Friday's Child (20 page)

“Lord, don’t I know it?” Sherry retorted. “And as for Brockenhurst—Dash it, I suppose I ought never to have had him to dine here! Ten to one Kitten thinks all’s right because of it! Well, there’s only one thing for it: I must go after them! I’m curst sorry, Gill, but you’ll have to find someone to take my place in our little jaunt. Try Ferdy! You see how it is: can’t help myself!”

“But, Sherry!” protested Mr Ringwood. “Can’t have considered! Won’t find ’em! Not in that vast rout!”

“Well, I can make a devilish good attempt, can’t I?” retorted Sherry. He added with some shrewdness: “If I know anything of Kitten, she’ll be sitting in Richardson’s Great Booth, watching some shocking bad play, or staring her eyes out at a Learned Pig, or some such stuff!”

Upon reflection, Mr Ringwood was forced to own that this was very likely. Perceiving the frown on his friend’s face, he gave a cough, and ventured to say: “Y’know, dear old boy—not my business—but she don’t mean an ounce of harm! Only saying to George last night: dear little soul! Not up to snuff at all!”

“No, my God!” agreed the Viscount feelingly.

“Tell you what, Sherry: if I had a wife, which I’m deuced glad I haven’t, I’d rather have one like your Kitten than all the Incomparables put together.”

“You would?” said Sherry, staring at him.

“I would,” said Mr Ringwood firmly.

“Well, I don’t know but what I wouldn’t too,” said Sherry, cheerfully unconscious of having, by these simple words, bereft his friend of all power of coherent speech.

They left the house together and parted in Piccadilly, Mr Ringwood wending his steps back to his lodging, and trying all the way to puzzle out what kind of a marriage it was that he had assisted at; and the Viscount going off in a hackney to Smithfield.

The market, which was extremely large, was so crowded with people and booths that the task of discovering one small lady in the seething mob might have daunted a more dogged man than Sherry. He paid off the hackney, and was just wondering whether to repair immediately to the Great Booth or to make a tour of the tents advertising such attractions as a Living Skeleton, a Fireproof Lady, or Mr Simon Paap, the Celebrated Dutch Dwarf, when, by the most astounding stroke of good fortune, he perceived his wife, making her way through the crowd in his direction, and escorted, not by Mr Yarford, or Sir Matthew Brockenhurst, but by a perfectly unknown citizen, dressed in his Sunday best, and having all the appearance of being a respectable tradesman. The Viscount stood transfixed in amazement, and while he was still staring at the unexpected and quite inexplicable vision of his wife of his bosom tripping along with her hand resting on the arm of an obvious Cit, Hero caught sight of him and gave a squeak of joy. She came hurrying up to him, dragging her cavalier with her, and almost cast herself on his chest, crying: “Oh, Sherry, I am so very glad to see you! Don’t scold me! Indeed, I did not know how it would be! As soon as I saw what kind of a place it was, I told Gussie I was sure you would not like me to be here, but she said I was a little goose, and I should be safe with that
odious
Wilfred; and then she went off with Sir Matthew, and I tried—indeed I did, Sherry!—to make Wilfred take me home, but he was quite abominable, and I ran away from him, and he pursued me, and Mr Tooting—oh, this is Mr Tooting, Sherry, and he has been so very obliging!—Mr Tooting knocked him down, and there was such a dreadful rout, you can’t conceive!—but all passed off in the end, and Mr Tooting said he would convey me home in a hackney, and then suddenly I saw you, so he need not be put to so much trouble after all!”

Sherry, detaching the grasp on his coat lapels, firmly tucked his wife’s hand in his arm and turned to express the sense of his obligation to the crimson-faced Mr Tooting. This young gentleman, recognizing at a glance a regular top-sawyer in his protégée’s husband, was quite overcome, and stuttered out a few disjointed sentences to the effect that he was happy to have been of service. Sherry, who was always very easy with his fellow-men, grasped his reluctant hand and shook it, said that he was very much obliged to him, and that if he should ever be in a position to serve him in any way, he should be glad to do it. He then inquired after Mr Yarford, and upon learning precisely how he had been floored, approved heartily of a blow which must, he opined, have been a wisty castor. He said that he himself was considered to be handy with his fives, and took lessons from Jackson, in New Bond Street. This naturally led to one or two boxing reminiscences, with a few reflections on the leading prize-fighters of the day, at the end of which both gentlemen were very pleased with each other. They parted with mutual expressions of esteem, the Viscount bestowing his card on Mr Tooting, and Mr Tooting going off with his head in a whirl at the thought that he had rescued a real live peeress from annoyance, and chatted on the friendliest of terms with her young blood of a husband.

No sooner had he vanished into the crowd than the Viscount turned his attention to his troublesome wife. “First it’s one thing, and then it’s another!” he said austerely. “I’m damned if ever I met such a tiresome chit as you, Hero!”

“Don’t scold me, Sherry! Indeed, I am very sorry to be in another scrape!” Hero said disarmingly. She raised her worshipful eyes to his face, and said, with a small sigh: “I quite see that it is not the style of thing you would approve of, and I haven’t been into any of the booths, though I
did
watch the droll puppet show.”

“I should think not indeed!” said his lordship severely. He then ruined his whole effect by abandoning his role of outraged spouse, and saying boyishly: “Well, since we
are
here we may as well take a look at the sights. Damme, if I choose to take my wife to Bartholomew Fair, who the devil’s to stop me? Besides, we shan’t see a soul we know!”

“Sherry!” gasped Hero, clinging ecstatically to his arm. “Do you mean it? May I see the Fireproof Woman washing her hands in boiling oil? And, oh, Sherry, there is a theatre here, and there is to be a piece acted called
The Hall of Death,
or
Who’s the Murderer
? Sherry,
could
we—?”

Sherry gave a shout of laughter. “Of all the nonsensical brats!
The Hall of Death!
Come along, then, but I warn you, I won’t have you clutching me every time you take fright at the mummery, as you did at Astley’s!”

Hero promised to comport herself with the utmost propriety, and they went off together, bought themselves a two-shilling box for the forthcoming performance at the Great Booth, and filled in the time until the curtain should rise on this promising melodrama in wandering about the market, inspecting all the freaks, and buying one another several perfectly useless fairings.
The Hall of Death
was so bloodcurdling that Hero held Sherry’s hand tightly from start to finish, responding to his inquiry as to whether she was enjoying it with an eloquent shudder which he correctly interpreted as signifying contentment of no mean order.

On their way home he warned her that on no account must she divulge where she had been, and most strictly forbade her to frequent Lady Appleby’s company. Close questioning on the subject of Mr Yarford’s advances made him reject, not without regret, his first intention to send his cartel to this callow young gentleman. The Viscount, finding for the first time in his life that he had to be wise for two people, realized that to call Mr Yarford to account would be to plunge his Hero into the very scandal he wished to avoid. Much as it went against the grain with him, he had sense enough to perceive that his best course would be to remain in official ignorance of his wife’s escapade. Since Mr Yarford had been made to appear ridiculous at the hands of a sturdy Cit, it was safe to assume that he would certainly preserve the most discreet silence concerning the day’s doings.

“None of the Yarfords are at all the thing, Kitten,” he said abruptly. “Brockenhurst ain’t either. Yes, I know I’m pretty well-acquainted with him, but that don’t signify. A fellow may know any number of bloods he don’t choose to present to his wife.” He suddenly recollected that this was precisely what he had done, and added: “Never ought to have invited him to dine with us. The thing is I keep forgetting I’m married.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, Sherry, I did not care for him very much,” confessed Hero. “And I was quite shocked by Gussie’s headstrong manners. You know, she never used to behave in that odd way, when we were children. And although, of course, I know that a great many ladies have lovers I do
not
think that it is good
ton
to permit them to treat them with such familiarity as Sir Matthew uses towards her.”

“Who told you that a great many ladies have lovers?” demanded the Viscount. “Don’t say it was me, now! I never told you any such thing, I swear I didn’t!”

“Oh no, but I have been about the world now, and I know hundreds of things I never had the least notion of before!” said Hero, not without pride. She glanced shyly at him. “And that was what you meant, wasn’t it, Sherry, when you said that you would not mind what I did if only I were discreet?”

The Viscount met her eyes full. It was, in fact, exactly what he had meant. He wondered if there were any insanity in his family, and replied shortly: “No, it was not!”

“Oh!” said Hero. She suggested: “I dare say you think me too young for such things?”

“I do. Much too young!” replied his lordship emphatically.

“Oh!” said Hero again, and said no more.

A few nights later he took her to a Grand Gala at Vauxhall Gardens, making up an agreeable party for the expedition. Miss Milborne was amongst their guests, her parent having been persuaded, not without misgiving, to entrust her to Hero’s chaperonage. Nothing could have been more decorous, however, than the party, or more correct than the Viscount’s attentions to his guests; and the only thing that happened to mar the peace and propriety of the evening was the stormy quarrel which took place between Miss Milborne and Lord Wrotham, consequent upon the Duke of Severn’s detaching himself from his own party, on first catching sight of the Incomparable, and joining the Viscount’s for the greater part of the evening. This was of course regrettable, but as Miss Milborne was far too well-bred to permit her annoyance to appear, and everyone was quite accustomed to see Lord Wrotham in a fit of the sullens, the incident was not allowed to spoil the pleasure of the remainder of the guests.

Chapter 11

The quarrel which had sprung up at Vauxhall Gardens between Miss Milborne and Lord Wrotham flourished longer than was expected, Wrotham’s temper having been worn thin, and Miss Milborne being so much incensed with him for choosing such a public spot for a quarrel that she refused to receive him when he called upon her next day to make his apologies. As the Duke of Severn ascended the steps of the Milbornes’ residence just as George came down them, and was instantly admitted into the house, it was not surprising that that fiery young man’s patience should there and then have deserted him. Encouraged by his long-suffering friends, he determined to relinquish his pretensions to the hand of the most hardened flirt in London, and for some time made great efforts to abide by this resolve, even allowing himself to forget his broken heart for long enough to enable him to challenge Sherry to a grand driving contest, in praiseworthy emulation of a feat once accomplished by Sir John Lade, who had driven his curricle twenty-two times in succession through a gateway only just wide enough to admit the vehicle. Neither young gentleman succeeded in bettering this performance, Sherry coming to grief at the fifth lap and George at the seventh. Sherry was quite unhurt, but George wrenched his shoulder, and went about for several days with his arm in a sling, looking even more romantic than usual, and causing ill-informed persons to spread the rumour that he had called someone out, and had himself sustained a wound. This story reached Isabella’s ears in due course, and she naturally supposed that she must have been the cause of the duel. She strongly disapproved of duelling, but she could not help feeling a little touched, as well as anxious; and as George did not come to see her she made an excuse to pay a morning call in Half Moon Street to discover what she could learn from Hero.

Hero, who had just come in from a ride in the park, and was wearing a saucy little hat, with a most provocative plume curling over its brim, which quite wrung Miss Milborne’s heart with envy, received her guest with her usual sunny good humour, accepted with thanks the marble-covered novel, straight from the Minerva Press, which was Miss Milborne’s excuse for the call, and begged her guest to be seated. Miss Milborne complimented her on the saucy hat, and confessed that if only she herself rode better, and were not so nervous of horses, she should be tempted to ride in the park too.