Sweet's Folly

by Fiona Hill

  “Yes,” she said. “I believe London agrees with him.”

  “And does it with you, Mrs. Blackwood?” he enquired. The cold gleam that always haunted his eyes now sparkled with particular iciness.

  “Whatever agrees with Alex agrees with me,” she said, astonishing herself by having thought of so long a sentence.

  “Does it?” the countess broke in, looking up as if startled. “Forgive my eavesdropping; I always do; in fact, I make quite an art of it. Well, that is very sweet in you, Mrs. Blackwood.”

  “Not at all,” Honor contradicted. “It is only natural to love what sustains one’s belov—one’s dearest friends. I am sure you feel the same about your husband.”

  The countess looked in amazement from Honor to Claude. “Well you have got a most peculiar style,” she murmured almost inaudibly. “Alexander, your dear wife proves herself far deeper than one ever expected.”

  Mr. Blackwood looked up from his tête-à-tête with Lady Jane, and regarded the countess interrogatively.

  “She says whatever agrees with you, agrees with her,” the countess explained.

  Alexander appeared displeased for a moment, but only said mildly, “She is kind to say it.”

  “Honoria has always been distinguished for her kindness,” Claude injected. “Animals love her.”

  Honoria knew this was meant to sting, but the oddest feeling had come over her. It was a kind of recklessness, and it had begun to supply her with all manner of surprising things to say. “Mr. Kemp has no great fondness for animals, I fear,” she answered calmly, without the faintest blush. “And one I know in particular does not care overmuch for him either.”

  No one but Claude and Honoria knew the full meaning of these references; even Lady Jane was obliged to turn the topic in order to maintain control of the general conversation. She led the party on to a discussion of the past year’s elections; then to speculation as to the quality of the singer who would entertain them later on; then to some rumours regarding Miss Charlotte Throstle—who, it was said, would soon become the Baroness Duval. She contrived to keep the conversation running along such lines—at her end of the table, at least, for at the other Emily was maintaining a lively discussion of the arts—until the creams and jellies arrived. At that juncture it got away from her again, and it was some time before she regained government of it, or of anything else that evening.

  “Lady Jane,” Mr. Kemp said to her suddenly, “I do not believe you have ever visited your cousin in Pittering; is that not so?”

  “I have not had the pleasure of visiting Honoria, if that is who you mean.”

  “Yes, Honoria, of course. It is a shame you have never been there; it is a very quaint old village. Honoria is excessively attached to it, I think.”

  “Most people love their home,” Honoria said quietly.

  “You must make a point of calling upon the Blackwoods there sometime,” Claude went on. “Honoria’s aunts, the Misses Deverell, are a most picturesque pair.”

  “Indeed?” was all Lady Jane could say.

  “O, very picturesque,” he assured her. “They collect cats about them, and dogs. I think they have it in mind to found a hospital for them; I suppose you are very fond of cats and dogs, Countess?” he added, turning.

  “Any lively creature interests me,” said that lady, gazing curiously—as Claude had meant her to do—on Mrs. Blackwood. “How very charitable in your aunts,” she observed.

  Honoria knew she was meant to be embarrassed by these allusions to her humble origins. She knew, too, what other information Claude was intending to convey, so she anticipated him by saying, “They are known for their charity, yes—and their eccentricity. I trust no one could find two more gentle, or peculiar, old ladies.”

  “They brought her up,” Claude hastened to note.

  “And very generously.” Honoria positively refused to be cowed by his behaviour. “I am an orphan,” she informed Lady Willoughby.

  “An orphan—how very sad,” the countess murmured, with a quizzical glance at Alex.

  “But the Deverell sisters are not the only eccentrics in Pittering,” Mr. Kemp went on. “Quite the contrary. Pittering abounds with eccentrics. Dear dear, Honoria! That reminds me of something I have been meaning to ask you for weeks: whatever came of Miss Blackwood’s scholarship?”

  She had understood by now that Claude had abandoned his ridiculous tendre for her, and was determined to avenge himself for every pang she had ever caused him, but this was unexpected. So far as Honor had known, no one but the immediate family—and Lady Jane, Mr. Tayt, and the academy, of course—knew anything of Emily’s education. It was hardly the sort of thing one liked to bring up in public, even now that her case had been settled so satisfactorily. They had agreed among them to keep it a secret, though anyone might see her prize painting, and make enquiries if they cared to. But the exhibition had not opened yet. In a flash Honoria realized how Kemp got his information. That dreadful interview in her sitting-room at Stonebur, and then the day his arm had been bitten, at Sweet’s Folly; she would never forgive him for this, never—she made sure of that. Her own embarrassment was one thing, but what touched on Emily’s reputation was another.

  Her only advantage was a suspicion that Claude’s knowledge must be imperfect. Gambling on this, she said lightly, “Scholarship? Whatever can you mean?”

  “Miss Blackwood’s education—the competition she won,” he prompted. “Surely you must recall it?”

  Honor feigned contemplation for a moment, then called down the table to her sister. “Emily, dear, do you remember anything of a scholarship? Something to do with the competition, perhaps?”

  Emily had not been attending to the others’ conversation, but she knew very well what to answer. “I don’t think so, my dear,” she replied tentatively. “No, I am certain I do not. Why?”

  “O, nothing,” Honor said, fixing Kemp with a look. “Do forgive me for intruding upon your discourse with Sir Malcolm. Mr. Kemp, I am very sorry, but I cannot think what you wish to refer to. Do you remember where you heard of it?”

  But it would be too much for him to say he had come by the intelligence while eavesdropping on a family dispute. “Now that I think of it … no,” he answered, extremely annoyed at this set-back. “Perhaps it was some other young lady.”

  “Perhaps,” she agreed, tilting her head to one side and smiling as innocently and as condescendingly as she could.

  It was very effective. In no time at all, Mr. Kemp discovered the table to be much too confining. He invited the countess to walk a bit with him before the singing began, but she refused, casting a brilliant look at Alex. Lady Jane saw the look and approved it. “I will walk with you, Mr. Kemp,” she offered, adding with an arch smile, “if you do not mind the substitution. I freely admit it to be inadequate.”

  Mr. Kemp was only too glad to accept her companionship—anything to be from that table—and he rose, bowing to the company, and strolled away with her. Honoria was not sorry to see him go, but she did regret being left alone by Lady Jane, especially as the countess chose this moment to become excruciatingly interested in her once more.

  Chapter XIV

  “Your … aunts,” the countess began, resting her splendid head on one gloved hand and gazing sweetly into Honor’s eyes, “did they—did they arrange your marriage with Alex? You won’t mind my asking; I do so long to know you.”

  Lady Willoughby’s celestial regard made Honoria just a trifle uncomfortable, but she answered evenly, “No, not at all. In fact, my aunts did not seem to care very much about the match, one way or another.”

  “How perfectly fascinating,” the countess answered. “And your new family, the Blackwoods; I suppose they cared?”

  “I believe they were pleased by our betrothal,” Honoria replied. “Emily and I have been bosom bows most of our lives, you know, and the Blackwoods have never been otherwise than kind to me.”

  “Alexander, do tell me how it all came about,” the countess i
mplored, turning her bewitching eyes upon him. “Your marriage to your wife, I mean; I am sure it was terribly romantic.”

  Alexander appeared irritated—and was in fact irritated—by Lady Willoughby’s request. “I trust Honoria will answer you as well as I might,” he said repressively.

  “Oh, but she cannot understand quite exactly how it happened,” the countess exclaimed with exaggerated dismay. “No lady understands precisely how she came to be chosen. You know that, Alex.”

  “If I know that, I have forgot it,” he informed her.

  “Alex, I shall be most disappointed if you won’t tell me,” Lady Willoughby coaxed. “I do not think it the least bit kind in you to refuse me over a trifle.”

  “Annabella, this is a trifle too much,” Alexander hissed at last. He had grown visibly angry in the past few minutes: his complexion showed white above his cravat, and his lips were tightly controlled.

  “Dear me, crueler and crueler!” the lady exclaimed.

  Alexander rose abruptly and stood glaring across the table at the countess. “Madam,” he spat out, “I wish you will do me the honour of walking a bit with me.”

  The countess looked carefully at Honor, apparently unfrightened by Mr. Blackwood’s threatening tone.

  “Lady Willoughby,” he repeated grimly.

  “Mrs. Blackwood, I know you will excuse me,” she said finally, in the mildest accents, and yet the careful look accompanying her words seemed to attach additional significance to them. She stood at last, and accepted Alexander’s support; then they passed out of the box together.

  “Why, Mrs. Blackwood,” said Mr. Tayt at once, for he perceived the discomfort of her circumstances, “you are left alone. Now is my opportunity to tell you how enamoured my friend Munroe is of you. He never ceases to sing your praises, and attributes to you every known virtue—and a few he invented, I think.”

  Now that her adversaries had gone, and her protector and her husband with them, that feeling of limitless assurance that had supported Honor throughout the repast subsided somewhat. She replied to Mr. Tayt in vague murmurs, and gratefully permitted him to carry the burden of their conversation. This (being a most obliging young man) he did very willingly, and adroitly; however, when the singer began her performance both he and Honoria were relieved at the diversion. Mrs. Blackwood could not enjoy the singing much though, in spite of the performer’s being a very passable soprano, for neither Claude and Lady Jane, nor Alex and the countess had returned to the box as yet. In the event, both couples stopped away throughout the recital, and seemed thoroughly lost to their party. No one at the table said anything of their absence, of course, but after a time no one thought of anything else. It was too remarkable, in each case.

  Lady Jane Sperling was sensible of her unseemly failure as a hostess, but she was too enmeshed in her own schemes to persuade herself to give them up merely for the sake of form. Mr. Kemp was coming along famously, just famously, and she had high hopes of winning a battle with him before their walk was done. Naturally, it had taken her a little while to mollify him when they first started off, but now she felt she had begun to succeed in turning his mind to more useful thoughts, and she could not bear to quit early.

  “Mr. Kemp, you have disappointed me tonight,” she was saying teasingly, as they strolled down one of the many lighted paths. Other couples passed them, chatting and laughing, and occasionally a solitary gentleman.

  “I am all apology, if I have.”

  “Then you are all apology, most certainly, for you have forgot to tie your cravat Primo Tempo, and affect a style quite sadly simple, I think.”

  “Dear me, and I had thought to please you with the innovation,” he answered. “At least I can assure you its simplicity is deceptive; I was an hour and a half tying this knot.”

  “Indeed! In that case I must retract my admonishment, and congratulate you instead.” She tilted her handsome head to look into his eyes, and added prettily, “I expect deception is second nature to you now, if not instinct. How odd that the knot should take you so long.”

  “Your ladyship is too harsh with me,” he objected. “I never deceive where I have not been deceived.”

  “And Mrs. Blackwood?” she sniffed sceptically.

  “I trust Mrs. Blackwood has no reason to complain of me.”

  “But you have used her most ungently, I am sure! It is legible on her countenance whenever you appear.”

  “Mrs. Blackwood,” said he, flushing deeply under cover of the night’s shadows, “deceived me long before I ill-used her.”

  “Honoria?” she asked incredulously. “Impossible!”

  “Mrs. Blackwood led me to hope—well, since she had doubtless confided as much in you already, I need not stand on discretion. Mrs. Blackwood allowed me to believe she might someday be Mrs. Kemp. And very pretty she was at it, too.”

  “As it happens, Honoria never mentioned such a matter to me,” Lady Jane returned, “but it is extremely interesting. And how, exactly, did she foster these hopes of yours?”

  “By—by modest refusals, and looks that belied her words, and—well, I needn’t tell you how ladies may say no and yes at once.”

  “My dear sir!” cried she. “What you mean to say, then, is that Honor never encouraged you at all; you only imagined it.”

  “I did not—” he began indignantly, then remembered his pride. “I see no use of discussing this further,” he amended.

  “No more do I,” said Lady Jane, who had in truth discovered just what she needed to confirm her suspicions, and to fuel her disgust with Claude. “We ought to talk of pleasanter things, after all. The moon is nearly full, and the stars beckon us, altogether a most suitable evening for accord and amiability.”

  “I think you tease me with this talk of the moon, my lady. You are no star-gazer, certainly.”

  “Ah no, alas. I am altogether too cosmopolitan to be spiritual much—except on Sundays, of course. I must own the stars do not beckon quite to me; that was an exaggeration. They merely twinkle—and very monotonously, too.”

  “I rather thought so,” said he.

  “But you are no astronomer yourself, if I may judge of such matters,” she took up. She was leading him purposely farther and farther from the crowds, and they had come to a place where they must either turn back or enter a dark, tree-lined alley. “What care we for lights?” she enquired dryly, when he hesitated at the turning-point. She clasped his arm more firmly with her long, gloved fingers, and propelled him into the dark path.

  He did not need much persuasion, naturally. If a lady were willing to walk in the dimness, it was not in his nature to demur. They advanced more slowly between the great, leafy trees, pretending now and then not to notice a pair of entwined lovers; Lady Jane increased her pressure on Claude’s arm at every moment, and she spoke in a husky voice unusual in her.

  “I am so ashamed of having reproached you for your cravat,” she murmured. “I did not tell you how well the new one becomes you, but I think I must, to make amends.”

  “Nor did I say how beautifully the velvet of your gown sets off your neck and shoulders,” offered he. “I ought to mention it, in all fairness.”

  “I beg you will not,” she whispered, and slipped her hand down a little farther towards his wrist.

  “But it is beautiful,” he insisted.

  She stopped walking all at once, and stood wordless near the trunk of a great oak, looking up through the shadows to his face. “Lady Jane—” he said.

  She did not answer.

  “Lady Jane—” He turned a little to face her squarely, and lightly laid a hand upon her waist.

  “O, dear sir, please do not—” she began, and halted, gazing breathlessly into his eyes.

  “My beautiful Lady Jane,” he murmured, and swept her at once into a crushing embrace.

  In an instant she had boxed his ear, and fetched him a kick on the shin as well. These were no mere lover’s taps, for Lady Jane Sperling was as righteously wrathful as woman coul
d be. Astonished, he jumped back from her, involuntarily raising a hand to his smarting ear. “The box on the ear,” she informed him coldly—no hint of huskiness remained—“was from Mrs. Blackwood. And I have taught her how to administer them, too, so you needn’t ever trouble her again. And the kick,” she added, pausing with satisfaction, “was from me. You have just witnessed a lady encouraging you falsely. I hope it will teach you to distinguish between that phenomenon and an honest refusal. Good night, sir.”

  She turned on her heel and was off in a moment, not deigning to hear how he might reply. The darkness under the trees soon concealed her from pursuit, and she returned to her box by the most direct route, not the meandering one she and Kemp had followed. She trusted even he would not be such an idiot as to return there himself, and so he arrived making his excuses, saying he had chanced upon a dear friend of his just home from an extended visit abroad, and hoped their party would forgive his rushing off.

  Nobody particularly cared what had happened to Kemp; they were only glad to see Lady Jane back safe and sound, and evidently in excellent spirits. Alexander and the countess had preceded her somewhat in their return to the table, the former looking out of patience, the latter a little subdued. The company waited to see the incendiary exhibition, though no one had much of a taste for it. The Rowleys thought their hostess amazingly harum-scarum; Miss Blackwood and Mr. Tayt had long since run through all possible topics of conversation; Lord Sperling, though disinclined to censure his daughter, could not quite like her conduct. Honoria, of course, was just barely alive, having again survived the terrible hurt of being publicly abandoned by her husband, and for much longer than was proper, while he flirted with his paramour. The countess and Alexander pretended to marvel at the fire-works, but it was quite clear they meant nothing by it. Both were preoccupied, and at their parting regarded one another long and strangely. The significance of this look was soon revealed to Mrs. Blackwood: her husband departed alone from Albemarle Street the moment they arrived there, and did not return till four.