by M C Beaton
She sat bolt upright in bed and lit her candle with shaking fingers. The gale sprang up again and the candle flame danced and flickered sending sinister shadows running round the walls. But though she sat as still as a mouse, straining her ears against the noise of the storm, there was no reoccurence of the mysterious voice.
Chapter Six
The next day dawned bright and sunny and, as Henrietta prepared for her excursion to the park, she decided that she must have imagined the episode of the mysterious voice.
Miss Mattie fluttered after her, almost as nervous as Henrietta herself. “My dear,” she exclaimed, clasping her hands together, “now that I am aware of the tender passions, I know how you must feel. The palpitating bosom, the trembling legs, the…”
Her effusions were mercifully interrupted by Hobbard who handed Henrietta a parcel. “This is for you, Miss Sandford,” he said. “A messenger has just delivered it.”
Henrietta opened the wrappings and found a square wooden box of Turkish Delight with a neat white card lying on top of the sweetmeats. It said simply, “Sweets to the sweet. Yr. devoted admirer.”
“It must be from Lord Reckford,” breathed Miss Mattie. “You must try one.”
Henrietta hesitated, her hand hovering over the box. “I am sure his lordship would send a more original message, Mattie, and he would certainly put his name to it.”
But she adored sweets and the succulent squares with their powdering of sugar were the most tempting things she had ever seen. “Well, just one,” she said, popping a large piece in her mouth and then swallowing it hurriedly as Lord Reckford was announced.
With a rising sense of excitement and anticipation, she had not felt since she was a child, Henrietta was handed up by Lord Reckford into his curricle. His team was fresh and restive and he gave them all his attention, guiding them down the street at a brisk trot, driving them well up to their bits. As they turned into Hyde Park, he finally addressed his companion. “What a dreadful storm we had last night. I was awakened by a terrible crash about three in the morning. One of the chimneys had crashed down through the attics. Mercifully, no one was hurt.”
Receiving no reply from his fair companion, he reined in his teams of greys and turned to look down at her. She sat very still, very quiet, her face bidden by the brim of her hat. “Miss Sandford! Miss Sandford? Is anything amiss?” No reply. He removed his gloves of York tan and reaching out his long fingers, took Henrietta’s chin in his hand and turned her face towards him.
Henrietta was far away on another plain, a dream country where the grass was made of green glass and the sunlight snaked through the trees in rivers of molten gold and she felt sure, if she sat very still, small beautiful wild creatures of ivory and silver would slowly appear.
Lord Reckford dropped her chin. Her eyes were unfocussed and the pupils like pinpoints. He swore under his breath and took a hurried look round. They were on the broad southern avenue that paralleled Rotten Row. Rotten Row—an English contraction of the French, Route en Roi—was an unsurfaced road of loose sand and gravel which would be jammed to capacity during the fashionable hour.
He had deliberately arrived a quarter of an hour early so that all the arriving fashionable throng could see him with Henrietta. He knew his worth as a leader of fashion to the last inch. Henrietta would be the envy of all the debutantes and a subject for speculation among the gentlemen. Now he was anxious to escape before anyone could catch so much as a glimpse of his companion. In the distance, he could see the heavy old family coach of the Beldings, its recently revarnished panels shining in the sun, come lumbering towards the Row.
He flicked his leader deftly with his whip and in less than ten minutes was carrying his companion into her house in Brook Street.
Miss Mattie shooed him into a small saloon where he laid Henrietta on a day bed. “I see it all,” cried Miss Mattie tragically.
“You do!” exclaimed Lord Reckford in surprise. “I would not have thought that Miss Sandford was in the habit of…” But he was interrupted by the forceful Mattie.
“Yes, yes,” she cried. “Your horses bolted with you. Henrietta tried to assist you. People screamed. The carriage swayed dangerously. A low branch stunned her. She collapsed in your arms. Oh, how terrible! Oh, how romantic!”
“The branches of the trees in Hyde Park are pruned so that they do not…” Lord Reckford began acidly and then stopped. “Really, Miss Scattersworth. You are getting me carried away by your nonsense.” He glared at poor Miss Mattie who blushed and hung her head.
Lord Reckford was a notable whip and could drive to an inch. And now this damned female, instead of helping him, was babbling away about his horses bolting with him.
“I am sorry to deliver myself of such a mundane explanation, Miss Scattersworth, but Miss Sandford is suffering from having taken an amount of some drug, probably opium.”
Miss Mattie looked at him in horror and came down to earth with a bang. “What can I do?” she asked in a reassuringly practical voice. “Shall I send for the physician?”
He shook his head. “Miss Sandford is now in a heavy sleep from which she will emerge in an hour or two completely unharmed. Is she in the habit of taking drugs?”
Miss Mattie shook her head vehemently. “Never! Not even laudenam to help her sleep.”
The Beau looked at the sleeping girl. “Perhaps the wicked sophisticated delights of the metropolis have changed her,” he remarked dryly.
“Impossible,” remarked Miss Mattie and the Beau was relieved to note that worry over her young friend had revealed her to be a sensible woman. “Why, Henrietta was in the best of spirits. She had too little to eat at luncheon, of course, and then nothing else except a piece of Turkish Delight… from her admirer,” added Miss Mattie with a coy look at Lord Reckford. “An anonymous present.”
“I am not in the habit of sending anonymous gifts,” he remarked.
Miss Mattie looked at him for a minute and then scuttled out to return with the box. The Beau lifted a piece and tasted it with his tongue. “Opium,” he said, fastidiously wiping his mouth with his handkerchief. “Someone wishes Miss Sandford ill.”
“The villain,” gasped Miss Mattie. “Her relation, a Mr. Ralston, he said the fortune should have been his and he wishes to marry Henrietta!”
“I am not acquainted with Mr. Ralston but I shall certainly make it my business to seek him out,” said Lord Reckford grimly.
He turned again to look down on the sleeping girl. She was breathing evenly, her heavy lashes fanned out on her cheeks. The quiver of emotion that he had felt when he had looked into her eyes was gone. He felt old and protective. “Poor child,” he said. “I shall call again tomorrow to find out how she is keeping. I think you and I shall have to keep a good watch on Miss Sandford from now on.”
“Indeed, yes!” agreed Miss Mattie, looking intently into his eyes. “Friendship, concern, alas!” she exclaimed, much to Lord Reckford’s bewilderment.
He made his best bow and took his leave. Miss Mattie sighed as she watched the strong athletic figure climbing into the curricle. “Friendship hardly ever leads to passion,” she said, shaking her head and going to take her place beside her sleeping friend.
***
Henrietta was amazed and frightened when she eventually awoke to hear the story about the opium in the Turkish Delight. But as the days passed and the event of her first London ball drew near, she almost forgot about it. The sun shone on London Town and the Beau was in constant attendance. But Henrietta sighed disconsolately.
She had still not received cards to any social event. Lord Reckford escorted her on sedate walks as if she were a schoolgirl and he, the governess, and Miss Scattersworth always came along as well. He was a considerate and friendly companion… and nothing more.
Mr. Ralston had called several times but had been informed by Hobbard that “Miss Sandford was not at home to Mr. Ralston” so firmly that he had eventually given up.
At last, the evening of the ball
at Almack’s had arrived. It was to be the first event of the London Season. Lady Courtney had been successful in procuring vouchers for both Henrietta and Miss Scattersworth. Lord Reckford had promised to be early for once in order to lead Henrietta into the first dance and establish her social status. All that was left to do was to get dressed… and pray.
Henrietta had refused to dress in white. She was much older than the other debutantes and had no intention of looking like a quiz. Instead she wore a stately gown of green crépe, tied under the bosom with long green silk ribbons. Her heavy fair hair was dressed á la Sappho and a magnificent topaz necklace flashed on her bosom.
Miss Scattersworth, attired in a gown of heavy burgundy silk, looked all that was proper in a chaperone. She was still pining for the curate and, as Henrietta had hoped, it had had a sobering effect on her mode of dress.
By the time the ladies were deposited outside the famous assembly rooms in King’s Street, St James’s, Henrietta felt that everything would be all right. They had dressed their best, Lord Reckford would be waiting for them and the evening would be a success.
The rooms were not nearly so grand as Henrietta had expected and the only refreshments were orgeat and lemonade. But society came here to see and be seen. Henrietta glanced round the glittering throng but could see no sign of the tall figure of Lord Reckford. Lady Belding and Alice were already there, whispering and gossiping and waving their long fans in Henrietta’s direction. Heads began to turn, quizzing glasses were raised.
Dance followed dance and Henrietta sat as if turned to stone. Glittering and chattering and flashing pitying looks, Alice Belding floated past, the sight of the disconsolate Henrietta lending her feet wings.
Henrietta began to feel immeasurably tired. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. The painted faces of the Dandy set swirled before her like some exotic dream. The dancers advanced, retreated, curtsyed and bowed. And still he did not come.
***
Lord Reckford sat on the edge of his bed, nursing his bruised shoulder. He had just been trying, without success, to break down his bedroom door. He had been on the point of leaving for Almack’s when he had heard the click of the key in his door and stealthy footsteps hurrying down the corridor. Startled, but not very worried, he had pulled vehemently on the bell rope and after several minutes stood staring at the door in surprise. There had been no answer to his summons. The windows were heavily barred and the door was of solid mahogany.
A sudden jab of concern for Henrietta stabbed him. He could think of no other reason for this insane practical joke. He looked thoughtfully at the fireplace. It was a capacious one and the chimney had been recently cleaned. Then he shook his head. Something had happened to the servants and if he got stuck in the flu then God alone knew how long he would be forced to stay there.
But his temper was rising. Henrietta would now be at Almack’s thinking that he had deserted her. His sister, Ann, was ill so Henrietta and Miss Scattersworth would know no one. He came to a sudden decision. He hauled out a game bag and stripping off his evening clothes, he folded them carefully into it along with his diamond jewellery. He rummaged in his wardrobe and found an old hacking jacket, a venerable pair of buckskins and an old pair of shoes.
Tying his shoes and the game bag round his neck, he crossed to the fireplace, got down on all fours and stared up the chimney. One mocking star stared back down at him. It seemed very far away at the other end of an eternity of sooty blackness.
But the roof could not be so very far away. Only the attics were above his room. He tried shouting for help several times but there was no reply. His bedroom windows faced the garden at the back of the house.
With a sigh of resignation, he crawled into the fireplace, stood upright and started to climb. Several times his broad shoulders jammed and he had to pause with cold sweat trickling down his soot-stained face until with a massive wrench, he managed to free himself. He was nearly at the top when he suddenly realized he would never, ever get himself through the chimney pot. He was no climbing boy. He wedged himself against the walls of the chimney and fought against an over-whelming attack of claustrophobia which threatened to unman him. He rested, gulping for air and trying to calm his trembling body. Then the thought that someone had deliberately locked him in his own bedroom like a naughty schoolboy hit him with violent force. His attack of claustrophobia fled before a wave of healthy anger. Chimney pots could be broken. He scrabbled upwards, envisaged the chimney pot as the fool who had got him into this situation and struck it with all his might.
Fortunately for Lord Reckford, its hold on the building had been weakened by the recent storm and with an almighty crash, it plunged over the slates and into the gardens below. A slate whizzed down into the great gaping hole left in the roof, missing him by inches. He hauled himself out onto the roof and slithered down the slates and, with the agility of an acrobat, made his way down the drainpipe to the street.
He planned to make his way down to the kitchen area to see what on earth had happened to his servants when there was a cry of “Hold there” and a waving lantern.
“The watch!” Lord Reckford cursed under his breath. It would take hours to establish his credentials. Who would believe that the famous Beau Reckford had been climbing around the roof of his town house in torn clothes and covered in soot? He felt a heavy hand on his shoulder and turned and drove his fist into the watch’s kidneys. The man gave a scream of pain and doubled up. There was another bobbing light at the end of the street. Lord Reckford fled.
He zig-zagged through the night-time streets until all sounds of pursuit faded behind him. He tried to hail a hack but the driver told him in no uncertain terms that he only allowed clean gentlemen in his carriage. His lordship became aware of the filth of his appearance and took himself off to the Hummums on foot for a Turkish bath.
***
Henrietta’s heart felt like lead. The clock stood at two minutes to eleven and no one, not even the Prince Regent himself, was allowed in after eleven o’clock. She would not be humiliated any more. She turned to Miss Mattie to suggest that they leave. Lord Reckford entered the room and Henrietta looked across at him with her heart in her eyes. Oh, horror! He was not going to join her. He was talking to one of the patronesses, the ultra-snobbish Mrs. Drummond-Burrell. Mrs. Drummond-Burrell frowned, his lordship insisted and bent to whisper something in that august ear. Mrs. Drummond-Burrell smiled like the sun on a winter’s day and got to her feet. Oh, God, he was leaving! No, he was looking at her and leading the formidable patroness across the floor.
Mrs. Drummond-Burrell looked down at Henrietta as if she were some peculiar kind of insect. “Lord Reckford has prevailed upon me to allow you to waltz,” she said haughtily, and having felt she had done more than enough, turned on her heel, leaving Henrietta to look up at Lord Reckford with a question in her eyes.
“Later,” he said in his attractive, husky voice. He drew her into the steps of the waltz and Miss Mattie watched them, her eyes filling with sentimental tears.
Myriads of fans fluttered and turned, turbans and feathered headdresses bowed and bobbed, jewels blazed and sparkled on men and women alike as all turned to watch Henrietta in the arms of Lord Reckford. He was smiling, he was laughing, what were they saying? Alice Belding led her mama behind a potted palm and kicked her viciously in the ankle.
All this passed the bedazzled Henrietta unnoticed. She gazed adoringly up at her saviour and he smiled back at her in a kindly way. Lord Reckford was so used to adoring glances that he only felt very protective and thought what a pleasant, comfortable sort of girl Henrietta was.
“You will not lack dancing partners now,” he said when the waltz came to an end.
“I do not feel like dancing any more tonight,” replied Henrietta who felt exhausted with all her see-sawing emotions.
“I confess I am feeling very tired myself,” laughed the Beau, “and I have not yet told you what delayed me. We shall make a grand exit.”
They coll
ected Miss Scattersworth and strolled from the ballroom arm in arm, the dagger-like stares of all the match-making mamas boring into his lordship’s exquisitely tailored back.
As the carriage clattered over the cobblestones on the road to Brook Street, Lord Reckford told his companions of his adventures. Henrietta felt a sudden clutch of fear at her heart. Her spiteful enemy seemed to be everywhere. Assuring the ladies that he would call in the morning, the Beau hastened off.
To his relief, his door was answered by his butler, Gibbs, who was looking anxious and flustered. He explained that a travelling wine merchant had called early in the evening at the kitchen door while his lordship was dressing. He had explained that all his lordship’s wines were ordered from Bullock’s in the City but the merchant had some excellent vintage madeira at extremely low prices. The merchant had said that his wife had just given birth to twins and he would esteem it an honor if the staff would join him in a celebration glass. Well, put like that, said the contrite Gibbs, it seemed only decent to ‘wet the babie’s head.’ As it happened, all the staff had been gathered below stairs, their duties for the day finished since my lord had told them not to wait up for him. Next thing they knew, they had awakened some hours later and of the wine merchant there was no sign. The watch was banging at the door, crying out that a man had descended from the roof. His lordship’s bedroom door had been broken down with an axe by himself and the watch but nothing of value was found to have been taken.
Lord Reckford dismissed the trembling Gibbs, assuring him that no blame should fall on the staff, and sat in his study, staring at the empty fireplace, deep in thought. In the middle of all his concern for Henrietta, he realized, with a slight shock, that he was worried and anxious—but not bored.
