Pistols for Two (18 page)

Quite bewildered, Dorothea said: ‘Presented? Wear Augusta’s new dress? Mama,
why
?’

‘My innocent treasure!’ exclaimed Lady Saltwood. ‘Tell me, my love, for you must know I am scarcely acquainted with him, do you – do you
like
Lord Rotherfield?’

‘Oh, Mama!’ said Dorothea impulsively. ‘He is exactly like Sir Charles Grandison, and Lord Orville, only far, far better!’

‘Dearest Dorothea!’ sighed her ladyship ecstatically. ‘Charlie, do not stand there staring! Go and throw a jug of water over Augusta this instant! This is
not
the moment for hysterics!’

The girl stood under the light of the guttering candles, still as a statue, her hands clasped in front of her, and no colour in her cheeks. She was dressed in a simple muslin gown with blue ribbons, and wore no ornament save the fillet threaded through her gold hair. She did not look at her half-brother, nor at any one of the five other men who were gathered round the table in the centre of the over-heated room. But she knew who was present; she had seen them all in the one swift glance she had cast at them under her lashes as she had entered the room. There was Lord Amberfield, sprawling over the table with his head pillowed on his arm; Mr Marmaduke Shapley, not so drunk as Amberfield, leaning on his chair and giggling; Sir Thomas Fort, a little blear-eyed, very purple in the face; Mr Lionel Winter, idiotically smiling; and Carlington Carlington with his black curls in disorder, and his exquisite cravat crumpled, his lean cheeks hectically flushed, and a reckless look in his bright eyes.

And there was Half-brother Ralph, in answer to whose peremptory summons she had got up out of her bed, and dressed herself, and come down to this stuffy room in the chill small hours. He was lounging back in his chair, still grasping the dice-box in one hand, while the other sought to refill his empty glass. Some of the wine slopped over on to the baize cloth that covered the table; Sir Ralph cursed it, and thrust the bottle on towards his left-hand neighbour. ‘Fill up, Lionel! Fill up!’ he said, hiccuping. ‘Now, my lord – now Carlington! You want to play on, hey? But I’m done-up, d’ye see? Only one thing left to stake, and that’s m’sister!’ A fit of insane laughter shook him; he made a gesture towards the girl, who stood motionless still, her gaze fixed on a point above Carlington’s handsome head. ‘I’ll set her for my last stake, gen’lemen. Who’ll cover?’

Mr Winter said: ‘Tha’s – tha’s Miss Helen,’ and nodded wisely.

‘Damme, Morland, this – this is not right!’ said Sir Thomas, getting on to his feet. ‘Miss Morland – very obedient servant, ma’am! Amberfield – my lord! ladies present!’

He lurched towards the sleeping Viscount, and shook him by one shoulder. Lord Amberfield moaned, and muttered: ‘Pockets to let: all my vowels in – in Carlington’s hands.’

‘Freddy, my boy, I’m saying it’s not right. Can’t stake a lady.’

Lord Amberfield said: ‘Can’t stake anything. Nothing to stake. Going to sleep.’

Mr Marmaduke Shapley clasped his head in his hands, as though to steady it, and said rather indistinctly: ‘It’s the wine. Confound you, Ralph, you’re drunk!’

Sir Ralph gave a boisterous laugh, and rattled the dice in the box. ‘Who’ll cover?’ he demanded. ‘What d’ye say, Lionel? Will you have my jade of a sister to wife?’

Mr Winter rose to his feet, and stood precariously balancing on his heels. ‘Sir,’ he said, looking owlishly at his host, ‘shall take leave to tell you – no one will cover prepost’rous stake!’

Sir Ralph’s wicked eyes went past him to where Carlington sat, gazing at the girl under frowning, night-black brows. By the Marquis’ left arm, stretched negligently before him on the table, scraps of paper were littered, vowels for the money he had won. There were rouleaus of guineas at his elbow, and more guineas spilled under his hand. Through Sir Ralph’s blurred mind drifted a thought that he had never seen the young Marquis in so wild a humour before. He leaned forward, and said mockingly: ‘Will you cover, my lord, or do you refuse the bet?’

Carlington’s eyes turned slowly towards him. They were not glazed but unnaturally bright. ‘I – refuse?’ he said.

‘There’s the true elbow-shaker!’ crowed Sir Ralph. ‘Cover, Carlington! What’s the jade worth?’

Mr Winter laid hold of his chair-back, and with difficulty enunciated four words: ‘My lord, you’re d-drunk!’

‘Drunk or sober, no man shall set me a stake I won’t cover,’ Carlington answered. His long fingers closed over the heap of vowels, crushing them into a ball. He thrust them forward, and his rouleaus with them.

‘Good God, Charles!’ cried Sir Thomas, catching at his wrist. ‘There’s a matter of twenty thousand pounds there! Have sense, man, have sense!’

Carlington shook him off. ‘A main, Morland, call a main!’ he said.

‘Seven!’ Sir Ralph responded, and cast the dice on to the table.

Carlington laughed, and dived a hand into his pocket for his snuff-box, and flicked it open.

‘Five to seven!’ announced Mr Shapley, peering at the dice.

The girl’s fixed gaze had wavered as the dice rattled in the box, and she had shot a swift glance downwards at the chance, as it lay on the table. Her brother gathered up the dice, shook them together and again threw them.

They rolled across the table, and settled into five and ace.

‘Cinque-ace!’ called Mr Shapley, constituting himself groomporter. ‘Any bets, gentlemen? any bets?’

No one answered; the Marquis took snuff.

The dice were shaken a third time, and cast. ‘Quatre-trey!’ called out Mr Shapley. ‘Carlington, you’ve – you’ve the d-devil’s own luck!’

The girl’s eyes remained fixed for a moment on the four and the three lying on the green cloth; then she raised them, and looked across the table at Carlington.

The Marquis leaped up, and achieved a bow. ‘Ma’am, I have won your hand in fair play!’ he said, and stretched out his own imperatively.

Sir Ralph was staring at the dice, his lower lip pouting, and some of the high colour fading from his cheeks. Without a glance at him Miss Morland walked round the table, and curtsied, and laid her hand in Carlington’s.

His fingers closed on it; he swung it gently to and fro, and said recklessly: ‘It’s time we were going. Will you come, my golden girl?’

Miss Morland spoke for the first time, in a composed, matter-of-fact voice. ‘Certainly I will come, sir,’ she said.

Carlington’s eyes danced. ‘I’m drunk, you know,’ he offered.

‘Yes,’ she said.

He shook with laughter. ‘By God, I like your spirit! Come, then!’

Sir Thomas started forward, lurched heavily against the table, and caught at it to steady himself. ‘Damme, you’re mad! Ralph, this won’t do – bet’s off – joke’s a joke – gone far enough!’

‘Play or pay!’ the Marquis retorted, a smile not quite pleasant curling his lips.

Sir Ralph raised his eyes, and looked sullenly towards his sister. She returned his gaze thoughtfully, dispassionately, and transferred her attention to Carlington. ‘I think,’ she said tranquilly, ‘I had better go and fetch a cloak if we are leaving now, sir.’

The Marquis escorted her to the door, and opened it, and set a shout ringing for his carriage. Miss Morland passed out of the hot room into the hall, and went across it to the stairs.

When she came down again some minutes later, cloaked, and with a chip hat on her head, and a bandbox in her hand, her brother had joined the Marquis in the hall, and was standing leaning against the lintel of the front door, scowling. The Marquis had put on a high-waisted driving-coat of drab cloth with row upon row of capes, and buttons of mother-of-pearl as large as crown-pieces. He had a curly-brimmed beaver, and a pair of York tan gloves in one hand, and his ebony cane in the other, and he flourished another bow at Miss Morland as she trod unhurriedly across the hall towards him.

‘If you go, by God, you shan’t return!’ Sir Ralph said.

Miss Morland laid her hand on Carlington’s proffered arm. ‘I shall never return,’ she said.

‘I mean it!’ Sir Ralph threatened.

‘And I,’ she replied. ‘I have been in your ward three years. Do you think I would not sooner die than return to this house?’

He flushed, and addressed the Marquis. ‘You’re crazy to take her!’

‘Crazy or drunk, what odds?’ said Carlington, and opened the front door.

Sir Ralph caught at his coat. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

Carlington’s wild laugh broke from him. ‘Gretna!’ he answered, and flung his arm about Miss Morland’s waist, and swept her out of the house into the misty dawn.

His post-chaise and four was waiting, drawn up by the steps of the house, with the postilions shivering in their saddles, and one of Sir Ralph’s servants holding the chaise door open.

The sharp morning air had an inevitable effect on the Marquis. He reeled, and had to catch at the footman’s shoulder to steady himself. He was able, however, to flourish another bow in Miss Morland’s direction, and to hand her up into the chaise.

Sir Ralph’s house being situated at Hadley Green, and the Marquis having driven out from London to attend his card-party, the postilions had faced the chaise southwards. Upon receiving their master’s order to drive to Gretna Green they were at first a great deal too astonished to do more than blink at him, but as, assisted by the footman, he began to climb up into the chaise, the boy astride one of the leaders ventured to point out that Gretna Green was some three hundred miles off, and his lordship totally unprepared for a long journey. The Marquis, however, merely reiterated: ‘Gretna!’ and entered the chaise, and sank down on to the seat beside Miss Morland.

The postilions were quite aware that their master was extremely drunk, but they knew him well enough to be sure that however much he might, in the morning, regret having ordered them to drive north he would blame them less for obeying him than for disregarding his instructions, and carrying him safely home. No sooner were the steps folded up than they wheeled the chaise, and set off in the direction of the Great North Road.

The Marquis let his hat slide on to the floor, and rested his handsome head back against the blue velvet squabs. Turning it a little he smiled sweetly upon his companion, and said, still with a surprising clarity of diction: ‘I’ve a notion I shall regret this, but I’m badly foxed, my dear – badly foxed.’

‘Yes,’ said Miss Morland. ‘I know. It doesn’t signify. I am quite accustomed to it.’

That was the sum of their discourse. The Marquis closed his eyes, and went to sleep. Miss Morland sat quite still beside him, only occasionally clasping and unclasping her hands in her lap.

Potter’s Bar, Bell Bar, Hatfield were all passed. Miss Morland paid for the tickets at the turnpikes with some loose coins found in the sleeping Viscount’s pockets. A little more than two miles out of Hatfield the chaise passed through the hamlet of Stanborough, and began the long rise of Digswell Hill. At the Brickwall pike the postilion mounted on one of the wheelers informed Miss Morland that if his lordship desired to press on horses must be changed at Welwyn. An attempt to rouse the Marquis was unavailing; he only groaned, and seemed to sink deeper into slumber. Miss Morland, who had had time to reflect upon the rashness of this flight, to which sheer anger had prompted her, hesitated for a moment, and then desired the postilions to drive to a respectable posting-house in Welwyn, where they might put up for what was left of the night.

In a little while the chaise had drawn up at the White Hart; the landlord had been awakened, and a couple of drowsy ostlers, still in their nightcaps, had lifted the Marquis out of the coach, and carried him up to a bedchamber on the first floor.

No one seemed to feel very much surprise at this strange arrival in the small hours of the morning. The Marquis, who was well-known to the landlord, was obviously drunk, and this circumstance provided a perfectly reasonable explanation for both his and Miss Morland’s presence. ‘Though I must say,’ remarked the landlord, as he once more rejoined his sleepy wife, ‘I didn’t know he was one of them hard topers – not Carlington. Wild, of course, very wild.’

The Marquis did not wake until past nine o’clock. His first sensations were those of supreme discomfort. His head ached, and his mouth was parched. He lay for some time with closed eyes, but presently, as fuller consciousness returned to him, he became aware of being almost completely clad. He opened his eyes, stared filmily upon his strange surroundings, and with a groan sat up in bed, clasping his temples between his hands. He found that with the exception of his neckcloth and his shining Hessians he was indeed fully clad, the kind hands that had relieved him of boots and cravat having failed in their endeavour to extricate him from the perfectly fitting coat of Mr Weston’s cutting.

After another dazed look round the room, the Marquis reached for the bell-pull, and tugged at it vigorously.

The summons was answered by the landlord in person. Carlington, still clasping his aching head, looked at him with acute misgiving and pronounced: ‘I’ve seen your rascally face before. Where am I?’

The landlord smiled ingratiatingly, and replied: ‘To be sure, my lord, your lordship is in the very best room at the White Hart.’

‘Which White Hart?’ demanded the Marquis irritably. ‘I know of fifty at least!’

‘Why, at Welwyn, my lord!’

‘Welwyn!’ ejaculated Carlington, letting his hands fall. ‘What the devil am I doing in Welwyn?’

This question the landlord, who had had an illuminating conversation with the two postilions, thought it prudent to leave unanswered. He coughed, and said vaguely that he was sure he couldn’t say. He waited for his noble client’s memory to assert itself, but the Marquis, with another groan, merely sank back upon his pillows, and closed his eyes again. The landlord gave another cough, and said: ‘The lady has ordered breakfast in a private parlour, my lord.’

The Marquis’ eyes opened at that. ‘Lady? What lady?’ he said sharply.

‘The – the lady who accompanies your lordship,’ replied the landlord.

‘My God!’ said the Marquis, and clasped his head in his hands again. There was a pause. ‘Oh, my God, what have I done?’ said the Marquis. ‘Where is she?’

‘The lady, my lord, spent the night in the bedchamber adjacent to this, and awaits your lordship in the parlour. Your lordship – er – does not appear to have any trunk or cloak-bag.’

‘I know that, curse you!’ said the Marquis, casting off the coverlet, and setting his stockinged feet to the ground. ‘Damnation take this head of mine! Help me out of this coat, fool!’

The landlord extricated him from it, not without difficulty, and suggested that his lordship might like to be shaved. ‘For I have a very reliable lad, my lord, and should be honoured to lend your lordship my own razors.’