The Paradise Will

by Elizabeth Hanbury

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ admitted Alyssa slowly. ‘Oh, where is Gil? He will know what is best.’

  ‘He’s coming towards us, and he looks exceedingly angry,’ observed Letty.

  Gil did look forbidding: he was frowning, his lips compressed into a thin line. Having heard the whisperings about Alyssa, he had bit back the retort that sprang to his lips and instead had taken pains to tease out the original source. When his suspicions were confirmed, anger suffused him. He had expected Caroline’s spite to manifest itself in some way but with this, she had gone beyond the pale. He, too, wanted to face her, but to do so would embarrass the squire and his wife and might be the reaction she had set out to provoke. But her mischief-making could not be left unchecked, for while Gil did not care for gossip, many others did and would believe the tale to be true. Alyssa’s name could be irrevocably damaged if the story was not nipped in the bud.

  ‘Gil! Have you heard?’ said Alyssa, in urgent whisper when he reached them.

  He nodded. ‘It is at Caroline’s instigation, her attempt to wreak revenge on us, and you in particular. It will not be allowed to serve,’ he said, soothingly.

  ‘Oh, I wish I had never invented that nonsensical story,’ she cried.

  ‘Don’t say that. It was funny, and Miss Nash deserved it,’ said Letty.

  ‘Letty is right,’ agreed Gil, warmly. ‘None of this is your doing, my darling.’

  Piers, who had been watching and listening, grinned. ‘Lord, I knew there was something afoot,’ he said, throwing Gil and Alyssa a mischievous glance. ‘Should I wish you both happy now?’

  ‘Pray lower your voice, Piers,’ begged Alyssa. ‘No one here knows, and Gil promised the squire we would be circumspect.’

  ‘You may do so at a more appropriate time, Piers,’ said Gil, with a clipped smile. ‘For now, let us return to the matter at hand.’

  ‘But how can we stop people thinking the story is true and preferably teach Miss Nash a lesson at the same time?’ queried Alyssa.

  ‘What if I ask her to dance?’ said Piers, inspiration having descended on him with near-perfect timing.

  ‘Ask her to dance?’ echoed Letty, in amazement.

  Gil cocked an eyebrow and drawled, ‘I cannot see how doing so will afford Caroline a lesson.’

  ‘Wait and see,’ said Piers, with another enigmatic grin and a wink.

  ‘Very well, you obviously have something in mind so I leave it to your discretion. In the meantime, the three of us will instigate a counterplot.’

  ‘What shall we say?’ asked Alyssa.

  ‘Make a joke of the whole thing, my love. We must laugh nonchalantly and explain it was in fact your distant relative who masqueraded as Mr Esidarap. It will be the simplest way, rather than deny it completely, or give the truth that it was a nonsense story; people will readily accept that a fictional relative is to blame. I shall explain to the squire what has happened. He will not be too pleased, I think, with his daughter’s behaviour.’

  ‘Lord, yes – an excellent suggestion, Coz,’ agreed Piers. ‘Best say it was some cousin on your father’s side who was responsible, twice or thrice removed – you know the sort of thing! Blame the escapade on a bad offshoot of the clan; every family has one.’ Piers laughed. ‘Right, while you three apply yourselves to counterplotting, I’m going to claim Miss Nash’s hand for the next dance.’

  Spying his quarry, Piers made his way purposefully towards her. Any guests idly observing the dancing thus far would have confirmed that Piers was the most elegant gentleman taking part. Sir Giles was skilled, too – in spite of his size and build, he was light on his feet – but Piers possessed that certain panache of young men who have graced the finest ballrooms in Europe and his sense of style combined with an entirely masculine flamboyance left ladies eager to be his partner. When he danced with Letty, even the sharpest critic amongst the dowagers declared they made a pretty couple.

  Miss Nash had also noted his expertise and when Piers approached, smiled engagingly and asked if she would do him the honour, she was pleased of this opportunity to shine in front of her guests. She accepted Piers’s invitation and smiled with satisfaction as he led her to join the set.

  Mrs Nash, observing this gratifying little vignette with a sigh of pleasure, was also delighted. This evening was compensating somewhat for the shock of Sir Giles’s matrimonial plans not including Caroline. The event was an acknowledged success: every person of consequence within thirty miles was present, the food deemed superb, the musicians declared praiseworthy, the coloured lanterns in the garden marvelled at and best of all, each lady stunned by her magnificent headdress. A stiff neck was the only blight marring her pleasure, but even painful muscle spasms could be forgotten when she espied Piers leading Caroline out for the next set. Her bosom swelling with pride, Mrs Nash prepared to enjoy the spectacle.

  At first, Piers made amiable conversation. He was experienced in flattery and Miss Nash was susceptible to it – something Piers had been quick to realize. So he smiled, cooed, complimented and told one or two anecdotes, all the while carrying out his steps gracefully.

  Caroline, for her part, soon relaxed, enjoying partnering this handsome consummate dancer. It was therefore astonishing to Caroline, Mrs Nash and everyone else watching, when Piers’s elegance began to falter and he acquired all the grace of a length of wet muslin. Where his movements had been precise, now his co-ordination deserted him and he stumbled, murmuring an apology. His partner was not pleased, but she gave a gracious smile; after all, even the best dancer could err once. But his clumsiness continued and when Caroline turned, expecting to be facing him, she found herself in embarrassing isolation instead – Piers had gone the wrong way.

  Momentary chaos ensued and Caroline blushed fiercely, not helped by interested spectators tittering loudly. Piers, who seemed totally unconcerned, uttered another smiling abject apology and blamed tiredness for his lack of expertise.

  ‘Then I advise you to wake up – unless you wish to make me look ridiculous,’ she muttered.

  He bowed and whispered, ‘My apologies, Miss Nash. I shall attempt to do better.’

  His movements, however, did not improve, and became even more disjointed. Piers fell out of step and missed his cues, but smiled disarmingly throughout.

  Caroline’s rage mingled with acute embarrassment. A guffaw of laughter came from among the growing audience as Piers bowed towards the gentleman next to him instead of his partner. A deep crimson blush burnt in her cheeks as she clenched her teeth together in anguish. There could be no immediate escape; it was unthinkable to leave her partner in the middle of the dance and whether Piers’s clumsiness was deliberate or accidental, she had no choice but to stay until the end. Something she anticipated would reflect well upon her had instead turned into a disaster which could not end a moment too soon.

  Gil, who did not have the opportunity to appreciate Caroline’s embarrassment in dancing with Piers when his limbs resembled those of a jellyfish, was encountering his own difficulties.

  The campaign to convince everyone the on dit about Alyssa was a case of mistaken identity had been largely successful. Almost everyone he spoke to was initially only too eager to decry her, but Gil’s calm, almost offhand manner combined with the weight of his authority, soon took effect. He laughed and blithely dismissed the story, declaring the tale an old one – infamous indeed but carried out by a distant cousin. Alyssa was not involved and it was, he observed drily, idiotic to assume she might have been. Could they not see Miss Paradise was a lady wholly incapable of this misdemeanour? His audience would then nod sagely and declare they had known all along she could not commit a scandalous masquerade. Gil continued in this way, gradually diminishing the notion of Alyssa’s involvement. As Caroline’s embarrassing moments with Piers were reaching full tilt, Gil, satisfied with his progress, found himself next to Mortimer Tilbury.

  Mortimer Tilbury was a stout, middle-aged roué, an unpleasant man full of his own importance and one
who was not generally liked. He also had a predilection for heavy drinking, and Gil could see at once he had partaken readily of the contents of the squire’s cellar.

  Gil eyed him with distaste. As a drunkard, Tilbury’s opinion did not carry weight in most quarters and he therefore saw no need to discuss Alyssa with him. Instead, he gave a curt nod of acknowledgement before attempting to move on but Mortimer Tilbury detained him.

  ‘ ’vening, Maxton! ’S fine gathering, is it not?’ said Tilbury, waving an arm to indicate the collected company. ‘Damn fine gathering, and Nash’s not one to be close-fisted with his wine.’ Mortimer held up his glass and owlishly studied the red liquid, trying to focus. ‘Take this burgundy, for ’xample – ’s wonderfully mellmellow,’ he said, slurring his words.

  ‘I’m sure it is, but you’re already as drunk as a wheelbarrow.’

  ‘Me? Drunk?’ He shook his head slowly and replied, ‘ ’S not true. Sober as a judge, Maxton. Sober as a judge. ’S nothing wrong in enjoying the free fare on offer though.’ He chortled at this, and Gil grimaced as he caught the reek of liquor on his breath.

  ‘If you will excuse me, Tilbury—’

  ‘Wait a minute. Want to talk to you about something. See that lovely filly there,’ he nodded in Alyssa’s direction; she was talking to a group of people close by.

  Gil tensed. ‘I assume you mean Miss Paradise?’

  ‘That’s the one. A prime article, if ever I saw one,’ observed Tilbury, running his eyes lasciviously over Alyssa. ‘She’s a neighbour of yours, ain’t she?’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘I want to ask you about her. Been hearing some tales about that lady this evening.’

  Trying to remain calm, Gil shrugged. ‘Scurrilous nonsense. Miss Paradise was not involved; it was a distant cousin of hers.’

  ‘Oh? That’s a pity, but cousin or no, she looks a lively piece to me and I’d be obliged if you’d introduce me, Maxton. I’ve a mind to know her better, as she looks the type to know ’xactly how to satisfy a man!’ He finished with a knowing grin.

  ‘I strongly advise you to stop now, Tilbury, before I do something you will regret.’

  But Tilbury was too drunk to heed this advice. ‘Now, now – ’s no call to be prudish. We are both men of the world.’ He leered at Gil, winked and whispered, ‘No doubt, with her being a neighbour, you’ve already found opportunity to sample her delights—’ He was forced to halt mid sentence. Unseen by other guests, Gil had grasped the lapel of his jacket and pushed him against the wall.

  ‘You damnable louse!’ he hissed, in a voice replete with menace. ‘I’d like to rip your tongue out and ram it down your throat!’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Unfortunately, my respect for the squire prevents me besmirching his house with an unseemly brawl so another method of redress must suffice. Name your weapons, Tilbury.’

  ‘Eh?’ The two bottles of burgundy he had consumed had made Tilbury’s brain decidedly sluggish, and he was dazed from being manhandled against an unforgiving wall.

  ‘Is your hearing fogged as well as your sense, man?’ retorted Gil. ‘Name your weapons!’

  ‘Weapons? D’you mean a duel?’ asked Tilbury, still struggling to comprehend.

  ‘What else could I be referring to? Of course I mean a duel – I demand satisfaction,’ muttered Gil, still gripping his coat. ‘You will answer for slurring Miss Paradise’s character in that fashion.’

  There was nothing as effective as shock for sobering the inebriated and Gil’s challenge acted like a bucket of cold water over Mortimer Tilbury. He blinked again, and shuddered, then sought desperately for a way out. Mortimer had no intention of meeting this man in any form of physical or sporting contest; Sir Giles was a notable shot, an expert fencer and renowned amateur pugilist, so he retreated with alacrity.

  ‘Good God! Y-you must have misunderstood me!’ His slurred bluster went up a full octave to a high-pitched whimper. ‘You have misunderstood me. Indeed, I meant no offence. She’s a respectable young woman with no hint of scandal attached to her name, and you’ve totally misinterpreted my words. I do not explain myself clearly when in my cups.’

  ‘I did not misinterpret you.’

  ‘Damn it, Maxton, you misconstrued my meaning, I tell you!’ he squeaked.

  Gil, appearing to consider the matter, said, ‘I’m not sure I should take the word of a jug-bitten fellow. However, unsurprisingly, I see valour has deserted you in the face of being called out – you are quaking like a frightened rabbit. I give you the benefit of doubt on this occasion, but make you this promise: one more word in denigration of Miss Paradise and I will seek you out!’

  Tilbury swallowed the lump of fear which had risen painfully to his throat. Mightily relieved, he removed his coat from Gil’s grasp and turned quickly away.

  But, in his hurry to escape, Mortimer’s head swam as did the room about him. He managed only five teetering steps before staggering from the effects of the squire’s burgundy. Pitching sideways violently, he fell into the table situated at the edge of the area set aside for dancing, and which bore the enormous silver punch bowl.

  This occurred at the same moment as Caroline, fresh from the ignominy of dancing with Piers, stormed away from the dance floor. Everything happened quickly; there was no chance of escape. The punchbowl and several silver goblets jumped into the air with a deafening clatter after being struck by the considerable mass of a flying Mortimer Tilbury and the entire contents of the punchbowl cascaded towards Caroline with unerring accuracy.

  Silence ensued. Interested onlookers, who included Gil, Alyssa, Letty, Piers, Mrs Nash, every other guest present, Simmons the butler and two junior footmen, all held their breath. Caroline was drenched from head to foot in sweet smelling punch, and not an inch seemed to have escaped its attention. The liquid dripped from her hair and face, and her jonquil gown was soaked from bodice to flounce. To add to a vision that would not have disgraced Pomona, a slice of lemon was perched amongst her carefully arranged curls and shavings of orange peel decorated the lace at her bosom.

  A frozen rigidity descended upon Caroline, like Lot’s wife when turned to salt. Only her tightened lips hinted at inner fury and mortification despite the best efforts of the lemon slice and orange peel to soften the image. Eventually, she made a moue of disgust and threw fulminating looks at Piers, Gil, Alyssa and finally towards her nemesis, in the unlikely form of the prostrate, moaning Mortimer Tilbury who lay surrounded by punch cups and the splintered wreckage of the table. Then, with a clipped cry of outrage and as much dignity as a lady bedecked in a macédoine of lemon and orange peelings and soaked in punch can muster, Caroline walked to the door, not forgetting to grind the heel of her evening slipper into Tilbury’s hand as she passed by.

  Laughter rippled around the room – Caroline, like Mortimer Tilbury, was not generally liked.

  In contrast to Caroline’s paralysis after being dowsed in punch, Mrs Nash, watching these tragic events unfold, had developed a nervous tick which made her ostrich feathers twitch alarmingly. She stared at the tableau before her in disbelief and wilted visibly, her anguished gaze switching from Caroline’s retreating figure to Mortimer Tilbury, pushing aside punch goblets and cursing profusely as he struggled to his knees.

  Overcome, Mrs Nash closed her eyes and groaned. She sank into a nearby chair, moaning at the pain in her neck even this invoked and offering up a fervent prayer the ground would open up and swallow her if Mrs Bailey gloated even for an instant over this concatenation of embarrassments.

  The unexpected denouement to the party was spoken of by many the next day, including Alyssa and Gil as they dined at Hawkscote. Only when the covers had been removed and the servants had retired were they able to speak freely.

  ‘I cannot feel too sorry for Miss Nash,’ admitted Alyssa, ‘but I hope the squire was not annoyed by the fracas. When Letty and I left, Miss Nash, rather than Mr Esidarap, was the topic on everyone’s lips.’

  ‘Caroline was hoist by
her own petard,’ said Gil. ‘She set out to ruin you without a qualm and, having chosen that path, it was fitting that she was responsible, albeit indirectly, for what befell her. Once I had a chance to explain to Henry how things came about, he was mortified, and furious with Caroline. Although no blame could be attached to her for Tilbury’s drunkenness, he felt she was ultimately culpable.’

  ‘I wonder what she will do now. She is very proud and will find it difficult to face everyone for some time.’

  ‘Henry had already offered to despatch her to Bath, and Caroline is apparently anxious to leave as soon as possible – after the embarrassment she suffered, a spell away from Dorset is advisable.’

  ‘And what of Mrs Nash? Was she angry?’

  ‘She was naturally upset to see her daughter drenched by the contents of the punchbowl but seemed more concerned with her own discomfort, as far as Piers and I could ascertain. The combined weight and difficulties of perching silk turban and feathers upon her head had led to an acute stiffness of her neck. Even as her guests were leaving, she was calling for lavender water and hot compresses. Piers was sympathetic and suggested several remedies; I think he felt responsible for her predicament,’ he explained.

  Alyssa shook her head but could not repress a smile. ‘Oh, I could box his ears for suggesting those feathers!’

  ‘I suppose Mrs Nash was silly enough to take his word to the extreme. I did not witness the whole thing, and I should not condone his behaviour when dancing with Caroline either but’ – his deep chuckle sounded – ‘it was the funniest thing I have seen for some time.’

  Alyssa laughed. ‘He would not have done it if Caroline hadn’t provoked the situation. Piers can be a devil, but he would not ridicule anyone for the sake of it.’

  ‘I don’t believe he would.’

  Alyssa was quiet for a moment and then murmured, ‘I want to thank you, Gil.’

  He gave her a quizzical look. ‘What for, my darling?’

  ‘Oh, several things,’ she mused. ‘For making a difficult evening bearable … for watching over me … for being willing to defend my honour … would you really have fought a duel for my sake?’