Eleanor

‘You are right. Miss Southeran, there are reasons why I cannot be frank in talking of my own affairs. I do not intend to give you tedious half-truths. My hope is rather that if we could get to know each other better you would judge me more kindly than the rest of society does. But now you tell me that you have only a short time left in London?’

‘I return home in a week’s time.’

‘At the very beginning of the season? Do you not regret that?’

‘Not in the slightest. I love my home. I cannot wait to see it again.’

‘Tell me about it.’

Eleanor never needed much encouragement to speak of Stanyards, and with that and stories of India the half-hour passed swiftly for them both. It was with regret that Eleanor noticed that they were leaving the park and making for South Audley Street.

‘Where are you going tonight? Shall I see you there?’ asked Mr Guthrie as they drew up at the Walcot house.

‘Tonight? I think not. My aunt is taking me to a ball at the French ambassador’s.’ She paused, but curiosity got the better of her. ‘Tell me, how was it that you were at Carlton House last night? I thought all doors in London were closed to you.’

‘Not all, Miss Southeran, not all. There are still some brave souls who ignore Lady Dorothy and the other gorgons. The Prince Regent is one of them. Who knows—perhaps the French ambassador is another? But in case he isn’t, shall I see you tomorrow morning?’

‘I…I am not sure. I still have to make my peace with my aunt.’

‘Come! It took a great deal of courage for you to make this afternoon’s gesture on behalf of the underdog. Don’t waste it!’

‘Very well.’ She smiled slightly. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Eleanor entered the house in a defiant mood. Mr Guthrie had proved a most interesting companion and she found it hard to believe he was the scoundrel her aunt had described. She could see, however, that he might not appeal to those who set great store by polished manners and the elegant niceties of polite behaviour, and was surprised that he apparently had the entrée to the Prince Regent’s circle. But his abrupt style of address had not offended her, and she had actually found his directness curiously appealing. She felt a strong wish to see him again, and decided that she would do all she could to coax her aunt to agree. Meanwhile she would no doubt be faced with reproaches and some justifiable anger.

Lady Walcot was sitting in the salon on the first floor. When Eleanor walked in she said, ‘I am relieved to see you back safely.’

‘Aunt Hetty, I was never in any danger!’

‘A high-perch phaeton! Driven at such a reckless pace! It only shows what disregard the man has for any lady’s sensibilities—’

‘No, Aunt! I asked Mr Guthrie to take me in the phaeton. And we went rather sedately, I thought.’ Eleanor got up and went to sit beside her aunt. ‘Truly, Aunt Hetty, Mr Guthrie is not the villain you have described. We talked of the most interesting things, and though he is not as polished as some of your acquaintance he was always the gentleman.’

‘Really?’ Her aunt was still annoyed. ‘Allow me to tell you, Eleanor, that you have made a pretty spectacle of yourself this afternoon. What Lady Dorothy will say I cannot bear to think.’

‘Pray do not worry yourself over such a trifle! I am not concerned with Lady Dorothy and her tales.’

‘But you should be, Eleanor! She is not without influence in London, let me tell you.’

‘Not with me, Aunt Hetty.’

Her aunt ignored her. ‘I blame myself, of course. I should have remembered how wilful you can be, and told you more about him when you asked. What did he tell you? A pack of lies, no doubt.’

‘I don’t think so, Aunt. We didn’t discuss Mrs Anstey, if that is what you mean.’

‘I am not surprised at that—she would be the last person he would mention! Well, Eleanor, you have forced my hand. I shall tell you about Mr Guthrie. It is not an edifying story, as I think you will agree.’ Lady Walcot paused, then began, ‘Mrs Anstey is a widow. She is an Englishwoman, but she married a man from Boston in America, and lived there for many years. The family was a wealthy one and Mrs Anstey might reasonably have hoped for a comfortable and secure existence. However, some years ago her husband went into partnership in a business venture with the man Guthrie. Guthrie ruined them.’

‘In what way?’

Lady Walcot said impatiently, ‘How should I know what piece of chicanery was involved? I understand nothing of business or trade. But ruin them he did, and now Mrs Anstey and her daughter haven’t a penny to their name. That is your precious Mr Guthrie.’

‘How do you know all this, Aunt Hetty?’

‘Everyone knows it!’

‘Gossip, idle rumours, scandal. I am surprised you give so much credence to them.’

‘It was Lady Dorothy who first told me, and she had it from Mrs Anstey herself.’

‘But—’

‘No, Eleanor, there is no “but”! What is more, I believe there is something else, which I am not at liberty to discuss. But if it is true, then I assure you on my life that the man is a dishonourable villain.’

‘Mr Guthrie said people were mistaken in believing that he was dishonourable.’

‘And you believed him?’ asked Lady Walcot with contempt.

‘Why should I not? Have you any proof to the contrary?’

‘Eleanor, the proof lies in what we know to be facts! Henry Anstey shot himself because he and his family were bankrupt. The Guthrie creature, who was a full partner in the enterprise, remains a wealthy man. Whatever else may or may not be true, how do you account for that? Besides, Guthrie has never bothered to deny anything that has been said about him.’

‘That is hardly proof of guilt! I agree it is tempting to believe Mr Guthrie to be the villain of this particular melodrama—he has all the appearance of one. And lovely Marianne Anstey looks like the very ideal of a damsel in distress. But is it not at least possible that appearances are deceptive?’

‘Oh, it is useless to argue with you! It is just as I was saying last night—you are always determined to make up your own mind, determined to ignore the judgement of people who are older and wiser than yourself. And when you embark on one of your crusades you lose all sense of proportion. Now you are about to fling yourself at a known scoundrel. What am I to do?’

Eleanor drew herself up and said with dignity, ‘Aunt Hetty, I promise not to fling myself at anyone—least of all a known scoundrel, whoever that is. But, unless you can give me more convincing proof of Mr Guthrie’s guilt, I reserve the right to talk to the first man I have met in London whose company I enjoy—apart from that of my uncle. And that’s another thing! My uncle is by no means sure of Mr Guthrie’s villainy. I would trust his judgement sooner than I would that of Lady Dorothy!’

‘Oh, your uncle is a man,’ said Lady Walcot somewhat obscurely. She got up and went to the door. Here she stopped and said, ‘I haven’t finished with you yet, Eleanor. You have asked for proof. I shall see what I can do.’ Then she left the room.

Eleanor was left feeling confused and uncertain. It was perfectly possible that Mr Guthrie had roused Lady Dorothy’s enmity by nothing more criminal than omitting to give her the deference she imagined due to her rank. But Lady Walcot was another matter. Eleanor had known and loved her father’s sister all her life—she could not dismiss her aunt’s views on Mr Guthrie so lightly. She sighed.

‘Good lord, Eleanor, don’t look so glum!’ It was her uncle who had just come in. ‘Where’s your aunt? Been giving you a lecture, has she? I’m not surprised, but don’t worry—she’ll soon come round again. Cheer up, my dear! Isn’t it time you were thinking of your dress and so on for tonight? I’m taking you both to a ball, I believe. As for your aunt, by the time she’s decided what she’s going to wear, and what jewellery to put with it, she’ll have forgotten about this afternoon. Come, let me see you smile, then you can go and pretty yourself up.’

Eleanor got up obediently and went to the door, but there she turned and came back to her uncle. She hesitated a moment, then asked, ‘Uncle Charles, what do you think of Mr Guthrie?’

Lord Walcot shook his head in mock-reproof. ‘Now, Eleanor, I’m too downy a bird to be caught by a question like that. What you’re really asking is whether I agree with your aunt in discouraging you from having much to do with him. You should know better than to ask me what I think. You are in her charge, and I cannot oppose her wishes as far as you are concerned. That would never do.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He looked sympathetically at her downcast face, and relented a little. ‘He’s a difficult fellow to know. A man who keeps his own counsel. Except for the stories about him, I’ve never had any occasion to distrust him—in fact, I would say that I quite like him. But your aunt and the others may well be right, you know. I believe Mrs Anstey tells a convincing enough tale, which he has never denied. Give it up, my dear. You’re upsetting your aunt, and to what purpose? In a few days or so you’ll be setting off for Somerset and you’ll probably never see him again.’

Eleanor looked up and said with resolution, ‘You’re right, as always, Uncle Charles. I shall be amenable from now on.’

He laughed and said, ‘Not too amenable, Eleanor. I enjoy our discussions. Don’t become like all the rest!’

That evening Eleanor found it impossible to remain unaffected by the excitement and glamour of a really large ball. The splendid rooms, lavishly decorated with artificial fountains and fantastic pyramids, were impressive by any standards, and the dresses and jewels of the cream of London society were a rare sight. Her own dress, though modest in comparison, suited her very well, she thought. It had been made originally by the best dressmaker in Taunton, and had a bodice made of blue-green silk, with a skirt of white sarsnet. Her aunt had looked at it thoughtfully, pronounced it delightfully simple and had then taken it away. It had appeared a few days later with an overskirt of blue-green gauze, embroidered round the hem in blue, green and gold, and caught up at the side with a knot of matching ribbons. Her efforts had turned a pretty dress from a local dressmaker into a garment worthy of the highest London circles. The result was eye-catching and very flattering.

But, lovely as the dresses were, impressive though the rooms looked, to Eleanor’s mind nothing could outshine Marianne Anstey. The fairy princess was stunningly beautiful in a very simple white silk dress. Her pale gold hair was caught back on top with a knot of pale pink roses, and fell in graceful curls to the nape of her neck. More pale pink roses were clustered at her waist, matching the delicate colour in her cheeks. Eleanor, along with many others, could hardly take her eyes off the girl, and no one was surprised when the ambassador kept more important guests waiting while he greeted this exquisite creature.