The Hemingford Scandal. Mary Nichols
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Hemingford, do you ride?’ he asked her one day. They had been out in his carriage as far as Richmond and were coming back along the Kensington Road. She had not been that way since she had seen what she chose to call the apparition; as they approached the barracks, she could feel herself stiffening, holding her breath, half expecting to see it again. There were several officers about, but none that looked at all like Harry, and she let out an audible sigh.
‘Is anything wrong?’ he asked.
‘Not at all.’ She sat upright, inching away from him. ‘What were you saying? I am afraid I was not paying attention. I have been doing some work for Papa and it suddenly came to me that I should have pointed out an error to him.’
‘I believe he works you too hard. If you were to consent to be my wife, you would not have to do it.’
‘Oh, but I love doing it. And Papa could not manage without me.’
‘Is that why you have delayed giving me your answer?’
‘I suppose in part it must be.’
‘Then do not let it be a consideration. I can find him a good secretary.’
She laughed. ‘No one but me can understand his hand.’
‘Oh, I am sure someone could learn to decipher it, and perhaps he ought to try and make it easier to read.’ He paused. ‘You did not answer my question. Do you ride?’
He had a disconcerting way of abandoning the subject under discussion just when she was gathering herself up to answer him. Was it because he sensed her reluctance to delve deeper into her feelings and wanted to spare her or was he simply assuming she agreed with him? She smiled to show him she was not put out by it. ‘I used to when I was a child and we lived in the country, but I have not done so since Mama died and we came to live in London. Perhaps I have forgotten how.’
‘Then I think we should find out, don’t you?’
‘I have no mount or habit.’
‘A hack can be hired and I will purchase a habit for you.’
‘Certainly not!’ she said sharply. ‘I could not possibly accept gifts of clothing, they should only ever come from a husband.’
His smile was a little crooked. ‘I wish that I were he.’
‘I asked you for time to make up my mind, Mr Allworthy.’
‘And while you do so, the whole haut monde waits with bated breath.’
‘The haut monde is not the least interested in my affairs. I doubt more than half a dozen have even heard of me.’
‘There you are wrong. Your fame goes before you.’
‘Fame?’ she faltered. ‘Oh, you mean the tattlemongers have been at work.’
‘With the help of your Aunt Lane and your relative, the Countess. The more your aunt sings your praises, the more people talk.’
‘What do they say? No, you do not need to tell me, for I know already. I broke off one engagement for what many consider to be a trivial reason and any man who offers for me had better bear that in mind. I think I will never live it down and you were best to turn your back on me or some of the calumny will rub off on you.’
‘I am not such a Jack Pudding as to turn tail at the first setback, and if anyone should say a word against you in my company you may be sure they will be sorry for it. But it was not that I meant. I was speaking of your goodness, your modesty and obedience, the way you have helped your papa.’
She tried to laugh. ‘Oh, Mr Allworthy, how gallant you are, but it is all flummery and you know it.’
‘Not at all. But you could put an end to the tattle at once, you know, if you were to consent to be my wife. I could carry you off to Coprise and they would soon find someone else to talk about.’
‘Is that the answer? Would you find it so easy to forget?’
‘I have your assurance it is all in the past, that you have no affection for the man in question and do not regret your decision to sever your ties with him, and that is enough for me.’ He paused. ‘Now, we have discoursed on the matter long enough. Shall we ride out together one morning? Friday, perhaps? Nine o’clock?’
Nine o’clock was early, but at that time there would not be so many people about to witness her clumsiness and so she agreed, knowing that the more invitations she accepted the more she was compounding her problem, if problem it was.
She purchased a ready-made habit in deep blue grosgrain. It had a tight-fitting military-style jacket decorated with silver braid and frogging. Her hat, like a man’s top hat, was softened with a length of bright blue gauze tied about its narrow brim with the ends flowing freely behind. The skirt was full and plain. She decided if she did not take to riding again, it could be altered to make a walking dress and the money would not be wasted. Practising economy had become a habit with her since she had been in charge of her father’s household and she could not break it, even though Aunt Lane had generously paid for many of her new clothes and told her to think nothing of it.
Donald arrived at her front door at the appointed time, with a magnificent black stallion and a small bay mare. ‘She’s called Blaze,’ he told her as he escorted her out and helped her to mount. Having made sure she was comfortably seated, he mounted the stallion and they set out at a walk. She was aware of a groom, following them on a cob, but he was so far behind that as a chaperon he might just as well not have been there.
‘Green Park, I think,’ Donald said, watching her carefully to see how she was managing. ‘It will be less crowded than Hyde Park.’
As soon as she was in the saddle, she knew she had not forgotten how to ride. It came back to her as something comfortable and familiar. She had ridden almost daily when she was young, mostly in the company of Anne and Harry, whose home had been less than a mile from hers. They had been three rather wild children, sometimes riding bareback, often bareheaded, frequently barefoot, chasing across the countryside, up hill and down dale, until they had been driven home by hunger. How happy they had been, how easy in each other’s company, unaware of what lay ahead.
The first change had come when Harry went to university. It was not the same for the two girls after that. They were expected to grow into young ladies and were schooled with that end in mind. But they had remained good friends and when Harry came home in the vacations, he escorted them to dances in the assembly rooms and on picnics to local beauty spots, but there were always other people about; it was no longer just the three of them.
And then Mama had died and soon after that Papa, eaten up with grief, had decided to sell the house and live in London permanently. The decision seemed to compound Jane’s own grief. The capital was dirty and noisy and she missed everything that might have given her some solace: the green fields, the pony rides, the people, Anne and Harry most of all. It was from Anne’s letters she learned that Harry had fallen into bad company and had incurred gambling debts of three hundred pounds. ‘Grandfather stood buff for him,’ she had written. ‘And has bought him a lieutenancy in the Prince of Wales’s Own, which he told him was more than he deserved, but I don’t think he meant it. From tales I have heard him tell when I was a little girl, he sowed a few wild oats himself. Harry is off to London any time now and no doubt he will call on you.’
Harry, with his dark curls and laughing eyes, had arrived, splendid and proud in his uniform, and had captivated her, won her heart and her hand, and then behaved disgracefully and she ought not to repine over him. It was not fair on the man who rode beside her now. Donald Allworthy was everything that Harry was not: reliable, thoughtful, truthful, correct to the last degree. Everyone told her he was exactly right for her.
As they entered the park, she turned to smile at him. ‘I am so glad you persuaded me to come. I had forgotten how much I enjoyed riding. It is such an age since I have been on the back of a horse.’
‘You could be on the back of one every day if you became Mrs Allworthy.