Sherida, page 13
'I told you the other day that I didn't know you very well, Roland, and you don't know me very well, either. The truth is, I'm not going to give marriage a thought until the Season is nearing its end, and perhaps not even then! I am only seventeen, which is young to have a come-out, and I've led a very sheltered life. I might so easily mistake affection for love, which would be dreadful, wouldn't it?'
'You advise me to hope, then?' Roland said, in a throbbing tone calculated, Sherida thought, to impress her with his sincerity. Actually, it set her teeth on edge!
'Well, I like you very much,' she said soothingly. 'Please, Roland, don't press me, for I very much wish to remain friends with you and Diane, though I cannot promise any warmer feelings towards you, or indeed towards anyone else, at this time.'
'I have sometimes thought you might have some degree of warmer feeling for Lord McNaughton,' Roland said with some hesitation. 'He is, of course, a much better match than I, for I have little to offer beside my love, and my property in Kent which you've never so much as set eyes on. Though that, of course, can be remedied! I don't know if he's spoken to you on the subject, but…'
'No, he has not,' Sherida said hastily, hoping that the darkness would mask the tide of colour which rushed to her cheeks at the mention of Lord McNaughton's name. Heavens, but he might be hiding in the clump of bushes at her back at this very moment, listening with cynical amusement to every word! So she said firmly, 'I don't wish to marry anyone, Roland, but I do wish to return to your mamma now, please.'
Later, they danced on the stage which had been cleared for the purpose, and Diane and Mr Unwin were plainly seen holding hands both on and off the dance-floor.
'I can see a declaration will be made soon,' Roland managed to whisper to Sherida as he handed her in to the carriage at the end of the evening's entertainment. 'I will drive you home first, and then Diane and I will take Unwin to his lodgings. Mamma, of course, will be taken home by her beau!'
'Why did we have to leave so early?' Diane pouted, as the carriage moved off. 'I love fireworks, and the excitement.'
'Because I've been warned it might get rowdy here later,' Roland answered. 'There is a cockpit nearby which has been holding what you might call a gala night of their own—some big championship, I gather—and when they finish, a lot of drunken ruffians lurch into the gardens. And women of an unsavoury sort follow the men, and things may get out of hand.'
So, somewhat to her relief, Sherida found herself deposited on her doorstep before midnight for once, and felt she had brushed through her first proposal very well, all things considered. She also felt the heady relief of one who had expected to encounter danger and has not done so—with a little flatness, it must be confessed, that all her fears had been for nought.
When the knocker sounded she was halfway up the stairs and she turned and looked towards the door which Bates was opening, half hoping that it might be Lord McNaughton, come to talk over the non-events of the evening with her.
It was not his lordship. A lad with a note in his hand stood there, murmured something briefly to the butler, the note changed hands, and the lad disappeared into the darkness.
Bates, turning from the door, said, 'Miss! I thought you'd gone up by now, but this note is for you. There's candles lit and the fire in the small salon, if you would care to read it in there.'
'It won't take a minute,' Sherida said, taking the note from his hand. It would be from Lord McNaughton she was sure. But the light in the hall was dim so she stepped into the small salon and spread out the single sheet. A glance was sufficient to tell her that the note was not, however from his lordship. Her eyes flickered to the signature. Bertram! What was he doing writing notes to her at this time of night? She began to read.
Coz, I do not know where to turn, I am being blackmailed by an opera dancer. She has a foolish letter of mine and will sell it back for twenty pound or jewels to that value. She is to meet me at one o'clock in Vauxhall Gardens, by No. 8 supper booth. I know you go to Vauxhall tonight with Roland and if you could slip to the supper booths at one o'clock, with the money or, perhaps, your pearl drop earrings, I could have the letter back. You know how short Mamma keeps me, and I dare not tell her why I want the money. Do come, coz! I will wait for you by the booth at one o'clock, pray don't fail me.
Bertram.
Two thoughts flashed into her startled mind. First that the note had been held up and should have been delivered before she left for the Gardens, and then she could have confided some of the story to Roland and ensured that they were still in the Gardens at the appointed hour. Or, better still, she could have despatched either the money or her pearl earrings straight to Bertram. As it was, only by going to the Gardens herself could she now make sure that Bertram got his letter back and retained his good name.
The second thought was more sobering. The note might have been deliberately delayed to lure her, alone, back to the Gardens. Her cousinly fondness for Bertram would not allow her to let him down in such a predicament.
She glanced more closely at the paper. Was it Bertram's hand? Impossible to say, for in fact she had never received a written communication from her cousin in her life though she had seen his signature scrawled on the title page of books, or a few lines of writing in an exercise book. It is certainly like, she thought doubtfully. But the most amateur forger could make writing similar, and it did sound rather like the sort of scrape a boy like Bertram might easily fall into. The thought that Bertram might be her enemy she considered only for a minute, then shrugged it off. Ridiculous! She could not be relied upon to destroy the note, and if harm did come to her in the Gardens, he would be the first suspect!
What should she do for the best? But she knew. If it was true, then she must go to her cousin's rescue; if it was a trick to lure her to the gardens then she must appear to step into the trap. She would send Cora, with the note and an explanation of her own actions, straight round to Lord McNaughton's lodgings and then he could follow to see that no harm came to her. If it was no more than the truth, then she and Bertram would pay off his opera dancer with Sherida's pearl earrings and his lordship could remain in the background.
But suppose Lord McNaughton was not yet back from Vauxhall himself? He might easily not have realised her party were leaving and might have lingered, believing the attempt would be made when the fireworks began.
Bates, outside the door, gave a small cough. Abruptly, Sherida made up her mind. She would go but she would take Grieves, the young footman, with her. No one would expect her to go through the streets of London at this hour without a male escort.
Accordingly, she joined Bates in the hall and explained that she had to return to Vauxhall. 'Would you send Cora to me? And Grieves? I would like his escort. And would you summon a hackney?'
Cora arrived and stood waiting whilst Sherida dashed off a note to Lord McNaughton, taking great care to make her position clear. She would go to the gardens by river; after that, she was in his hands.
As she gave the note, together with Bertram's epistle, to the maid, Grieves came in to announce that the hackney carriage awaited Miss; she squeezed Cora's fingers. 'My dependence is upon you, Cora,' she said in a low voice. 'Put this into his lordship's own hands and make sure he reads it before you leave the house.'
Cora, privy to the fact that someone was trying to harm Miss, said fervently, 'I won't fail you; he shall have the note even if I have to hammer the door down.' Smitten by an inspiration, she added, 'If you was to take me up in the hackney, Miss, just as far as the end of the road, you might see for yourself that it was put into the master's hands and no other.'
So the three of them climbed into the hackney and Cora was put down at the corner of Dover Street and Sherida strained her eyes until she saw the front door open and Cora step inside, raising one hand in a gesture to show that her mission was as good as accomplished. Then they drove on, towards the Thames.
Once on the river bank, Sherida was insensibly cheered to see that the Gardens were, apparently, as brightly lit and crowded as ever. The little boats were busy, but she soon realised that most of the gentlefolk were coming from an evening of pleasure and that the type of person now embarking to go to the gardens was far from genteel.
However, this failed to suppress her good spirits. In a few moments, perhaps, she would know who was trying to kill her and would be free of the miserable uncertainty which had characterised her attitude ever since Lord McNaughton's accident. That she might, in the event of a mistake, be dead, she refused even to consider.
They found a boatman free to take them across, though not without difficulty, for though the crowd was good humoured enough, they were pushful and eager to cross. However, Grieves proved equally determined, and seizing her arm with a muttered, 'Excuse the liberty, Miss, but we'll never get over, else,' he proceeded to shove and elbow, saying whenever any remonstrated, The lady's got to get back to the gardens urgent; excuse us!' which seemed to work like a charm, for they soon found themselves in a boat and heading across the water.
Sherida kept her eyes fixed on the shore they had just left and presently thought she made out a familiar figure, holding one arm a little stiffly as he climbed into a boat. Smiling, she turned her gaze towards the gardens. She would be safe now, and might give herself up to the enjoyment of entrapping her enemy.
Soon enough, she and Grieves were at the entrance, Grieves was obtaining their tickets of admission, and then, for the second time that night, she was in Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens.
CHAPTER TEN
Inside it was even more crowded than Sherida had feared, but only around the big central stage, where the dancing had become a wild romp and the figures cavorting to the music were not by any means well-bred. But further on, where the crowd had thinned, she could see that the paths and grottoes must be almost deserted, and she rather thought the supper booths would be in darkness. It was very late, too late for any further meals to be served.
She and Grieves began to push their way through the crowd, but as she neared the outskirts of the audience who watched the dancers a man, far gone in drink by the look and smell of him, caught her by the arm. 'Little Miss Sary, by all that's wonderful,' he bellowed. 'Little Lady Sary, come to dance wi' old Reuben Prosser!'
She saw Grieves, unconscious that she was not following him, forge purposefully ahead, then lost him in the crowd. She tried to pull away and her silk scarf fell to the ground. She watched helplessly as it was carried from her by the scuffling feet, then Mr Prosser was bellowing, 'Lady Sary's lost 'er shawl! Come on, fellers, 'oo took Lady Sary's shawl?'
He struggled after the scarf, which was now being passed from hand to hand ahead of them, towing the reluctant Sherida behind him. Raging helplessly at her position, she tried to look around for Grieves, but there was no sign of him. Deciding tact and humour were her only weapons, Sherida said gaily, 'Thank you, Mr Prosser, but that… er… shawl belonged to an old aunt of mine whom I never could abide. I'm glad to see it gone, and want none of it. Good evening!'
For a miracle, he took the remark at face value. 'Lady Sary don't wan' that pretty shawl,' he said mournfully. 'She don' wannit acos she's got an aunt… By God, Lady Sary, I'm your fren', for I've an aunt or two meself, an' miserable ole trollops they be! I 'member onct…'
He had let go of Sherida's arm in order to gesture more freely and she was able to move away from him, wriggling with quiet determination through the crowd until she reached its perimeter. She would have liked to search for Grieves, but behind her, a lament made itself heard. 'Oy! Laaady Saaary! Where's she gone, the luv? I gorrer shawl I 'ave, me bucko! Where's she gorn?'
A dark, bold-eyed woman was looking at her fine clothing and pearls with unmistakable greed, and Sherida's heart sank. She could not linger here, with the woman staring and the voice of Mr Prosser growing louder!
Turning her back on the crowd, she began to walk resolutely towards the supper booths. She saw they were in darkness, save for one or two at the extreme end of the row which were, presumably, still being tidied up. Most of the lanterns had been doused but here and there a faint, coloured star twinkled in the trees, and in any case, she had no choice. She must go on, to the eighth supper booth, and if Bertram did not appear then she must lurk nearby until either Grieves or Lord McNaughton came searching for her.
She drew level with and passed half-a-dozen booths but on approaching the seventh, a feeling began to prickle the back of her scalp, telling her that someone was watching, unseen. The feeling was so strong, so compelling, that almost instinctively she swerved off the main gravel path and down a narrow, winding way between dark trees and shrubs. As she did so, she glanced back at the eighth supper booth. Running out from its shelter was a dark figure, unidentifiable in the faint starlight, but wrapped around in a hooded cloak which Bertram, she was sure, would not have been seen dead in. The figure could have been man or woman, and it entered the pathway even as she whisked herself round to run with all her might in the opposite direction. She glanced back once, and saw the gleam of a blade held low against the dark cloak.
She reached the end of the narrow way and burst onto a broad, gravelled walk, bounded by trees and flower beds. She scarcely paused to consider which direction to take; she was running all out now, holding up her narrow skirt and wishing desperately that she had chosen a less conspicuous shade. White and yellow must stand out beautifully, even in the darkness under the trees. Her feet skidded on the gravel as she realised with horror that this path was no escape route—it led straight to the little lake where, earlier, she and Roland had watched the fishes while Roland proposed to her.
Again, instinct saved her from a check. Without consciously re-living the events earlier in the evening, she swerved into a narrow, unfrequented path which would lead, eventually, back to the supper booths. And the path was thickly lined with rhododendron bushes. Halfway up the path she risked a quick glance over her shoulder. Her pursuer was not yet in sight. Without a second's hesitation, Sherida flung herself flat on the ground and wriggled beneath the sheltering branches of a large rhododendron.
Seconds later, the cloaked figure came into view. Trotting steadily, the knife., gleaming, breath coming in quick, uneven rasps. Sherida peered, but could make out no features in the white blur of the face.
Then the figure stopped. Almost like an animal, it seemed to be scenting the air. Slowly it turned and Sherida knew, with a feeling of most uncanny terror, that her pursuer had divined in some mysterious way that she was not ahead, but hiding.
Fear froze her immobile and she scarcely breathed whilst the dark hollows in the white blur swung slowly round, probing the bushes for a glimpse of white and yellow, ears pricked for the slightest rustle, nose atwitch for the faintest breath of perfume, almost scenting the air for her fear.
Then the figure moved forward again. At a jog-trot it rounded the corner. And from ahead, Sherida heard the crackle and rustle of someone pushing their way into the bushes. So the hunter was not deceived! By forcing a way into the shrubs her pursuer would be able to see anyone hiding against the lighter background of the sanded path!
Quick as thought, Sherida slid out of her retreat and began to run back up the path. She joined the main walk and risked another backward glance. Her pursuer was coming round the corner! Breathless now but winged by fear, she ran on. If only she could have a minute to think what best to do! She wanted urgently to run towards the stage and the warm, convivial crowd, but she had lost all sense of direction. She plunged into another side path, then another, running almost blindly, her mind intent on one thing only—escape.
And then, after she had dodged and run and run again, disaster struck. She entered a long, straight avenue, planted with trees, swerved up to the left and ran hard up the straight. At the end, a flight of steps led up to a small temple, thickly surrounded by bushes. In the moonlight, for the moon had risen, the place looked ethereally beautiful, but she could scarcely see for the sweat which stung her eyes, could scarcely hear above the thundering of her heart. All she could do was run, driven on by the fear of the knife.
Her pursuer was flagging, she could tell that. But the distance between them seemed to get no longer. The other's breathing was horribly noisy now, the footsteps seeming to blur and slide more. But Sherida was tiring too, and she did not have the knife. She reached the steps of the temple and glanced wildly to either side. It would be perfectly possible to dodge into the bushes, but not to escape. They were so thick that she would be caught in them, like a fly in a web. Up the steps she ran, into the temple, then turned like a wild creature at bay to confront her pursuer, who was just beginning to toil up the steps.
At that moment, the figure raised its head and looked up at her. The hood of the cloak fell back, revealing the face drained of colour by the moonlight, the lips drawn back over bared teeth, the eyes narrowed with a fanatical gleam.
'Aunt Bertha!' Sherida breathed. 'Oh, Aunt Bertha!'
Aunt Bertha gave no sign that she had heard. Half-crouching, she was climbing the steps, her eyes fixed on Sherida's face with no recognition in their depths, only a sort of mindless blood-lust which terrified Sherida more than the steadily held blade.
Where, oh where, was Lord McNaughton? Why had he not appeared to seize her aunt long since? But he had not, and it seemed as though she must act now, or it would be too late.
'Aunt Bertha!' Her voice was thin, but strong enough. 'Aunt, it is I, Sherida! Why do you point that knife at me? Put it down!'
Aunt Bertha's heavy, rasping breath was held for a moment as though she considered, and then she laughed and Sherida saw foam fleck her lips. 'It's for my baby, my darling,' she said in a crooning mutter. 'How can I tell my son that Knighton will never be his, just for a scruple? When with one little thrust of this blade I can give it to him!'
