Venetia

by Джорджетт Хейер

  “Who was she?” interrupted Venetia curiously. “What became of her?”

  “I don’t know that, but she was one of the Rendlesham girls—there were three of them, and all great beauties, which was fortunate, because Rendlesham was as poor as a church mouse, and yetthey all made good marriages! Not that I mean to say that one prospered, and for my part I shouldn’t have liked it for one of my daughters, even if Sir John were as monstrously in the wind as they say Rendlesham was. Well, for one thing he had the most peculiar name: Vobster! I believe he came into the world hosed and shod, as the saying is, but his father was a shocking mushroom, and as for his grandfather I’m sure no one ever knew who he was! The on-dit was that he owned a two-to-one shop—at least, so my brother George was used to say!—but I daresay that was nothing but a Banbury story. At all events, Gregory Vobster was as rich as Midas, which was what made him acceptable to Lord Rendlesham. He was used to play off all the airs of an exquisite, I recall, but when the pinch came he was not at all up to the rig. Nothing would prevail upon him to consent to a divorce! He behaved very shabbily, just wishing to be revenged, you know, and if he hadn’t broken his neck, overturning his curricle on the Newmarket road, that wretched female would be still married to him! But the thing is, my dear, that that happened not three years after the break-up of the marriage, and though I don’t know why, I do know that she didn’t marry Damerel, which everyone expected she would, of course. Which gives me a very poor notion of him, and makes me excessively reluctant to receive him in my house! What’s more, if he hoped, by abandoning Lady Sophia, to become reconciled with his own family he was well-served, for they utterly cast him off, and it wasn’t until Lady Damerel died that he came back to England. Indeed, if it hadn’t been for his having inherited an independence from old Matthew Stone—he was his godfather, and what they call a chicken-nabob—I daresay he must have been reduced to absolute penury—let alone not being able to run off with Lady Sophia in the first place! Which all goes to show what folly it is to endow young men with fortunes.”

  “Cast him off!” Venetia exclaimed. “They would have done better to have cast themselves off!”

  “Cast themselves off?” repeated Lady Denny.

  “Yes, for having done so ill by him as to let him make a cake of himself over this Lady Sophia! It happened when he was twenty-two, didn’t it? Well, then! I dare swear she was older than he, too. Was she?”

  “She was a few years older, I fancy, but—”

  “Then you may depend upon it that it was a great deal more her fault than his, ma’am! And although I suppose he ought to have married her in the end I can’t help thinking that she only came by her deserts when he didn’t. In fact, I begin to feel almost sorry for the Wicked Baron. Does he mean to make a long stay in Yorkshire? Shall we be obliged to recognize him?”

  “I must do so, if we should chance to meet, but I am determined it shan’t go beyond a civil bow; and as for inviting him to dine with us in a formal way, I have begged Sir John not to ask it of me! ‘And, pray, which of our acquaintance would you have me invite to meet him?’ I said. ‘The Yardleys? the Traynes? Poor Mrs. Motcomb? Or have you our sweet Venetia in your mind?’ I am happy to say that he saw that it would be quite improper. It is a fortunate circumstance, since I don’t mean to be drawn into the slightest intimacy, that Damerel is a bachelor. If the gentlemen choose to visit him they may do so: he cannot invite ladies to his parties.”

  On this triumphant conclusion Lady Denny departed, leaving her young friend to await events with such mixed feelings that she could not have told whether she wished Damerel to find some way of seeing her again, or whether she would be glad to know that he had left the Priory. It was certainly a bore to be confined within the bounds of the park, and that, she had decided, must be her fate, unless she rode with Aubrey, for however little heed she paid to Nurse’s dark warnings she was fully alive to the possibility of Damerel’s lying in wait for her, and had no doubt that if he were to find her walking by herself he would believe her to be courting his advances. On the whole, she thought, she would be glad to know that he had gone away. He was dangerous; his conduct had been inexcusable; and to meet him again might be demoralizing to one who had led so cloistered a life as hers had been.

  But when a week crept by without a sign from him she was piqued. He was still at the Priory, but he was making no effort whatsoever to become acquainted with his neighbours. The village gossips, much astonished, reported that he was actually interesting himself in the business of the estate; and Croyde, his long-suffering bailiff, permitted for the first time to lay before him all the crying needs that were never filled, was indulging a flicker of optimism: though his lordship had not yet authorized expenditure he was at least listening to advice, and seeing with his own eyes the slow decay of good land under bad husbandry. Edward, a sceptic, said that the only thing that might induce Damerel to spend a groat on repairs or improvements would be the hope that he might wring back from the estate a greater yield to squander on his amusements. Venetia would have suspected that his sudden interest in his inheritance was nothing more than an excuse for remaining at the Priory had he made some attempt to seek her out. She thought it would not have been difficult for him to have found a pretext for calling at Undershaw; and being far too innocent to realize that Damerel, an expert in the art of dalliance, was employing tactics which none knew better than he to be tantalizing, she was forced to conclude that he had not been as strongly attracted to her as she had supposed. There was nothing in store at Undershaw for his lordship but a set-down, but it was disappointing to be granted no opportunity to deliver this. She found herself imagining a second encounter; and, between disgust at herself and resentment at Damerel for holding her so cheap, became so nearly cross that Aubrey asked her if she felt quite the thing.

  And in the end it was neither she who brought about a second meeting, nor Damerel, but Aubrey.

  Damerel was riding home with Croyde after one of his tours of inspection when a faint cry for help made him break off what he was saying, and look round. The cry was repeated, and Croyde, standing in his stirrups, so that he could see over the hedge that straggled beside the lane, exclaimed: “Good God, it’s Mr. Aubrey! Ay, I thought as much!—that nappy young chestnut of his has come down with him, like I always said he would! If your lordship will excuse me,I’ll have to attend to him.”

  “Yes, of course. Is there a gate, or do we push through the hedge?”

  There was a gate a little farther along the lane, and in a very few moments both men had dismounted, and Croyde was kneeling beside Aubrey, who was lying just clear of the ditch which, with the hedge above it, separated the stubble-field from a stretch of pasturage. At a little distance his horse was standing; and when he moved nervously away from Damerel’s advance it was seen that he was dead lame.

  Aubrey was sickly white, and in considerable pain. He said faintly: “I came down on my weak leg. I can’t get up. Think I must have stunned myself. Where’s Rufus? Jumped off his fore. I hope to God he didn’t break his knees!”

  “Never you mind about that clumsy brute, sir!” Croyde said, in a scolding tone. “What have you broken, that’s what I want to know?”

  “Nothing. For God’s sake, don’t maul me about, or I shall go off again! I’ve twisted my other ankle—that’s the devil of it!” He struggled on to his elbow, turning ashen as he did it, and biting his lip. Croyde supported him, and after a moment he managed to say: “I shall do—in a minute. My horse—?”

  “Your horse has a badly sprained fetlock,” said Damerel. “You can’t ride him, but he hasn’t broken his leg. The question is, are you quite sure you’ve not broken your own?”

  Aubrey looked rather hazily up at him. “It’s not broken. It is only my hip. I have—a weak hip. It will be better directly, I daresay. If a message could be sent to Undershaw they’ll bring the carriage.”

  “It’s young Mr. Lanyon, my lord,” explained Croyde. “I was thinking it would be best
if I was to fetch the chaise from the Priory, for it’s six miles and a way-bit to Undershaw.”

  “And a devilish rough road to be jolted over,” said Damerel, looking thoughtfully down at Aubrey. “We’ll take him to the Priory. Tell ’em to make up a bed, and bring Nidd back with you to take charge of the horses. Here, put this under the boy’s head!” He stripped off his coat as he spoke, rolled it up, and handed it to Croyde, adding, after a glance at Aubrey’s face: “Bring some brandy as well— and bustle, will you?”

  He took Croyde’s place beside Aubrey, and began to loosen the boy’s neckcloth. Aubrey opened his eyes. “What— Oh! Thank you. Are you Lord Damerel, sir?”

  “Yes, I’m Damerel, but never mind talking to me!”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, I fancy you had a slight concussion, and would do better to lie quiet.”

  “I don’t know. Or even how long I’ve been here. I did come round once, and then I suppose I went off again. I was trying to get up. You see, I can’t.”

  Damerel caught the bitter note, but all he said was: “No, and with a weak hip and a sprained ankle you were a damned young fool to try, weren’t you?”

  Aubrey grinned feebly, and shut his eyes again. He did not open them until Croyde came back with the chaise, but Damerel knew from the frown between his brows and a certain rigidity about his mouth that he was neither asleep nor unconscious. He muttered something about being able to walk with a little help when he was lifted, but upon being commanded to put his arm round Damerel’s neck he obeyed, and thereafter devoted his energies to the really rather formidable task of maintaining a decent fortitude. Carrying so slight and thin a boy across the field presented no difficulties, but it was impossible to lift him into the chaise without subjecting him to a good deal of pain, and although little more than a mile had to be covered before the Priory was reached the road was so rough that the journey became a severe trial. No complaint was uttered, but when he was lifted down from the chaise Aubrey fainted again.

  “Just as well!” said Damerel cheerfully, carrying him into the house. “No, no, take those smelling-salts away, Mrs. Imber! We’ll have his boots off before we try to bring him round again, poor lad! Get a razor, Marston!”

  The removal of his boots brought Aubrey to his senses again, but it was not until he had been stripped of his clothing and put into one of his host’s nightshirts that he was able to collect his dazed wits. The relief to his swollen right ankle afforded by a cold compress seemed to mitigate the grinding ache that radiated from his left hip-joint, and the sal volatile which was tilted down his throat enabled him, after a fit of choking, to take stock of his surroundings. He frowned unrecognizingly upon Damerel and his valet, but when his eyes wandered to Mrs. Imber’s concerned face his memory returned, and he exclaimed thickly: “Oh, I remember now! I took a toss. Hell and the devil confound it! Riding like a damned roadster!”

  “Oh, the best of us take tosses!” said Damerel. “Don’t fret yourself into a fever over that!”

  Aubrey turned his head on the pillow to look up at him. A surge of colour came into his cheeks; he said stiffly: “I’m very much obliged to you, sir. I beg your pardon! Making such a bother of myself for nothing worse than a tumble! You must think me a poor creature.”

  “On the contrary, I think you’ve excellent bottom. More bottom than sense! You silly gudgeon! you know you ride a feather! What made you suppose you could hold such a heady young ’un as that chestnut of yours?”

  “He didn’t get away with me!” Aubrey said, firing up. “I let him rush it—I was riding carelessly—but there isn’t a horse in the stables I can’t back!”

  “Much more bottom than sense!” said Damerel, quizzing him, but with such an understanding smile in his eyes that Aubrey forbore to take offence. “And I suppose a few worse gudgeons, like that bailiff of mine, told you the horse was too strong for you, which was all that was needed to set you careering over the countryside! I own I should have done the same, so I won’t comb your hair for it. Where am I to find the sawbones who doctors you when you’ve knocked yourself up?”

  “Nowhere! I mean, I don’t want him: he will only pull me about, and make it ten times worse! It’s nothing—it will go off if I lie still for a while!”

  “Now, Mr. Aubrey, you know Miss Lanyon would have the doctor to you, and no argle-bargle about it!” interposed Mrs. Imber. “And as for making you worse, why, what a way to talk when everyone knows he’s as good as any grand London doctor, and very likely better! It’s Dr. Bentworth, my lord, and if it hadn’t been for Croyde taking Nidd off with him like he did I would have sent him to York straight!”

  “Well, if he has brought the horses in by now he can set off as soon as I’ve written a note for the doctor. Meanwhile—”

  “I wish you will not!” Aubrey said fretfully. “I’m persuaded I shall be well enough to go home long before he can come all this way. If you would but leave me alone—I—I won’t have a grand fuss made over me! I hate it beyond anything!”

  This ungracious speech made Mrs. Imber look very much shocked, but Damerel replied coolly: “Yes, abominable! No one shall make a fuss over you any longer. You shall try instead if you can go to sleep.”

  To Aubrey, who was feeling as if his every limb had been racked, this suggestion seemed so insensate that it was with difficulty that he refrained from snapping back an acid retort. He was left to solitude, and to his own reflections, but these, do what he would, could not be diverted for long from his body’s aches and ails, and soon resolved themselves into a nagging dread that the fall had injured his hip badly enough to turn him into an out-and-out cripple, or at the very least to keep him tied to a sofa for months. However, before he had had time to make himself sick with worry Damerel came back into the room with a glass in his hand. After one keen look at Aubrey, he said: “Pretty uncomfortable, eh? Drink this!”

  “It’s of no consequence: I can bear it,” Aubrey muttered. “If it’s laudanum I don’t want it—thank you!”

  “Remind me to ask you what you want, if ever I should wish to know!” said Damerel. “At the moment I don’t! Come along, do as I tell you, or a worse fate may befall you!”

  “It couldn’t,” sighed Aubrey, reluctantly taking the glass.

  “Don’t be too sure of that! I’ve no patience, and no bowels of mercy either. Can it be that you don’t know you are in the ogre’s den?”

  That made Aubrey smile, but he said, looking distastefully at his potion: “I don’t take this stuff unless I am absolutely obliged. I’m not a weakling, you know—even if I do ride a feather!”

  “You’re an obstinate whelp. And who is making the grand fuss now, I should like to know? All for nothing more than a composer to make you more comfortable until your doctor can set you to rights! Drink it at once, and let me have no more nonsense!”

  Wholly unused to receiving peremptory commands, Aubrey stiffened a little; but after staring at Damerel for a moment out of dangerously narrowed eyes he capitulated, saying with his twisted smile: “Oh, very well!”

  “That’s better,” said Damerel, taking the empty glass from him. Something in Aubrey’s thin, set face made him add: “I’ve a strong notion there’s nothing much amiss with you but bruises and blue devils. You’d be in worse pain if you had done yourself a serious mischief, so come out of the dismals, young paperskull!”

  Aubrey’s eyes turned quickly towards him. “Yes. Yes, I should! I hadn’t thought of that. Thank you—I’m very much obliged to you! I didn’t mean to be uncivil—at least, I did, but—but I beg pardon, sir!”

  “Oh, pooh! go to sleep!”

  “Yes, very likely I shall, after drinking that vile stuff,” Aubrey agreed, with a shy grin that made him look suddenly younger. “Only my sister will be a trifle anxious, I daresay. Do you think—”

  “Have no fear! I have already sent one of the stable-boys to Undershaw with a letter for her.”

  “Oh! Thank you! You didn’t tell her anything to alarm
her, did you?”

  “No, why should I? I told her precisely what I told you, and merely requested her to put up what you need in the way of nightshirts and tooth-brushes for the boy to bring back with him.”

  “That’s right!” Aubrey said, relieved. “They can’t fly into a pucker over that!”

  IV

  the letter which reached Venetia had been written in the most elegant of formal terms, and in a spirit of unholy amusement. Damerel took pains over it, wondering what its effect on her would be. He addressed her as a stranger, but she was unlikely to be deceived into thinking that he did not remember very well who she was. Though he was careful not to pen a word that might betray to her his enjoyment of the situation, she would certainly perceive how maliciously fate had played into his hands. That might bring her to the Priory in a mood of seething resentment, but he did not think it would keep her away from a delicate young brother who seemed to be in her sole charge; and he did not doubt his ability to gentle her into laying her ruffled plumage. He ended his letter with a prim Yours etc, and wished, as he sealed it with a wafer, that he could watch her face when she read it.

  In point of fact not one of the thoughts he had imagined for her so much as crossed her mind. By the time the letter reached Undershaw she was much more anxious than she cared to betray to Nurse, who had been prophesying disaster ever since the discovery that Aubrey had not come home to share a nuncheon with his sister. That circumstance had not alarmed her; he had not told her where he was going, and for anything she knew it might have been to Thirsk, or even to York, where there was a bookshop that enjoyed his patronage. But by four o’clock she had reached the nerve-racking stage of wondering whether to send out all the menservants to scour the countryside, or whether in so doing she would be indulging a fit of extravagant folly which would infuriate Aubrey. So when Ribble brought the letter to her, with Nurse wringing her hands in his wake, and declaring that she had known it all along, and there was her sainted lamb, picked up for dead, and lying at the Priory with every bone in his body broken, there was no room in her head for any thought of Damerel. Her fingers trembled as she broke open the letter; she felt quite sick with dread; and in her anxiety to learn the worst never even noticed the ironic formality over which such pains had been spent. Running her eyes rapidly down the single sheet she exclaimed thankfully: “No, no, he’s not badly hurt! Rufus came down with him, but there are no bones broken. A sprained ankle—considerable bruising—in case of any injury to the left hip—oh, how very kind of him! Listen, Nurse! Lord Damerel has sent to York already to fetch Dr. Bentworth to Aubrey! He writes however that although Aubrey believes himself to have fallen on that leg, he thinks, from the spraining of his right ankle, that it was not so and he has done no more than jar the weak joint. I do pray he may be right! He thought it better to convey Aubrey to the Priory than to subject him to the torment of the longer journey to his own home—indeed it was! And if I will be so good as to put up Aubrey’s necessities the bearer will carry them back to the Priory. As though I shouldn’t go to Aubrey myself!”