These ruminations led her inevitably to the reflection that Staplewood was a most extraordinary house, in that its three inmates led quite detached lives. Sir Timothy’s apartments were in one wing of it; Torquil’s in the opposite wing; and Lady Broome might have been said to occupy the central block. Unless Sir Timothy were indisposed, they met at dinner; but only rarely did Lady Broome intrude upon her husband’s privacy, and still more rarely upon her son’s. Kate knew herself to be ignorant of the customs prevailing in large establishments, but this state of affairs struck her at the outset as being very strange, for although, to all outward appearances, Lady Broome was a devoted wife and mother, it seemed odd to Kate that even when Dr Delabole reported Sir Timothy to be rather out of frame, she showed no disposition to remain at his bedside.
Torquil, incensed by the discovery that Kate was far too busy collecting flowers to ride with him, announced that he would dine in his own room, for the party would be the dullest entertainment imaginable. Since it had not taken Kate more than a few days to realize that he stood very much in awe of his mother, she was not surprised to find that this had been an empty threat. When she came downstairs to the Crimson saloon, sumptuously attired in white kerseymere, embellished with Spanish sleeves, and pearl buttons, she found him already in the saloon, very correctly dressed, and looking as sulky as he was beautiful. But at sight of her the cloud lifted from his brow, and he exclaimed: “Oh, by Jupiter, that’s something like! Coz, you look slap up to the echo!”
She blushed, and laughed. “Thank you! So, I must say, do you!”
He made an impatient gesture, but Dr Delabole said: “Exactly so! It is what I have been telling him, Miss Kate: he is all in print!” He laid an affectionate hand on Torquil’s shoulder, and added humorously: “And now you see, don’t you, dear boy, why you should have been expected to dress yourself up to the nines!”
Torquil shook off his hand. “Oh, be damned to you, Matthew! What a bagpipe you are! I wish you will bite your tongue! I warn you, Kate, this will be one of Mama’s most insipid parties! In fact, you’ve rigged yourself out in style to no purpose!”
She soon saw that he had judged the party to a nicety. The guests were all elderly, and arrived in pairs, being received by Lady Broome, splendid in crimson velvet and rubies; and by Sir Timothy, looking like a wraith beside her. Lady Broome made it her business to present Kate to everyone, until, as she whispered to Torquil, when he took his place beside her at the dinner-table, her knees ached with curtsying. The Templecombes were not present, but a moment’s reflection sufficed to remind Kate that they must, if they left Leicestershire at the end of April, be established in London. She could not help wondering if Lady Broome had known this when she sent out her cards of, invitation.
Dinner was very long, and very elaborate; and since Kate had a deaf man beside her, who devoted his attention to his plate, and she would not encourage Torquil to neglect his other neighbour, an amiable and garrulous dowager, she had nothing to do but to admire her own arrangement of flowers in the centre of the table, while disposing of her portions of soup, fish, and sucking-pig. When the second course made its appearance, with its plethora of vegetables, jellies, fondues, blancmanges, and Chantilly baskets, she refused to allow her aunt to serve her from the larded guinea-fowls which graced the head of the table, or Sir Timothy to tempt her to a morsel of the ducklings set before him, and ended her repast with some asparagus. Beside her, Torquil accepted whatever was set before him, ignored some dishes, toyed with others, drank a great deal of wine, and endured the determined chattiness of his neighbour. Kate could only be thankful that he did endure it. He slipped away, however, when Sir Timothy brought the gentlemen up to the Long Drawing-room to join the ladies: a circumstance which, to judge by her expression, was far from pleasing to his mother. She shot a look at Dr Delabole, which caused him to cast a quick glance round the room, and another, of apology, at her, before he unobtrusively withdrew.
Except for those who played whist in the anteroom, where two tables had been set up, the evening, Kate thought, must have been extremely boring. Fortunately, it was not of long duration. The moon was not yet at the full, so that most of the guests, anxious to reach their homes in the last of the daylight, had bespoken their carriages at an early hour. By ten o’clock, even the inveterate lingerers had departed, and Lady Broome, yawning behind her fan, was saying: “What an intolerable bore country dinner-parties are! No one has anything to say that might not as well be left unsaid, and one is reduced to flowery commonplaces. My dear Sir Timothy, I was sorry to be obliged to saddle you with Lady Dunston at dinner, and can only trust that you were not worn down by her prattle!”
“Oh, no!” he replied. “She is always very amiable, and full of anecdote.”
“A gabble-monger!”
“Why, yes, my dear, but gabble-mongers have this to be said in the favour: they provide their own entertainment! I find that few things exhaust me more than making conversation. I had an enjoyable rubber of whist, and passed a very agreeable evening. However, I am a little tired, so I’ll bid you both goodnight.”
He smiled vaguely at both ladies, and went away, leaving Lady Broome to thank God the party had broken up so early. “You see how it is, Kate!” she said. “The least thing exhausts him! That is why I so seldom entertain—and then only the people he knows, and who understand how easily he can be knocked-up. Very naughty of Torquil to have escaped, but I find it hard to blame him: I fancy one of his headaches may be coming on. Don’t be surprised if he keeps to his bed tomorrow!”
Kate privately considered that it was boredom, not headache, which had made Torquil leave the party, but this she naturally did not say. Nor, when her aunt recommended her to retire to her own bed, did she say that she was not tired. But the truth was that she was remarkably wide-awake, and found the prospect of reading or sewing in her bedchamber unattractive. She was young, healthy, and full of energy; and she was, furthermore, wholly unused to a life of indolence. She had welcomed it, but after only a fortnight she had begun to feel enervated, and could almost have wished herself back in the Astley household, where there was at least plenty to do.
After sewing on two buttons, and exquisitely darning a tear in a lace flounce, she was obliged to fold up her work, for her candle, burning low in the socket, had begun to flicker. Sleep was as far away as ever, and with an impatient sigh she went to the window, and pulled back the blinds, looking wistfully out. The moon was not quite at the full, and its light was rendered the more uncertain by a cloudy sky, but Kate knew an impulse to slip out of the house into the scented gardens. She knew very well how improper this would be, and was just about to draw the blinds again when she caught a glimpse of a figure emerging from the deep shadow of a yew hedge. It was only for a moment that she saw it, but for long enough for her to perceive that it was a man’s figure; Then, as though he became suddenly aware that he was being watched, he vanished behind the hedge.
Kate was startled, but not alarmed. She had removed her dress before she settled down to her stitchery, and she now snatched up her dressing-gown, and hastily put it on before running along the gallery to her aunt’s room. There was no response to her first tap on the door, so she repeated it, rather more loudly. Then, as still there was no reply, she ventured to open the door, and to speak her aunt’s name. Even as she did so she saw, by the light of the lamp burning on the table, that the great bed was unoccupied, its curtains undrawn, and its clothing undisturbed. Since Lady Broome had declared herself to be dropping with sleep, and had certainly gone to her room after bidding Kate goodnight, this was surprising. Kate was wondering what to do next when she saw a light approaching up the secondary stairway which lay at the end of the gallery. That did alarm her for an instant, but even as she caught her breath on a gasp Lady Broome came into sight, carrying a lamp. She had put off her rubies, but she was fully dressed, and was looking exhausted. When she saw Kate, she said sharply: “What is it? What are you doing here?”
; “I came in search of you, ma’am. There is a man in the garden: I saw him from my window!”
“Nonsense! What man?”
“I don’t know that: I had only a glimpse of him before he hid behind the yew hedge. I came to tell you! Should we rouse Pennymore, or, perhaps, Dr Delabole?”
“My dear child, I think you have been dreaming!”
“No, I haven’t! I haven’t been to bed!” said Kate indignantly.
Lady Broome shrugged. “Well, if you did indeed see someone it was probably one of the servants.”
“At this hour?”
“It is not so late, you know! It wants twenty minutes to midnight. Do, child, go back to your room, and to bed!”
“But—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t argue!” interrupted Lady Broome, with a flash of temper most unusual in her. She stopped herself, pressing a hand to her brow, and said in a more moderate tone: “Forgive me! I have the headache.”
The door at the end of the gallery which led into the West Wing opened, and Torquil came into the gallery. When he reached the light thrown by his mother’s lamp, Kate saw that he was considerably dishevelled, but in high good humour. He was chuckling a little, and his eyes were sparkling. He said: “I have had a fine game! Hide-and-seek, you know! I led them such a dance!”
“Where have you been, Torquil?” asked his mother. She spoke with customary calm, and compellingly.
He giggled. “In the woods. I heard them coming, Matthew and Badger, and I escaped over the bridge. Famous sport! They are still searching for me!”
He sounded unlike himself. Remembering the wine he had drunk at dinner, Kate came to the conclusion that he was a trifle foxed. His speech was not slurred, nor was his gait unsteady, but he seemed to her to be decidedly well and lively.
“Go back to your room, Torquil!” said Lady Broome coldly.
His mood changed. He stopped giggling, and glowered at her. “I won’t! I won’t be ordered about! I’m not a child! No, and I won’t be spied on! I won’t—”
“Torquil, go back to your room!” commanded Lady Broome, in a level voice.
Her stern eyes held his glittering ones for a few moments of silent struggle for mastery. It was Torquil who yielded. His angry glare shifted, and fell; as his mother advanced slowly towards him, he turned, and ran back into his own quarters, slamming the door behind him.
“You too, Kate,” said Lady Broome, her iron calm undisturbed. “There is nothing to alarm you: the man you saw was probably Dr Delabole, or Badger. Goodnight!”
“Goodnight, ma’am,” responded Kate, subdued.
Chapter VI
Torquil did not appear at the breakfast-table on the following morning. Kate was not surprised, for experience had taught her that when a man went bosky to bed he awoke with a splitting headache, and a general feeling of being quite out of curl. When Lady Broome apologized, rather stiffly, for the incident, she replied, with her engaging twinkle: “He was in very merry pin, wasn’t he, ma’am? No need to ask you in what sort of cue he is this morning!” She saw that her aunt was staring at her, and added: “No need to beg my pardon either! I have frequently seen men in their altitudes, as the saying is. He wasn’t more than half-sprung, you know!”
“No,” agreed her ladyship slowly. “He wasn’t, was he?” She smiled, and said: “I daresay it is unnecessary for me to warn you not to mention the matter to him?”
“Quite unnecessary, dear aunt!” Kate assured her. “I don’t suppose he will retain the least recollection of it!”
This, when Torquil rejoined the family circle before dinner, was seen to be true. He was lethargic, and his eyes, which had shone with such unearthly brilliance, were a little clouded. But he smiled sleepily at Kate, and seemed to be in an unusually docile mood, and with no remembrance of anything that had happened after dinner on the previous evening. Trying to recollect, he frowned, and gave his head a little shake, as though in an attempt to shake off the mists in his brain. Before he could succeed in doing so, Sir Timothy, who had been watching him in what seemed to Kate to be disproportionate anxiety, rose shakily from his chair, muttering: “I am unwell. I must go to my own rooms. Give me your arm, one of you!”
A footman was instantly at his side, but was ousted by Dr Delabole, who said soothingly: “Lean on me, sir! That’s the way! You will soon be better—soon be better!”
Torquil had dragged himself to his feet, looking bewildered, but Lady Broome, who had not left her seat, said, without emotion: “Sit down, my son! You can do nothing to help him: it is not serious! He has been in a poor way all day, thanks to last night’s party, but he would come to dinner!”
She smiled consolingly, and her optimism was soon justified by the return of the doctor, who said, as he resumed his seat at the table, and picked up his knife and fork again, that it was a mere faintness: he had given Sir Timothy a restorative, and had left him in charge of his valet.
The evening surpassed in dullness all that had gone before it. Lady Broome was abstracted, and Torquil sleepy, and it was left to Dr Delabole to provide entertainment for Kate. He did this by challenging her to a game of cribbage. He said gaily that he was no match for her at backgammon, or piquet, but that he fancied himself to be a bit of a dab at cribbage. He enlivened the game with a constant flow of persiflage, and Kate could only be thankful when her aunt broke up the party soon after the tea-tray had been brought in.
Nothing occurred that night to disturb her rest, but on the following morning the doctor reported that Torquil was a trifle out of sorts, so she was deprived of her daily ride. As though to make up for this, Lady Broome took her out in her barouche, to visit the indigent sick, an unexciting occupation which made her think longingly of a busier if less comfortable life. She found herself wondering how long it would be before she could bring her visit to an end, but it was evident that Lady Broome had no idea of her leaving Staplewood until the autumn, and no suspicion that she might be bored there. Kate had begun to realize that her aunt had very little imagination: she was not herself bored at Staplewood, and could not understand how anyone (least of all an impoverished niece) could wish to be otherwhere. She had surrounded Kate with every luxury; she had clothed her expensively; she had bestowed gifts upon her; and while she brushed off any expressions of gratitude she did expect, perhaps unconsciously, that Kate should repay her with a grateful adoration.
Kate was grateful, but she could not love her aunt. In spite of her kindness, and her generosity, there was something in Lady Broome which repelled her. She more than once suspected that under the facade lay a cold and calculating nature; and tried to recall just what it was that her father had said about his half-sister. Something about her ambition, and how she was ready to go to all lengths to achieve it—but he had said it jokingly, not as though he had meant to disparage her. “She married Broome of Staplewood,” he had said, and had laughed. “Not a peer, but pretty well for Miss Minerva Malvern!”
But Papa had not known how proud his sister had become of Staplewood, and the Broome heritage. To Kate, it seemed as if this pride had become an obsession: nothing, in her aunt’s esteem, ranked above it. She had taken Kate to the Muniment Room, and had shown her its contents, and Kate had dutifully admired, and marvelled, and said all that was proper. But she could not share her aunt’s enthusiasm. It did not seem to her that the unbroken line was of so much importance, but since it was made plain to her that Lady Broome considered it to be of the first importance she did not say so. Only she did wonder that her aunt should bestow so much more of her loving care upon Staplewood than upon her husband, or her son.
She was for ever talking about it, trying, as it appeared, to inspire Kate with something of her own feeling for the place. When she had discharged her errands of mercy, and had rejoined Kate in the carriage, she gave the order to drive home, and told Kate that few things afforded her more pleasure than to pass through the lodge-gates, and up the long, winding avenue to the house. “When I compare it to other
people’s houses, I realize how superior it is,” she said simply.
The sublimity of this statement surprised a choke of laughter out of Kate, for which she immediately apologized, saying that she supposed everyone considered his own house to be superior.
Lady Broome put up her brows. “But how could they? Be it understood that I am not speaking of great houses, such as Chatsworth, or Holkham—though both are too modern for my taste! I daresay there may be some who admire them, but for my part I prefer the antique. I like to think of all the Broomes who have lived at Staplewood—for it dates back beyond the baronetcy, and although succeeding generations have added to it, nothing has ever been destroyed. That is an awe-inspiring thought, is it not?”
“Most sobering!” agreed Kate, a little dryly.
Missing the inflexion, Lady Broome said: “Yes, that is what I feel.” After a pause, she said dreamily: “Sometimes I wonder whether my successor will share my feeling. I hope so, but I don’t depend on it.”
“Your successor, ma’am?”
“Torquil’s wife. She will be a very fortunate young womans won’t she?”
“Why, yes, ma’am! I suppose she will.”
“Position, wealth, Staplewood, a house in the best part of London—” Lady Broome broke off, sighing. “That was a sad blow to me, you know: being obliged to shut it up. Before Sir Timothy’s health failed, we were used to spend several months in London, during the Season. I won’t conceal from you, my dear, that I enjoyed those months excessively! I don’t think there can have been a single ton party given for which I didn’t receive a card of invitation. I was famed for my own parties, and have frequently entertained the Prince Regent, besides other members of the Royal Family. You may readily conceive what it meant to me to be obliged to give it all up! But the doctors were insistent that London life would never do for Sir Timothy. His constitution has always been delicate. Even when we were first married, he was used to become exhausted for what seemed to me to be no cause at all. He was bored by the balls, and the drums, and the race-parties, and the Opera-nights of which I could never have enough, but because he knew how much I enjoyed that way of life he concealed his boredom from me. And I was too young, and perhaps too much intoxicated by my success, to realize it.” She smiled faintly. “I was successful, you know!” My parties were always amongst the biggest squeezes of the Season! But, naturally, when Sir Timothy suffered his first heart attack, and the doctors warned me that a continued residence in London would prove fatal, I perceived that it was my duty to abandon the fashionable life, and to devote myself entirely to Staplewood. I’ve accustomed myself, but I do, now and then, envy Torquil’s wife!”
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