The Beau and the Bluestocking: Romantic intrigue in Regency London

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  In spite of the appalling scene which ensued on the following day, Lydia’s determination never wavered. The original trouble was exacerbated by the receipt of a letter from Eleanor to her mother which of course revealed that Vivyan Allerton had been visiting Harrow at the same time as the two girls. Convinced that this had been deliberately arranged between Lydia and Allerton, Mrs Manbury stormed at her daughter in a way that quite terrified Alethea, accustomed to the calmer reproofs of her own mother. All the same, she felt she must try to defend her cousin.

  ‘Indeed, Aunt,’ she put in timidly, ‘I assure you Lydia knew nothing of it, just as she says. She was as surprised as anyone when Mr Allerton came to the house with Sir James Devenish and Lady Carteret — truly she was!’

  ‘You may hold your tongue, Miss!’ snapped Mrs Manbury, turning on her. ‘At least I hope you have acted more sensibly than your cousin! Tell me, did Mr Tracy make you an offer last night?’

  Although she was glad to draw her Aunt’s fire away from Lydia for a breathing space, Alethea did not relish answering this question. Reluctantly, she admitted that he had; further pressure forced her to say that she had refused him.

  ‘Refused him!’ shrieked Mrs Manbury, beside herself. ‘Refused a most eligible suitor, whom I’ve been at some pains to throw in your way! Only wait until I tell your mother of this, you ungrateful girl! I don’t doubt it’s all your fault that Lydia has set her face against Bedwyn — she was pleased enough with the match until you came amongst us — as who wouldn’t be, I’d like to know? Fit for Bedlam, both of you, that’s what you are! I wash my hands of you!’

  Alethea drew herself up with some dignity in spite of a quivering lip, and declared her intention of returning home to Somerset at once. Her uncle later tried to dissuade her from this course, pointing out that his wife’s tempers rarely lasted and that Alethea’s parents would be offended at her abrupt departure from his house.

  ‘I think not, sir, for I shall tell them how it was, and they’ll see then that I could scarce have stayed,’ she replied, quietly. ‘My mother will, I’m sure, understand her sister too well to bear her any lasting grudge. Indeed, I don’t myself, for until today Aunt Olivia has used me with great kindness. I am grateful to you, too, Uncle, for many kindnesses; and ask this one more, that you will arrange for my journey home as soon as possible.’

  Seeing the impossibility of making her change her mind, he at length agreed to do this.

  ‘Well, perhaps you are right,’ he conceded. ‘It may well be that your Aunt would benefit from being rid for a space of the charge of both you girls. After all, she is not as young as she was, and the London season is a monstrously tiring business. Fatigue may have played its part with disappointment in vexing her with you both. Yes, on mature consideration,’ he added, ‘I think I shall pack Lyddy off for a while to stay with her sister Caroline, until all this fuss and bother blows over.’

  So Alethea returned to the green slopes of the Mendips, the coombes and rivers of her native Somerset where alone she felt she might hope to recover some part, at least, of her former peace of mind.

  Chapter XXIII

  Alethea crossed a field yellow with buttercups and sweet with the scent of clover, and came to a stile which led into the lane. Here she paused for a moment or two, quietly absorbing the beauty of the day as spiritual sustenance for a still troubled mind. The sky was of that clear, pale blue of summer, with only the faintest wisps of cloud floating here and there on its tranquil surface. Some ducks quacked on a small pond across the way; the stone cottages grouped about it, their gardens bright with flowers, were mellowed by sunshine. It was a day to be happy, she thought, or, if not quite that, to be content. She gave a little sigh, climbed quickly over the low stile, and turned along the winding lane with its high hedgerows in the direction of the Rectory.

  The house seemed very quiet as she let herself in, though she could hear the distant shouts of her small brothers playing in the garden at the rear. She poked her head round the door of her father’s study. As she had expected, he was sitting there reading, his spectacles sliding down his nose in the way that she found so endearing. He looked up from his book with a warm smile.

  ‘Ah, so you’re back, my dear. Is Mama with you?’

  Alethea came into the room and closed the door.

  ‘No, she stayed to give Mrs Ponder a recipe and to enquire after her eldest daughter in Bristol. She said I was to tell you she won’t be long.’

  ‘Mm, yes,’ murmured the Rector. ‘That’s a pity, for we have a visitor.’

  ‘A visitor?’ Alethea was only mildly curious, for a good many visitors came to the Rectory. They were mostly neighbouring clergy or members of their families. ‘Anyone of interest, Papa?’

  ‘Oh, yes, decidedly. A most erudite young man, I thought — knows his Sophocles as he ought.’

  Alethea nodded sympathetically; a new local curate, she decided. ‘Will he be staying to dine with us, Papa? Because if so, perhaps I should give Cook a hint — you know she likes to have plenty of warning.’

  ‘Staying to dine? Well, that rather depends on you, I think. After all, it was you he came to see.’

  ‘Me?’ asked Alethea, startled.

  ‘I,’ corrected her father, automatically. ‘If you remember, the verb “to be” takes —’

  ‘The nominative case — yes, I know,’ said Alethea, impatiently. ‘But who is it, Papa? Who has come to see me?’

  The Rector put down his book and began hunting for something on his desk. ‘I have a card here somewhere — now where the deuce — ah! Here it is.’ He produced a gilt embossed card and scrutinised it briefly. ‘Ah, yes — Devenish, Sir James Devenish.’

  Alethea sat down on a chair suddenly. ‘Sir James Devenish!’ she repeated, in stunned accents.

  The Rector surveyed her shrewdly, then smiled. ‘Nothing wrong with your hearing, child, is there?’

  ‘Don’t tease, Papa! What — what can he want with me — did he say?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He was most explicit. He came to ask my permission to pay his addresses to you.’

  Alethea stared at him; some of the colour left her cheeks. ‘To — to ask your permission to —’

  ‘Yes, yes. Really, Alethea, your conversation lacks sparkle this afternoon,’ complained her father, a twinkle in his eye. ‘You do nothing but repeat everything I say to you!’

  She sat there as if dazed for a few minutes, then leapt to her feet, her cheeks flaming. ‘Papa, he doesn’t mean it — he can’t be serious! He was only in jest — I know he was!’

  ‘Well, I must suppose that you know the gentleman better than I do,’ conceded the Rector. ‘But it would appear to me that a man who travels a hundred and twenty miles to ask a lady’s hand in marriage for sport, must either be intoxicated or out of his wits. I can assert with authority that he was not the former. Would you say that he is mad?’

  ‘No — no — of course not! Papa, you’re laughing at me, and it’s too bad of you! This is serious!’

  ‘Why, so I think, my child. Marriage is a very serious business. And for that reason, Alethea —’ his voice took on a more sober note, and again he looked searchingly at her — ‘I told the young man that, though he might have my permission to address you, he must take his answer from you alone.’

  ‘I can’t believe it!’ said Alethea, in a wondering tone. ‘It can’t be happening — I must be dreaming!’

  Her father rose and put his arm about her, gently pinching her cheek.

  ‘There, now you know that you’re awake, my dear. And I think you had best go and put the poor fellow out of his misery, don’t you?’

  She buried her face in his shoulder. ‘Oh, Papa, I don’t think I can! I feel so — my thoughts are all in a turmoil!’

  He kissed her soft hair. ‘I know, love. That’s something one never forgets. But all the same, you must see him. He deserves no less, whatever your answer may be.’

  She raised her head and nodded. ‘Yes, of course you a
re right, Papa, only it was such a shock. Where — where is he?’

  ‘In the garden, playing at cricket with Jack and Billy.’

  ‘Playing at cricket!’

  ‘Alethea, pray don’t begin again repeating every word I utter! Jack and Billy came to ask me to pitch a ball or two for them, and young Devenish offered to go in my stead.’

  ‘But Devenish — cricket!’ exclaimed Alethea, dumbfounded.

  ‘I dare say they taught him the game at Harrow,’ explained her father, with gentle irony. ‘I collect he went there to school.’

  Alethea said nothing to this, but peered anxiously at her reflection in the glass door of one of the bookcases.

  ‘I expect I look a shocking fright,’ she said despairingly.

  ‘You look lovely — as always, at least to my eyes,’ he said, with an encouraging smile. ‘I feel sure he will have no fault to find with your appearance. Don’t delay longer, my child. And — God bless you.’

  She ran to give him a quick hug, then went out of the room.

  The Rectory garden was large and rambling, with lawns and flower beds nearest the house, and then a shrubbery which shielded from view an extensive kitchen garden, leading in turn to the stables and a small orchard. The plot of ground allotted over the years to the Newnham boys for cricket practice was situated between the shrubbery and the kitchen garden, too far away from both house and greenhouse windows to cause damage. Alethea made her way there with dragging steps, for although one half of her longed to see Devenish again and hear what he had to say, the other half was ready to sink with embarrassment.

  She reached the spot at last to see Devenish, his coat discarded and hung over the branch of a lilac tree, taking a short run before sending down a ball to Billy, who stood with his bat at the ready while Jack crouched in professional style behind the wicket.

  Both boys set up a shout of protest on seeing her, knowing at once that it would mean an interruption to their game for some such stupid reason as washing their hands to resume lessons or — worse still — appear in company. Devenish turned quickly, sketched a bow, tossed the ball to Jack who caught it neatly, and went to fetch his coat.

  ‘Oh, Ally, you’re a spoil sport!’ shouted Billy. ‘We were having a famous game!’

  ‘That’s no way to address your sister,’ said Devenish severely, as he put on his coat and adjusted his neckwear. ‘Go on by yourselves, and maybe I’ll join you again later — but I make no promises, mind.’

  Recovering quickly from their disappointment with the adaptability of their kind, the boys thanked him politely and went on playing.

  ‘Nice lads,’ commented Devenish, as by common consent he and Alethea strolled in the direction of the house, and the shrubbery shut off the cricketers from view. ‘Show some promise for the game, too.’

  ‘My brother Harry,’ said Alethea, in a small voice, ‘is accounted quite good — Papa was, also, in his youth.’

  ‘I had a long chat with your father — interesting, too. We broached topics I haven’t talked on for years.’

  ‘Yes, he told me — Sophocles.’

  Devenish looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. He appeared to be making up his mind. Then he braced his shoulders.

  ‘Did he tell you why I came?’ he asked.

  She nodded, and the colour crept into her cheeks.

  He looked about him. They were walking through the flower garden now; his eye fell upon a rustic bench placed under the shade of a laburnum tree.

  ‘Do you think we might sit over there? I wish to talk to you at some length — if you will permit — and I find perambulation unsuited to my purpose.’

  She murmured something in agreement, though she was not quite sure what, and they made their way to the bench.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said, as they sat side by side. ‘Now I can see your face and know what your reactions are to my words. No, pray don’t turn your head away, or what guidance can I have? Alethea —’

  She turned towards him. He looked full into her eyes for a moment; and suddenly she was in his arms, her lips meeting his with all the pent-up fervour of a long-controlled passion. Presently she drew away, trembling a little. He placed an arm about her, and tenderly stroked her hair.

  ‘I love you, Alethea,’ he whispered. ‘And it seems you love me — there is the miracle. How soon can we be wed, dearest girl?’

  She sat up suddenly, moving away from him along the bench.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied, falteringly. ‘I’m not sure — do you truly think we would be wise to marry?’

  He looked astounded. ‘Wise to marry? Can I be mistaken — do you not return my love? Did your kiss mean nothing? Answer me, Alethea!’

  ‘Yes, I do love you,’ she said, in a sad tone. ‘With all my heart — far more than I would ever have thought possible —’

  He reached out to take her in his arms again, but she put out a hand to ward him off.

  ‘No, pray listen,’ she urged. ‘We must be quite sure. If that were all — loving and being loved, here and now — then we might find happiness in marriage. But what about hereafter? How long will you continue to love me, and only me?’ He opened his lips to protest, but she placed a finger over them and shook her head. ‘It’s not so long since you thought of me as “a quarry eluding your grasp” — how long will your present feeling for me continue once you have made the kill? Heaven knows I can’t bear the thought of losing you, but better now, than find I had lost you to someone else after marriage!’

  He had started on hearing his own words repeated, and now he shielded his eyes for a moment with his hand.

  ‘Oh, God,’ he said, despondently. ‘Of course, I’ve deserved this! But what can I possibly say to convince you that everything is changed now? Another woman could find the answer in my arms; but that’s no way to deal with you, and I respect you for it even while it brings me close to despair! Look at me, Alethea —’ his eyes, deep and serious, sought hers — ‘don’t you understand that a man could become a persistent flirt simply because he is seeking what he never seems able to find? Seeking the one girl for whom he would willingly forsake all others to go hand in hand with her through life? Perhaps I never realised it until I learned to love you, Alethea, but such was my case! And now, when at last my search is ended, it seems my past indiscretions are like to lose me the prize I sought for so long in vain!’

  She could not doubt his sincerity. This was not the flippant Beau who could take nothing seriously, but the tender, loving protector who had comforted her during the thunderstorm. And as she came once more to his arms, she thought fleetingly that a future with such an intriguing dual personality was exactly the kind of life that would best suit her own temperament.

  She told him so, and was suitably rewarded for her pains.

  After a long, blissful interval, she raised her head and sighed ‘Poor Lydia!’

  ‘Why poor Lydia, love?’

  ‘Because she’s not so fortunate as her cousin — she won’t be allowed to marry the man of her choice.’

  ‘As to that,’ he answered, ‘it’s all in a fair way to being settled. I had the story from Allerton — to whom I am eternally grateful, by the way, because it was he who told me you were not, after all, betrothed to Tracy. That information encouraged me to come down here and try to win you for myself.’

  ‘Not knowing you had already won me,’ said Alethea, softly. ‘And goodness only knows how I managed to keep that a secret from you! But tell me about Lydia, dearest — what happened there after I left?’

  ‘She went to stay with her sister Caroline,’ he continued, ‘and it seems Caroline put up a strong fight with Mr and Mrs Manbury for Lydia’s happiness. Since Bedwyn has obviously cooled off, and there was no further hope in that quarter, your uncle, at least, is in favour of marrying her to Allerton. Vivyan said he didn’t think it would be long before Mrs Manbury, too, came round to the notion.’

  ‘Oh, I am so glad! Now I have nothing left to wish for. Excep
t —’ she added as an afterthought, looking warily at him — ‘except that poor Mr Tracy may get over his disappointment and find someone else to marry.’

  ‘The devil take Mr Tracy! He’s caused me enough heart-burnings! Anyway, by all I ever heard, to be crossed in love is the very thing for a poet — it enriches his work.’

  ‘How heartless you are! To think I am to wed such a monster!’

  ‘Heartless — yes — for you have my heart.’

  Glancing out of the study window, the Rector saw without surprise that his daughter was held close in the embrace of the erudite young man whose name just now escaped him. He smiled, then sighed. So Alethea would be leaving them. Not so long ago she had been a little doll-like creature climbing on his knee, asking for a story. Now she was a woman, and would have children of her own one day. There was the consolation, he reflected; one lost them, but they were renewed in the grandchildren.

  ‘This were to be new made when thou art old,

  And see they blood warm when thou feel’st it cold.’

  He sat down again, and reached for his book. Life changed for better or worse, but these old friends — he glanced around his shelves — remained the same.

  *****

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  A NOTE TO THE READER

  It’s wonderful to see my mother’s books available again and being enjoyed by what must surely be a new audience from that which read them when they were first published. My brother and I can well remember our mum, Alice, writing away on her novels in the room we called the library at home when we were teenagers. She generally laid aside her pen — there were no computers in those days, of course — when we returned from school but we knew she had used our absence during the day to polish off a few chapters.