Frederica (32 page)

XVII

The Marquis, in fact, was behaving with unusual circumspection, careful to give the tattle-mongers no food for gossip. Well-aware of his notoriety, of the scandalous on-dits which would instantly attend the least sign he gave of having formed a partiality for Miss Merriville, he was taking inordinate pains to shield her from envious, or merely malicious tongues. To satisfy the curiosity of those who might wonder why he was gratifying so many hostesses by appearing at their balls, drums, and assemblies, he set up the dashing Mrs Ilford as his flirt, knowing that the lively widow’s charms were equalled by her shrewdness: the Marquis, man-of-the-town though he might be, had no desire to break hearts; and the objects of his gallantry had never yet included guileless innocents. In general, he had ignored the handkerchiefs thrown to him, but he had his own, remorseless way with any over-bold damsel who disgusted him by too-obviously setting her cap at him. He would indulge her with a brief, desperate flirtation, conducted under the envious or the shocked eyes of her contemporaries, and, at their next encounter, fail to remember her name, or even that he had met her before. These merciless tactics had earned for him the reputation of being dangerous, and caused prudent parents to warn their daughters against encouraging his advances. They even caused his closest friend to remonstrate with him once or twice, but Mr More-ton’s accusation of cruelty was productive of nothing but a contemptuous smile, and a coldly uttered hope that the victim had learnt her lesson. From the hour of his come-out, the Marquis had been a matrimonial prize, but the years had not taught him to accept this position with equanimity, to tolerate the schemes of match-making mamas, or to be amused by the lures cast out by their ambitious daughters. Since the day of his discovery that his first love would have been as ready to marry a hunchback possessed of his rank and fortune as himself, he had grown steadily more hardened in cynicism, until, at the age of seven-and-thirty, when Frederica thrust herself into his life, he had no more intention of saddling himself with a wife than of throwing himself into the Thames.

But Frederica had seriously ruffled the calm waters of his agreeable existence. Not quite immediately, but soon enough, he had found himself strongly attracted to her, and in a way that was strange to him. The only women who had previously interested him were the well-born flirts, with whom it was amusing to dally, and the barques of frailty with whom he enjoyed more intimate relations. He felt no affection for any of these ladies, and not the smallest wish to establish with any one of them a more permanent connection. To be leg-shackled to a female who, however lively or beautiful she might be, would inevitably become a bore within a very few months was a fate too hideous even to be contemplated. He did not wish for female companionship; and still less did he wish to saddle himself with the trials and responsibilities that attended the married state.

Then came Frederica, upsetting his cool calculations, thrusting responsibilities upon him, intruding more and more into the ordered pattern of his life, and casting him into a state of unwelcome doubt. And, try as he would, he could discover no reason for this uncomfortable change in himself. She had more countenance than beauty; she employed no arts to attract him; she was heedless of convention; she was matter-of-fact, and managing, and not at all the sort of female whom he had ever wished to encourage. Furthermore (now he came to think of it), she had foisted two troublesome schoolboys on to him, which was the last thing in the world he wanted!

Or had she? A rather rueful smile flickered at the corners of his lordship’s mouth as he considered this point. No: she had not. He had allowed himself to yield to the blandishments of Felix (detestable imp!); then Jessamy had got himself into a scrape (tiresome young chub!), and had turned to him for help, which, naturally, had to be given to him; but it would really be quite unjust to blame Frederica for these happenings. She had been as cross as crabs over Jessamy’s affair, top-lofty little peagoose that she was! Top-lofty, gooseish, managing, no more than passably good-looking: why the devil did he like her so much?

Unconsciously following the example Frederica had set, he began to do her justice, trying to discover what quality in her it was which had jerked him out of his idle hedonism into a state of nagging uncertainty. It was a pleasant exercise, but it brought him no nearer to solving the problem. He liked her composure, her frankness, the smile in her eyes, her ready appreciation of the ridiculous, the gay courage with which she shouldered burdens too heavy for a girl to bear, the way she caught herself up guiltily on a cant phrase culled from her brothers’ vocabularies, the intent look which came into her face when she was pondering a ticklish question, the unexpected things she said, and—but what was there in all this to disrupt his present life, and to place his untrammelled future in jeopardy? Nothing, of course: she had certainly aroused in him feelings he had not known he possessed, but she could be no more than a passing fancy.

A frown gathered on his brow as he thought this over. The devil of it was that the more he saw of her the stronger grew the feeling he had for her, which was not love (an emotion which belonged to one’s salad-days), nor yet mere liking. Call it affection! It caused him to think about her far too much for his peace of mind; and (really, he must be growing senile!) to be constantly aware of a wish to lift the burdens from her shoulders. As matters stood, he was powerless to render her any but the most trifling assistance, and none at all in what he guessed must be the greatest of her present anxieties. He had suspected at the outset that she had underestimated the expenses of a London season; and when his experienced eye detected, beneath velvet trimming on a drapery of Albany gauze, the evening dress which had already undergone several transformations, he was very sure that she was beginning to feel purse-pinched. He thought, savagely, that every available groat was squandered on Charis. He was too well-versed in such matters not to recognize that Charis too wore dresses which had been subtly altered to present a new appearance, but he quite unjustly supposed that the cunning hand at work had been Frederica’s, even going to the length of picturing her slaving over her stitchery until the candles guttered in their sockets. Had he been told that the drudgery, as well as the inspiration, belonged to the younger sister (only she did not think it drudgery), he would have been amazed to the point of incredulity, for he had long since decided that Charis had nothing to recommend her but her undeniable beauty. In his lordship’s prejudiced eyes, she lacked what the ton called
that certain sort of something,
which meant, in a word, quality, and which characterized Frederica. It was apparent, he thought, in whatever Frederica did: from the air with which she wore her furbished-up gowns, to the assurance with which she received visitors in the shabby-genteel house she had hired for the season. But he wanted to remove her from Upper Wimpole Street, and to place her in surroundings worthier of her, furnishing her at the same time with every extravagant luxury, and enough pin-money to enable her to purchase a new gown whenever she chose to do it. And, with all his wealth, the only assistance he had been able to render her was the discharge of Jessamy’s and Lufra’s trifling debts! There was the possibility that he might be granted the opportunity to render further assistance of the same kind, but even that would fall a long way short of what he would like to do for her.

His frown deepened. That eldest brother of hers was likely to prove an encumbrance rather than a support to her. There was no harm in the boy, but if he was not as volatile as his father he had quite as little sense of responsibility. He would probably settle down happily on his Herefordshire estate in a year or two; but at present he was clearly bent on enjoying his first London-fling, and was perfectly willing to leave the conduct of his household, the management of his young brothers, and all the problems that attached to a family living on straitened means, in Frederica’s capable hands. The Marquis had been keeping an unobtrusive eye on him; and he believed that it would not be long before Harry found himself in Dun territory. He seemed, mercifully, to have no taste for gaming, so that the Beau Traps on the look out for well-breeched greenheads from the country cast their lures in vain, and very soon abandoned him for likelier prey. Harry could conceive of few duller or more unprofitable ways of spending the evening than in one of the gaming-hells against which Mr Peplow had warned him. It would certainly be agreeable to win a fortune, but he was shrewd enough to guess that fortunes were not won by those who played with a set of persons described by his friend as Greek banditti.

Horses, however, were a different matter. If one were a judge of horseflesh (which Harry prided himself he was); studied the form; kept an eye on Cocker, to see how the odds stood; carefully watched how the Tulips of the Turf were betting their money at Tatt’s and knew when to hedge off, there was every chance that one would come off all right. On the Monday following his arrival in London, he had gone with Mr Peplow to Tattersall’s; and thereafter became a frequent visitor to the subscription room. As he liked the sport more for its own sake than for the money that could be won by backing winners, he went to any race meeting held within reach of the city, driving himself and Barny in a curricle which, acting on the advice of Endymion Dauntry, he had bought (really dog-cheap) in Long Acre. The pair of sweetgoers he acquired to draw the curricle had not been quite so cheap; but, as he rather guiltily pointed out to Frederica, it was false economy to buy cheap prads which would inevitably turn out to be stumblers, or limpers, or incurable millers.

She agreed to this, suppressing the impulse to protest against his extravagance. She was prompted in some measure by the knowledge that criticism from his sister would not be well received; and to a far greater degree by a realization of the expenditure she was herself incurring. Graynard had supplied the money for this London season, and Graynard belonged not to her, but to Harry. She allowed herself to do no more than beg him, half-laughingly, not to outrun the constable. He said impatiently: “Oh, fiddle! I’m not a pauper! Do you expect me to drive job-horses, like a once-a-week beau? Why should I?”

“No, no! Only that the expense of stabling, in London—and a groom besides—”

“Gammon! The merest trifle! If you had had any rumgumption, Freddy, you would have brought our own horses to London, and John-Coachman as well! I can tell you, I don’t like it above half that you should be jauntering about in a job-carriage. It don’t present a good appearance—and if you thought I should have grudged the expense you’re fair and far off!”

She assured him that no such thought had entered her mind, and thereafter said no more. His somewhat censorious brother, Jessamy, was not so forbearing. Not only did he refuse to take the smallest interest in Harry’s neatish pair of Welsh bays, but he condemned their purchase so unequivocally, and with such a total want of the respect due to his senior, that only his sense of propriety (as he told Jessamy) restrained Harry from tipping him a settler.

Thereafter, his family saw little of Harry. His smart new set-out made it an easy matter for him to attend a good many race meetings, and several pugilistic battles, held discreetly out of town, but at such accessible places as Moulsey Hurst, or Copthall Common.

The Marquis knew all about the quarrel, and the resultant coolness between the brothers. He had once or twice invited Jessamy to ride with him in the park, and on one of these occasions they had encountered Harry, trying out the paces of his prime pair. The Marquis had said: “Two very tidy ones! Have you driven them?”

“No! And I don’t mean to!” had replied Jessamy, fire in his eyes, and his upper lip lengthening ominously. “Harry knows very well what I think of this bang-up set-out of his!”

“I’m not so well-informed. What
do
you think of it?”

That was quite enough: Jessamy told him in explicit terms. He was, in general, reserved to the point of stiffness, but he had long since ceased to regard his lordship in any other light than that of a close and trusted relation; and he hoped that Cousin Alverstoke would give Harry snuff for his reckless extravagance. “Because he don’t care a straw for what
I
say!” he ended bitterly.

“I don’t suppose he does. It says much for his forbearance that you didn’t—er—receive a chancery suit upon the nob!” had said Alverstoke, adding, with the flicker of a quizzical smile: “How would you like it if Felix raked
you
down?”

Jessamy had flushed hotly, an arrested look on his face; but after a moment or two he had replied: “Very well, sir! I shouldn’t have said it! But—but it provoked me so much I don’t know how I
could
have kept my tongue between my teeth! Frederica may say that he has a right to do as he pleases, but
I
think he should be considering how he can best help
her,
instead of wasting the ready on his own pleasure!”

The Marquis was much in sympathy with this sentiment, but he had not said so, preferring to cast a damper on Jessamy’s wrath, and to point out to him that the purchase of a curricle and a pair of horses was hardly likely to bring the whole family to ruin.

He was sincere in this opinion; and he did not think that Frederica was much worried by Harry’s slight burst of extravagance. But that something was causing her to feel anxious he was reasonably certain; and since it had become, by almost insensible degrees, a matter of importance to him that nothing should be allowed to trouble her, he set about the task of discovering what had brought just a faint look of strain to her eyes. He invited the Merriville sisters, my Lord and Lady Jevington, and Mr Peter Navenby to be his guests at the Opera one evening, mentally holding his sister Louisa and her prosy son in reserve, in case Augusta should spurn his invitation. She did not, however, which, since the Jevingtons also rented a box at the Opera House, surprised him a little, and still more her mild spouse.