The Grand Sophy

by Джорджетт Хейер

  Lady Ombersley, quite affronted, broke in on this, exclaiming, “I think you are quite shameless! And what has all this to do with poor Sophy’s escapade? You sit there, as though you had no concern in her affairs, while all the time she is trying to ruin herself! And you may say what you choose, Charles, but if it is true that she has gone off with Charlbury, it is the most shocking thing imaginable, and she must be brought back at once!”

  “She will be!” said Mr. Rivenhall. “Can you doubt it, when you have sent off Cecilia and Eugenia, in the highest style of romance, to rescue her, ma’am?”

  “I did no such thing! I knew nothing of this, but naturally I would not let your sister go alone, so when she told me that Eugenia had been kind enough to offer to accompany her, what could I do but be grateful?” She paused, struck by an unexplained circumstance. “But how do you know that they went to rescue her, Charles? If Dassett is so lost to all sense of his position as to gossip to you — ”

  “No such thing! I am indebted to Eugenia herself for my information! And I must take leave to say, ma’am, that if you and my sister had been so obliging as to have kept this news to yourselves, I might have been spared a damned impertinent letter from Eugenia! What can have possessed you to have confided such a tale to her is something I can never cease to marvel at! Good God, don’t you know that she will spread it all over town that my cousin has behaved outrageously?”

  “But I did not!” almost wailed his mother. “Charles, I did not!”

  “One of you must have done so!” he said impatiently. He turned to his uncle. “Well, sir, do you mean to remain there, commending my father’s taste in wine, or do you mean to accompany me to Ashtead?”

  “Set off for Ashtead at this hour, when I have been traveling for two days?” said Sir Horace. “Now, do, my boy, have a little common sense! Why should I?”

  “I imagine that your parental feeling, sir, must provide you with the answer! If it does not, so be it! I am leaving immediately!”

  “What do you mean to do when you reach Lacy Manor?” asked Sir Horace, regarding him in some amusement.

  “Wring Sophy’s neck!” said Mr. Rivenhall savagely.

  “Well, you don’t need my help for that, my dear boy!” said Sir Horace, settling himself more comfortably in his chair.

  Chapter 18

  THE FIRST FEW minutes following the arrival of the Marquesa’s party from Merton were taken up with that lady’s . freely expressed complaints of the situation in which she found herself. The draught occasioned by the opening of the front door had caused the fire to belch forth fresh clouds of acrid smoke into the hall, and not all Mrs. Clavering’s distracted efforts had sufficed to make this apartment look other than neglected. Mrs. Clavering, much impressed by the richness of the Marquesa’s attire, stood bobbing curtsies to her; and the Marquesa, quite unimpressed by Mrs. Clavering, said, “Madre de Dios! If I had brought Gaston it might then have been supportable, and if my cook as well, better still! Why must I come to you in this house, Sophie? Why do you send for me so suddenly, and when it is raining, moreover? Su conducta es perversa?”

  Sophy at once told her that she had been summoned to play a duenna’s part, an explanation which made an instant appeal to one in whose veins ran the purest Castilian blood. So well satisfied was the Marquesa that she quite forgot to inquire why Sophy had placed herself in a situation that required the attendance of any other duenna than her aunt, but said approvingly that Sophy had conducted herself with great propriety, and she grudged no fatigue in such a cause. After that, she became aware of Charlbury’s presence and with an effort of memory even recalled his name.

  “Hallo, are you hurt?” Sir Vincent asked, nodding at his lordship’s arm sling. “How came that about?”

  “Never mind that!” said Sophy, relieving Charlbury of the necessity of answering. “Why are you here, Sir Vincent?”

  “That, my dear Juno,” he replied, his eyes glinting at her, “is a long and delicate story. I might, you know, ask the same question. I shan’t, of course, because explanations are apt to be tedious, and what is teasing me more at this present is the far more important subject of dinner. I fear you may not have been expecting so large a party!”

  “No, I was not, and heaven knows what we shall find to eat!” Sophy admitted. “I think, perhaps, I should go into the kitchen and discover what there may be in the larder. For it is very likely, I must tell you, that my cousin Cecilia will arrive to dine here. And more than probably Charles also!”

  “Oh, Miss Sophy, if only you’d have given us warning!” exclaimed Mrs. Clavering distressfully. “I’m sure I don’t know how to contrive dinner, not for the likes of you, miss, for I am not accustomed, and there’s nothing ready but a pig’s cheek, which Clavering fancied for his supper!”

  “It is evident,” said the Marquesa, removing the plumed hat from her luxuriant curls and laying it down on a chair, “that this moza de cocina knows nothing, so that I must exert myself a little. That is bad, but worse, infinitamente, that we should starve! And you will remember it, Sophie, and be grateful to me, so that you do not quarrel with me! For I must tell you, de una vez, that I think it will not suit me to be married to Sir Horace after all, for he is very restless, and Brazil I should not like, but, on the contrary I will remain in England, but an English cook I will not have! So I have married Sir Vincent, and I am now not the Marquesa de Villacanas, but Lady Talgarth, which is a name I cannot pronounce convenienteamente, but no matter! One must accustom oneself.”

  This speech not unnaturally stunned her audience into silence for several moments. Sir Vincent drew out his snuffbox and delicately inhaled a pinch of his favorite mixture. It was he who broke the silence. “So the murder is out!” he remarked. “Do not look so aghast, Sophy! Remember that our dear Sancia is to cook the dinner!”

  “This,” suddenly announced Mr. Fawnhope, who had not been attending to a word of the conversation, “is a singularly beautiful house! I shall go all over it.”

  He then picked up the lamp from the table, and bore it off toward one of the doors that opened on to the hall. Sir Vincent took it from him and restored it to its place, saying kindly, “You shall do so, my dear young friend, but take this candle, if you please!”

  “Sir Vincent,” said Sophy, a martial light in her eye, “if I were a man, you should suffer for this treachery!”

  “Dear Sophy, you shoot better than nine out of ten men of my acquaintance, so if anyone of us had the forethought to bring with him a pair of dueling pistols — ?”

  “No one,” said the Marquesa, with decision, “shall shoot a pistol, because it is of all things what I most detest, and, besides, it is more important that we should prepare dinner!”

  “I suppose,” said Sophy regretfully, “that that is true. One must eat! But I now perceive how right my cousin Charles was to warn me to have nothing to do with you, Sir Vincent! I did not think you would have served Sir Horace such a backhanded turn!”

  “All is fair, dear Sophy, in love and war!” he said sententiously.

  She was obliged to bite back the retort that sprang to her lips. He smiled understandingly and moved toward her, taking her hand, and saying in a lowered voice, “Consider, Juno! My need is far greater than Sir Horace’s! How could I resist?”

  “‘Amor ch’a null’amato amar perdona,’ “ dreamily remarked Mr. Fawnhope, whose peregrinations about the hall had brought him within earshot.

  “Exactly so, my poet!” said Sir Vincent cordially.

  “I need Miss Wraxton to translate that for me,” said Sophy, “but if it means what I think it does it is no such thing! However, there is nothing more foolish than to be making a great noise over what cannot be helped, so I shall say no more. Besides, I have more important things to think of!”

  “Certainly that is so,” agreed the Marquesa. “There is a way of preparing fresh-killed chickens, so Vincent shall at once kill me two chickens, for chickens this woman tells me there are in abundance, and I sh
all contrive.”

  She then withdrew with Mrs. Clavering to the kitchen premises, her demitrain of mull muslin sweeping regally behind her over the floor and picking up a great deal of dust on the way. Sophy and Sir Vincent followed her; and as Mr. Fawnhope had by this time discovered the library and had gone in to inspect the books by the light of his tallow candle, Lord Charlbury was left alone. He was soon rejoined by Sir Vincent, who came back into the hall bearing a crusted bottle and some glasses. “Sherry,” he said, setting down the glasses. “If the slaughter of chickens is my fate, I must be fortified. But I trust I shall prevail upon the retainer to commit the actual deed. How did you hurt your arm?”

  “Sophy put a bullet through it,” replied his lordship.

  “Did she indeed? What a redoubtable female she is, to be sure! I suppose she had her reasons?”

  “They were not what you might be pardoned for imagining!” retorted Charlbury.

  “I never indulge commonplace thoughts,” said Sir Vincent, carefully wiping the neck of the bottle and beginning to pour out the wine. “Not, at all events, in relation to the Grand Sophy. Here, try this! God knows how long it has lain in the cellar! I collect I don’t drink to your elopement?”

  “Good God, no!” said Charlbury, almost blanching at the thought. “I am devoted to Sophy — quite and unalterably devoted to her — but heaven preserve me from marriage with her!”

  “If heaven did not, I fancy Rivenhall would,” observed Sir Vincent. “This wine is perfectly tolerable. Don’t finish the bottle before I come back, and don’t waste it on the poet!”

  He strolled off again, presumably to oversee the execution in the hen roost, and Lord Charlbury, rendering up silent thanks for his wounded arm, poured himself out a second glass of sherry. After a short interval, Mr. Fawnhope emerged from the library, bearing a worm-eaten volume in his hand. This he reverently displayed to his lordship, saying simply, “La Hermosura de Angelica! One never knows where one may light upon a treasure. I must show it to the Marquesa. Whose is this enchanting house?”

  “Sir Horace Stanton-Lacy’s,” replied Charlbury, in some amusement.

  “Providence must have led me to it. I could not imagine what brought me here, but it doesn’t signify. When I saw Sophy standing in the open doorway, holding aloft the lamp, the scales fell from my eyes, and all doubts were resolved. I am engaged to dine somewhere or other, but I shan’t regard it.”

  “You don’t feel that you should perhaps ride back to town to keep your engagement?” suggested his lordship.

  “No,” replied Mr. Fawnhope simply. “I prefer to be here. There is also a Galatea, but not an original copy.” He then sat down at the table and opened the book, poring over it until interrupted by Sophy, who came in with a bundle of candles tucked under one arm and a shallow wooden box held carefully between her hands. Beside her, a mixture of curiosity and jealousy, pranced her little greyhound, from time to time springing up to reach the box.

  Mr. Fawnhope leaped to his feet and held out his hands to take the box from her. “Give it to me! An urn you might bear but not a sordid box!”

  She relinquished it, saying practically, “Mrs. Clavering will bring that presently, but it is not yet time for the tea tray, you know. We have not dined! Careful! Poor little things, they have no mother!”

  “Sophy, what in the world — ?” exclaimed Charlbury, perceiving that the box contained a brood of yellow ducklings. “You do not mean to cook these for dinner, I do trust?”

  “Good gracious, no! Only Mrs. Clavering has been rearing them in the warmth of the kitchen, and Sancia complains that they will run under her feet. Set the box down in this corner, Augustus. Tina will not harm them!”

  He obeyed her, and the ducklings, all vigorously cheeping, at once struggled out of the box, one of them, more venturesome than the rest, setting forth on an exploratory expedition. Sophy caught it and held it cupped in her hands, while Tina, quite disgusted, jumped onto a chair, and lay down with her head pointedly averted. Mr. Fawnhope’s smile swept across his face, and he quoted,

  “‘Lo, as a careful housewife runs to catch

  One of her feathered creatures broke away!’”

  “Yes, but I think that if we were to spread something over the top of the box they will not break away,” said Sophy. “Charlbury’s driving coat will answer famously! You do not object, Charlbury?”

  “Yes, Sophy, I do object!” he said firmly, removing the garment from her hands.

  “Very well, then — ” She stopped, for Tina had lifted her head, her ears on the prick, and had uttered a sharp bark. The sound of horses and of carriage wheels was heard. Sophy turned to Mr. Fawnhope, saying quickly, “Augustus, pray will you step into the kitchen — you will find it at the end of the passage at the back there — and desire Mrs. Clavering to give you a cloth, or a blanket, or some such thing? You need not make haste to return, for I daresay Sancia would like you to pluck a chicken!”

  “Is the Marquesa in the kitchen?” said Mr. Fawnhope. “What is she doing there? I wish her to see this book I have found in the library!”

  Sophy picked it up from the table and gave it to him. “Yes, pray show it to her! She will like it excessively! Pay no heed if you should chance to hear the doorbell. I will open the door!”

  She fairly thrust him toward the door at the back of the hall, and, having seen him safely through it, shut it, and said in a conspiratorial voice, “Cecilia! Take care of the ducklings!”

  She was still holding the one she had picked up, when she set the front door wide. The rain had stopped, and the moonlight showed through a break in the clouds. Hardly had Sophy opened the door than her cousin almost fell upon her neck. “Sophy! Oh, my dearest Sophy — No, it was too shocking of you! You must have known I could not wish — Sophy, Sophy, how could you do such a thing?”

  “Cecy, pray take care! This poor little duckling! Oh, good God! Miss Wraxton!”

  “Yes, Miss Stanton-Lacy, I!” said Miss Wraxton, joining the group in the porch. “You did not, I fancy, expect to see me!”

  “No, and you will be very much in the way!” replied Sophy frankly. “Go in, Cecy!”

  She gave her cousin a gentle push across the threshold as she spoke. Cecilia stood transfixed, as Charlbury, rising from his chair by the fire, stepped forward, his left arm interestingly reposing in its sling. Cecilia was carrying both a reticule and a feather muff, but she let both fall to the floor in her consternation. “Oh!” she exclaimed faintly. “You are hurt! Oh, Charlbury!”

  She moved toward him with both hands held out, and his lordship, acting with great presence of mind, hurriedly disengaged his arm from the sling and received her in a comprehensive embrace. “No, no, dearest Cecilia! The merest scratch!” he assured her.

  Such heroism caused Cecilia to shed tears. “It is all my fault! My wretched folly! I can never cease to blame myself! Charlbury, only tell me you forgive me!”

  “Never, for wearing a hat which prevents my kissing you!” he said, with a shaken laugh.

  She raised her head at that, smiling through her tears, and he contrived to kiss her in spite of the hat. Sophy, effectually blocking the entrance, observed this passage with all the air of one well satisfied with her labors.

  “Will you be good enough to allow us to enter?” said Miss Wraxton, in frozen accents.

  “Us?” said Sophy, quickly looking round. She perceived a stout figure behind Miss Wraxton, in a soaked coat and a sodden beaver, and, after peering incredulously for a moment, exclaimed, “Good God! Lord Bromford? Now, what the deuce does this mean?”

  Cecilia, who had cast off her hat to join her muff on the floor raised her head from the broad shoulder that was supporting it, to say huskily, “Oh, Sophy, pray do not be cross with me! Indeed, it was not my doing! Charlbury, what happened? How do you come to be hurt?”

  His lordship, still clasping her to his bosom, rolled an anguished eye at Sophy. She came promptly to his rescue. “Only a flesh wound, dearest Cecy!
Footpads — or do I mean highwaymen? — yes, highwaymen! Just a flurry of shots, you know, and poor Charlbury had the misfortune to be hit! But they were driven off, and we took no other hurt. Charlbury behaved with the greatest presence of mind imaginable — perfectly cool, and more than a match for such rascals!”

  “Oh, Charlbury!” sighed Cecilia, overcome by the thought of such intrepid conduct.

  His lordship, soothingly patting her shoulder, could not resist asking, “How many of the desperate ruffians did I vanquish, Sophy?”

  “That,” said Sophy, quelling him with a frown, “we shall never know!”

  Miss Wraxton’s cool voice broke in on this. However glad she might be to see Cecilia’s difference with Charlbury made up, her sense of propriety was really lacerated by the spectacle of Cecilia nestling within his lordship’s arm. “My dear Cecilia, pray recollect yourself!” she said, blushing, and averting her gaze.

  “I do not know what I should do!” suddenly announced Lord Bromford, in lamentable accents. “I came with the purpose of calling that fellow to book, but I have caught a cold!”

  “If that is to my address,” said Charlbury, “a cold may well be the least of the ills that will shortly befall you! Don’t tread on the ducklings!”

  “No, indeed!” said Sophy, swooping on one that had narrowly escaped death under Bromford’s foot. “What a clumsy creature you are! Do, pray, take heed where you are stepping!”

  “I should not be amazed if already I have a fever,” said Bromford, uneasily eying the ducklings. “Miss Wraxton, these birds! One does not keep birds in the house! I do not understand why they are running all over the floor. There is another! I do not like it. It is not what I have been used to.”

  “I hope, dear Lord Bromford, that nothing that has occurred this day is what either you or I has been used to,” responded Miss Wraxton. “Do let me beg of you to take off that greatcoat! Believe that it was no wish of mine that you were compelled to ride through such a downpour! If you have done your constitution any lasting injury I can never forgive myself for having accepted your escort! Your boots are wet through! Nothing can be more fatal than chilled feet! Miss Stanton-Lacy, is it too much to request that a servant — I presume there is a servant here? — should be sent for to remove Lord Bromford’s boots?”