The Corinthian

by Джорджетт Хейер

  Miss Daubenay bowed her head again. “That it was not—not that man I had gone to meet, but another, whom I had met in Bath, when I was sent to Great-Aunt Augusta to—to cure me of what Papa called my infatuation! I said I had been in the habit of meeting this other man c-clandestinely, because I thought that would make Papa afraid to send me back to Bath, and might perhaps even reconcile him to the Real Man.”

  “Oh!” said Pen doubtfully. “And did it?”

  “No! He said he did not believe me.”

  “Well, I must say I’m not surprised at that’

  “Yes, but in the end he did, and now I wish I had never said it. He said if there was Another Man, who was it?”

  “You ought to have thought of that. He was bound to ask that question, and you must have looked very silly when you could not answer.”

  “But I did answer!” whispered Miss Daubenay, apparently overcome.

  “But how could you, if there wasn’t another man?”

  “I said it was you!” said Miss Daubenay despairingly.

  Chapter 10

  The effect of this confession upon Pen was not quite what Miss Daubenay had expected. She gasped, choked, and went off into a peal of laughter. Affronted, Miss Daubenay said: “I don’t see what there is to laugh at!”

  “No, I dare say you don’t,” said Pen, mopping her eyes. “But it is excessively amusing for all that. What made you say anything so silly?”

  “I couldn’t think of anything else to say. And as for its being silly, you may think me very ill-favoured, but I have already had several suitors!”

  “I think you are very pretty, but I am not going to be a suitor,” said Pen firmly.

  “I don’t want you to be! For one thing, I find you quite odiously rude, and for another you are much too young, which is why I chose you, because I thought I should be quite safe in so doing.”

  “Well you are, but I never heard of anything so foolish in my life! Pray, what was the use of telling your father such fibs?”

  “I told you,” said Lydia crossly. “I scarcely knew what I was saying, and I thought—But everything has gone awry!”

  Pen looked at her with misgiving. “What do you mean?”

  “Papa is going to wait on your cousin this morning.”

  “What!” exclaimed Pen.

  Lydia nodded. “Yes, and he is not angry at all. He is pleased!”

  “Pleased? How can he be pleased at your holding clandestine meetings with a strange man?”

  “To be sure, he did say that that was very wrong of me. But he asked me your name. Of course I don’t know it, but your cousin told me his name was Wyndham, so I said yours was too.”

  “But it isn’t!”

  “Well, how was I to know that?” demanded Lydia, aggrieved. “I had to say something!”

  “You are the most unprincipled girl in the world! Besides, why should he be pleased just because you said my name was Wyndham?”

  “Apparently,” said Lydia gloomily, “the Wyndhams are all fabulously wealthy.”

  “You must tell him without any loss of time I am not a Wyndham, and that I haven’t any money at all!”

  “How can I tell him anything of the kind? I think you are being most unreasonable! Do but consider! If I said now that I had been mistaken in your name he would suppose you to have been trifling with me!”

  “But you cannot expect me to pretend to be in love with you!” Pen said, aghast.

  Lydia sniffed. “Nothing could be more repulsive to me than such a notion. I am already sorry that I mentioned you to Papa. Only I did, and now I don’t know what to do. He would be so angry if he knew that I had made it all up!”

  “Well, I am very sorry, but it seems to me quite your own fault, and I wash my hands of it,” said Pen.

  She glanced at Miss Daubenay’s flower-like countenance, and made a discovery. Miss Daubenay’s soft chin had acquired a look of obstinacy; the fawn-like eyes stared back at her with a mixture of appeal and determination. “You can’t wash your hands of it. I told you that Papa was going to seek an interview with your cousin to-day.”

  “You must stop him.”

  “I can’t. You don’t know Papa!”

  “No, and I don’t want to know him,” Pen pointed out.

  “If I told him it had all been lies, I do not know what he might not do. I won’t do it! I don’t care what you may say: I won’t!”

  “Well, I shall deny every word of your story.”

  “Then,” said Lydia, not without triumph, “Papa will do something dreadful to you, because he will think it is you who are telling lies!”

  “It seems to me that unless he is a great fool he must know you well enough by now to guess that it is you who have told lies!” said Pen, with asperity.

  “It’s no use being disagreeable and rude,” said Lydia. “Papa thinks you followed me to Queen Charlton.”

  “You mean you told him so,” said Pen bitterly.

  “Yes, I did. At least, he asked me, and I said yes before I had had time to think.”

  “Really, you are the most brainless creature! Do you never think?” said Pen, quite exasperated. “Just look what a coil you’ve created! Either your Papa is coming to ask me what my intentions are, or—which I think a great deal more likely—to complain to Richard about my conduct! Oh dear, whatever will Richard say to this fresh disturbance?”

  It was plain that all this meant nothing to Miss Daubenay. For form’s sake, she repeated that she was very sorry, but added: “I hoped you would be able to help me. But you are a boy! You don’t understand what it means to be persecuted as I am!”

  This remark could not but strike a chord of sympathy. “As a matter of fact, I do know,” said Pen. “Only, if helping you means offering for your hand, I won’t do it. The more I think of it, the more ridiculous it seems to me that you should have dragged me into it. How could such an absurd tale possibly be of use?”

  Lydia sighed. “One does not think of those things in the heat of the moment. Besides, I didn’t really mean to drag you in. It—it just happened.”

  “I don’t see how it could have happened if you didn’t mean it.”

  “One thing led to another,” Lydia explained vaguely. “Almost before I knew it, the whole story had—had grown up. Of course I don’t wish you to offer for my hand, but I do think you might pretend you want to, so that Papa shan’t suspect me of telling lies.”

  “No!” said Pen.

  “I think you are very unkind,” whimpered Lydia. “I shall be sent back to Bath, and Great-Aunt Augusta will spy on me, and I shall never see Piers again!”

  “Who?” Pen’s head was jerked round. “Who will you never see again?”

  “Oh, please do not ask me! I did not mean to mention his name!”

  “Are you—” Pen stopped, rather white of face, and started again: “Are you betrothed to Piers Luttrell?”

  “You know him!” Miss Daubenay clasped ecstatic hands.

  “Yes,” said Pen, feeling as though the pit of her stomach had suddenly vanished. “Yes, I know him.”

  “Then you will help me!”

  Miss Creed’s clear blue eyes met Miss Daubenay’s swimming brown ones. Miss Creed drew a long breath. “Is—is Piers indeed in love with you?” she asked incredulously.

  Miss Daubenay bridled. “You need not sound so surprised! We have been plighted for a whole year! Why do you look so oddly?”

  “I beg your pardon,” apologized Pen. “But how he must have changed! It is very awkward!”

  “Why?” asked Lydia, staring.

  “Well, it—it—you wouldn’t understand. Has he been meeting you in woods for a whole year?”

  “No, because Papa sent me to Bath, and Sir Jasper forbade him to see me any more, and even Lady Luttrell said we were too young. But we love each other!”

  “It seems extraordinary,” said Pen, shaking her head. “You know, I find it very hard to believe!”

  “You are the horridest boy! It is perfectly
true, and if you know Piers you may ask him for yourself! I wish I had never clapped eyes on you!”

  “So do I,” replied Pen frankly.

  Miss Daubenay burst into tears. Pen surveyed her with interest, and asked presently in the voice of one probing mysteries: “Do you always cry as much as this? Do you—do you cry at Piers?”

  “I don’t cry at people!” sobbed Miss Daubenay. “And if Piers knew how horrid you have been to me he would very likely knock you down!”

  Pen gave a hiccup of laughter. This incensed Lydia so much that she stopped crying, and dramatically commanded Pen to leave the orchard immediately. However, when she discovered that Pen was only too ready to take her at her word, she ran after her, and clasped her by the arm. “No, no, you cannot go until we have decided what is to be done. You won’t—oh, you can’t be cruel enough to deny my story to Papa!”

  Pen considered this. “Well, provided you won’t expect me to offer for you—”

  “No, no, I promise I won’t!”

  Pen frowned. “Yes, but it’s of no use. There is only one thing for it: you will have to run away.”

  “But—”

  “Now, don’t begin to talk about the scandal, and spoiling your dress!” begged Pen. “For one thing, it is odiously missish, and for another Piers will never be able to bear it.”

  “Piers,” said Miss Daubenay, with swelling bosom, “thinks me Perfect!”

  “I haven’t seen Piers for a long time, but he can’t have grown up as stupid as that!” Pen pointed out.

  “Yes, he—oh, I hate you, I hate you!” cried Lydia, stamping her foot. “Besides, how can I run away?”

  “Oh, Piers will have to arrange it! If Richard doesn’t object, I daresay I may help him,” Pen assured her. “You will have to escape at dead of night, of course, which puts me in mind of a very important thing: you will need a rope-ladder.”

  “I haven’t a rope-ladder,” objected Lydia.

  “Well, Piers must make one for you. If he throws it up to your window, you could attach it securely, could you not, and climb down it?”

  “I would rather escape by the door,” said Lydia, gazing helplessly up at her.

  “Oh, very well, but it seems rather tame! However, it is quite your own affair. Piers will be waiting for you with a post-chaise-and-four. You will leap up into it, and the horses will spring forward, and you will fly for the Border! I can see it all!” declared Pen, her eyes sparkling.

  Lydia seemed to catch a little of her enthusiasm. “To be sure, it does sound romantic,” she admitted. “Only it is a great way to the Border, and everyone would be so cross with us!”

  “Once you were married that wouldn’t signify.”

  “No. No, it wouldn’t, would it? But I don’t think Piers has any money.”

  “Oh!” Pen’s face fell. “That certainly makes it rather awkward. But I daresay we shall contrive something.”

  Lydia said: “Well, if you don’t mind, I would prefer not to go to Gretna, because although it would be romantic I can’t help thinking it would be very uncomfortable. Besides, I couldn’t have any attendants, or a wedding-dress, or a lace veil, or anything.”

  “Don’t chatter!” said Pen. “I am thinking.”

  Lydia was obediently silent.

  “We must soften your father’s heart!” declared Pen at length.

  Lydia looked doubtful. “Yes, I should like that of all things, but how?”

  “Why, by making him grateful to Piers, of course!”

  “But why should he be grateful to Piers? He says Piers is a young cub.”

  “Piers,” said Pen, “must rescue you from deadly peril.”

  “Oh no, please!” faltered Lydia, shrinking. “I should be frightened! And just think how dreadful it would be if he didn’t rescue me!”

  “What a little goose you are!” said Pen scornfully. “There won’t be any real danger!”

  “But if there is no danger, how can Piers—”

  “Piers shall rescue you from me!” said Pen.

  Lydia blinked at her. “I don’t understand. How can Piers—”

  “Do stop saying “How can Piers”!” Pen begged. “We must make your father believe that I am a penniless young man without any prospects at all, and then we will run away together!”

  “But I don’t want to run away with you!”

  “No, stupid, and I don’t want to run away with you! It will just be a Plot. Piers must ride after us, and catch us, and restore you to your Papa. And he will be so pleased that he will let you marry Piers after all! Because Piers has very good prospects, you know.”

  “Yes, but you are forgetting Sir Jasper,” argued Lydia.

  “We can’t possibly be plagued by Sir Jasper,” said Pen impatiently. “Besides he is away. Now, don’t make any more objections! I must go back to the George, and warn Richard. And I will consult with Piers as well, and I daresay we shall have it all arranged in a trice. I will meet you in the spinney this evening, to tell you what you must do.”

  “Oh no, no, no!” shuddered Lydia. “Not the spinney! I shall never set foot there again!”

  “Well, here, then, since you are so squeamish. By the way, did you tell your Papa the whole? I mean, how you saw Captain Trimble kill the stammering-man?”

  “Yes, of course I did, and he says I must tell it to Mr Philips! It is so dreadful for me! To think that my troubles had put it out of my head!”

  “What a tiresome girl you are!” exclaimed Pen. “You should not have said a word about it! Ten to one, we shall get into a tangle now, because Richard has already told Mr Philips his story, and I have told him mine, and now you are bound to say something quite different. Did you mention Richard to your Papa?”

  “No,” confessed Lydia, hanging her head. “I just said that I ran away.”

  “Oh well, in that case perhaps there will be no harm done!” said Pen optimistically. “I am going now. I will meet you here again after dinner.”

  “But what if they watch me, and I cannot slip away?” cried Lydia, trying to detain her.

  Pen had climbed on to the wall, and now prepared to jump down into the road. “You must think of something,” she said sternly, and vanished from Miss Daubenay’s sight.

  When Pen reached the George Sir Richard had not only finished his breakfast, but was on the point of sallying forth in search of his errant charge. She came into the parlour, flushed and rather breathless, and said impetuously: “Oh, Richard, such an adventure! I have such a deal to tell you! All our plans must be changed!”

  “This is very sudden!” said Sir Richard. “May I ask where you have been?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Pen, seating herself at the table, and spreading butter lavishly on a slice of bread. “I have been with that stupid girl. You would not believe that anyone could be so silly, sir!”

  “I expect I should. What has she been doing, and why did you go to see her?”

  “Well, it’s a long story, and most confused!”

  “In that case,” said Sir Richard, “perhaps I shall unravel it more easily if you do not tell it to me with your mouth full.”

  Her eyes lit with laughter. She swallowed the bread-and-butter, and said: “Oh, I’m sorry! I am so hungry, you see.”

  “Have an apple,” he suggested.

  She twinkled responsively, “No, thank you, I will have some of that ham. Dear sir, what in the world do you suppose that wretched girl did?”

  “I have no idea,” said Sir Richard, carving several slices of the ham.

  “Why, she told her Papa that she had gone into the spinney last night to meet me!”

  Sir Richard laid down the knife and fork. “Good God, why?”

  “Oh, for such an idiotic reason that it is not worth recounting! But the thing is, sir, that her Papa is coming to see you about it this morning. She hoped, you see, that if she said she had been in the habit of meeting me clandestinely in Bath—”

  “In Bath?” interrupted Sir Richard in a faint voice
.

  “Yes, she said we had been meeting for ever in Bath, on account of her Great-Aunt Augusta, and not wishing to be sent there again. I quite understand that, but—”

  “Then your understanding is very much better than mine,” said Sir Richard. “So far I have not been privileged to understand one word of this story. What has her Great-Aunt Augusta to do with it?”

  “Oh, they sent Lydia to stay with her, you see, and she did not like it! She said it was all backgammon and spying. I could not but feel for her over that, for I know exactly what she means.”

  “I am glad,” said Sir Richard, with emphasis.

  “The thing is, that she thought if she told her Papa that she had met me clandestinely in Bath, he would not send her there again.”

  “This sounds to me remarkably like mania in an acute form.”

  “Yes, so it did to me. But there is worse to come. She says that instead of being angry, her Papa is inclined to be pleased!”

  “The madness seems to be inherited.”

  “That is what I thought, but it appears that Lydia told her Papa that my name was Wyndham, and now he thinks that perhaps she is on the brink of making a Good Match!”

  “Good God!”

  “I knew you would be surprised. And there is another circumstance too, which turns everything topsy-turvy.” She glanced up fleetingly from her plate, and said with a little difficulty: “I discovered something which—which quite took me aback. She told me whom she went to meet in the wood last night.”

  “I see,” said Sir Richard.

  She flushed. “Did you—did you know, sir?”

  “I guessed, Pen.”

  She nodded. “It was stupid of me not to suspect. To tell you the truth, I thought—However, it doesn’t signify. I expect you did not like to tell me.”

  “Do you mind very much?” he asked abruptly.

  “Well, I—it—You see, I had it fixed in my mind that Piers—and I—So I daresay it will take me just a little while to grow accustomed to it, besides having all my plans overset. But never mind that! We have now to consider what is to be done to help Piers and Lydia.”

  “We?” interpolated Sir Richard.

  “Yes, because I quite depend on you to persuade Lydia’s Papa that I am not an eligible suitor. That is most important!”