Deirdre and Desire (14 page)

In her mind’s eye, she could see them now, all lined up to meet her; all beautifully dressed, exquisitely mannered, and impenetrably stupid.

At last, the carriage turned into a driveway and began to bowl along a well-kept road through pretty parkland.

The name of the Earl of Carchester’s residence was Archer Hall. Deirdre wondered whether Archer was an old family name.

Archer Hall turned out to be a fairly modern edifice, built only about sixty years before when aristocratic families had started moving their saloons and drawing-rooms from the first floor to
the ground floor and putting in french windows, the better to enjoy the sylvan beauties of the countryside.

Clouds covered the sun as they swept around under the portico and an icy wind rattled the bare branches of the trees. A mournful, moulting peacock screamed harshly at them before it turned and
walked away.

Lord Harry came as neatly and quickly awake as he had fallen asleep. Lady Godolphin rallied bravely as she was helped down from the carriage, although she looked as if she would like to have a
good cry.

Some ten minutes later, Deirdre was studying the Carchester family and searching their faces in vain for some resemblance to Lord Harry.

They were all remarkably dark and squat and ugly. The Countess of Carchester, Lord Harry’s mother, was a massive, brooding woman with a heavy moustache and a sallow complexion. Her rather
wet brown eyes surveyed her eldest son and his fiancée with suspicion. Deirdre was to learn later that the Countess always looked like that.

His father, the earl, was also squat and sallow, but where his wife was generously endowed with hair in all the wrong places, he had none in the right places, being as bald as a coot.

Lord Harry’s three brothers, and two ‘little’ sisters – they were more or less the same age as Deirdre – were all squat and dark, like so many trolls.

What they lacked in looks, they made up for in exuberance, laughing loudly at family jokes which were unintelligible to the outsider.

They made no effort to engage Deirdre in conversation. The whole afternoon’s conversation revolved around when Uncle Jeremy would die and leave his money bags to Harry. Lord Harry’s
sisters did seem, at one point, to become aware of Deirdre’s presence by agreeing it was a shame poor Harry had to marry to get the money.

Deirdre, whose
amour propre
had been pretty much wrecked by Guy Wenrwater, was now made to feel a positive dowd by the Carchesters. Without precisely saying so, Lord Harry’s family
all seemed to consider it a marriage of convenience. They seemed to quite hero-worship this one Adonis in their ugly brood and perhaps would not have considered any female good enough for their
beautiful brother.

But Deirdre felt herself growing smaller and uglier by the minute, and tried to console herself with a fantasy that a party of simply dashing young men would arrive, and each and every one of
them would promptly fall head over heels in love with her.

Time is a strange thing. Sometimes it seems to race along and sometimes it seems to stand still. Deirdre was quite convinced a whole hour had passed and nearly burst into tears when she realized
she had only been sitting enduring the company of her future in-laws for ten minutes.

Lady Godolphin was out of sorts. She refused tea and demanded brandy. She insisted on giving Lady Carchester a recipe for a depilatory which used an incredible amount of slaked lime.

Lady Godolphin seemed fascinated by the Countess’s moustache and kept returning to the subject. She told a story of how the Earl of Albemarle, ambassador extraordinary to Paris in 1752,
had managed to persuade a ‘celebrated artist’ to cross over to England and pay a professional call on the Duchess of Newcastle, wife of the Secretary of State. This barber successfully
shaved her Grace’s upper lip. ‘The performance lasted but one minute and three seconds.’ The Duke was so pleased that he settled four hundred pounds a year on the Frenchman for
life.

Then she went on to recommend another depilatory by Marcus Hyams – ‘a composition for shaving without the use of razor, soap or water.’

Most of this fell on stony ground since Lady Godolphin did not say ‘depilatory’ but ‘debilatory’ and confusion was added to confusion when the earl decided she was
talking about aids to sexual potency and silenced her by saying it was not a fit subject for the drawing-room.

At last it was time to leave.

Lord Harry took casual but affectionate farewell of his doting and horrible family. Deirdre curtsied low, hoping they had all taken her in such dislike that they would forbid the marriage.

But, on the other hand, if they did, she would have to return home. Impossible to suggest to Annabelle and Minerva that she come to live with one of them since she could not stand
père
Armitage. Minerva would be shocked to the depths of her Christian soul, and Annabelle would laugh and tell her she was being ridiculous.

Lady Godolphin grumbled on about the strange and incalculable ways of men to an uncomprehending but sympathetic Lord Harry and Deirdre affected to fall asleep. Soon the act became reality and
she dozed off.

Meanwhile, Guy Wentwater had almost forgotten about Silas Dubois. He had removed himself and his friends from Hopeworth as quickly as possible. His friends had cursed him
roundly for having put them in a position where they were roused from their beds in the middle of the night by Lord Harry Desire who had threatened them into silence in no uncertain manner.

He strolled into Humbold’s coffee house in St James’s. The announcement of Deirdre’s marriage had not surprised him; probably Lord Harry had clubbed her into submitting to the
engagement and would drag her off to the altar by the hair.

A shadow fell across him and he looked up into the unlovely features of Silas Dubois.

Mr Dubois had been called a walking lampoon by his critics by virtue of his small, slight figure and very large nose.

He slid into a chair opposite Guy with his usual furtive, crab-like motion and fixed him with his beady eyes.

‘I have been looking for you,’ said Dubois. ‘A fine mull you made of things. Desire is to marry that Armitage chit.’

‘The arrangement was to humiliate the Armitages and I achieved just that,’ said Guy attempting an air of nonchalance.

‘How?’ demanded Silas Dubois eagerly.

And so Guy told him a carefully edited account of his promise to elope with Deirdre and his subsequent humiliation of her in front of his friends.

‘And what did the good vicar say when he heard of this?’ asked Silas drily.

‘Well,’ said Guy, flushing. ‘He did not hear of it from her . . . evidently. And I decided it would not be gentlemanly to speak of it. We agreed to humiliate her. I have done
so. My part is played.’

‘You cowardly fool,’ hissed Silas. It was to humiliate the whole family. Had you played your part aright, then Desire would never have married the chit.’

‘He is not yet married to her,’ pointed out Guy huffily.

‘Nor must he,’ said Silas.

‘Eh?’

‘I have a distant relative, Jeremy Blewett, a nabob. By coincidence, he is Desire’s uncle. He will leave his fortune to Desire if he marries. If he does not, the money comes to me. I
learned all this from the cagey old fool a bare week ago. Evidently Desire has known of it for some time.’

‘Everyone’s known about it for some time,’ sneered Guy. ‘You heard in the clubs that Armitage was planning a marriage between Desire and his daughter. Did you not know
the
reason
Desire wanted the marriage?’

Dubois bit his knuckles and stared at Guy over the large promontory of his nose.

‘No, I did not know. But you told me you planned to
seduce
the Armitage girl. Not promise to elope with her, tell her you couldn’t because she was a dowdy doxy, and then keep
the humiliation between yourselves. It seems from your account that she went straight back and told Desire to marry her.’

‘No doubt the other way round. Desire’s in love with her.’

‘Love!’ scoffed Silas Dubois.

‘Would you say Deirdre Armitage was in love with you?’

‘Oh, yes, definitely,’ said Guy smugly. ‘Mad for me, she was. Not now, of course.’

‘Then you must make her so,’ said Silas.

Guy stood up. ‘Who are you to give me orders, sirrah?’ he said coldly.

‘I gave you my time before because it amused me to plan a way to revenge myself on the Armitage family. Sooner or later the vicar will learn his precious daughter only became affianced to
Desire on the rebound. That is enough.’

‘Sit down,’ said Silas coldly.

Guy half-turned to leave. ‘Sit down, Mr Evans,’ said Silas in a soft voice.

Guy whirled about, his face blanching. ‘Oh, aye,’ chuckled Silas. ‘I know the history, you see. Learned it once down Bristol way. That so-called aunt of yours is really your
mother. Made a mort o’ money running a chain of bawdy houses in Bristol. Biggest abbess in the town. Had you out o’ wedlock, brought you up and gave you enough money to start your life
and turned you out of the nest. Took herself off to the depths of the country, adopted a fake title, and pleaded genteel poverty although she’s as rich as Golden Ball.

‘You took to slave trading and made your pile. You sold out because you wanted the rank and life of gentlemen. You play my game and you can keep it and earn money from me besides. You keep
on walking and the whole of London and Hopeworth and Berham county will learn by nightfall that you’re the bastard son of a brothel keeper.’

‘I’ll kill you first,’ whispered Guy, sitting down again.

‘You don’t need to,’ grinned Silas. ‘Just do one little thing for me. Tell this Deirdre Armitage you cast her off because you knew her father would never recognize her
again if she married you. Get her to fall in love with you so that Desire will have nothing to do with her. Stop the marriage. Blewett’s on his last legs. He’s not going to make out a
new will until after the wedding. Even if you delay the wedding, that will be enough.’

Guy closed his eyes. He was terrified of Lord Harry punching him in the face again, he was terrified of the vicar and his pack of hellhounds, but now he was even more terrified of Silas
Dubois.

‘You knew of the will,’ he accused Silas, ‘when you listened to my plans to seduce Deirdre Armitage. Well, I did plan to seduce her, but marrying her cousin, Emily, seemed
better game. Sir Edwin is very rich and his social standing is high. But you, you wanted me to make her shoddy goods so that Desire would not touch her. You knew about the will.’

‘In faith, I did not,’ said Silas with a shrug. ‘But that is now beside the point. You have a month in which to reanimate the affections of Miss Armitage.’

‘But what if I can’t!’ said Guy, perspiration dotting his brow.

‘Then you must do it by other means,’ said Silas Dubois, ‘or your life in society will come to an end. Oh, it was bad enough you being a slave trader, but then so were a lot of
respectable gentlemen and no one thinks the worse of them once their trading days are over.
Now
, you are respectable. See you do all in your power to keep it that way.’

He slid out from behind the table and made his way out of the coffee house, turning every so often to smile over his shoulder at the still, rigid figure of Guy Wentwater.

The Reverend Charles Armitage was pacing the hall of his daughter Minerva’s town house, waiting for Deirdre to arrive back.

He was troubled in his conscience. Deirdre had become quieter and quieter and unhappier and unhappier since they had arrived in Town. Neither Minerva nor Annabelle had seemed to notice anything
amiss with their younger sister and for a while this had eased the vicar’s worries. But all at once he felt he must ascertain whether Deirdre really wanted this marriage or not.

Because he was nervous, he had dressed in his best. His corsets were lashed to suffocating point, his paint was artfully delicate, like the sunset on a watercolour painting, and his white
waistcoat had silver stripes.

He heard the rumble of the carriage wheels. Lord Harry did not enter the house with Deirdre but kissed her hand and went back to escort Lady Godolphin home.

The butler held open the door and Deirdre entered, looking weary and dejected.

‘Come into the library,’ said the vicar.

‘Must I, Papa?’ said Deirdre listlessly. But she pulled her bonnet from her head, and, dangling it by the ribbons, trailed after him.

The vicar held open the door and ushered her in. He held out his arms and pinned an affectionate, paternal smile on his face.

‘My darling, little daughter,’ he said, trying to take her in his arms.

Deirdre shrank back with such a look of naked disgust on her face that the vicar stood frozen to the spot. She walked past him and stood with her back to him.

‘What is it, Papa?’ she asked in a flat little voice.

‘Hey, well, don’t you see,’ blustered the vicar, ‘I am worried about you. Seems you are not happy about this here marriage.’

He struck an attitude. ‘Well, I tell ye, there’s no need for you to worry. I’ll cancel the whole wedding. There!’ He stood beaming.

Deirdre turned around, her green gaze raking him coldly from head to foot. She had an all-consuming desire to let him know just how much she despised him.

‘It does not matter whom I marry, Papa,’ she said. ‘One man is much like t’other in my opinion. None fortunately disgust me as much as you.’

‘What!’ screamed the vicar, hardly able to believe his ears.

‘Oh, strike me if it makes you feel better,’ said Deirdre, still in that horrible, little voice. ‘You are a bag of wind, Papa; a selfish, painted, posturing boor. You! A vicar!
You would sell your daughters on the slave market if you thought we would fetch a high enough price. I shall marry Lord Harry . . . to escape from you and your repellent presence. How Mama put up
with you all these years, I shall never know. You should be happy. Another rich husband tethered in the Armitage stable. Now, if you will excuse me, I must lie down.’