The Shocking Miss Anstey (32 page)

‘Serve angels while you can,’ said Sir Michael staunchly. ‘Come along, will you now?’ ‘Angels!’

She flung it at him disgustedly, and then they went away together, leaving a sea officer to walk to the window and glance from habit at a sky that threatened rain. He noted the south-west wind, and a memory of Ushant rose for a moment. He wondered if he should go out, and if he should really try to talk with Anice. Mary had asked it also, and yet she did
not
wish him to talk with Anice; which was his own dilemma too. He wished it, and his resentments did not.

He went for his hat and then walked into the High Street, hardly knowing what he intended. He was not to see Mary till noon, but he might meet someone who was parading, or looking into shops. That was always possible, and it could be anybody; even, perhaps, Anice.

In fact it was Hildersham, who was coming round the corner of the Colonnade, looking as if he had a purpose this morning. He sounded brisk and friendly.

‘How are you?’ he said cheerfully. ‘You took Mary home, I hope?’

‘Yes.’

‘I was late myself--Card Club--and they were all in bed when I got back to Royal Crescent. She didn’t turn out for the Pump this morning, so I didn’t see her till breakfast.’

‘How is she?’

‘Not talking much, and I fancy she’s upset. Is it about Anice? It seems they knew each other, and Anice is upset too.’ Hildersham seemed amused for a moment. ‘She was in the Pump Room at half past seven, giving her performance again--everyone watching her--but she picked on me soon enough, and poured her troubles all over me. Do you know where she’s quartered?’

‘On Marion.’

‘And that’s the trouble. She was quite plaintive about it. House too small. Decorations awful. Marion silly. Can’t share anyway. Must have a house of her own--so on and so on--and will I get her one? I wonder what Marion will think of it?’

‘I’ve just been hearing.’

He told of it, and Hildersham gave his deep chuckle. ‘So we’re both asked for help, are we? We’ll have to do something.’

‘Find her a house?’

‘Why not? I did it for Marion, so I can hardly say no to Anice. You’d better come along with me.’

‘But where?’

‘Oh, I’m just going to see this man Thompson about the house he’s leasing to me, so we’ll ask him to give Anice one as well’

‘If you think there’s a chance.’

‘It’s what he builds houses for, isn’t it? We turn off by the Assembly Rooms here, and he lives in a sort of Roman mansion in a country lane. It would suit Barford nicely.’

Hildersham evidently knew the way, and the lane, as he said, was rustic, running through fields and looking as if it were used by cattle. It led to the row of newly built houses that could be seen from the Montpellier Pump Room, and Hildersham looked at them approvingly.

‘One of these,’ he said, ‘and it looks as if they’re putting furniture in. I’m supposed to have it today. But here we are.’

It was half-way along the lane, patriotically called Vittoria House, and rather too imposing for its setting; modern and bow-fronted, but continued on three sides into a wide verandah on Roman Doric columns. They certainly gave it consequence, but they gave it also the Roman look that Hildersham had mentioned, as if it were the residence, perhaps, of some opulent provincial governor. Richard said as much, and Hildersham chuckled.

‘Legatus Augusti pro praetore,’
was his comment. ‘I said it would suit Barford, and that’s more or less what he was.’

It was the residence, however, of Mr. Thompson, whom even Mr. King had spoken of as a developer, and Mr. Thompson, when they were shown into his room, proved to be eminently a man of business, fully aware of what Hildersham’s approval could do for a developing estate. So he made no objection, beyond a lifted eyebrow, when Miss Anstey’s name was mentioned as a possible tenant, and then he cautiously inquired if this meant the Miss Anstey who had lately been well received at Brighton by the Prince Regent. That seemed to satisfy him, and the rest was easily arranged. Certainly Miss Anstey should have the first lease of a house. There would be one in a day or two, though not, unfortunately, in the same row as Hildersham’s.

‘Fortunately,’ corrected Hildersham. ‘I don’t want her as a next-door neighbour. My wife’s coming.’

‘Ah--quite so.’ Mr. Thompson hurried past that point, and hastened to show the house on his map. It was just to the side of the wooded avenue that led to the Pump Room, and Hildersham said it would do excellently.

‘It’s just right,’ he told Richard as they walked out into the lane again. ‘Handy for everything, and not too close to me. Anice should be pleased.’

‘So should Marion.’

‘Yes, poor thing! Well, what now?’

They walked up the lane together to the new three-storeyed house that Hildersham was renting, and they stood for a moment watching furniture being carried in through the severe rectangular porch. Then they parted, Hildersham going into the house, and Richard walking slowly across the grass towards the Pump Room. Away to his right, and parallel to the path he was traversing, another row of houses was completing, and from his memory of Mr. Thompson’s map he knew that one of these must be for Anice. That roused his interest, and he left the path to identify the house. It was not difficult, since only one was complete, and he saw that it was smaller and more modest than Hildersham’s, yet appreciably bigger than Marion’s. It should suit Anice admirably, and for her purpose its position could hardly be bettered, scarcely a minute from the Pump Room, yet decently private, screened by the trees from saunterers in the avenue. Anice, as usual, was being well served, and she might have done much worse than this.

A gentle drift of rain disturbed his thoughts, and at once he turned, scanning the windward sky as habit told him to. This was Ushant weather. It had been coming up since dawn, with thickening cloud and a freshening wind, and it would be no passing shower. It would last the rest of the day, and he was without an overcoat. He thought of returning to the Plough, but then he glanced at his watch. It was a quarter to twelve, near enough to noon for his visit to Mary, and he set off at once, stepping out briskly as the soft drizzle began to gather weight. He had to find the way, but it was not difficult, and another five minutes took him through the trees, across to the Old Well, and so down to the bridge, the grass and the Crescent. Even so, he was wet enough when he rang the bell and was taken into Barford’s sitting-room.

Mary was alone, and she received him with a smile he found inscrutable. Then it changed to polite concern as she saw his wet coat. He brushed that aside.

‘I’m fairly used to weather,’ he told her. ‘It will dry in a few minutes.’

‘If you’re sure.’ She turned to stare through the windows at what was now a mist of rain. ‘A depressing sight.’

‘I can’t see that it matters, when you’re ashore. How’s Barford?’

‘Out.’ She answered him tersely. ‘He’s a shade upset, and I don’t know where he’s gone.’ ‘He may get wet.’

‘If that puts him to bed for a while, it might solve a problem.’

‘Anice, you mean?’

‘Say, little Ann--which is what matters. I had to tell him, of course, and it spoilt his breakfast. That spoilt mine, and he can get wet if he wants to.’

‘You sound a little upset yourself.’

‘No. Just annoyed. The whole thing’s ridiculous. And for heaven’s sake, sit down. Don’t stand there.’

‘But why ridiculous?’

‘Why ask?’ She put herself into a chair next to his, and again she had the look he could not interpret. ‘He says he’ll speak his mind when he sees her, put her soundly into her place--that sort of thing. It sounds very dignified and it’s just bad temper.’

‘Perhaps he isn’t thinking of that.’

‘He isn’t thinking at all. This hasn’t anything to do with what she’s become, of course. He’s very tolerant of that--look at him with Mary Ann, who certainly isn’t any better, and even with Ann he was pleasantly amused until he knew who she was. Now he’s all ready for a scene, and just because of her mother.’

‘Well, don’t worry. You can’t help it, and men are surprising at times.’

‘Ye-es.
You
are.’ There was a sudden change of tone, and for an instant the enigmatic smile returned. ‘You surprised
me
last night.’

‘Did I?’ He looked at her steadily, quite aware that this was not casual, and that she was deliberately bringing him to what might be first in her mind. ‘If you were surprised, you shouldn’t have been.’

‘You’d hardly led me . . .’ She stopped, and again she had that smile for an instant. ‘Now with some men I’d have been very watchful, but
with you . . ‘

‘You hardly flatter me.’

‘You hardly flattered yourself, or me either, when we met last year. However . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘It may have been fortunate. I was--er--a little out of practice myself.’

‘You were lucky if you were ever
in
practice.’

‘Not
well said. Do you find it surprising?’

‘Of course not, but---‘

‘There was a time--even with me.’

‘And that’s why you were lucky. There was no chance at all, or all but none, in fifteen years at sea.’

‘I can understand that.’ Her smile reappeared warmly for a moment, and then a little frown replaced it. ‘I was rather stupid. I didn’t see it to start with, until John pointed it out. Then I did, of course.’

‘Thank you.’

‘He can speak pretty plainly. All the same . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘I was a little surprised, in London, that you didn’t even see me, before you went away.’

‘You were not quite welcoming.’

‘Wasn’t I?’

‘Oh yes, I understand. But---‘

‘Understand!’ Her voice cracked for a moment. ‘I don’t know what sort of an exhibition I made of myself that night.’

‘And I don’t either.’ He cut firmly in before she could go further. ‘I was hardly at my best that night,
or
the next morning. You know what had happened.’

‘Of course I do, and you know what I thought about it. Still . . .‘

‘But at least it accounted for my going away--and perhaps for not pressing to see you. As I’ve said, it was not a good moment.’

‘So Barford told me. He tells me lots of things.’

‘Usually with some sense, perhaps. But can’t we forget that London incident?’

‘I think we’d better. Still . . .’ She stayed thoughtful for a moment. ‘What
did
you do after that? Did you go away with Ann?’

‘I did not. I thought I’d made that clear.’

‘Nothing’s clear. I suppose I shouldn’t ask.’

‘I don’t mind if you do ask.’ He stared back at her while the memory of it rose yet again within him. ‘Anice went off that morning to Brighton, driven by Sir Thomas Luttrell.’

‘Who?
You mean, after . . . ?’

‘Yes--after that. And I’ve neither seen nor heard from her since--till last night. Don’t ask me to explain it.’

‘No-o.’ She answered him slowly, and very thoughtfully. ‘But Luttrell’s dangerous. I’m telling you so, even if you find it hard to believe.’

‘Can anyone believe it better than I do?’

‘Oh, I didn’t mean . . .’ Her smile was almost grim. ‘I meant the other way--dangerous to women.’

‘Some, perhaps.’ He spoke doubtfully. ‘If they’re silly enough.’

‘Perhaps we’re all silly. Or more of us than you think.’ ‘Mary, what do you mean? Do you know Luttrell?’

‘I told you last night I did.’

‘Yes.’ The memory came slowly back of talk in the ballroom. ‘You said he’d known your husband.’

‘Ye-es.’ It was dry, with an undertone that brought him to the alert at once. ‘I also said he’d known me.’

‘What are you telling me?’

‘I was telling you he can be dangerous, and to more women than you’ve thought possible.’ ‘You don’t mean . . . ?’

‘Never mind what I mean. Just believe what I say, and if Ann went off with him that’s believable too. These things do happen, and anyone knows it who hasn’t been rustic all his life. Or been at sea.’

‘I’ll believe that last bit.’ He watched her steadily. ‘But do you mean yourself?’

‘Why not?’ She almost snapped it, and then she rose suddenly from her chair and moved to the window, staring at the grey sky and the rain that was now a downpour. ‘I’m rustic enough now, but I wasn’t when I was with Charles. I was in practice at all sorts of things--with Charles as an example, you see.’

‘Yes, but--Luttrell?’

‘Oh, he came on a visit.’ She sounded impatient, with a hint of anger in it, and she kept her back to him, staring at the unrelenting rain. ‘I’m not talking about it--except I know Tommy Luttrell rather better than you’ve guessed. Or, rather, I did.’

‘I’m glad it’s past.’

‘Are you?’ She swung round suddenly, and the note of anger was clearer. ‘Did you hear what he said last night? He’d seen me somewhere and couldn’t remember who I was!
That,
after---‘

‘Mary!’

‘Oh, all right.’ She faced him grimly. ‘We’d better talk of something else. This isn’t what you came here for.’

‘I’m glad of it, all the same. It brings us closer. It’s something shared.’

‘Oh!’ Her eyes seemed a little wider. ‘You can see
that,
can you? What
did
you come for?’

‘Just to be closer to you, I suppose--one way or another.’

‘As last night?’

‘That was the other way.’

‘Apparently.’ She nodded, and she was bright-eyed and alert as she faced him. ‘Have you any other ways in mind?’

‘Wait and see.’

‘I’ve spent some years doing that. But how about Ann? Have you thought what she may do? You may get some surprises. If you do---‘

‘Yes?’

‘Never mind. Though I did tell her to keep off my friends, and perhaps she will. But if she falls into talk with you--and I’m quite sure she will--just remember what I said about Barford, and see what you can do with her.’

‘You’re still worried about him?’

‘After his talk at breakfast, yes.’

‘What’s he doing now?’

‘Getting wet, I should think. Or is he? This looks like---‘

She had turned suddenly to the window, drawn by a clop of hooves and the grind of wheels on wet gravel, and they looked together through the glass as a chaise came slowly to the door, the postboy peering at numbers under the brim of his rain-soaked hat.