Frederica

by Georgette Heyer

  ‘I certainly don’t fear that: you have too much force of mind! If I look grave, it’s because I am afraid you have an anxious, as well as an exhausting, time ahead. I only hope you may not be quite worn down.’

  ‘Thank you! I’m not such a poor creature! I shall have Jessamy to help me, too – perhaps as soon as tomorrow, if Harry returns to London this evening, as we believe he will. Dear Jessamy! he wanted so much to come with me today, but he never said so. He understood at once how improper it would be to leave poor Charis with only the servants to bear her company, and said he should stay in Upper Wimpole Street until Harry arrived to relieve him of that duty. He means to travel to Watford on the stage, and I own I shall be glad to have him with me. I can trust him to watch over Felix when he sleeps, so that I may lie down on my bed for a while. You see how rational I am, cousin!’

  ‘I never doubted that. May I ask what part Miss Winsham plays in this?’

  ‘A very small one,’ she confessed. ‘My uncle died last night, you see.’

  ‘Accept my condolences! I should have supposed that this must have released Miss Winsham from what she conceived to be her most pressing duty, but I collect that I’m mistaken.’

  ‘Yes, because my Aunt Amelia is now prostrate, and falls into hysterics as soon as Aunt Seraphina leaves her side. She has spasms, vapours, and – Oh, dear, I ought not to talk so! I have so little sensibility myself that I find it very hard to sympathise with people like Aunt Seraphina. I should be much inclined to – No!’

  ‘I know exactly what you would be much inclined to do,’ he said, smiling. ‘I saw how you dealt with Charis, in a similar situation!’

  ‘It was not at all similar!’ she replied. ‘Poor Charis had suffered a severe shock! There was every excuse for her! My uncle’s death has been expected for weeks – and, in any event, I should not slap my aunt’s face!’

  ‘However much you might wish to,’ he agreed.

  ‘Certainly not!’ she said, with a severity belied by the laughter in her eyes. ‘You are quite – that is to say, if I were not so deeply indebted to you, I should say –’

  ‘That I was quite the most detestable man alive?’

  ‘Abominable was the word I had in mind!’ she returned instantly. Then her eyes softened. ‘No, I shouldn’t! To us you have been all kindness, however abominable you may be! Now, do be serious, sir! The case is not as bad as you think! My aunt has promised to keep a watch over Charis, but she feels that her sister has the greater claim on her. Well – well, I expect I should feel that too, so I can scarcely blame her! She thinks that, since it would be most improper for Charis to attend any parties at this moment, and will have Harry to accompany her out walking, or driving, besides Mrs Hurley to take good care of her, her presence cannot be deemed necessary. I must tell you also that your sister – Cousin Elizabeth, I mean, – has been as kind as you are! She sent Charis a note this morning, inviting her to stay at your house, while I was away, and offering to escort her to Lady Castlereagh’s assembly tonight. Charis declined it, of course – indeed, nothing would prevail upon her to go junketing abroad under these circumstances! – and – and I know I can depend on Harry! He is very much attached to Charis, you know, and won’t let her fall into dejection.’ She rose. ‘I must go. Would you, when you reach London, tell Charis just how the matter stands here, and assure her that there is no need for undue misgiving? I should be so much obliged to you!’

  ‘Willingly, but I’m not returning to London yet awhile. Did you think that I meant to play nip-shot? I’m not as abominable as that, I hope! You goose! why did you suppose that I had sent for my valet?’

  ‘I didn’t! I mean, – oh, was he your valet? I thought he must be some sort of a courier, and wondered that you should think it necessary to provide me with him!’

  ‘As well you might! Foolish beyond permission, Frederica!’

  ‘No! How should I know what freakish thing you might take it into your head to do?’ she countered. ‘I never met anyone as extravagant as you are! But you must not stay here on my account! Indeed, there is no need!’

  ‘You are quite mistaken. After the anxieties and exertions of the past twenty-four hours I am wholly exhausted, and must ruralise for a few days. I shall be putting up at the Sun, in Hemel Hempstead – and pray don’t argue with me! Few things are more boring than fruitless arguments!’ He took her hand, and pressed it. ‘I’m off now, but I shall come back presently – to assure myself that you are taking good care of my ward!’

  Twenty-three

  The Marquis did not return to Monk’s Farm until shortly before six o’clock, by which time he had been refreshed by a long sleep, a complete change of raiment, and a tolerable dinner. After a brief conversation with both the Judbrooks, he went upstairs to the room in which Felix lay, and entered it softly. The curtains had been drawn across the window, shutting out the westering sun, but he was immediately aware of a change. The room was redolent, not of the mustiness of disuse, but of lavender; and, as his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, he saw that a truckle-bed had been set up, the heavy patchwork quilt removed from the four-poster, and a screen placed to shield from Felix the light that would later be cast by the oil-lamp which now stood upon the table. Felix was uneasily asleep, moaning a little, and muttering; and Frederica was sitting in the armchair, which she had drawn up to the window. She rose when she saw who had entered the room, and came towards his lordship like a ghost, breathing: ‘Don’t wake him!’

  She passed before him out of the room, and he drew the door to behind them both. He saw that she was looking pale, and very tired, and said: ‘He’s no better? I can see you’ve been having the devil of a time!’

  She shook her head. ‘No. We can’t expect him to be better yet, you know. And at this hour a feverish person is always at his worst. But Dr Elcot has told me just what to do.’

  ‘Are you satisfied with Elcot? If you would wish to have another doctor’s opinion, tell me! I’ll set out for London immediately, and bring Knighton here – or any other you choose to name!’

  ‘Thank you – but no: I think Dr Elcot knows just what he is about.’

  ‘Very well, then go down to the parlour now, to your dinner! You will offend Miss Judbrook if you don’t: she appears to have exerted herself to prepare an elegant repast for you, which is ready, and – so she tells me – rapidly spoiling. And let me inform you, my dear, that if you mean to say that you dare not leave Felix in my care you will offend me too!’

  ‘I shan’t say that, at least! Dr Elcot told me how well you managed Felix, and how good you have been to him. The truth is that I am not at all hungry – but I know how stupid it would be to refuse my dinner, so I will go downstairs. If Felix should wake, and complain that he is thirsty, there is lemonade in the blue jug on the table.’

  ‘Now, why the devil didn’t I think of lemonade, when he was so thirsty last night?’ he exclaimed.

  She smiled. ‘How should you? In any event, I don’t think Miss Judbrook has any lemons. I brought some from London – which reminds me that I shall need some more. Will you procure some for me in Hemel Hempstead tomorrow, cousin?’

  ‘Yes, and anything else you need, but go down now!’

  She went obediently, returning half-an-hour later to find him supporting Felix with one arm, and trying, not very successfully, to turn the pillow with his other hand. She went at once to the rescue; and he said apologetically: ‘I fear I’m not yet very deedy! He has been turning his head continually, trying, I think, to find a cool spot. Frederica, are you sure you don’t wish another doctor to see him? I won’t disguise from you that he seems to me more feverish now than he was last night.’

  She began to bathe Felix’s face and hands with a handkerchief soaked with lavender-water. ‘Dr Elcot warned me that he expected him to be worse before he is better. It will soon be time for his medicine again, and that will make him easier: you’ll see! At least – do you mean to go back to the Sun immediately, or would you wait for just
twenty minutes? To hold him for me, while I give him the dose? When he is like this, quite out of his senses, it is very difficult for me to manage him without assistance.’

  ‘I am entirely at your disposal, Frederica. Did you eat your dinner?’

  ‘Yes, and drank the glass of wine you provided for me, cousin. Miss Judbrook told me that you brought over a bottle from the Sun. Thank you! it has made me feel as fresh as a nosegay!’

  ‘I’m happy to hear it,’ he said dryly. He moved away, but after watching her struggles to control Felix, and to keep his body covered, he came back again, saying: ‘Let me try what I can do! No, leave him to me! I succeeded last night, and may yet be able to do so.’

  She yielded her place to him, and he sat down, possessing himself of Felix’s burning hand, and speaking to him in the compelling voice which he had previously used to such good effect. It did not this time recall Felix to his senses; but it seemed to Frederica that although there was no recognition in the fevered eyes the implacable voice at last penetrated the mists. Felix grew quieter, moaning, but no longer trying to fling himself about. He fought against the medicine, but Alverstoke held him clamped against his shoulder, and Frederica was quick to tilt the mixture down his throat when he opened his mouth to utter a wild, incoherent protest. He choked, coughed, and burst into spasmodic sobs, but gradually these ceased, and he sighed wearily. Alverstoke laid him down again, and said softly over his shoulder: ‘Go to bed, Frederica!’

  She blinked, and whispered: ‘I shall lie down presently on the truckle-bed. Pray don’t –’

  ‘You will go to bed in your own room. I’ll wake you at midnight – before, if I should see any need! Oblige me by sending for Curry, and telling him to put the horses to then.’

  ‘You cannot drive back to Hemel Hempstead at that hour!’

  ‘I shall do precisely that – and by the light of a full moon! Don’t stand there raising bird-witted objections! Of what use will you be tomorrow if you are three parts dead of fatigue?’

  She was obliged to acknowledge the truth of this. Anxiety had made it impossible for her to sleep on the previous night; she had been up almost at dawn, with packing to do, and arrangements to make; she had travelled for some twenty-five miles; and had been in attendance on her patient for eight hours; and she was indeed exhausted. She smiled waveringly upon his lordship, said simply: ‘Thank you!’ and went out of the room.

  When she came back, rather before midnight, she was looking very much better, but conscience-stricken. She said: ‘The most shocking thing! I must have been more tired than I knew: I forgot about the medicine! He should have had another dose at eleven, cousin!’

  He smiled. ‘He did have it. Fortunately, you left Elcot’s instructions on the table, and I read them. Have you slept well?’

  ‘Oh, so well! Four hours, and I don’t think I even stirred! How has Felix been?’

  ‘Much the same. I’ll leave you now, and be with you again later in the morning. No need to tell you to stand buff! Goodnight, my child!’

  She nodded gratefully, uttering no protest, either then, or when he returned, after breakfast, and informed her that hence-forward they would strictly divide the watches. Her commonsense told her that while Felix was critically ill it was beyond her power to bear the whole burden of nursing him; and while she was aware, in the recesses of her brain, that neither she nor Felix had the smallest claim upon the Marquis, it had begun to seem so natural to rely on his support that the thought only occurred to be dismissed. He was able to manage Felix as well as she could and sometimes better; and Felix was perfectly content to be left in his care. No other considerations mattered to her; if Alverstoke had announced his intention of returning to London she would have strained every nerve to induce him to remain. He did not do so, and she accepted his services almost as a matter of course.

  The Marquis, well-aware that she had no thought for anyone but her abominable little brother, was wryly amused. He liked Felix, but it would have been idle to suppose that he liked the task of nursing him; and, if he had not fallen deeply and reluctantly in love with Felix’s sister, it would never have entered his head to have undertaken so arduous a duty. But it was not from a wish to advance himself in Frederica’s esteem that he remained in Hertfordshire, exerting himself so unusually: the only conscious thought in his mind was that she was in dire trouble, from which it was his privilege to extricate her. He had told Charles Trevor to cancel all his immediate engagements, if not without a certain amount of regret, at least without hesitation. For the first time in many years his fellow-members of the Jockey Club would look in vain for him at Ascot Races: it was a pity, but it couldn’t be helped. He had a horse running, too, but much pleasure would he have derived from watching it win, as he thought it well might, when he knew that Frederica was in trouble, and needed his support.

  So the Marquis, who rarely put himself out for anyone, and whose whole life had been spent in opulent and leisured ease, entered upon the most strenuous and uncomfortable period of his career. He was obliged to put up at a modest and oldfashioned inn; he spent nearly all his waking hours attending to a sick schoolboy; and since his arrival at the farm was the signal for Frederica to retire to bed, the only conversations he held with her were brief, and were concerned only with their patient. In after years he was wont to say that he could not recall his sufferings without a shudder, but not one word of complaint did he utter at the time, and not for an instant did he lose his air of calm self-possession.

  Jessamy arrived on the second day. His intention had been to have walked from Watford, across the fields, but the Marquis had sent Curry to meet the stage-coach, with the phaeton, so that he was not obliged to do this, which was perhaps just as well, since he had brought with him, in addition to a modest portmanteau, a large valise, crammed with books. He explained to Alverstoke, who was on duty at the time, that they included, besides those necessary for his studies, a number of books which he thought Felix would like to have read to him. ‘For that is something I can do,’ he said. ‘He likes to be read to when he’s ill, you know. So I brought all his old favourites, and also Waverley. Harry put me in mind of that: I’d forgotten that when Frederica read it aloud to the rest of us, in the evenings, Felix was always in bed and asleep, being much too young to enjoy it. He will now, though, don’t you think, sir?’

  ‘I’ve no doubt he will, but not just at present, I fear.’

  Jessamy’s face clouded. ‘No. Curry has been telling me. Oh, thank you for sending him to meet me, cousin! Curry said that it is rheumatic fever, and that he’s very ill, and in great pain. Sir, he – isn’t going to die, is he?’

  ‘No, certainly not, but he’s in a bad way, and may be worse before he begins to mend. He’s sleeping at the moment, but he seldom sleeps for long at a time, so I must go back to his room. You may come with me, if you choose: you won’t disturb him if you talk quietly.’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Jessamy said. ‘I – would like to see him.’

  ‘Of course you would. But you mustn’t be surprised if he doesn’t know you when he wakes: he is not always himself, you see.’

  Fortunately, since Jessamy was so much shocked by Felix’s appearance that he was quite unable to command his voice, and withdrew to a chair by the window to master his emotions, Felix did know him when he woke. He said fretfully: ‘I’m so hot! I’m so thirsty! Frederica!’

  ‘Well, that shall soon be mended,’ said Alverstoke, sliding an arm under his shoulders, and raising him. ‘Here’s your lemonade, and while you’re drinking it Jessamy will shake up your pillows, so that you may be comfortable again. You didn’t know Jessamy had come to see you, did you?’

  ‘Jessamy,’ said Felix vaguely.

  But when he was laid down again, he looked round, and seeing his brother, managed to smile, and to say again, with definite pleasure: ‘Jessamy!’

  Taking his hand, Jessamy said awkwardly: ‘That’s the barber, old chap!’

  ‘I wish I hadn’t done it!’
Felix said unhappily. ‘I didn’t know it would hurt so much. Are you very angry?’

  ‘No, no, I promise you I’m not!’

  Felix sighed, and, as Alverstoke began to bathe his face, closed his eyes again.

  Jessamy was so much relieved that Felix should have wakened in full possession of his senses that he began to feel more cheerful, and was able, when Felix dropped off again, to give Alverstoke an account of what had been happening in Upper Wimpole Street.

  On the whole, the news seemed to be good; for although Charis cried whenever she thought of poor Felix, and Miss Winsham, always put out of temper by adversity, regarded the accident as a piece of mischievous spite designed by Felix expressly to add to the cares besetting her, and said, amongst a great many other things, that she had no patience with him, or with Frederica, whose fault it was, because she had spoilt him to death, Harry had returned from Wells on the previous evening, and had at once assumed control of the household. Jessamy thought his arrival an unmixed blessing, but as his first act had apparently been to quarrel with his aunt, to such purpose that she then and there packed her trunk, and removed to Harley Street, Alverstoke doubted whether Frederica would think so. But Jessamy said confidently: ‘Yes, she will, sir, for she knows that my aunt and Harry always rub against each other, and I shan’t scruple to tell her that Charis will go on better without her! She – she said such things – such uncharitable things! – as wholly overset Charis! You know, sir, Charis’s spirits require support! And Harry does support them! Why, she plucked up the moment he came into the room! And if he is to remain with her – which, I promise you, he means to do! – there can be no need for my aunt to be there.’

  In answer to a dry enquiry, Jessamy said that however much at outs he might frequently be with his senior he had never doubted Harry’s devotion to his family. He adduced, in proof of this statement, that Harry, to his own certain knowledge, had told his friend, Peplow, that he must exclude him from all their engagements: even from the Ascot Races! Harry’s first impulse had been to post off to Hertfordshire immediately, but he had been persuaded to remain in London. ‘And I’m bound to own, sir,’ said Jessamy handsomely, ‘that it does him credit! For I quite thought he would take a huff when I reminded him that he was never of the least use when any of us have been ill!’