Honoria and the Family Obligation

by Alicia Cameron

‘So sorry, Lieutenant Prescott,’ shouted Honoria in his general direction, but her horse was cantering and she needs must pay attention.

  Mr Allison sped his horse to a gallop to overshoot the party and clear his head of the pull of Serena in yet another guise, the autocratic beauty. His heart was near to bursting with pride, and he had no right to it. As he rode hard he was surprised, but not very much, that she had nearly caught him up, outstripping Scribster and her sister, who were still cantering.

  Chapter 8

  Mr Scribster’s Bargain

  Honoria was riding with Mr Scribster, though her heart was with the noble lieutenant, whom she hoped she would have been able to speak to, just a little, on today’s ride. She knew that the more likely outcome would have been that she merely listened to Lieutenant Prescott, because the nearer she got to him the less able she was to speak at all. But it didn’t matter, she could merely watch and listen to him. She had been doing that over breakfast, when Serena’s laugh had interrupted her. What had she been laughing at? Surely not-

  ‘Poor Lieutenant Prescott.’

  She was not aware that she spoke aloud, but Mr Scribster answered her, ‘What? Because the poor fool was prevented from injuring a horse?’

  Mr Scribster looked at the clamping of Honoria’s jaw, and the small muscles of her face fighting for control beneath the skin.

  ‘Spit it out!’

  ‘I. beg. Your. Pardon, sir?’

  Mr Scribster laughed, a noise that she had not believed possible to be heard from his long, miserable face.

  ‘I said, spit it out or the bile of it will choke you!’

  Honoria did give a choking sound as words arose that she strangled in good manners.

  ‘Told you so. You had better tell me that you find me an unfeeling brute or a whatever it is you are dying to say to me.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘Yes, you have been giving me that look for a long time now. Do you not have the slightest bit of honesty at your disposal that would allow you to say what you want to say to me out loud?’

  ‘You sir, have enough honesty,’ she said acidly, ‘for the entire nation. If you had any manners to temper it-’ Honoria stopped herself, appalled.

  ‘I was brought up by a Scottish mother. In her view good manners were grounded in honesty. I suppose dishonesty grounds yours.’

  ‘Dishonesty, dishonesty? If honesty means hurting the feelings of everyone around you with abominable rudeness, then-’

  Mr Scribster looked interested, which his face could only achieve with the cock of an eyebrow. Honoria bit her lip and looked down. ‘Whose feelings have I hurt - yours?’

  ‘Mine? As though I could care a fig for the feelings of a creature such as you!’

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Scribster evenly, slowing his horse to the pace of Honoria’s, ‘That’s alright then. No apology needed. Rowley usually tells me when I need to apologise and I do of course, but I can seldom see why.’

  ‘Alright? Alr-’

  ‘You seem to have developed the habit of taking a word from my reply and repeating it. It’s becoming tiresome’

  ‘Tires-’ Honoria stopped and suddenly choked on a laugh - it was too ridiculous. ‘You,’ she said, but in a tone with less vitriol, ‘are a horrible person-’

  ‘There, you’ve said it,’ approved Mr Scribster, ‘I’ll bet you feel better now.’

  ‘-with no manners-’

  ‘Very true.’

  ‘And delight in making other people uncomfortable-’

  Mr Scribster considered, ‘You may be right.’

  ‘Well, you did not succeed with Lieutenant Prescott. Your remarks about his appointment keeping him far from the war, insinuating that he is a coward, did not upset him in the least.’

  ‘No, he doesn’t have the wit to notice.’

  ‘OOOOOH! What a thing to say. Because a man has too much self-belief, too much nobility, to be bothered by a gnat like you-’ Her voice had ridden to its earlier passion.

  ‘A gnat? Really? I’m a little tall for a-’

  ‘Who is so jealous of his handsome face because he is so ugly himself.’

  There was a stunned silence. Mr Scribster’s mobile eyebrows went down. Honoria’s hand had flown to her mouth.

  ‘Mr S-Scribster, I am so, so very sorry.’

  The horses were stopped and Honoria was frozen. Her hand went to her mouth again as though there was a chance to stop the words she had already said, or stuff them back into her mouth.

  Mr Scribster’s face had not changed from its immobility, but he looked down. And Honoria was aghast to see his shoulders shake.

  She pulled her mare closer, so that she was able to grasp Scribster’s arm with her blue kid gloved hand. As she leant forward to offer comfort, she saw a muscle in his face move and she brought the hand up as though burned and slapped his arm with considerable ferocity. Miss Fenton had had to defend herself against brothers.

  ‘You are laughing.’

  He looked up, a grin dispelling his usual expression, ‘I’m wounded to the core,’ he said, ‘Would you really say ugly rather than ‘a grave but handsome visage’? People have done their best with the euphemisms over the years, but you are the first woman since my mother to call me that.’

  Honoria’s quick sympathy was aroused, ‘Your mother? Oh, you poor little boy.’

  Mr. Scribster grinned once more, and Honoria suddenly noticed how those dark hooded eyes could look alive with mischief. ‘She told me that only a mother could love an ugly laddie like me - young women of today are not able to see beyond the surface. It turned out that she was quite right.’

  ‘Don’t try to flummox me into being sorry for you, Mr Scribster, you won’t manage it twice. If you took any pains at all to be winning, I would be sorry. But at any social function where I have seen you, you express all the animation of an undertaker’s apprentice.’

  ‘Now, it really isn’t polite to mention my face again. It’s hardly my fault that I was born with it.’

  ‘And,’ Honoria continued, ‘if a lady does venture to speak to you, you treat her to one of your oh-so-honest replies that leaves her unable to address another remark to you.’

  ‘You are remarkably accurate in your account of my social interactions. Could you have been spying on me?’

  ‘Spying?’

  ‘You’re doing it again.’

  Honoria couldn’t help but laugh at this. ‘I was not spying, but I heard you give Miss Shaw a set down when I sat beside her mama at the Raleighs’ supper party.’

  ‘Were you there?’

  ‘It is customary to pretend you remember if you met a lady before.’ Scribster merely raised an eyebrow. ‘You are right - it was silly of me to expect it of you.’

  ‘What awful thing did I say to Miss Shaw?’

  ‘You really don’t remember?’ Scribster didn’t bother to reply. ‘It was not to her but to her mama, in Miss Shaw’s hearing. Her mother asked you if you did not think that pink became her daughter. And you replied that you did not.’

  ‘Well, that was because there was a darker girl sitting next to her in a pink gown that displayed it to much better advantage. I rather think that Miss Shaw might have been better in something else - primrose, perhaps. Though it wouldn’t have helped with her complexion.’ Honoria gave a sound. ‘Oh, wait a minute - I think I do remember something - was that darker girl you?’

  Honoria frowned. ‘I think I was wearing my pink muslin that night. But that is not the point.’

  ‘Well, but I assure you, if Mrs Shaw had been your mama, I would have answered in the affirmative, because you looked very well indeed in pink.’

  ‘Yet you didn’t even remember me till a moment ago.’

  ‘Of course I did not, the Season is full of attractive young ladies. And pretty full of the unattractive ones.’

  Honoria’s jaw dropped, ‘You are completely-’

  ‘Honest?’ offered Scribster. ‘I cannot understand why you are annoyed with me, I have just given you a handsome compliment wh
ich is something that I’m sure you thought I could not do.’

  ‘And made a disparaging remark about Miss Shaw’s complexion.’

  ‘I did not disparage her. I commented upon it, as people are apt to comment on mine.’

  Belatedly, Honoria noticed Mr. Scribster’s pitted complexion.

  ‘Smallpox in my youth. But I survived, as you see.’

  Honoria and he rode on a pace, hardly able to see their supposed companions ahead. ‘The truth can hurt people,’ Honoria eventually said, ‘Why cannot you simply say nothing?’

  ‘Well, and so I do, normally. The advice of my friends, such as Rowley, is that I speak as little as possible at social gatherings. And this gives me the reputation as superior and unfriendly, does it not?’

  Honoria knew it to be true.

  ‘Of course it does. But occasionally, someone asks for my opinion, and I am honour-bound to give it honestly.’

  Honoria sighed. ‘It must be nice to be you, Mr Scribster - able to open up your mouth and not care what you say. Be able to sit in society without the need to come up with some conversation or to make witticisms. To think only of yourself.’

  ‘Is that what you would wish to do, Miss Fenton?’

  This time her sigh was longer. ‘Of course not. There are duties to perform, and the social niceties are meant to make us all feel more comfortable. But sometimes-’

  ‘Sometimes, Miss Fenton?’

  ‘No. I will not think this way.’ She seemed to consider seriously for a moment. ‘If you had told a polite lie, if you had said that the pink became Miss Shaw, you would not have hurt her - and you might have brought her some joy.’

  ‘Yes. But I might have given her mother the idea that Miss Shaw was just the mistress for Stane Castle - a fate I would wish upon no young lady. And Miss Shaw and I should have been forced into social situations where our polite lies might have led to discomfort for both of us. Even if I wished for a wife, it would not be she-’ Honoria was frowning again. ‘-and that has nothing to do with her shocking taste in colour or her bad complexion, just that she was one of the silliest girls I’ve met.’

  Honoria reflected that she herself had avoided Miss Shaw. ‘You have an answer for everything.’ But she was not unaware of Mr Scribster describing the parallel to her own situation.

  ‘So you will stick to your polite lies, Miss Fenton?’ Honoria’s eyes flashed. ‘Your eyes betray them - but only when you look at me.’

  ‘That’s because you have absolutely no desire to be appeasing to anyone, and it makes me furious.’ She looked at him. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Scribster. I have not been polite.’

  ‘And it has been very amusing.’ She smiled at him reluctantly, and he saw a little dimple appear on one cheek. ‘You cannot wound me, Miss Fenton, whatever you say. If you must return to your politesse, can I ask that you exclude me? Let there be one place at least where you can say exactly what you think and be as insulting as you like.’

  ‘You are a terrible, vile man.’

  ‘Now that is exaggeration. Let’s just say that I have no polite manners to speak of. Will you always tell me the truth?’

  They had come to a gate and Mr Scribster got down from his horse to open it, showing unforeseen athleticism. Now he looked up at her.

  ‘Since you take no pains to be polite with anyone, I shall not be polite with you. I believe I shall enjoy it.’

  ‘It is a deal then.’ He put out his hand to be shaken, ‘from this hour you shall always tell me the unvarnished, impolite, truth.’

  She hesitated to extend her hand. ‘I will not tell you a polite lie,’ she tempered. ‘It would hardly be worth the effort - you seem to guess what I’m thinking about you anyway.’ His mobile brows shot up again. ‘But I cannot tell you what is not your business, so you will promise not to press

  me.’

  He extended his hand further towards her, ‘I will not. Do we have a bargain?’

  She grasped his hand for a brief moment. ‘Very well, you revolting individual.’

  ‘That’s my girl,’ said Mr Scribster, shaking her hand firmly.

  Chapter 9

  Genevieve to Bassington

  Genevieve, Lady Sumner, had received her husband’s missive announcing his imminent arrival on the same day as she received one from his aunt, Lady Harrington, bidding her back to town immediately. In this second missive she found her salvation. She would go back to town as bidden. There could be no argument that Lady Harrington must be obeyed. And if the butler will just tell her husband that his letter arrived just after she had left, he would have nothing to say to it. If Sumner were a rational man, which of course he was not. But still it provided her with an excuse.

  Why was he coming to the country at all? She suspected her father may have written to him to recall him to his duties and join his wife for the country show. He would think it would be a treat for Sumner, as if his lordship would care about a provincial show. So why was he coming? Because he was not sure how she would answer a summons from him to return to London? No, he didn’t fear that she would obey, he had taken steps to ensure she would. Her hands crept to her neck. The marks had faded now, but she thought she would always feel them inside her.

  He must have his own reasons for coming. A “repairing lease”. That’s what his friends called the retreat to the countryside to avoid London debtors, or the effects of too much London dissipation. He would wait to quarter day, when his lands would yield payment and then it would be safe to return. But why not go to Sumner rather than the long journey here? Because it was a long way. Sumner was only two hours from town whereas it was unlikely that anyone would come as far as Ottershaw to dun him.

  She could leave today, but would surely meet him on the road. But what if she were to go via Bassington? She’d met Mr Allison a number of times and she could pretend a necessity to see Serena about a horse cure and he would be sure to ask her to stay for a few days - it was good form. She could write to Lady Harrington and to her husband (addressed to London, so that he would not get it till he came back) and explain. If she was really very lucky, he might stay at Ottershaw till quarter day. She felt her own stupidity. He was her husband; she would have to see him soon. But she couldn’t. Not yet. She needed time to make herself accept, to build her strength. She had accepted him when he’d offered for her. It was her own fault. She must go back to him. But not yet.

  The ride had seemed to Rowley Allison like a space in time outside life. They did not speak, the pace of the gallop had not allowed for conversation, but they sped ahead and laughed with the sheer joy of movement, glancing at each other in an exchange of pleasure. They reached the windmill, with Serena a half second before him and she dismounted perilously. ‘Miss Fenton!’ he’d protested, but she laughed and led the horse to a nearby tree to be tied off. He joined her.

  ‘Where are the others?’ said Serena, looking back along the path.

  Allison narrowed his eyes. ‘Coming at a safe canter. You might emulate your sister’s caution.’

  ‘Do you think I need to be tutored in riding, Mr Allison?’ asked Serena, amused.

  ‘No, Miss Fenton,’ he said, ‘you have proved your superiority in the saddle. But going at that pace over countryside you did not know was foolish in the extreme.’

  ‘Ah, but I was following my highwayman, who is very familiar with it.’ She laughed up at him in a way that made him itch to catch her in his arms. ‘I would not have else. I’m not quite a madwoman - I always think of the horse. The others seem to be a trifle slow,’ said Serena, her beautiful brown velvet eyes looking back at the road. ‘When I looked over my shoulder earlier, they were stopped. And I thought I saw Honoria strike Mr Scribster.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I may have been wrong.’

  ‘I can assure you that Scribster is not the sort of man to offer unwanted attentions-’

  Serena laughed. ‘Oh, I don’t fear that. He probably said something offensive. Honoria’s temper is slow to ligh
t up - unlike mine, I confess - but if she’s defending the family or something she cares about, she can be quite ferocious.’

  ‘Can she?’ he said doubtfully, regarding the stately pace that Honoria was making with his friend.

  ‘Oh, yes! Why once, when a neighbour berated little Cedric and cuffed him very violently for leaving open a gate, Honoria took her crop to him.’ Serena looked conscious, ‘But I assure you, he thoroughly deserved it. She is quite the sweetest natured girl in general.’

  He was trying to reconcile this with his view of her sister.

  ‘You are so lucky to live here Mr Allison. Such beautiful countryside for riding and so close to London.’

  ‘You have visited London, Miss Fenton?’

  ‘Never. I so wish to. I would go to Astley’s Amphitheatre to see the horses, and get to visit all the best dress shops and museums and-’

  ‘And go to balls and develop a following from all the young gentlemen.’

  She laughed and looked at him teasingly once more, ‘Do you think I should?’

  He looked down at her, smiling back, falling into her eyes. ‘Undoubtedly. There would be a waiting line to secure your hand for a dance.’

  ‘Well, I should disappoint them all and dance with a friend instead.’

  ‘What friends do you have there?’

  ‘Well, you… and Mr Scribster,’began Serena.

  ‘He never dances.’

  ‘And Lieutenant Prescott, of course. He knows nothing about horses, but I suppose he knows how to dance.’

  ‘Very elegantly.’

  ‘Mr. Allison,’ said Serena in her best wheedling tone, as her father called it, ‘Do you think we might make a short expedition to London - as we’re so close?’

  ‘You’d find it very thin of company this season.’

  ‘I live in Yorkshire!’

  ‘Well, if you like. We could visit Astley’s and stay at my house in Grosvenor Square for a night or two.’

  ‘You are such a friend!’ she jumped up from the grass. ‘Please, when you suggest it to Papa, do not mention that the idea came from me. He gave me strict instructions-’ she blushed and laughed.