“I must assume you are jesting,” Honoria snapped. “How can you say such a thing about your mama, who has only our best interests at heart? If she has been a little slow to introduce us to the wider world, I am certain that is only because she has not thought of it.”
“She has been thinking of little else since we were children,” Helen said, not at all put out by Honoria’s show of temper and seemingly determined to make her point. “Why else did she oblige you to change your dress a good half dozen times before Frank arrived but because she wanted him to notice you?”
“If she does – did, when we were children – think it would be neat if Frank and I married, I am certain she does not now. If she had been so anxious for me not to meet any other gentlemen she would never have taken us to the assembly rooms.”
“She bowed – as usual – to Frank’s demand. Did you tell her you wanted to dance with Honoria, Frank? Is that why she caved in?”
“What Mama and I said to each other is none of your business, Helen, and I shall not divulge it,” Frank said with a superior air, refilling his glass.
Helen jumped up and refilled her own, drinking it rapidly with the air of one ordered to finish a measure of medicine.
“What have you against him?” she asked Honoria.
“So much that I hardly know where to begin. Firstly, I think, because I wish to make up my own mind about whom I shall marry - and then I have always thought of Frank as something between a brother and a cousin; there seems to me to be something wrong about suddenly changing the whole way in which I look at him.”
As she spoke, Honoria did look at Frank, who raised one eyebrow as he felt her gaze upon him. The truth was that, since he had kissed her, she had begun to view him differently and what she saw, across the hearth, his hair burnished by the flames of the candelabra on the mantelpiece and his blue eyes darkened, was not a brother-cousin but a disturbingly handsome man. Unfortunately, along with his sibling-status, he had lost her trust and the rueful half-smile with which he received her inspection tore at her heart in an unaccustomed way.
Helen’s eyes followed Honoria’s before switching back to her cousin’s.
“I am persuaded you would not find it so very taxing,” she said.
Honoria, irritated by this distressingly accurate observation, snapped, “But, more than all that, I am disgusted by your whole family’s duplicity: you have nurtured me out of self-interest, all of you planning to annex my legacy before even I have had a chance to take possession of it.”
“Pray absolve me of any such intention,” Helen cried. “I have merely been an observer and indeed have been passed over in your favour for most of my life. I do not suppose you have even noticed; no doubt you took it as your due that you were dearer to my parents than I was – and to Frank. You have castigated me for my temper; now that you have discovered the true situation, your own is ruffled. Do not include me in your general condemnation.”
“No, probably I should not,” Honoria agreed more quietly. “But I wish you had told me sooner.”
“I did not realise that you did not know,” Helen protested. “It seemed so obvious to me.”
“What precisely seemed obvious?”
“That my parents intended you to marry Frank. They intended me for Horatio but he has escaped.”
“For Horatio? But he left years ago – you were barely fifteen.”
“Yes, but as soon as he noticed Mama’s attempts to throw us together - which was years before that - there was an unmistakeable change in his manner. It was after he had gone that Mama became so excessively critical of me: no doubt she considered it my fault that I had failed to attach him. After that, you became the focus of her attention; previously, I believe she rather played you down in case Horatio preferred you to me. That would not have suited her at all: it’s my belief she had set her heart on your fortune and Horatio’s title. Unfortunately, so long as Horatio lived, she could not acquire that for Frank, so I was to provide the next generation heir to the earldom and you the fortune for poor Frank, who otherwise stands to inherit practically nothing.”
“You paint a portrait of a person who is positively wicked,” Honoria said, rather shocked. “Aunt Julia is not that; she wants only what she thinks is the best for her children.”
“But she has been at some pains to achieve it,” Helen pointed out. “If she had simply dreamed of such things coming to pass there would have been nothing unnatural in it, but she did her best to engineer them; why, she has more or less imprisoned us here; I doubt we will be free until you accept Frank.”
“Well, I shall not accept him,” Honoria said. “I intend to leave – just as Horatio did – as soon as I am able.”
“You had better have a care then,” Helen said, taking another deep draught of her wine. Her cheeks had grown flushed from a combination of temper, liquor and the roaring fire in front of which she sat. “She’s already lost the opportunity to acquire the earldom for Frank; she won’t want to see him lose your fortune as well. Have you any idea who is set to inherit if you die before your birthday?”
“Good God! I have not the least notion! Would it have been written into the original testament?”
“Probably.” This time it was Frank who answered.
“Then it is most likely Aunt Julia for she is my mama’s sister. Now you have frightened me.”
“It is always sensible to be prepared for the worst,” Helen said.
“Would it,” Frank asked, putting his head on one side and gazing at Honoria thoughtfully, “be better to marry me or be murdered in your bed, do you consider?”
“That is an idiotic question,” she snapped. “Obviously it would be better to marry you; ‘where there’s life there’s hope’, I suppose.”
“Indeed. Will you become my affianced bride?”
“No – oh no, please not, Frank, for I will not marry you and I have no wish to jilt you.”
“I’ll take that chance,” he said. “Will you?”
“You had much better do so,” Helen advised.
Frank put his glass down, rose and cast himself on one knee before Honoria.
“Will you, dearest Cousin, consent to a betrothal?”
“Will they try to force us to marry before my birthday?”
“I should think they would be certain to try, but we can put them off for one reason or another. If the worst comes to the worst, you can pretend to be ill on the day of the wedding so that it will have to be postponed. Perhaps Lord Ninfield will ride to your rescue,” Frank suggested, grinning up at her from his position at her feet.
“The awful thing is that I had thought he would until you told me he too is a fortune-hunter,” she admitted.
“Well, you can have him if you like – you’ll acquire a title and you’ll escape my family’s clutches. Or you can accept me and be fairly certain that you will live for the next six months barring a genuine accident or fatal illness. If you don’t want to jilt me – and I own I would rather you did not - would it be so very bad to be married to me? Surely you care more for me than for him?”
“A few days ago I would have had no hesitation in answering in the affirmative but now – now that I understand what has been planned for me – I cannot answer.”
“I see. And do you – I ask this purely in the interests of trying to help you come to a decision – wish to kiss him?”
“No!” she exclaimed violently.
“Then I think you have found a solution to your dilemma.”
“But I do not, surely, have to make a choice between only two men, one of whom I hardly know and the other whom I have always regarded as a brother.”
“No, you should not have to, which is why I suggest that you consent to becoming engaged to me. In any event, I am convinced you have ceased to think of me as a brother, if only because you have taken so violently against me that you would be ashamed to call such a man ‘brother’.”
“I wish you would get up,” she said, pouting.
“Would you prefer me to be masterful?” he asked, rising in one swift, graceful movement and pulling her to her feet too.
“No,” she said, her voice wavering on the verge of tears.
“Oh, I think you would,” he argued, swept her into his arms and would have kissed her, only letting her go when she struggled against him.
“If I promise to be faithful to you, would that make a difference?” he asked almost wistfully.
“It would be meaningless for you would break your promise.”
“If I were to mean it?”
“But you do not – you will not succeed in persuading me otherwise.”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
She stared at him, his face so close to hers, his eyes so brilliant, his beautiful mouth so teasing and she caught her breath on a sob.
“If it’s any help, I think he does mean it,” Helen said.
Chapter 16
When Fräulein Brunner arrived for Cassie’s lesson a few days later, she reported that she had spoken to Count von Krems, who had expressed himself delighted at the prospect of joining the Gnädige Frau for conversation practice.
“He suggested that we have the first session at his house directly after our lesson. He has invited us for coffee. Would that be agreeable to you, Gnädige Frau?”
“Perfectly, although I do not think I will have progressed far enough in so short a time to manage anything more complicated than ‘good morning’.”
Fräulein Brunner smiled. “That does not signify in the least. You must both start somewhere and there is no better place than the beginning.”
When Cassie and the teacher arrived at von Krems’s house for the promised ‘conversational’ practice, they were ushered, not into the saloon in which she had sat on the previous occasion, but into the library.
The Count was already there with his small son, the boy sitting in a chair beside the fire and swinging his legs until reminded to stand up when the ladies came in. The Count greeted his guests with a bow before explaining, in slow but by no means simple language, that he considered the library a suitably serious room in which to engage in what were after all lessons.
Fräulein Brunner translated, adding in English, “What would you like to say to his lordship?”
“It seems an excellent choice of room. The presence of so many books undoubtedly provides the right background to study. ”
Fräulein Brunner translated, explaining as she went along her choice of words, their gender, the way she conjugated the verbs and the word order – which was different in German. The Count inclined his head in assent and went on to explain that he had decided that they should begin directly and pause for refreshments halfway through the session.
With Fräulein Brunner translating and helping her pupil to form her sentences correctly, a ponderous exchange of platitudes took place; so dull was the content and so convoluted the phrasing that, by the time the refreshments were brought in, Cassie was convinced not only that she had not progressed but – almost – regressed. To her surprise, it proved to be no easier to say what she wanted when she had Fräulein Brunner to help than when she had not. Indeed, she was so confused by the length and complexity of the translation that she must parrot, that she found herself curtailing her contribution to the ‘conversation’ almost as much as before; in addition, she missed the stimulation of trying to extract and convey meaning with a limited vocabulary.
She wondered if he felt the same; his courtly manner concealed any emotion he might have felt so effectively that it was impossible to tell. She did, however, enjoy hearing him speak; his voice was mellifluous and his pronunciation crisp. She thought for the first time that the language was beautiful. Fräulein Brunner seemed to have no difficulty in putting the Count’s words into English but the content was so mundane that Cassie found herself wondering if the refined cadences of his voice and the intrinsic musicality of the language might conceal a disappointingly commonplace mind.
Gustav was easier to understand so long as he remembered to speak slowly and this, she guessed, was because he neither used such high-flown phrases nor attempted to speak of anything abstract. He had drawn another picture and presented it with a charmingly bashful air. This time he had either felt no need to depict a large quantity of blood on the lower part of her face or had been discouraged from ‘spoiling’ his picture. He had drawn her sitting in the saloon with a plate of cake in her hand; she was relieved to see that he had not depicted the moment when she had crammed it into her mouth.
“I am glad there is no blood this time,” she said.
“I have tried to show the bruises,” he pointed out, leaning forward to place a small finger on the nose, which he had indeed shaded heavily. This time she thought it bore an unfortunate resemblance to a potato.
“So you have. I hope one day you will be able to draw me without any bruises.”
“Yes,” he agreed with a little reluctance.
“Or will I not be so interesting then?”
“No,” he admitted, putting his head on one side and staring at her. “It is more interesting to draw bad things.”
“I see. Is that, perhaps, because bad things tell a more interesting story? An ordinary woman without an injury is quite dull.”
“I think,” he said shyly, “that you are a pretty woman but I prefer to draw fights and things.”
“Yes, of course you do. I suppose I looked as though I had been in a fight – and I still do.”
“No, not any more.”
“Can you draw animals?” she asked. “A horse perhaps?”
“Horses are difficult,” he admitted. “Would you like a picture of a horse?”
“Very much, but I would prefer it if it had not been hurt.” She pulled a page out of her notebook and held it out, together with the pencil she had brought to take notes. “Can you draw one now or do you need to look at the horse to do it?”
“No; that makes it more difficult because then I see all sorts of bits that I can’t do. If I tried to draw you now, I would not be able to do it because – well, I could not do your hair or your face – not how they really look.”
“I see. That makes a lot of sense: you draw, as it were, the essential shape of the person or animal and that comes more easily from your memory than from looking at the subject and trying to draw precisely what you see. Is that right?”
“I think so,” he agreed doubtfully.
He bent his fair head over the paper and Cassie watched, fascinated, as the lines of a horse began to emerge. She thought that he had a rare talent.
“These are the muscles in his legs,” he said, sketching them in with a good deal of confidence.
“He is a very strong horse,” she observed.
“He is my papa’s horse.”
“Will you have some more coffee?” the Count asked.
“Yes, thank you. I do not know much about children but it seems to me that your son is very good at drawing.”
“I think he is,” von Krems agreed, smiling.
“Can you draw, Gnädige Frau?” the boy asked, looking up.
“Not very well,” Cassie admitted. “Although it was one of the things my governess tried to teach me when I was a child. Women are always supposed to be good at things like that but I am not – and the best artists are all men.”
“Nobody has taught me to draw,” the child said.
“No? I expect that is because you are a boy or is it because you draw so well that your papa does not think you need any further instruction?”
This question flummoxed Fräulein Brunner. She hesitated for the first time, blushed and began to cough.
Her reaction caused Cassie to colour in her turn and to be thankful that her host had not heard the comment.
He, however, looking from one woman’s face to the other, divined that his guest must have said something which the teacher thought better suppressed.
“What did you say?” he asked in English.
“It does
not matter.”
“I should like to hear it all the same.”
Fräulein Brunner made no attempt to speak but continued to cough, her handkerchief pressed to her lips.
“I should not have said it. It was uncivil and I am glad Gustav did not understand.” As she spoke, she looked at Gustav so that he, although he did not know the precise meaning of her words, yet guessed with surprising accuracy at the content.
“I did,” the child interrupted, speaking his own language. “You said you had been taught to draw because you were a girl and you thought I had not because I am a boy, didn’t you?”
“Yes, something like that.”
Cassie was wrestling not only with the language, but also with the tactlessness of her remark. Fräulein Brunner’s disapproval made her afraid that the Count would take offence.
He frowned and said tentatively, “Do you think my son should learn to draw?”
“He can draw,” she said in English, “but I do not think there would be any harm in his having some instruction in the subject.”
Since Fräulein Brunner still refused to translate, her face remaining buried in her handkerchief and the most peculiar sounds emanating from her hunched shoulders, Cassie tried to explain in German and realised, as she did, that her sketchy vocabulary and entire ignorance of grammar allowed her to get away with making the sort of comments which would usually incur censure.
“Yes!” von Krems exclaimed, the light of comprehension dawning in his eyes. “That is an excellent idea. I will find him a teacher. He likes very much to draw.”
Cassie looked up and met his eyes. “I did not mean to be uncivil,” she said hopelessly in English.
The Count, understanding the expression on her face and the gestures which accompanied her words, said, “I am grateful to you for pointing out something which I had not thought of. Thank you; a drawing master will be engaged. Would you like that, Gustav?” he added in German to the child. “A special drawing master?”
“Yes,” the boy said at once. “Will he teach me how to draw better?”
“He will show you how to achieve certain effects,” his father said. “For example, I daresay he will help you to do justice to Mrs Morley’s hair and face.”
Honoria Or The Safety 0f The Frying Pan Page 13
