The Original Miss Honeyford

by M C Beaton

  He read the signs of rejection and pain in Honey’s face, although to the rest of the company, Miss Honeyford was even more beautiful than she had ever been.

  He waited until Lady Canon’s attention was engaged and made his way quickly to Honey’s side.

  “I am charmed to see you in looks, Miss Honeyford,” he said.

  Honey gave him a glittering, cynical look.

  “Really charmed to see you,” he said, “even though Lady Canon does not approve of me. I refused to marry the daughter of a friend of hers who was trying to trap me into marriage, and ever since then Lady Canon has put it about that I am a hardened womanizer. What does one do to live down such a reputation, Miss Honeyford?”

  “I think by not believing a word that Lady Canon says,” said Honey, looking at him for the first time.

  “Something has upset you badly,” he said in a gentle voice, “and I know all this crush of people is fatiguing you. Do you stay here long?”

  “No, fortunately,” said Honey. “Aunt Elizabeth has promised me an early night.”

  “Come riding with me early in the Park,” he urged.

  “My aunt would not allow it.”

  “What she does not know will not upset her. You could be back before she awoke.”

  “The servants would tell her.”

  “Let them. I am a respectable gentleman and she cannot really do anything to stop you. I have missed you, Miss Honeyford.”

  His voice was kind, and Honey felt that old sensation of warmth and security. It would be wonderful to have an hour of freedom in the Park with this man who she was beginning to think was the only friend she had in the world. And the very fact that neither her aunt nor Lord Alistair approved of him gave him an added charm.

  “I do not have a horse,” she said.

  “Give me the pleasure of mounting you,” said Lord Channington earnestly—“in every sense,” he added to himself.

  Honey hesitated. Lady Canon was approaching with a fat and fortyish man on her arm. Honey could tell from the gleam in her eye that Lady Canon felt she had secured an eligible man for Honey. Honey looked at the dull features of the approaching suitor and then up at Lord Channington’s strong, handsome face.

  “Yes,” she whispered urgently. “Be outside the house at seven.”

  Lord Channington bowed and moved away. Seven o’clock! Dear heavens. He would need to stay awake all night. But the time was ripe for the seduction of Honey. He could see the bitter rage in her eyes, and shrewdly knew she would be prepared to run off with him to spite Lord Alistair Stewart.

  Eight

  That ride in the Park was the beginning of the healing days for Honey. Lord Channington’s warmth, courtesy, and friendship were like balm. The fact that their friendship had to be kept secret from Lady Canon forged a bond between them in the following days.

  Lord Channington, for his part, became more and more enamored of Honey and longed to possess her. For the moment, he was happy to play on her bitter, rejected feelings, making her more and more dependent on him for solace.

  Lady Canon never found out about that first early morning ride, for Lord Channington had taken the precaution of bribing Beecham heavily, and, since Lady Canon was not the sort of mistress to inspire devotion in any of her servants since she underpaid them shamelessly, Beecham willingly became part of the plot.

  Her outings with Lord Channington were kept secret by Beecham and the other servants, and when Lady Canon retired for an afternoon nap, Lord Channington was ushered into the downstairs drawing room to drink tea with Miss Honeyford.

  When a week passed and Lord Alistair did not return to London, Honey could only be glad that the wounds were not to be reopened so soon by the sight of him.

  A letter with his seal on it arrived for her, but since she was so sure it would be full of patronizing apologies and explanations, she threw it on the fire unopened and watched with grim satisfaction as it flared up and then settled down to a shriveled black mess in the grate. “Just like my love for you, my lord,” muttered Honey, seizing the poker and viciously stabbing at the ashes.

  Lord Alistair Stewart wandered restlessly around his parents’ enormous ducal mansion. His mother had influenza—much to his surprise, because he was used to her manufacturing illnesses—and although her fever had broken and she was now out of danger, his father had begged him to stay for a few more days in order to encourage her back to health.

  He had told the duke, his father, of his plans to marry Miss Honeyford, and, since he was not the heir, his father clapped him on the shoulder and said he could marry whom he pleased.

  The weather had turned gray and cloudy and the days were long and tedious. He now wished he had stayed in Town long enough to persuade Lady Canon to let him take Honey to the country with him.

  At last, he was eventually able to set out for London. He had been away for nine days. He had dreamed of Honey constantly.

  He was glad he had never been in love before. He felt he was coming to her new and shining. The long string of mistresses might never have existed. The miles seemed to crawl under his wheels, and he fretted at every delay.

  Honey awoke with tears running down her cheeks. She had dreamed all night long of Lord Alistair, dreamed that they were married and secure and happy. More than ever was she determined to banish him from her mind. She longed to see Lord Channington again. His presence was the only thing which eased her hurt and longing.

  Lord Alistair had sent his servants ahead the day before his departure to prepare the town house for his arrival and so the news of his impending return reached the ever-alert ears of Lord Channington. He called early at Charles Street to give the gratified Beecham another heavy bribe and a letter for Honey, asking her to meet him in the Green Park at the Piccadilly Gate at ten in the morning.

  Lady Canon did not rise before noon and so it was easy for Honey to escape. Her heart sank a little as she saw how serious he looked. He said nothing until they had walked a little way into the park. He drew her under the shadow of a large horse chestnut and took her hands in his, looking intently down into her face.

  “We have been seen by that terrible gossiping Osborne female,” he lied. “I fear for the end of our friendship.”

  Tears started to Honey’s eyes as she thought of the empty days ahead, days where she would have nothing else to do but torture herself with thoughts of the faithless Lord Alistair.

  “What are we to do?” she whispered.

  “Get married,” he said simply.

  “Lady Canon might accept the idea,” said Honey. “Her objections surely have been solely on the grounds that you have no intention of every marrying anyone.”

  “No,” he said. “She is a bitter woman, and a bitter woman never forgives!”

  That struck such an answering chord in Honey’s breast that she could only nod. She never stopped for a moment to wonder whether she should really go ahead and marry Lord Channington. He had become necessary to her. Without him, life would be a hell of hurt and rejection.

  “I do not love you,” said Honey, “but I could come to love you. I feel I must be honest…”

  “I know you will come to love me,” he said passionately.

  “But what can I do?”

  “It is quite simple. We can steal away tomorrow and stay with my mother at my home in Bedfordshire, and we can get married at our local church.”

  Honey took a deep breath. “When would we leave?”

  “Tomorrow. At dawn. You are not being unfair to Lady Canon. She only wishes you to make a good marriage and so she will gracefully accept our marriage when it is a fait accompli.”

  “It is very soon,” said Honey.

  He played his ace.

  “Lord Alistair Stewart returns to London tomorrow.”

  “You know,” she whispered.

  “I know you have been hurt by him. Yes.”

  “And you do not care?”

  “My love for you is greater than all these petty little c
onsiderations.”

  “Then I will go with you,” said Honey in a low voice, “and I consider myself fortunate that I have secured such a good friend as a husband.”

  Her eyes were large and trusting.

  “You must not confide in anyone,” said Lord Channington, thinking, God forbid she should discover my mother has been dead these five years.

  “No, I will not tell anyone,” said Honey.

  “Lady Canon’s servants will not betray you. I have paid Beecham handsomely to be our ally, and he will make sure the rest keep quiet.”

  “It seems so dishonest,” said Honey. “I must at least leave a letter for Aunt Elizabeth.”

  “No, not even that. She will have a few anxious days and then we will send her an express to tell her the happy news.”

  He held Honey’s hands in a firm clasp. “Until tomorrow.”

  “Until tomorrow,” echoed Honey sadly.

  She was very quiet and preoccupied for the rest of the day—which all went to show what a firm hand could do, thought Lady Canon with satisfaction. Soon she and Lord Alistair would be able to laugh together over the silly chit’s infatuation.

  She was in such a good humor that when Honey pleaded the headache that evening, saying she was unable to go out, Lady Canon agreed it was best she should spend the evening in bed.

  Her pleasure in Honey’s meek demeanor caused her to fuss over the girl, giving her a tisane and making sure a fire was made up in her room, for the evening had turned unseasonably cold.

  All these ministrations made Honey feel guilty. It was a monstrous trick her aunt had played on her, and yet she had done it all from the best motives.

  Honey suddenly knew she could not have a quiet conscience unless she left Lady Canon a letter at least explaining that she was leaving Town with Lord Channington. She did not need to go so far as to say where she could be found.

  She wrote a very short letter saying that since she was sure Lady Canon would never permit the marriage, she had decided to go away with Lord Channington and be married quietly out of Town. She thanked her aunt for all her kindness and begged her forgiveness.

  Honey then packed the clothes she had brought with her when she had arrived in London. All the beautiful gowns were part of her disastrous love for Lord Alistair. She wanted to take nothing with her to remind her of any time she had danced with him, any time she had even looked at him.

  She sat huddled in a chair beside the fire, waiting for the dawn, frightened to sleep lest she should not wake in time, and frightened to sleep in case she dreamed once more of Lord Alistair and that the dream might weaken her resolve.

  Honey no longer knew who she was. The Honey of the hunting field had ridden off never to return. The belle of the London Season also seemed a shadowy figure. She felt young and defenseless and very alone.

  Her eyes drooped and closed. She was running down a long avenue and Lord Alistair was pursuing her. He was shouting something, but she put her hands over her ears as she ran. He was coming nearer and nearer. She tripped over a stone in the road and woke with a start.

  The dream seemed to have lasted a minute, but the watch outside was calling hoarsely that it was six-thirty and a fine morning.

  Honey drew back the curtains and yellow sunlight flooded the room. Her spirits lifted. She was leaving all the shame and humiliation of London behind.

  A new life awaited her.

  From now on, she would only look forward.

  She picked up her two small valises and her old sacklike reticule and crept down the shadowy stairs where Sir Angus Canon’s far-from-illustrious ancestors coldly watched her escape with their painted eyes from the portraits lining the walls of the staircase.

  The house had a listening air as she opened the front door and slipped quietly outside.

  “There she goes,” said Beecham to the maid, Clarisse, as they watched from an upstairs window.

  “I hope milady does not blame us,” said Clarisse, peering down at the small figure standing on the step.

  “Lady Canon does not see us as human beings,” said Beecham. “She will not guess we had anything to do with the matter.”

  To Honey’s relief, a closed carriage came along Charles Street and stopped in front of her. Lord Channington opened the door and sprang lightly down onto the road.

  “Come, my bride,” he said.

  Honey felt suddenly and inexplicably afraid. She turned and looked up at the house, but there was nothing to be seen but blank windows since Clarisse and Beecham had quickly retired behind a curtain.

  Honey gave a little sigh. She let him help her into the carriage.

  The coachman cracked his whip and they set off in the direction of Piccadilly at a smart pace.

  Honey felt awkward at being shut up in the intimacy of the carriage with Lord Channington, but he smiled at her and begged her permission to allow him to sleep. Soon Honey fell asleep herself.

  She awoke when they rolled up to the posting inn in Barnet. They stopped for refreshment, Honey enjoying the ease created by being escorted by this rich and titled earl. The best table was laid for them, and the host and an army of servants hovered about.

  She was grateful to Lord Channington for chatting on as if they were riding in the Park, instead of eloping. He talked social nonsense, telling her who had been at White’s the night before and which man had lost a fortune and which man had won an estate.

  When they were back in the carriage, he leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek, but it was a brotherly caress.

  Lord Channington had been up most of the night gambling and so he soon fell asleep again.

  It was a beautiful day. Sunny fields and cottages rolled past and the well-sprung coach swept onward up the road to Bedfordshire.

  Honey hoped Lord Channington’s mother would not be too shocked, and began to regret having left her fine clothes behind.

  And then she thought of Lord Alistair. He was so close to her it was as if he was in the carriage. He was furious. He hated her.

  Honey screwed her eyes up tightly, but the tears forced their way through her lids and trickled down her cheeks.

  Lord Alistair was going to ask Lady Canon’s permission to pay his addresses to Honey. He felt ridiculously young as he washed and changed into his best clothes.

  Lady Canon had just finishing dressing when Beecham climbed the stairs to announce his arrival. She turned a faint pink, and shouted to Clarisse to lay out the best silk. Hurry!

  She would tease Lord Alistair a little, she thought, about his success in ensnaring Honey, but she would also lecture him for having gone too far.

  Lady Canon had not felt so young or so feminine in years as she descended from the bedroom to the saloon amid a rustle of expensive silk. She paused outside the door of the saloon and adjusted her becoming lace cap in the mirror.

  Lord Alistair rose to meet her as she entered the room with such a radiant smile on his face that her heart began to beat very hard and her breathing became rapid.

  “Where is she?” asked Lord Alistair. Then he laughed, a great joyous laugh. “Only see how impatient I am, Lady Canon. I am supposed to beg your permission first, and yet I cannot wait to see her.”

  Lady Canon paused and put a faltering hand to her mouth.

  “Who? What? Do you wish to see Honey? But that farce is ended, my lord.”

  “The farce has most certainly ended,” he said cheerfully, “and real life is about to begin. Poor Lady Canon. You must think my wits are wandering. Did not Honoria tell you? We are to be married.”

  “Married!” Lady Canon put out a trembling hand and supported herself on the back of a chair.

  “Yes,” he said. “May I see her?”

  “Of course,” said Lady Canon weakly. The incredible had happened. Lord Alistair Stewart was getting married at last. She rang the bell and then wondered whether to tell Lord Alistair of Honey’s shock when she had told her he had only courted her because he had been asked to woo her away from Ch
annington.

  But Beecham answered the bell promptly.

  “Tell Miss Honeyford that Lord Alistair is anxious to see her,” said Lady Canon.

  Beecham stood very still without moving. Lord Alistair read apprehension in the butler’s face and added sharply, “Well, go and fetch her.”

  Beecham turned and walked stiffly from the room. Now was Lady Canon’s opportunity to tell Lord Alistair what she had told Honey, but she looked at his glowing face and found she could not.

  She felt old and ugly. The man in front of her did not see her was a woman, but only as his beloved’s elderly relative.

  “How is your dear mama?” she asked through dry lips.

  “Much better, I thank you. She had the influenza. I was amazed when I arrived to find she was really ill. You know how it is, being an old friend of hers, she often makes herself ill, but this time it was genuine. I was glad I went, although I wish I had had the foresight to beg you to let me take Honoria with me.”

  “Yes,” said Lady Canon dully.

  There was a long silence. Lord Alistair did not seem to notice. He was quite obviously straining his ears to hear Honey’s step on the stair outside.

  At last Beecham opened the door and stood just inside as if prepared for flight.

  “Miss Honeyford is not in her room,” he said. “There was only this letter addressed to you, my lady.”

  Lady Canon opened the letter and read it several times, as if willing the contents to change to something different.

  “Very good, Beecham,” she said. “That will be all.”

  Beecham bowed and withdrew, closing the doors behind him.

  “What is it?” demanded Lord Alistair sharply. Lady Canon wordlessly held out the letter to him. Lord Alistair read it. He suddenly looked older, harsher. Lady Canon felt as if she had never really understood the passions that could wrack the human breast before. She looked at the torment in Lord Alistair’s eyes with a kind of dazed wonder.

  “Was she here last night?” he demanded.

  “Oh, yes,” faltered Lady Canon. “She said she had the headache and I put her to bed myself.”

  “Then she either left during the night or early this morning.”