’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 is170unhinged. 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 itYours, 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 to171the 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 Collingbourne172and 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!’
The cry brought Sir Lucius up short. Coming along a path at ninety degrees to him was Gregory Escott, his173face unnaturally flustered, even for the weather, his lavender-gloved fists clenched by his sides. Sir Lucius was not particularly concerned. A true madman might attack without warning, but if Escott was going to come up to him face to face, he had absolutely no doubt that he could neutralise any threat he might pose.
That this showed in his expression only drove the enraged Mr Escott to an even higher level of frustrated anger. So ‘the Wicked Sir Lucius’, who sought to ruin his life, thought him no more than a worthless fribble, did he? Well, he would find out just how wrong he was.
‘You!’ he repeated, half an octave higher.
Sir Lucius merely looked bored. ‘That is a singularly pointless observation, Escott. However great the excess spleen from which you are suffering, please do not waste my time by venting it upon me. The afternoon is too warm and I have more important things to consider.’
‘Yes, no doubt. How to seduce my Muse.’
‘I take it that you are referring to Miss Ashling. You are wrong in both assumptions, both that I have any reprehensible intentions towards that lady, and that she in any sense is “yours”. Both are also insulting to me and to Miss Ashling, and if you repeat them in public I shall have no compunction in knocking you down.’
