by Fiona Hill
“Your duty—”
“I mean, this is one of the social engagements to which I was bound by lot. Have I fulfilled my obligation?”
“Oh, the poor man!” exclaimed Emilia to Lord Weld. “He is really very good, don’t you think? I daresay we can show a little clemency at this point, or do you feel I am too lenient?”
“I am sure the poor fellow has suffered enough,” agreed Weld. “Shall we carry him home then, you and I?”
“Oh do let’s,” said Emilia feelingly, taking her brother by the arm. “There is still such a crush, it hardly seems necessary to take our leave of Lady Trevor. Suppose we call on them soon instead?”
“Yes, very well, my dear,” said Marchmont, rather sharply, for he had been through such a great deal that evening that it was difficult for him to maintain the façade of gaiety he considered necessary for Emilia’s sake.
“Gruff, isn’t he?” she murmured, smiling, to Warrington Weld as the three of them made their way down to the front door. “Turns into a regular bear after midnight, it seems. We’re missing supper for your sake, Jemmy, you know. You might at least be civil.”
“I expect we’ll find something to feed upon at home,” said he, essaying a smile.
“Oh, listen to him! Feed upon, he says. You see, he is a bear after all. Next he’ll be wanting a nice cave and a six-month’s nap.”
“Perhaps we can chain him up and teach him to dance,” suggested Weld lightly, though it was clear to him something was troubling his friend. It was clear, for that matter, to Emilia as well, but she divined that her brother would prefer her not to notice. She therefore continued to tease and chaff him all the way home and only manifested her concern in the especially tender kiss with which she bade him good night. Then she made her way upstairs, leaving the gentlemen (she hoped) to open their hearts to one another. In order to give them their privacy the sooner she pretended not to be hungry. In fact, however, she was ravenous and secretly sent her maid down to the kitchen to fetch her (under the cover of her apron) a little bread and cheese.
The facts of the matter were soon made known to Weld by Emilia’s brother. The two men sat in Marchmont’s library, talking over a bottle of claret and some cold ham. Lord Weld took the news with appropriate grimness. “No, you’re right, old man, you can’t let it go by,” he said when the earl had finished speaking.
“Hardly. You will stand me second, won’t you?”
“My dear fellow—!” exclaimed the other rather huskily, for he would gladly have died twice over for this friend. “You need not ask.”
Lord Marchmont looked his gratitude in silence.
“I’m curious to see what sort of a second de Guere drags up, mind you,” Lord Weld continued. “Doubtless some twopenny criminal or other. Should be a joy trying to work out an apology with him.”
“But I don’t want an apology,” Jemmy interrupted.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I say, I want to fight him. The time for anything else has gone by.”
“But if he offers an apology, you must accept it,” remonstrated the other mildly.
“Then you must prevent him from offering it.”
“What, and insure your danger! I jolly well won’t.”
“Then I must find another second.”
“Any second with a conscience would do the same, Marchmont! What are you thinking of? Why it’s part of the code. Every possible effort must be made to reconcile the parties before the duel.” Lord Weld thrust both his long pale hands into his carroty hair. “When did you become so bellicose? I seem to remember you rather peaceful than otherwise.”
The earl replied rather brusquely, “I cannot sit idly by while this cousin of mine ruins yet another girl. Especially when the girl in question is the sister of my—well, I simply cannot. I am sorry. If you want to know the whole truth, I mean to shoot to kill.”
“You can’t! Why, you’d be obliged to leave England, old man! The affair would certainly come to light, and then—”
“I think I had best ask someone else to second me, the more I consider it,” Marchmont broke in soberly. “You are going to regret your hand in it, if my aim is true, and there’s no point in your involving yourself. I can find someone else easily enough. Perhaps even Halcot would be more suitable. Not that I wouldn’t rather have you, but—well, I think you’re rather too much a friend to render me this particular service with a whole heart.”
Lord Weld stood up. He had not a commanding presence as a rule, but some emotion now transformed his air in such a way as to make him quite formidable. “Marchmont,” said he, “enough nonsense. If you are determined, then you are determined. It is well to discuss these matters, but I hope you will not insult me by supposing I am not as capable of acting in deadly earnest as you yourself.”
Marchmont paused. “You are certain?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Then I thank you, Weld,” said the other, impulsively reaching out to shake Weld’s hand. They were silent again, for a moment, then, “My only real fear now is that the coward won’t accept. He said he wouldn’t.”
Lord Weld was shocked. “How can a man hold his head up—?” he broke out in surprise.
“I am sure Sir Jeffery would tell you he uses his neck to hold up his head, and finds it does the job very nicely. Well, I must write the wretch a challenge, I suppose. Will you help me?”
Lord Weld, still musing over the idea of a gentleman who could refuse a duel, shook his head as if to rid it of cobwebs and willingly agreed. The two friends then turned to the literary task at hand.
11
Lord Halcot found his sisters in their sitting-room, in company with Amy Lewis. Lizzie and Isabella had had a private wrangle earlier, during which a severe set-down by the elder girl had been exchanged for a promise from the younger never to repeat her folly, if only Elizabeth would keep this instance a secret between them. This duly agreed upon, Lizzie thought it best to play mum on the subject of Marchmont’s probable involvement. Isabella seemed truly chastened, and there was no point in feeding any stray romantic notions she might still be holding by informing her of a duel. Anyhow it was a good policy to keep such an affair as much as possible under wraps. It was a dangerous business to all concerned. So Lady Elizabeth reasoned, in any case, and therefore held her tongue.
Miss Lewis had naturally been made privy to the events of the previous evening, having first been sworn to secrecy, of course. She was deeply troubled by her old friend’s reckless behaviour—and more than a little hurt when she discovered how and why she had been sent home from Lackington Allen’s that day (for this too came out)—but her sympathy for Bella, who now seemed so shaken and so miserable, easily outweighed these other sentiments. The poor girl was piteous! She had been persuaded to rise and dress only with difficulty; and even then she took breakfast in the sitting-room, where she still sat now, shrouded in a quilt, huddled into a corner of the couch. She was pale and whimpered more or less continually; when she spoke it was mostly of the treacherous falseness of the opposite sex. It was not what one could call amusing conversation, and on the whole Elizabeth was as happy to see her brother as she had ever been.
He entered with his usual enthusiasm, bounding across the threshold after a cursory knock, and tossed a bouquet at Isabella, while he bowed his salutations to the others.
“Who is it from?” Amy could not help asking, as Isabella bent her blond head over the handful of flowers. There were only five or six of them, knotted with a velvet riband, but they were a fresh, handsome sight.
“Yes, who, Charlie?” seconded Lizzie, indicating a chair in which he might seat himself.
“De Guere,” said he. “Just came from a round of sparring with him—practice, I mean, naturally. He’s not bad.” Lord Halcot delivered this news with a grin, the happy smile of the blissfully ignorant. Oh, for the gay, stupid selfishness of youth! Poor Charlie was about to lose it forever, more’s the pity, but we must all put away childish things, I
suppose.
“You idiot,” hissed Lizzie all at once, unable to contain herself. Perhaps if she had not been so glad to see him in the first place, her disappointment now would have been less bitter. In any case she lashed out, “Your little friend has nearly ruined our sister.”
At the same moment as these words were delivered, Amy Lewis sighed deeply and exclaimed, “Oh Charlie, if you would only pay attention!” As mild a reproach as this was, it was stronger stuff than she generally used with him, and I think the nip from this gentle lamb hurt Lord Halcot more than the fangs of his sister.
The object of these animadversions dropped into a chair as if he had been shot and requested, with a dazed look, an explanation.
“Oh never mind,” said Elizabeth, disgusted, while Isabella continued to bury her head in the flowers. Her face was hidden from view, and Lizzie wondered if she might be crying again.
“There was an unfortunate…contretemps last night,” said Amy more helpfully. “Between your sister and de Guere. I don’t think we need go into it again,” she added, looking to Lizzie for confirmation, “except to ask you not to mention him to us—and certainly not to bring him here.”
“You oughtn’t to see him at all, Charlie,” advised Elizabeth sharply. “Never mind why, Amy is right. The less said the better.”
“Oh, I say, this is too much. Why are you abusing me so? It’s a bit hard on a fellow, giving him half an explanation and a couple of orders in the same breath. Bella, you’ll tell me, won’t you?”
Isabella spoke directly into her flowers: “I had rather not discuss it.”
“Come come, I haven’t got all day. In fact I haven’t got another five minutes,” complained Halcot, jumping up as if to illustrate his point. At this moment he was interrupted by a knock at the door; answering it, Elizabeth found Bolton carrying a card on a tray.
“Miss Lucilla Partridge to see Lady Isabella,” explained the butler.
“My sister gave orders she was not at home,” Lizzie told him.
“Yes ma’am, indeed. And so I told Miss Partridge. But she was not to be turned away, I assure you. She seemed about to burst into tears, to say truth, ma’am. I told her I would do what I could.”
“Oh, very well, for goodness’ sake, send her up,” said Lizzie impatiently, for behind her she could hear Charlie beginning to whine again about how little time he had and how much he was entitled to know, and she did not wish Bolton to be treated to the dialogue that seemed bound to ensue. She closed the door on his back and turned to the others. “Lucilla Partridge is here. She insists on talking to Bella.”
“Oh Lord!” exclaimed her sister, while Halcot burst out, “Don’t you understand, I must go at once! I have an auction to attend.”
“An auction?”
“Yes. Collectibles. Er…ivory and—ah, porcelain and the like. At Phillip’s sale-rooms. I mustn’t be late.”
“Oh no, that would be ghastly,” agreed Lady Elizabeth. “Only fancy!”
“But perhaps we’d better tell him—” commenced Amy, suddenly concerned lest Halcot go to de Guere for an explanation.
“I can’t. You do it,” answered Lizzie.
“I know, come with me to Phillip’s,” said Charlie all at once. “You’ll enjoy the auction I’m sure, and you can tell me what’s up on the way.”
Amy Lewis, always eager to accompany Charlie anywhere, nevertheless looked to the others for guidance. “Yes, go,” Elizabeth finally told her. “You’ll know what’s best to say, and what is better left alone.”
Lord Halcot began to protest at this, but he reconsidered and instead hurried Amy out of the room with him. “For Miss Partridge will be here in an instant,” he explained, “and then we’ll have the devil of a time saying good-bye.” Miss Lewis gladly allowed herself to be swept off on his arm, and the two made their exit only seconds before Lucilla Partridge entered the room.
Miss Partridge was a diminutive creature, dark of complexion, hair, and eyes, with a sweet expression and a tendency to wear rather too much lace. She came into the room hesitantly, the tears which Bolton had mentioned still shining in her soft brown eyes. Isabella met their gaze only briefly before again turning her glance towards the flowers. “Miss Partridge,” said Elizabeth civilly, with a bow. She offered the caller a chair.
“I hope I am not disturbing you—”
“No, no.”
“But you see, it seemed absolutely urgent that I come…” The soft, husky voice trailed off into silence.
Elizabeth waited. Isabella (nose still in her bouquet) waited. Presently Miss Partridge said, “May I speak frankly?”
“Oh, please.”
“Very well, then. I’ll say it straight out, shall I?”
“Indeed. Please do.”
Lucilla gulped. “It concerns—you won’t be offended?”
“I shouldn’t expect so!”
“Very well, then…” Another gulp. A sigh. Miss Partridge gripped her hands together and recommenced, “It concerns Sir Jeffery de Guere.”
“Oh dear, I’m afraid—”
“Lady Isabella, I beg you will take note of my example and profit by it,” Lucilla rushed on almost severely.
“But—”
“He is a wicked, wicked man! I know you will find this difficult to believe; so should I have once upon a time, but—”
“Dear Miss Partridge, I pray you will spare yourself—”
“You must positively not trust him. Positively! Believe me, I come to you as a friend. Perhaps you will think it is otherwise; perhaps you will even think—”
“Really, Miss—”
“That I am speaking out of pique, or spite, or…rivalry, but no! That is not the case,” her words spilled out, “not at all, I assure you. I wish with all my heart I had never seen him. I saw him dancing with you last night and—forgive me—I saw the way you looked at him, and I even saw…”
No one interrupted her this time.
“I even saw you quit the room together, and I could not, no I could not, when you had been so kind as to invite me to your ball, let this go by without at least coming here, without advising—indeed, without imploring you to turn away from him at once!”
“Miss Partridge,” Elizabeth at last broke in.
“Have I offended you? I am desperately sorry!”
“Miss Partridge, no, not at all. You are most kind to come and address my sister. But the fact is, she has seen just precisely the traits you mention in Sir Jeffery…I mean that he is wicked and untrustworthy, and—with all due thanks for your kindness in coming—in short, she has been spared your trials and yet learned her lesson already.”
“She has?” This was delivered with a perfectly unfeigned amazement.
“She has.”
“All on her own?”
“Just so.”
“And without…without being pushed to the lengths which I…”
“Exactly.”
Miss Partridge was silent for a moment. She looked bewildered. “I am sorry to seem so dubious, but I can hardly fathom one’s becoming disenchanted with Sir Jeffery before he—that is, before—”
“Miss Partridge?”
“Oh me, perhaps I had better go now,” said the poor girl, looking wildly uncomfortable. Knowing de Guere as she did, it seemed to her impossible that any woman should manage to elude him altogether. She had come all at once to the alternative solution, to wit, that Isabella had in fact been ruined by him last night, but had contrived to keep it from her family or from the monde in any case. The very idea of it embarrassed her. Looking closely at Isabella now, she could easily imagine it was so: the poor thing looked dreadful, and she hadn’t said two words. If it were so this visit must be unwelcome in the extreme: indeed, it was but rubbing salt into a wound. Miss Partridge leapt to her feet. She looked so frail and distressed that Elizabeth imagined for a moment she would fall over at once; however, she did not. Sputtering apologies and thanks, she made her adieux and departed. Such was her awkwardness that sh
e knocked over a mahogany candle-stand as she went. Elizabeth righted it as the sitting-room door closed behind her.
“What a very extraordinary visit,” she remarked. “Isabella?”
But Lady Isabella would only stare at her bouquet, carefully stroking the stem of each flower in turn—as if counting them.
Amy Lewis was meanwhile busy putting Lord Halcot into possession of a set of facts he was not very happy to hear. Miss Lewis did not herself know all the details, and she edited what she did know so as to help Isabella appear in a better light, so it was but a milk-and-water version of the affair that reached Lord Halcot. Nevertheless, he heard quite sufficient to make him swear never to speak to Sir Jeffery de Guere again. “The cut direct, that’s what I’ll give him,” he declared to Amy as, reins in hand, he directed his well-sprung perch-phaeton through the traffic in New Bond Street.
“Watch out for that coach, sir!” the tiger behind them dared to interject, just in the nick of time.
“I never was so deceived by a fellow in all my life. In fact, I’m not sure but what I oughtn’t to call him out,” went on our nonpareil. “What do you say? Shall I?”
“Oh no, Charlie, I pray you will not! The cut direct will be quite adequate, I am sure.” Miss Lewis’s sterling heart beat a little faster with alarm at the very thought of her Charlie in a duel.
“Well,” said the buck reluctantly, “if you say so…”
“Hi there, to your right sir!” shouted the miserable groom, as a vast wagon lumbered out of an alley.
“Oh, I do say so,” replied Miss Lewis fervently, not the least bit concerned for her own welfare when Charlie’s was under discussion.
“You know, Amy, I’ve always had a great deal of respect for your judgement.”
“Have you?” It was not a terribly feminine point on which to be admired, but it sufficed to bring a blush to Amy’s cheeks.
