CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Amelia was still in a light-hearted mood next morning, and managed to make an appearance at the breakfast table.
Elizabeth was buttering toast and discussing the likelihood of rain for the afternoon’s military review.
She smiled at her cousin, who nearly bounced in, and received a quelling look from her mama.
Ribston brought in a salver, which he presented to Elizabeth. On it was a letter, which made her groan when she saw the script.
‘Ooh, is it from Mr Escott?’ Amelia giggled. ‘What fun! Do read us his latest gem.’
This time it was her cousin whose look spoke volumes. Tempting as it was to discard any missive from Mr Escott without deigning to peruse it, she unfolded the sheet of paper and read. The expression on her face was not as expected, and Amelia grew silent.
‘Is he mad?’ whispered Elizabeth to herself, paling.
‘If he has written anything indelicate or offensive—’ 167began Lady Chalford, with a belligerent snort.
‘Not indelicate, no. Dangerous, yes. I must warn him.’
‘That what he writes is dangerous?’ Amelia was confused. ‘Is it seditious?’
‘But it is difficult to broach.’ Elizabeth was still talking to herself, ignoring her cousin. ‘Oh dear, what should I do?’
‘Elizabeth, may I see what is written, my dear?’ Lady Chalford held out her hand, and Elizabeth gave her the sheet of paper. Lady Chalford scanned it, her eyes narrowing. ‘Foolish man!’
‘Am I right to be concerned, Aunt?’ enquired Elizabeth, frowning.
‘I am not sure. It is not such a situation as one might have foreseen. He is not what one would consider a violent man.’
‘But volatile, ma’am. I think the least I can do is warn Sir Lucius Radstock, for I know of no other men in Town bearing the name. If I write to him … what if he was hurt?’
‘I daresay Lucius Radstock can rebuff and repel any attempt by young Mr Escott, Elizabeth, without resort to excessive violence, but I am more concerned that if they do meet, there will be scandal. No, Sir Lucius is experienced enough to avoid that I think, I hope.’
Elizabeth’s hands were to her cheeks.
‘What does he say?’ Amelia could contain herself no longer.
Elizabeth took the poem from the table.
‘O fair Divinity Sublime, let not
The curlèd lip and jealous eye so green,
Nor Persecution that I face persuade 168
You that my love is less, My Beauteous Queen.
For burning is my tortured heart
When Malice raw keeps us apart.
‘Persecution!’ She sniffed derisively. ‘In what manner does he think himself persecuted?’
‘Perhaps,’ offered Amelia diffidently, ‘he saw you with Sir Lucius in attendance.’
‘In attendance? But you could not describe … we rarely …’ Her voice petered out.
Whilst Sir Lucius Radstock had not made any ‘push’ for her, and often seemed, she thought, to regard her with some amusement as if she were a diversion, it was true that he was often close enough for their eyes to meet; and though it meant nothing, obviously, perhaps so biased a mind as the poet’s might read more into it.
‘It is ridiculous,’ she huffed, but defensively. ‘Sir Lucius does not haunt me, not like Lord St Loe, Mr Chorley or Mr Browndown, who do not have any real interest in me.’
Amelia was bold enough to look sceptical at this last remark.
Elizabeth continued, hurriedly.
‘I cannot bear to suffer long, and so
Would rather face my Fate, though it might be
That in the noble cause of Love I fall
To rise no more, yet you must surely see
’Tis violence of Philistine
Keeps me from that which is all mine.
169‘All his! What insufferable presumption! Does he expect me to be moved by this?’
She continued.
‘But hold! If fair Melpomene shall sleep,
And tragic death is not my destined way,
Calliope may aid this poet’s hand,
More Lucifer than Lucius shall he slay,
By word and deed, and shall I thus
Release You from this Incubus.
‘Oh, this is terrible. What if he genuinely means violence? Excuse me, Aunt, I must let Sir Lucius know of this as soon as possible.’ She rose from the table, shaking her head. ‘I would never have thought of anything so awful.’
She went to the green saloon, and seated herself at a small, walnut escritoire.
She drew out paper and pen quickly, but then paused, unsure what to say.
She looked again at Mr Escott’s poem. Would Sir Lucius think her fanciful?
Well, better he do so and laugh at her if it was but bluster, than he suffer an assault from a man who might be deranged. At the same time, what could she write?
In the end she enclosed the poem, not wishing in any case to retain it, and added what she thought sounded urgent but not hysterical.
Dear Sir Lucius,
The enclosed was delivered to me this morning, and I am disturbed enough by its contents to send it straightway to you in case Mr Escott’s mind is 170unhinged.
The verse is execrable, but the sentiment within it positively dangerous.
Might I beg you to take care if approached by Mr Escott, whom I can understand you would normally dismiss.
I am compelled to say, had you permitted me to give him every reason to dislike me for cruelty when you watched us on the terrace, this situation would not have arisen.
The deed is done, however, and I am saddled with a man who assumes blithely that I would accept him out of duty as his ‘muse’, without considering the real me at all, and who has turned you into some looming villain for no reason.
Please do not dismiss this as female feebleness, and be upon your guard.
She wondered in what manner to conclude and, finding formality too ponderous, simply subscribed it Yours, Elizabeth Ashling.
It was sent with some urgency, though Ribston showed not by so much as a twitch of a facial muscle that he wondered at her sending a missive of an urgent nature to a single gentleman.
It was only after he had returned from riding with Lord Godmanchester that Sir Lucius received Elizabeth’s message.
He had just come downstairs from changing his raiment to something more suitable for heading to his club, when his butler, Sansom, brought it in to him.
Miss Ashling’s hand was unknown to him, and he broke the seal with a slight frown of puzzlement.
The poem fluttered to 171the floor like a desiccated autumn leaf.
He bent to pick it up, and then held it and her note in his hands, looking from one to the other.
Her missive was in a neat script, though clearly written in some agitation.
His first reaction was a sneer that Escott could even contemplate violence on a poetic plane, let alone in reality, but then he grew angry, angry that whatever he intended, the feckless poet had severely upset Miss Ashling, which he counted as unforgivable.
The fool, he had obviously had no thought of how she might react to the aggressive intent.
Sir Lucius fumed. He did not think he stood in any great danger, but would keep a wary eye open in case the poet made a scene that might be laid at Miss Ashling’s door, and also because he did not think her prone to hysteria.
He read the note again. She had signed it ‘Yours’.
It would be madness to read too much into that, but it struck him how much he wished it was true.
Would she have written to any man she thought at risk?
Yes. Had it made her realise that he had been near her more than she had realised?
Possibly. The reproof in the note was clear enough, but need not, he told himself, mean that it would rankle with her.
He screwed up the results of Mr Escott’s tortuous late-night efforts, but placed the note in a small drawer in his desk, and sauntered off to his club for luncheon in a thoughtful frame of mind.
Whilst Miss Ashling herself remained uppermost in his mind, he had no concerns about Mr Escott, since he was not a member and would hardly storm into his club to accost him.
He discussed the likely outcome of the Derby with Lord Ebbsfleet, ate in the company of Lord Collingbourne 172and Sir John Hemsworth, and, upon his departure along Piccadilly, turned off into the shade of Green Park, where the glare of the sun was less intense.
He wanted to think, needed to think, and indoors was not the place to do so this summery afternoon.
The park was quiet. The regiments of nursemaids giving their little charges an airing of a morning were but a memory beneath the trees, and it was far too hot and sunny an hour for ladies to promenade, even under parasols.
There was some degree of solitude, therefore, with nothing more disturbing than the occasional flap of a pigeon, disturbed in the boughs, and a few twittering sparrows on a pathway.
Sir Lucius was wondering how he ought to proceed with Miss Ashling upon their next meeting.
She would be embarrassed, and yet for him to make no reference at all to her warning would be both ridiculous and offensive.
Broaching it would therefore be a delicate matter.
He wanted to assure her that he had taken the contents seriously, without having been excessively worried by the perceived threat, and also to make it clear that what she saw as interference on Lady Chesham’s terrace had been undertaken from an honourable desire to rid her of a man who was causing her distress.
He had to achieve this whilst not giving her the impression that he was trying to fix his interest with her, even though, he admitted, that was his ultimate intention.
In the dappled light he lost himself in his thoughts.
‘You!’