by Mira Stables
This Wednesday morning was evidently to be marked by the arrival of letters and notes, for Honor had not made much progress with her own correspondence when a letter was delivered to her. It had been sent by hand and she had seen that forcible black script once before. Now what could Lord Melborne have to say to her?
Very little—but very much to the point. His lordship understood that Miss Fenton was willing to restore to him the Swynden necklace in consideration of the agreed sum, namely thirty thousand pounds. If she would appoint a time convenient to her he would do himself the honour of calling in Beaufort Square and would hand her a draft on his bank in exchange for the necklace.
There was no one to advise her. To consult Mama would be worse than useless. In any case the necklace was hers and this was a matter that she must decide for herself. On one point she was determined. She could not accept the astronomical sum that Lord Melborne had named. Mr. Jocelyn had said that his lordship was a hard man to override. Well—he should discover that Honor Fenton, too, had a will of her own. If he wanted his necklace back he should only have it at her price. But how to set a proper value on the thing? Mama, on first seeing it, had said something about five thousand pounds. But Mama had little knowledge of such matters and Honor had less. The only sensible course was the one that she had suggested to Mr. Jocelyn—to take the diamonds to a reliable jeweller and have them valued. Which of the several jewellers in Bath would be the best qualified for such a task?
Goodborn, coming into the room at that moment to ask if she wished any of her letters to catch the London Mail, seemed the obvious person to ask, but proved unhelpful. “I wouldn’t take it upon myself to recommend any of them, miss,” he said repressively. “All very respectable people I make no doubt, but his lordship dealt only with Rundell, Bridge and Rundell.”
London jewellers, however eminent, were of no use to one who needed immediate service. She decided that Jennet might be more up-to-date as well as more co-operative and asked if the girl was free to accompany her into the city. Though not strictly employed as a personal maid, Jennet was not usually averse to joining in shopping expeditions, especially if clothes were in question.
The old man looked mildly surprised. “Jennet went with Miss Helmore, miss. They’ll likely not be back till evening. Was you needing something urgent like?”
More and more puzzled by her aunt’s peculiar conduct—for what could one want with a dresser on an unexpected journey that was to last but a single day—Honor came to the conclusion that her best course was to take Goodborn into her confidence to some extent. Since the episode of the sedan chairs she had grown increasingly fond of him. She knew, morever, that his devotion to the Melborne interest was absolute. He would do whatever lay within his power to further the restoration of the necklace to its rightful home. Briefly she explained the reason for her enquiry about jewellers.
He looked distressed and reiterated his remarks about his lordship’s custom. Then, suddenly, his expression lightened. “But what I can tell you, miss, if it’s any help to you, is what his lordship paid that young Mr. Fitz-Sammons to get the necklace back.”
Honor had already learned that when Goodborn referred to ‘his lordship’ he meant the present Marquess’s father. She listened attentively to his eager tale.
“Plain as if it was yesterday, I remember it,” he assured her. “His lordship unwrapping it on the library table. Not here, that wasn’t. That was at Melborne House. ‘I’ve got the Luck back, Robert,’ he says to me, me being no more than first footman in those days, and holds it up for me to see. ‘Ten thousand that cost me, and worth every penny piece.’ Ten thousand pounds he meant, miss, and that’s what he paid for it.”
He looked at her hopefully and was clearly delighted by her expressions of gratitude. Yes, indeed, he assured her, a letter could be carried to Lord Melborne as soon as she had written it, and went off, beaming happily, leaving her to set about the task.
She had good cause for gratitude. Not only had the old man given her what she felt was a reasonable valuation of the necklace, he had also presented her with an excellent reason for refusing to accept the original offer. The son could scarcely insist that the father’s judgement had been at fault and Miss Fenton had every right to assert that she would accept only what was fair and reasonable. Contentedly she settled down to write her answer, appointing Friday morning for his lordship’s visit and rather enjoying the fluency with which the dignified phrases rolled off her pen. It was not every day, after all, that one had the opportunity of giving a handsome set-down to a peer of the realm.
She gave the letter to Goodborn who promised to have it sent off at once and returned to her less exciting correspondence. Presently Mama came into the room, her work bag under her arm and, on this day that seemed to be governed by letters, an open letter in her hand. Where was Cousin Thomasine, asked Mama. When Honor admitted to ignorance of that lady’s whereabouts, Mama was inclined to take umbrage, especially when told that her cousin might not return before nightfall. However, the contents of her letter had given her thoughts that much needed ‘other direction’ of which her cousin had spoken so wistfully, and she could not wait until evening to share the interesting suggestion that it contained. Honor was tacitly permitted to emerge from the social limbo to which her self-willed conduct had banished her and readmitted to Mama’s confidence.
The letter came from a cousin of Papa’s at present residing in Carlisle, and it contained an invitation to the entire family to spend the months of high summer in that northern city. It would mean a long and toilsome journey but Mama was much inclined to favour the scheme. She did not say that it would serve the purpose of removing her elder daughter from the pernicious influence of a certain undesirable person, though in fact this consideration had, for once, come first with her. Instead she dwelt at length on the advantages that might accrue to Percy from such a visit. For Papa’s great friend, the Reverend Thomas Percy, for whom Percy had been named, had just been appointed Dean of Carlisle. Such a fortunate coincidence must indicate the working of Providence. There would surely be an opportunity of bringing Percy to the distinguished scholar’s notice and who knew what might not come of it?
Honor could think of quite a number of eventualities that might come of introducing the ingenious Percy to his father’s old college friend—and preferred not to dwell on them! But she was so thankful to be able to converse amicably with Mama once more that she said nothing to damp these innocent aspirations. Not until it became plain that she was expected to be of the party did she enter any objection. But when Mama, always a queasy traveller, announced that she dared say she would stand the long journey well enough, so long as she had her dear Honor to take charge of the twins, she warned Mama not to count upon her support. “For if you are not to set out until the end of July I may well be married by then and it will be for my husband to say whether or no he can spare me.”
Mama’s reproaches for such heartless ingratitude and general contumacy were providentially cut short by the arrival of the Charnley family who had called to enquire why all their friends had been missing from morning service and to invite them to spend the afternoon. On hearing of Aunt Thomasine’s defection, Mrs. Charnley, with her usual good nature, promptly offered to chaperone Honor to the Ball along with Penelope, but the girl said that she had decided not to attend. Would Mrs. Charnley be so obliging as to make her excuses to Major Brereton and ask him to apologize to her partners? She was finding city stuffiness enervating and thought that for once she would stay quietly at home, since the hundreds of candles that would illuminate the ballroom would make the atmosphere insufferably hot.
It was a feeble excuse but it sufficed. Mama and Tamsin went off with the Charnleys and she was left to enjoy a period of quiet reflection. She was, indeed, very tired, though more from the mental stress of arguing with Mama than from any physical cause. And her interlude of peace proved to be all too brief. Half way through the afternoon Goodborn came in to ask if she would
receive Mr. John Arthurson, Lord Melborne’s steward. Remembering Aunt Thomasine’s strictures on an earlier occasion, Honor was a little dubious about the propriety of receiving a male visitor when she was alone in the house and it was obvious that Goodborn shared her doubts. But his devotion to the Melborne interest prevailed. “Mr. Arthurson is a very respectable gentleman,” he said, coaxingly, “and I shall be within call if you should chance to need me.”
Honor suppressed a smile. The dear old man! But her own curiosity tipped the scale and she agreed to receive the visitor. In the event he proved to be only an envoy, bringing yet another letter from Lord Melborne. He had been chosen for this task, he explained, because Lord Melborne knew her to be slightly acquainted with him. His lordship, it seemed, had been told of her visit to Swynden Hall and that it had been arranged through the good graces of his steward. Mr. Arthurson’s present mission, as the letter would confirm, was to hand over a draft on Lord Melborne’s bank and to collect the diamonds. His lordship had felt that she would not care to entrust them to a stranger and since he found himself unable to wait upon Miss Fenton at the time that she had appointed, the present arrangement had seemed to him the best solution. Perhaps Miss Fenton would be kind enough to read the letter.
She did so. It substantiated all that Mr. Arthurson had said and added that, although his lordship found himself unable to keep the appointment that she had offered him for Friday, he hoped that she would be willing to receive him at a later date so that he might thank her personally for the generous treatment that he had received at her hands. A draft on Coutts’ bank was enclosed.
She was aware of a deep sense of relief. The whole business settled; no one to protest that she was ill-advised, or to make a scene; not even a difficult interview with a stranger whose exalted rank, to speak truth, rather frightened her. She felt that the Marquess was indeed a great gentleman who had arranged matters as tactfully and comfortably as it could be done. She asked Mr. Arthurson to be seated while she went to bring the necklace.
It was natural that she should feel a small pang of regret as she laid it, for the last time, in its faded case. Her first jewel—and it had brought her luck and love. But it was right that it should go back to its proper place. On impulse she called Goodborn in to take a farewell look at the lovely thing before she restored it to its rightful owner. He and Mr. Arthurson admired it in respectful silence for a moment. Then she snapped shut the hasp and handed the case to the steward. She could not help wondering, as she watched him walk down the steps with the case in his pocket, whether she would ever see the Swynden necklace again. Perhaps, if the Marquess married, his bride would wear it. But it was unlikely that little Honor Fenton would be there to see her do so; or even Mrs. Jocelyn, if ever she attained to that state of felicity!
She braced herself to face a storm of recrimination from Mama when she came home. But oddly enough, after the first grieving over such shocking wastefulness, Mama had little to say. Perhaps Aunt Thomasine’s stinging rebuke had gone home to some effect; perhaps the sight of an actual banker’s draft for so stupendous a sum as ten thousand pounds had a bemusing effect. At any rate she was soon immersed in schemes for laying out the money to the best advantage and Honor was able to heave a sigh of relief for having brushed through the business so well and to note with affectionate amusement that, though not consulted as to the way in which the money should be spent, she was at least included among the beneficiaries.
It was very late when Aunt Thomasine returned and she was tired and inclined to be cross because Honor had not attended the Ball. “No need to give the quizzes occasion to talk by absenting yourself,” she said grumpily. “They’ll talk fast enough when you marry that obstinate, cross-grained creature you’ve set your heart on.” And then, seeing Honor’s hurt face and instinctive withdrawal, she relented and said, “Take no notice of me, child, I’m tired out and needing my bed. Too old to go gallivanting half across the country. And never heed what I said about your man. For he is a man, and one who knows his own mind, what’s more. I’m out of reason cross because I’ve been telling lies. Doesn’t suit my constitution. But if I hadn’t done it, we’d have had your mother with us tomorrow and that would never do. So I’ve told her I’ve got the toothache—and that you’re coming with me to visit the dentist. That fixed it. Never could abide dentists. So she’ll stay quiet at home while you and I sally forth to meet our fate.”
On that portentous note she retired to bed. Honor had nothing else to do but to follow her example, still wondering where in the world Aunt Thomasine had spent the day, and what had been the business that had so exhausted her.
Chapter Fifteen
A night’s repose was more than sufficient to restore Aunt Thomasine to her usual good humour. Indeed she seemed positively perky when she joined Honor at the breakfast table. And since Mrs. Fenton’s decision to breakfast in her own room once more made it unnecessary for her to feign the agonies of violent toothache, there was nothing to set a damper on her spirits.
Knowing that she was going to meet Mr. Jocelyn, Honor had been at considerable pains to look her very best. She had chosen a dress in his favourite green, a fragile thing of delicate muslin, the sleeves deeply flounced with ivory lace and the overskirt trimmed with matching ruffles. Aunt Thomasine eyed her critically and nodded approval. “Very pretty,” she pronounced. “But best take a shawl or a pelisse.”
Honor blinked at her. Though it was not yet eleven o’clock the day was already so warm that even in her airy muslin she felt a slight stickiness of perspiration. “A shawl?” she queried disbelievingly.
“Yes,” insisted Aunt Thomasine. And then, with some impatience, “To muffle about my face after I have had my tooth drawn. Your Mama will think it strange otherwise.”
This was really carrying dissimulation too far, thought Honor, but she went off obediently to bring the required wrap.
They were a little early at the rendezvous but Mr. Jocelyn was before them, pacing up and down at a speed quite unsuited to so warm a day and very far removed from his usual indolent ease. Even his social poise seemed to have deserted him for once, for he greeted them with exactly the kind of foolish ineptitude that normally made him laugh.
“You brought her, then?” he said, as he took both Honor’s hands in his, regardless of the scandal that such a display of unbridled passion would create if he chanced to be observed.
Aunt Thomasine smiled indulgently, in high delight to see so cool and collected a gentleman in such a taking. “Yes. I brought her,” she agreed solemnly. “But she doesn’t know for what purpose. You may take her to admire that singularly inappropriate looking temple,” she instructed him, indicating a small marble pavilion of pseudo oriental design that the whim of the proprietor had caused to be set among the green lawns. “I will await you on this bench. But don’t go out of sight,” she admonished automatically.
Mr. Jocelyn drew Honor’s hand within his arm and meekly escorted her towards the pavilion. There were not very many people in the gardens as yet, which was, perhaps, as well, for he drew her within the shelter of the arched doorway, even if not quite out of Aunt Thomasine’s sight. In any case Aunt Thomasine chose to look tactfully in the opposite direction as soon as she saw him raise her niece’s hand to his lips. She was too far away to hear him say softly, “Are you still of a mind to marry me, my sweet?”
Honor looked at him wonderingly. Did he think her so fickle? So changeable? “Yes,” she said simply.
“Then will you marry me now, today, without any fashionable fuss and only your aunt to see you pledge yourself to me?”
Her eyes grew huge and dark. “Yes! Oh, yes!” she breathed. “It is what I should like best of anything. Just we two—and aunt, because she has been so good to me. But can we? Don’t we have to have banns read and wait for three weeks?” she asked doubtfully.
“Not when we have a special license,” he reminded her, “and I told you the other night that I had taken the precaution of obtaining one
. We may be married wherever we wish and as soon as we choose. I thought perhaps—the chapel at Swynden Hall? It would be private and quiet. And I have a friend in orders who would gladly perform the ceremony for us.”
“Lord Melborne will allow us to be married in his chapel? It is very kind in him. I am so glad he has his necklace back.”
The inconsequence of the remark made Mr. Jocelyn smile and seemed to restore him to his normal poise. “Yes, Miss Independence,” he said teasingly. “I know all about that. And the price that was paid for it. As well that I am not marrying you for your expectations, isn’t it? I should have been sadly disappointed.”
“You should be grateful to me for having spared you the stigma of being thought a fortune hunter,” she retorted.
This time his laughter was whole-hearted. “High time you were married and broke to bridle, my girl,” he said cheerfully. “That tongue of yours grows sharper every day. Already I detect distinct overtones of Aunt Thomasine. But we are keeping her waiting. If you are really sure—if your heart is not set on all the flummery of a society wedding—shall we go? Now?”
Her heart seemed to be beating furiously in a very unusual position at the base of her throat, which made speech difficult. She nodded and slipped her hand into his in a confiding way that brought a lump into Aunt Thomasine’s throat, too, so that it was a silent little party that walked out to the waiting carriage.
Nor did they talk very much on the drive to Swynden Hall, save that Aunt Thomasine triumphantly announced, “Now you know why I told you to bring a shawl. These open carriages are all very well in warm weather,” with a disparaging sniff at the gleaming landau which had the top folded back, “but they can be extremely draughty. It would never do for you to take cold.”