Two in the Bush
Page 21
She heard him move behind her, and then he had taken her hand. “Your intentions, as always, were for the best,” he said with unwonted gentleness, “and this time you have nothing to regret. I am only glad I found you when I did.” He brought her hand to his lips, then placed it within his arm, leading her onto the walk and toward the lights surrounding the fireworks tower ahead. “I believe Lord Montrose will not dare to further distress you, at least for an appreciable time. But Lenora will be wondering where we have got to, and must not be made to worry.”
With that, he quickened his pace, and she could only keep step with him as they made their way to the base of the pole to which was secured the bottom end of Madame Saqui’s rope. There, they met the remainder of their party, and scarcely had they heard Lenora’s exclamations of relief at her mother’s safe return, and given hurried explanations of what had happened to separate them—neglecting to make mention of Lord Montrose—than a cacophony of popping and whizzing was heard from the fireworks tower, and a glory of sparks burst upon their vision.
The night sky blazed with the fireworks, but Genevieve hardly saw them for the confusion in her own mind. Lord Montrose’s attack upon her person had been a horrid shock, to be sure, but Sir Joshua’s attack of words had cut her to the heart, and given her to understand that his disapproval of her was so deep-seated as to make their acquaintance only tenable for the sake of his attachment to Lenora, and his esteem for Tom, as his future brother. She could only be amazed that he tolerated her company as well as he so often did.
That her actions had endangered her children she knew, and she regretted it with all her heart, but she could never have discovered any way to keep them safe from Lord Montrose—of this she was convinced. But Sir Joshua would never see it that way. He was right that her plan had turned out faulty, but once she had started, there was no other way to proceed. Retreat after their initial encounter would have spurred Montrose the harder, and greater encouragement would merely have proven to him that she was an easy, if not a willing, victim. She was caught as soon as he had discovered her.
But her children had not been. They had been in some danger while Lord Montrose made her his object, but she had stood firm against him tonight, and prevailed. And because, as Sir Joshua had opined, Lord Montrose was not likely to bother them for some time after the humiliation and injury of this night, she must feel that her plan had been in some measure a success. If it had not been for the pain of Sir Joshua’s judgment on her, and the mortification of her own feelings toward him, she should feel much of the joy of celebration that the fireworks seemed to invite.
Her thoughts were distracted by a figure that was climbing the ladder next to the pole. It must be Madame Saqui, who, as she had heard, was a wiry, mannish female, with little grace or beauty. Her costume, made up of garish spangles, fringe, and plumes, seemed designed to make up for her personal deficiencies, and indeed, the eyes of the spectators never left her small figure from the moment it was perceived.
So quickly as Madame Saqui had ascended the pole, did she ascend the rope, walking dexterously and without hesitation, upward toward the platform of the fireworks tower, with the rockets exploding all around her. The necks of all persons in the crowd below the rope were craned upward, all eyes watching aghast, as the slight form darted through smoke and fire, up the slender rope to the platform, and without even a pause, turned to descend again with equal rapidity. Even Genevieve’s troubles were suspended for the few minutes Madame Saqui flitted through the air above her, and until the small acrobat reached the base pole and scampered down the ladder, disappearing into the crowd, Genevieve was merely a lady on the arm of a gentleman, watching an amazing sight, ostensibly without a care in the world.
Lenora, kept in ignorance of the danger her mother had escaped, retained only happy memories of their outing to Vauxhall, with its beautiful music and wondrous fireworks display. Sadly, however, she had no one with whom to share her joy, for her estrangement from Elvira continued. No notes had passed from one to the other since their argument, no visits had occurred between them, and if both had happened to attend the same party, Lenora, receiving only punctilious civility from her erstwhile bosom friend, was compelled to repay her in kind.
But Lenora was speedily tiring of this display of officiousness, for she missed Elvira, and after a fortnight without Mr. Barnabus—the object of their envy and thus their discord—she had come to the shocking conclusion that she did not care for that gentleman any more than she did any other young gentleman, and in many cases, far less. That she had made him, who had no claims upon her but those she had imposed upon him, into the hero of her fancy was a fact that caused her all the more mortification, because of the breach it had introduced between herself and Elvira.
Uncertain as she was that any olive branch of her own would be received by Elvira, she took what comfort she could find and, nearly a week after Vauxhall, made her way to Hookham’s library with a footman in tow, where she lost herself among the shelves, in search of the perfect escape for a girl who had no bosom friend with whom to share her own adventures, and so sought relief through another’s. Spying a likely volume, she took it down from the shelf, opening its cover to peruse the opening pages and, turning as she did so, took an unconscious step forward, to collide with a person she had not before perceived.
“Oh, pardon me! I did not see you—” she cried, stopping mid-sentence to gaze in shocked embarrassment at none other than Miss Chuddsley, who stood with amazement mirrored on her face.
Lenora recovered first. “Elvira! Oh—I did not think to see you here!”
Elvira, who had flushed pink upon these words, clutched her hands to her chest, her gaze fluttering abstractedly all around. “Yes. I came—I found I needed—how does your family, Lenora?”
“Very well, I thank you,” Lenora mechanically replied, equally disquieted. “And—and your Aunt?”
“She is well, I thank you.” Elvira shifted uneasily on her feet, until her eyes fell upon the title of the book in Lenora’s hands. “Oh, The Chronicles of an Illustrious House! It is what I came to find!”
Lenora instantly held the book out to her. “You may take it, by all means!”
“Oh, no! You found it first—”
“But I had only taken it from the shelf by the merest chance. I had not determined upon taking it.”
Elvira accepted the proffered book with a hesitant smile. “I have not yet read it. I hear it is most exciting.” Her eyes flicked up to her friends’ and back down again. “But this is only the first volume. It is one of five.”
“I know nothing of the story,” said Lenora, turning to the shelf to take down the other volumes. “Perhaps—” She peeked at her friend. “Perhaps we could read it together?”
The smile on Elvira’s lips faded. “I do not know—I cannot say—” She averted her eyes, disquiet upon her face, and silence settled between them.
“Elvira?” Lenora said, almost in a whisper. “Please, let us be friends again. I am most desperately sorry that I offended you—”
“But it was not only me whom you offended, Lenora,” Elvira returned in a hushed but bitter tone. “You spoke slightingly of Mr. Barnabus, and behind his back, too!”
“Did I?” Lenora asked, blinking and trying to remember her last words to her friend, which had long become garbled in the angry haze of her memory.
“Yes! You called him a ‘stammering, stoop-shouldered, poverty-stricken young man!’”
“Oh. Yes, I recollect—” Lenora bent her head and went on bravely, “And it was very unfeeling of me, and shameful, and I would I had not said it, but it was only because I was angry, and I never meant a word of it, for he is an excellent young man, and a good friend.”
Elvira, who had been regarding her narrowly throughout this speech, was visibly affected by it, and dropped her eyes to say quietly, “Perhaps we both were too hasty that day.”
“Would it please you?” Elvira said, with a tremulous smile. “I—I would dearly love to read it with you, Lenora.”
Lenora matched her smile and, with the sudden unreserve that accompanies the reconciliation of good friends, the two girls embraced, and then, with delighted giggles, proceeded to discuss the presumed merits of the new book, giving free reign to conjecture of how the story would align with their notions of romance. They were fast reaching the heights of exhilaration, their discussion accompanied by much gesticulation and generously interpolated with heartfelt sighs, when someone bumped into Lenora. She turned to see the older gentleman who had admired her—or so he had said—upon her first coming into town. He was looking aggrieved, his hand arrested in the act of reaching toward a book on the shelf.
“Pardon me, ma’am. I seem to be most clumsy! There really is no excuse—Oh!” he cried, his eyes opening wide with recognition. “Have we met? Yes, I am persuaded we have met—”
“We have not, sir, but briefly in the street,” said Lenora, coloring prettily.
“Ah,” he said, dropping his eyes. “Forgive the pretension.” He perceived the books in her hands and smiled ruefully. “I see that I have been looking in vain, for you have my copy of The Chronicles of an Illustrious House.”
Lenora blushed, looking in confusion from the books in her hands to the gentleman. “Oh, no, sir! There must be some mistake! I do not see how it could be—I took it from the shelf!”
“You mistake me, ma’am, and must pardon me once more. I should have said, you have the copy I had hoped to borrow for myself. But, no matter,” here he sighed melodramatically, “I shall wait patiently until you are finished and I can at last satisfy my yearning curiosity.”
As the fine tailoring of the gentleman’s coat, his rather exquisite waistcoat and pantaloons, and his glossy Hessians had not escaped Lenora’s notice, either at this time or the first time they had met, she could not but wonder what prevented him from purchasing his own copy of the book.
But Elvira put herself forward, her expression demure. “You are funning, sir, and with persons unknown to you. For shame!”
“You think me a coxcomb,” said the gentleman, assuming a tenor of gravity. “Please accept my humble apologies.” He swept off his hat and bowed low. “I will prove my gentility, and absent myself to live upon the hope that you will return those most interesting volumes in good time.” He bestowed a winning smile upon both of them. “Good day to you.”
The girls watched him go, then exchanged speaking looks.
“I believe you must revise your earlier opinion of that gentleman, Elvira,” observed Lenora. “He seems to be given to levity.”
“But so charming, do not you think?”
“Decidedly,” replied Lenora, looking after him with interest.
But youth is easily distracted, and only a few moments more passed before the young ladies had dismissed the intriguing gentleman from their minds and, taking each other’s arm, hastened to the desk to borrow their books. Once on the street, with an abigail and the footman following behind, Elvira tugged Lenora closer.
“I’ve missed you, dearest! My feelings are all commotion, and I’ve had no one to tell about it!”
Lenora felt nothing but surprise at this announcement. “For heaven’s sake, Elvira, tell me at once! Has your Aunt been treating you ill, or—or have you received an offer?” She stopped abruptly in place. “Has Mr. Barnabus returned?”
Elvira colored, but shook her head. “No, none of that. My distress is all my own doing, and I feel so ashamed! Oh, Lenora, I have discovered how wrong I was to blame poor Ginsham for deceiving me about Mr. Barnabus’s leaving town.”
“But how came this about? Oh, dear, let us walk into the park.”
Crossing Picadilly, they made their way into Green Park and came upon a bench where they could sit and chat comfortably.
“Now, Elvira,” said Lenora, putting her arm round her friend, “tell me how Mr. Ginsham has been redeemed.”
Elvira smiled self-consciously and began. “He came to see me the day after the ball, the very day you and I quarreled, and you know I was in such a black humor when I left you, and the ride home only made it worse. So, when I came into my aunt’s parlor, and there he was, I nearly fell into hysterics! I thought him fully conscious of his deception, and could not believe his effrontery at coming so boldly to see me. In that instant I resolved to turn him away, and never allow him into my presence again, but then—oh, Lenora!—then I perceived that he was injured!”
“He was injured?” cried Lenora, baffled.
“Yes, his arm was in a sling. I was so taken aback that I hardly knew how to look, but presently, I wished him to tell me what had happened, and at first, he would say nothing about it, saying it was not to be regarded, or some such nonsense. When I pressed him, he said that it was a mere scratch, and that I shouldn’t worry, and he said it so mildly, and humbly, that I was fairly chastened for even thinking the least ill of him before. So I sat him down, and offered him refreshment, and coaxed and pleaded, and practically begged him to tell me how he had come by his mere scratch, which cannot have been a mere anything if it left him without the use of his arm, and at last he admitted the truth!”
“Elvira! Well?” cried Lenora. “And what was the truth?”
Her friend turned to fully face her, eyes wide with the import of what she was to impart. “That he and your brother Tom were set upon by thieves, on their way home from the ball!”
“No!” was all Lenora could bring herself to say.
“Yes! They were attacked by two armed men, one with a cudgel who went at Ginsham, and the other who had a knife!”
Lenora gasped, but still could not interrupt, round-eyed and engrossed in the shocking tale.
Elvira needed no encouragement, however. “Mr. Ginsham had all he could do to ward off his attacker, but as soon as he had done so—by means which we have been wont to abhor, but for which I must tell you, Lenora, we ought now to feel gratitude—he rushed to Tom’s aid, pulling the thief about and wrenching the knife away, but in the act was wounded himself!”
“But Tom never said a word!” Lenora cried. “I shall never forgive him for this! To be in mortal peril, and to be snatched from death! Oh, what an adventure!”
Primming up her mouth, Elvira said, “He is most likely too ashamed to tell you, Lenora, as well he should be, for Ginsham discovered after the fight that Tom had orchestrated it, for—well, for some trumpery reason I shall not stoop to recount.”
This stopped Lenora’s raptures abruptly; however, as the memory of a particular conversation with Tom, regarding Mr. Ginsham and Elvira, suddenly came to mind, she could only stare at Tom’s cleverness. “The scamp! How brilliant!” she murmured, without thinking.
Elvira stared at Lenora, scandalized. “I had flattered myself that you should deprecate such thoughtlessness!”
“Oh! I do, most certainly,” Lenora hastened to assure her, assuming a disapproving expression. “I spoke ironically, of course.”
“I should hope so,” said her friend haughtily, “and if I were you, I would have a word with my brother upon the propriety of such pranks, for poor Ginsham could have been killed, and very likely Tom as well!”
“But gentlemen are always discounting danger, Elvira,” observed Lenora, “and are horridly backward in their notions of bravery.”
Elvira, upon reflection, acknowledged this to be too true, then quickly revolved back to her admiration of Ginsham’s heroics “Even had he known of the deception, I declare I should never have thought Mr. Ginsham capable of such a feat! In actuality wresting a knife from the hands of a ruffian! Just as if he were Antony grappling with the Black Monk! Oh, Lenora, never wou
ld I have imagined—but I am unjust, for I must own that he has never given me reason to believe him cowardly.”
“No, he has not,” agreed Lenora, “but I, too, have nevertheless misjudged him. How blind we have been! This event has entirely reformed my opinion of our Mr. Ginsham. I am now inclined to think him excessively romantic, for not only has he behaved with bravery, but he has done so with the utmost humility!”
“Indeed!” said Elvira, much struck. “From the start he wished not to flaunt his bravery to me. It was only after much coaxing that he even began to tell his story, and that reluctantly. And then, when he might have withheld Tom’s perfidy from me, he willingly revealed the whole though, undoubtedly, he must have feared it would dim the gallantry of his actions!”
Lenora nodded approvingly. “It is just as it should be, and we must be moved by his heroism, and acknowledge his goodness. He has shown himself to be the perfect hero, and deserves our highest respect.” She stood then and resumed walking, though slowly, Elvira chattering by her side.
“To be sure! I have entirely reformed my opinion, as you said. According to Ginsham, the two thieves were so desperate that he was forced to fight with his bare hands for his very life—and although his life was never in any real danger, he could have no notion of that until after the fact.” She shook her head ruefully. “And to think that I had deprecated his frequenting Jackson’s Saloon, as he has more than once mentioned he has done, when now I see it was most necessary for his success, for though it was all a horrid joke of Tom’s, the thieves were still desperate enough to wound him!”
“Oh, Elvira! Too true! What a mistake we have made in judging that pastime harshly. How little we must truly know of sport’s necessity to a gentleman’s well-being!”
Her friend blushed, looking at her feet as they walked along the flagway. “You may well imagine that after he had satisfied my curiosity regarding his injury, I remembered my argument against him, and mentioned Mr. Barnabus, only to prove that I had been just in suspecting him. And I hadn’t, Lenora, for he said in all innocence that he had mistaken the day, and had a terrible fright when Mr. Barnabus came in to take his leave of him the afternoon of the ball. So.” She sighed and Lenora squeezed her arm encouragingly. “I have forgiven Mr. Ginsham. But now I am at outs with Mr. Barnabus.”