Джорджетт Хейер - Cousin Kate

He replied with deliberate calm: “I think that the whole affair was wiped from his mind as soon as he had satisfied his instinct to kill. I don’t pretend to understand the minds of madmen, but it has seemed to me on several occasions that he has no recollection of what he has done when temporarily out of his senses. I even think that to kill, in an inhuman bestial way, that rabbit, or a bird caught in a net, or some other helpless creature, satisfies some terrible instinct in himself, and acts on him like a powerful narcotic. More than that! as a tonic! If he had the smallest remembrance of what he has done when possessed by his fiendish other self I daresay he would be as horrified as you are.”

“He knew that he had tried to shoot that dog!” she said swiftly. “He has just begged my pardon!”

He said, his frown deepening: “I fancy his behaviour was due more to fright than to madness.”

“But it was only a playful young dog—hardly more than a puppy!” she protested. “Even a person who was afraid of dogs must have seen how friendly it was! Why, it—” She stopped suddenly, remembering that the dog had bristled and growled and backed away from Torquil.

“Friendly to Torquil?”

“No. It—it seemed to fear him!” she blurted out.

“Animals do fear him,” he replied. “That’s why there are no dogs at Staplewood, other than my uncle’s old spaniel bitch, who is too old and lazy to stray from his side. They say that animals know when one is afraid of them: it is certainly true of horses. Is it fantastic to suppose that instinct warns them to beware of madmen? Gurney spoke last night to me about what he called the “nervous chestnut” Torquil rides. I let it pass, but I’ve ridden that horse, Kate, and he went as sweetly as you please for me. Torquil has only to take the bridle in his hand to set him sidling, and bucking, and no sooner is Torquil in the saddle than he begins to sweat. And, make no mistake, Torquil isn’t afraid of any horse that was ever foaled! I don’t say I’ve never seen him unseated—the best of us take tosses!—but I have never seen him unseated by the efforts of his mount to get rid of him, or fail to win the mastery over the most headstrong brute in the stables! But horses don’t show their fear of one by growling, and bristling, and they rarely savage one. Certainly Torquil has never been savaged by a horse, but a dog did once turn on him, and that experience left him with a dread of dogs. I think he acted of impulse when he tried to shoot your friendly stray. He may have been hovering on the brink of one of his crazy fits, but you were not afraid of him, and you recalled him to his senses, probably by speaking sharply to him—as I did, when I found him with his hands round your throat, and as Minerva has the power to do. He stands in great awe of Minerva, and in a little awe of me. It seems that he is also in awe of you. But the day is coming—and soon, I fear—when even Minerva won’t be able to control him. That is why, my darling, I can’t feel easy while you remain at Staplewood.”

“But my aunt doesn’t know—cannot know!—” Kate stammered. “She believes that it is merely irritation of the nerves—that he is much better!—”

“In fact, he is much worse!” he interrupted. “Until now, although I have suspected that he suffered from some intermittent mental disorder, I could never be perfectly sure of it. I have frequently driven over from Broome Hall to visit my uncle, but of late years I’ve only stayed for one night.” He smiled wryly. “Minerva has not encouraged me to prolong my visits! Indeed, she has been most ingenious in finding reasons why I shouldn’t do so. But this time I’ve been deaf to all her hints, and I’ve seen much that it wasn’t difficult to conceal from me for a few hours. I tell you frankly, Kate, I have been shocked by the deterioration in Torquil! Irritation of the nerves? Is that what Minerva calls it? Irritation of the brain would be nearer the mark, and well she knows it! Why do you imagine that she still keeps him in the nursery wing?”

“She told me—so that he may be quiet!” Kate faltered.

“So that he may be kept safe!” he said grimly. “Why do Delabole and Badger both have their quarters in that wing? Why is he never permitted to ride out alone? To find his level amongst youngsters of his own age?”

“Because—oh, Philip, pray don’t say any more! You dislike my aunt too bitterly to do her justice! If she is deceiving herself—or, which I think very likely, is being deceived by Dr Delabole, can you wonder at it that she should cling to the belief that his rages spring from ill-health, and will vanish when he grows stronger? Or even that she should shrink from facing a terrible truth?” She sprang up, and took a hasty turn about the room. “You have pity for your uncle! He shrinks from facing it! If Torquil is indeed mad, how can it be possible that he shouldn’t know it?”

He was prevented from replying by the entrance of Pennymore, wearing the look of one whose sense of propriety had been outraged. He addressed himself to Kate, saying, in his stateliest manner: “I beg your pardon, miss, but since her ladyship is unwell I feel it my duty to inform you that Mrs Thorne has seen fit to Prophesy!”

Philip gave a shout of laughter: conduct which Pennymore considered to be so unseemly that he ignored it, keeping his eyes fixed on Kate. He said in a perfectly expressionless voice: “In consequence of which, miss, the chef, so far as I am able to understand him—but he has relapsed into the French tongue, which he is regrettably prone to do when excited—has formed the intention of leaving Staplewood tomorrow.”

Philip’s shoulders shook, but Kate was not amused. “Good God!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, miss,” agreed Pennymore, according this very proper way of receiving the tidings the tribute of a slight bow. “Furthermore, one of the kitchen-maids has so far forgotten her position as to fall into the vapours.”

“But this is a Greek tragedy, with Pennymore the Chorus!” said Philip.

Pennymore said arctically: “If you will permit me to say so, Master Philip, it is hardly a laughing matter!”

Recognizing that by using this form of address Pennymore was trying to reduce him to schoolboy status, Mr Philip Broome grinned, but obligingly begged pardon.

“But—but why does the chef wish to leave?” asked Kate.

“On account of the Prophecy, miss. I’m sure Mrs Thorne has a perfect right to dream of Horrors, if she so wishes, but I do not consider it advisable to describe her dreams to the household. In fact, far otherwise, for it has a very upsetting effect on the female staff, not to mention the chef—but that was to be expected, him being a Foreigner. Mrs Thorne, miss, makes quite a habit of dreaming of Disaster. The first time she did so, the second footman tripped on the back stairs the very next day, and fell to the bottom.”

“Good gracious!” said Kate. “Was he badly injured? You don’t mean, surely, that he broke his neck?”

“Oh, no, miss! It was worse than that,” said Pennymore. “He broke three of the Sevres cups, thus ruining the Set.”

“Not worse, Pennymore!” protested Kate.

“He could have been better spared, miss, I assure you,” replied Pennymore darkly. “A very unsatisfactory young man, and easily replaceable, which the Sevres china was not. However, what with that, and Mrs Thorne’s dreaming she saw Staplewood being burnt to the ground a couple of nights before the kitchen-chimmey caught fire, so that rock salt had to be thrown on the range, which set dinner back an hour, she’s only got to dream she saw lions and tigers in the garden for none of the young maids to stir out of the house for a sennight.”

“What’s her latest dream?” asked Philip.

“Well, sir, it is Extremely Unpleasant, and not at all the sort of thing one would expect of a respectable female, however given to what I will call Odd Humours. She says that she dreamed there was a coffin in the Blue saloon, with blood streaming from it. Yes, miss, most distasteful, and, I venture to say, highly unlikely. Unfortunately, one of the maids informed Miss Sidlaw, and she was so much provoked that she took it upon herself to give Mrs Thorne a scold, quite as if she thought she was standing in my lady’s shoes.”

“Oh, that will never do!” Kate said quickly.

“No, miss, nor it hasn’t. There has been a Quarrel between them,” replied Pennymore. “And,” he said, coming to his grand climax, “Mrs Thorne is now laid down upon her bed with Spasms. I thought you would wish to know, miss.”

This rider incensed Mr Philip Broome into saying acidly: “Oh, indeed? And what made you think so?”

Kate, more accustomed than her betrothed to this time-honoured phrase, intervened hastily. “You did very right to tell me, Pennymore. I’ll try what I can do to reconcile Sidlaw and Mrs Thorne.”

“I’ll deal with the chef,” offered Philip. “You needn’t look at me so despitefully, Pennymore! Do you think I can’t do it?”

“I was merely thinking, Master Philip, that being as Miss Kate has lived in Foreign Parts, it might be better if she was to speak to the chef—in his own tongue,” said Pennymore coldly.

“No doubt it would be, if he were a Spaniard, but I daresay I am quite as fluent in French as she is, even though I haven’t lived in foreign parts! And don’t imagine you can come it over me by calling me Master Philip, you old bangster, because you can’t!”

“Now you’ve offended him!” said Kate reproachfully, when Pennymore had bowed himself out of the room.

“Not I! Didn’t you see his mouth twitching? Pennymore and I are old friends—which won’t deter him from combing my hair presently for using cant terms in front of a lady! Kate, you don’t mean to embroil yourself in this cat fight, do you?”

“Yes, of course I do! That is to say, I hope I may be able to smooth things over: it’s the least I can do for my aunt! I must go: where is my reticule?”

“It’s here,” he said, picking it up from the table. “Good God, what do you carry in it? It weighs a ton!”

“Oh, it’s my door key! I put it in my reticule because I couldn’t think of a secure hiding-place for it. I can’t stay to explain it to you now, but I will presently!”

He was obliged to be satisfied, for she hurried away on the words, and was no more seen until she put in a belated appearance at the table on which a cold nuncheon had been set out. Mr Philip Broome, who was moodily eating cheese, rose at her entrance, and ejaculated: “At last! I thought you were never coming back! What the deuce kept you so long?”

“I collect, from that question, that you had no difficulty in persuading the chef to remain at his post!” Kate said, with asperity.

“Very little. I take it your task was not an easy one?”

“No, dear sir, it was not all easy! It was singularly exhausting, in fact!”

“You don’t look exhausted,” he said, smiling at her. “You look to be in high beauty! Did you succeed in reconciling the warring cats?”

“Oh, no, only time will do that!” she said cheerfully. “The best I could achieve was to flatter each into believing that her behaviour was in the nature of a triumph for the other, and that if either of them failed in this hour of trouble the house would fall to pieces, and my aunt suffer a relapse. So now they are not speaking to one another, and I can see that I shall have to be a go-between until they make up their quarrel, or until my aunt is well enough to leave her room.”

He had picked up the carving knife, but at this he put it down again, and demanded to be told for how many more days she meant to remain at Staplewood.

“Well, until I know how my aunt goes on, I can’t tell that,” she responded. “Not many, I hope. But you cannot, in all seriousness, expect me to run away at this moment, when at last I have the opportunity to be of real use to my aunt! You may think it a paltry service indeed, if you found it easy to pacify the chef, I daresay you do—but I promise you it was not at all easy to soothe and remonstrate with two angry women, one of whom thinks herself first in consequence, and the other of whom, though amiable, suffers from every imaginable disorder, and has so much sensibility that the least unpleasantness brings on all her most distressing symptoms. What is in this pie?”

“Venison. I never heard such—”

“How good! I wish you will give me some: I am perfectly ravenous!”

“Kate, how can you let that fat, lazy creature bamboozle you?” he expostulated. “You don’t mean to tell me that you swallowed all those plumpers?”