Serena smiled directly at her host, lowering her lashes teasingly. ‘Well I have known certain highwaymen,’ she said with a conspiratorial look, ‘that are not at all frightening.’
Scribster watched as his friend, Allison, stiffened even further, but Serena turned away to the dog, which was nuzzling her hand in the hopes of more cake.
It was apparent from the teasing note followed by her unaffected air that she had not been holding the candle for Mr Allison since the evening of the blue slippers.
Mr Scribster watched his friend and the Fenton party with his hooded eyes and long face giving him the air of misery that London equated with his Highland antecedents, and from behind which he could see and enjoy much. Honoria, the delicate flower with an uncomfortable amount of sensitivity, was still recovering from Allison’s put-down. Today, in a slender blue muslin dress that became her colouring so well, she looked quite beautiful, he thought disinterestedly, but sad. Mr Scribster wondered idly if she’d borrowed the blue satin slippers and if that might make her more acceptable to his friend. As he lowered his eyes to see, he noticed only a neat pair of half jean boots peaking beneath the hem and when his eyes rose he met hers for a moment. He could not read her expression, but it may have been annoyance.
Serena was enjoying herself hugely, largely unaware of her effect on his friend. She was wearing a pink froth of a gown (with fine cherry red stripes) that became her well. The animation on her face outshone her sister’s in vivacity, but then who could judge in this atmosphere? The lovely mama sat a trifle on edge, lest her younger daughter’s unschooled tongue betray her. The father, the big bluff man, so fond of his wife and children was ready to be pleased with everything. And then there was Allison, veering between trying to be unaffected by Serena, being slightly off-putting to Honoria and still keeping within the bounds of good manners. Mr Scribster sipped his tea and thought that he’d been to duller house-parties.
He was friend enough to wish his Allison well in his endeavours - if only he could decide what his endeavours were. In the days before the Fenton’s arrival, Rowley had been determined on the honourable path - to woo Honoria like a gentleman and to discover all the (no doubt) sterling character traits that lay beneath her beauty and timidity. Scribster had advised him to first stop terrifying her if he wished to give her a chance; but that had set Allison off on a rant about being tied to a weak woman who would rule by taking to her bed or casting a mood of gloom upon the house. In this, Scribster understood a reference to his dear Mama. It made him resolve, instead, to give Honoria a disgust of him, in the hopes that she would not have him, but without being less than gentlemanly. Scribster’s eyebrows had almost reached his hairline.
‘Well, whatever happens, I must, in all conscience, offer for her. And I doubt I can stop her accepting. She is the kind of insipid girl who will do as her parents bid her.’
‘I think the term you are looking for is obedient, hardly insipid,’ Scribster adopted the tone of a vicar from the pulpit, one of declamatory oration, ‘Remember, my boy, that the commandments bid us honour-’
‘Stop right now Gus, or I shall throw you in that ditch!’ had said Allison, for they were walking at that time. ‘No - the only thing is, I must give her a chance and try to get to know her.’ This last said in a tone of false optimism.
Angus Scribster had never seen his cool, suave, but kind friend in such a vacillating state, and he found it humorous.
Yes, he was friend enough to wish him well, but not friend enough, he thought now, not to enjoy the situation in all its absurd starts.
The conversation had turned to young Fenton.
‘Does young Mr Benedict Fenton not join us?’ said Allison politely.
‘He’s in London,’ said Sir Ranalph, looking uncomfortable for the first time, ‘Visiting …’ and his wife joined in, ‘Lord Carstairs-’ whilst the baronet was finishing with, ‘his uncle.’
His Lordship and his wife exchanged a rueful look but Allison didn’t notice. His eye had been caught by the sight of Serena feeding cake to another of the dogs which had slunk into the room behind Blake as he’d re-entered and quietly taken his place beside her chair.
‘But he intends to visit, with your permission, sir.’
Allison turned abruptly just as Serena had looked up and smiled. ‘Oh, certainly, sir, he will be most welcome.’
The parents shared a glance of relief that no more would be asked.
Why should a visit to his uncle be a mystery, even if that uncle is known to be a bit of a loose screw? Angus Scribster asked himself.
Sir Ranalph addressed him suddenly. ‘We saw you in London this season, Mr Scribster. How do you like the great metropolis?’
‘Not at all, I’m afraid,’ said he, his voice his usual lugubrious monotone.
‘Ah, then, you like your country estate more, Mr Scribster?’ said her ladyship encouragingly, ‘It’s in Scotland, I believe.’
‘I cannot say that I do ma’am. Stane Castle is a damp and dreary place overlooking a particularly unprepossessing glen. I never go there if it is to be avoided.’
The conversation faltered, as it often did around him. Rowley had repeatedly told him to varnish the truth with a little good manners, but he felt no desire so to do. He caught the elder sister looking at him with a vestige of annoyance on her face. She did not approve of him. It was the first expression that did not fit with Rowley’s bland assessment. Another mystery.
This just got better and better.
Chapter 6
The Card Shark
Honoria rose early with a strange feeling of aloneness, for there was no Serena to share her bed. They had been shown to separate rooms and the footmen were rather too grand to make the request that their bags be moved so that they could share - as they had done since they were but little girls. After dressing quickly, she went to Serena’s room to start the day with chatter as they did most mornings, generally before they rose from bed. But Serena’s chamber was empty, and it was unnecessary to give much thought to where she was - the stables. Nominally checking on Rufus, but really desperate to get acquainted with Mr Allison’s horses. Really, it was Genevieve Horton, or Lady Sumner as she now was, that should be Serena’s sister - they had a great deal in common. The mysteries of the stables excited them. Honoria was very fond of horses whilst she rode, but when they were taken away to their abode she had no desire at all to cross the threshold. There they could remain until presented to her once more, brushed and saddled, ready to ride.
It was better, anyway, that she walk alone this morning. The grounds were tempting, and she spied an interesting knot garden to one side and a rose walk to a grand pergola beyond.
The stiffness between Mr Allison and she was painful. He had brought her here to offer for her - his intentions, her father said, were quite clear - but one would not know it. Perhaps he was shy and embarrassed by the situation like she - but no, a grand gentleman like Mr Allison would not be embarrassed. Perhaps, then, he just was this stiff and formal. But she seemed to remember a different tone as he danced with her; and at that dreadful tea, he had tried to put her at her ease, had teased her a little. Her nervousness had very likely given him a disgust of her - but why then did he speak to her father? It was very strange. He was very strange. Could he be moody like Mr. Phipps, the apothecary at Fenton village? His wife had told her mother that she never knew from one day to another whether he would smile or glower.
Whatever it was, she knew that it was her duty to marry him to help Mama, Papa, Serena and the children. She had hardly smiled since she arrived and her mother had remarked it, with a little admonishment in her voice. And what was the problem really? She was to invite the declarations of a handsome, rich man. It was true, however, she did not yet know his character. She stopped walking and worried at the white marble gravel with the toe of her boot. She suspected Genevieve Horton had been mistaken in the character of her husband. She remembered her warning - but Genevieve did not know how crucial it was
to her family that Honoria accept.
Still, she thought hopefully, if Mr Allison was found to be a libertine, say, or a cruel beast, Papa would never consent. The thought cheered her.
The morning air was shattered by a wail, and Honoria looked around. A shabby child had fallen from a cart that was delivering goods to a side door of the house. Mr Allison, another early riser obviously, rounded the corner at a run. He bent down and from a distance she saw him lift the child back on to the cart. The carter, probably the child’s father, seemed to be apologising, and she saw Mr Allison check the crying child’s limbs for breaks and with a final word to the carter and a smile, gestured them on their way.
Oh no, she thought, with a tragic pout, it seemed that Mr Allison was not a beast at all. He had re-entered the house and she sighed. It was now absolutely necessary to be as winning and inviting as she could possibly be. She was resolved to smile at Mr Allison all through the day and not shake in her boots, she thought nobly. She would bring this thing off. How unfulfilling it was to be noble when no-one else knew.
Her resolve firm, she set off back to the house with purpose. All may have proceeded very well indeed if it had not been for the unfortunate occurrence of her falling in love on the way into breakfast.
Benedict enjoyed his new facility for beating Carstairs at games of chance, but it was hardly a challenge. It was time to go a step further, to challenge himself. Enjoying his uncle’s company for another morning, he was once more heading to the smaller chamber off the bedroom, to be present at the delicate process of becoming dressed.
‘Your uncle has said to you, M’suier, that it is interdit for to veeseet ‘im at the heure de toilette. Forbeeden, vous comprenez?’ The tiny valet was talking quickly as he moved ahead of him up the stairs. ‘He is creating ’imself each morning. No-one but I know - and I tell no one, me - that he is creating ’imself anew each day. It is the work of a true artiste and must never be interrupted. I myself ’old my breath when I see him reach for a new colour, a new twist to the cravat. I tell you, I ’old my breath.’
Benedict looked down on the little man and removed his grasping hand from his arm as though he were swatting a fly. ‘Tell you what, Pierre,’ he said, moving around the small obstruction in the staircase, ‘I promise to hold my breath also.’ He patted Pierre’s head as he passed. Pierre gave a gasp, tossed his head, and hurried in front of him, head held as high as possible, looking back at him not at all.
The creative artiste was standing in front of a mirror, dressed in smallclothes only, arranging his high curls more becomingly around his face. Seeing his nephew behind him caused his eyebrows to raise, ‘Now Dickie, this is too bad, really. I am a harmonious man, but how would you like it if I interrupted you before the day had fairly begun?’
‘It is half past eleven of the clock. I had breakfast four hours ago.’
‘Horrible boy. I’ll wager Carstairs didn’t. I saw him at Countess Overton’s last night.’
‘True.’ Benedict grinned. ‘He breakfasted a little later.’
‘You, I suppose, were tucked into your bed at a decent hour like your father before you. Desperately clean living fellow, Ranalph.’
He had, by this time, adopted a silk robe that rivalled Carstairs in its roaring at one. Benedict picked up the remains of a sweet roll and ate it, averting his eye. ‘Actually, I was up till four. Went to a den in Blackwall Place. Was told I’d see Rennie there.’ He shrugged. ‘I didn’t.’
‘Four am. Ah, youth!’ Mr Fenton senior mocked a reminiscent smile. ‘So you do want revenge.’
‘Not at all. But I wanted to play him anyway. I wanted to know …’
‘… How good you are. Well, you have a talent, no denying it.’ Despite himself, Benedict felt a rush of pride. ‘But he’d probably spot you.’ The pride popped like a soap bubble.
‘It would be good to try.’
‘Well, you have bottom, I’ll grant you that. But consider the scandal if you did get caught. Ranalph would be more than shocked, and it would reflect badly upon the family as a whole.’
‘I wouldn’t-’ Benedict breathed. ‘No, you’re right. If there was the slightest chance, I can’t-’
‘Indeed my dear boy. I’m glad you thought of me. My unblemished reputation might be threatened.’
Benedict gave a crack of laughter. ‘We could not have that!’
‘No indeed!’ smiled his uncle. ‘So you may as well tell me - who do you want to topple? What have all these tedious mornings been for? Not that I’m not fond of you, my boy, but if it hadn’t been for the delicate matter of the delay in the coronetcy, I daresay I wouldn’t have encouraged you to think you could barge in on me at unearthly hours-’
‘It’s almost midday - and I don’t remember you encouraging me!’
‘Don’t interrupt, I am delivering myself of a homily.’ Mr Fenton was being helped into his pantalons by Pierre. ‘-At unearthly hours and disturb my peace. Indeed, when this little visit of yours to the capital has finished, I sincerely hope there will be a familial lapse in time till I set eyes on you again. Say six months.’
Benedict threw one leg over the arm of a chair and continued eating the rest of his uncle’s morning refreshments. ‘Very nice cake. If I tell you who it is, would you help me?’
‘Certainly not.’ The coat was going on with delicate precision. The method of throwing back his arms to their furthermost point behind him so that both sleeves could be lovingly put on at once (due to the tight fit of the jacket) caused Benedict an evil grin. His uncle frowned. ‘Tell me anyway.’
‘I can’t tell you why. But it is Lord Sumner.’
His uncle gave a short laugh. ‘You’ll come unstuck there. Tale is, he’s been bled dry already.’
‘But he can’t have been already, I mean-’
‘Ah, you mean the wife’s dowry. Gone, by all accounts. He has the barony, of course, but he’s been bleeding it dry and land doesn’t pay well with bad management. He’s living on the expectations of his aunt. Lady Harrington, you know. Rich as Midas they say.’
Benedict’s grin had faded and he looked sunk. His uncle, catching the look on his face in the mirror as he was giving his cravat a last tweak, frowned. ‘Now, why so cast down?’ Wilbert looked as though the light had dawned. ‘The wife. She was a Horton from Ottershaw- Dickie, you cannot be in love with that red beaked, wan-faced bird?’
‘Of course not - I mean to say, Lady Sumner is a very great friend of mine and I do not take your description of her well. A man wearing a cushion at his waist should not throw stones.’
Wilbert tapped his stomach contentedly. ‘What’s the story?’
‘That I cannot tell you. Blast it all.’ He paced around the room as far as the space allowed. Then he stopped. ‘Who won Sumner’s money?’
‘Your friend Rennie took five thousand guineas at a sitting. I don’t know who else.’
‘Could you find out sir?’
‘Why should I?’
‘So as to enjoy your toilette in peace for at least another six months.’
‘Done. Meet me at Jackson’s tomorrow at four.’
It happened like this, Honoria was entering the house, with the express intention of showing herself to better advantage to her potential suitor, when she saw a man in the great hall in full regimentals. His back was to her, a strong, manly back, in a scarlet coat, with dark hair a little too long clustering along the top edge of his high, frogged collar. She had not yet seen his face, but her heart stood still. He looked up at Scribster, who was descending the stairs. ‘Gus! I’ve just arrived.’ Serena was granted sight of his left ear and had the oddest feeling of falling in love with it. Its form promised great things. ‘Where are Rowley’s beauties?’
‘One is right behind you! Miss Fenton, may I apologise and present Lieutenant Darnley Prescott, cousin to our host.’
He turned, he laughed, and her hand was taken in a friendly fashion. He looked very much like Mr Allison, with his dimpled chin and laughing brow
n eyes, but his warm manner, like his handsome face, soothed her soul. Surely here was the embodiment of her dreams. She hardly knew what was being said, her dratted timidity kept her from replying at first. He apologised, then she disclaimed and they laughed, and she felt herself blush rosily.
As she looked up she saw Mr Scribster with his glittering intelligent eyes, and frowned. Why was he always so there? And so knowing?
They all moved towards the breakfast room, where Serena and her parents were already installed, and she moved forward on Lieutenant Prescott’s arm - Lieutenant Darnley Prescott, was there ever such a wonderful sounding name? He was shaking hands with her family, making everybody smile. Serena quipped that it was always wonderful to meet one of Wellington’s heroes, and he nobly made little of it, saying he had spent most of his war in offices. As they ate their meal, Mr Allison, who had become almost human when he had greeted his cousin, addressed some remarks to her about the weather, but she did not hear and had twice to be called to order by her mama. She was too well raised to stare at Mr Prescott’s heavenly countenance, but her awareness of him, though he was two persons distant from her at the table, was complete - even when she was staring at her plate.
Serena, all this while her usual happy self, felt a little strange. It was not the large, beautiful house or the new company that affected her - why should it when there were such stables and such horses? - it was a feeling of loss. Last night she had gone to Honoria’s room, sat on the bed and pulled her knees up as Honoria dressed for bed.
‘Well, Mr Scribster hasn’t improved on acquaintance. He dresses like Papa’s lawyer and I believe his face would crack if he gave any of us a polite smile.’
‘What?’ said Honoria, ‘No, no he hasn’t.’
‘But Mr Allison is as handsome as I remember, but nearly as stiff as when he visited Fenton Manor. Perhaps he’s following your example! Is this what you were like your whole season?’
Honoria and the Family Obligation Page 6