Sir William went back to London next day, and his daughter did her best to carry out his instructions to her. Rather to her surprise, Serena approved of them. So a very respectable and correspondingly dull gentleman of their acquaintance was invited to accompany them to the concert; and Fanny wrote careful notes to a number of persons, bidding them to a small evening reception. Life settled down into a slightly more variegated pattern, enlivened by morning visitors, and an occasional party. Several expeditions were made to places of historic interest in the vicinity of Bath, and if the Major rode behind the barouche, so too did some other gentleman. There was no difficulty in finding a suitable fourth to these parties: the only difficulty lay in deciding whose turn it was to be honoured with an invitation. Every unattached gentleman who had cudgelled his brains for weeks to hit upon a way of becoming acquainted with the most beautiful woman in Bath no sooner heard that the bereaved ladies were now receiving visitors than he scoured the town for some common acquaintance who could be persuaded to perform the coveted introduction. One or two lost their hearts to Fanny, but these were in the minority, Serena’s admirers far outnumbering them, and behaving with an ardency and a devotion which made Fanny fear that the Major might be hurt. He seemed, however, to be rather amused; and whenever one of her flirts contrived to draw Serena away from her mama-in-law, to show her a very fine view, or to conduct her to the top of a ruined keep, he made no attempt to go after the truants, but walked with Fanny instead, concealing whatever chagrin he might have felt.
Fanny, incapable herself of conducting the sort of light flirtation of which Serena was an accomplished exponent, was distressed, and ventured to remonstrate. But Serena only laughed, and said that she was following out the spirit of Sir William’s advice. “The Bath quizzes will now say of me that so far from being violently attached to one man I am shockingly volage!”
Fanny could only hope that the Major would not share this opinion. She told him once, when she saw Serena positively encouraging the gallantry of young Mr Nantwich, that Serena had a great deal of vivacity. “In her set, you know,” she said, trying for an airy note, “that sort of—of liveliness is quite the thing! It doesn’t denote the least want of delicacy, or—or unsteadiness!”
He glanced down into her perturbed countenance, smiling a little. “I am not jealous, I promise you,” he said.
“Oh, no! I am persuaded you could not be!”
His eyes followed Serena and her admirer. “If all these moonstruck swains flatter themselves that she has any other intention than to enjoy a little sport they must be a set of ninny-hammers,” he remarked. “I own, it is not a sport I like, but there is no particular harm in it when the lady is as skilled in it as I perceive Serena to be.”
She thought that she could detect a note of reserve in his voice and said something about funning humours and openness of temper. He agreed to this; and she had the happy thought of adding that by dispensing her favours among several Serena was throwing sand in the eyes of those who suspected her of a single attachment. That made him laugh. He said: “Lady Spenborough, are you trying to bamboozle me, or has Serena been bamboozling you? She is enjoying herself hugely! Don’t look so anxious! Do you care to stroll in the wood? May I give you my arm?”
Her conscience told her that it was her duty to follow Serena, but since to do that would entail bringing the Major once more within sight and hearing of what could not (for all his brave words) but give him pain, she yielded to inclination. Nothing was more comfortable than a walk with Major Kirkby! He moderated his pace to hers, handed her carefully over the smallest obstacle, warned her of damp patches, and always chose a smooth path for her to tread. They were on the cosiest of terms, Fanny having very soon lost her shyness, and the Major discovering in her so sympathetic a listener that before very long he had put her in possession of nearly every detail of his career. In return, she told him all about her home, and her family, and how much she dreaded having her sister Agnes sent to live with her. He entered fully into her sentiments upon this; and although she never spoke of Mama except, with respect, or mentioned her marriage, it did not take him long to arrive at a pretty fair understanding of why she had accepted the hand of a man old enough to have been her father. His reflections upon this subject he kept to himself.
Nothing occurred to disturb the harmony of these summer days until one morning in June the Morning Post, when opened at the only page that interested Fanny, was found to contain a bomb-shell. She had just read aloud to Serena the news of the Princess Charlotte’s indisposition, and was about to speculate on the probable nature of the malady, when her eyes alighted on another item of social intelligence. A sharp gasp broke from her, and she cried out impulsively: “Good God! Oh, no! Impossible!”
“Well, what now?” inquired Serena, engaged in arranging roses in a bowl.
“Rotherham!” uttered Fanny, in a strangled voice.
Serena turned quickly to look at her. “Rotherham? What has happened to him?” she said sharply. “Is he ill too? Fanny, he’s not dead?”
“Oh, no, no!” Fanny said. “Betrothed!”
“Betrothed!”
“Yes! The most shocking thing! To Emily Laleham!”
“It’s not true!”
“It must be, Serena, for here it is, published. I don’t wonder at your amazement! That poor child! Oh, what a wicked, abominable woman Lady Laleham is! A marriage has been arranged—yes, and well do I know who arranged it!—between Ivo Spencer Barrasford, Marquis of Rotherham, and Emily Mary, eldest daughter of Sir Walter Laleham, Bart—You see, there can be no mistake! Oh, I don’t know when I have been more distressed!”
She looked up from the paper to Serena, standing like a stone in the middle of the room, two roses held in her hand, her cheeks perfectly white, and in her eyes an expression of blank horror.
“What have I done?” Serena said, in a queer, hoarse voice. “O God, what have I done?”
“Dearest, you are not to blame!” Fanny cried. “He met her in my house, not in yours! Not that I feel I am to blame either, for heaven knows I never invited Lady Laleham to visit me on that fatal day! And from all we hear of the horrid, encroaching way she has been thrusting herself into the highest circles, he must have met her somewhere, even if not in my house! Though, to be sure, it would not have been in that style, just seated round the table, as we were, conversing without the least formality. Oh, if I had known what would come of it, I would have been uncivil to Lady Laleham rather than have admitted her into the breakfast-parlour!” She saw that Serena was staring at her in a fixed, blank way, and then that a trickle of blood was running down one of her fingers. “Oh, you have scratched your hand with those thorns! Take care you don’t smear your gown, dearest!”
Her words seemed to recall Serena to herself. She gave a slight start, and glanced down at her hand. Her fingers unclenched themselves from about the rose-stems; she laid the flowers down, saying quietly: “So I have! How stupid! Pray, Fanny, attend to these! I must go and wash my hands.”
She went quickly from the room, and was gone for some time. When she returned, it was with some tale of having been obliged to mend the torn gathers of one of the flounces round the hem of her gown. Fanny, who knew that she never set a stitch, might, had her mind not been taken up with the news of Rotherham’s engagement, have felt considerable surprise at this unprecedented happening. As it was, she merely said absently: “How vexing! Have you sent your woman out? You know, Serena, the more I think of it the more I am convinced Lady Laleham had this in mind when she forced herself upon us that day!”