Genevieve’s eyes flew to Lady Harrington’s clear ones.
‘Tomorrow at three then,’ and she held out her hand.
Genevieve took it. ‘Thank you, Lady Harrington,’ she said, with a direct look in the old, shrewd eyes. ‘I look forward to it.’
Her reminiscences were broken into by a message from the stables. Fever, her father’s stallion, was down with a strange colic. He may have managed to eat some forbidden plant yesterday when he’d been out for exercise. The normal emetic had not worked.
Genevieve thought of Serena - the Fenton’s old groom had a recipe for a stronger emetic, but it was of no use to send Ned. Serena would not hand her secrets to a servant. She made to ride across to Fenton Manor herself, but once she had her horse saddled she almost gave up the expedition. She could not face Benedict’s questioning gaze.
Ned was chattering and she heard Benedict’s name.
‘-gone away to London, unexpected like, so Sam says.’
‘Mr Benedict?’ She did not know whether to be glad or not. She could avoid him today, but … she could be no part in his decision to go to London, could she?
‘Yes ’m,’ continued Ned, checking her cinch and harness as though she were still a green girl. ‘To his uncle’s, as I unnerstand,’ Genevieve breathed - nothing to do with her. ‘And the family set to go off somewhere too.’
‘At this season?’ Genevieve was mounted and now tightened the reins. ‘Never mind Ned. Keep Fever cool, keep her drinking. I’ll be back betimes.’
Ned touched his forelock and Genevieve swept out of the stable yard.
With little ceremony, Macleod indicated to Lady Sumner that the young ladies could be found in the yellow salon and let her show herself in, only prompting her by a look to remove her plain little veiled hat. The girls jumped up to embrace her, but Genevieve swiftly imparted her business to Serena. She was instantly concerned about Fever, too, but she point-blank refused to give Genevieve the recipe, instead declaring she would go to the stillroom and make the preparation herself.
‘You can trust me!’ protested Genevieve, before Serena left.
‘I know, but I can’t trust Ned. He’ll tell our groom, Jenkins, and soon there will be no need for me about the stables and Papa will forbid me to spend so much time there. You know Genevieve!’ Genevieve did. But she wondered at little Serena, so prettily different from her, today dressed in a frothy muslin with blue sash and matching blue ribbons in her hair. She knew Serena was as interested in her appearance as Honoria was, but yet you might find her in the stables any day wearing just such an outfit, tending to a sick horse. ‘I will not give up the little bit of leverage I have over Papa, or Mama would have me constantly at my work-’ she gestured at the white stockings she had been darning, ‘-or practising the piano forte!’ She laughed and ran out.
Honoria laughed, ‘Everyone agrees that Serena’s playing needs some practise.’
They both sat down. Not that she much cared, but Honoria made Genevieve feel equally dowdy, she was wearing pink and white striped muslin today; it had long tight sleeves, with just a puff at the shoulder. Lady Fenton had excellent taste. After being offered and refusing refreshment, Genevieve asked, ‘Ned told me that the family are leaving the Manor for a while.’
Honoria blushed, to Genevieve’s surprise, and put her head down to her work, more darning of stockings. ‘Indeed. Mr Rowley Allison has been so good as to ask us to spend a month or so at Bassington Hall.’
‘Mr Allison!’ of course Genevieve knew one of the richest men in London, ‘I did not know that your parents were acquainted with Mr Allison.’
‘He is a new acquaintance,’ faltered Honoria, blushing and unable to look up, ‘that I made during my London season.’
‘Good gracious, Orry, you don’t mean to tell me Allison offered for you?’
The use of her childhood nickname nudged the reticence from Honoria. ‘He has not spoken to me. But, oh Jenny, I believe he has approached my father.’ Her soft brown eyes went to her friend’s green ones.
‘And are you are happy, Honoria?’
Honoria gulped. ‘Of course, I am very flattered,’ she felt she could confide just a little in Genevieve, who had been like a big sister to her. ‘It is only that I do not know him very well.’
‘You are visiting Bassington for that purpose, I suppose,’ her head was trying to remember any snippet of London gossip (which her sister Veronica was mistress of) that she had heard of Mr Allison. She remembered nothing negative. But that meant very little. Women of the polite world were largely sheltered from the worst of men’s dissipations. She had met him once, he’d taken pity on her at a formal dinner party and he had kept a pondering conversation going until they hit upon the topic of horses and then she had relaxed. She remembered him favourably. Still, the look on Orry’s face was not that of a girl in love. Genevieve lent forward and grasped her wrist. ‘Do not agree to marry him if you are not sure, Orry. Marriage is not a fate to be trifled with.’
Honoria looked up, amazed. Genevieve was never so passionate or so frank. Genevieve could see her wondering what this meant in regard to her own situation and shut down. She could not speak.
‘Of course I will not,’ Honoria was saying.
The other relaxed somewhat. ‘And your Papa is a dear. He would not ask it of you.’
‘Certainly,’ assented Honoria. And that was why it was even more imperative that she accept Mr Allison. Her dear Papa would never ask it of her, if he felt she would not be happy, even if the family really needed whatever settlements her parents had talked about. But she smiled at her guest and was glad to be interrupted by Serena, bearing a wax-sealed jar of brown sludge.
Genevieve was up on the instant, anxious to get back to Fever.
‘Only give him half, more could be poisonous itself,’ she instructed. ‘He’ll be sick, and he should be better by this evening. Woodward did this with Strawberry two years ago and it worked. But I remember him saying that if she hadn’t recovered by nightfall, it would be safe to take it only once more to make her sick again.’
Woodward’s wisdom on such matters was legendary in these parts and Genevieve listened carefully. She was on her way and hardly noticed the strange look that Honoria gave her as she bid her goodbye.
Benedict Horton, meanwhile, was reacquainting himself with Frederick Sumner. For three evenings, he crossed Sumner’s path. Once at a low tavern that was frequented by the sporting set, young gentlemen attracted by the company of “fellows in the know” - horse trainers and jockeys, the owners of fighting cocks and the some of the best pugilists of the day. Carstairs had led him there, misliking the look he saw in his young friend’s eye whilst watching Sumner at a neighbouring table, loud and boring, among a crowd of equally rowdy individuals. Benedict, watching and listening, was thoroughly disgusted with every boastful, idiotic word that fell from the Baron’s mouth and did not trust himself to speak to his lordship. When Carstairs insisted they leave, he did. The next night, without his friend, Benedict approached his lordship at a table in White’s. Sumner saw him coming and adopted his hearty cheerful manner, ‘Young Fenton - still in town?’
‘Just come back on family business, your lordship.’
‘Well, well,’ said Sumner, uninterested, ‘I hope your family are well. Honoria was quite a sensation last season, I hear. Very pretty girl. Much admired.’
‘Yes.’ Benedict didn’t hold his eyes. ‘Well, I should join my table. Good luck to your play.’
Sumner laughed and turned back to his cards and Benedict joined another table. The club was rather thin of company at this season, so Benedict was able to watch as Sumner lost his stack of chips, and as the house, Mr Semple, quietly refused his vowels. Put out, Sumner rose sulkily from the table and left. Benedict’s urge to follow him was just held in check. If this were his father’s day, he might have called the fellow out, citing his offending coat or some such thing instead of mentioning his wife. But people would still have talked, and Bene
dict was determined that nothing would touch Genevieve Horton’s name. On the third night, Benedict followed Sumner through darkened streets to a luxuriously appointed house that his uncle had escorted him to a few months ago. It was enough, he now saw Sumner as a perfect pattern-card of villain. He did not need to know more.
As his rage grew on his walk back to Carstairs’ rooms, he laughed at himself. What had he really uncovered? His lordship was a booming bore, he lost at cards, and he frequented a house of ladies that his own uncle and even his friend Carstairs frequented. It just made him a London quiz, that was all. But, on the other hand, his friends were not married.
That would not make much difference to many of his London acquaintance, he knew. But so what if he judged Sumner harshly? He knew what he had done to his wife. At the very least, Sumner was a man without honour, and it looked - from his experience at White’s - that society was beginning to know. If Benedict could destroy him without harm to his wife, he would. He was beginning to see a hole in his half-formed plan, but he would pursue it in any event.
Chapter 5
To Bassington Hall
Benedict’s tuition in the deeper aspects of play took up an hour or so of his uncle’s days. Many techniques that his uncle shared - “only so that you can see what these fellows are able to do and counter it, my boy” - required practise. Lord Carstairs, sworn to secrecy, grew tired of watching Benedict’s quick hands repeatedly palm dice, cards, deal from the bottom of the deck, for hours on end.
‘I begin to fear that my home, my snug little nest, previously my haven from all of life’s trials and concerns, is fast turning into a den of vice,’ he shook his head disconsolately. ‘I will never be able to share a friendly game of piquet with you beside this humble hearth again, without fearing that you’ve palmed all the aces or dealt from the bottom of the pack. There is nothing else for it. I’ll have to turf you out and cut you dead in the street if I were to see you again. Dash it, I can’t be friends with fellows who smell like fish.’
Benedict grinned. ‘Let Stoddart push the card table nearer the fire and we’ll have a friendly game in our old fashion.’
Carstairs looked suspicious. ‘And you won’t palm anything?’ Benedict’s large eyes were innocent and he shook his head. ‘Or deal from the bottom of the deck?’
Benedict covered his heart with his palm. ‘I swear.’
His Lordship cheered up and rang the bell for the necessary arrangements for their comfort. This included the nice setting of the table (which he directed to be adjusted a number of times) in front of the fire, the bringing of more coals and of refreshments consisting of wine and cake and a suspicion of cheese, the platter of which nearly broke the strength of the small maid who carried it.
With a last placement of a screen, they commenced, to Carstairs’ satisfaction, to embark on their usual friendly game, for shillings rather than guineas, with great concentration. It was not long until Carstairs’ entire wealth of shillings, (kept for the purpose in a dish in a drawer of his escritoire) was piled before Benedict and he threw his cards down in a rage.
‘Dammit Fenton - you swore you would not palm or deal from the bottom! On your word of honour!’
Benedict laughed. ‘And I kept my promise.’ He lifted a stack of shillings and put them before his friend. ‘But I do beg your pardon, I did win these without honour.’
‘Wh-?’
‘I marked the cards. A little trick my uncle taught me last week. Wanted to try it out. It works,’ he added, ‘amazingly well.’
‘The more I hear about your uncle, the more I fear for his immortal soul. Rum character.’
‘But he assures me that these are just counter measures to deal with the cheats of the world who think to rob him.’
‘Well …’ said his lordship. ‘If you say so.’
‘Lord, I don’t say so. I think he’s a dashed rum customer as you suspect, but I would not say it before anyone but you. But his losses at the table are massive, I believe, so one has to assume that he does not practice very much.’
‘Or not when he is playing against knowing ones,’ Carstairs said cynically. Then with his old insouciance he added, ‘Well, every family has ’em,’ sipping his wine and eating just a little more of the cheese, cut for him by his ever-attentive valet, Stoddart. ‘I ask you again Dickie. Why on earth do you want to be learning the dark arts? I don’t think I’ll ever feel safe introducing you to a gaming club again. Look at what you can do with only two weeks of study.’ The wine seemed to give him inspiration. ‘I say, Dickie, do you suppose the facility’s in the family?’
‘I am learning the dark arts, as you call them, for a purpose purely moral and good, I believe. It may be for nothing, but I hope not.’ Benedict’s face looked quite harsh for a moment, but his easy grin returned once more as he noted his friend’s look of concern. ‘As for inherited traits,’ he added, thinking of a few tricks his sister Serena had pulled in her time, ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised.’
‘Well however it is,’ his old college friend told him, settling himself into an easy chair with more wine and a smidgen more of the excellent cake, ‘keep me out of it. I don’t want to know what tricks you get up to. I still remember how you stopped my heart by hanging from the window of our chamber to escape the bursar. Never again - I don’t want to know.’
‘That’s what my uncle said - just as though he were a pattern card of rectitude!’ Benedict’s eyes glittered, ‘And as I remember it, you were not the most prudent man at college. There was that time you smuggled Rosa into-’
Carstairs wagged his finger admonishingly, while his receding chin receded even further into his cravat, ‘That’ll do, old boy, that’ll do…’
Bassington Hall was a very grand house indeed, much larger than Fenton, certainly, and larger even than Ottershaw, the largest house in their district. The young ladies had to be reprimanded by their mama for leaning from the carriage windows to drink in the splendour of the house, but she rather spoilt the effect by leaning out herself.
‘My love - fourteen pillars!’
Their good natured papa handed them down from the carriage himself, proud of his beautiful daughters, one in a heavenly blue pelisse and bonnet, the other in cherry red with a bunch of wax cherries under the straw of her bonnet, nestling in her dark curls. With his wife in the dark green that so became her, how could he fail to be proud?
But when the cherry red pelisse began to follow the groom who had ridden behind on her brother’s horse, he drew a line. ‘Serena. Jenkins does not need your help to settle the horses.’
Serena broke her stride to look over her shoulder a second, ‘But I’m not sure Rufus’s gait was quite-’
‘Serena!’
She returned reluctantly to join the small troop just as the great doors opened and a number of servants were decanted to welcome and attend to the baggage. Two gentlemen walked towards them, Mr Scribster at his most relaxed and Mr Allison resembling a military martinet.
After the conventional greetings, very jovial on Sir Ranalph’s part, and well-mannered on the part of Mr Allison, the party was ushered into the grand hall, where a royal swathe of curving stairway mounted from the marble floor to the upper rooms. Some young maids awaited them there in a military line to take the lady’s bonnets and pelisses, and Sir Ranalph’s driving coat and hat. They were ushered from thence by a stately butler to a room off, whose tall oak doors would have accommodated their entire carriage, even with the ladies’ baggage atop, Sir Ranalph teased his wife later, for they had indeed brought every stitch of finery they owned. “As well to be prepared for every eventually!” had said his wife when Sir Ranalph had protested.
The room was impressive indeed, with walls lined with green silk, and a ceiling covered in rococo paintings, depicting highly decorative scenes of heavenly cherubs flying in an azure sky. However, it was not as large as they had feared, and the tea tables had been drawn up before a huge fire, and around the chairs screens had been caused to be dra
wn to make the tea party a little cosier.
Honoria stood entranced, ‘Oh, how lovely!’ she exclaimed.
Mr Allison looked at her and smiled wanly. ‘My mother will be glad to hear you say so. She had it refurbished last year at huge and unnecessary expense.’
Honoria looked crushed. But Serena, entering behind, said, ‘Oh heavens, I’m famished!’ She received a look from her mama which totally missed its mark as Serena was moving forward, her eyes eventually noting the ceiling, which caused her to utter, ‘Goodness!’ in a tone that could be taken as either admiration or disdain.
There was a little pause. Allison seemed to feel his lapse in manners and led his guests towards the tea tables.
‘Blake has ordered tea for us, pray sit down, ladies, Sir Ranalph,’ said Mr Allison, still failing to infuse warmth in his tone, ‘I trust you had a comfortable journey?’
Only Serena seemed unaffected by his tone, and whilst she did not precisely talk with her mouth full, she did give Mr Allison a full account of their journey, between making a hearty attack on the victuals provided. Mr Allison looked at her only when manners insisted, but she seemed unaware of much but her own telling of the tale of the longest journey of her young life. She frowned a little as she eventually finished.
Allison could not help asking, ‘Yet you seem a little disappointed, Miss Serena.’
‘Oh, no!’ she said with a return of her smile, ‘Well - it’s just that Mama was once held up by highwaymen on that road - when she was my age, too.’
‘I believe they have cleared the roads on these more enlightened days.’
Serena nodded.
‘Am I to take it you would have wished to be robbed?’
Lady Fenton shook her head with a smile. ‘Forgive my silly child, Mr Allison. I have told her it was not at all exciting, but only most frightening.’
Honoria and the Family Obligation Page 5
