I had not heard a word of his sermon.
Nor had I planned my week to come.
I had sat there dreaming, and watching my cousin Rachel.
I reached for my hat, and touched her arm.
“You did very well,” I whispered, “but your real ordeal is now before you.”
“Thank you,” she whispered back, “so is yours.
You have to make amends for your broken promise.”
We went out of the church into the sun, and there waiting for us was a little crowd of people, tenants, acquaintances and friends, and among them Mrs. Pascoe, the vicar’s wife, and her daughters, as well as my godfather and Louise.
One by one they came up to be presented.
We might have been at Court.
My cousin Rachel put up her veil, and I made a mental note to tease her about it when we were alone again.
As we walked down the path to the waiting carriages she said to me before the others, so that I could not remonstrate—and I could tell by the look in her eye and the bubble in her voice that she did it purposely—“Philip, would you not like to conduct Miss Kendall in your carriage, and I will go with Mr. Kendall in his?”
“Why certainly, if you prefer it,” I said.
“That seems to me a very happy arrangement,” she said, smiling at my godfather, who, bowing in his turn, offered her his arm.
They turned with one accord to the Kendall carriage, and there was nothing for it but to climb into the first one with Louise.
I felt like a schoolboy who has been slapped.
Wellington whipped up the horses and we were off.
“Look here, Louise, I’m sorry,” I began at once, “it was quite impossible to get away yesterday afternoon after all.
My cousin Rachel wished to see the Barton acres, so I accompanied her.
There was no time to let you know, or I would have sent the boy over with a note.”
“Oh, don’t apologize,” she said.
“I waited about two hours, but it did not matter.
The day was luckily fine, and I passed the time by picking a basket of late blackberries.”
“It was most unfortunate,” I said,
“I’m really very sorry.”
“I guessed something of the sort had kept you,” she said, “but I am thankful it was nothing serious.
I know how you felt about the whole visit, and I was rather fearful that you might do something violent, perhaps have some terrible disagreement, and we would suddenly find her arriving on our doorstep.
Well, what happened?
Have you really survived so far without a clash?
Tell me all.”
I tilted my hat over my eyes and folded my arms.
“All?
What do you mean by ‘all’?”
“Why, everything. What did you say to her, how did she take it.
Was she very much aghast by all you said, or did she show no sign of guilt at all?”
Her voice was low, and Wellington could not hear, but for all that I felt irritated, and altogether out of humor.
What a place and time to choose for such a conversation, and anyway, why must she catechize me at all?
“We’ve had little time for talking,” I said.
“The first evening she was tired, and went early to bed.
Yesterday was taken up by walking about the place.
The gardens in the morning, and the Barton lands in the afternoon.”
“Then you’ve had no serious discussion whatsoever?”
“It depends what you mean by serious.
All I know is that she is a very different sort of person from what I thought she would be.
You can see that for yourself, in the brief glimpse you’ve had of her.”
Louise was silent.
She did not lean back against the carriage seat as I did. She sat bolt upright, her hands in her muff.
“She’s very beautiful,” she said at last.
I took my legs down from the seat opposite and turned round to stare at her.
“Beautiful?” I said, amazed.