by Fiona Hill
Now Sir Latimer had not really intended his words at the dining-table to be taken in quite this way. While it was true that Clayton had advised the trip, he had meant to ponder things a few days longer before making a decision. However, Latimer’s news was so well received by the ladies that Keyes did not have the heart to dampen every one’s excitement with sobering words. Besides, it seemed quite convenient to have the decision made for him, rather than being obliged to make it himself; so he simply submitted to his wife’s embrace and his daughter’s thanks, and allowed matters to follow their own course.
This they did, as matters frequently will. Within a week, the ordinarily tranquil routine of Verchamp Park was entirely disrupted. All the family had to be fitted for new clothes, though Latimer was quick to point out the advisability of waiting to buy most of them in London itself, and the commissions given to the local seamstresses were, accordingly, kept to a minimum. Mr. Clayton rode some forty miles to visit Captain and Mrs. Butler, who were the nearest neighbours known to have visited London within recent years. From them he learned such interesting information as where to rent a house, how horses could be stabled and vehicles housed in town, and the procedure involved in acquiring vouchers for Almack’s. He returned to Verchamp Park and consulted frequently with Sir Latimer, until at last matters were set in order well enough to allow him to absent himself from the family for some time. Early in March, therefore, he quitted Herefordshire and, travelling in young Latimer’s curricle, arrived in London, where he set about finding suitable lodgings. The Keyes’ were to follow him there as soon as he had succeeded in this object.
Lady Keyes had written to her grandmother in February, to inform her of their impending visit. For weeks she searched the post eagerly, sure of receiving a letter from Lady Bryde. None, however, arrived. This was the cause of much conjecture at Verchamp Park: had some thing offended the old woman? Was she sulking? Or angry with her grand-daughter? Lady Keyes wrote again, apologising for what ever it might have been (if it was any thing at all) that had incurred Lady Bryde’s displeasure; still, no answer was returned. She wrote repeatedly, but silence was maintained. The solution to this deep mystery, which excited more and more anxiety in Herefordshire, was in fact rather simple, and was nothing to do with the Keyes family at all (which was, very likely, what made it so puzzling to them—for of all things, we find it most difficult to believe that people occasionally determine on courses which are nothing to do with us). Lady Bryde, as was discovered later, had taken it into her head to visit the Continent, and did not therefore receive Lady Keyes’ letters until her return late in March. By that time there was quite a collection of notes from Herefordshire waiting for her in Dome House, Berkeley Square; they ranged in tone from polite, to imploring, to defensive. By that time also, the Keyes’ themselves were installed in London, and the letters might as well never have been written. Most of them (for the old Countess soon discovered their drift) were never read.
On the evening of the Keyes’ departure, Verchamp Park bore a distinct resemblance to Bedlam. The number of questions posed by each member of the family to the others was astronomical.
“What do you think of my cravat?” Latimer demanded of his sister as he entered her bed-chamber. “I want your honest opinion; do not spare my feelings.”
Daphne looked up from her packing. Her brother’s chin rested uneasily on a veritable cream-puff of a cravat, a spectacular arrangement of linen which looked more like a large cumulus cloud than anything else. She hesitated for a moment.
“It is my own invention,” he said proudly. “It will be called the Latimer—you know like the Mathematical, and the Oriental…or do you think it is too much? Perhaps it is a trifle over-done?” he went on anxiously. “Probably I look ridiculous; do I look ridiculous, Daphne? You can tell me if I look ridiculous; I won’t be hurt.”
Daphne took a breath, then exhaled it.
“I knew it; I knew it was too much. I’ll change it—I’ll do it again. But do you think it has potential, at least? No, you needn’t answer that,” he corrected himself, tearing at the cravat with his fingers. “I shall make another attempt; don’t go away.”
But Daphne did go away, to her mother’s bed-chamber. “Mother,” she said hesitantly, “I do not think—that is, I am afraid I am packing my trunk the wrong way. How does one do it?”
Lady Keyes had been surveying her drawers, chusing what items needed to be taken. Now she turned to her daughter. “I am sure you have done very well, my dear,” she said, “but if it will make you easier, I shall come and look at it.”
The two women returned to Daphne’s room. The trunk sat open on the floor, its wide mouth gaping. It was nearly full. “You see,” said Daphne, gesturing anxiously; “I did not know how to do it, and now—”
“But it is perfectly done,” objected her mother, examining the carefully folded clothes more closely. “Or do you not have room for the rest of your things?”
“No; I mean, that is everything. But I think I must have done it incorrectly, don’t you? I know nothing about packing, except that it must be done carefully, and—”
Lady Keyes hugged her daughter. “If everything is in it, you may call James and he will tie it with cord and carry it downstairs for you. I wish you would not worry so much about your ability to do things! You always do so very well.”
“You are kind to say so,” said Daphne, returning her mother’s embrace. Then she exclaimed suddenly, “I do wish we could take Clover with us!”
“It is better not to,” Lady Keyes assured her. “London is no place for a big dog. I am not sure it is a good place for us, either,” she added.
On these words she hurried from the room: a few minutes later she appeared in her husband’s doorway, her countenance plainly agitated. “Latimer, my dear, I wish you will come with me for a moment. I have made a list of instructions for Elizabeth: how she is to deal with the tradesmen, when the laundering is to be done, how to reach us in London, all that sort of thing—but I am sure I have forgot an hundred details. Are you certain we ought to take Mrs. Jennings with us? She is so competent; the household runs so smoothly in her hands…and Elizabeth is too young, surely, to take her place.”
“But we will need a housekeeper in London, you know,” he answered doubtfully. “It was Clayton who suggested Elizabeth; I am sure she is capable of new duties, if Clayton says so.”
“Yes…but so much responsibility! Please do come and look at my list. I know I have left something out.”
“In a moment,” he agreed. “But first, tell me something. I am afraid—it occurs to me that perhaps we ought not to be taking Latimer with us? I have heard a great deal about how town-life affects a growing boy; perhaps we will do better to leave him at home.”
And so the evening was engulfed in questions, doubts and fears. When night came at last hardly a soul slept, so preyed upon were they by their various worries. When the family met at breakfast the next morning, each face bore the tell-tale traces of sleeplessness: heavy-lidded eyes, and pale complexions. It was a relief to every one to enter the Keyes’ coach at last; by ten o’clock, for better or for worse, they were on their way to London.
On a crisp March morning some few days later, the Countess of Halston was seated in her drawing-room endeavouring to make some sense of the correspondence which had accumulated at Dome House during her two-months’ absence. When she heard her butler’s quiet knock at the door, she looked up, pleased at the interruption in her tedious work, and barked a shrill “Come in.” Hastings entered bearing a silver tray, upon which lay a card inscribed “Anthony Graves, Lord Houghton.” Lady Bryde snorted and drew back her thin lips in a sage smile. “I am at home,” she informed the butler, inclining her head slightly. When he had gone through the doors again, she touched her elaborate coiffure with a wrinkled hand, and drew forth a side-curl to make it a little more prominent. “Not,” she assured herself, “that it makes the least bit of difference; but Anthony is a shameless gossip, and it
never does to look unwell.”
Lord Houghton entered a few moments later. As Lady Bryde did not rise to meet him, he crossed the room to the tufted-velvet chair in which she sat and bowed deeply; to the Countess’ deep satisfaction, he knelt before her and took her hand, kissing it and murmuring, “Margaret! As lovely as ever!”
“I declare,” she remarked in response; “when you do that I can almost hear your knees creak, Anthony. Get up off the floor, you silly old fool, and tell me which nonsense you’ve been keeping busy with.”
If Lord Houghton was injured by these words, he did not show it. His faded blue eyes twinkled as he rose, with some difficulty, and took a seat near her ladyship.
“By God, you are creaking!” she exclaimed. “Never tell me you’ve taken to wearing corsets, Tony!”
“The sad truth,” he admitted, a rueful grin lighting up his wrinkled countenance. “The years, my dear…they do not sit so lightly upon me as they do on you.”
“Faugh!” said she. “I daresay you’ll be driving a perch-phaeton, next thing we know, and talking about things being ‘all the crack,’ and ‘cutting a dash about town.’ The trouble with you is not old age, dear sir; the trouble with you is perennial infancy.”
“A second childhood, perhaps?” he suggested humbly.
“You always were a child.”
“How sorrowful it is, Margaret! Now that I am ripe enough to appreciate your beauty as it ought to be appreciated, I am too old to honour it properly. That is the essence of age, my dear: desire is behind us; we are left with only the desire to desire.”
“You’re an old fool,” she repeated, cackling fondly.
“But Margaret,” he began earnestly, “in all honesty, you look—”
“Spare me your honesty!” she interrupted, raising a dry, fragile hand. “I gave up honesty years ago—particularly with regard to my looks. Tell me the truth and you cannot help but insult me; and I never was partial to insults. At six-and-seventy, a neat lie is all I ask.”
The Countess was a little severe in her self-criticisms. While it was true that she was old, that her cheeks had lost their colour and her lips their fullness, it was equally true that her countenance, when animated, was still pleasant to look upon. She had a snowy beauty, and though time had robbed her of youth’s crimson and fire, she still sparkled with energetic interest. Her noble carriage gave her an air of elegance which never deserted her, and the powdered peruke which she insisted on wearing—though it had long since gone out of fashion—imparted to her appearance something like the beauty of fine antique objects, curios out of a bygone era. Lord Houghton exaggerated, of course—but not too much.
“You are simply beautiful, my dear,” he said. “No longer a rose, perhaps, but at least a lily. And now, since I see you are about to reprimand me for this flattery, I shall skilfully turn the conversation. I am pleased to announce, my Lady, that even at my advanced age, I have a new vice, and therefore a new sin to confess.”
“Anthony!” she cried, leaning forward with a smile. “This is fascinating! Do tell me. I hope it is an original sin, and not a stale one.”
“Under the circumstances, Margaret, I think I have done rather well. I have taken,” he went on proudly, “to Sloth.”
“Sloth! O Anthony, this is a disappointment! Surely you can think of something better than that?”
“But my dear, it is not what is done, so much as the way it is done. Or rather, not done. I have become if I may say so, an absolute artist of apathy—a lord of lethargy—a technician of torpor! I assure you, I do positively nothing at all; and, what is more, I do it all day.”
“Is that all you came to say?” she inquired unkindly.
“Margaret, you wound me.”
At this juncture, their conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door, followed immediately by Hastings, who entered this time with a brief note. The direction on the letter was unfamiliar to her Ladyship, and she tore it open with faint curiosity. She scanned it hurriedly and broke out, presently, in long peals of dry laughter. “O dear Heavens!” she exclaimed, wiping an eye which had begun to tear; “O my Lord, this is too amusing!” Again her laughter overtook her and she could not speak. When at last her mirth had subsided some what, she waved the letter at Lord Houghton and said in explanation: “It is from my grand-daughter, Anthony; she and her family are in London, and they’ve taken a house—O dear!” she cried, cackling helplessly again, “they’ve taken a house in Marylebone!”
Chapter II
“Shall I come with you, Margaret?” Lord Houghton asked, when Lady Bryde had rung for Hastings and given orders for her carriage to be prepared immediately.
“As you like,” she returned diffidently. “It is certain to be amusing…but will it not interfere with your programme of lethargy? A visit to Marylebone may be quite an effort.”
“For love of you, my dear, I will give up even my art.”
“That is very poor policy, as I am sure you know. Never give up any thing for love: that has always been my motto. The last time I lifted a finger to accommodate a man was when I was sixteen, sir, and I have lived a very happy life.”
“It is different for a woman,” he murmured, accepting his hat and stick from Hastings.
“Not so different as you imagine,” she said; “but never mind. Were everyone to discover the secrets I have discovered, I should not feel so privileged. Hastings,” she added, “please ask Goodbody to fetch my redingote and send it down here—the green one, with the black frogs.”
“Very well, my Lady,” said he, turning.
“Of all men in the world,” said Lady Bryde, as the butler vanished, “Hastings is my favourite.”
“Not myself?” cried Houghton.
“I am never partial to any one who is not my social inferior,” she replied. “It is much too dangerous. In fact, I always liked Hastings better than I did Halston,” she mused to herself. “Though naturally, I never told either of them. Shall we be on our way?” she invited, as Hastings returned with her cloak.
A short time later, the Countess’ lozenged coach swept up before an address in Marylebone and stopped. The coachman opening the door, Lady Bryde sprang out and tripped lightly down the newly-painted carriage steps. A slight shudder shook her narrow shoulders as she surveyed the house before her. She spoke in a harsh whisper to Lord Houghton, who was still in the act of climbing out, rather gingerly, of the carriage. “I feel,” she said, “as if I had stepped barefoot into a patch of mushrooms. If there is one vulgar thing I abhor more than another, it is new brick. I have never seen any thing quite so…” she paused, summoning up the appropriate word.
A considerable amount of new brick was now in her view. The house which Clayton had selected—after much deliberation—was no more than five years old; the neighbouring buildings, too, appeared to have been constructed recently. In fact, the whole neighbourhood of Marylebone had been recommended to him by Captain Butler as being one of the newest and cleanest in London. The fact that those very elements were what made Marylebone hopelessly unfashionable never occurred to the good secretary, and the accents of loathing with which Lady Bryde now uttered the single word, “bourgeois,” would have surprised him no end. “Come, my dear,” said she, placing a frail hand on Anthony’s arm. “We must not waste a moment.”
James, who had accompanied the family to London, opened to the Countess and recognized her at once. “Your Ladyship,” he said, bowing and preparing to receive her wraps.
“Never mind that now,” she snapped, advancing into the tiny hall, Lord Houghton close behind her. “Where is my grand-daughter?” she demanded.
“Sir Latimer and Lady Keyes are both from home, just at present Madam. I believe they walked out into the neighbourhood.”
“Then let us pray nobody of importance sees them,” she replied. “Not likely to in this place, any how. Fetch Daphne to me.”
James bowed. “If your Ladyship will please to wait in here?” he said, indicating a large parlour
of awkward proportions, which stood to the right of the hallway. The visitors went in and seated themselves. The room had been decorated in the Egyptian motif which was then so modish; Lady Bryde inspected it critically from the low, nearly cushionless bench on which she had been obliged to sit.
“Inelegant and comfortless,” she pronounced at last.
“Not what you and I are used to, perhaps,” Lord Houghton began mildly, “but—”
“You are about to read me a sermon on the advisability of changing with the times,” she interrupted. “Do not, please. I have enough to do to stay what I am, without bothering my head about adjustments. Besides, it is the duty of the elderly to be conservative. If there were no old-guard, there could be no reaction, and consequently no progress. Daphne!” she said, presenting a cheek to her great-grand-daughter as she entered the parlour. “I see your parents have learnt the London adage, that everything is to be got with money. It isn’t true, you know.”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am?” said Daphne, frankly puzzled. She was looking charmingly in a pale blue day-dress, with slippers of the same shade. Her long, thick plaits had been looped up on either side of her head, and blue ribands brushed her cheeks gently.
“Never mind, gal,” said Lady Bryde, unbuttoning her redingote at last. “Tell James to take this from me, and have him bring us some ratafia. Do you care to take any thing?” she inquired of Lord Houghton.
“No, my dear; but I wish you will present me to this lovely lady.”
“O, indeed,” she said. She nodded curtly to Daphne. “Go on, run and fetch James. When you return I shall introduce you to your first London gentleman.”
Daphne did as she was told and was back presently. “Mrs. Jennings will bring your ratafia in a moment, Madam,” said James to the Countess, as he helped her off with her coat and disappeared discreetly.