The Shocking Miss Anstey

by Robert Neill

  ‘I’m quite sure you will. But, Ann . . .’ The tone took sudden strength again. ‘There is one thing more. Do you know that Lord Barford is here?’

  ‘Bar---‘

  Anice stopped short, and her face changed. Her lips had tightened, and her eyes had taken a different light, and Richard, watching her intently, saw her turn from the Anice who puzzled him to the obstinate Anice he knew so well.

  ‘I didn’t,’ she said slowly. ‘I mightn’t have come here if I had.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to go back?’

  ‘I shouldn’t. I won’t.’

  It came quietly, but there was unexpected force in it, and something near anger was in her face now, to blend with obstinacy. Then, as quickly, she changed again.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘That was rude, wasn’t it? I shouldn’t have said it.’

  ‘Never mind that. The point---‘

  ‘I do mind. If you please . . .’ She seemed in difficulty, and for a moment she stopped. ‘I don’t want to be rude to you. I’ve never wanted to be. You’ve always been good to me, and please don’t think I’ve forgotten it.’

  ‘Thank you. But in that case---‘

  ‘I haven’t forgotten Lord Barford either, and I don’t just mean how he treated me. There was Dick there, at the Manor, and he was my brother---‘

  ‘Half-brother.’

  ‘Isn’t it enough? And he wasn’t allowed to know me. She was his grandmother as well as mine, and he wasn’t allowed to see her. When he was killed she wasn’t even told. She heard about it in the village. Then the Squire put a stone to him in the church. She put flowers under it, and they were taken away. Mine were, too, and did you know that?’

  ‘Ann!’

  ‘You probably didn’t notice. Why should you?’

  Anice stopped short, looking round with a sudden understanding of where she was. She had not raised her voice, but the tone of it had been enough, and the whole company was alert and agog, pretending not to look. She glanced round again, understanding it quickly, and a flicker of a smile came to her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I would get everyone looking.’

  ‘You could be more careful.’

  ‘I’m not careful. I’m not careful even when I ought to be, and this time I oughtn’t. There’s a lot more I can say yet.’

  ‘Then don’t say it here. But what are you really telling me? Are you set to make trouble?’

  ‘No.’ Anice sounded reluctant, and the blue eyes were anything but peaceful as they looked into Mary’s. ‘But you asked me to run away because he’s in this town, and I’ve said I won’t. I’m sorry. I never meant all this to happen.’

  ‘But it has happened.’ There was a little tap of Mary’s foot on the polished floor. ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Will that matter?’

  ‘Of course it will. I’ve said you were good to me.’

  ‘Then I want you to keep the peace. Will you?’

  ‘How can I?’ She was reluctant again, with the obstinate look back in her eyes. ‘I’ll do my best, and I’ll keep out of his way if I can. But if he comes after me . . .’

  ‘Very well.’ It was Mary now who spoke as if she were having to control herself. ‘I’d better not say any more. I’ll just wish you good night.’

  ‘I’m sorry you don’t like me.’

  ‘All I dislike is what I think may happen.’

  ‘I’ve said I won’t look for him--and that’s more than I ever meant to say.’

  ‘I’d like you to do more than just not look for him. However--good night.’

  ‘Good night, ma’am.’

  For a moment they were eye to eye, both of them taut and unhappy, and Anice recovered first. She pulled her shoulders a little further back, making herself come into poise, and then quite deliberately she sank into a curtsey. It seemed sincere, and perhaps it was unexpected. It left Mary standing stiffly before she acknowledged it with a deep inclination of her head. Then she spoke quickly to Richard.

  ‘I’ll get my cloak.’

  She walked away without another word to anyone, and for a moment he lingered unhappily, with his eyes on Anice. She was standing very still with her eyes on Mary and her face taut and strained. Then she turned and looked him in the eye, with a thin ghost of a smile. There was nothing he could do or say, and he must not linger now, but he wanted Anice, this unhappy Anice who seemed in such need of the comfort he could give her if they were alone. But he must go with Mary. He turned his head, and Hildersham nodded quickly.

  ‘I’ll see to Anice. You take Mary.’

  ‘Right.’

  He gave a nod to Hildersham and a little bow to Anice, and then walked away. He found his coat, and then he waited in the anteroom, alone except for the footmen, until Mary appeared again, wrapped now in a cloak of apricot velvet, proper to the summer night.

  ‘What an evening!’ she said curtly. ‘I wish I hadn’t come.’

  ‘That would have been a fool’s paradise. You wouldn’t have known.’

  ‘True. Come along.’

  They went out together into a High Street dark under a clouded sky, and with lamps no better than London had. He gave her his arm, and she slipped a hand out of her cloak to take it firmly.

  ‘Did I do right?’ she asked suddenly. ‘The way I handled her?’

  ‘Excellently. You had manners from her, and some sort of promise.’

  ‘If she keeps it.’ It came slowly and half reluctantly. ‘As a child she usually kept a promise.’

  ‘Then she probably will now. So if Barford can be persuaded to avoid her . . .’

  ‘If it were anything else I’d say he could. He’s the diplomat all the time. But this is different, and he’s capable of seeking her out just to be unpleasant.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Guess for yourself. But as a child she was a little spitfire, and now she’s in a position to spit. Have you any influence with her? You seem to know her.’

  ‘That seems to be forgotten. I’ve heard nothing of her all winter, and tonight she hardly seemed to know me.’

  ‘You sound regretful.’

  ‘Need you have said that?’

  ‘No.’ He felt her hand tighten suddenly on his arm. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not trying to quarrel. But, Richard . . .’ The hand pressed firmly again. ‘I’m not suggesting you should seek her out for this, but if you do happen to be in talk with her in a Pump Room I’d like you to do what you can.’

  ‘To persuade her to what?’

  ‘Soft answers, of course, if Barford says things to her.’

  ‘I’ll try, by all means. But how about a word with Barford?’

  ‘Leave him to me. I don’t say I’ve any hope, but you’ll have to leave him. He wouldn’t take anything from a man, on this.’

  ‘Perhaps not. I’m sorry you’ve had this trouble.’

  ‘Are you?’ She said it quickly, and then slipped into silence as they emerged from the trees and began to cross the grass before the Royal Crescent. ‘I’m used to trouble, of one sort or another, from that trade of hers. I met it when I was married, and I don’t suppose it will stop just yet. Well, here we are. Are you coming in?’

  They had halted by the steps before the door, and dimly, by the lamps at either end of the Crescent, he could see the clear lines of her face as she turned to him. He had to think quickly, knowing that he did not want to leave her.

  ‘I think I ought not to.’

  ‘No.’ She nodded, and seemed as reluctant. ‘I’ll have to talk to Barford, if he hasn’t gone to bed. If he has I’ll have to talk to him after breakfast. So give me time for that, and then---‘

  ‘I’ll call at noon.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She turned, as if to climb the steps, and then she swung round again to face him. Her tone changed as she spoke.

  ‘You noticed how the men all left us when she came in? They went rushing to her--even Jack. I’m glad
you didn’t.’

  ‘I didn’t want to. But I’m glad you’re pleased.’

  ‘It’s natural, isn’t it?’

  He knew what she meant. His lonely winter had taught him that, and all he shared with Mary came suddenly alive within him, pressing and urgent. She was close against him in the dark, and no more was needed. He drew her closer, and then he kissed her, firmly and slowly, knowing as soon as he touched her that it was what she had wished for too. Then she flung her head back, and for a moment he waited.

  ‘Good night,’ she whispered.

  ‘Good night--and I wish it wasn’t.’

  He thought she would speak, but she stayed silent as she went quickly up the steps. But at the door she turned. ‘So do I,’ she said softly.

  She went in, and he turned slowly away, confused and excited, aware that he had crossed a Rubicon. Something new was beginning, and it was not with Anice.

  But Anice--the thought came suddenly--was not far away, and she was unpredictable.

  22 The Other Mary

  The porter at the Plough, threading his way to a window table in the breakfast room, announced that Sir Michael Murphy wished to speak with Captain Grant.

  ‘Does he?’ The reply did not ring with pleasure. ‘All right, then. Tell him I’ll come in a minute.’

  He was inclined to damn Sir Michael Murphy, or anyone else who came between a man and his breakfast. It disturbed his thoughts also, which had been of Mary last night, and of Anice who had hardly spoken to him, but if Sir Michael wished to see him he could hardly refuse. So he finished his coffee and went through to the hall, where Sir Michael was standing against an empty hearth, his big shoulders propped against the mantelpiece; and next to him, elegantly poised in a chair, and looking cool and fresh in the summer morning, was Mrs. Masters. It hardly seemed an improvement, but Sir Michael was hearty enough.

  ‘Ah, good morning to you, Captain! You’ll have finished breakfast, I doubt?’

  ‘Perfectly, thank you. What can I do?’

  ‘Why, it’s Marion here, with a message. From Anice, bless her!’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘You’re uncommon cool about it. But Marion can speak for herself.’

  Marion nodded, and then she spoke carefully, with nothing in her tone to suggest that she joined in this blessing of Anice.

  ‘It’s an invitation,’ she said. ‘For sherry tomorrow. Twelve o’clock noon.’

  ‘Kind of her.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s a party,’ said Sir Michael cheerfully. ‘For the boys.’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ corrected Marion. ‘She’s inviting all the gentlemen in Cheltenham---anyone who’d wish to meet her.’

  ‘I see.’ He sounded very doubtful now. ‘And where is this reception?’

  ‘At my house. At least . . .’ She pulled a wry face at him, and then her poise seemed to slip a little. ‘It was my house, till she took it over.’

  ‘Took it---‘

  ‘Yes.’ She cut in quite angrily. ‘That’s what she’s done. Do you know where she lodged last night?’

  ‘Of course I don’t.’

  ‘My house. She came post from London, all because I’d written to her and told her that you and all the others were here. At least, I think that’s why she came. She was in Cheltenham about eight o’clock, and she went straight to my house. Of course, I wasn’t there. I was doing that waltz with you, so she just settled in. Said she was expected, and so on--which she wasn’t--and took the best bedroom. Then she changed her clothes and came to the Rooms, and all she said afterwards was she knew I’d be glad to see her.’

  ‘It rather sounds as if you weren’t?’

  ‘I suppose I am, really. I mean . . .’ She stopped, and again pulled that wry face at him. ‘You saw what it was like? You saw that entrance she made? Of course she’s wonderful, and she had everyone looking at her, but they looked at her all evening--yes, even you and George.’ She had turned suddenly to Murphy. ‘You left me as soon as she came, and you didn’t come back. I might have been flowers on the wall.’

  ‘Easy now, be easy. There’s a little give and take in things.’

  ‘Try saying that to Anice. I’ve lived with her a lot longer than you have.’ She turned as quickly back to Richard. ‘Then I find she’s in my house, and now she’s giving this sherry party. No word to me, of course, except she hopes I’ll be present, and do you think anyone will look twice at me when she’s about? She’ll have me pouring sherry and fetching hats. So can’t you do something? You’re the only one who might. She does listen to you.’

  ‘I doubt it, nowadays.’

  ‘Who do you think she’s come to Cheltenham for?’

  ‘As I haven’t the second sight, I don’t know. Luttrell, perhaps.’

  ‘She hates him. Or she ought to.’

  ‘What she ought isn’t always what she does.’

  ‘She’s not as bad as all that. But will you try? Tell her she must live by herself, not with me?’

  ‘Can’t you tell her?’ But the thought had come that Mary also had asked him to speak to Anice, and the one might lead the other. ‘I can’t promise, Marion. I may not even see her. But if I have any chance to help you, I’ll do it.’

  ‘Thank you. You did once say you’d help me one day. Ah well . . .’ She got resignedly to her feet. ‘I suppose we’d better go. She’s even put us to work this morning--taking invitations round for her party. Micky’s to buy the sherry, too.’

  ‘Serve angels while you can,’ said Sir Michael staunchly. ‘Come along, will you now?’ ‘Angels!’

  She flung it at him disgustedly, and then they went away together, leaving a sea officer to walk to the window and glance from habit at a sky that threatened rain. He noted the south-west wind, and a memory of Ushant rose for a moment. He wondered if he should go out, and if he should really try to talk with Anice. Mary had asked it also, and yet she did not wish him to talk with Anice; which was his own dilemma too. He wished it, and his resentments did not.

  He went for his hat and then walked into the High Street, hardly knowing what he intended. He was not to see Mary till noon, but he might meet someone who was parading, or looking into shops. That was always possible, and it could be anybody; even, perhaps, Anice.

  In fact it was Hildersham, who was coming round the corner of the Colonnade, looking as if he had a purpose this morning. He sounded brisk and friendly.

  ‘How are you?’ he said cheerfully. ‘You took Mary home, I hope?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was late myself--Card Club--and they were all in bed when I got back to Royal Crescent. She didn’t turn out for the Pump this morning, so I didn’t see her till breakfast.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Not talking much, and I fancy she’s upset. Is it about Anice? It seems they knew each other, and Anice is upset too.’ Hildersham seemed amused for a moment. ‘She was in the Pump Room at half past seven, giving her performance again--everyone watching her--but she picked on me soon enough, and poured her troubles all over me. Do you know where she’s quartered?’

  ‘On Marion.’

  ‘And that’s the trouble. She was quite plaintive about it. House too small. Decorations awful. Marion silly. Can’t share anyway. Must have a house of her own--so on and so on--and will I get her one? I wonder what Marion will think of it?’

  ‘I’ve just been hearing.’

  He told of it, and Hildersham gave his deep chuckle. ‘So we’re both asked for help, are we? We’ll have to do something.’

  ‘Find her a house?’

  ‘Why not? I did it for Marion, so I can hardly say no to Anice. You’d better come along with me.’

  ‘But where?’

  ‘Oh, I’m just going to see this man Thompson about the house he’s leasing to me, so we’ll ask him to give Anice one as well’

  ‘If you think there’s a chance.’

  ‘It’s what he builds houses for, isn’t it? We turn off by the Assembly Rooms he
re, and he lives in a sort of Roman mansion in a country lane. It would suit Barford nicely.’

  Hildersham evidently knew the way, and the lane, as he said, was rustic, running through fields and looking as if it were used by cattle. It led to the row of newly built houses that could be seen from the Montpellier Pump Room, and Hildersham looked at them approvingly.

  ‘One of these,’ he said, ‘and it looks as if they’re putting furniture in. I’m supposed to have it today. But here we are.’

  It was half-way along the lane, patriotically called Vittoria House, and rather too imposing for its setting; modern and bow-fronted, but continued on three sides into a wide verandah on Roman Doric columns. They certainly gave it consequence, but they gave it also the Roman look that Hildersham had mentioned, as if it were the residence, perhaps, of some opulent provincial governor. Richard said as much, and Hildersham chuckled.

  ‘Legatus Augusti pro praetore,’ was his comment. ‘I said it would suit Barford, and that’s more or less what he was.’

  It was the residence, however, of Mr. Thompson, whom even Mr. King had spoken of as a developer, and Mr. Thompson, when they were shown into his room, proved to be eminently a man of business, fully aware of what Hildersham’s approval could do for a developing estate. So he made no objection, beyond a lifted eyebrow, when Miss Anstey’s name was mentioned as a possible tenant, and then he cautiously inquired if this meant the Miss Anstey who had lately been well received at Brighton by the Prince Regent. That seemed to satisfy him, and the rest was easily arranged. Certainly Miss Anstey should have the first lease of a house. There would be one in a day or two, though not, unfortunately, in the same row as Hildersham’s.

  ‘Fortunately,’ corrected Hildersham. ‘I don’t want her as a next-door neighbour. My wife’s coming.’

  ‘Ah--quite so.’ Mr. Thompson hurried past that point, and hastened to show the house on his map. It was just to the side of the wooded avenue that led to the Pump Room, and Hildersham said it would do excellently.

  ‘It’s just right,’ he told Richard as they walked out into the lane again. ‘Handy for everything, and not too close to me. Anice should be pleased.’