Authors: Elizabeth Mansfield
“Right. Nothin’ for it but to get Anabel married and out of the way. But I want to do right by my girl. She’s educated proper—like any Lord’s daughter, I promise you—and I want her to have a title and mix with the swells and have a town house and a country place and everything money can buy. I’m determined on it. Well, that’s the long and the short of it.”
“I understand, Mr. Plumb,” Pollard said, rising and reaching for his hat and cane. “Now I quite see the need for haste, and I am willing to set a wedding date just as soon as I can put certain of my … er …
affairs
in order. That is, if your daughter approves of me. I’m sure that, from what you say of her,
I
shall find
her
delightful.”
Mr. Plumb stood up and held out his hand. “Then nothin’ remains but to come to dinner and see her. Shall we say Friday next?”
Pollard nodded and the two shook hands, each one feeling quite pleased with himself. They had found themselves in rough waters, and each was convinced that his own tact and aplomb had won the day.
Ferdie Brinsleigh was twenty years old, the only young man in his circle to have his own lodgings. His parents, devoted to country life, had no house in town, but it was worth the expense of permitting Ferdie to have his own London flat to get him out of their way. So Ferdie had rented the largest flat he could afford on a rather generous allowance, furnished it in suitable bachelor style, hired a cook, a valet, and a butler, and had set up housekeeping. The flat became the haven for all his friends, the one place where they could relax, safe from adult supervision.
Late on a November afternoon, Ferdie was playing host to his closest chums, Quentin Cavendish and Tom Spaulding. Too young to be admitted into the various gambling clubs of London, the friends had their own games at Ferdie’s table. The wine was plentiful, the company was congenial, and the stakes low enough to be borne by gentlemen whose pockets were far from plump. Today, Ferdie had asked his friends to come early and stay on into the night, for he planned to serve them dinner and, if they wished, a light supper at midnight.
Tom was the first to arrive, carrying under his arm a large case of polished wood with shiny brass fittings. “What have you there?” Ferdie asked when Tom placed it on the table ceremoniously.
“You’ll see,” Tom answered mysteriously. “Where’s Quent?”
“Hasn’t arrived yet. Come on, Tom, what’s the mystery?”
“No mystery. I just want to wait for Quent, that’s all. What have you to eat? I’m starved.”
“Dinner is not until six. Meanwhile, you’ll have to make do with this port.”
“Port? Very well, pour me a glass. But I warn you, I shall probably get tiddly. I always do, if I drink when I’m hungry.”
“And you’re always hungry,” Ferdie said with a snort. “You’d better not drink too much or you’ll be completely foxed by the time you go home.”
“Don’t worry. If you feed me a proper dinner, I shall sober up all right and tight,” Tom retorted, and downed the port at a gulp.
By the time Quent arrived, both his host and Tom were feeling giddy. Quent looked at them in disgust. “Couldn’t you wait for me?” he asked querulously. “I hate being sober when everyone else is feeling so well-to-live.”
“No need to complain. Drink a glass or two and catch up,” Ferdie suggested with a foolish smile.
“Besides, we waited for you before we opened the box,” Tom said excitedly, his eyes glittering with port-induced brightness.
“What box?” Quent asked.
“This one,” Tom said proudly, picking it up from the table and holding it before him. He paraded around the room dramatically, stumbling only once or twice—holding the box high, as if he were carrying the Holy Grail—and humming a martial tune, quite off key.
“Well, open it then,” said Ferdie impatiently, “and stop acting as if you’re carrying the crown jewels around the room.”
“It’s almost like the crown jewels,” Tom said, grinning. “Closer to the crown jewels than you think!”
“Then open it, man,” said Quent, “and let us
see
whatever it is.”
Tom looked from one to the other until he was satisfied that they were adequately curious. Then he seated himself at the head of the table and placed the box carefully before him, the clasps facing front. He wiped the fingerprints away with his sleeve and touched the clasps. Then, with a glimmer of mischief, he withdrew his hands. “No,” he teased, “I think I’ll wait until after we’ve eaten.”
“No, we won’t,” said Ferdie, and reached over to undo the clasps himself.
“Stop!” cried Tom dramatically. “No one may touch this box but I! On peril of his life!”
Ferdie, just drunk enough to worry about Tom’s silly threat, quickly withdrew his hand. Quent, however, was quite sober and had had enough of Tom’s drunken clowning. “Move aside and let me open it,” he said impatiently. “I’ll take my chances on my life.”
Tom pushed him away. “All right, all right, I’ll open it now, if you insist.”
“I
do
insist, you lobcock,” Quent said, and the three heads bent over the box. Tom undid the catches with proper ceremony and lifted the lid. There, nestled in green velvet, lay the two dueling pistols.
“Good Lord!” gasped Ferdie, awed.
“Are they real?” whispered Quent, sufficiently impressed to satisfy Tom.
“Would the Regent order anything false?” Tom said importantly.
“The Regent? Are they
his?
” asked Ferdie.
Quent looked at Tom askance. “I don’t believe you. Are you saying all those stones are
real?
There must be
hundreds
of them!”
“They must be worth a fortune! Where did you get them?” Ferdie demanded.
“They’re Drew’s. He won them from the Regent. Ain’t they something like?”
The boys nodded solemnly, Quent passing his hand gently over one of the pistol-butts. “I’ve never seen anything like them,” he breathed.
“Lord Jamison must have windmills in his skull to let you carry these around,” Ferdie said jealously.
“Not at all,” Tom said proudly. “He offered to
give
them to me.”
“
Give
them to you?” Quent asked, astonished. “He
couldn’t!
”
“Why not? He don’t like them above half. Said they’re only good for decoration, anyhow.”
“Are you telling us these pistols are
yours?
” Ferdie demanded.
“No. ’Cause I wouldn’t take them.”
The boys gawked at him. “Why not?” Ferdie asked. “
I
wouldn’t have had the will to say ‘no’ to a gift like that!”
“I couldn’t take such an expensive gift. Wouldn’t be at all the thing. Just borrowed them to show to you, that’s all,” Tom explained.
Quent’s eye brightened. “Come on, let’s have a duel.” He lifted a pistol from the box, and taking the muzzle end in his right hand proffered the butt end over his left arm toward Ferdie. “Here’s your weapon, Prince Rhodomontade.” Then he repeated the process and offered a gun to Tom. “And yours, Sir Aguecheek. Now, back to back, so. Good. Gentlemen, count your paces, please.”
Tom and Ferdie counted ten paces as they walked in opposite directions, the guns held up before them. Quent continued. “When I say ‘ready,’ you may turn. On my cry ‘Aim,’ you will cock your pistols, and you may fire any time after I say ‘Fire!’ Is that clear?”
The adversaries nodded. “Ready … Aim … Fire!” cried Quent. Ferdie shouted “Pow!” and clicked the empty pistol.
“Missed me!” laughed Tom. “Now I have you!”
Ferdie took a courageous pose. “Fire away, you cur!” he said with a stiff upper lip.
“Pow!” shouted Tom. Ferdie clasped his breast and staggered to one knee. “I … I’m done for! Give my fob … to … to the girl I love!” he gasped and fell to the floor. Tom burst into laughter and Quent into applause.
“You belong in Covent Garden,” said Quent, helping Ferdie to his feet. “You would have a great career as an actor.”
“All my family are superb mummers,” Ferdie agreed modestly.
Quent picked up the gun that Ferdie had dropped during his ‘dying’ scene and fingered it lovingly. “Too bad these pistols are only ornamental and don’t really shoot,” he said with a sigh.
“Of course they really shoot,” Tom said indignantly.
“But you said they were for decoration. I heard you,” Quent insisted.
“I said that Drew
uses
them for decoration. He don’t like the grip. I never said they won’t shoot. Of course they shoot!”
“Easy enough to prove,” Ferdie remarked with a shrug. “Let’s fire one of them.”
“That’s using your cock-loft,” Quent said eagerly. “Good idea!”
“What’s so good about it?” Tom asked in annoyance. “How can we shoot without powder and bullets?”
“That’s true,” Ferdie was forced to acknowledge. “Where’ll we get powder and bullets?”
“Don’t you have a pistol?” Quent asked.
Ferdie favored him with a look of pure disgust. “Of course not. Why would I have a pistol?”
“It ain’t uncommon for people to have pistols,” Quent retorted.
“Is that so?” Ferdie challenged. “Do
you
have one?”
“Well, no, but—”
Ferdie snorted.
Quent knew he had been bested in the argument; nevertheless, he attempted to get the last word by muttering, “But I have a rifle … in the country…”
Ferdie’s sneer deepened. “That’s marvelous, that is! A rifle! In the country! That does us a great deal of good
now
, don’t it?”
Quent shrugged and turned to the table, fingering the pistol box absently. Tom crossed to the sideboard and helped himself to another glass of port. “I guess you’ll have to take my word for it. The guns shoot. They’re perfect in every way.”
“Wait!” Quent said in an arrested voice. “What’s this?” He pointed to a small brass fitting at the bottom of the box.
Tom came up to him and looked closely at it. “I don’t know. I thought it was just another ornament. What do
you
think—?”
Quent lifted the box and pushed the brass fitting. The bottom of the box dropped open, and out fell a powder horn, a box of bullets, and a silver ramrod. The boys gaped.
“A storage compartment!” Tom said breathlessly. “It’s a storage compartment! Now we have everything we’ll need!” The boys’ eyes shone with excitement.
“Where’ll we shoot?” Quent asked. “Into the fireplace?”
“No, no,” Ferdie said quickly. “There must be a better place…” And his eyes roamed about the room.
“I know,” said Tom. “We’ll put a heavy cushion on the mantelpiece and shoot into it. The only thing we’ll damage that way is the cushion.”
Quent nodded his approval, although Ferdie looked dubious. Tom ignored his host’s doubtful look and went quickly to the sofa. He felt the back cushions and the little pillows Ferdie had scattered about, but rejected them. Lifting the round bolster that was wedged alongside the arm of the sofa, he smiled in satisfaction. “This should do,” he said.
Quent was busily loading the gun. “How do you put the powder in?” he asked.
Tom went to the mantelpiece and began clearing the objects that cluttered it. “Pour the powder into the muzzle, I think,” he said, “and tamp it down with the ramrod.” And he placed the bolster on the mantelpiece.
“I think it’s all set,” Quent said, pleased with himself.
“Let’s see,” said Ferdie, and he reached for the pistol.
“No!” Quent cried. “I want to fire first.” He clutched the gun tightly to prevent Ferdie from pulling it out of his hand. There was a deafening report.
“Now see what you’ve done!” Ferdie shouted, half in anger and half in fright.
“Sorry, old man,” Quent said in consternation. I didn’t mean to pull the trigger. What did I hit?”
“I think,” said Tom in a strangely constricted voice, “you hit …
me
…!”
They stared at Tom, aghast. A red stain on his left shoulder was rapidly growing larger. “Oh, my God!” groaned Quent in agony.
Tom put his hand to his shoulder and then raised it slowly in front of his eyes. His fingers were stained with blood. His face grew ashen, his eyes drooped closed, and he slumped to the ground in a faint.
Quent and Ferdie ran and knelt beside him. Quent lifted his wrist and felt for his pulse. “He’s alive…” he said, with a dubious hope in his voice.
“Yes, but…” Ferdie bit his lip nervously. “What do we do
now?
”
Wys and Drew sat in front of the fire in Drew’s drawing room. For the past few evenings, Drew had not made the effort to engage in his usual pursuits. He had not been to his clubs, had accepted no invitations, nor had he called on any of his numerous acquaintances. Tonight, Wys had joined him in his self-inflicted withdrawal from the social whirl. Wys, too, was in no mood for gaiety and dissipation. Both men had been monosyllabic at dinner, but after a good number of brandies and a quiet hour before the fire, Wys had mellowed considerably, and before he quite realized it, he had told Drew about the girl in the carriage whom he had rescued three days before, and the strange feelings she had roused in him.
“You say she is quiet, well-bred and lovely? Mr. Farr, if I had to choose a young lady for you, those would be the very qualities I would look for,” Drew said with a smile.
“Why so?” Wys asked curiously.
“Because there seems to be nothing extravagant about her. You say she is tall?”
“About average height, I’d say.”
“Good. You wouldn’t want a young lady to tower over you, or to whom you’d have to bend to speak, isn’t that so?”
“Quite so,” Wys said after considering the matter carefully.
“And her hair—neither too dark nor too light, I take it?”
“A light brown, I think.”
“Quite suitable, I’d say,” Drew said, hiding a smile behind his hand.
“And she had the loveliest eyes,” Wys sighed. “So direct and honest—not blinking or flitting from side to side as so many ladies’ do.”
“Direct and honest. I would have surmised as much.”
“Really?” asked Wys in surprise. “Why?”
“Direct and honest eyes are the only kind suitable for the direct and honest Wystan Farr,” Drew answered.
“You may laugh at me,” Wys said without a trace of irritation, “but what good is it all if I’ve lost her?”