Charity Girl

by Джорджетт Хейер

  She laughed. “From which I collect that he is in the gout again! Poor Lord Wroxton! But what made him rip up at you? Has some tattle-box been carrying tales about you to him?”

  “Certainly not!” he replied austerely. “There are no tales to carry!”

  “What, have you cast off the dasher I saw you with at Vauxhall a month ago?” enquired Miss Silverdale, artlessly surprised.

  “No, she cast me off!” he retorted. “A lovely little barque of frailty, wasn’t she? But much too expensive, unfortunately!”

  “Oh, that’s too bad!” she said sympathetically. “And haven’t you found another to take her place? But you will, Des, you will!”

  “One of these days you will be found strangled—very likely by me!” the Viscount warned her. “Pray, what business has a delicately nurtured female to know anything about such things?”

  “Ah, that’s one of the advantages of having outgrown one’s girlhood!” she said. “One need no longer pretend to be an innocent!”

  The Viscount had been lounging beside her on a rustic seat, but this utterance startled him into straightening himself with a jerk, and exclaiming: “For God’s sake, Hetta—! Is that how you talk to people?”

  Her eyes twinkled mischievously; she said, on a choke of laughter: “No, no, only to you, Des! That’s another of the ways in which you are a comfort to me! Of course, I do talk pretty freely to Charlie, but he’s only my younger brother, not my elder brother! Does Griselda never talk frankly to you?”

  “I can’t remember that she ever did, but I had only just come down from Oxford when she got herself hitched to Broxbourne, and I don’t see much of her nowadays.” He gave a sudden chuckle. “Would you believe it, Hetta? My father suddenly ripped up an old grievance which I had thought dead and buried years ago, and raked me down in thundering style for not having coaxed you to marry me!”

  “Oh, good God!” she cried. “Still? Why didn’t you tell him that we didn’t wish to marry one another?”

  “I did, but he didn’t believe me. To be sure, I didn’t tell him that we knew all about the plot he and your father had so inexpertly hatched, and had decided what we must do about it. Believe me, my dear, that would never do!”

  “No,” she agreed. “And it wouldn’t do for Mama either! I did tell Papa, and he perfectly understood our feelings, and never once reproached me. But Mama never ceases to do so! I do wish you would do something to give her a disgust of you, instead of making yourself agreeable to her! Every time she meets you she complains of my ingratitude until I could scream, and begs me not to blame her when I find myself at my last prayers. According to her, you are everything that is most desirable, and I must be all about in my head! What she might say of you if you were not heir to an Earldom I haven’t asked her!” Her little spurt of temper subsided; she gave a rueful laugh, and said: “Oh, dear, how very improper of me to talk like that about her! Let me assure you that I do not do so to anyone but you! And how shocking it is that I should be glad she is feeling not quite the thing today, and doesn’t mean to leave her room! I do hope Grimshaw can be trusted not to tell her you have been here!”

  “Well, it may be shocking, but I don’t scruple to tell you that I was even more glad to learn that she wasn’t receiving visitors!” said the Viscount candidly. “She makes me feel I’m sort of a heartless loose-screw, for she’s got a way of sighing, and smiling sadly and reproachfully at me when I accord her the common decencies of civility.” He drew out his watch, and said: “I must be off, Hetta. I’m on my way to Hazelfield, and my aunt won’t like it if I arrive at midnight.”

  Henrietta rose from the seat, and accompanied him towards the house. “Oh, are you going to visit your Aunt Emborough? Pray give her my kind regards!”

  “I will,” he promised. “And do you—if Grimshaw should have disclosed my presence here!—say all that is proper to your mama! My compliments, and my—er—regret that I should have paid her a morning visit when she was indisposed!” He bestowed a fraternal hug upon her, kissed her cheek, and said: “Goodbye, my dear! Don’t do anything gooseish, will you?”

  “No, and don’t you do anything gooseish either!” she retorted.

  “What, under my Aunt Sophronia’s eye? I shouldn’t dare!” he tossed at her over his shoulder, as he strode off towards the stableyard.

  Chapter 3

  Lady Emborough was Lord Wroxton’s sole surviving sister. In appearance they were much alike, but although persons of nervous disposition thought that the resemblance was very much more than skin-deep they were misled by her loud voice and downright manners. She was certainly inclined to manage the affairs of anyone weak-minded enough to submit to her autocracy, but she was inspired quite as much by a conviction that such persons were incapable of managing their own affairs as by her belief in her own infallibility, and she never bore anyone the least malice for withstanding her. She was thought by some to be odiously overbearing, but not by those who had sought her help in a moment of need. Under her rough manners she had a warm heart, and an inexhaustible store of kindness. Her husband was a quiet man of few words who for the most part allowed her to rule the household as she chose, a circumstance which frequently led the uninitiated to think that he was henpecked. But those more intimately acquainted with her knew that her lord could check her with no more than a look, and an almost imperceptible shake of his head. She took these silent reproofs in perfectly good part, often saying, with a good natured laugh: “Oh, there is Emborough frowning me down, so not another word will I utter on the subject!”

  She greeted her nephew characteristically, saying: “So here you are at last, Desford! You’re late—and don’t tell me one of your horses lost a shoe, or you broke a trace, because I shan’t believe any of your farradiddles!”

  “Now, don’t bullock poor Des, Mama!” her eldest son, a stalwart young man who bore all the appearance of a country squire, admonished her.

  “Much he cares!” she said, laughing heartily.

  “Of course I don’t!” Desford said, kissing her hand. “Do you take me for a rabbit-sucker, ma’am? None of my horses lost a shoe, and I did not break a trace, or suffer any accident whatsoever, and if you mean to tell me I’ve kept you waiting for dinner I shan’t, of course, be so disrespectful as to accuse you of telling farradiddles, but I shall think it! The thing was I called at Inglehurst on my way, and stayed chatting to Hetta for rather longer than I had intended. She told me to give you her kind regards, by the way.”

  “Inglehurst! Why, have you come from Wolversham?” she exclaimed. “I had supposed you to have been in London still! How’s your father?”

  “In the gout!”

  She gave a snort. “I daresay! And no one but himself to blame! It would do him good to have me living at Wolversham: your mother’s too easy with him!”

  The violent altercations which had taken place between Lord Wroxton and his sister when last she had descended upon Wolversham still lived vividly in the Viscount’s memory, and he barely repressed a shudder. Fortunately, he was not obliged to answer his aunt, for she switched abruptly to another subject, and demanded to be told what he meant by instructing his postilions to lodge at the Blue Boar. “I’ll have you know, Desford, I’m not one of these modern hostesses who tell their guests they won’t house any other of their servants than their valets! Such nipcheese ways won’t do for me: shabby-genteel I call ‘em! Your groom and your postboys will be lodged with our own, and I want no argument about it.”

  “Very well, ma’am,” said the Viscount obediently, “you shall have none!”

  “Now, that’s what I like in you!” said his aunt, regarding him with warm approval. “You never disgust me with flowery commonplaces! By the by, if you were expecting to find the house full of smarts you’ll be disappointed: we have only the Montsales staying here, and young Ross, and his sister. However, I daresay you won’t care for that if you get good sport on the river, which Ned assures me you will. Then there’s racing at Winchester, and—”<
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  She was interrupted by Lord Emborough, who had entered the room in the middle of this speech, and who said humourously: “Don’t overwhelm him with treats you have in store, my love! How do you do, Desford? If you can be dragged away from the trout, you must come and look at my young stock tomorrow and tell me how you like the best yearling I’ve bred yet! He’s out of my mare, Creeping Polly, by Whiffler, and I shall own myself surprised if I haven’t got a winner in him.”

  This pronouncement instantly drew the five gentlemen present into an exclusively male conversation, during the course of which Mr Edward Emborough loudly seconded his father’s opinion; Mr Gilbert Emborough, his junior by a year, said that although the colt had great bone and substance he couldn’t rid himself of the conviction that the animal was just a leetle straight-shouldered; Mr Mortimer Redgrave, who had entered the room in Lord Emborough’s wake, and was the elder of that gentleman’s two sons-in-law, said that for his part he never wanted to see a more promising young ‘un; and Mr Christian Emborough, in his first year at Oxford, who had been reverently observing the exquisite cut of his cousin’s coat, said that he would be interested to hear what he thought of the colt, “because Des is much more knowing about horses than Ned and Gil are—even if he doesn’t boast about it!” Having delivered himself of this snub to his seniors, he relapsed into blushful silence. The Viscount, not having seen the colt, volunteered no opinion, but engaged instead in general stable-talk with his host. Lady Emborough allowed the gentlemen to enjoy themselves in their own way for quite a quarter of an hour before intervening, with a reminder to her sons and nephew that if they didn’t rig themselves out for dinner at once they would get nothing but scraps to eat, since she did not mean to wait for them. Upon which the male company dispersed, young Mr Christian Emborough confiding to his cousin, as he went up the broad stairway beside him, that he happened to know that a couple of ducklings and a plump leveret were to form the main dishes for the second course. The Viscount agreed that it would be a shocking thing if these succulent dishes should be spoilt; and young Mr Emborough, taking his courage in his hands, ventured to ask him if he had tied his neckcloth in the style known as the Oriental. To which the Viscount responded gravely: “No, it’s called the Mathematical Tie. Would you like me to teach you how to achieve it?”

  “Oh, by Jupiter, wouldn’t I just?” exclaimed Christian, the ready colour flooding his cheeks in gratification.

  “Well, I will, then,” promised Desford. “But not just at this moment, if those ducks are not to be overroasted!”

  “Oh, no, no! Whenever it is perfectly convenient to you!” Christian stammered.

  He then went off to his own bedchamber, more than ever convinced that Des was a bang-up fellow, not by half as top-lofty as his own brothers; and filled with an agreeable vision of stunning these censorious seniors by appearing before them in a neckcloth which they must instantly recognize as being slap up to the mark.

  When the Viscount went back to the drawing-room, he found that the party was rather larger than his aunt had led him to expect, for besides the persons she had mentioned, it included Miss Montsale; both the married daughters of the house, with their spouses; a rather nebulous female of uncertain age, in whom he vaguely recognized one of Lady Emborough’s indigent cousins; and the Honourable Rachel Emborough, who was the eldest of the family, and seemed to be destined to fill the roles of universal confidant, companion of her parents, wise and reliable sister of her brothers and sisters, and beloved aunt of their offspring. She had no pretensions to beauty, but her unaffected manners, her cheerfulness, and the kindness that sprang from a warm heart made her a general favourite. And finally, because Lady Emborough had discovered almost at the last moment that her numbers were uneven, the Honourable Clara Emborough had also been included. This damsel, who had not yet attained her seventeenth birthday, was not considered to have emerged from the schoolroom but, as her mama told the Viscount: “It don’t do girls any harm to attend a few parties before one brings ‘em out in the regular way. Teaches ‘em how to go on in Society, and accustoms ‘em to talking to strangers! Of course I wouldn’t let her appear at formal parties until I’ve presented her! And I can depend on Rachel to keep an eye on her!”

  The Viscount, who had been watching Rachel check, in the gentlest way, Miss Clara’s mounting exuberance, intervene to give her brothers’ thoughts a fresh direction when an argument which sprang up between them threatened to become acrimonious, and attend unobtrusively to the comfort of the guests, said impulsively: “What a good girl Rachel is, ma’am!”

  “Yes, she’s as good as wheat,” agreed Lady Emborough, in a somewhat gloomy voice. “But she ain’t a girl, Desford: she’s older than you are! And no one has ever offered for her! Heaven knows I shouldn’t know what to do without her, but I can’t be glad to see her dwindling into an old maid! It ain’t that the men don’t like her: they do, but they don’t fall in love with her. She’s like Hetta Silverdale—except that Hetta’s a very well-looking girl, and my poor Rachel—well, there can be no denying that she’s something of a Homely Joan! But each of them would make any man an excellent wife—a much better wife than my Theresa there, who is so full of whims and crotchets that I never expected her to go off at all, far less to attach such a good bargain as John Thimbleby!”

  Aware that Mr Thimbleby was seated well within earshot, the Viscount shot an involuntary glance at him. He was relieved to see a most appreciative twinkle in this gentleman’s eye, and to receive from him something suspiciously like a wink. He was thus able to reply to his aunt with perfect equanimity: “Very true, ma’am! But there is no accounting for tastes, you know! However, you’re out when you say that Hetta has no suitors! I could name you at least four very eligible partis whom she might have had for the lifting of a finger. Indeed, when I saw her this morning I found her entertaining two more of them! Perhaps neither she nor my cousin Rachel wishes to become a mere wife!”

  “Gammon!” said her ladyship crudely. “Show me the female who doesn’t hope for marriage, and I’ll show you a lunatic past praying for! Yes, and if you wish to know what I think—not that I suppose you do!—you’re a shuttlehead not to have married Hetta when I daresay she was yours for the asking!”

  The Viscount was annoyed, and betrayed it by a slight contraction of his brows, and the careful civility with which he said: “You are mistaken, my dear aunt: Hetta was never mine for the asking. Neither of us has ever wished for a closer relationship than that of the friendship we have always enjoyed—and, I trust, may always enjoy!”

  As little as Lady Emborough resented the quiet checks her husband imposed upon her exuberance did she resent a deserved snub. She replied, laughing: “That’s the hammer! Quite right to give me a setdown, for what you do is no business of mine! Emborough is for ever scolding me for being too wide in the mouth! But, wit-cracking apart, Desford, isn’t it time you were thinking of matrimony? I don’t mean Hetta, for if you don’t fancy each other there’s nothing to be said about that, but with Horace still in France, and Simon, from all I hear, sowing even more wild oats than your father did, in his day, I can’t but feel that you do owe it to your father to give him a grandson or two—legitimate ones, I mean!”

  This made the Viscount burst out laughing, and effectually banished his vexation. “Aunt Sophronia,” he said, “you are quite abominable! Did anyone ever tell you so? But you are right, for all that, as I’ve lately been brought to realize. It is clearly time that I brought my delightfully untrammelled life to an end. The only difficulty is that I have yet to meet any female who will both meet with Papa’s approval, and inspire me with the smallest desire to become riveted to her for life!”

  “You are a great deal too nice in your requirements,” she told him severely; but added, after a moment’s reflection: “Not but what I don’t wish any of my children to marry anyone for whom they don’t feel a decided preference. When I was a girl, you know, most of us married to oblige our parents. Why, even my bosom-b
ow in those days did so, though she positively disliked the man to whom her parents betrothed her! And a vilely unhappy marriage it was! But your grandfather, my dear Ashley, having himself been forced to contract an alliance which was far from happy, was resolute in his determination that none of his children should find themselves in a similar situation. And nothing, you will agree, could have been more felicitous than the result of his liberality of mind! To be sure, there were only three of us, and your Aunt Jane died before you were born, but when I married Emborough, and Everard married your dear mama, no one could have been more delighted than your grandfather!”

  “I am sorry he died before I was out of short coats,” Desford remarked. “I have no memory of him, but from all I have heard about him from you, and from Mama, I wish that I had had the privilege of knowing him.”

  “Yes, you’d have liked him,” she nodded. “What’s more, he’d have liked you! And if your father hadn’t waited until he was more than thirty before he got married to your mama you would have known him! And why Wroxton should glump at you for doing exactly what he did himself is something I don’t understand, or wish to understand! There, you be off to play billiards with your cousins, and the Montsale girl, before I get to be as cross as crabs, which they say I always do when I talk about your father!”

  He was very ready to obey her, and she did not again revert to the subject. He stayed for a week in Hampshire, and passed his time very pleasurably. After the exigencies of the Season, with its ceaseless breakfasts, balls, routs, race-parties at Ascot, opera-parties, convivial gatherings at Cribb’s Parlour, evenings spent at Watier’s, not to mention the numerous picnics, and al fresco entertainments ranging from quite ordinary parties to some, given by ambitious hostesses, so daringly original that they were talked of for at least three days, the lazy, unexacting life at Hazelfield exactly suited his humour. If one visited the Emboroughs there was no need to fear that every moment of every day would have been planned, or that you would be dragged to explore some ruin or local beauty spot when all you wished to do was to go for a strolling walk with some other like-minded members of the party. Lady Emborough never made elaborate plans for the entertainment of her guests. She merely fed them very well, and saw to it that whatever facilities were necessary to enable them to engage in such sports or exercises as they favoured were always at hand; and if any amusement, such as a race-meeting, happened to be taking place she informed them that carriages were ready to take them to it, but if anyone felt disinclined to go racing he had only to say so, and need not fear that she would be offended.