Friday’s Child

by Джорджетт Хейер

  “Well, if he’s a friend of yours, you’ve no business to hide his wife from him!”

  “Yes, I have. Been thinking of it for a long time.”

  “Thinking of hiding Kitten for a long time?” demanded Lord Wrotham incredulously.

  “You’re a fool, George. Big a fool as Ferdy. Been thinking about Sherry and Kitten. Fond of ’em both.”

  “I’m fond of them both too,” said Ferdy. “What’s more, Sherry’s my cousin. But he’s got no right to behave like a curst brute to Kitten. Cousin or no cousin. Dear little soul! Dash it, Gil, almost an angel!”

  “No,” said Mr Ringwood, after thinking this over. “Not an angel, Ferdy. Dear little soul, yes. Angel, no!”

  “It don’t matter what she is!” struck in George. “All that signifies is that she’s Sherry’s wife!”

  Mr Ringwood looked at him under his brows, but refrained from comment. After a slight pause, George said: “Not our affair, whatever we may think. The fact of the matter is, she does need some older female to school her.”

  “She’ll have one,” replied Mr Ringwood.

  “Yes, that’s all very well, but though I don’t say he set about it the right way, Sherry ain’t so far wrong when he takes it into his head to send Kitten down to the dowager.”

  “Do you know my aunt Valeria, George?” asked Ferdy, astonished.

  “Oh, lord, yes, I know her! But — ”

  “Well, I wouldn’t have thought it.”

  “That ain’t the point,” interrupted Mr Ringwood. “Point is what Kitten said just now: Sherry don’t love her.”

  “I wouldn’t say that, Gil,” protested Ferdy. “Never told me he didn’t love her!”

  Mr Ringwood closed his cloak-bag and strapped it. “I know Sherry,” he said. “But I don’t know if he loves Kitten or not. Going to find out. If you ask me, he don’t know either. If he don’t it ain’t a particle of use sending Kitten to the dowager. Come to think of it, it ain’t much use sending her there if he does, because that ain’t the way he’d find it out. But if he does love her, he ain’t going to like not knowing what’s become of her. Might miss her like the devil. Make him start to think a trifle.”

  George regarded him frowningly. “Are you going to tell Sherry you don’t know where his wife is?”

  “Not going to tell him anything,” said Mr Ringwood. “He won’t think I had anything to do with it. Thought it all out. You’re going to tell Sherry I’ve gone off to Hertfordshire, because that uncle of mine looks like dying at last.”

  “I’ll tell him, if George don’t like to,” offered Ferdy.

  “No, you won’t,” answered Mr Ringwood. “You’re coming to Bath with me.”

  “No, dash it, Gil!” feebly protested Ferdy.

  George, whose brow had cleared, said: “By God, I believe you’ve hit it, Gil! Damme, I’ve thought for a long time Sherry needed a lesson! I will tell him you’ve gone to Hertfordshire! Yes, by Jove, and I’ll take precious good care he don’t ask me if I know what’s become of his Kitten!”

  “Yes, but I don’t want to go to Bath!” said Ferdy.

  “Nonsense! Of course you’ll go!” George said briskly. “You can’t leave poor old Gil to bear the brunt of it! Besides, it’ll look better if you both escort Kitten. You know what Sherry is! Why, he even called me out, only for kissing her! If he got to hear of Gil’s jauntering about the country with her he’d very likely cut his liver out and fry it. Can’t take exception to the pair of you going with her.”

  When the matter was put to him like that, all Ferdy’s chivalrous instincts rose to the surface, and he at once begged pardon, and said that he would stand by Gil to the death. Upon reflection, he admitted that he would as lief not meet his cousin Sherry on the following day. George then wished to be assured that Mr Ringwood’s man, Chilham, was to be trusted to keep his mouth shut, and upon being told that he was the most discreet fellow alive, said that there seemed to be nothing more to do in the matter until the following day. All three gentlemen thereupon left the house, Ferdy going off to Cavendish Square and Mr Ringwood, his cold forgotten, accompanying George to his lodgings in Ryder Street.

  Chapter Nineteen

  WHEN HERO PUT IN NO APPEARANCE AT THE breakfast table next morning, the Viscount was not much surprised, and he made no comment. He himself had passed an indifferent night. His visit to White’s, on the previous evening, had confirmed his worst fears. One tactless gentleman had actually had the effrontery to mention Hero’s projected race to him, and instead of landing this person a facer he had been obliged to treat the matter lightly, saying that it was all a hum, and that he wondered that anyone could have been green enough to have supposed that it could have been anything else. After that he had gone home, and had written a stiff note to Lady Royston, cancelling the meeting. That had taken him an hour to compose, and he had wasted a great many sheets of paper on it, and had not even the satisfaction of feeling that the final copy conveyed his sentiments to the lady. Unquiet dreams had disturbed his sleep, and he arose in the morning not in the least refreshed, but more determined than ever to remove Hero from London until such time as the Polite World had forgotten her lapse from grace. His lordship was not going to run the risk of his wife’s being refused a voucher for Almack’s; and, to do him justice, this caution was more on her behalf than on his own. He made up his mind to explain it all carefully to Hero on the way down to Kent, for although he had been extremely angry with her on the previous evening, he was not one to nurse rancour, and he was already sorry that he had left her room so precipitately, and without comforting her distress, or making any real attempt to alleviate her alarms. He did not like to think of his Hero in tears, and he was much afraid that she had cried herself to sleep. When she did not come down to breakfast, he was sure of it. So as soon as he had finished his own repast he went up to her room and knocked politely on the door. There was no answer, and, after waiting for a moment, he turned the handle and walked in. The room was in darkness. Surprised, he hesitated for an instant before speaking his wife’s name. There was again no answer. All at once the Viscount felt, without quite knowing why, that there was no one but himself in the room. He strode over to the window, and flung back the curtains, and turned. No erring wife lay sleeping in the silk-hung bedstead. The quilt had not even been removed from it, but on one pillow lay a sealed billet.

  The Viscount picked it up with a hand that was not entirely steady. It was addressed to himself. He broke the seal and spread open the sheet of paper.

  Sherry,

  I have run away, because I will never go to your Mama, and I see now that it would be to no avail, even if I did, for you were right when you said you should not have married me, though I did not know it then, when I was so ignorant and stupid. It was all my fault, for I always knew that you did not love me, and you have been so patient with me, and so very kind, and I know I have been very troublesome, and quite spoilt your life, besides getting into debt, and obliging you to sell those horses, and not knowing how to contrive so that Mrs Bradgate should not order such expensive things, like that dreadful bill for candles, and a dozen others. So please, Sherry, will you divorce me, and forget all about me, and pray do not tease yourself with wondering what has become of me, because I shall do very well, and there is not the least occasion for you to do so. And also, Sherry, I hope you will not mind that I have taken the drawing-room clock, and my canary, for they were truly mine, like the earrings you gave me on my wedding day, and Ferdy’s bracelet.

  — Your loving Kitten.

  The Viscount’s lips quivered; he looked up from the letter, and stared about him at surroundings which seemed suddenly desolate. He found that he was not able to think very clearly, for when he tried to concentrate on the problem of Hero’s present whereabouts his brain seemed not to move at all, and the only thought which reiterated rather stupidly in his head was that she had gone.

  He had left the door open when he had entered the room, and after a few minutes he b
ecame aware that someone was standing in the aperture. He looked round quickly, and saw his valet, gravely regarding him. They looked at one another in silence, the Viscount trying to think of something to say in explanation of his wife’s disappearance, and Bootle just waiting. Nothing occurred to the Viscount, and suddenly he knew that it would be useless to attempt any explanation. He said abruptly: “Bootle, when did her ladyship leave this house?”

  The valet came in and closed the door. “I do not know, my lord, but I think last night.” He stepped over to the window, and methodically straightened the curtains which his master had pulled back so hastily. In a colourless voice, he added: “I fancy her ladyship took her abigail with her, my lord, for the chambermaid reports that Maria’s bed has not been slept in.”

  He noticed with satisfaction that there was a perceptible lightening of the expression on his master’s face. He said, even more disinterestedly than before: “I have taken the liberty of informing the staff, my lord, that her ladyship was called away hurriedly, one of her ladyship’s relatives having been taken ill.”

  The Viscount flushed. “Yes, very well! Thank you.” He folded the letter in his hand, and put it into his pocket. “They won’t believe it, I dare say.”

  “Oh, yes, my lord!” replied Bootle tranquilly. “Your lordship may rely upon me. And, if I may be permitted to take the liberty, my lord, there is no occasion for your lordship to concern yourself over the Bradgates, them being related to me, and not ones to chatter about their betters.”

  “I’m obliged to you,” the Viscount said, with an effort. “You do not know if her ladyship summoned a hackney, or — or a chair?”

  “No, my lord. But if your lordship desires me so to do I could make discreet inquiries.”

  “Do so, if you please.”

  “Very good, my lord. Will your lordship receive my Lord Wrotham, or shall I inform his lordship that you have stepped out?”

  “Lord Wrotham!”

  “Downstairs in your lordship’s library,” said Bootle.

  “I’ll see him,” the Viscount said, and went swiftly out of the room.

  Lord Wrotham, arrayed in the much-coveted insignia of that most exclusive of driving clubs, the F.H.C., with a drab greatcoat sporting no fewer than sixteen capes over all, was standing by the fireplace in the library, one top-booted foot resting on the fender. One glance at his host’s face, as he entered the room, his blue eyes bright and hard with something between hope and suspicion, made him speak before Sherry had had time to do more than utter his name.

  “Hallo, Sherry!” he said. “When did you get back to town? Thought you was at Melton still.”

  “No,” said Sherry. “No. George — ”

  Lord Wrotham adjusted the monstrous nosegay he wore as a buttonhole. “Lady Sherry ready to drive out with me?” he asked. “Going to tool my curricle down to Richmond. Trying out my new pair. Prime bits of blood! Heard about Gil?”

  “Gil ...” said Sherry. “What about Gil?”

  George laughed. “Why, only that that old uncle of his looks like obliging him at last! Seems to be in a pretty bad way. Gil’s posted down to Hertfordshire to be in at the death. By God, I wish I had an uncle to leave me a handsome fortune!”

  Sherry stared at him, a frown in his eyes. “George, are you sure of that?” he demanded.

  “Saw him off not two hours ago. Why?” responded George.

  “Nothing,” Sherry said, passing a hand across his brow. “I only wondered — No reason at all.”

  Lord Wrotham, who was finding it increasingly difficult to meet his friend’s gaze, fell to contemplating the polish on one topboot. He had not expected to enjoy this interview, and he was not enjoying it. Sherry looked positively haggard, he thought; and if he had not promised Hero not to divulge her whereabouts to Sherry he would have felt extremely tempted to have told him the truth. But when he had seen the little party off from Stratton Street earlier in the morning he had given his word to Hero, and he was not the man to go back on that. He hoped that his confidence in Mr Ringwood’s judgment would not prove to have been misplaced, and said, as casually as he could: “Does Kitten mean to come with me, Sherry?”

  The Viscount pulled himself together. “No. The fact is, she’s not feeling quite the thing. Asked me to make her apologies.”

  “Good God, I trust nothing serious, Sherry?”

  “No, no! — At least, I can hardly say yet. Dare say she has been doing rather too much. Not accustomed to town life, you know. I am — I shall be taking her into the country in a day or so. Needs rest and a change of air.”

  “I am excessively sorry to hear it! You’ll be wishing me at the devil, no doubt: I’ll be off at once!”

  Sherry, usually the most hospitable of hosts, made no effort to detain him, but accompanied him to the street door. As George descended the steps, he asked suddenly: “George, where’s my cousin Ferdy?”

  “Lord, how should I know?” replied George, drawing on his gloves. “Said he was going to dine at Long’s last night, so he may be nursing his head in bed. You know what he is!”

  “He did dine at Long’s? You’re sure of that?”

  “He was certainly engaged to do so,” George said, with perfect truth.

  “Oh! Then — No, he wouldn’t — ” Sherry broke off, flushing. “Fact of the matter is I’ve the devil of a head myself this morning, George!”

  Lord Wrotham replied sympathetically, and left him. Sherry went back into his library, and sat down to think very hard indeed.

  The result of this concentrated thought was to plunge him into quite the most horrid week of his life. His friends, daily expecting to see him at one of his usual haunts, looked for him in vain. His lordship was out of town, travelling first into Buckinghamshire, to Fakenham Manor, and thence all the way north to Lancashire, to Croxteth Hall, the Earl of Sefton’s country seat. He drew blank at both these establishments, but both his aunt and Lady Sefton inexorably dragged his story out of him, and then favoured him with their separate, but curiously similar, readings of his character. Lady Fakenham was a good deal more outspoken than Lady Sefton, told him that he had come by his deserts, and sped him on his way to Lancashire with the depressing reminder that he had only his abominable selfishness to thank for whatever disaster might befall his wife, adrift in a harsh world. When he had gone (and it had cost him all his resolution to take leave of his aunt with common civility), her ladyship said thoughtfully to her husband that this affair might well prove to be the making of Anthony.

  “Yes, but what the deuce can have become of that poor little creature?” said Lord Fakenham, not particularly interested in Sherry’s possible redemption.

  “Indeed I wish I knew! I wish too that she had come to me, but no doubt she would not think to cast herself upon Anthony’s relations.”

  Lady Sefton, having reduced the unfortunate Viscount to the condition of speechless endurance to which she could, upon rare occasions, reduce her eldest born, my Lord Molyneux, relented towards him sufficiently to permit him a glimpse of two rays of sunlight. She thought it probable that Hero would presently return to Half Moon Street; and she engaged herself to smooth over any unpleasantness that might have arisen in influential quarters from the projected race.

  The Viscount posted back to London. The house in Half Moon Street seemed desolate, almost as though someone had died there, he thought. He would have liked to have left it; but when he had made all his plans for shutting it up, and returning to his old lodgings, he changed his mind, and determined to stay there. To shut the house would give rise to much gossip and speculation; and if Hero came back to him it would be a shocking thing, he thought, for her to find the shutters up, and the knocker off the door.

  Mr Ringwood was back in town again, saying, with perfect truth, that he saw no reason why his rich uncle should not survive for another ten years. Mr Ringwood said also that he was devilish sorry to hear from George that Lady Sherry was so indisposed as to have been obliged to retire into the c
ountry for a space.

  Sherry, who had schooled himself to answer such remarks with mechanical civility, found a certain measure of relief in being able to throw off his mask before the friend whom he most trusted. He said abruptly: “It’s not true. Only the tale I’ve put about. She’s left me.”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Ringwood.

  Sherry gave a short laugh. “You heard me, Gil! She ran away, because I said she was to go down to my mother, at Sheringham Place. She took some absurd notion into her head — all nonsense, of course! — and she was gone before I’d time to explain why I — For naturally I meant to make it all clear to her, and there was no question of — But that’s a female all over!”

  Mr Ringwood, helping himself, with extreme deliberation, to a pinch of snuff, said: “Don’t play off your tricks on me, Sherry! The truth is, I take it, that you quarrelled with her over that race?”

  “Quarrelled! Gil, do you know what she meant to do? If it had been your wife — ! I was very angry! dash it, any man would have been! But there was not the least occasion for her to have run away from me, as though I had been some deuced brute, or — or — I know it was as much my fault as hers, and, what’s more, I said so. That was not why she ran away! I said she should go to my mother and she did not choose to. Talked some fustian about my mother’s thinking she had ruined my life — fiddle!”

  “No wish to say a word against your mother, Sherry, dear boy, but that’s what she has been saying.”

  Sherry stared at him. “It’s not possible! I never heard a word of this!”

  “Not likely you would,” said Mr Ringwood. “True, for all you may not have heard it. Often thought you don’t pay enough heed to what’s dashed well under your nose, Sherry. Not surprised Kitten wouldn’t go to Sheringham Place. Don’t think her ladyship would have wanted her, either. If you don’t mind my saying so, my dear fellow, the odds are she’d have tried to bully Kitten.”

  The Viscount’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, no, she would not!” he said. “She’d have had me to reckon with! And if I’d seen her, or anyone else, bullying my Kitten — ”