She cocked her head on one side, and gave him a knowing look. “Now what kind of scrape would a young girl of that quality be in that would need her coming to a gentleman for help, at all?”
“I am not at liberty to discuss that,” he said, stiffly. “It is a private matter.”
She nodded briefly, and glanced at the clock. “Of course: it would be. And now I must go. I have other appointments to keep, though you may not realize it.” He put out a hand to detain her. “I am sorry about today,” he said, with a regretful smile that was full of charm. “Will you ride with me tomorrow morning, instead?”
Her answering smile showed no rancour, but her reply was as firm as it was prompt. “I will not. Indeed, you can’t expect that I should.”
“Expect, no. Hope, yes. It is, I realize, more than I deserve—”
“Much more. And certainly more than you will be after receiving. And now, if you will forgive me—”
He put his hand on her arm. “I am the one in need of forgiveness. Say you’ll relent?”
She tapped his hand with the riding crop which she was carrying. “Perhaps. Some day.” Her voice was careless. She paused for a moment, regarding him steadily with her deep blue eyes. “Have a care to that child,” she said, suddenly, in a different tone. “She’s young, and it is clear that she—” She broke off. “No matter for that. But I was young myself — once — and I understand.”
“I’ll see you out,” he replied.
He accompanied her to the street, where a groom was waiting with her horse. She nodded a careless farewell as she swung lightly into the saddle, and rode away. He stood for a moment looking after her thoughtfully before he re-entered the house.
He found Susan standing by the window. She turned with a guilty start as he entered the room.
“Has she gone?” she asked, shyly. “I — I am sorry if I caused any unpleasantness—”
“Don’t trouble your head over that,” he replied, briefly. “Naturally, both of us assumed that the visitor would be your aunt. However, since Mrs. Fyfield has not yet called on me, we must go to her.”
He pulled the bell, and ordered his coach to be sent round immediately. Susan scarcely had time to settle herself into the luxurious red leather interior before she was alighting outside her aunt’s house in Duke Street.
When they were admitted by Mrs. Fyfield’s shabby footman, Susan could not help for a moment contrasting her own home with Beau Eversley’s elegant establishment. The next minute, every consideration of this kind gave way before her mingled apprehension and excitement. She led the way to the parlour where she had left her aunt and cousin — could it be possible? — barely an hour ago.
She opened the door, and found both ladies within. They appeared to be on the point of going out, for they were both dressed for the street.
“Great heavens! Susan!” exclaimed Mrs. Fyfield, while Cynthia contented herself with a small shriek of surprise. “Where on earth have you been, child? I declare, the most melancholy suppositions have been engaging your poor cousin and myself — oh!” She stopped on seeing Beau Eversley step into the room. “So you are not alone! Oh, Lud bless me! I declare I don’t know what to think!”
The Beau took charge at this point, and, making a very handsome leg, wished the ladies good morning. They replied automatically to his civilities, but looked almost as awkward and embarrassed as Susan herself. He saw that he was not to have much help in the business, but this did not disturb him in the least. His puckish sense of humour gave him a certain enjoyment of what to many would have seemed an awkward situation.
“I have come, madam,” he began to Mrs. Fyfield, “to explain myself. Alas, I fear you may feel that an explanation is long overdue.”
As he added the last remark in a penitent tone, he glanced slyly at Susan. He had the satisfaction of seeing some of the embarrassment ease from her expression, and a subdued twinkle appear in her dark eyes.
“Oh, no!” exclaimed Mrs. Fyfield, agitated, “That is to say, yes — if what Susan has been telling me is in any way the truth — but, of course, it couldn’t be! I do declare,” she breathed, looking around her in evident confusion, “that I must be dreaming! This can’t be happening — I shall wake up presently — most likely something I ate last night has disagreed with me—”
“I assure you, ma’am,” put in the Beau, smoothly, “that only the very best caterers were responsible for the supper which was offered to my sister’s guests.”
“Oh, dear me, yes, of course — to be sure!” protested Susan’s aunt. “I did not mean to suggest that there was anything wrong with the food — everything was of the most sumptuous of course—”
Beau Eversley bowed. “You reassure me, Mrs. Fyfield.”
“What Mama means,” put in Cynthia, who was recovering her composure a little, “is that this all seems like some dreadful nightmare.”
The Beau raised an eyebrow. “Dear me, do you really feel it is as bad as that?” he asked, trying to keep a laugh out of his voice. “I am to take it, then, what you do not approve of me as a suitor for Miss Susan?”
Cynthia turned an unlovely shade of red, while Mrs. Fyfield gaped at him for a moment. Suddenly the power of speech returned to her.
“So there is an engagement, after all, and Susan was not making it up!” she cried. “Lud, and I was sure the child was at her old games again — she has always had the most powerful imagination! You can have no idea!” She broke off, and stared at Beau Eversley in a puzzled way. “But I cannot at all understand it,” she went on, in a quieter tone. “How could you become sufficiently acquainted with Susan while she was at Miss Fanchington’s Seminary for a betrothal to take place? And what could you find to attract you in a young schoolroom miss when you might have had your pick of the Town’s belles? And why,” she finished, shrewdly, “should the matter be contrived in so secret a fashion? — you will forgive me, I am sure, but I had almost used the word ‘underhand’.”
The amusement died out of Hugh Eversley’s face for a moment.
“You have a right to feel as you do, Mrs. Fyfield, and I have much to be forgiven in this affair.” Susan opened her mouth to protest, for this was more than she could swallow; but he made a slight gesture of warning, and she subsided.
“My sister Georgiana managed to contrive meetings between your niece and myself,” he continued glibly. “It was most improper of me, I own—”
“And most improper of Susan, too!” exclaimed Cynthia, with a snap. “She must have been totally lost to all that is maidenly and virtuous!”
He turned a steely eye upon her. “You may say what you choose of my conduct, madam; but may I remind you that in maligning Miss Susan you are speaking of my future wife?”
Susan drew in her breath sharply.
“And my I remind you, Mr. Eversley, that she is my cousin, and has been for many a long year, before ever you set eyes on her?” retorted Cynthia, who for the moment had allowed her jealousy of Susan’s betrothal to overcome her reverence for the noted Beau Eversley. “No virtuous girl would consent for one moment to a secret engagement — it is only one degree less bad than an out-and-out elopement, let me tell you!”
“I’m afraid she is quite right, you know,” said Mrs. Fyfield, more reasonably. “It was not at all the thing, and if only you were not so wildly impetuous, Susan, and so hopelessly romantical, you could never have brought yourself to agree to such an improper arrangement!”
The quick colour started to Susan’s cheeks, and her eyes dropped away before Hugh Eversley’s reassuring glance.
“The blame’s all mine,” he said. “Knowing your niece as you do, you will not need me to tell you that her innocence was too profound for her ever to have realized the impropriety of a secret engagement. I alone knew that I was acting wrongly — though, at the time, in a view of her extreme youth, it seemed best not to press the matter further. However,” he went on, in a brisker tone, “I am here now to put things right, and to ask for your niece’s
hand in due form. Apart from the irregularity of our previous betrothal, is there any reason that you know of, madam, why I may not now have your consent to pay my addresses to Miss Susan in the conventional manner?”
A change came over Mrs. Fyfield’s face, where a number of conflicting expressions had been striving for mastery throughout this speech.
“Oh, Lud!” she said, shaking her head in bewilderment. “Lud save us. I don’t know what to say, and that’s the truth on’t!”
“You mean you need time to think over my application for your niece’s hand?”
She shook her head. “I mean I don’t know what to do! I am not at all sure — that is to say, perhaps you ought—”
She broke off, pausing a moment while the others stared at her in uncomprehending silence. Then she appeared to make up her mind.
“It’s no good — I see I must tell you, after all, in spite of my undertaking never to do so. But circumstances alter cases, and this was not foreseen — though it should have been, come to that, for girls who will grow up, and suitors will come for them—”
“Mama!” interrupted Cynthia, sharply. “What is it you’re trying to say? For heaven’s sake, come to the point!”
Mrs. Fyfield looked round at the mystified faces before her, and drew a deep breath.
“Yes, I must come to the point.” She turned to Hugh Eversley. “And the point is, Mr. Eversley, that it’s of no use your applying to me for Susan’s hand. In truth I don’t know to whom you should apply, unless it might be to her lawyer.”
A puzzled frown appeared on Beau Eversley’s face. “Her lawyer? But surely, as she is in your care, and you are her aunt—”
Mrs. Fyfield shook her head. “That’s just it. I am not. Susan is not my niece — she is not related to me at all. In fact,” she concluded, in the tone of one who has failed to give satisfaction, “I have no notion who she may be. All I know about her with any certainty is that she has a considerable fortune at her disposal.”
THE WAIF
Nobody moved or spoke for a few moments. Then Susan flung herself forward.
“Aunt Hattie, what in the world are you saying? Of course I am your niece — my father was your husband’s brother, and he left me in your care — you told me so ages and ages ago, I well remember it—”
“I am sorry, child, but it was all the completest fabrication. Of course, I know one should never tell lies to children; but what was I to tell you? Like this business of your engagement, there were so many situations for which I had no guidance — the circumstances were most unusual, you see—”
“This is absurd, Mama!” exclaimed Cynthia, recovering speech. “I know very well that my father’s brother Roger died on the high seas, for you have told me of it many times. And that he left a young widow somewhere in Dorset, who soon afterwards died in childbed. And Susan—”
“That part of the story was true,” admitted Mrs. Fyfield, with a trace of artistic pride in her manner. “It seemed to me that if I had to pass Susan off as a relation — and this was required of me — I could not do better than provide her with your poor Uncle Roger and his wife as parents. Dorset is a long way off, and your poor Papa had no relatives left alive nowadays who would be at all fit to make the journey to London, so I felt safe from exposure there. And it is always easier to deceive people if you are telling them part, at any rate, of the truth. Not that,” she concluded, hastily, “I would recommend either of you girls to deceive anyone; for apart from being very wrong and wicked it is also vastly uncomfortable, as I can tell you from my own experience—”
“So I am not your niece,” said Susan, slowly, breaking in on these moral reflections, “I am not related to you at all?”
Mrs. Fyfield shook her head. “Not in consanguinity. But that does not alter the fact that I am very fond of you, child — I should not at all mind if you were truly my niece. Indeed, I have been thinking of you as related to me for these many years past.”
“But why?” asked Susan, looking completely lost. “Why did you have to pretend that I was related to you? Who was it who asked you to do it, and why?”
“Yes, Mama,” echoed Cynthia. “I think you owe us all an explanation — perhaps even” — with an acid glance at the Beau — “perhaps even Mr. Eversley. After all, he will want to know just who it is he has got himself betrothed to. You had better tell us the whole, without further delay.”
So far Hugh Eversley had remained silent, watching each one intently, and listening closely to all that passed. Now he addressed Mrs. Fyfield for the first time since she had made her startling revelation.
“Perhaps you would like me to leave, ma’am. You may not care to speak in the presence of an outsider.”
“You are scarce an outsider, sir, since you are betrothed to my — to Susan,” amended Mrs. Fyfield, hurriedly. “No, it is better that you stay, for then perhaps you will understand what ought to be done — which is more than I can tell, for I cannot think whom you should approach to ask for her hand, as I said before. It must be the lawyer — yes, assuredly Mr. Watson is the man, you may depend on it.”
Beau Eversley hesitated. The whole affair was rapidly taking on a very different complexion. Drawn on partly by compassion and partly by other motives which he had not yet had time to analyse, he had offered to pretend that Susan’s story was true. The pretence would have served well enough for Mrs. Fyfield and even for her shrewish daughter; but a man — an, moreover, a lawyer — was altogether another matter. If the girl had been left in his charge, this Mr. Watson would naturally wish to see her betrothal arranged in a proper manner. There would be talk of settlements, and it might be difficult to persuade him that a formal announcement ought not to be made. And a formal announcement would bring undesirable complications to the inevitable breaking of the betrothal. The least desirable of these complications, in Beau Eversley’s view, would be the gossip that would surround Susan.
Fortunately, his hesitation was scarcely noticed. Both Susan and Cynthia were intent on hearing a full explanation from Mrs. Fyfield. After several promptings and false starts, they did eventually manage to glean the story from her.
“I was in such dire straits after your Papa died,” she began, addressing herself at first to Cynthia. “I have told you how often how we were left—” Cynthia assented hastily, trying to avoid a wealth of unnecessary detail — “so I will not weary you with that again. The question was, what could I do to mend my fortunes? Our fortunes, I should say, for though you were at that time only a babe I had to look to the future. There were no wealthy relatives to whom I might apply for help, so I began to cast about for some way of making money. At one time I even—” she hesitated for a moment — “I even considered keeping a gaming house.”
Cynthia exclaimed in horror.
“Oh, it would have been very select, you know,” Mrs. Fyfield said, hastily. “But, however, in the end I could not think that it was quite the thing for a gentlewoman, however improverished, so I abandoned the idea.”
“I should think so, indeed,” said Cynthia, impatiently. “But do, pray, come to the point, Mama!”
“Very well, child, I am coming to it, only I must explain how things were. Well, then I saw the advertisement.”
“What advertisement?” asked Susan, who was hanging anxiously on every word.
“It was in one of the journals — I forget which,” replied Mrs. Fyfield. “But it doesn’t signify. It asked for a lady of breeding who would be willing to receive a young child into her family in return for a handsome remuneration. It gave Mr. Watson’s address in Chancery Lane. I didn’t give it serious consideration, at first, you know; but I was ready to clutch at straws, and so I wrote off immediately, never thinking to hear any more.”
“But you did hear,” stated Susan.
Mrs. Fyfield nodded. “Yes. Within a few days, Mr. Watson himself waited on me. “I suppose,” she said, thoughtfully, “he came to look at the house, and see if he thought it a suitable home for the child —
but I never thought of that until now. Anyway, he asked a deal of questions. I began to find it all very tiresome, and to regret having ever answered the stupid advertisement — until he mentioned the remuneration. And then, of course, I saw at once that it was the very thing I had been looking for. But I didn’t wish to appear too eager, so I began to ask questions in my turn. He had already told me that the child was a girl of between two and three years old. I asked him about her parentage, and why a foster home was being sought for her; but I might have saved my breath. He refused to tell me anything beyond that her name was Susan and that she was a normal, healthy child.”
“So at least my Christian name is my own,” said Susan, in a small voice.
Beau Eversley glanced quickly at her. For some time now, his gaze had been fixed on Mrs. Fyfield as he followed the story she had to tell. He saw at once that the expression on Susan’s face had changed. At first, it had been one of simple bewilderment; now it showed unhappiness as well. She looked what she had been all those years ago — a waif in need of a safe shelter. He felt the stirrings of compassion.
“As to that, you need not worry, child, for until this affair of your betrothal I declare I had been thinking of you for many years as a Fyfield, and my niece too. Even if I were to discover now, at last, what your real parentage is, I doubt if I could alter my way of thinking. Indeed,” she added, patting Susan’s hand in a kindly way, “I don’t wish to; for, with all your rash ways, you’re a good girl, by and large, and I’m very fond of you.”
“Thank you,” said Susan, in a barely audible voice. “So you were paid for giving Susan a home,” put in Cynthia, bluntly. “And what about her board and lodging, clothes and school fees, and all the rest?”
“Oh, if you must have every little detail,” retorted her mother, “I submitted all bills on her behalf to the lawyer for payment. If there happened to be anything a little bit out of the way, I would go and see him and explain all about it He always made generous provision for her needs — most generous.”
The Clandestine Betrothal Page 9
