“I am on my way to Dover,” Honoria replied, attempting a grand manner but aware that, not having even one servant in her entourage, she was not at all in the same bracket as the Countess. “There is a coach lumbering along behind carrying my baggage and maid as well as several manservants. Will you see to my horse while I take some breakfast? Is it this way?”
“Yes, Miss. You’ll be lucky if you get much attention when her ladyship’s here.”
“I daresay,” Honoria replied, handing the reins to the young man and, taking her valise in one hand, advancing with as much confidence as she could muster towards the door.
The ostler’s warning was soon proved correct when nobody seemed to notice her at all as she walked inside. The hall was empty apart from servants passing to and fro carrying what she supposed to be the various components of the Countess’s breakfast. She waited for a moment or two, expecting someone to attend to her but no one came forward so, feeling almost as though she were invisible, she followed one of the waiters, who was carrying a tray.
This individual entered a large saloon which appeared to be a sort of reception room. He passed straight through into what was evidently a private parlour where a finely dressed woman was sitting at a table.
She was wearing a beautifully cut dark green velvet pelisse, trimmed with sable, and a hat sporting several ostrich feathers dyed to match. She was passing the time until her coffee arrived in reading a small book which she held at arm’s length and studied by means of a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. This personage could be none other than the Countess.
Honoria, herself clothed in a rather old-fashioned and over-tight riding habit (she had grown since it was made) in faded blue, followed the waiter and stood, partially concealed behind him, until he had unloaded his tray, poured coffee into a cup, bowed several times and retreated. She dodged gracefully out of his way and presented herself to the Countess as he left.
“Good morning, your ladyship. Am I addressing the Countess of Angmering?” she enquired in a pleasant although somewhat haughty tone.
The Countess looked up, surprised no doubt at hearing herself addressed in an educated female voice.
“Yes,” she admitted. “Who are you?”
“My name is Honoria Ford and I wondered, since I understand that we are travelling in the same direction, if I could offer you any assistance on the journey?”
The Countess blinked. She was a startlingly handsome woman with hair so dark that it was almost black and a pair of unusual mint green eyes. Honoria guessed her to be in her early forties.
“I should not imagine so,” she replied in a neutral tone. “I have several servants whose job it is to pander to my every whim. What precisely did you have in mind in the way of assistance?”
“I wondered if you would value the company of a travelling companion – that is, for those times when you do not wish to read. I think I would be more interesting than a servant if you ever felt the need to comment upon the conditions as you travel - or share your thoughts on the vicissitudes which are bound to obtain upon such a lengthy journey.”
“I suppose that if I had wanted to beguile the journey by exchanging platitudes on the weather or the state of the roads or whatever else might take my fancy, I would have equipped myself with such a person. What is it that you want?” the Countess asked disconcertingly.
“A companion on my journey,” Honoria answered, favouring the older lady with a bewitching smile, accompanied by a pair of dimples.
“Lud! Are you alone?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“I am persuaded I should send you back whence you came immediately,” the Countess said severely, adding with a dimple of her own, “You had better sit down. Would you like some coffee?”
When not only coffee but several dishes of food had been laid upon the table in front of the Countess, and another plate requested for her guest, her ladyship encouraged Honoria to eat, “for, if you are running away, which I suspect, you may not get another square meal for some time – unless of course I take pity on you and accede to your request.”
Honoria nodded, said “thank you” politely and set to with an enthusiasm almost worthy of Frank. She had been riding for several hours and had worked up a powerful appetite. The Countess ate sparingly but drank several cups of coffee, all the while watching the younger woman with a speculative frown.
“Now, you had better tell me the whole. Why, firstly, did you think to approach me in that bold way? I thought my manner was generally considered intimidating.”
“Oh, it is, but I had little to lose and a great deal to gain.”
“I would dispute that: you have a good deal to lose for I could hand you over to the law and you would no doubt be taken back whence you came forthwith. How old are you?”
“Not many months shy of my majority.”
“I see; you look less but I daresay that says more about my age than yours. Why did you run away now when, if you waited a few more months, you could have done so legitimately? At least, I presume you could have or was your family threatening to lock you up or tear you limb from limb?”
“I have been locked up all my life,” Honoria confessed in a pragmatic tone. “Although I was not altogether aware of it until recently when my family – I am an orphan – made it perfectly clear that I was not only expected to marry my cousin as soon as possible but would be subjected to a disturbing amount of pressure to do so.”
“I see; a not unusual story but you, if I may say so, are behaving like a heroine in a gothic romance. What is this objectionable cousin like? I presume he is horridly ugly and has wet lips.”
Honoria flushed. “On the contrary he is absurdly handsome.”
“Is he? But, however handsome a man is, wet lips would make it wholly impossible to consider marrying him.”
“It is not that,” Honoria said, still very red in the face. “It is that I have always thought of him as my brother.”
“Ah! Were you brought up with him from a small child?”
“Always; my mother died when I was born.”
“I see. And they have planned this all along, I suppose?”
“Yes, but I did not realise it before yesterday. You must think me very stupid, my lady.”
“I think you delightfully innocent. If the cousin is neither ugly nor wet-lipped, could you not learn to think of him more as a husband than a brother?”
“If I did that and I married him, I would never go anywhere; I would be obliged to spend the rest of my life in the same house in which I was brought up, subject to my aunt’s running of it and my uncle’s financial control.”
“But, once you had passed your twenty-first birthday, you would no longer be subject to their rules except insofar as the running of the household goes. Could you not, at that point, move to another house – with your husband of course?”
“I suppose so, but then I would be subject to my cousin-husband’s rules.”
“Is he autocratic?”
“I do not know; he, too, is subject to his parents’ rules at present.”
“Is he then as young as you – or younger? I can understand you might not want to marry a schoolboy.”
“He is two years older than I. But I do not want to marry him – I do not see why it matters to you what makes me opposed to the idea.”
“Well, of course it does not matter to me in the least; I know none of the persons involved. But you have thrown yourself upon my mercy, young woman, and, if you expect me to help you, I believe I am entitled to be given a full picture.”
“Will you help me?”
“The best thing I can do for you, my dear, is to restore you to the bosom of your family. You look quite healthy so I must suppose they do not starve you; you have accused them of incarcerating you and yet here you are, early in the morning, not apparently pursued by a posse of horsemen. Your habit is a little small and decidedly shabby – you could do with some new clothes, but you do not strike me as a person in dire need of r
escue. What is more, you are no shrinking violet, are you, for you have had the effrontery to accost me and ask for my help? I can assure you that most people are terrified of me; I am accustomed to having my own way; why, pray, should I give you yours?”
“I suppose it would make a change,” Honoria suggested, wrinkling her nose in perplexity.
The Countess gave an unladylike shout of laughter at this. “Where were you making for? You said, in your first approach, that you understood us to be going in the same direction.”
“I am going to visit my brother – well, in point of fact, he is not my brother, but we were brought up together. He lives in Vienna.”
“Is he another cousin whom perhaps you prefer?”
“No; he is not related to me by blood at all.”
“So I take it you think he would be a more suitable connexion with less danger of producing mad children?”
“Oh, I do not mean to marry him; he is as a brother to me.”
“I see; Vienna is a long way; what is he doing there?”
“He is attached to the Embassy.”
“Ah! And do you maintain a correspondence with him? Is he expecting you?”
“No,” Honoria admitted in a doubtful tone.
“But you believe that he will take your part and look after you? Is he married?”
“No; but he left our house as soon as he reached his majority so that I think he probably feels the same way as I.”
“He may do so but it seems to me that you have very little evidence that he does. What will you do if he rejects you and tells you, quite sensibly, that you should have stayed at home?”
Chapter 20
In the event Count von Krems did not take Cassie and his son to watch the soldiers outside the Hofburg for some weeks. Gustav caught a cold and was, as his father put it, ‘confined to barracks’. This setback did not, however, prevent the grown-ups from meeting frequently at one house or the other to pursue their conversational practice. Both progressed fast, von Krems seemingly recalling a large portion of what he had learned as a boy and Cassie finding that, as Waldron had hinted, Fraülein Brunner was an excellent teacher even if she was a less than adequate interpreter.
Cassie did not mention these meetings to her teacher although it must surely have been apparent that her pupil’s spoken German was improving faster than her written work. Indeed, she had not spoken of the Count at all since the teacher’s query immediately after their joint visit to his house. There was, she told herself, no reason why she should; she was not a child and her teacher was neither a governess, whose permission needed to be sought, nor a person with whom she had an exclusive contract; there was no reason why she should not spend time with von Krems. Nevertheless, not admitting to her frequent meetings with him induced in her something approaching guilt, almost as though she were ashamed of her growing closeness to him.
On the day when the projected trip to watch the soldiers outside the Hofburg was finally to take place – Gustav having being cleared by his doctor for an afternoon outside - Cassie said nothing to her teacher but, as she changed into an afternoon dress, she wondered whether her sense of guilt and secrecy was not so much about failing to tell Fraülein Brunner how she planned to spend her afternoon as neglecting to tell von Krems about her past. She comforted herself with the thought that it did not concern him; furthermore, she told herself firmly, it was neither here nor there that he thought her the grieving widow of an imaginary Mr Morley. Their friendship was based neither upon her marital status nor her name, although she feared that it would soon cease if the Count had any inkling of her past career. It might be supposed to be a practical arrangement whereby both could practise their language skills without their relative positions in the social order being of the least importance. Of course, the difficulty lay in the fact that conversation, in whatever language and at whatever level, generally involved some exchange of personal information and, the closer they grew and the more advanced their language skills became, the more likelihood there was of the subject matter becoming intimate. Cassie was aware that there had already been several occasions on which she had been evasive.
The Count arrived, as she had grown to expect, precisely ten minutes after the hour which they had agreed. Cassie put on her hat, picked up her muff and went to greet him and the little boy, who was holding his father’s hand and granted her a shy smile.
“Good afternoon, Gustav,” she said, giving him her hand.
“Good afternoon, Gnädige Frau,” the child replied.
“When you are in my house,” she told him with a smile, “you must speak entirely in English. You should say, ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Morley.’”
The boy repeated the words, accompanying them with a little bow.
“Today we have not walked,” the Count said. “It is very cold and I think we may expect more snow later so I have come in the carriage. When we reach the Hofburg, we can alight and walk about a little.”
The Count’s carriage turned out to be a fine affair, tricked out in gold leaf and with a coat of arms upon the door – just as it would have had in England. It was drawn by a pair of matching bays; a coachman sat upon the box and the door was opened by a boy, who let down the steps. The Count himself handed her in and settled her comfortably on one side with a rug over her knees and a hot brick at her feet. The little boy, at his father’s direction, sat in the middle and the Count himself on the other side.
“I cannot see out from here, Papa,” Gustav pointed out as the steps were put up and the door closed upon them. He spoke in German now and nobody corrected him.
“You have seen the Palace many times,” his father reminded him.
“May I not sit beside the window?” he asked.
Cassie said nothing, mindful that Fraülein Brunner had disapproved of her intervention before.
“Very well,” the Count said. “We will change places although that may unbalance the carriage.”
He lifted his son and, sliding towards Cassie along the leather squabs, put him down next to the window.
“Will it tip up now?” the child asked.
“No, not unless Kanz takes a corner too tightly.”
As they drove along at a sedate pace, the Count pointed out interesting landmarks. When they arrived in front of the Palace, they descended from the carriage and walked towards the grand gates, beyond which they could see the soldiers in their ornate uniforms, their swords by their sides.
“Papa has been to a ball here,” Gustav told Cassie with some pride.
“That was before you were born,” the Count said. “I should think everyone has forgotten me now.”
“It was not so long ago,” Cassie murmured.
“It is nearly seven years; much has happened in that time.”
“Yes,” Cassie agreed, hearing the despondency in the Count’s voice and uncertain how to respond. The world had changed a great deal since 1812, in Europe more than in England; there had been myriad battles with many lost lives. Cassie did not know enough about von Krems’s past to know whether he had been a soldier – she assumed he was not one now. All she did know was that his young wife had died some six years before; it might be that which made him so sad but there might be lost friends and relations too.
“It seems,” the Count pursued with a barely concealed sigh, “a lifetime ago – and so it is – Gustav’s lifetime. The last battle in which I fought was at Leipzig and it was while I was out there in the mud that Gustav was born and my wife died. It was a victory for us but, when I eventually got home, it was hard for me to rejoice – although of course I did when I met Gustav,” he added hastily, perhaps afraid that the boy would think his father wished he had not been born. “I lost many friends as well as my younger brother.”
“I am sorry,” she said. “It must have been terrible. Were you wounded?”
He shot her a quick look of surprise. “Yes. I thought there were no outward signs remaining of my injury.”
“There are not but so m
any were hurt and, when you said ‘eventually’, I thought perhaps you had been detained in a field hospital.”
“The circumstances of Gustav’s birth – with me a long way away and unable to greet him immediately as well as being unable to bid my wife good-bye – led to my selling my commission immediately afterwards and taking refuge in the country. I have found it hard to return to Vienna – so many of the people I once knew are dead.”
Cassie could find nothing to say to this despairing observation and, after a moment, the Count went on, “Even when I did come back, I found it impossible to rejoin Society. Mostly, Gustav and I have stayed at home. That day when we met you was the first time I had been to the Prater for a very long time. I was used to walk there with my nursemaid when I was a boy and so I thought I would take Gustav in the hope that seeing it again would help me to overcome my apathy.”
“Did it?” Cassie asked. She could not bear to remember her life when she was a child, when her world had been simple and straightforward, when she had felt safe and loved; remembering a time before she had known how cruel life or men could be was deeply painful; she could not think of early happiness without coming up against the brutal wall of what had destroyed her innocence and cast long shadows upon her memories.
“I do not know; since Gustav threw that ball into your face I have thought of little but you, Mrs Morley, and that has cured my apathy.”
“Oh, goodness, you do not need to be anxious on my behalf. I am quite better now,” she exclaimed.
“I cannot tell you how relieved I am to see that you are but it is more than that. Since meeting you, I have, in an odd way, regressed to boyhood – or perhaps begun a new life - because I have sought out my old schoolbooks and applied myself to study once more. I was a lazy child and was not gifted at languages. I preferred mathematics and science; I thought them more masculine and indeed more muscular. Languages seemed soft and inexact so I despised them. I did not spend any more time on learning than I was obliged and, when I went to the university, I spent even less. There, I discovered the joys of male company and, I am ashamed to admit, enjoyed the sort of things that men together engage in: drinking, gaming, carousing, fighting and so on. I will not go into detail but you must have a pretty good idea to what I refer. As soon as I left the university I joined the army. There was plenty to do in attempting to fend off Napoleon but I soon discovered that, whatever glory there might be in war, it is only appreciated by history. At the time, there is nothing but fear and pain – for the soldiers, that is.”
Honoria Or The Safety 0f The Frying Pan Page 16
