Sweet's Folly

by Fiona Hill

  “If you think so—” Honoria began anxiously, her brow wrinkled with doubt. “But you will not expose yourself to any—impropriety, will you? I promised your father—”

  “The less we say of this the better,” returned Miss Blackwood. “So long as no one interferes, I guarantee no harm will come of this. I shall be home in an hour or two,” she added, and with that—and a brief embrace—disappeared. The nature of her mission, and its satisfactory or unsatisfactory conclusion, Honoria did not discover for many weeks. Emily did seem in better spirits that evening, however, and cautioned Honoria she would repeat her excursion the next day. Honoria must not look for her, nor expect to hear from her until dinner. And indeed, Emily was gone all next day, and all the next as well, and would not say a word to anyone of where she had been, or what occupied her.

  Her absence could not have been accomplished nearly so easily in any other household than her own, of course, for it required the utter inattention of her brother. Inattention being Alexander’s most salient trait, however, only Honoria fretted over Emily’s unaccountable behaviour. That it was connected with the academy she had no doubt, but how or why or what exactly, she could not have guessed—nor did Emily wish her to. Mrs. Traubin, whose fishy eye observed everything, was yet in no position to enquire into matters too closely, and was obliged to make do with her mistress’s firm, if brief, explanation that Miss Emily was “not at home.” And so things continued three days, until the evening of Miss Blackwood’s come-out.

  That event even Emily knew she must attend, and she arrived at the house in Albemarle Street somewhat earlier that day than had become her wont. Even so, Lady Jane Sperling had been waiting for her there above an hour, and met her with the greatest impatience.

  “My very dear Miss Blackwood,” said she, with mock excess of civility. “I do hope your debut does not intrude upon your schedule too very awkwardly.” Her handsome mouth dimpled into that brilliant smile for which the ladies of the ton are renowned, and she regarded her young charges archly.

  “Not at all,” Emily replied, purposely ignoring the sally. “I am excessively obliged to you, too, for coming this evening. I suppose you mean to make me beautiful?”

  “Something of the kind,” Lady Jane confessed, “though really, not much more is necessary than the covering of your ears, and I see you have been prudent enough to do that already. Really, you can have no notion how diverting this is to me! Introducing a handsome young girl into society—and to my father as well, now I come to think of it. He has given me his word he will be there—and I ought to warn you—he is something of an admirer of women.”

  “He must be a very busy gentleman,” observed Miss Blackwood, “to admire both ladies and art—and to pursue politics simultaneously.” She had been throwing off her cloak and bonnet while she spoke, and now turned to greet Honoria, who had hastened into the front hall at the sound of her voice.

  “My dear,” said young Mrs. Blackwood, embracing her, “you look—goodness, you look fatigued! And your hands smell like …”—she possessed herself of one of these and sniffed it curiously—“like turp—”

  “Shhh!” Emily interrupted her. “It is no matter. Come, come my maidens, to my boudoir, and let us transform this sensible-looking young woman into a ravishing innocent. We’ll have plenty of work to do that!”

  Further questions thus stilled, Honoria and Lady Jane followed Miss Blackwood up to her bed-chamber, where an hour of choosing, arranging, and general primping ensued. At its end, Emily stood arrayed in a flowing gown of white, quite simple in its lines, but adorned with a delicate, lacy fichu as demure as it was flattering. Tiny white slippers peeped out from under the lace-trimmed hem. The only element in the entire toilette that even hinted at daring were the puffed sleeves of the gown, for they were quite short. What they revealed, however, long kid gloves were soon to cover up, and so no more modestly clad young lady could have been found in London that evening than Miss Emily Blackwood. At least, that was what Lady Jane said, and pronounced herself very satisfied. “You see—I must point this out to you, my dears, for it is quite a marvel of taste on my part, and you are too inexperienced to notice it yourselves—I have contrived to make Emily appear both elegant and sweet, and yet without resorting once to any of those missish frills and fripperies so many young ladies disguise themselves in. You look very handsome, my love, and owe a great deal to me.”

  “Then I thank you,” said Emily, smiling.

  “You do not think it was an error to take all those flowers from her hair?” Honoria asked anxiously, indicating a pile of discarded artificial blooms. Only one of the dozen originally planned had been left on Emily’s head.

  “O no, not at all! She looks much smarter this way. It was a mistake to purchase them in the first place. Now, Emily,” she continued, “you do know how to drape a shawl, I trust? It does you no good to wear such a lovely lace one, if you cannot use it properly.”

  Miss Blackwood assured her she could manage a shawl.

  “And your fan? You won’t make too much use of it, will you? Simpering is not your style; you needn’t affect it.”

  Miss Blackwood engaged not to simper all evening.

  “Then I believe we are finished,” said Lady Jane, turning upon Honoria. “My dear mouse, you are next. And Emily, don’t you dare sit down, or breathe, or blink, until we are safely arrived in Berkeley Square.”

  Miss Blackwood swore she should be indistinguishable from a corpse, until she had set foot in Lord Sperling’s residence.

  “That is fine,” said Lady Jane. The next hour was devoted to Mrs. Blackwood’s toilette, not nearly so difficult to achieve, as Lady Jane pointed out, since Honoria’s natural looks agreed perfectly with the current modes. She emerged from her bed-chamber with her hair becomingly coiffed à la Titus, the crown bound with a simple gold fillet; a velvet gown of the palest rose, its unexceptionable décolletage oval in shape, draped her graceful figure; and a wide, intricately embroidered shawl sat lightly upon her shoulders.

  “But, Alexander!” she cried all at once. “Who has told him what to wear?”

  Consternation was instantly general among the ladies, and while Emily informed Lady Jane of her conviction that her brother did not know a cravat from a handkerchief, Honoria hastened fretfully into her husband’s library.

  “He isn’t there!” she reported, returning to the door-way of her own room after a moment. “O, where can he be? Why did I not think of this before?” she berated herself, wringing her hands with vexation. “Mrs. Traubin,” she called, at the same time ringing the bell for that lady. “Mrs. Traubin!”

  Mrs. Traubin appeared behind her, startling her with a strident, “Yes, madam.”

  “Mrs. Traubin, where is Mr. Blackwood? Where is my husband?”

  “I believe, ma’am,” she returned, with none of her mistress’s perturbation, “he is waiting for you in the drawing-room.”

  “Waiting for—us?” This was extraordinary indeed, if true.

  “I think so, ma’am,” with a curtsey more insolent than anything else.

  “But do you mean—he remembered we are going out?”

  “Apparently, ma’am. At least, his attire seemed to indicate an intention to go out.”

  “What can it possibly be?” asked Honoria, of no one in particular, and ran down the stairs to the drawing-room.

  “Buskins and top-boots; I shouldn’t be the least surprised,” Emily predicted grimly to Lady Jane, as they followed in Honor’s steps.

  But Miss Blackwood, for once, was wrong—quite entirely wrong, indeed. Alexander, when he rose at his wife’s entrance, did so in the neatest, most correct raiment possible. He wore ankle-length trousers, a smart waist-coat with modish horizontal stripes, a snowy cravat carefully bound beneath an excessively high, perfectly starched collar, and a dark frac cut to perfection. His low pumps could not have been shinier, nor the high top-hat that he held in his hand more carefully brushed. “Alex!” was all his wife could think to say.


  “My dear, I have been waiting for you this age,” he replied. “Hadn’t Lady Jane best return to Berkeley Square soon? I should think she had any number of things to attend to there, and no doubt wishes you to be present.”

  “Alex—!” was repeated.

  But Mr. Blackwood steadfastly refused to regard either his promptitude or his dress as anything remarkable, even when his sister joined his wife in her surprise. Lady Jane said nothing, only agreeing that they had best be off, and so they entered their carriages and drove away.

  “But doesn’t Alexander look handsome!” Honoria whispered to Emily as they passed through the streets, while the subject of her remark gazed distractedly through a window.

  Emily, though unaccustomed to view her brother in such a light, had to admit it was so.

  “I am certain any lady might lose her heart to him,” said Honor, and felt with a pang that she herself had done so six or seven times already.

  “If he had any conversation,” Emily returned diffidently. Their colloquy was interrupted by their arrival in Berkeley Square, and Alexander’s apparent return to full consciousness.

  Once inside, Lady Jane excused herself to accomplish her own toilette, and committed them into the care of her father—who, she assured them, would join them momently. Honoria had been looking forward to this meeting with some trepidation: by all Lady Jane’s accounts, Lord Sperling was a kind and most unalarming man; however, Honoria felt so much in his debt—and further, knew so well that he was a man of fortune and of consequence—that she could not help but be frightened of him. Her fears vanished (as Emily had predicted they would) directly he entered the drawing-room.

  “Ah,” said he, going up to her immediately and holding her face between his hands, “I perceive this is the mouse my daughter spoke of. How do you do, Mrs. Honoria? You look exactly like your mother.”

  “Do I? I did not—how do you do, sir?” she finished, remembering suddenly to curtsey.

  “Very well, indeed,” he answered with a low bow. He turned to Emily, his broad face smiling with genuine pleasure. “If this is my god-daughter, then you must be Miss Emily,” said he, and kissed her hand. “You see, I know you all. Mr. Blackwood, I hope you will not be angry with me for embracing your wife; we are nearly kin, you know.”

  Lord Sperling stepped back now to have a better look at his new acquaintances and gave them an opportunity of surveying him as well. He was a tall, sturdy man of robust middle age, his cheeks as fresh and pink as any member of Parliament’s, his smile as engaging—in its masculine way—as his daughter’s. It was easy to see Lady Jane had inherited her height from him—though not, fortunately for her, his girth, since he was so muscular as to appear burly. He was a remarkable gentleman. Everything, in general, amused him; everything was to his taste, though particularly politics. He never permitted himself to forget what pleasures and happinesses had already been his, and so never ceased to find more. Every one of his acquaintance envied him his health and cheerfulness, yet he had no enemy in all England. The Blackwoods, like everyone else who met him, were immediate converts.

  Honoria naturally began her converse with him by thanking him profusely for the kindness he had showered upon them, for his daughter’s goodness, for his generosity, for his—

  “Stop, stop, I pray! Jane told me you were the soul of gratitude, but I was not prepared for this!” he interrupted. “Your thanks are entirely superfluous, as you must know, and as for the apologies I am warned to expect from you, kindly suppress those as well, whatever may be their cause or matter. Does she behave so with you, too, Alex?” he went on, eyeing that young man roguishly. “I suppose you hardly dare to hand her the butter at table, for fear you will hear of your kindness all through dinner, eh?” His lordship laughed heartily at his own joke—for he never saw harm in laughing at whatever seemed diverting, no matter if he himself were the source—and Alex (to the surprise of the ladies) laughed with him.

  Other than sharing the laughter, however, he made no answer.

  “Well, then, Miss Blackwood, I am told you are a proficient with a brush. You have seen our gallery, I trust?” he said to Emily, and proceeded to engage her in a very well-informed discussion of the most recent movements in art. This enlightened discourse was brought to a close, to Emily’s great sorrow, by the entrance into the vast drawing-room of Lady Jane, whose toilette, now complete, was as bold and striking as the younger ladies’ were mild.

  “You are in prime twig, my dear,” said her father to her, rising and kissing her hand with a gallant flourish.

  “As are you, sir,” she answered, adding a sweeping curtsey.

  “And just in time, I think,” said Lord Sperling, for at that moment the sounds of the first guests arriving became audible, and a couple-presented to the Blackwoods as Sir Malcolm and Lady Margaret Rowley—entered the room. During the next four or five hours, Lady Jane gave herself over entirely to the role of hostess, a part she performed so excellently that the Blackwoods had no difficulty in assuming the behaviour correct to them. Lady Jane introduced and informed, curtsied and bantered, gathered and dispersed her guests with an expert manipulation quite beautiful to behold. When some dozen of people had come, dinner was served: everyone went to the table escorted by his perfect complement; conversation continued easy and pleasant throughout three removes and the sweets; and when the ladies removed to the drawing-room, they did so in the highest good spirits. Even Honoria found her consciousness melting away: once or twice, she actually welcomed the opportunity of speaking with a stranger. Only one thing disturbed her: a young man, the last of the guests to arrive, had been introduced to her as Mr. Ambrose Tayt. This gentleman, amiably open in his address, his hair combed into careless coups de vent, and wearing a flowing cravat à la Byron, struck her as being somehow familiar to her. She knew this to be most unlikely, and was quite certain at least that she had never heard his name; yet, when Emily was presented to him, she too had seemed to recognise him, and in fact started visibly. If Miss Blackwood knew him, however, she said nothing of it, for Honoria distinctly heard her declare her pleasure at making his acquaintance. Yet, the affair continued to puzzle her, since—though unable now to judge objectively—she could not help but feel that Mr. Tayt observed Miss Blackwood most particularly. She resolved finally to put the matter out of her mind until such time as she could discuss it with Emily.

  Alexander’s behaviour, which had become thoroughly and maddeningly unpredictable ever since the journey to London had first been spoke of, proved entirely unexceptionable that evening. Far from appearing distant and distrait, as had been Honor’s fear, Mr. Blackwood seemed transformed by the entrance of the first visitor from an absent, brooding scholar into a gay, witty, young tulip. Lady Agatha Huffle found him simply charming; Miss Cynthia Huffle, her daughter, was more than once surprised into a blush by Mr. Blackwood’s elegant sallies; Lord Sperling invited the young man to join him next day in a proposed visit to Gentleman Jackson’s Saloon. If Miss Blackwood was found to be of no more than passable beauty and manners, her brother was unanimously set down a genuine addition to the season’s ranks of gentlemen.

  “And his wife is rather sweet, too,” whispered Lord Huffle to his lady, “in all fairness.”

  Lady Huffle yawned behind her fan and owned that Mrs. Blackwood was adequately sweet. “Still, she could not have caught him if they’d met here in town, I dareswear. Pitterling Village must be frightfully small, to have convinced Mr. Blackwood he could do no better than that.”

  “It is Pittering, I believe, my dear; not Pitterling. In any case, she is very pretty, and no doubt worships her husband most gratifyingly.”

  “I suppose that is what gentlemen desire,” said she, stifling another yawn. “A shame, really. He is precisely the sort of match I want for Cynthia.”

  “I knew your indifference to Mrs. Blackwood had personal motives!” cried Lord Huffle. “Ah, well; I daresay a dozen match-making mammas will feel the same.” His lordship then j
oined his lady wife in a yawn, for it was growing rather late; whist had long since been dispensed with, and supper, too. In a very little while the Huffles were making their adieux, and shepherding a reluctant Cynthia away from the company. Their going reminded others of the hour, and the soirée was presently at a positive end.

  “I protest I am exhausted,” exclaimed Lady Jane, as the front door closed upon the last guest to depart. She sank gracefully into a carved mahogany arm-chair, and dropped there in exaggerated languor.

  “We ought to be going,” said Honor at once.

  “O, the mouse! You needn’t run away. You all did so very well, did not they, Papa? You will be overrun with cards and invitations before tomorrow night, I promise.”

  The Blackwoods thanked their good friends civilly, made a few arrangements regarding their next meeting, and took themselves off to home and bed. In the morning Miss Blackwood was gone again, and did not reappear until seven of the evening.

  Honoria, who had had all day to gird herself to the task, was ready with remonstrances when her sister-in-law at last returned. “You cannot do it, Emily,” said she severely (or as severely as her mild looks and gentle voice allowed). She had cornered Miss Blackwood in the cosy upstairs sitting-room, and now walked up and down that apartment glancing ever and anon towards Emily’s chair. “I simply cannot permit it! I do not know where you go, nor what you do; Lady Jane was right about the invitations; there seem to be scores of them, and at least half are for the mornings. Your father would never speak to me again if he knew of it, and moreover, you look quite dead with fatigue. I have never seen you look so ghastly. Why, you cannot have had more than three hours sleep last night—it is not human! It is not possible! Emily, tell me what you are about at once, or I shall take the matter to Alex.”

  Emily, who really did look weary, shrugged and said dispassionately, “Then take it to him. I appreciate your concern, Honor; really I do. But I dare not tell you what I am doing. If my assurances of its security are not enough for you—well, then …” She shrugged again.