The Autumn Rose

by Fiona Hill

  Amy appeared much pleased at this praise, casting her eyes downwards very prettily and declaring that Sir Sidney was only being gallant. A small flicker of interest which Caroline observed in his eyes as she herself came into his view seemed to confirm Amy’s supposition to a degree the younger woman would probably have deplored, had she been aware of it, but Amy was never, as a rule, aware of very much. The flicker Caro thought she had seen flared up quite plainly as Sir Sidney moved with unusual alacrity to offer her a chair near his. This she accepted, bowing to the company, and sat quietly while she determined how she might best draw him away from the others.

  It proved impossible at first, for Amy Meredith, with no inner strength or resources to rely upon in moments of solitude, had not the least intention of allowing their only, and very amiable, guest to escape her before she had a better diversion. On the contrary, she chattered at length about London, about her previous life in the country, about an injured lamb she had once found in a corner of a meadow, and nursed back to health (Caroline suspected strongly that someone else had done the actual nursing, while Amy only visited the animal when the fancy struck her), about everything, in short, that came into her head. Pettingill, who had really come to visit Lady Caro, was about to abandon the effort altogether and go away for the moment when a second caller arrived to distract Miss Meredith. This second visitor being no more overwhelming a personage than Mr. Ansel Walfish, Caro had no difficulty in contriving to leave him with Amy while she and Sir Sidney wandered across the room.

  “I am very glad to see you,” said Caro candidly when they had moved a little ways off, “for I have a particular favour to request.”

  “Anything, madam,” was the succinct reply.

  Lady Caroline smiled. “I knew you were the man to ask,” she murmured, using low tones to prevent the others’ hearing. “I must ask you first of all to keep this in confidence—though it is but a trifling matter, after all.”

  “You have my word, indeed.”

  “How very obliging you are, Sir Sidney! Now, to the point: I have been playing at cards with my cousin Seabury, and have been losing all the time. You have no notion how conceited he can be in his victories—in a teasing way, I mean, naturally, but still it is most provoking—and I wondered if I might apply to you to teach me how to play better. I am sure the trouble is merely my own ignorance: I have never played before but under the most homely, least competitive conditions. If you could but give me a little idea of how a really good player proceeds—I am told you play marvellously well.”

  “Oh my, there is not so much to it; simply a little learning allied with a knack for it, you know. What is your game?”

  “Brag.”

  “Indeed? Then you must have other opponents than Seabury, for brag is not a game for two hands. Who are they?”

  Caro saw with alarm that she had invented her pretext too hastily. Whom should she name? After a pause of decidedly suspicious length, she answered, “Why, Miss Meredith and our lady companions; but it is not on their account that I am eager to improve my game. It is Seabury who crows over his triumphs.”

  “I am surprised to hear of such ungentlemanlike behaviour in him—” began Pettingill.

  “It is all done in the best of good spirits,” she assured him at once. “My object is merely to startle him a little by playing somewhat more wisely the next time we sit down together. You understand: no one cares to be the one who is teased and laughed at all the time. So will you help me?”

  “Most assuredly; it is a profound honour to be applied to. I am only sorry the service you request is so trifling,” Sir Sidney replied, smiling wetly.

  She turned her eyes from that glistening mouth and smiled in return. “Must we sit down for our lesson? Shall I fetch the cards? Or will you merely tell me how I must go on to win?”

  “The guiding principles of brag are nothing great,” said he. “Most crucial is that you maintain an impassive countenance no matter what occurs. It is equally an error to show your cards are good, as to show they are poor. Say nothing and trust no one. So much for your own expressions.”

  “This is most helpful,” said she. They were walking up and down the long room, and had now reached the fireplace. “I already begin to see where I have been making my mistakes,” she added as they turned.

  “Indeed, showing too much emotion is the commonest failing of the amateur, but there are subtler ones than that. Even when they do not smile or frown, card players tend to give some sign of pleasure, or lack thereof, when first they see their hand. Some may, for example, rub their temples or twist up their fingers if their cards are nothing worthwhile; whereas the sight of a pair-royal might induce a straightening of stooped shoulders, or encourage the taking of a pinch of snuff to celebrate. This being the case, it is essential that you observe your adversaries closely. Does Seabury have no little mannerisms such as these? A good sober player does not, but if he is careless or excited he may tell you all you wish to know about his hand.”

  “I have not watched him half closely enough to know if he has such habits or not, but I assure you I shall start immediately. I am most wondrously grateful to you, sir.”

  Pettingill would hear none of this. He hurried on with his instructions even as the rush of colour into his pale cheeks told of his consciousness. “The accomplished gamester understands the odds against him too. He does not depend upon luck to pull him through but rather disciplines himself to act as his hand indicates. If you have nothing, wager nothing. This requires restraint, but it is essential.”

  “I believe I can contain myself sufficiently to obey such a law. What else must I know?”

  “If you do have something, do not rely upon it overmuch. A pair with a bragger is very well, unless your neighbour holds a pair. Do you follow me? One ought never to forget, in the joy of receiving good cards, that better ones may be held. And it is much wiser to withdraw from the round at once, the moment one has such a suspicion, than to risk even greater sums by remaining engaged.”

  “I am indebted to you more than you know, Sir Sidney,” she took up. “Is there any other thing I—” But she was prevented from finishing her sentence by Miss Meredith, who was calling insistently across the room.

  “Caro, please,” she was begging volubly, “Caroline, I pray you, what is the name of Baron Mockabee’s estate in Berkshire?”

  Her attention once caught, it ran too much against Lady Caro’s breeding to answer her petitioner from a distance. It was most annoying to be interrupted before she could be sure of gleaning all she might from Sir Sidney, but it was more impossible still to answer rudeness with rudeness by remaining apart from the others. Instead, she dropped Pettingill’s arm and returned to a seat near Windle. Sir Sidney drifted over behind her and sat down too. “I hardly recall,” she said when she had at last settled herself again, “but I am almost positive it has an M in it.”

  “Mockabee? Mockabee Hall, perhaps, or—?” Amy suggested.

  “Ah! Morton Hall. That is it,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, Mr. Walfish and I have been wondering, that is all,” Amy said, with marked carelessness.

  “I suppose you are acquainted with Baron Mockabee, Mr. Walfish?” Mrs. Henry asked.

  “Oh, very slightly,” said he. “Sufficiently to admire his cravats; not more than that.”

  “His cravats are marvels, I think,” Amy blurted out suddenly.

  “Goodness, such enthusiasm,” Miss Windle murmured.

  “I did notice, at the Opera,” Mrs. Henry concurred heavily, “that Lord Mockabee’s neck-tie was very well arranged. Full of artifice, and yet with the appearance of ease and accident: that is what I look for in a gentleman’s attire.”

  This brief speech did much to endear Mrs. Henry to Ansel Walfish, for she had precisely given his own criteria with regard to elegance. He took up her theme eagerly, and the conversation very naturally left Lord Mockabee behind. For this reason, Mrs. Henry’s comment provoked Miss Meredith just as
much as it had pleased Walfish. Miss Meredith would have liked to discuss the baron further, a fact which her expression made clear to any interested observer. Caroline, as an extremely interested observer, took note of the circumstance and confronted Amy with it the moment their visitors and chaperones had left them tête-à-tête.

  “My dear Amy,” she commenced, with sincere distress in her accents, “I do hope your interest in Baron Mockabee does not proceed from any attachment you may be forming—” No sooner had she said this much than she realized her error. Miss Meredith’s pretty face had at once assumed an expression of the most perfect resentment, the most complete contrariness: she supposed Lady Caro disliked her, and now addressed her for spite.

  “My dear Caroline,” she returned in mocking tones, “what reason could you have to hope such a thing? What reason, indeed, have you for caring where I form my attachments at all?”

  “I see you find my concern intrusive, but I assure you it springs purely from the most disinterested motives. I merely wish to preserve your happiness.”

  “And to keep me from Lord Mockabee,” Amy added.

  “Only if I think he may injure your peace of mind, as I fear he may. Baron Mockabee is not a kind man, my dear. He really is not.”

  “Faugh,” came the reply. “Merely because you have taken him in dislike—for what cause I know not; probably because he slighted you to dance with me instead, at our come-out—whatever the cause, in any case, I shall be grateful if you will not presume to burden me with your disapproval again. I do not at all seek your favour, so you may conclude from that how heavily your disfavour weighs upon me.”

  Caro flew impulsively into the face of this rebuff. “I am sorry for your lack of regard for me, but you must at least give me credit for honesty. This Mockabee is a cool hand, my dear; he is something of a rake. There are hostesses, in fact, who bar their doors to him; Lady Beatrice told me so herself. Truly, of all the gentlemen to whom you have been presented, Lord Mockabee is perhaps the least acceptable. Now surely there are other men among our acquaintance who have shown you more diligent attentions! Why, with my own eyes I witnessed both Arthur and John Lanham falling over each other to please you, not two days ago; and everyone knows Sir Clement Haslett considers you the beauty of the season. Come, my dear,” she continued gently, “leave off this curiosity about the baron, and bestow your favour upon some more assiduous admirer, who deserves it better.”

  “If I had not seen you turn Lord Mockabee away from our box last night,” Amy said deliberately, “I should be absolutely certain you desire him for yourself. Indeed, even as things stand now, I wonder if you do not seek to divert me, the better to approach him yourself.” She stared suddenly into Caroline’s eyes with an intensity almost ludicrous. “Are you my rival?” she demanded.

  “Oh dear, this is more serious than I suspected!” cried Caro in spite of herself. Are you indeed so far advanced in your infatuation? This is dreadfully unsuitable, dear Amy; this is deplorable.

  “You do not answer me.”

  “Not answer—do you mean, not answer your ridiculous accusation?” said she, laughing involuntarily. “How can you suppose me attracted to Lord Mockabee? Me! After what I have been saying of him!”

  “You still do not answer,” Amy said, with deep mistrust.

  “My dear girl, of course I am not your rival. I am nobody’s rival, for that matter. I should have thought you would know that.”

  Some of the sullen anger went out of Amy’s eyes, but she was not wholly satisfied. “Lady Beatrice thinks you wish to marry,” she said.

  “Lady Beatrice is entitled, by rank, age and purse, to any odd fancies she chuses to have,” Caro said, hoping to mollify Amy by speaking lightly. “She is an old love, but she has more opinions than she has grey hairs, and most of them spring exclusively from the same source.”

  Amy responded sulkily, “I am to understand, then, that you chuse to end your days an ape leader?”

  Shrugging, Caro said she thought she might very well.

  “I should hate to die an old maid,” said Amy. “There was a woman in the village near my father’s house who had lived alone since she was twenty, and she was eighty years of age when I knew her! It almost made me weep to think of her.”

  “Was she unhappy, then?”

  “She? Oh not at all; at least, not that showed. It just frightened me to think I might live that way; that was what made me cry.”

  Caroline had her own opinion of this account, but she kept it to herself. It had struck her forcibly that, for the sake of learning tidbits about Mockabee, Amy was rapidly leaving behind her old habit of timidity, and entering a new phase of perhaps disastrous forwardness. Apparently the idea of the baron was working very powerfully upon her sensibilities, or else she could never have faced up to Caroline as she had just now. “I am sure there is not the least likelihood of your dying single, nor even of passing your twentieth year in such a state,” she said, straining to maintain a conciliatory tone. “You have several of London’s most eligible bachelors at your feet already, so by all means enjoy your position, and never fret over improbabilities.”

  This flattery was finally beginning to reach Miss Meredith’s dim consciousness, and she dimpled up pleasantly. “Do you really think they are London’s most eligible bachelors?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” Caro assured her, though this nonsense was costing her quite an effort by now. Fortunately for her, Amy was sufficiently taken with the notion of herself as a presiding beauty to wish to go upstairs and contemplate her image in the mirror. She excused herself therefore, making her way directly to her chamber, where she mooned at herself in the glass above half an hour. Caroline, hardly ever so glad to see someone’s back, was left at last to release the laughter—both shocked and amused—that Amy’s performance had provoked.

  A quiet knock on the drawing-room door, which Amy had left half ajar anyhow, was immediately followed by the entrance into the room of Lord Seabury. “I hope I am not intruding—Oh! Lady Caroline, you are alone,” he broke off, surprised.

  “Pray sit down sir,” said she, her fit of giggling still continuing, and filling her with good will towards all men. “I have not gone mad, I promise you, only Miss Meredith has been telling me such things!”

  Seabury, gravely taking a seat, said, “I was not aware my cousin was so witty.”

  “Witty!” The suggestion sent Caro reeling into another peal of laughter, but the discourtesy of this to his lordship at last stopped her. Still choaking, she murmured, “Perhaps she is a wit, as Molière says, in spite of herself. I apologize, my lord. I ought not to laugh so at private jokes,” she added contritely.

  “I do not suppose you mean to style Miss Meredith a joke.”

  “Not at all; not a wit, nor a joke.” Her temporary euphoria wearing away, Lady Caro began to remember how irksome Seabury’s company could be. “I pray you will have the goodness to forget all about this foolish scene, dear sir.”

  The viscount bowed. “It is forgot. And now I have a favour to ask of you, if you are not too much engaged.”

  Lady Caro would have taken an oath she saw a blush rising on his lordship’s fine cheeks, and yet the proposition seemed so very unlikely. Still that was a deepening of colour; indeed it was, and he was keeping his beautiful blue glance to the floor for all the world like a bashful schoolboy. Irresistibly intrigued, she said, “Anything, my lord.”

  “The rain seems to have cleared up, Lady Caroline. I should like—” He looked up at her for an instant, then glanced away at once, “I should like to drive out with you in the Park this afternoon, if you care to come. If not,” he added fussily, “I am quite prepared to go alone.”

  The spectacle of this sober, handsome gentleman turned into an embarrassed pup was almost too much for Caroline. “Of course I shall be honoured to accompany you,” she replied after a moment, “but I should like to go to the Green Park, if you do not mind.”

  “It is a matter of the completest indiffere
nce to me.”

  This heavier tone marked a return to his lordship’s ordinary manner, a return that left Caroline strangely relieved. A few more phrases sufficed to fill in the details of their proposed excursion, which would take place an hour later, and Caroline quitted the drawing-room at last in order to contemplate this unexpected invitation. In view of her distaste for Seabury’s customary demeanour, she was strangely pleased; and yet in view of this pleasure, she was peculiarly severe. Most of all she strove to conceal from herself any sentiments whatever aroused by his lordship’s request. It was extraordinary; that was the limit of her acknowledged response.

  Chapter IV

  Rucke House, April 25th.

  My Dearest A,

  Forgive, I pray, the lapse of days since my last letter to you. They have been mostly uneventful; still, I shall attempt to give you some account of them. For one thing, I have made my first appearance at Almack’s so it is now within my power to assure you it is nothing, of itself, to pine away for. On the contrary, I very much envied those so-called unfortunates who are denied admittance, for it is dull, dull, dull. The only redeeming feature, for me, was the dancing; but even this is unadventurous compared to what may be done at private balls and parties. And here is a bit of intelligence you will scarcely credit: the cakes laid out for the guests are two days stale at least! I found it a very tame evening; its main advantage to me was that our ancient friend the Baron Mockabee cannot be met with there. Unhappily, he is to be seen almost everywhere else—but I shall return to this text later.

  Lord Seabury and I were accorded the privilege of leading off the first dance together. Oh my dear, he does foot it away beautifully! Your humble correspondent shows some improvement too, I may add, even beyond her initial brilliance. And while I am on the topic of Seabury, I must report unexpected news: twice now, in the last three days, my lord has invited me to drive out with him in the Park. Since you will not immediately comprehend why these tidings merit such emphasis, allow me to explain that during the five or six years previous to my appearance in this city, it was Lord Seabury’s constant habit to drive Lady Susan Manning, and no other than she, out into the Park. Those habitual outings took place only twice a week, according to his tiger (who told my abigail), and so it is impossible for me to know whether or not they still continue when he does not escort me; but is this not a striking detail? He neither said nor did anything out of the way during our two excursions together, and yet I cannot help but conclude that his lordship enjoys my company. Lady Susan drives in Hyde Park with her mamma when Seabury does not claim her companionship, I am told, and since I insist on visiting only the Green Park it is beyond my power to know more than I have already reported. I wonder, though, if she is miffed. I would be. More likely she meets the catastrophe with complacency or indifference—these are more in her style. I did encounter her at Almack’s on the occasion I have mentioned, and on that night, certainly, her manner was as bland as always. Of course, my lord had driven out with me but once before that, and she might easily not have known.