by Robert Neill
‘Are you calling this a joke?’
‘No-o.’ She drawled it out thoughtfully. ‘I don’t like getting the worst of it. I’m supposed to call the tune, and this time he did. But it was certainly a change from Hillie.’
‘So it seems. You’d have been wiser to stay with Hildersham.’
‘Oh no.’
‘What!’
‘Oh, he’s different from Hillie, of course, but. . .’
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘I’m not sure I do.’
‘Can’t you talk sense?’
‘Not all the time.’
‘Well--what happened after all this?’
‘Oh, he took me home--where he was staying. He’d a coach waiting. And don’t ask me what happened after that, because you shouldn’t need to. So I had to use my wits.’
‘It’s lucky you have some. But go on.’
‘Oh ...’ She stretched herself lazily. ‘I got a bit tired of it, being chased about all day and having to do as I was told.’
‘You?’
‘Why not?’
‘It must have been new to you.’
‘It certainly wasn’t. What are you thinking of?’ She spoke sharply and the indignant tone had come suddenly back to her. ‘I’ve had as much of that as anybody. Didn’t I tell you I worked in an inn--and then a lady’s maid? What do you think that was like? Of course I know it wasn’t the same.’
‘Why not?’
‘Oh, heaven help you!’ She sounded half amused, half exasperated. ‘Can’t you see the difference between being chased about by Tommy and that blasted woman?’
‘What woman?’
‘My mistress, of course, when I was a maid. She used to slap my face and rap my knuckles, and every now and then, when she wasn’t pleased, she’d have my skirts up and give me a taste of a switch. Don’t look surprised. It’s common enough in country houses, where there’s no one to complain to.’
‘Ye-es. I’ve heard of such things.’
‘I’ve done more than hear of them. Though, mind you, it was a way of learning.’
‘Learning what?’
‘Manners, mostly--suitable to my humble station.’ She chuckled suddenly. ‘I’ll try them on you, one day--me, very respectful. That’ll surprise you.’
‘Very likely, if I believe it. Could you keep to the point?’
‘Yes, sir--at once, sir.’ She was sitting suddenly upright with her face demure and solemn. ‘As you command, sir.’
‘What the devil!’
‘Oh, all right. I was only showing you I could.’ The blue eyes were suddenly twinkling, and her face crinkled with laughter. ‘I still know how. But what’s this point I’m to keep to--sir?’
‘Stop it. I want to know what happened afterwards--with Luttrell.’
‘Oh . . .’ She waved a hand vaguely. ‘I said I wanted to be home again--better in London--that sort of thing. So he brought me.’
‘Chartering a special packet, I’m told?’
‘Well, he had to look after me. I might have been seasick. I was.’
‘I wish I’d seen you.’
‘Brute!’
‘Then you shut him out, it seems?’
‘Well, he can’t play tricks like that in London, keeping me like a pet spaniel, all shut up. He hadn’t thought of that, but now he has. Do him good.’
‘And about time too.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Stop it, I tell you.’ He stared at her, exasperated, as he saw the amusement that was crinkling her face again. ‘There are times when that pretty face of yours is the most impudent thing I’ve seen for years.’
‘Mine?’ She pushed her tongue out in mock dismay. ‘But you do think it’s pretty?’
‘I said impudent.’
‘Yes, dear.’ She gazed solemnly back, and then for a moment she changed and the amusement seemed to leave her. ‘You know what to do, if I’m too impudent?’
‘What?’
‘Box my ears. Oh, it’s all right. . .’ She was looking him straight in the eye. ‘It wouldn’t do me any harm. I’ve had it often enough.’ The twinkle came suddenly back to her eyes. ‘I’d like to see you in a temper.’
‘You probably will, if you don’t behave. What are you going to do next--now you’re home again?’
‘Oh, find somebody else. I can’t afford to be without.’ Her head tilted back and the smile appeared again. ‘So I’ll have to show myself. Filly in the ring, so to speak. I’ll drive in the Park.’
‘That curricle of yours?’
‘Isn’t it lovely?’ She nodded vigorously. ‘I’ll have to be careful, though, till I’ve the horses in hand again. They’re out of schooling.’
‘So are you.’
‘I’m not. Didn’t I tell you what Tommy---‘
‘That’s enough about Tommy. I’ve no wish to hear of him.’
‘I haven’t either, the great brute! He hasn’t any money either--just now. Can’t throw dice.’ She frowned thoughtfully for a moment. ‘I’d George Curry to see me. Do you remember him? In the Blues? Then there was Micky.’
‘Who?’
‘Micky Murphy. Don’t you know him?’
‘The Irishman?’
‘Sure he is, so please you. He hasn’t any money at all, and I gave him his breakfast. I wasn’t sure he’d had any. Ah well . . .’ Her head tilted mischievously. ‘I’ll find somebody soon. It’s a good thing I’ve talking eyes.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘They say “Come here”, and someone does.’
‘Damn him.’
‘Oh, you poor dear!’ She suddenly sounded as if she were soothing a child. ‘Now listen--you know I get a lot of presents, from men. And of all I’ve had--ever had--there’s only one I want to keep. It reminds me.’
‘Anice!’
She was looking at Amphion, black and yellow, white and blue with specks of gold, and her face had changed again. Then she turned back to him, and her eyes were different. The twinkle had gone, and they seemed bigger and of a deeper blue. He thought they looked troubled.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘You. I want to know what you’ve been doing in the country. What did you--find out?’
She seemed utterly different, older now and ill at ease, and she was watching him intently. She put him in mind of something, and he could not think what it was. She was someone else, someone he had known; and then suddenly it cleared, and the face in ivory was before him again, the face he remembered aboard Royal Sovereign, a little tired and strained, as they had all been before Trafalgar. It was before him in memory, and it was in the room as well. It was Anice, and for the moment she, too, looked tired and strained.
‘Tell me,’ she said softly.
‘I think you know Lord Barford?’
‘I used to--rather well.’
‘Can’t you guess what he talked about?’
‘What?’
‘His son. He had a miniature of him, on ivory, and I saw the face. Besides, I used to know him, in the Navy.’
‘You would!’
It came very quietly, but her eyes met his again and he knew that she had understood. She moved slightly, looking down at the satin of the sofa, and for a moment she seemed to droop. He spoke gently.
‘Your brother, wasn’t he? Or half-brother?’
‘Half.’ The word came fiercely, and her head had lifted. ‘I wasn’t Barford’s--and he let me know it. I thought it was finished--and you would have to meet him--of all men! What did you talk about, besides Dick? Me, I suppose?’
‘No.’
‘What!’
‘Not with Barford. You weren’t even mentioned.’
‘You didn’t--find out about me?’
‘Perhaps I guessed something.’ He spoke gently. ‘Perhaps you were Ann Atkins, once.’
‘Once?’ She echoed it bitterly. ‘I thought it was forgotten. Who told you?’
‘No one. I said I guessed.’ He was picking words now. ‘I�
��d some talk with Mary Wickham about her family. I heard how her grandparents came, and brought Ann Hart----’
‘Oh!’ She cut him short with it. ‘So it all came out?’
‘No, it didn’t. I’ve told you I guessed--after seeing that miniature of Dick. But I didn’t speak of it, to anybody. And I won’t, if you don’t wish me to.’
‘Wish you to? And have all the Town at it? Me, in a village, and then running away, and being a chamber-maid, and----‘
‘Anice!’
‘Oh, all right. But you know how they can laugh. Can’t you hear them roasting me for it? Little unwashed witch’s girl! That’s what they’ll say.’
‘Midshipman Barford’s sister.’
‘I wasn’t. I wasn’t allowed to be.’ She seemed happier now, and she lifted herself, smoothing her skirts and seating herself more comfortably. ‘Don’t think I lived at the Manor. Dick was there--squire’s son and heir--but I wasn’t. I lived with Granny, in a cottage on the green, and I was kept in my place. I wasn’t even supposed to know him, except as young squire. I was to dip a curtsey when I met him, and call him “sir”.’
‘And did you?’
‘I had to, when there was anyone about. He wasn’t like that, mind you. He’d call me sister when we were alone, and talk to me, but Barford hated me. Do you know why?’
‘Jealousy, perhaps--of your father?’
‘It was---‘ She stopped short, as if she had suddenly checked herself, and for an instant her eyes were intent on his. Then she seemed to hurry past it. ‘Call it jealousy. Anyway, he didn’t treat me well, or Granny either--and I didn’t like it. The Wickhams were different, all of them, and they were good to both of us, while they were at home. But they were away when she died, all at the wars except Miss Mary, and I don’t know where she was. There was talk of her being married. So do you wonder I ran off? There was nothing for me in that village.’ She suddenly sat erect, and again her eyes seemed to hold him and pull him closer. ‘You aren’t going to tell people about this? Promise?’
‘Of course.’
‘Good.’ She let herself relax again. ‘I couldn’t bear it now. It’s all dead, and I just want to be Anice and nobody else. Not little Annie.’
‘Is that what they called you?’
‘Most of them. Miss Mary called me Ann, and John---‘
She broke off, and her eyebrows lifted mischievously. ‘John Wickham, I mean. He called me Kitten.’
‘The devil he did!’
‘Now, now! You’ve that jealous look again.’ She moved closer, rubbing her head softly against his shoulder. ‘Just because I knew him, years and years ago? Boy-and-girl stuff?’
‘I don’t know what that means.’
‘No, you probably never did. But he was just off to the war--orders to sail--and I had to be nice to him. And he did look well, in scarlet.’ Her tongue pushed out for a moment, and her eyes were dancing. ‘I’ve never seen you in uniform.’
‘We don’t wear it ashore.’
‘Oh, heaven help you! What an answer!’ She quivered with laughter again, and then as quickly took another change. ‘Talk of something else. Tell me about Miss Mary.’
‘Well . . .’ He had to brace himself to deal with this, and then he was carefully casual. ‘I found her very pleasant--easy to talk to.’
‘She is.’ There was a vigorous little nod to confirm it. ‘Of course, they all were, the Wickhams, but Miss Mary . . .’ She stopped, and her mouth had opened as if she were surprised. ‘I’m still saying it, aren’t I?’
‘What?’
‘Miss Mary. Of course, it’s what I always said. It’s how I used to think of her, but she isn’t that now, anyway. What is she, since she was married?’
‘Lady St. Hollith.’
‘That’s it. But I don’t suppose I’ll see her any more.’
‘She may see you, though. She’s to be in Town next month--staying with Barford. He’s taken a house in Curzon Street!’
‘Hell!’ She stared at him in consternation. ‘John too? Will he be there?’
‘He may be in London, but---‘
‘And me the talk of the Town!’
‘Then don’t be the talk.’
‘I have to be. Who’d want me if I wasn’t?’
‘I should.’
‘You’re different. It’s all these others. Does John know about me--who I am?’
‘No. He hasn’t seen Miss Anstey. So he doesn’t know.’
‘He will, though, if he comes here. He can’t help seeing me. Shut his mouth for me, will you? Tell him he’s to keep quiet.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘And Miss Mary, too, if you can--though it isn’t so easy with women. She mightn’t approve of me, either. She’d a rather proper mind.’ She suddenly tossed her head, and then her eyes seemed to come to a greater brilliance. ‘You approve of me, don’t you?’
‘Anice!’
‘Because I don’t know what I’d do if you didn’t. You’re the only one I can talk to--be easy with, and not watch what I say. Are you staying in Town?’
‘For a time.’
‘You’ve to keep coming to me. What--what are you doing to my dress?’
‘Taking it off.’
‘You’re not to.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Oh--nothing. You’re getting better. Practice, I suppose?’
12 Sharp Encounter
The Anstey was back in Town and the whole town knew it. There was no chance not to. Her dress, her curricle, and her adventures were the talk of everyone. She had been the mistress of the Earl of Hildersham, had been in Paris with him, and had cost him a pretty penny, it was said. Then she had left him, or rather she had been abducted; and there was an uproarious tale of her being carried away, kicking and cursing, on the shoulder of Sir Thomas Luttrell; and ladies exchanged salacious tales of how she had been reduced to order and treated as the chit she was. It could have led to pistols, perhaps, between Hildersham and Luttrell, but it had not done, and now they were back in Town together, the one in the Park and the other driving coaches and flooring Charleys--which meant night-watchmen. But, more important, she was in Town, and if she had ever been reduced to order she had apparently recovered, and with her impudence undiminished. She had been seen again in Hildersham’s barouche, and in a hazard room with Sir Thomas Luttrell--though not at Almack’s. She had dined with Sir Michael Murphy and walked by the Serpentine with Captain Curry, feeding the geese. There were tales, too, of a Captain Grant, a navy man, who had been to her house in Queen Street and was thought to have been well received. Others had called to leave their cards, and the silver bowl in the hall was said to be filled each evening. She was, in short, the toast of the Town, the reigning Queen of Hearts, and she did what was expected of her. She let the Town see her, and the fiery greys in the primrose curricle were the sight of London.
She was driving now through the Chesterfield Gate, deftly avoiding a phaeton that had stopped for someone, and then she made for Rotten Row, with the greys at a faster trot than was usual on that road. Twice she had to haul them sharply back, and when she reached the Row they were down to a careful walk when they could move at all. Often they could not, as gigs and phaetons stopped in her path and gentlemen gave their greetings. The ladies said less, but their eyes were sharp as they noted her easy ways and the liberties she took with fashion. She was not in muslin now, for this was October and there was a chill in the air despite the brilliant sun. Her pelisse was of velvet, cherry-red, with a scarf of lavender silk thrown carelessly round her neck, a mixture that was surely her own; and neither the red nor the velvet was fashionable. She had lavender gloves too, when tan was the colour of the year, and to complete it she was without a hat. It was blunder after blunder; or would have been, if any lady had thought it done from ignorance. But no lady thought anything of the kind, and one formidable dowager summed it up for all of them. The baggage, she declared, knew what she was doing.
She was at least being notice
d. To the men, who cared nothing for what she did with fashion, she looked soft and charming, and her corn-coloured curls, still carefully untidy, gave sparkle to the gaiety of colour that she offered. Gentlemen stopped their gigs to speak to her; they ranged alongside on fine blood horses; they stepped out of the crowd to raise their hats, and her progress along the Row was usually so impeded that it could better have been called a Progress. But today she was not inclined to stop. She was gay and courteous, and her retorts were as charming and outrageous as ever, but her eyes kept turning to the crowd, ranging here and there as if she might be seeking someone, and suddenly it appeared that she was. She had done a little more than half the distance of the Row when she leaned sharply back, the white reins stretching taut as she pulled the greys to a halt. Then she turned to the side, her eyebrows lifting and a grin splitting across her face. She beckoned imperiously, heedless of spectators; heedless, too, of Sir Thomas Luttrell, who had been pressing through the crowd on a horse as black as himself and was now close behind her. Instead she waved again, and Captain Grant, who had been standing on the footpath, watching the curricle approach, stepped into the carriage-way. He was surprised and pleased, very conscious of the eyes of everyone as he swept his hat to her.
‘Jump in.’ She cut him short brusquely. ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘Nothing wrong?’
‘Everything’s wrong. I don’t know what’s going to happen. Come on.’
It was at this moment that Luttrell rode up, a curt touch of his hat serving as salute to her. There was a curt nod to Richard, and then he spoke as curtly.
‘Good day, Anice. ‘Day to you, sir. You didn’t seem to want me this afternoon?’
‘Didn’t I?’ Anice swung round, looking as little pleased as he. ‘I didn’t know you were there. I wasn’t watching for you, today.’
‘So it seems. Well, I’m here.’
‘Then be somewhere else. It’s no good, Tommy, I’m busy. I want to talk to him.’
‘There are one or two things that I want, too.’
