The Country Gentleman (26 page)

“Yes, but how? Will you tell me, or shall I read it?”

“In a brawl, I am sure. Major Adams does not say so, but then he would not. He was always kind. Look—” She handed the open letter to Anne. “John had lost his rank. Major Adams speaks of him as lieutenant!”

Anne said, “Small wonder. The miracle is he was allowed to stay in the Army at all.” Then she bent her head, frowning, over the letter. While she read,

“You see, Mr. Highet, when I met John I was only nineteen years old,” Maria explained. “I had been living in London with Anne and Lady Guilfoyle, then travelling with them. Then Lady Guilfoyle fell ill, and I was sent home. You cannot imagine my distress—my family was a large and quarrelsome one, and my parents ill-suited to one another. There was never quite enough money, and certainly not sufficient room for us all. My mother particularly was deeply disappointed to find me home after a whole year in society, with no suitor nor any hope of one. And I…I am afraid you will think me a very unnatural daughter, but I was aghast at the prospect of living again amidst so much discord, so much bitterness and
want…” Her voice trailed away, and she seemed to see before her eyes the cramped rooms of Halfwistle House, more cramped than ever in the dead of winter, and to hear in an inner ear the harsh voices and angry words of her parents. “At all events, when my brother Frank soon after came home on leave with Captain Insel— Well, he was young, and handsome, and laughing, and seemed to me very romantic. He paid me a deal of attention. My father made no secret of it that he thought I should accept him, if he offered for me, for I would get no better—as my fruitless year in London showed. When he did offer for me, then— God help me, I said yes. I cannot blame myself, really, for I was young, and I thought I loved him. Anyhow, I have been amply punished.”

Anne, looking up from the letter, begged Maria to spare herself the rest of her story. “I daresay Mr. Highet has heard it before. Captain Insel bore Maria away to Canada. There his true colours began to show: He drank deep, beat her, frequented”—her cheeks darkened momentarily—“unsavoury women,” she made herself go on, “and made her life such a hell that—”

“She fled to England,” Mr. Highet finished for her, grimly nodding his comprehension. “Where her family refused to take her in, and where she has consequently been obliged, for appearance’s sake, to live quietly, and pass herself off as a widow. Yes, I have heard the story before. All too often, I fear. Mrs. Insel, indeed you must not blame yourself. And how does this Major Adams account for Insel’s passing?”

“He says he died ‘in private combat,’” Anne replied, reading, “‘not on the field of battle.’ I’ll wager it was not! One of his doxies probably pulled a knife on him—and God bless her! The filthy blackguard. The least he could
have done was to die decently, and left you a pension you could live on. This”—she waved the letter—“this is barely enough to keep a hen in feed.” Disgustedly, she tossed the letter onto a pedestal table.

“It is more than I have ever had,” Maria quietly pointed out. If Anne’s energetic invective had shocked her, she did not show it. Nor did Mr. Highet appear scandalized: Indeed, he sat gazing at Mrs. Insel with a very mild, slightly speculative look. A number of matters which had not made sense to him in the past had now suddenly fallen into place. After a moment Maria took up, “If I live very cheap, I expect I can make do on this much quite well.”

“Oh dear!” said Anne. “I had not thought of that. I suppose you will wish to form your own establishment. But what a sad change for me! Perhaps you will not remove quite out of reach, my love? I hope not.”

Maria smiled and patted Anne’s hand. “Indeed, I should be sorry to do that. How kind you have been!” She turned to Mr. Highet. “And how kind you have been as well. Imagine travelling so far to deliver this—and when we all know how you dread London!”

But Mr. Highet would hear none of this. He stood, said he still felt a little weary from his journey, and trusted the ladies would excuse him if he went up to his room. As the door closed behind his back,

“I must write to John’s parents,” Maria said, “in case Major Adams has not. They may wish his body to be sent home. I confess I do not. To think it should all come to this!”

Anne patted her arm. “Little sparrow, you must be very tired,” she said briskly. “Let us pack you off to bed for the afternoon. You need rest and sleep, and time to
think—and then, it seems to me, you must write to Mr. Mallinger! He is one person, I trust, who will not be sorry to hear of the lieutenant’s timely demise.”

“Anne, if you ever breathe a word to Mr. Mallinger—!” Maria was too appalled to finish her sentence. “He does not even know I was not a widow! I told you what it would mean to me to let him hear my story. Oh, the shame! Swear you will never, ever say anything to him.”

“But you let Mr. Highet know,” Anne objected, sincerely confused. “What a curious sparrow it is! I thought you had decided to cast off secrecy.”

“Not at all,” the other replied firmly. “I trust Mr. Highet. I know he will never give me away—indeed, if you think he did not perfectly understand I spoke in confidence, I shall tell him so specifically. But I am persuaded he does understand. Only
you
could imagine rushing off to Mr. Mallinger and—” She seemed to shiver at the very notion. “What would you have said to him? That I am free now, and he ought to ask me to marry him again? Good heavens! The indelicacy of it! I must go into mourning, besides everything else—real mourning, deep mourning.”

“For that snake?” demanded Anne, outraged. “You mean to put on weeds—again, I might add—for that—” She broke off abruptly. “But never mind. We need not settle all this now. You are tired, and have had a shock.” She stood and shepherded Mrs. Insel out of the drawing-room and up two pairs of stairs to her bed-chamber. Here she tucked her in very tenderly, refusing to discuss any longer the question of Mr. Mallinger, but promising likewise to take no action Maria did not approve.

Mr. Highet, having made a long journey, declared it his intention (if it did not discommode the household at
Mount Street) to stay on a few days in London. Anne pronounced herself prepared to make him comfortable for as long as he liked to remain; at the same time she wondered a little how to entertain him. But she soon found she needed to have no fears on that head. Mr. Highet was off the next morning before she came downstairs, and never returned till past five. She learned (to her amazement) over tea that he had been to view an exhibition of pictures at Somerset Place, then to Tattersall’s to look at some horses, after which he visited two inventors whose names he had read in various journals over the past year or two, one of whom was developing a new sort of engine bound to improve many lives very materially. He closed his round of calls with one to a dispensary at an hospital, where he had learned of several helpful medicaments to take home with him to the apothecary at Faulding Chase. He was considering, moreover, asking a London doctor to come to Fevermere for a month or two, that he might visit the farms of his tenants with an eye to inspecting sanitary conditions and so preventing disease. London itself he declared a deal less objectionable now—in winter, and out of any fashionable season—than he found it in spring or summer. The noise was less, the press of traffic somewhat lighter, and the cold weather prevented some of the fouler odours from flourishing. He was planning a visit to Covent Garden tonight, to see Mr. Kemble’s
Lodoiska
, and hoped Mrs. Highet at least would join him—since he quite understood Mrs. Insel might not feel it proper for her to do so.

Maria, robed in black, thanked him for his understanding and declined; but Anne, who had made no plans for the evening save a long consultation with Cook regarding the bill of fare for to-morrow night, readily accepted.
“Now how shall we round out the party?” she asked, then caught herself, coloured prettily, and exclaimed, “Dear me, I quite forgot!”

At the same time Mr. Highet threw his head back, held the pose a moment, then exploded into the guffaw of laughter she detested so much. “Damme, I like that!” he brought out, between gasps of laughter. Anne was distressed to observe him slap his knee, lean forward as if helplessly doubled over with merriment, then plunge into another gale of hilarity. “Forgot! Forgot we were married! Wanted a cha—a cha—a chaperon!” he sputtered, till Anne could bear it no longer and icily remarked,

“Yes, we all know what I forgot. I admitted it myself. Now for heaven’s sake, pray get hold of yourself!”

Wiping tears from his eyes, Mr. Highet made an effort and contrived to quiet down. “Forgive me, please,” he asked. “I intended no offence, I assure you. Only when you said— It was so— Forgive me, but—” A sinister chuckle seemed to well up irrepressibly in him. “It was so— So— F
UNNY
!” And he roared again at such a volume that Anne simply got up and left the room.

They did, however, attend the theatre together that night. Spurred by mortification to appear to the best possible advantage, Anne came down the stairs at seven dressed in her newest and most elaborate full dress. It was sea green, carried out in a most beautiful English gauze. It suited her to perfection, as she knew; and the satin Austrian cap that went with it, trimmed with white fox-tail feathers, raised her height just the inch or two that her dignity required. A jade necklace she had had from her mother exactly matched the green of the dress, and brought out the blond of her hair, the colour and sparkle
of her eyes. She had the satisfaction of glimpsing in Mr. Highet’s face, when she walked into the drawing-room so attired, the first admiring look she had ever seen there. He suppressed it at once, but she knew, almost exultantly, that her appearance had surprised it out of him. Why she should have wished to provoke such a look from a man she marrried quite as a matter of business she could not have said. Fortunately, no one asked her.

Certainly Mr. Highet (mildly resplendent himself in a close-fitting Polish coat liberally striped with cord and tassels) did not ask. On the contrary, he was if anything less easy and forthcoming with her than he had been in the country. Not that he was uncivil, or even formal. Only she was more aware than usual of a certain reserve in him. She guessed that he felt he was trespassing, as it were, on her life in London. He wore the mask of an interested observer, a spectator both of the play and of the audience. When various of Anne’s acquaintances visited their box, Mr. Highet played his role of new husband judiciously, neither too proprietary nor too remote; but when they were alone she felt him exerting himself to keep his distance. His discretion (if that was what it was) inspired mixed feelings in her. On the one hand, she was grateful he made no undue claim on her; on the other, perversely, she rather wished he would.

They both enjoyed
Lodoiska
(though Anne opined there were more horses on stage than the plot strictly demanded). They came and went from the theatre in a closed carriage. Anne had never sat in one alone with a gentleman before, and it gave her a sensation of intimacy that both disconcerted and pleased her. She wondered if Mr. Highet felt it. He showed no sign of doing so; but she was beginning to suspect he was not, as she had
previously imagined, the sort of person whose thoughts appeared on his face. His conduct towards Maria, for example: He must have known the Army would communicate with her so only to announce the death of a husband. Yet he had come to London and handed her the letter with an expression of bland ignorance. And that flattering glance at herself she had caught to-night: A feminine instinct told her it wasn’t, after all, the first time he had admired her looks. Yet she had never seen any trace of admiration in him before. What manner of man was he, exactly? She had suddenly, for the first time, an uneasy suspicion that Mr. Highet knew more of her than she did of him.

At all events, his behaviour once they regained Mount Street was everything that was correct. He shook her hand, thanked her for the evening, and vanished into his room. It was left to Anne to feel rather flat and let down while her abigail undressed her. She slipped into bed more inclined, oddly, to speculate on the nature of Henry Highet than to anticipate, with the anxiety it merited, the supremely difficult interview with George, Lord Ensley, awaiting her the next day.

The drawing-room at number 14, Mount Street was more, that Monday evening, than a large, well-proportioned saloon elaborately hung with rich silks and heavy brocades, and fitted with handsome furniture. To the properly adjusted ear, it presented a piquant symphony of voices. Conversation hummed like strings: The laughter of the ladies fluted above it, that of the gentlemen boomed, drumlike, below. Now and then a solo might be heard, as when Lady Bambrick contrived to secure half the company’s attention with the story of how the portrait artist she had hired to paint a likeness of her lord had managed to keep the business a secret by pretending (at her suggestion) to be an architect; and how her husband had consequently purchased several thousand
bricks he would never need for an annex to their dairy. Colonel Whiddon brassily trumpeted his opinion of the Royal Pavilion at Brighton, now under construction; Mr. Humphrey Bleyte, in rounded tones much like those of a French horn, countered with his opposing one. The strings (a chorus of feminine observations on the handsomeness of the newly decorated room) swelled generally to cover them; and so the music continued. Anne Highet, conductress for the evening, listened satisfied. This was her first soirée in Mount Street, and she wished it to be a success. Collecting so interesting and luminous a company in mid-December in London was no mean feat, but she had done it: a reflection that increased her tendency to congratulate herself.

Moreover, the evening was only just beginning. Conversation now politely confined to mild anecdotes and observations would, she trusted, grow more pointed as the night wore on. Some few of her guests—Lord and Lady Ensley, most notably—had not yet even arrived. Others were hardly acquainted with more than one or two people in the room. Mr. Highet fell into this category, of course. His hostess had been worried about him on this account, particularly because Maria—still insisting upon her mourning—had asked Anne to give out that she was ill, and had not come down.