‘I have learnt that however much it may be sport, fly fishing is not a game, Miss Lound. I would think it more a summons to attend the court of King Trout.’
‘“King Trout”! Yes, I like that, sir, though the, er, “court dress” is somewhat unusual.’
‘Then I await your choosing of a suitable time.’ He wound in his line and began to pack away his fishing rod. The September afternoon was losing its warmth, and there were thick grey clouds emerging upon the western horizon.
‘If those advance slowly, then tomorrow may not be a day to fish,’ remarked Miss Lound, studying it. ‘I draw the line at standing in the pouring rain.’
‘As do I.’
They parted, each aware that they would rather have stayed together, and filled with a sense of quiet contentment.
219
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Madeleine Banham was beginning to realise that life was rather more complicated than she had imagined. In her head she had thought she would emerge into the adult world, be courted by a delightful man whom she would adore as much as he adored her, in the manner of the mutual attraction of her parents, get married and live happily ever after. She castigated herself for thinking in terms of fairy tales. The adulation of the young men she had encountered up until now had been so universal that it had become not quite real, and lacked meaning, but now she was dipping her pretty little toes in the real world of grown-ups and serious suitors. She was not at all sure if Lord Cradley was a serious suitor or not, for there was something lurking in the back of his eyes that hinted at it all being an elaborate charade,220a game. Mama, it was true, looked upon him with a jaundiced eye, though she admitted there was nothing definite that marked him in her books as ‘dangerous’.
The visit of Sir Harry Penwood had given her food for thought, food which, had he known of it, would have cheered that gentleman no end. Sir Harry was at a disadvantage, since Madeleine could recall him as an unformed stripling, and familiarity, as they said, bred contempt. Well, she was not contemptuous, but she was not in awe of him in any way. He lacked the social cleverness of Lord Cradley, but then that also meant that he had an honesty to him that was rather sweet. He had said things which made her think about him the more. She had no idea what army life was like, other than bloodthirsty, and what he had said had made her see that he was not simply a young man who rode about with a sword in his hand, attacking the enemy. His honest words were also not some trite sop to the uninitiated but had been heartfelt. She had warmed to that. He had also asked her opinion on a book, which might sound nothing at all, and they had drifted from the topic before she had the chance to respond, but he had asked, and had read the novel himself. It was a sensible question, put to her as a sensible person. He did not talk at her, but to her. She sighed. He was not as tall as Lord Cradley, and not nearly as elegant, but if his features were not as aloofly aristocratic, they were pleasant, his smile was very genuine, and he did have lovely broad shoulders and a very manly bearing. Being admired by him was221the same as being admired by all the other local youths, except, as her mama had said, he was not just a youth, but a man, and a man who may have fewer years than Lord Cradley, or indeed Sir Rowland Kempsey, but in those years he had seen much of both life and death and that made him rather more mature than age alone would indicate. Mama was right, she must take Sir Harry seriously, even though she had the prospect of a London Season come the spring.
Part of her was excited at the thought of London, and part found it too big and rather frightening. There was also a small but persistent little thought that daughters were treated unfairly in life. Her brother Marcus, who appeared to have a very generous allowance, rarely ever visited the ancestral acres and lived a life that revolved, as far as Madeleine could see, around his own pleasure, yet he had the knowledge that house, land and title would all be his in the fullness of time. She was, by contrast, an affectionate and indeed fond daughter, and at eighteen years old was on the cusp of leaving all that she had known. It was an adventure, perhaps, and Mama and Papa were keen that she have the security and comforts of being a married lady with an establishment of her own, but it still meant that there was little choice but to ‘fly the nest’ or face the sort of future Mary Lound had discovered, a tenuous hanger-on, dependent upon the kindness or otherwise of male relatives. She did want to be married, but at the same time felt a dawning resentment that she also had no other option. In her222happy moments, Madeleine dreamt of the fairy-tale love and a mutual passion, but the cold reality she shied away from was that she needed to marry, and perhaps upon nothing better than ‘quite liking’ the man who offered for her.
Lord Cradley cast the letter from his mother aside and grimaced in distaste. He did not appreciate being told what he should do by her or anyone else. Coming into Gloucestershire to take possession of his estate as well as the title had been a perfectly logical and sensible thing to do, and remaining for a while, especially now there was the charming entertainment of Miss Banham to enliven what had at first appeared a very boring set of people, had its advantages. The first of these was that it would alter the image that his title created in people’s minds. His predecessor had been a grumpy and rather unrefined man with a reputation for being anti-social and surly. He had certainly let his house become untidy and outmoded. As the new Lord Cradley, Jasper Risley wanted to excise that image and replace it with one of a Lord Cradley who was a man of discernment, the sort of fellow to whom one should apply as an arbiter of taste. In short, he wanted to be as big a fish in the local pond as possible. He also wanted to be seen by those he employed, so that they would know he was not a man to cross or dupe. If he spent the autumn and winter at Brook House, seeing it set in order and making his presence felt, he could return to London in the spring to enjoy all that223being no longer plain Mr Risley on the edges of Society would mean. Doors previously closed to him would be opened, and he envisaged a very pleasant Season ahead. His ‘obligations’, a word his mama had underlined, were to his name, and here, not in the rather more modest residence in which he had grown up in Bedfordshire.
The day after Sir Rowland’s second fishing lesson was, as Miss Lound had forecast, distinctly blustery, with frequent heavy showers, and he correctly surmised that there would be no fishing. He employed his time with making an inventory of the books he had inherited with the library, Lord Damerham having had no inclination to crate them all up and take them with him across the Atlantic. Sir Rowland thought that an awful lot could be learnt from the contents of a man’s library, and not just from the pages. There were few works of recent date, and he assumed, correctly, that the ladies would at least have taken any novels of their own choosing with them to the dower house. There were a handful of novels remaining, but they were not the sort of book he could envisage ladies reading, and indeed he himself had no wish to delve into theMemoirs of a Woman of Pleasure. He doubted that either lady had any idea of their existence, since those particular volumes were tucked behind older books on astronomy. From what he could deduce, the last Lord Damerham had not been a man for books, lewd ones excepted, but the generations before him had been educated and thoughtful men,224interested in the world, and both its history and physical properties, the sort of gentlemen who dabbled in science enough to know when they were out of their depth. They had possessed a healthy curiosity, which meant that there were not only the Latin and Greek classics which were currently of such use to Tom, but philosophy, in both English and French, expeditions to far flung lands, and the flora and fauna that had been encountered. He even found a first edition copy of Clarendon’sHistory of the Rebellion and Civil Wars in England, annotated in a very neat hand with both approving and dismissive comments, which Sir Rowland guessed to be that of the first Lord Damerham, the one who was ‘diplomatic’, and whose father had seen action in that time of upheaval. There was an early edition ofThe Compleat Angler, and several books on fish, with very nice illustrations. As he turned a page of one of them a piece of paper fell out. It was not part of the book but showed a copy of one of the plates made by a child’s hand. The fish was definitely a fish, but the colours were very bright, and if anyone ever hooked something that resembled it from lake or river, they would assuredly throw it straight back. Underneath the picture a large and laborious hand had written ‘A Trowt, by Mary Lound aged 7 years’. He smiled. She had signed it the way little girls stitched samplers, and he was willing to bet she had far preferred painting this. Her proud grandfather had probably kept it as a memento. It did not show an aptitude for painting, but it did show an early interest in fishing. Sir Rowland wondered if she225knew it was there, and went through the plates until he found the one of the trout, and carefully placed the juvenile artwork back in its place. He would not mention it, for he thought she would be embarrassed, but it gave him a little thrill of pleasure that he had been privy to a window upon Mary Lound as a little girl. He did not show it to his brother because he felt he had been let into a secret, and it was one he would keep.
The following morning, Sir Rowland braved a bracing start to the day and chose to ride, dragging his brother from his books to accompany him. Tom had not ventured much outside the perimeter of the park and found it interesting to set the estate in some form of geographical context. They had been out for about an hour when they encountered another horseman, a well set up young man on a dependable-looking bay horse. He was dressed without ostentation, but Sir Rowland still made a good guess as to his identity.
‘Are you by any chance Sir Harry Penwood?’
‘I am, and since I know you are not Lord Cradley, I venture to guess that you are Sir Rowland Kempsey, the fortunate new owner of Tapley End. You have been described to me by Miss Lound, and also there are rarely new faces in the district, so I was fairly certain.’ Sir Harry smiled.
‘If you were going by Miss Lound’s description, which must be of an idiot who gets his fishing line caught in trees, I would be surprised if you made the association,226unless of course I simply look an idiot.’ The smile was returned. Both men, perhaps influenced by Mary Lound, expected to be pleased with the other.
‘Not in the slightest, I promise you. Are you venturing anywhere in particular?’
‘No, just becoming more familiar with the lie of the land. I want to get past that feeling every time I go out that I will have to ask directions to find my way back to my own home. The shape of the hills is very useful, but the lanes and trackways still have the potential to lead me astray.’
‘And he has brought me along to experience getting lost too,’ added Tom Kempsey, which gently reminded his brother that no introduction had been made.
‘Sorry, Tom. Penwood, my brother Tom, who is shortly due to return to his studies in Oxford.’
‘I surmised as much. Glad to have the chance to meet you before you depart, but you will be back for Christmastide, I take it? The hunting should be good if the ground is not like iron.’
‘Which ought to be a hint that we should go to the best local sales.’ Sir Rowland glanced at his brother and grimaced, then turned back to Sir Harry. ‘The hunter I kept when young, back in Berkshire, is too old these days, and there was no hunting in Cumberland, at least there was, but on foot. I have not admitted to Miss Lound that I have not hunted for some years, since I think it would so lower me in her esteem that she might not speak to me again.’ He gave a wry look.227
‘Well, I have no doubt she would be surprised.’ There was a thought in Sir Harry’s mind that he could not pin down, but since it evaded him, he continued in practical mode. ‘There are good sales in Cheltenham, first Thursday of the month for horses, and you can obtain a decent animal for reasonable outlay.’
‘Is that where you got that fellow?’ asked Sir Rowland, eyeing the bay.
‘Ah no. Crispin here is home bred.’ He patted the horse’s neck affectionately. ‘He served my father well, and probably knows every lane and track hereabouts as well as the way from the paddock to his stable.’
‘Ah, then my brother has but to steal your horse and we will not get lost,’ suggested Tom, sweetly.
‘Interesting. First my brother, very reprehensibly, recommends that I commit an offence which might well result in me being hanged, or at least transported, and secondly, he intimates that your excellent mount will be able to understand my plaintive pleas to take me back to Tapley End by the most direct route. Would you like a brother, Penwood? I have one here, free to a reasonably good home. Give him access to Thucydides and feed once a day and …’
Sir Harry burst out laughing, which made even the reliable Crispin jerk up his head, and raised a hand.
‘Very kind offer and all that, but I could not supply the Greek texts. I bumbled my way through the Latin at school, but Greek was as good as impenetrable to me. I make no pretence to being very learned, and it was one228of the attractions of the army. Nobody ever expected me to quote Hesiod at them in the original.’
