‘Go on.’
‘Well, I had a look round--I’d nothing better to do--and who do you think I saw? I hadn’t seen him for years, but I knew him all right, and he knew me too. I’m
sure
he did.’
‘John? Was he looking at you.’
‘Gaping. So now he knows who Anice is. And what am I to do?’
‘It doesn’t matter if he knows, if he doesn’t tell the Town. I’ll see he doesn’t.’
‘If you’re not too late.’ She brooded darkly on it while they went lazily up Knightsbridge behind the laden coach. ‘It isn’t only the women who talk, whatever you say. The men can be pretty good at it, when they’re on the third bottle.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Just when I’ve to go to Brighton, too. Blast Prinny! Who was he with?’
‘John?’ He made a leaping guess, which was not very difficult. ‘He’d someone with him?’
‘It wouldn’t be John if he hadn’t.’ She laughed softly, with another change of mood. ‘Hanging on his arm--most affectionate. Rustic look about her. Not quite in fashion. Doesn’t know it.’
‘Did she know you?’
‘She waved at me--and
that’s
pretty rustic’
‘I’ve known you to wave.’
‘I’m different.’
‘Did you wave back?’
‘With half the Town to see it? What do you take me for? I looked away quick. Oh, it’s all right. I was watching that damned phaeton--I told you he was across the road--but as soon as I’d wriggled round I was off, and I didn’t look back. And that, by the way, is why we’re on
this
road now.’
She gestured to the side, where the Life Guards’ barracks stood between Knightsbridge and the Park. Beyond the barracks stood a row of small houses and the brewery, and between them they blocked the view completely. No one in the Park could see Miss Anstey in Knightsbridge.
‘Now tell me,’ she said firmly. ‘Who was she?’
‘At a guess--there was a girl called Masheter.’
‘Mary Ann?’ She nodded calmly. ‘That’s what I thought. So you’ve met her?’
‘Once.’
‘Quite enough. What’s she doing in Town?’
‘Looking for a start in life, by what she said.’
He explained it while the easy trot of the greys took them slowly to the Hyde Park turnpike. He was feeling for a shilling as the curricle came to a halt.
‘It’s like her,’ said Anice calmly. ‘She’ll have a lot to learn, though.’
‘She’s learned a good deal. Here you are.’ He handed the coin to the turnpike keeper. ‘She seems to have been Barford’s parlour-maid.’
‘Oh ho!’ She laughed delightedly, and then suddenly produced a smile that set the keeper leaping erect and touching his hat. ‘Thanks very much. She’ll be after
me,
I suppose?’
‘She didn’t say so.’
‘She will be. She knows who I am, now.’
‘Will you help her?’
‘Well, we used to be friends. But she’ll get what I think good for her, not what she wants, and I don’t know that she’ll like it. Now you’d better find John, and pretty quickly. Where will you look for him?’
‘Larkin’s perhaps, in the Haymarket. He likes to dine there.’
‘If he isn’t dining with Barford, and Miss Mary.’
‘Oh, hell!’
‘Hadn’t you thought of it?’ She chuckled delightedly. ‘You did say they were coming, so she may hear that you’ve been with
me.
Well, well! One trouble at a time. Are you for Larkin’s?’
‘Yes. I’ll walk along Piccadilly.’
‘Right. I’m going up Park Lane, so I’ll drop you here.’
‘When do you go to Brighton?’
‘As soon as I can, I suppose. In a day or two.’
‘I wish you weren’t.’
‘Well, I can’t help it. If you meet Mary Ann, tell her she can come and see me--if she’s quick about it. And, darling...’
‘Yes?’ He moved suddenly closer, drawn by the unexpected word.
‘Whether you see her or not, come to me yourself--tonight. I’ll be ready by ten o’clock.’
It was a quarter to six, and a blue haze of dusk was on the streets, when he turned into Larkin’s, but he did not see John. He stood by the door of the long crowded room, looking from table to table, and then he remembered Mary Ann. A chophouse was no place for a woman, and if John had her with him they would be more likely to dine in their hotel. He stood in thought, and then remembered Foggarty’s in Bond Street. John had once spoken of it and had seemed to know it, and it might well have been his choice this time. It was quiet and decent, and being on the extreme edge of the fashionable area it would be a convenient but not too prominent place for Mary Ann. Richard stood considering it, rather regretfully. He was hungry, and the tables at Larkin’s seemed attractive, but he thought he should try Foggarty’s. It was part of his promise to Anice, and a moment later he was in the street again, making for the lights of Piccadilly on his way to Bond Street.
It was only ten minutes’ walk, and a word with the porter at Foggarty’s was enough. He had guessed right, and a moment later he was in the small quiet dining-room where they were at dinner together, John and his Mary Ann, at a table by the fire. But the reception they gave him was surprising.
‘Oh ho!’ John was on his feet at the first glance, laughing as he reached for a wine-glass. ‘The man of the hour! Your good health, Richard, and your coachman’s too! Yours and hers!’
‘Now what the---‘
‘We saw her drive in, yellow-bellied curricle and all. The incomparable Anstey! Her excellent health!’
‘Really, John---‘
‘We heard about
you,
too--getting in next to her, driving away out of sight.’
‘Who told you?’
‘Who didn’t? You’re the talk of the Town. However . ..’ He lowered his glass and became suddenly quieter. ‘We’re very glad to see you, Richard. Have you dined?’
‘Not yet. I---‘
‘Then sit down. No, it’s no trouble at all. Waiter! A third cover. You--er--remember Mary Ann?’
‘Of course I do. Delighted, ma’am.’
‘I am greatly honoured, sir.’
It was the same careful courtesy, oddly out of date, and he looked at her now with a new interest, well able to believe that she had picked it up at Barford’s when she had been his parlour-maid. But she was doing it very well, and in her high-waisted gown of ivory silk, decorated with flowers of pink satin, she did not look out of place at Foggarty’s. It was Richard, indeed, who began to feel out of place, remembering that he had not yet changed his clothes and was still in the pantaloons that he had worn in the Park. He found himself apologizing, and John swept that aside.
‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘This isn’t Almack’s. Look at ‘em.’ He gestured vaguely to the half-dozen other people in the room, and then his eyes steadied, as if he were coming to what mattered. ‘I suppose you were looking for us here? Any special business?’
‘A message from Anice.’
‘I was wondering what you’d call her.’ He nodded slightly. ‘She did see us, then?’
‘Yes. As she entered the Park.’
‘I thought so. She didn’t wait, though.’
‘I think she was a little flustered.’
‘At me? Oh, thank you, waiter. And another bottle of claret--two bottles. But a message from Anice, did you say?’
‘Yes.’ He was carefully tasting the soup that had just arrived. ‘What did you expect me to call her?’
‘It might have been Ann. You know who she is?’
‘Yes. I gather that you do?’
‘She hasn’t a face to forget. Dammit, man . . .’ John sat back, laughing softly. ‘There she was, the famous Anstey, coming in her curricle, and I’d never seen her before--the Anstey, I mean. But everyone told us who it was, so I was interested, and Mary Ann was a dither of excitement. So there she was--the famous Anstey. I used to tickle her, when I was so high, and Mary Ann fell into ponds with her. Then you say she was flustered! Spare a thought for us.’
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s not what you’d expect. Here’s some fish for you. She’s ahead of Julia Johnstone, and she looks like deposing Harriette Wilson, and that’s who she is.’
‘Yes. And that’s really the point of all this.’ He made play, for a moment, at dissecting the steak of turbot. ‘That’s really the message. She doesn’t want the tale all around the Town, so she asks you--for old times’ sake, so to speak--to keep it to yourselves and not let it out. It wouldn’t help her, just at present.’
‘I don’t suppose it would. All right . . .’ John nodded amiably. ‘Tell her we’ll keep it quiet--for old times’ sake, as she says. At least, I will. Mary Ann will do it for new times’ sake.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘She wants something. She usually does.’
‘It isn’t very much.’ Mary Ann spoke for herself, and she was more natural now; the Barford manners had left her as she looked earnestly at Richard. ‘Do you think she remembers me?’
‘Oh yes.’ He found himself smiling at her eager young face. ‘She says you may call on her if you wish to.’
‘Oh, thank you. But when?’
‘Whenever you please. You’d better not delay, though. She’s to go to Brighton at any moment.’
‘Brighton?’ John asked it sharply. ‘She’s flying high, isn’t she?’
‘She
can
fly high. But I fancy she’s been sent for.’
‘Prinny, do you mean?’
‘He wants to look at her. I’m told he’s harmless.’
‘I should think he is. But it will put little Ann at the top of things, if she can dine with him and have his notice.’
‘Don’t call her Ann. It’s what she’s asked you not to do.’
‘Sorry. Anice, then.’
‘Never mind that.’ Mary Ann had been listening with widening eyes, and now she pushed herself urgently back into the talk. ‘Can I call on her tomorrow?’
‘I expect so.’
‘Oh!’ It was almost a sigh of relief. ‘You see, it’s all different here, and Ann--no, Anice, I mean--knows it all, and I don’t.’
‘Then go to her tomorrow. Don’t be too early, though. She--er--mightn’t be ready.’
He stole a quick glance at the clock. It was half past six. Anice was expecting him at ten, and there was no need for Mary Ann to see him there in the morning. She could call later, and Anice had spoken of giving what was good for her, not what she wanted; but he need not mention that either.
‘Have you finished the fish?’ said John cheerfully. ‘We might all have some mutton, if you have. And it’s time you had some claret. Waiter! Now what about yourself? Are
you
going to Brighton?’
‘I can’t think I’ll be wanted there.’
‘Probably not. And you will, I gather, be wanted here.
At least---‘
He stopped, as the waiters came bustling to the table with the saddle of mutton, and its attendant sauces and vegetables.
There was carving, offering of dishes, pouring of claret, and then Mary Ann, perhaps now at ease, gave a healthy attention to the mutton. John stared thoughtfully at his knife, and then looked up again.
‘I was saying,’ he murmured, ‘that you might be wanted here. What I really meant was Barford--Mary too, of course. I thought I’d better tell you.’
‘Well--yes.’ There was sudden urgency in his tone. ‘Is she here?’
‘She was leaving home yesterday, with Barford, so they should be in Town this evening. But I’m afraid you are in the news. What’s this about Luttrell, by the way? They say you almost had a quarrel with him, about her?’
‘Forget Luttrell.’
‘If I were you I wouldn’t forget him. I shouldn’t think he’s much used to marching orders--if that’s what you gave him.’
‘Anice did. But what about Mary?’
‘But do keep an eye for Luttrell. Well. . .’ He considered it for a moment. ‘Perhaps you’d better leave Mary to me. I’ll go round to Curzon Street in the morning, and have a word with her. So I’d better see you again tomorrow.’
‘Dine with me, please. Larkin’s.’
‘Right. Larkin’s, then, at five-thirty. You’re sure you wouldn’t like to see Mary tonight?’
‘No, I couldn’t. I--I’ve an appointment.’
‘Oh, have you? Well, I won’t ask questions, but shall I tell Mary you’ll call on her tomorrow night?’
That would be much better. I’ll call on her after dinner.’
He could not call on Mary before then. It would be too soon after Anice. Barford alone would not have mattered. He would probably have sympathized, but Mary was different, and even seeing her after dinner might be running it close. His mind was filled with Anice now, her face, her voice, her touch and warmth, the whole fragrance of her, and for a moment he wondered if he should not give up all thought of calling on Mary, and send a message that he was engaged elsewhere, in heart and mind. Then he knew that he could not. He had promised it to Mary, and she was expecting him. He argued it with himself, asking what he was taking to Mary when all his thought and longing was with Anice; and at once, from some other part of him, the answer came. He needed Mary, perhaps as deeply as he needed Anice, for they were the two halves of his world, his sun and moon, light and dark. He began to see it as he sat back over the coffee and let John talk softly to Mary Ann. Mary was of his own world, perhaps the only world he could live in if he were to feel at ease and honour. She stood for it all. But Anice? His longing for her flared into fire as he thought of her, but even then that other side of him gave answer. She was of another world, and she was not likely to leave it. She was a queen within it, a Queen of Hearts, and in it she would stay. A Hildersham, perhaps, might pluck her from it, if he were fool enough to marry her, but she would not leave it for a sea officer.
They were thoughts for which he hated himself next morning as he slipped out of the dainty little door in Queen Street and walked away quickly, hoping not to be seen, and trying not to look back. He was filled with Anice. She had been at her most bewitching, and she had asked him--pressed him--to be with her in Brighton as soon as she had found the way of things and shown herself to Prinny. Then she would write; and if they could not share a lodging he could at least have one near by.
He did not walk in the Park that morning. He had been enough in the public eye, so he went eastwards instead, along Pall Mall and into the Strand, of which he knew almost nothing. It was almost a voyage of exploration, and by noon he had advanced into Fleet Street and had a look at St. Paul’s. Then he turned into a wine lodge for a glass of madeira and a slice of the madeira cake that went with it, and from the table in front of him he took the
Morning Intelligencer.
He glanced at the foreign news, turned the sheet, and got a shock. He was reading his own name, or what amounted to his own name.