Not very long after the episode of his frustrated duel Peregrine went off to stay in Hertfordshire with the Fairfords, who removed from London early in December with the intention of spending some weeks in the country. The invitation was cordially extended to Miss Taverner as well, but she was obliged to decline it, having received just previously a very gratifying invitation to spend a week at Belvoir Castle with the Duke and Duchess of Rutland.
The Duchess, who had lately been on a visit to town, had made the acquaintance of Miss Taverner at Almack’s, Miss Taverner having been presented to her by Mr. Brummell, a close friend of the Rutlands. The Duchess remembered Miss Taverner’s father, seemed to be pleased with the daughter, kept her talking for some time, and ended by sending her, a few weeks later, an invitation to join a house-party at Belvoir.
Miss Taverner journeyed north in a private chaise, and arrived to find herself one of a distinguished company. Chief amongst the guests was the Duke of York, who had arrived a day previously. His visit being quite unexpected, some slight disturbance had been caused, for the Duke of Dorset had been allotted the rooms that were invariably kept for York, and had had to be dispossessed in a hurry. However, as it was quite an understood thing that York and Brummell should both have their particular apartments both at Belvoir and at Cheveley, his grace of Dorset acquiesced in the alteration, and was only glad that so notable a whist-player should have joined the party.
Frederick, Duke of York, was the second son of the King, and had been living for the last few years in a sort of retirement consequent upon the Clarke scandal. He had lately been reinstated as Commander-in-Chief, and at this present date, when Miss Taverner had the honour to be presented to him, he seemed to be in excellent spirits, and not at all the sort of man who could be suspected of selling Army promotions through the machinations of his mistress. He was nearing fifty, a tall, stout man, with a florid complexion and a prominent nose. He had a ready laugh, a kindly, inquisitive blue eye, and was easily amused. He was married to a Prussian princess from whom he lived apart on very excellent terms. The Duchess resided at Oatlands, where she led an eccentric but blameless existence, surrounded by as many as forty pet dogs of every imaginable breed. The Duke was used to bring down parties of his friends to spend the week-ends at Oatlands. The Duchess had not the least objection, and without making any change in her own manner of life, entertained her guests in a charming and unceremonious way that endeared her to everyone who knew her. No one was ever known to refuse an invitation to Oatlands, though the first visit there must always astonish, and even dismay. The park was kept for the accommodation of a collection of macaws, monkeys, ostriches, kangaroos; the stables were full of horses which were none of them obtainable for the use of the guests; the house swarmed with servants, whose business never seemed to be to wait on anyone; the hostess breakfasted at three in the morning, spent the night in wandering about the grounds, and was in the habit of retiring unexpectedly to a four-roomed grotto she had had made for herself in the park. Dinner was always at eight; the Duke never rose from the table till eleven, and when he did rise it was to play whist for five-pound points and twenty-five pounds on the rubber, until four in the morning.
The Duke, who never saw his wife except at Oatlands, had naturally not brought her with him to Belvoir. He was accompanied by Colonel Wyndham, a smart man-about-town, for whom the Duchess had an inordinate dislike.
The other guests, besides the Duke and Duchess of Dorset, consisted of what seemed at first sight to Miss Taverner an enormous number of ladies and gentlemen, most of whom were unknown to her. Lord and Lady Jersey, Mr. Brummell, and Lord Alvanley were her only acquaintances amongst them. She felt a little shy, and was not as displeased as she might otherwise have been when hardly an hour after her own arrival a chaise drove up and deposited Lord Worth on the doorstep.
She was bearing her part in a conversation with a very haughty young lady, who seemed to eye her with great superciliousness, when Worth entered the saloon with his hostess. She looked up, and seeing him was betrayed into a smile. He came at once towards her, his rather hard face softened, and having exchanged a word of greeting with her companion, sat down beside her sofa, and asked her how she did.
The haughty young lady, who was all flattering complaisance towards him, did what lay in her power to claim and keep his attention. Miss Taverner could not but be amused: the lady was so very anxious to please, the gentleman so politely unresponsive. But Mr. Pierrepoint came up presently, and took the lady away with him to inspect Mr. Brummell’s water-colour sketch of their hostess, and the Earl was left alone with his ward.
Miss Taverner had had time to reflect while Worth was engaged with Miss Crewe that he had not shown any surprise on meeting her. When Miss Crewe had walked off she asked him in her abrupt way whether he had expected to find her at Belvoir.
“Why, yes,” he replied. “I believe I was informed of it.”
The gleam in his eye made her suspect him strongly of having had some say in her being invited. She said: “Oh! I, on the other hand, had not the least notion of finding you here.”
“If you had you would not have come, I daresay.”
She raised her brows. “I hope I am not so prejudiced that I cannot be staying in the same house with you.”
“That is very encouraging,” said the Earl. “Do you know, I was presumptuous enough to think that you were quite glad to see me when I came in?”
She hesitated, and then said with a rueful smile: “Well, perhaps I was a little glad. I have been feeling rather strange amongst a set of company I don’t know. That lady—Miss Crewe, I think you call her—has been trying for the past twenty minutes to show me what a countrified nobody I am, and that, you know, when one knows it to be the melancholy truth, makes one feel sadly out of place.”
“You will have your revenge upon her if you mean to hunt to-morrow,” remarked the Earl. “She has the worst hands imaginable, and is generally off at the first fence.”
She laughed. “Yes, I do mean to hunt, but I hope I am not ill-natured enough to wish Miss Crewe a tumble. Shall you hunt also?”
“Certainly; to keep an eye on my ward.”
She put up her chin, a quizzical gleam in her eye. “I will give you a lead,” she promised.
He was amused. “Come, we begin to understand one another tolerably well,” he said. “How do you like your snuff?”
“To tell you the truth I don’t often take it,” confided Judith. “I only pretend.”
“You are in excellent company then, for you follow the Prince Regent. Let me see you take a pinch.”
She obeyed him, extracting from her reticule a gold box with enamelled plaques on the lid and sides.
He took it from her to inspect it more closely. “Very pretty. Where did you get it?”
“At Rundell and Bridge. I bought several there.”
He gave it back to her. “You have good taste.”
“Thank you,” said Judith. “To have earned the approval of so notable a connoisseur as yourself must afford me gratification.”
He smiled. “Do not be impertinent, Miss Taverner.”
She flicked open the box, and offered it to him. “You mistake me, Lord Worth: I was being civil—in your own manner.”
“You have not mastered the precise way of it,” he answered. “No, don’t offer your box to me; it is not a mixture that I like.”
“Indeed! How odd!” said Miss Taverner, raising a pinch to one nostril with a graceful turn of her wrist. “I do not like it either.”
“That is probably because you have drenched it with Vinagrillo,” said the Earl calmly. “I warned you to be sparing in the use of it.”
“I have not drenched it with Vinagrillo!” said Miss Taverner, indignantly shutting her box. “I used two drops, just to moisten the whole!”
A gentleman who was standing beside Colonel Wyndham in the middle of the saloon had been looking at Miss Taverner in a dreamy, unconcerned way, but when he saw her take out her snuff-box a look of interest came into his eyes, and he wandered away from the Colonel, and came towards the sofa. He said very earnestly to Worth: “Please present me! Such a pretty box! What I should call a nice visiting-box, but not suitable for morning wear. I was tempted when they showed it to me, but it did not happen to be just what I was looking for.”
Judith stared at him in a good deal of astonishment, but Lord Worth, betraying no hint of surprise, merely said: “Lord Petersham, Miss Taverner,” and got up.
Lord Petersham begged permission to sit beside Miss Taverner. “Tell me,” he said anxiously, “are you interested in tea, I wonder?”
She was not interested in tea, but she knew that his lordship had a room lined with canisters of every imaginable kind, from Gunpowder to Lapsang Souchong. She confessed her ignorance, and felt that she had disappointed him.
“It is a pity, a great pity,” he said. “You would find it almost as interesting as snuff. And you are interested in that, are you not? You have your own mixture; I saw the jar at Fribourg and Treyer’s.”
Miss Taverner produced her box. “I wish you will do me the honour of trying my sort,” she said.
“Mine will be the honour,” said his lordship, bowing. He dipped his finger and thumb in her box, and held a pinch to his nostrils, half-closing his eyes. “Spanish bran—a hint of Brazil—something else besides, possibly a dash of masulipatam.” He turned. “It reminds me of a mixture I think I have had in your house, Julian.”
“Impossible!” said Worth.
“Well, perhaps it is not precisely the same,” conceded Lord Petersham, turning back to Miss Taverner. “A very delicate mixture, ma’am. It is easy to detect the hand and unerring taste of an expert.”
Miss Taverner, with her guardian’s ironic eye upon her, had the grace to blush.
It was soon time to go upstairs and change her gown for dinner. She was placed at table between Lord Robert Manners and Mr. Pierrepoint, nowhere near the Earl, and as he joined the Duke of York after dinner, with his host and another inveterate whist-player, whom everyone called Chig, she did not speak to him again that evening.
She was not the only lady to join the Hunt next day, but no more than three others had enough energy or enthusiasm to appear, and by no means all the gentlemen. She was somewhat surprised to find Mr. Brummell attired for riding when she came down to an early breakfast, and opened her eyes at him.
He drew out a chair for her beside his own. “I know,” he said understandingly, “but it has a good appearance, and one need not go beyond the second field.”
“Not go beyond the second field!” she echoed. “Why, won’t you go farther, Mr. Brummell?”
“No, I don’t think so,” he replied very gravely. “There is sure to be a farmhouse where I can get some bread and cheese, and you must know there is nothing I like better than that.”
“Bread and cheese instead of hunting!” she said. “I cannot allow it to be a choice!”
“Yes, but you see, if I went very far I should get my tops and leathers splashed by all the greasy, galloping farmers,” he replied softly.
But even her partiality for him could not induce Miss Taverner to smile at such a speech as that. She looked reproachful, and would only say: “I am persuaded you do not mean it.”
She was to discover later that he had for once spoken in all sincerity. He abandoned the Hunt after the first few fields, and was no more seen. She commented on it with strong disapproval to her guardian, who had drawn up beside her at a check, but he merely looked faintly surprised, and said that the notion of Brummell muddied and dishevelled from a long day in the saddle was too absurd to be contemplated. Upon reflection she had to admit him to be right.
Mr. Brummell, encountered again at dinner, was unabashed. He had discovered a very excellent cheese in a farmhouse he had not previously known to exist, had regaled himself on it, and having satisfied himself that no speck of mud sullied his snowy tops, had ridden gently back to Belvoir to discuss with his hostess a plan for landscape gardening which had occurred to him in the night watches.
Lord Worth did not join the whist-party after dinner, but repaired to the drawing-room with several others, and was at once claimed by Lady Jersey. A rubber of Casino was being played at one end of the room, but not very seriously, and the cardplayers, when asked, had not the least objection to a little music. The Duchess begged that Miss Crewe’s harp might be fetched, and Miss Crewe, after a proper display of bashfulness, and some prompting from her mama, consented. The Honourable Mrs. Crewe, turbaned and majestic, bore down upon Lady Jersey, and informed her that she thought her ladyship would be pleased with Charlotte’s performance.
“Your ladyship’s mama, dear Lady Westmorland, recommended Charlotte’s present master to me,” she announced. “The result, I venture to think, has been most happy. She has learned to apply, and has in general acquired a proficiency upon the instrument—but I shall await your judgment, and yours too, Lord Worth. Your taste may certainly be relied on.”
The Earl had risen at her approach. He bowed, and said in his most expressionless voice: “You flatter me, ma’am.”
“Oh no, that I am sure I do not! Anything of that sort is repugnant to my nature; you will not find me administering to anyone’s vanity, I can tell you. I say exactly what I think. Charlotte is more conciliatory, I believe. I do not know where you may find a more good-natured, amiable girl: it is quite absurd!” The Earl bowed again, but said nothing. Mrs. Crewe tapped his sleeve with her fan. “You shall tell me what you think of her performance, but I do beg of you not to watch the child too closely, for I have had a great piece of work inducing her to play at all with you present. The nonsensical girl sets so much store by your opinion it is quite ridiculous! ‘Oh, Mama!’ she said to me, as we came downstairs, ‘if there should be music, don’t, I beg of you, press me to play! I am sure I cannot with Lord Worth’s critical eyes upon me!’”
“I will engage, ma’am, to turn my eyes elsewhere,” replied the Earl.
“Oh, nonsense, I have no notion of indulging girls in such folly,” said Mrs. Crewe. “‘Depend upon it, my love,’ I told her, ‘Lord Worth will be very well pleased with your performance.’”
The harp had been brought into the room by this time, and Mrs. Crewe sailed back to fuss over her daughter, to direct Mr. Pierrepoint to move a branch of candles nearer, and Lord Alvanley to bring up a more suitable chair.
Worth resumed his seat beside Lady Jersey, and gave her one expressive glance. Her eyes were dancing. “Oh, my dear Julian, do you see? You must sit and gaze at Charlotte throughout! Now, that isn’t ill-natured of me, is it? Such a detestable, matchmaking woman! I beg you won’t offer for Charlotte. I shall never ask you to Osterley again if you do, and you know that would be too bad when you are one of my oldest friends.”
“I can safely promise you I won’t,” replied the Earl.
His eyes had wandered by chance to where Miss Taverner was seated, at no great distance, and rested there for a moment. Miss Taverner was not looking at him; she was conversing in a quiet voice with a lively brunette.
Lady Jersey followed the direction of the Earl’s glance, and shot him one quick, shrewd look. “My dear Worth, I have always agreed with you,” she said saucily. “She is lovely—quite beautiful!”
The Earl turned his eyes upon her. “Don’t talk, Sally: you interrupt Miss Crewe.”
And indeed by this time Miss Crewe had run one hand across the strings of the harp, and was about to begin.
Mrs. Crewe, anxiously watching his lordship, had the doubtful felicity of seeing that he kept his word to her. Beyond bestowing one cursory glance upon the fair performer, he did not look at her again, but inspected instead his companion’s famous pink pearls. He did indeed join in the applause that greeted the song, but with all his habitual languor. Miss Crewe was begged to sing again, though not by him, and after a little show of reluctance, complied. My Lord Worth sank his chin in his cravat, and gazed abstractedly before him.
The second piece being at an end, and Miss Crewe properly complimented and thanked, Lady Jersey leaned forward impulsively and addressed Miss Taverner. “Miss Taverner, surely I am not mistaken in thinking that you play, and sing too?”
Judith looked up. “Very indifferently, ma’am. I have no skill on the harp.”
“But the pianoforte! I am persuaded you could give us all great pleasure if you would!”
The Duchess at once added her entreaties to Lady Jersey’s, and Lord Alvanley, deserting Miss Crewe, went across to her, and said in his cheerful way: “Now, do pray sing for us, Miss Taverner! We can never be brought to believe that you don’t sing, you know! Do you not give us all the lead in everything?”
Judith coloured, and shook her head. “No, indeed; you put me quite out of countenance. My performance on the pianoforte is nothing at all out of the common, I assure you.”
The Duchess said kindly: “Do not be doing anything you would rather not, Miss Taverner. but I believe I can engage for it we shall all listen to you with considerable pleasure.”
“Worth!” said Alvanley. “Use your influence, my dear fellow! You can command where we may only supplicate!”
“Well, here is a piece of work!” exclaimed Mrs. Crewe, by no means pleased at the turn events had taken. “It is an odd thing to hear you begging the indulgence of music, Lord Alvanley. I am sure you had rather be at the card-table.”
“Oh, come, ma’am,” said Alvanley easily, “you are giving me a sad character, you know.”
“Well, I have never known you to stay away from the whist-table before,” she persisted.
“You will make me feel you are anxious to be rid of me,” he said. “If you can tell me if there is any chance of the Ten Tribes of Israel being discovered, I promise you I will go and play whist when I have heard Miss Taverner sing.”
“What in the world can you mean? You are the oddest creature, I protest!”
“Why, ma’am, only that I have exhausted the other two tribes, and called out the conscription of next year. Worth! you say nothing! Compel Miss Taverner!”
Judith, who had recovered her countenance, got up. “Indeed, it is not necessary! You make me seem very ungracious, sir, and I am afraid you will be disappointed in my performance after Miss Crewe’s excellence.”
Lord Worth rose, and walking over to the pianoforte opened it for her. As Alvanley led her up to it, he said in a low voice: “Have you music? May I fetch it for you?”
She shook her head. “I brought none. I must play from memory, and beg you all to pardon my deficiencies.”
“That is a very prettily-behaved, unaffected girl,” whispered the Duchess of Dorset to her hostess. “Did you say eighty or ninety thousand pounds, my dear?”
Miss Taverner settled herself on the music-stool, and spread her fingers over the keys. The Earl placed himself in a chair near the pianoforte, and fixed his eyes on her face.
She sang a simple ballad; her voice, though not powerful, was sweet, and well-trained. She accompanied herself creditably, and looked so beautiful that it was not to be wondered at that her performance should be greeted with extravagant acclaim. She was begged to sing again, and accused of hiding her light under a bushel. She blushed, shook her head, sang one more ballad, and resolutely got up from the pianoforte.
“If she had had the benefit of good masters she would sing quite tolerably,” said Mrs. Crewe in an undervoice to Lady Jersey. “It is a pity she puts on such an air of consequence. But so it is always with these lanky, overgrown females!”
Miss Taverner had moved away from the instrument towards the window embrasure. The Earl followed her, and sat down beside her there. “There is no end to your accomplishments,” he remarked.
“Please don’t be absurd!” said Miss Taverner. “You at least do not want for sense, and to talk as though my singing were in any way superior is a great piece of folly!”
“It gave me pleasure,” he answered mildly. “Would you prefer me to tell you that you have very little voice, and no particular skill?”
She smiled. “It would be the truth, and more what I am growing used to hear from you. But I did not mean to be rude.”
“You are absolved,” he said gravely. “Tell me, do you like to be here? Are you enjoying your visit?”
“Yes, very much. Everyone has been so kind! I might have been acquainted with them all my life. I wish Perry could have been here. He is staying with the Fairfords, you know.” She gave a little laugh. “His regard for Miss Fairford shows no sign of abating. I did not more than half like it when he offered for her. but I begin to think that she may do very well for him. She is the oddest little creature! so young and shy, and yet with a great deal of common sense. She makes Perry mind her already, which I could never succeed in doing.”
“How long does Peregrine mean to stay in Hertfordshire?” inquired the Earl.
“I am not perfectly sure. Certainly for a week, and I should suppose for longer.”
He nodded. “Well, unless he contrives to break his neck on the hunting-field, he should not come to much harm there.”
“He won’t do that; he rides very well, better than he drives.” She looked at him undecidedly, and opened and shut her fan once or twice. “I spoke to you once about Perry, Lord Worth.”
“You did.”
“I am no less anxious now. He needs to be steadied. If you cannot do that will you not give another the right?”
“Whom, for instance?” asked his lordship.
“Miss Fairford,” she replied seriously.
“I was under the impression that I had given it to her.”
“If you would give your consent to an earlier marriage!” She coaxed. “I do indeed believe Perry’s affection to be deep-rooted. He will not change.”
He shook his head. “No, Miss Taverner. That I will not do. I cannot imagine what possessed me to countenance the betrothal at all.”
She was a little startled, and turned in her chair to look at him more fully. “Why should you not? What is this change of face?”
He returned her gaze in a considering way, but after a slight pause, he merely said: “He is too young.”
She felt that he had not told her the real reason; she was annoyed, but tried not to show it. “Perhaps he is too young; I do not deny that I thought so at first. But now I feel that marriage would be the very thing for him. Miss Fairford does not like London, and I believe she would wish to reside the most of the year in Yorkshire. And it would be best for Perry, after all. He gets into dangerous scrapes in town. Only the other day—” She stopped, looked a little confused, and said after a moment: “Well, that is nothing. It is over now, and I should not have spoken. But I have been in some alarm about him.”
“You refer, I collect, to the duel which did not take place,” said the Earl.
She raised her eyes quickly. “You knew of that?”
“My dear Miss Taverner, when challenges are offered at the Cock-Pit it is not wonderful that there should be no secrecy attached to the subsequent meeting.”
“The Cock-Pit! That I had not heard! If you knew how much I detest cocking, and all that it leads to! I have had to see as many as a hundred cocks walking on my father’s estate, and to know that both he and Perry—but this is beside the point. I begin to understand now how it all came about. If it had not been for the intervention of one who has proved himself very much our friend, Perry might not be alive to-day.” The Earl turned a singularly penetrating gaze upon her. “Pray go on, Miss Taverner. Who was this well-disposed person?”
“My cousin, Mr. Bernard Taverner,” she replied. He lifted his quizzing-glass. “Your cousin. Are you sure that it was he who intervened?”
“Why, yes,” she said, rather surprised. “He was to some extent in Perry’s confidence. Perry taxed him with it afterwards, and he could not deny it. It is only one more instance of his consideration, his regard for us.”
The Earl kept, his glass up. “This gentleman is a good deal in your confidence, I gather.”
“I know of no reason why he should not be,” said Judith, a little stiffly. “I believe him to be very worthy of our confidence. He is not only our cousin, but most truly our friend.”
He lowered his glass. “He is fortunate to have so easily secured your good opinion,” he said. “Does he advise an early marriage for Peregrine, I wonder?”
“He has not told me so,” said Judith.
“No doubt he will,” said his lordship. “You may tell him, when he does, that I have not the least intention of permitting Peregrine to marry yet awhile.”
He got up, but she detained him. “I don’t know why you should take this tone, Lord Worth, nor why, having promised your consent to Perry’s marriage next year, you should suddenly change your mind.”
“Oh,” said the Earl with a sardonic smile, “you may take it that I have too nice a sense of my duty to allow my ward to entangle himself in matrimony so young.”
“That is not the true answer,” she said. “For some reason it does not suit you to see Perry married. I should wish to know what that reason is.”
“At the moment,” said the Earl, “I fear I cannot call it to mind.”
He left her considerably put out. She had been in a fair way to acknowledge herself to have been mistaken in him, and now, just as she had warmed towards him, he made her angry again. She looked after him resentfully, until her consciousness was recalled by Mr. Pierrepoint, who came up to ask her if she would join a lottery-table in the next room.
She went at once, and did not set eyes on the Earl again until she went with the rest of the ladies to bed. He was in the hall with several of the other men of the party then, and he gave her her candle. As she took it from him, with downcast eyes and a very sober countenance, he clasped her wrist in a light hold, and said quietly: “Do you dislike me as much as ever? It is a pity. Try not to let your prejudice lead you into mistrusting me. You have no need.” He paused. “Look at me!”
She raised her eyes. He smiled faintly. “Obedient girl! If you had as much confidence in my integrity as you have in your cousin’s it would be no bad thing.”
“I do not mistrust you,” she answered in a low voice. “We shall be remarked. Please let me go, Lord Worth!”
He released her. “One of a guardian’s privileges is to be seen talking to his ward without occasioning remark,” he said. “I can assure you he has not many.”
She set her hand on the stair-rail, preparing to follow Lady Jersey. She looked a little arch. “Is your position as my guardian so painful, sir?”
“It is a damnable position,” he said deliberately, and turned away, leaving her staring.