Sweet's Folly

by Fiona Hill

  Sweet’s Folly

  Fiona Hill

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1977 by Ellen Pall

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com

  First Diversion Books edition November 2014

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-474-5

  More from Fiona Hill

  The Autumn Rose

  The Stanbroke Girls

  The Trellised Lane

  The Practical Heart

  The Wedding Portrait

  The Love Child

  Love in a Major Key

  The Country Gentleman

  To Stephanie

  Chapter I

  Nothing daunted by Honoria’s silence, Mr. Claude Kemp, Esquire, cleared his throat briefly and renewed his addresses. “I flatter myself,” he said, “that in desiring you to become my wife, I act in a manner which is not quite wholly selfish. I am acquainted with your predilection for music, your fondness of books, and your taste for society: as mistress of Colworth Park, whatever you fancy in the way of these more, ah, cultivated pleasures will be at your disposal. And as I share your interests in such pursuits, I make bold to imagine that many happy hours might be passed between us indulging in them.” Mr. Kemp paused here to smile, an expression he accomplished (Honoria had sometimes noticed) using the muscles round his mouth only, his eyes and cheeks appearing to have nothing to do with it. She glanced up at him, as if to see what more he might have to say. What she saw was the face of a very handsome gentleman of some thirty-two or -three years, his blue eyes fixed attentively on her own. Mr. Kemp was a large man, squarely and solidly built; his countenance was square as well, and topped by a thick mass of blond, gleaming hair. His ice-blue eyes were the most arresting element in his regular features, but there was something to be said too for the decided nose, the well-moulded lips, and the firm set of the jaw. His complexion was ruddy, his hands broad and even; altogether, he presented the appearance of an extremely healthy, somewhat refined country gentleman, which was precisely what he was. Honoria was too familiar with his broad shoulders and sturdy physique to pay them more than passing notice, but they might have raised a sigh in many another maiden. All she remarked now were the iciness of his eyes and the smugness in the set of his mouth; to her, these were clearly legible signs that Mr. Kemp had yet more to say, and would not be satisfied until he had said it. Her hypothesis was confirmed when, after a few moments, he continued.

  “Miss Newcombe, I make no doubt that this, ah, parlour and indeed this whole house are—to you—familiar and well-loved; however, I cannot but think that you must sometimes long for more, ah, spacious and well-appointed surroundings, which would suit your own attractiveness much more satisfactorily. Nor do I doubt your affection for your aunts, or indeed theirs for you, yet I am persuaded you must sometimes tire a little of their society; it is only natural in a young lady, you know. And while I am very fond of Pittering Village, and consider it quite charming in its, ah, antiquated way, it yet seems likely to me that you must sometimes long to leave its bounds, if only for a while.” Here Mr. Kemp paused again, this time because a cat—one of several dozen who nestled in every nook and cranny of the small parlour—had seen fit to deposit himself in his lap. Mr. Kemp lifted him up and tossed him to the floor rather rudely. For the first time since the start of their interview, Honoria smiled a little.

  She raised her hand to her mouth as if to conceal this slight discourtesy, but the attempt was wasted. When Miss Honoria Newcombe smiled, no matter how slightly, it spread throughout all her features, and lit up her countenance quite delightfully. It was a delightful countenance, anyway, fashioned in the most delicate and agreeable manner imaginable: two sweet brown eyes gazed softly from under dark lashes and brows; her small, up-tilting nose and full, curved lips were set in a sea of rose-and-cream coloured, velvety skin. Her brown hair, drawn back in simple and becoming fashion, glinted richly, and her white neck flowed smoothly into a pair of graceful sloping shoulders. Her figure too appeared fragile, though delicately rounded, and she moved with an ease and suppleness that perhaps belied the strenuous activity of which she was capable. The only fault to be found in her appearance, if fault it may be called, was the tendency of her features to shrink away from any direct regard, to withdraw inward with an expression that was neither pensive nor reserved but in fact distinctly self-effacing. Distinctly, that is, to the careful observer; most of the inhabitants of Pittering Village and its environs merely took her to be a quiet girl, unassuming by nature, never guessing the odd fancies and deep sentiments enclosed within her. Mr. Claude Kemp, alas for him, was a member of this school of thought: the timid rejection that his advances had thus far encountered seemed to him no more than a show of maidenly modesty, easily overrided (he thought) by a little calm talk or, failing that, a touch of cajolery. Had he been able to perceive Honoria’s emotions at that moment, he might have been considerably shocked. As it was, he merely discarded the offending cat and went on in smooth, assured, rather voluble tones.

  “My dear Miss Newcombe, to my certain knowledge you have never been farther from home than to Tunbridge Wells. You are aware I reside half the year in London: all its amusements will be at your disposal. Indeed, our honeymoon alone will take us abroad, and after that there will be as much travel as you care to undertake—Italy, Germany, Greece. I have been to these places, Miss Newcombe, and long only to reveal their glories to you. And, of course, we shall stop half the year in Pittering, so that you may be close to your good aunts.”

  As he said these words, Honoria might have been observed to bite the rosy edge of her bottom lip with her tiny, even teeth. It was the gesture of one who finds herself confronted with temptation. Mr. Kemp did not observe it, or he would surely have pressed his advantage home. Instead, he returned to the drift of his earlier remarks and closed thus: “Miss Newcombe, I am at a loss to express how deeply I desire your hand. The happiness I experience merely in gazing on you makes it difficult to contemplate, let alone to expound upon, the joy that might be ours were we to marry. Your youth, your beauty, your refinement all inspire in me a love most deep and enduring; if you can in any measure return my regard, I beg most humbly you will consider my offer, and return your response in the affirmative.”

  Mr. Kemp had spoken with eloquence but without precision. Mr. Claude Kemp, Esquire, had never in his life done anything humbly, least of all begged. So certain was he, in fact, of his success, that he was now engaged in thinking where to kiss her when she answered yes. And though Honoria did not guess this last, she perceived the rest of the case shrewdly enough, and had less trouble than she might have in rousing herself to disappoint his hopes. A flame of resentment leapt within her at his calm presumption, and though it did not reach her tongue, a firmness of conviction—of which Mr. Kemp could have no notion—underlay her words.

  “Your offer is most flattering,” she began, gazing steadily not at him but at Mistress Muffin, a large tabby who had recently become a mamma, “and I am sorry indeed to be obliged to disappoint you.” And as she spoke, she did become sorry. So sweet was her nature, she could not for long believe that others might be less sincere in their speeches than was she. Though still aware that Claude had addressed her with p
resumption, almost with insolence, she had forgot already the injury to her pride, and was now wholly concerned with the inevitable hurt to his. “You must not believe that I am not fully sensible of the compliment paid me, dear sir, nor that if there were any hope of my accepting you, I should hesitate to say so. Unfortunately”—and the misery she herself would have felt in his place impelled her now to take up his hand and stroke it gently—“most unfortunately, sir, I am not able to accede in your wishes. Were there any possibility of my feeling otherwise,” she repeated, “I assure you I should say so. However—” She could find no way to soften the blow, so her words trailed off into silence.

  Surprise shook Mr. Kemp’s soul with a violence that was truly painful. He was as startled as if she had declared Pittering Village the equal of London, or her aunts’ humble dwelling a palace—and this despite the fact that he had twice before offered for her, and twice before been refused. It might have been expected that his surprise would grow less with each occasion, but on the contrary. His confidence, perversely, had increased with successive rebuffs, so that on this evening he had made quite, quite sure of winning her consent. Instead, her refusal had been stated yet more clearly. It was extremely confusing, and so startling that he spoke (for once) before he had time to think. “Miss Newcombe,” he said, a strong note of authority in his voice, “I am sure you cannot have thought this out reasonably. Setting aside all consideration of who, exactly, I am, or what your advantages as my wife might be, do you not think it your duty to remove yourself from your aunts’ poor household with all due speed? Miss Newcombe, while I am certain they are fond of you, they are evidently forced to practise the most painful economies already. Do you mean to continue with them all your life?” He gestured widely at the ill-lit, shabby parlour in which they sat, and which was, moreover, shared with them by upwards of a score of felines. “These cats, Miss Newcombe, which your aunts take in through charity—these cats are dumb beasts, as are their neighbours next door.” Through the wall could be heard the aimless yapping and whimpers of a large number of canines. “They cannot know the burden they place on the Misses Deverell’s paltry competence … But you, my dear ma’am! You!”

  Honoria was taken aback, not only by the sharpness but also by the content of this reproach. It had never occurred to her that she might be a burden on her aunts; on the contrary, she had always viewed herself in the light of an assistance. It was true that they were poor, but were they that poor? The little house in Bench Street, where she had lived since she was orphaned at the age of two, was cramped indeed—what house would not be that had forty animals within it?—yet it had gone on through the years just the same. Aunt Mercy had continued to lay a nourishing, if not varied, table; Aunt Prudence had never yet hesitated when a stray cat came to her, or a wounded dog appeared; if they practised severe economies, nothing ever had been said of it to Honor, and she cringed at the thought of having been too callous, possibly, to have noticed.

  Mr. Kemp was waiting for an answer. In a frightened voice, with words less fluent than before, she replied, “I am sorry, sir, most sorry, to confess that I never considered my circumstances in that light. If my aunts are hard pressed, they have not yet said as much to me.” She recovered herself a little and added, “In any case, Mr. Kemp, if I am a—a burden to them, it is a domestic matter to be discussed among ourselves, and one with which I beg you will not concern yourself.”

  She had meant exactly what she said, but Mr. Kemp took these last words for a snub, and rose directly. “I think our interview is at an end,” he said and bowed. “Pray convey my thanks to your aunts for their, ah, hospitality tonight.” And so saying, he picked his way rather ungracefully among the many cats, and let himself out of the room. Honoria was left alone with the menagerie, to ponder her new status as a burden.

  She could not quite believe it, yet it might very well be true: her mother had died in childbirth, leaving no fortune; her father, killed in a riding accident soon after, was of course a baronet, yet he died penniless as well, and no provision had been made except that her aunts assume guardianship of the child. She had taken her lessons with them, at home, because they all preferred it, she had always thought, but now it seemed that perhaps it had been because they lacked the money for an academy. The Misses Deverell’s charity to animals was well known through the neighbourhood—in fact, they were thought to be more than a little queer about it—but Honoria had never deemed herself an object of their kindness. They were kind, of course, but from love, not pity. And yet … she would have to ask them, that was all, she concluded—and then shrank. To ask straight out would be too awkward. She would have to observe them, and then see if her presence truly worsened their circumstances more than it aided them.

  Consequently, when, at the end of half an hour, her Aunt Prudence peeked into the parlour, Honoria invited her in and reminded herself to listen closely to everything that was said.

  “Is young Kemp gone, then?” asked Aunt Prudence, poking her head through the door somewhat farther.

  “Yes, quite gone.”

  “O, I am so glad,” she said, bending to scoop up an armful of cats. “La!” she continued, kissing one on the nose; “you’ve had quite an evening, haven’t you, Divinity, listening to grown-up conversation all night? You must be quite fagged. I know I should be.” She struggled to hold up the hem of her old-fashioned skirts as she made her way among her purring pets to an ancient Confidante. She set Divinity down on one end, then picked up several kittens and seated herself on the warm cushion where they had been.

  “Do you dislike Mr. Kemp?” asked Honor, curious to know why her aunt was glad at his departure.

  “O no, not at all, my dear. I am sure he is a very pleasant young man, as young men go—which is not, in general, very well,” she added somewhat obscurely. “I only missed my little kitties, didn’t I now, Désirée?” She kissed this animal on top of her head. “Well, and if he is truly gone, I suppose Mercy may come in as well, don’t you think?”

  “Certainly, Aunt Prudence.”

  “Mercy!” she called, in a shrill, cracked voice. “Mercy? Do come in; the gentleman has gone away.”

  A moment later a second lace-befrilled head appeared in the doorway and peered in hesitantly. Mercy Deverell was four years her sister’s junior, which meant that she was sixty-four years of age. Being the younger, she was used to being quite cosseted by her sister, and when she hovered at the door Prudence urged her on with a soothing “It’s quite safe, my dear; do come in.”

  “I only—I did not wish to intrude,” said Mercy, a tiny smile lighting her withered countenance. As with many elderly people, her face had come to reflect, through the years, more the experiences she had had in life, and less the features she had inherited. Therefore, though there was yet a distinguishable likeness between the sisters, Mercy’s face was somewhat softer than Prudence’s, and not nearly so intimidating. Of the two, Prudence had always been the leader, and this habit of command had caused her cheeks to sink a little into rather harsh lines, at the same time increasing the tendency of her nose to jut out into something like a beak. Mercy’s traits were milder, and told of a more sheltered existence; indeed, hers had been a life of following, and she would not have known what to do at all had it not been for her elder sister.

  “You do not in the least intrude, my pet,” Prudence now assured her. “Honoria promises me that Mr. Kemp has quite gone away, so there is nothing here to frighten you.”

  “I am so glad,” said Mercy, unwittingly parroting her sister’s words. “Not but what he is a very agreeable gentleman,” she hastened to add, turning to Miss Newcombe, “but I do think gentlemen are so alarming, don’t you? All that vigour and heartiness; they are quite apt to startle one, I think.” Her sweet voice, soft as the fur on the feline she was holding, went on in this vein for a minute or two, for Mercy could be quite a chatter-box, and more than compensated in this way for her taciturn sibling.

  “Yes,” agreed Honor kindly when
Mercy had done talking, “it is true that gentlemen—in our age, at least—do tend to be bolder than ladies.” She sighed almost imperceptibly.

  “Men are beasts,” Prudence pronounced suddenly, and shut her lips with a snap.

  Mercy addressed her niece as if her sister had not spoke. “And did Mr. Kemp offer for you again?” she inquired, her faded brown eyes alight with solicitous interest.

  “Yes, he did,” said Honor slowly.

  “Well, I suppose that was very kind of him,” Mercy observed. “And what did you say, my dear?”

  “I said—I told him no,” she replied.

  “Same as before,” Prudence pointed out accurately.

  “Just the same!” exclaimed Mercy, as if struck. “I hope he was not very angry with you,” she continued anxiously.

  “O no, I do not—that is, he was disappointed, of course, but I do not believe …” Since she knew that Mr. Kemp had indeed been angry, she said no more.

  “A very attractive young man,” murmured Mercy.

  “Good specimen,” declared Prudence, echoing her sister in her way.

  Honoria’s forehead puckered a bit. “You didn’t—did you hope perhaps I might accept him?”

  “Hope you might—?” Mercy repeated blankly. “Do you mean—?” She stopped, evidently puzzled.

  “She’s looking for an opinion,” her sister explained. “Did we have an opinion?”

  “An opinion of whether Honoria ought to marry? How odd! Why should we have an opinion, Prue? Should we?” she asked, sincerely bewildered.

  “We might or we might not,” said the elder. “It’s nothing for you to worry about, dearest. If you have no opinion, you may simply say so. Honoria won’t mind, will you, Honoria?”

  “No, not in the least,” asserted the lady applied to, accustomed to such discussions and inquiries. “I shan’t mind at all, Aunt Mercy.”