by Fiona Hill
“O, yes, that. But if you wish to see Mr. Blackwood—” he said, with a wave of the hand to indicate that he was entirely at her disposal.
“I do wish to see him,” she said. She felt she was being drawn into a kind of verbal joust, which she could not like; but she did not know how to escape from it. “But if this matter troubles you, pray reveal it.”
“It does not trouble me in the least, I assure you. Kindly forget I mentioned it at all.”
She was about to rejoin with something equally useless, when suddenly she laughed. It had occurred to her that she and Kemp were behaving for all the world like two people who stand at a door-way, waving one another inside and bowing, “After you, dear sir,” and “No, after you.”
“Have I said something to amuse you?” he asked uncomfortably. “If so, I am most glad.”
“No, it is—” She sat down, still smiling, and leaned towards him straightforwardly. All at once it seemed ludicrous to fear Mr. Kemp’s company so much. What, after all, could he do? “Please do tell me what is on your mind,” she invited. “I should like to know.”
“Well, then, it is this,” he began. “Your aunts—the Misses Deverell—have made known to my father …” For no apparent reason, he stopped here.
“Yes? Pray, speak frankly.”
“Well, then, the whole neighbourhood is aware of the Misses Deverell’s kindness to animals, of course …”
“Of course.”
“And several months ago—three or four, I believe—your Aunt Prudence made it known to my father that she wished to—” He stopped this time because Traubin had arrived with the coffee. After the tray had been set down, and the business of pouring and so forth duly carried out, Honoria begged her guest to continue.
“Well, it appears your aunts desire to found an—an animal shelter of sorts,” he said finally. “No doubt you are familiar with the project?”
“An animal shelter?” she repeated. “No, I am not—not quite certain I understand you. An animal shelter of what sort?”
“A hospital, I believe. And a home. For the care of, ah, stray dogs and cats.” He spoke hesitantly because he felt more than a little abashed; his father had said no Kemp was ever obliged to bribe a lady in order to win her regard, yet that was more or less what he was attempting to do now. A faintly discernible flush rose on his neck as this fact crossed his mind; he suppressed it and resolved to regulate his thoughts more sternly.
“I must confess, this is the first I have heard of such a scheme,” she replied. “You say they applied to your father. When?”
“Some three or four months ago, I think. It is of no moment,” he said, and was about to continue when she interrupted him.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but it may be of some moment to me. Can you recall precisely when they visited Sir Proctor?”
“Well, it was not both of them,” he replied, “but your Aunt Prudence only. I think she is the more business-minded of the two …”
“Yes, but when?” she repeated impatiently. Suddenly this question had come to signify a great deal to her. She forced herself to recall all the details of the conversation she had overheard in the hall-way at Bench Street that evening (so long ago, it seemed now!) when Claude had made his last offer for her.
Mr. Kemp now sat frowning in thought. “I believe—it must have been not long before I—before I went into Wiltshire at Christmas.” He had been about to refer to the evening of his offer, but immediately decided he did not care to mention it.
“Before you went into Wiltshire!” she cried. Her consternation was clearly visible in her large, liquid eyes, and her hands flew instinctively up to her mouth, covering her lips as if to prevent them from uttering a terrible truth.
“Is any thing the matter?” he inquired solicitously. He had not expected such a reaction from her.
“O no! O yes! O dear,” she exclaimed without thinking. “O dear!”
“Something distresses you,” he said, rising swiftly from his chair and hastening to her side. He stood above her, bending a little as if to peer into her face, which was now completely hidden in her hands. “Shall I call a servant? Some ratafia perhaps—?”
“O no, no. Call for nothing,” she said, in great agitation. “It is only that—my aunts—did they ask your father for money? Was that it?”
“Yes,” he said, evidently puzzled. “I believe they did, but it is nothing to fret about. They wished to establish it as a public charity, I think.”
“Nothing to fret about!” she exclaimed into her hands, now wet with tears. “My life! My life, that is all.” Her mind raced as she reviewed the many results of her eavesdropping that night. No wonder they had not been grateful for her departure! No wonder Aunt Prudence had said they could not afford it! “O, what an idiot I have been!” she cried all at once. “What a fool, fool, fool!”
“My dear Mrs. Blackwood,” he said, quite alarmed by now. “I had no notion this scheme was unknown to you—or that it would provoke such sentiments in you. Pray, I am profoundly grieved to have brought this about—” And he really was grieved, in a sense: it was dreadfully vexatious to have made Honor cry when he had meant to please her, particularly as he had no idea what he had done.
“But why did they not tell me?” she demanded, apparently of the bewildered Kemp. “Why did they not ask me? I should have helped them, and I should not have had to marry at all! And now I am married for ever, and all for nothing,” she ended on a sob. She cried not because she was sorry to be Mrs. Blackwood, precisely, but because she realized now that her marriage had been precipitated by a foolish and unnecessary misunderstanding. Besides, she had begun to think she would never make Alexander happy—in fact, that she would always make him unhappy.
This last utterance on her part was music to Mr. Kemp’s ears; he dropped immediately to his knees and sought to take her hand. Hardly even aware of him, she let him take it. He held it between both his own, and said softly, “Did you not wish to marry, then? Poor Honoria! What sufferings you must have undergone.” So saying, he kissed the hand she had granted him.
At this moment Honoria looked up, and perceived through a mist of tears her husband standing in the door-way.
“Alex,” she gasped, “what are you doing here?” Though she said this only because she was confused, her tone of voice was exactly that of a woman caught in a guilty act.
Alexander surveyed the scene before him—his wife sobbing, another man on his knees kissing her hand—and recalled the words he had just overheard by accident. He looked startled, gentle, and at the same time rather pathetic. “I live here,” he said quietly. “I beg your pardon. I appear to have intruded at an awkward moment.”
“But no—stay. Do not go,” she implored, as he bowed slightly, evidently about to take his leave. She noticed for the first time that Mr. Kemp held her hand, and removed it from his grasp rather roughly.
Alexander merely bowed again, and retreated into the corridor.
“Alex!” she cried.
He shut the door.
“O, Alex,” she breathed broken-heartedly. She was thoroughly miserable now, and even more thoroughly confounded.
“Your husband appears as unhappy with the present state of affairs as you are,” said Claude, hoping to press his advantage home. He attempted to possess himself once more of her hand, but she tore it away angrily. “I beg you will trust me,” he said after a pause. “I have entreated you before to take me into your confidence, and to think of me as a friend.”
“A friend!” she exclaimed. “But you are the one who—” She had been about to pour a torrent of abuse onto his head; for an instant it appeared to her that he had been the cause of all this unhappiness. She recovered herself in time, however, and recognised that all he had done had been to inform her of her own folly. He was not to blame in this, she told herself, and struggled to regain her composure.
“I owe you an explanation,” she said at last, in low, trembling accents. She was still very much overse
t, but it was both her nature and her habit to consider other people before she thought of herself, and the more she deliberated, the more unseemly and unkind did her recent behaviour towards him appear. She ought never to have shown her discomposure at all; she ought to have been able to govern herself more successfully. She might have heard him out calmly and reflected later upon the meaning of his revelations; instead she had panicked, and behold the unhappy result. “I am dreadfully sorry,” she added, full of guilt and repentance.
“Not at all,” he assured her, still kneeling at her side. “If friends cannot be easy with one another, what use are they?”
“You are too good,” she murmured, feeling he was.
“You flatter me.” He inclined his blond head slightly, as if to signify a bow. She gazed down at his pale, gleaming hair, and felt with a tremble that she had misjudged him. Many another man would long ago have fled from a scene like this, she thought (forgetting that such a course would also have been by far more gentlemanly). His attachment to her must indeed be very tender, and he must be very brave, for he not only stood by her while she wept and raged, but submitted to her abuse (in her mind she had as good as said aloud everything she had thought of him) and waited patiently to hear whatever she might tell him now. She felt unworthy to receive such goodness, and consequently was doubly wretched.
“I must and will explain my conduct to you, sir,” she said. He raised his head again and looked up into her dark eyes. “Only allow me to compose myself a little. Will you wait a moment?”
“Years,” he answered lightly. “Decades.”
She smiled a little, as she knew she was meant to. Now that she was a trifle calmer, she felt the awkwardness of his kneeling next her chair. “Pray, be comfortable,” she said, gesturing towards a sofa. “Another cup of coffee?” she added, as he failed to move. She had to rise to reach the tray, an action that left him on his knees by an empty chair. Then he stood immediately.
They drank coffee in silence, she avoiding the steadfast gaze he lavished upon her. She was aching to fly to Alexander, to explain to him what he had seen—if it could ever be explained—but she felt instinctively that Claude, being a guest in their house, was the first matter to be seen to. That was her duty, both as mistress of Stonebur and as Alexander’s wife. Alexander would not disappear, in any case, and it would be as well to have reflected a bit in solitude before she approached him. Therefore, as soon as she felt capable of speaking smoothly, she addressed Mr. Kemp as follows:
“You wonder, no doubt, what you did to precipitate so much excitement, dear sir—”
“I admit,” he agreed, “the question did cross my mind.”
“Of course. I ought to begin by informing you that the project that my aunts hope to accomplish was not known to me before you referred to it today.”
“Yes—?”
“But I had heard them discuss it—without knowing what they spoke of. It was on the day …” She hesitated here, wondering first whether to allude to his offer, and then whether to tell him all the truth. “It was on the last occasion when you were so good as to honour me by an offer of marriage,” she continued, whispering by the time she reached the word “marriage.” She had decided to tell him all the truth up until the point when she determined to marry the first man to ask her, and to gloss over the rest as vaguely as possible. That part touched Alexander too nearly, and she did not like to disclose it.
He listened to her in the most attentive silence, only now and then interjecting a “Yes” or an “Of course.” When she had finally done he sat wordless for a few minutes. “Then you might have married me,” he remarked at length, almost without expression.
“Had you offered again,” she affirmed.
“The world is a strange and ironical place,” he said, adding, “And your husband—he knows all this?”
“He knows—” she began, and was interrupted by a knock at the door, followed immediately by the precipitous entrance of her sister-in-law.
Emily burst through the door, her cheeks flushed with exertion (she had run all the way from Sweet’s Folly) and her eyes shining and dancing as Honor had never seen them do. She looked excessively pretty, especially as some of her blond hair had escaped her bonnet and fell in wispy curls on her neck and brow. “I’ve won!” she cried, running directly to Honoria and seizing both her hands. “I’ve won, I’ve won, I’ve won!” She leaned down to Honor and was about to embrace her when she noticed that her friend was looking not at her but at some other point in the room.
Then she turned and saw Claude Kemp.
“You here!” she exclaimed. “Damnation!”
“Emily!” gasped Honor, who had never heard her sister—or any other female, for that matter—use such a word before.
“Well for the love of Heaven,” Emily said impatiently, “I do think it’s a bit too much.” She was infinitely annoyed at having to share this moment of triumph with anyone other than her dear friend; as far as she was concerned, Mr. Kemp was an intruder, whether he had been present first or not.
Scene after impossible scene! was all Honoria could think. How would she ever hold her head up before Mr. Kemp again? “Emily, pray—your news in a moment—but you really have been unkind to Mr. Kemp.”
“O yes, very well. My sincerest apologies, sir,” she muttered, at the same time hastily undoing the ribbons of her bonnet, and flinging it across the room. “Honor, when can we speak alone?” she continued, again grasping her hands.
Claude spoke before Honor could answer. “My congratulations, dear Miss Blackwood, on whatever it is you may have won. And naturally my acceptance of your thoughtful apologies. And lastly, you may be private with Mrs. Blackwood whenever you like; I could not think of remaining where I am de trop.” He spoke in accents of the pro-foundest irony, and rose on his last words.
“O, for Heaven’s sake,” said Emily.
Mr. Kemp bowed, first to her and then to Honor. “Madam,” he said.
“Mr. Kemp, pray—do not depart so—”
“I assure you, it does not signify. Your butler will show me out, I trust.”
“Yes, but—”
“Pray, do not refine upon things so,” he said. “I shall call upon you again when”—he glanced at Emily—“you are more at leisure.”
Honoria, feeling that all this coming and going was too much for her to worry about, permitted him to leave without further protestation.
Emily forgot all about him the moment he had gone. “Felicitate me, my dear,” she cried, throwing off her cloak with an exuberant gesture. “Reverence me. I am an artist!”
Honor gazed into her friend’s rapt countenance and could not help but smile with her. “I knew you could do it,” she said jubilantly. “I made sure of it! And did you win—” she paused.
“Top honours! The best, the winner—O, Honoria, I cannot tell you what this means to me, how unbearably happy I am.”
“Someday all the world will know the name of Emily Blackwood,” Honoria said proudly.
“Yes, someday …” Emily began, but her expression changed all at once and she concluded, “Well, not precisely Emily Blackwood, perhaps.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I did not—I entered—O dear, I may as well out with it. I did not enter quite under my own name.”
“Whatever do you mean?” Honor queried.
“I entered—ah, the winner of the contest is Mr. Cedric Blackwood. I did not use my own name,” she repeated.
“But why ever not?”
“Because I should most certainly have lost. I might even have been disqualified, Honoria; I am not sure the competition was even open to women.”
“Not open—”
“I dared not enquire, for fear they should discover why the question concerned me. And I know positively—think of it Honor, and you shall see yourself—they would never have awarded a prize to a woman.”
“Emily, I never thought of it,” the other replied wonderingly.
�
�I did. And I am very glad I did,” Emily exclaimed suddenly, pirouetting round a chair and knocking over a firescreen in the same movement. “Where is Alexander?” she demanded abruptly.
“In his library, I think. But are you certain you ought to—”
“It cannot remain a secret much longer.”
“You did not tell your parents?” Honor asked, horrified at the thought.
“O no, no, of course not. I came directly to you. But Alex can be trusted—call him, won’t you?”
“Yes. Yes, I will,” she said, rising and pulling the bell-rope. Traubin appeared and was instructed to ask his master to come to the parlour.
“What will you do now?” Honoria asked as they waited.
“Do? But there is nothing more—O, you mean how shall I tell my parents, and persuade them to let me go, and so forth?”
“Precisely.”
Emily sat for the first time since she had come in. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “In fact, I don’t know at all.”
“Well, we must certainly consider the question now,” Honor was saying, when her husband entered the room.
“Madam,” he said, bowing to his wife. He looked a trifle paler than was ordinary in him, which made him very pale indeed. “Emily,” he added with a second bow to his sister.
“Alex, sit down,” said this last, without observing either his pallor or his uncommon formality.
“If you say so,” he said indifferently. He generally did say many things indifferently, yet this tone (like his complexion) was not quite his wonted one. Whereas his habitual remoteness appeared to stem from a pleasantly distracted mind, his dispassion now seemed to spring more from a determination to remain detached than from an inability to do otherwise. Honoria noticed his altered behaviour immediately, but Miss Blackwood did not see it at all.
“Prepare yourself for extraordinary news,” she advised him, smiling broadly.
Her brother smiled, too, but with a touch of irony, as if to say that what was extraordinary to her was not likely to excite him that day.
Without further introduction, Emily apprised him of her excellent fortune, hastening back haphazardly now and then to explain how it had all come about, and referring hazily to her future plans only when it was necessary to do so. Alexander rose and embraced his sister with almost a stately motion, kissing her lightly on the brow.