Honoria and the Family Obligation

by Alicia Cameron

Now, she regarded Mr Allison. She had known him to be an interesting dinner companion in an amusing way. They had been placed next to each other once last season and he had been much more entertaining and forthcoming to her than to the young lady at his other side, who strove for his attention. She had recognised the actions of a man not wanting to be caught by marriage and yet friendly enough to a companion who was no threat to his unwed state - and had been amused. Now though, she wished to regard him more narrowly, for if he desired to make sweet Honoria his bride, she would know him better. Nothing had been said yet that she could see, there was none of the distinction in his treatment of Honoria that he must have shown if they were newly engaged. And of course, Lady Fenton, now chatting of village matters with her, would have mentioned an engagement by this time.

  So he had not spoken, what did that mean? And what kind of man was he really? He certainly had placed a great deal of weight on Honoria’s undoubted beauty if he approached her father after only one dance. Genevieve had seen Honoria during her season. She had been crippled with shyness and though her beauty had ensured she had seldom been without a partner at any ball (unlike the fate of Genevieve on her first season) she seemed to have treated many of these dances as punishments to be suffered through. It was only with she and her sisters, or when dancing with her brother, that her real, sparkling personality showed, so why then had Allison broken his long spell of feminine disinterest (with marriageable females, at any rate - she had heard rumours of his affairs with Opera dancers and the like) and picked on Honoria? It could only be for her beauty, and that, in Genevieve’s eyes, made him as shallow as most men. To be married for your beauty or your fortune, as in her case, were two sides of the same, worthless coin.

  She would watch him closely and if she felt he could not really appreciate her friend, then she would intervene. She was sure that if Lady Fenton or Sir Ranalph knew what a weight of family obligation she was bearing for them, they would not wish to sell their daughter into unhappiness. The same could not be said for her own father. He’d seen her neck one day and guessed the rest. But still he had written to summon Sumner to Ottershaw, in case the gossips should remark on the separation of husband and wife. But if she saw that Allison was sincere, perhaps the kindnesses he had shown her at that dinner party were real and showed some depth to his character.

  Scribster was looking at her speculatively. Genevieve stared back at him blankly. She had no opinion on Mr Scribster and had no wish to know his thoughts on her either. Mr Scribster was a blank page in an otherwise interesting book.

  Lieutenant Prescott reminded her of her big handsome dog. A happy black Labrador with a wagging tail to please everyone. His nature was very like Sir Ranalph’s, though she did not know its depths as yet. Perhaps he might make a husband for Serena, if he had a suitable fortune. She gasped at herself. Why did women everywhere set the world to partners? Because they were aware, at bottom, that a woman without a husband could be a very sorry being in this world. Without a husband, who would provide for her? For a few widows, like Lady Harrington, and the occasional heiress of large fortune, life without a husband was possible. But for the majority of young ladies, whose father’s fortune was entailed to the eldest son, a husband was a necessity. Unless it was a husband like Sumner. Genevieve could find nothing necessary at all about Sumner. Without him, she might have lived some quiet life in the country with a paid companion (another unfortunate unmarried lady) and a couple of horses and if there were few luxuries in that, and a fall in consequence from being the young lady of the big house, she could have lived with it, in retrospect. The notion of having a man of the same fortune or consequence as her father, she should have known to be an empty ambition. Her father was an unfeeling block of ice and his replacement was near to a madman.

  Booth’s card party was a success. He was a genial host to each of his three guests and Rennie seemed perfectly unaware of anything untoward in his being invited. ‘Grandiston not in town?’ he asked casually, ‘You seem to live in his pocket these days.’

  Booth’s face froze for a moment, but only Benedict saw, since his back was to the others, pouring out wine for his guests. Then he said, lazily, ‘Yes, well his pockets are pretty spacious to live in.’

  Rennie gave a laugh. This he could understand. ‘I suppose they are! You are a fortunate fellow.’

  Carstairs aped himself when he was a little tipsy. ‘I shay, gentlemen, shall we play?’

  Rennie looked at Benedict, who seemed to have no special place in his memory. He had probably fleeced a number of young bucks since then. And the sum he had lost, though it made up Benedict’s entire allowance and more, was small change when measured against some, Benedict was sure. He didn’t seem to associate the Grandiston incident with Benedict either, calling the Earl “dashed interfering - no offence, Booth, I know he’s a friend of yours-” when discussing his whereabouts. He never looked at Benedict when he said this. He did vaguely remember him, ‘Young Fenton, ain’t you? We’ve played before?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Benedict indifferently. ‘During my first trip to London.’ Benedict saw Rennie search his memory and come up with very little.

  ‘Ah, yes!’ he said vaguely.

  They sat down to a night of wine and cards. They had a plan. Benedict would watch and try to learn Rennie’s methods. They knew about the dice, of course, but they were not using them initially, and no doubt Rennie had other cheating methods at his disposal. During this period, they all lost a little and won a little (by Rennie’s arrangement, Benedict was sure) to put everyone at ease. They had arranged at the outset that Carstairs was their failsafe. He appeared to be drunk already, and he would continue to drink wine copiously (his specialism) and if they all began leaking too much money to Rennie’s machinations, Carstairs would collapse on the table and Benedict would have to break up the party by taking him home.

  All four of them drank, but the three friends drank rather more than their guest. He seemed to hold to his second glass of wine, whilst pretending to fill it up, adding only drops on each occasion. Booth and Benedict, who were nearest the window, were replenishing their glasses frequently, secretly taking advantage of a large potted aspidistra that sat on the window sill to get rid of the excess. Carstairs was really drinking, and Benedict feared that he’d collapse before the appointed hour.

  The cards were not marked by any method Benedict knew, but this of course was the sort of thing where his newness as a cheat had him at a disadvantage. There may be many methods that Benedict did not know. However, he did not see Rennie give the hands of his opponents any particular attention, as he would have had to do if they were dealing from a marked deck. However, Benedict did clearly see Rennie’s diversionary tactics, a spilt glass of wine, a raucous joke, and how they covered some clever palming, some hidden cards on his person - his interesting card shuffling, which kept the cards he wanted to the top of the deck. Booth cocked an eyebrow at him once, asking if Benedict had a clue. He gave the faintest nod and Booth relaxed, putting rather too much faith in Benedict’s abilities, that young man feared. How to counter the cheat? There were rather too many aces in the pack now and for Benedict to add his own well-dispersed aces from his sleeve or beneath his coat collar would alert suspicion. By dint of falling drunkenly on Rennie’s side, he dislodged a few of the hidden cards, making it look like good luck. Then, with Booth or Carstairs being his diversion at different times, which he orchestrated with lifted eyebrows in either direction, he was able to salt their card hands and allow themselves some wins that Rennie thought were simply chance. This happened for some time, until Rennie took note - but the bumbling fingers of the young drunks were certainly not capable of any slight of hand. He didn’t look at Fenton because he was losing steadily too.

  Dashed chance, but Rennie set in motion a game to redress the balance. He began to bid higher and higher, and though Carstairs complained that they were exceeding their agreed limits, he did so only petulantly. The others shushed him and continued the p
lay, with the bids reaching perilous levels. ‘Dash it all, Rennie, it’s a dashed house party, not Boodles or Whites!’

  ‘Afraid, Booth? You weren’t so chicken-hearted when we were at Eton.’

  Booth became recklessly indignant. ‘Afraid? I’ll double the stakes right now!’ he said in a voice a little slurred.

  There was a tense silence. This was their grand play. Would Rennie bite? His piggy eyes narrowed, but not in fear or trepidation, thought Benedict. In satisfaction. He was being given the opportunity of a larger prize than he had anticipated.

  Carstairs complained. ‘Don’t be silly, Booth. I for one have emptied my pockets. Dashed expensive evening. I’m out.’

  ‘Are you sure, my lord,’ said Rennie innocently, ‘don’t you trust your hand?’

  Carstairs looked at his hand. It wasn’t bad, Benedict knew. There were two Kings that Carstairs had shown him when Booth distracted Rennie. He’d been dealt them to tempt him into this final bet.

  ‘Oh, very well, we’ll all offer our little scripts.’

  Booth produced some slips of paper and a quill, and they passed it around, inscribing their names and the varying amounts they all needed to put in to double their stakes. On the table now was over three thousand guineas. Rennie was very sure he would win it and Benedict agreed with him. His hand trembled as he added the last scrap of paper with the unthinkable and un-gettable amount of money he had scrawled upon it. If this failed, he would have to run off and join the regulars. Or become a pirate or some such thing, and his family, his dear mother and sisters as well as his good papa, would be disgraced.

  Now was not the time for cowardice. He thought of Potts and his terrified face. He thought of Genevieve’s neck, for which her awful husband would pay. But for now this man who was in possession of part of Genevieve’s fortune he would pay. Benedict would make him - and not be caught doing it.

  With the aid of two cards from his person, and one from Booth’s hand, Benedict waited till Rennie’s hand was down to show his own. The winning hand. For a moment, Rennie was confused. He picked up the cards on the table and looked at Booth. This was not the hand he had dealt him.

  ‘I win!’ said Benedict. ‘How amazing!’

  Rennie met his eye, seeing it all now.

  ‘By God, you monster, so you have,’ said Booth. ‘If I wasn’t away tomorrow I’d get you all back here so I could win it back. Bad luck gentlemen,’ he said, looking at the other two. ‘Time to call it a night, Carstairs, I think.’ He turned to the defeated, ‘Bloody play tonight, eh, Rennie? Lucky young pup.’

  ‘Yes. Lucky,’ said Rennie in a clipped voice.

  ‘Tomorrow for your vowels gentlemen. I’m leaving for the country soon. Just had a letter from my father, ’said Benedict airily.

  ‘Oh, we’re good for it, young Dickie, fear not!’ said Booth and slapped him on the back.

  Rennie was fighting his rage. But he said ‘Tomorrow!’ and left the rooms with a flourish.

  Honoria pulled Mr Scribster’s sleeve after dinner as they were leaving the drawing room to ascend to their chambers. They were held back a little.

  ‘You must stop giving me looks that guess at my thoughts,’ she hissed, ‘Now I am in disgrace with Mama for sending you a speaking look.’

  ‘Your look did not so much speak as sabre slash me,’ he said, gazing down at her from his great height.

  ‘We said, sir, that we would not lie.’

  ‘Well it would have slashed me, but I ducked. What message did you think I sent to you? I find this very entertaining, most people can only read unalleviated gloom in my expression.’

  ‘Well, they must be idiots,’ said Honoria acidly, ‘you clearly told me that you think I admire Lieutenant Prescott when I was merely being polite to him.’

  ‘I must hope that one day you’ll be so polite to me, Miss Fenton. You look quite beautiful when your eyelashes flutter.’

  ‘I hope that the custard that you ate so much of at dinner curdles in your stomach and that the pain keeps you up all night.’

  ‘I think that a full day of being well-behaved has rather curdled your mood. Meet me before breakfast for a refreshing trade of insults to clear your head.’

  ‘Honoria!’ called her mother, ‘What is delaying you, child?’

  Honoria thrust Mr Scribster behind the drawing room door and caught her skirts up to run forward. ‘Merely lost a ribbon, Mama! I’m coming!’

  ‘So untruthful. The bower at six?’ said Scribster in a lowered tone.

  ‘Half past!’ said Honoria, running from the room.

  Chapter 11

  A Dastardly Attack

  After a night playing cards with Sir Philip Sutcliffe, a man on the edge of society (despite his title) since he had married a harridan of a woman whose father was in trade. Her money was one thing, but her vulgarity was quite another, and added to that, it was said, her father kept a much tighter rein on his finances than Sutcliffe had understood would be the case. He was no longer invited to private houses or to Almack’s, or to any but the most public spectacles, but he kept in with the gaming set. He was always smiling (a trait that all cheats seemed to have in common) but his smiles could not disguise the bitter lines around his mouth and elsewhere on his ferrety face. A confident Benedict, bored, beat him flamboyantly. He exchanged a look with the man as he left the table, and his eyes were murderous. Of course he knew what had been done. Cheats seldom met their match at their dreadful game, and never one so young and upright as Mr Benedict Fenton.

  It wasn’t so difficult as Benedict had feared to return the money and vowels to the innocent players. Stoddart, Carstairs’ valet, took care of it for him, employing an out of work servant, but an excellent man, to convey the packages to the various abodes and to disappear before questions could be asked. Most were confused but silent, as the accompanying note pleaded. ‘For reasons of my own, which I beg you will not ask me to divulge, I must return your losses of last night to you.’ It seemed that the gentleman were happy not to press him, excepting another Cambridge friend of his, a Mr Barnabas Smythe, who turned up at Carstairs’ place on his dignity.

  ‘Hallo Barney! What you doing here at this hour?’ asked Carstairs sleepily, sipping his coffee at a small table.

  But Mr Smythe, very upright, instead fixed his eye on Benedict, who was fully dressed and reading a newspaper, which he put down as the visitor was announced.

  ‘Sir!’ he said, as though he had not previously thrown up on Benedict’s waistcoat and slept sprawled at the foot of his bed on many a carousing occasion, ‘I must ask you to tell me what you mean by this.’ And he threw the packet containing the note, the vowels (amounting to one hundred and twenty pounds, plus a large banknote for £100 and a couple of guineas, onto the table.

  ‘Watch that!’ protested Carstairs, chasing an errant guinea under the table, ‘What do you want to do that for?’

  ‘It’s just your losses back, Barney. What’s got your dander up?’ asked Benedict interestedly.

  ‘If you have been informed, sir, that I do not pay my debts of honour, then I must tell you-’

  ‘Oh, is that all it is?’ said Carstairs, relieved. ‘He was late paying off Rennie last year because his old man didn’t come through with the readies. He’s a bit ticklish on the subject.’

  Mr Smythe turned on his lordship, ‘I’ll have you know, my lord, that I paid him within the week. It would have been sooner, but-’

  ‘I know, I know, Gilchrist backed out of buying your Greys. But I bought them, so it was all right and tight.’

  ‘If you mean to throw that piece of charity in my face-’ said Mr Smythe, still furious, ‘then you are-’

  Benedict stood up and clapped him on the back. ‘No, no, Barney. No charity in that. Fluff won a cool thousand on the toll race with those Greys, you know he did.’

  ‘Yes, well, I was dashed sorry to part with them,’ said Mr Smythe, somewhat mollified, ‘But if you’re to be going round thinking I can’t pay my debts-’
>
  ‘Don’t think anything of the kind, old fellow.’ He grabbed at the letter from the table. ‘You see I said it, for reasons of my own, that I beg you will not ask me to divulge-’

  ‘What reasons?’

  ‘I begged you not to ask me to divulge-’said Benedict, grinning.

  ‘So you do think I won’t pay my debts!’ exploded Smythe. He took out his purse and threw it on the table. ‘There. And if that damned Rennie hadn’t set it about that I’m a shirker, you would never have offered me this insult.’

  ‘It’s not that, Barney, I swear!’

  ‘Well, what is it then?’ said Mr Smythe.

  Benedict looked at his lordship, who shrugged and then seemed to get an intelligent gleam in his eye. ‘Religious conversion!’ he said brilliantly. ‘Dickie has always gone to church, like the rest of us, but he had an - an experience that made him erm, deepen his religious convictions.’

  The two young gentlemen looked at him, mouths agape.

  ‘Since last night?’ said Mr Smythe.

  ‘No, it isn’t that.’ Benedict sat down. ‘What a chump you are, Fluff. Is that the best you could do?’ Carstairs made an inarticulate noise of embarrassment. ‘Look, Barney, I’m going to tell you a story. But however scandalous it is, you can’t tell anybody.’

  ‘Did I ever tell about that barmaid that Carstairs brought-’

  ‘Alright, alright!’ jumped in his lordship. ‘Stow that for later. Let Dickie speak.’

  ‘First I have to say that I am doing this for a very serious reason. And I can’t tell you what that is. I can only tell you why I sent back your money. But it’s a long tale, and you may not believe me.’

  ‘Have you got something stronger than coffee? I need the hair of the dog,’ said Smythe, less stiffly.

  ‘If you’ll get all this damned money off my breakfast table, I’ll see what can be arranged.

  Later that night, after all three young gentlemen had cemented their friendship with ale and some gin, they left the tavern they had adjourned to rather the worse for wear. Barnabas Smythe, who had just had the relief of escaping being heavily in debt, was not very steady and Carstairs volunteered to put him in hackney, if Dickie would just get along home and order some hot bricks in their bed, and maybe some rum punch too.