Chapter Nine Back to Previous Chapter Anne was no longer going out, and Walter tried to stop by the Cottage daily, if only for a few minutes. He rarely found her alone; Lady Wentworth was often with her, as was Sophie Wentworth, and sometimes Mrs. Musgrove would sit for fifteen minutes and offer child-rearing advice which Anne received with admirable composure. However, Anne's most faithful visitor by far was Eileen Gilbride. The ladies had become fast friends and Eileen was willing to keep Anne company for a few hours nearly every afternoon. One bright day in late winter he found the two ladies companionably established with their respective needlework in the drawing-room of the Cottage. He dropped a kiss on Anne's cheek and admired her work, a tiny frock embellished with handmade lace and embroidery. "The stitchery is beautiful, love," he observed. "You exert yourself more on these clothes than you ever have on your own." Anne smiled at Eileen. "You may direct your admiration to Eileen. The embroidery is hers. My talents do not lie in that direction." Walter directed a gallant bow at Miss Gilbride. "Please accept my congratulations and admiration on behalf of my family, madam," he said to her with a grin that belied his solemn words. "You have outdone yourself on my nephew's behalf." "Or niece," said Anne serenely. Miss Gilbride smiled up at Walter. "I thank you, Mr. Musgrove. May I add that Anne should not be so quick to denigrate her skill with the needle. I observe that landscape done in silks that hangs above the sofa bears her initials." "Oh, heavens," said Anne, embarrassed. "I did that old thing years ago at school." "And I dare say you can still embroider beautifully." Eileen took the gown from Anne and held it up. "It is a pretty thing, though, is not it?" she asked wistfully. Walter regarded the gown with mingled appreciation and amusement. He had baptized enough babies to form a strong opinion on how long the exquisite little garment would retain its pristine condition once placed on an actual infant, but judged that at the present moment it might be better to keep his opinion to himself, so he simply asked after his brother. "Charles is at the stables with Michael," said Anne. It had recently come to Charles' attention that young Mr. Gilbride had never learned to ride a horse, and had convinced Sir Bernard that the activity could have only salutary effects on the boy's health, with the happy result that Michael presented himself to Charles for riding lessons on the days that he did not meet with his tutor. "I had a letter from Eliza today," Anne told Walter. He pretended to be offended. "She does not write to me." "Probably because she knows that her brothers are miserable correspondents." "Probably," he agreed cheerfully. "Does she send any news of my nephews?" "Of course! She says that little Jemmy never stops talking. His favourite word, unfortunately, is no." "He takes after his uncles," said Walter comfortably. "My mother says that Charles and I were tyrannical little beasts at that age. I do not envy Eliza, especially when George starts walking. She shall be run off her feet." "I cannot believe that you and your brother were disobedient little boys," observed Miss Gilbride as she snipped a piece of thread. "I can," said Anne tartly. "And not just when they were infants. I recall our rector, who sits there looking so very virtuous, pushing Eliza and me into a large puddle when we were very little girls and he was a much bigger boy." Walter's laughter mingled with that of the ladies. "And Charles fished you out," he reminded Anne. "Yes, he did," she said, gazing down at her sewing dreamily. "Charles has always been the best of us," said Walter without rancour. "You are catching up," replied Anne with a warm smile. Walter smiled back at her, quietly accepting the compliment. "Did Eliza say if she and James are going to town?" "Not until next month, I think. The Leighs went down a week ago, but James and Eliza want to stay with the boys as long as possible. Will you be going to town at all?" "I? No, no." Thoughts rose, unbidden and unwelcome, of his last season in London, and of Gwendolyn Clay. Walter looked away from his sister-in-law, flushing slightly. Since their encounter in Crewkerne, thoughts of Gwendolyn had often intruded on Walter's consciousness. He had to admit to himself that he was as attracted to her as he had been when they had first met, and the memories of their nights together would not be banished no matter how he tried. Anne watched him, frowning slightly, and finally turned to Miss Gilbride. "Is your family going to London for any part of the season, Eileen?" "No, my father thinks that Michael is getting on so well in the country that it might not be beneficial to expose him to city air quite so soon." "Capital!" exclaimed Walter. "Michael will be here for the match! I shall have to take him out, see if he is fit for the team." "Oh, no!" cried Anne, while Eileen chimed in curiously with, "The match?" "A football match," explained Walter. "Every year around May Day, the Uppercross men play a match against a group from Lower Barstow." "They call it a football match," said Anne darkly. "It seems to me to be nothing more than an excuse for grown men to wallow in dirt. Last year Charles came home covered from head to toe and a great deal more pleased about it than he had any right to be. He had mud caked in his hair. We had to draw two baths to get it all out. His clothes had to be thrown away; there was no help for them. Thomas should have just taken him down to the stables and dumped buckets of water over him. It would have been less work for everyone." "My dear sister neglects to add," said Walter to Miss Gilbride, "that she stood on the sidelines jumping up and down and shouting her approval in an entirely unladylike manner when Charles scored a goal and everyone piled on top of him." Anne laughed good-naturedly at his teasing, but Eileen looked grave. Walter read her thoughts and added in a low voice, "You need not worry, Miss Gilbride. If Michael is not fit, I shall not let him play." She smiled at him, her dark blue eyes warmer than the midday sunlight streaming into the drawing-room. "I thank you, sir. I appreciate your concern, and know I may trust my brother to your care." "I am at your service," Walter said softly, and then added, almost as an afterthought, "and your family's." Eileen's smile widened, and neither of them noticed Anne look up from her work and watch them with barely-concealed amusement. "You must give us men our diversions, after all," Walter said after a moment. "And I submit that football is a very innocent diversion indeed." "I have long thought that football is a fine substitute for warfare for idle gentlemen," replied Eileen archly. "Striving to dominate a disputed piece of land, trying to gain the enemy's defended territory-it is really quite warlike, do not you agree? In olden times, if the men of Uppercross had a dispute with the men of Lower Barstow, they would have ridden there with swords and pikes and either laid waste to the village or demanded ransom to go away." "We live in civilized times now," Walter reminded her with a grin. "The business in jousting tournaments seems to have fallen off, and it would be a trifle rude to lay waste to a village for no good reason, so we must make do with what is at hand." "Indeed," cried Miss Gilbride. "Now you simply kick a leather-covered pig's bladder at one another, but still may come home covered in mud, blood, and glory to fall into the devoted arms of your women." "'Devoted arms of their women' my foot," complained Anne. "The only place my husband shall fall is the bath until the mud, blood and anything else is washed away." "You know perfectly well that I am speaking in metaphors, dearest Anne," laughed Eileen. "I hope that Mr. Musgrove knows it, as well." "Mr. Musgrove is enjoying himself thoroughly," Anne said with a smile. "He likes nothing better than a battle of wits, and you, my dear, provide a formidable opponent." Eileen lifted her eyes from her needlework to glance at Walter. "Is that true, sir?" "Anne knows me too well for me to deny it," he said quietly. Before she could reply, the door opened and Charles and Michael entered the drawing-room in a burst of cold air and high spirits. "Here's company!" cried Charles. "Is that tea hot, love? Are there more of those biscuits? You have two hungry horsemen here." Anne started to rise to ring for more refreshments, but Charles stopped her and gently propelled her back into her chair. "Forgive me, Anne, I do not mean to impose. I am perfectly capable of ringing the bell." He brought forth a small bench and placed it in front of her. "Are your ankles swollen? Here, put your feet up." "Charles," said Anne in a sharper tone than normal. Her husband looked down at her, perplexed. "Just ring the bell, please," she said finally. Charles hesitated for a moment and then grinned at Anne sheepishly. "I am hovering, am not I?" "You are," she replied rather severely. Anne sometimes found her husband's anxious solicitude over her impending confinement a trifle wearying. Charles took her hand and kissed it, still grinning, and Anne's annoyance melted visibly. "Ring the bell," she reminded him, smiling, and sat back with her needlework. Mrs. Rudd soon brought in tea and biscuits, and knowing both the master's appetite and young Mr. Gilbride's, she set out cake and a plate of sandwiches as well. Miss Gilbride silently waved Anne back to her seat and poured out the tea while Michael and Charles fell on the food ravenously. Once their immediate hunger was assuaged, they went to the chessboard and continued their seemingly never-ending game. Walter accepted a slice of cake and a cup of tea and stretched his feet lazily toward the fire. He had only intended to stay for fifteen minutes, but he had been at the Cottage for nearly an hour already and felt no inclination to leave. He always enjoyed visiting with Anne and Charles, and he also enjoyed his conversations with Miss Gilbride. Anne had been correct; Walter enjoyed a battle of wits, and Eileen was never afraid to challenge him and never hid her intelligence and quick mind, a refreshing change from most of the young ladies of his acquaintance. He appreciated her intellect and sometimes found himself making a mental note of something he had heard or read to pass on to her. He never purposely sought her out; they usually met at the Cottage, or when Eileen drove Michael to the parsonage. She often came in to speak with her brother's tutor, ostensibly for a few moments, which usually stretched into a half-hour of pleasant, lively conversation while Michael contentedly rifled the library shelves. Yet had anyone suggested to Walter that his attentions to Miss Gilbride were in any way particular, he would have been surprised. Gwendolyn Clay was a great deal too entrenched in his consciousness to admit thoughts of another. As spring approached and the days grew steadily longer, Walter began to think about improvements to the parsonage. A shrubbery, he thought, would not go amiss; there was an empty meadow behind the enclosed garden that would suit admirably. He laid out a path and drafted a couple of menservants from Uppercross to dig up the turf, spread fine gravel, and plant shrubs. It would be an excellent, sheltered walk when the foliage grew sufficiently to offer shade and privacy. Walter regarded his creation with satisfaction and turned his attention to the long-neglected garden. Here he was lost, and found himself obliged to consult Mrs. Wilson. She tore herself away from her work in the kitchen garden and was soon supervising the gardeners as they weeded, pruned, and planted. Walter came out to watch them from time to time, but rarely ventured an opinion. The garden seemed to him to be cleaner and in better order, but he felt little ownership of it. They had a great deal of rain in early spring, but when the weather permitted, Walter took Michael out to the meadow in the afternoon to teach him the Uppercross brand of football. Michael had played some when he was younger and could dribble the ball quite well, but his kicks were usually off-target. They set up a makeshift goal between the shrubbery, and Michael entered into the activity with natural enthusiasm. One afternoon they stayed out longer than usual. Walter suddenly noticed the angle of the sun and called his pupil to attention. "Your sister is probably waiting for you and swearing terrible oaths on tutors," he said as he pulled on his coat. Michael made a face. "I know not why she thinks she must drive me around. Mr. Charles says I am fit to ride over by myself. Then she should never have to wait." "Probably because it has rained for a time nearly every day this month, and she wants to be sure you will not take a chill." Walter affectionately pushed the boy through the door in the high stone wall that surrounded the flower garden. Miss Gilbride stood in the garden, deep in consultation with Mrs. Wilson; she did not notice them until Michael playfully kicked the football in her direction. She stopped it expertly with one booted foot and kicked it back to him, then laughed at her brother's amazement. "I played football in my hoydenish girlhood," she reminded him. "I taught you, remember. Now go fetch your books. Father will be pining for his dinner." Michael picked up the football and ran off toward the house. Mrs. Wilson said, "You've reminded me of my duty, miss; I must check on the rector's dinner. I will take your advice about the bulbs, though, and I thank you for it." She followed in Michael's wake, though a great deal more slowly. Walter watched her limp away, his face troubled. "I should not have asked Wilson to take on so much of the work. She is not a young woman. It cannot be good for her to kneel in the dirt every day in this damp weather." "I would not tell her that," said his companion with a smile. "She thrives on working in the garden. I confess I am sympathetic." "The kitchen garden is enough of a responsibility for a woman of her years. I should hire a proper gardener." "There is time enough for that. Allow her to finish what she has started. It is shaping well! You need to fertilize those beds, though." Walter's shook his head. "Your wisdom is wasted on me, Miss Gilbride. I can tell the plants apart but as for that which makes them grow, I fully acknowledge that my information is deficient." She tilted her head and looked up at him speculatively. "Very well. I have passed on some of my wisdom, as you call it, to Mrs. Wilson." "I am sure that you will find her a most receptive audience." Michael called impatiently from the sweep, and Walter offered Miss Gilbride his arm and escorted her out to the gig. One warm, sunny morning about a week later, Walter heard a commotion outside the parsonage. He glanced through the study windows, which overlooked the sweep, and saw Miss Gilbride's gig with a wagon following behind. Michael looked on as his sister spoke to two menservants, who proceeded to unload boxes of tiny plants from the wagon. Walter went outside and confronted Eileen. "What is all this?" he asked her. "I have brought you some plants that I started in the conservatory at Kellynch," she told him, winding a thick veil around the wide brim of her hat. "I have more than we shall ever use. The sun is terribly bright today, is not it? My skin is so fair that it burns in no time." "Did Wilson ask you to bring these?" asked Walter. "No, she did not." Miss Gilbride hesitated beside the wagon for a moment. "Do not neighbours exchange plants in Somerset?" "I suppose so," said Walter doubtfully. "I would know nothing of it." "Well, I am sorry if I have done something wrong," said Eileen with a smile that showed no remorse, and went into the garden. Walter watched her, frowning, then followed his pupil into the library. After a few hours of study, Michael was restive, staring out the window at the sun-drenched landscape. Walter told him to take the football out to the meadow and went out to the garden. Eileen was there, a borrowed wrapper tied around her elegant driving costume, kneeling by a flower-bed and gently transferring young plants from the small pots to their new homes. The cook looked up as Walter approached. "Mr. Musgrove, sir, was it not kind of Miss Gilbride to bring us these plants? I knew it was too late to put out seeds and thought we should have to make do with what we had." Eileen sat back on her heels and regarded her work with satisfaction. "I am afraid some of these will not bloom until the autumn, but with what is already here, you should have something blooming at all times till the first frost." "This is very kind of you, Miss Gilbride," said Walter, offering her his hand to help her rise. "However, I must insist that you let me call some of the men over from the Great House to do the planting." "But I enjoy this! There is nothing more satisfying than the smell of newly-turned earth in the spring, drenched by the rain and warmed by the sun." She breathed deeply, her head tilted back, then gave a sigh of pure enjoyment. Walter turned to the cook and asked, "Wilson, can you find some fruit or cold meat or something for young Michael? I dare say he will be complaining about his empty stomach soon enough." The older woman limped back into the house and Walter turned back to Eileen. He hesitated, trying to frame the words in a way that would not offend her. "Miss Gilbride, please do not think that I am ungrateful. It is all very well to send over your extra plants, but I confess that I fear what people will say when word gets about that you are working in my garden. And I assure you that word will get about." Eileen had removed the wrapper and undraped the veil from about her hat as he spoke, and her usually fair cheeks were becomingly pink; whether from the warmth of the sun or from something else, he could not tell. "I understand. I did not think about such things. I shall trouble you no more." She turned away and began to walk toward the sweep. Walter ran after her and touched her arm. She stopped but did not turn around. "I am sorry," he said softly. "I did not express myself well. Thank you, again and again, for your generosity. I hope you and your family will visit the garden in June when the roses are blooming. It will be beautiful, and that is due in great part to your advice and help." She gazed up at him for a moment thoughtfully, her eyes seemingly a deeper blue than normal; finally she gave him a faint smile. "You are welcome. I know you are trying to protect me from unkind gossip, and I thank you for it. My behaviour today was born of my concern about Mrs. Wilson, which I know you share, so I stepped in as best I knew how. I meant no harm." "I know that," Walter assured her. She shook his hand with her usual cordiality and left him alone in the garden. "Did you give Mr. Michael and the rector their nuncheon, then, Mrs. Brumby?" The cook sat down with a heavy, satisfied sigh and inspected her teacup. "This scullery-maid is a great deal better than the last one, ma'am. I was tired of finding spots on my cups." "Aye, that she is. A good, hard-working girl, but too pretty. We shall never keep her. One of the young bucks from the Great House will take her away and marry her and I'll have to start all over again with a new girl." The housekeeper poured a cup of tea and took her own seat. "There was not a scrap of food left of the nuncheon, ma'am. It does my heart good to see an appetite like young Mr. Michael's." "It does indeed, Mrs. Brumby." Mrs. Wilson helped herself to a piece of shortcake. "He's a good lad, that one, a well-mannered young man, even if he does read too much." "He does read a great deal, ma'am. More than the rector, more than Mr. Charles, even. He'll strain his eyes before he's finished, depend upon it. This shortcake is delicious, Mrs. Wilson." "I thank you, ma'am. This is a particularly good batch, if I may say so myself." "You may, ma'am." Mrs. Wilson had no trouble picking up the various threads of their conversation. "The rector does his best to get Mr. Michael outside in the fresh air. That's what the boy needs, fresh air and exercise. He's to play in the football match, you know." "Is he now? I wonder if his sister will like that." "Miss Gilbride is a young lady of good sense, Mrs. Brumby, and kind to her brother, and she knows the rector would never lead him to harm." "I will depend upon your information, ma'am, not being acquainted with the young lady." The housekeeper sipped her tea thoughtfully. "Do you think she's set her cap at the rector?" "I think not. Miss Gilbride's not like the silly young things around here, throwing themselves at the rector's head." "I am glad to hear that, ma'am. I confess that I was afraid that Miss Gilbride might be putting herself forward as she is spending so much time at the parsonage." The cook shook her head firmly. "No, Mrs. Brumby, the young lady was being neighbourly, giving the rector some plants she had started. I am persuaded she meant no offense." She leaned closer to the housekeeper and said in a confidential tone, "You know Miss Gilbride has no mother, the poor thing. You can't blame her if she doesn't always know the right way to go on." "I suppose not, Mrs. Wilson. I have observed, though, that the more retiring young ladies sometimes get more attention from the gentlemen than the bold, forward articles. Perhaps the rector will begin to like Miss Gilbride all the more for it." "I must say, ma'am, that if he did it would not be such a bad thing." Mrs. Brumby was much struck by this. "Indeed, Mrs. Wilson? You think Miss Gilbride would be a good wife for the rector?" "I do, ma'am. She is a modest young woman who knows her place, and I hear in the village has a bit of money of her own." "But her father is a tradesman, Mrs. Wilson! The rector's grandfather was a baronet! You know Mrs. Musgrove can be terrible proud sometimes." "Tradesman's daughter or no, I would place Miss Gilbride ahead of some of the ninnyhammers hereabouts. That Clay creature, for one." "Oh, yes, Mrs. Wilson, we are of one mind there. Though I feel I must point out that Miss Clay has been living very retired since she moved into Kellynch Lodge, and has a respectable widowed lady living with her, just as she should." She took another piece of shortbread and added, "And I think the rector likes her." "Does he, now!" "Aye. She's certainly a beautiful young lady, and they say in the village that the rector always stops to speak with her when they meet, the pair of them smelling of April and May." "The rector could never marry her, though," said Mrs. Wilson. "She lived under the protection of a lord for a while, I hear. The rector wouldn't consider making such a disrespectable connection, no matter how beautiful the lady." "He's just a man," said the housekeeper ominously. "Aye, that he is," sighed the cook. "I'll take another cup of tea, Mrs. Brumby, if it's not too much trouble." Continued in Next Chapter ~ Table of Contents By A Lady Comment on this story Home ~ Site Map ~ Contact Original Images and Content Copyright © 2002 by Margaret C. Sullivan. All Rights Reserved.