by Fiona Hill
“Very happy,” Thaddeus choked.
“Enough of your eloquence, Howard!” said Sir Kenneth, clapping Mr. Grey on the back. “Can’t you see you’re worsening his flutters? Just let him be, let him be,” he nodded wisely. For a moment he sat quietly, musing; then, seeming to exclude himself from his own advice, he continued, “I’ll have plenty of grandchildren, I don’t doubt, eh Thad?”
“Plenty, sir,” Thaddeus replied, essaying his feeble grin again.
“And soon, I daresay?”
“Oh, yes,” Mr. Grey assented weakly. Then, as Sir Kenneth remained silent, looking at him, “Very soon.”
“Excellent, then! A toast to my grandchildren, shall we, gentlemen?” He raised his glass high and downed its contents. “And now let us follow the ladies, or they will think we have forgot them!”
Thaddeus was too relieved for words at being released from this jocose torture; he fairly staggered from the room, Sir Kenneth’s arm heavily round his shoulders. It was not until they reached the drawing room that Mr. Chance recalled, with a sudden jolt, the suspicions he had harboured regarding Thaddeus and Laura. If his interpretation of the play was correct, Laura did not love her betrothed, nor Thaddeus, probably, Laura. He chided himself as he realised how uncomfortable he must have made the lad feel, cursing not for the first time whatever quality it was in his nature that encouraged him to rush headlong into raptures of ill-considered words. He would have liked to apologise to Mr. Grey, but the enforced silence that already irked so many members of the household fell upon him, too, and stopped him. Once again, there was nothing for him to do but to let matters take their course; besides, he had his own affaire de coeur to consider.
Conversation in the drawing room turned for some while upon dancing; then, upon the snow. It was still deep, but some of it had melted, and none had fallen lately. Sir Kenneth, taking a perfunctory glance out the curtained windows, deemed the roads passable, and had no doubt of a large audience for the play. Laura took advantage of his mentioning that event and shepherded her cast into the red salon, giving them gladly into Mr. Chance’s charge. She then proceeded to her own chamber, where her bride-clothes were pronounced perfect by the anxious Lady Eleanor, and thence, in her cerulean gown, to the drawing room again. Ashley was there already, his palette prepared.
“What is that little smile?” she asked him, when she had sat quietly for awhile.
“Am I smiling?” he countered.
“You know very well you are,” she said. “In fact, you look as though you would like to break into a grin, and may at any moment.”
“Goodness!” he exclaimed, feigning surprise. “I wonder what it could be?”
“I am sure I do not know,” said Laura, “but, as Jacob would say, I’ll lay wager you do!”
“I must beg you not to talk, my sweet, or I cannot paint.”
“Oh, how we do progress!” she cried. “First you merely conceal things from me; now you are lying! Do not forget, pray, that you told me noise does not disturb you.”
“Did I say that? How foolish of me!”
“Ashley, you are abominable! Will you not tell me, please and double please, what is the reason of your smile?”
“Only my love for you, most dear. Do you doubt it?”
“Very much,” she returned, but she was obliged to be content with this explanation, for he would say no more.
Within an hour and half the portrait was completed. Laura could not find words adequate to praise it; instead she embraced her beloved silently and at length. When at last she could leave him, she ran to find her parents, who could not decide which to admire more, the picture or the painter. Lady Eleanor insisted upon fetching the others from their rehearsal, so that they too might marvel at it, and laud the artist. Ashley found himself drowning in a sea of compliments, until he became quite embarrassed with it all and begged them to stop lest his head swell to bursting. Sir Kenneth ordered sherry and ratafia all round, and toasts were drunk to the bride and the bridegroom. How much the happy couple suffered from this kindness need not be detailed here; suffice it to say that Laura nearly wept for joy when her mother drew her from the room and insisted that they write their invitations.
This task duly executed, and the notes sent off with John Coachman to their addresses, Lady Eleanor took the opportunity of a moment of solitude to have a comfortable cose with her daughter.
“I could almost envy you, my dear,” she said. “To be young, and in love, and nearly on the eve of one’s wedding! I know you must be very, very happy.”
“Yes, Mamma,” said Laura, for although it was against her nature to dissemble, she could not think of disturbing her mother’s illusions.
“And Thaddeus will be a fine husband—strong, and kind, and handsome.”
“Yes,” said Laura, as her mother seemed to have gone into a reverie.
“And how pleasant it will be when you are installed in your new home! We shall be forever visiting one another; I am so pleased you two have decided to stay in the neighbourhood.”
“How could I go far away from my dear Mamma?” asked Laura, taking her mother’s soft hand and holding it to her own cheek in a sudden rush of affection. “And Papa,” she added conscientiously.
“But you will soon have your own family,” said Lady Eleanor, “your husband, your children…so very happy!” she ended, as tears sprang unbidden to her eyes.
“Mamma,” Laura began, after a moment’s pause, “you do wish me to be happy, do not you?”
“How can you ask, my dear?”
“But I mean—that is all you wish for me, is it not? You do not really care, do you, if it had been—someone other than Thad—you would not…”
“What is it, Laura? Is something troubling you?”
Laura, feeling quite helpless, shook her head no. “But is it,” she started again, “is it so very important—to Papa—to be allied to the Greys? Is that the reason for this marriage?”
Lady Eleanor looked at her daughter, mildly puzzled. “If you mean, would we have married you to Thaddeus no matter what he had been like, then no, of course not. But it does, you see, work out so happily—Thaddeus being so fine a young man, and his father such a dear friend to yours. Is that what you desired to know?”
“Yes—I guess so. Mamma, Papa has not many friends, has he?”
“Not close friends, no. Just Sir Phillip, really…and perhaps Baron Lowland, though they have not met in years. What is it, my sweet? What is troubling you?”
Laura, gazing into her mother’s loving eyes, could almost have told her. A part of her told her that her mother would understand, that it would be better to tell her directly than to let the play speak for her, but this part was opposed by another, more habitual one. Laura had always been obedient to her parents; it was difficult—impossible now—to break from that custom. The machinery of the wedding, all the events that had led to it, and now pointed to it so strongly—Laura felt these crushing her with an inexorable weight, and she could not speak out. She looked at her mother fondly, hopelessly, began to say something and found the words stuck on a sob in her throat. She threw herself into Lady Eleanor’s arms and wept for all she was worth.
Lady Eleanor supposed her daughter to be wrought up by the excitement of the wedding, and recommended her to lie down a while before supper. In fact, she took her to her bed herself, and tucked her into it as she had when Laura was a little girl, kissing her tenderly upon the brow. Laura, confused and exhausted by the unaccustomed strain of conflicting emotions, submitted quietly to this gentleness and fell deeply, peacefully asleep.
Chapter IX
She awoke an hour later and dressed for supper, yawning pleasantly as she did so. The rest of the party she found in the drawing room, waiting to go into the dining parlour. They were invited to do so by Garson a very few minutes later, and the table was astir with discussion of the portrait, the play, and the dancing. Since no one had the patience for a leisurely supper, they made quick work of it and adjo
urned presently to the Blue Saloon, which chamber, of course, housed the pianoforte. The footmen had rolled the rugs back; Lady Eleanor had given orders for all the chandeliers and sconces to be lit, and a bright fire burning in the hearth lent the room a cheerful and festive aspect. Miss Webb agreed to play first; Mr. Chance could be observed pointing his toes gingerly in an inconspicuous corner. It had been thought too cruel to leave Lizzy alone upstairs while all this merriment went forward, so she had been carried down and placed upon a sofa, whence she regarded the company’s activity only a little enviously. She protested that her ankle felt quite well, and that she would have liked to dance herself, but Lady Eleanor would hear none of it. With the wedding barely a day off, it would be a dreadful misfortune if Lizzy were to sprain her ankle all over again.
Sir Kenneth, in high glee, turned to his daughter and solicited her hand for the first dance; Thaddeus, with a helpless glance at Elizabeth, claimed Lady Eleanor’s. Mr. Lowland, to Miss Simpson’s displeasure, invited Emily onto the floor, leaving Jacob to dance with Clio. For several hours the small party danced on, exchanging pianists and shuffling partners frequently. Ashley and Laura found, without much surprise but with great delight, that they danced excellently together. The rector was hesitant to draw much attention to himself and Miss Webb, but he could not resist this rare occasion to distinguish her with his attentions and they danced three, or perhaps even four numbers together. He found his feet quite equal to this challenge, and enjoyed himself immensely; of Miss Webb we need not even speak. Miss Clio, it was true, was a little miffed at finding herself partnered so frequently by Mr. Shaw, and so seldom by Mr. Lowland, but even she surrendered soon to the music and the laughter, and amused herself very well.
By one o’clock nearly all the company was exhausted, which was well, since Sir Kenneth insisted upon their going up to bed. Elizabeth was carried back upstairs—by Thaddeus again, an action regarded as chivalrous by some and rather natural by not a few—and tucked into bed. The others climbed wearily up the stairs, in pairs and small groups, and bade one another good night. The Abbey was silent until morning.
The first event of note on Saturday was the arrival of Laura’s Aunt Jessica and Uncle Wilmot Shaw. They were made welcome, of course, and Lady Eleanor sat down with her sister to explain about Lizzy’s ankle. No sooner had Lady Jessica heard of her daughter’s injury than she rushed upstairs in an excess of maternal solicitude, insisting upon being told exactly how the foot had been treated and patting Elizabeth’s hand distractedly. When she was, at last, satisfied that no major damage had been done, she consented to descend again to the drawing room, and was there told about the play which had been planned as a diversion for Lizzy. In answer to her anxious questions, she was assured by her hostess that Elizabeth had been the most tractable patient imaginable, and Jacob and Emily the best-behaved guests. The latter of these then claimed her mamma’s attention, for she wished to tell her all about the secret chamber, and the hand she had had in discovering and opening it. The locked chest was mentioned, too, but Lady Jessica’s curiosity remained sadly unpiqued; she was too much engaged in surveying Laura’s betrothed to pay much attention to mysteries.
“He is a fine young man,” she whispered at last to Lady Eleanor. “I only wish we may do as well for Elizabeth.”
“I have no doubt you will, my dear,” her sister reassured her. “Of course,” she added proudly, “one does not find such lads as Thaddeus everywhere; still, Lizzy’s day will come. I encouraged her, indeed, to cultivate Mr. Lowland’s regard, but it seems to have come to nothing, somehow.”
“Did you indeed, Sister?” said Lady Jessica. “Then I must thank you, for even with all this excitement I could not help but remark what an exceptionally eligible young man he seems to be. What a shame that Lizzy does not take to him!”
“That it is,” Lady Eleanor returned. “He is the only son of Baron Lowland, you know—fabulously wealthy, and of the very best family. A catch for any girl, I daresay!”
Lady Jessica inspected Ashley more carefully from behind her fan. “I shall have to speak to Elizabeth,” she concluded at last. “She has been remarkably backward about setting her cap at anyone.”
The two sisters chatted on thus, delighted to find themselves together and at leisure after so long a time apart, for Lord Shaw’s participation in Parliament did indeed preclude their meeting as often as they would have liked. Wilmot Shaw, meanwhile, interrogated Sir Kenneth about the past season’s hunting, pausing every now and then to malign his political career for keeping him so much in London. It was agreed among the play actors, when they had had time to discuss it a little, that it would be best not to rehearse at all that morning, so that they would be fresh for the performance later on. Laura knew, with a surge of impotent frustration, that it would be a ragged performance at best—good enough, perhaps, for her writing, but certainly nothing to equal the quality of the scenery her beloved had designed. Ashley reminded her, however, that any rendering at all would serve, so long as her parents were present, and she made a push to forget her artistic worryings.
Thaddeus slipped off from the drawing room to visit Elizabeth. The purpose of this errand was to assure her that he would not wed Miss Fieldon on the following day, no matter what else happened; unfortunately, he felt quite nauseated inside. He had pummelled his brains until his head fairly ached, but no better answer offered than to lay bare the whole situation to his parents, and hope for the best. If no other alternative chanced that day, he would approach them directly the play was over.
Of course, another alternative did in fact come up, thanks to the energetic contrivance of Laura and Ashley. The players retired after dinner to don their costumes, Lady Eleanor going up to Elizabeth to apprise her that at last her surprise was ready. Lord Shaw carried his daughter down to the Blue Saloon, where he bestowed her upon a couch, there to remain until Ashley gave the signal that the theatre, such as it was, was ready. No hint of what was to come was given her, and she would have reached the Red Saloon in complete ignorance had it not been for the rather garrulous entrance of the Simpsons, and their numerous progeny.
“A play!” were Mrs. Simpson’s first words upon leaving the Abbey’s front hall and entering the Red Saloon. “How clever they all were to contrive it! I declare, I am ready to faint with excitement!”
“Is Clio in it?” demanded Calliope of her hostess.
“Why are not you in it?” inquired Urania, staring rudely at Elizabeth.
“Where is Jacob?” Master Meldon Simpson asked plaintively. “Want Jacob!”
“Oh dear!” said Lady Eleanor, “I am afraid—it was to be a surprise for Miss Shaw, you know, and now…”
“It is still a surprise, dear Aunt,” Elizabeth insisted. “I promise you. I had no notion until now! But what play is it? How very delightful!”
“It is—well, I do not really know what it is! It is something Laura wrote, along with Mr. Chance and Miss Webb. And Mr. Lowland did the scenery, and I—well, I helped a little with the costumes.”
“How good you are to me!” cried Elizabeth prettily.
“JACOB!” wailed Master Meldon, intent upon being heard.
“Oh yes, and it was Jacob’s idea,” Lady Eleanor added. “And they are all to act in it. Meldon dear,” she said, stooping, “you will see Jacob in a very little while.”
“When?” Meldon demanded bluntly, suspicious that she was concealing his idol from him.
“In a moment. As soon as the Greys get here,” she amended, straightening and looking round at her guest. “Where are the Greys, I wonder?”
A minute later her question was answered as the Greys, announced by Garson, entered the room. “Lady Louisa!” she cried, extending her hands to this longstanding friend. “Sir Philip! I am so glad you could come; are the roads much worsened by the snow?”
She prated on in this competent, gracious way until at last, and much to her relief, Ashley Lowland entered the room and signalled that the theatre was prepared,
and the cast assembled. The company, more than curious to see the spectacle, followed him quickly to the Red Saloon, chatting and buzzing the while. They arranged themselves in the rows of chairs Laura had set out, the children in front, of course, so they could see, and Elizabeth upon a couch specially provided.
Laura, having snuffed the candles on the audience’s side of the room, appeared before the drawn curtains. “Ladies, gentlemen, and honoured guest,” she said, curtseying prettily to Lizzy,
Our players are but poor, alas,
Nor is the author better;
Yet in our humble way, we hope
You like “The Hidden Letter”!
We open once upon a time,
The scene’s a far-off land;
A foreign prince has offered for
The princess’ own hand.
This honour he has sought and won
By both their fathers’ wills,
But when the bridal pair are met,
Behold! Unlooked-for ills!
Upon these words she disappeared behind the curtains, reemerging a moment later at the side of the stage and seating herself among the audience. There was some polite applause, then a few scattered whispers as a good deal of scuffling was heard on the stage. What had developed, though the audience could not know this, was an altercation between Jacob and the rector, both of whom would have liked to pull the curtain. This settled at last, the draperies were opened, disclosing a scene wherein sat Ashley and Miss Simpson, as the king and queen, with the others assembled about them. A chorus of ahh’s went up among those who beheld Mr. Lowland’s scenery for the first time, for it was quite enchanting. Then all fell silent, and Clio spoke.
“We welcome you all to our court,” she said, waving a regal hand. “Many years have my husband and I anticipated this occasion, and now all who are friends to us will rejoice.”
“In sooth,” said Ashley (Laura had inserted this phrase because Ashley himself used it so often), “we are made glad by this sight. Daughter, come here,” he continued as Miss Webb minced to the throne, “and join hands with this prince.” She extended her hand to Thaddeus, who gripped it clammily. “Sixteen years ago, when our daughter Helen was christened,” he said to cheers from the court and populace, “a pact was made between ourself and King Peter of Fenwald, that when his son and our daughter should be of age, they would be wed each to the other. Now, at last, the consummation of that ancient treaty!” (More cheers from the populace.)
