by M C Beaton
‘If it is such a lie,’ said Lady Trant in a thin voice, ‘then why did the gossip start with your own footman, Miss Pym?’
‘That’s a bleedin’ lie,’ screamed Benjamin suddenly. ‘I never did!’
‘Silence!’ ordered the marquis. ‘Lady Trant, Miss Pym is a close friend of mine. I also know Sir George Clarence. I can assure you that there is no truth in the rumour. Nothing but scurrilous lies. Of course, if you prefer to believe the scandalmongers, then I fear I must remove my cousin and my friend from Hadley Hall so that neither may be subject to further insult.’
Yvonne, who had been looking in a dazed way from one to the other, nonetheless marked that the usually easy-going and laconic marquis looked formidable.
‘Well, I don’t believe a word of it,’ said Letty quickly. ‘I mean, just look at Miss Pym!’
All looked at spinster Hannah, at her good and fashionable clothes, at her outraged eyes, at the prim spinsterish set of her figure. Lady Trant flushed slightly. ‘Well, dear me, Miss Pym, now I come to think of it, and considering what one knows of Sir George and having met you, of course the whole thing is ridiculous. Pray accept my sincere apologies.’
Hannah gave a stiff little bow from the waist by way of acknowledgement. Clarrie got to her feet. ‘Pray allow me to show you the gardens, Lord Ware,’ she said. ‘It is such a fine day.’
He smiled and rose as well and soon could be seen walking slowly away across the lawns beside the dumpy and energetic figure of Clarrie. ‘I shall go too,’ said Letty quickly and ran after the pair.
In a rather stifled voice, Hannah said she wished to retire for a little. Lady Trant was all solicitude, promising to send her own lady’s-maid up to attend on Miss Pym, apologizing over and over again at having bruised ‘so distinguished’ a guest’s feelings.
‘Come, Benjamin,’ ordered Hannah.
Lord and Lady Trant followed them out. Yvonne, still eating breakfast, stayed where she was. The sun was warm and pleasant. She felt she should go after Hannah and see if that lady needed any soothing down after the insult that had been given her, but then decided against it. The formidable Miss Pym was made of iron and Lady Trant had certainly apologized.
Her thoughts turned to the marquis. He had reached the edge of the lawn. Clarrie appeared to be trying to pull him one way and Letty the other. Clarrie was squat and ill-favoured with a masculine voice, Letty was tall and thin and flat-chested, but both were the daughters of a lord, with all the background of wealth and privilege. Yvonne began to feel very low. A man such as the marquis would never look in her own direction. Not that she wanted him to, she reminded herself quickly. She did think that he was probably wealthy and had lied about his poverty. No poor man could have bribed a stage-coach driver or offered to pay for a post-chaise to York. He was not escaping his debtors by getting on the coach under an assumed name. Therefore, it followed, he was probably escaping from some amour. A large cloud floated high above and cast a shadow on the grass and some of that shadow seemed to enter Yvonne’s soul. She finished her breakfast and went in search of Hannah.
In Hannah’s room, the angry spinster was facing her footman. ‘You what?’
‘It seemed like a good idea at the time,’ mumbled Benjamin. ‘I mean, I thought, like, Sir George needed a bit of a nudge in the direction of marriage. I thought he would feel obliged to make an honest woman of you, so ter speak.’
Hannah clutched her head in despair.
‘You meddling fool! Now I can never see him again. What have you done to me, you jackanapes?’ A wave of grief and loss for her ruined dream swept over her and she sank down into a chair and dabbed at her now streaming tears with a handkerchief.
‘I meant it only for the best,’ said Benjamin in anguish. ‘You won’t want me now. I’ll take myself off.’
Hannah scrubbed at her eyes and then shook her head. Benjamin was like a member of her family, almost like a son. She could not tell him to go.
‘I feel it is a judgement on me, Benjamin,’ said Hannah wearily. ‘I have been getting above myself. All these adventures with lords and ladies and getting on familiar terms have quite gone to my silly head. Sir George would never marry me or even think of me in any terms warmer than friendship. It is probably as well this has happened. Give me some time alone to recover. But do not ever try to meddle in my affairs again. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, mum,’ said Benjamin, anxious to get away from her before he too broke down and cried.
When he had gone, Hannah opened her trunk and took out a flat box. In it lay the spoon she had taken from Gunter’s, the famous confectioners, to commemorate the times they had taken tea there. Beside it lay the glove he had kissed.
They would need to be thrown away. Her heart would mend the quicker if she kept nothing to remind her of Sir George. Into the box she placed – as if placing a small corpse in a coffin – the bottle of scent he had given her. This was followed by the scarf, the delicate little fan, and the guide-book.
She swallowed convulsively and then rang the bell. A trim housemaid answered it and Hannah handed her the box. ‘In here,’ she said in a choked voice, ‘are some items I no longer need. You are welcome to them.’
The housemaid bobbed a curtsy and took the box. Out in the passage she met Benjamin, who was hovering about. ‘What’s that?’ asked Benjamin sharply. He bit his tongue hard to repel another bout of sobbing and repeated, ‘What’s that?’
The housemaid hugged the box to her bosom. ‘Your mistress done give it me.’
‘Let me see.’
Reluctantly she opened the box. Benjamin looked sadly down at the contents. ‘Buy it from you.’
‘Them’s mine!’ The maid tossed her head and set the streamers on her cap bobbing.
Benjamin fished in his pocket and extracted two sovereigns and tossed them up and down. ‘Gold,’ he said.
Sunlight shining through a long window in the passage glittered on the coins.
Her eyes gleamed. ‘Very well,’ she said breathlessly. Benjamin handed over the coins and seized the box and ran off with it to stow it in his luggage. Somehow, he must think of a plan to repair the damage he had done.
That afternoon, the marquis sat at a desk in his room. He had given the excuse that he had letters to write, in order to escape from Letty and Clarrie. He knew they were waiting below for him in the drawing-room. Letty had promised to play the harp.
And then, looking down from the window, he saw Yvonne crossing the grass, a light breeze fluttering the thin skirts of her gown. She had heard the angry voices from Hannah’s room and had decided to go for a walk.
He left his room and darted quietly down the stairs and looked for a moment out across the empty lawn in front of him before he remembered that the window of his room overlooked the lawn at the back of the house. He quickly made his way there, fearing every moment to hear the patter of feet as Letty and Clarrie ran after him. As he reached the back of the great mansion it was to see Yvonne opening a tall ornamental iron gate which led to a walled garden.
When he entered the garden himself, he saw her standing by a sundial in the centre and went to join her. The garden was a mixture of flowers and herbs. The air was warm and heavily scented. Trim box-hedges separated the beds in an Elizabethan pattern of shapes: clubs, hearts, and diamonds.
Yvonne turned and saw him and smiled and he caught his breath. ‘It is very safe here,’ she said simply. ‘My grandmother has a house in Brittany, near the coast, with a walled garden. This reminds me of childhood and security.’
Something stirred in him. She looked so delicate and fragile and yet so gallant that he wanted to present her with the security she craved. She moved on down one of the paths and he fell into step beside her. ‘Tell me,’ said Yvonne, ‘of this scandal about our Mees … Miss Pym. You appeared to know all about it.’
‘Miss Pym is evidently the friend of a dry-as-dust retired diplomat.’ Oh, how Hannah’s heart would have ached could she have heard him describ
e the love of her life in such terms. ‘Some jealous cat put it about that Miss Pym was this Sir George Clarence’s mistress. I knew of the tale when I first met Miss Pym on the stage-coach, but one has only to look at her to know, to realize what rubbish the story is. But Lady Trant had the right of it in that it is believed the story originated with her own footman. Her Benjamin looked stricken enough at the breakfast table.’
‘So what will happen now? What will this Sir George do?’
‘If he has tender feelings for Miss Pym – which I doubt – he may propose marriage. If not, then, old diplomat that he is, he will no doubt find some excellent way to scotch the rumour. But what of your troubles, Miss Grenier? What happens after I have conveyed you safely to York?’
Yvonne smiled slightly. ‘You may say goodbye to me and my troubles. My father will arrange all.’
His glance glinted at her. Was she being devious and very, very clever? There was always a power struggle in any political scene. If her father was still regarded as one of the original heroes of the Revolution, Petit might have been telling the truth in that Monsieur Grenier meant to return to France. In that case, he might prove a formidable rival and Petit’s plan could indeed be to get rid of him. His clever daughter could be using himself and Miss Pym as cover until she got to York so that she and her father could escape to France unscathed and there help to perpetuate that monstrous regime of terror. She was not like any female he had ever known. He knew where he was with English misses, who barely used any finesse in their pursuit of him. There was something mysterious about Yvonne and yet he dearly wanted to believe her innocent. A peacock cried harshly from outside the garden like a warning from a harsher,more brutal world.
‘I should return and see how Miss Pym fares,’ said Yvonne. ‘Can it be that she loves this Sir George?’
‘Hardly.’ The marquis laughed, as if the very idea of such as Miss Pym in love were totally ridiculous.
‘Age is no barrier against love,’ said Yvonne quietly. ‘That you should understand, milord, being perhaps nearer to Miss Pym’s age than my own.’
‘You are right.’ He was suddenly annoyed. ‘I am beyond the age of puppy love.’
‘Then that you should convey to the two young ladies of this house,’ said Yvonne tartly. ‘It would save them wasting their time.’
‘I did not mean I would not marry,’ he said.
‘So you would marry without love?’
‘I think mutual rank, fortune, and a certain amiability are better foundations for marriage than love.’
‘It is possible, I think, to have all those things and love as well.’
‘You being an expert on the subject.’
‘Me being an expert on the subject,’ she agreed.
‘How so?’
‘I was affianced at the age of sixteen to a Monsieur Paul Chariot. We were very much in love.’ Yvonne sighed and the marquis found himself becoming curious. ‘What happened?’ he asked in a carefully neutral voice.
‘Eh bien, with Papa turning against the Revolution and using most of our fortune to help people escape, marriage was no longer possible.’
‘Why? Did this Paul support the Revolution?’
‘He was neither for it nor against it, being of a gentle, retiring disposition. But I no longer had any dowry, you see, so naturally he had to find someone else.’
‘Jackanapes. Mercenary puppy,’ snapped the marquis.
‘But affairs are organized here in the same manner,’ said Yvonne. ‘Hardly ever does a man of any substance marry a penniless girl.’
‘And you accepted the situation just like that! Without complaint?’
‘Oh, I am of a practical turn of mind. I cried a great deal, of course, but,’ went on Yvonne with a certain amount of pride, ‘only when I was alone. I kept my dignity.’
‘But you said you had never been kissed! Such a sweet and tender love and no kisses.’
‘It is not the same in France,’ said Yvonne primly. ‘French girls are not so forward as English ones.’
She stopped to sniff a rose and he looked down at her, half exasperated, half amused. ‘Would you like me to kiss you?’ he asked abruptly.
Her eyes flew to meet his and she coloured faintly and then automatically veiled them with her long eyelashes, a coquettish gesture. ‘But why?’
The answer was, thought the marquis suddenly, ‘Because I think I might be a little in love with you,’ but he said aloud, ‘For amusement. Would you not like to have the experience?’
Those eyelashes raised. ‘Perhaps,’ she said slowly. ‘For it would not matter. After York I will not see you again. Yes, perhaps I will try.’ She turned her face up to his.
He cradled her face in his hands and gently kissed her on the mouth. Someone in the house had started to play the harp – Letty – and he felt suddenly as if the very angels were serenading them. Such innocence, he thought in a dazed way, such piercing sweetness near to pain. The sun was warm on his head and the scents of herbs and roses mingled with the scent from her hair. And then a black wave of passion seemed to crash across his brain and the next thing he knew, she was struggling free of his lips, looking up at him, wild-eyed and frightened.
‘I am so sorry,’ he said huskily. ‘I did not mean to frighten you.’ But she turned and ran away from him, through the flower-beds, and out of the gate.
Benjamin was riding to Grantham on a horse he had borrowed from the stables. In his pocket was a letter to Sir George Clarence. Feeling that the damage had been well and truly done, Benjamin thought that he may as well explain his folly to Sir George.
Dear Sir George [he had written], By the time you Receive this Letter, a scurrilous Rumour concerning you and my Mistress, Miss Pym, may have reached your ears. I was the Instigator of that Rumour. It was my belief you had a tendre for my Mistress and I was aiming to help the Course of True Love.
Alas! My Mistress found out what I had done and is in Tears and says she can Never see you again. What am I to do?
Pray accept the Apologies of one Grief-Stricken footman who remains Yr. Humble Servant, Benjamin Chubb.
Ps. On my return to London, you may Horsewhip me, as it please you,
Benjamin had laboured over a dictionary in the library to make sure his spelling was correct. At Grantham, he left the letter to be collected by the next-up mail coach and went into the tap of the Bull and Mouth to refresh himself with a pint of dog’s nose before returning to Hadley Hall.
The innkeeper recognized him and hailed him with surprise saying there had been no end of a to-do when those two gentlemen, Mr Smith and Mr Ashton, had found the party had gone.
‘So what did they do?’ asked Benjamin.
‘Hired a post-chaise and set off hell for leather,’ said the innkeeper.
Benjamin smiled. At least that would be some good news to take to Miss Pym. But then Miss Pym would ask him what he had been doing in Grantham and he could not possibly tell her he had written to Sir George.
He sighed, feeling all the weight of a guilty conscience bearing down on him again. His drink – a mixture of beer and gin – began to make him feel slowly better. The taproom was dark compared to the blazing sunshine outside. Smells of cooking were drifting through from the kitchen to mingle with the smell of sweating horses from outside, as carriages came and went. He called for a newspaper and retired with his tankard to a table near the door where an oblong of sunlight shone on the flags. Benjamin sipped his drink and read slowly. He was reluctant to return, to see Hannah’s sad face. He promised himself that he would go as soon as he had finished the paper, which was a London one, only a day old. And having made that promise, he settled down to read every line, ending up with the obituaries. With amazement and relief, he read that Lady Carsey, his old enemy and tormentor, she who had threatened to get revenge on Miss Hannah Pym as well as himself, had died. With more amazement did he note that she had died of a heart attack. He would have expected such a cruel and violent lady to have died a more fitting death
. He folded up the newspaper and tucked it into his pocket. He would show it to Miss Pym but would not tell her where he had come by it.
Yvonne found Hannah in her room. The spinster was sitting in a chair by the window, very still, her hands folded on her lap.
‘You were very distressed about the gossip,’ said Yvonne. ‘But what is gossip?’
‘A dreadful weapon,’ replied Hannah quietly. ‘I had no hope, you see, not at any time, for how could such as Sir George look on me in that light? But while we were friends, I could dream. Now my dreams are gone.’
‘Sir George,’ said Yvonne tentatively. ‘Was he not the handsome gentleman with the white hair who gave you the presents before we left London?’
‘The same.’
‘Miss Pym, he looked at you with such affection. If any gossip maligned a friend of mine, I would not believe a word of it, and it would not alter that friendship.’
‘I am an ex-servant.’ Hannah looked weary. ‘And it is a scandal in itself for Sir George to entertain me.’
‘But that did not prevent him from doing so, non? How did he entertain you?’
Hannah’s odd eyes grew misty as she remembered each precious moment. ‘He took me to Gunter’s, twice, to the opera, and showed me the improvements to the gardens at Thornton Hall.’
Yvonne’s quick and pragmatic Gallic mind fastened immediately on the most important point. ‘He took you to the opera?’
Hannah nodded.
‘Then, believe me, madame, he doesn’t give a fig for public opinion. His … er … feelings of friendship must be very strong indeed.’
‘Well, I am sore embarrassed.’ Hannah’s square shoulders rose and fell in a gesture of resignation. ‘Best to forget him. I gave all mementoes of him to a housemaid.’
Yvonne fell silent, but her mind was working busily. She thought of the marquis and a little colour rose to her cheeks as she remembered that kiss. How violent her own emotion had been! And was she not in the same position as Miss Pym? Such a man as the marquis had been merely dallying with her. But Miss Pym must be helped. She, Yvonne, must fight down her embarrassment, go on as if that kiss had never happened, and ask the marquis to talk to Sir George on his return to London.
