Джорджетт Хейер - Charity Girl

“No, very likely not, but you wouldn’t want such an on-dit to be running round the town, would you? You know what all the tattlemongers would say: No smoke without fire! and the lord knows there are enough of them on the town!” He grinned, watching the kindling of the Viscount’s eyes, and the hardening of the lines about his mouth. “Never mind looking like bull-beef, Des! Would you want that?”

The Viscount did not answer for a moment, but sat frowning down at his own finger-nails. He had turned his closed hand over, and seemed to find the row of well-kept nails interesting. But presently he straightened his fingers, and looked up, meeting Simon’s eyes. “No, I wouldn’t,” he replied. He smiled faintly. “But I hardly think he will attempt anything of that sort. For one thing, it would be to lay himself open to reprisal; and for another, he must surely know that he is in extremely ill-odour here. No one for whose opinion I care a button would believe a word he said.”

“What about your enemies?”

“I haven’t any!”

“Why, you old windy-wallets!” exclaimed Simon indignantly. “Talk of ringing one’s own bell—!”

The Viscount laughed. “No, no, how can you say so?”

“Let me tell you, Des, that this is no laughing matter!” said Simon severely. “I don’t say you couldn’t beat him all to sticks if he accuses you of having seduced Cherry, for very likely you could—though I don’t think you’d enjoy it. But you wouldn’t find it as easy to fight an action for breach of promise!”

“Why not? For that to succeed Cherry’s testimony would be needed, and he won’t get that.”

“Anyone would take you for a mooncalf!” said Simon, quite exasperated. “Next you’ll say he’s welcome to try it! Well, if you’ve no objection to setting yourself up as a subject for steward’s room gossip, what do you imagine the parents would feel about it?”

“But, Simon, how could he possibly bring such an action without support from Cherry?”

“He could start one, couldn’t he? What do they call it? File a suit? Because he knows you’d pay through the nose to stop him!”

“I’m damned if I would!”

“And what about my father? Ay, that’s another pair of sleeves, ain’t it? He would! I sent that old hedgebird here because he threatened to go to Wolversham, and hoax my father with his lying story! And the next thing was that he had the infernal brass to ask me how it came about that Lady Silverdale had been persuaded to receive Cherry at the hands of such a libertine as you are, brother! So I said that you were betrothed to Hetta!”

“You said what?”Desford demanded, taken aback.

“Well, I thought there was nothing for it but to go the whole pile,” explained Simon. “It seemed to me to be the best thing I could say, because if he believed it he was bound to see that it turned his scheme to accuse you of having promised to marry Cherry into a case of crabs. Which he did see! Never saw a man look so blue in my life! But if you don’t like it I’m sorry, but considering you and Hetta have been as thick as inkle-weavers for the lord knows how many years, I didn’t think you’d care a straw for it!”

“I don’t,” said Desford, a queer little smile hovering round his mouth. “But my father already knows the true story! I told it him myself, on my way back from Harrowgate.”

“Told him—Des, you didn’t!” uttered Simon, turning pale with dismay. “How could you have done anything so blubber-headed?”

There was a good deal of amusement in the Viscount’s eyes, but he answered meekly: “Well, as he had already got wind of the business, and had driven over here with Mama to discover what sort of a girl I had apparently become entangled with, it seemed to be the only thing I could do.”

“Lord!” said Simon, with an eloquent shiver. “You’ve got more bottom than I have, Des! Did he come the ugly?”

“Not at all! You should know him better than to think he would, when any of us three were in the suds! Oh, he read me one of his scolds, but he told me to come to him if I found myself at the end of my rope! Mind you, he’d met Cherry by that time, and knew at a glance that she wasn’t a designing harpy!”

“So I might have spared myself the trouble of heading him away from Wolversham!” said Simon wrathfully. “Upon my word, Des—”

“Oh, no! I’m grateful to you for having done so! He wouldn’t have believed Steane’s story, but it’s more than likely that he would have paid him handsomely to keep his mouth shut, and I’m damned if I’ll allow Steane to put the screw on him! He told me himself that when he came here it was with the intention of buying Cherry off, if he found that she was a designing harpy. Never mind that! Did you come here to warn Hetta that she is engaged to me?”

“Yes, of course! I had to!”

“And how did she take it?”

“I’m bound to own that she flew up into the boughs, which surprised me. What I mean is, not like her to turn missish all at once! However, I pointed out to her that if the story were to leak out she could either deny it, or cry off, so she mended her temper, and promised she’d stand buff. No need to fear she may run shy! I’ll say this for Hetta: she may be a trifle freakish now and then, but she’s a right one at heart!”

“Yes, the pick of the basket!” Desford said, getting up. “And the sooner I go to her rescue—”

“Stay a moment, Des! They are all in an uproar, because that troublesome girl seems to have loped off!”

“Cherry? Good God, why?”

“Oh, Hetta thinks it was because Lady Silverdale found Charlie kissing her, and gave her a scold! She also thinks Cherry may have met with an accident, and she’s sent off most of the men to search for her. The devil of it is, of course, that if they don’t find her Steane will be sure to cut up rough. Very likely he’ll accuse the Silverdales of having ill-used her!”

“Oh, my God, as though we weren’t in bad enough loaf already!” groaned the Viscount, striding away towards the door into the house.

“Hi, wait!” Simon called, suddenly bethinking himself of something, and jumping up from the seat. He thrust a hand into his pocket, pulled out a package, and hurried after his brother. “Here you are, old chap!” he said, holding it out, with a shy smile. “Very much obliged to you!”

“But what is it?”

“A roll of soft, you gudgeon! The monkey you lent me!”

“Chuff it!” recommended the Viscount. “I told you at the time that I wasn’t going to let you break my shins! Did Mopsqueezer win?”

“I should rather think he did! What’s more, there was a horse entered for the last race, called Brother Benefactor, so I put all my winnings on him, and he came home at ten-to-one! Bound to, of course!”

The Viscount gave a shout of laughter. “Lord, what a cockle-headed thing to do! No, stop pushing that roll at me! I don’t want it! You may be said to have earned it, what’s more!” He laid a hand on Simon’s shoulder, and gave him a little shake. “You must have been having the devil of a time in the bumble-broth I brewed! Thank you, bantling!”

“Oh, fudge!” Simon said, deeply flushing. “I wish you would take it! I’m fairly swimming in lard, you know!”

“You won’t be, by the time you return from Brighton!” retorted the Viscount.

When Henrietta entered the library, nothing in her face or in her bearing betrayed her inward misgivings. She came in with her graceful, unhurried step, and looked across the room at her visitor, her brows faintly raised; and said, not uncivilly, but with a suggestion of highbred reserve in her manner: “Mr Steane?” She watched him execute a flourishing bow, and moved forward to a straight chair by the table in the middle of the room, saying, as she sat down on it: “Pray, will you not be seated? Am I right in supposing you to be poor Cherry’s father?”

“Yes, ma’am, you are indeed right!” he answered. “Her sole surviving parent, separated from her by a cruel fate for too long, alas, and tortured by anxiety!”

She raised her brows rather higher, and said, in a polite, discouraging voice: “Indeed?” She had the satisfaction of seeing that she had slightly discomfited him, and continued, with strengthened assurance: “I regret, sir, that my mother—er—finds herself unable to receive you. She is a trifle indisposed today.”

“I shall not dream of intruding upon her,” he said graciously. “My sole desire—I may say, my burning desire!—is to clasp my beloved child to my heart again. For this did I steel myself to revisit the land of my birth, with its poignant memories of my late, adored helpmate: inexpressibly painful to a man of sensibility, I assure you, Miss Silverdale! I presume I do have the honour of addressing Miss Silverdale?”

“Yes, I am Miss Silverdale,” she replied. “It is unfortunate that you did not warn us of your intention to visit us today, for it so happens that Cherry is not, at the moment, here. She went out walking some time ago, and is not yet returned. However, I daresay you will not have long to wait before being—reunited with her.”

“Every moment that withholds her from me is an hour! You must pardon the natural impatience of a father, ma’am! I can scarcely bear to wait five minutes to see with my own eyes that she is safe and well.”

“She was perfectly safe and well when I last saw her,” said Henrietta calmly, “but as she went out some hours ago I own I am a little uneasy, and have sent some of our servants to search for her, in case she may have met with an accident, or lost her way.”

He instantly assumed an expression of horror, and demanded in a shocked tone: “Do you tell me, ma’am, that she was actually permitted to go out unattended? I had not thought such a thing to have been possible!”

“It was certainly imprudent,” she said, maintaining her air of calm. “Had I been at home at the time I should have told her that she must take one of the footmen, or one of the maids, but I drove out myself quite early this morning, to visit an invalid, and so knew nothing about it, until I returned, an hour ago.”

“Had I known to what dangers, to what neglect, my tender, innocent child was being exposed—!” he groaned. “But how could I have known? How could I have guessed that the woman to whose care I committed her would prove herself to be utterly unworthy of my trust, and would cast her on the world, careless into what hands she might fall?”

“Well, she didn’t. She gave her into her aunt’s hands. And I can’t but feel, sir, that if you had kept her informed of your whereabouts she would have written to you, to tell you that Lady Bugle had taken Cherry to live with her.”

“I shall not weary you, ma’am, with an account of the circumstances which obliged me to withhold my direction from Miss Fletching,” he said loftily. “I am a man of many affairs, and they take me all over Europe. In fact, I rarely know from one day to the next where they will take me, or for how long. I believed my child to be safe and happy in Miss Fletching’s charge. Never for an instant did I entertain the thought that she would hand her over to one who has ever been—after my father and my brother—my worst enemy! She has much to answer for, and she shall answer for it! As I have told her!”

“Forgive me!” said Henrietta, “but have not you more to answer for than Miss Fletching, sir? It seems strangely unnatural for a father—particularly such an affectionate father as yourself!—to leave his daughter for so long without a word that she was forced to mourn him as dead!”

Mr Steane dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “If I had been dead she would have been informed of it,” he said. “It was quite unnecessary for me to write to her. I will go further: it would have been folly to have done so, for who knows but what she might have wished to leave school, and join me abroad? I was not, at that time, in a position to provide her with a settled home.”

“Oh!” said Henrietta. “Are you now in that position, sir?”

“Certainly!” he replied. “That is to say, as settled as one can ever hope to be. But of what use is it to dwell upon what might have been? I must resolutely banish the temptation to take the poor child away. I must deny myself the solace of her company. I must resign myself to loneliness. My duty is inescapable: I must see her righted in the eyes of the world!”

“Good gracious, has she ever been wronged?” Henrietta said, opening her eyes at him. “If you are talking of her having run away from her aunt, you must let me tell you that you are making a mountain out of a molehill, Mr Steane! To be sure, it was rather a hurly-burly thing to do, and might have led her into dangerous trouble; but since, as good luck would have it, Lord Desford overtook her on the road, and brought her here, no harm has come of it.”