A sea officer had learned to act promptly, and he walked through the park to the Manor House the next morning, to find Barford standing on the sunlit terrace in talk with his gamekeeper. He turned, gave courteous greeting, and then apologized for being at the moment a little occupied. For another minute or two he continued to talk about pheasants. Then he brought it to an end, dismissed the keeper, and gave full attention to his visitor.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said easily. ‘Do you find pheasants interesting?’
‘Not very, I’m afraid.’
‘Nor I. Unfortunately I have to pretend to. I like looking at pheasants, but I get no pleasure from shooting them. The noise is distracting and the expense damnable. But there it is, and for a gentleman not to like it would be the social end of him.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘So am I. I’ve guests next month, when the shooting opens, which means it will be mid-October before I can arrive in London. You’ll remember, I hope, to see me there?’
‘If I’m back from Paris.’
He explained what he meant as they paced slowly along the terrace together, and not many words were needed with a mind as quick as Barford’s.
‘By all means pursue your Cyprian,’ he said affably. ‘She seems to be most charming, and you’ll need an occupation until you settle to something. But why rush off to Paris until you at least know where Hildersham is? Can’t you learn that in London?’
‘How?’
‘Call at his house. It’s in Hartford Street, I think.’
‘He won’t be there.’
‘But his butler will, and if you take an air of consequence he’ll tell you where his master is. Or if he can’t do that, he’ll refer you to a banker or an attorney. Hildersham’s too wealthy to disappear without a trace, and there’ll be somebody who’ll know. So try it.’
‘I will. He did ask me to call at his house.’
‘Then say so. It will ease things. When will you go?’
‘It’s a question of leaving here. I may have to be tactful.’
‘You can always plead affairs. Say you must see your banker.’
‘It’s high time I did.’
‘Then you won’t find it difficult.’
Nor did he. He mentioned casually the next day that he must soon be back in London to get his affairs in hand, and if Mary was disappointed she was too accomplished to show it. She showed as much regret as politeness demanded and no more, and she did not even remind him of his promise to call on her in London. She left that to John, who was forthright about it.
‘Don’t forget it,’ he said jovially. ‘I’ll be there by mid-October. I’ll shoot a few of Barford’s pheasants, and then be there.’
‘With Mary Ann?’
‘I should think so, by the looks of things. But don’t worry. We shan’t be staying with Barford.’
‘I should hope not. Where will you be?’
‘No idea--yet. That’s why you must call at Barford’s. It’s how we’ll find each other. When do you leave for London, by the way?’
‘Another day or two. I won’t be abrupt about it.’
He gave it three more days, and he was surprised to find how much of the time he spent with Mary. He liked her talk and company, and as they walked the park together, those crisp September days, their talk went further than he expected. She was understanding, well used to a world of ranks and uniforms, and he found himself telling more than he had meant to tell of what the long war years had been. He heard in return, and perhaps more fully than she had intended, something of what they had been at home, with husband, father, and brother all in scarlet. She was cautious about the husband, but he remembered her admission that she meant to do it differently another time.
He asked her of her present plans, and she laughed a little ruefully.
‘How can I have any?’ she asked. ‘Barford says the world gets lax. Morals gone to pieces after the war, and so on. But it isn’t lax enough yet to let a woman run loose on her own, and I’ll have to wait for invitations--and introductions. At the moment that means Barford, and I’m glad he’s asked me to London. This place is deadly. Try to imagine it in the winter, with you and John away, and no one to talk to but the Rector.’
‘He’s dull?’
‘He’s eighty-six, so you’ll find me in London. But don’t ask me to make plans for it. I’ll have to wait and see.’
‘John will be there.’
‘If you think that’s a help. We can guess who’ll be with him.’
‘He’ll keep her out of sight. Give him credit for that.’
‘I give him credit for a good deal, but he’s still pretty light-hearted. I’m not trying to change him--you can’t change a Wickham--but it does give awkward moments.’ Her friendly eyes met his, and then she laughed and changed the talk. ‘Do you know what I must think of, as soon as you’re gone?’
‘No?’
‘Clothes, for London--and I don’t even know what’s right when I’m buried in this place. It’s a problem, I suppose, that doesn’t trouble
you!’
Some other problems did. He began his journey the next day, and he did not travel post this time. A hired chaise took him to an inn on the London road, and here he took a seat in the
Enterprise,
from Bath to London. He travelled ‘outside’, thinking that a coach could hardly be more exposed to weather than the quarterdeck of
Amphion,
and in the September sun he found it pleasant, even though his fellow passengers complained of the wind and told him what it could be like in winter. He did not let this trouble him, and soon the clop of horses and the crunch of wheels became a soporific that took away his irritations and let him think of Anice--and Mary. He knew very well by now that he wanted both of them; and he could not have both. Or could he? Some men did, and in the higher walks of life it seemed that most men did. But he was not in the higher walks, and he was sure he had not the confidence and skill that it would need. Nor did he think that Mary’s tolerance would run very far in that direction. She had suffered once from it, he remembered, as he thought of what she had said of Charles.
He was in London the following afternoon, and he lodged himself, as he had done before, at Thomas’s Hotel in Berkeley Square. He was at least clear of his immediate purpose, and as soon as he had changed his clothes and dined he walked round to Hartford Street, put an inquiry to a passer-by, and then rang the indicated bell. He heard it jingle somewhere in the house, and then he waited, rehearsing what he would say, and hoping he could assume the air of consequence that Barford had recommended. He must inquire first for Hildersham, as if he supposed him to be at home, and then ask for the address.
The door opened promptly, as if Hildersham’s servants were being kept to their duties, and a liveried footman made a stiff little bow to the caller.
‘Sir?’ he inquired woodenly.
‘I call by his lordship’s invitation. Is he at home?’
‘I’ll ask, sir. Pray come in.’
It was not quite what he had expected, and for an instant he was looking keenly at the man. Then, as he remembered his pretence, he relaxed and stepped into an elegant blue and primrose hall where a fire was glowing and chairs were ready. The door shut softly behind him.
‘What name shall I give, sir?’
‘Captain Grant.’ He gave it automatically, and then the sharpness returned to his eyes. ‘Is his lordship returned from Paris?’
‘Oh yes, sir. Some days back. If you’ll be seated, sir, I’ll inquire.’
The man bowed, and then marched stiffly through a door at the back of the hall. There was a silence, broken only by the slow tick of a clock, and he tried quickly to readjust himself and think what to do. It was too late to draw back, but he had no wish to see Hildersham and no notion what to say to him. Then the thought came that Anice might be here too. They might be at dinner together, or at ease after it, and if so . .
Another door opened, this time at the side of the hall, and a man appeared in a black tail-coat, a white cravat, and black silk breeches. He was obviously the butler, and he bowed to the guest, more ceremoniously than the footman had done.
‘His lordship will receive you, sir. If you will come this way . . .’
He led through the door at the side, and Richard found himself following. There was nothing else he could do, but he was almost in his quarterdeck stride, shoulders stiff and head erect, as he made his entry into what proved to be the dining-room, spacious and glittering, with ivory-white paint and a gilt-encrusted paper on the panelled walls. There was a table of resplendent satinwood that would have taken a dozen covers, and at the head of it Hildersham sat alone in a black evening coat and cream kerseymere breeches, buckled at the knee. He was apparently at the end of dinner. Fruit was on the table, and he was delicately slicing a peach while three footmen stood stiffly against the wall, ready if he should require another. He looked up lazily as his guest appeared, and then his habitual good manners took charge. He stood up at once.
‘Ah, come in,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’m glad you’ve remembered me.’
‘I’m afraid I intrude.’
‘Not in the least. I asked you to call, and I’m glad you’ve done so. You’ve dined, I suppose?’ ‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Then a glass of wine? It’s just the moment.’
The butler lifted a finger. Two footmen sprang forward, one holding a chair, one a wine-glass, and before he quite knew what had happened he was seated at the side of the table, at his host’s right hand, with the butler deferentially filling his glass. Hildersham, at the head of the table, sat comfortably back.
‘Well, well . . .’ His deep voice had a jovial undertone of amusement. ‘What have you been doing since we met? Any more Cyprians to ride with?’
‘Er--no.’ The word meant Anice, and at least she was not at this table. He had been spared that, and now he must learn where she was. But he would have to exchange these politenesses first. ‘No, I’ve been in the country. You know Captain Wickham, I think? John Wickham?’
‘The General’s son?’ The eyebrows lifted for a moment. ‘Oh yes. Though I knew his father better. Served on his staff, after a fashion. Knew his brother-in-law too--St. Hollith. Amusing devil in his way, but he wasn’t good with dice. So you’ve been visiting old Barford’s seat? Isn’t he the local Nabob?’
‘If that’s the word.’
‘Why not--for Barford? Though, mind you, he’d sense enough not to throw dice. He kept to whist.’
‘I don’t quite follow.’
‘Don’t you?’ The amusement was open now, and a deep-toned chuckle supported it. ‘My father knew him, even when he was nobody. Because that’s what he was, you know--a little country squire with a few hundred a year and a house he could just turn round in. But he got himself into Parliament and began to know people. He made himself useful to Ministers, and that’s how my father knew him. He was a Minister, and he put Barford into a club or two. That’s what made him.’
‘But how?’
‘Whist.’ Hildersham drained his glass and then waited placidly while the butler stretched forward to fill it. ‘He’d that sort of mind. Whist’s a game of skill, and Barford had it. He could add and subtract and that sort of thing, and I think you have to for whist if you’re to go on winning. Anyway, Barford won, and then he could move to a better club. Is this new to you?’
‘I’m afraid it is. Did he win a lot?’
‘According to my father, about two hundred thousand in ten years.’
‘Good God!’
‘It’s possible, and some tales put it higher.’ Hildersham chuckled again. ‘Even at that he’d a calculating mind. He wouldn’t even dine like a gentleman. He’d have half a chicken and a cup of coffee--something of that sort--no wine at all--and then he’d play with men who’d dined. Some of them could hardly keep awake, and it was whist, mind you, not hazard. Are you surprised he won?’
‘Then why did they play with him?’
‘Why shouldn’t they? If a gentleman likes play he doesn’t ask about the other man’s dinner. Of course, they got rid of him in the end. They packed him off to Lisbon to make the place safe, and that’s how he had his Embassy.’ The chuckle came again, rich with amusement. ‘He had his peerage, too. I suppose they could hardly refuse it, when they were sending him out as Ambassador. And to give the man his due he seems to have been a good one.’
‘He was very good.’
‘I know he was. Anyway, that’s Barford, and I’m told he’s a good fellow, when you get to know him. A dry old thing, but decent. His staff seem to have liked him. Well, what brings you to Town?’
It was a change of tone, as if the talk must be kept moving, and for a moment there was a pause while both men sipped thoughtfully at their wine. Richard felt carefully for words, and remembered what he wanted.
‘Lack of anything better, I suppose. But I was wondering about you. I thought you might still have been in Paris.’
‘With Anice, do you mean?’ Again there was the chuckle, but perhaps with less amusement. ‘You don’t know the girl.’
‘Does anybody?’
‘I suppose not. But I thought
I
did. Then I found I didn’t. She’s impossible.’
‘But--in what way?’
‘Most ways.’ Hildersham laughed, a little ruefully, and then the smile came back to him, as if he recognized that this, from Anice, must be taken with good humour. ‘I don’t think she knows what she does want. Or at all events, I couldn’t find what it was. It lasted a fortnight--
very
pleasant--and then she left me.’
‘You mean you quarrelled?’
‘No, we didn’t. At least, I didn’t, and I don’t think she did. She just got tired of it and wanted something more--if she knew what it was.
I’d
have said she had everything a woman could want, night and day. But that’s how it was. She turned jumpy and started looking round.’
‘For what? Trouble?’
‘Perhaps. Or excitement.’ Again there was the little rueful laugh, but it was still good humoured. ‘Whatever she was looking for, what she found was Tommy Luttrell--which might be much the same thing, I suppose.’
‘I don’t follow that. But who is he?’
‘Don’t you know him? I thought everyone did.’ Hildersham stopped, and his forehead took a little wrinkle that was perhaps not of admiration. ‘He’s an out-and-outer, what they call a Corinthian--patter-flash, floor-a-Charley, mill-a-coal-heaver, come-coachy-in-prime-style. Do you know what all that means?’