‘Mama, do you – do you like Lord Harleston?’ Fanny asked shyly.
Whatever ambitious schemes Mrs Wingham had in mind, she would have relinquished them all rather than have encouraged her unspoiled daughter to share them. She replied, therefore, in a cool tone: ‘Why, yes, very much! Do you?’
A glowing face was turned towards her. ‘Oh, Mama, indeed I do! I think him quite the nicest person we have met in London. One could tell him almost anything, and be sure that he would understand just how it was,’ Fanny said impulsively. She bestowed a brief hug upon the widow. ‘Dearest Mama, I am so glad you like him!’
Mrs Wingham, returning the embrace, felt tears – thankful tears – sting her eyelids, but was spared the necessity of answering by a scratch on the door, which heralded the entrance of the page-boy, come to inform Miss Wingham that Mrs Stratton’s barouche awaited her.
3
Fanny did not return from her picnic in time to indulge in rest, but she was in her best looks that evening. Several persons commented on her radiance; and Lord Harleston, obliging his hostess to recruit her energies with a glass of champagne, said, with his attractive smile: ‘You are to be congratulated, ma’am! I do not know when I have seen so engaging a creature as your daughter. Such a bloom of health! Such frank, open manners! I think, too, that she has a disposition that matches her face.’
‘Indeed, my lord, she is the dearest girl!’ Mrs Wingham said, blushing with gratification and raising her eyes to his. ‘I do think – but I might be partial – that she is very pretty. She favours her papa, you know.’
‘Does she?’ said his lordship, seating himself beside her on the sofa. ‘I own that it is her mama I perceive in her countenance.’
‘Oh no!’ the widow assured him earnestly. ‘My husband was an excessively handsome man.’
He bowed. ‘Indeed? I think I had not the pleasure of the late Mr Wingham’s acquaintance. He would certainly be proud of his daughter, were he alive today.’ His eyes had been resting on Fanny, as she chatted, not many paces distant, to a gentleman with very high points to his shirt-collar, but he brought them back to Mrs Wingham’s face, adding: ‘And also of her mama. It is seldom that one discovers a well-informed mind behind a lovely face, ma’am; and Fanny has told me that she owes her education to you.’
‘Why, yes!’ admitted Mrs Wingham frankly. ‘It has not been within my power to provide Fanny with the governesses and the professors I should have desired for her. If you do not find her deficient in attainments, I think myself complimented indeed!’
‘May I say that I believe no governess or professor could have achieved so admirable a result?’
‘You are too flattering, my lord!’ was all she could find to say, and that in faltering accents.
‘No, I never flatter,’ he responded, taking the empty glass from her hand. ‘I perceive that we are about to be interrupted by Lady Luton. I have something of a very particular nature to say to you, but this is neither the time nor the occasion for it. May I beg of you to indulge me with the favour of a private interview with you, at whatever time may be most agreeable to you?’
Such a tumult of emotion swelled in the widow’s breast that she could scarcely find voice enough to utter the words: ‘Whenever you wish, my lord! I shall be happy to receive you!’
He rose, as Lady Luton surged down upon them. ‘Then, shall we say, at three o’clock tomorrow?’
She inclined her head; he bowed and moved away; and a moment later she had the felicity of seeing his tall, well-knit frame beside Fanny. Fanny was looking up at him, with her sweet smile, and putting out her hand, which he took in his and held for an instant, while he addressed some quizzing remark to her that made her laugh and blush. A queer little pang shot through the widow, seeing them on such comfortable terms. She reflected that her absorption in Fanny had made her stupidly jealous, and resolutely turned her attention to Lady Luton.
4
Having ascertained that her daughter had no engagement on the following afternoon, Mrs Wingham was surprised, when she returned from a shopping expedition in Bond Street, to find that only one cover had been laid for a luncheon of cold meat and fruit. She enquired of the butler, hired, like the house, for the season, whether Miss Fanny had gone out with her maid.
‘No, madam, with a military gentleman.’
These fell words caused the widow to feel so strong a presentiment of disaster that she turned pale, and repeated numbly: ‘A military gentleman!’
‘A Mr Kenton, madam. Miss Fanny appeared to be well acquainted with him. Extremely well acquainted with him, if I may say so, madam!’
Making a creditable effort to maintain her composure, Mrs Wingham said: ‘Oh, Mr Kenton is an old friend! I had no notion he was in town. He and Miss Fanny went out together, I think you said?’
‘Yes, madam, in a hackney carriage. I understand, to the City, Mr Kenton desiring the coachman to set them down at the Temple.’
This very respectable address did nothing to soothe Mrs Wingham’s agitated nerves. The whole locality, from Temple Bar to St Paul’s Cathedral, appeared to her to be sinister in the extreme. Amongst the thoughts which jostled one another in her head, the most prominent were Fleet Marriages, Doctors’ Commons and Special Licences. She was obliged to sit down, for her knees were trembling. Her butler then proffered a tray on which lay a note, twisted into a little cocked hat.
It was scribbled in pencil, and it was brief:
Dearest Mama, – Forgive me, but I have gone with Richard. You shall know it all, but I have no time now. Pray do not be vexed with me! I am so happy I am sure you cannot be.
Mrs Wingham became aware that she was being asked if she would partake of luncheon or wait for Miss Fanny, and heard her own voice replying with surprising calm: ‘I don’t think Miss Fanny will be home to luncheon.’
She then drew her chair to the table and managed to swallow a few mouthfuls of chicken, and to sip a glass of wine. A period of quiet reflection, if it did not lighten her heart, at least assuaged the worst of her fears. She could not believe that either Fanny or Richard would for a moment contemplate the impropriety of a clandestine marriage. But that the sight of Richard had revived all Fanny’s tenderness for him she could not, in the face of Fanny’s note, doubt. What to do she could not think, and in a state of wretched indecision presently went up to her bedroom. After removing her hat, setting a becoming lace cap on her head and tying it under her chin, there seemed to be nothing to do but to await further news of the truants, so she went to sit in the drawing-room, and tried to occupy herself with her needle.
Fortunately, she had not long to wait. Shortly after two o’clock an impetuous step on the stair smote her listening ears, and Fanny herself came into the room, out of breath, her cheeks in a glow, and her eyes sparkling. ‘Mama? Oh, Mama, Mama, it is true, and you will give your consent now, won’t you?’