laughter and masculine voices was coming from the drawing-room. Then she
heard Guy’s voice. ‘By Jove, it’s good to see you fellows. Of course you are welcome to stay. Aunt has bags of room.’
Still clutching the two bandboxes, Deirdre crept across the hall. The drawing-room door was open and a yellow oblong of light sliced across the darkness.
Deirdre looked in.
Guy was lounging at his ease with a bumper of brandy in his hand. Two friends were seated facing him around the fire. They seemed uncouth, they did not seem like gentlemen, but, strangely,
Deirdre did not feel alarmed. Their unexpected arrival must have been the reason for Guy abandoning her.
They were so merry and at ease together. They all belonged to that fascinating world of men – a world which Deirdre envied as much as she feared.
At times she chafed at being a woman and having to listen to silly women’s prattle. She longed to discuss philosophy and world events and politics. Guy had accepted her as an equal.
Therefore it followed his friends would do so too.
She took a deep breath and entered the room, still carrying the two bandboxes.
Guy was facing the door. He looked straight at her in dawning surprise and then his blue eyes sparkled with drink and malice.
His friends followed his gaze.
One of them, thickset and burly, with greasy, pomaded locks plastered to his low brow, twisted round.
‘The deuce!’ he said. ‘What’s this?’
‘A drama from Astley’s Amphitheatre,’ drawled Guy. ‘The Maiden From the Vicarage Leaves Home. Allow me to present Miss Deirdre Armitage.’
Both men arose and made their bows. The thickset one was introduced as Mr Benjamin Rowse and his thin companion as Mr Bill Wilson. Both were obviously well to go.
‘There’s a story here,’ crowed the one called Bill. ‘Do tell, Guy. What wickedness have you been up to?’
Guy rose to his feet and walked to where Deirdre stood. He reached forward and for one blissful moment Deirdre’s world righted as she thought he was about to take her in his arms. But,
instead, he seized her by the upper arm and dragged her towards the mantel.
‘Look in the glass, Miss Deirdre,’ he laughed. He moved his grip to her shoulders and thrust her face forwards. Deirdre stared at her reflection. Her bonnet was awry, there was a
smudge on her nose, and great purple shadows under her eyes.
‘Yes, hardly a fashion plate, are you?’ he jeered.
‘Guy!’ cried Deirdre, wrenching herself free. ‘What has come over you? What happened? I do not understand the cruelty of your manner. You said you loved me. You promised to
elope with me.’
Her eyes grew soft and pleading. ‘I-I am here, Guy, and I have brought my belongings with me.’
‘Oooh, how touching!’ said Guy, mincing about the room with one hand on his hip while his friends roared with laughter.
Deirdre’s face turned hard and set.
‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ she said, walking to the door, her back very straight.
‘Wait a bit!’ called Bill Wilson. ‘Guy may be too nice in his taste but Benjie and me ain’t above a bit o’ fun with a redhead.’
He clipped her round the waist with one beefy arm and thrust his great red face towards her own.
Guy Wentwater smiled lazily and closed the drawing-room door. ‘I agree she is not to my taste, my friends,’ he said lazily, ‘but don’t let me stop your sport.’
Appalled, Deirdre tore herself free from Bill’s grasp. Benjie rushed to guard the door. Guy sat down in his chair again and picked up his glass and settled back with the air of a
connoisseur about to watch a good play.
Now Deirdre looked like the fox of her father’s imaginings. Green eyes blazing, she backed away from them towards the fire.
A canterbury filled with old newspapers stood beside the hearth.
She picked one up in one lightning movement, set it alight, and threw the blazing pages full at Guy who jerked back violently in his chair so that he overbalanced and fell on the
heard Guy’s voice. ‘By Jove, it’s good to see you fellows. Of course you are welcome to stay. Aunt has bags of room.’
Still clutching the two bandboxes, Deirdre crept across the hall. The drawing-room door was open and a yellow oblong of light sliced across the darkness.
Deirdre looked in.
Guy was lounging at his ease with a bumper of brandy in his hand. Two friends were seated facing him around the fire. They seemed uncouth, they did not seem like gentlemen, but, strangely,
Deirdre did not feel alarmed. Their unexpected arrival must have been the reason for Guy abandoning her.
They were so merry and at ease together. They all belonged to that fascinating world of men – a world which Deirdre envied as much as she feared.
At times she chafed at being a woman and having to listen to silly women’s prattle. She longed to discuss philosophy and world events and politics. Guy had accepted her as an equal.
Therefore it followed his friends would do so too.
She took a deep breath and entered the room, still carrying the two bandboxes.
Guy was facing the door. He looked straight at her in dawning surprise and then his blue eyes sparkled with drink and malice.
His friends followed his gaze.
One of them, thickset and burly, with greasy, pomaded locks plastered to his low brow, twisted round.
‘The deuce!’ he said. ‘What’s this?’
‘A drama from Astley’s Amphitheatre,’ drawled Guy. ‘The Maiden From the Vicarage Leaves Home. Allow me to present Miss Deirdre Armitage.’
Both men arose and made their bows. The thickset one was introduced as Mr Benjamin Rowse and his thin companion as Mr Bill Wilson. Both were obviously well to go.
‘There’s a story here,’ crowed the one called Bill. ‘Do tell, Guy. What wickedness have you been up to?’
Guy rose to his feet and walked to where Deirdre stood. He reached forward and for one blissful moment Deirdre’s world righted as she thought he was about to take her in his arms. But,
instead, he seized her by the upper arm and dragged her towards the mantel.
‘Look in the glass, Miss Deirdre,’ he laughed. He moved his grip to her shoulders and thrust her face forwards. Deirdre stared at her reflection. Her bonnet was awry, there was a
smudge on her nose, and great purple shadows under her eyes.
‘Yes, hardly a fashion plate, are you?’ he jeered.
‘Guy!’ cried Deirdre, wrenching herself free. ‘What has come over you? What happened? I do not understand the cruelty of your manner. You said you loved me. You promised to
elope with me.’
Her eyes grew soft and pleading. ‘I-I am here, Guy, and I have brought my belongings with me.’
‘Oooh, how touching!’ said Guy, mincing about the room with one hand on his hip while his friends roared with laughter.
Deirdre’s face turned hard and set.
‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ she said, walking to the door, her back very straight.
‘Wait a bit!’ called Bill Wilson. ‘Guy may be too nice in his taste but Benjie and me ain’t above a bit o’ fun with a redhead.’
He clipped her round the waist with one beefy arm and thrust his great red face towards her own.
Guy Wentwater smiled lazily and closed the drawing-room door. ‘I agree she is not to my taste, my friends,’ he said lazily, ‘but don’t let me stop your sport.’
Appalled, Deirdre tore herself free from Bill’s grasp. Benjie rushed to guard the door. Guy sat down in his chair again and picked up his glass and settled back with the air of a
connoisseur about to watch a good play.
Now Deirdre looked like the fox of her father’s imaginings. Green eyes blazing, she backed away from them towards the fire.
A canterbury filled with old newspapers stood beside the hearth.
She picked one up in one lightning movement, set it alight, and threw the blazing pages full at Guy who jerked back violently in his chair so that he overbalanced and fell on the
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