by Robert Neill
‘So should Marion.’
‘Yes, poor thing! Well, what now?’
They walked up the lane together to the new three-storeyed house that Hildersham was renting, and they stood for a moment watching furniture being carried in through the severe rectangular porch. Then they parted, Hildersham going into the house, and Richard walking slowly across the grass towards the Pump Room. Away to his right, and parallel to the path he was traversing, another row of houses was completing, and from his memory of Mr. Thompson’s map he knew that one of these must be for Anice. That roused his interest, and he left the path to identify the house. It was not difficult, since only one was complete, and he saw that it was smaller and more modest than Hildersham’s, yet appreciably bigger than Marion’s. It should suit Anice admirably, and for her purpose its position could hardly be bettered, scarcely a minute from the Pump Room, yet decently private, screened by the trees from saunterers in the avenue. Anice, as usual, was being well served, and she might have done much worse than this.
A gentle drift of rain disturbed his thoughts, and at once he turned, scanning the windward sky as habit told him to. This was Ushant weather. It had been coming up since dawn, with thickening cloud and a freshening wind, and it would be no passing shower. It would last the rest of the day, and he was without an overcoat. He thought of returning to the Plough, but then he glanced at his watch. It was a quarter to twelve, near enough to noon for his visit to Mary, and he set off at once, stepping out briskly as the soft drizzle began to gather weight. He had to find the way, but it was not difficult, and another five minutes took him through the trees, across to the Old Well, and so down to the bridge, the grass and the Crescent. Even so, he was wet enough when he rang the bell and was taken into Barford’s sitting-room.
Mary was alone, and she received him with a smile he found inscrutable. Then it changed to polite concern as she saw his wet coat. He brushed that aside.
‘I’m fairly used to weather,’ he told her. ‘It will dry in a few minutes.’
‘If you’re sure.’ She turned to stare through the windows at what was now a mist of rain. ‘A depressing sight.’
‘I can’t see that it matters, when you’re ashore. How’s Barford?’
‘Out.’ She answered him tersely. ‘He’s a shade upset, and I don’t know where he’s gone.’ ‘He may get wet.’
‘If that puts him to bed for a while, it might solve a problem.’
‘Anice, you mean?’
‘Say, little Ann--which is what matters. I had to tell him, of course, and it spoilt his breakfast. That spoilt mine, and he can get wet if he wants to.’
‘You sound a little upset yourself.’
‘No. Just annoyed. The whole thing’s ridiculous. And for heaven’s sake, sit down. Don’t stand there.’
‘But why ridiculous?’
‘Why ask?’ She put herself into a chair next to his, and again she had the look he could not interpret. ‘He says he’ll speak his mind when he sees her, put her soundly into her place--that sort of thing. It sounds very dignified and it’s just bad temper.’
‘Perhaps he isn’t thinking of that.’
‘He isn’t thinking at all. This hasn’t anything to do with what she’s become, of course. He’s very tolerant of that--look at him with Mary Ann, who certainly isn’t any better, and even with Ann he was pleasantly amused until he knew who she was. Now he’s all ready for a scene, and just because of her mother.’
‘Well, don’t worry. You can’t help it, and men are surprising at times.’
‘Ye-es. You are.’ There was a sudden change of tone, and for an instant the enigmatic smile returned. ‘You surprised me last night.’
‘Did I?’ He looked at her steadily, quite aware that this was not casual, and that she was deliberately bringing him to what might be first in her mind. ‘If you were surprised, you shouldn’t have been.’
‘You’d hardly led me . . .’ She stopped, and again she had that smile for an instant. ‘Now with some men I’d have been very watchful, but with you . . ‘
‘You hardly flatter me.’
‘You hardly flattered yourself, or me either, when we met last year. However . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘It may have been fortunate. I was--er--a little out of practice myself.’
‘You were lucky if you were ever in practice.’
‘Not well said. Do you find it surprising?’
‘Of course not, but---‘
‘There was a time--even with me.’
‘And that’s why you were lucky. There was no chance at all, or all but none, in fifteen years at sea.’
‘I can understand that.’ Her smile reappeared warmly for a moment, and then a little frown replaced it. ‘I was rather stupid. I didn’t see it to start with, until John pointed it out. Then I did, of course.’
‘Thank you.’
‘He can speak pretty plainly. All the same . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I was a little surprised, in London, that you didn’t even see me, before you went away.’
‘You were not quite welcoming.’
‘Wasn’t I?’
‘Oh yes, I understand. But---‘
‘Understand!’ Her voice cracked for a moment. ‘I don’t know what sort of an exhibition I made of myself that night.’
‘And I don’t either.’ He cut firmly in before she could go further. ‘I was hardly at my best that night, or the next morning. You know what had happened.’
‘Of course I do, and you know what I thought about it. Still . . .‘
‘But at least it accounted for my going away--and perhaps for not pressing to see you. As I’ve said, it was not a good moment.’
‘So Barford told me. He tells me lots of things.’
‘Usually with some sense, perhaps. But can’t we forget that London incident?’
‘I think we’d better. Still . . .’ She stayed thoughtful for a moment. ‘What did you do after that? Did you go away with Ann?’
‘I did not. I thought I’d made that clear.’
‘Nothing’s clear. I suppose I shouldn’t ask.’
‘I don’t mind if you do ask.’ He stared back at her while the memory of it rose yet again within him. ‘Anice went off that morning to Brighton, driven by Sir Thomas Luttrell.’
‘Who? You mean, after . . . ?’
‘Yes--after that. And I’ve neither seen nor heard from her since--till last night. Don’t ask me to explain it.’
‘No-o.’ She answered him slowly, and very thoughtfully. ‘But Luttrell’s dangerous. I’m telling you so, even if you find it hard to believe.’
‘Can anyone believe it better than I do?’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean . . .’ Her smile was almost grim. ‘I meant the other way--dangerous to women.’
‘Some, perhaps.’ He spoke doubtfully. ‘If they’re silly enough.’
‘Perhaps we’re all silly. Or more of us than you think.’ ‘Mary, what do you mean? Do you know Luttrell?’
‘I told you last night I did.’
‘Yes.’ The memory came slowly back of talk in the ballroom. ‘You said he’d known your husband.’
‘Ye-es.’ It was dry, with an undertone that brought him to the alert at once. ‘I also said he’d known me.’
‘What are you telling me?’
‘I was telling you he can be dangerous, and to more women than you’ve thought possible.’ ‘You don’t mean . . . ?’
‘Never mind what I mean. Just believe what I say, and if Ann went off with him that’s believable too. These things do happen, and anyone knows it who hasn’t been rustic all his life. Or been at sea.’
‘I’ll believe that last bit.’ He watched her steadily. ‘But do you mean yourself?’
‘Why not?’ She almost snapped it, and then she rose suddenly from her chair and moved to the window, staring at the grey sky and the rain that was now a downpour. ‘I’m rustic enough now, but I wasn’t when I was with Charles. I wa
s in practice at all sorts of things--with Charles as an example, you see.’
‘Yes, but--Luttrell?’
‘Oh, he came on a visit.’ She sounded impatient, with a hint of anger in it, and she kept her back to him, staring at the unrelenting rain. ‘I’m not talking about it--except I know Tommy Luttrell rather better than you’ve guessed. Or, rather, I did.’
‘I’m glad it’s past.’
‘Are you?’ She swung round suddenly, and the note of anger was clearer. ‘Did you hear what he said last night? He’d seen me somewhere and couldn’t remember who I was! That, after---‘
‘Mary!’
‘Oh, all right.’ She faced him grimly. ‘We’d better talk of something else. This isn’t what you came here for.’
‘I’m glad of it, all the same. It brings us closer. It’s something shared.’
‘Oh!’ Her eyes seemed a little wider. ‘You can see that, can you? What did you come for?’
‘Just to be closer to you, I suppose--one way or another.’
‘As last night?’
‘That was the other way.’
‘Apparently.’ She nodded, and she was bright-eyed and alert as she faced him. ‘Have you any other ways in mind?’
‘Wait and see.’
‘I’ve spent some years doing that. But how about Ann? Have you thought what she may do? You may get some surprises. If you do---‘
‘Yes?’
‘Never mind. Though I did tell her to keep off my friends, and perhaps she will. But if she falls into talk with you--and I’m quite sure she will--just remember what I said about Barford, and see what you can do with her.’
‘You’re still worried about him?’
‘After his talk at breakfast, yes.’
‘What’s he doing now?’
‘Getting wet, I should think. Or is he? This looks like---‘
She had turned suddenly to the window, drawn by a clop of hooves and the grind of wheels on wet gravel, and they looked together through the glass as a chaise came slowly to the door, the postboy peering at numbers under the brim of his rain-soaked hat.
‘Hired,’ said Mary briefly. ‘So he’s had some sense.’
‘He didn’t have travelling trunks.’
A mound of baggage, sheeted against the rain, was on the flat between the springs, and Mary pressed closer to the glass as the door of the chaise pushed open and a man stepped out. He stood for a moment in the rain, and then waved briskly to the two at the window.
‘It’s John.’ Mary whirled round quickly. ‘And just like him. He never even wrote.’
23 Moth and Candle
It was not a social necessity to be at church on Sunday morning; for the sufficient reason that there was only one church in Cheltenham, and this, graceful as it was, had not room enough for even a quarter of the company now in the town. Anyone who missed attending had therefore an obvious excuse, and one of these was Anice. She was not to be seen next morning in a congregation whose ton must have gratified the Rector, if not the Almighty. The Marquis of Malloch was there with his family. Lord Harborne was there with his gout, and the Viscount Trevithick with his stick and his rusty hat. The Earl of Hildersham was there with his wife, and in the pew behind was Lord Barford with his niece and nephew, and Captain Grant at the side of Lady St. Hollith. He was known, of course, to be well-connected.
Mrs. Masters was there too, which may possibly have been less gratifying to the Rector, especially as she had no air of penitence, or even of diffidence. Nor was she inconspicuous. She had a Wellington jacket in her favourite rifle green, frogged and epauletted like a hussar, and her hat, which seemed to include a good deal of brass, was more like a shako than anything else. It was a fine fervour of patriotism, but it was a fervour of fashion too, as ladies quickly noted. It was ahead of anything yet seen in Cheltenham, and her dark eyes were gleaming with delight--as some gentlemen quickly noted. She did not, on that account, keep them strictly to her prayer book.
She had a ring of gentlemen round her in the churchyard afterwards, to the disapproval of some, and to the amusement of Lord Barford, who had lost none of his tolerance towards her. It gave him some pleasure, he remarked, to think that she had first learned manners in his own dining-room.
‘She didn’t learn how to dress in your dining-room,’ said his niece, with some amusement.
‘Not in that style, certainly. Do you like it?’
‘It’s highly fashionable.’
‘Which accounts, no doubt, for its insanity. Where did she get it from?’
‘I’d rather like to know.’
‘John, be good enough to step across and ask her.’
‘John, you’re not to.’
‘Say Mary wants to know.’
‘John, you’re---’
She was already too late. John was marching briskly away, and Barford chuckled as he turned.
‘What do you think of it, Grant?’
‘I’m glad it’s not my uniform she’s apeing.’
‘Spoken like a sailor. If she cares to ape an Ambassador I’ve no objection. You’ll come in for a glass of wine? Mary looks as if she could do with it.’
‘Do with it?’ She turned on him, half annoyed, half laughing. ‘Need you have sent John with such a message? What do you think he’ll make of it?’
‘Oh, some tactful inquiry.’
‘Do you think he knows that word?’
He was by now in the centre of the group, with Marion holding forth vivaciously to a ring of delighted gentlemen, some of them in open laughter. A burst of it came across the churchyard, and annoyance seemed to win the day in Mary.
‘Come along,’ she said firmly. ‘We needn’t be mixed in this. John can come when he’s ready.’
They moved slowly to the further end of the churchyard where the Well Walk began, and in less than five minutes they were at the Crescent, but they had been sitting with the wine for longer than that when John at length appeared, apparently in high good humour.
‘Sherry?’ said Barford affably.
‘Just a quick one, if I may. I’ve said I’ll go to Marion’s. I didn’t know she was giving a party. I didn’t even know she had Anice with her.’
‘Anice?’ Barford’s eyebrows came down a little.
‘Yes. Anice Anstey. You know of her, sir.’
‘I’m afraid I do.’
‘They’re giving a---Is something wrong?’
‘No--if you wish to leave us for that woman’s company.’
‘Really, sir, I---‘
‘John . . .’ Mary interrupted him sharply. ‘You were finding out something, weren’t you, about her dress?’
‘Oh, Marion’s--yes. But---’
‘Then suppose you keep to that.’
‘All right.’ He took a quick glance at Barford and then brought his eyes back to his sister. ‘Well, it seems she had it from Anice, and Anice had it for Paris. I shouldn’t think she often makes mistakes, but that was one of them.’
‘It’s in the latest---‘
‘I expect it is. But it hadn’t occurred to Anice that the French mightn’t, just now, wish to be reminded of our uniforms. So it wasn’t a success, and she had an unpleasant morning in it. So she hates it, swears she’ll never wear it again, and she’s given it to Marion--who’s delighted.’
‘So she should be. What did it cost?’
‘Heaven knows. It seems these things are made by the military tailors. A way of getting trade, I suppose, now there aren’t any officers.’
‘Very likely. And that, I take it, is why she was at church this morning?’
‘Well, I expect she wanted to show it off. But partly I think she was looking for you, Richard. Says she wanted to thank you. Something about getting a house for Anice. I don’t quite understand it.’
‘For Anice?’ said Mary sharply. ‘What house, please?’
‘Are you in her service also?’ asked Barford.
‘I’d very little to do with this. It was Hildersham. He has the infl
uence, of course.’
‘Well, it’s you she wants to thank,’ said John. ‘So does Anice. In fact. . .’ Again for an instant he glanced warily at Barford. ‘In fact the message is that they both hope you’re coming along for this sherry party.’
‘I hardly think I can do that. I’m a guest here.’
‘Precisely,’ said Barford, and turned coldly to John. ‘If you wish to visit Ann Atkins, I can’t stop you. But advise her, please, that I’m not disposed to give substance to her pretensions, and that she’ll be wise to leave this town before we meet. Now I think perhaps I should take a short rest. You’ll forgive me, no doubt?’
He said that to Richard, with a quick return of his usual courtesy, and then he went abruptly from the room. The door shut firmly, and John stared at it for a moment.
‘What the devil?’ he asked. ‘Mary, what’s wrong with him?’
‘Can’t you guess? He’s found out who she is.’
‘That nonsense?’ He spoke slowly. ‘You might have warned me.’
‘I didn’t have a chance. I’ve not seen you, by yourself, yet.’
‘Well, never mind--the damned old fool!’
‘Quite possibly, but it doesn’t help. Are you going to this party?’
‘I’ve promised to.’
‘You’d better get along, then. When will you be back?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Then you’d better think about it. I want a little help tonight, please. There’s a concert of music at the Assembly Rooms that he insists on hearing, and in his present mood---‘
‘All right. I’ll try to be back. What will you do till dinner?’
‘Walk to Montpellier, perhaps.’ She turned easily to Richard. ‘Do you come?’
‘If I may.’
‘Of course. And I want to hear what you and Jack have been up to--getting a house for Ann.’
That led to a pleasant afternoon. The Pump Room, on a Sunday, was no more than half full, the sun was on the verandah and the orchestra playing softly, and Mary was in a friendly mood, glad to be free of troubles for an hour or two. There was no sign of Marion or Anice, or anyone else who might disturb, and the company were pleasantly sociable--especially, perhaps, to Lady St. Hollith and to Captain Grant, who moved in high circles and had been at Almack’s. It was even amusing, to a sea officer who had thought himself out of place ashore, but he accepted it placidly until it was time to walk back with Mary to the Crescent. John, he learned, had come in and gone out again, and he accepted that too, even if he found it a little disappointing. He would have liked a talk with John.
