by Hill, Fiona
Juliana protested, “Not troubled, indeed, ma’am,” but her eyes filled with tears. She drew a very deep breath, blinked vigorously several times, and went on, “Though I have come for a purpose. It is simply—” Another deep breath, and she went on all in a rush: “I should like to make plain to you, ma’am, that your friendship with my husband is in no wise a source of concern or displeasure to me!” Very obviously speaking by rote and without lifting her eyes to Anne’s, she went on, “My husband was afraid you might have come away from our—our last interview with a misimpression. So I beg you will believe, nothing could be further from my desire than to dictate to Ensley his choice of friends, or to deprive him of one whose society has brought and continues to bring him so much pleasure. I hope we shall often see you in Cavendish Square,” she concluded, her voice as singsong as one reciting Latin declensions. “Oh, and I almost forgot—though I am young, I am not a schoolroom miss. I had a perfectly clear understanding of the sort of marriage I was making when Ensley offered for me.” Still looking down, “I think that’s all,” she murmured. “Yes, that’s all.” She made as if to rise, but Anne impulsively touched a hand to her shoulder to stop her.
“One moment, if you please,” she asked, wrinkling her brow and (forgetting propriety) scratching her head. Now it was her turn to look down, in the attitude she often struck when puzzling over a problem. Soon, as was also her wont, she began to mutter aloud. “Ensley sends you to me,” she brought forth, then was silent a while. “I am expected to pretend…Here are three—no, four people who…” At length she looked up, fixed Juliana’s eyes, and said, “My dear, you must forgive me my candour once more, for I am about to ask you whether you love your husband.”
Juliana, who had been looking merely drained, sat up, gasped, and stared.
“Pardon me,” Mrs. Highet went on, her sympathy for her ladyship slightly attenuated by her mislike of the girl’s pop-eyed gaze, “but shall I take that gasp for a yes?”
“I beg your pardon?” Juliana blushed so deeply that she almost matched her gown.
“I say, am I to take it that you do love Ensley? I think you do. He says you do not. Yours will be the deciding vote,” she added, provoked by Juliana’s goggle-eyed expression and stubborn missishness into this mild levity, “should you care to cast it.”
Burning furiously, “You put me in such a curious—such a curious position,” Juliana finally declared. “I do not know what to say!”
“I don’t suppose I could persuade you to say the simple truth?” Anne suggested. “Or has your husband forbidden you that?”
Her colour dropping, “Oh, dear ma’am, Ensley would never forbid me anything. He is not that sort of person at all!” her ladyship said with breathless ardour. “Our marriage is founded on principles of liberty. He—”
“Did he or did he not send you here to make that speech to me?” Anne broke in.
“Speech?”
“Did he, or did he not, dictate to you even the exact wording you were to use?”
“Dictate?”
Purely exasperated, Anne jumped up and exclaimed, “Good God, are you so afraid of the man that you will not even own he told you to say what you just said? I beseech you, be honest with me, Lady George, or we shall never understand each other. If I promise not to tell him, will you indeed confess he sent you here?”
She waited. She had been rather thundering at Juliana, which she did not like (for it was as much bullying as anything she suspected of Ensley). But there seemed to be no other way to reach her—and reach her she was determined to do. After a rather lengthy interval, during which Anne had an opportunity to compose her features a little, Juliana answered in a small voice, “Well, if you promise not to repeat it— Yes, he did send me.”
“Ah.” Schooling herself to patience, “And did he also tell you what to tell me when you came here? I will not say a word,” she coaxed.
Juliana looked very much distressed. She twisted the silken cord of her reticule, then answered, slowly and softly, “Well— Yes, he did.” Her eyes again filled with tears. One dropped onto the mulberry reticule. “But he did not instruct me to, nor order me to,” she defended fervently. “I am completely free—”
Feeling rather like a barrister on cross-examination, “You wish very much for Lord Ensley’s approval, do not you?” Anne broke in.
Another tear, and a nod.
“You feel instinctively, I think, that I am in the way of your getting that?”
Juliana objected at once, “Oh no!” looking up and shaking her head; but the gaze she met from Anne’s jade green eyes made her check and amend, “Yes.”
“The sort of regard he shows to me, you would like him to show you?” Anne went on, feeling now more like a surgeon obliged to remove even the last bit of shot from a wound, no matter how much pain it occasioned, lest misplaced mercy prevent it from healing.
The patient nodded, staring unhappily at her lap.
Anne nodded also. “You have done right to tell me,” she said presently. “I shall never mention it to Ensley. Have no fears on that head.” And perceiving the girl was about to thank her (which would, she felt, have made her scream), she adroitly forestalled her with a question about Wiltwood and so gently eased the way to the close of the interview. Just before her ladyship left, “I do not know whether Lord Ensley mentioned it to you,” she said, “but I mean to have a party to dine on Monday. I hope you will come.”
Face full of uncertainty, Juliana mumbled, “If you…Do you think Ensley will like me to—?” Her words trailed off and she appeared to turn her attention to the silken fringe on her spencer.
“Whether he likes it or no, pray be sure to come.” Drawing herself up very erect, she went on, “I shall no longer be receiving Lord Ensley, except in company. I shall tell him as much on Monday. You must forgive me if I take him aside one last time for the purpose.”
But if she had expected these words to gratify her ladyship, she was disappointed. Eyes round with horror, “But he will be furious!” she exclaimed. “Dear ma’am, no, you mustn’t! He will know, he will guess at once some thing I said today—” Too distressed to go on, Juliana lapsed into open-mouthed silence.
“Leave it to me,” Anne replied firmly, propelling her guest towards the drawing-room door with something less than complete civility. “I know how to deal with Ensley.”
And with that rather grim assurance Juliana was obliged to content herself, for Anne would say no more.
Mrs. Highet gave her household to understand she was not feeling quite well and went to bed. There, in the shelter of the blue damask curtains, she was free to cry, to beat her pillow with an angry fist, to reflect, and to calm herself. She took her dinner in her room; but by the following morning she felt quite strong and tranquil enough to pursue her ordinary activities. The truth was, Lady Ensley’s visit gave her an excuse to do what both her conscience and even (to some extent at least) her inclination had been prompting her to do: to sever every intimate tie to Ensley. Circumstances had overtaken them at last—as they ought perhaps to have done, she reluctantly admitted to herself, ten years before.
She would have liked to send a note to him at once, to have it over with; but such a course must indeed persuade him Juliana was to blame. Anne was determined not to allow him to suppose that. Besides discomfiting Juliana, it would give him the inaccurate idea that Anne’s own sentiments were not committed to a break. She knew well his tenacity, that in such a case he would never accept her decision but rather hound her until (as he expected) she changed her mind. But she would not change her mind. She was as certain of that as of any thing.
No, the best plan would be to wait until Monday, as they had agreed, then tell him briefly and bluntly during a five minutes’ private interview. She knew herself and him: The necessity of appearing in company immediately afterwards would dissuade them both from the sort of wrenching scene they might otherwise give in to. Till then, she must busy herself as best she could.
&nbs
p; As it developed, this last object was not difficult to achieve. A little after noon on the day following Lady Ensley’s visit, an even more unexpected caller appeared at the door of the house in Mount Street. With a head full of blank conjecture, Mrs. Highet read the card of her wedded husband.
She hurried down to find him standing on a crimson carpet in the middle of her drawing-room, looking twice as large and three times as vigorous as any London gentleman. Dressed in a blue coat with brass buttons which Anne had never seen before, a buff waistcoat, buckskin breeches, and a massive pair of gleaming Hessians, there was nothing in his appearance to betray his habitual haunts except the bright rosiness of his cheeks, the clarity of his sleepy-lidded eyes, and the whole-heartedness of his smile. His neckcloth was neatly (if not elegantly) tied, his hair a fashionable spill of dark curls: Altogether, Anne had rarely seen a handsomer, better turned-out man. Moreover, there was in the frank smile on his generous lips so much sincere pleasure in seeing her, in his friendly gaze so much genuine interest, that she found herself going to him quite naturally with both hands out, and wringing his with delight.
“How good to see you! You come with all the freshness of a wind over the fields—look at you!” Anne exclaimed, drawing him to a long settee covered in satin brocade. “How do you do? To what do we owe such a happy surprise as your turning up in London? I protest, I feel as if violets had sprung up from under the snow—or tulips, rather, for you look positively à la mode.”
Mr. Highet smilingly informed her he did tolerably well, inquired after her health and spirits, refused refreshments, and finally revealed, “I am afraid I come on what may prove to be a sad errand indeed. I asked Dolphim to send my card up to you, for I naturally wished to see you; but my visit is actually to Mrs. Insel. Is she in?”
“Maria?” queried Anne wonderingly. “I fancy she is not. No, indeed, I know she is not, for she came to me half an hour ago to ask if I wanted any books. She was on her way to Lackington, Allen. But what on earth—?” She paused in confusion, then asked, “Is it a private matter? May I know what it concerns?”
Mr. Highet hesitated only a moment before drawing a letter from his pocket-book. “I suppose, since you must have seen it had you been at Fevermere, I may show you this.” And he passed into her hands a black-edged envelope with a military seal. It had been directed to Mrs. Insel first at Halfwistle House, then sent on, unopened, to Linfield. “Miss Veal delivered it to me,” said Highet, taking it from her and folding it into his leather case again. “I almost sent it on here by post; but the more I thought of it, the less I cared to. Clearly it concerns some important matter, and as the farm is quiet at this season—well, in any case, I came up with it. I’m sorry for not warning you. I came as quickly as a message could have done.”
“I am sure Maria will thank you for doing so,” said Anne, mad to know what was in the letter but of course too well-bred to say so. “How vexing she should not be in to open it at once. But she must return within the hour. Stay and have a nuncheon. Indeed— Where is your baggage, sir?” she asked suspiciously. “You have not put up at an hotel, have you? Where are your things? Oh, sir, this is too bad of you!”
Mr. Highet admitted he had taken a room at the Hummums.
“But this is impossible! Send to them at once.” Indignant, Anne jumped up and rang for Dolphim. “Have Mr. Highet’s bags fetched from the Hummums,” she commanded; then, after the butler departed on his commission, turned to scold her visitor: “If not as my husband, at least as my friend, you must stay here. Why, I’ve only just had the drapes hung in the perfect chamber for you. How happy I will be to have you as my first guest! I insist you will stay.” And she argued so noisy and prolonged a case that Mr. Highet at last agreed.
Mrs. Insel, laden with books, arrived about half past one. At the sight of Henry Highet her narrow face, lately more pinched and strained than ever, broke into a broad smile. She dropped the parcel she had been meaning to give Anne and ran to shake his hand. He and Anne having just finished their nuncheon, the party adjourned again to the drawing-room.
Here it soon took on a more sombre tone. Mr. Highet once more withdrew from his pocket-book the ominous, black-edged letter. Receiving it, Maria’s small face paled.
“Perhaps we must leave you alone?” suggested Anne, while Mr. Highet added tactfully,
“I must at all events.”
Mrs. Insel waved a trembling hand and begged them both, on the contrary, to stay. Her eyes glued to the fascinating letter, she lowered herself slowly into a chair, rubbed a finger along the black border of the missive before daring to break the seal, then finally, silently, opened and read it. The Henry Highets watched her glittering eyes darting over the words in like silence. At last, dropping the letter in her lap, “He is dead,” Maria pronounced. Her voice shook. Anne sprang up and pulled the bell-cord, demanding ratafia.
Then, “Captain Insel?” she gently enquired, drawing a chair up to be able to sit by Maria’s side.
“Yes.”
Anne glanced at Mr. Highet. Curiosity showed in his features, but no astonishment. Giving him a look that promised explanation, Anne returned her attention to Maria. “Poor dear,” she murmured, “poor dear. Should you like a vinaigrette? Do you feel faint?”
Mrs. Insel felt in no need of a vinaigrette, but she was glad enough to drink the ratafia when it came. The cordial seemed to compose her a little, for she looked up from it and smiled (albeit rather weakly) at Mr. Highet. “You will think all this very odd,” she said.
“Never mind what I think.”
“I must— You see, my husband has not been quite so dead, until recently, as I have led you to suppose.”
“So I gather.” Feeling himself very much in the way, “Pray,” he added, “I wish you will let me leave you in peace. You can surely feel no need of company at such a moment.”
But Maria gestured to him to stay. “I do not look upon you as company, but as a friend,” she explained, after another sip of the reviving cordial. “I am glad no longer to be obliged to masquerade before you.” Then, squeezing Mrs. Highet’s hand, “Oh Anne,” she cried, “it is over at last!”
“Yes, but how? Will you tell me, or shall I read it?”
“In a brawl, I am sure. Major Adams does not say so, but then he would not. He was always kind. Look—” She handed the open letter to Anne. “John had lost his rank. Major Adams speaks of him as lieutenant!”
Anne said, “Small wonder. The miracle is he was allowed to stay in the Army at all.” Then she bent her head, frowning, over the letter. While she read,
“You see, Mr. Highet, when I met John I was only nineteen years old,” Maria explained. “I had been living in London with Anne and Lady Guilfoyle, then travelling with them. Then Lady Guilfoyle fell ill, and I was sent home. You cannot imagine my distress—my family was a large and quarrelsome one, and my parents ill-suited to one another. There was never quite enough money, and certainly not sufficient room for us all. My mother particularly was deeply disappointed to find me home after a whole year in society, with no suitor nor any hope of one. And I…I am afraid you will think me a very unnatural daughter, but I was aghast at the prospect of living again amidst so much discord, so much bitterness and want…” Her voice trailed away, and she seemed to see before her eyes the cramped rooms of Halfwistle House, more cramped than ever in the dead of winter, and to hear in an inner ear the harsh voices and angry words of her parents. “At all events, when my brother Frank soon after came home on leave with Captain Insel— Well, he was young, and handsome, and laughing, and seemed to me very romantic. He paid me a deal of attention. My father made no secret of it that he thought I should accept him, if he offered for me, for I would get no better—as my fruitless year in London showed. When he did offer for me, then— God help me, I said yes. I cannot blame myself, really, for I was young, and I thought I loved him. Anyhow, I have been amply punished.”
Anne, looking up from the letter, begged Maria to spare herself the rest o
f her story. “I daresay Mr. Highet has heard it before. Captain Insel bore Maria away to Canada. There his true colours began to show: He drank deep, beat her, frequented”—her cheeks darkened momentarily—“unsavoury women,” she made herself go on, “and made her life such a hell that—”
“She fled to England,” Mr. Highet finished for her, grimly nodding his comprehension. “Where her family refused to take her in, and where she has consequently been obliged, for appearance’s sake, to live quietly, and pass herself off as a widow. Yes, I have heard the story before. All too often, I fear. Mrs. Insel, indeed you must not blame yourself. And how does this Major Adams account for Insel’s passing?”
“He says he died ‘in private combat,’” Anne replied, reading, “‘not on the field of battle.’ I’ll wager it was not! One of his doxies probably pulled a knife on him—and God bless her! The filthy blackguard. The least he could have done was to die decently, and left you a pension you could live on. This”—she waved the letter—“this is barely enough to keep a hen in feed.” Disgustedly, she tossed the letter onto a pedestal table.
“It is more than I have ever had,” Maria quietly pointed out. If Anne’s energetic invective had shocked her, she did not show it. Nor did Mr. Highet appear scandalized: Indeed, he sat gazing at Mrs. Insel with a very mild, slightly speculative look. A number of matters which had not made sense to him in the past had now suddenly fallen into place. After a moment Maria took up, “If I live very cheap, I expect I can make do on this much quite well.”
“Oh dear!” said Anne. “I had not thought of that. I suppose you will wish to form your own establishment. But what a sad change for me! Perhaps you will not remove quite out of reach, my love? I hope not.”
Maria smiled and patted Anne’s hand. “Indeed, I should be sorry to do that. How kind you have been!” She turned to Mr. Highet. “And how kind you have been as well. Imagine travelling so far to deliver this—and when we all know how you dread London!”
