*
At the time of this conversation Susan herself was already back in London. Shortly after Beau Eversley’s visit to Richmond, Evelina’s husband had returned from his travels. This lent force to Georgy’s persuasions that it was time for herself and Susan to leave for home. Happy in the reunion with her husband, Eve did not press them too hard to stay, but was quick to offer Susan a welcome at any time she chose to return.
Susan wished that she could have felt as certain of her welcome in Duke Street. But she need not have concerned herself: Mrs. Fyfield’s reception of her charge was all that she could have wished — less casual than that given her in the past on her return from school for the holidays, yet not so fussy as to seem insincere. Behind it, she sensed a genuine affection which both surprised and pleased her. At first, she stumbled over saying Mrs. Fyfield’s name, uncertain how to address the woman who she had always thought of as her aunt.
“Aunt Hattie will do,” pronounced that lady, firmly. “I’ve always been Aunt Hattie, and it’s too late now to change. Besides, my dear, I’ve long since accepted you as my very own niece. After Cynthia is wed, you and I may go on very comfortably, here together, I am sure, until someone comes along to marry you, in your turn — whether Beau Eversley,” she finished, giving Susan a keen look, “or another — it makes no odds.”
Cynthia, who was on her way out of the room at the time, paused on hearing this remark.
“Beau Eversley, indeed!” she said, with a smirk. “I hope you don’t imagine, Susan, that he has been wearing the willow for you while you’ve been away! I have it on very good authority that he’s been seen everywhere with that Irish play actress. They say he can’t bear to be out of her sight for half a day!”
The door closed behind her.
“Pay no heed to her!” advised Mrs. Fyfield. “She’s as high-strung as a racehorse at present! But no wonder — we poor females are all the same when we’re about to tie the knot! You’ll know what it is, my dear, when your turn comes, presently.”
Susan shook her head. “Who would be likely to want to marry me, now?” she said, bitterly.
“Fustian! Don’t be indulging in such morbid thoughts, child! I’m sure I know of no reason why anyone should not. You’re as pretty as paint, besides being less spoilt than some of these acknowledged Beauties who carry the Town by storm. But tell me, Susan—” she broke off, as a fresh thought occurred to her — “have you heard anything from Mr. Eversley about the search he was going to make for that nursemaid called Polly? I’ve been looking out for him every day in the hope of hearing some news.”
Susan told her about the journey into Middlesex, and the conclusions which they had drawn from it.
“The Radleys!” exclaimed Mrs. Fyfield in surprise. “So it seems likely you are related to them! Well, if so, child, you have nothing to fear from the world if the whole business were to be made public at once!”
“Oh, Aunt Hattie, promise you won’t say a word?” begged Susan, earnestly. “Not even to Cynthia! It’s by no means certain — in fact Mr. Eversley said that there was nothing at all one could call proof — and it would be dreadful if it should all be a mistake, and any rumour came to their ears!”
“You know me, Susan,” replied Mrs. Fyfield, with dignity. “Did I not keep the whole thing secret for all those years? But it’s not going to be a simple matter,” she added, thoughtfully, “for anyone to obtain conclusive proof. Beau Eversley is, of course, a great friend of the family—”
“He means to try and find out for me,” said Susan. “But supposing he can’t? As he says, it’s not an easy matter to ask intimate questions, even of very old friends. And where will I be if he can discover nothing to the purpose? For there seems no other way of finding out about my parentage.”
“You’ll be exactly where you are at present,” replied Mrs. Fyfield, with energy, “and there’s nothing wrong with that. No one need know you are not my niece, unless you choose to tell them so.”
“That’s what Georgy said—”
“Yes, well, for once she showed great good sense — though in general I think her a bit wild, although you may not like to hear it, for she has been a very good friend to you, I know. Very good sense,” she repeated, firmly. “And when it comes to marriage, why, you have all that money, you know. So that even if being my niece is not exactly the strongest recommendation — though nothing to be ashamed of, mark you, for both your uncle’s family (Oh dear, there I go again! I can’t remember that you are not truly my niece!) both his family, as I was saying, and my own, were gentlefolk, though not highly connected—” She stopped, and took a deep breath. “Oh, dear, where was I? I have forgot. But what it comes to, dearest child, is that you can marry anyone who asks you, and with a clear conscience, without troubling your head further about your parentage.”
Susan could not agree with this, but she refrained from further argument. The whole household was at present plunged into feverish activity, for the date of Cynthia’s wedding was now fixed, and in Mrs. Fyfield’s words, there were a thousand things to do. Most of these took Cynthia and her mother out of the house, so that Susan found herself alone a good deal. She could, of course, have accompanied the others on their trips to the various establishments which were to furnish Cynthia with her trousseau; but most often she declined, preferring to remain at home.
On one of these occasions, Beau Eversley called.
“Forgive me for disturbing you,” he said, bowing. “I thought to find Mrs. Fyfield with you.”
Susan offered him her hand; smiling in a composed way that was in marked contrast, he thought suddenly, to the confusion she had once shown whenever he confronted her. Her manner, however, was completely natural.
“Have you news for me?” she asked, eagerly. “Oh — I beg your pardon — won’t you sit down?”
He did so, watching while she settled herself against the arm of a striped satin sofa. She cupped her pointed chin in her hand, and a dark ringlet fell against her neck, just touching the tiny blue frill which edged her dress. That gesture reminded him of someone, he thought suddenly. Who could it be? Was it Barbara Radley?
She lowered her eyes, and he realized that he had been staring at her for several minutes.
“I fear I must disappoint you,” he said, making an effort to concentrate. “I haven’t succeeded in finding out anything conclusive. What Radley says makes it certain that there was some kind of—” he paused, rejecting the word “scandal” and casting about for a less offensive one — “of incident in which Robert Radley was involved immediately before his sudden death. The difficulty is that Peter can give me no details, because it is a subject which his parents have always refused to discuss with him.”
“I see,” she said, thoughtfully. Her dark eyes met his, and he steeled himself to keep back the warmth which suddenly flooded his own. Everything about her — every movement, every gesture, even the tones of her voice — now seemed to have the power to play upon his senses as though an expert hand touched a delicately tuned musical instrument. It had been like this before, he reminded himself, often and often. Desire was no new sensation to Beau Eversley; but with this girl there was something added...
“So now there is no hope of ever discovering who I am?” she continued. Her voice was quiet, but wistful. “I suppose it’s just as Georgy and Aunt Hattie say — it doesn’t really matter; no one else need ever know that I’m not the person I seem to be.”
“Susan!” He leaned forward impetuously, as if about to take her hand. She changed position, suddenly sitting upright with hands clasped tightly together in her lap. “Yes?” she said, in a thin voice.
He drew back. “Nothing. That is — I was about to agree with what you had just said.” He stood up, and took a turn or two about the room, trying to keep his eyes off her. “It does not really matter to anyone but yourself. Where you are known, you must always be — highly valued — on your own merits.”
“Thank you.” For a moment, she felt
a lump in her throat, but she swallowed resolutely. “You are very good. All the same—” she paused, and shook her head sadly. “I would like to know,” she concluded.
“You shall. I will think of a way.” He stopped pacing and turned to face her. He was in control again now, as the drawl in his voice clearly showed. “But let’s forget it just for a little while.” He glanced out of the window. “It’s a lovely morning. Can I persuade you to come driving in the Park with me?”
She began a reply, but was interrupted by a knock on the door. The shabby footman entered to announce another visitor.
“George!” exclaimed Susan, in relief, springing up from the sofa. “By all means show him in!”
A moment later, George entered the room resplendent in a yellow and white striped waistcoat and with his cravat tied in a new and dashing style. Beau Eversley’s eyeglass went up, and he nodded sagely.
“What the devil are you doing here, Hugh?” George’s face changed on seeing his brother.
“I might ask you the same question, my dear chap,” drawled the Beau.
“Well, if you must know, I’ve called in to see if Miss Fyfield will honour me by letting me take her for a spin in the Park,” replied George, a little on the defensive. “Not that it’s any concern of yours, of course.”
“Now isn’t that odd?”
“Odd? What d’ye mean, odd?” asked George, suspiciously.
“Don’t you mean to shake hands with me?” put in Susan, uncertain where this brotherly exchange was leading.
“You bet I do,” said George, wholeheartedly, taking her hand in a warm clasp, and bowing — “How d’ye do, Susan? How delightful to see you again! You don’t want this fellow here, do you? Shall I turn him out for you?”
“You are welcome to try, dear boy,” replied the Beau, in a languid tone.
“If you fancy I—”
“Don’t be absurd George,” said Susan, laughing. “Your brother was just leaving when you arrived, I believe.”
“Was I?” Hugh studied her face gravely for a moment. “Yes, perhaps I was. I trust you will enjoy your drive in the Park. As for the other matter, do not let it concern you. Please present my compliments to Mrs. Fyfield, and say I am sorry to have missed her. Your servant, ma’am.”
His fingers touched hers briefly; he bowed, and was gone.
He had almost reached his own house before his pulse was quite steady again.
Once indoors, he settled himself in the library with the intention of attending to some correspondence. He found himself unable to concentrate, however, and sat staring at a blank sheet of paper, while thoughts chased round in his mind. He wondered how long his present feeling for Susan might last. Was it only infatuation? If so, no doubt it would not long survive her present obvious indifference. The way she had jumped up when George was announced...
He set his jaw firmly. It would be a very good thing for them both if they were to become attached to each other. Of course, there could be no thought of marriage with George still at Oxford and not in command of his own means. But this was all to the good. Another few years should give George the added maturity needed to make him a good husband; while, as for Susan, she was young enough to wait. He wondered how deep the attraction between them was already. He recognized in his brother all the symptoms of calf-love common to young men of his age who had never been much in the petticoat line. Such a feeling could die out as quickly as Susan’s hero worship of himself had done; on the other hand, it could sometimes grow into a lasting attachment.
Suddenly he threw down his pen, and rose impatiently from the desk. To hell with everything! He wished he had never met the girl — never gone that day to Strawberry Hill.
He pulled his thoughts up short for the moment. Strawberry Hill! Why had it never struck him before? That was where he must go to find an answer to Susan’s puzzle! If there was one man in the whole of England who would know the full story of any Society scandal, that man was surely Horace Walpole.
THE LION’S DEN
“What d’you say?” asked George, eagerly. “Will you come?”
Susan pulled herself back from an immense distance. “Mm? Oh — oh, yes, I suppose so.”
“Well, I must say,” protested George in a hurt tone, “you might sound a bit more enthusiastic about it. What’s amiss? Don’t you wish to come out with me?”
“Oh, I beg your pardon!” She flashed a smile of great sweetness at him. “Of course I would like it of all things! And it is so good of you to offer.”
“I don’t know,” replied George, looking a little pink. “The fact is I’d do a great deal for you, Susan.”
“Would you?” She regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, as though weighing something in her mind.
“Yes, I dashed well would. In fact,” he added, thinking this needed improving upon, “you’ve only to name anything you’d like me to do for you, and it’s as good as done.”
“Anything?”
He hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Well — anything within reason, that is.”
“Oh!” she drew back, as though disappointed. “Then it’s no use asking you the thing that was in my mind.”
“You mean there’s something you’d like me to do?” he asked incredulously.
She nodded. “Yes. But I’m not sure you would consider it a reasonable request.”
“We’ll see about that. Just tell me what it is, first.”
“Very well.” She took a deep breath. “George, instead of driving me in the Park, I want you to take me to a village in Middlesex.”
“Middlesex?” he stared. “Whatever for?”
“I can’t tell you — that’s another thing you’ll have to do for me — trust me.”
“That’s all very well,” he demurred, common sense reasserting itself, “but it’s a bit of a queer start, ain’t it? Besides, I couldn’t drive you all the way to Middlesex in a curricle. Wouldn’t be proper. Driving in the Park’s one thing—”
“Oh, very well,” replied Susan, coldly. “But I thought you said you’d do anything—”
She watched him struggle for a moment in silence.
“All right, you win,” he conceded. “I’ll take you; but tell you what — I think we ought to take Georgy along with us. There might be a bit of a kick up if we went alone. We can’t all go in the curricle, of course,” he added, as an afterthought. “We’ll get another vehicle for you two and I’ll ride. What about your aunt? Will she let you go, d’you think?”
“I shan’t ask her,” said Susan, quickly. “There isn’t time, for I don’t know when she and Cynthia may return home. I’ll leave a message for her. Very well, we can take Georgy, if you think it’s best. But do let us go — now, please.”
But when they reached the house, Georgy was out with Lady Eversley, and was not expected back for some hours. An argument ensued, which Susan ended by stating defiantly that she would go alone if George did not care to take her.
“I really believe you would!” he said, with reluctant admiration. “You don’t care a fig for the conventions, do you?”
“Well, if I don’t, I can’t see why you should!” retorted Susan.
“Different thing altogether, my dear girl,” George began to explain. “I’m in a deuced awkward position, don’t you see? Kind of responsible for you, if you know what I mean.”
“No,” said Susan flatly. “I don’t know. No one’s responsible for me but myself.” She broke off, and added in a quieter tone — “I’m entirely on my own. Anyway—” her voice quickened again — “for goodness’ sake do let’s stop arguing, and go.”
So they went in the curricle. After they had left behind London’s traffic and were bowling along in the country, George tried to question Susan about her reasons for the journey, but she was resolute in refusing to answer him. He protested that she ought to realize she could trust him; adding in a slightly injured tone that he was quite sure she had kept secrets from him when she had been staying in Richmond, but t
hat she had seemed ready enough to share them with the rest of his family.
“I suppose you put me down as a gabster!” he contended, indignantly. “And there’s an end of it!” Susan laid a hand placatingly on his arm.
“Dear, kind George,” she pleaded, “if only you will not tease me now! Perhaps later I may be able to tell you the whole — only there is something I must find out first, and that is why we must go to Pyncott.”
He was very willing to be cajoled by her, and so he dropped the subject, confining his conversation to the sights and incidents of the road. Apart from a slight altercation with a waggoner, who for some time refused to pull in to the hedge sufficiently to allow George to pass, these were unexciting. Not far from Edgware, George felt the pangs of thirst, and suggested that they might stop and refresh themselves at the next village inn. Susan insisted, however, that they must press on; she felt too nervous to bear any delay in putting her desperate plan into action. She dared not think what George’s reactions would be when she told him what she intended to do.
They were both feeling a trifle jaded by the time they turned off the turnpike road along the carters’ track that led to the village of Pyncott. The horses, too, were flagging.
“It’s the heat—” began George, then broke off as the roughness of the track set every tooth in his head chattering. “My God, Susan, where in thunder have you brought us to? Damme if I ever drove over such a surface!”
“It’s all right,” Susan assured him, clinging on to the seat for dear life. “We’re nearly there now — there’s an inn just a little further along, where we may halt.”
“So I should hope — hold tight!”
He flung himself protectively against her as the vehicle gave a shuddering lurch, and came to an abrupt standstill. It rocked for a moment as though it would topple over, while George held firmly on to the reins, and Susan clung just as firmly to George. After a few moments it subsided, remaining upright as if by a miracle.
The Clandestine Betrothal Page 17