Sweet's Folly

by Fiona Hill

  Her small supply of sternness quite spent, Honoria now dropped to her knees by Emily’s chair and employed her more customary method of persuasion. “Please, my dear Em,” said she, taking her friend’s hand, “whatever you are doing, it cannot be good for you. Look at you! So pale and drawn … and your hands are quite—well they are chapped, to say truth, and red. Anyone who met you could see in a moment you do not lead the life of a gentlewoman; your hands tell that story at once, to say nothing of your pallor!”

  “I shall wear gloves,” returned the other.

  “Of course, you will, but—O Emily, do think what a position you put me in. You are under my care, and I do not know your whereabouts ten hours out of the day!”

  Miss Blackwood, who wished more than anything to see this interview at a close, left off her indifferent tone and brought out her best weapon at once. “Let us all go home to Pittering, then,” said she.

  “Go home! But we’ve only just come,” cried Mrs. Blackwood, failing utterly to see what sort of psychology was being practised upon her. “And just this morning a note arrived from your father, saying he is delighted to hear of the academy’s decision, and advising us to stop on in London since we are here—to stop on with his full blessings, Emily. It is an opportunity we may never have again!”

  Miss Blackwood smiled more gently than was her wont and returned her sister’s warm grasp of her hand. “Then let us stay,” said she; “but don’t let’s have any more of this interrogation, I beg you. Things are difficult enough without your flying into alt every afternoon. Now, I promise to be home early tomorrow, and home all day on Sunday. Will you promise in return to forget about this nonsense?”

  Honoria, who felt she would die if her only visit to London was curtailed within a fortnight, was obliged to give her word, and only begged Miss Blackwood one more time to be as heedful of her reputation as she might. The topic then turned to more cheerful matters—at least, Mrs. Blackwood thought them more cheerful—for among the invitations received in the morning’s post had been one to a ball tonight, and Honoria (unable to resist) had accepted at once.

  “It is at Lord and Lady Throstle’s—you remember Lady Throstle, the tall lady with the brocaded turban?—and only fancy, it does not begin until half past ten! Everyone in Pittering will be asleep by then, and we shall be dancing and supping and—”

  “I must say, everyone in Pittering may not have a very bad notion about bed-times,” Emily interrupted with a yawn. “Do you think I might nap a bit now? I am sure I need sleep more than I do my dinner.”

  “O,” said Honor, immediately anxious. “Yes, naturally. You go lie down, and I will have a tray sent up to you. Alex and I will dine alone,” she added, and this prospect at once absorbed half her attention and agitation. She had not been alone with Alexander since they had come to London, for he did not take breakfast except a cup of chocolate in bed, and Emily was present at their other repasts. She was all curiosity to see how he would conduct himself towards her, whether as the sprig of fashion he had been last night, or the awkward young fellow she had married. The remainder of her thoughts wandered continually towards the ball they would attend that evening: how she would compare to the other young ladies, who would ask her to stand up, whether the assembly would be very large indeed, and if they would be acquainted with anybody there besides the Throstles.

  “No doubt we shall see some of our acquaintance of last night,” said Emily with a yawn, when Honoria (in the act of helping her to bed) put this last question to her. “However, it seems most unlikely we shall meet anyone more interesting than that.” With this prediction Emily shut her eyes, and fell instantly to sleep, hearing Honoria’s disappointed “I suppose you are right” only as a dreamy echo.

  But Emily was not right, after all. There were in fact two personages invited to the Throstles’ that evening, whose lives were most intimately connected with those of the Blackwoods—the two personages in the world, perhaps, whom Honoria might hope least to meet.

  Chapter XII

  Dinner alone with Alex proved a melancholy affair, at least for Honoria. He arrived at table dressed as carelessly as ever he had been in Pittering; his conversation consisted entirely in commonplaces, and those disjointed and few; and his general manner towards his wife appeared to indicate his utter indifference to her presence or absence. “We might take our coffee in the sitting-room upstairs,” Honoria suggested timidly across the huge length of the dining-table. “I am sure we will be more comfortable sitting by the fireside up there, than we could be here, even if it is dreadfully rustic behaviour.”

  “If you like,” said her husband. The Blackwoods did not, as a rule, observe the custom of the ladies’ withdrawal from the table when they dined at home, for the simple reason that Alexander did not smoke, and drank after dinner only to oblige a guest or host.

  “Then I shall ring for Traubin to fetch it up there,” said Honoria, in order to say something. The stillness that had reigned during the greater part of dinner had been quite awful to her, and she was most eager to have done with it. In the sitting-room, at least, there was the fire to look at and listen to, for though there was, naturally, a hearth in the dining-parlour, the apartment was so large as to render it insignificant.

  “You were most entertaining last night,” said poor Honoria, as she passed a dish of coffee to her husband. “What you said about town-hours, I mean.”

  “I am glad you think so.” Alexander scrutinised the parallel gilt bands that were painted round the rim of his cup, and relapsed into silence.

  “We are certain to be late at the Throstles’ tonight. You will not be over-tired?”

  “I hope not.”

  Honoria sighed and resolved upon one more attempt. “How does your monograph progress? You must find all our visiting and so forth most frustrating. I am afraid you are interrupted here twenty times more frequently each day than you were at home.”

  “My monograph? I am nearing completion, I think,” said Alex, and retired again into revery.

  It was their first night at Stonebur all over again, thought Honoria; her disappointment at the realisation was great. One would have imagined, said she to herself, that nearly four months of marriage must alter the relations between them—make them somewhat familiar with one another, if nothing else! But it did not do so; she was obliged to own everything just as strained and uneasy as ever, and saw Alexander finish his coffee with relief.

  Still, there was the ball to be thought of. Preparations for that event amply filled the next few hours: when her own gown had been donned, and her hair becomingly coiffed, Emily must be roused and dressed as well. Alexander repeated the miracle he had first performed on the previous evening, and was waiting for them in the drawing-room at precisely half-past ten.

  “It wouldn’t have answered to depart any earlier,” said he, as they entered the carriage. “One does not care to arrive on time in London.” Evidently he was preparing to assume that other, most disarming, rôle that he reserved for London society. Honoria determined to observe him closely tonight, to see if she might learn what animated him so in ton circles, and perhaps benefit by the knowledge.

  The ball-room at the Throstles’ answered all Mrs. Blackwood’s expectation in regard to grandeur and festivity. It was half-full of people when they arrived, and quite thronged shortly afterwards; flowers decked the walls, the faces of the guests were made brilliant by candlelight and high spirits, and the music of the orchestra was heard everywhere. Miss Charlotte Throstle, whose uncertain marital prospects had inspired her parents to entertain so lavishly, welcomed the Blackwoods with civility and then turned her attention (as was her duty) to the next arrivals. The three new-comers then stood for a time together, politely ignoring the unfamiliar faces round them and straining to see those farther away. “There is Sir Malcolm Rowley, I think,” said Honoria in a low voice.

  “Yes, and Lady Margaret. Look, she is wearing purple again; I wondered last night if it were a momentary lapse
in taste on her part, or a permanent fault of judgement.” This, of course, came from Emily, whose eye for colour never failed her.

  “I wonder if we ought to say hello to them; does one make one’s way over to people, or wait until they are nearby?”

  “I shouldn’t think it signifies,” said the sensible Miss Blackwood.

  “If only Lady Jane were here,” sighed Honor.

  “Lady Jane is here,” her husband broke in suddenly; “and she’s with—can it possibly be?” He leaned forward in the direction of the entrance-way to the ball-room, evidently endeavouring to make out the identity of Lady Jane’s companion. “It is!” he cried suddenly, and with no more explanation than that was off like a shot, his graceful figure passing swiftly and easily through the crowd. Honoria watched in horror as her husband, pausing only to fling an indifferent bow towards Lady Jane, seized an unknown lady’s hand and bent deeply over it.

  “See how long he holds her hand!” gasped Honor, too surprised and curious to govern her tongue.

  Miss Blackwood gazed with her and beheld her brother, still in possession of the stranger’s hand, interrogating her with a most ardent and delighted countenance. The lady replied to him with animated smiles, evidently joining fully in his pleasure at their meeting. Lady Jane looked on silently in mild astonishment.

  “O, she is awfully beautiful!” said poor Honor, with a sinking sensation that travelled quickly from her throat into her stomach.

  “Not so very,” Emily scoffed, but she was lying and knew it. The unknown, whoever she was, was very lovely, indeed. She was of middle height and perfectly proportioned, possessed of a pair of sloping shoulders and bosom dazzlingly white. The extreme décolletage of her gown did nothing to detract from this last feature, nor did the diaphanous white stuff conceal her form. A feather boa dripped luxuriantly round her arms, and a diadem set in her rich golden curls admirably complemented the length and suppleness of her neck. The diadem was set with pearls, as were the rings on her hands; no colour disturbed the snowy purity of the lady’s costume, save a single blood-red rose at the centre of her bodice. As for the traits of her countenance, these were in perfect conformity with the notion of beauty in that day: large blue eyes, a fair unblemished complexion, plump pink lips, and a straight, chiselled nose. No woman in the room could hope to compete with her in appearance—at least, no woman of that type—and both Honor and Emily were sensible of this at once.

  Alexander still spoke with her (though he had, at length, relinquished her hand) but Lady Jane Sperling, apparently finding their discourse less than compelling, had excused herself and now appeared before the female Blackwoods. “Your husband has a past, I think,” said she, but rather more sympathetically than archly. “You did not tell me.”

  “I did not know,” said Honor. Her voice was small, but quite even and controlled.

  “Indeed?” returned her ladyship and at this her eyebrows did rise wryly. “Then tonight must prove very intriguing to you. Good evening, Emily,” she added. “You look dreadful.”

  “I am fatigued,” said Miss Blackwood, not at all stung.

  “Do you know her name?” Honoria asked still in the same small voice.

  “The name of your husband’s past? The same name attached to any number of gentlemen’s pasts,” replied Lady Jane, with a significant cough. “Lady Annabella Willoughby, Countess Dredstone. The term lady is, I assure you, a mere accident of nomenclature in her case; if she has any attribute of a gentlewoman, I am a Siberian bear.”

  “How came you to be entering with her then?” enquired Emily.

  “Everyone is obliged to enter with her sometime, or to chat with her or leave with her. One may meet her any place in London; she is among our foremost hostesses. That is nothing to do with her moral character, you know; the patronesses of Almack’s dare to slight her, perhaps, but no one else. The count is of too much consequence, you see.”

  “And does he not distress himself for his wife’s reputation?”

  Lady Jane shrugged prettily, and smiled. “I believe he may have fought a duel or two, in the beginning; he is twice her age, however, and leaves her pretty much to Providence now.”

  “Providence has dealt generously with her,” observed Emily dryly.

  “It has not forgot her,” the other agreed, but her expression indicated clearly that she for her part entertained no wish of being Lady Willoughby, or anyone like her for that matter.

  “How do you suppose Alexander knows her?” asked Honoria, who had been gazing in growing dismay at her husband and the charmer, both still rapt in conversation.

  “Your husband is a very handsome man, and the countess is partial to handsome men. I suppose he knows her as any other man might know her—and not a few have,” she finished uncharitably.

  “I am certain she cannot be as bad as all that, if Alexander likes her,” said Mrs. Blackwood.

  “I do not say she is bad,” Lady Jane clarified, taking Honor’s hand in her own. “I say she is fast. Actually, she is very clever, and as a rule confines her interests to unwed gentlemen, or confirmed philanderers. I do not remember her ever interfering in a marriage that was healthy to begin with: the women of the ton envy her her looks, and pretend at least to deplore her morals, but I do not think anyone condemns her. But here comes my father,” she interrupted herself suddenly; “Emily, you must be prepared to stand up with him: he told me he thinks you very attractive, indeed.”

  Lord Sperling did in fact appear, and solicited Miss Blackwood’s company for the first two sets, which were now forming. A little time later, the scion of the Throstle house, Master Quinlan Throstle, came to claim Honor’s hand for the same dances, and Mrs. Blackwood thenceforth was sufficiently distracted by the necessity of making conversation with a rather backward fifteen-year-old boy, and dancing with him at the same time, to think of her husband with only half a mind. She saw him standing up with Lady Willoughby, but the figures of the dance precluded her staring at them as much as she might have liked to.

  Master Throstle was not to blame for his own gawkiness; it was a part of growing up, and Honoria courteously attempted to ignore the break in his changing voice when he escorted her to a chair and thanked her for her company. Miss Blackwood soon joined them, her partner declaring himself more than satisfied with the lightness of her feet; but shortly afterwards his lordship excused himself, and Quinlan did likewise, and the two ladies were left alone near the wall.

  Honoria searched the room anxiously for Alex, but could not find him. Her idea of attending a ball had never included being left alone at the side of the room, and she found the situation excessively uncomfortable.

  “I daresay someone will rescue us,” said Emily placidly. “No one has even taken to the floor, as yet.”

  “That is because it is a waltz, I think,” Honor whispered. “There are no sets, but you can see all the couples just waiting for the music to begin.”

  “Then we must sit through it,” said Emily. “Waltzing is of questionable propriety, anyway.”

  “Emmy! I never thought to hear you talk of propriety so missishly.”

  “Well, there is some comfort in the thought, at least,” shrugged the other. “Anyway, I can think of a dozen things worse than having to sit through a dance at a ball,” she continued stoutly.

  “Name one,” Mrs. Blackwood challenged, without spirit.

  “Claude Kemp,” came the unexpected answer, so unexpected that Honoria forgot about Alex and turned with a puzzled inquiry to her sister-in-law.

  “Claude Kemp?” she echoed.

  “Yes—Claude Kemp,” Emily hissed through teeth clamped shut, and Honor now perceived that her eyes were fixed upon someone in the crowd before them. Anxiously, she followed the direction of Miss Blackwood’s gaze; scanned the faces there; hoped against hope, and discovered Claude Kemp coming towards them, and none other.

  “My very dear friends, my Pittering friends, how I have hoped to meet you somewhere,” cried he as he drew near. “Miss
”—he bowed—“and Mrs. Blackwood”—he took her hand and kissed it—“you are prettier than ever I have seen you.”

  The ladies replied with the sparsest civility possible, but Mr. Kemp did not seem to notice it. He inclined his gleaming blond head towards Honoria, and begged the honour of the next dance.

  “Thank you, no. I do not care to dance just now,” she said stiffly.

  “But you must—listen, the music is starting. A waltz at a London ball! You must not let this opportunity pass. We will have abundant time later for exchange of news—come, I implore you.” Throughout this speech he had been holding firmly to her hand; try as she would, she could not extricate it from his grasp.

  “I beg you will excuse me, sir; I do not wish to dance,” she said fiercely, but to no avail. Encouraged by the lilt of the music, and never lacking in arrogance, Mr. Kemp quite literally pulled her from her chair and swept her off to the dance-floor, his arm embracing her firmly round her waist. Honoria had no choice, finally, but to comply with his wishes: it was either that or create a scene inevitably embarrassing to everyone. She waltzed with him, therefore, but did not speak a word until they had quite done.

  They returned to the chairs where they had left Emily, and found her there in company of her brother. “Mr. Kemp,” said Alexander, bowing slightly, and with no tone of any sort in his voice.

  “Mr. Blackwood,” the other gentleman returned, with his mechanical smile.

  “Alex—” Honoria began on a gasp, and stopped.

  “My dear?”

  But she found she could not say anything, and only regarded him with soft, imploring eyes.

  “I should like to present to you the Countess Dredstone,” said Alexander, when it became evident Honoria had nothing to say. Honor had been too confused to notice her before, but Lady Willoughby was indeed standing near her husband, apparently inspecting her feathered fan, and wearing her habitual air of serene contentment. “Lady Willoughby, my wife,” Alex continued.