“Yes; I think your English manners are more free than ours and I am never quite certain whether you jest or – in short, my strong desire not to be overbearing leads me, I fear, to seem distant when I would be close.”
“I daresay it is the language barrier,” she murmured, touched by his self-awareness and becoming more hopeful of reaching the conclusion she sought.
“There are so many of them,” he explained, a half-smile flitting across his features.
“Indeed; it is curious, is it not, that, in spite of having so many at our disposal, we yet cannot quite convey our meaning?”
“It is not perhaps paucity of vocabulary – or even complexity of grammar - that hobbles us so much as fear of putting a foot wrong, if I may so phrase it.”
She smiled. “Pretend for a moment that you are your son and speak as he would – briefly and to the point. And pray sit down – I feel oppressed by your looming over me.”
“Very well.” He retreated obediently to his chair and sat down again. “I will go back, if I may, to the book Fraülein Brunner has given you and observe that it is a pity that neither of our parents read that sort of thing. Kinder und Hausmärchen had not of course been published when they were young although there must, surely, have been something similar - stories featuring stern parents whose excessive discipline and selfish ambition frequently drive their children to extreme conduct.”
“Is that – your sense of the pain that excessive parental discipline can cause – partly what leads you to bring Gustav up in the liberal way that you do?” Cassie found herself relaxing somewhat as they returned to a familiar subject.
“Yes; or at least it is my consciousness of how unhappy I was as a boy and how difficult I have found it to grow close to people as a man. It seems to me that, back then, when you and I were children, parents wished at all costs to maintain the status quo and it simply did not occur to them that they were forcing their children into constricting garments. We threw off the too-tight clothes and ran off naked only to find that we could not keep warm and could find nowhere safe to be comfortable; I came home and submitted in the end; you did not.”
“I could not; having thrown off my clothes – only too literally – they did not recognise me and would not let me return, although my father did take the trouble to explain that such a harsh judgment was necessary in order to protect my sisters.”
“And what has become of them? I should imagine that such a warning would have led them to keep their clothes very tightly buttoned indeed.”
“I do not know; I suppose I could find out if I wished but, told that I no longer belonged to my family, I could not bear to think of them and avoided discovering their fate. I do not think, though, that they had London ‘come-outs’ because, if they had, they would surely have married into the ton and I would have heard of them later, seen them even from the other side of the fence. I could not have endured that; it was one of the reasons why I remained in Europe for so long. When I did go back to London it was because I had obtained a job singing in the chorus at the opera; that was how I met my most recent protector; he came to the stage door after a performance. He was a schoolboy at the time.”
“How old were you?”
“Old enough to know better – seven and twenty.”
“And your sisters? How old would they have been then? How many did you have?”
“Two; they would have been five and twenty and three and twenty at that time – so almost certainly married and very likely living in the country. They might have made reasonably good marriages in spite of not having been presented – certainly they neither of them made brilliant ones for I am sure I would have heard if they had.”
“And your parents?”
“So far as I know they both still live.”
They agreed that they would drive north to the Count’s castle in a few days’ time but there was one matter on which it seemed a good deal of discussion was required: Cassie’s name and status.
“Do I understand you do not wish to meet my mother as Mrs Morley?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“If I am not to introduce you as a widow, may I suggest you do not dress from head to toe in black?”
“Goodness! I own I had not thought of that.”
“You could, I suppose, be mourning someone else – a grandmother or some such?”
“That would still be a lie. As you have seen for yourself, I am singularly poor at pretending to be someone else and in any event find it uncomfortable. Also, now you know the truth, it would mean involving you in the deception – and what of Gustav?”
“What indeed? He believes you to be Mrs Morley. We will be obliged to undeceive him first and – so foolishly liberal have I been in my upbringing – I daresay he will have a thousand questions which you will be forced to answer in some way or another – not necessarily with the truth.”
Cassie flushed. “Definitely not with the truth; although I cannot think it right to deceive a child neither do I think it proper to tell him the whole story. Mein Herr, it is becoming increasingly clear that your friendship with a person such as me presents innumerable problems.”
He laughed. “I own I had not perceived any until this moment. Do you think that, in order to avoid revealing all – or enough to confuse him – to Gustav, you could bear to be introduced to my mama as Mrs Morley?”
“I am persuaded that I must; I see now how tangled the knots of deception can prove. I had not thought that such an apparently simple story would be so hard to escape. Mr Morley has begun to haunt me.”
“You need not invent a character for him and, if my mother asks you about him, you need only give a date for his death – and perhaps a reason. You can bury your head in a handkerchief and sniff dolefully so that she will not like to persist.”
Cassie managed to laugh at this, observing that that was precisely what Lord Waldron had advised.
Chapter 30
“Not bad, is it, for a roadside inn? At least, this beef tastes pretty good to me for I haven’t eaten for some time.”
Honoria laughed; there was something wonderfully reassuring about Frank and his appetite which, it seemed, could be relied upon to be the same in the middle of a snowbound Europe as it was in England. She wondered if one of the reasons why he looked so – frankly – adorable when he was eating was the simple pleasure he took in doing so.
He put the next piece into his own mouth but proffered the following one to Honoria so that she found herself sharing his supper, turn and turn about, as though she had been a small child.
“I used to feed you sometimes when you first came to live with us,” he said, smiling at her fondly.
“You were not very big yourself.”
“No; and I was not very good at feeding you; Nanny used to get quite annoyed because I was constantly dropping food on your clothes and smearing it all over your face; she used to complain that she had to change your dress after I had fed you; of course, it wasn’t this sort of food, it was sloppy stuff – horrid.”
“I’m surprised you remember,” she said, gazing at his grown-up face and struggling to recall the boy’s.
“Well, they only gave you milk to start with, I suppose. I was about three when you started eating all that slop – and you were about one. Yes, I do remember it – partly, I suppose, because of Nanny’s sighs but she also thought it rather sweet that I loved you so much; I suppose that was why she put up with it. I still do – love you.”
“I loved you too; you were my hero.”
“Indeed. But you seem to have left off doing so and I seem to have been transformed from hero to villain.”
“No, I have not stopped loving you, but it is true that I don’t think of you as a hero any longer. I just was shocked; I felt betrayed – and frightened.”
“So frightened that you ran away in the middle of the night? I wonder if you can conceive the shock and horror we all felt when we discovered you gone!”
“I left a note in Uncle Ch
arles’s study and then I wrote another after Lady Angmering suggested it so, although you may indeed have been shocked and horrified, you cannot have been anxious. I did not wish to cause distress.”
“Did not wish ..? You did not appear at breakfast, your bed was so disordered that it looked as though you had been snatched from it – we were beside ourselves with anxiety until Papa found the note and then we were thrown into panic. You followed Lady Angmering’s advice? Who, pray, is she? Did she dictate the letter? You seem to have embraced the suggestions of a perfect stranger whilst rejecting those of your closest relatives. What in the world possessed you?”
“I told you: I was afraid I would be forced to marry you.”
“And that was such an awful prospect that you preferred to run away? My darling girl, you have wounded me to the quick. I have aged ten years or more in the last few weeks – and Mama is prostrated. I left her in Helen’s care, but I should think it will be touch and go whether she survives.”
“Oh, Frank, no! I am certain you exaggerate. You had better write her a letter to tell her that you have found me and that I am quite safe and well. I did not mean my aunt to suffer.”
“Perhaps not, although I suspect you did not in point of fact think about any of us. At first I was so hurt – and angry – that I thought it would serve you right if you were sold into slavery. Then that pompous ass, your present companion, called – presumably to further his acquaintance with you – and clearly did not believe the cock and bull story we told him of your – and mama’s – illness. She was ill – she fell into the most violent hysterics when your absence was discovered; even Papa turned white with anxiety – or anger – I am not sure which. Your conceited suitor came with his prig of a sister but they soon left. How did he know where to find you? Did you write to him too, only giving him more information?”
“No, but Lady Angmering did; she is his aunt. I did not know she had done so until he turned up.”
“Told exactly where to go, I don’t doubt. Did you tell her about your fortune?”
“Yes; I did not think it mattered – after all, she could not marry me – or even aspire to do so.”
“No, but she clearly thought of her nephew at once. Where is she, by the way? She is not still with you, is she?”
“No; she was going to a place called Würtzburg so that our ways parted a few days ago.”
“And he turned up shortly after?”
“Yes. I did think it suspicious but he has been most helpful and entirely proper.”
“No doubt; after all, you have form when it comes to running away from unwanted marriage proposals. He will have wanted to secure your affections before putting the question.”
Honoria flushed and looked away.
“Here, have another piece of beef,” Frank said so that she turned her head towards him.
“Have you fallen in love with him?”
“No. But he made me an offer this evening.”
“By Jove! Did you accept?”
“No – and I will not! I have not formed an attachment to him.”
“Phew! That’s a relief! How did he take your rejection?”
“He did not even wait for one but began to apologise for making the offer as soon as he had done so.”
“Saw your face I expect. What’s he doing now? Has he retired to his chamber in high dudgeon?”
“No; I retired – or was on my way to doing so – when I bumped into you. So far as I know, he is drinking brandy in the parlour across the hall.”
“Does he drink a lot?”
“How should I know? He always calls for brandy after dinner and that is my cue to retire because I do not wish to join him.”
“Very wise.”
Frank laid his knife and fork down, filled up his and Honoria’s glasses and offered her a cake.
“Shall we sit by the fire while we decide what to do?” he enquired.
“I suppose you have come to take me home,” she said after a long pause while they sat one on either side of the flickering flames.
“What would you like to do? It seems to me that there are various alternatives: you can let me take you home; we can travel to Vienna together and throw ourselves upon Horatio’s mercy; or you can kick me out and continue with Ninfield.”
“Would you go if I chose to go with him?”
“It would depend upon your reasons, I think, and his. I would want to be sure he means to marry you, which I assume he does on account of the fortune, but, if he merely means to have his wicked way with you and then intends to abandon you somewhere in the middle of Europe in the middle of winter, I shall be obliged to call him out. I have come, not in the guise of an abductor nor yet a furiously protective cousin, but as a person who loves you and wishes you to be happy as well as safe. Before we go any further, let me make you a promise: I will not try to force you to marry me; if, of course, you decide in the end that you would like to, I will be happy to oblige but there will be no strong-arm tactics, I swear.”
“Thank you.” Honoria spoke in a small voice.
“Bitte, to use the vernacular hereabouts. Shall we turn around and make for Vienna after all? Although you have gone quite a long way off course, I don’t think it will take us long to retrace our steps and start going the right way.”
“Are you certain I am not going the right way? I made sure Lord Ninfield knew this part of the world well. He spent a portion of his boyhood here – that is why he speaks the language so well.”
“If he told you that – and if it was genuine – it makes it less likely that his sense of direction is at fault and more likely that he has every intention of taking you away from your objective.”
“But he seems so very sensible – and honourable.”
“No doubt; and I seemed silly and dishonourable, did I not? But, darling girl, that is only because I am young and not well versed in the art of deception.”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak for Frank’s whole manner and his transparently affectionate promises stirred her heart. She would, if she could, have left with him at once for, however kindly and supportive Lord Ninfield had seemed, she had only understood her true feelings a bare half hour ago.
He leaned forward and took her hands in a strong, warm clasp. “Never fear, sweet coz, all will be well. I take it you would like to come with me to Vienna to Horatio?”
When she nodded again, he said, “I will speak to Ninfield then.”
“Could we not go tonight – now?” she asked.
Frank raised his eyebrows. “Now? In the middle of the night? Are you so afraid of his lordship that you would fly now? Or have you become so accustomed to fleeing in the middle of the night that it seems positively conventional to you?”
“No; only I cannot understand why we have stopped going to Vienna if – as you say – we are so far off course. I did not know that, which makes me feel very foolish because all along he has been saying that we are nearly there and that he will hand me over to Horatio. Do you suppose that was all lies? And, if so, what does he want with me?”
“I’m fairly certain he wants to marry you, as I said; he has not made love to you, has he, apart from making you an offer to which he didn’t even wait for a reply?”
“No; I do not think he is in love with me; he does not behave as if he is.”
“How, pray, do you know how a man behaves when he is in love? Can you possibly be judging him by my conduct?”
“I am not so idiotic as that – you are not in love with me either. But, if he was, would he not look at me in a certain way, be a little soft, indulgent?”
“Or horridly domineering like me? Yes, I would have thought so, but, you see, I don’t think he is in love with you – he’s in love with your fortune.”
“So why is he not taking me to Horatio? We could, after all, be married in Vienna, I presume, quite easily.”
“I’m not sure you could; Horatio is not your guardian; Papa is. But Horatio is a grown-up, not so very much y
ounger than Ninfield, and would probably know at once what his lordship’s intentions were. I should think it most unlikely that he would be willing to consent – even if he could; he would want to be sure of a good many things: firstly about his lordship and secondly about your sentiments. But no, I think we should leave in the morning; I would like to speak to him and make it perfectly clear that his association with you is at an end. I take it that is what you wish me to do?”
“Yes, I think so, although he has been kind and helpful and I do not think he means me harm. As for wanting my fortune, he has that in common with you.”
“I do not want your fortune or, if it did seem an appealing prospect back there in England for a few heady moments, it has never been more important than you. Dearest coz, will you believe me when I swear that it is your welfare that is of paramount importance to me? If it will make you happy to marry him, and if, after I have spoken to him, I am convinced of his probity, I will do my utmost to persuade Papa of the advantages.”
“Thank you.”
As she mounted the stairs to her chamber, Honoria wondered how she could have been so foolish as to believe that Frank meant her harm. Not only did he not, but she was convinced that he had no more desire to marry her than she had had – before the revelation of her feelings caused by Lord Ninfield’s offer - to tie herself to him.
If she felt a little disappointed that he had not sworn undying love for her and had, far from reiterating his offer, more or less withdrawn it, she supposed that was partly to be explained by the fact that her flight was proving not only ill-advised but also unnecessary. She had, by behaving in such an insanely impulsive manner, simply upset everyone and very likely hastened her poor aunt’s demise for she was not strong and never had been. Until her panic-stricken bolt from the family home, Honoria had always been particularly careful with her aunt’s fragile temper, forever soothing and calming and doing her best to curb Helen’s outbursts.
As she undressed, she wondered what would transpire upon the morrow. How would Frank speak to Lord Ninfield and – less easy to predict – how would his lordship react to the arrival of the infamous cousin? She hoped there would not be an unpleasant scene; if there was, it would be entirely her fault. She wished she had not behaved in such a witless fashion and, as the night wore on and she continued to lie in bed unable to sleep, she was overcome with shame at the trouble to which she had put everyone.
Honoria Or The Safety 0f The Frying Pan Page 25
