Cousin Kate

by Джорджетт Хейер

  “I think you don’t believe me, ma’am. But I am perfectly sincere!”

  “Oh, yes, I believe that! You may change your mind.”

  “I promise you I shall not. I—I don’t wish to leave you, but don’t you think I had better do so, ma’am?”

  “No, I don’t, you foolish child! What a piece of work you do make of it! I begin to regret that I ever mentioned the matter to you: I did so only because I wished to assure you that I shouldn’t oppose the match. Now I must go and talk to Chatburn: you haven’t met him, have you? He is Sir Timothy’s bailiff, and a very worthy man, but aptly named, so you must not be surprised if you don’t see me again this morning!”

  Kate was left feeling that she had been annihilated. Lady Broome had made her realize that to flee from Staplewood would be as ungrateful as it would be theatrical, and she was passionately determined to show her aunt that she was neither. She would be obliged to remain at Staplewood until the end of the summer, but she was uneasy. She knew that Torquil liked her; she knew that he was beginning to fancy himself in love with her; but while she had no doubt that he would abandon his suit to her the instant more attractive metal came within his range she doubted her ability to cast a damper on his pretensions without exciting his precarious temper, or causing him to fall into one of his fits of dejection. It was only twenty-four hours since he had announced that he would like to marry her, and she had snubbed him. He had Sung away in a fury, and, although no evil consequences seemed to have resulted, she knew that the effects of his rages on his constitution were dreaded by his mother, and his doctor. She foresaw that it would be difficult to hold him at arm’s length without provoking or wounding him, and tried, quite unavailingly, to think how it could be done.

  When Lady Broome had left her, she went out on to the terrace, but a gusty wind soon drove her to the shrubbery, where she walked up and down for some time, before sitting down on one of the benches which had been placed there for Sir Timothy’s convenience. She sat there for twenty minutes, her brain occupied with the problems confronting her, and her fingers plaiting and unplaiting the fringe of her shawl. There was a furrow between her brows, and although her eyes were fixed on her busy hands it was plain that her thoughts were abstracted.

  “What troubles you, Cousin Kate?”

  She looked up quickly, startled, for she had not heard Mr Philip Broome’s approach. He was standing a little way away, and she had the feeling that he had been there for several minutes, watching her. She exclaimed, with a tolerable assumption of liveliness: “Good God, sir, how you did make me jump! I didn’t hear you.”

  He came forward unhurriedly, and sat down on the bench beside her. “I know you didn’t: you were too intent on your work!”

  “On my work?” she echoed, bewildered. Her eyes followed the direction of his levelled quizzing-glass, and she flushed, and said, in some confusion: “Oh, my fringe! How absurd! It is one of my bad habits to make plaits, or knots, or pleats when I’m—when my mind is otherwhere!”

  “Yes?” he said. “And where was your mind?”

  “Oh, in a dozen places at least!” she said lightly.

  He was silent for a minute, and began to unplait her fringe. Since he was looking down at it, Kate had the opportunity to study his profile. He had regular features, and a well-shaped head, and was generally held to be passably good-looking. Kate decided that he was a very handsome man: not, of course, as handsome as Torquil, but far more virile. His was a strong face, and if his mouth was stern, and his eyes very keen and hard, she knew that his smile was unexpectedly attractive, wanning his eyes, and softening the lines about his mouth. He might be inflexible, but it was impossible to suspect him of being unscrupulous.

  He raised his head, turning it slightly to look at Kate. He was not smiling, but although his eyes were searching they were kind. He repeated: “What troubles you, Kate?”

  “My dear sir, nothing!”

  “No, don’t try to hoax me! What has happened to put you in a worry?”

  “Merely a small, private matter, sir.”

  “That’s taught me to mind my own business,” he observed.

  She could not help laughing. “I wish it may have done so! The truth is that I’m confronted with a problem, and haven’t made up my mind how to settle it.”

  “Perhaps I can help you.”

  “Thank you, I don’t require help!”

  He hesitated. “Or advice? Mine is that you should leave this place.”

  This made her remember that she had a crow to pluck with him. She stiffened, and her eyes flashed a challenge. “Why, sir?” she demanded.

  Again he hesitated, before saying: “Do you recall that I warned you yesterday that you might be required to make what I believe would be a sacrifice, in return for the benefits bestowed on you?”

  “Very clearly! And you meant, did you not, that my aunt might propose to me that I should marry Torquil?” She waited for his answer, and, when he nodded, swept on, in a voice vibrant with wrath: “And when you came here, and—and looked at me as if I were a—a designing trollop, you believed I was in a string with my aunt! Didn’t you?”

  He smiled ruefully. “Yes, I did. I beg your pardon! Does it mitigate the offence when I assure you that I very soon learned that I had misjudged you?”

  It did, of course, but she saw no reason why she should forgive him so easily, or deny herself the satisfaction of raking him down, so she evaded this question, and gave him a rare trimming. He bore it meekly, but with such an appreciative twinkle in his eye that she was goaded into saying: “And if you had been within my reach, sir, when I realized what you thought of me, I would have boxed your ears!”

  “Most understandable!” he said sympathetically. “But I am within your reach now, so if you would like to box my ears, pray do so! I won’t attempt to defend myself.”

  “There is nothing I should like more,” she assured him, “but I hope I have too much propriety of taste to allow myself to be carried away by indignation!”

  “I was hoping that too. But don’t you mean too much sense of justice? It was very bad of me, but you must remember that I’d never met you.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have prejudged me!” she said severely.

  “I know I shouldn’t. I hope it may be a lesson to me.”

  “So do I, but I doubt it!” she retorted, trying not to laugh. However, having discharged her spleen, her natural good humour reasserted itself, and she did laugh, and said candidly: “As a matter of fact, when I came to think it over, I did perceive that there was a good deal of excuse for you. It must have looked as if I were trying to lure Torquil into matrimony. The thing was that it never entered my head that I ought to hold him at a distance, because he is only a schoolboy, and I am years older than he is. And my aunt told me that he lacked young companionship, which indeed he does, poor boy! To own the truth, sir, I am excessively sorry for him.”

  He looked at her, an arrested expression in his eyes. “Are you?”

  “Well, of course I am! Are not you?”

  “I am very sorry for him,” he agreed.

  She thought he sounded indifferent, and suspected that he had no liking for Torquil. “I know you don’t think so,” she said, “but I believe he would be very much better if he were not cooped up here. It seems to me quite shocking!”

  “Does it?”

  “Yes, it does! My aunt believes that London would knock him up, and dreads his being ill. I fancy she is afraid he would go the pace too fast, and commit some extravagant folly, through being so excitable. I expect she is quite right, because he’s green, and would be bound to hob-nob with the sort of young man who is always ripe for a spree: I daresay you know what I mean?”

  “Choice spirits,” he said, with the glimmer of a smile.

  “Is that what they are called? Well, I do see that that might be dangerous, and I perfectly understand my aunt’s anxiety. But what I do not understand is why he must be kept at Staplewood the whole time, and nev
er permitted to go anywhere! One would have supposed that my aunt would have wished to try if one of the watering-places might not be of benefit to him, but—” She stopped, and said, in a conscience-stricken tone: “I didn’t mean to say that. I know I should not.”

  “Are you afraid I might tell Minerva? I shan’t.”

  “No, but I shouldn’t criticize her.”

  “On the contrary! You should—and, in fact, you do!”

  “Yes,” she confessed. “I can’t help doing so, but I feel it’s ungrateful, because she has been so kind to me.”

  “Are you fond of her?” he asked abruptly.

  She began to plait her fringe again, and did not answer immediately, but when he laid his hand over her unquiet ones, checking her, she looked up, and said, with an embarrassed flush: “Oh, dear! was I at that again? No, I’m afraid I’m not fond of her. Not very fond of her, that is! I don’t know why, because she seems to be fond of me, and in general, you know—”

  “Seems?” he interrupted, keeping his hand over hers.

  She met his eyes, a little shyly, and found that they were smiling, inviting confidence. Without knowing why she did so, she said impulsively: “I don’t think she’s fond of anyone! It makes me far from easy. I can’t explain!”

  “You need not: I know what you mean. Minerva has overwhelmed you with gifts—you called her generosity crushing, but you wouldn’t feel crushed if you believed she held you in affection, would you?”

  “Ah, you do understand! I should be grateful, but not crushed!” She sighed, and said ruefully: “I thought there was nothing I wouldn’t do to show my gratitude, but I can’t marry Torquil! It is quite out of the question. When my aunt suggested it to me, I thought she must be out of her mind!”

  It was a moment or two before he answered her. He began to speak, and then shut his mouth hard, as though he were exercising considerable restraint. Finally, he said, in a brusque voice: “No. Obsessed!”

  She nodded. “I know that: Staplewood and the succession! But that’s not it!”

  “You are mistaken.”

  “No, I don’t think I am. She seems to be determined to keep Torquil under her thumb: not just now, but always! And I fancy she believes that if he married me she could do it, that I shouldn’t interfere, or try to take him away, or—or usurp her position.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “It is a shocking thing to think of anyone, but what else can I think?” said Kate. “You see, my father told me how very ambitious she is, so I supposed that she must be hoping that Torquil would make a splendid match. But, of course, if he married a girl of the first stare it is not to be expected that she could keep her here, in—in subjection, is it? Well, even if the girl were willing to allow my aunt to rule the roost, she might not be willing to be buried here all the year round!”

  “Most unlikely. But there is more to it than that, Kate: such a girl would not be, as you are, alone in the world. She would have parents, perhaps brothers and sisters, certainly more distant relations—uncles, aunts, cousins.”

  “If it comes to that,” said Kate, “I have distant relations too! I am not acquainted with them, but—”

  “Exactly so!” he said. “But they are not concerned with your welfare!”

  “Oh, no! I daresay most of them don’t know I exist!”

  “It is precisely that circumstance which, in Minerva’s eyes, makes you a desirable wife for Torquil.”

  He spoke with deliberation, and her eyes widened a little, searching his face. The vague uneasiness which troubled her deepened; she said carefully: “I collect that you think that my aunt might try to—to constrain me—to force me to marry Torquil, but I promise you it isn’t so! It was only a suggestion! I have told her that I shall never do so, and, although she has begged me to think it over, I am persuaded she realizes that I shan’t change my mind.”

  As though urged by some inner impulse, he grasped both her hands, and held them in a compelling grip, saying harshly: “Kate, go away from this place! On no account must you marry Torquil!”

  “Well, of course I must not!” she returned, slightly amused. “Even if I weren’t too old for him, he isn’t fit to be married!”

  “Why do you say that?” he asked quickly.

  “Good God!” she exclaimed. “Surely you must be aware that he hasn’t yet outgrown the schoolboy? He hasn’t learnt to control his temper, for one thing! The least check makes him ride rusty. As for forming a lasting attachment, fiddle! I daresay it may be years before he does so. At the moment he is inclined to fancy himself in love with me, but he was fancying himself in love with Miss Templecombe when I first came here, and it was only when he heard of her engagement that he transferred his affections to me. Would you care to lay odds against his transferring them yet again if some reasonably pretty girl were to appear in the neighbourhood? Of course you would not!”

  He released her hands. “Of course I would not,” he agreed, and sat heavily frowning at the ground between his forearms, which he had laid along his spread legs, his hands clasped between his knees.

  In some perplexity Kate looked at his down-bent head, and said: “You don’t wish Torquil to be married, do you, sir?” She waited for a reply, but he only shook his head. She continued: “Why not? I can readily understand that you would not wish him to marry an adventuress, but I have the oddest feeling that you would oppose his marriage to anyone. You have told me that you don’t covet his inheritance, and I believe you don’t indeed. But I cannot feel that you hold him dear, so—so why, Mr Broome?”

  He glanced up at that, wryly smiling, and said: “Oh, no! I refuse to be Mr Broome—Cousin Kate!”

  “You know very well that I am not your cousin!” she said.

  “I know that you refused to acknowledge the relationship! What was it you said?—at the worst you could only be a connection of mine! Excessively rag-mannered I thought you!”

  She gave a gurgle of laughter. “You must own that you earned it!”

  “Oh, I do!” he answered.

  “That is a great concession,” he said. “I am very conscious of it—Cousin Philip! But I would have you know that I cut my wisdoms a long time ago, and I am well aware that you are fobbing me off. You have not answered my question.”

  “I can’t answer it. If I were to disclose to you, or to anyone, my reason for opposing Torquil’s marriage—No, I can’t do it! I am not even perfectly sure that there is a reason.” He rose jerkily. “Come! we have sat here for long enough, Kate! Minerva will be wondering what can have become of you.”

  She privately thought this unlikely, but when she encountered her aunt presently, Lady Broome said: “Oh, there you are! Dear child, I have been looking for you all over!”

  Surprised, Kate said: “But you told me, ma’am, that you were going to be engaged with the bailiff! I’ve been in the shrubbery.”

  “Yes, so Sidlaw informed me. With Mr Philip Broome!”

  “Yes, certainly. Did Sidlaw inform you of that too, ma’am?” asked Kate, a trifle ruffled.

  “To be sure she did! Oh, don’t take a pet, my love! She only told me because I asked her if she had seen you anywhere! Such a scold as she gave me for letting you wander about alone!”

  “Good heavens! What harm did she imagine could befall me? Besides, I wasn’t alone: Mr Broome was with me, and she knew that, didn’t she?”

  “Yes, dearest, and of course she didn’t imagine any harm would befall you! But she is very prudish, and she thought it right to nudge me on to warn you not to permit Philip to sit with you in the shrubbery!”

  “I should think she must be quite Gothic,” said Kate, beginning to be very angry indeed.

  Lady Broome laughed, and grimaced. “Indeed she is! But she was right in this instance: it isn’t the thing for a young female to jaunter about with a single gentleman, you know!”

  “I am afraid I don’t know it, Aunt Minerva,” said Kate, in a dangerously quiet voice. “I have yet to learn that there is the smallest
impropriety in walking, sitting, or even jauntering about with a single gentleman. And I cannot help wondering why, if you don’t think it the thing, you encourage me to go out with Torquil.”

  “That is a little different, my dear: Torquil is your cousin, and—as you have said—only a boy. Philip is another matter, and is not, I fancy, to be trusted to keep the line.”

  “Is it possible that you suspect me of flirting with Mr Broome?” inquired Kate. “Let me assure you that I haven’t the faintest wish to flirt with him!”

  “Or with anyone, I hope!” said Lady Broome playfully.

  “Oh, as to that, there’s no saying!” replied Kate coolly.

  “Naughty puss!” said her ladyship, pinching her cheek. “I perceive that Sidlaw was right when she gave me a scold for not looking after you better!”

  “Not at all!” returned Kate. “I’m not a green girl, or a romp, and I am very well able to look after myself. And if she thought Mr Philip Broome was in the petticoat line she must be a great goose-cap! Pray set her anxious mind at rest, dear ma’am! He shows no disposition to flirt with me!”

  “Oh, tut-tut!” said Lady Broome. “Don’t pull caps with me, you foolish child! You are not so very old, you know, and even though you are neither a green girl nor a romp, you are not yet as much up to snuff as you think you are. A pretty thing it would be if I didn’t look after you! There, give me a kiss to show me that I’m forgiven!”

  Melting, Kate embraced her warmly. “As though there were anything to forgive!” she said, not without difficulty, for the words stuck in her throat.

  The entrance into the hall of Pennymore, bearing the post-bag, relieved her embarrassment. Lady Broome took it from him; and, with a kindly smile, told Kate to run upstairs to put off her hat. A nuncheon, she said, had been set out in the Blue saloon; and, unless Kate wished to wound the cook’s sensibilities, she would partake of it, because he had baked a Savoy Cake for her especial delectation.

  Kate did go upstairs to remove her hat; but when she came out of her bedchamber she did not immediately go to the Blue saloon, but to her aunt’s drawing-room instead, where she found Lady Broome at her writing-table, already busy with her correspondence. She said haltingly: “I suppose there are no letters for me, ma’am?”