The vicar saw the look of pain on Deirdre’s face and became more than ever resolved to take Lord Harry aside and tell him there was no hope.
He felt quite virtuous at having come at last to this very definite resolve instead of the half-hearted promise he had made to himself the night before. He would tell Jimmy Radford all about it, and impress his old friend with his, the vicar’s, nobility of soul.
But every time the vicar looked at Lord Harry’s handsome profile, he was reminded of all the couples of hounds he could have bought if the deal had only worked.
The vicar of Chalton St Ann’s, six miles on the other side of Hopeworth, was selling his hounds, or about to sell them in order to retrench. Now, they would need to go to some other lucky huntsman.
The vicar heaved a great sigh. God moved in mischievous ways, as Lady Godolphin would put it, his wonders to perform.
Deirdre let out a dry sob which she tried ineffectually to change to a sneeze. The vicar sighed again. The sooner he told her not to worry about the engagement, the better.
‘The town’s full of Armitages,’ said the vicar, realizing he had been sitting silent for some time, and feeling obliged to add his mite of conversation to the company.
‘Edwin and those poxy daughters of his were walking past when we arrived. I mentioned earlier we were going so they probably set out to hunt us down.’
‘Why?’ asked Lord Harry.
The vicar took a pinch of snuff while he debated his reply. The truth, as he knew very well, was that his pesky brother was still trying to capture Lord Harry for one of his daughters. But if Deirdre would not have the Desire fortune – or rather the fortune he would gain when his uncle kicked the bucket – then the vicar was damned if Josephine or Emily were going to get their claws on it. What a repulsive pair of antidotes they were, thought the vicar. And what truly dreadful fashions they always wore. It was amazing their mother did not know how to guide them since she was a bit of a fashion plate herself, if you didn’t notice her pale cold eyes and her pursed-up mouth and . . .
‘Why?’ asked Lord Harry again.
‘Oh, ah,’ said the vicar. ‘Er . . . well, because I’m such a fashionable fellow, and Edwin’s a bit of an old stick. He likes to imitate me, don’t you see.’
‘Not quite,’ replied Lord Harry in a puzzled way. His gaze was kind and bland but somehow the vicar felt uncomfortable under that childlike stare and tugged at the points of his waistcoat which had ridden up over his middle to expose several bulging inches of shirt.
‘Never mind,’ said the vicar hurriedly.
Meanwhile, Deirdre had found she was surprisingly hungry. Despite the fact she had had nothing to eat since breakfast, she was quite sure tragedy had robbed her of her appetite. But by the time she had discussed a generous helping of grouse pie, several slices of ham, some smelts and the inevitable potatoes which accompanied every dish, she began to feel as if she might live through the night to come after all. Several glasses of strong wine brought a little spark of hope which gradually grew to a flame.
How could she have been so disloyal in her thoughts of Guy? Of course, something really serious must have prevented him from coming. What if he were ill?
Her colour returned as her fatigue and despair fled.
With the resilience of youth, she shot from hopelessness to the heights of dizzy optimism. Poor Guy. How worried he must be. How his heart must be aching for her.
The ladies were invited to join the gentlemen for port and nuts, the little girls taking theirs with hot water.
Deirdre began to feel sleepy and content. The world had miraculously righted itself.
By the time they were ready to leave, Deirdre accepted the suggestion she should travel home with Lord Desire without demur, although this time the suggestion came from Mrs Armitage, not the vicar.
Deirdre was being helped up into Lord Harry’s phaeton by her father when she suddenly stopped short and nearly fell backwards. Two spots of colour burned on her cheeks.
For out of the inn behind them came Sir Edwin, Lady Edwin and their two daughters – and Guy Wentwater. They had obviously just eaten supper as well.
Guy was holding Emily’s hand and whispering in her ear and she was giggling and wriggling while her parents looked on with indulgent smiles, and Josephine pouted.
Then Sir Edwin’s party saw the vicarage party. The vicar walked forward.
Deirdre took her seat next to Lord Harry and stared straight ahead. Her father said some words to Sir Edwin, Sir Edwin waved a hand to indicate the presence of Guy Wentwater. The little vicar puffed out his chest and raked Mr Wentwater with a beady look from head to foot, then, ignoring his outstretched hand, turned on his heel and walked back to his own carriage.
‘Dear me,’ murmured Lord Harry. ‘The cut direct.’
‘Drive on, my lord,’ said Deirdre in a harsh voice.
How could he? she thought with anguish. What was Guy doing, fit and well, and paying court to that awful Emily?
Her thoughts churned and burned all the way to the vicarage. From time to time Lord Harry essayed a few remarks but Deirdre was deaf to everything but the voices clamouring in her own head.
She gave Lord Harry a curt goodnight and escaped to her room.
When Daphne arrived, Deirdre was lying fully dressed on the bed, staring sightlessly up at the canopy.
‘We sat and talked downstairs for hours,’ said Daphne sleepily. ‘I wanted to fetch you but Papa told me to leave you alone which is most odd since he has been throwing you at Lord Harry these past few days.’
Deirdre twisted her head and looked at the clock on the mantel. Midnight! And she had arrived home at ten. So absorbed had she been in trying to find a loophole out of her humiliation that she had not noticed the time passing.
‘Are you feeling better?’ asked Daphne solicitously.
Deirdre nodded.
‘Papa is in a high rage,’ went on Daphne, sitting down at the dimity flounced toilet table and picking up a hairbrush. ‘He says that Wentwater is a vulgar adventurer and that no man would be attracted to Emily unless he had a mercenary motive.’
‘That’s rich,’ said Deirdre, twisting on to her side. ‘When has marriage meant anything to Papa other than a means to get more money for those smelly hounds of his?’
Daphne at last focused on her pretty reflection in the glass. She thought she saw a pimple and leaned forward, holding the candle so close to her face she almost set her dark hair on fire.
Deirdre lay and thought and thought. Daphne eventually appeared on the other side of the bed in her nightgown and begged Deirdre to move so that she could get under the covers.
Rising as jerkily as a martinet, Deirdre moved to her favourite seat by the window and looked out. A small snore from the bed behind her told her Daphne had fallen immediately asleep.
All at once, Deirdre was sure Guy was calling her. She heard his voice inside her brain.
The pain at her heart lessened. This magical communion between their minds was an incredible and beautiful thing. He seemed to be telling her that he had been unable to get away, but had joined Sir Edwin’s party to Hopeminster in the hopes of seeing her.
Tired as she was, Deirdre knew all at once she must go to him.
FIVE
Squire Radford was unable to sleep. A particularly painful twinge of rheumatism stabbed down his left leg. At last, he gave up the battle and climbed out of bed, wrapping himself up in a greatcoat with a blanket over his shoulders.
A breath of air in the garden was just what he needed.
He shuffled out in his slippers across the lawn and stood by the tall hedge, looking through a small gap in it to where the moonlight turned the village pond to a sheet of silver.
It was then his sharp old eyes saw a girl carrying two bandboxes walking quickly along the road on the other side of the pond. He watched until she had disappeared from view, wondering who on earth she could be, abroad at this time of night.
Deirdre hal
f walked, half ran in the direction of Lady Wentwater’s.
Over the River Blyne she went, by way of the hump-backed bridge. The river chattered and gurgled underneath, restless and busy like the thoughts in her head.
She now felt disloyal. A gentleman such as Guy Wentwater would not say he loved her or make a firm arrangement to elope with her and just forget about it.
No. Some unforeseen circumstance must have prevented him.
And that is why she was on her road to join him, complete with bandboxes and newly written letter to mother back on the pincushion at home.
Deirdre planned to make her way round to the back of the house and see if Guy had left the window of the morning-room open. She must try to find his bedroom.
How delighted he would be to see her, she told herself firmly. For had not God himself spoken to her, giving her permission to elope with Guy, and was he not yearning for her at this very moment? Every fibre of her being told her it was so.
To her relief, the window had been left unlocked. She gently opened it and crept inside.
Opening the door from the morning-room which led into the hall, she stood very still, listening intently. The sound of laughter and masculine voices was coming from the drawing-room. Then she heard Guy’s voice. ‘By Jove, it’s good to see you fellows. Of course you are welcome to stay. Aunt has bags of room.’
Still clutching the two bandboxes, Deirdre crept across the hall. The drawing-room door was open and a yellow oblong of light sliced across the darkness.
Deirdre looked in.
Guy was lounging at his ease with a bumper of brandy in his hand. Two friends were seated facing him around the fire. They seemed uncouth, they did not seem like gentlemen, but, strangely, Deirdre did not feel alarmed. Their unexpected arrival must have been the reason for Guy abandoning her.
They were so merry and at ease together. They all belonged to that fascinating world of men – a world which Deirdre envied as much as she feared.
At times she chafed at being a woman and having to listen to silly women’s prattle. She longed to discuss philosophy and world events and politics. Guy had accepted her as an equal. Therefore it followed his friends would do so too.
She took a deep breath and entered the room, still carrying the two bandboxes.
Guy was facing the door. He looked straight at her in dawning surprise and then his blue eyes sparkled with drink and malice.
His friends followed his gaze.
One of them, thickset and burly, with greasy, pomaded locks plastered to his low brow, twisted round.
‘The deuce!’ he said. ‘What’s this?’
‘A drama from Astley’s Amphitheatre,’ drawled Guy. ‘The Maiden From the Vicarage Leaves Home. Allow me to present Miss Deirdre Armitage.’
Both men arose and made their bows. The thickset one was introduced as Mr Benjamin Rowse and his thin companion as Mr Bill Wilson. Both were obviously well to go.
‘There’s a story here,’ crowed the one called Bill. ‘Do tell, Guy. What wickedness have you been up to?’
Guy rose to his feet and walked to where Deirdre stood. He reached forward and for one blissful moment Deirdre’s world righted as she thought he was about to take her in his arms. But, instead, he seized her by the upper arm and dragged her towards the mantel.
‘Look in the glass, Miss Deirdre,’ he laughed. He moved his grip to her shoulders and thrust her face forwards. Deirdre stared at her reflection. Her bonnet was awry, there was a smudge on her nose, and great purple shadows under her eyes.
‘Yes, hardly a fashion plate, are you?’ he jeered.
‘Guy!’ cried Deirdre, wrenching herself free. ‘What has come over you? What happened? I do not understand the cruelty of your manner. You said you loved me. You promised to elope with me.’
Her eyes grew soft and pleading. ‘I-I am here, Guy, and I have brought my belongings with me.’
‘Oooh, how touching!’ said Guy, mincing about the room with one hand on his hip while his friends roared with laughter.
Deirdre’s face turned hard and set.
‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ she said, walking to the door, her back very straight.
‘Wait a bit!’ called Bill Wilson. ‘Guy may be too nice in his taste but Benjie and me ain’t above a bit o’ fun with a redhead.’
He clipped her round the waist with one beefy arm and thrust his great red face towards her own.
Guy Wentwater smiled lazily and closed the drawing-room door. ‘I agree she is not to my taste, my friends,’ he said lazily, ‘but don’t let me stop your sport.’
Appalled, Deirdre tore herself free from Bill’s grasp. Benjie rushed to guard the door. Guy sat down in his chair again and picked up his glass and settled back with the air of a connoisseur about to watch a good play.
Now Deirdre looked like the fox of her father’s imaginings. Green eyes blazing, she backed away from them towards the fire.
A canterbury filled with old newspapers stood beside the hearth.
She picked one up in one lightning movement, set it alight, and threw the blazing pages full at Guy who jerked back violently in his chair so that he overbalanced and fell on the floor, tearing at the blazing paper which covered his chest.
‘Back!’ hissed Deirdre as the other two closed in. Why didn’t the servants come? Should she scream? No! One thing burned in Deirdre’s mind. No one must know she had been here.
Bill and Benjie began to move nearer. Deirdre edged closer to a brass stand on the other side of the fireplace which held a selection of riding whips, polo sticks, umbrellas, and sword sticks.
She seized a sword stick and managed to jerk the blade out of its sheath before Bill found the courage to try to seize her hand.
Slicing the blade through the air in great sweeps, she held them off until she had reached the door.
Then she wrenched it open and ran instinctively to the morning-room. It was as well she did. For the great door at the other end of the hall was barred and bolted for the night and by the time she had unlatched and unlocked everything, they would have been upon her.
She fled down the Hopeminster road which led from Lady Wentwater’s estate into the village of Hopeworth. She did not stop running until she had reached the gates of the Hall, determined to rouse the lodge keeper should she hear sounds of pursuit. For Deirdre now felt there was no way her humiliation and stupidity could escape detection.
But no sounds of chase came to her ears. The night was cold and quiet and still. Deirdre sank down on to a tussock of grass beside the gates of the Hall and buried her face in her hands.
Never again would she believe in God. He had tricked her, she thought illogically, following quite a common line of reasoning – ‘He did not help me, therefore I won’t believe in Him.’
And as for the marriage of true minds! Piffle! And men? Worse. Some were better mannered and better dressed than others, but au fond they were all the same: great, hairy, selfish, hot-handed, slavering satyrs.
Out of the whole pack of them, she hated her father the most. If he had behaved like a true father, then all this would never have happened.
There is nothing more comforting than finding someone else to blame and so Deirdre lashed her rage up against the vicar.
‘You do seem to make a habit of sitting around by the roadside,’ came a plaintive voice from somewhere above her head.
Deirdre started and looked up. Impeccable and urbane as ever, Lord Harry Desire stood smiling down at her in the moonlight.
Deirdre looked up at him sullenly. ‘Have you come to jeer and torment me?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he said amiably, ‘only to find you. Daphne awoke and found your bed empty and raised the alarm. Betty said you had been running around earlier with two bandboxes. The good vicar decided you had run away from home.’
If only, thought Deirdre wildly, she could keep her stupidity over Guy a secret!
‘I left a letter,’ she said.
‘Well, I don’t think a
nyone has found it yet,’ he said.
‘I must get back and tear it up,’ thought Deirdre.
‘Thank you,’ she said, rising and brushing down her skirts. ‘I am ready to go home now. I couldn’t sleep. The letter explained all that, you see.’
‘The bandboxes!’ cried a voice in her head. ‘You left the bandboxes!’
‘No bandboxes this time?’ went on Lord Harry as if reading her thoughts.
Deirdre began to walk down the road with him. She felt very, very tired. She never wanted to see her father again.
There was only one way in which a gently brought-up young girl could free herself from home.
Marriage.
‘I will marry you,’ she said abruptly.
Lord Harry strolled along in silence. Oh, God, thought Deirdre, even this fool does not want me.
Dark figures were scurrying here and there through the village.
‘What is the matter?’ asked Deirdre.
‘You,’ smiled Lord Harry. ‘Mr Armitage has sounded the alarm.’
He called out to one of the figures. One of the village boys came running up.
Lord Harry fished in his pocked and handed the boy a shilling.
‘Go and tell everyone Miss Deirdre has been found,’ he said. The boy grabbed the coin and ran off, moving from one figure to the other.
The vicar met them half way down the lane leading to the vicarage.
Even in the moonlight, it was possible to see his face was dark with rage.
Lord Harry put his arm round Deirdre’s waist as she braced herself for the tirade to come.
Before the vicar could open his mouth, Lord Harry said quickly, ‘Congratulate me, Mr Armitage. Your daughter has done me the great honour to accept my hand in marriage.’
The vicar opened and shut his mouth like a landed cod. Rage was replaced by joy which was promptly replaced by worry.
Did Deirdre want this marriage? Or had she simply broken down under pressure?
Deirdre and Desire Page 8
