She calmed down a little as she was within sight of the house and slowed her pace to a walk. Coming from the stables was Prescott, sadly out of his regimentals, but still looking passably handsome in a well cut riding coat of green cloth, buckskin breeches and top boots.
‘Miss Fenton - well met!’ he said, coming towards her. ‘Have you been walking? Do you think you should take a walk with me before breakfast? It is such a lovely day!’ Seeing her hesitate, he added, ‘Within sight of the house, of course.’
His exquisite sense of decorum was one of the reasons, since the attraction of that left ear, that had drawn her to him. Mr Scribster, for example, walked with her far from the house. But to be fair, this was to allow her to vent her spleen without being overheard. Nevertheless, someone with exquisite manners was just the salve she needed right now, so she took the lieutenant’s arm with trembling fingers as her answer, and began to walk towards the little rose garden.
He was so tall. Rather less so than Mr Scribster, but certainly tall enough for her to feel very like a wood nymph being guarded by a handsome Greek god. He had been talking in pleasantries about her visit to Bassington, the weather and the grounds, and she answered calmly, too irate still with Scribster to be terrified of her escort.
‘Is your family friendship with my cousin of long standing?’ he asked at last.
Honoria was rather caught by this enquiry. ‘Not very long, sir. My parents have known him for six months only, I believe.’ She said this vaguely, in the hopes of leading the conversation elsewhere.
‘Ah, during the season then?’ he said speculatively.
‘Well, yes.’
‘My mother was right! Rowley has met his match at last!’ he declared. ‘Why are we not to mention it - are there some family circumstances? You can trust me, Miss Fenton - I assure you. When does my cousin hope to marry your sister?’
Honoria stopped, stunned. ‘My sister!’
‘I beg your pardon, Miss Fenton. Too long in Lisbon to remember my manners. I’ll ask Rowley if I choose to be a poke-nose. I have made you uncomfortable.’
‘Oh no, Lieutenant. Only, could you take me back for breakfast now? Mama hates if we are late.’
‘Of course, Miss Fenton, at once.’
She took his arm again and was so engrossed in her thoughts that she quite forgot to tremble at his touch. Why did he suppose his cousin to be about to propose to Serena? But like little pieces of coloured glass that come together to make a picture in a stained glass window, she knew why this remark had surprised but not shocked her. It was evident that whilst the lieutenant’s intelligence might be in dispute, his sensitivity was not. He noticed things. It was why he magically appeared behind your chair when you wanted to rise from the table, why he rescued Mama’s wool from tying itself around a chair leg, or redirected the conversation away from Papa’s enquiry to Serena as to whether she had visited the stable that morning. He noticed how things were. So did Mr Scribster, but he wouldn’t exert himself to do anything to help. Could it be possible that he had noticed something about Serena and Mr Allison? And if it was, what could that mean to her? She must speak with Serena immediately. Not to ask her straight out, obviously, for if she was wrong she could never hide her feelings about the reason for their visit here again.
Surely Mama, who had a seer’s insight on her children, would have noticed too. But then Honoria remembered a strange thing. Mr Allison always seemed to be at the furthest corner from Serena. Nearly always… There was no purpose to speculating. She needed to talk to her sister. Mr Scribster would recommend honesty. However, Mr Scribster was a rhinoceros who trampled upon people’s feelings, so she would accept no advice from him. What would Mama counsel? Perhaps the same. Suddenly Honoria, glancing over at the assembled breakfast company, realised that the tension she had felt recently was all due to a lack of forthrightness. Not just her own secret, but another that had troubled Mama and Papa, her attraction for the lieutenant, some mystery around Genevieve who was chatting animatedly about stable matters to her sister, the strange case of Dickie going to London when Honoria knew that he had already spent his quarter’s allowance and more at a gambling table. She couldn’t recall a time when such a web of secrecy clung around the family. Usually, they could all hold a secret for the brief period before Mama guessed and all was aired and discussed around the house. She ate, trying to catch her sister’s eye.
Her mama bent over her to whisper in her ear. ‘Mr Allison wishes to talk to you, my love.’
Honoria raised her eyes to search for her host around the table.
‘He isn’t here, Honoria. Have you not noticed that he is absent?’ Honoria met her mother’s eyes with a faraway look. ‘After breakfast you may meet him at the pergola of roses.’ Honoria’s gaze seemed to follow something else. ‘My dear, did you hear me?’
‘Yes, yes Mama.’ Her eyes encountered Mr Scribster’s. They were not as full of amusement as they might be normally. She frowned at him. Serena stood up and Honoria jumped up to catch her. ‘Serena! Wait for me.’ Her sister did so and as she left the room, she heard her mother’s call.
‘Five minutes, Honoria!’
In Serena’s bedchamber at last, Honoria sat on her bed and curled up her legs, watching as her sister used a soft brush that she kept for the purpose, to brush the debris of the stables from her dress and shoes.
‘How would you feel if I did agree to marry Mr Allison?’
‘Oh, Orry!’ said Serena, throwing herself onto the bed and grasping at her hands, ‘Has he indeed asked you?’
‘No, not yet,’ said Honoria, searching her bright face for a chink. ‘What is wrong, Serena, I can tell that you are not quite as happy as … what is it?’
Serena bent her dark curls. ‘Oh, it is too selfish. I have just understood that we will be parted when you marry. And it has made me sad.’
Honoria flung off her hands and rose, beginning to pace the room, ‘Is that all?’
‘Well, whatever did you think it might be?’ said Serena, at a loss.
‘I don’t know,’ said Honoria testily. ‘Perhaps some objection to Mr Allison?’
Serena laughed, ‘Don’t be silly Orry. What objection could there be to you marrying a handsome, kind, rich gentleman? We could hardly guess how wonderful he would be. I did Mama’s trick of getting the servants into conversation, without questions, you know. And you can tell how they respect and like him.’ She looked at Honoria’s pacing. ‘But if you do not wish for the match, you have only to tell Papa.’ Honoria was now wringing her handkerchief as well as pacing. ‘Are you afraid it has all gone too far? I know how you feel about doing everything that is proper. But I know that even Mama would understand. She is ambitious, yes, but she wishes only our happiness.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Honoria, cornered. She bent, and this time she clasped Serena’s hands. ‘But what do you think of him, Serena? Tell me, I beg you. Not as a match for me, just as a man.’
Serena looked confused, but settled back to consider. ‘Well both he and his cousin are really handsome! And he is very strong. He threw me onto a saddle as though I weighed no more than a baby. And he is soooo funny.’ She saw Honoria frown. ‘Really, he is. And he can ride like the wind and is daring in the saddle, but never reckless with the horse, which I really appreciate. His cousin has told me that he was a hero under Wellington, with Mr Scribster, too - if you believe that that gentleman can do more than look sour. He is a bit of a highwayman at times….’ Honoria looked stupefied. ‘He really is.’ Serena was looking into the distance, remembering.
‘He sounds,’ ventured Honoria, rather desperately, ‘quite wonderful in your description. Perhaps,’ she added with an attempt at levity, ‘he would make a better match for you rather than me.’
It was as though she had slapped her sister in the face. ‘Oh, Orry, you cannot think that I am after him - just because we rode ahead the other day? Please don’t think that,’ she said distressed.
Honoria could scarcely say she
hoped that she was. ‘No, no. It was just a joke.’ But there had been something in Serena’s face for her to ponder on later. But there would be no later. She had just realised that the person she was meeting at the rose pergola was Allison, and all alone. It could only mean one thing. Nothing could save her now.
She apologised to Serena and left the room. On the upper stair she encountered Mr Scribster, who appeared to have been waiting for her. She moved forward swiftly and grasped his hand. He looked down at it in a confused way, as though no one had ever taken his hand before. ‘Can you help me?’
‘Yes,’ he said. It was like him not to make a pretty speech about it.
‘I am to meet Mr Allison and, and I know you know…’
‘Yes,’ he said again.
‘Will you interrupt us? He will perhaps ask a question that I am not - not yet ready for. I will try to keep him talking, but do not delay.’
She drew away from him and ran down the stairs to the marbled hall.
He seemed to wake up and called softly after her, ‘If you said no, all this could be over.’
She turned to him, dress still held by both hands and looked sad. ‘I can’t. I just - it really is not that simple. Only, I’m not ready.’ She turned and ran lightly to the door, opened in anticipation by a footman.
Mr Allison was awaiting Honoria by the pergola, looking tall, handsome - and eligible. He took her hand and kissed it with great ceremony. ‘Miss Fenton - how well primrose becomes you.’ The mention of primrose made her think of Mr Scribster and Miss Shaw. A ghost of a smile lit up her features and Mr Allison thought he had never seen her look better, more natural. This was beginning well.
‘I think that you must know, Miss Fenton, how much I admire you,’ he continued.
‘Do I? And how would I know that precisely?’ said Honoria in a tone he had never heard her use.
‘Well, um. I do,’ he said lamely, but he was beginning to be amused.
She appeared to be looking back at the house for something, but she replied, ‘What qualities of mine do you admire the most?’
What on earth was this? The girl who could hardly speak to him on a good day asking such pert questions that might cause her mama to faint if she could hear them. He was confused and ill-prepared. The interview, much rehearsed in the last few hours, had taken an unexpected, but interesting, turn.
‘Your beauty-’ he began, but stopped when he saw her attention go elsewhere once more.
‘Mmm. My beauty,’ she repeated, bored. ‘And-’
‘Your intelligence.’
‘You must have sent for references. I don’t remember displaying any intelligence in your orbit…’ she was still talking distantly, as if the words sprang from her mouth without her will whilst she was occupied by other things.
‘Anyway, I have been led to desire to ask you, to request of you-’
‘Oh, is that Mr Scribster running towards us?’ she asked with what he felt might be relief.
His back was to the house and he said irritably, ‘Nonsense - Gus never runs,’ but he turned nevertheless to find his old friend almost upon them.
‘Gus - what?’
‘Sorry, Rowley, Miss Fenton. I’m afraid there is news from town. Mr Benedict Fenton has been attacked.’
‘Oh!’ cried Honoria, in the tone of the great Siddons from the West End stage, ‘I must go to Mama!’
She walked quickly away with Scribster whilst Allison took a moment to collect himself.
‘What kept you?’ she whispered. ‘And the interruption was a little Gothic, wasn’t it? Shall Benedict have to wear an interesting sling on his arm to keep up the ruse?’
‘I was delayed by the word from London. Your Mama bade me find you. I’m afraid that it is all quite real, Miss Fenton.’
She gave him a tortured look, picked up her primrose skirts, and ran full pelt to the house.
Chapter 14
Benedict’s Condition
When the news had arrived of Benedict’s attack, Genevieve’s heart contracted with guilt. If it had not been that her husband was at Ottershaw, she would have suspected that Benedict, having seen her injuries, had confronted Sumner - and then her husband had bludgeoned him like the coward he was. But Sumner was not there. It could not have been he. Suddenly Genevieve was sure that Benedict’s surprise visit to town was to do with her. It shocked her like the shattering of crockery. His nature was such that he could never leave her plight alone once he had guessed it. The silly, wonderful young man would wish to rescue her at all costs - and though Sumner was not in town, she feared he had been responsible for the dreadful costs. None of this made any sense, she knew. What could Benedict have done? And what could Sumner have caused to have done to Benedict?
Thus it was that Genevieve had accompanied them to town, and deposited her bags at Grosvenor Square with the others, since Sumner House in Curzon Street was closed up at this season. She hardly waited for Mr Allison’s invitation, just went in the carriage to Lord Carstairs’ rooms. As a young gentleman about town, Carstairs had separate rooms from his family’s rather large, old-fashioned town house, which had not been in his family for more than two generations, but still terrified him with the pressure of family expectation whenever he visited his mother there. He preferred his rooms, which were not spacious, but cosy, and consisted of only his Lordship’s own bedchamber and the sitting room, where Benedict had laid his head this visit on a truckle bed. His valet and maid lived in the attics, like the valets and maids of the other young gentlemen who had rooms here.
So when Benedict’s mama and papa, two sisters and a friend arrived, the rooms looked very small indeed. Carstairs took Sir Ranalph away from the ladies and told him the doctor’s opinion. Benedict had been hit repeatedly - by cudgels had said a witness. It was very possible that two ribs were broken, his legs and back were severely bruised, but more important were the two blows to the head. The witness, a street-hawker who had been imbibing at a public inn, said that these were the last blows delivered. Benedict having wielded a bottle at one attacker and using it upon him, and the other coming up behind and delivering the blows. The hawker cried ‘Watch!’ and the two men ran off, leaving Benedict bleeding on the cobbles. If Benedict awoke in the next few hours, there was hope, but otherwise - his lordship put his hand before his eyes. ‘Sorry, sir.’
Sir Ranalph put a large hand on his shoulder. ‘Thank you my boy, for all you’ve done.’
His lordship looked at him with his hair flopping over his watery eyes. ‘But it’s Dickie, sir.’ He tried to get a grip of himself, ‘I don’t think the ladies should see him, sir,’ he said, leading the way back into his rooms.
‘I don’t think that we can stop them,’ said Sir Ranalph.
The ladies were in a clump in the middle of the room with Lady Fenton at its head. ‘Is my son in there?’ She pointed to a door.
Sir Ranalph moved forward. ‘Perhaps I will see him first, my dear.’
‘You will not keep me from him -’
But it was Genevieve who opened the door, stopped at the threshold in shock at seeing the young man, pale as a corpse, lying unconscious on his lordship’s bed. Then she flung herself forward and onto the floor next to the bed, grasping his unresponsive hand.
‘Oh, Dickie, what did you do?’ she cried passionately and burst into tears.
Lady Fenton looked in alarm at her husband, but he shook his head.
The rest of the party nudged around, Serena and Honoria clutching each other for support. Honoria touched Lady Sumner’s shoulder. ‘Genevieve!’
Her ladyship got up and threw herself into Honoria’s arms. ‘It is all my fault!’ she breathed in his sister’s ear. Honoria clasped her close. Serena’s eyes met her sister’s. They knew Genevieve to be fond of Benedict, but she was not normally an emotional girl. What did this mean?
The news was brought to Mr Wilbert Fenton as he was about to set off for the theatre, less to see the ballet as to mingle with the dancers afterwards - he stood in ne
ed of female companionship this evening. He was about to get plenty. He got a brief note from Richardson, a magistrate in Bow Street.
‘Your nevvy Benedict was attacked by ruffians this evening. He was taken to young Fluff Carstairs’ rooms in Piccadilly. I hear it’s bad. Thought you would like to know.’
Pierre was mounted on a stool adjusting his cravat pin when an oath escaped his master’s tight lips and the tiny valet was witness to the gravest expression he had yet seen on his face. ‘Stop your trivialities,’ Mr Fenton said, brushing him away and cutting into his heart with the words, ‘I have to leave.’
Carstairs was not able to stop Mr Wilbert Fenton, dressed inappropriately for a sick room (in knee breeches and an opera cloak), coming in. There seemed to be a great many people in the room, but in fact it had thinned considerably, Serena and Lady Sumner having been sent back in a hackney - Serena profoundly shocked, and Genevieve still crying intermittently.
Carstairs and his brother were standing awkwardly at the foot of the bed, with Cynthia and her eldest at each side of his nephew, who looked completely burnt in the socket.
‘Wilbert!’ said Sir Ranalph, but his brother paid no heed, only pushed past to get to his nephew.
‘Benedict!’ he commanded, ‘Wake up!’ There was a protesting sound from Lady Fenton, on the other side of the bed holding lavender water to her son’s bruised temple, but Benedict frowned slightly and opened his eyes. ‘Uncle!’ he said faintly after a moment where everyone had held their breath, ‘is it six months?’ His uncle’s laugh cracked in the middle.
Lady Fenton looked confused, but Mr Fenton said lazily, ‘Not yet. I had an inexplicable desire to see you.’
Benedict winced in pain as he laughed, ‘They tried to get it. But I took a leaf from your book. I had a cushion.’ He twinkled up at his uncle, then fell back into the abyss once more.
‘He’s just asleep, now,’ said his mama, with her hand on his chest. ‘Whatever did he mean, Wilbert?’
Honoria and the Family Obligation Page 12
