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‘Stanyards is doing very well, and Mama and I are perfectly happy to live there together. I do not need a husband!’
‘Then there is no more to say—tonight, at least. I hope you will come to see things differently before it is too late, my child. Goodnight, Eleanor. I shall see you tomorrow.’ She turned away and rang for her maid.
Eleanor went back to her own room with a distinct feeling of grievance. How dared her aunt suggest that Stanyards’ future was not secure? It was true that it was not as prosperous now as it had been in her grandfather’s day, but it was still a handsome property. Eleanor dismissed uncomfortable thoughts of damp walls and decaying barns—they would soon be put right, just as soon as there was money for them. Quite soon, in fact.
And how could her aunt accuse her of not attempting to hide the fact that she had opinions of her own? That really wasn’t fair! Why, ever since she, Eleanor, had been in London, she had taken great pains to behave as Lady Walcot wished, though it had been far from easy. During interminable calls she had meekly listened to the vapid gossip which passed for conversation in Lady Walcot’s circles, had attended innumerable routs and parties at which she had confined her remarks to the conventionally obvious, had danced with young men who, in spite of their town bronze, were as limited in their interests as the young men back home in Somerset. She had begun to doubt that she would ever find anyone interesting in the whole of London! Yet she knew that outside her aunt’s narrow acquaintance there was a vast world full of interest and excitement waiting to be explored. It had all remained frustratingly closed to her. She thought she had been successful in hiding her impatience. It now appeared she had not.
Her mind returned to the subject of Mr Guthrie. What had he done that was so disgraceful? It was flattering that he had braved an inevitable snub to ask her to dance, and his boldness had intrigued her. But her interest in him might have remained slight if her aunt’s refusal to discuss him had not roused her curiosity and a feeling of rebellion at being treated like a child. She fell asleep with Mr Guthrie’s dark features floating before her eyes…
The next morning Eleanor rose at her usual time and, since she usually kept country hours, this was very much earlier than the rest of the household. Lady Walcot had tried in vain to convince her niece that it was highly unfashionable to be up and active before midday, but when that had proved impossible her indulgent uncle had arranged both a horse and a groom for his niece’s use, and Eleanor rode every morning. At this hour the park was usually pretty deserted, and the air comparatively fresh, and of all her activities in London these morning rides were her favourite. Lord Walcot, who sometimes accompanied her, was not up so early this morning, and Eleanor was alone except for her groom. This was a relief, for she was still wrestling with the spirit of rebellion which had been roused the night before. She made herself recall her aunt’s many kindnesses, she told herself that her aunt was wise in the ways of London society, and she finally reminded herself that she would shortly be back in Somerset where none of this would matter.
As for Mr Guthrie—she would probably never see him again, and it was better so. She nodded to herself. That was right—she would forget him, remove him from her mind. She urged her horse to a brisker pace and rode forward, aware of a feeling of virtue and common sense. She was therefore slightly disconcerted when Mr Guthrie drew in beside her and raised his hat. He appeared to bear her no ill-will and greeted her cheerfully. ‘Good morning, Miss Southeran. I see you are an early riser.’
The colour rose in Eleanor’s cheeks as her composure deserted her. ‘I am not sure, sir, that my aunt would approve of…of…’ Her voice died away as he looked at her with such quizzical amusement in his eyes that she found herself wanting to respond.
‘She wouldn’t want you even to bid a perfectly respectable acquaintance good morning? I find that hard to believe. Your aunt is a stickler for the rules, I’m sure.’ There was a dryness in his voice that roused Eleanor to defence.
‘I doubt very much that she would describe you as “perfectly respectable”, Mr Guthrie. My aunt may be a stickler, but I have never before heard her speak to anyone as she did to you last night.’ She stopped short. She had almost sounded apologetic! She added coolly, ‘I am sure she had good reason. Good day, sir.’
‘So you’re just a doll, a puppet without a mind of her own! When you’re told to dance, you dance—oh, yes, I saw you last night! And when you’re told not to dance, then you don’t. I thought better of you.’ Eleanor flushed angrily and moved on. Mr Guthrie moved with her. He said solicitously, ‘You should not be riding alone in London, Miss Southeran. It really isn’t safe, especially for dolls.’
‘I am not alone, Mr Guthrie. I have my groom, as you see. Pray go away!’
‘You certainly don’t need both of us, I agree.’ He turned round in his saddle and called to the groom, who had dropped back a pace or two, ‘John! Be a good fellow and take a message to Colonel Marjoribanks at the Barracks. Tell him I’ve been delayed and will meet him shortly at Tattersall’s. Miss Southeran will be quite safe with me—we’ll see you at the end of this path in a few minutes. Off you go!’
Eleanor was both surprised and angry to see that John instantly wheeled away. ‘How dare he? I think he must have gone mad!’
‘No, no, nothing of the sort!’ he said soothingly. ‘I ride a great deal with your uncle, you see. John knows me well. He knows I am to be trusted, even if certain others…’ He looked at her again with that quizzical gleam in his eye, and once again she felt a strong wish to respond. He went on, ‘But never mind him—I want to talk to you. Are you really a mindless doll? Tell me it isn’t so. Tell me my first impression was correct—that you’re a young woman with a mind of her own, that you don’t judge a man on hearsay and gossip.’
Eleanor made one last attempt to obey her aunt’s wishes. ‘Mr Guthrie, I know it must seem feeble—as feeble-minded as gazing in such an idiotic manner at the chandelier last night—’
‘I didn’t find that idiotic! I thought it was enchanting! The look of wonder on your face, the reflections of those crystals in your eyes. I was bewitched!’
This was so totally unexpected that Eleanor gazed at him in surprise.
‘Yes, that’s something like the look,’ he said softly. Eleanor snapped her mouth shut and made an effort to recover herself.
‘P-please!’ She was annoyed to find herself stammering.
He laughed and said, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you into such confusion. Forgive me. What were you about to say?’
‘What was it…? Oh, yes! I believe I am not without a mind of my own. But I do defer to people whose judgement I trust. Tell me, why should I disregard my aunt’s opinion of you—which is that you are not a fit companion for me—in order to pay attention to anything you might say? I met you for the first time last night.’
He was silent for a moment, then smiled wryly and said, ‘You are right, of course. I seem to have caught the American disease of wanting to hurry things along too swiftly. You need time to get to know me. Well, that can be arranged. But dare I ask you to hold judgement until you do know me better?’
‘I fear that may prove difficult. From what I observed last night, my aunt would never allow you to enter her house.’
‘I agree with you—nor would most of the others! And I must confess that up to this moment I have not given a dam—’
‘Mr Guthrie!’
‘A dam, Miss Southeran, is a small Indian coin worth practically nothing.’
Eleanor was not wholly convinced of this, but let it pass, since her interest had been caught by something else. She asked eagerly, ‘Have you been in India? Oh, how fortunate you are! I have always been fascinated by the stories I have heard of it, and of the countries in Asia.’
He smiled at the expression on her face. ‘The romantic East? Don’t get too carried away, Miss Southeran. There’s a wealth of myth and legend about the East, not all confined to its history, literature and art. It’s true that when I was young fortunes were there for those prepared to work for them, or, rather, fight for them. But the climate—and the life of most of the people—is very hard.’ He looked down at her absorbed face. ‘Would you really like to hear more about India? Come for a drive with me this afternoon in the park.’ Eleanor hesitated. ‘Unless you’re afraid, of course.’
‘Afraid?’
‘Oh, not of me! You have nothing to fear from me. No, of what the tittle-tattling matrons of London might say. Any lady seen with me is automatically deemed to be beyond redemption! It makes for a somewhat isolated life.’ When Eleanor still hesitated he said somewhat grimly, ‘I see. I am to be condemned without a hearing, even by you.’
‘I…I…’ The battle with her conscience was lost. ‘What do you drive, Mr Guthrie?’
‘I normally drive a curricle. But if you were to consent to a drive with me I would use something more suited to a lady.’
‘No! That is not what I want at all! I have always wanted…that is, I should like very much…Do you have a phaeton—a sporting phaeton, a high one?’
He stared at her, then his hard face broke into a smile. ‘A woman of spirit! I knew it! I shall arrange to have one this afternoon—but what will your aunt say?’
‘I think my aunt would rather see me in a tumbril than in any vehicle driven by you, Mr Guthrie. But you are right. I am not a doll—nor a child! At what time do you drive in the park?’
‘Usually about five.’
‘If I happened to be walking there at that time, would you offer to take me up?’
‘I should be honoured. At five, then?’
Eleanor took a deep breath and said, ‘At five.’
They had reached the end of the path where John was waiting for her. Mr Guthrie raised his hat again, gave a nod to the groom, and rode off in the direction of Knightsbridge. Eleanor returned to South Audley Street, wondering if she had gone mad.
Chapter Two
By the afternoon she was sure she was mad. Hyde Park was crowded with the ton all taking their afternoon airing—walking, riding and driving in every form of vehicle. Gentlemen drove by in their gigs and curricles, ladies displayed their pretty dresses and parasols in open landaulets—the smarter set in handsome barouches—and Eleanor had the feeling that here was a world just waiting to watch her defy it. If she had not given Mr Guthrie her word she would have obeyed her strong inclination to go back to her aunt’s house before the fatal hour of five.
However, when the gentleman stopped and offered to take Miss Southeran up, Eleanor interrupted her aunt’s refusal, and accepted. In response to Lady Walcot’s startled protest, Eleanor said firmly, ‘Forgive me, Aunt Hetty. Half an hour only,’ and climbed into the phaeton. She ignored the stares directed at her and put on an air of serenity which belied the pounding of her heart as Mr Guthrie drove off.
‘Bravely done! Allow me to congratulate you.’
‘I am not at all sure it is a matter for congratulation, sir! As you very well know, I run the risk of being sent to Coventry for this venture. However, since I have only a short time left in London I can bear that. Why do people dislike you so?’
‘Because they mistakenly believe me to be dishonest and dishonourable.’
Eleanor blinked at this forthright statement. ‘Have they cause?’
Mr Guthrie paused. At last he said, ‘Matters are not always what they seem, Miss Southeran. They think they have cause.’
‘You are fencing with me, I think.’
‘You are right. Miss Southeran, there are reasons why I cannot be frank in talking of my own affairs. I do not intend to give you tedious half-truths. My hope is rather that if we could get to know each other better you would judge me more kindly than the rest of society does. But now you tell me that you have only a short time left in London?’
‘I return home in a week’s time.’
‘At the very beginning of the season? Do you not regret that?’
‘Not in the slightest. I love my home. I cannot wait to see it again.’
‘Tell me about it.’
Eleanor never needed much encouragement to speak of Stanyards, and with that and stories of India the half-hour passed swiftly for them both. It was with regret that Eleanor noticed that they were leaving the park and making for South Audley Street.
‘Where are you going tonight? Shall I see you there?’ asked Mr Guthrie as they drew up at the Walcot house.
‘Tonight? I think not. My aunt is taking me to a ball at the French ambassador’s.’ She paused, but curiosity got the better of her. ‘Tell me, how was it that you were at Carlton House last night? I thought all doors in London were closed to you.’
‘Not all, Miss Southeran, not all. There are still some brave souls who ignore Lady Dorothy and the other gorgons. The Prince Regent is one of them. Who knows—perhaps the French ambassador is another? But in case he isn’t, shall I see you tomorrow morning?’
‘I…I am not sure. I still have to make my peace with my aunt.’
‘Come! It took a great deal of courage for you to make this afternoon’s gesture on behalf of the underdog. Don’t waste it!’
‘Very well.’ She smiled slightly. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Eleanor entered the house in a defiant mood. Mr Guthrie had proved a most interesting companion and she found it hard to believe he was the scoundrel her aunt had described. She could see, however, that he might not appeal to those who set great store by polished manners and the elegant niceties of polite behaviour, and was surprised that he apparently had the entrée to the Prince Regent’s circle. But his abrupt style of address had not offended her, and she had actually found his directness curiously appealing. She felt a strong wish to see him again, and decided that she would do all she could to coax her aunt to agree. Meanwhile she would no doubt be faced with reproaches and some justifiable anger.
Lady Walcot was sitting in the salon on the first floor. When Eleanor walked in she said, ‘I am relieved to see you back safely.’
‘Aunt Hetty, I was never in any danger!’
‘A high-perch phaeton! Driven at such a reckless pace! It only shows what disregard the man has for any lady’s sensibilities—’
‘No, Aunt! I asked Mr Guthrie to take me in the phaeton. And we went rather sedately, I thought.’ Eleanor got up and went to sit beside her aunt. ‘Truly, Aunt Hetty, Mr Guthrie is not the villain you have described. We talked of the most interesting things, and though he is not as polished as some of your acquaintance he was always the gentleman.’
‘Really?’ Her aunt was still annoyed. ‘Allow me to tell you, Eleanor, that you have made a pretty spectacle of yourself this afternoon. What Lady Dorothy will say I cannot bear to think.’
‘Pray do not worry yourself over such a trifle! I am not concerned with Lady Dorothy and her tales.’
‘But you should be, Eleanor! She is not without influence in London, let me tell you.’
‘Not with me, Aunt Hetty.’
Her aunt ignored her. ‘I blame myself, of course. I should have remembered how wilful you can be, and told you more about him when you asked. What did he tell you? A pack of lies, no doubt.’
‘I don’t think so, Aunt. We didn’t discuss Mrs Anstey, if that is what you mean.’
‘I am not surprised at that—she would be the last person he would mention! Well, Eleanor, you have forced my hand. I shall tell you about Mr Guthrie. It is not an edifying story, as I think you will agree.’ Lady Walcot paused, then began, ‘Mrs Anstey is a widow. She is an Englishwoman, but she married a man from Boston in America, and lived there for many years. The family was a wealthy one and Mrs Anstey might reasonably have hoped for a comfortable and secure existence. However, some years ago her husband went into partnership in a business venture with the man Guthrie. Guthrie ruined them.’
‘In what way?’
Lady Walcot said impatiently, ‘How should I know what piece of chicanery was involved? I understand nothing of business or trade. But ruin them he did, and now Mrs Anstey and her daughter haven’t a penny to their name. That is your precious Mr Guthrie.’
‘How do you know all this, Aunt Hetty?’
‘Everyone knows it!’
‘Gossip, idle rumours, scandal. I am surprised you give so much credence to them.’
‘It was Lady Dorothy who first told me, and she had it from Mrs Anstey herself.’
‘But—’
‘No, Eleanor, there is no “but”! What is more, I believe there is something else, which I am not at liberty to discuss. But if it is true, then I assure you on my life that the man is a dishonourable villain.’
‘Mr Guthrie said people were mistaken in believing that he was dishonourable.’
‘And you believed him?’ asked Lady Walcot with contempt.
‘Why should I not? Have you any proof to the contrary?’
‘Eleanor, the proof lies in what we know to be facts! Henry Anstey shot himself because he and his family were bankrupt. The Guthrie creature, who was a full partner in the enterprise, remains a wealthy man. Whatever else may or may not be true, how do you account for that? Besides, Guthrie has never bothered to deny anything that has been said about him.’
‘That is hardly proof of guilt! I agree it is tempting to believe Mr Guthrie to be the villain of this particular melodrama—he has all the appearance of one. And lovely Marianne Anstey looks like the very ideal of a damsel in distress. But is it not at least possible that appearances are deceptive?’
‘Oh, it is useless to argue with you! It is just as I was saying last night—you are always determined to make up your own mind, determined to ignore the judgement of people who are older and wiser than yourself. And when you embark on one of your crusades you lose all sense of proportion. Now you are about to fling yourself at a known scoundrel. What am I to do?’
Eleanor drew herself up and said with dignity, ‘Aunt Hetty, I promise not to fling myself at anyone—least of all a known scoundrel, whoever that is. But, unless you can give me more convincing proof of Mr Guthrie’s guilt, I reserve the right to talk to the first man I have met in London whose company I enjoy—apart from that of my uncle. And that’s another thing! My uncle is by no means sure of Mr Guthrie’s villainy. I would trust his judgement sooner than I would that of Lady Dorothy!’
‘Oh, your uncle is a man,’ said Lady Walcot somewhat obscurely. She got up and went to the door. Here she stopped and said, ‘I haven’t finished with you yet, Eleanor. You have asked for proof. I shall see what I can do.’ Then she left the room.
Eleanor was left feeling confused and uncertain. It was perfectly possible that Mr Guthrie had roused Lady Dorothy’s enmity by nothing more criminal than omitting to give her the deference she imagined due to her rank. But Lady Walcot was another matter. Eleanor had known and loved her father’s sister all her life—she could not dismiss her aunt’s views on Mr Guthrie so lightly. She sighed.
‘Good lord, Eleanor, don’t look so glum!’ It was her uncle who had just come in. ‘Where’s your aunt? Been giving you a lecture, has she? I’m not surprised, but don’t worry—she’ll soon come round again. Cheer up, my dear! Isn’t it time you were thinking of your dress and so on for tonight? I’m taking you both to a ball, I believe. As for your aunt, by the time she’s decided what she’s going to wear, and what jewellery to put with it, she’ll have forgotten about this afternoon. Come, let me see you smile, then you can go and pretty yourself up.’
Eleanor got up obediently and went to the door, but there she turned and came back to her uncle. She hesitated a moment, then asked, ‘Uncle Charles, what do you think of Mr Guthrie?’
Lord Walcot shook his head in mock-reproof. ‘Now, Eleanor, I’m too downy a bird to be caught by a question like that. What you’re really asking is whether I agree with your aunt in discouraging you from having much to do with him. You should know better than to ask me what I think. You are in her charge, and I cannot oppose her wishes as far as you are concerned. That would never do.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He looked sympathetically at her downcast face, and relented a little. ‘He’s a difficult fellow to know. A man who keeps his own counsel. Except for the stories about him, I’ve never had any occasion to distrust him—in fact, I would say that I quite like him. But your aunt and the others may well be right, you know. I believe Mrs Anstey tells a convincing enough tale, which he has never denied. Give it up, my dear. You’re upsetting your aunt, and to what purpose? In a few days or so you’ll be setting off for Somerset and you’ll probably never see him again.’
Eleanor looked up and said with resolution, ‘You’re right, as always, Uncle Charles. I shall be amenable from now on.’
He laughed and said, ‘Not too amenable, Eleanor. I enjoy our discussions. Don’t become like all the rest!’
That evening Eleanor found it impossible to remain unaffected by the excitement and glamour of a really large ball. The splendid rooms, lavishly decorated with artificial fountains and fantastic pyramids, were impressive by any standards, and the dresses and jewels of the cream of London society were a rare sight. Her own dress, though modest in comparison, suited her very well, she thought. It had been made originally by the best dressmaker in Taunton, and had a bodice made of blue-green silk, with a skirt of white sarsnet. Her aunt had looked at it thoughtfully, pronounced it delightfully simple and had then taken it away. It had appeared a few days later with an overskirt of blue-green gauze, embroidered round the hem in blue, green and gold, and caught up at the side with a knot of matching ribbons. Her efforts had turned a pretty dress from a local dressmaker into a garment worthy of the highest London circles. The result was eye-catching and very flattering.
But, lovely as the dresses were, impressive though the rooms looked, to Eleanor’s mind nothing could outshine Marianne Anstey. The fairy princess was stunningly beautiful in a very simple white silk dress. Her pale gold hair was caught back on top with a knot of pale pink roses, and fell in graceful curls to the nape of her neck. More pale pink roses were clustered at her waist, matching the delicate colour in her cheeks. Eleanor, along with many others, could hardly take her eyes off the girl, and no one was surprised when the ambassador kept more important guests waiting while he greeted this exquisite creature.
