She was obliged to acknowledge the good sense of this advice. “But for the rest—! How shall I do? Can I support myself on so little, Ivo?”

“You might do so on much less, but from what I know of you you would not. But what is all this talk of supporting yourself? You don’t mean to set up your establishment, do you? That your father never intended!”

“No, I don’t—but if I did you could not prevent me! At least I don’t have to win your odious consent for anything but marriage!”

“You don’t, but if you indulged in any such folly your debts would very soon teach you the unwisdom of flouting my advice,” he retorted.

Her bosom swelled, but she said nothing.

“Well, what do you mean to do?” he asked.

“I shall remain with Lady Spenborough,” she answered coldly. She discovered that he was frowning, and raised her brows. “Pray, have you any objection?”

“No. No, I’ve no objection. You won’t feel yourself straitened, at all events, while you live under her roof, and she has been so handsomely provided for that she may well support you. But-here?”

“At the Dower House. I perceive that that displeases you! You must be ingenious indeed if you can hit upon a plausible reason to account for your disapproval!”

“I am not displeased, I don’t disapprove, and if you show hackle again without cause, you may expect to have your ears boxed as they never have been yet—more’s the pity!” he said savagely. “Live where you choose! It’s all one to me. Have you anything more to say?”

“No, I have not, and I should be very happy to think I need never say another word to you for as long as I live—and of all things in the world there is nothing—nothing!—so abominable, and contemptible, and cowardly, and ungentlemanly as persons who walk out of the room when one is addressing them!”

He had opened the door, but at that he burst out laughing, and shut it again. “Very well! But I warn you I shall give as good as I get!”

“You need not tell me that! If you don’t disapprove, why did you scowl so?”

“My habitual expression, possibly. It was unintentional, I assure you. The thought in my mind was merely that it would be better for you to remove from this vicinity. To be situated at the Dower House cannot be anything but painful to you, Serena, believe me!”

She said impulsively: “Oh, I beg your pardon! But how could I guess you meant nothing but kindness?”

“A home-thrust!” he interjected.

“No, no! I didn’t mean it so! Only, in general—but never mind that! I know it must be painful to remain here, but I think that is the kind of sensibility I ought to overcome. And, you know, Ivo, my cousin is not quite up to the trick!”

“So I should imagine.”

“He is a very good sort of a man in his way, and he wishes to do just as he ought, but although he has always been the heir-at-law he was not bred to succeed Papa, and I fancy he never expected that it would come to that, so what with that, and Papa’s not liking him above half, he has never been put in the way of things here, and the truth is that he’s not fit to go!”

“What is that to the purpose?”

“Why, don’t you see? I shall be able to help him in a thousand ways, and to school him a little, and to see that all goes on as it should!”

“Good God! Serena, take my word for it, you would be very ill-advised to undertake anything of the sort!”

“No, you mistake, Ivo! It was my cousin’s own suggestion! He told me that he hoped I would remain at Milverley, and put him in the way of things. Of course I would never do that, but I was a good deal touched, and I don’t doubt I can be just as useful to him if I live with Fanny, at the Dower House.”

“Nor do I!” he said, with the flash of a wry grin. “If your cousin wants information, let him seek it of your father’s agent!”

“I daresay he will, but although Mr Morley is an excellent person, he was not bred here, as I was! It is not a part of him! Oh—! I express myself so clumsily, but you must surely know what I mean!”

“I do!” he said. “It is precisely what I meant when I counselled you to remove from this neighbourhood!”

3

It had been the wish of both Fanny and Serena to have removed themselves from the great house as soon possible after the funeral; but in the event several weeks elapsed before they at last found themselves installed at the Dower House. This house, which stood on the fringe of the park, and at no great distance from the little town of Quenbury, was a pretty, old-fashioned building, which had been inhabited until some fifteen months earlier by Serena’s elder, widowed aunt. Upon the death of this lady, it had been lived in by an old servant only, the various schemes for its occupation by this or that distant relative having all of them, from one cause or another, fallen through. It was discovered that some repairs and renovations were needed to make it properly habitable. Serena ordered these to be set in hand immediately, forgetting her altered status at Milverley. Her cousin found her in conference with the estate carpenter in the dismantled drawing-room at the Dower House, and when they rode back to Milverley together startled her by saying: “I am glad you have given your orders to Staines. If I had not been so much occupied yesterday, I should have desired him to come up to see you, and to do whatever you may require of him.”

She felt as though she had received a slap in the face, and gasped, “I beg your pardon!”

He assured her very kindly that there was not the least need of apology, but she was deeply mortified, knowing herself to have erred in a way that was most likely to cause resentment. She tried to make further amends; he said that he perfectly understood; reiterated his wish that she would always look upon Milverley as her home; and left her with a strong desire to hasten the preparations for her departure.

But even had the Dower House been ready for instant occupation, it would scarcely have been possible for her to have left Milverley. The task of assembling all her own and Fanny’s personal belongings proved to be a far more difficult and protracted one than she had anticipated. A thousand unforeseen difficulties arose; and she was constantly being applied to by her cousin for information and advice. She could not but pity him. He was a shy, unassuming man, more painstaking than able, who plainly found the unexpected change in his circumstances overwhelming. That he might succeed his cousin he had never regarded as more than a remote possibility; and since the Earl had shared this view, he had never been granted the opportunity to become familiar with all the details of a great estate. He came to it from a far more modest establishment, where he had been living in quiet content with his wife, and his youthful family, and for many weeks felt crushed by the appalling weight of fortune, lands, and title. In Serena’s presence, he had the uncomfortable sensation of being a nonentity, but he was really very grateful to her, and knew that he would have found himself in a worse case without her, since she could always explain the meaning of the mysteries uttered by such persons as agents and bailiffs. With these he had not learnt to be at ease. He knew himself to be under close observation; they assumed that he had knowledge which he lacked; he was afraid to appear contemptible by confessing ignorance; and relied on Serena to make all plain. She thought he would do better when he had his wife beside him, for it appeared, from the many references to Jane’s capabilities, that hers was the stronger character. But the new Countess was not coming to Milverley until their London house had been disposed of. She seemed to be very busy, and scarcely a day passed without her writing to know whether she should sell some piece of furniture, or send it to Milverley; what he wished her to do about the new barouche; whether she should employ Pickford’s to convey all their heavy cases to Milverley; and a dozen other problems of the same nature.

Serena found that she was obliged to spend several days in London. The preparation of the house in Grosvenor Square for its new owner could not be wholly entrusted to servants. Fanny, whom travel always made unwell, shrank from the journey; so Serena, undertaking to execute all her commissions, set out with no other escort than her maid, and in a hired post-chaise. It was a novel experience, all her previous journeys having been made either in her father’s company, or under the direction of a courier, but she was in no way daunted, finding it rather amusing to be paying her own shot at the posting-house in which she spent the night, contracting for the hire of horses and postilions, and ordering her own dinner. But Lady Theresa, whose guest she was, was shocked beyond measure, dared not guess what her father would have said, ascribed it all to her having cried off from her engagement to Rotherham, and recalled with approval her own girlhood, when she had never done so much as walk in the park at Milverley without having her footman in attendance.

It was painful to visit the house in Grosvenor Square under such altered circumstances, and disagreeable to discover that Lady Spenborough had already inspected it from cellars to attics. Serena was thunderstruck when this news was divulged to her by the housekeeper—she had not believed such conduct to be possible. There could be no denying that her ladyship had every right to go to the house, but there was a want of delicacy about the proceeding which gave a disagreeable impression, hard to shake off. It was excused by the Countess herself, who paid a morning visit at Lady Theresa’s house in Park Street for the express purpose of explaining to Serena the peculiar exigency which had made it necessary for her to go to Grosvenor Square. All was glossed over, in a speech beginning with the words: “I daresay you must have wondered a little...” but although Serena forgave she was unable to forget, and had never been in such sympathy with her aunt as when that lady later described the Countess’s behaviour as encroaching, and such as sank her below reproach. But Lady Theresa was not astonished, for she had never liked Jane. From the outset she had detected beneath the insipid formality of her manners a sort of shabby gentility which had quite given her a disgust of the young woman. She dressed badly, too, had no countenance, and grossly indulged her children.