Two in the Bush

by Judith Hale Everett

  Assuming an air of unconcern she did not feel, Genevieve said, “I comfort myself with most unladylike visions of his comeuppance, dearest, and work to devise ever more clever set-downs.”

  “But he seems inured to them. I fear you waste your time.”

  “It is not a waste if it keeps my mind clear of dread,” answered Genevieve airily. “One cannot fear what one makes ridiculous.”

  Lady Cammerby murmured agreement, but she could not keep herself from dropping a word in her brother’s ear. “For Lord Montrose was your contemporary, was he not, Joshua? Do you not know him to be a dangerous man?”

  Sir Joshua thoughtfully sipped his Madeira. “He is dangerous to any young flat who will take him up, but I have never known him to be a threat to a well-bred woman.”

  His sister was moved to expostulate. “Such a man does not confine his villainy to the card room, sir! I am persuaded that the same vice that drives him to delight in a man’s ruin must manifest itself in all his dealings, to some degree.”

  “I agree, Amelia, but if Mrs. Breckinridge does not respond to him, he has no dealings with her. What damage a nod from him in a public place can do, if it is not reciprocated, I cannot see.”

  “Then you feel that nothing will come of his odious attentions to Genevieve?”

  He set down his glass. “I did not say that. I merely recommend you do not refine too much upon it. Such men like to make a show, and without encouragement, he will most likely lose interest.”

  “Indeed, you must be right,” answered his sister, without conviction.

  Genevieve, however, took rather a more active approach, in the interest of forestalling as much danger to her family as possible, remarking off-handedly to Lenora one day, “I wonder if you have ever met Lord Montrose, my dear.”

  “Lord who, Mama?”

  Her mother pulled gently at the thread on her needlework. “Lord Montrose. He was a friend of your papa’s. Have you met him?”

  “No, Mama,” answered Lenora, in a tone of such mildness that her mother was instantly set on guard. “Should I have?”

  “Oh, no,” said Mrs. Breckinridge, “He does not move in our circles. He is quite beneath our touch, I believe.”

  “Oh.” Lenora took up The Mirror of Fashion and turned over its pages. “If such is the case, I wonder why you should have brought his name up to me.”

  “I mention him only because I have had the misfortune to meet him here in town myself, and I fear he may push his acquaintance upon you, my love, on the strength of his friendship with your papa.”

  “How alarming,” said Lenora politely.

  “Not alarming, dear, only tiresome,” Mrs. Breckinridge replied, with the greatest calm. “For, you know, such an acquaintance would surely jeopardize your very enjoyable place in society, and we should be obliged to give up the season and go home.”

  There was a pregnant silence, fraught for one lady with suspense, and for the other with consternation.

  “Then I shall certainly cut him, if he is so disagreeable as to push for an introduction,” Lenora presently declared. “I own I’ve longed to have a reason to cut someone.”

  Mrs. Breckinridge snipped her thread. “It is unfortunate, dearest, but you must. It is the only thing to do.”

  Lenora nodded obediently, and Genevieve, unsure if she had averted disaster, or invited it, merely smiled her approbation and continued her needlework.

  Lenora, blissfully ignorant of her mother’s discomfiture, whether through the general self-absorption of youth or because her mother’s manner was exceedingly convincing, felt herself very ill-used. That a former crony of her father, who would undoubtedly prove to be just the villain for whom she and Elvira had been on the look-out, should be in town and seeking their acquaintance, and that her mother should be beforehand enough to obligate her to cut him, was too cruel. Why could not Fate have placed him in her way before he had made himself odious to Mrs. Breckinridge? It was too provoking, for now Lenora must obey her mother, no matter how little she was disposed to do so.

  Her youthful spirits could not long be depressed, however, for there was too much contentment to be had in each day’s entertainments. If it was not an al fresco picnic, it was an outing to Sadler’s Wells, or to Astley’s Amphitheater. A fine day in early April found her with Elvira part of a gathering at Hampton Court comprised of no less than eighteen young people, and chaperoned by the gregarious Lady Timmington, whose genius in collecting about herself persons of youth, beauty, and interest was legendary. Lenora and Elvira felt all the honor they had received in the invitation, and were left only to wonder if they had been included for their beauty, their interest, or merely for their youth.

  But all such considerations were swept aside by their introduction to Mr. Samuel Barnabus, who was brought to their attention by Mr. Ginsham. That gentleman’s interest in Miss Chuddsley having become marked enough over the preceding weeks for even Lenora to notice, Mr. Ginsham had managed to appear at nearly all the social functions that had Elvira, and had begun refining his skill at extracting her from any large groups and securing her attentions to himself. Though somewhat disappointed to discover that he was not, as she had hoped, the younger and impoverished son of an earl, but the heir of a fairly well-to-do viscount, Elvira had not been unresponsive to his advances. Today, he approached the two ladies with Mr. Barnabus in tow, to solicit their company into the maze, which had begun to claim several of the party already.

  “I know two adventurous young ladies such as yourselves will be wild to conquer the maze,” he said, “therefore, I offer my poor experience, and that of, if you will permit me, Mr. Barnabus, here.”

  Mr. Barnabus politely took each young lady’s hand in turn, saying, “Your m-most obedient.”

  Both girls stared hard at him, Lenora the first to recover. “Delighted, Mr., em, Barnaby.”

  He smiled and graciously corrected her. “B-barnabus, ma’am.”

  “Oh, pray, forgive me!” Lenora exchanged a speaking look with her bosom friend as she nodded to their new acquaintance. “Mr. Barnabus.”

  “We were just pining to enter the maze, Mr. Ginsham,” declared Elvira, her eyes flitting to Mr. Barnabus as she spoke. “How timely is your invitation!”

  If Mr. Ginsham noticed how his friend had eclipsed him with only a few words, his winning smile gave no indication. Holding out an arm to Elvira, he said, “Shall we, Miss Chuddsley?”

  She took his arm readily enough, for although Lenora had the good fortune to be attached to Mr. Barnabus, she had thoughtfully maneuvered him between herself and her friend, and the four walked abreast to the maze. Entering the maze was impossible all side-by-side, but Elvira was able, through the expedient of allowing Lenora and Mr. Barnabus to go before, to keep the couple in sight, and so not miss any halting word that fell from Mr. Barnabus’s lips.

  It was not long before the young ladies had learned that Mr. Barnabus was just come down from Oxford, was the third son of a baronet, and had nearly decided to study law—three facts that resonated deeply within each female breast, attesting as they did to his heroic likeness—and they peppered him with so many questions that the young man was obliged to mutely appeal to his friend to aid him in redirecting their attentions. To his relief, through Ginsham’s adept handling, the attractions of the maze soon supplanted the young ladies’ fascination with stammering and hopeless poverty, and led them to fully enjoy an afternoon with the two very amiable young men. Elvira did not even cast a third glance at Mr. Barnabus, after the first and second, while she made her farewells to Mr. Ginsham, and Lenora made both young men feel so equally responsible for her present felicity, that all were smiles as they parted.

  As soon as the young ladies had attained Lady Cammerby’s carriage, however, Elvira grasped her friend’s arm. “Oh, Lenora! He is the ideal, is he not?”

  “Ginsham? I think him as agreeable as
ever, but—”

  “Oh, do not rally me! You know very well I speak of Mr. Barnabus!” With a sigh, Elvira collapsed onto the squabs. “I believe him to be the most attractive man in the world!”

  “Next to Ginsham?” retorted Lenora, who thought it quite unreasonable of Elvira to wish to lay claim to yet another young man’s heart. “You are either blind, or you have windmills in your head, my dear.”

  “Speak no more of Ginsham, if you please! I wish only to think of Mr. Barnabus’s perfections!”

  Lenora eyed her askance. “Who knew that a stammer could make invisible a hawk nose and stooping shoulders!”

  “Oh, unfair, Lenora!” Elvira cried out. “His nose is not hawkish at all, merely—aristocratic! And if I noticed a deficiency in his posture, I would rather call his shoulders sloping, than stooped!”

  Recognizing that her ploy had failed, Lenora abandoned all pretense at criticism to agree with her friend. “The obvious result of diligent study, by candlelight, in a tiny boarding room at the college. Oh, Elvira, he will make an excellent lawyer! I foresee him defending the poor and abused, without thought of reward.”

  Her friend sat bolt upright at this inspiring vision. “His elocution alone will excite such sympathy with the judge and jury! But they must also be impressed by his earnest expression and sober air.”

  Disregarding that this description was an absolute departure from the young man who had exhibited enough liveliness with them in the maze to impress a judge only with disfavor, Lenora leaned intently toward her friend. “But how will he measure up against the evil Duke?”

  Elvira’s eyes widened. “How could we know that, until we have met the Duke?”

  “Which we may never do,” Lenora sighed mournfully, resting back against the squabs as her mind revolved on her mother’s stricture against Lord Montrose.

  Elvira said, after some hesitation, “But perhaps it is Sir Joshua after all.”

  “Oh, no, Elvira, it cannot be he!” cried Lenora. “The thought revolts!”

  “But why not? We know little enough about him—”

  “We know enough to acquit him of villainy, Elvira! Consider! He is Lady Cammerby’s brother, and moves in the best circles. He came to my ball, and danced with me, and my mother, and never showed the least sign of rakishness. I am persuaded that the town would be talking of him if he were the least questionable.”

  Elvira bounced in her seat. “But the Duke is often virtuous in public, and it is only when he steals away the fair maiden that he is found to be black at heart!”

  “That is true,” said Lenora, suddenly struck. “Like my father!” A furrow appeared between her brows as she pondered this revelation. “Only, I believe he was not evil, precisely. It was his friends who—” She threw up her hands, falling back against the squabs in defeat. “Oh, Elvira! We shall never meet the evil Duke, though I know who he is!”

  “You what?” shrieked Elvira. “Lenora Breckinridge, how could you hide such a thing—tell me who it is at once, Lenora, at once!” she cried, tugging at Lenora’s arm.

  Lenora merely groaned. “You do not know him—I do not even know him, and it is too vexing, but I know his name!”

  “What?” Elvira let go her arm in disgust. “Anyone can know a name, Lenora. If all we needed was a name, we could imagine to ourselves any number of villains, and call them whatever we wished!” She turned stern eyes upon her friend. “We must find a real villain, and we must meet him to be sure of the depravity of his character!”

  Lenora despondently waved away this assertion. “Elvira, I have found a real villain, for my mama warned me against him, but we cannot meet him, for she most straightly charged me to avoid him—but he was a friend to my papa,” she added hastily, perceiving a look of skepticism creep into her friend’s face, “so you see, we are assured that his character is most black!”

  Elvira’s interest was regained. She shifted nearer to her friend, round-eyed. “And what is his name?”

  “Lord Montrose,” Lenora said, in sinister accents.

  “Lord Montrose,” Elvira repeated, tasting the taint of the name on her tongue. She shivered and turned half frightened, half shining eyes on her friend. “Perhaps it is enough to simply know his name. Though we may never meet him, I have the most dreadful feeling that our worst fears will be realized!”

  But all dreadful excitement was forgot with the arrival of Mr. Thomas Breckinridge in Hill Street. Never having been keen on meeting the demands of fine society, Tom had nevertheless faced his duty with fortitude, and set out for London on horseback alone, for Matthew was needed on the farm. He broke his journey at his friend Humphrey Twindale’s estate, where he was sufficiently reinforced by fellow-feeling and excellent wine to face the exigencies of the coming fortnight, but the fine weather, aided by a gouty attack sustained Humphrey’s father—which rendered the old gentleman mightily disagreeable—resolved Tom to put his journey forward a day, and he therefore reached Hill Street without notice.

  Tying his horse in front of the house, he took the steps two at a time, and rapped smartly on the door. It was opened by the footman, who, at Tom’s inquiry, was just entering upon the merits of a stable to be had nearby, when Lady Cammerby sailed into the foyer and stopped dead.

  “Bless my soul, but you must be Tom Breckinridge!” she cried, one hand to her bosom and her face white as a sheet.

  Confronted by this shocked female, who proceeded to stare at him in the blankest astonishment, Tom forgot the speech he had glibly prepared to explain away the impropriety of his coming a day ahead of his time, and only just managed to bow creditably, and assume what he hoped to be his politest expression. “Your servant, Lady Cammerby.”

  Her ladyship, recollecting herself at his words, swept forward, her hands out to grasp his. “Oh, my dear boy, forgive me, but you are the image of your father. It took me quite twenty years back!” She pulled him into the house, volubly explaining that his dear mother and sister were out at the moment, having not expected him until the next day.

  With mixed feelings at her reference to his father, Tom made an effort to recall the gist of his speech, and made his apologies. “The weather is so fine, you see, and travel was easy, and I determined that rather than dawdle, I’d best come along and get it ov—that is, join my family sooner than later!” he finished with aplomb.

  “To be sure!” cried his hostess, without hesitation. “You are welcome at any time in my house, I assure you, and we shall get you settled so there will be no more bustle to attend to when your family returns.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, the sincerity of her words dispelling his discomfort. “I only must find a stable for my horse—”

  “Nonsense! Cammerby keeps the best stables hereabouts, and shall never be known to turn away a guest’s cattle. I will brook no arguments on that head, for if you are anything like your mama, you will have the impertinence to question my hospitality! No, no,” she said, imperiously waving away his objections. “Cottam will see to your horse.” She nodded to the butler, who bowed as she shepherded Tom upstairs to his chamber.

  An hour later saw him unpacked and changed, and possessed of perfect charity for his hostess, toward whom his heart had earlier been softened by the contentment and gratitude of his mother’s and sister’s letters, and regarding whose disinterested goodness in throwing about her money on his sister’s behalf he was now perfectly satisfied. He was soon very happily ensconced with his mother, sister, and hostess in the Blue Saloon, and regaling them with the particulars of his journey.

  After satisfying herself of his good health, and that of Humphrey Twindale, whom she had known since he was in short coats, Mrs. Breckinridge sat back, listening complacently to the spirited argument that presently sprang up between Tom and his sister regarding the superiority of London to the country. Tom refused to imagine that a city could afford more amusement than the country, whil
e Lenora maintained that the country had never been in any way exciting.

  “There are infinitely more engagements to be had in town than in the country, Tom,” insisted Lenora. “I congratulate myself that I have never been obliged to spend an evening at home above once in a week.”

  Her brother harrumphed at this. “If all one lived for was to be amused, then I suppose a never-ending string of engagements might be something on which to congratulate oneself! But some minds are of a more serious stamp, and could never find satisfaction in having no discretionary time, whereas the country offers such persons plenty of leisure.”

  “I suppose if one does not enjoy society, the country must be pleasanter,” observed Lenora handsomely, “however, if one wishes to mix with more than a few of the same families one has seen forever, one cannot argue that town society is superior.”

  “There is plenty of good society in the country, if one desires to have it—or have you forgotten the house parties, and assemblies—”

  “I was speaking of new and fresh society, Tom,” Lenora said.

  “And I was speaking of good society, Nora,” returned her brother.

  When they had come to an inevitable stand, their mother considered it wise to intervene. “In one way, I must agree with Lenora that the city does outshine the country,” she said, her eyes twinkling, “and that is in the assemblies. Your arrival is most opportune, Tom, for we had just determined on attending the assembly at Almack’s this evening, and a party of females is never so unexceptionable as when augmented by a handsome young man.”

  “Indeed, you are right, Genevieve,” put in Lady Cammerby, “and I have sent around to invite my brother Joshua to dine, expressly so I may present him to you, and shall desire him to come along with us. He is a most accomplished dancer, and will round out our party admirably.”