The Original Miss Honeyford (11 page)

He looked so crestfallen that Honey’s kind heart was touched. For once, she recognized her own jealousy of Amy.

“On second thought,” she said gently, “I am sure I could manage an hour in the Park. You must ask Lady Canon’s permission.”

“Of course I shall. You are the best of fellows.”

At that moment Lady Canon came back into the room just as Lord Channington was announced. Captain Jocelyn waited impatiently for the introductions to be over and then begged permission to take Honey driving.

Lady Canon thought quickly. She did not want to encourage Captain Jocelyn. On the other hand, it would not do to make things too easy for Lord Channington, and so she smiled and gave her permission. Having got what he came for, Captain Jocelyn took his leave.

Lord Channington thoughtfully watched him go. He decided he must find some way of getting rid of this young captain before Honey’s affections became seriously engaged.

He turned to Honey and carefully began to extract a list of her social engagements for the next few days, although Honey had to appeal to her aunt several times, not quite knowing what Lady Canon had planned for her.

Lord Channington found she was to attend Almack’s the following night and begged for the first waltz, but Lady Canon pointed out that Honey had not yet been to Almack’s and therefore had not obtained permission from the patronesses to dance the waltz.

Honey smiled and promised him the first country dance instead. Soon her other admirers arrived. Lady Canon had put it about that she meant to leave Honey her fortune in her will, and so now Honey had everything necessary to secure her success. Lord Alistair’s remarks still rankled, and so Honey played to that unseen audience, that missing lord, as she flirted to a nicety, still managing nonetheless to eat as much as she could without Lady Canon’s noticing.

And yet, Honey had been so sure Lord Alistair would call if only to give her another set down. But every time her thoughts strayed toward him, Lord Channington was at her elbow with another warming compliment. She found herself growing increasingly attracted to him and regretted her promise to go driving with Captain Jocelyn.

Lord Channington, like the expert seducer he was, had quite persuaded himself he was head over heels in love with Honey.

After he took his leave, he set out to track down Captain Jocelyn, and by dint of finding out that young man’s lodgings, he set himself to watch his movements as carefully as a cat watches a mouse.

So it was, on the following day, two hours before Captain Jocelyn was to take Honey driving, that he found himself accosted by Lord Channington in a coffee house in St. James’s.

Captain Jocelyn was flattered at the earl’s attention and readily agreed to share a bottle of wine with him.

Since Lord Channington was obviously enamored of Honey, Captain Jocelyn felt it would be rude to point out that his own interest in Miss Honeyford was simply to further his own ends with respect to Miss Wetherall.

The captain was touched and amused to find Honey being hailed as the toast of London society, but politely drank to Honey’s eyes. Somehow the first bottle of wine was quickly followed by the second. And a third. The toasts went on… to the King, to the regiment, confusion to the French, and so on, until the poor captain’s head began to reel.

Then, all at once, through a groggy fog, Captain Jocelyn heard Lord Channington reminding him of his appointment with Honey. He leaped to his feet, muttering a hasty good-bye, and staggered around to the livery stables to collect the rented carriage he had bespoken the day before.

Lord Channington smiled ruefully down at the large puddle of wine at his feet. Most of the glasses of wine he had raised in a toast and then lowered under the table and spilled amid the sawdust and oyster shells.

It would be fun to go to the Park and see the drunken captain disgracing himself in Miss Honeyford’s eyes.

Captain Jocelyn was a full quarter of an hour late arriving in Charles Street. In his blurred and fogged mind, he had been expecting the hoydenish Honey of Kelidon, and had to blink several times before he recognized the vision who was awaiting him—a vision who was studying him with some amusement.

Honey was wearing a carriage dress, a rich cardinal cloak of white satin stamped with small blue flowers and ornamented around the edge with an Egyptian border. Under it, she wore a simple white muslin gown enriched at the neck with Vandyke lace and at the bottom with three rows of richly-worked hemstitch. On her head, she wore a Danish bonnet of satin straw.

Captain Jocelyn bent over her hand, and continued to bend until Honey put her hand under his chin and pushed him up straight again.

“Are you well, captain?” demanded Lady Canon sharply. “You do not appear to be in plump currant.”

Captain Jocelyn made one of those magnificent rallies that the very drunk can often achieve, and all at once looked sober and staid.

“Certainly, my lady,” he said carefully. “May I assist you to the carriage, Miss Honeyford?”

He helped Honey up onto the high perch of a rather tired-looking phaeton, and then went around the other side and leaped up himself—only somehow he could not stop himself and shot on past Honey, took a nose-dive off the other side of the phaeton, and landed on the pavement.

Lady Canon fortunately had gone indoors and closed the door.

Honey was used to dealing with drunken men on the hunting field. She shouted to the open-mouthed groom who was standing by the horses’ heads, “Help Captain Jocelyn into the passenger seat. I will drive.”

She moved over and picked up the reins. “Don’t know as I ought,” said the groom, looking nervously at the four restless horses.

“Go to the captain and stand away from their heads,” snapped Honey.

Captain Jocelyn was pushed up beside her, and she set off down the road, driving the team well up to their bits, and holding her whip at just the right angle.

“Mush she Miss Wetherall,” muttered Captain Jocelyn sleepily.

“You will see her soon enough,” said Honey, “but whether she will want to see you is another matter.”

Honey bit her lip. She was torn between the desire to take the captain straight back to his lodgings and the longing to drive this four-in-hand in the Park. Perhaps Lord Alistair would be there, and would be able to see the lady he had damned as a fatiguing schoolgirl holding this mettlesome team in perfect control.

Vanity won. Honey swept in through the gates of Hyde Park, and, giving the team their heads, set off at a smart pace down the Row. She was so engrossed in her driving, so enjoying that old feeling of freedom and mastery, that she quite forgot about the captain and therefore was completely unaware he had fallen asleep. She did, however, notice that there was no sign of Miss Wetherall.

She had completed the round twice at a smart pace and was slowing her team to a comfortable trot when she came abreast of Lord Channington and slowed to a halt, her face flushed with triumph.

“Miss Honeyford,” said Lord Channington, “your escort is in a disgraceful condition. My tiger will take my carriage and I will escort you home.”

“No need for that,” came a hatefully familiar, lazy voice. “Miss Honeyford drives better than any man.”

Lord Alistair bowed and smiled and drove past.

Honey glared after him. She
hated
his calm assumption that she was equal to anything from nearly being killed at a hanging to driving this team.

She wanted to surrender the reins to Lord Channington and feel loved and cherished. But she could not disgrace Captain Jocelyn so.

“Captain Jocelyn is unwell,” she said stiffly. “I am about to convey him to his lodgings.”

“That would occasion a great deal of gossip, Miss Honeyford,” said Lord Channington. “Allow me to take him. I know where he lives.”

“Very well,” said Honey, relieved. “Do make him understand I am not in the least put out and that he may call on me as soon as he feels better.”

The drunken captain was heaved like a sack of coals from the rented phaeton into Lord Channington’s carriage. Honey bowed, gathered up the reins, and drove off in style.

“Now my sottish friend,” said Lord Channington, “let us make sure you do not trouble Miss Honeyford again.”

At the captain’s modest lodgings in Jermyn Street, Lord Channington asked his man for a pitcher of water and poured it full in the captain’s face.

Captain Jocelyn woke with a shock from his drunken stupor with many Where-am-I’s? and demands to know what had become of Honey.

With great and malicious exaggeration, Lord Channington told him of his behavior in the Park, ending up with, “So you see, my dear fellow, it won’t do to go calling on her, for I fear she will never forgive you.”

“But she must,” said the still-drunk captain. “She promised to help me further my suit with Miss Wetherall.”

“Do you mean to tell me,” said Lord Channington, “that your sole interest in Miss Honeyford is to use her to get closer to Miss Wetherall?”

The captain tried to think of a more delicate way of putting it, but his fogged brain refused to work.

“Yes,” he said baldly.

“The deuce,” snarled Lord Channington. “What an infernal waste of good wine!”

He stalked from the room, leaving Captain Jocelyn staring after him in a bemused way.

Lady Canon was waiting for Honey, shocked to see her drive up to the door alone. A groom was sent to take the carriage and horses back to the livery stables. Lady Canon gave Honey a lecture on the folly of encouraging a young man who did not know how to hold his wine, and then went on again to lecture her about the visit to the hanging. For the gossip of the crowd deaths had reached Lady Canon at last.

“But there were several finely dressed ladies there,” said Honey.

“They were probably cyprians or merchants’ wives or low people like that. You must not disgrace yourself again by appearing in public on such friendly terms with your servants. If you must watch hangings, then a window can be hired—”

“Stop!” said Honey, appalled. “Do you know, Aunt Elizabeth, that I still have nightmares and horrors when I think of that barbaric spectacle? Never, ever again will I go to such an affair.”

“Well, well, your feelings do you credit. Still, it is a mercy that such a high stickler as Lord Alistair Stewart did not see you there with your servants. Although he heard of it and went in search of you, it is as well he did not find you. There is nothing gives a gentleman more of a disgust of
anyone
as to see a member of the ton being overfamiliar with servants.”

Honey was weary of her aunt’s lectures and so did not tell her of her rescue by Lord Alistair. Drat the man! She did not even want to think of him. Almack’s was tomorrow and she must be prepared to shine.

Lady Canon must have great social influence, thought Honey, to have acquired vouchers for Almack’s for her. The patronesses ruled those famous assembly rooms with a rod of iron.

Many diplomatic arts, much finesse, and a host of intrigues were set in motion to get an invitation to Almack’s. Very often people whose rank and fortune entitled them to an
entree
anywhere were excluded by the cliquishness of the lady patronesses.

Honey gave herself an impatient shake. So little time in London and already she was fretting over a mere ball. She sat down at the writing desk and wrote her father a long and affectionate letter. Lady Canon had left to make a few calls and so the house was quiet.

Just as she finished the letter, a huge bouquet of flowers arrived from Captain Jocelyn accompanied by an abject letter of apology.

Honey sighed. She should never have given in to vanity and taken the captain to the Park. He might have come across Amy and then she, Honey, would have had that on her conscience.

She opened a book from her aunt’s library entitled
Sacred Meditations
and settled down to read herself into a more serene frame of mind.

But the first paragraph that met her eye did little to soothe her. On the subject of women, the writer had this to say: “The happy timidity, the native gentleness, the maternal feelings, the muscular inferiority, and the parental infirmities of the female sex make them averse to the bold and fierce employments of uncultivated man. Their milder character is ever operating insensibly to soften his asperities and to infuse a softer spirit into his mind.”

“Pah!” said Honey, picking up another book. This one promised to be more to her taste—
An Enquiry into the Best System of Female Education
, by the Reverend J. L. Chirol. Mr. Chirol based his argument on “an aggregation of incontrovertible facts collected in more than 500 schools,” and then went on to say that even the best of them was good for nothing owing to the characters of the governesses at the English seminaries for young ladies.

“Some have been kept mistresses, cast off when the bloom of youth and beauty began to fade. Placed in a situation of reputed respectability, they soon make their fortune through the patronage of their former
protectors
, who obtain a right of admittance to the young ladies committed to their care and thus not infrequently indemnify themselves with these for the loss of the charms of their quondam mistresses.”

And I cannot think of a more delicate way of putting it, as Lord Alistair would no doubt say, thought Honey, and threw the book away.

She finally settled down with
The Gentleman’s Magazine
, which was more to her liking, and read an article where the writer considered women would make very good army officers indeed.

“Most women can dance and play with a fan, and they might be taught to swear,” she read. “In fact, with a very little expense and trouble they might be rendered as formidable to our sex as many of the brave defenders of our garrisons, while they would be less dangerous to their own.”

Honey’s eyes began to close.

The heat from the fire was warm and the ticking of the many clocks, soporific. She stretched lazily out on the sofa and went to sleep.

She was walking across a sunny meadow with Lord Alistair. His eyes were as blue as the sky above as he smiled down at her. He turned and took her in his arms. She watched his mouth descending toward her own and closed her eyes. The kiss was not what she expected. It was warm and rather wet. Furthermore, he had not shaved and his chin prickled. Honey opened her eyes in her dream and looked up into the dead brown eyes of Lord Channington.