by Robert Neill
‘I shall be most happy.’
‘Then I’ll call it unfriendly if you do not. I’ll leave Mary to say what she would think.’
‘I should think the same,’ came the prompt answer.
‘Then I’ll most certainly call.’
‘It’s settled then,’ said Barford. ‘Curzon Street, October and November.’
He turned as one of his trim young parlour-maids came quickly in with Mary’s cloak, and then he helped her into it. He kissed her lightly, and then let them out through the library and walked with them across the velvet lawn to the fringe of cedars and the view along the lake to the Grecian temple.
‘Why do we build such things?’ he asked at large. ‘Except that it’s fashionable, or was. In my day a gentleman was expected to have such things in his park. Well, well . . .’ His easy smile broke out again. ‘Call on me again, Captain Grant, whenever you please. Formality is not needed. Now I think Mary looks impatient for your arm.’
She accepted it with a laugh, and then they walked together across the park, slowly in the afternoon sunshine. He had meant to learn something now of these village affairs, but they were no longer in his thoughts. These were only of Mary, who was at his side, and was gracious, and of his own kind. The touch of her fingers was friendly on his arm, and his thoughts were of her and of her talk with Barford. He wondered whether they had really been irritating each other.
‘How’s Barford?’ he asked suddenly. ‘Have you been arguing?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘It sounded like it.’
‘Hmm.’ She stayed in silence for a moment. ‘I suppose it did. He’s too much the guiding uncle at times. Worldly wise, and he can’t forget it. I might be his ward by the way he’s been talking.’
‘What about? May I ask that?’
‘Yes.’ She was suddenly terse. ‘He thinks I ought to marry again. Suitably, of course--which means into the nobility. He says I could.’
‘I’m quite sure you---‘
‘Don’t be silly.’ She laughed, as if she had understood his meaning and was not displeased. ‘It’s nothing to do with whether I’m fit to look at or not. A man of rank doesn’t think that way.’
‘Can’t he feel like other men?’
‘When he chooses a mistress. A wife’s rather different.’ She was distinctly sardonic now. ‘I can marry, if I wish to, first because I’m properly connected--a peer’s widow.’
‘And a general’s daughter.’
‘You’re improving. And Lord Barford’s niece, of course. Don’t forget that.’
‘I’m sure he didn’t.’
‘How did you guess? And second . . .’ Her forehead wrinkled for a moment, and then her tone changed. ‘I must say this was good of him. He said I’d expectations--meaning from himself, of course. So I’m heir to something, I don’t quite know what, but it will no doubt have been nicely calculated. Suitable bait, you see, and between that and the right connections . . .’
‘You’re fortunate.’
‘No. I’m ungrateful.’
‘But why?’
‘Don’t you understand?’ She glanced sharply at him, and for an instant she seemed impatient. ‘I’ve had that sort of marriage once, and I’m not having it again. It isn’t worth it, whatever he thinks, and he can disinherit me if he wants to.’
‘He’d not do that, surely?’
‘He might. He’d like his money to go to the right place, and he’d like a peer living in his house after him, not a commoner. Well, I’m a commoner. At least, I was brought up as one, and from now onwards I’m going to live in my own rank and take things easily. Barford’s different, of course. He’s spent his whole life climbing to what he wasn’t, and now he’s become it. Well, good luck to him, but I don’t happen to want it for myself. That’s all.’
‘Can’t he understand that?’
‘He’s too sure he knows best. In a lot of ways he does, of course, but not quite in every way. Now let’s talk of something else. You’ve been for a walk, it seems, by the dust on your boots. Did you see John?’
‘You’re guessing well.’
‘I know his ways. What did you think of Mary Ann?’
She had stopped in her walk, turning directly to him as she put the question, and the steadiness of it told him that she wanted a proper answer. He took a moment to consider it.
‘She’s remarkable,’ he said slowly. ‘It’s the least I can say.’
‘Would you call her dangerous?’
‘I think I would.’
‘I’m glad you agree. Why do you call her remarkable?’
‘Oh . . .’ For a moment he hesitated. ‘She’s vital--full of life--and so quick, and so sure of herself. Her manners, too. They didn’t come from the village.’
‘She had those from Barford.’
‘What!’
‘Oh, it’s all right.’ She was laughing suddenly at his concern. ‘I’m not suggesting an affair with Uncle. Mary Ann isn’t quite of that standard. She was his parlour-maid--that’s all. You’ve noticed he has dinner served by maids? He has the butler, to see to the wine, but no other man. He says the girls look better.’
‘So they do.’
‘Said like a man! But Mary Ann had about five years of it, as first parlour-maid, and I must say she was good at it. But that’s how she learned her manners--copying him and his guests. She’ll have been good at that too.’
He could well believe it, and it explained also the old-fashioned style he had found in her manners. That could be expected, if she had copied Barford.
‘Why did she leave?’ he asked slowly.
‘Oh, I don’t know. I think it was when her mother died, but does it matter? It’s John I’m thinking about now. What does the girl want?’
‘From what she said--though it wasn’t much--she wants to be taken to London.’
‘By John?’ She turned sharply to him, with her lips pressed tight for a moment. ‘Why are men such fools with girls?’
‘I’ve heard of girls being fools with men.’
‘As I was? Oh, it’s all right, I’ll cry touché. All the same, I wish John wouldn’t do it. What’s put this into her head, I wonder?’
‘London?’ He hesitated, and then saw his chance. ‘Wasn’t there another girl from here who went off? Atkins, I think she was called.’
‘Ann? But did she go to London? I never heard where she went.’
‘I just wondered if it was one girl following the other. I suppose they knew each other?’
‘Oh yes. But . . .’ Again she stopped, and then a smile came to her, slowly broadening to amusement. ‘You’ve pretty well promised Barford you’ll call on us in London. Now suppose John has Mary Ann there at the same time? It’s, the sort of thing he would do. You may find yourself meeting her again.’
‘Very likely. But it won’t be what I’m in London for.’
‘I hope not. But didn’t you say something about being in Paris too? When will that be?’
‘I don’t know. In fact . . .’ Thoughts of Anice were blending with it now, but Mary’s eyes were charming. ‘It’s time I was thinking what I am going to do.’
9 The Errant Nymph
It was certainly time. He lay thinking of it that night, after he was in bed, and the more he thought of it the more plain it seemed that he must have another talk with Anice. Who she was hardly seemed to matter. It was the memory of her that would not leave him, and until he knew how he stood with her he could not know how he even wished to stand with Mary. Yet Mary, in her different way, was becoming important. So he must find Anice; and not until then would he know how he really felt to either of them.
So far, so good. He must find Anice. But how to set about it was another matter. He did not know whether she was still in Paris, or even whether she was still with Hildersham. If she was, he did not know where they were staying. He had never been in Paris, and his knowledge of French was just enough for the simple questions he must put to a prisoner of war.
It seemed all but hopeless--until he remembered that Hildersham, with rank and wealth, was perhaps important enough for his whereabouts to be known to the Embassy in Paris; or the Charge d’Affaires, if an Embassy had not yet been established. But did Embassies give addresses? That was an awkward point, and he worried over it for the next half-hour until the obvious solution occurred to him--ask Barford, who had been an Ambassador. This was precisely the world he had lived in, and he would know all these points. He was friendly, and would probably enjoy showing his knowledge.
A sea officer had learned to act promptly, and he walked through the park to the Manor House the next morning, to find Barford standing on the sunlit terrace in talk with his gamekeeper. He turned, gave courteous greeting, and then apologized for being at the moment a little occupied. For another minute or two he continued to talk about pheasants. Then he brought it to an end, dismissed the keeper, and gave full attention to his visitor.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said easily. ‘Do you find pheasants interesting?’
‘Not very, I’m afraid.’
‘Nor I. Unfortunately I have to pretend to. I like looking at pheasants, but I get no pleasure from shooting them. The noise is distracting and the expense damnable. But there it is, and for a gentleman not to like it would be the social end of him.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘So am I. I’ve guests next month, when the shooting opens, which means it will be mid-October before I can arrive in London. You’ll remember, I hope, to see me there?’
‘If I’m back from Paris.’
He explained what he meant as they paced slowly along the terrace together, and not many words were needed with a mind as quick as Barford’s.
‘By all means pursue your Cyprian,’ he said affably. ‘She seems to be most charming, and you’ll need an occupation until you settle to something. But why rush off to Paris until you at least know where Hildersham is? Can’t you learn that in London?’
‘How?’
‘Call at his house. It’s in Hartford Street, I think.’
‘He won’t be there.’
‘But his butler will, and if you take an air of consequence he’ll tell you where his master is. Or if he can’t do that, he’ll refer you to a banker or an attorney. Hildersham’s too wealthy to disappear without a trace, and there’ll be somebody who’ll know. So try it.’
‘I will. He did ask me to call at his house.’
‘Then say so. It will ease things. When will you go?’
‘It’s a question of leaving here. I may have to be tactful.’
‘You can always plead affairs. Say you must see your banker.’
‘It’s high time I did.’
‘Then you won’t find it difficult.’
Nor did he. He mentioned casually the next day that he must soon be back in London to get his affairs in hand, and if Mary was disappointed she was too accomplished to show it. She showed as much regret as politeness demanded and no more, and she did not even remind him of his promise to call on her in London. She left that to John, who was forthright about it.
‘Don’t forget it,’ he said jovially. ‘I’ll be there by mid-October. I’ll shoot a few of Barford’s pheasants, and then be there.’
‘With Mary Ann?’
‘I should think so, by the looks of things. But don’t worry. We shan’t be staying with Barford.’
‘I should hope not. Where will you be?’
‘No idea--yet. That’s why you must call at Barford’s. It’s how we’ll find each other. When do you leave for London, by the way?’
‘Another day or two. I won’t be abrupt about it.’
He gave it three more days, and he was surprised to find how much of the time he spent with Mary. He liked her talk and company, and as they walked the park together, those crisp September days, their talk went further than he expected. She was understanding, well used to a world of ranks and uniforms, and he found himself telling more than he had meant to tell of what the long war years had been. He heard in return, and perhaps more fully than she had intended, something of what they had been at home, with husband, father, and brother all in scarlet. She was cautious about the husband, but he remembered her admission that she meant to do it differently another time.
He asked her of her present plans, and she laughed a little ruefully.
‘How can I have any?’ she asked. ‘Barford says the world gets lax. Morals gone to pieces after the war, and so on. But it isn’t lax enough yet to let a woman run loose on her own, and I’ll have to wait for invitations--and introductions. At the moment that means Barford, and I’m glad he’s asked me to London. This place is deadly. Try to imagine it in the winter, with you and John away, and no one to talk to but the Rector.’
‘He’s dull?’
‘He’s eighty-six, so you’ll find me in London. But don’t ask me to make plans for it. I’ll have to wait and see.’
‘John will be there.’
‘If you think that’s a help. We can guess who’ll be with him.’
‘He’ll keep her out of sight. Give him credit for that.’
‘I give him credit for a good deal, but he’s still pretty light-hearted. I’m not trying to change him--you can’t change a Wickham--but it does give awkward moments.’ Her friendly eyes met his, and then she laughed and changed the talk. ‘Do you know what I must think of, as soon as you’re gone?’
‘No?’
‘Clothes, for London--and I don’t even know what’s right when I’m buried in this place. It’s a problem, I suppose, that doesn’t trouble you!’
Some other problems did. He began his journey the next day, and he did not travel post this time. A hired chaise took him to an inn on the London road, and here he took a seat in the Enterprise, from Bath to London. He travelled ‘outside’, thinking that a coach could hardly be more exposed to weather than the quarterdeck of Amphion, and in the September sun he found it pleasant, even though his fellow passengers complained of the wind and told him what it could be like in winter. He did not let this trouble him, and soon the clop of horses and the crunch of wheels became a soporific that took away his irritations and let him think of Anice--and Mary. He knew very well by now that he wanted both of them; and he could not have both. Or could he? Some men did, and in the higher walks of life it seemed that most men did. But he was not in the higher walks, and he was sure he had not the confidence and skill that it would need. Nor did he think that Mary’s tolerance would run very far in that direction. She had suffered once from it, he remembered, as he thought of what she had said of Charles.
He was in London the following afternoon, and he lodged himself, as he had done before, at Thomas’s Hotel in Berkeley Square. He was at least clear of his immediate purpose, and as soon as he had changed his clothes and dined he walked round to Hartford Street, put an inquiry to a passer-by, and then rang the indicated bell. He heard it jingle somewhere in the house, and then he waited, rehearsing what he would say, and hoping he could assume the air of consequence that Barford had recommended. He must inquire first for Hildersham, as if he supposed him to be at home, and then ask for the address.
The door opened promptly, as if Hildersham’s servants were being kept to their duties, and a liveried footman made a stiff little bow to the caller.
‘Sir?’ he inquired woodenly.
‘I call by his lordship’s invitation. Is he at home?’
‘I’ll ask, sir. Pray come in.’
It was not quite what he had expected, and for an instant he was looking keenly at the man. Then, as he remembered his pretence, he relaxed and stepped into an elegant blue and primrose hall where a fire was glowing and chairs were ready. The door shut softly behind him.
‘What name shall I give, sir?’
‘Captain Grant.’ He gave it automatically, and then the sharpness returned to his eyes. ‘Is his lordship returned from Paris?’
‘Oh yes, sir. Some days back. If you’ll be seated, sir, I’ll inquire.’
The man bowed, and then marched stiffly through a door at the back of the hall. There was a silence, broken only by the slow tick of a clock, and he tried quickly to readjust himself and think what to do. It was too late to draw back, but he had no wish to see Hildersham and no notion what to say to him. Then the thought came that Anice might be here too. They might be at dinner together, or at ease after it, and if so . .
Another door opened, this time at the side of the hall, and a man appeared in a black tail-coat, a white cravat, and black silk breeches. He was obviously the butler, and he bowed to the guest, more ceremoniously than the footman had done.
‘His lordship will receive you, sir. If you will come this way . . .’
He led through the door at the side, and Richard found himself following. There was nothing else he could do, but he was almost in his quarterdeck stride, shoulders stiff and head erect, as he made his entry into what proved to be the dining-room, spacious and glittering, with ivory-white paint and a gilt-encrusted paper on the panelled walls. There was a table of resplendent satinwood that would have taken a dozen covers, and at the head of it Hildersham sat alone in a black evening coat and cream kerseymere breeches, buckled at the knee. He was apparently at the end of dinner. Fruit was on the table, and he was delicately slicing a peach while three footmen stood stiffly against the wall, ready if he should require another. He looked up lazily as his guest appeared, and then his habitual good manners took charge. He stood up at once.
‘Ah, come in,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’m glad you’ve remembered me.’
‘I’m afraid I intrude.’
‘Not in the least. I asked you to call, and I’m glad you’ve done so. You’ve dined, I suppose?’ ‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Then a glass of wine? It’s just the moment.’
The butler lifted a finger. Two footmen sprang forward, one holding a chair, one a wine-glass, and before he quite knew what had happened he was seated at the side of the table, at his host’s right hand, with the butler deferentially filling his glass. Hildersham, at the head of the table, sat comfortably back.
‘Well, well . . .’ His deep voice had a jovial undertone of amusement. ‘What have you been doing since we met? Any more Cyprians to ride with?’