A Regency Scandal

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  “I am perfectly acquainted with your views on that and on several other matters about which you feel strongly,” he replied with a teasing smile. “You don’t scruple to keep me informed of them, and I must be stupid indeed if I could plead ignorance.”

  Amanda pouted. “Oh! You are saying that I am a monstrous bore, Mr. Somerby!”

  It took some time to reassure her on this point, but he managed the business with enthusiasm and skill.

  “I’m so happy,” she murmured, drawing away from him presently. “We have a pleasant house, a playmate for little James, and I shall be situated close to dear Maria. What more could I wish for?”

  The momentary sadness returned again to her eyes and he gathered her close, not wanting her to brood over the little daughter, a stillborn infant, whom they had lost two years ago.

  “Well, I must confess it will surprise me if you’re not demanding a new gown or bonnet, or some such matter, before the month’s out,” he replied, with a creditable attempt at lightness. “But possibly I do you an injustice, ma’am. Tell me, shall we paint the panelling in the parlour white, or do you prefer it as it is?”

  He was rewarded by seeing her face light up once more as she plunged animatedly into plans for their new home.

  They were soon comfortably settled in; and as Neville, if somewhat ungraciously, acceded to his wife’s request to have a gate placed at a strategic point in the park fencing, Amanda was able to visit her friend informally in the way she had done so often in the past during Maria’s girlhood visits to Oxfordshire. Indeed, there were few days when the two young matrons did not meet; and their sons derived much benefit from the companionship, sharing their toys and amusements and in general becoming just like brothers.

  Like siblings, too, they occasionally had their tiffs; but as both mothers wisely agreed to interfere as little as possible, instructing their respective nursemaids to pursue the same policy as well, these clouds on the relationship soon blew over.

  There was one occasion which the two friends often recalled afterwards, when the ownership of a brightly coloured ball was in question. Each young man firmly declared that the ball was his and in consequence claimed a prior right to bounce it. The argument grew heated, and Anthony reinforced his point of view with a push which sent James, the younger by seven months and therefore lighter in weight, into collision with a table. James was picked up in floods of tears, and a small bruise rapidly appeared on his cheek.

  Anthony, stricken by what he had done, stood stammering that he was sorry, that he had not meant to hurt his friend; but his Mama turned a deaf ear to his protests, dismissing him to the nursery in disgrace.

  When Amanda pleaded for him to be allowed to return, he came into the room with a dejected air clutching something tightly in his hand which he held out to the other child.

  “What is it?” asked James, now quite recovered and bearing no animosity. “Oh, it’s your blue marley, the one with white bits in it! Are we going to play with it?”

  Anthony shook his head. “You can — it’s for you. To keep. To make up, ’cos I hurt you.”

  James stared in disbelief. The marble was the most attractive one of a set presented to Anthony by his grandfather on a recent visit, and the little boy knew how much his friend valued it. Suddenly overwhelmed by this generous attempt at reparation, his lip began to tremble.

  “No, Tony, no, I won’t take it! You like it, I know you do! Oh, Tony, I haven’t deserved it, ’cos I was horrid, too!”

  Amanda was hard put to it not to laugh, moving though she found the scene; she had often heard her husband use this expression to his young son during James’s occasional lapses from grace, and now here the child was, using it of himself.

  With the unselfconsciousness of the very young, the two little boys flung their arms about each other, and were soon playing contentedly with the marbles, the controversial ball quite forgotten.

  Shortly thereafter, there was yet another arrival in the neighbourhood. Edward Lydney returned to Buckinghamshire with his wife and young family to take up residence at Askett Hall with his father, now a widower. The arrangement suited all parties concerned. Sophia Lydney had not been in the best of health, and it was thought that country air and a quieter pace of life would suit her better than the racket of London. As Askett Hall lacked a mistress, Baron Lydney was glad to have her installed there and pleased to see his son taking some interest in the property which he would one day inherit.

  Mrs. Lydney was a fashionable woman with a languid, reserved manner which gave an impression of boredom, and she evidently felt that in quitting Town she had left civilisation behind her.

  One of her early visits was to Alvington Hall. Maria, trying in vain to engage her in conversation on a number of varied topics, confessed later to Amanda that never had a twenty-minute morning call seemed so long.

  “She looked exquisite, you know, in a gown of white lawn in the first stare of fashion and a hat of pink and white striped sarsenet. She has glossy black hair and small, delicate features” — Maria sighed, then smiled ruefully — “very different from my own! But she was for all the world like an animated doll, and I should own myself surprised if I managed to drag more than a dozen very brief replies from her during the whole visit. She showed not the slightest interest in any of our concerns in the neighbourhood, nor did she seem anxious to become acquainted with people. Of course,” she added, fair-mindedly, “she may improve when one knows her better. Sometimes those who are reserved at first turn out to be the most interesting on further acquaintance. I did suggest that she might like to send her elder child, Henry, who is much of an age with our two, over here sometimes to play. The poor little fellow will be missing his London companions, I daresay.”

  “And what did she say? Is he to come?”

  “Well, as to that, I’m not perfectly certain. She said she left all such matters to the child’s Nurse, which made me feel that perhaps I ought to do so, too. She seemed to have a little trick,” added Maria, reflectively, “of putting one in the wrong, you know. But I should not be prejudicing you in this way, Mandy. You will see her for yourself, and then you may judge.”

  Amanda was obliged to wait for an opportunity to do this, however, as Mrs. Lydney did not do her the favour of paying a call at the Rectory. Possibly she considered the Rector’s wife beneath her touch. As Mrs. Somerby was everywhere received in local society, the two did meet before long, and Amanda then found no cause to disagree with Maria’s verdict on their new neighbour.

  Evidently young Henry Lydney’s Nurse had been given Lady Alvington’s invitation, though, and approved of the notion; for she presented herself at the Hall a few days later with her charge, freshly scrubbed and resplendent in a pair of yellow nankeen trousers and a snowy white frilled shirt. His appearance put Anthony’s own Nurse, a sensible young woman trained by Maria’s Jenny, to the blush; for her two charges had just been playing one of their favourite games, that of rolling down the grassy incline at the side of the terrace steps. As a result, their clothing and persons were liberally daubed with earth and grass stains, while James had lost one of his shoes.

  They eyed the newcomer warily after the manner of young children. Then Anthony, who already showed a tendency to combine his father’s charm with his mother’s more genuine friendliness, took a step towards the other child.

  “I’m Anthony and this is James. What’s your name?”

  “Master Henry, you should make your bow,” prompted his Nurse before the boy could answer. “This young gentleman is Viscount Shaldon, and the other is Master Somerby.”

  Recalled to a sense of social duty, all three little boys sketched a bow as they had been taught, then fell silent again, overawed by the adult pressures put upon them. It was Anthony’s Nurse Meadows who saved the situation by drawing her colleague away to a bench at a short distance where they could keep an eye on the trio without obtruding their presence. In a little while, the new arrival had been initiated into the game an
d was rolling merrily downhill with the others; though not without giving rise to some doubts on the part of Master Henry’s nursemaid, who was accustomed to exercising her charge in a much more sedate manner in the gardens of a London Square.

  In a very few weeks, the metamorphosis was complete, and Master Henry Lydney was accepted into the society of his local contemporaries with far more enthusiasm than had been accorded his Mama.

  It was not many months later that Amanda discovered to her joy that she was pregnant again. With all her heart, she longed for a girl to replace the little daughter she had lost. This time, all went well; and on a fine October morning in 1796, Helen Somerby was born.

  CHAPTER XII

  Sunlight dappled the wood, bringing the golden glow of honey to the little girl’s hair as she wandered among the trees, intent on her play. She was not really supposed to come here unless she was accompanied by her brother or the other boys who came to Papa for lessons; although the wood was too small for even such a young child to get lost in it, and moreover it was situated immediately at the bottom of the Rectory garden, quite close to the house. But it was dull for Helen when the boys were at lessons in Papa’s study and Cynthia Lydney did not come over to the Rectory to play. At such times she would try to evade her nursemaid and wander among the trees which she loved, to indulge in the solitary games suggested by a lively imagination.

  That little mound by the chestnut tree was a castle, and the chestnut ‘candles’ were lights glowing in its windows as a guide to the Fairy Prince who would surely come to rescue his Princess, locked in a turret room by her horrid, cruel guardian. The interlacing branches of some nearby beeches formed a shady bower where the two might sit when once the Princess had been released. For Helen’s Papa had a copy of Charles Perrault’s Fairy Tales on his shelves and would sometimes read these to his little daughter, who would listen wide-eyed with rapt attention. The child had very expressive hazel eyes which changed with her moods; now brimming with laughter, now bright with intelligent curiosity or softened by feeling. She had a small featured, oval face, and people often said that her smile put them in mind of her Papa. Amanda Somerby would sometimes feel her heart turn over as she watched this miracle of Nature’s duplication. Perhaps Helen was a trifle small for her age, which was at present a few months short of seven; but her air of fragility was deceptive, for she had the buoyant energy and spirits of a healthy child.

  At present, she cradled a doll in her arms, a recent acquisition of which she was very proud. Her previous dolls had been carved out of wood, but this was an up-to-date model with a painted waxen head fastened to its rag body. The arms and legs were of wax, too, and the carved shoes on its feet were coloured a bright red. It had yellow hair, a pink and white complexion and staring blue eyes which James — horrid boy! — said made it look for all the world as if it would go off into a fit at any moment. It was modishly dressed in a blue gown of finest silk finished with a white lawn neckerchief. Helen thought it was the most beautiful doll in the world and would seldom allow herself to be parted from it.

  When Grandmama, who had made the gift, asked Helen what she intended to call her doll, the little girl had replied without hesitation that it was to be named Peggy.

  “Peggy! Isn’t that a plain name to choose for such a vastly fine lady, my love? Do you not think she deserves a grander one?”

  But Helen, who could hold firmly to her opinion when she was convinced it was right, shook her head, saying that Peggy was a very nice name because it belonged to the girl at the farm who brought the milk to the Rectory every day.

  “She’s got yellow hair, too,” said the child, “and she’s my friend.”

  She made this statement with a certainty that took no account of differences in age and station. Almost everyone was Helen’s friend, from the stable boys at Alvington Hall to its young master, Anthony, Viscount Shaldon. She shared her Mama’s outgoing disposition, and had yet to learn the melancholy lesson that not everyone might be trusted.

  She was standing by the little hollow near the oaks when she heard the first sounds of the boys approaching. A light of mischief came into her eyes, and she was about to conceal herself in this familiar hideout used by all the children when they wished to avoid the seeking eye of Authority; but she thought better of it, and instead ran gladly to meet them.

  Two of them came crashing into the wood from the Rectory garden, shouting at the top of their voices, flinging sticks into the air and leaping over obstacles in their path. Lessons were over for the day, and some relief was necessary for muscles long cramped from sitting at a desk and voices hitherto hushed to a seemly pitch. Bertram Durrant came first, a good-looking boy of twelve who was the stepson of Lord Alvington’s land agent, Mr. Harrison. The boy’s own father had been a lawyer; and conscientious Mr. Harrison was anxious to see that Bertram should have as good an education as could be afforded for the boy so that he might be eligible for entry to a similarly clerkly occupation. Knowing this, Mr. Somerby had three years ago kindly offered to tutor Bertram alongside the other three boys whom he was preparing for public school. His own son James, now eleven and a half years old, was one of these; the others were the young Viscount Shaldon and Henry Lydney, both the same age as Bertram Durrant.

  Helen’s face clouded with disappointment when she saw that Bertram Durrant was followed only by Henry Lydney, and that the two she valued most were missing.

  “Where’s Tony? Where’s James?” she asked.

  “Still with Mr. Somerby!” yelled Henry, although she was only a couple of paces away. “Doing some extra Latin — better they than me!”

  Then, ignoring Helen, who was after all only a girl and five years younger at that, he shouted, “I say, Durrant, what shall we play at?”

  “Let’s play at Revolutions,” replied Durrant promptly. He was a decisive boy who knew what he wanted and usually how to set about getting it. “You know, Mr. Somerby was telling us all about the Revolution in France. They chopped people’s heads off, even their King’s.”

  “That sounds a horrid game!” exclaimed Helen, but no one took any notice of her.

  “I should like to chop off someone’s head!” Bertram went on heartily.

  “Gudgeon,” said Henry, scornfully. “It may be all very well for the French to chop off each other’s heads, but you don’t think we’d be allowed to do it, do you? Besides, whose head would you want to chop off, anyway?”

  “Yours for a start, you great show-off!”

  Henry cuffed him, but without much force. “Button your lip, or I’ll teach you to mend your manners,” he warned. But the idea of the game had caught his fancy, and he asked, “How do we play this game, Durrant? Should we wait for the others?”

  Durrant considered, frowning. “We need one side to be the sans-culottes.”

  “What’s that?” queried Helen.

  “Well, they’re the mob — the common people, y’know,” said Henry.

  “What’s common people?” asked Helen, who had been listening with one ear while the other was alert for the approach of James and Anthony.

  “Oh, the labouring folk,” replied Durrant impatiently. “But it can’t interest you to know, as you’re not going to play.”

  “I am! Why shouldn’t I?” protested Helen, laying down her doll carefully on a mossy patch and seizing Henry by the arm. “You’ll let me play, won’t you?”

  “Well, if we’re just to stand here, I’m off home,” said Henry, ignoring her question. “Are we going to play this game, Durrant, or aren’t we?”

  “Yes, but we’ll need Shaldon and Sotherby to be on the other side, the noblemen,” explained Durrant.

  “I’m a nobleman,” stated Henry. “My father’s a baron.”

  “It’s the noblemen who go to the guillotine,” Durrant reminded him, with a sneer.

  “Then I shan’t be one,” replied Henry, promptly. “And I daresay Shaldon won’t want to, nor Somerby, neither.”

  “That only leaves the girl, t
hen.”

  “What about you?”

  Durrant shrugged. “I’m going to be the leader of the Revolutionaries. Besides, I don’t come of a noble family, like you others.”

  There was a tinge of bitterness in his tone.

  “That don’t signify. It’s all play-acting, ain’t it? What shall we do for a guillotine?”

  “I’ve got something,” replied Durrant, “hidden under those brambles. I picked it up at the farm a day or two ago, and thought it might come in useful.”

  The other boy emitted loud whoops and rushed eagerly to the spot indicated, with Durrant close behind.

  “Out of the way!” he ordered, pushing past his friend to burrow cautiously beneath a patch of brambles. He straightened up, triumphantly displaying a very rusty hoe, which had obviously been discarded as useless by its original owner.

  “How shall we fix it?”

  “Like this.” Durrant produced a ball of twine from his pocket, fastened one end to the hoe, then suspended it in mid-air by passing the twine over one of the lower branches of a beech tree. He cut the twine to a suitable length, made a loop in it which he secured to a twig near the base of the tree, and stood back to admire his handiwork.

  “There!” he exclaimed, in satisfaction. “Now we have only to release this loop — so—”

  He suited the action to the word, grasping the loop in his hand and lowering the hoe to the ground. There was a satisfying crack as it landed on a small, dry twig and snapped it.

  “Famous!” yelled the other boy.

  He insisted on trying the device for himself, and for a time both became totally absorbed in this aspect of the game. Helen soon lost interest and wandered away to the edge of the trees looking for her brother and his friend. She espied them at last coming across the Rectory lawn and ran joyfully to meet them, her hair swinging about her face, for she had lost her ribbon.