was coming for dinner. A fiftyish widower who instructed Matt and half a dozen other sprouts in the rudiments of Latin, Wheeler had already proposed to Emily three times, and she knew she would hear his heavy gallantries this night with special impatience. If the same florid phrases had fallen from Richard Falk's lips she would have drunk them in like a greedy shark. She wrinkled her nose at the hussy in the glass and stuck out her tongue. Housemaid, indeed. Laughing at herself, she went down to greet her aunt and father.
They had brought Mr. Wheeler with them, a circumstance which allowed Emily to put dinner forward a quarter hour. No one remarked the briskness of the preliminaries. Her father had spent the day making an extra crop of hay in his water meadow and declared himself sharp-set. Mr. Wheeler had no such excuse for appetite but dug in with relish anyway. Between masculine munching and Aunt Fan's detailed account of a visit with a widowed friend in Winchester, Emily had scarcely to say a word. The dining room lay at the back of the house overlooking the orchard. She had some hope that Richard's arrival might pass undetected--if Phillida had understood her instructions.
"Off your feed, Emma?"
Startled, Emily dropped her fork on the plate and met her father's disapproving gaze.
"Gel don't eat enough to keep a bird alive," Sir Henry grumbled.
"It's the heat, Henry." Aunt Fan cut a bit of sprout. "Debilitating."
How absurd they were. Emily swallowed a bubble of laughter. "Yes, indeed. If the good weather keeps on in this tiresome way I shall go into a decline. Do have one of those doves, Mr. Wheeler. Mrs. Harry is trying a new sauce and will be wanting your opinion. Wine, Papa?"
The moment passed. It was wonderful, however, what a tedious business a dinner could be. So many side dishes to be tasted and judged. So much fuss. Would Papa really insist on smelling the cork of that tolerable little hock Emily had purchased in Winchester? Would Richard's knock occur as Phillida was serving a course? Would the meal never end?
Eight o'clock whirred and bonged in the middle of the sweet, but nothing untoward happened. Perhaps Richard had suffered a relapse or just decided not to come. When Phillida brought in the savoury, however, it was obvious from the maid's air of portent--and from the way she dropped the cheese slicer and knocked over Mr. Wheeler's water glass--that Something had Occurred.
Emily mopped, apologised, and excused herself. She followed the flustered servant out into the hall.
"Has he come?"
"Oh, Mrs. Foster! Through the kitchen, and Mr. McGrath with him. Didn't Mrs. Harry give a shriek." Phillida giggled. "I showed 'un up to nursery. Such a to-do as I never heard. Mrs. McGrath fair had the vapours."
"Hush, Phillida. Let us finish this meal in decent order. Try not to pour the coffee over Sir Henry." Emily returned to the dining room, suppressing her excitement as best she could.
"Clumsy wench, that Phillida," Sir Henry growled. "I wonder you put up with her, Emily."
Mr. Wheeler had leapt to hold Emily's chair. "But Mrs. Foster's soft heart must prevent her turning off so faithful a servant, Sir Henry."
Emily bit back a snicker and slipped into her place. Old softhearted Emily.
"What's happening, Emily?" Aunt Fan, alive as usual upon all suits. "Out with it, gel."
Emily gave up. "Oh, it's just Colonel Falk."
Under their startled gaze her false insouciance deserted her. She gave Aunt Fan an apologetic glance, adding, "He came this afternoon. On the mail coach. Phillida has just taken him up to see the children."
Sir Henry exploded. "Upon my word! Have you no manners, Emma? Didn't you ask the poor devil to dine?"
Emily soothed and explained, and restrained her relations from trooping up to the schoolroom at once. Mr. Wheeler was struck dumb. He kept looking from one to another with the air of a bewildered horse. Sir Henry grumbled. Aunt Fan exclaimed. Emily began to enjoy the sensation of controlling events.
When she and her aunt retired to the withdrawing room, however, she found herself trembling a little. Aunt Fan gave her one piercing look and made her sit on the small sopha. "What's wrong?"
"Oh, aunt, nothing at all. He--Colonel Falk--surprised me, of course. He likes the house."
Aunt Fan snorted. "What's that to the point? How is he?"
Emily gathered her wits. "Tired from the journey, I think, but otherwise well enough. He told me I looked like a housemaid."
Aunt Fan gave her a queer look but for once did not pursue the subject.
Presently Sir Henry and Mr. Wheeler joined the ladies, and in the fullness of time Richard entered. He looked a trifle rumpled, as if he had been climbed over by small enthusiastic persons.
"How are the children?" Emily smiled at him.
"Beautiful."
Emily laughed. "I know that. Were they glad to see you?"
"I think so." He didn't look as if he had serious doubts. His eyes were bright. "They will be pestering you to bring them to me tomorrow. To carry off their Belgian loot, greedy little beasts. I wonder what they'd expect if I went to India?"
"You're not..." Horrible phantasies assailed Emily's mind. Sir Robert Wilson had promised that his brother-in-law would retire.
"Lord, no," Richard said hastily. "I'm out of it now, thank God. That's what kept me so long in London."
Emily meant to be absolutely sure. "You've retired?"
"Yes. As of the end of the month. Sir Henry." He turned to Emily's father who had stood listening to this little exchange with indulgent twitches of the eyebrows. "How do you, sir? I have to thank you for your good offices. The cottage is precisely what I want."
Sir Henry was heard to rumble a few doubts. He still thought a cottage a paltry dwelling for a gentleman, and he made that clear, but Emily could tell that he was not displeased to see his tenant. Richard also said all the right things to Aunt Fan, whose delight in the meeting was betrayed largely by the gruffness of her exclamations and the way her back hair began to fall down. Aunt introduced Richard to Mr. Wheeler. Emily had half forgot the vicar's existence. Rag-manners, she told herself, vexed to have forgot so elementary a courtesy.
The company settled in with an air of spurious cosiness. Richard sat on Sir Henry's right hand, for Emily's father was going a little deaf in the left ear, Aunt Fan, aburst with questions, on Richard's right, and Mr. Wheeler, with the faint discomfortable look of one who finds himself intruding on a family reunion, on the sopha next to Emily. In good time every one was provided a glass of sherry, for Sir Henry did not believe in ladies drinking eyewash like ratafia.
Conversation rambled. The weather, everyone agreed, was the best in years, perfect for campaigning--Aunt Fan--and haymaking--Sir Henry. Hay led Sir Henry to horses and thence to Amy's equestrian prowess. Richard received Sir Henry's moving tribute to his daughter--"Good bottom, young Amy, steady hands, always throws her heart over a jump"--with the merest hint of a grin. He turned the conversation neatly from Amy to Matt with a question for Mr. Wheeler about Matt's Latin verbs--how had he found out about Matt's verbs, Emily wondered, bemused--and Mr. Wheeler spoke at length on the defects of modern education. A perfectly safe topic. Sir Henry's eyes glazed, Richard listened, Aunt tapped her foot. Mr. Wheeler worked his way gradually from Caesar to grouse shooting.
At the word grouse Sir Henry woke up and contributed a comment on Squire Talbert's coverts. That produced a little mild controversy to which Richard did not contribute. Sir Henry was in a tactful mood, however, and before Emily reached the screaming point he turned the question kindly to the state of Richard's health, and thence, after only a few cluckings about the inconvenience of one-handed existence, which Richard bore with resigned composure, to a chance recollection of Chelsea Hospital, Ranelagh, and a set piece on the horrors of London in August.
That was too much for Aunt Fan's patience. She cut off Sir Henry's monologue with a single well-chosen phrase and plunged at once without transition into a series of questions about Water-loo, which somehow, as with most of Aunt's military conversations, turned into a lecture. Emily's heart sank.
In truth her aunt's expertise, which was genuine and based on passionately thorough reading and reflexion, embarrassed Emily, and she was ashamed of her shame. Why shouldn't Frances Mayne study military history if she found it interesting? It was not a very shocking eccentricity, surely. If only her aunt were not so intense. If only Aunt Fan's intensity did not render her vulnerable.
Emily listened to a masterful analysis of the charge of the Union Brigade with the pious but not very strong hope that Richard would restrain his satirical impulses. To her relief and surprise he listened politely enough and in one of Aunt's infrequent pauses for breath allowed that he wasn't a cavalryman.
"It's Bevis's opinion you should be seeking, ma'am. He was on General Picton's staff."
Aunt's eyes shone. "I had forgot that. Lord Bevis, eh? I've met him."
"Shall I give you his direction? I believe he is fixed in Paris with the occupation forces."
Aunt demurred. His lordship would be far too busy--she could not presume on so brief an acquaintance. And so on.
Richard's mouth gave a slight betraying twitch at the corners, but he said gravely, "I'm sure Bevis would be flattered to hear from you, Miss Mayne. He is not at all high in the instep, you know, and he remembers you very clearly. I think you ought to write him at once."
"Well then, I shall." There was a whiff of defiance in Aunt's voice, but Richard still did not smile.
He was, Emily concluded, far too pleased with the unsought opportunity to wreak vengeance on Bevis. She turned a laugh to a cough in the nick of time.
"This business of the Imperial Guard, now," Aunt went on, relentless. "What think you, sir?"
"Frances," said Sir Henry. "That is quite enough."
Emily gave her father a glance which she hoped expressed her heartfelt gratitude, but he was not looking at her. Indeed, he had been watching his sister and Richard from beneath twitching brows for some time. Now he rose.
"Time to be going home. Thank you, my dear." This to Emily. "An excellent dinner, as usual. Wheeler!"
Mr. Wheeler started and blinked. He had, all unnoticed, fallen asleep. How he could, Emily thought, indignant. Then justice compelled her to admit to herself that an outsider must have missed the tensions that had kept her on edge throughout Aunt Fan's military excursion.
"Time to go," Sir Henry repeated, authoritative. "Colonel Falk, I have my carriage and mean to drive Mr. Wheeler to the vicarage. Shall you ride with us?"
Richard had, perforce, risen when Sir Henry did. He accepted Sir Henry's offer. Emily thought he was relieved not to have to walk the half mile to Watkins's cottage. He looked very tired. She hoped Aunt Fan might not cross-examine him all the way home, but her hope was dim.
Richard thanked Emily quietly and said good night. Mr. Wheeler was rather more fulsome with less cause. Aunt Fan looked pleased with herself and only slightly guilty.
Emily stood at the door as her guests descended to the waiting carriage. Her father was the last to leave. As he bent to kiss her, Emily murmured, "Thank you, Papa."
"That young man should be on his sickbed. Estimable woman, m'sister. Sometimes wants good sense. Good night, my dear. You have a lively time ahead of you."