by Fiona Hill
“Yes. In fact—”
“Oh, sir, the curb, the curb!” shrieked Jack, the poor tiger, as the phaeton veered perilously near the pavement.
Lord Halcot corrected his reins but murmured to the lady, “The silly fellow is probably drunk, but I humour him, for he knows every trick about horseflesh.”
“In fact what Charlie?” Amy could not prevent herself saying.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You were going to say something. You said, ‘In fact—’ and then the tiger interrupted.”
“He did?”
“Yes.”
“That’s cheek!”
“Well, I think he was frightened…”
“Still,” insisted Halcot.
“Yes. Well, in fact—what?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What you were going to say.”
“What I was…Oh! What was I going to say, you asked. Hmmm,” he frowned, drawing the carriage up to the doors of Phillip’s rooms, “I wonder what it could have been. What was I talking about?” He looked at Amy perplexedly, then jumped from the carriage and ran around to hand her down, leaving the ribbons for the tiger.
Poor Amy, who knew perfectly well what he had been talking about, nevertheless felt it was best to yield to circumstances. “I don’t remember,” she lied, accepting his assistance. Lord Halcot shrugged.
“I expect it was nothing of importance,” said he, dismissing the subject. A moment later they entered the crowded auction room together.
“Lord Halcot!” cried the Honble. Middleford Lemon, spotting them and descending upon them at once. “What a relief you are here; I was afraid you might be late. They are putting up those Russian pieces first, of all things.” Mr. Lemon delivered this news as if it were the most astonishing since the disappearance of M. de Lavalette.
Charlie mustered up a considerable show of enthusiasm in replying, then introduced Miss Lewis to Middleford.
“We have met, I think,” said Amy, suddenly struck by the hideous possibility that Susannah Lemon might have accompanied her brother. In an instant this apprehension was confirmed, for both Augusta and Susannah drifted languidly up to join them.
Susannah’s bow was decidedly cool, her sister’s little less so. Amy, determined not to lose her temper this time, gave a civil nod in return and even forced herself to smile. “What a lovely costume you wore last night,” she remarked to Augusta, requiring of herself ever greater displays of courage. “Wherever did you find those darling gloves? Was that point d’Espagne at the cuffs?”
Miss Lemon looked bored. “Oh la, those gloves? Did you like them? My father brought them home for me from the Continent simply ages ago. I was a little ashamed of wearing them, but they were the only ones I had that matched the particular blue in my shawl and slippers. What did you think of them, Susannah?”
“Oh, they were pretty enough in their day, I suppose,” said that young lady carelessly. “One sees so much of point d’Espagne this season, however.”
“Indeed?” said Amy, a little stunned by the nonchalant rudeness of this exchange, but steadfast in her resolution to be courteous herself. “In any case your gown suited you most wonderfully. I wish I could wear green, but it seems to take the colour from my cheeks.”
Augusta Lemon only stared at her. “Charles,” said Susannah suddenly, while Amy drew a sharp breath at the unexpected familiarity of the appellation, “have you really come to see these tiresome old porcelains? Or did you come to see me? Be honest; you can speak freely.” She had been looking dead with boredom (for Halcot had been speaking to her brother), but she now roused herself to quite a pitch of animation, sparkling up into his face with all the considerable power of her long green eyes. Miss Lewis noticed the shimmer on her copper-coloured hair, and felt wretched.
Lord Halcot gave his ready smile but looked uncomfortable. “I can agree with you that the porcelains are old,” he said, “but not that they are tiresome. Don’t you find them beautiful?”
“Oh well…But which is the more beautiful, then,” Susannah went on with a winning pout, “I or they? If you were shipwrecked on a desert isle, for example, which would you prefer to have with you?”
She delivered these words without removing her eyes from his face and spoke as if there were no one in the room but themselves. Amy Lewis was beginning to feel embarrassed for her, as well as distressed on her own account. Lord Halcot, his blue eyes as bright as Amy had ever seen them, suddenly gave her a sidelong glance as if to say, “Did you hear what this woman is asking me? How am I to answer her?” The secret message improved Amy’s spirits a thousandfold. “I am sure Lord Halcot would not wish such a fate upon you,” she volunteered on an impulse, “and would rather make shift alone with the porcelains than involve you in so tedious a situation.”
Lord Halcot thought this an admirable answer and laughed aloud. Amy’s spirits rose even higher. Miss Susannah, however, appeared rather nettled. “Charles can answer for himself, I am sure,” she said in a low, unpleasant tone. “How do you answer, sir? Would you prefer a China doll or a breathing one?”
“Oh, I say, Susannah—” commenced Middleford Lemon, coming out of his private oblivion for a brief, rare appearance in the world. He had noticed at last how peculiarly his sister was behaving, and it discomfited him. However, as he did not in fact say anything following this startled, “I say,” his waking to consciousness carried but little consequence.
“Oh dear,” said Charlie presently, “I suppose if I were shipwrecked on a desert island…what I should like most was another fellow, to help me build a boat and get away from the blighted place. How’s that?” he finished, with an uncomfortable grin and another look askance to Amy Lewis. She answered his look with a grateful smile and a kind of warm shining in her eyes that must surely have struck him as more lovely and more valuable than any glitter or sparkle Miss Susannah Lemon could summon.
In any case, Miss Susannah had given up trying to look charming—or, if she had not given up, she had certainly stopped succeeding. In sooth she looked positively grim as she replied, “Sir, I perceive I have asked you a question that is beyond your powers of answering—for you have failed to reply to it utterly. Next time I must choose a simpler one, that will not elude you. Try this—will you excuse me?”
“Why of course,” returned Charlie, not so much disappointed as angry. The two Misses Lemon, without a bow or a glance at Amy, took their brother by both arms and drew him off to the central sale-room, where the bidding was just starting. Middleford Lemon threw a helpless, rather comical smile to his friend Halcot as they dragged him away, and managed a sketchy nod to Amy Lewis; it was clear he regretted their rudeness, but he seemed powerless to interrupt it. Miss Lewis and Halcot stood alone in the now emptying entrance hall. They were silent for a moment. Then, “Do you know, I find I am not much of a mind to look over these porcelains after all,” said Charlie. “Would it be too awful of me to take you home again?”
The reader can imagine whether Amy Lewis objected.
“Let me send for Jack then; I hope the rascal hasn’t ducked into a tavern.” Lord Halcot beckoned to a footman and gave him his instructions. “We should not be obliged to wait long,” he went on to Amy.
She nodded. Her heart was so full of love for him in that instant that she dared not open her mouth lest her feelings spill out in words. Unless she mistook the signs very badly, Lord Halcot was coming to a new understanding of the Lemon girls in particular and women in general. He was looking at her in a new way. It was all she could do not to let out a whoop.
And, indeed, the slightly rusty but essentially competent wheels of his lordship’s intelligence were beginning to run again in earnest. It came to him that Miss Susannah Lemon had been not only rude but also coarse and vulgar, in a way the lady now by his side could never dream of. It came to him that he had been insulted and laughed at by a woman to whom he had never done harm, and for whom on the contrary he had gone to a great deal of trouble. He
was further aware, slowly, that he was utterly, perfectly angry, and that his anger was justified. Moreover, Miss Lewis had come to his aid: she had stood by him, and though he had been made to appear ridiculous, and though she herself had been treated with abominable incivility, she had rallied to his cause and rescued him. A dim awareness that she had, perhaps, done as much before—possibly often—though he had never noticed it commenced to take hold of him, and Charlie at last put a name to the emotion now awakening in him. Affection, was the word he chose. Within a few hours of their return to Haddon House he had renamed the sentiment love.
Mr. Searle, who had the honour to be employed as butler at number 21 Cavendish Square, was growing just a wee bit tired of standing at the ready by the front door of that place. He had already opened it twice in the last five minutes, for he could have sworn he heard Lady Emilia’s voice proclaiming her readiness to depart, but each time the lady had recalled some other errand or detail, it seemed, for though the gentlemen were hatted and cloaked (Searle knew, for he had seen them himself) the party did not leave. Again he heard her ladyship’s voice floating down the stairs to the entrance hall, this time speaking to her maid: “Can you imagine, Mary, how that fan could have found its way to such a place? It passes all understanding. Truly, I sometimes believe objects pick themselves up and walk away to wherever they like, for if you or I ever put a fan in a hat-box I…well, I’d eat a fan if I thought that. Anyhow, I’m glad we found it, and doubly glad I remembered to look for it, for these private recitals can be so tedious, and if Lady Mufftow were to see me yawning…Oh Jemmy,” she interrupted herself, and Searle knew she had again joined her brother and Lord Weld in the drawing-room, “are you quite out of patience with me? I know I have kept you waiting this age, but I simply could not have sat through an entire concert without something to hide behind. I don’t know how you men do it. Jemmy, are you quite all right? You look rather grey, dear. Doesn’t he look grey, Lord Weld?”
“He looks more…ivory to me, ma’am,” said that gentleman.
“Oh, ivory, does he?” she answered vaguely. “Well, but how do you feel? How does he feel, that’s the question.”
“Perfectly fit,” said Marchmont, as Searle had known he would. “Do you think you have everything now, my dear?”
“Oh yes,” she said, distraction still in her voice, “I’m only concerned for you.” Searle heard steps descending and opened the front door a third time, nodding as he did so to the waiting coachman. “You look so drawn, love. Doesn’t he look drawn, Lord Weld? Surely you see that!”
“Perhaps…finely drawn,” admitted Weld, with a little smile. “Nothing too dreadful in any case.”
The party had now gained the entry hall, and Searle began his farewell bow to them, thinking fondly as he did so of a certain beefsteak pie he happened to know was in the kitchen. Lady Emilia was looking lovely as ever, he noticed, as she swept past him, and also noticed that she was right about her brother. The man looked worn, or worried. So did his friend. The party had almost departed—Lady Emilia was just being handed into the carriage—when a messenger ran up on foot, waving a letter, out of breath.
“Here, boy,” said Searle automatically, for the young messenger was hesitating, evidently unsure as to whether or not to hand the note directly to the Quality.
“Oh Lord, what’s this?” Emilia exclaimed, stepping back from the carriage and looking at Marchmont. “Jemmy, is this political business, do you think? You’re already tired enough—”
“I’ll take that, boy,” Marchmont interposed, without answering her. He gave Searle a nod of dismissal; at least Searle hoped it was dismissal, for that pie would not keep warm forever. Nevertheless, he lingered in the doorway—duty first.
Lord Marchmont had given the messenger a coin, and the boy wandered away; Emilia was glad to see this, for if the missive had been political in nature he would almost certainly have stayed for a reply. Her brother had broken the wafer on the letter and now held it under one of the two great lamps that flanked the front door of number 21. He read it, it appeared, with one sweep of the eyes, then crumpled it and thrust it into a pocket of his cloak. Lord Weld was looking at him attentively. “Well?” he asked finally, as Marchmont came away from the lamp.
The earl’s expression was unmistakably severe. He said nothing, but his eyes locked with those of his friend and he gave a decisive nod. Lady Emilia saw their exchanged glance perfectly clearly, in spite of the dark night and dim lamplight, and wondered what on earth it betokened. However, it looked as if she was not to be informed, for though she asked and asked, when all three had at last entered the carriage and driven away, neither Weld nor her brother would reply to her. In fact, Lord Marchmont hinted it was a billet-doux, and further intimated that it was very rude of Emilia to pester him so about it. Having seen the look on his face when he read it, Emilia did not believe this for a moment; however, she was obliged in the end to desist. By the time they arrived at Lady Mufftow’s door, the conversation had turned to old Lord Frane, who was said to be in a dreadful state of unhealth, and who, moreover, was expected to leave nearly all his holdings to his daughter Dorothea and her husband Mr. Stickney, instead of his own son Humphrey.
The reader will be relieved to know, by the by, that in spite of all delays and alarms, Mr. Searle’s meat-pie was still steaming at the centre by the time he broke into it. A certain Rosellen, the second upstairs maid, had thought of him and kept it warm in the oven till he came—whether through sheer human kindness or for motives more particular and more interesting, it does not belong to our story to inquire.
I doubt if there is anyone even distantly acquainted with the activities of the London monde who is not already well aware of the excellence and refinement of Lady Mufftow’s musical Evenings. Whether the reader has been so fortunate as to have attended one himself (in which case we may perhaps have met!), or if, as seems more likely, he has only heard of these delightful occasions at second-hand is really of no great moment: in either case, he will understand that Lord Marchmont and Lady Emilia, their friend Lord Weld, the Trevors and all their brood, Sir Arthur and Lady Maria Lemon and the fruit of their happy union, Sir John Firebrace, Miss Pye, and even Mrs. Stickney (Dorothea Frane that was, of course, who naturally continued a trifle distracted by her father’s uncertain condition) all enjoyed the recital thoroughly. Mr. Braham sang very beautifully, indeed, and if I have listed only the names above as having appreciated him, it is not because there were no others whose ears were also well repaid for listening, but rather because there were so many others that their names would be tedious to record. I refer the reader to the Times for a complete inventory of guests, as well as an unedited account of Mr. Braham’s repertoire, and pass on to other aspects of the evening more pertinent to our tale.
There were two events that night that concern us nearly. The first was a conversation that took place at the supper-table between Lord Marchmont and Lady Elizabeth. The former had made sure to take the latter in to supper, and I am sorry to say that neither made a very good companion to his other neighbours at the festive board, for they spoke only to each other. Here were the words they exchanged, I need not explain à propos of what:
“Is it arranged?” This from Lady Elizabeth.
“Is what arranged, dear ma’am?”
“Your—meeting.” On second thoughts, and with alarm: “It cannot have taken place already!”
“Oh! No, indeed. But I think we agreed you would forget all about this little matter, did we not?”
“How can I forget it?” In a tone mixing equal parts unhappiness and pique: “Do you have such a low opinion of me as that? Surely you do not suppose I can think of anything else. Can you?”
Uncomfortably: “I can. I can think of you. It is altogether more pleasant. Do you mind it?”
With distraction: “I do not—oh, and yet it does concern me…My lord, there’s a footman at your elbow, I think he wishes to pour you more wine. Yes—no, thank you, none for me. But, L
ord Marchmont, is there nothing I can do to dissuade you from pursuing this…matter? My sister is somewhat moped—indeed, she stopped at home this evening, as you can see—but she is not harmed in any other way, I assure you. The thought that you may come to injury, or worse—” A shudder interrupting her, Lord Marchmont broke in.
“I told you, did I not, that the matter was closed. Lady Elizabeth, you are not to disturb yourself in this wise. I am in no danger.”
“Am I to be put off by an assertion you will not even support with your word of honour?” Unhappily, Lady Elizabeth raised her goblet to her lips—only to discover it was empty. She set it down again. Presently, in a low mutter no one but Marchmont could possibly have heard, she gave him this warning, “I tell you to your head, sir, I will murder you if you allow yourself to be killed. Do you understand me? I should never forgive you.”
The earl turned to look at her fully. A sweet, sad, unmistakably loving smile hovered about her mouth. It was all he could do not to kiss her. “Lady Elizabeth,” he returned in an urgent whisper, “may I speak to your father? If I am not killed, I mean.”
Her qualms and scruples struggled with her admiration of his lordship and her pleasure in his hopeful smile—and were subdued. “Yes,” she answered, so shyly that he could not even hold her glance. She stared unseeing at the rim of one of Lady Mufftow’s handsomest Sèvres plates and, blinking at it as if it were a sunburst or a blinding mist, repeated that small, important word: “Yes.”
The second scene of note (for there were two, remember) that night at Lady Mufftow’s concerned Lady Elizabeth’s brother Charlie, and had more to do with “No” than its so-pleasant opposite. Miss Susannah Lemon, somewhat fatigued by the hum of conversation in the drawing-room after supper and wishing (if truth be known) more than anything else to go home and loosen the bodice of her gown—which was cut very tight, and buried in which she could have sworn there was a pin of some kind, for it pricked her every time she turned round—Miss Susannah Lemon, I say, tired of throwing anguished and meaningful glances at her sociable parents, decided instead to go outside onto a balcony to refresh herself with a breath of midnight air. It so happened that Lord Halcot, who had been trying to win her attention all evening, observed her at this instant and decided in his turn to follow her out there, and it also happened, by a stroke of ill fortune, that Amy Lewis was deep in conversation with Sir John Firebrace at just this moment and had inevitably lost track of Charlie as a consequence. Young Charlie, having first won grudging permission from Miss Susannah to address her, began by making a few awkward remarks on the subject of the night, which was cool and pleasant. Miss Susannah agreed, though rather warily, for she sensed that something was up with Charlie. She was correct: after a few moments of insubstantial conversation he turned the discussion to their afternoon’s meeting at Phillip’s sale-rooms.
