by Robert Neill
He did not turn out again that evening. He was too tired, and was not tempted by what he heard of a Card Assembly. He preferred, after dinner, the lazy comfort of the Plough, and he decided he would walk to the Well next morning to see what it was like and who was there. That, of course, was what mattered, for he did not know who was in Cheltenham. He had heard nothing from Mary, nothing from Anice, and after a lonely winter he was in a dissatisfied mood; though that, he thought, might change if only the wind would change. It had been blowing foul for him almost since he had paid off Amphion.
He felt more cheerful when he emerged from the Plough next morning to find the early sun lighting the length of a High Street that was already becoming busy. It was all new to him, and he had to find his way by the porter’s directions and a sharp eye to what others were doing. He passed the Royal Crescent, without knowing of Mary there, and then he climbed the walk, delighting in the green of the trees and the morning song of birds. It was sixteen years since he had been ashore in the spring.
He stopped by the pump, turning back to savour the sky and the prospect again, and then he proceeded with an assurance that had come to him during the winter. He had been at Bath, as Mr. King had said, and he had learned something of what was done at a spa. He had his shilling ready as he exchanged a word with Mrs. Forty, and he sipped at the water with a caution that had also come from Bath. He glanced at the sale-room windows, and then sauntered across to the open door of the Long Room. He stopped just inside it, looking round with interest, and seeing how small and rustic it was after the great Room at Bath. Then he caught his breath, and for a moment he stood rigid. Even across the room, and with her back to him, he had recognized Mary. He had half expected her; but the man at her side was Hildersham.
Then Hildersham saw him, and at once took charge in his own confident way. He waved a hand, whispered quickly to Mary, and then came forward with his lazy long-legged stride.
‘Welcome!’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’m glad to see you, and so is Mary. She said she was expecting you.’
‘Thank you.’ He shook Hildersham’s proffered hand. ‘I’d not expected you here.’
‘You can expect anyone here just now. I’ve even heard my wife’s coming. But here’s Mary.’
‘I’m glad you’ve come.’
She spoke clearly, but there was something more in her tone, a note of challenge that set him standing a little more stiffly as he answered.
‘I said I should be here.’
‘But it was natural I should wonder. I never heard from you.’
‘Nor I from you.’
‘I’d no address to write to, and I thought I’d hear from you’
‘I was a little doubtful.’ He answered promptly, and his voice was as firm as hers. ‘I wasn’t allowed to see you when I had to leave London.’
‘After a little trouble?’ She nodded. ‘I heard of it. I even know who it was about.’
‘Is that the---‘
‘Now stop it--please.’ Hildersham intervened suddenly, and he sounded authoritative. ‘You say you’re pleased to see each other, and straight away you start bickering. It will be a quarrel soon, by the way you’re working it up. Can’t you stop it--and be pleased to see each other?’
‘Sorry, Jack!’ She spoke with a rueful smile, which quickly faded as she glanced round the room and saw the attentive company. ‘I think we should certainly forget it.’
‘So do I.’
‘Well. . .’ The smile appeared again. ‘What’s your news? Where have you been this winter?’
‘I was abroad for a while, and at Bath. And looking round England.’
‘Have you seen John lately?’
‘I was with him last week. You know he’s selling out?’
‘We heard something--very briefly. What’s he doing? Where is he?’
‘He’s with his regiment. They’re at Shorncliffe, making ready for the West Indies. That’s why he’s selling, really. He says he’s had enough of service abroad, and I don’t think I blame him.’
‘I certainly don’t. He’s been away too long. But when shall we see him?’
‘Quite soon, I believe. He thinks he’s found a purchaser.’
‘Well, that’s a relief. Though I think he might have written.’
‘He’s pretty busy. He said---‘
‘Here she is,’ said Hildersham, intervening for a second time. ‘Our reigning beauty. Do you know her?’
It was almost a party that had entered the Long Room--a radiant Marion, with Curry and Murphy and two more gentlemen she had acquired from somewhere. Richard found himself staring.
‘Mrs. Masters,’ said Hildersham with a chuckle.
‘Who?’
‘Mrs. Masters,’ said Mary. ‘The reigning something, as Jack might have put it. Her first name’s Marion.’
‘But surely it’s. . . .’
‘Precisely. But how did John get rid of her?’
‘Dammit, she was a lady’s maid.’
‘Who? Mary Ann? Parlour-maid, you mean.’
‘She was a lady’s maid last October. That’s how she left John. She went to Anice.’
‘Who?’ put in Hildersham. ‘What’s this tale, please?’
‘You mean Miss Anstey?’ said Mary.
‘Yes, I---‘
‘So you’ve been with her this winter?’
‘I have not.’ He turned on her with a snap, irritated both by his own blunder and by the speed at which she had taken it up. ‘I have not so much as heard from her this winter.’
‘It seems to be a sore point.’
‘Stop it,’ said Hildersham. ‘Do you think, Mary, that Miss Anstey is worth quarrelling for?’
‘I certainly don’t.’
‘Then please don’t do it. Grant, do you remember that in our grandfathers’ day it was a rule that they did not wear swords at Bath?’
‘I’ve heard of it.’
‘It meant, of course, that there must be no quarrels at a spa. We are supposed to be at ease, and quarrels are left at home. Now . . .’ The chuckle came again, perhaps deliberately. ‘What’s this tale of a lady’s maid? It’s one she didn’t tell me.’
‘I didn’t know you knew her. But as to the maid . . .’ He was trying to talk as easily as Hildersham. ‘She went to Anice--last October, I think it was--and asked for some help.’
‘To become--er . . .’
‘What she is. And Anice, I gather, took her on as a maid. Said it was the way to train her.’
‘Seems odd to me.’
‘It seems to have worked.’
‘Excellently. I’ll vouch for that. But I think, from the way Marion’s making eyes at you, that she’d like a word.’
‘She can come here if she wants me.’
‘But she won’t,’ said Mary calmly.
‘Why not?’
‘She’s avoiding me, and she’ll pick you up when I’ve gone.’ She glanced round the room again, and then came a change of tone. ‘You’ll wish to call on my Uncle Barford, no doubt?’
‘I wish to call on you. It’s why I’m here.’
‘Really?’ She viewed him appraisingly for a moment and then nodded. ‘Well, that sounds better. We’ve a house in Royal Crescent, and Jack’s our guest just now.’
‘Lucky man!’
‘Or is it lucky me? But--Jack, what’s planned for today?’
‘Well, if you’ll forgive me . . .’ Hildersham laughed softly. ‘After the message I had last night about a villa I think I should call on this man Thompson and get it signed.’
‘Tactful, aren’t you?’
‘No, it’s genuine.’
‘Let’s say it’s both. All right, then--I expect Barford will be at home after breakfast, and perhaps I shall also. Will that do?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘Good. But I think Jack wants his breakfast, so perhaps ...’
‘May I walk down with you?’
‘You’re wanted here, I think--for a talk with Mary Ann. I won’t ask w
hat she wants, but please be sensible.’
A soft laugh came with it, and a smile he found inscrutable, and then she was away with Hildersham, very friendly to him, her arm linked easily in his as they strode down the Walk between the fringing trees. He stood watching them go, and again he felt lonely; and then eager, as he remembered her stance and her smile and the clear tone of her voice. She was still the one from his own world.
He turned, aware of someone near him, and it was Mary Ann who had come close, with Curry at her side; Mary Ann as he remembered her, and Marion who was different. He looked at her with interest, glad now of those weeks at Bath. He was not so new from the sea, and he knew how to deal with her, and with Curry too.
‘ ‘Morning, Curry.’ He was easy and confident about it. ‘Glad to see you again. Enjoying the place, I hope?’
‘Good place. Drink wine, though--not this tipple. D’you know Marion?’
‘I used to. How are you--Marion? You’ve grown up a little?’
‘Thank you.’ She produced her radiant smile for him, and something told him that she meant it. ‘I didn’t know you were here.’
‘I’ve just arrived. I thought you were with . . .’
‘Yes.’ She spoke hurriedly, and turned quickly to Curry. ‘George, be an angel. I must talk to Captain Grant for a minute. Now don’t be jealous. It’s not like that, but go and drink the water or something. Just for a minute.’
‘Orders received.’ He looked cheerfully at Richard. ‘Retire from field. Won’t drink water, though.’
He nodded and moved away. Marion stood silent for a moment, and almost looked diffident.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said slowly. ‘You meant I was with Anice, didn’t you?’
‘You were with her when---‘
‘I know.’ Her dark eyes moved quickly round the room.
‘I can’t talk in here, with all these---‘
‘Then come outside.’
They moved to the door, heedless of the eyes that followed them, and when they came to the pump she led him slowly up the path beyond it. It was quiet now, and cool, with the sun lifting through the trees, and no sound but the song of birds and their own quiet steps, and at first she walked in silence. Then she spoke suddenly.
‘Are you cross with Anice?’
‘I’m not quite pleased. But never mind.’
‘I do mind. She isn’t pleased, either.’
‘With me?’ He looked sharply at her, and found himself reluctant to discuss this at all. ‘I said never mind, so tell me of yourself, please. How did you part from her? And where is she?’
‘London. At her house. I was with her, you know, as her---‘
‘Her maid. I remember. Did it last?’
‘Oh yes.’ There was a soft, happy little laugh. ‘She made me work, mind, and I didn’t altogether like it, but she was wonderful at teaching me. She kept telling me what I ought to have done, and noticed, and heard somebody say. And how to say it. That’s what mattered. Oh, she was good.’
‘She would be. But what happened?’
‘Oh, we went to Brighton. That was till Christmas, and everybody was there. Prinny.’ She giggled suddenly. ‘He’s quite mad. He’s building more to that Pavilion, and that’s all he thinks about--and his belly. We didn’t see much of him. I mean Anice didn’t.’
‘Then why stay?’
‘Oh--one thing and another.’ She seemed to hurry past it. ‘Then it was Paris for a while, and Rome. Then London again, and Brighton, and now I’m here. She was good, though. She didn’t want to lose me, but she said I’d learnt something and I could try by myself now. So then she asked Jack---‘
‘Who?’
‘Sorry. Hildersham. She took me to him--didn’t say anything about me, of course--and asked him if he’d give me some introductions. But I think he liked me, and I stayed.’
‘With him?’
‘For a little time. Then he brought me here, and I’m to look to myself now. But do I matter? It’s Anice.’
She had stopped in her slow walk up the hill, turning for a moment to look down the sunlit walk to the pump and the bridge, and the distant spire of the church. He stood watching her, and his thoughts were of Anice, whom he had said he would not discuss.
‘What of her?’ he asked slowly.
‘She wanted to see you.’
‘At Brighton? She knew I could not.’
‘I know. She--she’s silly.’
‘I thought you were saying how good she was?’
‘She is.’
‘She was not good to me. She did not even write, and I do not think she was too busy for it. It’s more likely she had nothing she cared to tell me. Isn’t that it?’
‘It--it might have been.’
‘Might?’ His voice rose a little. ‘You went to Brighton with her, did you not?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sir Thomas Luttrell driving?’
‘Yes. I . . .’ She hesitated unhappily. ‘I said she was silly.’
‘In that, do you mean?’
‘Yes.’ Again she stopped, and then she seemed to rush at it. ‘He’s no good to her. He’s no good to anyone, but she can’t seem to see it. She just melts when he looks at her. She forgets everything.’
‘I don’t think I understand.’
‘No, you wouldn’t. But she’s not happy with him. She wanted you.’
‘She went an odd way to get me. Where is she now? Queen Street, did you say? With Luttrell?’
‘No. They--they say he’s here.’ ‘Luttrell?’
‘Yes. I’ve not seen him.’ For an instant she looked worried. ‘I don’t know how he’ll behave.’
‘Badly, I should think. However . . .’ He pulled his watch out and made a show of looking at it. ‘Perhaps we’ve talked long enough. We shall set some others talking if we go on.’
‘We’ve done that already, in this place.’
She was right. They went down the hill again to the Long Room, and at once the darting and appraising glances made the interest obvious. This Captain Grant must be important, though he made no show of it. He was on terms with the Earl of Hildersham, with Lady St. Hollith, perhaps with Lord Barford, and now with Mrs. Masters. Obviously he was well connected, and already memories were astir, with some busy whispers recalling Sir Thomas Luttrell and a duel in the Park--over the notorious Miss Anstey, it was said. But what was she really like? Captain Grant must know, of course, if only one knew him well enough to ask.
He was noticed after that. He was noticed as he walked to the Royal Crescent that morning, and in the Pump Rooms and confectioners the talk was soon busy. Captain Grant had called on Lord Barford. Or was it on Lady St. Hollith? He certainly knew her--and was there anything in it? That was interesting, and tales began to rise about this officer’s prize money, and his connections with Miss Anstey. Mr. King, who had decided to pay his respects later in the day to Captain Grant, began to think he should have paid them sooner.
Lord Barford, who was excellently acquainted with human weaknesses, pointed this out with some amusement to his guest.
‘They’ve nothing else to do,’ he remarked, ‘so they talk. If a Cyprian is involved they’ll talk with greater zest. And, of course, there’s your prize money. It’s considerable, I’m told, but they’ll have made it more than that.’
‘How does it concern them?’
‘Human interest, I suppose. Also ...’ There was the slight pause that can emphasize. ‘Some of them have daughters, so you may look to your defences.’
‘I’m not interested.’
‘No?’ The pause was a little longer. ‘Does that apply to Mary?’
‘Of course it doesn’t. Did you suppose it?’
‘I just wondered.’ The cool tone disposed of that touch of heat. ‘She’s a little difficult just now.’
‘I noticed it this morning.’
‘A tedious winter, no doubt--not enough to do, and not enough notice taken of her. She was scarcely pleased, by the way, that you did not see
her before you left us.’
‘She was scarcely encouraging. She was in London, you’ll remember, when I---‘
‘Fought Luttrell.’ Barford nodded quickly. ‘I remember it perfectly. And what I remember most is that she was concerned for you.’
‘If that’s the word. But that last morning I did not even see her.’
‘I’m not sure that you asked to.’
‘How could I? Concerned or not, she had certainly been displeased, and she showed it very plainly. And the next day---‘
‘My dear Grant . . .’ For an instant Barford sounded exasperated. ‘The next day she went to her room, and waited--waited, perhaps, to see what you would do, and you did nothing. She would draw conclusions.’
‘It’s a very odd---’
‘It’s nothing of the sort--with a woman. May I, perhaps, ask a question? You’ve a deal of experience, no doubt, in your profession, and you’ll think more clearly there. Did you, when you sighted a Frenchman, take sail off your ship and wait to see what he would do?’
‘Of course I didn’t. I---‘
‘What would you do?’
‘Reach to windward, of course, and take the weather gauge. You’ve a choice then, and you can join the action if you wish to.’
‘Precisely. You’ve seized the initiative--and the point to note, please, is that it’s as useful in love as in war. Don’t leave the initiative to the lady. She may at least like to pretend that it lies with you. By the by, if you avoid engagement at sea, without good cause, what will be said of you?’
‘Unfit for command.’
‘Note that point also. Now let’s turn to something else.’ Barford switched it quickly away as his guest began to look red in the face. ‘Have you heard about Luttrell?’
‘I’m told he’s here. I haven’t seen him.’
‘I hope you don’t. But I understand he leaves on Saturday, so all may be well.’
‘Do you expect trouble?’
‘Not really. He may have had his lesson--from you. Apart from that, he’d be thought highly ill-bred if he were to provoke something more after you wasted that shot. Still, one can’t be too careful, so I mention the point. But is this Mary? It sounds like her.’
He had scarcely turned when the door pushed open and she came sweeping in, gay and cheerful, with a swish of muslin and a faint scent of lavender. She was dressed for walking, thoroughly feminine in the fashionable cream-and-yellow, and she looked almost surprised to see that her uncle had a guest. She stopped short, as though to make that plain.
