by Fiona Hill
“Not especially,” said Daphne, shocked at her own candour. “I have never felt the prisoner of my parents, and I am sure they would not wish me to marry to escape them.”
“What will you do with your life, my girl?”
“I do not know. Perhaps I shall marry—but not until I feel ready.”
The Countess was silent, thinking, for a few moments. She had her own reasons, of course, for wishing Daphne to marry immediately. She had always been a selfish woman, and she did not scruple to act selfishly now. “Daphne,” she said at last, “you must think of your father. Verchamp Park is not so prosperous that he could not profit by this alliance. Sir Andrew Ballard is not greatly wealthy, but he has enough at least to settle for a small dowry. Another man will want more. And you must consider the cost to your parents of keeping you at home. It is not the money merely; they are growing older. They must look forward to a time when their children will have set up on their own and the Park will be theirs again. It is your filial duty to marry.”
“They never mentioned such a thing,” Daphne said weakly.
“Of course they would not.” Lady Bryde shook her white head slowly. “Think about it. William Ballard’s offer is a good one—perhaps the best you will get. He will give you a comfortable home and, doubtless, plenty of liberty. And India will be your sister-in-law. You like India, don’t you?”
“Very much,” she agreed.
“Then off you go,” said the Countess, rising. “I shall expect to hear news of your betrothal in a very short time.” She went to the bell-cord and rang for Hastings. “Show Miss Keyes to the door, please,” she instructed. “Then come back to me. Daphne, kiss me good-bye.”
Lady Bryde proffered a thin cheek and Daphne kissed it. “I must thank you for all your kindness during this Season,” she said.
“Nothing of the sort, child.” The Countess gestured impatiently towards the door. “Nothing of the sort.”
When Hastings had returned to the breakfast-room, Lady Bryde requested him to have Cook send up the menu for dinner, so that she might inspect it.
“Very good, Madam,” he bowed, his silver head gleaming in the morning light.
“One moment, Hastings,” she said as he started away.
“Madam?”
“What do you think about travelling, Hastings? Do you ever get sea-sick?”
“No, Madam.” He smiled. “As a lad, I sailed on a merchant vessel.”
“Indeed? And where did you go?”
“To the Orient, Madam. I found it very curious.”
“But did you like it?” she demanded.
“Very much, my Lady. Will that be all?”
The Countess folded her fragile hands together pensively and dismissed him with a nod. He bowed again and vanished.
The excursion to Vauxhall which had been planned by the Keyes family on the evening of Daphne’s falling ill had never been carried out. Sir Latimer suggested that they go there on the eve of his children’s departure from London, as a sort of celebration. This proposal being agreeable to every one, Mr. Clayton arranged for a box, and the family set off at about ten o’clock in the evening for the famous Gardens. They found Vauxhall splendidly brilliant, as it always was in those days, the strings of coloured lanterns suspended across the lawns like an hundred rainbows. The occupants of the table at their left happened, quite by chance, to be their friend Lady Mufftow and her party. The Keyes’ waited until she noticed them, which she did in due time.
“Lady Keyes!” she cried good-humouredly. “What a delight to see you here. And Sir Latimer, and your charming children.” She nodded cheerfully to each of these, her double-chin rolling up and down under her jaw. She had found the various sweetmeats provided by the hostesses of London too great a temptation, and had given up all endeavours to reduce until the Season should be over. She had become, as a result, noticeably plumper, and had chosen to wear black this evening in an effort—only partially successful—to appear slim. Jet black ostrich plumes bobbed atop her turbaned head as she introduced her party to the Keyes’. “You are acquainted with Lord and Lady Trugrove, are you not? And Sir Winifred Glovely, and Lady Frane? Lord Frane is to join us later, you know.” She indicated all these briefly and the parties bowed to one another.
Miss Daphne Keyes was not paying attention, nor could she concentrate upon the oyster patties which a waiter had placed before her. Her consciousness, alas, was focused on the other table which adjoined her parents’, for one of the diners thereat was Mr. Christian Livingston.
Daphne did not recall ever having seen any of the other members of his party before. There were six at his table in all: himself, two gentlemen, and three ladies. Two of the ladies were apparently married to the unfamiliar gentlemen; the third, a tall, elegant woman of about thirty, had evidently been escorted to Vauxhall by Christian himself. Daphne watched her for a moment. She was making a remark, her white arm—bare except for a narrow bracelet of rubies—held up before her with one tapered finger pointing, as an indication that they must listen to her. What she said must have been witty, for the party broke out in laughter as she spoke, and one of the ladies blushed. Then she turned her graceful blond head towards Christian and whispered something to him.
A dizzy wave surged through Daphne as she made these observations. Lady Mufftow’s voice floated into her hearing as if from a great distance. “Yes, it is he,” she was saying; “I am positive of it. How extraordinary! One would not have thought that he could find a free evening, what with the way our foremost hostesses have been clamouring to engage him. Who is that lady with him? She is quite a beautiful creature.”
“That is Madame la Comtesse des Fîmes,” she was informed by Lady Frane. “A clever woman, I am told, but hardly eligible to be received in a London drawing-room. They say she murdered her husband.”
“Good Heavens!” Lady Mufftow exclaimed. “What an extraordinary thing to do.”
“Of course, it is impossible to make certain of it,” Lady Frane added conscientiously.
“Yes, of course,” murmured Lady Mufftow. “But still!—”
The ladies went on to discuss the identities of the others at Christian’s table, but Daphne did not hear them. She was in the awkward position of facing Christian directly, while he was in profile to her. Thus she could scarcely avoid looking at him, though she knew that at any moment he might turn his head from his companion and see her. She was on the point of begging her mother to exchange places with her, so that her back would be to his table, when he espied her. Her face went absolutely white, but she made no other sign that she had seen him. For his part, he was extremely glad to have this evidence that she was well again, and he smiled genuinely, inclining his head towards her. Still she remained immobile. The moment seemed to endure for hours. When it was done, her colour returned in a rush and she made a push to join the conversation her parents were maintaining. She was excessively glad, when the evening finally ended, to leave Vauxhall.
The family went directly to bed on reaching Finchley House, for Latimer and Daphne meant to depart as early as possible the next morning. Their packing had already been done, and the equipage in which they were to travel prepared. They breakfasted with their parents at noon, said a rather tearful good-bye—for it was the first time they had been separated for any great duration—and began their journey. They went in easy stages, due to Daphne’s recent indisposition, and arrived in Warwickshire late the next evening. India met them on the porch of the Abbey.
“I am so glad you’ve come,” she cried, kissing Daphne and shaking her brother’s hand cordially. “William has been in all day, wondering when you would get here. He is playing billiards with Charles and my father; Dorothea is in bed with a headache. You do look wonderful, both of you. I cannot tell you how dull the country has been after London.” She led the way into the Abbey as she spoke, holding Daphne’s hand in her right and gesturing with her left. “I see you’ve brought no abigail with you, Daphne,” she said; “never mind. My L
izzy will do for both of us. Latimer, you may tell your man to follow Frolish; he will know which rooms are meant for you.” They were standing in the great front hall of the Abbey now, and Mr. Frolish, who had taken their wraps, bowed to the manservant who had accompanied the Keyes’ from London. The two men ascended one side of the double-staircase which led away from the hall, carrying as much of the luggage with them as they could. India, meanwhile, beckoned to her friends and preceded them into the drawing-room, where she invited them to sit down for a moment.
“You will want to freshen up, I know, but you simply must talk to me for a moment before you do so. Are you dreadfully tired? Shall I order you some tea? We are to have supper in an hour.”
Brother and sister both accepted the proposed cup of tea gladly; then they sat back to become familiar with their surroundings. The Abbey was a massive structure, its façade obscured by shrubbery and ivy and ornamented all over with a good deal too much in the way of turrets, oriels, and functionless brick-work. The front hall was loftily arched, and indeed all the apartments were high-ceilinged. The double-staircase off the hall had been put in during relatively recent days, and was of creamy marble. The grounds were extensive and included a number of orchards and a formal garden, all very well maintained. The saloon in which they sat now had been done in elegant, lifeless style by the present Lady Ballard, the colours largely muted and drab. Lady Ballard’s taste in furniture was so restrained as to be quite Spartan, and this cheerful influence was manifest every where in the interior of the Abbey. It was impossible, she had often remarked, for anything red to be other than ostentatious; that colour, therefore, was entirely shut out of her life, along with most of the other bright hues of the spectrum. As she entered the drawing-room now she did so in a gown of dove-grey, her jewellery onyx set with pearls.
She welcomed the new-comers civilly and offered them tea.
“I’ve already sent for some, Mother,” said India. “Here is Frolish with it now.”
Lady Ballard poured the steaming brew and handed it to her daughter’s guests. “How are your parents?” she asked.
“Quite well, thank you,” said Daphne. “They asked to be remembered to you and Sir Andrew.”
“Indeed. Did your mother ever complete that peacock she was embroidering?” inquired her Ladyship.
“Not yet. I am afraid my illness quite overset the household. She will have plenty of time to do it, however, since she and my father mean to return to Verchamp Park next week.”
“Of course,” said Lady Ballard. “Such a pretty subject to chuse to embroider. So many—ah—vivid colours.” She smiled very slightly.
“I will convey your appreciation of it to her when I write to her,” Daphne replied.
“Yes, my dear, you must do that. I always was sorry, you know, that you and I never became better acquainted in London. We must do so now.”
“I shall be delighted,” Miss Keyes murmured.
Evidently, William Ballard had made his plans known to his parents. Daphne turned to Latimer. “I suppose we had best go upstairs, don’t you think?” she asked. “We must dress for supper, after all.”
Latimer agreed and India offered to escort them to their rooms. This she did, leaving Latimer in an enormous apartment done in brown and ecru, and sitting for a few moments with Daphne.
“You mustn’t mind my mother,” she said, taking one of the two arm-chairs which had been placed in Daphne’s bed-chamber for her convenience. “She means to be amiable, but she has not the least idea how to do it. I was used to detest her when I was younger, but I’ve learnt to concentrate on her good points. She has several—the foremost of which is that she rarely embarrasses one, at least not by a lack of taste or diplomacy. She is under strictest orders from my father to grow fond of you. William means to marry you, you know.”
“So I have been told,” said Daphne.
“Are you going to accept him? I should like to be your sister, my dear.”
“And I should like to be yours…but India, I do not quite know why William should wish to marry me. I have never—favoured him with any thing more than common civility; I have not sought to procure his regard in any way; in fact, there seems to be no particular affinity between us at all—at least, none that I am aware of.” Daphne rose and began to dress herself in the cream-coloured gown which Lizzy had laid out for her. “To be quite frank, I remember having been positively rude to him on certain occasions—not intentionally, of course, but because I simply could not listen to another flattery. Yet my great-grandmother tells me—and now you tell me again—that he means to marry me. Why? Do your parents press him?”
Miss Ballard stood and went to help Daphne with her buttons. “No,” she replied. “The odd thing is, that they do not. I have no doubt that they would, for they have determined that the match is a good one. But William has needed no encouragement. You must remember, my dear, that you are a remarkably pretty girl, that you have a charming manner, and that you are altogether very sweet. Those things alone are enough to attract a gentleman’s regard.”
“But William is influenced, perhaps, by my birth and fortune as well?”
“Not so much as you suppose, I think. He is sincerely attached to you—though I must say I doubt if he would permit himself to become too attached to any one ineligible to become his wife. We have both been too well brought up to fall into that trap.”
Daphne shook her head. “I still do not understand it. I mean—for all the talk one hears of certain gentlemen being great prizes, or certain ladies universally desirable—I have always felt that the important thing is whether two people are suited to one another…not merely in rank or wealth, but sympathetically. And I simply cannot believe that any great sympathy lies between William and myself. How could it, unless I were aware of it?”
“Your ideas on the topic of Love are intriguing, as always,” India smiled, “but I fear the world proves them wrong. Certain men are great catches; and certain ladies are besieged by suitors, some of whom they do not care for at all. But they chuse the most attractive from among them, and this one they marry, and bear children for—”
“And are very unhappy with. Or ignore altogether. I am not persuaded, India. I will not marry any one until I feel our regard and appreciation are mutual. Certainly I should not marry any one whose reasons for loving me were unknown to myself!”
“Then you do not mean to marry William.”
“I am afraid I do not,” she said gently.
India sighed. “It will disappoint him,” she said.
“I am learning that it is very easy to disappoint certain people,” Daphne replied. A few moments later they went down to supper.
“Where is Lord Midlake?” Miss Keyes inquired, as they went, stopping to collect Latimer and then proceeding with him.
“O, that is quite a nightmare,” India said, pulling a grotesque face in which many emotions mingled. “He is here, but he keeps to his room almost constantly. My parents are in despair, and to say truth it makes me a bit uncomfortable as well. I doubt if he will come to supper.”
“Perhaps he is ill?” Latimer suggested.
“A cheerful supposition,” sighed India, “but one, alas, which has no base in truth. No, I fear that my Lord simply regrets ever having agreed to come here at all, and keeps his solitude until he finds means to escape.”
“If that is so, your parents will be doubly disappointed,” said Daphne, casting an anxious glance at her brother, before whom she felt she ought not to be discussing William’s offer.
“I see what you mean,” India agreed; “but there is nothing to be done, after all.”
“I do not see what you mean,” said Latimer. Daphne said nothing. “O very well, keep your secrets. Tell me if I am properly dressed instead. Do you like my quizzing-glass?” He lifted the heavy ornament which dangled from beneath his waist-coat.
“It is very elegant,” Daphne approved.
He smiled, immeasurably pleased. “I chose it myself,” he
informed her, “without asking any one’s opinion. I think it is an unusually handsome one.”
“It is. And you are unusually handsome yourself,” said Daphne, giving him a hasty kiss.
“My cravat!” he protested.
The three of them entered the dining-parlour laughing.
After supper there was whist. Dorothea Frane’s headache improved, and she came down to play a round of Consequences with the other young people. Latimer and Daphne, still weary from the journey, went early to bed, and the others followed soon after. Lord Midlake did not make a public appearance until next afternoon; but when he did, a rather extraordinary scene ensued.
Chapter VIII
It was a little before three o’clock. Lady Ballard, thinking that the young people might be hungry after the ride they had taken during the morning, had ordered a nuncheon served in the Eastern Parlour, a hexagonal chamber of staggering dimensions. Frolish was sent, as always, to apprise Lord Midlake that a collation was available to him should he care to take anything, and he—after pulling mightily on his long left ear for a moment—decided to come down. Walter Midlake was a peaceable man. His desires were few, his satisfactions many; altogether, his life suited him very well. He knew India Ballard had been setting her cap at him all last Season, and all the year before, but he felt no special inclination to marry—especially as he had numerous younger brothers, to whom the title might as well go. Sir Andrew had tempted him to Carwaith Abbey with the promise of some good riding and some acceptable fishing; and as he had no other plans, he had accepted the invitation. Generally, one place suited him as well as another; however, even he had found Lady Ballard’s attempts to get him to take notice of her daughter a bit too much to ignore, and had consequently removed himself from the house-party as frequently as possible. He decided, however, as he pulled on his ear, that he did have something of an appetite just now, and this prosaic perception was responsible for his appearance in the Eastern Parlour shortly afterwards.