“You are most discreet, Mama,” remarked Cynthia, with a curious look at her parent. “I often wonder at it, for no one could say you are a woman of few words!”
“I may talk, child, but I never talk of anything that matters,” explained Mrs. Fyfield. “Your father used to say so, and it drove him quite wild, poor dear! However, let us keep to the point. Someone may have heard that Susan is wealthy, and have set himself to captivate the child.”
“What, while she was at the seminary?” asked Cynthia, scornfully. “You cannot have a very clear notion of what life is like there, Mama. Miss Fanchington is most strict, I assure you—”
“These things do happen, my love, in spite of strict guardians and rules. Why, I remember when I was a young girl, younger even than Susan — but never mind that,” she broke off, hastily.
But Cynthia was not attending, or she might have remarked on yet another example of her mother’s unexpected discretion. She was following a train of thought of her own.
“Mama,” she said, presently, “I have never quite understood how it is that Susan is so wealthy while we have barely enough to live in the style of gentlefolk. Surely grandfather provided equally for both his sons, so that my father would have been as wealthy as hers? Or was there some special inheritance that came to Susan’s father, and then, on his death, to Susan—”
“Lud, child, I have never troubled my head with such things as wills and legal settlements, but left all to the lawyers; and I advise you to do the same! All I can tell you is that your poor dear father was unlucky in his investments, and when he died I found myself in very sore straits indeed! But all that’s past history, and doesn’t help us to decide what’s to be done about Susan.”
“Personally, I propose to ignore what she has said,” stated Cynthia. “It is just a piece of play-acting, I am assured, and if we don’t refer to it again, she’ll very likely admit presently that it was all a take-in. She has done that before, recollect, on other similar occasions?”
“Yes, but she’s older now,” objected Mrs. Fyfield. “And there was something about her manner when she insisted that she had been secretly engaged for some months past — something that convinced me the child was in love.” She paused. “It was a kind of — of shining quality in her look, that one sees sometimes in girls who are newly betrothed. You may call me fanciful if you like, Cynthia—” intercepting a scornful glance — “but she could not have conjured up an expression like that without good cause.”
“She may not be as innocent as we suppose,” retorted Cynthia. “But I am certain there is no secret engagement.”
“Do not say you suspect anything worse!” exclaimed her mother, in horror.
“Have no fear, Mama. Whatever you say I can’t suppose that she’s had any opportunity for — emotional entanglements — at the seminary. Possibly the dancing master may have aroused some foolish notions, but you can be sure that Miss Fanchington would make quite certain that there were no opportunities for dalliance. It is all in Susan’s head, of that I am convinced.”
“Perhaps I ought to have a word with her, though,” said Mrs. Fyfield doubtfully, “Miss Fanchington, I mean.”
“Had she known of anything, she would have thought it her duty to tell you, Mama. No, do as I say, and let the matter be. When Susan comes down from her room, let us meet her with calm faces and refer no more to her extraordinary outburst. We will go on exactly as we did before. I suppose,” she added, as an afterthought, “she is to accompany us to Ranelagh tomorrow evening?”
“Tut!” exclaimed Mrs. Fyfield, “I’d forgotten about that — but, yes, assuredly she must go, for she was asking that very thing almost the moment she arrived, before you came into the room. It seems Ranelagh is one of the places she most wants to visit. Though, as I pointed out to her, it is not what it used to be when I was young—”
Cynthia stifled a yawn. “So I have heard you say countless times, Mama. But I think Mr. Beresford will be quite content, as long as the weather continues fine. Like Susan, he will be seeing Ranelagh for the first time.”
*
The pleasure gardens of Ranelagh lay beside the River Thames in the village of Chelsea, and could be reached either by water or over a well-lit road which ran straight from Buckingham Gate. On a fine evening, it was pleasant to make the journey on the river in the brightly painted boats which were manned by watermen wearing white coats over their red or blue breeches. Unfortunately, the watermen were notorious for their shockingly forthright turn of speech. No doubt it was this which decided Mr. Beresford to convey his party to Ranelagh by coach.
The choice turned out not to be an entirely happy one. The road was jammed with vehicles which hindered their progress and threw up constant clouds of white dust.
“For heaven’s sake, Susan, wind up your window!” urged Mrs. Fyfield, coughing. “There is nothing to be seen yet, and we shall all choke to death!”
Susan complied, with a small sigh, and contented herself with smoothing the folds of her pink satin gown. This had been borrowed from her cousin’s wardrobe, and hastily taken in a little in order to make it a better fit. It was quite three years old and therefore not in the very latest mode; but to one used to wearing Miss Fanchington’s choice of dress, it represented high fashion.
“We must see that lawyer of yours, and persuade him to provide you with the necessary funds to set up a new wardrobe,” Mrs. Fyfield had promised. “But that will take a day or two, and in the meantime you had best borrow something of Cynthia’s; for I declare I positively will not take you to Ranelagh in that monstrosity of a white gown — more like a bed-wrapper, I am sure! — that Miss Fanchington thought suitable for evening wear.”
Susan had agreed wholeheartedly with these sentiments. While she waited impatiently for the coach to move onwards to Ranelagh, she allowed her mind to dwell pleasantly on what she would buy with her allowance. Many of the girls at the seminary had talked endlessly of dress, and some had produced fashion plates from the Lady’s Monthly Museum, showing what the well-dressed female of the moment was wearing. She wrinkled her brow, trying to call these pictures to mind. There was a vogue for lighter materials, she remembered: muslins, cambrics and lutestring, instead of the silks, satins and damasks that had previously been used for lady’s gowns. Because of the war, so the magazines had stated, materials brought in from the Continent would be more difficult to obtain; but there was also a trend towards simplicity which had started in France, where to be dressed in rich materials was to declare oneself an aristocrat, and thus invite danger.
The coach moved on again with a jerk which set the plumes in Mrs. Fyfield’s crimson velvet turban nodding. Susan felt her excitement mounting. Soon they would be there.
There were to be many more stops and starts, however, and it was growing dusk before they finally reached the gate, where Mr. Beresford paid their dues and led them into the grounds of Ranelagh.
Susan looked eagerly about her. The extensive gardens were laid out in gravel walks and smooth lawns, shaded by yews and elms. Coloured lights glimmered among the trees, and from somewhere close at hand the scent of roses floated across the evening air. On her right stood a large circular building, slightly raised above the level of the rest of the gardens. The light streaming from its unshuttered windows gave it the appearance of a giant lantern. Mr. Beresford kindly informed her that this was the Rotunda, where people gathered to hear the orchestra and the singers, to partake of supper in one of the elegant boxes, or simply to stroll round and round the floor gazing at the rest of the company.
Mrs. Fyfield was in favour of making straight for the Rotunda; but Susan pleaded to be allowed to walk just a little while in the gardens. Mr. Beresford lent weight to her request by also stating a preference for this course, so the party turned in the direction of an ornamental canal which lay on the other side of the Rotunda.
Susan exclaimed in delight as they approached it. An illuminated Chinese temple stood on an island in the water, its lights
reflected in the ripples made by small boats which drifted past them, each carrying a lantern suspended on a pole.
“Oh, how lovely!” she cried, eagerly.
Several passers-by heard this, and threw an amused glance in her direction. One of them, a tall, elegant gentleman with a striking-looking dark female on his arm, looked not once, but twice, on the second occasion taking his time about it.
“Sue, how you’ve made people stare!” whispered Cynthia, peevishly. “I declare, that gentleman is quite rude — Oh!”
She broke off, as the offender turned his eyes away from Susan and sauntered on with his attractive companion. Cynthia touched her mother on the arm, and stared after the couple in her turn.
“Mama!” There was excitement in her tone. “Did you notice who that was, the gentleman who looked round at Susan’s silly remark? It was none other than Beau Eversley!”
“Yes, to be sure, love, I believe you are right! Though I did not catch more than a glimpse of him, myself—”
“Yes, it was,” put in Susan quietly.
“How do you know, pray?” asked Cynthia, sharply. “You can never have seen him before.”
“But I have. He came to Miss Fanchington’s once.” Susan’s voice trembled a little. “You forget that Georgiana Eversley was a pupil there, and a particular friend of mine.”
“To be sure, I have heard you mention her name,” said Mrs. Fyfield. “But I did not know that you were acquainted with her brother. He is reckoned a prodigious Beau by everyone, you know; and I am sure for my part, I never saw a more handsome man!”
“I — I am not exactly acquainted with him—” began Susan, hesitantly.
“No, how should you be?” interrupted Cynthia, crushingly. She considered her mother’s final remark tactless in view of Mr. Beresford’s presence, and did not intend to prolong a conversation which she could see very well her betrothed did not relish. “I dare say he is unaware of your existence!”
Mr. Beresford managed to forestall the hasty retort that was trembling on Susan’s lips by suggesting that, if the ladies had seen enough of the gardens for the present, they might like to go into the Rotunda and have some supper. This was agreed upon, and they retraced their steps.
After the twilight of the gardens, the Rotunda seemed ablaze with light and colour.
Susan gazed entranced at the company strolling in groups round the floor, which was covered with mats to deaden the sound. The gay colours of the ladies’ dresses and the quieter hues of the gentlemen’s coats formed a bright rainbow which circled before her under the lights of the glittering chandeliers.
“You may well stare, my love,” said Mrs. Fyfield, “and indeed, it is odd that people are content to pass their time walking round and round like so many tops. But it is quite the thing, you know! Everybody comes here, though perhaps not quite as they did at first. I remember when I was very young, my Mama telling me that Mr. Horace Walpole had said that the floor was all of beaten princes. That was because,” she explained, “you could scarcely set foot on it without bumping into one of the royal dukes. However, even nowadays you never know whom you may meet with — only fancy our seeing Beau Eversley here, and with such an attractive female too! I do wonder who she may be — though I dare say she is someone not quite — well, you know, they do say that he keeps the most odd company—” She broke off abruptly, and glanced at Susan, whose face was slightly pink. “But such talk is not for your ears, child,” she concluded, hastily. “Only look at that wonderful central column where the great fireplace is situated! Do you not admire the paintings, and those flower-branches of small lamps hanging from the pillars? Yes; I dare say that to you Ranelagh is quite the most amazing place you have ever seen! I’m so glad that we hit upon the notion of bringing you here.”
Cynthia interrupted to say quellingly that the original idea of the expedition had been to show Ranelagh to Mr. Beresford, and not to her cousin. Mrs. Fyfield was immediately contrite; and began to point out the various features of the building to her daughter’s betrothed, who received her information in his usual calm manner.
While the three of them were occupied in this way, Susan, finding herself ignored for the moment, again looked about her. She noticed that rows of boxes were set round the building, one at floor level and another encircling a gallery above. Inside each of the boxes was a table spread with a cloth for supper. Many of them were already occupied, often by couples who, even from a distance, looked as though they were behaving in a shockingly lover-like manner. Susan hastily averted her eyes from one box where an elderly and rather stout gallant was pawing a very young girl who obviously did not object to his attentions. She turned her glance instead briefly on the box nearest the spot where they were standing. Then she started, and blushed, for she found herself looking straight into the eyes of Beau Eversley. He was standing alone, leaning over the balustrade and inspecting the crowd through his quizzing glass. No more than a few yards divided them. She saw that he had recognized her, and tried to look away, but he held her glance with those twinkling hazel eyes of his. Before she could guess his intention, he had left the box and was strolling across the floor towards her.
Instinctively, she drew a little away from the others. They were still engrossed in their conversation, and as people were passing to and fro all the time, for the moment they did not notice that Susan was no longer at their side.
Hugh Eversley bowed slightly. “It’s Horry Walpole’s nymph, isn’t it? I noticed you in the gardens, but could not immediately recollect where I had seen you before.” Susan curtsied, and gave him a shy greeting.
“So you have left Miss Fanchington’s establishment behind you for the moment, Miss-er — I fear I cannot recall your name. Pray forgive me.”
“Susan Fyfield,” she prompted. “And I’ve left the seminary for ever, sir, thank goodness.”
“So you are supposed to have attained years of discretion?” He briefly surveyed the pink gown, and nodded approval. “Yes, you do better in garments of your own choosing — if I may say so, of course — you gain a maturity and elegance which is impossible in Old Fanny’s grey uniform.”
“And yet,” said Susan, with a dimple, “even this gown is not truly of my own choosing. It is—’’she hesitated, unsure of her dignity if she owned to the truth — “it is only a borrowed one of my cousin’s,” she confessed, in a rush.
“The young lady in your party?” he asked, indicating the others with a slight movement of his head.
“Yes. Perhaps,” began Susan, doubtful on this point of etiquette, “perhaps I ought to present you?”
“Another time, possibly.” He did not sound eager for the honour. He glanced behind him. Susan’s eyes followed his, and she noticed that the dark-haired female whom she had seen him with earlier in the gardens, was now standing awaiting him in the box he had recently quitted. She was studying Susan intently, and Susan was close enough to notice a certain hostility in her look.
“I have company at present.” Again he gave the slight, careless bow which had introduced their conversation. “Au revoir, Miss Fyfield.”
She stood for a moment staring after him until her cousin’s voice at her elbow recalled her to her surroundings.
“Well! I declare! It is not at all fitting that you should be putting yourself forward in that way, more or less forcing Mr. Eversley to acknowledge you! Mama, I think you should speak to Susan, at once!”
Susan turned away from the box. “I did not force him to acknowledge me!” she retorted indignantly.
“Well, but I am sure you must have smiled, or bowed, or something — for you did say that you weren’t exactly acquainted with him,” Cynthia reminded her, tartly. “And I think the least you could have done, since he did come over and speak to you, was to present him to your family. You showed a shocking want of conduct, and I wonder that Mama should tolerate it!”
“Well, I dare say Susan was quite taken by surprise,” remarked Mrs. Fyfield, placatingly. “For no one could
expect that a man of fashion would bother to acknowledge a girl straight from the schoolroom whom he has scarcely set eyes on, before this. But no doubt his sister has been talking a great deal about you, and that is how he was able to call you to mind. What did he say to you, my love? It is a great condescension on his part, as you must realize.”
“I — he—” stammered Susan, by now rosy cheeked — “He remarked on my — gown.”
“On — your gown, child?” echoed Mrs. Fyfield, faintly.
“You mean my gown,” corrected Cynthia. “And what did he say about that, pray?”
“Oh, I — I do not want to be questioned further!” exclaimed Susan, with a toss of her dark curls. “It was a — private conversation, after all!”
Mrs. Fyfield and Cynthia exchanged glances, the one puzzled, the other incredulous. By common consent, however, they dropped the subject, deeming it bad manners to inflict it any longer on Mr. Beresford. A similar inquiry was at the same moment being conducted in the box, though in a very different manner.
Beau Eversley and his lady had seated themselves at the same side of the supper table, very close together. He handed her a glass of champagne, and raised his own.
“To the sparkle in your eyes,” he said, softly.
Very fine eyes they were, too, of a blue so deep that it was almost violet. She leaned forward with one elbow on the table, and rested her chin in her hand, turning to face him, so that one of her glossy ringlets fell forward. He set down his glass, and twisted his finger in the lock of black hair, at the same time cynically reflecting that hair of that particular hue must surely owe something to art. Now that he was so close to her, for the first time he noticed the tiny lines under her fair fine skin, denoting that she was not quite so young as might have been supposed. These observations made no difference to his interest in the lady. He still would not have changed her company for that of any other woman of his acquaintance — but, after all, he had known her only a short time, as yet too short to find her tedious, like the others.
The Clandestine Betrothal Page 3