Two in the Bush

by Judith Hale Everett

  “Oh, no,” said Lenora, quick to defend her hero. “If he was strict, it was only due to his concern for our welfare, which I found unutterably moving.”

  Elvira observed obliquely, “But you told me he is rather old.”

  “I had not then considered! He is exactly the right age, Elvira, with such experience and knowledge to exactly suit, as evidenced by his perfect handling of the situation.”

  Her friend sighed. “Then he is most assuredly not the evil Duke. As there is no hope of meeting the real evil Duke,” she said, casting a sigh heavenward, “I had hoped he might yet turn out to be just such another.”

  “I told you he would not fit the role, Elvira,” Lenora said, sublimely unaware of anything but Sir Joshua’s perfections. “He is too good, too heroic!”

  “Next you will be saying that he is our hero, Lenora,” Elvira chided. Her friend looked much struck by the notion, and Elvira quickly exclaimed, “But he must not be the hero, Lenora! Mr. Barnabus is secure of that role! No, Sir Joshua must be—” She bent her thoughts to the problem, but to no avail. “Oh, he must play only a supporting role.”

  “Well, Elvira, Sir Joshua need not be your hero, but he most definitely deserves a heroine of his own. You will not like my mentioning it, I warrant, but even Mr. Barnabus has yet to prove himself so wholly heroic as Sir Joshua. Such a man must be rewarded.”

  Elvira, though unwilling to relinquish Mr. Barnabus’s perfections, could not deny the justice of this claim, and struggled to find a compromise. Offering up several entirely unsatisfactory scenarios, she was suddenly struck with inspiration, and cried triumphantly, “He will be the foil to the evil Duke! To, oh, what’s his name—Lord Montrose!”

  “Yes!” Lenora clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, Elvira, what a perfect notion! Every hero must have an ideal to follow, and though the hero must ultimately defeat the evil Duke by his own merits, it stands to reason that he would be inspired by another great man.”

  Elvira perceived the very good sense of this reasoning, and entered into Lenora’s feelings on the matter. “Sir Joshua is the King Arthur to our Galahad! I see it all! Rumors of his exploits spread like wildfire through London, and our hero takes them to his bosom, espousing those virtues for his own! He will treasure up Sir Joshua’s example against the time that he shall rescue the heroine—of whose identity I am persuaded we are both sure.” She looked demurely down on these words, and so missed the quick, uncertain glance Lenora darted at her.

  “I wonder if Sir Joshua is acquainted with Lord Montrose,” mused Lenora, guiding the conversation back to the pertinent point.

  Elvira dismissed this necessity. “As the foil, he need not come into contact with the villain. It is enough for their characters to be exactly at odds.”

  “I would that we could be sure that Lord Montrose truly is the evil Duke. We neither of us know him but for hearsay, and it would be a pity if we had misjudged him. Such a mistake could be the ruin of our story!”

  Alarmed, Elvira whispered, “But surely your mama can be trusted that he is a despicable man! He was a crony of your father’s was he not? And that alone—I mean—I need not mention—” She fumbled, embarrassed, to a stop.

  “I do trust my mama, and my papa had only the horridest friends, it is true,” Lenora said, unoffended. “But there are many kinds of horrid, are there not?”

  Elvira uttered some incomprehensible sounds indicative of agreement, and Lenora, encouraged, continued. “As the creators of our adventure, it behooves us to be sure of our villain, else how can we be certain he is capable of the conduct we expect? Should we not at least make a push to acquaint ourselves with his character?”

  Elvira stared dumbstruck at this defiant attitude, which roused a righteous spirit in her breast. “But your mother—she charged you most straitly—you cannot!”

  Silence greeted this declaration, silence that stretched for several taut moments. At last, Lenora sighed. “Indeed, I hardly know how I could do it, being so carefully guarded as I am.” In a rallying tone, she said, “We shall just have to make do with what we know of Lord Montrose, and hope for the best outcome.”

  “I trust we shall not be disappointed, Lenora!” cried Elvira with the utmost relief.

  “We have, after all, the perfect hero—and heroine,” spoken with emphasis, “and foil to our villain. It really is all that we had wished.”

  Elvira hastened to agree. “Yes, yes! How perfectly all has fallen into place!”

  Mrs. Breckinridge, passing by the door at the start of this very interesting conversation, found herself caught in place for several seconds—though by principle not one to eavesdrop—her ears straining of their own accord to hear the whole. The intensity with which her daughter expressed her feelings for Sir Joshua could not but grip her with a feeling that she knew was most unsuitable for a mother to entertain, but when the talk moved to Lord Montrose, that feeling changed to dread. The close of the conversation awakened her to the impropriety of her remaining where she stood, but it was only with the greatest effort that she conjured up the strength to unroot her feet and move along down the hall to her intended destination.

  The agitation caused by the first portion of the conversation she gladly allowed to be suppressed by the alarm caused by the second, which still rang in her mind that evening when she and Lenora retired to bed. Alive to the absolute necessity of stifling Lenora’s curiosity to meet and interact with the evil Duke, she resolutely followed her daughter into her bedchamber.

  Closing the door behind them, Mrs. Breckinridge sat on the edge of the bed, plunging directly into deep waters. “I hope you will forgive me, dear, but I overheard some of your conversation with Elvira today.”

  Lenora blushed scarlet. “Oh, Mama, how could you!”

  “A thousand apologies, darling, but I was passing in the hallway, and heard something about finding an evil Duke! How could I not stop to listen?”

  “Oh! That!” Lenora regained her color. “We are only being silly, you know.”

  “But ‘all has fallen into place?’”

  Her daughter smiled impishly. “Well, it is strange how we have come upon all the characters in a first-rate romance, Mama. We have the heroine, which is—well, to tell truth, we have not yet settled between Elvira and me—and we have the stammering hero, which is Mr. Barnabus, and—well—you told me of Lord Montrose, and who else could be the evil Duke?”

  “Ingenius, my dear,” said Mrs. Breckinridge with the utmost affability. “And are there supporting characters, in this romance of yours?”

  “Indeed, Mama! There is Mr. Ginsham—he is the disappointed suitor, I fear, unless Tom and I can contrive a way for him to be Elvira’s hero—”

  “Thus, opening the way for you to be Mr. Barnabus’s heroine?” interpolated her mother, not unhopefully.

  Lenora giggled nervously. “Perhaps, Mama. That remains to be seen.”

  Her mother, deciding not to belabor the issue by grasping at this straw, went on. “My, but your cast of characters seems prodigiously well-picked. Are there any more members?”

  “Oh, well, you, Mama, to be sure, and dear Lady Cammerby, and Tom, and—and Sir Joshua.”

  “Mmm, yes,” she agreed, as if contemplating the gentleman’s suitability to high drama. “Sir Joshua is quite romantic, isn’t he, with his grave demeanor and sober conversation. We cannot do without him.”

  Lenora bit her lip, then burst out, “He is romantic, Mama! You must see it!”

  “Yes, dear, I do.” Lenora’s face lit up, and Mrs. Breckinridge had to look away. “But the evil Duke, my love. He is the only member of your cast unknown to you. How shall you contrive?”

  Taken unawares by this solicitous inquiry, Lenora said eagerly, “May I know him, Mama? I declare it is my dearest wish!”

  “No, Lenora, I fear not,” her mother answered gently, but with a firmness that could no
t be mistaken.

  Patently disappointed, Lenora pouted, “I really think it is too bad of you not to allow me to decide for myself if I should know him, Mama!”

  “I fear I know you too well to entrust such a decision to you, my love. You see, he is quite as villainous as you could wish, and more. You would be much better served to imagine yourself an evil Duke.”

  “No! That would never do, when all the rest are real!”

  Aware from Lenora’s recalcitrant tone that the discussion had moved to unsteady ground, Mrs. Breckinridge smoothed the coverlet beside her, choosing her words carefully. “An evil Duke is excellent when safely tied up in the pages of a book, my love, his character neatly bound by black and white. But such men as Lord Montrose, when they are to be found loose in society, with no writer’s pen to curb their villainy, would not scruple to injure a girl, without waiting for the hero to arrive.”

  Lenora did not answer, but her silence was more grave than pettish, encouraging her mother to continue. “Men such as Lord Montrose do not wait to steal their victim’s virtue, or spew forth involved speeches whose length enables the hero to reach the heroine in time to avert tragedy.” She paused to let Lenora absorb this. “Such men take what they will, when they will, and are so cunning as to ensure their own safety at any cost—even that of another’s reputation. They are dangerous, my love, and cannot be trusted within arms-length, at any time.”

  “This is serious, indeed, Mama,” said Lenora, in a half-hearted attempt at lightness.

  “It is most serious, my love.” She took Lenora’s hand in her own. “You must believe that I am in deadly earnest when I say that you must not court the acquaintance of a dangerous man, be he Lord Montrose or some other who comes into your way, simply to fill a character in an imaginary game.”

  Lenora sat down quietly beside her mother. “Mama, you did not tell me he was so dangerous before.”

  “I am telling you now. Do I have your assurance, Lenora?”

  “Yes—yes, Mama, of course.”

  Mrs. Breckinridge pressed her hand. “Then I will reward you with this: Lord Montrose was the principle instigator of all that drove your father to ruin. He led your father to gamble away a fortune and mix in degrading society, all to his own profit. He feels no remorse, and he has already forced his presence upon myself and Tom, here in London, with the undoubted intent to do us harm. He must not be allowed to know you.”

  Lenora’s eyes had grown wider during this speech. “No, Mama. No, I—I most solemnly promise not to seek out Lord Montrose, and—and to avoid him if ever I find myself in his vicinity.”

  “Thank you, love,” said her mama softly, then, striving for a heartening tone, she added, “There! You have your evil Duke, and you may imagine his evil deeds to your heart’s content, but he must remain bodily in the wings forever if we are to have a romance, and not a tragedy, on our hands.”

  Thoroughly sobered by her mother’s warning, Lenora rivaled even Sir Joshua’s gravity for the next few days, but it was not to be expected that her spirits should be dampened long, especially as the season was still in full swing, and there were so many parties and outings to be had. To Mrs. Breckinridge’s great relief, Lenora continued to submit meekly to the careful vetting of her invitations, in greater part because there were few that met with prohibition, as Lord Montrose, happily, did not move with the younger set.

  Lenora did not find anything unaccountable in Tom’s extending his stay another fortnight, for though some of his motives were quite otherwise than she supposed, Tom’s obvious enjoyment of Miss Marshall’s attractions was reason enough for her to believe his stay was entirely a matter of self-indulgence. Indeed, she blithely assumed Lady Wraglain’s ball, which augured well to be quite a squeeze, and happened to fall within his extended time, to be the chief excuse for his stay, and he did not deny it, having ascertained that Lord Montrose would not be invited, but that the Marshalls had been.

  The ballroom at Wraglain House was bedecked with flowers, a fact which gratified Lady Cammerby into fond and vocal remembrances of her ball, which must of course have been the inspiration. In response to this, Lady Wraglain merely expressed to Mrs. Breckinridge her wish that the next ton ball would usher in a new kick of fashion in ballroom decoration so as to allay her overwhelming desire to depress some persons’ pretensions.

  Brought into the ballroom on Tom’s arm, Lenora was quickly discovered by a young dandy, who had made her acquaintance fairly recently, and who begged her hand for the first set. Tom, eyeing the height of the young gentleman’s shirt points sternly, bade fair to dampen the entire evening by suggesting that sprigs of fashion were notorious for loose morals. But when Lenora twitted him on being a bulldog, he couldn’t help but laugh, and spoiled the effect of his speech. Lenora left him quite contentedly, but Tom knew his duty, so, leading a young lady into the same set, kept an eye on his sister, to the end that Lenora took him aside after the dance.

  “What do you mean by following me, Tom?”

  “I’m not following you,” he said, all innocence.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Did Mama set you to watch me?”

  “I don’t know what you can mean, Nora,” he said, twitching his cuffs with studied nonchalance.

  She eyed him in annoyance. “She’d not the least need to set you to watching me, as she has already counted this ball as safe, for she knows there will be no evil Dukes present.”

  He stared at her. “Evil Dukes?”

  She laughed. “You know, from the novels. The villain who will stop at nothing to claim the heroine as his own.”

  He snorted. “Lord Montrose is no Duke. Though he is evil.”

  “Precisely, and he was not invited, as Mama particularly discovered, so you may be at ease.”

  “Lord Montrose isn’t the only Bad Man, Lenora.”

  “To be sure, however, you cannot hover over my shoulder all evening trying to discern who is and who is not. We must trust Lady Wraglain’s choice in her guests, and in every gentleman’s sense of propriety.”

  He pursed his lips and grumbled, “Well, I don’t.”

  “Tom, don’t be provoking! You must own that in the six weeks since I have come to this town, which everyone knows is teeming with rascals, I have never once been in the company of a man who has gone over the line. While I am sincerely grateful to you for your protection, I’d liefer go home than have you guarding me like the Black Monk.”

  He gazed narrow-eyed at her, but at last seemed to accept the practicality of her words. He folded his arms over his chest like a general. “Very well, little sister, I will let you free, but you will conduct yourself with propriety, and you will not let yourself be taken in!”

  She rolled her eyes at him but shook his hand with as much sobriety as he could wish, and he left her to her next partner. As she spied him leading Miss Marshall into the next set, and seemingly oblivious to anyone else, she felt fairly certain he had taken her words to heart, leaving her to the full enjoyment of an excellent ball, until she was made to wish that Tom had not given in so easily.

  Asked to give him the honor of accompanying her down to dinner by young Lord Castleton, a buck with a florid waistcoat and a profusion of fobs and seals—and whose wriggling eyebrows gave her a feeling of acute discomfort—she politely refused, saying that she had already promised the honor to another nameless young man. He was teasing her for the name of this unknown gentleman when suddenly Mr. Barnabus appeared and asked if she was ready to go down. Lenora, gazing at her savior in both amazement and admiration, waited only until Mr. Barnabus had swept her off before crying, “How famous, Mr. Barnabus! Thank you, a thousand times! But how did you know?”

  He grinned, leading her to an empty table. “I overheard your m-mendacity, Miss B-breckinridge, and was only too glad to ob-blige. B-besides, that's Castleton—a s-slimy toad if there ever was one.”

  She giggled. �
��But why are you here, sir? I was given to understand you do not dance.”

  “I d-don’t, ma’am. B-but the Oslows, with whom I’m staying, were invited, and felt s-sure you’d be here, so I d-decided to come along.” He bowed his head graciously. “You see, I leave town tom-morrow.”

  “Oh!” Lenora looked at him, astonished. “But I thought you did not attend Easter term! Have you determined to sit for exams early?”

  “N-no, I am sum-moned to the ancestral home.” He widened his eyes meaningfully. “M-my poor father fears m-my knowledge should s-suffer from all this dissip-pation, and I feel sure he means to d-drill me until June.”

  Assimilating this alteration of plans with her own hopes, Lenora was slightly taken aback by her lack of emotion. To lose her hero should have prostrated her with grief—in the very least should have brought on a swoon—but no such fate assailed her, and they both quite easily talked of his home in Devonshire, and of his hopes in the Bar, until dinner was ended and they joined the other couples returning to the ballroom.

  In the hall, he bowed. “Here I leave you, Miss B-breckinridge. I have an early s-start in the morning.”

  With very little qualm, Lenora offered her hand to him. “You will be missed. If your father will spare you, we are settled here through the season, and will always welcome you. But if not, I wish you good luck on your exams, and hope to meet you again, perhaps next season.”

  He had bowed over her hand, but straightened and glanced behind into the ballroom. “I n-nearly forgot. Is Miss Chuddsley here tonight? I m-made sure she would be, b-but have not seen her.”

  Shaken by a tiny spasm of jealousy, Lenora’s smile wavered. “No, she is not. Oh, she will be disappointed. Can you not pay her a call before you leave?”

  “As I leave b-before sunup, I think she would rather b-be annoyed.” He grinned. “Would you b-be so kind as to carry my r-regrets to her?”