by Robert Neill
‘Error of judgement, I’m afraid. But I suppose all this must apply to Luttrell too?’
‘Luttrell’s probably out of Town already on his way to Prinny. He’s a friend of Prinny--a sort of amateur coachman to him. Drives him about. Prinny likes it, so he’ll see Luttrell
safe. It’s you I’m thinking of, and you must take yourself out of sight for a while. But forgive me. Your glass seems empty.’
Barford leaned forward and carefully filled both glasses. Then he sat back, smiling a little now, as if the difficult part were behind him. His most affable tone returned.
‘You will not, I hope, resent my saying these things? I’ve more than one reason to wish you well. But I really think you must slip out of polite society for a while. Then you will find, I think, that Ministers are very tolerant.’
‘Very well. I’ll accept your advice. For how long, would you think, should I be away?’
‘Most of the winter, I’m afraid. You’ve complicated the affair, and the usual month or so won’t do.’
‘The winter will seem long. Where should I go?’
‘Where you please, so long as it isn’t London--or Brighton. Was that in your mind?’
‘I’ve hardly anything in mind.’
‘But I did hear a tale that a lady is expected to go there.’ The smile was flickering again. ‘My dear Grant, I sympathize--I do indeed--but you must not go to Brighton. With Prinny there you couldn’t possibly call it slipping out of notice. Besides . . .’ A touch of hesitation came suddenly back. ‘I don’t know how far it will weigh with you, but you’ll have noticed a little difficulty with Mary last night. You must give your own meaning to that, of course, but she will hardly be pleased if you go off to Brighton at this moment. After all, it does appear that Miss Anstey was the cause of your quarrel with Luttrell.’
‘Say his with me.’
‘By all means, if you think that Mary will make that distinction.’
‘Then I’ve no idea what I shall do.’
‘There is much that you could find diverting. All Europe is open, now we have no war. And at home--is there no place you have wished to see?’
‘Bath, perhaps.’
‘By all means. That’s a mixed society where you can move without attracting notice. And it reminds me--wasn’t there some talk of Cheltenham in the spring?’
‘Yes.’ He had to collect his thoughts to remember this. ‘I’m not sure it was a firm arrangement.’
‘Then shall we call it one? Does it suit you?’
‘What will Mary say to it? I’ve had no word with her.’
‘It’s not a propitious moment. You’ll understand why it isn’t. However . . .’ He had an air now of bringing the talk to an end. ‘I think you may leave Mary to me. I’ll have some help from John, no doubt, and these present troubles will have blown away and been forgotten. Don’t arrive in Cheltenham with your pretty horse-breaker, of course.’
‘Really, sir---‘
‘You may find your thoughts turn that way.’
That was an easy prophecy. His thoughts were very much that way as he walked slowly back to his hotel. He had not seen Mary, and there seemed no chance that he would see her for months to come. He would probably not see Barford either, whose sage advice he had no thought of flouting. These matters of protocol and ministerial behaviour were precisely where Barford was expert. But a winter in something like banishment was not what he had hoped for after the lost years at sea, and his anger began to rise again against Luttrell, who had caused all this and could now fare better as a friend of Prinny. He could at least go to Brighton--and the thought led to Anice, who would also be in Brighton. It was as well that she had lately had enough of Luttrell, whose presence might even get her out of Brighton all the sooner. So what after that?
He came to the hotel, and to his surprise he found John waiting for him, looking impatient and perhaps a little disturbed.
‘Here at last?’ was his greeting. ‘They say you went out again?’
‘A request from Barford. It seems we’ve made a blunder or two.’
He explained it as clearly as he could, and John listened impassively. It almost seemed as if his thoughts were elsewhere. But then he nodded.
‘Sorry,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s my fault. I chose the Park to fight in. Or Digby and I did, between us.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Of course it does. But what will you do?’
‘Heaven knows. Bury myself at Bath, perhaps. Unless, of course, I hear from Anice.’
‘She---er--promised it, didn’t she?’
‘Why that tone?’
‘Just something I didn’t like.’
‘What is it? Have you seen her?’
‘This morning.’ There was a pause, and he seemed to be wondering how to put it. ‘I went to see Mary Ann, and I must say she was in hand all right. Quite the lady’s maid. But Anice was friendly too. Glad to see me, and so on--and I think she really was. We had a very pleasant chat.’
‘But what are you coming to?’
‘Well.. .’ Again he hesitated. ‘Anice had hired a chaise, it seems, to take them to Brighton, so there we were, waiting for the chaise to come, and it didn’t come. A barouche came instead--very smart, groom behind, coachman up, everything to wish for--except for the coachman. Can you guess it?’
‘You don’t mean . . . ?’
‘Yes, I do.’ John’s voice hardened suddenly. ‘Luttrell himself, coachy in full style, and he’d done it so well I didn’t know him till he’d jumped down and Mary Ann had the door open. But Anice knew him, of course, and she just squeaked at him, all excited, and called him Tommy.’
‘You mean she was pleased?’
‘She sounded like it. Mind you, I don’t think she’d expected him. It wasn’t an arrangement.’ ‘But what did he want?’
‘Anice--blast him! Though I will say he looked pretty hard at Mary Ann. But he came in, just as damned sure of himself as ever, saw me, nodded as if I was some sort of waiter, and then kept to Anice. Told her he had to go to Brighton, short notice, and he’d drive her down. Was she ready?’
‘What did she say?’
‘Well, she looked at me, then back at him, then me again--and then she started thanking me for calling. Glad to see me, enjoyed the chat, and so on and so on.’
‘Dismissal, in fact?’
‘Obviously. Very polite, but that’s what it was, and I had to accept it. What else could I do?’
‘Nothing. You think she’s gone with him?’
‘I know she has. I had to leave the house, of course, and get out of sight, but I went back in half an hour and had it out of her footman. He’s an old Peninsula hand, by the way, so it wasn’t hard. She’d gone with Luttrell, on the box. Mary Ann in the back. So what do you make of it?’
‘Is there anything I can make of it?’
He was trying to keep the sickening disappointment out or his voice and eyes. She had seemed all that was left to him--Anice, whom he could talk to as to no one else--and of all men, it was Luttrell, whose crazy humours had brought all this. He would be with Anice now, perhaps half-way to Brighton.
‘I think,’ said John cheerfully, ‘you made a mistake when you wasted that shot. You should have made an end of him.’
‘Would it have helped?’
‘God knows. But you were uncommonly generous, and this is how he answers it. That’s your Corinthian. He’s probably laughing at you now.’
‘But what’s Anice doing? After what he---‘
‘Don’t get heated. It’s not worth it, and she’s not either. She must be mad if she prefers Luttrell, but you never know, with girls like that. Sometimes I think they can’t help it.’
‘Help what?’
‘Oh, anything. Excitement, if you like. What will you do? Go after her?’
‘I shall not. All else apart, and forgetting Barford, I’ll not bear up for this pursuit.’
‘I think you’re right.’ John spoke soberly and then
looked straight at him. ‘It’s going to be a long winter.’
‘Damned long.’
‘We’ve known long ones before, and yours may not be the only one. I fancy Mary’s going to find it longer than she likes. And Anice---‘
‘Yes?’
‘Hers might be the longest of all--when she knows what she’s done. Let’s wait and see.’ ‘It’ll be a long wait.’
‘Not for two of us. I’m coming with you.’
16 Mr. King Disposes
Mr. King, the Master of Ceremonies at Cheltenham, was almost at his wit’s end, hard put to it to hide his thoughts and keep his smooth politeness. This should have been his year of all years, his pinnacle before retiring, and instead it was driving him mad. Certainly it was his duty to oblige a visitor, and especially a noble visitor, but he could not do the impossible.
He supposed he must still try to do it, and wearily he addressed himself yet again to the Earl of Hildersham, who was sitting comfortably in a chair by the open window.
‘But I do assure your lordship, there’s not a house in Cheltenham that isn’t taken. It’s impossible. We open our new Assembly Rooms next month---’
‘And Wellington’s coming to do it? Cut the bit of ribbon and dance the first dance, hey? Well, that’s why I’m here. It’s why we’re both here.’
He glanced for a moment at the woman who was sitting, so quiet and composed, at his side, and she gave a quick smile of acknowledgement. Then her eyes strayed again to the open window and the busy High Street beyond. They were in the Plough, the first hotel in Cheltenham, where they had arrived a half-hour since in a barouche-and-four. Mr. Bickham, the proprietor, had sent at once for the Master of Ceremonies.
‘Yes,’ said Mr. King suddenly, and his voice had pitched a little higher. ‘It’s why you’re here, my lord, and it’s why everyone else is here too. I’ve never known Cheltenham so full. It’s near bursting--or it will be. The rooms are booked, the houses taken, and what am I to do when people keep coming? But as to finding you a house, my lord, a whole house---’
‘I wrote to you.’
‘You did, my lord, and for Mrs. Masters.’ For a moment his tired eyes turned to her as she sat by the window. ‘You asked a house for her, a small house, and I found it hard enough to get. But the house is ready, just off the London road, new from the builders. It was finished but three days ago, and that only at my insistence. But there it is, furniture put in, servants engaged, just as you commanded. I hope it will give satisfaction.’
‘I’m sure it will, and I’m much obliged to you, sir.’
‘I thank your lordship. There--er--will be an account for the furniture, my lord. Mr. Cooke, in the Colonnade.’
‘Let him send it to me. But as for myself---‘
‘What can I do, my lord? You wrote no word of coming yourself.’
‘Oh, I changed my mind. I heard Wellington was coming, and---‘
‘Yes, my lord. It is what they have all heard. So we have gentlemen everywhere, and for a house, a whole house, fit for your lordship’s rank--the last of them was taken weeks ago. My lord, it’s impossible.’
‘Hardly that.’ Hildersham uncrossed his legs and looked calmly at the worried man in front of him, noting perhaps the signs of strain in a man much older than himself. Then his tone changed quickly. ‘Now don’t distress yourself, Mr. King. You’ve done excellently, and these little difficulties aren’t your fault. I still think I shall get a house, though. I may have to pay a little more, of course, but it’s my experience that if enough is offered somebody always takes it. He’ll move out, and let me have his house.’
‘Ah!’ Mr. King considered it, aware that this was his own experience too. ‘It would be a high price just now.’
‘Try it, sir, try it. Then let me know.’
‘As your lordship pleases. If I have carte blanche---‘
‘You have. And for a night or two, while you see to it.. .’ He paused, and a touch of amusement came to his face. ‘I’ll lodge myself on Mrs. Masters.’
‘My lord!’
‘What’s the matter? Isn’t the house big enough?’
‘It’s not proper, my lord.’
‘Oh, damn that. There’s nothing proper about me.’ The deep voice chuckled softly. ‘What do you say to it, Marion? Will you have me?’
‘I’ll be delighted.’
It was the first time she had spoken, and her cool clear voice turned Mr. King’s attention to her. He had been too worried till now to take much heed of her, and he was suddenly aware that he must indeed take heed of her. Mr. King had learned through the years to single out the qualities that would attract attention at a spa, and he saw them all here. She was young, the early twenties at most, slim and dark, elegant in a cool summer pelisse and a curricle-cloak of rifle green. She was small and slight, with her sharp young head poised delicately on a slender neck, and her eyes shone brightly as she turned them suddenly to his. Mr. King coughed gently, and was quite certain she must not give hospitality at night to the Earl of Hildersham.
He tried to remember the letter he had had from Hildersham. It had asked him to arrange a house for her, and though he could not recall the exact terms, it had certainly conveyed to him that she was a widow, possibly from the war, to whom Hildersham had some kind of obligation. Mr. King coughed again, thinking that there was no look of grief in Mrs. Masters. She would make her mark in any company; and Mr. King knew only too well what the company at Cheltenham could do with a spark of scandal. That was to be expected, but the Master of Ceremonies had a duty to his proprietors, and there must be no scandal about the Earl of Hildersham; or, if there was, it must be the right sort of scandal, the sort that would bring more visitors to Cheltenham.
Mr. King coughed again, and then took his most professional tone.
‘If your lordship will forgive me, it would be most unwise--indiscreet, my lord, with people as they are. They drink the waters, stroll in the walks, sit in the Pump Rooms, and what have they to do but talk? And with your lordship’s eminence, and at a spa---‘
‘It doesn’t need a spa to set them talking of me. They do it anywhere, and I don’t worry.’
‘No doubt, my lord, but for Mrs. Masters’ sake---‘
‘She came here to be noticed. Didn’t you, lovely?’
‘In a way, perhaps. It all depends---‘
‘Precisely.’ Mr. King cut in sharply, and had even less doubt now of Mrs. Masters. ‘It depends very greatly. Mrs. Masters is young, and, if I may say so, attractive, and--er--my lord, you must not sleep in her house.’
‘I have to sleep somewhere. You don’t want me to walk about all night?’
‘Possibly a hotel, my lord--just a night or two?’
‘This one?’ The flick of his hand seemed to take in all the Plough. ‘They’re full to the chimney-pots. They say the others are too. So there we are. I’ll need hospitality, and if Mrs. Masters offers it . . . Very kind of her. I’ll accept it till you find me a house.’
Hildersham unfolded his legs and sat back comfortably. Mr. King sat opposite and damned his obtuseness. He had no objection to whispered scandal. That was an attraction at a spa. But open scandal, disregarding even the looks of things, was another matter, and mothers with daughters--or some of them--would be outraged by it. It would harm the spa, and something would have to be done.
‘My lord . . .’ A thought had come suddenly to him. ‘Hospitality indeed--but not, if you please, from a lady. I feel sure that some nobleman at present in the town will most gladly be host to your lordship.’
‘Oh? Who?’
‘I--I’ll have to consult the Spa Book.’
‘Very well.’ Hildersham got suddenly to his feet as if he had lost interest in this. ‘I’m taking Marion to this house of hers. I suppose we can get a phaeton or something? I’ve put up my barouche.’
‘Oh yes, my lord.’
‘Right. Well, I’ll be an hour or two--see her settled in--and then I’ll come back--no, where’s your offic
e? Assembly Rooms? I’ll call there and hear what you’ve to say. If there’s nothing . . .’ He completed it with a nod at Mrs. Masters, who was already on her feet, tying her cloak, and then his smile broke out as he turned. ‘In the meantime, sir, I’m much obliged to you.’
They went out together, her arm linked in his, and Mr. King was so far from his usual equanimity that he did not even bow them out, let alone attempt his usual announcement that the Pump Rooms opened at six each morning, when a band of musicians would attend till nine, depending for remuneration on the liberality of visitors. He did not care at this moment whether musicians were remunerated or not. He sat dejectedly in his chair, feeling that he was getting too old for this--as indeed he was. He would be seventy next month, and he had continued this year only for the Duke of Wellington’s visit. He could not miss that unless, of course, he were to go mad first, and he was beginning to suppose he might.
But something had to be done, and he pulled himself to his ageing feet and went strolling up the High Street with his professional look of leisure, his charming smile, and a lift of his hat for two ladies and a baronet as he passed the new Assembly Rooms, still a whirl of painters and polishers. On he went, legs aching and hat lifting, past Cambray Street to the Old Rooms just beyond, thirty years old and too small and outmoded for the fine new Cheltenham that was rising after the war. Here he had his office, and here he sank wearily into the softly padded chair and called urgently for the Important Visitors’ List. All visitors were asked to sign the Spa Book on arrival, nominally so that Mr. King could call to pay respects, actually so that he could sum them up and decide what importance they had. But the Book served also to compile some special lists, and it was one of these that he was now reading. He would need a nobleman as host for Hildersham, and of these the list had not many. Lord Harborne, in the Royal Crescent. . . that would hardly do. His lordship had gout and was said to be difficult... The Viscount Trevithick . . . again no ... he had lost too much at hazard and was in a little villa off the London Road . . . not suitable for Hildersham . . . The Marquis of Malloch, at Bayshill, had a large family, mostly daughters . . . perhaps inadvisable . . . Mr. King pursed his lips and read on. The Royal Crescent again, Lord Barford . . . that looked better. Mr. King sat back as he considered it.
