Agnes Or The Art 0f Friendship

by Catherine Bowness

  While she had been speaking to Agnes, Sir John Armitage had been throwing down the gauntlet to the Marquess. The upshot would be a duel, most likely fought the following dawn and one man might soon be dead unless she could stop it. Knowing the full story of the Armitage misfortune and Danehill’s part in it, it seemed to her that the only thing she could do was approach the Marquess himself and, although it would be too late to prevent the challenge being issued – and presumably accepted – she still hoped that she would be able to persuade him to withdraw from the combat, even at this late stage.

  She found her mother in her own small saloon upstairs where she appeared to be rearranging mounds of lists and bills, some of which were held down by paperweights while others were strewn about the desk apparently awaiting a decision on their destination.

  “Mama!” she cried, bursting into the room without either knocking or waiting for permission to enter.

  “Dear child!” her mother responded, turning, with a frown upon her face, to look at the daughter whom she had last seen begging for help in an affair of the heart.

  “You have not yet spoken to Papa, have you?”

  “I own I have not,” Mrs Newbolt admitted, looking a little guilty. “He went out early this morning. I was intending to try this afternoon. Why? Have you changed your mind?”

  “Yes, Mama, I have – oh, not about wanting to marry him but about the best approach.”

  “What have you in mind now?” her mother asked warily.

  “Oh, I will think of something,” Louisa replied with an assumption of vagueness. “You will not tell anyone – even Papa – what I said about Agnes and Sir John last night, will you? It was in the strictest confidence and I would not like her to know that I had broken my word, even by telling you.”

  “No, I promise I will not say a word,” Mrs Newbolt agreed at once. She liked Agnes Helman and she knew her daughter was deeply attached to her but, for her own part, she was not particularly interested in the girl’s heart or to whom she had pledged it, just so long as it was not Lord Danehill.

  “Thank you!” Louisa breathed. “I knew I could count on you, Mama. It is really important – pray do not consider it a trivial matter – it is not; indeed it may prove to be a matter of life or death.”

  “What exactly are you planning?” her mother asked, the fervour of this explanation increasing her anxiety.

  “Nothing, Mama, nothing for you to be concerned about, I promise,” Louisa said, kissing her mother and preparing to leave the room again.

  “You will have your father to answer to if you do anything bone-headed,” Mrs Newbolt reminded her in a stern tone, knowing this to be an idle threat.

  “Yes, of course I know. I will not do anything foolish – pray trust me, Mama.”

  These words struck a note of doom in the mother’s heart but, short of locking her child in her room, she could think of nothing she could do to deflect her from her purpose. She was pleased to note, however, that Louisa seemed more positive than she had the night before when she had, unusually, seen no way out of her difficulties other than to beg for help from her mama. Such desperation had worried Mrs Newbolt; she had not liked to see her child so low-spirited. Now, although she knew that high spirits were generally the forerunner to imprudence, she was cheered by the girl’s more lively demeanour.

  Louisa, bent on helping her friend and, for her sake, determined to shield Sir John from the Marquess’s sword, ran downstairs to find his lordship.

  She discovered him on the terrace whither he had fled the rest of the chattering guests. He was pacing up and down in a way that made Louisa certain that he knew his secret had been uncovered.

  “My lord,” she said.

  “Yes?” He stopped abruptly and turned to look at her, no great warmth in his glance.

  “Have you received bad news?” she enquired, fixing what she hoped was a sympathetic look upon her face.

  “What in the world makes you ask such a question? As a guest, is it likely that I would receive any news at all? I am afraid I am obliged to wait until I return home to catch up with what you call ‘news’, good or bad.”

  “It is just that you look disturbed, my lord,” she said, going to him and laying her hand upon his arm.

  “I suppose,” he said harshly, “that this bizarre show of sympathy indicates you have discovered the reason why your friend fled so incontinently yesterday.”

  “Yes. I have spoken to her and she confessed that you had honoured her with an offer of marriage, which she felt unable to accept.”

  “Did she perhaps confide her reasons? They remain obscure to me.”

  “No, but I am afraid that they may be connected with me and her sense of obligation towards me.”

  “You mean that she believed I came here with the intention of making you an offer and was afraid that, if she accepted me, she would anger you?”

  “Partly, my lord, but it is a little more than that. She confessed that she not only did not love you in the way that she believes a woman should love her husband but that she thought your characters would not suit. Indeed,” Louisa set her jaw and plunged into what she feared would result in an unimaginable degree of humiliation, “she insisted that you and I would be better suited.”

  The Marquess threw back his head and gave a bark of derisive laughter. “Are you making me an offer?”

  Louisa felt the colour rise up her neck and engulf her face. This was appalling but, nothing ventured nothing gained, she told herself, squared her shoulders the better to withstand the blow and said, “Yes.”

  “You are asking me to marry you?” he persisted as though determined to use the knife she had handed him to devastating effect.

  “Yes. I assume you came here intending to make me an offer, thereby getting your hands upon my fortune.” As she spoke, trying to balance the humiliation she felt with what she was able to mete out to him, she tilted her chin and fixed him with an unblinking stare.

  “I did,” he admitted, “but then I fell in love with your friend.”

  “I know, but she does not love you; I do,” Louisa declared, daunted but unflinching.

  “Good God!” he exclaimed, took two steps towards her, laid hold of her shoulders and kissed her with some force.

  “What do you think now?” he asked, stepping back.

  “What am I supposed to think?” she countered, her cheeks flaming. “Was that meant to persuade me that you’re a scoundrel and that I would do well to withdraw my proposal? It has not. Why do you think I have declared an attachment to you? Why indeed do you suppose I have formed one? It is not, I assure you, because I ever considered you an epitome of virtue.” She spoke with as much disdain as he.

  “Obviously not,” he conceded, a curious expression on his face. “Is it, on the contrary, what you perceive to be my evil nature which attracts you?”

  “I do not think so. I have never considered myself particularly enamoured of evil natures. It is – I hardly know how to describe it – but something draws me to you.”

  “Indeed? Can you not be a little more specific?”

  “No, I do not believe I can. It is the first time I have felt anything of this nature and I had hoped that – that you might – that ...” Her voice died away beneath the combination of his scorn and her own shame.

  “That I might have made the offer you expected and thus your infatuation might have been, shall we say, satisfied in the normal course of events?”

  “I suppose so.” If she had believed that what she felt for Lord Danehill was love before she had embarked upon this dreadful scene, she was no longer under any illusion about its nature; she almost hated him.

  “So now you throw yourself at me? Are you sure it is marriage you seek, a contract that comes with the expectation of years chained to a person whose attractions will diminish soon enough? Is it not rather that you want me to make love to you but do not know how to ask for such a thing?”

  “No.”

  “No? No, that�
�s not what you want or no, you don’t know how to ask for such a thing?”

  “Must you be so cruel?”

  “I believe I must, if only to show you what a dangerous path you are considering. My dear girl, before I give you what you are too ashamed to admit you want, I must insist that I know what it is. You strike me as a female who is used to getting her own way but, if you do not make your wishes plain, you may find yourself in receipt of something you do not want and were, in point of fact, unaware that you were requesting.”

  Louisa swallowed. She was beginning to understand that she had indeed asked for something which, although she did passionately desire it, she had not previously thought of as distinct from marriage.

  “I did not know,” she faltered, stepping back but still keeping her eyes on his face.

  “No, I rather thought you did not which is why, in spite of being what I don’t doubt you consider a dyed-in-the-wool villain, I am determined that you know precisely what you seek before I give it to you.”

  “Will you give it to me?” she asked, surprised. “I had thought you the sort of man who would likely make a point of denying a person what they sought.”

  “I might, but I cannot do so if I do not know what it is. My dear Miss Newbolt, you must be precise. I will make it easier for you since I can see that your shame makes it difficult for you to speak plainly. Do you want me to make love to you or are you determined on marriage?”

  “Yes, I am!” she flashed, horrified. “I will not permit you to make love to me unless – or indeed until – you marry me.”

  “There is no need to fly out at me. You see how important it is to speak plainly: I was under the impression you wanted love-making and had only requested marriage because you were afraid you would not get one without the other. Is it not a little inappropriate for you now to warn me, with something akin to outrage, to keep my hands off you until the knot is tied? I never thought to lay a finger on you until you suggested it.”

  “The deal,” she said through gritted teeth, “is marriage. A gentleman would not have bullied me so unmercifully nor asked such abominable questions. To be plain: I am prepared to allow you to replenish your purse in exchange for marriage.”

  “Very well; now all is clear. Should I, I wonder, remind you that love-making is not the only thing you will be getting for your money? You will become Marchioness of Danehill. Oh, don’t look down your nose at me, my dear; you may not care for such things but your mother does and I suppose your father must be reconciled to the idea or he would not have permitted your mother to invite me here.”

  When she did not answer, he continued, “I own I am a little uncomfortable about submitting to your demand. I suspect you are quite as dangerous as I and will make me pay for your thousands in countless disagreeable ways. Am I to be allowed to make up my own mind on any matter or shall I be entirely subject to your whims?”

  “Would you not have been prepared to be subject to Agnes’s? Were you not intending to reform in an attempt to be worthy of her?”

  “What if I were? I would have tried to please her, tried not to frighten or hurt her but you … I don’t think I have to be careful with you. You will always give as good - or as bad - as you get. I own I did for a moment see myself as a reformed character, a hard-working manager of my estates, a gentle and devoted husband and, eventually, a firm and loving father. Such a picture was immensely seductive; I thought I could put the past behind me and that she was the sort of person who would forgive the bad things I have done.”

  “Would you have confessed them?”

  “Eventually, yes; I had every intention of doing so but not before we tied the knot; I own I was afraid some of them might have proved insuperable barriers. I hoped, later, that she would come to love me and so be prepared to forgive.”

  “How naïve!” she exclaimed, wanting to hurt him as much as he had hurt her. “Will you confess them to me?”

  He had looked almost amused as he spoke, playing on her jealousy, but the suddenness of her question alerted him to an unexpected danger; his face hardened, his eyes focussed so narrowly on hers that she feared he would drag what she was concealing from her.

  “Is that what this whole astonishing exercise is about? You want to extract a confession from me – may I ask why?”

  “Why not? I think I deserve it if I am to refill your purse.”

  “Except that total disclosure did not form part of our original contract, did it? Do you wish to add it as a codicil? Very well. Let us both confess our evil doings to each other. You can begin.”

  “I am too young to have done much. The only thing I can think of is what I have just said and done – made you a shocking offer.”

  “Indeed. I am so stupefied that I hardly know how to take advantage of it. I begin to think I cannot be as bad as I had believed.”

  “What would you have felt obliged to confess to Agnes once you were married?” Louisa persisted, refusing to be deflected.

  “Hah! You will have to wait until we are married to hear that!”

  “Are we to be married?” she asked in a small voice.

  “Why not? My love won’t have me so I suppose I may as well take the heiress who’s offering herself to me on a plate. Or have you changed your mind?”

  “Not yet, but I would like to hear what you think would have so horrified Agnes that she would have withdrawn. For all my boldness, I am at heart a principled character.”

  “I am aware of that, which is why I find your conduct this afternoon so astounding but, now that I have your thousands in my sights, I own I have no wish to put you off. Would you like me to speak to your father tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well, I will do so, and then I daresay we will be left alone so that I can put the question to you, after which, no doubt, there will be much rejoicing. All this, of course, is assuming your father will permit me to pay my addresses to you. He strikes me as an astute man so that, in spite of my suspicion that your parents are seeking a title for you, I do not think it entirely impossible that he will send me away with my tail between my legs.”

  “You are allowing your failure with Agnes to undermine your confidence,” she said kindly.

  “Perhaps.”

  Once again he fixed her with a penetrating glance which she met squarely. He smiled then with such rare and astonishing sweetness that her heart missed a beat.

  “As a matter of fact, I think you are right – or your friend was right - and we will deal extremely well together.” He held out his hand and, when she took it, drew her towards him and kissed her with something approaching tenderness.

  Chapter 36

  “I hope so,” she replied meekly.

  He kissed her again and said, “If I had not fallen, possibly absurdly, in love with your little friend, I might have been developing quite a tendre for you by this time. I believe I was blinded by an unrealistic desire to reclaim my lost innocence. I will change, I promise.”

  “Oh, pray don’t make promises you will be unable to keep,” she begged, rallying.

  “You seem to have a remarkably poor opinion of me; is it your desire to redeem me which attracts you? Should I be anxious lest, when you have transformed me into a pillar of moral rectitude, you grow bored with me?”

  “No, I cannot conceive ever becoming bored with you but do you think you could begin to reform at once – not wait until we are married?”

  “There again, I suspect, is another attempt to winkle a confession out of me. What do you know to my detriment, my love, which you wish to hear me confirm? In the circumstances I think you should voice it.”

  But it was not confession she sought – she already knew what he had done. The interview, on which she had embarked with the sole intention of stopping the duel, was not going quite as she had planned.

  “You know – or think you know - something which has caused you a deal of anxiety,” he went on when she seemed unable to speak, “and it is that which has prompted this who
le peculiar episode. Have you made me an offer purely in order to ask me something which you still hesitate to name?”

  “I have heard something – a rumour; that is all.”

  “Tell me and I will confirm whether it is true or indeed no more than gossip?”

  He had become, in the last few minutes, so gentle – almost tender - that she plunged headlong into what she was afraid might prove to be an abyss.

  “That you came here, intending to offer for me, because a previously reliable source of revenue had suddenly dried up and you – you could think of no other way of coming about than to marry an heiress.”

  He had been holding her hand; now he dropped it, almost as though it had burned him.

  “An interesting story. Did it reveal what had become of the source – or indeed what it was?”

  “Yes. Pray do not be angry with me, my lord,” she added for his face had turned to stone and for the first time it occurred to her that, in trying to protect Agnes and her love, she might have put herself in danger.

  “Angry with you? Did you begin the rumour?”

  “No, of course I did not; how could I have known such a thing?”

  “I have not the least idea but, whatever it is, I am convinced it is that which has driven your actions this afternoon. I don’t believe you want to marry me at all and, to tell the truth, I cannot conceive how I ever thought you might have done. You wanted to gain my trust so that I would confess my crime.”

  “I do want to marry you,” she asserted, seeing that, contrary to what she might have believed before this afternoon’s gruelling interview, his suspicion that she had been trying to trick him had hurt.

  “Even if I tell you that I have been blackmailing a foolish man who marked the cards nearly thirty years ago? That I have so bled him that his family is not only penniless but beset by debts?”

  She nodded. “Even so.”

  “Why, in Heaven’s name?” he exclaimed.

  “Because I have formed an attachment to you. I already told you that.”

  “You must be touched in the upper storey! Do you not understand that blackmail is a heinous crime and that its perpetrator is beyond redemption?”