The Shocking Miss Anstey (37 page)

‘Faith, no--I’m not so lucky just now.’ Sir Michael flourished his own little card with the tasselled pencil dangling from it. ‘Next but one for me.’

‘Good. It’s time she was in hand again. I’ll be back when the music starts.’

He gave his curt nod, and then turned abruptly away. He caught Hildersham’s eye and then came strolling across with every sign of being pleased.

‘ ‘Evening, Jack. You as well, Grant. Glad you’re in better company.’ That came with a smile and a quick bow to Hildersham’s wife. ‘I’ve not seen you for weeks, Fanny. Hope you’re well? And . . .’ He had turned his eyes to Mary, and for a moment his forehead puckered. ‘I saw you last week. I told you then I’d seen you before. Damned if I can place you, though.’

‘Then you’re being pretty stupid,’ said the Countess of Hildersham calmly. ‘I’m afraid you always were. It’s Mary St. Hollith.’

‘Good God, yes!’ He was jovial about it, and then abruptly changed. ‘Charles’s wife, weren’t you? Sorry he went.’

‘There were some others who went.’

‘Too damned many.’ The nod came again, differently, and for once he was not arrogant. ‘Queer, how the best ones went and the fools stayed on, like me. Same in your service, Grant?’

‘Quite often it was.’

‘Must have wanted ‘em in heaven, I suppose. Well, well . . .’ His eyes suddenly brightened. ‘Dammit, Mary, we know each other. Don’t you remember---’

‘I do.’ She cut him short trenchantly.
‘I’m
not the one who forgets.’

‘But I was? Is that it?’ For a moment he looked almost rueful, and then his invincible confidence returned. ‘Well, kiss and be friends, won’t you?’

‘Will I?’

‘Don’t keep grudges, my dear. Not worth it. Besides . . .’ A smile that was almost attractive came to him suddenly. ‘I’ve seen a lot since then, one way and another. Makes me forget things--some things.’

‘I dare say it does. But---’

‘Kiss and be friends. It’s always best.’

‘I’m not quite promising that. However . . .’ To Richard’s surprise, and not wholly to his pleasure, she was showing signs of being mollified; even, perhaps, of being friendly. ‘We’ll talk another time, Tommy. Just at the moment . . .’

‘Next dance?’

‘Not a bit of it. I happen to be tired.’ She was facing him now in a style that made her look anything but that. ‘So I’m not staying to the end of this. I’m about to go.’

‘See you home, then?’

‘You certainly won’t. I’m not as mad as that. Besides, you’re booked.’

‘I’m what?’

‘Booked. You’ve been shouting for the next dance with Miss Anstey.’

‘Damn Miss Anstey!’

‘Not in the least. She’s very charming. Well, well. . .’ She turned quickly to Hildersham, who had been standing through this in a polite and impassive silence. ‘You’ll forgive me if I take leave, you and Fanny?’

‘Of course.’ A gleam of amusement showed for a moment in his eyes. ‘Did you say you were tired? It seems to suit you.’

‘I can’t imagine what you mean, so I’ll get my cloak. Good night, Tommy. You can’t have everything at first asking.’

‘I did once.’

‘Not at
first
asking. So good night. Are you ready, Richard?’

She went marching firmly to the door without even waiting for an answer, and he was so pleased with the whole of this that he all but forgot to take leave of the Hildershams. He remembered just in time, and then turned quickly to say what was needed. But Hildersham swept that aside.

‘Not at all,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You’re called, so you’d better go. You’re a lucky man. Or at least--I think so.’

‘Only that?’

‘Well. . .’ The amusement was certainly in his eyes again. ‘She’s been married before, and perhaps we forget it.’

‘Does it matter?’

‘They all learn something when they’re married, and it looks as if she’s remembering. Doesn’t it, Tommy?’

‘Most of ’em, in these days, learn it before they’re married.’

‘It depends what company you keep. But don’t stand here, Grant. She’ll be waiting for you, and she mustn’t. So good night.’

‘And good luck,’ said Luttrell, surprisingly. ‘Off you go.’

‘Thank you. I’ll take leave then.’

He made his bow to the Countess, and then he went quickly through to an anteroom that seemed quiet and empty when the footmen shut the doors behind him. But Mary was waiting under the glittering chandelier.

‘You don’t mind?’ she said quickly. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Quite sure. But---’

‘I thought we’d better, from the way things were going. And I couldn’t help teasing Tommy a little. He needs it.’

‘Never mind his needs. You’ll be wiser to forget him.’

‘Much wiser. But Tommy isn’t easily forgotten.’ A crinkle was beginning to show in her forehead. ‘I shall tease him a little more if I have the chance.’

‘Then you’d better not have it.’

‘No?’ The crinkle was a little deeper. ‘Well, I haven’t it at the moment. He isn’t here. So perhaps I should get my cloak?’

‘Certainly, and before something happens. You seem positively dangerous tonight.’

‘I’m glad you’ve noticed it, I can do much worse than this, by the way.’

‘Then don’t do it now. Go for that cloak.’

‘As you say, sir.’ She laughed suddenly at his puzzled face. ‘I won’t be long.’

She ran lightly through the side door to the cloakroom, and for a long moment he stood staring after her, wondering what this new mood was that had come to her. He found it exciting. It took nothing from her and it added something new, something he had not suspected; though again a darting thought came in that there was a touch of Anice here. It was not what he had looked for in Mary, and suddenly he was asking why he had not. They were kin, she and Anice--of a sort. He had known that all along, but he had never thought of it as a sort that mattered; if, indeed, he had thought of it at all. That, perhaps, had been a mistake.

He went slowly through the opposite door in search of his hat. The footman who had taken it had gone, so he had to find it for himself, and he did so without hurry. He had enough to think about, and he could hardly help being quicker than a woman. So he took his time about it, and when he came back he Was surprised to hear voices in the anteroom. One of them was Luttrell’s, and he hurriedly quickened his step. The other sounded like Mary’s as he flung open the door to the anteroom.

It was still empty except for the two of them. They were in the opposite corner, Mary with her back to the wall and Luttrell seeming to pin her against it.

‘. . . and be friends,’ he was saying as the door opened.

‘Not just---’

She cut it short as she saw the open door and Richard’s angry face as he strode across the room. Then she forestalled him.

‘It’s all right,’ she told him, and to his consternation she seemed to be laughing. ‘Tommy’s playing games and I’m telling him he mustn’t. That’s all.’

‘It didn’t look like games to me. At all events . . .’ He turned icily to Luttrell. ‘You appear to have dismissal. Be so good as to accept it.’

‘What
do you say?’ Luttrell turned as icily, and for a moment his eyebrows were drooping dangerously. Then his mood changed and the arrogant amusement seemed to return to him. ‘Take some advice, Grant, and let her speak for herself. You’ll find it safer.’

‘I’m not concerned with safety when it’s---’

‘Stop it,’ said Mary quickly. ‘I won’t have you quarrelling, either of you, and all about nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Oh yes.’ Again she spoke quickly, and with an anxious glance at both of them, and then she seemed reassured. ‘Tommy doesn’t like being teased, and that’s the trouble. He isn’t used to it. Thinks it’s his own privilege.’

‘Well I’m damned!’ said Luttrell. ‘If ever anybody asked for it!’ He swung round suddenly. ‘You’d better be careful, Grant. I knew her before you did, and she’s back where she used to be.’

‘You’ll be wise to be careful yourself in what you say of her.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake . . .’ He sounded exasperated, and then his mood turned to an amusement that did not seem unfriendly. ‘If you’re going to stay ashore with us, do for the love of women learn what year you’re living in. It’s not the last century, and women don’t belong to anybody now. They go the rounds like----’

‘Tommy!’

They swung round at the word, all three of them, as if its imperious tone had jerked them. A burst of music had come with it, gay and impetuous from the quadrilles, utterly incongruous to the moment. The doors from the ballroom had opened, the footmen were standing like statues, and between the doors was Anice, slight, fragile, and lovely. For a moment she stared coolly at all of them, and then she took her bantering tone. She could hardly have seemed more sure of herself.

‘Tommy, I’m getting cross with you.’

‘What?’ Even Luttrell seemed for once to be at a loss. ‘What the devil are you talking about?’

‘I’m not used to being laughed at.’

‘Who’s laughing at you? Can’t you see I’m busy?’

‘Then you shouldn’t be. Don’t you know a quadrille when you hear it?’ She waved vaguely to the open doors and the lilt and sway of the music. ‘You said you’d be back when it started. You let everybody hear you ... and here I am, standing about by myself while you run off being busy! Do you wonder they’re laughing? Now come along.’

‘In a minute. I---’

‘This
minute, please.’

‘Anice, I’ve told you---’

‘Darling . . .’ She cut him short on a cool imperious note. ‘If I call you, you’ll come. Didn’t you know that?’

The room was hushed. She stood slim and straight, her brown face still, as if she were summoning her forces, and then she changed. Her head took a little tilt. Her forehead crinkled delightfully. A smile came that was beguiling and bewitching, and her eyes sparkled with a deeper blue. Her eyebrows lifted, and, just perceptibly, she nodded, invitation and command in one; and suddenly he moved forward as if he were a puppet and she had pulled the string. He took a pace, stopped, hesitated, and then went helplessly to her. ‘That’s right, dear.’

She turned as she spoke, and his arm was round her as they went together through the doors, where even the footmen were open-mouthed and staring. For an instant Anice turned her golden head, and there was a flicker of her eye. It might have been a wink--or might not. Then the footmen shut the doors and Mary stood speechless. Richard recovered first.

‘What a woman!’ he said softly.

‘Woman? I’ll believe in witchcraft next.’ Again, for a moment, words seemed to fail her. ‘Tommy Luttrell, the great out-and-outer, with more women than he can ever think of, and she has him on a string like a boy! Did you
see
it?’

‘I could hardly not do.’

‘Then just take warning. She’s a sort of basilisk, and nobody’s safe within a mile of her.
You
aren’t, anyway. One gobble and she’ll have you.’

‘She’ll be busy enough with Luttrell.’

‘Don’t you believe it. Come along--I’ll get my cloak.’

‘I thought you were getting it before.’

‘I was. I’ll tell you later.’

She dived through the door before he could answer, and for the next minute or two he was left to pace restlessly in the deserted anteroom. Then she came hurrying back after a quicker collection of a cloak than he had known any woman achieve before, and she led straight to the outer doors.

‘Why the hurry?’ he asked, as they emerged into the quiet of the High Street.

‘I’m taking you out of her reach, and she can keep Tommy if she wants him. I’m glad I’ve seen her at it, though.’

‘You saw her this morning, with Barford.’

‘That’s different. It’s his age--silly old man--and a good many girls could have done it. But not with Tommy. I suppose I’m privileged.’

‘In what?’

‘Seeing her at it. It can’t be often that she lets a woman see the performance. After seeing it, by the way, I don’t blame you in the least.’

‘Kind of you. Taking the evening as a whole---’

‘Oh, I don’t mean tonight. I mean all last winter--anything that happened. I couldn’t possibly blame you. I ought to have known that before.’

‘Mary, I---’

‘Oh, never mind. Don’t mind anything.’

She said it quickly, and then she slipped her arm into his as they walked lazily down the High Street in the warm summer night. It was half past ten, late for Cheltenham, and only a few lonely footfalls broke the silence, as if those who were not at the Rooms were safe in their valetudinary beds. The sky was taking light as a crescent moon rose above the hills, but except for the twinkle of the scattered oil lamps the street was dark. A slight shake of her fingers, as they rested on his arm, made him think that she was laughing.

‘What’s amusing you?’ he asked.

‘Tommy. Not quite his evening.’

‘He’s several things, but not quite a joke. You haven’t yet told me what happened, by the way. I thought you were getting your cloak when I left you?’

‘I was.’ She nodded solemnly. ‘But it’s really quite simple. We hadn’t told Barford we were leaving, and I thought we’d better. So I went back to him, though I can’t say he was very interested. Eyes on little Ann. Of course I couldn’t help Tommy seeing me. I couldn’t help seeing Tommy.’

It was her sardonic tone, and he began to see the implications as they turned out of the Colonnade into the belt of trees that led to the Crescent.

‘You mean you caught his eye?’ he said. ‘Or did he catch yours?’

‘I’m not quite sure. But anyway, he came. ‘

‘Just as he did with Anice?’

‘Don’t say “just as”. I’m not a basilisk.’

‘I’m beginning to wonder
what
you are. I’m remembering one thing that you are.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Kin to Anice. It’s a little distant, of course, but---’

‘Left-handed, you mean. Oh, it’s all right. I’m quite pleased about it, really.’

‘Mary, what’s happened to you tonight?’

‘Less rustic. I’m coming out of it, as I told you. More myself.’

‘I must say you’re very cool about it.’

‘It’s best to be. And, Richard---’ She turned suddenly by the lamp at the end of the Crescent. ‘Don’t sound so disapproving. I didn’t really take any risk with Tommy Luttrell tonight. What do you think he was trying to do in the anteroom?’