‘How could I have forgotten her?’ Philip raised the tiny gloved hand to his lips.
Juliet Cerne giggled. ‘Last time we met,’ she said, ‘you called me a plaguy nuisance.’
‘That was years ago! Where can Lady Elinor have been hiding you all this time?’
‘At school.’ She made a little pouting face at him. ‘I can’t tell you how tedious it was.’
‘Juliet!’ Lady Elinor’s voice was at its driest. ‘My brother is waiting to pay his respects to you.’
‘Oh—I…I do beg your pardon.’ She blushed a child’s comprehensive blush and held out the little hand to Denbigh, who contented himself with giving it a quick, firm squeeze and letting it go.
‘Welcome to Paris, Miss Cerne. You are come, I suppose, to finish your education?’
She blushed harder than ever and muttered something almost incomprehensible about having left school. Lady Elinor intervened. ‘Surely, Giles, you need not make a stranger of my Juliet. She is come, of course, to keep me company when you men are busy with your politics.’
‘Juliet, then.’ He smiled down, very kindly at her from his great height. ‘And of course I am delighted that you will have company, Elinor. It is true, I shall be busy.’ Again a long exchange of glances with Fessingham. ‘But Philip, I know, will be happy to show you the sights of the city.’
‘Philip!’ Elinor’s tone dismissed him as negligible, but he hardly noticed. He had contrived, somehow, to possess himself of Juliet Cerne’s hand again and was telling her, in an undertone, of the sights they must see together. ‘We are very tired.’ Lady Elinor took Juliet’s other hand, ignoring Philip. ‘Tomorrow will be time enough to think of sightseeing.’
Since Paris was crowded almost beyond bearing and Denbigh, for reasons of his own, had refused to be billeted on some unwilling French family, it took a little time and a good deal of negotiation before Lady Elinor and her protégée were installed in apartments that Lady Elinor considered adequate to her dignity. At last, it was all settled. Lady Elinor had grumbled herself to a standstill about unaired French sheets, the churlishness of French chambermaids, dirt and high prices. ‘We are worn out.’ Her cold grey eye lit on Philip Haverton, who had been making himself useful in a thousand small, intelligent ways. ‘We will rest tonight and then, tomorrow, we will be fit to attend the performance of the opera you speak of.’ Now she was speaking to her brother, Philip once more relegated to non-existence.
‘Good. I shall make a point of being here to escort you. And you, Fessingham?’
‘I shall certainly hope to accompany you. It will be interesting to see how the Allied sovereigns are received.’
‘Oh, if it’s politics again, good day to you. Come, Juliet, it is time to be thinking of our unpacking. We will see you, then, tomorrow.’ This she divided impartially between Denbigh and Fessingham, but Philip Haverton had Juliet’s hand. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said.
‘Well!’ Philip had contrived to separate himself from the other two men at the entrance of the hotel, and Denbigh now turned to Fessingham. ‘You brought her.’
‘She brought me!’
‘I collect I should thank you. Well, as a matter of fact, I do. But—the child?’
Fessingham laughed. ‘Poor child. I leave you to draw your own conclusions.’
‘I have. I was never so grateful for young Philip’s existence in my life. Will you come to my rooms, or shall I go to yours? I have a great deal I must discuss with you.’
‘I expected so. That is why I have made myself so unpopular with Lady Elinor. Days are important now, are they not?’
‘Important? They are priceless. Europe’s fate for the next hundred years is settling itself under our noses—and the only man who seems in the least in control is Talleyrand.’
‘Castlereagh is not here yet?’
‘No, he is expected daily, and so is Wellington. In the meanwhile—well, you will see for yourself.’
‘Go to the opera?’ Sonia’s voice rose in amazement. ‘Are you mad, Elizabeth? You know perfectly well you are not nearly strong enough. Why, you have not even been out yet.’
‘Then it’s time I went. Shall we go and look at the Cossack camp this afternoon, or would you rather take a stroll in the Jardin des Plantes?’
‘I’m sick of the sight of Cossacks—and the way the Parisiennes stare at them—but are you sure you are strong enough for the Jardin des Plantes?’
‘Of course I am. The hothouses are dull, I know, but we can always go into the library if it rains. I am sure the air will do me good.’ She did not think fit to mention the real object of the excursion, which was to see how they were received by such acquaintances as they should chance to meet. It was not that she did not believe Lord Denbigh. If he said their secret was safe with him, she could be sure that it was; but Philip Haverton was another matter. She knew him too well to believe him capable of holding his tongue for long. It would be best to know what they would be likely to face at the opera that night. ‘Of course we must go!’ She countered Sonia’s reiterated objection as they strolled along the boulevard. ‘The Allied sovereigns’ first ceremonial appearance, and we not there! Even Charles promises to be home in time to escort us.’
‘That will be a change.’ Sonia’s voice was dry.
‘Yes—he has been busy. I wish he did not look so fagged, so—I don’t know, almost desperate at times. Has he talked to you at all about what he is doing?’
‘Hardly, but it is only too clear that nothing is going as he hoped. It seems unbelievable that the Allies should still be prepared even to consider negotiations with Napoleon.’
‘I know. Poor Charles. I only hope he does not let himself be driven into any rash action. I have wondered, sometimes, about his friends. Have you noticed that there are some he takes care not to present to us?’
‘Yes. I often wish we were still running a gambling hell.’
‘Sonia, don’t say such things.’ Instinctively, she reverted to the old governess tone.
‘Come now, Barry.’ Sonia’s reaction was instantaneous. ‘We’ve gone a long way since those days. As for our reputations, from Philip’s behaviour we might as well kiss them goodbye.’
It was the first time she had reverted to the subject, and Elizabeth was relieved to have her take it so lightly. It was equally a relief—and a surprise—to have Philip himself make a point, a few minutes later, of crossing the street to greet them with all his old courtesy. He walked a little way with them, exchanging polite nothings with Elizabeth, then took his leave. ‘Lady Elinor is come, you know. Shall we see you at the opera tonight?’
‘Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’ And then, as Sonia continued obstinately silent, ‘Lady Elinor here so soon? She must have had wings.’
‘Oh, they were at Dover already—had been for several days. Miss Cerne’—he coloured—‘her ward, you know, says the Ship Inn is more Gothic than ever. They were actually glad to get to France, dirty chambermaids, extortionate postilions and all. I am quoting Lady Elinor, of course. Miss Cerne sees everything through rose-coloured glasses. Her enthusiasm is a pleasure to see.’ Once again, he coloured, muttered something about commissions to execute for Lady Elinor and took his leave.
‘Well,’ Sonia grinned at her companion, ‘now I understand everything. I have lost a lover, I fear!’
‘It looks very much like it.’ Elizabeth gave a small secret sigh of relief. If Sonia believed Philip’s sudden coldness to be the result of a new passion for the unknown Miss Cerne she would be spared much of the anxiety that was afflicting her. And in fact the various acquaintances they met had, so far, greeted them with their usual courtesy. It almost looked as if Denbigh had succeeded in silencing Philip. Well, she smiled to herself, if anyone could do it, he could. But Lady Elinor was another matter. She had never met her, but remembered all too well the change that had come into Giles’s voice, years ago, when he spoke of her. It was from her influence, really, more than his father’s, that she had hoped
to remove him when she committed herself to that wild American scheme. What a fool she had been. Only now, so long after the event, had she really understood that you do not escape from people by flight. Even if they had succeeded in getting to America, Lady Elinor’s shadow, and his father’s, would have always fallen between them. Whereas now…
She would not think of now. Least of all, would she let herself hope—for anything. If only they had not met again. Before that, it had been as easy as it was logical to hate him for what had seemed his betrayal. Hatred had warmed her, a pride like his own had kept her head high through the desolate years. And then he had reappeared, not faithless, as she had thought, but Giles, deceived as she had been, the boy she had loved grown to a stature that surprised even her. She had clung to her hatred, almost desperately, but what could she do, watching him moving now, a man among men, dominating any company in which he found himself?
Yes, he had grown a long way. A long way away from her. That had been clear from their very first encounter and she had faced it, she hoped, courageously. How long had she managed to keep up the pretence of hatred? She shivered. Don’t think about the long lonely years ahead. Think instead that if she could no longer deceive herself, at least she had kept up the pretence with him. It was a little comfort, though not much, that when his fine sense of honour had made him offer her marriage, she had been able to reject him without betraying herself. ‘I beg your pardon?’ What had Sonia been saying?
‘I said, you look positively hagged, Liz. Let’s go home.’
‘Yes, do let us. We should both rest this afternoon if we are to enjoy the opera tonight, and I for one, intend to do so.’ After all, Lady Elinor must be faced, and the sooner the better. As for Denbigh’s promise that his sister would call upon her, well, as she had said, she would believe that when she saw it.
Her doubts on the subject would have been amply confirmed if she could have been present at an interview between Denbigh and his sister that same afternoon. It was the first time they had been alone together, and even now, Denbigh had only achieved the tête-à-tête by a deliberate request.
‘She’s a pretty child,’ he said, when Juliet Cerne had blushed and curtsied her way from the room. ‘If you like them silly.’
‘Silly!’ Lady Elinor bridled. ‘She’s as well educated as any girl in England.’
’Oh—education. Yes, I expect she is. It was wisdom I was talking about.’
‘One hardly expects wisdom in a child of eighteen.’
‘Precisely. I am glad you take my point. One would no more expect it in Miss Cerne than one does in my poor Philip.’
‘Your poor Philip? I see nothing to pity in him. In fact, I was intending to congratulate you on his improvement.’
‘I am glad to think you see one. And I am really delighted, Elinor, that you brought that pretty child to keep him out of mischief.’
‘To keep Philip—that is not what I meant at all.’
‘I rather thought not, but, just the same, that is what is going to happen. Dear Elinor’—he took her hand—‘let us not quarrel. She’s a charming child, but—not for me. I should make her miserable, and she would bore me to tears.’
‘But Giles, you should marry.’ For a moment she let her hand lie in his, and her voice was less strident than usual.
‘I have been thinking the very same thing myself. But—not a child straight out of the nursery. Give me credit for a little judgment, Elinor.’
‘Judgment! You—Giles, I had not meant to speak of it so soon, but I had a most disquieting conversation with Mr Fessingham, before we left London.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. Is it really true that that young woman has bobbed up again?’
‘Do you by any chance mean Miss Barrymore?’ Ice in his voice.
‘Yes—or should I say Mrs Barrymore? I could hardly believe my ears when Mr Fessingham told me she was parading about Europe, like the veriest camp follower, in the guise of a married woman. I always told you that was a miraculous escape of yours, and now, at last, I must have the pleasure of hearing you admit I was right.’
‘Do you really expect that, Elinor?’ Deceptively gentle now. ‘Curiously enough, I had something rather different to say to you on the same subject. Do you remember telling me, years ago, that Miss Barrymore was dead?’
‘Why—yes, I believe I did. It seemed the kindest thing, at the time.’
‘Did it so? That’s your excuse, is it? You were protecting me, were you? Well, I am old enough, now, to protect myself—and Miss Barrymore too, who is in need of it. And—you are going to help me, Elinor.’
‘I?’
‘Yes—you. If you wish me to forget what you did to me years ago. Or at least to try to. It was—wicked, Elinor. But no use talking of that. Only—now is your chance to make amends. Elizabeth’s position here in Paris is precarious in the extreme, and so is that of her friend Miss von Hugel. Henry Fessingham told you something of this, I know.’
‘He told me that your “Elizabeth” was masquerading as a married woman and, as if that were not bad enough, pretending to be the cousin of some young adventurer—what’s his name? Vincent. I saw him in the street this morning and if ever there was a hangdog, untrustworthy countenance, that’s it. I cannot think what possesses you, Giles, to imagine, for one moment, that the association between him and those two young women can be innocent. And running a gambling hell, too, from what I hear.’
‘I can see that you have not lacked for informants, Elinor.’
She had the grace to look a trifle embarrassed. ‘Well, of course everyone knows that your happiness is my major concern.’
‘Precisely. I am grateful to you for putting it so straight. That is exactly why I ask you to pay a call on Miss Barrymore today.’
‘Call on Miss Barrymore! Are you run mad?’
‘Far from it. I know your standing with the world quite as well as you do. After all, it has been your chief care all your life, has it not? Well, you have succeeded: no slightest breath of scandal has ever touched you: Lady Elinor Burnleigh is held up by mammas to their daughters as a pattern of correctness. Your approval carries almost as much weight as that of Lady Jersey or the Princess Lieven.’
She did not like the almost. ‘What is that to the purpose?’
‘Everything. If you call, publicly, on Miss Barrymore today, the rumours that are already current in Paris will be stopped as effectively as if she had been received by the Queen.’
This was a happier note. She could not but look a little pleased at the comparison. ‘Well—you flatter me, but there may be something in what you say. I have heard it suggested, from time to time, that I would make a better patroness of Almack’s than—’ She stopped abruptly. ‘But this is all nonsense, and you know it. Just because I value my good name, nothing would induce me to call, publicly, on two young women so lost to the commonest sense of propriety.’
He was white with anger, but his voice was steady. ‘I ask you to accept my word, Elinor, that any scandal about Miss Barrymore and Miss von Hugel is entirely without foundation. You will be doing an act of merest justice—as well as of kindness—in extending to them your protection now, when they are so much in need of it.’
‘But why on earth should I?’
‘Because I ask you to. Because, if you like, you owe it to me for what you did before. No—wait a minute before you speak, and I will give you another reason, since I can see those do not appeal to you. I am serious about this, Elinor, and serious when I tell you that if you do not do as I ask, I will never, willingly, see you again. And if I am asked why I have made the break, I shall tell the story of the lies you told me, the letters you suppressed. It would be interesting, would it not, to see how your reputation as a paragon of propriety stood up to such a disclosure? You have made enemies, you know, with your fine moral distinctions, as well as friends. I can think of many people who would get acute pleasure in the propagation of such a tale. And of course there would be practical difficul
ties in it for you. I have always been happy to let you live in my houses—use my carriage—ride my horses. It would mean an end of all that, Elinor. I am sure yours is too lofty a spirit to let itself be swayed by anything so vulgar as financial considerations—but they do carry a certain weight, you know. Anyway, there you have it. A call this morning, some distinguishing notice at the opera tonight—and we continue brother and sister. Otherwise—’
She had risen to her feet. ‘You leave me no alternative.’
‘I rather hoped I did not.’
To say that Elizabeth was astonished when Lady Elinor Burnleigh was announced would be putting it far too mildly. ‘Lady Elinor!’ Her hand caught Sonia’s. ‘Don’t go!’
‘She cannot wish to see me.’
‘I cannot imagine why she wants to see either of us. But we must be grateful to her for the call; it is a great service, you know.’
‘Lord Denbigh must have made her—’
‘Hush!’
Elizabeth and Lady Elinor had never met before and each was perhaps equally surprised and disappointed at what she saw. For Elizabeth, the elegant aquiline society woman with the greying hair and faintly petulant expression was absurdly different from the imagined monster who had wrecked her happiness. Lady Elinor’s surprise was perhaps more acute. She had intended Elizabeth and Sonia to be a pair of overdressed slatterns, at once gaudy and sordid. Elizabeth, of course, would be ageing now, her figure spreading, her hair either faded or, better still, obviously tinted. The shock of seeing two frightened girls rise to their feet to greet her made her even more abrupt than usual.
‘Miss Barrymore.’ Taking Elizabeth’s hand in her lifeless one, she saw, with pleasure, that Elizabeth did in fact show some signs of her thirty years. There were lines around the fine eyes, laughter lines round the mouth. ‘Miss von Hugel.’ This was just a girl, dismissible as such. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance.’ She did not sound it. And then, coming straight to the point: ‘You will forgive me if I say I would be glad of a few words with your—friend, alone.’
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