Page 34 of Mrs Darcy’s Dilemma

“I am glad that you are not absurdly prudish, for a young lady,” Jeremy said.

“After all, these are modern times, and Bettina is a good-humoured enough girl, and I’d have married her myself if she were not an actress, and if my father were not so opposed, and if she had any money.

But I have seen her again, and there is no use of talking to me of indelicacy, for you cannot miss her if you are in London.

She is always in something or other at the Covent Garden, you know—not a theatre with the very best reputation, the audience are ruffians, and they say a lady in a decent gown will have it spoilt if she goes into a box there—but that may be merely lies, put about in the newspapers by the other theatres.

Nothing is more likely. Well, Bettina plays there, now, not only in mere pantomime but in farce and melodrama, too: I saw her myself: she was a village girl and sang a song in ‘William Tell,’ not badly at all, upon my word.

She must be quite well paid, need not be at any fellow’s mercy if she does not like it. ”

Cloe looked down. “Well, and what is the message?”

“Only that she is happy and hopes you will come to see her on the stage if ever you come to town. Her lodgings are in Drury Lane, and it would be no harm to your reputation to visit her there; or she would be pleased to have a letter from you at any time. She has heard from your father and mother and even sent them some money. There. Was that so very bad?”

“I am glad to hear that she is well,” said Cloe resolutely, “but I am sorry she has not yet come to a sense of the wrongness of her own conduct. I will—I will send her a kind note. Now, let us return to the house and join the others.”

They turned, and without further conversation they walked back past a field of purple fox-gloves, and they passed into the walled garden, full of roses in bloom, where Dr. Clarke was most happily occupied. He hailed the young people with animation.

“How d’ye, Miss Cloe; how d’ye, Mr. Jeremy?

Have you ever seen such roses as these?—I should not boast, but they are approaching perfection, especially these white ones, a new strain, which I shall call ‘Queen Victoria,’ to be sure.

And did you notice the borders along the walk—Hayes has not done badly with them, under my direction, I think—wild-flowers, campion, lavender, celandine.

I prefer a wild border to dry formalities —something more of wildness—do not you agree with me, my dear? ”

“Oh, yes, Uncle Clarke,” said Cloe, trying to bring her attention to what he was saying, “the roses—may I take a few back to poor Fitzwilliam? I think he would like it.”

“Well—I do not like to disappoint—by all means, you may—but if you can wait, I would advise it. Three days, Miss Cloe, only three more days, and they will be perfection: then, perhaps you will take a selection. And I have some that I am cultivating specially for his mother, too, as a great surprise. The Elizabeth rose, which—but I must betray no secrets.”

“That will be lovely,” agreed Cloe, absently.

“There is nothing like a rose, is there?” he said, growing confidential. “It was a rose first taught me to love my Maker, more than forty years ago, and I always shall, until gathered in by the great Gardener.” He bowed his head respectfully.

“Very fine flowers, Uncle,” said Jeremy, with a nod, and they moved on. As they drew near the house, Jeremy spoke again. “Nice old fellow … By the by, where is my cousin Henry? I thought you would have married him by now, Cloe; that is what.”

“How can you say such things, Jeremy?” she said, with a reproachful look.

“Well, I am sure he was sweet on you; can’t blame him; you’re quite as pretty as Bettina.

She is well enough for an actress, but you are of a fresher—modester—sort that I should think would suit him capitally.

I don’t doubt but you’d make quite a sensation yourself in London, and I can’t think what Henry is about.

I am sorry if I have said the wrong thing,” he said hastily, catching sight of her face, “bless me, but that is the way I always do.”

They had gained the house, and Cloe lost no time in running upstairs. Lord Frederick, coming down from Fitzwilliam’s chamber, felt rather than saw her fly past, her face averted, and his Lordship stepped forward and waylaid Jeremy.

“What on Earth have you been saying to the girl, old chap?”

“Only about Henry,” said Jeremy, abashed.

“Look here,” suggested Lord Frederick, after a moment’s reflection, “perhaps we ought to do some fishing, this afternoon, and get ourselves out of the way, what do you say?”

Jane repeated what she knew of the conversation to her mother, with indignation, and Elizabeth was quite as outraged as her daughter, though from a mother’s perspective.

“It can’t be proper for Jeremy to talk to Cloe about her sister in London, now, can it, Mama?—considering what Bettina is. I don’t know how he can be so thoughtless.”

“The shame of Jeremy’s behaviour, for his mother—so good and as sweet as she is. I am sorry he has learnt nothing from his late experiences—certainly not discretion,” she said.

“He needs a sensible wife,” said Jane, in a matronly fashion that was amusing to behold, given her youthful face. “But I would not wish such a fate for any nice girl. I know he is my cousin, but I think he is quite despicable.”

“He needs to be chained up for a few years, that is all,” said Elizabeth with a sigh. “He is such a very silly young man; but then, he is only one and twenty. Perhaps, when Henry comes, he can do him some good. Being with Henry would be the very best thing for Jeremy.”

“I hope when Henry comes,” said Jane vehemently, “Jeremy will be long gone.”