“Oh, nothing!” said Kit bitterly. “Merely, that I love Ravenscar’s sister!”
Mr Kennet opened his eyes at this. “You do, do you? And what has that to say to anything?”
“How can you be such a fool? What hope have I of obtaining Ravenscar’s consent to our marriage when my sister can think of nothing better to do than to shut him up in the cellar?”
Lady Bellingham felt impelled to defend her niece, and said: “She did it for the best, Kit. She did not know that you were going to be married to Miss Ravenscar!”
Kennet glanced sideways at Kit. “Married, eh?”
“And why not?” Kit demanded. “Is it so extraordinary?”
A smile lurked about the corners of Kennet’s mouth.
“Faith, I’m thinking it would be!” he said.
“Yes! And I hold you as much to blame as Deb! More, indeed!”
“Maybe you’re right at that,” agreed Kennet, still apparently amused by some secret thought.
Lady Bellingham raised her head from the yellow cushion. “I am sure it has all been most unfortunate,” she said. “And I can’t but feel that since Deb had got Ravenscar in the cellar—not that I approve of such a thing, for I don’t, and I never shall—but since he was there, it does seem to me a pity to have let him go without getting those dreadful bills from him! Now he will start dunning me, or persecuting us in some odious way, and you know what will happen next! Deb will try to teach him another lesson, and all will end in disaster! Sometimes I think that I might be happier in a debtors’ prison!”
With these gloomy words, she withdrew to her own room, to spend a restless night dreaming of coachmakers’ bills; green peas, rats, candle-ends, and cellars teeming with bound men.
Lord Mablethorpe had had the intention, if Miss Grantham were willing, to drive her and Phoebe into the country next morning. A hurried note to Phoebe was brought round by hand at ten o’clock, explaining the sudden change in his plans, and promising to call in St James’s Square that evening to report on the result of the curricle- race. Miss Laxton gave a startled exclamation when she read this letter, and thrust it into Deborah’s hand, saying in a faint voice: “Oh, he may be killed!”
“Killed? Nonsense!” said Miss Grantham, running her eye down the paper. “I declare, I am quite tired of hearing about this race! I am sure Adrian has talked of little else for the past week. Thank heaven it will be over by tomorrow, and we need hear no more about it! As though it signified!”
“Gentlemen think so much of those things,” sighed Miss Laxton. “Oh, I hope Mr Ravenscar will beat Sir James! Adrian says there is not another whip to compare with him, but if Sir James’s horses are as good as people say—” Miss Grantham clapped her hands over her ears. “You, too!” she said reproachfully. “Not another word! For my part, I wish they might both contrive to break their necks!”
“Oh, Deb, not when Adrian will be in his cousin’s curricle!” shuddered Phoebe.
“Well, if Ravenscar is such a fine whip there can be little likelihood of any accident occurring,” said Miss Grantham.
Phoebe looked at her with wonder. “You are so brave!” she said humbly. “I wish I were, but, alas, I am not!”
“Good heavens, child, what have I to be afraid of?” asked Miss Grantham, at a loss.
“But, Deb! Adrian!”
“Oh!” said Miss Grantham, rather blankly. “To be sure, yes my dear!”
“I do not know how we are to be at ease until we know that the race is safely over,” sighed Phoebe.
“Very true,” agreed Miss Grantham, preparing to put the matter out of her mind.
She succeeded in this very well, being a good deal taken up with her own problems; but it was evident, from her restless ness, and the anxious pucker between her brows, that Miss Laxton could think of nothing else. When dusk fell and shi thought they might reasonably expect to see Lord Mablethorpe, she stationed herself in the saloon in the front of the house, and kept a watch on the darkening square through the lace curtains that shrouded the windows. Dinner was announced before that familiar figure was seen, and she was obliged to go downstairs, and to make a pretence of eating. Miss Grantham, perceiving her unrest, reminded her that the contestants would certainly dine early at Hatfield, and could not be looked for in London again for some time yet. Miss Laxton agreed to it, but felt disinclined to eat her dinner.
Mr Grantham was present, but it was seen that he was not in spirits. He appeared to be brooding over some secret trouble, and although it did not impair his appetite, it rendered him incapable of bearing more than a monosyllabic part in any conversation. He had contrived, through the connivance of Miss Ravenscar’s handmaiden (who was beginning to cherish dreams of retiring from service in the near future on the accumulated bribes she had received from her mistress’s numerous admirers), to arrange an assignation with the volatile Arabella. He had reached the rendezvous a full half hour too soon, Miss Ravenscar had joined him half-an-hour late, and with apparently no recollection of the promises of eternal fidelity exchanged a bare week before, at Tunbridge Wells. She was perfectly ready to flirt with him, hoped to meet him at the Pantheon Ball, but said that she thought, after all, that it would be stuffy to be married. Mr Grantham suspected her strongly of having transferred her affections to another, and taxed her with this treachery. Miss Ravenscar laughed mischievously, and refused to answer. Mr Grantham then put forward a very daring plan he had formed, of taking her to the masquerade at Ranleagh on the following evening. To escape from chaperonage, under pretence of going to bed with the headache, and to spend a stolen evening at a masked ball with a forbidden suitor, was just such an adventure as might have been certain of making an instant appeal to Miss Ravenscar, but, greatly to Kit’s chagrin, she cast down her eyes demurely, and said she must not think of such a thing. From the quiver at the corners of her mouth, Kit suspected that she had already thought of it, and was indeed going to the masquerade, though not in his company. It was no wonder that he should have returned to his aunt’s house in low spirits.
There was no card-party that evening. Kit went out soon after dinner, and the three ladies prepared to spend a quiet hour or two with the blinds drawn, and a snug fire burning in the Yellow Saloon. Lady Bellingham, however, soon retired to bed, complaining that the stress of the past week had quite worn her down; arid while Miss Laxton pretended to be bus with some sewing, but in reality set very few stitches, Miss Grantham flicked over the pages of a romance, and tried to hit upon an infallible plan for gaining possession of her aunt’s bills which would not entail surrendering to the enemy, but which would, on the contrary, place him in a position of the greatest discomfiture.
At ten o’clock the knock which Miss Laxton had been waiting to hear at last fell upon the front-door, and she let her needlework drop to the floor. “That must be he!”
Miss Grantham looked up. “I won’t receive him!” she said.
Phoebe stared at her in alarm. “Deb! Why, what has he done?” she faltered, turning quite pale.
“What has he done? Oh, you are talking of Mablethorpe.”
“But, dearest Deb, whom else should I be talking about asked Miss Laxton, puzzled.
Miss Grantham blushed. “I was thinking of something different,” she excused herself.
Light footsteps were heard running up the stairs; the next instant Lord Mablethorpe stood on the threshold, flushed, an a little dishevelled, and still dressed in a drab driving-coat, and topboots, both generously splashed with mud. “We won!” I announced, his eyes sparkling.
Phoebe clapped her hands. “Oh, I knew you would. I am so glad! And you are safe!”
He laughed. “Safe? Of course I am! There never was such race! It was beyond anything great! I do not know when enjoyed anything so much! Oh, Deb, do you mind me in my dirt? I thought you would not: I knew you would want hear all about it! May I come in?”
“Of course you may come in,” she said, picking up Phoebe work, and folding it neatly. “Have you dined, or would you like some supper?”
“Oh, no, thank you! We dined early in Hatfield, and I had supper with Max, at his house, just now. It was touch and go once or twice—only fancy our falling in behind an Accommodation coach on the narrow part of the road this side of Potter’s Bar! I thought all was over with us, for you must know that Filey led for the first part of the way, and was ahead of the coach. But there was never anyone like Max! You know when the road divides, at the Hadley Highstone, the Holyhead
