by Joan Aiken
She arrived on the pavement just as he was about to give a boy a penny to hold his horses.
“Which I am very glad not to do!” he said after greeting Delphie with a slightly constrained smile, “for the horses belong to my cousin Fitzjohn, and that was a most untrustworthy-looking urchin! Why is it that the boys who offer to mind one’s horses always resemble infant Dick Turpins?”
“Probably because that is what they are,” suggested Delphie as he helped her to a seat beside him. She added, as he gave the horses the office to start, “Do I understand, then, that your cousin Mr. Fitzjohn has also come to town?”
“Yes,” he replied, guiding the team carefully out into Oxford Street, where he allowed them to break into a collected trot; Delphie observed that he drove very well, with light but firm hands, keeping his horses well up to their bits, and managing his whip with grace and dexterity. “Yes, Fitz has come to town. Luckily for me! I cannot afford to keep a carriage in town—but he is always obliging about lending his. That is why I wished to see you. It is the most damnable thing—”
What now? thought Delphie, studying his angry, perplexed face.
“My uncle, it seems, is so much better that he now proposes to travel to town!” explained Mr. Penistone in tones of exasperation. “That is why Fitz is come up—he is busy opening up the town house in Hanover Square and making it ready. In two or three days, Great-uncle Mark threatens to be here!”
“Pray what have you to object to in that?” demanded Delphie. “I should rather have thought that it was cause for congratulation. He must indeed be amazingly improved in health if he dares to subject himself to the fatigue of traveling.”
“Why,” exclaimed Gareth irritably, “don’t you see—my uncle will expect to find us living together as man and wife! Indeed I should not be surprised if that is not why he is come—because he has always suspected that my regard for my cousin Elaine was not very great! And he has been right. Which was why I was in no haste to conclude the marriage. He wishes to make sure that the marriage was not a mere formality. The very first thing he does will be to come and call at my house in Curzon Street—and he will expect to find you there! And he will be inviting us to dinner in Hanover Square—he will be expecting to see us at assemblies—”
“Could you not say I was gone out of town?”
“We have no idea how long he is likely to stay. Mordred talked of his being in Hanover Square until the end of July! You could hardly be absent all that time!”
“No, I suppose I could not,” Delphie said reflectively. “Not supposing us so recently married—I believe newly married couples are expected to be very devoted.”
Mr. Penistone gave her a sharp glance, which she returned with one of extreme innocence.
“Well, then,” she said, “you could go out of town. My uncle will hardly wish to see me without you, considering his aversion for the female sex.”
“I am quite unable to leave town at present,” Gareth Penistone replied briefly. “I have many and pressing business affairs.”
“Oh! Well, in that case, I do not see what is to be done!” Delphie waited in tranquil silence while he guided his horses around the corner into Park Lane, and then, presently, through one of the entrances into Hyde Park. The team appeared to be a trifle fresh and resty, she noticed; which was odd if Mr. Fitzjohn had just brought them up to London. But perhaps he kept a stable in town as well as at Chase.
“As I see it,” said Mr. Penistone in a tone of quiet decision, after he had driven some distance in the park, “As I see it, the only solution is for you to remove to my house in Curzon Street. And your mother too, of course,” he added, as Delphie gazed at him in total astonishment, for once quite at a loss.
“To your home? in Curzon Street? But what—?”
What about your mistress? she had almost said, but caught herself up just short of such a breach of propriety. Doubtless the mistress, poor thing, would be bundled out, obliged to decamp, until after the end of Lord Bollington’s visit. What a perfectly outrageous scheme! How could Mr. Penistone even have the gall to suggest it? Every feeling of decency and pride must be utterly exacerbated!
“It falls out very conveniently,” he said, “for my tenant on the ground floor—who was a brother-officer of mine in the Peninsula—has just been ordered to join his regiment on the Continent, so the rooms are standing empty.”
“I could not possibly, in any circumstances, agree to such an arrangement!” Delphie said.
He looked at her with evident exasperation.
“Why not, in the name of heaven? It would be altogether for your benefit—your mother’s too. The rooms are large—sunny—far superior to the close little cramped quarters you occupy at present. There would even be a garden for your mother to sit in! I have thought it all out with the greatest care. You would have—you would have undisturbed occupancy of your apartments—it goes without saying—”
“Thank you!” said Delphie, with awful civility.
“You could—you could continue giving music lessons there, if such is your wish; you could install your piano—”
He really has thought it all out, marveled Delphie. Who would have expected such consideration from him?
“Of course there would be no rent to pay—”
“I must repeat, sir, that it is quite out of the question.” No rent! she thought. Seventeen shillings a week saved.
“Why?” he demanded.
“Why? If you do not immediately see why, I do not know how I am to explain it to you. There is a total want of delicacy—a lack of decorum—an absence of those nice scruples which must completely—”
“Fiddlestick!” he said, and added bluntly, “You did not appear to have so many nice scruples three weeks ago! If you can marry me, I do not see what there is to cavil at in living with me!”
“Sir!” uttered Delphie, inexpressibly shocked. Then she perceived that he was laughing at her.
“Come, now!” he said. “You are not so affronted as you would have me believe. Pray consider! There are so many things to be said in favor of the arrangement.”
“Name them.”
“Your improved situation. Curzon Street is a far pleasanter neighborhood than Soho. A better address for your pupils. Closer to the park for your mother.”
“Even allowing that to be so—suppose we happen to prefer it in Greek Street?”
“It is impossible that you should!”
“Oh! How can you be so arbitrary—so tyrannical—so utterly unreasonable—!”
“Come, consider!” he urged again, in a milder tone. “Am I really being so unreasonable? What is there to object to in the arrangement? I had even thought that, through it, we might—become known to each other; become friends?”
Delphie was somewhat shaken by this argument, but said after a moment,
“Well—it is deceitful, for one thing.”
“We are already embarked on a course of deceit.”
“Purely for your benefit.”
“No; not for mine,” he said.
“For whose, then?”
“I should have to obtain permission before I could tell you that.”
“Well,” said Delphie, “I can tell you this, if you are asking me to remove myself to your house for the benefit of Miss Carteret, you are quite at fault, for I have taken her in extreme dislike! She is the most odiously insolent, overbearing, puffed-up dictatorial creature I have ever come across, and I think you two should deal extremely. Indeed, I can’t imagine why you haven’t been married to each other this age, so well suited as you are!”
Mr. Penistone turned a face of utter astonishment and consternation.
“Elaine is in town? You mean to say that you have seen her? But—I thought that you did not know one another!”
“We do now,” said Delphie grimly. “And of all the—” Then she broke off, and exclaimed,
“Mind your horses, Mr. Penistone!”
For some moments, she had noticed with vague uneasi
ness that the team seemed to be behaving very oddly. They were tossing their heads a great deal, uttering short cries, seemingly attempting to bite and kick one another as they proceeded, and, all the time, tending to increase their pace, which had become very fast indeed. Now, at this juncture, they appeared to grow completely ungovernable, screaming, rearing, frothing at their bits, and then galloping forward at such a headlong speed that all Gareth Penistone’s strength and skill were of no avail to check them.
“My God!” he exclaimed. “What has got into the brutes? They appear to have run mad!”
Women and children along the sides of the carriage-way were shrieking and running onto the grass, out of their path. Men cursed and dashed to try and stop them, thought better of it, and retreated again. Drivers of other carriages frantically whipped their horses aside, out of the way.
Delphie went rather white, but said calmly,
“I believe when horses run mad that you should blow pepper up their noses. Unfortunately I have none with me—but perhaps you carry snuff? That might prove equally efficacious?”
Holding the reins with a grip of steel, he replied,
“I do use snuff, ma’am, but unfortunately I have left my snuffbox at home! I admire your cool-headedness, however. But at the rate we are going, I am not perfectly convinced that it would, in any case, be found possible to introduce the snuff up their noses. Have you any other suggestions?”
“Only to let them run until they tire themselves out. I must say, Mr. Penistone, you certainly know how to drive to an inch,” Delphie said encouragingly, as they whirled past a flimsy high-perch phaeton with less than a whisker to spare.
She could not help wondering how long he would be able to keep it up, though. The horses, in their frenzy, appeared to be tireless, and there was so much horse-drawn traffic on the carriageway that their headlong career was like some terrifying obstacle race; every instant Mr. Penistone had to be judging, guiding, and steering his frantic team between barouches, landaulets, curricles, and phaetons; it seemed a miracle that he had so far avoided a collision, and almost inevitable that sooner or later, as he tired, there must be an error of judgment which would precipitate some terrible accident.
“Should you, perhaps, turn your horses toward the water?” suggested Delphie as the Serpentine came in sight. “If they will enter it, I cannot but feel that it would slow down their progress very considerably, and might exert a calming effect.”
“A good idea, cousin. It is certainly worth a try,” said Mr. Penistone, and began to turn the course of the enraged pair, by very slow and nice degrees until they had left the graveled track and were running across the grass.
“That was very well done!” approved Delphie. “I fancy you are getting the better of them, and that they are beginning to tire.”
“There is plenty of go in them yet!” he commented grimly. “I believe that it will be best, cousin, if you descend to the footrest, and kneel down with your arms protecting your head. There is a considerable degree of slope at the edge of the water, and it is not inconceivable that the carriage may overturn. I wish I might assist you to move, but my arms are fully engaged at present—in fact they are nearly pulled out of their sockets!”
“Pray do not be in any anxiety about me,” said Delphie. “I will do as you say, if you really think it best.”
“I do think so.”
Accordingly she edged herself off the seat—with no little difficulty, for the curricle was tilting and swaying wildly from side to side as the horses whirled it over the rough grass—and then knelt on the footrest as he had directed. In another moment the horses entered the water. Gareth had managed to guide the curricle safely down the bank, but when they felt the water on their legs and bellies, the horses screamed again, reared desperately, and broke apart. The curricle heeled over, and Delphie lost hold of the seat which she had been clutching. She was hurled through the air onto the bank; something struck her head, and she knew no more.
Delphie recovered consciousness, choking, as somebody endeavored to introduce a small quantity of cordial between her lips. “Enough—thank you—I am better now.” she gasped.
“She will do very well in a moment,” said an unfamiliar voice. “There is no concussion, I am glad to report—merely some bruising. She should remain quietly resting for a period of time.”
Delphie opened her eyes and found, to her astonishment, that she was no longer in the park, but in a large sunny room, which appeared to be absolutely full of people. Faces were staring at her—of all sizes, and from all sides, it seemed.
“Where am I?” she said faintly. “Oh—I am afraid my mother will be so anxious about me!”
A familiar voice—that of Gareth Penistone—said,
“Have no apprehensions, Miss Carteret. You have been unconscious only for a very short time. I have, however, already dispatched a boy with a note to your mother, informing her that you have been delayed, and will be returning home shortly. I thought that would be less alarming for her than tidings of an accident.”
“Thank you—that was very thoughtful,” she murmured, closing her eyes again.
She heard Gareth saying, “I am greatly obliged to you, Doctor, for coming with such speed. You can imagine our alarm!” and the other voice, the doctor’s apparently, promising to “call in Greek Street tomorrow and see how she goes on.”
Then Gareth’s voice said, “Run along, children, now! You have been helpful and good, but the lady is weak and faint still; she does not want you clustering all over her until she is better. You shall see her again, I promise!—Bardwell, I think it would be a good thing if you were to make some tea.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“May we see her before she goes?” piped up a little voice.
“Yes, yes! You may bring her tea. Now, run and see to your mother, and let Dr. Ellworthy out of the front door.”
Delphie heard the patter of what sounded like dozens of feet, the near slam of a door, and then a more distant one. Silence reigned. She opened her eyes again, and found that she was looking straight into the face of Gareth Penistone. It was decidedly pale, and he was studying her with an expression of strong anxiety in his dark eyes.
“Drink a little more of this!” he said, and held the cordial to her lips again.
“Thank you—but what of yourself—were you not injured?” she asked when she had sipped a little more, and felt its reviving warmth run through her veins.
“Not a scratch! Right as rain. I was tossed clear into the water—took no harm at all, except a ducking, like your friend Miss Baggott.” Indeed she noticed that he seemed to have changed his clothes somewhat hastily. “But you, I fear, were thrown onto the bank, which was less comfortable; however, the doctor has examined you most thoroughly and found no hint of concussion, or any broken bones—which is little short of a miracle!” he said, his voice expressing the relief he felt. “When I remember my sensations—but you were so calm, so fearless and practical—”
“In reality I was shaking like a blancmange, I assure you!” said Delphie. “—But it is all over now, thank heaven. What about your cousin’s horses? Did they take any hurt?”
“Very little, amazingly enough, though his curricle is in a sad state. One of the pair has a swelled fetlock. It is certainly thanks to your notion of driving them into the water that we—and they—came off so lightly. But they are still in a very queer state—wild, frothing, and sweating. Tristram—one of the boys, who is very knowledgeable about horses—has suggested that they might have been hocused—given some drug in their feed to make them run wild as they did.”
“But how very extraordinary! Who would do such a thing?”
“I do not know!” he said grimly. “Somebody who has a grudge against my cousin, perhaps. I certainly intend to make some inquiries. How do you do now, Miss Carteret?”
The formality of this term of address made her smile a little; she said,
“You seem to forget that I am your wife, sir!”
“No, I do not forget it,” said Mr. Penistone.
Delphie struggled to sit up, and looked about.
“Pray be careful,” he said, and piled some cushions behind her. “Where am I?” she said again.
“Why”—he sounded apologetic—”I am afraid you are in my house in Curzon. Street! I knew your views about it—that you would not wish to be here—but really it seemed so unquestionably the closest and best harbor—Are you sure you should be sitting up?”
“Quite sure, I thank you. I am almost recovered. What a pleasant room,” she observed, looking around her.
It seemed to be on the first floor, for she could see the tops of trees, at no great distance, in the park, presumably. The room was somewhat bare, very sparsely furnished, but what furnishings there were, though on the plain side, showed considerable sign of taste and elegance.
“I cannot claim credit—” Gareth said apologetically, noticing her glance. “I inherited all these things from my father.”
“It is charming.” She rose, with caution, from the chaise longue on which she had been reclining. He took her arm.
“Pray take care, cousin. I do not think that you should stand for long.”
“Very little weakness—it will soon pass.” She moved her shoulders, and said ruefully, “I shall be stiff tomorrow, though!” Then, walking to the window, she looked out, and said politely,
“You certainly have a delightful prospect here, Mr. Penistone.”
A smile just touched the corners of his mouth. He said,
“I am happy that you admire it, ma’am. When you are rested, and have taken some refreshment, perhaps you would care to see the rest of the house? And, in particular, the empty rooms on the ground floor?”
She hardly knew what to reply. He could not, after all, have displaced his mistress so quickly. Did he intend to introduce her?
While she was wondering how to answer, he walked to the door, put his head through, and called to some invisible person,
“Is not the tea ready yet?”
Then he returned, led her to a chair, and said,
“I hope I have not misinterpreted your wishes?”
