Friday's Child (35 page)

Lord Wrotham, eyeing him grimly, favoured him with a pithy and unsolicited opinion of his cold, his morals, and his entire lack of bottom. Mr Ringwood recruited his strength with a liberal allowance of punch, and said briefly: “Tell you what, George: Ferdy must do it.”

“Yes, by God!” exclaimed George. “He’s Sherry’s cousin, and he
shall
do it!”

But Ferdy, hectored into calling on Hero the very next day, did not prove to be a successful envoy. He employed so much tact that he quite failed to impress Hero with a sense of her wrong-headedness. She laughed at him, assured him that he was as stuffy as Cousin Jane, and went off to change her library book at Richardson’s before he had said a quarter of the things he had rehearsed on his way to Half Moon Street.

Mr Ringwood, learning what had befallen, animadverted bitterly on the folly of one friend and the moral cowardice of the other, and announced his intention of calling on Lady Sherry himself upon the following morning.

It was too late. Mrs Bagshot, coming away from her interview with Hero in high dudgeon, had lost no time in sending off an express to Sherry at Melton, informing him in good round terms of his wife’s latest escapade, drawing a horrid picture of its inevitable result, graphically describing the evils of a lady’s name being bandied about the clubs in connection with Horseracing and Betting, and comprehensively washing her hands of the whole business.

This missive reached Sherry in the eve of what promised to be one of the best runs of the season, and it drew from him such an explosion of wrath that Mrs Goring, who happened to be passing through the hall with a pile of clean linen, dropped six shirts and eight handkerchiefs on to a floor made muddy by his lordship’s boots, and promptly succumbed to a fit of hysterics.

Sherry arrived in London at dusk on the day of Ferdy’s ill starred visit to Half Moon Street, having driven himself in his curricle all the way. He was tired, chilled, and he had missed a capital day’s sport. Informed by his startled butler that my lady was dressing for a party, he mounted the stairs two at a time, entered his wife’s room without ceremony, and, ignoring the presence of her abigail, demanded furiously: “What the devil is this I’m hearing about you?”

The abigail shrank back in alarm; Hero, seated before her mirror, gazed at him in blank dismay, and faltered: “Sherry!
Sherry!
I didn’t expect—I don’t—”

“No, by God, I’ll wager you didn’t expect me!” he said. He pulled Mrs Bagshot’s letter from his pocket and thrust it into Hero’s hand. “Read that!” He became aware of the abigail, and rounded on her promptly. “What the deuce are you doing here? Outside!”

The abigail then momentarily surprised her young mistress by asserting in a very noble way her fixed resolve to support and protect her ladyship, even though she should be assailed by wild horses. Hero was much affected by this wholly unexpected championship, but begged her to leave the room. Maria cast the Viscount a look of loathing which embraced the entire race of men, and retired to regale Mrs Bradgate and the kitchenmaid with a recital of all the circumstances in her own career which had led her to look upon the male sex as being in all essentials lower than Beasts in the Field.

Hero, meanwhile, was perusing in a dazed manner her cousin Jane’s letter. She gave a little exclamation and looked up, stammering: “But, Sherry, why?
Why
? I made sure you would not have the least objection!”

“No objection?” he thundered. “No objection to your making such a show of yourself? Bets laid on you in all the clubs! Every goggling fool in town sniggering at you, and believing you to be as bad as Letty Lade!”

“But Lady Royston—”

“Sally Royston!” he interrupted. “
Sally Royston!
It needed only that, by God! The vulgarest hoyden—the most shameless baggage—”

“Sherry, no! Oh no, no, how can this be so? I have met her at the most exclusive houses, indeed, I have!”

“So you have met Lady Maria Berwick at the most exclusive houses, and a score of others! Do you desire to model your conduct upon theirs? Good God, will
nothing
teach you?”

She was trembling. “Sherry, if I have done wrong I am very sorry, but how could I guess? Lady Fakenham saw no harm—”

"What
? She knows of this, and did nothing to put a stop to it?”

“No, oh no! She is in the country still. But at Fakenham Manor, when I beat Lady Fairford—Sherry, you were pleased! You said you were proud of me!”

He stared at her. “That! A private sport, amongst friends, under my aunt’s eye! What has that to say to anything? How could you suppose it comparable to a public race at Epsom, of all places, with the whole world free to bet on it, and every Tom, Dick, and Harry to watch it? I think you must be mad indeed!”

She pressed her hands to her cheeks. “I didn’t think—I didn’t know—Oh, Sherry, don’t be angry with me!”

“Not angry with you! When you fall from one scrape into another, disgracing yourself, and me, and—You say you did not know! Did not your cousin tell you? Did she not come here expressly to warn you that you must on no account do such a thing?”

“Yes,” Hero gasped. “But I did not heed her, for she said such stupid things, and you told me she was nothing but a dowd! I thought she was just—”

He broke in on this, his expression so alarming that she almost cowered in her chair. “So I told you not to heed her, did I? I might have supposed it would come to that, might I not?
I
said it!
I
encouraged you to race! Of course! It was I who told you to throw good money after bad at faro, was it not, my girl? To borrow from usurers, too, and—”

“Oh, Sherry, don’t—don’t! Oh, if only I had listened to Cousin Jane, and to Ferdy!”

“Ferdy?” he exclaimed. “Did he warn you, then?”

She nodded miserably. “Yes, but I didn’t heed him because he is just as silly as Cousin Jane, and I thought—I thought you would be pleased if I beat Lady Royston!”

An unearthly cry broke from the Viscount, and he clutched his locks with all the appearance of a man driven to the verge of distraction. Hero covered her face with her hands and wept.

The Viscount, regaining control over himself, took a hasty turn about the room, a heavy frown on his brow. He cast a brooding glance at his wife, and said shortly: “It’s of no use to cry. That won’t mend matters. The odds are you have ruined yourself already with the only people who signify.”

Hero could find nothing in this pronouncement to encourage her to stop crying, but she tried hard to do so, blowing her little nose and resolutely swallowing her sobs while his lordship continued to pace about the room. After watching him timidly for a few moments, she got up and ventured to approach him, saying in an imploring tone: “Oh, Sherry, pray forgive me! I
will not
race—indeed, indeed, I would never have engaged myself to do so had I known you would dislike it so excessively! Sherry, I did not mean to do wrong! Oh, if I were not so ignorant!”

He paused, looking at her. “No, you did not mean any harm. I know that well enough. Are you trying to tell me it is my fault? Well, I know that too, but it don’t make matters any easier.”

She caught one of his hands and held it in a warm clasp. “No, no, it is not your fault!” she said. “It is I who am so stupid and so tiresome, and I am so
sorry
!”

“Well, it is my fault,” he replied. “I should never have married you as I did. If I had not been such a rattle-pated fool I should have known—Well, there’s no sense in going over that now, for the mischief’s done. The thing is you were never fit to be cast upon the town with no one but me to tell you how to go on.”

She dropped his hand, her cheek whitening, her eyes fixed on his face. “Sherry!” she whispered.

He resumed his pacing. He was no longer scowling so heavily, but he looked suddenly much older and a little careworn. Suddenly he stopped and said crisply: “There’s only one thing for it. You have no mother to advise you, so it must be for mine to teach you what you should know. I should have put you in her hands at the outset! However, it is not too late: I shall take you down to Sheringham Place tomorrow. Tell your maid to pack your trunks in good time. I’ll give it out that you’re indisposed, and are gone into the country to recover your strength.”

“Sherry,
no!"
she panted. “You cannot be so cruel! I will not go! Your mother hates me—”

“Stuff and nonsense!” he interrupted. “I tell you there’s nothing else to be done! I don’t say my mother ain’t a deuced silly woman, but she knows the way of the world, and she can—”

She clutched at the lapels of his coat. “No, no, Sherry, don’t send me to her! To go home in disgrace—”

“No one need know why you go. Why the devil should anyone wonder at your visiting your mother-in-law?”

“Cousin Jane will know, and all my friends there, and Lady Sheringham would tell everyone how wicked I have been!”

“Fudge! Who said you have been wicked, pray?”

“She will say so! She has said from the start that I had ruined your life, and now she will know it is true! Sherry, I had rather you killed me than sent me back like that!”

He removed her hands from his coat lapels, saying sternly: “Stop talking in that nonsensical fashion! I never heard such fustian in my life! Can you not see that I am doing what I ought to have done at the outset?”

“No! no! no!”

“Well, I am!” said his lordship, a mulish look about his mouth. “No, say no more, Hero! My mind is made up. You’ll go to Sheringham Place tomorrow, and I shall take you there.”

“Sherry, no! Sherry, listen to me! Only listen to me!” she cried frantically.

“I tell you it is of no use to put yourself in this passion! Good God, can you not understand how impossible it is that we should continue in this manner? I can’t put you in the right way of doing things! But my mother can, and she shall!”

He put her resolutely out of his way as he spoke and strode to the door.

“Sherry!” she cried despairingly.

"No
!” said his lordship, with awful finality, and shut the door upon her.

Chapter 18

That evening, his cold having yielded in some measure to judicious treatment, Mr Ringwood felt so much better that the prospect of spending a solitary evening by his own fireside filled him with repugnance. His man having reported that there was a nasty wind blowing, with a suggestion of sleet in the air, he thought it might be foolhardy to sally forth to one of his clubs, and sent round a note instead to Cavendish Square, begging the honour of Mr Fakenham’s company to dinner and a rubber or two of piquet. Ferdy, moved by his friend’s plight, good-naturedly cancelled an engagement he had made to meet some other of his cronies at Long’s Hotel, and repaired in due course to Stratton Street, where he was received by a slightly pink-nosed host, clad in the purple brocade dressing-gown he had himself once worn, and with a Belcher handkerchief knotted incongruously round his throat. This ill-assorted attire naturally struck one who was a tulip of fashion to the heart, and Ferdy frankly informed Mr Ringwood that he looked devilish.

“I feel devilish,” said Mr Ringwood morosely. He added with a flicker of spirit: “At all events I have let my man shave me!”

“Yes,” admitted Ferdy, recalling with a shudder Mr Ringwood’s appearance earlier in the day. “If you had not, Gil, dear old fellow, I couldn’t have dined with you. Couldn’t have fancied a morsel!” He regarded the Belcher handkerchief with misgiving. “And dash it, I’m not sure I shall be able to fancy anything as it is!”

However, he was presently able to do full justice to a very handsome dinner, consisting of buttered crab, a dish of mutton fry with parsnips, a pheasant pie, with several side dishes, including some potted sturgeon, and a cold boiled knuckle of veal, and pig’s face. Having washed down this repast with some excellent Chambertin, Mr Ringwood felt much restored, and was even inclined to think that if he imbibed a sufficient quantity of port during the evening, with perhaps a little brandy to top off the whole, the morrow might find him a new man. The Honourable Ferdy having no fault to find with this programme, the covers were removed, the decanters set on the table, and the two friends settled down to their game of piquet. In this they were presently interrupted by Lord Wrotham, who had looked in on Mr Ringwood to discover what, since Ferdy had so lamentably failed in this morning’s mission, was next to be done to prevent Lady Sherry’s ruining herself in the eyes of the Polite World. Mr Ringwood explained that he himself had resolved to call in Half Moon Street on the following morning; and the three gentlemen were just lamenting the absence of a fourth who could have made up a table of whist when another knock was heard on the street door. The hope that this might herald the arrival of some convivial soul in search of entertainment was shattered a minute later by the entrance into the room of Hero, a birdcage in one hand and an ormolu clock clutched under her other arm. A cloak was tied round her neck, its hood slipping from her head; she looked alarmingly pale, and there were tear-stains on her cheeks.