by Robert Neill
‘I oughtn’t to say.’
‘But why not?’
‘It--it might give trouble.’
‘Why should it?’ He was watching her keenly now, with all the advantage of experience. ‘It was my nephew, was it not, who took you to London?’
‘My lord--please!’
‘You must not look so awkward in public. It will do you no good. However . . .’ Again he watched her keenly. ‘I shouldn’t mind in the least if he had taken you to Miss Anstey, but I didn’t think he knew her.’
‘No, he didn’t. He---‘
‘Less heat, child. Less heat, if you please. Then if John did not I’ll suppose it was Captain Grant, who certainly knew her.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Yes to what, I wonder? But I won’t press it. You do know Captain Grant?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘That sounds better--and I hope you’ve been telling me the truth. But tell me then: where is Captain Grant?’
‘I don’t know. We never heard.’
‘We?’
‘Anice and me. We went to Brighton---‘
‘With Sir Thomas Luttrell, I believe. Which was not well done. But go on. Should you have heard?’
‘She said so.’
After going with Luttrell?’
‘It’s not for me to say.’
‘I beg your pardon. But did she wish to hear from him?’
‘Oh yes. She was always asking where he was. She wrote twice.’
‘And had no answer? That sometimes happens. Well, well. . .’ He glanced quickly at his watch. ‘I’m not going to plague you any more. Think of me just as a talkative old man.’
‘Oh no, my lord.’
‘I fear I am, though, and getting worse. But you seem to have finished your chocolate. What next?’
‘I’ve to go to the Pump Room, at Montpellier. Captain Curry said he’d be there, and Sir Michael Murphy.’
‘I doubt if I know them. However . . .’ His smile now was benign. ‘I’ll do something for you, Marion. In the old days I’d have given you a shilling. Perhaps even a guinea. I couldn’t do that now, of course, but I’ll do what may be worth more to you in the end. I’ll escort you to the Pump Room.’
‘Oh, my lord!’
‘And if Captain Curry should be there, and his friend, you may present them to me.’
‘Oh!’
If she had ever lost her wits she had now found them again. She was excitedly ready to go, very ready to be seen in the Pump Room with a Peer of the Realm, more than ready to have it known that she could introduce her friends to him. That could be the making of her in Cheltenham. There might be doubts about Hildersham, who was perhaps impressionable, but Lord Barford was sixty and had been an Ambassador. He could set a seal on Mrs. Masters.
He made her walk, saying it was part of the regime in Cheltenham, and she did not seem unwilling. It let her be seen at his side as he took her past the Crescent again, over the bridge, and up the Well Walk where she had been that morning. He saluted an acquaintance or two, and then continued past the Well till he came to a wicket gate set between the trees, and she hurried to open it for him.
‘Thank you. This is the Montpellier estate.’
It was rustic. They had left the avenue now, and the path was on the grassy slope of the hill. Then it swung round, running parallel to the other, and again there was a planted avenue of trees climbing the hill to the Pump Room at the summit. Barford pointed with his stick.
‘There you are. And it really is a Pump Room. The pumps are inside.’
It was certainly unpretentious, a Long Room like the other but furnished on three sides with a wide verandah on timber pillars, and with a musicians’ gallery that rose in the centre of the roof like a miniature second storey. It stood on the edge of a grassy plateau, fresh and green, but a furlong or so away, both to east and west, there were gravelled roads and houses building. Some of them seemed finished.
‘This path through the trees,’ said Barford, ‘takes us to the end door. It’s pleasant before breakfast, when it has the sun, but I think we’ll now go round.’
The facade of the Pump Room faced south-west across the grass, and it was now in the full sun, gay and bright with painted pillars and an arch set in the verandah to dignify the door. Beyond the Pump Room, and discreetly behind a shrubbery, was another sale-room, built this time of golden stone and with a pillared porch. It called itself a Mineral Museum, but a sale-room it certainly was, and Barford paused, leaning on his stick, to view it distastefully.
‘How to waste your money,’ he remarked. ‘Why do people buy here what they wouldn’t buy at home? But here’s the Pump Room.’
The verandah was filled with people, sitting on small chairs or on the benches beneath the windows, shaded now from the sun as they drank their chocolate and coffee and glasses of sulphuretted or chalybeated saline. Barford bowed to ladies and nodded to gentlemen as he threaded his way through to the inner door and to the Pump Room proper. This was plain and simple, with a polished floor and tall windows to the verandah. One end had coffee and chocolate, and at the other was the door to the trees and the morning sun. The pumps faced the main door, and their gleaming brass cocks gave a choice of three waters. Barford raised his stick, and that was enough for the pumper.
‘Honoured to see you, my lord. Indeed I am. The chalybeate, is it?’
‘Certainly. I’ve no wish for sulphur in my stomach. But, Marion, what will you . . . ?’ His bland courtesy slipped suddenly into a smile. ‘Try the sulphuretted saline. One glass will be enough for life.’
‘I don’t think I---‘
‘No, and I don’t either, at your age. Ah, this may be more to your taste.’
It was Sir Michael Murphy, tall and spruce, standing a few feet away with a smile that could only have come from Ireland. She looked at him happily, and then turned quickly to Barford, hesitant now, and for once almost shy. He nodded assuringly, and at once she made the introduction, glowing with excitement, and with quick glances round to be sure it was not being overlooked. But she did it excellently, with a pleasant informality, and again Barford nodded. Then Captain Curry appeared, and this time she asked for no approval. She presented him confidently, as if of her own right, and there was no need to glance round. The whole company was alert.
‘I’m delighted to meet you, Sir Michael. I remember hearing of you in the Peninsula. In the Light Division, I think?’ Barford was at his most affable now, perhaps enjoying this deference, as a man will who has not had it all his life. ‘That would be a few years ago, when I had the Embassy in Lisbon.’
‘Indeed now? But I remember you there, my lord.’ ‘Do you remember a hunt that your division put up one winter?’
‘But what else could we do, to be sure, with the poor chickens being ate so?’
‘And the Portuguese milkmaid they say you flushed from a wood at---‘
‘No, no. You’ve been hearing tales, my lord. And the creature shed no tears, I’ll swear.’
‘Kisses, rather, from what I heard. But I’m glad to meet you, sir. Ah, Captain Curry, I was hearing of you quite lately. You’re mended again, I hope?’
‘Mended, my lord?’
‘Waterloo, sir. We all heard of it. And later I heard of you again. From Captain Grant, I think it was. You know him, I believe?’
‘Outrode us all. Used his brains.’
‘A rare accomplishment. Have you seen him lately?’
‘Can’t say I have. Told he’s been in Bath. Don’t like the place.’
‘No?’ The affable nod returned. ‘I was just wondering if you knew his plans. He’s due in Cheltenham, I believe.’
‘Oh!’
It came from Marion, who showed a sudden flare of interest and then as hurriedly subsided, looking as if she knew she should not have pushed herself in. Sir Michael laughed. Curry stayed silent for a moment, and then used the same affected tone.
‘ ‘Fraid I don’t know. Never told me.’
; ‘Oh, it’s no matter.’ Barford nodded as if to dismiss it, and then the easy smile came back to him. ‘We talk too much, gentlemen, and Marion thinks it’s her turn. So I’ll drink my prescribed dose.’
He lifted his glass to show his meaning, and Marion took his hint quickly enough. She walked gaily away with Sir Michael, apparently for coffee in the verandah, and Curry stood aside. Barford contemplated his chalybeate saline. He moved slowly to the door at the end, and stood looking down the avenue of trees. He tasted the water, and he was lifting the glass once more when his thoughts were broken. Curry was standing at his side, obviously waiting for something, and Barford’s quick smile gave permission.
‘Thought I’d better mention it. Might be awkward.’ Curry spoke crisply now, the same style but a different tone. ‘Luttrell s here. Tommy. Saw him yesterday.’
‘Oh?’ Barford’s voice had not changed. ‘The man Grant had trouble with?’
‘Pistols.’ Curry nodded. ‘Shouldn’t have happened.’
‘Precisely.’ There was an answering nod. ‘You fear trouble, then?’
‘Never know. Out-and-outer.’
‘You’re quite right, and I’m much obliged. I don’t know, of course, that Grant will come. But my niece was expecting him.’
‘Ought to come then. Any help I can give . . .’ ‘Thank you. I’ll remember that also. I’m much obliged.’
‘Obliged to you, my lord.’
Curry slipped discreetly away, looking for all the world like the lounger the company would take him for, and Barford finished his glass of saline. He walked lazily to the pump for another, which he took to a chair on the verandah, and the only sign that he was thoughtful was his avoidance of talk with anyone. He was still sitting unsociably alone when a cream-and-gold phaeton came crunching over the sweep of gravel that led to the verandah, and Mr. King stepped carefully out, very much the Master of Ceremonies. He made a smiling progress through the company, with a quick word here, a question there, a bow when he had nothing to say. He progressed to the inner room, then out again, and this time he was more purposeful. He made towards Barford at the end of the verandah, and the two of them showed their social skill.
‘Good morning, my lord. It’s pleasant here today.’
‘Delightful. It owes much to Nature, and more to your improvements.’
‘A welcome thought, my lord. And the waters? You feel the benefit, I hope?’
‘Each day a little. Which is another welcome thought, at my age.’
‘It takes its toll, my lord, takes its toll. But do I intrude?’
The note had changed slightly, and Barford responded at once. He knew all about this kind of thing.
‘Pray sit down, sir. If there’s any matter . . .’
‘Thank you.’ He pulled a chair close. ‘I’ve been making inquiries for my Lord Hildersham---‘
‘Ah, his house? Yes?’
‘It’s difficult, as I said. There’s no one wishes to vacate.’
‘Why should anyone?’
‘Precisely. But I’ve been having a word with one of my proprietors--Mr. Thompson. He has all this Montpellier ground.’ Mr. King waved his hand at the prospect from the verandah. ‘You’ll see yonder, my lord, he’s building houses.’
‘They’re ready, do you mean?’
‘One or two. And with a little difficulty I’ve persuaded Mr. Thompson that a lease of one to the Earl of Hildersham---‘
‘Excellent--for Mr. Thompson. Hildersham’s known, and there’ll be a rush to be his neighbours.’
‘As I pointed out, and Mr. Thompson has seen the point. A man of business, of course. What we might call a developer.’
‘A breed that’s growing. When, however, do I lose my guest?’
‘Perhaps in three days. Mr. Thompson is putting all his workmen to one house. Furniture will be needed, of course.’
‘I’ll tell Hildersham.’
‘If you would, my lord. I--er--thought I should mention this.’
‘Quite right. No, don’t go. You can spare a moment further?’
‘Of course.’
Mr. King sank back into the chair and Barford took a moment to think. Then he came to it crisply.
‘I hear we’ve Sir Thomas Luttrell with us?’
‘Oh, in Cheltenham? Well, yes, my lord.’ Mr. King sounded suddenly cautious. ‘Just temporarily, I believe. I haven’t met him. I did call, but I--er--was not received.’
‘He’s that sort of man, I’m afraid. However . . .’ There was a slow thoughtful nod. ‘Do you know a Captain Grant--from the Navy?’
‘Er--yes.’ It was very cautious now. ‘He was at Bath in the winter, my lord. You know I hold office there?’
‘So you do. But at Bath, was he? For any special purpose?’
‘Perhaps to learn the ways of a spa. And perhaps--if I may say it--to learn the ways of ladies too.’
‘It’s time he did.’ An eyebrow lifted for a moment. ‘But he’s coming here, I fancy, to Cheltenham. I’ve a niece, you remember?’
‘Indeed yes. But may I express the hope---‘ Mr. King stopped suddenly. ‘Oh, I see.’
‘Precisely. It’s why I mentioned Luttrell. You know there was a quarrel?’
‘How could I not know? It was the talk everywhere.’
‘If it should happen here----’
‘My lord!’ Mr. King was appalled. ‘My lord, it would be a scandal.’
‘It is anywhere. However . . .’ There was a judicious pause. ‘I don’t know when Grant will come, or where he’ll stay, but I’d like to know.’
‘Ah! If he’s booked his rooms, I can find out. So if you’ll give me a few hours . . .’
‘Of course.’
Mr. King bowed himself away, as urbane and unruffled as before, and there was no one but his driver to see how thoughtful he looked as he settled into his phaeton. Lord Barford finished his chalybeated saline and went for the prescribed third glass. He took it back to his chair, and he made no move beyond a wave of his hand when he saw Mrs. Masters depart with Sir Michael Murphy. Then he sat on, and it was past three o’clock when he went sauntering down the avenue to the bridge across the Chelt. He was changing his clothes for dinner when the clop of horses at the door told him that Hildersham had returned with Mary.
He met them at dinner, and he did not recount the events of his day. He contented himself with asking after theirs, and it was not until the end of dinner that he seemed to remember something. Then he told Hildersham of the villa that would be ready by the end of the week.
‘You’d better see this man Thompson, I suppose, and get something signed. Oh, and you’ll need some furniture. There’s a place in the Colonnade, I think, but King will know.’
‘I’ll see him. And many thanks.’
‘Not at all. Now what do you think to do tonight?’
‘Well, it’s Wednesday, sir. There’s a card assembly at the Rooms, and Mary’s been lecturing me on my social habits.’
‘Oh?’ Barford did not sound as if he approved. ‘Mary, you don’t take to cards, I hope?’
‘Don’t worry,’ she told him. ‘It’s only whist in the Assembly Rooms. No hazards or staking of money allowed. That’s why he hasn’t wanted to go.’
‘Then by all means take him.’
‘Thank you. I wasn’t thinking even of playing the whist.’
‘Then why go?’
‘It’s a good place for talk.’
‘And for being seen, no doubt. But, if you please, don’t speak lightly of whist if there’s money on the board. I’ve played a deal of it myself, and I know.’
‘So do I.’ She nodded firmly. ‘Very well, sir. We have your leave to go?’
‘You don’t need my leave.’
‘Thank you.’ Her tone eased a little. ‘But how of you? Do you come?’
‘No. I’ve letters to write.’
It sounded like a polite evasion, and perhaps at that moment it was. It became a reality a little later. They went off together to the Rooms a little
before eight, Mary looking pleased and Hildersham attentive. Barford sat alone, reading, and perhaps waiting; and at a quarter past eight a letter was brought to him from Mr. King, who regretted that he could not attend on Lord Barford in person; he had to be in the Rooms. But Sir Thomas Luttrell was still the guest of Captain Trehearne, who had also been in the Black Hussars, and Sir Thomas was expected to leave on Saturday. Captain Grant was already paying for a room at the Plough Hotel, and was therefore expected at any time; he had written from Thomas’s Hotel in Berkeley Square. And Mr. King was his lordship’s obliged and devoted servant.
His lordship sat in thought. Then he moved to his bureau took pen and paper, and wrote quickly in his neat and level hand. He set out briefly the state of affairs and then came to it:
You will perceive the embarrassment that could too easily arise if you were at this juncture to add your own company to these others. It would hardly be possible, in so small a place, that you and Luttrell should not meet, however prudent you might be. By Monday he is expected to be gone, and you would surely be wise to delay until then an arrival to which we all look forward. By Monday, also, as it seems, Hildersham may have ceased to be my guest and Mary’s. This circumstance may impress you as fortunate.
Seek us out, pray, as soon as you are here, and believe me to be
your sincere friend,
Barford
He sanded it, read it carefully, and directed it to Captain Grant at Thomas’s Hotel. Then he rang for his footman and gave orders that it should be taken at once to the post office. Its timely arrival, he thought, might save a deal of trouble.
But it was now too late. Captain Grant was already in Cheltenham.
19 The Wind that Blows
He had, in fact, left Berkeley Square on the Monday, taking a seat in the Accommodation coach, which ‘dined and slept’ at Oxford; and at Oxford, liking the look of the place, he had been persuaded to linger, letting the coach go on without him. He had filled two pleasant days with his sightseeing, and at length, on this Wednesday afternoon, he had hired a post-chaise to take him to Cheltenham.
