Venetia

by Джорджетт Хейер

  “Only tell me, ma’am—”

  “’Sh,” uttered Mrs. Hendred.

  As this sibilant command was endorsed by the party in the adjoining box, in an even more menacing manner, Venetia relapsed into silence. Mrs. Hendred was agitatedly fanning herself; and instead of joining in the burst of laughter which greeted one of the diverting things that was said on the stage she seize the opportunity to tweak Edward’s sleeve, and, upon his bending towards her, to whisper something in his ear. Venetia, who had not joined in the laughter either, but who was sitting bolt upright, an expression on her face compound of incredulity and bewilderment, did not hear what was said; but in another minute or two Edward whispered to her: “Venetia, your aunt is feeling faint! You will not object to removing from this box? It is very stuffy— I am conscious of it myself, and believe Mrs. Hendred will revive if she can but be got into the air!”

  Venetia rose with alacrity, and, while Edward led the afflicted lady out, she flung her own cloak over her shoulders, caught up her aunt’s, and slipped out of the box, to find two of the attendants solicitously reviving Mrs. Hendred with smelling-salts, vigorous fanning, and drops of water sprinkled on her brow. Her colour seemed a trifle high for a lady on the brink of a swoon, but when Edward, who was looking very grave, told Venetia, in a lowered voice, that he thought they should take her home as soon as she was a little recovered, Venetia at once agreed to it, and recommended him (since Mrs. Hendred’s coachman would not bring her carriage to the theatre for another hour) to go at once to summon a hackney. He went off immediately, to confer with the door-keeper; and Mrs. Hendred, allowing herself to be supported by the two box-attendants to the stairway, said, in failing accents, that she feared her unfortunate indisposition was due to the evil effect upon her system of woodcock a la Royale. “Or, perhaps, it was the croque enbouche aux pistaches, but I would not for the world say so to Mr. Yardley!”

  Venetia replied to this with remarkable calm, making no attempt, either then or when she sat beside her aunt in the somewhat malodorous vehicle procured for their conveyance, to repeat the question which had played so large a part in throwing Mrs. Hendred into queer stirrups. But when Mrs. Hendred, upon arrival in Cavendish Square, announced her intention of instantly retiring to bed, she said, with more amusement than concern: “Yes, if you wish, ma’am, but I warn you I am not to be so easily fobbed off! I’ll go with you!”

  “No, no, dear child! I can feel one of my spasms coming on! That is, I can’t imagine what you can possibly— Worting, why do you not send to fetch Miss Bradpole to me, when you can see how unwell I am?”

  Before Worting could remind his mistress that she had granted her dresser leave of absence until eleven o’clock, Edward, who had accompanied the ladies into the house, intervened, saying heavily: “I believe, ma’am, upon consideration, that the wisest course nowwill be for you to inform your niece of the circumstance which made it unhappily necessary for us to quit the theatre before the end of the act.”

  “You may depend upon it that it will be!” said Venetia. “Do you take my aunt upstairs to the drawing-room, while I mix a dose of hartshorn and water for her! That will make you feel very much more the thing, dear ma’am!”

  She ran lightly up the stairs, as she spoke, heedless of the protesting moan that pursued her.

  When she presently entered the drawing-room, it was to find her aunt sunk into an armchair, her expression that of one resigned to the worst bludgeonings of fate. Edward, his countenance preternaturally solemn, was standing on the hearth-rug; and Worting, having lit the candles and made up the fire, was preparing to take his reluctant departure.

  Mrs. Hendred distastefully eyed the potion her niece had prepared, but accepted the glass with faint thanks. Venetia glanced over her shoulder to be sure the door was firmly shut behind Worting; and then said, without preamble: “Who was that lady, ma’am?”

  Mrs. Hendred shuddered; but Edward, who had apparently taken the conduct of the affair on himself, replied with deliberation: “She is Lady Steeple, my dear Venetia. She was accompanied, Mrs. Hendred informs me, by her husband, Sir Lambert Steeple. I am aware, however, that these names can convey but little to you.”

  “An understatement, Edward!” Venetia interrupted. “They convey nothing whatsoever to me, and I wish very much that you will allow my aunt to answer for herself! Ma’am, when I first caught sight of her I had the oddest feeling— But I knew it to be impossible, and thought it was just one of those resemblances for which there is no accounting. Only she stared at me so hard, and directed her husband’s attention to me, and lifted her hand, not quite waving to me, but—but as though she meant it as a sign of recognition! It cannot be so, of course, but the most fantastic notion shot into my brain! I—I thought she was my mother!”

  Mrs. Hendred moaned, and took a sip of hartshorn and water. “Oh, my dear child!”

  “Your quickness of wit, Venetia, has made it easier for me to discharge the unpleasant duty—for such I feel it to be under these unforeseen circumstances—of divulging to you that she is, in fact, your mother,” said Edward.

  “But my mother is dead!” exclaimed Venetia. “She has been dead for years!”

  “Oh, if only she had been!” Mrs. Hendred set down the glass she was holding, and added bitterly: “I said it at the time, and I shall always say it! I knew she would never cease to afflict us! And just now, when we thought she was fixed in Paris—! I shouldn’t wonder at it if she came back on purpose to ruin you, my poor child, for what has she ever done but make trouble, besides being the most unnatural parent!”

  “But how is this possible?” demanded Venetia, looking, and, indeed, feeling, quite stunned. “Mama—Lady Steeple?Then—”

  “I don’t wonder that you should find it difficult to understand,” said Edward kindly. “Yet I fancy that a moment’s reflection will inform you of how it must have been. Let me suggest to you, my dear Venetia, that you sit down in this chair, while I procure a glass of water for you. This has been a shock to you. It could not be otherwise, and although the truth must have been divulged to you it has been my earnest hope that this need not have been until you had become established in life.”

  “Well, of course it has been a shock to me! But I don’t wish for any water, thank you! Only to have the whole truth told me, and not, Edward, such portions of it as you consider suitable! I collect my parents were divorced. Good God, was it the same as— Did my mother elope with that man?”

  “I think, Venetia, that it is unnecessary for you to know more than the bare fact,” said Edward repressively. “Indeed, I am confident that when you have a little recovered the tone of your mind you will not wish to know more. The subject is not an edifying one, nor is it one on which I can venture to enlighten you. You must remember that at the time of that very unhappy event I was myself still at school.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Edward, must you be so Gothic?” she demanded indignantly. “Aunt, did she elope?”

  Mrs. Hendred, now that the news was out, had begun to revive. She sat up, straightening her elegant cap, and replied with tolerable calm: “Well, no, my love! No, she didn’t elope, precisely. In some ways, one can’t help wishing—not that I mean—only it wasn’t the first time, which seemed to make it worse, because people had been talking for years, which made everything so disagreeable, though she was so discreet to begin with that I’m sure I had not the least guess—not, that is, until the affair with— Well, never mind that! It is not at all to the purpose, for the General was alive then, poor man, and he persuaded Francis to condone it, for he doted on her! There was never anything like it, for I don’t believe she cared the snap of her fingers for him, or anyone! A more heartless—”

  “Wait, ma’am, wait! What General?”

  “Good gracious, Venetia, her father, of course—your grandfather, though naturally you can’t remember him! General Chiltoe, such an amiable, delightful man! Everyone liked him: I did myself. She was his only child, and he thought nothing
too good for her, for his wife died when she was quite an infant, which I daresay accounted for it. She was so spoiled and indulged that anyone might have foretold how it would be, and I can assure you that poor Mama—your dear grandmama, my love—begged and implored Francis not to offer for her, but all to no purpose! He was utterly out of his senses, and in general, you know, his understanding was most superior, and I assure you that if Mama introduced one eligible female to his notice she must have introduced a score! His affections were never in the least animated—and, you know, my dear, though I should not say so to you, his disposition was not warm!—But no sooner did he clap eyes on Aurelia than he fell violently in love with her, and wouldn’t listen to a word anyone said to him!”

  She heaved a gusty sigh, and shook her head. “I never liked her, never! I daresay she was very beautiful—everyone thought her ravishing!—but there was always something about her that I couldn’t quite like. And I wasn’t the only one, I promise you! A great many of my friends thought the fuss and to-do that was made over her was positively nonsensical, but of course none of the gentlemen could see the least thing amiss with her! She had them all dangling after her in the most absurd way—and no fortune, mind you! That was what made it so particularly— However, I must own that it was a great triumph for your father to have won her, though heaven knows he would have done better to have married Georgiana Denny—Sir John’s sister, my love, that afterwards married Appledore’s eldest son—for you know what he was, dear child, not hard-fisted, but careful, and from the very start there was trouble, because she hadn’t the smallest notion of economy, besides being fatally addicted to gaming! The dresses she used to have made for her! The jewels she coaxed out of Francis!—My dear, those diamonds she was wearing tonight! I never saw anything so vulgar— And that gown, with not a stitch under it but one invisible petticoat! I wish I might know how she has contrived to keep her figure! Not but what she looked exactly like—” She broke off in some confusion, as Edward cleared his throat warningly, and added hastily: “I’m sure I don’t know what she looked like, except that it was not at all the thing!”

  “Like a Bird of Paradise,” supplied Venetia obligingly. “I thought so myself. But—”

  “Venetia,” interposed Edward, in a tone of grave reproof, “do not let your sportive tongue betray you into saying what is not at all becoming, believe me!”

  “How did it come about, ma’am, that Papa divorced her?” demanded Venetia, ignoring this interruption.

  “That,” declared Mrs. Hendred, with a shudder, “nothing shall ever prevail upon me to discuss! If only Francis had not allowed the General to reconcile him to her, after the Yattenden affair! But so it was—and the way Aurelia could twist men round her thumb—! Well, it would have been better for everyone if he had remained adamant, but he let her coax and cajole him, and then Aubrey was born, and such a pet as she fell into when she found she was increasing again—! And then that dreadful Sir Lambert Steeple began to cast out lures, so that anyone could have known how it would be! His father had just died, and left him that immense fortune, and of course he was excessively handsome, but the most shocking profligate, besides being— Well, never mind that, but he wore the Prince’s button—for he wasn’t the Prince Regent then—and a more improper set than the Prince’s people I daresay never existed! And don’t, I beg of you, my dear niece, ask me to tell you how it was that your father was obliged to divorce her, for it makes me feel vapourish only to think of the scandal, and the way even one’s closest friends—I am quite overpowered! My smelling-salts!—Oh, I have them here!”

  Venetia, who had listened to this in amazement, said slowly: “So that was why Papa shut himself up at Undershaw, and wouldn’t let anyone mention her! Of all the mutton-headed things to have done— But how like him! how very like him!”

  “Hush, Venetia!” said Edward sternly. “Remember of whom you are speaking!”

  “I shall not hush!” she retorted. “You know perfectly well that I never held him in affection, and if you think that this is a suitable moment for me to pretend I loved him you must have windmills in your head! Was there ever such a selfish folly? Pray, how much affection had he for me when, instead of taking care I should be brought up as other girls so that everyone might have been well-acquainted with me, he buried me alive? Why, for anything that is known of me I might be as like Mama in disposition as I’m held to be like her in appearance!”

  “Exactly so, my love!” corroborated Mrs. Hendred, replacing the stopper of her vinaigrette. “It is why I am for ever telling you that you cannot be too careful not to give people the smallest cause to say you are like her! Not but what I for one couldn’t blame your poor papa, though your uncle, of course, did his utmost to persuade him that he would be making the greatest mistake, for he is very strong-minded, and never pays the least heed to gossip. But Francis was always such a high stickler, never passing the line, and holding himself so very much up! He could not bear to be so mortified, and I’m sure it wasn’t to be wondered at, for instead of hiding herself from the world, as one might have supposed she would, Aurelia—your mama, I mean, and how very dreadful to be speaking to you of her in such terms, but I do feel, dear child, that you should know the truth!—well, she positively flaunted herself all over town, though not, of course, received, and only think how degrading for Francis it would have been! No sooner did Sir Lambert marry her—and the wonder is that he did marry her, when it was an open secret that she was his mistress, and costing him a fortune, too!—no sooner did he marry her than she became perfectly outrageous! Nothing would do for her but to put us all to the blush, and set everyone staring at her! She used to drive a high-perch phaeton every afternoon in the park, with four cream-coloured horses in blue and silver harness, which they say Sir Lambert bought from Astley, just as though she had not been his wife at all, but something very different!”

  “Good heavens!” said Venetia, on a tiny choke of laughter. “How—how very dashing of her! I see, of course, that that would never have done for Papa. Poor man! the last in the world to be set dancing to the tune of Cuckolds All Awry!”

  “Well, yes, my dear, though I do beg you won’t use such improper language! But you do perceive how awkward it was? And particularly when it was time for you to be brought out, which your uncle insisted I must urge your papa to consent to. And no one can say I didn’t offer to present you, but when your papa declined it—well, only think what a quake I should have been in, for they were then living in Brook Street—the Steeples, I mean—and Aurelia was always so capricious that heaven only knows what she might not have taken it into her head to do! Why, she had the effrontery to wave her hand to you this very evening! I shall never cease to be thankful that there was no one I’m acquainted with to see her! Oh, dear, what in the world has brought them back to England, I wonder?”

  “They don’t live here now, ma’am?”

  “No, no, not for years, though I fancy Sir Lambert comes every now and then, for he has a very large property in Staffordshire. It’s my belief Aurelia thought that because she entertained the Prince Regent, and that set, the ton would receive her again, but of course it was no such thing, and so Sir Lambert sold the London house—oh, six or seven years ago!—and I believe they went to Lisbon, or some such place. Lately—since the Peace, I mean—they have been living in Paris. Why they must needs come to London at this moment—and your uncle away from home, so that what’s to be done I cannot think!”

  “My dear ma’am, nothing!” said Venetia. “Even my uncle can’t be expected to drive them out of the country!” She got up from her chair, and began to walk about the room. “My head is in a perfect whirl!” she said, pressing her hands to her temples. “How is it possible that I should never have heard so much as a whisper of this? Surely they must have known—? Everyone at home—Miss Poddemore, Nurse—the villagers!”

  “Your papa forbade anyone to speak of it, my dear. Besides, it is not to be supposed that they knew the whole at Undershaw
, for it was very much hushed up—your uncle saw to that!—and in any event I am persuaded Miss Poddemore—such an excellent woman!—would never have opened her lips on the subject to a soul!”

  “No. Or Nurse, or— But the maids— No, they all held Papa in such awe: they wouldn’t have dared, I suppose. But later, when I grew up—”

  “You forget that until Sir Francis’s death you were acquainted only with the Dennys, and with my mother and myself,” said Edward. “By then, moreover, several years had passed. I do not say that the scandal was forgotten, but it was too old to be much thought about in Yorkshire any longer. It was not at all likely that you would ever hear it mentioned.”

  “I never did. Good God, why could not Papa have told me? Of all the infamous— Does Conway know?”

  “Yes, but Conway is a man, dear child! And of course he had to know, when he was sent to Eton, but Papa forbade him ever to speak of it!”

  “Gothic! perfectly Gothic!” said Venetia. Her eyes went to Edward. “So that iswhy Mrs. Yardley doesn’t like me!” she exclaimed.

  He lifted his hand. “I assure you, my dear Venetia, you are mistaken! My mother has frequently told me that she likes you very well. That she did not, for some time, wish for the connection is—I know you must agree—understandable, for her principles are high, and anything in the nature of scandal is repugnant to her—as, indeed, it must be to anyone of propriety.”

  “Such as yourself?” she asked.

  He replied weightily: “I do not deny that it is not what I like. Indeed, I struggled to overcome what I felt was an attachment I ought never to have allowed myself to form. It would not do, however. I became persuaded that there was nothing in your character, or your disposition, that made you unworthy to succeed my dear mother as mistress of Netherfold. You have sometimes a trifle too much volatility, as I have had occasion now and then to hint to you, but of your virtue I have no doubt.”