by Smith, Joan
“A local girl—lady. Not eligible for the London stage, but I have some plans to do a production of Shrew featuring her in the near future.”
“I don’t believe I caught the name.”
‘“You wouldn’t know her,” was the unsatisfactory answer.
Mrs. Raymond enjoyed an hour-long flirtation with Lord Simon, the greatest rake in London, and a two-hour scold from her husband when he got her home. Foxey and Rex got pleasantly tipsy, and even Mr. Altmore imbibed enough to become frolicsome and pursue Juliet with more ardour than usual. “Exit, pursued by a bear,” Swithin sighed, when his costumed friend followed her from the room. “Possibly the most famous stage direction in history, Kate. Shakespeare, of course.”
The Misses Hall, deceived as to the strength of mead, had three glasses each and were seen to perform a jig, with Mr. Raymond clapping time.
An elaborate after-play dinner was served in the dining hall, where care had been taken that every local should have the pleasure of a city dining partner, to add to the night’s stimulation. Lady Astonbury told Sir Egbert she was enchanted with his daughter, and the novel, dramatic heresy of casting such a youngster as Juliet. “Oh, aye,” he agreed, wondering what the woman was talking about, “but she’s a good gel for all that. To make her bows in spring, you know.”
Lord Simon, an amateur horticulturalist, listened with real interest to his companions, the flower ladies, and invited himself to view their conservatory the next day. The juxtaposition of Lady Proctor and Sir Crowell Stagland was less successful. He was stone-deaf, but he nodded his head very civilly, and occasionally gratified her by ogling her new gown, so she was not totally displeased with him. The inhabitants of Harknell had never had such a day, nor such a night, and still it was not over. There were musicians come down from London as well to perform for an impromptu dancing party after dinner.
Bereft of Jane’s company (she was a definite success with the London smarts), Rex and Foxey took the ill-conceived idea of donning their horse suit to try the waltz, and so disturbed a maid bearing drinks that she spilt the whole tray. Swithin’s vow of celibacy did not deter him from spending every minute at his lady’s side. With all the ruses at her command, Holly could not shake him off. As his friends had by this time some awareness of his state, they were not cruel enough to deprive him of her company, so that she was left nearly all alone with him, while the most eligible men she had ever seen danced with everyone else.
As morning hovered near, however, Mr. Johnson did accost her for a dance and, once she got away from Swithin, she contrived to remain away for as long as she could. She darted behind the wall of people that stood at the room’s edge to hide from him, and walked into Lord Dewar.
“Slipped the leash at last, have you?” he asked. “We shall have a waltz, before Othello gets a rope out to haul you back to the bed of nails. Were you ever so bethumped with awful, inappropriate metaphors, I wonder? It must be the mead taking its toll.”
“You sound like Rex,” she laughed.
“I do it with a better grace, but he does it more natural. A misquotation for every occasion. It saves thinking. I have spotted Swithin loitering at the far end of the room. If we can waltz in tight circles at this end, we may escape detection. Come.” He took her hand and led her to the floor.
Dewar was certainly not foxed. He was not unsteady on his feet, or uncertain in his pronunciation. Holly took the idea all the same that he had had more mead than was good for him. His smile was wider than usual, and his speech, normally rather elegant, was more careless than she was accustomed to hearing. A little flush was on his cheeks. As they danced, his arm also began to tighten around her waist quite noticeably. “It has been quite a day, hasn’t it?” he asked, smiling down at her.
“It’s been a wonderful day.”
“In fact, it’s been quite a visit.”
“It will seem very dull when you are gone. When all of you are gone, I mean. Swithin and Rex and Foxey—everyone.”
“Cautious Miss McCaution! Tch tch, I had high hopes for half a second you were going to forget yourself and say you would miss me. But you must not despair at all of us leaving. I shall find Swithin a new heart-breaker and come back for more lectures.”
As she glanced around the room, Holly could see there was no shortage of heart-breakers in their lives. Elegant, laughing ladies, their smiles flashing as brightly as their jewels, were present in distressing numbers. This was the sort of company these city gentlemen were accustomed to. The marvel of it was that Swithin could ever have fancied himself in love with her. It was the novelty perhaps that appealed to him, and the propinquity. “It should not prove very difficult,” she answered.
“I give him a month at the outside. Of course, it is a new role for him. He may enjoy to play the ascetic and give it a longer run. But, then, I am given to understand you are firmly committed till the end of the Season, in any case—to mind the house at Stonecroft, so it cannot make much difference. Summer will be soon enough for your new role.”
“Are you really going to put on The Taming of the Shrew?” she asked hopefully, for it had been spoken of.
“It is one of the projects I am considering, but only if you will promise to be the shrew. But for the present moment my project is to evade Swithin till this set of waltzes is finished.”
It took some lively footwork, but it was accomplished. “Now I shall return you to your keeper,” he said. “The best place for you. The safest place I mean.”
“Oh, I think I would rather...,” she said, glancing around at all the other guests, so intriguingly unfamiliar.
“Yes, I know you would rather, and that is why you go back to Swithin,” he said blandly, and pulled her away.
* * *
Chapter 22
There was a final flurry of leavetakings during the next few days. Swithin came to assure Kate of his eternal devotion; Rex and Foxey to remind Jane they were to be her cicisbeos when she landed in London. Dewar, who was making the rounds of all the homes where ladies had helped him, also stopped at Stonecroft to take a formal leave. He expressed his eagerness to see the Proctors in London, which was very well received by the lady of the house.
After the party had left the neighbourhood, things settled down to some semblance of normal. There was a feeling, however, that the dull normal of old was dispersed forever. There was a group of singers now in operation, which showed no signs of disbanding. Mrs. Abercrombie found a quarterly magazine that accepted her essay on Shakespearean theatre, and expressed some little interest in a similar work on Greek tragedy, so that she was deep into borrowing books from all her friends. The Hall sisters had taken the notion of organizing a spring flower show, and were busy with that. Mr. Prendergast and Miss Peabody had found a cottage for rent and were making it snug for a May wedding. The Proctors had the visit to London for the Season to look forward to and to plan. Everyone, it seemed, was well occupied except Holly McCormack.
Even Mr. Johnson, when he stopped at Stonecroft on his way to the orphanage, was seen to be busy and in good spirits. “I have got the contractors coming over to see to patching up the orphanage—the west wall that is cracked. I mean to get a good price from them, to enable us to have a closed stove as well. The housekeeper tells me we must have a closed stove. They have one at the Abbey, it seems, and Dewar put the notion into her head when he was in the kitchen one day. I wish he had left the money to buy it. You might be able to help raise funds, Miss McCormack. Our spring bazaar will be the next item on the agenda.”
What a dull item it seemed after the late proceedings—to make knitted slippers and embroidered money purses to sell at the bazaar, to speak to the Halls about potting up some cuttings from their conservatory, to make bonbons and paint cups to sell—it was so tedious she could hardly be bothered to do it. But of course it must be done. Duty did not stop because she had taken part in a play.
She was not the only one to find the winter dragging. Lady Proctor, too, discovered that, aft
er a taste of the high life, she was bored in the country. By the end of January, she decided she would nip up to London a bit early to make the house ready for Jane’s debut. Naturally, Jane must go with her to visit the modistes. Equally naturally, they could not go unattended. Sir Egbert would accompany them, sneaking home on alternate weeks to see to his swine.
During his absences, Holly would be absolute mistress of Stonecroft. It was on the third day she was alone that the missive arrived from London. Its colour and odour (violet in both shade and aroma) told her the sender was her platonic lover. She was hardly more curious than vexed when she pulled it open and glanced at it. When the word ‘Dewar’ jumped out at her, halfway down the page, her heart did a little somersault, and she read quickly on to discover what Dewar was about. It settled down when she read that he was to accompany Swithin to Heron Hall with a small party, to select some objets d’art for inclusion in an exhibit they were planning, to raise funds for the purchase of some statue from Greece, which the government, in its sublime ignorance, considered not worth the five-thousand-pound asking price.
Swithin assured her of his continued enchantment, and signed it ‘your own Swithin.’ There was a postscript, cautioning her that her reply was to be directed to Heron Hall. The note bore little resemblance to a medieval manuscript. She had the feeling he had not put his whole heart into its production, and was somewhat relieved.
She was uncertain in her mind whether she should reply. A correspondence of this sort was not considered permissible except between betrothed parties. For a single lady to write to a gentleman struck her as a daring innovation. Yet she was strongly inclined to reply. Her interest in Grecian art was minimal, perhaps nonexistent. Her real interest in Swithin was about as strong.
As she reread the letter, she knew that her eyes skipped over descriptions of bronze fauns and such objets straight down to the words ‘Dewar is with me.’ This was what made her heart beat faster; this was the only reason in the world she wished to hear more from Heron Hall. Certainly it would be improper to answer his letter for such an underhanded reason. Still, she found excuses to write prowling her mind as she sat knitting a pair of ugly brown slippers for the bazaar.
Sir Egbert had a little black vase, believed to be Grecian, on the top shelf of his study. Her aunt would be thrilled to volunteer it to the cause. She went to see the vase, and noticed a v-shaped nick out of the rim facing the wall. A vase a foot high, chipped and slightly cracked, was insufficient excuse to write.
Before she had resumed her knitting, a caller was announced. Lady Dewar came puffing in. “Well, Holly, as we are both deserted, I decided to come and see you. What are you doing with yourself, eh? Making slippers—they look very comfortable. Put an insole in them and I’ll buy them at the bazaar. A nice woolen insole, to keep the chill from the feet. Those bootikins are the very thing for my corns. How do you go on without your aunt and uncle?”
“They have only been gone a few days. I have plenty to keep me occupied.”
“Any time you’re bored, come to me. Sir Laurence Digby is still at the Abbey, but he has taken to falling into a doze as soon as luncheon is over, and he don’t get up till twelve, so he might as well have left with the others. I wonder what they are up to, Dewar and the rest of them. Some new rig running, I suppose.”
It was the perfect chance for Holly to discuss her letter with an older lady, and discover whether it were proper for her to reply.
“Let’s have a look at it,” Lady Dewar said, holding out her hand. “Hmph—it ain’t sentimental at least. Not a billet-doux. Swithin is a ninnyhammer, but he is a gentleman. I see no harm in writing. In fact, as Chubbie is with him, I shall enclose a note myself. Or maybe you will be kind enough to do it for me. Tell him there is about a mountain of lumber landed in at the Abbey, and what does he want done with it. Roots mentioned a cheese barn—a temple is more like it, from the quantity of wood. Oh, and Parsons cannot make heads or tails of his scratchings for that book he is supposed to be copying out. Parsons is a fool. He spends what time Digby is awake talking to him about old dead Romans. I don’t see why my son must board his pensioners at the Abbey, especially when they are such demmed crashing bores. Why don’t he have any interesting employees?”
As soon as Lady Dewar had had her tea and taken her leave, Holly went to Sir Egbert’s study to draft her reply. She could think of very few words to say to Swithin. She acknowledged receipt of his letter, mentioned the black vase, and wished him success in the exhibition, all in a paragraph. This done, she sat nibbling the end of her pen for a full quarter hour, ransacking her mind for anything else to say. The mention of the Proctors being in London and some local trivia filled a respectable half page, then she could get on with the more interesting part of the missive; Lady Dewar’s visit and hear messages to her son.
Another of the violet letters was delivered within the week. Swithin, his passion for monkhood beginning to switch to a passion for Grecian antiquities, wrote scarcely more than she had herself. On the bottom half of the sheet, the handwriting was different. Swithin’s ornate script, enlivened in this case with birds and vines, gave way to a bolder, black slanted hand, difficult to read, Dewar was writing his own message, to be relayed to his mother.
Holly wondered that he had not written directly to the Abbey, but as she read on, with the keenest interest, she observed that the letter was as much for herself as for his mother, and wondered how on earth she was ever to show it to the countess. He wrote, Tell Mama (not that it is necessary, for she will never do anything anyway) to leave the lumber till my return. My plans for the temple to the Great God Cheddar are not final yet. If Parsons will begin at the beginning of my notes, he will find them legible. I wrote a very pretty hand in my youth, unlike this palsied scratch you are being subjected to. Poor Kate! How we all make use of you. And I have yet another chore for you too, but it is in a good cause! I have found a fine pony for our little Bath chair Mister, and want you to be certain Dr. John sees that Billie does all his exercises, so that he will be ready to ride Dobbin when I bring him home in a few weeks’ time. I hope Swithin’s eternity may have run out by then. Do let me know how Billie (and you) go on. Sincerely, Dewar.’
She read the letter six times, with a frown creasing her brow. The frown six times changed to a smile of anticipation when she came to the words ‘in a few weeks’ time.’ He was coming back! There was no longer any pretending she was anything but delirious for his return.
Next morning, she awoke to a sky more sunny than usual, to a breeze little short of spring-like, and felt the greatest urge to be outside. The family carriage was in London, but there was a gig in the stables which she could handle. She hitched it up and drove the boys into the village for a treat. While she was in the circulating library, the countess entered.
“Now why the deuce didn’t I think to stop and offer you a ride, Holly!” she exclaimed. “Don’t tell me you walked all the way from Stonecroft?”
“No, we came in the gig. Oh, and I have had a reply to your note to Dewar.”
“You might have let me know, hussy! Why didn’t you come and see me, eh? You know the way well enough. I hope you don’t need an engraved card. I told you to come any time, and took your absence as due to not having a drive. In fact, I meant to send the carriage for you this very day. But I’ll go home with you instead, and you can come to me another time. What had Chubbie to say for himself?”
The countess returned to Stonecroft and remained for luncheon. She did not ask to see Dewar’s note, but heard its contents, in a somewhat modified form. Before she left, she said, “What time shall I send the carriage tomorrow? Afternoon would be best, as you are running the house now.”
“Yes, afternoon would be best,” Holly replied, quite overcome at the honour. This amount of condescension had never been bestowed, even on Lady Proctor.
The weather reverted to a gusty, cold, thoroughly miserable February day on the morrow. Holly put on her warmest gown, old and grey, and g
athered up a shawl to add to her shoulders. She had tea and a long chat with the countess—just the two of them, gabbing like a pair of crones before the fire, discussing receipts and embrocations, corns and calluses, the bazaar, and all the local doings. Before she left, Sir Laurence Digby and Parsons joined them for a cup of tea.
“How does the dramatical work go on, Parsons?” Lady Dewar demanded.
“I have unlocked the secret of his handwriting,” he said, very much at home, Holly thought, from the easy way in which he took up his accustomed chair and received his tea, already sugared as he liked. “One third of His Lordship’s l’s are e’s, a third uncrossed t’s, and the remainder are actually l’s. Other than the uncertainty as to whether a v is a w or a v, there is little else to it. It is a very interesting work. Thoroughly researched, yet not dull and dry. The best analysis of Aristophanes I have read. Of course, he wants a better translation. Dewar has got about half of Clouds translated. I wish he would finish the job. It is excellent. Very witty. With Aristophanes, the wording is all. He is not a terribly profound writer, but he is uniquely creative. Dewar catches the essence of it.”
“Sounds a dull enough subject—clouds,” the countess said. “One would think him an Englishman, writing a play about clouds.”
“The title is not to be taken too literally,” Parsons pointed out.
“And have you begun rounding up those Grecian things Dewar mentioned?” Lady Dewar asked.
Holly looked up, startled. This was the first indication she had that Dewar had written to the Abbey. Why did he write to her? He could have written his messages directly home. He had been at pains to demand an answer from her too. ‘Do let me know how Billie comes on.’ She had spoken to Dr. John and written back, again to Swithin, but assuring Dewar that Billie was doing his exercises. She had also hinted quite strongly for a reply by asking him if the matter of the pony was a secret, or if she might mention it to Billie.