Andrew didn't know how to respond to this scolding from so unexpected a source. Since a great deal of what she said was true, he could hardly take offense. "I allow," he muttered, "that I've been in a bad skin."
Marigold didn't see why she should be the only one to feel guilty. Besides, it was time Andrew was served up some home truths. "You have been as surly as a bear," she informed him. "A crosspatch who has everyone tiptoeing about as if they trod on eggs. And all because some bad things happened to you in the past. Bad things happen to everyone, Andrew. It is as though your wagon is stuck in the mud, and you are sitting in it feeling sorry for yourself, instead of making an effort to get out of the mud and discover what lies further down the road." Herself, Marigold had always wished to discover what lay further down the road. Providing that those things didn't involve being clapped in gaol, or hanged.
Andrew, like everyone else, considered Marigold a goose-cap. Now it appeared that even goose-caps might possess a grain of common sense. What she had said about his experiences in the Peninsula rang painfully true.
Perhaps Marigold might shed some light for him on another matter. "Maybe you would explain something to me," Andrew said. "If you were a female—I mean, of course you are a female, but if you was very young—"
Andrew must still have a fever. Marigold rose from her chair to ungently slap a cool cloth on the invalid's brow and force lemon water down his throat. "I have not yet," she said in freezing tones, "grown long in the tooth."
"Beg pardon!" When he had done choking, Andrew pushed aside the cloth that Marigold had dropped over his eyes. "That ain't what I meant. If mean, if you was really young, say about sixteen."
Once she got past the suggestion that she was an old ewe dressed lamb-fashion in a confection of sea-green, Marigold was intrigued. She nudged Andrew's feet aside and perched on the edge of the couch. "I remember what it was like to be sixteen. I was already married. Proceed!"
She had been already married? Maybe sixteen wasn't so young as Andrew had thought. "What I wanted to know was, do you think you would be wishful of running off with someone who wrote sonnets to your nose?"
Marigold wondered whom they were discussing. She didn't think it was herself. Since Andrew was not well, Marigold didn't tell him that she had eloped, not that poor Leo had written sonnets to her nose. Leo had written her no sonnets at all, but he had done other things wondrously well.
At the thought of those other things, Marigold felt sad. Never again would someone make her feel like her poor Leo had. "I don't think I should wish to run off to Gretna Green," Marigold said kindly. "It sounds vastly uncomfortable, does it not?" She might have continued, had not a sound come from the open doorway. Marigold turned. Tibble stood there, and a very tall, very freckled young lady dressed in muslin striped with lilac, a white bonnet tied under the chin with a ribbon bow.
"I am so sorry to interrupt!" said the young lady, as Tibble cleared his throat. "We had heard that Lieutenant Halliday was ill, and wished to pay our respects."
In that same moment, Tibble found his voice. "Miss Inchquist and Mr. Sutton come to call," he announced.
Oh, heavens! Carlisle Sutton here? As the gentleman appeared in the doorway, Marigold dived behind the couch. It was hardly an adequate hiding place. Her sea-green skirts clearly showed between the bottom of the sofa and the rug. Marigold crawled under the sofa, grabbed the hem of Andrew's blanket, and tugged it down closer to the floor.
Sarah-Louise deduced from the lady's strange behavior that their arrival had interrupted a lovers' tryst. Her cheeks flamed. "Pray forgive our intrusion. We have come at a bad time."
Miss Inchquist looked deuced uncomfortable. And Mr. Sutton about as pleasant as the pains of death. "Not at all!" Andrew said weakly. "As you say, I have been ill. But I'm feeling better now." Beneath him, he felt a thump on the couch. "That is, I am not yet plump currant. In point of fact, I'm feeling downright sickly! You won't wish to come closer for fear you might catch what I've got."
Carlisle Sutton was angrier in that moment than he could ever remember having been before. He was also well aware of who crouched behind the striped couch. No wonder Lady Georgiana had been so curious about the progress of his search for his uncle's widow. She and her brother had been hiding the fugitive all along. "You think you are feeling sickly now," he said in menacing tones, as he advanced into the room.
That threatening voice was familiar. Lump raised his head and surveyed Carlisle. He recognized the gentleman with whom he had enjoyed a splendid adventure in the Promenade Grove. The same gentleman who, after that adventure, had locked him away in a tack room. An easy-going, amiable creature in most instances, Lump drew the line at being locked away. The appearance of this gentleman in this place made Lump think he was going to be locked away again.
He wouldn't have it. Especially not in his own house. Since no one else made any effort to defend him, Lump leapt to his feet and bared his teeth. "Lump!" said Andrew, without conviction, because he felt his headache coming back.
Growling, stiff-legged, Lump advanced toward the door. "Pardon, sir," observed Tibble, "but he don't seem to like you much. And I can't say as he don't bite, because though he hasn't yet it's sure as check that he may do so at any time."
Carlisle recognized the dog also, and with no more fondness than Lump regarded him. The perfidious Lady Georgiana gave shelter also to this wretched hound? Mr. Sutton must have a word with her ladyship as soon as he settled his account with her houseguest.
Still, the dog advanced, his wicked teeth a-gleam. Still, Carlisle Sutton stood his ground. Matters were at an impasse.
What was it about gentlemen, that they must strut and snarl? Not that Lump was a gentleman, far from it, but still he was male. "You, sir, sit!" Sarah-Louise said to Lump. Startled by her tone, the dog paused in mid-stride. She grabbed at his collar. "And you, Mr. Sutton, leave while you may!" Tibble hurried to open the front door.
Reluctantly, Carlisle obeyed. Sarah-Louise sighed in relief. But no sooner did Mr. Sutton pass out of his sight than Lump barked, jerked away from Miss Inchquist, and set off in pursuit. "Stop!" cried Sarah-Louise, and ran after the dog.
Cautiously, Marigold emerged from her hiding place and shook out her rumpled skirts. Andrew sank back on the couch and pulled the damp cloth down over his eyes.
Chapter Twenty-six
Quentin Inchquist deposited himself gingerly upon one of his sister's carved-Sphinx chairs, an article that had not been designed for a gentleman of his girth. Unlike Lady Denham, Quentin had no fondness for the current Egyptian craze, and did not see why Napoleon's ill-advised attempt to weaken England's hold in India by taking Egypt should be commemorated in the furniture on which he sat. Himself, Quentin wished that the Corsican Upstart would march into Russia, and get lost.
It was not a matter of international politics that had brought Quentin to Brighton, however, but guilt attendant upon having willy-nilly shipped his daughter off to visit her aunt. Quentin was genuinely fond of his daughter, great rabbity freckle-faced damsel that she was; and for her he wanted only the best. However, he also had a fair notion of what that best might be. Sarah-Louise was no beauty, and her papa wasn't such a flat as to let her be married off to someone who valued only her pocketbook. "Conquest?" he repeated, because his sister had just informed him that Sarah-Louise had a most eligible gentleman dangling at her apron-strings. "Bring your head down out of the clouds, Amice. A good biddable girl Sarah-Louise may be, but not one to inspire Cupid to let loose his darts."
"That shows all you know!" Lady Denham smoothed the sleeve of her pale yellow spotted morning dress. "I have no doubt that Mr. Sutton may be brought up to scratch. Sarah-Louise is with him even now. They have gone to look in on a friend who is ill. A military gentleman."
Quentin didn't know that he liked the notion of his daughter associating with a military gentleman. Some military gentlemen were better than others, however. "He ain't with Prinny's Regiment, is he? Because if he is—"
Quentin didn't know that his daughter needed steadying. She already had no more backbone than a spinach leaf. "Has Sarah-Louise developed a partiality?" he asked.
Lady Denham tittered at this absurd suggestion. "A partiality! What has that to do with anything? It is not as though people of our class marry for love. Carlisle is old enough to know his own mind."
His sister liked this Carlisle fellow very well. Quentin thought she might wish to marry him herself. "How old?" he asked.
"In his early forties, I should think." Lady Denham frowned. "Why do you ask?"
Quentin did not answer. Privately, he thought he did not wish to send his daughter off to India with a nabob of almost his own age. His sister was an entirely different matter. But he would give the fellow the benefit of the doubt. "Who's the military gent?"
"Lieutenant Andrew Halliday. Of the 88th, I think it was. He was wounded in the Peninsula, and invalided out of his regiment. The family's antecedents are well enough, but I doubt there's money there." Memory of her rout tugged at her brain, and Lady Denham frowned. 'There is some scandal attached. Lieutenant Halliday is not a pretender to your daughter's hand, however, but merely a friend. Sarah-Louise has made many new friends. Beside Lieutenant Halliday, there is Peregrine Teasdale—"
"Teasdale!" Quentin bounced so forcibly in his chair that it creaked in protest. "A posturing popinjay who goes about spouting the most nonsensical drivel? A fashionable fribble? A twiddlepoop?"
Lady Denham had to agree that her brother's description wasn't far off the mark. Still, she protested, "I thought the young man unexceptionable enough."
With some difficulty, Quentin pried himself out of his long-suffering chair. "That just goes to show," he said acerbically, "that females shouldn't try and think! Where did you say Sarah-Louise is now? Because I have a great deal to say to that young miss!"
It was perhaps fortunate for Mr. Inchquist's blood pressure, already elevated by mention of the twiddlepoopish Mr. Teasdale, that his sister could not reveal his daughter's precise present whereabouts. In point of fact, Sarah-Louise did not know her precise whereabouts either, other than that she was somewhere in Brighton, for in her efforts to contain Lump she had become quite lost. At least she had caught up with the hound—or he had allowed her to catch him—and so she was not entirely by herself. In an attempt to prevent him running off again, Sarah-Louise had fashioned the ribbon from her bonnet into a makeshift leash. Should Lump try and escape, the ribbon would hardly restrain him, but she hoped it might put some notion of compliance into his head.
The streets were crowded, for this was Race Week, and all the city was en fête. The Pavilion was crowded with Prinny's guests, and well-dressed crowds sauntered through the streets. The races attracted all Brighton, visitors and residents alike, as well as a great crowd of people who came especially for the yearly event.
Lump had not led Sarah-Louise to the race course itself, a horseshoe-shaped affair about two miles in length, situated to the east of town, within sight of the sea. Instead, though Lump had not planned it, they had come to steep North Street, which was lined with coaching offices, and abustle with traffic.
Sarah-Louise had never before been in such a place. She gazed with astonishment at the flurry of vehicles all around her, from high-perch phaetons and Royal Mail coaches to a strawberry vendor's cart. The clatter of iron-shod hooves and wheels filled the air, along with varied cries and shouts.
None of the busy pedestrians paid the least attention to a lone, bewildered-looking young female. Sarah-Louise took hold of Lump's collar, just in case. She did not fear the dog would run away from her so much as she feared someone would steal her from him. Sheltered though she may have been, Sarah-Louise had heard tales—mainly from her papa—of what dire fates awaited young misses who did what they should not.
Definitely, Sarah-Louise should not be wandering around Brighton unattended. Although it was hardly her fault that she could not find Mr. Sutton. However, it was her fault that they had gone to visit the Hallidays, for she had persuaded Mr. Sutton to escort her there. For one thing, Sarah-Louise had hoped that by so doing she might encourage Mr. Sutton to further his acquaintance with Lady Georgiana. For another, she had hoped to assure herself that Lieutenant Halliday was not fatally ill. As apparently he was not, because Sarah-Louise had overheard him asking a lady to elope. A most lovely lady, the sort of lady Sarah-Louise could never hope to be herself. No doubt the lady would have accepted, had their sudden interruption not caused her to dive behind the couch. A queer thing, that, or perhaps not, if one was the sort of lady prone to romantical high-flights.
Sarah-Louise hoped that Lieutenant Halliday would not elope. Not that it was any of her affair, but Sarah-Louise didn't think the lovely couch-diving lady would suit him very well. As for who would suit Lieutenant Halliday—Sarah-Louise bit her lip. Being in love was not at all what she had expected. She didn't feel at all like dancing on air, or bursting into song, and birds didn't trill sweetly when Mr. Teasdale came into view. Perhaps this was because she had to contrive so mightily to see him. Sarah-Louise was not designed for intrigue and subterfuge. And then she glimpsed a certain curricle weaving its way through the crowd. Once seen, the curricle, drawn by two gleaming black horses, was not soon forgot, for it boasted a violet base and a vermillion chassis, and blue iron-work. Sarah-Louise waved her bonnet and called out, "Peregrine!"
From his perch atop his curricle, Mr. Teasdale— returning from the race via a circuitous route that he hoped would forestall any encounter with his creditors—saw Miss Inchquist. It would have been difficult not to see Miss Inchquist, so tall was she, and striped with lilac, and waving a bedraggled bonnet. Where had she got that monstrous dog? Peregrine slapped the reins on his horses' rumps, and steered his curricle through the crowd. "Sarah-Louise! Miss Inchquist!" he cried.
He had seen them. Sarah-Louise sagged in relief. "Thank goodness. I had almost given up on Lump finding his way back home."
Peregrine was relieved also. He had sensed that Miss Inchquist's affection for himself was cooling of late, which simply would not do, because her papa was so well to grass.
Perhaps Sarah-Louise had forgotten that he had scolded her. Perhaps she had realized that someone so tall and dowdy-looking could not but expect an occasional scolding, if not worse. Perhaps she had snuck away in hopes of meeting him today—
"Miss Inchquist!" Peregrine said again, and leapt gracefully down from his curricle. Lump, who had grown bored with just standing about, inched forward to familiarize himself with the vehicle's great wheels.
Fortunately, Mr. Teasdale did not notice the manner in which this acquaintance was accomplished, involving as it did the canine marking of territory by lifting a back leg. "Miss Inchquist, I find you in high bloom. 'Where e're you tread, the blushing flow'rs shall rise/ And all things flourish where you turn your eye. '"
Miss Inchquist didn't think Mr. Alexander Pope had such a female as herself in mind when he wrote those lines. Furthermore, she very much feared that she—or Peregrine—was making a spectacle, while Lump was venturing entirely too close to the horses, inspiring them to snort and dance nervously about. "Never mind the flowers!" Sarah-Louise said, somewhat ungraciously. "Do you think you might take me—us!—home?"
Peregrine was chagrined to realize that he had excited no admiration in the object of his, if not affections, then intentions. Doubtless this lack of appreciation was the result of his bland attire. Due to the unhappy circumstance that his creditors had begun to exhibit a distressing insistence upon being paid, and the further circumstance that he wished consequently to avoid drawing their attention to himself, Peregrine had dressed today in raiment considerably more subdued than customary for him: a brass-buttoned blue c
oat and buckskin pantaloons worn with Hessian boots, enlivened only by a vivid purple-and-green-plaid waistcoat. It was not a mistake that he would again soon make. Not that he cared a groat for Sarah-Louise's opinion. Had she any sense of fashion, she would not bedeck herself in stripes.
Why was Mr. Teasdale staring at her in that strange manner? Whatever had possessed him to don that atrocious waistcoat? "Are you going to take us up in your carriage?" Sarah-Louise inquired, impatiently. "Or leave us standing in the middle of the street?"
Peregrine could not care for her tone of voice, nor for the suggestion that he take a canine up in his splendid curricle. He raised his quizzing glass. Magnified, the hound was that much more appalling. Damned if his teeth weren't big.
"No," said Peregrine, and let the glass drop. "No hounds. Not even for you will I have that—that creature!—in my rig."
Critically, Sarah-Louise eyed her admirer, who was proving himself appallingly poor-spirited. Perhaps she didn't wish to dwell in a garret with him after all. "Then I shan't get in your carriage, either," she said coolly. "In which case you are impeding us in our progress—not to mention holding up traffic—and I wish you would go away."
The lady did not exaggerate. A number of carriages were lined up behind Peregrine's halted curricle. Those drivers who did manage to make their way around him were inclined to curse.
Go away? Peregrine was horrified, not only by this sign of independent spirit in his intended wife, but also by the vision of her papa's plump pockets slipping out of his grasp. "Didn't mean it!" he said quickly. "'Where e'er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade./ Trees, where you sit, shall crowd into a shade. '"
Cupid's Dart Page 16