A Little Folly (6 page)

Now he noticed how heavily she leaned on his arm – the pain in her foot forcing the unwelcome proximity – and remarked that she must be tired, his tone for the first time approaching true warmth. Or it might have been approval, a disposition to feebleness being a commendable attribute in young ladies. – Louisa for her part was glad of the return to the house, and the escape it afforded her from his exclusive company. Escape, too, from the scene of her own failure. She might congratulate herself on having done something for the unfortunate governess, but for herself, she felt, she had done nothing; somehow she had fallen short of a plain assertion that she would not consider Pearce Lynley as a suitor, though the encounter had done nothing to lessen, and everything to strengthen, her aversion to him. The assertion was demanded not only by her own feelings, but also, she admitted, in justice to him. She doubted there was anything intense or profound in Mr Lynley’s attachment to her, simply because it was Mr Lynley’s – but such as it was, it must not in common kindness be allowed to rest on a delusive hope.

T
he unwelcome thought of Mr Lynley could be banished, at least temporarily, by one much more agreeable – the imminent arrival of their cousins; and at the last moment, this novelty of company received an addition: another bedroom must be hastily prepared. The Speddings were bringing someone with them.

It was a particular friend of Sophie’s, whom she had chanced to encounter at Lyme, a lady currently unhappily circumstanced, out of health and spirits; and as she was finding some solace, however small, in her friend’s society, Sophie had not the heart to leave her behind and alone; – and so, trusting to the generosity and good nature that she had already discerned in her cousins’ invitation, she and Tom had included Lady Harriet Eversholt in their party, which hoped to arrive at Pennacombe on Wednesday.

‘Pretty in them,’ said Mr Tresilian, with a laugh, when Valentine read out the letter that purveyed this information. ‘You must hope they don’t fall in with a travelling fair between here and Lyme, Valentine, else you will be quartering a menagerie in your grounds.’

‘Nothing of the sort, Tresilian. It is just the sort of generous spontaneity I should hope to find in our cousins, and we shall respond in kind.’

‘Spontaneity is overpraised. When I sit down to dinner, I should not care to have the beef spontaneously replaced by roast octopus.’

‘Tresilian, you are a perfect misanthrope.’

‘No, I’m not, I’m still working at it,’ said Mr Tresilian, taking a scrap of paper from his pocket, and making a sketch of ship’s rigging, adding, at Louisa’s curious glance: ‘I have just had a thought about the cut of the
Minerva
’s spanker-boom.’

‘How little I understand of that sentence,’ she said, admiring his drawing. ‘And is there truly something on a ship called a fo’c’sle? It seems to have an unwarranted excess of apostrophes. My suspicion is that when we landlubbers are not by, seamen do not use these words at all and talk quite normally.’

‘An intriguing notion. I have often been entertained likewise by the speculation that when men are not by, women talk sense, for they assuredly do not otherwise.’

This was much in Mr Tresilian’s usual style; as was his reply, on Valentine’s urging him to come and dine once their guests were settled, that he would see how many other unbearable things he had to do that week. Louisa’s own feeling about the unexpected addition was, however, not as uncomplicated as her brother’s. Time and her father’s obduracy had made strangers of their kinfolk, but kin they were: this Lady Harriet Eversholt was all stranger. The aristocratic name was a further contributor to what she was dismayed to find was a paralysing shyness, as the hour of their visitors’ arrival drew near; and she could only partly overcome it by the refreshing reminder that what she was doing was something Pearce Lynley would undoubtedly disapprove.

Valentine was in high, though nervous, fettle; he had altered the tying of his cravat half a dozen times, and was still toying with it when Louisa said uneasily: ‘I suppose when we have begun to live – that is, when we have begun to live even more – something like this will be of very little moment.’

‘Lord! yes. I have known people bring a party of twelve to a house with no notice, and stay a month, and no one has thought anything of it,’ he said, though how and where he could have come across this singular instance of unstinting hospitality, he omitted to explain.

‘Lady Harriet Eversholt – if she is styled so, she must be of noble birth in her own right, is that not so? I wonder what her unhappy circumstances are. Widowhood, perhaps. Or perhaps only her health. I hope the room is sufficiently aired—’

The sound of swift wheels and bustle put an end to suspense – and suddenly all was enjoyment. Even to stand at the threshold of Pennacombe House as hosts, and smile out at the smart post-chaise drawn up on the gravel, was a pleasure both simpler and keener than could have been guessed; Louisa was able to savour the liberation of the moment, with nothing of either guilt or bitterness towards the departed influence that had so long prevented it.

As for their cousins, she was very soon wondering that she had suffered even a moment’s anxiety over their coming: Tom and Sophie Spedding alighted from the post-chaise, and hastened forward to shake their hands, and declare themselves delighted to see them, with such ease and frankness – so much eagerness, and so little ceremony – that the meeting seemed more a comfortable reunion of old friends than an introduction. Tom Spedding was a fair, fresh-faced, big-boned young man, mighty fashionable in his dress but all geniality in his manners; and Sophie, his equal in fairness but much more slight and quick, took on the responsibilities of greeting and explanation, of apologies for the quantity of their luggage and admiration of Pennacombe’s drive and front, all with such volubility that there was no time for awkwardness.

‘And now let me introduce my dear friend, Lady Harriet Eversholt,’ Sophie concluded, ‘who all the way down has been quite as severe with me as I dare say I deserve for imposing her presence on you.’

The lady thus presented murmured with a faint smile that she mustn’t talk nonsense. She was certainly no widow, or not a recent one, judging by her dress, and might have been no more than twenty-five or -six; but she gave a curious impression, as she moved forward to touch Louisa’s hand, of stepping out of a pool of shadow, despite the high brightness of the spring day.

‘There can be no consciousness of imposition on our part, Lady Harriet, only honour,’ said Valentine, with a bow; and though she thanked him cordially, in a voice both low and musical, she seemed glad to retire into the background again as they went into the house, and surrender the chief claim of attention to the Speddings.

‘And here is Pennacombe at last,’ said Sophie, ‘and not at all as I had pictured it in my mind – which is a shocking piece of fudge because unknown places, and people too, never
are
as one pictures them, and it would be very surprising if they were. It would quite turn one into a gypsy fortune-teller. – Only I had imagined it handsome but not so light and airy – and you have the sweetest view across the park. Just before the turnpike we saw a most imposing place in the distance, but so very grey and frowning I rather hoped it was not Pennacombe. I fancied that staying
there
one would feel quite incarcerated.’

‘That would be Hythe Place,’ Valentine said, with a shrewd glance at Louisa. ‘Certainly it is one of the finest seats in the county, but it is not to everyone’s taste.’

‘Splendid situation – but this, you know, is quite the thing,’ said Tom Spedding, seating himself with all the care and deliberation that tight buckskins, narrow-waisted coat and starched cravat compelled. ‘I was never happier to be in a place in my life. And as for meeting you at last, our very own cousins, I cannot conceive anything more agreeable. Almost feel as if I’m dreaming! For, you know, I did dream about it, just the other night at Lyme – didn’t I, Sophie?’

‘So you did, Tom; though that was the dream that ended unpleasantly – do you remember? – with the tiger chasing you.’

‘So it was. Wretched beast. Sure it’s going to catch me one day,’ Tom said, his face only briefly falling, before assuming again its expression of sunny good temper. ‘Fancy a great fellow of four-and-twenty dreaming about a tiger. Fierce one too. Teeth and claws and all. What do you think of
that
?’ And, with a look of amiable surprise at himself, he began a slow-dawning laugh of deep enjoyment, in which it was impossible not to join.

‘But now we are remiss,’ Sophie said, having slapped her brother’s knees, ‘for though I know Mama wrote you when we read of your father’s decease in the newspaper, we should not let this occasion pass without expressing our condolences.’

‘Heavens, no,’ said Tom. ‘Dreadful thing. Never more shocked in my life.’

‘And when I wrote Mama last week, she was most particular in her reply that we convey to you her kindest compliments and sincerest hopes that you are recovering from your loss. And now I shan’t say any more: for I well remember after poor Papa died that in the end one hardly knew what to do with the commiserations. It all became rather mechanical – and then one felt guilty, because no matter how much one missed that person, still it was only human nature that one was not thinking of them
all
of the time.’

There was an understanding and a delicacy in this, which reinforced the conviction in Louisa’s mind, that she was going to get along with their cousins very well. Valentine looked equally as pleased; and if there was any discomfort, it was in the presence of Lady Harriet Eversholt. Not that she did or said anything to create awkwardness: she joined in the conversation a little, civilly answering Valentine’s enquiries about how she found Lyme, and whether it had been beneficial to her health, and expressing her pleasure at being in such a delightful spot. But her entire absence of relation to the family necessarily set her apart; and her looks, on which Louisa could not help dwelling with covert glances, sufficiently proclaimed the separation. At first sight she might have been judged no more than a moderately handsome woman, though exceptionally elegant; but the eye could not be satisfied with first sight, and must return with fascination to the strong profile, the full yet slightly indrawn lips, and the look of something both melancholy and forceful that suffused the whole.

It was probably a relief to her, Louisa thought, when the company broke up for the visitors to unpack, and for all to dress for dinner. She was not sorry herself to have a little space for solitary reflection: to feel the relief and gratification that their cousins were so congenial, to anticipate the further pleasures of their visit; and to wonder a little at her father’s refusal to have anything to do with the family. Only a little, though, for while the Speddings revealed no affectation, they were undoubtedly town-bred, fashionable, independent, and thoroughly at ease with themselves and the world; and to that damning combination no superabundance of virtues could have been added that would in the least have redeemed them from Sir Clement’s contempt.

Her solitude was not long, however. A tap at her bedroom door heralded Sophie Spedding, apologising for the intrusion, and asking for the loan of a pin.

‘Of course you see I am full dressed, and don’t want a pin at all,’ she added, closing the door, ‘but one feels the need of a pretext. – Louisa, I did so wish to speak with you alone. I should add, we are not going to be Miss Carnell and Miss Spedding, are we? Thank heaven. No, the fact is I have been a little anxious about our reception here – Tom too: though I cover it by rattling, and Tom is never uneasy even when he is uneasy, if you follow me.’

‘I should be sorry to think we have given you any cause for anxiety. Is there anything not to your liking? For in truth we are not at all accustomed to entertaining, and I have been a little anxious myself on that score—’

‘Gracious, nothing of that,’ Sophie said, seating herself on a footstool as comfortably as if it had been an armchair. ‘Why, Tom had a friend from Cambridge whose people accounted themselves
very
high, and we went to stay with them once; I had to wash my hands in a soup-tureen, and share my bedroom with an old wall-eyed pointer because it would sleep nowhere else. The creature conducted itself unspeakably all night, and I couldn’t get the window open. No – it concerns my friend Harriet and my bringing her. I am sure it seems quite a presumption: and I fear there is already presumption enough in
our
thrusting ourselves on you.’

‘But that was our wish, believe me, as soon as we heard you were at Lyme.’

‘Well – shall I confess it was
our
wish too? If I refer to the past – to the estrangement between our families, and your late father’s feeling about us – it is only to say I have no opinion about it, other than that it was a great pity; so Mama thinks too. But, yes, when we were at Lyme, and were debating whether to go on to Sidmouth, we did think: shall we not go a little further, and see our cousins the Carnells – because now, at last, we can?’

‘So we happily thought alike,’ said Louisa, smiling, for the charm of having her cousin sitting here in her room, talking so naturally and confidentially, was suddenly borne in on her. Kate Tresilian, for all her qualities, would never have done such a thing. ‘And please don’t give yourself any uneasiness over the past – over my father. He quarrelled with your family, as he quarrelled with many people: that was his way; I hope, with all respect to his memory, that it is not ours.’ There must have been something invigorating about her cousins’ presence, indeed, for she had never put the case, even to herself, so neatly; though she did not feel it quite as positively as she said it.

‘You are excessively good,’ Sophie said, gazing up at her with eyes that were, Louisa decided, larger and bluer than any others she had ever seen. ‘Probably you will say I need not mind about Harriet either. Still, I feel I must explain myself, and the particular circumstances surrounding our friendship. We were first acquainted last winter in town. I met her at one of Mrs Manby’s routs – which, by the by, do not at all live up to their reputation. I confess I was eager for the introduction, for there was a deal of fascination in what I had heard of Harriet’s story. – Though, to be sure, this may be old news to you.’

‘No – not exactly.’

‘Well, she is the youngest daughter of the late Earl of Windham, who was quite a byword for high living. – If I say there was more than one acknowledged mistress, I mean only to inform and not to shock. It was the earl’s eccentricity, which he made more a boast than a secret, that he could never remember his children’s names. Oh, they lacked for nothing material, as Harriet has told me, but they were left quite to shift for themselves as far as guidance and affection went: he could not have been less interested in them, as long as they did nothing to incommode him, as he saw it. And this was poor Harriet’s situation, when as a very young woman she met and fell in love with Colonel Eversholt. He was a good twenty years older than her – but dashing, spirited, and very devoted in his attachment; he was an equerry at the Court, and though temporarily embarrassed in the matter of fortune, still I should have supposed it a match to rejoice in. But the earl dismissed it, and so they eloped. And now will it be believed? The Earl, who had given no sign of caring in the least what his children did, went into a most dreadful rage against Harriet – abused her name shockingly in public – and swore she would not get a penny from him. Nor did she: for when a twelvemonth later he died – literally of cherry brandy, they say – Harriet was cut altogether out of his will; and her brother who succeeded him would do nothing for her. Is it not monstrous?’