Джорджетт Хейер - The Grand Sophy

“Oh, well!” said Sir Horace. “If she has such a fancy for him, you had better let her take him. It’s not as though she would be marrying beneath her, and if she chooses to be the wife of a penniless younger son it is quite her own affair.”

“You would not say so if it were Sophia!” said his sister.

“Sophy’s not such a fool.”

“Cecilia is not a fool either!” declared Lady Ombersley, affronted. “If you have seen Augustus you cannot wonder at her! No one could help feeling a decided partiality for him! I own, I did myself. But Charles is quite right, as I was soon brought to acknowledge; it would not answer!”

“Ah, well, when she has her cousin to keep her company it will divert her, and very likely give her thoughts another direction,” said Sir Horace consolingly.

Lady Ombersley appeared to be much struck by this suggestion. Her face brightened; she said: “I wonder if it might be so? She is a little shy, you must know, and does not make friends easily, and since her dear friend, Miss Friston, was married, and has gone to live in the Midlands, there is really no young female with whom she is upon terms of intimacy. Now, if we had dear Sophia to stay with us ...” She broke off, obviously turning plans over in her mind. She was still engaged on this exercise when the door opened, and her eldest son entered the salon.

The Honorable Charles Rivenhall was twenty-six years old, but a rather harsh-featured countenance, coupled with a manner that combined assurance with a good deal of reserve, made him give the impression of being some years older. He was a tall, powerfully built young man, who looked as though he would have been better pleased to have been striding over his father’s acres than exchanging civilities in his mother’s sitting room. He nearly always wore riding dress in preference to the more fashionable pantaloons and Hessians, tied his cravat in the plainest of styles, would permit only a modicum of starch to stiffen his very moderate shirt points, wholly disdained such fopperies as seals, fobs, or quizzing glasses, and offended his tailor by insisting on having his coats cut so that he could shrug himself into them without the assistance of his valet. He had been heard to express the hope that heaven would forbid he should ever be mistaken for one of the dandy set, but, as his friend Mr. Cyprian Wychbold kindly pointed out to him, there was not the least need for heavenly intervention in the matter. The dandies, said Mr. Wychbold with some severity, were distinguished as much for their polished address as for their exquisite apparel, and were in general an amiable set of men, whose polite manners and winning graces made them acceptable in any drawing room. As Mr. Rivenhall’s notion of making himself agreeable in company was to treat with cold civility anyone for whom he felt no particular liking, and his graces, far from winning, included a trick of staring out of countenance those who pretensions he deprecated, and of uttering blighting comments which put an abrupt end to social intercourse, he stood in far greater danger (Mr. Wychbold said) of being mistaken for a Yahoo.

As he shut the door behind him, his mother looked up, started slightly, and said with a nervous inflection which annoyed her brother: “Oh! Charles! Only fancy! Your uncle Horace!”

“So Dassett informed me,” responded Mr. Rivenhall. “How do you do, sir?”

He shook hands with his uncle, drew up a chair, and sat down, civilly engaging Sir Horace in conversation. His mother, fidgeting first with the fringe of her shawl and then with her handkerchief, presently broke in on this interchange to say, “Charles, you remember Sophia? Your little cousin!”

Mr. Rivenhall did not present the appearance of one who remembered his little cousin, but he said in his cool way, “Certainly. I hope she is well, sir?”

“Never had a day’s illness in her life, barring the measles,” said Sir Horace. “You’ll see her for yourself soon; your mother is going to take charge of her while I’m in Brazil.”

It was plain that this way of breaking the news did not recommend itself to Lady Ombersley, who at once hurried into speech. “Well, of course it is not quite decided yet, though I am sure there is nothing I should like better than to have my dear brother’s daughter to stay with me. I was thinking, too, Charles, that it would be so pleasant for Cecilia. Sophia and she are nearly the same age, you know.”

“Brazil?” said Mr. Rivenhall. “That should be very interesting, I daresay. Do you make a long stay there, sir?”

“Oh, no!” replied Sir Horace vaguely. “Probably not. It will depend upon circumstance. I have been telling your mother that I shall be much in her debt if she can find an eligible husband for my Sophy. It’s time she was married, and your mother seems, from what I hear, to be quite a dab in that line. I understand I have to offer you my felicitations, my boy?”

“Thank you, yes,” said Mr. Rivenhall, with a slight bow.

“If you should not dislike it, Charles, I own I should be very happy to have Sophia,” said Lady Ombersley placatingly.

He cast her an impatient glance, and replied, “I beg you will do precisely as you wish, ma’am. I cannot conceive what business it is of mine.”

“Of course I have explained to your uncle that we lead very quiet lives.”

“She won’t give a fig for that,” said Sir Horace comfortably. “She’s a good little thing, never at a loss for something to occupy herself with. Just as happy in a Spanish village as in Vienna, or Brussels.”

At this, Lady Ombersley sat up with a jerk. “Do not tell me you dragged the child to Brussels last year!”

“Of course she was in Brussels! Where the devil should she have been?” replied Sir Horace testily. “You wouldn’t have had me leave her in Vienna, would you? Besides, she enjoyed it. We met a great many old friends there.”

“The danger!”

“Oh, pooh! Nonsense! Precious little of that with Wellington in command!”

“When, sir, may we have the pleasure of expecting my cousin?” interposed Mr. Rivenhall. “We must hope that she will not find life in London too humdrum after the superior excitements of the Continent.”

“Not she!” said Sir Horace. “I never knew Sophy when she wasn’t busy with some ploy or another. Give her her head! I always do, and she never comes to any harm. Don’t quite know when she’ll be with you. She’s bound to want to see the last of me, but she’ll post up to London as soon as I’ve sailed.”

“Post up to London as soon as — Horace, surely you will bring her to me!” gasped his sister, quite scandalized. “A girl of her age, traveling alone! I never heard of such a thing!”

“Won’t be alone. She’ll have her maid with her — dragon of a woman, she is; journeyed all over Europe with us — and John Potton as well.” He caught sight of his nephew’s raised brows, and felt himself impelled to add: “Groom, courier, general factotum! Looked after Sophy since she was a baby.” He drew out his watch, and consulted it. “Well, now that we’ve settled everything, I must be off, Lizzie. I shall rely upon you to take care of Sophy, and look about you for a match. It’s important, because — but I’ve no time to explain that now! She’ll tell you all about it, I expect.”

“But, Horace, we have not settled everything!” protested his sister. “And Ombersley will be disappointed not to see you! hoped you would dine with us!”

“No, I can’t do that,” he replied. “I’m dining at Carlton House. You may give my respects to Ombersley; daresay I shall see him again one of these days!”

He then kissed her in a perfunctory style, bestowed another of his hearty pats upon her shoulder, and took himself off, followed by his nephew. “Just as if I had nothing more to wish for!” Lady Ombersley said indignantly, when Charles came back into the room. “And I have not the least notion when that child is to come to me!”

“It doesn’t signify,” said Charles, with an indifference she found exasperating. “You will give orders for a room to be prepared for her, I suppose, and she may come when she pleases. It’s to be hoped Cecilia likes her, since I imagine she will be obliged to see the most of her.”

“Poor little thing!” sighed Lady Ombersley. “I declare I quite long to mother her, Charles! What a strange, lonely life she must lead!”

“Strange certainly; hardly lonely, if she has been acting hostess for my uncle. I must suppose that she has had some elder lady to live with her — a governess, or some such thing.”

“Indeed, one would think it must have been so, but your uncle distinctly told me that the governess died when they were in Vienna! I do not like to say such a thing of my only brother, but really it seems as though Horace is quite unfit to have the care of a daughter!”

“Extremely unfit,” he said dryly. “I trust you will not have cause to regret your kindness, Mama.”

“Oh, no, I am sure I shall not!” she said. “Your uncle spoke of her in such a way that gave me the greatest desire to welcome her! Poor child, I fear she has not been used to have her wishes or her comfort much considered! I could almost have been angry with Horace when he would keep on telling me that she is a good little thing, and had never been a worry to him! I daresay he has never allowed anyone to be a worry to him, for a more selfish man I believe you could hardly meet! Sophia must have her poor mother’s sweet disposition. I have no doubt of her being a charming companion for Cecilia.”

“I hope so,” said Charles. “And that reminds me, Mama! I have just intercepted another of that puppy’s floral offerings to my sister. This billet was attached to it.”

Lady Ombersley took the proffered missive, and looked at it in dismay. “What shall I do with it?” she asked.

“Put it on the fire,” he recommended.

“Oh, no, I could not, Charles! It might be quite unexceptionable! Besides — why, it might even contain a message from his mother for me!”

“Highly unlikely, but if you think that, you had better read it.”

“Of course, I know it is my duty to do so,” she agreed unhappily.

He looked rather contemptuous, but said nothing, and after a moment’s indecision she broke the seal, and spread open the single sheet. “Oh, dear, it is a poem!” she announced. “I must say, it is very pretty. Listen, Charles!

‘Nymph, when thy mild cerulean gaze

Upon my restless spirit casts its beam — ’”

“I thank you, I have no taste for verse!” interrupted Mr. Rivenhall harshly. “Put it on the fire, ma’am, and tell Cecilia she is not to be receiving letters without your sanction!”

“Yes, but do you think I should burn it, Charles? Only think if this were the only copy of the poem! Perhaps he wants to have it printed!”

“He is not going to print such stuff about any sister of mine!” said Mr. Rivenhall grimly, holding out an imperative hand.

Lady Ombersley, always overborne by a stronger will, was just about to give the paper to him when a trembling voice from the doorway arrested her, “Mama! Do not!”

LADY OMBERSLEY’S hand dropped; Mr. Rivenhall turned sharply, a frown on his brow. His sister, casting him a look of burning reproach, ran across the room to her mother, and said, “Give it to me, Mama! What right has Charles to burn my letters?”

Lady Ombersley looked helplessly at her son, but he said nothing. Cecilia twitched the open sheet of paper from her mother’s fingers, and clasped it to her palpitating bosom. This did goad Mr. Rivenhall into speech. “For God sake, Cecilia, let us have no play acting!” he said.

“How dared you read my letter?” she retorted.

“I did not read your letter ! I gave it to Mama, and you will scarcely say that she had no right to read it!”

Her soft blue eyes swam with tears; she said in a low voice, “It is all your fault! Mama would never — I hate you, Charles, I hate you!”

He shrugged, and turned away. Lady Ombersley said feebly, “You should not talk so, Cecilia! You know it is quite improper in you to be receiving letters without my knowledge! I do not know what your papa would say if he heard of it.”

“Papa!” exclaimed Cecilia scornfully. “No! It is Charles who delights in making me unhappy!”

He glanced over his shoulder at her. “It would be useless, I collect, to say that my earnest wish is that you should not be made unhappy.”

She returned no answer, but folded her letter with shaking hands, and bestowed it in her bosom, throwing a defiant look at him as she did so. It was met with one of contempt; Mr. Rivenhall propped his shoulders against the mantelshelf, dug his hands into his breeches pockets, and waited sardonically for what she might say next.