‘Good afternoon, Lady Brookenby.’ He bowed over her hand, but she could see that his mind was elsewhere. Absently, he picked up one of the cakes and looked at it as if he had never seen a cake before. ‘Is your sister-in-law perfectly well?’
‘No, she is not. She is suffering from a very bad attack of my very dear mother-in-law!’
‘The Dowager—? What can you mean, Ma’am?’
‘I mean, Sir, that your future mother-in-law has learned of your engagement and, if you do not wish to lose Margery altogether, you had best take her away as soon as you may—tonight if you can arrange it!’
Mr Cholmondeley was so taken aback that he dropped the little cake he had been about to cram into his mouth. ‘Good Heavens, Ma’am! What are you suggesting?’
She bent and picked up the pieces. ‘I am suggesting that you elope.’
‘Elope?’
‘Certainly. Take her to Lancashire and marry her there. You may obtain a special license from the Bishop this afternoon.’
‘Special license?’
‘Must you repeat everything I say?’ demanded Zanthe. ‘I am telling you this for your own good. If you do not take Margery away, she will be persuaded to give you up and she will end a miserable, downtrodden slave for the rest of her life, just as I said she would. It is positively your duty to make sure that does not happen.’
He looked very worried. ‘I had intended to wait upon the Dowager, to present my credentials and explain my circumstances. Anything of a clandestine nature is abhorrent to me.’
‘Of course, it is. But you do not understand. Your credentials are immaterial. You could be the wealthiest, most noble, most eligible man in the country, and it would not matter one whit because what Mama-in-Law craves is power and, with me and Margery out of the house, she has no one to torment—except the servants, and they are no fun for her as they can leave if they want to.’
‘But the impropriety—!’
‘What impropriety? Your sister will accompany you on the journey and be bridesmaid at the wedding. Nothing could be more—more—comme il faut!’
‘But to persuade an unmarried lady to such a step—to ask her to risk her reputation—’
Zanthe smiled and placed her hand upon his arm. ‘Dear Mr Cholmondeley. I know that, in your eyes, Margery is a mere slip of a girl, just as, in her eyes, you are a hero of romance; and I think it is very sweet, quite adorable, in fact. But let us be practical. Margery is not a green girl and, at her age, her reputation could survive very much worse than a journey to the North in the company of a respectable clergyman and his sister.’
Mr Cholmondeley was not listening. ‘A hero of romance—I?’
She dimpled. ‘Of course. That is why you are the only one who can save her. Will you do it?’
He took a deep breath, stiffened his spine, and said, ‘I will.’
‘Good!’ She saw Margery steal a glance in their direction and smiled. ‘Come here, dearest. Mr Cholmondeley and I have a surprise for you.’
Margery blushed and pushed away the rather poorly arranged platter she had been employed upon. ‘A surprise? What is it?’
Zanthe took her hand and led her to the back of the hall, where benches had been set out. Mr Cholmondeley followed them. Zanthe obliged Margery to be seated and then took one of her hands in both her own. ‘How should you like to be married, at once?’
‘At once?’
Zanthe sighed. ‘Why must everyone repeat every word I say like a parrot? Yes, my dear sister, at once. Or at least within a very few days.’
‘But—Mama—would never allow it!’
Zanthe looked at the Reverend triumphantly. ‘You see? Already that odious old woman has put a doubt in her mind.’ She shook the hand she held reprovingly. ‘Listen to me. She cannot stop you. You are an independent woman. No one can stop you.’
Margery sat quite still for a moment, staring into space; and then, quite suddenly, and regardless of the other women in the room, she jumped to her feet and flung her arms around Mr Cholmondeley’s neck. ‘Yes, yes, take me away. Oh, dear Mortimer, take me away. I will marry you whenever, wherever you like. But I cannot face Mama again until after we are wed.’
‘You shall not,’ he assured her. He took off his spectacles and polished them with his handkerchief. Then he put them back with a decided air and said, ‘I shall go now to procure the license and hire a post chaise.’ He strode off, calling to his sister as he made for the door, ‘Letty, come along; I have something I must say to you, and I cannot dawdle here.’
Zanthe laughed and kissed Margery’s cheek. ‘I like Mr Cholmondeley in this mood.’
‘So do I,’ acknowledged her sister-in-law, making a little sound that might almost have been a giggle. ‘But, Zanthe, if we are to leave after the concert, what shall I do about my clothes and—? Oh, I do not want to go back to the house to pack my things. I know something will happen to prevent our leaving if I do.’
‘No, that won’t do. Did you not bespeak two new gowns at Mareille’s a few days ago? You may travel in the gown and pelisse you have on and take the two new ones with you. I shall go to Milsom Street now and collect them while you go to purchase a portmanteau and some shifts, nightdresses, and such.’ Her eyes danced, ‘What an adventure! Dearest Margery I almost wish it were I that was about to elope. Although not, of course, with dear Mr Cholmondeley. He is yours, and I would not steal him, even if I could. Which I know I could not.’
The two ladies very reprehensibly deserted their posts, excusing themselves to the other workers with the pretext of a forgotten engagement. ‘But we will be back within the half-hour. Long before the performers arrive,’ Zanthe assured Lady Kilmarnock, who gave her a distracted nod and an absent smile.
It was but a ten-minute walk from Terrace Walk to Milsom Street, and Zanthe set out with all her usual energy, revelling in the sunshine and the exquisite contrast of the vivid green leaves that covered the trees, set against the deep, cloudless blue of the sky. Her spirits rose. Everything she wanted seemed within her grasp. Then, all at once, she began to feel uncomfortable, as though the sun had gone behind a cloud and a presentiment of evil overcame her. She examined this feeling, for she had no belief in the supernatural, and suddenly realised that it was the sound of footsteps behind her, never hurrying, never varying, that had penetrated her unconscious mind.
She glanced over her shoulder and, as she had feared, found herself face to face with Sir Marmaduke Carlyle. He stopped when she did and politely raised his curly-brimmed beaver hat. ‘Good day, Lady Brookenby.’
Zanthe turned on her heel and walked on at a faster pace, but it was useless. He was always just two or three steps behind. She wished with fervour that she had remembered to bring her stalwart footman; but John had been pressed into setting out benches for the concert, and she had left him at the Lower Rooms cheerfully directing four Irish chair-men who had been bribed to leave their stand and lend a hand. As she turned left from Orange Grove into New Bond Street, her heart lifted, for here there were many more people in the streets and Sir Marmaduke’s footsteps did not echo in so sinister a manner. But the crowds emboldened the gentleman, and he came up to walk beside her and, in the most impudent manner, attempted to take her arm.
‘How dare you? Let me go at once,’ exclaimed Zanthe, jerking her elbow out of his grasp.
‘But you must give me the opportunity to offer my apologies and explain my conduct.’
‘No explanation is possible, Sir. You insulted and assaulted me in the most ungentlemanly way. And now you are attempting to do it again!’
‘Little prude. Are you going to tell me you didn’t give me every encouragement? You must have known, when you agreed to drive with me, how it would end.’
‘You are quite mad,’ exclaimed Zanthe, although she was guiltily aware that, in her eagerness to deceive Launceston and protect her brother, she had indeed allowed his attentions in a manner that might lead a crude and insensitive man to believe that she would welcome hi
s advances. ‘How could I have guessed there would be an accident to your phaeton, or that I would be deprived of the chaperonage of your groom?’
He did not answer but gave her a most significant smile and tapped the side of his nose suggestively with one finger. She shivered and, summoning all her courage, said, ‘You are quite mistaken in me, I assure you. I am willing to believe that it was an honest misunderstanding and to forget the matter, but I must ask you to leave me to finish my business alone.’
‘What, and allow some other lucky fellow the opportunity to escort you? Not on your life, sweet Zanthe!’
Her eyes filled with angry tears, and she bit her lip. Then, just as they reached the corner of Green Street, Lord Launceston turned into the street and came to a dead halt a few yards from them, staring.
‘Oh, thank Goodness!’ exclaimed Zanthe, and breaking free of Sir Marmaduke’s suddenly loosened clasp, she ran to the Viscount with her hands held out. He grasped them automatically, but his eyes were upon Carlyle.
‘What the devil—?’
Sir Marmaduke was many things: a bully, a cheat, and a libertine, to name only three; but he was not a coward. He lifted his chin pugnaciously and said, ‘I offered the lady my escort. Do you have any quarrel with that, Viscount?’
‘It would appear that the lady does.’
Zanthe, fearful of a scene in public and recollecting her earlier fears for Launceston’s safety, interposed, ‘No, no. It was just me being foolish. Pray, give me your arm, and let us forget about him. He is not worth being concerned about.’
She might as well have spared her breath. Neither man paid the smallest attention to her.
‘I was not aware that you were acquainted with Lady Brookenby, Launceston. Perhaps your attentions will be more acceptable to her than mine were. A viscount is always a viscount after all, even if he has fallen so low as to live off a woman.’
The Viscount’s black brows twitched together, but he gave no other sign that the insult had struck home. ‘Pot-valiant so early in the day, my friend? Shall we settle this when there are no ladies present, nor busy-bodies that might intervene to stop me ripping your greasy head from your noisome body?’
‘Ha! You think you can?’
‘I know I can,’ said the Viscount with a calm that carried absolute conviction.
Sir Marmaduke was a little pale, and he gripped the hollow ebony cane he carried so tightly that the wood splintered. ‘Do you know The Bird in Hand in Avon Street?’
‘I do.’
‘Then shall we say at eleven o’clock tonight? There will be no busy-bodies there, I assure you.’
Launceston bowed. ‘I shall look forward to it.’
Sir Marmaduke uttered a sound between a snarl and a curse, turned on his heel, and strode off in the direction of Union Street.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Zanthe with a sigh.
‘Oh, dear? Is that all you have to say? This is your fault, Zanthe. I warned you not to play your games with Carlyle. He’s a dangerous man.’
She hung her head. ‘I know, and I am so very sorry I have put you in danger. I never meant to.’
He looked puzzled. ‘Put me in danger. What nonsense is this?’
‘I mean—because now you have to fight him—’
His eyes softened, and he laughed, patting the hand that clutched his coat sleeve. ‘Don’t concern yourself, my darling. It is not I who am in danger.’
‘Oh, Jarvis! You called me darling, just as you used to.’
‘What? Oh, the Devil! Don’t go reading anything into it, Zanthe, nor what happened the other day. I am still not going to marry you.’
‘No,’ she agreed, resting her cheek briefly against his arm. ‘If you say so.’
‘And don’t do that!’
‘Yes, Jarvis—I mean, no, Jarvis.’ She smiled up at him. ‘Will you really rip his head off?’
He laughed aloud at the hopeful note in her voice. ‘It was a figure of speech, my Lady. But I shall make him very sorry he ever thought to draw you and Parry into his net and ensure that he does not show his oily face in Bath again for many a long day.’ They began to walk on toward Milson Street. ‘How comes it about that you are walking alone? Where is your footman?’
Zanthe explained that John was lending his muscle to the concert organisers. ‘And why are you not among them? Playing truant, Lady Brookenby?’
‘Not at all. Well, perhaps. The case is that Margery, my sister-in-law—’
‘I know who Margery is.’
‘Well, she is running away to be married tonight, and so I am going to collect some dresses she ordered from Mareille’s in Milsom Street so she will have something pretty for the wedding.’
‘Your sister-in-law is eloping?’ He sounded thunderstruck.
She nodded. ‘With Mr Cholmondeley.’
‘At your instigation?’
‘Of course.’
He stopped dead in the street, struggled with himself for a moment, and then broke into uncontrollable shouts of mirth. ‘Oh, Zanthe, darling Zanthe, how I have missed you.’
Twenty-one
To punish his lordship for his unseemly mirth, Zanthe made him carry the beribboned bandboxes that contained Margery’s bride-clothes all the way back to the Rooms. He was quite unrepentant, however, merely demanding the whole story of the romance and why an elopement should be considered necessary.
‘I told you. Because Mama-in-Law is determined to put a stop to it.’
‘Damn it! They’re both in their forties. How could she?’
‘You do not know her. She is like a spider. Once you are caught in her web, there is no escape.’
‘You appear to have done so.’
‘Not entirely. She still frightens me. I just hide it better than I used to.’ She thought for a moment and added, ‘I have a temper, you see, which Margery does not. When I lose it, I can defy her, at least for the moment. But—’ despairingly, ‘—I always end by apologising and doing as she bids me. I should not have come to Bath if Doctor Miller had not told her I was about to go into a decline and die.’
He cast her a searching glance. ‘Was that true?’
She gave a little shrug. ‘Not really; but I was very unhappy.’
‘Brookenby’s death hit you hard, I daresay.’
She shook her head. ‘No, I cannot claim to have mourned him very greatly. I grew fond of him, naturally. He was very kind, but—’
‘But—’ he prompted.
‘He was not—you.’
He was silent for a moment; then: ‘If you did not mourn him, why were you so unhappy?’
She murmured something inaudible.
‘What was that? Tell me,’ he urged in a gentle voice.
‘I was so very—lonely,’ she confessed. ‘I have always been lonely, except for that one time—with you.’
‘Zanthe! I—’
‘That is the thing, you see, Jarvis. You think that to marry you would be my ruin. What you don’t understand is that my life is in ruins already.’
He looked very much struck by this but made no answer for, at that moment, they were joined by Margery and the Cholmondeleys, who had met by chance in Bridge Street. They stopped, and Launceston shook hands, saying significantly, ‘I understand I have to congratulate you, Cholmondeley.’
The reverend gentleman was still buoyed up by the consciousness that he was acting in a very heroic way and answered with far less reserve than was his wont. ‘You may, indeed, my dear Launceston. I can hardly believe it myself. I have won such a prize as any man might—’ he stopped, overcome with emotion.
The Viscount held Margery’s hand in his, his rude laughter quite forgotten as he took in the radiance that transfigured her plain features into beauty. ‘I wish you very happy, Miss Brookenby. As happy as you deserve to be.’
‘Very kind—’ she responded gruffly. ‘Hope to wish you the same someday.’
‘Me? Oh, I am past praying for.’
Mr Cholmondeley shook his head and said quiet
ly, ‘No one is past praying for, my dear Sir. I shall remember you in my prayers, I assure you.’
They entered the building together and made their way to the concert hall. In their absence, a great deal of work had been done. The benches were set out in rows, and there were several gilt-chairs placed at the front for the most important of the expected guests. The little platform that did duty as a stage had been decked with garlands of flowers and streamers, and the performers had begun to gather and huddle nervously.
Mr Templeton and his friend were agitatedly running their lines while Lady Templeton constantly interrupted them in her attempts to wind her son in a length of white sheeting, to represent a toga, and to set upon his head a wreath of laurel leaves that she had fondly sewn with her own hands. Sir Humphrey Norman walked about the room begging anyone, even the chair-men, to ‘take a card, Sir, any card’; and the young lady pianists played imaginary scales in the air with their fingers. Only Susanna, admirably calm, was seated, quietly scanning the score of her selected pieces.
It was growing late. The performers left the hall and concealed themselves in a small salon, the entrance to which was curtained off to provide a wing from which they could ascend the little stage. The audience began to arrive in twos and threes, family parties, single gentlemen, local church dignitaries, and noble patrons of the charity. Among the earliest arrivals were Lord and Lady Fallowfield, accompanied by Mr Fallowfield, who came over to shake hands with Zanthe and the Cholmondeleys in a friendly way, while Lady Fallowfield accorded them a distant bow. Lord Fallowfield looked as if he would have joined his cousin but, at a word from his wife, he followed her to the refreshment table and accepted tea from Susan, the youngest Miss Weatherspoon, who was dispensing refreshment from a huge urn.
Mr Fallowfield glanced around the room. ‘Where is my little cousin? I wanted to wish her luck.’
Zanthe looked shocked. ‘Sir! Even I know that it is most unprofessional for the artistes to be seen by their audience before a performance.’
‘Is it? But I know very little of these matters. I have only once been acquainted with an artiste, and that was many years ago. A glorious creature she was, and had the most exquisite voice.’ He moved away to join his cousins, and Zanthe watched him go, thinking that Susanna had acquired a very useful ally when Mr Fallowfield came into her life.
A Match of Hearts: A Regency Romance Page 13
