by Joan Aiken
“Oh, no! It is what I would like of all things!”
In a moment the tea appeared—brought, much to Delphie’s astonishment, by two little girls in dark gray linsey dresses and brown holland pinafores, who came slowly and carefully in, one of them carrying the cup of tea (which she bore with intense concentration, never lifting her eyes from it) and the other with a plate of bread-and-butter. These things being placed on a small table beside Delphie, the children were free to look at her, which they did with huge eyes.
“Thank you very much!” said Delphie, smiling at them both. “Tea and bread-and-butter is exactly what I long for most, after a carriage accident. What are your names, my dears?”
“I am Melilot,” said one of them, the tea-bearer.
“And I am Morgan,” said the one who had brought the bread-and-butter.
“Well, Melilot and Morgan, I think you have very pretty names. And do you have any brothers and sisters?” Delphie inquired. She noticed Mr. Penistone smiling somewhat wryly over their heads.
“Yes, ma’am. Eight.”
“What—there are ten of you altogether?”
“Yes, ma’am. Tristram, Arthur, Percy, Helen, Gawaine, Iseult, Lionel, Lance, and us two.”
“Good gracious,” said Delphie faintly. “What a fine family.” Now she understood the inexplicable number of faces which had clustered around the couch.
“And this is your cousin Delphie,” said Mr. Penistone. “You should say, ‘How do you do, Cousin Delphie?’ ”
They said it, curtsying primly, then broke into giggles, and ran precipitately from the room.
Delphie heard their awestruck voices outside the door, which they had neglected to shut.
“Isn’t she beautiful!”
“She looks just like a princess!”
Delphie raised her brows, and looked at Gareth, whose wry smile had reappeared.
“Now I fear you have been pitchforked into one of the main arguments against removing to Curzon Street! Ten children are a weighty objection, I must acknowledge.”
“Ten children! It certainly is a family!” she said, thinking of the royal dukes and their large broods of illegitimate offspring. Mr. Penistone, it seemed, had outstripped all of them, even the Duke of Clarence. “Are any of them in school?” she asked.
“Why yes, most of them, except the two youngest boys, and the girls, who stay at home to look after their Mama. The boys are at the Westminster School.”
He spoke absently; he seemed preoccupied, and the somber look had come back to his face.
Delphie watched him with no clue to his thoughts. Presently he said,
“Cousin—just before the horses bolted, and our drive became so dramatic—you had made a reference to—to Miss Elaine Carteret. Was I right in concluding from what you said that she has removed to London—that you have recently seen her?”
“Indeed I have,” said Delphie. “And very angry she was! She told me—in the most peremptory way imaginable—that it is incumbent on me to have that marriage annulled—also that I have no right to the name of Carteret.”
“That certainly sounds like Elaine,” he said grimly.
“Why in the name of heaven did you ever allow yourself to become affianced to her?” Delphie wished to exclaim—but she held her peace, merely remarking, “I, of course, told her that she must apply to you in regard to such an annulment—but I was not perfectly certain that she had your direction in London.”
“You did not supply her with it?” he said, raising his brows.
“She did not ask me for it,” said Delphie primly.
“My cousin Mordred could have given it to her—but perhaps she is not aware of his presence in town,” Gareth murmured, half to himself. “They used to be very thick at one time—practically lived in one another’s pockets; but I do not know if that is any longer the case. Do you know how long Elaine remains in London?”
“I am afraid not. She is staying with Lady Bablock-Hythe in Brook Street,” Delphie said in a neutral manner. He nodded as if this was to be expected. “And she has invited my mother and me to take tea one afternoon next week.”
He turned around sharply at that.
“Your mother and you—are you both going?”
“Mamma plans to; yes. Have you any objections? My mother is delighted at the prospect of discovering new Carteret connections. And perhaps we shall be able to trace the source of the confusion.”
He frowned, and said impatiently, “I do not trust Elaine. She has always been bone selfish—ever since I used to visit her at her school, and all she wanted was sugarplums. And she has been foolishly overindulged by Lady Bablock-Hythe, who has undertaken the care of her for the last two years, and arranged her coming out. Lady Bablock-Hythe is a real shatter-brain. There is an old nurse too, who has been with her forever, spoiling and cosseting her. She is too used to her own way.”
He seemed remarkably detached in his view, Delphie thought, of the lady he was intending to marry.
“Why do you say you do not trust her? What might she do?”
“Oh—spill the beans to Uncle Mark, I suppose! Even though, by doing so, she might be lopping off her own bough—I do not trust her to look ahead far enough to consider that possibility. But perhaps Fitz may be able to talk some sense into her—he has always had more influence than I did.”
“Why should she be lopping off her own bough?”
“Uncle Mark only leaves her a share of his fortune on condition she marries me. At present she would receive her legacy, were he to die—for he is under the impression that she and I are married—but who knows what turn his fancy may take if she runs to him crying telltale? It is a thousand to one that the whole will go to those moth-eaten hounds!”
“Is the money so very important to you?” Delphie could not help exclaiming wonderingly. For his knuckles were clenched and his lips pressed together in what seemed like acute and angry calculation. Then she thought: What a foolish question. With ten children to support, of course it is important. She could have bitten out her own tongue.
He looked at her, frowning.
“To me? No. I rub along on very little—have done these past ten years. Horsmonden would support me tolerably well. But—however, I should not waste your time talking. You must be anxious to return to your mother.” He looked at her, hesitated, appeared to come to a decision, paused again, and then said,
“Come with me for a moment, however, and you will see part of what this is about.”
He opened the door. The origin of a certain shuffling and rustling outside was now revealed: half a dozen children were close at hand, packed together at the head of the stairs. Morgan and Melilot, who had brought the tea, were there, besides two angelic-looking small boys with curly dark locks—also twins, it seemed—a stout, well-grown boy of around eight, and a thin freckled girl of perhaps seven.
“Gawaine, Iseult, Lionel, Lance, and the girls you have already met,” said Gareth rapidly. “And this is Helen, who looks after us all.” A worried-looking dark child of nine flushed pink with pleasure at this tribute and shyly extended her hand. “Here is your cousin Delphie, wishful to meet your mother. Do you think she is well enough?”
“Yes, I am sure she is,” said Helen, who seemed to be the spokesman. “She is resting, but she is awake. One of the boys is reading to her.”
Gareth ran up another flight of stairs (they circled up a well in the middle of the house, under a very pretty lantern) and called gently, outside a door,
“Una? May I bring Cousin Delphie to see you?”
The response was evidently in the affirmative, for he came down again, took Delphie’s arm, and carefully assisted her to mount. A door on the upper landing stood open, and they passed through.
9
The scene that met her eyes was so orderly that Delphie could have laughed at herself for her wild imaginings. She did not quite know what she had imagined, but it certainly had not been anything like this: a small narrow couch, with a small
frail person, wrapped in shawls, lying back against a pile of pillows, taking, from time to time, a languid stitch in a pair of boy’s trousers in which she was endeavoring to mend a rent; meanwhile one boy read aloud from the works of Ovid (translating as he went), another boy stirred something in a saucepan that simmered over the fire, and a third lay on his stomach on the floor, apparently repairing a very small bridle, possibly that of a pony.
Like the room downstairs, this one was very frugally furnished; beyond the bed, a chair, a small chest, and a jug and basin, it was almost bare; Delphie began to receive an impression of poverty by the side of which she and her mother seemed quite comfortably established.
It was impossible not to remark a resemblance between Gareth Penistone and the girl—for she seemed little more—on the bed; indeed, on entering the room, Delphie had only just withheld an exclamation of surprise. She felt her cheeks burning at her own stupidity, remembering how idly she had said to Jenny, “It could have been his sister?”—and yet she had not truly thought so. There could be no question but that this was Gareth’s sister. Her face was small and pale, instead of dark and swarthy, but the shapes of cheek, brow, and nose, were identical; her eyes were as dark, but listless, where his were flashing; her hair, lighter in color than his, had been carelessly swept up into a knot on the top of her head. Jenny—not an acute or observant judge—must have been misled by the difference in stature, for this girl was very slight and small.
Gareth said, “Una, here is your cousin Delphie. Delphie, my sister Una,” with as little ceremony as when he had introduced the children. “And these are Tristram, Arthur, and Percival.”
The three boys nodded politely to Delphie. The reader stopped in the middle of a sentence. And the girl on the bed gave a faint smile as Delphie walked forward, extending her hand, and saying,
“How do you do? I am very happy to meet you.”
“You will forgive my not rising, won’t you?” breathed Una softly. “I have this stupid affliction in my legs. On some days it is better. Oh dear, I have heard so much about you from Gareth. You are quite a heroine in this household, I can tell you!”
Somehow, despite her tone of wistful admiration, Delphie was made to feel that to be a heroine was rather vulgar, and that Una, given her opportunities, would have made a different use of them—but this was probably her imagination.
Una said, “I never knew that we had any more Carteret cousins, apart from that odious Elaine—but you look more like a Penistone than a Carteret—how can that be? You are exactly like the portrait of great-grandmama.”
“I doubt if that can be any recommendation,” Delphie said, smiling. Then Gareth pulled forward the solitary chair and she sat in it, while Una—in her breathless, exhausted voice—poured out a series of questions as to Delphie’s mother, about their life, about Delphie’s pupils—
“You are so clever to be able to teach,” she murmured with wistful envy. “How wonderful it would be if you were to come and live with us, as Gareth has suggested. For then you could bring your piano. Imagine having a piano in the house again, Gar! Of course we would not permit the children to tease you for tunes or for lessons—otherwise they would all be wishing to learn, I don’t doubt—but perhaps you would not object to play a little for them sometimes—just for a treat—just if they were especially well behaved?”
This, thought Delphie, seemed to be taking a good deal for granted. Una glanced toward Gareth, who was sitting on the end of the bed, advising the boy, Tristram, about the broken harness. “What do you think, Gar?” she said plaintively. “The children are so fond of music.”
He said, without raising his eyes from his occupation, “That must be for Cousin Delphie to decide.”
Delphie wondered if unspoken messages were passing from sister to brother. There seemed a certain constraint in the room. She said,
“I am certain that—if I were living here—I could find a little time to teach some of the older children.” She noticed a look flash from Arthur to Percival, and added firmly, “Only if they were wishful to learn, mind! Nothing is more abhorrent than forcing music on those to whom it is constitutionally repugnant—and I have more than I like of that among my present pupils.”
“Oh, you are so fortunate to be able to earn your living,” Una sighed. “Look at me—all I can do is mend clothes. And even in that I cannot by any means keep up—they tear things far more quickly than I can repair them.”
She smiled wanly, in pretty self-denigration.
“Never mind, Mama,” said Percy, the boy at the fireside. “Helen and Isa do pretty well as it is, and I daresay the twins will learn how in a year or two. Then all your troubles will be over.”
“So they will be, my dear!” said his mother with a radiant smile. But Arthur, the reader, muttered,
“Blest if I’d wear anything cobbled together by those little goosecaps.”
Delphie now said firmly that she must return home; despite Gareth’s message (which had been delivered by Tristram) Mrs. Carteret would certainly be anxious, and wondering what had befallen her daughter.
“You are so lucky to have a mother!” breathed Una.
“I shall see you home,” said Gareth.
“Oh, no! There is not the least occasion for it. Pray do not trouble.”
“Most certainly I shall! I would not dream of letting you go unescorted.”
“Gareth is the most thoughtful creature in the world,” said his sister with a wan smile, as Delphie said farewell.
On the middle floor a gray-haired man with a respectful smile handed Gareth his hat and jacket and said,
“I have managed to get the mud out of the other ones tolerably well, Mr. Gareth.”
“Thanks, Bardwell! I am just going to show Miss Carteret the rooms on the ground floor.”
“They are all clean and redd up, sir.”
In fact the rooms on the ground floor were completely empty; they just glanced through each door in turn; and Delphie could not suppress the knowledge that they were far superior to the rooms in Greek Street. But Gareth said nothing in the way of further attempts at persuasion. He accompanied her all the way back to Greek Street, walking beside the chair which he had had one of the boys call up for her, but was silent on the way, wrapped in thought, it seemed. When they arrived at the Baggotts’ shop, he said,
“Should I not come up and reassure your mother about you?”
She was a little doubtful.
“My mother is—tends to be—a trifle absentminded since her illness. Also I cannot deny that she has a decided distaste for the Penistone family, since she was cut off ... But it is true, I believe, that her objections do not extend to your branch, Cousin Gareth. Only, please do not take offense if she should run on rather oddly!”
He promised not to take the least offense in the world, and they mounted to Mrs. Carteret’s chamber. What a lot, Delphie thought, had she learned, since leaving it that afternoon!
Luckily Mrs. Carteret was in high gig, having finished the mantle (without the need of the extra silk, as she pointed out to Delphie rather caustically); she was longing for someone to admire her work.
“Mamma,” said Delphie, “here is Cousin Gareth Penistone.”
“How charming to see you, my dear boy,” said Mrs. Carteret. “You are so like your father, my cousin Gareth, who was killed trying to jump a double oxer when out hunting with the Ouorn, two years before my marriage. He was the most amiable fool in the world—thought about nothing save horses.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I have been told that I am like him,” said Gareth. “Only, that was my grandfather, not my father,” he added politely.
“Oh, then you must be Gateau’s son?”
He smiled a little. “Yes, I believe that my father had that nickname at one time.”
“It was because he was so greedy,” Mrs. Carteret said reminiscently. “He was four years younger than I, you see; and when he came to stay at Chase once, with his French governess, he stole an almond cak
e that she had intended for her own supper, and she was so angry! So from then on, Gateau was all that we called him.”
Gareth listened with unaffected interest to this piece of family lore, assured Mrs. Carteret that she need have no anxiety about her daughter’s misadventure (which Mrs. Carteret certainly showed no sign of doing; in fact it appeared doubtful whether she apprehended that any misadventure had occurred); then he took his leave.
Delphie went down to let him out through the shop, which was closed.
“You can see what Mamma is like,” she said, undoing the chain. “Rather confused about present-day happenings. But when it comes to long-ago events, she is as clear as a bell.”
“You and I have something in common,” he said smiling a little—and, as she looked at him inquiringly, “We both have anxieties about our relations.” He was silent for a moment, and then said abruptly,
“Would you be able to rise early and meet me tomorrow morning?”
“What for?” said Delphie, astonished.
“I should like—to take you somewhere. Could you meet meat seven, say—at the corner of Piccadilly and St. James’s?”
Very puzzled, Delphie said she thought she could manage to do so, provided she did not stay out too long. She had no pupils until ten. And Mrs. Carteret often slept until quite late in the morning; Mrs. Andrews could give her her breakfast when she woke.
“Very well,” said Gareth. “At seven, then.”
He gave her a brief bow, and walked away down the street.
Delphie was awake much earlier than seven, the next morning; her curiosity had been thoroughly aroused by Gareth’s odd manner. She confessed to herself that she did not know what to make of him at all. Sometimes he seemed so stiff, abrupt, curt, and cold that she felt sure he had a strong dislike of the whole female sex—and who was to blame him for that? she thought. The two members of it that he had most to do with seemed, respectively, selfish and self-pitying. And now he was tied to Delphie by this inconvenient bond! But at other times—when he had been talking to the children, for instance, or during the brief interview with her mother—his rather hard face had relaxed, and, momentarily, he looked as if he might be capable of more kindly feelings. Also Delphie suspected that he might have a sense of humor; once or twice she had observed a lurking twinkle in his eye when he spoke of the children.
