A Regency Scandal

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  “It’s not very satisfactory,” said Durrant, standing back at last and surveying his handiwork critically. “It don’t stay rigid enough to come down with the cutting edge foremost, as it should. More of a bludgeon than a guillotine, I’d say.”

  “I daresay Somerby can fix it. He’s a dab hand at making things work,” replied Henry. “But anyway we can’t use it properly in our game, can we? Leastways, not on any of us! There’d be the devil to pay and no pitch hot if someone got hurt. It’s a pity we can’t find anything to behead, though,” he added, a trifle crestfallen. “Something that don’t matter, I mean.”

  “Who says we can’t?” said Durrant, his eye lighting on the doll which Helen had for the moment abandoned. He strode over and lifted it from its bed of moss. “What about this? She looks a truly aristocratic lady, wouldn’t you say?”

  Henry whistled, awed. “You’d never dare! There’d be no end of a dust if we broke it!”

  “Pooh, I doubt we could. This wax is as hard as a bullet and not at all brittle, you know,” replied Durrant, examining the doll. “And the hoe’s not heavy enough to crush it, either. But it’d be rare sport to have a victim that looked the part, don’t you think?”

  Henry looked troubled. “But Helen’s very fond of Peggy,” he objected.

  “There ain’t anything else half as good,” said Durrant, crushingly. “It can come to no real harm — and if it does, we can say it was an accident. Helen’s sure to have lots of other dolls, besides. Girls always have.”

  “Ay, and if anything does go wrong, we can buy her another,” decided Henry, with the assurance of a boy whose pocket money was not stinted. “Come on, Durrant, make haste before she gets back!”

  Durrant stooped to arrange the doll face down over a large stone with its head dangling over the edge. In this position, it presented a suitably dejected appearance.

  “You can work the guillotine, Lydney,” Durrant offered, not without the thought that if anything did go wrong, it might be as well to avoid responsibility for wielding the offensive weapon. He stood up, struck an attitude and declaimed, “She’s an enemy of the Republic and must die! Death to all aristocrats!”

  Henry released the cord and the hoe descended with some force, bludgeoning the doll’s head, which jerked forwards in what seemed a most satisfactory manner to the executioners.

  Before they could fully grasp what had happened, an agonised shriek rent the air. Helen, arriving on the scene a moment too late with the other two boys, leapt forward like a wildcat to the rescue of the hapless Peggy.

  “My Peggy!” She snatched up the doll to clasp it to her; but she let out another yell, this time of anger, as the doll’s head lolled forward on its chest, severed at the back from its cloth body, although the front still held.

  “What have you done to her, you horrid, horrid beasts? Oh, look, James. Look what they’ve done!”

  Trembling with emotion, she held out the doll to her brother. He took it, studying the damage thoughtfully. Characteristically, his first interest was to consider how it might be repaired. But Helen’s was to avenge the wrong. Hazel eyes flashing, she flung herself upon Henry Lydney, heedless of his superior age and strength, and began to pummel him with all the force of her small fists.

  Henry, half-laughing at her fury, tried to hold her off, saying he could not fight girls. Anthony strode over, seized her round the waist and lifted her to one side.

  “No, Nell, he can’t, but I’ll attend to this for you. Now Lydney, put up your hands!”

  “All right, Shaldon, I’m ready when you are, but it was Durrant’s idea.”

  “Durrant, eh?” Anthony, too, had stripped off his coat, but now he turned to survey Bertram Durrant through narrowed eyelids. “It seems you’ll have to wait, then, Lydney. I’ll settle accounts in this quarter first!”

  “By all means,” replied Durrant, swiftly casting his coat aside. “That’s to say, if you think you can!”

  Without more ado, the two boys squared up to each other, the tawny head and the mid-brown one on much the same level. In build, too, they were evenly matched, in spite of Durrant’s four months seniority over Anthony. Boxing was not among the accomplishments which the Reverend Theodore Somerby endeavoured to impart to his pupils, but it was a national pastime enthusiastically followed by Lord Alvington’s stableboys, from whom the young gentlemen had gained a certain amount of expertise. Mr. Somerby turned a blind eye to the occasional sparring match, knowing that boys will be boys and that physical prowess was a necessary part of the wider education for life.

  They fell to at once, cheered on by the Lydney boy, who soon forgot the origin of the quarrel in his enthusiasm for what he termed “a mill.”

  James alone took no interest in these proceedings. He was still studying his sister’s damaged toy. He was as keen a sportsman as any of the others, but his overriding interest had always been in setting things to rights — a broken toy or a bird’s damaged wing were alike regarded by him as a challenge to his ingenuity and skill. He could never turn his attention to anything else until he had put forth his utmost efforts to repair any damage.

  Helen, her anger spent, had burst into tears and stood watching him through blurred eyes. Presently he put an arm about her.

  “Don’t cry, Nell. I think I can mend Peggy for you. See, the wax head has been forced away from the body, here.” He had removed the doll’s neckerchief and pulled back the garments to reveal the cloth body. “It’s been fixed on with glue, and it still holds at the front. I have only to glue it again at the back, and it will be as good as new, I promise you. Dry your eyes, there’s a good girl. It’s no great matter, after all.”

  Reassured, for her faith in her brother was boundless, she obediently took a handkerchief from a pocket in her blue and white print dress and mopped her face with it. Then she pulled at James’s sleeve.

  “Bertram and Tony are fighting. Please stop them,” she urged.

  He gave her an incredulous look. “Stop them — not likely! But I tell you what — I’ve a good mind to teach Henry Lydney a lesson! Here, take your doll back to the house, and mind no one sees it, or the fat will be in the fire! You’d best take it straight up to the nursery and hide it in a cupboard, and then I’ll smuggle it out to the carpenter’s later on. He’ll give me some glue to mend it. Off you go, now, and no tale-tattling, mind.”

  “You know I wouldn’t!” Helen was indignant. Her association with the boys had soon taught her to avoid this notoriously feminine habit. “Only I wish you will not fight, nor Tony, for you might get hurt.”

  He shrugged this off, dismissing her again in a way that brooked no contradiction. Taking the doll from him, she ran off.

  She entered the house by the back way, creeping cautiously up the servants’ staircase and hoping devoutly that Martha, whose business it was to care for her needs, might chance to be absent from the nursery at that moment. She was fortunate in this and managed to conceal poor Peggy in a toy cupboard just before the nursemaid entered the room.

  “So there you are, Miss!” Martha greeted her. “And a fine pickle you’re in, too, and little Miss Cynthia downstairs with Lady Lydney and your Mama, waiting to see you. Come along now, quick, and tidy yourself! I suppose you’ve been off with those rough boys again. Why Mistress allows it I can’t think, for a proper little hoyden it’ll make of you, and no mistake! And there’s little Miss Cynthia always so pretty-behaved, and never a hair out of place!”

  She was bustling about while she delivered this speech, pouring water into a basin to wash the child, then scrubbing her dry with a towel before finally brushing out the tangles in the golden brown hair.

  “There, now you look fit for company! Come along downstairs.”

  Helen entered the parlour timidly, bobbing a shy curtsey to Lady Lydney, of whom she was always in awe. Cynthia, a few months younger than Helen, was sitting beside her mother on an embroidered footstool, her hands demurely folded. She was a pretty child with a heart-shaped face and
glossy blue-black hair, which curled naturally; and when she smiled, twin dimples showed in her cheeks. She was her father’s darling, and young as she was, had already learnt how to cajole him into giving her anything she desired.

  Although she had now been residing in the neighbourhood for seven years, Lady Lydney seldom visited the Rectory. She had lately permitted her little daughter Cynthia to come there accompanied by her Nurse, so that the two girls might play together. There being no other little girls of a like age and sufficient gentility in the neighbourhood, the Rector’s child must do for the present, until Cynthia would be old enough to be sent away to one of the more select Young Ladies’ Seminaries.

  The arrangement was all the more convenient because her son was attending the Rectory as a pupil. She did deplore the fact that Mrs. Somerby, a somewhat unconventional female in her view, allowed her own daughter to run wild with the boys; but as long as it was made quite clear that such conduct was not approved for Cynthia, she felt that not much harm could come of the association. Helen was in her turn occasionally summoned to Askett House, where the large, well fitted nursery — so different from the haphazard room at the Rectory which masqueraded under that name — was efficiently supervised by a highly trained Nurse with several reliable underlings. Helen’s Martha was not at all in the same category, being nothing more than a motherly housemaid promoted to the post because the children had become fond of her. It could not be claimed that Helen particularly enjoyed these visits to Askett House; but she did like playing with Cynthia, and philosophically made the best of restraints to which she was unused at home.

  On this occasion, it was not long before Amanda Somerby wisely dismissed the two little girls to the nursery and Martha’s care. They went with relief, for even Cynthia did not find it much fun to sit quietly, as children should, without speaking unless addressed first by the adults. Martha, having seen them installed in the nursery, withdrew to an anteroom to busy herself with some sewing, leaving the communicating door open so that she could keep an eye on her charges.

  “Your Mama says you have a new doll,” began Cynthia. “May I see it? Do let me.”

  Helen looked uneasy. “Not now. Wouldn’t you like to play with my new picture puzzle? It’s very pretty.”

  “No, thank you,” replied Cynthia, obstinately, “but I would like to see your doll.”

  “Well, you see, she’s poorly today,” said Helen, putting on a motherly little air that would have charmed an adult, had one been present. “I’ve put her to bed.”

  “Poorly!” exclaimed Cynthia, laughing. “A doll can’t be poorly!”

  “Peggy is, I tell you. I’ll show you her when she’s better, another time.”

  “Do you mean you’ve broken her?” demanded Cynthia, with a child’s uncanny instinct for the truth.

  Helen’s hesitation was answer enough.

  “You have, you have!” exclaimed Cynthia, triumphantly. “Oh, won’t your Nurse be vexed! I daresay she may tell your Mama, and then you’ll be punished.”

  Helen shook her head. “Martha won’t be vexed, ’cos James is going to mend Peggy for me.”

  “My Nurse would be vexed, but Papa wouldn’t let her punish me. How did you break your doll?”

  “I didn’t break it, not myself.”

  “Then who did? Was it James?”

  “James doesn’t break things. He tries to mend them,” replied Helen, indignantly.

  “Who was it?” persisted Cynthia. “Was it my brother?”

  Helen’s mouth set in a firm line. “It’s no use asking, ’cos I shan’t tell you.”

  “I don’t care if you don’t. I shall ask Henry. He’s sure to tell me.”

  Helen felt momentarily downcast. She was not too young to understand, if only subconsciously, that her playmate took a perverse pleasure in stirring up trouble. Now that Peggy was in a fair way to being made as good as new again, Helen, never a vindictive child, wished to forget the unfortunate incident. She certainly did not want anyone to be punished for it.

  “Let’s play with my picture puzzle,” she said decisively, rising from her stool to fetch it from a cupboard.

  Cynthia, knowing there was a point beyond which her playfellow could not be coerced, shrugged dainty shoulders and capitulated.

  When the two young voices ceased, Martha peered into the room. She always acted on the principle that if children were quiet, they were usually up to some mischief or other. She smiled as she saw the two little heads, one fair and the other dark, bent together over the puzzle. It was a good thing, she reflected as she withdrew to the other room again, that Miss Helen would have little Miss Cynthia for company now that she was so soon to lose Master James and the other boys. Miss Cynthia might be a trifle overindulged, and she had a spiteful side to her nature at times — no gainsaying that. But at least she would help to fill the gap left when the boys went off to school in the autumn; for Miss Helen, with her affectionate nature, would miss her brother sorely, no doubt about that.

  CHAPTER XIII

  When Anthony was sent off to Eton in that autumn of 1803, Maria could not help feeling that the main purpose of her life had come to an end. After so many years of loving guidance and encouragement, of sharing in his triumphs and vicissitudes, she was no longer needed by her son. From now on his horizons would widen, and he would move into that exclusively male world where she could not follow.

  This was in the natural course of things; and Maria was far too intelligent not to have anticipated such a contingency and to be in some measure ready to accept it as being in the boy’s best interests. The trouble was that she could not feel herself to be really necessary to anyone else. As the mistress of Alvington Hall she had duties and obligations, but the discharge of these brought her no sense of fulfilment. Her relatives and friends, though always loving and pleased to have her company, enjoyed independent lives in which she could play no major part. The one person whom at this time she might have looked to for comfort and support had become little more than a stranger to her.

  Over the years, Neville had drawn more and more into his protective shell. With Mr. Harrison’s aid he had come to understand the affairs of the estate, and he now occupied himself chiefly in this direction. He hunted, fished, or shot with his neighbours and occasionally dined with them, too; but he had no intimate friends. Even his former association with Edward, who was now Baron Lydney, had dwindled since the latter’s marriage.

  He continued to visit London and Brighton at intervals on his own; and from gossip which from time to time drifted her way, Maria guessed that like his father before him, he had one mistress or another in keeping. She had long since given up resenting this or even making any more efforts to right the situation. She saw now that she had made a mistake in marrying Neville with the thought that she could, by the strength of her own love, kindle an answering spark of feeling in him which would bring comfort to their lives together no matter what might befall. She had never been able to reach him through his unaccountable reserve; sometimes she wondered what secrets this masked, for at home he was often broody and irritable, occasionally giving way to unreasonable spurts of temper.

  She sometimes watched Amanda and Theodore Somerby with wistful eyes, thinking how different was their marriage, but there was no resentment in her thoughts. She did not begrudge these two dear friends their happiness, only wishing that her own marriage might have been similarly blessed.

  She strove hard against this growing feeling of futility, but her struggle was not helped by poor health. She was suffering at this time from female disorders which seemed beyond the skill of even the fashionable London doctor who had been summoned to Alvington at great expense for a consultation. After recommending her to keep up her strength with a diet in which underdone beefsteak and port wine figured prominently, he attempted to console her by saying that the underlying cause of her trouble must in the course of Nature be removed within a few years.

  “By then, of course,” said Maria to Amanda,
trying to make light of the matter, “I shall be firmly addicted to the bottle, and will most likely develop gout as well.”

  Knowing how much her friend missed Anthony, Amanda often took Helen with her to the Hall, and was rewarded by seeing Maria’s face light up as she chatted to the child.

  “What a little creature of quicksilver she is!” remarked Maria, smiling. “Now dreamy, now lively, by turns. Does she miss James much?”

  “I think she misses all the boys. There is Cynthia, though I can never feel that her Mama quite approves of her coming to us.”

  “She’s a pretty child,” said Maria, thoughtfully. “So is your Helen, of course, but she’s quite unconscious of such matters. I feel that Cynthia, young as she is, not only realises her own power to charm, but is prepared to exploit it. But perhaps that’s a harsh judgment to pass on a child of seven years.”

  “I think it’s her father’s fault. Lord Lydney dotes on her, and isn’t averse from allowing her to see that she can twist him around her little finger. Theo is just as fond of Helen.” She smiled, remembering the look in her husband’s eyes at times when they lighted on his little daughter. “But though he is a kind and affectionate father, as you well know, he would think it very wrong to allow her to have all her own way.”

  Maria nodded. “Very true, and you are sensible, too, my dear. Do you mean to find her a governess when she’s a little older, or shall you send her to school?”

  “We’ve already discussed this, and we both think that it would be best for her to go away to school, though we should miss her sorely. If she had sisters, a governess would do very well; but an only child kept always at home, with few opportunities for mixing with others of her age and sex, must be lonely indeed. Besides, it would restrict her outlook to be always here in Alvington. She must know something of the world outside.”