The Autumn Rose

by Fiona Hill

  After this Miss Windle crumpled up into a heap, exhausted by her oratory, and more than a trifle bosky. Caroline, as she assisted her to rise and bundled her slowly back into her bed-chamber, assured her no gentleman had ever been so well defended as Lord Romby had just had the honour to be.

  “I endeavour,” the collapsed lady said faintly, “to be a friend to my friends.”

  Lady Caroline made soothing noises and rang the bell for Mary, into whose care she shortly afterwards entrusted her chaperone. This gave her time to shut herself gratefully into her own chamber and lose herself in her thoughts. She had a good deal to think about, and her reflections were not entirely pleasant. It was cheerful to remember that Seabury had turned to her for counsel; cheerful too to recall the mild, trusting glance of his dark eyes. Even the sudden confession she had made, regarding her esteem for him, was not altogether disagreeable to consider, though it did make her a trifle giddy to remember how boldly she had made her avowal. This was a subtle vertigo indeed for Lady Caroline! The melancholy, even frustrating theme of her meditation was that in spite of all she had done to disentangle herself from mischief and Mockabee, she had none the less exposed Seabury and his family to public scrutiny and ridicule—for it was beyond hoping that anyone should fail to recognize her as the subject of the poem in The Times. In fact, Lady Beatrice had already sent over a note (Mr. Walfish had discovered the verse and interpreted it to her) informing her that half London was in a hum over it, that at least half of those who read it guessed correctly the identity of Lord M, and that this was not what she had meant by developing an eccentric character. Caro thought it a little hard that Lady Beatrice should chuse not to acknowledge her share in developing that character—for whether or not Caro had ultimately misused it, there was no doubt of its being in large part what made the doggerel so delicious an on-dit—and yet she was obliged to own, very mournfully, that she had really brought it on herself. She regretted it infinitely more for Seabury’s sake than for her own; otherwise she should not have been sorry, but rather merely furious. Retaliation, which would once have been her first concern, was out of the question on the same grounds. She must bear it as she could, she told herself grimly; after her first excursion back into the world the worst of the humiliation would be behind her.

  Baron Mockabee received two communications from Rucke House that thirteenth day of May. The tenor of the first the reader may guess. The second, no less interesting, arrived towards the close of day, when his lordship was just on the point of retiring to dress for dinner and the Opera. With a sigh the baron sank into an armchair to examine the missive; with a gasp, almost, he read its contents:

  This present writing comes to you in consequence of a poem appearing this morning in The Times, which I perceive to have been written by you on the subject of my kinswoman Lady C.W. She being under my protection, it falls to me to act for her when I discover her the topic of a sly, unflattering piece of verse in a public newspaper. Sir Matthew Winterborn does me the honour of acting for me in this matter. If you will be so good as to appoint a time convenient to you, and a place also convenient, I will be pleased to meet you there.

  I have the honour to remain

  Your obdt. etc,

  Seabury.

  Mockabee’s first thought was that the challenge had nothing to do at all with Lady Caroline, but rather that she, and the poem, were being used as a pretext to mask the more alarming issue—Amy. But could the chit keep a secret no longer than a few hours? How had she made the viscount suspicious enough to question her, and how much had she told? If she were really so unaccomplished in the arts of duplicity, might he not do better to drop the whole scheme at once, before it even began? Her part in the business, it was true, was very slight; he would do most of the work. Still, some little deception would be required of her…The baron next considered that perhaps Seabury was indeed concerned only with Caroline—though now that he had vented his spleen against her, Lord Mockabee could not imagine why anybody should trouble with the ridiculous creature. If that were the case, then Amy had governed herself adequately. Moreover, Seabury would not be shooting to wound over a mere poem; it was a simple matter of the honour of a kinswoman, nothing deep or complex. Maybe, Mockabee even considered, he ought to offer an apology and let it go at that. But the memory of the graceless rebuff Caroline had dealt him, and her nasty parting threat, immediately made this alternative too distasteful to pursue.

  He must meet Lord Seabury as his lordship requested; if he could first discover from Amy Meredith what exactly was at issue, so much the better. With a fresh sigh he wrote out a terse note to the Honble. George Blount, a young hussar who was not, for reasons both obscure and compelling, in a position to refuse Lord Mockabee a favour. The baron would have preferred an older man, but the gentleman he generally chose for his second had been greatly affected by the bloodshed resulting from the Embrey affair, and was, upon the whole, better left to cool for a while. It was troublesome, these challenges. They seemed to appear with a startling regularity, at least one a month. At least, the baron imagined with some satisfaction, Lord Seabury passed too many hours in Parliament to be a very good shot.

  Chapter VIII

  “My dear man,” Sir Sidney Pettingill kept sputtering, “My dear sir…My dear man,” he repeated, while a fresh burst of perspiration appeared on his brow, forming a thin bright mist in the morning sun, “My dear man, I am at a loss for what to say.” On these words he exhaled mightily, as if much relieved to have ended his sentence (as indeed he was) and sank, a plumpish mass, into a fatly cushioned chair. His dear man, always gazing at him curiously, seated himself too and waited patiently to hear what mission aroused such inarticulateness in the glib Pettingill.

  Lord Seabury (for he it was whom Sir Sidney addressed) thought it appropriate at this moment to offer his caller a dish of tea, or perhaps some orgeat since it was so warm.

  “Sherry, if you please,” came the hoarse reply. “I should die, I sometimes think,” he further remarked, with a glistening half-smile, “were it not for a glass of sherry. Ghastly heat, I protest.”

  “Abominable,” the viscount agreed politely, though he did not appear at all oppressed by the weather. He rose again, crossed the Gilt Saloon, and poured from a crystal decanter into a silver cup.

  “This is a sticky business, I assure you, my dear man,” Pettingill went on, “or else I should not be so long about it. It is about Lady—Lady Caroline I am come, you know. Dear fellow, bless you for this,” he injected gratefully as he accepted the cup from his companion. “It is a matter of—I dareswear you do not win quite so often at brag as you once did, sir!” he suddenly exclaimed, with a sly wink Lord Seabury found almost as surprising as the words it underscored.

  “I am afraid I do not entirely understand you,” he said. “Though what you say is true, it is equally true that I no longer lose quite so often at brag either. In short, Sir Sidney, I no longer play quite so often. Indeed, I have not played this age.”

  “Gave it up out of frustration did you? You ought not to have let her discourage you so easily, dear fellow! I could have educated you, had you but asked, just as I did her. What a minx she is!”

  This was all much gibberish to Seabury, and he did not disguise his confusion.

  “You do not understand me yet?” asked Pettingill.

  “I am sorry to say I do not.”

  “I refer very simply to—but maybe I had best not pursue it after all,” he amended in a rush, for it struck him that perhaps this was a sore point with the viscount. “In any case, that was mere conversation, you know. My true goal—my real—” after much hesitation, Pettingill took a handkerchief from a pocket in his waistcoat and mopped his damp brow with it. The moisture there was really remarkable; it had even seeped up into his (somewhat) carroty hair, which it was causing to curl still more profusely than was usual. He regretted deeply, though silently, having worn such a high collar; of course he had wished to cut a fine figure before Lord Seabury,
but this was nonsense. Casting a voiceless curse at the day, he attempted to resume his thought. “My real aim in coming here is to ask—no, first I must remind you that I am, though not of so high a rank as yours, still not bereft of gentility. I suppose you know—in any case, I inform you now—there have been Pettingills in Dorset an hundred years or more, nor has one left any legacy but honour to the name. Oh dear!” he corrected himself an instant later, “what have I said? I do not intend to state that one Pettingill has left nothing but honour to the next, for indeed, on the contrary—as I was about to say, dear sir, my ancestors have left a good deal more, of property and such, naturally. I only wish to note, that no scandal has ever attached to the name of Pettingill. No scandal,” he repeated for emphasis. “That is my meaning.”

  His lordship had not misconstrued the initial statement for a moment, but he attempted to look enlightened now in order to soothe Sir Sidney. The phrase, “Pettingills in Dorset,” fell oddly upon his ear, and reminded him for some reason of Mrs. Wickware complaining that there were mice in the pantry, but he did not allow his handsome mouth even to hint at a smile. Sir Sidney looked too earnest to be calm under such an indignity.

  “I have got, to put it bluntly, twenty thousand a year in income, you know,” the visitor now went on. “My estate in Dorset is considerable, as I suppose you are aware. In brief, if you can tolerate a baronet for a kinsman, I should like to offer for Lady Caroline. If she will have me. That is to say, I shall offer and see if she will have me.”

  Lord Seabury had formed several conjectures as to what Sir Sidney had on his mind, but none was so extraordinary as the one he had just revealed. The effect upon Seabury was that of a sudden piece of very bad news. He sat almost staring, and said nothing.

  “Dear sir, my dear man!” cried Pettingill, immediately putting a woeful interpretation upon his host’s silence. “I hope you do not consider I am too young for her ladyship! Indeed, I thought of it long and hard, and though it is true she is no green girl, I am not quite an infant either. It is fact, sir,” he went on somewhat more reflectively, “that her ladyship has passed through a large number of child-bearing years already—six or seven at least, I am well aware of it—but she has more than a few ahead of her, and I need only one heir after all.” On these last words Sir Sydney gave a little chuckle, and tossed a knowing look at Seabury, who did not return it.

  “This is a surprise, sir,” he finally said, very gravely and slowly. “I must think for a moment.”

  The baronet apparently considered that no one ought to be obliged to think in peace, for he at once began to speak again, babbling on quite maniacally. “I could have gone to her brother, Inlowe; and indeed I almost did write to him, my dear man. But then, thought I to myself, why she is under Lord Seabury’s protection now! Perhaps it will be enough to apply to him. Besides, Lady Caroline is no baby; if it came to that, she could marry as she chose. So I am come to you, my dear fellow, as a sort of compromise. Perhaps you are not the properest person to ask, but you are more proper than no one. Hey, old man?” he concluded, feeling quite cheerful now that he had managed to say what was necessary to be said.

  Seabury, who had scarcely attended him, finally brought out carefully, “I am the more surprised that you should chuse this particular morning to apply to me since it was but yesterday that all London read that unfortunate poem about her ladyship in The Times. I suppose it does not distress you overmuch?” he asked, with a peculiar intonation.

  “Poem about Lady Caroline?” Sir Sidney echoed, obviously hearing of it for the first time. “What poem is that, my dear man?”

  “Why—this,” Seabury said, rising again and returning with the unhappy newspaper. Pettingill stared at it, frowning, for a minute; then raised his head and looked, amazed, at Seabury.

  “This is about Lady Caroline?” he asked incredulously.

  “Assuredly,” Seabury returned, equally incredulous that Pettingill should doubt it.

  “I read it yesterday, but I assure you I had no notion—! I thought it a most curious little rhyme!”

  “In that case, though it is not pleasant, I must suggest you read it again. As you see, it is far from kind.”

  Sir Sidney read and reread the poem. “I am sorry,” he confessed at last, “but I do not understand this—this last of first bit. What the devil does it mean?”

  Lord Seabury explained that it referred to the word Line.

  “Oh my! So it does indeed,” said Pettingill, looking at it once more. “Deuced clever. Who wrote it?”

  As Pettingill appeared only to be mildly interested—not the least bit dismayed or outraged—Seabury saw no point in answering his question truthfully, and only said, “I do not know. It will be some time, however, before the ton stops prattling about it, so you may wish to take that into account when you consider offering for Caroline.”

  “You do not mean to say that other people knew it to be she as well?” Sir Sidney asked in wonderment.

  “Everybody, I fear; or so it seems.”

  “Extraordinary!” opined Pettingill, while his host thought, very uncharitably, that he had never seen such a clunch as this Sir Sidney. He murmured an indistinct reply, so vague that Pettingill supposed he must be thinking about the proposal again, and again set out to provide a background of aimless chatter. “It will be pleasant for Lady Caroline, I believe, that she need not be too very far from her home. It is not a morning’s walk, that is so; but it will not be too much for her to travel into Berkshire, if she cares to, as many as two times a year, I should think.” He was silent, briefly. “I suppose you can tell me, my dear man, what sort of a dowry Lady Caroline might receive?” He paused, peering from under carroty brows at the viscount.

  “I am, indeed, privy to those details of her ladyship’s affairs,” Seabury replied cautiously, “and can tell you at once that she will have a generous portion. I am informed that Lord Inlowe is very much attached to his sister, and since he is a man of some means, he will see to it she is always comfortable. As to the exact sum, I must consult my papers to ascertain it.”

  “Not at all necessary, not the least needful,” Pettingill protested at once, waving a hand as if to dismiss the question altogether. “I was merely curious, nothing more. But does this—am I to understand you will permit me to address her ladyship?”

  Seabury fixed him with his steady blue regard and said, “Indeed, if you desire to do so, I am sure Inlowe can have no objection, nor can I. Lady Caroline, as you observe, is pretty much her own mistress in any case. If she accepts you, her brother and my sister will embrace you as their own; I believe I can assure you of that.”

  “Ah, Seabury! I am a very happy man,” said he, his tongue recovering its customary knack for finding smooth, if only because well-worn, phrases.

  The reply, “Well, I am not,” flashed through Seabury’s brain and was rejected in an instant, to be replaced by, “You will chuse your moment to address Lady Caroline as you like, naturally; but I am afraid you cannot do so today. She visits my aunt, Lady Beatrice, this morning.”

  “Good Lord, my dear man, you do not suppose I could speak to her today!” exclaimed the other. “I feel as if I could sleep for a week after all this.” The poor man really did look exhausted, not to mention damp. He was a little intimidated, if the truth were known, by the magnificence of Rucke House, and the urbanity of its inmates. His twenty thousand a year notwithstanding, Sir Sidney was a simple country squire at heart, and knew it. If not for his wealth, and his willingness to part with it through gaming, he must have had a hard time gaining an entrée into society, for those and his facile speeches were all that distinguished him from the keeper of the Old Crown Inn. It was certainly, as Lord Seabury could not help thinking, no inborn delicacy which marked him out from his countrymen. Perhaps he was prejudiced against the fellow—for some reason he pushed from his head at once—and could not judge fairly, but it seemed to him most applications of the order just made by Sir Sidney must somehow achieve a greater
degree of elegance than this one. Never having received one before, or having made one for that matter, it was difficult to say. Still, Seabury suspected this one to have been rather blunt than otherwise.

  Whatever it had been, it was over, and Pettingill took his leave pretty quickly to go home and recuperate. No sooner had Lord Seabury resumed his chair, after the departure, with the intention of devoting a few minutes to reviewing the scene, than he was interrupted by Hedgepeth, who knocked with some urgency. “It is a caller, sir,” said the discreet butler, proffering a tray with a card upon it. “I hope I do well in bringing this to you, my lord, for the caller desires to see Miss Meredith, and not yourself.”

  Hedgepeth was soon told he had done very well indeed, since the card belonged to Baron Mockabee. “Impudent scoundrel!” Seabury could not help but exclaim aloud—quite an outburst from so reserved a gentleman, as Hedgepeth later remarked to Mrs. Wickware. “Tell him Miss Meredith is not at home.”

  Hedgepeth bowed and disappeared upon this errand. A very few minutes later, Amy Meredith burst into the Gilt Saloon, an indignant reproach upon her lips. “How dare you deny me to a caller?” she demanded shrilly, tears of frustration already standing in her eyes. “I insist you turn off Hedgepeth at once! What business had he to run to you with Lord Mockabee’s card?”

  “How, if I may inquire, do you come to be aware of Lord Mockabee’s having asked for you?” Seabury asked calmly, offering her a chair.

  She preferred to stand. “I saw him from my window,” she said, omitting to add that she had been watching for him there all morning. “He was obliged to behave so indecorously as to call up to me from the street with an account of his reception here. Of course he thought I refused him, which I told him could not be farther from the truth. He is furious with you, and so am I.”