by Fiona Hill
That last letter which had been sent from Dome House was directed to Daphne at Carwaith Abbey. It arrived next morning during breakfast, and was handed to her while the house-party lingered over cool cups of coffee and debated what to do.
“My God!” cried Daphne, just as Charles Stickney was about to suggest a pic-nic at Stove Hill. “Who would ever have believed it?”
“Believed what?” asked Latimer. “What is it?”
Speechless, she waved the letter and let it fall from her hand. Her brother took it up, and in a moment he too cried out. “Well, damme if that ain’t doing it a bit too brown!”
“What news is this?” asked everyone at once. “Nothing ill, I hope,” said Lady Ballard.
“It is—well, I hardly know what to call her,” said Daphne, looking for help at Latimer.
“Our great-grandmother, in any case.”
“Yes, indeed. Our great-grandmother. She says she has—that is, she writes to tell me…”
“Perhaps you do not like to tell the news aloud,” Lord Frane suggested diplomatically. “If it is of a private nature—”
“O no! That is, it is indeed, but every one will know it soon enough, I think. How can she have done it? She has gone off—she has gone off and married her butler!”
“Her butler?” cried every one together. “Shocking! Scandalous! Infamous! Whatever made her do so?” was heard all round.
Daphne blushed crimson for her great-grandmother’s behaviour, and so did Latimer. “Apparently, she makes no secret of it,” she went on, in deep embarrassment. “She and Hastings were wed by special licence three days ago, and she held a reception afterwards to which she invited every body, or so it seems. O, I cannot believe it!”
“Perhaps you ought to read the whole letter to us, so we may make some sense of this,” said Lord Frane. He felt quite sorry for the poor girl, and hoped to stifle the uproar.
It was Latimer who read it to the company, however. “‘My dear Daphne, ‘” it began. “I have learnt through your mother of your betrothal to William Ballard, and wish to felicitate you upon showing so much good sense. I knew you would do so after our last meeting, and trust you will be very happy.’”
“Who can have told her such a thing?” Daphne interrupted, glancing with acute discomfort at William. “I know I did not.”
Latimer’s cheeks paled and he looked at her from behind the letter. “I am afraid I did,” he said, in the barest whisper. “O Daphne, I wish you will forgive me. I do not deserve it, I know, but—I did not tell her you were betrothed, exactly; but I did say it looked as if you might be, or some such thing. She must have misunderstood, and now—O my dear sister, I am so sorry! Truly I am!” His consternation and confusion overcame him, and he was silent.
“Please continue to read,” said Daphne, in a small voice. “Of course it cannot be helped now; and of course I forgive you.”
Latimer glanced gratefully at her and proceeded with the letter. “‘I myself have some rather startling news for you regarding marriages. Mr. Hastings and I were married by special licence yesterday, following which we gave a large reception for my London friends. While it is true that not one of them came—excepting my dear Lord Houghton—we had an excellent time and I am enjoying myself thoroughly. You, who are about to embark upon a life in Society, probably cannot appreciate the exquisite delight with which I now bid it adieu. I did not care to do so until I know you safely betrothed, but now…My scandalous revenge upon the ton—that horde of gossip-mongers, addlepates, and boors who have for sixty years and more scrutinised, criticised, and bored me past bearing—will no doubt be forgot by the time Latimer is ready to marry. By that time we may have returned, though I think not—
“‘But I anticipate myself. I have not yet mentioned that Mr. Hastings and myself are on the point of leaving for what I hope will be an extremely protracted journey to the continent of Africa. From there we shall go on to the Orient, and from there—I do not know.
“‘My dear, words cannot express how happy I am upon this occasion. I can only say that I have never felt younger or better in my life, and hope that Society agrees with your disposition better than it did with mine. You will convey the contents of this letter to your family, I know. Of all people in the world, I hope that you will not judge me too harshly…On second thought, I shall not be much distressed if you do, so go ahead. Much happiness to you and William. I am etc., etc.’
“She signs it Mrs. Clyde Hastings,” Latimer added, as he came to the end of the missive, “with Countess of Halston in parentheses afterwards.”
For several minutes after he had done, no one said a word. Every one’s dismay was evident, however, and eventually the table broke out anew in a chorus of Shocking! and Scandalous! “I beg you will excuse us,” Daphne said at last, rising and taking Latimer with her. Sir Andrew rose at the same time, to talk to his son in the library. Lady Ballard was hard put to restore order to the table, and the buzz of speculation and reaction continued for a long while.
Miss Keyes had led the way directly to her bedchamber, where she and Latimer sat—mostly in silence—trying to understand what had happened. When they had been there for an hour or so, India Ballard’s knock was heard at the door, and she entered looking quite pale.
“My dear Daphne,” she said, rushing to her friend and taking her hand. “How mortified you must be!”
Daphne nodded agreement.
“How can she have done it? That selfish old woman…I should like to murder her myself.”
“I suppose…if she hated Society as much as she said—” Daphne began feebly.
“Yes, but after all! What is left of your prospects now? This scandal will not die down for years—and you will be quite old by then! It is utterly outrageous.”
“She could always marry William,” Latimer suggested doubtfully.
But here India blushed deep scarlet. “O no…I am afraid she could not.” She held her friend’s hand in both her own and almost knelt before her. “Daphne—my dearest Daphne—I am afraid…William will not offer for you again. My father has forbidden him to do so. I know it must sound terribly cruel to you—and, indeed, it is not very kind—but our name in Society is simply not so well established that we can afford…that is, even I am forced to confess…and then, what Midlake would say…You see how it is, do not you?”
Daphne’s head ached extremely, but she was beginning to understand her own, altered circumstances. “Of course I see,” she replied, very slowly. “Certainly, it would not answer to ally oneself to a family so steeped in scandal. No—your father’s prohibition is doubtless his wisest, his only, course. You must not be distressed, India.”
“William is distressed as well,” she said.
Daphne sighed. “He must have been disappointed any way, for I did not mean to accept him.”
“Yes; there is that,” said India glumly.
Latimer was almost in tears. “How could she?” he exclaimed again. “At least she ought to have waited until Daphne married—”
“But she thought I was betrothed, and she knows no gentleman would break off a betrothal no matter what the circumstances,” Miss Keyes interrupted. “Well, I suppose there is nothing for it but to go down-stairs among the others and face them bravely. We will be looked upon askance for a long time to come, and we must become accustomed to it.” Her tone was resolved, but her face was drawn and colourless.
“I think,” said India, very timidly indeed, “I think—perhaps it would be easiest for you…best for all of us, I suppose I mean, if—” Her voice faded to silence.
Daphne stared at her. “You mean we ought to leave. Yes,” she went on flatly, “you are quite right. It would be the worst behaviour to stay on and overset everybody. Will this afternoon be soon enough?”
“If it were only myself—” India began faintly.
“Yes, I know it is not you, dear. Your mother must be very much dismayed…it is no wonder. You must assure her we are going directly.”
> “I am so sorry, truly—” said India, vastly relieved at not being obliged to order her friends away.
“It is nothing, dear, nothing. Will you be a love and see that our carriage is prepared for us? And send Lizzy to me, so I may pack directly?”
India rose. “Certainly,” she said. She lingered in the door-way for a moment, as if about to add something but afraid to.
“What is it?” asked Daphne. “Is there—? O, dinner no doubt. Well, you must send our excuses to Lady Ballard, for we shall be gone before then. Perhaps you might be good enough to send a nuncheon up here about one o’clock. I don’t think we shall—have time—to go down-stairs at all.”
“I do love you,” India said, and hastened from the room.
Daphne turned to her brother. “Well, we have a great deal to do, and not much time. It wants about fifteen minutes till noon, I should think, so go and pack your things.”
“As you say,” he agreed. “I’ll come back here as soon as I’ve done, so we may eat together.”
“That will be very pleasant.” She smiled and nudged him towards the door. When he had gone she sat upon her bed and wept, more from confusion than from shame. Fifteen minutes later, Lizzy arrived to help her pack, and she went on with her arrangements efficiently and dry-eyed.
They left the Abbey at two, Latimer’s man arranging their valises in the coach. Neither of them had ventured down-stairs again, except when they departed. Dorothea Frane had hovered in Daphne’s doorway for a moment, and whispered, “I’m sorry,” very sweetly indeed. Sir Andrew and Lady Ballard said good-bye to them on the Abbey’s broad porch, receiving their thanks as if nothing unusual had happened, but other than these three—and India of course—they saw no one all day. It was not until their carriage was rolling down the drive that Daphne remembered Christian; she realized that he must have been with the others, and that it would have looked very odd if he had insisted on saying good-bye. How the news had affected him she could not guess; she knew at least that it would be a long time before they met again, and tried to feel relieved at not having to face him. She did not succeed very well.
The surprise of Sir Latimer and Lady Keyes at the unexpected arrival of their children may be easily imagined. Their delight in seeing them again was soon offset by the extraordinary tidings they brought. Lady Keyes could not cease exclaiming for hours: she was more dismayed, it seemed, by the Ballards’ heavy-handed treatment of her offspring than by any thing else, and Sir Latimer patted her back and said “there, there” all evening. Mr. Clayton was called in to be informed of the news, and to give his opinion of how, if at all, Lady Bryde’s estate would be affected by her marriage. Mr. Clayton did not think there would be any change, unless Lady Bryde—Mrs. Hastings, rather—had gone so mad as to change her will, in addition to her other follies. In that case, it was possible her fortune might be settled on her husband; however, it was sure to revert to the Keyes family eventually. Mr. Clayton, though he did not mention it, was very glad this evening; in fact, he was the only member of the household who was. His gladness arose, of course, from the fact that Miss Keyes was not betrothed after all. Unfortunately for him, this source of contentment was short-lived in the extreme.
Verchamp Park received a caller on the day following Daphne’s and Latimer’s flight from Carwaith. The caller, as it happened, had also just come from the Abbey. Lady Keyes received him in the drawing-room, and thought it very odd that he should come. She complied with his request, however, that he be allowed to speak to Miss Keyes; and when that lady had come down, he invited her to walk with him on the wide lawn of the Park. Clover, bounding delightedly, accompanied them.
“I am sure you should not have come, Christian,” she said (for he it was who called), as they strolled over the green slopes. “It will give a very singular appearance, should any one find out about it.”
“If I am fortunate enough,” said he, “every one will find out about it.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Miss Keyes, would you do me the great honour to become my wife?”
“I beg your pardon?” she repeated.
“Naturally, I would become your husband as well,” he continued.
“But how—”
“Well, we should be obliged to get married first, of course.”
“Christian, what is all this madness?” she demanded.
“My love,” he answered, stopping and holding her still before him, “have you not yet perceived how your great-grandmother’s marriage will affect us? When the Countess of Halston marries her butler, no one will even think twice about her great-grand-daughter wedding a pianofortist.”
“But my dear—!” said she.
“If there is no way to reconcile your parents,” he went on, “in spite of all that has happened, then we must elope. However, I certainly should prefer it if—”
“My parents will have very little objection, I think,” she interrupted, “when I tell them how it is. It was the Countess herself who insisted on my making an advantageous match. But you refused to elope with me!”
“I refused when your name was unsullied by scandal,” he protested. “As things stand now, I doubt that Society could be any crueller to you than it means to be already. I have seen the sins of the father visited upon the sons too many times to imagine that the sins of your great-grandmother will not be visited upon you. You saw yourself what happened at Carwaith Abbey,” he added cynically. “I assure you, no one mentioned your name, once you had gone, except to heap disapproval upon it.”
“Did they?” she cried. “How—O, how awful.”
“Not Miss Ballard,” he amended kindly. “She did not mention your name at all. Very wise of her, too, since her mother would have boxed her ears.”
“Then I had no defenders?”
“None, I am afraid,” he said gently. “That is—except myself. I should think it would be some years before any member of the English ton engaged my services again,” he smiled, musing.
“O, my poor Christian!” she exclaimed. “Your career—”
“A career playing contre-dances in overcrowded ball-rooms was never quite what I envisioned any way,” he said. “Believe me, the sort of gentlemen who arrange concerts in Europe are not the fellows to be dismayed by the information that their pianofortist has a noble English wife—be her great-grandmother ever so disreputable.”
“Then—” Daphne began, and paused. A breeze, lightly scented with the faintest hint of autumn, was blowing across the lawn. It ruffled her heavy curls and brushed her neck deliciously. “Christian,” she said at last, putting her arms round him and looking up into his luminous green eyes, “are we really going to Europe?”
“For as long as we like, my love,” he answered. “Until all the many scandals of the Keyes family are too stale to mention, if we wish. I too had a letter at Carwaith yesterday, and there is a Viennese opera-manager who awaits my answer eagerly. So to oblige him, I really think we ought to be married as soon as possible—if you do not mind.”
“O my dear,” she said, feeling almost dizzy with surprise and happiness, “I never believed you would marry me.”
“Neither did I,” he confessed, as his arms slipped round her to complete their embrace. “It is shocking to admit it—but neither did I.”
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