Джорджетт Хейер - Black Sheep

“I’m glad of that,” he said. Then, as surprise and quick amusement leapt into her eyes, he laughed, and added: “I’m a shocking bad hand at it, you see! May I sit down, and talk to you instead?”

“Pray do!” she responded. “I have been wishing for the opportunity of talking to you, sir. Have you yet made the acquaintance of your nephew?”

“Yes, he was so obliging as to pay me a visit today.”

“What do you dunk of him?” she demanded.

“Why, nothing! Must I?”

“I wish you won’t be so provoking!” said Abby.

“I wouldn’t provoke you for the world. But what would you have me say? He was with me for less than an hour, and I can’t recall that he said anything that interested me to the point of thinking about him.”

“You are a most unnatural uncle!” she told him, with a severity at variance with the dimple that peeped in her cheek.

“Am I?” He reflected for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. I’d three uncles, and none of ’em took the smallest interest in me. After all, why should they?”

“For no reason at all, I daresay! Are you trying to make me—oh, what is it the hunting men say?—fly from a scent? Yes, that’s it. Well, you won’t do it! I also made the acquaintance of your nephew today, and I don’t scruple to tell you that I like him even less than I had expected I should!”

“No, did you ? Your expectations must have been much higher than you led me to suppose!”

“No, but—oh, I suppose I did expect him to be a man of charm! I don’t find him charming at all, and I can’t conceive how Fanny came to fall in love with him! Now, tell me to my head, can you?”

“Oh, easily!” he replied. “He is a very pretty fellow, you must allow! Turns out in excellent trim, too, and has both air and address.”

“Oh, yes!” she said bitterly. “Playing off his cajolery! He tried to turn me up sweet, but it’s my belief he is one who hides his teeth. And when he smiles there’s no smile in his eyes: only—only a measuring look! Surely you must have seen it?”

“Well, no!” he confessed. “But mat might be because he didn’t smile very often when he was with me. Or perhaps because he saw no need to—er—measure me!”

She said quickly: “You didn’t like him either, did you?”

“Oh, no! But how many people does one like ?”

She frowned over this, momentarily diverted. “Upon first acquaintance? I don’t know: not very many, perhaps. But one need not dislike them, and I do dislike Mr Stacy Calverleigh!”

“Yes, I thought you did,” he said gravely.

“And I don’t believe, for all his protestations and caressing ways, that he truly loves Fanny, or would have made the least push to engage her affections had she not been possessed of a large fortune!”

“Oh, lord, no!”

She turned her head, looking up into his face with pleading eyes, and laying one of her expensively gloved hands on his arm. “If you too think that, won’t you—oh, Mr Calverleigh, won’t you do anything to save my poor Fanny?”

He was regarding her with the smile which, unlike his nephew’s, sprang to life in his eyes, but all he said was: “My dear girl—No, no, don’t poker up! It was a slip of the tongue! My dear Miss Wendover, what do you imagine I could do?”

Never having considered this, she was at a loss for an answer. She said lamely: “Surely you must be able to do something.”

“What leads you to think so?”

“Well—well, you are his uncle, after all!”

“Oh, that’s no reason! You’ve told me already that I am an unnatural uncle, and if that means one who don’t meddle in the affairs of a nephew over whom he has no authority, and who might, for aught he cares, have been any other man’s nephew, you are undoubtedly right!”

“Not authority, no! But whatever you may say the relationship exists, and you must have influence, if you would but exert it?”

He looked down at her in some amusement. “You know, you have some remarkably hubble-bubble notions in that charming head of yours! How the devil should I have influence over a nephew who met me for the first time this afternoon ?”

She perceived the force of this argument, but the conviction that he could drive off Stacy, if he chose to do it, remained with her. It was irrational, to be accounted for only by the strength she believed she had detected in his harsh-featured countenance, and by a certain ruthlessness which underlay his careless manners. She said, with a tiny sigh: “I suppose you can have none. And yet—and yet—I think you could, if you but wanted to!”

“For my part,” he retorted, “I think you are very well able to button it up yourself, without any assistance from me.”

There did not seem to be anything more to be said, nor was she granted the opportunity to pursue the subject, her attention being claimed just then by Mr Dunston, who had been watching her jealously for some minutes, and now came up to beg for the privilege of taking her into the tea-room presently.

They met again, two days later, in Edgar Buildings; and however little pleased Abby may have been to find Mr Stacy Calverleigh in Mrs Grayshott’s drawing-room, making himself agreeable to his hostess, and winning Fanny’s favour by the engaging solicitude with which he treated Mr Oliver Grayshott, she was undoubtedly pleased to see his uncle, and betrayed it by the sudden smile which lit her eyes, and the readiness with which she put out her hand.

She discovered that her arrival had interrupted a lively discussion. Mr Grayshott’s medical adviser, visiting him earlier in the day, had professed himself very well satisfied with his progress, and had endorsed a somewhat recalcitrant patient’s belief that it would do him a great deal of good to abandon the sofa, and to get out for a little air and exercise. A drive up to Lansdown, and a gentle walk there, enjoying the view of the Bristol Channel, was what he recommended; but when Mr Grayshott took exception to this programme, saying, very improperly, that he would be damned if he allowed himself to be driven to Lansdown or anywhere else, as though he were dying of a deep decline, the doctor laughed, and said: “Well, well, go for a ride, if you choose! It won’t do you any harm, provided you don’t go too far, or exhaust yourself.”

This was by no means what Mrs Grayshott wanted. She believed Oliver to be a long way from complete recovery, unable to forget how gray and worn he had looked after the journey from London; and she could not like his scheme of riding out of Bath with his sister as his only companion. Lavinia was a nervous horsewoman, requiring constant surveillance: not at all the sort of escort one would choose to send out with an invalid; and Fanny, instantly offering to accompany the Grayshotts, was no more acceptable to the widow. Fanny was not nervous. Mrs Grayshott, herself no horsewoman, had heard her described by one of her admirers as a clipping rider, a regular good ‘un to go, which was an encomium to strike dread into a mother’s anxious heart. And then, to make matters worse, Stacy Calverleigh, who had met the two girls in Queen’s Square, and accompanied them to Edgar Buildings, proffered his services, laughingly assuring Mrs Grayshott that he would engage himself to bring the party back to her in good time, and none the worse for wear.

This question was instantly approved of by the girls, if not by Oliver, which made it difficult for Mrs Grayshott to decline it. She was floundering amongst some rather lame excuses when Abigail was announced.

“In a good hour. Come in, my dear, and lend me your support!” she exclaimed going forward to greet Abby. “Here is my wilful son determined on riding up to Lansdown, and these other young people bent on making up a party to go with him! I am persuaded you cannot like the scheme any more than I do, for although Mr Stacy Calverleigh has very kindly offered to go with them I fear that he would find the task of preventing three such harum-scarum children from going much too far quite beyond his power!”

“No, indeed we wouldn’t!” cried Fanny. “We mean to take the greatest care of Oliver, and I promise you it wouldn’t be at all hard for Stacy to prevent us from going too far, even if we wished to do so, ma’am!” She turned impulsively towards Abby. “You don’t object to it, do you, Abby?”

Misliking the scheme, yet unable to think of any other reason for placing a veto on it but the inclusion of Stacy in the party, Abby hesitated. Rescue came from an unexpected quarter. “Do you ride, Miss Wendover?” asked Mr Miles Calverleigh, smiling across the room at her with such complete understanding in his eyes that an answering smile was won from her.

“Why, yes!” she replied.

“In that case, you may be easy, ma’am,” said Miles, to Mrs Grayshott. “Between us, Miss Wendover and I should be able to control the activities of the younger members of this hazardous expedition.”

The only objection raised to this unexpected augmentation of the party came from Oliver, who said, with feeling, that he had not yet received notice to quit, and was very well able to take care of himself. He added that if he had had the least apprehension that his wish to hack out of Bath would have caused such a commotion he would never have uttered it

“Silence, halfling!” said Miles, in shocked accents. “You are leading Miss Wendover to suppose that you don’t want her to go with you!”

This intervention naturally cast Oliver into confusion, and he hastened to reassure Abby. She laughed at him, telling him that she had not the smallest intention of enacting the role of dry-nurse; and was herself much heartened by Fanny’s instant approval of the revised scheme.

“Oh, capital!” Fanny exclaimed. “You will come, won’t you, Best of my aunts?”

Since Oliver showed no signs of exhaustion, and Stacy, behaving with great circumspection, made no attempt to monopolize Fanny’s attention, nothing occurred to spoil Abby’s enjoyment of this mild form of exhilaration. Miles Calverleigh rode beside her for most of the time, and made himself so agreeable that she forgot her anxieties in listening to what he had to tell her of India, and the customs of its people. He had to be coaxed to talk, saying at first that persons who gabbed about their foreign experiences were dead bores, but the questions she put to him were intelligent, and her interest in his replies so real that he soon dropped his reserve, painting a vivid picture for her, and even recounting some of his experiences. These ranged from the adventurous to the comical, but it was not long before he brought them to an end, saying: “And that is enough about me! Now tell me of yourself!”

“Alas, there’s nothing to tell! I’ve done nothing, and have been nowhere. You don’t know how much I envy you—how often I have wished I were a man!”

“Have you, indeed? You must be alone in that wish!”

“Thank you! But you are wrong: my father wished it too! He wanted another son.”

“What, with Rowland and James as grim examples? Or because he hoped that a third son might be less of a slow-top?”

“Certainly not! And although I didn’t like him I must in common justice say that Rowland, at least, was not a slow-top. He was hunting-mad, you know, and a very hard goer.”

“I wasn’t talking about that. Intellectually a slow-top!”

“Oh, yes, but so was my father! Naturally he didn’t count his stupidity a fault in Rowland. In fact, he had the greatest dislike of clever people.”

He chuckled appreciatively, which made her say, in a conscience-stricken voice: “I ought not to have said that. My wretched tongue! I do try to mind it!”

“Then don’t! I like the way you have of saying just what comes into your head.”

She smiled, but shook her head. “No, it is my besetting sin, and I ought long since to have overcome it.”

“From what I recall of your father, I should suppose that he made every effort to help you to do so. Did he dislike you as much as you disliked him?”

“Yes, he—Oh, how dare you? You are quite abominable! You know very well that it would be the height of impropriety for me to say that I disliked my father! Every feeling must be offended!”

“Well, none of mine are,” he responded imperturbably. “You did, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but it is one of the things which must never be said. And if he disliked me I am bound to own that it was quite my own fault. I was a sad trial to him, I fear.”

“Yes, of course: too clever by half!”