Джорджетт Хейер - Faro’s Daughter

“Heaven help my poor boy!” moaned Lady Mablethorpe.

“I hope heaven may do so; I most certainly shall. Leave he to me, ma’am! If I have to kidnap Adrian, she shall not get her talons into him!”

She seemed to consider this suggestion on its merits, and to be not ill-pleased with it. “Do you suppose that would answer? she asked.

“No.”

“Then what in the world is the use of thinking of such a thing?” she demanded crossly.

“I am not thinking of it. I would sooner kidnap the girl.”

“Max!” exclaimed his aunt, as an unwelcome thought entered her brain. “Do not tell me that she has got you under her odious spell!”

“You may rest perfectly at ease on that score, ma’am,” he said harshly. “I do not recall when I have met any woman who I disliked more!”

She was relieved in a slight measure, but said: “Do you think her determined to marry my unfortunate boy?”

“I am not sure. It may well be that she is trying to frighten us into offering her more money. Adrian’s birthday is all too close at hand, and she knows it. Her behaviour in coming into the open points that way.”

“We shall have to give her whatever she asks,” said Lady Mablethorpe gloomily.

“I have already offered her twenty thousand,” he said, in a curt tone.

Her ladyship changed colour. “Twenty thousand! Are you mad? The estate can never stand it!”

“Don’t alarm yourself!” he said ironically. “I was not proposing to pledge Adrian’s fortune.”

She stared at him, quite astonished. “Well, I must say, Max, I never looked for such generosity from you! I am very grateful, I assure you, but—”

“You have nothing to thank me for,” he interrupted. “She refused.”

“She must be out of her senses!”

“I know nothing of that, but she has certainly mistaken her man.”

She moved restlessly in her chair. “I wish I might see the woman!”

His lips curled. “So you may, if you care to accompany us to Vauxhall tomorrow. Adrian is to take her there, to the ridotto.”

“Flaunting him in the eyes of the world!” she cried indignantly.

“Precisely. Or in my eyes: I cannot be certain which.”

She got up with an air of resolution. “Well, I will go with you. I dare say Olivia will be glad to let me take her place. Perhaps my deluded boy may be brought to a sense of his folly if he sees his mother when he has that creature on his arm!”

“I hope he may,” responded Ravenscar. “I would not myself be willing to hazard a penny on it, however.”

Lady Bellingham’s emotions when she beheld her niece on the following evening threatened for a moment or two to overcome her. She could only stare at her with horrified eyes, and open and shut her mouth in an ineffective way.

Miss Grantham had come into her dressing-room to borrow her rouge-pot, and some patches. The vive bergere dress had always been arresting, for its green stripes were quite an inch broad, but until its owner had embellished it with knots of coquelicot ribbons it had been quite unexceptionable. It was amazing, thought poor Lady Bellingham, what a difference a few yards of ribbon could make! But even those shocking ribbons faded into insignificance beside the atrocity which Deborah had chosen to pin on to her elaborate coiffure. Fascinated, Lady Bellingham blinked at those three upstanding plumes, springing from a bed of gauze, and ribbon, and lace.

“I should like,” said Miss Grantham blandly, “to borrow your garnets, Aunt Lizzie, if you please.”

Lady Bellingham found her voice. “Garnets? With that dress? You cannot! Deb, for the love of heaven!”

“They are just what I need,” said Deborah, going to the dressing-table, and opening the jewel-casket that stood on it. “You’ll see!”

Lady Bellingham covered her eyes with her hand. “I don’t want to see!” she said. “You look—you look like some dreadful creature from the stage!”

“Yes, I think I do too,” replied her niece, apparently pleased. “Oh, do but look, aunt! Nothing could be more vulgar!”

Lady Bellingham permitted herself one glance at the garnets flashing round Deborah’s throat, and in the lobes of her ears, and gave a groan. “You cannot mean to go out looking such a figure of fun. I implore you, Deb, take off that shocking head!”

“Not for the world!” said Deborah, clasping a couple of bracelets round her wrists. “But I must paint my face a little, and put on just one patch.”

“No one wears patches now!” protested her aunt. “Oh, Deb, what are you about? And why did you have your hair powdered, pray? It makes you look thirty years old at least! For heaven’s sake, child, if you must wear a patch let it be a small one, not that great vulgar thing!”

Miss Grantham gave a gurgle of laughter, and stood back to survey her image in the mirror. “Dear Aunt Lizzie, I told you that I was going to be vulgar! I look famous!”

“Deb!” said her aunt, in anguished accents. “Do but think of that poor young Mablethorpe! How can you be so unfeeling as to go out in his company looking so odd? He will very likely be ready to sink into the ground!”

“I dare say he will notice nothing amiss,” said Miss Grantham optimistically. “And if he does, it won’t signify.”

Lord Mablethorpe was in a condition when he might have been expected to be blind to any shortcomings in the dress of his adored Deborah, but not even his infatuation was strong enough to make him oblivious of that astonishing head. It obtruded itself upon his notice at the outset, since it seriously impeded Miss Grantham’s entrance to the carriage which was to carry them to Westminster. She was obliged to duck her head as low as she could to get through the door, and when she sat down on the seat, the feathers brushed against the roof of the carriage. Lord Mablethorpe cast them a doubtful glance, but was too respectful to make any comment.

They took sculls at Westminster, to carry them across the river, and that nothing should be wanting to add to Miss Grantham’s pleasure, and give consequence to the expedition, his lordship had lavishly arranged for a boat of French horns to attend them. Miss Grantham was touched by this boyish piece of extravagance, but could not help laughing a little.

Vauxhall Gardens, which were enjoying a run of extreme popularity, were soon reached. It was a very fine autumn evening, but although there was still daylight the walks and the alleys were already lit by a quantity of lanterns, and lamps burning in innumerable golden globes. Lord Mablethorpe piloted Miss Grantham towards the centre of the pleasure gardens where, in a large, open space, a number of booths, or boxes, for refreshment were arranged in two wide semi-circles. The booths presented a festive appearance, being well-lit, and adorned with gay paintings on their backs. In the middle of the open space an orchestra was playing, and couples strolling about to meet and greet acquaintances, or to show off smart toilettes. Dancing was going forward in the big rotunda near at hand, and at a more advanced hour in the evening a Firework Display was promised.

The booth which Mablethorpe had hired for the night being reached, it was found that Mr Kennet and his fair partner had already arrived there, and were enjoying a somewhat noisy flirtation. One glance informed Miss Grantham that Mrs Patch was all that she had hoped. She was an improbable blonde of uncertain years, with a very much painted face, a singularly penetrating voice, and a laugh which made Mablethorpe wince. Lucius Kennet called her Clara, and seemed to be on terms of the greatest familiarity with her. He was engaged in taking snuff from her dimpled wrist when Deborah and his host joined them, and as he turned to greet the newcomers he winked once, very broadly, at Deborah.

Mrs Patch, upon being made known to Adrian, treated him with a kind of arch flattery that quite set Deborah’s teeth on edge. If his lordship were momentarily taken aback by the company in which he found himself, he was far too well-bred to betray it, and at once did his best to fall in with Mrs Patch’s notions of convivial behaviour. He succeeded well enough to make her hide her supposed blushes behind her fan, rap him playfully over the knuckles with it, and declare that she vowed he was the wickedest creature alive.

Under cover of this raillery, Deborah said in an awed voice to Kennet: “Good God, Lucius, where did you find such a person?”

He removed her cloak from her shoulders. “Why, isn’t she what you told me you wanted, me dear? And me thinking I’d hit upon the very thing!”

Her lips twitched. “Indeed, she could not be better! But how shabby it is of us to subject that poor boy to such vulgarity!”

Mr Kennet, who had had time to assimilate the full glory of Miss Grantham’s dress, gave vent to one of his low whistles. He eyed her with considerable respect. “If it’s vulgarity you’re talking of, me darlin’—”

She bit back a laugh. “I know, I know! Poor Aunt Lizzie is in despair. Tell me, is Ravenscar here? Have you seen him?”

“No, but we shall have the best view of him, and he of us, God help him! For I’ve prowled round the booths, and found his card on the door of that empty box over there. There’s little he will miss, I’m thinking.”

“Good!” said Deborah, moving forward to the front of the booth.

The green stripes, now first seen by Lord Mablethorpe, hit him most forcibly in the eye, and almost caused him to change colour. He was too inexperienced in the niceties of female fashions to think his Deborah’s dress vulgar, but he did wish that she had chosen a more sober combination of colours than grass-green and coquelicot. He did not think, either, that the dusting of powder on her hair became her very well. It made her look old, almost like a stranger; while the over-large patch at the corner of her mouth he did not admire at all. As for the feathers in her headdress, he supposed, vaguely, that they must be quite the thing, but he could not help wishing that she had worn her hair simply dressed, in the way she was accustomed to.