by Fiona Hill
She smiled again but shook her head. “It will not answer, Anthony. I have my heart set on a long voyage to a far-off land, and as soon as Daphne’s marriage is settled, that is exactly what I shall undertake.”
“Daphne’s marriage is sure to be announced this season,” said Houghton. “She is undeniably charming. I am sorry indeed to hear I will lack your companionship so soon.”
“But my dear Anthony, that is precisely why I sent for you. If I am going to travel to far-flung places, and see exotic things, I shall be needing an escort.” She paused as if expecting an answer, but none came. “Anthony, I am asking you if you would care to join me.”
“Go to Africa!” he exclaimed. “O, my dear Margaret, I do not think it would suit me at all. Any way, my presence would hardly lend propriety to your entourage; quite the contrary, in fact.”
“But I do not wish to have an entourage, don’t you see?” she cried. “I have been surrounded and surrounded all my life. I have had enough of Society, and enough of servants.”
“Then you mean to travel with me alone?” he protested. “My dear Margaret, you must surely have gone mad. There is nothing at all proper in that—O no, nothing, at all.”
“Anthony,” said the Countess impatiently, laying a frail hand upon his sleeve, “I am asking you to marry me.”
For a moment, Lord Houghton could find no words. When at last he did, he spluttered. “Marry…at this advanced—0 dear, Margaret…What I mean to say is, Africa, after all. But my dear! It is quite—that is, you are very good…but still!”
Lady Bryde listened impassively to this monologue. “I did not think you would wish to do it,” she said. “Never mind.”
“Well of course, any thing at all for you, my dearest rose…but Africa! Well that is rather too much!”
“Exactly, exactly.” She patted his sleeve consolingly. “I beg you will forget I suggested it at all,” she said. “I am not at a loss quite yet any way.”
“Not at a loss?” he echoed, slightly calmer.
The Countess’ smile became mysterious as she said, “No; I have another scheme…less desirable of course, but just as pleasant.”
“And what is that?”
Her faded eyes were dreamy. “I cannot tell you yet; not even you, my dear. You shall see soon enough.” Her expression sharpened as she added, “They shall all see. But I have made you uncomfortable, my dear,” she went on. “I did not mean to. Let me give you some Madeira, shall I?”
Lord Houghton accepted, Hastings was rung for, and the refreshments were brought. When he had recovered himself some what, he began to press her, gently, to reveal her scheme, but she was adamant and would only smile. In a little while he departed and she once again took up her Dryden, leafing though it idly and smiling to herself now and then, a visionary gleam in her heavy-lidded eyes.
Chapter VI
The Season progressed, as Seasons will, the days lengthening imperceptibly as spring broadened towards summer, the costumes of the ton growing less substantial as its gossip grew more so, since each evening provided new opportunities for intrigue and scandal. Lady Hargreave was rumoured to have taken a lover; Lady Margold was reputed to have abandoned hers; and so on. The gentlemen strove to commit ever greater follies as they challenged one another to races, contests, and duels, gambling sums upon these which were so extravagant as to be positively bizarre. Very little of this extraordinary way of life penetrated to the Keyes family, for they followed scrupulously the precepts which Lady Bryde had set down for them and these shielded them indeed from the greater irregularities of the aristocracy. Exactly as she had predicted, in fact, they had made very little mark upon London, and were scarcely discussed at all. They went on, consequently, quite comfortably.
Christian Livingston, that remarkable pianofortist, was the talk of London this Season. No self-respecting hostess omitted to engage his services for her dancing-soirée or ball; if Mr. Livingston were unavailable, she simply changed her scheme and held a rout or card-party instead. It was generally discovered some time during May that Mr. Livingston composed as well as played, and from that time on all sorts of musical afternoons were planned and attended. There seemed no end to his popularity, and hardly a soul in London dared to deny his genius.
Daphne, of course, saw him every where. It was impossible not to, since the ton had made a pet of him. They smiled at one another always; on several occasions they had opportunity to speak, which they did civilly and shortly; but it was not until early June, at the Viscountess Kirkwald’s modest soirée, that their acquaintanceship began to take on the cast of what might be called a liaison.
Christian had been permitted, during the early part of the evening, to play what he would. Some twenty couples sat quietly in the Viscountess’ drawing-room, or stood speaking in low voices among themselves, during this performance—not a few of them finding his much-praised compositions perplexingly dissonant, and secretly hoping it would soon be over. It was, of course, and an interlude followed during which a light collation was served in the dining-room. When this repast had ended there was to be dancing. Daphne had come escorted by Latimer only, for though he was yet unwilling to go into public, their mother had succumbed to an headache—which was apparently contagious, since their father caught it too. She found Mr. Livingston’s playing enchanting, as she always did, and forgot to go in to supper. On most evenings, William Ballard—whose attentions had become excruciatingly assiduous—would have been at her side to prevent her forgetting; but the Ballards had gone to the theatre tonight, since Lady Ballard had been feuding with the Viscountess Kirkwald for years. Daphne had been invited to make up one of their party, but she had declined.
Now she sat, quite lost in reverie as the themes of the last sonata echoed in her mind, in the far corner of a small mahogany Confidante which stood at one end of the drawing-room. The fact was, that someone had indeed invited her in to supper—Lord Midlake, as it happened—but she had not heard him and he had gone away, thinking confusedly that she meant it for a slight. The rest of the assembly had gone away too, and she remained in the drawing-room quite alone—except, that is, for the celebrated pianofortist.
He joined her, sitting not six inches away on the other side of the low arm-rest. Her countenance being averted and further concealed by a gloved hand held to one temple, she did not notice him even then. After a few moments he broke in upon her thoughts, saying in a low tone, “Day-dreaming, Miss Keyes?”
She looked up, considerably startled. “I beg your—O dear, is every one gone?” She looked about in confusion.
“Perhaps Miss Keyes did not sleep well last night, and is nodding now?”
Daphne faced him directly, and for the first time in her life there was an edge in her voice as she spoke. “Perhaps Miss Keyes enjoys your music, and forgot to behave as she ought.”
“You sound angry,” he observed.
“I am tired of having to prove to you, each time we meet, that I am not the folly-drunken fribble you insist upon taking me for.” Aware, suddenly, of the tone she had used, she added stiffly, “I am sorry.”
“It is I who ought to be sorry,” he said. “You are correct.” Impulsively, he took her hand—the ungloved one—and kissed it. His blond hair brushed her wrist, and tickled it.
“Let us forgive one another,” Daphne said, with a small smile. Christian said nothing; he was looking into her eyes with the intense unself-consciousness of sudden discovery. Daphne looked back steadily into his green ones. Forgetting every faculty of mind but intuition, she tilted her head slowly backwards and raised her lips towards his. He met her with equal passion.
Her gloved hand caught at his slender wrist as they drew away from one another. She started to excuse herself but found she did not wish to say any thing. Rising, her fingers still clasped round his wrist, she bent her head and kissed his hand as he had hers. Then she released it and left the room.
She begged Latimer to take her home at once. He, being still acutely uncomfort
able in society, raised no objections. When they reached Finchley House, Daphne kissed him good-night and went to bed directly.
In the morning she had an engagement with India Ballard. They were to purchase some books at Hatchard’s, and Daphne needed a pair of sandals since the weather had got so warm. They were driven there in the equipage India’s parents had given her on the occasion of her seventeenth birthday; a taciturn footman escorted them and followed them in and out of the shops. Lady Keyes, her headache much improved, had requested that Daphne buy her some green silken thread, for her embroidery.
The two young women talked of sandals, of poetry, of theatrical performances, and—during the drive home—of Walter Midlake. He had still said nothing, either to India or to her father, about marriage. “I am sorry,” said Daphne, with as much conviction as she could summon up.
“Really, my dear,” India replied laughing, “if you could see the way he pulls at his ears and chews his lips when he is trying to make a decision, you would not be sorry at all. Imagine having a baby with ears like that! Why, it would be impossible to love it.”
“Of course,” said Daphne, patting her friend’s hand; “but I know it must be difficult for you, when your parents have such hopes.”
“Hopes!” cried India, her voice becoming harsh again. “They’ve more than hopes by now, my dear. Now they’ve got an elaborate scheme—all to do with a house-party this summer, at Carwaith Abbey you know, and William’s coming into his majority, and goodness knows what. They seem to think that if they can but isolate my Lord from his friends he will come up to the scratch. O, and that reminds me: was Mr. Livingston at the Viscountess’ party last night?”
Daphne’s dismay at being asked this question was such that she forgot to inquire why the one thing had reminded Miss Ballard of the other. Her cheeks drained instantly of colour and she murmured a barely audible, “Yes.”
“‘Why so pale and wan, fond lover?’” she quoted; “‘Prithee, why so pale?’ O, I do apologise…that is Suckling, and I ought not to be quoting him when you look so ill. But my dear Daphne, what is the matter?”
“‘Between who?’” Daphne countered, hoping by parroting Hamlet to side-track her inquisitor into a battle of quotations.
“Between you and Mr. Livingston, I begin to think,” said India, ignoring Miss Keyes’ tempting rejoinder.
“Nothing,” she whispered, her colour returning in a rush.
“If it is nothing, my dear friend, then tell me why your cheeks go from white to red so regularly. You look like a barber’s pole.”
Daphne endeavoured to smile and did not succeed too well.
“You are in love with him?” India pursued.
“I kissed him,” she confessed.
“O,” said Miss Ballard. Then, “Well, that is a relief. You merely wish to take him for a lover.”
“What do you mean?” asked Daphne urgently.
“Simply that if you were in love with him you might have been in danger—for hearts do get broke, you know. As it is…you have simply to wait until you marry.”
“Until I marry whom?”
“Why, whomever! How should I know? Whoever it is, he is not likely to mind what you do with Mr. Livingston once he has been satisfied you were a maid when you married.”
If India had felt less sympathy for her friend she would have laughed outright, so comical was the expression on Daphne’s face. “Are you—quite serious?” she asked at last.
“My dear, I have never been more so. That is the way of these things; it is silly to expect otherwise. You did not—you do not hope to marry Mr. Livingston?” she exclaimed, shocked for the first time since their conversation had begun.
“No,” said Daphne truthfully; “I have been too astonished at my own behaviour to think of him at all.”
“You feel ashamed of yourself?”
“No,” Daphne said again, this time in a whisper. “That is the terrible part. I do not feel ashamed at all.”
The carriage had rolled to a stop in front of Finchley House. “You have got yourself into a muddle,” said Miss Ballard, squeezing Daphne’s hand. “Promise me you will do nothing about it until we’ve spoken again. I must run now or I would come in with you…Promise, will you?”
“I promise,” said Daphne—but in the event it was impossible for her to keep her vow. She did not see India until next day, and she saw Mr. Livingston that night.
He was playing at a ball Lord and Lady Frane were giving to celebrate the betrothal of their daughter. Daphne suspected he would be there, since he seemed to be every where there was music, and she would have liked to cry off—but Dorothea Frane had been quite kind to her on several occasions, and it seemed a most shabby thing to do. Besides, she was to marry Charles Stickney, and Latimer liked Stickney and wanted his sister to come. She went, therefore, wearing an unremarkable gown and resolved upon remaining excessively inconspicuous if the pianofortist was indeed there.
Naturally, he was; and almost as naturally, Daphne’s laudable intention to remain invisible failed. Christian discerned her dark, glossy curls as soon as she entered the ball-room. The moment she left it—this time to breathe some cooler air in the walled garden below the ball-room—he accelerated the piece he was playing and brought it to a rapid close. The dancers quite exhausted themselves trying to keep up with him and wondered, as they saw him stride across the room, where on earth he was going. Happily, no one was curious enough to follow.
Lord Frane had not been following the programme his wife had set up for the evening, and he took this interval to be the one alloted for the delivery of his speech. He rose, therefore, called for every one’s attention, and prosed on at length in a congratulatory mode about brides, grooms, and children. In the deserted garden below, Christian Livingston caught up with Daphne.
“Miss Keyes,” he began.
She turned and gave an involuntary gasp. “Mr. Livingston.”
“You left last night without saying good-bye,” he chided.
“You knew I meant it.”
“I wished you had not left at all.”
“Mr. Livingston, I wish you had not followed me down here.”
“You are sorry to see me?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“In that case,” he said, bowing, “my most profound apologies.” He turned and began to walk away.
“Christian!” she said, reaching out instinctively for his arm. He turned, hesitating, and looked down at her. “Do not go,” she managed to say finally. “Please.”
“You seem not to know what you want,” he remarked.
“Indeed,” she said, in a small voice; “I do not.”
She looked up into his face and remembered, suddenly, how his hair had felt when it brushed her wrist. Acting too quickly even to know what she did, she reached up a hand and buried it in that silken blond mass. Somehow, her other arm circled his waist, and his closed round her. They kissed one another wordlessly, feeling at once astonished to find each other and yet easily familiar. Christian had just finished dropping kisses on her eyelids, and was about to do the same to her nose, when he drew away from her a little.
“My dear Miss Keyes,” he said, smiling slightly, “do you realize I do not know your given name?”
She laughed as she told him, but her amusement soon turned to dismay. “O my dear,” she said. “This is awful.”
“But it means nothing,” he objected, not understanding her. “I know it now: you are Daphne. A very pretty name. I did not wish to make inquiries, you know; it would have been indiscreet.”
“But that is exactly what I mean!” she cried. “Why should it be indiscreet for you to know my name? It is wrong—all so very wrong.”
“It is indiscreet, Miss Daphne Keyes, because we are so very far apart in the eyes of the world. I know you think I make too much of this, but I assure you: in the opinion of England, there can be no—no friendship between us without disgrace for you.” They held each other loosely now, and Daphne pu
shed her curls back with an impatient hand.
“Then what are we to do?” she demanded.
“Precisely what we are doing now. Tryst with one another, steal time…it will be easier when you are married,” he added.
“When I am married!” Daphne echoed. “Then you desire me to marry too?”
“Of course you must marry.” Daphne dropped her hands to her sides, stepped back a little and stared at him. “I know what you are thinking,” Christian went on, “and you must believe me: if there were any possibility of my marrying you, I should never suggest a clandestine arrangement. But there is not.”
“And that is all there is to say to it? We cannot marry, plain and simple—so we must have—so we must see one another in secret? Is that the whole of your opinion?”
“My dear Daphne, it is either secretly or not at all. If you are considering elopement, I must beg you to think again. My career is fine at present, but next Season a new phenomenon will come along and my name will mean nothing. Besides, not all the comfort in the world could compensate for the shame and disgrace you would surely be made to suffer. I would not do it to you.”
“You would not elope with me?”
“No, I would not.”
For a horrible moment Daphne felt she would bury her head in her hands and cry. Then she mastered herself and, schooling her features to calm, drew herself up so she stood very straight. In a steady voice she said, “I must think about this.”
“Yes, my love,” he answered, reaching for her hands. She drew them away from him:
“Good-night,” she said, and walked hastily back through the still evening into the house. Lord Frane had just finished his speech, and felicitations were being liberally bestowed. Daphne entered the ball-room and worked her way through the crowd to Dorothea. “I wish you very happy,” she said warmly, embracing her with a smile. In a short time Mr. Livingston returned to his instrument, and the dancing began again.
India called at two o’clock on the following day, and Daphne, after drawing her up to her bed-chamber so they could have a tête-à-tête, confessed every detail of her interview with Christian. She suppressed only the quality of her emotions, and with what strength they were aroused. When she had done India smiled at her and took up her hand.