Mrs. Grant was not the only old friend to come to Edmund’s aid on this momentous occasion. His parishioners, viewing the noble visit as something that reflected upon the credit of the entire village, freely contributed the best their larders could afford—one family sent a brace of hare, another a fine large trout, another some early wisps of salad from their greenhouse, all to uphold the proud name of Thornton Lacey and to burnish this new and illustrious chapter in the annals of the town.
However, were it not for Baddeley’s timely arrival, Edmund suspected Mrs. Peckover might now be lying prostrate in the pantry instead of waiting on the stairs, wearing a fresh apron and cap. He could see the details of the evening to come chasing themselves across her forehead, even as he greeted his guests.
“Lady Delingpole, Lord Delingpole, you do me great honour. I trust your journey was pleasant.”
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“Not at all, Bertram. What cursed weather we are having for April, hey? Where is that charming sister of yours?”
“Julia is visiting our cousins in Bedford Square, sir. She will greatly regret not being here to welcome you both.”
“A great pity. Imogen, my dear it seems Miss Julia will not be here to keep you company tonight. She is in London.”
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“Is she indeed? I had no idea. Mr. Bertram, thank you for inviting us to break our journey here. I never saw such a charming country parsonage—very elegant, indeed!”
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“Well, therein lies a tale. My home is yours, Lady Delingpole. Baddeley and I will look after your husband and Mrs. Peckover will escort you to your room.”
“This way, oh, this way, your ladyfingers—oh no! Your ladyship!”
In due course, Baddeley took his station by the sideboard, and Edmund’s housekeeper and several other able women from the village, all at the highest pitch of excitement and anxiety, toiled in the kitchen.
Edmund escorted Lady Delingpole to her seat, and surveyed with some complacency the elegant table Baddeley had laid out for his guests. Even in the absence of a wife to direct the proceedings, he thought his household had done tolerably well, consistent with his desire to demonstrate his respect and affection for the noble couple, but without that ostentatious show which would betray an overly-servile disposition, a too-eager wish to please. This was why he had not brought his aunt from Mansfield to serve as his hostess. Aunt Norris had met the Delingpoles in London and it would not be impertinent to invite her, but she would have destroyed whatever of tranquility his home offered in her zeal to demonstrate her deference and gratitude.
Instead, the host and his guests sat down together with every evidence of satisfaction, ease and enjoyment. They were all of superior understanding and information. The youngest of them, Edmund Bertram, was in fact the most subdued in manner, and tended to formality in his address. He was tall and handsome, and in his dark blue eyes there gleamed a subtle, understated wit.
His Lordship, spare of figure and angular of feature, was clearly accustomed to having the full attention of his audience. His countenance was mobile and alert, and his address forceful and decided. Lady Delingpole’s quickness of speech and sometimes of temper tended to disguise her essentially kind-hearted nature. She was fashionably and richly attired; but anyone who made the mistake of thinking her a mere London fashion plate, was soon set to rights. She was shrewd, well-informed and as deeply engaged in the public matters of the day as was her husband.
“You must be well pleased, your ladyship, to enjoy your husband’s company away from the unceasing demands of Parliament,” Edmund offered.
Lady Delingpole almost replied “evidently, you have not been married for very long, Mr. Bertram,” but just in time she recollected, and she only smiled and nodded.
“It is in fact politics which calls us to Northamptonshire. We make for Castle Ashby in the morning,” said her husband. “Do you know it, Bertram?”
“Not I, sir. My father attended there frequently when he was the member for Northampton. He often remarked on the elegant grounds.”
“I am looking for some little home-stall in this area myself, you know, since our family seat in Wales is so remote. I want some place where, while the House is in session, I can leave public affairs behind for a few days.”
“Leave public affairs behind! Life would be an arid desert for both of us, without politics. What my husband means, Mr. Bertram, is that he is excessively fond of fox hunting. He is determined to risk his neck, even at his age.”
“Well, and here I am, and my tailor hasn’t altered the waist to my breeches for these twenty years. Still as fit and hearty as I was in my youth, and how many can say the same?”
“If you are looking for something in this county sir, would your Lordship care to examine Mansfield Park? The house is well situated on rising ground and is not more than forty years old. I can personally attest to the excellence of the supply of game in my father’s woods, and we are but five miles from the kennels at Brixtol.”
His Lordship’s eyebrows shot up. “The Pytchley hunt? So, your family home is for let, sir?”
Lady Delingpole gave her host a compassionate look, to let him know she, at least, remembered that the Bertram family’s fortunes miscarried two years ago.
But Edmund said only, “Yes, my father and mother moved
