A London Season (29 page)

“Just what I was about to suggest, my lord!” said
Mr.
Walter promptly, and the two young men regarded one another with considerable approbation for a moment, before Robert Walter turned to his musical colleagues and spoke to them in German. “There, that is settled,” he told Conington. “They will also come. I
suppose
you know the way to this place, my lord?”

Conington looked a little doubtful at the addition of so many persons to the party, and even more so when Persephone said very firmly, “And I will come too.” “My dear Miss Grafton, you cannot!”

“Oh yes, I can! In fact you will
need
me!” she said triumphantly. “For suppose you cannot drive out to Essex and back to London tonight? Then you will require another female to
—
to lend Elinor countenance.”

“You know, you may be right,” said Conington thoughtfully. “To avoid the least breath of scandal
...
yes, that
is
a consideration.”

“Perhaps I ought to come as well?” Charlotte heroically offered.

“No, no, there can be no occasion for that,” he assured her.

“No,” agreed Persephone, who was obviously, if rather reprehensibly, beginning to enjoy this adventure now that she was reunited with her Robert. “It would only distress you, Charlotte. But
I’ll
tell you what: you must stay and try to make my cousin Isabella understand what has happened, for I think we should be off at once, and not lose any more time.”

“A carriage,” said
Mr.
Walter. “We must procure a carriage.”

“The best thing,” continued Persephone, falling into a practical, not to say a managing mood, “will be to take Cousin George
’
s britzka. That is quite a large carriage, and he will not mind, in fact I dare say he won
’
t even know it is gone from the coachhouse, but the grooms will not object, Lord Conington, if you and I both say we have his permission. Now, let me see
—
the britzka will easily take four inside and two up behind in the dickey
—
oh, but there are six of us already, and then there will be Elinor on the way home
...”

“We
’
ll take my curricle as well,” said Conington. “I have it outside; I
’
ll send my groom home, and someone else may come up beside me. Then, if either carriage should lose a wheel or suffer some other accident, we shall not be quite at a standstill.”

“Yes, very good!” Robert approved.

“I, too, am coming!” unexpectedly announced
Mr.
Spalding, who had been sitting silent for a remarkably long time. “
I
shall come to lend countenance to this extraordinary venture
—
for extraordinary I may say it is! But I perceive it would be useless to attempt to turn you from your
purpose.”

“I should just say so!” remarked Persephone indignantly. “Don
’
t you
care
what happens to Elinor? I thought you said you were a friend of hers.”

“I do not know when I have seen the like of it!” pursued
Mr.
Spalding, taking no notice of this. “I do not know when
anyone
has seen the like! Peers of the realm conspiring to circumvent the due processes of the law! Females engaging in very shocking activities, and
not
, as they ought to be, censured, but positively countenanced by other females! Persons conversing in foreign tongues, so that one does not know what they may be saying!” This with a suspicious glance at Franz, Josef and Johann. “Well, I see that, so far as Miss Radley
’
s good name is concerned, I have come just in the very nick of time, as one might say!”

“No, one might not!” snapped Persephone, who had taken
Mr.
Spalding in great dislike. “And anyway, you haven
’
t! My cousin
Edmund
came in the very nick of time
—
at least, I dare say he thought so, although we hadn
’
t worked it all out properly then.
Robert
came in the very nick of time! But as for you, I still do not know what you are doing here. Oh, Robert
—
Lord Conington
—
let us go and see about getting horses put to the britzka
immediately
! Good, here is Cousin Isabella!” she exclaimed, as that lady, utterly bemused, appeared in the doorway of the Yellow Parlour handsomely dressed for dinner and looked around her. “Cousin Isabella, we
may
take the britzka, may we not, and you will tell Cousin George that we have borrowed it, and we are taking Lord Conington
’
s curricle too, for we have to rescue poor Elinor, and it is
urgent
, and here is Charlotte, who will tell you all about it!
’

And with that she, Conington, and the four musicians were gone from the room,
Mr.
Spalding lumbering in their wake.

“Good gracious me!” said Isabella, faintly. “Charlotte, who was that clergyman? I am sure
I
do not know him! And what is Persephone taking about? Rescue Elinor? Where
is
Elinor? But, my dear child, you look worn to a thread! What in the world is going on
?”

18

F
or about the first mile in the post-chaise, Miss Radley
’
s overpowering sensation was one of sheer anti-climax. On turning the corner of the street, she had immediately seen the vehicle with its two postilions. One of the men was standing by the head of a saddle-horse, no doubt to travel as an outrider, and did not wear the usual livery of a post-boy, but had a caped frieze coat on. Seeing her advance purposefully towards him, this fellow had stepped forward with the words, “For Dover, ma
’
am?” and in answer to her nod, had held open the carriage door and then closed it behind her, whereupon the chaise instantly set off at a spanking trot. She had not even been forced in, but had stepped up into the carriage of her own free will! All the cutting things she had been rehearsing in her mind to say to Grenville Royden froze on her lips, as she perceived that she was the only occupant of the vehicle. She felt remarkably foolish, to say the least of it, but was soon almost ready to laugh at herself.

After a while, however, indignation took over.
Mr.
Royden, so far as she recollected, had written that he would have a post-chaise ready; he had not said in so many words that he would be in it himself. The object of his absence, she presumed, was to avoid the necessity of answering awkward questions from Persephone. For it soon became clear to Elinor that they were not taking any road that could possibly lead in the direction of Dover, and while Persephone might have been rather longer in realizing this, it was bound to have occurred to her sooner or later. Puzzling it all out, Elinor eventually came to the same conclusions as did the company gathered in the Yellow
Parlour at Yoxford House, a little later: since there could be no advantage to Grenville in actually conveying Persephone to the coast, she fancied that the chaise
’
s most likely destination was Royden Manor.

She had not the faintest desire to revisit that house, and thought she had better make haste to apprise the post-boys of their mistake, inform them that there would be no passenger with them after all, and induce them to return her to Upper Brook Street before they drove away with the empty chaise.

But this proved rather difficult. She knocked upon the sides and roof of the vehicle, to no avail. The windows appeared to be jammed, perhaps purposely, so that the glass could not be let down. She fancied that the doors might also be secured, and in any event she had no wish to risk life and limb by jumping from a fast-moving carriage. Very likely the postilions had been told to pay no heed to any sounds from within the chaise! It was very vexatious, but she would have to wait until they stopped to change horses.

They did this some ten miles from the beginning of their journey. By now they were well out of London. Elinor had been right: neither door would open from the inside, but when she began knocking on the glass again to attract notice, the frieze-coated man appeared at the window as if he had been expecting some such thing, undid the door just a crack, and said hoarsely, “Best cut that out, miss! You keep mum, and no
‘
arm
’
ll come to ye!”

He then closed the door again, and leaned against it the whole time that the ostlers at the posting-house were changing the horses. A new post-boy came with the new team, but the frieze-coated man, no doubt one of Grenville
’
s servants, was evidently going to accompany the chaise all the way.

She had no alternative but to settle back on the lumpy squabs of the carriage, which was not a hired yellow bounder but certainly no more comfortable than one of those notorious boneshakers, and wait until she reached the journey
’
s end. For the Manor, as she recollected, was less than thirty miles from London, and while the Green Dragon inn in the nearby village was also a posting-house, they would hardly be stopping there within a mile or so of the Manor
—
if she was correct in supposing that to be their destination.

Sure enough, as they proceeded on the next stage of their journey, the road began to look familiar to her. She
had
been correct: they had now left the main turnpike, and were wending their way past cornfields and pastures, along the narrower and rutted roads of the countryside. How it brought back memories! Memories of her first arrival at the Manor eight years ago, so eager to take up her post
—
such a change, she was sure it would be, from the monotonous life she had lived with her aunts. She was more than willing to like her employers and her little charges, and remembered wondering, with happy anticipation, what she would find at her journey
’
s end. Well,
this
time she had a very good notion! And at least, she reflected, she would have a chance to say those cutting things to
Mr.
Royden after all. Or would it be wise to do so? Presumably he would be much put out to find that the wrong lady had been carried off. For the first time, remembering that she had been told the house was now shut up, with only the deaf and aged
Mrs.
Beasley in residence, Elinor began to feel a little trepidation.

They were coming to the village now, passing the first row of thatched cottages, where she had been used to bring Mary and Charlotte to visit their old nurse. She saw the comfortable, well-maintained buildings of the inn, the Green Dragon breathing its emerald and vermilion fire on the newly painted sign that swung in the gentle breeze this fine evening. And there was the village green, with the duckpond. It was not long before she recognized the urns crowning the Manor gateposts as the chaise turned in between them, driving into the strong rays of the declining sun.

Here, she saw, there was alteration indeed! Despite his financial troubles, old
Mr.
Royden had at least made some effort to keep the place up: now, however, the signs of neglect were plain. Unpruned shrubs straggled beside the drive; the tall grass ought to have been mown from the lawns long ago. Here and there a fallen branch which no one had troubled to remove lay on the ground. The air of neglect was even more marked when the house itself came into sight. It had once been a very handsome building, but now it badly needed a coat of paint, most of the windows were shuttered, and some of the shutters hung askew on their hinges. The carriage sweep in front of the house was sprouting a fine crop of weeds. The only signs that there was anyone in the place at all were the unshuttered sash windows of the ground floor drawing room, the lower half of one of them pulled up to admit the evening air.

As the chaise drew up at the front door, Elinor felt a distinct qualm. The frieze-coated man opened the carriage door, jerked his head towards the porch of the house, and said unceremoniously, “In there, miss!” There was no help for it; the moment had come to step out of this stuffy and uncomfortable vehicle, although she found she rather shrank, now, from meeting
Mr.
Royden, and instinctively pulled up the hood of her pelisse again as if to delay the moment of confrontation. Which was perfectly ridiculous, she told herself, for after all, she was entirely in the right and had outwitted him: a pleasing thought, although somehow it did not make her feel any better.

The hall of the Manor was rather dark, so that
Mr.
Royden, standing just within the doorway, did not recognize her instantly. He had dismissed the post-boy and outrider, and sent the chaise wheeling off across the overgrown gravel towards the stables, before he turned to her, closing the door and guiding her into the drawing room as he said, “Well, now I must explain matters, my dear. I dare say you are feeling a little surprised.”

“Not much,” said Elinor, putting back her hood and looking very steadily at him. “Well, not at all, in fact! As soon as we began to come out of London, I had a strong notion that this was where we were bound!”

He had recoiled at the sight of her with an exclamation of surprise and (she thought) dismay. “
You
!
” he said furiously. “I might have known you would meddle if you could!”

“Indeed you might,” she agreed.

“What the devil brings you here?”

“Your post-chaise, of course, and very uncomfortable it was! I did try to make them turn back
—
after all, I had only stepped out of the house to let you know your trouble was wasted
—
but
I’
m afraid there was no making them pay any heed, so you will be at the expense of sending me back.” She hoped she sounded more assured than she felt, for she found she did not at all like being alone with him behind that firmly closed door. And he had been drinking; she could smell it on his breath. Perhaps to give himself Dutch courage for the thing he had determined to do! When he put a hand on her arm in a positively savage grip, she uttered a small gasp as she tried, vainly, to shake it off again.

“You scheming, double-dealing
...”
Words seemed to fail him.

“
Scheming
is pretty good, coming from you, Grenville!” she said. “In fact, thanks are due to Charlotte for discovering
Mr.
Walter
’
s letter to Persephone and bringing it to me
—
Charlotte is very much distressed, poor girl.” She tried pulling away once more.

“
Damn
Charlotte!” he said, but he let go of her. She forced herself not to give him the pleasure of seeing her rub her arm where he had hurt it. He began pacing up and down. “Hell and the devil,
now
what
’
s to be done? If I post directly back to London
—
see the girl, persuade her to Dover with me in good earnest
—
yes, perhaps it may still serve.”

“Good heavens, Grenville,” said Elinor, astonished, “you can
’
t think that now Persephone has
Mr.
Walter
’
s letter, as she
will
have by this time, she would believe any more of your ridiculous tales for an instant?”

He stopped pacing, and stood leaning on the table in the
middle of the room, thinking aloud. “Such a piece of luck that it came in my way
—
and to have you spoil all! Ah, but wait! Suppose I had had word from Walter
after
he wrote to her, and had thought it kinder to keep his letter from her? Or say his hopes had come to nothing, and he was in far worse case than he had ever told her of, and he now confided in me
...”

“Grenville, I truly think you must be a little out of your mind,” said Elinor honestly. “You have let this scheme of yours obsess you until you can
’
t see facts when they are staring you in the face! I suppose you must have been brooding upon it for days before you plucked up the courage, if so it can be called, to put it into action,” she added, contempt in her voice.

He glowered at her. “I need money, urgently.”

“So I take it your intention was to compromise the poor child by forcing her to spend the night here with you
—
but do you really think that, knowing her unwilling, Sir Edmund would meekly have handed her over to you, along with her fortune? No, whatever had happened, I am sure he could have got around it somehow.” She meant what she said, her own confidence in Persephone
’
s guardian being unbounded.

He uttered an angry expletive, expressive of his opinion of Sir Edmund. “And what makes you so sure she
’
d have been unwilling?” he added, an ugly look in his eyes. “
You
were not so unwilling, once!”

“The more fool me, then!”

And that had been unwise; she knew it as soon as the words were out of her mouth. He was more drunk than she had realized at first, and his fury and frustration showed in his face. “Oh, so that
’
s what you think, Miss Milk-and-Water? Well, one thing
’
s certain,
you
must remain here tonight, safely locked in, while I go back to London
—
but suppose I were to change your mind for you first? Yes, I do believe, dear Elinor, that I
will
do so!”

Really alarmed now, she ran towards that half-opened sash window, but he was between her and it in a moment. She tried the door, but it was locked, and as she tugged frantically at the handle she heard someone come into the hall with a gruff inquiry. She thought it was the voice of the frieze-coated outrider who had escorted her from London. In answer,
Mr.
Royden called through the door a command for the man to stay there and not budge, addressing him as Joe. So there would be no escaping that way! And she had to move away from the door in any case, for Grenville Royden was advancing upon her, saying in a quieter but more unpleasant voice than any she had yet heard from him, “Why, my dear, don
’
t say you are piqued because I prefer pretty Persephone to you? Perhaps you are! She has the fortune, to be sure, but you must have pleasant memories of the past
—
wouldn
’
t you care to revive them? I believe you would! Wasn
’
t
this,
perhaps, what you came for after all?”

“No!” she cried, revolted. Until this moment, she had not truly believed that her involuntary masquerade placed her in any physical danger, but now there could be no doubt of it! “Grenville, no!”

But the glint in his eyes, whether occasioned by drink or lust, was brighter, and she saw, to her alarm, that her resistance seemed to excite him. His next words confirmed it. “And if you are
not
willing, why, that will add spice,” he said softly.

She was unable to get away in any direction, backed into a corner, and he was smiling almost in her face. She uttered one more frightened, “Please, Grenville,
don
’
t
!”
His eyes were so close to hers that she was half mesmerized by the look in them, and it was a second or so before she could grasp the fact that suddenly they were
not
so close any more. Nor was this due to the force of her own plea, or to any sudden access of remorse on
Mr.
Royden
’
s part, but to a firm hand which had plucked him back, none too gently, by the collar of his coat.

“Good evening,
Mr.
Royden,” said Sir Edmund, his voice dangerously mild.

He came through the window, Elinor thought thankfully
—
he came in through the window while Grenville and I were staring at one another!

“Oh, thank goodness!” she gasped, and finding suddenly that her legs would no longer support her, she sank into a heap on the floor.

Sir Edmund thrust
Mr.
Royden away from him so hard that that gentleman staggered against the table, struck it involuntarily with his stomach, and remained lying half-winded across it. He was then beside Elinor in an instant.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded, helping her up. “Are you all right, Elinor?”

“No
—
I mean yes, I shall be quite all right
—
oh, I was never so glad to see anyone! But how
came
you here? I thought you were not in town
—
and Charlotte found a letter from Robert Walter to Persephone, and
...
and
...
”

“Hush,” said Sir Edmund gently, settling her in a chair. “I know all about that.
”
His eyes travelled to the form of
Mr.
Royden, spread-eagled over the table. “Didn
’
t it occur to you, Royden, that even if you had carried out your amiable plan with regard to my ward, you
’
d have had me to deal with?”

Mr.
Royden, gasping for breath, was able only to say, sullenly, “She
’
d have been obliged to marry me
—
and I
would
have married her!”

“Would you, indeed? Very good of you, I am sure,” said Sir Edmund, who had had much to occupy his mind as he made his way from London to Essex (having come to precisely the same conclusions about the chaise
’
s destination as were worked out a little later by Lord Conington and
Mr.
Walter). His phaeton and four could go a good deal faster than a post-chaise, and at the speed with which he was travelling it took some skill to manage the horses along narrow lanes, but Sir Edmund was an excellent whip, and was not so busy with his team that he had no time for some extremely agitating reflections, mostly revolving around that brief verbal message left by Elinor for Charlotte to deliver to Persephone.