‘He will, though, if he comes here. He can’t help seeing me. Shut his mouth for me, will you? Tell him he’s to keep quiet.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘And Miss Mary, too, if you can--though it isn’t so easy with women. She mightn’t approve of me, either. She’d a rather proper mind.’ She suddenly tossed her head, and then her eyes seemed to come to a greater brilliance.
‘You
approve of me, don’t you?’
‘Anice!’
‘Because I don’t know what I’d do if you didn’t. You’re the only one I can talk to--be easy with, and not watch what I say. Are you staying in Town?’
‘For a time.’
‘You’ve to keep coming to me. What--what are you doing to my dress?’
‘Taking it off.’
‘You’re not to.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Oh--nothing. You’re getting better. Practice, I suppose?’
The Anstey was back in Town and the whole town knew it. There was no chance not to. Her dress, her curricle, and her adventures were the talk of everyone. She had been the mistress of the Earl of Hildersham, had been in Paris with him, and had cost him a pretty penny, it was said. Then she had left him, or rather she had been abducted; and there was an uproarious tale of her being carried away, kicking and cursing, on the shoulder of Sir Thomas Luttrell; and ladies exchanged salacious tales of how she had been reduced to order and treated as the chit she was. It could have led to pistols, perhaps, between Hildersham and Luttrell, but it had not done, and now they were back in Town together, the one in the Park and the other driving coaches and flooring Charleys--which meant night-watchmen. But, more important,
she
was in Town, and if she had ever been reduced to order she had apparently recovered, and with her impudence undiminished. She had been seen again in Hildersham’s barouche, and in a hazard room with Sir Thomas Luttrell--though
not
at Almack’s. She had dined with Sir Michael Murphy and walked by the Serpentine with Captain Curry, feeding the geese. There were tales, too, of a Captain Grant, a navy man, who had been to her house in Queen Street and was thought to have been well received. Others had called to leave their cards, and the silver bowl in the hall was said to be filled each evening. She was, in short, the toast of the Town, the reigning Queen of Hearts, and she did what was expected of her. She let the Town see her, and the fiery greys in the primrose curricle were the sight of London.
She was driving now through the Chesterfield Gate, deftly avoiding a phaeton that had stopped for someone, and then she made for Rotten Row, with the greys at a faster trot than was usual on that road. Twice she had to haul them sharply back, and when she reached the Row they were down to a careful walk when they could move at all. Often they could not, as gigs and phaetons stopped in her path and gentlemen gave their greetings. The ladies said less, but their eyes were sharp as they noted her easy ways and the liberties she took with fashion. She was not in muslin now, for this was October and there was a chill in the air despite the brilliant sun. Her pelisse was of velvet, cherry-red, with a scarf of lavender silk thrown carelessly round her neck, a mixture that was surely her own; and neither the red nor the velvet was fashionable. She had lavender gloves too, when tan was the colour of the year, and to complete it she was without a hat. It was blunder after blunder; or would have been, if any lady had thought it done from ignorance. But no lady thought anything of the kind, and one formidable dowager summed it up for all of them. The baggage, she declared, knew what she was doing.
She was at least being noticed. To the men, who cared nothing for what she did with fashion, she looked soft and charming, and her corn-coloured curls, still carefully untidy, gave sparkle to the gaiety of colour that she offered. Gentlemen stopped their gigs to speak to her; they ranged alongside on fine blood horses; they stepped out of the crowd to raise their hats, and her progress along the Row was usually so impeded that it could better have been called a Progress. But today she was not inclined to stop. She was gay and courteous, and her retorts were as charming and outrageous as ever, but her eyes kept turning to the crowd, ranging here and there as if she might be seeking someone, and suddenly it appeared that she was. She had done a little more than half the distance of the Row when she leaned sharply back, the white reins stretching taut as she pulled the greys to a halt. Then she turned to the side, her eyebrows lifting and a grin splitting across her face. She beckoned imperiously, heedless of spectators; heedless, too, of Sir Thomas Luttrell, who had been pressing through the crowd on a horse as black as himself and was now close behind her. Instead she waved again, and Captain Grant, who had been standing on the footpath, watching the curricle approach, stepped into the carriage-way. He was surprised and pleased, very conscious of the eyes of everyone as he swept his hat to her.
‘Jump in.’ She cut him short brusquely. ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘Nothing wrong?’
‘Everything’s wrong. I don’t know what’s going to happen. Come on.’
It was at this moment that Luttrell rode up, a curt touch of his hat serving as salute to her. There was a curt nod to Richard, and then he spoke as curtly.
‘Good day, Anice. ‘Day to you, sir. You didn’t seem to want me this afternoon?’
‘Didn’t I?’ Anice swung round, looking as little pleased as he. ‘I didn’t know you were there. I wasn’t watching for you, today.’
‘So it seems. Well, I’m here.’
‘Then be somewhere else. It’s no good, Tommy, I’m busy. I want to talk to him.’
‘There are one or two things that
I
want, too.’
‘There usually are, but you can’t have them this time.’
‘Anice, if you think---‘
Richard pushed forward quickly, thinking it was time he did. Luttrell swung round instantly, his horse moving with him and scraping a restless foot. He spoke first.
‘Yes?’
It was contemptuous, inviting anything that might follow, and then he sat utterly still, with his eyebrows pulled down and his brow thunderous. Richard stared back at him, tense and angry, but with the comfortable feeling that he at least knew what to do. He had been hardened to this sort of thing by some Captains he had served under.
‘Are you making threats?’ he asked. ‘To a lady?’
‘I don’t explain what I’m doing.’
‘No? Then Miss Anstey and I wish to talk--without your listening. Also--since you don’t seem to know it--this is not Paris. Or did you think of Badajoz?’
‘By God, sir, you’re insufferable!’
‘Stop it--both of you.’ Anice leaned forward urgently in her seat, and the groom behind her, who had been sitting with a pretence of hearing nothing, stirred suddenly as if he might be needed. ‘I won’t
have
you quarrelling, either of you. Tommy--if you want to talk to me, you can call on me at any decent time and I’ll let you in. But at this moment I want to talk to someone else, so, just for once, will you please do as I ask?’
‘All right.’ He answered her curtly while his arrogant eyes seemed to take in both of them. ‘Don’t overvalue yourself, will you? You aren’t quite what you were.’
He swung his horse brutally, and was away at a noisy canter before either of them could answer. Richard stood watching. Anice eased back, then gathered up the reins and took her driving poise again. The groom settled back between the springs, and everything was as it had been--except that the peace had hung by a thread, which might not hold another time. Richard, watching Luttrell’s retreating back as it disappeared behind a phaeton, wondered how it would be when next they met. He turned again to Anice, but the moment he took his eyes from Luttrell he was aware of more than Anice. The Row had no fence here to keep spectators back. There was merely a footpath by the road, and the onlookers had swarmed across the carriage-way, drawn to this altercation like bees to sugar. They were standing now agog, and it was plain that they had heard these exchanges and were avid for more. Anice looked at them, and then wasted no time.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Get in.’
She wriggled along the seat to make room for him, and then the reins flicked and the curricle swayed. A man raised his hat, and another, and Anice contrived a smile while she watched the horses. Richard raised his hat, and then the curricle was leaping away as if the greys were tired of waiting. Anice had to haul them back to avoid an oncoming gig.
‘You can’t move in this place,’ was her comment.
He nodded, with his thoughts on that ring of people. Anice and her curricle would be recognized anywhere, and with the gossip that was running he had no doubt that he had been recognized too. So, of course, had Luttrell, and the gossip would spread like a fire in the hold, perhaps turned into a quarrel for the Anstey’s favours. That would suit the Town, and they would be betting on it in the clubs before the day was out. Anice, perhaps, would like it. She needed notoriety, but for his own part. . .
‘You’re very quiet,’ she told him suddenly.
‘I was thinking that it’s awkward.’
‘Awkward! I don’t know what to do next. I was telling you so.’
‘Telling?’ His mind flew back to what she had said at first sight that afternoon. ‘Anice, what’s the matter? Is something wrong?’
‘Is anything right? Hey---‘ She swerved the curricle sharply to the verge as a young blade in a sulky went dangerously by. ‘I don’t know what driving’s coming to.’
‘Never mind the fool. What’s happened?’
‘Oh . . .’ She sounded quite cheerful about it. ‘Who do you think wants me now?’
‘Luttrell, by the look of it.’
‘I don’t mean Tommy. Who else?’
‘For heaven’s sake, tell me.’
‘Prinny.’
‘What!’
‘You can say worse than that--just when I thought I was settling, too. Sends an equerry--very polite--His Royal Highness’s compliments--desires the pleasure of my acquaintance. In other words, he’s heard about me, so he has to see me. Other gentlemen know me, so
he
must.’ ‘Hmm.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘All very well, if it were no more than making your acquaintance.’
‘Well, it
can’t
be any more, unless he wants to chuck me under the chin or something. You know what shape he is, and they say he’s let his belly down.’
‘Anice, what
do
you---‘
‘Don’t you know
anything}
Don’t you know he keeps his belly in with stays?’ She was chuckling delightedly now. ‘He must have found them uncomfortable, and they say he’s taken them off. What a sight! But I’ll have to go to Brighton--that’s where he is--and I don’t want to. I don’t want Prinny either. He’s quite safe, but he’s a bore. You should hear Hillie about him.’
‘Need you go?’
‘It’s a royal command, isn’t it, when he sends an equerry?’
‘I suppose it is.’
‘Suppose!’
She lapsed into an indignant silence, and then suddenly shook out the reins and let the greys go storming into a canter. They were nearing the end of the Row by now, past the press of people, and with a clear way before them the horses asked for nothing better. They leaped at it, pulling perfectly together, and the gentle sway of the curricle changed to something that set a sea officer thinking of
Altair
in the November days. He had to sit back, with his feet pressed hard against the splashboard, to keep his balance at all, and he was not quite sorry when the Row went curving gently to the left to join the Public Road along the high forbidding wall of Kensington Palace gardens. For another minute the canter continued, and then the greys were pulled smoothly to a halt as the road came to an end. Anice relaxed and looked carefully round her.
‘Where do we go now?’ she said.
He looked round also. In front of him was what seemed to be a block of stables. To the right was an arched gateway into the Palace grounds, and the gates were shut. To the left a lane ran a few yards to the Western Road, along which he had driven in a chariot with John Wickham. It would take them back to Knightsbridge if they went that way, but it looked busy and uninviting, no place for a curricle.
‘We’d better put about,’ he said. ‘Return as we’ve come.’
‘We certainly shan’t.’ She glanced quickly at him, her young face mutinous, and then she set the horses walking slowly down the lane. ‘We’ll try it this way. They won’t see us.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Everything. I told you it was.’
At the road she had to stop, holding the horses steady as a coach from Bath came pounding along with its passengers already groping for parcels and looking at watches. Then the curricle moved out and followed in its dusty wake. The other side of the road seemed filled with wagons and an impatient coach or two, and Anice looked resignedly at the coach in front.
‘It’s no good,’ she said. ‘We’ll never pass him. You can’t pass anybody on this road. It’s no good choking the horses.’
She pulled them back, to keep them out of the dust cloud from the coach, and then she began to look aggrieved again.
‘You didn’t tell me,’ she said suddenly, ‘about John back in Town?’
‘John Wickham? But is he? I didn’t know.’
‘I thought he’d have been to see you. Ah well . . .’ A gleam of amusement began to show. ‘He must have been thinking of somebody else. Do you know her?’
She shot it at him suddenly, but he caught her eye and saw the amusement again. Apparently she had mixed feelings about something.
‘What
is
it?’ he asked. ‘Have you seen him?’
‘John?’ She hauled suddenly across the road to get round a wagon piled high with beer barrels. ‘It’s this brewery down here. But listen---‘
‘I’m trying to.’
‘All right. Well then, I was turning into the Park just now, because I wanted to find you and tell you about Prinny. I always tell you my troubles. Well, there I was, turning through the gate, and you know how it is--there’s always some fool who can’t handle his horses and gets in the wrong place. We shan’t be able to
move
in London soon. There was a barouche in front of me, doing about half a mile an hour, a whisky coming out, and a phaeton stopped in the middle of everything while the man talked to his aunt. Well, she looked like his aunt. So I had to crawl behind that barouche.’