Contrary Cousins

by Judith Harkness

Blandford smiled down at her with that dark look which set her pulse aflutter.

  “I wonder you speak of them so reverently! You have abused the practice of aristocratic homage half a dozen times this evening. I thought Americans all hated royalty—especially you!”

  Antonia gave him a brilliant smile, and said, “Perhaps there is a difference between disliking it at home, and thinking it rather grand to visit!”

  “But it would not enter your head to regret what your grandfather did?”

  “I never thought about it much, till I came here,” responded Antonia thoughtfully. “Perhaps because I had no need to. At home, my father is so well respected, that no title could make him more so. In any case, it could not have affected my life much, even if Grandpapa had not done as he did.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why! Surely you would know? Because I am a mere daughter of a daughter of an earl—which makes me, it would seem, less than nothing in English eyes. Look at poor Mr. Howard, my cousin—he is a son of an earl, but being only the second one, he cannot hope for much!”

  “No—that is true. But daughters, in some instances, have much better fortune. Where their brothers are expected to go off to sea, or to join the diplomatic corps, or to exert their brains in some other fashion, daughters are generally married well. Had you been the granddaughter of an earl in England, you would most certainly have been well taken care of.”

  “I am well taken care of in any case!”

  “But of course—you are the daughter of a wealthy man.”

  Antonia regarded her companion from behind half-closed eyes.

  “I am the daughter of Samuel Powell, my lord. But if I were not, I should still be perfectly capable of taking care of myself!”

  Lord Blandford smiled, and bowed. “I beg your pardon, Miss Powell! I meant that some gallant man or other would certainly have fallen in love with you, and taken you into his care. That is, had you been English, and displayed such signs of modesty and weakness as English women tend to do. I had not counted upon your American courage.”

  Antonia flushed. “I believe you are giving me a setdown, sir!”

  Lord Blandford bowed. “Nothing of the kind. I admire your courage! I abhor whimpering females, who cannot do anything for themselves. I like an independent spirit.”

  “So independent,” inquired Antonia, with half a smile, “that she does not mind being made to wait half an hour in the cold? No doubt you thought me perfectly equal to that!”

  Lord Blandford looked perfectly astonished. “What do you mean, Miss Powell?”

  “I mean that we agreed to meet before the gates to Hyde Park at two o’clock, and that, while I was there, you were not!”

  “Oh, Lord!” cried Blandford. “Did we indeed? I quite forgot!”

  “That is not a great compliment, sir—to be forgotten in the cold!”

  Blandford looked really penitent. “I had a great deal to do! Oh, forgive me, please! I cannot express my shame!”

  Antonia let him try, however, for ten minutes, and watching his countenance grow more crimson and chagrined at every new expression of distress, she was convinced of his penitence. “Well, then—so long as you do not do it again! Now, then, my lord—I would have you take me back to Lady Pendleton, who is certainly excessively weary by now. And along the way, I shall tell you what you may do, if you are sincerely sorry—for I am afraid I made a most dreadful blunder tonight, and should like above all things for you to help me mend it!”

  “Only tell me,” said his lordship, bowing, “and it is done!”

  “Very well, then,” replied the young American lady, taking his arm: and she proceeded to recount to him the mistake she had made about the Viscount Rollins, and how she had offended him.

  Lord Blandford, when he heard the tale, could not contain his laughter—

  “You did very well, Miss Powell! Your cousin, if you will forgive me saying so, is a dreadful boor.”

  “I thought he was your friend!”

  Lord Blandford looked a little confused, but in an instant his face had cleared. “Did I? Well, then, it was only to please you. In truth, he is a most arrogant and spoiled character, quite like a little boy grown big—very big. Now you have met him, you must judge for yourself.”

  “He is rather fat,” admitted Antonia. “And awfully impudent. However, I do not wish him to hate me—it suits me to have him like me as much as possible!”

  “Whatever for?” inquired the Marquis. “Your welcome in London is certainly assured without his friendship—I never saw Clarence rush to meet him!”

  “Still, he is my cousin,” returned Antonia, “and I should like to know that we can be friends. I particularly wish to meet his father, and to impress him favorably.”

  “As to that,” returned Lord Blandford, “I am sure you would find it easier to impress the Beau himself. Cumberford is the proudest man I ever met.”

  “But your estate adjoins his—surely you can help me?”

  Lord Blandford looked thoughtful, and then clicked his heels. “I am at your service, ma’am—for whatever I can provide. You will find the Earl, I am afraid, not an easy mark for friendship. But as to helping you in any way I can, I shall.”

  “And you shall also help me to make amends with the Viscount Rollins?” demanded Antonia.

  “That is more easily done—I shall only flatter the vanity that you have insulted, and you will find he eats out of your hand.”

  Antonia looked gratified. She had not expected so complete a penitence as this—for the Marquis, she suspected, was as proud as anyone. But having assured herself that he was truly sorry for this afternoon’s neglect, and seeing he was neither less handsome nor less interesting than he had been the evening before, she decided to forgive him. She felt his hand close over the one she held upon his arm, and looking up, gave him a brilliant smile.

  “But for all this,” he murmured, gazing at her with inscrutable dark eyes, “I shall demand a ransom.”

  “Whatever it is,” said she, flushing slightly, “you may have it!”

  “Without,” inquired he, amused, “even knowing what it is?”

  Antonia gave her head a little toss, and looked arch. “No, I give you my word.”

  “Foolhardy little thing!”

  “I like,” said Antonia, “to be surprised sometimes.”

  “Ah—on that you can depend,” returned the Marquis, smiling.

  Chapter XIX

  Serena, who had struggled all night to catch the eye of Mr. Lytton-Smythe, at last succeeded in doing so. She had been amazed by the degree of attention that had been accorded her, but when the first surprise and pleasure had worn off, when she had spoken, it would seem, to everybody in the room save the one gentleman with whom she most desired to converse, she began to feel miserable. Why did not he come near her? Every other gentleman in the room had done so! But Lytton-Smythe had stood well back all evening, talking to Mr. Howard, and she longed to let him see that she would rather spend five minutes in conversation with him, than all the hours of general accolade in the world!

  At last his eye did catch hers, however, and she smiled warmly, with a little gesture of despair at the crowd about her. Brightening visibly, he smiled in return, but in a moment Serena had been drawn back into conversation by a countess, who had insisted upon meeting her. Longing to get away, she listened absently to the countess’s questions, and replied with only half her mind. At last, however, the lady moved off, apparently having satisfied her curiosity, and seeing her chance, Serena slipped through the throng and toward the corner where she had seen Mr. Lytton-Smythe.

  He looked up in surprise upon hearing her voice, and bowed. “I was afraid I should not have the pleasure of seeing you this evening,” said he. “You are the chief attraction here.”

  “Oh!” she replied, flushing. “I think an American would always be. Everyone is so interested to know about us!”

  Lytton-Smythe grinned. The little stiffness in his look gave p
lace to that soft expression which Serena loved so well.

  “Dear Miss Powell,” said he, “when will you ever learn to take praise? They are not interested in America—they are bedazzled by you! And I can see at least a dozen pairs of envious eyes upon me at this instant, for being fortunate enough to speak to you.”

  Serena flushed, and gave her head a little shake. The thrill which initially coursed through her, on looking into those eyes of his, must certainly be too visible!

  “You mustn’t speak to me like that, sir. Lord, I shall have a perfectly swollen head, if you do not stop.”

  “I cannot imagine a head I should rather swell, ma’am,” returned Lytton-Smythe, smiling at her rather dreamily, “or one which so easily could do with a little aggrandisement.”

  Hoping to end this turn of the conversation for she felt a blush mounting in her throat, Serena inquired where Mr. Howard had gone.

  “He went off in a huff a moment ago. I am afraid he is rather upset. Your cousin has not deigned to speak to him all evening.”

  “Oh, dear!” Serena exclaimed sympathetically, “I hope she shall! I know she did not mean to treat him badly last evening.”

  “No? Well, I hope not! But I think her attentions are fastened elsewhere for the remainder of tonight. She went off a little while ago with Blandford—I have not glimpsed either of them in half an hour.”

  Now Serena had reason to be really distressed, and glancing at the gentleman beside her, saw that his real feelings could not be hidden by his matter-of-fact tone.

  Sighing, she returned, “I tried to speak to her this evening, you know. But she never takes any counsel but her own. I am afraid she likes Lord Blandford very well, and nothing I can say will budge her. She would not listen to my warnings, and, as I had very little to warn her against, I could not be very firm. If only you would tell me what he has done to make you think so ill of him!”

  Lytton-Smythe smiled intently down at her, and said that he could think of a hundred things he would rather talk about than the Marquis of Blandford.

  “Perhaps I should tell you that she made an appointment to meet him before the gates of Hyde Park today. They were to have gone riding, but he did not come.”

  Mr. Lytton-Smythe heard this news with rather more seriousness.

  “I suppose I need not point out to you that your cousin’s willingness to make such an appointment leaves something to be desired in the way of judgment? But her conduct is nothing, compared to his! I suppose she received no message from him?”

  Serena shook her head miserably. “None.”

  “I should have guessed as much. Insufferable man!”

  “If only you will tell me,” pleaded Serena, “something material against him, I may be able to dissuade her from so improper an attachment. But so long as I can say no worse of him than that he ought not to dance with her thrice in one evening, or leave her waiting for him in plain view of everyone, she will only laugh at me.”

  “Only one of those instances ought to persuade any sensible female against a man,” said Lytton-Smythe quite reasonably. “I am afraid your cousin has not much sense of her own well-being.”

  “I will not hear anything against Antonia,” replied Serena unhappily, “even from you, Mr. Lytton-Smythe.”

  Such a show of loyalty, though in the gentleman’s opinion, ill-placed, could not help but make him more admiring than ever of the elder Miss Powell, even while it decreased his estimation of the younger.

  “She is full of independence, and I love her for it!” persisted Serena, “but I heartily wish she could be made to use it differently. I should not for the world change her nature.”

  “But it might benefit from a little guidance,” suggested Mr. Lytton-Smythe, rather more mildly than he felt. “Is there anyone she does listen to?”

  “Her father—when she agrees with him. But, in truth, they are of so much the same disposition, that their understanding each other can hardly be thought surprising. My own father was the same—it is the true Powell spirit she possesses.”

  “Then you must be an accident of nature,” returned the gentleman, “to be so soft and agreeable, in the midst of so headstrong a family.”

  “It must really run in all our blood,” agreed Serena, with a smile, “to be stubborn. I am the only ill-gotten one! And you are the only person I ever heard call it admirable.”

  “Then I am the only man of sense you ever met, my dear Miss Powell. For there is, in my estimation, quite as much to be said for agreeableness and softness as for high spirits and contrariness. And it is only for your sake that I take any interest in your cousin’s conduct, for I should not for worlds see you hurt by it.”

  “And Mr. Howard?” inquired Serena feeling the true import of these words, and hoping to hide the flush in her cheeks. “Would you see him hurt by it?”

  “I think Freddy must by now understand that your cousin is rather too much a handful for him. But never mind—he has recovered before from the pangs of love.”

  “Oh, dear!”

  “Do not look so unhappy, Miss Powell—we shall yet restore your cousin’s sense. At least,” added Mr. Lytton-Smythe, with a sudden frown, “if I have anything to say about it!”

  Serena looked off with a very unhappy expression, which was, however, only a weak echo of her feelings.

  “I hope Antonia shall not be hurt!” she murmured.

  “Any man,” returned Mr. Lytton-Smythe, “who does not mind leaving a lady waiting for him in the cold, and in a strange city, without the consideration even of sending a messenger, would not, it seems to me, care much about hurting her in some deeper way.”

  “Oh, no!” cried Serena. And then, looking at him very gravely, she remarked, “But I know you do not judge your dislike of him upon such kinds of offences, sir. You know something worse about him, which you will not tell me. I heartily wish you would, for it would make my understanding of Antonia’s danger much clearer. How am I to present any kind of opposition to this friendship, if I am not capable of judging her peril?”

  “Well, I will tell you one thing,” said Lytton-Smythe, “though it is not the only—or even the worst—stroke against him. He pursued Lord Southington’s daughter, Miss Ulridge, as if he meant to marry her. They became engaged, in fact, though not in public, and at the last moment, Blandford ran off to the Continent. So much for his honor!”

  Serena caught her breath—from her own exceeding painful knowledge, she was sure there was not a greater wrong a man could do a woman. And, recollecting, all in a rush, how her own heart and pride had once been devestated in the same fashion, she determined that her cousin should never feel the hurt which had so maimed herself.

  “Poor Freddy became entrapped in that matter, too,” continued Lytton-Smythe, unaware of the effect this revelation had had upon his companion. “Miss Ulridge turned to him in her misery, and recounted everything to him, which is how I know about it. I cannot properly express how eager I am to see that Blandford is not again the cause of his disappointment—it seems that Freddy’s generous nature is bound to bring out the lesser virtues in his female acquaintance.”

  “Oh, I am completely of your mind!” exclaimed Serena, and promising to exert every bit of influence she had over her cousin, the discussion was dropped, as if by mutual consent. A little later, however, the sight of the Viscount Rollins, made Serena exclaim, “Oh, dear! I did not tell you what happened this evening!” And she recounted what she knew of the incident between Antonia and St. John, and Lady Pendleton’s peculiar reaction.

  “It was as if she was amused by it! I could not comprehend her complete lack of distress, though I have heard her speak in something less than admiring terms about him.”

  “Lady Pendleton,” replied Lytton-Smythe, “is frightfully keen. She cannot abide idiots, and I am afraid Rollins is most certainly that. She was probably pleased that someone besides herself had given him a setdown. Well! It makes me think twice as much of your mischievous relation!”

&
nbsp; Serena, who was appalled at the idea of rudeness on anybody’s part, even if directed at “an idiot,” could not agree. “I feel terribly sorry for him,” she sighed. “I think I ought to speak to him, if only to let him know that I, at least, do not intend to slight him.”

  Mr. Lytton-Smythe would not be the accomplice to such a mission of mercy, but he watched Miss Powell move off toward her relative with an admiring look. “What a saint she is!” he muttered half aloud. He watched Rollins, startled by the touch upon his arm, turn abruptly around, and scowl; watched the ensuing attempt by Serena to flatter him into forgiveness, and saw the Viscount’s round cheeks shortly puff out with smiles: the saint, it would seem, had done her work well. All too well, it shortly appeared, for the Viscount very soon appeared as enraptured as he had recently looked sulky. Cuffs, watching the scene with fascination, was left with a doubt as to the wisdom of having let Miss Powell leave his side.

  Serena’s conversation with the Viscount Rollins commenced with many apologies on her part, and a few mendacious explanations of her cousin’s conduct. Though St. John was, at first, so disinclined to listen that he very nearly turned around and snubbed her, he was soon persuaded, if not to forgive the younger cousin, then at least to find the elder Miss Powell more pleasing on close inspection, even, than she had been at a distance. The Viscount had thought her amazingly handsome when he had first glimpsed her at the Opera, and he saw now that she was twice as good-looking at closer range. She possessed just that combination of elegant bearing, and maidenly modesty, too, which St. John prized in womankind. To the astonishment of finding that she was as delightful as her cousin was abhorrent, was added the realization that this lady, who had been so much admired all evening by so many, was his relation, and therefore, that he had more real a right to be her intimate than anyone present.

  This having once crossed his mind, his sulkiness gave way to pleasure, and he glanced about him with a boastful look, as who should not see his company was sought by the handsomest woman in the room? He wished Blandford could glimpse him! He had not seen the Marquis all evening, though he had reason to believe his friend was present, having heard the Marquis express his intention of coming that very day. St. John dearly wished for the pleasure of introducing his beautiful cousin himself, with a little proprietorial smile. In the pleasure of the moment, so unexpected and so great, he utterly forgot that he was meant to despise his American cousins, as his father had taught him to do; forgot even to be vexed with Lady Pendleton for having given him no hint of the Misses Powell’s presence in London, or for preparing him so ill for seeing them. He did feel a grudge, however, that he—who ought to have had the pleasure of presenting them himself to Society—was the last informed, as it would seem. And, though he vowed he should never again speak to her insolent cousin, he determined that Miss Serena Powell was so elegant and humble, that she was worthy even of his admiration.