“Miss Somerby, b’Gad!” he exclaimed, bowing for the third time. “We were very well acquainted at one time, ma’am, though I’ve no notion how many years it is since we last met! Permit me to tell you that I find you vastly changed, and most charmingly.”
Helen accepted this tribute with a quiet smile which caused Lady Chetwode to give her an approving glance. It was only to be expected that young men would pay flowery compliments to a pretty girl, but it was pleasing to see these amiable nothings accepted without a parade of either maidenly flutterings or arch coquetry.
“How are your mother and sister?” Helen asked. “I haven’t seen them since coming to Town, although we met shortly before I left Alvington.”
“Oh, they go on famously! That’s to say, Cynthia does, of course. But if Lady Chetwode will permit,” turning deferentially to Helen’s hostess, “I’ll bring them round to call on you one day soon.”
This made Philip Chetwode raise his brows. Lydney was not the man to squire the females of his family about the Town unless he had an ulterior motive for his devotion to them.
“That would be delightful,” replied Lady Chetwode. “I have not yet made the acquaintance of your sister, and should like to do so before she attends the ball I am giving for my daughter and Helen, I trust we shall see you there, also? You will have had the invitation already.”
“Indeed you will, my lady,” he answered promptly, his eyes once again on Helen’s countenance. “It is one engagement which I shall certainly do myself the honour of attending.”
Shortly afterwards he was obliged to move away, owing to the difficulty of keeping abreast of the carriage among so many other vehicles and riders. Philip’s face wore a frown after they had parted. He was well aware of his friend’s reputation as a flirt, and had seen with misgiving how Lydney could scarcely keep his eyes away from Miss Somerby.
He fell silent as they moved slowly on around the Ring, taking himself to task for having too keen a concern in Miss Somerby’s affairs. After all, he had known her only a week, and already he was allowing two of his closest friends to arouse the most unwelcome feelings in his breast on her behalf. What were their attentions to her, he asked himself, but those of friendship arising naturally enough out of an association in childhood?
His melancholy reverie was interrupted by the carriage halting yet again to enable its occupants to exchange delighted greetings with two ladies in a landaulet which had been attempting to pass at that moment. He recognised one of the ladies as his sister’s visitor of the previous day, Miss Horwood, who had been so earnest in her defence of Miss Jane Austen’s style of writing. There was little opportunity now for any such rational conversation, however; and when Lady Chetwode had issued a cordial invitation to the Horwoods to call in Cavendish Square on the following day, the carriages moved on once more.
After a further hour spent dawdling around the Park in this fashion, during which time they encountered several other acquaintances of Lady Chetwode’s, the carriage returned to Cavendish Square. Philip Chetwode, resisting an impulse to spend the evening at home in Miss Somerby’s company, took himself off instead to White’s. Helen herself settled down to write a long letter to her parents full of lively descriptions of the London scene; but she omitted any mention of her encounters with Durrant. She felt it was only too probable that Mama would echo Shaldon’s own words on that subject, and recommend her not to indulge in fantasy.
The following morning Mrs. Horwood and Catherine called as they had promised. Scarcely had they settled themselves in the morning parlour with the Chetwode family and Helen, than some other visitors were announced, and Henry Lydney walked in accompanied by his mother and sister. Lady Lydney had, as usual, little to say for herself. She was not well acquainted with Lady Chetwode, although the two ladies had met previously; Mrs. Horwood was a stranger to her, and judging from her manner, she was content that matters should rest there.
Cynthia naturally paid more attention to the gentlemen of the party than to the ladies, not scorning to practise her arts on Melissa’s father, but devoting far more effort to Philip Chetwode, whom she saw at once was quite taken up with Helen. She was aided in this by her brother Henry, who was so determined in engaging Miss Somerby in conversation that no one else in the party had much opportunity to intrude. Somewhat to Cynthia’s chagrin, Philip seemed able to resist her charms, talking quite as much to the shyer Catherine as to her dashing onetime schoolfellow, and seeming to enjoy their discourse, which was of a literary turn. Eventually, Cynthia privately dubbed him a slow-top not worthy of her efforts, and reminded her mother that they had another engagement. They rose to take leave, but not before Henry had obtained Lady Chetwode’s permission to drive Miss Somerby out in the Park on the following morning, so that, as he phrased it, they might reminisce about their childhood days in Alvington.
“So she is to be your latest flirt,” Cynthia said to him as they returned home. “I wonder at you, Henry. She is not near so striking as Diana Sawyer, your last. Indeed, I can’t think what anyone can see in her. I find her insipid.”
“Perhaps you’re a better judge of a man, my dear sister.”
“She’s very fortunate in having someone to bring her out in Town,” remarked Lady Lydney. “It’s more than a country clergyman’s daughter could hope for, I must say.”
“But not more than she deserves,” Henry retorted with spirit. “She’s a dashed pretty girl, and with unaffected manners that must recommend her to anyone of discrimination.”
“I do trust, Henry, that you are not going to develop a tendre for the girl,” reproved his mother. “I need scarcely tell you that it would be most unsuitable. Her birth is genteel of course, though scarcely in the first flight, but she has no fortune. She may inherit something from her grandparents later on, but doubtful expectations of that kind are no solid foundation for matrimony.”
“For God’s sake, Mother, who mentioned matrimony?” expostulated her son, disgusted. “May I not pass a few favourable comments on a girl I knew in childhood without your at once jumping to the conclusion that I intend to wed her? No such thing. I assure you, the bachelor life suits me too dashed well at present!”
He called for Helen on the following morning in a smart curricle drawn by a pair of well-matched greys, with a young groom perched on the rear seat. Contrary to what he had suggested to Lady Chetwode, he and his passenger did not reminisce about the past, but found ample scope for conversation in the present. They laughed a good deal, for Henry could be an entertaining companion when he chose, and drew several amused glances from those they passed in other vehicles or on horseback, many of whom were known to Henry. When he returned Helen home at the end of a pleasant three quarters of an hour, she felt that Mr. Lydney had improved considerably since her early recollections of him, and that she would be quite ready to accept his invitation to drive out with him again before long. He would have liked to make a specific engagement, but she hedged a little, saying that she could not be certain what other arrangements Lady Chetwode might have made for her. This was partly true; for the rest, she was not so naive as to require Lady Chetwode to inform her that it would not be proper for her to appear too frequently in the company of any one gentleman. In such matters, observances in the country were quite as strict as in Town.
She had looked forward eagerly to the promised visit to the Opera that evening in the company of Lady Chetwode, Melissa and Philip. As they set off in the town carriage for the Haymarket, her delighted gaze took in the scene; tall houses ablaze with light, gold-laced footmen lining the steps where company was expected, and the crowd of gaping citizens watching for the arrival of elegant coaches bearing splendidly attired passengers. She watched a link boy on the pavement, bearing a flaming torch as he accompanied a sedan chair and its exquisite occupant. She listened to the rattle of the many carriage wheels over the cobbles, thinking with rapture that surely there was no place in the world that held half the splendour, the excitement, the glamour of Lo
ndon town. A mundane encounter with a loaded haywaggon bound for one of the markets did nothing to break the spell, even though the ungainly vehicle blocked their access to the Opera House for a time.
Once seated in their box, she found a fresh source of pleasure in the assembled audience. Never before had she seen so many beautiful gowns and glittering jewels displayed in one place. She looked eagerly about her, gazing into one box after another as she exclaimed in rapture to Melissa, to whom the scene was also new and who was quite as much overcome as her friend.
Presently her eyes lighted on a box almost opposite where four people were seated, two of each sex. The ladies wore extremely décolleté gowns, one of white satin ornamented with silver spangles and the other of pink silk with an overdress of gauze. Both had plumes in their hair and were liberally decked with jewels which scintillated in the light from the chandeliers.
Helen’s gaze took in all this finery, then passed on to the less resplendent but still elegant gentlemen. She gave a start as she recognised one of them.
“Oh, look!” she exclaimed. “It’s Lord Shaldon!”
The rest of her party at once glanced across to the other box. Philip Chetwode gave an apologetic cough on seeing the group sitting there, while his mother quickly averted her eyes. At that moment, Shaldon himself chanced to look in their direction and Helen impulsively raised her hand in greeting.
“Oh, no, my dear!” expostulated Lady Chetwode, seizing Helen’s arm and forcing it down. “Pray do not — you mustn’t!”
“Why not?” demanded Helen, as she watched the brief bow her gesture had drawn from Shaldon, who immediately drew farther back into the interior of his box. “Oh, I beg your pardon, ma’am. Is it not proper for me to wave to an acquaintance in the theatre? I didn’t know.”
Lady Chetwode looked embarrassed, and Philip gave another cough.
“Well, not precisely that, but — but — oh, dear, how very awkward it is to explain!”
Helen wrinkled her brow. “Nevertheless I wish you will explain it to me, for I must know how to go on.”
“The thing is, you see, Helen,” began her hostess, fluttering her fan before her face in an endeavour to hide a telltale blush, “the fact is that Viscount Shaldon may not wish you — or any of the ladies of our circle — to recognise him just at present.”
“Not wish me—” Helen’s eyes widened in astonishment, and she broke off for a moment. “Why, ma’am, whatever can you mean?”
Lady Chetwode sighed, redoubling her activity with the fan. “It’s all most unfortunate, and I’m sure if I’d had the least notion that such creatures would be present, I would never have brought you and Melissa here tonight! But so it is — one may meet them everywhere, more’s the pity!”
Had Helen been less curious, she would have seen that it was better now to let the subject drop. But any suggestion of a mystery was always a challenge that she found difficult to ignore; so she persisted in spite of a nudge from Melissa.
“Such creatures?” she repeated. “Do you mean the people who are with Lord Shaldon?”
“Certainly I do, and although it’s not a subject on which I desire to dwell,” replied Lady Chetwode, firmly, “I think you should know, my dear, that those — females — whom Viscount Shaldon sees fit to honour with his company are not at all what they should be — indeed, are quite notorious! And now pray don’t say any more about such a distasteful subject.”
Helen, abashed, leaned back in her seat. Fortunately the curtain rose at that moment, so the awkwardness of starting on another, more acceptable topic of conversation, did not fall to anyone’s lot.
She scarcely saw the scene that was unveiled before her, however, as a wave of indignation swept over her. So these were Lord Shaldon’s Other Interests, were they? And she had been so concerned for his welfare as to try to discover what Durrant was plotting against him. Well, she had learnt her lesson! What did it matter to her now if he became positively immersed in troubles? she asked herself angrily. He evidently deserved all he was to get, and for her part she would not lift a finger to assist him!
Having reached this sensible decision, she bent a determined gaze on the stage; even though she found the view somewhat blurred by an unaccountable mist before her usually keen eyes.
CHAPTER XXIV
Mrs. Gerridge’s lodging house in Murphy Street was not far removed in distance from the tinselled splendour of Astley’s Royal Amphitheatre, but to step from one to the other was to enter a totally different world. Mrs. Gerridge’s establishment, if it might be dignified by that title, was respectable but seedy. She let single rooms to people with an insecure footing in the humbler forms of entertainment. As her lodgers rarely stayed with her for more than a few months at a time, rent had to be paid in advance; anyone attempting to infringe this rule was at once shown the door, a much chipped and scratched but reasonably solid structure which had once been painted brown.
The rooms at No. 4 Murphy Street were all very similar. They were cramped and gloomy, the one tiny window being draped in a curtain of doubtful hue and rarely cleaned. The furniture consisted of a bed with a straw-filled mattress, a table more often than not with one leg shorter than the others, a deal chair, an iron washstand and bowl, and a small cupboard into which all the occupant’s personal possessions must be crammed. Mrs. Gerridge provided neither meals nor facilities for cooking, as her lodgers were absent all evening and most of the day. There was no rule against bringing food into the house, however, which probably accounted for the prevalence of mice.
The landlady was a stringy female with sharp button eyes, an incipient moustache on her upper lip, and sparse grey hair scraped back into a bun. She prided herself on her respectability, was a regular member of the congregation at one of the Nonconformist chapels, and never permitted any “goings on,” as she styled it, in her household.
When pretty little Phyllis Stiggins had first arrived at her door with a well set-up young man who called himself Rowland Carlton, Mrs. Gerridge had scrutinised the female’s left hand sharply and at once demanded to know if they were married or not. They had hesitated for a moment, but under the influence of those beady eyes, the girl had at last shaken her head.
“Ye’ll be wanting two rooms, then,” said Ma Gerridge, briskly, and named her price. “Payment in advance, of course,” she added.
This appeared to disconcert the couple for a moment; but eventually they nodded reluctantly and by a combined effort produced the required sum. They were then shown to their rooms, which they looked over bleakly from the door without comment; informed of the house facilities and rules, they were left to settle in with the few possessions they had brought with them.
A few days’ residence accustomed them to their new quarters, for indeed they had known many worse and few better. They had not been together long, having first met at St. Bartholomew’s Fair last August, when Carlton had been lucky enough to be taken on as an extra in Richardson’s travelling theatre booth. His life had mostly consisted of drifting from one fairground to another ever since he had attached himself to one at the age of twelve or thereabouts. He had been fortunate enough at one period to belong to a travelling company of third-rate actors — barnstormers as they were called, from the fact that most of their performances took place in village barns and taverns. Although this was an insecure enough livelihood, it had represented the most stable part of his existence, and one on which he looked back with nostalgia. But the company had been forced to disband from lack of funds after four or five years; and since then, he had drifted from place to place, picking up casual employment among showmen whenever he could, for this was the only life he understood.
After the Fair had ended, he and the girl were obliged to part. She went on the road with the small circus group to which she was attached at that time; while he, his services no longer required by Richardson, must seek employment elsewhere.
When they had met again a few weeks later, he was sadly down on his luck, but her star was fo
r the moment in the ascendant. The circus group had eventually broken up, in the way that such associations often did; but she had managed to find temporary employment at no less a place of entertainment than the magnificent Astley’s Amphitheatre. Although her act was of minor interest in the show, the engagement was for several months, and this in itself constituted a triumph. She related all this to him with glowing eyes which dimmed in sympathy when he told her of his own lack of success.
“I’ll mebbe have a chance at Greenwich Whitsun Fair,” he concluded, gloomily, “but there’s naught I can see tell then, and that’s more’n a month off, yet.”
“D’ye reckon you could play a clown?” she demanded suddenly, eyes brightening. “One of ours had an accident last night — fell over in the ring and broke a leg. They’ll be wanting someone in his place for today’s performance, and no time to look around. Why don’t ye try for it?”
He went off with her at once to see the manager, who seemed doubtful at first despite Carlton’s rosy account of his experience in all forms of acting, but who eventually decided that no harm could come of trying the fellow out for one night to see how he did. Accordingly, Carlton was engaged on the understanding that either he gave complete satisfaction or was summarily dismissed, and that in any case he must go when the original performer was able to return. It was more than enough to put him on his mettle, and he did succeed in retaining his place for the time being.
Thus temporarily settled in employment, he and Phyllis sought lodgings close at hand, and so came to No. 4. Their relationship strengthened steadily; but they were obliged to exercise the greatest care over meeting in each other’s rooms, because of the keen surveillance of Ma Gerridge.
On this particular day they were able to steal an hour or so together while the good lady was absent at one of her religious gatherings, and before it was time for them to depart for Astley’s. They had for some time been lying closely entwined on the inhospitable mattress, lost to all sense of their drab surroundings, when Phyllis sat up, gently pushing her lover away.
A Regency Scandal Page 28
