An Inescapable Match. Sylvia Andrew

The party got up and made for the stables.

      Autolycus was lying where Hugo had left him, snoring gently. He had the supremely contented air of a dog well exercised, well fed and now comfortably settled. When he heard Deborah’s voice he raised his head, wagged a sleepy tail and flopped down once again.

      ‘He’s very big,’ said Lady Elizabeth slowly.

      ‘He doesn’t expect to live indoors, Aunt Elizabeth! He’s well used to being kept in a stable or one of the outhouses.’ Deborah was perhaps unaware of the desperation in her voice. But Hugo heard it.

      ‘It’s time you had another guard dog, Aunt Elizabeth. You still haven’t replaced old Beavis, have you?’

      ‘But—’ Deborah began, but Hugo interrupted her. His frown told her plainly that this was no time to be expressing foolish doubts about Autolycus’s qualifications as a guard dog.

      ‘The dog is amiable enough,’ he said firmly, ‘but he can growl quite terrifyingly. And his size would put most ruffians off.’

      ‘I suppose you’re right,’ said Lady Elizabeth. ‘We’ll see what your Uncle William has to say.’

      The tension eased visibly. Everyone knew that, except in matters connected with his ministry, the Vicar would do whatever his wife suggested.

      ‘Well, I suppose we must gather ourselves together and set off for home. It has been a most eventful day,’ said Lady Elizabeth. ‘First the Vernons, then finding dearest Deborah here waiting for us, then the dog…’ Her voice trailed away as she glanced doubtfully back at the stable.

      The Reverend William and his wife drove off to the Vicarage in the carriage, followed by Nanny Humble and Deborah’s possessions in the gig. With the exception of Hester, who returned to her attic, the young people had elected to walk to the Vicarage, collecting Autolycus as they went. Deborah took the opportunity of a moment alone with Hugo to ask what was wrong with Hester.

      ‘Is she ill?’

      ‘No, she’s in love.’

      ‘In love! Hester? But…’

      ‘Yes, I know. My sister has always sworn she would never marry. And now she’s in love, and she doesn’t know what to do. It’s an absurd situation!’

      ‘Poor Hester! If her affection isn’t returned what can she do?’

      ‘That’s what makes it all so ridiculous! The man she loves is Robert Dungarran, one of my best friends—the most sensible, reasonable chap you could wish to meet. In all the years I’ve known him he has never shown the slightest sign of idiocy. But now he is in as desperate a case as Hester. He adores her! He writes notes to her which she tears up, he calls to see her every day—even though she absolutely refuses to receive him. That’s why she went up to her attic when we left—in case he calls.’

      Deborah looked bewildered. ‘But if she is in love with him, and he with her…?’

      ‘Exactly! They are both mad! I tell you, Deborah, passionate love is a plague to be avoided. There is neither sense nor reason in it. To be honest, I am surprised and a little disappointed in Dungarran. I would not have thought his present behaviour at all his style. When I choose a wife I promise you I shan’t have all this drama. I shall find a pretty, well-behaved girl who, like myself, has little taste for such extravagances. We shall, I hope, live in amicable harmony, but I want no passionate scenes, no tantrums, no dramatic encounters. I give you leave to push me into the nearest duckpond, Deborah, if you ever see signs of such madness in me.’

      Deborah looked at Hugo in silence. She was not surprised at his words, though they chilled her. He had always disliked scenes and avoided them whenever possible, taking pride in keeping calm whatever the provocation. She could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she had seen Hugo lose his temper. When he did, the resulting explosion was spectacular, as she knew only too well. It was a sad fact that she appeared to be one of the few people in the world who could provoke Hugo into a rage—usually quite inadvertently.

      Theirs had always been a strange friendship. In the past she had looked up to him along with all the other children, though never with the same awe. And in spite of the ten years’ difference in age between them he had always talked to her more freely than to the others. Perhaps it was because she had been the outsider, the cuckoo in the nest. Perhaps it had started because he had been sorry for her. But for whatever reason, Hugo had always confided in her, used her as a sounding board for his views. She sighed, then said, ‘What will happen to Hester, do you suppose?’

      ‘I’m sure I haven’t the slightest idea. She can be extremely pig-headed. But on the other hand Dungarran can be very determined. We shall no doubt see eventually, but meanwhile I hardly like to watch them both making such fools of themselves.’

      It was as well that Lady Elizabeth did not observe the walking party. Autolycus, refreshed by his nap and encouraged by the astonished admiration of Lowell and Henrietta, was in tearing spirits. But Hugo had only to snap his fingers for the dog to come to him. And on the one occasion when Hugo was forced to address him severely, Autolycus grovelled in piteous abasement.

      The twins, who had till now been slightly nervous of such a large dog, laughed delightedly and bent over to comfort him.

      ‘He’s lovely, Deborah!’

      ‘He’s so sweet!’

      ‘He’s a confidence trickster!’ said Hugo in disgust. ‘Look at him! One minute after chasing one of my pheasants with evil intent, he’s doing his best to look as if he’d never harm a fly in his life.’ He was right. Autolycus was now standing between the twins, gazing from one to the other with gentle submission. It was impossible not to admire the picture they presented—Edwina and Frederica in their delicate muslins and shady hats, Autolycus standing waist high between them, gently waving his fearsome tail. A Beast and not one, but two Beauties.

      Hugo regarded his cousins with a connoisseur’s eye. They had grown up during his years in London, and he was of the opinion that they were now the prettiest of all the Perceval girls. Robina, the eldest Vicarage daughter, and Henrietta, the youngest, were dark like their mother, but the twins were true Percevals, tall, blue-eyed blondes with rose-petal skins and regular features, gentle in manner and graceful in movement. Lady Elizabeth was a woman of strong principles, and all four of her daughters had been reared with a sound knowledge of Christian duty, and a clear sense of proper behaviour. Robina had just come through a very successful Season and was now well on the way to becoming the wife of one of society’s most distinguished aristocrats. Henrietta, still only seventeen, seemed to be developing a penchant for his brother Lowell. But Frederica and Edwina were, as far as he knew, still unattached. They were now nineteen—time to be thinking of marriage. Either one of them would make some man an excellent wife…

      Deborah noticed Hugo’s admiring appraisal of his cousins, and her heart gave a little lurch, then sank. She had always known that he would one day find the sort of girl he admired and marry her. And now that his thirtieth birthday was so close, he was bound to be looking more energetically for a wife. Either of her cousins would fulfil Hugo’s requirements to perfection. Edwina was livelier than Frederica, but they were both gentle, affectionate, biddable girls. Neither of them would ever argue or create a scene—scenes distressed them. With the right husband they would lead tranquil, loving lives, dispensing their own brand of affection and encouragement to the world around them. But she could not believe that Hugo would be the right husband for either of them. He would be kind, there was no question of that, but he would take it for granted that his wife would acquiesce in all his wishes. Neither of the twins, already so much in awe of him, would ever argue with him. Hugo would become a benevolent despot, and his wife’s personality would be stifled. The twins deserved better. And such a marriage would do Hugo no good either.

      She gave an impatient sigh. If Hugo did set his heart on one of them, what could she do to prevent it? What influence could Deborah Staunton have—a pale, dark-haired little dab of a thing, dependent on her aunt for a roof over her head, a scatterbrain, frequently