“What, to the pattern-card whose name you can’t remember? Are the Silverdales at Inglehurst? I haven’t seen Hetta in town for weeks, but from what she told me when we met at the Castlereaghs’ ball I had supposed that she must by now have been fixed at Worthing, poor girl!”
“Lady Silverdale,” said his mother, in an expressionless voice, “finding that the only lodging she could tolerate in Worthing was not available this summer, has recollected that the sea-air always makes her bilious, and has chosen to retire to Inglehurst rather than to seek a lodging at some other resort.”
“What an abominable woman she is!” said the Viscount cheerfully. “Oh, well! I daresay Hetta will be better off with her pattern-card! I’ll drop in at Inglehurst tomorrow, on my way back to London, and try to discover what this fellow, Nether-what’s-it, is really like!”
Slightly taken aback, Lady Wroxton said, in mild expostulation: “My dear boy, you cannot, surely, question Hetta about him?”
“Lord, yes! of course I can!” said the Viscount. “There are no secrets between Hetta and me, Mama, any more than there are between Griselda and me—in fact,” he added, subjecting this confident assertion to consideration, “far fewer!”
Chapter 2
Viscount Desford left his ancestral home on the following morning without seeking another interview with his father. Since the Earl rarely left his bed-chamber before noon, this was not difficult. The Viscount partook of an excellent breakfast in solitary state; ran upstairs to bid his mother a fond farewell, issued a few final directions to his valet, who was to follow him into Hampshire with his baggage, and mounted into his curricle as the stable clock began to strike eleven. By the time the echoes of its last stroke had died he was out of sight of the house, bowling down the long avenue that led to the main gates.
The pace at which he drove his mettlesome horses might have alarmed persons of less iron nerve than the middle-aged groom who sat beside him; but Stebbing, who had served him ever since his boyhood, had a disposition which matched his square, severe countenance, and sat with his arms folded across his chest, and an expression on his face of complete unconcern, As little as he betrayed alarm did he betray his pride in the out-and-outer whom he had taught to ride his first pony, and who had become, as well as an accomplished fencer, a first-rate dragsman. Only in the company of his intimates did he say, over a heavy wet, that, taking him in harness and out, no man could do more with his horses than my Lord Desford could.
The curricle which Desford was driving was not precisely a racing curricle, but it had been built to his own design by Hatchett, of Longacre, so lightly that it was very easy on his horses, and capable (if drawn by the sort of blood cattle his lordship kept in his stables) of covering long distances in an incredibly short space of time. In general, Desford drove with a pair only under the pole, but if he set out on a long journey he had a team harnessed to the carriage, demonstrating (so said his ribald cronies) that he was bang up to the knocker. He was driving a team of splendid grays on this occasion, and if they were not the sixteen-mile an hour tits so frequently advertised for sale in the columns of the Morning Post they reached the Viscount’s immediate destination considerably before noon, and without having once been allowed to break out of a fast trot.
Inglehurst Place was a very respectable estate owned, until his death some years previously, by a lifelong friend of Lord Wroxton’s. Its present owner, Sir Charles Silverdale, had inherited it from his father when still at Harrow, and he had not yet come into his majority, or (according to those who shook sad heads over his rackety ways) shown the least desire to assume the responsibilities attached to his inheritance. His fortune was controlled by his trustees, but since neither of these two gentlemen whose lives had been devoted to the Law had any but a superficial understanding of country matters the management of the estate was shared by Sir Charles’s bailiff, and his sister, Miss Henrietta Silverdale.
The butler, a very stately personage, accorded the Viscount a bow, and said that he regretted to be obliged to inform him that her ladyship, having passed an indifferent night, had not yet come downstairs, and so could not receive him.
“Come down from your high ropes, Grimshaw!” said the Viscount. “You know dashed well I haven’t come to visit her ladyship! Is Miss Silverdale at home?”
Grimshaw unbent sufficiently to say that he thought Miss would be found in the garden, but his expression, as he watched Desford stride off round the corner of the house, was one of gloomy disapproval.
The Viscount found Miss Silverdale in the rose-garden, attended by two gentlemen, one of whom was known to him, and the other a stranger. She greeted him with unaffected pleasure, exclaiming: “Des!” and stretching out her hands to him. “I had supposed you to be in Brighton! What brings you into Hertfordshire?”
The Viscount took her hands, but kissed her cheek, and said: “Filial piety, Hetta! How do you do my dear? Not that I need ask! I can see you’re in high force!” He nodded and smiled at the younger of the two gentlemen present, and looked enquiringly at the other.
“I don’t think you are acquainted with Mr Nethercott, are you, Des?” said Henrietta. “Mr Nethercott, you must let me make you known to Lord Desford, who is almost my foster-brother!”
The two men shook hands, each swiftly weighing the other up. Cary Nethercott was rather older than Desford, but lacked the Viscount’s air of easy assurance. His manners, though perfectly well-bred, held a good deal of shy reserve. He was taller and more thick-set than Desford; and while he was dressed with propriety there was no suggestion about him of the man of fashion: his coat was made of Bath cloth, but only a clodpole could have supposed it to have come from the hands of Weston, or Nugee. He had a well-formed person, regular features, and if his habitual expression was grave it was also kindly, and his rare smile held a good deal of sweetness.
“No, I fancy we’ve never met,” said Desford. “You have only lately come into the district, haven’t you? My mother was speaking of you yesterday: said you were old Mr Bourne’s heir.”
“Yes, I am,” replied Cary. “It seems very strange that I should be, because I scarcely knew him!”
“All the better for you!” said Desford. “The most crotchety old rumstick I ever met in my life! Lord, Hetta, will you ever forget the dust he kicked up when he found us trespassing on his land?”
“No, indeed!” she said, laughing. “And we weren’t doing the least harm! I do hope, Mr Nethercott, that you won’t fly into a rage if I should stray on to the sacred ground of Marley House!”
“You may be very sure I won’t!” he said, smiling warmly at her.
At this point, young Mr Beckenham’s evil genius prompted him to embark on a tangled speech. He said throatily: “For my part, I can promise Miss Silverdale that if ever she should stray on to my land I should think it hallowed ground thereafter! At least, what I mean is I should if it were my land, but that’s of no consequence, because it will be, when my father dies—not that I wish him to die!—and, in any event, he would be as happy as I should be to welcome you to Foxshot, if there were the least chance of your straying on to our land! I only wish Foxshot had been situated within walking distance of Inglehurst!”
He then perceived that Cary Nethercott was looking very much amused, and subsided into blushful silence.
“Well said!” approved the Viscount, patting him on the shoulder. “If you’re not very much obliged to him, Hetta, you should be!”
“Of course I am!” said Henrietta, smiling kindly upon her youthful admirer. “And if Foxshot were not fifteen miles distant I expect I should stray on to it!”