Lord Bromford, whose youth had never been charmed by tales of the Spanish Main, replied that it had much to recommend it, and went on to describe the properties of its medicinal springs, and the great variety of marbles to be found in the mountains, all of which Miss Wraxton listened to with interest, telling Mr Rivenhall later that she thought his lordship had a well-informed mind.
It was half-way through the evening when Sophy, breathless from an energetic waltz with Mr Wychbold, was standing at the side of the room, fanning herself, and watching the couples still circling round the floor while her partner went to procure a glass of iced lemonade for her, was suddenly accosted by a pleasant-looking gentleman, who came up to her, and said with a smile: ‘My friend, Major Quinton, promised that he would present me to the Grand Sophy, but the wretched fellow goes from one set to the next, and never spares me a thought! How do you do, Miss Stanton-Lacy? You will forgive my informality, won’t you? It is true that I have no business here, for I was not invited, but Charles assures me that had I not been believed to be still laid upon a bed of sickness I must have received a card.’
She looked at him in that frank way of hers, summing him up. She liked what she saw. He was a man in the early thirties, not precisely handsome, but with a pleasing countenance redeemed from the commonplace by a pair of humorous gray eyes. He was above the medium height, and a good pair of shoulders, and an excellent leg for a riding-boot.
‘It is certainly too bad of Major Quinton,’ Sophy said smilingly. ‘But you know what a rattle-pate he is! Ought we to have sent you a card? You must forgive us! I hope your illness was not of a serious nature?’
‘Alas, merely painful and humiliating!’ he replied. ‘Would you believe that a man of my age could fall a victim to so childish a complaint, ma’am? – Mumps!’
Sophy dropped her fan, exclaiming: ‘What did you say? Mumps?’
‘Mumps,’ he repeated, picking up the fan, and giving it back to her. ‘I do not wonder at your astonishment!’
‘Then you,’ said Sophy, ‘are Lord Charlbury!’
He bowed. ‘I am, and I perceive that my fame has gone before me. I own, I should not have chosen to figure in your mind as the man with mumps, but so, I see, it is!’
‘Let us sit down,’ said Sophy.
He looked amused, but accompanied her at once to a sofa against the wall. ‘By all means! But may I not get you a glass of lemonade?’
‘Mr Wychbold – I expect you are acquainted with him – has already gone to do so. I should like to talk to you for a little while, for I have heard a great deal about you, you know.’
‘Nothing could please me more, for I have heard a great deal about you, ma’am, and it has inspired me with the liveliest desire to meet you!’
‘Major Quinton,’ said Sophy, ‘is a shocking quiz, and I daresay has given you quite a false notion of me!’
‘I must point out to you, ma’am,’ he retaliated, ‘that we are both in the same case, for you know me only as a man with mumps, and at the risk of sounding like a coxcomb I must assure you that that must have given you an equally false notion of me!’
‘You are perfectly right,’ said Sophy seriously. ‘It did give me a false notion of you!’ Her eyes followed Cecilia and Mr Fawnhope round the room; she drew a breath, and said: ‘Things may be a trifle difficult.’
‘That,’ said Lord Charlbury, his eyes following hers, ‘I had already realized.’
‘I cannot conceive,’ said Sophy, with strong feeling, ‘what can have possessed you, sir, to contract mumps at such a moment!’
‘It was not done by design,’ said his lordship meekly.
‘Nothing could have been more ill-judged!’ said Sophy.
‘Not ill-judged!’ he pleaded. ‘Unfortunate!’
Mr Wychbold came up just then with Sophy’s lemonade. ‘Hallo, Everard!’ he said. ‘I didn’t know you were fit to be seen yet! How are you, dear boy?’
‘Bruised in spirit, Cyprian, bruised in spirit! My sufferings under the complaint that struck me down were as nothing to what I now undergo. Shall I ever live it down?’
‘Oh, I don’t know!’ replied Mr Wychbold consolingly. ‘Dashed paltry thing to happen to one, of course, but the town’s memory ain’t long. Why, do you remember poor Bolton taking a toss into the Serpentine, clean over his horse’s head? No one talked of anything else for almost a week. Poor fellow had to rusticate for a while, but it blew over, y’know!’
‘Must it be rustication?’ Lord Charlbury asked.
‘On no account!’ said Sophy decidedly. She waited until Mr Wychbold’s attention was claimed by a lady in puce satin, and then turned towards her companion, and said forthrightly: ‘Are you a very good dancer, sir?’
‘Not, I fancy, above the average, ma’am. Certainly not to compare with the exquisite young man we are both watching.’
‘In that case,’ said Sophy, ‘I would not, if I were you, solicit Cecilia to waltz!’
‘I have already done so, but your warning is unnecessary: she is engaged for every waltz, and also the quadrille. The most I can hope for is to stand up with her in a country-dance.’
‘Don’t do it!’ Sophy advised him. ‘To be trying to talk to anyone when you should be attending to the figure is always fatal, believe me!’
He turned his head, and gave her back a look as frank as her own. ‘Miss Stanton-Lacy, you are plainly aware of my circumstances. Will you tell me in what case I stand, and who is the Adonis monopolizing Miss Rivenhall?’
‘He is Augustus Fawnhope, and he is a poet.’
‘That has an ominous ring,’ he said lightly. ‘I know the family, of course, but I think I have not previously encountered this sprig.’
‘Very likely you might not, for he was used to be with Sir Charles Stuart, in Brussels. Lord Charlbury, you look to me like a sensible man!’
‘I had rather I had a head like a Greek coin,’ he remarked ruefully.
‘You must understand,’ said Sophy, disregarding this frivolity, ‘that half of the young ladies in London are in love with Mr Fawnhope.’
‘I can readily believe it, and I grudge him only one of his conquests.’
She would have replied, but they were interrupted. Lord Ombersley, who had gone away after dinner, now reappeared, accompanied by an elderly and immensely corpulent man in whom no one had the least difficulty in recognizing a member of the Royal Family. He was, in fact, the Duke of York, that one of Farmer George’s sons who most nearly resembled him. He had the same protuberant blue eye, and beaky nose, the same puffy cheeks, and pouting mouth, but he was a much larger man than his father. He appeared to be in imminent danger of bursting out of his tightly stretched pantaloons, he wheezed, when he spoke, but he was plainly a genial prince, ready to be pleased, standing on very little ceremony, and chatting affably to anyone who was presented to him. Both Cecilia and Sophy had this honour. His Royal Highness’s appreciation of Cecilia’s beauty was quite as broadly expressed as Mr Wraxton’s had been, and no one could doubt that had he met her in some less public spot it would not have been many minutes before the ducal arm would have been round her waist. Sophy aroused no such amorous tendency in him, but he talked very jovially to her, asked her how her father did, and opined, with a loud laugh, that by this time Sir Horace was enjoying himself amongst all the Brazilian beauties, the dog that he was! After that, he exchanged greetings with several friends, circulated about the room for a while, and finally withdrew to the library with his host and two other of his intimates for a rubber of whist.
Cecilia, escaping from the Royal presence with burning cheeks (for she hated to be the target of fulsome compliments), was intercepted by Mr Fawnhope, who said with great simplicity: ‘You are more beautiful tonight than I had thought possible!’
‘Oh, do not!’ she exclaimed involuntarily. ‘How insufferably hot it is in this room!’
‘You are flushed, but it becomes you. I will take you on to the balcony.’
She made no demur, though
this large term merely described the veriest foothold built outside each one of the twelve long windows of the ballroom, and fenced in with low iron railings. Mr Fawnhope parted the heavy curtains that veiled the window at the far end of the room, and she passed through them into a shallow embrasure. After a slight struggle with the bolt, Mr Fawnhope succeeded in opening the double window, and she was able to step out on to the narrow ledge. A chill breeze fanned her cheeks; she said: ‘Ah, what a night! The stars!’
‘The evening star, love’s harbinger!’ quoted Mr Fawnhope, somewhat vaguely scanning the heavens.
This idyll was rudely interrupted. Mr Rivenhall, having observed the retreat of the young couple, had followed them, and now stepped through the brocade curtains, saying harshly: ‘Cecilia, are you lost to all sense of propriety? Come back into the ballroom at once!’
Startled, Cecilia turned quickly. Already agitated by the unexpected encounter with Lord Charlbury, her nerves betrayed her into a hasty rejoinder. ‘How dare you, Charles?’ she said, in a trembling voice. ‘Pray, what impropriety am I guilty of in seeking the fresh air in the company of my affianced husband?’
She took Mr Fawnhope’s hand as she spoke, and confronted her brother with her chin up, and her cheeks very much flushed. Lord Charlbury, who had drawn back the curtain with one hand, stood perfectly still, as pale as she was red, steadfastly regarding her.
‘Oh!’ cried Cecilia faintly, snatching her hand from Mr Fawnhope’s to press it to her cheek.
‘May I know, Cecilia, if what you have just announced is the truth?’ asked his lordship, not a trace of emotion in his well-bred voice.
‘Yes!’ she uttered.
‘The devil it is not!’ said Mr Rivenhall.
‘You must permit me to offer you my felicitations,’ said Lord Charlbury, bowing. He then let the curtain fall, and walked away the length of the ballroom in the direction of the doors.
Sophy, about to take her place with Major Quinton in the set which was forming, deserted her partner with a word of excuse, and overtook his lordship in the anteroom. ‘Lord Charlbury!’
He turned. ‘Miss Stanton-Lacy! Will you tender my apologies to Lady Ombersley for my not taking formal leave of her? She is not at present in the ballroom.’
‘Yes, never mind that! What has occurred to make you leave so early?’
‘I came, ma’am, with one purpose only in mind. It has been rendered useless for me to stay by your cousin’s announcement a moment since that she is betrothed to young Fawnhope.’
‘What a goose she is!’ remarked Sophy cheerfully. ‘I saw her go apart with Augustus, and I saw Charles follow her. Depend upon it, this is all his doing! I could box his ears! Do you ever ride in the Park?’
‘Do I what?’ he asked, bewildered.
‘Ride in the Park!’
‘Certainly I do, but –’
‘Then do so tomorrow morning! Not too early, for I daresay I shall not be in bed until four o’clock! At ten, then; don’t fail!’
She waited for no answer, but went back into the ballroom, leaving him to stare after her in considerable surprise. At any other time he would have smiled at her odd, abrupt ways, but he was a man in love, labouring under a crushing blow, and although he could maintain his calm manner it was at present beyond his power to feel any amusement.
Ten
It was with no real expectation of meeting Sophy that Lord Charlbury had a horse saddled next morning, and betook himself to Hyde Park, for it seemed to him that a young lady who had danced the night through would not be very likely to be found riding in the Park by ten o’clock next day. But he had not cantered once round the Row when he saw a magnificent black horse coming towards him, and recognized Sophy on its back. He reined in, and pulled off his hat, exclaiming: ‘I made sure you would still be abed, and fast asleep! Are you made of iron, Miss Stanton-Lacy?’
She pulled Salamanca up, sidling and prancing. ‘Pooh!’ she said, laughing at him. ‘Did you think me such a poor creature as to be prostrated by one ball, sir?’
He turned his horse, and fell in beside her. John Potton followed at a discreet distance. Lord Charlbury complimented Sophy on Salamanca, but was cut short.
‘Very true, he is a superb horse, but we have not met to talk of horses. Such a kick-up as there has been in Berkeley Square! Charles, of course – all Charles! The most diverting thing of all – do be diverted! indeed, there is no need for that grave face! – is that Augustus Fawnhope was quite as much taken aback as you or Charles!’
‘Are you telling me that he does not wish to marry Cecilia!’ demanded Charlbury.
‘Oh – ! In some misty future! Certainly not immediately! I expect, you know, being a poet, he would much prefer to be the victim of a hopeless passion!’ said Sophy merrily.
‘Coxcomb!’
‘If you like. I danced one waltz with him last night, when you had left us, and I do think I was very helpful, for I suggested to him a number of genteel occupations of a gainful nature, and promised to look about me for some great man in need of a secretary.’
‘I hope he was grateful to you,’ said Charlbury heavily.
‘Not in the least! Augustus does not want to be any man’s secretary, for he has a soul quite above such mundane matters as acquiring a respectable competence. I showed him what his future would be, in the prettiest way imaginable! Love in a cottage, you know, and a dozen hopeful children prattling at his knee.’
‘You are a most unaccountable girl!’ he exclaimed, looking at her in a good deal of amusement. ‘Did this picture appal him?’
‘Of course it did, but he is very chivalrous, and has now made up his mind to an early marriage. For anything I know he may be planning a flight to the Border.’
‘What!’ ejaculated his lordship.
‘Oh, have no fear! Cecilia is by far too well brought-up to consent to such a scandalous thing! Let us have just one gallop! I know it is wrong, but there seem to be only nursemaids in the Park this morning. Good God, I am quite at fault! There is Lord Bromford, on that fat cob of his! I must tell you that he left the ball at midnight, because late hours are injurious to his health. Now we must gallop, or he will join us, and tell us about Jamaica!’
They flew down the track, Salamanca always just ahead of Charlbury’s rat-tailed gray, and so rousing Lord Charlbury to enthusiasm. ‘By God, that’s a capital horse!’ he said. ‘I do not know how you contrive to hold him, ma’am! Surely he is too strong for you?’
‘I daresay, but he has charming manners, you see. Now we will proceed more soberly! Should you object very much to telling me whether you still desire to marry my cousin? You may snub me, if you choose!’
He replied rather ruefully: ‘Will you think me contemptible if I tell you, yes?’
‘Not at all. You would be foolish to refine too much upon what happened last night. Only consider! Instead of first fixing your interest with Cecilia, you applied to my uncle for leave to address her –’
‘It is usual to do so!’ he pointed out.
‘It may be punctilious, but it is the greatest folly imaginable, particularly if you mean to contract mumps before you have even had time to offer for her!’
‘It would, I collect, be useless to assure you that I did not mean to contract mumps! I had reason to believe that my suit would not be distasteful to her.’
‘I expect she was very well-disposed towards you,’ agreed Sophy cordially. ‘But she had not then seen Augustus Fawnhope. At least, she had, but it seems that he was covered in spots at that time, so no one could expect her to fall in love with him.’
‘I don’t find the reflection precisely comforting, Miss Stanton-Lacy.’
‘Call me Sophy! Everyone does, and we are going to become excessively friendly.’
‘Are – are we?’ he said. ‘I mean, I am delighted to hear you say so, of course!’
She laughed. ‘Oh pray don’t be alarmed! If you still wish to marry Cecilia – and I must tell you that although I thought otherwi
se before I had met you, I have now made up my mind to it that you would suit capitally – I will show you just how you must go on.’
He could not help smiling. ‘I am much obliged to you! But if she loves young Fawnhope –’
‘You must, if you please, consider for a moment!’ said Sophy earnestly. ‘Only think how it was! No sooner had you declared yourself to my uncle than you contracted a ridiculous complaint. She was informed that she was to become your wife – quite gothic, and most ill-judged! – and along came Augustus Fawnhope, looking, you will own, like a prince out of a fairy-tale, and what must he do but turn his back on all the poor females who were setting their caps at him, and fall in love with Cecilia’s beauty! My dear sir, he wrote poems in her praise! He calls her a nymph, and says that her eyes put the stars to shame, and such stuff as that!’
‘Good God!’ said his lordship.
‘Exactly so! You cannot wonder that she was swept off her feet. I daresay you had never so much as thought of calling her a nymph!’
‘Miss Stanton – Sophy! Even to win Cecilia, I cannot write poetry, and if I could I’ll be dashed if I would write such – Well, in any event I have no turn in that direction!’
‘Oh, no, you must not attempt to outshine Augustus in that line!’ said Sophy. ‘Your strength lies in being precisely the kind of man who can procure one a chair when it has come on to rain.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Can you not?’ she asked, turning her head to look at him with raised brows.
‘I expect I could, but –’
‘Believe me, it is by far more important than being able to turn a verse!’ she told him. ‘Augustus is quite unable to do so. I know, because he failed miserably at the Chelsea Gardens. I thought he would, which is why I made him escort Cecilia and me there on a day when you could see it would come on to pour. Our muslins were soaked, and I daresay we should have died of an inflammation of the lung had not one of my old friends procured a hackney to convey us home. Poor Cecy! she became almost cross with Augustus!’
He burst out laughing. ‘Major Quinton spoke nothing but the truth about you!’ he declared. ‘I am already terrified of you!’
The Grand Sophy Page 17
