Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave - Stephanie Barron [36]
“I do not pretend to understand you, my lord,” I said with effort, and applied myself to my needlework.
“I imagine you understand me very well, Miss Austen,” he rejoined quietly, “and I confess to disappointment at your retreat into convention. It is unworthy of your intelligence and penetration.”
“What can you know of either, my lord?”
“A great deal, when opportunity to observe is afforded me. But too often you run away at my approach, and would deny me the felicity of your wit.”
“Say rather that I choose better company, Lord Harold, and I shall deign it to be possible.”
“Capital, Miss Austen! Parry stroke for stroke. I would that the Countess Scargrave were so deft in her opposition.”
“Lord Harold,” I said, summoning my courage, “I cannot profess to know all the particulars of what is toward between yourself and Lady Scargrave. It is right that I should remain in ignorance of affairs so delicate and so disputed. But I would ask you, my lord, why you persist in your efforts, having professed them to be ranged on the side of the Devil? In saying as much, are not you bound by honour, by better feeling, by all that is in your power as a peer and a gentleman, to desist? *
In reply, he threw back his head and laughed, and at that moment Cobblestone entered upon the scene, my venerable deliverer. Behind the butler stood Sir William Reynolds and Isobel.
“Lord Harold,” Sir William said, bowing towards the fireplace, “Miss Austen. The Countess and I would speak with you alone, my dear Jane, and so I must ask Lord Harold to leave us.”
“I believe I have outworn Miss Austen's patience in any event,” Trowbridge said, with a mocking smile, and bowed low in my direction. “I look forward to trying it again, when opportunity serves.” And with a nod for Sir William, and a courtesy to Isobel, he achieved the hall, to my mingled relief and chagrin.
“A more teasing man I have never encountered!” I exclaimed, when he had gone. “He finds his sole diversion in tormenting and vexing others, as a cat will toss a bird between its paws before the kill.”
“An apt image, my dear Jane,” Isobel murmured, looking towards the door through which her enemy had vanished; “I have reason to know well its meaning. But I would that you had been spared his company.”
I gathered up my silks and canvas, and patted the seat beside me. “If I served to keep him from your door a little while, Countess, I may count the tedium as nothing.”
“Is Trowbridge making a nuisance of himself, my lady?” Sir William enquired, as though our discussion of that gentleman yesterday in the magistrate's chariot had never occurred. Sir William hovered by the door, waiting, as he should, for Isobel to take her seat before seeking one of his own; and his lined face was all innocence.
He wishes to know exactly how far the Countess trusts him, I thought.
Isobel 'smiled faintly and settled herself by my side. “Lord Harold cannot be other than a nuisance, Sir William, but I fear that that is gossip for a different day. Your note suggested some urgency. What can have caused you to quit your pleasant abode on such a wintry morning?”
Something fluttered across Sir William's countenance and departed—a hope for Isobel's confidence, perhaps. He crossed the room slowly, his hand in his pocket and his gait marked by what I judged to be the effects of gout. “I have received an anonymous letter, my lady,” he replied, handing a slip of paper to Isobel, “and having no reason to hope that its author would be discovered by delay, I hastened to acquaint you with its contents.”
For Isobel's perusal, was required but a moment; she then