“I can’t stay now Nell,” he said, hurriedly, as he bade her good-bye. “I’ll see you again soon, and we’ll have a long talk then.”
“But what has happened?” she demanded. “Are you and Melissa to be engaged? Can I wish you happy?”
“Not yet awhile. She’ll tell you,” he said, through tightened lips.
Before Helen could stop him, he had dashed away.
She followed him out into the hall, but seeing the front door close upon him, she climbed the stairs to her friend’s bedchamber.
Sounds of distress were audible outside the door, so she dispensed with the formality of a knock and burst into the room.
Melissa was lying on the bed with her face buried in the pillow, sobbing as if she could never stop. It was not a moment for speech, so Helen sat down beside her and gently stroked the tumbled curls.
Presently Melissa raised her face, blindly accepting a handkerchief which was held out to her.
“It’s no use!” she gasped between sobs. “They say we must wait — wait — wait! For ever, most like! Oh, what can I do, Helen?”
Murmuring soothing endearments, Helen drew the distracted girl into her arms and helped to dry her tears.
“Well, the first thing you can do,” she said, when presently this treatment produced a lull in the storm, “is to tell me the whole.”
Melissa obeyed, with many minor outbursts of grief by the way. It seemed that the interview had gone very much as James had anticipated. Sir George had been kind and understanding; he had not rejected out of hand the son of an old and valued friend, a young man, moreover, of exemplary character and well liked by all the family. The objections he had raised, gently but firmly, were Melissa’s youth and the uncertainty of James’s future prospects.
“And I’m only a few weeks short of nineteen!” wailed Melissa. “Dozens of girls are married even younger! But you’d have supposed, Nell, that your brother was on Papa’s side, for he agreed with every word that Papa said about its being desirable to wait until I was sure of my own mind, and he — Mr. Somerby — could establish me comfortably! I know my own mind now, and so I told him, but it made no difference! As for the other matter, your brother must be aware that Papa will make me a generous settlement, whomsoever I should marry — not that I’d so much as look at anyone else!”
“But James wouldn’t wish to live on your fortune, Mel — you must see that. He’ll want to provide for you adequately himself.”
“Yes, so he said, and Papa thought it very proper, but I think it a great piece of nonsense! How stupid gentlemen are in such matters! As though it’s of any consequence who has the fortune, husband or wife. Are they not one? Besides, Mama says that both you and your brother will be wealthy one day, as you are heirs to your grandparents’ estate. Not that I care for that! I’m sure we may live very comfortably on Mr. Somerby’s present income added to his professional earnings. He says he can’t give me a town house, carriages, horses, armies of servants, expensive gowns and the like; but what do I care? So long as we may be together, I would live in a far more modest style than we should be called upon to do, given what we already have!”
Helen nodded sympathetically. “Of course I know you would! But what exactly has been decided, my love?”
Melissa’s tears began again. “Papa says we must wait for at least six months, by which time your brother will be established in partnership with Dr. Gillies and his affairs more settled. And if by then we are still of the same mind, Mr. Somerby may apply to Papa again. The same mind, Nell! As if either of us could ever change! It means waiting for almost a year to be married, even if Papa does give his consent in the end. I daresay I shall be twenty and dead of a broken heart besides!”
“No, love, you couldn’t be both, you know,” Helen pointed out, with an attempt to make her friend smile.
“Oh, Nell, you can’t be so heartless as to joke when I feel so monstrous unhappy!” protested Melissa, now between laughing and crying. “I’m mistaken in you. I’d no notion you could be so odiously unfeeling!”
“Perhaps you may be, but only try to cheer up a little. After all, things might have turned out a great deal worse. Your parents might have forbidden the match altogether. As it is, you’ve a long time to wait, it’s true, but at least you may hope to become betrothed to James at the end of it. Did they forbid you to see each other in the meantime?” she added as an afterthought.
“Not precisely, but Papa said he thought it would be as well if we didn’t meet too often,” replied Melissa dolefully. “He thinks I shall forget your brother and turn to someone else, no doubt, but I shan’t, I shan’t! And so I told him!”
“What did your father say to that?”
“He said, ‘If that is so, my dear child, and your affections do indeed stand the test of time, then I shall place no further obstacle in the way of your engagement to Mr. Somerby.’ And instead of opposing his dreadful proposition, James agreed to it! That was the worst blow of all!”
“What else could he do, dearest Melissa?” pleaded Helen. “He knows that your parents are acting with your best interests at heart, and himself sees the wisdom of what they propose.”
“I don’t want him to be calm and rational about it! I’d like him to seize me and carry me off to Gretna Green, or something desperate and romantic!”
“Then you’ve mistaken your man. James would never behave in so shabby a fashion! He has by far too much respect for you, for your parents, and — yes — for the institution of marriage,” retorted Helen, warmly. “And I tell you what, Mel — if he did act like that, I’m sure you wouldn’t like it above half!”
“I should like it of all things!” declared Melissa, defiantly. “And I don’t intend to wait another year to marry him, what’s more, so there!”
CHAPTER XXIX
For several days Melissa was very low in spirits. She would have preferred to excuse herself from all her engagements in order to stay at home nursing her disappointment, but this Lady Chetwode wisely refused to permit.
“Only consider how singular it must appear to be shutting yourself away in that fashion,” she said, reprovingly. “Tongues are always ready to wag, and you won’t wish to wear your heart on your sleeve! Besides, it will do you good to be obliged to exert yourself for civility’s sake. I myself have always found it a most efficacious corrective when I have anything on my mind.”
“But you are not my age and in love, Mama!” protested Melissa, the tears starting in her eyes.
“No, my dear.” Lady Chetwode patted her daughter’s cheek. “But I have been, you know. You must not be supposing that, because a woman is well on into her middle years and has a grown up family, she hasn’t experienced any of the heartaches of youth. Why, I recall a time—”
She broke off, a faraway look in her eyes.
“But all that is gone by now,” she resumed, briskly, “just as your troubles will resolve themselves, if you will only be patient for a while.”
Melissa was unconvinced, but knew that she must do as she was bid. So she continued to appear as usual wherever she was invited; and though she could no longer find any delight in a ball, she was too young not to enjoy in some measure the other entertainments that offered. She talked long and earnestly to Helen about her hopes and fears. Had their friendship been slighter, it must have felt the strain; but Helen was always ready to lend a sympathetic ear, bearing in mind her own mother’s adage that a trouble shared is a trouble halved. It took her back to the days when Melissa was newly arrived at Mrs. Cassington’s seminary, homesick and desperate for comfort, as an eleven-year-old child often is when torn up from its childhood roots and transplanted to an alien place. Helen, being eight months older, had already settled down at school. She at once took the new arrival under her wing until the time came when Melissa was happily integrated into the new community. She trusted now that history would be repeated and that she would soon see her friend reconciled to the present situation.
In the followin
g week the London drawing rooms were buzzing once more with scandal about Lord Byron’s love affairs, resurrected by the recent publication of a book entitled Glenarvon, which had become an instant best seller.
“What is this book, ma’am, that everyone is talking about?” Helen asked Lady Chetwode, curiously. “Have you read it?”
Lady Chetwode pursed her lips. “No, indeed, I haven’t, nor do I intend to do so! And I think Caroline Lamb will live to regret writing such a piece of scurrilous nonsense! Lady Holland says that some of the characters can be clearly identified as leading members of the ton — the Duchess of Devonshire, Lady Jersey, Lady Granville and Lady Oxford, to name only a few. As for Lord Byron himself — well, no matter! The last furore forced him to leave the country, and great poet or not, one cannot be sorry for it. A most unsavoury business, and certainly not fit for a young girl’s ears.”
Not surprisingly, this speech served only to heighten Helen’s curiosity about the Byron scandals, of which she had heard many hints before. Accordingly, the next time she was in company with Cynthia Lydney at a rout party, Helen applied to her for information, certain that she would prove a good source.
“Oh, don’t you know?” asked Cynthia, lifting an incredulous eyebrow. “Why, it was all over Town when first you arrived. Lord Byron and Caroline Lamb were quite wild for each other at one time. She said that he was bad, mad and dangerous to know,’ but by all accounts she was more than a little mad herself. She’s married, of course, but that didn’t prevent her from going her length and setting all the Town talking. Such things can be, and usually are, managed discreetly, but she seemed determined to draw attention to herself by all the wildest starts imaginable.”
“I have heard that Lord Byron’s marriage did not turn out well, and that he has recently been legally separated from his wife,” put in Helen.
“Yes, but the Caroline Lamb affair was not responsible for that, as it occurred before his marriage.” Cynthia dropped her voice and looked knowing. “He’s a determined womaniser, and among several others has been involved in an illicit liaison with his own half-sister, Mrs. Augusta Leigh.”
Helen gave a gasp.
“You may well be shocked,” continued Cynthia, with relish. “And now all this has been stirred up again by Caroline Lamb’s outrageous book. Do you know, she’s had the audacity to publish in it some of the actual love letters she received from Byron? No wonder the Town can talk of little else at present! But of course,” she added, in a cynical tone, “it will all be forgotten again when the next scandal rears its head. The way of the world, my dear. And what’s amiss with Melissa?” she demanded, dismissing the former topic. “She has quite lost her bloom, don’t you think? No one could possibly think of her as plump, nowadays.”
“Oh, you know very well that schoolgirl plumpness vanished long since,” replied Helen, a shade tartly. “There’s nothing whatever amiss with her, except I think she may be feeling a trifle tired this evening. So, too, am I — we were at Mrs. Wilmot’s ball last night, and did not get to bed until the small hours.”
“Well, I still think she looks hagged — more as if she’d been crossed in love, or something of that kind,” persisted Cynthia, with uncanny shrewdness. “Is there some hopeless passion? You would know, naturally, better than anyone.”
Although quite ready to discuss with Cynthia the affairs of a famous poet with whom she was not acquainted, Helen was certainly not prepared to speak of Melissa’s private concerns; so it was with more eagerness than usual that she welcomed Henry Lydney, who came upon them at that moment.
Cynthia watched their meeting with a cynical eye. Henry really did the thing extremely well, she reflected; anyone looking on would suppose that he was head over heels in love with this insipid chit. He would get little joy there, however, other than a mild flirtation. He would scarcely be such a fool as to offer marriage, and a carte blanche was not for young ladies of Helen Somerby’s quality.
Bored, she let her eyes range around in search of diversion and noticed Viscount Shaldon standing in conversation with a group of people not far away. Their glances met for a moment; hers signalled an invitation which presently he accepted, strolling across in a leisurely way to join her and her two companions.
Helen had not met him since their encounter at Mrs. Somerton’s soirée. When he greeted them all in his usual easy style, she was quite surprised to discover how glad she was to see him again. Accordingly she responded with an especially warm smile, deciding at once to forgive him for the untimely lecture he had favoured her with on that occasion. His grey eyes twinkled, and he looked as if he would have liked the opportunity of a few words in private with her, perhaps to ask her pardon yet again for that second transgression; but Cynthia had summoned him for her own entertainment and quickly proceeded to monopolise his conversation.
“I haven’t set eyes on you this age!” she began. “Pray, where have you been hiding yourself away?”
Helen did not hear his reply, as just then they were joined by some more of their friends, among them Melissa, Catherine, and Philip Chetwode. Although Shaldon paused for long enough to greet the newcomers civilly, Cynthia determinedly kept him in conversation with herself while the rest chatted together. To her shame, Helen found herself attempting to overhear what was passing between these two, instead of concentrating on the general conversation. She took herself sharply to task; but try as she would to disengage her attention from them, it kept slipping back like a wandering sheep. The temptation was all the stronger because she was standing next to them in the group, in a much better position for overhearing than anyone else.
She told herself that their conversation could scarcely be considered truly private, as it was taking place among a group of other people; nevertheless she felt annoyed with herself for wishing to eavesdrop at all. She had almost conquered her weakness and was at last paying attention to the general discourse, when a question of Cynthia’s carried clearly to her ears and riveted her attention again.
“Have you some particular interest in the Whitsun Fair at Greenwich?” Cynthia demanded of Shaldon.
“Not a particle,” he replied, laughing. “Why do you suppose that I should, ma’am?”
“Oh, something that I heard recently.” Her tone was careless. “Something that made me suppose you might be going there — or perhaps it was more that something concerning you might be taking place there,” she corrected herself.
“Indeed? Your information sounds delightfully vague, not to say improbable. May I enquire as to its source?”
“Oh, I forget. No, come to think of it,” she went on, in what Helen recognised as a malicious tone, “it was something said by my father’s secretary. Most likely he meant nothing by it, but my curiosity was stirred sufficiently to put the question to you.”
“Durrant, eh?” He sounded alert.
“Why, yes, he’s my father’s secretary. You know that, sir.”
“H’m. Intriguing. What precisely did he say?”
“Oh, if you want me to be precise, I’m quite unable to satisfy your curiosity, I fear. I wasn’t paying much attention at the time.”
“Perhaps I should ask him about it myself.”
“No, I beg you will not!” Cynthia sounded alarmed. “You see, I overheard the remark quite by chance, and possibly I ought not to have been listening. It sounded odd, and you must know how I’m always intrigued by oddities! Promise me you won’t say anything to him. That would be to betray me, and I’m sure you could never be so unfeeling!”
He promised readily enough, though sounding a trifle surprised at her concern, which was somewhat out of character. Although Helen listened unashamedly now, the topic was not mentioned again and the two soon joined in the general conversation.
Helen’s share in this was only spasmodic. Her mind kept going over what she had just heard. Durrant again! And still some hint of a sword of Damocles hanging over Viscount Shaldon. This time, even Shaldon himself had seemed to be taking some interes
t. Indeed, had not Cynthia put him off with her plea of betrayal, he sounded as if he might have approached Durrant for an explanation. But how in the world, she wondered, did Greenwich Fair come into this?
At intervals throughout the evening she kept revolving the puzzle in her mind, but without arriving at any kind of solution. Henry Lydney, who as usual kept close to her side, at last commented on her abstraction.
“Do you find this party tiresome, Miss Somerby? Or is it — I can only hope it is not! — my company which bores you?”
He posed the question in a half-jesting, half-serious way.
“Oh, no, certainly not!” She tried to infuse a little more animation into her manner. “I am enjoying myself prodigiously! If I seem a trifle thoughtful, it’s only because” — she looked about her, improvising swiftly — “I’ve noticed another young lady in the room wearing almost the exact counterpart of this gown I have on. It’s too provoking!”
“Where is she, ma’am?”
Helen inclined her head in the direction of a nearby group. His glance found the offender, a plain girl who lacked Helen’s trim figure, but who was nevertheless wearing a very similar gown of blue silk, low necked and with the full skirt finished in a flounce.
His eyes came back to his companion, studying appreciatively the effect of pale blue against a fair skin and the honey-coloured hair, which tonight she wore piled high on her head with curls hanging loosely at the back. Those warm hazel eyes were bewitching, he thought, with a sudden leap of his pulse. Of late, he had found them more and more disturbing.
“Since you say it is similar, ma’am, I must take your word for it, yet I defy anyone else to notice that. You look quite differently in it — you look enchanting.”
Under his intent gaze, she blushed a little.
“Thank you,” she said, in an embarrassed tone, “but I did not mean to fish for compliments.”
“There’s no need. I cannot help but pay you due homage.”
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