He started after her: ‘Jennifer, stop!’ But she was gone, running up the stairs, her handkerchief over her face. And in the hall, inevitably, lurked her uncle, all aswim with felicitations.
It was too much. Mainwaring muttered an oath and slammed out of the house. He went, instinctively, straight to his grandmother, who took one look at his face and rang for restoratives. ‘I shall need them, George, even if you do not. Now, pour me some ratafia and help yourself to what you will and tell me what is amiss.’
‘What’s amiss? Everything, ma’am. I am a fool, a brute, a bully...I have lost her, ma’am.’
‘What, so soon? I did not even know that you had found her.’
‘Yes, found and lost all in a moment, and all through my own vile temper. But, ma’am, you amaze me. Did you know?’
‘Know that you loved Miss Fairbank? George, I am an old woman, but not a fool. Of course I knew.’
‘But did you also know who she was?’
The wise old eyes looked at him speculatively. ‘Shall we say I guessed, George? You see, I had the advantage of not being in love, which, we all know, is not the most clear-sighted of passions. Yes, I confess, I have been enjoying your little comedy of mistaken identities; though I must own to some curiosity as to who the white mouse down in the country might be.’
‘Oh, her cousin, daughter of the wicked uncle. So you had guessed it all, ma’am, and let me go off to ruin myself without a word.’
‘I am sorry for it if you have indeed done so, George, but I find it hard to believe. I thought all was in train for a perfect climax of discovery and delight. Pray, what has marred it?’
‘Why, my vile temper, ma’am. That uncle of hers came to me—you must understand I still had not guessed who she was and, to tell truth, was on my way to Lady Laverstoke’s in hopes that she might have some news of her—when up comes my friend the uncle with a long story of apology, and deception, and substitution, and more apology...and suddenly, from something he said, I saw it all, or rather, saw too much, as I now understand. For, ma’am, I was convinced Jennifer (Miss Purchas, I should say) had been a party to it all; had been mocking me from the start, looking me over as a prospective husband very much as one might consider a possible carriage horse. I thought—God help me, ma’am—I thought it was all a plot; the meeting at Lady Laverstoke’s, even the encounter that night, in Parliament Square. I was a fool, ten times a fool. I see it all now, but the uncle—God rot him—left me no time for thought, but hurried me off to Holborn, where, it seems, his niece had taken refuge, and presented me to her all in my first rage.’
‘Ah,’ said the old lady thoughtfully. ‘It was all his fault, I apprehend.’
‘Oh, ma’am, do not mock me. Of course it was my fault. You have told me many times that my temper would be my ruin. You were right; it has been. I have lost her, ma’am. I’ll never marry now.’
‘What did you do, George?’
‘Why, insulted her as deep as I could. Oh, I offered for her hand, ma’am, but in such terms...I told her I had promised her brothers I would look after her and would be as good as my word. And all with such an accompaniment of insults that I wonder she stayed to hear me finish.’
‘And what did she say?’
‘Cut me short in my raging. Oh, ma’am, there’s the woman for me. She could control me! Declined my “generous” offer. Absolved me from all contract with her brothers. Shamed me by her quietness, broke my heart with her tears—and left the room before I could stop her.’
‘But surely you went after her?’
‘Yes, and found that uncle of hers lying in wait for me in the hall. It was more than I could bear. I left the house. No, it is all over, ma’am. It is not possible that she should forgive me. I shall rejoin the army and go to the devil as best I may.’
‘Leaving Miss Purchas to suffer for your sins?’
It pulled him up short. ‘You think I might have another chance? That she might forgive me? But it’s impossible. I have not told you how I insulted her.’
‘You need not. I know you, George. I can guess. But I still say you have a chance. She loves you, George. Why do you think she was prepared to go back and yield to her uncle’s wishes? I have something to show you. Betty found this letter from Mandeville in her room and brought it to me. She must have forgotten to destroy it in the hurry of her flight. Read and see by what means he was blackmailing her: it was disgrace to you and me that she feared, not to herself. She was prepared to marry you (the unknown you) to save you (the known) from disgrace. But read for yourself.’
He read and then threw the letter angrily from him. ‘Yes, I understand it all now. What a villain that Mandeville is. And what a wretch I am to have used her so. I cannot forgive myself. How then can I expect her to forgive me?’
‘But that is quite another matter. Self-love has never been your vice, and what I am trying to prove to you is that she loves you, George, and love will forgive much. Go to her again, beg her pardon, on your knees if you will, tell her how you mistook the matter. Trust me, all will yet be well. Love does not die overnight, and she is a girl of too much spirit to let her life ruin itself over a misunderstanding, whatever you may do. Stay, I have a better idea still. You were never much good at pleading. I will write to her. She must, I collect, find herself at something of a stand, with all her plans tumbled about her ears. I will write and urge her to come back to me. It is, in any case, the best thing for her to do. Mandeville, I apprehend, is by this fled the town, or I do not know you, George. Jennifer shall come back to me and brave it out—she has the spirit for it, I know—and you shall woo her all over again at your leisure.’
He kissed her hand: ‘Ma’am, I am speechless...’
‘Good,’ she interrupted him. ‘Continue so, while I write.’
CHAPTER XVII
Alone in the room Aunt Foster had now allotted to her, Jennifer paced up and down, facing disaster. Anger with Mainwaring for his unjustified suspicions had carried her through a brief, painful interview with Elizabeth, then, unable to face her sympathy, and infuriated by her criticisms of Mainwaring, she had retreated to face the shipwreck of her plans. Where should she go? What do? Soon, incorrigibly, she was planning again. First, she must use the power she now had over her uncle to force through Elizabeth’s marriage with her cousin. Then, she would go home to Denton Hall, make a clean sweep of the Gurnings from her house and settle down to the life of a recluse.
She was considering this prospect, without enthusiasm, when the maid interrupted her with a twisted note that had just been delivered for her by hand. Inevitably, hope sprang up at once. Who but Mainwaring knew where she was? Her hand trembling, she opened the note, considering, as she did so, how best to take his apology. The handwriting was hurried, unrecognisable and, indeed, hard to decipher. ‘My dearest life,’ she read, ‘I find I cannot live without you. You must forgive, you must marry me. I cannot visit you in Holborn. Meet me, I beg, in the Temple Gardens, by the river, as soon as you receive this. I will await you there, your humble servant, all evening.’ It was signed with a single initial, ‘M’.
How quick, how easy, the transition from despair to rapture. Jennifer was at the glass at once, tidying her hair with hands that shook. It was already evening. He must have been awaiting her for some time, wondering whether she would, in truth, find it in her heart to forgive him. As if she had not done so even while he was speaking. His anger, based on a misunderstanding, had not really referred to her at all. Now, looking back on the scene, she wondered how she could have let it distress her so, for was not his very fury a proof of his love? But she was wasting time. She hurried downstairs, pausing only to tell Elizabeth that she was going out to get a breath of air, to refuse her offer of her company or Edmund’s, and to thank her good fortune for Aunt Foster’s easy good nature which seemed to see nothing amiss in her going out unattended.
The long, hot afternoon was cooling now, and the city was full of evening cries and evening smells, but she hardly n
oticed them as she hurried on flying feet down towards the river. The gardens, when she reached them, lay quiet and deserted in late sunshine and she found herself wishing that Mainwaring had given her a more precise rendezvous, found herself thinking, for the first time, that there was something slightly odd about his note. ‘My dearest life’—it did not suggest his voice. The unthinking excitement that had brought her so far suddenly ebbed. She stood, alone, at the entrance to the gardens, pulling Elizabeth’s hastily borrowed pelisse more closely around her against a chill—was it of apprehension or of the evening air?
But a man’s figure was approaching purposefully down one of the alley-ways. She made a hesitant move forward, then stopped and waited. No, this was not Mainwaring, she knew his height and quick stride too well to be deceived. Then, as the man came nearer, she shrank back.
‘You?’
‘Who else, my dear? And very much at your service,’ said Miles Mandeville.
‘It was you who wrote to me?’
‘My dearest life, of course.’
She should have known. It was his phrase. Why had she not recognised it? But she had been blind, mad, concentrated on Mainwaring. ‘Sir,’ she pulled herself together with difficulty. ‘I owe you an apology if I have raised your hopes by my appearance. But I must tell you that I am come here under a misapprehension. You and I have nothing more to say to each other. I must bid you a very good day.’ She turned to leave him, but he had her by the hand.
‘No, no,’ he said, ‘not so fast, my dearest creature. We do not part so easily. But this is rich indeed. I am, I take it, to understand that you are come here in hopes of finding not me, but Mainwaring. What a bitter blow for you; ’tis not the nobleman after all, but plain Miles Mandeville. Well, the die is cast now, you must make shift with me as best you may. We are off, my dear, for France.’
‘You are mad, sir.’ She tried vainly to disengage herself.
‘Why, yes, I rather believe I am. My name, you must recollect, is Mad Mandeville. And I have had cause for madness both from you and from your protector, Mainwaring. Damme, it makes me mad all over again with mere delight to think what a noble revenge fate, and you, my life, have put in my way. He has ordered me out of town like a whipped cur and—to deal plainly with you—I see nothing for it but to go. He is too powerful for me and knows it. But what will become of his triumph when he finds I have taken you with me? You thought it was he who wrote you of forgiveness and marriage? No, no, it was I. If I must go into exile, I will not go alone. But, come, we lose time talking here.’ And before she could utter more than a stifled exclamation of protest, he had clapped a hand over her mouth and dragged her by main force to a carriage that was standing at the park gates. Struggling fiercely, she could do no more than deal him one resounding blow in the face before he had thrown her inside, slammed the door on her, and shouted an order to the coachman.
She sank back in the corner of the carriage, amazed to think that she had believed herself in despair before. Then, she had merely quarrelled with Mainwaring and had, perhaps, known in her heart that sooner or later they must come to an understanding...But now...Even if she should contrive to escape from Mandeville—and she intended to—before he could get her on board ship...Even so, she was lost indeed. Who would believe that this new scrape was not of her own choosing, or at least not to some extent her fault? She knew by now all too well how quick Mainwaring was to suspect the worst where she was concerned. What hope had she of explaining away this new misadventure? How could she have let it happen to her? She gave way, for the third time that day, to a tempest of tears, then took herself angrily to task. This was to behave like Elizabeth. She had need of all her strength and all her ingenuity to contrive her escape. Tears would not help her. As for the future, that must take care of itself. The present was problem enough. She leaned cautiously forward to look out of the carriage window. They were passing through Lambeth village. Surely this was not the road for Dover. Where could Mandeville be taking her?
A figure on horseback rode up beside the carriage and Mandeville himself raised his hand in half mocking salutation. She made herself raise her own hand in reply and forced a travesty of a smile to her lips. If she could make him think she had resigned herself to her fate, her chances of escape would be much increased.
Time passed, interminable. The shadows lengthened, the light ebbed from the hills. Were they to drive through the night? If so, she was lost indeed. Then, when she was almost giving way again to despair, she felt the carriage slacken its speed and, leaning forward, saw that they were in the outskirts of a town. They stopped at last in a deserted street, at the entrance of a little inn. The door was opened, the steps let down and Mandeville stood below, all apparent deference, to receive her. She looked quickly round. There was no one in sight but Mandeville and his servants. This was no time to attempt escape. She took his offered arm and alighted, yawning delicately behind her hand.
‘My dearest creature,’ said Mandeville, ‘I beg you ten thousand pardons for bringing you so far, but I wished to reach this inn which is kept, you must know, by good friends of mine. Some supper and a good night’s rest.’ He eyed her ironically. ‘And you will be glad to set forward again for my yacht which lies at Southampton.’
She refused to be aware of his meaning. ‘The rest will be most welcome,’ she said lightly, ‘For in truth I have had a most fatiguing day.’
‘I dare swear you have. Well, you shall have time enough for rest when we are safe in Paris. But, come, our host is waiting. He is well used, by the by, to seeing me companioned with a wench. No use squeaking to him, my dear, if you had thought of it.’
Her chin went up. ‘It had not occurred to me. I am well aware that you have ruined me by now. What’s done is done. And I have no doubt that Paris will prove vastly entertaining.’
He looked at her with puzzled respect. ‘Oh, sits the wind in that quarter? You see the game’s lost, do you...Well, I always liked a good loser. And to be sure you are right. After a night spent here in my infamous company, you would be hard put to it to prove your innocence to a far less difficult judge than Mainwaring. Well, I am delighted; we will pass a happier evening than I had expected.’
Allowing him to guide her indoors, Jennifer recognised his disappointment. He had looked forward to tears and entreaties. This, for him, was anticlimax. Enjoying his chagrin, she found it easier still to play her part. She must convince the host of what she now saw to be a small and secluded inn that she was Mandeville’s willing companion.
As the landlord, a short, fat, beery man with a limp, came forward to greet them, she settled her hand more firmly in Mandeville’s arm. ‘La, my dear Mr Mandeville, where in the world have you brought me? I vow I was never so fatigued in my life.’ She sank down, sighing gracefully, into a high wheel-back chair that stood by the fire in the inn’s neat little parlour.
Mandeville looked at her with surprise and a sudden touch of suspicion, but was soon busy ordering dinner and beds for the night from the obsequious landlord, who, she could see, was indeed well acquainted with him. When the question of devilled chicken and mutton collops had been settled to Mandeville’s satisfaction and he had reassured himself that the landlord still had some of the claret he had recommended, Jennifer put a hand to her head.
‘I am all blown to pieces from that draughty carriage of yours, Mr Mandeville. I declare I must be a perfect fright. Take me, pray,’ she addressed the host, ‘to my chamber.’
‘By all means, my dear,’ Mandeville flashed her a knowing smile. ‘I do not deny that your appearance is somewhat dishevelled. But you may be disappointed to find that this inn has but the one entrance—here.’ He gestured to the front door, which he could see from where he sat by the fire.
Jennifer affected disdain: ‘And pray, what’s that to the question? I want a looking-glass and my dinner, and they are not, I collect, to be found out of doors.’
She flounced upstairs with the landlord in attendance, but dismissed him ha
ughtily when he had shown her to the plain little room that was to be hers. She noted, with a shiver, the connecting door to the next room, observed that there was no lock on either that or the doorway to the hall, and hurried to the window only to see, at once, the reason for Mandeville’s self-satisfaction. The inn was built around a central courtyard onto which her window looked. There was no hope of escape this way.
Automatically tidying her hair with the aid of the cracked looking-glass that hung over the fireplace, she took despairing stock of her position. The landlady had not appeared. The landlord was evidently Mandeville’s man. She had only herself to rely on. Well, she was not going to spend the night here: that was certain. She looked round the room for a weapon, but could see nothing. Then a thought struck her. Bottles. Bottles of claret. Smiling a little to herself she walked down the steep flight of stairs.
Mandeville came out of the parlour to meet her and hand her with odious ceremony back to the fireside. He was taking no chance of her slipping out of the front door.
‘So devoted, Mr Mandeville, you quite overwhelm me.’ She seated herself idly by the fire. ‘I trust these good people will not be over-long in serving dinner, for I vow I am famished.’
‘You are a remarkable young woman, Miss Fairbank.’
‘Am I not? Are you disappointed that I am not in strong hysterics? I must confess I never had a turn for them. And they would not particularly avail me, would they?’
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