Sweet's Folly

by Fiona Hill

  “Yes, it is,” the poor girl assented, “but that is not a reason to marry one or the other of them!”

  “Isn’t it?” Mercy sniffed an eloquent sniff. “I don’t know,” she added airily.

  Mrs. Blackwood thought with blissful anticipation of the time when she would be released from such conversations as this one, for a while at least. She took leave of her aunts presently, gratefully abandoning the attempt to comprehend them, but even then it seemed as if the eight-and-forty hours still remaining before their departure would never pass. So many last-minute promises and provisions; so many people to say good-by to; so much fret and bother! She was certain she would die before they came to an end of it; but she did not die, of course. In due time every possible detail had been taken care of; farewell embraces had been performed, and reperformed, and tears necessarily shed; the carriage had been laden with baggage and started off; it had returned five minutes later to collect what had been left behind; it had started off again, and had gone too far this time to be stopped when Emily’s handkerchiefs were remembered at last to have been forgot.

  “Then we are truly gone!” cried Emily, with amazement.

  “O, most truly! Most distinctly, most unequivocably, most definitely gone!” Honor agreed, and the two girls set up a joyous shout so noisy and alarming that the coachman turned round to see what could be wanted.

  Naturally, just as every painful moment had had to be lived through between their decision to go and their actual going, now every single inch of road between Pittering Village and the great metropolis had to be traversed, “crawled over, I think,” Emily whispered to Honor, for (though she did not wish to hurt the driver’s feelings) it appeared to her they went at a pitiful snail’s pace. Yet, even this ordeal was done at last. Dinner was taken hastily at an inn about thirty miles from London, while the horses were changed, and just as dusk began to fall the landscape visible through the carriage windows—hitherto an unrelieved monotony of tree-dotted slopes and tiny villages—changed into that scene for which Honoria’s eyes had hungered so long. Not a minute went by without an “Oooh” or “Ahhh” from one of the young ladies until they had reached Albemarle Street, where they had to be rather dragged than escorted from the enchanted foot-path into the house, which was, as Emily reminded her brother, “only a house after all, and no doubt very like any other.”

  Once inside its doors, however, and reunited with Maria and the Traubins, the girls were able to forget for a moment the extraordinary mysteries still to be discovered in London and to turn their attention to what was to be their home. “It’s very sweet,” said Honoria approvingly to Alex, and Emily agreed whole-heartedly.

  The house had two stories above the ground floor, besides garrets for the servants. The front doors led into a well-proportioned entrance hall, from which two other doors and the stairway were visible. These two doors opened, the one into a smartly furnished dining-parlour, the other into a breakfast-room. Long windows looked out onto the street, and similar windows appeared in the drawing-room on the floor above. Honor did not know quite what to make of the curious Egyptian motif this apartment seemed to suggest, but she heartily approved the pleasant study that shared the floor with the drawing-room. Up the next flight of stairs were four bed-chambers, two adjoining each other for the master and mistress of the house; and an excessively cosy little sitting-room done up in reds and roses. The ladies flew up and down the stairs, exclaiming now over the cheeriness of the breakfast-parlour, now at the chilly formality of the drawing-room. Honoria made a brief tour of the kitchens, heard the cook’s complaints of them, and forgot them altogether, for if there was one thing she made sure of, it was that very little of her time would be passed there. The party at last reassembled in the dining-parlour, where Mrs. Traubin had caused an extensive cold collation to be laid out, to refresh the wayfarers after their journey.

  “Did you sit upon one of the benches in the drawing-room?” Emily enquired, adding, “For I cannot call them couches. How impossibly uncomfortable they are!”

  “Well, we shan’t use that apartment very often,” Honor assured her. “At least, I hope not. It is most peculiar, is it not?” asked she, who had no notion of the Egyptian motif being quite the rage just then.

  “Many another hostess would be green with envy,” Alex broke in suddenly. He had not appeared to have been attending, but evidently he was. “It’s excessively modish. I rather like it myself, though not particularly to sit in.”

  “Well, you would like it, naturally,” said Emily to her brother, while Honor wondered again at her husband’s familiarity with London vogues. “It’s dreadfully geometrical.”

  “It wants some of your paintings,” Alex offered gallantly.

  “They would look quite absurd there,” she objected.

  Honoria began to be afraid her husband might think them ungrateful, so she broke in, “The house is perfect, Alexander, absolutely perfect. I am certain there is not another house in London that would suit us so well.”

  All at once, without the slightest warning, Alex grinned his delightful, crooked grin, an expression Honoria had not seen upon his features for aeons, it seemed. “You must keep your judgement of Albemarle Street until you have seen something to compare with it,” he advised his wife.

  “It is much more elegant than Sweet’s Folly!” Honor protested. “And by far more pleasant than Colworth—”

  “Wait until you have visited your godfather,” he interrupted, still grinning. “I expect you will find that a very interesting experience.”

  Honoria was too glad to see him smiling to care to protest further, and the conversation turned on other schemes and topics until, at length, Emily pointed out sensibly that if they did not retire presently they would be unfit to do anything at all on the morrow. Soon after this she took herself off to the bed-chamber she had chosen; Alex and Honor removed to their adjoining rooms; and Alex, carelessly wishing his bride a good night, shut the door that connected their apartments. For several seconds Honoria waited, in dreadful suspense, to hear if he would turn the key in the lock, but he did not. Well, there was that to be thankful for at least, she told herself, and was very shortly afterwards (in spite of the din that seemed to echo ceaselessly in the streets of London) quite peacefully asleep.

  Alexander had been correct about the visit to Lord Sperling’s residence: it was an extremely interesting experience. Honoria and Emily were loth to enter the carriage again—they had much rather have walked—but Alexander dismissed this suggestion as being impossibly countrified, and so they drove instead. The drive was brief, but even so Honor was struck again, not so much by the buildings and monuments of London—though these were wonderful—as by the extraordinary throngs of people to be seen everywhere, and the press of carriages on the streets. Tunbridge Wells was nothing to it: there seemed to be more of people in London than there was of anything else. She and Emily resumed the chorus of exclamations that their arrival in the great city had inspired in them yesterday; Alexander did not join them, but sat with his old distracted look upon his countenance, neither laughing at nor looking down upon his companions, but rather utterly unaware of them.

  The drive to Berkeley Square, where Oliver Brayden, Lord Sperling, had resided since his birth, was over all too quickly. Honoria would have sprung from the carriage directly they halted, had not her husband reminded her she must wait to be handed down. “These town proprieties begin to grow tiresome,” she remarked almost pettishly to Emily. “I suppose we are fortunate to be allowed to breathe for ourselves.”

  “Did I omit to mention that?” enquired Alex, who by this time had descended to the pavement and was offering her his arm. “You are not permitted to breathe for yourself—at least, not until your host has invited you to do so.”

  “O Alex,” she cried, striving for a complaining tone, but hardly succeeding, so delightful was it for her to hear him tease her and to see his crooked grin appear again.

  “Well, you mustn’t blame
me,” he said as he conducted her towards the enormous front doors. “I only tell you the customs—I do not invent them.”

  She had no time to reply, for at that moment a butler appeared at the door and whisked them into a drawing-room, where they were to wait while their card was handed in. The little party took advantage of these few minutes to stare, in growing wonder, at the opulence surrounding them. At least, the ladies stared; Alexander seemed quite composed. “I have never seen such a tapestry!” Emily exclaimed, examining a vast, antique hanging that represented the risen Christ appearing to Mary Magdalene. She dared to finger a bit of the stuff with her hands, and cried out again, “Marvelous!”

  “And the hearth!” said Honoria, admiring its rich carvings and awed at its sheer largeness. “I protest I never knew I had such a godfather.”

  “I dareswear he is worth millions,” Emily agreed whole-heartedly.

  “Not quite millions,” came a cool feminine voice from the door-way.

  Emily scurried to a seat near her brother, while Honor stood blushing furiously at what had just been overheard. A rather tall, dashingly dressed young woman stood between the double doors of the drawing-room surveying the visitors impassively. The strong, clean lines of her features were almost too severe to permit of her being beautiful—almost, but not quite. With her dark hair coiffed high and an ostrich feather in her bonnet, she made a most striking picture. “I have just been riding,” the lady continued, indicating her sharply-cut, luxuriantly-trained riding habit. “I hope you will excuse my dress.” No one said anything; the ladies were too conscious, and Alexander too distracted. “You, I perceive, must be my father’s god-daughter,” said she to Honor, with a curtsey. “My father would receive you himself, except he is at Parliament, or some such thing. Permit me to present myself; I am Lady Jane Sperling.”

  Honoria had by this time collected herself sufficiently to reply with adequate grace, and to present her husband and her sister-in-law. The appropriate queries as to their journey were put and answered; Lady Jane rang for tea, which appeared presently; and all sat down near a long, low, parcel-gilt table in one corner of the huge drawing-room, where Lady Jane poured a steaming brew from a Sèvres pot into exquisite Sèvres cups. “I have never,” said she pleasantly, while handing the cups round, “been at all at ease in this room—save in this corner, that is. I cannot think what possessed the architect to plan a drawing-room so vast. Do you know, before that tapestry was hung it positively echoed!” She smiled that sort of smile that is encountered only within the ton, and that is generally described as “brilliant.”

  “I am very glad to hear you say so,” Honoria confided; “I had begun to think all London drawing-rooms were like this.”

  “O no! How perfectly abominable that would be! But I do like this little corner; I think of it as a bit of habitable land, in the midst of an open plain. I frequently tell Father that if the ceiling were but one foot higher, it might well rain in here—and where would his cherished tapestry be then?”

  “Then it is Lord Sperling who is the art-fancier?” Emily enquired.

  “Fancier! I should say so. He simply dotes on it. Are you the same, Miss Blackwood?”

  Emily coloured a little and replied, “Rather.” This interest of Lord Sperling’s might prove helpful to her, though she did not care to say more to Lady Jane.

  “And you, Mr. Blackwood, do you share your sister’s passion?”

  Alexander, who had been contemplating the geometrical inlay in the arm of his chair, roused himself to say, “Yes. Well, no. Not extremely.”

  “How interesting,” the hostess said politely, and turned her attention towards Honor.

  “My husband is a geometrician,” that young lady was saying. She added in a whisper (which she feared might be considered rude, but which Lady Jane, on the contrary found quite winning), “You mustn’t mind his distraction. He is always like that.”

  “I don’t mind in the least,” Lady Jane hissed back, dimpling with a smile. “I expect you are all impatience to see the sights of London,” she went on more audibly.

  This was eagerly agreed to.

  “If you like, I shall arrange for Trevor—that’s my coachman—to drive you round tomorrow. He’s a splendid guide.”

  “How very kind of you!”

  “O, not at all,” she disclaimed. “And tonight—unless you are too fatigued—I hope you will all join my party at the opera. It is only Lord Strougham, and that tiresome sister of his, but I daresay you will enjoy the performance. It is Handel,” she added.

  “But you must not—” Honoria broke off in some consternation. “I beg you will not incommode yourself for our sakes. I am certain we ought not intrude upon your evening so rudely.”

  But Lady Jane broke into a peal of laughter at this courtesy, replying frankly, “My dear, you have no notion what a welcome diversion your coming constitutes. This is my fourth season in London—mark that—my fourth, and my weariness with all of it surpasses everything. Year in and year out the same eligible bachelors quizzing me through their glasses, this year with their cravats à la Byron, next year à la Bergami, this one with his side-curls long, the next with his whiskers cropped: I promise you, that is all the variation you will discover among them. Only the ladies change: one year she is Miss Jessop, the next Lady Brackhurst—hardly a stunning alteration, if you ask me! And with each passing year, my father regards me more sadly. Will I never marry? is the question that haunts him. I myself have not thought of it this age, but that is a different matter. My point is simply this: you are far more likely to find my presence troublesome than I to find yours so.”

  This, naturally, was music to the ears that heard her. Honoria was quite overcome with gratitude; yet, a guilty feeling nagged at her. “Lady Jane, I must beg you,” said she, “I must implore you to overlook the odious things you heard myself and Miss Blackwood say earlier. Pray believe me, we meant no rudeness by them—only—we were somewhat overwhelmed—” she ended lamely.

  “Apologetic little thing, is she not?” Lady Jane demanded gaily of Miss Blackwood. “Is she this way all the time?”

  Emily laughed and said she was afraid she was.

  “Well, it cannot endure long in London,” said their hostess. “No one is humble in the ton, though the girls make a show of being biddable for their first season.”

  Honoria smiled at this and said she “hoped Lady Jane would not set her down an utter widgeon.”

  “My Heavens, she is always like that!” cried the lady so applied to, and broke into another peal of laughter. “In any case, your apology is accepted and accepted again, and all future apologies are accepted as well—provided you refrain from making them whenever you may. I am certain you are incapable of really offending anyone.”

  “Emily,” Honoria protested, “do tell her I am not quite a jelly-fish! I am not quite a jelly-fish,” she informed Lady Jane herself.

  “No, of course you are not,” said Lady Jane, with a consoling pat to Honor’s hand, and an arch elevation of the eyebrows to Emily. “Now, tell me, Miss Blackwood: what precisely has brought you to London? Not looking for a husband, I hope; you appear much more sensible than that.”

  “I am, indeed,” the other confirmed. “I wish you will call me Emily.”

  Lady Jane nodded agreeably. “Well then, Emily, if not a husband—what?”

  Miss Blackwood glanced round uneasily, for she felt it might be best to say nothing of her purpose until she had settled squarely with the academy.

  “My sister is an artist,” Alexander said suddenly. As it happened, his remark was very timely—but this was only by the merest chance. He had been lost in a muse ever since the last time he spoke, and had no idea the conversation had wandered so widely afterwards. He made his comment in the belief they were still discussing art-fanciers.

  Having made this disclosure, Alexander relapsed into silence, leaving Emily to explain its bearing upon Lady Jane’s enquiry. She did this—first requesting that the intellig
ence be kept in strictest confidence—with both modesty and succinctness, and left Lady Jane looking thoughtful as she closed.

  “Now, this is a difficulty,” the older lady said reflectively. “I must say I was not prepared to help you with such a project as that! The judges are certain to squawk when they learn of their deception.”

  “I fear it,” Emily assented, her hands clenching and unfolding unconsciously.

  “I must ponder this further,” said Lady Jane decisively. “But how perfectly wonderful, anyhow!” The guests did not stop much longer, for Alexander was eager to unpack his books, and Emily and Honor would be obliged to make certain purchases if they were to attend the opera that night.

  “But you must let me accompany you!” cried Lady Jane, when she heard that their next destination was the milliner’s.

  Honoria protested again that Lady Jane was too good, was again told bluntly to give over apologising, and the party of ladies set off together in the Sperlings’ coach, leaving Alex to go home and amuse himself as he might with his library.

  The afternoon was passed very agreeably indeed, Lady Jane animatedly supervising the purchases the younger women made, and advising them most usefully on what sort of garments they must commission the dress-maker to carry out for them. She wisely chose for them much less daring fashions than those she herself wore, and limited Emily to whites and pale colours. “For an unmarried young woman in her first season simply must restrict herself to such insipid shades,” she remarked, “though it is a dreadful shame. With your figure, you might carry off the most stunning crimsons, but it is far too dangerous.” She sighed, feeling sadly thwarted in her efforts to make Emily into the dasher she could be. Honoria, though she was eligible for brighter colours, was by far too meek to wear them. Even the red-and-green plaid they contemplated for a walking-dress for her overpowered the little thing. It was a terrible shame, for plaid was certain to be all the rage this year.