Arabella

by Джорджетт Хейер

  “Never mind that!” begged his mother hastily. “You told me yesterday, Frederick! You may think Beaumaris what you please, but even you will not deny that it lies in his power to bring whom he will into fashion!”

  “Very likely, ma’am, but I have yet to learn that it lies in his power to prevail upon such men as Epworth, Morecambe, Carnaby, and—I must add!—Fleetwood, to offer marriage to a female with nothing but her face to recommend her!”

  “Not Fleetwood!” protested Lady Bridlington feebly.

  “Fleetwood!” repeated Frederick in an inexorable tone. “I do not mean to say that he is precisely hanging out for a rich wife, but that he cannot afford to marry a penniless girl is common knowledge. Yet his attentions towards Miss Tallant are more marked even than those of Horace Epworth. And this is not all! From hints dropped in my presence, from remarks actually made to me, I am persuaded that the greater part of our acquaintance believes her to be in the possession of a handsome fortune! I repeat, ma’am: what can you have said to have given rise to this folly?”

  “But I didn’t!” cried poor Lady Bridlington almost tearfully. “Indeed, I took the greatest pains not to touch on the question of her expectations! It is false to call her penniless, because she is no such thing! With all those children, of course the Tallants can do very little for her upon her marriage, but when her father dies—and Sophia, too, for she has some money as well—”

  “A thousand or so!” interrupted Frederick contemptuously. “I beg your pardon, ma’am, but nothing could be more plain to me than that something you have said—inadvertently, I daresay!—has done all this mischief. For mischief I must deem it! A pretty state of affairs it will be if we are to have the world saying—as it will say, once the truth is known!—that you have foisted an impostress upon society!”

  This terrible forecast temporarily outweighed in Lady Bridlington’s mind the sense of strong injustice the rest of her son’s remarks had aroused. She turned quite pale, and exclaimed: “What is to be done?”

  “You may rely upon me, ma’am, to do what is necessary,” replied Frederick. “Whenever the opportunity offers, I shall say that I have no notion how such a rumour came to be spread about.”

  “I suppose you must do so,” agreed his mother dubiously. “But I do beg of you, Frederick, not to take the whole world into your confidence on the subject! There is not the least need for you to enter into all the details of the poor child’s circumstances!”

  “It would be quite improper for me to do so, ma’am,” replied Frederick crushingly. “I am not responsible for her visit to London! I must point out to you, Mama, that it is you who have engaged yourself—unwisely, I consider—to establish her suitably. I am sure I have no desire to prejudice her chances of matrimony. Indeed, since I understand that you mean to keep her with you until some man offers for her, I shall be happy to see her married as soon as possible!”

  “I think you are very disagreeable!” said Lady Bridlington, dissolving into tears.

  Her peace of mind was quite cut up. When Arabella came into the room presently, she found her still dabbing at her eyes, and giving little sniffs. Quite dismayed, Arabella begged to be told the cause of this unhappiness. Lady Bridlington, glad of a sympathetic audience, squeezed her hand gratefully, and without reflection poured forth the sum of her grievances.

  Kneeling beside her chair, Arabella listened in stricken silence, her hand lying slackly within Lady Bridlington’s. “It is so unkind of Frederick!” Lady Bridlington complained. “And so unjust, for I assure you, my dear, I never said such a thing to a soul! How could he think I would do so? It would have been quite wicked to have told such lies, besides being so foolish, and vulgar, and everything that is dreadful! And why Frederick should think I could be so lost to all sense of propriety I am sure I don’t know!”

  Arabella’s head sank; guilt and shame almost overpowered her; she could not speak. Lady Bridlington, misreading her confusion, felt a qualm of conscience at having so unguardedly taken her into her confidence, and said: “I should not have told you! It is all Frederick’s fault, and I daresay he has exaggerated everything, just as he so often does! You must not let it distress you, my love, for even if it were true it would be absurd to suppose such a man as Mr. Beaumaris, or young Charnwood, or a great many others I could name, care a button whether you are a rich woman or a pauper! And Frederick will make everything right!”

  “How can he do so, ma’am?” Arabella managed to ask.

  “Oh, when he sees the opportunity, he will say something to damp such ridiculous notions! Nothing very much, you know, but making light of the story! We need not concern ourselves, and I am sorry I spoke of it to you.”

  With all her heart Arabella longed for the courage to confess the whole. She could not. Already Lady Bridlington was rambling on, complaining fretfully of Frederick’s unkindness, wondering what cause he had to suppose his mother ill-bred enough to have spread a false tale abroad, and wishing that his father were alive to give him one of his famous scolds. She said instead, in a subdued tone: “Is that why—why everyone has been so very polite to me, ma’am?”

  “Certainly not!” said Lady Bridlington emphatically. “You must have perceived, my love, how many, many friends I have in London, and you may believe they accepted you out of compliment to me! Not that I mean to say—But before you were at all known, naturally it was my sponsorship that started you in the right way.” She patted Arabella’s hand consolingly. “Then, you know, you are so bright, and pretty, that I am sure it is no wonder that you are so much sought-after. And above all, Arabella, we must remember that the world always follows what is seen to be the mode, and Mr. Beaumaris has made you the fashion by singling you out, even driving you in his phaeton, which is an honour indeed, I can tell you!”

  Arabella’s head was still bowed. “Does—does Lord Bridlington mean to tell everyone that I—that I have no fortune at all, ma’am?”

  “Good gracious, no, child! That would be a fatal thing to do, and I hope he would have more sense! He will merely say it has been greatly exaggerated—enough lo frighten away the fortune hunters, but what will not weigh with an honest man! Do not give it another thought!”

  Arabella was unable to obey this injunction. It was long before she could think of anything else. Her impulse was to fly from London, back to Heythram, but hardly had she reached the stage of calculating whether she still possessed enough money to pay her fare on the first coach than all the difficulties attached to such a precipitate retreat presented themselves to her. They were insuperable. She could not bring herself to confess to Lady Bridlington that her own was the wicked, ill-bred tongue accountable for the rumour, nor could she think of any excuse for returning to Yorkshire. Still less could she face the necessity of telling Papa and Mama of her shocking behaviour. She must remain in Park Street until the season came to an end, and if Mama was sadly disappointed at the failure of her schemes, at least Papa would never blame his daughter for returning to her home unbetrothed. She perceived clearly that unless something very wonderful were to happen this must be so, and felt herself guilty indeed.

  Not for several hours did her mind recover its tone, but she was both young and optimistic, and after a hearty burst of tears, followed by a period of quiet reflection, she began insensibly to be more hopeful. Something would happen to unravel her difficulties; the odious Frederick would scotch the rumour; people would gradually grow to realize that they had been mistaken. Mr. Beaumaris and Lord Fleetwood would no doubt write her down as a vulgar, boasting miss, but she must hope that they had not actually told everyone that it was she who had been responsible for the rumour. Meanwhile there was nothing to be done but to behave as though nothing were the matter. This, to a naturally buoyant spirit was not so hard a task as might have been supposed: London was offering too much to Arabella for her to be long cast-down. She might fancy all her pleasure destroyed, but she would have been a very extraordinary young woman who could have remembered her diff
iculties while cards and floral offerings were left every day at the house; while invitations poured in to every form of entertainment known to ingenious hostesses: while every gentleman was eager to claim her hand for the dance; while Mr. Beaumaris took her driving in the Park behind his match-grays, and every other young lady gazed enviously after her. Whatever the cause, social success was sweet; and since Arabella was a very human girl she could not help enjoying every moment of it.

  She expected to see some considerable diminution in her court once Lord Bridlington had let it be known that her fortune had been grossly exaggerated, and braced herself to bear this humiliation. But although she knew from Lady Bridlington that Frederick had faithfully performed his part, still the invitations came in, and still the unattached gentlemen clustered round her. She took fresh heart, glad to find that fashionable people were not, after all, so mercenary as she had been led to think. Neither she nor Frederick had the smallest inkling of the true state of affairs: she because she was too unsophisticated; Frederick because it had never yet occurred to him that anyone could doubt what he said. But he might as well have spared his breath on this occasion. Even Mr. Warkworth, a charitably-minded gentleman, shook his head over it, and remarked to Sir Geoffrey Morecambe that Bridlington was doing it rather too brown,

  “Just what I was thinking myself,” agreed Sir Geoffrey, scrutinizing his neck-tie in the mirror with a dissatisfied eye. “Shabby, I call it. Do you think this way I have tied my cravat has something of the look of the Nonpareil’s new style?”

  Mr. Warkworth directed a long, dispassionate stare at it. “No,” he said simply.

  “No, no more do I,” said Sir Geoffrey, said but unsurprised. “I wonder what he calls it? It ain’t precisely a Mail-coach, and it certainly ain’t an Osbaldeston, and though I did think it had something of the look of a Trone d’amour, it ain’t that either. I can tie every one of them.”

  Mr. Warkworth, whose mind had wandered from this vital subject, said, with a frown: “Damn it, it is shabby! You’re right!”

  Sir Geoffrey was a little hurt. “Would you say it was as bad as that, Oswald?”

  “I would,” stated Mr. Warkworth. “In fact, the more I think of it the worse it appears to me!”

  Sir Geoffrey looked intently at his own image, and sighed. “Yes, it does. I shall have to go home and change it.”

  “Eh?” said Mr. Warkworth, puzzled. “Change what?

  Good God, dear boy, I wasn’t talking about your neck-tie! Wouldn’t dream of saying such a thing to my worst enemy! Bridlington!”

  “Oh, him!” said Sir Geoffrey, relieved. “He’s a gudgeon!”

  “Oughtn’t to be gudgeon enough to think everyone else is one. Tell you what: wouldn’t do him any good if he did hoax everybody with the bag of moonshine! She’s a devilish fine girl, the little Tallant, and if you ask me she wouldn’t have him if he were the only man to offer for her.”

  “You can’t expect him to know that,” said Sir Geoffrey. “I shouldn’t wonder if he hasn’t a suspicion he’s a dead bore: in fact, he can’t have! Stands to reason: wouldn’t prose on as he does, if he knew it!”

  Mr. Warkworth thought this over. “No,” he pronounced at last. “You’re wrong. If he don’t know he’s a dead bore, why does he want to frighten off everyone else? Havey-cavey sort of a business: don’t like it! a man ought to fight fair.”

  “It ain’t that,” replied Sir Geoffrey. “Just remembered something: the little Tallant don’t want it to be known she’s as rich as a Nabob. Fleetwood told me: tired of being courted for her money. They were all after her in the north.”

  “Oh!” said Mr. Warkworth. He asked with vague interest: “Where does she come from?”

  “Somewhere up north: Yorkshire, I believe,” said Sir Geoffrey, inserting a cautious finger into one of the folds of his neck-tie, and easing it a trifle. “I wonder if that’s better?”

  “Well, that’s a queer thing. Saw Clayton the other day. He comes from Yorkshire, and he don’t know the Tallant.”

  “No, and Withernsea don’t either. Mind you, I won’t swear it was Yorkshire! Might have been one of those other devilish rural places—Northumberland, or something. Know what I think?”

  “No,” said Mr. Warkworth.

  “Shouldn’t be surprised if she’s the daughter of some merchant or other, which would account for it”

  Mr. Warkworth looked shocked. “No, really, dear old boy! Nothing of that sort about the girl! Never heard her utter a word that smelled of the shop!”

  “Granddaughter, then,” said Sir Geoffrey, stretching a point. “Pity, if I’m right, but I’ll tell you one thing, Oswald! I wouldn’t let it weigh with me.”

  Upon consideration, Mr. Warkworth decided that he would not either.

  Since these views were fairly representative, Arabella was not destined to suffer the mortification of seeing her usual gallants hang back when next she attended the Assembly at Almack’s. Lord Bridlington was escorting his mother and her guest, for besides being very correct in such matters, he liked Almack’s, and approved of the severity of the rules imposed on the club by its imperious hostesses. A number of his contemporaries said openly that an evening spent at Almack’s was the flattest thing in town, but these were frippery fellows with whom Lord Bridlington had little to do.

  His politeness led him to engage Miss Tallant for the first country-dance, a circumstance which made the unsuccessful applicants for her hand exchange significant glances. They saw to it that he should have no further opportunity of standing up with her. Not one of them would have believed that he had no desire to do so, much preferring to stroll about the rooms, telling as many people as could be got to listen to him all about his travels abroad.

  The waltz, which was still looked at askance by old-fashioned persons, had long since forced its way into Almack’s, but it was still the unwritten law that no lady might venture to take part in it unless one of the patronesses had clearly indicated her approval. Lady Bridlington had taken care to impress this important convention upon Arabella’s mind, so she refused all solicitations to take the floor when the fiddles struck up for the waltz. Papa would certainly not approve of the dance, she knew: she had never dared to tell him that she and Sophia had learnt the steps from their friends the Misses Caterham, a very dashing pair. So she retired to a chair against the wall, beside Lady Bridlington’s, and sat fanning herself, and trying not to look as though she longed to be whirling round the floor. One or two more fortunate damsels, who had watched with disfavour her swift rise to popularity, cast her glances of such pitying superiority that she had to recollect a great many of Papa’s maxims before she could subdue the very improper sentiments which entered her breast.

  Mr. Beaumaris, who had looked in midway through the evening—in fact, a bare ten minutes before the doors were relentlessly shut against late-comers—apparently for no other purpose than to entertain the wife of the Austrian Ambassador, saw Arabella, and was amused, guessing her emotions correctly. Suddenly he cast one of his quizzical looks at Princess Esterhazy, and said: “Shall I ask that chit to dance?”

  She raised her delicate black brows, a faint smile flickering on her lips. “Here, my friend, you are not supreme! I think you dare not.”

  “I know I dare not,” said Mr. Beaumaris, disarming her promptly. “That is why I ask you, Princess, to present me to the lady as a desirable partner.”

  She hesitated, glancing from him to Arabella, and then laughed, and shrugged. “Well! She does not put herself forward, after all, and I find her style excellent. Come, then!”

  Arabella, startled to find herself suddenly confronted by one of the most formidable patronesses, rose quickly.

  “You do not dance, Miss Tallant. May I present Mr. Beaumaris to you as a very desirable partner?” said the Princess with a slightly malicious smile cast at Mr. Beaumaris.

  Arabella could only curtsy, and blush, and be sorry to find that she was so ill-natured as to be conscious of feelings of igno
ble triumph over the ladies who had been kind enough to look pityingly at her.

  Mr. Beaumaris led her on to the floor, and encircled her waist with one arm, taking her right hand in a light clasp. Arabella was naturally a good dancer, but she felt extremely nervous, partly because she had never attempted the waltz, except in the Misses Caterham’s old schoolroom, and partly because it was so strange to be held in such close proximity to a man. For several turns she answered Mr. Beaumaris very much at random, being preoccupied with her feet. She was so much shorter than he that her head only just reached his shoulder, and since she felt shy she did not look up, but steadfastly regarded the top of his waistcoat. Mr. Beaumaris, who was not in the habit of devoting himself to such very young ladies, found this bashfulness amusing, and not unattractive. After he thought she had had time to recover from it a little, he said: “It is a nice waistcoat, isn’t it, Miss Tallant?”

  That did make her look up, and quickly too, her face breaking into laughter. She looked so lovely, and her big eyes met his with such a frank, ingenuous expression in them, that he was aware of a stir of something in his heart that was not mere amusement. But he had no intention of going to dangerous lengths with this or any other pretty chit, and he said, in a bantering tone: “It is customary, you know, to exchange polite conversation during the dance. I have now addressed no fewer than three unexceptionable remarks to you without winning one answer!”

  “You see, I am minding my steps,” she confided seriously.

  Decidedly this absurd child was a refreshing change from the generality of damsels! Had he been a younger man, he reflected, he might easily have succumbed to her charm. It was fortunate that he was thirty, and no longer to be caught by a pretty face and naive ways, for he knew well that these would pall on him, and that he wanted something more in the lady whom he would one day marry. He had never yet found just what he was looking for, did not even know what it might prove to be, and was perfectly resigned to his bachelordom.