The Guardian's Dilemma
Auteur
Gail Whitiker
Lezers
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Hoofdstukken
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Chapter One
August 1812
‘Elope!’ The shocked exclamation burst from Oliver Brandon’s lips as he turned to stare at the young woman standing by the window. ‘What in the world are you talking about, Sophie? Gillian would never do such a thing.’
‘Wouldn’t she?’ Mrs Sophie Llewellyn glanced at her brother with an expression of amused indulgence. ‘You know what a headstrong young girl our stepsister is. She has the determination of three and she has shown in the past that if she is pushed too hard, she will rebel. Do you not remember that little incident several years ago?’
Oliver snorted. ‘Gillian was ten years old when she set off for Dover on her pony. At seventeen, I expect her to have more sense.’
‘And at seventeen she should have, dearest, but that is not to say that she has. For all her protestations to the contrary, Gillian is very young. She has been pampered and cosseted most of her life and has not half the maturity you or I had at that age.’
Oliver’s dark brows arched upwards in surprise. ‘Are you saying I’ve spoiled her?’
‘No, but she has certainly been indulged. And not only by you, so you needn’t look at me like that.’ Sophie’s mouth twitched. ‘I too am guilty of having given in to her whims. But Gillian has such a sweet, amiable nature that one cannot help oneself. However, you cannot deny that she likes to have her own way, Oliver, and when she doesn’t get it, she can become…’
‘Troublesome?’
‘I prefer to use the word challenging.’ Sophie smiled as if hoping to soften the criticism. ‘Troublesome has such a disagreeable connotation to it, don’t you think?’
‘Hmm.’ Oliver clasped his hands behind his back and joined his sister at the window. It was easy to discern the resemblance between the two. They both had the same dark, wavy hair and finely sculpted features of the Brandon side of the family, and the same height and physical stature of their late mother’s Howden connections. But that was where the similarities ended. In matters of personality and temperament, they were as different as night and day. Oliver might be only four years older than his sister, but his brooding countenance and serious nature often made him appear considerably more.
At thirty-five, he was as fit as a man ten years his junior, but unlike such greenheads, there was nothing of the dandy about him. He did not wear his hair in a Brutus crop or pad his calves to show a shapelier leg. He had no need to, given his propensity for strenuous exercise, both in the boxing ring and with the foil. But he was not so easily moved to laughter as was his sister, nor so trusting of the outside world.
In contrast to both of them was their seventeen-year-old stepsister, Gillian Gresham; a blonde, blue-eyed child who no more resembled either of them than did a rose a cornstalk. She had the round face and bubbly personality of her late mother, and standing at just over five feet tall, she barely reached Oliver’s shoulder. She was a happy, good-natured child, inclined, as Sophie had said, to cajole people into giving her what she wanted, but in such a way that no one could truly resent her for it. And she was forever falling in and out of love. Oliver had had more than his share of emotional battles with her over the past two years.
Gillian had come to live at Shefferton Hall when her mother, Catherine, had married Oliver’s father just over nine years ago. She had become his legal ward when Catherine had succumbed to pneumonia two years later. Surprisingly, Oliver had grieved deeply over his stepmother’s death. More so, perhaps, than he had over his own mother’s. The bond between them had been surprisingly strong, and Oliver knew that Catherine had come to feel the same respect and admiration for him as he had for her. It was the reason she had left Gillian in his care, and that she had died at peace, secure in the knowledge that her only daughter would be well taken care of.
The guardianship hadn’t been bad to begin with, Oliver admitted. Gillian had been an amusing little minx and, for the first few years, had behaved in a manner suitable to her age and in way that gave him little cause for concern. But over the last four years she had developed into a very determined young woman indeed. So much so that when she thought she was right, there was little hope of convincing her otherwise. At times, even his mild-mannered sister had been tempted to throw up her hands in despair.
At the moment, however, Gillian was happily engaged in the garden below, gathering a colourful selection of roses and placing them in a large straw basket. The fact that the basket was being held by a handsome officer who seemed only too happy to perform such a menial task accounted for a large part of her happiness, Oliver reflected moodily, and for considerably less of his.
‘Challenging may be the more agreeable word, Sophie, but I think troublesome is the more appropriate one,’ he muttered. ‘At least when she was ten I had no need to worry about who she might be running off to Dover with.’ Oliver’s brow furrowed as he studied the disturbing scene below. ‘I do not like Sidney Charles Wymington. I have no doubt he has a flattering tongue and that his looks are as elegant as anyone might wish, but his glib manner disturbs me very much. He is forever offering opinions on matters that do not concern him, and he is seldom caught without an answer. And I, for one, do not trust a man who is never at a loss for words.’
A twinkle appeared in the depths of Sophie’s bright green eyes. ‘You are seldom at a loss for words yourself, Oliver, and I have never held that against you.’
‘Thank you, my dear, but I do not use my eloquence to curry favour as does Mr Wymington.’ Oliver’s mouth curved in a rueful smile. ‘Nor, I think, do I do it half as well. He seems to live very comfortably for a half-pay officer, don’t you think?’
Sophie lifted her elegantly clad shoulders in a shrug. ‘I have heard that he does, though I have never stopped to consider the reasons why. However, if it makes you feel any better, Gillian has informed me that he is hopeful of a posting in the near future.’
‘Really.’ Oliver’s dark eyes narrowed as he turned to look out the window again. ‘If that is the case, it cannot come soon enough.’
It was not the first time Oliver had expressed negativity towards one of Gillian’s suitors, nor the first time he had scoffed at her claims of the gentleman’s being the most romantic in all England. Because Oliver himself was not a romantic. He and Sophie had been raised in a home where love and affection had had no place. His parents had tolerated one another, but there had been little more to their marriage than that. Perhaps that was why his father had not grieved overly much when his first wife had died only four years after Sophie had been born.
His father’s second marriage, to Catherine Gresham, had started out better than his first, but it had not ended well. Catherine had died most unexpectedly of complications arising from an illness, and after that, Oliver’s father had withdrawn even further into himself. So much so, that when he lost his life in a boating accident, many people wondered whether or not it had been a deliberate act of suicide.
Thank goodness his sister’s marriage had turned out as well as it had, Oliver reflected now. Rhys Llewellyn had fallen in love with Sophie the first time he’d met her, and hadn’t been in the least intimidated by her unusual height. Indeed, he had professed himself delighted to meet a lady who could look at him without risk of serious injury to her neck. More importantly, he had called her beautiful at a time when Sophie had been least willing to believe it, and in the end, his repeated assurances had won her heart and her hand.
Oliver had never experienced that kind of gentle, all-encompassing love. Nor had he known the kind of soul-searing passion that could turn one’s heart and one’s life inside out. He knew what it was to experience physical desire, but he had sated those urges with Nicolette, a pretty little ballet dancer who’d become his mistress the year he turned four-and-twenty. He still frequented her bed whenever he felt the need to lose himself in the softness of a woman’s arms, but other than that, there had been precious little female intrusion into his life. Which was probably why his view of marriage as a whole was somewhat tainted.
Oliver harboured no delusions that people wed solely for love. He knew that women looked to marriage for social advancement and security, while men—especially those in restricted financial circumstances—hoped to avail themselves of money and a convenient lifestyle.
Sidney Charles Wymington was just such a man. Oliver was sure of it. Which explained why he had been less than pleased when Gillian had started coming to him with praises spilling from her lips about the man. Why should he celebrate the fact that his ward was keeping company with a fellow who had little to recommend him other than his handsome face and his practised charm?
After all, Gillian was an heiress. Her mother had left her an inheritance of some twenty-five thousand pounds, with the instructions that the money be released to her on the occasion of her twenty-first birthday or upon the day she married; the latter proviso having been made in order to prevent Oliver from having to use his own funds to provide the necessary dowry. Catherine had been convinced of Oliver’s suitability as a guardian for Gillian, and equally confident that he would never allow her to enter into an unacceptable alliance. As a result, she had put no further restrictions on the inheritance than that.
Therein lay the problem. Oliver had no idea whether Gillian had told Mr Wymington about the conditions of her inheritance, but he did know she hadn’t troubled herself to conceal the depth of her feelings for him. And if it came right down to it, Oliver knew that Wymington wouldn’t hesitate to use those feelings to his own advantage.
‘Then what would you suggest I do, Sophie?’ Oliver said at length, a note of frustration creeping into his voice. ‘Gillian is headstrong, as you say, but I cannot believe she would knowingly disgrace herself—or us—by doing something imprudent.’
‘You are her legal guardian, Oliver. You could forbid her to see him.’
‘What, and run the risk of alienating her even further?’ Oliver shook his head. ‘I would far rather cast Mr Wymington in the role of the villain than myself. Unfortunately, I have checked into his military records and found nothing to condemn him, other than a slight propensity towards gambling.’
‘Unless it is a propensity which causes him to lose vast sums of money in a single night, I doubt it will be enough to sway Gillian’s opinion of him. Especially if she believes herself in love with him—’
‘In love!’
‘Well, you cannot ignore the possibility, my dear.’ Sophie’s expression softened. ‘You see how she behaves with him. Most young ladies would have the good sense to conceal their affections, but Gillian seems to want everyone to know how she feels about the man. Which is why I think it would be a good idea if you were to separate them for a while.’
‘And how do you suggest I do that? Even if I were to tell Wymington to keep away from Gillian, I do not trust him to listen to me.’
Sophie sighed her agreement. ‘I doubt he would. If Mr Wymington knows that Gillian is an heiress and his intentions are what you say, he will be more than willing to bide his time. He will have to if you do not intend to give your approval to the match.’
‘Unless he decides to elope with her, as you suggested earlier. Which given the terms of Catherine’s will any man might be tempted to do. ‘
Sophie had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘Well, perhaps I was being a touch melodramatic in saying that she would elope. For all Gillie’s headstrong ways, I do not believe she would knowingly disgrace us. But I still think it would be wise to send her away for a while. With any luck, her absence will force Mr Wymington to look elsewhere for a wealthy bride, and give Gillian time to come to her senses.’
‘That’s all very well, my dear, but where do you suggest I send her? She has no family who would welcome her. At least, none whom I would trust not to try to take advantage of her fortune themselves.’
‘You could send her away to school,’ Sophie said slowly. ‘Do you remember me telling you about the Guarding Academy for Girls?’
Oliver began to pace. ‘No. Should I?’
‘I suppose not. A friend of mine, Lady Brookwell, mentioned it to me in passing a few weeks back. She said that her eldest daughter, Elizabeth, was there and that she was very pleased with her progress. The headmistress is a woman by the name of Eleanor Guarding and from what Lady Brookwell tells me, she is quite a unique person. Not at all the sort one usually finds running schools of this nature.’
Oliver stopped pacing. ‘And where is this Guarding’s Academy for Girls?’
‘In Northamptonshire. I believe Steep Abbot is the name of the village.’
‘Steep Abbot?’ He frowned. ‘Why would that name be familiar to me?’
‘Possibly because it is where the Marquis of Sywell was murdered three months ago.’
‘Good God! And you would have me send Gillian there?’
Sophie chuckled as she let the curtain fall back across the window. ‘I hardly think Gillie is in danger of suffering a similar fate, my dear. From all I’ve heard, Sywell was not undeserving of his reward. But the reason I mention it is because the teachers at the Academy are purported to be more liberal-minded than most. They strive to impress upon their girls the importance of thinking for themselves.’
Oliver sent her a sharp glance. ‘Gillian does quite enough thinking for herself as it is, Sophie. That is one of the problems I am trying to overcome.’
‘You miss my point, dearest.’ Sophie walked back towards the green velvet settee and sat down. ‘The staff at Guarding’s attempt to expand the intellectual minds of their pupils by providing tutelage in subjects not normally offered to young ladies. How many schools do you know of, for example, where girls are given extensive instruction in advanced mathematics and archaeology, as well as in Latin, Greek and philosophy? And from what I understand, Mrs Guarding is herself something of an emancipationist and historian.’
‘A female emancipationist?’ Oliver frowned. ‘The last thing I need is someone else filling Gillian’s head with nonsense. I suspect Mr Wymington does quite enough of that as it is.’
‘All right. Then what would you say if I told you that the teachers at the Guarding Academy would be far more likely to impress upon Gillian the importance of knowing what she stands to gain and to lose in a marriage to a man who is not her social or financial equal, than would a teacher in a fancy London seminary?’
Oliver thought about that for a moment. Sophie was an intelligent woman and he respected her opinion, but sending Gillian away to a girls’ school was not going to be easy. He knew that in his ward’s mind she had long ago finished with that kind of schooling. ‘What could I say that would persuade her to go?’
‘That, I’m afraid, is something you are going to have to work out for yourself, Oliver. I merely put forward the suggestion as a solution to the problem of how to separate Gillian from Mr Wymington for a while.’ Sophie smiled as she rose to kiss her brother affectionately on the cheek. ‘After all, a year spent at a boarding school might be time enough for her to see the gentleman in a different light. And if Mr Wymington is the adventurer you think, it may be all the time we need.’
Oliver gave his sister’s words considerable thought over the next few days, and the more he thought about it, the more he came to see that the plan had merit. Gillian had always resented the fact that young ladies were not offered the same quality of education as young gentlemen, and by the sound of things, spending the better part of a year at Mrs Guarding’s Academy would give her precisely that opportunity.
In the end, however, it did not come down to a matter of choice as to whether or not he sent her away to school, but rather, how quickly could he get her there. Gillian’s conversations were becoming far too full of Mr Wymington for Oliver’s liking. It seemed that every utterance was prefaced by ‘Mr Wymington said this,’ or ‘Mr Wymington thinks that,’ until by the end of the week Oliver was sick to death of hearing about Mr Wymington. But even in his frustration, he saw the way Gillian’s face closed down whenever he expressed negativity towards the man, and knew that he was fighting a losing battle.
It was that stubbornness which convinced him that Sophie was right. Gillian was impulsive, and she was used to getting her own way. She was also at the age where, like most young women, her thoughts were turning more frequently towards marriage. Oliver could not be sure that if he pushed her too hard, she wouldn’t do precisely what Sophie had suggested and elope.
For that reason, little more than a week after his conversation with her, he contacted the headmistress at the Guarding Academy for Girls in Steep Abbot, and then, a few days later, told Gillian of his plans.
Needless to say, she was not pleased.
‘You intend to send me where?’ she echoed in disbelief.
‘It is called Mrs Guarding’s Academy for Girls,’ Oliver informed her calmly. ‘I thought that since you did not have occasion to finish your lessons with Monsieur Deauvall and Miss Berkmore, you might welcome the opportunity to do so now.’
‘But I have no wish to go to school!’ Gillian cried petulantly. ‘I am nearly eighteen years of age, Oliver! I have far more important things on my mind than silly lessons. Mr Wymington says—’
‘I don’t give a…that is to say,’ Oliver said, catching himself just in time, ‘I don’t think anything Mr Wymington has to say on the matter is relevant, Gillian. I am your legal guardian and I will be the one to decide how and where you complete your education. And after due consideration, I have determined that the Guarding Academy is the place for you to do that.’
Gillian stamped her dainty little foot and set her blonde curls dancing. ‘But I don’t want to go to any stuffy girls’ school!’
‘From all I’ve heard, the school is anything but stuffy. The headmistress is a female emancipationist and the teachers are all somewhat radical in their thinking. A young lady with your intelligence and personality should get on very well there.’
‘But I do not wish—’
‘Gillian, the discussion is at an end. We leave for Steep Abbot in a week’s time. I have already sent a letter to Mrs Guarding advising her of your enrolment, and have received a letter back confirming your place. I would advise you to make whatever arrangements you feel are necessary and then tell me when you are ready to depart.’
Gillian’s face darkened. ‘What about Mr Wymington?’
‘What about him?’
‘Oh, how can you be so heartless, Oliver! You must know that I care for him. And it cannot have escaped your notice that he holds me in considerable esteem.’
‘It hasn’t escaped my notice at all, but neither has the fact that you are only seventeen.’
‘I shall be eighteen in January, but what has that to do with it? Jane Twickingham was betrothed to Lord Hough when she was only sixteen, and you have told me yourself she was a silly little chit. What has my age to do with Mr Wymington’s courting me?’
Oliver’s eyes turned the colour of stone. ‘Since when did Mr Wymington’s visits take on the aspect of a courtship? He has not sought my permission to address you.’
As if realising she had said more than she should, Gillian’s pretty cheeks flushed. ‘Well, no, of course not, because we are only acquaintances. But that is not to say that I…that is, that he—’
‘Gillian, what do you really know of Mr Wymington?’ Oliver asked, deciding to try a different approach. ‘That he is charming, I have no doubt. That he knows how to turn a young girl’s head, I have seen with my own eyes. But what do you know of the man’s character or background? Has he spoken to you of his family? Do you know where he comes from or who his people are?’
‘Of course I do.’ Gillian lifted her chin in defiance. ‘We have spoken of all those things. Mr Wymington has nothing to hide from me.’
‘Then what has he told you of himself?’
‘That his parents are dead, and that he has a sister living in Cornwall to whom he is not close. He also told me he has hopes of achieving a higher rank in the militia.’
‘I see. And what is he now—a lieutenant?’
‘Yes.’
‘Has he the funds to purchase his next commission?’
‘I do not believe he has,’ Gillian admitted reluctantly, ‘but he did tell me he was like to come into a considerable amount of money.’
Oliver was immediately on his guard. ‘Did he say how?’
‘Well, no, not precisely.’
‘Did he say when he might expect this good fortune?’
Gillian coloured. ‘No, nor did I ask. Why should I when one day I shall have money enough for us both?’
That was precisely what Oliver had been afraid of hearing. ‘And I suppose you told him that?’
‘Yes.’ Gillian’s golden brows drew together in a frown. ‘Why would I not?’
Oliver suppressed a sigh. There was no point in answering the question. His naïve young ward might not realise how tempting was the carrot she dangled in front of Mr Wymington’s nose, but he certainly did. ‘I’m sorry, Gillian, my mind is made up. We leave for Steep Abbot in a week’s time. Say goodbye to whichever friends you wish to and then begin your preparations to leave.’
‘But—’
‘And you are not to see Mr Wymington again.’
‘But that is not fair, Oliver! Why can I not say goodbye to him? He is a friend, and you told me I may say goodbye to whomever I wished.’
‘You know very well I was not referring to gentlemen when I said that. You may write Mr Wymington a farewell note, but that is all. And I wish to read it before you send it away.’
Oliver could see that Gillian was angry. There was a defiant sparkle in her bright blue eyes and her chin was thrust out in the gesture he had come to know so well.
‘I think you are being beastly about this, Oliver,’ she flung at him. ‘You are sending me away to some dreadful school because you do not like Mr Wymington and because you do not wish me to see him.’
‘I am sending you to Steep Abbot so that you may complete your education,’ Oliver replied with equanimity. ‘I do not share in the opinion that all a young lady need know how to do is arrange flowers and engage in polite conversation. You are far too bright for that, as you yourself have told me on more than one occasion.’
‘I do not have to listen to you!’
‘Ah, but you do. At least until the occasion of your twenty-first birthday. I promised your mother that I would look after you until that time, and I intend to keep my word. Now, I would ask you to respect my wishes and abide by my instructions. We leave in six days.’
‘Six!’ Gillian’s eyes widened in dismay. ‘You said we were leaving in seven!’
‘I was, but your decision to argue has persuaded me to move it up a day.’
‘But you cannot—’
‘And for every objection you make, we shall leave one day sooner. The choice is yours, Gillian.’
With that Oliver turned and walked towards the door. He could feel his ward’s eyes boring into his back, but he did not give way. He had learned that the only way to deal with Gillian was to be firm, regardless of what Sophie or anyone else thought. He was doing what was best for the girl and with any luck, she would eventually come to realise that.
In the interim, it did not lessen his awareness that had looks been sufficient to kill, he would have been lying on the floor suffering his final moments even now!
