Georgette Heyer - Powder and Patch

Back in the withdrawing-room again it was worse. Sir Maurice asked Cleone to sing, and she went to the spinet. Bancroft followed, to choose her music, to turn the pages, to gaze at her in frank admiration. Damn him, damn him, damn him!

The party came to an end at last; Philip was alone with his father. Sir Maurice leaned his chin in his hand, watching him amusedly. For a long while Philip said nothing, but presently he brought his eyes away from the window, and looked at his father. “And that,” he said bitingly, “is what you would have me. A conceited, painted puppy, fawning and leering on every woman that crosses his path!”

“Not at all.” Sir Maurice took out his snuff-box and opened it. “’Tis the last thing in the world I would have you.”

“You said-”

“I said I would have you a very perfect gentleman, knowing the world and its ways.” “Well?-”

“You perhaps conceive Mr Bancroft a perfect gentleman?” “Not I! Tis you who-”

Sir Maurice raised one delicate hand.

“Pardon me! You choose to assume that I thought it. Mr Bancroft is, as you so truly remark, a conceited, painted puppet. But he apes, so far as he is able, the thing that I am; that I wish you to become. You are a country-bumpkin, my dear; he is a coddled doll. Strive to become something betwixt the two.”

“I had sooner be what I am!” “Which is a conceited oaf.” “Sir!”

Sir Maurice rose, leaning on his cane.

“Remain what you are, my son, but bethink you-which will Cleone prefer? Him who gives her graceful homage, and charms her ears with honeyed words, or him who is tongue-tied before her, who is careless of his appearance, and who treats her, not as a young and beautiful girl, but as his inevitable possession?”

Philip answered quickly.

“Cleone, sir, will-give herself where she pleases, but she is not one to over-rate the tricks of such as Bancroft.”

“Or to under-rate the discomforts of tying herself to one who is tied to the soil and his own pleasure,” said Sir Maurice softly.

The grey eyes met his, a trifle hurt.

“I am selfish, Father? Because I will not become the thing I despise?” “And narrow, Philip, to despise what you do not know.”

“Thank you!” The young voice was exceedingly bitter. “I am to be a painted popinjay! I tell you, sir, Cleone must take me as I am.”

“Or leave you as you are,” said Sir Maurice gently. “A warning, sir?”

“That’s for you to judge, child. And now I’ll to bed.” He paused, looking at his son. Philip went to him.

“Goodnight, sir.”

Sir Maurice smiled, holding out his hand. “Goodnight, my son.”

Philip kissed his fingers.

Followed a week of disturbing trivialities. Mr Bancroft was more often in Little Fittledean than at home, and most often at Sharley House. He there met Philip, not once, but many times, hostile and possessive. He laughed softly and sought to engage Philip in a war of wits, but Philip’s tongue was stiff and reluctant So Mr Bancroft made covert sport of him and renewed his attentions to Cleone.

Cleone herself was living in a strange whirl. There was much in Mr Bancroft that displeased her: I do not think she ever had it in her mind to wed him, which was perhaps fortunate, as Mr Bancroft certainly had it not in his. But homage is grateful to women, and ardent yet dainty love-making fascinating to the young. She played with Mr Bancroft, but thought no less of Philip. Yet Philip contrived to irritate her. His air of ownership, his angry, reproachful looks, fired the spirit of coquetry within her. Mastery thrilled her, but a mastery that offered to take all, giving nothing, annoyed her. That Philip loved her to distraction, she knew; also she knew that Philip would expect her to bend before his will. He would not change, it would be she who must conform to his pleasure. Philip was determined to remain as he was, faithful but dull. She wanted all that he despised: life, gaiety, society, and frivolity. She weighed the question carefully, a little too carefully for a maid in love. She wanted Philip and she did not want him. As he was, she would have none of him; as she wished him to be, he might have her. But for the present she was no man’s, and no man had the right to chide her. Philip had made a mistake in his wooing in showing her how much his own he thought her. All unwitting, he was paving the way to his own downfall.

Despite the lisping conceit of Mr Bancroft, his polished phrases and his elegancy when compared with Philip’s brusqueness threw Philip in the shade. Mr Bancroft could taunt and gibe at Philip, sure of triumph; Philip tied his tongue in knots and relapsed into silence, leaving Mr Bancroft to shine in his victory. The man Cleone chose to wed must be a match for all, with words or swords. Cleone continued to smile upon Mr Bancroft. At the end of the week the trouble came to a head. In the garden of Sharley House, before Cleone, Mr Bancroft threw veiled taunts at Philip, and very thinly veiled sneers. He continued to hold the younger man’s lack of polish up to scorn, always smiling and urbane. Cleone recognised the gleam in Philip’s eye. She was a little frightened and sought to smooth over the breach. But when she presently retired to the house, Philip arrested Mr Bancroft, who was following.

“A word with you, sir.”

Bancroft turned, brows raised, lips curled almost sneeringly. Philip stood very straight, shoulders squared. “You have seen fit to mock at me, sir-” “I?” interpolated Bancroft languidly. “My dear sir!” “-and I resent it. There is that in your manner to which I object.” Bancroft’s brows rose higher.

“To-which-you-object …” he echoed softly.

“I trust I make myself clear?” snapped Philip.

Bancroft raised his eyeglass. Through it he studied Philip from his toes to his head. “Is it possible that you want satisfaction?” he drawled.

“More than that,” retorted Philip. “It is certain.” Once again he was scrutinised. Mr Bancroft’s smile grew. “I do not fight with schoolboys,” he said.

The colour flooded Philip’s face.

“Perhaps because you are afraid,” he said quickly, guarding his temper. “Perhaps,” nodded Bancroft. “Yet I have not the reputation of a coward.” Swift as a hawk Philip pounced.

“You have, sir, as I well know, the reputation of a libertine!” It was Bancroft’s turn to flush.

“I-beg-your-pardon?”

“It is necessary,” bowed Philip, enjoying himself now for the first time in many days. “You-impudent boy!” gasped Bancroft

“I would sooner be that, sir, than an impudent, painted puppy.” Under his powder Bancroft was fiery red.

“I see you will have it, Mr Jettan. I will meet you when and where you will.” Philip patted his sword-hilt, and Bancroft observed for the first time that he was wearing a sword. “I have noticed, Mr Bancroft, that you habitually don your sword. So I took the precaution of wearing mine. ‘When’ is now, and ‘where’ is yonder!” He pointed above the hedge that encircled the garden to the copse beyond. It was a very fine theatrical effect, and he was pleased with it

Bancroft sneered at him.

“A trifle countrified, Mr Jettan. Do you propose to dispense with such needless formalities as seconds?”

“I think we can trust each other,” said Philip grandly. “Then pray lead the way,” bowed Bancroft.

What followed was not so fine. Bancroft was proficient in the art of the duello; Philip had never fought in his life. Fencing had never interested him, and Sir Maurice had long since despaired of teaching him anything more than the rudiments. However, he was very angry and very reckless, while Bancroft thought to play with him. He thrust so wildly and so insanely that Bancroft was taken unawares and received a fine slash across the arm. After that he fenced more carefully, and in a very short time pinked Philip neatly and artistically above the elbow of his sword arm. As Philip’s blade wavered and fell, he wiped his own on his handkerchief, sheathed it, and bowed.