Maulever Hall by Jane Aiken Hodge

here, as you know, and I should have been reduced to living on my jointure.”
    For once, Marianne found herself faintly sympathizing with the absent Mark Mauleverer, whose mother seemed to think of his possible death in such forthrightly financial terms. Perhaps, after all, there might be some justification for his persistent course of neglect. And another thought now struck her: “You mean that this house belongs to Mr. Mauleverer?”
    “Of course it does. To whom else? You do not think, do you, that I would be living here, in the dead heart of the country, boring myself to distraction winter after winter, if there was anything else I could do? If it had been mine, I should have sold it years ago, and moved to London, or maybe Bath—the season there is mighty pleasant—but as it is I am condemned, through my husband’s fault, to drag out the rest of my life here. You never saw a more iniquitous will than his—never. He left everything he could to Mark —everything, and I am dependent on him practically for the bread I eat.”
    This was a disconcerting idea to Marianne in many ways. First of all, it brought home to her the fact that she too was dependent on this bad-tempered stranger for the bread she ate—and young Thomas’s too. But these financial revelations also made her wonder a little about what Mrs. Mauleverer had told her of her son’s education. Had she, perhaps, when in control of his finances, grudged the money to send him to Eton and then to the University? And why had it been necessary for his uncle to purchase him his commission in the Guards? But that was all ancient history now; the fact remained that Mrs. Mauleverer was left here high and dry on the edge of the moors and it did seem hard that her son should neither visit her nor arrange any other entertainment for her. Surely a trip to Bath and one to London each year would not be beyond his means to arrange for her? No, the more she thought about Mark Mauleverer, the less she liked him, and the more, therefore, she detested the idea of being dependent on him. But at least there was one consolation: there seemed not the slightest prospect of his coming to see them.
    Easter was over now, and the rolling moor that rose up behind Maulever Hall had turned from gray to green. T h e beautifully kept lawns around the house were green, too, and the shrubbery was a tangle of spring blossom. “Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Mauleverer impatient l y, “they are well enough, and so they should be when you think of the sums Mark spends on their upkeep. If I had my way we would dismiss half the gardeners, and let the wilderness be a wilderness. Then perhaps I should be able to afford a barouche instead of that monstrous old carriage, and a few decent riding horses for my guests. Yes, Andrew?”
    “Mr. Emsworth has called, ma’am.”
    “Show him in. No, don’t run away, my dear, you must meet him some time. Best get it over with.”
    “Must I?” So far, although she had shaken his unresponsive hand at the church door on Sundays, Marianne had contrived to avoid Mr. Emsworth when he visited Mrs. Mauleverer. She did not at all want to see him now, but, with Mrs. Mauleverer’s persuasive hand on hers, there seemed no help for it. Curtsying to him gravely, she was comforted by his obvious embarrassment.
    “Miss Lamb!” After his usual deferential greeting to Mrs. Mauleverer he came toward her, hand outstretched. “I have been hoping greatly for a few words with you. I owe you, I feel, an apology.”
    “It does not matter.” Indifferently, she let him seize and wring her hand with his moist one.
    “Ah, but it does, it does to me. I would not for the world be out of charity with any of my little flock, and most particularly not with one whom my respected friend Mrs. Mauleverer delights to honor. If I may take the liberty, ma’am”—to Mrs. Mauleverer—“of calling you my friend? But as for Miss Lamb, I feel we must be friends—indeed are friends