by Fiona Hill
“You see, my dear; I was right. I am glad he knows it, since you do not.”
“But is this all there can be between us?” Daphne asked, still incredulous.
“It is a good deal more than there is between myself and any man. What more do you desire?” India returned.
“But can I trust him at all? Would an honourable man consent to such a—a liaison? Surely, he ought to chuse not to see me at all, when this is the alternative.”
“Daphne, I have run out of ways to tell you,” cried Miss Ballard, with mock exasperation. “Whom will you believe? Any man would consent to see you secretly, if he could not do so openly—if he wanted to see you enough, that is. It is a measure of his love for you, in fact, for you must know he runs risks in doing it.”
“But what of his respect for me? For himself?”
“Love excludes the possibility of respect—or rather, it makes it irrelevant.”
“It does not for me,” said Daphne stubbornly. In a short while she grew ashamed of this perverse announcement and remembered to thank her friend. “How did you become so wise?” she asked wonderingly; “how do you know so many things?”
India’s eyes became curiously expressionless. “I do not know myself,” she said slowly. “I seem always to have known them.”
They were silent for a long time, sitting with hands linked on Daphne’s bed.
“What will you do?” India asked at last.
“I have not decided.”
“I think my brother means to offer for you,” Miss Ballard said soberly.
“I know,” she responded. “I know.”
When India had gone, Daphne remained in her bedchamber. She continued to sit there for several hours, her legs folded up and hugged tightly to her chest, her chin upon her knees, her dark eyes large and wondering. When she rose at last and joined her family at dinner, she had made a decision. She would not speak to Christian Livingston again; if forced to do so, she would give him the cut direct. As much as possible, she would cease to think of him. It had occurred to her at one point to speak to Lady Bryde about it, to apply for her permission to make a match with the pianofortist. Some instinct told her, however, that her great-grandmother’s advice would be exactly the same as India Ballard’s. A similar instinct told her that to approach her parents with the problem would only cause them confusion—from which they would turn naturally to Lady Bryde. She felt she had grown three years older in as many hours, and begged to be excused from the excursion her family planned to make to Vauxhall that evening. When questioned by her mother, she explained that she was exhausted. Lady Keyes put a hand to her daughter’s forehead and concluded that she had a fever—slight, but discernible. Daphne was put to bed and told to go to sleep—a command which she obeyed with the greatest willingness.
When she awoke she was still feverish. She discovered to her great surprise that she had slept twelve hours, and that a physician had been summoned. Mr. Whiting had been recommended to her by Lady Ballard, her mother told Daphne, but he would not be able to come round until late that afternoon. Until then Daphne was to lie quietly, and to try to take some tea.
“You look terribly tired, Mamma,” she said, sitting up against the pillows. “Are you well yourself?”
“Quite well, my dear,” said Lady Keyes. She indicated the cup which Daphne held in her hand. “Try to drink it.”
“You haven’t been sitting up all night with me?” Daphne cried.
“Your tea, Daphne,” Lady Keyes replied.
“O, Mamma, you have! You must go to bed immediately; I won’t have it. I feel perfectly fit.”
“Well you look dreadful,” Lady Keyes said frankly, and this was true. Daphne’s cheeks were flaming with fever, and her eyes were glazed and unnaturally bright. “I will go to bed when you have drunk your tea.”
“Do not wait, please,” said she.
Lady Keyes smiled wanly and pointed at the cup.
“I can’t drink it,” Daphne confessed at last. “The very odour of it is making me feel ill.”
“O my dear,” said Lady Keyes. She took the cup and set it down on the night-stand. Then she threw her arms round her daughter. “Forgive me,” she said, releasing her after a moment; “I must be making it worse for you.”
“But no, Mamma! You are a great comfort.”
Lady Keyes’ eyes became as glassy as her daughter’s, then welled over into tears. “I am sorry,” she sniffed, dabbing at her eyes with a cambric handkerchief. “I know I oughtn’t to worry.”
“Indeed you ought not, Mamma. If you were not sleepy you would not be so foolish.” As she mentioned sleep, she realized all at once how tired she was. Nothing seemed sweeter than to lean back…to close her eyes…to drift into delicious slumber. She did not wake again until the doctor came.
Mr. Whiting examined his patient at dusk. When he had finished, he bowed to Lady Keyes (who still had not slept) and requested that she follow him out of the bed-chamber. Closing the bedroom door softly, he spoke to her in a low tone.
“Is your daughter of a nervous disposition?” he inquired.
“Not at all,” said her Ladyship.
“Is she frequently agitated? Subject to hysteria, or to fainting?”
“Never. Daphne has always been perfectly healthy.”
“Not prone to melancholy? Fits of moroseness, ill-humor?”
“Not in the least,” she replied.
Mr. Whiting tried another tack. “Has any thing occurred in the past few days to put her out of frame?”
“Well, nothing that I know of. Mr. Whiting, what is wrong with my daughter?” she demanded.
“So far as I can determine, Lady Keyes, there is nothing organically wrong at all. You know as much as I do: she has fever, no appetite, complains of fatigue…I am afraid I can find no cause for such symptoms.”
“Do you think it may be London? She has not been used to such a pace. We could remove her to Verchamp Park—”
“No; I think a journey would only exacerbate her disorder, though a change of environment might be salubrious. I believe we must wait until the fever breaks; then, perhaps, a removal to the country will be beneficial.”
“And is that all? No medicines? No treatment?”
“There are physicians in London,” Mr. Whiting answered, “who would prescribe blood-letting, leeching…a number of unpleasant procedures. In my opinion, that sort of treatment is useless, and may even be harmful. Your daughter is in no mortal danger; if she is customarily healthy, her body can withstand several days of fasting and fever. Let her rest; let her sleep when she will; offer her tea and broth, but do not press it upon her. Should she fail to recover her appetite after a few days have passed, we will consider more drastic treatments.”
“Is there nothing more I can do for her?” asked Lady Keyes anxiously.
“Only one thing,” he replied, smiling slightly. “Go to sleep. You will be of no use to any one if you fall ill yourself.”
Mr. Whiting re-entered Daphne’s room to brace her with a few cheerful words, but he discovered that she had already dropped off to sleep again, a book still open across her knees. The physician promised to look in on her tomorrow, and took his leave.
Daphne’s fever wore on through five more weary days. She slept during most of that time, took water and a very little broth, and fretted, when she was awake to do so, about her mother. Mr. Whiting came each day to examine her; uncertain as to what to do when the fever did not break, he called in a colleague. The gentlemen conferred and decided to delay blood-letting until the following week—by which time, fortunately, Daphne was recovered. Lady Keyes rarely left the sick-room at all. Vases of flowers, novels, and baskets of fruit were sent to Daphne as news that she was ill got round London. She was too fatigued to enjoy any of them, but on the fourth day an enormous basket of roses arrived without a note and Daphne knew they had come from Christian. Her heart beat faster in spite of her condition, and she smiled a little. Then she sank back into sleep again.
Latimer proved himself a most devoted brother during this time, putting himself entirely at his mother’s disposal and executing countless commissions. The efficient Mr. Clayton went about his work with sober, troubled eyes, and did his best to keep Sir Latimer distracted. India Ballard called every day, though she could not be admitted to the sick-room, since Mr. Whiting did not know if Daphne’s disease was infectious. William Ballard came too, and a good deal of Mr. Clayton’s time was spent in dissuading him from trying to send notes up to Miss Keyes which the secretary knew she was too tired to read.
On the morning of the seventh day Daphne awoke with the knowledge that her fever had passed. She was still tired, and she slept during several hours that afternoon, but she was able to take some tea and toast, and to sit up quite cheerfully in bed. Her brother read to her in the evening. The following morning Mr. Whiting consented to allow her visitors, and India Ballard came up.
“This is for you,” she said, placing a potted geranium on a table near the windows. “William sent it. I know you won’t want it,” she went on, surveying the masses of flowers which crowded the bed-chamber, “but William insisted. How are you feeling?”
“Quite well today,” said Daphne, patting a place on the bed. “Come and sit by me, my dear.”
“You still look dreadful, you know,” said India, sitting down on the spot indicated. “O dear, we were terribly worried about you,” she cried suddenly, and kissed her friend on the forehead.
“I know,” said Miss Keyes, a rueful smile on her lips. “I have put everyone in a pucker. Really, I did not mean to.”
“Your mother tells me you will be removing to Verchamp Park soon.”
“Yes; Mr. Whiting advises it.”
“O well. It is no great matter after all. The Season is nearly at an end.”
“Indeed,” said Miss Keyes.
“Daphne,” said India carefully, “I know it would not be excessively amusing for you, and I know you must miss your home, and I know it is altogether too much to ask—but my parents are getting up a house-party for the early part of the summer: would you come?”
“To Carwaith Abbey?” said Daphne, naming Sir Andrew Ballard’s estate in Warwickshire.
“Yes, my dear. It is only the next shire over to yours, so if you don’t like it you may leave at any moment. And, of course, Latimer is invited too.”
“O India, you are much too good! Of course I should love to come. If my parents will permit me, that is,” she added conscientiously.
India smiled broadly and her freckles seemed to dance on her nose. “I have already asked them—do not scold me: I did not wish to trouble you about it if they would not let you go. Latimer has said he will come too, though I. think it is mostly for your sake.”
“No,” Daphne interrupted earnestly; “I believe Latimer is quite fond of William.”
“Is he?” asked India. “Well, that’s rather odd. Any way, it is all decided. We leave for Carwaith next week; you may travel with us or follow later, as you like.”
“O India, what a delightful prospect. You must thank your dear parents for me. Isn’t it kind of them to have thought of this party, and to have allowed you to invite Latimer and me? It is very good of them, really.”
“I am afraid it is not quite so disinterested in them as you suppose,” said Miss Ballard, a trifle grimly. “Charles Stickney is to be there too, with Dorothea Frane of course. My parents know that Latimer and Charles are friends. I believe they are hoping that with Charles and Dorothea there, so recently betrothed, you know, it will give Lord Midlake ideas.”
“Is Lord Midlake to be there as well?” asked Daphne.
Miss Ballard stared at her. “But that is the point of the whole party,” she said simply, and dropped her eyes to her hands.
Chapter VII
Lady Bryde took one final sip of tea before setting her cup down. She scrutinised Daphne across the table and apparently approved of what she saw, for she uttered a single “Yes” before relapsing into silence. They were sitting in the breakfast-room at Dome House, a rather cheerful apartment done up with a good deal of white paint and open space. It was Daphne’s first excursion into London since her illness, and would be among her last, for she and Latimer were to leave for Carwaith Abbey two days later. Daphne was robed in a walking dress of rose-colored sarsenet; her heavy curls were drawn off her face with rose ribands. She had not yet quite recovered her bloom, but at least she appeared rested, and her countenance had ceased to look pinched. Lady Bryde adjusted one of the pins which anchored her powdered peruke, and spoke again.
“So you’re off to Warwickshire, eh girl?” she said. “Your first house-party, is it not?”
“It is.”
“Know how to comport yourself?” the Countess demanded, her sharp eyes probing Miss Keyes’.
“I hope so, ma’am.”
“So do I.” Lady Bryde paused to fix her great-granddaughter’s attention. “Occupy yourself until breakfast. Do everything set at your disposal. Do not ask for any thing, do not speak familiarly to their servants, and make it clear that you mean to depart at the end of a fortnight. That way they won’t pass their time wondering how to get rid of you. Remember what I have just said and you should have a very acceptable sojourn.”
“Thank you,” said Daphne.
“O—and one more thing about behaviour. I recall that on my first visit to a country estate, I discovered—quite by chance—that the eldest son of the house had a quite singular attachment to the upper house-maid. In fact, they were involved in a clandestine affaire d’amour. I wondered for days whom I ought to tell about it, what I ought to do. Fortunately, I hit upon the correct solution: nothing. If you come upon anything irregular, then, remember to do nothing. No one will thank you, and you certainly have nothing to gain. It may interest you to know, by the way, that that particular eldest son was the Earl of Halston—your great-grandfather. I married him, as you know. I never mentioned the house-maid at all.”
Miss Keyes had flushed slightly, but she found nothing to say.
“While I am speaking of marriage, Daphne,” the Countess went on, “I think you and I might well have a conference on that head. I have no fear of your brother’s chusing an unsuitable wife, when his time comes. He is too vain to marry beneath himself. You, however…well, you must tell me yourself. I understand that William Ballard has become quite particular in his attentions towards you.”
“I—I suppose he has,” Daphne faltered.
“Well, your father tells me he came to Finchley House a week ago to ask permission to solicit your hand. I don’t know how much more particular one can become.”
The flush on Daphne’s cheeks heightened. “I had no notion,” she said. “No one mentioned it to me.”
“Then he hasn’t offered for you yet?” she demanded.
“No. I have hardly seen him since I got well—and we have always been in company. My father gave him permission, then?”
“My poor dear girl, your father would not know how to deny any thing to any one, were it a charwoman asking to eat at his table. Indeed he granted permission—though of course he did not answer for you.”
“Well, that is some thing to be grateful for.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Lady Bryde, who had never heard her great-grand-daughter speak frankly before.
“I say, I am glad my father did not speak for me. He could not have known what I would say.”
“And what would you say, Daphne?” she asked, reflecting silently that perhaps her great-grand-daughter was more like herself than she was used to believe.
“I would thank him for his most flattering offer,” she replied, “and tell him No.”
“No? A mere No? Not, perhaps, ‘I must think on this longer’? Why would you say such a thing?”
“Because I have no desire to marry him, Madam.”
“Do you know where you can do better? Has someone else offered for you?”
“No,” said Daphne.
“No,” came the firm reply.
“Then what is it?” Lady Bryde demanded. “He seems a handsome enough lad to me. He is young, clever…it is hardly a brilliant alliance, but it is in no way beneath you. Why should you refuse him?”
“Because I do not—” she had been about to say, love him; but she changed her mind. “I do not think he knows me, and I am afraid he will dislike me when he begins to.”
“O, if that is all…Halston and I scarcely said three words to one another in all the years we were married. He had no more idea of my character than I do of your dog’s. What is your dog’s name, by the way?”
“Clover.”
“Ah yes, Clover. I thought it was something leafy. Any how,” she picked up a silver spoon and tapped it idly against her saucer, “if that is your only objection, you have nothing to fear.”
“But it is not my only objection, ma’am,” Daphne said evenly.
“Out with it, then! Does his taste in clothing repel you? Is he tight-fisted with his money? Is his mother too dominating? What is it?”
“Simply that I have no wish to marry at all. I see no need for it.”
Lady Bryde stared at her for a moment, her pale blue eyes wide open. Then she barked a sharp “Ha!” and leaned forward on the table. “You’re more foolish than I thought,” she said. “I gave you credit for a little wit, but I was wrong.”
“I am sorry to disappoint you, ma’am, but I do not know how I have done so.”
“Every woman has got to marry,” said Lady Bryde, “unless she has a good deal larger fortune than you have, my girl. Marriages like these are what society is made of; they are the only lasting alliances left to us. A woman on her own is under constant scrutiny by her peers; she is suspected and abhorred. The marriage licence, for a woman, is licence to cease living as the prisoner of her parents and to start behaving like a grown person. Doesn’t any of that appeal to you?”