The people of Mansfield rejoiced in the reanimation of the principal estate in the vicinity. Once more, their sons and daughters were employed as scullery maids and laundresses, gardeners, and stable boys. The butcher and the greengrocer sent hampers of beef and cheese, onion and marrow, up the hill. His lordship’s handsome hunters, walked through the village by their grooms, drew the admiration of the men, while whispers of Lady Delingpole’s extensive wardrobe—in particular, her vast collection of bonnets, turbans, and caps—aroused the interest of the females.
The Delingpoles declared themselves tolerably pleased with their new home, although there were some trifling discontents—a draughty window, and primitive water closets.
“Imogen! What am I supposed to do with these?” Lord Delingpole called out one morning from the billiard room.
“Since I am in another room, David, and do not possess the ability to see through walls, I am unable to answer your question.”
Lord Delingpole opened the door connecting the billiard room with the study, where his wife sat looking over the household accounts.
“These—what are these—the pockets of the billiard table are filled with them.”
“They appear to be curtain rings, dear.”
“What were they doing in the billiard table?”
“Now you flatter me, dear, by assuming I am in possession of information denied to lesser mortals. But, having only just moved into this dwelling, at the same time as you, I do not know why someone was hiding curtain rings in the billiard table. Perhaps Baddeley can enlighten you. How is the table otherwise?”
“Vile. Wretched. I do not know what Bertram could have been thinking.”
“A great pity, indeed, my dear. But, you know, grouse season begins shortly, and you will not care for billiards at all, soon enough.”
Lord Delingpole was not to be placated. “I intended to play a game with Bertram after dinner.”
“Oh—I should imagine Mr. Bertram will want to ride home before nightfall. I am keeping country hours on purpose for him.”
“Can he be persuaded to spend the night?”
“If he did, then I would be under the necessity of inviting his aunt to join us for dinner as well. It would only be fitting.”
“His aunt? The lady who called upon us the day we moved in and gave us her opinions concerning which servants we ought to engage and which merchants we should patronize?”
“Yes, dear. That lady. Mrs. Norris. You did meet her in London, you may recall, when she chaperoned her nieces.”
“I think we shall wave Mr. Bertram off directly after dinner, then.”
Edmund Bertram rode the long way around to Mansfield, so as to avoid passing by the parsonage-house on the outskirts of the village. He did not want to be under the necessity of stopping and exchanging greetings with Mrs. Grant, Mary’s half-sister, until he had learned if Mary had sent a reply to his letter. Even though Dr. Grant would not say anything about Mary, and Mrs. Grant could not say anything, on account of her husband, her eyes spoke for her—she lamented the tragic circumstances of the separation, she missed her sister exceedingly, and she longed for a reconciliation to take place.
It had been somewhat trying to his feelings to observe his boyhood home when it was dark, boarded up and empty; and yet, Edmund discovered, it also pained him somewhat to see the house brought to life again, with many familiar faces amongst the servants, now serving another family! A family that would not know of the memories which clung to certain rooms, certain places. The path between the estate and the parsonage, which he and Mary had walked so many times, arm in arm. Fanny’s little refuge in the East Room, where she and he would read poetry together. When he was a little boy, it was a cause of great apprehension to hear the words, “your father wishes to speak to you in his study,” but now, how good it would be to see his father at his usual place, behind his desk!
Edmund tried to dismiss his emotions as ungenerous, unreasonable. As an invited guest of the Delingpoles, he would not appear before them with a long face or a distant air, and as he strolled from the stables, he commanded himself to greet them cheerfully, to enter into their conversation and their interests, as a welcome distraction from his own cares.
And Lady Delingpole supplied him with another distraction, rather more startling than Edmund could wish for. As soon as their cordial greetings were exchanged, and enquiries as to horses, health, and weather were all given and received, she handed him a letter from his wife. She intended, in her good nature, to spare him any suspense as to whether there was such a letter in existence, but her disinterest did not extend so far as to give him leave to read it immediately. Civility dictated that Edmund give all his attention to his host and hostess, and none to the letter which he took and placed in his waistcoat pocket.
The presence of James, Viscount Lynnon, the Delingpoles’ only son, ensured that there would be no talk of Bertram family matters at the dinner table. Viscount Lynnon had recently returned from Oxford to bestow some of his summer holidays upon his parents. He had arrived at Mansfield the day before, with a large hamper full of dirty linen and two dozen books he meant to have read.
In appearance, Viscount Lynnon resembled his father, being slight of build, with a mobile and engaging countenance. He inherited his mother’s Irish loquaciousness and no small degree of her charm. His views, however, differed pointedly from theirs, and, fired with the ardour and certainty of youth, he made no pretence of hiding them.
He surveyed the fare laid on the dining table with suspicion, enquired into the freshness of the fish, refused all the meat, and finally ventured upon only vegetables with bread and
