‘Orders received.’ He looked cheerfully at Richard. ‘Retire from field. Won’t drink water, though.’
He nodded and moved away. Marion stood silent for a moment, and almost looked diffident.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said slowly. ‘You meant I was with Anice, didn’t you?’
‘You were with her when---‘
‘I know.’ Her dark eyes moved quickly round the room.
‘I can’t talk in here, with all these---‘
‘Then come outside.’
They moved to the door, heedless of the eyes that followed them, and when they came to the pump she led him slowly up the path beyond it. It was quiet now, and cool, with the sun lifting through the trees, and no sound but the song of birds and their own quiet steps, and at first she walked in silence. Then she spoke suddenly.
‘Are you cross with Anice?’
‘I’m not quite pleased. But never mind.’
‘I do mind. She isn’t pleased, either.’
‘With me?’ He looked sharply at her, and found himself reluctant to discuss this at all. ‘I said never mind, so tell me of yourself, please. How
did you
part from her? And where is she?’
‘London. At her house. I was with her, you know, as her---‘
‘Her maid. I remember. Did it last?’
‘Oh yes.’ There was a soft, happy little laugh. ‘She made me work, mind, and I didn’t altogether like it, but she was wonderful at teaching me. She kept telling me what I ought to have done, and noticed, and heard somebody say. And
how
to say it. That’s what mattered. Oh, she was good.’
‘She would be. But what happened?’
‘Oh, we went to Brighton. That was till Christmas, and
everybody
was there. Prinny.’ She giggled suddenly. ‘He’s quite mad. He’s building more to that Pavilion, and that’s all he thinks about--and his belly. We didn’t see much of him. I mean Anice didn’t.’
‘Then why stay?’
‘Oh--one thing and another.’ She seemed to hurry past it. ‘Then it was Paris for a while, and Rome. Then London again, and Brighton, and now I’m here. She was good, though. She didn’t want to lose me, but she said I’d learnt something and I could try by myself now. So then she asked Jack---‘
‘Who?’
‘Sorry. Hildersham. She took me to him--didn’t say anything about me, of course--and asked him if he’d give me some introductions. But I think he liked me, and I stayed.’
‘With him?’
‘For a little time. Then he brought me here, and I’m to look to myself now. But do I matter? It’s Anice.’
She had stopped in her slow walk up the hill, turning for a moment to look down the sunlit walk to the pump and the bridge, and the distant spire of the church. He stood watching her, and his thoughts were of Anice, whom he had said he would not discuss.
‘What of her?’ he asked slowly.
‘She wanted to see you.’
‘At Brighton? She knew I could not.’
‘I know. She--she’s silly.’
‘I thought you were saying how good she was?’
‘She is.’
‘She was not good to me. She did not even write, and I do not think she was too busy for it. It’s more likely she had nothing she cared to tell me. Isn’t that it?’
‘It--it might have been.’
‘Might?’ His voice rose a little. ‘You went to Brighton with her, did you not?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sir Thomas Luttrell driving?’
‘Yes. I . . .’ She hesitated unhappily. ‘I said she was silly.’
‘In that, do you mean?’
‘Yes.’ Again she stopped, and then she seemed to rush at it. ‘He’s no good to her. He’s no good to anyone, but she can’t seem to see it. She just melts when he looks at her. She forgets everything.’
‘I don’t think I understand.’
‘No, you wouldn’t. But she’s not happy with him. She wanted
you.’
‘She went an odd way to get me. Where is she now? Queen Street, did you say? With Luttrell?’
‘No. They--they say he’s here.’ ‘Luttrell?’
‘Yes. I’ve not seen him.’ For an instant she looked worried. ‘I don’t know how he’ll behave.’
‘Badly, I should think. However . . .’ He pulled his watch out and made a show of looking at it. ‘Perhaps we’ve talked long enough. We shall set some others talking if we go on.’
‘We’ve done that already, in this place.’
She was right. They went down the hill again to the Long Room, and at once the darting and appraising glances made the interest obvious. This Captain Grant must be important, though he made no show of it. He was on terms with the Earl of Hildersham, with Lady St. Hollith, perhaps with Lord Barford, and now with Mrs. Masters. Obviously he was well connected, and already memories were astir, with some busy whispers recalling Sir Thomas Luttrell and a duel in the Park--over the notorious Miss Anstey, it was said. But what was she really like? Captain Grant must know, of course, if only one knew him well enough to ask.
He was noticed after that. He was noticed as he walked to the Royal Crescent that morning, and in the Pump Rooms and confectioners the talk was soon busy. Captain Grant had called on Lord Barford. Or was it on Lady St. Hollith? He certainly knew her--and was there anything
in
it? That was interesting, and tales began to rise about this officer’s prize money, and his connections with Miss Anstey. Mr. King, who had decided to pay his respects later in the day to Captain Grant, began to think he should have paid them sooner.
Lord Barford, who was excellently acquainted with human weaknesses, pointed this out with some amusement to his guest.
‘They’ve nothing else to do,’ he remarked, ‘so they talk. If a Cyprian is involved they’ll talk with greater zest. And, of course, there’s your prize money. It’s considerable, I’m told, but they’ll have made it more than that.’
‘How does it concern them?’
‘Human interest, I suppose. Also ...’ There was the slight pause that can emphasize. ‘Some of them have daughters, so you may look to your defences.’
‘I’m not interested.’
‘No?’ The pause was a little longer. ‘Does that apply to Mary?’
‘Of course it doesn’t. Did you suppose it?’
‘I just wondered.’ The cool tone disposed of that touch of heat. ‘She’s a little difficult just now.’
‘I noticed it this morning.’
‘A tedious winter, no doubt--not enough to do, and not enough notice taken of her. She was scarcely pleased, by the way, that you did not see her before you left us.’
‘She was scarcely encouraging. She was in London, you’ll remember, when I---‘
‘Fought Luttrell.’ Barford nodded quickly. ‘I remember it perfectly. And what I remember most is that she was concerned for you.’
‘If that’s the word. But that last morning I did not even see her.’
‘I’m not sure that you asked to.’
‘How could I? Concerned or not, she had certainly been displeased, and she showed it very plainly. And the next day---‘
‘My dear Grant . . .’ For an instant Barford sounded exasperated. ‘The next day she went to her room, and waited--waited, perhaps, to see what you would do, and you did nothing. She would draw conclusions.’
‘It’s a very odd---’
‘It’s nothing of the sort--with a woman. May I, perhaps, ask a question? You’ve a deal of experience, no doubt, in your profession, and you’ll think more clearly there. Did you, when you sighted a Frenchman, take sail off your ship and wait to see what he would do?’
‘Of course I didn’t. I---‘
‘What would you do?’
‘Reach to windward, of course, and take the weather gauge. You’ve a choice then, and you can join the action if you wish to.’
‘Precisely. You’ve seized the initiative--and the point to note, please, is that it’s as useful in love as in war. Don’t leave the initiative to the lady. She may at least like to pretend that it lies with you. By the by, if you avoid engagement at sea, without good cause, what will be said of you?’
‘Unfit for command.’
‘Note that point also. Now let’s turn to something else.’ Barford switched it quickly away as his guest began to look red in the face. ‘Have you heard about Luttrell?’
‘I’m told he’s here. I haven’t seen him.’
‘I hope you don’t. But I understand he leaves on Saturday, so all may be well.’
‘Do you expect trouble?’
‘Not really. He may have had his lesson--from you. Apart from that, he’d be thought highly ill-bred if he were to provoke something more after you wasted that shot. Still, one can’t be too careful, so I mention the point. But is this Mary? It sounds like her.’
He had scarcely turned when the door pushed open and she came sweeping in, gay and cheerful, with a swish of muslin and a faint scent of lavender. She was dressed for walking, thoroughly feminine in the fashionable cream-and-yellow, and she looked almost surprised to see that her uncle had a guest. She stopped short, as though to make that plain.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said brightly. ‘I came only to say I shall go walking. I didn’t know I was disturbing you.’
‘Of course not. You--er--met Grant this morning, and he said you invited him here.’
‘I thought you’d wish to see him.’ She turned brightly to Richard. ‘The Plough looked after you, I hope? Gave you a proper breakfast?’
‘Excellent, thank you. Where do you walk this morning?’
‘Montpellier, I think. Perhaps a little further.’
‘I’ll walk with you.’
‘Oh?’ An eyebrow lifted carefully. ‘You think I need an escort, to Montpellier?’
‘Or perhaps a little further. Are you ready?’
Mr. King was apprehensive as he thought of what the evening might bring. It could be appalling if they did not like it; which meant if the nobility did not like it. It would reflect on Cheltenham, and, what was worse, on the Master of Ceremonies. But what else could he do?’
He glanced again along the gleaming floor of the ballroom, and saw that it was ready. He looked up, at the fine plastered ceiling with the moulded cornice and the great crystal chandeliers. Already the candles were lighted, though the curtains were not yet drawn and the tall windows at the end were open to the summer wind. He glanced at his watch, which said a quarter to eight, and dancing was ‘from eight till eleven precisely’. Time, perhaps, to open the doors, but again he hesitated. He looked at the panelled walls with their hanging lustres, and at the gallery where the orchestra was already whimpering softly as strings were tuned--and there lay the rub. The music for the gavotte would be there, and for the minuet and the quadrilles, but somewhere in the pile was also the music for the waltz; and this was dangerous. It was a lascivious dance, as Mr. King well knew. He had tried it once at Bath, with unhappy results. Yet what else could he do? The Earl of Hildersham had specially asked for the waltz, and a request from his lordship was a command. It could bring only a bow of assent. Mr. King glanced again along the gleaming empty floor, and again he slipped his watch from its fob. It was ten minutes to eight, and he whirled round with an angry wave of his arm as he thought that guests might be waiting when doors had not been opened.
A half-hour later they were still arriving, some in their carriages and some--as was proper in Cheltenham--on foot, walking up the High Street as the last gold of the sun was on the front of the Assembly Rooms. Mr. King, in the anteroom now, was bowing continuously as he greeted them with his easy smile and his store of charming phrases. Behind him, through the open doors, where the footmen were like painted statues, the orchestra was pounding away at the quadrilles, and the pulse and lilt of it was flooding into the anteroom to set a head lifting here and a foot tapping there. Already the floor seemed filled, and now, as the daylight dimmed and the candles gained in power, it was a pool of moving colour, gentlemen in black and green and white, ladies in every hue that could be made. Laughter was beginning to be heard, and on the seats that ran beneath the dado the more elderly were at ease, watchful and talkative. Mr. King bowed, smiled, spoke words of welcome, and wondered when the devil the nobility would come. He felt he needed them. He could not risk the waltz without them, and he snatched a moment between arrivals to send an urgent message to the orchestra that they were on no account to play the thing until he told them to. Then he bowed again and smiled; and this time it was in heartfelt relief as Hildersham came strolling in.
‘Ha, Mr. King!’ He spoke at once, big and genial in his dark-green coat, white waistcoat, and sage-green breeches. ‘I’m here to do my duty.’
‘Pleasure, surely, my lord?’
‘Well, it’s supposed to be.’ His deep voice seemed on the edge of laughter. ‘I mean I must dance. I’m told I’ve been neglecting the ladies. Been hearing about it.’
‘The common lot, my lord. Ah, good evening--sir.’
He had turned, caught in uncertainty as a man came in whom he did not know, a tall dark fellow with an arrogant air of consequence. Hildersham took a surprised glance and then came to the rescue.
‘Don’t you know each other? Mr. King is the Master of Ceremonies. Mr. King--Sir Thomas Luttrell.’
‘Honoured, sir,’ said Mr. King.
‘Servant.’ He nodded curtly. ‘Jack, is this place fit to go into?’
‘I’m going in.’
‘You’ve some queer tastes. Well, sir, will I do?’ He had turned again, tall and contemptuous, perfectly turned out in his black coat and breeches, white marcella waistcoat, black silk stockings and buckled shoes. ‘Up to your rustic standards?’
‘Really, sir---‘
‘D’ye know, Jack, they wouldn’t have me the other night? Didn’t like my boots?’
‘If they were your coaching boots I don’t blame them. We don’t like mud on the floor.’
‘We? My God!’
‘And the ladies don’t like it on their dresses.’
‘You get on better with women if you tell ‘em what they like. Damn silly to ask ‘em. Who’s inside?’
He pushed past both of them and went striding to the inner doors, staring contemptuously at the footmen and then disappearing into the ballroom. Mr. King was aghast.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Hildersham. ‘He’s had a drink or two I’m afraid. I’ll see what’s happening.’
He went quickly after Luttrell, while Mr. King stared after him and tried to remember what Lord Barford had said. This ill-mannered fellow must be the Luttrell he had spoken of, who had fought a duel with ... Mr. King whirled round, recovering his poise and words of welcome just in time. Lord Barford had come through the outer door, with Lady St. Hollith at his one side and Captain Grant at the other. It
must
be Captain Grant. Mr. King could vaguely remember him from Bath, and a sickening feeling was inside him that it could hardly have been worse, with Luttrell . . .