Читать книгу Eleanor - Sylvia Andrew - Страница 6

By the afternoon she was sure she was mad. Hyde Park was crowded with the ton all taking their afternoon airing—walking, riding and driving in every form of vehicle. Gentlemen drove by in their gigs and curricles, ladies displayed their pretty dresses and parasols in open landaulets—the smarter set in handsome barouches—and Eleanor had the feeling that here was a world just waiting to watch her defy it. If she had not given Mr Guthrie her word she would have obeyed her strong inclination to go back to her aunt’s house before the fatal hour of five.

However, when the gentleman stopped and offered to take Miss Southeran up, Eleanor interrupted her aunt’s refusal, and accepted. In response to Lady Walcot’s startled protest, Eleanor said firmly, ‘Forgive me, Aunt Hetty. Half an hour only,’ and climbed into the phaeton. She ignored the stares directed at her and put on an air of serenity which belied the pounding of her heart as Mr Guthrie drove off.

‘Bravely done! Allow me to congratulate you.’

‘I am not at all sure it is a matter for congratulation, sir! As you very well know, I run the risk of being sent to Coventry for this venture. However, since I have only a short time left in London I can bear that. Why do people dislike you so?’

‘Because they mistakenly believe me to be dishonest and dishonourable.’

Eleanor blinked at this forthright statement. ‘Have they cause?’

Mr Guthrie paused. At last he said, ‘Matters are not always what they seem, Miss Southeran. They think they have cause.’

‘You are fencing with me, I think.’

‘You are right. Miss Southeran, there are reasons why I cannot be frank in talking of my own affairs. I do not intend to give you tedious half-truths. My hope is rather that if we could get to know each other better you would judge me more kindly than the rest of society does. But now you tell me that you have only a short time left in London?’

‘I return home in a week’s time.’

‘At the very beginning of the season? Do you not regret that?’

‘Not in the slightest. I love my home. I cannot wait to see it again.’

‘Tell me about it.’

Eleanor never needed much encouragement to speak of Stanyards, and with that and stories of India the half-hour passed swiftly for them both. It was with regret that Eleanor noticed that they were leaving the park and making for South Audley Street.

‘Where are you going tonight? Shall I see you there?’ asked Mr Guthrie as they drew up at the Walcot house.

‘Tonight? I think not. My aunt is taking me to a ball at the French ambassador’s.’ She paused, but curiosity got the better of her. ‘Tell me, how was it that you were at Carlton House last night? I thought all doors in London were closed to you.’

‘Not all, Miss Southeran, not all. There are still some brave souls who ignore Lady Dorothy and the other gorgons. The Prince Regent is one of them. Who knows—perhaps the French ambassador is another? But in case he isn’t, shall I see you tomorrow morning?’

‘I…I am not sure. I still have to make my peace with my aunt.’

‘Come! It took a great deal of courage for you to make this afternoon’s gesture on behalf of the underdog. Don’t waste it!’

‘Very well.’ She smiled slightly. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Eleanor entered the house in a defiant mood. Mr Guthrie had proved a most interesting companion and she found it hard to believe he was the scoundrel her aunt had described. She could see, however, that he might not appeal to those who set great store by polished manners and the elegant niceties of polite behaviour, and was surprised that he apparently had the entrée to the Prince Regent’s circle. But his abrupt style of address had not offended her, and she had actually found his directness curiously appealing. She felt a strong wish to see him again, and decided that she would do all she could to coax her aunt to agree. Meanwhile she would no doubt be faced with reproaches and some justifiable anger.

Lady Walcot was sitting in the salon on the first floor. When Eleanor walked in she said, ‘I am relieved to see you back safely.’

‘Aunt Hetty, I was never in any danger!’

‘A high-perch phaeton! Driven at such a reckless pace! It only shows what disregard the man has for any lady’s sensibilities—’

‘No, Aunt! I asked Mr Guthrie to take me in the phaeton. And we went rather sedately, I thought.’ Eleanor got up and went to sit beside her aunt. ‘Truly, Aunt Hetty, Mr Guthrie is not the villain you have described. We talked of the most interesting things, and though he is not as polished as some of your acquaintance he was always the gentleman.’

‘Really?’ Her aunt was still annoyed. ‘Allow me to tell you, Eleanor, that you have made a pretty spectacle of yourself this afternoon. What Lady Dorothy will say I cannot bear to think.’

‘Pray do not worry yourself over such a trifle! I am not concerned with Lady Dorothy and her tales.’

‘But you should be, Eleanor! She is not without influence in London, let me tell you.’

‘Not with me, Aunt Hetty.’

Her aunt ignored her. ‘I blame myself, of course. I should have remembered how wilful you can be, and told you more about him when you asked. What did he tell you? A pack of lies, no doubt.’

‘I don’t think so, Aunt. We didn’t discuss Mrs Anstey, if that is what you mean.’

‘I am not surprised at that—she would be the last person he would mention! Well, Eleanor, you have forced my hand. I shall tell you about Mr Guthrie. It is not an edifying story, as I think you will agree.’ Lady Walcot paused, then began, ‘Mrs Anstey is a widow. She is an Englishwoman, but she married a man from Boston in America, and lived there for many years. The family was a wealthy one and Mrs Anstey might reasonably have hoped for a comfortable and secure existence. However, some years ago her husband went into partnership in a business venture with the man Guthrie. Guthrie ruined them.’

‘In what way?’

Lady Walcot said impatiently, ‘How should I know what piece of chicanery was involved? I understand nothing of business or trade. But ruin them he did, and now Mrs Anstey and her daughter haven’t a penny to their name. That is your precious Mr Guthrie.’

‘How do you know all this, Aunt Hetty?’

‘Everyone knows it!’

‘Gossip, idle rumours, scandal. I am surprised you give so much credence to them.’

‘It was Lady Dorothy who first told me, and she had it from Mrs Anstey herself.’

‘But—’

‘No, Eleanor, there is no “but”! What is more, I believe there is something else, which I am not at liberty to discuss. But if it is true, then I assure you on my life that the man is a dishonourable villain.’

‘Mr Guthrie said people were mistaken in believing that he was dishonourable.’

‘And you believed him?’ asked Lady Walcot with contempt.

‘Why should I not? Have you any proof to the contrary?’

‘Eleanor, the proof lies in what we know to be facts! Henry Anstey shot himself because he and his family were bankrupt. The Guthrie creature, who was a full partner in the enterprise, remains a wealthy man. Whatever else may or may not be true, how do you account for that? Besides, Guthrie has never bothered to deny anything that has been said about him.’

‘That is hardly proof of guilt! I agree it is tempting to believe Mr Guthrie to be the villain of this particular melodrama—he has all the appearance of one. And lovely Marianne Anstey looks like the very ideal of a damsel in distress. But is it not at least possible that appearances are deceptive?’

‘Oh, it is useless to argue with you! It is just as I was saying last night—you are always determined to make up your own mind, determined to ignore the judgement of people who are older and wiser than yourself. And when you embark on one of your crusades you lose all sense of proportion. Now you are about to fling yourself at a known scoundrel. What am I to do?’

Eleanor drew herself up and said with dignity, ‘Aunt Hetty, I promise not to fling myself at anyone—least of all a known scoundrel, whoever that is. But, unless you can give me more convincing proof of Mr Guthrie’s guilt, I reserve the right to talk to the first man I have met in London whose company I enjoy—apart from that of my uncle. And that’s another thing! My uncle is by no means sure of Mr Guthrie’s villainy. I would trust his judgement sooner than I would that of Lady Dorothy!’

‘Oh, your uncle is a man,’ said Lady Walcot somewhat obscurely. She got up and went to the door. Here she stopped and said, ‘I haven’t finished with you yet, Eleanor. You have asked for proof. I shall see what I can do.’ Then she left the room.

Eleanor was left feeling confused and uncertain. It was perfectly possible that Mr Guthrie had roused Lady Dorothy’s enmity by nothing more criminal than omitting to give her the deference she imagined due to her rank. But Lady Walcot was another matter. Eleanor had known and loved her father’s sister all her life—she could not dismiss her aunt’s views on Mr Guthrie so lightly. She sighed.

‘Good lord, Eleanor, don’t look so glum!’ It was her uncle who had just come in. ‘Where’s your aunt? Been giving you a lecture, has she? I’m not surprised, but don’t worry—she’ll soon come round again. Cheer up, my dear! Isn’t it time you were thinking of your dress and so on for tonight? I’m taking you both to a ball, I believe. As for your aunt, by the time she’s decided what she’s going to wear, and what jewellery to put with it, she’ll have forgotten about this afternoon. Come, let me see you smile, then you can go and pretty yourself up.’

Eleanor got up obediently and went to the door, but there she turned and came back to her uncle. She hesitated a moment, then asked, ‘Uncle Charles, what do you think of Mr Guthrie?’

Lord Walcot shook his head in mock-reproof. ‘Now, Eleanor, I’m too downy a bird to be caught by a question like that. What you’re really asking is whether I agree with your aunt in discouraging you from having much to do with him. You should know better than to ask me what I think. You are in her charge, and I cannot oppose her wishes as far as you are concerned. That would never do.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He looked sympathetically at her downcast face, and relented a little. ‘He’s a difficult fellow to know. A man who keeps his own counsel. Except for the stories about him, I’ve never had any occasion to distrust him—in fact, I would say that I quite like him. But your aunt and the others may well be right, you know. I believe Mrs Anstey tells a convincing enough tale, which he has never denied. Give it up, my dear. You’re upsetting your aunt, and to what purpose? In a few days or so you’ll be setting off for Somerset and you’ll probably never see him again.’

Eleanor looked up and said with resolution, ‘You’re right, as always, Uncle Charles. I shall be amenable from now on.’

He laughed and said, ‘Not too amenable, Eleanor. I enjoy our discussions. Don’t become like all the rest!’

That evening Eleanor found it impossible to remain unaffected by the excitement and glamour of a really large ball. The splendid rooms, lavishly decorated with artificial fountains and fantastic pyramids, were impressive by any standards, and the dresses and jewels of the cream of London society were a rare sight. Her own dress, though modest in comparison, suited her very well, she thought. It had been made originally by the best dressmaker in Taunton, and had a bodice made of blue-green silk, with a skirt of white sarsnet. Her aunt had looked at it thoughtfully, pronounced it delightfully simple and had then taken it away. It had appeared a few days later with an overskirt of blue-green gauze, embroidered round the hem in blue, green and gold, and caught up at the side with a knot of matching ribbons. Her efforts had turned a pretty dress from a local dressmaker into a garment worthy of the highest London circles. The result was eye-catching and very flattering.

But, lovely as the dresses were, impressive though the rooms looked, to Eleanor’s mind nothing could outshine Marianne Anstey. The fairy princess was stunningly beautiful in a very simple white silk dress. Her pale gold hair was caught back on top with a knot of pale pink roses, and fell in graceful curls to the nape of her neck. More pale pink roses were clustered at her waist, matching the delicate colour in her cheeks. Eleanor, along with many others, could hardly take her eyes off the girl, and no one was surprised when the ambassador kept more important guests waiting while he greeted this exquisite creature.

‘The embodiment of every man’s dreams, wouldn’t you say, Miss Southeran? A lovely damsel in distress, waiting for her knight to rescue her. And what a prize!’

Eleanor turned round with a start to find Mr Guthrie immediately behind her. She looked round for her aunt, but the Walcots were some distance away, having been separated from their niece by the crowd. Mindful of her promise to her uncle, Eleanor said, ‘If report is true, her face is her only fortune, sir. The knight in question may not have to rescue her from dragons—only her own, undeserved penury.’

‘Yes, of course. I am cast as the dragon in this fairy-tale, “if report is true”, is that not so, Miss Southeran? Well, it looks to me,’ he swept on without waiting for her reply, ‘as if the knight is about to make his appearance. More than a knight—a viscount, no less!’

The French ambassador had finally released Miss Anstey, and she had rejoined the group of fashionably dressed people with whom she had first arrived. Among them was a young man who was now talking most earnestly to her.

‘Robert Morrissey, heir to an Irish earldom. A very worthy candidate, don’t you agree?’

‘Since I know neither the lady nor her knight, I cannot tell, sir,’ said Eleanor coolly, disliking the thread of mockery running through Mr Guthrie’s words.

‘Well, I think it will do very nicely—it will at least relieve the worst of her fond mother’s anxieties.’ He bowed and disappeared as abruptly as he had come. Eleanor didn’t know whether to be angry or pleased, but saw that her aunt and uncle were about to join her again, and was glad that awkward explanations had been avoided. She asked her aunt about the Ansteys’ party.

‘They are with their cousins, the Verekers—the ones who live in Berkeley Square. And the young man who is paying such particular attention to Marianne Anstey is Lord Morrissey. Would you like to meet them?’

She took Eleanor over to the other side of the room and made the introductions. Mr and Mrs Vereker were an amiable couple, who were clearly enormously proud of their beautiful protégée. Mrs Anstey was soberly dressed and stayed quietly in the background, pleased to let her cousins take charge. Eleanor, who was guiltily aware that she had spent half an hour in the park that afternoon with Mrs Anstey’s reported enemy, was prepared for some coolness, but when they were introduced the lady smiled pleasantly enough, if somewhat timidly. Marianne proved to be as amiable as she was beautiful. Her manner was a delightful mixture of modesty and charm, and Lord Morrissey’s attentions had brought an appealing flush to her cheeks and a sparkle to her lovely eyes. He was obviously well on the way to falling in love, and Eleanor privately agreed with Mr Guthrie’s words that it might do very nicely.

After a few minutes Lord Morrissey made his excuses and took Miss Anstey off towards the ballroom. A young man Eleanor had met at a previous party came up and took her off as well, and soon the ball was well on its way. Though she did not quite dance every dance, Eleanor was seldom without a partner, and received a good many compliments on her appearance. She found herself enjoying the evening. She had just returned from a set of country dances and was standing with her aunt and uncle when she saw that the ambassador himself was approaching them. She stood back modestly in order to allow him to speak to her uncle, but then saw that Mr Guthrie was with him. She looked anxiously at her aunt. Lady Walcot was smiling at the ambassador, and though the smile faltered a little when she saw his companion she quickly recovered.

‘Lady Walcot, I am enchanted to see you so well,’ said His Excellency. ‘I see that you have lost one daughter only to gain another—and such a pretty one! Mademoiselle?’

Eleanor curtsied low and blushed as the ambassador took her hand and kissed it. He glanced mischievously at Mr Guthrie. ‘And now, Lady Walcot, I see that your niece is not dancing at present. That is quite wrong. May I present Mr Guthrie to you as a most desirable partner for the young lady?’

Eleanor had difficulty in suppressing a smile. Her aunt was undoubtedly outraged by a manoeuvre which made it impossible for her to refuse, but no one could have guessed it from her demeanour. She smiled graciously, then inclined her head.

‘How can anyone refuse you, Ambassador? My niece would be delighted, of course.’

‘Excellent! And I shall take you and Lord Walcot to the refreshment tables—I have a champagne there which will please you, I think. Come, my friend Guthrie will take good care of the pretty niece, n’est-ce pas, Jonas?’

‘Lady Walcot may have every confidence in me, Ambassador,’ said Mr Guthrie smoothly, whereupon Lord Walcot made a curious noise which he was able to turn into a cough. Mr Guthrie raised an eyebrow, then turned to Eleanor. ‘Miss Southeran?’ he said, offering his arm, and Eleanor, with an apologetic glance at her aunt, moved forward. Lady Walcot exchanged a long look with Mr Guthrie and then turned to accompany the ambassador, and Eleanor’s uncle, still amused, shook his head and followed his wife.

‘That was not well done, sir!’ said Eleanor severely as they walked towards the ballroom.

‘Not well done? Well, upon my word, I wouldn’t know how a man could do it better! To get His Excellency himself to plead my case…what more would you expect? The Prince Regent?’

Half laughing, Eleanor said, ‘You know very well what I mean, Mr Guthrie! It was to pay my aunt back for refusing you last night, was it not?’

‘You underrate yourself,’ he said with a smile. ‘There were other merits in the idea.’ Then he stopped and said, ‘But there’s something you should know about me, Miss Southeran. When I play, I don’t take chances. I play to win.’

‘And the prize in this case? Was it worth calling out such big guns?’

‘Well, now,’ he said softly, ‘it depends on what you mean by the prize. Victory over your aunt? An opportunity to dance with you? Or…what?’

Surprised by his tone, Eleanor looked at him, which was a mistake. He was looking down at her with amusement and something more disturbing in his eyes. She said uncertainly, ‘If you are trying to flirt with me, Mr Guthrie, I must tell you that I don’t appreciate it. I prefer sensible conversation such as we had this afternoon to…to silly compliments and empty phrases.’

‘I assure you, I was not trying to flirt with you. And if I were capable of flattery—which I am not—I would tell you that you outshine every other woman in the room, that that entrancing dress is a perfect foil for your sea-green witch’s eyes, and the dark gold of your hair—’

‘Mr Guthrie!’

Undeterred by her angry exclamation, he went on, ‘That, lovely though your features are, they are rendered yet more entrancing by your animation, the liveliness of your expression—’

‘Mr Guthrie, stop this at once or I shall leave you instantly!’

‘But I am not saying such things, Miss Southeran,’ he said earnestly. ‘They are quite clearly false, the merest flattery. You are pretty enough, but far from being the prettiest woman in the room. Miss Anstey, for instance, is a star!’ After a brief pause he added, ‘I grant that you’re livelier than she is—and much more intelligent.’ He gave a delighted laugh at her indignant expression. ‘What sensible things shall we talk about, Miss Southeran?’

Eleanor had never known such a man! Never before had she experienced such a mixture of feelings—anger, amusement, puzzlement, sympathy. Never had she felt so alive.

‘You shall tell me more about the East. But first we shall enjoy your prize, which,’ she said firmly, ‘is a dance.’

They didn’t talk about the East, but after the dance was over he took her to supper, and they talked of other things. They walked through the crowded rooms and at one point found themselves among the plants in the winter garden, still talking. Eleanor had objected to something disparaging Mr Guthrie had said about life in England, and was arguing her case passionately. But her voice died away as she saw him looking at her as she spoke, his eyes focused on her lips. She was overcome with a feeling of panic and turned away from him. ‘We…we must go back,’ she said nervously. ‘My aunt will be looking for me.’

‘No, wait a little. How can we talk sensibly out there among all those people—?’

‘I cannot stay here—it is most improper. My aunt would be very angry if she saw me.’

‘The devil take your aunt!’

‘Sir!’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just that I have something I want to say to you, and there never seems to be a suitable moment. I keep putting it off…’ He gave an exasperated laugh. ‘I think I’m afraid!’

‘Afraid?’ she echoed, looked at him wide-eyed.

‘Yes, and when you look at me like that it all goes out of my head. You have a most extraordinary effect on me—like no other I have ever known. How do you do it?’

Eleanor suddenly became aware of the very strange effect this conversation was having on her breathing. ‘You are talking nonsense, Mr Guthrie—I must go back,’ she said with determination, and started for the entrance to the ballroom.

‘Wait! Eleanor—’ he called, but stopped abruptly as he saw Lady Walcot standing at the entrance.

‘At last I’ve found you! What on earth do you think you are doing?’ Lady Walcot’s voice was sharp, and one or two bystanders cast curious glances in her direction. She forced a smile, whispering to her niece, ‘Don’t bother to tell me. You’ve been with that man!’

‘Aunt Hetty—’

‘We’ll talk when we get home, Eleanor, not here. Now come with me—several people have been asking to meet you. Ah, Lady Marchant, there you are! We’ve been looking for you—this is Miss Southeran, my niece…’

Eleanor did not see Mr Guthrie again that evening. Her aunt kept her close at her side until the carriages arrived to take them home. But she would not have looked for him in any case. Her feelings were much too confused to face him again so soon. This same confusion of feeling made it difficult for her to discuss the matter with her aunt afterwards, and Lady Walcot, drawing her own conclusions, was most concerned. ‘I blame myself,’ she said unhappily. ‘I should never have agreed to your dancing with him—I know what he is. Heaven knows how he manages it, for he is not at all handsome. But he is a dangerous man, Eleanor. I beg you to forget this attraction he has for you.’

‘He…he seemed sincere,’ said Eleanor hesitantly. ‘As if he too felt the same…attraction. Could I be so wrong?’

Lady Walcot exclaimed, ‘The devil! The scheming, contriving devil! He has bewitched you, Eleanor, just as he bewitched Ev—But no, I mustn’t say any more.’ She appeared to be debating with herself, and then to reach a conclusion. ‘You must go to bed, Eleanor,’ she said slowly. ‘And in the morning I shall see what I can do.’

Eleanor slept badly that night. She tossed and turned, reliving the moments with Jonas Guthrie, especially the time in the winter garden. One moment she wanted to meet him the next morning, and then, after another debate with herself, she had decided that it would be better if they did not see each other again. Was he a dangerous philanderer—all the more dangerous because he did not appear to be trying to charm? Or was he the straightforward man he appeared to be? And what was it that he had been afraid to tell her? She eventually fell into an uneasy slumber, still debating the question.

She woke late the next morning to find that one question at least had already been decided. It was far too late for a ride in the park. When she eventually came downstairs she found her aunt waiting.

‘I have someone I wish you to meet,’ she said briskly, ‘and we are late. Put your bonnet on and come with me, Eleanor. Don’t delay—the carriage is waiting.’

A few minutes later they arrived at a modest house in a street off Cavendish Square. Here they were taken into a small parlour, where a lady was waiting to receive them. It was Mrs Anstey. She greeted Lady Walcot in a soft, well-spoken manner and then turned to Eleanor. ‘Miss Southeran, you are very welcome, though I am sorry the occasion is…is such an awkward one…’ Mrs Anstey paused and looked to Lady Walcot for help.

‘Mrs Anstey has agreed, at my urgent request, to talk to you, Eleanor. I am very obliged to her—the matter is a painful one, as you will see, and I would not have asked her to speak of it had I not been so anxious for you. I am sure you will give her your earnest attention—it concerns Mr Guthrie and his behaviour towards the Anstey family.’

‘Surely this isn’t necessary, Aunt Hetty—’

‘In view of your refusal to accept my word for Mr Guthrie’s character, and especially in view of your behaviour last night…’

‘I wanted to explain—’

‘Forgive me, Eleanor, but Mrs Anstey’s time is precious. We must not waste it.’

Good manners silenced Eleanor. She sat chafing under her aunt’s disapproval, convinced that this whole visit was an unnecessary exercise. Lady Walcot said, ‘Mrs Anstey, would you mind telling my niece how well you know Mr Guthrie?’

‘Jonas and I were brought up together, Miss Southeran. His mother was a Vereker, too. That is to say…I mean his mother was a Vereker before she was married. As I was.’

‘You were sisters?’

‘No, no! Oh, dear, how stupid of me…Caroline, his mother, was my cousin.’

‘From what you have told me,’ said Lady Walcot, casting a glance at Eleanor, ‘you practically brought him up?’

‘Well…yes, I suppose so,’ said Mrs Anstey uncertainly. ‘I was so much older than he was, and he had no mother…He was a dear little boy when he came to us.’

‘Came to you? In America?’ asked Eleanor, somewhat puzzled.

‘No, no. This was over thirty years ago—Jonas was a baby…I was a girl and still living in England then.’ She looked anxiously at Lady Walcot, then said nervously, ‘Perhaps I had better explain. You see, Richard Guthrie, Jonas’s father, abandoned poor Caroline before Jonas was born. She came back home to have the child, and died soon after. I think it must have been of a broken heart, don’t you? Jonas and I…we were both orphans living with relatives. We were very close, though I was ten years older.’

‘But what happened to his father?’ asked Eleanor.

‘He was a bad lot, I’m afraid. I think he eventually went into the army and was killed. But Jonas never really knew him. It is surprising…’ Her voice drifted away.

‘He must have felt very alone in the world.’

‘Oh, no! He knew he always had me to turn to—until I left England and went to live in America…’ Mrs Anstey’s voice trailed away weakly again, and Eleanor felt a sudden impatience with her. The woman is a born martyr, she thought, and then reproached herself for her lack of charity.

Lady Walcot said, ‘And later, I believe, your husband took Mr Guthrie as a business partner on your recommendation?’

‘Well, partly. Jonas left England for India when he was still quite young. I’m not sure how, but he made a fortune out there. Then he came to see me in Boston. He was looking for a suitable investment, and my husband happened to need some new capital for his family concern and…and they helped each other. It worked very well to start with. I was delighted to see him again, and Henry and the girls were all devoted to him. For a while Henry and I even thought that we would be more closely related to Jonas. But then the engagement was broken off…’

‘Engagement? Mr Guthrie has been engaged? To Marianne?’ asked Eleanor, growing pale.

‘No, no. Jonas was engaged to my other daughter. But then it was broken off. And things went wrong after that.’

‘What went wrong?’

‘Miss Southeran, I am not precisely sure what went amiss. I took no part in the business, of course. But Henry—my husband—and Jonas suddenly seemed to disagree a great deal, and though Mr Oliver did his best to keep the peace there were frequent arguments.’

‘Mr Oliver?’

‘My husband’s other partner. He is now married to Evadne.’ Mrs Anstey’s hands were twisting in her lap. She said suddenly, ‘Oh, Miss Southeran, if you only knew how wicked Jonas Guthrie has been, how like his father!’

The sudden passion in this timid little woman’s voice was startling. Eleanor was impressed, and, dreading what more was to come, she asked slowly, ‘Why do you say that?’

Mrs Anstey looked uncertainly at Lady Walcot, who leaned forward and said softly, ‘Please, if you can, tell her! I give you my word that it will go no further.’

‘I…I…am ashamed to tell you that Jonas Guthrie is the father of my daughter’s child!’ This was said in a low voice, and at first Eleanor thought she had not heard correctly. She looked blankly at Mrs Anstey, who added in a clearer, louder tone, ‘He seduced my daughter Evadne, and gave her a child.’