The Shocking Miss Anstey (33 page)

‘Hired,’ said Mary briefly. ‘So he’s had some sense.’

‘He didn’t have travelling trunks.’

A mound of baggage, sheeted against the rain, was on the flat between the springs, and Mary pressed closer to the glass as the door of the chaise pushed open and a man stepped out. He stood for a moment in the rain, and then waved briskly to the two at the window.

‘It’s John.’ Mary whirled round quickly. ‘And just like him. He never even wrote.’

It was not a social necessity to be at church on Sunday morning; for the sufficient reason that there was only one church in Cheltenham, and this, graceful as it was, had not room enough for even a quarter of the company now in the town. Anyone who missed attending had therefore an obvious excuse, and one of these was Anice. She was not to be seen next morning in a congregation whose
ton
must have gratified the Rector, if not the Almighty. The Marquis of Malloch was there with his family. Lord Harborne was there with his gout, and the Viscount Trevithick with his stick and his rusty hat. The Earl of Hildersham was there with his wife, and in the pew behind was Lord Barford with his niece and nephew, and Captain Grant at the side of Lady St. Hollith. He was known, of course, to be well-connected.

Mrs. Masters was there too, which may possibly have been less gratifying to the Rector, especially as she had no air of penitence, or even of diffidence. Nor was she inconspicuous. She had a Wellington jacket in her favourite rifle green, frogged and epauletted like a hussar, and her hat, which seemed to include a good deal of brass, was more like a shako than anything else. It was a fine fervour of patriotism, but it was a fervour of fashion too, as ladies quickly noted. It was ahead of anything yet seen in Cheltenham, and her dark eyes were gleaming with delight--as some gentlemen quickly noted. She did not, on that account, keep them strictly to her prayer book.

She had a ring of gentlemen round her in the churchyard afterwards, to the disapproval of some, and to the amusement of Lord Barford, who had lost none of his tolerance towards her. It gave him some pleasure, he remarked, to think that she had first learned manners in his own dining-room.

‘She didn’t learn how to dress in your dining-room,’ said his niece, with some amusement.

‘Not in that style, certainly. Do you like it?’

‘It’s highly fashionable.’

‘Which accounts, no doubt, for its insanity. Where did she get it from?’

‘I’d rather like to know.’

‘John, be good enough to step across and ask her.’

‘John, you’re
not
to.’

‘Say Mary wants to know.’

‘John, you’re---’

She was already too late. John was marching briskly away, and Barford chuckled as he turned.

‘What do you think of it, Grant?’

‘I’m glad it’s not
my
uniform she’s apeing.’

‘Spoken like a sailor. If she cares to ape an Ambassador I’ve no objection. You’ll come in for a glass of wine? Mary looks as if she could do with it.’

‘Do with it?’ She turned on him, half annoyed, half laughing. ‘Need you have sent John with such a message? What do you think he’ll make of it?’

‘Oh, some tactful inquiry.’

‘Do you think he knows that word?’

He was by now in the centre of the group, with Marion holding forth vivaciously to a ring of delighted gentlemen, some of them in open laughter. A burst of it came across the churchyard, and annoyance seemed to win the day in Mary.

‘Come along,’ she said firmly. ‘We needn’t be mixed in this. John can come when he’s ready.’

They moved slowly to the further end of the churchyard where the Well Walk began, and in less than five minutes they were at the Crescent, but they had been sitting with the wine for longer than that when John at length appeared, apparently in high good humour.

‘Sherry?’ said Barford affably.

‘Just a quick one, if I may. I’ve said I’ll go to Marion’s. I didn’t know she was giving a party. I didn’t even know she had Anice with her.’

‘Anice?’ Barford’s eyebrows came down a little.

‘Yes. Anice Anstey. You know of her, sir.’

‘I’m afraid I do.’

‘They’re giving a---Is something wrong?’

‘No--if you wish to leave us for that woman’s company.’

‘Really, sir, I---‘

‘John . . .’ Mary interrupted him sharply. ‘You were finding out something, weren’t you, about her dress?’

‘Oh, Marion’s--yes. But---’

‘Then suppose you keep to that.’

‘All right.’ He took a quick glance at Barford and then brought his eyes back to his sister. ‘Well, it seems she had it from Anice, and Anice had it for Paris. I shouldn’t think she often makes mistakes, but that was one of them.’

‘It’s in the latest---‘

‘I expect it is. But it hadn’t occurred to Anice that the French mightn’t, just now, wish to be reminded of our uniforms. So it wasn’t a success, and she had an unpleasant morning in it. So she hates it, swears she’ll never wear it again, and she’s given it to Marion--who’s delighted.’

‘So she should be. What did it cost?’

‘Heaven knows. It seems these things are made by the military tailors. A way of getting trade, I suppose, now there aren’t any officers.’

‘Very likely. And that, I take it, is why she was at church this morning?’

‘Well, I expect she wanted to show it off. But partly I think she was looking for you, Richard. Says she wanted to thank you. Something about getting a house for Anice. I don’t quite understand it.’

‘For Anice?’ said Mary sharply. ‘What house, please?’

‘Are you in her service also?’ asked Barford.

‘I’d very little to do with this. It was Hildersham. He has the influence, of course.’

‘Well, it’s you she wants to thank,’ said John. ‘So does Anice. In fact. . .’ Again for an instant he glanced warily at Barford. ‘In fact the message is that they both hope you’re coming along for this sherry party.’

‘I hardly think I can do that. I’m a guest here.’

‘Precisely,’ said Barford, and turned coldly to John. ‘If you wish to visit Ann Atkins, I can’t stop you. But advise her, please, that I’m not disposed to give substance to her pretensions, and that she’ll be wise to leave this town before we meet. Now I think perhaps I should take a short rest. You’ll forgive me, no doubt?’

He said that to Richard, with a quick return of his usual courtesy, and then he went abruptly from the room. The door shut firmly, and John stared at it for a moment.

‘What the devil?’ he asked. ‘Mary, what’s wrong with him?’

‘Can’t you guess? He’s found out who she is.’

‘That
nonsense?’ He spoke slowly. ‘You might have warned me.’

‘I didn’t have a chance. I’ve not seen you, by yourself, yet.’

‘Well, never mind--the damned old fool!’

‘Quite possibly, but it doesn’t help. Are you going to this party?’

‘I’ve promised to.’

‘You’d better get along, then. When will you be back?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Then you’d better think about it. I want a little help tonight, please. There’s a concert of music at the Assembly Rooms that he insists on hearing, and in his present mood---‘

‘All right. I’ll try to be back. What will
you
do till dinner?’

‘Walk to Montpellier, perhaps.’ She turned easily to Richard. ‘Do you come?’

‘If I may.’

‘Of course. And I want to hear what you and Jack have been up to--getting a house for Ann.’

That led to a pleasant afternoon. The Pump Room, on a Sunday, was no more than half full, the sun was on the verandah and the orchestra playing softly, and Mary was in a friendly mood, glad to be free of troubles for an hour or two. There was no sign of Marion or Anice, or anyone else who might disturb, and the company were pleasantly sociable--especially, perhaps, to Lady St. Hollith and to Captain Grant, who moved in high circles and had been at Almack’s. It was even amusing, to a sea officer who had thought himself out of place ashore, but he accepted it placidly until it was time to walk back with Mary to the Crescent. John, he learned, had come in and gone out again, and he accepted that too, even if he found it a little disappointing. He would have liked a talk with John.

He had the chance of it about six o’clock that evening. He had just finished dinner at the Plough when John came in to see him. But he looked purposeful, and the purpose soon appeared.

‘It’s a pity you didn’t come to that sherry party,’ he declared. ‘It was quite good.’

‘Many there?’

‘Twenty or so. I’d expected more, really.’

‘It shouldn’t have been held on a Sunday. Or so they said in the Pump Room. That sort of thing seems to count, at a spa.’

‘I’m learning. I’m not sure I was popular at the party, by the way. They all wanted Anice--regular Queen of Hearts--and she ended by taking me into a corner for a talk. Hence some black looks. But it was about you. She’s quite upset.’

‘What about?’

‘You haven’t been near her. Also she wants to thank you for helping with the house. Did you give her a ship, by the way, in a bottle?’

‘I did.’

‘She had it on view, on the mantelpiece, and whenever they asked about it she said it was
Amphion
--your ship, and you’d given it her. I’m not sure it made
you
very popular.’

‘But why . . .’

He sank into silence, hardly knowing what he had meant to say. It had all come back to him--the room at Queen Street, the china above the fire and Anice on the sofa, warm and alluring, blue eyes on
Amphion
as she spoke so proudly of it. It was the Anice he had known, had tried to forget, the Anice who was all his and never Luttrell’s--and she still had
Amphion.

‘What’s the matter?’ said John.

‘I’d just remembered--giving it to her.’

‘It must have been an occasion, by the way she’s remembering it too. Oh, she
is.
You needn’t look like that.’

‘She at least went off with Luttrell.’

‘I’m not making excuses for her. The point is, I think
she
wants to make them.’

‘I don’t follow this.’

‘Probably my fault. Anice was pretty plain about it. She thinks there’s a quarrel, and she wants to make it up. That’s what it comes to, and if she’ll say that outright, she must want it pretty badly. I think you’re lucky.’

‘Possibly. But what exactly does she want?’

‘You. She wants you to go along there this evening, with me.’

‘Two of us?’

‘Well, there are two of them. It seems reasonable.’

‘It would--from Anice.’

His mind was splitting in two again, the one eager to go, avid for the sight and sound and fragrance of her, the other resisting, cherishing resentments, warning him that there would be only one end if he went. At close range Anice would win.

‘I don’t think so,’ he said stubbornly. ‘This isn’t London, and a fine buzz of talk we should set going, visiting those two on a Sunday evening.’

‘Is it Mary you’re thinking of?’

‘Among others, yes.’

‘I don’t know who the others are. However . . .’ John stopped, as if he might be considering the way of it. ‘I’ve no wish to press it. What do you think you’ll do then, tonight?’

‘This concert. Mary said she’d be there.’

‘So did Anice. That’s to say, if we don’t go to the house. It’s a shade awkward, if Barford’s going.’

‘Didn’t you tell her so?’

‘I’m afraid I didn’t think of it. Have
you
mentioned it to Anice?’

‘I haven’t
seen
Anice.’

‘Oh, well . . .’

It was becoming obvious, and the first half of his mind was triumphantly pointing out that he must certainly have this word with Anice--on behalf of Barford. The other voice had sunk to a whisper as it told him again that Anice would win, that perhaps she had won already.

It was ten minutes’ walk up the High Street, and they were at the house by half past six, to be received by Marion at the door and by Anice in a sitting-room that was smaller than the one in Queen Street, and looked rather too new in both paint and furnishings. But it was pleasant enough, cheerful and well-proportioned, and eyes were on Anice rather than on the room. She stood waiting for them, her back to the flower-filled hearth, and she seemed unchanged, the Anice he had known before. She was more restrained, certainly, perhaps because they were not alone, but there was delight in her face when she saw him, and the old warmth was in her eyes. She came to him at once, holding out both her hands, and when he would have taken them she evaded him. Instead, she flung them round his neck and kissed him happily. For a moment he held her tight and looked into her eyes.

‘Had you forgotten me?’ she asked quickly.

‘Do you think I ever could?’

‘It looked like it.
I
didn’t forget.’

Her fleeting glance was to the mantelpiece where
Amphion
was stiffly under sail in the sea of paint, exactly as John had said. He could see it, now she had moved away, and memory rose again of Queen Street and Anice by the fire. But Luttrell had been at Queen Street, and had driven Anice . . .

‘It’s real,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t put it there for you to look at. It’s always there.’

‘I’m glad.’

‘Why didn’t you come? And you
might
look pleased to see me.’

‘Forgetting everything else?’

‘You
are
in a temper. I didn’t know you were like this.’ Her eyes came suddenly to an excited brilliance. ‘It’s all because I let Tommy drive me?’

‘Don’t say Tommy. And did you think I should like it?’

‘Well, we all have to put up with something.’

‘There are limits to it, as you may well learn.’

‘Oh dear! First Tommy, and then you. I’m always in trouble.’

‘What do you expect to be in, if---‘

‘Now stop squabbling, you two,’ said John suddenly. ‘This isn’t your private party, and you’re spoiling it for us.’

‘All right.’ She nodded vigorously. ‘We’ll leave it till we can have it to ourselves. Will that do?’

‘Yes.’

He was suddenly aware that there was nothing else for it, with the others present. ‘We’d better talk of other things tonight.’