Your affectionate
Phoebe
The memory of it made
her bury her head in her hands; and when she looked up, she was shocked to see
Mr Durrant slumped in a chair and looking haggard — even shrunken.
‘This is my doing,’ he
said, in an ashy voice.
‘What?’
‘I should have seen it.
God, with my ridiculous folly I have thrown Hugh into a panic — driven him into
the worst of all courses. He has set his sights on an heiress — young and
impressionable, yes, he made sure of that — and seduced her. In single-minded cold
blood, he has persuaded this girl to her ruin.’ His eyes glittered. ‘And it is
my fault—’
‘Stop, Mr Durrant — tell
me what you mean. Her ruin? Do you think Hugh will not marry her — is that it?
Use her, and desert her?’ Oh, yes, she had thought it herself, or rather the
thought was one of the many that had brushed her, cobweb-like, as she had run
here to Edgar Buildings, wanting only his help, wanting only not to be alone.
‘That is one outcome to
be feared. It is always to be feared, when such a thing happens. It may not be
his first intention — but he is so wayward, so little to be trusted, and she is
so innocent . . .’ The housekeeper brought in a tray of coffee. He thanked her,
and when she had gone poured half a cup and topped it up with brandy.
‘Here. Drink it, drink
it, you’re as pale as death. His first intention . . . well, that of course is
what she says — marriage. Which is to say, marriage to her fifty thousand
pounds. Is it fifty?’
‘Yes. Fifty thousand
pounds on her coming of age — early next year.’
‘As he surely knows.
Hence the elopement — which she, God help her, attributes to his ardour. They
must go to Gretna, as in England she cannot marry without her guardian’s
consent. And Hugh surely knew that Lady Eastmond would see him at once for the
adventurer he is.’ He sprang up and paced restlessly. ‘Dear God, you and I
would have told her so at the first hint.’
‘And once married, of
course, they cannot be unmarried.’ The laced coffee made her gasp, but it
seemed to brace her: Mr Durrant’s presence also, perhaps. ‘Next year Hugh will
be a rich man, and Phoebe . . . But this is what I must ask myself, Mr Durrant.
My immediate conclusion was the same as yours. Hugh Hanley is taking advantage
of her, and she is making a dreadful mistake. But should I — should I not
consider this also as Phoebe’s own decision — and respect it as such?’
‘What? What in heaven’s
name makes you talk like that?’
Lydia drew a deep
breath. ‘I fear I have had a hand in her decisions before — to unhappy effect.
Indeed I am afraid this — this disaster is the ultimate result.’
He studied her, then sat
down and went on in a gentler voice: ‘I see we had better be frank with each
other — as this matter concerns us both so nearly. But I am glad to hear you
call it a disaster — as it is: and don’t, for pity’s sake, begin blaming
yourself for it. First, your Miss Rae is a fool — a naive rather than malicious
one: and second, Hugh is a rogue, but a horribly plausible one. The combination
is fraught with mischief. But as for their being driven together — no, I bear
the responsibility for that.’ He felt for his watch, then realised he was in
shirt-sleeves. ‘It must be getting on for nine now. When did you find the note?
When do you think she left?’
‘Mary found the note
early this morning. Phoebe must have slipped out some time in the small hours .
. .’ She thought back to last night: dinner, a little desultory conversation:
Phoebe electing for an early bed. It all looked as pregnant and sinister now as
it had looked unremarkable then. ‘None of the servants heard anything. But the
maid next door thought she heard carriage-wheels in the middle of the night. I
suppose they must have made an arrangement. She took only two bags—’
‘And he was waiting just
down the street, in classic fashion, to carry her off in a chaise to a glorious
future. Lord, I feel sick . . .’ He frowned down at himself. ‘I should dress.’
‘Mr Durrant, wait. Tell
me why you blame yourself. Do you mean you suspected something?’
‘I suspected nothing,’
he said grimly, ‘which is where I am at fault again. I should have thought of
it. But I was too busy being pleased with myself.’
‘There is nothing wrong
with being pleased with yourself,’ she said, looking away and sipping the
potent coffee. ‘It is a sensation I would willingly experience again.’
‘You’ve seen Hugh lately
of course. What has he said? About me, about Juliet Allardyce?’ His voice was
deliberate and hard.
‘He — he believed that
there is, or will be, an engagement between you.’ Lydia coughed: the brandy.
‘Damn it all,’ he said
softly. ‘Well, now you see why I blame myself, Miss Templeton. Hugh sees
himself cut out. He has looked to his prospects — or lack of them — and has
taken appropriate action to restore his fortunes. As simple as that. Dear Lord.
Beware, always beware of your wishes coming true. They bring a curse with
them.’
‘No — you shouldn’t
think that,’ she said, with difficulty. ‘This — this is something separate,
surely. It shouldn’t spoil whatever you — you and Juliet have—’
‘What?’ His head jerked
up. ‘Oh — of course, I’m sorry, I’m not thinking . . . The point is, there is
no engagement between Juliet and me. Nor is there any in prospect. I must break
a confidence, but I think — that is, I know she will understand. Juliet is
secretly engaged — has been some nine or ten months.’
Lydia was used to
reading in novels of people’s feelings being indescribable: but she had never
before experienced it.
‘It was when she was
with her brother at Vienna,’ he went on, his face set, masked. ‘A Prussian gentleman,
attached to the embassy there. It was kept secret, of course, because of Mrs
Allardyce, who would never approve, and no doubt do all in her power to stop
it. They are hoping to marry when she returns to Vienna. Allardyce knew of it
too.’
Lydia licked her dry
lips. ‘When did you learn about this?’
‘Not long ago . . .’ The
mask hardened, but his shoulders were restive. ‘No need to talk of it now.
Suffice to say that Juliet knew all about my situation with Hugh: she heartily
sympathised — all the more, when she met him; and she was good enough to go
along with the deception. Yes. This is the reckless game I have played. I do
not blame her at all: she felt she was helping me — making it appear that there
was an understanding between us. It was exactly what I wanted, after all: to
put my damnable nephew’s nose out of joint. And it was — God forgive me, but
this last week or so I have drawn an unholy satisfaction from it. Seeing that
smile of his wiped off — well, not precisely wiped off, but most gratifyingly
smudged. I should have known that no good could come from such an unnatural
pleasure.’ He snapped to his feet. ‘I must dress. There’s no time to lose. I’ll
not be a moment — take some more coffee. The brandy’s there.’
‘No, no, I shall be
drunk.’
‘Nonsense, you always
had an excellent head for liquor.’ With a brief bare smile he was gone.
She did take a little
more; and in the fumes of it found, despite all the baneful misery of anxiety, a
moment of pure joy in the knowledge that there was no engagement to Juliet
Allardyce. Pure? Well, a little impurity in it, perhaps — picturing Mrs
Allardyce’s displeasure. But at least here was one direful mistake avoided.
Yet Mr Durrant’s candour
deserved no less from herself, and she could not let him take up a burden that
was partly hers. As soon as he returned, waistcoated, booted, and muttering
about his coat, she spoke.
‘Mr Durrant, hear me
now. You should not blame yourself. Your coat is on that chair. You should not,
because it is going too far. Hugh got the unpleasant shock he thoroughly
deserved, but you could not predict this result. There I am at fault: for Hugh
would not have found Phoebe such an easy mark if it were not for me — for my
failures in guiding her.’
‘What do you mean?’ He
shrugged the coat on to his long, rangy back. ‘You were not much impressed by
Beck, I know — but still, it was she who refused him.’
‘Yes — but influenced by
me, I fear. And it was I who pointed her towards what I thought was the better
course for her — Robert Allardyce. And I was wrong.’
He hesitated, wincing
slightly. ‘Ah. Hm. He — he is an odd fish, all in all, taking off like that.
Yes, I heard a version of the tale from Mrs Allardyce but, like most things she
says, I ignored it.’
‘Did you? So much that
you cannot remember what it was?’
‘Oh . . .’ He avoided
her eyes. ‘The gist was that you had spoiled Phoebe’s chances with him by
alienating his affections. I put it more neatly than her, of course.’
‘What does Juliet say?’
‘Nothing: her brother
did not confide in her, it seems, and it is not her nature to speculate.’
‘And what do
you
think?’
‘I think,’ he said
carefully, ‘that I may have been right after all, with what I said to you at
the Dress Ball: and that’s all I can say.’
She sighed. ‘You
were
right — and I am sorry I was so dismissive of it. I fear we always do that
with things we don’t wish to believe — things that are beginning to dawn . . .
Well, that evening he declared himself to me. He proposed. In the card-room of
all places.’
He gave her a long,
wondering look. ‘And what did you say?’
‘I said no, of course,’
she said, faintly snappish. ‘It was absurd. I had never shown the slightest
interest in him, except as Phoebe’s suitor. He was meant for Phoebe: that was
why we were here, that was why I had done everything in my power to . . . And
that’s just it. I had led Phoebe to believe he was about to propose to her —
and instead,
this:
this most wretched of reversals. I had to tell her,
of course: and she was kind, understanding: she was Phoebe. Yet what she must
have been really thinking — or suspecting . . . You see, I came to Bath, Mr
Durrant, to help her with her choice: and I left her with none. And now —
turned in on herself, surely mistrusting all influence, all careful counsels —
now appears this dazzling man before her. He passionately proposes to whisk her
away: — this minute. And why not? There is only wreck behind her.’
‘A wreck not of your
making,’ he said firmly. ‘Certainly it was not consciously done: there was no
design. Allardyce, after all, could not help himself. That is — you offered him
no encouragement, as you say: it was a thing beyond your control.’ Suddenly he
was brisk. ‘But it is all a damnable confounded business, I must say. And it
makes me all the more apprehensive for Miss Rae. Plainly she is not thinking
straight — if she is thinking at all.’ He drew out his watch. ‘And time is
getting on.’
‘What are you going to
do?’
‘Go after them. Stop
them. Oh, to be sure, respecting her decision and whatnot is all very well —
but let us be honest. Phoebe Rae? Gentle, good-natured as she is —
too
infernally
good-natured — tying herself to that coxcomb? He’ll bring her to grey hairs
even before he’s run through her money. No, if anything can be done to stop it
. . .’ He grimaced. ‘Pray God I can. It must be me, you see. I have already
learned my lesson. I cannot see Miss Rae put to a much harder one because of my
folly.’
She did not ask him what
lesson he had learned. It was, as he said, the time for action. She rose. ‘Very
well, I shall come with you.’
‘No. And don’t look at
me like that, I’m not alluding to feminine frailty. I know you’re not frail. I
mean to pursue them — which surely means taking the coach-road north, as they
must be heading for Scotland; but we must bear in mind the other possibilities.
They have surely left Bath — but there is always the faint hope of a return: or
they may send you some other communication, which means you must be here. I
shall ask at the posting-inns about chaises hired yesterday — and at the York,
when the charming Mr Hanley vacated his rooms. I’ll go bail he’s left his bill
unpaid.’
‘But wait — if they left
some hours ago, how will you catch up with them?’
‘A swift post-chaise,
and no rest. They will surely halt for meals — for Hugh to order the choicest
morsels, and to press her hand and tell her about her eyes.’ He smacked his
lips in disgust. ‘I shall not be so hindered.’
‘Then please, Mr
Durrant, have a care . . . And if you do find them, what then?’
‘Then — then I shall
have to use my powers of persuasion. They are something rusty — but I do have
them, somewhere. Where’s my hat?’
‘There — on the mantel.’
‘So that’s where the
clock went. Now, go home, wait for news, and hope for the best.’
‘This is a miserable
prescription! The agony of waiting—’
‘I’ll send you word as
soon as I am able. Don’t think. Occupy yourself. I am not such a fool as to
suggest sewing. Read.’ He searched among the papers on his desk. ‘Ah, here.
Beck’s journal. Picked it up in Meyler’s yesterday. Wish he had changed that
title. Rather indigestible, but some nourishment in it.’
‘That is the last thing
I would wish to read,’ she said, taking it. ‘And I do not want to read at all. I
only want — oh, Mr Durrant, I only want everything that’s done to be undone.’