Daphne

by Beaton, M. C.

  ‘I was wounded,’ went on Mr Garfield, ‘and did not see very much action. I was still very young when I was invalided home. I gambled a great deal and seemed well on my way to losing my family’s fortune. My mother was dead and my father, ailing. Then a friend of mine lost heavily at the tables and shot himself through the mouth – I beg your pardon, Miss Daphne. It shocked me so much. My life suddenly seemed useless. Then another gambling friend, a man much older than I, met me one day in Bond Street and told me he had entered the world of trade and had managed to restore his fortune. I was fascinated by his tale and went with him to the City where I fell immediately in love with the world of trade and commerce. It was a milieu in which I could gamble in a way and yet reap the benefits of hard work, long hours, and an unexpected gift for business. Perhaps my connection with trade may give you a disgust of me, Miss Daphne.’

  Daphne shook her head.

  ‘I call it a betrayal of our class,’ said Mr Archer with rare animation. ‘Don’t you feel you smell of the shop?’

  ‘Don’t you feel you are being rude enough to warrant me calling you out?’ countered Mr Garfield with a sweet smile.

  Mr Archer relapsed into resentful muttering. He had to talk to Daphne. He had to be sure of her. But the fog was thickening rapidly outside and his hand strayed nervously to the white glory of his cravat, already imagining the gentle rain of soot that must already be falling outside.

  Lady Godolphin, becoming weary and remembering her own love troubles, at last sighed and looked pointedly at the clock. She had also decided that the whole mess about Annabelle’s baby could simply be decided by asking Annabelle. She planned to send Daphne upstairs to lie down and rest before the rigours of the evening. They were all to go and see Kemble in Lear. Shakespeare was a playwright Lady Godolphin considered infinitely boring and she hoped the sight and sound of the mad king prosing on for quite three hours would agonize Mr Archer just as much as she was sure it would agonize herself.

  The gentlemen rose, Lady Godolphin rang the bell, and they were shown out.

  After Daphne had trailed upstairs, Lady Godolphin sat and thought about Colonel Arthur Brian. The more she thought, the more miserable she became. It was all so hopeless. She would never see him again.

  Her thoughts were so gloomy, so unutterably hopeless, so despairing, that she was almost beginning to enjoy herself when Mice announced the return of Mr Garfield.

  Lady Godolphin brightened slightly as she always brightened at the sight of a handsome man.

  ‘Forgot something, Mr Garfield?’ she asked. ‘Forgive me for not rising. I have the vapours.’

  Mr Garfield eyed the plump figure of Lady Godolphin, which was stretched out on the sofa, with sympathetic amusement.

  ‘I will only take up a little of your time, my lady. What is the matter with Miss Daphne? Something is troubling her badly.’

  ‘Oh, pooh!’ sighed Lady Godolphin. ‘What a Cheltenham tragedy has been enacted. But it is all well now, or will be as soon as I speak to that totty-headed sister of hers.’

  ‘I do not think Miss Daphne indifferent to me,’ said Mr Garfield, taking a turn about the room. Lady Godolphin watched the play of muscles on his thighs and sighed gustily. ‘I told her at Brighton that I wished to marry her and she accepted. I did not ask her in so many words but I told her I would call on her father the following day. The next thing I knew she had quitted Brighton without even leaving a note, and, furthermore, that she had subsequently become engaged to Archer.’

  ‘I thought she had told me everything,’ complained Lady Godolphin. ‘As if thinking her pa had committed incest with Annabelle were not …’

  ‘My lady!’

  ‘Oh, lor’!’ Lady Godolphin looked guiltily at Mr Garfield. ‘It’s all a farradiddle. Archer overheard Mr Armitage saying as how he had been able to give Annabelle a baby when her husband could not. So he thought the worst. So he tells Daphne he’ll spread the whole story about London if she don’t marry him.’

  ‘How on earth could anyone believe such a thing?’

  ‘Seen the baby?’ demanded Lady Godolphin. ‘Got a look o’ Charles as he is now. Can’t blame Daphne. Frightened out of her wits. Baby ain’t Annabelle’s, mark you. But stands to reason it can’t be Mr Armitage’s, not but what it might be one of his by-blows, if you take my meaning, but not by his own flesh and blood.’

  ‘And what did Mr Armitage and Lady Brabington have to say when you confronted them with this monstrous accusation?’

  ‘I haven’t had the time,’ said Lady Godolphin crossly. ‘I shall write to Charles, summoning him to London. Daphne only told me after the ball. I decided to try to give Archer a disgust of her in the meantime by takin’ him to the British Museum and letting Daphne get herself up like a fright. I had just decided to call on Annabelle but I was taken with the vapours, my heart being broke.’

  ‘Colonel Arthur Brian,’ announced Mice lugubriously.

  Lady Godolphin twisted her head on the sofa cushion and gazed incredulously at the spare figure of the colonel who was framed in the doorway, leaning on his cane.

  ‘My love,’ he said brokenly. ‘I could not rest until I saw you. There has been no other woman who has touched my soul like you.’

  Mr Garfield opened his mouth to demand further information about the mess his beloved appeared to have become embroiled in, but Lady Godolphin held out her fat arms, Colonel Arthur Brian threw away his cane, darted across the room and fell on top of her.

  It looked, thought Mr Garfield, eyeing the thin elderly back sourly, as if the colonel had fallen face down on a feather bed.

  He went out and quietly closed the door behind him.

  He stood in the hall, irresolute. Should he send for Daphne?

  He decided he wanted to slay this particular dragon for her and lay it at her feet before he spoke to her again. How amazingly stupid to go through all this agony and not just ask where the wretched baby came from.

  Automatically adjusting his curly-brimmed beaver to the correct angle, he made his way out into the fog.

  Daphne was not asleep. She was worrying over the disappearance of the maid, Betty. Lady Godolphin must be informed and the authorities alerted. Daphne had questioned the servants and was appalled to find out that Betty had been missing for days. She had assumed the sulky maid had simply been keeping away from her and not performing her duties as lady’s maid out of some strange feeling of pique.

  Daphne made her way downstairs. The house was silent. Lady Godolphin had not been in her bedchamber.

  She pushed open the door of the drawing room.

  The sight that met her eyes scandalized her so much that for what seemed an age but was in fact only a few seconds she could only stand and stare.

  Then she whipped herself out of the room, her heart beating painfully and her breathing constricted.

  Who could she turn to now that her one support was gone? Now that her one support was playing some peculiar kind of naked leapfrog with Colonel Arthur Brian.

  Hopeworth was very far away.

  Minerva!

  Minerva was the one she should have turned to. Now that she no longer believed her father capable of such a heinous sin, Daphne longed for Minerva’s quiet voice and cool touch.

  She returned to her room and changed into more fashionable clothes: a merino gown with a thick grey cloak lined with damask to cover it, York tan gloves on her hands, and a modish bonnet on her head.

  She rang for Mice and ordered the carriage to be brought round and then went downstairs, making as much noise as possible, frightened that the doors of the drawing room would fly open to reveal that terrible sight again.

  Although Minerva lived only a short way away the fog was so thick that the carriage had to edge slowly through it while two footmen walked ahead, bearing flaming torches to light the way.

  By the time they reached Minerva’s home Daphne was frozen to the bone, despite the thick fur carriage rugs over her knees and the hot brick at her feet.
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  She felt if Minerva proved to be absent, then she simply could not bear it.

  But Minerva was there, her eyes lighting up with concern as they fell on Daphne’s white, strained face.

  She drew her into the downstairs saloon, calling to the servants to bring a glass of negus and to build up the fire. Daphne huddled in a chair, her teeth chattering, while Minerva knelt before her and rubbed at her hands to get them warm.

  Minerva was feeling very worried and guilty. Something terrible had obviously happened, and the sight of the pinched and shivering Daphne brought back memories of the young Daphne, as she had been before she became obsessed with her own beauty.

  ‘Now what is the matter?’ asked Minerva gently. ‘There is nothing so bad that we cannot put it right. Sylvester is at his club. Would you like me to send for him?’

  Daphne shook her head and a large tear rolled down her cheek.

  Minerva stood up and untied the strings of Daphne’s bonnet and smoothed her hair back from her brow with a gentle hand.

  ‘You must tell me what ails you, Daphne. Else how can I help?’

  Daphne gulped and sobbed and the whole story came pouring out. In all her distress, Daphne could not help noticing with a sort of wonder that Minerva did not look in the slightest shocked.

  Minerva was, in fact, too busy chastising herself for having neglected Daphne’s welfare so badly; for having judged her own sister so harshly on mere surface appearance.

  Minerva was forcibly reminded of the horrors of her own visit to London. The idea of their father having committed incest was so ludicrous it was the only thing that made her want to smile. She would well understand how a girl as innocent and naive as Daphne, exposed to all the whispers and gossip of society, could believe such a tale, and also understand her frantic determination to try to protect her family by herself.

  ‘But what is Lady Godolphin about?’ demanded Minerva at last. ‘Has she not done something? Did she not think to ask Annabelle where the baby came from? All poor Papa said was, “You know,” which means he agrees the baby is not Annabelle’s, but that was all. I think you are all quite, quite mad.’

  ‘Lady Godolphin,’ said Daphne, blushing to the roots of her hair, ‘has just become reconciled with Colonel Brian and is too occupied at the moment to …’

  ‘Oh, how shamefully I have behaved!’ cried Minerva. ‘To leave you in the care of that so very kind but so very shocking lady. But you did really fool us all, Daphne dear. Do you remember when you left Brighton? I was quite cross with you for encouraging poor Mr Garfield and then leaving, and all you would say coldly was that Brighton bored you and we were not modish enough! When I heard you had become engaged to Mr Archer, I was still angry with you and thought you deserved each other. Your brothers-in-law were not consulted because Brabington was away at the time as well as Desire, and Sylvester would only laugh and say he would not believe the pair of you would ever reach the altar, and it was just as well to let you “get it out of your system”. Drink your negus and we will go immediately to Annabelle, and then we will let the gentlemen deal with Mr Archer!’

  * * *

  Mr Garfield was finding his visit to the Brabingtons much harder than he had anticipated. He was seated with the Marquess of Brabington, discussing an excellent bottle of port. Annabelle was dressing and would join them shortly. Everything seemed so quiet and normal. How on earth could he broach the subject? ‘Well, Brabington, and how’s your little bastard coming along?’

  He was just about to make a start somehow when the door opened and Annabelle tripped into the room.

  She was much changed from the last time he had seen her. Gone was the petulant spoiled beauty, and in her place a mature and glowing woman with eyes only for her husband.

  Their happiness was almost tangible. The marquess refilled Mr Garfield’s glass, leaned back in his chair, and asked, ‘And to what do we owe the pleasure of this visit, Garfield?’

  Mr Garfield searched wildly for any polite and social opening and could think of none.

  He simply plunged in and told the story of the blackmailing of Daphne in as curt and brief a manner as possible.

  Mr Garfield had a strong desire to slap Lady Brabington, who succumbed to a helpless fit of the giggles, choking over and over again, ‘Papa! And I? How rich! How exquisite! I always said Daphne had more hair than wit.’

  ‘You are behaving badly, my love,’ said the Marquess of Brabington coldly, and Annabelle hurriedly apologized. ‘Do not be cross with me, Peter,’ she said. ‘You know I always giggle when things really upset me. That is when I am at my most silliest. You must forgive me, Mr Garfield, as well. Papa came this very day and took the baby away. Oh, Peter will explain everything.’

  And explain he did, while Mr Garfield was torn between relief, amusement, and anger against the Reverend Charles Armitage who he damned as an unfeeling, stupid parent.

  ‘So what will we do now?’ asked Annabelle when all the explanations were over.

  ‘I think Mr Garfield is perfectly capable of silencing Mr Archer,’ said the marquess, ‘or would you like some help, Garfield?’

  ‘No,’ said that gentleman grimly, ‘I am quite capable of silencing him myself.’

  Annabelle gave a little shriek. ‘You will not kill him?’

  ‘Not I,’ said Mr Garfield, striding to the door. ‘He is not worth going to the scaffold for.’

  Mr Archer was sitting in Watier’s, gloomily playing at hazard. He had already thrown ‘crabs’ twice, and his partner had just thrown a main and ‘nicked it’, meaning he had won all the stakes. Mr Archer only played hazard because it was fashionable. He did not like losing money which should otherwise be spent on clothes.

  He had called at Lady Godolphin’s to escort Daphne to the theatre and had been told coldly by the butler that Miss Daphne was not at home and her ladyship was not receiving guests. He had taken himself off to the play and wandered moodily up and down until he was sure Daphne was nowhere to be seen.

  He wished heartily he had never looked in at Watier’s. He began to wish it even more when, feeling himself observed, he looked straight up into the glaring yellow eyes of Mr Simon Garfield.

  Mr Garfield leaned across the table, picked up Mr Archer’s glass of wine and threw it full in his face.

  ‘What did you do that for?’ screamed Mr Archer, mopping his face.

  ‘I do not like your waistcoat, sir,’ said Mr Garfield. ‘It is an offence to the polite eye.’

  The players around the table sat motionless. There was something so terrifying about Mr Garfield’s cold rage that not one man wanted to draw attention to himself. And Mr Archer had no friends.

  Mr Garfield walked around the table, took Mr Archer’s coat by the collar and roughly jerked him to his feet. ‘I should have known a lady like you would not dare to call me out,’ he jeered.

  Mr Archer sweated. The last thing he wanted to do was challenge anyone to a duel, particularly Mr Simon Garfield.

  ‘You are drunk!’ he squeaked.

  ‘Then let us find some cool night air. Will you come with me quietly or do I have to carry you out?’

  With an almost feminine scream, Mr Archer clutched at the table, his long nails digging into the green baize. ‘Help!’ he screamed.

  The club servants came running.

  Mr Garfield gave them an icy look, drew back his fist and slammed it into Mr Archer’s chin. Mr Archer slumped over the table.

  ‘Drunk again,’ said Mr Garfield, shaking his head. ‘I shall just have to take him home.’

  He glared about the room. ‘No one, I trust,’ he said silkily, ‘is going to stop me from taking my friend, Mr Archer, home.’

  The players cleared their throats, once more the dice box rattled, the servants drew back.

  Mr Garfield stooped and slung Mr Archer over his shoulder and strode from the club.

  Mr Archer slowly regained consciousness. His first thought on seeing the familiar surroundings of his lodgings was one of int
ense relief. Then he realized he was not alone. He was lying on his own sofa and Mr Garfield was glaring down at him.

  ‘Don’t kill me,’ bleated Mr Archer, trying to rise.

  ‘I am not going to kill you, much as I would like to,’ said Mr Garfield. ‘You, my friend, are going on a long journey. You are going to make the Grand Tour. You threaten Miss Daphne with scandal. You! What if London should know of that hyacinth you had in keeping some years ago? You have been guilty of a crime punishable by death. I could turn you over to the authorities.’

  ‘You can’t know. He died of the fever. There’s no proof.’ Mr Archer was white to the lips.

  ‘No, but there is the weapon of gossip and I will not hesitate to use it against you if you are still in London in the next two hours. I have told your servants you are leaving. Your trunks are packed.’

  ‘I will go. I will go. Don’t hit me again,’ babbled Mr Archer.

  ‘Very well. Tell me, Archer, why did a creature such as you wish to marry?’

  Mr Archer hung his head. A large tear plopped onto the wooden boards at his feet.

  Mr Garfield was seized with an awful pity. ‘Just be sure you are not here tomorrow,’ he said quietly. ‘There is no foundation for the scurrilous tale about Mr Armitage you threatened to put about, so you have no weapons left.’

  He turned on his heel and walked out of the room and down the stairs.

  Out in the street, he was met by a solid wall of greyish-black fog.

  Holding a handkerchief up to his mouth, Mr Garfield picked his way carefully along the street, while upstairs in the room above Mr Archer sat and shivered, holding his body tightly in his arms, and listening to the footsteps dying away in the night.

  EIGHT

  Mr Simon Garfield wandered on through the fog until he found himself turning in at Hanover Square. It was past midnight but carriages still crawled through the fog. He rapped loudly at the door, and waited. He had to see Daphne and tell her that all was well.