Pistols For Two and Other Stories

by Джорджетт Хейер

  In a little while the chaise had drawn up at the White Hart; the landlord had been awakened, and a couple of drowsy ostlers, still in their nightcaps, had lifted the Marquis out of the coach, and carried him up to a bedchamber on the first floor.

  No one seemed to feel very much surprise at this strange arrival in the small hours of the morning. The Marquis, who was well-known to the landlord, was obviously drunk, and this circumstance provided a perfectly reasonable explanation for both his and Miss Morland’s presence. ‘Though I must say,’ remarked the landlord, as he once more rejoined his sleepy wife, ‘I didn’t know he was one of them hard topers—not Carlington. Wild, of course, very wild.’

  The Marquis did not wake until past nine o’clock. His first sensations were those of supreme discomfort. His head ached, and his mouth was parched. He lay for some time with closed eyes, but presently, as fuller consciousness returned to him, he became aware of being almost completely clad. He opened his eyes, stared filmily upon his strange surroundings, and with a groan sat up in bed, clasping his temples between his hands. He found that with the exception of his neckcloth and his shining Hessians he was indeed fully clad, the kind hands that had relieved him of boots and cravat having failed in their endeavour to extricate him from the perfectly fitting coat of Mr Weston’s cutting.

  After another dazed look round the room, the Marquis reached for the bell-pull, and tugged at it vigorously.

  The summons was answered by the landlord in person. Carlington, still clasping his aching head, looked at him with acute misgiving and pronounced: ‘I’ve seen your rascally face before. Where am I?’

  The landlord smiled ingratiatingly, and replied: ‘To be sure, my lord, your lordship is in the very best room at the White Hart.’

  ‘Which White Hart?’ demanded the Marquis irritably. ‘I know of fifty at least!’

  ‘Why, at Welwyn, my lord!’

  ‘Welwyn!’ ejaculated Carlington, letting his hands fall. ‘What the devil am I doing in Welwyn?’

  This question the landlord, who had had an illuminating conversation with the two postilions, thought it prudent to leave unanswered. He coughed, and said vaguely that he was sure he couldn’t say. He waited for his noble client’s memory to assert itself, but the Marquis, with another groan, merely sank back upon his pillows, and closed his eyes again. The landlord gave another cough, and said: ‘The lady has ordered breakfast in a private parlour, my lord.’

  The Marquis’ eyes opened at that. ‘Lady? What lady?’ he said sharply.

  ‘The—the lady who accompanies your lordship,’ replied the landlord.

  ‘My God!’ said the Marquis, and clasped his head in his hands again. There was a pause. ‘Oh, my God, what have I done?’ said the Marquis. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘The lady, my lord, spent the night in the bedchamber adjacent to this, and awaits your lordship in the parlour. Your lordship—er—does not appear to have any trunk or cloak-bag.’

  ‘I know that, curse you!’ said the Marquis, casting off the coverlet, and setting his stockinged feet to the ground. ‘Damnation take this head of mine! Help me out of this coat, fool!’

  The landlord extricated him from it, not without difficulty, and suggested that his lordship might like to be shaved. ‘For I have a very reliable lad, my lord, and should be honoured to lend your lordship my own razors.’

  The Marquis had poured a jugful of hot water into the washbasin. ‘Send him up, man, send him up!’ he said. He dipped his head into the basin, but raised it again to say: ‘My compliments to the lady, and I shall do myself the honour of joining her in half an hour.’

  Downstairs in the private parlour Miss Morland had ordered breakfast for half-past nine. When the Marquis at last appeared she was drinking a cup of coffee, and looking as neat and as fresh as though she had had her maid with her, and several trunks of clothes.

  The Marquis had been shaved, had had the creases pressed out of his coat, and had contrived to arrange his starched but crumpled cravat in decent folds, but he did not look very fresh. He was pale, and the reckless look had gone from his face, leaving it worried, and rather stern. He came into the parlour, and shut the door behind him, and paused with his hand still on the knob, looking across at Miss Morland with a mixture of remorse and bewilderment in his fine eyes.

  Miss Morland’s colour rose, but she said calmly: ‘Good morning, sir. A very fine day, is it not?’

  ‘I have not noticed whether it is fine or not,’ replied Carlington. ‘I have to beg your pardon, ma’am. I have no very clear recollection of what occurred last night. I was drunk.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Morland, a slice of bread and butter halfway to her mouth. ‘You explained that at the time. May I give you some coffee?’

  He came to the table, and stood looking down at her in even greater bewilderment. ‘Miss Morland, drunk I may have been, but was I so drunk that I forced you to accompany me to this place?’

  ‘I came with you quite willingly,’ she assured him.

  He grasped the back of the chair before him. ‘In God’s name, what induced you to commit so imprudent an action?’

  ‘You won me,’ she explained. ‘I was the stake set by my brother.’

  ‘I remember,’ he said. ‘I must have been mad, and he—’ He broke off. ‘Good heavens, ma’am, that you should have been subjected to such an indignity!’

  ‘It was not very pleasant,’ she agreed. ‘It seemed to me preferable to go away with you than to remain under that roof another hour.’ She paused, and raised her eyes to his face. ‘You have always treated me with a courtesy my brother does not accord me. Besides,’ she added, “you assured me that your intentions were honourable.’

  ‘My intentions!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ said Miss Morland, casting down her eyes to hide the gleam of mischief in them. ‘You informed my brother that you would take me to Gretna Green. We are on our way there now.’

  The Marquis pulled the chair out from the table, and sank down into it. ‘Gretna Green!’ he said. ‘My dear girl, you don’t know—This is appalling!’

  Miss Morland winced a little, but said in a considering voice: ‘A little irregular, perhaps. But if I do not mind that I am sure you need not. You have a reputation for doing odd things, after all.’

  He brought his open hand down on the table. ‘If I have, the more reason for you to have refused to come with me on this insane journey! Were you mad, Miss Morland?’

  ‘Oh, by no means!’ she replied, cutting her bread and butter into thin strips. ‘Of course, it is not precisely what I should have chosen, but you offered me a way of escape from a house in which I was determined not to spend another night.’

  ‘You must have relatives—someone to whom—’

  ‘Unfortunately I have no one,’ said Miss Morland composedly.

  The Marquis leaned his head in his hand, and said: ‘My poor girl, you do not appear to realize the scandal this escapade will give rise to! I must get you to some place where you will be safe from it’

  Miss Morland bit into one of her strips of bread and butter. ‘As your wife, sir, I shall expect you to protect me from slanderous tongues,’ she said blandly.

  The Marquis raised his head, and said with a groan: ‘Helen, the notice of my engagement is in today’s Gazette!’

  There was just a moment’s silence. The faintest tremor shook Miss Morland’s hand, and she grew rather white. But when she spoke it was in a voice of mild interest. ‘Dear me, then what can have possessed you to accept my brother’s stake?’

  He looked at her with a queer hungriness in his eyes, and answered: ‘I have told you that I was drunk. Drunk, I only knew what I wanted, not what I must not do.’ He got up, and began to walk about the room. ‘No use talking of that. We are in the devil of a fix, my girl.’

  ‘May I ask,’ enquired Miss Morland, ‘who is the lady to whom you are so lately become engaged?’

  ‘Miss Fanny Wyse,’ he answered. ‘It is a long-stan
ding arrangement. I can’t, with honour, draw back from it. That accursed notice in the Gazette—It is impossible for me to repudiate it.’

  She regarded him rather inscrutably. ‘Are you attached to Miss Wyse, sir?’

  ‘It is not that!’ he said impatiently. ‘Our parents made this match for us when we were in our cradles. It has been an understood thing. Yesterday I made a formal offer for Miss Wyse’s hand, and she accepted me.’

  ‘I suppose,’ remarked Miss Morland thoughtfully, ‘that your excesses last night were in the nature of a celebration?’

  He gave an ugly little laugh. ‘My excesses, ma’am, were an all too brief escape from reality!’

  Miss Morland looked meditatively at the coffee-pot. ‘If you do not care for Miss Wyse, my lord, why did you offer for her?’

  ‘You don’t understand!’ he said. ‘She has been brought up to think herself destined to become my wife! I could do no less than offer for her.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Miss Morland. ‘Is she very fond of you?’

  He flushed slightly. ‘It is not for me to say. I believe—I think she wishes to marry me.’ A somewhat sardonic smile crossed his lips; he added: ‘And God help both of us if ever this adventure should come to her ears!’

  Miss Morland poured herself out some more coffee. ‘Do you mean to abandon me, sir?’ she asked.

  ‘Certainly not,’ replied his lordship. ‘I shall put you in charge of a respectable female, and compel your brother to make provision for you.’

  She raised her brows. ‘But you told my brother you would marry me,’ she pointed out.

  He paused in his striding to and fro, and said: ‘I can’t marry you! God knows I would, but I can’t elope with you the very day my engagement to Fanny is published!’

  She smiled at that, but not very mirthfully, and got up from the table. ‘Calm yourself, my lord. I have only been—punishing you a little. I came away with you because I was a great deal too angry to consider what I was about. What I really wish you to do is to convey me to London where I shall take refuge with my old governess.’ She picked up her hat, and added: ‘I think—I am sure—that she will be very willing to engage me to teach music and perhaps painting in her school.’

  He strode over to the window, and with his back to her said: ‘A Queen’s Square boarding-school! Helen, Helen—’ He broke off, biting his lips, and staring with unseeing eyes at a chaise that had just drawn up outside the inn. The chaise door opened, a young lady looked out, and the Marquis recoiled from the window with a startled oath.

  Miss Morland was tying the strings of her cloak, and merely looked an enquiry.

  ‘Fanny!’ the Marquis ejaculated. ‘Good God, what’s to be done?’

  Miss Morland blinked at him. ‘Surely you must be mistaken!’

  ‘Mistaken! Do you think I don’t know my promised wife?’ demanded his lordship savagely. ‘I tell you it is she! Someone must have sent her word—that meddling fool, Fort, I dare say!’

  ‘But surely Miss Wyse would not pursue you?’ said Miss Morland, rather aghast.

  ‘Wouldn’t she?’ said Carlington grimly. ‘You don’t know her! If she does not have hysterical spasms we may count ourselves fortunate!’ He looked round the room, saw a door at the opposite end of it, and hurried across to open it. A roomy cupboard was disclosed. ‘Go in there, my dear,’ commanded Carlington. ‘I must get hold of that landlord, and warn him to keep his mouth shut.’ With which he thrust Miss Morland into the cupboard, closed the door on her, and went quickly towards the other leading into the coffee-room.

  He was not, however, in time to warn the landlord. As he stepped out of the parlour that worthy was escorting Miss Wyse into the coffee-room.

  Carlington, realizing that it would be useless now to deny his extraordinary elopement, greeted his betrothed with biting civility. ‘Good morning, Fanny,’ he said. ‘An unexpected pleasure!’

  Miss Wyse was a plump little lady, just nineteen years old, with huge, soulful brown eyes, and a riot of dark curls. When she saw Carlington she let fall a very pretty muff of taffeta, and clasped her hands to her bosom. ‘You!’ she gasped, with a strong suggestion of loathing in her voice. ‘Carlington!’

  The Marquis grasped her wrist in a somewhat cavalier fashion, and said angrily: ‘Let me have no vapours, if you please! Come into the parlour!’

  Miss Wyse uttered a throbbing moan. ‘How could you, Granville? Oh, I wish I were dead!’

  The Marquis fairly dragged her into the parlour, and shut the door upon the landlord’s scarcely-veiled curiosity. ‘You do not waste much time, Fanny,’ he said. ‘Is this a sample of what I am to expect in the future? The very day our engagement is announced!’

  ‘Do not speak to me!’ shuddered Miss Wyse, who seemed to have a leaning towards the dramatic. ‘I am so mortified, so—’

  ‘I know, I know!’ he interrupted. ‘But you would have done better to have stayed at home.’

  Miss Wyse, who had tottered to the nearest chair, sprang up again at this, and said: ‘No! Never! Do you hear me, Carlington? Never!’

  ‘I hear you,’ he replied. ‘So, I imagine, can everyone else in the place. There is a great deal I must say to you, but this is not the moment. My whole object now is to avert a scandal. Explanations—oh yes, they will be hard enough to make!—can come later.’

  ‘I don’t care a fig for scandal!’ declared Miss Wyse stormily. ‘People may say what they please: it is nothing to me! But that I should find you here—that you should have—Oh, it is cruel of you, Carlington!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Fanny,’ he said. ‘You’ll find the truth hard to believe, but I promise you you shall hear the truth from me. I beg of you, be calm! I will myself escort you back to town—’

  ‘Do not touch me!’ said Miss Wyse, retreating. ‘You shan’t take me back! I won’t go with you!’

  ‘Don’t be such a little fool!’ said the Marquis, exasperated. ‘I warn you, this is no moment to play-act to me! I shall take you home, and there shall be no scandal, but help you to create a scene, I will not!’

  Miss Wyse burst into tears. ‘I dare say you’re very angry with me,’ she sobbed, ‘and I know I have behaved badly, but indeed, indeed I couldn’t help it! I meant to be sensible—really, I did Carlington!—but I couldn’t bear it! Oh, you don’t understand! You’ve no s-sensibility at all!’

  Rather pale, he answered: ‘Don’t distress yourself, Fanny. Upon my soul, there is no need! This escapade means nothing: I will engage to give you no cause for complaint when we are married.’

  ‘I can’t!’ said Miss Wyse desperately. ‘You shan’t escort me home!’

  He regarded her with a kind of weary patience. ‘Then perhaps you will tell me what you do mean to do?’ he said.

  Miss Wyse lowered her handkerchief and looked boldly across at him. ‘I’m going to Gretna Green!’ she announced. ‘And nothing you can say will stop me!’

  ‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’ he demanded. ‘There’s no question of going to Gretna! And if there were what in the name of heaven could possess you to go there?’

  ‘I’m going to be married there!’ said Miss Wyse in a rapt voice.

  ‘Oh no, you are not!’ replied the Marquis forcibly. ‘Though it is just like you to do your best to turn everything to dramatic account! If you go to Gretna, you’ll go alone!’

  Miss Wyse gave a shriek at this. ‘Good God, what do you mean to do?’ she cried, running forward, and clasping her hands about his arm. ‘Granville, I implore you, have mercy!’

  The Marquis disengaged himself, looking down at her in the liveliest astonishment. Even supposing her to be on the verge of a fit of strong hysterics her behaviour seemed to him inexplicable. He was just about to inquire the reason for her last outburst when the door into the coffee-room was thrust open, and a young man in a bottle-green coat strode into the parlour, and checked on the threshold, staring in a challenging way at Carlington.

  His bearing, though not his dress, proclaimed t
he soldier. He was about five-and-twenty years old, with a fresh, pleasant countenance, and a curly crop of brown hair brushed into the Brutus style made fashionable by Mr Brummell.

  Carlington, turning his head to observe the newcomer, said somewhat irascibly: ‘This, my good sir, is a private room!’

  Miss Wyse released Carlington’s arm, and sped towards the intruder, upon whose manly bosom she seemed more than half inclined to swoon. ‘Henry!’ she cried. ‘This is Carlington himself!’

  Henry said in a grave, rather conscious voice: ‘I apprehended that it could be none other. I beg of you, however, not to be alarmed. My lord, I must request the favour of a few words with you alone.’

  ‘Oh no, he will kill you!’ quavered Miss Wyse, grasping the lapels of his coat.

  The Marquis put a hand to his brow. ‘Who the devil are you?’ he demanded.

  ‘I do not expect my name to be known to your lordship, but it is Dobell—Henry Dobell, Captain in the—the Foot, and at present on furlough from the Peninsula. I am aware that my action must appear to you desperate; of the impropriety of it I am, alas, miserably aware. Yet, my lord, I believe that when it is explained any man of sensibility must inevitably—’

  The Marquis checked this flow of eloquence with an upflung hand. ‘Captain Dobell, have you ever been badly foxed?’ he said sternly.

  ‘Foxed, sir?’ repeated the Captain, quite taken aback.

  ‘Yes, foxed!’ snapped the Marquis.

  The Captain gave a cough, and replied: ‘Well, sir, well—! I must suppose that every man at some time or another—’

  ‘Have you?’ interrupted the Marquis.

  ‘Yes, sir, I have!’

  ‘Then you must know what it is to have a head like mine this morning, and I beg you’ll spare me any more long-winded speeches, and tell me in plain words what you’re doing here!’ said Carlington.

  Miss Wyse, finding herself out of the picture, thought it proper at this moment to interject: ‘I love him!’

  ‘You need not hang upon his neck if you do,’ replied the Marquis unsympathetically. ‘Is he a relative of yours whom you have dragged into this affair?’