“How so?” asked James.
Anthony then went on to give them a carefully expurgated account of Durrant’s elopement with Cynthia. Once or twice, he contrived to catch James’s eye in order to convey meanings which he was unable to make plain before the young ladies; but Helen, forewarned by her brother of Cynthia’s exploits, had little difficulty in interpreting these cryptic messages.
“Phew!” exclaimed James, when the recital was concluded. “So by now they will be married — Lord Lydney intends to send them overseas? Transportation, in effect. D’you think he’ll stick to it?”
“Undoubtedly. I saw Henry yesterday, and he was confident that his father meant to send them on their way as soon as the knot was tied. Not a man who’d relish being hoodwinked, Lydney.”
“But he was always prodigiously fond of Cynthia,” put in Melissa. “I remember her telling us once that she could do anything with her Papa.”
“She’d gone her length,” replied Anthony, brusquely. “Even the most doting parent must eventually reach point non plus.”
Helen looked at him, troubled. Apart from the brief reference to her puppy Patch, which had seemed to cheer him up momentarily, his mood had been sombre throughout. Perhaps this was understandable, for although many of his difficulties were now cleared away, he was still left in doubt about his right to Alvington. But how much was it due to the loss of Cynthia? His eyes met hers, and she saw that they were clouded with doubt — it might be pain. She thought sadly that she could read her answer in them.
“You’ve had a wretched time of it,” she said, in a sympathetic tone, “and now you are faced with a further period of uncertainty. We must all hope that it will soon be resolved.”
“Thank you. You are very good.” His manner was unusually formal, thought Helen. “My lawyers are to see that the first of the advertisements for Mrs. Lathom appears in tomorrow’s newspapers, and they’ll be inserted every day until further notice. If she is still alive, one would suppose that eventually they must come to her notice. Should she be dead, however—”
He broke off and shrugged.
“I tell you what it is, Tony,” said James, who had also noticed that his friend was not in spirits, “you could do with a diversion at present. I am to escort Nell and Miss Chetwode to Alvington for a short stay with my parents on the day after tomorrow, but tomorrow I’ll be kicking my heels and wishing for something to fill the time. Why do we not spend the day together, you and I, at Lord’s cricket ground, watching the MCC play against Hampshire? I haven’t seen a single game this season, and I shall most likely be too occupied hereafter. What d’you say?”
Anthony’s expression at once took on life. Cricket had always been a major interest of his, ever since his days at Eton, as James very well knew. And it was true that at present he felt the need of something to relieve a weight on his spirits that in fact was due in only some small part to his equivocal situation.
“Famous — my dear doctor, you seem to have an infallible remedy for most maladies. Shall I call at your lodging to take you up?”
“Deuced good of you, Tony, but I’ve some books and other gear to convey to Paddington first, since I’m to take up residence with Dr. Gillies as soon as I return from Alvington. I thought I might get a hackney and meet you afterwards at the ground.”
“And waste half the day’s play?” demanded Shaldon, scandalised. “No, let me call for you and take you and your traps straight to the match. Would there be any objection to your looking in on Dr. Gillies later in the day, when stumps have been drawn?”
James gave it as his opinion that these arrangements would be suitable, and soon afterwards Anthony took his leave. He appeared in a more sanguine frame of mind as he repeated his good wishes to the betrothed pair. When he said good-bye to Helen, he not only took her hand, which was in itself unusual, but carried it briefly to his lips.
This unexpected gallantry brought a warm rush of colour to her cheeks; but he had gone before he could notice it.
After leaving Cavendish Square, he looked in at White’s, where he encountered several of his acquaintances, among them Sir Jeremy Linslade, who could talk of nothing but a pair of matched greys which he had just purchased. Although everyone present had heard rumours concerning the Alvington scandal, naturally the subject was not mentioned before Shaldon. Indeed, his presence there, looking his usual insouciant self, inclined most people to the view that, as far as his own position was concerned, there could be nothing in it.
Besides, already a fresh scandal was going the rounds.
“Heard the latest on-dit?” Anthony overheard someone say, when presently he was on his way out of the Club. “They say that dashing filly of Lydney’s has eloped with her father’s secretary! Care to hazard a wager on whether Lydney will catch ’em up before they reach Gretna?”
There was no keeping anything a secret in the small, select circle of London society, he reflected cynically. How long would it be before the whole, unelevating story of Cynthia’s folly was being avidly circulated?
James Somerby had been right in saying that his friend needed some diversion at present. As he strolled away from the Club with spirits that showed a tendency to sink again, it occurred to Anthony that he might seek just such a diversion in a quarter which for some time he had neglected. Accordingly, after reaching his rooms he changed into evening dress and in due course presented himself at the house of Harriette Wilson.
When he was admitted, he found it crammed to overflowing with guests. Couples stood about in the hall and passageways or sat on the stairs, most of them in various stages of inebriated lovemaking. He pushed himself past these with scant ceremony, coming at length to the drawing room. As he thrust open the door, a babble of high-pitched voices and immoderate laughter burst upon his ears, making him grimace. It seemed as if all the demireps in Town must be gathered here tonight, their gowns in all colours of the rainbow, their persons bedecked with glittering jewels generously supplied by the various gentlemen who had them in protection. There was no shortage of these gentlemen, either, many of them known to Anthony, but too amorously occupied at present to spare him more than a passing nod.
He stood still for a moment taking in the scene before Harriette herself noticed him and, shaking off an admirer who appeared somewhat unsteady on his legs, made her way through the crowd to his side.
“Shaldon!” she exclaimed, in tones of rapture which perforce were loud, so that she might make herself heard. “I haven’t set eyes on you this age!”
“Been out of Town,” he shouted back.
She moved nearer so that he caught a whiff of the heady perfume she wore, and was afforded an excellent view of her extremely low decolletage. She stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear, pressing her half unveiled bosom to his chest.
“Do you not find it too noisy and crowded in here? Shall we seek a more secluded spot?”
Unaccountably, his senses for once failed to respond to her blandishments, and he stepped back a pace. Her face changed; but he was providentially saved from having to deliver the rebuff which was forming in his mind, and which might well have precipitated an emotional storm. One of the nearby gentlemen suddenly seized her around the waist and whirled her, laughing and protesting, into the midst of a group of revellers. Before she could shake herself free, Anthony had closed the door firmly upon the scene and pushed his way out of the house.
As he walked briskly away, he drew several deep breaths of the cool night air. So much for Harriette Wilson, he thought, and so much for the lust that drove a man to females of her kind. Lust was an uncomplicated matter, soon satisfied and as soon forgotten. That deeper emotion which could be inspired by a woman was altogether a more complex affair. Physical desire had a part in it, but only a part; it also brought respect, friendship, a desire to protect and cherish, a longing to share all one’s life with the beloved. There was all the difference in the world between lust and love; and now he knew without any doubt that he was in love, and with no
hope of a return.
When Helen looked in at Melissa’s bedchamber on her way downstairs to breakfast the following morning, she found the room in disorder. Carriage dresses, walking dresses, evening gowns, and their various accessories were laid out on every available space; and Melissa was snatching up first one, then another, only to discard each in turn while her abigail stood helplessly by, doing her best to keep pace with her young mistress’s constantly changing decisions.
“Oh, Nell, I’m so thankful to see you, for now you can help me decide what to pack for my visit to your parents! I’m near distracted with making a choice, and am almost persuaded that nothing I possess will quite do, and I shall be obliged to purchase something new, after all!”
Helen laughed. “Well, you certainly can’t take the half of this, my dear! We should require a second coach to accommodate it. Besides, you will quite dazzle Mama and Papa with so much splendour, not to speak of the villagers, who are used to see me in an old muslin gown and a straw bonnet, as often as not. We shall be there only four or five days at most, so unless you wish to pass all your time prinking in your room instead of spending it in my brother’s company, you’d best limit your selection, don’t you think?”
“Why, yes, of course, but I do so want to make a good impression!”
“On James?” teased Helen. “Or on my parents?”
“On all of them, you wretch.” She turned to the maid. “Very well, Foster, you need not wait, for Miss Somerby will help me.”
The abigail thankfully departed to regale below-stairs with the laughing tale of how Miss Melissa was in a proper state over packing for a visit to her prospective parents-in-law.
“You just wait until it’s your turn,” Melissa said balefully, when the maid had gone. “See if I don’t roast you, too!”
“You may have to wait a long time for that.”
“I don’t think so. There’s a gentleman known to us both whose attentions to you are becoming more and more particular, and whom I for one feel sure will be popping the question any day now!”
Helen made no answer, but held up a gown in jonquil muslin with a white ruff round the neck.
“Take this, for one, Mel. It becomes you extremely and James has never seen it.”
“Oh, yes, thank you, I will. I knew you would find something suitable! But, Helen, tell me, are you not just the tiniest bit in love? I know you’ve said often that you intend to take no one seriously, and only to flirt a little, but sometimes I wonder if you understand yourself as well as you think. Are you quite, quite sure that your heart isn’t melting a little? Can you positively swear it?”
“You are like all girls in love, Mel — you cannot wait to see your friends in a similarly happy state,” replied Helen evasively, as she directed her attention to the matter in hand. “Why not take the blue silk and the white with gold gauze for evening, and this green walking dress?”
With her assistance, the selection was soon made and they went down to breakfast together. Melissa did not mention the other subject again, for which Helen was grateful, for she would scarcely have known how to answer. It was only recently that she had realised how greatly she had been deluding herself about her own emotions.
Melissa was still not completely satisfied that one or two purchases were not desirable; so when her mother suggested that they might make a visit to Bond Street to choose suitable gifts for taking to the Rector and his wife, she at once fell in eagerly with the scheme. Helen for once had no particular desire to accompany them. She recollected that Catherine Horwood might be expected to call, as Catherine had made some mention of this at Melissa’s birthday party; and with this excuse, she remained at home.
It was as well that she did, for Catherine put in an appearance soon after the others had left. She was decidedly not a girl for gossip, but she had heard the rumours of Cynthia’s elopement and mentioned the subject diffidently to Helen.
“Do you suppose there can be any truth in it?” she asked. “There are always so many wicked scandals in circulation about the Town, and I daresay most of them grossly exaggerated! I should not pay any heed in the ordinary way, but as we were at school with Cynthia, I did wonder… Not that it sounds in the least like her, I must say.”
Without feeling it necessary to impart the full details of the unsavoury story to her innocent friend, Helen acknowledged the truth of it. Catherine was very much shocked, and relieved when Helen turned the talk into other channels. This was made easier when Philip Chetwode walked in accompanied by Henry Lydney, and the four sat chatting together until the butler announced that Miss Horwood’s carriage had called for her.
Philip at once rose to accompany Catherine to the carriage, leaving Lydney and Helen alone.
“I suppose you know of this devilish business with my sister?” Lydney asked, suddenly. “It all ties in with the scandal about Alvington, and Shaldon tells me you are informed of that. Indeed, he said that he is grateful for the help given him by your brother and yourself, in clearing it all up.”
Helen replied quietly that she did know.
“God knows it’s not a subject I wish to dwell upon with you, least of anyone, only insofar as it touches upon another which I am most desirous of discussing — have been for some time, as a matter of fact. Only now that my confounded sister has brought the family name into notoriety, you may not care to hear. In short, I could scarcely blame you if you wished to sever all connection with anyone of my name,” he ended, on a despondent note.
“Why should I do that?” demanded Helen, indignantly. “You must think me a despicable creature if you suppose that I would abandon a friend only because there’s a scandal connected with his name — and that not of his own making! No such thing, I assure you!”
“Think you a despicable creature?” be repeated, softly, his dark eyes subdued by emotion. “Do you really want to know what I think of you, Miss Somerby — Helen — I think you the most adorable, the most bewitching, the sweetest, dearest girl in the world—”
She put out a hand in a delaying gesture, but he seized it and carried it to his lips. Her cheeks were red now, and the hand trembled in his grasp. He looked at her keenly, taking these for signs of encouragement.
“Don’t mistake me, Helen. I want you for my wife. Will you marry me, dearest?”
He pulled her gently to her feet and would have taken her in his arms, but she held back and shook her head, evidently in some distress.
“I can’t, Mr. Lydney,” she said hurriedly, in a low voice. “I like you prodigiously, and — and we go on famously together — and I am very much honoured,” she continued, remembering the formula all young ladies were taught for such moments, “by your declaration—”
“No, don’t give me such conventional stuff, Helen,” he said, imploringly. “Since you say you like me and admit that we deal well together, surely that means that you could care for me well enough to be my wife? Or that, given a little time, you could come round to it? I’ve been too hasty — that’s it — you need more time.”
She shook her head again, more decidedly now.
“It would be unkind to allow you to hope,” she said, giving him a look in which firmness and compassion were oddly mixed. “I shall always value our friendship, but believe me when I say it can never be anything more.”
“How can you be so sure?” he persisted. “Many a good marriage has been made where the lady’s feelings were far less favourable than those to which you freely admit! Only give me time to change them to something warmer! I know what it is,” he continued, in the tone of one who has arrived at a satisfactory explanation. “You haven’t thought me serious until now! Plenty of tattlemongers to tell you I’m a flirt, I’ll be bound. Believing that, it’s only natural that you’d be very wary of permitting yourself to consider me as anything closer than a friend.”
“It’s true that I believed you to be merely indulging in a light flirtation—”
“Just as I said! And now that you know how deeply I lo
ve you, admire and respect you, your own feelings towards me will change,” he said, confidently.
“It grieves me to give you pain, but the hurt would only be greater in the end if I allowed you to hope,” she replied, gently. “You see, there is a good reason why I cannot expect any change in my feelings towards you.”
“A good reason. You mean someone else? Of course, I know you have many admirers, but I had not noticed.”
He looked at her keenly, but she said nothing.
“I will not importune you further now,” he went on, making an obvious effort to speak calmly. “But do not think that I shall ever despair until I hear of your betrothal to some other man! I shall approach you again, Helen, if that event does not transpire within a few months, and see if I cannot persuade you next time to give me another answer. You shall not discourage me so easily!”
CHAPTER XXXVIII
As he settled down with James to watch Hampshire play the Marylebone Cricket Club at Lord’s ground in St. John’s Wood, Anthony reflected that few sights could afford so much aesthetic pleasure as a game of cricket. The green turf with white garbed figures moving across it in the sunlight made an attractive setting for the skill and artistry of the players; while there was something particularly satisfying in hearing the crack of bat on ball.
This game, which had originally been played by Kentish and Hampshire boys and yeomen on village greens and rural meadows, had by now developed into one of the favourite sporting pastimes of the fashionable world. It was necessary, therefore, to find a location for it near London; and in 1787, Thomas Lord, a Yorkshireman with the enterprise for which natives of his county were well-known, had opened a cricket ground in Dorset Square. Circumstances had unfortunately made two removals necessary since then; and enthusiasts for the game hoped that the present ground in St. John’s Wood, comfortably provided with a pavilion, a tavern, and stabling for the horses and carriages of the gentry, might remain a fixture.
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