by Mira Stables
“No. I daresay he finds city life a dead bore and misses his dogs and his pony,” said Mr. Jocelyn thoughtfully. “I can think of little more deadly for a lively youngster than the dawdling round of prosy functions to which he is being subjected. Little wonder that he breaks out occasionally. Tell me, what are his interests?”
“He likes all country things, as you said,” she told him slowly, “but even more than that, he likes making things. Things that work. Since we went to Wells he is forever bemoaning the fact that he has no workshop here and no tools. At home he has a shed at the bottom of the garden where he works on his inventions. Some of them are quite clever,” she added with sisterly candour. “He made a little water wheel that really worked in the stream and turned a toy mill for Tamsin. But I think this latest notion of making some tilting knights like the ones at Wells is over-ambitious.”
“An engineer, is he? Then most certainly he needs some occupation for hands and brain or he will utterly destroy your peace. A mill or a manufactory would serve the purpose but I cannot immediately call to mind—. But surely, at least, there is some place where he could pursue his hobby undisturbed? The gun room perhaps. A feminine household such as yours will scarcely be using it. Or even the attics. There was used to be plenty of space as I recall when I—I visited this house in my youth.”
She raised her brows at him, interest and curiosity both aroused, for this was a new come-out. The cynical, detached Mr. Jocelyn concerning himself with a rebellious brat of a boy! Moreover, there was other matter for enquiry in his words. “You were much about this house in your boyhood, were you not, sir?” she asked. “Over and again you have shown intimate knowledge of its arrangements.” And then, daringly, but unable to resist letting fall a hint that she was aware of the nature of his birth and standing, “You were brought up as one of the family, perhaps?”
In the grave bronzed countenance not a muscle quivered. He seemed to be weighing her question with careful attention. “Yes,” he said, smiling a little. “I think you may say so, Miss Fenton. In fact I was treated with great kindness. More, I daresay, than I deserved.”
“Then it is small wonder that you are so much attached to Lord Melborne,” she pronounced, thankful that her tentative probe had not met with sharp rebuff. “Though you are much younger than he, I collect.”
He looked surprised. “Why, no, Miss Fenton. We are of an age. In fact we grew up together.”
His recollections of that growing up must be happy ones, she thought, for his face which, in repose, was stern, even harsh, was now alight with warmth and laughter. Seeing his good humour she ventured one more question.
“When we met you, on the Wells road on Tuesday, was that Lord Melborne?”
“Yes, ma’am, it was. But since his lordship is desirous that the news of his presence should not be bruited abroad, I am putting my faith in your discretion in making the admission,” he replied.
She was pleased, and flattered that he should trust her so far and would have said so, but that sounds in the street outside indicated the return of Mama and Aunt Thomasine. Not for worlds would she have them find her receiving a morning caller in her present costume. She rose in considerable agitation wondering how best to dismiss him swiftly without appearing impolite, but it seemed that he exactly understood her sentiments for his leave taking could only be described as abrupt.
“Till tomorrow morning, then,” he said, bowed, and was gone.
Chapter Eleven
Mr. Jocelyn did not succeed in making his withdrawal unobserved since Goodborn had just admitted the ladies into the hall as he was about to leave. He lingered for a few moments, bidding them a courteous good day and explaining that he had called to invite Miss Fenton to ride with him but had found her engaged. He then added a few polite commonplaces and took his departure, having, he trusted, given Miss Fenton time to make good her escape to her own room.
In this object he had, indeed, succeeded, so that Honor was spared some awkward explanations. Even as it was, her announcement of her intention of riding with Mr. Jocelyn next day brought down upon her some unexpected criticism from Mama. “I have no particular objection to Mr. Jocelyn,” said Mama firmly, “though I cannot say that his personality is an endearing one. But it will not do for you to be spending so much of your time with him, my dear. I understand from your aunt that you have ridden with him frequently as well as dancing the minuet with him on the occasion of your début. It would be a great pity if more eligible suitors were to take alarm at such signs of favour, for I cannot feel that Mr. Jocelyn is in any way eligible. Apart from being far too old for you, he does not appear to have any settled means of support, nor any fortune to recommend him. It is all very well for a single man to hang on the sleeve of a wealthy and titled relative, but such patronage is not to be depended upon. Now Sir Ralph Rampton is a very different matter. We have been talking with him for an age this morning. So disappointed as he was that you were not of our party, but when I explained how you were engaged he quite understood. He is looking forward to leading the cotillion with you tonight. I told him that I knew you were not promised to anyone else and that I could answer for your pleasure in accepting his invitation.”
It was probably fortunate that the tumult of Honor’s mixed emotions prevented her from answering immediately. First, and with burning indignation, she was eager to proclaim that, far from being too old for her, Mr. Jocelyn was exactly the kind of husband she would choose above all others. When she had dealt faithfully with that subject, it would be time enough to voice her scorn of Sir Ralph—a consequential dummy, whom she had with difficulty held at arms’ length these past weeks. Luckily, while she was drawing a deep breath preparatory to launching on this diatribe, Aunt Thomasine spoke first, in her usual dry, sensible fashion.
“Of Mr. Jocelyn’s merits as a prospective husband I say nothing. A spinster cannot claim to be a judge of such matters. But he has shown us considerable kindness ever since our arrival, while at the same time he has made no attempt to put himself forward in any way unbecoming to a gentleman. Honor is much obliged to him for his advice and support. And if he is a little older than she, so much the better. She has paid the more heed to his counsel and no one is likely to imagine a romantic attachment between them. It would be most discourteous in her, or, indeed, in any of us, to give him the cold shoulder after his consistent friendliness.”
Mrs. Fenton looked somewhat disconcerted by this comprehensive set-down. Honor was granted time to recall the precepts of filial duty in which she had been bred, and luncheon proceeded in subdued fashion with hostilities temporarily suspended.
But only the years of strict training in proper social conduct carried Honor through the evening. Sir Ralph had obviously taken Mrs. Fenton’s amiability as open encouragement of his suit and wore the air of a well fed torn cat. Honor’s fingers itched to slap his smug face. And anger lent her an unaccustomed magnificence. Who was to dream that the sparkle in her eyes was bred of temper when she held her head so proudly and looked like a young princess in her golden gown? Or that, by the end of the evening, only the thought of the next day’s ride enabled her to maintain an equable front in face of the sly glances, the interested whispers provoked by Sir Ralph’s proprietary attitude.
When Mr. Jocelyn presented himself in Beaufort Square next day he was unusually burdened with a cumbrous parcel, and, upon admission, he enquired not for Miss Fenton but for Master Percy Fenton. That young gentleman arrived, suspiciously sticky about the mouth after a session with Mrs. Goodborn in the kitchen. But the stickiness could not hide a frank friendliness that made instant appeal to his visitor. Mr. Jocelyn, however, knew better than to presume on this ingenious appearance and introduced himself with correct formality. He then said carefully, “I was wondering if you could help me. Your sister tells me you have a famous knack with things mechanical. This clock of mine,” he indicated the parcel. “The wretched thing has been playing stop and go for days. I was taking it to my clock maker. Now
I find that he is so much occupied that it will be a week at least before he can attend to it. Do you think that if you were to look at it—not that I wish to trespass on your time—” He allowed the sentence to trail off since it was obvious that Master Fenton was no longer attending to him.
The boyish face wore the reverent but disbelieving air of a devotee whose idol has suddenly been given into his keeping. The grubby fingers were firm and confident as they handled their treasure and a pair of glowing eyes very like his sister’s were lifted to Mr. Jocelyn’s as he said breathlessly, “Th-thank you, sir. You may safely leave it with me. If I can do no good I promise I will do no harm.”
Mr. Jocelyn felt positively ashamed that the small amount of time and trouble that he had expended on the search for a suitable time piece should have earned him so fervent a gratitude. When Honor came to join in the chorus of thanks he became quite inarticulate with embarrassment, an interesting experience for one who considered himself perfectly at ease in any social dilemma. Awkwardly he shrugged off the eager thanks, suggesting that the horses had waited long enough.
Touched, perhaps, by Mr. Jocelyn’s recognition of the genius inherent in her son, Mrs. Fenton did not renew her objections to Honor’s riding with him. The daily meetings were resumed and, in a fellowship that grew ever more relaxed, became the central point of Honor’s existence. The clock was diagnosed by a rather disappointed Percy as suffering from nothing more serious than a vast accumulation of dirt and a lack of oil. Mr. Jocelyn, by way of expressing his gratitude for its new-born efficiency, invited the young mechanic to view a display of fireworks in the Spring Gardens. Whatever Mrs. Fenton’s prejudices against him on other counts, she apparently thought that in this respect Mr. Jocelyn was a person to be trusted. Percy was permitted to accept the invitation—indeed, as Aunt Thomasine did not fail to point out, life would have been quite unendurable on any other terms—and the treat was highly successful. Percy proceeded to assault the ears of his family with all the half understood facts that he had acquired about the manufacture of fireworks. Such pyrotechnic phrases as ‘quickmatch’, ‘lancework’, ’priming composition’, and ‘mealed gunpowder’, tripped fluently from his eager tongue and even Honor grew weary of the constantly recurring, ‘and Mr. Jocelyn says’.
Nevertheless it was generally agreed that life with Percy was less turbulent since Mr. Jocelyn had taken a hand in his affairs. The gunroom had been made over to him as a workshop on the strict understanding that he would not meddle with the collection of ancient arquebuses, matchlocks and muskets that decorated its walls. The racks and cabinets that had once held modern firearms were already blessedly empty.
After his triumph with Mr. Jocelyn’s clock he had been allowed to clean and oil the sizeable collection that served the house and this had kept him happily engaged for several days. But there was a limit to the time that could be spent on clocks that were in perfectly good working order and his eager mind was already seeking new fields to conquer. No one, afterwards, could quite determine whether the greater responsibility for his final choice devolved upon Mr. Jocelyn, who had first introduced him to the fascination of fireworks, or upon the chance discovery of a copy of John Babington’s ‘Pyrotechnia’ tucked away on the library shelves. Since he was far from being bookish, perhaps the ultimate débacle should rather be blamed on two successive wet days that kept him indoors, driving him, in desperation, first to the library and then to serious study and experiment in the gunroom.
Percy had given his word not to meddle with the firearms and he would not have dreamed of breaking it. But nothing had been specifically mentioned about several old powder horns and flasks which hung on the walls and when investigation revealed that one of these was almost full of a blackish powder the temptation was more than a boy of twelve could resist, especially on a wet day. A tiny pinch of the stuff was wrapped in a twist of paper and flung on the fire from a respectful distance. Among other things, Mr. Jocelyn had said that one could not be too careful in storing and handling explosives. The result was a most satisfactory flash. So the stuff was gunpowder, and, despite its age, still useable.
Demands for paper, paste, starch and cotton wick in the kitchen aroused no particular curiosity. Mrs. Goodborn had grown accustomed to Master Percy’s ways and even accorded them a measure of respect since he had mended the smaller roasting spit for her. The items seemed innocent enough and were handed over with no more than the usual warning to be sure and clear up any mess when he was done. Everyone else was too thankful to have their energetic young relative busily absorbed to make closer enquiry. So that when Percy told his elder sister that he had a surprise for her, she was only mildly curious. When he added that the surprise was one that Mr. Jocelyn would very much enjoy she willingly engaged herself to invite that unsuspecting gentleman back to the house at the conclusion of their morning ride—“if he has no other engagement,” she stipulated, and privately congratulated herself that this very innocent assignation could take place while her Mama and aunt would be safely occupied in the Pump Room.
Percy met them in the hall, eyes dancing with suppressed excitement as he invited them to come into the gunroom and see the surprise. Then, his hand on the latch, he changed his plan, asking them to wait—no more than a moment—and come in when he called. When, presently, an excited voice bade them enter, it seemed to Honor that there was nothing very much to see. There was a candle standing on the floor and close beside it a thin cardboard tube folded into a rough zig-zag shape which was emitting a horrid smell of burning and a tiny wisp of smoke. Then, even as Mr. Jocelyn sprang forward exclaiming, “You young devil!” everything seemed to happen at once. The homemade cracker shot across the floor straight for Honor’s ankles. Her startled jump brought her against the work table and knocked over the flask which still held a small quantity of the black powder. The contents poured themselves in a gentle stream on the candle, which the inventor had been using as a slow match. There was a vivid flash and a sheet of flame enveloped the skirts of Honor’s riding habit. Instinctively her hands went up to protect her face. The next moment she was thrust roughly against the wall and Mr. Jocelyn was beating out the flames from the smouldering hem of her skirt with his riding gloves, while a very frightened Percy was stamping on some blazing papers that were threatening to set alight the window hangings. There was a moment’s breathless silence as Mr. Jocelyn assured himself that all danger was at an end. Then, quite slowly, but as though it was inevitable, he drew Honor into his arms and held her close, his cheek against her hair. “My darling,” he said softly. “My little love. Thank God you are not harmed.”
For a minute or two she rested contentedly against his breast, her quivering nerves steadied by his strength, her body responding eagerly to the magnetism of his touch. He was holding her in one arm, his free hand gently fingering her hair, her cheek, her throat, as though he could scarcely yet believe that she was untouched by the recent danger. There was a new light in the blue eyes, a new tenderness about the firm lips. Honor turned slightly within his hold and lifted her face to his with innocent confidence. He bent his head and gently kissed her mouth. She sighed a little and snuggled closer, her hand creeping up to his breast and then, daringly, wonderingly, to touch the strong brown jaw with a tentative finger tip. She said softly, “I’m so glad,” and both of them knew exactly what she meant, though the inconsequent little phrase might have puzzled an onlooker. And they had quite forgotten that there was an onlooker.
Percy found himself in a very difficult situation. The instincts of a gentleman, albeit a very young one, prompted him to remove himself as rapidly and discreetly as possible from a scene that was certainly not intended for his witnessing. But under all the circumstances, would not such a tactful departure be construed as flight? Undoubtedly heavy penalties awaited him when this bemused pair came to their senses. Honor might understand, but he would not like Mr. Jocelyn to think that he had run away to escape punishment. He fidgetted uneasily from one foot to the o
ther and in doing so kicked against the iron candlestick which had precipitated the castastrophe.
The small sharp sound penetrated the blissful haze that enwrapped the pair. They drew apart, not hurriedly, guiltily, but as creatures dragged reluctantly from the borders of paradise to a workaday world.
Mr. Jocelyn’s re-orientation was fairly rapid. His glance ran from the shame-faced Percy to the powder horn and the débris of manufacture. “Certainly you promised us a surprise,” he commented drily. “Do I understand that you even surprised yourself?”
Percy gulped down the apprehensive lump in his throat and nodded. “Yes sir,” he said manfully. “And after all you told me, there is no excuse. I should not have left the candle alight.”
The blue eyes regarded him speculatively. “You do not say you are sorry,” said Mr. Jocelyn thoughtfully.
“What good would that be? Honor knows very well that I never planned to hurt or frighten her. It was shocking carelessness and being sorry won’t mend it.”
“And abject apology might be misunderstood as an attempt to escape the punishment you so richly deserve,” said Mr. Jocelyn quietly.
Percy’s strained expression relaxed. “That’s it, sir,” he said thankfully. “I might have known that you would understand. I know I deserve a beating and I’m not trying to beg off.”