The Grand Sophy

by Georgette Heyer

  ‘Yes, because he has gone out to kill chickens,’ replied Sophy. ‘Cecy, help me to collect the ducklings, and put them back into the box! If we were to place your muff on top of them they will very likely believe it to be their mother, and settle down!’

  Cecilia having no fault to find with this scheme, it was at once put into execution. Miss Wraxton, who had coaxed Lord Bromford into a deep chair by the fire, said: ‘This levity will not serve, Miss Stanton-Lacy! Even you will allow that your conduct demands some explanation! Are you aware of the terrible consequences which must have followed on this – this escapade, had your cousin and I not come to rescue you from the disgrace your appear to regard so lightly!’

  Lord Bromford sneezed.

  ‘Oh, hush, Eugenia!’ begged Cecilia. ‘How can you talk so? All’s well that ends well!’

  ‘You must be lost to every scruple of female delicacy, Cecilia, if you can think it well for your cousin to show such a brazen face, when she has lost both character and reputation!’

  The door at the back of the hall opened to admit the Marquesa, a sacking-apron tied round her waist, and a large ladle in her hand. ‘Eggs I must instantly have!’ she announced. ‘And Lope de Vega I will not have, though in general a fine poet, but not in the kitchen! Someone must go to the chicken-house, and tell Vincent to bring me eggs. Who are these people?’

  It might have been supposed that the appearance on the scene of the Marquesa would have filled Miss Wraxton’s Christian soul with relief, but no such emotion was visible in her countenance, which, on the contrary, froze into an expression of such chagrin as to be almost ludicrous. She could find not a word to say, and was unable to command herself enough even to shake hands with the Marquesa.

  Lord Bromford, always punctilious, rose from his chair and bowed. Sophy presented him, and he begged pardon for having contracted what he feared would prove to be a dangerous cold. The Marquesa held him off with the ladle, saying: ‘If you have a cold, do not approach me! Now I see that it is Miss Rivenhall, whose beauty is entirely English; and that other one, also in the English estilo, but less beautiful. I do not think two chickens will be enough, so that man with the cold must eat the pig’s cheek. But eggs I must have!’

  Having delivered herself of this ultimatum, she withdrew, paying not the smallest heed to Lord Bromford’s agitated protest that all forms of pork were poison to him, and that a bowl of thin gruel was all that he felt himself able to swallow. He seemed to feel that Miss Wraxton was the only person amongst those present who was likely to sympathize with him, for he looked piteously at her. She responded at once, assuring him that he should not be asked to eat the pig’s cheek. ‘If it were possible to remove you from this draughty hall!’ she said, casting an angry glance at Sophy. ‘Had I known that I was coming to an establishment which appears to be something between a fowl-yard and Bedlam, I would never have set forth from town!’

  ‘Well, I must say I wish you had known it, then,’ said Sophy candidly. ‘We could have been comfortable enough, if only you and Lord Bromford had minded your own business, and now I suppose we must make gruel, and mustard foot-baths!’

  ‘A mustard foot-bath,’ said Lord Bromford eagerly, ‘would be the very thing! I do not say that it will entirely arrest the chill: we must not raise our hopes too high! but if we can prevent its descending upon the lungs it will be a great thing! Thank you! I am very much obliged to you!’

  ‘Good gracious, you absurd creature, I did not mean it!’ Sophy cried, breaking into laughter.

  ‘No!’ said Miss Wraxton. ‘We may readily believe you have not a grain of womanly compassion, Miss Stanton-Lacy! Do not be uneasy, Lord Bromford! If any efforts of mine can save you from illness they shall not be spared!’

  He pressed her hand in a speaking way, and allowed her to press him gently down again into his chair.

  ‘Meanwhile,’ said Charlbury, ‘let us not forget that eggs the Marquesa must have! I had better try to find Talgarth and the hen-house.’

  Sophy, who was looking thoughtful, said slowly: ‘Yes. And I think – Charlbury, bring a candle into the breakfast-parlour, and let us see if it is warm enough yet for Lord Bromford to sit in!’

  He went with her into this apartment, and had no sooner passed the doorway than she clasped his wrist, and said in an urgent undervoice: ‘Never mind the eggs! Go to the stables, and direct the Ombersley servants to pole up the horses again! You may change them at the inn in the village, or, if not there, at Epsom! Take Cecilia back to London! Only think how embarrassing for her to be obliged to meet Augustus now! She would dislike it excessively! Besides, it is quite ridiculous for so many people to be crowded into the house, and not at all what I bargained for!’

  He grimaced, but said: ‘If I do it, will you go with us?’

  ‘What, to sit bodkin between you? No, I thank you!’

  ‘But I cannot leave you here!’

  ‘Nonsense! It would not suit me at all to be going to London yet!’

  He set the candlestick down, and took her hands in his, and held them firmly. ‘Sophy, I owe you a debt of gratitude: thank you, my dear! You may command me in anything: shall I remove Miss Wraxton?’

  ‘No, for I have had a capital notion about her. She shall stay to nurse Bromford, and very likely they will make a match of it!’

  His shoulders shook. ‘Oh, Sophy, Sophy!’

  ‘No, do not laugh! I do feel I ought to make some provision for her, poor girl! I cannot permit her to marry Charles, and make them all unhappy at Ombersley House, but I am persuaded she and Bromford would deal extremely. Do not make me any more pretty speeches, but go down to the stables at once! I’ll tell Cecy!’

  She then thrust him back into the hall, and, while he let himself out of the house, went back to the group about the fire, and said: ‘It is tolerably cosy in the parlour, and if you choose to sit there for a little while, Lord Bromford, one of the bed-chambers shall be prepared for you, and I will send Clavering to pull off your boots. Do you take him in, Miss Wraxton, and see him comfortably bestowed!’

  ‘I trust the chimney may not smoke as badly as this one!’ said Miss Wraxton acidly. ‘Nothing could be worse! Lord Bromford has coughed twice already!’

  ‘How shocking! You should take him away at once.’

  His lordship, who was sitting in a miserable huddle, shivering and sneezing, thanked her in a feeble voice, and rose from his chair with Miss Wraxton’s kindly help. Hardly had they gone into the parlour, than Mr Fawnhope came into the hall, saying severely: ‘The drawing of hens is revolting! No one should be called upon to witness such an operation! The Marquesa must have eggs.’

  Cecilia, who had given a violent start, and perceptibly changed colour, exclaimed: ‘Augustus!’

  ‘Cecilia!’ said Mr Fawnhope, staring at her in astonishment. ‘You were not here before, were you?’

  ‘No,’ she said, blushing furiously. ‘Oh, no! I – I came with Miss Wraxton!’

  ‘Oh, was that how it was?’ he said, rather relieved. ‘I did not think I had seen you.’

  She said resolutely, but in some little agitation: ‘Augustus, I will not trifle with you! I must tell you I find I have made a great mistake. I cannot marry you!’

  ‘Noble, noble girl!’ Mr Fawnhope said, much moved. ‘I honour you for this frankness, and must ever deem myself fortunate to have been permitted to adore you. The experience has purified and strengthened me: you have inspired me with a poetic fervour for which the world may yet thank you, as I do! But marriage is not for such as I am. I must put aside the thought. I do put it aside! You should marry Charlbury, but my play you must allow me to dedicate to you!’

  ‘Th-thank you!’ faltered Cecilia, a good deal taken aback.

  ‘Well, she is going to marry Charlbury,’ said Sophy bracingly. ‘And now that that is settled, Augustus, pray will you go and find the eggs for Sancia?’

  ‘I know nothing of eggs,’ he said. ‘I fetched Talgarth from the cellar, and he has gone in search of t
hem. I am going to write a poem that has been taking shape in my brain this past hour. Should you object if I entitled it To Sophia, Holding a Lamp?’

  ‘Not in the least,’ said Sophy affably. ‘Take this candle, and go into the library! Shall I tell Clavering to light a fire there for you?’

  ‘It is of no consequences, thank you,’ he replied absently, receiving the candlestick from her, and wandering off in the direction of the library.

  No sooner had the door closed behind him than Cecilia said, in some confusion: ‘Has he understood me? Why did you not tell me that he was here, Sophy? I do not know how to look him in the face!’

  ‘No, and you shall not be called upon to do so, dearest Cecy! Charlbury has gone to order the chaise: you must go back to Berkeley Square immediately! Only conceive of my aunt’s anxiety!’

  Cecilia, who had been about to demur, wavered perceptibly at this. She was still wavering when Lord Charlbury came back to the house, cheerfully announcing that the chaise would be at the door in five minutes’ time. Sophy at once picked up her cousin’s hat, and fitted it becomingly over her sunny locks. Between her efforts, and those of Lord Charlbury, she was presently escorted, resistless, out of the house, and handed up into the chaise. His lordship, pausing only to bestow upon his benefactress a hearty embrace, jumped up after her; the steps were let up, the door slammed upon the happy couple, and the equipage was driven away. Sophy, having waved a last farewell from the porch, turned back into the house, where she found Miss Wraxton awaiting her, in an alarming state of frigidity. Miss Wraxton apprehending (she said) that no assistance from the Marquesa need be expected, desired to be conducted to the kitchen, where she proposed to brew a posset, used in her family for generations as a cure for colds. Not only did Sophy lead her to the kitchen, but she also quelled the Marquesa’s protests, and commanded that the Claverings set water on to boil for a mustard foot-bath. The unfortunate Claverings, labouring up the back-stairs with coals, blankets, and cans of hot water, were kept fully occupied for nearly half an hour, at the end of which time, Lord Bromford was tenderly escorted upstairs to the best spare-bedroom, divested of his boots, and his coat, coaxed into the dressing-gown Sir Vincent had had the forethought to pack into his valise, and installed in a winged chair by the fire. Sir Vincent’s protests at having not only his dressing-gown, but also his nightshirt and cap wrested from him were silenced by Sophy’s representations that she herself was relinquishing to Miss Wraxton her portmanteau, with all the night-gear which it contained. ‘And considering how unhandsome your behaviour has been, Sir Vincent, I must say that I shall think it excessively shabby of you if you demur at rendering me this small service!’ she declared roundly.

  He cocked an eyebrow at her. ‘And you, Sophy? Will you not be remaining here for the night?’ he laughed, seeing her at a loss for an answer, and said: ‘In a previous age you would have been burnt at the stake, and rightly so, Juno! Very well: I will play your game!’

  Within half an hour of this passage, Sophy, seated at the table in the hall, which she had drawn into the ingle-nook by the fire, heard the sound for which she had been waiting. She was engaged in building card-houses, having found an aged and grimy pack in the breakfast-parlour, and she made no attempt to answer the imperative summons of the bell. Clavering came into the hall from the back premises, looking harassed, and opened the door. Mr Rivenhall’s decisive accents pleasurably assailed Sophy’s ears. ‘Lacy Manor? Very well! Be good enough to direct my groom to the stables! I’ll announce myself !’

  Mr Rivenhall then shut the aged servitor out of the house, and stepped into the hall, shaking the raindrops from his curly-brimmed beaver. His eye alighted on Sophy, absorbed in architecture, and he said with the greatest amiability imaginable: ‘Good evening, Sophy! I am afraid you must have quite given me up, but it has been raining, you know, the moonlight quite obscured by clouds!’

  At this point, Tina, who had been leaping up at him in an ecstasy of delight, began to bark, so he was obliged to acknowledge her welcome before he could again make himself heard. Sophy, laying a card delicately upon her structure, said; ‘Charles, this is too kind in you! Have you come to rescue me from the consequences of my indiscretion?’

  ‘No, to wring your neck!’

  She opened her eyes at him. ‘Charles! Don’t you know that I have ruined my reputation?’

  He took off his driving-coat, shook it, and cast it over a chair-back. ‘Indeed? In that event, I am quite out: I was ready to swear I should find the Marquesa with you!’

  The ready laughter sprang to her eyes. ‘How odious you are! How came you to guess that?’

  ‘I know you too well. Where’s my sister?’

  Sophy resumed her house-building. ‘Oh, she has driven back to London with Charlbury! I daresay their chaise may have met you on your way.’

  ‘Very likely. I was in no case to be studying the panels of chance vehicles. Did Miss Wraxton accompany them?’

  She looked up. ‘Now, how do you know that Miss Wraxton came with Cecilia?’ she asked.

  ‘She was so obliging as to send a note round to White’s informing me of her intention,’ he replied grimly. ‘Is she here still?’

  ‘Well, she is, but I fancy she is very much occupied,’ said Sophy. She bent to pick up one of the ducklings, which, awakening from a refreshing slumber under Cecilia’s muff, had climbed out of the box again, and was trying to establish itself in the flounces of her gown. ‘Take this, dear Charles, while I pour you out a glass of sherry!’

  Mr Rivenhall, automatically extended his hand, found himself in possession of a ball of yellow down. It did not seem to be worth while to enquire why he was given a duckling to hold, so he sat down on the table’s edge, stroking the creature with one finger, and watching his cousin.

  ‘That, of course,’ said Sophy serenely, ‘explains why you have come.’

  ‘It explains nothing of the sort, and well you know it!’ said Mr Rivenhall.

  ‘How wet your coat is!’ remarked Sophy, spreading it out before the fire. ‘I do trust you may not have caught a chill!’

  ‘Of course I have not caught a chill!’ he said impatiently. ‘Besides, it has not been raining this last half hour!’

  She handed him a glass of sherry. ‘I am so much relieved! Poor Lord Bromford contracted the most shocking cold! He had meant to have called Charlbury out, you know, but when he reached us he could only sneeze.’

  ‘Bromford?’ he exclaimed. ‘You do not mean to tell me he is here?’

  ‘Yes, indeed: Miss Wraxton brought him. I think she hoped he might have offered for me, and so saved my reputation, but the poor man was quite prostrated by this horrid chill, which he fears may descend upon his lungs. It puts all else out of his mind, and one cannot be surprised at it.’

  ‘Sophy, are you trying to humbug me?’ demanded Mr Rivenhall suspiciously. ‘Even Eugenia would not bring that blockhead down upon you!’

  ‘Miss Wraxton does not consider him a blockhead. She says he is a man of sense, and one who –’

  ‘Thank you! I have heard enough!’ he interrupted. ‘Here, take this creature! Where is Eugenia?’

  She received the duckling from him, and restored it to its brethren in the box. ‘Well, if she is not still brewing possets in the kitchen, I expect you may find her with Bromford in the best spare-bedroom,’ she replied.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Persuading him to swallow a little thin gruel,’ explained Sophy, looking the picture of innocence. ‘The second door at the top of the stairs, dear Charles!’

  Mr Rivenhall tossed off the glass of sherry, set it down, informed his cousin ominously that he would deal with her presently, and strode towards the stairs, accompanied by Tina, who frisked gaily at his heels, apparently convinced that he was about to provide sport for her of no common order. Sophy went down the passage to inform the harassed Marquesa that although two of the dinner-guests had departed, another had appeared in their stead.

  Mr Rivenhall, meanwh
ile, had mounted the stairs, and had, without ceremony, flung open the door of the best spare-bedroom. A domestic scene met his affronted gaze. In a chair drawn up beside a clear fire sat Lord Bromford, a screen drawn to protect his person from the draught from the window; both his feet in a steaming bath of mustard-and-water; a blanket reinforcing Sir Vincent’s dressing-gown over his shoulders; and in his hands a bowl of gruel and a spoon. Hovering solicitously about him was Miss Wraxton, ready either to add more hot water to the bath from the kettle on the hob, or to replace the bowl of gruel with the posset of her making.

  ‘Upon my word!’ said Mr Rivenhall explosively.

  ‘The draught!’ protested his lordship. ‘Miss Wraxton! I can feel the air blowing about my head!’

  ‘Pray close the door, Charles!’ said Miss Wraxton sharply. ‘Have you no consideration? Lord Bromford is extremely unwell!’

  ‘So I perceive!’ he retorted, advancing into the room. ‘Perhaps, my dear Eugenia, you would like to explain to me what the devil you mean by this?’

  She replied instantly, her colour heightened: ‘Thanks to your sister’s inhumanity – I can call it nothing else! – in refusing to permit me to offer a seat to Lord Bromford in the chaise, he has taken a shocking chill, which I only pray may not have a lasting effect upon his constitution!’

  ‘I never credited Cecilia with so much good sense! If she had had enough to prevent her, and you, from setting forth upon an expedition which was as needless as it was meddlesome, I should be even more grateful! You have for once in your life been thoroughly at fault, Eugenia! Let it be a lesson to you to be a little less busy in future!’

  Those best acquainted with Mr Rivenhall’s powers of self-expression would have considered this speech a very mild reproof. Miss Wraxton, in whose presence he had hitherto most meticulously guarded his tongue, could scarcely believe her ears. ‘Charles!’ she uttered, outraged.