Sweet's Folly

by Fiona Hill

  “You won’t be distracted from your driving, if I talk to you?” Honoria asked, for she mistrusted such a high, light vehicle in the first place, and was equally uncertain of Jane’s command of the horses.

  “Not at all, dear lamb,” said she soothingly, and increased the pace of the horses somewhat as if to ridicule the idea. They turned into the gates of the park and entered the press of carriages there.

  “Such a lot of people!” exclaimed Honor, who had not driven in the park before. “I dareswear everyone of our acquaintance is here.”

  “Not at all unlikely,” said Lady Jane. “Did you have a question for me?”

  Honoria told her of their doubts regarding the bal masqué, and was informed that she might go, though it would be wiser not to. “Such quantities of scandals seem to begin at masked balls,” said Lady Jane. “It is almost as if people could not wait for them, to behave out-landishly.”

  “Then I think we shall stop at home,” Honor decided. “Alexander has—O dear,” she interrupted herself suddenly. “Can we possibly turn round?”

  “Turn round?” smiled Jane; “I hardly think so. We have scarcely sufficient space to crawl forward, let alone reverse ourselves. Why?”

  Honoria’s consternation was now plainly legible on her face, and her voice trembled as she replied, “Someone I do not care to meet-coming the other way—Lady Jane, do you care if I hide? Might I, please? I shan’t mind the floor of the carriage.”

  “Well, whoever can it be, to throw you into such a fright? You must certainly not hide,” the older lady said. “It would give a most awkward appearance.”

  “O, but you do not know—” Honor began, but she was prevented from saying more by the immediate arrival of Claude Kemp’s curricle, which stopped opposite them no more than a foot away.

  “Hallo!” cried he heartily to the ladies. “Good morning!”

  “I pray you, Jane, save me,” whispered Honor, visibly shaken.

  Such conduct was too particular to fail to arouse Lady Jane’s curiosity. Her interest piqued quite exhilaratingly, she begged of her companion an introduction to the gentleman and, observing him most shrewdly, proceeded to engage him in a lengthy conversation. Throughout the whole of it, Honoria continued to quake and quail beside her.

  Chapter XIII

  “Mr. Kemp,” began Lady Jane, “I must own I noticed you at the Throstles’ ball the other night, and even sought to learn your name. It is not often we see a cravat tied Primo Tempo; I am always on the watch for clever cravats.”

  “I am gratified to hear it was remarked,” said he, “particularly by a lady so obviously conversant with the current vogues.” Mr. Kemp raised his quizzing-glass and surveyed Jane’s smart fawn pelisse with unmistakable approval.

  “Surely a gentleman as sophisticated as yourself has learned by now to associate with fashionable women only. Ladies whose attire is out of date are fatally liable to be antiquated in other areas as well: in their ideas, for example, or their morality.”

  “Or their ideas of morality,” he replied, smiling carefully, as if this were a witty rejoinder.

  Lady Jane humoured him with a laugh. “Precisely. Now don’t you think so, my dear Honoria?”

  “I suppose,” said she, though barely audibly. She was too much discomposed by this unlooked-for meeting to follow the conversation; however, she knew enough to be extremely sensible of Lady Jane’s kindness in drawing Kemp off.

  “You see? Dear Honoria supposes so, too. Now we have a unanimous opinion, and the vote carries.”

  “My lady interests herself in politics, I think?”

  “In government, which is to say, behaviour; and politics, which is to say, the manipulation of behaviour—yes, I do. Who cannot, who lives among society?” She smiled that brilliant smile that had been observed upon her lips before, and looked with disarming candour into Claude Kemp’s icy eyes.

  “And what, then, of affairs of state? Of—war, for example?”

  “O, a battle always intrigues me,” she answered lightly. “As much its strategy as its action, in fact.”

  “We must discuss strategy sometime, ma’am.”

  “Discuss it! But all the diversion would go out of it, then.”

  “We might discuss diversionary tactics, if you like.”

  Lady Jane again indulged him, this time by smiling at the pointless pun, and resumed, “But I think we are wearying poor Honor with our chatter. She does not care much for military matters, I suspect.”

  “Not even when she witnesses a flank attack?” asked he in a low tone, leaning towards Lady Jane’s ear.

  “But this is not a flank attack,” she parried. “It is a frontal attack. Mr. Kemp, will you join my party tonight at the theatre? You will oblige me more than you know.”

  “I am promised to attend a supper at White’s, alas!”

  “Then you must disappoint your friends. It is sad; you are right.” And she joined him in crying alas.

  “You are not very kind to my friends,” said he.

  “Nor have you been very kind to mine, I think,” she pointed out, with a sidelong glance at Honoria.

  “I have endeavoured to be kind,” he retorted, his colour rising a little at this accusation.

  “Too much like Master Petruchio in The Taming of the Shrew, I fear: you seem to kill her with kindness.”

  “That’s as may be,” he muttered stubbornly.

  “Not at all,” she contradicted promptly. “That’s As You Like It—or rather, as I like it. I will see you in Berkeley Square tonight at nine, sir. Good day.” And so saying, she started her horses before he could reply, and was soon lost to him among the jostling throng of coaches.

  “How you did manage him!” exclaimed Honoria, once they were out of earshot. Her eyes went wide with admiration, and she fairly stared at Jane.

  “It was not very difficult,” she said, with her pretty shrug. “I had hoped for a greater challenge, in fact, but I suppose he will do. You are indifferent to him, are you not?” she queried suddenly. “I mean, I do not intrude where I am not wanted, do I?”

  Honoria assured her she was most welcome to Claude Kemp—indeed, more than merely welcome. “But I must caution you,” she continued, feeling it only fair. “As delighted as I am to see him cease his pursuit of me, and pursue you instead, he is a thoroughly disagreeable man. I may even say—though I hate to cast suspicion where it may not be due—I have sometimes thought him dangerous.”

  “I appreciate your warning, my dear; truly I do. However, you make one crucial error. You say that Kemp pursues me,” Lady Jane responded, as she turned the horses out of the gate and into the street again. “He does not pursue me; I pursue him. And so long as that is the case, the peril is all on his side. No hunter fears his hare, and I do not fear Mr. Kemp.”

  “He thinks he pursues you,” Honoria objected. “I saw it in his eyes. He regarded you—so greedily—rather, I fancy, as a wolf regards its prey.”

  “I am glad you observed that, my dear. It is precisely in that circumstance that all my security lies. Mr. Kemp believes he tracks me down; I know he is my quarry.”

  Honoria drank this in in silence, fascinated by so bold a speech. “What will you do with him once you have caught him?” she enquired at length.

  “Do with him?” Lady Jane repeated almost dreamily. “I had not thought of it. Throw him back into the sea, I suppose, as an angler who hooks an uneatable fish. He does not look very palatable to me,” she added, “nor even very wholesome.”

  “Then why do you bother with him at all?” asked Mrs. Blackwood, overawed at such confidence.

  “For sport, I daresay. To amuse myself. And naturally, to protect my poor dear lamb,” she added, with a comforting pat to Honor’s hand. “Has he given you many bad moments? The way you trembled at his approach might lead one to suppose he had sullied your virtue.”

  “Well, he has not done that, quite,” Honoria hedged, “but he has indeed proved excessively troublesome.” She thought
for a moment and went on, “May I tell you something in confidence?”

  “If you wish,” Lady Jane replied, at the same time neatly avoiding a collision with a stately carriage. “I will not betray you.”

  “Alexander believes—that is, my husband believes …” her voice trailed off. “Mr. Blackwood believes I am in love with Mr. Kemp.”

  “Does he, indeed?” the other exclaimed. “He must find that most disconcerting!”

  “Not nearly as—as disconcerting as I would hope,” Honoria confessed. “In point of fact, I think he rather likes it. It permits him to—to behave similarly with other ladies.”

  “With the Countess Dredstone, you mean,” Lady Jane said thoughtfully.

  “Particularly with her. And that is what I wished to ask you: Lady Jane, do you think I might call upon the countess, and beg her not to—to renew her acquaintance with Alex? Do you think she might listen? You said she does not intrude where a wife might be injured,” Mrs. Blackwood pleaded earnestly, “and I have no notion what else to do.”

  Lady Jane pondered this a moment, but soon shook her head decisively. “No, poor dear; if you succeed in your petition, your husband will only find himself driven elsewhere … and perhaps to less acceptable quarters. Lady Willoughby at least will not embarrass you in public; she is not a spiteful woman, nor a vulgar.”

  Honor was obviously crest-fallen. “I could die when I think of them together,” was all she said—and that in a very small voice.

  “Hmmmm,” Lady Jane mused. “You cannot feign an interest in another man, for that only encourages him. This is very puzzling indeed, Honoria; I am glad you told me. I will think of it,” she promised, and since they had arrived again in Albemarle Street, the interview closed there.

  A quantity of rain drenched the next few days, painting them so thoroughly in grey from dawn to dusk that one could not, as Emily said, “tell Wednesday from Thursday. They all look alike, don’t they? It is most dispiriting.”

  “Well, if it interests you, today chances to be Friday,” her sister-in-law told her. “And we are engaged for whist at the Huffles’, and tomorrow we see Mr. Tayt.”

  “And the exhibition in Somerset Place,” said Emily, a smile of pure pleasure lighting on her lips at the thought of it. So great was her anticipation of the excursion, in fact, that she forgot to be nettled at the mention of Mr. Tayt.

  They had just done with dinner, and Honor was about to suggest they all remove to the sitting-room upstairs, when Alexander spoke up suddenly, and interrupted her.

  “I am afraid I cannot go with you to the Huffles’ tonight,” said he. “I am terribly sorry.”

  Honoria was so frightened at what might be the significance of this that she dared not even ask for an explanation.

  Emily was not so timid. “Your monograph, Alexander?” she inquired.

  “My—monograph, yes. I am anxious to finish it, now it is so near completion. I hope you will excuse me, dear ma’ams; I am certain John Coachman will see you there and back safely.”

  “I might write to the Huffles and suggest another evening,” Honor burst out, in a voice scarcely under control. “I might say you were ill—or I was ill—”

  “I beg you will not,” Alexander said, with a sort of languid air unusual in him. “I do not truly care for whist in any case, and am just as glad to miss it.”

  Honoria could not speak—due to a sudden lump in her throat—and only nodded assent.

  Miss Blackwood thought her brother was despicable, and said so to his wife as they drove to Lady Huffle’s, but Honoria beseeched her not to talk of it; it only made her more wretched. She succeeded in putting on a brave front at the whist table—though it was evident to all that her mind wandered sadly—and restrained herself from pleading a headache and fleeing the inspection of society. When supper was at last laid out, however, she thought she had never been so happy to see a meal in her life (in spite of the fact that she could not swallow a mouthful) and when Emily finally suggested their departure, she agreed most whole-heartedly.

  “And do go directly to bed,” Lady Agatha Huffle advised her officiously. “You look dreadfully worn down, and have not been at all yourself tonight.”

  Honoria promised that she would follow this counsel, but though she went to bed at once, she could not go to sleep. Alexander, it was learned when they reached Albemarle Street, was not at home, and had given Traubin instructions not to wait up for him.

  “And he didn’t say where he was going, ma’am,” said Traubin, anticipating his mistress’s next question.

  “You know you might have done better with Kemp,” Emily muttered in a fury. “Alexander is practically invisible when he is present, and all too conspicuous when he is gone. I must ask him how he does it sometime,” she continued, adding, “Let me read to you while you he in bed, at least. It will distract you.”

  But Honoria declined this kindness, for Emily seemed dangerously fatigued herself, and she feared for her sister’s nerves as much as for her own.

  “Happily I have the constitution of a horse,” said Emily, with a notable lack of gentility. “The shoemaker’s children go barefoot, they say, and I do not remember when my father or mother ever paid the least attention to my health, which was well, for it taught me to mend on my own.” This discourse, however, was the most bracing she could manage. She was presently obliged to admit to exhaustion, which left Honor alone and at the mercy of her own imagination.

  That imagination proved more vivid, suddenly, than it had ever done before. Alexander’s whereabouts, and the company he was in, recurred in her mind with never-ceasing variations, each one crueler than the last. When she finally fell asleep it was not because she had succeeded in governing her thoughts, but because she had heard (at four or five of the morning, she guessed) her husband enter the house at last, and steal quietly into his room. Her first thought was to throw open the door that stood closed between their chambers and fling herself tearfully at his feet. Her next—and perhaps, better advised—was that now he was home safe, she could quit her fretting for the night, and lose herself in sleep. This she did, and rose rather late in the morning.

  Alexander did not show himself until noon, and since Mr. Tayt arrived at one Honoria had not much opportunity of conversation with her husband, had she chosen to initiate one at all. He did not refer to his unexpected absence of the previous night, and their situation was not private enough to encourage questions. They all drove to Somerset Place in Ambrose’s capacious equipage, and descended together to see what might be seen.

  Confronted with such a quantity of works of art, it was to be expected that discourse might lapse somewhat among the small party. It did so, yet everyone continued to say something now and then, except for Emily. She, whose dream it had long been to be precisely where she now was, wandered through the galleries in a blissful revery as impenetrable as any that had ever descended on her brother. The others allowed her to take the lead, and followed her meanderings murmuring sporadically of colour and composition, and sometimes of beauty. At length, however, Mr. Tayt detached himself from Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood and drifted forward to the side of the rapt admirer. Until he offered her his arm she still did not notice him, but then even she was obliged to.

  “All this walking makes you tired, perhaps,” said he, with that peculiar smile he reserved for Emily, half-way between courtesy and the keenest amusement. “Pray, lean upon my arm; I shall not regard your small weight.”

  “Mr. Tayt, I beg you will quit teasing me,” she hissed, so that her brother and sister might not hear. “I am aware you are aware; we are both aware of our awarenesses; there is no need of your alluding to it every five minutes.”

  “But I do not understand,” said he, dropping his mocking accent and speaking most sincerely. “Why on earth do you do it? I am sure it is most uncomfortable for you.”

  “You may be certain of that,” said she.

  “And your reason—?”

  “Because I have no choice,
” she answered flatly. “Now, unless you mean to inform upon me, I implore you to let the subject drop for ever.”

  “Aha!” cried he, while she shushed him, glancing anxiously back towards the Blackwoods, “Then your family does not know; I thought as much!”

  “No, of course they do not,” she whispered fiercely. “Do you think they would allow it?”

  “Miss Blackwood, this is all excessively intriguing. I will engage to stop teasing you about it, if you in turn will promise to acquaint me with all the particulars of the matter as soon as may be. Will you?”

  “I do not see why it is any of your concern,” she said crossly, pretending to be absorbed in a painting though she was too distracted to look at it.

  “What a warrior you are!” he exclaimed. “I only thought I might prove helpful to you. Can you not take me into your confidence, as a friend?”

  “I don’t know how you can be helpful,” she began; “but I suppose if you are so incapable of forgetting the affair, I must tell you its cause and circumstances. But not here, I pray you; I simply must look at these paintings or I will die.”

  “No, not here,” he agreed, remarking at the same time that the Blackwoods had quickened their pace and were nearly upon them. “It is unsuitable, clearly. However, if I were to call upon you tomorrow, could you contrive to be alone?”

  Many a young lady would have balked instantly at such a proposition as this, but it did not even occur to Miss Blackwood to be niffy-naffy. “Yes,” she said, eager to be done with the business, “I shall stop at home while the others go to church, and receive you by myself.”

  “Such secret scheming,” cried he, smiling again. “I have never encountered another young lady half so enigmatical as you, Miss Blackwood.”

  Miss Blackwood frowned at this observation, for she prided herself upon her candour, and it did not please her to be thought devious. “My brother and sister come,” was all she said, and turned to greet them in the same breath, and to point out to them the brush-strokes in a certain work by Turner.