Sylvia Andrew – An Inescapable Match (страница 9)

‘Stop! Stop!’ cried Deborah. ‘I don’t wish to hear any more of this…this soulless catalogue of my cousins’ talents. How can you possibly choose a wife by such superficial criteria?’

Hugo was offended. ‘I don’t understand you,’ he said coldly. ‘What do you propose I should do? Disappoint both families by looking elsewhere?’

‘By no means. But I do think you ought to get to know both Edwina and Frederica a great deal better before you contemplate marrying either of them. I love them both dearly, and any man who won the affection of either of them would be very lucky. But without strong and lasting affection—equally strong on both sides—marriage is a dangerous enterprise.’

‘How you exaggerate, Deborah!’

‘Hugo, I know what I am talking about, believe me!’

‘I assure you that I haven’t the slightest intention of making my marriage a dangerous enterprise. I have always maintained that two reasonable people, with similar interests and good will on both sides, can make a success of any partnership—marriage included. Romantic extravagance poses the greatest danger to such a partnership, and neither of the twins would ever indulge in that!’

Deborah shook her head, but saw it was useless to argue. She changed her ground. ‘What about Edwina and Frederica? Do you know how they would regard an offer from you?’

‘Whichever one I approached would naturally consider it very seriously.’

Deborah gave a most unladylike snort. ‘Naturally!’

Hugo wasn’t offended by this. He said in quite a matter-of-fact way, ‘You mustn’t think me a cox-comb, Deborah. My cousins are reasonably sensible girls. They must know that marriage to me would enhance their position in the world. My wife would eventually be mistress of a very handsome estate, with an assured place in society. That must be worth something. And I am not, as far as I am aware, a monster.’

He looked at her with a touch of anxiety. ‘I think they like me enough. Don’t they? Don’t they, Deborah?’

‘They are certainly fond of you, Hugo—we all are. But…enough to marry? That’s something you would have to ask the lady of your choice yourself. Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you.’ She hesitated, then said, ‘May I say something? Something you might not like?’

‘Do,’ said Hugo. ‘You don’t usually hesitate.’

‘I… I think that, if you were to ask one of my cousins to marry you, she might accept you without questioning her own feelings in the matter. They both admire you so much. And, of course, they are both aware of how much it would please the family.’

‘Is that so very wrong? Admiration is not a bad basis for a loving relationship. And in the absence of any previous attachment, what is wrong with pleasing one’s family?’

‘But what if their affections are already engaged elsewhere, however tentatively? I suspect that they would still defer to their parents’ wishes.’

‘You might give me some credit for better feelings,’ said Hugo a touch impatiently. ‘If I knew that to be the case, I should not approach them, of course. I should look for someone else.’

Deborah commented somewhat acidly that she was pleased to see that Hugo could be so philosophical. That, whatever else, his heart did not seem to be very passionately involved in this choosing of a partner for life.

‘Deborah, I think you are in danger of falling into the same trap as poor Robert Dungarran. Passionate love is a hindrance to good understanding. It leads one into all sorts of foolishness, and I will have no part of it.’

Hugo was becoming exasperated. He decided to end the discussion. Deborah Staunton’s views were just as he would have expected—all feeling and no sense, and he would not heed them. Ignoring the slight doubt she had raised in his mind, he said, ‘Now, where is that wretched dog? He seems to have disappeared!’

They had been so absorbed in their discussion that they had forgotten the dog. When they looked round they saw that they had reached the edge of the wood, and were passing one of the estate cottages. There was no sign of Autolycus in any of the fields round about, and Deborah was just about to see if he had slipped into Mrs Bember’s cottage in his perennial search for food, when pandemonium broke out inside the large chicken-house at the end of the garden. There was a crash as the side of the building collapsed and Autolycus scrambled out, closely pursued by a furious cockerel and a stream of hens. He leapt over the hedge on which Mrs Bember had spread some clothes to dry, and raced away over the field, clearly in fear of his life, with his ears flapping and a large petticoat trailing behind him like the tail of a comet.

It was such an absurdly comic sight that they both burst out laughing, but they soon stopped in dismay when old Mrs Bember came hurrying out shouting, ‘Come back! Come back here! Oh dearie me, what shall I do? Come back here, you dratted creatures!’ She stopped short when she saw Hugo. ‘Oh, whatever can I do, Mr Hugo? Some dog has broken down my hen-house and let out all the chickens. They’re such silly creatures, I’ll never get ’m back! What’ll happen to all my egg money? And my petticoat’s gone! My best one, too.’ She peered short-sightedly at Hugo’s companion. ‘Why, it’s Miss Deborah! Oh, excuse me, ma’am, I was just that upset I didn’t see you. I didn’t know you was back, y’see. But Miss Deborah, you’re here at a bad moment, I can tell you. I’m in such a pickle! That animal has chased away all the chickens. What am I to do, Miss Deborah? They’ll never come back—and I can’t go chasing about after ’m the way I used to. I’ve lost ’m! And my best flannel petticoat, too.’

Deborah went up to the old lady and led her gently back towards the cottage. ‘Mrs Bember, I’m so sorry! But you really needn’t be so worried. We’ll sort it out. Look, why don’t I make you something to drink, while Mr Hugo sees what he can do.’ As she said this, she threw an appealing glance at Hugo.

Hugo smiled at Mrs Bember. ‘Leave things to me. I’ll get some of the men to put things right for you, Mrs B. Your chickens will be in a new home by nightfall, I promise. I can’t answer for your…er…petticoat, though.’

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