by Robert Neill
He had the chance of it about six o’clock that evening. He had just finished dinner at the Plough when John came in to see him. But he looked purposeful, and the purpose soon appeared.
‘It’s a pity you didn’t come to that sherry party,’ he declared. ‘It was quite good.’
‘Many there?’
‘Twenty or so. I’d expected more, really.’
‘It shouldn’t have been held on a Sunday. Or so they said in the Pump Room. That sort of thing seems to count, at a spa.’
‘I’m learning. I’m not sure I was popular at the party, by the way. They all wanted Anice--regular Queen of Hearts--and she ended by taking me into a corner for a talk. Hence some black looks. But it was about you. She’s quite upset.’
‘What about?’
‘You haven’t been near her. Also she wants to thank you for helping with the house. Did you give her a ship, by the way, in a bottle?’
‘I did.’
‘She had it on view, on the mantelpiece, and whenever they asked about it she said it was Amphion--your ship, and you’d given it her. I’m not sure it made you very popular.’
‘But why . . .’
He sank into silence, hardly knowing what he had meant to say. It had all come back to him--the room at Queen Street, the china above the fire and Anice on the sofa, warm and alluring, blue eyes on Amphion as she spoke so proudly of it. It was the Anice he had known, had tried to forget, the Anice who was all his and never Luttrell’s--and she still had Amphion.
‘What’s the matter?’ said John.
‘I’d just remembered--giving it to her.’
‘It must have been an occasion, by the way she’s remembering it too. Oh, she is. You needn’t look like that.’
‘She at least went off with Luttrell.’
‘I’m not making excuses for her. The point is, I think she wants to make them.’
‘I don’t follow this.’
‘Probably my fault. Anice was pretty plain about it. She thinks there’s a quarrel, and she wants to make it up. That’s what it comes to, and if she’ll say that outright, she must want it pretty badly. I think you’re lucky.’
‘Possibly. But what exactly does she want?’
‘You. She wants you to go along there this evening, with me.’
‘Two of us?’
‘Well, there are two of them. It seems reasonable.’
‘It would--from Anice.’
His mind was splitting in two again, the one eager to go, avid for the sight and sound and fragrance of her, the other resisting, cherishing resentments, warning him that there would be only one end if he went. At close range Anice would win.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said stubbornly. ‘This isn’t London, and a fine buzz of talk we should set going, visiting those two on a Sunday evening.’
‘Is it Mary you’re thinking of?’
‘Among others, yes.’
‘I don’t know who the others are. However . . .’ John stopped, as if he might be considering the way of it. ‘I’ve no wish to press it. What do you think you’ll do then, tonight?’
‘This concert. Mary said she’d be there.’
‘So did Anice. That’s to say, if we don’t go to the house. It’s a shade awkward, if Barford’s going.’
‘Didn’t you tell her so?’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t think of it. Have you mentioned it to Anice?’
‘I haven’t seen Anice.’
‘Oh, well . . .’
It was becoming obvious, and the first half of his mind was triumphantly pointing out that he must certainly have this word with Anice--on behalf of Barford. The other voice had sunk to a whisper as it told him again that Anice would win, that perhaps she had won already.
It was ten minutes’ walk up the High Street, and they were at the house by half past six, to be received by Marion at the door and by Anice in a sitting-room that was smaller than the one in Queen Street, and looked rather too new in both paint and furnishings. But it was pleasant enough, cheerful and well-proportioned, and eyes were on Anice rather than on the room. She stood waiting for them, her back to the flower-filled hearth, and she seemed unchanged, the Anice he had known before. She was more restrained, certainly, perhaps because they were not alone, but there was delight in her face when she saw him, and the old warmth was in her eyes. She came to him at once, holding out both her hands, and when he would have taken them she evaded him. Instead, she flung them round his neck and kissed him happily. For a moment he held her tight and looked into her eyes.
‘Had you forgotten me?’ she asked quickly.
‘Do you think I ever could?’
‘It looked like it. I didn’t forget.’
Her fleeting glance was to the mantelpiece where Amphion was stiffly under sail in the sea of paint, exactly as John had said. He could see it, now she had moved away, and memory rose again of Queen Street and Anice by the fire. But Luttrell had been at Queen Street, and had driven Anice . . .
‘It’s real,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t put it there for you to look at. It’s always there.’
‘I’m glad.’
‘Why didn’t you come? And you might look pleased to see me.’
‘Forgetting everything else?’
‘You are in a temper. I didn’t know you were like this.’ Her eyes came suddenly to an excited brilliance. ‘It’s all because I let Tommy drive me?’
‘Don’t say Tommy. And did you think I should like it?’
‘Well, we all have to put up with something.’
‘There are limits to it, as you may well learn.’
‘Oh dear! First Tommy, and then you. I’m always in trouble.’
‘What do you expect to be in, if---‘
‘Now stop squabbling, you two,’ said John suddenly. ‘This isn’t your private party, and you’re spoiling it for us.’
‘All right.’ She nodded vigorously. ‘We’ll leave it till we can have it to ourselves. Will that do?’
‘Yes.’
He was suddenly aware that there was nothing else for it, with the others present. ‘We’d better talk of other things tonight.’
‘And I shall catch it next time, I suppose? I’m always catching it from someone.’
‘Quite right,’ said John calmly. ‘It might teach you not to squabble.’
‘Who’s squabbling?’ She turned on him at once, with the air of one happily accepting a challenge. ‘It was all sweet and loving here till you two men pushed in.’
‘Pushed in is good, after the trouble you took to get us here. And as to sweet and loving, what’s this about a house? Both of you screaming for help--can’t possibly live together?’
‘Well, of course we can’t. There isn’t room. That’s all. It’s as simple as that. But I am simple.’
‘How to distinguish you from an angel, Anice, is something I’ll never learn.’
‘There’s a lot you’ll never learn. Have you anything to say to Marion?’
‘Heaps.’
‘Then say it. I’m busy--otherwise engaged.’ She pushed her tongue out at him and then turned sharply to Richard. ‘I wanted to thank you, and I haven’t had a chance to, for getting it for me. I am grateful--really. It will mean more to me than you know.’
She had changed again, seeming strangely earnest, and her brown face was wrinkling as if this troubled her. He roused himself to speak what he thought was the truth.
‘You shouldn’t thank me for it, Anice, because I’d really very little to do with it. It was Hildersham, and I only went with him.’
‘He wouldn’t have pushed it like that if you hadn’t been there. He said so--couldn’t break off action, he said, with the Navy looking on.’
‘Good of him, but---‘
‘And that damned post captain face of his, he said. Looking as if he could write a circumstantial letter any minute, asking for a court martial.’
‘Really, Anice!’
‘Well, it’s what he said, and I don’t know what
it means, but I’m saying thank you.’
‘I still say it was Hil---‘
‘Darling.’ She had jumped suddenly from her chair, and before he knew what was happening she was on top of him, sitting firmly on his legs and holding his shoulders while she looked straight into his eyes. ‘Darling, I’m thanking you, not Hillie, and you ought to be pleased, not all mustn’t, mustn’t, mustn’t.’
‘All right, then. Thanks gratefully accepted--and I hope you like the house.’
‘It will do very well while I’m here.’
‘It ought to. What brought you here, by the way?’
‘You.’
‘What!’
‘Oh you silly!’ She leaned suddenly forward and grasped his ears. Then she spoke as if she were talking to a child. ‘Of course it was you. I didn’t know where you were or what you were doing. You hadn’t told me anything--anything at all--and then Marion wrote and said you were here. So of course I came too. I came next day, and I wouldn’t do that for anyone else.’ She stopped, let go of his ears, and then pouted at him while the mutinous look came back to her that he remembered. ‘I’m not sure I’d have come even for you, if I’d known you’d Mary Wickham with you--pushing in as if she owned you.’
‘Anice!’ He came suddenly erect. ‘You’re not to talk like that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s not decent, with her brother here listening.’
‘I don’t care if he is. She means to have you. She’s after you. Did you know that?’
‘I did not. And---‘
‘I thought you didn’t. But never mind, dear. You’ll be all right with me. I’ll look after you. Marion---‘
‘Yes?’
‘This is how---‘ She leaned forward suddenly and kissed him fiercely, before he had even guessed what she meant. ‘This is how you do it when he’s a dear but stupid. You might need it one day, so see how it’s done.’
‘Anice!’ He sat erect again now. ‘Will you show some sense of behaviour, please?’
‘I am doing. My sort.’
‘Then show some other sort. And listen---‘
‘I won’t.’
‘Yes, you will.’
It was his turn now to move unexpectedly. He had her by the shoulders before she was aware of it, shaking her soundly and strongly till she gasped and then began to squeal at him.
‘Stop it. You’re not to. I---‘
‘Then listen.’
‘All right. All right. I am doing. Ooh . . .’ She wriggled for breath as he let go of her. ‘You great brute! I don’t like that.’
‘You weren’t meant to. Now then . . .’
‘Yes, dear?’
‘Stop grinning at me.’
‘No, dear. I mean, yes.’
He looked at her suspiciously as she turned herself into a picture of docility, spoiled only by the gleam of mischief that shone through the blue of her eyes. But she sat still and quiet, and he went slowly on.
‘Now listen. While you’re talking of--Miss Mary, as you used to call her, we’ll have a word about her uncle also. Lord Barford.’
‘Blast him!’
‘Stop it.’
‘Why? Oh, all right.’ She changed her tone hurriedly as he grasped her shoulders again. ‘I’ll be ever so good.’
‘I doubt it. But about Lord Barford--what I’m telling you is that you are not to quarrel with him. You understand? You are not to quarrel.’
‘I shan’t have to. He’ll do the quarrelling.’
‘It takes two, and we don’t want your half of it.’ He paused for a moment, looking into her eyes. ‘Anice, you do understand? It would make things very difficult for all of us, and you’re not to do it. Promise?’
‘I can’t.’ She looked mutinous but she sounded earnest. ‘I can’t promise anything with a man like that. It might go wrong.’
‘How could it, if you don’t take it up?’
‘Because I’d have to. He’d make me lose my temper. That’s why.’
‘If you wait for him, he might. But with all that charm of yours, Anice, I’d have thought you could do something with him---not just wait to be provoked.’
‘Win him--over?’ She spoke slowly now, and the blue eyes were deep and troubled. ‘I--I’ve sometimes . . .’
‘What?’ He prompted gently as she stopped.
‘Nothing. I can’t tell you.’ Her eyes strayed away, looking to the window and then the hearth. ‘I don’t know. It might go wrong. And even if it didn’t, you mightn’t like it. She mightn’t, either.’
‘Who?’
‘His Mary. She doesn’t know everything.’
‘But---‘
‘I can’t promise it. You don’t know what’s in it.’
‘I’m sorry, Anice.’
‘Oh, I know you mean well.’ She brought her eyes slowly back to his. ‘You really want me to try? Will you blame me if---‘
‘I’ll never blame you if you’ll just try to keep the peace.’
‘I don’t know.’ A gleam of excitement came suddenly to her eyes, and the blue had taken light. ‘I’ll think about it. I can’t say any more. Don’t ask me to.’
‘Well--thank you for that. I won’t forget it.’
‘No-o. Perhaps not.’ For a moment they almost twinkled, and then she suddenly reared her head. ‘Marion, haven’t we any wine? We haven’t given them a drink between them yet.’
‘Lord help us!’ It sounded rather startled. ‘You’ve been talking so much, my dear.’
‘And you listening, I suppose--ears cocked up like a cat. Come on.’
She was off his knee in one leap, running to the side board, where Marion was already putting glasses out. Then she suddenly turned, with her hand on a decanter.
‘You can have two minutes for a drink, and then I want to know why you didn’t write to me.’
‘No, you don’t,’ said John quickly. ‘You said you’d leave that for tonight.’
‘Did we? So we did.’ She turned, carefully filling the glasses, and then she swung as abruptly back. ‘All right, then, we’ll have another night on our own. When shall it be? Tomorrow?’
‘I don’t think . . .’ He stopped, suddenly aware that this needed thinking of; and in any event tomorrow was Monday, when there was a ball in the Assembly Rooms. ‘No, not tomorrow.’
‘Well--when? Tuesday?’
‘I’m not sure. I think we shall have to leave---‘
‘What do you mean?’ She banged the decanter down on the sideboard and came straight across to him, her eyes glittering angrily. ‘You’re wriggling. You don’t want it.’
‘I did not say that.’
‘It’s what you meant.’
‘It is not.’ He spoke as angrily, aware that he had hardly known what he did mean. ‘But I can’t arrange it now. I’ve engagements this week.’
‘Engagements with her, you mean? You’ve made me promise, haven’t you, when I thought we were to have this out?’
‘Of course we’re to have this out--and about Luttrell too.’
‘All right.’ Her face eased, and suddenly she sat on his knee again, pressing close and looking into his eyes. ‘It’s a promise, isn’t it?’
‘Of course.’ It was all he could say, and with the power and fragrance of her so close upon him, it was all he wished to say; and all thought of Barford had left his mind. ‘We mustn’t quarrel, my dear.’
‘Why not?’ Her eyes gleamed with sudden mischief. ‘It might be fun.’
‘Fun!’
‘We haven’t tried it, have we? All right, dear. Don’t get worried.’ She patted his forehead soothingly. ‘I’ll fix it myself, if you can’t. But we’re going to have a night of our own--and soon.’
24 His Lordship Conquered
‘I think you’d better be careful,’ said John thoughtfully, ‘or we’ll have Anice eating you.’
He had come to the Plough after breakfast the next morning to explain that he had told Mary as much as he thought good for her of their last
night’s doings; which, as he admitted, missed out almost everything she would have liked to know.
‘I just said we called there and persuaded Anice to try some tact.’
‘With Barford? It will be all right if it works, I suppose, but I don’t quite make out what Anice means to do. She was rather mysterious about it.’
‘Was she, indeed? Well, never mind. I was quite vague about it to Mary. Oh, and by the way . . .’
It was at this point that he gave the advice to be careful, and he followed it with some more.
‘Anice needs watching,’ he said cheerfully, ‘and some good firm handling. Or it will be all up with you. One crunch and you’ll be gone.’
‘You speak as if she’s a sort of tigress.’
‘That’s exactly what she is, and she was looking pretty hungrily at you. Talk of the pot calling the kettle black!’
‘About what?’
‘Remarks about Mary, of course--going after you. Mind you, I’m not saying it isn’t true. It quite likely is, but all the same . . .’
‘Steady, John!’
‘I’m a damn sight steadier than you are, from what I can notice. And it wouldn’t surprise me if Mary knew what she wanted. She’s old enough, and she might be experienced enough.’
‘Might?’
‘Well, I’m not quite sure she’s just the blameless country lady she makes herself out to be--never looked at anyone but Charles, and so on. We aren’t that sort of family, and she’s sometimes seemed to know things the blameless lady mightn’t.’
‘Has she, indeed?’ A memory came quickly that she had spoken darkly of Luttrell, but he must treat that as a confidence. ‘Why not that sort of family?’
‘Not many of us are blameless. Look at me.’ John laughed softly. ‘Think of my grandfather too. He arrived with someone else’s wife, as I think I’ve told you. And there was his elder brother, who seems to have been Anice’s grandfather--wrong side of the blanket. Did I tell you that?’
