by Fiona Hill
“I was left with a rather uncomfortable sensation,” were his exact words on this head, and he added, “to be perfectly candid.”
Miss Lemon remained unruffled. “I beg you will not be perfectly candid for my sake,” she returned. “I am quite happy with conventional lies and half-truths from you.”
“I trust you are joking,” said Charlie uneasily.
“Not at all. There are situations which demand honesty and situations entirely better off without it. Between you and me, sir, I see no reason to impose any rigorous candour.”
“Very well, then,” said Halcot, with a growing awareness of how meanly she had trifled with him, “suppose I see such a reason. In fact, I do see such a reason, and I should like to address you, if I might, in a quite serious vein.”
It was at this moment that Amy Lewis, having concluded her chat with John Firebrace and finding the drawing-room disagreeably close, drifted within earshot of the couple on the balcony. Lord Halcot had naturally left the door partly open behind him—for he wished to avoid any suggestion of impropriety—and Amy had very nearly stepped out onto the platform for a breath herself when she caught his familiar voice saying the last of those words recorded above. There will be those among my readers I am sure who will opine (from the comfort of their armchairs) that Miss Lewis ought to have moved away at once, the moment she became aware that she was, albeit inadvertently, eavesdropping; and perhaps those readers will be right. Nevertheless, I must ask them to examine whether or not they themselves, in similar circumstances, would have had the strength to act according to such excellent moral precepts. I know I should not have had such strength—to be perfectly candid, as Charlie said.
In any case, Amy Lewis did not immediately move away from the unique vantage point she had stumbled into; and if she was wrong, she was more than adequately punished for the act by what she overheard—or I should say, imagined she overheard. For Miss Lemon’s answer was (with a languid pout Amy could not see), “You may address me, my lord, since you ask so urgently.”
“I thank you. I hope you will speak plainly, for I mean to do so myself,” he returned earnestly—and on the other side of the door Miss Lewis’s alarm (for she was already alarmed) increased.
Miss Susannah observed, “So you have warned.”
“Yes. So I have warned.”
“Pray, go on,” she encouraged, when he was silent.
Oh heaven! thought Amy, during this lapse. He is going to ask her to marry him! The poor girl naturally had such a prospect on the brain, and so was in no position to note that the tension in Charlie’s voice was not that of nervous excitement but rather that of irritation, nor that Miss Susannah’s subdued tones betrayed more ennui than girlish pliability.
Charlie cleared his throat. “Very good. In that case…it concerns your—the esteem in which you hold me, if I may call it that.”
Oh Lord, Amy thought, here it is! If she accepts him—and how can she not?—what shall I do? But I must—that is, I mustn’t listen—
“You may, if you like. I beg you will speak your mind directly, sir,” said Miss Susannah, “for it is a bit chilly out here—”
“Oh, are you cold? Shall I—?”
The gesture he made was toward the drawing-room and indicated his willingness to fetch her shawl, but of course Amy could not know that, and she naturally assumed her Charlie had moved toward Susannah.
“No, pray do not trouble yourself,” said that young lady now, an odd response, in Amy’s opinion.
But I really must not listen any longer, thought she miserably. I am no better than a spy if I do. I must…I shall…By dint of much silent exhortation, Miss Lewis succeeded in forcing her feet to move away from the half-open door. In a moment Lady Emilia had swooped down upon her with some trivial question, obliging her to turn her mind, though only momentarily, away from the imagined crisis on the balcony.
For imagined it was indeed. If Amy had listened a little longer, she would have heard her idol take Miss Susannah quite severely to task for the rudeness she showed that afternoon before the auction—not, as Charlie pointed out to her, so much for his sake as for Miss Lewis’s. He explained, with as much civility as he could muster, but in no uncertain terms, that he could not sit idly by while the Misses Lemon employed their superior wit (he was diplomat enough to include this reference) to discomfit his sister Isabella’s dearest friend. He further admitted, quite handsomely in fact, that he himself was not the cleverest fellow on earth, but he was sure he had never meant Susannah any harm, and he was sorry and sad the same was not true of her. In short, he spoke up for himself very finely indeed, and said no word which was not manly and precise.
Whether or not Miss Susannah would have taken this chastisement to heart, however—for she certainly did not demonstrate much chagrin at this juncture, or even much interest—is a moot point, for Susannah and Amy never met again. Susannah’s father married her off to a rich West Indian planter before the year was out. She passed the balance of her life fanning herself on a long Jamaican verandah, whereas Miss Lewis…well, the reason for Miss Lewis’s sudden withdrawal from the London scene will be known to the reader soon.
12
There is rain, as the reader is doubtless aware; and then there is Rain.
Rain of the first order, which is to say, rain simple, is composed of small drops of water which fall from the sky and cause that upon which they fall to become damp or, at the worst, wet. Rain of this type is a normal aspect of climate; one cannot impute to it any particular designs or sentiments. One might say, “Dash this rain!” but one says it with a reasonable amount of good humour, by and large, often capping the exclamation with a grin, or possibly a shrug—some indication of cheerful, if mildly piqued, resignation. This is the rain to which Portia referred when she spoke of the quality of mercy. This is the rain which nourishes crops and flowers; it replenishes supplies of water; it is, in fine, a useful thing.
And then there is Rain, or as one may say, rain complex. This is an utterly different beast, and brings no good to any man. It is composed, one imagines, of condensed spite; it is hurled from the sky like handfuls of tenpenny nails; what it falls upon, it first stings, then soaks. It drops with malice aforethought. It lands upon one’s claws first, like a wildcat, then hunches imperturbably upon one’s shoulders, be they covered with ever so many cloaks and capes. There it clings till it gets its way, drenching greatcoat or pelisse, slyly persisting until it penetrates to the neck, spreading its steamy, clammy fingers till the mere idea of having ever been dry seems a dream or a joke to the hapless Rained-upon. This is the rain that lashed King Lear as he wandered the heath with his fool. This is the rain that fell, at five o’clock on a Saturday morning, on Lord Weld and the Earl of Marchmont.
They stood in that malignant storm on a far edge of Putney Heath, looking for Jeffery de Guere. An affair of honour is just that—no accident of weather can delay it. There was a coach, of course, in which they had driven to this place of rendezvous, but Marchmont had prudently sent it down the road some half a mile—the less conspicuous the duel the better. “What the deuce can be keeping him?” was what Lord Weld kept muttering, while the tiny, arrow-like drops of rain assaulted his cheeks and chin. “This is a devil of a place to keep a fellow waiting, by God!”
Lord Marchmont replied to these questions with shrugs and shudders. The chill of the dawn combined with this relentless downpour was such as to keep him jumping up and down for very warmth; he bitterly cursed every poet who had ever used May as a metaphor for mildness; and so far as what could be keeping Sir Jeffery went—well, he was quite painfully aware that his cousin might well have risen at four A.M., taken a glance out of his bedroom window, and hopped directly back into bed. He had warned Marchmont after all; he had told him straight out that refusing a duel meant nothing to him. Why should reneging be any different? A man without a code could not be counted on. Jeffery’s code was whatever suited him best at the moment.
Lord Marchmont pr
esently said as much to Lord Weld. “But you forget the vehemence with which he answered your cartel,” said that gentleman. “His answer specifically referred to his pleasure in having the opportunity—he did say ‘opportunity,’ remember—of meeting you on equal ground. Why would he say that, and then not come?”
“Why indeed?” muttered Marchmont, clapping his arms against his sides to keep warm. “By the time the villain arrives, I’ll be too cold to pull the trigger.” Lord Weld did not answer. “I’ll probably sneeze at the crucial moment,” he presently added, hopping up and down on the muddy ground in a most unheroic fashion.
“I’ll lay wager this is his second’s handiwork. A shabbier chap I never saw,” said Weld, watching with interest a steady stream of water that dripped off the brim of his own hat. He sniffed deeply, then continued, “He calls himself a captain. I’ll lay odds he’s never even stood next to a captain, let alone been one himself. Curious company your cousin keeps, old boy.”
“Rotten low beggars can’t be choosers,” answered the earl, whose temper grew shorter as the wait grew longer.
Weld looked a little surprised at this display. “No, I dare say not.”
“Damme, it’s practically full morning,” Marchmont burst out a few minutes later. “If we stop here much longer, we’ll be just in time to entertain the young couples coming to the Heath for a pic-nic. ‘Oh look, Mary! A duel! Isn’t it exciting?’ And then says Johnny to Jack, “What do you say, Jack? I’m betting on the fellow in the bottle-green coat. Two bob he’s still standing when the shooting’s over. What about you?” And then Mary squeals, ‘Oh no, Johnny, you mustn’t make a wager on a wicked thing like that! Why, suppose one of the gentlemen should be killed? You’d much better pray for them both, you know…But isn’t it exciting?’”
“Marchmont, my lad,” Lord Weld finally broke into this fantasy, “if any young couple should show up today with a pic-nic, let’s you and I run like blazes, shall we? Because a couple mad enough to be out in a rain like this is sure to have broke out of Bedlam.”
Lord Marchmont nodded curtly and was about to reply when the sound of a carriage approaching stopped him. It was only his own carriage, however, as he soon realized. The surgeon who was waiting within it in case of an injury had grown impatient and ordered the coachman to drive back up to where the gentlemen stood.
“Do you realize you could have scotched the whole thing?” Lord Marchmont demanded of him tensely, shouting across the rain into the carriage—for the good doctor had no intention of entering the downpour himself. “Suppose we’d been about to fire?”
“If you stand in all this wet much longer you’ll soon be firing on each other, I dare swear,” said Dr. Birchfield coolly. He had been over in Spain with Wellington; a little bad temper could not dismay him. “And hoping to be shot, I should think, too. Better to die under fire than drown in water, eh, my lord?”
Marchmont looked to Warrington Weld for assistance, but that gentleman only took a few steps toward him and spoke in a low tone. “I’m afraid he may be right, dear boy,” he said. “It looks very much as if your man is not going to show.”
But Marchmont was unwilling to yield. “What time is it?” he demanded of the physician.
Dr. Birchfield consulted his watch. “Five forty-five A.M.,” he announced and added, “Perhaps the coward is hoping you’ll catch your deaths of cold.”
Lord Marchmont said nothing. “Well, James,” Weld began briskly, after a moment, “shall we pay a call to your cousin at home, then?”
Marchmont regarded him gloomily.
“He’s not going to come,” said Lord Weld gently. “If you like, I’ll stay awhile myself, just to make sure. Oh, when I see that Captain What-do-you-call-him…won’t I have a few choice words to say!”
Lord Weld’s generous offer had the effect of bringing his friend to his senses at last. “No need for you to stay,” said he, laying a cold hand on Weld’s dripping shoulder. “Stupid of me to be so stubborn. You’re right, of course. Let’s leave.” So saying he drew the other into the carriage. Dr. Birchfield sprang away from them to the opposite bench while the coachman shut the door.
“I say, you are wringing wet, the both of you. Why, you’re making puddles on the floor!” exclaimed the man of medicine. “Mind you drink something hot the moment you get home—and don’t wear those clothes an instant longer than you must.”
Lord Marchmont thanked him for this brilliant prescription.
“Not at all, my lord. To say truth, I’m just as happy your fellow has failed to show. I never like attending a duel. Now the matter is settled, and no blood shed.”
“I beg your pardon,” said the earl, still shivering from the damp, “but the matter is not settled, not at all.”
“But surely if the other party fails to show—”
“I think you had an excellent idea, Weld,” his lordship went on, ignoring the doctor’s protest. “We must certainly pay a call on de Guere.”
“What? Is Sir Jeffery de Guere your defaulter?” Dr. Birchfield suddenly interposed.
“Does the name mean anything to you?”
“That name? I should say it does! Why the scoundrel owes me seventy pounds—not that I have much hope of recovering it. He’s been in debt to me a year or longer now.”
“What was it for, Birchfield?” asked Lord Marchmont, leaning forward. “Was Sir Jeffery ill?”
“No, no, it was—” Dr. Birchfield checked himself all at once and sat looking at the gentlemen as if confused. “Well, it was a favour I did for a…a lady friend of his. His wife, he said it was. But I didn’t believe him, if you must know.”
Lord Marchmont said nothing. He was feeling grateful not to have had to entrust his life to the kind of doctor who did such favours for ladies. Of course, Dr. Birchfield was not his own physician; one took whomever one could find for such a nasty business as a duel.
Dr. Birchfield was looking rather shamefaced. “I don’t suppose he has a wife, come to that,” he said tentatively.
Lord Weld confirmed this suspicion.
“Oh well, then, at least there was no one crying at home,” said the physician philosophically. “But he’s a bad lot, that man. I’m almost sorry you didn’t meet him after all, my lord.”
The earl saying nothing, it was left to Weld to answer, “But then your bill might never have been paid, Dr. Birchfield.” This light rejoinder closed the discussion, and a few moments later the coachman pulled over in front of the doctor’s house and the gentlemen bade him good-bye.
Lord Marchmont instructed the driver to continue to his cousin’s house. As the butler was not yet downstairs (it was scarcely half past six), the housekeeper answered Lord Marchmont’s knock. She opened to him, and he and Lord Weld strode straight into the entrance hall and began to mount the stairs. “But where are you going, my lords?” asked the housekeeper, alarmed.
“To see your master, my good woman,” Weld told her grimly.
“But he’s not at home.”
“He’s at home to me,” said the earl over his shoulder.
“But he’s not at home to anybody,” she objected. “I don’t mean he’s not ‘at home,’ sir, I mean he isn’t at home. He’s out.”
“Thanks very much, but I think I’ll have a look just the same,” Marchmont shouted down at her, for he had by now reached the top of the narrow stairway. The housekeeper, who recognised Marchmont for Sir Jeffery’s cousin, decided to quit this debate and retired, with a shrug, to wait in the doorway. She had made a sensible decision, for a moment later the earl descended, demanding to know where de Guere was.
The housekeeper shrugged again. “I’m afraid he didn’t say, sir. Sir Jeffery occasionally omits to take me into his confidence,” she added with a trace of sarcasm.
Lord Weld demanded, “When did he leave?”
“This morning, at four thirty.” The housekeeper yawned. “Frankly, I’ve been hoping for a nap. I was just going to bed when you gentleman—”
“Ye
s, we’ll be out of your way in a minute,” Marchmont interrupted her, then turned to his friend. “Do you suppose he really did set out to join us and met with some accident?”
Lord Weld admitted the possibility.
“Tell me, was he alone when he went out? He didn’t have a Captain…er, what was his name?”
“He didn’t have anybody with him, my lord,” said the housekeeper, looking less interested every moment.
“Perhaps he was on his way to the Captain’s house,” suggested Weld quietly. “We ought to call on him, I guess, and see if de Guere ever reached him.”
Lord Marchmont was displeased with the turn events had taken, but there was little he could do. His clothes and Weld’s were still wet through and through, and it occurred to him they ought to return home and change before pressing forward, but his anger at Sir Jeffery was steadily mounting, and he did not like the idea of further delays. In a moment he had made his decision; he and Lord Weld thanked the housekeeper briefly, left no cards for de Guere (for it would have been an inappropriate gesture, Marchmont maintained, though perhaps a useful one), and set out for the lodgings of the Captain. Lord Weld had forgot the man’s name, but he still recalled his direction, since he had met him there to plan the duel. As the coach bore them to the desired place, Lord Weld racked his brains for the missing name—and of course succeeded in recalling it the moment he despaired of ever doing so.
