Daphne (3 page)

Mr Garfield quickly made his way towards Hopeworth. His head throbbed and the bright sunlight hurt his eyes. He silently cursed his friend, Edwin Apsley, whose idea it had been that he should call on a certain Mr Armitage and buy a couple of
hounds. Mr Garfield had been staying with friends on the other side of Hopeminster. Edwin had been with him but had had to rush off to town to stop his latest inamorata from leaving his protection and had hurriedly begged Mr Garfield to oblige him in the matter of the hounds.

‘Who is this fellow Armitage?’ Mr Garfield had asked. ‘How shall I find him?’

‘Oh, just ask in Hopeworth village,’ Edwin had said carelessly. ‘Everyone knows him.’

Mr Garfield decided to find the residence of this Mr Armitage and demand help to raise his carriage from the hole in the road.

He puzzled momentarily over the plight of the poor mad Ophelia who had tried to come to his rescue. Her voice did not have a country burr, but her clothes were old and unfashionable. Poor
demented
thing. He would never have kissed her had he guessed she had several rooms to let in her pretty head.

He paused outside the gates of Lady Wentwater’s mansion, but it was all too clearly deserted. He sighed and went on further, past the River Blyne. On the other side of the bridge, he saw the squat figure of a lady rapidly approaching. She was wearing a large muslin cap which imperfectly concealed a head of curl papers. She was in her undress: a negligee over an elaborate petticoat. Mr Garfield saw with a sinking heart that she appeared to be talking to herself. He decided to ignore her and go on and see if he could find some sane person in this mad world.
He began to wonder if the blow to his head had affected his wits.

But as he came abreast of the lady, she stopped him and said, ‘I never was more shocked when Betty told me. Tigers and panters and leapinghards, yes, I says, but not bishops. Charles is gone out and no one else is awake and
she’s
no use, her with her Spasms. It’s her way of not facing up to things. Now if I had had Spasms every day of my life like
she
does, I would not be what I am today.’

Mr Garfield smiled in a placating sort of way and made to move on, but Lady Godolphin, for it was she, much flustered and worried having heard confirmation of the vicar’s bishop trap from the maid, caught hold of his sleeve.

‘Now you look like a gentleman,’ said Lady Godolphin earnestly, peering up into Mr Garfield’s face, ‘albeit a muddy one. Would
you
do such a thing? For when he told me last night, I thought it was all a hum and he meant it for drainage. For when I thought about it, I thought I could not have heard aright. Not till Betty come in with the tea and says, “You’ll never guess what master has been and done.”

“‘Betty,” says I, “he was maundering on about some such thing and made me walk from the carriage so that my feet still ache, and my Arthur’s Eitis is so awful I feel like that boy with the foxes gnawing at his vitality, but mark my words, he was funning.” “Not he,” says Betty to me. “In dead earnest is t’master.”’

Lady Godolphin paused for breath. Mr Garfield made a strange strangled sound in the back of his throat, pulled his arm free, and hastened off down the road.

He began to feel more ill and more dizzy than he had done when he had recovered consciousness.

There were some women at the well on the village green. In a faltering voice, he asked for Mr
Armitage’s
direction, and following the pointing fingers, he stumbled on.

The vicar was in high alt. John Summer, who had been posted at the Hopeworth–Hopeminster
crossroads
for most of the night, had come back in the very early hours to report that he had stopped a messenger from the bishop with a note to say his lordship was indisposed. Unfortunately, John Summer had ridden away from the crossroads a bare half-hour before Mr Garfield had made his appearance.

It was just beginning to strike Mr Armitage that he had not considered the possibility of any other traveller falling victim to his trap. He decided to make his way along to the pit and call the workmen to fill it in as soon as possible.

As he swung open the iron gates of the vicarage, he became aware of a tall, muddy figure, swaying slightly in the middle of the lane.

‘See here,’ said the vicar sternly, advancing on Mr Garfield. ‘We all take a toss, but from the look of you, you have no one to blame but yourself. Never ride when you’re dead drunk.’

‘Oh God in Heaven,’ said Mr Garfield weakly. ‘I am in Bedlam.’

With that, he put his hand to his brow and collapsed unconscious at the feet of the startled vicar.

TWO

Lady Godolphin hurried on until she met Daphne who was sitting disconsolately beside the pit, the carriage wreck, and the two horses.

‘Lud!’ said Lady Godolphin, putting her hand to her heart. ‘Never tell me the bishop’s down in there.’

‘No, Lady Godolphin,’ said Daphne. ‘But
someone
did have an accident. A very tall man. He … he … was unconscious and I thought he was dead and … and … I thought it was the bishop and asked for his blessing and he
kissed
me.’

‘Now, now,’ said Lady Godolphin, putting a fat arm around Daphne’s shoulders. ‘You’re all
overwritten
. You must not mind. That must have been the gentleman I met a little way back. He was most odd and rude in his manner, and yet I have a feeling I have seen him somewhere before. What on earth made your father think of such a thing? I really
thought he was joking. It’s all that religion. It do turn a body’s head so.’

‘I do not think Papa suffers from an excess of religion,’ said Daphne, mopping her streaming eyes with her now muddy handkerchief and getting streaks of mud on her face.

‘Speak of the devil,’ said Lady Godolphin
cheerfully
. ‘Unless I am much mistaken, here comes your pa now.’

A squat figure on horseback was riding hell-
for-leather
towards them, sending up a cloud of white dust into the morning air.

The vicar reined in. ‘John and some of the lads will be along in a minute to fill that in,’ he said. ‘Bishop’s not coming. He’s got the gout. “God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise …” St Paul. Or in other words, his lordship might not have got the gout if he had not been so clutch-fisted with that port of his. Not that good port is a foolish thing; it’s only foolish when you drink all of it yourself and offer your guests indifferent canary.’

‘But Papa,’ wailed Daphne. ‘Someone did fall into your trap. A strange gentleman.’

‘Oh, lor’,’ said the vicar dismally. ‘I thought he was foxed. He’s stretched out in the boys’ room with cold cloths on his head. Best get the doctor to bleed him. I told Betty to leave him be to sleep it off. Kept opening his eyes, looking at me, saying “Oh, no,” and collapsing again. I think he’s touched in his upper works.’

‘More like to have damaged his brain box in that
silly trap of yours,’ said Lady Godolphin. ‘Hark’ee, Charles, you’d best hope he recovers or he’ll have a mess of relatives along here sueing the life out of you.’

John Summer and a party of men came along the road. The vicar waited for them impatiently and then rapped out instructions to fill in the hole and ‘make it look as if it weren’t ever there’.

‘For,’ as he explained to Lady Godolphin and Daphne while they all walked off together, the vicar leading his horse, ‘we can always deny that such a thing happened, and we can all stick together and swear that he took a toss when his carriage wheel hit a rock.’

On their return to the vicarage, Daphne and Lady Godolphin both announced their intention of
retiring
again to bed.

The vicar climbed the stairs and cautiously pushed open the door of the boys’ room. The twins, Peregrine and James, were staying with their sister, Minerva, in Brighton. Their room had once been turned into a dressing room for the girls, but they had objected very strongly to this, saying that when they returned for the holidays, they did not want to bed down among a lot of fripperies and so it had been turned back to its former state.

The twins shared a large fourposter bed. In the middle of it lay the still form of Mr Garfield.

He was lying on top of the covers. His face had been washed but he was still dressed in his muddy clothes. Despite the mud, the vicar’s worldly eye
recognized the genius of Weston’s tailoring and his heart sank. The richer they came, the more likely they were to make trouble. As they had passed through the village he had called at the doctor’s house, and the doctor had promised to step along.

John Summer was helping fill in the pit.

The vicar decided to summon the odd-man, Henry, and the pot boy, Billy, to help him strip the visitor and get him into a clean nightshirt before the doctor came.

This being achieved and the doctor closeted with the patient, the vicar, still worried about the possible importance of his unexpected guest, decided to rouse Daphne.

He stood looking down at the sleeping girl. Her hair was tumbled over the pillow and she looked, in repose, very much like the little girl who used to go rioting around the woods with Diana. For the first time, the vicar wondered uneasily what Daphne really thought about. He was very proud of her beauty although her calm, almost bovine expression exasperated him.

He realized he rather missed the old Daphne. He put a gentle hand on her shoulder and she came awake with a start, her eyes wide and clear, and then their expression suddenly shuttered as she focused on her father.

‘I am monstrous sorry to wake you,’ said the vicar. ‘Did the gentleman tell you his name by any chance?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Daphne sleepily. ‘You see, it was
awful. I thought he was the bishop and asked for his blessing, and … and … he kissed me.’

‘He did, did he?’ said the vicar grimly. ‘I’ll have a word with that gentleman as soon as he’s on his feet. He’ll soon learn that he can’t play fast and loose with my daughters. That Guy Wentwater was enough!’

Daphne struggled up against the pillows. ‘I
remember
his name, Papa. Garfield, he said it was. Mr Simon Garfield.’

The vicar’s little shoe button eyes stretched to their widest and his mouth fell open.

Then a look of cunning mixed with one of satisfaction spread across his chubby face.

‘Well, well,’ he said, rubbing his hands. ‘I wonder what brought him to Hopeworth.’ He pinched Daphne’s cheek. ‘Clever puss,’ he grinned. ‘What’s in a friendly kiss, hey?’

Daphne looked at her father in amazement. ‘But, Papa, a moment before you were going to speak to Mr Garfield about his bold manners and …’

‘Just a joke,’ said the vicar. ‘You’re looking a bit bagged, Daphne. Not your usual pretty self. When you rise, wear that pretty blue thing of yours with the silk ribbons and get Betty to help you with your hair.’

Fully awake now and beginning to feel dimly alarmed, Daphne ventured, ‘If you recall, Papa, I am about to become affianced to a most suitable young man. A Mr Archer.’

The vicar’s brows snapped down. ‘We’ll see about that,’ he said grimly. ‘You’re too young to choose a
husband for yourself. Best leave that job to your father.’

‘But Papa! You said we were in funds. You said you no longer believed in arranged marriages. You said I could have any suitable man that took my fancy …’

‘Don’t recall,’ said the vicar, strutting up and down the room. ‘Let me see. Hope he ain’t very ill. Now, remember Daphne. Not a word o’ that there pit. As far as us Armitages are concerned, he imagined the whole thing. Well, well, well …’

The vicar bustled off leaving Daphne very
confused
and worried. This Mr Garfield must be very rich. Papa must already be viewing Mr Garfield in the light of a possible son-in-law. Daphne was therefore to forget about Mr Archer.

Now, in truth, Daphne had not entertained very warm feelings towards the beautiful Mr Archer. She enjoyed the admiration both of them excited, she felt at ease in his undemanding company. Mr Archer would never grab hold of her roughly and kiss her on the mouth. Mr Archer had never even shown any desire to kiss her on the mouth at all!

But at the thought that she had no free will as far as her father was concerned a slow ice-cold little stone of rebellion started growing somewhere in the pit of Daphne’s stomach.

She, Daphne, had been a biddable, dutiful
daughter
. She had done her utmost to please her father by turning herself into a fashion plate – although, she admitted, it had also been to please herself.

She had felt that by armouring herself in beauty, she could escape her father’s machinations and the occasional lash of his tongue. Now it seemed as if she were to be thrust willy-nilly into a marriage she did not want, before she had even had a Season or enjoyed any real balls or parties. And now Daphne wanted a Season, now that it seemed she wasn’t going to have one.

Gradually Mr Archer grew in her mind into a passionate, romantic lover. She dwelt on his
perfection
, beginning to read wit into his every
remembered
vague utterance, and passion into the calm, blue, empty gaze of his eyes. No longer did Mr Archer appear as a marital refuge from the turmoil of this naughty world, but rather as a strong, noble, dream lover so soon to be lost.

Ah, but what did Mr Garfield think? Mr Garfield had obviously thought her, Daphne, insane.
Therefore
might it not be a good idea to foster that idea?

A wicked grin lit up Daphne’s lovely features, which she immediately suppressed.

Excess of emotion caused wrinkles. She carefully arranged her face into its usual calm mask and decided to dress and go downstairs and start the first act of the comedy. Perhaps Mr Garfield would keep to his room. But if not, then she would be ready for him.

It is very hard for a gentleman to look formidable in a vicarage nightshirt but that is exactly what a shaved, washed and barbered Mr Garfield managed to do.

The vicar stood at the end of the bed, shuffling his feet, and looking like a guilty schoolboy. Mr Garfield had already despatched John Summer to the
Chumleys
on the other side of Hopeminster, with whom he had been staying, to fetch his travelling carriage, his servants and his clothes. As soon as they arrived, he pointed out in chilly accents, he would take his leave and would no doubt further his
acquaintanceship
with the reverend in court. The fact that he was dealing with a member of the clergy made Mr Garfield’s anger the more severe.

Mr Garfield had not believed one word of the vicar’s rambling explanation that he, Simon
Garfield
, had been momentarily touched in the
upper-works
and had imagined the whole thing.

A silence fell while the vicar wondered how to extricate himself from this coil. He wished he had sent for Squire Radford whose good sense had helped him out of so many scrapes in the past.

The pale light from a tall candle beside the bed shone on Mr Garfield’s handsome, stone-like
features
. He was a very tall, very muscular man with peculiar yellowish eyes set under heavy lids. He had an autocratic high-bridged nose and a way of tilting his head back and staring awfully down it. His mouth was well-shaped, if a trifle thin. He had a strong chin and the powerful column of his throat rose above the lace at the neck of the vicar’s best nightshirt.

‘Furthermore, reverend,’ he drawled, fixing the vicar with the yellow gaze of a hawk about to devour its prey, ‘you can talk till doomsday about rocks and
accidents but the fact remains that for some insane reason you dug a ditch across the road into which I fell, shattered my carriage, and nearly broke my neck.

‘It is only by some miracle that my horses weren’t badly hurt. I know you have offered to pay for the damage, but I feel you should be taken to court and charged with your malicious folly. I came, as I told you, to buy a couple of hounds for a friend. I now would no longer deal with you that I would with a horse thief.’

‘Be damned to you, sirrah,’ said the much-plagued vicar suddenly losing his temper. ‘Who are you to lie there in
my
bed, in
my
house, looked after by
my
servants, and preach at
me
? A fine gentleman you turned out to be. Trying to seduce my daughter.’

‘I never met your …’

‘Oh, yes you did. Yes you did!’ said the little vicar, jumping up and down. ‘You were mauling her and kissing her and all because she took you for the bishop.’

‘Oh,
that
was your daughter. Well, more shame to you. That poor demented child should not be allowed out without a keeper.’

‘What! My Daphne’s as sane as I am.’

‘Evidently,’ said Mr Garfield acidly.

There was a rumbling of wheels outside. Mr Garfield climbed down from the high bed and crossed to the window and twitched aside the curtain. ‘My servants and clothes at last,’ he said. ‘Be so good as to send my man up to me.’

‘Send for him yourself, you … you …
coxcomb
!’ howled the vicar.

‘Very well.’ Mr Garfield opened the window and called to his servants below.

The vicar marched from the room.

An hour later, Mr Garfield descended the narrow stairs of the vicarage. The house seemed very quiet and empty. He pushed open a door in the hall and discovered a cluttered study. He tried a door across the hall and found himself in the vicarage parlour. He was about to retreat when he realized there was a young lady present. And what a young lady! Midnight-black hair in rioting curls framed an exquisite face with wide-spaced dark eyes. He caught his breath and moved further into the room.

The gaze she turned on him was completely empty and he recognized with a pang of disappointment that he was looking at the poor Ophelia he had so mistakenly kissed by the roadside. He hoped she was not going to start mistaking him for a bishop again.