Pistols for Two (22 page)

‘Most quelling!’ said Sir Julian.

In a few minutes the door opened again to admit a buxom lady of uncertain years and improbable golden ringlets. She said without preamble: ‘Are you Mr Kennet’s Sophia? He’s that forgetful he must have forgotten to write! However, if you want to see him you may! Step upstairs with me, dearie! Don’t tell me this is Joseph you have brought with you!’

‘Who – who are you?’ gasped Miss Trent, utterly taken aback.

The lady bridled. ‘The name’s Flint,’ she said. ‘But I’m changing it. I
was
your grandpa’s housekeeper.’

‘Oh!’ said Miss Trent. ‘Then will you have the goodness to take me to my grandfather, if you please?’

Mrs Flint sniffed, but turned to lead the way up one pair of stairs. She opened a door giving on to a large parlour, and said: ‘Here’s your granddaughter, Mr K.!’

From a winged arm-chair by the fire a desiccated old gentleman peered at Miss Trent. ‘Well, it’s no use her coming here, because I’ve altered my mind,’ he said. ‘Maria’s girl, hey? Damme if you don’t look like her!’

Mrs Flint, who had taken up a position beside his chair, said with a simper: ‘Me and Mr K. is going to be married.’

‘It’ll be cheaper,’ explained Mr Kennet simply.

Miss Trent sank nervelessly into the nearest chair. Mr Kennet was meanwhile subjecting Sir Julian to a severe scrutiny. ‘A fine buck you’ve turned out to be!’ he pronounced. ‘What’s your name? Joseph?’

‘No,’ said Sir Julian. ‘My name is Julian Arden.’

Both Mr Kennet and his prospective bride stared very hard at him. ‘Mr K., if it isn’t Beau Arden himself!’ palpitated the lady.

‘Are you the son of Percy Arden, who was up at Oxford with me?’ demanded Mr Kennet. ‘Sir Julian Arden?’

‘I am,’ said Sir Julian.

‘What do you want?’ asked the old gentleman suspiciously.

‘To marry your granddaughter,’ replied Sir Julian coolly.

This intelligence produced an instant change in Mr Kennet’s attitude. He rubbed his dry hands together and ejaculated: ‘That’s good! That’s the girl! Come and give me a kiss, Sophy! I’m proud of you, and I’m sorry I said you was like your mother! Damme if I don’t do something handsome by you!’

Miss Trent, submitting unwilling to his embrace, was feeling too dazed by the shocks of the past few minutes to speak, but at this her eyes lit with a faint hope.

‘I will!’ said Mr Kennet, with the air of one reaching a painful decision. ‘You shall have your grandmother’s pearls!’

‘When we’re dead and gone, Mr K.,’ interpolated the future Mrs Kennet firmly.

‘Yes,’ agreed Mr Kennet, perceiving the wisdom of this. ‘And I’ll give her my poor Charlotte’s garnet brooch for a bride gift, what’s more! I can’t lay my hand on it at the moment, but I’ll send it. Where are you putting up, my dear?’

Sir Julian, perceiving that Miss Trent was quite stunned, took her hand in a comforting hold, and said: ‘She will be staying at the Christopher, sir. And now I think we must take our leave of you.’

Mr Kennet brightened still more at finding that he was not expected to entertain his grandchild and her betrothed to dinner, and said that if she liked she might come to visit him again before she left Bath. ‘But I won’t have your cousin Joseph coming to batten on me!’ he added, suddenly querulous.

‘Which leads one to wonder,’ remarked Sir Julian, when he had extricated Miss Trent from the house, ‘what is to become of Joseph!’

‘What is to become of
me
?’ said Miss Trent, wringing her hands.

‘You are going to marry me.’

‘Yes – I mean – But poor Mama! Bertram! Dear Ned! I have no
right
to be so happy when I have failed so miserably!’

He lifted her up into the curricle. ‘My little love, you have not so far given my circumstances a thought, but I must inform you that I am accounted to be extremely wealthy. Bertram, and Ned, and Tom shall go to Eton, and Oxford, and anywhere else you may choose; and Clara shall have her lessons on the pianoforte; and your mama shall have a dozen maids; and –’

‘Good God, you cannot be as rich as that!’ cried Miss Trent, quite frightened.

‘Much richer!’ he averred, mounting on to the box beside her.

‘But you must not marry
me
!’ she said, in great distress. ‘There must be dozens of
eligible
females whom you should rather marry!’

‘I am not the Grand Turk!’ he protested.

‘No, no, but you know I have no expectations!’

‘I know nothing of the sort,’ he said, possessing himself of her hand, and kissing it. ‘You are to inherit your grandmother’s pearls! But if I were you,’ he added, gathering up the reins, ‘I would not build too much upon that garnet brooch, my love!’

Lord Stavely prepared to descend from his chaise.

‘We will stop here,’ he announced.

It was certainly a charming inn. It stood at the end of the broad village street, with two great elms behind it and roses rambling over its old red brick frontage. It was not, of course, a posting house, which did not incline the two postilions in its favour. One of them said: ‘If we was to drive on for another mile or two, we’d likely find a decent house for your honour to bait at.’

‘My dear good fellow,’ replied his lordship, ‘you have no more notion of where we are than I have. Here we will stop. I like the place.’

The village seemed asleep in the moonlight, not a soul stirring. But the sound of carriage wheels brought the landlord out of the inn, all anxiety to oblige. Lord Stavely, alighting from the chaise, said: ‘Arcadia, I presume. Tell me, what is the time?’

The landlord, slightly taken aback, said that it lacked but ten minutes to the hour.

‘But what hour?’ asked his lordship.

‘Why, nine o’clock, sir!’

‘How shocking! Am I anywhere in the neighbourhood of Melbury Place?’

‘Melbury Place?’ repeated the landlord. ‘Yes, that you are, sir; it lies only a matter of ten miles from here, though the road’s tricky, as you might say.’

‘After the experiences of today, I should probably use a more forceful epithet. I imagine it will take me nearly an hour to reach the place. Obviously it behoves me to dine here. Or am I too late for dinner?’

The landlord was not one to turn away distinguished custom from his door. This gentleman, with his high crowned beaver hat, his driving coat of many capes, worn negligently open over a neat blue coat, a cut Venetian waistcoat, and the palest of fawn pantaloons, was plainly a member of the Quality. He assured Lord Stavely that, if he would step into the coffee-room, dinner should be served him in a very few minutes. A qualm then attacked him, and he faltered: ‘I’m sorry I can’t show your honour to a private parlour, but there’s only Mr Tom in the coffee-room, after all.’

‘Then if Mr Tom does not take exception to me, I shall do very well,’ said his lordship. ‘I wonder if I should remain here for the night? Shall I endear myself on my host by presenting myself at past eleven o’clock at night?’

‘They do keep very early hours up at the Place, by what I hear, sir,’ offered the landlord hopefully. ‘Was the Squire expecting of you, sir?’

‘He was, and I trust still is. Your manner leads me to fear that he will not be pleased by my tardy arrival?’

‘Well, sir, begging your pardon, Squire is that pernickety in his ways, and – in a manner of speaking – a testy gentleman – not meaning any disrespect, I’m sure!’

‘In fact, I shall
not
endear myself to him by arriving famished on his doorstep at dead of night. Very well. I’ll put up here, then.’

The landlord, mentally resolving to have the best sheets instantly put on the bed in the larger of his two guest chambers, ushered his lordship into the coffee-room.

It had only one occupant, a young gentleman who sat in the window embrasure, with a bottle of brandy on the ledge beside him, and a glass in his hand. The landlord, casting a rather worried glance at the bottle, murmured that Mr Tom would not object to a gentleman’s dining in the coffee-room. Mr Tom blinked at Lord Stavely, and inclined his head with dignity. He then resumed his scrutiny of the moon-washed street.

His lordship returned the civility by a slight bow, and a smile hovering about his mouth, but made no attempt to lure Mr Tom into conversation. It was apparent to him that care sat upon the young gentleman’s brow. It would have been apparent to someone far less acute than Lord Stavely that Mr Tom was, very properly, drowning his troubles in brandy. He might have been any age between nineteen and twenty-five; he was certainly not older. Leanings towards dandyism were betrayed by the intricate but not entirely successful arrangement of his cravat, and by the inordinate height of his shirt collar, whose starched points reached almost to his cheek-bones. But there was little of the dandy in his sturdy figure and fresh-complexioned countenance. He looked like the son of a country gentleman, which, indeed, he was, and as though he would be very much at home in the hunting-field, or with a gun over his shoulder.

In a short time the landlord laid a simple but very tolerable meal before his new guest, and himself waited upon him. Lord Stavely pronounced the fare to be excellent, commended the burgundy, and tactfully declined the only port offered him on the score that he did not wish to encourage a tendency to the gout. He did not look as though he suffered from gout, or any other ailment; in fact, he looked as healthy as any other man of thirty-five; but the landlord did not question his words. He merely swept away the covers and set a bottle of old cognac before him.

For some minutes past Lord Stavely had been aware that the young gentleman in the window was subjecting him to an intent scrutiny. He knew well what was engaging this fixed attention, and when the landlord had withdrawn, he said gently: ‘I call it the Nonchalent. It is not very difficult, once you acquire the knack of it.’

‘Eh?’ said the young gentleman, starting.

‘My cravat,’ explained Lord Stavely, smiling.

The young gentleman coloured and stammered that he begged pardon.

‘Not at all,’ said his lordship. ‘I’ll show you how to tie it, if you like.’

‘Will you?’ exclaimed the young gentleman eagerly. ‘I tie mine in an Osbaldeston, but I don’t like it above half.’

Lord Stavely waved one hand invitingly towards a chair at the table. ‘Won’t you join me?’

‘Well – thank you!’ The young gentleman got up and crossed the floor circumspectly. He brought his glass and the bottle with him, and set both down on the table. ‘My name,’ he announced carefully, ‘is Hatherleigh.’

‘Mine is Stavely,’ returned his lordship.

They exchanged bows. Only a purist would have said that Mr Hatherleigh was drunk. He could, by taking only reasonable pains, walk and speak with dignity, and if his potations had had the effect of divorcing his brain a little from the normal, at least it was perfectly clear on all important matters. When Lord Stavely, for instance, touching lightly on the country through which he had driven, said that he should suppose it to be good hunting country, young Hatherleigh was able to expatiate on the subject with enthusiasm and really remarkable coherence. The cloud lifted from his brow, his eyes brightened, and he became quite animated. Then the cloud descended again abruptly, and he fetched a sigh, and said gloomily: ‘But that is all at an end! I dare say I may think myself lucky if ever I get a leg across a good hunter again.’

‘As bad as that?’ said his lordship sympathetically.

Mr Hatherleigh nodded, and poured himself out some more brandy. ‘I’m eloping with an heiress,’ he announced dejectedly.

If Lord Stavely was startled by this intelligence, he managed to conceal his emotions most creditably. His lip did quiver a little, but he said in the politest way: ‘Indeed?’

‘Yes,’ said Mr Hatherleigh, fortifying himself with a deep drink. ‘Gretna Green,’ he added.

‘Forgive me,’ said his lordship, ‘but do you feel this to be a wise step to take?’

‘No, of course I don’t!’ said Mr Hatherleigh. ‘But what is a fellow to do? I can’t draw back now! You must see that!’

‘I expect it would be very difficult,’ agreed Lord Stavely. ‘When one has persuaded an heiress to elope with one –’

‘No such thing!’ interrupted Mr Hatherleigh. ‘I dare say I may have said it would be rare sport to do it, if only to kick up a dust, but I never thought Annabella would think I really meant it! But that is Annabella all over. In fact, I think she’s devilish like her father! Let her but once take a notion into her head, and there’s no persuading her to listen to reason! Mind, though,’ he added, bending a sudden, minatory scowl upon his auditor, ‘you are not to be thinking that I wish to back out! I have loved Annabella for years. In fact, I swore a blood-oath to marry her when we were children. But that isn’t to say that I want to drive off to the Border with her – and just now, too!’

‘The moment is not quite convenient?’

Mr Hatherleigh shook his head. ‘My uncle has invited me to Yorkshire for the grouse shooting!’ he said bitterly. ‘Only think what a splendid time I could have had! I have never tried my hand at grouse, you know, but I am accounted a pretty fair shot.’

‘You could not, I suppose, postpone the elopement until after the shooting season?’ suggested his lordship.

‘No, because if we waited there would be no sense in eloping at all, because very likely Annabella will be tied up to the old fogy her father means her to marry. Besides, the moon’s at the full now.’

‘I see. And who is this old fogy? Is he
very
old?’

‘I don’t know, but I should think he must be, wouldn’t you, if he’s a friend of Sir Walter?’

His lordship paused in the act of raising his glass to his lips. ‘Sir Walter?’

‘Sir Walter Abingdon. He is Annabella’s father.’

‘Oh!’ said his lordship, sipping his brandy. ‘I collect that he does not look with favour on your suit?’

‘No, and my father does not either. He says we are too young, and should not suit. So very likely I shall be cut off with a shilling, and be obliged to enter a counting-house, or some such thing, for Sir Walter will certainly cut Annabella off. But of course females never consider anything of that nature! They have not the least common sense, beside thinking that it is perfectly easy to hire a chaise for midnight without making anyone suspicious! And it is
not
!’ said Mr Hatherleigh, a strong sense of grievance overcoming him. ‘Let alone the expense of it – and that, let me tell you, has pretty well made my pockets to let! I have had to go twenty miles to do it, because a rare flutter I should have set up if I’d bespoke a chaise to go to Scotland at the George, or the Sun! Why, my father would have had wind of it within the hour!

‘And then I had to rack my brains to think how best to meet it, because it would never do to have it driving up to my home to pick me up, you know. Luckily old Thetford here is very much attached to our interests, so I told the post-boys in the end to come to this inn at half-past ten tonight. Annabella thinks everyone will be asleep by half-past eleven, or twelve at latest, and she is to meet me in the shrubbery. Shrubbery at midnight!’ he repeated scornfully. ‘I can tell you, it makes me feel like a great cake! Such flummery!’

He picked up the bottle again as he spoke, and poured some more brandy into his glass. Some of the liquor spilled on to the table. Mr Hatherleigh glared at it, and set the bottle down with precision.

‘Do you know,’ said Lord Stavely conversationally, ‘if I were going to elope at midnight I believe I would not drink too much brandy at ten o’clock?’

Mr Hatherleigh eyed him austerely. ‘If you think I’m foxed,’ he enunciated, ‘you’re wrong! I have a very hard head.’

‘I’m sure you have,’ said his lordship. ‘But if Miss Annabella were to detect the fumes on your breath she might not be quite pleased.’

‘Well, she shouldn’t have insisted on eloping with me!’ retorted Mr Hatherleigh.

‘She must be very much attached to you?’

‘Of course she is. Why, she’s known me all her life! All the same, she never would have taken this silly notion into her head if that peppery old fool hadn’t asked this fellow to stay, and told her she was to marry him. I must say, I was shocked when Annabella told me of it. I dare say he must be fifty at least, and a dead bore! Besides, she has never clapped eyes on him! I quite saw that as a gentleman I must rescue her, though I never thought
then
that my uncle would invite me to stay with him in Yorkshire!’

‘But surely even the most peppery of parents cannot in these days marry his daughter out of hand? Must you really elope?’ said Lord Stavely.

‘Annabella says so, and of course I am bound in honour to oblige her,’ replied Mr Hatherleigh grandly. ‘I dare say I shan’t dislike being married so very much, once I get used to it.’

‘I feel very strongly that you are making a mistake,’ said his lordship, gently moving the bottle out of reach. ‘Perhaps the dead bore will not wish to marry Annabella!’

‘Then why is he coming to stay with the Abingdons?’ demanded Mr Hatherleigh. ‘I expect Sir Walter has it all arranged, in his famous style! My father says he is the most meddlesome, managing old fool in the county.’ He drained his glass defiantly. ‘’T all events,’ he pronounced, ‘it’ll be something to overset his precious plans!’

***

Half an hour later, the landlord, coming in to inform Mr Tom that his chaise was at the door, found that young gentleman stertorously asleep, with his head on the table.

‘I don’t think,’ said Lord Stavely, ‘that Mr Tom is in a fit case for travel.’

‘There, now, I knew how it would be!’ exclaimed Thetford, looking down at Tom in some concern. ‘Whatever can be the matter with him? When I see him this evening, I thought to myself: You’re up to mischief, Mr Tom, or I don’t know the signs! And here’s a chaise and four come all the way from Whitworth to take him up! What’s to be done?’

‘You had better inform the postilions that Mr Tom is indisposed, and send them back to Whitworth,’ said his lordship. ‘And while you are about it, will you be so good as to inform my own postilions that I have changed my mind, and mean to go to Melbury Place tonight after all? Desire them to put the horses to at once, if you please.’

‘Your lordship won’t be staying here?’ the landlord said, his face falling. ‘And the bed made up, and a hot brick in it to air the sheets!’

‘Carry Mr Tom up to it!’ recommended Lord Stavely, with a smile. ‘When he wakes –’ He glanced down at Mr Tom’s unconscious form. ‘No, perhaps I had better leave a note for him.’ He drew out his pocket-book, and after a moment’s hesitation scribbled several lines in it in pencil, tore out the leaf, twisted it into a screw, and gave it to the landlord. ‘When he wakes, give him that,’ he said.

A quarter of an hour later, Thetford having furnished the post-boys with precise instructions, Lord Stavely was bowling along narrow country lanes to Melbury Place. When the gates came into sight, the post-boys would have turned in, but his lordship checked them, and said that he would get down.