by Fiona Hill
Claude smiled his handsome, mirthless smile. “I may call upon you then sometime?” he said.
“Please, anytime,” she returned, on a generous impulse. “I am sure the Blackwoods will be glad to see you as well.”
“Do you mean to reside at Sweet’s Folly permanently?” he inquired, on a conversational note.
“O no, we will remove to Stonebur Cottage quite soon,” she said. “It is only a question now of transferring our things from one place to the next. All the servants and so forth have been engaged …” She enlarged upon this topic at length, thinking it a comfortably neutral one, and they drew up presently into the drive of Sweet’s Folly. “Should you like to come in?” she said.
Mr. Kemp smiled again—as it seemed to her, a trifle ironically.
“I thank you very much,” he said, “but no. Not but what I am most anxious to see Mrs. Blackwood—your mother-in-law, that is—and her agreeable children again, but I think my father awaits my return somewhat impatiently, and would not wish me to stop away too long. It is long since he and I have talked, you know,” he explained. “Pray convey my compliments to all your new family, however.”
Honoria assured him that she would do so, and quitted his phaeton with relief. Jepston admitted her to the house, welcoming her and informing her that Miss Blackwood had requested she join her in her sitting-room as soon as she arrived. As this was exactly what Honor desired to do, she hastened to her friend and sister directly.
Formal enquiries were exchanged as to the healths of those here and at Colworth Park, but these were soon done with and the two young women sat down beside one another to discuss what concerned them more closely. “The most exciting thing!” said Emily, her blue eyes shining. “I have had a letter from the academy in London, and—”
“You’ve won!” Honor broke in.
“Well, no, not won … but I have not lost; that is the great thing. It was to say that my picture would be among those submitted to final judging.” She felt her news sounded disappointing after the conclusion Honoria had jumped to, and was a little hurt.
“But that is wonderful,” her friend replied, sensing Emily’s slight injury. “I know you will win, I just know it!”
“But there is more,” Miss Blackwood said. “It is certain at least to be on exhibition in London, no matter what happens. All the finalists are.”
“Emily, I am so proud of you,” said Honoria, squeezing her hand. Then, lowering her voice somewhat, she went on, “Emily, I must ask you something and you must promise to answer truthfully. It is important to me, and you mustn’t spare my feelings.”
Emily vowed she would be as honest as possible.
“The letter Alexander sent to me at Colworth—did you—was it your idea? Did you tell him to write, or tell him what to write?”
Miss Blackwood appeared puzzled. “Did he send you a letter then? I had no notion.”
“But he referred to you in the postscript,” Honor objected. “He said you desired me to sit again for my portrait.”
“Did he, indeed?” Emily mused. “I said so at breakfast today. I am astonished—he must have been listening!”
“But it is more than that—!” Honoria exclaimed, and stopped, at a loss for how to continue. It seemed ridiculous for a wife to rejoice at a note from her husband but Emily must understand.
“I am very glad he wrote to you,” she said, proving that she did indeed understand. “Was it—did he say anything—?”
“It was rather a formal note,” Honoria confessed, realizing what her friend wished to ask. “But a note all the same. Emily, it is the first.”
“Well, my dear, this is progress, indeed,” Miss Blackwood said briskly. “I suppose he sent it with my father?”
“Yes … Em, you don’t think your father might have told him to write it?” Honor asked dubiously. She had much rather believe it was Alex’s idea, but the truth had to be known.
“Well, no,” Emily said decisively, after some thought. “My father was called out to the Higgins’ last night, and did not come home until well after midnight. Naturally, he went directly to bed, and he slept through breakfast. I am sure he did not leave his room until just before driving to Colworth. Alex would not have had time to write to you then; it takes him such an age!”
Honoria’s smile was perfectly blissful. “Then it was—” she began, and broke off suddenly. The cause of this interruption was the sound of a knock on the door, and the appearance, immediately afterwards of her husband.
“May I come in,” he asked, entering at the same time. “Honor, you are here! I thought I heard a carriage in the drive.” To both the girls’ surprise, these words were uttered almost fondly, and Alex advanced into the room as he said them until he had gained Honoria’s side. He took her hand—a little awkwardly, but nonetheless—and kissed it gently.
Honor was so amazed, she could think of nothing to say but “Alexander,” which she said in a tone so low as to be barely audible.
“I wish you had not stopped away so long,” he continued reproachfully. “Of course, you had a perfect right to do so, but I hardly slept for wondering how you were.”
Both young women gaped as if Alexander’s mere presence constituted a miracle, which it did rather, for he never quitted his study during the afternoon, and he had certainly never addressed his wife so tenderly, either in public or alone. All at once, however, their surprise seemed to infect him, and he stopped speaking, obviously ill at ease. Gracelessly, he fell into an armchair opposite them, and began to stare at Emily distractedly.
“Had I known it would disturb you, I should not have stopped the night there,” his wife said, when she had recovered herself somewhat.
Alexander shrugged his shoulders as if the topic were indifferent to him. With a pang, Honor realized that it was her own slowness to react that had embarrassed him. “I am quite well,” she assured him timidly. “You look a bit tired.”
Alex shrugged again. “As I say, I slept badly. I oughtn’t to have burst in here, I suppose. My apologies, Emily,” he said to his sister, and rose again.
Both girls started to assure him he was welcome, but he had already reached the door and opened it. “We must discuss some domestic matters at tea,” he said to Honoria, “as I told you in my note.”
“O yes, your note—I was so happy to get it!” she exclaimed, but it was all too late. Alexander had not stayed for her answer, and it was doubtful whether he had heard her last words. Vexed past bearing with herself, Honor angrily dashed away a tear that had somehow stolen onto her cheek, and clasped her hands rigidly in her lap.
“You see what I have done,” she said at last. “If he never speaks to me again, it will be my fault.”
“Honor, really, you make too much of it. It does not signify—”
But Honor’s fury with herself was increasing, and she broke in, “All my fault, my fault! His first husbandlike words to me, and I ignored them. O, I deserve his neglect,” she cried hotly.
Emily, surprised at the wrath her gentle friend now displayed, sought to calm her. “Well you mustn’t fly into alt about it, my dear; that will certainly serve no purpose. Follow him, if you like. He will still listen to you.”
Honoria refused to be comforted. With a stoically flat tone in her voice, she replied, “You may as well paint me now, if you need to. At least I cannot spoil that.”
Emily laughed quietly, hoping her friend would join her. “I can’t very well paint you as you are now,” she objected. “You look as sour and enraged as a wicked witch whose plans are thwarted.”
But instead of laughing, Honoria exclaimed even more vehemently than before, “That is exactly what I am! Exactly!” And she leapt up from the little sofa, upsetting a candlestick as she did so, and ran from the room without another word. When she reached her own chamber, she threw herself on the bed and sobbed for all she was worth, lost in a fit of self-dislike.
At Colworth Park, another kind of storm was raging. At about five o’clock,
Prudence Deverell, having assured herself that all her troops were ready, crept out of Mercy’s bed-chamber, Fido at her side. Patting his massive head now and then, she tip-toed carefully down the broad steps that led into the front hall. There she found Boothby who, startled by her unexpected appearance, asked in a rather loud voice, “Is anything wanting, Miss Deverell? May I help you?”
Prudence raised her finger to her lips and emitted a sibilant “Shhh!” Boothby, taken aback, said nothing. “Where is your master?” Prudence demanded in a harsh whisper.
“I’ll take you to—”
“Shhh!” she repeated. “Quietly, quietly, my good man. I do not wish to be taken to him. Point him out to me, that’s all.”
Really, the Deverell sisters were just as queer as people said, Boothby concluded to himself; this one at least appeared to be half-mad. Stealing about in other people’s houses! And with that mongrel—! Mr. Boothby, accustomed to do so from long years of service to the Kemps, refrained from voicing any of these opinions and merely said (in an obliging whisper), “Just as you say, madam.”
“That’s better,” Prudence muttered, and began to follow him down a narrow, high-ceilinged corridor. At the end of it, Boothby pointed to a closed door.
“There—in the study,” he mouthed silently. “With Mr. Claude.”
Impatiently, Prudence gestured to him to be quiet and go away, waving him off as one would a fly. Mr. Boothby retreated discreetly to the opposite end of the corridor. “Now for it!” she whispered to Fido. Cautiously and without a sound, she turned the handle of the door, not so far that it opened, but so the bolt held back and no longer barred the way. “Forward!” she hissed in the dog’s ear, and immediately feigned an enormous exaggerated sneeze: “Ah-chooo!”
Fido, dragging his useless leash behind him, burst ahead through the door with a mighty bound. Barking and jumping with frenetic excitement, he knocked first against Claude (who had been standing, pouring a glass of wine), bowling him over, and then against Squire Kemp, who sat as always before the fire. Instants later, Prudence pursued him, panting as if from exertion and exclaiming in a weak voice, “Fido! Fido! Good boy. Down, boy!” The hitherto quiet study was, for the next few minutes, the scene of uncontrollable havoc. Fido leapt gaily onto Claude—who still lay in semi-recumbent posture on the floor—mashing him with his large paws; then grew weary of that amusement and threw himself affectionately on the squire. Prudence stood gazing, as if paralyzed with dismay, at the broken wine decanter for several moments, and resumed her feeble cry of “Down, boy!” ever and anon. At last Claude recovered himself and got up upon his feet, rushed over to the dog, and grabbed him firmly by the collar. Both gentlemen, who until then had said nothing more interesting than “Hah!” and “Hold!” suddenly left off speaking altogether and stared intently at Miss Deverell.
She too was silent for some time. Then, dropping a pretty curtsey and addressing the squire, she said, “Dear sir! It seems an age since I have seen you. Still well, I trust?”
“Damnation, woman!” the baronet thundered suddenly. “What is the meaning of this?”
“The meaning—?” she inquired gently.
“This beast, this mongrel, this cur!” he roared. “Damme, you shall pay for this!”
Prudence returned his gaze as if with mild surprise. “Why, naturally I shall,” she agreed. “I am so very sorry. You see, I was taking dear Fido to see my poor sister, when all at once I sneezed. Terribly draughty corridor, I am afraid! My sneeze caused me to lose my grip on Fido’s leash, and the poor dear simply jumped away from me at once. I suppose the sneeze upset him; perhaps he thought I was taking a cold. He’s terribly sweet.”
“My good woman—” the squire began with an angry snort, and continued after a moment, “Perhaps you will have the goodness to tell me how, if you were taking your cur upstairs, you happened to be in this particular draughty corridor?”
Prudence smiled radiantly. “I suppose I lost my way,” she said sweetly. “Does this corridor not lead to a stairway?”
“What the devil—damnation!” the baronet bellowed again, seeing it was ridiculous to unloose any more spleen upon so innocent an object. “Get him out of here,” he said, his fine head of white hair trembling with anger.
“Of course I shall, if you do not like him,” Prudence said naïvely. “I am so sorry about the decanter, you know—and that lamp,” she added, catching sight of a number of glass shards scattered under a table. “It must have been quite a pretty lamp,” she continued, musingly.
Squire Kemp said “Hah!” in a loud voice.
“Isn’t it the oddest thing,” Prudence continued, while she went to Claude and took the dog from him, “I suppose you gentlemen are having your after-dinner conversation, aren’t you? Now is the time when ladies withdraw to the drawing-room, is it not? And I never in all my years entered the room while the gentlemen were talking. Isn’t that the oddest thing?” she repeated winningly.
As his father seemed about to say something rude again, Claude interrupted. “Very odd, ma’am,” he said. “I am afraid you have somewhat startled us, however—perhaps—”
“My goodness, it’s Claude!” Prudence declared. “I almost did not recognize you: the holidays have done you good, I can see. Not but what you weren’t always a strapping, healthy lad; I often said so to Honoria, you know, when you used to come calling.”
Claude, annoyed at this mention of his failed courtship, was obliged to check himself for a moment. “I hope you will forgive us,” he said at length, “but my father and I were indeed engaged in—in the sort of discussion you describe, and I hope you will not think it unkind of me if I ask you to—perhaps I may ring for Boothby to escort you back to your sister?”
“O no, not in the least necessary,” said the old lady, hugging Fido as she spoke. “I know my way well enough now. There is only one thing, just one thing, and then I will disturb you no longer: I wonder, do you have a chess set about? My sister is simply aching to play chess; she says nothing else can distract her from her pain—”
“Yes, yes,” the squire interrupted suddenly, eager to be rid of the intruders. “In the buffet, there—Claude, fetch it for her.”
Mr. Kemp opened the cupboard indicated and drew out a board and a set of ornate, carved-ivory chess pieces. “Will this answer?” he said, handing the game to her.
“O yes, this is just the thing. These are chess pieces, are they not?” she inquired, in an anxious afterthought “I am sure I would not know.”
The squire confirmed that they were.
“O, thank you so much. You are too kind. You see, whereas Mercy is simply mad for chess, I do not know the first thing about it. Dear Honoria was used to play with her, when we all lived in Bench Street, but now … O my! That makes me wonder: who will play with her? I know I cannot!”
She looked helplessly at her host, smiling all the while.
“I don’t suppose you play, sir?” she asked, when he failed to respond.
“What’s that? I play,” he said gruffly.
“Then, will you have a round of it with Mercy? After tea perhaps? She would be so thankful; it’s the only thing to distract her she says, and I-”
“Yes, yes! Yes, and to the devil with you,” Squire Kemp burst out. “I’ll play with her—anything—only get away now, get away.”
“O sir, I am sure you are all kindness,” Prudence said, bobbing another curtsey, and babbling on, “Mercy will be simply delighted, I know it; she said it was the only thing …” and she continued to prattle on in this vein even as she turned and led Fido back down the hall, not ceasing to chatter until she was well on her way upstairs.
Once safely arrived again in Mercy’s bed-chamber, Prudence exultantly recounted all the details of this battle, as well as her eventual victory. “The campaign is brilliant, Mercy, brilliant, if I say so myself!”
Mercy, though not understanding quite what had occurred, was only too eager to congratulate her clever sister, and did so with many
expressions of fondness and praise.
“You must congratulate Fido as well,” Prudence reminded her. “Hasn’t he been a fine doggie? O, he has!” she exclaimed, and hugged the mongrel closely, kissing the top of his shaggy head. “I’ll have Mrs. Cafferleigh bring him a bone, and when the hospital is built, he will have first choice of lodgings there. Anywhere you like, my sweet pup,” she told him, kissing him once more.
The squire had several hours between the time of the calamity and tea in which to calm himself. It crossed his mind that he might send a note upstairs crying off from the promised chess game, and he very nearly did so; but there was something cowardly in this course of action that he could not like, and he restrained himself. At the appointed time, therefore, he stood before the door of Mercy’s bed-chamber and rapped briskly.
A sweet voice pealed from within, “Who is it?”
“Kemp,” he muttered.
“Sir Proctor? O, do pray come in,” the voice replied, and he entered. He was wearing boots and breeches, as he always did, for he declared it nonsense to dress in his own home. Prudence had rather hoped he would feel the propriety of attiring himself at least in pantaloons, if not in silk stockings and pumps, but she found herself disappointed. Mercy, on the other hand, was dressed quite to the nines. She wore a blue robe of fine muslin, threaded richly with white ribbons, and a cap (thickly frilled) to match. Her long sleeves, drawn tight above and below the elbows, were pulled up just ever so slightly, to reveal a pair of neat, delicate wrists. Prudence had spent nearly half an hour arranging her coiffure, and had been rewarded by a very pleasing effect. Fresh linens covered the pillows that were plumped up behind her silvery head, and all in all she made a very attractive sort of invalid. When Proctor Kemp came in, she turned her head towards him and smiled her sweet, mild smile, reminding herself at the same time that she must flirt well with him or all was lost.