by Mira Stables
Margaret wisely abandoned the argument, saying only that it was a pity that this was the one day that she had begged off in order to visit her former mother-in-law, with a view to advising her of her impending re-marriage, and that therefore she could not offer to make one of the party and take the entertainment of Sir Aubrey off Anna’s hands.
“And a fine chance I should have of being private with Papa if you were with me,” chuckled Anna, good humour restored now that she had won her way.
Sir Aubrey’s carriage eventually set out for Wellasford with its owner driving, Lady Wellasford seated beside him, and his head groom perched up behind, Sir Aubrey, apprised by a brief note of his goddess’s change of plans, heroically declaring that he perfectly understood Lady Wellasford’s desire to be private with her Papa, and adding that he would be quite happy to stroll about the grounds—which he understood to be well worthy of a visit—until such time as she was ready to return to Town.
Anna’s other plans went less smoothly. Papa was delighted to see her and to have her felicitations upon his proposed marriage at first hand, but he was far too preoccupied with his own affairs to be fully sensitive to the difficulties of hers. When she casually broached the question of her future domicile, he sounded positively astringent.
“Surely that is for your husband to decide,” he pronounced severely. “I cannot imagine that any man of sense would choose to live an idle, fashionable existence in Town unless he was obliged to do so. As a bride it was natural that he should indulge you with a taste of fashionable gaiety, but what is there in the existence of your Town beau to satisfy a man of energy and intelligence? You will need a Town house, of course. Your husband will find it very useful for business purposes. Mighty convenient for the City and the Docks, since I understand that he plans to extend his Uncle’s Indian business interests. And you, no doubt, will like to spend a week or so in the great metropolis from time to time. But I cannot imagine Julian wishing to make his permanent home anywhere else but here. Indeed, if he is thinking of disposing of Pittsfield House I might make him an offer for it—or he might consider a long lease. But that is looking very far ahead. As for you, my dear, it is time you settled down to running your husband’s home and filling his nursery. That is plain speaking, but it has been in my mind for some time, seeing the way the gentlemen flock about you. Don’t want you getting your head turned by these fashionable ways of going on, for I’m willing to lay you any sum you choose to name that not one of them means the tenth of what he says.”
Since Anna had already come to the same conclusion she returned a soothing answer, assuring him that she was not in the least taken in by the flattery that was heaped upon her and that she was very willing to give up the delights of the social whirl and settle down in the country, but he was not yet done with her.
“That’s as maybe. And while we’re on the subject, I don’t care to see you spending so much of your time with that Bartholomew baby that drove you down today. No better than a windsucker—all show and no performance. Though maybe there I’m blaming you without cause. It’s for your husband to put his foot down on such behaviour as must make you the talk of the town. I’ll have a crow to pluck with him the next time I see him. So just you mind to behave more seemly and see you get back home well before the darkening. Married woman or not, I don’t hold with such goings on.”
The moment did not seem opportune for a discussion of difficulties of which this irascible parent was blissfully unaware. Anna meekly prepared to rejoin her escort, and although Mr. Morley’s sense of hospitality insisted that he offer the gentleman a glass of wine before he faced the rigours of the return journey, he did not encourage them to linger. Nor was Sir Aubrey, who had spent a remarkably boring afternoon wholly deprived of any kind of audience, at all inclined to outstay his welcome. He set out at a spanking pace, his spirits rising with every turn of the wheels that carried him nearer to his chosen milieu. One paid lip service to the delights of country living, of course. It was the proper attitude to take so naturally Sir Aubrey observed it. But a careful observer might have noticed that his actual sojourns in rural surroundings were brief and widely spaced. He was delighted to put this one behind him. It was a pity, however, that he allowed his relief to beguile him into abandoning the main highway and taking a side road out of Broxbourne, promising his charge that he would show her some charming bursts of country and quite forgetting that other road users might be less skilled than he.
Chapter Thirteen
It was inevitable that the accident should happen on the loneliest stretch of road that they had encountered all day. A lumbering family chariot, fortunately unoccupied, was partly at fault, taking a bend so wide that it was impossible for Sir Aubrey to avoid it entirely. He was able to rein his horses aside, so that they suffered no injury, but the light carriage, in consequence, swung across the path of the oncoming chariot, and since both vehicles were travelling at speed, the impact was considerable. Most of the glass in Sir Aubrey’s carriage was shattered, and unfortunately several of the flying splinters pierced Anna’s thin silken sleeve, inflicting several deep scratches and, in one or two cases penetrating more deeply and causing considerable bleeding.
Sir Aubrey and his groom sprang down and hurried to examine the pair of blood greys that had been wrenched to so abrupt a halt, Sir Aubrey cursing with a vigour and invention that caused the groom to bestow an admiring glance upon him.
It was left to the driver of the chariot to attend to the lady who eventually managed to fumble her way out of the carriage and to descend in rather wavering fashion into the road, her right hand clutching her left arm, whence a steady trickle of blood descended to bespatter the dusty road. His driving might have been negligent but his head was screwed on the right way. Moreover he put the needs of the injured lady even before the claims of the sturdy pair that were poled up to the chariot. They were not, of course, his horses. He supported her to the side of the lane and obliged her to be seated on the rising bank that bordered it, ripped up the sleeve from the wounded arm to bare the injuries, carefully removed a visible sliver of glass, causing the blood to well more freely, and twisted a strip torn from the ruined sleeve above the punctured wound to slow the bleeding.
“Thank you,” faltered Anna, rather breathlessly. “You are very kind.”
“Never you fret yourself for that, miss,” returned the coachman heartily. “That was a nasty shock you got, and some of it my blame I’m fearing. Just you bide quiet until you catch your breath. The bleeding’s about stopped,” he added in satisfied tones.
At this point Sir Aubrey joined them.
“What the devil do you mean by it?” he demanded furiously. “You were all over the road. No thanks to you that my greys are not ruined, obliging me to pull them up in such brutal fashion.”
It was plain that the coachman did not care for these strictures. He flushed to his ears, a dull angry red, and his mouth took a stubborn twist. But he was at a double disadvantage, both as a servant addressing a member of the wealthy and leisured class, and because he knew himself to be at least in part to blame for the accident.
“And downright sorry I am, sir,” he returned, “and as thankful as you are yourself that they’ve come to no harm, such beauties as they are. Reckon I took the corner too wide and too fast—as I’ve already said to miss, here. But you was coming pretty fast yourself, sir,” he ended sturdily.
Sir Aubrey snorted at this perfectly justifiable rebuke. “Impudent lout,” he exploded furiously. “If you were my servant you would pay dear for this blundering.”
“Then it’s just as well I’m not, ain’t it?” remarked the coachman placidly. “My own master’ll give me a right trimming when he sees the state his paint work’s in. If he’s in bad skin he’ll maybe stop the damage out of my wages. But at least he wouldn’t stand here in the road rating me for what’s over and done while there was a lady in sore case that needed to be taken to a ’pothecary as soon as maybe.” With which he turned on h
is heel, knuckled an eyebrow at Anna with a respectful smile, and addressed his attention to his own affairs.
Thus rudely reminded of his responsibilities, Sir Aubrey enquired awkwardly as to Anna’s well-being. The groom went off to address soothing remarks to the fretting horses—and to hide a contented grin at the way in which the stranger had set Sir Aubrey to rights. Anna, shocked and shaken by the accident, answered as composedly as she could, though her voice was not quite steady as she declared that she did not think that the services of a physician were necessary but admitted that she would be glad to lie down for a while as she had a bad headache, and that she thought that perhaps a cup of tea would have a beneficial effect.
Consultation with his groom assured Sir Aubrey that there was a small inn just this side of Turnford—no more than two miles away—where these comforts could probably be found. The sufferer was tenderly assisted to climb back into the carriage—an undertaking which caused her head to swim in the most horrid fashion—and Sir Aubrey rather unwillingly resigned his horses to the skill of the groom, feeling it incumbent upon him to sit beside the lady and tender moral support, though he very much hoped that no other variety would be required of him.
He had by this time assimilated all the awkwardness of the situation. He devoutly hoped that the inn that his groom had mentioned would prove to be a respectable place, for he had formed the intention of bestowing the lady there in the care of the landlady. He himself must repair to Town without loss of time. Any other course must be disastrous for both of them. Let it but be whispered that they had been benighted together, and the lady’s reputation must be irretrievably lost, his own fair name sadly tarnished. It took him no more than five minutes to convince himself that whatever her injuries and need of masculine support, Lady Wellasford’s true interests would best be served by his own prompt departure.
His hopes were sadly dashed by the appearance of the inn. It was no more than a village ale-house, and sadly dilapidated as regards paint and plaster. The landlord, when repeated assaults on the tap-room door eventually summoned him from whatever occupation had been absorbing his attention, seemed to be amiable but stupid. He was not a prepossessing figure, his breeches unlaced, his shirt open to the waist, the whole emitting a strong odour of mingled sweat and beer with powerful overtones of the poultry house. Sir Aubrey had to repeat his story twice before full appreciation dawned, with all its accompaniment of enjoyable horror and sympathy.
Fortunately for both Anna’s comfort and Sir Aubrey’s conscience, the man’s wife proved to be a good deal cleaner than her husband and reasonable brisk and efficient. They had no accommodation for travellers, but Miss—Sir Aubrey had thought it as well to make no mention of Lady Wellasford’s name—could lie down in her daughter’s room. Her daughter had been married only a month ago, which was a fortunate circumstance since they had only the two bedrooms. She sallied out energetically to welcome this romantic guest, but upon setting eyes on Anna’s wan face and ominously stained dress, promptly exclaimed that she could not take the responsibility of caring for the young lady unless a physician was summoned to attend her. There was a very good one, a Doctor Underwood, in Turnford. Any one would tell them where he was to be found.
Reluctantly—since every extra person admitted into the incident increased the danger of scandal—Sir Aubrey sent his groom in quest of this useful personage. Nothing less would satisfy Mrs. Burton.
That good lady was, however, able to provide Anna with an excellent cup of tea, which brought a little colour back to her cheeks. Having drunk it she was able to essay the steep stairs that led to the tiny bedchamber without feeling that she might turn giddy, but she was nevertheless very thankful to be able to lie down and close her eyes.
The groom presently returned with the news that the doctor would be with them in half an hour or so. Sir Aubrey mulled this over carefully and then announced his decision to continue his interrupted journey to Town without further delay. Mrs. Burton drew a deep breath to tell him what she thought of such a heartless proceeding, but he forestalled her. “It is essential that I inform her ladyship’s relatives of her mishap without loss of time,” he explained, choosing his words with care. He placed a roll of bills on the table. “Perhaps you would be so good as to discharge the doctor’s fee in my behalf,” he said. “For the rest—it is some small recompense for the trouble to which you have been put.”
Mrs. Burton, divided between excitement at the discovery that her guest was a real live ladyship and a swift calculation of the size of the roll and its possible value, allowed him to make good his escape without enquiring as to how soon she might expect his return.
Sir Aubrey hesitated for some time over his next difficult decision. Should he call on Lord Wellasford in person, or would a note suffice to inform him of his wife’s whereabouts? By the time he reached Town he had decided that a personal call was the proper thing. Wellasford was bound to appreciate the delicacy of the position and the care that he had taken for the preservation of her ladyship’s good name. He would naturally want to express his gratitude and it was only decent to afford him the opportunity of doing so. A call in Portman Square, on top of the delay caused by the accident, would make him late for his dinner engagement, but noblesse oblige, he reminded himself, and set out forthwith, trusting that at this hour he could be certain of finding Lord Wellasford at home.
In this hope he proved to be justified. In every other aspect of the brief interview that followed, he found himself utterly confounded.
“You mean to tell me that you actually left her alone, with some unknown female of humble origins, and without even waiting until the doctor had seen her?” There was scarce-controlled fury in Julian’s voice, but Sir Aubrey, cocooned in the knowledge of his own superiority in all matters of ton, did not recognise the danger signals.
“But my dear fellow,” he drawled, at his most urbane. “You must see that it was the only thing to be done. I don’t know who the doctor was, but so close to Wellasford it is perfectly possible that he would recognise your wife. He might even have recognised me. And the discovery of the two of us, apparently keeping a rendezvous at a quiet inn, must have given him the oddest notion of our relationship. I am sure the last thing that either of us desires is any hint of scandal.”
“You are mistaken,” returned Julian levelly. “The last thing that I desire is to think of my wife injured and alone, and possibly in incompetent hands. As for scandal—I would never believe a word against her, and neither she nor I would care a fig for what the world might say.”
Such plain speaking discomfited Sir Aubrey. He shrugged. “A high flight indeed,” he yawned, the epitome of sophisticated boredom. “You are singularly fortunate.”
“So, for the moment, are you,” retorted Julian, grimfaced, “because my most urgent preoccupation is to reach my wife as soon as it may be achieved. Once I am assured of her well-being, my friends will wait upon you.”
At last he had succeeded in startling the self-satisfied beau. “Pray don’t be so absurd,” he exclaimed, in a much more vigorous voice. “Here have I been at the utmost pains to protect Lady Wellasford’s reputation—as I have just explained to you. You can have no possible reason for calling me out.”
“No?” queried Julian, icily polite. “Well I have pleasure in telling you, sir, that it’s my belief that it was not my wife’s reputation that concerned you, but your own. Such a non-pareil of perfection as you are—such a Galahad—no breath of reproach must stain your noble name. I take leave to tell you that you are a cold-hearted, conscienceless coward. Now will you fight me?”
“If you insist—yes,” snapped Sir Aubrey, stung at last. “Though nothing could be better calculated to provoke just the scandal that I have been at such pains to prevent.”
That was true. Whatever his private fury, his burning desire to work off his frustration on the man who was in some part responsible for it, there could be no denying that a duel, whatever the cause agreed by the protagonists,
invariably left unpleasant smears of suspicion and scandal on a number of possibly innocent parties. Julian had a sudden horrid vision of the face of Mr. Morley as some one told him of his daughter’s disgrace.
“Very well,” he conceded reluctantly. “But,” brightening, “there is no reason why we should not have it out here and now, with our fists.” That would be best of all, he thought contentedly, and awaited Sir Aubrey’s agreement.
Sir Aubrey was one who preferred words to blows. He eyed his antagonist, who was already beginning to struggle out of his coat, with distaste, and at the back of his mind was the thought that he would have something to say to Caro Holroyd when next they met. A marriage of convenience, indeed! Well, it was proving deuced inconvenient for him!
“Certainly,” he said with some dignity. “If you feel that it will do any good to batter me to a pulp—and to have everyone enquiring how I came by my injuries. With the small sword, if report speaks truth, you would probably be my master. With pistols—and without modesty—you would be a dead man. But I have never favoured what is so ludicrously described as ‘the manly art’. Manly it may be. Art it is not. Now you, I understand have actually been commended by the great Jackson himself. If, however, you wish to engage in a contest where there is no doubt of your emerging the victor, behold me, quite willing.”
Whatever his other attributes, there was no doubt that he was Julian’s master with words. That poor fellow was reduced to suggesting that his exasperating opponent leave the house and make no undue haste about returning to it. This did at least clear the way for his own departure in search of his wife. When his temper had cooled a little he acknowledged that this was much more important than a temporary and slightly shameful satisfaction.