Sweet's Folly

by Fiona Hill

“My congratulations,” Claude returned, with a slight, mocking bow of his head. “I see you are become quite a matron already.”

  “I am not become any such thing,” she retorted, somewhat stung. “That is, I am still just what I used to be, only now I am married.”

  “If you are still just what you used to be,” he answered, “Alexander must be a very queer husband, indeed.”

  Caught off guard by the extreme impertinence of this observation—and, worse yet, knowing it to be true—Honoria coloured again to the roots of her hair. “I am sure I do not follow you, sir,” she said coldly, certain that he would not dare explain.

  “I am sure you do,” he responded smoothly, and fell again into a moody silence.

  “I must go and tend to my aunt,” Honoria said shortly, rising from the table. “I beg you will excuse me.”

  Suddenly, Claude smiled, and addressed her in the softest of accents. “It is I who must beg for your forgiveness,” he murmured. “Pardon me, Mrs. Blackwood, for having spoke so unkindly before. It was abominable of me—perhaps even unpardonable.”

  Quick, as always, to forget unpleasantness, Honoria gladly relented. “Not at all unpardonable,” she smiled back warmly. “On the contrary, it is quite natural. This news caught you unaware; you have had no time to adjust.”

  Claude rose and stood before her, his head a little bowed. “You are all goodness, madam,” he said quietly. His blond hair gleamed dully in the grey morning light. “Please—if I may ask one more favour of you—will you allow me to kiss your hand? Then I shall be assured I am forgiven.”

  Ashamed almost of her previous coldness, Honoria assented wholeheartedly. Mr. Kemp, holding her hand as if it were a precious and fragile object, set his lips to it. Then he stood and hastened to the door, opening it for her with another tiny bow. She passed through it, catching his glance once more and smiling sweetly.

  Her Aunt Mercy had passed the night quite comfortably, according to her own report, and was now in very little pain. Honoria discovered her sitting up against the pillows and writing a note on some letter-paper she had begged from Mrs. Cafferleigh. It was for Prudence, she told her niece, and she wished it to be sent immediately.

  “Of course,” Honoria said. “I am sure Squire Kemp will be happy to oblige you.”

  “I’ll hand it round to a footman at once,” Mrs. Cafferleigh offered, taking the sealed note from Miss Deverell. She opened the chamber door to accomplish this commission, and found Jenny, one of the underservants, just on the point of entering.

  “The doctor is here,” she said to the housekeeper. “Shall I send him up?”

  “Yes, of course, do.” Mrs. Cafferleigh bustled out of the room, pushing Jenny along ahead of her. Dr. Blackwood appeared some moments later, full of cheerful solicitude for his patient.

  “Feeling better, are you?” he asked Mercy. “Slept the night, I trust? And you, my dear Honoria, I’ve a letter for you somewhere about me …” He patted various pockets, searching for the missive, and found it at last tucked away in his case. “Here it is, then,” he said, handing it to her. “From Alex,” he added with a wink. “Misses you, no doubt.”

  Honoria doubted very much if her husband had missed her, but she took the letter and thanked Dr. Blackwood for his pains.

  “Nothing at all, nothing at all,” he replied jovially, and turned to examine the invalid. Honoria, meantime, perused the letter.

  To her surprise, it was in Alexander’s own hand: she knew it was because several geometrical figures had been sketched in the margin, drawn, she guessed, while he had been thinking how to frame his sentences. Formerly, all Alex’s notes to her had been written by his valet, for none of them had contained anything too private to be known to him, and Alexander found writing a hard task. As she read further, however, she realized—with a little disappointment—that Emily must have instructed her brother to pen this note: it was too unlike Alex to think of it himself. It read thus:

  My dear Honoria,

  I hope you have spent an easy night at Colworth, and trust Squire Kemp’s hospitality left you in want of nothing. I understand you must wish to be near your aunt, but hope you will not be long absent from Sweet’s Folly all the same. Emily and my parents miss you, as I do.

  My father informs me that certain decisions must be made soon regarding the furnishing of Stonebur Cottage. As I do not feel competent to make such choices alone, I should be most glad if you were to come home for a few hours at least, so we can go over the plans together. (At this point the letter was interrupted by a diagram of a triangle with a circle inside it.) Kindly convey my condolences to your aunt.

  Respectfully,

  Your obedient, etc.

  A. Blackwood

  P.S. Emily desires me to inform you she cannot proceed with your portrait until you sit for her again.

  Honoria read the letter twice, and closed it with a sigh. It might have been written by almost anybody to almost anybody, except for the line about missing her, and Emily, she felt sure, had dictated those words exactly. She reflected how humiliating it would be if Claude Kemp could see how formally her husband addressed her, and was very glad he could not. Dr. Blackwood interrupted her thoughts.

  “Will you come home with me, Honoria?” he was saying. “Miss Mercy is mending very nicely today.”

  Honoria glanced at her aunt, who pouted fretfully. “Perhaps I shall stop until Aunt Prudence arrives, shall I? Did you ask her to come in your note?”

  Mercy smiled gratefully at this correct interpretation of her pout. “Yes, indeed, I did ask her to come, and I do wish you will stay until she does.”

  “Of course, I shall. I think my father-in-law understands?”

  Dr. Blackwood agreed heartily, but with a little frown that belied his words. His son, he felt, paid little enough attention to his bride as it was; if her absence were prolonged, he was likely to forget her altogether. “Indeed,” he said, adding, “once Miss Prudence has arrived, however, I hope you will return to Sweet’s Folly and let her stop the night here with her sister. Then you may come and visit your aunt with me each day, as long as she remains here.”

  So matters were settled for the moment, and Dr. Blackwood took his leave soon after, satisfied as to the welfare of his patient. A little time later, the messenger who had carried Mercy’s letter into Pittering Village returned with word from Prudence, assuring everyone of her imminent arrival at Colworth. She did not, however, come until well past two, and that meant the morning had somehow to be whiled away between niece and aunt. For a time, Honor read aloud from a novel Mrs. Cafferleigh had fetched from the baronet’s library. This passed the time well, but the hours hung heavily nonetheless. Mercy was anxious to see Prudence, and Honor had begun to wonder if, after all, Alex had written his letter by himself. She was eager to speak with Emily about it, and the idea so interested her that she frequently lost her place on the page, and repeated whole paragraphs at a time. At last Prudence’s arrival interrupted them; her voice, floating up the stairs, brought a teary smile to Mercy’s lips, and a grateful one to Honor’s.

  “Not been up to see her since the accident?” she was saying sharply. “The rascal!” This epithet was evidently meant for their host, who, fortunately, could not hear it, since he was at the moment closeted in his study with his son. “Just like a man, however,” she continued, addressing (they soon discovered) the sympathetic Mrs. Cafferleigh. “Mercy!” she cried, bursting into the bed-chamber; “O my dear, I am so very sorry!” She flung her arms round her younger sister’s neck, and comforted her at length.

  Prudence, it was learned, had brought quite a trunk full of things from Bench Street. She intended to stay day and night by her sister’s side, having entrusted the care of the animals to Mary.

  “But I thought—” Honor began to object, and checked herself.

  “Mary will do well enough on her own,” Prudence said. “Now you run along home, Honoria. You will only be in the way if you stay.”

  Young Mr
s. Blackwood was a trifle injured by this prediction, but she said nothing of it. “If you are quite certain—”

  “Yes, child, yes! Now, run along like a sensible girl, and you’ll see poor Mercy tomorrow.”

  Honoria obeyed, kissing her aunts before departing.

  “Fido is downstairs,” Prudence told Mercy as Honor left. “Honoria, when you go down, be sure to tell the butler what Fido likes to eat. And tell them to send his basket up to this room, so he can keep Mercy company tonight. I could not leave him in Bench Street,” she explained, turning to Mercy.

  “I am glad you did not! Dear, sweet Fido!”

  Honoria smiled in spite of the sharpness of her aunt’s instructions; she was wondering what Squire Kemp would have to say to the intrusion of Fido into his home. The “dear, sweet” animal to whom Mercy referred was an enormous mongrel, a mix (apparently) of German shepherd and golden retriever; the basket that Prudence desired brought up was at least three feet in diameter. Besides being large, Fido was high-spirited and excessively excitable. Though fond of the dog herself, Honoria suspected Squire Kemp would not care for him at all. Content to be on her way home, however, she held her peace and, finding the butler in the entrance hall, instructed him as Prudence requested.

  “And do you think—” she added rather timidly, “might Sir Proctor be willing to lend me a carriage to go home in? I hate to trouble him, but—”

  Mr. Boothby interrupted her. “The young master has informed me of his intention to drive you home. If you don’t mind waiting a moment, I’ll have him sent for.”

  Honoria became agitated immediately. “O no, I beg you will not worry him with it. Please, it is very kind of him, but I had rather not put him to the trouble.” The prospect of a drive to Sweet’s Folly with no other companion than Claude Kemp did not appeal to her at all, despite his apology that morning.

  “Mr. Kemp was very particular about it,” Boothby replied. “I know he will be angry with me if I fail to tell him you are going.”

  “But, Mr. Kemp—” she began, in a failing voice. “I do not—that is, if he was so particular,” she sighed despairingly, “I suppose you must.”

  “Thank you, madam; very good, madam,” Boothby bowed, much relieved. Young Kemp was never a gentle master, but when his orders were neglected, he was the very devil to deal with. Mr. Boothby directed a footman to seek out Mr. Kemp, and stood smiling gratefully at Mrs. Blackwood. She, for her part, attempted to smile back, but her anxiety was so great that she could not. Though she had utterly forgiven him his ill-conduct at the breakfast table, she was shrewd enough to know that Mr. Claude Kemp’s humours never lasted long. How he would behave to her during the solitary drive to Sweet’s Folly preoccupied her entirely, and caused a tiny vertical wrinkle to appear between her brows. Claude’s arrival, in a smart blue Garrick with several capes, did nothing to allay her fears, and it was with the deepest apprehension that she allowed herself to be handed into the high perch-phaeton he drove, while Claude himself climbed in on the other side.

  Chapter V

  Prudence Deverell was extremely vexed. “We have won our way into the citadel,” she informed her sister, “but the enemy does not show himself. This will never answer.”

  Mercy, afraid that she might somehow be blamed for Squire Kemp’s having kept away from her, replied fretfully, “I hope it is nothing to do with me, dear Prue. I am sure I endeavoured to look as picturesque as possible yesterday, only it was difficult with my injuries …”

  “There, there,” the elder lady said soothingly; “only a beast with a heart of stone could fail to find you charming. Unfortunately, that is precisely what we have to deal with.” She lapsed into a thoughtful silence while toying with the vegetables in her soup. To her great chagrin, she had not been invited down to dine with the squire, but rather had found her dinner sent up to her along with Mercy’s.

  “Pray, tell Sir Proctor I had rather dine with him, and beg him not to put his kitchen to the trouble of sending my dinner up,” she had told Mrs. Cafferleigh, when that good woman had apprised her that the meal would soon be served.

  “The master is certain you will prefer to dine with Miss Mercy,” Mrs. Cafferleigh responded implacably, as she had been instructed to. “He anticipated your goodness, and begs you not to worry.”

  There had been nothing for Prudence to do but accept defeat (for the moment) and dine in Mercy’s bed-chamber. “Drink up all your soup,” she now told her sister, rather distractedly. “You will need your strength.”

  “Shall I, Prue?” Mercy inquired, with interest. “Whatever for, my dear?”

  But Prudence did not tell her until both ladies had finished their repast and the trays had been taken away. “Do you recall the lesson I gave you in how to play chess?” she asked then.

  “I recall it very well,” Mercy asserted. “It was extremely unpleasant.”

  “Yes, but do you remember how to play, Mercy dear?”

  “I remember … a queen can go any way at all, is that not so? And a king only one step at a time.”

  “Exactly. And bishops diagonally—”

  “And knights one one way and two the other!” Mercy interrupted triumphantly.

  “Two one way and one the other,” Prudence corrected from habit.

  “O,” said Mercy, cowed, yet quite reasonably confused. “Indeed.”

  Miss Deverell went over each of the other pieces, making her sister repeat their names and abilities.

  “But what for?” Mercy cried at last. “It is so very wearisome.”

  “I have a notion you’ll be playing chess this evening,” she answered cryptically. “Now, be patient, and you will be rewarded. Mrs. Cafferleigh?” she went on, poking her head outside the chamber door at the sound of heavy footsteps.

  “Yes, Miss Prudence?”

  “Mrs. Cafferleigh, I had a dog with me when I arrived, named Fido. Kindly desire a footman to fetch him to me.”

  Mrs. Cafferleigh looked sceptical but agreed. “My master doesn’t care for animals in the house,” she cautioned.

  “Never mind, he’ll care for this one,” Prudence replied impatiently. “Please to have him sent up.”

  Mrs. Cafferleigh, looking a trifle anxious, hurried away on her errand.

  “Am I to play chess with Fido?” Mercy asked wonderingly. “I really don’t think he is fond of such games …”

  “Mercy dear, you are such a goose. Of course you won’t play with Fido. You will play with Proctor Kemp,” she ended decisively.

  “Shall I, dear Prue? But how?”

  “Wait and see,” the elder responded, nodding wisely.

  “One more thing, Prudence,” Mercy continued, after a few moments had passed in silence. “Do you wish me to win or to lose?”

  Prudence stared, astonished that even her sister—goose though she was—could be silly enough to suppose she might win her very first chess game, and against an accomplished player at that. “You just do your best,” she said, “and do not trouble about winning or losing.”

  “But it would be terribly awkward if I were to beat the squire,” Mercy insisted.

  “I do not think that is likely to occur,” Prudence said. “Chess demands a great deal of thought and strategy—and practice, of course. You just put up as hard a fight as you can.”

  “If you say so, my dear,” Mercy agreed meekly, but the possibility that she might win continued to trouble her so deeply that she altogether forgot to wonder how Prudence planned to get hold of the squire in the first place, not to mention for what purpose Fido was needed. Prudence for her part continued to smile and nod silently, and when Fido was brought (on a stout leash) she held a long, quiet conference with him, from which Mercy was excluded.

  Honoria, meantime, had quite forgot her aunts’ affairs, and was assiduously tending to her own. To her relief, Claude Kemp showed no tendency to hurry the horses—for she knew he was reckoned to be an excellent whip, and had feared he might decide to impress her by springing them. On the
contrary, however, he drove very slowly, indeed, and devoted the chief of his attention not to the reins but to her.

  “That is a new pelisse you are wearing, is not it?” he observed, evidently admiring the neat garment of brown sarcenet she had donned for the drive home. “It is very pretty.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, unconsciously touching the embroidery that adorned its bodice. “It was a part of my trousseau … Mrs. Blackwood had it carried out for me. Mrs. Blackwood, my mother-in-law,” she added nervously.

  “I hope it is warm enough,” he pursued, having made a faintly perceptible grimace at the word “trousseau.”

  “O yes, quite warm,” she assured him. Unfortunately, she shivered involuntarily just as she said this, not so much from the weather (although it was quite chilly) as from the thought of what he might do to warm her.

  “But you are cold,” said he, perceiving the shiver. “Let me—”

  “No!” she exclaimed, without meaning to.

  “I was about to say, let me offer you this lap robe,” he continued, obviously amused at her distress. He pointed to the robe, which was folded up at her feet.

  “I assure you, I am not in the least cold,” she said firmly.

  “As you say,” he answered, with a slight bow. “Mrs. Blackwood,” he resumed, when they had travelled about a hundred feet, “I hope you are not still angry with me?”

  “O no, not at all. Not at all,” she repeated, as her words sounded rather weak in her own ears.

  “I had hoped—foolishly perhaps—” he began, in persuasive, sincere accents, “I had hoped we might become friends, now that you are indeed married. One of the advantages to marriage for a lady, you know, is the greater freedom it allows her in forming such connexions. I have always aspired to your confidence,” he went on, “and I do not cease to do so now.”

  Honoria, hearing these words, felt ashamed of the improper sentiments she had (in her mind only) been ascribing to him. He was quite in the right of it, of course; as Mrs. Blackwood, no one could take exception to her pursuing an acquaintance with Mr. Kemp—so long as it remained within certain bounds, that is. She felt that she had been unfair to Claude. “You are most kind to offer your friendship,” she said gently, “and I am delighted to accept it. I hope you will do me the honour to take me into your confidence as well.”