by Fiona Hill
“Oh dear me, oh me, it’s a bad bad affair all the way round,” sighed Lady Lewis. “How is your poor mother?”
“She keeps her spirits up remarkably,” Lizzie answered; and indeed she marvelled at the strength and fortitude with which her mother had met this catastrophe. “Lady Emilia is a great help to her—and to me. Naturally we shall none of us sleep well till Isabella is home again.”
“No, naturally not.”
“And how is Amy?”
Lady Lewis looked, if it were possible, even more fretful than before. “The poor thing is wretched, simply wretched. I have never seen her this way, Lizzie; I tell you, she has me positively frantic. Mr. Aikens” (naming the local apothecary) “came to see her again this morning, and he insists it is nerves…he left her some powders to take, but they do not seem to help at all. A nervous decline, he calls it, brought on by her distress over Isabella. Well, and so it may be…but I can’t help feeling—oh, it just isn’t like Amy to meet disaster with a collapse. Is it at all possible—Lizzie, do try to think back—is there any chance she was already weak before you left London?”
Elizabeth did her best to consider. Amy had in fact been very quiet in the carriage on the way back from Lady Mufftow’s recital, but Lizzie had attributed this to the fact that Bella had not been with them. Ordinarily the two girls chattered between themselves after an evening in society; so it was natural that in Isabella’s absence Amy would have little to say. Anyhow, she might have been fatigued. Certainly she had shown no signs of ill health earlier that day, when Charlie had invited her to the auction. Elizabeth conveyed these impressions to Lady Lewis, who still paced the room, wringing her hands.
“Well then…I suppose little Bella’s sudden—er, disappearance is sufficient to have caused…and yet—” She stopped on this note of doubt, then went on, “So, my dear, suppose you go up to her now. What have you in that basket?”
“Some muffins Lady Emilia and I have been baking, that’s all.” The two women mounted the steps to Amy’s parlour, chatting in desultory fashion of neighbourhood concerns. Elizabeth was dismayed, on reaching Miss Lewis at last, to observe that she appeared several degrees less healthy than she had on the previous day—both paler and weaker. She approached her with an involuntary cry of distress, bending to kiss her forehead. “My dear Amy, what is the meaning of this?” she asked, without intending to. “Surely you cannot hope to help matters by losing your looks and your vigour!”
Amy was apologetic. “I know I am only making more trouble for everyone,” she said, in a low, quite piteous tone. “I should like very much not to do so.”
“Oh, I did not mean to blame you, of course,” amended Lizzie, “but for you to feel this so very deeply…” Her voice trailed off.
Miss Lewis looked oddly disturbed by these words, though the look came and went fleetingly. “I think I will leave you two alone,” said Lady Lewis gently, withdrawing from the parlour with a nod to Elizabeth. Lizzie was glad she had taken this moment to depart, for the expression on Amy’s waxen countenance had not escaped her.
“My dear,” she said, “I know you and I have not been nearly so close as you and Bella, but—I hope you will speak frankly to me anyhow. I assure you, there is nothing you can say that will unnerve me, and I should so like to be of assistance. Is there any other thing that concerns you besides Isabella’s disappearance?”
Amy’s glance glided away from hers towards an empty corner of the room, giving her rather a furtive appearance. She was silent for some moments, then, in a whisper, she brought out, “Elizabeth, will you think me very rude if I decline to speak of it?”
“Then there is something else!”
“Please, it is not the sort of subject that bears discussion,” said Amy. “Indeed, the less said of it the better. And in any case, I’m afraid my anxiety for Bella would have unsettled me considerably.”
“No one doubts that,” Lizzie answered gently, for she guessed how painful it was for Amy to appear selfish. “I am sure you love her very much; as do we all. But if there is some other matter—might not you feel better if you shared it with someone? I don’t mean to pry; it need not be me, of course…but your mother is beside herself with worry for you…Oh dear, now I’ve made you feel worse.”
Amy shook her head no. “Perhaps you are right. If only Bella were here, I might unburden myself to her…but I’m afraid I’m simply being absurd. I had no right to hope for—what I was hoping for; and now that it’s gone from me, I am certain it’s only a question of time…I mean to say, surely I will feel better soon, and stop behaving so preposterously.” She essayed a little laugh at herself, which did not at all succeed.
Elizabeth had not been born with intelligence for nothing. She needed to hear no more than these words—needed to hear only the tone of Amy’s voice, in fact—to know that the root of the matter here was Halcot. Moving forward to the girl so that she could take her hand, she said quietly, “Is it Charlie again, then? But I thought you and he were beginning to understand one another!”
Amy’s cheeks were instantly flooded with tears. The silly thing had no notion how transparent she was, and what she imagined was Elizabeth’s extraordinary sensitivity and insight moved her profoundly. She spoke, choking a little to repress a sob. “Yes, oh dear, it is! You will think me a perfect fool—and so I am—but did you know he is going to marry—” She swallowed hard as her voice failed her and resumed, “He is going to marry that Lemon girl, and I’m afraid he’ll be so dreadfully unhappy!”
“Going to marry—?”
“Susannah, that cold, hard…but I’m sure if Charlie loves her she must have some redeeming qualities. Oh Lizzie,” she wailed suddenly, “haven’t I any redeeming qualities? I’m so miserable!”
“My poor girl, what is all this talk of Charlie’s marriage? I am sure—mustn’t I have heard if such a thing were so? I promise you, he has said not a word to any of us.”
“He hasn’t had time to, I should think,” Amy explained in a kind of mumble. “He only asked her at Lady Mufftow’s, that last night.”
“Do you mean you heard him?”
“Well—I tried not to hear…”
“He asked her?” demanded Elizabeth, astonished.
“I did not exactly hear that—but he was about to.”
Still holding Amy’s hand Elizabeth drew up an ottoman and sat down. This unexpected information had the effect of making her feel dizzy. For a few moments she was silent. “Do you suppose she accepted him?” she finally asked.
“Could she refuse?” inquired the loyal, lovesick Miss Lewis.
Lizzie considered this briefly. “I think she could very easily. My idea of Miss Lemon is that she does what her parents tell her. Now if they had not advised her to accept my brother, I am sure she would not have done.”
“And if they had?”
“But how could they have known such a thing was coming? I assure you I for one had no idea of it.”
“Perhaps he has asked her father for permission,” suggested Amy tearfully. “He may have, you know.”
“But what about my father? Charlie would certainly have consulted him before taking such a step.”
“Perhaps he did,” was delivered on a broken sob.
“Well, I shall ask him at once—Oh Lord, what am I thinking of? My father must be in Scotland by now. And Charlie’s in France.”
Amy so far forgot her own miseries for an instant as to ask if there had been any news from either of the search parties. Lizzie repeated the information she had given Lady Lewis, then reverted to Amy’s earlier remarks. “In any case,” she said energetically, “the very idea of comparing you and that idiotish fashion-plate is ridiculous. You’re worth six hundred of her, and if Charlie has in fact failed to notice that, it’s only because he’s such a mutton-head. Now you wouldn’t wish to be married to a mutton-head, would you?”
Amy looked extremely dubious. “I suppose not,” she whimpered.
“Of course not. There must
be a dozen eligible men back in London just frantic to know where you’ve gone. I’m sure any one of them would suit you better than my shatter-headed Lord Halcot. Haven’t you a fancy to any of them? What about Sir John Firebrace?”
But Amy, though she endeavoured to be brave and careless, could only shake her head “No” and burst into tears again. Lady Elizabeth, though truly sorry for her, could think of nothing comforting to say. Still she did finally point out that Amy did not know for certain, in the end, that any offer had been made, or that (if made) it had been accepted. “So you will try to be cheerful, won’t you, and not dwell on it till Charlie has come home and we learn for sure?” she concluded.
Amy said she would. “Elizabeth,” she then added softly, “please do not tell my mother what I’ve confided to you. I fear she’d be awfully ashamed of me if she knew.”
“I don’t think your mother could be ashamed of you if her life depended on it,” answered Lizzie sensibly, “but since you have spoken in confidence, I shall certainly respect it.” With these words she rose and made ready to quit the parlour.
“Lady Emilia and I made these muffins,” she said, proffering the neglected basket.
Miss Lewis accepted it with thanks. “My compliments to her, and to your mother, of course,” she murmured. “Oh, and Lizzie—”
“Yes?” prompted the older girl.
“You won’t think I’m utterly and entirely selfish, will you? You know I am dreadfully concerned for Isabella.”
Elizabeth smiled a bit sadly. “Of course, you are, my love. We are all of us very concerned. I know your heart is much the truest and best of any of ours; I only wish you knew the same.”
But Amy could not receive this honest assessment easily. She denied it and, thanking Elizabeth again and again for her kindness and sympathy, finally allowed the other girl to leave.
Poor Amy! How much distress might have been spared her if only she had been able to overhear a conversation taking place that very hour in Paris! Why is it that, eavesdropping inadvertently or by intention, we so often hear that which hurts us, and so seldom that which comforts? Is it because so many more things are said that are cruel than kind? It is a philosophical point deserving of inquiry; I should like to read an essay upon it I should not like to write one, however; and so I desist.
The pertinent fact is that, at the very time Miss Lewis was unburdening herself to Lady Elizabeth, young Halcot was confiding in Warrington Weld an emotion that had been growing inside him nearly a week now. He had got round to the subject only after much hemming and hawing, much stammering, much orotund observation regarding the nature of women in general, and Englishwomen in particular—but he had, after all, got to it. He did not at first use the lady’s name, but rather referred to the affair in this wise: that there was a lady he knew, with whom he had been acquainted indeed all her life, whose extraordinary worth and perfection had escaped him all those years till just last Friday; wasn’t that remarkable?
Lord Weld, who was attempting to procure from the cook at the inn some breakfast composed of foods not entirely unfamiliar to his palate, agreed without hearing him that it certainly was. “Du jambon, je dis,” he then repeated to the waiting servant, “et quelques pommes de terre—mais pas frîtes, je te pris!—et du café naturellement, et peut-être quelques fruits, si tu en trouves. C’est compris?” He looked hopefully into the whey-coloured, moon-shaped countenance of the servant, whose slack mouth hanging perpetually open only increased the impression that he understood neither milord’s French nor anyone else’s—nor any other language either. He did rouse himself after half a minute, however, and ducking his head in a manner apparently intended to reassure repeated Lord Weld’s final words. He then shambled out of the coffee-room, leaving Weld to shake his head in bemused frustration. “He’ll bring us those damned pastries again, you watch,” he prophesied to Charlie. “And the ham—if he remembers it—will have a dashed raspberry sauce all over it, or some such frippery. At least when I was last in France we had an English cook. You might get your stomach shot through in the afternoon, but at least you’d have put a pudding in it that morning.” Having delivered himself of these observations, and receiving only a distracted “Hmmm” for acknowledgement from Charlie, Lord Weld and his stomach resigned themselves to the inevitable and turned their still sleepy attention to the younger man’s next remarks.
“How do you suppose I can have been such a widgeon?” Charlie now demanded, as if stymied. “In all the time I’ve known her, never to see what a woman she’s grown up to be! I can’t understand it. And now when I think of how many other women I’ve paraded round with in front of her—not that there were all that many, you understand, but still—I don’t suppose she’ll ever forgive me. I wonder if she could, though,” he immediately went on. “What do you think, old chap? Think she could ever consider me as a—well, you know, as a suitor?”
Lord Weld perceived he would be obliged to capitulate altogether and make a real effort to communicate with Halcot. This visit to France had not been an easy one for him, poor man, for the company of young tulips such as Charles was not what he was naturally drawn to. Indeed, he found the necessity of following the future earl’s sudden enthusiasms and convoluted notions a severe trial to his nerves and his intelligence, not to mention his good humour. He was beginning to hope they find Isabella as much for his own sake as for hers; and he had a few choice words to say to Marchmont regarding his having paired himself off with the boy’s sensible and distinguished father, while Weld was left to chaperon the apparently less fortunate son. Now he rallied himself for perhaps the hundredth time, however, and endeavoured mightily to understand what on earth Halcot was talking about. “My dear boy,” he began, after a small yawn, “of whom are you speaking?”
Lord Halcot’s colour rose at once, and his blue eyes looked down to the table. “I don’t know if I should say, Weld. What do you think? Would it be ungentlemanly?”
“Beg your pardon?”
“I say, would it be wrong of me to tell you her name?”
“This is a woman you love?” asked Weld.
“Er, yes.”
“And she is free?”
“Free?”
“I mean, she is unmarried. Not promised to anyone. Can you offer for her? Do you mean to offer for her?”
“Oh! Well, yes, I expect I do.”
“Don’t seem to have put much thought into it.”
“Well, the trouble is, as I say, I’ve been overlooking her such an age, I don’t imagine she’ll have anything to do with me any longer. Know what I mean?”
Lord Weld struggled with exasperation. “I suppose you’ll have to ask her if you want to find out,” he suggested.
“Oh. Good idea,” said Charlie vaguely.
“Fine,” said Weld, hoping this would dismiss the topic.
“But you asked if she were free. She is. Shall I tell you her name, then?”
“Oh good heavens, if you wish to, yes!”
“Well, it’s—Amy Lewis. Miss Lewis. You’ve met her, I’m sure.”
“Dear me, yes, a very sweet girl indeed,” said Weld, who indeed was a disinterested admirer of this cheerful little soul.
“Very,” agreed Charles whole-heartedly. “And do you know what?”
There was a silence. “What?” Lord Weld at last replied.
“There was a time—don’t think I’m being too swell-headed, will you—but there was one time when my sisters hinted she might be thinking of me. In that way, you know. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what they meant. Oh, but that was ages ago, it seems! Since then I’ve—good Lord, I dragged her off to see Susannah Lemon, and God knows what else! Oh no, I’m a fool to imagine she’d ever consider me again. She’s too good for me by half in any case.” He shook his blond head rather tragically. “I’d better put it out of my head. I’ll go to my grave a bachelor, I suppose. Won’t my father be disappointed, though! But what can I do?”
At this point Lord Weld succeeded in
interrupting this doleful soliloquy—chiefly by banging a fork down forcibly in Halcot’s field of vision. “Just a minute, for heaven’s sake. Are you wondering if Miss Lewis returns your regard?” he demanded.
Charlie looked up interested. “But yes, exactly.”
“Well then, wonder no longer. I have it on excellent authority she does. You have only to go home and ask her for her hand and all happiness will be yours for ever and ever,” said Weld, hoping against hope that Charlie would decide to abandon the search for his sister and post home on this errand directly.
“What’s this?”
“I say, I know she loves you. Everybody knows she loves you. If you really want her, for God’s sake, go and offer for her.”
“But this is too wonderful to believe!”
“Don’t argue with me, man, I tell you there’s no question about it. Unless her sentiments have altered altogether, the lady’s heart is yours.”
Lord Halcot took this in. “But my dear Weld, who told you this? Are you quite certain?”
“Quite.”
“You won’t mind telling me who it was who said so—and when?” he persisted.
“Oh dear, must I? Can’t you take it on faith? Where is that damned servant; I swear I could eat a ham with a radish sauce at this point.”
“Please, tell me who it was,” pleaded Charles. “I must know.”
“For goodness’ sake, then, it was Lady Emilia Barborough. Marchmont’s sister, don’t you know,” he added, as Charlie continued to look blank.
“Of course, I know,” he said after a moment, “but I’m afraid…Dash it, she’s hardly an impartial judge. Why, she’s had this notion for ages; I remember perfectly well, though it was weeks or months ago. She took me aside and—oh, without going into details” (here he blushed at the memory of what he fancied had been Emilia’s infatuation with him), “she made it pretty clear she thought Amy had set her cap at me. But that was only a silly idea of her own, believe me.” He sighed deeply as disappointment and hopelessness once more took hold of him. “It’s nothing to do with Miss Lewis.”
