“For Miss Sullington, your ladyship.”
“I will take them,” she said. The footman did not demur and handed them over at once.
Her ladyship retired through the door from which she had emerged, glancing not at all at the governess, who still stood in the hall.
“There is something for you, Miss,” the footman said, picking up a small parcel which lay upon the table. “It arrived earlier.”
“Oh, thank you.” It was neatly wrapped in pink and white striped paper and tied with string, a label bearing her name fixed to the outside.
The footman executed a tiny bow, presumably carefully calculated to show his respect for a person a few, a very few, rungs above him in the social order.
Sylvia went back up the stairs, holding her parcel. Who in the world would have sent her anything? She wrote frequently to her parents, and she received letters from them, but neither had ever sent her a parcel apart from an embroidered handkerchief from her mother on one occasion, and an improving book from her father. This was neither a handkerchief nor a book and the writing, large and bold and executed in black ink, was unknown to her.
By the time she reached her room, she was so impatient to see what lay within that she neither untied nor cut the string which bound the parcel but dragged the object from within its clasp, in the process tightening the knot and hurting her fingers. Then she unfolded the paper with shaking, but now almost hesitant, fingers and found inside a red leather box of the kind commonly employed to house jewellery. Her heart gave an uncomfortable jolt. It could not be! What in the world should she do if it were? She found herself exceedingly reluctant to open the box for two opposing reasons: in case it should be what she feared it might be or, perhaps even worse, a cheap bauble, which he might have thought more suited to her status, and which he might surmise that she would be unable to distinguish from the real thing. That would be too humiliating and awful!
As she stood there, undecided, the door opened and Melissa came into the room. Sylvia dropped the box, letting her shawl fall on top of it.
“Good morning!” she said.
“Good morning! You look quite guilty, Miss Holmdale! What have you been doing?”
“Nothing. I was just coming to see if you had yet risen.” Sylvia kicked the shawl-clad box under the bed.
“Oh, yes, I have been up for hours. I came to ask if you would come shopping with me. I wished most particularly to go back to look at a bonnet I saw yesterday in Bond Street.”
“Of course I will. Does not your mama wish to accompany you?”
“No, she says she has the headache; it was she who suggested I ask you. I think,” Melissa added, putting her head on one side, “that she hopes that, if I go with you, I shall not dare to order it.”
“I see. If your mama does not wish to buy it for you, are you certain it is quite wise to look at it again? You might find that you will not be able to resist the temptation.”
“I shall be able to if you are with me.”
Sylvia smiled. “Then let us put on our pelisses and button up our boots and be on our way at once.”
She was rewarded with a brilliant smile and a promise to be in the hall, booted and buttoned up in ten minutes.
Once more on her own, Sylvia picked up the red leather box, sat down on the chair beside the window and opened it. The morning sun, glancing through the window, struck the contents with even more fire than the afternoon sun had done.
The necklace was displayed to great effect upon a black velvet cushion, just as she had seen it the day before. It consisted of a number of diamonds strung upon what she supposed to be either a platinum or silver chain, arranged to fall with particular grace upon a female bosom. The main gem hung a little lower than the others, so that the whole would form a ‘V’. Within the embrace of the necklace lay a pair of drop earrings, a delicate bracelet and what she took to be a hair ornament. All were both dazzling and yet curiously restrained, an effect probably achieved by their being mounted on such a narrow, almost invisible, chain. Lying on the black velvet, they gave the impression of stars in a dark sky and would, she thought, perhaps fancifully, illuminate a modest woman – one inclined to remain in the shadows. It came to her with a flash of insight that that might have been why she had been so drawn to them. In spite of the quantity, quality and size of the diamonds, there was not the faintest hint of vulgarity about the set.
She gazed upon this most beautiful gift – she supposed that the giver must be Lord Marklye – and wondered what he meant by it. He had said that he doubted that even he, with his newly acquired wealth, would be able to afford it. Of course, if he was really in possession of a nabob’s fortune, he could perfectly well afford it, although Sylvia was certain that it must have cost, not hundreds of pounds, but thousands. But why in the world would he send it to her? Was it simply the altruistic gesture he had hinted that he would like to make? It was absurd. She could never wear such a thing – never. And, in any event, no woman, unless she was a courtesan, could accept such a gift from a gentleman who was neither her husband nor her betrothed.
She did not dare to touch the actual jewels, even with the very tip of her finger; almost, she felt as though she would become infected with greed, sucked into a world which she had foresworn years ago on a matter of, she now thought, misplaced and probably misunderstood principle. She was afraid that her desire to keep them would grow until she would be unable to hand them back. She must not look at them, she decided, and snapped the lid shut. She must return them at once. She would write him a letter, thanking him for his gesture; she thought she would employ a little self-deprecatory humour, which she hoped to be able to direct at herself, whilst at the same time expressing gratitude and appreciation for his thoughtfulness.
She put the box in one of the drawers of the dressing table, covering it carefully with a pile of stockings and handkerchiefs. Then she bent to pick up the paper in which it had been wrapped. There must be a note or a card on which he would have inscribed some message and, with any luck, his address. But she could find nothing. The only writing on the paper was on the outside and consisted of her name and address. She wondered if the card was inside the box; she would have to open it again to look. She found herself scrabbling with shameful haste amongst her stockings, pushing them aside with shaking fingers. The box had a small catch which, if pressed, caused the lid to spring up. There was something frighteningly magical about it. The first time she had opened it, she had held a strong suspicion of what she would find – and yet, she had not been sure; there had been a degree of curiosity. Now, she was aware, there was something else. She knew what she would see, she knew that the sparkle would light something in her heart which had been dimmed for a long time, and she knew that she was mortally afraid of it.
She pressed the button, the lid flew up and she was gazing once more upon that which she recognised as wickedly alluring. The absurd desire to possess, to drape upon her person, such an extreme example of the evils of mammon filled her with shame. Then she had stood upon the moral high ground and, while it had broken her heart, she had been in no doubt of the rightness of her decision – at least not until it was too late. This was different and the moral high ground, although she still clung to it, hardly seemed relevant. There was no question, not even the faintest whisper of a dilemma: she could not keep such a thing and must return it forthwith.
But there was no note or card. She turned the box over to see if one had been stuck to the base: it had not. Finally, she was obliged to lift the velvet cushion on which the jewels lay to see if one had been inserted beneath. As she did so, the necklace tilted, subsiding against her fingers with almost sensual abandon as though submitting to her internal desire. But the space beneath was empty – hollow in the absence of the velvet cushion.
There was neither note nor card. Perhaps he had not thought it necessary to append his name; she would know from whom they came; how could she not since it was only yesterday that she had been caught staring a
t them by a man whom she now suspected of being an emissary from the devil – almost a figure of macabre fantasy - and yet here were the jewels. They were no fantasy: they were hard and bright and real.
She suspected that, wanting her to have them and knowing that her immediate reaction would be to return them, he had wished to make it difficult for her to do so. In her situation, it would be impossible to make enquiries as to his direction without giving rise to possibly disagreeable speculation.
The door opened. “I have been waiting in the hall for an age,” Melissa cried. “What are you doing?”
“I am sorry – I was a million miles away.” Sylvia snapped the lid shut and pushed the box back beneath her stockings.
She rose, put on her pelisse and buttoned it quickly.
“Is this the bonnet you were intending to wear?” Melissa asked, picking one up from the table.
“It is the only one I possess, so yes, indeed it is,” Sylvia answered, smiling, taking it from the girl, cramming it upon her head and tying the ribbons.
“It is very old. I think we should look for another; that would be a much better reason for going to the hat shop than for me to look again at the one Mama refused to buy me yesterday.”
The two ladies sallied forth within five minutes and walked companionably in the direction of Bond Street. They passed the jeweller where the diamond necklace had first winked at Sylvia, but did not pause.
Bond Street was full of people walking about, peering into shop windows and greeting acquaintances with varying degrees of joy or irritation. The road was full of carriages and curricles as well as hackneys, which tooled up and down waiting for someone who had set forth on foot but, having made a number of unexpected purchases, discovered a need to be conveyed home in a carriage.
“There! Is that not an adorable bonnet?” Melissa cried when they reached the shop, dragging Sylvia by the arm to peer into the window.
“Indeed it is, but I cannot help feeling that such an unusual colour would not match many of one’s clothes unless, of course, one was in the second stage of mourning.”
“No, I own it would not, but it would most exactly match your eyes, Miss Holmdale, for they are an equally unusual shade of lavender.”
“Good Gracious! I did not realise before that you were given to such flights of fancy! I had always thought them to be a particularly dull grey,” Sylvia said, beginning, much against her will, to be as tempted by the hat as she had been by the diamonds.
Melissa did not answer, her attention having been claimed by a passer-by with whom she seemed to be acquainted. “Why, your grace! Fancy meeting you here! You must let me introduce you to my governess.”
“Your governess? Are you still in the schoolroom, Miss Sullington?” The voice, although she had not heard it for more than seven years, was impossible not to recognise.
Chapter 6
“Lud!” Mrs Farley exclaimed. “I am not at all surprised that you should be horrified for I know that he was a shocking loose screw and that you were excessively badly treated. This could not be he, could it? He looks to be about your own age but I should imagine that the rogue was considerably older than you, was he not?”
“Oh, yes, at least twenty years. No, this is not he although I am convinced he must be a relative. He is so very like – at least from a distance.” She shook herself and stood up. “Let us go back and listen to Bisset and perhaps you may contrive to discover who he is.”
“Is that truly what you wish to do? Would you not prefer to go home?”
“No; it would be absurd if I were to refine upon a man’s resemblance to someone whom I would rather forget. It was a very long time ago and a woman in my position cannot afford to behave like a schoolroom miss and give way to ridiculous starts. It was just the initial shock, you know.” Cassie spoke with resolve although, in her heart, she wanted more than anything to go home.
“Very well; if you are certain, by all means let us return and hope that Bisset warrants your determination to hear her. Take my arm.”
Cassie unwound her friend’s scarf and returned it to her before allowing herself to be conducted indoors again. They took their seats and settled down to listen to the talented Miss Bisset play Haydn.
Afterwards, while waiting for the next performers to appear, Mrs Farley said, “Would you like me to try to effect an introduction of some sort?”
“Oh, yes, why not? You were thinking of knocking his elbow, were you not? Let us by all means try such a ruse and see what comes of it.”
Mrs Farley looked at her friend on whose pale cheeks two rather hectic spots had begun to burn. “Should I, do you think, approach him on my own? Would you prefer to stay here and I find out all I can and tell you about it afterwards?”
“Oh no, not in the least. I will accompany you. Pray do not encourage me to play the shrinking violet. Where is he?”
Mrs Farley had already risen and was scanning the crowds. After a moment, she said, “He is over there, still with Lord Furzeby; they must have come together.”
“Then let us waste no more time,” Cassie said, feeling as though she stood upon a precipice and that it would be better to cast herself over the cliff at once rather than stand teetering on the brink while her courage drained away.
The two women made their way towards the two men, who were drinking wine and talking together. It was when they were almost upon them that Mrs Farley stumbled, clutched unavailingly at Cassie’s elbow and fell into the saturnine gentleman’s arms, spilling his drink and almost knocking him off balance; Mrs Farley was no light weight.
“Oh, I am so sorry! I have quite ruined your coat!” she exclaimed.
“It is of no matter,” he replied politely, attempting to set the lady on her feet once more. Lord Furzeby relieved his companion of his now empty glass to enable him to support, disentangle and finally steady his assailant.
“Why, Lord Furzeby, ‘tis you!” Mrs Farley cried brightly.
“Yes, indeed, it is I. My dear Mrs Farley, allow me to introduce you to my friend, Lord Marklye. He has not been in London long and is clearly unskilled in managing crowded rooms.”
Mrs Farley laughed. “Nor, I conjecture, clumsy females!”
His lordship managed a smile and observed, “I am sorry to have been in your way; I daresay I moved without making sure that my route was clear. It is fortunate that no lasting harm has been done, indeed I account it a most lucky accident for I am sure I should not have had the temerity to approach two such charming ladies.”
“You need only to have asked, you know,” Lord Furzeby said, amused. “I would have been happy to introduce you without the help of a glass of wine. Allow me to make Miss Minton known to you. Miss Minton: Lord Marklye is one of my oldest friends; that is, we have known each other a long time. I will leave you for a moment while I endeavour to find further refreshment.”
He bowed and withdrew, leaving Lord Marklye to make his obeisance to the two ladies.
“How do you do, my lord,” Cassie said, holding out her hand. Her face was a little pale but the pallor in no way concealed the remarkable beauty of her countenance or the quality of her skin. If she resembled an unpainted porcelain figure awaiting its master’s touch to bring it to life, this did not diminish the impact. She might worry about encroaching lines and the vanishing freshness of her complexion but she was, although she was too anxious about the flight of youth to be aware of it, more beautiful than she had been when she was seventeen; her face had matured and acquired, along with the tragic droop to the lovely mouth, a depth and humanity that an excessively young face must of necessity lack. There was that in Cassie’s countenance which drew not only the eyes but the heart of the onlooker.
“I am delighted to make your acquaintance,” Lord Marklye said, kissing her fingers.
“I hope your coat is not quite ruined,” Cassie said, repossessing her hand.
“Pray do not give it a moment’s thought, Miss Minton. I shall count it well lost since its demise has ef
fected an introduction to two such ravishing ladies.” If there was a slight irony in the tone with which this statement was uttered, it was so subtle as to be almost unnoticeable.
“Charmingly put,” Mrs Farley muttered in a scarcely audible voice, her eyes dancing merrily as they moved over her friend and the bowing gentleman.
“But it is such a very fine coat,” Cassie said with a mournful look of regret for it. “Can it not be cleaned?”
“I don’t doubt that it can and, if it would make you happier, I will ask my man to see to it. But I warn you that I shall only be prepared to expunge the memory of our first meeting in such a manner if I can be sure that we shall have another.”
But Cassie, who had at first responded appropriately to his lordship’s exaggerated courtesy, was suddenly overcome by hideous memories of her seducer, prompted no doubt by his lordship’s unnerving resemblance to that scoundrel. Recalling, with a renewed wave of nausea, the disagreeable smell of spilled wine, she said, “I believe it is the odour which is so hard to eradicate – even more than the removal of the stain.”
Mrs Farley, observing his lordship’s startled expression and momentary hesitation as he sought for a suitable reply to this very odd observation, interrupted, “Have you never been to London before, Lord Marklye?”
She was afraid that Cassie, who was once again looking decidedly unwell, was in danger this time of bringing up matters, which in Mrs Farley’s opinion, would be better left decently buried, at least at such an early stage of an acquaintance.
Lord Marklye, appearing relieved to be presented with such an innocuous subject, replied at once, “Furzeby is exaggerating. I believe he thinks that, because I have not hung around the metropolis every season since I was breeched, as he has, I must necessarily be classed as a country bumpkin. I lived abroad for many years and only returned to this country when my uncle died and I inherited the title. Furzeby is convinced that, because I spend more of my time endeavouring to restore my property in Kent than idling in London, I must be an unsophisticated boor.”
Sylvia Or The Moral High Ground Page 5