The Shocking Miss Anstey (21 page)

‘Please!
If you can’t consider me, you might at least---‘

‘Consider!’ She echoed the word, and then stood with her lip quivering while she tried to get a grip on herself. ‘It would take a man to say that. Haven’t we lost men enough? Haven’t
I
lost men enough?’

‘But---‘

‘That’s what you mean, isn’t it?’ She turned fiercely on Richard. ‘You’re fighting him? What you call honour--with Tommy Luttrell! Isn’t that it?’

‘I--I’m afraid it must be.’

‘Afraid! You’re not afraid of getting shot. Only of what---‘

‘For heaven’s sake!’ said Barford. ‘Mary, you really must---‘

‘All right. I shouldn’t have said anything, should I? Just kept out of it and pretended it didn’t matter. All right, then, if you want it so. When is it to be?’

She flung the question suddenly, in a flat and hopeless tone, and Richard took a long moment to understand that it was for him. He saw Barford turn, waiting also for the answer.

‘Tomorrow,’ he had to say. ‘Just as well, perhaps. But that’s how it’s been arranged.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Barford nodded, and seemed to force himself into his matter-of-fact tone again. ‘It lies with the seconds, of course. Who’s acting for you, may I ask?’

‘John.’

‘Ah, good. He’ll know what he’s doing, I think.’

‘Doing?’ Mary flared suddenly at them again. ‘Has he ever
thought
what he’s doing? Have any of you?’

‘That really
is
enough. If you can’t behave better than this you should---‘

‘Go to bed--get out of your way? I quite understand.’ She turned on Barford with a voice that set him recoiling. ‘Well, I don’t know what I’m doing either, but I know madness when I see it, and that’s what this is--murderous madness. All right--now I’ll go.’

‘Please---‘

‘It’s all right. Everything’s all right.’ She turned away to the door, and then for an instant stopped. ‘I think you’re insane, both of you.’

The Park was grey and empty, with dripping trees and sodden grass. The rain had stopped, but the dawn was late in the heavy cloud. Water lay everywhere, and the coach was crunching in the puddles as it crossed Park Lane and splashed through the Chesterfield Gate. It turned away, passing north of the Serpentine, slowly in the mud of a neglected road, and the three men sat still and quiet. One was a surgeon, nursing his box of instruments, and he could perhaps be concerned for his fee and his breakfast. The others had more to think of.

The road turned north again, running past the forgotten Ring, which had been the circus of fashion for the coaches and the ladies of an earlier day. It was lank and dismal now, a circle of road with a ring of trees and grass sprouting through the gravel, and at the short lane that led to it from the outer road the coach lumbered to a halt. Three men got out, the surgeon with his instruments, the others unencumbered. John stamped his feet, looking at the grey sky and the unkempt trees. Then he glanced at his watch.

‘Six forty-two,’ he announced. ‘Three minutes to go.’

‘Or longer. There’s no one in sight.’

‘He may have needed waking.’

They walked slowly down the lane, the surgeon clutching his heavy box as he picked his way through the puddles.

Then the road divided, going left and right to make the ring, and John looked carefully round.

‘This should do,’ he said. ‘There’s length enough, and it’s level. I suppose the light’s improving.’

‘Soon will. Where
are
these people?’

Richard was irritable now, and impatient, and the chill was on him that he had known of old before the action joined. He would be glad when it did join. He had not slept well, with the thought of this lying upon him, and the memory of Mary to disturb him further; and again the nagging thought was in him that a Black Hussar might be good with pistols; better, perhaps, than a sea officer.

‘Here they are,’ said John.

He was looking up the lane to where a resplendent coach was pulling in behind their own dull hackney. Three men got out, and one again was a surgeon. Digby had a mahogany case under his arm, and the rich glow of it, against the brass of lock and hinges, was the only touch of colour. All else was grey sky, leafless trees, and men in their darkest clothes.

‘Better keep back,’ said John. ‘I’ll meet them.’

Richard nodded and then moved to the side, waiting calmly now as the old feeling of action came upon him. He watched the seconds face each other, exchange meticulous bows, and then fall into whispered talk while Luttrell walked firmly to the other side. Even in the wan grey light his face looked pale and vicious; as if, perhaps, he
had
spent that sort of night.

The seconds were busy now, looking this way and that to see if the direction of the light gave advantage, but under the heavy cloud it had no direction. Then Digby’s boot scraped in the sprouting grass to make a line, and together they marched ten paces before the heel dug in again. They returned to the middle, facing each other across the line of fire, and Digby unlocked the pistol case. John signed to the principals, and in silence they both stepped forward.

‘Gentlemen . . .’ He spoke formally. ‘Do you wish this to continue?’

Neither man answered, and he inclined his head in acquiescence. Then he spoke again.

‘Do you wish to inspect the weapons? Or to object to them?’

Digby held out the open case, lined with red silk and having recesses for the long slim pistols, all but black, with triggers and hammers bright as silver. A powder flask, a box of balls, a box of wads, and a slender ramrod lay in the other recesses, and John took out the flask.

‘We load.’

Again he spoke formally, but to the loading he gave infinite care, watched at each move by Digby. A misfire was not to be thought of, and every detail was checked by both of them. The same care went to the second pistol, while principals fretted, felt cold, and glanced round at the trees, at the deserted road, and the waiting surgeons. A spatter of rain fell suddenly; then stopped again.

‘Sir, will you choose?’

John had the pistols now, and was offering the butts to Luttrell, as the one who had received the challenge. He seized one carelessly, hardly troubling to look, and Richard was given the other. Then Digby took charge, and he sounded as if he had done this before.

‘Be pleased, gentlemen, to take your places. Behind the marked lines.’

He waited, looking keenly until he was satisfied. Then he stepped three paces back, out of the line of fire, and John, facing him, did the like. Everyone was standing stiffly now.

‘Cock your pistols.’

There were two soft clicks, hardly heard in the silence, as thumbs squeezed the hammers back. Both men were rigid, arms at sides, pistols pointing to the ground. Digby held a handkerchief now, a rich blue silk, vivid in the grey of morning.

‘Be pleased to look at me. You should fire when I drop the silk.’

Richard looked, and three paces back now served a purpose.

With his eyes on the square of blue he could not watch Luttrell, and Luttrell could not watch him. This would be snap shooting, with no picking of a mark beforehand. He had to keep his eyes on the silk, blue against leaden cloud, and it seemed to hang eternally. There was utter silence, and he waited. Nothing moved. A thought of Anice was suddenly in his mind, who would be warm in bed, asleep, knowing nothing of . . . Then blue flicked down against the grey, and thought of Anice went. His head turned, his right arm lifted, flinging out the pistol as his eyes sought their mark: a white face, a grey coat, a black uplifted pistol. He saw it clearly, then saw it burst into a gout of flame. Luttrell had been the quicker.

For an instant he was detached, a mere spectator, seeing and hearing as if from outside himself. Smoke drifted as the flame died, and something tugged at his coat, savagely and not seen, and the scream of the ball was deafening in his left ear. It was all at once, in the same instant, and his breath snatched and faltered. Then calm returned and experience bore him up. He had heard that scream before, and he knew it need not be feared. It was the signal that the ball was past, and the danger with it. The shot had missed, or nearly.

Thought cleared, and he was aware of his arm still lifted, his pistol levelled. He had not even sighted fully, let alone squeezed the trigger, and now he could do as he pleased. He saw Luttrell in front of him, a little whiter than before but standing unflinchingly to receive the shot, and he knew he must decide. He could kill the man if he chose, and he knew he could not. That was not his nature. He steadied his breath and lifted his pistol higher. The ball whistled across the Park, and the acrid scent of powder was in his nose.

He stood as still as Luttrell, knowing that he must leave it now to the seconds. He saw them step forward, confer for a moment, and then come side by side towards him. John’s voice, when he spoke, matched their formal bearing.

‘Do you wish for a second fire?’

‘No.’ He made himself relax, and then he answered what they were really asking. ‘I think this can be accommodated.’

They bowed, and went as formally to Luttrell. A faint murmur of voices came, and he could see John standing stiffly while Digby argued something. It was not hard to understand. Custom required that the seconds must now try conciliation, which could hardly be rejected after that shot into the air; but Luttrell was being difficult.

The voices stopped, and again the two men came across. Again they bowed, and this time it was Digby who spoke.

‘Sir, I am to say that my principal maintains his right to require attention in a chophouse. He regrets it, however, if you were yourself put to inconvenience. On these terms the matter may be accommodated.’

Grant hesitated, not knowing what to say. It was a very qualified apology, and perhaps not enough. He must not seem to shrink from a second fire, however he disliked it, and he stood in doubt until John intervened to give assurance.

‘I think you could accept it,’ he said. ‘He regrets what touches you, and if more should be said, it should be said to Larkin.’

‘It won’t be.’

‘You needn’t fight for Larkin. Nobody would expect you to.’

‘Very well.’ He contrived to sound less pleased than he was, and then he turned squarely to Digby. ‘Pray tell your principal, sir, that I accept his--assurance. I regard the matter as ended.’

‘I’ll convey it, sir.’

Nobody was anxious to linger. Digby had his word with Luttrell and a moment later he was helping John to sponge the pistols before they were carefully put back into their case. The formal bearing had gone from both men and they seemed to work easily together. But it was Luttrell who provided the surprise. He came strolling across to Richard, just as the pistols were being packed away, and he too had lost his stiffness. He had more now of his Corinthian air, but the studied insolence was for the moment lacking. He seemed positively good-humoured.

‘Congratulations,’ he remarked. ‘You stood it well. Your first time out?’

‘For what it’s worth.’

‘Quite a lot. You’re the right stuff. Dine with me some time, and we’ll have an evening together.’ He turned abruptly away as if it were settled, and then he swung back again with an afterthought. ‘Don’t quarrel with gentlemen, by the way, over chits like that. They aren’t worth it. ‘Morning!’

He walked briskly away, Digby at his side, leaving his late opponent to stare angrily at his back.

‘Did you hear
that?’
he demanded as John came up. ‘He speaks as if
I
started this.’

‘Never mind what he said. We’re well out of it, and you know we are. What time’s breakfast?’

‘At the hotel? Nine-thirty, I think.’

‘Good God! Two hours to wait! But we’ll get some coffee,
anyway,
and muffins.’

They stayed to give a fee and a word of thanks to the surgeon, and to let Digby and Luttrell pass ahead of them, and then they were back in Berkeley Square before eight o’clock; where the hotel, to John’s annoyance, had not yet made its muffins and they had to be content with biscuits. He grumbled, and then looked brighter as the coffee began to warm him.

‘Might be worse,’ he conceded. ‘The biscuits aren’t bad.’

‘They’re a great deal better than ship’s biscuit. You soaked that in your coffee, if you didn’t want to break your teeth.’

‘First knocking the weevils out. And how about your salt beef?’

‘You remember it?’

‘I damned well do. Well, what of today? I think you should take a walk in the Park, or in St. James’s Street. Show yourself whole, as it were, and in good health.’

‘Are you suggesting that this affair is known?’

‘How many men heard you last night at Larkin’s? They’ll have told another hundred by this time, and set the whole Town buzzing.’

‘They’ll only know there was a quarrel.’

‘There are two surgeons who could talk, and two coachmen who certainly will. There were also some people in the Park as we came back, and it won’t take
them
long to put two and two together--two coaches at that hour. So if Luttrell just keeps his mouth shut and gives a nod, that’ll be enough. It’ll be round the Town in ten minutes. Where’s Grant? No sign of him. Poor devil’s been winged. You know how tales can fly.’

‘You’d have made a good sea lawyer. I feel I should call on Mary this morning. Or should I?’ ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Oh, last night. I hadn’t time to tell you, but. . .’

It had to be explained, and John sat listening carefully, throwing out a question or two over his third cup of coffee. Then he showed a gleam of amusement.

‘Poor old Mary!’ was his comment. ‘I didn’t know she was quite so far engaged with you.’

‘She’s not engaged with me.’

‘Then she seems to have been rather oddly worried for you, and I agree she’ll want to know you’re safe. Still . . .’ He considered it thoughtfully. ‘No, I think you’d better not. If she thinks by this time she let out a little too much, she may be shy of you this morning. So you’d better leave it to me.
I’ll
tell her you’re safe.’

‘I’d be glad if you would. I don’t want to blunder here.