by Robert Neill
‘Prinny, do you mean?’
‘He wants to look at her. I’m told he’s harmless.’
‘I should think he is. But it will put little Ann at the top of things, if she can dine with him and have his notice.’
‘Don’t call her Ann. It’s what she’s asked you not to do.’
‘Sorry. Anice, then.’
‘Never mind that.’ Mary Ann had been listening with widening eyes, and now she pushed herself urgently back into the talk. ‘Can I call on her tomorrow?’
‘I expect so.’
‘Oh!’ It was almost a sigh of relief. ‘You see, it’s all different here, and Ann--no, Anice, I mean--knows it all, and I don’t.’
‘Then go to her tomorrow. Don’t be too early, though. She--er--mightn’t be ready.’
He stole a quick glance at the clock. It was half past six. Anice was expecting him at ten, and there was no need for Mary Ann to see him there in the morning. She could call later, and Anice had spoken of giving what was good for her, not what she wanted; but he need not mention that either.
‘Have you finished the fish?’ said John cheerfully. ‘We might all have some mutton, if you have. And it’s time you had some claret. Waiter! Now what about yourself? Are you going to Brighton?’
‘I can’t think I’ll be wanted there.’
‘Probably not. And you will, I gather, be wanted here.
At least---‘
He stopped, as the waiters came bustling to the table with the saddle of mutton, and its attendant sauces and vegetables.
There was carving, offering of dishes, pouring of claret, and then Mary Ann, perhaps now at ease, gave a healthy attention to the mutton. John stared thoughtfully at his knife, and then looked up again.
‘I was saying,’ he murmured, ‘that you might be wanted here. What I really meant was Barford--Mary too, of course. I thought I’d better tell you.’
‘Well--yes.’ There was sudden urgency in his tone. ‘Is she here?’
‘She was leaving home yesterday, with Barford, so they should be in Town this evening. But I’m afraid you are in the news. What’s this about Luttrell, by the way? They say you almost had a quarrel with him, about her?’
‘Forget Luttrell.’
‘If I were you I wouldn’t forget him. I shouldn’t think he’s much used to marching orders--if that’s what you gave him.’
‘Anice did. But what about Mary?’
‘But do keep an eye for Luttrell. Well. . .’ He considered it for a moment. ‘Perhaps you’d better leave Mary to me. I’ll go round to Curzon Street in the morning, and have a word with her. So I’d better see you again tomorrow.’
‘Dine with me, please. Larkin’s.’
‘Right. Larkin’s, then, at five-thirty. You’re sure you wouldn’t like to see Mary tonight?’
‘No, I couldn’t. I--I’ve an appointment.’
‘Oh, have you? Well, I won’t ask questions, but shall I tell Mary you’ll call on her tomorrow night?’
That would be much better. I’ll call on her after dinner.’
He could not call on Mary before then. It would be too soon after Anice. Barford alone would not have mattered. He would probably have sympathized, but Mary was different, and even seeing her after dinner might be running it close. His mind was filled with Anice now, her face, her voice, her touch and warmth, the whole fragrance of her, and for a moment he wondered if he should not give up all thought of calling on Mary, and send a message that he was engaged elsewhere, in heart and mind. Then he knew that he could not. He had promised it to Mary, and she was expecting him. He argued it with himself, asking what he was taking to Mary when all his thought and longing was with Anice; and at once, from some other part of him, the answer came. He needed Mary, perhaps as deeply as he needed Anice, for they were the two halves of his world, his sun and moon, light and dark. He began to see it as he sat back over the coffee and let John talk softly to Mary Ann. Mary was of his own world, perhaps the only world he could live in if he were to feel at ease and honour. She stood for it all. But Anice? His longing for her flared into fire as he thought of her, but even then that other side of him gave answer. She was of another world, and she was not likely to leave it. She was a queen within it, a Queen of Hearts, and in it she would stay. A Hildersham, perhaps, might pluck her from it, if he were fool enough to marry her, but she would not leave it for a sea officer.
They were thoughts for which he hated himself next morning as he slipped out of the dainty little door in Queen Street and walked away quickly, hoping not to be seen, and trying not to look back. He was filled with Anice. She had been at her most bewitching, and she had asked him--pressed him--to be with her in Brighton as soon as she had found the way of things and shown herself to Prinny. Then she would write; and if they could not share a lodging he could at least have one near by.
He did not walk in the Park that morning. He had been enough in the public eye, so he went eastwards instead, along Pall Mall and into the Strand, of which he knew almost nothing. It was almost a voyage of exploration, and by noon he had advanced into Fleet Street and had a look at St. Paul’s. Then he turned into a wine lodge for a glass of madeira and a slice of the madeira cake that went with it, and from the table in front of him he took the Morning Intelligencer. He glanced at the foreign news, turned the sheet, and got a shock. He was reading his own name, or what amounted to his own name.
There were three full columns of gossip, and the first of them was about Anice and himself. The paper had evidently had someone in the Park, and he had not missed much. There was an account of ‘Miss A***e An***y’ arriving in the Park in her curricle, with a description of both that and her clothes. Then came notes--and names--of the men she had spoken to in the Row; and then--in more detail than pleased him--an account of her stopping the curricle for ‘Captain R****d G***t, Royal Navy, late of the Am****n frigate, an officer who, as we understand, has lately been changing some part of his prize money for the delectable favours of Phryne.’
That would have been enough, but the rest was even worse. ‘The divinity, therefore, having hauled her steeds to rest, and the gallant captain being about to conduct a boarding operation (as smartly, no doubt, as becomes the Naval Service), there came another to the verdant scene--no less than Sir T****s L*tt**ll, an officer as distinguished under Venus as under Mars .. .’ There was another half-column of it, in the same high style, but as unpleasantly accurate in face. It related all that had happened until ‘Sir T****s was given peremptory discharge and leave to seek favour elsewhere. Further developments are awaited, since it is not thought likely that an officer so spirited will readily accept dismissal.’
He was red with annoyance when he ended it, and he was still fuming when he walked into Larkin’s at something before half past five that evening. He chose a table, ordered dinner, adjusted the candles to his liking, and then brooded on it again as he awaited his guest. He was still damning all journalists and wondering what Mary had made of it when John walked in, prompt to the minute and looking most irritatingly cheerful. He came straight to the table.
‘Ho! Well met.’ He sounded as happy as he looked. ‘I’m very fit for dinner. This for me?’
‘The sherry? I supposed you could take the half-pint?’
‘At least that. Well, well--you see me bereft of love.’
‘What?’
‘Bereft and left.’ He lifted his glass cheerfully. ‘That’s to say Mary Ann. She’s gone, so now I can breathe again.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Heaven, or something like it. But how’s it with you? All well?’
‘No.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘These damned newspapers.’
‘Oh, that?’ John nodded slowly. ‘I suppose it is a little tricky.’
‘Tricky! How’s Mary taking it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Didn’t you see her?’
‘She hadn’t read the papers then. Or I don�
��t think she had.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Ten o’clock. I thought I might as well have breakfast with them. What’s this? Lobster?’
‘A change from soup. I like a ragout.’
‘So do I. Well . . .’ He leaned back while his plate was filled. ‘Mary’s all right. Quite cheerful. Looking forward to seeing you.’
‘After the papers?’
‘There’s that, I suppose. Damned good ragout.’
‘Excellent. Looks as if I’d better avoid her till this has died down.’
‘Do you want it to die down? You’ve not finished with Anice, I suppose? But I think, if I were you, I’d leave Barford to talk to Mary about those newspapers. He’s broad-minded.’
‘He needs to be, from what we’ve learned of him. Don’t you think I should avoid Mary?’
‘You can’t. You’re seeing her tonight.’
‘Hell!’ He stared back in something near stupefaction.
‘You mean, after she’s been reading---‘
‘Well, it’s what you asked for.’
‘I know it is.’
He sank into silence, finding nothing more to say, and John looked cheerfully to the waiters. He had finished the ragout of lobster and seemed ready for something else.
‘Women are a complication,’ he said easily. ‘They make life difficult. I suppose it’s this damned war again, really. We’ve never learned the trick of running two at once, as a gentleman should. No chance to practise. Hey--turkey, is it? You can order a dinner.’
‘I’ve done without so many.’
A roast turkey had arrived, with some boiled ham, the potatoes and celery sauce and the rest of it, and again there was the interval while the waiters carved and proffered and poured. John watched them thoughtfully.
‘Not like Hildersham,’ he mused. ‘Of course, he was born to it. He could run about six at once if he tried it. He probably has done.’
‘I’m not Hildersham.’ Richard spoke morosely, and then tried to pull himself together and remember that for the moment he was the host and had some duties. ‘Well, let’s enjoy our dinner, and talk of something else. What’s this about Mary Ann? You say she’s gone?’
‘Yes, thank God! She was becoming a bit demanding.’
‘But where’s she gone?’
‘Brighton. At least, she’s going tomorrow. With Anice, of course--as lady’s maid.’
‘What!’
‘Oh yes.’ John was chuckling with amusement now. ‘She seems to have found a little more than she expected. She was round at Queen Street as soon as she’d had her breakfast this morning--calling on the old friend, that sort of thing. That’s what she thought. Anice thought differently, and she seems to have given her a proper trimming. Told her she was rustic. Didn’t know the fashions, and her precious manners would get her laughed at. More like that. Then she told her the only way to learn was to watch somebody who knew.’
‘I think that’s how Anice learned.’
‘Well, it’s how Mary Ann’s learning.’
‘I hope she likes it.’
‘Anice probably knows. Though, mind you, there may have been a little self-interest in it too. It turned out her maid had just left her. She’s set up on her own, so Anice was without.’
‘What did Mary Ann say?’
‘She came rushing back to get her bags, and then she moved in at once--at Queen Street. I don’t think she was too pleased, mind you. It wasn’t how she’d seen herself. But she wants it so badly that she’ll put up with almost anything to get it--for six months, anyway. I’m told that’s the term of it.’
‘I wish Anice wouldn’t do it. It’s not much better than a school for training harlots.’
‘But what else is Anice? Or Mary Ann?’
‘I wish to God they weren’t.’
‘You seem to be a little worried?’
‘I’ve no right to be running after Anice as I do.’
‘But you can’t help it?’ John nodded slowly and sympathetically. ‘That’s her art, of course--something she’s born with. That’s why she can’t stop.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If you’re really born to do something you have to do it. It takes possession of you. It’s like the Peer in the war--or Boney--or Nelson. Those men couldn’t stop. They were born to it, and they had to do it.’
‘That’s a shade different.’
‘A different trade, of course, and hers isn’t as well thought of, but the principle’s the same. They led men in war, and she leads men in--what’s this?’
His tone had changed sharply, and he was looking intently down the room, seemingly to the door. Richard turned as sharply, sensing that something was wrong, and the first glance confirmed it. The door from the street had been flung noisily open, and candles were flickering everywhere as a cold wind swept over the tables. Heads had turned and men were staring in annoyance at the coachman, or whatever he was, who had come blustering in. He certainly looked a coachman; a tall man in a great full-length coat of brown, tight-waisted, with capes on the shoulders, then falling almost to the ankles of his mud-splashed boots. His wide-brimmed hat, still on his head, was decorated with a woman’s garter, pinned to the brim, and was pushed rakishly back to show his face. He was swaying slightly on his feet as he looked truculently round, staring contemptuously at everybody. Then his arrogant eyes met Richard’s, and recognition was mutual. This was Sir Thomas Luttrell, the out-and-outer, who could come-coachy-in-prime-style. Behind him was another man who seemed of his own stamp, though he was not dressed quite so outrageously, a shorter man in a bottle-green hunting frock and mire-streaked riding boots. He was steadier on his feet and he stood back a little as if he knew that he was the follower here. Luttrell was in the lead, and Richard, meeting his eyes, felt a quick wave of cold in his back and then a well-remembered pulse hammered in his forehead. These were his responses to danger, and he had felt them last on Amphions rain-swept quarterdeck when he had braced himself against the shrouds to see the French war flags break out in the ship to windward. He steadied himself in the same way now.
‘Hey, you! A table--quick!’
Luttrell spoke suddenly, and his strong resonant voice was oddly pleasant in tone, proof of an expensive upbringing; but it was aggressive too, and the waiter he had shouted at looked nervously at the crowded room.
‘Very soon, sir. All full just now, sir.’
‘Do I wait here, or do you? Hi! Larkin! Where are you, dammit?’
The proprietor had appeared hurriedly at the end of the room, and along the length of it Luttrell stared him out of countenance. Then he advanced slowly, clumsy in his boots and coat, and with his hat still rakishly on his head. He seemed to have thought only for the scene he was creating, but for one fleeting instant, as he walked up the room, his eyes were on Richard, who was still stiffly in his chair, turned half about to look. It was for the moment only, perhaps too quick for others to see, but Luttrell’s advance stopped suddenly, exactly at that table; and Richard, turning to face him, was perfectly aware that this was intentional. The man meant mischief, of some Corinthian sort. ‘I want a table--now.’
Again the voice had the pleasant ring, but the threat in it was plain and ugly. The black and arrogant eyes reinforced it, and Larkin squirmed in embarrassment, obviously terrified of a scandal that could spoil the name of his house. In the deadly silence every eye was on him as he tried to answer.
‘In a matter of minutes, sir--only that. Or in my private room, sir? If you would care to dine---‘
‘I’ll dine where I choose, and if I don’t get a table in thirty seconds there’s going to be something here you won’t forget. The Town won’t, either.’
‘But, sir, I---‘
‘Listen---‘
It came as a shout, and in the next instant Luttrell whirled about. His two hands swooped on the table at his side, snatching knives, forks, and spoons from the plates and covers. He swung them above his head, held them for an instan
t, and then dashed them on the table, splintering the plates and dishes, splashing the food and wine and gravy everywhere. Richard recoiled, falling half out of his chair from the shock and noise of it, and dimly he saw John clawing back, and men on their feet throughout the room. Then he was on his feet himself, splashed in face and coat, and too angry to measure words.
‘You unwhipped puppy!’ he snapped. ‘What kennel do you foul?’
‘Yours, by the look of it.’
‘You---‘
He cut off short as his anger turned to ice and his mind became clear again. No doubt could stay after an answer like that. Luttrell meant to quarrel, and there could be no avoiding it on any standard of conduct. It would have to be accepted, however unwelcome, and the need now was to speak as a gentleman, even if Luttrell did not. These points would be remembered later.
‘You wish to quarrel?’ he said steadily. ‘Is that the meaning of these--antics?’
‘Quarrel? What the devil for?’ Luttrell spoke contemptuously. ‘Who in God’s earth are you?’
‘You know well enough who I am.’
‘Do I?’ He drawled it, and for the moment he seemed the calmer of the two. Then he simulated surprise. ‘God, so I do! You’re the trollop’s pretty boy.’
‘You---‘ Again he cut off short. ‘If you say that again I’ll lay a cane about you before I make an end of you.’
‘Instead of running under her skirts, you mean, as you did yesterday? Very brave, weren’t you--leaving her to speak?’
‘That’s enough. You know the satisfaction I require.’
‘Require? My God, what a word! Who the devil are you?’ He held his attitude for a moment longer and then came to it. ‘Naval officer, aren’t you? A sort of gentleman by Act of Parliament? All right, then--send your friends, if you’ve a mind to be shot.’ He turned slowly to the man who had come in with him and had seemed the quieter of the two. ‘Receive this fellow’s friends for me, Jack, if he has any.’
The man nodded, and John took a quick step forward, frigid, angry, and utterly correct. For an instant he looked at Richard, seeking approval. Then he spoke icily.
