Prudence and the Romantic Poet (The Three Graces #3)

Chapter 14

14

‘Welcome to The Cottage,’ said Mr Shelbourne, holding the door open for the ladies to pass into the house. A middle-aged servant appeared, unable to hide his look of surprise at their entrance.

‘Hie there, Green,’ greeted Mr Shelbourne. ‘I’ve brought some friends to look about. Tell Mrs Green we shall dine at the manor, so we only require refreshment.’

‘Very good, sir,’ said Mr Green, bowing to the ladies and Sir Robert. ‘And are you returned home now, sir?’

‘Not tonight. I shall go back to Bath this evening.’ Mr Shelbourne’s face fell, and he looked mournfully at Miss Kimpshott who was being assisted by Sir Robert in removing her coat at that moment. ‘But I shall be home two days hence.’

‘Very good, sir. We shall have all in readiness for you.’

It was a handsome house built of Bath stone with the same pleasing symmetry and clean lines of the larger manor house. It lacked the pillars and pediments of its larger relation, but boasted numerous sash windows, letting in plenty of light.

‘It is a newer property than Beech Park, I perceive,’ said Prudence, looking round the airy living room. There was no ornate plasterwork or highly decorative details such as at Beech Park; the decor was simpler, but with high ceilings, light oak woodwork, and moss green curtains with a little embroidered primrose motif.

‘Do you like it?’ said Mr Shelbourne, looking at Miss Kimpshott.

‘Why, it’s delightful,’ she said, sounding a little surprised. ‘Not at all what I expected. I confess I envisioned you hunched over a mean fire, writing by candlelight with smoky beams and an uneven stone floor. But this is no cottager’s ken, it is a gentleman’s house. And not some bachelor den, either. What adorable sofas. I do like the stripes.’

She moved about the room admiring furniture and ornaments. Mr Shelbourne watched her with wistful pleasure, murmuring to himself , ‘In chambers draped in moss, she roams with grace… her primrose steps… domestic embrace… ’

He reached for his pocket book, but Prudence caught his eye and gently shook her head. ‘Why don’t you show Miss Kimpshott the rest of the house,’ she suggested. He agreed readily, and at his invitation Miss Kimpshott took his arm and allowed him to show her over ‘The Cottage .’ Prudence smiled as she watched them go.

‘Are you matchmaking?’ said Sir Robert.

Prudence threw him a guilty look, but rallied to say in defence of matchmaking, ‘I think they would do very well together, although they are young. But despite her youth and fairy-like appearance Miss Kimpshott is so very straightforward and pragmatic that I think her a good influence on Mr Shelbourne.’

‘That description sounds very much like yourself,’ he murmured. ‘I wonder he has not fallen in love with you.’

‘That should be very evident,’ said Prudence .

‘No. Why should it?’

‘You are teasing me, and I did not think you were the kind of man to do so.’

‘But I am not.’ He did not look as though he were teasing, but she decided to ignore such comments.

‘While your cousin has not fully matured yet,’ she continued, ‘he has no vices, and is a kind young man. I think kindness the most important thing in a husband.’

‘But she is off to London to marry a duke, is she not?’

‘That is her cousin’s ambition, not her own.’ She sighed. ‘Perhaps it is wrong of me to encourage them, but I think it is a pity they are to be separated.’

‘They are of similar age,’ ruminated Sir Robert. ‘And both have an independence, though it is often a sore point with a man’s pride not to have the greater fortune. If there is genuine affection between them it must outlast a season or even two in London, don’t you think? Her cousin cannot forcibly marry her to a duke.’

She smiled ruefully. ‘I have suggested that to Mr Shelbourne, but he called me heartless. The idea of months or years apart was too awful for him. I think he has resigned himself to a loveless existence.’

‘More fool him for not staking his claim while he can. And heartless is decidedly not an adjective that could be ascribed to you, Miss Grace.’

Before she could acknowledge the compliment, the manservant came in with a tea tray and a decanter of wine and plate of cakes. Sir Robert thanked him and said there was nothing further they needed. He gestured to Prudence to sit down. She was about to attend to the tea, for she always made the tea at home, but Sir Robert pre-empted her by measuring out the leaves and pouring the water himself. He caught her surprised eye.

‘Have you never seen a gentleman make tea?’ he asked .

‘No,’ was the blunt reply. ‘You are interested in tea, I have noticed.’

‘Of course. It is my trade.’

‘Trade?’ she was puzzled. He was a gentleman of substance. Gentlemen did not have trades.

‘I import tea. And other commissions, such as exotic plants and spices. But mostly I deal in tea. I have plantations established. Small ones. I prefer the family run farms where one can get to know the people.’

‘In China?’

‘Yes. And more recently in Ceylon.’

‘I have never heard of tea from Ceylon.’

‘Mark my words, it will become very popular within a few years. This is Ceylon tea. Tell me if you like it. I sent Mrs Green a chest, though Arthur cannot tell the difference between Ceylon and dandelion.’

The tea was excellent, and she told him so. He looked gratified. ‘I knew you would appreciate it.’

‘Is your trade a hobby, sir?’

‘No. I do enjoy it. Or I did. I find as I grow older, I am not so enamoured of spending months at sea. I feel an unaccountable urge of late to settle down and leave my younger employees to do the travelling. I undertake the work for profit first, and then pleasure. And it is very profitable.’

She sipped her tea, eyeing him thoughtfully over her cup. She wanted to enquire further, but did not wish to cross the bounds of politeness.

He must have sensed her curiosity, for he said, ‘I made the choice as a young man to be independent of the fortune that I inherited.’

‘You are what they call a self-made man?’

‘Exactly. ’

‘But… Beech Park, with all the farms and land, is it not profitable?’

‘It is. I keep everything running smoothly. The families who run the farms, and the staff at the house are dependent on the estate, but I do not profit from it personally. A large part of it goes to paying the vast mortgages that I inherited with it, and the rest goes back into the estate for maintenance and repairs and improvements.’

She waited to hear more. He was looking about the room. ‘I built this house for myself. The land it stands on did not come with the estate, it was neighbouring land that came up for sale some years ago.’

‘And why do you not live here?’

‘I offered it to Arthur when he came home from his tutor’s. I thought it would be more comfortable for him than alone at the manor while I was away on my travels. I am building another house about three miles from here for myself. It draws close to completion. I shall be choosing furnishings soon.’

‘If it were you who furnished this house, then you have excellent taste, sir.’

He surprised her by giving a rare smile. In fact, she had never seen him smile, other than a wry lifting of the corners of his mouth. His countenance was so different that she did not realise that she was staring at him, transfixed by this man who had lost all grimness and looked only kind and genial. It was as though a veil had been lifted from him and she saw him as he really was, or as he could be. They held one another’s gaze until the moment was broken by the return of Mr Shelbourne and Miss Kimpshott. She dropped her eyes to her cup, a flush rising to her cheeks as though she had been caught doing something immodest.

‘You must see the house, Miss Grace,’ urged Miss Kimpshott. ‘It has the prettiest breakfast parlour in the world.’

‘It is a little house,’ said Mr Shelbourne sadly. ‘Hardly fit for a lady of consequence.’

‘That can easily be remedied,’ said Sir Robert. ‘An extension added to provide a suite of rooms.’

Mr Shelbourne stared at his cousin. ‘You would do that?’

‘If there was a need. You will marry someday, Arthur, but you are yet young. There is time.’

‘I can never marry,’ said Mr Shelbourne, casting a despairing look at Miss Kimpshott, who was accepting an offer of tea from Prudence.

When Prudence had seen the house and complimented Mrs Green on her feather-light sponge fingers, it was time to leave. Sir Robert kept his word and drove to the glasshouse at Beech Park, tying the horses up outside.

It was an impressive glass house, at least as large as Mr Shelbourne’s cottage, as Miss Kimpshott pointed out. They admired the clever system of hot pipes that kept the house warm, and also admired the enormous vine, trained to run the length of the house. ‘Capital grapes,’ Mr Shelbourne assured them, though there were none to be had at that time of year.

‘It is an indoor orchard,’ said Prudence, astonished by the rows of citrus trees.

The other end of the glass house was given over to flower bushes.

‘We wondered how there could be such delightful roses in November,’ said Miss Kimpshott, smelling a spray of the small pink flowers that matched those in her hair. Mr Shelbourne borrowed Sir Robert’s pocket knife, and cut a velvety red rose, which he offered to Miss Kimpshott, taking care to trim the thorns from the stem beforehand .

The tour continued back at the house. Sir Robert was most patient in showing the ladies anything they wished to see, and answering all their questions, but Prudence could discern his detachment from the house. He did not speak of it with warmth or pride. She wondered why he did not like his ancestral home. It was a splendid and well-maintained house. Most of the rooms were currently not in use, but they showed evidence of being well-aired and dusted, and without any sign of damp or neglect. There was a lingering air of melancholy haunting the rooms, thought Prudence, as she walked about. She surprised herself by thinking this, not usually being one for fancy. Perhaps it was because it was un-lived in, and therefore unloved.

She stood for some minutes in the portrait gallery looking at one of the paintings. It was of a young woman in the fashion of the end of the last century. She had a small child on her knee of about two years’ age. It was impossible to tell if the child were a boy or girl; the fair curls and sweet face and white gown could have belonged to either.

‘My mother,’ said Sir Robert, startling Prudence a little, for she had not noticed him retracing his steps along the gallery.

‘And is that you?’

‘Yes. Little urchin, that I was.’

‘You look like a little angel.’

‘Looks can be deceiving.’

‘You have your mother’s eyes.’ She did not like to add that his mother’s eyes looked very sad, as though she were not a happy woman.

He did not reply as he looked at the portrait. His mouth twisted a little, but his tone was soft as he said, ‘Poor Mama. She was an angel, if I was not. ’

Prudence did not like to pry, but she was curious, and as there was no Lady Shelbourne in residence it seemed safe for her to assume that his mother was deceased. ‘Has she been gone very long?’ she asked gently.

‘Barely a year after that portrait was taken. Childbed,’ he added when she looked enquiringly at him. ‘My brother died with her.’

‘How very sad. And too common an occurrence,’ she said, thinking of the late Princess of Wales and of the awful memory of her sister’s difficulties in childbearing and the subsequent illness that had almost carried her away from them.

‘Is that your father?’ she asked, moving to the next portrait.

‘Yes.’ She could not miss the grim note in this one word. The late baronet looked like a harsh man, so she discreetly moved on without comment.

They dined early as planned, and Sir Robert exerted himself to ensure that the ladies had the offer of every dish, and kept up a flow of conversation by replying to Prudence’s queries about his travels abroad with interesting stories.

‘Should you like to travel, Mr Shelbourne?’ Prudence asked.

Mr Shelbourne had clearly heard all his cousin’s stories before and was taking little notice of them, but watched Miss Kimpshott instead, as though savouring the sight of her more than the roast partridges, oysters, and forced asparagus that he ate with a distracted air. Prudence had to repeat her question before she had recalled his attention.

He shrugged. ‘Not especially.’

‘I have offered to send Arthur on a tour of Europe,’ said Sir Robert .

‘That sounds delightful,’ said Miss Kimpshott. ‘How I should like to see Venice and Paris and Rome.’

‘Should you?’ said Mr Shelbourne doubtfully. ‘Not fond of cities myself. Smelly, dirty things. Swiss mountains and Icelandic fjords would be more my fancy.’

‘A tour would take in both, would it not?’ said Miss Kimpshott. ‘The best of city and country.’ She gave a little sigh. ‘I have never been out of Somersetshire, except for a visit to Weymouth once. London will be a great novelty for me. My cousin does not like to travel. She is chafing to get home already, and we have only been gone a few weeks. I am afraid she will either cut short our time in London, or leave me there with the first chaperone she finds.’

They did not linger after dinner, for Sir Robert did not want them travelling in the dark, so the day was concluded, and the farewells made.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Prudence, as Sir Robert led her to the carriage. ‘It has been a most enjoyable day.’

‘I only wish it were not over so soon,’ he replied. ‘I have not enjoyed an afternoon so well in a long time.’ Again, she wondered if he were merely exercising good manners or if he really did enjoy her company, she was never quite sure of him. Was the care he took of her comfort as he saw the hot bricks he had ordered placed at her feet, and ensured that Mr Shelbourne had shaken out the carriage rug for her merely an avuncular courtesy that he would bestow on any lady, or did it bespeak a particular interest in her?

He was equally polite to Miss Kimpshott, but he did not look Miss Kimpshott in the eye when saying goodbye to her, nor did she ever catch him watching Miss Kimpshott the way she often caught him looking at herself with an inscrutable expression, as though he were pondering something. She knew that he did look at her, for more than once she found herself strangely drawn to watching him without realising she was doing it until he caught her eye.

What did this all pertain to, she wondered? The carriage moved forward, and as it turned into the drive, she saw that he remained standing outside the portico watching the carriage disappear, and she sat back with a soft sigh of regret at seeing him no more, and feeling more than a little confused that she should do so.

‘How kind your cousin is,’ Miss Kimpshott remarked to Mr Shelbourne. ‘I had thought he was something of an ogre from what you had said.’

‘I never said he was an ogre,’ said Mr Shelbourne. ‘But he does not usually put himself out so much as he has today.’

‘Do you mean that he is not usually so well mannered?’ Prudence could not help asking.

‘He is always well mannered,’ admitted Mr Shelbourne. ‘But he does not usually go in for social niceties. He usually only entertains his business friends.’

‘Perhaps he has exerted himself because we are your friends,’ suggested Prudence. ‘It seems to me that he is very fond of you.’

Mr Shelbourne considered this and shrugged, but Miss Kimpshott said, ‘Or perhaps he has exerted himself because he likes your company, Miss Grace.’

‘My cousin never looks at young ladies,’ said Mr Shelbourne.

‘Perhaps he has never seen a young lady worth looking at,’ replied Miss Kimpshott.

Prudence was glad that the light was dusky enough to hide her slight blush as she discounted this notion. ‘A gentleman may be kind to his guests without being accused of ulterior motives,’ she said firmly, as much to herself as to her friend.