Practical Heart, page 7
“Really!” breathed Cordelia and she seemed, to Gillian’s careful eye, truly amazed. “This is fascinating, sir.”
Felicity, who had been trailing the drift of Lord Vaughn’s comments diligently, overcame her timidity and asked, “How do you know, sir? Have you tried to persuade a blacksmith?”
Only a sensibility as naïve as Felicity’s could have asked such a question and made it sound respectful; still, Lord Vaughn seemed to take umbrage.
“My dear Miss Felicity,” he said, with painful emphasis, “there are, are not there, a number of ways of gathering intelligence? One may, certainly, learn through direct experience. However, one may also read, or simply infer through observation. My information in this particular springs from what one might call a reasonable surmise.”
“O,” said Felicity, quite cowed.
“I beg you will not mind Felicity,” Cordelia said, with a notable lack of grace. “She frequently chuses not to comprehend what is quite clear to anyone else.”
“Indeed?” Lady Vaughn broke in. “Possibly she thinks it appealing in a young lady to appear ignorant. I have known any number of girls to feel the same. I find it a most unattractive trait, however. The notion that to be feminine one must not be clever has always repelled Me—within reasonable bounds,” she added, with a sharp glance at Miss Spencer.
Gillian did not know how to defend Felicity from this attack without implying that she was indeed as foolish as she appeared. Therefore she kept to generalities, saying, “It is, however, a notion which many gentlemen encourage, by favouring ladies who will listen to them, as opposed to ladies to whom they might well listen.” She was thinking of Mr. Lawrence.
“Winsted,” said his mother, “I think you must defend your sex to Miss Spencer.”
“You will forgive Me if I refrain from speaking for all My sex at once,” said he, “but I shall be happy to speak for Myself. I could never, I think, be content in the company of a female who was incapable of comprehending Me. On the contrary, Miss Spencer, I find an inquiring and agile mind most desirable in a woman. It is, on the other hand, indisputably true that the fair sex has never been distinguished for the quality of its ideas.” His smile, as he concluded this speech, was so comfortably smug, so benignly contemptuous, that Gillian felt she could gladly have murdered him.
“It is my belief,” she answered, with a supreme attempt at evenness, “that prejudice on the part of the male world—exactly such prejudice as you express—is what restrains women from making use of their minds as well as they might.”
“I was not aware that I was prejudging anyone,” he returned, with stiff courtesy.
“You suggest, sir, that a woman will best improve her mind by listening to men, rather than exercising her own judgment.”
“I am afraid you make my point for Me, ma’am. Any man would know that what is important is not what I suggest, but what I say.”
“Surely you cannot mean, Miss Spencer,” Lady Vaughn seconded, “that a woman behaves correctly in imposing her own reasoning upon a man! The very institution of marriage is threatened by such a contention.”
“My lady, it is not at all my intention to threaten the institution of marriage,” said Gillian, who did not in her heart believe that, if put to the test, she would refuse to abide by her husband’s judgment. “My meaning is simply that, if women were encouraged to think a little more, and to listen a good deal less, there might be many females whose scholarship and discipline would rival those of men.”
But this suggestion brought down upon her head a cascade of laughter from the Vaughns that, Gillian thought, was as inappropriate as it was rude. “Do not let us come to cuffs, madam,” said Lord Vaughn, when he had finished chuckling.
“I am sure neither of us wishes to do that,” Gillian replied coldly. The conversation turned thereafter to topics less controversial; still, it had given Miss Spencer food for much thought. An opportunity of indulging in some quiet meditation came later in the afternoon, when the Vaughns had removed themselves and the girls napped in preparation for the long evening. Much to Gillian’s displeasure, when the Vaughns had discovered the Viscount’s plans for the night, they had insisted not only on meeting them at Vauxhall but also on making up a party with them. This seemed to excite Cordelia no end—for what reason Gillian could not fathom—and it was only under protest that she lay down upon her bed to sleep.
“For I know I cannot sleep,” she had insisted.
“It might improve your complexion,” Gillian said, hoping this would prove an inducement.
“Do you think it wants improvement?” Cordelia demanded anxiously. “Then I will sleep.” And she climbed under the covers directly.
Gillian begged a cup of tea from Mrs. Trigg and went to the drawing room with it, where she sat quite cosily for an hour with nothing more to amuse her than the comfort of solitude. The Viscount put a period to this quiet cogitation by entering, exuberantly, and insisting upon her attention.
“I’ve learned to tie a cravat!” he crowed, as if this were the peak of human achievement. “Miles has been teaching me.”
“That was very good of him,” she observed.
“You do not seem terribly interested,” he said reproachfully, “but look—I’ll show you how it is done. You simply will not credit how difficult it is!”
And so she watched him tie his cravat, and untie his cravat, and tie it up all over again, until at last she excused herself on the grounds that dinner must be seen to, and the girls got ready, if they were ever to get to Vauxhall. She also informed his Lordship that the Vaughns were to accompany them there, news that Valerian did not take at all well. In fact, Gillian thought as she listened to him rage on, he was only inches away from a positive fit of hysteria.
Chapter VI
“Look at the lanterns,” cried Felicity, as they entered the gardens. “Delia, have you ever seen such lights? I think it must be faeryland!”
“Well, it is not,” said her sister. “It is Vauxhall. Now, watch where you are going or you will get lost, and spoil all our enjoyment.”
“It does seem quite fantastic,” said Miss Spencer, hurrying to join them and leaving the Viscount to deal with the Vaughns. “It is as if an opera troupe had wandered into a carnival.”
“Or into faeryland,” Felicity agreed.
Cordelia dropped back to walk with the Vaughns.
“There was a time,” Lady Vaughn was saying, “when one met no one at Vauxhall whom one could not meet at Almack’s. Now, it seems, all the scaff and raff of London delight in coming here.”
“Letitia,” the Viscount answered, “it is my belief that what you call ‘the scaff and raff of London’ anyone else would designate a very select society.”
“Mother is very fastidious in her discernment of the quality,” Winsted pointed out.
“Very fastidious indeed,” assented his Lordship. “Still, where the Ransfords dare to go, I feel I may safely follow.”
“Are the Ransfords here?” Lady Vaughn inquired sharply, looking round. “Where are they?”
“There, ahead of us,” said Valerian, “the couple holding hands.”
“Of course,” said Lady Vaughn, with dry disapproval. “In My opinion, the example they set is foolish beyond permission.”
“I rather like it,” remarked the Viscount mildly, offering his arm gallantly as if to compensate for his disagreeing with her. Winsted, meanwhile, had fallen into conversation with Cordelia.
“Odd, is not it, how people are drawn to freaks of nature, and so forth?” he observed. “Not the ton, of course, but certainly the great mass of Englishmen. That sword swallower, for example; Myself, I find him entirely without interest—positively distasteful, in fact—but you may see how many people he has gathered about him.”
“Indeed, I could not agree with you more wholeheartedly,” said Cordelia earnestly. “I have no opinion of curiosity seekers.”
“That which is unnatural,” Lord Vaughn continued, “that which is extraordinary, I find not merely repellent but absolutely irrelevant. What is important in life is the commonplace, the everyday, the routine, do not you agree?”
“Entirely, my Lord.”
“We must strive always to turn ourselves from oddities, and to concentrate upon what is real, what is serious.”
“I have often felt exactly so, sir,” said Cordelia.
Lord Vaughn began to think Cordelia an extremely sensible young woman.
They arrived at their box and distributed themselves round the table, Miss Spencer as far away as possible from the Vaughns. A Mrs. Barton was scheduled to sing at eleven o’clock, which performance would be followed by an incendiary exhibition, but until that time they had to amuse themselves with supper and conversation. Miss Spencer was just becoming intimately acquainted with a lobster patty when she felt a sharp poke in her ribs. It was Felicity, who sat beside her near the outside of the box. “Gillian,” she whispered excitedly, “that couple over there—it is the Earl and Countess of Ransford, is not it?”
Gillian followed the younger girl’s gaze to a rather quiet, contented-looking party of four who sat opposite them, some distance away. “I believe it may be,” she answered.
“Then that must be Lady Caroline with them?”
“Very likely.”
“And—and Lord Yates?”
“I should not be at all surprised. Felicity, my dear, why ever are you whispering? They could not possibly hear us.”
But Felicity looked acutely uncomfortable. “I just—” she began, “I should not care to…that is, I should dislike to have them discussed—generally, you know,” she finished lamely.
Gillian thought for a moment, then spoke. “My dear, can I be correct in thinking that you are beginning to feel—a tendre for Courtney?”
“Oh no!” said the girl, in apparent horror at the thought. She coloured immediately. “That is—Lord Yates is very kind,” she amended, her pretty face glowing, “but it is Lady Caroline I should like to speak to.”
“Then perhaps we may go over there, and call upon them?”
“No! Oh, I beg we shall not,” she pleaded, as her cheeks blushed ever more rosily. “I should feel—surely it would seem forward?”
“On the contrary, it is perfectly proper,” said Gillian, preserving a neutral tone. “However, if you do not like to, there is no reason why we must.”
Felicity’s relief was evident directly. “Thank you,” she whispered gratefully. “Indeed, I had much rather not.”
“And what are you two humming about?” Lady Vaughn inquired, with heavy humour.
“Oh, it is nothing of any interest,” Gillian lied. “Felicity was just remarking again on the colour of the lights.”
“Quite pretty, are not they?” said Lady Vaughn, smiling with indulgent condescension. “A little vulgar, though, I think.”
“Certainly spectacular,” said Gillian with diplomacy.
“Ah!” the Viscount pealed of a sudden. “The lights, the colour, the excitement! What a place is Vauxhall; how can I have forgot? The little bands of people, gay in their holiday mood, exuberant, exhilarated, adventurous! What, other than a crowd like this, can make us so forget ourselves, relinquish our cares, abandon our petty, ordinary troubles? Where else may one encounter so much youth, such spirit, such light-hearted revelry? And the sense of community, the loss of the individual in the mass, the—”
“This is a most dangerous enthusiasm, my Lord,” Winsted Vaughn interrupted. “The community you embrace so freely is the same which causes all the great ills of our time.”
The Viscount stared at him, aghast.
“I Myself infinitely prefer the assembly one finds, say, in Parliament, to the one we observe here. And there is precisely My point, sir; we may reasonably come here to observe—but to participate? No. Emphatically, sir, I say No.”
“Is it possible?” Valerian later exploded, in private, to Miss Spencer, “is it possible, indeed, that such boorishness is tolerated? That it is allowed to run loose, to inflict itself upon our senses, and yet that we may in no way avenge ourselves upon it?” Now, however, he simply continued to stare, wordlessly, at the offender.
“Papa has a very open heart,” Felicity offered at last, to the unbearable silence.
“I am sure Lord Vaughn did not mean to criticise my father’s heart,” said Cordelia, pouncing gladly on her sister. “I trust his point is more to do with principle, than with sentiment.”
“And, indeed, Miss Cordelia, you are very right,” Winsted assented, turning to her almost with warmth and pursuing his topic with her in an undertone.
Gillian was very glad when Mrs. Barton appeared. The quality of her voice was not much above the common, but it was a good deal better than listening to the Vaughns. She turned her attention pointedly to the singer, hoping thus to discourage any conversation that might be continued at the Viscount’s table. It must have been during this time, as she later reflected, that Felicity slipped off.
No one noticed her absence at first. Cordelia and Lord Vaughn were engaged in a competition, the object of which seemed to be to determine which of them could concentrate more seriously upon Mrs. Barton. Lady Vaughn was absorbed in a whispered critique of the performer that ran continually from the first note to the last. So, when Gillian finally observed her charge’s empty chair, she judged it best to remove herself immediately; thus, when Felicity’s absence was indeed noted, it would at least not be thought that she had gone off alone.
Miss Spencer hurried some distance across the lawn before she felt she was well enough out of sight to pause a few moments and think. Where could Felicity have gone? An awful surmise occurred to her: it seemed most unlikely, but was it at all possible that she had communicated somehow with Courtney Yates, and arranged to meet him privately? The very boldness of such a course was in direct contradiction to everything Gillian knew of Felicity, yet she could not rid herself of the notion. The reason for this was simple: it was exactly what Gillian herself had done, on her first visit to Vauxhall. The gentleman with whom she had made her assignation had become quite unpleasant once they were alone together, and she had regretted the incident keenly. Still, as she had been able to elude him after his preliminary advances, and as no one had discovered the interlude, no real harm had been done. Of course, the sensible thing to do was to return to the central area and see if Courtney had left his parents’ box; however, she could not do this without risking observation by her own party. And so she set off, unhappily but resolutely, towards the site where she had met her young gallant so many summers before.
It was by a certain tree in the Dark Walk. The trunk had been severed during a storm, and the resultant distinctive outline made it a suitable place for a tryst. Whether Courtney could have known this she had no idea, but it seemed as likely a locale as any, and was her best guess. Mrs. Barton’s strong soprano faded off gently behind her, as did the brilliance of the lights. The crowd, too, thinned to a few pairs of furtive lovers, and a number of single gentlemen. Gillian fixed her eyes upon the ground and courageously ignored the fact that the night had suddenly become not only quite chilly, but also dreadfully still. She noticed a tall man who stood, seeming to observe her, at the entrance to the Dark Walk, and prayed fervently that it might not be someone who would recognise her. As she began to walk the length of the dim avenue, however, she revised her plea somewhat, until it went like this: “O, do not let him be following me. Please, do not let him be following me. O, dear heaven, let him be following someone other than me…”
“O!” she shrieked suddenly, loud. And, “O!” again. “O, let me be, you beast! Unhand me!” she cried, turning violently upon her pursuer, who by this time had become her assailant, for he held her tightly round the waist.
“Shame, shame, Miss Spencer,” returned a familiar voice. “Is this the bravery we look for in our little General?”
“Miles!” she exclaimed, unspeakably relieved.
“The very same,” he replied and, clasping her even more closely, kissed her mouth.
“O my—what are you doing? Stop, I beg,” she said, when she was again at liberty to speak.
“You must be calm,” he advised. “You’ve had a start, haven’t you?”
“I have, indeed,” she agreed, relaxing for a moment. “And it was you who caused it!” she added suddenly. “You beast!”
“Abominable,” he assented affably. “What a lovely mouth you do have, Miss Spencer, when you are not using it as a weapon.”
“I suppose you mean, when I am not speaking,” she said bitterly.
“Shall I kiss it again?”
“Do and I will bite you, you—”
“Common foot-soldier,” he supplied obligingly. “Very well then, I shan’t try to kiss you, but I warn you—it is against my better judgment. Do you desire me to leave you altogether? Perhaps you were looking for someone else, and I am keeping you from him?”
“How abominable you are! As if I would ever—”
“O, dear me, no,” he interrupted. “I am sure you would never!”
For some reason she did not feel like lying to him. Instead she turned the subject. “I am looking for Felicity, if you must know; she seems to have disappeared, and I thought she might have—wandered here, by accident.”
“And did my uncle allow you to come looking for her here alone? Very unwise of him, I should say.”
“No, he does not know where I am at all. And you remind me, sir; would you be so kind as to remove your hands from my waist?”
