Джорджетт Хейер - The Grand Sophy

He could hardly have been unaware of the dissension at present raging in his household, for a request from his wife that he should exercise parental authority over Cecilia had driven him posthaste to Newmarket not a fortnight before. But neither his son’s heavy frown nor his daughter’s reddened eyelids occasioned the slightest comment from him. He appeared to derive no small satisfaction from partaking of a lengthy meal in the company of an anxious wife, an injured daughter, and a glowering son. He said: “Well, upon my soul, this is very pleasant, to be dining en famille in this cozy way! You may tell your cook, Lady Ombersley, that I like this way of serving a duck. I declare I don’t get as good at White’s!” After that he recounted the latest piece of society gossip, and inquired affably how his children had spent the day.

“If you mean me, Papa,” said Cecilia, “I have spent the day just as I spend every day. I shopped with Mama; I walked in the Park with my sisters and Miss Adderbury; and I practiced my music.”

Her tone did not suggest that she had found these amusements exhilarating, but Lord Ombersley said, “Capital!” and turned his attention to his wife. She told him of her brother’s visit, and of his proposal that she should assume the charge of Sophia; and Lord Ombersley gave his gracious consent to the scheme, saying that nothing could be better, and congratulating his daughter upon her good luck in so unexpectedly acquiring a charming companion. Charles, who was irritated enough by all this bland insensibility to sympathize with his sister, said dampingly that they had as yet no reason to suppose that Sophia would be in the least charming. But Lord Ombersley said that he entertained no doubts on that head, and added that they must all do their best to make their cousin’s stay agreeable. After that he asked Charles whether he intended to go to the races next day. Charles, who knew that the races referred to were run under the patronage of the Duke of York, and would entail, for that jovial personage’s cronies, several evenings spent at Oatlands, playing whist for pound points, looked more forbidding than ever, and said that he was going down to Ombersley Park for a few days.

“To be sure you are!” agreed his father cheerfully. “I was forgetting that business about the South Hanger. Yes, yes, I wish you would attend to that, my boy!”

“I will, sir,” responded Mr. Rivenhall politely. He then glanced across the table at his sister, and asked, “Do you care to accompany me, Cecilia? I am very willing to take you, if you should like it.”

She hesitated. This might be an olive branch; on the other hand it might be a singularly futile attempt to wean her mind from thoughts of Mr. Fawnhope. The reflection that Charles’s absence from town might, with a little contrivance, make it possible for her to meet Mr. Fawnhope decided the matter. She shrugged, and said, “No, I thank you. I do not know what I should do in the country at this season.”

“Ride with me,” suggested Charles.

“I prefer to ride in the Park. If you desire company, I wonder you do not invite the children to go with you. I am sure they would be delighted to oblige you.”

“As you please,” he replied indifferently. Dinner at an end, Lord Ombersley withdrew from the family circle. Charles, who had no evening engagement, accompanied his mother and sister to the drawing room, and, while Cecilia strummed idly at the piano, sat talking to his mother about Sophia’s visit. Much to her relief, he seemed to be resigned to the necessity of holding at least one moderate party in Sophia’s honor, but he strongly advised her against charging herself with the office of finding a suitable husband for her niece.

“Why my uncle, having allowed her to reach the age of — twenty, is it? — without bestirring himself in the matter,” he said, “must suddenly take it into his head to persuade you to undertake the business, is a matter beyond my comprehension.”

“It does seem odd,” agreed Lady Ombersley. “I daresay he might not have realized how time flies, you know. Twenty! Why, she is almost upon the shelf! I must say, Horace has been most remiss! There could be no difficulty, I am sure, for she must be quite an heiress! Even if she were a very plain girl, which I do not for a moment suppose she can be, for you will allow Horace to be a handsome man, while poor dear Marianne was excessively pretty, though I don’t expect that you can remember her — well, even if she were plain, it should be the easiest thing in the world to arrange a respectable match for her!”

“Very easy, but you would do well to leave it to my uncle, ma’am,” was all he would say.

At this moment, the schoolroom party came into the room, escorted by Miss Adderbury, a little gray mouse of a woman, who had originally been hired to take charge of Lady Ombersley’s numerous offspring when Charles and Maria had been adjudged old enough to leave Nurse’s jealous care. It might have been supposed that a twenty-year residence in the household, under the aegis of a kindhearted mistress, and the encouragement of her pupils’ affection, would long since have allayed Miss Adderbury’s nervousness, but this had endured with the years. Not all her accomplishments — and these included, besides a sufficient knowledge of Latin to enable her to prepare little boys for school, the expert use of the globes, a thorough grounding in the theory of music, enough proficiency upon the pianoforte and the harp to satisfy all but the most exacting, and considerable talent in the correct use of water colors — made it possible for her to enter the drawing room without an inward shrinking, or to converse with her employer on terms of equality. Those of her pupils who had outgrown her care found her shyness and her anxiety to please tiresome, but they could never forget her kindness to them in their schoolroom days, and always treated her with something more than civility. So Cecilia smiled at her, and Charles said, “Well, Addy, and how are you today?” which slight attentions made her grow pink with pleasure, and stammer a good deal in her replies.

Her charges now numbered three only, for Theodore, the youngest son of the house, had lately been sent to Eton. Selina, a sharp-looking damsel of sixteen, went to sit beside her sister on the pianoforte stool; and Gertrude, bidding fair at twelve to rival Cecilia in beauty, and Amabel, a stout ten-year-old, cast themselves upon their brother, with loud professions of delight at seeing him, and rather louder reminders to him of a promise he had made them to play at lottery tickets the very next time he should spend an evening at home. Miss Adderbury, kindly invited by Lady Ombersley to take a seat by the fire, made faint clucking noises in deprecation of this exuberance. She had no hope of being attended to, but was relieved to observe that Lady Ombersley was regarding the group about Charles with a fond smile. Lady Ombersley, in fact, was wishing that Charles, who was so popular with the children, could bring himself to be equally kind to the brother and sister nearer to him in age. There had been a rather painful scene at Christmas, when poor Hubert’s Oxford debts had been discovered.

The card table had been set up, and Amabel was already counting out the mother-of-pearl fishes on its green baize cloth. Cecilia begged to be excused from joining in the game, and Selina, who would have liked to play but always made a point of following her sister’s example, said that she found lottery tickets a dead bore. Charles paid no heed to this, but as he passed behind the music stool on his way to fetch the playing cards from a tall marquetry chest, bent to say something in Cecilia’s ear. Lady Ombersley, anxiously watching, could not hear what it was, but she saw, her heart sinking, that it had the effect of making Cecilia color up to the roots of her hair. However, she rose from the stool, and went to the table, saying very well, she would play for a little while. So Selina relented too, and after a very few minutes both young ladies were making quite as much noise as their juniors, and laughing enough to make an impartial observer think that the one had forgotten her advanced years and the other her lacerated sensibilities. Lady Ombersley was able to withdraw her attention from the table and to settle down to a comfortable chat with Miss Adderbury.

Miss Adderbury had already heard from Cecilia of Sophia’s proposed visit and was all eagerness to discuss it with Lady Ombersley. She could enter into her ladyship’s feelings upon the event, join her in sighing over the melancholy situation of a girl left motherless at five years old, agree with her plans for Sophia’s accommodation and amusement, and, while deploring the irregularity of Sophia’s upbringing, feel sure that she would be found to be a very sweet girl.

“I always know I can rely upon you, Miss Adderbury,” said Lady Ombersley. “Such a comfort to me!”

In what way she was to be relied on Miss Adderbury had no idea, but she did not ask enlightenment, which was just as well, since her ladyship had no idea either, and had merely uttered the gratifying phrase from a general desire to please. Miss Adderbury said, “Oh, Lady Ombersley! So good — ! So very obliging — !” and was almost ready to burst into tears at the thought of so much confidence being placed in one so unworthy as herself. Most fervently did she hope that her ladyship would never discover that she had nursed a snake in her bosom; and dolefully did she regret the lack of resolution that made it impossible for her to withstand her dear Miss Rivenhall’s coaxing. Only two days before she had permitted young Mr. Fawnhope to join the walking party in the Green Park, and, far worse, had made no objection to his falling behind with Cecilia. It was true that Lady Ombersley had not mentioned Cecilia’s unhappy infatuation to her, much less laid commands upon her to repulse Mr. Fawnhope, but Miss Adderbury was the daughter of a clergyman (mercifully deceased) of stern and rigid morals, and she knew that such quibbling merely aggravated her depravity.

These reflections were interrupted by a further observation made by her ladyship in a lowered tone and with a glance cast toward the card table at the other end of the room. “I am persuaded that I have no need to tell you, Miss Adderbury, that we have been made a trifle uneasy lately by one of those fancies which young females are subject to. I shall say no more, but you will appreciate how glad I shall be to welcome my niece. Cecilia has been too much alone, and her sisters are not of an age to be the companions which her cousin must be. I am hopeful that in striving to make dear Sophia feel at home amongst us — for the poor little thing will be sadly lost in the middle of such a large family, I daresay — and in showing her how she should go on in London, she will have enough to occupy her to give her thoughts another direction.”

This view of the matter had not until now presented itself to Miss Adderbury, but she grasped it eagerly, and felt sure that all would happen precisely as Lady Ombersley anticipated. “Oh, yes, indeed!” she declared. “Nothing could be better! So condescending of your ladyship to — I had collected from dear Miss Rivenhall — but she is such a sweet girl I know she will devote herself to her less fortunate cousin! When do you expect Miss Stanton-Lacy, dear Lady Ombersley?”

“Sir Horace was able to give me no very precise information,” replied Lady Ombersley, “but I understand that he expects to sail for South America almost immediately. No doubt my niece will be in London very shortly. Indeed, I shall speak to the housekeeper tomorrow about preparing a bedchamber for her.”

BUT it was not until the Easter holidays were a week old that Sophia arrived in Berkeley Square. The only intelligence received by her aunt during the intervening ten days was a brief scrawl from Sir Horace, conveying the information that his mission was a trifle delayed, but that she would assuredly see her niece before very long. The flowers which Cecilia so prettily arranged in her cousin’s room withered and had to be thrown away; and Mrs. Ludstock, a meticulously careful housekeeper, had twice aired the sheets before, in the middle of a bright spring afternoon, a post chaise and four, generously splashed with mud, drew up at the door.

It so happened that Cecilia and Selina had been driving with their Mama in the Park, and had returned to the house not five minutes earlier. All three were just about to ascend the staircase when Mr. Hubert Rivenhall came bounding down, uttering, “It must be my cousin, for there is a mountain of baggage on the roof! Such a horse! By Jupiter, if ever I saw such a bang-up piece of flesh and blood!”