herself, for if she did not, why didn’t she return as she said she would? Oh, she is the naughtiest piece imaginable!”
A deep groan brought her attention to bear upon her nephew. “Ay, Joshua, it is a sad thing for you,” she said kindly. “But you know I never thought she would have you; for she’s a monstrous pretty girl, and I always said she would make a brilliant marriage.”
“Marriage?” Joshua said deeply. “I wish you don’t live to see her something far other than a wife. Shameless, shameless!”
Mr. Simpkins supported his son. “Time enough to brag of marriages when you have her safe tied to the Marquis,” he said. “If the Duke is indeed from home you must find him. Good God, Clara, one would think you were glad the girl’s gone off like this!”
Mrs. Challoner, knowing her brother’s Puritanical views, hastily dissembled. She told him how she had found both the Duke and the Duchess of Avon absent from town, and he said that she must lose no time in running one or the other to earth. She had no notion how to set about this task, but her sister-in-law was able to assist her. Mrs. Simpkins had not read all the Court journals for years past in vain. Not only could she recite, unerringly, all his grace of Avon’s names and titles, but she was able to inform her sister-in-law that he had a brother living in Half Moon Street, and a sister who had married a commoner, and was now a widow.
Mr. Simpkins, upon hearing the name of his grace’s brother, brushed him aside. Lord Rupert Alastair was known to him by reputation, and he could assure his sister that this nobleman was depraved, licentious, and a spendthrift, and would be the last person in the world likely to aid her to force Vidal into marriage. He advised her to visit Lady Fanny Marling in the morning, and this she in the end decided to do.
Lady Fanny’s servants were not so well trained as those at Avon House, and Mrs. Challoner, by dint of saying that Lady Fanny would regret it if she refused to see her, managed to gain an entrance.
Lady Fanny, dressed in a négligée of Irish polonaise, with a gauze apron, and a point-lace lappet-head, received her in a small morning-room at the back of the house, and having a vague notion that she must be a mantua-maker or milliner come to demand payment of bills long overdue, she was in no very good humour. Mrs. Challoner had prepared an opening speech, but had no opportunity of delivering it, for her ladyship spoke first, and in a disconcerting fashion. “I vow and declare,” she said stringently, “things are come to a pretty pass when a lady is dunned in her own house! My good woman, you should be glad to have the dressing of me, and as for the people I’ve recommended you to, although I can’t say I’ve ever heard your name before — (I suppose you are Cerisette, or Mirabelle) — I am sure there must be dozens of them. And in any case I’ve not a penny in the world, so it is of no avail to force your way into my house. Pray do not stand there goggling at me!”
Mrs. Challoner felt very much as though she had walked by mistake into a madhouse. Instead of her fine speech, all she could think of to say was: “I do not want money, ma’am! You are quite mistaken!”
“Then if you don’t want money, what in the world do you want?” demanded her ladyship, opening her blue eyes very wide.
She had not offered her unwelcome visitor a chair, and somehow Mrs. Challoner did not care to take one without permission. She had not supposed that Lady Fanny would be so formidable, but formidable she certainly was, in spite of her lack of inches; and her imperious way of speaking, coupled with her air of the great lady, quite threw Mrs. Challoner off her balance. She said somewhat lamely: “I have come to you, ma’am, to learn where I may find the Duke of Avon.”
Lady Fanny’s jaw dropped. She stared at Mrs. Challoner with a mixture of astonishment and indignation. “The Duke of Avon?” she repeated incredulously.
“Yes, ma’am, the Duke of Avon,” reiterated Mrs. Challoner. “It is a matter concerning his honour, let me tell you, and I must see him at once.”
“Good God!” said her ladyship faintly. A flash of anger came into her eyes. “How dare you come to me?” she said. “I vow it passes all bounds! I shall certainly not direct you where you may find him, and I marvel that you should expect it of me.”
Mrs. Challoner took a firm hold on her reticule, and said with determination: “Either the Duke or her grace the Duchess I must see and will see.”
Lady Fanny’s bosom swelled. “You shall never carry your horrid tales to the Duchess, I promise you. I make no doubt at all it’s a pack of lies, but if you think to make mischief with my sister, let me tell you that I’ll not permit it”
“And let me assure you, ma’am, that if you try to prevent me seeing the Duke you will be monstrous sorry for it. Your ladyship need not suppose that I shall keep my mouth shut. If I do not obtain his grace’s direction from you I’ll make an open scandal of it, and so I warn you!”
Lady Fanny curled her lip disdainfully. “Pray do so, my good woman. Really, I find you absurd. Even were his grace ten years younger, I for one should never believe such a nonsensical story.”
Mrs. Challoner felt more than ever that she had strayed into a madhouse. “What has his grace’s age to do with it?” she said, greatly perplexed.
“Everything, I imagine,” replied Lady Fanny dryly.
“It has nothing at all to do with it!” said Mrs. Challoner, growing more and more heated. “You may think to fob me off, ma’am, but I appeal to you as a mother. Yes, your la’ship may well start. It is as a mother, a mother of a daughter that I stand here to-day.”
“Oh, I
Mrs. Challoner blinked at her. “Fifteen years, ma’am? She’s twenty! And as for foisting her on to the Duke, if he has a shred of proper feeling he will make the best of it — though I am far from admitting her to be unworthy of the very highest honours — and accept her as a daughter (and, indeed, she is a sweet, dutiful girl, ma’am, and reared in a most select seminary) without any demur.”
“My good woman,” said Fanny pityingly, “if you imagine that Avon will do anything of the kind you must be a great fool. He has no proper feelings, as you choose to term them, at all, and if he paid for the girl’s education (which I presume he must have done) I am amazed at it, and you may consider yourself fortunate.”
“Paid for her education?” gasped Mrs. Challoner. “He’s never set eyes on her! What in the name of Heaven is your la’ship’s meaning?”
Fanny looked at her narrowly for a moment. Mrs. Challoner’s bewilderment was writ large on her face. Fanny pointed to a chair. “Be seated, if you please,” she said. Mrs. Challoner sat down thankfully. “And now perhaps you will tell me in plain words what it is you want,” her ladyship continued. “Is this girl Avon’s child, or is she not?”
Mrs. Challoner took nearly a full minute to grasp the meaning of this question. When she had realized its import she bounced out of her chair again, and cried: “No, ma’am, she is not! And I’ll thank your la’ship to remember that I’m a respectable woman even if I wasn’t thought good enough for Mr. Challoner. He married me for all he came of such high and mighty folk, and I’ll see to it that his grace of Avon’s precious son marries my poor girl!”
Lady Fanny’s rigidity left her. “Vidal!” she said with a gasp of relief. “Good God, is
Mrs. Challoner was still fuming with indignation. She glared at Fanny, and said angrily: “All, ma’am? All? Do you call it nothing that your wicked nephew has abducted my daughter?”
Fanny waved her back to her chair. “You have all my sympathies, ma’am, I assure you. But your errand to my brother is quite useless. He will certainly not be moved to urge his son to marry your daughter.”
“Will he not then?” cried Mrs. Challoner. “I fancy he will be glad to buy my silence so cheaply.”
Fanny smiled. “I must point out to you, my good woman, that it is your daughter and not my nephew that would be hurt by this story becoming known. You used the word ‘abduct’; I know a vast deal to Vidal’s discredit, but I never yet heard that he was in the habit of carrying off unwilling females. I presume your daughter knew what she was about, and I can only advise you, for your own sake, to bear a still tongue in your head.”
This unexpected attitude on the part of her ladyship compelled Mrs. Challoner to play her trump card earlier than she had intended. “Indeed, my lady? You are very much in the wrong, let me tell you, and if you imagine my daughter is without powerful relatives, I can speedily undeceive you. Mary’s grandpapa is none other than a general in the army, and a baronet. He is Sir Giles Challoner, and he will know how to protect my poor girl’s honour.”
