Elisabeth Kidd (3 page)

She was certain it had been Lyle’s laugh she heard as she left the library. She might have expected as much—in fact, she had expected it, from the awful moment when her Uncle Augustus had informed her she was to be bundled off to this dreadful place! She had not wanted to go, and had said so in no uncertain terms. Unfortunately, this had made her uncle only the more determined.

“I do not wish to cause you unhappiness, my dear,” he had said with a sigh and what Sydney’s youngest cousin called his “saintly look,” “but in this case I believe I must put what is best for you before what you imagine you want at this moment. The acquaintance of such a distinguished man as the Marquess of Lyle cannot but be an influence for good in your life, and indeed I also believe you will come to see this yourself in due time. After all, you cannot dislike what you do not know, can you?”

Sydney could, and did. She had her own plans for her future, and they most definitely did not include being shut up in the house of a reclusive and doubtless eccentric peer in some remote part of Sussex (which was only the next county, but Sydney had never been farther west than Canterbury before). If only things could have remained as they were for just a little longer! But her four Wendt cousins had grown up and left home—Nicky and Jamie to marry and take up their respective practices in medicine and the law, Carl to take orders, and Robin to attend Cambridge with a view to a future parliamentary career. Then Aunt Emma had died, and the jolly bustling household was reduced to one suddenly elderly cleric and his young niece-by-marriage.

Even then, things might have gone along comfortably between them, but for two circumstances—Sydney’s artistic career and The Letter.

In a moment of sympathy for her bereaved uncle, Sydney had confided to him her plans to enter some profession, as her cousins had all done or would do. Had she not been educated as they had been? Did she not have even greater talents at the pianoforte and the easel, and in singing—well, perhaps not in singing—and in writing and even acting, as evidenced by the leading parts she had taken in parish theatricals? Did Uncle Augustus not agree that she could earn a living in any one of these occupations, thus allowing him to retire and enjoy his own hobbies in peace for the rest of his days?

Mr. Wendt had no doubt whatever that Sydney could do anything she set her mind to, but conscious of both the dangers inherent in any such course for a gently reared young woman, and of the unlikelihood of his convincing this particular young woman of those dangers, he had reluctantly agreed to all her talents and allowed her to make what plans she would—all the while praying for some miracle that might turn her from her daily more determined path.

The miracle appeared unexpectedly among the deceased Mrs. Wendt’s possessions, one morning after Sydney had announced at breakfast that she was “pretty well set’’ on becoming a concert pianist—having decided against being a poet, despite the fortunes lesser talents like Lord Byron appeared to be making at it, when a sonnet she had sent pseudonymously to
Blackpool’s
magazine was returned with a polite recommendation that the author essay some other form of literary expression.

When asked his opinion of this latest plan, Augustus raised his eyes to heaven for guidance, murmured that Sydney would have to practice her scales a little more, and retreated to his study when she took his advice and settled herself at the parlour instrument for what looked to be a long siege—
allegro
but determinedly
fortissimo.
Closeted with an unfinished sermon, Mr. Wendt sought inspiration in the Bible, and inadvertently picked up his wife’s copy instead of his own. It was in Proverbs that he discovered The Letter.

Sydney always thought of it that way later—in large letters, as if it were Magna Carta or The Articles of War. The Letter was from her father Owen to his sister Emma, saying that if Sydney ever wanted for anything, Emma was to apply to the Marquess of Lyle, Major Archer’s former commanding officer and best friend. Her aunt had never informed anyone of The Letter’s existence, apparently because she never considered that there was any material thing lacking in Sydney’s life; but her uncle, who in spite of his supposedly lofty views of worldly goods thought differently, viewed The Letter as nothing short of divine intervention.

“You cannot stay on here forever,” he told Sydney firmly when he showed it to her, and Sydney reacted predictably—bursting into tears and kneeling pleadingly at her uncle’s feet.

“Why, what would people think?” he went on, trying not to look at the tear-filled blue eyes raised to his. “How could I ever explain such selfishness on my part to my parishioners?’’

“Then I shall go to live with Nicky or James.
They
will not turn me away!’’

“But consider, child, how much worse that would be for you. You would live among them as a poor relation, treated kindly, of course, but as neither family nor servant, and dependent for everything on your cousins. They could certainly not afford to indulge you with piano lessons and books. The Marquess, on the other hand, would provide any entertainment you could wish, and you would meet people from the best society. If you were to make a marriage within that society—why, then you would have lost none of the things you value, and would gain the ease in life necessary to enjoy them.’’

Her uncle’s argument was a powerful one, and Sydney at last conceded defeat. She would not sign an unconditional surrender, however, agreeing only to an uneasy truce. She did not for a moment agree with her uncle that a good marriage would afford her the independence to follow her own inclinations and pursuits, and her disdain of the Beau Monde was as exalted as only complete ignorance of the subject could make it.

The marriage of Sydney’s aunt and uncle had seemed to her an exceptionally fine one, but she could not remember that Aunt Emma had ever had a moment to herself—she had certainly had none to waste on fashionable frivolities. Uncle Augustus meant, of course, that Sydney should make a “good” marriage in the material sense, but to Sydney that meant she would not have the one important advantage Aunt Emma
had
enjoyed—of being surrounded by love, as well as responsibilities. In the end, Sydney acceded to her uncle’s wishes only because she thought she saw a way to turn this catastrophe to her advantage after all.

She did not go so far as to tell Mr. Wendt what this might be—having learned discretion by now—but in fact she had got the idea from something her uncle had said in furtherance of his argument for her going to Lyle.

“Consider how much you will learn from living in a noble household,” said her uncle, whose belief in the value of a broad education for both sexes was unshaken even in the face of the misinterpretation his niece chose to put on it. “There is so much of which I am ignorant, but with which persons of the Marquess’s class are familiar from an early age, and may pass on to you.”

This consideration interested Sydney mightily. Adopting what she imagined to be a supremely practical point of view, she acknowledged that, however great her natural talents might be, she was still an amateur—a mere dilettante—no more worthy to be called an artist than any other tiresome young lady who dabbled in watercolours and music.

What did she know, after all, of the real world of the theatre, of booksellers and painters? Granted, as a general rule the Ton knew no more of the business side of the arts than Sydney did, but among them she would be in a position to enlighten herself. Lady Caroline Lamb had after all published her infamous
Glenarvon
only three years before; she must have had some social connection with Mr. Murray’s literary establishment—if only through Lord Byron—for Sydney knew that had she, an unknown provincial, sent such a piece of nonsense to him, it would have been speedily rejected. Furthermore, merely residing in London would enable her to attend concerts and the theatre and the exhibitions—something denied her entirely in her cozy but isolated country existence. That in itself would teach her a great deal.

“Very well,’’ she told her uncle finally, “I will go.” To herself she added, “and take every opportunity to learn what his high and mighty lordship can teach me!’’

With a grim set to her pretty chin, therefore, Sydney prepared to embark on this adventure with the same determination—however short-lived—which she had shown for her previous schemes. She packed for the journey with an eye to the clothes she might need to attend various entertainments—which did not quite fill a small trunk—and the books and other materials she might need in pursuing her advanced studies—which filled a large trunk and several boxes. She then instructed her uncle to send an express warning Lyle of her advent, and bade him goodbye in a jaunty manner which—had Mr. Wendt been of a less sanguine temperament—might have concerned him more than a little, and set off by post chaise to Arundel.

The Marquess having nonetheless not been informed in time of his duty to meet Miss Archer, she was accorded only a perfunctory politeness on the part of the landlord of the Friar’s Head and the use of his second-best parlour, where Sydney sat on a hard wooden chair for an hour before Hitchin, her coachman, volunteered to ride up to Long Hill to make enquiries. By that time, however, Sydney was in such a temper that she declared she could not sit still for another second. Demanding that a horse be saddled for her, she forced Lyle’s exact direction out of the disapproving Hitchin, and set off for Long Hill by herself.

Augustus Wendt had once suggested to his niece that, if Lyle had been her father’s best friend, he must therefore be an agreeable person, or at least have many admirable qualities; but when Sydney demanded entrance of an astonished Murray, she was in no mood to be agreeable in return.

It was not until she was lying in the Marquess’s most luxurious guest bed, staring up at a pleasantly rose-coloured canopy, that it occurred to her that it was scarcely Lyle’s fault that her letter had not reached him, and that he had, despite her childish tantrum, gone to a great deal of trouble to make her immediately comfortable. Arrogant he might be—Sydney wondered parenthetically if her uncle would tell her arrogance was admirable because Lyle practiced it—but she had to concede that he was, if a trifle high in the instep, neither selfish nor thoughtless. He was, she realized, her spirits sinking yet further, unfortunately not eccentric either, and worst of all, he was a good deal younger—her father Owen having been, it seemed, some years senior to Lyle—and far more handsome than Sydney had anticipated.

This last, on top of what now seemed her unforgivable behaviour in storming into that library as she had done—besides saying some very foolish things to him!—succeeded in robbing Sydney of blessed sleep for several hours. When eventually she did drop off, her last conscious thought was a determination to appear in the morning composed, civil, and sensible—and to get on with her career as quickly as may be!

Lady Romney, who rarely slept more than five hours in a night, and the Marquess, who had retained his army habit of rising at dawn, came to breakfast at their usual early hour. They seated themselves in the sunny breakfast parlour, whose French windows gave onto a small terrace suitable for summertime nuncheons but in March still too cool to be inviting. Beyond the terrace, a tentative bloom of daffodils had begun under the newly leafed trees, but Lady Romney, professing herself to be ignorant of horticultural matters, had given them only a cursory inspection before taking a chair opposite the door.

From this vantage she was shortly afforded the more entertaining spectacle of her brother—who must have risen hours before his accustomed time to accomplish the feat—coming into breakfast arrayed in all the springtime glory of mustard-coloured pantaloons and a yellow embroidered waistcoat glimpsed from under a buff coat with brown trim.

Lyle, whose bemused reaction to this spectacle was much as Lady Romney’s, murmured, “He toils not, neither does he spin—yet he contrives to set even the daffodils of the field into the shade.”

Cedric, picking up a plate and contemplating the kippered herring, told them there was no use in their going on at him like that.

“I confess freely to an overwhelming curiosity as to what the day may bring. I can’t help thinking it will be much less predictable than yesterday—but far more entertaining—and I don’t propose to miss a minute of it.”

“Are you saying you have been bored here at Long Hill, Cedric?” Lyle enquired. “What a poor sort of host I must be!”

“I am never bored, dear fellow, as you well know, and you are the best of good hosts—never interfere with a man’s pleasures and never let him go hungry. What’s this orange stuff, by the way?”

“Curried eggs, I believe.’’

“My, my, how adventurous of Bernard!” Cedric helped himself to an exploratory spoonful, and settled into a chair facing his sister. “Shall you coax Bernard into coming to London with you, Lyle? He may be adventurous to the point of foolhardiness, but he’s the finest chef you’ve ever had, and it would be a pity to allow his talents to tarnish with disuse here in the country.’’

“I fear one of the conditions under which Bernard allowed me to hire him was that he
not
be required to go to London, for which, like most Frenchmen, he has the greatest contempt,” Lyle replied, picking up the cup Lady Romney had just refilled with coffee for him. “In any case, I have no plans to travel up to Town myself anytime soon.’’

“Shall you not be obliged to do so?” Vanessa asked him. “That is, if you truly intend to see this—this child you have had thrust upon you—sent off properly. She will have to make her bow in London.”

“That does not necessarily require my dancing attendance on her, however. I shall ask my Aunt Prudence to chaperone her.’’

This mild pronouncement brought dissimilar but equally exaggerated responses from its hearers. Lady Romney paused in the delicate act of spearing a sliver of fish with her fork to stare at Lyle. Cedric nearly choked on his curried egg.

“Prue Whitlatch!” he exclaimed, sputtering. “Good heavens, Drew, you can’t be serious! Even from the little we saw last night, you must see that timid little soul will be no match for Miss Archer.”