by Joan Aiken
On the sixth day after Delphie’s excursion into Kent, a note arrived from Russell Square.
“Dear Miss Carteret,” wrote Mr. Browty, “the gals and I are Returned from the Frogs’ Capital & very Wishful, they to resume their lessons, I to hear how you prospered at Chase, and all of us to see you again. So Pray let us have a Note by the Bearer, informing me when it will be Convenient for you to come around. Your Sincere Friend, Jos. Browty.”
Delphie wrote that it would be convenient next day at noon, and kept the appointment punctually. She found the Browty family in high fettle, the girls rigged out in the first stare of the Parisian mode, and Mr. Browty cheerfully complaining that his full-skirted coats would no longer button around him because of all the fine French dinners they had consumed. They had brought Delphie a parasol from France, an elegant gray-and-white silk one with tassels and an ivory ferule, and she exclaimed at its prettiness and scolded them for bringing her such an expensive gift.
“Nay, nay!” said Mr. Browty, “‘tis a nothing, a trifle, for we look on you quite as one of the family, Miss Philadelphia! I would have liked to fetch you back one of those fancy Paris bonnets from Phanie or some such place, but the girls were not just sure how your tastes ran, and there was no sense in saddling you with some oddity you’d never wear. But a parasol is neither here nor there!”
Delphie said it was the most charming gift she had ever received, and just what she needed for the summer.
Then she rather firmly dismissed Mr. Browty, and gave the girls their lessons, for she felt it incumbent upon her to make it plain that she wished to keep the relationship on a professional footing. Mr. Browty accepted his dismissal with good humor, but reappeared again the moment Miss Charlotte’s last chord had been played, and, summoning Moses the footman with wine and cakes, ordered the girls to run off and find their governess, for he wished to ask Miss Carteret about her family affairs.
“Now let us have a comfortable coze, Miss Philadelphia, and you tell me how matters went at Chase!” he exclaimed the instant the door had closed behind his daughters.
Delphie had been much exercised in her mind as to what she could tell Mr. Browty—who, as prime instigator and abettor of the excursion, certainly had a right to know at least some part of the whole. She could not tell him about the pretended marriage, for that was very much not her secret, but she did tell him that, in return for a promise that she was not allowed to divulge, she had been assured an annuity of three hundred pounds a year for her mother after Lord Bollington’s death.
Mr. Browty’s brows drew together as he heard this tale.
“If you ask me,” he burst out, “it all sounds like a deuced havey-cavey business! Damme, I had a fear you’d make a mull of it, Miss Philadelphia! It’s no use entrusting business matters to females—more particularly gently raised ones—they haven’t the spunk for it. You’ve let them chouse you, my dear—that’s the long and the short of it. I should have undertaken your business myself, I knew it!”
Delphie could not help a chuckle as she imagined Mr. Browty at Lord Bollington’s bedside, being united in marriage to Mr. Penistone. She said hastily,
“No, no, my dear sir, it is very well as it is, and I am infinitely obliged to you for your part in the affair. I am quite satisfied with how it has all turned out. Pray do not be troubling your head about it any more.”
Mr. Browty regarded her shrewdly.
“In other words, I’m to keep my nose out of what is none of my business—hey, Miss Philadelphia? Is that it? But tell me about your great-uncle—did he recognize you? Did he claim you as his niece? Did he seem to wish to make reparation for all those years of neglect of your poor mother?”
Delphie said truthfully that her uncle had appeared to recognize in her a likeness to his brother’s wife; and that he had seemed very sorry for his misdeeds.
“Is he dead now?” inquired Mr. Browty. “Has his will been put into effect?”
“I have studied the Gazette, sir, on such days as I have seen it,” said Delphie. “But I have not seen any notice of his death. Perhaps it escaped me—or perhaps he may still be lingering on.”
Mr. Browty said he would make inquiries.
“Any of the fellows at my club will be sure to know.”
Delphie would have liked to tell him about the false Miss Carteret, who had so successfully established her claim, but to do so must involve her in explanations which could not fail of revealing the bedside “marriage”—and she therefore felt obliged to remain silent. But she very much disliked having to practice this piece of suppressio veri toward such a good friend as Mr. Browty, who was so generous and well disposed toward her; and she resolved that she must somehow contrive to meet Mr. Penistone again, if only once, have a discussion with him about the whole affair, and tell him that she could not keep his secret forever. Meanwhile she was relieved when Mr. Browty turned the conversation to Mrs. Carteret and inquired how she did.
“Oh, she is going on famously now, I thank you, and has regained all the ground lost during her setback. In a few days I hope that it will be warm enough to take her for an airing.”
Mr. Browty instantly offered his closed carriage, and would not take no for an answer; he overbore all Delphie’s protests that he was far too kind, and arranged that the carriage should be sent around next Monday, if the day proved a fine one.
“I hear Letty Dalrymple asked you around to sing at her party?” he next remarked. “I was a bit put-about when I heard that! I may have mentioned your name—just dropped some remarks as to your high abilities and so on, you know—but Letty’s as clutch-fisted as she is mean-minded. But how did it go, hey? Did they applaud as they should? And did Letty pay you a proper fee?”
Delphie hesitated. In fact, after several days had elapsed and no money had been sent, she had herself delivered a bill for five guineas at Lady Dalrymple’s house—and had then been sent four guineas with a disagreeable note, explaining that as she had not fulfilled her part of the contract by singing for the whole evening, part of the fee had been deducted.
“You need not scruple to tell me the whole,” remarked Mr. Browty, narrowly observing Delphie’s face. “Letty Dalrymple is as sharp as a razor and cheeseparing as a sexton’s tabby. She has been on the catch for me any time there three years—would be Mrs. Browty inside a week if I’d drop the handkerchief—but I’m not such a flat, no, no!”
Thus freed from constraint, Delphie was able to give him the history of the evening (excluding her conversation with Gareth Penistone); he laughed very heartily, apologized, said she had a real gift for telling a tale, and urged her to apply to him for advice before undertaking any more such engagements.
Then Delphie took her leave and returned to Greek Street.
In the shop she paused to speak to Jenny, who was minding the counter while Miss Anne went marketing.
“There, I’ve been on the lookout for you, Miss Delphie,” exclaimed Jenny as soon as a small girl who had been buying three yards of spangled ribbon for her mother had trotted out of the shop. “Only think! I saw your—ahem!—Mum’s the word!—I saw you-know-who, walking along, as large as you please, only yesterday afternoon, in Shepherd’s Market! He didn’t see me—and I’ll tell you why! He had a young lady on his arm, and three children following behind. What do you say to that? Barefaced as you please! He’s as bad as his uncle! If she warn’t a bit of muslin, my name’s not Jenny Baggott!”
“She could have been his sister,” Delphie pointed out mildly.
“Sister? Pho, pho! They were as different as chalk from cherries: he so big and black and brawny, with a face as long as a shovel, and such a damn-your-eyes look about him—”
“And what was the lady like?” Delphie inquired. She was much interested in Jenny’s tale, which certainly appeared to substantiate what Lady Dalrymple had said. But somehow she could not withstand a slight sinking of the spirits.
“Lady?” said Jenny scornfully. “She was no lady, I’ll be bound. She was a
little, puny thing, hobbling along, hanging on his arm as if she was scared to lose him—hardly up to his shoulder—with a pale peaky look and hair done all anyhow—shawl on crooked—muslin so faded you’d be ashamed to be seen out in it—darn on one elbow—toes of her slippers quite worn and stubbed—and a bonnet I’ll swear I have seen on a second-hand stall in Berwick Market. You’d think he’d keep his Peculiar in a better style than that! Mean as his grand-uncle, he must be!”
What were the children like? Philadelphia wanted to know. But Jenny took little interest in children. Shabby-looking little things, was all she could say.
“Lor, Miss Delphie, I can’t fathom you, not you, nor him neither! If I was you, I wouldn’t let him slip through my fingers! And if I was him, I wouldn’t hang onto that poor little dab of a thing, not when he has a chance of a handsome looker like you, dearie, that would be a proper credit to him.”
But Delphie pointed out soberly that he was probably fond of the lady in question, and that, if so, he did right to stick by her.
“In that case,” said Jenny, “he oughter look after her better, and keep her in better style!”
Next Monday proved fine and balmy, and, prompt to its time, Mr. Browty’s carriage rolled up to the door in Greek Street. Mrs. Carteret, wrapped in shawls, was assisted into the carriage and departed, escorted by Mrs. Andrews, for Delphie had to give a lesson in Russell Square—not to the Browty girls, but to some friends of theirs on the north side of the square, who had been supplied with her name by the obliging Mr. Browty.
Walking back across the square afterward, and admiring the young blossoming trees which had been planted in the garden, she ran into Mr. Browty himself, who appeared to have been on the lookout for her.
“Ah, there, Miss Philadelphia!” he exclaimed. “I was hoping that I might run across you.”
Delphie began some sentences of thanks about her mother, and the carriage, but he impatiently waved these aside. “No matter, no matter! Coachman and horses eating their heads off—happy they can be of use. Any time, any time. No, why I wished to see you, my dear, was to apprise you of the intelligence which I had at the club—namely that your grand-uncle is not dead, as you had supposed, but, on the contrary, he has made a most amazing recover, and is now expected to live out the year, at least! So is not that something to take you aback?”
“Well,” Delphie said thoughtfully, “I suppose one must be glad for him, poor man, since he seemed in such a pitiable state. I hope this amelioration of his condition will afford him time to improve the tone of his spirits, to repent whatever misdeeds appeared to be troubling him so, and to put himself into a better frame of mind to meet his Maker.”
“Yes, yes, yes!” exclaimed Mr. Browty, cutting short her periods. “I hope so too—but you do not appear to observe the bearing of this intelligence on your own affairs, Miss Carteret! If the old cove is still alive, and likely to remain so for some time yet, you are properly in the basket! Where’s your annuity now? Do you not see? You have been fobbed off, Miss Philadelphia, by those as wishes to keep you from any part of the family inheritance.”
Delphie thought this over.
“Yes—that may be so,” she said at length. “But I cannot believe that his illness was not genuine, or that there was any intent to impose on me. Matters have merely turned out unexpectedly. It is of no use to repine about it. And indeed, it does not greatly signify. My mother’s and my fortunes are improving—thanks in large part to your generous recommendations, Mr. Browty—and I now have the comfort of knowing that Mamma’s future, at least, is provided for. Sooner or later, after all my uncle must die, and then she will come into the annuity.”
“And when will that be?” exclaimed Mr. Browty with some acerbity. “His nabs is only sixty-eight—so they say—he could live to ninety and disappoint you all! For that matter, what’s to prevent him from changing his will again?”
These were considerations that certainly had not yet occurred to Delphie, but she said philosophically that in such a case they would simply have to manage as best they could, in the same manner as they had done formerly.
At this point Mr. Browty astonished her very much by going down on one knee in front of her. She could not help wishing that they were on the grass, rather than on the gravel path, for she feared that the gravel must be cutting through his worsted stocking in the most painful way; but she was at least grateful that, for the moment, they appeared to have the Square garden to themselves.
“Miss Philadelphia,” said Mr. Browty earnestly, “pray, pray, do me the honor of allowing me to take these cares and considerations off your shoulders! Only say that you will be Mrs. Browty, and you need never give that pinch-fisted old muckworm another thought! Let the old niggard starve himself to death in his castle. Let the miserly old screw leave his wad to whom he will. I beg your pardon!”—seeing her face of astonishment—“I meant this declaration to be far otherwise, Miss Carteret. But when I think of the lickpenny old skinflint, it makes me so mad! The thing is, I had hoped first to put you in the way of establishing a competence for yourself in your own right. Knowing the delicacy of your principles, I feared you might be too proud to accept—”
“Oh, sir, stop, stop!” exclaimed Delphie in distress. “Indeed, I am deeply sensible of the honor you do me, but you must not be saying these things to me!”
“Why not?” said Mr. Browty practically. Deciding, apparently, that it was not feasible to remain upon his knee on the gravel any longer, he stood up, but without any particular embarrassment. Indeed he appeared so wholly in earnest as to be lost to any sense of the ludicrous. She could not help admiring him for this. He clasped her hand between his two large ones.
“Miss Philadelphia, I am so concerned about you as you can’t think!” he said with great feeling. “I cannot endure to know that you are living so, from hand to mouth, while I have enough to keep me and the girls three times over. And they doat on you, too, the pair of them! They will be so disappointed if you say no! (Not that I have mentioned this matter to them),” he added hastily. “But I had hoped so much that you would come to give us all the benefit of your pretty, ladylike ways. Now I see I’ve made a mull of it—shouldn’t have hoped to profit by your gratitude. But pray, pray, do not immediately say no! Think it overdo! Take your time—take all the time in the world!”
Delphie murmured something about the disparity of their ages. “Pish! What’s thirty years? That does no more than give a man time to settle down. If I were a young girl I wouldn’t give a fig for a husband in his twenties or thirties—always going off on some caper or freak—casting his eye over the hedge, changing his occupation, becoming castaway, giving her pain in any one of a dozen ways. Whereas I, a sober, healthy fellow in my prime, Miss Philadelphia, need never give you a day’s uneasiness in your life. There’s my hand on it!”
As he was holding her hand already, he shook it up and down vigorously.
Delphie allowed all this to be true, but still doubted if they would suit.
“Have I mistaken?” he then inquired. “I thought you heart-whole and fancy-free, Miss Philadelphia—so cheerful and even-spirited as you always appear—which is another thing I like about you, damme!—sure, you aren’t bespoke already, are you?”
No, she said, no, there was nothing exactly of such a kind—indeed, nothing at all! Saying so, she was visited by a sudden image of that deathbed ceremony, the hot, hushed atmosphere of the room, and the dark, intent face of the bridegroom looking down at her hand as he fitted on the ring—what a different opinion would Mr. Browty entertain of her, could he have any inkling of the strange occurrence which had so recently drawn her into such a perplexing entanglement!
“Mr. Browty,. I will, I promise I will think with care about your very flattering offer,” she said quickly, to bring to an end this scene which was beginning to oppress her spirits. “I will not come to any scrambling, precipitate decision. And indeed I am truly grateful to you. But there are considerations which—which make
it impossible for me to act precipitately. Now I must leave you. I have another lesson at one, and I shall be late for it, since it is in High Holborn.”
“Lessons, lessons!” he exclaimed discontentedly. “I hate to see you wearing yourself to a bone, when it should all be otherwise, when you should be occupying yourself with naught but gaieties. I should like to see you free as a bird, singing for the joy of it.”
Delphie was touched. She had not known that Mr. Browty could express himself so prettily.
“Now we shall still be friends, shall we not?” he continued, refusing to relinquish her hand, which he still grasped in both of his. “I hope that you know me too well for any of this missish, awkward constraint next time we meet? I’m a plain man, Miss Philadelphia, and can’t be playacting or pretending that this hasn’t happened, but it need make no difference between us, I hope, whichever decision you arrive at?”
His kind, large face looked so anxious and concerned that she firmly promised she would not allow her behavior toward him to be altered in the smallest degree.
“Come, that’s capital!” he said more cheerfully. “I hope I shall bring you around in time, Miss Philadelphia! For indeed, I meant every word of it!”
And he stood looking after her wistfully as she finally disengaged her hand from his, and walked swiftly away across the sunny garden.
Her mind was in some turmoil. Mr. Browty’s proposal had taken her quite by surprise, though she supposed, looking back, that she should have realized what was in the wind.
