Eleanor
Surprised by his tone, Eleanor looked at him, which was a mistake. He was looking down at her with amusement and something more disturbing in his eyes. She said uncertainly, ‘If you are trying to flirt with me, Mr Guthrie, I must tell you that I don’t appreciate it. I prefer sensible conversation such as we had this afternoon to…to silly compliments and empty phrases.’
‘I assure you, I was not trying to flirt with you. And if I were capable of flattery—which I am not—I would tell you that you outshine every other woman in the room, that that entrancing dress is a perfect foil for your sea-green witch’s eyes, and the dark gold of your hair—’
‘Mr Guthrie!’
Undeterred by her angry exclamation, he went on, ‘That, lovely though your features are, they are rendered yet more entrancing by your animation, the liveliness of your expression—’
‘Mr Guthrie, stop this at once or I shall leave you instantly!’
‘But I am not saying such things, Miss Southeran,’ he said earnestly. ‘They are quite clearly false, the merest flattery. You are pretty enough, but far from being the prettiest woman in the room. Miss Anstey, for instance, is a star!’ After a brief pause he added, ‘I grant that you’re livelier than she is—and much more intelligent.’ He gave a delighted laugh at her indignant expression. ‘What sensible things shall we talk about, Miss Southeran?’
Eleanor had never known such a man! Never before had she experienced such a mixture of feelings—anger, amusement, puzzlement, sympathy. Never had she felt so alive.
‘You shall tell me more about the East. But first we shall enjoy your prize, which,’ she said firmly, ‘is a dance.’
They didn’t talk about the East, but after the dance was over he took her to supper, and they talked of other things. They walked through the crowded rooms and at one point found themselves among the plants in the winter garden, still talking. Eleanor had objected to something disparaging Mr Guthrie had said about life in England, and was arguing her case passionately. But her voice died away as she saw him looking at her as she spoke, his eyes focused on her lips. She was overcome with a feeling of panic and turned away from him. ‘We…we must go back,’ she said nervously. ‘My aunt will be looking for me.’
‘No, wait a little. How can we talk sensibly out there among all those people—?’
‘I cannot stay here—it is most improper. My aunt would be very angry if she saw me.’
‘The devil take your aunt!’
‘Sir!’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just that I have something I want to say to you, and there never seems to be a suitable moment. I keep putting it off…’ He gave an exasperated laugh. ‘I think I’m afraid!’
‘Afraid?’ she echoed, looked at him wide-eyed.
‘Yes, and when you look at me like that it all goes out of my head. You have a most extraordinary effect on me—like no other I have ever known. How do you do it?’
Eleanor suddenly became aware of the very strange effect this conversation was having on her breathing. ‘You are talking nonsense, Mr Guthrie—I must go back,’ she said with determination, and started for the entrance to the ballroom.
‘Wait! Eleanor—’ he called, but stopped abruptly as he saw Lady Walcot standing at the entrance.
‘At last I’ve found you! What on earth do you think you are doing?’ Lady Walcot’s voice was sharp, and one or two bystanders cast curious glances in her direction. She forced a smile, whispering to her niece, ‘Don’t bother to tell me. You’ve been with that man!’
‘Aunt Hetty—’
‘We’ll talk when we get home, Eleanor, not here. Now come with me—several people have been asking to meet you. Ah, Lady Marchant, there you are! We’ve been looking for you—this is Miss Southeran, my niece…’
Eleanor did not see Mr Guthrie again that evening. Her aunt kept her close at her side until the carriages arrived to take them home. But she would not have looked for him in any case. Her feelings were much too confused to face him again so soon. This same confusion of feeling made it difficult for her to discuss the matter with her aunt afterwards, and Lady Walcot, drawing her own conclusions, was most concerned. ‘I blame myself,’ she said unhappily. ‘I should never have agreed to your dancing with him—I know what he is. Heaven knows how he manages it, for he is not at all handsome. But he is a dangerous man, Eleanor. I beg you to forget this attraction he has for you.’
‘He…he seemed sincere,’ said Eleanor hesitantly. ‘As if he too felt the same…attraction. Could I be so wrong?’
Lady Walcot exclaimed, ‘The devil! The scheming, contriving devil! He has bewitched you, Eleanor, just as he bewitched Ev—But no, I mustn’t say any more.’ She appeared to be debating with herself, and then to reach a conclusion. ‘You must go to bed, Eleanor,’ she said slowly. ‘And in the morning I shall see what I can do.’
Eleanor slept badly that night. She tossed and turned, reliving the moments with Jonas Guthrie, especially the time in the winter garden. One moment she wanted to meet him the next morning, and then, after another debate with herself, she had decided that it would be better if they did not see each other again. Was he a dangerous philanderer—all the more dangerous because he did not appear to be trying to charm? Or was he the straightforward man he appeared to be? And what was it that he had been afraid to tell her? She eventually fell into an uneasy slumber, still debating the question.
She woke late the next morning to find that one question at least had already been decided. It was far too late for a ride in the park. When she eventually came downstairs she found her aunt waiting.
‘I have someone I wish you to meet,’ she said briskly, ‘and we are late. Put your bonnet on and come with me, Eleanor. Don’t delay—the carriage is waiting.’
A few minutes later they arrived at a modest house in a street off Cavendish Square. Here they were taken into a small parlour, where a lady was waiting to receive them. It was Mrs Anstey. She greeted Lady Walcot in a soft, well-spoken manner and then turned to Eleanor. ‘Miss Southeran, you are very welcome, though I am sorry the occasion is…is such an awkward one…’ Mrs Anstey paused and looked to Lady Walcot for help.
‘Mrs Anstey has agreed, at my urgent request, to talk to you, Eleanor. I am very obliged to her—the matter is a painful one, as you will see, and I would not have asked her to speak of it had I not been so anxious for you. I am sure you will give her your earnest attention—it concerns Mr Guthrie and his behaviour towards the Anstey family.’
‘Surely this isn’t necessary, Aunt Hetty—’
‘In view of your refusal to accept my word for Mr Guthrie’s character, and especially in view of your behaviour last night…’
‘I wanted to explain—’
‘Forgive me, Eleanor, but Mrs Anstey’s time is precious. We must not waste it.’
Good manners silenced Eleanor. She sat chafing under her aunt’s disapproval, convinced that this whole visit was an unnecessary exercise. Lady Walcot said, ‘Mrs Anstey, would you mind telling my niece how well you know Mr Guthrie?’
‘Jonas and I were brought up together, Miss Southeran. His mother was a Vereker, too. That is to say…I mean his mother was a Vereker before she was married. As I was.’
‘You were sisters?’
‘No, no! Oh, dear, how stupid of me…Caroline, his mother, was my cousin.’
‘From what you have told me,’ said Lady Walcot, casting a glance at Eleanor, ‘you practically brought him up?’
‘Well…yes, I suppose so,’ said Mrs Anstey uncertainly. ‘I was so much older than he was, and he had no mother…He was a dear little boy when he came to us.’
‘Came to you? In America?’ asked Eleanor, somewhat puzzled.
‘No, no. This was over thirty years ago—Jonas was a baby…I was a girl and still living in England then.’ She looked anxiously at Lady Walcot, then said nervously, ‘Perhaps I had better explain. You see, Richard Guthrie, Jonas’s father, abandoned poor Caroline before Jonas was born. She came back home to have the child, and died soon after. I think it must have been of a broken heart, don’t you? Jonas and I…we were both orphans living with relatives. We were very close, though I was ten years older.’
‘But what happened to his father?’ asked Eleanor.
‘He was a bad lot, I’m afraid. I think he eventually went into the army and was killed. But Jonas never really knew him. It is surprising…’ Her voice drifted away.
‘He must have felt very alone in the world.’
‘Oh, no! He knew he always had me to turn to—until I left England and went to live in America…’ Mrs Anstey’s voice trailed away weakly again, and Eleanor felt a sudden impatience with her. The woman is a born martyr, she thought, and then reproached herself for her lack of charity.
Lady Walcot said, ‘And later, I believe, your husband took Mr Guthrie as a business partner on your recommendation?’
‘Well, partly. Jonas left England for India when he was still quite young. I’m not sure how, but he made a fortune out there. Then he came to see me in Boston. He was looking for a suitable investment, and my husband happened to need some new capital for his family concern and…and they helped each other. It worked very well to start with. I was delighted to see him again, and Henry and the girls were all devoted to him. For a while Henry and I even thought that we would be more closely related to Jonas. But then the engagement was broken off…’
‘Engagement? Mr Guthrie has been engaged? To Marianne?’ asked Eleanor, growing pale.
‘No, no. Jonas was engaged to my other daughter. But then it was broken off. And things went wrong after that.’
‘What went wrong?’
‘Miss Southeran, I am not precisely sure what went amiss. I took no part in the business, of course. But Henry—my husband—and Jonas suddenly seemed to disagree a great deal, and though Mr Oliver did his best to keep the peace there were frequent arguments.’
‘Mr Oliver?’
‘My husband’s other partner. He is now married to Evadne.’ Mrs Anstey’s hands were twisting in her lap. She said suddenly, ‘Oh, Miss Southeran, if you only knew how wicked Jonas Guthrie has been, how like his father!’
The sudden passion in this timid little woman’s voice was startling. Eleanor was impressed, and, dreading what more was to come, she asked slowly, ‘Why do you say that?’
Mrs Anstey looked uncertainly at Lady Walcot, who leaned forward and said softly, ‘Please, if you can, tell her! I give you my word that it will go no further.’
‘I…I…am ashamed to tell you that Jonas Guthrie is the father of my daughter’s child!’ This was said in a low voice, and at first Eleanor thought she had not heard correctly. She looked blankly at Mrs Anstey, who added in a clearer, louder tone, ‘He seduced my daughter Evadne, and gave her a child.’
Chapter Three
Eleanor found herself without a word. The morning’s revelations had been a shock and she was experiencing great difficulty in retaining her outward appearance of calm. She wanted to leave that neat little room, to refuse to listen to the ugly story which was being unfolded in it. But this was impossible. She must stay.
Mrs Anstey mistook her silence for embarrassment and said nervously, ‘I’m sorry—your aunt did ask—’
‘In her own words, my niece is not a child, Mrs Anstey! And I wish her to hear everything,’ said Lady Walcot grimly.
Eleanor rallied and found her voice. ‘But she is married to Mr Oliver?’
Mrs Anstey lowered her head and said, ‘Yes. It is shameful, is it not? He…he agreed to marry her in return for a sum of money—paid by Guthrie.’
‘Why didn’t Mr Guthrie marry her himself? Why didn’t your husband insist?’
‘By the time her condition was discovered my husband was dead, and we were on the verge of bankruptcy.’ Mrs Anstey’s voice faded again and Lady Walcot took over the story.
‘Mrs Anstey found herself without anyone to advise or help her and the one man who might have been her support proved to be her worst enemy. He refused to marry Miss Anstey—at first he even denied that the child was his! Then, when he was forced to admit the truth, he paid another man to shoulder his responsibilities.’
‘How did Mr Oliver come to agree to this dreadful scheme? He was a partner in the firm, too. Why did he not take up your defence?’
‘Jonas was…was more masterful. He knows how to get people to do as he wishes—I can’t explain how,’ said Mrs Anstey, ‘and Mr Oliver was in severe financial difficulties himself. He had always been fond of Evadne and he was happy to marry her—but without the money it would have been out of the question.’
‘It has proved impossible to find out why the firm foundered, Eleanor,’ said Lady Walcot. ‘The books disappeared after Henry Anstey shot himself. But Mrs Anstey saw them in Guthrie’s possession the day before they vanished and she believes he still has them—or has destroyed them. And is it not significant that he seems to have survived the firm’s collapse with his own fortune intact?’
‘Conscience money,’ said Mrs Anstey sadly. ‘He paid conscience money. He made a fool of my husband, and a paramour of my daughter, and he thinks that he has solved everything when he buys a husband for Evadne. But how could he do it to us—to Evadne, to me? We loved him! We trusted him!’ She shook her head mournfully. ‘He was such a dear little boy!’
‘Are you absolutely certain that Mr Guthrie is the villain?’ Eleanor heard the slightly desperate note in her own voice and tried to speak more calmly. ‘It seems so strange. Is there no one else?’
‘It was strange, Miss Southeran! At first I refused to believe that he had cheated us, I refused to believe that he could be so wicked—so like his father! I begged, I pleaded with him to explain what had happened.’ Mrs Anstey dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief and continued, ‘But he pushed me away. He said we could think what we liked, that he had found a husband for Evadne, and enough money to pay for a passage to England for Marianne and me. That should be enough. His manner was so…so hard! It was as if he couldn’t bear to look at us…’ She paused, then added, ‘The only other person involved was Mr Oliver, who was as poor as we were until Guthrie paid him to…to marry Evadne.’ She shook her head obstinately. ‘In the end he was just like his father. No, Miss Southeran, Jonas Guthrie is the cause of all our troubles. What else can I think?’
‘Indeed, what else can anyone think, Eleanor?’ said her aunt sternly.
‘I…I’m not sure…He left you entirely without resources?’
‘He must have had some vestige of feeling. He paid for our passage to England, he arranged for someone to meet us when we landed and take us to our Vereker cousins in Berkeley Square. They have been very good to us. But we have not spoken to Jonas since we arrived in England. Indeed, we have avoided meeting each other since we came to London, and, though I understand he was a frequent visitor at Berkeley Square before Marianne and I came from America, he has not been there since.’ Mrs Anstey blinked down at her hands. ‘I…I still find it difficult to believe…’
She stood up. ‘I’m afraid you will have to excuse me. I must go and fetch Marianne from her lesson; she will wonder where I am.’ She hesitated and then said timidly, ‘Miss Southeran, I agreed to talk to you today because Lady Walcot has been so very good to Marianne and me. I do not know what I would have done without her. Thanks to the help from my cousins and your aunt’s kindness in sponsoring Marianne in London, I now have hope that one of my daughters at least will make the marriage she deserves. Lord Morrissey has been so very attentive. But any scandal…I know I can be sure of your discretion.’
‘Of course,’ said poor Eleanor, pulling herself together. ‘And I see now why my aunt wished me to hear your story. I am grateful to you for being so frank with me, Mrs Anstey.’
‘I saw it as my duty,’ said Mrs Anstey simply.
As they got into the carriage again Eleanor was conscious that her aunt was waiting for her to say something. But what was there to say? Mr Guthrie was a complete villain, it appeared—there was no mistaking the sincerity of Mrs Anstey’s feelings. Before talking to her Eleanor had thought, hoped even, that the woman might be a charlatan—it wouldn’t be the first time that a poor widow with a beautiful daughter had tricked her way into society. But unless Mrs Anstey was a consummate actress, which Eleanor very much doubted, she had been telling the truth. This was no scandalmonger, no vindictive gorgon—this was a woman patently sincere in her distress and shame. Mrs Anstey was completely convinced of Guthrie’s guilt, and very unhappy that it was so.
‘Well, Eleanor?’ said Lady Walcot finally.
‘Please, Aunt Hetty, could we wait till we are back in the house? I feel…I feel a little dazed at the moment. It was a shock.’
‘Of course, my child. We’ll soon be there, and you shall do just as you wish—talk to me, or spend some time in your room.’
The rest of the journey passed in silence, but this gave Eleanor a chance to recover her equilibrium and she was quite ready to talk to her aunt when they arrived. They went into the little parlour, and here Eleanor sat down, gave a great sigh and said, ‘You were right, Aunt Hetty, and I was mistaken. I am sorry to have put you to so much trouble.’
‘I am to take it that there will be no further tête-à-têtes in secluded spots with Mr Guthrie?’
‘I…I cannot imagine why I was so indiscreet.’
‘When you are on one of your crusades, Eleanor, there is no knowing what you might do! However, I think this particular crusade is finished, is it not?’
‘It is finished, Aunt Hetty.’
Something of her niece’s misery must have communicated itself to Lady Walcot, for she gave Eleanor a hug, then got up and said briskly, ‘Come, you must now try to put it all behind you. You must enjoy what is left of your time in London. Would you like to rest now, or shall we go shopping? Have you bought a present for your mother yet?’
Eleanor pulled herself firmly together and declared that she was ready to do some shopping. She and Lady Walcot decided that a note should be written to Mr Guthrie which made it clear that she did not wish to see him again. This they did, and once it had been dispatched she felt as if a burden had been lifted from her, though she still felt a secret regret. If Mr Guthrie had been the man she had thought him, she would have enjoyed his company, and fought to maintain her right to it. But as it was she need never have anything more to do with him. She sighed and then consoled herself with the thought that in a few days’ time she would be returning to Stanyards. She was looking forward to it more and more.
However, Eleanor was mistaken in thinking that she had finished with Mr Guthrie. She was to meet him again before she left London, and in very odd circumstances.
On the day before her departure she went out for one last ride. Ever since the conversation with Mrs Anstey she had taken to riding at a later hour than before, in order to avoid the embarrassment of meeting Mr Guthrie. Thus far she had been successful. It meant, of course, that she and John had to venture further in order to find less frequented areas of the park, since at the later time more people were abroad. On this occasion they had ridden almost to the western edge, and they were just about to return when they heard a faint groan coming from the bushes at the side of the path. John slid off his horse and went to investigate. He returned, saying urgently, ‘It’s Mr Guthrie, Miss Southeran. He’s lying groaning something horrible! I think ’e must ’ave fallen off ’is ’orse.’
Eleanor dismounted and followed John. Mr Guthrie was apparently in the process of regaining consciousness. He was trying to sit up, then groaning again and holding his head in his hands.
‘Fetch help, John. I’ll stay here. Do as I say; I shall be perfectly safe. Mr Guthrie needs urgent assistance, and I cannot be sure of finding the shortest way back. Go quickly—you know the way better than I do.’
John hesitated, but saw the sense of what Eleanor had said. He ran to his horse and rode off. Eleanor looked down at Mr Guthrie. He was now lying with his eyes closed. She knelt down beside him. His eyes flew open, and he said, ‘What the devil are you doing here? Where’s John?’
‘He’s gone for help.’
‘He shouldn’t have left you alone…Did you see anyone else?’
‘Here? I don’t think anyone else was here—’
‘Of course there was! Why else do you suppose I’m lying flat on my back like this?’ His tone was irritable, but that was perhaps understandable. His head was obviously hurting quite badly, and she could see a huge bruise developing over one eye.
‘I thought you might have taken a toss. People do,’ she said calmly.
‘I am not so careless. And “people” don’t usually ride into a piece of wire stretched across the path, do they? Look!’ He struggled to sit up and pointed at a length of wire lying beside the path. Eleanor got up to examine it. ‘I came off when the horse stopped dead. There was someone else here, though—I saw him standing a short way off before I fell. He looked as if he was waiting…He started coming towards me—and then the next thing I knew John was there. Confound it, you must have seen him! I wasn’t out for more than a minute.’
Eleanor looked nervously about her. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t see anyone, nor can I see anyone now. Do you think it was footpads, or highwaymen?’ Her voice had risen slightly.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, don’t start getting hysterical! I’m perfectly capable of defending us both, if necessary.’ With some difficulty Mr Guthrie drew a pistol out of the capacious pocket of his riding coat.
Eleanor said tartly, ‘I have no intention of indulging in hysterics. And if you will permit me to say so, that pistol wasn’t of very great help a moment ago—nor is it reassuring to watch you handle it now!’
‘Don’t talk rubbish. I was off my guard. And you are perfectly safe from it. What is more to the point—have you seen Captain?’
‘Captain? Captain who?’
‘My horse, my horse! He must be hurt, too. That wire caught him right across his legs.’
‘Is that him? Over there?’
‘Go and fetch him, there’s a good girl. I’ll have a look at him.’ He started to get up, but stopped on one knee. Eleanor could hear him swearing quietly to himself. She went to help him, but he waved her away impatiently. ‘Don’t twitter over me! Make yourself useful by getting the horse, woman!’
Eleanor refrained from comment, though there was much that she would have liked to say. The man was clearly in great pain. She went slowly over to Captain. He was in a highly nervous state and it took her some minutes to calm him sufficiently to catch hold of his bridle, which was fortunately still in place. She led him slowly over to Mr Guthrie, who by this time had managed to stand.
‘That was very well done,’ he said with reluctant approval. ‘You have a way with horses as well as with men, that’s obvious. Now, Captain, my beauty, what have we here?’
Fortunately the wire had not been well anchored at one end and had given way before doing the horse any serious damage. By the time John returned with help, Mr Guthrie was leading Captain along the path, exhorting Miss Southeran to ride on without him. She had up to this point ignored him, merely continuing to walk alongside, leading her own bay. In any case, how on earth did he expect her to mount a fully grown horse without the benefit of groom or mounting-block? But when she saw John and the others approaching she breathed a sigh of relief and turned to her companion.
‘Goodbye again, Mr Guthrie. I hope you have not suffered any lasting damage.’
‘I am obliged to you, Miss Southeran. I think you might have saved my life, albeit unintentionally.’ Eleanor looked at him doubtfully, but he was serious.
‘If you think so, then I am happy to have been of service.’
‘I’ve missed our rides,’ he said abruptly.
Eleanor coloured, but said nothing. He gave a wry smile and went on, ‘Well, I look forward to our next meeting—in more auspicious circumstances, I hope!’