by Fiona Hill
“Yes, pray let us stay away from that!” he laughed, not altogether light-heartedly.
“Is that why you wish Emilia to marry? So that you may perceive her as a woman grown?”
“Oh, hardly! I only wish her to marry—as I have just been telling her, indeed—so that she will not be lonely.”
“Is she lonely?”
“She says she is not. But you have no idea how quiet Six Stones can be, with only me for company, and not even that some of the time. She aches to come to London each spring, and she blooms every Season like a flower…” He fell silent.
“But—? Does she collapse on her return to…Six Stones, did you say?”
He nodded. “It is not so much that she collapses as that…some part of her seems to become dormant. I continually offer to engage a companion for her, but she will not hear of it.”
“Do you feel she is unhappy?”
“Oh, not at all!”
“Then why are you so eager to change her state? If she says she is not lonely, and you believe she is not unhappy, I am at a loss to understand you.” She waited, genuinely puzzled.
“Good heavens, I don’t know!” he finally ejaculated. “What has happened to women? Don’t they want to marry any longer? First Emilia, now you…I thought it was simply a natural part of every woman’s desires for herself, to have a husband and a home and a family and so on. Now I discover myself surrounded by women who speak of marriage as if it were some extraordinary and alien concept, as if it were invented by another race, or another—”
“Sex,” she broke in, unable to restrain herself.
“You consider that marriage was invented by men?” he demanded, amazed.
“I do. Dear sir, I have already pointed out to you the effect of marriage upon women. Do you suppose they would have invented such a thing?”
“I certainly— Oh, but Lady Elizabeth! We have fallen into it again, listen to us!” Lord Marchmont looked at her with a grin, and suddenly the two of them burst out laughing together. The ridiculousness of their having arrived, though each had fought against it with a whole heart, at exactly the same juncture that had proven so disastrous two days before seemed more and more obvious, and their laughter fed on itself until they were both near tears. Inevitably Emilia’s attention was attracted, and when she could no longer pretend not to notice them she came over, still with Charlie, and asked what on earth was the joke?
But neither lord nor lady could be persuaded to give an explanation. Lord Marchmont said it was not a joke at all, and Lady Elizabeth said it was a joke, but was not really funny, and by the time they had choked out these lame responses Lady Emilia had decided she did not care to know. A few moments later she and Jemmy took their leave. Marchmont murmured, as he bent over Elizabeth’s hand, that he would look forward very much to Thursday, when he would have the honour of seeing her again. Lord Halcot shook Emilia’s hand rather than kissing it and alluded to Thursday in a much more general way. He did not want to hurt the girl, naturally; but sometimes one had to be a little cold to be kind.
The reader may be a little surprised to observe that our hero and heroine have not only clearly shown their enjoyment of one another, but have actually left each other’s company (and at such an early juncture!) on excellent and harmonious terms. This is a trifle shocking, I admit, and I hasten to assure all and sundry that I for one had no notion, when first I made their acquaintance, that they would conduct themselves so peculiarly. This pair does not seem to spar; they do not appear to joust. So far from flinging barbs at one another when they meet, one would almost say they positively listen to each other, while their conversations show an uncanny tendency to deepen their relationship. In order for sparks to fly in the traditional fashion it is necessary that one partner either refuse to reveal himself honestly or decline to see the other as he actually is. It is even better if both partners can be persuaded to follow such a course. But while it is true that Marchmont and Lizzie each take one step backwards for every two forward, they cannot honestly be said actively to grate on one another. This is very curious! How can a love story proceed when the principals persist in liking each other? It is perplexing; but if the reader is prepared to follow me into this unknown territory, I shall not fail in leading.
I may point out on a more cheerful note that, if the course of true love is running uncommon smooth in the case of James and Elizabeth, it is on the other hand a veritable churning rapid when it comes to Isabella. Today was the day appointed by her for her tryst with Sir Jeffery de Guere. She had announced her intention of visiting Lackington Allen’s that morning at breakfast, and to her great annoyance found that Amy Lewis was also eager to revisit that place, and had joyfully volunteered to accompany her. Any attempt to dissuade her would have had a suspicious look, so Bella had been obliged to accept the offer with as good a grace as could be mustered and trust Providence for an opportunity of losing her later. It is not the least of a clandestine affair’s disadvantages that it does lead inevitably to this kind of deception and division among friends. Here was Amy Lewis, for fifteen years (since she could speak, forsooth) a good and honest ally to Isabella, now suddenly become the adversary, a mere obstacle to the fulfillment of her desires. If Elizabeth’s behaviour is shocking, what is Isabella’s? A perfect embarrassment, I am sorry to say. The silly girl has utterly taken leave of her senses.
The same evil angel that had whispered to de Guere the name of Sir Walter Scott murmured to Isabella, once she and Miss Lewis had reached Lackington Allen’s, on the subject of sick-headaches. She began her campaign by asking Amy if she felt quite well, for she looked (said Bella) very strangely indeed. This was followed (after Amy’s expected reply that she felt fine) by a worried glance and, presently, an offer to accompany her outside for a breath of air, “For you really are awfully pale, my dear.”
Miss Lewis repeated her opinion that she was fine.
“I should be so sorry if you were to fall ill before Thursday, my pet. Fancy not being able to attend our very own ball! I only hope—you say your head does not ache?”
“Not at all,” Amy smiled, moving towards the lounging rooms. “Do I really look so dreadful?”
“Not dreadful,” said the traitor, “you could never look that, for you are too pretty. But so terribly fatigued! I only ask because…well, I hesitate to tell you, since perhaps it is better if you do not know, but Miss Pye told me on Saturday that Cynthia Hassall has the most abominable fever. It’s lasted nearly a week already, and it came on her so suddenly! One morning she woke feeling quite fit—then all at once she realized she was a little pale, and felt a bit faint, and then, before she knew what was upon her, her head began to ache intolerably, and her fever rose, and—”
“Bella, please, you terrify me!” pleaded Amy only half jokingly. “The only symptom I have had so far is the one about waking up feeling quite fit. You paint this picture so vividly I’m afraid you will evoke the others—”
“Well, I only mention it, my dear, because you look so odd! I do not mean to alarm you, of course, but with Thursday coming up I thought perhaps you ought to go home at once and rest. Are you afraid of spoiling my day?” she asked with a great appearance of innocence. “Do not think of me, I beg. I shall gladly go home with you since your health is at stake.”
Miss Lewis sat down on a leather couch. “But we’ve only just arrived,” she objected.
“Well, that is nothing. I can go home and then come here again tomorrow. Oh dear, no, not tomorrow, I promised Mamma I would sit with her at home. But perhaps the next day—well, not then either come to think of it, since—”
“Oh my, you will never have time to come back!” said Amy, who was by now beginning to feel anxious and consequently a little unwell indeed. “I’ll tell you what: send me home in the coach alone. I’ll draw the shades so no one will see—and you keep Betty” (naming the maidservant who had accompanied them to the book-shop) “with you. Then when I am home I’ll send the carriage back to you, and you can r
eturn with her at your leisure. Will that do?”
It was necessary that Lady Isabella protest for a while at the cruel idea of allowing her dearest friend to travel alone while in a state of ill health, but these objections were at length overcome, and Miss Lewis (who still did not really feel sick but was quite distressed enough at the idea of missing the ball—where she might dance with Charlie—to want to go home for safety’s sake) went off alone in the stately carriage. Isabella easily dispensed with Betty by pointing out to her a knot of young persons like herself who had gathered round the doorman at the entrance of the shop, and then (looking anxiously for de Guere, since it was nearly the chosen hour) mounted the spiralling staircase to the very topmost gallery.
She had known she was early but was disappointed none the less to find she had preceded Sir Jeffery. Ought not an ardent lover to arrive well in advance of the great moment? Isabella nearly expired of impatience waiting for him, but at last his handsome head showed on the staircase and her trial was ended. He came to her a bit out of breath from the exertion of running up the steps, but otherwise he was everything a forbidden correspondent should be. “My angel!” were his first words. He took her hands and kissed them. The large central chandelier was far below them now and the gallery dim and (blessedly, thought Isabella) deserted. She leaned her back against the row of books and smiled up at him tremulously.
“Was it very difficult for you to come away alone?” he asked her, in a whisper not altogether necessary since the nearest person was two levels below them.
“A little. Jeffery, I have been thinking about Papa. I do not believe he will judge you before he even comes to know you. Jeffery, one moment!” she interrupted herself in a very unheroic fashion, for her beloved was covering her hands with kisses and apparently did not hear her at all. She was thrilled, in a sense, with the romance of this secret rendezvous; but in equal measure she found it unsettling and was desirous of avoiding such shadowy meetings in the future. Unlike the average heroine, she had not at all enjoyed lying to Lizzie and Amy.
“My adorable girl,” said Jeffery between kisses. “Is it too dreadful of me? I cannot seem to let go of you.”
She smiled in spite of herself and allowed him to kiss first her forehead, then her mouth. “But Jeffery, we must speak. I do not believe my father will forbid you to pay your addresses to me. He is a very reasonable man. Promise me you will speak to him—or shall I speak to him first?”
This talk of fathers made Sir Jeffery nervous. “My dear, I am afraid you have no notion what kind of wickedness I am generally held to be responsible for,” he said, looking sharply into her eyes.
“But listen to me,” she pleaded. “This is just what I am saying: my father will not judge you on the strength of rumours and gossip. He is a magistrate at home, you know. Everybody says he is uncommonly fair—even some of the prisoners.”
De Guere was silent for a moment; then he grasped her shoulders rather tightly and demanded, in a low voice, “Suppose some of the stories were true, my angel? Would you love me the less? I do not say they are…but if they were—?”
She looked back at him, mildly puzzled. “Do you mean—can you be capable of wickedness? I cannot believe it.”
“Not wickedness, my angel, but—foolishness. Before I met you, my dear, I had but little reason to be good, remember. If I had erred—could you be divinely merciful, and forgive me? Say you could, I beg you!”
Lady Isabella, feeling unaccountably limp, said she could.
“Darling!” came the reply, and another shower of kisses.
“But will you not speak to my fath—”
“No more talk of fathers. Let us not speak of anyone at all, except ourselves. That is the prerogative of lovers. We are lovers, did you know?”
“But Jeffery—”
“Shall I see you on Thursday? You are so lovely! Your brother came to see me today; he asked me to your ball. Did you send him? He nearly made me late.”
“No—I mean, yes. That is, of course I shall see you on Thursday, if you come. But Jeffery, could you not speak—”
“Adorable! Adorable!”
“Jeffery—”
“Kiss me. Quickly, love, for I hear a clerk coming up the stairs. There, that is all,” he added a moment later, when she had embraced him as he asked. He arranged her arm on his very properly, smoothing her hair with a deft gesture that ought to have informed her he had had a lot of practice in the art, and began to lead her sedately down the steps. “Say you will dance with me Thursday,” he murmured as they passed the clerk. “Say you will hold me in front of everyone.”
“Of course I shall. You’ll see, on Thursday I’ll introduce you to Papa—”
“Not now, my darling,” said Sir Jeffery de Guere. They were reaching the bottom of the staircase. “I must leave you here or your abigail will see me. Good-bye. Life will be nothing till we meet again.”
With these words he left her, a little frustrated it is true at not having been able to speak as she’d intended, but with her pulses and her emotions in a delightful state of tumult.
8
Why—it may well be asked—why was Sir Jeffery de Guere so especially loath to meet with Lady Isabella’s father? Granted, rakes and loving papas are not in the nature of things what one could call allies; indeed, their relationship is more along the lines of diametric opposites. Still, this particular rake has been so very averse to the notion of winning the trust of Lord Trevor that the question may bear particular examination.
The fact was that de Guere had made a few shrewd observations about his cousin Marchmont at their last meeting, and had done a little thinking since then. His conclusion: that Lord Marchmont was considering taking Lady Elizabeth Stanbroke to wife. He was not surprised therefore when, on the Tuesday following the tryst at Lackington Allen’s, Marchmont paid him a call. His object was to dissuade Sir Jeffery from attending the Trevor’s ball. Not mincing matters, he offered de Guere one hundred pounds to be absent.
“Thank you, thank you, dear coz,” said Jeffery, who was still at his dressing-table tying his cravat when Lord Marchmont arrived. “It is good of you to think of me, really good of you. But what is there in the world to equal an evening in the company of fine and much-loved persons? A hundred pounds? I am afraid not. Still, it was good of you to think of it.”
“I want you to keep away from Isabella,” pronounced the earl grimly. “I’ve already told you.”
“So you have, old man, come to think of it. But I dare say I shan’t listen to you very closely until you can prove to me there is some law—or at least an ordinance—against my seeking out the society of that young lady. Anyhow, I don’t know why you worry about my spending time with her; really I fancy I shall be so much occupied with the company of her fascinating brother, I shall have no time for ladies at all. Do you feel better, old fellow? Can I get you a cup of chocolate? My house may be poor, but I am not without my little hospitalities.”
“You will be without your little teeth if you don’t shut up,” remarked Marchmont, who was losing his temper. “Do you not recollect my promising to call you out if you went near Lady Isabella again?”
“I do,” said the other generously. “Are you worried about breaking your promise to me? I beg you will forget it, if so. I have. Anyhow, my good fellow, a man may be called out and not accept, you know. Frankly I don’t think my—going near Lady Isabella, I think you called it?—is adequate provocation at all. If I accepted every duel that was offered to me,” he added airily, “I’d never have time for breakfast in bed at all, would I? No, I’d be out at Wormwood Scrubs, or wherever it was you said you wanted to see me—”
“Putney Heath.”
“Yes, exactly, Putney Heath. I’d be out there on Putney Heath brushing bullets off my waistcoat every morning, instead of here where I can be cosy. Now I dare say the Heath is very beautiful this time of year—very beautiful! But I had rather not go every day, thank you.” Having at last succeeded in arranging his c
ravat to his satisfaction, Sir Jeffery sat down and studied his cousin. “Was there anything else?” he asked at length.
“Five hundred pounds,” said the earl. “No more.”
“My dear man, some things are past purchase, don’t you know! I could not dream of accepting your very generous offer. Surely you’ll take some chocolate? Coffee? Tea—?”
“A thousand,” offered Lord Marchmont.
“My good fellow, I tell you some things cannot be bought! No doubt you will be surprised to find I am one of them, but I am, and that is that. Life is full of mysteries.”
“I swear I will make you regret this.”
“My dear coz, pardon me if I say you are beginning to bore me.”
“Damn your hide, I don’t care about your boredom! I don’t care about your feelings or your finances. I don’t care about anything except—” He broke off suddenly. “A thousand pounds,” he said more quietly after a moment. “Think it over. A thousand pounds to stay away. I’ll be going now.”
Sir Jeffery jumped up and followed him to the door of his dressing-room. “Oh I say, I hope I haven’t driven you off with that little remark about being bored! I didn’t mean a thing by it, ’pon honour.”
Lord Marchmont did not answer. A moment later Sir Jeffery heard the front door shut behind him.
“Humour is lost on him,” he remarked to himself with a shrug. “He always was a sober old chap.” He returned complacently to his toilette, making mental notes as he did so on the subject of what to wear Thursday night.
What was the value of his invitation to the ball, that one thousand pounds could not induce him to part with it? Briefly, this: de Guere stood to inherit the entire estate of the Earl of Marchmont if his lordship died childless. It was his aim, therefore, to prevent the earl from marrying. Till now, history and fate had conspired with him; but his instincts had told him on Saturday night that the moment was not far off when Lord Marchmont would ask Elizabeth Stanbroke for her hand. Very well then, if Sir Jeffery succeeded in embroiling the Trevor family in a scandal, would the proposal still be made? Jeffery thought not. He was determined, therefore, to precipitate a scandal as soon as possible, before Lord Marchmont could make up his mind to offer for Elizabeth. Ruining Isabella was the natural and pleasant way of bringing about a scandal, of course; in fact, he was rather looking forward to it.
