Practical Heart, page 8
“Perhaps if you said ‘please.’…”
“I do not find you at all amusing, Mr. Lawrence,” said Gillian stiffly.
“I do not at all believe you, Miss Spencer. However, since you say it is what you want, I suppose I must obey you. I do not relish the prospect of a court-martial, you know.”
“It is extraordinary,” Miss Spencer remarked acidly, “but for once I am grateful for the authority with which you insist upon investing me. You can be most disagreeable, sir.”
“Am I to understand from that that you wish me to go away?”
“Understand what you like,” she responded automatically; “but no,” she amended, “please—this may be too serious a case for such foolishness. I wish,” she began, almost choking on the words, “I beg you will escort me until we have found Felicity, Mr. Lawrence. For the Viscount’s sake.”
“I believe I told you once before,” he said, raising her hand delicately to his lips, “that it is not for the sake of my uncle, but for you alone, that I acquiesce in your desires.”
This speech was delivered in so vibrant a tone, it would have been impossible—coming from any other man—to doubt its sincerity. But Gillian did doubt it, and as before it confused her. She retreated into the mechanics of the present situation.
“Felicity slipped away while no one was looking,” she explained, “and so did I. I had hoped to find her in a few minutes.” They proceeded slowly down the Dark Walk, Miss Spencer’s hand on Miles’ arm, inspecting (with some embarrassment) the couples who hid in the shadows, to see if they might be Felicity and Courtney.
“She seems not to be here,” Miles pointed out, when they had at last reached the end of the walk. The fireworks had just begun, and were clearly visible.
“No,” she assented regretfully, but also with some relief. “Where can she be, then?”
“The direction of the march is the general’s decision, of course,” Miles replied, “but if you have no better idea, I suggest we try one of the grottoes.” Accordingly, they turned their steps towards the water’s edge.
“Mr. Lawrence,” Gillian began slowly, when they had been walking for some time, “I suppose it is no affair of mine, properly speaking, but may I ask what on earth you were doing hovering about the Dark Walk?”
“Something in your tone, my dear Miss Spencer, suggests to me that you are implying I am the sort of man who generally does hang about the Dark Walk, terrifying young maidens with my rude advances. Is this your drift?”
“I merely asked a simple question.”
“A question, yes,” he went on. “Undeniably, you did ask me a question. However, ma’am, I should not at all describe it as simple. On the contrary, it has the most profound ramifications! What you are questioning, Miss Spencer, is my quality as a gentleman: on the one hand, I may be the charming, courteous, well-intentioned young man I appear to be; on the other, I may be a lecher, a beast, an abomination. And upon my answer to your ‘simple’ question hangs all of this, does not it?”
“Well, it was only a question,” Gillian persisted, slightly exasperated.
“Now, there are three feasible explanations for my being where I was when I saw you, or at least three that occur to me immediately. One is, that I disliked the quality of Mrs. Barton’s singing, felt uncomfortable in the midst of the crowd, and, for one reason or another, strayed away in the direction of the Dark Walk. If that is the case, my reputation is intact; I was merely comforting myself with a bit of solitude and quiet amid a rather noisy evening. The second explanation is, that I myself had appointed a tryst, and that I was watching for the lady. If this is the case, I emerge with a reputation perhaps slightly sullied, yet agreeably romantic, I think. The exact degree to which I deserve censure could not, Miss Spencer, be determined until it was known precisely whom I intended to meet—a married lady, for example, or a girl too young to know better.”
“You do go on, Mr. Lawrence,” Gillian interjected.
“Yes, I do indeed. Now, the third possibility, and the one which we find, don’t you agree, most alarming, is that I had no one lady especially in mind, but had come to the Dark Walk with the sole and specific intention of assaulting some innocent young woman and forcing myself upon her.”
“Mr. Lawrence, please—”
“Now, now, Miss Spencer, we must examine all the possibilities dispassionately; it will not do to become missish, now we have come this far. So, if the third case is the actual one, I am left entirely without character, without honour, without moral standing.”
“Do not be ridiculous, I beg. Felicity is not here; shall we look among that crowd?” she suggested, pointing.
“Certainly,” he answered and continued smoothly, “Miss Spencer, it is a difficult decision. The spectrum of motives which might have caused me to bend my steps towards the Dark Walk is so extremely wide, not only in its own scope, but in the scope of its consequences, that it boggles the mind to embrace it, let alone to chuse. I wonder—before I continue—would you do me the favour of permitting me to hear your own judgment? Based on the evidence we have seen this evening, of course, and also upon what you know of my character already.”
“In my opinion,” she commenced, her thoughts distracted with searching for Felicity, “in my opinion I am very sorry I asked you to begin with.”
“I cannot accept that as a verdict, ma’am.”
“I have no interest in trying you, Mr. Lawrence.”
He laughed. “I am much relieved to hear you say so, Miss Spencer. And since that is the case, I believe I shall decline to testify, as it were.”
“Which leaves me without an answer to my question, after all.”
“It was a question which could not really be answered,” he responded gently. “At least, not by me. My reply would be meaningless unless you had faith in me, and if you had faith in me you would not have asked in the first place. Do you understand, Gillian?”
“Not in the least,” she said perversely.
“I think you understand very well.” Then, in a different tone, he went on, “Have I told you recently that I like you extremely?”
But Gillian did not reply to him; instead, she cried, “There!” and, taking his arm firmly, began to hurry towards a little tent.
Felicity sat on a wooden stool before it, her hand held out confidingly to a dark woman. As Gillian approached, she realized that the lady was a gypsy—ancient, swarthy, and bright-eyed. “He is a dark man,” the gypsy was saying as Miss Spencer came close enough to hear, “but very handsome, and elevated in position. A peer, certainly, yet high even within the peerage.”
“Felicity!” Gillian cried.
“O, Gillian, look, is not she wonderful? She is reading my palm, Gillian.”
“Felicity,” said Miss Spencer again, snatching the girl’s hand away from the gypsy and feeling deeply divided between laughter and anger. “What are you doing here, why did you run off like that?”
“I am having my fortune read; was there ever anything like it? This is Madame Rosa,” she went on, presenting the ladies to one another. “My companion, Miss Spencer. O, and Mr. Lawrence is here, too! Good evening, Mr. Lawrence.”
“Felicity, this is preposterous,” said Gillian, “you must come away with us immediately. Surely you know better than to go traipsing off in the dark, alone, in a public place!”
“But I was not alone,” said the young lady, amazed. “Madame Rosa came to our table and took me here. Did not you see her?”
“No, certainly I did not, and it is to be hoped no one else did, either. Now you must thank Madame Rosa, and pay her, and let us be off directly before the others come looking for us.”
Felicity had been about to protest that her fortune had not yet been told, but something Miss Spencer said diverted her. “Pay?” she repeated, sounding slightly alarmed. “Do I owe you money, Madame Rosa?”
A wrinkled smile appeared on the old woman’s face. “Certainly you do, my love—a crown.”
“But I haven’t got a crown!” Felicity exclaimed, looking up instinctively at Gillian. “O, whatever shall we do? I had no notion I should be obliged to pay her.”
“Surely a fine young lady such as you are has some spending money, my dear,” said the gypsy, a trifle severely.
“But no! Why, my Papa—we are in desperate straits!” she declared, repeating a phrase she had learned from the Triggs, and which she thought sounded agreeably dramatic.
“Then your companion, I am sure…?” said Madame Rosa, looking sharply at Gillian.
“Yes, of course—O, but my reticule! I left it in the box. Madame, would you be so patient as to let me go and fetch it—”
But the old lady was shaking her head sourly.
“My good woman,” Miles interrupted suddenly, “this has gone on long enough.” He proceeded in a tone Gillian had never heard him use before; it sounded quite angry, and threatening. “You have had the misfortune to make two errors this evening: one was beguiling a young lady of quality away from her father’s side. You might easily be charged with kidnapping for that alone, and well you know it. The second was doubting Miss Spencer’s word. You will do well, in your profession, to learn to know an honest woman when you meet one. The result of this second error has been to incur my wrath. In consequence whereof, you may account yourself fortunate not to be handed over to the law, let alone fretting about your exorbitant and, I trust, unmerited fee.” So saying, he took both ladies on either arm and marched off with them in the direction of the boxes—where, Gillian observed, they would be fortunate to meet with concerned puzzlement, and likely to encounter anger.
Chapter VII
“You will say you have had an headache all evening,” Miss Spencer instructed Felicity, looking across Miles at her charge, “and that you suddenly felt faint as well. You left the box thinking of nothing but escaping the music and the lights for a moment, and before you knew it, you were lost. I followed you and found you directly, and we have been applying salts all this while.”
“What is Mr. Lawrence doing here?” asked Felicity, as if these directions had been addressed to someone else altogether. “Where did you meet him?”
Gillian hesitated for a moment, then said, “I happened to meet him while I was looking for you, and very fortunate it was that I did.”
“Now, that is exactly what I have been thinking,” Miles concurred warmly, his anger apparently forgot. “I am delighted to hear you say so, ma’am.”
“I mean, because of Madame Rosa,” Gillian stipulated.
“Indeed? And I mean, because of—”
“Felicity, you will not forget to say what I told you?” Miss Spencer interrupted hurriedly. “You understand it?”
“I still do not understand what Mr. Lawrence does with us,” Felicity replied, ignoring the question. “I am afraid—I do not like to criticise, you know—but I am afraid Mr. Lawrence may have hurt Madame Rosa’s feelings.”
“Madame Rosa’s sensibilities are not, I assure you, as susceptible to slights as you suppose,” Miles defended himself.
“Do you think so, sir?” Felicity responded doubtfully. “Still, she was most kind to me, and I simply hate the thought of having caused her trouble.”
“Felicity,” said Gillian, out of temper at last with her young charge’s naïveté, “this is absolutely absurd. You are reproaching Mr. Lawrence when you ought to be extremely grateful. Such a shabby piece of behaviour I never expected to see in you! I trust you will believe me when I tell you that Madame Rosa would as soon have roasted you and had you for dinner as taken tender care of you. I strongly suggest you apologise immediately and mind your tongue in the future.”
“Miss Spencer, I am sure Felicity had no intention—” Miles began to remonstrate gently.
“Oh no, indeed I did not! I am so dreadfully sorry, Mr. Lawrence; I had no notion, truly I did not!”
“I know you did not, Miss Collins.”
“And I do, too,” said Gillian, instantly regretting her burst of spleen. “It is only that we are both very lucky to have come off from our adventures no worse than we did. Now, try to look a little ill, my dear, and we shall soon have this escapade behind us. My Lord,” she continued to the Viscount, as they reached the box, “I hope you have not been concerned for us.”
“Not been concerned!” Lady Vaughn echoed. “My dear Miss Spencer, if I were the sort of woman who has spasms, I should surely have had them. Where have you been?”
Gillian repeated the fabrication she had outlined for Felicity, with appropriate embellishments.
“I am surprised to find you so vapourish,” said the Viscount mildly. “Do you think we ought to go home directly, Miss Spencer?”
“Perhaps you should ask Felicity,” she suggested.
“I am sure Felicity will be right as a trivet in no time,” interjected Cordelia, who felt vaguely that her sister had known how much she was enjoying the evening, and had had the headache out of spite.
Lord Vaughn sidled up to the Viscount and murmured in an undertone, “It does not do to encourage these fanciful ailments in young ladies. If you indulge her now by taking her home, you will have an invalid on your hands in no time, sir.”
The Viscount dug his fingernails into his palms and ignored him. “Shall we stay or go, my dear?”
“Oh, if you do not mind, Papa, let us stay,” said Felicity, for she sensed her sister’s rage and did not wish to merit it. “But what is—” she faltered, realising that Lady Caroline and her brother were present in the box and had been standing by all this while. At exactly the same moment, Lady Vaughn caught sight of Mr. Lawrence, and a few moments were spent making greetings all round. Felicity belied her reputed faintness by blushing crimson while she curtsied to Courtney, and clutched at Miss Spencer’s hand for support.
“I am so sorry to hear you have felt unwell,” said Courtney hesitantly. “Perhaps—may I fetch you some water, or punch, or negus, or—anything?”
“Oh no!” Felicity exclaimed, as if scandalised by the thought that he might go out of his way for her. “I am—I shall be—perfectly well.”
His tentative advances thus rebuffed, Courtney retreated behind his sister, who obligingly engaged Felicity in conversation. Mr. Lawrence politely questioned Courtney on the subject of his years at Oxford, Lady Vaughn expatiated profusely on the evils of invalidishness, and the remainder of the evening passed off without serious incident. The members of the, now, rather large party bid one another good-night with varying degrees of relief, and not a few of them found their beds singularly comfortable.
Courtney called at The Haven in the morning. It had taken him a considerable length of time to resolve upon doing it, for his sister was engaged and he was obliged to go alone or not at all. Still, he could not bear to think himself too cowardly for such an innocuous mission, and he gave orders for his curricle to be prepared. He attempted to tie his cravat four times before he at last succeeded in arranging it to his own satisfaction, and called upon his valet to brush his hair twice. He regarded himself in the glass doubtfully, wondering almost with fear if a certain young lady could possibly be as glad to see him as he would be to see her, and at last ascended into his curricle resolutely. When he arrived at The Haven he found no one in but Miss Spencer.
“I am so sorry,” she said, with more than ordinary sincerity. “The girls have gone off to the shops. I believe Felicity needed some ribbon, or some such thing.”
At her mention of the name Felicity, Lord Yates smiled involuntarily. “It is of no moment,” he said, rather loudly. “I only wished to make sure her health had improved since last evening, and if she felt well enough to go out this morning, I know it must have.”
“O yes,” said Miss Spencer carefully, “Felicity is very seldom ill.”
“O yes.” His Lordship sat silent for a moment, then asked almost in a whisper, “Do you expect them back soon? Perhaps I could—wait?”
“I think they will not be too long,” said she, feeling quite sorry for him. “Do, please, stay for a few minutes at least. May I offer you some coffee?”
“Please, I should be most grateful,” he replied, his serious face smiling thankfully at her. Gillian stepped outside the drawing room for a moment and found Trigg lounging about the hall. She sent him off to the kitchen and returned to his Lordship. For a few moments they inquired after the healths of one another’s households; then Gillian grew tired of such useless civilities and approached him more directly.
“You are fond of Felicity, are not you, my Lord?”
She had never seen a man past the age of fourteen blush so deeply. “I am—that is, I hope…my sister assures me she is excessively good-natured.”
Gillian sighed and tried again. “Indeed, your sister and she seemed to take an instant liking to one another.”
“Yes, how they do talk together!” Courtney broke out without meaning to. “What do they speak of, do you think? Miss Spencer, she hardly Will speak to me at all!”
“And do you speak to her?” she inquired gently.
“I—I cannot. When I look at her, I seem to be incapable…O, my dear ma’am, you will think me a very poor sort of gentleman.”
“Not at all,” said Gillian, and paused while Mrs. Trigg brought in a pot of coffee and a few rather unappetizing biscuits. “It is quite understandable,” she continued, when the cook had gone. “Sometimes our emotions are so strong, we are afraid to say anything, lest we say all.”
Lord Yates stared at her. “I believe you do understand, after all. Miss Spencer, do you think it at all possible—that is, so far as you know—could I ever procure her regard? Do you think I might?”
“Well, I cannot speak for Felicity, of course, and it is true you are barely acquainted with one another…still, I see no reason at all why not. But you must make a push to converse with her; otherwise you can never succeed.”
“Then I will,” Courtney declared resolutely, “I will. I shall ask her—what shall I ask her? What does she like to speak of?”
“Anything, I suppose,” said Gillian. “The weather, the fashions—she is excessively fond of her father, you know; you might question her about him.”
