A Match of Hearts: A Regency Romance (11 page)

The
day of the concert dawned fine and sunny. ‘Thank Goodness!’ exclaimed Zanthe,
pulling aside the curtains in the breakfast-parlour to gaze upon the view
across the open fields and away towards the downs. ‘If it had been raining, you
may count upon it that half our audience would have decided to stay at home in
their own warm, dry drawing-room.’

‘Very true, dearest.’ Margery poured out
coffee serenely and smiled with an air of abstraction.

‘And, let us be honest, they would not
have missed much. Apart from Susanna and the Signora, of course. I promise you
I don’t know where to look when Mrs Preston is reciting that interminable
Cowper poem. She has such a problem with her adenoids, poor woman, and then the
corners of her mouth are all wet. Ugh!’

‘You are unkind, Zanthe! She performs
with a great deal of feeling. And, you know, the Admiral was shipwrecked once,
and that is why the poem means so much to her.’

‘Fiddle! He was stranded for two days on
an island off the coast of Scotland surrounded by his entire crew. He is hardly
a Robinson Crusoe.’

Margery sighed. ‘It is the Quarrel Scene
that I find most tedious. I am sure it is very fine if one saw it performed by
real actors like Mr Kemble or Mr Kean, but—’

‘Yes, indeed. And it would help greatly
if they could remember the lines and did not have to be prompted at every
speech.’ She laughed, ‘Young Templeton was so angry yesterday, for Miss
Cholmondeley had the book and she had nodded off just when he wanted a line.
I’m sure I do not blame her.’

‘The two Misses Weatherspoon play their
duet most creditably,’ offered Margery in a palliative tone. ‘And Sir
Humphrey’s card tricks are very amusing.’

‘Oh, I abominate card tricks! And I
distinctly saw him pull a card out of his sleeve at rehearsal the other day.’

‘Well, my love, recollect that the
audience will not be so close as to see very much.’

‘True. And, in the end, all that matters
is that Susanna should be a success. It means so much to her. If only she can
convince the Signora that she really wants and deserves a career. Indeed, you
must admit it would be a terrible waste if that glorious voice was not to be
heard, as it should be, in all the great opera houses of the world.’

‘Well, she could always perform
privately, as she will tonight.’

Zanthe shook her head. ‘Oh, if I had
such a talent as hers—I understand her completely. And, may I remind you, who
are to be a vicar’s wife, that the Bible is very scathing, indeed, regarding
those who do not use their talents to the fullest.’

‘Zanthe! Your liveliness takes you too
far!’

‘I do not see that,’ responded Zanthe,
stoutly. ‘Do you not believe Susanna’s voice is God-given?’

‘Well—yes—but—’

‘Then I imagine He intends her to use
it.’ She smiled mischievously. ‘I shall put the matter to your betrothed.’

‘No! He would be so very shocked.’

‘Not he! Why, I believe I understand him
better than you do.’

Margery merely smiled and shook her
head.

Neither lady had noticed the door open.
But, just then, Zanthe turned to see the Dowager standing in the doorway, one
hand on the doorknob, the other on the ivory handle of her walking stick. At
the look in her eyes, Zanthe’s heart sank.

‘Margery.’

‘Oh—Mama! What a start you gave me.’
Margery tried to laugh but pressed her hand to her heart as though to quiet its
beating.

The old lady stalked into the room
without recourse to her cane. ‘Have the goodness to tell me to whom Zanthe
referred when she talked of your
betrothed
?’

‘I—I—Mr—Cholmondeley, Mama.’

 ‘Is it possible that you have had the temerity
to accept this man without so much as referring the matter to the parent to
whom you owe your duty and respect? That you have, with that spirit of
independence that is so prevalent and disgusting in these modern times, decided
for yourself to marry a man who is unknown to your family, unconnected with any
of our acquaintance, of whose background you know nothing? Are you so lost to
all sense of what is due to the family? Have you no gratitude for the home that
has been provided for you all your life, for the care I lavished upon you when
you were a sickly child? That a daughter of mine should be so lost to all
propriety!’

Margery was white with two spots of
colour burning upon her cheeks. Blindly, she held up a placatory hand, ‘Mama—please,
I beg of you, no more.’

Zanthe ran to her sister-in-law and put
an arm around her shoulders. ‘Really, Ma’am, what impropriety is there in this?
To my certain knowledge, Margery has never once been alone with Mr
Cholmondeley. And, even if she had, he is the soul of honour and would never
overstep the bounds. And we
do
know something of his background, for the
Cholmondeleys came to us with a letter of introduction from Doctor Thatcher,
whose friend he has been for twenty years.’

Lady Brookenby did not even look at her
as she said, ‘Be quiet, girl. I shall deal with you later. Now leave us.’

‘No, I shall stay with Margery.’

Margery smiled waveringly and reached up
to touch the hand that rested upon her shoulder. ‘No, you go, Zanthe. I shall
be quite all right, I promise you.’

‘But dearest—’ She could see that her
insistence was merely causing her sister-in-law more distress, and so, with the
utmost reluctance, she left the room.

She had never been more tempted to
listen at the keyhole, but she knew she must not. She hovered in the hallway,
however, until she attracted the notice of the servants and then climbed the
stairs to her bedchamber. She did not come down until she heard the
breakfast-parlour door open and her mother-in-law call to John to help her to
her room. As soon as she heard the bedchamber door close, she ran down the
stairs and into the breakfast-parlour.

Margery was sitting by the fire, tears
rolling down her ashen cheeks, her attitude one of flat despair. The contrast between
this figure of hopelessness and the happy, smiling woman she had been just an
hour earlier was more than Zanthe could bear. ‘Oh, my dear, dearest love, what
has she said to you?’ She fell to her knees before her sister and clasped her
icy hands between her own to warm them.

‘I always knew it was too good to be
true.’

‘No! It is
not
too good to be
true, for it happened. You are not going to let her spoil it for you—tell me
you are not.’

‘Zanthe, my sweet sister. You do not
understand. You were not brought up as I was in unquestioning obedience to your
parents. I was not strong enough to go against her wishes twenty years ago, and
I am still not—’

‘Yes, you are! Good God, Margery, I
believe she has you under some sort of evil spell, the old witch! Don’t think
of her; think of Mr Cholmondeley. He is your last chance of happiness, but,
Margery—you are his last chance, too! Do not condemn him to a barren, loveless
life with no one but that tedious sister of his to care for him.’

She could see from the sudden arrested
expression in Margery’s eyes that she had found a persuasive argument at last.
‘Make him happy,’ she urged, ‘and let him make you happy.’

She was relieved to see her
sister-in-law sit up, lift her head, and rub her wet cheeks with her palms as
though she had just awakened from a heavy sleep or trance. ‘You are very right.
Mortimer loves me; I must be strong for him.’ Despite her brave words, her lip
trembled. ‘But, oh Zanthe, I wish we could have been married before I had to
face Mama. She is so very hard to withstand.’

‘I know, love, I know. I feel it myself,
and I was not brought up with her forever harping on every fault and criticising
my every move.’

‘She will cast me off. I shall never see
the family again.’

Zanthe laughed, much encouraged by this
speech. ‘Well, that is no loss. Would you really give up poor Mr Cholmondeley
to keep in with your cousin William and his horrid brats—or Uncle Horace, who
always smells of brandy and is covered in snuff stains—or your Aunt Mildred,
with her everlasting agues and megrims?’

In spite of herself, Margery was
laughing. ‘No, no, of course not. What a fool I am to have been persuaded, even
for a moment, to renounce him.’

‘Yes, a dear fool. Now, listen to me.
Every time Mama-in-Law says something to upset you on this subject, you must
put your fingers in your ears, metaphorically speaking, and say to yourself,
Mortimer
loves me, and we are going to be ecstatically happy
. Say it!’

‘Mortimer loves me, and we are going to
be ecstatically happy!’

‘Again!

‘Mortimer loves me, and we are going to
be ecstatically happy!’

Zanthe embraced her. ‘Excellent! I shall
ask Susanna to set it to music, and you may sing it all day long.’

‘What should I do without you?’

‘You will do very well without me, for
you will have your Mortimer. Now, go upstairs, wash your poor face, and don
your pelisse—for we have a concert to put on.’

A
few minutes later, Zanthe and Margery set out from the Royal Crescent for the
Lower Rooms, leaving the Dowager sleeping off her ill humour in her bedchamber.
Parry would bring her to the Rooms later, in good time to take her seat for the
entertainment.

There was much to be done for, although
the management of the Rooms had let them out at a cheap rate, they had not
contracted to prepare the rooms, set out the chairs, or provide refreshments.

The arrangements for the concert were
not uppermost in Zanthe’s mind, however. She had been much dismayed to see how
easily the Dowager had regained ascendency over her daughter and could see
that, by working upon her guilt and sense of duty, the old woman might yet put
a stop to her daughter’s marriage. ‘Well, she won’t do it! I shall not let
her,’ vowed Zanthe mutinously. ‘I shall see Margery married to Mr Cholmondeley
if I have to poison the old b—witch—to accomplish it.’

The ladies were engaged in setting out
little cakes and sweetmeats upon platters when the reverend gentleman and his
sister arrived. Margery looked up, met her lover’s eyes, smiled waveringly, and
quickly looked away, leaving the gentleman staring. Zanthe caught his eye and
beckoned vigorously.

‘Good afternoon, Lady Brookenby.’ He
bowed over her hand, but she could see that his mind was elsewhere. Absently,
he picked up one of the cakes and looked at it as if he had never seen a cake
before. ‘Is your sister-in-law perfectly well?’

‘No, she is not. She is suffering from a
very bad attack of my very dear mother-in-law!’

‘The Dowager—? What can you mean,
Ma’am?’

 ‘I mean, Sir, that your future
mother-in-law has learned of your engagement and, if you do not wish to lose
Margery altogether, you had best take her away as soon as you may—tonight if
you can arrange it!’

 Mr Cholmondeley was so taken aback that
he dropped the little cake he had been about to cram into his mouth. ‘Good
Heavens, Ma’am! What are you suggesting?’

She bent and picked up the pieces. ‘I am
suggesting that you elope.’

‘Elope?’

‘Certainly. Take her to Lancashire and
marry her there. You may obtain a special license from the Bishop this
afternoon.’

‘Special license?’

‘Must you repeat everything I say?’
demanded Zanthe. ‘I am telling you this for your own good. If you do not take
Margery away, she will be persuaded to give you up and she will end a
miserable, downtrodden slave for the rest of her life, just as I said she would.
It is positively your
duty
to make sure that does not happen.’

He looked very worried. ‘I had intended
to wait upon the Dowager, to present my credentials and explain my
circumstances. Anything of a clandestine nature is abhorrent to me.’

‘Of course, it is. But you do not
understand. Your credentials are immaterial. You could be the wealthiest, most
noble, most eligible man in the country, and it would not matter one whit
because what Mama-in-Law craves is power and, with me and Margery out of the
house, she has no one to torment—except the servants, and they are no fun for
her as they can leave if they want to.’

‘But the impropriety—!’

‘What impropriety? Your sister will
accompany you on the journey and be bridesmaid at the wedding. Nothing could be
more—more—
comme il faut
!’

‘But to persuade an unmarried lady to
such a step—to ask her to risk her reputation—’

Zanthe smiled and placed her hand upon
his arm. ‘Dear Mr Cholmondeley. I know that, in your eyes, Margery is a mere
slip of a girl, just as, in her eyes, you are a hero of romance; and I think it
is very sweet, quite adorable, in fact. But let us be practical. Margery is not
a green girl and, at her age, her reputation could survive very much worse than
a journey to the North in the company of a respectable clergyman and his
sister.’

Mr Cholmondeley was not listening. ‘A
hero of romance—I?’

She dimpled. ‘Of course. That is why you
are the only one who can save her. Will you do it?’

He took a deep breath, stiffened his spine,
and said, ‘I will.’

‘Good!’ She saw Margery steal a glance
in their direction and smiled. ‘Come here, dearest. Mr Cholmondeley and I have
a surprise for you.’

Margery blushed and pushed away the rather
poorly arranged platter she had been employed upon. ‘A surprise? What is it?’

Zanthe took her hand and led her to the
back of the hall, where benches had been set out. Mr Cholmondeley followed
them. Zanthe obliged Margery to be seated and then took one of her hands in
both her own. ‘How should you like to be married, at once?’

‘At once?’

Zanthe sighed. ‘Why must everyone repeat
every word I say like a parrot? Yes, my dear sister, at once. Or at least
within a very few days.’

‘But—Mama—would never allow it!’

Zanthe looked at the Reverend
triumphantly. ‘You see? Already that odious old woman has put a doubt in her
mind.’ She shook the hand she held reprovingly. ‘Listen to me. She cannot stop
you. You are an independent woman. No one can stop you.’

Margery sat quite still for a moment,
staring into space; and then, quite suddenly, and regardless of the other women
in the room, she jumped to her feet and flung her arms around Mr Cholmondeley’s
neck. ‘Yes, yes, take me away. Oh, dear Mortimer, take me away. I will marry
you whenever, wherever you like. But I cannot face Mama again until after we
are wed.’

‘You shall not,’ he assured her. He took
off his spectacles and polished them with his handkerchief. Then he put them
back with a decided air and said, ‘I shall go now to procure the license and
hire a post chaise.’ He strode off, calling to his sister as he made for the
door, ‘Letty, come along; I have something I must say to you, and I cannot
dawdle here.’

Zanthe laughed and kissed Margery’s
cheek. ‘I like Mr Cholmondeley in this mood.’

‘So do I,’ acknowledged her
sister-in-law, making a little sound that might almost have been a giggle.
‘But, Zanthe, if we are to leave after the concert, what shall I do about my
clothes and—? Oh, I do not want to go back to the house to pack my things. I
know something will happen to prevent our leaving if I do.’

‘No, that won’t do. Did you not bespeak
two new gowns at Mareille’s a few days ago? You may travel in the gown and
pelisse you have on and take the two new ones with you. I shall go to Milsom
Street now and collect them while you go to purchase a portmanteau and some
shifts, nightdresses, and such.’ Her eyes danced, ‘What an adventure! Dearest
Margery I almost wish it were I that was about to elope. Although not, of
course, with dear Mr Cholmondeley. He is yours, and I would not steal him, even
if I could. Which I know I could not.’

The two ladies very reprehensibly
deserted their posts, excusing themselves to the other workers with the pretext
of a forgotten engagement. ‘But we will be back within the half-hour. Long
before the performers arrive,’ Zanthe assured Lady Kilmarnock, who gave her a
distracted nod and an absent smile.

It was but a ten-minute walk from
Terrace Walk to Milsom Street, and Zanthe set out with all her usual energy,
revelling in the sunshine and the exquisite contrast of the vivid green leaves that
covered the trees, set against the deep, cloudless blue of the sky. Her spirits
rose. Everything she wanted seemed within her grasp. Then, all at once, she
began to feel uncomfortable, as though the sun had gone behind a cloud and a
presentiment of evil overcame her. She examined this feeling, for she had no
belief in the supernatural, and suddenly realised that it was the sound of
footsteps behind her, never hurrying, never varying, that had penetrated her
unconscious mind.

She glanced over her shoulder and, as
she had feared, found herself face to face with Sir Marmaduke Carlyle. He
stopped when she did and politely raised his curly-brimmed beaver hat. ‘Good
day, Lady Brookenby.’

Zanthe turned on her heel and walked on
at a faster pace, but it was useless. He was always just two or three steps
behind. She wished with fervour that she had remembered to bring her stalwart
footman; but John had been pressed into setting out benches for the concert,
and she had left him at the Lower Rooms cheerfully directing four Irish chair-men
who had been bribed to leave their stand and lend a hand. As she turned left
from Orange Grove into New Bond Street, her heart lifted, for here there were
many more people in the streets and Sir Marmaduke’s footsteps did not echo in
so sinister a manner. But the crowds emboldened the gentleman, and he came up
to walk beside her and, in the most impudent manner, attempted to take her arm.

‘How dare you? Let me go at once,’
exclaimed Zanthe, jerking her elbow out of his grasp.

‘But you must give me the opportunity to
offer my apologies and explain my conduct.’

‘No explanation is possible, Sir. You
insulted and assaulted me in the most ungentlemanly way. And now you are
attempting to do it again!’

‘Little prude. Are you going to tell me
you didn’t give me every encouragement? You must have known, when you agreed to
drive with me, how it would end.’

‘You are quite mad,’ exclaimed Zanthe,
although she was guiltily aware that, in her eagerness to deceive Launceston
and protect her brother, she had indeed allowed his attentions in a manner that
might lead a crude and insensitive man to believe that she would welcome his
advances. ‘How could I have guessed there would be an
accident
to your
phaeton, or that I would be deprived of the chaperonage of your groom?’

He did not answer but gave her a most
significant smile and tapped the side of his nose suggestively with one finger.
She shivered and, summoning all her courage, said, ‘You are quite mistaken in
me, I assure you. I am willing to believe that it was an honest
misunderstanding and to forget the matter, but I must ask you to leave me to
finish my business alone.’

‘What, and allow some other lucky fellow
the opportunity to escort you? Not on your life, sweet Zanthe!’

Her eyes filled with angry tears, and
she bit her lip. Then, just as they reached the corner of Green Street, Lord
Launceston turned into the street and came to a dead halt a few yards from
them, staring.

‘Oh, thank Goodness!’ exclaimed Zanthe,
and breaking free of Sir Marmaduke’s suddenly loosened clasp, she ran to the
Viscount with her hands held out. He grasped them automatically, but his eyes
were upon Carlyle.

‘What the devil—?’

Sir Marmaduke was many things: a bully,
a cheat, and a libertine, to name only three; but he was not a coward. He
lifted his chin pugnaciously and said, ‘I offered the lady my escort. Do you
have any quarrel with that, Viscount?’

‘It would appear that the lady does.’

Zanthe, fearful of a scene in public and
recollecting her earlier fears for Launceston’s safety, interposed, ‘No, no. It
was just me being foolish. Pray, give me your arm, and let us forget about him.
He is not worth being concerned about.’

She might as well have spared her
breath. Neither man paid the smallest attention to her.

‘I was not aware that you were
acquainted with Lady Brookenby, Launceston. Perhaps your attentions will be
more acceptable to her than mine were. A viscount is always a viscount after
all, even if he has fallen so low as to live off a woman.’

The Viscount’s black brows twitched
together, but he gave no other sign that the insult had struck home. ‘Pot-valiant
so early in the day, my friend? Shall we settle this when there are no ladies
present, nor busy-bodies that might intervene to stop me ripping your greasy
head from your noisome body?’

‘Ha! You think you can?’

‘I know I can,’ said the Viscount with a
calm that carried absolute conviction.

Sir Marmaduke was a little pale, and he
gripped the hollow ebony cane he carried so tightly that the wood splintered.
‘Do you know The Bird in Hand in Avon Street?’

‘I do.’

‘Then shall we say at eleven o’clock
tonight? There will be no busy-bodies there, I assure you.’

Launceston bowed. ‘I shall look forward
to it.’

Sir Marmaduke uttered a sound between a
snarl and a curse, turned on his heel, and strode off in the direction of Union
Street.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Zanthe with a sigh.

‘Oh, dear? Is that all you have to say?
This is your fault, Zanthe. I warned you not to play your games with Carlyle.
He’s a dangerous man.’

She hung her head. ‘I know, and I am so
very sorry I have put you in danger. I never meant to.’

He looked puzzled. ‘Put
me
in
danger. What nonsense is this?’

‘I mean—because now you have to fight
him—’

His eyes softened, and he laughed,
patting the hand that clutched his coat sleeve. ‘Don’t concern yourself, my
darling. It is not I who am in danger.’

‘Oh, Jarvis! You called me
darling
,
just as you used to.’

‘What? Oh, the Devil! Don’t go reading
anything into it, Zanthe, nor what happened the other day. I am still not going
to marry you.’