She found Emily waiting inside, looking as if she rather regretted her refusal, but still in good spirits. “No one called while you were gone, but I had a nice rest and made a collar for my old blue morning gown. Did you have a good drive?”
“Why, yes.” Jenny smiled. “I had a lovely drive. We spent most of the time discussing Mr. Teverley’s business.”
Emily’s nose wrinkled in distress. “I cannot imagine anything worse! I certainly can’t imagine Mirabelle Temple speaking of such things.”
“Oh, no,” Jenny assured her. “She and Dom found a great deal to talk about all alone, and it was Teverley and I who spoke of business.”
Emily’s look was bewildered now, but Jenny was too preoccupied with her own thoughts to notice. “I had better dress now, hadn’t I?” she asked absently. “I’ll be back to talk with you in a bit, my dear.” And she made her escape to her own room. Jenny tried very hard to recall the rules she had made for herself, and the obvious facts concerning her situation, primary among them the fact that there was no point in setting any importance on the attentions of Peter Teverley. It had been, for her, a delightful afternoon, but Jenny knew that it would not be wise to rely on the pleasure of Mr. Teverley’s abrasive but enormously attractive presence. She began to dress for dinner, resolving to give it no more thought.
Chapter Nine
Sunday morning could not come soon enough for Ratherscombe, in rooms now unheated for lack of the ready to soften the coalman’s heart. Emily, on the other hand, lay snug in her room at her parents’ house, her head full of rose-colored fancies. When the light began to show through the curtains, she was instantly awake despite the late hours she had kept at a Devonshire House rout the night before—and making a sadly awkward process of dressing herself. It took her fully five minutes to choose her dress, tempted as she was to pick a favorite gown that, she was morally certain, would prove impossible to don unassisted. Finally she settled for less style and more practicality, and dressed herself in a gray muslin walking dress with a satin pelisse of vivid cherry red—not perhaps, the most subdued thing to wear to a secret assignation. In no more than five and thirty minutes she had completed her toilette and managed to creep from the room and out of the house.
Emily was surprised at how different the streets looked without the usual crowds of her friends and neighbors upon them. Not that they were empty, for the early morning belonged to the tradespeople, and there were men and girls singing down mews, offering new milk, flowers, fresh meats, and country delicacies.
Among the bustle of working folk Emily felt very strange indeed, and hastened toward the park. She had thought of going to meet her admirer on horseback, knowing very well that she appeared to great advantage in riding habit. But after some consideration she had decided that, on the off chance that Mr. Teverley—of course it was he—wished to sweep her into his arms, she ought to keep herself unencumbered by reins and bridles and other equestrian paraphernalia. The thought of Teverley—and of Teverley’s embraces—made her blush becomingly, to the delight of several flower boys standing near her.
She had no notion as to the time, only that it was earlier than she had been abroad in years—possibly in her whole life. She was certain that she must be on time, perhaps a little early, even, and hoped that this fact would weigh favorably with her secret admirer. As she neared the place appointed by Mr. Reagham, she scanned anxiously for Teverley—or anyone else, for that matter, since the park was singularly uninhabited at this hour. It had not occurred to her that she might be very early, and the realization that this might indeed be the case put the first crimp in her spirits. “I might have worn the blue gauze after all, and had time,” she muttered angrily to herself, unsure with whom she was most angry—herself for being early or Teverley for not being there. For the space of several minutes she simply stood where she was, waiting. Then, as her impatience grew, she began to pace. After she had walked the path back and forth some ten times, she grew tired of the exercise and, sighting a bench nearby, settled herself there for the remainder of her wait.
Emily had meant to remain as alert as she could, but with only three hours sleep, and sleep interrupted by excited wakings at that, fatigue was as inevitable as it was inexorable. Drowsiness began to overwhelm her. She struggled manfully to keep her eyes open for a full fifteen minutes and, when she did succumb to exhaustion, slumped back against the bench and curled one hand beneath her cheek. It was thus, almost an hour later, that Domenic Teverley discovered her.
Dom had been out, exercising his mount on one of the bridle paths. At first, not unreasonably, he refused to believe that the girl on the bench was Emily Pellering, and headed Hellbrand along toward the path again. But a few minutes later he turned the horse about and returned, piqued by the resemblance—he even recalled the dress the girl wore as somewhat like a dress he had seen Emmy in. She was still asleep. And she was still recognizably Emily Pellering.
Dom was at a loss. He debated a while about what course of action he’d follow.
He could go up and waken her, then politely inquire as to what business brought Miss Pellering to sleep in Hyde Park at seven o’clock of a Sunday morning. But several recent altercations with Emily made him somewhat loath to follow this course of action. On the other hand, he could not simply ride by, pretending that she was on a picnic with her family or an outing with friends. As a matter of fact, Dom realized, not only was she without her family or even Jenny Prydd, Emily was without the countenance of her maid. There was obviously something irregular about it all. Full of resolution, Dom reined Hellbrand in, tethered him to a tree, and began to advance on Emily’s bench. The recollection of a scold she had read him the week before on “people who interfere with other people who don’t want to be interfered with” pulled him up short, and the dilemma pinned him again.
Finally Dom, like any sensible man trained to the hunt from infancy, settled on the thing to do. Removing Hellbrand to a spot somewhat distant, he climbed a nearby tree, regardless of the damage to his pantaloons, and sat there waiting, for what he knew not.
When Emily woke, unaware that she had acquired a chaperone in the great elm behind her, she was immediately convinced that Teverley had come to meet her, had been disgusted by the sort of inconstancy which would permit her to doze at such a time, and had left. A few forlorn minutes of despair gave way to joy, however, when she heard in the distance the peal of a church chime announcing the hour: exactly eight o’clock. She began to tidy herself, shaking wrinkles out of her pelisse (ruined by the dew which it had collected) and patting her dark hair into place. When a voice behind her murmured her name, she started so violently that she almost cracked one of Adrian Ratherscombe’s teeth with her elbow.
“Oh no!” she gasped, less in fear than disappointment.
Ratherscombe, assuming that her reaction must be terror—if it were not to be overwhelming joy—began at once to assure her that he had not come to do any harm to her, but that he must speak to her ... she must hear him. After a moment of his pleading Emily consented, thinking herself very noble, stonehearted, and romantic, all at the same time.
“Well, Mr. Ratherscombe, you may speak your piece. Was it you that sent Mr. Reagham to meet me and invite me to this place?”
“Yes, Emily my dearest, but only because I was desperate,” Ratherscombe cried with admirable melodrama; his desperation, at least, was no fiction. “I had to know that you have forgiven me. That day at the inn—that whole time—why, did you not see? I was frustrated, fearful that we should be stopped and our marriage made impossible! I carried the fears of a man who knows that the world would scorn him and his actions, but who knows he cannot act otherwise! I was mad for love of you, Emily.”
This sort of raving would once have won Emily’s admiration instantly. Now, with her heart elsewhere, she heard only the empty phrases and the actor’s resonance; her nose wrinkled in distaste. “Mr. Ratherscombe, I must ask that you—”
“Ah, it used to be Adrian, Emi
ly darling. Your Adrian, who longed to take you for his own, to make you his wife. Those people at that place—you must realize that I curse the day that we stopped there! I know you think them your friends; indeed, I am sure they think it so themselves. But how can I, who hoped to have a wife, feel else but pain at the memory—pain and remorse.” Ratherscombe outdid himself and managed to produce a tear, a small tear but a tear all the same, in his left eye. Then, after that effort, he ostentatiously went through the motions of a man determined that no one shall know the extent of his heartbreak. “Will you not speak kindly to me, Emily? In memory of the love we shared? The love I still cherish in my heart for you?” Emily’s head was turned, and Ratherscombe surveyed the ground nearest her feet to gauge whether he dared to kneel there. A moment’s reflection decided him: Despite the effect of such a gesture, the ground was much too wet, and there were several sharp-looking pebbles that could ruin his trousers completely.
“Mr. Ratherscombe,” Emily began uncomfortably, feeling less noble and somewhat more like a person who has risen at daybreak to go on a fool’s errand, “I do not intend to speak of those days to you.”
“Then I am forgiven?” There was genuine joy in Ratherscombe’s voice; forgiveness, surely, was close to success.
“I will forgive. And forget,” Miss Pellering emphasized meaningfully.
“Not that! Say, at least, that I may hope. I will spend my entire life trying to make up to you the injury I did you on our journey.”
Emily had spent her whole life preparing for the moment when she would receive this sort of speech, but now, rather than answer in kind, as she had always expected she would do, she found herself thinking that his words sounded pompous, and she longed for a good straight sentence with no protestations. She liked to make protestations, but from a man, surely, they were not quite the thing?
“Please stop, Mr. Ratherscombe.”
“Emily, my dearest.” Her face was turned again, and Ratherscombe, encouraged by what he thought was a moment’s delicious weakening, made bold to take one of her hands in his own. The slight resistance he felt only encouraged him the more. “Emily, sweet, dear, darling Emmy. Say you will forgive me. Say you will love me! Say it, heart’s darling.”
Emily turned and looked him square in the eye. “I say that you are talking a great deal of nonsense, sir. Leave my hand alone, you’re crushing it.” She gave a sound pull, but Ratherscombe was not about to relinquish a prize that easily, and held on as if he thought that the hand alone could bring him an easy competence.
“They have poisoned you against me!” he muttered.
“They?” Emily demanded icily, still tugging at her hand.
“The people—that dragon of a lady’s maid, or whatever she was—”
“Jenny!” The girl squealed in outrage.
“And that heavy-handed blighter with the left hook, and his cousin or son or whatever that young chub was! Yes, and the landlady too, I’ll wager. They told you stories, turned you against me, made you think I’d not be true to the very thought of you.” Privately Ratherscombe wondered if perhaps Emmy had caught wind of the dancer he had been keeping in Somers Town and that had put her nose out of joint.
“No such thing! That heavy-handed blighter, as you style him”—Emily’s voice dripped with regal venom— “is the finest gentleman I have ever met.” She liked the sound of her declaration, and continued, a little more levelly, “And there’s no harm in Jenny, or Dom, either. Now I wish you will let go of my hand and let me go. You’ve said what you came to say.”
“Damn it, Emily,” he began, then stopped himself. “I mean, Emily, I’m overcome by my feelings, as I was at the Green Falconer, you understand. Now listen just a little while longer, do. I only want your assurance that you return this feeling.”
Emily drew herself up to her full height and stared up at Adrian Ratherscombe. “Sir,” she began, cutting the word off sharply with a click of her tongue. “I could not feel about you as you feel about me: I am in no need to procure a fortune, and you have no fortune for me to covet.”
Ratherscombe dropped her hand as if it burnt him. “You little vixen,” he muttered angrily. “I’m no fortune-hunter! I am a Ratherscombe of Abbotscote and my family goes back farther than you can count, you little scatterbrain! I know for a fact that you come from trade. My blood has never been tainted, and yet”—he threw himself into the full of his role, believing it himself by this time— “I would have joined that spotless name—”
“Spotless, except that you’re known in the ton and out as a family of gamers and wenchers, and have been marrying into fortunes for years and years and years to pay your tick!” Emily cried hotly, stung at last into something beyond dignity.
“How dare you, you little bitch! Filthy little shopgirl—” Ratherscombe began. He got no farther, for Emily slapped him soundly, leaving a mark as red as her ribbons, and exactly the shape of her palm, along the side of his face. In retaliation, he took her by the shoulders, intent upon shaking her into submission, nagged all the while by the knowledge that the game was well and truly queered by now.
It was at this point that Domenic Teverley chose to make his entrance.
Dom had seen the entire performance from his perch above, and while Emily had seemed in control of the situation he had been content to sit and watch. It was rather like a play, after all, and he thought it might do Emmy some good to send that rounder Ratherscombe about his business. But when Ratherscombe actually had the audacity to touch her, he knew it was time to come to the rescue. He dropped from the tree rather noisily, but as both players were engaged in a yelling match by this time, he was not noticed until he grabbed Ratherscombe by the collar, pulled him back, and planted him a notable left to the chin.
When the dust had cleared somewhat, Ratherscombe was sitting in the dewy grass, one hand to his jaw, and Domenic had put one careful arm about Emily’s shoulders, offering her his handkerchief.
“Oh, Domenic,” Emily sighed, in tones calculated to give that young man dreams of glory for weeks. “Oh Dom, you saved me!” This might have been a trifle too brown, but Dom showed no signs of minding at all: It was very pleasant to be a hero, to have his name lingered over, and to have Emily regard him with the same adoration she usually reserved for his cousin Peter.
“Mind now, Emily, I’m going to set you here for a moment.” He said carefully, placing her again on the bench. “It looks as if there’s to be a bit of a mill.” His voice was all eagerness, and Ratherscombe, not content with picking himself out of the mud, was advancing again with an ugly look.
“Well then, little boy. Let’s see how well you fight when you have a man who’s prepared for you.”
“Just a moment, then,” Domenic said, and removed his jacket, his cravat, and handed Emily his riding crop to hold. Ratherscombe eyed him with distaste.
The battle, when joined, did not last very long, and Adrian Ratherscombe discovered himself again on the grass, with his eye already blackening nicely, contrasting with the welt he carried from Emily’s slap.
“Why, I’ll kill you—” he swore furiously.
“Don’t suggest it, sir,” Domenic advised him. “I’m not in the least winded, you see, and you appear to be. Took first prize in a couple of the mills at school, sir, and I’m accounted rather sweet with my fives. And my cousin Peter’s been teaching me a little as well,” he added, honesty winning through triumph. “Are you done?” he asked politely.
Ratherscombe nodded sullenly.
“Emily, d’you think you can ride back to your house on Hellbrand?” Domenic suggested. Emily was jolted momentarily from her hysteria by this outrageous suggestion.
“Dom, I’m not dressed for riding!” she wailed.
“Well, I ain’t walking through London carrying you, nor yet riding with you walking beside me. Come along, Emmy, be a good girl. It don’t matter how you’re dressed at this hour; there’s only the tradesfolk to see, and they all think the gentry are mad as hatters.”
Brooking no resistance, Dom led her away from Ratherscombe’s recumbent form and toward Hellbrand, who stood neatly cropping grass. After a moment’s awkwardness Dom took matters into his own hands. Emily was too shaken to begin to think of how to adapt herself to riding in a walking gown, moreover on a gentleman’s saddle. He threw her up on the horse to manage as best she could. In the distance, as they proceeded toward the park gate, they could see Ratherscombe rise and try to right himself.
After a few minutes, Dom said mildly, “I don’t wish to distress you when you ain’t feeling quite the thing, Emmy. But d’you mind telling me what you were doing sleeping in Hyde Park without even an abigail at seven in the morning on a Sunday?”
“I meant it to be eight o’clock—” she began weakly, and went off into a series of little sniffs and moans.
“Whatever you meant it to be, we’d best agree on what you was there for, for we’ll be at your house very shortly, and then what we’re to say I don’t know. You don’t look too knocked-up,” he said judiciously. “But no one would believe that you went for a stroll alone in the morning air and turned your ankle.”
Emily sniffed and said nothing.
“Well enough, Emmy, but I would hate to simply leave you at your door and let you explain yourself to that starchy manservant.”
This was a necessity which had not yet borne itself upon Miss Pellering. She whimpered.
Domenic looked at her in exasperation. “Come on Emmy, I won’t peach. But I do have a right, don’t I? After all—”
“Yes, Dom, I k-k-k-know,” she stammered damply. “But can’t you say that we were out walking, and a big dog came and scared me, and you chased it with your crop, and—” She might have continued, but his look did not encourage it.
“I’ll tell them something. I’ll think of something more believable. But why? I mean, did you go there to meet Ratherscombe? It didn’t seem it.”
My Dear Jenny Page 10