The Shocking Miss Anstey (31 page)

‘Thank you ma’am.’ Anice spoke earnestly, and was looking her straight in the eye. ‘You were always good to me.’

‘You were always well behaved--to me--but that was years ago, Ann, and we’ve done with it now.’ A slight nod seemed to point to the end of this. ‘I don’t suppose we shall meet much while we’re here, but if we do we’ll be civil to each other. Keep off my friends, of course.’

Her tone had hardened a little, and for a moment Anice did not answer. She stood quite still, grave and composed, and then suddenly, for a fleeting moment, she turned her eyes to Richard, who had been standing through it at Mary’s side, wondering when Anice would notice him. She had not seemed even to be aware that he was in the room at all, and suddenly, from that glance, he knew that she had been intensely aware of him. She came at him in a flash of colour, deep blue against corn-coloured hair, blue as the paint that held
Amphion
in her room, and memories of that happiness came flashing with it. Then, before he had thought at all, or had understood anything, the colour faded. She had turned back to Mary and was answering quietly, even submissively.

‘Of course, ma’am.’ She inclined her head for an instant, and then a little smile came to her. ‘I don’t know yet who’s in Cheltenham, but I expect I shall learn soon.’

‘I’m quite sure you will. But, Ann . . .’ The tone took sudden strength again. ‘There is one thing more. Do you know that Lord Barford is here?’

‘Bar---‘

Anice stopped short, and her face changed. Her lips had tightened, and her eyes had taken a different light, and Richard, watching her intently, saw her turn from the Anice who puzzled him to the obstinate Anice he knew so well.

‘I didn’t,’ she said slowly. ‘I mightn’t have come here if I had.’

‘Perhaps you’d like to go back?’

‘I shouldn’t. I won’t.’

It came quietly, but there was unexpected force in it, and something near anger was in her face now, to blend with obstinacy. Then, as quickly, she changed again.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘That was rude, wasn’t it? I shouldn’t have said it.’

‘Never mind that. The point---‘

‘I
do
mind. If you please . . .’ She seemed in difficulty, and for a moment she stopped. ‘I don’t
want
to be rude to you. I’ve never wanted to be. You’ve always been good to me, and please don’t think I’ve forgotten it.’

‘Thank you. But in that case---‘

‘I haven’t forgotten Lord Barford either, and I don’t just mean how he treated
me.
There was Dick there, at the Manor, and he was my brother---‘

‘Half-brother.’

‘Isn’t it enough? And he wasn’t allowed to know me. She was
his
grandmother as well as mine, and he wasn’t allowed to see her. When he was killed she wasn’t even told. She heard about it in the village. Then the Squire put a stone to him in the church. She put flowers under it, and they were taken away. Mine were, too, and did you know
that?’

‘Ann!’

‘You probably didn’t notice. Why should you?’

Anice stopped short, looking round with a sudden understanding of where she was. She had not raised her voice, but the tone of it had been enough, and the whole company was alert and agog, pretending not to look. She glanced round again, understanding it quickly, and a flicker of a smile came to her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I
would
get everyone looking.’

‘You could be more careful.’

‘I’m not careful. I’m not careful even when I ought to be, and this time I oughtn’t. There’s a lot more I can say yet.’

‘Then don’t say it here. But what are you really telling me? Are you set to make trouble?’

‘No.’ Anice sounded reluctant, and the blue eyes were anything but peaceful as they looked into Mary’s. ‘But you asked me to run away because he’s in this town, and I’ve said I won’t. I’m sorry. I never meant all this to happen.’

‘But it
has
happened.’ There was a little tap of Mary’s foot on the polished floor. ‘So what are you going to do?’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Will that matter?’

‘Of course it will. I’ve said you were good to me.’

‘Then I want you to keep the peace. Will you?’

‘How can I?’ She was reluctant again, with the obstinate look back in her eyes. ‘I’ll do my best, and I’ll keep out of his way if I can. But if he comes after me . . .’

‘Very well.’ It was Mary now who spoke as if she were having to control herself. ‘I’d better not say any more. I’ll just wish you good night.’

‘I’m sorry you don’t like me.’

‘All I dislike is what I think may happen.’

‘I’ve said I won’t look for him--and that’s more than I ever meant to say.’

‘I’d like you to do more than just not look for him. However--good night.’

‘Good night, ma’am.’

For a moment they were eye to eye, both of them taut and unhappy, and Anice recovered first. She pulled her shoulders a little further back, making herself come into poise, and then quite deliberately she sank into a curtsey. It seemed sincere, and perhaps it was unexpected. It left Mary standing stiffly before she acknowledged it with a deep inclination of her head. Then she spoke quickly to Richard.

‘I’ll get my cloak.’

She walked away without another word to anyone, and for a moment he lingered unhappily, with his eyes on Anice. She was standing very still with her eyes on Mary and her face taut and strained. Then she turned and looked him in the eye, with a thin ghost of a smile. There was nothing he could do or say, and he must not linger now, but he wanted Anice, this unhappy Anice who seemed in such need of the comfort he could give her if they were alone. But he must go with Mary. He turned his head, and Hildersham nodded quickly.

‘I’ll see to Anice. You take Mary.’

‘Right.’

He gave a nod to Hildersham and a little bow to Anice, and then walked away. He found his coat, and then he waited in the anteroom, alone except for the footmen, until Mary appeared again, wrapped now in a cloak of apricot velvet, proper to the summer night.

‘What an evening!’ she said curtly. ‘I wish I hadn’t come.’

‘That would have been a fool’s paradise. You wouldn’t have known.’

‘True. Come along.’

They went out together into a High Street dark under a clouded sky, and with lamps no better than London had. He gave her his arm, and she slipped a hand out of her cloak to take it firmly.

‘Did I do right?’ she asked suddenly. ‘The way I handled her?’

‘Excellently. You had manners from her, and some sort of promise.’

‘If she keeps it.’ It came slowly and half reluctantly. ‘As a child she usually kept a promise.’

‘Then she probably will now. So if Barford can be persuaded to avoid her . . .’

‘If it were anything else I’d say he could. He’s the diplomat all the time. But this is different, and he’s capable of seeking her out just to be unpleasant.’

‘And then what?’

‘Guess for yourself. But as a child she was a little spitfire, and now she’s in a position to spit. Have you any influence with her? You seem to know her.’

‘That seems to be forgotten. I’ve heard nothing of her all winter, and tonight she hardly seemed to know me.’

‘You sound regretful.’

‘Need you have said that?’

‘No.’ He felt her hand tighten suddenly on his arm. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not trying to quarrel. But, Richard . . .’ The hand pressed firmly again. ‘I’m not suggesting you should seek her out for this, but if you do happen to be in talk with her in a Pump Room I’d like you to do what you can.’

‘To persuade her to what?’

‘Soft answers, of course, if Barford says things to her.’

‘I’ll try, by all means. But how about a word with Barford?’

‘Leave him to me. I don’t say I’ve any hope, but you’ll have to leave him. He wouldn’t take anything from a man, on this.’

‘Perhaps not. I’m sorry you’ve had this trouble.’

‘Are you?’ She said it quickly, and then slipped into silence as they emerged from the trees and began to cross the grass before the Royal Crescent. ‘I’m used to trouble, of one sort or another, from that trade of hers. I met it when I was married, and I don’t suppose it will stop just yet. Well, here we are. Are you coming in?’

They had halted by the steps before the door, and dimly, by the lamps at either end of the Crescent, he could see the clear lines of her face as she turned to him. He had to think quickly, knowing that he did not want to leave her.

‘I think I ought not to.’

‘No.’ She nodded, and seemed as reluctant. ‘I’ll have to talk to Barford, if he hasn’t gone to bed. If he has I’ll have to talk to him after breakfast. So give me time for that, and then---‘

‘I’ll call at noon.’

‘Yes.’

She turned, as if to climb the steps, and then she swung round again to face him. Her tone changed as she spoke.

‘You noticed how the men all left us when she came in? They went rushing to her--even Jack. I’m glad
you
didn’t.’

‘I didn’t want to. But I’m glad you’re pleased.’

‘It’s natural, isn’t it?’

He knew what she meant. His lonely winter had taught him that, and all he shared with Mary came suddenly alive within him, pressing and urgent. She was close against him in the dark, and no more was needed. He drew her closer, and then he kissed her, firmly and slowly, knowing as soon as he touched her that it was what she had wished for too. Then she flung her head back, and for a moment he waited.

‘Good night,’ she whispered.

‘Good night--and I wish it wasn’t.’

He thought she would speak, but she stayed silent as she went quickly up the steps. But at the door she turned. ‘So do I,’ she said softly.

She went in, and he turned slowly away, confused and excited, aware that he had crossed a Rubicon. Something new was beginning, and it was not with Anice.

But Anice--the thought came suddenly--was not far away, and she was unpredictable.

The porter at the Plough, threading his way to a window table in the breakfast room, announced that Sir Michael Murphy wished to speak with Captain Grant.

‘Does he?’ The reply did not ring with pleasure. ‘All right, then. Tell him I’ll come in a minute.’

He was inclined to damn Sir Michael Murphy, or anyone else who came between a man and his breakfast. It disturbed his thoughts also, which had been of Mary last night, and of Anice who had hardly spoken to him, but if Sir Michael wished to see him he could hardly refuse. So he finished his coffee and went through to the hall, where Sir Michael was standing against an empty hearth, his big shoulders propped against the mantelpiece; and next to him, elegantly poised in a chair, and looking cool and fresh in the summer morning, was Mrs. Masters. It hardly seemed an improvement, but Sir Michael was hearty enough.

‘Ah, good morning to you, Captain! You’ll have finished breakfast, I doubt?’

‘Perfectly, thank you. What can I do?’

‘Why, it’s Marion here, with a message. From Anice, bless her!’

‘Indeed?’

‘You’re uncommon cool about it. But Marion can speak for herself.’

Marion nodded, and then she spoke carefully, with nothing in her tone to suggest that she joined in this blessing of Anice.

‘It’s an invitation,’ she said. ‘For sherry tomorrow. Twelve o’clock noon.’

‘Kind of her.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘It’s a party,’ said Sir Michael cheerfully. ‘For the boys.’

‘Gentlemen,’ corrected Marion. ‘She’s inviting all the gentlemen in Cheltenham---anyone who’d wish to meet her.’

‘I see.’ He sounded very doubtful now. ‘And where is this reception?’

‘At my house. At least . . .’ She pulled a wry face at him, and then her poise seemed to slip a little. ‘It
was
my house, till she took it over.’

‘Took it---‘

‘Yes.’ She cut in quite angrily. ‘That’s what she’s done. Do you know where she lodged last night?’

‘Of course I don’t.’

‘My house. She came post from London, all because I’d written to her and told her that you and all the others were here. At least, I think that’s why she came. She was in Cheltenham about eight o’clock, and she went straight to my house. Of course, I wasn’t there. I was doing that waltz with you, so she just settled in. Said she was expected, and so on--which she wasn’t--and took the best bedroom. Then she changed her clothes and came to the Rooms, and all she said afterwards was she knew I’d be glad to see her.’

‘It rather sounds as if you weren’t?’

‘I suppose I am, really. I mean . . .’ She stopped, and again pulled that wry face at him. ‘You saw what it was like? You saw that entrance she made? Of course she’s wonderful, and she had everyone looking at her, but they looked at her all evening--yes, even you and George.’ She had turned suddenly to Murphy. ‘You left me as soon as she came, and you didn’t come back. I might have been flowers on the wall.’

‘Easy now, be easy. There’s a little give and take in things.’

‘Try saying that to Anice. I’ve lived with her a lot longer than you have.’ She turned as quickly back to Richard. ‘Then I find she’s in my house, and now she’s giving this sherry party. No word to me, of course, except she hopes I’ll be present, and do you think anyone will look twice at me when she’s about? She’ll have me pouring sherry and fetching hats. So can’t you
do
something? You’re the only one who might. She does listen to
you.’

‘I doubt it, nowadays.’

‘Who do you think she’s come to Cheltenham for?’

‘As I haven’t the second sight, I don’t know. Luttrell, perhaps.’

‘She hates him. Or she ought to.’

‘What she ought isn’t always what she does.’

‘She’s not as bad as all that. But will you try? Tell her she must live by herself, not with me?’

‘Can’t
you
tell her?’ But the thought had come that Mary also had asked him to speak to Anice, and the one might lead the other. ‘I can’t promise, Marion. I may not even see her. But if I have any chance to help you, I’ll do it.’

‘Thank you. You did once say you’d help me one day. Ah well . . .’ She got resignedly to her feet. ‘I suppose we’d better go. She’s even put us to work this morning--taking invitations round for her party. Micky’s to buy the sherry, too.’