‘There,’ she whispered. ‘It’s yours, and for always.’
‘Oh, my dear! I---I haven’t words---‘
‘Of course you haven’t. Not here.’ She had suddenly produced a smile, her warmest and most endearing. ‘There are too many people about.’
‘Yes.’
He seized on it quickly and glanced round him, seeming to become aware, for the first time, of the silent listeners, Mary and Hildersham by the door and Richard a little in front of them, where Anice had left him, and these seemed to be enough for him, even if no one else had heard. He patted Anice on the arm.
‘We’ll go outside, if you please. A walk on the grass.’
‘If you wish, my lord.’
She was all sweet compliance as he moved to the door. She went dutifully after him, rather than with him, and she at least acknowledged the others with a quiet inclination of her head. Then she followed him through the verandah and out to the gravelled approach and the sunlit grass beyond, and they saw her move close to his side. At once he patted her shoulder.
‘Good God!’ said Mary.
It sounded like an explosion, with amazement as well as anger in it, and both men turned on the instant, but she ignored them, standing stiffly as she stared through the glass at the slowly moving pair. It looked now as if Barford were talking earnestly.
‘What is it?’ said Hildersham.
‘Is
it?’ She turned on him with a crackle of anger. ‘What
isn’t
it? I suppose you did hear her--the little witch?’
‘As much as that?’
‘Don’t be a fool.’ Again it was the crackle, and then she pulled herself up. ‘Sorry, Jack. I shouldn’t have said that. Don’t take any notice.’
‘Don’t worry. But why the temper?’
‘Annoyance, I suppose--and a little more. Did you ever
see
such a performance? How old is he?’
‘Sixty, I believe.’
‘He might have been sixteen by the way she wheedled him--the crazy old fool!’
‘What!’ Richard spoke suddenly, as the words struck into him. It was almost what Anice had said of Barford, as if she and Mary were at one, and the thought alarmed him. ‘Isn’t it his weak spot, about his son?’
‘And the little jade knew it--damn her! I’ve underrated the chit, and I shan’t do
that
again.’
‘What are you getting at?’ said Hildersham. ‘She took the trick, of course, but why not? She held the ace, with that brooch.’
‘What troubles me isn’t the ace but the way she played it. Talk about finesse! Sweet and soft, with a nice touch of sentiment thrown in--all she had--heart-rending--and he swallowed every word of it.’
‘Are you disbelieving---’
‘Oh, heaven help you!’ She turned on him with the air of explaining to a child. ‘Of course she had the brooch, and of course he must have given it, and of course she had it from her mother. There’s no other way. But all this about giving it to Dick, and having it back, found in his sea-chest, letter from his captain--do you think a word of it’s true? Do you think that brooch ever left the cottage?’
‘Well . . .’ He was staring at her now. ‘She certainly sounded---’
‘God pity you! Of course she sounded--that’s her trade, isn’t it? But I didn’t know she was
quite
so clever.’
‘There’s nothing to show her tale isn’t true.’
‘Or to show that it is. She couldn’t have done this with the brooch alone, and she couldn’t have done it with Dick alone, but when she linked the two--just look at them.’
She was staring through the window again at the figures moving on the grass. Anice now had her arm linked affectionately in his, and Hildersham stood silent. It was Richard who spoke, thoroughly disturbed by now.
‘Mary, I don’t think she’s quite so bad. And we did press her to keep the peace. That was your request.’
‘I know it was, but I never imagined
this.’
‘You’d be wiser to take no notice,’ said Hildersham calmly. ‘They won’t quarrel now, and that’s what matters.’
‘Is it?’ She faced him angrily, and then her tone became withering. ‘There are moments when I wonder if men know anything.’
‘But not the waltz,’ said Mr. King firmly. ‘It’s injudicious and scarcely proper.
Not
for polite society, as I trust your lordship will agree?’
Lord Barford nodded.
‘It wouldn’t have been allowed in my younger days, but in these times . . .’ There was a slight shrug of his noble shoulders. ‘People seem to have gone mad since the war. It’s all a search for excitement, and we’ve no manners left and no dignity. Just waltzes and Corinthians.’
‘How true, my lord, how true!’
This was in the Assembly Rooms, where the dancing had already begun. His lordship, accompanied by Lady St. Hollith and Captain Grant, had just arrived in the anteroom, where Mr. King, outwardly imperturbable, was hiding his worries behind his polished affability. If the waltz had been his only worry he would have been quite at ease. The thing could have been quietly forgotten, as some other unfortunate experiments had been, but he had more than that on his mind. Miss Anstey, for example, whose presence had offended many of the company, including the Marchioness of Malloch. Yet she was on terms with Lord Hildersham, and now, if reports could be believed, with Lord Barford, and Mr. King was inclined to damn the woman for coming to Cheltenham at all. And now he had been reminded of yet another worry.
Mr. King kept himself informed in these days, and he had just had word that Sir Thomas Luttrell was back in the town, apparently to stay this time until the Duke of Wellington arrived. It was not a comforting thought, after what had happened last week, and it led to Miss Anstey again. Mr. King cocked an ear and wondered what she was doing. She had entered the ballroom a few minutes ago, and the strains of a gavotte were coming clearly through the doors. That might be a shade too sedate for her, and she could be up to anything by this time. Perhaps he should be there himself.
That brought him from his reverie, to see, to his horror, that Lord Barford had disappeared, with only half a welcome. So had Lady St. Hollith, and only Captain Grant was standing there, watching him with a smile that had perhaps a touch of amusement. Mr. King shook himself and tried to retrieve the situation.
‘I do apologize. I do indeed. I fear I--er . . .’
‘Don’t trouble, sir. Don’t trouble at all.’ The smile changed a little as some memories came back. ‘There have been occasions in
my
life when I’ve dozed on my feet---and tried not to let them see it. Don’t trouble at all.’
‘That’s kindly said, sir. I---’
‘You’re in the anteroom, just where you were. Barford’s gone in. Her ladyship’s leaving her cloak, and I’m waiting for her. So if you wish to go in . . .’
‘Ah, thank you.’
Mr. King glanced at his watch and saw that it was half past eight, too late now for the Mallochs to arrive, and it must be as he had feared. They had taken offence, and he could do nothing about it while Miss Anstey . . .
That reminded him, and he was aware of the gavotte once more. He nodded hurriedly.
‘Yes, I think I should go in, to--er--see what’s happening-’
He did not even stay to bow as he remembered Lord Barford, to whom he must certainly make amends. He went quickly through the doors to the ballroom, noted that all was decorous and the gavotte going smoothly, and then looked round for his Lordship. He was not to be seen by the walls, and Mr. King, a little surprised, turned his attention to the floor. Then he stood in something near amazement. Lord Barford was dancing with Miss Anstey, and it was hard to say which of them seemed to be enjoying it the more.
Mr. King found no enjoyment at all. He had thought of Lord Barford as his ally, a man of the older views, staunch in upholding propriety, and now he was doing the opposite. He had surrendered to Miss Anstey, and Mr. King felt a sense of shock. He glanced round to see how others were taking it, and at once he saw Lady St. Hollith. She was standing with Captain Grant just inside the door, and they were both watching Lord Barford. Mr. King made his way towards them, and he was in time to hear her views.
‘It’s plain enough,’ she was saying. ‘An old man making a fool of himself with a girl who could be his grand-daughter. It’s what
she’s
up to that counts.’
‘Just pleasing him, by the look of it. Flattering him, perhaps.’
‘Obviously--but I’m wondering why, after her performance in the Pump Room. Ah, Mr. King . . .’ She had apparently just noticed him. ‘What do you think of this?’
‘Surprising, perhaps.’ He spoke quickly, and then slipped into his professional tones. ‘These things happen at a spa. A relaxed mood, you know, atmosphere of pleasure, willingness to enjoy---’
‘Exactly.’ She nodded carefully. ‘When chances don’t come at home---’
‘That puts it perfectly. I hope your ladyship will enjoy it equally. It is for that that we exist--in Cheltenham.’
He made his easy bow before continuing his circuit, and Mary watched him thoughtfully. A little smile had come to her now.
‘He’s right,’ she said slowly. ‘We
ought
to be enjoying the evening. We ought to enjoy our whole stay here, and instead of that we’re worrying about other people.’
‘It’s hard not to.’
He spoke with feeling, for he certainly had other people on his mind just then. He kept thinking of Anice and her tale of the brooch for Barford; and of Mary too, after John’s quiet hints that she was more than a blameless country lady. She had at least known Luttrell, and he wondered what that had meant; and she was kin to Anice, which made it no easier.
‘Hard or not---’ She spoke suddenly, with a change of tone, and then she turned directly to him. ‘The man’s right. We ought to be enjoying this place, and that means that
you
ought. I’ll have to see to it.’
‘Sounds good of you.’
‘Richard, don’t look so surprised.’ Her quick laugh was in her eyes as well, and for a moment there was a buoyancy in her that put him in mind of Anice. ‘I shall see to it because I must. After all,
I
brought you here. Some people might say I dragged you here.’
‘I’m sure they---’
‘Ask John.’ The laugh came happily again, as if she were remembering something. ‘At all events you wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t suggested it. I think I said you’d enjoy it, and this is what you’re getting. So I’m going to do better for you--really I am.’
‘And better for yourself, please.’
‘I hope so.’ She was suddenly incisive. ‘I’m just beginning to see how rustic I’ve grown. That’s another word for self-centred.’
‘Why should it be?’
‘Loneliness. Oh, it’s true, so you needn’t look so unbelieving. From the time Charles went--went into the Army, I mean, and that’s about four years ago--I’ve hardly seen a man in any sense that matters.’
‘In heaven’s name, why?’
‘There weren’t any men. They were all at the war.’
‘All?’ He spoke slowly, surprised by this new mood of hers. ‘I thought it was only a few of us. For most of England it seems to have been life as usual.’
‘I didn’t happen to live in those circles. Every family
we
knew had some sort of touch with the Army, and the men recognized it. Even the rakes did, and one by one--they went. Then there was nobody.’
‘What did you do?’
‘What
can
a woman do, in war? I suppose if I’d had children it would have been different, but I hadn’t. Not my fault, but I hadn’t. So---’ She stopped short, and then looked ruefully at him. ‘Sorry! I’m at it again, aren’t I? My own troubles, and I’m not going to. What’s the next dance?’
‘The first quadrilles, I believe.’
‘Then we’re going to enjoy them.
Am
I having you opposite?’
He stayed with her through the next hour, enjoying it as much as she did. The serious mood had dropped right away from her and she was gay and cheerful, with a zest that seemed to belong to her. He did not think it was assumed, though he had not seen it in her before, and again, for fleeting instants as the dance went on, there was a flash of something that reminded him of Anice. So he stayed contentedly with her, and he gave a short answer when she told him that to stay with one lady for so long would certainly set some eyebrows lifting. So they continued, and nothing spoiled it until ten o’clock had passed and the second quadrilles were due to start.
Hildersham had just come in, later than usual, but he had his wife with him, whom they had both met before, and she came across with him to renew acquaintance. It was all quiet and decorous, proper to a ball in the Rooms, until Hildersham tapped Richard on the arm.
‘Do you see who’s come in?’ he said.
It was Tommy Luttrell. He was standing by the door, as tall and dark and masculine as ever, and he seemed even darker in his black coat, white cravat, and black silk breeches. But he was at least properly turned out, with the style of an expensive tailor in his clothes, and he seemed for once to be sober. He was even for the moment, and on his own standards, well behaved. He took his time at looking round the room, his bold arrogant eyes bringing an embarrassed flush to one or two of the ladies they rested on, and at length he saw Hildersham. At once he waved cheerfully, and as cheerfully to Richard, and then he saw Anice. She was on the dance floor, in talk with Sir Michael Murphy, and Luttrell took no notice of that. He went pushing towards her at once, and he called to her before she had even seen him.
‘You little devil! Where have you been?’
He called it when he was a good ten feet away and in a voice that drew attention. Anice turned like a startled cat, her mouth open for an instant when she saw who it was. Then she looked him coolly up and down.
‘Hello, Tommy!’ Her voice came crisp and clear. ‘You’re a surprise.’
‘And what do you think
you
are? Where have you been hiding?’
‘I don’t hide anywhere. I’m here for anyone to notice.’
‘Then anyone can stop noticing. What’s the next dance?’
‘Quadrilles, I believe.’
‘You’re booked with me.’
‘Oh no, I’m not. I’ve a full card.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Oh . . . ‘Evening, Micky. Not on
your
card, I hope?’