“I’ve said before, and I’ll say again,” remarked Mrs. Fyfield, in a gratified tone, “I never did see so handsome a man! And with such address, such charm of manner! My love, he certainly did seem to be paying you a deal of attention — though, to be sure, I would not have you refine too much on that, for they say he is a shocking flirt, and I would not have you taken in for the world!”
Susan heard her aunt’s words through a haze of exaltation. The unaccustomed champagne, the heady delight of the Beau’s company, the final shattering effect of the quick touch of his lips on her hand — all had combined to make her senses swim.
“You need not worry over me, aunt,” she said, dreamily, gazing into space. “You need not worry at all. You don’t need to tell me anything about Beau Eversley — I know all there is to know about him. You see, we are betrothed. But don’t tell anyone—” She placed her finger on her lips, and spoke in a whisper — “don’t tell anyone at all. It’s a secret.”
And having delivered herself of this bombshell, she promptly dropped off to sleep.
SUSAN CONFESSES
Susan awoke late the next morning with a sense of something hanging over her head. As she hurried through her toilet, she tried to decide exactly what this could be. She had only a hazy memory of the events of the preceding evening, but two things were clear in her recollection. One was that Beau Eversley had actually danced with her and taken her in to supper: the other was that in bidding her goodnight, he had kissed her hand.
And why not? she asked herself, defensively. It was not so unusual for a gentleman to kiss a lady’s hand, after all.
But when the lady might scarce be considered old enough to be an object of gallantry, and was, moreover, of little account in the Polite World; and when the gentleman was Beau Eversley — then, the affair assumed some significance. She hugged the thought to herself as she went downstairs to breakfast.
Her aunt and Cynthia were already at the table; and by the way they broke off their conversation as she entered, she guessed that they had been talking about her. The suspicion was immediately confirmed.
“Now, Susan,” began Mrs. Fyfield, in what was for her a firm manner. “I want to talk to you very seriously indeed.”
Susan sat down at the table unconcernedly, and helped herself to some bread and butter.
“What about, Aunt?”
“You may well ask,” put in Cynthia, before her mother could speak. “Anyone would think to look at you that you did not remember what you had said to Mama last night!”
Susan paused in the act of conveying the food to her mouth. “What I said last night?” she repeated, puzzled.
“If you think to deceive us by pretending you have forgotten, I can tell you that it won’t answer with me!” retorted her cousin, tartly. “And if Mama allows herself to be taken in, I shall be amazed, that’s all I can say.”
“But I really don’t know what you mean, Cynthia, I assure you I don’t. Aunt Hattie, what is she talking about?”
“Well, I must say you were more than half asleep when you said it, and afterwards you went right off to sleep, and had to be almost carried from the coach to your room. Try as I would, I could get nothing more out of you. So I left you to get into bed with the help of the housemaid—”
Cynthia made an impatient movement. “Mama, let us keep to the point. It is no use to say you don’t remember, Susan. We want to know the truth. Are you or are you not engaged to Beau Eversley?”
Susan stared at her cousin in silence for a while. Then the colour flooded her face as all the happenings of the previous evening returned clearly to her memory. For a moment, she was tempted to continue the deception; it would certainly give Cynthia a good set-down. For once, however, she did pause to think, and wiser counsels prevailed.
“Of course I am not.”
‘Then why did you say you were?”
“Because — oh — because,” stammered Susan, blushing furiously, “I thought it would sound — interesting, I suppose. I don’t really remember.”
“She did have some champagne,” Mrs. Fyfield explained to Cynthia, “and of course she is not accustomed to strong liquor of any kind, as you are aware. But all the same—” she finished, with a frown, “I must say he did pay her a deal of attention, especially as she is not yet what one might call ‘out’, you know. To dance with her at all was a remarkable condescension — and as for taking her in to supper, and devoting his attention at the table almost exclusively to her — I thought it rather odd, at the time, but now I look back on it, I am bound to say that his attentions were more than one would expect in the common way.”
Susan looked gratified, but said nothing.
“’Pon rep!” exclaimed Cynthia, angrily. “It is very difficult to know what to believe! A man such as Beau Eversley does not engage himself to an insignificant little schoolgirl with neither looks nor conduct — not unless he knows she is a considerable heiress, and he is in want of a fortune! And such, as we know very well, is not the case! Beau Eversley of all people does not need to marry for money.”
“But can we be sure of that, my love? Perhaps the family circumstances may have changed—”
“Nonsense!” snapped Cynthia. “Such things get about in no time, particularly when they concern a man who has always been a subject for gossip.” She turned to Susan, who had been standing silently by during this interchange. “Now, miss, we mean to have the truth. It’s not the first time that you’ve informed me you are betrothed. I did not believe you, then, for I was certain that you said it to try and lessen the importance of my own recent engagement. I can see the reason for such a statement to me, for you have always shown yourself jealous of any advantage which I seemed to possess over you. But I must confess that I cannot so easily account for your telling Mama this story. Why should you seek to deceive her? It almost seems — although I cannot entirely credit it — as if you had accidentally let slip something which you had agreed to keep secret.”
“I must say, child,” put in Mrs. Fyfield, appealing to Susan, “that I agree with Cynthia. Of course, we both thought you were boasting when first you said you were betrothed, and we determined to say no more about it until you confessed that it was a take-in. But now — after what happened last night at the party—” She broke off, and turned once more to her daughter — “and there’s another thing, Cynthia, that I must tell you, that makes it all very strange! This lady I was talking to, at the party — she said that everyone wondered why the Beau did not marry, and that some said it might be because he was secretly wed, or perhaps betrothed! Now, does not that all seem to fit in?”
Susan came suddenly to life, alarmed at the course of their surmises.
“Fudge!” she said, energetically. “You are going on in such a stupid way, so I suppose I had better tell you the whole! It is none of it true. Cynthia is quite right — she was being so vastly patronizing and — and superior about her own betrothal that I felt bound to set her down a peg. As for yesterday evening—” she blushed again — “I’m afraid it was the champagne after all. Mr. Eversley was prodigiously kind to me, but I expect,” she added, reluctantly, “that he only did it to oblige his sister. I know he is very fond of her. And now please — please — do not let us talk of it any more! I am sorry to have made mischief, but it was only a take-in, as you guessed!”
They both stared at her consideringly for a moment. Then Cynthia pushed back her chair, and rose from the table.
“I tell you what, Mama,” she stated, emphatically, “I should not believe her. I think she is concealing something behind this show of frankness. Perhaps you had better ask Beau Eversley himself whether they are betrothed or not.”
“No!” Susan exclaimed in horror, flinging herself imploringly on her aunt. “Oh, no, Aunt Hattie, you will not — you could not! I assure you, it was all a hum — Oh, I swear it, on any solemn oath you wish! Only don’t — please don’t ever mention the subject to him!”
“Because you have promised t
o keep it secret?” taunted Cynthia. “And now that you have let the cat out of the bag he will be angry with you, I suppose. Confess now — why does it have to be kept secret? Is it because he considers you beneath him, and is hoping to be rid of you in time? Or is it—”
Quite distracted, Susan flew at her cousin, and would have struck her had not Mrs. Fyfield risen quickly to intervene.
“Susan! Recollect yourself — you are not in the schoolroom now! You had better go to your room, and stay there until you are more in command of yourself. As for you, Cynthia,” she finished, as Susan turned to obey, “you should be ashamed to taunt the child in that way.”
Susan turned blindly away, and flung out of the room. But as she closed the door behind her she heard her aunt saying to Cynthia: “All the same, I think there may be something in what you say; and though I dislike excessively the notion of approaching him on such a subject, I think perhaps I ought to speak to Mr. Eversley.”
Angry tears scalded her eyes, and she rushed headlong upstairs to fling herself face downwards on the bed. What a fool she had been! It was just as Old Fanny had warned her — if only she had taken the trouble to think first before boasting to Cynthia of a fictitious betrothal, none of this would have happened. She could not blame herself in quite the same way for what she had said last night — that had been different: neither was the heady sensation she had experienced in the coach attributable only to the unaccustomed champagne. It was quite as much due to the effect on her of Beau Eversley’s company, and his distinguishing notice. She had spoken the words in a dream; and as part of a dream they had drifted from her consciousness, until she had been reminded of them this morning. It was all so dreadful — and now her hateful cousin was trying to persuade Aunt Hattie to go and question the Beau.
She sat up suddenly. She must stop this — but how? She had made one appeal to her relatives, and she recognized the futility of making another. The more she protested, the more likely it was that they would think her falsehood was the truth, after all. Contrary creatures, she thought angrily. When she had lied, they had refused to believe her; and now that she was telling the truth, they still thought she was pretending.
Perhaps they would not go to see Beau Eversley, after all, she thought, taking heart a little. Then she remembered her aunt’s final words just as she had been leaving the room, and the faint hope died. There had been a note in Aunt Hattie’s voice which Susan knew of old, and which had usually meant that action would be taken, however reluctantly, because Mrs. Fyfield had recognized a duty which ought to be performed.
She must face the fact that Aunt Hattie would go to Beau Eversley and ask him for the truth. What would he think of her when he heard the story she had told?
Her tears checked suddenly, and a wave of horror swept over her as a most unwelcome thought occurred to her. Merciful heavens! He might even think that she had told her aunt she was betrothed to him in order to force him into a proposal of marriage!
This must not be. There was only one thing to be done. She must see him first herself, and explain the whole affair to him as best she could. Anything would be better than for Aunt Hattie to confront him, and ask what his intentions were towards her niece!
*
Susan found no difficulty in leaving the house without being noticed, for her aunt and Cynthia were still in earnest colloquy in the back parlour. Fortunately, she had long since learnt from Georgiana that Beau Eversley did not live with his parents in Curzon Street, but had an establishment of his own close by in Berkeley Street. She was uncertain of the exact house, but determined to take a sedan chair, knowing she could very well rely on the chairmen to know which it was.
In a very short time, she was set down outside it. As she mounted the steps, she began to wonder for the first time exactly what she was going to say to Beau Eversley when she came face to face with him. So far, she had been concerned with the urgency of her mission, rather than its content.
It was suddenly borne in upon her that this was delicate in the extreme. Her spirit quailed, and almost she turned to run down the street again.
She shrugged despairingly, realizing that she had no choice but to go on. She raised the knocker, and tapped timidly.
The door was opened promptly by a footman in smart livery who contrived not to look surprised at her request to see his master at such an early hour of the morning. If he privately wondered a little at a young lady’s coming unattended to a bachelor establishment, this also was not allowed to appear. She was invited to step inside while inquiries were made.
After a short wait, a message was brought to the effect that Mr. Eversley would see Miss Fyfield in a few moments. She was shown into a small parlour off the hall, and left alone to grapple with some very disturbed emotions.
She was still feverishly rehearsing what she would say when the door opened, making her start nervously, and Beau Eversley himself came into the room. He bowed, and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece.
“Good morning, Miss Fyfield. I must apologize if my appearance does not do you credit, but I was obliged to scramble through my toilet in order not to keep you waiting.”
She glanced at the neat folds of the cravat which appeared above the stylish brown coat he was wearing.
“You — you look perfectly all right to me,” she stammered.
He gave a slight bow. “I am reassured. Naturally, I am delighted to see you; but tell me — do you usually call upon your acquaintances at such an early hour?”
“Oh, no — I beg your pardon for disturbing you,” she said, in a hurried, nervous tone. “But the matter was urgent.”
“Shall we sit down?” He indicated a window seat close to where she was standing, and came over to share it with her. “First of all, can I offer you some refreshment? Champagne does not agree with you, I know, but perhaps lemonade or coffee?”
She shook her head, and thanked him in a weak voice, before relapsing into a silence that lasted several minutes.
He looked at the clock again. “You mentioned an urgent matter,” he prompted at last.
She started. “Yes,” she admitted, unhappily. “There is something I must tell you — but I do not know how to begin!”
He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. “Then let me hazard a guess. You are in some kind of scrape again.”
She nodded, turning a pair of troubled dark eyes upon him.
“Now, what can it be this time?” he murmured, pensively.
She put up her hands to her face in a distracted gesture. “Oh, I wish I knew how to tell you!” she cried.
“I wish you did too, for it would be a great deal easier than guessing,” he replied, in a soothing tone. “Can you not try? I am not such an ogre, you know. After all, I have sisters of my own, and I dare say you would be hard put to it to get into any scrape which they have not explored before you.”
“Not this one!” she protested, in a muffled voice.
He sighed. “Very well, then, I must continue guessing until I hit on it.” He paused. “Is it anything to do with the events of yesterday evening?”
She raised her head a little from her hands, and nodded.
“Ah!” he said, with satisfaction. “Now, let me see…Perhaps your aunt took exception to the fact that you were — how shall we put it? — a trifle elevated by your first experience of champagne? She has punished you — or threatened a punishment? And you have come to ask me to intercede for you? Is that it?”
“No — but it was something to do with the champagne, in a way—”
Her voice broke in a sob, and she hastily turned her head away. It seemed impossible to tell him.
He patted her gently on the shoulder. “My dear Susan — you don’t mind if I call you Susan? You see I am treating you exactly as if you were a sister. Now pay me the same compliment, and confide in me as if I were your brother.”
“But I can’t!” She was trying hard now to hold back the tears. “And when you know what I have said, you will not trea
t me as a sister — or — or as anything at all! You will hate and — and despise me!”
“What you have said? To whom?”
‘To — to my aunt—” she choked.
“And it concerns me?”
“Yes.” She fumbled for a handkerchief in her reticule, and furtively wiped away the tears that were starting.
“Susan.” He took her by the shoulders, and gently pulled her round to face him. “You must tell me now, without further preamble, exactly what you have said to your aunt, and why it has made you come running to me for help. Do you understand? Let us have no more evasion, but come to the point at once.”
“I told her — I told her—” Her voice faltered, and died.
“Look at me, Susan.” He put his hand under her chin, and forced her to look into his eyes. “What did you tell her?” he prompted.
Her cheeks burned, and she tried to evade his glance.
“I told her that — that — I was — betrothed — to you,” she stammered, in a whisper.
He released her as though he had been stung. “You told her what?”
She repeated her words, this time in a slightly stronger tone. Now that they were out the worst hurdle was over.
He took a deep breath. “Yes,” he replied thoughtfully. “I think I begin to see. The champagne must have gone to your head a little more decidedly than I had thought. And might I inquire how long we are supposed to have been engaged? Presumably I declared myself last night?”
“No — it is worse than that,” said Susan, in a tone of deep mortification. “You see, it all started some weeks since, when I first came home from school to find my cousin Cynthia betrothed.” As far as she could without betraying her feelings for him, she explained what had led up to the present misunderstanding. “And now they will not believe me at all!” she finished miserably. “And what is worse, my aunt is coming to ask you for the truth!”
“I can well see that she might,” he replied dryly. “It’s a pity that your fantasies had to make me appear in quite such an unattractive light. I do not mind being thought capable of some things, but of inveigling a young schoolgirl into a secret engagement — no, one must draw the line somewhere! It is a great deal too bad of you, Susan.”
The Clandestine Betrothal Page 7
