Читать книгу An Unreasonable Match - Sylvia Andrew - Страница 10

At first Hester was puzzled rather than distressed. The young men around her had listened so charmingly. They had paid her such pretty compliments, taken such pleasure in her company. What was wrong? Why didn’t they want to listen to her?

The awakening was painful. Alone, as she so often was, on a balcony overlooking one of the rooms in the Duchess of Sutherland’s mansion, half hidden by long curtains, she heard a burst of laughter from below and then voices.

“I don’t believe it! You must be making it up, Brummell! Are you trying to tell us that Hester Perceval actually took Addington to task on the question of Catholic emancipation? Addington!”

“My dear chap, every word of it is true, I swear.” Hester looked cautiously over the balcony. Seven or eight young gentlemen were gathered underneath. She drew quickly back.

“Oh God!” There was despair in Hugo’s voice. “What has she done now? What did he say?”

George Brummell was a born mimic. Addington’s self-important tones were captured perfectly. “My dear Miss Perceval, how you can think I would discuss policies of His Majesty’s Government with an impertinent chit of a girl I cannot imagine. And why the devil you should see fit to mention such a subject in Lady O’Connell’s drawing-room has me even more at a loss.”

Shouts of laughter, and applause. Then Hester strained forward as she heard Robert Dungarran’s drawl.

“Poor girl! I know that blistering tone of Addington’s.”

“Come, come, Robert! Little Miss Cure-all deserved the set-down. She’s an impudent ninny. What have politics to do with a woman? Their little brains simply aren’t up to it!”

“Do tell me, George—are yours?”

More laughter, and the good-natured reply. “I’ve never tried t’ fathom them—even if my health permitted me to try. Fatiguin’ things, politics. All the same, Hugo, isn’t it time you did something about the girl?”

“Quite right, Brummell!” The interruption came from Tom Beckenwaite. “Dammit, when I’m with a woman I don’t want to think—that’s not what they’re for!” He gave a low laugh, which was followed by a chorus of ribald remarks. Hester was shocked. She had always regarded Lord Beckenwaite as a true gentleman. A fool, but a gentlemanly fool. He spoke again.

“The fact is, Hugo, old dear, you are wasting your time. Your little sister is incurable. And un-marriageable. Demme, there’s a limit to what a fellow can stand! I’m as ready as the next man to do a friend a favour, but your sister is demned hard work, and that’s not something I look for. She never stops talkin’! Ridin’, drivin’, dancin’—it’s all the same! Talk, talk, talk!”

“Hugo—” Hester leaned forward again. This was Dungarran speaking. She smiled in anticipation. He would defend her against these asses. He seldom spoke but when he did it was always to the point. They would listen to him. His drawl was more pronounced than ever. “Hugo, I’m sorry to say it, but it’s time you did something!”

“Not you too, Robert!” Hugo said resignedly.

“Have a word with Lady Perceval, old chap. Your wretched sister’s behaviour is doing neither herself, nor anyone else, much good. She is too young, and much too foolish for life here. Get your mother to take her back to Nottingham, or Northampton or wherever it is you all come from. Perhaps the country air will blow away some of her silly notions. Bring her back when she’s learned how to behave. But, please, not before.”

Hugo said stiffly, “She never used to be like this, and I’m sorry for it. I don’t know what my mother was thinking of, bringing her to London with her head full of such nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense, exactly. Just absurd coming from your sister.” Dungarran again. “It would be better suited to a graybeard with a corporation than a child out of the schoolroom. A girl into the bargain.”

“I don’t know what to say to you all. She’s my sister and I love her, I suppose. But believe me, when I asked you all to give her a good start to the Season I never imagined it would be such hard work. You’ve been Trojans.”

“Well, from now on, dear boy, your sister can lecture someone else. This Trojan is retiring to his tent. Wounded in the course of duty, you might say. Shall we look for the card-room?” A chorus of agreement faded as they went away, leaving Hester sitting in her chair staring into space. How could they talk of her like that! How dare they! Shallow, stupid…It was as if a veil had been ripped from her eyes. She could now see that their smiles had been sly, their compliments mere flattery, their attentions empty…She drew in a shuddering breath. They were all fools! Every one of them! Fashionable fools with no more brain than a pea! Heartless, brainless fools!…

“You’re looking serious, my dear. Are you alone?”

She looked up. An elderly gentleman was gazing at her in concern. His face was vaguely familiar.

“Sir…” she stammered. “You must excuse me. I…I am a little…a little…” Her voice faded.

“My dear girl, you are clearly upset. How fortunate that I happened on your hiding place. Come. You shall have something to restore you, and then I shall take you back to your Mama. Or…” He eyed her speculatively. “Perhaps you would tell me more of the very interesting reforms in the north you’ve been studying?”

Hester looked at him in surprise. “I’ve talked to you before? I’m afraid…”

“No, but I was there when you were talking about them to Lady Castle. I found them quite absorbing. May I know more?”

This was balm to Hester’s wounded pride. Here was a man of mature years, obviously distinguished, who, far from laughing at her, respected her views enough to want to hear more! What a contrast to those…fribbles of Hugo’s, especially Dungarran! Here was someone who really appreciated her.

They talked for a moment or two, and never since she came to London had Hester had such an attentive listener. After a moment he winced as a burst of music came from below, and said, “I hardly dare suggest it, but we would be more private in the library. Of course, if you don’t care for the idea we could continue to sit here…”

The temptation to sit there on the balcony, to be seen by people who did not appreciate her as they ought, was very strong. But he went on, “The Duchess has a splendid selection of books on the subject…?”

Books! She hadn’t seen a book in weeks! Hester smiled and nodded with enthusiasm. She was too shy to ask him his name, but he clearly knew her family. There could be nothing wrong in accepting the invitation from such a very distinguished-looking old man. The cane he used to support him was of ebony with a silver-chased top. His coat was of blue velvet and the ribbon and diamonds of some sort of order was pinned to its front. His white hair was tied back in the old-fashioned way with a velvet ribbon. He was altogether the epitome of august respectability. Filled with pride at having attracted the attention of such a man, she accepted the arm he offered and let him guide her through the doors and on into the library. He led her to a sofa by the window. On a table next to it was a decanter filled with wine, and some glasses.

“Sit down, Miss Perceval. Will you have some wine?”

“I’m not sure…Why did you shut the door?”

“Do you not find the noise outside disturbing? You are young, of course. Your hearing is more acute than mine. Would you like me to open it again?”

“Oh no!”

“Good! Let me pour you some wine.” He smiled at her reassuringly in a grandfatherly way.

“Th…thank you.” Hester smiled nervously at him. He handed her a large glass of wine at which she gazed apprehensively, then came round and sat down beside her.

“Now, tell me why you think the north needs special attention. Are things there so very different from the south?”

“Oh, they are!” Relieved, Hester launched into a description of conditions in the manufacturing towns. She was flattered by the attention the gentleman was paying to her words, and failed to notice at first how very close to her he was sitting, his arm along the back of the sofa. It seemed very warm in the room, and she was relieved when he got up and walked over to one of the bookcases. But her relief was short-lived. When he returned with a heavy volume, he sat even more closely, his thigh pressing against hers.

“We shall look at this together,” he said with a smile, and opened the page at a spectacularly undressed lady…

Even today, six years later, she could still feel the shock. She had sat paralysed for a moment, and Canford had taken the opportunity to turn her head to his…His lips came down on hers with brutal force, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth. One hand clutched the front of her bodice…With a scream of outrage and horror she had leapt away, snatched up her glass of wine, which was still very full, and emptied it over him. She made for the door.

Canford was beside himself with rage. “My coat! Look at my coat, you damned little vixen!” he snarled, picking up his stick and lifting it threateningly as he chased after her. She managed to unlock the door before he reached her, but then he grabbed her hair and wrenched it painfully as he pulled her back.

She screamed again, whereupon the door burst open, knocking her aside, and Hugo rushed in. What happened next was a blur, but it ended with Canford and her brother crashing to the floor together. It was a dangerous moment, luckily interrupted by the arrival of Robert Dungarran.

“Canford! Hugo!”

Canford, recalled to sanity by Dungarran’s intervention, got up, glared at Hugo, and stormed out, swearing vengeance on all concerned.

Hugo then turned to her. After making sure she was unharmed, he lost his temper with her—comprehensively. The general drift was that he had finished with her. She had ruined not only herself, but the rest of the family in the eyes of the Ton. After a few other, similarly amiable sentiments, he had gone out after Canford to see, he snapped, whether he could limit the damage she had caused. She had been left, ashamed and humiliated, alone with Dungarran.

Hester preferred not to think of what had followed—the recriminations, the accusations, her stupid declaration of love, and his contemptuous rejection of her. If she was to meet Dungarran in April with any degree of equanimity she must put that scene out of her mind. Forget it completely.

Hester picked up the pen, put on her glasses and returned to work. This was what was important, what would be important in the future. She finished her copying and sealed the papers up. Recently Garimond had insisted that every precaution should be taken to keep her work from prying eyes. She always complied, though she couldn’t see a reason for it. Men were basically very childish with their secrets and their ciphers. The messages Zeno had sent her recently had all been to do with Romans marching into Gaul, and transport over the Alps. Did he regard himself as a latter-day Caesar? Some of it didn’t even make sense. But he was clever! His ciphers had always been devilishly ingenious, even the simpler ones he used for his covering letters…These were never published, of course.

Hester gave a little laugh. Who would think that Hester Perceval, spinster and recluse, would dare to conduct a secret correspondence with an unknown gentleman? Even parents as indulgent as hers would be shocked beyond measure at it. But Zeno could hardly be regarded as a danger, even by the strictest guardians, for, in the nature of things, she and Zeno would, regrettably, never meet! Though she felt a surprising sense of kinship with him, an astonishing similarity of humour and ideas, she could never reveal her true identity. The shock would probably kill the elderly gentleman, who sat in his club in St James, painstakingly writing his articles, and inventing the most tortuous, the most diabolically difficult ciphers—all for a woman to solve!

Hester’s eyes wandered over her attic and stopped at a dusty cupboard in the corner. Should she open it? Inside was the manuscript of The Wicked Marquis, a ridiculous novel she had written in fury after her return in the summer of 1806. Her pen might well have been dipped in vitriol, so corrosive had been the caricatures of her unsuspecting victims. No, it was better left locked away where no one else could read it. She would otherwise face ruinous actions for libel! One day she would destroy it. But writing The Wicked Marquis had undoubtedly helped her recovery. Through its absurdities she had learned to laugh not only at society, but also at herself at seventeen—naïve, arrogant, so sure that she could change the world…She smiled as she thought of the absurd plot based on tales told by the servants of the local villain, the Marquis of Sywell—the orgies in the chapel, the deflowering of local maidens, the mysterious disappearance of the Marchioness…She had surrounded him with vain, empty-headed young men with ridiculous names, caricatures of the men she had met in London—even Hugo had not escaped. The Marquis of Rapeall, Sir Hugely Perfect, Viscount Windyhead—he had hardly deserved her malice, he had been scarcely older than herself—Lord Baconwit, the dandy Beau Broombrain and—Lord Dunthinkin.

Which brought her back to Dungarran. Hester straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. At seventeen she had gone to London expecting the world to fall at her feet. At twenty-four she expected very little—merely to get through the Season with as little trouble as possible. Then she would return and continue her relationship with the only man she respected—Zeno. He was the man for her.

Lady Perceval was delighted when her daughter agreed to accompany them to London without further protest. She launched into a frenzy of discussions with the local dressmakers—already working at full capacity on Robina Perceval’s wardrobe. The house was swamped in samples and pattern books. It soon became clear that they would unfortunately not get to town in time for Sophia Cleeve’s come-out ball. This was held in March, and it was the middle of April before Sir James brought his wife and daughter to the house Hugo had found for them off Berkeley Square.

“Very pleasant!” pronounced Lady Perceval, looking round her as the family entered the spacious salon on the first floor. “How clever of you, Hugo dear, to find such a pleasant house in such a convenient situation. Hester, do you not agree?”

Mindful of her promise, Hester smiled at her brother and offered her cheek. “I would expect nothing less,” she said, as he kissed it. “I’m glad to see you, brother. You’re looking well—and very elegant.”

“I was delighted to hear you had agreed to come, Hester. I think we can do better this time, don’t you?”

Hester sighed. “I’ll try, Hugo. I’ll try. I can at least promise not to make a nuisance of myself.”

“We’ll do better than that,” he promised, smiling down at her with a glint in his eye. Her heart warmed to him. When Hugo forgot he was a nonpareil with a position to uphold, there was no one kinder or more affectionate. The older brother she had loved was still there, underneath the man of fashion.

Lowell came bounding up the stairs, falling over some valises on the way, and the mood of family unity was disturbed.

“I’m sorry, Mama, Papa,” he gasped. “I meant to be here when you arrived.”

“Ma’am,” said Hugo impatiently, turning to his mother. “Ma’am, I wish you would persuade your younger son to be less…less noisy! It’s like having a Great Dane in the drawing-room!”

Sir James laughed. “Let him be, Hugo! He’ll learn. How are you, my boy?”

“Well, sir, very well. I find London greatly to my taste—especially since I moved out of Sir Hugely Perfect’s rooms. Sharing with Gaines is much more fun.”

Hester’s start of surprise fortunately went unnoticed as Sir James said disapprovingly, “What was that you said? Sir Hugely Perfect? That is not amusing, Lowell. It doesn’t do to call your brother names.”

“Oh, I’m not alone, sir! That’s how he is known here in London.”

“Sir Hugely Perfect?” Lady Perceval went over to her son. “Hugo! How unkind! Are you really called so?”

The colour had risen in Hugo’s cheeks, but he shrugged his shoulders and laughed. “Not by everyone, only Lowell and his cronies. The rest of my acquaintance are not so childish.”

Hester cleared her throat. “Where…where did such a name come from, Lowell? Mama is right. It isn’t kind.”

“It’s from a book,” Hugo answered for Lowell, who had hesitated. “A piece of rubbish which came on the scene a month or two ago. But no one of any sense could possibly take it seriously.”

“A book?”

Lowell held his sister’s eyes. “A book called The Wicked Marquis. And Hugo is mistaken. It’s not just my set. The whole of the beau-monde is talking about it.”

Lady Perceval was looking bewildered. “Hugo? A wicked marquis? What are you talking about, Lowell?”

“Hugo isn’t the wicked marquis, Mama. He’s just a character in the book. One of a great number.”

Hester said faintly, “Mama, I should quite like to see my room. I feel sadly dishevelled, and…and I have a touch of the headache.”

“My poor child! I thought you seemed rather pale—we rose so early this morning, Hugo. I dare swear you were not even awake when we left Perceval Hall. Come, my dear!” At the door she paused. “I hope to see you later, Hugo. Are you dining here?”

“Certainly! I couldn’t neglect you all on your first evening in town. I must bring you up to date! Sophia Cleeve’s ball was a huge success, by the way. No expense spared, naturally. And in her quiet way little Robina is doing very well.”

“Excellent! Excellent!” Sir James beamed with pleasure.

His wife was equally pleased. She left Hester and came back into the room to join Hugo and her husband. “What a relief for her mother!” she exclaimed. “Elizabeth was so worried at the expense of it all, but if Robina can make a reasonable match, the prospect for her sisters is vastly improved. She is, of course, a very pretty girl. Do you know who…?”

Hester seized her opportunity. She pulled Lowell out into the hall and pushed him into a side room, shutting the door firmly behind them. Then she turned.

“What have you done, Lowell?” she hissed.

“I don’t know what you m—”

Hester gave her brother a most unladylike shake.

“Yes you do, you little toad! How did you find it? And what did you do with it?”

“Oh, you mean The Wicked Marquis? I sold it.”

“You what?”

“I sold it. I showed it to a friend of mine in Cambridge and he was as keen as mustard about it. He knew where to go to get it printed, and…”

“You…you sold it? For publication? You’re trying to hoax me, Lowell—no respectable publisher would handle a thing like that!”

“Well, no. That’s where old Marbury was so useful. He knew a fellow who dealt with the other kind.”

“Lowell!” Hester was horrified, but Lowell was too full of enthusiasm to notice.

He went on, “It needed spicing up a bit for that kind of trade, of course, so I did that. I brought it up to date as well. I didn’t do at all a bad job, either. The chap I sold it to was quite impressed.”

“You…you traitor, Lowell! How could you! How dare you!”

He looked injured. “I thought you’d be pleased. It wasn’t doing any good in that dusty old cupboard, and now it’s a huge success. Don’t listen to what Hugo says. It’s not just my set—everyone is talking about it.”

“Oh God!” she said in despair, pacing up and down in a fever of anxiety. “Oh, Lowell! How could you? We’re ruined!”

“Nonsense! For one thing, no one knows who the author is—”

“But they’re bound to find out! It wouldn’t be difficult to work out who wrote it—all the people in it were the ones I knew. I’m surprised Hugo hasn’t worked it out already.”

“That’s where my bits came in,” said her brother proudly. “I think you’ll find that I’ve obscured the tracks enough.”

“I must see it—immediately. Tonight!”

“I don’t think so, Hes. Gaines and I are off to Astley’s tonight. Tomorrow.”

“You’ll bring it tonight, you snake—”

“Hester!” Lady Perceval came into the room. “I thought you had gone upstairs. Whatever are you doing here? And Lowell!”

“I…I…er…I have some messages for Lowell. From the Vicarage.”

“Henrietta, perhaps?” asked her mother with a significant smile. “I won’t ask what they are—you obviously want to deliver them in private. Lowell, shall we see you tonight?”

Her two children answered at the same time. “Yes!” said Hester. “No, unfortunately not,” said Lowell with an apologetic smile. Sir James, hearing this, was annoyed.

“What’s this, sir? Your mother and I would have liked you to be here!”

“Sorry, Papa! It’s Gaines. He’s leaving town tomorrow. He has to go down to Devon for a few weeks. Tonight’s the only night we can go and we’ve been promising ourselves this treat for ages. I’ll be here tomorrow morning—about noon.”

With this his parents had to be content, though they were not best pleased. As they turned to go Hester, who had been thinking furiously, said, “Mama, Lowell has suggested we go for a short walk. He thought that might relieve my headache better than lying in a stuffy room. I should dearly like to see where he lives. I know it isn’t far. Just round the corner…almost.” She gave Lowell a sweet smile. Only he could sense the determination behind it.

“Well…”

“I’m sure he’ll look after me, Mama. Won’t you, Lowell?”

“Of course! If you’re sure you want to…”

“I want to. May I, Mama?”

A few moments later Hester was accompanying Lowell to Half Moon Street. After a silence she said, “You haven’t told me yet how you discovered it.”

Lowell had had time to reflect on Hester’s reaction. He had genuinely thought that it was a wonderful jest to have her book published, but now he was no longer so sure. It was a long time since he had seen Hester in such a rage.

“I…I was waiting for you in the attic. This was some time ago, Hes. You were a long time coming. So…so I explored. The key was on top of the cupboard, and…and…”

“You opened it. And stole the manuscript.”

“Don’t say that! I read it on the spot. It isn’t very long, as you know. If you had come in then I daresay I shouldn’t have done anything with it. But you were held up in the village or something, so I had plenty of time to finish it. I couldn’t stop laughing. It was brilliant!”

“Laughing!” Hester exclaimed bitterly.

“Well, I daresay you didn’t feel like laughing when you wrote it. But your caricatures were hilarious to an outsider. And one or two of them hit the nail right on the head. That’s why it’s such a wild success. All London is laughing. I don’t know why you’re taking it so badly, Hester!”

“Lowell! If it ever comes out that I wrote the thing then I am dished—completely. For ever! London won’t laugh then. They’ll hunt me out of town.”

“They won’t find out. I told you, I altered it to disguise your part. And…and…”

“Continue, little brother,” said Hester ominously when Lowell hesitated.

“Well, I put things in it that a respectable girl couldn’t possibly know about. You’d mentioned some of Sywell’s escapades—you remember that party no one would talk about, until I got old Silas to tell? And the business with Abel Bardon’s daughters? You didn’t know the details—no one would tell you, of course, so you’d used your imagination. Well, I just added a few of the real facts. No one could possibly believe you knew anything about those.”

Hester stopped and put her hands over her face. “Lowell, this is the worst thing you have ever done to me. I can’t bear it!” she said.

Lowell took her arm, aware of the curious glances directed at them both. He said in a low voice, “The situation isn’t nearly as bad as you think, Hester. Look! We’re nearly at my place—come in and I’ll give you something—a glass of wine, perhaps? Gaines has some first-class burgundy.”

Hester allowed herself to be shepherded into the small house in Half Moon Street where Lowell had his rooms. “I’d like to drown you in it. But I’ll have some water, or possibly some tea. Not wine.”

“I say, Hester! That’s not fair! I did it for a lark!”

“That’s what you always say, Lowell! But this is no lark!” Her brother’s air of injured innocence, rather like that of a hurt puppy, was having its usual effect. Hester was never able to stay angry with Lowell for long. But when she looked at the book which Lowell put into her hands a few minutes later she exploded again.

“This is disgusting!”

“Well, yes. They did spread themselves on the cover. The Marquis is being really astonishingly wicked.” As Lowell looked at it he started to grin appreciatively. “I don’t know how the devil he managed that position, though.”

“Lowell!! You shouldn’t be showing me this…this filth! You shouldn’t even be mentioning such things to me! Oh Lord! I can’t believe this is happening to me. Not another disaster, not again!” Hester was distraught. She walked up and down the room in agitation.

“Oh come, Hester! I may have spiced the novel up a little—”

“A little! If this is anything to go by…”

“A lot, then. But you can’t go all prunes and prisms on me. After all, you thought it all up. I only embellished it.”

“Oh no!”

“And the cover is the worst thing about it. It’s really not so lurid inside. Read it and see for yourself. I promise you, it will make you laugh.”

“I shall do nothing of the sort!” She stopped short. Then she wailed, “I shall have to read the confounded thing! Tonight, if possible. I must see what you’ve done to it. Lowell, I shall never forgive you for this, never! Here, take the book and wrap it up—properly, mind! I don’t want it to come undone before I can hide it in my room.”

Lowell was now so anxious to please that he wrapped the offending book into a small parcel and handed it over. “I’ll escort you back,” he said contritely.

“No! I don’t want your company! I’m used to walking alone, and it’s only a step.”

“But I must—”

“Lowell,” said Hester with awful calm. “Don’t argue with me. I shall scream if I have to say another word to you! I need to walk back to Bruton Street alone! I just might be able to speak to you tomorrow, but don’t count on it.” She turned and left him standing on the door step. He waited irresolutely, then shrugged his shoulders and went in.

Hester walked swiftly back up towards Berkeley Square. She was seething with an explosive mixture of anger and apprehension. How dare Lowell do such an outrageous thing! What would become of her—and her family—if London ever found her out? The parcel in her hand seemed to burn through to her fingers; she wanted to drop it, but dared not let it go. She reached the top of Half Moon Street and turned in the direction of Berkeley Square, head down, still clutching her parcel—and collided with a tall gentleman who was coming towards her. She dropped her parcel and with a gasp of dismay bent down to pick it up. A hand came out to prevent her.

“You must allow me,” said a deep, drawling voice.

Hester groaned inwardly. Fate was always against her on such occasions. It was inevitable that out of all the gentlemen in society she should meet this one, just when she least wanted to. She summoned up her courage. “Lord Dungarran!” she exclaimed. “How…how…pleasant to meet you again!”