The Clandestine Betrothal
Alice Chetwynd Ley
© Alice Chetwynd Ley 1967
Alice Chetwynd Ley has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1967 by Robert Hale.
This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
The Clandestine Betrothal
Alice Chetwynd Ley
1
A VISITOR TO STRABERRY HILL
2
NEWS OF A BETROTHAL
3
AN EVENING AT RANELAGH
4
A SURPRISE FOR THE BEAU
5
TEARS AT THE PARTY
6
THE WINE GOES TO SUSAN’S HEAD
7
SUSAN CONFESSES
8
A TELLING POINT
9
THE WAIF
10
MASQUERADE
11
BEAU EVERSLEY AMUSES HIMSELF
12
A WOMAN CALLED POLLY
13
MORE THAN A SISTER
14
FAREWELL
15
FAMILY LIKENESS
16
THE PORTRAIT
17
AN EXPERT IN SCANDAL
18
THE LION’S DEN
19
SUSAN FINDS HER MOTHER
20
DINNER AT STRAWBERRY HILL
“The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow.”
Shelley
A VISITOR TO STRAWBERRY HILL
On a fine May morning towards the close of the eighteenth century a favoured visitor strolled with Horace Walpole, fourth Earl of Orford, in the gardens of Strawberry Hill, that extraordinary Gothic villa which Walpole had built as a summer residence at Twickenham.
Many visitors came to the house during the summer months. Talk of its oddities had spread abroad, and the general public was eager to view the unusual rooms, and the valuable collections of antiques, curios and paintings which they contained. Never averse to fame, Walpole obliged by throwing open the house to the public for a few hours daily, subject to a strict set of rules. Only ticket holders were admitted, and tickets must be applied for some days in advance. Walpole reserved the right to refuse admission, and never granted it to children.
But although he was willing to show the wonders of Strawberry Hill to the world at large, Walpole had no intention of exhibiting himself. No doubt it was a disappointment to many of the visitors that they were never allowed to catch a glimpse of “Horry”, for his claims to fame did not rest entirely on Strawberry Hill. He was as important in the social scene as his renowned father, Sir Robert Walpole, had been in the political sphere.
He was known as the author of that blood-curdling Gothic novel, The Castle of Otranto. He was known much more as London’s most diligent and entertaining letter-writer, a certain source of information on all topics of the day, both social and political.
There were a few people, however, who found favour in Horry’s penetrating eyes, and these were granted the rare privilege of a personally conducted tour of the house. The gentleman walking with him at present was one of this number.
They were an oddly assorted pair. Horry himself was small and slight, elegant still in spite of the gout which had afflicted him for some years, and which caused him to lean on a stick as he walked. He was finely dressed in a suit of lavender silk with the waistcoat embroidered in silver, hose of partridge coloured silk, and with gold buckles on his shoes. In defiance of recent fashion, he wore a wig combed straight back from a high, pale forehead which accentuated the piercing quality of his dark eyes.
In contrast his companion was tall, and wore his own thick auburn hair in one of the new, careless-seeming styles. He was quietly dressed, but the olive green coat and buckskin breeches were cut in the first style of fashion, for this was the Honourable Hugh Eversley, known to fashionable London as the Beau.
In his own way, Beau Eversley was as outstanding as Horry himself. His clothes were the envy of every aspiring dandy, his horses the admiration of every whip, his amours the subject of half the town’s gossip. At twenty-seven, he was still a bachelor, and eagerly pursued by every match-making mama who ever brought a daughter up to London for the season. So far, all this effort had been wasted. The Beau generally seemed to prefer the company of opera dancers and actresses to that of even the most beautiful and talented females of his own circle. Occasionally, he had been known to permit himself a little light dalliance with one of the latter group, but even the most sanguine parent had never dared to suppose him serious in his attentions.
A great deal of this was, of course, known to Horace Walpole. It was his purpose in life to know such things, and to comment upon them in writing for the benefit (as he himself put it) of posterity. So he did not ask Beau Eversley about his personal affairs, but instead concentrated on gleaning news of the rest of the Eversley family.
“I declare it is an age since I saw your dear mother,” he said, reaching out a white hand towards a spray of purple lilac, and sniffing delicately at the bloom. “How does she go on? She was always a favourite with me, as you will see by the miniature of her which I showed you in my special cabinet. So lively a spirit! And in person so captivating, with hair of that rich colour which you, my dear Hugh, inherit.”
“We all have it,” drawled Hugh Eversley. “In my sister Evelina it’s plain red — although Cunningham married her in spite of it. As for my mother, sir, thank you, she is well, and as busy as ever, doing nothing.”
“I must really pay your parents a visit when I am next in town. Perhaps they will like to come to me at Berkeley Square for dinner one evening? I believe Mrs. Cunningham is now the mother of two children. What of your other sister — the younger one? Let me see, her name is—”
“Georgiana,” supplied Hugh. “She is at present languishing in a young ladies Seminary not more than a mile or so from here, no doubt up to some devilment or other, if I know her,” he added with a rueful smile. “As a matter of fact she is to leave Miss Fanchington’s care for good in a few days’ time. I don’t know who will be the better pleased — Georgy at being let loose on the Polite World, or Miss Fanchington at getting rid of what must surely be her most troublesome pupil.”
Horace Walpole laughed in his pleasant light voice. “Your sentiments are what one might expect from a brother, my dear Hugh. I doubt if they do justice to the young lady. Had I known that she was lodged so close to me, I would have invited her to Strawberry Hill. I dare say she would have been glad to find some diversion to relieve the tedium of academic life — even so tame a diversion as a visit to an old man who has little to offer in the way of entertainment.”
“Such modesty will not do, sir. You must know that Strawberry Hill draws the crowds as surely as Ranelagh or Vauxhall. But you are right in thinking that my sister finds the academic life tedious. The last time I saw her she was eloquent on the subject of the particular dress which all Miss Fanchington’s pupils are required to wear. I must say in fairness,” he added, reflectively, “that I thought her complaints justified. A dowdy grey woollen gown, shapeless, and quite unrelieved by any softening touches, crowned by a hideous mob cap, more suited to a dowager than a young girl.” He paused. “But I don’t wish to bore you with my family affairs. Perhaps we should return to the house, for I must not make you walk too far.”
“You are very good, but my old enemy the gout does not trouble me much at present. Y
ou know my dear Hugh, an insignificant man that grows old wants something to give him a little importance; and with my meagre figure, what with its being a little respectable and what with its being a little comical, I find that gout does not at all succeed ill with me.”
The whimsical bravery of this speech brought an acknowledging gleam to Beau Eversley’s hazel eyes. He knew that the elderly man beside him often suffered severe pain, but evidently it could not blunt his irrepressible sense of humour.
“Very fine, sir,” he began. “I could wish—”
He broke off suddenly, laying long, tapering fingers on Horry’s arm in a warning gesture. His sharp eyes had detected a movement among the trees on their left. The next moment all traces of indolence dropped away from him. He sprang forward into the trees. There was a short scuffle, and presently he emerged, dragging a small, grey figure with him.
“Let go!” panted the victim. “You’re hurting me!” Beau Eversley dropped his hands.
“Well, I’m damned!” he exclaimed, for once betrayed into amazement. “If it isn’t a female!”
He turned to Walpole. “I’ve heard much of the marvels of Strawberry Hill, sir, but this is the first I knew of nymphs haunting your groves.”
At this point, the nymph let out a yell of pain. In the recent struggle she had lost her headgear, and now her black curls were caught fast in the branches of a tree. She struggled vainly to free herself.
“Allow me.” With deft fingers, Beau Eversley carefully released the black ringlets, and then stooped to retrieve her cap. He handed it to her with a slight, ironic bow.
She took it, blushing, and stood for a moment without speaking.
“I think, madam,’ said Horace Walpole, gently, “that we have not met before.”
“No.” The red deepened in her cheeks. “No — I — must ask your pardon for my intrusion, but the fact is—”
An ironic smile twitched Hugh Eversley’s mouth. In his experience this phrase was usually the forerunner of some fabrication or other. He studied the girl thoughtfully. She was very much of his sister Georgiana’s age, but slighter in build. Dark, dreamy eyes looked out from an attractive oval face which, at the moment, although flushed, had still a touch of piquancy about it. His glance travelled to the shapeless grey gown and the large cap which she was twisting nervously in her slim fingers, and a flash of recognition suddenly showed in his eyes.
“You are from Miss Fanchington’s Seminary, are you not?” he asked.
She nodded, and swallowed. “Yes, sir. I — I chanced to be passing this way, and had a sudden fancy to see — to see—” she paused, and turning to Horace Walpole, finished in a rush — “your famous house, Mr. Walpole — that is — my lord. All the world talks of it, and I had only ever seen it at a distance, when passing along the highway in a closed carriage. Oh, I know I should not — it was very wrong of me, and indeed I beg your pardon—”
“But my dear young lady,” interposed Walpole, gently, “had you requested it in the usual way, I would gladly have sent you a ticket to view the house. As it is, I do not quite know how you managed to gain access to the grounds. Did no one stop you at the gate?”
“I did not enter by the main gate. I found a side entrance where two gardeners were working, and I—”
“Do not tell me,” said Horace Walpole, in pained tones, “that my workmen admitted you against all instructions to the contrary. Really, this is too much! Not that there could be the least objection to your visiting my house in the usual way, my dear Miss — I fear I have not your name?”
“Fyfield,” supplied the young lady nervously, “Susan Fyfield, if it pleases you, sir.”
Walpole executed a graceful bow. “My name you already know, Miss Fyfield; and this is a dear friend of mine, Mr. Eversley.”
Susan nodded. “Yes, I know.”
Beau Eversley lazily cocked an eyebrow. “You know? How can that be? To my knowledge, we have not met before.”
“I know your sister, Georgiana,” explained Susan, her eye avoiding his. “And you came once to visit her at the seminary. I saw you then.”
“Did you? I hope you may not think it ungallant of me, but I have no recollection of that occasion.”
It was said ironically, and once again the quick colour flooded Susan’s cheeks.
“You did not see me, but I saw you, Mr. Eversley. I — we — that is to say, some of the girls were watching your arrival from an upstairs window.”
Again the ironical smile twitched his lips, “Ah, yes! For a moment I was forgetting the insatiable curiosity of the fair sex. Miss — er — Fyfield. I am happy to think that my visit provided you all with some small entertainment.”
“If you were ever at school,” returned Susan, with more spirit than she had so far shown, “you will remember that almost any diversion is welcome to relieve the tedium.”
He bowed. “I am answered. You hear that sir? I can be rated as a welcome diversion only when life is too tedious to be borne. I congratulate you ma’am. You certainly depress my pretensions most successfully.”
“Oh but I did not mean—” She stole a quick shy glance at him, and a dimple appeared. “It is too bad of you Mr. Eversley! You are in jest, and I thought for a moment you were truly vexed with me.”
“You are forgetting that I have two sisters. I am quite used to receiving the odd kind of compliment which you have just paid me. But won’t Miss Fanchington be getting anxious about your absence? I take it that she was not in your confidence about this morning’s exploit?” Susan shook her head. The gesture reminded her that her hair was considerable disorder, and she put up her hands to try and smooth it down.
“No — I must return at once or I shall be missed.” She turned to Horace Walpole with a graceful curtsy. “Permit me to take my leave of you, sir, and pray pardon my intrusion. I — it was very wrong of me, I know, but I do hope you will not feel it necessary to report my misdemeanour to Miss Fanchington.”
“I have my share of faults, Miss Fyfield, but I do not number among them the trick of informing on a young lady. Particularly one who — if you will pardon an old man’s gallantry — has sufficient charm of person and manner to make one forget an even greater offence.” His keen eyes studied her thoughtfully, and a slight frown of concentration wrinkled his brow. “We have not met before, of that I am certain; yet you put me in mind of someone. Fyfield — I do not recall the name.”
“No, my lord I do not think you would know my name. My parents died when I was a baby, and I live with my widowed aunt, Mrs. Fyfield. That is to say, I stay with her and my cousin Cynthia during the holidays.”
“Somewhere close at hand, perhaps?”
Again Susan shook her head. “No sir, in London. But if you’ll forgive me, Mr. Walpole — Mr. Eversley—” She prepared to curtsy again.
“How did you come here?” asked Hugh Eversley. She balanced carefully on one foot, holding her skirt. “A farmer who serves the school with milk brought me part of the way in his gig. I walked the rest.”
She nodded, sank into her delayed curtsy, and turned to go.
“Stay,” commanded Eversley. She halted obediently. “I will drive you back. And while I fetch my curricle, I fancy you had better spend a few minutes before a mirror, if Miss Fanchington is not to suspect you have been up to some mischief.” He turned to his host. “Can that be arranged sir, think you?”
Walpole readily complied, and Susan was handed over to the housekeeper. In a very short time, she found herself seated beside Beau Eversley in a smart, precarious-looking vehicle pulled by two very fresh grey horses.
For a few moments she sat rigidly in her seat, her fingers clenched tightly in her lap. He glanced at her in amusement.
“What is amiss? Are you afraid your schoolmarm will have discovered your absence, and be waiting with the birch?”
Susan shook her head. “She doesn’t use one.”
“I didn’t seriously suppose she did. I understand there are punishments, however.”
“Oh, yes. But I was not thinking of that — I was not thinking of old Fanny at all, as a matter of fact.”
“Old Fanny?” he echoed, with a laugh. “Yes, of course, I’ve heard Georgy use the nickname. Then what else was it that could give you that apprehensive look? Mr. Walpole will keep his word, you know — he’ll not complain of your conduct.”
“It wasn’t anything like that. But the horses are so high spirited,” confessed Susan, reluctantly. “I wondered for a moment if we might be overturned; and then I saw, of course,” she added, hastily, “that you could manage them.”
He turned to face her, his tawny eyebrows lifted. “You saw — that I could manage them! Once again, child, you set me down. You must know that I am considered a — tolerable whip.”
“Oh, yes, I do know! Much better than tolerable! Georgy has told me of all your exploits. I am sure there must be nothing you cannot do well. I did not mean to suggest — only I have never been in a vehicle like this before, and it seemed a little dangerous—”
“It would do, after the farmer’s gig. Very well then, you are forgiven, and I am suitably mollified. I feel I must mention, by the way,” he added, “that you’d best not pay too much attention to what Georgy says of me. You must allow something for sisterly partiality.”
“She is certainly very proud of you,” agreed Susan. “Sometimes she tells us stories, in the dormitory, after the lamps are extinguished — she told us how you won the race to Brighton with an injured muscle in your arm — and how—”
“Does she so?” interrupted the Beau grimly. “It seems I must have a word with that young woman. She gives every promise of becoming a first rate bore.”
“Oh, no,” protested Susan. “We do so enjoy hearing her stories, truly! You see, so little that is interesting goes on at school.”
“Hence today’s escapade, I imagine.”
She was silent. He looked towards her again, this time searchingly.
“You know,” he said, slowly. “I may be doing you an injustice, but that story you told Mr. Walpole failed to convince me. There was some other explanation of your presence at Strawberry Hill, was there not? I feel certain that you did not go there just to see the house.”
The Clandestine Betrothal Page 1