‘And I think you will wear the pearls yourself, and on no account that horrid turban, which makes you look like some dreadful dowager, and not in the least like my own, pretty Mama!’ retorted Fanny, bestowing a butterfly’s kiss on the widow’s cheek. She then turned away and began to hunt for a pair of gloves. ‘We sent out a great many cards, didn’t we?’ she said. ‘I quite forget how many guests are coming!’
‘About fifty,’ said Mrs Wingham, with a touch of pride.
‘Gracious, it will be a regular squeeze! I suppose all our particular friends? The Shanklins, and the Yeovils, and Lord Harleston?’
This was airily said. Mrs Wingham, unable to see her daughter’s face, replied calmly: ‘Oh yes!’
‘Of course!’ Fanny said, considering the rival claims of one pair of silk mittens and one pair of French kid gloves. ‘Mama?’
‘My love!’
‘Mama, do you – do you like Lord Harleston?’ Fanny asked shyly.
Whatever ambitious schemes Mrs Wingham had in mind, she would have relinquished them all rather than have encouraged her unspoiled daughter to share them. She replied, therefore, in a cool tone: ‘Why, yes, very much! Do you?’
A glowing face was turned towards her. ‘Oh, Mama, indeed I do! I think him quite the nicest person we have met in London. One could tell him almost anything, and be sure that he would understand just how it was,’ Fanny said impulsively. She bestowed a brief hug upon the widow. ‘Dearest Mama, I am so glad you like him!’
Mrs Wingham, returning the embrace, felt tears – thankful tears – sting her eyelids, but was spared the necessity of answering by a scratch on the door, which heralded the entrance of the page-boy, come to inform Miss Wingham that Mrs Stratton’s barouche awaited her.
3
Fanny did not return from her picnic in time to indulge in rest, but she was in her best looks that evening. Several persons commented on her radiance; and Lord Harleston, obliging his hostess to recruit her energies with a glass of champagne, said, with his attractive smile: ‘You are to be congratulated, ma’am! I do not know when I have seen so engaging a creature as your daughter. Such a bloom of health! Such frank, open manners! I think, too, that she has a disposition that matches her face.’
‘Indeed, my lord, she is the dearest girl!’ Mrs Wingham said, blushing with gratification and raising her eyes to his. ‘I do think – but I might be partial – that she is very pretty. She favours her papa, you know.’
‘Does she?’ said his lordship, seating himself beside her on the sofa. ‘I own that it is her mama I perceive in her countenance.’
‘Oh no!’ the widow assured him earnestly. ‘My husband was an excessively handsome man.’
He bowed. ‘Indeed? I think I had not the pleasure of the late Mr Wingham’s acquaintance. He would certainly be proud of his daughter, were he alive today.’ His eyes had been resting on Fanny, as she chatted, not many paces distant, to a gentleman with very high points to his shirt-collar, but he brought them back to Mrs Wingham’s face, adding: ‘And also of her mama. It is seldom that one discovers a well-informed mind behind a lovely face, ma’am; and Fanny has told me that she owes her education to you.’
‘Why, yes!’ admitted Mrs Wingham frankly. ‘It has not been within my power to provide Fanny with the governesses and the professors I should have desired for her. If you do not find her deficient in attainments, I think myself complimented indeed!’
‘May I say that I believe no governess or professor could have achieved so admirable a result?’
‘You are too flattering, my lord!’ was all she could find to say, and that in faltering accents.
‘No, I never flatter,’ he responded, taking the empty glass from her hand. ‘I perceive that we are about to be interrupted by Lady Luton. I have something of a very particular nature to say to you, but this is neither the time nor the occasion for it. May I beg of you to indulge me with the favour of a private interview with you, at whatever time may be most agreeable to you?’
Such a tumult of emotion swelled in the widow’s breast that she could scarcely find voice enough to utter the words: ‘Whenever you wish, my lord! I shall be happy to receive you!’
He rose, as Lady Luton surged down upon them. ‘Then, shall we say, at three o’clock tomorrow?’
She inclined her head; he bowed and moved away; and a moment later she had the felicity of seeing his tall, well-knit frame beside Fanny. Fanny was looking up at him, with her sweet smile, and putting out her hand, which he took in his and held for an instant, while he addressed some quizzing remark to her that made her laugh and blush. A queer little pang shot through the widow, seeing them on such comfortable terms. She reflected that her absorption in Fanny had made her stupidly jealous, and resolutely turned her attention to Lady Luton.
4
Having ascertained that her daughter had no engagement on the following afternoon, Mrs Wingham was surprised, when she returned from a shopping expedition in Bond Street, to find that only one cover had been laid for a luncheon of cold meat and fruit. She enquired of the butler, hired, like the house, for the season, whether Miss Fanny had gone out with her maid.
‘No, madam, with a military gentleman.’
These fell words caused the widow to feel so strong a presentiment of disaster that she turned pale, and repeated numbly: ‘A military gentleman!’
‘A Mr Kenton, madam. Miss Fanny appeared to be well acquainted with him. Extremely well acquainted with him, if I may say so, madam!’
Making a creditable effort to maintain her composure, Mrs Wingham said: ‘Oh, Mr Kenton is an old friend! I had no notion he was in town. He and Miss Fanny went out together, I think you said?’
‘Yes, madam, in a hackney carriage. I understand, to the City, Mr Kenton desiring the coachman to set them down at the Temple.’
This very respectable address did nothing to soothe Mrs Wingham’s agitated nerves. The whole locality, from Temple Bar to St Paul’s Cathedral, appeared to her to be sinister in the extreme. Amongst the thoughts which jostled one another in her head, the most prominent were Fleet Marriages, Doctors’ Commons and Special Licences. She was obliged to sit down, for her knees were trembling. Her butler then proffered a tray on which lay a note, twisted into a little cocked hat.
It was scribbled in pencil, and it was brief:
Dearest Mama, – Forgive me, but I have gone with Richard. You shall know it all, but I have no time now. Pray do not be vexed with me! I am so happy I am sure you cannot be.
Mrs Wingham became aware that she was being asked if she would partake of luncheon or wait for Miss Fanny, and heard her own voice replying with surprising calm: ‘I don’t think Miss Fanny will be home to luncheon.’
She then drew her chair to the table and managed to swallow a few mouthfuls of chicken, and to sip a glass of wine. A period of quiet reflection, if it did not lighten her heart, at least assuaged the worst of her fears. She could not believe that either Fanny or Richard would for a moment contemplate the impropriety of a clandestine marriage. But that the sight of Richard had revived all Fanny’s tenderness for him she could not, in the face of Fanny’s note, doubt. What to do she could not think, and in a state of wretched indecision presently went up to her bedroom. After removing her hat, setting a becoming lace cap on her head and tying it under her chin, there seemed to be nothing to do but to await further news of the truants, so she went to sit in the drawing-room, and tried to occupy herself with her needle.
Fortunately, she had not long to wait. Shortly after two o’clock an impetuous step on the stair smote her listening ears, and Fanny herself came into the room, out of breath, her cheeks in a glow, and her eyes sparkling. ‘Mama? Oh, Mama, Mama, it is true, and you will give your consent now, won’t you?’
She came running across the room as she spoke and cast herself at her mother’s feet, flinging her arms
round her, and seeming not to know whether to laugh or cry. Behind her Mr Kenton, very smart in his regimentals, shut the door and remained at a little distance, as though doubtful of his reception. He was a well-set-up young man, with a pleasant countenance and an air of considerable resolution. At the moment, however, he was looking a trifle anxious, and he seemed to find his neckcloth rather too tight.
‘Fanny, my dear, pray – !’ remonstrated Mrs Wingham. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about! How do you do, Richard? I am very pleased to see you. Are you on furlough?’
‘Mama, we have such news for you! Richard’s godmother has died!’ interrupted Fanny ecstatically. ‘And she has left Richard a great deal of money so that he can support a wife after all! He came to tell me at once, and I went with him to the lawyer, and it is true!’
Mrs Wingham turned her bewildered eyes towards Mr Kenton. He said bluntly: ‘No, it is not a great deal of money, ma’am, but it will enable me to buy my exchange, for you must know that I have been offered the chance of a company in the –th, only I never thought I should be able – . However, I can now afford the purchase money, and once I am in the –th, I hope I shan’t be obliged to wait upon the chance of Boney’s escaping a second time, and starting another kick-up, for my promotion. And I thought, if you would give your consent to our marriage, I would settle what will be left of the legacy on Fanny. It won’t be a fortune, but – but it will be something!’
‘Mama, you will consent?’ Fanny said imploringly. ‘You said I must see something of the world before I made up my mind, but I have now seen a great deal of the world, and I haven’t met anyone I like better than Richard, and I know I never shall. And although it is very amusing to lead a fashionable life, and, indeed, I have enjoyed all the parties, I would much prefer to follow the drum with Richard! You will consent?’
Mrs Wingham stared down into the radiant face upturned to hers. A dozen objections died on her lips. She said, with a wavering smile:
‘Yes, Fanny. If you are quite, quite sure, I suppose I must consent!’
Her daughter’s lips were pressed to her cheek, Mr Kenton’s to her hand. Seated amongst the ruins of her ambition, with that weight of depression upon her heart, she said: ‘And Lord Harleston is coming to visit me at three o’clock!’
‘Lord Harleston!’ exclaimed Fanny. ‘Oh, will you tell him, Mama, that I am going to marry Richard? I should have wished to have told him myself, but the thing is that Richard has leave of absence only for one day, and he must rejoin the regiment immediately. Mama, if I take Maria with me, may I go with him to the coach office? Pray, Mama!’
‘Yes – oh yes!’ said Mrs Wingham. ‘I will tell Lord Harleston.’
5
Thus it was that when one of the biggest but most unobtainable prizes of the Matrimonial Mart was ushered into Mrs Wingham’s drawing-room, he found the widow alone and sunk in melancholy. The depression, of which she had been conscious for so many weeks, threatened now to overcome her, and was in no way alleviated by her inability to decide which of the various evils confronting her was at the root of her strong desire to indulge in a hearty bout of tears. The years of economy had been wasted; yet she could not regret the weeks spent in London. Her maternal ambition was utterly dashed; but when she saw the happiness in Fanny’s face she could not be sorry. She must soon lose the daughter on whom her every thought had been centred for years; but if by the lifting of a finger she could have kept Fanny, she would have held her hands tightly folded in her lap, as they were when the Marquis walked into the room.
He paused upon the threshold. The one glance she permitted herself to cast at his face showed her that there was an arrested expression in his eyes, a look of swift concern. The pain she was about to inflict on him most poignantly affected her; for a startling moment she found herself blaming Fanny for having wounded one of whom she was all unworthy. She was unable to sustain his steady regard; her eyes fell to the contemplation of the little gold tassels on his Hessian boots. They moved, swinging jauntily as he came towards her. ‘Mrs Wingham! Something has occurred to distress you. May I know what it is? If there is anything I may do –’
He was bending solicitously over her, one shapely hand lifting one of hers, and holding it in a sustaining clasp. She said disjointedly: ‘Yes – no! It is nothing, my lord! I beg you will not – ! Indeed, it is nothing!’
She drew her hand away as she spoke. He said: ‘Shall I leave you? I have come, I believe, at an unfortunate time. Tell me what you wish! I would not for the world add to your distress!’
‘Oh no! Do not go! This interview ought not to be – must not be – postponed!’
He looked intently at her, as much anxiety in his eyes as there was in hers. ‘I came – I believe you must know for what purpose.’
She bowed her head. ‘I do know. I wish – oh, how deeply I wish that you had not come!’
‘You wish that I had not come!’
‘Because it is useless!’ said the widow tragically. ‘I can give you no hope, my lord!’
There was a moment’s silence. He was looking at once astonished and chagrined, but, after a pause, he said quietly: ‘Forgive me! But when I spoke to you last night I was encouraged to think that you would not be averse from hearing me! You have said that you guessed the object of my visit – am I a coxcomb to imagine that my suit was not then disagreeable to you?’
‘Oh no, no, no!’ she uttered, raising her swimming eyes to his face. ‘I should have been most happy – I may say that I most sincerely desired it! But all is now changed! I can only beg of you to say no more!’
‘You desired it! In heaven’s name, what can possibly have occurred to alter this?’ he exclaimed. Trying for a lighter note, he said: ‘Has someone traduced my character to you? Or is it that –’
‘Oh no, how could anyone – ? My lord, I must tell you that there is Another Man! When I agreed last night to receive you today, I did not know – that is, I thought –’ Her voice became suspended; she was obliged to wipe teardrops from her face.
He had stiffened. Another silence fell, broken only by the widow’s unhappy sniffs into her handkerchief. At last he said, in a constrained tone: ‘I collect – a prior attachment, ma’am?’
She nodded; a sob shook her. He said gently: ‘I will say no more. Pray do not cry, ma’am! You have been very frank, and I thank you for it. Will you accept my best wishes for your future happiness, and believe that –’
‘Happiness!’ she interrupted. ‘I am sure I am the wretchedest creature alive! You are all kindness, my lord: no one could be more sensible than I am of the exquisite forbearance you have shown me! You have every right to blame me for having encouraged you to suppose that your suit might be successful.’ Again her voice failed.
‘I have no blame for you at all, ma’am. Let us say no more! I will take my leave of you, but before I go will you permit me to discharge an obligation? I may not have the opportunity of speaking to you alone again. It concerns Fanny.’
‘Fanny?’ she repeated. ‘An obligation?’
He smiled with a slight effort. ‘Why, yes, ma’am! I had hoped to have won the right to speak to you on this subject. Well – I have not won that right, and you may deem it an impertinence that I should still venture, but since Fanny has honoured me with her confidence, and I promised her that I would do what I might, perhaps you will forgive me, and hear me with patience?’
She looked wonderingly at him. ‘Of course! That is – What can you possibly mean, my lord?’
‘She is, I collect, deeply attached to a young man whom she has known since her childhood. She has told me that you are opposed to the match, ma’am. Perhaps there exists some reason beyond his want of fortune to render his suit ineligible, but if it is not so – if your dislike of it arises only from a very natural desire that Fanny should contract some more brilliant alliance – may I beg of you, with
all the earnestness at my command, not to stand between her and what may be her future happiness? Believe me, I do not speak without experience! In my youth I was the victim of such an ambition. I shall not say that one does not recover from an early disappointment – indeed, you know that I at least have done so! – but I am most sincerely fond of Fanny, and I would do much to save her from what I suffered. I have some little influence: I should be glad to exert it in this young man’s favour.’
The damp handkerchief had dropped from the widow’s clutch to the floor; she sat gazing up at his lordship with so odd an expression in her face that he added quickly: ‘You find it strange that Fanny should have confided in me. Do not be hurt by it! I believe it is often the case that a girl will more easily give her confidence to her father than to a most beloved mother. When she spoke, it was in the belief that I might become – But I will say no more on that head!’
The widow found her voice at last. ‘My lord,’ she said, ‘do I – do I understand that you are desirous of becoming Fanny’s father?’
‘That is not quite as I should phrase it, perhaps,’ he said, with a wry smile.
‘Not,’ asked the widow anxiously, ‘not – you are quite sure? – Fanny’s husband?’
He looked thunderstruck. ‘Fanny’s husband?’ he echoed. ‘I? Good God, no! Why – is it possible that you can have supposed – ?’
‘I have never fainted in all my life,’ stated Mrs Wingham, in an uncertain voice. ‘I very much fear, however –’
‘No, no, this is no time for swoons!’ he said, seizing her hands. ‘You cannot have thought that it was Fanny I loved! Yes, yes, I know what Fanny has been to you, but you cannot have been so absurd!’
‘Yes, I was,’ averred the widow. ‘I could even be so absurd as not to have the remotest guess why I have felt so low ever since I met you, and thought you wished to marry her!’
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