“For the pleasure of picking quarrels with me, no doubt!” retorted Miss Wychwood, laughing. “Shall we go down to dinner now, Amabel?”
Lady Wychwood had looked up quickly at Lucilla’s saucy speech, as though struck by a sudden and by no means agreeable suspicion, and Annis was aware that her eyes were fixed on her face. For perhaps the only time in her life she was thankful to Miss Farlow for interrupting, even though Miss Farlow did so merely because she seldom missed an opportunity to give Lucilla a set-down. She said sharply: “A very odd thing it would be in your uncle if he were to leave Bath without taking leave of dear Miss Wychwood, to whom he has so much cause to be grateful! I am sure it isn’t wonderful that he should wish rather to see her than you, Miss Carleton, for gentlemen find girls only just out of the schoolroom excessively boring! Indeed, at your age I should never have expected a gentleman to wish to see me!”
Lucilla’s eyes flashed, and she replied swiftly: “How fortunate!”
Ninian uttered a choking sound, which he turned into a very unconvincing cough; and Lady Wychwood rose, and said with gentle dignity: “Yes, do let us go down, dearest, or we shall be in disgrace with your cook. Cooks always look black if one keeps dinner waiting, and one cannot blame them, for it must be dreadfully provoking to have one’s work spoilt!”
She then recounted a mildly amusing story about a French cook she had once employed, and Annis, grateful to her for bridging the awkward gap, laughed, and led her on to tell a few more anecdotes. Behind them, on the staircase, came Miss Farlow, muttering to herself. Not much of what she said reached Annis’s ears, but such overheard scraps as “pert minx .. . grossly indulged .. . shocking manners” were enough to give her fair warning that she would be forced to listen to Miss Farlow’s outraged complaints before the evening was out.
Lucilla and Ninian brought up the rear. Ninian whispered: “You abominable little gypsy! You dashed nearly had me in whoops!”
Lucilla jerked up an impatient shoulder, saying under her breath that she didn’t care; but at the foot of the stairs she caught up with Annis, who was standing aside to allow Lady Wychwood to precede her into the dining-room, and detained her by tugging a fold of her dress, and said in her ear, as Miss Farlow, in obedience to a sign from Annis, followed Lady Wychwood: “I’m sorry! I know I ought not to have said it! Don’t say I must beg her pardon, because I won’t!”
Annis smiled, but held up an admonitory finger, murmuring: “No, very well, but don’t do it again!”
Lucilla followed her into the room in a chastened mood, and for the better part of the meal remained largely silent. But by the time the second course was placed on the table a chance remark made by Ninian put her in mind of something she wanted to ask Annis, and she said impetuously: “Oh, Miss Wychwood, will you take me to the Dress Ball at the Lower Rooms on Friday?”
“Not without your uncle’s permission, my dear—and I doubt very much if he would give it.”
“But he isn’t here, so how can I ask him if I may go?” objected Lucilla. “Besides, even if he was here he would be bound to say that you must be the only judge of what is proper for me to do!”
“Oh, no, not a bit of it! He keeps a stricter watch over you than you think!”
“Well, he needn’t know anything about it!” said Lucilla, with something very like a pout.
“I hope you are not suggesting that I should try to conceal from him that I had allowed you to do anything of which I am very certain he would disapprove!” said Miss Wychwood. “You must remember that he has entrusted you to my care! How very shocking it would be if I were to prove myself unworthy of his trust! You are trying to get me into a scrape, and I beg you won’t!”
“No, but I don’t see why I shouldn’t go to the Dress Ball,” argued Lucilla. “I have been to several private balls, so why may I not attend a public one?”
“I daresay it does seem rather hard to you,” said Miss Wychwood sympathetically, “but there is a difference between the private parties you’ve been to and a public ball, believe me! The private parties you’ve attended have been informal hops, not balls; and have been got up for the entertainment of girls, like yourself, who are not yet out. Don’t eat me! but I am afraid that if your uncle asked me if it would be proper for you to go to the Friday Dress Ball I should be obliged to say that I didn’t think it would be at all the thing for a girl not yet out.”
“No, indeed!” struck in Miss Farlow. “A very off appearance it would present! In my young days—”
Miss Wychwood flickered a warning glance at Lucilla, and silenced her cousin by saying: “You sound just like my Aunt Augusta, Maria! That is what she was used to say whenever I wanted to do something she disapproved of. And I strongly suspect that it was said to her, and to you too, in your young days, and that you found it quite as provoking as I did!”
Miss Farlow opened her mouth to argue this point, but shut it again as she encountered a quelling look from Miss Wychwood which she dared not ignore. Lucilla was not so easily silenced, and continued to harp on the subject until Miss Wychwood lost patience, and said: “That’s enough, child! I daresay Harry Beckenham will be disappointed not to see you at the ball, but he will certainly not be surprised.”
“Yes, he will be!” Lucilla said, firing up. “I told him I should be there, when he asked me, because I never dreamed you wouldn’t take me—”
“Oh, do cut line!” interrupted Ninian impatiently. “You’re getting to be a regular jaw-me-dead, Lucy!”
Flushing scarlet, Lucilla prepared to give battle, but Miss Wychwood applied an effective damper by saying that if they wished to quarrel they might do so in the breakfast-parlour, but not at the dinner-table. Ninian, conscience-stricken, instantly begged pardon; but Lucilla was too angry to follow his example. However, she did not venture to pursue the quarrel, so Miss Wychwood was satisfied.
Ninian took his leave as soon as dinner came to an end; and Lucilla, having maintained what she believed to be a dignified silence, but which bore a strong resemblance to a fit of childish sulks, until she found that no one was paying the least attention to her, took herself off to bed before the tea-tray was brought in.
“Very pretty behaviour, upon my word!” said Miss Farlow, with an irritating titter. “Of course, I knew how it would be from the moment I set eyes on her! I said at the start—”
“You have said more than enough already, Maria!” interrupted Miss Wychwood. “I hold you entirely to blame for Lucilla’s miftiness, and wasn’t surprised that she lost her temper, and gave you a back-answer! No, don’t start again, for I haven’t the patience to listen to you!”
Miss Farlow began to cry, and to explain between sobs that it was her sincere affection for her dear Annis which had led her to offend her. “Not that I meant to offend you, but to see you being imposed on is more than flesh and blood can bear!”
Perceiving that Annis was far from being mollified, Lady Wychwood intervened, and applied herself to the task of soothing Miss Farlow’s injured feelings and succeeded so well that Miss Farlow soon stopped crying, accepted a cup of tea, agreed that she had a headache, and allowed herself to be persuaded to retire to bed.
“What a conjuror you are, love!” said Annis, as soon as Miss Farlow had departed. “You can’t think how grateful I am to you! I was within ames-ace of giving her such a rake down as I daresay she has never had in her life!”
“Yes, I could see you were,” replied Lady Wychwood, smiling a little. “Of course she shouldn’t have said what she did to Lucilla, but one can’t help feeling sorry for her!”
“I can very easily help it!”
“No, you only say that because she vexed you. Poor Maria! She is so dreadfully jealous of Lucilla! I think she feels that Lucilla has put her nose quite out of joint, and she is one of those who wants to be held in affection—to know that she is valued. And when she thinks you value Lucilla far more highly than you value her it makes her miserably jealous, and then she says foolish things which she doe
sn’t really mean.”
“Such as saying that Lucilla imposes on me!”
“Yes. Nonsensical, of course: Lucilla is just a spoilt child.” She paused, hesitating for a moment or two, and then said apologetically: “Will you be cross with me if I say that I do think you have indulged her rather too much?”
“No, how should I be?” said Annis, sighing. “I have come to realize it myself. You see, she had been kept so close by her aunt, never being allowed to go to parties, or to make friends of her own choosing, and never out of her governess’s sight that I made up my mind that I would do what I could to make up for the dreary time she had had ever since her mother died. You can’t think what satisfaction it gave me when I watched her huge enjoyment of things other girls think the merest commonplace amusements! I suppose I ought to have foreseen that it would go to her head a little. You’ll say I ought also to have foreseen that chaperoning a high-spirited and very pretty girl is not an easy task to undertake! I have a melancholy suspicion that Mr Carleton is odiously right when he says I am not a fit person to have charge of his niece!”
“It was uncivil and ungrateful of him to have said it, but I must own that I think it was the truth. I wish very much that he would place her in somebody else’s care.”
“Well, you may be easy, for that is what he is going to do. His purpose in coming here today was to inform me of it. I haven’t told Lucilla, I am afraid she will violently object to being taken away from me, so I am leaving her uncle to break the news to her. If she runs away, as it is quite likely she will—indeed, she might even elope with Kilbride!—it is Mr Carleton who will bear the responsibility, and not me!”
“Oh, I hope she won’t do anything so foolish!” said Lady Wychwood, in a voice of comfortable conviction. “I understand that you don’t wish to give her up, but you should reflect, dearest, that you would be bound to lose her when she comes out next spring, and the longer she lives with you the harder you would find it to part with her. So don’t let yourself be thrown into gloom, will you?”
“Good God, no! I shall certainly miss her, for she is a very engaging girl, and I have become attached to her; but to tell you the truth, Amabel, I do find the task of taking care of her rather more irksome than I had thought it would be. If Mr Carleton can discover, amongst his relations, one who is not only willing to receive her into her household, but one whom Lucilla will be happy to live with until her come-out, I shall be perfectly content to relinquish the child into her charge.”
Lady Wychwood said no more, and it was not long before she went away to bed, saying that she didn’t know how it was but that Bath air always made her sleepy. Annis soon followed her, but it was some time before she was able to get into bed, because while Jurby was still brushing her hair a knock on the door heralded the entrance of Lucilla, who stood hesitating on the threshold, and stammering: “I came—I wanted to say something to you—I will come back later!”
She had obviously been crying, and little though Annis wished for any emotional scenes that day she could not bring herself to repulse the girl. She smiled, and held out her hand, saying: “No, don’t do that! Jurby has just finished making me ready for bed. Thank you, Jurby! I shan’t need you any more, so I’ll bid you goodnight.”
Jurby went away, sharply adjuring Lucilla not to keep Miss Annis up until all hours: “For she’s fagged to death, as anyone can see! And no wonder! Racketting all over at her age!”
“At my age?” exclaimed Annis, with a comical look of dismay. “Jurby, you wretch, I’m not in my dotage!”
“You’re old enough to know better than to be on the jaunter from morning till night, miss,” replied Jurby implacably. “The next thing will be that we shall have people saying you’re a regular gadabout!”
This made Miss Wychwood burst out laughing, which had the effect of sending her sternest critic out of the room, saying darkly: “Mark my words!”
“I wonder which of her words I am to mark?” said Miss Wychwood, still laughing.
“She means that you are quite worn out with taking me about, and oh, dear Miss Wychwood, I never meant to wear you out!” declared Lucilla, on a convulsive sob.
“Lucilla, you goose! How can you be so absurd? Pray, how old do you think I am? Take care how you answer, for between you, you and Jurby have made me feel that I am dwindling into the grave, and if anyone else dares to tell me that I’m looking hagged I shall go into strong hysterics!”
But it would not do. Lucilla, having passed from the sulks into remorse and indulged in a flood of tears, was in no mood to deny herself the relief of pouring out her contrition into Miss Wychwood’s unwilling ears. It was long before she could be persuaded that her momentary lapse had been quite as much Miss Farlow’s fault as hers; and when she had at last been brought to accept the assurance that her regrettable, but very understandable breach of the canons of propriety in which she had been reared had not put her beyond pardon, it was only to fall into an orgy of self-blame for having been so forgetful of all she owed Miss Wychwood as to have teased her to take her to the Dress Ball, and to have behaved thereafter as though she had been born in a back-slum.
By the time Miss Wychwood had succeeded in sending her to bed in a more cheerful frame of mind, it was nearly an hour later, and she herself was feeling quite exhausted and was much inclined to crawl into bed without putting on her nightcap. That, of course, would not do at all, and she was tying the strings under her chin when another knock fell on her door, to be immediately followed by Miss Farlow, also in a lachrymose condition, and more than ordinarily garrulous. She had come, she said, to explain to her dear cousin how it had come about that she had allowed her feelings to overcome her. Annis said wearily: “Pray don’t, Maria! I am too tired to listen, and can think of nothing but my bed. It was an unfortunate contretemps, but too much has been said about it already. Let us forget it!”
But this Miss Farlow declared herself unable to do. She would not for the world keep dear Annis from her bed. “I shan’t stay above a minute,” she said. “But I shouldn’t be able to close my eyes all night if I didn’t tell you what my feelings are upon this occasion!”
In fact, she stayed for twenty minutes, saying: “Just one word more!” every time Annis tried to get rid of her; and might have stayed for twenty more minutes had Jurby not stalked in, and informed her, in forbidding accents, that it was high time she went to bed, instead of talking Miss Annis into a headache. Miss Farlow bridled, but she was no match for Jurby, and pausing only to press Annis to take a few drops of laudanum if she found herself unable to sleep, she bade her a fond goodnight and at last went away.
“There’s one that has more hair than wit, and a mouthful of pap besides,” Jurby said grimly. “It’s a good thing I didn’t go to bed myself, which I never meant to do, not for a moment, for I guessed she’d come fretting you to death! As though you hadn’t had enough trouble this day!”
“Oh, Jurby, hush! You shouldn’t speak of her like that!” said Annis weakly.
“Nor I wouldn’t to anyone but you, miss, but it’s coming to something, after all the years I’ve looked after you, if I can’t speak my mind to you. Next you’ll be telling me I’d no right to send her packing!”
“No, I shan’t,” sighed Annis. “I’m too thankful to you for having rescued me! I haven’t had anything to trouble me, but from some cause or another I’m out of temper—probably because my accounts wouldn’t come right!”
“And probably for quite another reason, miss!” said Jurby. “I haven’t said anything, and nor I don’t mean to, for you know your own business best.” She tucked in the blankets, and began to draw the curtains round the bed. “Which isn’t to say I don’t know which way the wind is blowing, for I’m not a cabbage-head, and I haven’t lived next and nigh you ever since the day you came out of the nursery without getting to know you better than you think, Miss Annis! Now, you shut your eyes, and go to sleep!”
Miss Wychwood was left wondering how many members of her d
omestic staff also knew which way the wind was blowing; and fell asleep wishing that she did know her own business best.
The night brought no counsel, but it did restore her to something not too far removed from her usual cheerful calm, and enabled her to support with creditable equanimity the spate of conversation which enlivened (or made hideous) the breakfast-table. For this, Lucilla and Miss Farlow were responsible, Miss Farlow being determined to show that she bore Lucilla no ill-will by chatting to her in a very sprightly way, and Lucilla being anxious to atone for her pert back-answer, by responding to these amiable overtures with equal amiability and the appearance of great interest.
In the middle of one of Miss Farlow’s reminiscent anecdotes, a note addressed to Lucilla was brought in by James, who told her that Mrs Stinchcombe’s man had been instructed to wait for an answer. It had been written in haste by Corisande, and no sooner had Lucilla read it than she gave a squeak of delight, and turned eagerly to Miss Wychwood. “Oh, ma’am, Corisande invites me to join a riding-party to Badminton! May I do so? Pray don’t say I mustn’t! I won’t tease you—but I want to visit Badminton above all places, and Mrs Stinchcombe sees no objection to die scheme, and it is such a fine day—”
“Stop, stop!” begged Miss Wychwood, laughing at her. “Who am I to object to what Mrs Stinchcombe approves of? Of course you may go, goose! Who is to be of your party?”
Lucilla jumped up, and ran round the table to embrace her. “Oh, thank you, dear, dear Miss Wychwood!” she said ecstatically. “And will you send someone down to the stables to desire them to bring Lovely Lady up to the house immediately? Corisande writes that if I am permitted to join the party they will pick me up here, on the way, you know! It is Mr Beckenham’s party, and Corisande says there will be no more than six of us: just her, and me, and Miss Tenbury, and Ninian, and Mr Hawkesbury! Besides Mr Beckenham himself, of course.”
“Unexceptionable!” said Miss Wychwood, with becoming gravity.
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