“Dear me! What an exceedingly difficult question. I should say that it is almost impossible to draw a line between the two as regards conduct for even quite old people do not always impress the onlooker with the maturity of their outlook. But I suppose, strictly speaking, one is grown-up when one ceases to grow taller. Unfortunately, at that point one frequently swaps growing ‘up’ with growing ‘out’ – increasing one’s girth! I begin to wish I had not initiated such a topic. No doubt you are thinking that it is a long time since I grew up, even perhaps since I began to grow old.”
“Oh, not old, my lord!” she exclaimed hastily.
“No?” he asked in the same tone in which she had queried his remembering her. “How old do you suppose I am?”
“That is not a question I am prepared to answer.”
“Why not? Are you afraid of wounding my feelings? I asked the question and must be prepared to accept the answer.”
She looked at him with an appraising eye and he raised an eyebrow. “Old enough to be your father?”
“More than forty then,” she answered.
“You are three and twenty, are you not? I suppose I could be no more than fifteen years your senior and creep in under the forty mark, but you are right. I am nearer fifty than forty.”
“You do not show your age, my lord.”
“No? You mean I am not yet a dotard – but I am too old for you in any society other than ours, which places a premium upon youth in females and finds no fault with ageing men – and too old for your little friend. Is she the same age as you?”
“Yes; I am a couple of months older. Were you taken with her?”
“I own I was. She has the freshness and vulnerability of a flower – in its first season.”
The turn the conversation had taken was by no means pleasing to Louisa who, although far from vain, did not wish to listen to a man whom she found stimulating sing the praises of her ‘little friend’.
“She has never been introduced to Society,” she said. “Her father was a parson and I do not believe she has ever been to a party before.”
“No; I have not forgotten that she admitted to never having stood up to dance in her life. It has not been a long life but, even so, it seems quite shocking that such a pretty creature should never have had the opportunity to dance. I am looking forward to putting that right.”
“I hope she will consent to stand up with you,” Louisa said rather tartly, remembering with some irritation Agnes’s avowed dislike of the Marquess.
“Oh, I daresay she will,” he said with the sort of arrogance which made her long to slap him.
He was, of course, proved right. Agnes did stand up with him for the first dance, thus making everyone notice her and wonder who the exquisite little creature was who was dressed so demurely in black with her dark hair threaded with a yellow ribbon.
He came straight from her to Louisa for the second dance and she wished that she could find a reason to reject him but, as the evening was informal, she had no dance card and no partners lined up. Indeed, try as she would to gaze out past the curtains into the garden at something fascinating, she was doing nothing and speaking to nobody when he presented himself.
She gave a little start as though she had not heard him approach or seen him out of the corner of her eye and afforded him what she hoped he would interpret as a mechanical smile as she allowed him to lead her into the set. She was further incensed when she found herself standing next to Agnes, who had been led out by Mr Armitage, another man whom Louisa had thought admired her but who, she was now convinced, only had eyes for Agnes. Certainly his gaze was fixed upon the little flower face of her friend. What was it, she wondered with a stab of sudden unexpected pain, about her self-effacing little friend which had such an effect upon men?
Agnes gave her a somewhat diffident smile, clearly conscious that she had stolen a march on her more dashing acquaintance and eager to apologise for any hurt this might have caused. Louisa, seeing it and feeling both warmed by her friend’s understanding and ashamed of her jealousy, turned down the corners of her mouth and cast a sideways glance at the Marquess.
Danehill himself appeared unconscious of having made a faux pas by leading out a girl other than his host’s daughter for the first dance; probably it was his belief that someone in his position could do no wrong, particularly in the house of a business man whom he was, in any event, honouring merely by having accepted the invitation.
He conversed with Louisa in a dull but unexceptionable manner whenever they came together for long enough to say anything and she answered in like vein although she longed to say something which would arrest his attention.
“How well you dance,” he commented at last, which she immediately took to be, although ostensibly a positive comparison between her and Agnes, a tilt at her wealth.
“Oh, my parents have not hesitated to engage the best dancing masters,” she replied coldly.
“Clearly it has been worth the investment.”
“Indeed? I cannot think that knowledge of the steps of the latest dance is likely to render me superior to other females.” As soon as she had said the words, Louisa wished them unsaid for she was aware of the bitterness in her tone and knew that the worldly and experienced Marquess would ascribe such feelings to the correct cause.
“Oh, I don’t know; it is a pleasure to stand up with a woman who knows what she is doing; I am not afraid for my dancing shoes.”
“I am persuaded they were not damaged by Miss Helman,” she said, unable to leave the subject.
“Oh no, but then she, although she admitted she had never danced before, is such a little thing that, even had she trodden upon my toes, she would have done no more damage than a pinch of thistledown. Have you been friends since childhood?”
“We were at school together.”
“And is Mr Armitage her admirer?”
“I daresay he is; Miss Helman seems to collect admirers like other people collect shells.”
“Does she?”
“Did you suppose you were unique?”
“By no means but I would guess that there are certain difficulties surrounding admiration for Miss Helman.”
“I cannot perceive any. She is neither married nor engaged.”
“I do not imagine that either would be the case were she a little better provided for; a woman who has taken a position as a companion to an old lady must be in want of a dowry.”
“You think that the only reason why she is still free? It would not be much use Mr Armitage conceiving an attachment to her: he is obliged to work for a living and she, as you say, has nothing. But I am persuaded that a well-breeched man would have no fault to find with her.”
“He would have to be excessively well-breeched for it not to matter a trifle. Looking around the company present, I can see no man who could afford to overlook altogether the absence of a dowry, but then I imagine the guests have been chosen with you in mind rather than Miss Helman.”
This observation, delivered in a cool tone with a curling lip, not unnaturally enraged Miss Newbolt.
“Are you determined to insult me?” she asked in a low voice that vibrated with fury.
“By no means. How have I insulted you?”
“First, you lead out my friend for the opening dance when, as the senior peer present, everyone would have expected you to stand up with me; second, you imply that, where Miss Helman is clearly unwed solely on account of her lack of a portion, I, amply provided for, must be a positive antidote to have remained single!”
“Is that how you see it? Why are you still unwed? I am persuaded you must have received plenty of offers; have none of them been to your liking?”
“No, they were not.”
“I thought that must be the case; so your parents have gathered another set of gentlemen, all of whom come from the highest rank but most of whom could not reasonably be described as precisely rich, to bring you up to the fence again? I don’t imagine I am the only one to have met y
ou before.”
“All the persons present are friends,” she returned icily. “Neither my parents nor I wished to fill our house with strangers.”
“Of course not; Miss Helman’s presence is now explained. How about Mr Armitage? He seems hardly old enough to have been on the town five years ago.”
“You know why he is here: his mother is living on the estate.”
“Oh, yes, of course. What has happened to the older brother who, I believe, pursued you assiduously a few years ago? And why is his mother so impecunious that she is living in a farm labourer’s cottage?”
“Probably on account of the elder son’s failure to turn his pursuit of me to good account,” she snapped.
“Ah! Is that all it is? I had wondered if there was another reason.”
“What possible reason could there be for a Baronet’s widow to take up residence in a farm worker’s cottage other than a shortage of funds?”
“None, indeed; I merely wonder why the family is so destitute.”
“If you wish to know, may I suggest you ask one of them?”
“I don’t somehow think that would become me; I am not on such terms of intimacy with any of them. Yonder young man has a self-righteous air and would no doubt take exception to my asking such a question and I can think of no circumstances in which I could interrogate the widow. I thought you might know since you are clearly quite snug with them all.”
Louisa did not vouchsafe a reply to this; she thought that it would not become her to speculate upon the financial circumstances of her tenant – or Mr Armitage – and decided that the sooner the subject was abandoned the better.
But it seemed that Lord Danehill had other ideas.
“Where, I wonder, is the Baronet?” he mused.
“He is dead.”
“There is always a Baronet unless the man had nothing but daughters and we both know he had two sons. What has become of your suitor?”
Louisa paused while she wracked her brains for a suitably evasive answer and thus undermined her eventual reply. “I understand he joined the army.”
“The devil! That degenerate in the army! I should not imagine he would be able to march more than a yard or two without collapsing! In that case, it will not be long before the other inherits and it strikes me that you would favour an approach from him. Is that why he is here? Indeed, is that why his mother is but a mile or two down the road?”
“I had never met Mr Armitage before this evening,” Louisa replied with dignity.
“Had you not? And yet you were eager to fetch and carry him up and down the road at great inconvenience to yourself? Can it have been a coup de foudre on your part?”
“How dare you speak so to me?” Louisa exclaimed, her voice rising in spite of her attempt to keep it low.
“Oh, pray don’t fly out at me! I think you perfectly charming. I did not mean to upset you – well, only a little, just to see how far I could push you! Forgive me!”
The dance came to an end and the Marquess, taking Louisa’s hand in a firm clasp, tucked it into his arm and held it there with his own.
“I do not feel so inclined,” she responded, tugging her hand from his arm and giving him a fulminating look.
He smiled, repossessed himself of the hand and kissed it.
After that he stood up with her several times although it seemed to her that he made a point of waltzing with Agnes, whom she judged uncomfortable clasped in his arms.
Mr Armitage did not stand up with anyone for the still rather daring dance. He sat, instead, beside his hostess and engaged her in conversation so that Louisa was obliged to submit to the embrace of Viscount Hersham, a perfectly unexceptionable gentleman in his thirties. She wondered if he, too, had conceived a tendre for Agnes, who, she noticed, had not sat down all night. She had thought, at the beginning, that it might be Agnes who would seat herself at the pianoforte but, if she had had that intention, she had been thwarted by the Marquess who, as soon as the suggestion of dancing was made, had rushed to her side in order to lead her into the first dance.
As the evening wore on it became increasingly clear to Louisa that all the men sought her friend in preference to her; she found this odd and unsettling because, in spite of having described Agnes as an exquisite little thing with the delicate beauty of a wild flower, she had not, before, considered that she might prove to be a rival. In their early days at school it had been Agnes who had shown kindness and friendship to Louisa, who was inclined to be loud and brash and drew critical comments from the other better bred girls; later – recently – it had been Louisa who had taken pity on ‘poor, orphaned’ Agnes but now, astounded by the way her mousey little friend had become the belle of the ball, she wondered if she would have been wiser to have refrained from insisting on her attending the party. She could see that, once introduced to all these tonnish persons, the quiet and well-bred Agnes would not be allowed to retreat to the shadows again.
At the end of the evening, when Agnes was all for returning to Lady Armitage, armed only with a torch, Louisa was tempted to allow her to depart but, remembering the way she had insisted her friend stay overnight and the loving assignment of her old bedroom to her, she could not very well send her on her way.
“Nonsense! Of course you cannot go home now! It is by far too late to be walking!”
“Oh, I see no necessity for her to walk,” put in the Marquess smoothly, appearing by their side. “If you are determined to go home, Miss Helman, pray allow me to drive you.”
Louisa, thinking this an even less appealing arrangement than her friend remaining in the house, firmly vetoed his proposal, pointing out that Lady Armitage would have retired to bed hours ago and would not wish to be disturbed by such a late arrival.
Chapter 19
The following morning, wearing one of Louisa’s dresses and leaving her black silk to be cleaned and pressed by Annie, Agnes did walk back across the fields, although she was not alone. She was accompanied by Mr Armitage, who clearly thought she should not be allowed to go by herself.
The rest of the evening, after her dance with Lord Danehill, had flown by in a whirl. She had not wanted for dance partners and had enjoyed her first foray into what might be termed ‘Society’. She had discovered that, although she did not know most of the steps for most of the dances, she possessed a fine sense of rhythm and, being naturally graceful, had acquitted herself adequately.
Her success – and her position as the reigning belle – had been further embedded when his lordship had stood up with her for the waltz towards the end of the evening. The dance had not long been permitted by the patronesses of Almack’s and was still somewhat frowned upon by many old-fashioned and straitlaced matrons, but in a private house there was no reason why a female should not dance it, particularly perhaps when she was no longer a girl.
She did not of course know the steps but the Marquess assured her that, since he would be holding her, he would be perfectly able to guide her. Already rendered confident by her earlier dance with him, she submitted and stood up readily.
It was a curious sensation to be held in the arms of a man of whom she was instinctively wary but his hold was secure and by no means overpowering. Once again he instructed her where to place her feet but this time it was a great deal easier to follow his directions on account of the way he swung her around. He made no attempt to engage her in conversation although it might have been easier than during the more conventional and mannered dance they had performed earlier; instead, he reserved his utterances for instructions and occasional praise. The praise was so heady that she felt quite breathless by the time the last note died away.
“Thank you,” he said, letting his arms drop and taking her hand instead.
“Thank you,” she replied.
He smiled, this time rather sadly, and said, “I cannot recall ever having enjoyed dancing the waltz so much before.”
“Goodness – nor have I!”
“I daresay you have not disliked it so much
before either,” he remarked, amused. He still held her hand and made no attempt to lead her back to her chair.
“I did not dislike it at all.”
“I hope perhaps you have softened a little towards me now that you have seen that I can behave well,” he said.
“Is that important to you?” she asked curiously. “That I should view you more kindly?”
“I believe it is. You see, I am very much aware that you have enormous influence with Miss Newbolt.”
Startled by this admission, Agnes moved away from him. “Are you intending to pursue her?” she asked.
“I suppose that is why I have been brought here but, as usual, I find myself reluctant to do what is expected of me.”
“Did you ask me to dance in order to concentrate her mind upon what she might, if she plays her cards skilfully, one day possess?”
“No; I asked you to dance because I consider you by far the prettiest woman in the room. The thing is that I could fall in love with you, adorable Miss Helman, in the blink of an eye – but it would not do for you have no money and I, for all my extensive estates and noble title, am a little short of the ready. Your friend is a very different sort of a female – to tell you the truth, she terrifies me.”
“I am persuaded you exaggerate, my lord. Louisa is a most wonderful person: kind and generous to a fault; she is my dearest friend.”
“And yet you are so very different.”
“Perhaps that is why we are so attached to each other. Louisa has a great deal of force, which I have not, and confidence, which I lack.”
“She strikes me as a rather ‘managing’ female but I agree with you that she seems kind. She is also, unless I am all at sea, a person of unbending moral fibre and it is that, more even than her belief that she knows exactly what should be done and the correct way to do it, that I find so unnerving. I am afraid I would not be able to live up to it.”
“Would you like to?”
“Become an exemplar of moral rectitude? I am afraid that I might fail spectacularly, particularly if my mentor were a person of such stern judgment. The thing is, you see, that I can imagine mending my ways if I were to be treated gently and forgiven when I erred, but there is something a little rigid about Miss Newbolt’s goodness.”
Agnes Or The Art 0f Friendship Page 15