Encounter with Venus (18 page)

George, noting the troubled look in her eyes, immediately tensed. Something unfortunate must have happened at the ball. “Of course,” he said, “if you don’t mind coming back inside and sitting down with me in all my dirt.”

She merely nodded and let him lead her inside. The butler came running to the door, ready to offer his returning master a warm welcome, but George held up a restraining hand. “Yes, Wesley, I’m back,” he said quickly, “but I’ll not be needing you for a while. Miss Renwood and I will be in the library. Will you please give Timmy a hand with the carriage and then get him to bed? By that time, I think, Miss Renwood and I will be ready for some tea.”

George and Harriet didn’t speak as they walked down the hall to the library. It was not until he’d taken her cloak and settled her on an armchair in front of the fire that he asked the urgent question: “Tell me at once, Harriet, what happened last night?”

“It was a disaster,” she said in a choked voice. “Bernard had such a dreadful time that he left after a mere hour’s stay. And when I ran to the stairway to urge him to come back, he... he”—at this point she couldn’t hold back her tears—”he
fell!
”

“Good God!” George’s breath caught in his chest. “Was he hurt?”

“I don’t think so. He managed to get to his carriage without any help. And when I went to his rooms this morning, his man assured me he was well.”

George felt a surge of relief, but this information evidently was not as soothing to Harriet as it should have been, for he saw her shoulders slump and her eyes tear up again. “Are you trying to say that you don’t believe he’s truly well?” he asked her.

“If he were, why wouldn’t his m-man let m-me see him?”

“I don’t know. As a matter of fact, now you mention it, Pratkin didn’t let me in either.”

There was something alarming about all this. George got up and paced about the room, trying to get his tired brain to
think.
Harriet, nervous and upset, pulled off a glove and used it to dab at her wet cheeks while she waited for a response. At last George, deciding that he had to comfort her despite his own misgivings, drew up a chair close to hers and sat down. “I don’t think you need worry,” he said, taking her gloved hand in his. “If Bernard managed to get down the stairs and out to his carriage on his own, there can’t have been any bones broken.”

“I suppose not,” she said, still not comforted, “but, you see, George, Bernard’s fall isn’t my only concern.”

“No?”

She took a deep breath. “I don’t understand him, George, not at all.” And, suddenly, a flood of words came pouring out of her. “He told me, a few days ago, that he would not attend the dance without your company. When it became clear that you’d been delayed, I offered my brother as a companion. Bernard refused, so I assumed he would not come. When he did appear— and on his own!—I was truly delighted. I thought it meant...” She hesitated, a bit of color rising in her cheeks.

“You thought—?” he prodded.

“Oh, never mind what I thought. But as one of the hostesses, I was beset with social obligations and could not keep him company all evening. So I devised a plan to keep him amused until I could be free. But he evidently took offense, though I cannot imagine why.”

“What sort of plan did you devise?”

“I’d arranged for six of my friends to sit out a dance with him,” she explained, resorting again to playing with her glove. “Then, for the last dance before supper, I planned to keep him company myself and then go to supper with him.” She rubbed her forehead in pained bewilderment. “I tell you, George, I’m completely at sea. What was wrong with my plan? How could it have offended him?”

“I have no idea,” George admitted. “It seems a very good plan to me.”

“That’s what I thought. But after only four dances, he left in a fury.”

George tried to imagine himself in his friend’s situation as Harriet had described it. “Could one of your friends have offended him?” he wondered.

“I suppose it’s possible,” Harriet said, “though I questioned all four. Every one of them declared that the time was spent very pleasantly. In fact, Cissy Glendale, who’s very tongue-tied in the company of gentlemen, said that Bernard made it delightfully easy for her to converse ... that the time she spent with him was the best part of her evening. Of course, it was later—when he was with Elaine Whitmore—that he stormed off.”

“Elaine Whitmore?” This took George by surprise. “Was
she
there?”

“Yes. Why? Do you know her?”

“I’ve met the lady,” he said dryly. “She has a very-how shall I say?—
determined
way about her. She might very well make a fellow storm off.”

“Do you think so?” Harriet brightened in relief at the possibility that someone else might be at fault, but the relief lasted only for a moment. Then she shook her head. “I don’t know, George. I had the impression he was furious with
me,
not with any of my friends.”

George shrugged helplessly. “I can’t think of any other reason—”

“Please, George,” she begged, pressing his hand urgently, “will you speak to him for me? That’s what I’ve come to ask you. Go to him, and explain that I wished only to make his evening pleasant.”

He readily agreed. “I’ll go to him right away,” he promised.

Having achieved her purpose, Harriet rose and put on her cloak. He walked with her down the hall to the outer doorway, paying no heed to the astonished butler who was on his way to the library with the tea tray. At the door, George urged her not to worry. “Everything is bound to turn out well,” he said with a cheerfulness he did not feel. “You’ll see.”

TWENTY-FIVE

As soon as Harriet was gone, George, without taking the time to wash or shave or change his clothes, strode past the startled Wesley (still holding his tea tray) and left the house. Despite his utter weariness, he hurried through the few streets between his house and Bernard’s rooms and burst in the door. This time, when Pratkin tried to stop him, he brushed past the fellow and stamped up the stairs to Bernard’s study.

Bernard had been sitting in his wheelchair, staring un-seeingly out the window at the little square garden behind his building. When he heard the door burst open, he wheeled himself about. “Dash it, I told you not to disturb—” he began. At the sight of George, standing in the doorway glaring at him, he gaped, startled.

But George was startled, too. Bernard’s chin and left cheek were disfigured with a large bluish bruise. “Good God,” he cried, “you
are
hurt!”

“It’s nothing,” Bernard said. “Just a black-and-blue mark. It will heal.”

George slowly approached him and gave the bruised face a close examination. “Is this the full extent of it?” he demanded to know. “Any other injuries?”

Bernard would not answer. He spun his chair around, rudely turning his back to his visitor. “I’m not speaking to you,” he said.

George spun the chair back. “But I’m speaking to you,” he said, taking firm hold of the arms of the chair so that Bernard couldn’t turn away again. “I know I broke my promise, and I’m sorry. But it couldn’t be helped.”

“Couldn’t it? Isn’t it true that instead of keeping your word, you chose to escort some lady to Scotland? Was it the lovely lady of mystery you went to Yorkshire to meet? Was it she who kept you from honoring your pledge and corning home?”

“Yes, yes, and yes. All true.”

“Am I supposed to forgive you for that self-indulgence?”

“It was not self-indulgence,” George snapped. “It was a necessity.”

“Are you saying that coming home to keep your promise to me was
not
a necessity?”

“Damnation, Bernard, that necessity was only a
ball!
The trip to Scotland was a ... a life crisis!”

“Well, the blasted ball turned into a life crisis for me,” Bernard muttered bitterly. “I fell on my face right in front of her.”

“So I hear. Which reminds me that you didn’t answer my question about the accident. Were there any other injuries?”

“Only a bruise to my elbow. And my pride.” Bernard’s brow suddenly furrowed. “You
knew
about all this when you stormed in here.
How?
Did Pratkin gabble the whole to you?”

“No, it was Harriet herself. She came to see me. She’s quite upset, you know.”

Bernard wrenched the wheelchair from George’s grasp and wheeled himself over to the window. “She’ll get over it,” he muttered.

George followed him. “I don’t see why you’re so put out with her. She tried to make the ball pleasant for you. When she came to see me, she was in tears over your fall. It seems to me that she shows every sign of caring for you.”

“No, she doesn’t care. Not in the way I’d hoped she would.” He gave a deep sigh. “It’s over, George.”

“How can you be sure of that?”

“I’m sure. If she cared for me, would she have paraded out all her available friends for my inspection? It’s plain she wanted to pass me over to one of them.”

George couldn’t answer. He felt instinctively that Bernard was mistaken, but mere instinct would not make a good argument. With a hopeless shrug, he pulled a chair over to the window and sat down beside his friend. “It’s a damnable shame,” he mumbled.

Bernard glanced at him and noticed for the first time his friend’s disheveled appearance. “Good God, man,” he exclaimed, “you look awful.”

George laughed. “You’re a fine one to talk.”

Bernard smiled back at him ruefully. “There’s a reason for my disfigurement. But you! What excuse have you? Did you forget how to shave?”

George rubbed his scraggly chin. “I drove my blasted phaeton for two days without stopping. Then, immediately on my return, I became entangled in your affairs. When was I to shave?”

“Two days? Without stopping?” Bernard asked, impressed. “All the way from Scotland?”

“Well, I did
try
to make it back on time,” George answered softly.

Bernard, chastened, put out his hand. “Very well. You’re forgiven.”

They shook hands. Relieved that the animosity was over, they held the clasp tightly for a long moment. Then George got up. “This calls for a drink,” he said. “I’ll call Pratkin.”

He threw open the door and discovered Pratkin right outside. Before George could accuse him of eavesdropping, the valet quickly said, “I’ll bring the drinks at once. Shall it be port?”

“Bring the good Scotch, you snooper,” Bernard ordered. “A whole bottle.”

In a very short time they were both feeling mellow. “I’m truly sorry ‘bout Harriet,” George remarked, staring glumly at the empty glass in his hand.

“ ‘S not your fault,” Bernard assured him. “Wouldn’t’ve been any diff rent if you’d been there.”

“Might’ve been.”

“She doesn’t care f’ me. I’d’ve learned it sooner ‘r later.”

“Hmmm,” was all George said. But he wasn’t at all sure his friend was right.

“What about y’r lovely lady in Scotland?” Bernard asked

“What about her?”

“Does she care f you?”

George drained his glass. “She hates me.”

“No!”

“Yes!” He picked up the bottle and poured himself another drink. “Took me in dislike from th’ first.”

Bernard shook his head. “We’re a sad pair, I mus’ say.”

“But at least we’re still a pair.”

“Right!” Bernard said. “The devil take the fair sex.” He lifted his glass. “To us.”

“To us,” George echoed, and downed his drink. “Who needs women?”

TWENTY-SIX

The next day, no longer showing any signs of inebriation (but suffering a punishing headache to remind him of his dissipation), George went to call on Harriet as he’d promised. It was an awkward interview. Although he assured her that Bernard was not seriously hurt, and that he did not in any way blame Harriet for his fall, George nevertheless had to advise her that it would not be wise for her to see him for a time. When Harriet demanded to know why, he could only answer that Bernard was feeling “peckish,” and wanted to avoid company. Harriet, disappointed and heart-sore, could do nothing but accept the advice.

Having pledged to avoid women, the two friends spent the ensuing weeks in lonely isolation. The month of December, until the Christmas season, was quiet in London, so invitations were few, and if they included females, neither George nor Bernard would accept them. And since Parliament was not due to resume until January, even their clubs were thin of interesting company. The only companionship they had was each other, and though neither would admit it, by the end of the year they were each becoming bored with the other.

For George, the only interesting event of the month was a letter from his sister that arrived just before Christmas. He was in the morning room having his breakfast when Wesley brought it to him. Felicia had written:

Dearest Georgie,

As you know I’m not fond of letter-writing, but Leyton insists that you will find my writing style more enjoyable than his. I don’t know why he says so. He writes very good letters. One of them was even printed in the Times, which is certainly more than I can claim. But, obedient to his wishes, I’m writing this myself to inform you that Leyton and I will be returning to London right after the New Year. You know, Georgie, how much I love living in the country, but it does become distressingly dull in the winter when one doesn’t get many visitors. Most of my friends are already in town, so I shall be quite busy soon after my arrival, even though the season will not have fully begun. We plan to arrive at Leyton House on the third, so I expect you to call on us immediately thereon. I have a great deal of news to disclose to you, and Leyton is eager to speak to you on parliamentary matters, so you are not to keep us waiting.