Honoria Or The Safety 0f The Frying Pan

by Catherine Bowness

  “Goodness!” Cassie said. “I have been here more than five months and I cannot engage in even the simplest conversation. Fräulein, I was about to go out when you arrived and do not wish to be late for my appointment but I would be delighted if you would indeed take me on as a pupil. Perhaps you could come back tomorrow at the same time when we can discuss terms?”

  The teacher being perfectly agreeable to this arrangement, Cassie rang the bell and the butler showed the young woman out.

  When she arrived at Count von Krems’s house, she was shown into a finely but, to her mind, over-furnished saloon where a log fire burned in the grate. Her host was not in the room but came in almost at once, smiling with apparent delight. He took both her hands and kissed them before they sat down, one on either side of the fire.

  “Better,” he said, “Your face is better.”

  “I think you exaggerate, but thank you all the same,” she replied, adding, “This is your house, mein Herr, so here we must speak German.”

  He bowed his head in acknowledgement and repeated his observation concerning her face in his own language.

  She thanked him and said haltingly, “This morning a young woman came to my house who is to teach me German.”

  “That is splendid news,” he replied. “Soon you will be able to speak like a native Viennese. I need a teacher of English – for me and Gustav.”

  “Ah,” she said, “Fräulein Brunner speaks good English; perhaps she can teach you.”

  “We could have lessons together,” he suggested.

  “Do you really wish to learn English?”

  “Yes, really, although I have a confession to make: I can speak English – or, rather, I learned it a long time ago when I was a boy. But I am afraid I have forgotten most of what I once knew. Now I think it is time for Gustav to begin lessons.”

  “She is coming tomorrow. Shall I ask her if she teaches English?”

  “Yes, please. Would you like to see Gustav? He has drawn you a picture and would like to give it to you himself.”

  Cassie expressed delight and Gustav was sent for. He came in, clutching a piece of paper which he shyly presented to the Gnädige Frau. It was a drawing of the incident in the Prater; he had paid careful attention to the trees and paths as well as the figure on the bench, which was a lady dressed in furs. Unable to depict the true horror of the injury she had sustained with pencil alone, the boy had added a bold dash of red paint to her face.

  “Goodness!” she exclaimed. “Das Blut! So much blood,” she added in English rather in the manner of Lady Macbeth. “Sehr gut!” She smiled at him, noticing how anxious he looked, his big eyes moving from her face to his picture. “May I keep it?”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Very much. It is a beautiful picture. Will you write your name at the bottom like a proper artist?”

  He did not understand this last, which was in English, so she pointed to the bottom corner of the picture and said, “Your name.”

  Gustav looked interrogatively at his father, who rose and went to a desk in front of the window. He called the boy over and dipped a pen in ink so that the child could write his name, which he did with great concentration. When he had done, the Count sanded the paper and told his son to give it back to the lady.

  “Thank you,” she said and studied the picture again for some time. It seemed to her that the child must have some talent for the execution was, to her mind, remarkable for a child of his age. She thought that it was a pity he had seen fit to splash such a very large and clumsy dollop of red paint where her nose should be but supposed that he had faithfully reproduced what he had seen. She determined to have it framed and hung upon her bedroom wall where, if she was ever minded to fall into a fit of vanity again, it would remind her of the day when she had looked positively gruesome.

  “I like it so much. I shall take it home – so - in my muff.” She rolled up the paper with immense care before miming putting it in a muff. “In case it snows – I do not want it to get wet.”

  “No,” the boy said, affording her another smile.

  “Do you know any English words?” she asked, searching for something to say to someone who had fixed her with such a searching gaze. She thought that he was studying her nose; unlike the two gentlemen, who had endeavoured to look at her while avoiding focusing upon the middle of her face, the child made no attempt to conceal his fascination with that portion of her countenance.

  “Nein, Gnädige Frau.”

  She pointed to her nose and said in English, “This is my nose. The English word is similar to the German one, is it not?”

  “Nose,” the boy said, touching his own.

  “Yes, that is right!” she exclaimed, quite as delighted by this evidence of his interest as she had ever been by any grown-up gentleman’s compliment.

  “You are a good teacher, Mrs Morley,” the Count said. He had been smiling indulgently as his son stood close to the guest; the child’s slender little body was gracefully inclined to the woman’s; the pair, both quite unconscious of the charming picture they made, had brought tears to his eyes for he felt keenly his son’s want of a mother.

  “That is enough, Gustav,” he added, remembering that most ladies did not like to be stared at with quite such intensity. “You may go,” he added.

  “Auf Wiedersehen, Gnädige Frau,” Gustav said, bringing his little heels together and executing a graceful bow.

  Cassie said good-bye gravely. When the boy had gone, the Count thanked her for conversing in such a grown-up way with so small a child.

  Cassie said in English, “It does not matter how small you are; you have your pride and your opinions deserve to be respected.” She could not begin to express this thought in German and realised something of the depth of frustration that exists between people who cannot communicate clearly by means of words. She nodded and smiled and attempted, through mime, to show her respect for the child but knew that the man had no idea what she was saying; all he knew was that she seemed to be praising his son and, at this, he looked pleased.

  She wondered how long it was since Gustav had lost his mother but, lacking the words to put such a question tactfully, she refrained from asking it.

  The Count asked, “Have you children of your own?”

  Cassie at first thought this an odd question for, surely, if she had, some evidence of their presence would have been apparent in her house and it seemed to her unlikely that she would have been sitting in the Prater by herself. But then she realised that, at her age, her children might be supposed to be grown up; they would not be hanging around their mother’s knees; indeed, if she had had a daughter, she would very likely have been married by now.

  “No,” she said. She wondered if she should add one of the usual qualifiers to this bald denial such as, ‘it is a great sadness to me’ or some such, but, as it was not and had indeed been a vast relief, she could not bring herself to attempt to express a thought so insincere, even by the simple and graphic means of turning down the corners of her mouth..

  “He is a handsome boy,” she said instead.

  “Yes,” he agreed. He pointed to a portrait hanging above the fireplace and said, “That is his mother.”

  “Oh!” Cassie exclaimed. The picture depicted a very young woman dressed in a ball gown and sitting, not in this room, but in an exceedingly ornate drawing room, presumably in the Count’s country house. She had her back to a window, beyond which extensive grounds, set out in a formal manner, could be seen diminishing into the distance. The woman had dark hair and large dark eyes and looked to be not much more than seventeen. Her expression was anxious, the eyes wide open so that she resembled a frightened deer and Cassie found herself wondering if she too had looked out on the world with such a wary gaze when she had been that age. She had not been a bold girl and she knew now that it was this lack of boldness, this inability, frankly, to say ‘boo’ to a goose which had landed her in such hot water.

  “She was very pretty,” she sai
d inadequately. It was one of the few things she knew how to say, although she was by no means certain that she had got the tense right.

  “Yes. She died when Gustav was born. She never saw him.”

  “Oh! That is very sad.”

  A silence fell between them, which might have been out of respect for the young woman whose life had so cruelly been cut short, but Cassie, feeling that her response had been inadequate, attempted another observation, this time on a more positive note.

  “At least Gustav never knew her and cannot miss her, even if he feels the want of a mother.” All she actually achieved in German was, “Gustav …”

  “He does not know that he should miss her,” von Krems said. He spoke slowly. “It is sad that he never knew his mother but he cannot, in the circumstances, mourn her.”

  The Count had expressed precisely what Cassie had wished to say but could not. She nodded.

  “He has a kind nurse,” the Count pursued. “She is young and pretty so that Gustav has perhaps some idea of what it would have been like to have had a mother. I chose a nurse like that because I did not want him to be cared for by an old woman who would no doubt also have been kind and loving but who would, in other respects, have been quite unlike a mother.”

  He was obliged to repeat this thought several times, trying different ways of putting it until he was certain that his listener had understood.

  Cassie, realising how much he wished her to know his reasons for choosing such a nursemaid, wondered if she was the first person in whom he had confided. All she could find to say was, “Yes; very good,” but she hoped that the earnest look in her eyes would convey something of her approbation.

  Chapter 15

  When the carriage came to a halt outside the front door and they disembarked, Lord Charles, with an incomprehensible grunt by way of explanation, disappeared rapidly, although he tried to conceal the speed of his movements by adopting a shuffling gait. As he passed Belton, standing in the hall, he instructed him to bring brandy to the library, adding unnecessarily that he had endured an evening of quite stultifying boredom and irritation. It was one of his lady’s chief complaints that her husband spoke more to the servants than he did to her.

  Her ladyship, without offering any explanation other than a heavy sigh, called for Prosser in a failing voice and pushed Honoria and Helen, who were hanging over her with an air of anxious concern, out of her way with a surprising degree of force before almost sprinting up the stairs.

  The three young people were left standing alone but for the footmen.

  “I do hope poor Aunt will not be subject to a fit of the spasms,” Honoria muttered. “She seemed quite overset, but I daresay Prosser will be able to render the sort of aid which we cannot.”

  “A forlorn hope, I’m afraid; you mustn’t take her rejection to heart. Prosser will no doubt administer something stronger than would be at your disposal, probably from a bottle of some sort. Sympathy and rationality are unlikely to cut it. Come along,” Frank added, ushering both young women into the small saloon to the left of the front door. “Probably best not to speculate any further upon Mama’s health in front of the footmen.”

  “I suppose she will say that the burden of chaperoning us on our first-ever social outing has so impaired her health that she will be wholly unable to repeat the exercise and will most likely take to her bed for a se’nnight,” Helen predicted in a gloomy tone.

  “If she gets up within a week she will be ready to go back again next Friday,” Frank pointed out breezily. “What do you think we should do to soothe our flagging spirits? Papa has opted for brandy by himself, Mama has chosen the lord knows what; I suppose you have been drinking lemonade or orgeat or something equally nauseating all evening; shall we have a glass of wine and - personally - since dinner was an aeon ago and the sandwiches in the assembly rooms inedible - I am going to ask for something to eat as well. What would you like?”

  “I am quite indifferent,” Helen replied. “Do you suppose Mama would permit us to have a glass of Madeira?”

  “She won’t know anything about it,” Frank said. “By the time she rises from her bed, your imbibing of spirituous liquor will have faded from everyone’s memories. Do you wish to eat something?”

  “Whatever you like – perhaps some biscuits.”

  “Honoria?”

  “I think I might go to bed.”

  “Why? Are you fatigued or do you feel a pressing desire to run away from me?”

  “Both.”

  He smiled. “You’re by far too truthful, Cousin. I think it your duty to stay with Helen – you cannot leave her to the mercies of her evil brother; I might allow her to drink a whole bottle and then she would no doubt be confined to her bed for several days.”

  Honoria shrugged but sat down so that Frank, when he rang the bell, ordered a glass for her too.

  She had had more than enough of her family for the time being and felt she needed to be by herself to review the day’s revelations. Certainly, she was exceedingly tired of Frank, whose lively manner seemed to her, in the circumstances of his mother’s barely contained hysteria, inappropriate.

  Frank, when Belton appeared, requested not only biscuits but also bread and butter, slices of cold meat, fruit, cake, brandy and Madeira. It required the services of two footmen to bear this feast into the room and arrange it on a table standing in the window.

  “Will that be all, Sir?”

  “Yes, for the time being, thank you. You can throw another log on the fire if you will. It’s chilly in here.”

  Frank poured out the wine and handed a glass to each of the young women, giving himself brandy.

  “To what shall we raise a toast?” he asked.

  “To Aunt Julia’s swift recovery,” Honoria said.

  “To Mama and may she not linger too long in her bed,” Frank said obediently, raising his glass.

  “She has not been unwell for some time,” Helen observed.

  “You must have been excessively well-behaved,” Frank suggested.

  “We have been. We should not have insisted upon her taking us to Tunbridge Wells – it was selfish of us,” Honoria said.

  “It is selfish of Mama to refuse to allow you any freedom – or any friends,” Frank pointed out.

  “She has turned us into recluses,” Helen said. “I did not know how to converse properly; Mr Hallett, who was the first person I stood up with, clearly thought me odd. I believe I became a little less buttoned up as the evening wore on.”

  “Did you find Mr Hallett particularly agreeable?” Honoria asked.

  “I found all the gentlemen agreeable,” Helen said. “They said such kind things – complimented me on my looks and overlooked my clumsy dancing. I own I enjoyed myself enormously but I wish we had not gone because now Mama will make sure we never go again and, having had a taste of what ordinary people do to pass the time, it will seem all the more disagreeable to return to the incarceration to which we have been accustomed.”

  “Why should she refuse to let us return? I think the evening went well. I am persuaded you are viewing the situation with unnecessary pessimism,” Honoria said.

  “Do you really suppose that she will wish to run the risk of your consolidating your attachment to Lord Ninfield? She will find some excuse to prevent our return and I don’t suppose the matter will be helped by the likelihood of several of your suitors calling and leaving cards – or even invitations.”

  Frank had been sitting quietly with his brandy, his eyes moving between the two young women with an alertness only partially concealed beneath drooping eyelids. He did not miss Honoria’s suddenly conscious look and the rise in her colour. “Has he already invited you to something or other?”

  “He said he and his sister – with whom he lives – were expecting a large party over Christmas and that he hoped we would be able to join them,” Honoria admitted.

  “There!” Helen exclaimed with a satisfied air. “If he coerces his sister to call upon us you may be
sure Mama will bolt the door – with us inside and everyone else outside.”

  “I do not see why in the world she should. In any event, if they come quite soon, Aunt will no doubt leave us to receive them by ourselves on account of being unwell.”

  “If they come bearing an invitation to a Christmas party, will you refuse it outright and, if you do, what reason will you give? You had better be prepared,” Frank said, amused.

  “Why should I refuse?” Honoria asked. “I shall accept; no doubt Helen will be included in the invitation – and probably you, too, Frank. I do not see why we cannot go.”

  “If Mama hears of it she will succumb to an even more extensive period of collapse,” Helen said. “And you can hardly go to a party in Lord Ninfield’s house without informing Mama and indeed obtaining her permission.”

  “Of course I will not but I think you are making a piece of work about my aunt’s reluctance to entertain. It is simply that she is not herself sociable and that is why she has found this evening so excessively fatiguing. It was kind of her to take us and I see no reason why she should not do so again – when she has recovered – and nor do I see why she should frown upon us receiving – and accepting – an invitation from a perfectly respectable woman. She cannot wish to keep us here for ever without our going out or meeting new people.”

  “I think she does – at least until you agree to marry Frank. She will be appalled if Lord Ninfield attempts to pursue the acquaintance by introducing you to his sister – she will want to keep you away from him at all costs,” Helen said.

  “You are being absurd!” Honoria exclaimed, irritated. “We are not living within the pages of a gothic romance and Aunt Julia is not an evil stepmother.”

  “No, but I am afraid she is a little deranged,” Helen said. “She sees lurking rivals to Frank under every chair.”