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Sir Charles arrived early in the afternoon in a state of high irritation. He had not liked to leave Westford so soon, as business with Henry Latham promised to be most satisfactory, but a letter from George Burnham had come to him there that drove everything else out of his head.
Nearly two days' journey in hot weather had only exacerbated his foul mood. Even Randolph had been provoking. The baronet had begun to speak of the Peloponnesian War, thinking to while away the weary hours with talk on Randolph's favourite subject, and got for his pains only a great, agonised groan.
The younger generation was going to the devil, and that was the long and short of it. His daughter was scheming with Clementina's nephew to foist this ridiculous secret betrothal nonsense upon her long-suffering Papa. Even Randolph—always such a steady chap—was in a fit of the dismals from the moment they left Westford. Well, Sir Charles would see about him, later. Right now, he had a few choice words for Clementina.
He could not say those words immediately, however, having only just arrived and been greeted by his host and hostess. Their warm welcome, along with the army of servants who appeared immediately to see to his comfort, the graciously appointed rooms allotted him, a hot bath, and a generous tray of refreshments provided for his delectation, helped control his impatience.
Nonetheless, he was determined to be in a temper, and when some hours later he was finally ushered into Lady Bertram's presence, he burst out without preamble, "I will not have it, Clementina!"
His countess sat perfectly straight in her chair and eyed him coldly as though he were a particularly hideous species of toad, then said with frigid composure, "Indeed?"
"How dare you?" he went on, undaunted by her haughty stare. "How dare you connive behind my back? How dare you attempt to bribe George Burnham?"
"Oh, do stop shouting, Charles. You'll have all the servants huddling by the door."
"I don't care a fiddle about the servants—"
"And I don't care to be shouted at. If you cannot behave yourself, you might as well leave." She gave him a dismissive wave.
"You needn't put on your high and mighty airs with me, Clementina," he retorted, but more quietly. "Though it's of a perfect piece with your interfering arrogance. You tried to bribe George Burnham. There's no use denying it."
"I," said Lady Bertram, with awful dignity, "deny nothing.”
"Then you did try!"
"You understand nothing. I did not attempt to bribe George Burnham. I offered to pay your debt to him—"
"To prevent the marriage."
"To pay the debt. I do not see what marriage has to do with it. A financial debt is one thing; a marriage is another. You seem to confuse the two."
"Never mind what confuses me. You had no business."
The countess maintained that she had every sort of business since her goddaughter was somehow mixed into his business affairs. "As she did not create your financial difficulties, I do not see why she is required to solve them for you."
There was obvious truth in what Lady Bertram said, and that truth rather piqued his conscience than otherwise. Therefore, Sir Charles grew more enraged. "But you could see your way well enough to plotting against me, could you not? You and your scheming nephew."
"I collect you are referring to Basil."
"Of course I'm referring to Basil."
"Then why do you come and pick a quarrel with me? If Basil has offended you, it is Basil you should speak with."
Sir Charles's head was beginning to ache. The woman jumped about from one topic to the next with no logic whatsoever. Sir Charles hated illogic. He hated non sequiturs, and at the moment, he was so little fond of Lady Bertram that he would have liked to choke her. He wondered now why he had bothered to confront her in the first place. He should have known he'd get nowhere. Still, George Burnham's letter had wounded his pride, and Sir Charles wanted to take it out on somebody. He glared at the countess, but forced himself into some semblance of composure.
"That I will do—in good time—but first I wanted you to understand that I won't have you interfering in my affairs—"
"Where they concern my goddaughter, I cannot help but interfere. I hold it as a debt to Juliet."
"Was it part of that debt to send your nephew to connive with my daughter?"
"I cannot allow you to speak so when he is not here to defend himself." She gestured towards the bell rope. "Ring for a servant, Charles, and we shall send for Basil—and for Alexandra, too. If she has been conniving with him, then let her answer for herself."
Sir Charles rang, grumbling as he did so, and for several minutes after as they waited. Lady Bertram paid no heed to his ill-natured mutterings. She sat, straight as a ramrod, rigidly calm.
At last, the two connivers entered the room. Alexandra, who hadn't seen her Papa until now, gave him an affectionate peck on the cheek.
Angrily he waved her away. "None of your coaxing arts, Miss," he growled. "I’ve had enough of
them."
He then launched into a tirade about make-believe fiancés, bribery of friends, and betrayal of Randolph, who was supposedly in the process of breaking his heart. No one but Lady Bertram noticed the flicker of interest in Basil's eyes as this last piece of information was communicated. Meanwhile, the baronet went on to his primary grievance—and here he took a letter out of his pocket—the very upsetting words he'd had from his friend, George Burnham.
"Well, Basil," said Lady Bertram when the baronet paused for breath. "What have you to say to that?"
"I hardly know what to say, Aunt. There's so much of it." He was leaning against the door frame, completely at his ease, wearing his most seraphic expression.
Miss Ashmore, he noticed, looked panicked, and well she should. If her Papa was not quickly brought under control, she'd be whisked off to Yorkshire and married to the wool merchant's son before the week was out.
It would be best if she were married and kept far away, beyond his reach. She was spoiling his fun. Hadn't she disrupted his entertainment last night? And he'd been so determined to find pleasure in other company, had so looked forward to it.
There was the Honourable Miss Sheldon, who'd refused to speak to him in the old days, and Miss Carstone. Even the haughty Honoria had endured a conversation, and her Mama had positively beamed upon him. Yet, they might have been a pack of murdering Hindoos for all the joy he had of them.
Not that he needed to wonder why there should be so little joy in it. The cause was here before him, artful creature that she was. Well then, if she was so artful, let her get herself out of this fix.
He glanced towards her then, their eyes met, and he found himself saying, "Of course, as to the fiancé part of your question, the answer is plain enough. She promised herself to me six years ago, and I mean to hold her to that promise.''
"You what?" Sir Charles cried.
"I mean to—"
"What kind of fool do you take me for? I know as well as everyone else in this room that was a great piece of nonsense you concocted."
