The Shocking Miss Anstey (19 page)

There were three full columns of gossip, and the first of them was about Anice and himself. The paper had evidently had someone in the Park, and he had not missed much. There was an account of ‘Miss A***e An***y’ arriving in the Park in her curricle, with a description of both that and her clothes. Then came notes--and names--of the men she had spoken to in the Row; and then--in more detail than pleased him--an account of her stopping the curricle for ‘Captain R****d G***t, Royal Navy, late of the
Am****n
frigate, an officer who, as we understand, has lately been changing some part of his prize money for the delectable favours of Phryne.’

That would have been enough, but the rest was even worse. ‘The divinity, therefore, having hauled her steeds to rest, and the gallant captain being about to conduct a boarding operation (as smartly, no doubt, as becomes the Naval Service), there came another to the verdant scene--no less than Sir T****s L*tt**ll, an officer as distinguished under Venus as under Mars .. .’ There was another half-column of it, in the same high style, but as unpleasantly accurate in face. It related all that had happened until ‘Sir T****s was given peremptory discharge and leave to seek favour elsewhere. Further developments are awaited, since it is not thought likely that an officer so spirited will readily accept dismissal.’

He was red with annoyance when he ended it, and he was still fuming when he walked into Larkin’s at something before half past five that evening. He chose a table, ordered dinner, adjusted the candles to his liking, and then brooded on it again as he awaited his guest. He was still damning all journalists and wondering what Mary had made of it when John walked in, prompt to the minute and looking most irritatingly cheerful. He came straight to the table.

‘Ho! Well met.’ He sounded as happy as he looked. ‘I’m very fit for dinner. This for me?’

‘The sherry? I supposed you could take the half-pint?’

‘At least that. Well, well--you see me bereft of love.’

‘What?’

‘Bereft and left.’ He lifted his glass cheerfully. ‘That’s to say Mary Ann. She’s gone, so now I can breathe again.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Heaven, or something like it. But how’s it with you? All well?’

‘No.’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘These damned newspapers.’

‘Oh, that?’ John nodded slowly. ‘I suppose it
is
a little tricky.’

‘Tricky! How’s Mary taking it?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Didn’t you see her?’

‘She hadn’t read the papers then. Or I don’t think she had.’

‘What time was this?’

‘Ten o’clock. I thought I might as well have breakfast with them. What’s this? Lobster?’

‘A change from soup. I like a ragout.’

‘So do I. Well . . .’ He leaned back while his plate was filled. ‘Mary’s all right. Quite cheerful. Looking forward to seeing you.’

‘After the papers?’

‘There’s that, I suppose. Damned good ragout.’

‘Excellent. Looks as if I’d better avoid her till this has died down.’

‘Do you
want
it to die down? You’ve not finished with Anice, I suppose? But I think, if I were you, I’d leave Barford to talk to Mary about those newspapers. He’s broad-minded.’

‘He needs to be, from what we’ve learned of him. Don’t you think I should avoid Mary?’

‘You can’t. You’re seeing her tonight.’

‘Hell!’ He stared back in something near stupefaction.

‘You mean, after she’s been reading---‘

‘Well, it’s what you asked for.’

‘I know it is.’

He sank into silence, finding nothing more to say, and John looked cheerfully to the waiters. He had finished the ragout of lobster and seemed ready for something else.

‘Women are a complication,’ he said easily. ‘They make life difficult. I suppose it’s this damned war again, really. We’ve never learned the trick of running two at once, as a gentleman should. No chance to practise. Hey--turkey, is it? You
can
order a dinner.’

‘I’ve done without so many.’

A roast turkey had arrived, with some boiled ham, the potatoes and celery sauce and the rest of it, and again there was the interval while the waiters carved and proffered and poured. John watched them thoughtfully.

‘Not like Hildersham,’ he mused. ‘Of course, he was born to it. He could run about six at once if he tried it. He probably has done.’

‘I’m not Hildersham.’ Richard spoke morosely, and then tried to pull himself together and remember that for the moment he was the host and had some duties. ‘Well, let’s enjoy our dinner, and talk of something else. What’s this about Mary Ann? You say she’s gone?’

‘Yes, thank God! She was becoming a bit demanding.’

‘But where’s she gone?’

‘Brighton. At least, she’s going tomorrow. With Anice, of course--as lady’s maid.’

‘What!’

‘Oh yes.’ John was chuckling with amusement now. ‘She seems to have found a little more than she expected. She was round at Queen Street as soon as she’d had her breakfast this morning--calling on the old friend, that sort of thing. That’s what
she
thought. Anice thought differently, and she seems to have given her a proper trimming. Told her she was rustic. Didn’t know the fashions, and her precious manners would get her laughed at. More like that. Then she told her the only way to learn was to watch somebody who knew.’

‘I think that’s how Anice learned.’

‘Well, it’s how Mary Ann’s learning.’

‘I hope she likes it.’

‘Anice probably knows. Though, mind you, there may have been a little self-interest in it too. It turned out her maid had just left her. She’s set up on her own, so Anice was without.’

‘What did Mary Ann say?’

‘She came rushing back to get her bags, and then she moved in at once--at Queen Street. I don’t think she was too pleased, mind you. It wasn’t how she’d seen herself. But she wants it so badly that she’ll put up with almost anything to get it--for six months, anyway. I’m told that’s the term of it.’

‘I wish Anice wouldn’t do it. It’s not much better than a school for training harlots.’

‘But what else is Anice? Or Mary Ann?’

‘I wish to God they weren’t.’

‘You seem to be a little worried?’

‘I’ve no right to be running after Anice as I do.’

‘But you can’t help it?’ John nodded slowly and sympathetically. ‘That’s her art, of course--something she’s born with. That’s why she can’t stop.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If you’re really born to do something you have to do it. It takes possession of you. It’s like the Peer in the war--or Boney--or Nelson. Those men couldn’t stop. They were born to it, and they had to do it.’

‘That’s a shade different.’

‘A different trade, of course, and hers isn’t as well thought of, but the principle’s the same. They led men in war, and she leads men in--what’s this?’

His tone had changed sharply, and he was looking intently down the room, seemingly to the door. Richard turned as sharply, sensing that something was wrong, and the first glance confirmed it. The door from the street had been flung noisily open, and candles were flickering everywhere as a cold wind swept over the tables. Heads had turned and men were staring in annoyance at the coachman, or whatever he was, who had come blustering in. He certainly looked a coachman; a tall man in a great full-length coat of brown, tight-waisted, with capes on the shoulders, then falling almost to the ankles of his mud-splashed boots. His wide-brimmed hat, still on his head, was decorated with a woman’s garter, pinned to the brim, and was pushed rakishly back to show his face. He was swaying slightly on his feet as he looked truculently round, staring contemptuously at everybody. Then his arrogant eyes met Richard’s, and recognition was mutual. This was Sir Thomas Luttrell, the out-and-outer, who could come-coachy-in-prime-style. Behind him was another man who seemed of his own stamp, though he was not dressed quite so outrageously, a shorter man in a bottle-green hunting frock and mire-streaked riding boots. He was steadier on his feet and he stood back a little as if he knew that he was the follower here. Luttrell was in the lead, and Richard, meeting his eyes, felt a quick wave of cold in his back and then a well-remembered pulse hammered in his forehead. These were his responses to danger, and he had felt them last on
Amphions
rain-swept quarterdeck when he had braced himself against the shrouds to see the French war flags break out in the ship to windward. He steadied himself in the same way now.

‘Hey, you! A table--quick!’

Luttrell spoke suddenly, and his strong resonant voice was oddly pleasant in tone, proof of an expensive upbringing; but it was aggressive too, and the waiter he had shouted at looked nervously at the crowded room.

‘Very soon, sir. All full just now, sir.’

‘Do
I
wait here, or do you? Hi! Larkin! Where are you, dammit?’

The proprietor had appeared hurriedly at the end of the room, and along the length of it Luttrell stared him out of countenance. Then he advanced slowly, clumsy in his boots and coat, and with his hat still rakishly on his head. He seemed to have thought only for the scene he was creating, but for one fleeting instant, as he walked up the room, his eyes were on Richard, who was still stiffly in his chair, turned half about to look. It was for the moment only, perhaps too quick for others to see, but Luttrell’s advance stopped suddenly, exactly at that table; and Richard, turning to face him, was perfectly aware that this was intentional. The man meant mischief, of some Corinthian sort. ‘I want a table--now.’

Again the voice had the pleasant ring, but the threat in it was plain and ugly. The black and arrogant eyes reinforced it, and Larkin squirmed in embarrassment, obviously terrified of a scandal that could spoil the name of his house. In the deadly silence every eye was on him as he tried to answer.

‘In a matter of minutes, sir--only that. Or in my private room, sir? If you would care to dine---‘

‘I’ll dine where I choose, and if I don’t get a table in thirty seconds there’s going to be something here you won’t forget. The Town won’t, either.’

‘But, sir, I---‘

‘Listen---‘

It came as a shout, and in the next instant Luttrell whirled about. His two hands swooped on the table at his side, snatching knives, forks, and spoons from the plates and covers. He swung them above his head, held them for an instant, and then dashed them on the table, splintering the plates and dishes, splashing the food and wine and gravy everywhere. Richard recoiled, falling half out of his chair from the shock and noise of it, and dimly he saw John clawing back, and men on their feet throughout the room. Then he was on his feet himself, splashed in face and coat, and too angry to measure words.

‘You unwhipped puppy!’ he snapped. ‘What kennel do you foul?’

‘Yours, by the look of it.’

‘You---‘

He cut off short as his anger turned to ice and his mind became clear again. No doubt could stay after an answer like that. Luttrell meant to quarrel, and there could be no avoiding it on any standard of conduct. It would have to be accepted, however unwelcome, and the need now was to speak as a gentleman, even if Luttrell did not. These points would be remembered later.

‘You wish to quarrel?’ he said steadily. ‘Is that the meaning of these--antics?’

‘Quarrel? What the devil for?’ Luttrell spoke contemptuously. ‘Who in God’s earth are
you?’

‘You know well enough who I am.’

‘Do I?’ He drawled it, and for the moment he seemed the calmer of the two. Then he simulated surprise. ‘God, so I do! You’re the trollop’s pretty boy.’

‘You---‘ Again he cut off short. ‘If you say that again I’ll lay a cane about you before I make an end of you.’

‘Instead of running under her skirts, you mean, as you did yesterday? Very brave, weren’t you--leaving
her
to speak?’

‘That’s enough. You know the satisfaction I require.’

‘Require? My God, what a word! Who the devil are you?’ He held his attitude for a moment longer and then came to it. ‘Naval officer, aren’t you? A sort of gentleman by Act of Parliament? All right, then--send your friends, if you’ve a mind to be shot.’ He turned slowly to the man who had come in with him and had seemed the quieter of the two. ‘Receive this fellow’s friends for me, Jack, if he has any.’

The man nodded, and John took a quick step forward, frigid, angry, and utterly correct. For an instant he looked at Richard, seeking approval. Then he spoke icily.

‘My name is Wickham, sir. I act for Captain Grant. Where may I seek you?’

‘I’ll be at the Two Sevens later. Sir John Digby.’

‘Very well.’

They exchanged bows, slight and stiff, and at once the man turned, touched Luttrell’s arm, and indicated the door. They went swaggering out together, and they did not even shut the door. A waiter did it for them, and the nickering candles gave their proper light again. Men stood stiffly in the silent room, and from somewhere a voice spoke softly to break the spell.

‘An out-and-outer.’

It was Larkin who first recovered his wits, perhaps because he had his mind on one thing only, his guests’ dinners, and at once he had his staff in a whirl of activity. Food that had cooled was whisked away, new dishes rushed in, plates changed, bottles uncorked, all to a ceaseless murmur of apology and regret. He himself, bowing and fluttering, saw to Captain Grant and Major Wickham, who had been so scandalously treated in his house. Their table was cleared in an instant, the sodden cloth snatched away, a new one laid with a flourish, clean plates, sparkling silver, polished glass, a new roast turkey, a special wine with Mr. Larkin’s compliments--all appeared from nowhere, and it was Larkin himself who bowed them deferentially to their chairs when all was done. John spoke their thanks and then looked warily at Richard.

‘It seems we’re meant to continue.’

‘I don’t think I want to. However . . .’

He was less cool, inwardly, than he had been. He was disturbed and shaken by it, and this was the moment of reaction, with the enemy out of sight and a chance to think. It was all familiar, of course, the quiet at night before the enemy came over the horizon again, but that had been different, a thing he was used to, and this was not. He knew nothing of duelling--strictly forbidden in the Navy--and he had never thought to have it thrust upon him; but thrust it had been, and he had no choice now but to face it with careful unconcern. He roused himself to do it.