Deirdre and Desire (17 page)

‘Asleep,’ smiled Minerva. ‘Oh, it is so wonderful
not
to have any engagements! I shall lounge for the rest of the day. Oh, dear. Someone has arrived. I shall say we are
not at home.’

‘Lord Harry Desire,’ announced the Comfreys’ evil-looking butler.

‘Tell his lordship we are not at home,’ said Minerva quickly.

‘Tell his lordship we
are
at home,’ corrected Deirdre crossly. Now that she had set her mind on social ruin and personal degradation Lord Harry held no further fears for her.
Besides, all Deirdre’s old resentment at Minerva’s bossy ways had come rushing to the surface.

‘Well, if you
really
want to see him . . . ?’ began Minerva. But Deirdre had already left the room. Minerva hesitated, wanting to follow her. Then she relaxed. Sylvester had
promised to have things out with Lord Harry some time soon and Deirdre would not have gone rushing to see a man of whom she was afraid.

‘Have you come to take me driving?’ asked Deirdre, as she met Lord Harry in the hall.

‘No,’ he smiled. ‘I am come to talk to you, my love, about deep and serious things.’

‘Oh,’ said Deirdre anxiously. Then she rallied. It did not matter what he said; she would not be seeing him after today. It never crossed Deirdre’s mind for a moment that Lord
Harry might be hurt in the slightest by being jilted. Such a lummox could only have slow, bovine feelings. He was rather like an aristocratic peasant, she thought, briefly amused at her own
wit.

‘Well, where shall we go?’ he asked, bringing Deirdre to the realization that they were both still standing in the hall.

She led the way into the library.

Lord Harry stood in front of the fireplace, and studied her face with his calm, blue gaze. She was strung up taut like a violin string, he thought. She looked just like someone about to jump off
Westminster Bridge . . . or elope with Guy Wentwater.

‘Seen anything of that fellow who fought at Waterloo?’ he asked. ‘Whatshisname. Wentwater?’

‘No,’ said Deirdre breathlessly. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I don’t know. Making conversation, don’t you see.’

‘What are the deep and serious things you want to talk to me about?’ asked Deirdre.

‘You shouldn’t wear brown,’ he said severely. ‘Don’t become you at all. It’s a sort of mud colour. Not the thing.’

He put up his quizzing glass and stared at Deirdre’s plain round gown with one horribly magnified eye.

‘Is
that
one of the serious matters?’ asked Deirdre acidly.

‘No. Well, yes, it is in a way. Clothes are very important. Now,
I
look rather well in blue. It makes me appear more approachable.’

Deirdre looked at his faultless morning coat, the exquisite ruffles of his shirt, the wide innocence of his eyes, and her lip curled in contempt.

‘Ah, but to come to the serious things,’ he said. ‘I say, can we sit down?’

‘Of course.’ Deirdre sat down primly on a small sofa in front of the fire and he arranged himself elegantly beside her.

He looked at her anxiously, his black curls tumbling over his forehead. Deirdre noticed for the first time that Lord Harry’s lashes were extraordinarily long and thick.

‘You see,’ he said, ‘I don’t need to get married. I’ve made an awful lot of money on ’Change.’

‘So you don’t want to marry me?’ asked Deirdre faintly.

‘Well . . . to put it bluntly . . . no.’

‘Oh.’

‘You see, we should not suit. I am afraid I rather misled your father. I was teasing him, don’t you see. I said I couldn’t abide intelligent women, but I told a lie. I
adore
intelligent women.’

‘Are you trying to tell me,’ said Deirdre slowly and carefully, ‘that
you
don’t consider
me
intelligent?’

‘You are beautiful and charming,’ he said looking at her pleadingly, ‘but an intelligent women has a mind of her own, and you . . . well . . . “
Tu nihil invita dices
faciesve Minerva
.”’

‘I’m afraid I don’t . . .’

‘No, of course, I forgot, you probably do not understand Latin.’

‘On the contrary,’ lied Deirdre, ‘I
do
understand Latin . . .’

‘I was quoting from Horace . . .’

‘So there is no
need
to translate . . .’

‘And I said, “You will say nothing, do nothing, unless Minerva pleases.”’

‘I know very well what you said,’ retorted Deirdre, her colour high. ‘How
dare
you call
me
unintelligent. How would
you
know? You talk of trivialities the
whole time. I
long
for someone to discuss politics with me, for example.’

‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘I would like to hear your views on Parliamentary reform. I think Lord Liverpool and Lord Sidmouth are actually encouraging the radical faction so that an
alarmed middle class will support all manner of repressive measures and the Tory supremacy will stand. What do you think?’

‘I do not think you would understand my views,’ said Deirdre, stalling for time. For she did not have the least idea what he was talking about.

‘But an intelligent well-informed mind is capable of communicating his or her ideas. Pray, go on.’

‘What is the point!’ exclaimed Deirdre, jumping up. ‘You don’t want to marry me anyway.’ And overcome with a sudden realization of her own suicidal folly in rushing
headlong into an elopement with a man who would probably abuse her, Deirdre burst into tears, and sat down again next to Lord Harry.

Guy had lounged back that terrible night and let his friends attempt to molest her. God only knew what he would do to her once they were married. Never had Deirdre felt so small or so silly.

A comforting arm stole about her shoulders and a large handkerchief was held out under her nose.

Deirdre took it gratefully and blew her nose and mopped her eyes.

‘I thought I would please you,’ said Lord Harry’s voice at her ear, ‘by telling you I didn’t need to get married. You see, I could not help noticing you did not
seem to favour my company. Also, I sustained a visit from your father before he left for the country. Poor man. He was torn with remorse over having forced you into an engagement you did not want,
and the joys of hunting. John Summer, his whipper-in, had written to say the weather was excellent and that there was a wily fox sighted only a few miles from the vicarage. I put him out of his
misery by saying I would not marry you. Then right on his heels came Lord Sylvester.
He
said you were frightened of me and he and his wife had done their best to keep you away from me,
knowing that if you cared at all for me, you would become upset. But you didn’t. Ergo, you don’t like me. So I told
him
I wouldn’t marry you.’

‘Oh,’ said Deirdre miserably, wondering why she didn’t feel happy.

‘I was worried about Mr Armitage. He said you had come to loathe and hate him and it was all his own fault. He was so put about, like a sort of fox-hunting Shylock, running to the window
to see if the carriage had arrived and wringing his hands and saying, “Oh, my daughter – oh, the hunt – oh, My daughter – oh, pray God Reynard gives us good
chase.”

‘What misery I have caused you all! So all you need to do is nod your head and I will arrange for an announcernent to be sent to the newspapers, terminating our engagement.’

He took both her hands in his.

‘I know you wanted to elope with Guy Wentwater,’ he said gently.

Deirdre had thought until then that she had tasted the dregs of humiliation, but this last statement proved her wrong.

‘How did you know?’ she whispered.

‘Oh, little things all added up to the one big thing,’ he said airily. ‘So I went along and collected your bandboxes and had a most interesting talk with Mr Wentwater. After
hearing how shockingly he had behaved, I was at least confident that you would never want to set eyes on him again. I thought, you see, that you might come to care for me a little.’

‘And Mr Wentwater told you everything . . . just like that?’ mumbled Deirdre.

‘Well, after a certain amount of . . . er . . . pressure. Do not worry. You will not be troubled by him again.’

Deirdre raised shaking hands to her hot face. The very idea of eloping with Guy seemed such a piece of madness now. A madwoman had made that arrangement.

‘So,’ he went on when she did not speak, ‘I told your father I would escort you home to Hopeworth on the morrow, and then all your worries will be over. I know you hate it in
Town. Perhaps I shall see you again during the Season.’

‘I’m sorry . . . for everything,’ whispered Deirdre.

‘You are not in any trouble?’ he asked. ‘Is there nothing you wish to tell me?’

Deirdre thought of her appointment with Guy Wentwater. She shuddered. Over and over again since he had walked into the library, this Lord Harry Desire, the man she had damned as a fool, had made
her
appear worse than an idiot. She could not tell him.

Deirdre dismally shook her head.

‘Then I think you should tell Mr Radford the glad news of the termination of our engagement,’ said Lord Harry. ‘He only came to Town because your father begged him for help. I
think it would be a great kindness if you could find it in your heart to forgive your father.’

‘I must forgive myself first,’ whispered Deirdre brokenly. ‘I have caused all this distress. Now there are presents to be returned and . . .’

‘I am sure your sister, Lady Sylvester, will handle everything admirably. Now, I was to escort you to a ball at Lord and Lady Brothers’ tonight. Lady Godolphin is to be of our party.
If, however, you do not feel . . .’

‘I will go,’ said Deirdre wretchedly. She knew all at once, if she stayed at home, then she would fret and worry about Mr Wentwater waiting for her in Green Park, and she would wait
in dread in case he called at the house.

‘Then I shall call for you this evening. I think perhaps we might be friends, now that you do not need to fear marriage to me.’

‘Yes,’ said Deirdre in a low voice.

‘Good,’ he said smiling. ‘Perhaps you might choose a bride for me.’

Deirdre looked at the sapphire and garnet ring on her fourth finger and twisted it off and mutely held it out to him. He took it and put it in his waistcoat pocket.

‘You are still overset,’ said Lord Harry. ‘Allow me to tell your sister and brother-in-law and Squire Radford of the termination of our engagement.’ He stood up and drew
her to her feet.

She looked up into his face. He was looking down at her intently. He raised her hands to his lips and kissed them gently.

‘Goodbye, Deirdre. We shall meet again, but as friends.’

He turned and walked from the room, leaving Deirdre shaken and buffeted by a series of emotions: humiliation, shame, and loss.

An hour later, Lord Harry entered his lodgings and looked thoughtfully at his Swiss.

‘What is today’s report, Bruno?’ he asked, as he stripped off his driving gloves.

‘Ah, milor,’ sighed his servant, ‘I regret I ’ave sad news. I had Miss Armitage followed as you requested. The man you ’ave watching the ’ouse in St
James’s Square who was to report if the lady went out alone, ’e come to me and say ’e follow ’er to the Green Park where she meet a man who . . . who . . . ’ug
’er, like thees,’ he added, hugging himself for emphasis.

‘Our man keep behind the tree and ’e cannot ’ear everything but ’e ’ear mademoiselle say two in the morning in the Park.’

‘Thank you, Bruno. You may call off the watchdog,’ said Lord Harry, studying the pleats of his cravat in the glass.

Milor,’ said his servant apologetically, ‘our man say mees was preparing, ’e tink, the elopement.’

‘Just so. Pay him well.’

‘Ver’ good.’

Bruno bowed himself out, shaking his head over the peculiar ways of the English quality.

EIGHT

Minerva was not in the slightest pleased with her sister. She treated Deirdre to a long and severe lecture on the selfishness of allowing the wedding arrangements to proceed as
far as they had. Deirdre had
deliberately
, said Minerva, turned poor Papa into some sort of ogre as an excuse for plunging deeper into the whole mess.

Feebly did Deirdre complain that Papa was not entirely blameless, and that a man who chased his daughter across the countryside with a whip could hardly be described as a loving and sensitive
parent, but Minerva would not listen.

Lord Sylvester had had a
most
wretched time of it, talking to Lord Harry. Lord Harry was a perfect gentleman, and, in truth, probably too mature and polished for such a heartless hoyden
as Deirdre.

The lecture would have gone on for much longer if Lord Sylvester had not intervened by teasing his wife and saying all her prosing made his head ache.

Deirdre’s only ally turned out to be the maid, Betty. Betty had learned that Sir Edwin had offered John Summer a job at the Hall. Had he taken it, then there would have been enough for
them to get married. But John had proudly turned it down, saying, ‘he would never desert the reverend’.

Men!

‘You’re not that bad, miss,’ said Betty soothingly as she helped Deirdre to prepare for the ball. ‘I heard what my lady said. But you are very young for your years and
the vicar is a mortal hard man to cross. But all’s well that ends well, for now you don’t need to marry a man you don’t want, and we can all be comfortable again.’