A London Season (17 page)

“Why, what is the matter?” he asked gently. “Are you feeling unwell? It is certainly becoming hot in here
—
let me find you a glass of wine.”

“No, no. I am quite all right,” said Elinor, quickly recovering herself, but Sir Edmund had already procured two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, and pressed one firmly into her hand. He seated himself beside her and watched the dancers moving through the waltz, as he waited until she should be more composed.

“Ah, there
’
s Persephone, with Royden,” he remarked. “Was it not Royden you were talking to just now, when I at last caught sight of you here?”

“Yes,” said Elinor, sipping her wine. She had thought her tone perfectly neutral, but Sir Edmund said at once, “Don
’
t you like him? I thought you knew the family so well
—
and Miss Royden seems a most pleasant, unaffected sort of girl.”

“Oh, she is!” Elinor agreed warmly.

“But you don
’
t like
him
,” persisted Sir Edmund, thoughtfully. She wished he were not so acute. “He is certainly becoming rather particular in his attentions to Persephone, isn
’
t he?”

“Yes, and I
—
I don
’
t think he would do for her.”

“From what little I know of him and his circumstances, I agree with you. I should expect her to make a far better match than that. However, surely you are going too fast? Didn
’
t you believe she was still wearing the willow for this unknown young fellow in Bath?”

“Yes, although I think that if he tried,
Mr.
Royden could make himself very agreeable,” said Elinor guardedly.

“Agreeable enough to oust her old flame from her memory? But I thought that you positively
wished
someone else to take her fancy!”

Elinor smiled faintly. “Well, yes, but not-oh, I dare say nothing will come of it,” she said, forcing a light tone. And indeed, she realized, she did feel a certain lightening of her spirits. It must be the pleas
a
nt, equable company of Sir Edmund that made her recent conversation with
Mr.
Royden seem so improbable. Could they really have been saying such things to each other? Did she really think he intended to attempt the seduction of her charge? No, ridiculously melodramatic! She gave a little chuckle.

“That sounds better!” said the uncomfortably perceptive Sir Edmund. “Are you
sure
you are feeling quite the thing? You
’
ve been looking tired, you know, these last few days.”

“Have I?” She was both touched and alarmed by his quickness of observation. It would never do, she thought, sternly upbraiding herself in very much the same manner as Charlotte Royden earlier that evening, to let her heart show so easily in her face: certainly not her
whole
heart, which she feared might be all to plainly visible when she looked at him. She therefore glanced away.

“Yes, you have. I fancy Isabella persuaded you to undertake all the work of this evening
’
s arrangements. You mustn
’
t let her impose on you, you know
—
she
’
s the kindest creature in the world, but bone idle.”

“Oh no! I mean, that
’
s not it!” said Elinor quickly, realizing too late that she was confessing, with these words, to the existence of another and unacknowledged trouble.

“Then that child is plaguing you,” he said, looking none too fondly at his ward whirling past them.

She could not help smiling. “Cousin Edmund, as I have told you before, you brought me here especially so that she might have somebody to plague!”

“Did I?”

She found his direct glance rather disconcerting, and said hastily, to gloss it over, “Anyway, I have enjoyed myself planning this ball. I do assure you that I am glad to be of use.”

“I wish,” said Sir Edmund, surprisingly, “that I knew how
I
might be of use to
you.
I don
’
t like to leave London when I can see you are in some kind of worry. Doubtless to be laid at Persephone
’
s door! Whoever her husband may eventually be, he is going to have his hands full with that girl
and her music! However, now that I have arranged to see the lawyer in Cheltenham, I suppose I must be off tomorrow morning. By the by, is there anything in that house you would care for, as a keepsake? I swept you away in such haste that I fancy you brought very little with you, except that splendid box of treasures for the children.”

She was touched again by his thoughtfulness, and said, “Well, there
was
a picture
—
a pretty little landscape which hung at the top of the stairs, and I used to be very fond of it. It is a sunlit scene, with water and a bridge, and seemed so different from
...
yes, I own I
should
like to have that. If it is not of any great value, that is,” she added hastily.

“Of course you shall have it, whatever its value,” said Sir Edmund briskly. “The main thing is that it is of value to
you
! And after I have finished my business in Cheltenham, I
’
ll continue to Bath, as we agreed, and call on the good ladies who keep that seminary, to find out the direction of Persephone
’
s music master. The more I think of it, the more likely it seems to me that he may be able to throw some light on this love affair of hers that troubles you
—
so pluck up your spirits, Cousin Elinor, and don
’
t let the wretched girl fret you! Come along! I am now going to persuade you on to the floor, and I shall hope to be allowed to take you in to supper later.”

In happier circumstances, this would have crowned her pleasure in what, as everyone agreed, was proving a highly successful evening
’
s entertainment. About midnight, Isabella Yoxford remarked with satisfaction to her brother and her cousin that it would be wonderful if Persephone
’
s ball did not quite shine down the coming-out parties for any other of the Season
’
s debutantes! But Elinor
’
s evening was marred by the fact that Grenville Royden was spending quite as much time in Persephone
’
s company as was proper, and perhaps a little more. She would have told herself firmly that this merely showed Persephone regarded him no more seriously than her cousin Charley, but for his murmured remark as he passed her late in the evening: “Wondering what progress I am making with your charge, my dear? Try if you can get her to confide in you!”

This almost overset her again, but she was a little comforted by the firm pressure of Sir Edmund
’
s hand when he said good night, assuring her that he would spend no longer than necessary away from London, and adjuring her not to worry too much about Persephone, or take her duties too seriously. As the last of the guests departed in the pale light of dawn, and the family, yawning, retired to their beds, Elinor thought hopefully,
All may be well.
Who was it who had said that? A character in one of Shakespeare
’
s plays, she fancied, and now she came to think of it, she had a lurking feeling that the personage who had expressed this opinion came to a particularly nasty end very shortly afterwards. But she must not
—
she
would
not
—
fall into the dismals. And with that brave determination to cheer her, as well as the memory of the extraordinarily flattering attention that Sir Edmund had paid her throughout the evening (only of course she must not think too much of that), Elinor fell into a deep, exhausted sleep, though still with a lingering worry as to just what might be Grenville Royden
’
s intentions.

No such troubles clouded the daydreams of his sister
Charlotte, who was far too excited to be able to sleep but lay comfortably in bed in the Steads
’
house, going over the kind things Lord Conington had said to her again and again, and able to dismiss her brother
’
s cutting remarks entirely from her very well contented mind.

11

U
nimpeded on this occasion by the necessity of providing transport for a young lady and a quantity of baggage, Sir Edmund was able to travel down to Cheltenham and Bath in an easier and more agreeable manner than on his. last visit, driving himself in his own phaeton, and accompanied only by John Digby. “A tamer landscape than some we
’
ve seen, John,” he observed, as they emerged from the environs of London and took the road westward. “D
’
you regret the Alps and Pyrenees and the Rhine? Or come to that, the girls of Paris and the gaieties of Berlin?”

“Not I, sir!” replied John Digby, with a broad grin. “Time I settled down, I reckon, and yesterday
—
why, sir, I got Peg to name the day at last!”

“You did? Excellent! I wish you both very happy, and I
’
m sure you will be.” For Sir Edmund had, over quite a long period, been the recipient of John
’
s confidences concerning his courtship of Peggy, the under-nursemaid at Yoxford House. Peggy was ready enough to marry him but not, as she stoutly averred, to go jauntering off to them nasty foreign parts. From the start, Sir Edmund had assured John Digby that
he
would not stand in the couple
’
s way, and if John left his own service, there would certainly be a good position waiting for him at Yoxford House, but since his man would not hear of that, the courtship had been a protracted one. As might have been expected, however, Sir Edmund
’
s decision to come home to England for good had brought it to a happy conclusion. His congratulations to John Digby now were cordial and sincerely felt.

As they trotted briskly along in the smart black and
primrose
phaeton, driving between lush green banks, beneath branches laden with foliage and heavy white hawthorn blossom, and past the tall grasses waving by the roadside, Sir Edmund wondered for a moment why he felt a certain envy of his servant. For a moment, but no longer. He was tolerably well aware of what had been happening to him over the last few weeks, although it was only last night that he had consciously realized it. No doubt about it, he had fallen in love, a thing he had never thought to do again! There was something missing on this journey, compared with the last time he had travelled the road between Cheltenham and London. It was certainly not young Persephone
’
s sulks, nor even the bright chatter with which he had heard her enlivening the way once she regained her temper, but the quieter presence of Elinor Radley. Her shining chestnut hair and grey eyes, he found, had taken the place in his mind of dead Catherine
’
s lovely image, which, instead of evoking that keen sense of loss he had known so long, was faded to a smiling memory
—
just as he acknowledged Catherine herself would have wished.

There had been women in his life after his wife
’
s death, but these affairs had been of fleeting duration, and the kind of liaison likely to occur in diplomatic circles in the capitals of Europe, where a man might find himself suddenly posted hundreds of miles from his inamorata. It did not do to engage one
’
s affections too deeply. Nor had any of Sir Edmund
’
s mistresses, when separated from him, been witty and intelligent enough to sustain a relationship over a distance and a long period of time by means of interesting letters, as Princess Lieven had done with her correspondence to her lover Metternich. He would certainly never, on finding himself fifty miles from one of these ladies, have felt an urge to turn his horses and drive straight back to her, in order to propose that he and she emulated John Digby and his Peggy!

The notion of marriage to Miss Radley presented itself in ever more attractive colours as he drove along. He wished, however, that he could think she felt for him in the same way. She had given no indication of regarding him as anything but a friend and a cousin. The mildest of personal compliments last night, he remembered, had caused her to shrink with apparent distaste. But then, she was certainly anxious about something just now.
That
’
s not it
, she had said, of the trouble the ball had given her. Was she really just concerned for Persephone
’
s whims and fancies? Perhaps so: Miss Radley certainly took her duties very seriously. As for himself, he realized that he cared very little about his ward
’
s presumed amorous problems
—
it was his own, as he ruefully told himself, that were in the forefront of his mind. What he
did
care for was to see that expression of haunted, wary anxiety banished from Elinor
’
s fine eyes. Well, let him but get his business at Cheltenham over, discover (he hoped) tidings in Bath to make her easy in her mind, and then, like John Digby, he meant to apply himself seriously to the pleasant task of courtship!

Cousin Sophronia
’
s gloomily righteous shade seemed to him to be still brooding over the house in Royal Crescent, and though there was no need for a fire in the drawing room this fine May day, Sir Edmund missed the warmth he had felt about the place on his previous visit, and which he had fancied even at the time emanated from Elinor herself.
Mrs.
Howell, discursive as ever, and her amiably silent husband, were on the point of moving out to their own little cottage. Sir Edmund easily found the small landscape painting Elinor had mentioned, still hanging on the landing, and saw at once why she liked it. It was from the brush of John Crome, and showed a wide, clear sky and a graceful bridge spanning a stream; it must, he imagined, have seemed a vista of freedom to a girl cooped up in the suffocating atmosphere of Lady Emberley
’
s household.

He was putting up at the Plough again, and having left John Digby there with the phaeton, he next called upon
Mr.
Stanfield, to read and sign the various documents the attorney set before him. Their business completed,
Mr.
Stanfield produced a decanter of excellent sherry, and begged Sir Edmund to do him the honour of taking a glass with him. He then inquired after Miss Radley. “I have been very glad, I will confess,” said he, perceptibly relaxing his punctiliously legal manner, “to know that she is with those who, given a broad interpretation of the term, may be called her family! I will not conceal from you, for indeed I know we agree upon that subject, that I consider Lady Emberley did very ill in omitting the name of Miss Radley from her will! That is a good girl, Sir Edmund, a very good girl!” he added, with unwonted warmth. “Several times Lady Emberley assured me that she would be making adequate provision for her companion, and it is a thousand pities that she never did!”

Sir Edmund was not going to enlighten the lawyer as to the manner in which Lady Emberley considered she
had
made adequate provision, but allowed himself to say, “If she was not going to do so, it was certainly improper in her to single out any
other
person for a bequest. We do indeed agree on the subject of Miss Radley, and I
’
ve tried to set matters right, but I couldn
’
t prevail upon her to accept anything but the salary of companion to my young ward.” “I suspected, of course, that that would be the case
—
and you could hardly
compel
Miss Radley to accept what she would regard as charity! You will allow, sir, that her sentiments do her credit.”

Sir Edmund was very ready indeed to allow this, and found, somewhat to his surprise, that he would be happy, in the manner of the most callow young lover, to sit and talk of his beloved at length to
Mr.
Stanfield, for the mere pleasure of pronouncing her name. But the lawyer had turned to that other bequest.

“As for
Mr.
Spalding, sir, you need not be
surprised
, precisely, at the legacy to him. The fact is, Lady Emberley much deplored the laxity of tone prevalent in the society of this town, and,
Mr.
Spalding entering fully into her own sentiments on the matter, she regarded him as
—
er
—
an instrument for good.” The attorney
’
s tone was perfectly neutral, but he gave a small, dry cough.

“Good God!” exclaimed Sir Edmund, amused. “Is Cheltenham such a shocking haunt of vice?”

“Hm! Well, so Lady Emberley held, for there are persons residing here of whom, she found, she could not at all approve.”

“And the good
Mr.
Spalding is supposed to rid the place of them? I wonder just how!”

“I have,” said
Mr.
Stanfield, with a wintry smile, “occasionally permitted myself to wonder the same thing! I fancy that he would, for instance, encounter some difficulty in dislodging Colonel Fitzhardinge from Berkeley Castle!” For as
Mr.
Stanfield remembered only too clearly, for the circumstance of being obliged to listen to his late client
’
s lengthy diatribes, that gentlemen had been prominent
among
those of whom Lady Emberley found she could not at all approve. The Colonel and other members of his family had always supposed that he would succeed to his father
’
s title, but on the death of the fifth Earl Berkeley it transpired that his parents had not in fact been legally married at the time of his birth, and the House of Lords ruled that his youngest brother Thomas was the Earl
’
s heir. Thomas, however, refusing to accept his rights, left his elder brother to reside in the Castle and vowed that he himself would never marry, thus avoiding the possibility of any bar to the Colonel
’
s enjoyment of his inheritance. There were those who considered this a touching instance of fraternal affection, but such were not Lady Emberley
’
s sentiments. She thought it very wrong of the altruistic Thomas, and still less did she approve of the Colonel himself: not only stigmatized as illegitimate, but bold-faced enough to continue living at the Castle and cutting a notable figure in Cheltenham society, just as he had done before the shocking revelations about his birth! He had led the Berkeley Hunt through the streets of the town one day, had appeared in amateur theatricals on the stage of the Theatre Royal, had encouraged the sport of horse-racing, with all its attendant evils, and was no enemy to the holding of the fair! It was all very depraved, to Lady Emberley
’
s way of thinking, and showed only too well the spirit now abroad in Cheltenham. Things had been very different when she first came to live in Royal Crescent as a widow, twenty years before!
Mr.
Spalding was very sure she was right, and she rejoiced to find him of the same mind with her.

But notwithstanding Lady Emberley
’
s disapproval, and whatever reforming powers her legacy and its beneficiary might prove to wield, Cheltenham was still a tolerably lively place, and a pleasant one on a warm May evening. After partaking of an excellent dinner at the Plough, Sir Edmund went for a stroll, viewing (from outside) the Assembly Rooms opened by the Duke of Wellington some eight years earlier, and the Montpellier and Sherbourne Pump Rooms. He was not yet tired, so he next betook himself to the handsome Promenade, and was walking along it, lost in thoughts of what he would say to Miss Radley once back in London, when he was brought down to earth by a gentleman who was hailing him in a loud voice.

“Sir Edmund! Sir Edmund! I am very happy to see you! It
is
Sir Edmund, is it not?”

Sir Edmund admitted that it was. It took him a moment to identify the stout, imposing personage who had greeted him with such cordiality, but he soon placed the man: he was face to face with the recipient of the legacy which he still deplored, as he rather fancied
Mr.
Stanfield did too.

“
Mr.
Spalding,” said he, politely. “How do you do?”

“Well, very well, sir, thank you! Thank you, I am very well!” the clergyman assured him. “Allow me to invite you to enter one of the Pump Rooms with me, and try a glass of our excellent Cheltenham water!”

This Sir Edmund declined, having drunk more glasses of unpalatable spa water upon the Continent than he cared to remember, but as he had enjoyed a very tolerable claret with his dinner, he instead courteously begged
Mr.
Spalding to repair to the Plough with him and crack another bottle of it.
Mr.
Spalding fell in with this proposal, though regaling his companion on the way with a convoluted excuse for doing so, to the effect that while he did not in general partake of spirituous liquors
—
a practice which had, moreover, been abhorrent to that late, generous patroness of St Mary
’
s, Sir Edmund
’
s much lamented cousin Lady Emberley
—
he supposed that on the Continent, where everyone knew the water was not fit to drink, Sir Edmund must, like many another English gentleman, have fallen into the habit of taking wine freely.

Sir Edmund listened patiently to all this, and noticed that once the claret was set on the table in his private parlour,
Mr.
Spalding seemed far from unwilling to take it pretty freely himself. Smiling inwardly, he stored up this circumstance in his memory to be related to Miss Radley in due course. He then bore for some time with his companion
’
s prosy and highly repetitive conversation, privately wishing that automatic politeness had not compelled him to offer hospitality; a little of
Mr.
Spalding went a long way. After a while, the clergyman asked, “And how, pray, is Miss Radley? I hope she goes on well in London?”

Sir Edmund hoped so, too. The anxiety in her face last night at Persephone
’
s ball had been near the forefront of his mind all day, and the farther he went from London, the more impatient he had become to return to her. He was not a vain man, but he could not see
Mr.
Spalding as a serious rival for Miss Radley
’
s affections, and in any case he had heard her turn down that gentleman
’
s offer of marriage very comprehensively. However, the memory of the infelicitous terms in which
Mr.
Spalding had couched that offer (or rather, supposition) did not endear him to Sir Edmund, who contented himself with saying, “Yes, I think so.”

“To be sure! So good of Lady Yoxford to take her in! Elinor must feel obliged in her indeed! Such graciousness
—
such condescension!”

He was about to expand further on the virtues he assumed (without ever having met her) in the amiable but indolent Isabella, but this was a little too much for Sir Edmund, who interrupted him, saying, “No, no, it is quite the other way round. My sister is the person who is obliged to Miss Radley! She is a great favourite with the children, and made all the arrangements for my ward
’
s coming-out ball, which took place last night, incidentally, and was most successful
.
”

“I am glad to hear it.”
Mr.
Spalding nodded his approval. “It cannot be denied that Elinor has a gift for managing a household. I do not despair, you know, of her managing
mine
some day. Oh, no, I by no means despair! Indeed, I quite look forward to it!” The meaning smile which he bestowed upon Sir Edmund struck that gentleman as remarkably fatuous, but
Mr.
Spalding was inexorably proceeding. “I am sure she has not forgotten her old friends in Cheltenham. Miss Dunn, an excellent woman and one of my parishioners, was asking me only the other day whether I thought Miss Radley would be returning. A consummation, in the words of the poet, devoutly to be wished! Of course, she cannot have much acquaintance in London.”

“There you are mistaken,” said Sir Edmund, with satisfaction. “As I am sure you will agree, Miss Radley must make friends wherever she goes. Another pleasing circumstance is that she has met with some old acquaintances in town.”

“Old acquaintances?” said
Mr.
Spalding, startled. “Why, she has not been in London since she was a young girl, and that was only for a month or so! No, no, how could she meet with any old acquaintances there?” He sounded peevish as well as proprietorial, thought Sir Edmund, his irritation with the man giving way to amusement, for all the world as if Elinor had no right to any friends outside Cheltenham!

“This is a family where she was governess before coming to live with Lady Emberley,” he explained. “A brother and two sisters by the name of Royden, though the elder sister is now married.”

This innocuous information, much to Sir Edmund
’
s surprise, appeared to have a powerful effect on
Mr.
Spalding. “Royden? Royden?” he uttered
—
yet not as if the name were strange to him. “Oh, dear me, dear me! Tut, tut! This will not do! Dear, dear, dear!” His face, working busily, was a good deal flushed. “Good gracious, this will never, never do!”

Sir Edmund raised his brows. “Why not?”

“But I thought you were aware
...
I supposed
...
perhaps you are not! Dear me, believe me, it will not do! The association is most improper!”

Assuming an unaccustomed air of hauteur, and liking his companion less and less, Sir Edmund said coldly, “My dear sir, I am at a loss to understand you. I scarcely believe that the company my sister chooses to receive in her house can be described as
improper
.”

This overset
Mr.
Spalding even more, and he uttered several disjointed protests as to his perfect confidence in the propriety of Lady Yoxford
’
s household, interspersing these avowals with exclamations of distress over this most unfortunate situation.

“But have no fear!” he weightily assured Sir Edmund, when he had at last regained his composure and his powers of coherent speech. “I have made up my mind! I shall not fail! You may count on me
—I
shall do what I consider to be my duty!”

“
I’
m sure you will,” said Sir Edmund, patiently, “though what I may count upon you
for,
I really have no notion.”

“Ah, so you do not know all! I was beginning to fear it might be so. The matter,” pronounced
Mr.
Spalding, “concerns Miss Radley. If I were to tell you
—
indeed, I
will
tell you!” he finished, righteously.

“Please don
’
t,” said Sir Edmund, coldly, for
Mr.
Spalding was someone with whom he decidedly did
not
wish to discuss his beloved. “I really should infinitely prefer you not to,
Mr.
Spalding.” His distaste rapidly increasing, he rose to his feet in a manner which unmistakably conveyed the impression that it was time for his guest to finish his wine and depart. This the clergyman did; he was briefly abashed, however, and said with a chuckle, as he took his leave, “Ay, well, mum
’
s the word, Sir Edmund! But I shall not fail you
—
no, indeed! How unfortunate it is that I am unable to leave Cheltenham just at present. The rector, you understand, is away, so that all the duties of the parish
—
and they, I may say, are onerous
—
devolve upon me! But you may expect to see me in town before very long. Pray, at what number in Upper Brook Street do Lord and Lady Yoxford reside?”

Sir Edmund saw no way out of giving him the desired information, but hoped very much, as he saw his guest off, that he would
not
soon be turning up to plague them all at Yoxford House. Especially Elinor. By now pretty well accustomed to
Mr.
Spalding
’
s rhetorical manner, he concluded, correctly enough, that he had been referring to whatever youthful peccadillo it was Elinor had wished to confess to him on their first meeting, before taking the post of chaperon to Persephone. Seeing her distress, he had dissuaded her from doing so at the time, and he certainly did not wish to hear about it now from
Mr.
Spalding. Whatever it was, it was Elinor
’
s private business, upon which he declined even to speculate; he therefore put the matter out of his mind, and proceeded next day to Bath.

After going to his hotel, seeing the phaeton and John Digby well bestowed, and changing into the correct attire for paying a morning call, he went to see the Miss Maddens. He was immediately shown into their parlour. Neither the unmixed pleasure on Miss Mary
’
s good-natured face, nor the expression of alarm that flitted over her sister
’
s countenance before she schooled it to impassivity, escaped him. He hastened to assure the ladies that Miss Grafton was very well, and without precisely saying so made them aware that this was a mere call of courtesy. From the relief he sensed in Miss Madden, he fancied that she had thought he might have come with a tale of some dreadful deed perpetrated by
Persephone, for which her former mentors would be held to blame!

“Yes, ma
’
am, she is surrounded by suitors, and has quite a little court of her own!” he told Miss Mary, smiling, in answer to her supposition that dear Persephone did not lack for beaux. (Selina had frowned a little at her sister
’
s ungenteel choice of noun, but Miss Mary was not deterred by that.)

“Oh, I knew it!” she cried, eyes shining. “I am so glad. I was sure she would
—
would
take
, is not that the expression?”