Deirdre and Desire
Page 11
Meanwhile, Guy Wentwater had almost forgotten about Silas Dubois. He had removed himself and his friends from Hopeworth as quickly as possible. His friends had cursed him roundly for having put them in a position where they were roused from their beds in the middle of the night by Lord Harry Desire who had threatened them into silence in no uncertain manner.
He strolled into Humbold’s coffee house in St James’s. The announcement of Deirdre’s marriage had not surprised him; probably Lord Harry had clubbed her into submitting to the engagement and would drag her off to the altar by the hair.
A shadow fell across him and he looked up into the unlovely features of Silas Dubois.
Mr Dubois had been called a walking lampoon by his critics by virtue of his small, slight figure and very large nose.
He slid into a chair opposite Guy with his usual furtive, crab-like motion and fixed him with his beady eyes.
‘I have been looking for you,’ said Dubois. ‘A fine mull you made of things. Desire is to marry that Armitage chit.’
‘The arrangement was to humiliate the Armitages and I achieved just that,’ said Guy attempting an air of nonchalance.
‘How?’ demanded Silas Dubois eagerly.
And so Guy told him a carefully edited account of his promise to elope with Deirdre and his subsequent humiliation of her in front of his friends.
‘And what did the good vicar say when he heard of this?’ asked Silas drily.
‘Well,’ said Guy, flushing. ‘He did not hear of it from her . . . evidently. And I decided it would not be gentlemanly to speak of it. We agreed to humiliate her. I have done so. My part is played.’
‘You cowardly fool,’ hissed Silas. It was to humiliate the whole family. Had you played your part aright, then Desire would never have married the chit.’
‘He is not yet married to her,’ pointed out Guy huffily.
‘Nor must he,’ said Silas.
‘Eh?’
‘I have a distant relative, Jeremy Blewett, a nabob. By coincidence, he is Desire’s uncle. He will leave his fortune to Desire if he marries. If he does not, the money comes to me. I learned all this from the cagey old fool a bare week ago. Evidently Desire has known of it for some time.’
‘Everyone’s known about it for some time,’ sneered Guy. ‘You heard in the clubs that Armitage was planning a marriage between Desire and his daughter. Did you not know the reason Desire wanted the marriage?’
Dubois bit his knuckles and stared at Guy over the large promontory of his nose.
‘No, I did not know. But you told me you planned to seduce the Armitage girl. Not promise to elope with her, tell her you couldn’t because she was a dowdy doxy, and then keep the humiliation between yourselves. It seems from your account that she went straight back and told Desire to marry her.’
‘No doubt the other way round. Desire’s in love with her.’
‘Love!’ scoffed Silas Dubois.
‘“Love is the fart
Of every heart;
It pains a man when ’tis kept close;
And others doth offend, when ’tis let loose.”
‘Would you say Deirdre Armitage was in love with you?’
‘Oh, yes, definitely,’ said Guy smugly. ‘Mad for me, she was. Not now, of course.’
‘Then you must make her so,’ said Silas.
Guy stood up. ‘Who are you to give me orders, sirrah?’ he said coldly.
‘I gave you my time before because it amused me to plan a way to revenge myself on the Armitage family. Sooner or later the vicar will learn his precious daughter only became affianced to Desire on the rebound. That is enough.’
‘Sit down,’ said Silas coldly.
Guy half-turned to leave. ‘Sit down, Mr Evans,’ said Silas in a soft voice.
Guy whirled about, his face blanching. ‘Oh, aye,’ chuckled Silas. ‘I know the history, you see. Learned it once down Bristol way. That so-called aunt of yours is really your mother. Made a mort o’ money running a chain of bawdy houses in Bristol. Biggest abbess in the town. Had you out o’ wedlock, brought you up and gave you enough money to start your life and turned you out of the nest. Took herself off to the depths of the country, adopted a fake title, and pleaded genteel poverty although she’s as rich as Golden Ball.
‘You took to slave trading and made your pile. You sold out because you wanted the rank and life of gentlemen. You play my game and you can keep it and earn money from me besides. You keep on walking and the whole of London and Hopeworth and Berham county will learn by nightfall that you’re the bastard son of a brothel keeper.’
‘I’ll kill you first,’ whispered Guy, sitting down again.
‘You don’t need to,’ grinned Silas. ‘Just do one little thing for me. Tell this Deirdre Armitage you cast her off because you knew her father would never recognize her again if she married you. Get her to fall in love with you so that Desire will have nothing to do with her. Stop the marriage. Blewett’s on his last legs. He’s not going to make out a new will until after the wedding. Even if you delay the wedding, that will be enough.’
Guy closed his eyes. He was terrified of Lord Harry punching him in the face again, he was terrified of the vicar and his pack of hellhounds, but now he was even more terrified of Silas Dubois.
‘You knew of the will,’ he accused Silas, ‘when you listened to my plans to seduce Deirdre Armitage. Well, I did plan to seduce her, but marrying her cousin, Emily, seemed better game. Sir Edwin is very rich and his social standing is high. But you, you wanted me to make her shoddy goods so that Desire would not touch her. You knew about the will.’
‘In faith, I did not,’ said Silas with a shrug. ‘But that is now beside the point. You have a month in which to reanimate the affections of Miss Armitage.’
‘But what if I can’t!’ said Guy, perspiration dotting his brow.
‘Then you must do it by other means,’ said Silas Dubois, ‘or your life in society will come to an end. Oh, it was bad enough you being a slave trader, but then so were a lot of respectable gentlemen and no one thinks the worse of them once their trading days are over. Now, you are respectable. See you do all in your power to keep it that way.’
He slid out from behind the table and made his way out of the coffee house, turning every so often to smile over his shoulder at the still, rigid figure of Guy Wentwater.
The Reverend Charles Armitage was pacing the hall of his daughter Minerva’s town house, waiting for Deirdre to arrive back.
He was troubled in his conscience. Deirdre had become quieter and quieter and unhappier and unhappier since they had arrived in Town. Neither Minerva nor Annabelle had seemed to notice anything amiss with their younger sister and for a while this had eased the vicar’s worries. But all at once he felt he must ascertain whether Deirdre really wanted this marriage or not.
Because he was nervous, he had dressed in his best. His corsets were lashed to suffocating point, his paint was artfully delicate, like the sunset on a watercolour painting, and his white waistcoat had silver stripes.
He heard the rumble of the carriage wheels. Lord Harry did not enter the house with Deirdre but kissed her hand and went back to escort Lady Godolphin home.
The butler held open the door and Deirdre entered, looking weary and dejected.
‘Come into the library,’ said the vicar.
‘Must I, Papa?’ said Deirdre listlessly. But she pulled her bonnet from her head, and, dangling it by the ribbons, trailed after him.
The vicar held open the door and ushered her in. He held out his arms and pinned an affectionate, paternal smile on his face.
‘My darling, little daughter,’ he said, trying to take her in his arms.
Deirdre shrank back with such a look of naked disgust on her face that the vicar stood frozen to the spot. She walked past him and stood with her back to him.
‘What is it, Papa?’ she asked in a flat little voice.
‘Hey, well, don’t you see,’ blustered the vicar, ‘I am worrie
d about you. Seems you are not happy about this here marriage.’
He struck an attitude. ‘Well, I tell ye, there’s no need for you to worry. I’ll cancel the whole wedding. There!’ He stood beaming.
Deirdre turned around, her green gaze raking him coldly from head to foot. She had an all-consuming desire to let him know just how much she despised him.
‘It does not matter whom I marry, Papa,’ she said. ‘One man is much like t’other in my opinion. None fortunately disgust me as much as you.’
‘What!’ screamed the vicar, hardly able to believe his ears.
‘Oh, strike me if it makes you feel better,’ said Deirdre, still in that horrible, little voice. ‘You are a bag of wind, Papa; a selfish, painted, posturing boor. You! A vicar! You would sell your daughters on the slave market if you thought we would fetch a high enough price. I shall marry Lord Harry . . . to escape from you and your repellent presence. How Mama put up with you all these years, I shall never know. You should be happy. Another rich husband tethered in the Armitage stable. Now, if you will excuse me, I must lie down.’
The vicar stood, puffing and panting, his eyes starting from his head, his hand on his heart.
Deirdre walked past him and quietly closed the door of the library behind her.
Squire Radford was a very unhappy and lonely man. The long days had passed without gossip or bustle or incident. He had a bad conscience. He had accused his friend, the vicar, of having no faith to lose, and, furthermore, he had insulted his personal appearance.
The sad fact was that life without even a puffed-up posturing vicar was deadly dull. Assailed with nervous boredom for almost the first time in his life and plagued with many of the irritating little pains and stiffnesses of old age, the squire began gloomily to wonder how much longer he could be expected to live. One thing was sure. He must make his peace with his old friend.
But the vicar was in London. The squire had been invited to the wedding, but all of a sudden, he decided he could not wait until then to present his humble apologies to Charles Armitage. He would leave for Town that very afternoon and seek him out.
The gates at the end of his drive creaked loudly on their hinges. He stood up and went to the window.
Muffled up against the cold in a many-taped greatcoat, the Reverend Charles Armitage was riding slowly up the drive.
Excitedly, the squire rang the bell and told his servant the vicar was to be ushered into the library immediately and one of the best bottles of port brought up from the cellar.
Then he scuttled quickly to answer the door himself. The stable boy was leading the vicar’s horse away towards the back of the house.
The vicar stood on the doorstep, his shovel hat in his hand. He raised a pair of eyes swimming with tears to the squire’s face, and blurted out, ‘I need your help, Jimmy. I’m in sore pain.’
‘Come in, Charles!’ cried the squire, much alarmed.
He tugged his friend’s heavy cloak from his shoulders, and with urgent murmurs of comfort and little pushes in the back propelled the vicar into his old seat in front of the fire.
The squire sat down opposite and leaned forward.
‘I have missed you, Charles,’ he said. ‘But I have only myself to blame. I cannot forgive myself for my harsh words to you.’
‘Oh, don’t!’ wailed the vicar, completely overset. He knuckled his eyes with his chubby hands and cried and cried. Finally, he took out a huge, red, belcher handkerchief and blew his nose with a sound like the last trump and then mopped his streaming eyes.
‘Tsk! Tsk!’ said the poor squire, now thoroughly alarmed, despite the comforting glow that was spreading through his old frame. Charles was in trouble and had come to him for advice as he had come so many times before.
‘We have had our troubles in the past, Charles,’ said the squire earnestly, ‘and together we have managed to solve all problems.’
‘Ah, Ram. Leave the bottle and glasses on the little table and place it between us and then leave us. Now, Charles. Drink a glass of this and tell me your troubles.’
The vicar hiccuped dismally, but nonetheless managed to toss back a full glass of port without pausing for breath. His face lightened and he promptly helped himself to another.
‘I’m that ashamed,’ he said, his face puckering up like that of a hurt baby. ‘“Woe, woe unto them that draw iniquity with cords of vanity, and sin as it were with a cart rope.” Isaiah, Chapter Four, Verse 18.’
‘Dear me!’ exclaimed the squire, becoming more alarmed by the minute.
‘Yes,’ said the vicar, heaving a gusty sigh. ‘Vanity. That was my downfall.’
The squire noticed that the vicar’s face was free of paint and that his ample figure was no longer confined by a corset.
‘Now my own daughter spits in my eye. I have nourished a viper in my bosom!’ moaned the vicar, putting out a feeble hand for the bottle of port and helping himself to yet another glass.
‘Deirdre?’ asked the squire.
‘Yes, her,’ said the vicar. ‘Not my fault. Told me she wanted to marry Desire. I didn’t force her into it. But she says she’s marrying him because all men are the same and I’m the most disgusting of the lot. She . . . she called me “a selfish, painted, posturing boor”. And, oh, it’s true. After she said that I went upstairs and looked at myself in the long glass. The scales were dropped from mine eyes and I saw this awful little painted caper-merchant staring back at me.’
‘Now, now,’ said the squire soothingly. ‘You see the problem is that when you are yourself, Charles, and attired in your usual country good taste, why, you look a very fine figure of a man. With your paint and . . . er . . . other embellishments, it was like meeting a stranger, and very upsetting it was, too. Only remember how cruel I was to you? It was very harsh and impudent of Deirdre to say such things, but I am sure they were prompted by love . . . as my remarks were.’
‘Aye, you’re right,’ said the vicar. ‘But Deirdre is dreadfully unhappy about something. She’s not the same girl, not by a long chalk.’
‘I accused you quite wrongly of lack of faith,’ said the squire tentatively. ‘Have you thought of placing your daughter in God’s hands?’
‘Turn my will over to Him? Oh, I find that mortal hard. I tell ’ee, Jimmy, my prayers are like those coloured soap bubbles. I send ’em up to Heaven, saying, “Here it is, Thy will be done”, but afore they can get very high, I say, “Hey, wait a bit. I’ll do it my way”, and I stick up my finger and pop the bubble before it rises any higher.’
There was a long silence.
A few tiny snowflakes began to spatter against the glass and bounce about the lawn outside. The wind gave a sudden howl in the chimney and great yellow and red flames shot up with a roar, and then died down, leaving a small heaven of red stars burning in the sooty back wall of the fireplace.
‘There is a mystery here and I think it concerns Miss Deirdre,’ said the squire.
‘It was the night you put out the alarm she was missing. I was about to tell you what I knew but by the time I found my coat and boots, a village boy came rushing up to tell me she had been found.’ He went on to relate how he had seen a young woman like Deirdre carrying two bandboxes, hurrying along the far side of the pond, and how later, at dawn, he had seen Lord Harry returning with two bandboxes.
The vicar sat up straight, his lips moving soundlessly as he tried to work something out.
‘Wentwater,’ he said at last, while the squire looked at him with bright eyes. ‘By all that’s unholy. She tried to go to Wentwater so as to escape the marriage and Desire found out. So why does Desire want to marry her, heh? What do I know of this Lord Harry? Heh? Seemed an amiable enough clod. Where’s Wentwater?’
‘Gone. He left the morning after Deirdre went missing.’
‘Oho! I wonder if I can get anything out of Lady Wentwater. No. Waste of time.’ He settled back comfortably in his chair, looking so much like his old self that the squire felt sentimental tears pricking at his
eyes.
The wine sank lower in the bottle and the day darkened outside as the vicar sat and thought.
‘Deirdre was always a strong-willed girl,’ he said. ‘She didn’t want none of Lord Harry, not a bit of it. Then she suddenly changes her mind, and, while he’s at the vicarage, although she’s a bit rude with him and off-hand, like, she still has a glow about her. Then when she comes back with him that night, she’s gone all hard and cold and bitter. Now she’s even more bitter, and demme if I don’t think she’s frightened of Lord Harry. See here, Lord Harry found out something about her that night and is making her marry him.’
‘Dear me,’ said the squire. ‘I wonder what it was? You do not think, do you, that there was any . . . well . . . foul play on the part of Wentwater?’
‘No,’ said the vicar slowly. ‘He was chasing after Emily. But no one saw him near Deirdre. Lord Harry’s the problem, mark you. It must be something awful bad for her not to have told Minerva and Annabelle. I asked both of ’em before I left Town but they seemed to find nothing amiss. O’ course, Annabelle’s so full of all them adventures she had at the wars, and Minerva’s so taken up with Julian – my grandchild,’ he explained unnecessarily and puffing out his chest, ‘that they wouldn’t notice anything.
‘I’m going back to Town to find out all about it. I’ll study them both and think of something to stop the wedding.
‘For mark my words, Jimmy, that wedding is not going to take place or my name’s not Charles Armitage.’
‘Minerva!’
‘My love?’
Lady Sylvester put down her sewing and smiled on her lord.
Lord Sylvester stretched his elegant legs in front of him and studied the gold tassels of his hessian boots.
‘I am a trifle concerned over that sister of yours.’
‘Deirdre? But why? She is to be married to a very suitable young man.’
‘But I don’t think she wants to get married,’ said Lord Sylvester, his green eyes meeting those of his wife in an unblinking cat-like stare. ‘I think your wretched Papa was groping around to find money while we were absent. Lady Godolphin confessed he proposed to Harry Desire.’