Then the voices grew fainter as they moved away.
Delilah climbed out and stood behind the carriage, shivering.
The grass and trees were thick with hoar frost, and a red sun low on the horizon turned everything fiery red.
Delilah peered around the carriage. Sir Charles, Lord Andrew and the other man, who must be Sir Charles’s other second, were standing waiting. She looked about. There was a copse of trees quite near where they were standing. She began to creep towards it, finally coming to rest against the thick trunk of an oak.
All at once she felt completely and utterly helpless. She had left Holles Street on impulse. Perhaps at the back of her mind had been some vague plan to throw herself between them. Now that she was here on the duelling ground, she knew that if she did such a thing, Sir Charles would never forgive her.
Mr Berkeley arrived on the scene, accompanied by his seconds. A box of duelling pistols was produced. Both men took one each and weighed them in their hands and then gave them to their respective seconds for inspection. The surgeon squatted down on the grass and opened his case. He took out a sinister-looking scalpel that winked wickedly in the red sunlight and tested the edge with his thumb before returning it to the case.
The hammering of Delilah’s heart slowed. A voice in her brain said over and over again, ‘There is nothing you can do.’
The men stood back to back and then began to pace across the turf.
Sir Charles was hatless, his fair hair impeccably dressed, his cravat beautifully arranged. Mr Berkeley was wearing a black coat buttoned up to the throat.
And then, just as they were turning to face each other, Delilah heard a sound from the other side of the tree. She crept around the thick bole.
There was a villainous-looking man standing there with a long pistol pointed straight at Sir Charles.
Delilah flung herself on him and screamed, ‘Murder!’ at the top of her lungs. The man struck her to the ground and made his escape as everyone came running up.
Delilah jumped to her feet and pointed to the fleeing man. ‘He was trying to kill you, Charles,’ she gasped. ‘He was hiding here. He had a gun.’
Lord Andrew flew off after the disappearing man, followed by Sir Charles. Delilah leaned against the trunk of the tree and closed her eyes and prayed she would not faint.
‘My dear Miss Wraxall,’ came Mr Berkeley’s voice. ‘You should not have come here. That mad ruffian might have killed you.’
Delilah opened her eyes and looked at him. ‘Are you sure you did not hire him to kill Sir Charles?’
‘On my oath,’ cried Mr Berkeley, ‘I would not dream of such a thing. I forgive the insult, Miss Wraxall, for you are evidently overwrought. Come, let . . .’
His voice trailed away and his face turned white, for coming towards them were Lord Andrew and Sir Charles, dragging the villain between them.
‘Don’t hurt me,’ screeched the man. ‘It was ’im, Berkeley, what paid me to do it.’
Sir Charles released the man and walked straight up to Mr Berkeley, drew back his fist and struck him full in the mouth.
Mr Berkeley drew back and raised his duelling pistol. Delilah seized his arm and tried to bear it down. The gun went off with a loud report. Sir Charles caught Delilah and pulled her away. ‘Are you shot?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Delilah shakily. ‘The bullet went into the ground.’
‘Stay there, and close your eyes,’ said Sir Charles quietly.
Delilah sank down weakly onto the ground. There came the sounds of blows and curses and then a long silence.
‘Come, Delilah,’ came Sir Charles’s voice.
She looked up. He was smiling down at her, his hand outstretched. He drew her to her feet.
She looked across the duelling ground. Mr Guy Berkeley was lying full-length on the ground, blood running from his nose and mouth. ‘The surgeon will see to him,’ said Sir Charles. He turned to the seconds. ‘If Mr Berkeley still wants satisfaction, you know where to find me. If you will excuse me, I will take Miss Wraxall home.’
He helped her into his carriage, and then turned to her. ‘How did you get here?’ he asked.
‘In the rumble of your carriage,’ said Delilah, shivering, ‘and a very nasty experience it was too. I jumped in the back just as you were moving off.’
He wrapped rugs about her. ‘I am sorry this is an open carriage. How did you know when I planned to leave?’
‘I know duels are usually held at dawn,’ said Delilah, snuggling gratefully into the rugs. ‘I knew the sun would not rise until eight thirty. I waited and waited outside your house with a hack. The driver promised me he would follow you, but when he saw your carriages, he said he could not possibly keep up, and even if he could, you would probably beat him. He seemed to have a sad opinion of the quality.’
‘Brave Delilah! Can it be you care for me a little?’
She had a bearskin rug drawn up over her nose and her large eyes looked up at him over the fur. ‘I would have done the same for anyone,’ she said, feeling miserably shy. His black eyes held a sensuous caressing look and her body was misbehaving again.
‘Liar,’ he teased.
‘C-can w-we go?’ asked Delilah plaintively. ‘It is c-cold.’
‘Yes, my darling. Oh, Delilah!’
He tugged down the fur barrier from her mouth and fell to kissing her. She felt a sensation of drugged, heavy sweetness. His searching mouth roused more passion from her than she could have believed possible and his searching hands beneath the rugs sent liquid fire running through her body. Then he tore off his cravat and wrenched open his shirt and took her hand and placed it on his naked chest and whispered, ‘Do you hear how my heart beats for you?’
‘It should not be like this,’ said Delilah. ‘You frighten me.’
‘This is what it is like when it is real,’ he said huskily, his lips against her hair.
‘It cannot be,’ said Delilah. ‘I cannot marry you. I could not call my soul my own!’
‘You will marry me. If I thought for a moment you would ever kiss any other man in the way you kiss me, then I would kill you. The fire will burn like this until I get you in my bed and in my arms, Delilah.’ He laughed. ‘Frustration is the only thing I find frightening.’
Delilah struggled to explain. She felt she had lost her power over men. She had always called the tune. What if he left her again?
‘I have been mistress of myself and my father’s household since you left,’ she said. ‘You did not care a rap for me then. Why should you now?’
‘I am not in the habit of begging ladies I don’t give a rap for to marry me. But you need warmth and rest.’
He buttoned his shirt and kissed her on the nose and then flapped the reins and the carriage began to bowl across the frosty turf.
When they reached Holles Street, he said, ‘I had better come in and give the Tribbles my apologies. They must have discovered your absence by now and be worried to death.’
He called to a passing youth to guard his horses and threw him a guinea.
The door was opened by a little chambermaid who looked excited and flustered. ‘They’ve all gone out in the streets to look for you, miss,’ she gasped. ‘Miss Amy and Miss Effy and Mr Harris have taken a carriage out to Chalk Farm and the rest’s running around the streets. Even Miss Yvette’s gone out.’
‘I will take Miss Wraxall up to her room,’ said Sir Charles. ‘She has had a bad shock.’
‘Why Chalk Farm?’ asked Delilah as he led her up the stairs.
‘That, my love, is where duels are normally held.’
Delilah led the way into her room and then looked up at him shyly. ‘Thank you, Charles,’ she said.
‘I shall stay until you are in bed,’ he replied. ‘Don’t fuss. We are soon to be married, so what does it matter? Go behind that screen and undress.’
Delilah felt too tired to argue. She undressed and put on a nightgown and wrapper and came round the screen and climbed into bed.
He sat on a chair beside the bed, holding her hand until she fell asleep. He was tired himself and very grateful to be alive. His knuckles were grazed. He tucked the hand he had been holding under the bedclothes and went over to the toilet table and sponged his knuckles. He stretched and yawned and turned and looked at Delilah. How wonderful it would be to stretch out beside her and sleep.
Then he grinned. Why not? An hour’s sleep and then he would go out and get a special licence. He walked round the bed and stretched out on top of the blankets. He felt under the bedclothes for Delilah and gathered her into his arms. She murmured sleepily but did not wake.
Amy and Effy erupting into the room half an hour later stopped short at the dreadful sight, and then came in and slammed the door on the faces of the gaping servants. Sir Charles came awake and sat up. Delilah slept on.
He put a finger to his lips and got out of bed and walked quietly to the door of the room. The sisters followed him out.
‘Not yet,’ he said in a whisper, ‘if you are going to shout at me, Miss Amy. I do not want Delilah to wake.’
‘My room!’ said Amy curtly, pushing open a door opposite.
‘Now!’ she said, when she and Effy and Sir Charles were inside.
‘Miss Wraxall is to marry me,’ said Sir Charles.
‘I should hope so too,’ said Effy, her cheeks pink. ‘How could you . . . ?’
‘I was lying on top of the bed with all my clothes on,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Miss Wraxall is still a virgin. She followed me out to the duelling ground at Parliament Hill Fields and there she saved my life. Berkeley had hired a ruffian to shoot me from behind a tree.’
The sisters exclaimed and demanded to hear more. When he had finished, Amy said, ‘But there is to be no marriage by special licence, Sir Charles. We owe it to our reputation to do things in the proper manner. That means announcements in the newspapers and a proper wedding with all society there at St George’s, Hanover Square.’
In vain did Sir Charles protest. Effy told him that if he was a proper gentleman, then he would be prepared to wait.
Sir Charles assured them at last that he would try to be patient and went off to purchase a special licence anyway.
The French tutor, Monsieur Duclos, was on his way later that day to Holles Street to give Miss Effy her lesson. The air was fresh and keen and he whistled as he walked along. He lived in modest lodgings in Bayswater and enjoyed the walk into Town. He was just approaching Tyburn Pike when to his surprise he heard himself being hailed.
A heavy travelling carriage lumbered to a stop on the other side of the road and there, leaning out of the window, was the Comte De Ville, a wealthy Frenchman who lived in Manchester Square. The colonel’s wife to whom Monsieur Duclos gave French lessons lived next door to the comte. The Comte De Ville had always had a kind word for this lowly countryman of his when he met him coming and going to the colonel’s. He knew, therefore, that Duclos was the son of a valet who had escaped the Terror with his family to seek refuge in England and that Duclos’ parents were now dead and of how the French tutor dreamt of being able to return one day to his native country.
‘Where are you bound, Monsieur Le Comte?’ asked Duclos, looking at the great travelling carriage.
‘Why, to France! I have hopes now of having my estates returned to me.’
‘I envy you from the bottom of my heart,’ said Duclos. ‘Oh, not for your estates, milor’, but for the fact that you will soon be in that land which I think I will never see again.’
‘Then come with me,’ cried the comte. ‘I have need of a valet, my English fellow having refused to go. Come with me. I shall supply you with all the necessaries.’
Duclos only hesitated for a moment. ‘Gladly,’ he said. The carriage door was opened and the tutor climbed in.
‘Is there anyone you wish to write a note to?’ asked the comte. ‘I have my travelling writing-case here.’
‘Yes, there is someone,’ said Duclos. The comte produced the writing-case and Duclos scribbled a hasty note to Yvette. ‘If this could be delivered,’ he said, ‘then I can leave with a free heart.’
The comte glanced at the address and then, leaning out of the carriage window, called on a young man who was strolling past and gave him the letter and money to deliver it to Holles Street.
‘That is that,’ said the comte. ‘France, mon brave. En avant!’
Amy rang the bell for the third time and for the third time asked Harris to go and fetch Yvette.
Harris came back with the same news. The dressmaker’s door was locked. She did not reply. She must be asleep.
‘Nonsense!’ said Amy. ‘At this hour?’
She marched up the stairs and knocked on the door of Yvette’s room.
Silence.
Amy rattled the handle and called out, but there was no reply.
Afterwards, Amy never knew why she did it, but there was suddenly something about that silence which unnerved her. She looked wildly about her until she saw a marble bust standing in a plinth in an alcove. She picked it up and swung it with all her force at the lock. There was a splintering of wood and the door swung open.
The French dressmaker was standing on a chair, a torn strip of sheet round her neck. A crumpled letter lay on the floor at her feet.
Amy went very carefully forward.
Yvette kicked away the chair, and, with a scream, Amy seized the swinging body and then howled for help at the top of her voice.
7
Shut, shut the door, good John! fatigued, I said,
Tie up the knocker, say I’m sick, I’m dead,
The dog star rages! nay ’tis past a doubt,
All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out:
Alexander Pope
Delilah was never to forget the extraordinary scene which followed the dressmaker’s attempted suicide.
Yvette was lying on the sofa in the drawing room, where she had been carried by the servants. Effy was weeping copiously and was having burnt feathers held under her nose by Baxter. The smell of burnt feathers was so pungent that Effy had to stop crying to exclaim, ‘I am crying, Baxter, not fainting.’ Amy was sitting, grimly reading the letter from Monsieur Duclos she had found on the floor of Yvette’s room. And in the middle of all this, Mr Haddon and Sir Charles were both announced.
Sir Charles had returned to tell the sisters and Delilah that he was travelling immediately to Hoppleton to gain the squire’s permission to marry Delilah as soon as possible in the local church. He had obtained a special licence. He understood the sisters’ concern, their desire to have a fashionable wedding, but his wishes must come first.
The Tribbles barely heard him. Delilah was sitting in a chair by the sofa, holding the dressmaker’s hand.
‘Mr Haddon,’ exclaimed Effy. ‘Such a to-do! Poor Yvette has tried to kill herself.’
‘Why?’ asked Mr Haddon.
‘That French tutor of Effy’s,’ said Amy bitterly. ‘He’s been making love to her behind our backs and now he’s gone off to France and left her.’
‘Je suis enceinte,’ murmured Yvette weakly. ‘Je suis sûr.’
‘What did she say?’ demanded Amy.
Effy cleared her throat and said importantly, ‘She says she is sure she has scent on.’
‘I am afraid,’ said Sir Charles, ‘that what she actually said was that she is sure she is pregnant.’
‘Odd’s fish!’ said Amy, fanning herself with the letter. ‘How can you be sure? I mean, it’s early days yet.’
‘Me, I know . . . here,’ said Yvette, pointing to her belly.
Delilah turned her beautiful eyes up to Sir Charles. ‘Perhaps Yvette could come with us to Hoppleton until the child is born – that is, if there is to be a child.’
‘As you wish,’ said Sir Charles, sounding far from enthusiastic.
‘She should have considered what she was doing,’ said Mr Haddon. He sounded much shocked. ‘I think, by her actions, she has taken herself out of your care, ladies.’
Th
ree pairs of eyes as hard as stones looked at the nabob. Instinctively the sisters and Delilah banded together against that cruel and unfeeling world of men, men who could not even begin to imagine the extent of Yvette’s disgrace and shame.
A silence fell on the room. Effy’s hand smoothed the silk of her gown, a gown made by Yvette, a gown which had been much envied by her contemporaries. What would they do without Yvette, whose clever needle created such fashions?
Delilah was thinking nervously of the cruelty of the world in general and the cruelty of men in particular. Sir Charles once more looked haughty and remote. She did not really know him, she thought. Perhaps after marriage he would turn out to be a tyrant.
Amy was thinking of the baby. It might be a little boy. It would be fun to have a child about the house. All through the years, Amy had longed for marriage and children. Now she was too old to have any children and it certainly seemed as if she would never marry.
‘Adopt it,’ she said. She waved her arm in her excitement and sent a coffee cup flying. ‘Yes, we’ll adopt it, Effy.’
‘You could not,’ said Sir Charles. ‘You would need to be married.’
‘Then we’ll just keep it here and look after it,’ said Amy impatiently. ‘What would you have us do? Turn Yvette off?’
‘Let me kill myself,’ said Yvette weakly.
‘You selfish girl,’ snapped Amy. ‘You will stay with us and have your baby, if there is a baby, and we will all bring it up together.’
‘We are too old to take on such a responsibility.’ Effy spoke quietly.
For one moment, Amy felt engulfed in despair. How fast the years were passing! As you got older, the faster the days and months began to race by. Then she thought again of the baby. How could anyone feel old with a baby in the house?
‘It is our baby,’ she said fiercely. ‘Men are wicked and heedless. Come, Yvette, it is not the end of the world. You will have a strong, sturdy English boy.’
Enlightening Delilah Page 11