by Fiona Hill
It was the first time what had happened between them had been referred to openly. “I do not mind—never, never at all.”
“But you are—you are indifferent to me, are not you? Now you are frightened, of course, and it is good to have someone to sit with you—but does it matter to you”—he stumbled over his words—“does it make a difference that I am the one with you?”
“But, Alex,” she whispered, “I have told you I love you. Do you still not believe me?”
“Then how abominable I have been!”
“But how?”
“By carrying on with—by my behaviour towards you, here and at Stonebur. I left you to Claude, and I—Honoria, can you forgive me if I make a confession?”
This was so absurd as to cause her almost to laugh. “Anything,” she said, smiling expectantly.
“Well, then, these evenings I’ve been out so late, alone. I don’t know where you thought I went, but—” he hesitated, bracing himself, “I have been with another woman. Honoria, I will understand if you never speak—”
“I know that,” she said mildly. “Did you think I could help but know?”
“Yet, if you love me—”
“If I love you that intelligence must hurt me, but it does not remove my love. It is only if you love me that your behaviour becomes inconsistent,” she went on quietly, a little gratified to reflect that whatever else she had done, she had never interfered with his freedom. “As things stand, it is your prerogative to … to visit whom you will, when you will. Our marriage was made on terms of convenience; you have pointed it out to me yourself.”
“But that was because I thought you did not care for me,” he broke in. “Honoria, I think I must tell you a story, though it is so full of folly you will scarcely credit it. My dear wife, picture to yourself a young gentleman, who grows up in the country in his father’s house. He is thoughtful, and studious, and his distracted air is the joke of the neighbourhood.”
“Alex,” she interrupted, “no one laughs at your—”
“Everyone laughs about it, and they might well. In London I take pains to be presentable, or at least courteous, but in the country it never seemed to matter much. Anyway, this young man grows older, and goes away to school, and sees London, and meets the ladies there; he returns home, and takes up his studies again—and in all this time no woman has ever seemed of value to him, no woman has ever appeared in his fancy or his dreams, but one. That woman is his sister’s friend—”
Honoria gulped.
“And visits his father’s house only to see her. Now, years are going by. The young woman comes of marriageable age, but there is nothing in her manner to suggest to him she thinks of him at all; he considers endeavouring to procure her regard, but he feels certain he is such a familiar object of contempt to her, no means could answer his end.”
“Alex, no one laughs at—”
“Then one day,” he continued determinedly, “the young man’s sister comes to him and begs him to marry that particular lady. You may imagine his sentiments: at first he is overjoyed, for nothing on earth could suit him better; then he thinks a bit, and comes to understand that this marriage will change nothing. She is obliged to marry him by her lack of fortune; he soon grasps that only a beast would attempt to take advantage of her unhappy circumstances. So he resolves to marry her, yet to remain as reserved or open, as cordial or removed, as he was with her before. The wedding vows are said; throughout the ceremony the young man repeats to himself what must be his perpetual resolve; on the night of the wedding they are left alone, and he fairly faints with effort while he says a quiet good night to her, and sends her to her chamber alone. But he manages, and from that time forward he knows he can continue to manage, for as long as need be—probably forever.”
“Alex, why did you say nothing?”
“What could I say? As the weeks go by, he notices his new wife more and more markedly the object of attention from another country gentleman, a former suitor of hers. He stumbles upon a scene that appears to confirm their connexion. He is obliged to conclude she regrets her marriage—which took place in haste while the rival was from home—and loves, or still loves, the other man. It is not his place to interfere—”
“That is precisely how I felt about you!”
“So he says nothing for a time. Gradually the situation becomes more painful, however, and he feels he must at least sequester himself where he cannot observe what goes forward—”
“Alex,” she confessed all at once; “I was leaving London tomorrow.”
He merely nodded, and resumed, “But when he offers to remove himself, she informs him that she does not wish it. This is worst of all, for now she pities him, and makes false and corrupt what was only painful before—”
“Yes, yes; I hated your duty to me, your courtesies—”
“And so he is more dispirited than ever. The scene changes to London now. The young man happens upon a lady—whom he knew in his youth. His wife’s lover is also in London; the young man anticipates no further harm in consoling himself where he may, and so—”
“O, my dear Alexander, you have said enough,” she cried suddenly, embracing him so he nearly choked. “You have said enough,” she repeated.
A quarter of an hour more was passed privately between them; then they decided to have a mid-night nuncheon in celebration. Mrs. Traubin was rung for, and arrived smug as always, and a trifle grumpy; she was instructed to have a collation prepared, and sent to the mistress’s apartment.
“For one?” she enquired, for she was as good a spy as any who served under Wellington, and knew very well the state of affairs between her employer and his wife.
“For both,” Honoria informed her, dismissing her directly. The nuncheon arrived a little time later; they discovered they were starved, and ate and laughed and drank famously till they both fell back exhausted. Then they drew the curtains round Honoria’s bed—a place where no nightmare would dare to go now—and began the life together they had promised so many months before. Maria attempted to warn her mistress the post-chaise would leave without them, but she found her concern unappreciated. She was obliged to return to the kitchen alone, and confess herself mystified. Neither master nor mistress were seen until well after two that day.
Chapter XV
“I don’t know when I have felt so confused about a thing,” said Lady Jane Sperling, looking indeed mid-way between tears and laughter. She stood in the entrance hall of her father’s house, her arm round Emily Blackwood’s waist, watching Mr. and Mrs. Alexander Blackwood draw on their travelling cloaks and hats, and gather together a variety of other objects necessary for a journey. “It will be splendid to have Emily with me, naturally,” she continued, “but I simply abhor parting with you.”
Honoria laughed, adjusted her bonnet, and assured her bracingly, “You will come to us just as soon as Emily has her holiday; remember, you have promised.”
“O, I know, but that is months, and I have grown so fond of you, dear lamb—” She left Emily for a moment and went to embrace Honor. “You will watch over her carefully, now, won’t you Alexander? You know she oughtn’t to take much exercise, or to worry in any way. And she must be nice in her diet: no exotic tid-bits, or strange sauces—”
“How you do fret, my dear,” Honoria exclaimed. “Anybody would think it was the first time a woman was ever—in my condition,” she finished, flushing faintly.
Nearly three months had passed since the excursion to Vauxhall; in that time a number of things had begun and ended, the most interesting of these—at least just now—being little Charles Blackwood (“Or Corinna,” Honoria was in the habit of reminding her husband). The elder Blackwoods had been so pleased on hearing of this heir’s present arrival, they had forgot to be agitated about Emily’s lack of marital prospects, and were anxious only that the young couple should return to Pittering for Honor’s confinement. Such a project agreed entirely with the couple’s own inclinations, for much as they both were devot
ed to Emily, it was clearly time for them to establish a household all their own, and to begin to enjoy it. Lady Jane Sperling had become something dearer to them, too, especially when they learned she had purposely invited the countess to Vauxhall in hopes she would see precisely what she had indeed seen, and it was a wrench for Honoria to take leave of her; but Emily would stop at Berkeley Square until her term at the academy was completed, and Honoria did not believe she knew three people more likely to deal well together than Jane, Emily, and Lord Sperling.
The latter had taken an especial interest in Miss Blackwood, and had learned to admire her when her prize portrait had been revealed at the academy’s exhibition. It had been a proud day for Emily, and for her sister and brother: much general curiosity was stimulated among the ton, and for as long as a day and a half Emily’s inordinate ability and ambition were the on dit of London. No one but Lord Sperling was allowed to discover, however, that she had actually availed herself of the education offered to her, and so the excited gossip soon grew faint and died a natural death. Miss Blackwood’s ardour only increased with training, and though Mr. Tayt hung about her when she appeared in society, she did not encourage him.
“You tell your father-in-law I’ve an eye on Ambrose, and will not allow Emily to shrug him off for ever,” Lady Jane whispered to Honoria while Miss Blackwood said her adieux to her brother.
Evidently Miss Blackwood heard her, in spite of the hushed tone employed, for she said immediately to Alex, “Now, I depend upon you to stop this conspiracy for good and all, my dear. You may remind my father I never sought to interrupt his rise to prominence, and dwell a little on how you might have felt if Honor had prevented your writing your monograph”—this last had been completed finally, and was in the hands of a London editor—“and then give him my best love. And my mother, too, of course,” she added.
“The sun rises and Emily is resolute,” Alexander commented to the company in general, his crooked grin breaking out delightfully. “Certain things never change.”
Lord Sperling laughed at this, for he had grown extremely fond of the young woman, and was particularly drawn by her determined spirit. “We will keep her from running quite rampant,” he assured Mr. Blackwood, “if you will engage to prevent my god-daughter’s fretting over everyone and everything except herself.”
At this Lady Jane laughed, and Honoria, too. “I think even Honor may be easy in the country,” Lady Jane said, “particularly since—O but, my dear, I utterly forgot it! Did you see this morning’s Gazette?”
Mrs. Blackwood had been too much occupied with vacating Albemarle Street.
“Then stay right here; do not move,” Jane instructed her, and ran off to fetch the newspaper. The coachman respectfully looked in during her absence to remind his master the horses were lively and eager to get started; Honoria found a hundred things to tell her sister before her ladyship’s return for they had never been parted since early childhood; at last Jane reappeared, slightly breathless and clutching the Gazette. “It is Mr. Kemp,” she said, pointing triumphantly to a certain column; “he has bought himself a pair of colours, and departs for the Continent next week. There now! You shall be at peace in the country, or I misjudge things very widely.”
“And there is one thing you may be sure of about Jane,” her father interrupted. “She never misjudges at all.”
Privately, Honoria no longer cared where Claude was—he had lost the power to distress her—but she appreciated Jane’s concern. She suggested to Alex that they’d best heed the coachman’s warning, and be off before the horses went mad with impatience. Another round of embracements were in order, and were duly performed. Regards and love were sent from everyone to everyone else, and then Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood entered their carriage and settled themselves on its cushions, the perfect picture of snug, almost smug, conjugal accord. The last words they heard came from Lord Sperling, who had suddenly appeared on the steps of his town-house to bid them carry his greetings to the Deverell sisters. “And tell them when we arrive in Pittering, we shall all have a long cose about your mother and that madcap, Newcombe … And kiss their hands for me!” he shouted above the orders of the coachman to his underlings, and waved his arm at the travellers.
The Misses Deverell, though they might have enjoyed a chat about their departed sister one time or another, were at that particular moment by far too engaged with their own schemes to be much intrigued by reminiscences. They had not been idle; while the season unrolled its familiar program of delights to less provincial ladies, these enterprising would-be benefactors had devised plan after plan to attract the patronage of their unsuspecting friend, Squire Kemp. Some of these schemes had perished untried; a few had been launched, and gone awry; certainly none had succeeded. Sir Proctor continued to visit them weekly, tolerating their meagre fare with great civility, and their small friends with the same; he played chess with Mercy with enormous zeal, especially since he had begun to win sometimes; but at no time did he mention the animal hospital, or seem to understand Miss Prudence when she alluded to it herself. Thrice he had invited the ladies to Colworth, but as a general rule they met in Bench Street, it being more convenient for him to ride to them than for them to drive to him. At the time of the young Blackwoods’ departure from the metropolis, Squire Kemp was giving orders for his horse to be prepared, and reluctantly allowing his valet to help him into his riding habit.
“Shall I have them saddle Brownie for you, sir?” Mr. Boothby asked, while bowing to his master’s instructions.
“Brownie? Hah! Why should I ride such a paltry nag as that, I’d like to know?” snorted Sir Proctor.
“I merely thought, sir,” said the diplomatic Boothby, “that with the sudden heat you might prefer Brownie’s slow and steady pace to that of your more spirited mounts.”
The “sudden heat” to which the butler referred had come upon Pittering two days before, at the start of July. Everyone had noticed it; it was most marked. No one cared to take tea any more, and the residents of those homes erected proudly atop hills wished themselves heartily below in an obscure hollow. Mr. Boothby’s suggestion had been prompted by a most sensible concern for his employer’s health, for he feared the old gentleman might be tempted to a gallop if he rode a lively horse, and the exertion would be salutary for neither man nor beast.
“Brownie!” the squire ejaculated again, with evident disgust. “Have them saddle Thunder, my good man, and no more fustian about it. Brownie, indeed …” he muttered towards the valet, while Boothby bowed again and disappeared. “Heat, indeed. Think I’m an old woman, that’s what it is. A nice impression I’d make on the Deverells’, eh? Plodding down Bench Street on a child’s mount!”
He continued to grumble on this theme awhile, overlooking the fact that the Misses Deverell, not being fanciers of horse-flesh but only of dogs and cats, were unlikely to notice what horse he rode, or if he rode at all. At present, a vigorous debate—carried on chiefly by Prudence—absorbed all their attention. Squire Kemp was due in an hour or less; and what were they to do with the opportunity?
“I do not see why we can’t just play chess, as we always do,” Mercy suggested, in her customary mild accents. “I know I find it pleasant, if you do not.”
“But that is not the point,” Prudence snapped, in the manner just as habitual with her as mildness was with her sister. “Really, I think you would lose your feet if they were not attached to your ankles.”
“O now, I think that is a little severe,” Mercy remonstrated.
“But you never seem to recall our aims!” said the elder sister. “Remember, we are engaging in all this sociable nonsense for a purpose—a purpose, Mercy. We are providing for our small friends … and doing a tolerably miserable job of it, too.”
“I don’t think any of them are hungry,” Mercy ventured. “Indeed, they were all just fed. I saw Mary feeding them.”
“Now, you see? There is a perfect example,” Prudence pounced on her. “I was referring to their eventual
provision—perpetual provision for them. You assume I mean their dinner, tonight’s dinner. I truly believe you cannot see beyond the end of your nose.”
“I can see your cap is askew,” Mercy countered, a trifle plaintively.
Miss Deverell righted the cap, but muttered, “I was speaking figuratively.”
“Then you oughtn’t to have mentioned my nose,” Mercy defended herself. “It isn’t the least bit figurative, but very real, indeed. In fact, I should be grateful for a handkerchief just now.”
Prudence took one from her pocket and handed it to her; then she sat down to think. For a while Mercy amused herself by teasing Divinity with the lace borders, and reproaching him when he came close to tearing it. At length she grew restive, and inquired of her sister what might be expected for dinner.
“Strategy,” said Prudence.
“That will make a very dry repast.”
“Strategy. That is where we have gone wrong,” Prudence resumed, her thoughtful air making it clear she had not heard her sister’s question.
“I do not think we have gone wrong, exactly,” Mercy remarked. “It is true, we have not achieved great things; we have not even begun families of our own. But we did bring Honoria up, and we do go to church every Sunday, and I don’t think anyone would say—”
“Squire Kemp!” Prudence explained in exasperation. “Our notion of gaining his support by stratagems, and plots, and so forth. It was wrong, wrong from the start. He must be won by reason—that is the key. Reason and … persuasion.”
“You will recall, my dear,” said Mercy, “I never did like that business about turning my ankle, and so forth. I always said that was a foolish idea; I did, you know,” she insisted pettishly.
“O yes, very well … whatever you say,” Prudence agreed, making a gesture as if brushing something aside to illustrate her words. “The significant thing is, he is coming here tonight, and we will have an opportunity to sway him. We must be forthright; that is how battles are won. We must point out to him how lovely our small friends are; how they enhance his pleasure here, as they do ours; and how easily he might arrange for funds to keep them—and their heirs, assigns, et cetera—healthy and happy in saecula saeculorum.”
