The Regency (13 page)

The stairs were unlit, and as soon as he rounded the first
turn he was in complete darkness, which he disliked so much
that he hurried on upwards, clutching the hand-rope.
Another turn, and he could see the light from the upper land
ing, which was enough to reassure him. He stopped, leaned
against the wall, unscrewed the flask, and renewed his
acquaintance with the only good thing, in his opinion, ever to
come out of the country north of Oxford.

He was so preoccupied that when the voice spoke he almost
spilt the precious liquid.

‘What's that you're drinking? Can I have some?’

It was a female child, rather oddly dressed in a yellow mus
lin gown much too big for her, tied unsuccessfully round the middle with a blue sash, and with a very expensive lace scarf
draped about her shoulders. Her dark hair was a mass of
tangled curls, but she had three feathers and an artificial rose
stuck in it.

‘
You startled me,' he said, repressing the desire to smack
the little brute and send it on its way. Any uproar — and this
child, one look told him, was an uproarer — would reflect
more to his discredit than the child's. 'Where did you come
from?'

‘
I live here,' she said logically. She looked at him with
evident hostility. 'Who are you?’

It would be better, he thought, to keep the child sweet. He made an attempt to amuse and disarm her. 'Lieutenant
Fitzherbert Hawker at your service, my lady,' he said with a flourishing bow. 'And who are you?'

‘
I'm not a my lady,' she said scornfully, 'I'm Fanny
Morland.' She looked at him to see if he were impressed.

‘
Miss Morland — your servant, ma'am,' he said with
another bow. 'I should have known.'

‘
I could be a my lady, though. I'm very rich, you know.’

‘
You are?' His interest was engaged, as it always was at the mention of money.

‘
Well of course. Don't you know
anything?
I'm Miss
Morland of Morland Place. All this is mine — this house, and
all the land, and the farms and everything.' He managed to
look impressed, and she drew a step closer. 'Down in the
cellar,' she said confidentially, 'there's a room with an iron
door, and it's
absolutely full
of treasure. Silver and gold and
jewels. Really there is!'

‘
And it's all yours?' he asked, beginning to warm to his
role.

‘
Yes,' she said emphatically. 'Well, it sort of is. It will be
really mine when I'm twenty-one. It's in — something.'

‘
In trust,' he suggested. She nodded. 'And how old are you
now?'

‘
I'm twelve,' Fanny said, looking to see if he would believe
her. His interest had waned. Nine years was an eternity to a
man in debt. He glanced towards the more accessible comfort
of his flask again, and Fanny intercepted the look. 'What was
that you were drinking?' she asked again.

‘Whisky,' he said shortly, and took another gulp.

‘I want some,' Fanny said firmly.

‘
It's not for little girls,' Hawker said unwisely, wishing she
would go away. Fanny's eyes narrowed.

‘
If you don't give me some, I'll scream. I can scream louder
than you've ever heard in your life, and someone will come,
and you'll get into trouble.’

Hawker acknowledged the truth of this, shrugged, and
handed her the flask. 'Be careful,' he said. 'You won't like it.’

Fanny gulped, choked, screwed up her face, and handed it
back to him, panting a little and smacking her lips as a cat
does at a bad smell. 'It's nasty,' she admitted, handing it
back. 'Nastier than Uncle Ned's. His is brandy. I've tried that,
too.'

‘
I warned you you wouldn't like it,' Hawker said, taking a
mouthful himself.

‘
Well, grown-ups drink it, and I want to be grown up, so
I'm going to keep trying. Give me some more.’

Hawker admired her spirit, misguided though it was, but doubted that giving whisky to a child would be considered
correct behaviour on the part of a guest, if it were discovered.
'Young ladies don't drink ardent spirits,' he extemporised, 'so
there's no point in getting used to it.'

‘Don't they?' Fanny said doubtfully.

‘
Ladies never drink spirits at all, except sometimes very old
women with whiskers and red noses that everybody laughs
at.'

‘
Oh,' Fanny said, frowning. Hawker put the flask away,
preparing to make his escape, but she went on, 'Have you
come for the ball?'

‘Yes,' he said.

‘I'm not allowed to go. Papa says I'm too young,' she added
disgustedly. 'I hate being too young! I wish I were grown up!
If I were grown up, I'd shew them all! I'd do just what I want
all the time, and wear what I want, and have the best horses,
and go to dances — and drink whisky if I wanted to.' She
glared defiantly at Hawker. 'When I'm grown up, and all this
is mine, I'll send them all away!’

Hawker understood the odd clothes now. She had been
sent to bed, probably, and had got herself up and borrowed
an older sister's dress, to pretend she was at the ball. No, not
an older sister, if she really were the heiress. Perhaps one of
Miss Nordubois' gowns. He felt a sneaking admiration for
Miss Fanny, and experienced a rare impulse to be kind simply
for kindness' sake.

‘
You look grown up already in that gown,' he said. 'I'll bet
if you had gone to the ball, everyone would have danced with
you.'

‘
Do you think so?' Fanny said. She looked at him intently,
to detect any possible spirit of irony. 'Would you have danced
with me?'

‘
I'd have been the first to ask you. One day, when you have
a ball of your own, I will ask you.'

‘
Oh,' Fanny said, and seemed rather overcome. She
inspected him minutely. ‘P'raps when Fm grown up, I'll
marry you,' she offered generously.

He smiled. 'You'll have forgotten me long before that.'

‘
No I won't,' Fanny said decidedly. She cocked her head,
listening. ‘They're coming back. I've got to go.' Papa would be
bringing her supper, and she must be back in her room for
that. 'Goodbye,' she said abruptly, and ran away up the
stairs.

*

’I think it's gone very well, don't you, my love?' James said to
Héloïse much later as they stood together at one end of the
long saloon. 'Everyone seems to have enjoyed it.'

‘
Except the lieutenant from the world of fashion,' Héloïse said drily. 'He has walked here and walked there, looking so
bored with the children's games! And did you hear him asking
Miss Micklethwaite if she had tried the new dance, where the
man puts his arm around the lady's waist? She did not know
where to look, poor thing! She thought he was making an
indecent proposition to her.’

James laughed. 'My love, he was only talking about the
waltz.'

‘
Of course, I know that,' Héloïse said sternly, 'but Miss
Micklethwaite did not. How should he expect such a child,
who has never been further away than Scarborough, to have
heard about the waltz?'

‘If he'd asked Mathilde, he'd have got a different answer.

She saw it done at Brighton — I suppose that's where he's
seen it.'

‘
Well, I don't trust him,' Héloïse said with decision. 'He
smiles too much.'

‘
Oh, there's no harm in him,' James said lazily. 'He can't
get up to any mischief at a private ball.'

‘
Mathilde evidently found another partner more to her
taste,' Héloïse said thoughtfully, nodding to the set where her
ward was once again partnering John Skelwith. 'I like that
young man. I'm glad we asked him.’

James frowned. 'I hope he doesn't mean anything serious
by his attentions. It would complicate matters horribly to
have him hanging about Morland Place.'

‘
I suppose it might,' Héloïse said. 'But one must be careful
how to discourage him. I would not wish him hurt.’

James pressed her hand gratefully. 'Damn Edward for ask
ing him! I would not have had you meet him for the world,
far less be obliged to entertain him.'

‘
It can't be helped,' she said quietly. 'It was not your fault.’

‘
I think the next ought to be the last dance, don't you
think?' he said after a moment. 'It's getting late.'

‘
The young people don't even begin to be tired,' Héloïse
pointed out.

‘No, damnit, but I am,' James laughed. 'Enough is enough, Marmoset. I want to go to bed with you.’

She put her fingers against his lips. 'James! It is not proper
to say such things aloud.'

‘
Not
comme it faut?'
he teased her. 'Give the nod to Otter
shaw, love, and I'll go and tell the musicians. And — Héloïse?'
She turned back. 'Will you honour me with your hand for the
last dance?’

Her eyes widened. 'But I cannot dance at Mathilde's ball!'
He grinned. 'You can do anything you like. I warn you, if
you won't dance with me, I'll ask Lizzie Spencer!’

Edward was standing next to Mathilde, who was fanning
herself vigorously at one end of the room. 'Are you enjoying
it?' he asked her with a smile.

‘
Oh yes!' she said emphatically. 'It's the best ball I was ever
at, even including all the London ones! I suppose it's because
everyone here knows each other. It's pleasant to be among friends, isn't it, sir?'

‘It is,' he agreed gravely.

‘
And dancing is such a pleasant occupation, don't you
think?’

Her innocent enthusiasm touched him, made him want to
smile and cry at the same time. He remembered all the balls
he and Chetwyn had attended perforce, and the stratagems
they had used to get out of the hated business of partnering
young women. It all seemed so long ago, now. How his dislike
of silly young women had plagued Mother! But if they had
been nice, sensible girls like Mathilde, it might have been
different. She never giggled or languished, and she listened
when one spoke with such flattering attention, and really
tried to understand.