Mrs Chalfont Makes A Decision

7

Mrs Chalfont Makes A Decision

    Delphie Amory sat up in bed with shining eyes. “How perfectly splendid!”

    There was a harried look in the Colonel’s eye. “Now, slow down, my love, we must not read too much into—”

    “Oh, pooh, Richard!” she cried. “You said yourself he would not hear of handing the matter over to you!”

    “Noël has never shirked his responsibilities,” he said stiffly.

    “No, but has he ever before this gone out of his way to take on added ones when he did not need to?” retorted Mrs Amory swiftly.

    Richard sighed. “No, that’s very true, my love, but all I am saying is, do not be too precipitate. It—it may just be a distraction of the moment. You know he has been bored and restless for some time. He may be more interested in—in occupying himself with a new problem than in—uh—” He glanced uneasily at his daughter.

    “Rubbish!” said Mrs Amory.

    “Do you think Cousin Noël will wish to marry Cherry, Papa?” asked the thirteen-year-old Lizzie eagerly.

    “You are putting ideas into the child’s head!” he cried.

    “No, she is not, Papa. I thought of it for myself!”

    The Colonel sank down onto the edge of the bed with a wild look his eye. “Women!”

    Lizzie giggled delightedly.

    “Next you will claim it never entered your head,” noted his wife.

    “It—Well, I— No, but look, Delphie, it won’t do to jump to conclusions.”

    “No, but one can hope. And as for offering to take the business off his hands, I never heard of anything so silly; sometimes I wonder where you keep your brains, my love!” said Mrs Amory cheerfully. “Of course we must encourage him to do it all himself!”

    “And then he will fall in love with her,” said Lizzie with a deep sigh. “I think she is pretty, even if she is too skinny for Uncle Bobby.”

    “Who told you that?” gasped her father.

    “He did, of course. The day he collected me from school to take tea with him and Grandmamma. We saw Cherry going into her house and I said, Did he think she was pretty, and Uncle Bobby said she was pretty enough, but too skinny.”

    The Colonel looked at her limply.

    “And then we saw the lady who has taken the Onslows’ old house,”—the Colonel blenched, and avoided catching his wife’s eye—“and I said, Did he think she was pretty, and Uncle Bobby said: ‘Very!’” She paused on this triumphant note.

    Delphie swallowed. “Did you and Uncle Bobby speak to the lady, Lizzie?”

    “No, for she was getting into a chair,” she said regretfully. “We just smiled and waved and she waved back. –She was very furry, Delphie, you have never seen such a furry lady! Her cloak was black fur, and she had a huge black muff, and even fur round her bonnet!”

    “Yes,” said Delphie faintly.

    “At least he had that much sense,” noted the Colonel grimly.

    “Mm. –Lizzie, darling, would you run along? I wish talk to Papa. You may see Cherry later, you know. And Cousin Noël.”

    Lizzie ascertained that it was a promise, and departed obediently.

    “She is too young to be hatching matrimonial plots!” said her father indignantly.

    “Don’t be silly, Richard, it’s only natural. And your mother does not scruple to speak of her hopes for Bobby and Noël in front of her, you know. But it is not matrimonial plots!” said Delphie with a gurgle of laughter. “It is only... hopes!”

    “Aye. Hopes.” He gave her a hard look.

    “Well, Bobby is obviously not interested, why should not Noël have Cherry?” she said airily. “No, but seriously, dearest, the sooner this business of Lady Benedict’s antecedents is sorted out, the better. We cannot keep a guard on Lizzie every time she calls at Lymmond Square to see her Grandmamma.”

    “No,” he said glumly. “But I cannot keep chivvying General Kernohan, my dear. He will contact me as soon as he hears from Portugal.”

    “Yes. Well, there are only a couple of weeks remaining before the school closes for the Christmas holiday, and it’s too cold for Lizzie to walk to her Grandmamma’s after school—or at the least we may say so, if she suggests it,” she said tranquilly; Richard blenched slightly, but nodded. “We must just take care not to let her out of our sight when she is in Lymmond Square. And she cannot ask to play in the garden,” she said with a choke of laughter, “for it is all burned up!”

    “Very true,” he said, twinkling. “Well, my love, do you feel up to coming downstairs?”

    “Yes, I am very well,” said Delphie firmly, getting out of bed. “And I wish to make sure that you do not foolishly attempt to take the direction of the affair out of Noël’s hands again!”

    Her husband smiled weakly, but did not protest.

    Sir Noël departed soon after breakfast for the town, taking with him notes for Mrs Chalfont from both Cherry and Delphie. The Amorys together had come to the conclusion that, whatever the ins and outs of the locked front door might be, it would be better if Cherry were to stay with Richard and Delphie for a little, to allow her mother a cooling-off period. Whether this had been a tactical error they were never afterwards able to decide.

    The baronet returned towards midday with a very grim look round his mouth.

    Richard closed the door of the study carefully. “They’re upstairs, sorting out some clothes for Cherry. Well?”

    “The woman is—” Noël took a deep breath.

    “Sit down, dear boy, and have a glass of something.” Richard rang the bell.

    Noël paced restlessly round the study. “I cannot sit down, Richard, I am so furious I could barely sit still in the carriage coming back. God!”

    Richard gave him a warning look as the footman came in. “Hot buttered rum?”

    “Life-saver!” returned his nephew fervently.

    “Go on,” said the Colonel as the footman closed the door behind him.

    “I don’t know where the Hell to start!” said Noël, rumpling his perfectly arranged, glossy brown locks furiously.

    “No. Well, did she let you in, Noël?”

    “Er—that is very hard to answer!” he said with a mad laugh. Richard stared. “Well, the door was opened to me, certainly, by a red-eyed parlourmaid. I handed her my hat, y’know, and said I would very much appreciate a word with her mistress. She didn’t offer to take my greatcoat, and I was damned glad she had not, for she left me to cool my heels in the hall, and it was cold as charity—reminded me of that time the regiment was snowed in, in Spain! Anyway, I was left to kick my heels for half an hour by the clock. Then the maid came back and said her mistress would see me in an hour’s time!”

    “What?”

    “Aye! I was damned taken aback, but I agreed to it, and went over to Grandmamma’s to warm myself up by a decent fire. Wondering what the Devil, y’know.”

    “Mm. Was Mamma up?”

    “No, but she was awake, so I went up to her. But she was looking a bit pulled, so I merely said that I’d been so late that I’d pushed on to your place last night.”

    Richard smiled at him. “Of course.”

    “Well, no sense in droppin’ old Stopes in it,” he said uncomfortably.

    “No sense at all, dear fellow!”

    “And I—uh—well, I felt I should like to sort Miss Chalfont’s mess out before mentioning it to Grandmamma.”

    “Yes, very natural. So you went back to the Chalfont house?”

    Noël wrinkled his straight nose. “Yes.”

    “And?”

    He bit his lip, and fiddled with an ornament on the mantel. “Richard, I— Oh,” he said in relief as the Amorys’ butler came in with a steaming silver bowl. “Wonderful! Just what I need! I am chilled to the bone, Pomfret, we are certainly having true December weather, are we not?”

    Pomfret agreed they were, added that he could assure Sir Noël that Mr Kettle was feeling much more the thing, asked if there should be anything more, assured the Colonel that the game pie would be ready in a hour’s time, and exited.

    Noël sipped hot buttered rum with a sigh. “That’s better!”

    “Mm,” the Colonel agreed, eyeing him cautiously over the rim of his glass.

    “God, I don’t know how to put it, Richard! It was the last thing I expected!”

    “Go on.”

    “Well, this time the maid ushered me into a small sitting-room. Mrs Chalfont was there, and the widowed sister that lives with her, and—uh—she had lined up some uncle, a Mr Ketteridge, and—uh—a damned lawyer,” he said, swallowing.

    Richard stared at him.

    “Aye, you may well stare!” he said bitterly, draining his glass and setting it down on the mantel with a snap. “Well, first off she asked me if it was true her daughter had spent the night in my company!”

    “Oh, my God,” said Richard Amory slowly.

    “Quite! I explained precisely what had happened. Making it quite clear that both the girl and I had done our damnedest to get in. Not to say that if I had not happened along, she would have been locked out in the square until morning!”

    Richard nodded. “What did she say?”

    “She appeared not to have taken in a word, or if she had she took no account of it, for she then informed me that I had utterly compromised her daughter and if an offer of honourable marriage was not forthcoming, I might expect a solicitor’s letter. At the which point she introduced the solicitor. –I have seldom seen a fellow look so uncomfortable,” he added thoughtfully.

    “Good God, Noël, it is beyond anything!”

    “Aye, so I thought,” he said wryly. “Ironic, is it not? For once in my life I had no thought but doin’ the right thing.”

    “That is a silly exaggeration, Noël,” said his uncle firmly.

    “Very well, the kindly thing,” he said, shrugging.

    “Yes. Um, what did you say?”

    Noël pulled a face. “I lost my temper. Though I do not know that I let it show,” he added thoughtfully. “I was very icily polite, and said—er—words to the effect that I had noticed her concern for her daughter’s welfare did not extend to asking after her health, after those hours in the cold, but that I could assure her she was now warm and well looked after, and—er—that if she imagined an Amory was about to let himself be jockeyed into making an offer in order to gratify the matrimonial ambitions of a woman whose idea of propriety was to let her daughter walk out of the house unnoticed, she had very much mistaken the case. And her solicitors would be hearing from my solicitors! –Cannot imagine what old Hawke will say, if it do come to that,” he noted ruefully. “And then I went on to say that just by the by I did not consider her conduct towards Miss Chalfont last night to have been fully explained, and if I did not speedily have a written explanation as to just how it came about that the girl had been locked out of her home, she might expect to see me turning up with a magistrate at my side. And she could address the letter to me at your house.”

    Richard had swallowed loudly, but he nodded.

    “Then I bowed, and withdrew in good order,” said Noël, making a hideous face.

    Richard chewed on his lip. Finally he said: “I do not think, in your position, I would have acted otherwise, dear boy.”

    Suddenly Noël sighed, and sat down heavily. “Yes, you would, dear old fellow. You would most certainly not have got upon your high horse, for a start. Or implied that poor little Miss Chalfont was not good enough for you.” He passed a hand wearily across his face. “Hell.”

    Silently Richard poured him another rum.

    “Thanks. –Oh: forgot. This is for you. But there is no note for Miss Chalfont,” he said grimly, producing an envelope from his pocket.

    Richard opened it slowly. “It is written by the lawyer,” he said dazedly.

    “You astound me,” responded his nephew sourly.

    Richard read it through, an expression of mingled wrath and incredulity gathering on his pleasant face. Noël watched him with a sardonic look hovering round his long mouth.

    “This is blackmail!” he gasped.

    Noël merely replied: “May I?” and held out his hand for it.

    Richard hesitated.

    Noël shrugged. “I can guess.”

    “I suppose it is no worse than she said to your face.” Richard handed him the letter.

    Mrs Chalfont through her solicitor gave Colonel Amory to understand that Miss Chalfont would not be accepted back into the parental home until her engagement to Sir Noël Amory was published.

    Noël crushed the letter furiously in his hand. “How can she! The poor little thing!” he choked.

    Richard was not at all displeased to see that his nephew’s first thought had been for Cherry. “Yes,” he agreed neutrally.

    “Look— Look— Damn,” he said, getting up and again striding round the room.

     Richard helped himself to some more rum and sipped it slowly, watching him.

    Noël came to a stop by the hearth looking very grim. “I had better do it.”

    Richard replied calmly: “There is not the least need. You are blameless in the affair. And Cherry may stay with us for as long as she likes.”

    “Don’t be absurd! Do you imagine the story will not very speedily be all over Bath? That damned aunt looked like the cat that had got at the cream! And if she don’t spread it, you may be bound the servants will!”

    “Possibly the story that Cherry has fled her home: yes. But I do not see that your part in it will become known, Noël.”

    “Rubbish! I have called at the house twice in a morning! Miss Carey was out with a basket on her arm and saw me go in the first time, and the second time that fat flawn Lowell was just about to go into Cadwallader’s house as I went in, and Miss Diddy Carey—whether by a coincidence or not I should not care to have to decide,” he noted acidly, “was walking past very slow just as I came out.”

    Richard bit his lip. “They may not make the connection.”

    “They may not make the connection today, you mean!”

    Richard swallowed.

    “I had best make up my mind to it. –Well, Mamma will be pleased, she will ride rough-shod over her,” he added with a grimace.

    “Noël, you do not even know the girl. It would be most ill-advised to rush into something like that. And you are not at fault in the matter. At least consult old Hawke!”

    “I’ll think it over. I shall do nothing today, at all events,” he said, frowning.

    “No: very wise. And though I did not think so at the first, I think you are right about bringing a magistrate in on the thing. We shall have to wait and see if the woman writes you an explanation as to the door’s being locked—and mind you, we shall have to accept any lie she may care to write—but if she does not, I know a very decent fellow: his name is— Oh,” said Richard in dismay.

    “Chalfont?” suggested Noël coldly, raising his eyebrows.

    “Ketteridge,” said Richard feebly.

    Noël snorted.

    “Was the uncle a man in his late forties, dark-haired but with two distinctive wings of silver over his temples? A high-coloured face, showing the shadow of a heavy beard?”

    “No. He was florid, certainly. About as fat as old Lowell. I’d put him down at seventy if a day.”

    “Oh. Paul Ketteridge’s father’s cousin, I think. Er—still, Paul is a very decent fellow...”

    “A very decent fellow who will not object to seeing his little cousin, or whatever relation she may be, marry into our family!” he said impatiently.

    “There are other magistrates.”

    Noël sighed. “Yes. Well, pray find me one. –I’ll just go and change before we eat.”

    “Very well, dear boy.”

    Noël went out slowly, still with that grim look round his mouth.

    “Oh, Hell and damnation, the woman is like to ruin everything!” said Richard Amory crossly. “There was never a man who less liked to feel he was manoeuvred into something! He will propose, and immure her down in Devon, and never so much as look at her for the rest of her life!” –This, of course, was perilously near to admitting to a matrimonial plot. But then, he had had the morning in which to picture Noël married to Cherry. And there was no-one else in his study to hear him admit it.

    Meredith Chalfont was very white. “Of course Cherry must come to us,” he said. “There can be no question— I cannot understand why Mamma did not instantly apprise me of the situation, Colonel Amory!”

    The Colonel and Sir Noël were visiting Cherry’s brother together, but the Colonel had asked Noël if he might handle this interview, and his nephew had agreed. It was obvious to both of them that Cherry’s description of her brother’s house as “little” had been no exaggeration. Indeed, it was so small that at this very moment the sounds of a baby wailing could clearly be heard from Mr Chalfont’s minute study, into which the introduction of a second visitor’s chair had caused some embarrassment.

    “We are very happy to have her spend a little holiday with us, Mr Chalfont,” said Colonel Amory soothingly. “And from what I can hear at this moment, I think possibly our house can better support a visitor just now!”

    Meredith flushed.

    “Our own baby,” said the Colonel, smiling very much, “is not due until next July. But my wife would certainly be very glad of some company in the meantime.”

    “Oh!” said Meredith, grinning all over his amiable face. “I see, sir! Of course! –If you are sure,” he added, the grin fading.

    “Indeed. We shall talk it over again in the New Year. I think perhaps your mamma may see things in a different light by then, mm?”

    “You do not know her, sir,” said Mr Chalfont unhappily. “Um—but possibly Uncle Ketteridge may have talked some sense into her by then,” he added without hope.

    Colonel Amory agreed, shook hands with him, smiling very kindly, and accepted his ardent gratitude for his and Mrs Amory’s kindness to his sister, and a rather muddled message of love and support from both Merry and June for Cherry.

    “He seems a pleasant enough fellow,” he said when they were out on the pavement again.

    “Will he have the backbone to stand up to the mother, though?” returned Noël.

    Colonel Amory grimaced. “I’m not sure. At least he is on his sister’s side.”

    “Yes. Though if it were my sister, I should be coming straight back to Doubleday House with us to see she is all right!” said the fashionable baronet grimly.

    The Colonel smiled and took his arm. “Yes. But recollect he has a wife and small baby to whom he also owes a duty, Noël.”

    Noël sniffed slightly. “Say, rather, he is only too glad to have you take the responsibility for his sister off his hands!

    “My mind is made up,” said Mrs Chalfont coldly.

    “People will begin to talk,” warned Mrs Daveney, an odd mixture of glee and fear in her eyes.

    “Indeed?” she said coldly.

    Old Mr Ketteridge gave Lydia Daveney a look of dislike but said: “That is quite true, I am afraid, Evadne. Will you not at least consider having the girl return to her home?”

    “No,” said Mrs Chalfont coldly.

    Mr Ketteridge cast a desperate look at the lawyer. Coughing slightly, Mr Brown said: “My dear ma’am, perhaps you should reconsider the point of the letter about the door.”

    “No,” said Mrs Chalfont coldly.

    “Evadne, at least hear the man out!” said Mr Ketteridge, starting to sweat. Though it was not very warm in Evadne’s sitting-room.

    “I fear that Sir Noël Amory’s threat to put the matter before a magistrate was not an empty one, ma’am,” said Mr Brown. “The Amorys are a wealthy family with many influential connections.”

    “Yes: Sir Noël is said to have entertained the Prince Regent—I mean the King!—on his yacht,” put in Mrs Daveney.

    Mrs Chalfont gave her a look, and she subsided.

    “Are you suggesting that I should let that man blackmail me?” Mrs Chalfont then enquired of the lawyer.

    “Oh, no, indeed, ma’am! Quite the contrary, indeed! A letter would put our case so clearly on the side of right, ma’am! Greatly strengthen our hand! Why, he will not then have a leg to stand on!”

    Naturally Mrs Chalfont had told Mr Brown—and Uncle Ketteridge as well—that Cherry had been locked out accidentally, having crept out unbeknownst to anyone. This was not true: Smith had seen her go but had not admitted it until she was told to lock the door. As Mrs Chalfont was more than capable of rising without warning from a bed of sickness to check that the doors were in fact locked, poor Smith had quavered out the truth. Mrs Chalfont had ordered all the doors and windows locked and bolted instantly. Whether she had truly believed that no harm, except possibly a chill, could come to Cherry in respectable Lymmond Square at night was known to none but her own conscience. Nor was the household aware whether she had in fact known in whose company Cherry had departed at dead of night. Though she had certainly evinced no surprise when the red-eyed Smith had brought her the message that Sir Noël Amory had called, the following morning.

    “Hmm,” she now said thoughtfully. “I see your point. Very well, you may write it. I will read it before you send it, mind. And you need not mention the word ‘abduction’, for we do not wish to invite a lawsuit.”—Repressing a shudder, the lawyer agreed they did not.—“But you may most certainly work in the suggestion that my daughter was removed from Lymmond Square without her consent.”

    Mr Brown opened his mouth. He met Mr Ketteridge’s bloodshot blue eye. He gulped. “Very good, ma’am,” he said faintly.

    “That is all; you may go,” she said.

    Mr Ketteridge heaved himself up. “I’ll be off, too. But don’t forget, Evadne, I’m at your disposal.”

    On the pavement he said sourly to the lawyer: “I hope you did not expect to get offered a bite to eat in that house, me good fellow!”

    “No, sir,” said Mr Brown glumly.

    Uncle Ketteridge sniffed. “Aye. You will have to write what she wants, y’know. Only for God’s sake, tone it down! All we want is to get the fellow to make an offer, y’know! –Well, he has compromised the girl all right and tight, hasn’t he? Draggin’ her off alone with him in his carriage in the middle of the night!”

    “Sir, Colonel and Mrs Amory are very respectable people—”

    “Lor’, that don’t count! Girl was alone with this baronet fellow in his carriage for over an hour in the wee small hours! –And don’t you go thinkin’ that way! Remember who’s payin’ your fees!” he rumbled.

    No-one had as yet mentioned a fee and in fact at the time of the late Mr Chalfont’s demise Mr Brown had had considerable trouble in getting any fees at all out of the widow. “Yes, sir.”

    Uncle Ketteridge slapped him on the back. The little lawyer staggered. “That’s the ticket! Well, you may hop up into my carriage and come and take your mutton at my house!”

    “Thank you, sir!” he gasped in astonishment.

    Over the meal the old man attempted to pump him as to what he knew of Sir Noël Amory’s fortune and property, but as it was literally mutton, a huge shoulder accompanied by great boats of gravy, redcurrant jelly and steaming piles of roast potatoes, Mr Brown allowed himself very willingly to be pumped.

    “Mother, please! You cannot treat Cherry in this way!” said Merry with tears in his eyes.

    “My mind is made up,” said Mrs Chalfont coldly.

    Meredith got up. His lips trembled but he said with dignity: “Then I can only say that until you take Cherry back into our house as your daughter, I—I shall not come here, either.”

    “That is as you please,” said Mrs Chalfont coldly.

    “June is very upset!” he cried, going very red.

    “Then I suggest that you suggest to your sister that she accept an offer from Sir Noël Amory immediately.”

    “All he did was rescue her! –And if you think I have forgotten that time you deliberately locked me and Cherry out of the house, I have not!” he cried.

    Mrs Chalfont looked at him coldly. “Indeed? You have witnesses, I expect?”

    “Wit—” gasped Merry. “How can you? This is your only daughter!”

    “She has never known which side her bread is buttered on,” said Mrs Chalfont calmly. She picked up a book.

    “I shall tell Sir Noël we are everlastingly grateful to him, and to ignore everything you have said on the matter!” cried Merry wildly.

    “Then you are a fool.”

    Merry gave a choked sob and rushed out.

    “I see,” said Dr Witherspoon judiciously.

    Merry, June, June’s mother, June’s father, who was the Dean’s brother, and the Dean’s own wife all looked at him respectfully.

    “Hm,” said Dr Witherspoon judiciously. “Clearly your mother has become a trifle hysterical over the matter, my dear Meredith: and small wonder. It is no light matter, a daughter sneaking out in the night to attend some frivolous social occasion.”

    Merry and June exchanged horrified glances and quickly looked away again.

    “But Theodore—” began June’s mother.

    “Hush, my dear Miranda: I am thinking.”

    Everyone looked respectfully at Dr Witherspoon’s large, bland pink face as he thought.

    “Hm,” he said judiciously. “I will consult with your mother on the matter, my dear Meredith: I think there is no fear she will refuse to see me!”

    She had refused to see Mr and Mrs John Witherspoon.

    However, they all looked at Dr Witherspoon respectfully, and nodded.

    “My mind is made up,” said Mrs Chalfont coldly.

    Dr Witherspoon’s large face was neither bland nor pink: instead it was rather heated. Though Mrs Chalfont’s sitting-room was at its usual temperature. “My dear ma’am, the Amorys are an influential family!”

    “That is no reason for Sir Noël’s getting away with ruining my daughter.”

    Dr Witherspoon had wisely taken the precaution of driving out to Doubleday House to speak to Colonel Amory before tackling Mrs Chalfont. For though he did not approve of daughters who slipped out of the house to attend frivolous social occasions, he had known Mrs Chalfont for some considerable time.

    “I think there can be no question of that!” he said in a rallying tone. “Sir Noël is a respectable man and—er—well, not a young hothead, you know! And it is clear that he had his groom and his valet with him.”

    “I am quite sure his servants would say anything in his support.”

    “But— Well, at least receive your daughter into your house again, ma’am!”

    “I shall receive her when her reputation is re-established, Dean. I believe I have made that clear?” Mrs Chalfont rose. “As I said, my mind is made up,” she said coldly. “There is only one thing that can be done in this matter, and if Sir Noël Amory does not very speedily do it he will find himself with a lawsuit on his hands.”

    Dr Witherspoon stumbled to his feet. “But—”

    Mrs Chalfont rang the bell. “Smith will see you out.”

    Dr Witherspoon stumbled out.

    “People are beginning to talk, Evadne!” quavered Lydia Daveney.

    Mrs Chalfont gave her a hard look. “Indeed?”

    “My dear, you must accept Cherry back into the house! She will be ruined, indeed, if this goes on much longer!”

    “My mind is made up,” said Mrs Chalfont coldly.

    Mrs Daveney gulped and subsided. She was neither a brave nor a charitable-minded woman, but she had done her poor best.