A Strange Likeness

‘In my grandmother’s day they did not hesitate to thrash naughty young ladies,’ she said steadily, her face white.

‘That is true, but it is not the fashion now, and I do not think that it is required. I believe that you understand that you have done wrong, and worse, I suspect, than you intended. No, what I have in mind for you is both more and less severe. I propose to send you to your great-aunt Almeria Stanton in London—without your mother. She cannot control you, I know, and that is bad for you, for you can control her. Almeria will teach you to be a young lady and prepare you for life. She is strict, but kind. You shall have your come-out, and she will make you ready to marry young Stacy—which is, as you know, my dearest wish.

‘Stacy is both good and steady, which is what you need in a husband. You have a fine mind, Eleanor, but you have been misusing it. On the other hand, apart from this folly with young Swain, you do not lack application. I have no wish for you to go the way that Ned is going.’

Eleanor was now crying bitterly. ‘Oh, no, Grandfather, I don’t wish to live in London. I’ve always hated it there. Please let me stay here. I promise to be good in future.’

‘No, Eleanor. You would have had to leave soon in any case, with or without your mother. You are merely going earlier than I intended. Your mother has been told and she does not like this, either, but she lost control of both you and Ned long ago, and we must all, I fear, pay for our failings as well as our sins.’

That was the end. There was no use in pleading—and no dignity, either. Kind Sir Hart might be, but he was also firm, and what he decreed was law.

‘You may go, Granddaughter. Tomorrow you must prepare to leave.’

Eleanor rose and walked to the door, where she turned and looked at him. Her face was white but the tears had stopped falling.

‘I will be good, I promise. I don’t want to be a fine lady, I despise them, but I will become one for your sake, Grandfather.’

‘And for yours, too, Eleanor. For yours, too.’

Chapter One

London, 1841: Monde and demi-monde

M r Alan Dilhorne, ‘the person from Australia’, as some butlers were later to call him, stood in the foyer of the Haymarket Theatre, London, on his second night in the capital.

Tired after the long journey from Sydney, he had gone straight to bed at Brown’s Hotel when he had arrived there, but a day’s sleep had restored him to full vigour and a desire to explore the land which had exiled his father. He looked eagerly about him at the fashionable crowd, many of whom stared at his clothing which, however suitable it had been in Sydney, branded him an outsider here.

Curious stares never troubled Alan. His confidence in himself, helped by his superb physique and his handsome face, was profound. It was backed by the advice offered him by his devious and exacting father.

‘Work hard and play hard’ was his maxim, which Alan had no difficulty in following. He had come to London to carry out a mission for his family which promised him a busy time in the old country. He was not going to allow that to prevent him from enjoying life to the full while he executed it.

He had walked through the demi-monde on his way to the theatre, and it was obviously much larger and livelier than its counterpart in Sydney.

A hand fell on his shoulder and spun him half around. A man of his own age, the late twenties, fashionably dressed, slightly drunk already, was laughing in his face.

‘Ned! What the devil are you doing here so early, and in those dam’d awful clothes, too?’

‘Yes,’ chimed his companion. ‘Not like you, Ned, not at all. Fancy dress, is it?’

‘Ned?’ said Alan slowly. ‘I’m not Ned.’

The small group of young gentlemen before him looked suitably taken aback.

‘Come on, Ned. Stop roasting us. What’s the game tonight, eh?’

‘Not roasting you,’ said Alan firmly. ‘I’m Alan Dilhorne, from Sydney, New South Wales. Don’t know any Neds, I’m afraid.’

He had deepened his slight Australian accent and saw eyes widen.

‘Good God, I do believe you’re not Ned,’ said his first accoster.

‘Bigger in the shoulders,’ offered one young fellow, who was already half supported by his friends. ‘Strip better than Ned, for sure. Bit soft, Ned.’ Other heads nodded at this, to Alan’s amusement.

The first speaker put out a hand. ‘Well, Not Ned, I’m Frank Gresham, and you’re like enough to Ned to deceive anyone. I’d have taken you for him on a fine day with the hounds running.’

Alan liked the look of the handsome young man before him, whom he took to be younger than he was—in contrast to himself; he looked more mature than his years.

‘I’d like to see Ned. Ned who?’

‘Ned Hatton. Not here yet, obviously. Always late, Ned. Look here, Dilhorne, is it? Meet us in the foyer in the first interval and you shall see him. And if this play is as dam’d boring as I expect it will be, we’ll make a night of it together.’

Most of them looked as though they had made more than a night of it already.

‘You got that shocking bad hat and coat in Australia, I suppose?’ said Gresham’s half-drunk companion, introduced as Bob Manners. ‘Better get Ned to introduce you to his tailor—won’t want his face walking around in that!’

‘Shame on you, Bob,’ said Gresham genially. ‘Fellow can’t help where he comes from.’

He put his arm through Alan’s—he had obviously been adopted as ‘one of theirs’ on the strength of his likeness to Ned—whoever he was. ‘Buy you a drink before the play, Dilhorne—girls’ll look better with a drop inside.’

Bells were already ringing to signal the start of the entertainment, but Gresham and his chums took no notice of them. The man at the bar knew him.

‘Yes, m’lord, what is it tonight?’

So Frank, who had walked him over, was a lord and Ned, who had still not arrived, was his friend. The foyer emptied a little, but Alan’s new friends continued to drink for some time before they decided that they were ready to see the play.

He made his way to his seat as quietly as he could, so as not to disturb the audience or the others in the box. Frank and his companions, who were a little way away from him, were not so considerate. They entered their box noisily and responded to the shushing of the audience by blowing kisses and, in Bob Manners’ case, by dripping the contents of a bottle of champagne on to the heads of the people below.

Alan, looking eagerly around the garish auditorium, expected them to be thrown out, but the other people in his box, half-amused, half-annoyed, knew the revellers.

‘It’s Gresham’s set again,’ said one stout burgher wisely to his equally plump wife.

‘Disgusting,’ she returned. ‘They should be thrown out, or not allowed in.’

‘Manager can’t throw Gresham out—too grand.’

The spectacle on the stage amused Alan, although it did not engage him. Half his mind was on his recent encounter, and when the curtain fell at the first interval he was down the stairs in a flash to see Ned, who wore his face.

Gresham’s friends, who had quietened a little after their entrance, had further annoyed the audience by leaving noisily before the first act ended, and were already busy drinking when Alan arrived in the bar. He was loudly greeted, and he guessed, correctly, that his new acquaintances were bored and needed the diversion which he was providing.

Well, that did not trouble him—who knew how this odd adventure might end?

‘It’s “Not Ned”, the Australian,’ proclaimed Gresham. ‘Here, Ned, here’s your look-alike.’ And he tapped on the shoulder the tall man standing beside him.

Ned Hatton turned to confront himself. And it was a dam’d disturbing experience, he reported afterwards. All he said at the time was, ‘Jupiter! You’ve stolen my face.’

Alan was amused as well as startled by seeing his own face without benefit of his shaving mirror.

‘As well say you’ve stolen mine.’