Arabella

by Джорджетт Хейер

  Morning dresses, afternoon dresses, carriage dresses, walking dresses, ball dresses—it seemed to Arabella and Sophia that the list would never come to an end. “I cannot imagine how you will find time to wear the half of them!” whispered Sophia.

  “Shoes, half-boots, reticules, gloves, stockings,” murmured Mrs. Tallant, conning her list. “Those will do for another day. You must take the greatest care of your silk stockings, my love, for I cannot afford to buy you many pairs! Hats—h’m, yes! What a fortunate thing it was that I kept all my old ostrich feathers! We shall see what we can contrive. I think that will do for today.”

  “Mama, what will Bella wear when she goes to the Drawing-room?” asked Sophia.

  “Ah, pour ça, alors, la grande parure!” cried Madame, her eye brightening.

  Mrs. Tallant crushed these budding hopes. “Full dress, to be sure, my dear: satin, I daresay. Feathers, of course. I do not know if hoops are still worn at Court. Lady Bridlington is to make your sister a present of the dress, and I know I may depend upon her to choose just what is right. Come, my dears! If we are to call upon your uncle on our way home it is high time we were off!”

  “Call upon my uncle?” repeated Sophia, surprised.

  Mrs. Tallant coloured slightly, but replied in an airy way: “Certainly, my love: why should we not? Besides, one should never neglect the observances of civility, and I am sure he would think it very odd in me not to apprise him of Arabella’s going to London.”

  Sophia knitted her brows a little over this, for although there had always been a good deal of coming and going between the two boys at the Hall, and their young cousins at the Vicarage, visits between their respective parents were rare. The Squire and his brother, while remaining on perfectly amicable terms, scarcely possessed a thought in common, each regarding the other with affectionate contempt; while the late Lady Tallant, besides labouring under all the disadvantages of a jealous temper, had been, even in her charitable brother-in-law’s estimation, a very under-bred woman. There were two children of the marriage: Thomas, a bucolic young man of twenty-seven; and Algernon, who held a commission in the —th Regiment, stationed at present in Belgium.

  The Hall, which was situated in a pretty little park, about a mile from the village of Heythram, was a commodious, unpretentious house built of the prevailing gray stone of the district. Comfort rather than elegance was the predominant note struck by its furniture and decorations, and it bore, in despite of the ministrations of an excellent housekeeper, the indefinable air of a residence that lacked a mistress. The Squire was more interested in his stables than in his house. He was generally thought to be a warm man, but careful; and although he was fond of his nephews and nieces, and always goodnaturedly mounted Bertram during the hunting-season, it was rarely that his affection led him to do more for them than to give them a guinea apiece every Christmas. But he was a hospitable man, and always seemed pleased to welcome his brother’s family to his board.

  He came bustling out of the house as soon as the Parsonage carriage drew up at his door, and exclaimed in a loud voice: “Well, well, if it’s not Sophia, and the girls! Well, this is a pleasant circumstance! What, only the two of you? Never mind! Come in, and take a glass of wine! Bitter cold, ain’t it? Ground’s like iron: don’t know when we shall get out again, damme if I do!”

  Talking all the time, he led the ladies into a square parlour in the front of the house, breaking off his conversation only to shout to someone to bring refreshments into the parlour, and to be quick about it. He then ran his eye over his nieces, and said that they were prettier than ever, and demanded to be told how many beaux they could boast between them. They were spared the necessity of answering this jocular question by his instantly turning to Mrs. Tallant, and saying: “Can’t hold a candle to their Mama, though, I swear! I declare, it’s an age since I’ve clapped eyes on you, Sophia! Can’t think why you and poor Henry don’t come up more often to eat your mutton with me! And how is Henry? Still poring over his books, I dare swear! I never knew such a fellow! But you shouldn’t let him keep young Bertram’s nose glued to ’em, my dear: that’s a good lad—regular devil to go, nothing bookish about him!”

  “Bertram is reading for Oxford, Sir John. You know he must do so!”

  “Mark my words, he’ll do no good there!” said the Squire. “Better make a soldier of him, as I did with my young rascal. But tell him to come up to the stables here, if he wants to see a rare piece of horseflesh: great rumps and hocks, grand shoulders! Don’t mind the boy’s trying him, if he likes to, but he’s young yet: needs schooling. Does Bertram mean to come out when this frost breaks? Tell him the bay has a splint forming, or you may call me a Dutchman, but he may ride Thunderer, if he chooses.”

  “I think,” said Mrs. Tallant, with a faint sigh, “that his Papa does not wish him to hunt any more this season. It quite takes his mind off his book, poor boy!”

  “Henry’s an old woman,” replied the Squire. “Ain’t it enough for him to have James as bookish as he is himself? Where is that lad? Up at Oxford, eh? Ah well, each man to his taste! Now, that other young rascal of yours—what’s his name? Harry! I like the cut of his jib, as he’d say himself. Going to sea, he tells me. How shall you manage it?”

  Mrs. Tallant explained that one of her brothers was to use his interest in Harry’s favour. The Squire seemed satisfied with this, asked jovially after the health of his godson and namesake, and set about pressing cold meat and wine upon his guests. It was some time before any opportunity offered of breaking to him the reason of the visit, but when the spate of his conversation abated a little, Sophia, who could scarcely contain herself for impatience, said abruptly: “Sir, do you know that Arabella is going to London?”

  He stared, first at her, and then at Arabella. “Eh? What’s that you say? How comes this about?”

  Mrs. Tallant, frowning reprovingly at Sophia, explained the matter. He listened very intently, nodding, and pursing up his lips, as his habit was when he was interested; and after turning it over in his mind for several moments, began to perceive what an excellent thing it was, and to congratulate. Arabella upon her good fortune. After he had wished her a great many town-beaux, envied the lucky one who should win her, and prophesied that she would shine down all the London beauties, Mrs. Tallant brought his gallantry to an end by suggesting that her daughters would like to go to the housekeeper’s room to visit good Mrs. Paignton, who was always so kind to them. The style of the Squire’s pleasantries was not just to her taste; moreover, she wished to have some private talk with him.

  He had a great many questions to ask her, and comments to make. The more he thought about the scheme the better he liked it, for although he was fond of his niece, and considered her a remarkably handsome girl, he did not wish her to become his daughter-in-law. His understanding was not quick, nor had he much power of perception, but it had lately been borne in upon him that his heir had begun to dangle after his cousin in a marked manner. He did not suppose that Tom’s affections were deeply engaged, and he was hopeful that if Arabella were removed from the neighbourhood he would soon recover from his mild infatuation, and make some more eligible lady the object of his gallantry. He had a suitable girl in his eye for Tom, but being a fair-minded man he was obliged to own that Miss Maria was cast very much in the shade by Arabella. Nothing, therefore, that Mrs. Tallant could have told him would have met with more approval from him. He gave the scheme his warmest approbation, and told her that she was a sensible woman.

  “Ay, you need not tell me! this is your doing, Sophia! Poor Henry never had a particle of sense! A dear, good fellow, of course, but when a man has a quiverful of children he needs to be a little sharper than Henry. But you have all your wits about you, my dear sister! You are doing just as you should: the girl’s uncommon handsome, and should do well for herself. Ay, ay, you will be setting about the wedding preparations before the cat has time to lick her ear! Lady Bridlington, eh? One of the London nobs, I daresay: couldn’t be
better! But it will cost a great deal!”

  “Indeed, you are right, Sir John,” said Mrs. Tallant. “It will cost a very great deal, but when such an opportunity is offered every effort should be made to take advantage of it, I believe.”

  “Ay, ay, you will be laying your money out to good purpose!” he nodded. “But can you trust this fine lady of yours to keep half-pay officers, and such-like, out of the girl’s way? It won’t do to have her running off with some penniless fellow, you know, and all your trouble wasted!”

  The fact that the same thought had more than once crossed her mind did not make this piece of plain-speaking any more agreeable to Mrs. Tallant. She considered it extremely vulgar, and replied in a repressive tone that she believed she might depend on Arabella’s good sense.

  “You had better drop a word of warning in your friend’s ear,” said Sir John bluntly. “You know, Sophia, if that girl of yours were to catch a man of property, and, damme, I don’t see why she shouldn’t!—it would be a great thing for her sisters! Ay, the more I think on it the better I like it! It is worth all the expense. When does she go? How do you mean to send her?”

  “As to that, it is not yet decided, Sir John, but if Mrs. Caterham holds by her original scheme, and lets Miss Blackburn go next month—you must know that she is the governess, I daresay—she could travel with Arabella. I believe her home is in Surrey, so she must go to London.”

  “But you won’t send little Bella on the stage-coach!”

  Mrs. Tallant sighed. “My dear sir, the cost of posting is too great to be even thought of! I own, I do not like it, but beggars, you know, cannot be choosers!”

  The Squire began to look very thoughtful. “Well, that won’t do,” he said presently. “No, no, we can’t have that! Driving up to your grand friend’s house in a hackney! We shall have to contrive a little, Sophia. Now, let me see!”

  He sat staring into the fire for some minutes, while his sister-in-law pensively gazed out of the window, and tried not to let her mind dwell on what her sensitive husband’s feelings must be, could he but have had the least idea of what she was doing.

  “I’ll tell you what, sister!” said the Squire suddenly. “I’ll send Arabella to London in my travelling-carriage, that’s what I’ll do! No sense in wasting money on posting: it don’t matter to the girl if she spends some time on the road. What’s more, those post-chaises can’t take up all the baggage I’ll be bound Bella will have with her. Ay, and this governess of yours will have a box as well, I daresay.”

  “Your travelling carriage!” exclaimed Mrs. Tallant, rather startled.

  “That’s it. Never use it myself: it hasn’t been out of the coachhouse since my poor Eliza died. I’ll set the men on to furbish it up: it ain’t one of these smart, newfangled barouches, but it’s a handsome carriage—I bought it for Eliza, when we were first married, and it has my crest on the panel. You would not be comfortable, sending the girl off with strange post-boys, you know: much better to let my old coachman drive her, and I’ll send one of the grooms along to sit up beside him, with a pistol in his pocket in case of highwaymen.” He rubbed his hands together, well-pleased with the scheme, and began to estimate how many days it would take a strong pair of horses—or, at a pinch, even four—to reach London without getting knocked-up. He was inclined to think the plan would answer very well, and that Arabella would not at all object to resting the nags a day here or there upon the road. “Or she might travel by easy stages, you know!” he said.

  Upon reflection, Mrs. Tallant perceived that this plan had much to recommend it. Against the evils of lingering in the various posting-houses along the route, must be set the advantages of being driven by a steady, trustworthy coachman, and of being able, as the Squire had pointed out, to carry all the trunks and bandboxes in the carriage, instead of having to send them to town by carrier. She thanked him, therefore, and was still expressing the sense of her obligation to him when the young ladies came back into the room.

  The Squire greeted Arabella with great joviality, pinching her cheek, and saying: “Well, puss, this is a new come-out for you, eh? I’ll swear you’re in high gig! Now, here’s your mother and I have been putting our heads together, and the long and the short of it is you are to go to London in prime style, in your poor aunt’s carriage, and Timothy-coachman to drive you. How will that be, my lass?”

  Arabella, who had very pretty manners, thanked him, and said everything that was proper. He appeared pleased, told her she might give him a kiss, and he would be satisfied, and suddenly walked out of the room, adjuring her to wait, for he had a little something for her. When he came back, he found his visitors ready to take their leave of him. He shook hands warmly with them all, and pressed into Arabella’s a folded banknote, saying: “There! that is to buy yourself some fripperies with, puss!”

  She was quite overcome, for she had not expected anything of the sort; coloured, and stammered that he was by far too kind. He liked to be thanked, and beamed at her, and pinched her cheek again, very well satisfied with himself and her.

  “But, Mama,” said Sophia, when they were driving away from the Hall, “you will never let poor Arabella go to town in that antiquated carriage of my uncle’s!”

  “Nonsense!” replied her mother. “It is a very respectable carriage, and if it is old-fashioned I daresay it is none the worse for that. No doubt you would rather see her dash off in a chaise-and-four, but it would cost as much as fifty or sixty pounds, besides what one must give the postilions, and is not to be thought of. Why, even a pair of horses, so far as we are from London, would mean thirty pounds, and all for what? To be sure, it will be a little slow, but Miss Blackburn will be with your sister, and if they are obliged to stay a day in an inn—to rest the horses, you know—she will be able to look after her, and I may be comfortable in my mind.”

  “Mama!” said Arabella faintly. “Mama!”

  “Good gracious, my love, what is it?”

  Arabella dumbly proffered the Squire’s banknote. Mrs. Tallant took it from her, saying: “You would like me to take care of it for you, would you? Very well, I will do so, my dear, or you would be squandering it on presents for your brothers and sisters, perhaps!”

  “Mama, it is a bill for fifty pounds!”

  “No!” gasped Sophia.

  “Well, that is certainly very generous of your uncle,” said Mrs. Tallant. “If I were you, Arabella, I would embroider a pair of slippers for him before you go away, for you will not like to be backward in any little attention.”

  “Oh, no! But I never dreamed—I am sure I did not thank him half enough! Mama, will you take it for my dresses, please?”

  “Certainly not. That is all provided for. You will find it very much more comfortable in London to have this money by you—indeed, I had hoped your uncle might give you something to spend! There will be little things you may want to purchase, and vails to the servants, you know, and so on. And although your Papa would not like you to gamble precisely, there may be loo-parties, and naturally you would wish to play. In fact, it would be awkward if you did not.”

  Sophia opened her eyes at this. “Papa does not like any of us to play gambling games, ma’am, does he? He says that cards are to blame for many of the evils—”

  “Yes, my dear, very likely! But a loo-party is quite a different thing!” said Mrs. Tallant, somewhat obscurely. She fidgeted with her reticule for a moment, and then added, a little consciously: “I should not tease Papa with telling him the whole history of our doings today, girls. Gentlemen do not take the same interest in such things as we do, and I am sure he has very much more important things to think of.”

  Her daughters did not pretend to misunderstand her. “Oh, I would not breathe a word to him!” said Sophia.

  “No,” agreed Arabella. “And particularly not about the fifty pounds, for I am sure he would say it was too much, and I must give it back to my uncle! And I don’t think I could!”

  III

  In the end, it was no
t until after the middle of February that Arabella set out to accomplish the long journey to London. Not only had Mme. Dupont taken more time to make the necessary gowns than had been anticipated, but there had been many details to arrange besides; and Betsy had not failed to delay preparations by contracting a putrid sore throat, and low fever. It was felt to be typical of her.

  While Mrs. Tallant still had her hands full, nursing her, Bertram, succumbing to temptation, took French leave of his books and his Papa, and enjoyed a splendid day with the hounds, which culminated in his return to the Parsonage on a farm wagon, with a broken collar-bone. A gloom was thrown over the house for quite a week by this mishap, because the Vicar was not only vexed, but deeply grieved as well. It was not the accident which upset him, for although he did not hunt himself now he had done so regularly in his youth, but (he said) the want of openness in Bertram which had led him to go off without asking permission, or, indeed, even telling his father what he meant to do. The Vicar could not understand such conduct at all, for surely he was not a harsh parent, and surely his sons must know that he did not wish to deprive them of rational enjoyment? He was bewildered, and disturbed, and begged Bertram to explain why he had behaved in such a manner. But it was quite impossible to explain to Papa why one chose rather to play truant, and afterwards take the consequences, than to ask his leave to do something of which one knew well he would not approve.

  “How can you explain anything to my father?” Bertram demanded of his sisters, in a despairing tone. “He would only be more hurt than ever, and give one a thundering jaw, and make one feel like the greatest beast in nature!”