Contrary Cousins

by Judith Harkness

  Very coldly, she said, “I do not believe you, sir! Fancy stooping to such depths to try to better my own idea of you! Well, you shall see that it only makes me loathe you!”

  “I supposed it would,” muttered Freddy, watching the young lady rise up from the sofa with a perfectly royal arrogance, and smile at him condescendingly. “And I shouldn’t mind even that, if only you would believe me!”

  Antonia, however, did not deign to reply to this, but only looked the more contemptuous, and pleading a sudden migraine, swept from the room.

  Freddy was left to stare after her, and wonder if he had been wise or foolish to say what he had. If it would cast one doubt over her affections for Blandford, it was wise. But perhaps it had only made her more headstrong! And with this possibility in his mind, growing rapidly into a conviction, he passed a half hour in desultory conversation with some of his aunt’s guests, and then went away as quickly as he could.

  Chapter XXIII

  When Serena had been taken to a chair by Viscount Rollins, she had endeavored with all her might to persuade him that she had never—would never—consent to be his wife. The Viscount’s vanity, however, was such that every protestation made by Serena was turned to his own benefit—each denial accounted by him as “her humility.” He would hear nothing, of all the faint arguments she dared offer, which could dissuade him from his conviction that she was passionately in love with him. Indeed, and she ought to be! Was not he the Viscount Rollins, Member of the House of Lords, and soon enough to be the sixth Earl of Cumberford? Serena soon gave up, for she saw that nothing she could say would do any good. Her only hope lay in a letter, which he could not interrupt, and which, more clearly and with less insult than any verbal protest, could disillusion him. She spent an anguished hour listening to his talk with a halfhearted attention, and looking everywhere for Mr. Lytton-Smythe. But that gentleman had long ago gone home, as, unknown to her, had the Marquis of Blandford.

  Of that gentleman, in truth, she had had neither time nor attention to think since her conversation with Lady Pendleton. It was not until, having tried at Antonia’s door, and gone to her own bedchamber, that her ladyship’s queer plan came back to her. If anything had come of it, she certainly did not know—it had seemed a strange business from the start, in any case. Serena lay down wearily upon her bed, feeling the weight of a tangled heart and a disappointed love, as keenly as a year before. Only now there was the added vexation of the Viscount Rollins’s misapprehension, and the worry on behalf of her cousin. She slept, when sleep came to her, uneasily, and woke feeling rather sick in the head.

  It was still very early, and the house would not be awake for an hour at least. Putting on her dressing gown, Serena prepared to spend the intervening time reading a novel. But, just as she had taken up her book, a knock came at the door, and one of the downstairs maids came in bearing a letter for her.

  At once, Serena’s heart leaped up—surely this had come from Mr. Lytton-Smythe! His hand was unfamiliar to her, but that upon the envelope was bold and masculine. She tore it open at once, and glanced over the few lines in amazement:

  Grosvenor Square

  My dear Miss Powell,

  I have reason to think that your cousin, Miss Antonia Powell, is in grave danger of disappointment. That the delusion under which she suffers may be laid to rest with as little pain to her as possible, I entreat you to come to the gates of Hyde Park, Hyde Park Corner, at eleven this morning, that our conversation may be private. I shall drive in my black cabriolet to the far end, and back again. If you will do me the favor to step up, I shall tell you all I know.

  For the sake of your cousin’s peace of mind, and her honor, I hope you will say nothing of this to anyone, till I have told you the whole truth of the matter—then you must judge for yourself if my concern is reasonable.

  I am, respectfully yrs.,

  D. Blandford.

  Serena read the foregoing with mixed, but very strong, feelings. Blandford! Desiring to help Antonia! It went against everything she had been told of him. And yet—Serena, torn between loyalty to Antonia’s feelings, and fear that they might have led her beyond even that young woman’s powers of defying the world—could certainly not ignore any offer of help, even if it came from the villain himself. What could it all mean? Had Antonia perhaps taken his attentions too seriously, while he regarded them as only the natural attentions of an admiring gentleman? If Lord Blandford wished her help in disillusioning her cousin, Serena could not deny it. Without relishing the idea, she yet preferred it infinitely to what might have occurred, had the misapprehension been taken any further!

  Serena’s sympathies, if they were not with the Marquis, were so strong on behalf of her cousin that any hint of Antonia’s being made unhappy had the power to move her. Without any other idea than to do as she was bid, she dressed and rang for tea. Two hours were spent pacing back and forth in her room, for she desired to avoid any risk of worrying Lady Pendleton. At twenty minutes before the appointed hour, she slipped downstairs, noticing on her way the still-locked door of Antonia’s chamber; and telling Bentley that she was going out for a walk, and would return in an hour or thereabouts, passed out into the street.

  The walk to Hyde Park Corner was a pleasant one, and in the fresh cold air, with hardly anyone about on the streets, Serena felt her head clearing of every other purpose save what lay before her. In that, in any case, was there relief, for it was ever more satisfactory to approach the troubles of another than of oneself. She saw a vender of chestnuts warming his hands before his own fire, and smiled. How much more like home London now seemed! Such sights as that gave her a little tugging regret that, after all, she must leave it presently.

  She reached the gates a few minutes before eleven, and standing alone in her old drab green cloak—for she had not thought the mission required any show of vanity—at that unfashionable hour, with only a few pigeons to keep her company, the occasional passing of a cart or wagon, and the rarer sight of a fashionable carriage, she looked up and down the street for the black cabriolet. It came, almost on the stroke of the hour, and, as the letter had said, drove by the corner, right to the end of the little square, and turned about. It was a perfectly elegant little piece of machinery, made for speed and lightness, rather than luxury, and drawn by a team of four splendid grays. If Blandford was in truth short of money, as Lady Pendleton had said, he hid the lack very well! Presently it drew up before her, and Blandford, perched upon the driver’s seat—for there was no other, not even a place for a tiger behind—doffed his hat and held out his arm to help her up. With a little sensation of distaste she took it, and climbed up.

  “Ah! I was afraid you would not come,” said he.

  “Of course I have come—I would not ignore such a letter!”

  “I hoped it might move you,” replied the Marquis, whipping his team into a gallop. “I wish to get out of sight of anyone who might see us together,” he explained. “It would make some eyebrows go up, don’t you know?” This with a little ironical smile to Serena.

  Serena did not think any reply was necessary, and sat back watching the smiling profile of the driver. The speed of the animals was really marvelous. Even in the city streets, it moved like the wind. After about ten minutes, however, Serena shouted, so as to be heard above the sounds of wind and hooves, “Are we not far away now from anyone you might know? I suppose you do not frequent this part of town!”

  Indeed, the fashionable streets of Mayfair had given way to the coarser alleyways and roads which Serena had glimpsed on their way from the docks to Cadogan Place. Squalor, poverty, and noxious odors abounded here—pigs and chickens were as numerous as people, and these of so miserable a sort that Serena did not like to look upon them, for it made her ache to think how much she had, when they had naught.

  Blandford gave a laugh, and slowed down his cabriolet, which had begun to rock upon these rough roads as it had not on the smoother pavement of the West End.

  “Yes,” he said,
“you are right. We are certainly safe from curious gapers here.”

  “Well, then, what did you wish to say to me? What is it that Antonia believes, which is untrue?”

  “That I love her, and wish her to be my wife,” replied Lord Blandford, with a contemptuous smile. “I do not know how she can have come to think it.”

  “Perhaps,” returned Serena, “because of the way you have behaved towards her—rather like a suitor.”

  “Oh, she is a pretty little thing! But entirely unsuited to me!”

  Serena had lost any trace of that self-consciousness which normally characterized her manner. She sat straight and rigid, with her lips pressed together and loathing in her eyes.

  “Why do you wear that old thing?” inquired Blandford, with a grimace at her cloak. “They say you have an immense fortune. Surely you could do better! When I first saw you on the ship, I thought you were your cousin’s companion, not her rich relative!”

  Serena returned his impudent gaze icily. “Is that when you first decided that she would be your wife? And now you find she has got very little, and that has changed your mind? Dare you tell me any different?”

  Blandford, far from looking insulted, smiled lazily, his head a little to one side.

  “Not only dare, I am quite prepared to confess it! Thank Heaven I heard the truth last night! We were to have eloped today!”

  Serena, for all that she had lost any last trace of hope that Blandford might in truth have some gentlemanlike instincts in him, was perfectly appalled.

  “Eloped!” she whispered. “No! I cannot believe she could have consented to such a plan!”

  “Ah—do you not? Well then you can know very little about your cousin, Miss Powell!”

  “I have heard quite enough of your coarse expressions, my lord, and of your still more crude ideas. Pray take me home, if you will!”

  “Ah! But that I will not not—indeed, cannot, Miss Powell.”

  Serena swallowed, and stared at her companion, too taken aback to utter anything.

  “For you see, I am in a most unseemly position. I have run away with you, and, as a gentleman, I must now marry you. Being a lady yourself, you will of course have no objection, no alternative even. Of course it shall not come out like that—it shall be seen as the fashionable impulse of a whimsical American, but whatever the case, when your cousin next sees you, you shall be the Marchioness of Blandford. Quite a pretty title for a lady who came to England looking like a scullery maid!”

  Serena was not vain, nor was she arrogant. She did not mind being insulted, even by such a one as this man before her, but she would not believe him.

  “Set me down, sir!” she commanded. “Set me down at once! I should no more marry you than—than that pig over there! Set me down at once!”

  For reply, Blandford only laughed, and whipped his horses up. “You have more spirit in you than I believed, Miss Powell! But have no fear, I shall not abuse you. My only requirement of you, as my wife, will be that you give over all possession of your land and estates. We shall reside in England, of course—officially. But what you do and how you choose to do it, is none of my concern! We shall keep separate houses, if it suits you. You may even take up with that knave Lytton-Smythe again. What a pair of fools you are! Only you must show some respect for my title, and my situation as your husband—and,” added the Marquis, with a cool arrogance which made Serena’s flesh crawl, “your keeper.”

  Chapter XXIV

  Waking rather later than her usual time, Lady Pendleton rang for her tea and letters. There was the usual stack of invitations—inevitable, it seemed, since the arrival of her young Americans. With a sleepy smile she looked them over, till remembering, all in a rush, the events of the past evening.

  “Ooh, la, la,” she muttered to herself, “ooh, la, la! I wonder if anythin’ happened afterward? I must find out.”

  Celeste answered her ring with a pretty bob. “Oui, madame?”

  “Celeste, have you seen either of the young ladies yet this mornin’?”

  “No, my lady—yes, my lady. Miss Serena has gone out for a str-roll. Mam’selle Antonia sleeps still.”

  “Oh!” Lady Pendleton cogitated a moment. “Very well, then—fetch Bentley, will you? And bring me my pink negligee.”

  Bentley, showing no sign whatever of having gone through the ardors of a state dinner the night before—ending only several hours since—made his appearance shortly.

  “My lady?”

  “Bentley! Did you see Miss Serena when she went out for her walk?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “How did she look?”

  “Look, my lady?”

  “Yes: was she excited-lookin’—how?”

  “Not particularly, my lady. She seemed quite tired, my lady. Mentioned that she had not slept particularly well.”

  “What was she wearin’?”

  “The green cloak, my lady. A dark bonnet.”

  “Oh! That’s bad. How provokin’!”

  Bentley stood patiently by, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Were you at the door last evenin’, when Lord Blandford left?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “What time?”

  “A few minutes before eleven, my lady. I remarked it was very early.”

  “La! And Mr. Lytton-Smythe?”

  “Shortly before him, my lady.”

  “Worse! Very well, Bentley, you may go. Ah, Bentley—when Miss Antonia awakens, send her to me.”

  “Very good, my lady.”

  Lady Pendleton, lost in thought, remained abed a few minutes longer, her fingers drumming upon her cheek. Suddenly, with a sharp cry, she turned the coverlet back, and leaped, for all the world like a girl of twenty, out of bed.

  Antonia woke with a start. She had fallen asleep with the candle still lit beside her—its waxy remains were spread over the little table at her bedside. Rubbing her eyes, it was some moments before the reality of the previous evening came home to her.

  It was like a dream! But no, surely it was not? Antonia glanced at the little French clock, in the shape of a shepherdess, upon the dressing table. Eleven o’clock! And she had but three hours to dress, to pack her trunk, and write her letters to Serena and Lady Pendleton! The letter to her father could wait, of course—till after she was blissfully become Lady Blandford!

  With a rush, she flung herself out of bed, and without ringing for a maid, commenced laying out her clothes. Having completed this, she folded them into a bundle, wrapped in the silver paper the maid had laid in a drawer against her leaving. Finding a small trunk pushed back into a closet, she pushed them in—so helter-skelter that it would have made any self-respecting servant swoon—and shoved the whole beneath the bed, taking care that the coverlet fell down sufficiently low to hide it. Washing quickly, pulling on a frock, and doing up her own hair as best she could, she ran down the stairs for a hurried breakfast.

  “Good mornin’, dear!” Lady Pendleton greeted her, when Antonia, breakfast finished, had answered her summons.

  Antonia had not had much time to brace herself against her relation’s inquisitiveness. She smiled, a little breathlessly, and returned the greeting.

  “Lovely morning, is it not, dear? I hope you slept well?”

  “Oh—oh yes, Aunt Winifred! Quite well, thank you.”

  “Did you enjoy the evenin’? Good! But you look a little odd my dear—are you positive you are quite well?”

  “Odd? Oh, yes! I am perfectly well.”

  Lady Pendleton expressed her satisfaction at hearing this, and, pretending to study the card before her, kept a sideways watch upon the younger lady.

  “I was thinkin’, my dear, that I ought perhaps to have Lord Blandford to dinner—he seems quite ardent about you. It would perhaps be the thing.”

  Antonia started slightly, but recovering herself at once, smiled brightly. “Why, Auntie—how kind of you! Perhaps sometime next week—”

  “Well, I was thinkin’ more of
this evenin’, Antonia dear. There is that rout at Devonshire House, but it shan’t commence till quite late. Would not it be a good idea to have him straightaway? You like him, do you not?”

  “Oh, yes, but—”

  “Then I shall send a card to him at once, my dear. It would be most fittin’, I think. No point in puttin’ it off—if you like him, don’t you know!”

  Antonia endeavored to raise some objection, but seeing that Lady Pendleton was set upon her idea, and realizing that Blandford would certainly think of some reply which would not give away their plan, she relented. Her consent was given so unenthusiastically, however, that her ladyship looked almost hopeful as she said, “Why, there is nothin’ wrong between you, is there, dear? You had no argument last evenin’?”

  “Oh, no! Nothing like that! I like him a great deal—of course, no more than some other men . . .”

  Lady Pendleton was not to be put off by such protestations, however. She knew well enough the slightly fevered look of her young guest to see that Antonia was thoroughly smitten by the man. Well, never mind! She had rather hoped somethin’ would have been done last evenin’, for it appeared that Blandford had certainly been discomfited by the hint she had put into his ear that his beloved was not rich enough to keep a flea in cravats—sayin’ (she thought, quite cleverly) that Serena had paid her cousin’s way to Europe, such was the devotion of the rich cousin for the poor one. He appeared to bluster, as if someone had told him his buttons were not done, had grown perfectly crimson, and strode away. But he had done nothing—nothing that would convince Antonia of his ungentlemanliness, in any case. It occurred to her ladyship, however, that if her original plan had not worked out according to her ideas, if Blandford had not promptly commenced wooing Serena instead, that there were other ways to skin a goose. Thus, having hopped out of her bed, as if lit from beneath by inspiration, had she put into effect a new plan of action.

  Although she had appeared to solicit Antonia’s agreement to the idea of having Blandford to dine, she had already sent him a card, not ten minutes ago. James had gone with orders to bring back a reply from Grosevenor Square, which, if she was not much mistaken, would be a brusque refusal. That ought to surprise Antonia into her senses; but if it did not, then she was sure to be snubbed by him rather soon in any case. On the other hand (for Lady Pendleton, a seasoned general’s wife for nearly forty years, nearly always had another hand upon which to rely), if he did not refuse, it would be a sign that he was after Serena, as they had all predicted. He would come, and cook his own goose—to keep the metaphor intact—soon enough. All told, her ladyship thought her plan quite inspired.