by Fiona Hill
“I am so glad to see you, sir,” she began, “and especially to have an opportunity to thank you for your many kindnesses.” Though the baronet showed not the least interest in being thanked, she went on in this way for quite some time, mentioning good Mrs. Cafferleigh, his own heroism and hospitality, and enlarging upon these themes at length.
The squire interjected an occasional grunt, and now and then a characteristic “Hah!” but said nothing of any note. He would have liked to turn the conversation, but could not think of anything to say, so instead he merely began to set out the chess pieces on a small table drawn up to her bedside for that purpose. When at last she paused for breath, he broke in saying, “Shall we play, madam?”
“O yes, indeed! Chess is so amusing, don’t you think?”
“Eh, what’s that? Amusing. Hah!” said he. He had given her the white pieces, and sat waiting for her to make her first move, but she only rattled on about the weather. At last he interrupted again, and begged her to begin.
“O, is it my go first?” she inquired innocently.
The squire indicated the board. Mercy, though she did not know why, understood that she was indeed to begin, and moved a pawn forward. The baronet snorted and countered.
To Prudence’s great relief, the game was successfully begun. She remembered suddenly, and with a tiny gasp, that she had never instructed her sister to be silent during the game, and was much afraid that Mercy might chatter on aimlessly all through it. As it happened, however, Mercy became very quiet once they started, and looked quite appropriately absorbed in the moves. In fact, Prudence noted (with agreeable surprise), she fairly frowned with concentration. Reassured, Prudence sat back and opened her work-box, and found some embroidery she had begun long ago and long since forgot. The bedchamber gradually sank into utter silence, and remained so for many hours. During this time, the elder Miss Deverell somehow nodded off to sleep—how, she could never tell—and when she opened her eyes again it was on hearing a triumphant, sharp “Checkmate!” from her sister.
“Eh? What’s that?” the baronet barked immediately. “It’s no such thing, I’ll lay wager—” He leaned forward, scrutinising the board. “I don’t—damme, she’s really done it!” he exclaimed at last, too startled to be displeased. “Well, I’d never have guessed it in a million years.”
Prudence, rapidly taking in the situation, sat helpless in incredulous dismay. What on earth had Mercy done? But before she could think of something to say, the squire was up on his feet, extending a hand to Mercy and shaking hers vigorously.
“I never thought a woman could beat me,” he said, with evident approval. “Never thought anyone could beat me,” he added. “Congratulations, Miss Mercy, you’re a fine player.”
Mercy, almost as astonished at her victory as anyone else, accepted his tribute with a blush and a humble, “I hope you enjoyed the game, sir.”
“Enjoyed it very much, very much,” said the squire, who (being a just man at heart) admired ability in anyone wherever he found it. “Have a game with you tomorrow if you like.”
Mercy was about to answer, but Prudence, horrified at the thought of further humiliations for the old man, interjected, “O no, I think it has been abominably tiring for my sister. Aren’t you tired, dear?”
“If you say, Prue—” Mercy began dubiously.
“She ain’t tired!” Sir Proctor growled. “Look at her—her cheeks are glowing like a baby’s. And very pretty cheeks, too,” he added with a bow.
Mercy, unspeakably pleased, only coloured more deeply.
“Tomorrow, then, madam,” said the squire; “and good night to you both for now.” It was a great satisfaction to him to find a player who could challenge him: his son never would attend to the game closely enough, and consequently always lost. With a feeling of pleasurable anticipation of the morrow—which he had not felt for a long time—he bowed again smartly to the ladies, and withdrew. Prudence began to speak as soon as he shut the door.
“What have you done?” she demanded. “How could you have won?”
Mercy shrugged her shoulders. “I am not certain,” she said, “but there is a game I play, Prue, with the cats. I never mentioned it to you, as it seems too silly, but I play it in my head all the time. It has to do with which cat will sit where, and so forth. If I put Muffin here, which means Snowflake will take her kittens away, where will Tiger go? Things like that, you see. Anyway, this chess is very much like my game. Easier, in fact. I suppose I won because of that,” she ended, shrugging again. “Was it very dreadful of me to win? I know you did not mean for me to,” she asked anxiously.
Prudence looked at her, hard put for what to say. On the one hand, things had turned out amazingly well; on the other, they had not followed her plans. As a matter of policy, she could not approve anything that went contrary to her schemes; but still … She finally told Mercy she had done her best, and that was as much as anybody could ask. A little while later they had supper, and sat up chatting with Mrs. Cafferleigh for a bit. Quite early in the evening, as was the routine at Colworth Park, Prudence took to her bed, kissing Mercy first, of course, and directing her to sleep well. Mercy made sure to carry out this instruction precisely.
The inhabitants of Sweet’s Folly retired, as a rule, somewhat later than those of Colworth. Honoria had emerged briefly from her room at tea-time but disappeared again shortly afterwards, having agreed with all her mother-in-law’s suggestions concerning the choice and placement of furnishings for Stonebur Cottage. To Dr. Blackwood’s enquiry whether she might be ready to take up residence there herself at the end of the week, she replied with a nod and a rather indifferent “Certainly.” Alex had not come down to tea, after all, and so he took no part in these decisions. Honor, murmuring something about a headache, asked to take supper in her room, to which retreat she presently retired. Her fury with herself had subsided into a dull dissatisfaction, which yet unsettled her so that she could not sleep, and she lay awake whispering to Amber until well past midnight. At about one o’clock, a new thought occurred to her; she debated with herself for a while, then rose and robed herself in a ribboned matinee. Taking a candle, she crept silently out of her room and through the darkened halls of Sweet’s Folly to the kitchens. Still later she appeared again, bearing the candle and a glass, at the door to Alexander’s study. She knocked but received no answer. Hesitantly, she set the candle down at her feet and turned the knob, opening the door just slightly and peeking in.
Her husband sat staring at a paper on his desk, his soft blond hair twisted through the long fingers that supported his head on either side. Evidently he was deep in thought, for he did not notice her even now. Leaving the candle behind (for the study was adequately illuminated by several lamps and a moribund fire), she advanced several paces into the room. Still, Alex did not look up. For a moment she stood silently, the warm tumbler in her hand, gazing at his fine, clear features and admiring the gracefulness of his neck, bent now in an attitude of heedless absorption. The red light of the dying fire created a glow that his fair hair caught and reflected, rendering him more handsome than she had ever seen him. At once she felt envious of the papers that so captured his attention, and wished hopelessly that his regard might someday be focused as powerfully on herself. Thinking this, she sighed, and the sigh—for some reason—penetrated his concentration and shattered it.
Inordinately startled, he looked up abruptly and dropped his hands at the same moment, covering the papers with them awkwardly. His surprise communicated itself immediately to her, and she suddenly felt cumbersome and foolish, standing in the middle of his study in the dead of night, a glass of warm milk in her hands. She forgot what she meant to say, and blurted out, “I brought you some milk. Here—” She set it on the desk with a conscious, jerky motion, spilling some of the warm liquid. Alex looked at it. “I thought you might like it,” she went on. “I thought you might be tense, with all your work. It will relax you.”
Alexander, smiling now that he underst
ood what had made him start, said, “Thank you. Isn’t it terribly late for you, Honoria?”
She interpreted this immediately as a reproach, and spoke defensively. “I suppose I may keep what hours I like.”
“Indeed, of course,” he replied in mild accents. “It is only—goodness, you startled me!” he exclaimed suddenly, recognising again how oddly he had jumped, as if there were something to be afraid of in Sweet’s Folly. “I was so lost in what I was doing,” he began, gesturing widely at the papers before him, “I suppose I never expected—no one ever comes in, you see—”
Alexander was trying to explain to her the reason of his unnatural surprise at her entrance, so that she would not feel offended by it. She, however, misunderstood him utterly, and supposed his words were meant to rebuke her, and to caution her not to repeat such a foolish act. Consequently, she shrank towards the door and stood poised on the threshold, intent upon removing herself from his sight as soon as possible. “I shan’t do it again,” she said, in a low voice. “Good night.”
“But it was very kind in you—” he commenced. Unfortunately, Honoria had run away, and could not hear him for the despairing sobs that were already breaking from her. More miserable even than before, she gained her room again and flung herself under the covers, scaring poor Amber half to death. The frightened kitten leapt off the bed and scrambled to the farthest corner, whence he watched with round eyes as his mistress wept and sighed. For many minutes this scene continued; it did not cease till Honoria, still wretched but exhausted, wearily extinguished her candle and went to sleep at last.
Chapter VI
Emily drew her sister-in-law to a far corner of the drawing-room and spoke in a fierce whisper: “I never was more mortified in my life,” she said. “What on earth does my father think to do?”
“I am afraid that is only too clear,” Honoria replied. “My question is, what does Mr. Kemp mean to do? His behaviour has been simply too vile! I can scarcely credit it.”
“Nor I, but it is my father who amazes me more. I declare, I may never speak to him again,” she hissed, with a mutinous look at the company in general. The two women were not at liberty to continue this private colloquy for long; Mrs. Blackwood soon interrupted them, taking Honoria by the hand and requesting her to play a bit on the pianoforte to entertain Mrs. Drinkwater. Mrs. Drinkwater, a childless matron of uncertain years, who had been the Blackwoods’ neighbour for decades, heartily seconded this proposal, and Honoria was obliged to comply. Without warning, she broke into a vigorous rendition of Beethoven’s Sonate Pathétique, a choleric composition that she normally reserved for occasions when no one could hear her. Now, however, she was so angered by what had passed at dinner that she did not care at all whether the ladies knew it or not.
“The ladies” consisted only of Mrs. Blackwood, Mrs. Drinkwater, Emily, and herself. Dinner had just recently ended, and the four women had removed themselves to the drawing-room as was usual on such occasions, to amuse themselves while the gentlemen smoked and drank at table. The family party were joined this afternoon by three guests—Captain and Mrs. Drinkwater, and Mr. Claude Kemp—because Dr. Blackwood meant to give the repast a slightly festive air. It was to be Honoria’s and Alexander’s last dinner at Sweet’s Folly; tomorrow they would take up residence at Stonebur Cottage. Such an event in the life of his family seemed to Dr. Blackwood to call for some little celebration, and so the guests had been invited. Squire Kemp had been asked as well, but had declined to attend. His son therefore arrived alone.
What had so outraged Miss Blackwood in her father’s behaviour was this: Dr. Blackwood was eager for his daughter to marry. He knew dimly that there had once been some question of Claude’s offering for Honoria, but quite reasonably assumed, in light of recent developments, that that possibility was now obsolete and forgotten. Therefore he saw no cause why Mr. Kemp might not be interested in his daughter, and was resolved to do everything possible to throw the two of them together. He directed his wife to seat them next one another at the dinner-table, which she did, and took every opportunity of intimating to one or the other of them that they might be romantically linked. Unfortunately, his hints were a bit broad. They were far too obvious, in fact, to escape Claude’s subtle powers of observation, and they were entirely distinct to Emily. In Claude they evoked a vague amusement; in Emily, the fury that now caused her to look so murderous.
There was worse, however, and this was what so concerned Honoria. Dr. Blackwood had assumed Claude’s intentions towards her were obsolete and forgotten. In this he was only partially correct: they were obsolete, of course—but they were hardly forgotten. On the contrary, Claude had never ceased to entertain plans for winning Honor’s confidence and her love. The inevitable result, that this would also sully her virtue and render her life miserable, troubled him not a whit. Once having set his sights on an object, Mr. Kemp never faltered in its pursuit, and that fact had become excessively clear to Honoria tonight. For instead of responding to Dr. Blackwood’s hints, and treating Emily attentively—instead even of ignoring his host and persisting in a neutral position—Mr. Claude Kemp had displayed the most unmistakable interest in Honoria herself, under the very noses of her husband and his family.
She sat opposite to him at table, next Alexander, and all during the meal Claude did not cease to shower upon her a veritable flood of kindnesses, gallantries, and flirtatious observations. Honoria was delightful, she was so witty, she struck one by her beauty more than any young woman in the neighbourhood—did not Alexander agree? For it was this that was most outrageous of all: these remarks were not addressed solely to Honoria, but to Alex as well. Poor Alex, still terribly uncomfortable beside his bride, and distracted anyway by the solution of a particular geometrical enigma, seemed neither to notice nor to care what impertinent comments were made regarding his wife. He said nothing at all unless pressed to do so. When at length Mr. Kemp would check his flow of remarks to ask, “Don’t you agree, Alexander? Is it not so?” Alex could think of nothing better to say than yes. Consequently, Honoria had been subjected all through dinner to the most humiliating attack of improper flirtation imaginable, while her husband sat by doing nothing. Recalling this, she struck the ivory keys with all the force of her pent-up rage.
It was the more frustrating because she saw what Dr. Blackwood wished Claude to do—that is, she saw that Emily was meant to be the object of this extraordinary attention, and that instead her friend was soundly ignored. Except for asking her once for butter, and once for a confirmation of Honoria’s charms, Mr. Kemp said absolutely nothing to her during the whole repast. Dr. Blackwood, in no case a perceptive man, and on this occasion somewhat blinded by wine, remained entirely unaware of this impossible situation, and continually made it more painful by calling out gay encouragements to the animated Claude. All in all, it was the most dreadful repast either young woman had ever taken, and it was with the utmost relief that both fled to the drawing-room at its end.
Mrs. Drinkwater and her hostess were both somewhat startled at the violence with which Honoria played the pianoforte, but they made nothing of it and thanked her for her performance just the same. Honoria rose from the little stool feeling slightly calmed by this release of her inflamed emotions, and immediately resumed her seat beside Emily. “Shall we walk up and down the room a bit?” she asked her in a low voice.
Miss Blackwood consented and the two women, side by side, began to pace rather rapidly the length of the drawing-room. “I assure you, I did all I could to make him stop,” said Honor, a little fearful lest her friend think she was pleased by Claude’s attentions.
“I am certain you did,” said Emily. “I always said Claude was a boor. Do you recall what I told you when you considered marrying him? The most conceited, despicable—and I believe I mentioned he seemed sinister to me—well, now I am sure of it. We have proof in abundance, in fact.”
“Proof?” Honoria inquired, still hoping for the best.
“If he does not mean to
destroy your marriage with Alex, I am not an artist and my father is not a fool. It is only too clear.”
“Emmy, really, you must not think your father a fool merely because—”
But Emily cut her off with a virulent, “Nonsense! My father makes a cake of himself, of me, and of Alexander—not that Alexander needed any assistance.” Her tone changed slightly as she added, “I knew my brother was a child, but I had no notion he was so feeble as all that! If I had, I promise you I should never have suggested your marriage to him. You were far better off in Bench Street: at least there you were free to defend yourself from Claude, instead of being obliged to place yourself in the hands of such a powerless protector as my miserable brother. I am very, very sorry. I gave you false counsel.”
“Emily, I pray—! Do not say so, please. You may regret your hand in the affair, but I am not at all sorry to be—to be my husband’s wife. It is painful, yes, at times—and I do not see what will come of it all just now—but far better to be married to him than not—far better!”
Honoria’s voice was so soft and pleading as she said these words, so entirely sincere and passionate, that Emily looked up at her and scrutinised her eyes with the full force of her perceptiveness. What she saw there surprised her, but was undeniable: young Mrs. Blackwood had fallen in love with her husband. For what cause, Emily could not possibly have said, but she was too clear-sighted not to see it, and too pragmatic to ignore it. When she spoke again her voice was altered, and her words flowed less freely: “I am glad to know it,” she said hesitantly. “I apologise for not having guessed before. You are a wonderful woman, Honoria, and I admire you more than I ever did before.”
Honoria was spared the necessity of replying to this praise by the sudden entrance of the gentlemen into the room. Dr. Blackwood and the rather simple Captain Drinkwater, long a drinking companion of the physician’s, were evidently a trifle foxed at least. Mr. Kemp was flushed, but exhibited his inebriation in no other manner. Alexander was quiet and withdrawn, as usual. Looking about himself absently, he spied an unoccupied hassock in a remote corner of the drawing-room, and seated himself there alone. He did not stir from this position during the whole of the next hour. Dr. Blackwood, even more jovial than when he visited his patients, pulled a chair up to where his wife and Mrs. Drinkwater sat, and set about flirting mildly with that middle-aged lady, in inoffensive and good-humoured style. His wife, accustomed to such displays of playfulness when her husband was in his cups, was not in the least disturbed, but rather turned calmly to Captain Drinkwater and engaged him in a discussion of Napoleon’s present whereabouts. Captain Drinkwater, though retired from the army, had never ceased to concern himself about England’s military and political position, and he answered her questions and suggestions with ardent enthusiasm. All of which left Claude perfectly at liberty to attach himself to the young ladies, which he did directly, harassing them almost beyond toleration.
