The Clandestine Betrothal Read online

  “You are mistaken, sir. I — I did. That was my only reason.”

  He tried again, but could get no other answer. But he noticed that she avoided his eyes, and felt convinced that she was lying.

  And so she was: but how could she tell him that she had gone to Strawberry Hill today not to see the house, but to catch a glimpse, however distant, of Beau Eversley?

  NEWS OF A BETROTHAL

  “It would be idle to pretend,” remarked Miss Fanchington judicially, “that your time with us has been spent entirely profitably.”

  Trained by a long apprenticeship with the back-board Susan sat erect in her chair, her hands folded primly in her lap.

  “Yes, Miss Fanchington,” she answered dutifully.

  “Your proficiency at needlework and the pianoforte leaves much to be desired,” went on the schoolmistress. “Your knowledge of the French language is imperfect, and your understanding of mathematics decidedly limited.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You have a sufficient grasp of your own language, however,” Miss Fanchington conceded, fair-mindedly, “to write a tolerable letter, and to derive some benefit from the works of our great writers. I do not entirely despair of you on that head.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “But undoubtedly your greatest talent, Susan, is for getting into scrapes.” She broke off, and frowned. “I cannot believe that this is due to any lack of principle in you. In general, your character is good — however there is an unfortunate impetuosity in your disposition which impels you toward rash and unconsidered actions. This tendency, coupled with a strong imagination, must eventually bring you into serious trouble if you do not learn to deal with it firmly. While you have been in my care, I have tried both to show you the error of your ways, and to guard you from the consequences of them. In the future, that duty will devolve on your aunt, Mrs. Fyfield.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “But it is with yourself, Susan, that the remedy ultimately lies.” Miss Fanchington leaned forward a little in her chair, and some of the formality went out of her manner. “Think, my child, before you act — think not once, but twice; and if ever you should stand in need of a friend, remember that I am here.”

  Susan gulped. During the ten years she had spent in the seminary, she had thought of Miss Fanchington in many ways, but never as a friend. The idea was unnerving.

  She managed to stumble through a short speech of thanks, however; and presently had shaken hands for the first and — she devoutly hoped — last time, with her schoolmistress.

  After that she had only to take her place in the ancient travelling chaise waiting outside the door, watch while her corded trunk was safely bestowed, and wave frantically to the girls who were gathered round the windows of the school. Everything happened exactly as it always did when she went home for the holidays: the only difference was, that this time she was never to return. Schooldays were over, and her life in the world outside just beginning.

  During the drive to London, which occupied a little under two hours, she speculated about this new life, and sighed a little for the old. She would miss the other girls, especially Georgiana Eversley, whose impish vitality had made her a general favourite. Most of all, she would miss Georgy’s anecdotes of her adored brother, mostly told in whispers after the lights had been turned down in the dormitory. Perhaps this had been part of the magic for Susan, this atmosphere of conspiracy. Once or twice, after her friends had dropped off to sleep and all was still in the darkened room, Susan had crept from her bed and gently eased back a shutter, admitting a shaft of moonlight. She had gazed out into the night, drifting away into the realms of make-believe with Beau Eversley at her side: until one of the girls had stirred and uttered a sleepy grumble, when Susan had closed the shutter, and slipped quietly back to bed.

  Whatever the future might hold, it was unlikely that she would see very much of Georgy. Susan’s aunt lived on the fringe of the fashionable world in which the Eversleys moved. There had been the usual promises to meet, and Georgiana had insisted that she meant to send Susan an invitation to her coming-out party; but privately Susan wondered how much say her friend might have in the issuing of invitations for this much discussed, eagerly anticipated event. As far as she knew, nothing similar lay in store for her. When she had last been at home, no mention had been made of any formal introduction for her into Polite Society. In fact, she found it difficult to visualize her future life. She supposed that she would walk abroad with her aunt or her cousin Cynthia in the mornings, when the weather permitted; and spend her afternoons at needlework, reading or taking tea with their friends. This had been the pattern of her holidays in the past, with an occasional day’s outing to enliven it. Possibly it might now include some evening outings too, since she was no longer a schoolgirl. There might be parties — though not on as grand a scale as Georgy’s was to be, judging by her own account — and perhaps a visit to the pleasure gardens of Vauxhall or Ranelagh. Susan knew that her aunt occasionally went to these places, and she had heard much of the ridottos and masquerades that were held there, attended by people in all walks of life. It was even possible, she thought suddenly with a leap of her pulses, that she might one evening see Beau Eversley there.

  Beau Eversley: could there be any future for her in which he did not have a part, even so shadowy a part as the one she had cast for him? She felt the tears starting to her eyes, and blinked them away, ashamed of her weakness. He had only ever been a dream-figure, she acknowledged, and perhaps in time would fade, like all dreams. But however severely she told herself of this, in her heart she remained unconvinced.

  She was so deep in thought that she scarcely noticed when the fields gave way to cobbled streets lined with houses, and the teeming life of London surrounded her. She came to full awareness only when the coach turned out of Piccadilly into Duke Street, and stopped before one of the tall houses. The coachman pulled open the door, let down the steps, and helped her to alight.

  A footman in a shabby livery opened the door, and received the luggage without enthusiasm. He then led Susan across the hall, which was rather dark, and opened the door into a small parlour at the back of the house. A lady of uncertain age was sitting before a small fire, inexpertly trimming a straw bonnet. She jumped up on seeing who was there, allowing the bonnet, ribbons, thread and needle to drop from her hands to the floor.

  “Susan! So you are back! Welcome home, my dear.”

  She advanced on Susan, beaming, and planted a kiss on her cheek. Susan responded, for she was fond enough of her aunt, who had always offered her an easy, casual affection that made few demands on either of them.

  “Did you have a cold journey? Lord, I think it’s monstrous cold for the time of year. But May is ever a treacherous month. My dear Mama used to warn us always ne’er to cast a clout till it be out. Though whether,” she continued reflectively, “the saying means the month or the blossom of the hawthorn tree, I cannot for the life of me decide. But come and sit down, child, and give me your news, and you shall hear mine.”

  Susan removed her cloak and bonnet, protesting that she had no news to tell. This was just as well, because Mrs. Fyfield was evidently bursting with hers, and began on it at once, without waiting for her niece to say more.

  “Such a bustle as we are in at present! And worse to come soon, for there can be no reason for delay that I know of, and then there will be clothes to buy, and invitations to send out, and all manner of things to see to, as there always is on these occasions—”

  “On what occasions, Aunt Hattie?”

  “Why, of course, I have not told you! If that isn’t just like me, as my poor husband always used to say. ‘Hattie’, he would say, ‘you never can begin a tale at the beginning. Pray come to the point, and have done with beating about the bush.’ Well, dear, to come to the point.” Here she paused and gulped for breath. “As briefly as possible — your cousin Cynthia is betrothed!”

  “Betrothed?” echoed Susan, in wonder.<
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  “Yes. I am sure I don’t know why you should sound so surprised, for she is a good four years older than you; and at one and twenty, you know, a female can almost be considered on the shelf! Indeed, I will confess that I was beginning to have some misgivings, for one needs a deal of money to put a young woman in the way of meeting eligible gentlemen. And as you are very well aware, child, in that regard I am not well placed — not well placed at all, I regret to say. Were it not for — but never mind that! The point is — dear Cynthia is engaged to a Mr. Beresford, a prodigious fine gentleman with an income of several thousands a year — not that it isn’t very vulgar to speak of money, though how one is to avoid speaking of it when it necessarily occupies so much of one’s thoughts, is more than I can say—”

  “When did this take place, Aunt? I wonder you did not write and tell me of it.”

  “Well, Susan, you know I’m not much in the way of writing letters; and I very rarely put myself to the trouble of telling people things, because they always seem to find out quite satisfactorily in some other way. But as for when it happened — why barely a se’enight since! So you can plainly see that it was not worth the while of writing to tell you, more particularly since I am such a poor letter-writer, not at all like old Mr. Horace Walpole, whom everyone says is prodigiously gifted in that regard.”

  “I met him once,” said Susan, blushing a little at that memory.

  Her aunt was impressed. “Did you indeed? When I was a young girl, I used sometimes to see him at Ranelagh; but, of course, he never goes there nowadays, what with the gout and his age. In those days, one would meet all the haut-ton at Ranelagh: but it seems to me nowadays it isn’t at all what it used to be — not at all.”

  “Oh, but will you take me there?” asked Susan, eagerly. “I should so love to go! I have heard how splendid it is!”

  “Why, of course, child, if you wish, though it is nothing at all, I assure you — not like it used to be. But then nothing is, don’t you agree? Oh, but of course, you would not know, for you have scarce seen anything yet, and I dare say you will think it all quite wonderful. However, we were talking of Cynthia’s betrothal — we must keep to the point. This Mr. Beresford is well-connected, too. He is a third cousin — or is it a fourth cousin? — of a baronet. You can imagine how set-up my dear girl is with herself — especially after having felt just the smallest anxiety over the last year or so as to whether she was destined to remain a spinster all her life. However, all that is past, I’m thankful to say, and the only anxiety now will be on my part — though I would rather die than confess it to poor Cynthia. But the truth is, my dear, I’m at my wits end to know how to meet the expenses of the wedding!”

  “I wish I could help, Aunt Hattie,” said Susan impulsively. “Do you suppose—”

  Mrs. Fyfield shook her head. “It isn’t of the slightest use, child, though it’s good of you to offer! But your inheritance is all tied up so that not even you can use it as you wish. But let’s not concern ourselves with that,” she added hastily. “For I always find a way to contrive, you know. I dare say I might take in a lodger when Cynthia is wed; there will be plenty of room in this house. However,” she went on more cheerfully. “Let’s not tax our brains with such tedious matters. I must tell you what Cynthia was wearing when Mr. Beresford proposed to her.”

  She plunged forthwith into a lengthy sartorial account that was presently interrupted by the entrance of Cynthia herself.

  Cynthia Fyfield was a well-built, shapely young woman with a face which would have been attractive but for a slightly heavy chin, and a mouth that was a little too wide. There was always a suggestion of self-consequence about her, but at present it was more noticeable than usual. She and Susan greeted each other calmly: there was no more than tolerance on either side.

  “I wish you joy, Cynthia,” exclaimed Susan, warming a little. “I was never more surprised in my life!”

  “I’m sure I don’t know why you should be,” her cousin replied, distantly. “You must have supposed that I should wed before long.”

  “Oh, yes, of course! But there was never a hint of it when I was home for Christmas—”

  “I had not met Mr. Beresford then.”

  “Tell me all about it,” said Susan, plumping down on the sofa and patting the place beside her invitingly. “Come on Cynthia; pray do!”

  Cynthia protested that there was not much to tell, but she seated herself beside her cousin in spite of this.

  “You girls will no doubt wish to exchange your little confidences,” said Mrs. Fyfield, indulgently. “I’ll go and see the housekeeper about your room, Susan, for I declare I am quite tired of this stupid bonnet I have been trying to trim.” She picked it up from the floor where it was still lying and turned it over thoughtfully in her hands. “One must practise economy in my situation, I realize, but there are limits! I am quite determined to give this to the housekeeper, and bother myself no further with it.”

  “Dear Mama is so irrational,” remarked Cynthia, when Mrs. Fyfield had left the room. “She talks a deal about economizing, without having the least notion how to set about it.”

  “But she does contrive very well,” said Susan. “She can always manage to find what is needed in an emergency.”

  “I’ll admit that she will sometimes hit on the most ingenious ways of raising money,” admitted Cynthia. “But it is all so distasteful to me, and if only she would at all times live within her income, such undignified shifts would not be necessary.”

  “But never mind my aunt!” cried Susan impatiently. “Tell me about your betrothal to Mr. Beresford.”

  “What shall I tell you?” asked Cynthia, with an indulgent smile.

  “Everything! Where you met, and when — and how — what he is like — what he said when he proposed to you—”

  “Lud — we shall be here all night if I tell you the half of what you want to know! Well, briefly, we met at a private ball at Mrs. Hibbert’s in January. He is related to the Hibberts in some way, and had lately come to live in London. As you know, Lydia Hibbert is a friend of mine, so it was natural that I should often encounter him at their house. Before long, he was paying me marked attentions; and he actually made his proposals,” concluded Cynthia, in a smug tone of voice, “six days ago, to be precise.”

  “But how did you feel about all this?” exclaimed Susan. “You tell it all so calmly! Weren’t you in transports of joy, ready to dance and sing and do all manner of wild things?”

  “My dear Susan, that kind of thing is all very well in novels, of which you’ve evidently been reading far more than you ought. In real life one’s feelings are, I should hope, a little more under control.”

  “Mine aren’t!” declared the younger girl emphatically. “And if yours are, Cynthia, then all I can say is that you cannot truly be in love with your Mr. Beresford! What’s more,” she added, glancing shrewdly at her cousin, “I don’t believe you are, after all.”

  “When you are little older,” replied Cynthia, repressively, “you will not talk such nonsense. Love, indeed! What should you know about love, I wonder? You have only just this minute left the schoolroom!”

  Susan tossed her dark curls, free now from the hideous cap worn by Miss Fanchington’s long-suffering pupils.

  “I know all about it!” she retorted. “At any rate, I know a great deal more than you ever will! I know it can carry one to the heights of happiness and to the depths of despair—” She broke off, her cheeks flushed, and her dark eyes sparkling.

  Cynthia looked at her with strong disapproval. “Upon my word, Susan, if I took what you said seriously, I should be bound to warn Mama that I considered you had come under some very undesirable influences at Miss Fanchington’s Seminary! However, I know what it is. It is simply that you are jealous because I am engaged to be married.”

  “Nothing of the kind!”

  “Do not trouble to dissemble, child. I shall not hold it against you,” promised Cynthia, magnanimously. “A certain rival
ry is only natural between sisters — for we have been brought up as sisters after all. I am sure it is perfectly understandable that you should be a little jealous of me.”

  “But I am not jealous of you at all!” protested Susan, becoming heated. “There’s no reason why I should be!”

  “Oh, come!” replied Cynthia, in a pitying tone. “You cannot expect me to believe that! Marriage must be every woman’s aim; and you don’t care to think that I am already betrothed, while you may have to wait some years yet before you are so fortunate — if, indeed, you should be. I could see, when I first came into the room just now, that you were not quite pleased with my news. But do not worry, my dear cousin,” she added, consolingly. “When I have my own establishment, I shall ask you to stay with me, and then we will soon put you in the way of finding a husband.”

  To Susan, this was the last straw. Forgetful of Miss Fanchington’s recent warning, she plunged into speech without pausing to think even once.

  “Thank you, Cynthia, but there is no occasion for you to trouble yourself in the matter! I am already betrothed!”

  AN EVENING AT RANELAGH

  “Of course it is nonsense,” said Cynthia. “She says these things for effect — you know very well how it is with Susan, Mama.”

  “To be sure, my dear, yes — she was ever an impetuous and imaginative child. But don’t you see,” went on Mrs. Fyfield, doubtfully, “that is just the very reason why I wonder if there may not be something in it, after all? She says she has been secretly engaged for some time — and knowing how she rushes headlong into things, it could very well be true!”

  Cynthia shook her head decidedly. “No: if it were true, she would tell us the gentleman’s name.”

  “Yes, but suppose some unscrupulous person may have got to know her, and persuaded her to a secret engagement — she is a very considerable heiress, you know, and though I tell no one anything of our private affairs, these things do sometimes leak out.”