Джорджетт Хейер - Charity Girl

“Yes, but I don’t think she asked him to take charge of me,” she argued. “She wanted him to pay the money Papa owed her, and I shouldn’t wonder at it if she set up his back, for I know, from what Papa has said to me, that he is shockingly clutchfisted.”

“Did your aunt pay her?” he interrupted.

She shook her head, flushing a little. “No. She too said that she wasn’t responsible, but because of blood being thicker than water she—she would relieve Miss Fletching by taking me away to live with her. So—so no one has paid for me—yet! But I mean to save every penny I can earn, and I shall pay her!” Her chin lifted, and she said: “If my grandfather—if I can see him, and explain to him how it is—surely he won’t refuse to let me stay with him at least until I’ve found a suitable situation?”

The Viscount could not think this likely. No matter how indisposed and eccentric Lord Nettlecombe might be, he could scarcely turn away a destitute granddaughter who had no other shelter in London than his house. The probability was that he would take a fancy to her, and if that happened her future would be assured. And if he was such a shabster as to turn her away, he would find he had to deal with my Lord Desford, who would cast aside the deference to his elders so carefully drilled into him from his earliest days, and would counsel the old muckworm in explicit terms to think well before he behaved in so scaly a fashion as must alienate even the few friends he had, once the story became known, as he, Desford, would make it his business to see that it did.

He did not favour Cherry with these reflections, but got up abruptly, and said: “Very well! I will take you to London!”

She sprang to her feet, caught his hand, and kissed it before he could prevent her. “Oh, thank you, sir!” she cried, gratitude throbbing in her voice, and making her eyes shine through the sudden tears of relief which filled them. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Considerably embarrassed, he drew his hand away, and gave her a pat on the shoulder with it, saying: “Draw bridle, you foolish child! Wait until we see how your grandfather receives you before you fly into raptures! If he doesn’t receive you, you will have nothing to thank me for, you know!”

He then went away to pay his shot, telling her that he would bring his curricle to the door in a few minutes, and so cut short any further expressions of her gratitude.

But he had still to run the gauntlet of his devoted servitor’s disapproval. When he informed Stebbing that he was driving Miss Steane to London, that worthy found himself wholly unable to receive this news in a manner befitting his station, but said forthrightly: “My lord, I beg and implore you not to do no such thing! You’ll find yourself in the briars, as sure as check, and it’s me as will get the blame for it when his lordship comes to hear of it!”

“Don’t be such a gudgeon!” said the Viscount impatiently. “His lordship won’t come to hear of it—and if he did the only thing he would blame you for is making such a piece of work about nothing! Do you imagine I’m abducting the child?”

“More likely she’s abducting you, my lord!” muttered Stebbing.

The Viscount’s eyes hardened; he said coldly: “I allow you a good deal of licence, Stebbing, but that remark goes far beyond the line of what I will permit!”

“My lord,” said Stebbing doggedly, ‘if I spoke too free, I ask your pardon! But I’ve served you faithfully ever since you was pleased to accept of me as your personal groom, and I couldn’t look myself in the face if I didn’t make a push to stop you doing something so caper-witted as to carry off this young pers—lady!—the way you’re meaning to! You can turn me off, my lord, but I must and will tell you to your head that I never seen a young lady which would go off with a gentleman like this Miss Steane is willing to go off with you!”

“Doesn’t it suit your sense of propriety? Well, you must bear in mind that you will be sitting behind us, and I give you leave to intervene to protect Miss Steane’s virtue from any improper advances I might make to her!” Perceiving that Stebbing was deeply troubled, he relented, and said, laughingly: “There’s no need for you to be so hot in the spur, you old pudding-head! All I’ve engaged myself to do is to convey Miss Steane to her grandfather’s house. And if you weren’t a pudding-head you would know that her willingness to go with me to London springs from innocence, and not, as you seem to think, from a want of delicacy! Good God, what would you have me to do in this situation? Abandon her to become the prey of the first rake-shame she encounters on the road? A pretty fellow you must think me!”

“No, my lord, I don’t think no such thing! But what I do think is that you should take her back where she came from!”

“She won’t go, and I have no right to force her to do so.” A gleam of humour shot into his eyes; he added: “And even if I had the right I’d be damned if I’d do it! Lord, Stebbing, would you drive a girl who was crying her eyes out, in an open carriage?” He laughed, and said: “You know you wouldn’t! Put to the horses, and don’t spill any more time sermonizing!”

“Very good, my lord. But I shall take leave to say—asking your pardon for making so bold as to open my budget!—that I never seen you—no, not when you was in the heyday of blood, and kicking up all kinds of confiabberation!—so bedoozled as what you are now! And if you don’t end up in the basket—and me with you!—you can call me a Jack Adams, my lord!”

“I’m much obliged to you! I will!” retorted the Viscount.

The Viscount drew up his sweating team two-and-a-half hours later in Albermarle Street, having driven his horses in a spanking style that in anyone but a top-sawyer, which he was, would have been extremely dangerous. Even Stebbing, who had good reason to know that he could drive to an inch, clutched the edge of his seat three times: twice when, on a narrow stretch of the road, he sprang his horses to give the go-by to a slower vehicle, and once when he feather-edged a blind corner without checking; but it was only when they reached the outskirts of London that he allowed himself to utter a gruff warning, saying: “Easy over the pimples, my lord, I do beg of you!”

“What do you take me for?” the Viscount tossed over his shoulder. “A spoon?”

Stebbing returned no answer to this, for while he secretly considered his master to be a first-rate fiddler nothing would have induced him to say so, except when boasting of the Viscount’s excellence amongst certain of his cronies at the Horse and Groom. He rarely praised the Viscount’s skill to his face; and never when Desford stood in his black books.

Miss Steane, whose spirits had soared from the instant Desford had said that he would convey her to London, enjoyed the journey hugely. She confided to him, with what he thought engaging ingenuousness, that she had never before been driven in a curricle. A gig had hitherto been her only experience of open carriages, and although her cousin Stonor possessed a curricle it was a very shabby affair compared with the Viscount’s lightly built and graceful carriage. She thought well of his horses too, and told him so, for which commendation he thanked her with a gravity only very slightly impaired by the quiver of laughter in his voice. They were, in fact, perfectly matched grays, and he had paid so long a price for them as would have confirmed his father (if he had known it) in his belief that his heir was a scattergood.

“You can’t think what a high treat this is for me, sir!” she said gaily. “Everything is new! You see, I have never travelled at all since my Papa carried me to Bath, and I don’t remember very much about that journey. Besides, we went in a closed coach, and that is not the way to see the countryside. This is beyond anything great!”

She chatted away in this artless style, interested in all that met her wondering gaze, continually craning her neck to obtain a better view of a particularly bright garden, or a picturesque cottage, fleetingly seen down a side lane. Such of her conversation as was not concerned with the passing scene was devoted to an earnest discussion with Desford on what ought to be her approach to her grandfather. But when they reached London she became rather silent, a circumstance which made Desford say quizzingly: “Tired, little bagpipe? Not far to go now!”

She smiled, and shook her head: “No, not tired. Has my tongue been running on like a fiddlestick? I beg your pardon! Why didn’t you tell me to button my lip? I must have been a sad bore to you.”

“On the contrary! I found your conversation most refreshing. Why have you shut up shop? Are you in a worry about your grandfather?”

“A little,” she confessed. “I didn’t know that London is so big, and—and so noisy, and I cannot help wondering what to do if my grandfather refuses to see me. I wish I had some acquaintance here!”

“Don’t fret!” he said reassuringly. “It is in the highest degree unlikely that he will. And if he does I promise I won’t desert you! Depend upon it, we shall hit upon some scheme for your relief!”

He spoke lightly, for the more he considered the matter the more convinced did he become that however eccentric Lord Nettlecombe might be he could scarcely be so lost to all sense of propriety as to cast upon the world a granddaughter whose childlike innocence must be obvious to anyone but an incurable lobcock. But when he drew up his weary team outside Lord Nettlecombe’s town residence in Albemarle Street such optimistic reflections suffered a severe set-back. Every window of the house was shuttered and the knocker was off the door: his lordship’s eccentricity had not led him to remain in London during the summer months.

“Would your lordship wish me to ring the bell?” enquired Stebbing, in Cassandra-like accents.

“Yes: do so!” the Viscount said curtly.

By this time Miss Steane had had time to assimilate the significance of the closed shutters, and panic seized her. She gripped her hands tightly together in her lap, in a brave attempt to remain calm; and after a few minutes, during which Stebbing vigorously pulled the bell, said, in a voice of would-be carelessness: “It seems that the house has been shut up, d-doesn’t it, sir?”

“It does indeed! But I daresay there may be someone left in charge from whom we can discover your grandfather’s direction. Try the basement, Stebbing!”

“Begging your lordship’s pardon, I don’t hardly know how I can do so, being as the area-gate is chained and padlocked.” He observed, not without a certain satisfaction, that the Viscount, momentarily at least, was at a non-plus, and relented sufficiently to say that he would enquire at the neighbouring houses. But as one of these had been hired for the summer months by a family whom Stebbing disdainfully described as Proper Mushrooms, and who had no knowledge of Lord Nettlecombe; and the other by an elderly couple whose porter said, with a sniff, that he had seen the old hunks drive off about a week ago, but had no notion where he was going. “My master and mistress don’t have nothing to do with him, nor don’t any of us in this house have nothing to do with his servants,” he stated loftily.

When Stebbing returned to the curricle to report these discouraging tidings, Miss Steane uttered in an anguished whisper: “Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?”

“Shall I ask at any of the other houses, my lord?”

But the Viscount had had time to think, and he replied: “No. We have wasted enough time, and wherever his lordship may be we can scarcely hope to reach him today. Up with you!” He then turned his attention to his agitated passenger, and said with a cheerfulness he was far from feeling: “Now, why are you shaking like a blancmanger, little pea-goose? To be sure, this mischance has cast a slight rub in our way, but the case isn’t desperate, you know!” He set his horses in motion as he spoke, turning them round, and added, with a rueful laugh: “Of course, if we discover that he is drinking the waters in Bath we shall be made to look blank, shan’t we?”

She paid no heed to this, but repeated: “What shall I do? What can I do? Sir, I—I haven’t very much money!”

This disclosure was blurted out, and ended in a sob. He replied matter-of-factly: “What you can do, Cherry, is to stop fretting and fuming, and to leave it to me to find a way out of this bumble-bath. I promise you I will, so pluck up!”

“I can’t pluck up!” she uttered. “You don’t understand! It doesn’t curl your liver to find yourself alone in this dreadful city, with only a few shillings in your purse, and not knowing where to go, or—oh, how can you be so unfeeling as to laugh?”