‘Thank you, ma’am. I will make sure that I hand it over as soon as I get home.’ Harry, who had risen, smiled at her and took it, then looked to Mary again.18
‘Is it true, what my mama says, that Madeleine Banham is no longer a snub-nosed schoolroom chit who pouts when she is thwarted?’
‘Well, I have not seen her thwarted for some time, so I cannot vouch if she has changed in that respect, but she has undoubtedly unfurled her petals into something of the local beauty. I think her mama is hoping to bring her out informally in Bath early next spring, and then they are taking a house in London, but I am not sure it is confirmed as yet. She would take, though, not a doubt of it. You had best join the queue, Harry, if you want to sigh over her.’
‘Me? Not the sighing type, as you well know. Good to be warned, though, because I would look a perfect blockhead if I asked “Who is that?” and it was Maddy Banham. I take it her mama is just as French as ever?’
‘Absolument.’ Mary grinned and wafted her hands about in a theatrical manner.
‘Lady Roxton is a very charming woman,’ said Lady Damerham, trying not to smile.
‘She is, Mama, but after nearly a quarter of a century in England she still sounds as though she landed in Bristol last month. Do you remember, Harry, how we used to try and drive the conversation so she would say “Wales”, and it came out as “Wayoools”?’
‘I do.’
‘Very naughty the pair of you were, I have to say. Poor woman, it was not her fault she came straight from19the murderous situation in France … how can people be so bloodthirsty? … and with a very weak grasp of our language. She was so beautiful, though, that Lord Roxton, not that he was Lord Roxton then, snapped her up very swiftly, despite his father’s reservations about “Gallic volatility”, and she has been a good wife and mother, whatever anyone says.’ Lady Damerham always liked to be fair, though it left Mary and Harry both wondering who the ‘anyone’ might be.
‘Indeed, Mama, but her accent is such one might use it as a caricature of a Frenchwoman speaking English, even now.’ Mary offered Harry more tea, but he declined.
‘Thank you, but no. I ought to get back before the heavy rain commences again. The clouds were gathering in the west as I arrived. I just wanted to see you both and … well, if battle lines are drawn around here, you always know that I stand in line with you, sword drawn, so to speak, and you can trust me to stand firm in the face of the enemy.’
‘We know, Harry, and it helps. Of course, there has never been a Risley we liked much, but the current holder of the barony happens to be a particularly unpleasant and contrary specimen. It does mean that not only you but most of this part of the shire range against him. If only that helped pay the bills.’
‘We must not be mercenary, my love,’ admonished Lady Damerham.
‘Not mercenary, Mama, practical. I am no20needlewoman, and if my gowns have to be taken in, I could look a positive fright.’
‘I promise to warn you of that.’ Harry gave her hand a squeeze, bowed more formally over Lady Damerham’s to avoid another hug, and departed.
21
CHAPTER TWO
Miss Madeleine Banham was torn. Part of her, a very large part, lapped up the adoration of the local bachelors with pleasure, though a rather smaller part resented that most of them would not have cared if she had lacked every one of the accomplishments which she had worked so hard to perfect at the select Queen’s Square seminary where she had spent her later schoolroom years. A pretty face and a good figure were all that they sought, and saw, but Madeleine was proud of her watercolours and her performance upon the pianoforte, to which she still devoted a half hour of practice every morning. When she did receive compliments about her art and music, she knew she would have received exactly the same had her ability been mediocre, because the gentlemen wanted to please22her. It was slightly lowering. Her mama told her that it did not matter, but that very small voice inside her told her that her beauty and figure would undoubtedly decline, but she might be an even better painter and pianist at the advanced aged of thirty-five or forty.
She was a patently feminine creature, who floated rather than trod, had a laugh that was naturally bright and musical, and a voice that one besotted youth described as ‘an angel with a mouthful of honey’. Since he had been so unwise as to say this before Miss Lound, this had led to her describing the problems an angel would have with diction, and the deleterious effect of sticky fingers upon celestial harps. Whilst Madeleine could see that it was a very silly thing to say, the thought had been sweet, like the honey, and Mary Lound was far too prosaic and practical. There were nearly eight years between the young ladies, and they had thus never been close. For her part, Madeleine thought the other rather an Amazon, and even ‘mannish’, for she had no fear of muddy skirts from traipsing around the countryside on foot, killed fish with her bare hands, and would rather spend an hour loosing arrows into a butt than dancing quadrilles and flirting. In fact, Madeleine was pretty sure that Miss Lound was incapable of flirting. It was no surprise, as her mama said, that she had never had a suitor and looked almost certain to remain a spinster for the rest of her days. Madeleine could ride, of course, but did not hunt, and preferred to hack gently about the23locality, being social, and wearing a habit that showed her figure to perfection.
This particular morning, her papa had suggested she ride with him ‘to get the roses back in your cheeks’. He awaited her in the hall, unperturbed by the fact that she was keeping him waiting, since she was always a little late for everything. Lord Roxton, a still handsome man in his late forties, enjoyed being congratulated on his daughter’s good looks, even though he always ascribed it to her mother’s beauty. Lady Roxton, having provided her husband with three sons and a daughter, had lost the trimness of figure as well as the bloom of her youth, but was accounted a very fine-looking woman ‘for her age’, which was, of course, damning. Madeleine descended the stairs, a vision in dark green, alleviated by her lace-edged, snow-white cravat and a curling feather in her hat which accentuated the red gold in her artless curls. Father smiled at daughter and nodded approvingly.
‘Very nice, my dear. We must be careful if upon the more frequented roads, or we will have gentlemen driving into the ditches when they gaze upon you and cease to pay attention to their leaders.’
‘Papa, you should not.’ Madeleine blushed.
‘I speak the truth, no more and no less. No wonder young Sopwell dripped his soup down his waistcoat when you smiled at him at dinner the other evening.’
‘Mr Sopwell lacks polish,’ said the girl who had yet to make a formal come out.
‘He is a trifle green, but a good lad, and—’24
‘Are you going to ride upon the ’orses, or stand talking all morning, milor’?’ Lady Roxton emerged from a small saloon and shook her head at her husband.
‘We shall be off directly, my love.’ His lordship was, like many husbands, firm in great matters, but under the uxorial thumb in minor ones.
She came forward with a soft rustle of skirts and brushed a probably non-existent piece of lint from his coat, looking up at him with an affection that Madeleine found slightly embarrassing and that made him feel a decade younger in an instant.
‘Bien. Off with you, and be sure to return before the hour of one.’
He leant and kissed her cheek in a very mild salutation, but Madeleine looked away. Parents really did put one to the blush.
