Chapter 18
Alistair did not make a habit of going into Debenbridge these days if he could help it.
It would be ridiculous to avoid the place where he had grown up, where everyone knew him, but there was little sold here that he had need of.
He certainly was not of a mind to sit drinking in inns when he could perfectly well be miserable at home with nobody to ask him stupid questions about the progress of the war or the manner in which he had been wounded.
If he needed new clothes, which he didn’t currently, he would go to Ipswich, Colchester, or even Cambridge or Norwich.
His mother, though, was of the decided opinion that he was in danger of becoming a hermit, and so sometimes manufactured occasions for him to run errands for her.
Her behaviour was perfectly transparent, and he could easily refuse, tell her to send one of the servants or go herself, but since he was aware that she had had a great deal to bear from him over the past long months of his convalescence, he generally said yes with as good a grace as he could manage. This was one of those occasions.
At least it wasn’t market day, so his face was not to be stared at by every gaby from ten miles around, who had heard how hideously scarred he was and not yet had an opportunity to see the grotesque yet fascinating sight for him or herself.
But it was the day of the monthly auction, and apparently, his dear mama had been to an earlier viewing and conceived a violent passion for a pair of sofas.
They had come, she told him, from the grandest house nearby; as everyone knew, Lady Synett had recently redecorated and bought extravagant new furniture from London rather than thriftily having the old re-covered.
Now her cast-offs were to be sold to recoup a little of the vast cost. They were not ten years old, scarcely worn, and Mrs Bartrum wanted them; worse than that, she needed them.
The least he could do for her was to secure them, at a good price.
This should not be too difficult, she implied, because they would be rather too fine for most of the town’s inhabitants, though she darkly named a yeoman farmer’s wife with absurd pretensions, one Betsey Bardwell, who might have decided they’d give her parlour distinction.
But she would be no match for him. In fact, such a person ought, his mother said with steely certainty, step back with due modesty as soon as she realised he was bidding and let him have the prize.
Were not soldiers like him even now standing ready to die in defence of their country; had he not been wounded doing that very thing?
Major Bartrum could not himself see any connection between military service and sofas, but he knew better than to waste his breath saying so.
Alistair arrived when the auction had already begun, knowing that the lot number of the items he’d been sent for meant that they’d appear at least half an hour into proceedings.
His leg was paining him today, and he’d have been much more at ease sitting down with it stretched out in front of him, so naturally, he stood near the rear of the barn with the other men his age and younger, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other and inwardly cursing his own stubbornness.
His mood was not improved when he saw the girl who’d pulled him from the sand and then mocked him sitting just in front of him with an older woman.
Yes, there had been two young ladies present on that memorable occasion, but the other hadn’t spoken in his hearing, hadn’t called him foolish, and certainly hadn’t curtseyed at him in a highly derisive manner.
Nor had she looked quite so appealing, with her dark hair all anyhow, her bosom heaving, and wild rose colour in her cheeks – well, maybe she had, but he hadn’t noticed it, as he lay on his back in a puddle, looking up at her sister.
This was the woman who’d snagged his interest a few moments earlier from a distance, before he’d fallen, and made him realise he wasn’t yet dead below the waist. Probably she was the reason he had lost his concentration and his footing, though even in his worst mood, he couldn’t really blame her for that.
She’d not been dancing naked on the sand, just…
standing there looking handsome and appealing.
And here she was again. Could he not leave the bloody house without seeing her?
She was much more smartly dressed today, in a crisp grey muslin gown – he thought it was muslin or something like that – and a black velvet spencer thing and matching bonnet. He could only see a little of her face, just enough to tell that the dark colours became her admirably, damn her.
His mother had been to call on them at Albery Hall a couple of days ago, he knew, but had not, to his relief, attempted to tell him a great deal about it, or about them.
This was very much unlike her, since these days she made a habit of informing him about all manner of trivial things, in a largely futile attempt to distract him from his own situation and interest him in life again.
Perhaps she had hoped to intrigue him enough by her unaccustomed reticence on this occasion that he broke down and asked directly about their new neighbours. As yet, he hadn’t.
The lot for which he had been sent was next.
He had resolved to see if anyone else bid rather than rushing in and betraying his interest – or more accurately, his mother’s, since nobody who’d ever met him would imagine that he had the slightest interest in fancy furniture.
There was a tiny pause; old Marjoram looked about him, ready to roll out one of his damned annoying witticisms, and then the dark-haired chit in front of him put up her paddle and squeaked, ‘Half a guinea!’
‘A guinea!’ he shot back automatically. There was no need for him to brandish a number, as Marjoram knew precisely who he was.
He realised now, too late, that he hadn’t thought to ask his dear parent what her upper bidding limit was.
She had a comfortable jointure on top of her marriage portion, and his own patrimony was more than respectable, but he had no intention of bankrupting either or both of them for the sake of sofas that they didn’t need.
They already had furniture on which to repose themselves – he’d never taken particular notice of it, but they must have; they hadn’t been sitting on the floor, at any rate, before today, or on ancient wooden settles with no cushioning.
Marjoram said slyly, ‘Oho! It seems we have a battle on our hands! One guinea bid by Major Bartrum, and very ungallant of him, too, I’m sure everyone will agree, to oppose a lovely young lady and a newcomer to our town. Are you out so soon, Miss Constantine?’
‘No,’ the girl said crossly. ‘I most definitely am not out, Mr Marjoram. A guinea and a half.’ She did not swivel in her seat to glare at him, but even from several feet away, he could feel that she dearly wanted to. Her back was straight and her whole posture stiff with determination.
He sighed. ‘Two.’
‘Two and a half.’
‘Three.’
There was a subdued murmur in the room, and those faces he could see were grinning.
Marjoram looked as though he might burst a blood vessel from laughing.
This might be the most exciting thing that had happened in Debenbridge and its environs since the legendary Dutch invasion of 1667.
There was no good outcome to this ridiculous situation.
If he beat the girl down, he’d no doubt have to do it by paying too much; his mother, though victorious, would not be best pleased, and he’d likely have half the women of the area up in arms at his lack of chivalry.
But if this infuriating Miss Constantine won – which she very well might, since she was an heiress who’d just come into her power, and a forward minx besides, as he’d already seen – he’d be a laughing stock and his mother would be furious at her loss.
‘Three and a half,’ she said inevitably, indignation radiating from every inch of her.
‘Four guineas!’
Alistair swivelled so fast, he almost fell.
He hadn’t spoken, though he’d been about to; it was a woman’s voice, and a loud one.
He couldn’t see her face, because she was seated in the front row, but he could hardly miss her bonnet, which was a preposterous sugar-pink confection with a poke like a coal-scuttle, adorned with many nodding plumes.
Any number of exotic birds had met their end so that she could look this ridiculous and out of place; she’d have been overdressed for Ascot races.
This, he very much feared, was his mama’s nemesis, Betsey Bardwell.
The room was humming with delighted chatter; if there was any consolation, it was that the Constantine girl would now have someone else at whom to direct her ire.
‘Another lady’s bid!’ cried Marjoram, his rosy face shining with glee. ‘Four guineas from our own Mrs Bardwell, and I must say, ma’am, these most elegant pieces of furniture from Her Ladyship’s mansion would indeed look remarkable well in your lovely parlour. Any more bids?’
‘Tis a sitting room, I’ll have you know, Charlie Marjoram,’ she said to gales of appreciative laughter.
‘Five guineas!’ put in the girl.
‘Six!’ called Mrs Bardwell, plumes trembling in resolution.