Daphne (5 page)

In all his worry, the vicar found time to wonder why the usually impeccable Daphne had silk threads twisted through her hair.

‘Ah, Armitage,’ said Dr Philpotts in a pompous fussy manner. ‘I am persuaded I have caught you out. I deliberately threw you off your guard by sending word that I was not coming.’

The vicar looked at him with dislike. Dr Philpotts was a small round man with a fat white face, large pale grey eyes and a large red mouth.

‘But now I am here and you are here,’ went on Dr Philpotts, ‘I will come to the point of my visit.’

‘Then perhaps we may all be excused,’ said Mr Garfield. ‘You will wish to be private with Mr Armitage.’

‘Not at all. Not at all,’ beamed Dr Philpotts. ‘Mr Armitage must be chastised, must be made to understand the meaning of true humility. When I beat my children, I always call in the servants to be witness to their humiliation. Painful but salutary.’

‘Disgusting, I call it,’ said Lady Godolphin.

‘Exactly,’ beamed Dr Philpotts, ‘although I am persuaded you are too hard on Mr Armitage.’

‘Weren’t talking about him,’ sniffed Lady
Godolphin
. ‘You. Hippochrist!’

The bishop flinched nervously under Lady
Godolphin’s
baleful stare. ‘Ha, ha, my lady, we will have our little joke.’

‘I ain’t joking,’ said Lady Godolphin. ‘I wish you had broke your neck.’

The bishop decided to ignore her. ‘Mr Armitage,’ he said sternly. ‘I have written to you asking you, nay
demanding
that you cease hunting, that you give up your pack of hounds.’

‘Steady, Charles,’ murmured the squire, for veins were beginning to swell on the vicar’s forehead and he had turned an alarming colour.

There was something in the vicar’s appearance that roused Daphne’s maternal instincts. She was heart-sorry for her father. She thought he looked like a large sulky baby about to hold its breath and turn blue with rage.

Without knowing why she did it, she turned her eyes to Mr Simon Garfield for help.

Those strange, hooded, yellowish eyes met and held her own trapped. They studied intently the appeal in her own – and the intelligence.

The vicar opened his mouth to begin but Mr Garfield forestalled him.

‘What a very great pity, my lord bishop,’ he said languidly. ‘I had no idea Mr Armitage was being forced to surrender his truly national reputation as a fine huntsman. But I fear if that is the case I can no longer bring myself to donate the thousand guineas to the church that I brought with me for the purpose.’

‘A thousand guineas!’ The bishop goggled at Mr Garfield.

Mr Garfield raised his quizzing glass and slowly studied the bishop from gaiters to sparse grey hair. ‘Unfortunately, I now fear I must keep my money,’ he drawled.

‘But
why
?’ asked the bishop.

‘Because, my dear man, Mr Armitage has inspired many Corinthians like myself with the divine spark. He has led us to glory over the … er … hunting grounds of the soul. We are simple men who must have our religion brought to us in simple ways.’

‘Nicely put,’ approved the squire. ‘Quite my own sentiments.’

‘Oh, but I had no idea,’ exclaimed the bishop with a deprecating wave of his plump, white hands. ‘If Mr Armitage can bring such ri– I mean such notable members of the
ton
as yourself, Mr Garfield, to an
appreciation of the finer shades of the spirit then I most certainly must withdraw my demand.’

The vicar’s face had gone from rage to disbelief to outright joy.

Mrs Armitage, who had been paying absolutely no attention to the conversation, languidly roused herself to summon the maid with the tea tray.

Daphne wondered hysterically whether her mother was ever alive to any situation.

‘That is most generous and most magnanimous of you,’ said the vicar, trying to seize Mr Garfield’s hand. But Mr Garfield appeared not to see the vicar’s hand.

Mrs Armitage retained some remnants of correct social behaviour and so she roused herself to talk at length to the bishop about the business of the parish. Mrs Armitage never knew very much about what was going on in the village, but what she did not know, she made up. The bishop was obviously disappointed that he was not going to be allowed to make the Reverend Armitage’s life a misery, but warring with that was the joy of bearing off with him one thousand guineas.

The light was failing rapidly and although there was to be a full moon, the bishop at last announced his intention of taking his leave. Mr Garfield, also, said he must be leaving as he meant to return to his friends at Hopeminster. Relief lightened the spirits of the party. Lady Godolphin was delighted because she had taken the bishop in dislike, the vicar because he was to keep his pack, and Daphne, because she
found Mr Garfield’s presence disturbing and threatening.

‘Well,’ said Dr Philpotts, getting to his feet, ‘I will be most grateful to take that sum of money you promised, Mr Garfield. It will be most welcome and …’

‘I’m not giving it to
you
,’ said Mr Garfield, raising one thin eyebrow. ‘I thought I had made myself plain. The money is to go to Mr Armitage for repairs to his church.’

For one brief moment a most unchristian look flitted across the fat, white features of the bishop, and then he forced his large red mouth into a smile, and only Daphne heard him mutter something about the wicked flourishing as the green bay tree.

‘A word with you in private,’ said Mr Garfield when the bishop had taken his leave.

The vicar felt uncomfortable. He had a feeling that Mr Garfield in private was not going to be so pleasant as Mr Garfield in public.

‘Mr Radford will join us,’ he said hurriedly. ‘He knows all my business.’

‘Alone, if you please,’ said Mr Garfield gently.

I never could abide men with red hair, thought the vicar sulkily, although Mr Garfield’s hair was brown with copper lights.

He gloomily led the way into his study and thrust aside the clutter of objects on his desk, and looked up somewhat mutinously at the tall figure of his guest whose broad shoulders seemed to fill the small room.

The vicar remembered his apology and straightened his fat back.

‘Sit down, sit ’ee down,’ he said, waving a chubby hand towards a chair. ‘The fact is, I owe you a heartfelt apology and if you still want to take me to court over the matter, then I’ll need to face that when it comes. I heard old Philpotts was coming for to tell me to get rid of my pack. Me! There ain’t a pack in England to match mine outside the Quorn. It was a mortal hard blow to take and so I had that there pit dug in the road. Not to harm the old man in any way but just to give him a jolt. It was a stupid thing to do. I ask your forgiveness.’

‘Very well. You have it,’ said Mr Garfield. The vicar mopped his brow with a large belcher
handkerchief
and felt a spiritual glow of righteousness spreading through his body. Squire Radford’s advice had been correct.

He had told the truth. He was not to be punished; in fact he was to be rewarded, since Mr Garfield meant to give him a thousand guineas. The vicar’s small eyes filled with tears of gratitude.

‘What brought you to Hopeworth?’ asked the vicar.

‘I was sent by a friend to purchase a couple hounds.’

‘You shall have them,’ said the vicar emotionally, ‘and not one penny payment shall I accept.’

‘If they were for me,’ pointed out Mr Garfield, ‘then I should certainly accept your kind offer. But since they are not, I insist on paying a fair price for them.’

‘There must be some other way I can repay you,’ said the vicar anxiously.

‘Oh, there is,’ replied Mr Garfield equably. ‘Shall we visit the kennels first?’

Overjoyed that the day had turned out so well, the vicar lit a lantern and led the way around the house to the kennels.

‘Your daughter, Daphne,’ said Mr Garfield abruptly as he cast an eye over the sleepy hounds who had just had their evening meal. ‘She is not lacking in intelligence, I trust?’

‘No,’ said the startled vicar. ‘She ain’t a
blue-stocking
, thanks be to God.’

‘But not lacking any of her mental faculties?’

‘See here,’ said the vicar acidly. ‘It’s the points o’ the hounds you’re supposed to be going over.’

‘Yes. But I will return to the matter of your daughter in a little while.’

The vicar looked up at him nervously. This Garfield couldn’t be interested in Daphne? Not after that prayer that he, the Reverend Armitage, had sent up to the heavens.

It almost seemed like a bad omen when Mr Garfield at last selected Bellsire and Thunderer.

For unlike Diana and Frederica, the soft-hearted Daphne was apt to make a pet of the dogs. Not that she ever allowed them to spread hairs on her gown, but sometimes she would stroke them after feeding time and talk nonsense to them when she thought no one was around.

The vicar had been rather touched by the pretty sight one evening when he had found his impeccable daughter murmuring softly to the noisy dogs.

Bellsire and Thunderer were Daphne’s favourites.

Biting his lip, the vicar called for John Summer and told him to put the hounds in Mr Garfield’s carriage.

It was unfortunate that Daphne should emerge from the house just at that moment.

‘You are not sending Bellsire and Thunderer away, Papa!’ she cried. ‘They are little more than puppies.’

The two foxhounds cavorted about her. Their ears had not yet been rounded and their white and tan coats gleamed with health.

Mr Garfield noticed with amusement that the beautiful Miss Daphne now had all her wits about her and was not even attempting to hide the fact.

‘Mr Garfield has chosen them, Daphne,’ said the vicar, ‘and it is the least we can do for him after his generosity.’

‘They are not for me,’ said Mr Garfield. ‘They are for a friend of mine, a Mr Edwin Apsley.’

‘And is Mr Apsley
kind
to animals?’

‘Miss Daphne, he wishes a couple of hounds for his pack, not for the drawing room.’

Daphne’s long preserved calm finally broke. ‘I am persuaded he will ill-treat them if he is a Corinthian like yourself. He will
whip
them!’

‘Daphne!’ howled the vicar. ‘Go to your room!’

Daphne, for once unmindful of her dress, was kneeling in the gravel, hugging both dogs who were licking her face.

At her father’s words, tears started to her eyes, and
she gave a gulping sob, got to her feet and ran into the house.

‘Come into the study, Mr Garfield,’ said the vicar gruffly. ‘Was ever a man so plagued? You wouldn’t get my other girls sentimentalizing over a pair o’ animals. I’m amazed at Daphne. I’ve never seen her this put about before. Always the quietest and most biddable of girls.’

A price was agreed on and Mr Garfield rose to take his leave.

Reluctantly the vicar reminded Mr Garfield that he had said there was some way in which he might be repaid for all his kindness.

‘Do you bring your daughter to London?’ asked Mr Garfield abruptly.

‘Daphne? She’s just returned. Was staying with Lady Brabington, Annabelle, her sister,’ said the vicar, walking to the window and peering out at the purple night pricked by the first twinkling stars.

The vicar remembered his prayer. ‘Fact is,’ he said cautiously, ‘Daphne met some fellow when she was last up and talked about an engagement … to a Mr Archer.’

‘Cyril Archer?’

‘The same.’

Mr Garfield swung around. ‘I am persuaded they would not suit. I know this Mr Archer.’

‘But my dear sir …’

‘I did not ask you for your daughter’s hand in marriage,’ said Mr Garfield evenly, ‘I only asked you for your help in furthering my acquaintance with her.’

‘So you did,’ said the vicar, brightening visibly. He looked up fondly at the tall figure of Mr Garfield, seeing in his place sacks and sacks of guineas. ‘I’ll do my best.’

‘Thank you. I will now take my leave of yourself and Mrs Armitage.’

Mr Garfield had the opportunity of meeting the vicar’s two youngest daughters. Diana he considered unfortunately mannish, and little Frederica was a plain, wispy thing. There was no sign of the glorious Daphne. Mrs Armitage extended her hand in a swan-like way and murmured apologies for the lack of hospitality ‘for we are at such sixes and sevens. I declare servants get more difficult to manage each year.’

Behind her, the maid, Betty, scowled darkly.

Lady Godolphin extended an invitation to one of her salons and cast a last loving look at his legs.

And then he was gone.

‘Drat!’ exclaimed the vicar. ‘I never got that thousand guineas.’

‘I think he only said it to help you escape the bishop,’ pointed out Lady Godolphin.

‘I don’t know what came over Daphne,’ went on the vicar. ‘Thank goodness you’re sensible when it comes to animals, Diana.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of making such a missish scene,’ said Diana proudly, but inside she felt an ache at her heart. Bellsire and Thunderer had been the clowns of the pack, funny and noisy and always up to mischief. She thought of them under the lash of a strange master and felt her eyes fill with tears.

‘Mr Radford has departed,’ said Mrs Armitage. ‘What an exhausting day. Betty, make me a tisane. I must lie down.’

The vicar was glad Squire Radford had gone home, otherwise he might have been tempted to blurt out Mr Garfield’s interest in Daphne, and Jimmy Radford would look at him severely and accuse him of being mercenary.

Rubbing his hands, the vicar went into the house. He would write to Mr Garfield as soon as that gentleman’s carriage which had been damaged in the bishop-trap was repaired and perhaps delicately remind him of the money he had promised to give the church.

Best handle Daphne carefully. Best get her to London soon. Perhaps he might go himself, thought the vicar, and have a word in the ear of this pesky Mr Archer.

While Daphne cried herself to sleep upstairs, the vicar sat downstairs and planned her wedding to Simon Garfield.

THREE

Mr Garfield was glad to return to the well-ordered sanity of his friend’s mansion. He had the dogs sent ahead to London where no doubt Mr Apsley, if he could wrench himself away from his latest
inamorata
, would transfer them to his own kennels in the country.

He stayed on for two weeks at Hopeminster because he was suffering from headaches and not yet fully recovered from his accident.

It was the end of August when he at last made his way back to his town house in Albemarle Street. For the first time since his visit to Hopeworth, he remembered he had not honoured his promise of the gift of one thousand guineas to the village church. He sent for his secretary, Harold Evans, and gave him instructions to find some individual capable of organizing the restoration of a church. Mr Garfield
wanted to make sure his money went on the purpose for which it was meant and not straight into the reverend’s pocket.

There were many invitations waiting for him although the Little Season was not yet begun. He was about to tell his secretary to refuse them all, when he decided to examine them instead. As he expected, there was one from Lady Godolphin inviting him to a dinner. The dinner was to be held that very evening. Probably her ladyship would not expect him to turn up. And yet …

‘Send a footman round to Lady Godolphin’s,’ he told Mr Evans, ‘and say I shall be delighted to attend this evening unless she has already found a substitute for me.’

He carefully went through his correspondence, dealing with business matters, personal letters, and several hundred requests for money.

Then he ordered all his tradesmen’s bills to be paid promptly – a most ungentlemanly procedure – after which he decided to go out and call on his friend Mr Apsley.

At the back of his mind, Mr Garfield had some idea he might find Daphne Armitage at Lady Godolphin’s dinner, and, therefore, it would only be polite to assure that young lady of the hounds’ welfare.

He was, of course, quite sure he did not have serious intentions as far as Daphne Armitage was concerned. For the moment, the idea of her amused him, and Mr Garfield was very rarely amused.

At times he envied his friends who seemed capable of being quite happy with the daily
fashionable
round. Edwin Apsley, for example, followed the pattern of Rowlandson’s
Man of Fashion
.

‘Queer dreams, owing to Sir Richard’s claret, always drink too much of it – rose at one – dressed by half-past three – took an hour’s ride – a good horse, my last purchase, remember to sell him again – nothing like variety – dined at six with Sir Richard – said several good things – forgot ’em all – in high spirits – quizzed a parson – drank three bottles, and lounged to the theatre – not quite clear about the play – comedy or tragedy – forget which – saw the last act – Kemble toll loll – not quite certain whether it was Kemble or not – Mrs Siddons monstrous fine – got into a hack – set down in St James’s Street – dipp’d a little with the boys at hazards – confounded bad luck – lost all my money.’

The hour being two in the afternoon, Mr Garfield was confident of finding his friend still at breakfast and so he made his way in the direction of Mr Apsley’s lodgings.

Because Mr Apsley was perpetually out of pocket he lived off the Tottenham Court Road, claiming that since he invariably ate his dinner at other people’s houses and never entertained, he might as well save his blunt by paying for modest lodgings. Money was needed for more important things like hazard or horses.

The day was uncomfortably warm and a small sun glared down through the haze of smoke from a
brassy sky. The streets were alive with the sounds of the street vendors. Baking apples sold by old women and cooked on a charcoal stove at the street corner lent a welcome hot spice to the foul air. A man with a donkey was selling brick dust for cleaning knives, his voice high and strident.
Strapping
Welsh women still went on their milk rounds, their heavy pails slung on a wooden yoke across the shoulders.

Lavender, grown near London at Mitcham, was being sold in fragrant bunches. Every housewife had some for the linen press since the washing soap stank so abominably.

‘Bellows to mend,’ yelled a wrinkled gnome who seemed to have materialized at Mr Garfield’s elbow. His head began to ache again and he wished heartily he had not decided to walk.

At the corner of the Tottenham Court Road, he had to step around a vociferous orange seller who was offering a ‘Bill of the play’ with every six oranges bought. Awful things those playbills were, made from long flimsy strips of tissue paper, wet from the printers, smearing the hands with black ink which never seemed to have time to dry since there was a fresh play every evening.

Mr Garfield picked his way through the jostling crowd, past McQueen’s Buildings, past the Leopard Coffee House, past the Dunbar iron foundry and on to the corner of Francis Street.

Mr Apsley lived in a top floor flat in number thirty-two. The stairway was dusty and smelled of
dry rot and drains, but it was a haven of quiet after the clamour outside.

Mr Garfield mounted the steps two at a time, feeling the nagging, throbbing pain in his head increasing. All at once he wondered if the blow to his head had damaged his brains. Here he was, out on a hot and dusty day to check on the welfare of two foxhounds, all to please a young lady who liked him so little she had pretended to be mad, and
furthermore
was the daughter of an eccentric vicar whose plot against his bishop was the sole reason that he, Simon Garfield, was suffering from a confounded headache.

He rapped on Mr Apsley’s door with unnecessary vigour and was rewarded with a volley of barking and the scrabble of paws against the door on the other side.

The door swung open. Bellsire and Thunderer threw themselves against Mr Garfield, whimpering and slavering, and behind them, cutting at their stems with a whip, was an enraged Mr Apsley.

‘I’ll kill those curst hell hounds,’ he roared. ‘Look what they’ve done, dammit.’

He reached behind him and held up a mangled and chewed hessian boot.

Mr Garfield leaned wearily against the door jamb.

‘Can’t you take these animals inside, Edwin?’ he said. ‘My head aches like the very deuce. What on earth are you doing with these animals in London? They should be in the country.’

‘I’ll kill the pair o’ them,’ roared Mr Apsley, taking
another cut at Thunderer’s rear. Thunderer showed the whites of his eyes and forced his way between Mr Garfield’s legs, seeking refuge.

Mr Garfield twitched the whip from his friend’s grasp and threw it down the stairwell.

‘
Now
will you pay attention, Edwin? Am I to stand here all day while you shout and cavort? Leave the whoresons of hounds alone and let me inside so that I may sit down and drink a glass of wine.’

‘Been drinking deep,’ said Mr Apsley
sympathetically
. ‘Got just the thing for it.’

He led the way into a cluttered living room. Mr Apsley was wearing a morning cap and a banyan, that comfortable cotton house-gown so beloved by members of the
ton
. A stocky, cheerful young man, he made up for what he lacked in intellect by being almost generally good-natured. He had dusty fair hair and a snub nose in a round face which was his private despair. No amount of pinching or pulling seemed able to bring it up to Mr Garfield’s aristocratic prominence.

Simon Garfield sank gratefully into a chair. Both hounds crept under it. ‘What’s this?’ he asked as Mr Apsley handed him a mud-coloured drink.

‘No heel taps,’ grinned Mr Apsley. ‘Tell you after.’

Mr Garfield took a large gulp and then placed his glass carefully on the table. ‘What is this filth?’ he enquired pleasantly.

‘Brandy and buttermilk. Nothing like it.’

Mr Garfield sighed. ‘You are quite right. There isn’t. Pour me a glass of hock and seltzer, there’s a
good fellow, and tell me why you are lashing these poor animals. You are not normally so
bad-tempered.
Has your fair lady left you?’

‘That seems to be it in a nutshell,’ agreed Mr Apsley gloomily. ‘Greedy little charmer, she was. But such shoulders! Got to send these hounds off.’

‘They are perfectly good foxhounds,’ said Mr Garfield. ‘They were in prime condition when I gave them to you. Now I remark that they are frightened, their coats are dull, they lack exercise, and they do not look as if they have been fed.’

‘They’ll be right as rain when I get them down to the country,’ said Mr Apsley.

‘No, I do not think so,’ said Mr Garfield quietly. He took a sip of the glass of hock and seltzer his friend had just given him and half-closed his eyes.

Mr Apsley glanced at the clock and gave a start. ‘Ods Niggins! I’ve got to be in Cavendish Square in half an hour and my man is out on an errand. Well, I’ll need to dress myself. Ah, the trials of fashion. You do seem worried about those wretched
animals
.’

‘I would not treat a horse the way you treat those animals,’ said Mr Garfield severely. ‘You must not take out your unrequited love on dumb foxhounds.’

‘Look, you
are
upset,’ called Mr Apsley from the bedroom. ‘I’ll feed ’em and pet ’em and send ’em off tonight.’

Bellsire crept out from under the chair and put a large paw on Mr Garfield’s knee.

‘Down,’ he commanded sternly. ‘No, my dear
Edwin,’ he said raising his voice, ‘I must inform you I am buying these hounds back. In fact, since you have not yet given me the money for them, I regard them as my own.’

‘Then
have
’em,’ came Mr Apsley’s cheerful voice. ‘Can’t stand the beasts.’

Strange, mused Mr Garfield, absently stroking Thunderer’s ears as the dog poked his head out and rested it on Mr Garfield’s boot, that one really does not know one’s friends. I never would have thought old Edwin a vicious sort of fellow, and yet his treatment of two fine foxhounds is callous in the extreme, not to say downright silly, since they are valuable dogs.

He blinked slightly as Mr Apsley finally emerged in all the glory of the costume of the Four in Hand Club. He was wearing a blue single-breasted coat with a long waist, ornamented with brass buttons engraved with the words ‘Four in Hand Club’. Under it, he sported a waistcoat of kerseymere ornamented with alternate stripes of blue and yellow. His small clothes were of white corduroy, made moderately high, and very long over the knee, buttoning in front over the shin bone.

His boots were very short with long tops, only one outside strap to each, and one to the back; the latter were employed to keep the breeches in their proper longitudinal shape. His hat had a conical crown and an Allen brim. Over it all, he wore a box coat of white drab cloth with fifteen capes, two tiers of
pockets
, and an inside one for a Belcher handkerchief.
His cravat was of white muslin spotted with black. As a finishing touch, he thrust a bouquet of pink geraniums in his buttonhole.

‘You will die of the heat,’ pointed out Mr Garfield, ‘and I thought those buttons were out of fashion. Queen Anne shillings are the thing, dear boy.’

‘I’m bringing ’em In again,’ said Mr Apsley triumphantly. ‘I won’t feel the heat once I set my team in motion.’

Mr Garfield picked up two dog leashes from the table and snapped his fingers. Thunderer and Bellsire crept out. He fastened the leashes to the dogs’ collars and rose to find Mr Apsley surveying him with awkward embarrassment.

‘I say, Simon,’ ventured Mr Apsley. ‘You ain’t thinking of promenading through the streets of London with two foxhounds?’

‘No,’ said Mr Garfield equably. ‘You will be driving us.’

‘Won’t do. What if my Kitty should see us? No, no, Simon. If you want to make a cake of yourself, do it without my presence. I would never live it down. Why, I wouldn’t be invited anywhere! Now you, you don’t go anywhere so it’s not the same.’

‘You amaze me, Edwin. Not only are you cruel to animals, you are extremely egotistical, and have the manners of a Cit.’

‘Oh, I say, you ain’t
serious
?’

‘Probably not,’ sighed Mr Garfield. ‘My head aches and I am so very hot. Here comes your man. Do not trouble to show me out. I shall precede you
with my obnoxious hounds. Bellsire, Thunderer. Come!’

The dogs meekly followed him from the
apartment
and quietly negotiated the long flight of stairs. Once out in the street, they showed alarming signs of being about to leap about the whole of the Tottenham Court Road with sheer joy at their deliverance.

‘Dog’s meat!’ shouted a man cheerfully. ‘Prime dog’s meat, guv. Horse flesh, bullock’s livers, tripe cuttings.’

Mr Garfield gathered the leashes in one hand and raised a scented handkerchief to his nose with the other.

‘Two pounds of whatever you please,’ he said faintly. He paid the required price of fivepence and went on his way with the dogs panting at his heels, leading the way through the network of streets which approached Piccadilly.

Along Piccadilly strolled the impeccable Mr
Garfield
, oblivious to the raised quizzing glasses and startled stares of the
ton
.