by Mira Stables
It was a long drawn out business and left her with the beginnings of a headache. Since her aunt was not yet returned she decided to step out for a breath of air. It would be pleasant, she thought, to stroll down to the river and watch the shipping. She had been much interested in the busy riverside scene. Aunt Thomasine, more prosaically inclined, could see no romance in ships and cargoes but only a deal of dirt and noise and a great many low common sailors. She had hurried her charge away before her ears could be sullied by their coarse jests and ribald comments.
It seemed to Honor that a stroll beside the river would be just the thing to banish her headache. It would be full of interest, too. The restrictions of city life were building in her a new kind of restlessness. Until they came to Bath her days had certainly been quiet but they had been busy and useful. She found herself missing the occupations that had employed her energies. No thought of the impropriety of walking alone, still less of any possible danger, occurred to her. As the Vicar’s eldest daughter she had first accompanied her Mama on errands to the sick and the poor of the Parish and later, when Mama was busy with teaching the twins their lessons, had gone alone wherever help was needed. No one had thought to question this proceeding. And since they had gone to live with Aunt Thomasine life had followed the same simple rural pattern. True, there were no parish duties, but, so far as her limited means permitted, Aunt was charitably inclined and Honor had been her willing lieutenant She did not see anything out of the way in her decision to walk down to the riverside.
It was a relief to be able to step out briskly without adapting her steps to Aunt Thomasine’s slower ones. She walked down Monmouth Street and came to Kingsmead Square. Here she hesitated briefly. On that earlier walk they had followed the line of the mediaeval walls on their way to the bridge where they had watched the ships. If her sense of direction was to be trusted it would be much quicker to walk along Avon Street. It looked quiet and a respectable thoroughfare in the early evening light and it ran directly towards the river.
It was oddly deserted though. And, strangely enough, this emptiness was somehow frightening. As she walked swiftly, rather breathlessly, past the first houses she had a sensation of being watched. The houses looked neat and quite well kept but she felt that behind drawn curtains eyes were following her progress. It was quite a relief when two ladies emerged from a house half way down the street and began to walk towards her. Both were dressed in the height of fashion. As they drew closer she noticed that they were even more heavily painted than was customary among the fashionables. To Honor, who had never been permitted to use anything more exotic than a little buttermilk to soothe a painful sunburn on her cheeks, cosmetics were sinful but exciting. She had been amazed to discover that in Bath ladies of the first respectability used paint and perfume quite freely. Though she shrank from making the experiment herself she could not help being vastly intrigued by the finished result. Perhaps this was why she stared at the approaching pair more openly than was strictly courteous. Moreover it seemed almost as if they knew her, for they exchanged some remark and then crossed the street to come right up to her.
At close range their dresses were seen to be cheap and tawdry imitations of fashionable finery and Honor saw that they were strangers, but they seemed bent on claiming acquaintance. They advanced on her with an assurance that forced her to draw back and flatten herself against a gatepost in order to give them room to pass, but this did not suffice. The taller of the two, a strapping wench with brawny arms and shoulders and a bosom that seemed determined to thrust its way free of her soiled satin bodice, greeted her with mock affability.
“Well, Miss Chicken, what are you doing here? Run away from mama? Come to see for yourself how the likes of us makes an honest living? Or—” with a sudden access of savagery—“are ye thinking o’ taking to the game yerself? If that’s yer notion, take yerself off, afore I scratches the eyes out o’ yer silly white face. There’s enough of us already without milky little bitches o’ your sort taking the bread out of our mouths.”
While Honor still gazed in stupefaction at the inflamed and gin-sodden countenance thrust so unpleasantly close to hers, the other woman joined in, sidling close to the frightened girl and putting a hand on her wrist as she said in an oily whine, “In course she’s not, Cora. She’s a good kind young lady, that’s what she is, and heart sorry for the likes of us poor starving girls. She’s come to help us, haven’t you, dearie? To give us silver and gold so’s we can abandon our wicked way of life and set up for honest milliners. See—here it is, in this nice little bag on her dainty wrist,” and she fingered the reticule that Honor was carrying.
But at this point in the fracas a third voice joined in the argument. A much older female had come out of the house and down the steps to the gate against which Honor was being crushed by her two antagonists. So far as the frightened girl could judge she was dressed with neatness and propriety. Certainly she spoke with marked authority. “Be off, the pair of you, impudent doxies. Whatever is the world coming to if a young lady can’t walk down the street without being molested by the scum of the gutters? I’ve a mind to call the constable and have ye both clapped up, I do declare.”
Whether it was the threat of the law or the woman’s air of fierce command, this address proved instantly effective. The two bawds seemed to shrink in stature and slunk away, the younger one muttering something about not meaning no harm and not wishing to interfere with any affair of Madame’s.
‘Madame’ patted Honor’s shoulder, studying her the while with a calculating eye, and announced that she must be feeling all shook up after such a horrid experience. “And you fresh come from the country, by the looks of you,” she added thoughtfully. “How does it come about that you are all alone, my dear? Just you come along in with me and have a nice cup of tea. It’ll settle your nerves. And then one of my servants shall escort you home,” and she took Honor’s arm in a firm grasp as though to lead her into the house.
Though grateful for her rescue from her uncomfortable predicament, Honor had no desire to accept this rather too pressing invitation. In her excess of goodwill ‘Madame’ seemed as though she would drag her up the steps and into the house willing or not. And Honor was not willing. There was something in the woman’s looks, in the assumption of a gentility that was obviously alien and in the grasp on her arm, too strong for comfort, that was more frightening than the direct attack of the two street women. She pulled back, only to feel the grasp on her arm tighten. “Best do as I say, missy,” said the coarse voice, stripped now of all veneer of courtesy, “or it’ll be the worse for you. You come down ’ere of your own free will. Saw you myself, didn’t I? It’s my belief your folks don’t know where you’ve gone—if so be as you ’ave folks. And no one’s going to look for you in Avon Street, that’s for sure. I can just use a dainty little piece like you. So best come quiet or I’ll ’ave you whipped till you’re glad enough to do as you’re bid. A pity ’twould be to mark that pretty white skin o’ yourn, wouldn’t it, now?” She jerked viciously at Honor’s arm and raised her free hand to beckon towards the house as though to summon assistance.
Honor fought back desperately but she was slight of build, no match for the brutal strength that was forcing her towards the house. She stumbled up another step and cried out pitifully for help. The clutch on her arm was suddenly relaxed so that she was thrown completely off balance, and, dazed with terror as she was, would have fallen, had not someone caught and supported her. Instinctively she struck out at one whom she judged to be the henchman that ‘Madame’ had summoned. Her hand was taken and firmly held in a cool grasp. A deep voice said quietly, “Steady, my girl. You are safe enough, now. No one will do you any hurt.”
The calm voice carried immediate conviction. Honor stopped struggling and leaned thankfully on that supporting arm while she strove to regain her self-possession.
The gentleman who had come to her aid paid her no further attention beyond keeping his arm about her shaking shoulders. In
a very different voice he was addressing her late assailant. “Up to your old tricks still, Mrs. Grummage? Do you see any reason why I should not give you in charge for assaulting this young lady with intent to abduction?” The voice was searing in its icy indifference. Involuntarily Honor shuddered. But Mrs. Grummage was made of sterner stuff.
“None at all your honour,” she said silkily. “No doubt the young lady ’ull be pleased to give evidence against me. She’ll like to stand up in court and tell all Bath society how she chose to stroll alone down Avon Street and was taken for a common whore.”
The words sounded shockingly in Honor’s ears. The picture they conjured up was horrible. What would Aunt Thomasine, what would Mama have to say to a foolish girl who had been given such a wonderful chance in life and had used it only to bring eternal disgrace upon her family? They could never live down the scandal. Frantic fingers clutched beseechingly at the strange gentleman’s arm.
“No! Oh, no! Please don’t. Don’t call a constable,” she sobbed out in desperate appeal. “You said I was safe now. Let me go home. I couldn’t bear it if I had to tell everybody what I’d done.”
The gentleman shrugged indifferently. “As you wish,” he said in bored tones. “In that case pray permit me to escort you to your destination. Are you sufficiently recovered to walk?”
In point of fact Honor’s ankle was rather painful where she had grazed it as she stumbled up the steps, but even had it been much worse she would have defied the pain in order to get away from the scene of such shameful discomfiture.
“Yes, yes,” she faltered. “Pray let us go at once.”
Her rescuer withdrew the arm that had been passed about her shoulders all this time and offered her his arm. She clutched at it feverishly rather than laying the tips of her fingers gracefully upon it as she had been taught, but its owner seemed to understand. His free hand came up to cover hers for an instant and there was comforting reassurance in the quiet voice as he said, “Indeed it is all right, child. You are safe now. Only tell me your direction and I will undertake to see you safe home with no one a jot the wiser.”
“It is only in Beaufort Square,” she said eagerly, beginning already to revive in response to his confident yet calming manner. “It is not very far. But I must not cause you further inconvenience. Perhaps you have engagements of your own that you must keep. If you would lend me your protection as far as Kingsmead Square, I think I must be safe.”
“That I would take leave to doubt,” said her escort drily. Seeing that she had now recovered her natural complexion and seemed much restored to normal, he abandoned the paternal role and spoke with forthright indignation. “Are you completely crazed, to be walking down Avon Street unprotected? Or have I, perhaps misjudged your innocence?” he demanded sternly.
The sudden harshness effectively completed Honor’s recovery. That she had behaved foolishly she knew very well, but she had erred through ignorance, and even though he had rescued her from a dreadful fate it did not give him the right to speak of her in such a fashion.
“As to that, sir, I can scarcely be expected to answer either question. Nor have I given you any reason to accept my word. But, in general, my Papa was used to say that the pure in heart could go anywhere in safety. They would never come to serious harm.”
His face was a mask of scarce concealed contempt. “From his choice of phrase I collect that your Papa was a clergyman. His faith must have been very great—if he really believed that. You must pardon me for saying that he is singularly devoid of practical good sense. Would he permit you to walk unprotected into a fever hospital to tend the sick, or to step blithely over a cliff in the belief that you would reach the foot of it unharmed?”
“The former course, sir, he would certainly have approved,” she retorted swiftly, still very much on her dignity. But as she mulled over the proposition in her mind an irrepressible chuckle escaped her. Maternal indifference had bred in her a will of her own and a strong inclination to go her own way, but she could never resist the appeal of the ridiculous. “With regard to the second alternative,” she said demurely, “perhaps he would have expected that an angel would be sent to bear me up—as did indeed happen in this case,” she ended on a gurgle of mischievous laughter.
His own reluctant grin dawned. He, too, could see the comic side of his own intervention in the guise of rescuing angel. “Coming it a bit too strong, ma’am,” he drawled lazily, eyeing her the while with amused appreciation. “For one who should be well instructed in the scriptures you are sadly at fault. Was it not the Prince of Evil himself who made that suggestion? Nor do I see myself in the angelic role, whoever the master who sent me so timely to your aid.”
Her expression grew sober. “Nevertheless, sir, you will allow me to thank you. And if I do not presume too far on your time and your patience, I would wish to present you to my aunt, so that she may add her thanks to mine.”
He looked down at her quizzically. “You will make open confession then?”
She was a little surprised. “Why, yes! Oh! You were remembering that I said I couldn’t bear to tell anyone what I had done. But I meant outside people. People who wouldn’t understand. Naturally I shall tell Aunt Thomasine everything.”
He was a little intrigued. “Your parents?” he queried.
Her colour rose. “I should have explained sooner. You will think me shockingly ill-bred to have jested about Papa, for he is dead. It is more than a twelve-month since,” she offered, tentatively, excusingly. And then, “I did grieve for him and I still miss his gentle counsel. But he and Mama—how can I explain? We were not very important to them—except perhaps Percy, to Mama.”
He nodded understandingly. “Percy is your brother?”
“Yes. And despite the horridly jealous way I spoke of him, I love him dearly. But I should have made myself known to you. My name is Honoria Fenton, and as you will suppose, from my stupid behaviour, I am but newly come to Bath. My godmother left me the house in Beaufort Square in the hope that I might enjoy a season here as she had done.”
The gentleman volunteered no answer to this ingenuous statement but it seemed to her that the arm upon which her hand still rested her suddenly stiffened. She glanced up into his face but it told her nothing. He was, she decided, considerably older than herself, which made it awkward to question him as she would have liked to do. She did venture a diffident, “Have you business in Bath, sir?” and was rewarded with an unexpected grin.
“Yes, Miss Fenton, I have. And despite all the evidence to the contrary, not in Avon Street. It seems that we shall have to take each other upon trust to that extent. You will naturally wonder how I came to know of the abominable Mrs. Grummage, and I can only plead that as I accept your story you will do as much for me. Some months ago she tried a similar trick upon the daughter of an old s—acquaintance of mine. The circumstances were not quite the same. The danger was. On that occasion, too, we were in time to foil her design. So she has little cause to love me. Today’s adventure need cause you no further anxiety. No one but ourselves—and your aunt—need ever know of it.”
“For that I am most truly grateful, sir. Will you not tell me your name so that I may present you to my Aunt in form? She will wish to thank you for restoring me to her care.”
“Then she is certainly a most unusual woman and I must make her acquaintance without further loss of time. My name is Jocelyn, ma’am, and if I were your aunt I should certainly not be inclined to thank anyone who restored you to my charge. Such a turbulent handful as you seem like to prove, I should rather inform them in no uncertain terms that they had better have spared themselves the pains.”
This deliberate provocation was well calculated to distract Honor’s attention from the slight reserve which she had sensed in his manner. Her indignant refutal of this prejudiced reading of her character lasted them the rest of the way to Beaufort Square and upon their arrival there Mr. Jocelyn allowed himself to be conducted to the small saloon which the ladies had taken to t
heir own use for informal occasions.
Chapter Four
It was not to be expected that Miss Helmore would dismiss her niece’s adventure lightly. On finding Honor missing when she returned to the house she had suffered some degree of anxiety and had prepared a sharp scold against the culprit’s return. Mr. Jocelyn’s presence rendered its delivery ineligible and by the time that he and Honor between them had explained the circumstances of their unconventional acquaintance, Aunt Thomasine was so deeply shocked by the narrowness of the girl’s escape that all thought of scolding went out of her head and she was inclined to blame herself overmuch for the negligence which had allowed such a situation to arise. In her perturbation it was some time before she recalled the claims of hospitality. Mr. Jocelyn was then persuaded to take a glass of sherry wine, an indulgence in which Miss Helmore joined him, saying that after such a shock as she had received some such restorative was certainly indicated.
The treatment proved efficacious. After two or three sips she was sufficiently recovered to enquire if Mr. Jocelyn was related to the Lincolnshire family of that name. Mr. Jocelyn disclaimed, but was then able to establish himself firmly in her regard by telling her that he had been acquainted with the late Marchioness of Melborne whom he understood to have been Miss Helmore’s sister. He had, in fact, visited the house in Beaufort Square many years previously when the late Marquis had been in residence. This information so delighted Aunt Thomasine, seeming to make Honor’s rescuer almost one of the family, that she abandoned much of the reserve with which she would normally have treated so new an acquaintance and expressed the hope that his stay in the city would be a long one and that they might hope to have the pleasure of meeting him at the Assemblies. His plans, he said, gravely courteous, were not settled. Business had brought him to the city and the duration of his stay would depend upon the conclusion of a rather troublesome affair. But he would certainly do himself the honour of calling upon the ladies to confirm that Miss Fenton had suffered no ill effects from her unpleasant adventure, if Miss Helmore would permit him to do so.
