Two in the Bush

by Judith Hale Everett

“Oh, Tom!” She looked at him with glowing eyes, hands clasped at her bosom. “Would you? I know Elvira simply does not know her heart, and Mr. Ginsham is just the man for her. If she could only see him as the man of her dreams, she would be fairly caught!”

  “Leave it to me, Nora. I’ll not fail you.”

  On what was thought to be Tom’s last night in London, Lady Cammerby had contrived a cozy little party with just their family—which she took to include herself, the Breckinridges, and Sir Joshua—planning to take in Yates’s latest play, with dinner at the Piazza afterward. The play was quite good, if one forgave the rather unfortunate lisp of the leading lady, and the evening, though threatening rain, remained dry throughout the walk to the Piazza. As they were guided to their table, Mrs. Breckinridge was waylaid by an old, and very chatty, acquaintance, and while extricating herself, was separated from the group. She was standing on the edge of the room, scanning for her party, when a hand took her by the elbow.

  “What a lovely gown, Mrs. Breckinridge,” said a most hated voice in her ear. “I flatter myself that I recognize the pattern, but perhaps I am mistaken.”

  She turned, freeing herself from his grasp with the movement, and gazed impassively at Lord Montrose. “This is perhaps the one instance in which you do well to flatter yourself, my lord. It is from the gown I wore the night of my betrothal party, and of course, as Bertram’s closest friend, you were in attendance.”

  “Ah! Then my memory has not yet deserted me.”

  “No, even I must be made to admit that your memory, at least, has not yet deserted you, my lord,” she said, sweetly.

  His brows raised at this snub, but he let it pass, merely observing, “I wonder that you should wish to retain a reminder of such a day, ma’am.”

  “But that is precisely why I chose to refigure the old gown, my lord,” she said placidly, “so that the memory could be reconstructed. I cannot forget that I was betrothed, and even married, because those events shaped my life, introducing other events that I will never desire to forget—”

  “The birth of your children, for example.”

  Mrs. Breckinridge hesitated, but continued to regard him coolly. “Yes, one is always grateful for the birth of a child, no matter one’s feelings for a late husband.”

  He smiled. “I understand why. I have recently met your most charming son. I found him, if you may forgive me for saying so, exactly like Bertram.”

  Her eyes sparked. “Then you must forgive me for saying, my lord, that I cannot believe you to have truly met my son, for he is nothing like Bertram.”

  “But he is the very image of Bertram. His looks must give you trouble in reconstructing those abhorrent memories you speak of.”

  “You will have much to forgive in me, my lord, for again, I will contradict you.” She tipped her head to the side, in the manner of a mother addressing a child, her tone deceptively mild. “But you must not feel ashamed, for as a man, you really can have no knowledge of these things. I will attempt to explain it to you simply.” She fingered the skirt of her gown. “Consider that a gown is made of fabric which, cut into rather ridiculous shapes, could not to the inexperienced eye be fitted together to make anything even comprehensible. But skilled fingers fashion from this chaos a thing of beauty, admired by many and for many reasons.” She lifted the side of her skirt to fan it out. “When time and experience alter perspective and taste, what was once desirable becomes unappealing, but a proficient will tear it apart, cut out the undesirable bits, and create an entirely new thing of beauty from the pieces—pieces which, you have observed, my lord, still retain much of their original appearance.”

  “A fascinating lesson, ma’am.” He bowed his head to her, but his eyes were mocking. “You seem to have many hidden talents.”

  “I do not hide them, my lord,” she answered in a dispassionate tone. “Anyone who knows me may see them.”

  “Then, may I be so bold as to say,” he said, possessing himself of one of her hands, and kissing it, “I wish to know you better, ma’am.”

  “How disappointing for you, my lord.” Resolutely reclaiming her hand, she gathered her skirts with the greatest calm. “One often wishes for what one will never attain—it is a misfortune of life. You will excuse me.”

  Sweeping past him, she disappeared into the crowded coffee house. Her party had remarked her absence, and when she found her way to their table, Tom immediately stood and, in the guise of helping her to her seat, whispered, “What do you mean by conversing with Lord Montrose?”

  “I could not very well avoid it, Tom! He approached me and positively constrained me to talk with him. He would not be brushed off.”

  “You did not seem too keen upon brushing him off, Mama,” he hissed.

  “I meant nothing but to avoid a scene in public.”

  He had taken his own seat beside her by this time, and was obliged to respond to a request of Lenora for the menu before speaking quietly once more to his mama. “You cannot think me such a gudgeon as to believe there was nothing to your conversation! For heaven’s sake, Mama, you stood talking with him for ages, as if he were a friend! He kissed your hand!”

  Darting glances at the other members of their party to reassure herself that they were not attending to her words, she answered him in a low tone, “I could not help that, you must believe me, and if you had heard our conversation, my dear, you would have known it was not genial.”

  “Better to nod and move on than converse with him at all,” he insisted. “Dash it all, Mama, you can do nothing but encourage him with such attention! I have a fair mind to stay longer, rather than to let you carry on in such a hen-witted way!”

  “You hardly need my actions to justify you in that, my dear,” she said wryly. “I suspect Miss Marshall’s attractions have long since decided you.”

  Stymied for a moment, Tom retreated into his wine glass, but presently bent toward his mother’s ear again. “I still say this kind of encouragement will lead to trouble, Mama.”

  “I perfectly comprehend your concern, Tom, but if conversing with Lord Montrose for two minutes here and there will keep him tolerably content, then I will do it, for I have not yet thought of a better way to tame his roving interest.”

  He followed her gaze to Lenora, and struggled for several minutes with consternation, but at last nodded his consent. “It’s a devil of a risk, Mama. But it may well serve. At least until we are gone home—until all of us are gone home.”

  Genevieve was convinced that it must serve, and though Tom did extend his stay, she resolutely resumed chaperonage of Lenora, and if she was disinclined to meet with anyone in particular, none in general were aware of it. Lenora’s engagements were kept to drives with unexceptionable gentlemen, parties with only young people and their chaperones, and hand-picked outings where unintentional meetings were unlikely, but still Mrs. Breckinridge kept an eagle eye open, driven not by fear, but by sheer determination to beat the devil at his own game.

  So it was that, finding herself in need of sundry articles, she boldly submitted to Lenora’s request that they visit once more that unrivaled of all bargain houses, the Soho Bazaar, in the belief that even such a dandy as Lord Montrose would not be caught dead within its precincts. They sallied forth from Hill Street with Lady Cammerby, who had offered to convey them there in her barouche, and she set them down within sight of the doors. Armed with an umbrella and the resolution to purchase a new pair of kid gloves and some ribbon to furbish up a hat that otherwise must be considered unfit for wear, Mrs. Breckinridge indulged herself so far as to purchase a reticule for Lenora and a particularly pretty lace cap for herself, and Lenora happily found a table selling absurdly inexpensive silk stockings. They had nearly escaped the place when Lenora spied a lovely shawl that she was convinced Lady Cammerby must have, but as she had not the means to purchase it, she applied to her mama, whose lively awareness of her debt to her hostess,
and the bargain price of two guineas, determined her not to hesitate.

  The ladies bent their steps toward Hookham’s library and, their purses considerably lighter than they had intended them to be, wandered along Bond Street, peering into windows and mourning their lack of funds, until Mrs. Breckinridge was startled at the sight of Lord Montrose just descending from his carriage not forty paces away. Wasting no time, she whisked Lenora round a corner and onto Grafton Street, telling that outraged damsel, who had been inspecting a hat whose style she wished to copy, that this was a shorter and less alluring way to the library, and so safer to their depleted purses.

  Turning onto Albemarle Street, with the intention of rejoining Bond Street by Stafford, Mrs. Breckinridge was jostled by a ragged boy, and one of her packages knocked to the ground. This would not have overly distressed her had he not, at the same time, slipped her reticule from the arm that was now empty. Alarmed, she grasped at the urchin’s sleeve, but he tugged free, sprinting away from her down the flagway. Lenora screamed, but was unheeded, at least by her mama, as Mrs. Breckinridge experienced a panicked and overwhelming desire for the restoration of her property which precluded any thought for her own or her daughter’s welfare, and prompted her to give chase. After only two paces, however, the impracticality of running in long skirts, while bearing parcels, was borne in upon her and, with more desperation than foresight, she heaved the largest of her parcels—the bandbox containing Lady Cammerby’s shawl—at the thief’s head.

  Somewhat to her surprise, it was a dead hit, and the boy went down, sprawling sideways into the street with the bandbox bouncing after him, and the reticule flying from his hands. An instant later, he had jumped up and fled through the traffic and into the busy thoroughfare beyond, and Mrs. Breckinridge, pursuing as quickly as she was able, reached the place where she had hit the thief in perfect time to witness her bandbox being crushed under the wheel of an advertiser’s cart.

  A cry of indignation burst from her lips as the gaudy vehicle rolled past, its pasteboard tent desiring onlookers to partake of the wonders of the Spectacle at Sadler’s Wells, and its driver wholly indifferent to the distress of the woman on the side of the road. When the cart had at last gone by, Mrs. Breckinridge rushed into the street to snatch up the remains of her property, but as she put out her hand to retrieve her reticule, another hand picked it up, and she discovered that its fellow was extended toward her in aid. Taking the proffered hand, she stood and looked up into the rigid countenance of Sir Joshua Stiles.

  Her face flushed hotter than it had already become from the exertions and frustrations of the last several minutes, and she was unable to utter more than “Thank you,” as he led her back to the flagway, where a kind passerby had restored her dropped parcel to Lenora and was providing that pale maiden support. Mrs. Breckinridge, instantly conscious of the scene she had caused, was necessarily ashamed that she had so thoughtlessly abandoned her daughter, and for a course whose outcome had been as predictable as it had been unsatisfactory, and her mental perturbation was made all the more acute under Sir Joshua’s grim observation.

  Valiantly resolving to master the situation, she first determined to absolve herself by owning to her fault and, turning to Sir Joshua, she said, “I might have known it would be you to assist me, sir! You will pardon that I take it as a personal affront that you are ever present during my most ridiculous moments!”

  His eyes flickered with something that might have been appreciation, but his countenance remained grave as he answered, “It must be the perversity of Fate, ma’am, but if you will insist upon impulsivity, you will be justly rewarded.”

  “The boy stole my reticule, sir!” she responded, goaded by the justice of his reproof. “Would you have me stand idly by while it was done?”

  “One hoped you would take more thought for your daughter, ma’am!”

  This rebuke—merely an echo of her own self-recrimination—stung her pride into rearing its head, and she retorted, “Such a view is typical of a man! If I were a male, my actions would have been applauded, but no! Females must remain quivering in fear, while they are put upon by thieves! Forgive my progressive views, sir, but Lenora was safe enough while I exerted myself to retain our property!”

  “You cannot pretend there are more than a few guineas within this purse, ma’am,” he said, holding up the reticule and shaking it slightly, so that the faint jingling of the few coins inside could be heard, “and you will not persuade me that the other contents are worth a risk to your personal safety.”

  “As my safety was never at risk, sir,” she said with some asperity, reclaiming her reticule with heightened color, “and as I am used, out of necessity, to abide by the strictest economy, the loss of a few guineas, as you say, beside that of a perfectly sound, and, I must point out, practically new reticule, would be a shocking waste.”

  His jaw worked. “Not so shocking, it would seem, but you must follow it with a bandbox full of purchases.”

  “Bandboxes I have in abundance,” she bit out through clenched teeth, “and if that horrid boy had had the sense not to fall into the street, my purchases would never have landed where they could be wantonly crushed by that—that devilish cart!”

  She turned on her heel and, possessing herself of Lenora’s arm, marched her down the busy street, head high, and the dingy shawl, still encased in its crushed bandbox, clutched to her chest. She had not gone five steps, however, when Sir Joshua passed her with quick strides and stopped them, his hat held to his chest in an almost submissive gesture.

  “I must beg your pardon, Mrs. Breckinridge,” he said in a softened tone. “I meant no offense, and would be honored if you will allow me to assist you both.”

  She put her chin up. “Contrary to what has, no doubt, become your expectation, sir, we do not require rescue.”

  “Mama!” whispered Lenora, still pale from her fright.

  “This is no rescue, but a mere civility, I assure you,” said Sir Joshua, gently but firmly taking from her the tattered bandbox. Lenora gladly relinquished her parcels, smiling up at him as he added, “I am on my way to Hill Street. May I escort you?”

  Uneasily aware of Lenora’s desire to accept his kind offices, Mrs. Breckinridge said rather stiffly, “It is kind of you to offer, sir, but we were on our way to Hookham’s library.”

  “As I am in no hurry, I would be pleased to accompany you there.”

  Wilting under this persistent civility—and under Lenora’s pleading look—and wishing to be done with the matter as soon as may be—she consigned their other errands to another day, and her pride to the devil. “It will not be necessary, sir,” she said with a weary sigh. “I suspect Lenora has no more desire for another errand than do I.” After a moment’s struggle, she added, “Your escort home would be most appreciated.”

  They walked for some minutes in silence, Mrs. Breckinridge rapidly sinking under the mortification she felt, and laboring against a gnawing dissatisfaction in her breast. Her companion’s disapproval caused the recent scene to replay over and over again in her mind, and her guilt grew as the justice of his censure became more plain. She should not have left Lenora alone, especially with Lord Montrose still at large. Anyone, including him, could have set upon the girl while her mother was busy flinging parcels at a thief. And the thief, too, was to be pitied, for he likely had no home or parents, and was forced to steal to survive, and she was the veriest monster to not only keep him from his livelihood, but to injure him as well, all for the sake of a few coins.

  With such increasingly critical thoughts, Genevieve was well on her way into a depression when Sir Joshua suddenly observed, “I do not believe I have ever seen a thief dealt with in such a way, Mrs. Breckinridge.”

  Lenora giggled. “I am sure I have not, sir.”

  Mrs. Breckinridge blinked up at him, and discovered what looked like a slight smile playing on his lips. She felt herself plucked from the
depths. “You must own it was effective, in its way.”

  “It certainly caused him to reconsider.” He looked down at her. “But you misled me, ma’am. I distinctly recall your owning to imperfect aim.”

  She blushed and hurriedly disclaimed, setting down the hit to sheer luck.

  “Perhaps,” he allowed quietly, “but if that is so, it was even more of a risk.”

  She was forced to avert her gaze, the very gentleness of his rebuke striking her to the heart. “I own you are right. I cannot claim any cause for my actions, sir, except what you so rightly termed my impulsivity.”

  He took a moment to answer her. “You must pardon me, ma’am. I misspoke. I am sure I meant intrepidity.”

  “Are you certain you wish to allow me such a compliment in this instance, sir?” She looked prim. “For you also spoke of just rewards.”

  He opened his eyes wide at the recollection. “Indeed, I did, ma’am.” He again paused. “But if you cannot see anything rewarding in the end of that adventure, I can.”

  Unsure how to take his meaning, she turned to look searchingly at him, but he did not return her gaze, merely showing her a side view of the charming smile that could so suddenly and handsomely transform his features. At the same time, she caught the admiring look her daughter cast up at him, and with a lowering feeling, Mrs. Breckinridge believed she understood them both.

  Having invited Elvira to spend the afternoon at Lady Cammerby’s house, ostensibly to be the first to admire a new hat, Lenora wasted no time in pouring into her friend’s ears the story of Sir Joshua’s most recent act of chivalry. Her story could not have found a more interested audience, and Elvira sat spellbound throughout.

  “I do not think I will ever meet a more heroic man, Elvira!” breathed Lenora, at the close of her tale. “Such poise, and yet such passion! He was more romantic than words can describe!”

  Though she wholeheartedly agreed, Elvira required some minutes to assimilate all the details of the story, and she discovered, to her chagrin, that her sensibility was ruffled. “But to take your mother to task, Lenora, and in your hearing! I should have been mortified.”