by M C Beaton
‘Oh, dear,’ said Abigail. ‘What am I to do?’
‘You should be asleep,’ came Miss Trumble’s voice from the doorway. Lizzie flew to her, crying out all about Lord Burfield kissing Lady Tarrant and how he was to take her driving that day. It was five in the morning.
Miss Trumble lit a branch of candles and drew a chair up to the bed. ‘Did you ever wonder why Lord Burfield really proposed to you, Abigail?’
‘Now, I do not know,’ said Abigail. ‘I thought . . . I thought it was because he was being heroic, riding to our rescue to save our reputations.’
‘No gentleman is that altruistic,’ said Miss Trumble. ‘I think he was fascinated by your spirit and intelligence. I have noticed that you are uncharacteristically dull, Abigail. It is possible he finds you a bore.’
‘Then I will release him from the engagement,’ cried Abigail.
‘Think before you do. Here is a handsome and rich man, very attractive to the ladies, a fact which seems to have escaped you, Abigail. Before you throw up your hands and let him go, therefore creating more gossip and scandal, I think you should try to charm him. Come now, Abigail, you were always a fighter. Beauty in itself is not enough. Lady Tarrant has little, but I believe most men find her fascinating. Think about it. Come along, Lizzie. It is far too late for you to be still awake.’ She blew out the candles and led Lizzie from the room.
Now Abigail was fully awake. She thought and thought about Lord Burfield. She had simply treated him like a brother. He had never kissed her. Somehow she had to get him to kiss her, and before he went out driving with Lady Tarrant!
They had plenty of callers the next day, the men they had danced with, various London hostesses anxious to mull over the horror that was Harry Devers. Abigail joined in the entertainment of their guests but her eyes were always straying to the clock. Five o’clock was the fashionable hour to go driving. Her eyes flew to Miss Trumble for help as the hands of the clock began to move up towards five.
‘The weather has turned fine,’ said Miss Trumble, looking out of the window. ‘My lord, why do you not take Miss Abigail out to the Park for a drive? She has been indoors too much.’
‘I am afraid that is not possible,’ he said. ‘I have a prior engagement.’
‘How interesting,’ said Miss Trumble. ‘What engagement is that, my lord?’
He looked across at her, a glint of anger in his blue eyes, and said evenly, ‘That is my business.’
He stood up and bowed all around and then made his way quickly from the room. Abigail watched him go and felt the beginnings of anger. She excused herself, went to her room, and changed quickly into a carriage dress.
She went out of the house and round to the mews in time to see Lord Burfield driving off in a highperched phaeton. But he also had a curricle, she remembered.
‘So you escaped from your chains?’ said Lady Tarrant, laughing as he drove her around the Park. Lord Burfield was becoming conscious of the stares and raised eyebrows in their direction. Of course, he thought angrily, they were still all abuzz with rumour, gossip, and speculation after the ball last night. Now people might believe that Abigail had actually coerced him into marriage. He had not seen Lady Tarrant for some years. But her damped muslin gown left little to the imagination, and as her bold, flirtatious eyes turned up to his, he realized with a little shock that Lady Tarrant had probably got a certain reputation.
But there was worse to come. He suddenly became aware of the fact that he was no longer the focus of attention. Carriages were stopping, some men were standing up to get a better look.
And then, in front of his horrified gaze, Abigail Beverley drove towards him in his racing curricle, drawn by two of his most spirited horses, driving them well up to their bits. As she swept past him, she threw him a mocking smile.
‘Was not that your little fiancée?’ asked Lady Tarrant.
‘Yes, and driving my racing curricle, and without my permission!’
‘She is a superb whip. You should have no fear for your horses. I would advise you, Burfield, not to confront her or rail at her with so many fashionables watching. Let us continue our drive as if nothing is amiss.’
‘You must forgive me. I cannot continue to go on with any air of calm. I will take you home and then await Miss Abigail’s return.’
‘As you will. But do not be too stiffly on your stiffs. If I am not mistaken, Miss Abigail discovered that you were taking me on a drive and now she has thrown down the gauntlet.’
‘I think she has run mad,’ he said furiously.
‘Did you see that?’ said Prudence Makepeace to her mother and father, and they all craned their heads to watch Abigail and then swung back to witness the angry departure of Lord Burfield.
‘I do not understand,’ said Prudence. ‘That lady with Burfield did not look at all respectable. Her dress was so thin, you could see her garters.’
‘That was Lady Tarrant, a widow,’ said Mr Makepeace. ‘She is good ton.’
‘I do not understand,’ wailed Prudence again. ‘I was not invited to the duchess’s ball, but Hetty Dempster was and she called to crow over me and tell me all the gossip. What hope have I if he is going to court a tart as well as marry Abigail?’
Abigail drove competently into the mews. The first person she saw was Lord Burfield, standing outside the stables and slapping his leather driving gloves angrily against his thigh. He saw her and called to the grooms, who came running out to the horses’ heads.
Abigail swung herself down from the curricle with a tomboyish ease.
‘How dare you!’ shouted Lord Burfield. ‘How dare you lie to my head groom and tell him you had my permission?’
‘Because he would not have let me go otherwise. I am an excellent whip,’ said Abigail, ‘but most men would not believe me.’ Actually, she had never handled such mettlesome horses as those of Lord Burfield and was glad to be safely back in the mews, but she was not going to tell him that.
‘Do not ever, ever, do such a thing again!’ he roared. Then he became aware of the grinning grooms and stable hands.
‘Come, let me escort you back to the house,’ he said in a quieter voice.
‘You may find my behaviour odd,’ snapped Abigail as she fell into step beside him, ‘but what of yours? To be seen so soon before your wedding driving a hussy in the Park is hardly the behaviour of a gentleman. Was that the famous Harriet Wilson?’ Harriet Wilson was the best-known prostitute in London and had been dubbed the Queen of Tarts.
‘The lady with me is all that is respectable. Lady Tarrant is an old friend, and you will speak of her with respect.’
‘So that you may kiss her again in the corners of ballrooms with a free conscience? If this is the way you mean to go on once we are married, I do beg you to be discreet. If I take a lover, believe me, no one will know of it,’ said Abigail blithely. Privately, she did not know what had come over her, never having been a prey to sexual jealousy before. She only knew she was suffused by anger, an anger which was banishing all her previous hangdog shame. She suddenly did not care whether he cried off. He should not have been driving in the Park with a tart.
He coloured with embarrassment and then rallied.
‘I am sorry you learned of that. I was a trifle foxed.’
‘That was ever Harry Devers’s trouble. Always about in his upper chambers. Brandy, I think.’
He looked down at her glowing face and large sparkling eyes. He felt once more all the old attraction she had held for him. But some devil prompted him to say stiffly, ‘I do not like your impertinent manner. I trust when we are married you will behave like a lady.’
‘I shall follow your example, my lord,’ said Abigail sweetly, ‘and kiss gentlemen at balls. But, like you, I shall not tell you about it. And if I plan to go out driving with some disreputable gentleman, I shall not tell you about that either!’
He grasped her upper arm, stopped, and swung her round to face him. ‘You are to become my wife and you will behave modestly a
s befits your station. Do you forget what you owe me?’
Abigail’s face flamed. ‘Oh, we are never, ever to forget that, are we? Then, my lord, I am quite happy to release you from this engagement.’
He suddenly felt like a pompous fool. She looked dazzling in her anger, blue eyes sparkling, cheeks pink, bosom heaving. He startled Abigail by beginning to laugh. ‘What a coxcomb I did sound. Pax, my sweeting. I will drive only you in future and kiss only you. Truce?’
He smiled down at her and she felt breathless, nonplussed, and then deliriously happy. ‘Truce,’ she agreed. From an upstairs window, Miss Trumble who had been watching them as they stood in the street below, heaved a sigh of relief. Nothing could go wrong now.
But Abigail’s troubles had only just begun. Trouble arrived in the form of a visit from Lord Burfield’s parents, the Earl and Countess of Drezby. They were an elderly, dignified couple. They treated the Beverleys with courtesy but could not disguise the fact that they were sadly disappointed in the forthcoming marriage and worried about their son. But chaperoned by the eminently sensible Miss Trumble and on their best behaviour, Abigail and her sisters were making a good impression. Unfortunately, their mother decided to join the company. Lady Beverley was graciously patronizing. She sighed over the speed of the wedding and said that had not the couple been so obviously in love, she could not have given her permission. The countess bridled. ‘Indeed! I understood the reason for the haste was to restore your daughter’s damaged name, Lady Beverley. You talk to me of objections! What of the sensibilities of this parent, who learns that her precious son is to ally his good name to that of a penniless girl who was prepared to marry a man in the place of her sister and ran into my son’s bed instead! If I had my way, this marriage would never take place.’
‘We are not to be spoken to in such a manner,’ said Lady Beverley, beginning to cry. ‘We are the Beverleys of Mannerling!’
Miss Trumble rose swiftly to her feet and led her weeping employer from the room. There was a dreadful silence.
Abigail was the first to find her voice. ‘My lord, my lady,’ she said earnestly, ‘you must forgive Mama. When we lost our home, I fear it affected her wits. She has not been herself since then . . . Believe me, if your son does not want this engagement, I can release him and so I have told him.’ She said the words with quiet dignity.
‘That is true, Mama,’ said Lord Burfield. ‘I have no need to marry Abigail if I do not want to. You must not judge her by the behaviour of her mother, who has been extremely ill over all this and is desperately trying to act as if she is doing everyone a favour in order to restore some of her tattered dignity. Lady Beverley is much to be pitied.’
‘If this is what you want, Rupert,’ said the earl heavily, ‘then so be it. But I cannot say I like it one bit.’
When the earl and countess had left, Abigail felt all her new-found spirits ebbing away. She was also bitterly ashamed of her mother. She went to her room to remonstrate with her but Lady Beverley barely seemed to hear her. She was sitting at her desk with sheets of figures. ‘Do you know,’ she said, after listening impatiently to her daughter’s complaints, ‘that we are saving a considerable amount of money by staying here? I have calculated what we save on coals and candles alone! Of course it is as well it is to be a quiet wedding, just family, because if Mr and Mrs Devers had pressed on with their ridiculous request that I pay for that wedding that never really took place at Mannerling, I should have been in the suds.’
Abigail wondered if it was possible to feel any more deep shame than she was experiencing at that moment. ‘Do you mean you refused to pay them?’
‘Of course,’ said Lady Beverley, impatiently rattling the sheets of paper. ‘I simply sent them a letter of hand saying that they could take me to court if necessary. I knew they would not do that,’ she added complacently. ‘And while we are on the interesting subject of money, Jessica and Isabella have sent me certain sums. I expect you too to remind your husband what is due tome.’
‘Never!’ said Abigail passionately. ‘Not one penny.’
Lady Beverley sighed. ‘Then I shall just need to ask him myself. Do run along, dear. You are giving me the headache, standing glowering like that. Ladies should not glower. I never glower. It causes such unnecessary wrinkles.’
Defeated, Abigail retreated from the room. She wanted again to tell Lord Burfield that she did not want to marry him, but if she did not marry him, then he might fall prey to that harpy, Tarrant, and she could not bear that. It was so sad that his parents were disappointed in the forthcoming marriage, but they would come about after the wedding. Until then, she would behave like the veriest model debutante.
Alas for Abigail. The next social engagement was a breakfast at a Mrs Dunwoody’s home in Mayfair. Mrs Trumble had not had to negotiate that invitation. Curiosity about the Beverleys was rife. Harry Devers had been disgraced. No one wanted to ask him. But the Makepeaces had been invited. Prudence was feeling her age. Other, younger, ladies were certainly arriving with their parents, but quite a number of them also had some suitor in tow.
And then she saw Abigail walking into the garden on the arm of Lord Burfield and jealousy caused her to feel slightly ill. Abigail had no right to look so radiant.
The breakfast, like all breakfasts, started at three in the afternoon. Food was served on long tables set in the garden, after which guests listened to a military band, which was later replaced by an orchestra. Dancing took place in a marquee erected at the side of the lawn.
Mrs Dunwoody was a fashionable hostess with a rich and complacent husband who allowed her every extravagance. Neil Gow of Almack’s had been hired to play for the dancers, and the band of a hussar regiment to entertain the guests while they ate delicious food prepared for them by Gunter’s of Berkeley Square.
Mrs Dunwoody did not believe in segregating the sexes, that is, placing the ladies on one side of the table and the gentlemen on the other. Nor did she believe in having married couples and engaged couples sitting together. As she often said to her husband, the poor things saw enough of each other as it was, a remark which Mr Dunwoody accepted with his usual placid good humour.
And so Lord Burfield found himself seated next to Prudence Makepeace. She asked various questions about his home and tenants and lands and then said, ‘I believe I must congratulate you on your forthcoming marriage.’
‘Yes, I am to be married at last,’ said Lord Burfield, his eyes automatically straying to where Abigail sat at the other side of the table and towards the bottom end. Abigail was seated beside a curly-haired army captain. They were talking away with great animation. And the captain was young, about Abigail’s age. Like Abigail, Lord Burfield did not recognize jealousy in himself. He began to flirt with Prudence, who flirted back with him quite outrageously. Abigail threw him a pained look and then began to sparkle for the army captain. ‘Who is the lady next to Burfield?’ she asked him at last.
The captain put up his quizzing-glass. ‘Oh, that is Prudence Makepeace, a great heiress. It is rumoured that she was to marry Burfield. He invited the lady and her parents to his home. But nothing came of it.’ He coloured. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Beverley. I had forgot. You are engaged to Burfield.’ The captain then remembered all the gossip about the young lady next to him and blushed even more miserably. Abigail saw his confusion and tried to chat to him as easily as she had been doing, but he answered her in monosyllables and so she turned her attention to the elderly gentleman on her other side, while fury at her fiancé burnt in her bosom.
Lizzie felt herself dwindling with misery. When the meal was over and the guests were walking in the garden, she said to Belinda, ‘That is Prudence Makepeace, the one Burfield is flirting with so dreadfully. It was she who tried to drug his lemonade.’
‘We must tell Abigail,’ said Belinda firmly.
‘Oh, I wish Miss Trumble was here to counsel us,’ mourned Lizzie. ‘I do not think we should tell Abigail anything. She looks so furious.’
‘It is our duty as sisters,’ said Belinda. She walked over to Abigail and drew her aside and began to talk busily. Lizzie groaned inwardly.
Lord Burfield went off to fetch Prudence a glass of wine and Abigail moved in for the kill.
‘Trying to drug my fiancé at Lady Evans’s ball is not enough, I see,’ she said. ‘You must needs still try to get your claws into him even though he is shortly to marry me.’
Had Prudence turned away disdainfully, the situation would have been diffused, but she said haughtily, ‘Poor Lord Burfield has to marry you,’ she jeered. ‘Everyone knows all about you. I pity him from the bottom of my heart.’
Prudence was wearing a flowered head-dress. Abigail tugged it off, threw it on the ground and stamped on it. Prudence seized Abigail by the hair. Abigail kicked Prudence on the shins and Lizzie let out a scream of horror and dismay as the warring pair fell onto the grass, kicking and biting and scratching. The men had formed a circle and were cheering them on, some of them already laying bets. Lord Burfield pushed them aside and forcibly separated the warring couple. ‘Come with me,’ he said to Abigail and dragged her off towards the house while Prudence manufactured a faint.
Abigail tried to pull away but Lord Burfield had her in a firm grip. He pulled her into the house, snapping at various staring servants to go about their business. He kicked open the door of a room which turned out to be a library, shoved her into it, followed her, and slammed the door behind them.
‘Just what were you about, you hell-cat!’ he raged.
‘And what were you about to flirt with Prudence Makepeace? You complain about my behaviour and yet you flirt outrageously with that silly vapid female who tried to drug your drink at Lady Evans’s ball!’
‘She only took some laudanum. She did not try to drug my drink.’
‘She would have done if Lizzie had not switched your glasses.’
He could not quite explain that he had been fully aware of what Prudence had tried to do and had been flattered that she would go to such lengths to make sure he would not call on the Beverleys.
