by Fiona Hill
“Humph!” she cried aloud, and then, “O dear, O dear! O my foot foot foot!” she screeched with real dismay, for the large rock had refused to budge, and rather than knocking it out of the way, Mercy herself had been knocked quite over, and had toppled down into the mire. Not only had she turned her ankle most genuinely, she had also bruised her toes considerably, and there was something wrong with her hip. She noticed this as she struggled to rise, and her agitation increased when she began to walk again. “O dear!” she wailed piteously, limping with real difficulty to the roadside. She seated herself unceremoniously on a log and pleaded aloud—quite uselessly, she knew—for Prudence to come and rescue her. All this morning’s resentment was forgot, and all her instructions, too. She crouched mournfully on the fallen log, and the very last thing on her mind was whether she constituted a picturesque sight. Her predicament was very real, indeed.
Fortunately, she had walked far enough by the time she fell to be almost where she belonged; that is, far enough to be found in the course of Squire Kemp’s ride. Though she did not know it, it was now five minutes past three o’clock, and she had not long to wait before the squire would arrive. In due course he did come; she heard his horse’s muffled clomp-clomp on the soggy ground, and moaned most convincingly, “Help! Help!”
Proctor Kemp could not fail to hear these piercing cries, and he located their source within moments. Riding through a break in the hedge, he caught sight of a frail old woman, evidently soaked to the bone, clutching at her ankle and whimpering frightfully. Now, this was not the sort of scene to evoke kindliness in the old man, but he did have a sense of justice in spite of what Prudence said, and he soon dismounted and waded up to her. “What’s this? What’s this?” he demanded sternly. “Who have we here? What is it?”
Mercy turned her face up miserably to his. The look in her sweet, mild eyes was so imploring, so hopeful, that it moved even Proctor Kemp’s heart. “Mercy Deverell, sir,” she said barely audibly, “and I do hope you will help me.”
“Hey, what’s that? Help! I’ll help; of course, I shall,” he muttered, and extended an arm to support her while she rose. “Now you just jump up on Charger here; that is, I’ll lift you up,” he grumbled. He continued to make similar remarks in a low mutter incessantly, from the moment he found her to the time they reached the manor’s door, she riding uncomfortably and he making his way even more uncomfortably afoot. “Boothby!” he bellowed, when they had entered. “Boothby! Lot of scoundrels. Hah! Booth-beeeee!”
Boothby, the butler, appeared at last and confronted the scene in the front hall with astonished eyes. What he saw was his master of forty years, panting and wet through, with an elderly lady similarly circumstanced in his arms. Mercy, upon dismounting from Charger, had discovered her ankle to be too swollen to walk upon, and had had to be carried inside. The poor butler—taken utterly aback, for his master never returned from his ride before four, let alone with a lady in his arms—simply stared.
“Boothby, you brigand,” Kemp roared savagely, “take this lady from me and get her to a fire. Can’t you see she’s injured? Call Mrs. Cafferleigh, won’t you?” he continued, referring to the housekeeper. “Send for Dr. Blackwood!”
It was still some moments before the hapless Boothby took in the situation well enough to help, but in time he did bear Miss Deverell to a bedroom, handed her into Mrs. Cafferleigh’s care, and sent the coach round for the physician. Squire Kemp meanwhile retired to his own bed-chamber, where he put himself into the care of his valet and abused that worthy roundly at the same time. He still had no notion why Mercy Deverell should be sitting about moaning on his land, but he did know he was far too old to run about rescuing damsels in distress, and the incident had vexed him considerably. Besides, he was drenched with the rain, and his new top-boots were ruined.
Dr. Blackwood arrived in due time to examine the patient. Squire Kemp had given orders to the effect that tea was to be sent up to her, and whatever else she wanted, but he had refrained from visiting his unexpected guest himself. Dr. Blackwood, always jovial when acting professionally, found his patient (who was also his new connexion by the marriage of his son) in tolerably good spirits, sipping an infusion quite calmly and questioning the housekeeper as to the origin of the tea-caddy. Her clothing had been removed and replaced by a dressing-gown belonging to Mrs. Cafferleigh herself, and she was tucked up in a wide, soft bed with a fire blazing brightly within the grate. Compared to her recent circumstances, she was now quite at ease, cheered by her pleasant surroundings and distracted by the hospitable chatter of the housekeeper. When Dr. Blackwood entered she had almost forgot her ankle, and her silvered hair was nearly dry.
“My dear Miss Deverell,” he exclaimed jokingly, “if you wished to see me, you needn’t have gone to such lengths! You are always welcome at Sweet’s Folly. Had a bit of a spill, haven’t you now?”
“Yes, a bit,” she agreed, timid as always with the bluff physician, as she was, in fact, with any gentleman, and most ladies.
“Well, now, we must have a look at it, mustn’t we?”
“Don’t go!” she called out suddenly to the housekeeper, who was retreating discreetly. “Please,” she added.
“No, indeed, Mrs. Cafferleigh must stay and assist me,” the doctor agreed. He knew the Cafferleighs well, having treated all their brood when they were afflicted with the measles some two years before.
Mrs. Cafferleigh stayed accordingly, and the examination passed off without complication. Dr. Blackwood’s diagnosis contained no surprises: Miss Mercy had sprained her ankle, jolted her hip out of line a bit, and bruised herself generally. He bandaged her efficiently, to ensure as much comfort as possible, and prescribed draughts that would soothe her nerves and lessen the pain. Of course, she was not to be moved, unless it was strictly necessary, and he imparted this information later to the squire, who listened to him while sipping at some sherry, forgetting to offer the doctor a glass. “Hah!” he commented, staring out a window at the bleak landscape beyond. The rain had lightened, but it continued to mizzle, and the day was very grey. “Hah!”
“I don’t suppose her stopping here will inconvenience you much?” the doctor suggested, eying the sherry enviously.
“No, no,” he muttered. “No. How long will she stop on, eh? That’s what I want to know.”
The physician shrugged slightly. “A se’ennight, perhaps. I shall come by and see how she goes on in a day or two. Nothing to worry about, but we must give her time to heal.”
“Yes, yes, time,” the other agreed impatiently. The prospect of having a female guest visiting Colworth Park did not please him. In fact, it doubly displeased him, for his son was expected back from London any day now, and it seemed to him Claude was visitor enough. “Mercy Deverell, did you say it was?”
“Yes, Mercy.”
“And her sister—Prudence. How is it Prudence was not with her? I thought they always went about together.”
The doctor shrugged again. “Something about a surprise for her … went towards Markhamton to get it … thought the rain would hold off till evening … I don’t know, precisely. Anyway, you might send for Prudence; Mercy will be wanting her things from home, and perhaps a companion. Though, if you like, I’ll send Honoria to fetch her; she’ll be glad to take care of her aunt, I know. I think you are acquainted with my daughter-in-law Honoria—? She is the Misses Deverell’s niece, on her mother’s side.”
“Yes, yes, I know … however they like to arrange it themselves,” said the old man, thinking of Claude. That young gentleman had not yet learned of Honoria’s marriage, and would doubtless be displeased. Perhaps he should try to keep the girl out of Colworth Park, lest Claude be forced to deal with her more than he liked. But then … what was the difference, anyway? A pack of females was about to descend on Colworth, and there was no doing anything about it. Young or old, it made no matter. Nodding his head, he dismissed the doctor rather rudely, and sat down before the drawing-room fire to brood on his new misf
ortune. What he had done to deserve such nonsense was more than he could guess, and he sent for a footman to take away the sherry and scolded him roundly for nothing at all. As the innocent servant shut the doors behind him, he heard his master’s unmistakable “Hah!” and knew that some trouble was afoot.
Miss Prudence Deverell received word of her sister’s misfortune with astonishing calmness; at least so Honoria thought, for it was she who delivered the news. Dr. Blackwood had returned to Sweet’s Folly and suggested to his daughter-in-law that she take a carriage into Pittering. There she was to visit her Aunt Prudence and inform her of what had occurred. Further, Dr. Blackwood had given Honor leave to wait in Bench Street while Prudence collected Mercy’s necessaries, and to drive her (if she liked) to Colworth Park. Honoria herself had been terribly alarmed at the story of Mercy’s accident, but Prudence seemed hardly to care at all; in fact, she seemed quite pleased.
“Good, good,” she said, nodding slowly at her niece.
“I beg your pardon, Aunt?”
“I say, it is well—that is, I am glad you have come to tell me.” It seemed to Prudence that no end would be served by admitting Honoria to the scheme. The less anyone knew, the less could go wrong. “Wait a moment and I shall fetch her things,” she continued. As the old lady turned to mount the stairs, Honor could almost have sworn she muttered to herself, “Better than I expected—” but that was too ridiculous. She returned almost immediately, a small valise in her hand. Honor hastened to relieve her of her burden, but wondered at the same time how she had contrived to pack Mercy’s things so quickly.
“Honoria, it is very well you have come,” Prudence said. “I wish you will take this to your aunt for me … I cannot leave Bench Street, you know: it is almost time for supper, and since you have left us, feeding our small friends has become my task.”
“But surely Mary could do so—?”
“No, no,” Prudence snapped impatiently. “It would quite overset them. Mary is practically a stranger.”
Honor was about to object that in a house so tiny as the Deverells’ no one could possibly be a stranger to the animals, least of all the servant Mary, whom Honor knew to spend a good deal of her time with the dogs. Knowing the futility of arguing with Aunt Prudence, however, Honor kept her peace and acquiesced with a shrug of her shoulders. “I should be glad to stay here myself,” she offered.
“No, no!” Prudence repeated, this time even more irritably. “It is better to leave her alone, believe me. That is—there are elements in this circumstance that you do not understand, Honoria. You run along with her valise, and tell her I shall come to call tomorrow.”
The young bride was quite at a loss to comprehend her aunt, but as this was not unusual she soon dismissed the matter from her mind and simply submitted to her desires. “Tell her I shall be there tomorrow,” Prudence reiterated, as Honor’s carriage prepared to depart.
“I shall,” she promised. The coachman gathered his reins, and within a short time the horses were picking their way diligently back towards Sweet’s Folly. There Honoria made a brief stop, during which she informed her new family that she was on her way to Colworth alone, and might stop there the night herself if Mercy wished it. Actually, she informed Dr. Blackwood of this; Alexander was absorbed in his geometry, and only nodded distractedly when told of his wife’s plans. Taking a few of her own things, in case she should be obliged to stay till morning, Honor again set off in the carriage. By the time she rolled up the gravelled drive at Colworth it was dusk. Boothby met her at the door, handed the valises to a footman, and directed him to show her up to Mercy’s chamber.
“Honor!” cried Mercy, as if dismayed. “Where is Prudence?”
Honoria explained that her elder aunt had felt it necessary to stop in Bench Street.
“O, but she does not understand! She thinks it is all a sham! O dear …”
Again, Honor was baffled. “I am sure my aunt does not think you are shamming,” she began soothingly.
“But yes, she does. Honoria, the things I have been through this day … O dear!” she ended on a wail.
Honor expressed her willingness to stop at Colworth if Mercy desired it. “As you like,” her aunt returned fretfully.
“Of course, if it is all the same to you, it might be best not to inconvenience Squire Kemp overmuch.” Honoria had private reasons for desiring to spend as little time as possible at Colworth Park: she did not know if Claude was at home, but if he were she felt it as well to avoid him.
But Mercy had had a sudden change of heart. “No, do not leave,” she exclaimed vigorously. “I beg you will not. I don’t care to be left alone here; I do not at all, no matter what Prudence thinks best. Do not leave,” she repeated.
“Certainly I shall not, if you wish it,” Honor returned. Really, both her aunts were too odd! Her marriage seemed to have made them queerer than ever, and she had noticed in Bench Street that not a single thing had changed. If her departure from the little house had been a relief to their budget, there had certainly been no improvements made to show it. The worn carpets and faded curtains were just as she had left them, and her Aunt Prudence had been wearing the same grey gown she had so often worn at home, the one with discreet patches at both elbows. And yet, as she helped Mrs. Cafferleigh to unpack Mercy’s things, she remarked that new ribbons had been added to her green morning gown. It was all very odd.
The remainder of the evening passed away without difficulty: Squire Kemp still declined to visit his guests, but supper was sent up to them, and a brief message that Mrs. Blackwood was welcome to stay. Mrs. Cafferleigh installed her in the chamber next Mercy’s, and Honoria, having heard nothing of Claude, concluded that he was yet from home. In this she was only partially correct. Claude was indeed out when she first arrived, but at about eleven o’clock that night his coach rolled through the Park gates, and in the morning all her worst fears were to be realized. Squire Kemp kept country hours, so that by the time of Claude’s arrival, everybody was abed except a few servants. Claude, seeing no reason to disturb his elderly parent’s rest, went straight to bed himself, so that it was not until morning that his presence was made known to the squire. By this time it was too late to inform him quietly of Honoria’s having married Alexander, for Mrs. Cafferleigh had a place laid for Honor at the breakfast table and the two young people met one another there while the squire took chocolate in bed. It would have been difficult to say which of the two was the more surprised; certainly Honoria was the more dismayed. In a few words, she explained her aunt’s recent misfortune, and her presence at Colworth Park.
“A pity about your aunt,” Mr. Kemp returned, “but I am very glad to see you all the same, Miss Newcombe.”
Honor hesitated for a moment. “But I am no longer Miss Newcombe. I am Mrs. Blackwood.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I say,” she repeated, less timidly this time, “I am Mrs. Blackwood.”
“But how is that possible?” Claude frowned.
“I am married to Alexander Blackwood,” she said, repressing an involuntary smile at Claude’s confoundment. “Had you not heard?”
“No, I had not heard,” he answered, in a very unpleasant tone. “This is—that was rather sudden, was it not?”
“I have known Alexander all my life,” she pointed out.
“So have you known me.” His handsome features clearly showed his anger: he had come back to Colworth with the intention of offering for Honoria again, certain that by this time she would have changed her mind at last. “Do you mean you married that snivelling fool when you might have had me?” he burst out suddenly. “What on earth were you thinking of? Surely he cannot make you happy!”
Honoria cast a nervous sidelong glance at the waiting footman, who ought certainly not to be present during such a scene. “But he does—that is, I have been quite comfortable with him, thank you. We go on very well.”
“Go on very well!” Claude repeated, with a snort that was extremely reminiscent o
f his father’s.
“Mr. Kemp,” Honoria said, staring hard at the footman.
“Yes, what? Oh,” he replied, following her glance. “Bancroft, that will be all, thank you.” He added a curt, decisive nod, and the footman scurried out of the breakfast room. For a while he said nothing more, merely chewing moodily and deliberately on a buttered muffin, and surveying Honoria with a keen, unembarrassed gaze. She was wearing a morning dress of embroidered clear lawn, with a pattern of rosettes repeated along the neck and hem. The delicate, gossamer-like stuff enhanced the clarity of her creamy complexion in a way she knew to be very becoming; she now regretted, however, that it flattered her so well. Claude’s continual gaze was quite rude, she felt, and caused her such discomfort that she at last blushed under it. “Now, tell me again why you married him instead of me,” he said finally, in somewhat calmer tones.
Honoria was about to explain, but it suddenly occurred to her that her first duty was to herself and her husband, and she revised her reply accordingly. “I do not consider that an appropriate topic of conversation,” she said evenly. It cost her much to answer so coldly: it was against her nature to deny anyone anything, but she felt she really had no choice.
