He took a deep breath. He must disengage himself from Miss Barchester at the earliest opportunity. But what excuse did he have? That he had never been in love before? That he had never believed in such an emotion? That his heart was not in London, it was on the road to Brighton?
But did poor Miss Barchester deserve to be jilted because she no longer held any magic for him? That calmness and stillness of hers that had so attracted him now seemed dull. He felt like a cad.
He took himself off to the Crillon Hotel, preferring to walk, and so absorbed in his worries that he did not notice he was being followed.
Mr. Palfrey had had a quite dreadful night. He had dreamed of Felicity, and on waking, the dream face and the face of the Princess Felicity merged in his mind and became one. He had to see her again, just to make sure. By diligently questioning the hotel staff, he obtained the princess's address in Chesterfield Gardens and set out there at eleven in the morning while the streets of the West End were still quiet. But after half an hour of surveying the house from the opposite side of the street, he had an uneasy feeling there was no one at home.
At last, summoning up his courage, he crossed over and hammered on the knocker. He could hear the sound of his knocking echoing away into emptiness inside. A butler came out of the house next door and stood on the step and looked up and down the street.
“Tell me, my good man,” called Mr. Palfrey, “is the princess in residence?”
“Her Royal Highness and all her staff left early this morning,” said the butler.
Mr. Palfrey stood, baffled. He had been all set to take some sort of action to ease his mind. There must be something he could do.
“Do you know where they have gone?” he asked.
The butler shook his powdered wig.
Mr. Palfrey paced restlessly up and down. Then his face cleared. She had been with Lord Arthur Bessamy. If he could find Lord Arthur, then that gentleman might lead him to the whereabouts of the mysterious princess. “Do you know where a certain Lord Arthur Bessamy resides?” he asked.
The butler turned his head away in disdain. Mr. Palfrey took two gold sovereigns out of his pocket and clinked them in his hands. The butler's head jerked round. “Just around the corner, sir,” he said with an ingratiating smile. “Number 137.”
“Thank you, fellow,” said Mr. Palfrey cockily and, returning the sovereigns to his pocket, strolled off down the street and then flinched as a lump of dried horse manure flew past his ear and the outraged butler's screech of “Skinflint!” followed him around the corner into Curzon Street.
Then he stopped. Lord Arthur was emerging from his house. He was too formidable a man to be approached. Mr. Palfrey set out to follow.
He had to scurry to keep up with Lord Arthur's long legs. Soon he saw his quarry walking into the Crillon Hotel. He followed at a discreet distance, saw the hotel manager bowing and scraping, and then saw Lord Arthur mounting the stairs.
He waited a few moments and then strolled into the hotel and approached the manager. “I am desirous to know who it is Lord Arthur is meeting,” he said, holding out the two sovereigns he had failed to give to the butler. The manager took the money, put it in the pocket of his tails, dabbed his mouth fastidiously with a handkerchief, and said, “Get out. We do not discuss anything to do with our guests or noble visitors.”
“Then, give me my money back this instant.”
“What money?” said the manager. “Here! Jeremy, Peter, throw this fellow out.”
Mr. Palfrey cast a scared look at the approaching waiters and ran out into the street. He stood for a moment and then crossed the road and skulked in a doorway.
When Lord Arthur entered the Barchesters’ hotel drawing room, he was relieved to see only Mr. Barchester. He did not yet feel ready to face his soon-to-be disengaged fiancée.
“Martha's putting on her pretties,” said Mr. Barchester. “Sit down, sit down, Bessamy. Help yourself to wine.”
Lord Arthur poured himself a glass of burgundy and sat down opposite Mr. Barchester. “I fear you will not be pleased to see me when you learn the reason for my visit.”
Mr. Barchester's shrewd little eyes twinkled in the pads of fat that were his cheeks. “I'll try to bear up,” he said. “What's to do?”
“What would you say, sir, were I to tell you that I have fallen in love for the first time in my life, and, alas, not with your daughter?”
There was a long silence. Then Mr. Barchester tilted his glass of port to his mouth and took a gulp. “That's better,” he said. “Oh, well, as to your question, I would say I have been planning new stables this past age.”
Lord Arthur looked in amazement at Mr. Barchester. One of Mr. Barchester's fat eyelids drooped in a wink. “Come now, Bessamy,” he said. “You always struck me as being a knowing cove.”
“So,” said Lord Arthur slowly, “am I to take it that if I build new stables for you, the Barchester family will not sue me for breach of promise?”
“That's right,” said Mr. Barchester cheerfully.
“You do not seem in the least surprised. I feel a cad and a charlatan for treating your daughter so.”
“She's used to it,” said Mr. Barchester heartlessly. “See that new wing at Hapsmere Manor? That was when Sir Henry Carruthers cried off. And the fine tiled roof? That was… let me see… ah, that was Mr. Tommy Bradshaw. The staircase was the Honorable Peter Chambers, but then he didn't have too much of the ready…”
“How many times has Miss Barchester been engaged?”
“'Bout four or five. M'wife'll put you straight.”
“But don't you see,” said Lord Arthur, appalled, “I cannot possibly bring myself to break the engagement now! After all these disappointments… I would feel like a monster.”
“Take Martha out for a little walk and have a talk to her,” said Mr. Barchester. “Martha's little talks always do the trick. You'll be back here like a rat up a spout, begging to give me those new stables.”
Lord Arthur was not able to say any more, for at that moment the door opened and Miss Barchester walked in, accompanied by her mother. She was wearing a severe walking dress of old-fashioned cut and a poke bonnet. She treated Lord Arthur to a cool smile.
“Off you go, Martha,” said her father heartily. “Bessamy here's come to take you for a little walk.”
As they made their way to Hyde Park, Lord Arthur had an odd feeling he was being followed. He turned around sharply several times, but the streets were very busy and no one appeared to be paying him any particular interest.
Martha was talking steadily in a level voice and at last he was able to take in what she was saying.
“When we are married, I should like to spend most of the year in town,” said Miss Barchester. “The ladies’ fashions are sadly skimpy, and fashion would have a new leader.”
“In yourself?” asked Lord Arthur, glancing down at her walking dress and wondering how she had managed to find material that was so drab, so mud-colored.
“Of course! And I am sure you will agree with me that marriages in which men spend all their time at their clubs end in disaster.”
“On the contrary, it might be the saving of many.”
“You are funning, of course. I have not told you before, Lord Arthur, but there is a certain levity about you which must be curbed.”
Lord Arthur stopped listening to her, saving all his energies for the scene he knew must surely break about his head when he told her he no longer wished to marry her.