Frederica

II

When the Marquis entered his house, some time later, one of the first things that his eyes alighted on was a letter, lying on one of a pair of ebony and ormolu pier tables. Its direction was written in large and flourishing characters, and the pale blue wafer which sealed it was unbroken, Mr Charles Trevor, the Marquis’s excellent secretary, having recognized at a glance that it emanated from one or other of the frail beauties temporarily engaging his lordship’s erratic attention. Relinquishing his hat, his gloves, and the lavishly caped driving-coat which had excited Miss Kitty Buxted’s admiration, into the hands of the footman waiting to receive them, he picked up the letter, and strolled with it into the library. As he broke the wafer, and spread open the crossed sheet, an aroma of ambergris assailed his fastidious nostrils. An expression of distaste came into his face; he held the letter at arm’s length, and groped for his quizzing-glass. Through this, he scanned the missive in a cursory way, before dropping it into the fire. Fanny, he decided, was becoming an intolerable bore. A dazzling creature, but, like so many prime articles, she was never satisfied. She now wanted a pair of cream-coloured horses to draw her barouche; last week it had been a diamond necklace. He had given her that, and it would serve for a farewell gift.

The sickly scent with which she had sprinkled her letter seemed to linger on his fingers; he was carefully wiping them when Charles Trevor came into the room. He glanced up, and seeing the look of surprise on that young gentleman’s face very kindly explained to him that he disliked ambergris.

Mr Trevor offered no comment, but comprehension was writ so large upon his face that Alverstoke said:

“Just so! I know what you are thinking, Charles, and you are perfectly light: it is time I gave the fair Fanny her congé.” He sighed, “A nice bit of game, but as birdwitted as she’s avaricious.”

Again Mr Trevor offered no comment. He would have been hard put to it to have made one, for his thoughts on the delicate subject were tangled. As a moralist, he could only deplore his employer’s way of life; as one deeply imbued with chivalrous ideals, he pitied the fair Fanny; but as one who was fully aware of the extent of his lordship’s generosity towards the lady, he was obliged to own that she had no cause for complaint.

Charles Trevor, one of the younger members of a large family, owed his present position to the circumstance of his father’s having been appointed, when newly ordained, to the post of tutor and general mentor to the present Marquis’s father, accompanying him on a protracted Grand Tour. A comfortable living was not his only reward: his noble pupil remained sincerely attached to him; stood as godfather to his eldest son; and reared his own son in the vague belief that the Reverend Laurence Trevor had a claim upon his patronage.

So, when the Reverend Laurence had ventured to suggest to the present Marquis that Charles was a suitable candidate for the post of secretary, Alverstoke had accepted him with far more readiness than Charles had felt in becoming a member of his household. Charles had no desire to enter the Church, but he was a young man of serious mind and unimpeachable morals, and nothing he had heard of Alverstoke led him to expect that his appointment would prove to be anything but a mortification of the flesh. But as he had, besides commonsense, a good deal of filial affection, and knew that to a clergyman of moderate substance it was no easy task to provide for a sixth son, he kept his misgivings to himself, assured his father that he would do his best not to disappoint his expectations, and derived what consolation he could from the reflection that when he was an inmate of Alverstoke House he must surely find it easier to discover and to grasp a golden opportunity than while he kicked his heels in a country parsonage.

Since his taste ran to politics, the golden opportunity had not so far offered itself, the Marquis not sharing his ambition, and consequently making infrequent appearances in the Upper House; but he was allowed to write such brief speeches as his patron felt that it behooved him to utter, and even, now and then, to favour him with his own political convictions.

Furthermore, he had found it quite impossible to dislike Alverstoke. While he was given no reason to suppose that Alverstoke was interested in his concerns, he found him to be as unexacting as he was amiable, and never disagreeably high in the instep. Comparing notes with a college-friend, in a similar situation, whose employer appeared to regard him as a cross between a black slave and an upper servant, Charles knew himself to be fortunate. Alverstoke could give an annihilating snub to some encroaching mushroom, but if his secretary erred he raked him down in a manner which was unexceptionable, since it conveyed no suggestion of social superiority. Charles’s friend had curt commands flung at him; Charles received civil requests, generally accompanied by one of his lordship’s more attractive smiles. Try as Charles would, he could not resist Alverstoke’s charm, any more than he could withhold admiration for his horsemanship, and his proficiency in a great many sporting activities.

“I collect,” said the Marquis, faint amusement in his eyes, “from your hesitant air and sheepish demeanour, that you feel it to be your duty to put me in mind of yet another obligation. Take my advice, and don’t do it! I shall take it very unkind in you, and very likely fly up into the boughs.”

A grin dispelled the gravity of Mr Trevor’s countenance. “You never do, sir,” he said simply. “And it isn’t an obligation — at least, I don’t think it is! Only I thought you would like to know of it.”

“Oh, did you? In my experience, whenever those words are uttered they are the prelude to something I would liefer not know.”

“Yes,” said Mr Trevor ingenuously, “but I wish you will read this letter! As a matter of fact, I promised Miss Merriville that you would!”

“And who,” demanded his lordship, “is Miss Merriville?”

“She said you would know, sir.”

“Really, Charles, you should know me better than to suppose that I carry in my head the names of all the — ” He stopped, his brows drawing together. “Merriville,” he repeated thoughtfully.

“I believe, sir, some sort of connection of yours.”

“A very remote sort! What the devil does she want?”

Mr Trevor offered him a sealed letter. He took it, but said severely: “You would be very well served if I put it into the fire, and left you to explain how it was that you were not, after all, able to see to it that I read it!” He broke the seal and opened the letter. It did not take him long to master its contents. He raised his eyes when he came to the end, and directed a look of pained enquiry at Mr Trevor. “Are you a trifle out of sorts, Charles? On the toodle last night, and not feeling quite the thing today?”

“No, of course not!” said Mr Trevor, shocked.

“Well, what, in heaven’s name, has made you suddenly queer in your attic?”

“I’m not! I mean — ”

“You must be. Never before, in the three years of our association, have you failed to make my excuses to my more importunate relatives! As for encouraging the dirty dishes amongst them — ”

“That I am persuaded they are not, sir! I fancy they may not be affluent, but — ”

“Dirty dishes,” repeated his lordship firmly. “When one considers that my sister believes herself to be living quite out of the world in Grosvenor Place, what can one think of persons owning to Upper Wimpole Street? And if — ” he glanced down at the letter again — ”and if this F. Merriville is the daughter of the only member of the family with whom I ever had the slightest acquaintance you may depend upon it she hasn’t a souse, and hopes I may be so obliging as to remedy this.”

“No, no!” Mr Trevor said. “I hope I know better than to encourage such persons as that!”

“So do I,” agreed his lordship. He lifted a quizzical eyebrow. “Friends of yours, Charles?”

“I never saw them before in my life, sir,” replied Mr Trevor stiffly. “I should perhaps assure your lordship that I should consider it grossly improper to try to introduce any of my friends to your notice.”

“Well, don’t poker up about it! I really didn’t mean to insult you,” said Alverstoke mildly.

“No, sir, of course not!” Mr Trevor said, mollified. “I beg pardon! The thing is — Well, I had best explain to you how it came about that I did meet Miss Merriville!”

“Do!” invited Alverstoke.

“She brought the letter herself,” disclosed Mr Trevor. “The carriage drew up just as I was about to enter the house — you see, you gave me very little to do today, so I thought you wouldn’t object to it if I went out to purchase some new neck-cloths for myself!”

“Now, what can have put such an idea as that into your head?”

Another grin was drawn from his staid secretary. “You did, sir. Well, the long and short of it is that Miss Merriville got down from the carriage, the letter in her hand, as I was mounting the steps. So — ”

“Ah!” interpolated Alverstoke. “No footman! Probably a job-carriage.”

“As to that, sir, I don’t know. At all events, I asked her if I could be of service — telling her that I was your secretary — and we fell into conversation — and I said that I would give you her letter, and — well — ”

“See to it that I read it,” supplied Alverstoke. “Describe this charmer to me, Charles!”

“Miss Merriville?” said Mr Trevor, apparently at a loss. “Well, I didn’t notice her particularly, sir! She was very civil, and unaffected, and — and certainly not what you call a dirty dish! I mean — ” He paused, trying to conjure up a picture of Miss Merriville. “Well, I don’t know much about such things, but it seemed to me that she was dressed with elegance! Quite young, I think — though not in her first season. Or even,” he added reflectively, “in her second season.” He drew a long breath, and uttered, in reverent accents: “It was the other one, sir!”

“Yes?” said Alverstoke encouragingly, the amusement deepening in his eyes.

Mr Trevor seemed to find it difficult to express himself; but after a pause, during which he obviously conjured up a heavenly vision, he said earnestly: “Sir, I have never before seen, or — or even dreamed of such a lovely girl! Her eyes! So big, and of such a blue! Her hair! like shining gold! The prettiest little nose, too, and her complexion quite exquisite! And when she spoke — ”

“But what were her ankles like?” interrupted his lordship.

Mr Trevor blushed, and laughed. “I didn’t see her ankles, sir, for she remained in the carriage. I was particularly struck by the sweetness of her expression, and her soft voice. In fact, there is something very taking about her — if you know what I mean!”

“I have a very fair notion.”

“Yes, well — well, when she leaned forward, and smiled, and begged me to give the letter to you, I promised her I would do so — even though I knew you wouldn’t be above half pleased!”

“You wrong me, Charles. I confess you haven’t aroused the smallest desire in me to make Miss Merriville’s acquaintance, but I must certainly meet her companion. Who, by the way, is she?”

“I am not perfectly sure, sir, but I fancy she might be Miss Merriville’s sister, though she is not at all like her. Miss Merriville called her Charis.”

“That confirms me in my dislike of Miss Merriville. Of all abominable abbreviations I think Carrie the most repulsive!”

“No, no!” expostulated Mr Trevor. “You misunderstood me, sir! Of course it isn’t Carrie! Miss Merriville distinctly said Charis! And I thought that never was anyone more aptly named, for it means ‘grace,’ you know — from the Greek!”

“Thank you, Charles,” said his lordship meekly. “Where should I be without you?”

“I thought you might have forgotten, sir — your memory being so bad!”

The Marquis acknowledged this demure hit by lifting one of his strong, slender hands in a fencer’s gesture. “Very well, Charles — damn your impudence!”

Encouraged, Mr Trevor said: “Miss Merriville said she hoped you would call in Upper Wimpole Street, sir: will you?”

“I daresay — if you can assure me that I shall find the beautiful Charis there.”

Mr Trevor was unable to do this, but he knew better than to urge the matter further, and withdrew, not unhopeful of the issue.

Thinking it over, later, it occurred to him that in exposing Charis to Alverstoke’s destructive notice he might be doing her a vast disservice. He was not afraid that Alverstoke would try to seduce a gently-born female of tender years, however beautiful she might be: his lordship’s gallantries did not include such wanton acts as that; but he did fear that he might, if Charis captured his fancy, lure her into one of his a suivie flirtations, bestowing a flattering degree of attention upon her and perhaps leading her to think that he had formed a lasting passion for her. Remembering Charis’s melting look, and appealing smile, Mr Trevor felt that her heart could easily be broken, and his conscience smote him. Then he reflected that she could hardly be alone in the world, and decided that her protection from a notorious flirt might safely be left to her parents. Besides, very young females ranked high on the list of the things Alverstoke rated as dead bores. As for Miss Merriville, Mr Trevor felt that she was very well able to take care of herself. He had been dazzled by her beautiful companion, but he retained a vague impression of a self-possessed female, with a slightly aquiline nose, and an air of friendly assurance. He did not think that she would be easily taken-in. Further reflection convinced him that no attempt would be made to trifle with her affections: it was unlikely that so noted a connoisseur of beauty as Alverstoke would deem her worthy of a second glance. In fact, it was even more unlikely that he would in any way bestir himself on her behalf.

After several days, during which his lordship made no mention of her, and certainly did not go to pay her a morning call, it began to seem as though he had either decided to ignore her, or had forgotten her existence. Mr Trevor knew that it was his duty to remind him, but he refrained, feeling that the moment was unpropitious. His lordship had been obliged to endure three visits — two from his elder sisters, and one from his heir’s widowed mother — all of which had bored him so much that every member of his household took great pains not to put him out of temper. “For I assure you, Mr Wicken,” said his lordship’s top-lofty valet, condescending to his lordship’s butler, “that when he is nettled his lordship can create quite a humdurgeon, as they say.”

“I am well aware of that, Mr Knapp,” returned his colleague, “being as I have been acquainted with his lordship from his cradle. He reminds me of his father, the late lord, but you, of course, didn’t know him,” he added, depressing pretension.

His lordship had indeed been sorely tried. Lady Buxted, never one to accept defeat, had come to Alverstoke House, on the flimsiest of pretexts, accompanied by her eldest daughter, who, failing to soften her uncle’s heart by cajolery, had dissolved into tears. But as she was not one of those few, fortunate females who could cry without rendering themselves hideous he was as impervious to her tears as to his sister’s account of the straitened circumstances to which she had been reduced. Only penury, Lady Buxted declared, had compelled her to apply to her brother for his assistance in the all-important duty of launching her dearest Jane into the ton. But her brother, speaking with the utmost amiability, told her that parsimony, not penury, was the correct word; upon which her ladyship lost her temper, and gave him what James, the first footman, who was waiting in the hall, described to his immediate subordinate as a rare bear-garden jaw.

Mrs Dauntry was his lordship’s second visitor. Like Lady Buxted, she was a widow; and she shared her cousin’s conviction that it was Alverstoke’s bounden duty to provide for her offspring. There the resemblance between them ended. Lady Buxted was frequently designated, by the vulgar, as a hatchet; but no one could have applied such a term to Mrs Dauntry, who presented an appearance of extreme fragility, and bore with noble fortitude all the trials which beset her. As a girl she had been an accredited beauty, but a tendency to succumb to infectious complaints had encouraged her to believe that her constitution was sickly; and it was not long after her marriage that she began (as Lady Jevington and Lady Buxted unkindly phrased it) to quack herself. Her husband’s untimely demise had set the seal on her ill-health: she became the subject of nervous disorders, and embarked on a series of cures and diets, which, since they included such melancholy remedies as goat’s whey (for an imagined consumption), soon reduced her to wraith-like proportions. By the time she was forty she had become so much addicted to invalidism that unless some attractive entertainment was offered her she spent the better part of her days reclining gracefully upon a sofa, with a poor relation in attendance, and a table beside her crowded with bottles and phials which contained Cinnamon Water, Valerian, Asafoetida Drops, Camphorated Spirits of Lavender, and any other paregoric or restorative recommended to her by her friends or by the maker’s advertizement. Unlike Lady Buxted, she was neither ill-tempered nor hardfisted. She had a faint, plaintive voice which, when she was thwarted, merely became fainter and more exhausted; and she was as ready to squander fortunes upon her children as upon herself. Unfortunately, her jointure (described by the Ladies Jevington and Buxted as an easy competence) was not large enough to enable her to live, without management and economy, in the style to which, she said, she was accustomed; and as she was too invalidish to study these arts, she was for ever outrunning the constable. She had been Alverstoke’s pensioner for years; and although heaven knew how much she wished to be independent of his generosity she could not but feel that since her handsome son was his heir it was his duty to provide also for her two daughters.

As the elder of these, Miss Chloë Dauntry, was some weeks short of her seventeenth birthday, her presentation had not exercised Mrs Dauntry’s mind until she learned, from various garbled sources, that Alverstoke was planning to give a magnificent ball in honour of Miss Jane Buxted. A weak female she might be, but in defence of her beloved children, she declared, she could become a lioness. In this guise she descended upon Alverstoke, armed with her most powerful weapon: her vinaigrette.

She made no demands, for that was not her way. When he entered the saloon, she came towards him, trailing shawls and draperies, and holding out her hands, which were exquisitely gloved in lavender kid. “Dear Alverstoke!” she uttered, raising huge, sunken eyes to his face, and bestowing one of her wistful smiles upon him. “My kind benefactor! How can I thank you?”

Wholly ignoring her left hand, he briefly clasped the other, saying: “Thank me for what?”

“So like you!” she murmured. “But although you may forget your generosity, I cannot! Oh, I am quite in disgrace with poor Harriet, and the girls, for venturing out-of-doors in such chilly weather, but I felt it was the least I could do! You are a great deal too good!”

“Well, that’s something new, at all events,” he remarked. “Sit down, Lucretia, and let me have the word with no bark on it! What have I inadvertently done to excite your gratitude?”

Nothing had ever been known to disturb the saintliness of Mrs Dauntry’s voice and demeanour; she replied, as she sank gracefully into a chair: “Dissembler! I know you too well to be taken-in: you don’t like to be thanked — and, indeed, if I were to thank you for all your goodness to me and mine, your never-failing support, your kindness to my loved ones, I fear I should become what you call a dead bore! Chloë, dear child, calls you our fairy godfather!”

“She must be a wet-goose!” he responded.

“Oh, she thinks no one the equal of her magnificent Cousin Alverstoke!” said Mrs Dauntry, gently laughing. “You are quite first-oars with her, I assure you!”

“No need to put yourself in a worry over that,” he said. “She’ll recover!”

“You are too naughty!” Mrs Dauntry said playfully. “You hope to circumvent me, but to no avail, I promise you! Well do you know that I am here to thank you — yes, and to scold you! — for coming — as I, alas, could not! — to Endymion’s assistance. That beautiful horse! Complete to a shade, he tells me! It is a great deal too good of you.”

“So that’s what you came to thank me for, is it?” said his lordship, a sardonic look in his eye. “You shouldn’t have ventured out on such an unnecessary errand: I said, when he joined, that I would keep him decently mounted.”

“So generous!” she sighed. “He is deeply sensible of it! As for me, I wonder sometimes what must have become of me when I was bereft of my beloved husband if I had not been able to depend upon your support through every trial.”

“My faith in you, dear cousin, leads me to believe that you would have lost no time in discovering some other support,” he answered, in a voice as sweet as hers. He smiled slightly, watching her bite her lip, and said, as he opened his snuff-box: “And what is the trial at present besetting you?”

She opened her eyes very wide at this, saying in a bewildered tone: “My dear Alverstoke, what can you mean? Apart from my wretched health — and I never talk of that, you know — none at all! I’ve discharged my errand, and must take my leave of you before my poor Harriet begins to fancy I’ve suffered one of my stupid spasms. She is waiting for me in the carriage, for she wouldn’t hear of my coming alone. Such good care as she takes of me! I am quite spoilt between you all!” She rose, drawing her shawl around her, and putting out her hand. But before he could take it she let it fall, exclaiming: “Oh, that puts me in mind of something I have been wanting to discuss with you! Advise me, Alverstoke! I am quite in a quandary!”

“You put me to shame, Lucretia,” he said. “As often as I disappoint you, you never disappoint me!”

“How you do love to joke me! Now, be serious, pray! It is about Chloë.”

“Oh, in that case you must hold me excused!” said his lordship. “I know nothing of schoolgirls, and my advice would be worthless, I fear.”

“Ah, you too think of her as a schoolgirl! Indeed, it seems almost impossible that she should be grown-up! But so it is: she’s all but seventeen; and although I had thought not to bring her out until next year, everyone tells me it would be wrong to postpone the event. They say, you know, that the dear Queen’s health is now so indifferent that she may pop off at any moment, and even if she doesn’t she won’t be equal to holding any Drawing-rooms next year. Which has me in a worry, because naturally I must present the sweet child — it is what poor Henry would have wished — and if the Queen were to die there can be no Drawing-rooms. As for presenting her at Carlton House, I wouldn’t for the world do so! I don’t know how we are to go on. Even if the Duchess of Gloucester were to take the Queen’s place — which, of course, the Prince Regent might desire her to do, for she has always been his favourite sister — it wouldn’t be the same thing. And who knows but what one might find that odious Lady Hertford in the Queen’s place?”

Alverstoke, who could think of few more unlikely contingencies, replied sympathetically: “Who indeed?”

“So I feel it to be my duty to present Chloë this season, whatever the cost!” said Mrs Dauntry. “I had hoped to have been so much beforehand with the world next year as to have been able to do the thing handsomely, but that, alas, can scarcely be! Dear child! When I told her that I should be obliged to present her in one of my own Court dresses, because the cost of such a dress as one would wish her to wear is utterly beyond my means, she was so good and so uncomplaining that it quite went to my heart! I couldn’t forbear to sigh: she is quite pretty that I positively long to rig her out to the best advantage! But if I must bring her out this season it cannot be.”

“In that case, my advice to you is to wait until next year,” responded Alverstoke. “Consoling yourself with the reflection that if there are no Drawing-rooms then none of the season’s fair come-outs will enjoy any experience which is denied her.”

“Ah, no! How could I be so improvident?” she countered. “Somehow I must contrive to present her this spring! A dance, too! But how to do that, situated as I am — ” She broke off, apparently struck by a sudden idea. “I wonder if Louisa means to bring Jane out this season? Sadly freckled, poor child, and such a deplorable figure! However, you may depend upon it that Louisa will make a push to present her creditably, though she is such a nip-cheese that I’m persuaded she will grudge every penny she is obliged to spend on the business. Indeed,” she added, softly laughing, “rumour has it that you are to give a ball in Jane’s honour!”

“Yes?” said his lordship. “But rumour, as I daresay you know, is a pipe — er — Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures — I forget the rest, but do let me assure you, dear Lucretia, that when invitations are sent out for a ball to be held here Chloë’s name will not be forgotten. And now you must allow me to escort you to your carriage: the thought of the devoted Harriet, patiently awaiting you, is beginning to prey upon my mind.”

“Stay!” said Mrs Dauntry, struck by yet another idea. “How would it be if Louisa and I cast our resources into a pool-dish, as it were, and gave a ball in honour of both our daughters? I am afraid that my lovely Chloë would quite outshine poor Jane, but I daresay Louisa won’t care for that, if she can but make and scrape a little.” She raised her hands in a prayerful gesture, and added, in a voice of nicely blended archness and cajolery: “Would you, dearest Vernon, if Louisa liked the scheme, permit us to hold the ball here, in your splendid ballroom?”

“No, dearest Lucretia, I would not!” replied his lordship. “But don’t repine! The occasion won’t arise, since Louisa wouldn’t like the scheme at all, believe me! Yes, I know that I am being so abominably disobliging as to make you feel faint: shall I summon the faithful Harriet to your side?”

This was a little too much, even for Mrs Dauntry. Casting upon him a deeply reproachful glance, she departed, her mien challenging comparison with that of Mrs Siddons, as portrayed by the late Sir Joshua Reynolds as the Tragic Muse.

The Marquis’s third visitor was Lady Jevington, who came, not to solicit his favour, but to adjure him not to yield to Lady Buxted’s importunities. She expressed herself in measured and majestic terms, saying that while she had neither expected him to lend his aid in the launching of her Anna into the ton, nor asked him to do so, she would be unable to regard it as anything but a deliberate slight if he were to perform this office for Miss Buxted, who did not (said Lady Jevington, with awful emphasis) share with her cousin the distinction of being his goddaughter. And if, she added, his partiality were to lead him to single out That Woman’s daughter Chloë, for this particular mark of favour, she would thenceforward wash her hands of him.

“Almost, Augusta, you persuade me!” said his lordship.

The words, spoken dulcetly, were accompanied by the sweetest of smiles; but Lady Jevington, arising in swelling wrath, swept out of the room without another word.

“And now,” the Marquis told his secretary, “it only remains for your protégée to demand a ball of me!”