The Shocking Miss Anstey (39 page)

‘Perfect,’ came the sisterly answer. ‘But what’s she---Heavens! She’s coming in.’

Barford was gallantly giving her his arm as they came slowly up the steps together. Behind them the groom stood with the horses, harness twinkling in the sun, and in the room there was a quick movement as John strode to the door. The others waited, and again there was the tap of Mary’s foot.

‘Is
that
it?’ she whispered. ‘Getting entry to the house? Is that why she---’

Then Barford was in the room, seeming a little hot and tired but in high good humour. Anice, coming behind him with John, seemed to be taking it carefully, and she contented herself with a little bow to Mary and something to Richard that could have been a flicker of an eyelid. It was left to Mary to speak first.

‘Good day to you, Ann,’ she said. ‘And welcome home, sir. We wondered where---’

‘Oh--Tewkesbury.’ He was light and airy about it, as if it hardly counted. ‘We’ve been looking round the Abbey--venerable, some good monuments. There’s an inn there too--wine you can drink--very pleasant day.’

‘I see,’ said Mary, in a voice that suggested she found it very hard indeed to see Anice being shown round monuments by an ageing Peer of the Realm. ‘We’ve certainly been wondering.’

‘Spur of the moment, you know. Very kind of Ann. Is that the madeira?’ He nodded at the decanter as he settled in a chair. ‘A glass for Ann also--and a chair, please.’

‘Of course.’ Mary had conquered surprise now and was showing some signs of amusement. ‘Come along, Ann--and don’t look quite so shy.’

‘I’m not. I’m not even trying to be. But I won’t have wine, thank you.’

‘No?’

‘No. Not while . . .’ She glanced quickly through the window at primrose and lavender and the waiting greys. ‘I’ve still to drive home, and I’ve to watch those horses. Curricles aren’t easy. So--I hope I haven’t kept his lordship too long?’

‘I should say he’s enjoyed it.’

‘I wanted him to. But now I must go.’

‘You’re very quick.’

‘I didn’t come here to intrude--really I didn’t--and it’s time I went. It’s nearly dinner. No, I
won’t
have wine, thank you.’

This last was to John, who had been hovering round her with the madeira he had poured, but she followed it with her own quick smile that left him laughing delightedly as he lifted the glass and drank it himself as a toast to her. Then she kept firmly to her intentions. She took a warm leave of Barford, polite and friendly leave of Mary, and contrived for Richard another flicker of the eye. Then she was out of the house, colourful in the sunlight, with John in attendance at her side to see her to the curricle. Mary looked almost ruefully at Richard.

‘She knows how to behave, you see? She’s quite amazing. But I’m glad she didn’t stay.’

‘She has some sense.’

‘And she’s the more dangerous for it.’ They turned to the window, and Barford, comfortable with his wine, turned his head to watch also. Anice was in the curricle now, elegantly erect, the reins gathered in her hands, whip in two fingers, but she was showing no signs of moving off. She had turned her shapely head to talk to John, and even from the window they could see the laughter in her face, and the quick tilt of her eyebrows as she said something that set him laughing too. It went on for another minute, and then she was suddenly silent, as if waiting for an answer while he stood quite still and thoughtful, looking up at her. Then he nodded and glanced over his shoulder to his sister at the open window.

‘I’m going off for dinner,’ he called. ‘Not quite sure when I’ll be back.’

In the next instant he had swung himself into the seat next to Anice, who was already shaking out the reins. The little groom made a flourish of releasing the horses, and then jumped into his seat between the springs as the greys pulled easily away. In another moment they were trotting, and the curricle was swaying gently as it disappeared into the trees before the Colonnade.

‘What the devil!’ said Barford.

‘Well mentioned,’ said his niece. ‘I’m told he’s fond of witches.’

‘Don’t be silly. Did you know she had John in strings?’

‘I don’t suppose
he
knew it, till it happened. Do you think he’s away for the night?’

As it turned out, he was not. He came cheerfully in about seven o’clock, and seemed disinclined to tell them very much.

‘Very pleasant dinner,’ he remarked. ‘Has her own cook with her, from London. Excellent.’

‘I’m glad you enjoyed it,’ said Mary. ‘Just the two of you?’

‘Yes, dear--just the two of us, and don’t look at me like that. No orgy at all. Strictly proper, and you could have taken a bishop to it.’

‘You must be changing. Why did she throw you out at seven?’

‘She has an engagement this evening. No, I don’t know who it is, and I didn’t ask. You would have done, but I didn’t.’

‘Probably Tommy Luttrell.’

‘I gather it isn’t. However . . .’ He turned, laughingly, to his uncle. ‘She seems pleased, sir, over her day with you.’

‘Kind of her. I enjoyed it myself. Are we--er--seeing her again?’

‘Nothing definite. But it seems she’ll have the curricle out again tomorrow, so we’ll see.’

‘She might stop for someone again?’

‘Depends on her mood, perhaps. But I mean to be in the High Street, just in case.’

In fact they were all in the High Street when the curricle, gleaming and resplendent again, made its appearance at eleven sharp the next morning. Barford, who said he must fill his snuff-box, had gone into the tobacconist’s at the Winchcomb Street corner, and was much suspected by his niece of having chosen a strategic position from which he could see what might happen. She herself made no pretences. She said she wished more than ever to know what Anice was up to, and therefore she was now near the Assembly Rooms with both John and Richard. She was the first to see the curricle.

Anice was in no hurry. She let the greys walk easily while she sat back and let herself be noticed. She acknowledged some salutes, a little bow to one, a smile to another, a gay twirl of the whip to a third, to each no doubt according to his status, and then she caught sight of Mary. At once she turned the curricle to the side and brought it to a halt.

‘Good morning,’ she said brightly. ‘Can I be a help? Take you to the Pump Room, or somewhere?’

‘No, thank you, Ann. I’m out for a walk.’ Mary looked carefully at the shining curricle. ‘I must say you’re well turned out.’

‘This?’ Anice beamed with delight. ‘It
is
rather nice. It’s the only one in these colours.’

‘I can believe it. Are you going somewhere?’

‘No. Just looking for something to do.’

‘I’ll help you,’ said John promptly.

‘You’d better not, just now. You’d get me into trouble.’ For an instant she turned laughing eyes to Mary, and then as quickly to Richard, with the laughter fading suddenly.
‘You
owe me something too, and I mustn’t ask for it now. Perhaps I never shall.’ She paused, and something in the deep-blue eyes made him know that she meant the night when they could talk. Then, before he could speak, she turned abruptly back to Mary. ‘How is Lord Barford, please? Not tired, I hope?’

‘Not at all. He’s buying snuff. But, Ann . . .’

‘Yes?’ They were suddenly looking at each other, eye to eye. ‘I’m glad he’s all right.’

‘Thank you. But will you tell me why you took him off like that yesterday?’

‘I thought he’d like it.’

‘Of course he liked it. But why did you wish him to? I didn’t meet you for the first time yesterday, and I know you’ve always disliked him.’

‘I’ve had some cause to.’

‘Perhaps. But why this sudden change?’

‘Why not?’

‘Don’t talk nonsense, Ann. Just be a little more straightforward.’

‘Oh, well...’

Anice was looking mutinous, and for a moment she was silent. Then she whirled round, her fingers tightening quickly on the reins as a hay wagon, lumbering up the street, came perilously close to the primrose panels. She was taut at once, holding the greys steady till the wagon had passed, and then she edged the curricle a little further to the side and signed to the groom. He ran to the horses, and Anice eased the reins as she moved to the side of the seat, closer to Mary.

‘Sorry,’ she said briefly. ‘There’s no room for passing here.’

‘It’s narrow. But we won’t talk about that.’

‘All right. Well--do you know who my father was?’

‘Your . . .’ Even Mary sounded surprised. ‘No, Ann. I thought nobody did.’

‘
I
do. And
he
does.’

‘Barford? Ann, what are you----’

‘I’m trying to tell you. I didn’t know until--until my grandmother died. She told me just before. She said I’d need it, but it mustn’t get out in the village. I oughtn’t to be telling you.’

‘Don’t if you shouldn’t, Ann.’

‘I think I’ll have to. But you know who my grandfather was?’

‘My Great-Uncle Wickham, I’m told. My grandfather’s brother?’

‘Yes.’ Anice nodded slowly. ‘We
are
related, you know.’

‘I do know. But---’

‘ ‘Morning, everyone. What the hell’s going on?’

The voice, arrogant and noisy, unmistakably Luttrell’s, broke in like a thunderclap and was perhaps as unwelcome. He had evidently crossed the road to join them, and was now standing at the other side of the curricle, with just manners enough to lift his hat to Mary. It did not sound like his better mood this morning, and to make it worse he had changed his clothes. Hitherto in Cheltenham he had been more or less conventionally dressed, but these were the coachman’s clothes he had worn when he picked the quarrel in Larkin’s chop-house, the top boots and wide-brimmed hat, the long brown coat with capes on the shoulders. He even carried a long coaching whip, with which he suddenly prodded at Anice, deliberately ruffling her hair.

‘Hello, lovely! Where were
you
yesterday? What the hell d’you mean by it?’

‘Stop it, you---’ She was pushing the whip away from her head. ‘Are you drunk this morning?’

‘Not a bit. What do you mean by it?’

‘Tommy!’ Mary spoke suddenly from across the curricle. ‘I was talking to Ann, and I wish to talk to her.’

‘Well, you’ll have to leave it. It’s bad for her. Gives her ideas, hey?’ He prodded at her again, and then seemed to catch sight of Richard and John. ‘ ‘Morning, both of you. You can amuse Mary, can’t you? Anice is with me. We’re having a day out.’

‘We are
not.’
She turned on him fiercely, waving back two angry men who were moving to intervene. ‘I’m not driving you anywhere till you behave yourself.’

‘My God, you’re not. You’ll keep in your blasted place, and
I’ll
tool the ribbons.’

‘You’ll not---’

It happened too quickly for any of them. Anice was still at the side of the seat, where she had been talking to Mary, and one perfectly timed leap took Luttrell into the curricle next to her, one hand snatching the reins from her before she could even tighten her grip. His other hand swung his whip, sending the lash viciously at the startled groom, who was still holding the horses. He leaped wildly back to save his face, and the greys reared nervously. Then the lash caught them both and the curricle lurched, sending John bumping into Mary. Then it was off, and they heard Luttrell’s laugh as he expertly gathered the reins. The whip cracked again, and at once the greys burst into a canter that made pursuit on foot a hopeless undertaking. Both men tried it, and then stopped by the Colonnade. The curricle was already past the Market House, and the greys were showing their speed.

‘Damned out-and-outer!’ said John.

‘He’s not safe. Look!’

It hardly needed pointing out. The curricle was not steady. It was lurching from side to side, the greys pulling unevenly, and they saw Luttrell pull his arm from Anice, whom he had been pinning to the seat at his side, and hurriedly get both hands to the reins. But whatever his skill with a coach, he had not mastered a curricle, and twice he made pedestrians leap for their lives as the wheels went dangerously at the wall. Twice he pulled clear, apparently with his confidence unshaken, and he had not even slackened speed when disaster came. Ahead of him was a slight bend in the road, and round it came the four-in-hand of the Gloucester Mail, driving fast in the last half-mile, and fairly in the centre of the road, as its privilege was. Its driver did well, checking his horses instantly and pulling hard to the side while passengers rose in their seats and the guard blared frantically on his horn, but it was now too late. There was no chance of stopping. Even an attempt at it would have set the horses swerving, and Luttrell kept his head. He left them undisturbed while he tried to steer them to the last half-inch, and he all but did it. He got the greys through the gap, but not the curricle. It had just touched the wall, and he could not quite check the swing away. Anice was suddenly on her feet, and the sweating watchers by the Colonnade saw her fling herself from the curricle just as its offside wheel went headlong into the wheels of the Mail. There was a screech of splintering timber as the Mail went toppling on its side with the curricle beneath it; then shouts and calls for help, windows opening, men running, and the screams of terrified horses, still caught in the collars.

The driver of the Mail took first charge, with the calm of an old professional, and he was quickly joined by the guard, with his pistols ready in case they were needed for the horses. But it was not quite so bad, and at once they were both cutting the traces to release the plunging, kicking animals. Then they called for any help there was, lifting the coach somehow from the shattered curricle to get at Luttrell, who was trapped beneath it. It was half done when the group came running from the Colonnade, the little groom first, to dive at Anice who was lying quite still by the wall. A moment later they were joined by Hildersham, who seemed to have appeared from nowhere. Nobody asked about that.

Carefully they turned Anice over and saw the smear of blood on her head and the trickle of it down her face. She was perhaps semi-conscious, limp and white, and Grant felt quickly for her pulse.