“Why do you blush?” asked her sister, deliberately tactless. “Did he make love to you, Bell?”
“Amanda!” exclaimed the outraged Isabella.
“Well, did he?” persisted the shameless girl.
The blush deepened. All at once, Isabella dropped her affectation of shocked modesty, and answered her sister in the old way of their days together in the country.
“It is of all things the most surprising,” she said, slowly, “but he did, Mandy. He — he said that perhaps if I could — could learn to care for him, he might renounce those — those wild ways that have given his relatives so much anxiety.”
“Lud!”
Amanda emitted a low whistle of surprise. Isabella felt moved to protest at this hoydenish conduct.
“Never mind that now,” said Amanda. “What reply did you make?”
“I — oh, I said I would try, but then —” She broke off, confused.
“Yes? Then —?”
“Then he — he kissed me,” replied Isabella, looking distressed. “Mandy, it was dreadful! I did not know how to bear it! I am afraid he must have seen how it was, for he apologised for having mentioned the subject at all, and afterwards he was his usual cool, collected self.”
Amanda stared straight in front of her in complete silence for a few moments. At last she roused herself, and exclaimed vehemently: “Bella, you — you idiot!”
“Whatever can you mean? I —”
“Do you not see,” asked her sister, scornfully, “what a chance you missed? You could have told him then that love between you was impossible, and put an end to the engagement; or, if you were still determined to go on with it, you could have made an effort to — to build upon the fascination which you say he has for you, to try and turn it into — something deeper, more permanent. You tried to steer a middle course, Bella, and ‘pon my soul, I feel you were scarcely fair to the man! He was honest with you, at all events!”
“I didn’t try to do anything, Mandy, I tell you — I was taken by surprise — I didn’t realise how deeply I should detest his embrace!”
“Then how do you think to marry him?” asked her sister, bluntly.
“I was taken unawares — there is time enough, and I shall become used to the notion —”
“I wonder?” said Amanda, thoughtfully. Then with a change of tone: “Bella, did you find his kiss so very dreadful an experience?”
Isabella shuddered. “It is impossible to make you realise!”
Amanda sat down upon the bed, and drew her knees up until they touched her chin, a favourite attitude of hers when deep in thought.
“That is odd,” she said slowly. “Do you know, Bella, in spite of the fact that I think Mr. Barsett the most detestable creature alive, and I’m determined to prevent your marrying him, still — I —” She broke off, and brooded, clasping her knees firmly in her arms.
“Yes — what?” asked Isabella, impatiently.
“I should imagine that to — to be — embraced by him — could not be so very disagreeable an experience — it might even have — a certain attraction,” finished Amanda, jerkily.
“You can say that, Mandy? You?” asked her sister, incredulously.
Suddenly Amanda laughed.
“To be sure,” she said, airily. “But then, you are always telling me that I have by far too much imagination!”
Chapter XII: The Ball
The days slipped past, and no more was said of Charles Barsett between the sisters. Once or twice he came to the house, though not nearly so often as Roger Thurlston. It seemed that Isabella had put her doubts and fears resolutely behind her, and was now completely reconciled to the match. However this might have been, she appeared in excellent spirits, entering into the business of choosing bride-clothes with suitable enthusiasm. Amanda had her own reasons for avoiding the subject: at any time now, she was expecting Mr. Thurlston to tell her that their plans were ready to be put into execution. Moreover, for some reason that she could not quite define, she found herself reluctant to speak of Charles Barsett to anyone. She could not altogether avoid meeting him, but whenever she did nothing but the barest civilities passed between them.
A few days before Amanda’s ball, John Webster returned to Town. He paid a formal call upon the Twyfords which passed off without undue awkwardness. Isabella was politely distant, Lady Twyford watchful, and my lord and Amanda warm and welcoming. Lord Twyford asked John to dine with them; it was perhaps fortunate that Isabella had an engagement which took her from home that evening.
During the course of the evening, Amanda managed a few words in private with John.
“Mama said you would be sure to return for my ball,” she began, “but I had almost given up hope of it.”
“You may be certain I should not miss that occasion!” he replied gallantly: then added, with irrepressible honesty — “But in any case, I could not bring myself to stay longer away!”
She lowered her voice. “I am glad of it, because before long I hope to embark on an enterprise that will need your help to ensure its success. You are arrived just in the nick of time!”
“What enterprise?” he asked, suspiciously. “If it is anything akin to those others — egad, I almost blush now to recall them!”
She shook her head. “No, this one will be more certain, for it is not being planned by myself alone. I have aid, this time —”
“What are you talking of, Amanda?” asked Lady Twyford, across the tea-cups. “I am sure it must be vastly disagreeable, for John looks so very serious!”
“We were speaking of my ball, Mama,” replied Amanda, hastily and not altogether untruthfully. “John is to lead me out for the first dance.”
“Very suitable,” approved my lord. “I was thinking that the duty might fall on me, and I fear my dancing days are over. But this is better; who will look to dance with her father, when she may command a fine young fellow to partner her? Eh, miss?”
He pinched Amanda’s cheek, and she dimpled at him roguishly. Lady Twyford produced something between a smile and a frown; she rated John’s claims very low as a suitor for either of her daughters.
Talk nowadays tended to revolve around the forthcoming ball. Dress was discussed with a frequency that drove Lord Twyford to seek shelter in the clubs; and the ordering of food, flowers and other adornments kept my lady in constant consultation with the housekeeper. Amanda found half her thoughts upon her plot, and, in spite of herself, half upon this other occasion which was to launch her into the Polite World. Child though she was in many ways, she was yet completely feminine, and the prospect of her very own ball aroused in her all the pleasurable anticipation which was to be expected from a young lady of her age.
The day at last arrived, and with it countless gifts for Amanda. Shortly after breakfast, the morning-room was already strewn with torn wrappings and costly objects, some of which were totally unsuited to their recipient.
“Only fancy, Mama,” she said, with a pout, “my aunt Matchett sending me this china figure! It is very pretty, of course,” she added, doubtfully, handing it to her mother.
Lady Twyford took the trinket, and turned it over in her hand, revealing the inscription ‘Josiah Wedgwood’ on its base.
“It is well enough,” pronounced her Mama, “though not of any great value, and certainly not the kind of thing to appeal to you, as Matty must surely have realised! However, a time may come when you will care for such trifles. Gracious, here are more flowers! I declare, I need not have been at the expense of ordering any for the ballroom, so many have you had!”
This remark was occasioned by a footman entering, bearing a huge wreath of pure cream roses, small tight-lipped buds with heads set close together. Amanda gasped with pleasure, and flew across the room to receive them.
“Are they not beyond anything perfect, Mama? Who can have sent them, do you suppose?”
She was fumbling for the card as she spoke. It was found at last, small and unobtrusive, and inscribed ‘To my little s
ister-to-be, in affectionate congratulation’.
“Oh!” she said, and blushed.
“Who is it, Mandy?” asked Isabella, curiously, and gently took the card from her sister’s relaxed fingers.
“Why, Mama, it’s from Mr. Barsett! And he has put the drollest message —”
“Very handsome, I’m sure,” nodded Lady Twyford, “and in perfect taste. Anything else would have been — but there, one would not expect Charles Barsett to err in such a matter. What exactly is the shape supposed to represent, child? It looks like some kind of hook — the upper part of a shepherd’s crook, mayhap?”
But Amanda knew better, and the flush of pleasure left her face. Her eyes flashed. “It is a mark of interrogation, Mama,” she answered quietly enough.
Both my lady and Isabella stared at her.
“You mean to say the kind of thing one writes to mark a question?” asked her mother, amazed. “Well, to be sure, that is a very odd shape to choose! A star, now, or a crescent — a heart shape would not, of course, be suitable in this case —”
“It is — it is a kind of — jest which he has with me,” stuttered Amanda, feeling foolish.
Lady Twyford glanced sharply at her face, and decided for once to be merciful. It was not often that she was privileged to see her younger daughter in a state of embarrassment. Somehow the sight brought out all her latent maternal instincts.
“Oh, well, jest or no, it is a very pretty gift,” she said, dismissing the subject.
Amanda agreed, with compressed lips, and passed on to her other gifts.
The rest of the day passed in a flutter of excitement and preparation. Only ten minutes before the first carriage drew up outside the house did Amanda’s abigail pronounce her mistress to be ready.
“I should think so, too, Mary, for I’ve looked so often in the mirror that I quite detest myself!” said Amanda emphatically. “Still, I believe I shall contrive to do you credit, if only I may manage to avoid entangling myself with these hoops! Thank goodness I am not obliged to wear them every day. Thank you for your pains — you have been a deal more patient than I should have in your place.”
The girl coloured with pleasure, and looked admiringly at her young mistress as she passed out of the door of her chamber, and began to descend the staircase. Lord and Lady Twyford were already waiting in the flower-banked hall: they turned as they heard Amanda’s step on the stair. There was a sharp intake of breath as their eyes lighted upon her.
Her gown was of white silk, falling softly over the formal hoops, and cut away at the front to reveal an underdress of white, embroidered with large pink roses. The corsage was low, and her white neck, encircled by the simple necklet of pearls which had been her father’s birthday gift to her, rose from it with proud grace. The honey-gold curls were brushed and tended until they sparkled like a new-minted guinea; and Isabella thought that she had never before seen her sister’s eyes look so blue.
“My little girl,” murmured his lordship, with feeling, and hastily blew his nose.
Amanda finished the rest of the stairs at a run.
“Will I do?” she asked naïvely.
“Do?” answered my lady, laughing. “La, child, you will set the Town by the ears tonight, I’m thinking! But none of your hoydenish pranks, mind. In such a gown you must be all demureness.”
For once this was Amanda’s intention. With her inborn sense of drama, she had put on the role with the clothes, and would continue to play to perfection the belle of the ball just so long as it pleased her. She succeeded so well in sustaining her part during her first dance with John Webster that poor John was quite overawed, and found himself bowing over her hand as though she had been a captivating stranger.
Roger Thurlston noticed it, and drew Isabella’s attention to the circumstance. Charles Barsett, like a good many others, had not yet arrived; and, as Isabella could scarcely stand up for the first dance with anyone other than her betrothed, the two were sitting together, watching the dancers.
“Your young friend from the country appears to be quite taken with your sister,” he remarked, smiling.
Isabella’s eyes, which had been fixed on the pair since their first moment on the floor, narrowed slightly.
“Would you say so?” she asked lightly. “They have known each other since childhood, do not forget.”
“That is just what I find so remarkable,” he answered, leaning towards her in a confidential manner. “One would expect childhood playmates to have a free and easy manner together, but only see how he glances at her — and she at him.”
Isabella watched more closely. The dance was ending: low over Amanda’s hand bowed John, and just brushed it with his lips. Amanda glanced at him in reply from under her long lashes — a coy, teasing glance that seemed to hold a depth of promise.
A cold hand touched Isabella’s heart. Could it be possible that John would look at another — so soon? And Mandy, of all people... But no, it was the effect of the June night, the music, Amanda looking so adorable. Everyone said that Amanda was very like her sister, only more roguish. She forced a little laugh.
“Mandy is playing a game,” she said huskily. “She is such a child at heart.” He looked at her. Did she imagine it, or was his glance a pitying one?
“That is just what I should have supposed,” he answered gravely, “had I not known that —” He paused, and removing an elegant snuff box from his pocket, flicked open the lid.
“Yes?” Isabella, although she did not realise it, at that moment sounded very like her sister. There was the same impatient touch. “You were saying, Mr. Thurlston —?”
Once more the compassionate look, this time more easily recognisable.
“It is of no moment,” he said, and took snuff deliberately.
Isabella mastered an almost over-powering impulse to stamp her foot. “But you cannot leave your sentence thus unfinished, sir!” She affected a light tone. “I am all suspense.”
He shut the box with a snap, and returned it to his pocket in a leisurely manner. “Dear lady, I would not willingly cause you one unquiet moment,” he said solicitously. “Allow me to wield your fan for you: your cheeks are hot.”
Isabella repressed a sudden desire to slap his face. Really, she had never until this moment understood how like Amanda she still could be.
“Mr. Thurlston, my sister is in many ways younger than her years,” she said persuasively. “If you know anything of her with which you feel her family should be acquainted, you may safely tell me.”
“But that would be tale-bearing!” he protested.
Isabella felt her temper rising, but made a last valiant effort to restrain it. “You need not fear to carry tales of Mandy to me. If it were Mama — or Papa — now, but Mandy and I have few secrets from each other. Never fear, I shall not betray her, whatever it may be.”
“I daresay you are right.” He hesitated a moment more, then went on quickly “Perhaps, after all, you ought to know of it, for there is no saying where it may eventually lead.”
He paused again. Isabella caught her bottom lip between her teeth, to prevent herself from crying out in impatience. He went on slowly, deliberately, as if intent on prolonging her suspense.
“You may perchance recall an occasion not long since when I called upon you one morning at your house, and happened to mention my habit of riding early in the park?”
A second’s thought, and Isabella nodded, still biting her lip.
“I have seen them there on several occasions — oh, they have not observed me, for I took good care to keep out of sight when I realised who it was. Your sister was unattended by any servant: they were quite alone.”
A lump came to Isabella’s throat, but she seemed unable to rid herself of it; her long white fingers twined together restlessly in her lap.
“Ah, my esteemed cousin! And filling my place nobly, I see. I can always depend upon you.”
The lazy drawl floated across Isabella’s agonised thoughts. Roger Thurlston ro
se somewhat hastily, and offered his chair to Charles Barsett, who stood before them resplendent in black and silver, a diamond glistening on his finger, and another in the fall of lace at his throat.
“Thank you, cousin. It is perhaps only fitting that I should take my rightful place.”
The gentle words brought a faint tinge of colour to Mr. Thurlston’s cheek, but he managed a wintry smile. Isabella sat on, like one dazed.
“A thousand pardons, my love, for my lamentably tardy appearance,” Charles said, bowing over her hand. “I declare I am a positive slave to that valet of mine; damme if the fellow doesn’t feel himself insulted if he is expected to dress me in anything under four hours! If you could but see —” He broke off, and eyed Isabella sharply.
“You will pardon me, I am sure,” said Roger Thurlston hastily. “I see that Miss Dunster is without a partner.”
“Good God, that pudding-faced female!” ejaculated Charles, but his eyes were still on Isabella. “By all means, my boy, lead her out; she will have none of me — fortunately, she has never been able to forgive me for my engagement.”
Roger departed unnoticed. Charles sat down at his betrothed’s side. “There is blood upon your lip, child,” he said gently. “Here, take my handkerchief. What has that —fiend — been saying to you?”
“Thank you,” said Isabella, taking the handkerchief, and dabbing at her mouth. “I — I cannot think how that can have happened. I — I must have — caught it with my fan.”
He picked up the trinket, examined it briefly, then raised his eyes to her face. “You must permit me to buy you another one,” he said smoothly. “But what did my esteemed cousin say to you?”
“He — we — just talked of — of Amanda,” was the halting reply.
His eyes searched her face. There was more here, he knew, but evidently she was not to confide in him.
“I have not greeted your sister as yet,” he said. “She was dancing when I entered the room. I observed that she looks very beautiful tonight — I have never seen her appear to better advantage.”
The Georgian Rake Page 14