Honoria and the Family Obligation

by Alicia Cameron

  The lady was not very tall and the blue stuff of her dress sparkled a little in the moonlight as did some delicate gee-gaws in her hair. He wanted to leave and sure enough, Redmond acted in character by dropping the arm that had supported her little hand and snaking it around the slender waist. Allison turned to make himself scarce, when he heard an ‘ooomph!’- the exact sound Redmond had made when he had last sparred with him in Jackson’s Boxing Saloon. He turned around. The little figure was several feet away now and backing towards the steps of the terrace.

  ‘Captain Redmond!’ she exclaimed, but in with the shock and outrage, Mr Allison heard amusement – and was intrigued. Redmond had doubled a little – it could have been that the little fist or elbow had caught the Captain rather lower than his solar plexus – but he recovered enough to jump forward as a way of recapturing the young lady. What was he thinking? A squeal would alert the old martinets in the ballroom and his reputation would be tarnished along with the young lady’s. That she was young he guessed from her voice. “Not well done, Fanshaw,” he thought. “I thought married ladies were your usual flirts.” Redmond was almost upon her and she turned quickly and ran down the terrace into the gardens beyond. Leaving, Allison noted, one fairy-tale blue slipper, with long beribboned strings, on the bottom step.

  ‘Redmond!’ said another voice. ‘Hello old fellow, insufferably hot in that cauldron of old ninnies, ain’t it?’

  Redmond turned reluctantly from his prey and met with another military man - Allison made his escape.

  He picked up the slipper and walked in the direction she had fled, until he heard a rustling from a bush.

  ‘Oh, sir. Is that my shoe?’ came a voice from behind it. ‘Could you give it to me, for the set will finish and Lady Hayes will miss me.’ The voice was a little worried when she mentioned her ladyship, but amazingly confiding all the same.

  ‘I might.’ An arm emerged from the bush and Allison held the shoe near and then snatched it away.

  ‘Please sir! As you are a gentleman.’

  ‘I rather feel like a storybook hero tonight. Giving Cinderella back her shoe.’

  ‘But you have not. And I can tell you have not the qualifications for Prince Charming. He would have given it to me directly.’

  ‘Perhaps he would demand a ransom.’

  ‘Oh, you are worse by far than Dickie. What ransom do you suggest?’

  ‘Perhaps a kiss. And who is Dickie – your swain of earlier?’ he asked, affecting ignorance.

  ‘My brother.’ The voice was still soft, but the arm shot out and clasped the slipper, twitching it from his hand before he had time to realise. He heard the sound of her adjusting the errant shoe. ‘My swain, as you call him, was one Captain Redmond, and he was even more uncivil than you.’ She emerged from behind the bush, perfectly self-possessed. Allison was distressed to see she was indeed young, but so pretty with her dark curls, laughing eyes and mouth, that he was gripped.

  ‘May I take you back to the ballroom?’ he asked, looking down at her. ‘I always meant to return your slipper, I promise you.’

  ‘That is what all highwaymen say, I believe.’ But she put her hand on his raised arm and walked back to the ballroom and her duenna’s tender care.

  ‘So a pert young thing bests you -’ starts Scribster, still bored.

  ‘Both I - and the gallant captain. Who walked with a strange gait for the rest of the evening,’ broke in Allison, with a reminiscent laugh.

  ‘- and you immediately fall under some ridiculous spell. But I still cannot see how you came to make the fatal error.’

  ‘I asked the aunts who Lady Hayes had in charge that evening. To my Aunt Arabella’s undying shame, they did not know.’

  ‘But eventually they supplied you with the wrong information. I beg you do not inform them - your Aunt Hildegarde is liable to go off in a fit of melancholy.’

  ‘I’ve thought of it. But it was not wrong, of course. Her ladyship had charge of Miss Fenton – there was no need to distinguish her as Miss Serena Fenton since her elder sister was in town.’

  ‘So what did you then do?’

  ‘I escorted my aunts to two more Harrogate assemblies.’

  ‘Good God!’ said Mr Scribster, ‘The tedium!’

  ‘Indeed. But Miss Fenton did not reappear. I retreated to London, where at Lady Carlisle’s Ball, I saw her. She wore the same spangled blue shawl over her gown and had diadems in her dark hair.’

  ‘Sisters share their finery,’ intoned Scribster, in sympathetic accents.

  ‘And Lady Carlisle told me her name was…’

  ‘Miss Fenton. But could you not tell she was different when you were alone in the dance?’

  ‘She was so quiet. I tried to allude to our previous meeting, but she said nothing at all. I attributed it to being under her mother’s eye.’

  ‘It could have been so, I suppose. But what on earth impelled you to address her father?’

  ‘I don’t know. She was being wooed by a number of beau, I was given to understand by Lady Carlisle. She might have made an engagement at any time. She is of good family, her uncle an intimate of the Regent-’

  ‘Well, if you take that as a recommendation, Rowley, I’ve mistook my man …’

  ‘A dissolute bunch, but no inferior blood.’

  ‘No. Probably just a superior blood-sucker of an uncle, if your suit had prospered.’

  ‘But don’t you see, Gus, my suit did prosper. I applied to her father. And now I will have to apply to the young lady herself. There is nothing else to be done.’

  Scribster’s face was no longer so humorous. ‘You cannot.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘You could explain it to her father.’

  Allison raised his brows. ‘The elder will have been informed of my intentions. It would be a dreadful insult to her and to Sir Ranalph.’

  ‘Well,’ said Scribster after a dispirited moment, ‘Let’s hope she refuses you.’

  ‘The other sister might. Indeed, I was not at all sure of my success with my Miss Fenton. But this one is so spiritless that she will follow her parent’s recommendation. I know that, and yet I don’t know if she liked me or not.’

  ‘Is this where you damn your fortune to the winds once more?’ said Scribster, bored. ‘I am all sympathy…’

  ‘I have been sought by fortune-hunting mamas since my eighteenth birthday. Fourteen years is enough.’

  ‘So you attend balls and never dance.’

  ‘So do you.’

  ‘But I break no hearts. I do not suffer from a handsome face and thirty thousand a year.’

  ‘Why do you go, then?’

  Scribster’s face took on a twisted expression. ‘To keep my friends company. And for the view.’

  ‘I do dance in the country. But dancing at Almack’s leads to infernal chatter.’

  Scribster had heard tell of a young lady, years ago, who had been said to die of ‘a decline’ following a dance with his friend - and speculation of a proposal. More the fault of the chattering women, who had given her false hope, than of his friend, he believed. But it had scarred the young Mr Allison.

  ‘And now?’

  ‘In honour, I can see nothing else for it than to invite the young lady and her parents to Bassington Hall for some weeks in the summer. And there make my proposal.’

  ‘Then I shall take up a post in Switzerland with Lord Otley.’

  ‘Oh, no you don’t, you ungrateful cur. You cannot live off me for months on end and then depart just when I need you. To Bassington Hall for you, my lad, and don’t think you can escape.’

  ‘Of course, you could try to give the girl a dislike of you-’

  ‘The way I’m feeling, that will not be difficult,’ said Allison with the voice of the doomed, ‘but I don’t suppose it will work.’

  ‘Well, of all the conceited coxcombs, you are the worst. Irresistible, are you? Even if you try to be disagreeable?’

  Allison grinned. ‘Not me, Gus, as you we
ll know. But my infernal pockets.’ There was a pause. ‘Not one word of this-’

  ‘I do not tell secrets abroad, laddie,’ this occasional Scots appellation being the only trace decipherable of his Scottish heritage, since he was educated at Eton. ‘And you should know it.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Allison, ‘I knew there had to be some reason I let you and your long legs take space in the carriage.’

  The gentlemen stretched out their legs, closed their eyes and were silent for the next ten miles. Then Scribster’s body started to shake. Allison ignored him until the vibrations travelled to Scribster’s leg and his own seat began to quiver.

  ‘What the hell-?’

  Scribster seemed to have difficulty speaking. ‘The unavailable Mr Allison caves in to beauty after years of—’ he choked, ‘And then - th-the wrong sister!’

  A guffaw escaped him at the same time as an oath from Allison. He quelled himself, only to be overcome again. He opened his eyes to look at his friend, and Allison gave him a dark stare that set him off more fiercely. He stopped, reining himself in with a heroic effort. He closed his eyes and took his position once more but in a moment, the legs beside him began to shake as well. Soon the two gentlemen were laughing, making the carriage shake to double the effect of the country roads.

  ‘It’s not funny!’ howled Allison, but that just made them worse.

  Chapter 3

  Benedict and Mr Wilbert Fenton

  After the first day, Honoria was spared the raising of the subject of Mr Allison’s departure by her mother’s sensitivity to her daughter’s feelings of rejection. ‘We must not bring it up, my love,’ she said to her husband, ‘for the poor girl is probably crushed.’

  ‘We shouldn’t have informed her of Allison’s purpose. Then she would not be crushed.’

  However fond her ladyship was of her husband (and she was very fond indeed) she was not pleased to be reminded of this slip in judgement. She paused in the pinning of her cap, a very sheer lace concoction (of a style and quality she herself could not afford) which had arrived from her cousin in Paris just the other day. ‘Perhaps so.’

  The colder tone alerted her husband to his mistake. ‘Is that the cap Georgiana sent you? It is my quite favourite! How charming you look, my dear.’ His wife’s face unfroze a little. ‘Though I must say I prefer to see all of your beautiful hair.’ He stood behind her at the mirror and touched the still-dark curls, meeting her eyes with a smile.

  Her smile beamed anew. ‘Well and do you not, sir, in the privacy of your chamber?’

  He bent and kissed her cheek. ‘Well, we shan’t mention Allison to Honoria, at any rate,’ he said, returning to the subject at hand. ‘You are right as usual my dear. But what if the town emergency was real? And Allison is of the same mind?’

  His wife stood and found her way into his arms once more. ‘We shall let matters rest until we are a little more informed.’

  ‘I did not think Allison to be a man of fickle decisions.’ Lady Fenton nestled closer to him, ‘Well, well, we shall leave it be. And on top of all this, what can Dickie be up to in Brighton with my revered brother Wilbert?’

  Lady Fenton hugged him closer. ‘Not what you fear, my love, I’m sure. He has assured you that gaming is not his particular failing. We must believe him.’

  ‘I do. But I’m afraid I do not trust Wilbert and the Prince’s set. Why needs must my son visit him all of a sudden? I’m sure it is to do with that business with Genevieve Horton, Lady Sumner, I must call her now.’

  Lady Fenton looked up. ‘What business with Jenny?’

  Sir Ranalph cursed silently. Lady Sumner’s bruises were not a topic to be discussed. ‘I believe he might have something to deliver to Lord Sumner for her.’

  He met his wife’s intelligent eye as blandly as he could. Her preoccupation with her own children made her drop the subject of Genevieve for another time. ‘And what, pray, has Wilbert got to do with Jenny?’

  ‘That,’ Sir Ranalph was able to reply honestly, ‘is what I have not been able to discover.’ He looked down at his lovely wife. ‘My love - do we have to go to dinner now?’

  But she pulled playfully away from him. ‘Sir! You know what occurred the last time we delayed dinner.’ Sir Ranalph frowned and his wife saw her way to escape to the door, which she opened.

  ‘What occurred?’ asked her husband, with drawn brows.

  ‘Angelica!’ She flung over her shoulder and whisked herself from the room.

  Serena was suspicious of her sister. They sat in their room making preparations to their toilette for dinner; Mama was as strict as though they were in town. Honoria smiled a little once more and it was this smile that Serena suspected.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re glad that Mr Allison did not declare himself.’

  Honoria looked at Serena a little guiltily. The family’s finances might now be saved if Mr Allison had spoken, but she really could not help her joy. The pressure was lifted. She continued to brush her hair silently, avoiding her sister’s eye.

  ‘I could understand before you met him again – he might have been a fright, after all! – but instead he was deadly handsome.’

  ‘I suppose-’ Honoria said dispassionately, ‘but it makes no odds, he wasn’t at all friendly.’

  ‘Well,’ said Serena judiciously, ‘his manner that evening may have been a trifle stiff-’

  ‘A trifle?’

  ‘Well, but I can assure you he is most amusing at other times.’

  ‘There is much more to the story of the blue slippers than you have divulged,’ said Honoria in a chiding tone.

  Serena smiled, ‘Not much more. But if I told you all, you would lecture me on impertinence and I already have Mama to do that for me.’

  ‘I am sure Mr Allison can be all that is charming, but I fear we would not suit.’

  ‘But think of his money,’ teased Serena, ‘all the dresses and horses you could ever want. Surely the thought of this match slipping away from you should have you tearing your hair out!’

  Honoria regarded her solemnly ‘And would you marry for reasons such as those?’

  ‘Not I!’ said Serena, who had eventually stopped rearranging Honoria’s curls, ‘I shall elope with a highwayman, or a sea captain or some such. It’s a life of adventure for me. But you, Orry, you were born to be married and have children exactly like Mama.’

  As they went downstairs to dinner, Honoria sighed. It was true – so why not the handsome, rich, sometimes charming Mr Allison if he desired to marry her? It was something about the pressure to save the family. She had always thought to have a spark with her future husband, not be reduced to a snivelling wretch every time she encountered him. With such a large family to provide for, Honoria had always known it to be her duty to marry well. But she had liked none of the men who might have offered for her during the season. She had discouraged more than Mr Allison - if Mama knew perhaps she would be angry. She was a bad sister. Now there would be no more chance of enticing or rejecting suitors, since there would be no more London seasons – for her or her sister. What a terrible person she was to be so pleased to escape marriage to a man who may be perfectly kind and good. Only, what had he wanted with her? He knew nothing of her except her birth and her looks – Honoria could not help but think him a man with no romance in his soul and was glad that he’d left.

  As they entered the dining room, Honoria saw that Papa was once more in spirits.

  ‘Ah, girls,’ he said, opening his arms expansively, ‘some good news for all of us! We are all to visit Bassington Hall next week at Mr Allison’s invitation.’

  Honoria’s spirits sunk once more but she smiled faintly.

  Serena showed enough joy for both of them. ‘How wonderful. It is close to town, is it not? Shall I be able to visit Astley’s Royal Amphitheatre and see the horses?’

  It was fortunate that Benedict, fortified by a night’s stay at an inn, had dropped his bags off at Lord Carstairs’ London residence. That inestimable peer of the rea
lm, sitting in the loud dressing gown, with his fair head in his hands, his large blue eyes red rimmed and watery, looked like last night’s dissipation might have caught up with him. But he was able to inform him that his uncle was in town.

  ‘He was at Countess Overton’s last night,’ he groaned as his head followed Benedict’s quick figure around the room, ‘Stay still, blast you! There must have been bad wine,’ Benedict grinned. Carstairs often encountered bad wine, the volume that he drunk having nothing at all to do with his sore head.

  Arriving at his uncle's address, Benedict was informed by his butler that no one could see that gentleman till twelve of the clock at least.

  'Perhaps you might wish to await Mr Fenton in the Chinese salon, Mr Benedict?' that august personage suggested in a repressive tone.

  'Perhaps not,' said Benedict, moving past Sinclair with rapid strides and taking the stairs two at a time.

  'Mr Fenton, sir!’ called the butler.

  Benedict stopped suddenly, turning back, remembering some of the most colourful of the rumours surrounding his relative. He looked down at Sinclair whose mouth had squeezed into a tight circle as through he had recently eaten prunes. 'Or...is my uncle alone?'

  'Certainly not, sir. It is the hour of his toilette, his valet attends him.' The butler gestured once more towards the Chinese salon, but Benedict was again en route to his uncle's bedroom.

  He almost reeled at the smell that assaulted his nose at the door of that empty chamber and he followed the expensive scent to an open door past the grand silk covered bed and almost choked on the doorstep.

  ‘Oh it’s you - thought I heard a kick up. What the devil do you mean disturbing me at my toilette?'

  Benedict was momentarily silenced as he took in the magnificence of this small chamber. His uncle was seated in front of a dressing mirror of the rococo style and his valet Pierre, a haughty, but almost miniature personage, hovered over him with a number of stiffened muslin cravats hanging over his arm. The gentleman’s coiffure had already been achieved - a riot of brown curls swept forward from his crown in an exaggerated version of the fashionable Brutus. At either end of the small chamber there were other, taller mirrors in gilt carved frames, to better display his rather dissipated person from every angle. His uncle, though the younger son, looked far older than his hearty, handsome brother, though he was taller, like Benedict himself. There were a number of chairs covered in more silk brocade and Benedict threw himself into one to enjoy the spectacle.