The Quiet Gentleman

by Georgette Heyer

  ‘What the devil are you trying to make me believe now?’ demanded Ulverston, staring at him. ‘Do you take this to have been a schoolboy prank? There is no schoolboy in the case!’

  ‘Oh, don’t you think so? I find Martin not a step removed from that state. I own, I do not perfectly understand him, but it is sufficiently plain to me that he thinks I should be the better for a sharp set-down. You heard what passed at the table this morning: “St Erth is perfection itself!” was what he said before he flung himself out of the room. Well! it would certainly have afforded him satisfaction had I, the day you came here, suffered a ducking in a muddy stream. I did not do so, so perhaps I had instead to be made to tumble off my horse – such a nonpareil among horsemen am I said to be! By the way, I wonder who did say so?’

  ‘It don’t matter who said it, or if no one said it!’ replied the Viscount, quite exasperated. ‘This is all a damned hum! Your precious brother ain’t such a boy that he didn’t know the thing might have had fatal consequences!’

  ‘If he had paused to consider the matter at all,’ agreed St Erth. ‘It is quite a question, you know, whether he does pause to consider what may be the outcome of his more headlong actions. Come in!’

  A knock had sounded on the door, and this opened to admit Theo. Gervase instantly said: ‘Oh, the devil! No. Go away, Theo! Lucy has said it all for you!’

  Theo shut the door, and advanced into the room. ‘No use, Gervase! I am determined to know what happened to you this afternoon. Ulverston has already said enough to make me uneasy – and I beg that you won’t insult my intelligence with any more tales of stumbling into rabbit-holes, for they won’t fadge!’

  ‘All you’ll get from Ger is a bag of moonshine!’ said the Viscount roundly. ‘The plain truth is that his horse was brought down by a cord stretched across his path – and there is the cord, if you doubt me!’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Theo said. ‘Martin?’

  His cousin shrugged. He walked over to the fire, and stood staring down into it, his face hard to read.

  ‘What I’m saying is that it’s time Ger was rid of that lad!’ announced the Viscount.

  ‘Theo will not agree with you,’ interposed Gervase. ‘We have spoken of this before today.’

  ‘This had not happened then!’ Theo said, slightly raising his head.

  ‘Are you of another mind now?’ Gervase asked, watching him.

  Theo stood frowning. ‘No,’ he said, at last. ‘No, I am not of another mind. If Martin did indeed do this – but do you know that? – I am of the opinion that it was done in one of his fits of blind, unreasoning rage. His quarrel with you last night, his sister’s teasing today – oh, I know Martin! He was as mad as a baited bear today, and in that mood he would not pause to consider the consequences of whatever foolish revenge he chose to take on you!’

  ‘This,’ said the Viscount, not mincing matters, ‘is all fudge!’

  ‘You don’t know Martin as I do. But if he had a more dreadful purpose in mind – then I say keep him here, under your eye!’

  The Viscount rubbed the tip of his nose reflectively. ‘Something to be said for that, Ger,’ he admitted.

  ‘I have no intention, at present, of driving him away from Stanyon,’ Gervase said.

  ‘Do you mean to charge him with today’s misadventure?’ Theo asked.

  ‘No, and I beg you will not either!’

  ‘Very well. I certainly did no good by anything I said to him about his conduct over the bridge,’ Theo said, with a wry grimace. ‘I wish I may not have goaded him into this. I begin to be sorry that I urged you to remain at Stanyon, Gervase. It might have been better, perhaps, to have given Martin time to have grown used to the thought that it is you who are master here now.’

  ‘He had a year in which to grow used to that thought,’ replied Gervase dryly. ‘Are you now advising me to retire to London? You are too late: I do not choose to be driven out of Stanyon.’

  ‘No, I would not advise that course. Matters must come to a head between you and Martin – but what that head will be, and whether you will be able to settle it without injury, and without scandal, I know not.’

  ‘Nor I, but I shall do my possible. Both injury and scandal I should dislike quite as much as you, Theo, I assure you. Meanwhile, there is no more to be said. It must be time for dinner: let us go and join her ladyship!’

  They found the rest of the party already assembled in the Long Drawing-room. Martin was standing a little apart from the group near the fire, fidgeting with a pair of snuffers. He looked round when he heard the door open, and coloured a little. He had not encountered his brother since his outbreak of temper at the nuncheon-table, which might have accounted for the slight constraint with which he said: ‘Hallo, St Erth! They tell me you have taken a toss. How came that about?’

  ‘Mere carelessness. Cloud set his near-fore in a rabbit-hole.’

  ‘He wasn’t hurt, was he?’

  ‘A trifle scratched. I hope no lasting scars.’

  ‘Lord, that’s bad!’ Martin said. ‘I daresay you don’t want my advice, but if I were you I would apply hot fomentations. They may bring up his legs like bladders, but that won’t last, and ten to one you’ll never see a mark once the cuts have healed.’

  ‘I agree with you, and it is being done.’

  The Dowager broke in at this point to favour the company with a recital of all the tosses which the Earl’s father had taken, coupled with an account of her own sentiments upon these occasions, and some recollections of rattling falls suffered by her dear Papa, a very bruising rider. ‘Not that my dear father was not an excellent horseman, for I am sure there can never have been a better one,’ she said. ‘I am not fond of the exercise myself, but I daresay I should have ridden very well, had I taken to it, for I should have had the benefit of my father’s teaching. Indeed, I recall to this day many of the maxims which he laid down for my brother’s guidance. “Hold him steady by the head” was one of them; and if he had been alive when Martin broke his collarbone at one of the bullfinches in Ashby Pastures, he would have said, “You should have held him steady by the head.” “Throw your heart over” was another of his sayings, and “Take your own line”, as well, and “Get over the ground if you break your neck”.’

  The Earl was standing beside Martin, and said in a soft under-voice: ‘Were you – er – acquainted with your grandfather, Martin?’

  ‘No, I thank God!’ returned Martin, grinning. ‘I’d be willing to lay you odds he was the kind of fellow who would head a fox!’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t take you!’ Gervase said. ‘There cannot be the least doubt of it!’

  It was fortunate that Abney entered the Drawing-room at that moment, to announce dinner, for the sudden crack of laughter which escaped Martin attracted his mother’s attention, and she demanded to be told what it was that had amused him. She did not forget that she desired to be admitted into his confidence, for her mind was of a tenacious order, but by the time she was seated at the foot of the dinner-table, and could repeat her demand, he had had leisure to think of a suitable and an unexceptionable answer.

  Twelve

  A certain languor, which was felt by everyone except the Dowager, hung over the company. After the bustle and the excitement of the ball, the smaller party seemed flat. Between two of the persons seated at the table there was constraint; others had been provided with food for grave reflection; and only between the Dowager and the Chaplain could conversation have been said to have flourished. From the combined circumstances of being largely impervious to fatigue, and not having exerted herself beyond what was strictly necessary during the past twenty-four hours, the Dowager was not conscious of weariness, but enlivened the dinner-table with several more anecdotes about her father, and a recapitulation of the excellence of the arrangements for the ball, and the pleasure evinced at their entertainment by the guests. In this exercise sh
e was assisted by Mr Clowne, who indefatigably corroborated her statements, laughed heartily at her anecdotes, and generally enacted the role of antistrophe. Her care for his interests had placed Martin beside Marianne at the table, but her absorption in her own conversation prevented her from perceiving that for the first half of dinner, at least, this disposition was not a happy one. Such laboured attempts at engaging Marianne’s attention as were embarked upon by Martin were met by shy, monosyllabic responses, and it was not until Gervase, abandoning Miss Morville to his cousin, began to talk to Marianne, interpolating such leading questions as must draw Martin into the conversation, that the ice between these old acquaintances melted. It was with relief that those who knew him best realized that Martin’s mood was chastened. He seemed to have laid aside his sulks, and to be determined to conduct himself, even towards his brother, with a civility that bordered on affability. His manner to Marianne could hardly have been bettered, for he behaved as though he had forgotten the events of the previous evening. A lucky remark of the Earl’s enabled him to say to Marianne: ‘Do you remember – ?’ She did remember, and in unexceptionable reminiscence was able to see in him again her favourite playfellow. Her constraint became noticeably less; and by the time the dessert was set upon the table she was chatting freely to Martin, and the Earl was able to turn back to Miss Morville. Since the Dowager had applied to Theo for the details of a very dull story with which she was boring the Viscount, she had been neglected for several minutes, but she met the Earl’s look with a warm smile of approval.

  ‘I do beg your pardon!’ Gervase said, in an under-voice.

  ‘Indeed, you need not!’ she returned, in the same tone. ‘It was very well done of you.’

  When the ladies left the room, Martin did not abate his goodhumour. The cloth was removed from the table, the port and the madeira set upon it, while he conversed with the Viscount; and when the Viscount was drawn into a three-cornered discussion with Theo and Mr Clowne, he only hesitated for a moment before changing his seat for the vacant one beside his brother.

  The Earl regarded him pensively over the top of his wineglass, but he said nothing. Martin raised his eyes, as though forcing himself to look him boldly in the face, and said: ‘St Erth, I – Well – What I mean is –’

  ‘Yes?’ said Gervase encouragingly.

  ‘It’s only – St Erth, I shouldn’t have done it, of course! I didn’t mean to, only –’

  ‘Shouldn’t have done what?’

  ‘Last night – Marianne!’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘The thing was, you see –’

  ‘You need not tell me,’ Gervase interrupted, smiling. ‘I know very well what the thing was.’

  He saw the flicker of fire in the eyes so swiftly meeting his own at these words. He held them in a steady regard, and after a moment they fell, and Martin uttered a self-conscious laugh, and said: ‘Yes – I suppose! The thing is, ought I, do you think, to say anything to her?’

  ‘On that subject? By no means! Let it go!’

  Martin looked relieved. He drained his glass, found the decanter at his elbow, and refilled the glass, saying: ‘Then you don’t think I should beg her pardon?’

  ‘You would only cause her embarrassment.’

  ‘I daresay you may be right.’ Martin sipped his wine reflectively, and set his glass down again. ‘I wish that gray of yours had not cut his legs!’ he said suddenly. ‘The most curst mischance! Can’t think how he came to do so!’

  ‘Or how I came to be thrown so ignominiously?’ suggested the Earl, watching him.

  ‘Oh, there’s nothing in that! Everyone takes a stupid toss or so in his life! But your gray is a capital hunter! I would not have had him scar himself for a fortune!’

  At this moment, the Viscount demanded that the decanter should be set in motion, and the conversation became general.

  When the gentlemen presently joined the ladies, there was some talk of getting up a game of speculation, but the Dowager, who did not wish to play cards, said that everyone would prefer the indulgence of a little music, and begged Marianne to go to the pianoforte. Marianne looked very much alarmed, and assured her ladyship that her performance was not at all superior. When the Dowager showed no sign of accepting this excuse, she looked imploringly at Miss Morville, who at once responded to the silent appeal, rising from her chair, and saying: ‘I am sure Lady St Erth would like to hear you sing, Marianne; and, if you will allow me, I shall be pleased to play for you.’

  It was not quite what Marianne desired, but since she had a pretty voice, and knew herself to have been well-taught, it was infinitely preferable to being obliged to struggle through a Haydn sonata. She accompanied her friend to the instrument, and delighted the company with two or three ballads. Not very much persuasion was needed to induce her to join with Lord Ulverston in a duet. Their voices blended admirably; they discovered a similarity of musical taste in one another; and if their combined performance gave little pleasure to one member of their audience, everyone else enjoyed it very much, the Dowager going so far as to beat time with one foot, and to hum several of the refrains.

  The party broke up early that evening, the ladies going to bed immediately after prayers. The Earl took his friend off to play billiards, and Martin, to his surprise, went with him. He was so obliging as to mark for them, a kindness which made Ulverston glance rather keenly at him, and say, later, to the Earl: ‘Your engaging young brother remorseful, eh?’

  Gervase smiled. ‘I told you he was not far removed from a schoolboy. We may go on more comfortably now.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be surprised if it was all a take-in,’ replied the sceptical Viscount.

  On the following day, both Miss Morville and Miss Bolderwood received missives from their mamas, Miss Bolderwood’s having been brought over by a groom from Whissenhurst. Lady Bolderwood was able to leave her room again, and was anxious to have her daughter restored to her; and it seemed, from the contents of two closely-written sheets from Mrs Morville, that Drusilla too would soon be leaving Stanyon. The Lakeland scenery was very fine, but Greta Hall was rather too full of Coleridges, Mrs Coleridge and her interesting offspring having apparently taken up permanent residence with the Southeys. Mrs Morville wrote that a scheme was afoot to place poor Mr Coleridge in the care of a gentleman living in Highgate. Mr Southey had disclosed that his unfortunate brother-in-law had been consuming as much as two quarts of laudanum a week over the past couple of years. He gloomily believed that the charge of the children must fall upon his shoulders. He was already paying for Hartley’s University career, and had sent Derwent to a private school at Ambleside. Sara, the youngest of the trio, was precocious, Mrs Morville considered; and there was too much reason to fear that Hartley had inherited his father’s instability of character. Mr Morville, wrote his wife, was grieved to discover how far Mr Southey had receded from his earlier and nobler ideals; for her part, Mrs Morville could not wonder at it: she could only marvel at his being able to continue in the profession of author in the midst of such a household.

  The Dowager expressed a gracious regret that they must bid farewell to Marianne that very day; at the prospect of soon losing Miss Morville’s companionship she evinced a flattering concern, reiterating with unwearied frequency her conviction that Mrs Morville could not possibly wish for her daughter’s return to Gilbourne House.

  To all her representations of the superior attractions of Stanyon over Gilbourne House Miss Morville returned civil but firm answers. Lord Ulverston begged to be granted the honour of escorting Miss Bolderwood to her own home, and upon Martin’s saying hastily that he had the intention of performing this office, became afflicted with a deafness much more distressing to Martin than himself. Marianne blushed, thanked, and looked uncertain; after allowing the Dowager time to announce that she would herself drive to Whissenhurst with her young guest, Miss Morville said that she would like the drive. The Dowager had no
objection to put forward to this, and the end of it was that the two ladies occupied the barouche, while Ulverston and St Erth rode behind.

  Arrived at Whissenhurst Grange, Marianne begged her three companions to enter the house, and to partake of refreshment there. The Earl demurred at this, thinking that the invalids might not wish for such an invasion, but while Marianne was assuring him that Mama would be disappointed if he did not come in to pay his respects to her, Sir Thomas was seen standing at the window of one of the front parlours, waving and beckoning. They all went into the house, therefore, and Lord Ulverston was made known to the Nabob and his lady. Wine and cakes were sent for, and while the Earl enquired after the state of Sir Thomas’s health, Marianne, standing a little apart, beside the Viscount, said shyly that she supposed he would be leaving Stanyon very soon too. But it seemed that the Viscount had no immediate intention of leaving Stanyon. Marianne was surprised, and said, looking innocently up into his face: ‘I quite thought that you stayed only for the ball!’

  ‘No – oh, no!’ Ulverston responded. ‘Don’t quite know how long I shall be fixed at Stanyon!’

  ‘Shall you be in town when we give our ball?’ asked Marianne.

  ‘Yes,’ replied his lordship promptly. ‘Will Lady Bolderwood send me a card?’

  ‘Oh, yes! I hope you will be able to come to it!’

  ‘Not a doubt of it, Miss Bolderwood: I shall most certainly come to it! When do you remove to London?’

  ‘I believe, in a fortnight’s time – if Papa’s illness has not overset our plans.’

  ‘A fortnight? Just when I shall be going to London myself!’ he said.

  ‘But you said you did not know when you should be going!’ she pointed out, laughing a little.

  ‘Quite true! I didn’t! You had not told me then how long you would be remaining in Lincolnshire.’

  She looked charmingly confused, her art of coquetry deserting her, and could only blush more than ever, and pretend to be busy with the retying of one of the knots of ribbon which adorned her dress.