Enlightening Delilah

by Beaton, M. C.

  The truth was Amy had been disappointed. Flowers were romantic, books were not. She had been hoping for a piece of jewellery or something romantic to put Effy in her place. It was that dull present of the book which had set Amy dreaming about the squire again, and so that simple and straightforward country gentleman became imbued in Amy’s mind with all sorts of romantic passions he not only did not have, but had never had. If Mrs Cavendish had caused the squire to tremble and feel exhilarated in her company, then he would never have proposed to her. Marriage to the squire simply meant companionship.

  Amy had decided she must do something to bring matters between Sir Charles and Delilah a little further forward. Skating was all the rage and the Serpentine was frozen solid. Amy knew that Delilah could skate, and hoped that Sir Charles could also skate and that Mr Guy Berkeley could not. She proposed to Effy that they arrange a skating party.

  Effy was at first horrified. She herself could not skate and the idea of sitting at the edge of the Serpentine in the middle of a black winter’s evening seemed the height of folly, but Mr Haddon was enthusiastic, so Effy gave in with good grace and ordered Yvette to trim a red woollen gown with the fur from an old pelisse. Yvette saved the sisters a considerable amount of money by occasionally altering their old gowns and making them look like completely new and different ones.

  Delilah was praying there would be no fog. Fog would mean the party would have to be cancelled. Amy had not told Delilah that Sir Charles had been invited. Delilah did not expect to see him, therefore, and was looking forward to an evening without being haunted by him. He had started to invade her dreams, and in the latest one he had come to her naked and had made violent and passionate love to her. The dream had been so vivid that Delilah – although her want of experience had kept the fantasy embraces passionate but innocent – felt sure she could never look at Sir Charles Digby again without blushing.

  She was amused by Mr Berkeley’s company and considered him to be no risk whatever. Mr Berkeley’s reputation was such that no one ever credited him with having any more feeling towards his victims than a master of foxhounds has towards the fox. But Mr Berkeley was very much attracted by Delilah, an attraction that was on the verge of becoming an obsession.

  Like all true philanderers, he usually fell in love with his victims. That was what made him so attractive, so dangerous. But never before had he been so violently attracted to any woman as he was to Delilah.

  Unlike Delilah, he prayed for fog, a fog that would descend when the party was in progress. He might be able to skate off somewhere with Delilah and steal a kiss.

  But the evening of the party was clear and frosty with a thin winter’s disc of a moon sailing above the Serpentine. Braziers of coals were burning beside the lake, and Effy, in her new fur-trimmed gown and wrapped in an enormous fur cloak, sat shivering by one and hoping the party would not last very long. She was at a disadvantage. Amy could skate and she could not. It transpired Mr Haddon could skate. The servants from Holles Street, under the direction of Harris, the butler, had set up a long table at the edge of the ice to serve the guests with hot punch and delicacies. Skating was a democratic sport and the servants were to be allowed to join in the fun once their duties of supplying the guests with food and drink were over; it was quite usual at skating parties for the uppers to lend the lowers their skates.

  ‘I don’t like to think of Yvette being alone in the house,’ said Amy to Effy, as she bent forward to tie on her skates. ‘She has become quiet and pale of late. Do you know, I was just thinking the other day that she has hardly had any time off, nor asked for it. I think she is in need of a holiday. Perhaps if Delilah does not marry and returns to the country, we could lend Yvette to her for a little. Yvette says she is very well, but it is very hard to know what she is thinking.’

  ‘I really don’t believe she thinks of very much,’ said Effy. ‘She is quite content, and I left her plenty of sewing to keep her busy. Such a prim little thing. She is happier when occupied.’

  At that moment, Yvette was lying naked in the arms of Monsieur Duclos. Before she succumbed to another wave of passion, she thought of all the sewing Effy had left her. It would mean sitting up during the night trying to get it finished after Monsieur Duclos had left.

  Mr Guy Berkeley arrived late. He had been drinking with friends during the afternoon in a tavern in Holborn in an upstairs room. On leaving, he had fallen down the stairs and sprained his ankle. His servants carried him in a chair to the edge of the ice. Delilah exclaimed in dismay but showed no signs of abandoning skating to stay beside him.

  And then Sir Charles Digby skated up to where Delilah was standing beside Mr Berkeley, bowed and said, ‘Would you care to take a turn on the ice with me, Miss Wraxall?’

  All in that moment, Delilah forgot how much she hated him. The air was crisp and full of the heady smells of punch and charcoal, sweetmeats and pineapple. Little lanterns had been hung among the trees.

  Arm in arm, Sir Charles and Delilah glided off. She could feel the strength of his arm and was aware of the coloured lanterns and faces of the guests flying past, of the hiss of skates over the ice, of the splendid surprise of seeing Mr Haddon of all people cut a neat figure eight, and felt a tremendous rush of happiness.

  When they slowed their pace, Delilah said impulsively, ‘I am so sorry I was rude to you. But you should not have kissed me.’

  He glided to a stop and then swung to face her. ‘I did propose marriage, Miss Wraxall. My intentions were honourable. But your apology is accepted. I in turn apologize for having kissed you. There. Now we can be comfortable again.’

  Mr Berkeley anxiously watched the pair from his seat at the edge of the lake. Delilah would soon return. She would not want to occasion talk by skating with the one man all evening. But, to his irritation, the pair moved off again, slowly this time, deep in conversation.

  He kept his eyes fastened on them. What were they saying? She must return soon. She could not continue to ignore him. And, oh heavens, it seemed as if his prayers were to be answered. A mist was beginning to veil the scene and that mist had that particularly acrid smell which told Mr Berkeley that there was every possibility it would soon thicken into fog.

  ‘Do you miss Hoppleton?’ Sir Charles was asking.

  ‘Yes,’ said Delilah. ‘I miss things as they were. But I am soon to have a stepmother.’

  ‘Indeed! Who is Mr Wraxall to marry?’

  ‘Mrs Cavendish.’

  ‘Well, that is splendid. A perfect match. You will have a stepmother who is already a friend.’

  ‘Unfortunately, Mrs Cavendish is a good house-keeper and most of my duties will fall to her,’ said Delilah. ‘Hey, ho! The only solution is to set up my own establishment.’

  ‘With Mr Berkeley?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Delilah. ‘Why not?’

  ‘He is not the man for you, nor the man for any respectable female.’

  ‘Mr Berkeley is all that is pleasant. I swear I am half in love with him already,’ said Delilah.

  Sir Charles was furious. He wanted to shake her. They skated on in silence, Delilah not noticing that the fog was thickening rapidly or that he was guiding her away from the lights of the party. One of her skates struck a twig embedded in the ice and she stumbled. His arm slid about her waist.

  ‘There is no need to hold me so tightly, Sir Charles,’ said Delilah. Delilah remembered that dream and her face grew hot.

  She then realized the sounds of the party were faint and that they had moved off into the darkness, a darkness quite thick as the fog came down around them.

  She stopped. ‘Take me back, Sir Charles,’ she said in a small voice, suddenly afraid of him and the effect he had on her body.

  He had stopped at the same time but kept one arm tightly about her waist. ‘I shall let you go,’ he said, ‘when you have promised me to have nothing further to do with Guy Berkeley.’

  ‘I do not belong to you,’ retorted Delilah, trying to pull away. ‘I shall ma
rry Mr Berkeley if it pleases me.’

  ‘I think you do belong to me,’ he said slowly. ‘I think we belong to each other and I think I have been a very great fool not to realize it before.’

  ‘I am cold,’ whispered Delilah. ‘The Tribbles will be looking for me.’

  ‘Marry me!’

  ‘No,’ said Delilah bleakly, remembering all her previous hurt. ‘You are cold and haughty and unfeeling–’

  ‘Unfeeling!’ he cried. ‘Lady, I am all feeling.’

  He caught her chin in one hand and, still holding her clipped round the waist, he kissed her fiercely. Her lips were cold and stiff. He continued to kiss her, stifling her protests with his mouth, until her lips grew soft and responsive beneath his own. The emotions that engulfed Delilah were so fierce that tears began to run down her face. ‘Don’t cry,’ he whispered, kissing her tears. ‘Please don’t cry. Kiss me again. You bewitch me, Delilah.’

  He took out his handkerchief and gently dried her cheeks. She smiled up at him tremulously.

  ‘I cannot see your face,’ she said shakily. ‘The fog is so thick.’

  ‘Then feel my lips again,’ he said huskily. With an odd little sound, she turned her face up to his and her lips melted into his own.

  Mr Guy Berkeley had hobbled all over the ice in search of them, cursing the fog he had prayed so earnestly for earlier that evening. He almost bumped into them. They were wrapped so tightly together that he was about to mutter an apology and limp past. Some vulgar courting couple, he thought. And then he heard Delilah’s voice, a broken little voice, saying pleadingly, ‘I think we had better go back. Please release me. I cannot think when you hold me so tightly.’

  ‘Do as she says!’ grated Mr Berkeley.

  The couple broke apart.

  ‘I wish you bumpkins would stay in the country,’ said Mr Berkeley to Sir Charles. ‘Let her go, you lout. Let her go.’

  ‘Miss Wraxall is free,’ said Sir Charles haughtily. ‘Take yourself off, Berkeley. You are decidedly de trop.’

  Mr Berkeley drew off his gloves and struck Sir Charles across the face with them. ‘Cur!’ he snarled.

  ‘I demand satisfaction,’ said Sir Charles.

  ‘Gladly. Come, Miss Wraxall,’ said Mr Berkeley.

  Delilah shrank away from him. ‘What are you doing?’ she cried.

  Sir Charles said, ‘We are about to arrange a duel. Do not sound so distressed, my sweet. Every beautiful lady should have a duel fought over her.’

  ‘Delilah!’ came Amy’s voice.

  ‘Over here!’ called Sir Charles and Amy came skating up.

  ‘Take Miss Wraxall away,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Mr Berkeley and I have much to discuss.’

  ‘Stop them,’ cried Delilah. ‘They are going to fight a duel.’

  ‘I trust you will remember Miss Wraxall’s reputation,’ said Amy sternly.

  ‘I am sure we will both do that,’ replied Sir Charles. ‘Please leave us.’

  Amy pulled the reluctant Delilah away.

  Sir Charles and Mr Berkeley proceeded to discuss seconds, time, place, and weapons.

  ‘What can I do?’ asked Delilah, as Amy led her through the choking fog back to the party.

  ‘You can help me to get Effy home, for a start,’ said Amy. ‘What were you thinking of to skate off into the fog and disappear like that? I thought you didn’t like Sir Charles.’

  ‘But the duel! We must stop the duel.’

  ‘Can’t be done,’ said Amy. ‘Gentlemen are funny about their duels. It would be like trying to break into White’s and stop a card game. Not done. Impossible. I myself did once . . .’ Amy broke off, remembering the time that Mr Haddon had fought a duel over Effy and she herself had dressed up as a Bow Street Runner and had tried to stop it.

  ‘Come home,’ urged Amy instead. ‘There is nothing we can do now.’

  The duel had been fixed in two days’ time at eight-thirty in the morning on Parliament Hill Fields. The weapons were pistols. In the white-hot heat of jealousy, Mr Berkeley felt sure he could trounce this nobody from the country. But to be sure, and when the first fire had died down, he asked about the clubs the next day for information on Sir Charles Digby. With a sinking heart, he heard that Sir Charles was accounted one of the bravest soldiers in Wellington’s army. Mr Berkeley decided he had better not go ahead with the duel. He would ask the Prince Regent to use his power in some way to advise Sir Charles to leave Town. But the Prince Regent, increasingly fat and increasingly fickle, had become irritated with Mr Berkeley. That gentleman had failed to dance attendance on him of late, had failed to remember to send the usual flattering gifts. An audience was denied.

  Mr Berkeley thought gloomily of the character of his seconds. He had asked a Mr Withering and a certain Lord Pomfrey to second him and they had agreed. He knew it was no use trying to get them to persuade Sir Charles to drop the duel. Both were looking forward to it immensely. He was furious with that minx, Delilah. She had no right to play such tricks on him. Mr Berkeley was determined to stay alive, if only to get his revenge on her. In his fear, he decided she had deliberately led him on, only to embroil him in a silly fight for his life. He almost forgot he was the instigator of the duel.

  The evening before the duel, he was desperate. He took himself off to one of Covent Garden’s most disreputable taverns. He was not unknown there and was acquainted with several of the villains who frequented the place. He found the sort of unsavoury character he needed and bribed the man heavily. His new helper was to conceal himself on Parliament Hill Fields and as soon as Sir Charles raised his pistol, this man was to shoot him dead before Sir Charles could pull the trigger. It would be assumed the bullet came from Mr Berkeley’s pistol.

  Feeling much more cheerful, Mr Berkeley went back to his lodgings to get a good night’s sleep.

  Delilah felt she could not bear to sit quietly at home waiting for news. She did not know where the duel was to be held. She knew the time would probably be around dawn. But even if she knew the duelling place, she could not hope to get there, for she had no means of transport. In vain did she beg the sisters to alert the authorities. Amy shook her head and said if she did that, Sir Charles would get to hear who had told on him, and would never speak to Delilah again.

  It was a freezing night, although there was no fog. Amy and Effy went early to bed. Delilah paced up and down her room, feeling utterly helpless. She was afraid for Sir Charles and afraid of him at the same time. He had such power over her. It would be terrifying to be married to him, to be such a slave to any man. Before, when she was seventeen, Delilah had often dreamt of marriage to Sir Charles, but she had imagined a tranquil existence enlivened with a few sweet kisses, never that her body would so fiercely yearn for his that she felt half mad.

  She fell asleep at last in a chair and awoke at six in the morning, hearing the dreary, hoarse voice of the watch calling the hour. Delilah made up her mind. She simply had to take some sort of action. She dressed in a plain warm gown and wrapped herself in her thickest, drabbest cloak and wound a scarf about her hair. The squire kept his daughter generously supplied with pin money. Delilah put a rouleau of guineas in her pocket and then made her way slowly down the stairs and quietly unlocked the front door and slipped out into the street.

  She walked down to Oxford Street and waited patiently, hoping not to be surprised by a party of bloods, until she heard the clip-clop of horse’s hooves and saw a hack approaching.

  The Jehu listened in surprise as she said she wished him to wait at the corner of Brook Street until he saw a carriage leaving and to follow it. He started to shake his head but she produced the rouleau of guineas, extracted two and held them up so that they glittered faintly in the moonlight.

  ‘’Op in,’ growled the driver.

  Delilah heaved a sigh of relief. The first part was over.

  They waited at the corner of Brook Street, Delilah standing beside the carriage. The parish lamps were extinguished at twelve, but there was a full moon riding
above. She did not know which was Lord Andrew’s house but was sure anyone leaving so early in the morning must be Sir Charles. She shrank back into the shadow of the hack as a carriage drove into Brook Street and stopped outside one of the houses. A man got out, knocked at the door and was admitted. Delilah waited, shivering.

  A carriage was brought around to the front door of the house by grooms from the mews. Then the house door opened again and Sir Charles came out, followed by Lord Andrew and the man Delilah had already seen.

  ‘Won’t do, miss,’ called down the driver. ‘If them’s the carriages I’m suppose’ to follow, I’ll never keep up with ’em. Besides, even if I could, they’d see me following and I’m having no truck with the quality. Beat my head in they would fer the fun o’ it.’

  ‘You must wait,’ hissed Delilah, but he whipped up his horse and cursed and drove off.

  Without thinking, Delilah ran lightly towards the two waiting carriages. She reached Sir Charles’s carriage just as it was moving off and tumbled headlong into the rumble at the back. The man who had first arrived on the scene was driving the carriage in front.

  Delilah clung on desperately inside the rumble. The carriage was bowling along at a great rate. The only good thing about all the jolting and shaking was that it had stopped her shivering.

  But just when she thought she was going to be sick, that she could not possibly endure another moment, the pace slowed.

  She waited until the carriage stopped. It dipped and swayed as Sir Charles and Lord Andrew climbed down. She could hear the murmur of their voices, then the sound of another carriage, then Lord Andrew’s voice saying clearly, ‘Here comes the surgeon.’