Venetia

by Джорджетт Хейер

  “Good-morning, Venetia! Well, Aubrey!” said Mr. Edward Yardley, shaking hands. “What a pair of slugabeds, to be sure! I was afraid I shouldn’t find you in on such a day, but came on the chance that Aubrey might care to try his luck with the carp in my lake. What do you say, Aubrey? You may fish from the boat, you know, and not suffer any fatigue.”

  “Thank you, but I shouldn’t expect to get a rise in such weather.”

  “It would do you good, however, and you may drive your gig to within only a few yards of the lake, you know.”

  It was kindly said, but there was a suggestion of gritted teeth in Aubrey’s reiterated refusal. Mr. Yardley noticed this, and supposed, compassionately, that his hip was paining him. Meanwhile, young Mr. Denny was informing his hostess, rather more impressively than the occasion seemed to warrant, that he had come to see her. He added, in a low, vibrant voice, that he could not keep away. He then scowled at Aubrey, who was looking at him with derision in his eyes, and relapsed into blushful silence. He was nearly three years older than Aubrey, and had seen much more of the world, but Aubrey could always put him out of countenance, as much by his dispassionate gaze as by the use of his adder’s tongue. He could not be at ease in the boy’s presence, for besides being no match for him in a battle of wits he had a healthy young animal’s dislike of physical deformity, and considered, moreover, that Aubrey traded on this in a very shabby way. But for that halting left leg he could have been speedily taught what civility was due to his elders. He knows himself to be safe from me, thought Oswald, and curled his lip.

  Upon being invited to sit down he had assumed a careless pose upon a small sofa. He now found that his fellow-guest was steadfastly regarding him, and with unmistakeable reprobation, and he was at once torn between hope that he presented a romantic figure and fear that he had a trifle overdone the nonchalant attitude. He sat up, and Edward Yardley transferred his gaze to Venetia’s face.

  Mr. Yardley, with no wish to appear romantic, would never have been guilty of lounging in a lady’s presence. Nor would he have paid a morning visit dressed in a shooting-jacket, and with a silk handkerchief knotted round his throat, its ends untidily worn outside his coat. He was dressed with neatness and propriety in a sober riding-coat and buckskins, and so far from training a lock of hair to droop over one brow he wore his hair rather closer cropped than was fashionable. He might have served as a model for a country gentleman of solid worth and modest ambition; certainly no stranger would have guessed that it was he, and not Oswald, who was the only child of a doting and widowed mother.

  His father having died before Edward had reached his tenth birthday he had at a very early age come into the possession of his fortune. This was respectable rather than handsome, large enough to enable a prudent man to command the elegancies of life and still contrive to be beforehand with the world. A sprig of fashion, bent on cutting a dash, would have thought it penury, but Edward had no extravagant tastes. His estate, which was situated rather less than ten miles from Undershaw, was neither so extensive nor so important as Undershaw, but it was generally considered to be a snug property, and conferred upon its owner the acknowledged standing in the North Riding which was the summit of his ambition. Of a naturally serious disposition he was also endowed with a strong sense of duty. Frustrating all the efforts of his mama to ruin his character by excessive indulgence he early assumed the conduct of his affairs, and rapidly grew into a grave young man of uniform virtues. If he had neither liveliness nor wit he had a great deal of commonsense; and if his masterful nature made him rather too autocratic in his household his firm rule over his mama and his dependants was always actuated by a sincere belief in his ability to decide what would be best for them to do on all occasions.

  Venetia, feeling that it behoved her to atone for Aubrey’s scant civility, said: “How kind in you to have thought of Aubrey! But you shouldn’t have put yourself to so much trouble: I daresay you must have a thousand things to do.”

  “Not quite a thousand,” he responded, smiling. “Not even a hundred, though in general I am pretty busy, I own. But you must not suppose me to be neglecting any urgent duty: I hope I needn’t charge myself with that! What was pressing I was able to attend to when you, I’ll wager, were still asleep. With a little management one can always find time, you know. I have another reason for coming to see you, too: I’ve brought you my copy of Tuesday’s Morning Post, which I believe you will be glad to have. I have marked the passage: you will see that it is concerned with the Army of Occupation. It seems certain that the feeling of the French against our soldiers’ continuing there is growing very strong. One cannot wonder at it, though when one remembers—however, that is of less interest to you than the prospect of welcoming Conway home! I believe you may have him with you before the year is out.”

  Venetia took the newspaper, thanking him in a voice that quivered on the edge of laughter, and taking care not to meet Aubrey’s eye. Ever since Edward had discovered that the Lanyons were dependent for news on the weekly Liverpool Mercury he had made the sharing with them of his own London daily paper an excuse for his frequent visits to Undershaw. He had begun by coming only when some startling piece of intelligence, such as the death of the old King of Sweden and the election to the throne of Marshal Bernadotte, was announced; and during the spring months the journals served him nobly, with a spate of royal marriages. First there had been the really astonishing news that the Princess Elizabeth, though somewhat stricken in years, was betrothed to the Prince of Hesse Homburg; and hardly had the descriptions of her bridal raiment and the panegyrics on her skill as an artist ceased than no fewer than three of her middle-aged brothers followed her example. That, of course, was because the Heiress of England, poor Princess Charlotte, had lately died in childbed, and her infant with her. Even Edward owned that it was diverting, for two of the Royal Dukes were over fifty, and looked it; and everyone knew that the eldest of the three was the father of a large family of hopeful bastards. But since Clarence’s nuptials, in July, Edward had been hard put to it to discover any item in the journals which was at all likely to interest the Lanyons; and had been obliged more than once to fall back on reports that the Queen’s health was giving the Royal physicians cause for despondency, or that dissension had reared its head amongst the Whigs over Tierney’s continued leadership of the party. Not the most confirmed optimist could have supposed that the Lanyons would be interested in such rumours as these, but it was reasonable to expect them to hail the prospect of Conway’s homecoming as news of real value.

  But Venetia only said that she would believe that Conway had sold out when she saw him walk in at the door; and Aubrey, after giving the matter frowning consideration, added, on a regrettably optimistic note, that there was no need to despair, since Conway would probably find another excuse for remaining in the Army.

  “I should!” said Oswald. He then realized that this was decidedly uncomplimentary to his hostess, fell into an agony, and stammered: “That is, I don’t mean—that is, I mean I should if I were Sir Conway! He’ll find it so devilish slow here. One does, when one has seen the world.”

  “You find it slow after a trip to the West Indies, don’t you?” said Aubrey.

  That drew a laugh from Edward, and Oswald, who had meant to ignore Aubrey’s malice, said with unnecessary emphasis: “I’ve seen more of the world than you have, at all events! You’ve no notion—you’d be amazed if I told you how different it all is in Jamaica!”

  “Yes, we were,” agreed Aubrey, beginning to pull himself up from his chair.

  Edward, with the solicitude so little appreciated, at once went to his assistance. Unable to shake off the sustaining grip on his elbow Aubrey submitted to it, but his thank you was icily uttered, and he made no attempt to stir from where he was standing until Edward removed his hand. He then smoothed his sleeve, and said, addressing himself to his sister: “I’ll be off to collect that package, m’dear. I wish you will write to Taplow, when you have a moment to yourself, a
nd desire him to send us one of the London daily journals in future. I think we ought to have one, don’t you?”

  “No need for that,” said Edward. “I promise you I am only too happy to share mine with you.”

  Aubrey paused in the doorway to look back, and to say, with dulcet softness: “But if we had our own you wouldn’t be obliged to ride over to us so often, would you?”

  “If I had known you wished for it I would have ridden over every day, with my father’s copy!” said Oswald earnestly.

  “Nonsense!” said Edward, annoyed by this as he had not been by Aubrey’s overt ill-will. “I fancy Sir John might have something to say to that scheme! Venetia knows she can depend on me.”

  This snubbing remark goaded Oswald into saying that Venetia could depend on him for the performance of far more dangerous services than the delivery of a newspaper. At least, that was the gist of what he meant to say, but the speech, which had sounded well enough in imagination, underwent an unhappy transformation when uttered. It became hopelessly involved, sounded lame even to its author, and petered out under the tolerant scorn in Edward’s eye.

  A diversion was just then created by the Lanyons’ old nurse, who came into the room looking for Venetia. Finding that Mr. Yardley, of whom she approved, was with her young mistress she at once begged pardon, said that her business could wait, and withdrew again. But Venetia, preferring a domestic interlude, even if she were obliged to inspect worn sheets or listen to complaints of the younger servants’ idleness, to the company of her ill-assorted admirers, rose to her feet, and in the kindest possible way dismissed them, saying that she would find herself in disgrace with Nurse if she kept her waiting.

  “I have been neglecting my duties, and if I don’t take care shall be subjected to a dreadful scold,” she said, smiling, and holding out her hand to Oswald. “So I must send you both away. Don’t be vexed! you are such old friends that I don’t stand on ceremony with you.”

  Not even Edward’s presence could deter Oswald from raising her hand to his lips, and pressing a fervent kiss upon it. She received this with unruffled equanimity, and upon recovering her hand held it out to Edward. But he only smiled, and said: “In a moment!” and held open the door for her. She went past him into the hall, and he followed her, firmly shutting his rival into the breakfast-parlour.

  “You should not encourage that stupid boy to dangle after you,” he remarked.

  “Do I encourage him?” she said, looking surprised. “I thought I behaved to him as I do to Aubrey. That’s how I regard him—except,” she added thoughtfully, “that Aubrey doesn’t want for sense, and seems much older than poor Oswald.”

  “My dear Venetia, I do not accuse you of flirting with him!” he replied, with an indulgent smile. “Nor am I jealous, if that’s what you are thinking!”

  “Well, it isn’t,” she said. “You have no reason to be jealous and no right either, you know.”

  “Certainly no reason. As for right, we are agreed, are we not? that it would be improper to say more on that head until Conway comes home. You may guess with what interest I perused that column in the newspaper!”

  This was said with an arch look which provoked her to exclaim: “Edward! Pray don’t refine too much upon Conway’s homecoming! You’ve fallen into a way of speaking of it as if that would make me ready to fall into your arms, and I wish you will not!”

  “I hope—indeed, I am quite sure—that I have never expressed myself in such terms,” he responded gravely.

  “No, never!” she agreed, a mischievous smile hovering round her lips. “Edward, do—do ask yourself, before I become so bored with Conway that I shall be ready to snap at any offer, if you really wish to marry me! For I don’t think you do!”

  He looked taken aback, even rather shocked, but after a moment he smiled, and said: “I know your love of funning! You are always diverting, and if your sportiveness leads you now and then to say some odd things I fancy I am too well-acquainted with you to believe you mean them.”

  “Edward, pray—pray make at least a push to disabuse your mind of illusion!” begged Venetia earnestly. “You can’t know me in the least, if that’s what you think, and what a dreadful shock it will be to you when you discover that I do mean the odd things I say!”

  He replied playfully, yet with no diminution of his confidence: “Perhaps I know you better than you know yourself! It is a trick you’ve caught from Aubrey. You do not in general go beyond the line of what is pleasing, but when you talk of Conway it is as if you did not hold him in affection.”

  “No, I don’t,” she said frankly.

  “Venetia! Think what you are saying!”

  “But it is perfectly true!” she insisted. “Oh, don’t look so shocked! I don’t dislike him—though I daresay I may, if I am obliged to be with him a great deal, for besides not caring a straw for anyone’s comfort but his own he is quite dismally commonplace!”

  “You should not say so,” he replied repressively. “If you talk of your brother with so little moderation it is not to be wondered at that Aubrey shouldn’t scruple to speak of his homecoming as he did just now.”

  “My dear Edward, a moment since you said that I had caught the trick from him!” she rallied him. His countenance did not relax, and she added, in some amusement: “The truth is—if you would but realize it!—that we haven’t any tricks, we only say what we think. And I must own that it is astonishing how often we have the same thoughts, for we are not, I believe, much alike—certainly not in our tastes!”

  He was silent for a minute, and then said: “It is allowable for you to feel a little resentment, perhaps. I have felt it for you. Your situation here, since your father’s death, has been uncomfortable, and Conway has not scrupled to lay his burdens—indeed, his duties!—upon your shoulders. But with Aubrey it is otherwise. I was tempted to give him a sharp set-down when I heard him speak as he did of his brother. Whatever Conway’s faults may be he is very good-natured, and has always been kind to Aubrey.”

  “Yes, but Aubrey doesn’t like people because they are kind,” she said.

  “Now you are talking nonsensically!”

  “Oh, no! When Aubrey likes people it isn’t for anything they do: it’s for what they have in their minds, I think.”

  “It will be a very good thing for Aubrey when Conway does come home!” he interrupted. “If the only people he is foolish enough to think he can like are classical scholars, it’s high time—”

  “What a stupid thing to say, when you must know that he likes me!”

  He said stiffly: “I beg your pardon! No doubt I misunderstood you.”

  “Indeed you did! You misunderstood what I said about Conway, too. I promise you I don’t feel the least resentment, and as for my situation—oh, how absurd you are! Of course it’s not uncomfortable!” She saw that he was looking offended, and exclaimed: “Now I have vexed you! Well, it’s too hot a day for quarrelling, so we won’t argue any more, if you please! In any event, I must go up to see what it is Nurse wants. Goodbye!—and thank you for being so kind as to bring us your newspaper!”

  II

  escaping from Nurse, who, besides worn sheets, displayed for her reprobation two of Aubrey’s shirts, with wrist-bands torn by careless mangling, Venetia fell into the clutches of the housekeeper. Mrs. Gurnard’s ostensible purpose was to remind her that now or never was the time for making bramble-jelly; her real object, arrived at only after much divagation, was to defend the new laundry-maid, her own niece, from Nurse’s accusations. Since these two elderly retainers had lived for some twenty-six years on terms of mutual jealousy, Venetia knew that the alleged shortcomings of the laundry-maid would inevitably lead to the recital of a number of other grievances against Nurse; after which Nurse, rendered suspicious by the length of her visit to the housekeeper’s room, would pounce on her to discover by rigorous questioning what malicious lies had been told her; so, with an adroitness born of long practice, she swiftly brought the conversation back to bramble-j
elly, diverting Mrs. Gurnard’s mind by a promise to bring her a basketful of blackberries that very day, and slipping away to her bedchamber before that redoubtable dame could recollect any more of Nurse’s iniquities.

  Shedding the French cambric dress she was wearing, Venetia pulled out an old dimity from her wardrobe. It was rather outmoded, and its original blue had faded to an indeterminate gray, but it was quite good enough for blackberrying, and not even Nurse would cry out censoriously if it became stained. A rather stouter pair of shoes and a sun-bonnet completed her toilet; and, armed with a large basket, she presently left the house, sped on her way by the intelligence, conveyed to her by Ribble, the butler, that Mr. Denny, having ridden away to Thirsk, where he had business to transact, rather thought he should call again at Undershaw on his homeward journey, in case Miss Lanyon might wish to charge him with a message for his mama.

  Her sole companion on this expedition was an amiable if vacuous spaniel, bestowed on her by Aubrey, when he had discovered that besides being of an excitable disposition the pup was incurably gun-shy. As escort to a lady on her solitary walks he was by no means ideal, for, his unfortunate weakness notwithstanding, he was much addicted to sport, and after impeding her progress for a few hundred yards by gambolling round her, jumping up at her with hysterical yelps, and in general enacting the role of a dog rarely released from his chain, he would dash off, deaf to all remonstrance, and reappear only at intervals, with his tongue hanging out, and an air of having snatched a moment from urgent private affairs to assure himself that all was well with her.

  Like most country-bred girls of her generation Venetia was an energetic walker; unlike most of her gently-born contemporaries she never scrupled to walk alone. It was a custom developed in her schoolroom days, when her object was to escape from her governess. An hour spent in strolling about the paths in the shrubbery was thought by Miss Poddemore to be sufficient exercise for any lady; and on the rare occasions when circumstance or persuasion induced her to set forth on the mile-long walk to the nearest village her decorous pace was as exasperating to her pupil as was her habit of beguiling the way with instructive discourse. Although not so highly accomplished as Miss Selina Trimmer, whom she had once met and ever afterwards venerated, she was well-educated. Unfortunately she possessed neither Miss Trimmer’s force of character nor her ability to inspire her pupils with affection. By the time she was seventeen Venetia was so heartily bored by her that she marked her emergence from the schoolroom into young ladyhood by informing her father that since she was now grown-up and perfectly able to manage the household they could dispense with Miss Poddemore’s services. From that date she had had no other chaperon than Nurse, but, as she pointed out to Lady Denny, since she neither went into society nor received guests at Undershaw it was hard to see what use a chaperon would be to her. Unable to say that there was any impropriety in a girl’s living unchaperoned in her father’s house, Lady Denny was obliged to abandon that argument, and to implore Venetia instead not to roam about the countryside unattended even by a maid. But Venetia had only laughed, and told her playfully that she was as bad as Miss Poddemore, who had never wearied of citing the example of Lady Harriet Cavendish (one of the pupils of the distinguished Miss Trimmer), who, when staying at Castle Douglas before her marriage, had never ventured beyond the gardens without her footman to attend her. Not being a duke’s daughter she did not feel it incumbent on her to take Lady Harriet for her model. “Besides, ma’am, that must have been ten years ago at least! And to drag one of the maids with me, when she would rather be doing anything else in the world, I daresay, would destroy all my pleasure. No, no, I didn’t rid myself of Miss Poddemore for that! Why, what should happen to me here, where everyone knows who I am?”