by Fiona Hill
In the morning Miss Blackwood reported herself afflicted with the headache, not so serious, she assured her sister, as to prevent the others’ going to church, yet severe enough to oblige her to keep her bed. She was alone, then, when Mr. Tayt arrived, and at liberty to speak. The visible result of their interview was that an hour after Ambrose’s arrival, both he and Miss Blackwood were driving together down Albemarle Street through the light mist, Miss Blackwood smartly dressed in a frogged and ruched pelisse. An animated conversation was going forward within the equipage, though most of the animation was on Miss Blackwood’s side.
“But it is Sunday,” she kept repeating. “Surely this is no occasion—”
“I tell you he is my uncle,” said Ambrose with a smile. “Not only will he receive us, he will be most delighted to see me.”
“And me?” she inquired sceptically.
“And you,” he countered. “Miss Blackwood, he is a very jolly old gentleman, not the least disposed to make difficulties. I promise you he can never have heard of your case. If he had, you should not have been obliged to go to such extraordinary lengths.”
“But Sir Geoffrey said all the directors discussed it—”
“The devil fly away with Sir Geoffrey,” cried he. “He’s a weak old fool who never got anything done for anybody. Besides, my uncle is not a director—he is the founder. Doubtless he is not consulted in such matters.”
“I really don’t think—” she began with a frown.
“No, of course you don’t,” he interrupted. “If you had, none of this would have been necessary. Cedric Blackwood, indeed! I never heard the like.” He was silent for a moment, then added, “It shows a deal of spirit, however. My uncle will like that.”
Emily took issue with him on this point, naturally, and the lively speculation continued right up to the moment when Lord Greystone Howard, founder of the London Academy of Art and uncle to Ambrose Tayt, Esquire, discovered his nephew and Miss Blackwood in his drawing-room in Grosvenor Square.
“And what brings you here, you young rapscallion?” asked he jovially, extending a slightly palsied hand to Mr. Tayt. “Mischief, no doubt; I hope the young lady knows you too well to get mixed up in your affairs.”
“Uncle, this is Miss Emily Blackwood,” said Ambrose. Lord Howard took Emily’s hand and gallantly bent his silvered head over it.
“Miss Blackwood,” said he. Emily looked up to find a pair of bright blue eyes twinkling into her own, accompanied by a warmly inquisitive smile. “My nephew rarely has the good sense to bring attractive young ladies to meet me. You ought to do it more often, Ambrose.”
“I will take pains to do so more frequently, if you like it, sir,” said the young man.
“Every week, if possible,” his lordship replied, seating himself on a velvet settee and laying his gold-headed cane across his knees. “Do you know, ma’am, you seem just the slightest bit familiar to me. Is it possible I’ve met you before?”
Miss Blackwood coloured to the roots of her hair, and murmured, “I think not.”
“No, eh? Well, I’m very glad to do so now. Is this call merely to cheer an old man along,” he asked, “or am I right in suspecting something deeper?”
“You are perfectly right, sir,” Ambrose began, while Emily attempted to hush him. “Miss Blackwood here has a tale to tell, which I think may be of some interest to you. And you have met her before, I think—in a manner of speaking at least.”
“Mr. Tayt, please—” Emily commenced.
“Miss Blackwood moves under an alias,” Ambrose continued undisturbed. “Two, in fact. Mr. Cedric Blackwood—”
“I thought the name was familiar!”
“—And Margaret Hamble. Better known as Maggie. Better known as ‘girl!’”
“Damme, I was sure of it!” cried Lord Howard. “The new girl at the academy. But—”
“Miss Blackwood wanted an education,” said Ambrose. “She is a painter.”
“Well, you’d do better to apply through the usual channels,” Lord Howard told her, “than to hire yourself out as a serving wench.”
“I had no choice,” Emily burst out at last. “It was either that or learn nothing at all. You must understand, sir,” she said, and went on to explain how she had entered the competition, and won, and persuaded her father to let her come to London, and applied to Sir Geoffrey, and been told it was impossible. “So you see, my lord, all I could think of then was the girl we saw up in the studio, and what Sir Geoffrey had said about its being so difficult to find proper servants. I got up a disguise as quickly as I could, ran directly to the academy, and presented myself for the vacant position. Sir Geoffrey never recognized me—indeed, I am amazed you should, sir, for I think my own mother would hardly know me in such rags as those I wear in the studio—and was glad enough to find a girl so easily. And it’s turned out rather well,” she added, a little proudly. “I pay all my wages to a lady who keeps a shop in Bond Street near the school, and change my clothes there every day. No one has guessed my identity but your nephew, and I have learned a very great deal merely from eavesdropping and so forth. Of course, it has been a trifle tiring, for I could not tell my family, and have been obliged to live in society as well as working all day.”
“The strongest woman in England, I dareswear,” said Ambrose. “Why, I have seen her carry out endless errands, submit to sharp rebukes and insolent orders, run up and down stairs two score of times a day; and danced a quadrille with her in the evening—the same evening, that is. And a very neat dancer she was, too.”
“Miss Blackwood,” said his lordship, “this is a most extraordinary history. I hardly know whether to laugh or to cry. How could you bear up under such a strain?”
“You know the common adage, no doubt, about wills and ways,” said Emily modestly. “Though, naturally, it tells on my hands.” She pulled off a glove, then, to reveal a very chapped, raw hand, indeed.
“Dear, dear, this can’t go on,” cried the good old gentleman. “I am sure you have demonstrated enough talent and determination to warrant the admission of fifty applicants into the academy, let alone one lady. There is no question but that you have shown more aptitude than my nephew here, at least—he never goes to the studio unless it pleases him, and then fiddles about with his brushes only to pass the time.”
“I have attended every day, sir, since Miss Blackwood and I met at her come-out,” Ambrose defended himself. “It was all too intriguing not to.”
“Yes, intrigue—that’s all you’re after. An education is what this young lady wants, and an education she shall have,” he declared with energy. “Yes, damme,” he went on, striking his cane against the floor, “she shall have it if I have to found another academy—this one for females.”
“O, sir!” was all Emily could say.
“Goodness, gracious,” Lord Howard exploded suddenly. “Damned if I won’t throttle Geoffrey Penningdon myself! It’s all his doing—no doubt of it. Probably put the case to the directors so damned apologetically, no one would think twice about accepting her.”
“You must excuse my uncle’s tongue,” Mr. Tayt murmured to Emily. “He is not accustomed to the society of ladies.”
“Fustian,” his lordship objected immediately. “Miss Blackwood don’t mind a damme or two; now, do you, my dear? She’s made of finer stuff than that.”
“You needn’t trouble over me,” she agreed. “A servant girl is spoke to none too civilly. I’ve learned that at the academy, too.”
“There, you see?” his lordship flung at his nephew. “Silly, frippery fellow,” he explained in an aside to Emily. “Though he did well to bring you here.”
“I really don’t see, Uncle,” Mr. Tayt took up, not the least bit offended, “why Miss Blackwood should not be permitted to take her lessons in the studio, with the rest of us. After all, she’s been there all along.”
His uncle only replied with a pensive “Hmmmm.”
“And as for the exhibit, I think her painting ought to
be hung with her right name on it. She deserves a better reward than to win her fame incognito.”
“Yes, yes … All these are details to be settled as they can be. The main thing is, Miss Blackwood, you may resign from your post as serving-wench immediately; and I hope Sir Geoffrey works up a good headache finding a replacement.”
“A headache!” cried Emily suddenly, jumping from her chair. “Dear Heavens, I had completely forgot. Mr. Tayt, my sister must be mad with anxiety by now; I left no message as to my whereabouts, and she thought I had the headache. O dear, I despise to be uncivil, but might we leave right away? Begging your pardon, sir,” she added to Lord Howard, “but you see how I am fixed.”
“See it very clearly, very clearly, my dear,” said he. “No matter, off you go,” and he rose and packed the two visitors out of his house with the most hospitable haste. “You’ll be hearing from me in the morning,” he promised, “or the next day at the latest. No need to resign your post in person; just send Sir Geoffrey a note.”
The exultation rampant in Miss Blackwood’s breast in consequence of this interview may easily be imagined. She arrived home alone, having wished Mr. Tayt a breathless and grateful good-by at the doorstep, and discovered Honoria in a considerable pucker—so much so, in fact, that it was some time before Emily could tell her her news.
“But you mustn’t run off this way!” young Mrs. Blackwood kept saying, “and on a Sunday, too. What was I to tell Alexander? Did you not think of that? He made sure you had been abducted, and was speaking of the Bow Street runners not two minutes ago. Emily, pray, promise you will never disappear again on a Sunday!”
“But I shan’t disappear at all,” Emily broke in. “That’s what I keep telling you. It’s all been set right, it’s all perfectly heavenly,” she insisted, and at last succeeded in telling her sister where she had been the last weeks, and what had passed that morning.
“Then that is why Mr. Tayt seemed so familiar to me at your come-out—I must have noticed him when we visited the academy. I told you he was an amiable man; now, how could he have been kinder?” said Honor, when a certain amount of exclaiming and rejoicing had been shared.
“Of course, he is an amiable man,” Emily fairly sang. “The world is amiable, everyone is amiable, Sir Geoffrey is amiable!” and she danced off in a sort of slow waltz to acquaint Alexander with the glad tidings. She did not feel it quite necessary, however, to tell him exactly what she had been about the past few weeks: her brother had never missed her, after all, and it was just as well to leave him in the dark.
That darkness that had previously shrouded Emily’s days—at least where Honoria was concerned—had been lifted to reveal secrets much more innocent than any she had feared. Of course, it was dreadful to think of Emily employed as a common serving-girl—and in Bond Street, of all places—but Emily promised Ambrose Tayt and his uncle could be relied upon to say nothing, and no one else knew. The mystery surrounding her husband’s life, however, could not be removed with as pleasant results—or so Honoria had reason to suppose. She was excessively relieved for Emily, naturally; but her own difficulties continued, and she did not know how to approach them. Alexander evidently had no use for her; she could not bring herself to ask him for a confirmation of this, and so she never alluded to his unexplained absence from home the other night, but only prayed it would not be repeated. It was repeated, however, that very Sunday night, and on the Tuesday following.
That Wednesday evening they were engaged to join Lady Jane Sperling’s party at Vauxhall. Poor Honor found that no amount of coiffing and primping and fussing could erase from her countenance the pallor her anxiety had left there. Emily had been radiant ever since Sunday, and was especially so now that word had arrived from Lord Howard of her present acceptance into the academy. It had been arranged with the masters to instruct her privately, three hours each day, in whichever of the two studios was not then in use. Moreover, consent had been obtained from the judges to hang her picture with her true name below it. Her exhaustion had ceased as soon as she was released from her double life, and her toilette Wednesday evening was as simple and as effective as could be. It was Honoria—by rights the lovelier of the two—who required extraordinary attention, and even that (though freely given by her sister and her abigail) was to no avail.
“I look pale,” she said finally, with a little sigh. “I am pale. I shall be obliged to go looking pale; there is nothing else for it.”
“I think Alexander is simply unspeakable,” said Emily.
“Then don’t speak of him,” Honor answered sadly, and turned from her mirror with another sigh. She did not know how things could go on in this way much longer. She dared not confront Alexander as yet, but all the joy of London was lost to her, and she thought of going home more fondly and more frequently each day. Now that Emily’s affairs were so well settled, it seemed possible to her that she might in fact leave Albemarle Street and go back to Pittering. Lord Sperling would take Emmy in, and Alexander might do as he wished. No doubt Stonebur Cottage would be open to her; though it might be more cheerful to return to her aunts. To return to one’s childhood home after marrying was a lowering prospect, indeed, but Honoria had lost a good deal of her pride, and she did not think she would mind it too very much. At least she would be out of Alexander’s way.
Lady Jane contrived and managed in her most skillful way, meeting her guests in Berkeley Square, rallying them to good spirits for the journey across the river to Vauxhall, and arranging them, once they had arrived, round the table in their box. Besides the Blackwood party there were Lord Sperling, the Rowleys, Mr. Ambrose Tayt—but here the list grew somewhat disastrous. Lady Jane, for reasons Honoria could not possibly guess, had invited not only Mr. Claude Kemp, but the Countess Dredstone as well. Honoria fairly blanched when she saw her acquaintance from Pittering, but the sight of the countess came near sending her into a faint.
“Jane—” she had whispered, leaning heavily on her hostess’s arm as she crossed the threshold of the drawing-room. “Jane, how—”
“I know what I am doing,” Lady Jane had murmured firmly. “Now brace yourself for some unpleasantness, and I promise you will thank me before a se’ennight has gone by.”
“Lady Jane, please, I cannot do it,” Honor had returned in a failing voice. She retreated back into the entrance hall, bringing her ladyship with her. “Let me go home to Albemarle Street, I beg you. No one will think it odd—you may say I have the headache—you may say anything, only—”
“My dear girl, it is absolutely imperative that you come!” the other replied. “Forgive me for surprising you, but I knew you would never agree to it. Now it is as good as done, and you will brace yourself,” she added fiercely, “if you love your husband at all, I tell you you will.”
Mrs. Blackwood was about to protest again, but she found herself suddenly propelled forward into the drawing-room so forcefully that she could not resist. “If you love your husband, my lamb,” Lady Jane had repeated once more in a whisper, and then cast her (as Honoria felt) into the thick of the wolves.
She had borne it as well as she could, and managed to arrive at the box, and to take her seat between Alex and Mr. Tayt, without disgracing herself utterly. The countess seemed not the least perturbed by her presence; on the contrary, she appeared quite enchanted to meet Mrs. Blackwood again, and was simply bursting with curiosity.
“You won’t think it rude in me to ask you, my dear,” she said to Honor—for she was seated directly opposite the Blackwoods, and at no great distance from them—“but I positively must know if this is your first visit to Vauxhall. For if it is, I should feel perfectly wretched if I did not show you round a bit. I have been here dozens of times, and I must admit it has palled somewhat upon me, but with a novice to introduce, I believe I must enjoy myself very well.”
Honoria confessed, with the greatest reluctance, that she had never been to the Gardens before.
“O, she is absolutely charming, Alexander,” cried th
e countess, and she reached across the table (to Honoria’s horror) and patted her hand warmly. The very touch of the countess’s elegantly gloved hand upon her own mittened one was strange. She endeavoured to smile, but failed miserably.
“There is no fresher bloom in London,” Alexander assented, demonstrating by this remark that he had not looked at his wife recently, if nothing else.
“Truly, the most absolutely charming,” the countess echoed herself. “And you will permit me to show you about, later, won’t you? There is the most lovely little garden, just brimming with statuary and all sorts of fountains. You must see it.”
Honoria cast a despairing glance at Lady Jane—who did not catch it, since she was engaged in some animated banter with Claude—and finally answered, “Certainly. I should be most grateful.”
“Because Alexander will never show you anything, you know,” the countess rattled on—and Honoria made sure she had never met a woman so intent on talking—“for he never shows anybody anything; do you now, Alexander? You never see at all, I think; you have not even remarked my cameo bracelet, and I wore it specially for you. Your husband is an old bear, don’t you think, my dear?” she added pettishly. “Of all the gentlemen in the world, I believe he is the most difficult to coquet with properly. He simply does not notice!”
Honoria had long since given up feeling faint; in fact, she had more or less given up feeling at all. The countess’s bombardment continued without a stop until the oysters and lobster patties arrived, at which time the countess turned her attention to Lord Sperling (who sat on one side of her), and Claude Kemp turned his upon Honoria. “You can’t think what the incendiary exhibition will be like,” he assured her. “Of all things in London, I protest the brilliance of Vauxhall impressed me most, my first time down.” He glanced sidewards at Alexander and Lady Jane, now chatting across the table, and seemed suddenly to regret having begun his conversation with Mrs. Blackwood. “Alexander looks very fit,” he commented, before Honoria had thought of any reply to his first statement.