Holiday House Parties

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Holiday House Parties

Two Tales

Elizabeth Mansfield

The Girl with Airs

1

Anyone seeing him would have known at once that the young man who wove his uncertain way down the dark street had been imbibing too deeply. He tottered unsteadily on his feet, clung to every lamp post he passed, and actually tripped and fell twice. His very appearance attested to his inebriated condition. He wore only one glove, his waistcoat was unbuttoned and his hat askew. Worse, his neckcloth, which he'd pulled from his neck (despite the care and precision with which his valet had earlier folded it in place), was clutched in his ungloved hand at one end while the other end dragged on the ground behind him. But at this late hour of the night, there was not a soul on Henrietta Street to see him.

Drunk as he was, he seemed to know where he was going, for he stopped before the most imposing house on the street—a grey stone townhouse with arched windows and a delicately ornamented roof pediment—and muttered, “Ah, thank goo'ness, here we are!”

He climbed the three steps to a green doorway illuminated by two brass coach-lanterns and proceeded to pound on the door, ignoring the lion's head brass knocker. “Geordie! Geordie, old f'llow,” he cried in callous disregard of the sleeping neighbors, “open up!”

Several minutes passed before his repeated summonses were answered. Eventually, however, the bolt was turned and the door opened. A butler, wearing house-slippers and a woolen robe that he'd hastily thrown over his nightshirt, peered out into the dark. “Michty me!” the butler gasped, lapsing into his Scottish brogue at the sight of the fellow on the doorstep. Although he recognized the visitor at once as Sir Archibald Halford (for Sir Archibald's pronounced nose and slightly receding chin made his face distinctive), his presence on the doorstep at this hour—and in such a dishevelled state—was completely unexpected. “Sir Archibald, is it yersel'?” the butler asked, blinking. “What—?”

“Mus' see Laird Geordie,” the young man said thickly, pushing his way past the startled butler. “Mus' see 'im righ' now!”

“But, sir, it's past two in the morning!” the butler remonstrated, his proper butler's English restored. “Surely you can't expect me to wake his lordship at this hour.”

“Wheesht, McIver,” came a voice from the top of the stairs, “I'm already awake. How can a body sleep through such a curfuffle?”

“Geordie!
There
you are. Thank God!” sighed the interloper, stumbling toward the staircase.

The young man at the top of the stairs, wrapped in a blanket from beneath which a pair of bare legs extended, was a very tall, rangy fellow with a head of wildly curling, shocking-red hair, and a handsome face that could have been described as innocently boyish except for a pair of grey-green eyes that looked out at the world with a knowing, amused shrewdness. George David McAusland, Lord Dunvegan (called Laird Geordie by his friends in acknowledgment of his tendency to lapse into his “Lallans” accent whenever he lost his temper or was in any way discomposed) looked down at his friend in embarrassment. “Could ye come back in the morn, laddie? I've a bit o' company in my bed, y' see …”

“No, I c'n not come back in th' morn,” the drunkard declared, hanging for dear life on the newel post of the staircase. “I'm desp'rate! Wha's more important—my desp'ration 'r yer lightskirt?”

Geordie squinted down at his visitor through the gloom of the staircase, but the light from McIver's candle was too dim to make out Archie's condition. Nevertheless, since his visitor's words made it clear that something was amiss, Geordie ran down the steps two at a time. “Archie? What're ye doin' here at this hour? Have ye gone daft?”

Archie's lips trembled. “Good ol' Geordie. I knew you'd come through if I needed you.”

“Needed me?”

Two tears ran down Archie's overheated cheeks. “I've been stabbed, Geordie. Cut down like a weed in a rosegarden. Dispatched, annihilated, and destroyed …”

Geordie peered at him closely. “Archie, me lad,” he grinned in relief, “I do believe y're cupshotten.”

The inebriated fellow straightened up in offense. “Never. Not me. Can hold m' liquor wi' the best of 'em. Stabbed in the heart is wha' I am.” Wavering on his feet, he clutched at the newel post again. “She won't … have me, Geordie. She's given me … back … m' ring!” That said, his grip on the newel post weakened, his knees gave way, and he slid to the floor, unconscious.

“Will ye look at that, McIver?” Geordie muttered, staring down at his friend and shaking his head. “The lad's ploughed out.”

“Ploughed out, my lord?” the butler asked in confusion as he knelt beside the fallen visitor. “But didn't he say he'd been stabbed?”

“Dinna be a gowk. He's just had a few too many. It's as I said. The poor lad's cupshotten.”

Archie did not return to consciousness until the next evening. He opened his eyes and found himself in a strange bedroom. His stomach was growling, his tongue seemed coated with a bitter film, and something like a blacksmith's hammer was pounding in his head. He gingerly rose from the bed and stumbled out of the room. Not until he reached the stairs did he realize he was still in Geordie's house.

He made his way carefully down the stairs. At the bottom he discovered Geordie waiting for him. “Ye slept the day away, ye haveril,” the Scotsman greeted.

Archie met his friend's taunting smile with a sheepish one of his own. “What's a haveril?”

“A half-wit. How much were ye fool enough to imbibe?”

Archie shrugged. “Only a few swigs. Someone must've contaminated my brandy.”

“Blethers, man!” Geordie retorted bluntly. “Ye swilled down more than a few. But come into the sitting room, laddie, and sit yersel' down. Ye look worse than ye did last night.”

One glimpse at the mirror that hung near the sitting-room door told Archie that his friend was not exaggerating. His eyes were bloodshot, his clothes wrinkled, his face unshaven, and his brow furrowed with pain. “I knew it,” he groaned, turning away and dropping down on a wing chair near the fire. “I knew I was a lost soul. She's undone me.”

The tall, red-headed Scotsman paused in the act of sitting down on the hearth. “What are ye babblin' aboot, ye saphead? Who's undone ye?”

“Caroline, of course. Who do you think?”

“Caroline? Who's—?”

“Damnation, Geordie, you know who Caroline is! Caroline Woolcott, my betrothed.” He put his hand to his forehead and shut his eyes in pain. “She's jilted me.”

“Jilted ye? She couldna done!” The Scotsman sank down on the hearth and stared at his friend in amazement. “Ye became betrothed not a sennicht past.”

“Eight days ago, to be exact,” Archie moaned. “We were to be wed at Christmas.” The poor fellow stared glumly at the glowing embers of the fire. “My life is over, Geordie. I feel like putting a bullet in my brain and ending it all.”

“Don't be so daft,” Geordie snapped. “Ye'll not be killin' yersel' over a mere lass. The world is full o' sonsy lasses.”

“Confound it, Geordie, don't start with your damn brogue. What's sonsy?”

“You know what I mean. Buxom. Shapely. If ye put yer mind to it, you can find yersel' sonsy lasses by the dozen.”

“Not like Caroline. Caroline is … exceptional.”

“What balderdash! Every fool who falls in love thinks his lady is exceptional.”

“No, Geordie, you're wrong there. Caroline truly is exceptional. Take my word. First of all, she's the loveliest creature I've ever seen, with hair like … like …”

Geordie smiled sardonically. “Hair like silk, teeth like pearls, lips like rose petals—”

“You may joke all you wish, Geordie, old man, but those cliches are nothing but the truth in Caroline's case. Her mouth is full-lipped and as cherry red as in the song! And her eyes are a kind of … of golden brown, if you can imagine it. And she has the most unbelievable eyelashes! And—”

“Have done, man! I'll take yer word that she's a beauty. But ye'll not make me believe there isn't another lass to be found with full lips and long lashes.”

“But there's so much else about her! There's her voice—”

“I know. Low and gentle,” Geordie supplied dryly.

“Exactly! And her laugh is like … like …”

“Like music?”

“Yes. Like music. And, speaking of music, she plays the pianoforte
and
the harp, she speaks fluent French, she knows Russian, she can read the classics in Greek, she sketches and paints, and—”

Geordie held up his hands. “Wheesht, man, wheesht! She sounds a veritable paragon. As we say at home, an unco leesome lass. But if she's so perfect, why did she jilt ye?”

“I don't know, Geordie. I was too upset to take in what she was saying to me. I know I should have argued with her. Convinced her she was being hasty. Told her how much I love her and all that rot. But I'm not glib with the ladies as you are. I get all tongue-tied.”

“Ye were evidently glib enough to win her once,” Geordie pointed out. “Perhaps ye can do it again.”

“I don't think so, old man,” Archie said, sighing deeply. “She made matters sound quite final.” He stared into the flames for a long moment. “Unless—” he said, raising his head and gazing at Geordie with eyes suddenly alight.

“Unless—?” Geordie prodded.

“Unless you were willing to speak for me.”

Geordie blinked at him. “Me? Whatever are ye natterin' aboot?”

“You can do it, Geordie!” Archie said excitedly. “You could sell a sailor the London Bridge if you'd a mind.”