Black Sheep (9 page)

She awoke not much refreshed, but, as she sat before her dressing-table, it occurred to her that there was one person who might be able to offer her valuable advice. Mrs Grayshott, a woman of superior sense, not only held Fanny in affection but was the mother of a pretty daughter, and might be supposed to know better than a mere spinster-aunt how best to handle a girl in the throes of her first love-affair. At all events, it could do no harm to consult her, for Abby guessed her to be a safe repository for confidences, and felt herself to be in need of such a repository.

So she presently told Fanny that she would escort her to Queen’s Square, in Mrs Grimston’s stead, that morning, and occupy herself, while Fanny wrestled with Italian grammar under the aegis of Miss Timble, with some necessary shopping. After which, she said, she would pay Mrs Grayshott a visit, and remain with her until Fanny and Miss Lavinia Grayshott were released from the Italian class, and could, with perfect propriety, escort each other to Edgar Buildings.

Fanny, greeting this suggestion with acclaim, said: “Oh, famous! Then I can purchase a new pair of silk stockings, in Milsom Street! I wanted to do so when you were away, but my aunt was feeling too poorly to go shopping, and nothing will prevail upon me ever again to go with Nurse! Well, you know what she is, Abby! If she doesn’t say that the very thing one wants isn’t
suitable
—as though one were still in the schoolroom!—she
sinks
one with embarrassment by saying that it is by far too dear, and she knows where it can be bought at half the price!”

Edgar Buildings, in George Street, were situated just within the fashionable part of the town, which extended northward from the top of Milsom Street to the exclusive heights of Upper Camden Place. Failing to discover an eligible lodging for his sister in the equally exclusive district which lay across the bridge and included Laura Place, Great Pultney Street, and Sydney Place, Mr Leonard Balking would have chosen, had he consulted only his own pleasure, to have set Mrs Grayshott up in style there, even hiring an imposing house for her accommodation; but he had, besides his deep affection for her, a great deal of commonsense, and he realized that a large house would be a burden to her, and the long climb up to Camden Place not at all the thing for an invalid. So he had established her in Edgar Buildings, whence she could visit all the best shops, and even, without exhaustion, walk to the Pump Room, or to the Private Bath, in Stall Street. After condemning out of hand a set of apartments which he stigmatized as poky, he was fortunate enough to discover a first-floor suite which he thought tolerable, and everyone else described as handsome. Nearly all the lodgings in Bath were let in suites, and in the best part of the town these generally consisted of some four or five rooms, persons who wished for only two rooms being obliged either to look for them in an unfashionable quarter, or to endure all the disadvantages of one of Bath’s numerous boarding-houses.

Mrs Grayshott’s lodging was one of the most commodious sets of rooms to be had, providing her with bedrooms for herself, her daughter, her maid, and any chance visitor; and it had, besides a spacious drawing-room, a small dining-parlour. Mrs Grayshott, urgently assuring her brother that she and Lavinia could be perfectly comfortable in humbler lodgings, was silenced by his saying simply: “You hurt me very much when you talk in that strain, my dear. You and your children are all the family I have, and surely I may be allowed to stand godfather to you?”

So Mrs Grayshott, whose circumstances were straitened, allowed herself to be installed in lodgings which were the envy of many of her acquaintances; and, since she made no secret of the fact that she owed her apparent affluence to the generosity of her brother, only such ill-natured persons as Mrs Ruscombe ever said that it seemed an odd thing that an impecunious widow should be able to live as high as a coach-horse.

Miss Abigail Wendover, admitted into the building by the very superior housekeeper, was informed that Mrs Grayshott was at home, and was about to mount the stairs when the housekeeper added, with an air of vicarious triumph: “And Mr Oliver Grayshott, too, ma’am! Yesterday he arrived! I’m sure you could have knocked me down with a feather, and as for Madam it’s a wonder she didn’t suffer a spasm! But there! they say joy never kills!”

This news caused Abby to pause, feeling that her visit was ill-timed; but just as she was about to go away she heard her name spoken, and looked up to see that Mrs Grayshott was standing on the half-landing, smiling a welcome.

“Come up, Abby!” she said. “I saw you from the window, and guessed you wouldn’t stay when you knew what had happened! Oh, my dear, such a wonderful, wonderful surprise as it was! I can still hardly believe that I have him with me again!”

“No indeed!” Abby responded warmly. “I am so glad—so happy for you! But
^t
you can’t want to receive tiresome morning-visitors!”

“You could never be that! I have
one
,
in the person of Mrs Ancrum, but I hope she may soon take her leave of us, for I most particularly want you to meet Oliver. And also to tell you of a very surprising circumstance—But that must wait until we are rid of Mrs Ancrum!”

She held out a coaxing hand as she spoke, but even as Abby set her foot on the stair two more morning-visitors arrived: Lady Weaverham, accompanied by Miss Sophia Weaverham.

Escape was impossible; Mrs Grayshott had nothing to do but to beg the new arrivals to come upstairs, which they did, Lady Weaverham, an immensely stout individual, beaming goodnature as she heaved herself up the half-flight, and assuring her hostess, rather breathlessly, that she would not stay above a minute, but that upon hearing the news of the safe return of Mrs Grayshott’s son she had felt that the least she could do was to call on her, just to offer her felicitations. “And here, I see, is Miss Wendover, come on the same errand, I make no doubt!” she said, pausing to recover her breath, and holding out a hand tightly enclosed in lavender kid. “Well, my dear, how do you do ? Not that I need ask, for I can see that you’re in high bloom, and if you didn’t buy that delicious hat in London you may call me a chucklehead! Which Sir Joshua tells me I am, but I am more than seven, I promise you, and I can recognize town-bronze when I see it!” She then surveyed Mrs Grayshott out of her little, twinkling eyes, and said: “And quite in your best looks
you
are, ma’am, which is not to be wondered at! So should I be, if my Jack had been restored to me when I was on the very brink of ordering my mourning-clothes! Now, tell me—how
is
he?”

“Not in such good point as I could wish, ma’am,” Mrs Grayshott replied, helping her to mount the rest of the stairs, “but you will see how quickly he will recover! You will think, however, that I am presenting a skeleton to you, I daresay!”

If Mr Oliver Grayshott was not exactly a skeleton, he was certainly a very thin young man; and as he pulled himself up from his chair to greet the visitors Abby saw that he was also very tall. The cast of his countenance was aquiline; he had a keen pair of eyes, a mobile mouth, and a look of humour underlying the natural gravity of his expression. She thought, as she presently shook hands with him, that he looked to be older than his two-and-twenty years, but perhaps his disastrous sojourn in India might account for his hollow cheeks, and the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes. His manners were assured, but held a little of the diffidence natural to a boy of strict upbringing. He responded to Lady Weaverham’s flood of questions and exclamations with the courtesy of an experienced man of the world, but betrayed his youth in the quick flush, and stammered disclaimer, with which he repulsed her entreaty to him to lie down upon the sofa.

Thinking that one voluble matron was enough for an invalid, Abby made it her business to engage Mrs Ancrum, almost as overpowering a visitor as Lady Weaverham, in trifling conversation. She was listening, with an air of spurious interest, to an account of the complications which had attended the birth of Mrs Ancrum’s first grandchild, confided to her in an earnest under-voice, when the door opened, and Mr Calverleigh was announced.

Startled, she looked quickly over her shoulder, thinking for an instant that she must have misheard the servant. But she had not: standing on the threshold was Mr Miles Calverleigh, as carelessly dressed as when he had arrived at York House on the previous day, and entirely at his ease. His eyes, glancing round the room, rested for a moment on her face, and she thought that they narrowed in the suspicion of a smile, but he gave no other sign of recognition. Mrs Grayshott and Oliver had both risen, Oliver ejaculating: “Sir!” in a tone of gratification, and Mrs Grayshott moving forward with both hands held out in a gesture of impulsive welcome. “Mr Calverleigh, how kind of you!” she exclaimed. “You grant me the opportunity to repair yesterday’s omission!”

“No, do I?” he said. “What was that?”

She smiled. “You must know very well that I was too much overpowered to be able to find words with which to express my gratitude!”

“What, for dumping that young spider-shanks on your doorstep? I didn’t expect to be thanked for
that!
”

She laughed. “Didn’t you? Well, I won’t embarrass you by telling you how
deeply
grateful I am! I’ll make you known to my friends instead! Lady Weaverham, you must allow me to introduce Mr Calverleigh to you—Mr
Miles
Calverleigh!” She waited, while he bowed with casual grace to her ladyship, and her eyes met Abby’s for a pregnant moment, before she continued her presentation. She ended it by saying: “I must tell you that Mr Calverleigh is our good angel! But for his exceeding kindness I shouldn’t have had my
young spider-shanks
restored to me yesterday—or even perhaps, at all!”

“Very true, Mama,” intervened her son, “but you are putting him to the blush! Take care he doesn’t cut his stick!”

“Not at all!” Mr Calverleigh responded. “Never have I won more gratitude with less effort! Continue, ma’am!” As he spoke, he thrust Oliver back into his chair, effectually bringing Mrs Grayshott’s encomiums to an end by sitting down beside Oliver, and asking him if he felt any the worse for yesterday’s journey. Oliver had barely time to assure him that he felt as fresh as a nosegay before Lady Weaverham claimed his attention, telling him how delighted she was to make his acquaintance, and how much she liked his nephew. “Such a very amiable young man, and of the
first
stare! I am sure he has won all our hearts!”

“No, has he indeed?” he replied, with a smile as bland as her own. “
All
of them, ma’am?”

To all outward appearances blind to the quizzical gleam in Mr Calverleigh’s eyes as they fleetingly met her own, Abby seethed with indignation. Only the recollection that she had appointed Fanny to join her in Edgar Buildings prevented her from following the example set by Mrs Ancrum, who rose at this moment to take her leave. It was evident, from what Mrs Grayshott had said, that he must have accompanied Oliver home from Calcutta; and equally evident that he had thereby conquered the widow’s grateful heart. Mrs Grayshott had called him a guardian angel, which would have made Abby laugh if it had not instead made her so cross. He might have been carelessly kind to Oliver, but he was far from being an angel; and it would have given Abby much pleasure to have told Mrs Grayshott how mistaken she was. But detestable though he was—and never more so than at this moment, when he was all too obviously enjoying her discomfiture—this thought was a mere wistful dream. There could be no divulging the disreputable nature of his past history without running into danger, for once it became known, or even suspected, that he was what Mr George Brede termed a loose fish there was no knowing how much the scandalmongers might discover. Besides, it would be a shabby thing to do: talebearers were odious; and one had to remember that he had paid for his youthful misdeeds by twenty years of exile. It might well be, Abby thought, rather doubtfully, that he had reformed his way of life.

Mrs Grayshott, coming back into the room from having escorted Mrs Ancrum to the head of the stairs, sat down beside Abby, saying softly: “I had meant to have told you. I could see you were taken quite by surprise.”

“Yes, but it is of no consequence,” Abby assured her.

Mrs Grayshott looked as if she would have said more, but her attention was claimed by Lady Weaverham, and no further opportunity for private conversation offered itself, the arrival, a few minutes later, of the daughter of the house, accompanied by Miss Fanny Wendover, creating a lively diversion.

They came in, still sparkling with laughter at some undisclosed joke, and a very charming picture they made: Lavinia, a pretty brunette, with innocent brown eyes, and a shy smile, providing Fanny with an excellent foil. Divinely fair, her beautiful features framed by a Villager straw hat with ribbons as blue as her eyes, Fanny made an instant hit with one at least of the assembled company: young Mr Grayshott, rising to his feet, stood gazing at her, apparently spellbound, until recalled from this trance by his mother, when he gave a little start, flushed darkly, and came forward to shake hands with Fanny.

Abby observed this without surprise: it was seldom that Fanny failed to rouse admiration, and she was looking particularly becoming today. Instinctively, Abby glanced at Mr Calverleigh, wondering how he was affected by the girl’s resemblance to her mother, which was strong enough, she thought, to make him feel a reminiscent pang. If it did, he gave no sign of it. He was critically surveying Fanny; and when Mrs Grayshott made him known to her he caused Abby’s heart to miss a beat by saying, as he took Fanny’s hand: “How do you do? So you are Celia Morval’s daughter! I’m delighted to make your acquaintance: I was used to know your mother very well.”