An Eligible Connection

MacKeever

CHAPTER ONE

The hour was early, bright and cool. Mist rose from the stream by which were pitched a few shabby tents, some gaudy caravans. From behind the wagons came the low voices of men tending their livestock. In the air was the smell of wood smoke and frying bacon, the clank of cooking pots.

Within one of those caravans was imprisoned a young girl. No tinker, this damsel, with her flaming red hair and freckles, her snub nose and large brown eyes and mouth that was a bit too wide; and no beauty, either, for all that her determined repulsion of a certain suitor’s delicate attentions—a repulsion accomplished by the application of a frying pan—had led to her current incarceration. Ruefully, Delilah tossed aside the sliver of mirror in which she had been contemplating her unprepossessing features. Clearly it was not her personal beauty that had inspired such ardor in Johann.

She rose from her narrow bunk to pace the floor, an exercise made all the more difficult by the presence of a huge and hideously multicolored hound, known affectionately to his mistress as Caliban, and referred to by the tinkers in various unflattering terms, the kindest among which was ugly enough to sour good milk. Caliban opened one eye to observe Delilah’s progress. Halfheartedly, he wagged his tail.

No more than herself, Delilah thought, did Caliban like this enforced inactivity. It was her fault for not dealing more tactfully with Johann. Delilah could not regret the act. The skillet, as it had connected with Johann’s skull, had made a most satisfying thunking sound. It would have done him no great damage; Johann had a very thick skull. In more charitable moments, Delilah was accustomed to thinking him a perfect blockhead.

Delilah was not feeling especially charitable just then. She amused herself by compiling a list of epithets to which Johann might justifiably lay claim: sneaksby, basket-scrambler, hedge-bird.  Here her inventiveness failed her; in lieu of further derogations she uttered a few good round oaths. Caliban, accustomed to such bursts of vulgarity on the part of his gently bred mistress, engaged in a huge yawn.

Delilah leaned against a battered chest of drawers and stared out the small window. She could have squeezed through it, she supposed—though generously fashioned, Delilah was both agile and petite—but it was hardly worth the effort. Johann or one of his cronies would catch her before she advanced three feet.

The morning promised to be a pleasant one; how she wished she might scamper about in the cool grass, feel the sun-warmed earth beneath her bare feet. Delilah glanced down at those appendages, which were distinctly begrimed. There was little enough in her appearance to suggest a young lady of gentle birth now. Delilah didn’t in the least mind her loss of dignity; she was as little inclined toward decorum as she was toward tact. She minded very much, however, the curtailment of her freedom. Only that freedom had made this nomad existence bearable.

She moved closer to the window, pressed her little nose against the pane. Athalia would be coming soon with her breakfast. Perhaps Athalia might be persuaded to render a small favor in return for the only thing of value Delilah still possessed: her mother’s wedding ring. Delilah hated to part with that item, not from sentiment—another attribute that Delilah did not claim, as had not her mother, at least in regard to that piece of jewelry—but because without it she would truly be destitute. Yet even more she would hate to marry Johann.

It was not that Johann was displeasing or deformed; among the tinkers he was considered a very handsome man. Certainly he had done his utmost to ingratiate himself. But Delilah, if she had to marry, and she imagined that eventually she must, had a notion of choosing as her bridegroom a fine, straight, handsome, noble young fellow, not a swarthy and middle-aged tinker with delusions of grandeur due to the noble blood that allegedly flowed in his veins, his mother having lifted her skirts for—among others—a fine tipsy gentleman.  A man moreover who had already buried two wives, and who would expect to be waited upon slavishly. Delilah had no intention of wedding herself to a lifetime of drudgery.

But how to avoid it? Athalia was her only hope, the only person to show her any kindness in all of Johann’s entourage, and even Athalia did so with an eye to the main chance. The tinkers thought of Delilah as their golden goose. It would be through no efforts of Delilah’s if, eventually, she served as such.

The windowpane was cold, and her nose had grown numb. With a last longing glance outdoors, Delilah moved away. It was Sunday, and the village church would be filled. Easy to envision the local gentry in their leather-lined pews, the peasants in the aisles, the white-gowned girls on either side of the chancel, the rector intoning the liturgy. Perhaps the rector would offer a few pertinent remarks upon Christian charity—while his congregation pondered in a most uncharitable manner upon chickens snatched away from their coops, and newly purchased horses that were transformed overnight from prancing beauties into broken-winded nags. The most wonderful among Johann’s many talents was a dazzling sleight of hand. Though they would never know it, Delilah agreed wholeheartedly with the villagers that it would be a very good thing for all of England if Johann were hanged.

Delilah was not a girl to nurse grievance long; resentment served no practical purpose. She dropped cross-legged onto the floor beside Caliban and drew the hound’s huge head into her lap. Caliban, tongue lolling, gazed up at his mistress with an adoring expression. Delilah gently pulled his ears.

In this position Athalia found them when she entered with the breakfast tray. Cautiously, she eyed the hound; Caliban, who was considerably larger than his mistress, had been know in the exuberance of his greeting to knock unwary recipients off their feet. The hound showed no inclination to stir. Athalia set down her tray.

Delilah contemplated this gift of providence, decided that Athalia was in an approachable mood. Sometimes it was difficult to determine the woman’s state of mind; Athalia’s dark face—a darkness not only due to the pigmentation of her skin, but also to her strong aversion to water and soap— evidenced as much emotion as a stone. Once she might have been beautiful, but now her face was growing weathered, and her untidy dark hair showed the first threads of gray. Can you stay a minute? asked Delilah. I’ve grown very weary of my own company.

Athalia glanced behind her, then closed the door and crossed her arms beneath a bosom that still remained magnificent. "‘He who feeds the pig also holds the knife over it when it is fattened.’ What were you thinking, leicheen? Johann is in a rage."

The devil, retorted Delilah, around a slice of bacon that she was sharing with Caliban, "fly away with Johann! Athalia, I have been thinking. There is only one thing I can do."

Aye. Athalia looked sublimely unconcerned. Marry him.

Delilah was a very astute young lady despite her tender years, which numbered a mere seventeen; and therefore was aware that Athalia’s sentiments regarding Johann were extremely warm. Since it would hardly have been politic to comment that she would liefer ally herself with Lucifer himself than with the tinker, Delilah refrained. I cannot. You will see why. I have decided, Athalia, that I must confide in you.

Athalia, leaning against the wall, did not look especially gratified. I won’t go against Johann, for all your fine words. Don’t be thinking to make me out a flat.

Athalia! Delilah, who intended precisely that, opened wide her eyes in what she devoutly hoped was an expression of wounded innocence. As if I would try and make a, er, flat of someone who has so steadfastly stood my friend. You know that Johann does not truly care for me; he merely wishes to gain a fortune. But I have deceived you all! I have no fortune. It was all a sham.

There was an expression, now, on Athalia’s hard features, and the expression was bewilderment. She plopped down on the bunk.

Encouraged, Delilah sniffled. The worst of it is that I have made trouble for you, for it was you who convinced Johann to take me in. Truly, I am sorry for it, Athalia! I know how angry Johann will be to discover he’s been duped. Pray, do not think too badly of me—I was desperate, you see, with my mistress dying, and without a ha’penny to my name. If you had not happened along, I should probably have had to go upon the streets!                           

Nor did this speech fail in its intent: Athalia looked, and was, dismayed. "Your mistress?" she echoed. You said ‘twas your mother that we buried.

I could hardly tell the truth! Indeed, Delilah had learned during the past few years to tell a very convincing lie. Perhaps if I start at the beginning you may understand. I was in service to the lady whom you came upon in such grievous difficulties—a sort of companion, you see. Indeed, I was at my wit’s end, what with the accident, and no money with which to pay the doctor, and there was no one to whom I could apply. And then the tinkers came, and she expired, and I was in a terrible dilemma because everyone was applying to me for the money that was owed. And so, Delilah blushed bright pink, I did a terrible thing. I lied.

Athalia hugged herself, as if fending off imaginary blows. Were this tale true, those blows would become all too real, once Johann heard of it. Johann might treat this red-haired miss if as she was made of some precious metal, but others weren’t similarly privileged. You said you were heiress to a fortune. You said Johann would be repaid his money, and much more beside.

So I did. Delilah raised huge tearful eyes— accomplished by staring unblinking upon Caliban’s marbled back for several moments—to Athalia’s stricken face. Lies, all of it. I feared no one would help me if they thought me truly penniless. She wiped her face against her sleeve. Alas, I am no more than a rank adventuress. I must tell Johann, naturally, but first I had to acquaint you with the truth. Oh, Athalia, you look so angry! I cannot blame you for being angry, for I have behaved abominably—but I beg you will forgive me.

Looking much more inclined toward murder than absolution, Athalia rose from the bunk and in her own turn paced the floor. Caliban opened an eye and snapped lazily at her heels. Johann mustn’t find out. He’d have my head on a platter, and there’s no telling what he’d do to you.

Even the intrepid Delilah did not care to ponder that, the weakest spot in her schemes. "Athalia, how can we keep it from him? she wailed piteously. He is bound to learn the truth. How much simpler it would be if I could disappear!"

Athalia’s thoughts had followed similar lines, to wit, that she wished she’d never seen hair nor hide of this troublesome chit;  consequently, Delilah’s comment stopped her in mid-stride. Where would you go? she inquired. What would you do? A young lass like yourself going off, alone—it won’t do.

This brusque kindness, from so unlikely a source, almost proved Delilah’s downfall. Ruthlessly, she squelched her conscience. Athalia might show a passing concern for her welfare, but Athalia would also sell her own grandmother to a brothel-keeper for a handful of coin.

There is someone I could go to, Delilah said demurely. If only I could get him word.

Him? Athalia regarded the girl, whose cheeks were flushed. "So, leicheen, you have a gentleman friend."

Delilah grew even pinker, an embarrassment prompted not by maidenly modesty, but by the tremendous crammers that issued through her own lips. "I do—or I would, could I but let him know that I’ve turned agreeable. She fished a letter from the pocket of her shabby skirt. I’ve written to tell him so, but there is no way to post this—you know how closely I am watched. If only he knew of my predicament, he would come straightaway to my rescue. But how am I to tell him? All this has put me in the pathetics! Athalia, can you help me?"

Athalia wished nothing more than to wash her hands of a golden goose that could lay her no more than breakfast eggs. Well—

Oh, please! Delilah did not despair, despite the uphill nature of her work. You are my last hope! If I do not contrive to remove myself from here, Johann will find me out. He may even think you have known the truth all along, and have pulled the wool over his eyes! He would not like that, I think. That Athalia agreed was obvious. I will just add a postscript to this letter, and arrange that my friend meet me somewhere. The inn, perhaps? And then I will escape—and you, knowing what time I am to leave, will provide yourself an alibi. That way I will simply disappear, and Johann will never know you had anything to do with it. What do you think?

What Athalia thought was that she would shortly be fretting her guts to fiddlestrings, and so she remarked. Johann would no longer sit idly twiddling his thumbs while this grand plan was put into effect that a pig could take wing and fly. And furthermore, she added, he’d be bound to think I was in it up to my neck if you suddenly  disappeared.

Not, Delilah repeated patiently, as she simultaneously mourned the chickenhearted tendencies of her fellow conspirator and polished off the remainder of her breakfast, which had grown cold, if you are with him when I do so. Moreover, I shall throw him off the track by pretending to be smitten with him. Perhaps he’ll think I’ve been abducted. Still Athalia looked doubtful. Delilah drew a deep breath. I realize I ask you to take a risk. You will be repaid.

This promise did not sit well with Athalia, who pointed out irately that Delilah’s previous promises of repayment had brought this predicament about. Delilah merely smiled and delved into the bodice of her gown. Suspiciously, Athalia regarded her outstretched hand.

Take it, said Delilah. If you help me, it’s yours.

Greedily, Athalia contemplated the wedding ring. She was fond of such baubles, as witnessed by her countless necklaces and bracelets, most of which had turned the skin beneath them green. Had not Delilah been such an innocent, Athalia would have had the ring from her without further ado, but it was not Athalia’s way to take advantage of damp-eared infants. This was a failing that she frequently had cause to regret, as in the present instance. Were Johann to learn of this conspiracy— avarice warred with prudence, and won.

I’ll just add a couple lines to this letter, Delilah remarked cheerfully. As she did so, Athalia bit the ring. It passed muster, and she slipped it on her finger. Delilah dropped the letter into her hand. Speed is of the essence, she said solemnly. And secrecy.

Her decision made, Athalia tucked the letter in her bodice. Never fret. I’ll see this on its way.

I shall be eternally grateful, Delilah replied humbly. This meekness deserted her immediately Athalia had gone. Quickly, she moved to the window. Athalia set out not toward Johann’s wagon, as Delilah had half-feared, but across the field. So far, so good. It remained now to await Sir Nicholas Mannering’s response to a dramatic epistle from a daughter he had not seen in five years.

CHAPTER TWO

Athalia was, after her own fashion, a woman of her word: as pledged, she posted Delilah’s letter—after doubling back to her own wagon and initiating a great search, the fruits of which were a scrap of paper and a charcoal stub. Athalia could not read, but she could trace letters as well as anyone. A queer coincidence, surely, that the characters on Delilah’s letter were also engraved in the golden wedding ring? Her task accomplished after monumental labor, Athalia once more set out across the field. ‘It is easier to milk a cow that stands still.’  Athalia was very curious about what sort of trickery was being set in train. 

As were certain other individuals, almost a week later, although those other individuals lacked Athalia’s appreciation of Delilah’s enterprise. It was the dinner hour in the elegant Brighton residence of the Duke of Knowles, an hour anticipated with no great pleasure by any member of the duke’s family, all of whom were present in the pretty dining room, which had been done in the Classical manner with fine stucco decorations.

Said family, which was currently grouped around a brilliantly polished mahogany table that stood upon pillars and claws with brass casters, numbered three. Seated at the duke’s left hand was his cousin Edwina Childe. A woman in her fifth decade, Edwina’s manner suggested a girl half that age. Her hair was an improbable shade of yellow, her eyes a trifle too close-set, her features and figure gaunt from constant dieting. On this particular occasion, which would go down in the annals of family history as even more-than-usually memorable, she wore a lovely and totally unsuitable gown of sea-green.

In direct contrast to Edwina’s beribboned and beruffled finery was the attire of the lady seated to the duke’s right. Her evening gown was of pale yellow muslin, its only claim to high fashion its Mameluke sleeves. Nor did the gown’s owner aspire to modality, though she possessed stunning amber eyes and an abundance of lovely chestnut-colored hair.

The hair was currently drawn back into a severely unflattering style; and the golden eyes expressionless. Even so, there were those who appreciated Sibyl Baskerville’s understated beauty and quietly ironic demeanor. Her cousin the duke, who was not among that number, had often taken leave to wonder, aloud, why she should have left so many hopeful suitors languishing on the vine while she pursued a determination to remain unwed. Spinsters who had achieved the advanced age of twenty-seven, he stated, could not afford to be so very particular in their preferences—unless they did not mind the embarrassment of being firmly on the shelf. To these taunts, Binnie always responded with her habitual goodwill: preferable to marriage with a man whom she could not love was leading apes in hell—or, which was much the same, an existence in which she served as the duke’s unacknowledged housekeeper. As usual in such confrontations, the duke was left with no adequate response, a fact that did not in any way prevent him from continuing to vent his spleen.

Seated next to Binnie, contemplating a sideboard table rather as if it were his own coffin complete with lions’ heads carved in the mahogany, was her brother Neal. A young man of twenty-two, clad in the dashing evening regimentals of the Tenth Dragoons, Neal resembled his sister to a startling degree; but where Binnie was so self-effacing as to appear almost colorless, Neal was astonishingly handsome. His chestnut hair was not cropped so short that it failed to curl, his amber eyes were most often merry and warm and sincere.

Those eyes held no such expression now, as they gazed upon the duke, nor did the eyes of Binnie or Edwina. All three members of the duke’s retinue stared at him blankly. As usual, Binnie was the first to speak. Good gracious, Sandor! she murmured serenely. Bits o’ muslin, high flights— have you been into the port?

The duke turned his cold blue attention on Binnie, without appreciation of the temerity that had prompted her to speech. Blandly, she met his regard. The duke repressed an impulse to swear, not from consideration for the delicate sensibilities of the females present at his dinner table, for the duke was not in the habit of considering anyone but himself, but because he knew it was futile to try and get a rise out of Binnie. For the fact that she neither fawned on him nor exhibited awe in his extremely overbearing presence, as did the majority of the females of his acquaintance, including those privileged to be taken under his protection, he accorded Binnie no plaudits. Indeed, he was accustomed to referring to her, among his cronies, as Miss Prunes and Prisms. The satisfaction accompanying this admittedly childish and churlish behavior was greatly lessened by the conviction that she spoke even worse of him.

Mannering’s girl. He waved a singularly dirty piece of paper under Binnie’s Grecian nose. The missing heiress has come to light. In a tinkers’ camp, no less. So dire are her straits that she’s written to her father, begging for rescue—and in the process, I might add, scribbling a great deal of fustian.

And since Mannering is dead, and you are his executor, the letter came at length to you? Binnie contemplated the dinner table, strewn with the remains of an excellent meal, among which had been stewed pippins, scalloped oysters, crayfish in jelly, lobster in fricassee sauce, stewed mushrooms, and a solid syllabub in a glass dish. You will have to do something about the girl, for to ignore her plight would be shockingly remiss. Dear me, how very tiresome! A man of rank and fashion should hardly be expected to trouble himself over a schoolroom miss. When would you have time?

Though these remarks were delivered in the most sympathetic of manners, the duke was not deceived. Nor were the others, who were—to their sorrow—well acquainted with this long-standing enmity. A letter! said Edwina hastily, before the duke could utter a withering rake-down, and thusly spoil her appreciation of her apricot tart, an indulgence for which she would atone by going without both her breakfast and her nuncheon on the following day. "Miraculous, is it not, how bad news always seems to catch up with one, while good news so often goes astray? And in a tinkers’ camp, you say? God bless my soul! I cannot help but think, dear cousin Sandor, that this is shockingly irregular conduct. Well-brought-up young ladies simply do not do such things!"

Nor do they employ vulgar expressions, remarked Binnie, who had tweaked the letter from Sandor’s fingers and was perusing it with vast appreciation. Mistress Delilah, it would appear, has little patience with ladylike things. Neal, you will enjoy reading this—do be careful with it; heaven only knows where it’s been! In the coal-scuttle, from the looks of it. Sandor, do you think this girl may be an impostor, out to claim Mannering’s wealth? Apropos of that, I wonder if she knows he left his entire fortune to her. She could hardly expect such generosity, after she ran away.

Run away? echoed Edwina, as she took a second helping of the apricot tart. Mercy! Dear Sandor, you cannot mean to take up such a rag-mannered girl.

Until that very moment, His Grace had contemplated no such thing. It was not his habit to cater to the sentiments of his dependents, if anything the contrary; and the contretemps that would result from the introduction of a hoydenish madcap—as Miss Delilah Mannering most obviously was— into his household was a notion that afforded him marked satisfaction. The duke’s sense of humor was practically nonexistent; he was dissolute and stern and selfish; he admitted scant fondness for anyone or anything,