by Robert Neill
‘My name is Wickham, sir. I act for Captain Grant. Where may I seek you?’
‘I’ll be at the Two Sevens later. Sir John Digby.’
‘Very well.’
They exchanged bows, slight and stiff, and at once the man turned, touched Luttrell’s arm, and indicated the door. They went swaggering out together, and they did not even shut the door. A waiter did it for them, and the nickering candles gave their proper light again. Men stood stiffly in the silent room, and from somewhere a voice spoke softly to break the spell.
‘An out-and-outer.’
14 The Woman’s View
It was Larkin who first recovered his wits, perhaps because he had his mind on one thing only, his guests’ dinners, and at once he had his staff in a whirl of activity. Food that had cooled was whisked away, new dishes rushed in, plates changed, bottles uncorked, all to a ceaseless murmur of apology and regret. He himself, bowing and fluttering, saw to Captain Grant and Major Wickham, who had been so scandalously treated in his house. Their table was cleared in an instant, the sodden cloth snatched away, a new one laid with a flourish, clean plates, sparkling silver, polished glass, a new roast turkey, a special wine with Mr. Larkin’s compliments--all appeared from nowhere, and it was Larkin himself who bowed them deferentially to their chairs when all was done. John spoke their thanks and then looked warily at Richard.
‘It seems we’re meant to continue.’
‘I don’t think I want to. However . . .’
He was less cool, inwardly, than he had been. He was disturbed and shaken by it, and this was the moment of reaction, with the enemy out of sight and a chance to think. It was all familiar, of course, the quiet at night before the enemy came over the horizon again, but that had been different, a thing he was used to, and this was not. He knew nothing of duelling--strictly forbidden in the Navy--and he had never thought to have it thrust upon him; but thrust it had been, and he had no choice now but to face it with careful unconcern. He roused himself to do it.
‘Thanks for acting for me,’ he said quietly.
‘What else could I do? What dunghill did the fellow crawl from?’
‘I’m told he’s of good family.’
‘That’s the way some of them go. Any special instructions?’
‘For what?’
‘Well, I’m to see this friend of his---‘
‘Oh, Digby? Yes, I see.’ He paused for a moment to consider. ‘I think I must just leave it to you, if you happen to know the rules, because I don’t. We didn’t have it in our Service, thank God! Their lordships had sense enough to stop it.’
‘So had the Peer, after a year or two. One of those damn dry Orders of the Day he used to write. “The Commander of the Forces, having always presumed that officers journey to the Peninsula to fight the French, can neither comprehend nor permit their fighting one another.” Hmm! It turned out, of course, that he meant it.’
‘I should hope so. But to come back to the present one--do you know the rules and so on?’
‘Oh, I think so.’ He paused for a moment and then spoke soberly. ‘Duels aren’t as damn dangerous as they used to be, so I’m not greatly worried for you. That’s to say, of course, if Luttrell knows what’s expected.’
‘What is expected?’
‘Oh, level ground, decent light, minimum distance twenty-five feet. A little more’s better. Fire at a signal and don’t aim too carefully. That’s called vicious.’
‘Luttrell is vicious.’
‘Possibly. But after the first fire the seconds must try conciliation. Likewise after the second. After the third there’s no choice. Nothing more’s allowed.’
‘I see. Well . . .’
‘Leave it to me. I’d better give Digby time for his dinner, and then I’ll go and see him. It would be the Two Sevens. He looks like it.’
‘A gaming house?’
‘In St. James’s Street. Number seventy-seven. It’s a rouge-et-noir place really. Now then . . .’ He slipped his watch out of his fob. ‘Nearly seven o’clock, and I can’t ask for Digby before half past eight. What time are you seeing Mary?’
‘Good God! I can’t!’ He sat for a moment as the enormity of it broke upon him. ‘I can’t go to Mary tonight--with this on my hands. It’s not decent.’
‘Why?’
‘A duel over another woman? We did quarrel about Anice.’
‘I suppose you did, really.’
‘You heard what he said of her.’
‘Ye-es.’ John nodded thoughtfully. ‘It’s a nice point. Only, of course, Mary’s expecting you. So’s Barford.’
‘I don’t mind Barford.’
‘Well, that’s how to do it. No, listen. If you leave Mary for a while she’ll probably get bored with Barford, and go to bed. So if you call at the end of the evening there’s a chance you’ll find him alone.’
‘That would be all right. But---‘
‘Then do it. Now . . .’ Again he glanced at his watch. ‘You’ll have to change clothes, and so shall I, if I’m to call on Digby, so we’d better separate. I’ll see Digby, and then I’ll come to your hotel. That might be about nine o’clock, and I can tell you what we’ve arranged. Then you can call on Barford, perhaps about ten. Will that do?’
‘I can’t think of anything better. So let’s go.’
In the Haymarket the night was dark, and a thin drizzle of rain was falling. Already the pavements were glistening in the lights, and a sea officer pushed his nose into the wind and declared it to be from the south-west, coming up from Ushant. It would be stronger there, he said, and the rain heavier.
‘I’m concerned with it here,’ said a soldier tersely.
They parted at the end of Bond Street, each walking alone to his hotel, and in Berkeley Square the lights were few and feeble, each with a halo in the mist of rain. Richard changed clothes slowly, wondering now what he should wear when he came to the exchange of fire with Luttrell. Even that detail was beyond his knowledge, and he supposed he must simply wear the plainest and quietest he had. That could mean his brown coat and green kerseymere breeches, with a black hat and his black top boots. He looked them out to be sure they were ready, and then his thoughts drifted to Mary and the foolishness of calling upon her at all. She would have read of him, and of Anice too, and the curricle, and she might well take it as an affront that he should thrust himself upon her when he was caught in a duel over Anice. He had no doubt what word she would use for Anice, and it could not even be disputed. He could only hope that John had guessed right, and that Mary would be safely away by ten o’clock.
It was nearly half past nine, and he had been fidgeting for some forty minutes in his green tail-coat and black silk breeches when John came in with the raindrops gleaming on his high-collared greatcoat.
‘What a night!’ he said brusquely. ‘You’ll need a boat-cloak if it gets worse. Sorry I’m late.’
‘Not at all. Have you had trouble?’
‘Not exactly. You can deal with Digby, if you get him to yourself. He was Light Division, by the way--Salamanca onwards.’
‘Possibly. But what about the affair?’
‘I’m telling you. Digby was helpful. He explained I must have a surgeon. Each side has its own, it seems, just in case. So I had to see to it. That’s why I’m late.’
‘A kind thought. May I know when and where?’
‘Tomorrow--early. That’s Luttrell. Says he has an appointment at noon. Of course I said that was as may be.’ He laughed softly. ‘But I had to accept it. After all, you did challenge him.’
‘Technically.’
‘That’s what matters. It gives him the choice. But there’s something else, and this might be useful--more than useful. You noticed Luttrell had been drinking?’
‘He’d had a drink or two.’
‘Well, he’s had a few more now, if I can judge by the Two Sevens. Of course I didn’t see him, but from the general noise, and the state Digby was in, I’d say they’re hard at it. He’ll be taken home in a coach, I should think,
after midnight, and if he’s put to bed like that, he won’t be much good in the light of dawn. So I withdrew objection and said six-forty-five. With sunrise at six-thirty, that’s about the soonest possible, and I’m glad I haven’t to wake him to get him there.’
‘That’s a little sharp, isn’t it?’
‘It’s sound tactics, so don’t be too nice about it. This sort of shooting match looks like war to me, and that’s how we’ll treat it. It’s too damn dangerous if you don’t. So tomorrow it is, in Hyde Park--the Ring, if you know it.’
‘I’ve seen it.’
‘I’ll be here about six-fifteen, so you’ll please be dressed by then and with some coffee inside you. Perhaps a biscuit too.’
‘What about pistols?’
‘All arranged.’
‘I must say you’re efficient.’
‘You can lose your men’s lives if you aren’t, and I’m not losing yours. Not by carelessness, anyway. Now, how about Barford?’
The rain was heavier when he saw John to the door of the hotel, Lizard rain, heavy enough to send him back to his bedroom for the boat-cloak John had jested at, and he was glad of it before search had ended. He did not know the house in Curzon Street, and he had to peer at numbers by the feeble light of the misty lamps before he found the right one. Then he announced himself to a supercilious footman, slipped out of the sodden cloak, and was conducted across a finely pillared hall to a sitting-room whose restrained elegance would have suited the elderly better than the young. It suited Lord Barford, who was much at his ease in an old-fashioned Chippendale chair that nevertheless looked comfortable. But opposite, at the other side of the fire, was Mary, sitting very still and showing nothing of her thoughts. She inclined her head as he bowed, but she did not even smile. Barford was more welcoming. He looked pleased, and he had his own easy smile as he came to his feet.
‘Come in, Grant, come in. We were hoping you would come.’
‘We were expecting you to come,’ said Mary, and she gave the word a little stress. With a fleeting glance at the clock it made her meaning clear.
‘I’m sorry.’ He was feeling quite uncomfortable now. ‘I had meant to be earlier, but I was--detained.’
‘That could easily happen.’
‘It could happen to anyone. Which isn’t what you mean at all. You mean that I’ve done something, in some way, that offends you.’
‘You’ve done nothing at all, as far as I know, that you hadn’t a perfect right to do.’
Her tone was smooth and easy, but it seemed to nettle Barford. He turned on her with the air of a man exasperated, who can put up with it no longer.
‘Mary, could you be a shade more courteous to our guest? He is our guest.’
‘I’m sorry if I was not.’ It was as smooth as before, and as quick, and then she turned herself to Richard. ‘I’m told I show a want of tolerance--a rustic want of tolerance, and perhaps I do. I’ll try to correct it. Pray sit down.’
‘I’ve no wish to embarrass---‘
‘For heaven’s sake, sit down,’ said Barford. ‘I won’t have my guest stand there all night.’ ‘Very well.’
He moved forward, seeing nothing else for it, and took the chair that Barford offered, and the glass of port. This was even worse than he had expected, and it was an easy guess that these two had been arguing before he came. They had pushed each other to the edge of tempers, and he need not ask what it had been about.
‘That’s better,’ said Barford quietly, and the tone of easy courtesy had returned to him. ‘We’re glad to see you. You may blame this on the newspapers, as you may blame much else. They’re a great cause of mischief in families, and I’m afraid Mary has been reading them.’
‘So have you,’ said Mary.
‘With a different point of view.’
‘Naturally. Mine is the other, also naturally. Is there any more to say?’
‘I doubt it.’ His tone said he was still annoyed, and he seemed almost to make a show of ignoring her as he turned back to Richard. ‘As Cyprians go, the lady must have qualities. Some affections too, perhaps, since she stops her curricle for you.’
‘She’s impulsive. That’s all.’
‘Enough, if the impulse runs in your direction.’
‘Don’t disturb yourself,’ said Mary calmly. ‘I fancy this mention of her is for my benefit rather than yours--a way of teasing me. All the same, I hadn’t understood till now that you’d been speaking of her to my uncle before. And John, I suppose, knew all about her too? Everyone, in fact, but me?’
‘There was not very much to know, and I didn’t think it quite--er--suitable, for---‘
‘For me? Of course not. I understand perfectly.’
‘I wish,’ said Barford, ‘you would stop saying “perfectly” and try to understand in reality. He was quite right not to mention her to you, and he could properly expect that you would not mention her either. Certain matters are not for a lady. It’s a part of good breeding to be aware of that.’
‘Thank you for the lesson, sir. I’m almost at school again.’
‘You are nothing of the sort.’
‘I feel I am. I’ll not touch on it again.’
‘Nor shall I. However ...’ His tone changed as he turned. ‘On a point that’s rather different, who is this Luttrell whom she appears to know? Is he the son of old Sir John, who died last year?’
‘I’ve no idea who he is. He’s an ill-mannered brute, and that’s all I can say.’
‘Oh?’ An eyebrow lifted. ‘It sounds as if you didn’t get on. But I knew Sir John. A hard rider, certainly. Drank deep and played high, but decidedly a gentleman. I know he had a son--in the Army I believe--and I wondered if this . . .’
‘Yes,’ said Mary, and he turned in surprise.
‘You know him?’
‘Charles did. So, of course, I met him also.’
‘Oh, I see.’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘But ill-mannered, you say? How?’
‘He’s what they call a Corinthian--an out-and-outer.’
‘That breed?’ Again Barford nodded. ‘Well, I suppose it fits, after those years in the Army--then home again, and inherits--master of his own fortune--all at about the same time. Impatient of restraints, no doubt, and I suppose he might miss the--er--violence of war. Is it possible, do you think?’
‘Very much so, by what I’ve seen of him.’ The memory came again of Luttrell by the dinner-table, insolent and impossible. ‘Nothing but violence will satisfy the fellow.’
‘What of his clothes?’
‘A filthy coachman’s coat. Manners to match.’
‘That’s your Corinthian. A sign of the age, of course. Thinks he owns the earth.’
‘And objects, apparently, to the rest of us living on it.’
‘So much?’ For an instant his eyes were penetrating.
You’ve not had any special trouble, I hope?’
‘I don’t know what’s special, with a man like that.’
‘I wondered---‘
‘Have you been quarrelling? Is that what you mean?’ Mary spoke suddenly and sharply, and Richard turned quickly, unpleasantly aware that he had said too much, or all but said it; and that Barford’s diplomacy had for once come to trouble.
‘Have you?’
She spoke again, and there was nothing now of the frigid courtesy she had used to him before. She was forceful and direct, sitting tersely erect and looking at him with eyes that challenged. For a moment he was silent, trying to read her expression and get some hint of what had roused her like this. Then he tried to evade it.
‘I don’t think I’ve been quarrelsome at all. I don’t like quarrelling.’
‘You’re trifling with me.’ It came angrily, with a contemptuous snap. ‘But I suppose it gives me the answer. Has he called you out?’
‘Mary, dear!’ Barford intervened protestingly. ‘You really mustn’t---‘
‘I want to know. Do you think it means nothing? Has he?’
‘Perhaps . . .’ Barfo
rd turned slowly. ‘Perhaps you should put her mind at rest. It’s a most improper question, but---‘
‘Has he?’
‘Not precisely. I . . .’ He looked unhappily from one of them to the other. ‘I think I may truthfully say I sought nothing of it. Something was forced on me.’
‘You mean . . . ?’ She jumped out of her chair in obvious agitation. ‘You’re not to. It’s mad. It’s---‘
‘Mary! Please control yourself. You---‘
‘Oh, you men!’ She turned suddenly on Barford, who was on his feet also. ‘Mustn’t this and mustn’t that, all in your silly code as if it was a game. It isn’t a game. It’s just---‘
‘Please! If you can’t consider me, you might at least---‘
‘Consider!’ She echoed the word, and then stood with her lip quivering while she tried to get a grip on herself. ‘It would take a man to say that. Haven’t we lost men enough? Haven’t I lost men enough?’
‘But---‘
‘That’s what you mean, isn’t it?’ She turned fiercely on Richard. ‘You’re fighting him? What you call honour--with Tommy Luttrell! Isn’t that it?’
‘I--I’m afraid it must be.’
‘Afraid! You’re not afraid of getting shot. Only of what---‘
‘For heaven’s sake!’ said Barford. ‘Mary, you really must---‘
‘All right. I shouldn’t have said anything, should I? Just kept out of it and pretended it didn’t matter. All right, then, if you want it so. When is it to be?’
She flung the question suddenly, in a flat and hopeless tone, and Richard took a long moment to understand that it was for him. He saw Barford turn, waiting also for the answer.
‘Tomorrow,’ he had to say. ‘Just as well, perhaps. But that’s how it’s been arranged.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Barford nodded, and seemed to force himself into his matter-of-fact tone again. ‘It lies with the seconds, of course. Who’s acting for you, may I ask?’
‘John.’
‘Ah, good. He’ll know what he’s doing, I think.’
‘Doing?’ Mary flared suddenly at them again. ‘Has he ever thought what he’s doing? Have any of you?’
‘That really is enough. If you can’t behave better than this you should---‘
