“It must be horrid,” Cassie said inadequately. “I cannot imagine how soldiers must suffer.”
“The thing is, I think, that, in order to bear it, in order not to turn and run – when you would in any event be shot – you become hardened and, away from the guns and the carnage, you indulge even more excessively in all those things which obliterate the mind: the drinking, the carousing and so forth. I did all those things and then – because so many of my friends had been killed and I had been wounded and counted myself lucky to have survived thus far – I determined to marry and provide if possible for the continuation of my name.”
Cassie said nothing, seeing that he was launched into reminiscence, but the bitterness of his tone alerted her to the fact that, when he came to the end of what he could bear to speak of, she must find the right thing to say if she was not to make the consequences of his confession more painful than the suppression had been.
Gustav, while his father was speaking, had wandered down the road a little way in the company of the under-groom, who was almost as excited by the sight of the men in their bright uniforms as the little boy.
“I have done so,” he finished heavily, “although it has been at the cost of another life.”
“I do not think,” she said slowly as he fell silent, “that you should blame yourself for your wife’s death. Many women die in childbirth; it is dreadfully unfortunate and excessively sad for both you and Gustav, but it is something which happens.”
“She was too young.”
“How old was she?”
“Eighteen.”
“You must miss her,” she said hopelessly, trying to infuse her voice with a sympathy which she did not feel. The Countess had died six years ago and, although of course he was bound to mourn her, she felt that his misery was caused not so much by his young wife’s absence as by his sense of guilt.
“If she had not married me she would most likely still be alive,” he said, confirming Cassie’s suspicion.
“If she had not married you she would most probably have married someone else by now, borne him a child and still died,” she said pragmatically.
“I can see you do not feel much sympathy for me.”
“Not perhaps as much as you would like me to,” she admitted. “It was a long time ago. I suppose some of your sadness is because you had not been married for long; you were no doubt still very much in love – and then the whole sorry business took place while you were away. But you were not precisely enjoying yourself, were you? You were away fighting for your country. It was neither your fault that she died nor that you were not there at the time.”
“How very sensible you are,” he said but Cassie did not take his remark as a compliment. Indeed, she thought, she had probably turned him against her with her unnatural pragmatism.
“Only when it comes to other people’s tragedies,” she told him. “I make a great deal of my own, I assure you.”
“That is not true. You are so determined to make little of your husband’s death that you have left your friends and relations and travelled to a foreign country rather than receive their condolences.”
That, Cassie thought, was true, but only because she had neither friends nor relations, nor indeed any reason to receive condolences.
“It is not quite as simple or straightforward as that,” she said, thinking that it was a pity that he was under the impression that their situations were similar when, in fact, they could hardly have been more different.
“No,” he agreed, imbuing the single word with such weight that she wondered if perhaps his own position was not altogether as she had assumed it to be.
Fortunately, Gustav chose that moment to come running back to tell them to come at once because a wonderful carriage had driven up to the gates and he was sure it must be the Emperor himself.
It was not until after they had returned to the Count’s house that they resumed their conversation. He invited her to take dinner with him and sent Gustav off in the company of his nursemaid to eat an early supper before bed.
“If you would like my company for dinner,” Cassie said, “I should return home to change my dress.”
“Must you? Could you not remain as you are? I am afraid that, if you go home, you will come back in a different frame of mind and the closeness I felt – I hope we felt - will have dissipated.”
“Very well,” she agreed at once, also reluctant to lose that connexion which she had felt with him earlier but surprised at his readiness to unbend so far.
He called for wine and ordered dinner to be served within an hour and a half.
“I find it easy to talk to you,” he said and paused. He spoke in French, a language both could speak with ease and which therefore put neither at a disadvantage.
Cassie could think of nothing to say to this and inclined her head in acknowledgment for the truth was that she did not find him easy to talk to, although she suspected this was partly because she had so many secrets to keep that she hardly dared to speak of anything more revealing than the weather, and partly because he seemed to her to be such a very proper gentleman that she feared shocking him if she inadvertently revealed the truth.
“I am of the belief that this is because you have lost your husband, as I have my wife. It must be an additional sadness for you that you have no children to comfort you.”
“I own that it is not,” Cassie said after a moment, thinking that, if she were to receive his confidences, she could not continue to deceive him. It would be unfair and, when he discovered the truth – as he inevitably would – he would never forgive her.
She saw that he did indeed look astounded by this admission and said, almost flippantly, “Well, at least I am alive.”
“Indeed,” he replied stiffly, clearly rebuffed. After a pause, he made a partial recover of his good humour and asked, “Did you think of the dangers of childbirth and thank God that you were spared them?”
The moment had come and Cassie had to marshal all the courage of which she was capable to continue in a voice so low that he had to lean forward to hear her words. “I like to think that you and I have become friends, mein Herr; on that account, I find myself forced to confess to something which will no doubt shock you.”
“You did not love your husband and your union was not a happy one?”
She nodded, thinking of her many liaisons; none had been happy; all had been blighted by the combination of her sense of shame and fear of abandonment.
“No,” she said, “The truth is I never was married.”
Chapter 21
“I’ll look for a job; it will not, after all, be for long, because I shall soon be twenty-one,” Honoria said brightly.
“And then I suppose you will come into your money,” the Countess concluded.
“Yes - and I shall be able to do what I want.”
“I see. I suppose your uncle has been looking after your money as well as you for the past twenty years,” the Countess continued, stirring her coffee.
“Yes. A man I met the other evening – yesterday, to be precise - or perhaps it is the day before - warned me that I may not have as much as I had hoped – on account of my uncle having been obliged to use some to provide for me during the years of my minority,” she added, not wishing to cast aspersions upon her uncle’s probity to a woman whom she had just met.
“He is very likely right. When, exactly, did you run away? Did you meet this intelligent man on your travels?”
“No; I left my home only a few hours ago – in the middle of the night. I met Lord Ninfield at the assembly rooms.”
“Lord Ninfield? Who is he? Did you perhaps prefer him to both your cousin and the man who is not a cousin but a sort of litter-mate?”
“He is the Earl of Tendring’s heir. I only danced with him twice. He seemed quite amiable, although I found him a little condescending at first. If you are thinking I would be better off marrying him, I must warn you that I do not know him at all well.”
“No,
of course you do not, whereas you must know your cousin exceedingly well, as I suppose you do the unrelated gentleman in Vienna. What is his name?”
“He is the Earl of Waldron.”
“Two earls – or, rather, one earl and one heir to an earldom, and a cousin; is he an earl?”
“No; a mere mister.”
“In that case he is obviously not good enough for you. Well, you have convinced me of your antecedents and I see nothing to be ashamed of there. I am tempted to allow you to travel with me as far as Würtzburg, which is my destination. You will have to go on some distance to reach Vienna by yourself but we can discuss that nearer the time.”
“Will you, will you truly allow me to come with you? I am so grateful,” Honoria exclaimed, delighted at the prospect of proceeding in this lady’s company. She felt certain that she would be safe, not only from footpads and seducers but also from any pursuit that might be sent after her, for surely her family would never consider that she might have taken refuge in the Countess of Angmering’s carriage.
“You amuse me,” the Countess said, “but I own you also worry me. You are very young and very pretty and, according to you, have never left your home before. I cannot conceive how you thought to reach Vienna safely by yourself but I think it my duty to make sure that you get to Bavaria at least. Will you write to your family to tell them you are safe?”
“I already left a note for my uncle.”
“Did you say you were going to Vienna?”
“No, of course not. If I had done that, he would be after me in no time – or rather he would send Frank. In any event, when I left I had not altogether decided on Vienna.”
“I see. Well, if I am to take you, you must write him another letter, telling him that you are safe and have found a kind older lady who has offered to take care of you for the time being in exchange for your company. You need not tell him where I am going – nor indeed that I am going anywhere - nor need you divulge my name. Let us hope that such a communication will set his mind at rest.”
Honoria, persuaded by this evidence of thoughtfulness on the part of her new companion, as well as by relief that she need provide little information to her uncle, allowed herself to be equipped with paper, pen and ink and sat down at a small desk while the Countess oversaw the re-packing of her carriage so that there would be sufficient space for her new young friend.
The letter written and sealed, Honoria requested the proprietor of the inn to send her mare home to Lenham Hall, together with the letter, in three days’ time. She did not wish the horse to be delivered before she had left the country and was well on her way into the depths of Europe and she did not think that there was any great urgency about it since it said little more than the one she had left upon her uncle’s desk.
It was not until she and the Countess were about to climb into her ladyship’s coach that the older lady remarked upon Honoria’s clothing again.
“I think we had better delay our departure for a few more minutes while you change out of your habit. You will not be comfortable dressed like that and will look exceedingly odd if you descend from a carriage dressed for riding. I will order a room to be prepared for you to change. I suppose the landlady can find someone to help you because Dent, my maid, is in charge of my baggage in one of the other coaches and we do not want to have to wait for her to arrive. I suppose you have thought to pack something other than riding dress?”
“Yes.” Honoria picked up her small valise.
“Is that all the luggage you have?” the Countess asked.
“Yes. I did not have much time to pack as I wanted to be away before dawn and I could not, in any event, carry a trunk upon a horse.”
“No, indeed. Well, you had better do the best you can. If necessary, you will have to purchase some additional gowns once we have crossed the Channel – or perhaps we can find some in Dover. I do not think we want to delay our departure for too long for fear of any pursuers catching up with us.”
Honoria, glad to note that the Countess was of the same mind on that subject, allowed herself to be conducted upstairs by the proprietress, who called for a maid to assist Miss to change. It did not take long for the maid to help remove the faded riding habit and help her to put on a dark blue merino dress, button it up the back and assist the young lady into a deep pink spencer, also fashioned from merino, of which Honoria was particularly fond. It buttoned up the front and was, like the habit, a little too close-fitting, but the colour and style, with its tiny pearl buttons, was both charming and flattering. When she presented herself once more to her companion, the Countess exclaimed upon her appearance.
“A charming little garment,” she pronounced the spencer, “but, like your habit, a trifle small. Have you been wearing it since you were a child?”
“Well, not quite, but for several years and I am, sadly, a little larger than I was,” Honoria admitted.
“I do not think you could do with being any smaller,” the Countess said, surveying her young companion with an embarrassingly frank eye. “The truth is that females swell in certain places when they reach maturity and I imagine that is what has happened. Have you no clothes which fit you?”
Honoria blushed. “Oh, it does fit me; it is only a little tight and, once I have had it on for half an hour or so, it will no doubt stretch a bit.”
“Yes, I have no doubt it will. I am glad I have been able to step in to take care of you, Honoria – if I may call you that – because, by yourself, such a garment would draw possibly unwelcome attention from every gentleman who sees you.”
“I have brought the new dress that my aunt bought me yesterday,” Honoria said, her colour still very high. “That fits me to perfection – it was altered especially because I am apparently a little shorter than the average. It is an evening dress.”
“I shall look forward to seeing you wearing it,” the Countess said. “Have you a pelisse?”
“No, there was no room in the valise.”
“How did you imagine you would withstand the extremes of cold that we will encounter in Europe? Or did you not know that those land-bound countries through which we shall pass are much colder than England, and Vienna itself will be deep in snow at this time of year?”
Honoria felt her colour rise again, this time with shame at her lack of foresight. Having lived almost her whole life with Helen, whose readiness to take offence and fly off the handle had made her difficult to manage, she had been used to see herself as the sensible, practical one. She had felt proud of the results of accosting the Countess and had, as she changed her clothes, congratulated herself on finding a way, not only of travelling a large part of the way in relative safety and comfort, but also incognito. Now, she felt almost prepared to jettison these advantages in order to escape from the sort of criticism that she had rarely received from her aunt but which she recognised as not uncommon between an ageing and experienced lady and a young, inexperienced one.
“Well, it is too late now,” the Countess said, noting the colour and expression of the other. “Let us not delay any longer or we shall miss the tide. You will soon find out how disagreeable it is to be cold but I suppose your young blood will prevent your actually freezing to death.”
She led the way to her carriage, followed by Honoria, who was biting her lip and telling herself that, if she wished to be escorted, she must hold her tongue. The carriage was enormous and furnished with a thick carpet, deeply cushioned leather squabs, a quantity of fur rugs, several hot bricks and a pair of what looked like cupboards where the fold-down seats were usually to be found. Between the leather squabs was a polished wood table thoughtfully surrounded by a carved rim, presumably to prevent anything placed upon it falling to the floor every time the carriage bounced over a rut, although, once they set off, Honoria could not imagine that it would be possible to feel the unevenness of the road even if the wheels were to drop into a large pothole. She looked round her surroundings with her mouth open. The carriage in which she and her family had
travelled to Tunbridge Wells could, in comparison, best be described as a covered cart.
“I notice you are admiring the comforts of my carriage,” the Countess said, smiling. “I travel this way several times a year and see no reason why I should suffer more than is absolutely unavoidable.”
“No, indeed, my lady. It is positively luxurious.”
“Good. In those cupboards at which you are staring with such amazement is a variety of iron rations in case we are held up somewhere and cannot eat our dinner in comfort; there are also medical supplies and a pistol in case we are held up in that sense. The coachman is of course equipped with a blunderbuss but it is not beyond the realms of possibility that he could be shot before he has had a chance to employ it.”
“Indeed. I see you have thought of everything.”
“I have been doing this for years,” her ladyship explained. “And every time I find something I have not thought of without which I have sometimes wondered if I will be able to survive. We shall see what we are missing this time.”
The carriage moved smoothly and swiftly on its way and Honoria leaned back and gazed out of the window at the rapidly passing country.
It was more than three hours later that she caught her first glimpse of the sea. It was not one to fill the heart of a person who had never seen it before - but knew that she must somehow traverse it - with a great deal of confidence. The first impression was of a uniformly grey swathe in the distance as though a scarf had been laid across the scenery as far as the eye could see; it was almost impossible to decipher a division between sea and sky at this distance.
Honoria Or The Safety 0f The Frying Pan Page 17
