Friday's Child (11 page)

“Yes, but the one I mean is in Shakespeare,” said Hero. “I expect it’s the same one, because he was for ever writing plays about real people.”

A horrible suspicion crossed Ferdy’s mind. He stared fixedly at her, and said: “You ain’t a bluestocking, are you?”

“Of course she’s not a bluestocking!” cried the Viscount, bristling in defence of his bride. “The thing is she’s only just out of the schoolroom. She can’t help but have her head crammed with all that stuff!”

“Anyone can see she’s not a bluestocking,” said Mr Ringwood severely. “Besides, you oughtn’t to say things like that, Ferdy. Very bad
ton
!”

Mr Fakenham begged pardon in some confusion, and said that he was devilish glad. A fresh bogey at once raised its head, and he demanded, in accents of extreme foreboding, whether the evening’s entertainment was to consist of Shakespeare. Upon being reassured, he was able to relax again and to continue eating his dinner in tolerable composure.

The play to which the Viscount carried his guests was not of a nature to tax even the Honourable Ferdy’s understanding. It was a merry, and not always very polite, comedy which all three young gentlemen pronounced to be very tolerable, and which cast Hero into a trance of ecstasy which would not allow her to withdraw her rapt gaze from the stage for an instant. She did not quite comprehend some of the witticisms which appeared heartily to amuse her companions, and at one point she threw Mr Ringwood into acute discomfort by asking enlightenment of him. Fortunately, the Viscount overheard her, and rescued his friend from his dilemma by saying briefly that she wouldn’t understand even if she were told.

During the interval it was soon made evident that the Viscount’s box was attracting a good deal of attention from other parts of the house. His lordship, detecting various acquaintances amongst the audience, waved and bowed; and after a few minutes a knock fell on the door of the box and a fashionable-looking gentleman entered, glancing curiously at Hero from under rather drooping eyelids, and saying in a languid tone: “So you are come back again, my dear Sherry! And without a word! I begin to think I must have offended you.”

“Hallo, Monty!” responded Sherry, getting up from his chair. “What a fellow you are for funning! No offence at all! I’m devilish glad to see you here tonight—want to present you to my wife! Hero, this is Sir Montagu Revesby—particular friend of mine!”

Hero felt a little shy of this elegant stranger, who looked to be some years older than Sherry. The slightly supercilious air that hung about him, and the irony of his smile, made her uncomfortable, but she was naturally prepared to like any friend of Sherry’s, and she held out her hand at once.

Sir Montagu took it in his, but his brows had flown up in quick surprise, and he directed a half laughing, half startled glance at Sherry. “Is it so indeed!” he said. “You are quite sure it is not you who are funning, my dear boy?”

Sherry laughed. “No, no, we were married today! Ask Gil if we were not!”

“But this is most unexpected!” Sir Montagu said. “You must allow me to offer you my felicitations, Sherry.” His cold eyes ran over Hero; his smile broadened. “Ah—my
deepest
felicitations, Sherry! And so you were married today? Dear me, yes! How very interesting! But why did you not send me a card for the wedding?”

Mr Ringwood unexpectedly decided to bear his part in this interchange. He said rather shortly: “Private ceremony. St George’s Hanover Square. Lady Sheringham desired it so. Don’t care for a fuss.”

“In deep mourning,” corroborated Ferdy, feeling that a little embroidery was needed.

“No,
not
in mourning,” said Mr Ringwood, annoyed. “Wouldn’t be here if she was. Family reasons.”

“Nonsense!” said Sherry, rejecting this kindly intervention. “To tell you the truth, Monty, we made a runaway match of it.”

“Save trouble,” murmured Ferdy, faint but pursuing.

“I understand perfectly,” bowed Sir Montagu. “I must think myself fortunate to have been amongst the first to make Lady Sheringham’s acquaintance. For I do not think—?”

“No, she’s never been to town before,” replied Sherry. “She’s a cousin of the Bagshots: known her all my life.”

“Indeed?” Sir Montagu’s eyebrows seemed to indicate that he found this surprising. “Well, that is very delightful, to be sure. But I fancy the curtain is about to go up on the second act. I must not be lingering here.”

“Join us at the Piazza for supper, Monty!” Sherry suggested.

Sir Montagu thanked him, but was obliged to excuse himself, since he was engaged with some friends. He bowed once more over Hero’s hand, promised himself the pleasure of waiting upon her formally at no very distant date, and took his leave.

He had no sooner left the box than Ferdy was moved to express himself unequivocally. “Shouldn’t have invited him,” he said. “He’s a Bad Man.”

Hero turned a wide, questioning gaze upon him. Sherry said: “Oh, fiddle! Nothing amiss with Monty! You don’t know what you’re talking about, Ferdy!”

“Bit of a commoner,” said Mr Ringwood dispassionately. “Always thought so.”

“Nonsense!”

“Thinks he’s at home to a peg,” said Mr Fakenham. “Well, he ain’t. What’s more, I don’t like him. Gil don’t like him either.”

“Well, he can be devilish good company,” retorted the Viscount.

“He don’t keep devilish good company,” Mr Ringwood said stolidly.

“Good God, you may meet him everywhere!” exclaimed Sherry.

“Point is, we don’t want to meet him everywhere," said Ferdy. “You know what Duke says?”

“Your brother Marmaduke is a bigger fool than you are,” responded the Viscount.

“No, dash it, Sherry!” expostulated Mr Ringwood. “That’s coming it a trifle too strong! Nothing the matter with Duke! Very knowing fellow!”

“He says,” pursued Ferdy inexorably, “that Monty’s an ivory-turner. I don’t say he’s right, but that’s what he says.”

As this pronouncement could only be understood to mean that the Honourable Marmaduke Fakenham considered Sir Montagu to be employed in decoying hapless innocents into gaming hells, it was not surprising that the Viscount should flush hotly, and refute such a slander with more vehemence than civility. Mr Ringwood, seeing how anxiously Hero’s puzzled eyes travelled from Ferdy’s face to Sherry’s, trod heavily upon Ferdy’s foot, and refrained, with considerable self-restraint, from reminding Sherry that his own initiation into the disastrously deep play obtaining at such discreet establishments as Warkworth’s, and Wooler’s, had been made under the auspices of Sir Montagu. Luckily, the curtain rose just then on the second act, and although Ferdy and Sherry were both perfectly prepared to continue their acrimonious discussion, they were obliged, on account of the representations made to them by persons in the neighbouring boxes, to postpone it until the play had run its course. By that time they had naturally forgotten all about it; and as no further rift had occurred to mar the harmony of the evening the whole party went off happily to eat supper at the Piazza, Hero being conveyed there in a sedan chair and the three gentlemen walking along beside it.

This circumstance put Mr Ringwood in mind of something which he had been meaning to say to Sherry all day; and as soon as the supper had been chosen, and the wine broached, he fixed him with a serious gaze, and said: “Been thinking, Sherry. Carriage for Lady Sherry. Can’t keep driving her about in hacks. Not the thing.”

“No, not the thing at all,” Sherry agreed. “I’m glad you put me in mind of that. Come to think of it, we ought to decide just what she’ll need.”

“Must have a carriage,” Mr Ringwood said. “Landaulet.”

Mr Fakenham, who had been narrowly inspecting a dish of curried crab through his quizzing-glass, looked up at this, and said positively: “Barouche. All the crack nowadays! Can’t have Sherry’s wife driving about town in a landaulet like a dowd.”

“Oh, no!” agreed Hero. “I am going to be all the crack. I have quite made up my mind about that. Sherry said I might cut a dash, and I think I should like to very much.”

“Spoken like a right one!” grinned Sherry. “Of course she can’t have a landaulet! Dash it, that’s what my mother uses! A barouche, with a pair of match-bays: slap up to the echo!”

“Best look in at Tatt’s tomorrow,” nodded Ferdy. “Nothing in your stables fit for a lady, dear old boy.”

Mr Ringwood, who had produced a visiting card from his pocket, made a note on it. “Tatt’s,” he said. “Coachman and footman. Page boy. Abigail.”

“Chilham is attending to that,” said the Viscount. “Says he knows just such a one as will suit.”

“Riding horse,” said Ferdy.

“She don’t ride.”

“Yes, I do!” Hero interrupted. “At least, I have often ridden the old pony, and you know you put me up on your hunter when I was only twelve, Sherry!”

“Well, you aren’t going to sit there saying you rode him, are you?” demanded Sherry. “Never saw a horse get rid of anyone faster in my life!”

“You shouldn’t have put her up on one of your wild horses, Sherry,” said Mr Ringwood disapprovingly. He made another note on his card. “She’d best have a nice little mare. Mare. Lady’s saddle.”

"Yes, and a riding-habit,” said Hero. “And also I should like to have a carriage like that one we saw this morning, Gil, and drive it myself.”

“Phaeton,” said Mr Ringwood, writing it down.

“And Sherry will teach me how to drive it,” said Hero happily.

Sherry’s friends spoke as one man. “No!”

“Why not?”

“Because he can’t drive,” replied Mr Ringwood, not mincing matters.

“Sherry can drive! He drives better than
anyone
!”

Ferdy shook his head. “You’re thinking of someone else. Not Sherry. Wouldn’t have him in the FHC. Wouldn’t look at him. No precision. Gil’s your man. Drives to an inch: regular nonpareil!”

Mr Ringwood blushed at this tribute, and was understood to murmur that he would be happy to teach Lady Sherry anything that lay within his power. Hero thanked him, but it was evident that her faith in Sherry’s skill was unshaken. Sherry, who had merely grinned at his friends’ strictures, said with unwonted modesty that she had best let Gil take her in hand. His style of driving, although he would back himself to take the shine out of most of the men on the road, was not, he owned, quite suited to a lady. He engaged himself, however, to find her a really sweet-going horse, unless—with a challenging look at Mr Ringwood—he was not thought to be judge of horseflesh?

Mr Ringwood hastened to assure him that he had perfect confidence in his ability to choose proper highbred ’uns; and since every provision for Hero’s future well-being seemed now to have been made, put away his visiting card and began to address himself to his supper.

Chapter 6

The Viscount's first action on the following morning was to sally forth to pay a call on his uncle, the Honourable Prosper Verelst. This gentleman occupied a set of chambers in Albany, and since it was one of his idiosyncrasies never to stir forth from his abode until after noon, his nephew was sure of finding him at home. He found him, in fact, partaking of a late breakfast, his valet being under orders to let no one in. The Viscount overcame this hindrance by putting the valet bodily out of his way, and walked in on his uncle without ceremony.

The Honourable Prosper was by far too corpulent a man to be anything but easy-going, and beyond fetching a groan at sight of his nephew, he evinced no sign of the annoyance he felt at being disturbed at such an hour. Merely he waved Sherry to a chair and went on with his breakfast.

“I wish you will tell that fool of a man of yours not to try to keep me out, sir,” complained the Viscount, laying his hat and cane down.

“But I want him to keep you out,” responded Prosper placidly. “I like you, Sherry, but I’m damned if I’ll be fidgeted by your starts at this time of day.”

“Well, he ain’t going to keep me out,” said Sherry. “Not but what I shan’t want to see so much of you now. Come to tell you I was married yesterday.”

If he had expected his uncle to betray surprise, he was destined to be disappointed. Prosper turned a lack-lustre blue eye upon him, and said: “Oh, you were, were you? Made a fool of yourself, I suppose?”

“No such thing! I’ve married Hero Wantage!” said Sherry indignantly.

“Never heard of her,” said Prosper, pouring himself out some more coffee. “Not but what I’m glad. You can take charge of your own affairs now. They’ve been worrying me excessively.”