‘Trying to kiss you, of course. And he looked uncommonly like succeeding.’
‘Oh yes, I think he’d have managed it. But would it have been fatal if he had?’
‘You’re not saying you’d have liked it?’
‘You sometimes have to pay for finding out. But he wouldn’t have gone beyond it, you know--in the anteroom. He might have done somewhere else, of course, but it wasn’t somewhere else. So it was really quite safe. Give me credit for some sense.’
‘For more than sense. You’ve some other qualities.’
‘Oh?’ In the lamplight he saw her head tilt back. ‘Such as?’
‘I don’t know their names, but they’re very pleasant. What do we do now?’
‘I could ask you in. It would be proper, I suppose.’ She glanced round her, at the three lamps in the Crescent and the soft darkness beyond. ‘My Uncle Barford, by the way, seemed a little tired of the dance when I told him we were going. His little Ann, of course had left him. Attached herself to Tommy.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘So he could be here at any moment.’
‘Indeed?’ He slipped an arm round her and turned her from the lamp. ‘Then we’ll walk a little further, if you please.’
‘Your servant always. That’s to say--nearly always.’ He heard her soft laugh as they moved into the dark together, to the bridge and the walk that climbed to the Well. ‘He wasn’t pleased with little Ann.’
‘She’ll get round that.’
‘Round
him,
you mean.’ Again the soft laugh came. ‘I suppose that’s the way of her--please a man one day, madden him the next, charm him back the day after. I wish I knew why, though.’
‘Why what?’
‘Barford. Why she’s taking so much trouble about him.’
‘We did ask her to.’
‘We never asked for all this--that performance yesterday, and then dancing with him tonight. I don’t see what she wants.’
‘Keeping her hand in, perhaps. Showing what she can do--as with Luttrell just now.’
‘And
that
was an oddity too. Why did she do it?’
‘I suppose she wanted him.’
‘She certainly got him. But she also saved
you
from quarrelling with him, and if she’s fond of you---’
She lapsed into silence as they crossed the bridge and began the easy climb between the trees. For the moment he was silent too, half irritated, half embarrassed, by what seemed a reminder of his touch with Anice. It had sounded merely thoughtful, perhaps even friendly, but he could not quite hold back a thrust in return.
‘Or you yourself,’ he told her. ‘You were in an awkward moment with Luttrell when she took him off.’
‘I did say I could have handled him. Still, I’ll admit it was convenient.’ Again he heard the soft laugh. ‘I’ve Tommy all ready for roasting now.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Oh, Richard!’ The laugh was a chuckle now. ‘He left me, didn’t he? He was trying to kiss me, and he turned from
that
to go off with her.’
‘You said he couldn’t help it.’
‘Of course he couldn’t, but do you think I shall tell him so? Wait till I meet him.’
‘You’d better not meet him.’
‘For whose sake?’
‘The best thing you can do with Luttrell is to forget him. Then follow his example.’
‘That sounds confused.’ She halted as they came to the pavement that had the dark deserted Well, and then she turned, looking down at the scattered lamps and lighted windows of the town. ‘As for his example--leave him for someone else, do you mean?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’
‘I hope so--when you think of the other examples he sets. Besides . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘You don’t really think I should stay with Tommy? Teasing him’s a little different. That’s something I owe him.’
‘Then don’t bother to pay it. It’s asking for trouble.’
‘Which I prefer to being rustic. However . . .’ She turned again, looking now to the outline of the Long Room, dark against the sky. ‘Who would you suggest I leave him for?’
‘That’s obvious too.’
He was quite sure it was as he saw her next to him. Beyond the Room the path rose gently through the trees to Montpellier, and above the trees the sky was bright from the rising moon. He could see her against it, poised and confident, giving something to him of this new mood that had come to her. He moved closer, drawn by the longings of the years, feeling now the femininity of her, which had found expression at last. She was his own world, but the other side of it, the side he had never known at sea, and now he was aware of her. He had his arms round her before he had thought of more, and as she raised her face in the dark he found her lips, strongly and warmly.
‘You see,’ he whispered. ‘We go together.’
‘Do we?’ She spoke quickly, catching at her breath. ‘You’re very sure.’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘Perhaps.’ He saw her turn away, looking up the path. ‘I’ll think of it.’
‘Do you need to?’
‘I don’t know. It’s all new, tonight.’ She meant herself, as something quickly told him, but he glanced up the path as she was doing.
‘We’ll go further,’ he told her. ‘It leads us to the light.’
‘There are shadows too.’
‘They’ll soon be gone. They don’t cause trouble.’ But Anice, as a quick thought came to tell him, could hardly be called a shadow. He put the thought aside. ‘Let’s walk,’ said Mary.
High summer: hot sun, cobalt sky, and a curricle in the High Street; greys walking lazily, sleek and lovely; panels of primrose, bright-red wheels with hubs of silver; groom behind with folded arms, lavender coat, and tall black hat: driver alone, sleek as the greys; firm little hands on milk-white reins; deep-blue eyes, golden hair, twirl of a whip as hats are raised.
And raised they were. Everyone knew Miss Anstey now, and this morning she was plainly at her best, not a care in the world, and her eyes were vivid as her smile gave acknowledgement to one gentleman after another. Even some ladies smiled at her, perhaps unable to resist such radiance, and those who did not smile were at least attentive. It was a sight new to Cheltenham, and not to be missed.
Then Miss Anstey changed, and with the impetuous speed she was noted for. The twirl of the whip became suddenly an excited nourish, and the smile split into a grin as her hands pulled the white reins taut. The curricle turned to the edge of the road and stopped below the Rooms, where Lady St. Hollith was in talk with Captain Grant. They were easily recognized, and he, at least, was seen to have a smile for Miss Anstey.
‘Ha!’ Her voice came happily as she turned in her seat. ‘All well this morning?’
‘Perfectly, thank you.’
‘Says he like a gentleman.’ The crinkle was suddenly in her forehead. ‘I wonder if you went straight home last night?’
‘Anice, you really---’
‘You wouldn’t have done if you’d been with me. Ah well!’
‘What
did you do
last night?’
‘Oh, I’d Tommy on my hands, and he’s quite a handful--or can be. Still . . .’ She pushed her tongue out for an outrageous instant. ‘He’s safer with me than he might have been with you.’
She had turned quickly to Mary, who seemed to accept the thrust. She nodded slightly.
‘Is that why you took him, Ann?’
‘Partly.’
‘You did it wonderfully. It’s a good thing you can handle him.’
‘I’ve had some practice. And he
is
exciting.’
‘You probably know best.’
‘About Tommy? I think
you’ve
met him before. However . . .’ She was suddenly mischievous again as she jerked her head at Richard. ‘If you were by yourself I’d take you for a drive. Set these people talking. But I suppose you’re engaged for the morning?’
‘At least for the morning.’
‘I should have got up sooner. But I’ll tell you what--you should hire a horse again--like London--and then you could start chasing me, and---’
‘That’s enough, Ann.’ Even Mary sounded amused, though her answer was quick and firm. ‘We’re having nothing more of that sort. I’ve heard about it.’
‘Oh, all right.’ For an instant her tongue tried to show. ‘As a matter of fact, we couldn’t. It’s all country roads here, and you can’t let your horses run. Not safe. Hey---’ She was suddenly looking down the street as if she had seen someone. ‘Well, if I can’t do anything?’
‘You did it last night, Ann. And thank you.’
‘Oh!’ It sounded like true surprise. ‘That’s nice of you. Well--good morning.’
She seemed in a hurry now. The whip twirled gaily, her gloved hands shook the reins, and the greys had the curricle moving as if it were nothing. Blue eyes took a backward glance, and even Mary lifted her hand. But then she stood quite still, watching the curricle.
‘Now what,’ she asked slowly, ‘is she up to?’
‘Just showing herself.’ He answered it lightly, still smiling down the street, hat in hand. ‘That thing’s meant to be noticed.’
‘So is she. But all the same--who’s
that?’
The curricle had stopped again, drawing into the side by the Plough Hotel, and the man who was lifting his hat as he stepped forward to greet her was surely Lord Barford. There could be no mistaking the lavender coat and white jean breeches he had thought proper to this summer morning, and even his face was clear as he stood hatless in the sunlight looking up at Anice.
‘What’s she doing?’ asked Mary.
‘Passing the time of day.’
‘Is
she?’
There was cause for her sardonic tone. Anice had suddenly moved in her seat, shifting to the offside of it, and Barford was firmly grasping the curricle as his foot found the little step. A moment later he had swung himself up and was settled in the seat next to Anice. He carefully adjusted his hat, and then he put an arm round Anice as the curricle moved off. Mary stood staring.
‘What’s she
up
to?’ she asked slowly.
‘Pleasing him, by the look of it. We did ask her to.’
‘We didn’t ask her to fling herself at his head like this. I told you that last night. What’s she doing it for?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Not really. He’s old enough to look after himself, but I’m being curious. That’s all. I’d like to know what---’
‘ ‘Morning, Mary. You as well, Grant.’
They whirled round together as Hildersham’s pleasant voice cut in. He was standing with Luttrell at his side, and Mary was alert at once, wary and bright-eyed, wholly in her mood of last night. But Luttrell seemed to be in his better behaviour, though he was as confident as ever.
‘Mary, you’re delightful,’ he told her. ‘I’ve been admiring you as we came along. I’ll swear you’re getting younger.’
‘Am I?’ She gave him an amused smile. ‘At all events, I’m not getting sillier.’
‘Would it be silly to look at
me?’
‘On past experience, it would. So that’s enough, Tommy. Did you enjoy last night, after we--er--parted?’
‘You can’t help enjoying it with that creature. Where is she, by the way? She said she’d be out this morning.’
‘She is.’ There was a slight sharpening of Mary’s tone. ‘In her famous curricle.’
‘As she promised. Well...’ Luttrell looked round, his eyes a little hungry. ‘Do you say you’ve seen her?’
‘Oh yes.’ She was carefully casual again. ‘She went off just now--down there.’
‘Off? She told me---’
‘Poor old Tommy!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ve been cut out, Tommy, and forgotten. Place filled by someone else.’
‘Who?’
‘My Uncle Barford. He’s
very
spry this morning, and I think he’s enjoying himself. They’ve driven off together.’
‘Good God! Is she mad?’
‘Or is he? But I’m afraid you can’t catch them.’
‘Who the devil wants to?’
‘You--by the sound of it.’
‘You need a horse,’ said Hildersham calmly, and Luttrell turned furiously.
‘Do you think I’m going hallooing after her like--like...’
‘Like Grant did?’ His chuckle had the authentic note as he watched the reddening Luttrell. ‘Do you remember how she loved him for it?’
‘Tommy ...’ Mary tapped him on the shoulder, and looked blandly helpful. ‘You’re wasting your talents. You should be driving with her, not chasing after her. You do drive, I’m told?’
‘Prinny’s coachman,’ said Hildersham. ‘Not the same thing, though.’
‘What isn’t?’
‘Coach and curricle. Keep off curricles, Tommy. It’s different hands.’
‘I can drive any---’
‘Well, you can’t drive
that
one. It isn’t here. Old Barford, too. Wonder what you’ll be like at his age?’
‘Oh, to hell with both of you!’
‘Temper, Tommy! Well, well--come into the Card Club and have a drink.’
They went off together after a further grumble or two from Luttrell, and Mary looked thoughtfully after them.
‘I wonder if he’ll take the hint,’ she said slowly. ‘It might take her off our hands.’
‘What? If he drives her?’
‘Or with her. I don’t see her giving the ribbons. Where does that road go to--where she’s taken Barford?’
‘Gloucester. And Tewkesbury, I believe, and the North.’
‘That doesn’t help, so I suppose we’ll have to wait.’
They waited a full five hours, and it had turned four o’clock when they saw the curricle again. They were by that time back in Royal Crescent and in talk with John, who appeared to have lost interest in his brother-officer’s sister and to be finding himself at a loose end. There was not, he said, enough to do at a spa for anyone sound in wind and heart.
‘You must,’ he said, ‘either drink the waters or fall in love, and I won’t drink the waters.’
It was at this point that the jingle and double-clop of the curricle--different from anything else--broke into their talk.
Mary turned in sharp surprise, as if she had hardly expected her uncle to be quite so careless of what his neighbours thought, and then she moved to the window just as the curricle swayed to a halt at the gate, its red wheels white with dust and its primrose panels dimmed. The groom jumped down and ran to the horses’ heads, and Anice, golden-haired in the sun, loosed the reins and sat comfortably back. Barford, erect and sprightly at her side, was in quick talk with her and in no hurry to get down. Mary tapped a foot impatiently, and then it was Anice who moved. She leaped lightly down, and a moment later she was giving a firm young hand to Barford as he came down more cautiously. ‘Isn’t she a beauty?’ said John.