‘But my dear sir …’
‘I did not ask you for your daughter’s hand in marriage,’ said Mr Garfield evenly, ‘I only asked you for your help in furthering my acquaintance with her.’
‘So you did,’ said the vicar, brightening visibly. He looked up fondly at the tall figure of Mr Garfield, seeing in his place sacks and sacks of guineas. ‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Thank you. I will now take my leave of yourself and Mrs Armitage.’
Mr Garfield had the opportunity of meeting the vicar’s two youngest daughters. Diana he considered unfortunately mannish, and little Frederica was a plain, wispy thing. There was no sign of the glorious Daphne. Mrs Armitage extended her hand in a swan-like way and murmured apologies for the lack of hospitality ‘for we are at such sixes and sevens. I declare servants get more difficult to manage each year.’
Behind her, the maid, Betty, scowled darkly.
Lady Godolphin extended an invitation to one of her salons and cast a last loving look at his legs.
And then he was gone.
‘Drat!’ exclaimed the vicar. ‘I never got that thousand guineas.’
‘I think he only said it to help you escape the bishop,’ pointed out Lady Godolphin.
‘I don’t know what came over Daphne,’ went on the vicar. ‘Thank goodness you’re sensible when it comes to animals, Diana.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of making such a missish scene,’ said Diana proudly, but inside she felt an ache at her heart. Bellsire and Thunderer had been the clowns of the pack, funny and noisy and always up to mischief. She thought of them under the lash of a strange master and felt her eyes fill with tears.
‘Mr Radford has departed,’ said Mrs Armitage. ‘What an exhausting day. Betty, make me a tisane. I must lie down.’
The vicar was glad Squire Radford had gone home, otherwise he might have been tempted to blurt out Mr Garfield’s interest in Daphne, and Jimmy Radford would look at him severely and accuse him of being mercenary.
Rubbing his hands, the vicar went into the house. He would write to Mr Garfield as soon as that gentleman’s carriage which had been damaged in the bishop-trap was repaired and perhaps delicately remind him of the money he had promised to give the church.
Best handle Daphne carefully. Best get her to London soon. Perhaps he might go himself, thought the vicar, and have a word in the ear of this pesky Mr Archer.
While Daphne cried herself to sleep upstairs, the vicar sat downstairs and planned her wedding to Simon Garfield.
THREE
Mr Garfield was glad to return to the well-ordered sanity of his friend’s mansion. He had the dogs sent ahead to London where no doubt Mr Apsley, if he could wrench himself away from his latest inamorata, would transfer them to his own kennels in the country.
He stayed on for two weeks at Hopeminster because he was suffering from headaches and not yet fully recovered from his accident.
It was the end of August when he at last made his way back to his town house in Albemarle Street. For the first time since his visit to Hopeworth, he remembered he had not honoured his promise of the gift of one thousand guineas to the village church. He sent for his secretary, Harold Evans, and gave him instructions to find some individual capable of organizing the restoration of a church. Mr Garfield wanted to make sure his money went on the purpose for which it was meant and not straight into the reverend’s pocket.
There were many invitations waiting for him although the Little Season was not yet begun. He was about to tell his secretary to refuse them all, when he decided to examine them instead. As he expected, there was one from Lady Godolphin inviting him to a dinner. The dinner was to be held that very evening. Probably her ladyship would not expect him to turn up. And yet …
‘Send a footman round to Lady Godolphin’s,’ he told Mr Evans, ‘and say I shall be delighted to attend this evening unless she has already found a substitute for me.’
He carefully went through his correspondence, dealing with business matters, personal letters, and several hundred requests for money.
Then he ordered all his tradesmen’s bills to be paid promptly – a most ungentlemanly procedure – after which he decided to go out and call on his friend Mr Apsley.
At the back of his mind, Mr Garfield had some idea he might find Daphne Armitage at Lady Godolphin’s dinner, and, therefore, it would only be polite to assure that young lady of the hounds’ welfare.
He was, of course, quite sure he did not have serious intentions as far as Daphne Armitage was concerned. For the moment, the idea of her amused him, and Mr Garfield was very rarely amused.
At times he envied his friends who seemed capable of being quite happy with the daily fashionable round. Edwin Apsley, for example, followed the pattern of Rowlandson’s Man of Fashion.
‘Queer dreams, owing to Sir Richard’s claret, always drink too much of it – rose at one – dressed by half-past three – took an hour’s ride – a good horse, my last purchase, remember to sell him again – nothing like variety – dined at six with Sir Richard – said several good things – forgot ’em all – in high spirits – quizzed a parson – drank three bottles, and lounged to the theatre – not quite clear about the play – comedy or tragedy – forget which – saw the last act – Kemble toll loll – not quite certain whether it was Kemble or not – Mrs Siddons monstrous fine – got into a hack – set down in St James’s Street – dipp’d a little with the boys at hazards – confounded bad luck – lost all my money.’
The hour being two in the afternoon, Mr Garfield was confident of finding his friend still at breakfast and so he made his way in the direction of Mr Apsley’s lodgings.
Because Mr Apsley was perpetually out of pocket he lived off the Tottenham Court Road, claiming that since he invariably ate his dinner at other people’s houses and never entertained, he might as well save his blunt by paying for modest lodgings. Money was needed for more important things like hazard or horses.
The day was uncomfortably warm and a small sun glared down through the haze of smoke from a brassy sky. The streets were alive with the sounds of the street vendors. Baking apples sold by old women and cooked on a charcoal stove at the street corner lent a welcome hot spice to the foul air. A man with a donkey was selling brick dust for cleaning knives, his voice high and strident. Strapping Welsh women still went on their milk rounds, their heavy pails slung on a wooden yoke across the shoulders.
Lavender, grown near London at Mitcham, was being sold in fragrant bunches. Every housewife had some for the linen press since the washing soap stank so abominably.
‘Bellows to mend,’ yelled a wrinkled gnome who seemed to have materialized at Mr Garfield’s elbow. His head began to ache again and he wished heartily he had not decided to walk.
At the corner of the Tottenham Court Road, he had to step around a vociferous orange seller who was offering a ‘Bill of the play’ with every six oranges bought. Awful things those playbills were, made from long flimsy strips of tissue paper, wet from the printers, smearing the hands with black ink which never seemed to have time to dry since there was a fresh play every evening.
Mr Garfield picked his way through the jostling crowd, past McQueen’s Buildings, past the Leopard Coffee House, past the Dunbar iron foundry and on to the corner of Francis Street.
Mr Apsley lived in a top floor flat in number thirty-two. The stairway was dusty and smelled of dry rot and drains, but it was a haven of quiet after the clamour outside.
Mr Garfield mounted the steps two at a time, feeling the nagging, throbbing pain in his head increasing. All at once he wondered if the blow to his head had damaged his brains. Here he was, out on a hot and dusty day to check on the welfare of two foxhounds, all to please a young lady who liked him so little she had pretended to be mad, and furthermore was the daughter of an eccentric vicar whose plot against his bishop was the sole reason that he, Simon Garfield, was suffering from a confounded headache.
He rapped on Mr Apsley’s door with unn
ecessary vigour and was rewarded with a volley of barking and the scrabble of paws against the door on the other side.
The door swung open. Bellsire and Thunderer threw themselves against Mr Garfield, whimpering and slavering, and behind them, cutting at their stems with a whip, was an enraged Mr Apsley.
‘I’ll kill those curst hell hounds,’ he roared. ‘Look what they’ve done, dammit.’
He reached behind him and held up a mangled and chewed hessian boot.
Mr Garfield leaned wearily against the door jamb.
‘Can’t you take these animals inside, Edwin?’ he said. ‘My head aches like the very deuce. What on earth are you doing with these animals in London? They should be in the country.’
‘I’ll kill the pair o’ them,’ roared Mr Apsley, taking another cut at Thunderer’s rear. Thunderer showed the whites of his eyes and forced his way between Mr Garfield’s legs, seeking refuge.
Mr Garfield twitched the whip from his friend’s grasp and threw it down the stairwell.
‘Now will you pay attention, Edwin? Am I to stand here all day while you shout and cavort? Leave the whoresons of hounds alone and let me inside so that I may sit down and drink a glass of wine.’
‘Been drinking deep,’ said Mr Apsley sympathetically. ‘Got just the thing for it.’
He led the way into a cluttered living room. Mr Apsley was wearing a morning cap and a banyan, that comfortable cotton house-gown so beloved by members of the ton. A stocky, cheerful young man, he made up for what he lacked in intellect by being almost generally good-natured. He had dusty fair hair and a snub nose in a round face which was his private despair. No amount of pinching or pulling seemed able to bring it up to Mr Garfield’s aristocratic prominence.
Simon Garfield sank gratefully into a chair. Both hounds crept under it. ‘What’s this?’ he asked as Mr Apsley handed him a mud-coloured drink.
‘No heel taps,’ grinned Mr Apsley. ‘Tell you after.’
Mr Garfield took a large gulp and then placed his glass carefully on the table. ‘What is this filth?’ he enquired pleasantly.
‘Brandy and buttermilk. Nothing like it.’
Mr Garfield sighed. ‘You are quite right. There isn’t. Pour me a glass of hock and seltzer, there’s a good fellow, and tell me why you are lashing these poor animals. You are not normally so bad-tempered. Has your fair lady left you?’
‘That seems to be it in a nutshell,’ agreed Mr Apsley gloomily. ‘Greedy little charmer, she was. But such shoulders! Got to send these hounds off.’
‘They are perfectly good foxhounds,’ said Mr Garfield. ‘They were in prime condition when I gave them to you. Now I remark that they are frightened, their coats are dull, they lack exercise, and they do not look as if they have been fed.’
‘They’ll be right as rain when I get them down to the country,’ said Mr Apsley.
‘No, I do not think so,’ said Mr Garfield quietly. He took a sip of the glass of hock and seltzer his friend had just given him and half-closed his eyes.
Mr Apsley glanced at the clock and gave a start. ‘Ods Niggins! I’ve got to be in Cavendish Square in half an hour and my man is out on an errand. Well, I’ll need to dress myself. Ah, the trials of fashion. You do seem worried about those wretched animals.’
‘I would not treat a horse the way you treat those animals,’ said Mr Garfield severely. ‘You must not take out your unrequited love on dumb foxhounds.’
‘Look, you are upset,’ called Mr Apsley from the bedroom. ‘I’ll feed ’em and pet ’em and send ’em off tonight.’
Bellsire crept out from under the chair and put a large paw on Mr Garfield’s knee.
‘Down,’ he commanded sternly. ‘No, my dear Edwin,’ he said raising his voice, ‘I must inform you I am buying these hounds back. In fact, since you have not yet given me the money for them, I regard them as my own.’
‘Then have ’em,’ came Mr Apsley’s cheerful voice. ‘Can’t stand the beasts.’
Strange, mused Mr Garfield, absently stroking Thunderer’s ears as the dog poked his head out and rested it on Mr Garfield’s boot, that one really does not know one’s friends. I never would have thought old Edwin a vicious sort of fellow, and yet his treatment of two fine foxhounds is callous in the extreme, not to say downright silly, since they are valuable dogs.
He blinked slightly as Mr Apsley finally emerged in all the glory of the costume of the Four in Hand Club. He was wearing a blue single-breasted coat with a long waist, ornamented with brass buttons engraved with the words ‘Four in Hand Club’. Under it, he sported a waistcoat of kerseymere ornamented with alternate stripes of blue and yellow. His small clothes were of white corduroy, made moderately high, and very long over the knee, buttoning in front over the shin bone.
His boots were very short with long tops, only one outside strap to each, and one to the back; the latter were employed to keep the breeches in their proper longitudinal shape. His hat had a conical crown and an Allen brim. Over it all, he wore a box coat of white drab cloth with fifteen capes, two tiers of pockets, and an inside one for a Belcher handkerchief. His cravat was of white muslin spotted with black. As a finishing touch, he thrust a bouquet of pink geraniums in his buttonhole.
‘You will die of the heat,’ pointed out Mr Garfield, ‘and I thought those buttons were out of fashion. Queen Anne shillings are the thing, dear boy.’
‘I’m bringing ’em In again,’ said Mr Apsley triumphantly. ‘I won’t feel the heat once I set my team in motion.’
Mr Garfield picked up two dog leashes from the table and snapped his fingers. Thunderer and Bellsire crept out. He fastened the leashes to the dogs’ collars and rose to find Mr Apsley surveying him with awkward embarrassment.
‘I say, Simon,’ ventured Mr Apsley. ‘You ain’t thinking of promenading through the streets of London with two foxhounds?’
‘No,’ said Mr Garfield equably. ‘You will be driving us.’
‘Won’t do. What if my Kitty should see us? No, no, Simon. If you want to make a cake of yourself, do it without my presence. I would never live it down. Why, I wouldn’t be invited anywhere! Now you, you don’t go anywhere so it’s not the same.’
‘You amaze me, Edwin. Not only are you cruel to animals, you are extremely egotistical, and have the manners of a Cit.’
‘Oh, I say, you ain’t serious?’
‘Probably not,’ sighed Mr Garfield. ‘My head aches and I am so very hot. Here comes your man. Do not trouble to show me out. I shall precede you with my obnoxious hounds. Bellsire, Thunderer. Come!’
The dogs meekly followed him from the apartment and quietly negotiated the long flight of stairs. Once out in the street, they showed alarming signs of being about to leap about the whole of the Tottenham Court Road with sheer joy at their deliverance.
‘Dog’s meat!’ shouted a man cheerfully. ‘Prime dog’s meat, guv. Horse flesh, bullock’s livers, tripe cuttings.’
Mr Garfield gathered the leashes in one hand and raised a scented handkerchief to his nose with the other.
‘Two pounds of whatever you please,’ he said faintly. He paid the required price of fivepence and went on his way with the dogs panting at his heels, leading the way through the network of streets which approached Piccadilly.
Along Piccadilly strolled the impeccable Mr Garfield, oblivious to the raised quizzing glasses and startled stares of the ton.
He made his way into the Green Park where he spread the package of dog’s meat out on the grass. ‘I should have it cooked,’ he said, ‘but you are probably hungry enough to eat it raw.’
The dogs fell on the meat while Mr Garfield settled himself on an iron park bench and fished his cheroot box out of his pocket. The two dogs finished their meal in record time and then lay panting in the sun, their tongues lolling out.
Mr Garfield sat and smoked and wondered whether he should risk enduring an evening at Lady Godolphin’s. There was no real reason to believe that Daphne Armitage would be in town. But he had expres
sed an interest in furthering his acquaintance with her and that should be enough to spur on any parent, particularly one as avaricious as he had sensed the vicar to be. Mr Garfield had been hunted down by ambitious parents from the day he had come into his inheritance. He had summed up the reverend as being an extremely mercenary man. Poor Daphne was probably hustled off to London the day after his departure.
Daphne, who would by now have been made aware of his power and fortune, would no longer fascinate him by pretending to be mad but would simper and giggle and flirt like all the other girls who had bored him so much in the past.
Everything in London seemed to be exhausted by the long drought of summer. He could not even remember when it had last rained. The grass was parched and dusty and the leaves of the trees rustled metallically in the dry breeze. There was to be a Grand Review of Volunteers in Hyde Park on the morrow. Perhaps he might invite Miss Armitage, if Miss Armitage did not prove as tedious as he was sure she would turn out to be.
At last he rose and collected his charges and made his leisurely way home with the happy dogs, full of food, stumbling at his heels.
He would have banished them to the kitchens but they looked so cowed and terrified that he impatiently ordered his servants to let them stay.
At last he stepped out into the hot, still evening, dressed in his best. He wore a severely cut black dress coat with silver buttons over a white piqué waistcoat. His pantaloons of fawn stockinette fitted his legs like a second skin.
His copper hair was cut à la Titus and he wore his cravat in the Osbaldiston. Although he was often pointed out as a notable Corinthian because of his expertise at all sorts of sport, Mr Garfield did not affect the Tom and Jerry fashions of the other Corinthians who seemed determined to look as if they had just left the stables.
He stood calmly waiting for his carriage and trying to ignore the howls of canine anguish which were filling the house behind him.
He was not a hunting man and began to worry whether foxhounds were more sensitive than other breeds. He wondered insanely whether they might go into a decline.
Daphne Page 5
