Pistols For Two and Other Stories

by Джорджетт Хейер

  Such a tumult of emotion swelled in the widow’s breast that she could scarcely find voice enough to utter the words: ‘Whenever you wish, my lord! I shall be happy to receive you!’

  He rose, as Lady Luton surged down upon them. ‘Then, shall we say, at three o’clock tomorrow?’

  She inclined her head; he bowed and moved away; and a moment later she had the felicity of seeing his tall, well-knit frame beside Fanny. Fanny was looking up at him, with her sweet smile, and putting out her hand, which he took in his and held for an instant, while he addressed some quizzing remark to her that made her laugh and blush. A queer little pang shot through the widow, seeing them on such comfortable terms. She reflected that her absorption in Fanny had made her stupidly jealous, and resolutely turned her attention to Lady Luton.

  4

  Having ascertained that her daughter had no engagement on the following afternoon, Mrs Wingham was surprised, when she returned from a shopping expedition in Bond Street, to find that only one cover had been laid for a luncheon of cold meat and fruit. She enquired of the butler, hired, like the house, for the season, whether Miss Fanny had gone out with her maid.

  ‘No, madam, with a military gentleman.’

  These fell words caused the widow to feel so strong a presentiment of disaster that she turned pale, and repeated numbly: ‘A military gentleman!’

  ‘A Mr Kenton, madam. Miss Fanny appeared to be well acquainted with him. Extremely well acquainted with him, if I may say so, madam!’

  Making a creditable effort to maintain her composure, Mrs Wingham said: ‘Oh, Mr Kenton is an old friend! I had no notion he was in town. He and Miss Fanny went out together, I think you said?’

  ‘Yes, madam, in a hackney carriage. I understand, to the City, Mr Kenton desiring the coachman to set them down at the Temple.’

  This very respectable address did nothing to soothe Mrs Wingham’s agitated nerves. The whole locality, from Temple Bar to St Paul’s Cathedral, appeared to her to be sinister in the extreme. Amongst the thoughts which jostled one another in her head, the most prominent were Fleet Marriages, Doctors’ Commons and Special Licences. She was obliged to sit down, for her knees were trembling. Her butler then proffered a tray on which lay a note, twisted into a little cocked hat.

  It was scribbled in pencil, and it was brief.

  Dearest Mama,-Forgive me, but I have gone with Richard. You shall know it all, but I have no time now. Pray do not be vexed with me! I am so happy I am sure you cannot be.

  Mrs Wingham became aware that she was being asked if she would partake of luncheon or wait for Miss Fanny, and heard her own voice replying with surprising calm: ‘I don’t think Miss Fanny will be home to luncheon.’

  She then drew her chair to the table and managed to swallow a few mouthfuls of chicken, and to sip a glass of wine. A period of quiet reflection, if it did not lighten her heart, at least assuaged the worst of her fears. She could not believe that either Fanny or Richard would for a moment contemplate the impropriety of a clandestine marriage. But that the sight of Richard had revived all Fanny’s tenderness for him she could not, in the face of Fanny’s note, doubt. What to do she could not think, and in a state of wretched indecision presently went up to her bedroom. After removing her hat, setting a becoming lace cap on her head and tying it under her chin, there seemed to be nothing to do but to await further news of the truants, so she went to sit in the drawing-room, and tried to occupy herself with her needle.

  Fortunately, she had not long to wait. Shortly after two o’clock an impetuous step on the stair smote her listening ears, and Fanny herself came into the room, out of breath, her cheeks in a glow, and her eyes sparkling. ‘Mama? Oh, Mama, Mama, it is true, and you will give your consent now, won’t you?’

  She came running across the room as she spoke and cast herself at her mother’s feet, flinging her arms round her, and seeming not to know whether to laugh or cry. Behind her Mr Kenton, very smart in his regimentals, shut the door and remained at a little distance, as though doubtful of his reception. He was a well-set-up young man, with a pleasant countenance and an air of considerable resolution. At the moment, however, he was looking a trifle anxious, and he seemed to find his neckcloth rather too tight.

  ‘Fanny, my dear, pray—!’ remonstrated Mrs Wingham. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about! How do you do, Richard? I am very pleased to see you. Are you on furlough?’

  ‘Mama, we have such news for you! Richard’s godmother has died!’ interrupted Fanny ecstatically. ‘And she has left Richard a great deal of money, so that he can support a wife after all! He came to tell me at once, and I went with him to the lawyer, and it is true!

  Mrs Wingham turned her bewildered eyes towards Mr Kenton. He said bluntly: ‘No, it is not a great deal of money, ma’am, but it will enable me to buy my exchange, for you must know that I have been offered the chance of a company in the—th, only I never thought I should be able—. However, I can now afford the purchase money, and once I am in the—th, I hope I shan’t be obliged to wait upon the chance of Boney’s escaping a second time, and starting another kick-up, for my promotion. And I thought, if you would give your consent to our marriage, I would settle what will be left of the legacy on Fanny. It won’t be a fortune, but—but it will be something]’

  ‘Mama, you will consent?’ Fanny said imploringly. ‘You said I must see something of the world before I made up my mind, but I have now seen a great deal of the world, and I haven’t met anyone I like better than Richard, and I know I never shall. And although it is very amusing to lead a fashionable life, and, indeed, I have enjoyed all the parties, I would much prefer to follow the drum with Richard! You will consent?’

  Mrs Wingham stared down into the radiant face upturned to hers. A dozen objections died on her lips. She said, with a wavering smile:

  ‘Yes, Fanny. If you are quite, quite sure, I suppose I must consent!’

  Her daughter’s lips were pressed to her cheek, Mr Kenton’s to her hand. Seated amongst the ruins of her ambition, with that weight of depression upon her heart, she said: ‘And Lord Harleston is coming to visit me at three o’clock!’

  ‘Lord Harleston!’ exclaimed Fanny. ‘Oh, will you tell him, Mama, that I am going to marry Richard? I should have wished to have told him myself, but the thing is that Richard has leave of absence only for one day, and he must rejoin the regiment immediately. Mama, if I take Maria with me, may I go with him to the coach office? Pray, Mama!’

  ‘Yes—oh yes!’ said Mrs Wingham. ‘I will tell Lord Harleston.’

  5

  Thus it was that when one of the biggest but most unobtainable prizes of the Matrimonial Mart was ushered into Mrs Wingham’s drawing-room, he found the widow alone and sunk in melancholy. The depression, of which she had been conscious for so many weeks, threatened now to overcome her, and was in no way alleviated by her inability to decide which of the various evils confronting her was at the root of her strong desire to indulge in a hearty bout of tears. The years of economy has been wasted; yet she could not regret the weeks spent in London. Her maternal ambition was utterly dashed; but when she saw the happiness in Fanny’s face she could not be sorry. She must soon lose the daughter on whom her every thought had been centred for years; but if by the lifting of a finger she could have kept Fanny, she would have held her hands tightly folded in her lap, as they were when the Marquis walked into the room.

  He paused upon the threshold. The one glance she permitted herself to cast at his face showed her that there was an arrested expression in his eyes, a look of swift concern. The pain she was about to inflict on him most poignantly affected her; for a startling moment she found herself blaming Fanny for having wounded one of whom she was all unworthy. She was unable to sustain his steady regard; her eyes fell to the contemplation of the little gold tassels on his Hessian boots. They moved, swinging jauntily as he came towards her. ‘Mrs Wingham! Something has occurred to distress you. May I know what it is? If there is anything I may
do—’

  He was bending solicitously over her, one shapely hand lifting one of hers, and holding it in a sustaining clasp. She said disjointedly: ‘Yes—no! It is nothing, my lord! I beg you will not—! Indeed, it is nothing!’

  She drew her hand away as she spoke. He said: ‘Shall I leave you? I have come, I believe, at an unfortunate time. Tell me what you wish! I would not for the world add to your distress!’

  ‘Oh no! Do not go! This interview ought not to be—must not be—postponed!’

  He looked intently at her, as much anxiety in his eyes as there was in hers. ‘I came—I believe you must know for what purpose.’

  She bowed her head. ‘I do know. I wish—oh, how deeply I wish that you had not come!’

  ‘You wish that I had not come!’

  ‘Because it is useless!’ said the widow tragically. ‘I can give you no hope, my lord!’

  There was a moment’s silence. He was looking at once astonished and chagrined, but, after a pause, he said quietly: ‘Forgive me! But when I spoke to you last night I was encouraged to think that you would not be averse from hearing me! You have said that you guessed the object of my visit—am I a coxcomb to imagine that my suit was not then disagreeable to you?’

  ‘Oh no, no, no!’ she uttered, raising her swimming eyes to his face. ‘I should have been most happy—I may say that I most sincerely desired it! But all is now changed! I can only beg of you to say no more!’

  ‘You desired it! In heaven’s name, what can possibly have occurred to alter this?’ he exclaimed. Trying for a lighter note, he said: ‘Has someone traduced my character to you? Or is it that—’

  ‘Oh no, how could anyone—? My lord, I must tell you that there is Another Man! When I agreed last night to receive you today, I did not know—that is, I thought—’ Her voice became suspended; she was obliged to wipe teardrops from her face.

  He had stiffened. Another silence fell, broken only by the widow’s unhappy sniffs into her handkerchief. At last he said, in a constrained tone: ‘I collect—a prior attachment, ma’am?’

  She nodded; a sob shook her. He said gently: ‘I will say no more. Pray do not cry, ma’am! You have been very frank, and I thank you for it. Will you accept my best wishes for your future happiness, and believe that—’

  ‘Happiness!’ she interrupted. ‘I am sure I am the wretchedest creature alive! You are all kindness, my lord: no one could be more sensible than I am of the exquisite forbearance you have shown me! You have every right to blame me for having encouraged you to suppose that your suit might be successful.’ Again her voice failed.

  ‘I have no blame for you at all, ma’am. Let us say no more! I will take my leave of you, but before I go will you permit me to discharge an obligation? I may not have the opportunity of speaking to you alone again. It concerns Fanny.’

  ‘Fanny?’ she repeated. ‘An obligation’?’’

  He smiled with a slight effort. ‘Why, yes, ma’am! I had hoped to have won the right to speak to you on this subject. Well—I have not won that right, and you may deem it an impertinence that I should still venture, but since Fanny has honoured me with her confidence, and I promised her that I would do what I might, perhaps you will forgive me, and hear me with patience?’

  She looked wonderingly at him. ‘Of course! That is—What can you possibly mean, my lord?’

  ‘She is, I collect, deeply attached to a young man whom she has known since her childhood. She has told me that you are opposed to the match, ma’am. Perhaps there exists some reason beyond his want of fortune to render his suit ineligible, but if it is not so—if your dislike of it arises only from a very natural desire that Fanny should contract some more brilliant alliance—may I beg of you, with all the earnestness at my command, not to stand between her and what may be her future happiness? Believe me, I do not speak without experience! In my youth I was the victim of such an ambition. I shall not say that one does not recover from an early disappointment—indeed, you know that I at least have done so!—but I am most sincerely fond of Fanny, and I would do much to save her from what I suffered. I have some little influence: I should be glad to exert it in this young man’s favour.’

  The damp handkerchief had dropped from the widow’s clutch to the floor; she sat gazing up at his lordship with so odd an expression in her face that he added quickly: ‘You find it strange that Fanny should have confided in me. Do not be hurt by it! I believe it is often the case that a girl will more easily give her confidence to her father than to a most beloved mother. When she spoke, it was in the belief that I might become—But I will say no more on that head!’

  The widow found her voice at last. ‘My lord,’ she said, ‘do I—do I understand that you are desirous of becoming Fanny’s father?’

  ‘That is not quite as I should phrase it, perhaps,’ he said, with a wry smile.

  ‘Not,’ asked the widow anxiously, ‘not—you are quite sure?—Fanny’s husband?’

  He looked thunderstruck. ‘Fanny’s husband?’ he echoed. ‘I? Good God, no! Why—is it possible that you can have supposed—?’

  ‘I have never fainted in all my life,’ stated Mrs Wing-ham, in an uncertain voice. ‘I very much fear, however—’

  ‘No, no, this is no time for swoons!’ he said, seizing her hands. ‘You cannot have thought that it was Fanny I loved! Yes, yes, I know what Fanny has been to you, but you cannot have been so absurd!’

  ‘Yes, I was,’ averred the widow. ‘I could even be so absurd as not to have the remotest guess why I have felt so low ever since I met you, and thought you wished to marry her!’

  He knelt beside her chair, still clasping her hands. ‘What a fool I was! But I thought my only hope of being in any way acceptable to you was to praise Fanny to you! And, indeed, she is a delightful girl! But all you have said to me today—you were not speaking of yourself?

  ‘Oh no, no! Of Fanny! You see, she and Richard—’

  ‘Never mind Fanny and Richard!’ he interrupted. ‘Is it still useless for me to persist in my errand to you?’

  ‘Quite ridiculous!’ she said, clinging to his hands. ‘You have not the least need to persist in it! That is, if you do indeed wish to marry such a blind goose as I have been!’

  His lordship disengaged his hands, but only that he might take her in his arms. ‘I wish it more than for anything else on this earth!’ he assured her.

  To Have the Honour

  1

  Young Lord Allerton, a little pale under his tan, glanced from his mother to his man of business. ‘But—good God, why was I never told in what case I stood?’

  Mr Thimbleby did not attempt to answer this home question. He perceived that young Lord Allerton’s facial resemblance to his deceased father was misleading. There was nothing the late Viscount had desired less than to be told in what case he stood. Three years of campaigning in the Peninsula had apparently engendered in the Fifth Viscount a sense of responsibility which, however welcome it might be in the future to his man of business, seemed at the moment likely to lead to unpleasantness. Mr Thimbleby directed an appealing look towards the widow.

  She did not fail him. Regarding her handsome eldest born with an eye of fond pride, she said: ‘But when poor Papa died, you had been wounded, dearest! I would not for the world have distressed you!’

  The Viscount said impatiently: ‘A scratch! I was back in the saddle within a week! Mama, how could you keep me in ignorance of our circumstances? Had I had the least notion of the truth I must have returned to England immediately!’

  ‘Exactly so!’ nodded his parent. ‘And that, dearest Alan, I was determined you should not be obliged to do! Everyone said the war would so soon be over, and I knew how mortified you would be to be forced to sell out before the glorious end! To be sure, I did hope that directly after Toulouse you might have been released, but it was not to be, and it is of no consequence, except that here we are, with all the foreign notables upon us, and I have the greatest dread that your tailor may not have your
evening dress ready for you to wear at my ball next week!’

  ‘That, Mama, believe me, is the least of our problems!’

  ‘Very true, my love,’ agreed her ladyship. ‘Trix has been in despair, but “Depend upon it”, I have said from the outset, “even though your brother may patronize Scott, instead of Weston, who always did so well by poor Papa, you may be confident that no tailor would fail at such a juncture!”‘ Her gaze dwelled appreciatively upon his lordship’s new coat of olive-green, upon the pantaloons of delicate yellow which clung to his shapely legs, upon the Hessian boots which shone so bravely, and upon the neckcloth which was tied with such nicety, and she heaved a satisfied sigh.

  The Viscount turned in desperation to his man of business. ‘Thimbleby!’ he uttered. ‘Be so good as to explain to me why you did not think it proper to inform me that my father had left me encumbered with debt.’

  Mr Thimbleby cast another imploring glance at the widow. ‘Her ladyship having done me the honour to admit me into her confidence, my lord, it seemed to me—that is, I was encouraged to hope . . .’

  ‘To hope what?’

  ‘My dear son, you must not blame our good Thimbleby!’ intervened Lady Allerton. ‘Indeed, no one is to be blamed, for if you will but consider you will perceive that our case is not desperate!’

  ‘Desperate! I trust not! But that there is the most urgent need of the strictest economy—even, I fear, of measures as repugnant to me as they must be to you, ma’am, I cannot doubt! I dare not think what my own charges upon the estate have been during these months, when I should have been doing what lies within my power to repair what I do not scruple to call a shockingly wasted fortune!’

  ‘No, no, it is not as bad as that! she assured him. ‘My dear Alan, there is one circumstance you are forgetting!’

  He stared at her with knitted brows. ‘Pray, what am I forgetting, ma’am?’