Lady of Quality

Chapter 3

Miss Wychwood uttered a smothered exclamation of annoyance, but if he heard it the first of the visitors to enter the room gave no sign of having done so. He was a stockily built man, a little more than thirty years of age, with rather heavy features, and an air of considerable self-consequence. He was dressed with propriety, but it was easily to be seen that he had no modish leanings, for his neckcloth, though neatly arranged, was quite unremarkable, and the points of his shirt-collar scarcely rose above his jawbone. He first bowed, and then walked towards his hostess, as one sure of his welcome, and said, with ponderous gallantry: “I might have guessed, when I found the sun shining over Bath this morning, that it heralded your return! And so it was, as I made it my business to discover. Dear Miss Annis, the town has been a desert without you!”

He carried the hand she held out to him to his lips, but she drew it away almost immediately, and extended it to his companion, saying, with a smile: “Why, how is this, Harry? Have you come into Somerset on a repairing lease?”

He grinned at her. “Shame on you, fair wit-cracker!” he retorted. “When I have come all the way from London only to pay my respects to you—!”

She laughed. “Palaverer! Don’t try to hoax me with your flummery, for I cut my wisdoms before you were out of short coats! Miss Farlow you are both acquainted with, but I must make you known to Miss Carleton, whom I don’t think you have met.” She waited until the gentlemen had made their bows, and then presented Ninian to them, and begged them to be seated.

Lord Beckenham said, with a reproving glance at his brother: “Your vivacity carries you too far, Harry! That is not the way to speak to Miss Wychwood.”

His graceless junior paid no heed to this admonition, his attention being fully engaged by Lucilla, of whom he was taking a frankly admiring survey. He was a very elegant young gentleman, of engaging address, and fashionable appearance. His glossy brown locks were brushed into the Windswept style; the points of his collar reached his cheek-bones; his neckcloth was fearfully and wonderfully tied; he had a nice taste in waistcoats; his pantaloons were of a modish yellow; and the Hessians which encased his slim legs were so highly polished as to dazzle beholders. He looked to be the very antithesis of his brother, which indeed he was, for his character was as frivolous as his raiment, he had never showed any disposition to devote himself to his studies, and far too much disposition to squander his inheritance on revel-routs, expensive little barques of frailty, games of chance, and the adornment of his person. He also kept a string of prime hunters, and the fact that he was an accomplished horseman would never have been suspected by strangers who encountered him on the strut in Bond Street, and did not know that he had been a regular subscriber to the Heythrop since he first went up to Oxford; and, in spite of being a neck-or-nothing rider, had never yet come to grief over the stone walls of the Cotswold country, or been thrown into one of the quarries which all too often lay beyond those walls.

Lord Beckenham was torn between secret admiration of his horsemanship and disapproval of his extravagance. He read him many lectures, but never failed to rescue him from his pecuniary embarrassments, and was always glad to welcome him to Beckenham Court. He said, and quite sincerely believed, that he held his two brothers and his three sisters in great affection, but he was not a warmhearted man, and his unremitting care of their interests sprang partly from a rigid sense of duty, and partly from a patriarchal instinct. At an early age he had succeeded to his father’s dignities, and had found himself the sole support of an ailing mother, and the guardian of two sisters, and his youngest brother. His elder sister was already married to an impecunious cleric, and the mother of two infants, the forerunners of what promised to be a large family, and he instantly made it his business to find eligible husbands for Mary and Caroline. Captain James Beckenham had, at that date, risen from the position of midshipman to that of a junior officer, and his promotion thereafter had been rapid. He had had the good fortune to win a considerable amount of prize money, which, added to his handsome inheritance, put him beyond the necessity of applying to his brother for any pecuniary assistance whatsoever. He rarely visited Beckenham Court, preferring to spend his time, when on shore, in all the forms of entertainment most deprecated by his lordship. Nor were Mary and Caroline very frequent visitors, so that having arranged marriages for both to very well-inlaid gentlemen Beckenham found himself with only the eldest and the youngest members of his family still tied to what Captain Beckenham sarcastically called his apron-strings. It would have been unjust to have said that he regretted their independence; but he certainly regretted the loosening of the bonds which kept them revolving round him; and, convinced of his own worthiness, never suspected that it was his deeply ingrained habit of censuring their follies, and giving them quite unwanted advice which drove them away from the Court.

He enjoyed the advantages of a large fortune. He was the owner of an imposing estate, situated between Bath and Wells, and was a frequent visitor to Bath, where he was a prime favourite amongst those residents whom Harry irreverently called the Bath Toughs. For years he had been regarded as the biggest matrimonial catch in the district, and caps past counting had been set at him. But, never, until the appearance on the Bath scene of Miss Annis Wychwood, had he shown the slightest disposition to make some lady an offer. He first encountered Annis when she was on a visit to a friend; realized, on being presented to her at one of the Assemblies, that she was the only female he had ever met who was worthy of becoming his wife; and thereafter prosecuted an unremitting assault on her defences. There were those (like Lady Wychwood) who thought that Annis would be foolish to refuse such an advantageous offer, but these provident ladies were outnumbered by those who thought it a very good joke that any man as prosy as Lord Beckenham should have set his heart on Annis Wychwood, who was as lively as he was dull.

Annis had done her best, within the dictates of propriety, to convince him that his suit was hopeless, but she had failed: partly because her recognition of his many good qualities prohibited her from treating him with Turkish brutality, and partly because he could not bring himself to believe that any female on whom he had bestowed the accolade of his approval could seriously refuse to marry him. Females were known to be capricious, and Miss Wychwood certainly enjoyed flirtations with her many admirers. This was the only fault he detected in her. It was a grave one, and every now and then he wondered whether, when under his influence, she would become more sober-minded, or whether her frivolity was incurable. But after one of these soul-searchings he would see her again, fall under the spell of her beauty, and become even more determined to add this piece of perfection to his collection of artistic treasures.

For the acquisition of pictures, and statues, and vases was his one extravagance; and since he was extremely wealthy he was able to indulge it. He employed several agents, whose business it was to inform him when and where some coveted object was coming up for sale; and frequently paid flying visits to the Continents returning usually with yet another Chinese bowl to add to his overflowing cabinets, or an Old Master to hang on his crowded walls. Miss Wychwood said that Beckenham Court was fast becoming more like a museum than a private residence; and once told her brother that she suspected his lordship of caring more for the possession of treasures which other men envied him than for the treasures themselves.

On this occasion he had come home from an expedition to The Hague, whence he had returned with a reputed Cuyp. He said he entertained doubts of the authenticity of the picture, and hoped he could persuade Miss Wychwood to drive out to Beckenham Court to see it. He described to her in exhaustive detail not only the composition of the picture, but all the circumstances which had led him to purchase it. She listened to him with half an ear, but was more interested in the comedy being enacted by the three youngest members of the party. Mr Harry Beckenham, having seated himself beside Lucilla, was making himself extremely agreeable, and she, after some initial shyness, was enjoying what Miss Wychwood guessed to be her first encounter with a personable young man who very obviously admired her, and who knew just how to set a shy damsel at her ease. On the other side of the fireplace, Mr Elmore had evidently taken Mr Beckenham in silent dislike. This might have arisen from a feeling that he was at a disadvantage beside a man not so many years his senior but possessed of far more address, and bearing all the appearance of a Man of Fashion; but as she covertly watched the trio Miss Wychwood was assailed by the sudden suspicion that Mr Elmore’s hostility sprang from seeing his childhood’s friend responding with the utmost readiness to Mr Beckenham’s advances. This dog-in-the-manger attitude was amusing, but might easily lead to trouble. Miss Wychwood was not sorry when Lord Beckenham’s meticulous adherence to the rules governing polite society led him to break up the party immediately after tea.

Nothing could more surely have confirmed her gathering belief that Lucilla had been kept in far too strict seclusion by Mrs Amber than her quite disproportionate pleasure in what had been, she confided to her hostess, her first grown-up party. “For I don’t count being civil to Aunt Clara’s fusty friends, and being sent away as soon as I’ve said how do you do, as though I were still in the schoolroom.”

Had she no friends of her own? No—well, none of her own choosing! Aunt did encourage her to go for walks with two girls whose parents she knew, and approved, but as they were both models of propriety, and so stupid as to be dead bores, she never would do so. And when she had been invited to a picnic party, Aunt had refused to allow her to go, because she had once contracted the measles at a juvenile party. Aunt did not like al fresco parties: she said that nothing more surely made one catch severe chills than sitting on damp ground, and that the ground always was damp, even if the picnic wasn’t spoilt by a sudden shower of rain, which, in her experience, it usually was.

Until her seventeenth birthday, a highly accomplished governess had had charge of her education, and had accompanied her wherever she went, if her aunt had succumbed (as Miss Wychwood gathered she frequently did) to one of her nervous headaches. She had been assisted by various teachers, hired at great expense, who instructed Lucilla in music, water-colour painting, and foreign languages. Aunt had chosen her as much for her rigid sense of propriety as for her learning, and she had never succeeded in winning her pupil’s affection, or in inspiring her with a desire to become proficient in any of her studies. Oh, no! she hadn’t been unkind! It was just that, for all her scholarship, she hadn’t the least understanding of anything beyond the covers of her primers, and her lexicons.

These somewhat inarticulate revelations imbued Miss Wychwood with a determined resolve to introduce Lucilla into a wider circle than she had been permitted to enter. Bath was no longer the fashionable resort it had once been, but it had its Assemblies, its concerts, and its theatre, and although most of its residents were elderly, there were many who had large families. These Miss Wychwood passed under rapid review, and before she went to bed that night had made out a list of suitable persons to invite to a rout-party, at which Lucilla should be presented to Bath society. Perusing this list, her ever-ready sense of the ridiculous overcame her, and sent her chuckling up to her bedchamber. It would be the dullest and most undistinguished party she had ever given in Upper Camden Place, the preponderance of the invited guests being of immature age, and the rest being made up by their parents, all of whom were eminently respectable, and very few of whom could be depended on to lend life to the party.

On the following morning, having written her invitations and given them to her footman to deliver, she took Lucilla out to do a little shopping. She had requested Mrs Amber in her very polite letter to send Lucilla’s maid to Bath, bringing with her the rest of the raiment which had been taken to Chartley Place, but since it might be several days before Mrs Amber complied with this request—if she did comply with it, which was by no means certain—some additions to the scanty wardrobe Lucilla had crammed into her portmanteau were necessary. Lucilla was delighted at the prospect of visiting the Bath shops, and became rapturous when she saw the very elegant hats, mantles, and dresses displayed in Milsom Street. She made several purchases, pored over fashion plates, and was persuaded to bespeak an evening-dress, and a walking-habit from Miss Wychwood’s modiste, who promised to have both made up for her as quickly as possible. Miss Wychwood wished to make her a present of them but this she resolutely refused, saying that as soon as she received her quarterly allowance of pin-money she would be so plump in the pocket as to be able to buy dozens of dresses.

After this agreeable session, Miss Wychwood took her down to the Pump Room, and was fortunate enough to encounter there Mrs Stinchcombe, a pleasant woman with whom she was well-acquainted, and who was the mother of two pretty girls, the elder of whom was just Lucilla’s age, and one son, at present up at Cambridge. Both the girls were with their mother, and Miss Wychwood lost no time in introducing Lucilla to Mrs Stinchcombe, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing the three young ladies with their heads together, chattering away at a great rate, in a manner that showed that they were on the high road to forming bosom friendships. Mrs Stinchcombe was disposed to approve of any girl who enjoyed Miss Wychwood’s patronage, and said, regarding the trio with an indulgent smile: “What a set of little bagpipes, aren’t they? Is Miss Carleton residing with you?”

“She has come to visit me, for what I hope may be a stay of several weeks,” replied Miss Wychwood. “She is an orphan, and has been living in Cheltenham with her aunt, who has kept her in rather too strict seclusion. Not yet out, of course. But I think it of the first importance that girls should know how to go on in society before being pitchforked into the ton, and I trust I may have persuaded her aunt to permit her to try her wings in Bath before her presentation.”

Mrs Stinchcombe nodded. “Very true, my dear! I have frequently observed how often girls being, as you aptly express it, pitchforked straight from the schoolroom into the ton, ruin their chances by excessive shyness, which leads them to be tongue-tied, or—worse!—disagreeably pert, in the effort to appear up to snuff, as the saying is! You must bring your protégée to a little party I am giving for my girls on Thursday: quite informal, I need hardly say!”

Miss Wychwood thanked her and accepted the invitation, reflecting, rather ruefully, that she was condemning herself to exactly the sort of party which she found intolerably boring. Another thought occurred to her, which she found peculiarly disconcerting: it flashed through her brain that she was dwindling into a duenna. It was a lowering reflection, but since she had not yet reached her thirtieth year, and had not noticed any diminution in the number of her admirers, she did not allow it to oppress her. And she had her reward when Lucilla came up to her, her eyes shining like stars, and said: “Oh, Miss Wychwood, Corisande has invited me to a party on Thursday! May I go to it? Pray don’t say I must not!”

“Perhaps, if you are very good, I shan’t say that,” replied Miss Wychwood gravely. “In fact, I have just this moment accepted Mrs Stinchcombe’s kind invitation to us both.”

Lucilla laughed, but at once turned to thank Mrs Stinchcombe, and did it so prettily that Mrs Stinchcombe afterwards told Annis that the child’s manners matched her lovely face.

All the way up the hill to Camden Place Lucilla bubbled over with delight in the promised treat, and intense pleasure in having met (thanks to her dear, dear Miss Wychwood!) anyone so charming and so truly amiable as Miss Corisande Stinchcombe. Edith Stinchcombe was excessively agreeable, too, although not yet emancipated from the schoolroom; and as for Mrs Stinchcombe, could Miss Wychwood conceive of a more indulgent or more excellent parent for any girl to have? According to the testimony of her daughters, Mama always understood exactly how one felt, and was never cross! So very unlike Aunt Clara’s friends! Only fancy!—she permitted Corisande to go shopping, as long as Edith, or their brother, accompanied her, without being escorted by Edith’s governess! Not that Miss Frampton was in the least like the unlamented Miss Cheeseburn, who had helped Aunt to make Lucilla’s life a positive burden to her! “Corisande says Miss Frampton is the greatest dear, and so jolly that she and Edith like her to go out with them! Oh, and Corisande says, ma’am, that she knows of a shop in Stall Street where one may purchase reticules at half the price they charge in Milsom Street, and she says she will take me there, if you see no objection to it!”

Miss Wychwood, responding suitably to these confidences, perceived that she was doomed to be bored for the rest of Lucilla’s stay by references to What Corisande Said.

On the following evening, to their surprise, Ninian walked into the drawing-room, announcing that he had brought her traps to Lucilla, and had given them into the butler’s charge. He was looking bright-eyed and decidedly belligerent; and it was obvious that he was labouring under a strong sense of ill-usage.

“Oh, Ninian!” Lucilla exclaimed. “How very kind of you! I never expected to get them so soon! But there was no need for you to have put yourself to the fag of bringing them to me yourself!”

“Oh, yes, there was!” he retorted grimly.

“No, no, Sarah could well have brought them without an escort!”

“Well, she couldn’t, because she isn’t there! Such a dust as I walked into! Talk of riots and rumpuses—! And why even my mother should be thrown into a taking when they must all of them have known you hadn’t been murdered, or kidnapped, because they knew I’d gone away with you, had me floored!”

“Do you mean Sarah isn’t here?” cried Lucilla.

“That’s exactly what I mean. She and your aunt got to dagger-drawing, because your aunt worked herself into a rare passion, and rang a regular peal over her, saying it was her fault for neglecting you, and I don’t know what besides, and she nabbed the rust, and rubbed up all manner of old sores, and the end of it was that she packed her boxes, and flounced off in a rare tantrum!” He observed, with displeasure, that Lucilla was dancing round the room in an ecstasy of delight, and added, with asperity: “You may think that a matter for rejoicing, but I didn’t, I can tell you!”

“Oh, I do, I do!” Lucilla said, executing a neat step, and clapping her hands. “If you knew how much I was dreading Sarah’s arrival—!”

Miss Wychwood intervened at this point, to ask Ninian if he had dined. He thanked her, and said yes, he had stopped to bait on the road, and must not remain for more than a few minutes, because it was growing late, and he had not yet arranged for accommodation in Bath. “Which is something about which I need your advice, ma’am,” he disclosed. “The thing is—well, owing to one cause and another, I’m a trifle behind the wind at the moment! Until quarterday, in fact! As soon as my allowance is paid I shall be tolerably well up in the stirrups again, but it won’t do to be getting under the hatches, so I mean to put up at one of the cheaper hotels, and I thought you would very likely be able to direct me to a—a suitable one!”

Lucilla stopped dancing round the room, and asked, in astonishment: “Why, do you mean to remain in Bath?”

“Yes,” replied Ninian, through gritted teeth, “I do! That will show them!”

Before Lucilla could ask for enlightenment on this somewhat obscure utterance, a second, and even more timely, intervention was provided by Limbury, who came in with the tea-tray. Further discussion was suspended; and when Ninian had drunk two cups of tea, and eaten several macaroons, his seething rancour had subsided enough to enable him to give the ladies a fairly coherent account of the trials he had undergone at the hands of his loving relations. “Would you believe it?” he demanded. “They blamed me for the whole!”

“Oh, how unjust!” cried Lucilla indignantly.

“I should rather think so! For how the devil could I have prevented you from running away, I should like to know?”

“You couldn’t. No one could!” she asserted. “They ought to have been grateful to you for coming with me!”

“Well, that’s what I thought!” he said. “What’s more, if anyone was to blame for driving you out of the house it was Them, not me!”

“Did you tell them so?” asked Lucilla eagerly.

“No, not then,but in the end I did, when I got into a pelter myself! That was when I found that your aunt’s prostration was being laid at my door, if you please, instead of at yours! I don’t know what she might have said to me, because I didn’t see her—thank God! She fell into hysterics when it was discovered that you had run away, and then had strong convulsions, or spasms, or whatever she calls ’em, and was laid up in bed, with our doctor in attendance, and my mother trying to restore her with burnt feathers, and sal volatile, and smelling-salts; and my father almost pushing Sarah out of the house, because the mere thought that she was still at Chartley threw your aunt into fresh spasms! Well, I did say, What a wet-goose! and Papa—Papa!—said I had much to blame myself for! And Mama said how could I have reconciled it with my conscience to have abandoned you to a total stranger, and never would she have believed that a child of hers could have behaved so heartlessly! And when it came to Cordelia and Lavinia starting to reproach me—but I precious soon put a stop to that!—I—I lost my temper, and said Very well, if they thought it was my duty to protect her from you,ma’am, I’d go straight back to Bath, and stay there! And—and I’m afraid I said that any place would be preferable to Chartley, and even though you were a total stranger I was sure of a welcome in your house, which was more than I had had in my own home!”

“Oh, well done,Ninian!” exclaimed Lucilla enthusiastically clasping his arm, and squeezing it. “I never dreamed you were so full of pluck!”

He coloured, but said: “I don’t think it was well done of me. I ought not to have spoken so to my father. I’m sorry for it, but I meant what I said, and I’m dashed well not going to crawl back until he is sorry too! Even if I starve in a ditch!”

“Oh, pray don’t think of doing such a thing!” said Miss Farlow, who had been listening open-mouthed to this recital. “So embarrassing for dear Miss Wychwood, for people would be bound to say she should have rescued you! Not that I think you would be allowed to die in a ditch in Bath—at least, I never heard of anyone doing so, because they are so strict about keeping the streets clean and tidy, and destitute persons are cared for at the Stranger’s Friend Society: a most excellent institution, I believe, but I cannot think that your worthy parents would wish you to become an inmate there, however vexed they may be with you!”

This made Lucilla giggle, but Miss Wychwood, preserving her countenance, said: “Very true! You must hold it as a weapon in reserve, Ninian, to use only if your father threatens to cast you off entirely. In the meantime, I suggest that you put up at the Pelican. It is in Walcot Street, and I’m told its charges are very reasonable. It isn’t a fashionable hotel, but I believe it is comfortable, and provides its guests with a good, plain ordinary. And if it should be too plain for you, you can always dine here!” She added, with a lurking twinkle in her eyes: “I’ve never dined there, but of course I have visited it, to see the room Dr Johnson slept in!”

“Oh!” said Ninian, all at sea. “Yes—of course! Dr Johnson! Exactly so! Was he—was he a friend of yours, ma’am? Or—or one of your relations, perhaps?”

Lucilla gave a crow of laughter. “Stupid! He was the dixionary-man, and he died years and years ago—didn’t he, ma’am?”

“Oh, a writing cove!” said Ninian, in disparaging accents. “Come to think of it, I have heard of him—but I’m not bookish, ma’am!”

“But surely, dear Mr Elmore, they must have used his Dixionary at your school?” said Miss Farlow.

“Ah, that would be it!” nodded Ninian. “I daresay I must have seen the name on the back of some book or other, which accounts for my having had the notion that I recognized it!”

“If recognition you could call it!” murmured Miss Wychwood. “Never mind, Ninian! We can’t all of us be bookish, can we?”

“Well, I don’t scruple to say that I never had the least turn for scholarship,” Ninian somewhat unnecessarily disclosed. He added a handsome rider to this statement, saying, with a beaming smile: “And I promise you, ma’am, no one would ever suspect you of being bookish!”

Overwhelmed by this tribute, Miss Wychwood uttered in a shaken voice: “How kind of you, Ninian, to say so!”

“It’s very true,” said Lucilla, adding her mite. “No one could think she was bookish, but she reads prodigiously, and even keeps books in her bedchamber!”

“How can you be so treacherous, Lucilla, as to betray me?” demanded Miss Wychwood tragically.

“Only to Ninian!” Lucilla said, regarding her rather anxiously. “Of course I wouldn’t dream of telling anyone else, but he won’t say a word about it, will you, Ninian?”

“No, never!” he responded promptly.

Miss Wychwood shook a mournful head. “If only I may not have sunk myself beneath reproach in your eyes!”

They made such haste to reassure her that her suppressed laughter escaped her, and she said: “You absurd babies! Oh, don’t look so astonished, or you will send me into fresh whoops! I know you can’t think why, and if I were to explain it to you you would believe me to be all about in my head! Tell me, Ninian, did you give my letter to Mrs Amber?”

“No, because she was too ill to receive me, but my mother gave it to her.” He hesitated, and then said, with a deprecatory grin: “She—she wasn’t well enough to write to you, but she did charge my mother with a message!”

“A message to me?” Miss Wychwood asked, her brows lifting slightly.

“Well, not precisely!” he replied. His grin widened, and he gave a chuckle. “What she said, in fact, was that she washed her hands of Lucilla!”

“She says that every time I vex her!” said Lucilla disgustedly. “And never does she mean it! Depend upon it, she will come to fetch me back, and all my pleasure will be at an end!”

“Oh, I don’t think she’ll do that!” said Ninian consolingly. “She does seem to be quite knocked-up. What’s more, when my mother asked her if she was to direct one of the maids to pack up your gear and send it to you she said that if after all she had done for you you preferred a stranger to her she only trusted that you wouldn’t regret it, and wish her to take you back, because she never wanted to set eyes on you again!”

Lucilla considered this, but presently shook her head, and sighed: “I don’t set the least store by that, but it does at least make it seem that she won’t come to Bath immediately. It always takes her days to recover from her hysterical turns!”

“Yes,” he agreed. “But perhaps I ought just to mention to you that the first thing she did, before she took to her bed, was to send off a letter to Mr Carleton. Ten to one he won’t pay any heed to it, but I think I ought perhaps to warn you about it!”

“Oh, if that isn’t just like her!” cried Lucilla, flushing with wrath. “She is too ill to write to Miss Wychwood, but not too ill to write to my uncle! Oh, dear me, no! And if he means to come here, to force me to return, I can’t and I won’t bear it!”

“Well, don’t put yourself into a stew!” recommended Miss Wychwood. “If he does come here with any such intention he will find he has me to deal with—and that is an experience which I fancy he won’t enjoy!”