Cousin Kate

by Джорджетт Хейер

  “Well, never you mind about that!” said Sarah. “I shall go to pay my respects to her ladyship when Miss Kate is dressed.” She then handed the can of hot water to Ellen, recommending her not to waste time prattling, but to pour the water out for Miss Kate to wash her hands, and to take care she didn’t spill any more of it, and turned away to pick up the dress of pale orange Italian crape, and to shake out its folds. Trying in vain to catch her eye, Kate submitted to the ministrations of her youthful abigail, which, owing to the terror into which Sarah’s critical eye cast her, were more than usually clumsy. When it came to combing out Kate’s soft curls, Sarah took the comb firmly away from her, and set about the task of arranging them becomingly herself, bidding Ellen watch closely how she did it. To which Ellen responded slavishly, and dropped another curtsy.

  Meeting Kate’s anxious gaze in the looking-glass, Sarah favoured her with a small smile of reassurance, and said, as she adjusted a ringlet: “That’s more the thing! The way you were doing it, my girl, it looked like a birch-broom in a fit!”

  “Yes, ma’am!” said Ellen, giggling. “She does look a picture! If you please, will I take you to her ladyship’s room now?”

  “No, Miss Kate will show me where it is,” Sarah replied, gently pushing Kate towards the door. “You can stay here, and make everything tidy. And mind you give that poplin dress a good shake before you hang it up! I’ll put Miss Kate to bed, so you needn’t wait up for her!”

  “Sarah, you will take care, won’t you?” Kate said urgently, as soon as the door was shut behind them. “I am sick with apprehension! Sidlaw must have told her—” She broke off, and lowered her voice. “Here she is! Don’t tell her anything, Sarah! Don’t trust her!”

  “Anyone would think your senses was disordered, Miss Kate!” replied Mrs Nidd. “For goodness sake, stop behaving like a wet-goose, and be off to your dinner!”

  Kate threw her a speaking glance, but spoke with commendable calm to Sidlaw, who had by this time reached them, and come to a halt, standing with her hands primly clasped before her, and looking Sarah over with sour disparagement. “Sidlaw, this is my nurse, Mrs Nidd,” said Kate. “Will you have the goodness to conduct her to her ladyship’s room?”

  “I was coming to do so, miss,” Sidlaw replied, dropping a stiff curtsy. “I’m sure, Mrs Nidd, if Miss had seen fit to tell me she was expecting a visit from you, I should have seen to it myself that a bedchamber was prepared for you.”

  “Well, it would have puzzled her to do that, seeing that she didn’t know I was coming to visit her,” said Mrs Nidd cheerfully. “Not that I would have come, if I’d known her ladyship was poorly, but what’s done can’t be mended, and you won’t find me any trouble! Now, you run along, Miss Kate! I shall be coming to put you to bed later on, so I won’t say goodnight to you.”

  There was nothing for Kate to do but to make her way to the Long Drawing-room, which she did, feeling that Sidlaw at least had met her match in Mrs Nidd.

  She had hoped to have found Mr Philip Broome waiting for her there, but the room was empty, a circumstance which, in the exacerbated state of her nerves, she was much inclined to think betrayed a lamentable unconcern with what he must surely have known was her anxiety to exchange a few words with him in private. She fidgeted about the room for what seemed to her an interminable time, and was just wondering whether the pre-prandial gathering was taking place in one of the saloons on the entrance floor when she heard his voice in the anteroom. A moment later, he came in, escorting Sir Timothy. At sight of him, her annoyance evaporated; and when his eyes smiled at her across the room her heart melted. She moved forward to greet Sir Timothy, and was adjusting a cushion behind his back when Pennymore came in, carrying a massive silver tray which bore two decanters and five sherry glasses. He set this down on a table by one of the windows, and disclosed fell tidings. Her ladyship had sent a message to him that she was coming down to dinner.

  None of the three persons present evinced any very noticeable sign of delight. Kate, in fact, looked aghast; Philip, inscrutable; and Sir Timothy merely said, in his gentle way: “Ah, I am glad she is so much better! Thank you, Pennymore: you needn’t wait.”

  Kate seated herself beside him, and inquired whether he had enjoyed his drive that afternoon. His face lit up, and his eyes travelled fondly to his nephew. “Very much indeed,” he answered. “It is a long time since I’ve driven round my lands. A barouche, you know, doesn’t enable one to see over the hedges, which makes traveling in one very dull work. But Philip took me in the tilbury—and was obliged to own that I haven’t quite lost my old driving-skill! Eh, Philip?”

  “Well, sir, I don’t know about owning it!” replied Philip. “I never supposed that you had!”

  “Then the next time you invite me to drive out with you, let it be in your curricle! I’m told you have a sweet-stepping pair of bays, and I should like to try their paces!”

  “Willingly, sir. Do you mean to take the shine out of me?”

  “Ah, who knows? I could have done so in my day, but I fear that’s long past. As one grows older, one begins to lose the precision of eye which all first-rate fiddlers have.” He turned to Kate, saying fondly: “And how have you passed the day, my pretty? Pleasantly, I trust? I hear your old nurse has come to visit you: that must have been an agreeable surprise, I daresay. I shall hope to make her acquaintance. Does she mean to make a long stay?”

  “No, sir: she is married, you know, and cannot do so,” Kate said. She hesitated, and then said, raising her eyes to his: “She is going to take me back to London—tomorrow, I hope.”

  It cost her a pang to see the cheerfulness fade from his face. He seemed to age under her eyes, but, after a moment, he smiled, though mournfully, and said: “I see. I shan’t seek to dissuade you, my dear, but I shall miss you more than I can say.”

  She put out her hand, in one of her impulsive gestures, and laid it over one of his thin, fragile ones, clasping it warmly, and saying in an unsteady voice: “And I shall miss you, sir—much more than I can say! If I don’t see you again—thank you a thousand, thousand times for your kindness to me! I shall never forget it—or that you bestowed your blessing on me.”

  Philip’s voice cut in on this, sharpened by surprise. “What’s this, Kate? Tomorrow?”

  He had walked over to the window, and was standing with one of the decanters in his hand. She turned her head, encountered his searching look, but said only: “If it might be contrived! I think—I think it would be best. Sarah can escort me, you see, so I need not be a charge on you!”

  “A charge on me? Moonshine! You may rest assured I shall go with you!”

  He would have said more, but was interrupted by the entrance of Dr Delabole, who came in, exuding an odd mixture of goodfellowship and dismay, and shook a finger at Sir Timothy, saying: “Now, you deserve that I should give you a scold, sir, for driving out with Mr Philip without a word to me! In the tilbury, too! Most imprudent of you—but I can see that you are none the worse for it, so I won’t scold you!”

  “On the contrary, I am very much better for it,” replied Sir Timothy, with his faint, aloof smile. “Thank you, Philip, yes! A glass of sherry!”

  “Nevertheless,” said the doctor, “you must allow me to count your pulse, Sir Timothy! That I must insist on! Just to reassure myself!”

  It seemed for a moment as though Sir Timothy was on the point of repulsing him, but as Kate rose to make way for Delabole, he said, in a bored voice: “Certainly—if it affords you amusement!”

  Kate, as Delabole bent over Sir Timothy, seized the opportunity to cross the room to Philip’s side, and to whisper: “I must speak to you! But how? Where? Can you arrange for me to leave tomorrow?”

  “Yes, I’ll drive to Market Harborough, and hire a chaise in the morning. It can hardly be here before noon, however, which means you must spend a night somewhere along the road—Woburn, probably. What has happened? Have you seen Minerva?”

  She nodded, unable to repress a shudder.
“Yes. I can’t tell you now!”

  “Did you tell her?”

  “Not yet. I could not, Philip! Oh, when can I speak to you alone?”

  “Come down early to breakfast, and walk out to take the air; I shall be on the terrace. Minerva will see to it that we get no opportunity to be private this evening—did you know that she is joining us?” He glanced over his shoulder, towards the archway which led to the anteroom, and said, under his breath: “Take care! Here she is! Carry this to my uncle!” As she took the glass from him, he added, in quite another voice: “Sherry for you, Doctor? Cousin Kate, I am going to pour you out a glass of Madeira!—Good evening, Minerva! I am happy to see you restored to health! What may I offer you? Sherry, or Madeira?”

  “A little Madeira, thank you, Philip. Sir Timothy!”

  He rose, and came forward to meet her, punctiliously kissing first her outstretched hand, and then her cheek. “Welcome, my dear!” he said. “I hope you are feeling more the thing? You have been in a very poor way, have you not? Such a fright as you gave us all! Pray don’t do it again!”

  “You may be sure I shall try not to do so!” she returned, moving to a chair, and sinking down upon it.

  “I wonder if a doctor ever had two such obstreperous patients!” said Delabole, solicitously placing a stool before her. “First there is Sir Timothy, playing truant when my back was turned, and now it is you, my lady, leaving your bedchamber in defiance of my orders! I don’t know what is to be done with you, upon my word, I don’t! And you did not even summon me to lend you the support of my arm! Now, how am I to take that?”

  Lady Broome, receiving a glass of Madeira from Kate, and bestowing a smile upon her, replied: “Not amiss, I trust. Mrs Nidd most kindly lent me the support of her arm—my nieces’s nurse, you know, who has come to visit her: a most respectable woman! Kate, dear child, I do hope my people have made her comfortable?”

  “Perfectly comfortable, ma’am, thank you,” Kate said, in a colourless tone.

  “Ah, good! I told her Thorne would look after her. What a fortunate thing it was that she arrived in time to bring Torquil up to the house in her chaise! She has a great deal of common-sense, and I am vastly indebted to her, as, you may be sure, I told her.”

  “Bring Torquil up to the house? Why should she have done so?” asked Sir Timothy, his voice sharpened by anxiety.

  “Oh, he took a toss, and was momentarily stunned!” she answered with an indulgent laugh. “Overfacing his horse, of course! So stupid of him! Fleet—you know what these people are, my love!—believed him to be dead, but, in point of fact, he is very little the worse for his tumble!”

  “Not a penny the worse!” corroborated the doctor. “Merely bruised, shaken, chastened, and reeking of arnica! So he is dining in his own room this evening—feeling thoroughly shamefaced, I daresay! But no cause for anxiety, Sir Timothy! It may be regarded in the light of a salutary lesson!”

  “We must hope so!” said Lady Broome, getting up. “Shall we go down to dinner now? Dr Delabole, will you give me your arm? Philip, you may give yours to your uncle! Which leaves poor Kate without a gentleman to escort her, but she is so much a part of the family that I shan’t apologize to her!”

  Dinner pursued what Kate had long since come to regard as its tedious course. Lady Broome maintained a light flow of everyday chit-chat, in which she was ably seconded by the doctor. She was looking a trifle haggard, but she held herself as upright as ever, and when she rose from the table she declined the doctor’s offered assistance.

  “Let James give you his arm, my lady!” said Sir Timothy, seeing her stagger, and put out a hand to grasp a chair-back.

  She gave a breathless laugh. “Very well—if you insist! How stupid to be so invalidish! It is only my knees, you know! They need exercise!”

  But when she reached the head of the Grand Stairway she looked so pale that Kate was alarmed, and begged her to retire to bed. She refused to do this, but after pausing for a few moments, leaning heavily on the footman’s arm, she recovered, and resolutely straightened herself, desiring Kate to summon Sidlaw, and to tell her to bring the cordial Dr Delabole had prescribed to the Long Drawing-room.

  It took time to perform this errand, for Sidlaw was not immediately available. A young housemaid came in answer to the bell, and told Kate that Sidlaw was at supper, in the Housekeeper’s Room; and, although she made haste to deliver my lady’s command to her, the servants’ quarters were so inconveniently remote that it was several minutes before Sidlaw came hurrying in. Upon being told that my lady wanted a cordial, she said that she knew how it would be, and had warned her ladyship What would be the outcome of going down to dinner before she was fit to stand on her feet. When she had measured out a dose of the restorative medicine, and Kate would have taken it from her, she said sharply: “Thank you, miss! I prefer to take it to her ladyship myself!” and sailed off, full of zeal and fury.

  Not at all sorry that, for the moment at least, she would be spared a tete-a-tete with her aunt, Kate followed her. By the time Lady Broome had swallowed the cordial, and Sidlaw, disregarding her impatience, had fussed over her, drawing a heavy screen behind her chair to protect her from an imaginary draught, placing a cushion behind her head, begging to be allowed to fetch a warmer shawl, and placing her vinaigrette on a small table drawn up beside her chair, the gentlemen, not lingering over their port, had come in. Sidlaw then withdrew, with obvious reluctance, and while the doctor bent solicitously over Lady Broome, Sir Timothy, smiling a little sadly at Kate, murmured: “A last game of backgammon, my child?”

  She agreed to it; Philip got the board out of the cabinet, and sat down to watch the game; Lady Broome leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes; and the doctor went away to see how Torquil was going on. He came back in the wake of the tea-tray, with a comfortable account of Torquil, who had eaten a very good dinner, he said, and was now gone to bed. Lady Broome then put an end to the backgammon session by calling Kate to dispense the tea. She seemed to have recovered both her complexion and her strength, but as soon as the footman came to remove the tray she got up, saying that it was time she retired, and adding: “Come, Kate!”

  Philip looked quickly at Kate, a question in his eyes. She very slightly shook her head, and, seeing Sir Timothy’s hand stretched out to her, went to him, bending over him, with her free hand on his shoulder, preventing his attempt to rise from his chair. “Pray don’t get up, sir!” she said, smiling wistfully.

  He drew her down to kiss her cheek, whispering in her ear: “Come and see me before you go tomorrow, to say goodbye to me!”

  “I will,” she promised, under her breath.

  “Goodnight, my pretty! Bless you!” he said, releasing her.

  Lady Broome, waiting in the archway, watched this scene with placid complaisance, and said, as soon as she had passed through the anteroom: “I believe Sir Timothy does indeed look upon you as the daughter of his old age! He is so fond of you, dear child!”

  “I am very fond of him, ma’am,” Kate replied, walking slowly down the broad gallery, with Lady Broome’s hand resting on her arm.

  “Are you? I wonder! I am beginning to think, Kate, that, for all your engaging manners, you are not very fond of anyone. Certainly not of me!”

  Innate honesty forbade Kate to deny this; she could only say: “You are feeling low, and oppressed, ma’am: don’t let us brangle!”

  “I am feeling very low, and more oppressed than ever before in my life—almost at the end of my rope! You will own that I have enough to sink me in despair, even though you refuse to help me! Do you know, I have never asked for help before?”

  “Aunt Minerva, I can’t give it to you!” Kate said bluntly. “I thought there was nothing I wouldn’t do to repay your kindness, but when you ask me to marry Torquil you are asking too much! I beg of you, don’t try to persuade me to do so! It is useless—you will only agitate yourself to no purpose!”

  They had reached the upper hall; Lady Broome paused there, her l
ight clasp on Kate’s arm tightening into a grip. “Think!” she commanded, a harsh note creeping into her voice. “If the advantages of such a marriage don’t weigh with you, does it weigh with you that by persisting in your refusal you will have condemned Torquil to spend the rest of his life in strict incarceration?” She observed the whitening of Kate’s cheeks, the look of horror in her eyes, and smiled. “Oh, yes!” she said, a purring triumph in her voice. “After today’s exploit, there is left to me only one hope of guarding the secret of his madness. Do you realize that he might have brought his horse down on top of the woman who was leading her child by the hand? Do you know that he rode Scholes down in the stableyard? What, you little ninnyhammer, do you suppose that Scholes, and Fleet, and whoever they were who were passing along the lane at that disastrous moment, are now thinking—and discussing, if I know them? Dr Delabole has done what he could to convince Scholes and Fleet that for Torquil to have spurred his horse into a wall was nothing but the act of a headstrong boy, but he might as well have hung up his axe! Only one thing can now silence the gabble-mongers, and that’s the news that Torquil is about to be married to a girl of birth and character! That must give them pause! In any event, only one thing signifies: that there shall be an heir to Staplewood!”

  “Oh!” cried Kate, losing control of herself. “Can you think of nothing but Staplewood? The only thing that signifies! Good God, what does Staplewood matter beside the dreadful fate that hangs over poor Torquil?”

  “If Torquil could have been cured by the abandonment of my hopes of seeing my descendants at Staplewood, I suppose I must have abandoned them,” said Lady Broome coldly. “It would have been my duty, and I’ve never yet failed in that I But it can make no difference to him. If I seem unfeeling, you must remember that I have had time to grow accustomed. Nor am I one to grieve endlessly over what can’t be helped. I prefer to make the best I can out of what befalls me.”