by Fiona Hill
“Lady Trantham?” he repeated interrogatively, for this intelligence interested him.
“His mother,” Windle hissed, very audibly.
Lord Seabury nodded and was silent a moment, thinking of the application made to him the day before by Sir Sidney Pettingill. “I suppose,” he said slowly to Caro, “that it is important to you to reside near to your brother?”
“Not at all!” she contradicted, with a trifle more vigour than was absolutely necessary.
“Then you would be just as glad to live at a distance from him?” At such a time as this, when he had a great curiosity to know the answer to a question, the viscount often forgot how that question might strike his interlocutor. With this principle at work he continued, “You would not mind, for instance, passing much of the year in Dorset?”
Included among the many properties of the Earl of Romby was a perfectly enormous estate in Dorsetshire. It was, in fact, a favourite retreat of Lord Seabury’s, a fact Lady Caroline happened to have in her possession. She spoke very faintly when she replied, again, “Not at all.”
The viscount said “Hmmm” in answer to this and appeared to consider the subject closed. Lord Romby, who had been sulking and fuming in majestic isolation at one end of the table all this while, abruptly exclaimed, “Damme! A fine day we have come to when a man cannot sit at his own breakfast table without hearing a lot of rubbish about a lot of romantic sapskulls!” Having said this, and muttered something unintelligible besides, he rose with a great deal of clatter and took his leave, pausing only to inform the footman at the door that he was a shatterheaded clunch.
“Poor Lord Romby!” Miss Windle exclaimed dolefully, immediately following his departure.
“Why on earth should you say so?” asked Caroline.
“Well it is very clear,” Windle commenced, then checked herself to look sidelong at Seabury and concluded, “but another time perhaps.”
“Pray do not allow me to inhibit you, dear ma’am,” Seabury said, rising. “I have some business to attend to in any case, and so if you will excuse me…” He bowed slightly and left the table. Caroline, watching him depart, noticed to her surprise that his boots were stained near the soles, as if he had walked through a puddle. It was not like his lordship to continue to wear the boots if he had; there had not, moreover, been any rain to make any puddles in quite some time. It was odd.
“Lord Romby is lonely,” said Windle, when only she and Caro were left in the room, for the older lady had seen fit to dismiss the servants as well. “No wonder it hurts him to hear love discussed frivolously; no wonder it makes him cross.”
“Miss Windle, am I correct in believing that you base your remarks on conjecture?” Caro asked, quite out of patience with this obsession with the earl.
“No, my dear, you are not,” said Windle, with a peculiar smile.
“Do not tell me he has said as much to you!”
“No my dear, I do not refer to any such open avowal either, when I say I rely on more than conjecture. I rely, my dear, on insight and instinct. A woman has such things.”
“Doubtless, Miss Windle. And a woman uses them, furthermore, to embroil herself in all manners of folly. I suggest, dear ma’am, that you turn your back on this instinctual knowledge and give your attention, instead, to facts.”
“Facts?” echoed Miss Windle, but with scorn heavy in her voice.
“Facts, dear ma’am. To start with, there is the fact that Lord Romby’s wife died, I believe, some fifteen years ago—and yet he has never, since then, shown the least interest in marrying again.”
“How,” said Windle very slowly and distinctly, “do you know?”
Caro was forced to concede that she could not verify this. “But if he did offer for somebody, she refused him; and that seems unlikely, does it not?” She chose this tack because she suspected Windle was disposed to agree, at least, with this lack of likelihood.
“Perhaps,” said the other drily. “But any gentleman may be refused, for any number of reasons which are nothing to do with him in particular. The lady’s family, it may be,” she suggested grandly, “objected. Lord Romby could not love a lady who ignored her family, I trust!”
“This is most exasperating,” Caro burst out. “You have developed a perfect fixation with Romby, which I am at an utter loss to comprehend. What is your object in this, dear Windle? Pray, pray take me into your confidence!”
“I wish to marry him!” Miss Windle exploded, not entirely voluntarily. “I wish to stand by him, be his help-meet, honour and obey him! I wish to comfort and support him. Is that so much?” she demanded tearfully. “Is that so dreadful?”
“My poor Windle!” was Caroline’s surprised exclamation.
Miss Windle was lost in sobs for a time, but then she sniffed mightily and drew herself up to say, “I suppose you pity me because you think I can never fulfill my desire, but you need not do so. I do not think the case is so hopeless as that. I have reason to believe it is not.”
“Do you mean that Romby has shown you some particular attentions?”
“Yes I do. Or rather…Well,” she faltered, dabbing at her watery eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief, “he often looks at me in a manner that seems to—to say something.”
Caro tried to speak mildly. “Is that all?” she asked.
“No. Even more than the way he looks at me, I notice the way he does not look at me. The way…the dear, peculiar way,” she continued, beginning to smile shyly, “he avoids my glance, or turns his eyes from mine.”
It occurred to Caroline to point out that even a cat must look at a person, or not notice him, or turn away from him; but she successfully suppressed this observation and replied instead, “I only consider your happiness, my dear. The season will not last forever, you know. We must go home someday. How will you feel if we are obliged to leave, and the earl—the earl does not come forward?”
“Ah, now that! That,” said Windle, with a very mysterious little smile, “will not happen.”
“How can you know?”
But Miss Windle only shook her head, still smiling the enigmatical smile. No amount of teasing could elicit more from her than that nod and that grin. In the end, Caroline was obliged to yield, and to part from her without learning anything else. She went upstairs to wait for Edgar’s return to Rucke House, and to wonder how so insipid a person as Lady Susan Manning could possibly have become a serious annoyance to her.
Edgar Gilchrist’s eventual arrival afforded Caro nothing more satisfying than the privilege of observing the top of his head as he passed through the great front doors, for otherwise his call concerned Lord Seabury alone. He arrived in much the same excited state as he had been in when he left, for the idea that Caroline was wronged not only by Lord M, but also by Seabury, had taken hold of him powerfully. His brown eyes glittered with a feverish volatility altogether foreign to them under ordinary circumstances; of course the viscount could not know their customary appearance, and he rather wondered if the young man might not be consumptive, or otherwise afflicted with disease. If so he was sorry for him. If not, he begrudged him every pleasant feature, every gentle, even trait in his young-looking face, not to mention his excellently proportioned figure, and his neat hands and feet.
“I hope you have been able to find some suitable lodgings,” Seabury said, with a cordiality not entirely sincere, when the requisite courtesies had been accomplished.
“Quite, I think,” replied Edgar. Uncertain as he was of the older man’s guilt or innocence, he considered it a point of honour to be somewhat abrupt—though not excessively so, since this was after all his lordship’s chair he sat in, and his lordship’s sherry he drank. “I am come to London, sir, in order to discover who—”
But Seabury, observing him about to produce the offending poem, interrupted him. “Lady Caroline was so good this morning as to mention to me your reason for coming. I have the happiness to inform you that the matter has been settled already. I regret that you could not hav
e been advised of this sooner, since it might have spared you much trouble—but perhaps you will enjoy your visit here as a holiday.”
Eager to express his indignation, and delighted at what he supposed was an opportunity, Mr. Gilchrist retorted, “My dear sir, I am afraid you and I have some difference of opinion as to what constitutes a settled matter.” He pronounced the word “settled” with deep sarcasm, and at once continued, “It is my understanding, from my conversation with Caro—ah, Lady Caroline—earlier this morning, that she discouraged your pursuing the affair, and that in consequence it has been allowed to drop. Now that is not, sir, what I call a settled matter.”
Lord Seabury rose and crossed to Edgar’s chair, the better to look down upon him. “Indeed?” said he slowly. “And what would you have done, in my place?”
“Found out the villain and challenged him!” cried he.
“And what,” Seabury continued, his arms folded across his considerable chest, and a gleam of amusement in his blue eyes, “do you suppose I have done?”
Edgar, looking up at him, suddenly began to feel a trifle uncomfortable. His suspicion, acquired this morning, that Caroline was in love with the viscount had grown (on seeing how handsome Seabury was) till it approached a positive conviction. Something in his lordship’s manner now suggested to him that not only might his supposition have been correct, but also that Seabury loved Caroline. He was certainly behaving towards Edgar as if he were a particularly unwanted intruder. Mr. Gilchrist fidgeted under the weight of the reflections as he said weakly, “Nothing.”
“Ah. Indeed,” said the viscount. “My dear young man—for you are a young man, I think, and I take that into account—I must ask you if, having met me, you still imagine me to be the sort of man who, in the face of an insult to a lady under his protection, does nothing?”
Gilchrist fidgeted even more. “Not…quite,” he finally brought out.
“Ah!” said Seabury carefully. “Not—since I put it to you that way—quite. You are a perceptive young man, Mr. Gilchrist.”
Edgar Gilchrist twisted the brass button on his blue coat, and knew shame.
“Your concern for Lady Caroline’s reputation is, I am sure, laudable,” Seabury went on. Edgar squirmed.
“I wonder how you slept all these nights she has been away, supposing her to be insufficiently protected?”
Edgar writhed. The brass button, twisted beyond its limit, fell off.
“Not well, I fear,” the viscount answered himself, picking up the button without the hint of a smile, and returning it to its owner. “A pity,” said Seabury. He paused to observe Edgar’s mute discomfiture, and the anger he had been feeling towards him went away. He had been, at first, really quite furious; and something of his fury, evidently, had been communicated to his young visitor, in spite of his lordship’s quiet speech. Why had he been so angry? he asked himself. Anyone would be whose reliability as a gentleman was doubted, answered another inner voice. But this was not the whole truth, as he could not entirely avoid acknowledging.
“I owe you an apology, sir,” Mr. Gilchrist at last said in a muffled voice. “I regret very much the doubts I have entertained—however innocently—with regard to your character. I ought to have thought…I ought to have asked Inlowe, I suppose. But I was pleased with the idea of defending Caroline. You must think me a perfect idiot, my lord.”
Though the difference between their ages was but eight years, both gentlemen felt as if they had been separated by several decades. This contrite, artless apology on the part of the younger man made the older feel, almost, benignly paternal towards him. For this reason, and with the issue of Lady Caroline herself temporarily forgot, Seabury answered quickly, “Not at all. I dareswear I should have done the same thing in your place, at your age. It was very gallant and brave.”
“You are kind, sir,” Edgar replied, still dejected but nonetheless showing a brief smile. “Very stupid and thoughtless is what you mean; but you are kind.”
“Not at all, dear boy,” repeated the other. “I beg you will take another glass of sherry. And come to dinner tonight, if you like.”
Mr. Gilchrist, after a little more coaxing, accepted both these offers. “May I inquire,” he said, when a few other topics had been touched on, “whether Lord M. tendered an apology, after all? I ask for mere curiosity, my lord; I hope you can believe that.”
“I do believe it; and to lay your curiosity to rest, he did not offer any kind of excuse, no. He was very obstinate, in fact. In short, and not to put too fine a point upon it, the last time I saw him he had sustained an injury to his right shoulder. More I cannot wisely, nor honourably, tell you, Mr. Gilchrist, though I might like to. I hope you understand.”
Edgar, quite awed by this dispassionate (if sketchy) account, indicated that he understood perfectly. “And Caro—ah, I see! Caro has no idea of your acting in her behalf.”
“Precisely. And of course we must continue to keep her as ignorant as she is now, for her own happiness and security. You will, I hope, leave her in that state?”
Gilchrist swore no power could wrest a whisper from him on the subject; and indeed, it was not from his lips that Caroline learned the truth. It was from other lips: softer and prettier ones.
Amy Meredith was due to quit London on May 18, three days after the interview recorded above. Though the 18th was a Sunday, it had been decided for a variety of reasons that she could travel to her aunt Meredith’s most conveniently on that day. Mrs. Henry might have her regrets at such an infraction of the rules of piety, but Amy had none; therefore the date had been selected and confirmed, and the elder Miss Meredith anxiously anticipated the younger’s arrival then. The younger Miss Meredith, for that matter, seemed quite content to be going as well. Her early sense of ill-usage had apparently vanished, for no complaint was heard from her. Caroline tried to believe that Amy’s new docility indicated a praiseworthy effort on the girl’s part to mend her ways and show a proper gratitude to her cousin; but she could not help suspecting some mischief was afoot. Her misgivings were strengthened by an expression she several times observed on Amy’s face, a secretive and not altogether pleasant smile, coupled with a peculiar brightness in her brown eyes. She said nothing to Seabury, however, for she knew his lordship wished there were more goodwill between herself and Amy, and she disliked to vex him.
On the evening prior to Amy’s departure, a party consisting of the two young ladies, their chaperones, Lord Seabury and another gentleman set out from Rucke House with the intention of visiting Kensington Gardens, to stroll there awhile and thus effect a fresh introduction of Caroline into society. The gentleman accompanying them was Mr. Edgar Gilchrist, who had elected to remain in London briefly in spite of his being without a purpose there. Lord Romby, who had lately become (it seemed to Caroline) nastier and more dissolute than ever before, did not join them. Miss Windle affected to have the headache late in the afternoon, when she first heard of Romby’s projected absence; but when he announced his intention of passing the whole night at Brooks’s her indisposition miraculously disappeared and she informed Caro that she could, after all, join the expedition. Sir Sidney Pettingill, who had called at Rucke House the previous day (and had shown himself, at that time, to be strangely inarticulate—almost incoherent, as Windle and Caro agreed between themselves afterwards) was invited to join them as well, and had at first accepted; but he later sent his regrets, along with polite best wishes for a safe and pleasant journey for Miss Meredith.
It had been feared initially that Mr. Gilchrist would be unable to walk with his friends, on account of his not having brought with him the requisite cloth knee-breeches, silk stockings and shoes. Lord Romby was nearly a foot taller, and Lord Seabury at least six inches wider at the shoulders, than the slight, slender Gilchrist, so it was out of the question for the gentlemen of Rucke House to supply their new acquaintance from their private wardrobes. To purchase the missing items seemed not only silly, it was also beyond Edgar’s means, at least on the
spur of the moment. The day seemed lost until, Lady Beatrice having heard of the dilemma, Mr. Walfish was pressed into service. There could have been no favour more to Ansel Walfish’s liking than to outfit an attractive young gentleman in formal evening attire; indeed, his pleasure at fretting and fussing over the business so outweighed the disagreeableness of having to lend someone his clothes, that he wished he could be set such a task every day for a year. Mr. Walfish was a valet at heart; at least, that is what Lady Beatrice told him.
“I should like very much to adjust my left shoe, for it pinches extremely,” Mr. Gilchrist confided in a low tone to Caroline, as they entered Seabury’s crested barouche, “but I dare not, for fear of destroying Walfish’s masterpiece.” The work of art to which he referred, and which he now indicated with one delicately pointed finger, was the Noeud Gordien that Mr. Walfish had made of his cravat.
Lady Caroline laughed and encouraged him to place comfort before art in spite of his scruples.
“Oh no! Walfish was an hour and a half creating this, and if he finds me at the Gardens without it just so, I am sure he will stab me.”
“Not while you wear his clothes!” Caro smiled. “Think of the bloodstains!”
Miss Windle was the only other occupant of the barouche; Seabury, Amy, and Mrs. Henry were in another carriage. Talk among the three old acquaintances flowed easily until they reached their destination; after that their conversation became fragmented, for a party of six cannot easily walk in a bunch, and tends rather to elongate itself into a line of pairs. Gilchrist contrived to remain, at first, beside Lady Caroline; but the curious, occasionally uncivil glances she found she was receiving from so many passers-by soon caused her to seek the protective wing of Miss Windle instead. She distinctly overheard, to her excessive discomfiture, two persons mention The Times as they passed in her vicinity, and one rude young man (whom she did not remember ever to have seen before) actually burst into laughter at the sight of her. She clung a good deal closer to her chaperone than was her habit, but except for this she gave no visible sign of embarrassment, even when their party encountered the Marquis of Safford with his wife and his daughter, and Lady Susan Manning stared at her for full thirty seconds, evidently speechless from fascination.