Chapter 12
All agreed that the ball at Elsworth had been a fine success. The affable nature of Captain Dashwood was often at the front of discussion, with more than a few young ladies, and several more mothers, fancying future marriage prospects.
Lucy was unconvinced that Captain Dashwood had such intentions in either of the modes in which she perceived him.
The charming-socialite version of him had a blithe and impermanent nature that did not lend itself to settling down just yet, and it quite vexed Lucy to see her fellow ladies pin their hopes on an intemperate man.
And in considering his other mode, the one operating beneath the surface, she suspected it led to the same risky end.
If indeed he had some ulterior purpose for being here, then it was quite likely that once his objective had been achieved, he would not stay.
Thus Lucy resolved to give no further thought to the curious Captain Dashwood, other than to try to deduce more of his character through memory, analysis and supposition. As a purely intellectual exercise, of course.
Several days later, the three Elliot women found themselves at the large estate of St Martins Hall.
Mrs Elliot and Sir Walter shared a niche interest in the practice of preserving fruit and vegetables.
It was merely a hobby for Mrs Elliot, but more an obsession for Sir Walter, who had converted a large vault in his cellar for the task of creating and storing preserves, with bell peppers being his latest passion.
‘It is curious to have one’s two main interests at such odds with each other,’ said Sir Walter.
‘The markets are such volatile and urgent things, always changing and short-focused. But preserves are quite the opposite. Patient and long-lasting. There is something very calming about a fine jar of raspberry jam.’
‘I am more inclined to plum myself,’ Alice Elliot offered.
‘Plum. Then I must show you my latest sampling – a blend of Shropshire Prune and Saint Martin, which I am fond of for reasons of vanity.’
The elders departed, leaving their four offspring collected on the patio. It was a warm spring day and the shade of a large awning was most welcome as they chatted, eventually deciding to play cards.
‘It often makes me wonder what people think of our father,’ George spoke idly. ‘A politician, a businessman, a knight of the realm, and yet fussing around with his jam jars like an old maid.’
‘I dare say we all have our follies,’ Margaret said.
Oliver nodded in agreement before speaking.
‘In any case, I think it quite likely that his position allows him to veer into interests unavailable to those of lesser standing.’ He said this without glancing up from his cards.
When he played at such games he tended to loom with something of a praying mantis in his form.
‘Do you really think so?’ Margaret asked.
‘I do. A poor obsessive will be called a madman. A rich obsessive will be called eccentric.’
‘Come now, Oliver,’ said George. ‘It is unfair to call our father a madman, however frustrating we find his behaviour.’
‘I said no such thing. Nor did I denote frustration. Merely that station and privilege is accompanied by acceptance. I for one am delighted he has such a productive hobby. His lemon honey is as rare a delicacy as I have ever tasted.’
‘Productive in short perhaps. I sometimes wish he had quite as much passion for business as he does for jam.’ George sighed.
As this conversation unfolded, Lucy shifted her attention back and forth from the words to her cards.
She was disinclined to partner games as they often brought with them a greater level of uncertainty than she liked.
But as there were four of them, it seemed it was decided such a game should be played, and lots were drawn to decide partners.
Lucy and George were paired against Margaret and Oliver.
It was not her preference. George was a fine enough card player, but he was also frivolous and selfish in how he played.
He seemed to completely overlook her cues, and though one or the other of them often won a hand, as a pair they tended to score lower than their opponents.
Margaret and Oliver, on the other hand, were more cautious players, neither of them of excelling skill, but still rather steady and complementary.
On more than one occasion Lucy had considered that her sister and Oliver St Martin might make a match for more than merely their height, an aspect she considered too shallow to value greatly. They were affable to each other, respectful and clearly enjoyed each other’s company.
Sadly there were two unassailable obstacles to such an outcome.
The St Martins were of a higher station than the Elliots, not that such a pairing would be unthinkable, but certainly enough to create pause for thought.
The second obstacle was of a more complicated nature.
As the two Elliot heirs, Lucy and Margaret stood to inherit a comfortable lifestyle, though by no means an opulent one.
But Oliver St Martin was in a far less enviable position.
Through a longstanding precedent of the St Martin lineage, the eldest would inherit the entirety of the estate.
Any other sibling was to receive an endowment, but the sum had been fixed three generations before, without thought of inflation.
It was known that Oliver had followed his father into the markets but, as in cards, his conservative speculation would lead to slow growth.
If he played those cards right, he would never be poor, but the lifestyle he now lived would not last forever.
Thus he was at once a man of too high a station and too poor in prospects to make a match with Margaret Elliot, however well suited her sister might sometimes think them to be.
The proper path is seldom a fair one, Lucy thought. As if to demonstrate this, George played a card that turned their certain victory into a certain defeat and Lucy threw down her jack of spades in frustration.
Upon completion of the hand, Oliver drew the cards together and began shuffling, cards dancing between his nimble fingers.
‘I swear, Brother, did I not trust your character and that of Miss Elliot, I should suspect you of cheating.’ George chuckled.
Oliver laughed in response. ‘Nonsense. If we were cheating, Lucy should surely have noticed it by now.’
Lucy blushed slightly, but was gratified by the compliment of her observational abilities.
‘Besides, my brother, I should not know where to start on such a scheme,’ Oliver continued.
‘Why, you should devise some manner of communication beneath the table, of course. You both have legs long enough for it.’
‘Spoken like a man at ease with the length of his limbs,’ Oliver retorted.
‘The space beneath the table is no safe haven to those of us of the lofty persuasion. It is in fact a place of particular peril. One sits folded in such a way that one’s knees go this way or one’s hips go that.
To pass messages beneath this table would be akin to writing and exchanging notes on horseback. ’
Having completed his shuffle, he placed the deck on the table, inviting his brother to cut, then shuffled swiftly one more time, placing the deck in the centre.
‘In any case, Brother, why ever should I cheat at cards by communicating in code with my partner when there are much simpler ways to show you the fool?’ He flipped the top card of the deck.
George stared down in amazement at the smiling joker.
There was a momentary pause before George burst into laughter. ‘Oliver, you never cease to amaze me. I should like to see you play against Captain Dashwood some time.’
The sudden introduction of Captain Dashwood into the conversation startled Lucy, who had staved off thinking about him for well over an hour.
‘Why do you say that?’ Margaret asked.
‘Father has certain connections,’ the older St Martin explained. ‘Suffice to say he asked around about our neighbour and found out why he’s here.’
‘To assess his father’s holdings, is he not?
’ Lucy countered with a certainty to her voice that was not matched by her inner suspicions.
She was unsure why she should defend the man so earnestly and wondered if she might be frustrated that she was about to be told the answer to a riddle before she could figure it out for herself.
‘He is not,’ George went on. ‘Though it really is his father’s land, his reason for being here is quite a different matter.’
‘A cover story?’ Oliver chuckled dubiously. ‘Like some manner of Gothic novel?’
‘Nothing quite so grand. The fellow is a gambler. Apparently quite a good one. But you’re only a good gambler until you’re not. He got himself into debt and trouble and his father had to pull some strings to cover it all up. Now he is lying low for a while.’
‘How mortifying,’ Margaret exclaimed. ‘And he seemed like such a charming gentleman.’
Lucy silently agreed, feeling a sense of disappointment heavier than she had expected. She shook off the thought, reminding herself that placing expectations on the character of the newcomer was exactly what she had so recently criticised in others.
‘Well, he is not what he seems.’ George shrugged. ‘I’d be wary of him. Once a gambler, always a gambler. Now, Oliver, how about a real shuffle? I’ll be watching this time.’
‘Well, in that case, I won’t cheat this time.’
The Elliot sisters and Oliver all laughed in unison, a joke that George failed to understand as he had been the only person at the table whom his brother had not just tapped with his feet.