Friday’s Child

by Джорджетт Хейер

  “Oh, dear, I was afraid she could not be quite the thing when I saw the kind of company she kept!” Hero said remorsefully. “For when I went to her house there was no one there whom I was acquainted with, except Sir Matthew Brockenhurst, and Wilfred Yardford, and I know you do not like me to be upon terms with them.”

  “They saw you there? Damnation!” muttered his lordship.

  “They — they did not pay much heed to me, Sherry, and I only bowed very slightly, I assure you!”

  “It’s not that. If Yarford saw you, it will be all over town! Nothing could be more unfortunate! We shall have all the old tabbies — yes, and not only the old ones! — spreading it about that you’re fast. I dare say Brock may keep his mouth shut: dash it, he calls himself a friend of mine! Though, by God, if he were half the friend he’d like me to think him he’d have had you out of that den, and escorted you home! Why, Gil or George, or even Ferdy, wouldn’t have hesitated! However, it’s too late to worry ourselves over that now! Where did you meet the Gillingham?”

  “At the Pantheon Assembly Rooms, Sherry. There was a masquerade.”

  “Whom were you with?”

  “With my cousin, Theresa Hoby, and a party of her choosing.”

  “I might have known! It was her doing, then?”

  “No, indeed it was not! Mrs Gillingham is unknown to Theresa, though she did say that she thought her quite unexceptionable — as I did myself, Sherry, for she seemed so, you know!”

  “Yes, I know!” he said grimly. “Tell me the whole!”

  She obediently recounted all the circumstances of her meeting with Mrs Gillingham, and while he listened his brow grew darker and darker. By the time he had been made aware of the manner in which the lady had insinuated herself into his wife’s company, of the arts she had employed to inspire Hero with confidence, and of her readiness to permit her to punt on tick, he was looking so much like a thundercloud that Hero faltered in her recital, and could only gaze imploringly at him. She saw then that there was more than anger in his face, an intent expression in his eyes, which seemed to be frowning not so much at her as at something beyond her. She ventured to say: “I have done very wrong, but I did not mean to, Sherry.”

  He paid no heed; he was looking at the clock. “I am going out,” he said abruptly. “I shall be back to dine with you, however.”

  “Going where, Sherry?” she asked uneasily.

  “Never mind that! There is something I have to do — and I’m not dining until I’ve done it!”

  “Don’t go! So angry with me — !”

  “I’m not angry with you.” He put his arm round her, and hugged her. “There! You are the most troublesome brat alive, but you don’t mean to be! I ought never — However, it’s done now!” He turned her face up, and kissed her cheek. “No, don’t cry while I’m away, for there is not the least occasion for it! Besides, it don’t suit you to have red eyes, and I don’t like it. Promise?”

  She nodded, rather mistily smiling, and he left the room, ran down the stairs, shrugged himself into his greatcoat, caught up his hat and cane, and let himself out of the house, striding off in a southerly direction down the street.

  He had not far to go to reach his goal, and he was fortunate enough to find that the quarry had not yet left the house, although a chair had been called for to carry him to an evening party, his valet informed the Viscount.

  “You need not trouble to announce me,” Sherry said, mounting the stairs to the first floor. “I’ll announce myself!”

  The valet, perceiving nothing unusual in this, bowed, and retired again to the nether regions. Sherry continued on his way to the front parlour, and entered without ceremony.

  Sir Montagu, who was dressed for a ball, was adjusting the folds of his cravat in the mirror, and it was in this mirror that his eyes met Sherry’s. For an instant he did not move, then he turned, smiling urbanely, and stretching out his hand. “Why, Sherry!” he said caressingly. “You young rascal, you gave me quite a start!”

  “Did I?” said Sherry, ignoring the outstretched hand.

  “Indeed you did! But you are always a welcome visitor, as I hope you know! What fortune did you have at the races?”

  “I’ve not come to talk to you about the races.”

  Sir Montagu’s brows rose. He said in a chiding tone: “You sound out of reason cross, my dear boy! Now, what has happened to put you in one of your miffs?”

  “This has happened!” Sherry said, a very ugly look in his eye. “I find that someone — someone, Revesby! — has been trying to do my wife a mischief while I’ve been away from home!”

  “Well, that is certainly very shocking, Sherry, but what has it to do with me?”

  “Spare yourself the trouble of playing off your tricks on me!” Sherry flung at him. “I’m not the fool you take me for! I know what ladybirds you fly with, and Charlotte Gillingham is one of them!”

  “Sherry, what in the world — ”

  “Who set the Gillingham on to lure my wife into her house? She never did so for her own ends! Very clever, Revesby! But not clever enough! My wife was present when you disowned your bastard brat! It was she who took the girl under her protection, and you knew it! Yes, and all the town knows it, but it was not she who split on you, my buck! It was some others whom you would not dare to be revenged on, I fancy! By God, I should have known with what a fellow I had to deal! But I know now, and you shall answer for it!”

  Sir Montagu was looking a trifle pale, but he replied with perfect composure: “You are out of your senses my dear boy. I suspect that you are even a little foxed. I do not know what you are talking of.”

  “Oh, yes, you do!” Sherry said fiercely. “I’m not a country wench to be fobbed off so easily! I knew whom I had to thank for this start as soon as I heard the Gillingham’s name mentioned! You fool, did you believe I should not? Why, what a flat you must think me!”

  “I think you a hot-headed young man, my dear Sherry. Go and ask Mrs Gillingham if I had anything to do with Lady Sheringham’s visit to her house, if you do not believe me!”

  “Where did you raise the money to pay her for playing your game?” Sherry asked insultingly. “Or does she do it for love of you?”

  “Go home, Sherry: you are certainly a trifle bosky! I shall not allow you to pick a quarrel with me, you know.”

  “Won’t you, by God!” Sherry said, and struck him across the face with the gloves he held clenched in his hand.

  Sir Montagu’s pale cheek flamed under the blow, and he stepped back quickly, breathing rather hard, and glaring at his antagonist.

  “Well?” Sherry said. “Well? What’s your choice? Will you have swords or pistols?”

  “I repeat: I shall not permit you to pick a quarrel with me. You are drunk! If you say that I set Mrs Gillingham on to ruin Lady Sheringham, you will be made to look a fool. I deny it utterly, and she will do so also!”

  Sherry stood looking at him for a moment with narrowed, contemptuous eyes. Then he turned away, and set his hand on the doorknob. “My cousin Ferdy told me you were a commoner, Revesby,” he said. His words were like the flick of a whiplash, and Revesby stiffened under them. “He don’t know the half of it!” Sherry said. “You’re cow-hearted — and I never guessed it!”

  He waited for a minute, but Sir Montagu neither spoke nor moved. Sherry gave a scornful laugh, and passed out of the room.

  Chapter Seventeen

  WHEN IT WAS GRADUALLY BORNE IN UPON THE Viscount’s two best friends that his annoyance with Sir Montagu, instead of blowing over, as they had gloomily supposed it would, had developed into what bore all the appearance of implacable hostility, they were so overjoyed that it was some time before they troubled to inquire into the cause of so complete a break in a most undesirable friendship. It presently occurred to Mr Ringwood, however, that the Viscount was not in quite such volatile spirits as of yore; and at a convenient moment, as he sat in his friend’s library, sampling some burgundy which Sherry had just acquired, he aske
d simply: “Anything amiss, dear old boy?”

  Sherry looked up, surprised. “No, what should be?”

  “That’s what I wondered. No wish to pry into your affairs. Just thought you wasn’t in your usual spirits. Very tolerable wine, this.”

  “What do you mean, not in my usual spirits? Never better in my life, Gil!”

  “Well, I don’t know, now I come to think of it, what I mean. Took a notion into my head. I do sometimes. Dare say it was because you left Watier’s early last night. Not like you. You ain’t at a standstill, Sherry?”

  “Oh, lord, no! Fact of the matter is, I don’t mean to be. I’ve been talking to my man of business, and the long and the short of it is I’ve been having some over-deep doings, and it don’t answer. No harm done, but I don’t mean to go Tallerton’s way, I can tell you.”

  “I’m deuced glad of it, Sherry!” Mr Ringwood said. “Never liked to see you going off with Revesby to those hells of his. Sharps and flats, my boy! sharps and flats!”

  “Well, you won’t see me going off with him again to a hell, or anywhere else, for that matter!” Sherry said, an edge to his voice.

  Mr Ringwood met those smouldering blue eyes with a gaze of steady inquiry. “Quarrelled with the fellow, Sherry?”

  Sherry gave a short laugh. “I tried to call him out. Called him all the names I could lay my tongue to! Jupiter! I even hit him in the face! He’s cow-hearted. Told him so — and he took that along with all the rest!”

  “He would,” said Mr Ringwood. “But what made you try to call him out, old boy? Not the baby?”

  “The baby? Oh, that! Lord, no!”

  Mr Ringwood maintained a tactful but not unhopeful silence. Sherry refilled the glasses, and wandered over to the fire, and stirred the log on it with his booted foot. He glanced down at his friend. “This ain’t to go any farther, Gil.”

  “Can rely on me, dear boy.”

  “Yes, I know. I wouldn’t tell you if I couldn’t. Concerns my wife.”

  Mr Ringwood sat up, a look of horror on his countenance. “You ain’t going to tell me that ugly customer — ”

  “No, no, it ain’t as bad as that!” Sherry said quickly. He sat down on the opposite side of the fireplace, and told his friend, in a few well-chosen words just what had occurred while he was at Newmarket.

  Mr Ringwood listened attentively, uttering sounds, at intervals, indicative of his amazement. He had no hesitation in endorsing the construction the Viscount had put upon the episode. He said that it was as plain as the nose on his face; and when he heard of Sir Montagu’s denial he made a derisive noise. By this time the glasses needed to be refilled once more, and when the Viscount had attended to this, both gentlemen spent an agreeable half hour in recalling various incidents in Sir Montagu’s career which did him no credit; and in freely exchanging views on his character and morals which grew steadily more slanderous as the wine sank in the bottle. Their spirits derived much benefit from this exercise, and Mr Ringwood went so far as to state that he had not felt in such a capital way since first Revesby appeared on his horizon. “All for the best, Sherry, you mark my words! As long as he don’t try to play off any more of his tricks on your wife, and he’s such a chickenhearted fellow I don’t suppose he would dare to, now that he knows you’ve smoked him. All the same, you’d best keep your eye on him, dear old boy.”

  “I mean to,” Sherry replied. “Yes, and on Kitten too, my God! You know, Gil it’s the devil of a business! Beginning to keep me awake, I can tell you! It ain’t that she means to get into these curst scrapes. But — oh well!”

  Mr Ringwood studied the wine in his glass.

  “Wouldn’t do anything she thought you might not like, Sherry,” he said tentatively.

  “I know that, but the devil of it is she thinks I shall like the most shocking things!” Sherry said. “What with her taking every word I say to be Gospel-truth, and fancying that whatever I do must be the correct thing — well, it’s enough to turn a fellow’s hair white, it is really, Gil! She would never have thought to go to those bloodsuckers, for instance, if I had not been fool enough to say I’d had dealings with them. And I’m dashed if she didn’t plunge deeper the more she lost at that damned house, all because that’s the gudgeon’s trick I’ve been playing myself! Fairly made my blood run cold when I found that out!”

  Mr Ringwood agreed that this was certainly enough to shake any man’s nerve; but said after a short pause: “You know what I think, Sherry?”

  “Yes: that she don’t mean any harm,” replied Sherry. “You’ve said it before — in fact, you’re always saying it! — and I know it without your telling me.”

  “I wasn’t going to say that,” said Mr Ringwood. “Going to say, she don’t make the same mistake twice. Noticed it.”

  “Well, I don’t see anything in that,” replied his lordship impatiently.

  “No. There’s a deal you don’t see, Sherry. Thought so several times,” said Mr Ringwood, and relapsed into meditative silence.

  The Viscount was not one to waste his time speculating on the significance of cryptic utterances, and he therefore paid no heed to his friend’s words. He had by this time wound up the Gillingham affair, as he called it; and although this process had entailed one or two disagreeable economies, such as the sale of several of his horses, he was inclined to think that he had come out of it better than might have been expected. The truth was that he had been taken aback by the figures laid before him by his man of business. He had not thought that he could have spent so much money. It had been clearly demonstrated to him that his losses over the gaming-table had been excessive, and since he was not so much addicted to gaming as the past year’s exploits would have appeared to indicate he was able to resolve, with tolerable equanimity, drastically to regulate this pastime. At any other time of the year boredom might have driven him back to the tables, but the Viscount was a bruising rider to hounds, and the hunting season was in full swing. He spent a considerable part of his time in Leicestershire, and the only thing that could have been said to have in any way clouded his enjoyment was the growing tendency in himself to wonder what Hero might be doing during his absence.

  But Hero was making great efforts to keep out of scrapes, and except for driving down St James’s Street in her phaeton, she committed no very serious social solecisms. She accompanied Sherry to Melton for one week, entertaining Ferdy and Mr Ringwood at the hunting-box, but as she insisted on riding to hounds and followed Sherry’s line with touching if misplaced confidence in his wisdom, he refused point-blank to repeat the experiment. In this he was supported by his two friends, both of whom had had their day’s sport ruined by the bride’s intrepid behaviour. Since she followed Sherry, she had not committed the crime of riding over hounds, but even Mr Ringwood admitted that no one could place the slightest dependence on her conducting herself with propriety or discretion on the field.

  Lord Wrotham was spending much of his time in Leicestershire too, his last quarrel with Miss Milborne having led to an estrangement between them which was rather skillfully fostered by the Beauty’s hard-headed parent. This lady’s hopes were running very high, Severn’s attentions having become marked enough to have reached his mother’s ears. The Duchess arrived unexpectedly in London, bringing with her a formidable entourage which included her chaplain, housekeeper, steward, and a depressed female of uncertain years and crushed demeanour who appeared to fulfil the functions of a lady-in-waiting. The odds being offered at the clubs against his grace’s coming up to scratch immediately lengthened; but when it was known that the Duchess had called in state in Green Street, those with handsome sums at stake fairly held their breaths. No one, of course, knew what passed during this morning call, but those who were best acquainted with the Duchess described her demeanour towards the Milbornes at the next Assembly night as extremely gracious. George, who was not well-acquainted with her, could detect no trace of affability in her Roman countenance, and considered her bearing to denote nothing beyond pride a
nd self-consequence. His spirits soared, accordingly, but were soon cast down by the incredible news that her grace had invited Mrs Milborne and her daughter to spend Christmas at Severn Towers.

  It was too true. The Duchess, finding her usually tractable son displaying an obstinacy which reminded her forcibly of the deceased gentleman to whom she was in the habit of referring as ‘your poor father’, was preparing to make the best of matters. She had indeed been agreeably surprised in Isabella. The most searching of inquiries having failed to bring to light any discreditable circumstance in the Milborne lineage, she permitted herself to describe Isabella as a pretty-behaved young female, an encomium which caused her son to become wreathed in smiles, and to exclaim gratefully: “I was certain you would be vastly taken with her, ma’am!”

  When George heard of the projected visit to Severn Towers he lost no time in presenting himself in Green Street. He was fortunate enough to choose a moment when Mrs Milborne was out, and thus gained access to the Beauty. Without preamble, he demanded to be told if the news were true, and, upon Miss Milborne’s admitting that her grace had indeed issued the invitation, conducted himself with so little restraint that Isabella, who had been wavering between a natural desire to make one of a ducal house party and a maidenly disinclination to give Severn the encouragement which an acceptance of the invitation must imply, quite lost her temper, and not only declared her intention of doing precisely as she pleased, but added the rider that her actions were no concern of Lord Wrotham. His lordship then so far forgot himself as to seize her in his arms, enfolding her in a crushing embrace and covering her face with kisses. How Miss Milborne might have reacted to this treatment had her Mama’s butler not chanced at that moment to open the door and to announce the Misses Bagshot no one, least of all herself, could have guessed. In the event, she was furious, and had she not been a very well-brought-up girl she would have slapped George’s face. The violence of his ardour had disarranged her hair, she knew herself to be blushing hotly, realized from the butler’s expression that he had been a witness of George’s passion, and saw that Cassy and Eudora, though they might not have been in time to surprise her in George’s arms, had a tolerably exact notion of what had been going forward. She could have screamed with vexation; and when Mrs Milborne came home she was pleasantly surprised to find that the daughter whom she had left recalcitrant had suddenly become as malleable as the most exacting parent could wish. In fact, Miss Milborne was ready to oblige her Mama by spending Christmas at Severn Towers after all.