by Fiona Hill
“May I come with you?” Honor asked timidly.
“If you like.” His tone had returned to one of utter indifference.
“I shall, then,” said she, though her instincts generally forbade her to go where she might not be wanted.
They arrived together at Sweet’s Folly just at dinner-time. “Where is my father?” Alex demanded of Jepston. The butler, justifiably startled by Mr. Blackwood’s imperious tone and angry pallor, hesitated for a moment.
“In his study, sir,” he said finally. “Shall I tell him you and Mrs. Blackwood are here?”
“No,” said Alex, tossing his driving cape at the astonished Jepston and striding past him into the house. “I will go to him myself.”
Honoria was left standing with the butler. “Is—is the young master quite well?” he dared to ask her, while helping her remove her pelisse.
Honoria smiled a peculiar, thoughtful smile. “Incredible, isn’t it?” she murmured. “I will be in the drawing-room, should anyone wish to see me, Jepston. Emily—Miss Blackwood is still—?” she began inquiringly, and stumbled.
“Miss Blackwood remains in her room,” he returned, comprehending her instantly. He bowed her into the drawing-room and went away to see if he could not eavesdrop on the master and his son.
“Let her out of her room,” Alexander was commanding by this time. “No purpose can be served by her incarceration, sir. Let her out.”
“Your sister is aware by what means she may regain her freedom,” said Dr. Blackwood, but not as firmly as was his custom. The spectacle of his son, livid with rage and spewing directives, first surprised and then almost frightened him.
“She will go to London. We will take her, Father.”
“We—?”
“My wife and myself.” Alexander began to pace the room furiously, talking all the while as his father had never seen him do, and looking a very fine picture with his hands clenched into fists and his golden hair streaming. “Emily has done a remarkable thing. She had had the courage and the ability to succeed where not one woman in one million might have. She will go to London and we will take her. She will study all she likes and take full advantage of every opportunity offered to her by her instructors. In the meanwhile, Honor will see to it she comports herself as befits her birth and station, becomes familiar with the life of the ton, and meets as many eligible gentlemen as you may desire. There is no need for you to lift a finger. Now, have you any objections, sir?”
Dr. Blackwood was too stunned to reply.
“Send for her, have her fetched here,” Alexander said, and rang the bell himself. Jepston answered with a swiftness surprising only if one did not take into account the fact that he had had his ear to the keyhole throughout the entire proceedings.
“Fetch my sister,” Mr. Blackwood told him.
Mr. Jepston bowed and disappeared, not even taking the time to glance at his employer.
“It is not as simple as you say,” that worthy had finally begun, when his daughter’s entrance interrupted him.
“Alex—?”
“Jepston, send for my wife,” said he.
In a few moments all the Blackwood family—including Mrs. Blackwood, who had got wind of the excitement through the thoughtfulness of Mr. Jepston—were assembled in the library at Sweet’s Folly. There ensued an animated discussion—in which Alexander assumed and maintained the lead—regarding Miss Blackwood’s future.
“I will go, too,” said Corinna Blackwood.
“No one will go,” her husband contradicted.
“You need not trouble to come,” Honoria told her mother-in-law kindly. “I will see to her well-being.”
“Honoria, if I may speak in my own house,” the doctor began severely, “I should like to point out that neither you nor Alexander ever having been to London, you do not make suitable chaperons.”
“I have been to London,” Alex stated flatly, and then coloured crimson from his neck to his scalp.
A silence fell upon the room.
“When have you been to London?” his father demanded finally, as all eyes stared at Alex.
“While I was up at Cambridge. On several occasions.”
“I can imagine for what purpose you went there,” said his father slowly.
“No doubt you imagine correctly,” his son returned. The blush receded from his cheeks and he went on evenly, “I am a man, grown now, and was then, and do not feel under compulsion to justify my mode of life.”
Of all the occupants of the library, perhaps Honoria was most stunned by this news. She knew little of life at Cambridge, but she knew enough to guess that her husband’s visits to London had much, in all likelihood, to do with women—and women, moreover, very different from herself. Honoria was not missish, but she fairly gasped now. It had never occurred to her that her husband might have had anything to do with passion.
“It will not be necessary to discuss this further in the presence of ladies,” Dr. Blackwood pointed out stiffly. “The fact is, your having been to London on such a—such a mission still gives you no experience of the ton.”
“I must beg to contradict, sir,” said Alexander, a very strange light blazing in his eyes.
“What on—Good Heavens, Alex!” Dr. Blackwood spluttered. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“It is neither here nor there, as you will doubtless agree. Suffice it to say that I am as familiar with the habits of good society as I need be to manage passably in London.”
Emily, meanwhile, though she was burning with curiosity to know how on earth her brother had established a connexion (if indeed he had) within the ton, and when, and with whom, yet considered the problem to be of no immediate significance. “May the subject of this argument say something?” she inquired. Without waiting for permission, she continued, “I do not see how you can object, sir, to my going to London for the season under the aegis of my brother and his wife. On the contrary, I think you must be very pleased, especially as you are so eager to see me married. I have won the scholarship, whether you like it or no; I have business in London. I ought probably to have been sent there years ago, if such were your plans for me, as it is clear Claude Kemp will never offer for me; and he is the only eligible—”
At this juncture she was interrupted by a loud, male harrumph. All eyes turned from Miss Blackwood to the newcomer, who was soon seen to be Mr. Kemp himself.
“I hope I do not intrude,” said he, in a voice still faintly gruff from his enforced nap. “I confess I am not quite awake, yet I thought to hear my name mentioned. I only came to take my leave of you, Dr. Blackwood, and to thank you for your services.”
Emily flushed, and deemed it very rude of him to refer to what he had overheard.
“Keep to your bed when you get home,” said Dr. Blackwood, “and let that arm of yours lie still when you can. How does it feel?”
“Much improved, thank you,” Claude bowed. He perceived Honoria, sitting in a far corner on a green velvet settee, and crossed the room to her. “I regret very much that our tête-à-tête was ended so abruptly this afternoon,” he murmured, bowing to her, “not only for the sake of my arm, but for the sake of our understanding one another better. May I hope to call upon you tomorrow?”
Honor glanced uneasily at Alex, whose face had suddenly turned—so it seemed—to stone. He would not meet her glance and only stared fixedly at the floor, as if refusing even to hear what Claude Kemp said.
“I may—I may be otherwise engaged tomorrow,” she managed finally. “Perhaps another day.”
“Mr. Kemp is always welcome at Stonebur Cottage,” Alexander said suddenly, though still regarding the floor. He did not at all sound as if he meant what he said.
“You are everything that is kind, Alexander,” Kemp returned lightly. “I hope I may have the honour of seeing you all again very soon,” he added, bowing to the company. He wished all good-day and quitted the library.
“As I was saying, Father,” Emily stated pointedly. No one except the
principals had any idea of the exact meaning of the scene just enacted, but it suited Emily down to the ground, for it illustrated what she had been saying to a nicety. “I think I will fare better among strangers than I do at home.”
Dr. Blackwood, forced now to take note of Kemp’s encroaching familiarity with Honoria, finally admitted to himself that his son’s marriage was in imminent danger. He folded his hands upon his desk, scrutinized them keenly, and said in a dull voice, “Go to London.”
“My dear—” Mrs. Blackwood began.
“Go to London,” he repeated.
The younger members of the party were too shocked to speak for a moment; then they broke into a prolonged series of whoops, huzzas, and mutual embracements. Emily’s joy knew no bounds: she even kissed her father. Honor, who was to travel at last—at last!—was in ecstasies of gratitude to everyone. Only Alexander, who had no personal stake in the matter, remained calm in his victory.
“I do not think you will regret this, sir,” he said to his father.
Dr. Blackwood shrugged. Fatigue showed everywhere in his features. “I hope you are right,” was all he said, and then repaired alone to his bed-chamber. Mrs. Blackwood followed him presently.
The remainder of the party stopped in the library, scheming and suggesting, objecting and arguing, supposing and proposing and opposing one another. There were so many decisions to be made! Where they were to reside in London, how to hire a house, when they would journey there, what they would require, to whom they might apply … the list was endless, and every new difficulty an excitement. At length they discovered they were agreed at least on one thing: all were famished. Learning that the poor cook had been waiting dinner this past hour and more, they removed instantly to the dining-parlour and partook of a very pleasant meal. The elder Blackwoods dined alone, upstairs.
It was determined at last that Alexander would go by himself to London before the close of the coming se’ennight, to engage lodgings for them. Time was of the essence, for Emily’s studies began scarcely a month from then, and continued throughout the coming year.
“I protest, Emily, that is a very awkward time to begin,” Alexander remarked. “Just about the end of term for everyone else, I should think.”
“I believe that is done on purpose,” said she, glowing at the thought of her education. “They take the amateurs in when the others have gone home, so that by autumn, when everyone returns, we needn’t be slowed by beginning in the first form, nor humiliated by lacking technique for the upper ones.”
“In any case, it’s a sticky time. London will be teeming with people hoping to engage apartments for the season.”
“Alex, you are so worldly!” Honor could not help exclaiming. The cheerful aspect of her new prospects had almost made her forget how strained her relations with her husband were.
Alexander, unfortunately, had not forgot. “I am not an infant,” he observed.
“No one suggested you were,” Emily said rather sharply, and then softened at once. “I do love you both for escorting me! And I promise to be no trouble at all.”
“How could you be?” Honor asked, embracing her fondly.
“How can she help it?” Alex took up immediately. “Emily my dear, there is one hitch in all this that no one has cared to mention as yet. Hadn’t we best examine it?”
“And what is that?” she returned, frowning faintly.
“Mr. Cedric Blackwood,” he answered succinctly.
“O. O dear,” Emily said.
“O dear,” chorused Honor.
“O dear, indeed,” Alex resumed. “But ‘O dear’ won’t help it. What, if anything, do you propose to do about him?”
“I suppose—” Emily began, and halted. “It seems cowardly, perhaps, but how will it be if we do nothing at all about him?”
“Don’t you think the members of the academy will be just a trifle surprised at Master Cedric’s gowns?” he suggested sceptically. “Not to mention his coiffure, his voice, and his rather effeminate address.”
“Well, of course they must find out sooner or later.”
“Of course.”
“I only think it will be better if they find out later.”
“When there is less time to object,” he pursued.
“Precisely.”
“If they learn now, they may have time to choose another winner,” Honor agreed anxiously. “I believe Emily is right.”
“All our plans may be overset in a moment,” Alex warned. “You must prepare yourself for that, Em.”
“I am prepared,” she said grimly.
“More for a bloody battle than for a disappointment,” Honoria observed, noticing her friend’s clenched hands and stern tone.
“If need be,” said she. The topic was let drop after this and the conversation turned upon other details of the forthcoming adventure, but the problem gave them all pause in the coming weeks. It seemed excessively unlikely that the judges would make no demur upon discovering Cedric to be Emily. However, there was nothing to be done about it at present, and a hundred other things occupied their minds.
Honoria was too weary, on returning to Stonebur that night, to do anything else than jump into bed. This was well, since had she had the energy to notice it, she might have sunk into the dismals again at her husband’s present resumption of chilly formality in regard to her. As it was, she slept soundly and dreamt only of London’s wonders. In the morning Mrs. Traubin brought her her chocolate in bed, and enquired of her what she was to do about the beast.
“The beast?”
“That mongrel. Fido, I believe you said.”
“O dear! I have not thought of him once from that moment to this!” she cried as if stricken. “My poor aunts must be distracted with worry. Send him to Bench Street at once.”
“On foot, or in the carriage?” Mrs. Traubin asked sarcastically.
“In the carriage, I think. Yes, silly though it seems.”
“He seems to have taken your little Amber in aversion,” the housekeeper went on, not quite necessarily.
“Has he? How odd! He lives with two score of cats, at least.”
“Well, it’s a blessing for your aunts he doesn’t live with this one,” she replied unpleasantly. “Nearly took her head off, Fido did.”
“Well, I’m very glad he didn’t,” Honor said. She was eager to bring this discussion to a close, so that she might contemplate what was best to do next.
“Had to separate them myself,” Mrs. Traubin continued, her fishy eyes gleaming malignantly.
“That was very good of you,” said the young mistress.
“I should think so. I know I never engaged to work in a bear-garden—” the housekeeper took up threateningly. She was meaning to drift on in this vein—probably for ever—but Honor stopped her at last.
“Thank you, Mrs. Traubin,” she said curtly. “That will be all.”
The elder lady, who had never before encountered the slightest resistance in her young employer, was too surprised to do anything but curtsey and depart. “Never seen her so disagreeable,” thought she to herself, as she left the room. “A proper little tyrant is what I think,” she added with satisfaction. She repeated these sentiments to her husband a few moments later, and resolved in future not to be so biddable with Mrs. Blackwood.
Honoria herself was a little surprised at what she had done. It was not like her to silence people when she could bear to listen to them. Yet, it had worked very well, and she did not really believe she had overstepped the bounds of courtesy too very much. It must be admitted, she did consider the possibility, but her conclusion was that she had acted properly. “For I can’t be bullied by the servants,” she remarked to Amber, who had strolled into the room, “even if she did save your sweet little head.” This incident, trifling though it was, constituted a milestone for Honor, and provided a lesson she was to remind herself of repeatedly in the months to come.
Young Mrs. Blackwood passed that morning at the writing-table in the tiny sitti
ng-room upstairs, composing letters to be sent to her parents’ friends. They were awkward to phrase, since she had never met any one of these people—at least, not that she could remember. Through her aunts, however, she knew the names and styles of some three or four Londoners she might apply to, among them her godfather, Lord Sperling. To him she penned the longest letter, for though she did not know him, she had at least written to him before—quite recently, in fact. It had been to apprise him of her marriage, and his lordship had been kind enough to send a decanter and glasses of cut crystal, which now resided on the side-table in the dining-parlour. His remembering her on that occasion gave Honoria some hopes of his assistance when she arrived in London, for unless someone undertook their introduction into society, the little party from Pittering would be quite at sea. Lord Sperling was a widower, but his wife had left behind her a daughter, who must be grown to womanhood now. It seemed to Honoria that if their situations were reversed—if it were Miss Sperling who sought introduction to the ton, and Honoria who had dwelt within it all her life—Honoria would have no hesitation in doing her possible for the petitioner. She felt, therefore, quite optimistic about the prospects of the Blackwoods in London society.
These missives had just been sealed, and their directions inscribed on them, when a brisk rap at the door interrupted her, and Mrs. Traubin came in.
“Gentleman to see you, ma’am,” said she, approaching to hand Honoria an engraved card.
It belonged to Claude Kemp. “Thank you, Mrs. Traubin. Ask him to wait in the parlour, if you please.”
Mrs. Traubin grumbled something dark about tea.
“I shall ring if anything is wanted,” said the mistress serenely. Mrs. Traubin sketched a curtsey and departed on her mission.
“Alex,” Honoria called tentatively, a minute later, while knocking on the library door. “Alex?” She entered to find her husband reclining at his desk, his chair precariously leaning and his feet perched upon a half-open drawer. The book in his lap appeared to absorb all his attention. “Alex,” she repeated, drawing nearer.
He looked up finally and asked what was wanted.
