“No, none. And much good it would do me if I had!” she added.
Torquil did not hear her, but Gurney Templecombe did, and burst out laughing. Ranging alongside her, he remarked quizzically: “Well said, ma’am!”
“I’m afraid it was very ill said!” she confessed, “It fell on the wrong ears! And I know, of course, that every allowance ought to be made for him. My aunt tells me that he is not at all robust, besides suffering from severe migraines, so that it’s no wonder he should be a trifle spoilt.”
“Mm, yes! Handsome boy, ain’t he?” drawled Gurney, looking after the young couple with a frown in his sleepy eyes. “Much better-looking than Philip, I suppose, though for my money—” He stopped, seeing that she was puzzled, and said: “Are you acquainted with Philip Broome, ma’am?”
“No, who is he?”
Torquil’s cousin. Friend of mine!” he answered. “Beg pardon, but I don’t perfectly understand! You can’t be a Broome, surely? Well, what I mean is, never heard Philip speak of you!”
“Oh, no, I’m not a Broome! Lady Broome was my father’s half-sister,” she explained. “But owing to a quarrel in the family I didn’t meet her until last week, when she invited me to visit Staplewood.”
“Invited you to—Did she, by Jove!” he said, surprised. “I wonder why—” He broke off, reddening, and giving an embarrassed cough. “Forgotten what I was going to say!”
“You were going to say that you wonder why she did invite me,” she supplied. “Torquil said the same, yesterday, and I wonder what you both mean! She invited me out of compassion, knowing me to be a destitute orphan—and I can never be sufficiently grateful to her!”
He stammered: “No, indeed! Just so! Shouldn’t think you could! Well, what I mean is—Did you say destitute, ma’am?”
“Forced to earn my bread!” she declared dramatically. She saw that he was quite horrified, and gave a gurgle of laughter.
“You’re shamming it!” he accused her.
“I’m not, but you’ve no need to look aghast, I promise you! To be sure, I didn’t precisely enjoy being a governess, but there are many worse fates. Or so I’ve been told!”
“Yes—well, stands to reason! Though when I think of the pranks m’sisters used to play, and how m’mother always blamed the wretched female who had ’em in charge—well, are there worse fates?”
“Between ourselves, sir, no!”
“Thought as much.” He was struck by a sudden idea, and added admiringly: “Y’know, you’re a very unusual girl, Miss Malvern!”
Chapter V
They parted from the Templecombes where the lane leading to Staplewood branched off the pike road. As they rode away, Torquil said, with a sidelong look: “You needn’t say anything to my mother, you know. Not that it signifies! Whalley will tell her fast enough!”
“If you mean that he will tell her we met Mr and Miss Templecombe, I am heartily glad of it!” said Kate directly. “I don’t at all wish to deceive my aunt. Why don’t you wish her to know?”
“She don’t like Dolly,” he answered shortly. “Doesn’t mean me to marry her. That’s why she won’t let me go to London.”
“Well, you are rather young to be thinking of marriage, aren’t you?” she suggested reasonably. “I daresay you won’t find her opposed to the match in another few years’ time. Tell me, who are the Templecombes, and what are they?”
“Perfectly respectable!” he said, firing up.
“That was obvious. I meant, what does the family consist of!”
He was instantly mollified. “Oh, I see! They are landowners, like ourselves. Lady Templecombe is a widow, and Gurney is her only son. She’s bird-witted! a silly widgeon, who lets herself be nose-led by Gurney. And he is nose-led by my dear, dear cousin Philip!”
She was startled by the suppressed venom in his voice, but said matter-of-factly: “Yes, he spoke of your cousin Philip. He seemed surprised that I had never heard of him. Tell me about him!”
“Philip, dear Kate, is my father’s nephew, and, after me, the heir to Papa’s titles and estates. He is also my chief enemy. Oh, yes, I assure you! All the narrow escapes from death I’ve had have occurred when he has been staying at Staplewood!”
She could only gasp. He threw her a bright, flickering smile, and said chattily: “Oh, yes! A copestone once fell from the pediment, missing me by inches. Wasn’t it odd? The branch of a tree, which I was climbing, broke under me. I was thrown at a fence which had been wired. I was—”
Recovering her breath, she interrupted: “These surely must have been accidents!”
“Yes, even Mama said so,” he agreed affably. “And she don’t love Philip! Papa does, though: positively dotes on him! My Uncle Julian was employed in the Diplomatic Service, wherefore Philip spent most of his holidays at Staplewood, ingratiating himself with my papa! He’s ten years older than I am, you know. Yes, does it not seem odd? It is due to the circumstances of Papa’s first wife having failed to rear beyond infancy any of her numerous offspring. I don’t know whether to be glad, or sorry.”
Summoning to her assistance all her faculties, she said: “I can’t tell that, but I do implore you, Torquil, not to refine too much on what may well have been accidents! If your mama did not believe—”
“Oh, but she did!” he told her, bright-eyed and smiling. “That’s why she places a guard about me! Philip has been her enemy from the outset!”
She was appalled into silence. It endured until the lodge-gates had been reached, when she said suddenly: “I don’t believe it! No, I don’t believe it!”
He laughed. “Don’t you? Wait, cousin, wait! You will see!”
Feeling very much as if she had strayed between the marbled covers of some lurid novel, she said no more, but rode in silence beside him up the long avenue to the terrace steps. Here she dismounted, gave her bridle into Whalley’s hand, and went quickly into the house. There was no one in the hall, but as she went up the stairs Pennymore came through the door which led to the kitchen-quarters, and she was obliged to scold herself for thinking that she detected a look of relief in his face. “So you are back, miss!” he said, smiling up at her. “Did you have an agreeable ride?”
Of impulse, and to try him, she answered: “Why, no, not very agreeable!”
Was there a shade of anxiety in his eyes? It was impossible to decide. He said, in his gentle way: “Oh, dear, dear! How was that, miss?”
“My cousin was out of humour, and I was mounted on a slug!”
He coughed. “Well, miss, the truth is that her ladyship wasn’t sure if you were clever in the saddle, so she mounted you on Jupiter—to give you a safe, comfortable ride!”
“What you mean is an armchair ride!” she said.
“Well, yes, miss!” he admitted, twinkling.
She laughed, and went on up to her bedchamber. It was only when she was taking off her riding-habit that she realized that he had not answered the first part of her complaint. Knowing that she should not have made it, she came to the conclusion that by ignoring it he had reproved her, and felt ashamed of herself.
She had just taken a cambric dress out of the wardrobe, and cast it on to the bed, while she searched for a spencer to wear with it, when a knock on the door heralded the entrance of Lady Broome, who was followed by Sidlaw, carrying various dresses in her arms.
“So I gave you an armchair ride, did I?” said her ladyship, laughing at her. “Pray, how was I to know that you could keep a horse in hand? So many people who are buckish about horses belong to the awkward squad. Never mind! Next time you go out you shall ride my own mare; a little spirting thoroughbred! A perfect fencer, but, alas, I don’t hunt nowadays! Now, tell me, my love: do you like these few dresses which Sidlaw has made up for you? Your nurse furnished me with your measurements, but Sidlaw would wish you to try them on while they are still only tacked together. I purchased the materials in London, pretending that I was doing so for the daughter I never had, and I do hope I chose what you will like!”
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“B-but, ma’am!” stammered Kate, quite overset. “You must not! You—you are crushing me with generosity!”
“Oh, pooh! nothing of the sort! You mean you don’t like them!”
“Oh, no, no, no!” cried Kate, distressed. “Only that I can’t be so much beholden to you! I’ve done nothing to deserve such kindness, ma’am! Oh, what a truly beautiful evening-dress! Take it away, Sidlaw, before I lose my resolution!”
“It is to be worn, miss, with this three-quarter pelisse of pale sapphire satin, trimmed with broad lace,” explained Sidlaw. “And I venture to say, miss, that it will become you to admiration! Though I say it as should not.”
“Try it on, my dear!” coaxed Lady Broome. “Sir Timothy, I must tell you, likes the ladies of his household to be prettily dressed! If you don’t choose to oblige me, oblige him!”
“Aunt Minerva! How can you suppose that I don’t choose to oblige you?” protested Kate. “Only—”
She was silenced by a finger laid across her lips. “Only nothing!” said Lady Broome. She patted Kate’s cheek. “Foolish child! What in the world are these crotchets? Because I have had a few dresses made for you? Don’t be so gooseish!”
Feeling quite helpless, Kate submitted, allowing Sidlaw to slip the evening-robe over her head. While Sidlaw discussed with Lady Broome the alterations which should be made, she stood passive, studying herself in the long glass, thinking how well she looked, how often she had longed for such a gown, how impossible it was to refuse to accept it. She could only be grateful.
During the following week she had plenty of cause to feel grateful, and strangely oppressed, for Lady Broome showered benefits upon her. Her gifts ranged from trinkets unearthed from her jewel box to ribbons, or scraps of lace. None of the things she gave Kate were very valuable, but they made Kate uncomfortable. It was never possible to refuse them. “My dear, I have been going through my lace drawer, and came upon this set of collar and cuffs. Do you care to have them? They are of no use to me, but they would look very well on your fawn-figured dress, don’t you think?” would say her ladyship, and how could you reply that you didn’t think so? How could you say, when a necklace of seed pearls was clasped round your neck, and your aunt told you that she was too old to wear it herself, that you preferred not to accept it? It wasn’t possible even to refuse a new riding-habit, made by a tailor in Market Harborough, for Lady Broome pointed out, very gently, that her old one was woefully shabby. “We shall have everyone thinking me a shocking pinch-penny not to provide my only niece with a new one!” she said.
“If that is so, I need not ride, ma’am!”
“That’s being foolish beyond permission. What would Torquil say, I wonder? When he looks forward so much to the daily rides in your company! I must tell you, my love, that you have done Torquil a great deal of good, so, if you wish to repay me, continue to ride with him!”
“I do wish to repay you, ma’am, and surely there must be more I can do for you than ride with Torquil?” said Kate imploringly.
“Why, certainly! You can be my aide-de-camp, if you will, and attend to all the details which I neglect! I shall get you to write my letters for me, to arrange the flowers, and to keep the servants up to their work. You will soon be wishing that you hadn’t offered yourself as quite so willing a sacrifice!”
Kate had to be satisfied, but as it did not seem to her that her aunt neglected any detail, and was far from being a sad housekeeper, she found little to do, and was obliged to content herself with such unexacting tasks as gathering and arranging flowers, dusting ornaments, and playing cards with Sir Timothy, whenever his health permitted him to emerge from the seclusion of his own apartments. This, as she discovered, was not often. Dr Delabole was in constant attendance upon him, and watched him without seeming to. She was made aware of this when Sir Timothy suffered a slight seizure one evening, after dinner. Before she had realized it, the doctor, who had been talking to Lady Broome, was at his side, reviving him with strong smelling-salts, and lowering him to a recumbent position. Dismissed with Torquil to the billiards-room, she ventured to ask him what ailed his father, and was considerably daunted by the reply. “Oh, I don’t know!” said Torquil indifferently. “He’s been in queer stirrups ever since I can remember. I believe it’s his heart, but no one ever tells me anything!”
After this, Kate added a postscript to the letter she had written to Mrs Nidd: My cousin Torquil is the strangest boy, with the face of an angel, and the coldest of dispositions. I don’t know what to make of him.
This was not the first letter she had written to Mrs Nidd, but so far she had received no response to any of her previous missives. She was beginning to feel worried, and a little hurt. Since Sir Timothy was not a Member of Parliament, she had been unable to get a frank; but it seemed very unlikely that Sarah had repulsed her letters because she grudged the postage; nor, in a city, was she obliged to collect her letters from the receiving office: indeed, Joe Nidd even paid to have his mail delivered early each morning. It seemed even more unlikely that she could be ill: Sarah was never ill. And if she had been taken suddenly ill she would surely have scribbled a few lines, or instructed Joe to do so? When Kate had written her first letter, she had taken it to Lady Broome, and asked diffidently if it might be dispatched. Lady Broome had replied: “Yes, dear child, of course! Put it on the table in the hall! Pennymore arranges for the letters to be carried to the Post Office in Market Harborough, and it will go with mine.”
Kate had obeyed these instructions; but when no answer was forthcoming she asked Pennymore if her letters had in fact been taken to the Post Office. He said that if she had placed them on the table in the hall they had certainly been posted; and further disclosed that the incoming post-bag was always delivered to her ladyship, who sorted and distributed the letters it contained, most of which were directed to herself.
So when Kate had sealed her fourth letter to Sarah, she hesitated for a few moments, and then went in search of her aunt. She found her writing at her desk, and upon being invited, with a kind smile, to tell her aunt what she wanted, said frankly: “To own the truth, ma’am, I am in a worry! I haven’t heard from Sarah—from Mrs Nidd—though I’ve written to her several times. I can’t help wondering whether—” She stopped, finding herself quite unable to continue, and tried again. “I collect, ma’am, that she hasn’t written to me? I mean—you would have given me any letters that were directed to me?”
“But of course!” said Lady Broome, raising her eyebrows.
Thrown into a little confusion, Kate said stammeringly: “Yes. Well, of c-course you would, ma’am! Only it does seem so odd of Sarah…’
Lady Broome gave a soft laugh. “Does it? You must remember, my dear, that persons of her order find writing a great labour.”
It was true that Sarah did not write with ease. Kate agreed doubtfully. Lady Broome continued in a smooth tone: “If you have given her an account of yourself she knows that you are well, and—I trust!—happy, and she feels, no doubt, that you are off her hands. So much as she must have to do!” She smiled. “After all, you haven’t been here for very long yet, have you? I shouldn’t get into a fidget, if I were you!”
“No, ma’am,” said Kate meekly.
She turned away, and was about to leave the room when Lady Broome said: “By the way, my dear, I am giving a dinner-party tomorrow, so tell Risby to send suitable flowers up to the house in the morning! For the hall, the Crimson saloon, the staircase, the Long Drawing-room, and the anteroom. I suppose we had better have some for the gallery as well.”
“Yes, ma’am, but I had liefer by far pick them myself! Risby’s notions of what is suitable are so—so nipcheese!”
“As you wish,” said her ladyship. “Don’t fag yourself to death, however!”
“I won’t!” promised Kate, laughing.
She went off, heartened by the prospect of a party to relieve what had begun, very slightly, to be every evening’s boredom. She had been surprised to find her a
unt leading almost the life of a recluse at Staplewood, for she had assumed her to be a woman of decided fashion, and knew that she took pleasure in being the great lady of the district. She supposed that Sir Timothy’s ill-health accounted for it, but it did seem to her that a few small parties of young persons need not disturb him, and would have done much to reconcile Torquil to his lot. Then it occurred to her that Torquil had no friends, other than the Templecombes, and she wondered whether there was perhaps a dearth of young people in the neighbourhood. She ventured to ask Lady Broome if this were so, and was told that there were very few of Torquil’s age. “He doesn’t make friends easily, and I must own that I am glad of it,” said her ladyship frankly. “He is somewhat above the touch of most of the people who live within our reach. Mere smatterers, my dear, to put it in straight words! Much given to romping parties, too: I daresay you know what I mean. I dislike such affairs, and they would not do for Torquil at all. He is so excitable, and his character is as yet unformed. You must have noticed that he suffers from unequal spirits: either he is in alt, or sunk in dejection! The one state invariably follows hard on the other, and although he is in a way to be very much better, Dr Delabole considers that he should still lead a quiet life.”
It did not seem to, Kate that to be shut off from his contemporaries could be a cure for unequal spirits, and the suspicion crossed her mind that Lady Broome was a possessive parent. But nothing in her behaviour supported this theory. Her manner might be caressing, but she did not hang about her son, and she certainly did not dote upon him, however jealously she might guard his health. Little by little it was being borne in on Kate that, despite her manners and her generosity, Lady Broome was a coldhearted woman, who cared more for position than for any human being. Scolding herself for harbouring so ungenerous a though, Kate cast about in her mind for the real author of Torquil’s enforced seclusion.
She found it easily enough in the person of Dr Delabole. From the first moment of meeting him she had taken him in dislike. He spared no pains to make himself agreeable; he had treated her with every degree of attention; towards Sir Timothy he showed an engaging solicitude; towards Lady Broome a playful friendliness which never passed the line; and yet Kate could not like him. She suspected him of feathering his nest at Sir Timothy’s expense. It then occurred to her that she might be thought to be feathering her own nest at Sir Timothy’s expense, and she was obliged to scold herself for harbouring yet another ungenerous suspicion.
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