Bath Tangle

by Джорджетт Хейер

  “Yes,” he said heavily “He must have been a strange man!” He caught himself up. “I beg pardon! I should not say that to you!”

  “Well, I don’t think he was just in the common way,” she agreed. “He was very goodnatured, and easy-going, and so kind that it was no wonder everyone liked him. He was quite as kind to me as Serena, you know.”

  “Oh! Yes, of—I mean, I’m sure he must have been,” he stammered, considerably taken aback.

  She went on with her stitchery, in sweet unconsciousness of having said anything to make him think her marriage deplorable. She would have been very much shocked could she have read his mind; quite horrified had she guessed the effect on him of what she had told him of Serena’s life and character. Her words bore out too clearly much that he had begun to realize; and with increasing anxiety he wondered whether Serena could ever be content with the life he had to offer her. But when he spoke of this to her, she looked surprised, and said: “Bored? Dear Hector, what absurdity is in your head now? Depend upon it, I shall find plenty to do in Kent!”

  An item of news in the Courier made her ask him one day if he had ever had any thoughts of standing for election to Parliament. He assured her that he had not, but before he well knew where he was she was discussing the matter, making plans, sketching a possible career, and reckoning up the various interests at her command. In laughing dismay, he interrupted her, to say: “But I should dislike it of all things!”

  He was relieved to find that she was not, apparently, disappointed, for he had had the sensation of being swept irresistibly down a path of her choosing. “Would you? Really? Then, of course, you won’t stand,” she said cheerfully.

  When she talked of her life while he had been in the Peninsula, he was often reminded of Fanny’s words: Serena seemed to be related to so many people. “Some sort of a fifth cousin of mine,” she would say, until it seemed to him that England must be littered with her cousins. He quizzed her about it once, and she replied perfectly seriously: “Yes, and what a dead bore it is! One has to remember to write on anniversaries, and to ask them to dine, and some of them, I assure you, are the most shocking figures! Only wait until I introduce you to my cousin Speen! Fanny will tell you she sat, bouche béante, the first time she ever saw him, at one of our turtle-dinners! He arrived drunk, which, however, he was aware of, and begged her to pardon, informing her as a great secret that he was a jerry-sneak—which the world knows!—and might never be decently bosky when my lady was at home, so that he had determined while she was away never to be less than well to live!”

  “An odious little man!” said Fanny, with a shudder. “For shame, Serena! As though you had not better relations than Speen!”

  “True! If Hector should not be cast into transports by Speen, I shall take him to stay at Osmansthorpe!” Serena said mischievously. “Have you a taste for the ceremonious, my love? There, his lordship lives, en prince, and since his disposition is morose and his opinion of his own importance immense, the dinner-table is enlivened only by such conversations as he chooses to inaugurate. The groom of the chambers will warn you before you leave your room, however, what subject his lordship wishes to hear discussed.”

  “Serena!” expostulated Fanny. “Don’t heed her, Major Kirkby! It is very formal and dull at Osmansthorpe, but not as bad as that!”

  “If it is half as bad as that, I would infinitely prefer to make the acquaintance of Cousin Speen!” he retorted. “Must we really set out on a series of visits to all your relations, Serena?”

  “By no means!” she answered promptly. “Order me to set them all at a distance, and you will be astonished to see with what a good grace I shall obey you! I should not care a button if I never saw most of them again.”

  He laughed, but at the back of his mind lurked the fear that these people, deplorable or dull, formed an integral part of the only life she understood, or, perhaps, could be happy in. When he called in Laura Place one day, expecting to find her fretting at the rain, which had been falling steadily since dawn, and discovered her instead to be revelling in a scandalous novel, the conviction grew on him that the placid existence he had planned for them both would never satisfy her.

  She gave him her hand, and one of her enchanting smiles, but said: “Don’t expect to hear a word from my lips, love! I have here the most diverting book that ever was written! Have you seen it? The chief characters in it are for the most part easily recognizable, and it is no great task to guess at the identities of the rest. I have not laughed so much for weeks!”

  He picked up one of the small, gilt-edged volumes. “What is it? Glenarvon—and by an anonymous writer. Is it so excellent?”

  “Good God, no! It is the most absurd farrago of nonsense! But I prophesy it will run through a dozen editions, because none of us will be able to resist searching either for ourselves or our acquaintance in it. Could you have believed it?—Lady Caroline Lamb is the author? The Lambs are all in it, and Lady Holland—very well hit off, I imagine, from all I have ever heard of her, but Papa disliked that set, so that I was never at Holland House—and Lady Oxford, and Lady Jersey, and poor Mr Rogers, whom she calls a yellow hyena! I must say, I think it unjust, don’t you? Glenarvon, of course, is Byron, and the whole thing is designed as a sort of vengeance on him for having cried off from his affaire with her.”

  “Good God!” he exclaimed. “She must be mad to have done such a thing!”

  “I think she is, poor soul! Never more so than when she tumbled head over ears in love with Byron! For my part, I was so unfashionable as to take him in instant aversion. How she could have borne with his insufferable conceit, and the airs he put on to be interesting, I know not—though I daresay if one could bear that dreadful Lamb laugh nothing would daunt one! Not but what I am extremely sorry for William Lamb, laugh as he may! If it is true that he stands by her, I do most sincerely honour him. I fancy she meant to portray him in a kindly way, but some of the things she writes of him may well make him writhe. She is so very obliging as to favour the world with what one can only take to be a description of her own honeymoon—so warm as to make poor Fanny blush to the ears! It can’t be pleasant for William Lamb, but it won’t harm him. For she portrays herself, in the character of Calantha, as an innocent child quite dazzled by the world, quite ignorant, wholly trusting in the virtue of every soul she met! Pretty well for a girl brought up in Devonshire House!”

  “It sounds to be unedifying, to say the least of it,” the Major said. “Do you like such stuff?”

  “It is the horridest book imaginable!” Fanny broke in. “And although I never did more than exchange bows with Lord Byron, I am persuaded he never murdered a poor little baby in his life! As for Clara St Everarde, who followed Glenarvon about, dressed as a page, if she is a real person too, and did anything so grossly improper, I think it a very good thing she rode over a cliff into the sea—though I am excessively sorry for the horse!”

  “Observe!” said Serena, much entertained. “It is the horridest book imaginable—but she has read all three volumes!”

  “Only because you would keep asking me if I did not think Lady Augusta must be meant for Lady Cahir (and I’m sure I don’t know!) and laughing so much that I was bound to continue, only to see what amused you so!”

  The Major, who had been glancing through the volume he held, laid it down distastefully. “I think you have wasted your money, Serena.”

  “Oh, I did not! Rotherham sent it to me in a parcel by the mail! I never thought to be so much obliged to him! He says nothing else is being talked of in town, which I can well believe.”

  “Rotherham sent it to you?” he ejaculated, as much astonished as displeased.

  “Yes, why not? Oh, are you vexed because he has written me a letter?” Serena rallied him. “You need not be! Not the most jealous lover, which I hope you are not, could take exception to this single sheet! He is the worst of letter-writers, for this is all he can find to say to me: My dear Serena, In case it has not come in your wa
y I send you Lady C. Lamb’s latest attempt to set Society by the ears. She succeeds à merveille. Nothing else is talked of. The Lambs hoped to be rid of her at last, but W. Lamb stands firm. By the by, if Glenarvon’s final letter in this singular effusion is a copy of the original, you will agree I am eclipsed in incivility. I have some thoughts of visiting Claycross, and may possibly come to Bath next week, Yours, etc. Rotherham. You will agree that there is nothing to rouse your ire in that,” Serena said, tossing the letter on to the table. “Except,” she added thoughtfully, “that I had as lief he did not come to Bath. He would be bound to discover our secret, my love, and if he should be in one of his disagreeable fits there’s no saying how awkward he might not choose to make it for us. I’ll fob him off.”

  “I could wish that you would not!” he replied. “For my part, I would choose to admit him into our confidence, if only that I might have the right to inform him that I am not very much obliged to him for sending you a novel which you describe as “rather warm”!”

  “Good God, if that is the humour you are in, I will most certainly fob him off!” she cried. “How can you be so absurd, Hector? Do you believe me to be an innocent Calantha? Rotherham knows better!”

  “What?” he demanded sharply.

  “No, no, pray—!” Fanny interposed, in an imploring tone. “Major Kirkby, you quite mistake—Serena, consider what you say, dearest! Indeed, your vivacity carries you too far!”

  “Very likely! But it will be well if Hector learns not to place the worst construction upon what I say!” Serena retorted, her colour considerably heightened.

  He said quickly: “I beg your pardon! I did not mean—Good God, how could I possibly—? If you were not an innocent Calantha, as you put it—now, don’t eat me!—I am persuaded you would feel as strongly as I do the impropriety of anyone’s sending you such a book to read! Throw it away, and let us forget it! You cannot like to see your friends libelled, surely!”

  “Now, this goes beyond the bounds of what may be tolerated!” declared Serena, between vexation and amusement. “My friends? The Melbourne House set! Do you take me for a Whig? Oh, I was never so insulted! I don’t know what you deserve I should do to you!”

  A playful rejoinder would have restored harmony, but the Major’s strong sense of propriety had been too much offended for him to make it.” He took her up in all seriousness, endeavouring to make her enter into his sentiments. She grew impatient, thinking him prudish, and only the entrance of Lybster, bringing in the letters which had been fetched from the receiving office, averted a lively quarrel. Serena broke off short, saying coolly: “Ah! Now, if my aunt has written to me, Fanny, we may learn whether Lord Poulett marries Lady Smith Burgess, or whether it was nothing but an on-dit! Good gracious! Between us, we have seven letters, no less!” She handed several of them to Fanny, and glanced at the superscriptions on her own. A gleam of mischief shot into her eyes; she cast a provocative glance at the Major. “I can guess the subject of most of my correspondence! It will be as well if I don’t break the wafers until you are gone, I daresay! You will not object, however, to my seeing what my aunt has to say. A great deal, apparently: I’m glad she was able to get a frank, for I should have been ruined else!”

  He made no reply, but walked away to the window, looking very much displeased. Suddenly Serena uttered a little crow of laughter. “Oh, Hector, you are utterly confounded! No, no, don’t look so stiff! It is the funniest thing! My aunt writes to tell me that she is sending me Glenarvon! She says I shall be aux anges over it!”

  It was too absurd. In spite of himself, he laughed. She stretched out her hand to him, smiling, and he kissed it, muttering: “Forgive me!”

  Her fingers pressed his. “Oh, fudge! Such a foolish tracasserie as it was! Now, let us see what my aunt has to say to me! Lady Cowper looking hagged and frightened: I don’t wonder at it, and shall shed no tears! I believe she has been Lady Caroline’s enemy from the start, and think her a false, malicious woman behind those smiles and protestations of hers. Oh, she has been so obliging as to send me a key to the book! Fanny, she thinks Lady Morganet is not wholly a portrait of Lady Bessborough, but has a good deal of the Duchess of Devonshire mixed in it. Well! If one puts one’s husband in a novel, I suppose it would be over-nice to exclude one’s mama and one’s aunt—even if the aunt be dead, and unable to protest!” Her eye ran down the closely written sheets; she gave a gurgle, but folded the letter, and laid it aside. “The rest is mere town gossip, and will keep. Hector, where is Stanton-drew? I am told I should not neglect to visit it. Druidical monuments, or some such thing. If I engage to sit primly beside Fanny in the barouche, will you escort us?”

  He agreed very readily, promised to discover the exact whereabouts of the place, and soon after took his leave. Serena said, as soon as he had left the house: “I would not read you the rest of my aunt’s letter while Hector was with us, for he is unacquainted with the people she writes of, and I daresay it would have bored him excessively. My dear, where did he learn his antiquated notions? From his mother, I should judge—the very picture of provincial respectability! Poor woman! I pity her—but not more than she pities herself, I fancy! It must be a trial to have such a volage creature as I am foisted upon her!”

  Fanny, her tender heart wrung by the difficulties she clearly perceived to lie in the Major’s path, said: “Indeed, Serena, you did not behave as you ought! I could not but think that his feelings upon this occasion did him honour!”

  “Could you not?” Serena said, surprised. “I thought they allowed him to be imbued with some pretty Gothic notions! But never mind that! My aunt writes me an enchanting description of the Laleham woman’s progress—or regress! I don’t know which it may be! Only listen!” She picked up Lady Theresa’s letter, and read aloud: “It is now impossible to avoid meeting that Laleham Creature, who is everywhere to be seen. You would have been diverted to have been a spectator of the comedy enacted last week at Mrs Egerton’s party. The Creature was there, with Miss Laleham—who, though well enough, is not, in my opinion, pretty au fait de beauté—and in high croak. The D. of Devonshire coming in, she took care to place herself in his way, claiming to have made his acquaintance at the Salmesburys’ Cotillion-ball, and overwhelming him with simpering civilities. But her, not hearing a word, as you may suppose, favoured her with no more than a bow, and some indifferent response, and passed on. She was obliged to fail back upon a mere Marquis—Rotherham, who was so complaisant as to remain by her for some ten minutes, and to take notice of Miss Laleham. His attention then being claimed by Mrs Martindale, the descent of the Creature down the social ladder was rapid, not a single Earl being present, and the only Viscount Lord Castlereagh, whom she did not attempt, pour cause. A handful of paltry barons, all of them married, reduced her to the level of an Esquire, after which, she retired, I must suppose, disconsolate. A propos, Cordelia Monksleigh is thrown into rage by the Creature’s having dropped her, she says, because her usefulness ended with her procuring for the Creature the invitation card to the Rotherham ball; but I suspect the cause is farther to seek, Master Gerard having become vastly épris during the Easter vacation. Reason enough. Thatconnection would by no means suit the Creature’s ambition, nor Cordelia’s either, if she had but the wit to perceive it.” Serena lowered the sheet. “You will own that my aunt, whatever may be her faults, is the most entertaining correspondent, Fanny! What would I not have given to have been at that party—! You know, if the Laleham woman should have written to Mrs Floore, boasting of her friendship with Devonshire, I doubt if I shall be able to convince the dear old lady that although his Grace may be as deaf as a post, he is neither cross-eyed nor an octogenarian! As for attempting to persuade her that the Creature might as well lay siege to one of the Royal Dukes as to him, or to Rotherham, for that matter, I shall not do it! It would be too unkind! She believes there does not exist a man who would not fall instantly in love with Emily! Would you not have liked to have seen Rotherham caught in the toils? I think it
no more than his just desert, for having attended that Quenbury Assembly!”

  Fanny assented to it, but absently. Serena put up the letter, saying: “I must think of some way of stopping Rotherham’s projected visit to us. A pity! After the insipidities of Bath, his caustic tongue would come as a relief. However, in the mood Hector is in, it will not do. I shall be obliged to write an excuse so thin as to put him in a passion.”

  She went away, not perceiving the expression of startled reproach in Fanny’s face. What, in fact, she wrote to Rotherham she did not disclose; but a few days later she received a brief note from him, read it with raised brows, and said: “Well! I have succeeded in my object. Rotherham does not come.”

  Fanny could almost have believed her to be disappointed. The note was torn up, and Serena began to talk of something else.

  Fanny herself was profoundly relieved. If Rotherham should dislike the match, as she feared he would, he would not scruple, she thought, to treat the Major with wounding contempt. Her imagination quailed at the scene; she felt that she could almost have interposed her own shrinking person between the Marquis and his prey; and was thankful that for the present, at any rate, this deed of heroism would not be necessary. She did not know that Fate had another trial in store for her. Her father arrived in Bath, without invitation or advertisement.

  He was ushered into the drawing-room in Laura Place when, as ill-luck would have it, Major Kirkby was with her. She was not precisely discomposed, but she was certainly startled, and jumped up with a cry of: “Papa!”

  He embraced her kindly enough, but his countenance was severe, and the glance he cast at the Major repulsive.