Cousin Kate (11 page)

He giggled. 'In the woods. I heard them coming, Matthew and Badger, and I escaped over the bridge. Famous sport! They are still searching for me!'

He sounded unlike himself. Remembering the wine he had drunk at dinner, Kate came to the conclusion that he was a trifle foxed. His speech was not slurred, nor was his gait unsteady, but he seemed to her to be decidedly well and lively.

'Go back to your room, Torquil!' said Lady Broome coldly.

His mood changed. He stopped giggling, and glowered at her. 'I won't! I won't be ordered about! I'm not a child! No, and I won't be spied on! I won't—'

'Torquil, go back to your room!' commanded Lady Broome, in a level voice.

Her stern eyes held his glittering ones for a few moments of silent struggle for mastery. It was Torquil who yielded. His angry glare shifted, and fell; as his mother advanced slowly towards him, he turned, and ran back into his own quarters, slamming the door behind him.

'You too, Kate,' said Lady Broome, her iron calm undisturbed. 'There is nothing to alarm you: the man you saw was probably Dr Delabole, or Badger. Goodnight!'

'Goodnight, ma'am,' responded Kate, subdued.

CHAPTER VI

Torquil did not appear at the breakfast-table on the following morning. Kate was not surprised, for experience had taught her that when a man went bosky to bed he awoke with a splitting headache, and a general feeling of being quite out of curl. When Lady Broome apologized, rather stiffly, for the incident, she replied, with her engaging twinkle: 'He was in very merry pin, wasn't he, ma'am? No need to ask you in what sort of cue he is this morning!' She saw that her aunt was staring at her, and added: 'No need to beg my pardon either! I have frequently seen men in their altitudes, as the saying is. He wasn't more than half-sprung, you know!'

'No,' agreed her ladyship slowly. 'He wasn't, was he?' She smiled, and said: 'I daresay it is unnecessary for me to warn you not to mention the matter to him?'

'Quite unnecessary, dear aunt!' Kate assured her. 'I don't suppose he will retain the least recollection of it!'

This, when Torquil rejoined the family circle before dinner, was seen to be true. He was lethargic, and his eyes, which had shone with such unearthly brilliance, were a little clouded. But he smiled sleepily at Kate, and seemed to be in an unusually docile mood, and with no remembrance of anything that had happened after dinner on the previous evening. Trying to recollect, he frowned, and gave his head a little shake, as though in an attempt to shake off the mists in his brain. Before he could succeed in doing so, Sir Timothy, who had been watching him in what seemed to Kate to be disproportionate anxiety, rose shakily from his chair, muttering: 'I am unwell. I must go to my own rooms. Give me your arm, one of you!'

A footman was instantly at his side, but was ousted by Dr Delabole, who said soothingly: 'Lean on me, sir! That's the way! You will soon be better - soon be better!'

Torquil had dragged himself to his feet, looking bewildered, but Lady Broome, who had not left her seat, said, without emotion: 'Sit down, my son! You can do nothing to help him: it is not serious! He has been in a poor way all day, thanks to last night's party, but he
would
come to dinner!'

She smiled consolingly, and her optimism was soon justified by the return of the doctor, who said, as he resumed his seat at the table, and picked up his knife and fork again, that it was a mere faintness: he had given Sir Timothy a restorative, and had left him in charge of his valet.

The evening surpassed in dullness all that had gone before it. Lady Broome was abstracted, and Torquil sleepy, and it was left to Dr Delabole to provide entertainment for Kate. He did this by challenging her to a game of cribbage. He said gaily that he was no match for her at backgammon, or piquet, but that he fancied himself to be a bit of a dab at cribbage. He enlivened the game with a constant flow of persiflage, and Kate could only be thankful when her aunt broke up the party soon after the tea-tray had been brought in.

Nothing occurred that night to disturb her rest, but on the following morning the doctor reported that Torquil was a trifle out of sorts, so she was deprived of her daily ride. As though to make up for this, Lady Broome took her out in her barouche, to visit the indigent sick, an unexciting occupation which made her think longingly of a busier if less comfortable life. She found herself wondering how long it would be before she could bring her visit to an end, but it was evident that Lady Broome had no idea of her leaving Staplewood until the autumn, and no suspicion that she might be bored there. Kate had begun to realize that her aunt had very little imagination: she was not herself bored at Staplewood, and could not understand how anyone (least of all an impoverished niece) could wish to be otherwhere. She had surrounded Kate with every luxury; she had clothed her expensively; she had bestowed gifts upon her; and while she brushed off any expressions of gratitude she did expect, perhaps unconsciously, that Kate should repay her with a grateful adoration.

Kate was grateful, but she could not love her aunt. In spite of her kindness, and her generosity, there was something in Lady Broome which repelled her. She more than once suspected that under the facade lay a
cold
and calculating nature; and tried to recall just what it was that her father had said about his half-sister. Something about her ambition, and how she was ready to go to all lengths to achieve it - but he had said it jokingly, not as though he had meant to disparage her. 'She married Broome of Staplewood,' he had said, and had laughed. 'Not a peer, but pretty well for Miss Minerva Malvern!'

But Papa had not known how proud his sister had become of Staplewood, and the Broome heritage. To Kate, it seemed as if this pride had become an obsession: nothing, in her aunt's esteem, ranked above it. She had taken Kate to the Muniment Room, and had shown her its contents, and Kate had dutifully admired, and marvelled, and said all that was proper. But she could not share her aunt's enthusiasm. It did not seem to her that the unbroken line was of so much importance, but since it was made plain to her that Lady Broome considered it to be of the first importance she did not say so. Only she did wonder that her aunt should bestow so much more of her loving care upon Staplewood than upon her husband, or her son.

She was for ever talking about it, trying, as it appeared, to inspire Kate with something of her own feeling for the place. When she had discharged her errands of mercy, and had rejoined Kate in the carriage, she gave the order to drive home, and told Kate that few things afforded her more pleasure than to pass through the lodge-gates, and up the long, winding avenue to the house. 'When I compare it to other people's houses, I realize how superior it is,' she said simply.

The sublimity of this statement surprised a choke of laughter out of Kate, for which she immediately apologized, saying that she supposed everyone considered his own house to be superior.

Lady Broome put up her brows. 'But how could they? Be it understood that I am not speaking of great houses, such as Chatsworth, or Holkham - though both are too modern for my taste! I daresay there may be some who admire them, but for my part I prefer the antique. I like to think of all the Broomes who have lived at Staplewood - for it dates back beyond the baronetcy, and although succeeding generations have added to it, nothing has ever been destroyed. That is an awe-inspiring thought, is it not?'

'Most sobering!' agreed Kate, a little dryly.

Missing the inflexion, Lady Broome said: 'Yes, that is what I feel.' After a pause, she said dreamily: 'Sometimes I wonder whether my successor will share my feeling. I hope so, but I don't depend on it.'

'Your successor, ma'am?'

'Torquil's wife. She will be a very fortunate young womans won't she?'

'Why, yes, ma'am! I suppose she will.'

'Position, wealth, Staplewood, a house in the best part of London—' Lady Broome broke off, sighing. 'That was a sad blow to me, you know: being obliged to shut it up. Before Sir Timothy's health failed, we were used to spend several months in London, during the Season. I won't conceal from you, my dear, that I enjoyed those months excessively! I don't think there can have been a single
ton
party given for which I didn't receive a card of invitation. I was famed for my own parties, and have frequently entertained the Prince Regent, besides other members of the Royal Family. You may readily conceive what it meant to me to be obliged to give it all up! But the doctors were insistent that London life would never do for Sir Timothy. His constitution has always been delicate. Even when we were first married, he was used to become exhausted for what seemed to me to be no cause at all. He was bored by the balls, and the drums, and the race-parties, and the Opera-nights of which I could never have enough, but because he knew how much I enjoyed that way of life he concealed his boredom from me. And I was too young, and perhaps too much intoxicated by my success, to realize it.' She smiled faintly. 'I
was
successful, you know!'
My
parties were always amongst the biggest squeezes of the Season! But, naturally, when Sir Timothy suffered his first heart attack, and the doctors warned me that a continued residence in London would prove fatal, I perceived that it was my duty to abandon the fashionable life, and to devote myself entirely to Staplewood. I've accustomed myself, but I do, now and then, envy Torquil's wife!'

Rendered vaguely uneasy by this speech, and acutely aware of the footmen standing rigidly behind her, Kate tried for a lighter note. 'You should consider, Aunt Minerva, that Torquil's wife may not share your sentiments! For anything you know, he may fall violently in love with a country-bred girl who would shrink from the town diversions which to you arc so desirable!'

The barouche, having passed through the lodge-gates, was now bowling up the avenue. After a moment's silence, Lady Broome said abruptly: 'Would they not be desirable to you, Kate?'

Since she had never considered the question, it took Kate aback. She took time over her answer, and, as the house came into sight, replied hesitantly: 'I don't know. They might, I suppose.'

Lady Broome seemed to be satisfied, and said no more. In another few minutes, the barouche drew up, and the ladies alighted from it. As they entered the house, Kate was impelled to say: 'Knowing myself to be quite ineligible, I have never permitted myself to think how it would be to become a fashionable lady. Which is just as well, perhaps, since I'm almost an ape-leader now!'

'What nonsense!' replied Lady Broome, amused. 'Is there
no
gentleman for whom you feel a
tendre
?'

'Not one!' replied Kate blithely. 'Oh, in my salad days I fancied myself to be in love with several dashing officers-and with one in particular! I've forgotten his name, but he was very handsome, and, I regret to confess, a very ramshackle person! I have heard that he married a woman of fortune - that, of course, was always an object with him! - and is now the father of a hopeful family!'

'I hope you don't mean to tell me that you have no admirers! That, I must warn you, would be coming it very much too strong!'

'No, ma'am, I don't mean to tell you that,' replied Kate, 'but my admirers, owing to my want of fortune, think of me as an agreeable flirt, not as a wife. Only one of them ever made me an offer - and he was the most odious little mushroom!'

'Ah, the brother of your late employer! You told me about him, and very diverting I found it! But it is a sad fact, my love, that the lot of a single female who has no fortune is not a happy one. While she is young, and able to earn her bread, it may be supportable; but when one is old and unwanted - oh, let us not dwell upon such misery! It makes me shudder even to think of it!'

It made Kate shudder too, but inwardly. It was as though a cold hand had closed over her heart; and although, with the optimism of youth, she shook it off, it made her remember her unavailing search for employment, and ask herself if boredom was really so great a price to pay for security.

But the feeling that she was being enclosed in a silken net grew upon her during the following weeks; and, when she scolded herself for being so stupid, it occurred to her that she had very little money left in her purse, not enough to pay for the coach fare to London, and something akin to panic seized her. She might write to Sarah, begging her to come to her rescue, but Sarah had answered none of her letters, and the seed sown by Lady Broome had borne fruit. She did not doubt Sarah's affection, but she had certainly been a charge on her, and it was possible that Sarah was thankful to be relieved of it. Things had changed since the days when Sarah had been her nurse: she was married now, and, besides her husband, she had his father and his nephews to care for. And even though she would probably still extend a welcome to her nursling, Kate recoiled from the thought of foisting herself on to her again, and for heaven only knew how long a period.

Meanwhile, nothing happened at Staplewood to relieve the monotony of its ordered days, the only variation being Church-going every Sunday. The family attended Divine Service in the village Church, which was conducted by the Vicar, a middle-aged cleric, with obsequious manners, who stood in unbecoming awe of Lady Broome, and preached long and very dull sermons. To these, however, the occupants of the Broorne pew were not obliged even to pretend to listen, this pew being screened from the rest of the congregation by walls of carved oak, dating from Jacobean times, and reminding Kate irresistibly of a loose-box.

To reach it, it was necessary to walk in procession down the aisle; and, since his infirmity made Sir Timothy's progress slow, and Lady Broome inclined her head graciously whenever she perceived a known face, this was so like a Royal Visitation that Kate was torn between embarrassment and an improper inclination to giggle.