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Eleanor. Sylvia Andrew
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‘Mr Guthrie, stop this at once or I shall leave you instantly!’
‘But I am not saying such things, Miss Southeran,’ he said earnestly. ‘They are quite clearly false, the merest flattery. You are pretty enough, but far from being the prettiest woman in the room. Miss Anstey, for instance, is a star!’ After a brief pause he added, ‘I grant that you’re livelier than she is—and much more intelligent.’ He gave a delighted laugh at her indignant expression. ‘What sensible things shall we talk about, Miss Southeran?’
Eleanor had never known such a man! Never before had she experienced such a mixture of feelings—anger, amusement, puzzlement, sympathy. Never had she felt so alive.
‘You shall tell me more about the East. But first we shall enjoy your prize, which,’ she said firmly, ‘is a dance.’
They didn’t talk about the East, but after the dance was over he took her to supper, and they talked of other things. They walked through the crowded rooms and at one point found themselves among the plants in the winter garden, still talking. Eleanor had objected to something disparaging Mr Guthrie had said about life in England, and was arguing her case passionately. But her voice died away as she saw him looking at her as she spoke, his eyes focused on her lips. She was overcome with a feeling of panic and turned away from him. ‘We…we must go back,’ she said nervously. ‘My aunt will be looking for me.’
‘No, wait a little. How can we talk sensibly out there among all those people—?’
‘I cannot stay here—it is most improper. My aunt would be very angry if she saw me.’
‘The devil take your aunt!’
‘Sir!’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just that I have something I want to say to you, and there never seems to be a suitable moment. I keep putting it off…’ He gave an exasperated laugh. ‘I think I’m afraid!’
‘Afraid?’ she echoed, looked at him wide-eyed.
‘Yes, and when you look at me like that it all goes out of my head. You have a most extraordinary effect on me—like no other I have ever known. How do you do it?’
Eleanor suddenly became aware of the very strange effect this conversation was having on her breathing. ‘You are talking nonsense, Mr Guthrie—I must go back,’ she said with determination, and started for the entrance to the ballroom.
‘Wait! Eleanor—’ he called, but stopped abruptly as he saw Lady Walcot standing at the entrance.
‘At last I’ve found you! What on earth do you think you are doing?’ Lady Walcot’s voice was sharp, and one or two bystanders cast curious glances in her direction. She forced a smile, whispering to her niece, ‘Don’t bother to tell me. You’ve been with that man!’
‘Aunt Hetty—’
‘We’ll talk when we get home, Eleanor, not here. Now come with me—several people have been asking to meet you. Ah, Lady Marchant, there you are! We’ve been looking for you—this is Miss Southeran, my niece…’
Eleanor did not see Mr Guthrie again that evening. Her aunt kept her close at her side until the carriages arrived to take them home. But she would not have looked for him in any case. Her feelings were much too confused to face him again so soon. This same confusion of feeling made it difficult for her to discuss the matter with her aunt afterwards, and Lady Walcot, drawing her own conclusions, was most concerned. ‘I blame myself,’ she said unhappily. ‘I should never have agreed to your dancing with him—I know what he is. Heaven knows how he manages it, for he is not at all handsome. But he is a dangerous man, Eleanor. I beg you to forget this attraction he has for you.’
‘He…he seemed sincere,’ said Eleanor hesitantly. ‘As if he too felt the same…attraction. Could I be so wrong?’
Lady Walcot exclaimed, ‘The devil! The scheming, contriving devil! He has bewitched you, Eleanor, just as he bewitched Ev—But no, I mustn’t say any more.’ She appeared to be debating with herself, and then to reach a conclusion. ‘You must go to bed, Eleanor,’ she said slowly. ‘And in the morning I shall see what I can do.’
Eleanor slept badly that night. She tossed and turned, reliving the moments with Jonas Guthrie, especially the time in the winter garden. One moment she wanted to meet him the next morning, and then, after another debate with herself, she had decided that it would be better if they did not see each other again. Was he a dangerous philanderer—all the more dangerous because he did not appear to be trying to charm? Or was he the straightforward man he appeared to be? And what was it that he had been afraid to tell her? She eventually fell into an uneasy slumber, still debating the question.
She woke late the next morning to find that one question at least had already been decided. It was far too late for a ride in the park. When she eventually came downstairs she found her aunt waiting.
‘I have someone I wish you to meet,’ she said briskly, ‘and we are late. Put your bonnet on and come with me, Eleanor. Don’t delay—the carriage is waiting.’
A few minutes later they arrived at a modest house in a street off Cavendish Square. Here they were taken into a small parlour, where a lady was waiting to receive them. It was Mrs Anstey. She greeted Lady Walcot in a soft, well-spoken manner and then turned to Eleanor. ‘Miss Southeran, you are very welcome, though I am sorry the occasion is…is such an awkward one…’ Mrs Anstey paused and looked to Lady Walcot for help.
‘Mrs Anstey has agreed, at my urgent request, to talk to you, Eleanor. I am very obliged to her—the matter is a painful one, as you will see, and I would not have asked her to speak of it had I not been so anxious for you. I am sure you will give her your earnest attention—it concerns Mr Guthrie and his behaviour towards the Anstey family.’
‘Surely this isn’t necessary, Aunt Hetty—’
‘In view of your refusal to accept my word for Mr Guthrie’s character, and especially in view of your behaviour last night…’
‘I wanted to explain—’
‘Forgive me, Eleanor, but Mrs Anstey’s time is precious. We must not waste it.’
Good manners silenced Eleanor. She sat chafing under her aunt’s disapproval, convinced that this whole visit was an unnecessary exercise. Lady Walcot said, ‘Mrs Anstey, would you mind telling my niece how well you know Mr Guthrie?’
‘Jonas and I were brought up together, Miss Southeran. His mother was a Vereker, too. That is to say…I mean his mother was a Vereker before she was married. As I was.’
‘You were sisters?’
‘No, no! Oh, dear, how stupid of me…Caroline, his mother, was my cousin.’
‘From what you have told me,’ said Lady Walcot, casting a glance at Eleanor, ‘you practically brought him up?’
‘Well…yes, I suppose so,’ said Mrs Anstey uncertainly. ‘I was so much older than he was, and he had no mother…He was a dear little boy when he came to us.’
‘Came to you? In America?’ asked Eleanor, somewhat puzzled.
‘No, no. This was over thirty years ago—Jonas was a baby…I was a girl and still living in England then.’ She looked anxiously at Lady Walcot, then said nervously, ‘Perhaps I had better explain. You see, Richard Guthrie, Jonas’s father, abandoned poor Caroline before Jonas was born. She came back home to have the child, and died soon after. I think it must have been of a broken heart, don’t you? Jonas and I…we were both orphans living with relatives. We were very close, though I was ten years older.’
‘But what happened to his father?’ asked Eleanor.
‘He was a bad lot,