Agnes Or The Art 0f Friendship

by Catherine Bowness

  “Yes, I do understand and I am properly appalled but it does not alter my sentiments a whit. How can it? I have never felt it before but it does not seem to me that love is susceptible to reason. All the same, I would like you to make reparation to those you have ruined.”

  Now at last she was within striking distance of her objective for there would be no need for the fight if he were to apologise and make reparation.

  His lordship listened to this speech with growing astonishment until she reached the conclusion and outlined what he realised was the real reason why she had initiated this extraordinary scene.

  “Ah, now we come to it, do we not? You wish me to pay back what I have stolen and hope to force me to do so by pointing out that, if I have acquired the money through marriage to you, it will at least morally be yours. Are you so naïve that you believe it likely that, even if I make you such a promise, I will not break it the minute the knot is tied? Do you not know that, when a woman marries, her fortune becomes the absolute property of her husband?”

  “Yes, of course I know that. I am relying upon your sense of honour.”

  He laughed, a bitter sound without amusement. “What in the world makes you think I have one?”

  “Because you were prepared to forgo my thousands for love of Agnes and because you have taken such pains to explain what I will be letting myself in for if I do in the end marry you.”

  “Hah! You haven’t given the matter enough thought. Don’t you think that spurning your money in favour of love would have meant that I intended to find another victim?”

  “I believe you meant to reform – for her sake.”

  “I own I did - or at least that was the high-flown ambition I nursed deep in my black heart - but I am not at all certain that I would have been equal to the task.”

  “I don’t deny that it would have been difficult but it is curiously hard to let Agnes down; I cannot easily do it myself. But it seems to me that, now, without Agnes – and I am sorry that you have been disappointed there – you still have an opportunity for redemption which will lead ultimately to greater happiness. If you pay back what you owe at once – or as soon as we are married and you have the money – it will be done, finished, and you can stop censuring yourself.”

  “Do you think I do – censure myself?”

  “I think you do now – now that I have pointed out the results of your conduct.”

  “Oh, so I have you to thank for shining a light into my wicked heart and prompting a desire to make reparation?”

  “A little, but mostly it was because of Agnes that you decided to take the path to redemption.”

  “Good God! Do you now see me as a sinner returning, bowed and abject, to the fold? Do you know how much I have taken from them?”

  “No.”

  “Does she? I assume it was she who told you. I suppose Lady Armitage confided in her when she made the discovery after her husband’s death.”

  Louisa, seeing that he had found an explanation, said nothing.

  “No wonder she did not take to me,” he continued after a moment, “and no wonder she warned you against me.”

  “What will you do?” she asked, wishing to avoid too much discussion of her conversation with Agnes.

  “What you ask: endeavour to repay them if you are still willing to marry me – if that would make you happy.”

  “I was not aware that you wanted to make me happy.”

  “No; I own I never thought of making anyone else happy before – not even Agnes. I thought she would make me happy. I don’t know that you will; if this afternoon is any indication, I should think it more likely you’ll make me excessively uncomfortable, if not actively unhappy.”

  Later that night, when Mrs Newbolt paid her daughter a visit in her bedchamber, she seemed surprised to discover that Louisa was less happy than she had expected.

  Mr Newbolt had given his consent and his lordship had duly paid his addresses, with the happy result that the pair was now officially affianced.

  “I made sure you would be longing to talk about your betrothed,” Mrs Newbolt began when Louisa pleaded tiredness and a pressing desire for sleep.

  “Why? What should I say? Do you wish to know whether he kissed me?” Louisa asked pertly. “He did.”

  “I should hope so,” her mother replied. “It would not do if you were to be convinced he was interested only in your fortune – or is that what is troubling you?”

  “No; it is not although I know it to be the case. You will say that I have what I wanted and, yes, up to a point, I have, but, Mama, there’s many a slip ‘twixt cup and lip, is there not? He may still withdraw if the contract does not, in the end, recommend itself to him – and – and – in any event something may happen to him in the interim.”

  “What sort of thing? I don’t think you need be afraid he’ll jilt you, although he seems to have got over Agnes very quickly. He is quite old, my dear, are you afraid he will die?”

  “Yes!” Louisa exclaimed in anguish for she was. She was mortally afraid that he would die in less than twelve hours’ time.

  She had parted from her fiancé at the bottom of the stairs and his manner had disturbed her to such a degree that she was convinced he thought it was his last night on Earth.

  “Good night, beloved,” he had said in a curiously tender tone, taking her hand and, not only kissing it, but holding it in both of his for an appreciable time. “I was unkind to you this afternoon,” he continued in a low voice, “but I will try never to be so again. Will you forgive me?”

  “Yes, of course,” she answered, staring up into his face. “What is it? It seems almost as though you are bidding me farewell.”

  “Only for the night, I hope,” he rejoined. “But each night, when we close our eyes, we commend our soul in some sort to Heaven and can never be sure if we will wake. I wanted you to know that I not only appreciate your efforts on behalf of my soul but also your trust. I promise I will not betray it.”

  “Thank you.”

  She had almost spoken of the duel then, emboldened by the obvious anxiety in his manner as well as what looked remarkably like affection. And then someone else had come out of the saloon and he had dropped her hand. She, giving him a little curtsey, turned and ran up the stairs, aware that he remained in the hall, his face upturned, until she disappeared from his view.

  “Don’t be absurd!” her mother adjured with a little laugh. “He is not that old and, so far as one can tell, perfectly fit and healthy. I should think you will get twenty years out of him – and that may prove to be more than you want!”

  When her mother left her, Louisa got into bed but, although she blew out her candle and lay as still and stiff as though she had been arranged upon a tomb, she did not sleep. She could not detach her mind from the morrow for she was now convinced that the duel had been arranged and would take place before the sun had fully risen; if not, why had he behaved as though he might not see her again, offering her what sounded like a few last words to comfort her in the years ahead.

  It seemed to her that he had vastly more sensibility than she – or indeed anyone else – had ever given him credit for. The duel was not, of course, his choice, although he must have had the choosing of the weapons and she found herself suddenly convinced that he had opted for pistols; if it had been swords, she did not think he would have been so nervous. She knew, or she had heard, that he was a master of swordplay; rumour had it that he had killed his man some years ago and been forced to flee the country until the scandal died down. He would not have been in any doubt about his superiority with that weapon, particularly against an opponent who was so noticeably infirm.

  But, if he had chosen pistols, had he done so because he knew it would not be a fair fight with swords? And if such was his reasoning it seemed to her that he was already on the path to redemption for he must know of his opponent’s skill – and that his infirmity would be unlikely to damage his aim half so much as it would impair his movement in a sword figh
t.

  And, as she repeatedly went over the afternoon’s work, she came to the conclusion that, if he were to die, it would be her fault. He might originally have decided that, if he could kill Sir John, no one would be any the wiser about his historic crime but he must now know that such was by no means the case. She knew, Agnes knew and so, in his mind, did Lady Armitage.

  As for Sir John: he would be bound to want to shoot to kill for he knew nothing of the Marquess’s promise to make reparations and saw him only as the man who had ruined his father.

  She cursed herself for her failure to mention the duel or to extract a promise that he would not fight and decided that she would have to try a different approach. She must go to the cottage, now, in the middle of the night, and ask Agnes to intercede with Sir John. It did not occur to her that her friend might refuse. She knew, of course, that duels were a private matter between gentlemen and ladies were not supposed to know anything about them but, in spite of this, Sir John had clearly discussed the matter with Agnes so that it surely would not be impossible, when she told her of Danehill’s intention to make reparations, for her to revisit the subject with Sir John before he set off for the meeting.

  Accordingly, she waited until she was fairly certain that everybody had gone to bed before she rose and dressed. Wrapping a merino shawl around her shoulders, she crept down the stairs, lit a lantern from one of the candles always left burning overnight in the hall, and went outside. Not wanting to draw attention to herself by going to the stables, she set off across the fields on foot.

  The rain earlier in the day had made the grass wet but it was now a dry, clear night with an autumnal chill and she soon began to shiver in spite of the shawl. She moved rapidly over the familiar terrain, a thin moon and copious stars lighting her way in addition to the lantern.

  It was only when she reached the cottage that she was struck by the difficulty she would have in gaining entry. Everybody would be abed and, since she wanted no one but Agnes to know that she was there, she could not very well knock. As expected, the door was locked. She went round to the back, not with any degree of optimism, and was not surprised to find that entrance locked and bolted as well. An examination of the windows on the ground floor revealed that these too were firmly shut.

  What to do? She knew that Agnes’s former bedroom was at the back but that Sir John now had that room. His window was open, as was the little one in the attic where Agnes now slept, but she did not think that she could throw a stone as high as that and did not want to wake Sir John, who would be bound to come down to investigate. He was the very last person she wanted to speak to for what could she say? If Agnes, whom he loved, had not been able to stop him issuing the challenge, it did not seem likely that she, Louisa, whom he despised, would be successful in diverting him from his intention.

  She could wait outside until Jess rose but it would be almost dawn by then and that was when the men were to meet. She sat down on the stone seat in the garden and thought hard – and ultimately unsuccessfully - about how she could manage to speak to Agnes before then. No solution presented itself so she decided that she would have to wait until Sir John rose and set off for the meeting place, when she would follow him. If she could not intervene in time to prevent the duel taking place, perhaps if she burst upon them as they were marking out the distance she could still halt it before they fired.

  She wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and put out the lantern for, although she wanted Agnes to look out of the window and see her, she did not want Sir John to do so and it seemed to her far more likely that he would, for would he not be a little anxious about the morrow and eager to rise as soon as the faintest glimmer appeared in the sky?

  She did not know what time it was now but, since she had not left her own house until after she heard the clock strike two, she comforted herself with the thought that, at this time of year, light would be beginning to show in not much more than two hours. She had already passed half an hour in walking across the fields and at least a further quarter creeping round the house looking for a way to enter so she estimated that she would probably see a light in Sir John’s room in less than an hour’s time. That was not too bad; she could endure that.

  Chapter 37

  What Louisa did not know as she sat down in the garden to wait for the first glimmerings of dawn was that two of the five persons in the cottage were also awake.

  Sir John was sitting on the floor beside his bed and it was this position, away from the window and shielded by both the bed and the curtains, which concealed his activity from the watcher in the garden. He was engaged in writing two letters: one to his mother and the other to Agnes.

  It took him some time to compose the one to his mother, which he embarked upon first. Since she knew nothing of his father’s shameful lapse from honourable conduct and subsequent ruin, he must tell her the whole story in as succinct and painless a way as possible. He hoped and trusted that Agnes would comfort her if he died in a few hours’ time but he must try to explain his reasons for calling out Lord Danehill.

  He had already spoken to his brother, whom he had sought out as soon as he had finished speaking to Danehill, because, apart from wanting him to know the story, he needed him to act as his second. Charles had been horrified and begged him not to fight, pointing out that he had not handled a pistol for some considerable time - the guns used in Africa being muskets - and that his continuing weakness and absence of muscle strength would surely affect his ability adversely.

  “I have no choice,” John had said. “What else could I do in the circumstances but call the man out? What is extraordinary – and he made it plain that he did so out of pity for my infirmity – is that he chose pistols. If he had gone for swords, I would not have stood a chance.”

  “No,” Mr Armitage agreed. “In any event I cannot conceive how either of you could have laid your hands upon a suitable pair in someone else’s house without alerting most of the household to what you planned. Where do you intend to find a pair of pistols?”

  “I thought I would drive to Armitage Hall and fetch them from there.”

  “No, you will not,” Charles replied at once. “It is the second’s duty to acquire the weapons. I will ride over, which will be much faster than your setting off with Paul in that antiquated carriage with two decrepit horses. In any event, I will have to meet with his second – presumably Hersham – who may have a pair of pistols about him, although I cannot think of any plausible reason why he should have brought such a thing with him. We cannot ask our host to supply them without alerting him to the fact that one of his guests is planning to fight a duel on his land.”

  “Since I understand the sole purpose of inviting most of them was to encourage at least one to bid for the heiress, I should think a serious contender might well have packed a pair of duelling pistols,” Sir John retorted, laughing. “Indeed, you might find your host has just the thing and is quite disappointed that none of the suitors have challenged each other yet.”

  It took the best part of the remainder of the night, after he had parted from Agnes, to write the two letters. He had not divulged when the projected duel was to take place but, since they had gone up to the big house together that morning, he did not doubt that she would guess it must be soon.

  He had returned to the cottage immediately after issuing the challenge to Lord Danehill. The other man had clearly been surprised that Sir John had discovered not only the fact but also the identity of the blackmailer. Rather to the Baronet’s surprise, he had made no attempt to deny his crime.

  “Guilty as charged,” he said in a disdainful manner. “What do you want me to do? I am unable to pay you back.”

  “At present perhaps but I daresay you can raise a good portion of your obligation by selling some property.”

  “Good God! Do you expect me to give you the half of my estate?”

  “If that is what is required, yes. You seemed to expect me to lose my entire inheritance and my mother, w
idowed before she should have been, to see out the rest of her days in a labourer’s cottage. Yes, I do expect you to pay back what you have stolen.”

  “And if I cannot?”

  “I do not think there is an argument to be made about ability to pay; you must do so; I care not how you achieve it.”

  “Impossible, I’m afraid. Your father was a fool and, while I don’t doubt that you’re incensed at my taking his money, I feel I should point out that, when I began what I suppose could be described as my career of extortion, you had not yet been born; indeed, your father was at the time affianced to your mother. I’ve watched you for years. You take after him in a number of ways with, however, one notable exception: I’ve never seen nor heard of you marking the cards. You simply lost almost every time you sat down, which shows either an extraordinary degree of ill luck or a notable lack of intelligence. I am persuaded that the depredations your estate has suffered cannot be laid entirely at my door – you’ve spent a good deal yourself.”

  “Nothing like the sums my father meekly handed over to you although I was mutton-headed enough to assume they were all my debts. It was only when I found the pile of your letters amongst his correspondence – which he wisely kept – that I discovered the truth.”

  “How? I was careful not to sign them.”

  “Indeed – and I would not have known if you had not recently written a letter to my mother’s companion. I saw the writing and recognised it at once.”

  The Marquess turned white with anger, his scornful gaze transformed into one of rage as he realised that he had given himself away trying to persuade a woman who did not care for him to change her mind.

  “Did you read it?”

  “Her letter? Certainly not, but I read the ones you wrote to my father and they sickened me.”

  “He was a dunderhead, as I said.” The Marquess had reined in his anger and reverted to derision.