by M C Beaton
Betty hoped the Duke would not be there some of the time and, at others, hoped he would be, so that she could cut him dead.
Simon was no longer upset over the row between his aunts and his new hero, the Duke. With such delights as fireworks before him, all else paled into insignificance and, furthermore, as far as he was concerned, all adults moved in a mysterious way.
There was no other place quite like Vauxhall. Ranelagh, of course, was similar, but Ranelagh was aristocratic and sedate. Vauxhall had the air, the strung-up atmosphere, that anything might happen. The feeling of license, the fluttering of skirts at the end of the walks, the sweet strains of the orchestra, all made it a capsule of the London of the moment; the gorgeous clothes, the violence, the extreme refinement, the gross brutality, high romance and low lust, all emotions on the rampage in one hectic festival in the groves of Vauxhall. Simon shivered with excitement like a young colt and Bella tried to repress him with a stern, "You stay by your old Bella, my lord, and don't dare stray."
It was only when they were seated in their box that Hester and Betty wished they had asked some gallant to accompany them. One small boy was insufficient protection from the ogling bucks who passed by their box.
Fanny Bentley was there with her mother and sister in an adjoining box. Frederica was accompanied by one of the late Lady Jane Lovelace's beaux, Felix Beaton, neat and trim and compact as ever. Fanny was squired by her former love, Mr. Jennings, a tall, thin, gawky fellow who had once fled Eppington Chase when Hester and Betty had played that trick on Fanny by cutting her stays.
Betty noticed that Fanny looked much as ever, flirting and chatting and making great play with her fan. In the box beyond Fanny sat Sir Anthony Blake and Philadelphia.
Philadelphia had not wanted to come. She had recently fallen victim to headaches and the many lights and the music and noisy throng seemed to be making this one worse. Sir Anthony was staring moodily down at a plate of wafer-thin ham—the Gardens' speciality—but foregoing the rack punch—the Gardens' other speciality—which was forbidden him by the silent accusing stare of his wife.
He could never remember being quite so hungry or so depressed. He was disappointed in Fanny Bentley. How could she flirt with such a long drip of nothing as Jennings?
"I must go home," said Philadephia suddenly. "My head aches so!" She signaled to her lady's maid to hand her the hartshorn. "Escort me to the carriage, Anthony. There is no need for you to come home with me for I shall be retiring to bed immediately."
"In a regular marriage, I would be allowed to join you there, lady," thought Sir Anthony. But he, too, wanted to get away from the sight of Fanny whom he had come to think of as a fellow sufferer and who now seemed quite happy with that idiot Jennings and a small plate of tossed salad. And then Fanny looked across at him and caught his eye and she gave a quizzical glance at the small salad on her plate and then looked up at him again and laughed. He smiled back, his own eyes twinkling.
"Well," snapped Philadelphia, "are you going to sit there like a great lummox or are you going to take me home?"
Sir Anthony rose to his feet with alacrity. "As far as the carriage, my love," he said. "You will not need my company this evening, so I may as well stay."
"Very well," replied Philadelphia sourly. She took a quick glance at Fanny Bentley but that young lady seemed perfectly happy with her escort. "See that you do not eat too much!"
In the box on the other side of the Wester-by party, two gentlemen were entering to take their places: The Duke of Collingham and Captain Jimmy Dunbray. The Duke gave a chilly little bow and Betty turned away her head and then both of them burned with hurt and hate and sat planning how they could hate and hurt each other the more.
Captain Jimmy asked Hester to promenade with him, to which invitation she replied by turning her head away and the Duke of Collingham could be heard to remark loudly that what else could one expect from that sort of person.
Simon felt his pleasure in the evening slowly dimming but shot to his feet with a glad cry when the bell was rung for the firework display. Betty was feeling so contrary-minded that she almost told the boy he could not go but, instead, reluctantly got to her feet and gave up the bitter pleasure of staying where she was to show the Duke of Collingham, by her averted head, how much she loathed him.
But as the ladies and Simon left the box, the Duke and Captain Jimmy left theirs and Captain Jimmy came up beside Hester's tall figure and began to whisper urgently. Betty walked on a little with Bella and Simon and then turned around to await Hester. But when she turned back, there was no sign of her sister and the Captain. She tried to stretch her small figure to see over the heads of the crowd who were all hurrying in the direction of the firework display, but could not catch a glimpse of her sister. Only the tall figure of the Duke walked past them—and hesitated.
Betty looked very small and very pretty, an exquisite figure out of a Watteau painting in her hooped gown of green and rose Allamode. Her hair was powdered and curled and woven with pearls as only Bella knew how. Simon stood very stiffly at her side, a miniature gentleman in his embroidered silks and dress sword.
"We are being ridiculous," said the Duke softly. "Not only are we spoiling the evening for ourselves by our humours but for the boy as well."
Perhaps she might have turned and walked away from him had not a party of wild, roistering bucks come stumbling and shouting past and had he not gently drawn her arm through his. She smiled weakly up at him and murmured, "Yes, ridiculous," and allowed herself to be led along the dark of the walks under the trees and the little lanterns, her silk slippers with their frivolous high heels seeming to float above the ground.
"Fanny, where is Fanny?" Betty heard Mrs. Bentley's voice, unusually shrill with alarm. Betty saw Fanny a little way ahead as the moving crowd briefly parted. She was walking along on the arm of Sir Anthony Blake and her normally expressionless face was quite radiant.
Betty was almost as excited over the firework display as Simon but the close physical presence of the Duke seemed to be setting fireworks off inside her. He had not released her arm. The crowd oohed and aahed and swayed and pressed together and the Duke and Betty swayed and pressed together. At one point, Betty heard Bella grumbling in her ear that her feet hurt and Betty resented this intrusion into her magic world and told the maid that she might return to their box since she, Betty, would take care of Simon.
Simon gave a sigh of pure satisfaction when the display was at last over. It was then he became aware that he had moved away into the crowd from his Aunt Betty and the Duke and now, in the sudden darkness, he could not see them. He was not afraid because a little way behind him stretched one of the main walks, leading back to the boxes, lit with many lanterns.
The crowd was flowing in that direction and he followed it. At one point, he heard an alarmed voice calling "Simon!" and recognized his aunt's voice. But he was only six years old and it suddenly seemed a great adventure to find his way back on his own.
He strolled along the walk with the crowd, his hand on his sword hilt, feeling no end of a man.
"Simon!" cried a female voice and with a little sigh, he swung about, expecting to see his aunt. But it was a strange female who stood there. A woman of about thirty with flaming red hair and a wide red mouth. "My Simon!" she cried, seizing him in a firm grasp. "You come along o' me, you bad boy."
"Madam!" said Simon. "Release me this instant. I have never seen you before."
Several revelers stopped and stared. "Oh, bless his poor addled wits, the lambkin. Don't you know your own ma? And your brother, Fred?" she said. A burly youth with a loutish face had joined her.
Simon was now thoroughly frightened. He drew himself up. "I am the Marquess of Westerby," he said, but his childish voice trembled so much that the words were barely audible.
"Stow your gab," muttered the youth called Fred, seizing his other arm.
They began to hustle him away as the crowd stood and stared with tepid interest.
&
nbsp; Simon was lucky that it was a hard age for children, that boys were expected to behave like men from the day they fell out of their cradles. Terror lending him a strength beyond his years, he pulled himself free and drew his dress sword that Hester had given him from its sheath and pointed it at his assailants.
"I am Westerby," he said in a stronger voice, "and you shall not touch my person."
The crowd cheered. "Go it, my gamecock!" yelled one while another began making a book and taking bets.
"What the deuce is going on here?"
At the sound of the familiar voice, Simon gave a gulp of relief.
The Duke of Collingham strode into the center of the group. He took out his eyeglass and raised it and stared frostily around him. The crowd melted away. One minute Simon had been surrounded by jeering faces and avid eyes and the next, he was standing alone with the Duke and his Aunt Betty who had come running breathlessly up.
Words came tumbling one after the other, as Simon explained what had happened.
"They're trying to kill him," said Betty on a note of hysteria. "Someone's trying to kill him."
"I beg your pardon, Aunt?" said Simon in a dazed way.
"Your aunt was merely remarking that she felt like killing them," said the Duke, pinching Betty's arm. "You must not stray away on your own, Lord Simon. The woman you described merely wanted to take you away into some dark walk and relieve you of your jewels. You behaved foolishly."
Simon hung his head.
"On the other hand," went on the Duke, "I must say you defended yourself admirably and I am proud of you. Come, Lady Betty."
He walked off slowly with Betty, leaving Simon to follow, which Simon, after turning pink with pleasure, did.
Betty was silent, thinking she had offended the Duke, worrying over the attack on Simon. The Duke was in fact thinking there were too many violent coincidences surrounding the Westerbys. Simon's assailants had been the first to disappear.
He was also consumed by a burning desire to take Betty in his arms and he felt sure he would have had ample opportunity to do just that if Simon had not disappeared. Our children, he thought savagely, will be left in the nursery of an evening where they belong.
"Whose children?" immediately mocked one part of his mind while the other part firmly refused to answer.
At last he came to a decision. He was muddling up his mind with great thoughts of marriage when all he really wanted to do was kiss the girl. Therefore, kiss her he would. Therefore, Simon must be put to bed.
"It is late, Lady Betty," he said, smiling down at her. "I shall escort you home and you can put Simon to bed and then your worries, for this evening, at least, will be over."
"Hester . . ." began Betty.
"Your sister is well escorted by Captain Dunbray and we shall tell Bella to stand sentinel."
"Very well," said Betty meekly, although her heart raced at the idea of being alone with him.
When they arrived at the box there was no sign of Hester or the Captain. Betty explained they were taking Simon home and Bella who, despite her age, loved noise and laughter and late nights, was delighted to be allowed to stay and chaperone Hester should Hester ever return. Bella was not overmuch worried by Hester's absence. Young ladies were allowed to go unescorted at Vauxhall and Bella trusted Captain Dun-bray, having a soft spot for the military. Her shrewd old eyes also noticed the look in the Duke's face as he led Betty away and she thought her chicks, as she privately called them, were doing very well for themselves.
In a dark grove of trees, far from the lights and the music, Captain Dunbray had finally convinced Lady Hester Lovelace that the unfortunate remark of his friend, the Duke of Collingham, had been caused by an excess of emotion. "He is so much in love with your sister and he does not yet know it," explained the little Captain earnestly, peering up in the darkness to try to read the expression on his beloved's face.
"Oh, very well," said Hester at last. "I believe you for I think you're a gentleman. Now, let's go back and have some supper."
"Wait a little," begged Captain Jimmy. "I think I hear a nightingale."
Hester put her head on one side and listened, but the only sounds she heard were the faint strains of music and laughter.
A faint, pale glimmer of moonlight shone down into the little grove. With a fast-beating heart, Captain Jimmy noticed a small tree stump close by where they were standing.
It was now or never. He stood on the tree stump which placed him a few inches taller than Hester and drew her into his arms.
"Captain Dunbray!" protested Hester formally, but the feel of his arms around her was doing strange things to her breathing.
"Hester," said the Captain, "I am leaving tomorrow."
"Leaving? Where?"
"North America."
"So far," said Hester faintly.
"Very far. I shall be gone a long time, Hester."
"I don't even know your regiment."
"The Twentieth Foot," he said. "I don't know when I will be back . . . if I will be back."
"What! I thought a British soldier was always confident of victory," joked Hester with a lightness she did not feel.
"Fighting in Quebec is not like fighting anywhere else," he said. "Our uniforms are quite unsuitable for fighting the Indian."
This was in fact an understatement on the part of the Captain. German fashions in dress had been introduced by royal influence and the British soldier had to fight in all the discomfort of a tight coat, powdered hair and a clubbed pigtail. His red coat also made him into a sort of sitting duck for any Indian marksmen hiding behind the trees. In 1755, only a short time ago, General Edward Braddock, on his way to capture Fort Duquesne, saw his men shot down by Indian marksmen hidden behind trees. He himself was mortally wounded. As he lay dying by the Monogahela River, he said, "Another time we shall know better how to deal with them," and Captain Jimmy, for one, certainly hoped warfare tactics had been changed.
"Hester," urged the Captain, "I cannot ask for your hand in marriage because it is not fair to tie you to me for so long."
Hester opened her mouth to say she had no intention at the moment of marrying anyone, but shut it again. He was leaving. She must be kind. Also, the situation she found herself in was heady and exciting, particularly with the Captain grown so tall.
After a little silence, she said, "What is it you want me to give you?"
"One kiss."
Hester smiled. Only a kiss. She had been kissed by the village boys in Westerby many times in the days when she used to roam the fields and woods with Betty.
So she looked up into his eyes as he stood on the tree stump and said, "By all means have your kiss, Captain Dunbray."
He drew her very close to him and bent his head. His lips were soft and warm and surprisingly gentle and hesitant so that Hester was surprised by the assault on her senses and at the faint trembling that ran through her body and quite suddenly she wound her arms around his neck and kissed him back with all the full-blooded uninhibited passion she had inherited from her mother.
Oblivious to time and place, he kissed her long and deeply, his hard lean body pressing into Hester's tall, voluptuous figure so that when he at last drew back Hester felt lost and bereft and overcome with a bitter wave of sadness that he was leaving to go so very far away and that he might never return.
Wonderingly, she took his hand and raised it and held it against her cheek.
"Take me home, Jimmy," said Lady Hester Lovelace. "Take me home."
Mrs. Bentley had departed in a high rage. A lackey had presented her with a message that her daughter, Miss Fanny Bentley, had gone home with the headache.
"And how she got home I do not know," said Mrs. Bentley. "But she is seeking attention because she is in an ill humour and I shall not indulge her. Do not go into her room, Frederica. We shall both ignore her until she comes to her senses. Mr. Jennings, I can only apologise for my daughter's cavalier treatment and beg you to forgive her. She was telling me only the other
day," lied Mrs. Bentley, "that she considered you the most dashing of her beaux. Mr. Beaton, perhaps you would care to return to town with us for some tea? Good. I am glad my other daughter shows good sense."
And so they left.
Sir Anthony Blake and Miss Fanny Bentley were quite footsore from having promenaded the walks of Vauxhall for so long.
Both were feeling like children out of school, each free of a stern master.
They wandered the groves of Vauxhall, sharing their mutual passion—food, while their rumbling stomachs sang to each other and both Fanny and Sir Anthony bewailed the art of faking which had become rampant in England. Joseph Addison had written bitterly of the English brewers that "they can squeeze Bordeaux out of the sloe, and draw champagne from an apple." Both Fanny and Sir Anthony claimed English cooking to be infinitely superior to French, Fanny quoting Horace Walpole's complaint from Paris that "a third of the dishes is patched up with salads, butter, puff-paste, or some miscarriage of a dish."
At last a silence fell between them, pregnant with hunger.
Sir Anthony stopped walking and turned to face Fanny. "I notice you sent a note to your mother. Can it be that you must return to your party soon?"
Fanny shrugged. "I told Mama that I had gone home. She will not look in my room when she returns to make sure I am there. Her way of punishing me when she is angry is to ignore me for days. And she will tell the cook that I am to have no food other than toast as thin as poppy leaves and weak tea."
As if to underline her remarks, her stomach let out a faint howl.
"Then it is just thee and me," said Sir Anthony dreamily. " 'Fore George! Here we both are, off the leash, crying for food, and I have the best chef in the whole of England sitting i' the kitchen breaking his heart, for my good wife insists on starvation rations."
He looked at Fanny and an idea began to take shape. "See here, Miss Fanny, we are behaving badly, are we not? We should not be here alone together, should we? I mean to say, our position would be more respectable, say, at my home with my chef in attendance."
