Free Lady John by Madeleine E. Robins

absorb the debts entirely.”
    Fighting an optimism he suspected was wholly unfounded,
Menwin asked what the conditions of such assistance would be.
    “Don’t make me out to be such a demned shylock, boy. I’ve
grown used to the fact that I am the only Polry with a scrap of sense or of
familiar duty. I am considering your welfare, though you will hardly believe
that, if you’re anything like your father. I am also considering the family.
How old are you?”
    Menwin suspected that his grandfather knew his age to the
minute. “Nine and twenty, sir.”
    “Exactly!” Mardries exclaimed triumphantly, as if a point
were proved for him. “And not wed yet.”
    An image of Olivia Temperer, demure and smiling in her
lavender gown on the previous night, flashed through Menwin’s head and was gone
before he could summon the will to banish it. “I’ve been soldiering for most of
my majority, Grandfather, I would not ask any woman to share those hardships
with me.”
    “You’ve not been soldiering for the past year, Grandson. In
a year—no, more—could you not find yourself a bride?”
    In truth, Menwin thought, he had not been making much of a
push to do so. “I had no idea that you wished me to do, sir.”
    Mardries cackled. “And do you tell me that that would have
made a difference to you? T’hare and hounds! Matthew, your brother and your
father have both died within a two-year. D’you think I want to see my title
descend to some beggarly curate in Hampshire? I want you wed and I want you
with an heir, do you understand me?” The old man eyed his grandson fiercely, as
if he expected a wife and an heir to materialize in accordance with his wish.
    “If you feel so strongly about it, sir, I shall make a push—”
Menwin began, but was cut off.
    “You need make no push at all. I’ve arranged the matter for
you.”
    Controlling himself admirably, Menwin repeated this
announcement.
    “Yes, boy. Don’t you wish to know to whom you’re to be wed?”
    “I suppose so, sir. Do I know the lady?”
    “You might. Miss Casserley. Miss Jane Casserley. Lord and
Lady Whelke’s oldest girl.”
    Repressing a strong urge to throw the whole matter back in
the Earl’s face, Menwin said, with admirable calm, “And why Miss Casserley,
sir?” Inwardly he told himself that if he became son-at-law to Lady Whelke it
would be a relationship of short duration: he would assuredly murder her within
a fortnight.
    “That was your aunt Chloris’s doing,” Mardries confessed. “She’s
an old bosom-bow of Claire Whelke’s, and the two of them were gossiping, and it
seems that Miss Casserley has been—well, difficult to suit—in the matter of
marriage. Lady Whelke—a mother’s heart easily affected, you know. Most
distressed. Chloris took it into her head that you were the very man for her.
Talked to your grandmamma, who talked me round. Mind, I’m not saying it is the
best match that ever was made: the Polrys can look as high as they like.” The
Earl, lost in his periods for a moment, recovered himself and continued. “The
more I consider the matter, the more eligible I judge it. The chit—I’ve met
her, yes—she’s a little stiffish, but handsome enough looking. All fine airs
and advanced notions, and should balance the tendency toward volatility which
your father seems to have introduced into our strain. Has a respectable portion—were
you marrying for money it would not do, of course, but you’ve no need of funds
with your income as Menwin.”
    “I will not have much of that income long if I must swallow
my father’s debts,” Menwin reminded pointedly. “And perhaps this Miss Casserley
will not like to be married to me .”
    The Earl fixed his grandson with a singularly obnoxious
stare. “Not wish to be married to you? A
Viscount with the expectancy of an Earldom? One of the Duke of Wellington’s
heroes? With eight thousand a year, and the expectation of twice that when you
become Mardries? Not wish to marry