by Fiona Hill
“Well,” Seabury observed quietly, “and so am I furious with him.”
“Why?” she countered. “Because of that silly poem in The Times?”
“Yes, cousin; because of that silly poem.”
“If it had been about me you would not care so much,” she charged.
“That is perfectly untrue,” said he.
“You mean it is perfectly true,” she retorted, continuing with a new tone of sullenness. “In any case she has had her vengeance. She drove up to our door just as Mockabee was leaving, and gave him the cut direct.”
“Did she?” he murmured, catching at this detail.
“Yes she did, and I thought it abominably low. Why is she so certain he wrote that poem anyway? There are crowds of Lord M’s in London, I trust. And even if she knew it to be him,” she went on, pulling her pretty mouth into a terrific pout, “it is hardly sporting to take it in such bad part.”
“My dear Amy,” said he, suddenly softened, “what do you know of sporting behaviour? Even if you were thoroughly versed in it, you would be wrong to think this situation calls for it. Lord Mockabee’s poem constitutes a public attack on Lady Caroline’s name. It is a very grave offence, and has not been easy for Caroline to bear.”
“She looks careless enough,” Amy interjected sulkily.
“Indeed she does,” said he, smiling strangely. “It is our obligation to assist her in maintaining that mask of indifference. She has elected not to go out for the next few days, except among family; but when she feels ready to venture forth, I think we must all go with her. Yes, we must; I propose we walk in Kensington Gardens that evening, all of us. It will be a pleasant, simple return into society for her, and open enough so that no one gossip can start all the others humming.”
“Obligation,” Amy spat out disgustedly. “Protect Caroline, that is your byword these days. What became of ‘Walk Alone?’ I thought that was the motto on the Romby crest.”
“So it is, my dear,” said he, losing his patience again. “I suggest, therefore, that you walk alone to your bed-chamber, or somewhere, for I feel the need of solitude myself.”
This unusually abrupt dismissal had its desired result: Amy, silenced, quit the room and left her cousin in peace. The events of the morning had stimulated his thoughts greatly. Most of all, the idea of Sir Sidney Pettingill offering for Caroline caught hold of his imagination. It was not impossible, he incorrectly supposed, that her ladyship would accept him. Seabury saw in him no special charm, but he was so much cried up by the match-making mammas that the viscount concluded he must have qualities visible only to the fairer sex. If she did accept him—but this was too disagreeable to contemplate. If she refused him—could Seabury offer himself? Would she have him? Her initial response to him had been dreadful; of that he was sure. One had only to remember the speech he overheard her making to Romby that day, so soon after her arrival, to know it beyond a doubt. And yet, as time went by, he had seemed to perceive a warming of her sentiments towards him. On those occasions when he had invited her to drive with him in the Green Park, she had never refused; but then, he reminded himself, there had of course been the unpleasant scene which had caused the curtailment of those drives. She was harsh in her judgements, as he knew through observation and through experience. She was rash too, and stubborn. He had felt the disadvantage of all three of these faults more than once; but were they not, perhaps, compensated for by her candour, her sincerity? He had been interested to hear Amy’s account of Caro’s meeting that morning with Mockabee: it seemed to him a manifestation of restraint, of an ability to govern her feelings which he had sometimes feared she lacked. Moreover, he had seen her only yesterday a very picture of contrition. Her insistence upon making an humble apology—was that not behaviour graceful enough to erase the memory of her errors in judgement?
With a start, he remembered Lady Susan. Horrible to recognize how wholly he had forgot her! He could no longer pretend, even to himself, that she was anything to him except an object, by long habit and mild inclination, of friendly solicitude. Nonetheless, Lord Safford had stood by him unfailingly for years, in Parliament and out, and Seabury had pretty much given him to understand that Susan and he would marry someday. True, he had not said it in so many words—not an easy achievement of late, either, since Safford had begun to grow impatient. It gave Seabury a queer feeling, a feeling almost like a repugnance against himself, to admit that he might actually be capable of leaving Susan on the shelf. After all, besides her father’s kindness to him, Susan herself had been unobjectionable all these years (barring perhaps the recent incident in Hampstead), never giving him the slightest cause to complain of her or regret his association with her family. He liked to think what he could no longer comfortably think: that he was a man who paid his debts, who would fail in no explicit or implicit promise, who struck out upon the road of honour and never faltered, though sentiment might fall behind. Must he offer for Susan then? How had his desires drifted so many miles away from his conscience? To offer for her was to win her; of that there was no question. The idea of winning Susan had an heavy irony in this context, yet she was a gem in her own way; his lordship could not dissuade himself of that early conviction. She was docile, well-intentioned, pretty and agreeable. Why should he long for a bold, high-spirited, impetuous woman, when Susan was his for the asking?
If the reader feels at once that such a question answers itself, it is perhaps well to point out that Lord Seabury had never set eyes upon Caroline until six weeks before, whereas Lady Susan had been his chosen companion upwards of seven years. Furthermore, Seabury was a man universally acknowledged to be firm of resolve, a man whose political ambitions meant a great deal to him, who was noted for his sense of honour, his dignity and his gravity. It was not long before his well-disciplined mind had forced the thought of marrying Caroline into a narrow and dark recess, and brought the idea of Lady Susan out into air and sunlight again. Of course he would marry Susan, he said to himself calmly. He must offer for her soon, in fact. He would do very well with her for a wife; they had been compatible these six years—not a single quarrel, he observed brightly—and they would be compatible ten times that long. He would be at peace, thank God, with both the world and his own conscience; and through that peace should find strength to pursue his career in government. He emerged from the Gilt Saloon a moment later with a sensation of tranquillity that had been eluding him for some time. Of course there was a duel to be fought at dawn next day; but that was a case where his duty was clear, and soon dispensed with. He slept better that night than many a man with a similar appointment ahead of him.
May the fifteenth was not a fine day that year. Even before light began to gild the edges of the dark sky there was an oppressive humidity, a lingering sultriness that night had been unable to overthrow, which recalled the heat of the previous evening and promised a renewal of dull, enervating weather. It had been unseasonably warm, indeed, for weeks; and though the sky seemed continually to threaten rain, it never went so far as actually to produce any. Oliver, Lord Seabury made his toilet by candle-light that morning, assisted by his valet, and conscious more than anything of the necessity of making no sound that might arouse the guests at Rucke House. As the ladies were quartered at the opposite end of the house, his task was not difficult; but his anxious conviction that Lady Caroline would be highly displeased if she knew what he was about to do aggravated his fears and caused him to hush his servant several times. “See to the door,” he finally hissed, for though he had instructed Hedgepeth to watch for Sir Matthew Winterborn’s arrival, he had a sudden fancy that that competent gentleman would forget to do so, and that Winterborn’s knock at the door would awaken the household.
His man gone, Lord Seabury drank coffee at his dressing-table and sleepily pondered the approaching encounter. If Mockabee offered anything like an apology, his opponent was disposed to accept it, for a duel—besides being dangerous in the obvious sense—was not the sort of affair a politically ambiti
ous young peer wished to be frequently involved in. The fact was, that it was illegal; and Seabury, more punctilious than most in matters of the law, found the very idea of this distasteful. Certainly duels were still common among the ton, and the courts showed a deep tolerance for them in most cases—but even if this morning’s encounter were kept an utter secret, Seabury did not like the thought of it. His scruples notwithstanding, he had twice before sent such a challenge as Lord Mockabee had received of him; one had resulted in an apology, the other in a grazed shoulder and a misfire. The injured shoulder had been his, but it had been nothing great, and was soon mended and forgot. Never once had he received a cartel: he was too circumspect, too politic. He could only guess, therefore, at Baron Mockabee’s feelings, and the probability of his offering an apology at the duelling-ground.
Sir Matthew arrived before ten minutes had passed, full of bracing remarks and yawns to belie them. He was a fresh, round-cheeked young man, with a bright pair of brown eyes and an endless supply of enthusiasm. “Had a chat with Embrey yesterday, my dear fellow,” he said jauntily, pouring himself some coffee. “Upon my soul, you look fit this morning! Anyhow—this is in strictest confidence you know—Embrey says Mockabee shoots to his left. Fancies himself an excellent shot, but never fails to pull to the left, that is what Embrey says. Of course it could be his pistol—he would not budge on the business of the pistols. Each his own, he absolutely insisted—I think I told you so?”
Lord Seabury nodded.
“At all events, he shall have no advantage over you in the way of fire-arms,” Winterborn continued. “Yours from Manton’s are lovely, lovely.” As if to demonstrate his sincerity in this opinion, the good young gentleman gently stroked the top of the leathern pistol-case he had brought with him. “And besides, this Mr. George Blount who acts as his second is a perfect idiot, I assure you. Nothing more likely than that he will foul up the pistol when he loads it. Actually, Seabury, I am not at all satisfied with the man myself: a second is meant to be a gentleman of equal rank to the principal, or at least something approaching it! This Blount is no one, that I can discover, though he claims an Honourable to his name. Very young too,” he added, shaking his head disapprovingly. “Not but what I am young, naturally, and hardly close to you in station—but still, my dear fellow, if it came to your having to face this little hussar, the situation would be most ridiculous.”
“It is not a situation likely to arise,” the viscount remarked mildly.
“Nonetheless,” Winterborn objected vaguely, “it don’t speak well for Mockabee.” He was silent a moment, sipping coffee. “How the devil did Lady Caroline get on the wrong side of such a fellow anyway? Not that it matters,” he hastily added, seeing Seabury scowl. “You will be calling me out next, hey?”
“They grew up in the same country,” his lordship replied, somewhat obscurely. “I daresay we had best be off soon. We will need time to get to Putney Heath.”
“No cause to look so grim!” Winterborn remonstrated gently. “By all means, let us be gone. Mr. Ellis will be happy to see us, in any case; he has been waiting all this while in the post-chaise.”
“Mr. Ellis—?”
“The surgeon, dear fellow. A very able gentleman, I assure you, though a trifle—ah—eccentric.”
“I do not care for this business of the post-chaise,” Seabury murmured as, a light cloak thrown over his shoulders, he prepared to quit the room. “I had much rather take my own carriage.”
“Impossible, dear sir,” Winterborn replied firmly, who had expected such a protest. “You cannot take such a risk as that with the good gentlemen of Bow Street swarming all over London. I suppose you would think it only right, but in fact it would be nothing more than absurd.”
Seabury would have objected again, but as they were by now descending the great oaken staircase he preferred to keep silent. His last thoughts, as he stepped outside the massive doors of Rucke House, were of Caroline; but since this struck him at once as being quite improper, he sought diligently, while entering the post-chaise, to summon up the image of Lady Susan Manning. Ah, there she was! But no, her blond hair darkened inexorably until it was chestnut brown, like…somebody else’s. There were her eyes, however, squinting slightly just as they did—alas, they widened slowly and revealed themselves to be the eyes of…somebody else. Poor Seabury put the thought of women out of his mind altogether, to concentrate on the business of the day.
The surgeon, Mr. Ellis, was a pasty-faced, corpulent man, whose fat little hands were adorned with fat little fingers that squirmed, like curious sea-creatures, atop his broad, plump thighs. His nose was very red, though evidently not as a result of drinking, for a more phlegmatic gentleman would be hard to find. “I like a duel,” he was saying ponderously, when the viscount began to listen to him. “Even if there is some risk to it, in terms of laws and licences and such, I mean; and even if one must arise in the middle of the night; still, I like a duel. No one ever forgets to pay my bill, for a duel. Too much honour at stake! And besides that advantage, if one of the participants is wounded, why I have only to bind him up for an hour or two, and then he is off home as quick as can be to his favourite family surgeon. No one ever badgers me to help him once he is safely home! No indeed, I am abed and nice and cosy all over again, no later than nine in the morning. A gentleman likes to be attended by his own physician. I am sure you would, my lord.”
“I suppose I should, come to that,” said Seabury.
“There, you see? Now another fine thing about a duel, is no moaning if a man is wounded. No groaning, no grumbling—because it would not be gentlemanly! I tell you to your head, sir, there is nothing that annoys a surgeon more than a nasty, groaning patient.” After this Mr. Ellis was quiet for some minutes, during which time he turned his lack-lustre gaze first on Winterborn, then on Seabury, and then on Winterborn again, looking all the while (except for the smooth movement of his short, fat neck) as if he were stuffed.
The carriage rattled through the sleeping streets with a noise like thunder, for Sir Matthew had promised the coachman a guinea if he made haste. Seabury had been looking forward to some fresh air, for the atmosphere in his bed-chamber that morning had been quite stuffy; but it seemed there was no fresh air to be had anywhere near London that day. Even as they gained the edge of the great Metropolis, no country breeze sprang up to revive him. If he had been a man of nervous temperament, it is certain he would have arrived at Putney Heath gasping and faint—but he was not of nervous temperament. He forced himself to focus on the dim outlines of the trees and cottages they rolled past, and to ignore the monotonous rumble of the wheels and the steady, soporific swaying of the coach. When this became difficult, he initiated another conversation, though he little desired to talk, in the expectation that it would help him to remain alert.
“I suppose you do a great deal of this sort of thing, Mr. Ellis?” he inquired.
“Indeed I do! I like a duel, as I often say. Although,” he added thoughtfully, “they are monstrous awkward when one of the gentlemen is killed.”
“Do you find that happens frequently?” his lordship politely pursued.
“Seabury, really,” Sir Matthew interrupted. “What a question! It is sufficiently unpleasant to hear about wounds and groans and such, but death! Let me tell you rather about…about Charles Stickney’s new curricle. It is a dasher! Have you seen it?”
“Please, Winterborn; I should like to hear about Mr. Ellis’s experiences.”
The surgeon, evidently flattered at being preferred in this wise, drew up the corners of his bloodless mouth into an approximation of a smile. “I dislike to interrupt the gentleman—” he hinted, with a pointed glance at Sir Matthew.
“Oh, tell him you do not mind, dear fellow,” Lord Seabury said a little testily.
Sir Matthew unwillingly consented to be cut off.
“I thank you sir,” Ellis replied, smoothly ducking his great head several times in acknowledgement of the courtesy. “In answer to your question
then, my lord, indeed I have not seen many gentlemen killed, I am happy to say. I should think no more than one gentleman in ten duels.”
“Dutch comfort!” murmured good Sir Matthew.
“Oh, but then—this is not a mortal issue, my lord, I think?” Mr. Ellis suggested. “I had understood, if I remember correctly, that this particular duel is to be of the milder sort,” the surgeon went on, faltering a little as he groped for the proper words. “What I mean, to say it bluntly, is there is no, er, infidelity in the case. Is there? Not that it signifies to me, gentlemen! Not in the least!”
“If you mean, how many shots will be fired, indeed there will be but one on each side,” Sir Matthew told him, a bit coldly. “And there is the possibility of a reconciliation even before that.”
Mr. Ellis looked uncomfortable at once, and stared balefully at Seabury until that perceptive gentleman inquired if something were the matter.
“Dear me, my lord! Only that…I wonder if I ought to point out…I wonder if you know, that my fee is the same regardless of how the affair goes off.” His fat fingers crawling about wildly on his thighs, he continued with the severest unease, “No matter if no shots are fired, or one, or two. No matter if you are killed—alas, my lord, it is the nature of my business to exact a fee, even if a gentleman is killed—”
“Devil take the man!” Sir Matthew finally burst out. “Close your mouth sir; close it, I say! What do you mean by talking such drivel?”
“He has got a right to secure his fee,” Seabury interrupted mildly, amused at his even-tempered friend’s outrage.
“Of course he will have his fee,” cried the agitated Winterborn, “on condition he keeps his peace, that is. Mum, Mr. Ellis, mum! If you are not scaring his lordship, you are certainly scaring me!”
