Wilful Impropriety (18 page)

“And what has led you to question them, Mr. Pemberton?”

Constance asked the question with a lightness she did not feel. She was conscious, suddenly and sharply, that the future course of her life might well hang in the balance, and she braced herself for his answer. It was not long in coming.

“I saw a girl, on horseback,” he replied simply, his eyes never drawing away from hers. “A laughing girl, confident, assured, prepared to risk the censure of others in order to be happy. A girl such as I had not thought existed. Now that I know she does exist, I am prepared to move heaven and earth to be with her.”

Constance found that she could not speak. Her face, however, seemed to tell Pemberton all he wished to know, for he sat back in his chair and gave a short nod.

“Here comes your aunt,” he said quietly, then, more quietly still, “It will be difficult, and you must prepare yourself for that. But I will find a way.” More loudly he said, “I must not monopolize you any further, Miss Kingsley, and I see that your aunt wishes to speak with you. I hope that we may continue our very interesting conversation on another occasion.”

•   •   •

Despite Constance’s best efforts, there was no opportunity the next day to speak privately with Mr. Pemberton. Her aunt was persistent in her efforts to ensure that Constance assisted her in her hostess duties, and her father once again kept the gentlemen late after dinner. It was not until Mr. Pemberton was leaving that she had a few words with him, and they were merely lighthearted pleasantries on both sides, conscious as they were that others were listening. When he took her hand, however, Constance had to conceal her start of surprise, for he pressed a folded piece of paper into her palm. Then, with a nod and a smile, he was gone.

The note, which she did not open until she was in her bedroom, was brief.

My dearest Constance, if I may so address you, I hope that you are constant by nature as well as name, for I am determined that we shall be together, no matter the difficulties that lie ahead. I will be in touch as soon as I am able, and you will then tell me if my hopes for a future with you are founded upon rock or sand.

She had committed the letter to heart by the time Mary came into the room, and the face she turned to the girl made Mary stop in her tracks. Constance seemed to be glowing, and Mary felt that if she moved too close she would be burned. “What is it, Miss Constance?” she cried, alarmed. “Are you ill?”

“Oh, Mary, I am far from ill. I am the happiest person on earth! That is what I am.”

“Why, whatever can have happened?” Mary’s face clouded. “This is something to do with Mr. Pemberton, isn’t it, miss? What have you done?”

“Nothing—not yet. But we have talked, and he has given me this note, in which he says that he is determined we shall be together.”

“But how, miss? He’s to marry Miss Warren, isn’t he? How can he be with you, and still be a—well, a gentleman?”

“He won’t marry Miss Warren,” said Constance, her voice ringing with confidence. “He will marry me, as soon as it can be arranged.”

Mary stood in shocked silence. “But Miss Constance,” she said finally, “I don’t see
how
it can be arranged. There’s Miss Warren, and her father, and his own family, to say nothing of the Colonel. He will never approve.”

Constance gave an imperious toss of her head. “If my father will not give his approval, then I shall marry without it.”

“But—” Mary tried to put her thoughts into words. “How can you know he loves you? Or that you love him? Why, three days ago he was a stranger.”

“It sounds like the worst sort of contrivance from a popular novel, I know. But such things do happen in real life, else novelists would not write of them. You do not have to know a person for months or years to realize you love them, and that they love you. Such is the bond between us. We
know
it, Mary.” She rose, and took Mary’s hands in hers. “You must believe me. Say that you do, and say that you will help us.”

Mary looked long and hard at Constance. Then, as if reassured by what she saw, she nodded her head.

“I’ll help you, miss,” she said with a sigh. “Although where it will all lead is a mystery. I can only hope there’s a happy ending.”

•   •   •

The next few weeks were a fraught time for both girls. Mr. Pemberton was as good as his word, and within days a letter arrived from him for Constance. She shared its contents—and that of the others which followed in regular, and rapid, succession—with Mary, but would not let her read them.

“For they are very personal in nature, Mary,” she explained. “And if you do not read them, you can tell my father as much if he ever has reason to ask.”

“How will you live, Miss Constance?” Mary asked once. “You’ve no money of your own, and nothing will come from the Colonel, and Mr. Pemberton will almost certainly be cut off by his own father.”

“He has thought of that,” said Constance. “He thinks of everything. He has some money of his own which his father cannot touch, and an uncle who emigrated to western Canada within the last year has done very well in business there, with the railway going through. He has promised Arthur a pos ition with him should he ever want one. Imagine that, Mary! Traveling all that distance to the far side of another country, through mountains and forests!” She spoke of it as if it were little more than a grand adventure, and Mary chided her.

“It’s not a game, Miss Constance. It means a heap of troubles, and estrangement from your family, and hardship. And what will become of me?”

“Why, Mary!” exclaimed Constance. “You will come with me, of course! Mr. Pemberton has been quite positive on that point. And I shall need a friend, more than ever I do now. Say you will come with me.”

“I’ll think on it, Miss Constance. I can’t say fairer than that, now, can I? And there’s a long road to walk before we get to that point.’

•   •   •

In the end, Mary was wrong, for events came to a head only two days later. It was after breakfast, and the Colonel was in his study, where he had been joined by Mr. Somers.

“Good heavens,” said the Colonel, looking up from his copy of
The Times
. “Somers, have you seen this? It appears that the engagement between Mr. Pemberton and Miss Warren has been called off, and the lady is to sue him for breach of promise.”

Walter gave a whistle of surprise. “Startling news indeed, Colonel, and somewhat unexpected. There was certainly no talk of such a thing when he was here only a few weeks ago, so it is very sudden.”

“I wonder if he has said anything to my daughter. I know she has been receiving letters from him; quite a number of them, in fact.” His eyes narrowed. “Indeed, I have wondered at the quantity of letters to and from Mr. Pemberton. I hope that—” He left the sentence unfinished, and rose suddenly from his chair. “Come with me, Somers. We will find out if there is anything to those letters which my daughter is not divulging.”

Walter, a feeling of misgiving rising within him, followed the Colonel upstairs, and waited while he rapped on Constance’s door. It opened, disclosing Constance and Mary within. The Colonel entered, Somers behind him.

“Constance, do you know anything of this?” queried the Colonel, pointing to the relevant article. “You have been receiving letters from Mr. Pemberton, and writing him in return. Has he spoken of the matter to you, or mentioned it in any . . . Is something wrong?”

Constance’s face had gone pale, and her entire body had stiffened. She opened her mouth, but before she could say anything her father took a step backward, as if she had struck him. “Dear God, tell me that you are nothing to do with this! Tell me, on the name of your dear mother, that you are not the cause!”

Mary and Walter could do nothing more than watch—the one in sympathy, the other in something like horror—as Constance took a deep breath. She raised her eyes to her father’s face, and said quietly, “I cannot tell you that, Father. I am sorry.”

Silence held steadily over the room, the only sound that of a clock ticking on the mantel. For several seconds it was as if everyone within the room was frozen. Then the silence was exploded by the sound of the Colonel’s hand crashing down upon Mary’s dressing table.

“Sorry!
Sorry
! You
will
be sorry, my girl, unless you can tell me that this is all some girlish whim, and that you—
both
of you—have thought better of such madness.”

“It is very far from a whim, Father. Mr. Pemberton has asked me to marry him, and I have said yes.”

There was another silence, as the Colonel digested this news. He suddenly looked very old. His gaze traveled from one face to another, as if seeking answers, then returned to Constance, who was still standing, ramrod straight, in front of him. “There will be no marriage,” he said, his voice heavy. “Mr. Pemberton may do as he pleases with regard to Miss Warren. I would have credited him with far more sense, but he has made his bed and must lie in it.”

“What do you propose to do, Father?” asked Constance. She spoke quietly, but there was a steeliness and determination to her voice that Mary recognized immediately. “Lock me in my room?”

“I will, if that is what is needed to prevent you doing something which will bring ruin and scandal about your head, and upon this family. In fact, I shall do just that. Mr. Somers, Mary, leave this room now. We will see how effective being confined to quarters is, and leave Miss Constance to reflect upon her folly.” Ignoring the protests of his daughter, the old soldier turned to the door and, before Constance could move, was on the outside locking it, Mary and Walter looking on in silence.

“That will keep her safe for now,” said the Colonel, pocketing the key. “Mr. Somers, please be so good as to come with me to my study. We must discuss this matter immediately, and see what can be done.” The Colonel walked stiffly away, and Walter, after a quick glance at Mary, followed him.

When they were out of earshot, Mary moved to the door. “Miss Constance,” she whispered. “Miss Constance, can you hear me?”

“Yes, Mary,” said Constance from the other side of the door. “What am I to do? Father can’t keep me locked in here forever, but he can try to stop us getting married.”

“How can he do that, miss?”

Mary made an impatient noise. “I’m not twenty-one, so I need his consent. He can arrange to have me sent away, to the Continent, perhaps, where I shall be out of harm’s way, or so he thinks. Or he can apply to have me made a ward of the court, so that legally I can’t marry until I’m of age. Unless . . .”

“Unless what, Miss Constance?” asked Mary, after a moment’s silence.

“Unless we can make our way to Gretna Green, and marry there. Hush”—as Mary tried to speak—“give me a moment to think. Yes,” she continued, “that is what we must do. I can be married there, quite legally, without Father’s consent. The law is different in Scotland.”

“How will we get there? And are you sure Mr. Pemberton will agree to it?”

“Yes, I am sure,” said Constance, confidence in her voice. “But we shall have to get word to him.” She thought for a minute. “If I write a letter, will you be able to take it to the village and ensure that it gets posted? It may be difficult—my father or Mr. Somers might well suspect that you know something about this business, and watch your movements.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, Mary could not suppress a small laugh. “I managed not to get caught while I was picking pockets in the streets of London, miss. I daresay I can get to the village without being spotted.”

“And what about getting me out of this room, Mary? Can you manage that too?”

“I daresay I can, Miss Constance. Mr. Somers says I don’t forget anything I’ve learned. We’ll see if he’s right.”

•   •   •

It did not take Constance long to write a letter to Arthur Pemberton, advising him of the situation, and setting forth her plan.

If you are serious, my dear Arthur, then you will be waiting for me three days hence, at midnight, near the turning to the village a mile from the house. Do not respond to this letter, as it will not reach me. If you are waiting, that will be all the response I need and want.

The letter was duly dispatched, with no one the wiser. Then commenced three days of waiting, during which time the mood of the house was black and heavy. Mrs. Millington, who had been told of the situation, had taken to her room with what she called a nervous collapse, and Mary was kept busy tending to the invalid. She was not allowed to see Constance, who was still in her room, her meals brought up by a servant under the supervision of the Colonel, who kept the key. There was, of course, no word from Mr. Pemberton, and Mary could not help wondering nervously what the outcome would be.

The appointed day came at last, and it took all Mary’s skill at deception to maintain a steady countenance whenever she encountered another member of the household. She was particu larly desirous of keeping out of the way of Mr. Somers, who always seemed to be searching her face when they met, as if looking for confirmation of something he suspected. When, after Constance’s evening meal had been delivered, Mary knocked on the door of the Colonel’s study, she was almost sorry to see the secretary within.