The Georgian Rake

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  “No,” answered Lord Barsett, reflectively. “Too demmed proper for you, ain’t she? We should look for someone with a less guarded temperament, mayhap, someone a shade more impulsive. I wonder — now, what say you to the other sister, the little one?”

  Charles Barsett set down his glass with an abrupt movement that spilt the wine. His mouth was grim.

  “Clumsy!” reproved my lord, facetiously.

  “We will leave aside the question of my marriage, if you please, sir,” said Charles, stiffly. “It may be that I shall choose to remain a bachelor. In any event, I prefer not to discuss the matter.”

  “As you wish,” replied my lord, indifferently. “But don’t neglect your wine, even if you are to forswear women.”

  “No,” said his son, with a twist of the lips. “No, I shall not do that.”

  He picked up his glass again, and there was a short silence.

  “I made a brief journey yesterday,” offered his father, in conversational vein. “Into Kent.”

  “Indeed?” murmured Charles, politely. “A pleasant country.”

  “I did not go for the scenery,” replied my lord, rising to refill the glasses. “Let us drink a toast, my boy.”

  “By all means. What shall it be?”

  Lord Barsett raised his glass aloft. “Let us drink to our better understanding, my boy.”

  “Willingly,” replied Charles, with a tired smile, and raised his glass in turn.

  There was a pause. My lord glanced surreptitiously at the picture over the fireplace.

  “As I said, I did not go into Kent to admire the scenery. I went to interview a female.”

  His son made a polite murmur of interrogation, but it was obvious that his mind was elsewhere.

  “You may perchance remember her,” continued my lord, watching the other keenly, “though it is a long time since you met. Her name is — was — Brent.”

  There followed a tinkle of glass, and a muttered oath. Charles Barsett looked at the wine glass lying splintered in the hearth.

  “You are uncommon careless today. I’ll ring for another.”

  “Don’t bother,” replied Charles, looking his father full in the eye. “What is all this, sir?”

  “You recall the name, do you?” asked Lord Barsett, softly. “I thought you might. She marked a turning point in your life, did she not? But today I had the truth from her, Charles.”

  His son’s mouth twisted.

  “She might have spared herself the trouble. Her work was done long ago — and his — too well to be undone now.”

  My lord placed his hand gently on the other’s shoulder.

  “Charlie.”

  The familiar name was uttered in a tone quite unlike any that Charles Barsett had been used to hearing from his parent. He looked up, and the expression in his eyes went to the older man’s heart.

  “There is something else I discovered today,” went on Lord Barsett, “something that also throws a new light upon the characters of you both.”

  Charles could not entirely conceal his surprise.

  “I know,” said his father, glancing significantly at the bandaged hand, “just how you really came by that injury.”

  Charles started. “How do you know?” he shot out, swiftly.

  My lord twirled his glass thoughtfully in his fingers.

  “A day or two since, my boy, I had the honour of a visit — from Miss Amanda Twyford.”

  “Amanda!” Charles started to his feet. “She came here? Why?”

  “To put me right on one or two matters where she considered I had erred,” said his father, with a reminiscent smile. “She gave me a full account of her — escapade at Medmenham, and of the sequel that involved her sister. I now know everything, Charlie.”

  “The devil she did!” exclaimed Charles, his brow darkening.

  He began to pace restlessly about the room. His father was silent, watching him closely. At last, he swung round to confront Lord Barsett, accusingly.

  “I trust you used her gently, sir. Only conceive what courage it must have taken, to confess to such an exploit — not that she understands to the full the impropriety of it, innocent child that she is! And to be prepared to face such an ordeal for the pure cause of justice!”

  His father smiled. “Not quite, my boy.”

  Charles’ brow darkened. “What do you mean — not quite? Do you deny that she acted with great bravery, and from the highest motives?”

  “No, I don’t deny her courage, Charles. She is as plucky a one as I ever met. If you could but have seen her standing here before me, with that little chin thrust well up, and no doubt her limbs shaking like aspen leaves!”

  “I can well imagine it,” replied Charles, and a smile of great gentleness lit his sombre face.

  His father noticed this phenomenon with wonder: if Amanda Twyford could produce such a change in his son’s expression, then more than ever did it become apparent that she was the girl for him.

  “No, it is not the lady’s courage that I call in question,” he repeated.

  “Then what?” asked Charles, with a trace of aggressiveness.

  “Her motives,” was the smiling reply.

  “Do you suggest,” said his son, acidly, “that Amanda Twyford could possibly have a dishonourable motive for anything she does?”

  My lord backed away, in mock alarm.

  “Egad, here’s a pother! Damme, I fear you’ll be calling me out, next! But you mistake my meaning. What I would say is that I doubt if the lady herself realises her true motive for coming to me with this tale.”

  Charles frowned. “I don’t quite follow you, sir. Be plain with me.”

  “Why do you suppose that she was so anxious to clear your character in my eyes?” asked Lord Barsett.

  Charles raised one eyebrow.

  “Why, if you know her well, that is obvious enough. She is the soul of integrity, and could not bear the thought of anyone being misjudged, however much —” He paused.

  “Yes?” prompted his father.

  “However much she disliked the person concerned,” concluded Charles, with a wry smile.

  “You are a fool, Charlie! But in one thing I have been wrong — and grievously wrong in my judgment of you, and for that I humbly ask your pardon, if you feel that you can grant it. Though you may be a fool, you were never a rogue, and once I thought you so. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me, my boy?”

  Charles grinned, and readily extended his uninjured hand.

  “Say no more, father. There have been faults on both sides.”

  Lord Barsett gripped his son’s hand tightly, and for a moment neither man spoke. Involuntarily, both glanced up at the portrait. To my lord’s eyes, the lady’s smile had never looked so roguish.

  “She would have been glad,” he said, speaking his thoughts aloud.

  Charles nodded. “Until now, I never really understood just how you felt about her,” he said. “I can easily see how it was that you — resented me.”

  “I was blind,” replied his father, regretfully. “But love makes a man blind to many things.”

  There was a pause, then Charles suddenly asked: “Why did you say I was a fool?”

  His father gave him a quizzical look.

  “Because you said that Miss Amanda disliked you.”

  “And so?” asked Charles, with lifted eyebrows.

  “My dear boy, can you not see?”

  Chapter XXI: Amanda Falls into Happiness

  Amanda was walking in the orchard, away from the fierce glare of the August sun. She had discarded her bridesmaid’s dress for one of less delicate hue, and shaken her curls free of the becoming lace cap that had framed her face during the recent ceremony. Most of the guests had long since left, and she had been impatient for solitude, and the chance to give rein to her confused thoughts.

  She paused when she came to the wall that separated her father’s land from that of their neighbour, Mr. Webster. An old tree grew here, one which spread its
branches over the wall, and had offered an illegal, quick means of entry to the young people. A reminiscent smile touched her lips. She and John had climbed this tree many a time in that past that now seemed almost as if it had never been.

  Her thoughts wandered to the ceremony she had so lately left. She recalled the picture of Isabella, beautiful and ethereal in her white gown, standing beside their father in the little church where both sisters and John Webster had been baptised as infants; of John, handsome and just a little nervous, as Charles Barsett had handed him the ring. John and Isabella were man and wife now: another chapter of their lives was over. They had departed, and of the three who had been together for so many happy years, only Amanda was left.

  There was nothing in this to make her feel sad, she told herself, with inward impatience. John and Bella loved each other, and would presently return. But, all the same, in a sense it was the parting of the ways.

  She looked up at the tree, and her eyes filled suddenly with tears. It was a symbol, this old friend, a symbol of the childhood she had lost. She dashed the tears away angrily, and told herself not to be fanciful. Everything was as it had always been, save only that John and Bella were together for always. Then why should there be this weight upon her heart, this strong feeling of loss?

  She knew suddenly that she must climb the tree once more. Up there in the boughs, amongst the sun-dappled foliage, she might perchance recover the peace of mind she had once known. There was one branch with a crook in it, that had always made a cosy nesting place, where she had been wont to retire when anything troubled her. She could see it now, from where she stood; it would be a moment’s work to reach it.

  She hitched up her skirts to knee height, tied the ends securely round her waist, and began the ascent.

  She soon discovered that she was surprisingly clumsy at something that had been ease itself only a few short years back. Twice she slipped, and almost fell, recovering herself with difficulty, and scraping the skin from her arms; before she had finally, with great perseverance, attained her objective, she had lost one shoe, torn her gown, and dirtied her white stockings to an alarming degree.

  Breathless but triumphant, she took no heed of these mishaps, but curled herself into the crook of the branch with a sigh of content, and leaned her back against the rough gnarled trunk as though it had been pure goose down.

  Peace settled over her. The familiar scent of apples and dusty bark, the slight rocking motion of the branch beneath her, combined to soothe her troubled spirit. Her thoughts drifted, wandering idly back over the happenings of the past few weeks.

  There had been serious trouble with Mama over Isabella’s decision to wed John. Amanda wriggled a little on her perch as she recalled a particularly prolonged, unpleasant scene, which had reduced poor Bella to tears. It had ended in a way that had succeeded in surprising everyone, most of all my lady. Lord Twyford had listened to the diatribes of his wife for some time, interposing every now and then some gentle, ineffectual remonstrance. When Isabella suddenly burst into a flood of weeping, however, he was immediately metamorphosed.

  “Have done with this!” he commanded, in a strangely authoritative voice. “No daughter of mine shall be coerced into a loveless marriage! I will not play the tyrant, no, not even to please you, Margaret!”

  Lady Twyford opened her mouth to protest, but before she could utter a syllable, he had concluded, “She shall marry John Webster! I say so, and I am master here. You’d do well to recollect that, wife!”

  Amanda recalled with a smile that her mother’s mouth had remained open for quite two minutes. When she had shut it, it had been with the meek words, “Yes, of course, my lord; just so, as you say.”

  She had been quiet after that, offering no further opposition to the match. Then, as the weeks passed, and the date appointed for the wedding drew nearer, somehow the breach between herself and Bella had healed. The business of buying bride-clothes, the issuing of invitations, all the fuss and excitement of planning a wedding, had done much to reconcile her, no doubt; but she had a genuine affection for her children, and this, together with her strong commonsense, urged her to take her daughter to her heart once more.

  Amanda clasped her hands behind her head, to ease the discomfort of the pressure of the apple tree’s rough bark. Her thoughts turned to Mr. Thurlston. He had made a good recovery from his burns, although his looks had indeed suffered; no longer could he be truly described as handsome. It was evident, thought Amanda, that my Lord Barsett’s eyes had now been fully opened to his nephew’s villainy, for she had heard from John that my lord had forbidden Mr. Thurlston the house. He had made some provision for his nephew’s future by the purchase for him of a commission in one of the Line Regiments. Perhaps this had been the worst kind of suffering for Roger Thurlston; his pride would find it hard to swallow the ignominy of a regiment of the Line for my Lord Barsett’s nephew.

  Mrs. Thurlston, too, was to leave her brother’s house; he had taken a house for her in Bath, that haunt of fashionable widows. No doubt the waters would ease some of her imagined complaints.

  For a time, it had seemed that Roger Thurlston was to redeem his fortunes by a match with Miss Dunster, the West Country heiress. There had been an unexpected turn of events, however, that had quite ruined his hopes. Through her ministrations to him, the lady had discovered in herself a totally unsuspected vocation for nursing. Talkative, awkward and gushing in the social scene, she was in the sickroom, quiet, practical, and efficient. The doctor who was attending Roger Thurlston was much struck by her abilities. As Miss Dunster did not consider him at first in the light of an eligible bachelor she made none of her disastrous attempts to captivate him. The result was that, by the time Roger Thurlston was sufficiently recovered to leave the ‘Bear’ and the ministrations of doctor and nurse (for Mrs. Thurlston had been careful to allow Miss Dunster every opportunity of tending her son), the medico was in a fair way to being in love with the young lady from the West Country.

  There had been certain difficulties in the way of their coming together.

  At first, Miss Dunster’s relatives had been convinced that the man was nothing but a fortune hunter. Enquiry established, however, that he was not only of good family, but possessed of a reasonable income of his own; moreover, a short acquaintance was sufficient to show that he was a single-minded person to whom his calling meant everything, and money very little. His affection for the lady was undoubtedly genuine; and she, grateful for the first sign of interest she had ever succeeded in raising in a member of the opposite sex, was only too ready to love in return. It was rumoured that they were to be wed in November, and use some of Miss Dunster’s fortune for the building of a hospital.

  It had been such a strange, eventful summer, thought Amanda; it had changed the lives of all her own small circle and many more besides. What would happen now, she wondered, to Mr. Barsett?

  He was reconciled to his father — that much she knew, for John had told her so. John and Charles Barsett were fast becoming firm friends, now that Isabella was no longer an issue between them. Mr. Barsett had been groomsman for John; he had looked very grave there in the church, she remembered, but not, she felt convinced, for love of Isabella. She supposed that he would go out of her life for ever now. He was to stay the night with John’s parents, and to make the return journey to London tomorrow. They had hospitably pressed him to remain longer, but he had refused politely, according to John’s report. No doubt he was eager to escape to the world he knew, to leave behind him this tiresome Twyford family, who had caused him so much embarrassment and inconvenience. He would probably find someone else with whom to contract a marriage of convenience, now that Bella was wed to John; that was what he had wanted, after all…

  She felt a sudden constriction in her throat, and blinked her eyes, angrily.

  Soft footfalls sounded suddenly on the grass. Someone was undoubtedly approaching her place of concealment. She peered anxiously through the leaves and russet fruit that masked
the tree; she was not in the mood for conversation, that was why she had come here. It might possibly be one of the few remaining wedding guests; though most had now returned to their homes, except for the relatives, who would be sure to be indulging in a lengthy gossip with her parents. Whoever it was, he or she was unwelcome. Perhaps, if she remained very quiet, the interloper would presently go away again.

  The footsteps did not recede, however, but came on, and presently Amanda could tell that the newcomer was a man. From her present position, it was difficult to say just exactly who he was. It seemed that he was making in this direction.

  To her disgust, he eventually came and stood under the very tree where she was hiding. She opened her lips to cluck in annoyance, then quickly shut them again. The least sound must betray her presence. She held herself rigidly against the trunk of the tree, and gazed down at the intruder, scarcely daring to breathe. It was then that she made a disconcerting discovery.

  The man was Charles Barsett.

  She could not control a little start of surprise, and inadvertently knocked an apple from the branch. She held her breath in dismay as she watched it descend on his head. He let out a mild imprecation, and looked upwards.

  His eyes alighted on a grubby white-stockinged ankle. He gave another exclamation, this time of surprise.

  Startled, Amanda tried frantically to pull down her gown so that it covered the offending ankle. In doing so, she lost her balance. She made a wild grab for the nearest branch, missed it, and, her fingers clutching hopelessly at space, went hurtling through the air, a jumble of arms and legs.

  He stepped forward, and put out his arms to break her fall. Together, they landed on the ground in an untidy heap. He disentangled himself, sat up, and laughed gently. She surveyed him ruefully, rubbing her arm.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked at once, making as if to rise.

  She shook her head, not knowing quite what to say. He relapsed easily on to the ground at her side again, a faint smile playing about his mouth. He scrutinised her carefully.