Love in a Major Key

by Fiona Hill

  “Good-morning,” he said jovially. “Didn’t know you were here.”

  “I’ve just come,” William returned. “I believe your mother has been apprised of my arrival, and that she has been kind enough not to deny me.”

  “You’ve come to wait upon my mother?” Latimer asked incredulously.

  William smiled. “Frankly, I wondered if your sister would care to ride out with me.”

  “O, I am sure she will like to. In fact, I should like to myself. Would you mind awfully?”

  Mr. Ballard had no time in which to reply, since the ladies entered at that moment and a series of greetings had to be exchanged. Latimer interrupted all of these, saying, “Daph, William here wants us to go riding with him. Should you like to?”

  Daphne would actually have preferred to remain at home, but she did not know how to refuse such an invitation. She looked from her brother to Mr. Ballard. “I should be very pleased—that is, if my mother has no objections?”

  “None at all,” Lady Keyes reassured her. “Mr. Ballard, may I offer you some refreshments?”

  “No, nothing ma’am, I thank you.”

  Daphne had been about to sit down upon the blue-and-white arm-chair, but her movement was checked by her brother. “Don’t dawdle, Daph,” he said, apparently burdened this morning with an excess of impatience. “Go and put on your riding-habit—there’s a dear sister.”

  Coming from any one else, this sort of criticism would have crushed Miss Keyes. From her brother she accepted it with an indulgent smile. She excused herself to the company and went to her bed-chamber. Her riding-habit was a close-fitting one, and she was obliged to call upon her mother’s abigail for assistance in donning the snug jacket. This done, she pulled a pair of blue kid gloves—of the same shade as the habit—on to her hands and took up her riding crop. The heels on her half-boots elevated her a full inch, so that she was nearly as tall as William himself when he rose to escort her to the door. Latimer, who had fetched his crop and changed into boots and breeches, descended to the street behind them, striking the crop cheerfully against his leg as he did so.

  Young William led the way both to the Park and within it. Daphne found his guidance unnecessary and oppressive. Such a lot of “turn right’s” and “turn left’s,” even when it was quite obvious they had no choice but to turn as he indicated! It made her nervous, and she communicated this agitation to her horse, if to no one else. When they reached a wide, empty thoroughfare in the heart of the Park, Daphne longed to gallop, or at least to canter. Mr. Ballard insisted on a dignified trot, smiling and assuring her that she really did not desire to go faster. When he was not instructing her as to what she wanted, he was pacing alongside her, a steady stream of trivialities and compliments on his lips. For a while Latimer straggled behind them, but he found this position too irksome at last and broke out into a hard gallop, hastening past them at breakneck speed. Daphne watched wistfully.

  All in all she found it a most disappointing excursion. She resolved to ride out with Latimer next time, and no one else.

  William left them shortly after their return to Finchley House, taking time first to inform Miss Keyes that she was the handiest rider he had ever seen—handiest female rider, that is—and to promise that he would convey her compliments to his sister. Daphne wondered silently how on earth he could have an opinion of her riding when she had done no more than to stay atop a plodding horse for an hour or two, but she smiled and bid him good-bye civilly. Lady Keyes, learning that they had come home, welcomed her children with the news that they were to go to Almack’s that night—this having been the advice of Mr. Clayton. Although unusually early hours were kept at Almack’s, Daphne was requested to go to her bedchamber and rest for an hour or two. “For you want to look well tonight,” her mother reminded her worriedly. “It won’t do to be fatigued.”

  Daphne obeyed, and indeed none of the family appeared to be weary when they assembled that evening in the drawing-room. Latimer was dressed, as he informed them, “bang-up to the nines.” His sister, whose pretensions to modishness were somewhat less grand, looked quite attractive as well, her pale blue gown complemented by ribands of the same colour and slippers to match. Sir Latimer had sent Clayton out to purchase a better snuffbox than the one his son had objected to, and now proudly held out this trinket for all to inspect. It won approval from everyone, being made in silver and set with an ancient ivory cameo. Lady Keyes unfolded her tortoise-shell and silken fan, holding it against her dark green gown to be certain the colours agreed with one another and, satisfied, folded it up again. The Keyes family judged itself ready to set out, and consequently entered the coach directly.

  They arrived at Almack’s some time before eleven, and found a set of quadrilles in progress. The main saloon was crowded, and they shrank towards the walls to keep out from under the feet of the dancers. For a little while, Daphne tried to see through the mass of people to be certain of the identity of the pianofortist, but it was not really necessary: she had already recognized the distinctive style (in spite of what he said about metre) of Christian Livingston. Her endeavours to confirm this by a glance at his face were interrupted any way by India Ballard, who appeared at her side from out of the press of people. “You do look pretty,” said India, tugging playfully at one of the ribands which hung from Daphne’s curly locks—though not so strongly as to disarrange them.

  “Thank you,” she smiled; “though I think you look a good deal prettier tonight.” Miss Ballard’s gown was indeed gorgeous, being done in deep yellow satin and trimmed with tinsel drawn work at the hem and wrists. Yellow roses crowned her hair, and their fragrance drifted in swirls round her.

  “O, as for that,” said India, pulling a face, “it is my mother who did all the fussing over me. My parents wished me to appear to advantage tonight: Walter Midlake is here, and they are still hoping he will offer for me.”

  “Indeed? And do you think he will?”

  India looked skyward, her expression at once comical and annoyed. “I am sure I have no notion. All I know is that he did not do so all last Season, nor at any time during the intervening year…so I see no reason to expect he will now.”

  “Should you like him to?” Daphne asked timidly.

  Miss Ballard’s gaze became harsh, and her voice followed suit. “I suppose so. Why not? At least then my parents will stop pushing me at him—and him at me, poor thing.”

  Daphne considered this answer. “Where is he?” she asked at last.

  “There,” said India, looking to a far corner of the room. “The one who has just spilled his punch, and is making such a noise laughing about it.”

  Daphne followed her gaze and perceived a tall, ungainly man of about thirty years of age. His ears were extraordinarily long, and his complexion sallow; other than that, he was pleasant-looking enough. She remembered, vaguely, having danced with him once at her come-out. Latimer, she noticed, was standing a few feet from him, downing a cup of punch and talking with Frank Deever.

  “My dear,” Daphne said finally, placing a hand on India’s arm, “do you love him very much?”

  “Love him?” India laughed. “Not at all. What makes you ask such a question?”

  “But your parents,” she returned, confused; “why do they hope he will offer for you?”

  “Because,” she said heavily, “he has two estates, a town-house, and five thousand pounds a year. What other reason must they have?”

  “I—I do not know.” Farther than this Daphne could say nothing. She did not wish to imply that she thought India’s parents cruel, but that was indeed her opinion. Moreover, she could not be certain that India cared for the match as little as she appeared to. Perhaps she felt humiliated by Lord Midlake’s failure to speak for her, and therefore feigned indifference. She was saved from having to elaborate upon her reply by India’s turning the topic.

  “Have you seen the pianofortist?” she inquired. “It is the one we met at Lady Mufftow’s.”

  “Is it
?” said Daphne, blushing at her own duplicity. “I—I was not sure.”

  “Do you recall his name? I cannot.”

  “I believe it is—” her cheeks coloured a shade more deeply, “—Mr. Livingston, is it not?”

  “My dear Daphne, why are you blushing?” India demanded.

  “O, it is—no reason. Perhaps it is warm in here?”

  “It is not warm in here at all. Daphne, is it possible you are developing a partiality for our friend?”

  “I am—O no, that is…” she faltered.

  “I saw him at your come-out,” India went on. “Did you speak to him again?”

  “O no! Only for a moment, I mean. It was by chance, utterly. He is very kind, you know.”

  “I am certain he is,” said India slowly. “Well my dear, you must try to interest yourself in some one a little more eligible—believe me. No good can come of your forming an attachment for a pianofortist.”

  “No, of course not,” she replied, laughing nervously. “It is dreadful, the way I blush. It is merely the recollection of having met with him again—by chance, you know…” her voice trailed off. The music had changed by now, and Lord Midlake came over to solicit Miss Ballard’s hand for the dance. Daphne observed her narrowly as she accepted, but could find no evidence for her suspicion that India’s indifference to him was merely pretense. On the contrary, nothing could have been more artificial than the smile with which she greeted him, and nothing more real than the reluctance which a quiver in her voice betrayed. Miss Keyes began to feel her friend’s lot a very sad one indeed.

  Her own hand being claimed soon after by William Ballard, she put a period to these meditations and applied herself to the steps of the dance. As the evening wore on, she saw and spoke to several persons whom she recognized, having met them at her come-out and elsewhere. Her mother, she observed, was deep in conversation during most of the evening with Lady Mufftow. Latimer had disappeared early to the refreshment table in the company of Mr. Frank Deever, and she saw very little of him. While she was sorry to do without her brother’s attendance, she reflected that it was just as well he had taken Mr. Deever away. The American really was a difficult partner to keep up with.

  The two gentlemen whom she contemplated were, though she did not know it, hanging close to the punchbowl and having a very jolly time discussing horseflesh and hunting. Latimer, turning to refill his glass, paused to inquire of his companion if he could discern the ingredients, remarking that it seemed to him that it had rather a bite to it.

  “O, quite a bit of brandy in there, I should guess,” Mr. Deever, Esquire, responded jocosely. His smile broadened for no apparent reason as he added, “Take care not to drink too much, now. You’re liable to get drunk.”

  “O, I’ve never been intoxicated,” Latimer returned carelessly; “though I’ve often wondered what it’s like.”

  “Great fun,” Mr. Deever assured him. “Whole world looks rosy, that’s what it’s like. Of course, a fellow has a hard time keeping his balance. Take care you don’t overdo it—you might start talking too loudly, and then where would we be?”

  “No fear of that,” said Latimer, re-filling his cup and offering to do the same for Mr. Deever. “I can hold my wine well enough, I think. A little punch won’t hurt me.”

  And as the gentlemen talked he re-filled his glass again and again. Every now and then Mr. Deever would remark that he was beginning to feel a trifle bosky himself—wasn’t his friend Latimer? Smiling his broad smile, he would caution him not to drink too much. Invariably, Mr. Keyes reassured him there was no cause for concern. He continued to affirm his sobriety even as he imagined he felt just the smallest bit dizzy—then felt sure he was dizzy—then knew he was very dizzy indeed. All the while he talked about horses, and dipped liberally into the bowl.

  His sister, meanwhile, went down nearly every dance, and was delighted this evening with the exercise. Her cheeks recovered the glow they had lost since her arrival in London, and her dark eyes shone. She knew she would do better not to, but she could not refrain from glancing ever and anon at Mr. Livingston, who played dance after dance with consistent skill. Several times he caught her glance, and each time he smiled—a smile which she returned easily but felt guilty about afterwards. India was right; she must really learn to govern herself more firmly. Resolutely, she would turn her eyes from him—but in a few minutes they would travel towards him again, herself unconscious that they had done so until he met her gaze and answered it. It was all very vexatious, and Daphne considered it fortunate that they had no opportunity to talk.

  When Sir Latimer decided he had seen enough of Almack’s and went to the refreshment-room to fetch his son, he found him in rather a remarkable state. Latimer’s eyes appeared glazed; he reeled slightly while turning to meet his father, and his speech was slurred. “Frank Deever,” he said, pointing at the American. “Friend. Frank—m’father.”

  “What’s wrong with you, young man?” demanded his father. “Do you feel ill?”

  “No,” said his son. He pivoted around his index finger until it was pointing at the punch-bowl. “Punch,” he explained.

  “Has he been drinking all night?” Sir Latimer asked Mr. Deever.

  “Indeed he has, sir—but there is no cause for concern. There is nothing intoxicating in the punch, I assure you.”

  “That is what I thought,” agreed Sir Latimer. “Lady Keyes told me nothing intoxicating at all is served at Almack’s.”

  Young Latimer picked his head up upon hearing this, and turned to face Mr. Deever. “Tha’s impossible. Tha’s—ridicklish. Why, you told me yourshelf…”

  Mr. Deever exploded in raucous laughter. “It’s a joke!” he exclaimed. “A famous joke! Just wait till I tell my cousins. They’ll roar!” And so saying he bowed, still chuckling, to Sir Latimer and removed himself from their vicinity.

  Latimer’s confusion was fast subsiding into acute embarrassment. Once the suggestion that he ought to be foxed was removed, he found he could handle himself perfectly well. He blushed to the tips of his ears. “O God,” he said; “I’ve been making a cake of myself all night. Let’s go home, Father. Please,” he added.

  “We are going home,” said the older man. “That is precisely why I was looking for you.” He took his son’s arm. All the way to the door Latimer kept his eyes averted, not daring to look up for fear he should meet the mocking gaze of some of the gentlemen who had been watching—and, he was sure, laughing at—his parody of drunkenness. On the way home in the carriage he held his head in his hands and moaned about the disgrace. Daphne and his parents laughed it off, assuring him that no one, probably, had even noticed—but he was inconsolable. “That Deever,” he muttered every now and then. “O! That Frank Deever.”

  “It was very bad of him,” Daphne agreed.

  “I am astonished his mother should have let him leave America alone!” said Lady Keyes. “I hope I have brought up my son to make better jokes than that.”

  But Latimer continued to moan and mutter. He shut himself up in his bed-room as soon as possible, relieved to be alone at last. A few moment’s reflection in solitude convinced him that he could never go into Society again—at least not until years had passed. But how was he to accomplish this aim? He let his candle burn late into the night, pacing up and down his room. At last a plan occurred to him: a scheme which would keep him out of Society for a good long while, and make a hero of him by the time he re-entered it. It would hurt his family at first—but that was unavoidable. His mind buzzing with schemes and preparations, he climbed into bed and extinguished the candle. In the morning he awoke before dawn and, taking very little with him, slipped out of Finchley House for ever.

  Chapter V

  Mid-day found Latimer somewhat uncomfortably ensconced at a table in The Angel, in the dockside town of Rotherhithe. He had found a hackney-coach at no great distance from Grosvenor Square, the jarvey asleep on the box. Instructing him rather vaguely to drive east along the Thames until directed to
stop, Latimer climbed into the coach and craned his neck out the window. He kept a close watch on the River, especially after they had passed out of London, and when they reached Rotherhithe he judged that they had come far enough. Paying the jarvey, he descended into the streets and began to walk.

  He strolled about all morning, through the town and by the bank of the River, spirits soaring and nostrils flaring as he breathed in the exotic scents. Most of these were unpleasant, being the smells of squalor in the town and of tar by the water, but they were all equally new to him and consequently invigourating. He dug his hands into his pockets and rambled out on to the docks, picking up the odours of spices and fragrant lumber as he went, as well as getting in the way of not a few sailors. About noon-time he began to feel hungry, and he had a double purpose when he trailed along behind a small group of sailors who were approaching The Angel. Not knowing how to secure their permission, he simply sat down at the same table as they and waited for them to take note of him.

  He was not obliged to wait long, since his clothes, if nothing else, made him rather conspicuous. “Hallo,” said one of the seafarers to his companions, “I do believe we got a new face at this table—and I do believe it’s a swell.” The man who spoke thus was about thirty-five years of age. Swarthy like his fellows, his scant teeth and lop-sided nose testified to years of hard living. He grinned enormously as he jerked a thumb at Latimer. Lady Keyes would have had no trouble in identifying him as an unsavoury character, but her son rather liked him.

  One of his colleagues, a wiry man with rapidly thinning blond hair, agreed with him. “It looks like a swell—aye, bloody like one.”

  “What will we do with it, lads?” asked the first.

  “Well, we might knock it about a bit,” another suggested.

  “What?” cried the first. “Wi’out asking it its name? Shame on you for a brute wi’ no manners!”

  “He’s right, Tom,” said the blond one. “That would be bloody impolite, knocking it about without asking its name.”