Seated in Amelia’s drawing room Mister Wharton, vicar of the parish church, continued to hold forth. “Miss Carstairs, I’m sure you rejoice in the knowledge that Mrs Bettismore is one of the Almighty’s angels. May I venture to say I believe she is playing the harp garbed in spotless white?”
The corpulent clergyman might ‘venture’ whatever he wished, but Amelia could not imagine her grandmother in such a role. “No, you may not. Mrs Bettismore would be bored.” Immediately after the irreverent words popped out, Amelia regretted them. Grandmamma would not have approved of such flippancy.
His watery blue eyes bulged. “Miss Carstairs, I protest. I came in good faith to offer you the consolation of the church. Instead, I’m shocked by your levity. You should show more respect for Mrs Bettismore, a good Christian lady, who deserves her rightful place in heaven.”
Amelia peeped at Mrs Deane, who stared down giving the impression that nothing interested her more than the expanse of polished floorboards.
“You are right. My grandmother is worthy of a halo and wings,” Amelia murmured.
Mr Wharton, who sat next to her on the sofa, patted her hand. Outraged she glared at him. “Don’t touch me.”
“I beg your pardon for the liberty, Miss Carstairs. You are a member of my flock. It is natural for me to console you. Don’t misinterpret a sympathetic gesture.” He peered at her chaperone seated on a chair opposite them, a picture of respectability in her fashionable, but demure dark blue gown.
The vicar rubbed his plump hands together. “Please ask your companion to leave the room so we may speak in private.”
Grateful for the widow’s presence for the first time she frowned at him. “My guardian would not approve.”
“But I have something particular to say to you I’m sure will raise your spirits.”
Mrs Deane frowned. “Miss Carstairs, it would be improper of me to leave you alone with a gentleman, even one of the cloth. If Mr Wharton has further consolation to offer you, which he does not wish me to hear, I shall sit out of earshot.” She crossed the room and sat on a chair near the windows.
Mr Wharton glared at Mrs Deane, his lips pursed with obvious displeasure.
“Sir,” Amelia prompted. “What else do you have to say?”
“My estimable, my very estimable, Miss Carstairs, it saddens me to see you alone and unprotected in this wicked world.”
“You are mistaken. I have a guardian, trustees and my chaperone.” With regard to Saunton, her sensibilities might be ambivalent, but she believed he would shield her from impertinence.
Mr Wharton did not seem to hear what she said or if he did he ignored it and continued.
“Miss Carstairs, I wrestled with my conscience until I reached the conclusion that my duty is to safeguard you.”
“Why? That is my guardian, the Earl of Saunton’s obligation, although I doubt he would…um… how did you express it? Ah, yes, wrestle with his conscience.” Astonished, but not daunted, Amelia studied the gaudy décor her grandmother took such pleasure in.
“Since you became a member of my congregation,” the vicar carried on, “I’ve observed how worldly you are. It is my God given task to lead you along the right path.”
Amelia stood. “How kind of you. I shall remember your good intentions but-”
Mr Wharton rose and stood much too close to her. Mrs Deane coughed ostentatiously. Amelia took a step back.
“Miss Carstairs, you don’t understand, I wish to elevate you in the eyes of God and man by accepting you as my wife.”
For the first time since her grandmother’s death, she wanted to giggle. However, not inexperienced when it came to marriage proposals, she knew how to reply to the vicar’s insulting one. “I thank you for asking me to be your wife. I regret I am not worthy of you and hope you will meet a lady who is.”
“But-”
“Please say no more. My guardian would not permit me to wed you.”
‘For your fortune,’ her inner voice commented. ‘Grandmother warned me most suitors would covet it.’
Mr Wharton looked her up and down, his breath coming and going faster and faster.
Uncomfortable, she turned aside. “Good day to you, sir.”
If Grandmamma’s funeral were not to take place tonight, she would seek another vicar to conduct it.
Amelia watched him leave. “Odious man!”
Mrs Deane came to her and patted her back. “I agree. Such creatures are the reason why his lordship engaged me.”
Amelia found nothing to dislike in Mrs Deane, but she wanted her grandmother, who always laughed at pretentious beaux. She sighed. Perhaps Grandmamma would have been proud of her for maintaining her composure. Suddenly, she wanted to escape this house in which everything reminded her of her loss. Amelia tried to breathe evenly. She would always miss her grandmother but hoped she might be more at peace after the funeral.
“Forget Mr Wharton, I am sure you will meet a gentleman who will be all you wish for in a husband. In the meantime, I shall fend off undesirables.” Mrs Deane laughed. “If necessary I would have intervened between you and the obnoxious vicar, who should not pretend to be godly.” She consulted the clock. “More visitors will arrive to offer their condolences. We should have nuncheon first.”
* * *
Amelia lay on her bed, eyes wide open. She tried not to think of the burial attended by Saunton, her trustees and a few gentlemen with whom her grandmother had been acquainted for many years.
Shutters closed, curtains drawn, unable to bear total darkness reminiscent of the grave’s eternal gloom, Amelia jangled the bell on a table by the bed. Time seemed to pass with unnatural slowness until the door opened.
“Blythe, light all the candles,” Amelia ordered, her attention focussed on the figure by the open door silhouetted by faint light.
Amelia sat, put her arms around her knees and stared into darkness, until one by one flames cast flickering shadows on the pretty wallpaper, sprigged with pink rosebuds and trailing vines. Conscious of her white nightgown, she thanked God for not being obliged to shroud herself in mourning at night. The convention which demanded she must wear black for three months, after which she could exchange it for half-mourning in shades of grey, lilac or purple for another three months dismayed her. Would almighty God condemn her for merely wishing to wear more colourful clothes in which she could participate in society? If convention did not forbid her to attend them, dances, the theatre, soirees, fetes champetres and other entertainments would distract her from her grief. How would she tolerate so many days during which she could not take her place among the ton? Time during which she would have nothing to occupy her other than dwelling on her loss.
“Do you require anything else, Miss?”
Amelia nodded. “Blythe,” she began hesitantly.
“Yes, Miss?”
“Do you remember you gave me portraits of my parents on my sixteenth birthday?”
Blythe’s deep sigh seemed to fill the room. “I do.”
“Please tell me about my mother and father.”
“There’s little to say. She was pretty and carefree like you were until Mrs Bettismore died. All I know about your father, whom I only saw once, is that your mother met him on a visit to the country. He soon persuaded her to elope with him. At the time, I believed Madam’s heart would break.” Blythe pressed her hand to her throat. “Your father died. Mrs Carstairs returned to your grandmother. Two weeks later, on the night you were born she died.” Blythe shrugged. “From then on your grandmother never spoke about either of them.”
“Oh. My poor mother. Of course, I knew she lost her life when she gave birth to me, but when and where did my father die?” She stared at Blythe in an attempt to interpret the expression on her face by the unstable candlelight.
“I only know he died before you were born. There’s no more to say,” the dresser informed her with the familiarity of a privileged servant.
Amelia recognised the decisive tone. She sensed Blythe would not be lured into any confidences about her parents. “You may go.”
Blythe’s slippers pattered across the floor. The door closed behind her.
Amelia lay down. Despite Blythe’s impassive face in the candlelight she appeared devious. Amelia suspected the woman knew more than she admitted to. Maybe she did. Maybe not. Grandmamma often accused me of being too imaginative.
Still tormented by unanswered questions she turned over appreciative of the warm glow cast over the room. Why had her grandmother always refused to answer any questions about her mother?
The clock chimed. Time seemed to have passed very slowly until the hour appointed for the funeral.
Beyond tears Amelia wondered what her future held. Would Saunton expect her to live here or would he allow her to take up residence in her London House?
Until a few days ago her grandmother allowed her to purchase whatever she desired. Gowns, hats, slippers, jewellery, perfume and anything else she wanted. From now on, with Saunton and her trustees in charge of her inheritance, Grandmamma would have said she might be on short commons. No wonder her future seemed so full of woe.
It seemed ridiculous to not be acquainted with any of her father’s family. She needed someone other than Saunton to take care of her, someone to be loved by and love. A husband. Not a creature similar to self-seeking Mr Wharton, but someone honest and kind, not one more interested in her fortune than her. Where could she find such a paragon?
She turned over preoccupied by thoughts of the gentlemen who courted her despite the scandal which followed her broken engagement to Saunton.
Amelia snuggled down. She remembered the earl’s kind words; your husband will be a fortunate man after she refused to marry him. She rested her cheek on the palm of her hand. The earl meant that apart from her inheritance her husband would be fortunate to have won her for his wife. For the first time since Grandmamma’s death her future did not seem so bleak. She would marry an upstanding young gentleman and be happy. Her future husband would neither care about the old scandal nor need to marry for money.
“Goodnight, Grandmamma, wherever you are,” she whispered on the brink of sleep.
* * *
In the drawing room of his ward’s house, a glass of the finest Madeira wine in his hand, Saunton waited for a reply to his question. “Do you wish to remain here?”
“In winter?” Miss Carstairs asked. He nodded. “Do you think I should stay here?”
In her black gown, only relieved by her pretty pink lips, the slight colour in her cheeks and her luminous blue eyes, she seemed younger than her years.
Before Miss Carstairs gazed down, he glimpsed anxiety in her eyes. Unaccustomed to making decisions about her life she must be apprehensive.
“You may remain in Weymouth if it is agreeable to you.”
“Summer has ended. Most of the visitors have already deserted the town.”
“Do you, or do you not want to leave?” He tried not to allow his irritation over her shilly-shallying to reveal itself in his voice.
Eyes wide his ward stared at him as though she were his prey.
“Ame-,” he began and broke off. “Miss Carstairs,” he continued correcting his breach of etiquette, “I hope you are not afraid of me.”
The colour faded from her cheeks.
“You are!” A gentleman could be judged by his courtesy towards females. Shocked by her reaction he observed her. “Do you fear I harbour a grudge caused by your refusal to marry me?”
She shook her head.
“Why do you fear me? I am on excellent terms with my mother and sisters. I see no reason why it should not be the same with you.”
He and his oldest unmarried sister, Charlotte, were too fond of each other to ever exchange cross words. Margaret, Elizabeth and the three little girls showed not the slightest sign of nervousness in his presence even if one of them displeased him.
“They are fortunate,” Miss Carstairs responded.
“And I am fortunate to have them, although they sometimes try my patience. There really is no need to be frightened of me. If you don’t know where you want to live, perhaps you need time to consider it.”
She sighed. “I fear my future over which you have total authority,” she explained, very slowly.
“Mrs Bettismore appointed me to be your legal guardian. However, you will not find me unreasonable. You shall have your own household. Your expenses will be met from your inheritance. You shall have a more than adequate allowance. In six months, you can enjoy the London season.” To reassure her, Saunton forced himself to smile at his unwanted ward. “What is there to be afraid of? My role is to protect you and be of service while I guard you interests.”
He wished it would not be improper to reassure her with a hug, the kind he would give one of his sisters. With an unexpected shock, Saunton realised her beauty enflamed him although it had not when he was tricked into their betrothal. “So,” he continued with false cheerfulness, “tell me if you want to spend the winter here or at your estate in Lancashire.”
The colour returned to her cheeks. She sat straighter, seeming to gain confidence. “Lancashire! In winter? No, I want to live in my London house. Unlike Mrs Tarrant, I am not an enthusiastic equestrienne. I don’t ride or hunt. In winter, I find the countryside dreary.”
For the first time, Saunton realised an intrepid wife like dainty Georgianne, who rode spirited horses, sat high above the ground while she drove her curricle, and shot with deadly accuracy, would not suit him. On the other hand, he did not desire either a bread and butter wife or any lady empty headed as a doll. Saunton considered Georgianne’s sister, Helen, intelligent, fair of face and calm, whom he once burned to marry. He no longer regretted her decision to wed another officer. Today, merely a part of his past, he no longer yearned for her. He turned his attention to his ward.
“Very well, Miss Carstairs, you shall go to London. When you are settled there, we will discuss the details of your inheritance. In the meantime, I am sure Mr Leigh will help you to close this house and move to the capital.”
Saunton stood about to bid her good day. He looked down at her upturned face. His conscience pricked him. The faces of friends, who died during the long war against Napoleon crowded into his mind. “Miss Carstairs,” he commenced, gently, “although the Church exhorts its flock to rejoice when someone dies and takes their place in heaven we would be less than human if we did not mourn.” He paused for a moment when she gasped and squeezed her eyes shut. “Please remember Mrs Bettismore loved you very much. She would want you to be happy. Besides, she suffered intolerable pain. I believe her death came not as an enemy but as a friend.”
Miss Carstairs peeped at him through tear-drenched eyes. Ill at ease he turned around and stared out of the window. Beneath a dark sky sullen grey waves heaved along the shore. “You have been confined for too long in the house. Did Mrs Bettismore have a barouche?” She nodded. “Good, give orders for the horses to be harnessed. We shall take the air. Ask Mrs Deane to accompany us. We don’t want to set tongues wagging.”