The Autumn Rose

by Fiona Hill

  Lord Seabury, who always lost much of his reserve when threatened with a personal disaster, could no longer contain himself, and simply roared with laughter. Mr. Ellis watched him impassively, concluding (silently, since his fee was at stake) that Sir Matthew had, after all, been offended by his continuing to speak when the younger gentleman had desired to describe Charles Stickney’s curricle. What the viscount found so hilarious Mr. Ellis could not have said; he only hoped the man was not cracking under the strain of the coming encounter. If he were he would probably fail to defend himself, and any wound he might receive in consequence of such inattention would be an inconvenience, at best, to his surgeon.

  Seabury was still wiping tears of laughter from his handsome blue eyes when the carriage arrived at the appointed meeting-place some few minutes before five o’clock. “Upon my honour, Seabury,” Sir Matthew hissed as they crossed the heath to where the other little party was already gathered, “if you do not control yourself better Mockabee will suppose you have been crying.”

  “If I thought he supposed such a thing I should shoot to kill him,” his lordship returned, sobered at once by Winterborn’s warning. Now that he could see the baron again, he recovered his grimness. The man looked so sinister, so wolf-like! Not only his pale lips and his strange, glittering eyes, but his whole carriage and all his traits expressed a malign distrust of everyone around him. It would be a positive pleasure, Seabury suddenly felt, to take a shot at him. He would almost regret an apology.

  Sir Matthew had gone over to confer with Mr. Blount, to determine if the baron had undergone a change of heart. Evidently he had not, for Winterborn returned to Seabury—who stood, with Mr. Ellis, a short ways off from the others, and exchanged no more than a nod across the open field with Mockabee—with the news that the seconds were now to load the pistols, and that afterwards Seabury would be at liberty to take his ground as he chose. “You will fire at pleasure,” he added, “at whatever distance you like. Only tell me, and I shall tell Blount.”

  The viscount shrugged to signify that the matter was indifferent to him.

  “I suggest ten yards, then.”

  “Very well. A reconciliation is out of the question now, I gather?” Seabury added quietly.

  “Quite, I fear. That Blount is a fool,” Winterborn muttered, his patience obviously strained. “In fact, I think I had best go and keep a watch on him while he loads. No idiocy is beyond him.”

  Seabury nodded and allowed his friend to depart. Mr. Ellis was keeping very still, and his lordship had leisure to look about him. The air was still sultry, but the sun had risen to the extent that the sky, though dull, at least gave that impression of infinite expanse that encourages one to breathe deeply regardless of the dampness or insalubrity of the air. The rough grass beneath his heavy boots was full of moisture; it made a springy carpet as he paced a little distance away from Mr. Ellis. Seabury was glad to find himself still so angry at Mockabee. Without that it must have been difficult indeed to rouse all his faculties on such a leaden morning. When at last Sir Matthew returned to him, and handed to him one of the fine pistols from Manton’s, his lordship felt nothing so much as relief that the waiting was over. Mockabee watched him with those distrustful eyes as he took his place at one end of a long, flat strip of turf. He turned his back to the rising sun, so that its rays would fall on his right cheek, and the baron’s left, as they turned to aim at one another. He was too fair-minded, though it was his prerogative not to be in this particular, to cause Mockabee to look into the sun while he looked away. If Mockabee noted this fine piece of justice, he did not allow his gratitude to appear on his countenance, for all that showed there was a long, pale sneer and the suspicious gaze.

  Sir Matthew and Mr. Blount retired the prescribed eight yards behind the line of fire, while Mockabee took his place at the other end of it. The baron’s surgeon hung back a little behind Mr. Blount. Mr. Ellis stood back so far as almost to be out of earshot, even behind the coachmen. The principals turned their sides to one another and presented their weapons. From an oak tree a bird sent up a burst of song.

  Oliver, Lord Seabury aimed and fired. An instant later a second shot rang out. Mockabee dropped to the ground.

  Chapter IX

  Rucke House. Thursday morning, May 15th.

  My Dearest Angela,

  I am forcefully reminded of my failure to answer your last letter by an arrival this morning which will not surprise you, I am sure, but which surprised me very much. How absurd your brother was to come down to London with so silly a purpose—and yet, how very sweet as well! That is like him, as I am certain you agree.

  I was as astonished to find him standing in the Gilt Saloon as if I had not seen or heard from him in a decade. I do not know why, but I feel as if I have aged years since my arrival in London. According to Edgar, I do not look as if I had done so, but rather as if I had grown younger—but then Edgar never does leave off flattering me. He has gone back out to find lodgings for the moment, since he rushed directly here this morning without pausing to settle himself. I should have asked him to stop on here, but I could not take the liberty without consulting Seabury, and he is absent for some reason. Indeed, Edgar was calling on him, officially at least; I was summoned as a second choice. He tells me he left home within an hour of his deciding to make the journey, and, moreover, that he rode at least half the way. Impetuous Edgar! I wonder Lady Trantham permitted it!

  I am expected shortly at the breakfast table, but I think it only fair that you receive some account of our conversation, poor thing. It must have vexed you dreadfully that you were not invited to accompany him; it certainly does me. It is just as well Seabury is not at home this morning, by the way, for my first thought on being told a gentleman was waiting, was, “Who can be so oafish as to call upon us at this hour? Or else, what catastrophe has occurred?”

  My astonishment on seeing Edgar I have already mentioned, and this was for some time the topic of our speech. After the ordinary inquiries were made, though, I at last asked why he had come. “Because of this,” announced he, producing with a flourish that ill-fated number of The Times with which I think you are already familiar. Frankly, I am a little annoyed with Humphrey for bringing it to you with such haste; at least he did not feel it necessary, however, to tear up to London and defend his helpless sister.

  “But my dear Edgar, how can that concern you?” I asked.

  “How can it fail to concern me?” he countered, straining his delicate features in an effort to appear serious and dignified.

  “But it is nothing to do with you,” I said.

  “It is something to do with you, I think. Is not the solution to this puzzle, Caroline Wythe?” I agreed that it was.

  “Then it is something to do with me; for whatever pertains to you touches me as well.”

  “My dear,” said I, as kindly as I could be, “you speak as if we were betrothed, or married.”

  Edgar gave it as his opinion that we were betrothed, or as good as betrothed.

  I am afraid I lost my temper at this juncture. I believe (I am embarrassed to mention it) I even struck a table with my fist as I exclaimed, “Fond as I am of you, Edgar, we are not betrothed, nor anything like betrothed, nor ever shall be betrothed.” I saw how this hurt him, and endeavoured to soften my tone as I added, “I am sorry it cannot be otherwise, but we really should not suit.”

  He turned his back to me and averted his face. It makes me almost cry to think of how I disappointed him, but at the time I was miffed, and heedless. You know, if anybody knows, how frequently this scene has been enacted between Edgar and myself, on any pretext at all. Presently he turned round again and said in a low voice, “Be that as it may, if nothing else we are as brother and sister to one another. At least, I feel as much concern for your happiness as a brother might do,” he went on quickly, seeing me about to object, “and I cannot sit idly by while your name is held up to public ridicule.”

  I had quite recovered control of my tongue b
y this time, and expostulated with him calmly. “If it was your object, in coming to London, to serve me as a champion, I regret to say that your visit is—whatever else it may be—superfluous in that aspect. I have already received a very kind, exactly similar offer, and have already refused it. The fact is, that I was in the wrong with regard to…to Lord M—”

  “Ah! Who is the villain?” demanded your gallant brother.

  “It is not necessary that you should know, my dear, and I prefer that you do not. The significant point is that I was in the wrong, at least sufficiently so to make the case unclear. It is best, therefore, that nobody champion me at all. Besides, Edgar, it is stale news already, for two more editions have appeared since that one, and a perfectly devastating attack on Lady Halsworthy was printed yesterday. I am sure no one talks of anything else.”

  “Nonetheless,” stormed the mighty Edgar, “someone must defend you. Who is this white-livered knight, who stops at a word from you?”

  “It is not necessary,” said I, “that you know his identity either.”

  “Who is it?” he raged, immediately answering himself. “It is that rascal of a Seabury, is it not?” I must have coloured, for he went on, “It is! I see it is. A fine gentleman, answering an insult to you with silence. A fine protector! I knew a brother of Lady Lillian could not be much to speak of.”

  Here, I am sorry to say, I lost my temper again. “Lord Seabury is an excellent man, a man of honour and ability. How dare you disparage a connexion of mine, a man whose acquaintance you have never even made? What Lord Seabury does, no man is in a position to censure, least of all a country squire’s son who never set eyes on him!”

  “Dear me, Caroline,” said your brother, with an amazement both touching and comical to behold, “how old is this man? Is he well-looking?”

  At this juncture I know very well I coloured. “About thirty-two,” I said, “and yes, quite well-looking.”

  “You are in love with him!” gasped Edgar.

  You will observe, my dear Angela, that all editorial comment ceases here.

  “That is not your concern,” said I, resuming my losing battle. “All that you need be assured of, is that if there were a time for valiant action, Lord Seabury would have taken it; and if there were an issue to be settled, Lord Seabury would have seen to it. He is a very careful man, and feels his obligation to protect me most keenly.”

  “He is no man if he suffers you to be made the subject of insinuating verses in The Times,” muttered young Sir Lancelot.

  Alas, it seemed as if I could not exchange more than two remarks with poor Edgar this morning, without flying into a rage. I was so much disturbed by his denigration of Lord Seabury that I sent him out with an invitation to return later and argue the point with his lordship himself. I hope my good kinsman will not think I have gone mad.

  Ah! The hour for breakfast is upon me. I must go, for it is I who pour the tea you know. Quel honneur! I shall give you the sequel to this interesting visit in another letter, lest Edgar’s account be prejudiced against me, or against Seabury. Adio my dear, and believe me,

  Most affectionately yours,

  C. Wythe

  Lord Seabury took his place at the breakfast table at Rucke House some twenty minutes after his guests had seated themselves. He entered to discover his father deeply embroiled in a vicious quarrel with Amy Meredith, a quarrel apparently having something to do with the dropping of a certain spoonful of sugar into a certain cup of tea. “It was my cup,” Amy was saying spitefully, as her cousin entered and sat down, “as you perfectly well knew. Henry, did he not deliberately reach over and take my cup? Oh, good morning, Seabury. Your esteemed father is trying to poison me this morning.”

  “Good Heavens, I trust not,” said the newcomer, attempting to look something fresher and more composed than he felt.

  Evidently he failed, for Lady Caroline’s first words to him were, “Did you sleep last night, sir? You do look fagged.”

  He was prevented from replying by Romby’s crying out roughly, “I am sorry I did not try to poison you, my fine young lady! Damme but you are a monster!”

  “I believe I asked you to sit by me, Amy,” Caro said, calmly entering the fray. “This would not have happened if you had. What a scene!”

  “What is this about poison?” Miss Windle suddenly demanded, for she walked about of late in a private fog, and rarely heard anything until it had been repeated three times.

  “Nothing, dear Windle,” Caro said soothingly.

  “A nothing! A fiddlestick,” shrilled Amy. “How do you think I like it to pick up my tea and find it positively saturated with sugar? I might have choaked! I might have suffocated, and died!”

  “Drowned in a cup of tea!” shrieked Romby. “There is a fitting end for a bloodless chit, by God! Yes, yes,” he continued to shout, more and more pleased with this image, “drowned in a cup of tea!”

  “Merciful powers, my lord,” Mrs. Henry at last addressed him. “You have distressed my poor girl quite enough this morning, have you not? I beg you will excuse us.” On these words she pushed back her chair and went to her charge, whom she then tenderly exhorted to come along and breakfast in peace, upstairs. She fixed Lord Romby with an awful look before quitting the room, which rather than quelling him seemed only to excite him more.

  “Driven away by a tempest in a teapot!” he screamed. “Yes, by God, yes! A fitting end indeed, a very fitting end!”

  “My lord, I should like to get on with my breakfast in something like tranquillity,” Caroline interrupted him rather fiercely. She was ashamed to have Lord Seabury discover his breakfast-room in such an uproar, and felt it to be her fault that matters had reached such a pitch. Judging by his appearance, Seabury was not in perfect spirits this morning; and knowing that an encounter—possibly full of histrionics—with Edgar Gilchrist was in his immediate future, she doubly regretted the contretemps.

  His lordship did not appear at all displeased with her, however; in fact, she could not help noticing, quite the opposite: he several times glanced at her as if fearing that she might be displeased with him. Perhaps he felt responsible for his father’s bad behaviour, or even his young cousin’s. At all events she was reassured by his seeming forbearance, and soon found a moment to say what must be said. “You had a caller this morning, Seabury, whom I met since you were out.” At this he glanced at her again with a flicker of—something; apology, or timidity?—in his wonderful eyes, a glance she was unable to account for. She continued after a brief pause, “It was Edgar Gilchrist, the brother of my dearest friend in Berkshire, and a very old acquaintance of mine. He would like—I, in fact, invited him to wait upon you again, at about three this afternoon. I hope I did not take too much of a liberty?”

  “Not at all,” said Seabury. “I am engaged to drive out with Lady Susan Manning at four, however, so I cannot give him more than an hour. Do you think that will suffice?”

  Caroline had found herself quite startled by the introduction into the conversation of Lady Susan’s name. It was a name, it may be noted, easily forgot in Rucke House that week; Lady Caroline, for example, had for days lost track of it altogether. She recovered herself at once, and replied in a rather subdued tone of voice, “I am certain it will. I feel obliged to caution you, sir, that Edgar is come with a very specific purpose.”

  “And that is?” he prompted. He, for his part, had found that he already did not care overmuch for this Edgar to whom Lady Caroline referred so freely and familiarly.

  “I am afraid, dear sir,” she began, immediately colouring, “it is to do with that unfortunate poem in The Times. It appears that Edgar stumbled upon it some few days after its publication, and galloped down here all afire to protect my honour. I endeavoured to convince him it was unnecessary, but I seemed destined to fail. For that reason, you see, I encouraged him to consult with you. Is it dreadfully inconvenient?”

  “Not at all. I am delighted you referred him to me,” said the viscount who had a good reason
for being so delighted, in view of his early adventures that day.

  “You are very good.”

  “Not at all. I am curious to make the acquaintance of this ancient friend of yours in any case. He must feel some—paternal interest in you?” Seabury suggested hopefully.

  “Oh, la! No indeed,” Miss Windle replied, having recently awakened from a deep meditation concerning the present Earl of Romby. She was very fond of Edgar herself, and laughed with pleasure as she went on, “Mr. Gilchrist is no more than a year or so older than our dear Caroline. In fact, they were sweethearts in childhood, and may someday even—”

  “Windle!” Caro cried out.

  “Well, my dear, there is no cause to keep secret from his lordship what half of High Bowen knows! Edgar has been in love with Caroline forever,” she said confidingly to Seabury, while Caro writhed with frustration, “and has offered for her any number of times. Of course it would not be a brilliant match for Caroline—so few would—but Mr. Gilchrist is a young man of such delicacy and sweetness, and the acquaintance is so very old, that it may be she will accept him one day. At least, I continually remind her that she may, for Lord Inlowe favours the suit—”

  “Windle!” came again from Lady Caroline.

  “Well, he does not discourage it,” the elder lady went on smoothly, “and I am of the opinion that it would be a very pleasant and reasonable match, especially since Caroline would not be under the necessity of quitting her brother’s neighbourhood. Moreover, the—”

  “Miss Windle,” said Caroline through clenched teeth, “pray be so kind as to leave off this theme and find another, if you must talk at all. I shall never marry Edgar Gilchrist, as I told him this very morning—Oh! How odiously indiscreet,” she broke off, clapping a hand to her mouth and almost crying, for she had taken a vow recently to maintain a strict government over her words.

  Miss Windle looked indulgently upon her, then leaned over to Lord Seabury and said in a very loud whisper, “She may marry him, for all that; I, for one, expect that she will; and so does Lady Trantham, I think.”