The Grand Sophy (19 page)

The repast at an end, Gaston bent to his mistress’s ear and reminded her that the gate into the wood had been unlocked. She said, “Oh, yes! The bluebell wood! So pretty! These young people would like to wander through it, senora, while you and I repose ourselves a little.”

It would never have occurred to Lady Ombersley to suggest a siesta to a visitor, but since she invariably dozed during the afternoon she had no real fault to find with this program, and accompanied the Marquesa into the drawing room. Here she at first endeavored to engage the Marquesa in talk of her brother, but without much success. The Marquesa said, “It is not amusing to be a widow, and, besides, I prefer England to Spain, since it is now very impoverished there. But to be madrasta to Sophy! No, and a thousand times no!”

“We are all very fond of my dear niece,” said Lady Ombersley, bristling.

“I also, but she is too fatiguing. One does not know what next she will do, or, which is worse by far, what she will make one do that one does not wish at all.”

Lady Ombersley found herself quite unable to resist the temptation of indulging in a little gentle malice. “My dear ma’am, I am sure my niece could never persuade you to exert yourself in any way disagreeable to you!”

“But yes!” said the Marquesa simply. “It is plain that you do not know Sophy. To withstand her is much, much more fatiguing still!”

Meanwhile, the subject of this exchange was arranging a flower in Hubert’s buttonhole in the formal garden. Mr. Rivenhall had gone off in the direction of the stables, and the four others were wending their way through the shrubbery toward the bluebell wood, Mr. Fawnhope having been visited by inspiration which on the sight of Cecilia in the wood could, he said, bring to fruition. So far, he had only achieved one line of his poem, but he felt it to be promising. “
When amidst bluebells my Cecilia treads,” he murmured
.

“Quite Carolinian!” remarked Miss Wraxton.

Mr. Fawnhope’s verse was at all times derivative, but he liked being told so no better than any other poet, so he took his Cecilia’s hand and would have led her away had not Miss Wraxton been on the alert to prevent just such a happening. With determination she stayed beside the lovers, and presently, by a happy reference to Cowper, succeeded in diverting Mr. Fawnhope’s attention from Cecilia to herself. Sir Vincent, finding solace for boredom in amusement at this situation, bided his time, and was presently rewarded. Cecilia, unable to bear a part in the elevated discussion in progress (for she was no great reader), began to drop behind. Sir Vincent fell in beside her, and in a very short space of time coaxed her out of her crossness, and, indeed, out of the wood as well. He said that profound as was his admiration for Miss Wraxton’s intellect he found her conversation oppressive. Woods and bluestockings, he said, exercised a lowering effect upon his spirits. He thought the ground was damp, certainly unfit walking for a delicately nurtured lady. He took Cecilia instead to inspect the dovecot, and since he was skilled in the art of flirtation, and she was lovely enough to make a little dalliance a pleasant way of whiling away a dull afternoon, they contrived to pass an agreeable hour together.

While all this was going on, Sophy was walking in the shrubbery with Hubert. She had not failed to notice that during the past few days he had swung between exaggeratedly high spirits and fits of black depression. She had mention the matter to Cecilia, but Cecilia had merely said that Hubert had always been moody and had not seemed to be inclined to think any more about it. But Sophy could not see anyone in the grip of care without instantly wishing to discover the cause, and, if possible, to rectify it. She thought she was now on good enough terms with him to venture to broach the matter to him, and so, it seemed, she was, for although he could not be said to confide in her, he did not, as she had been afraid he might, mount upon a high horse. Yes, he confessed, he was a trifle worried, it was no great matter, and he expected to have put it behind him in a very few days’ time.

Sophy, who had led the way to a rustic seat, now urged him to sit down beside her on it. Tracing a pattern on gravel path with the point of her parasol, she said: “If it is money—and it nearly always is; it is the most odious thing—and you do not care to ask your papa for it, I expect I could help you.”

“Much good it would be to ask my father!” said Huh “He hasn’t a feather to fly with, and what is so dashed unjust, when you consider, the only time I ever applied him he went into a worse rage than Charles does!”

“Does Charles go into a rage?”

“Oh, well! No, not precisely, but I don’t know but what I’d liefer he did!” replied Hubert bitterly.

She nodded. “Then you don’t wish to approach him. Do, pray, tell me!”

“Certainly not!” said Hubert, on his dignity. “Devilish good of you, Sophy, but I haven’t come to
that
yet!”

“Come to what?” she demanded.

“Borrowing money from females, of course! Besides, there’s no need. I shall come about, and before I go up to Oxford again, thank the lord!”

“How?”

“Never mind, but it can’t fail! If it does—but it will not! I may have a father who—well, no sense in talking of
him
! And I may have a dashed disagreeable brother, holding tightly to the purse strings, but fortunately for me I’ve a couple of good friends, whatever Charles may say!”

“Oh!” said Sophy, digesting this information. Disagreeable Charles might be, but she was shrewd enough to suspect that if he condemned any of Hubert’s friends there might be much to be said in his defense. “Does he dislike your friends?”

Hubert gave a short laugh. “Lord, yes! Just because they are knowing ’uns, and kick up a lark every now and then, he proses like a Methodist, and— Here, Sophy, you won’t start talking to Charles, will you?”

“Of course I shall do no such thing!” she said indignantly. “Why, what a creature you must think me!”

“No, I don’t, only— Oh, well, it don’t signify! I shall be as merry as a grig in a week’s time, and I don’t mean to get into a fix again, I can tell you!”

She was obliged to be satisfied with this assurance, for he would say no more. After taking another turn round the shrubbery, she left him, and went back to the house. She found Mr. Rivenhall seated under the elm tree on the south lawn with Tina, who was sleeping off a large repast, at his feet. “If you want to see a rare picture, Sophy,” he said, “peep in at the drawing-room window! My mother is sound asleep on one sofa and the Marquesa on another.”

“Well, if that is their notion of enjoyment I don’t think we should disturb them,” she replied. “It would not be mine, I do
try
to remember that some people like to spend half their days doing nothing at all.”

He made room for her to sit down beside him. “No, I fancy idleness is not your besetting sin,” he agreed. “Sometimes I wonder whether it would not be better for the rest of us if it were, but we have agreed not to quarrel today, so I shall not pursue that thought. But, Sophy, what is my uncle about, to be marrying that absurd woman?”

She wrinkled her brow. “She is very good natured, you know, and Sir Horace says he likes reposeful females.”

“I am astonished that you have sanctioned so unsuitable a match.”

“Nonsense! I have nothing to say to it.”

“I imagine you have everything to say to it,” he retorted. “Don’t play off the airs of an innocent to me, Cousin! I know you well enough to be tolerably certain that you rule my uncle with a rod of iron and have probably guarded him from dozens of marquesas in your time!”

She laughed. “Well, yes,” she admitted. “But, then, they would none of them have made the poor angel at all comfortable, and I do think perhaps Sancia may. I have long made up my mind to it that he should marry again, you know.”

“Next you will say that this match is of your making!”

“Oh, no! There is never the least need to make matches for Sir Horace!” she said frankly. “He is the most susceptible creature imaginable, and, which is so dangerous, if a pretty woman will but weep on his shoulder he will do anything she wants!”

He did not reply, and she saw that his attention was fixed on Cecilia and Sir Vincent, who had that instant come round a corner of the clipped yew hedge. A slight frown descended on to his brow, which made Sophy say severely, “Now, don’t take one of your pets because Cecy flirts a little with Sir Vincent! You should be thankful to see her taking interest in some other man than Mr. Fawnhope. But there is no pleasing you!”

“I am certainly not pleased with that connection!”

“Oh, you have no cause to feel alarm! Sir Vincent is only interested in heiresses and has no intention of offering for Cecy.”

“Thank you, it is not on that score that I feel alarm,” he answered.

She could say no more, for by this time the other couple had come up to them. Cecilia, who was looking prettier than ever, described how Sir Vincent had been so obliging as to find a servant who gave him some maize for the pigeons. She had fed them, and her cousin thought she had taken far more delight in encouraging them to take maize from between her lips than in listening to Sir Vincent’s practiced compliments.

They were soon joined by Hubert. He shot Sophy a glance so pregnant with mischief that in spite of his high shirt points, his elaborate neckcloth, and his fashionable waistcoat he looked very much more like a schoolboy than the town beau he fancied himself. She could not imagine what mischief he could have found to perform in the little time since she had left him, but before she could speculate very seriously on this problem her attention was diverted by the Marquesa, who appeared at the drawing-room window and made signs indicative of her desire that they should all come into the house. Civility obliged even Mr. Rivenhall to obey the summons.

They found the Marquesa so much refreshed by her nap as to have become quite animated. Lady Ombersley had awakened from slumber, uttering the mystic words, Lotion of the Ladies of Denmark, which had operated so powerfully upon her hostess as to make her sit bolt upright upon her sofa, exclaiming, “But no! Better distilled water of green pineapples, I assure you!” By the time the party on the south lawn entered the house the two elder ladies had thoroughly explored every path known to them that led to the preservation of the complexion, and if they differed on such points as the value of raw veal laid on the face at night to remove wrinkles, they found themselves at one over the beneficial effects of chervil water and crushed strawberries.

It now being at least two hours since the light marienda had been consumed, the Marquesa stood in urgent need of further sustenance, and warmly invited her guests to partake of tea and angel cakes. It was then that Lady Ombersley became aware of the absence of Miss Wraxton and Mr. Fawnhope from the gathering, and demanded to know where they were. Cecilia replied, with a shrug, that they were no doubt quoting poetry to each other in the wood; but when twenty minutes passed without their putting in an appearance not only Lady Ombersley, but her elder son also became a trifle restive. Then it was that Sophy remembered Hubert’s look of mischief. She glanced across at him and saw that his expression was so unconcerned as to be wholly incredible. In deep foreboding she made an excuse to change her seat to one beside his, and whispered, under cover of the general conversation, “You dreadful creature, what have you done?”

“Locked them into the wood!” he whispered in return. “That will teach her to play propriety!”

She had to bite back a laugh, but managed to say with suitable severity, “It will not do! If you have the key, give it to me so that no one will observe you!”

He said, “What a spoilsport you are!” but soon found an opportunity to drop it into her lap, for although it had seemed, at the time, a splendid idea to lock the gate into the wood, he had been realizing for some minutes that to release the imprisoned couple without scandal might prove to be rather more difficult.

“It is so unlike dear Eugenia!” said Lady Ombersley. “I cannot think what they can be about!”

“En verdad, it is not difficult to imagine!” remarked the Marquesa, rather amused. “So beautiful a young man and so romantic a scene!”

“I will go and look for them,” said Mr. Rivenhall, getting up, and walking out of the room.

Hubert began to look a little alarmed, but Sophy exclaimed suddenly, “I wonder if one of the gardeners can have locked the gate again, thinking that we had all left the wood! Excuse me, Sancia!”

She overtook Mr. Rivenhall in the shrubbery, and called out, “So stupid! Sancia, you know, lives in dread of robbers and has trained all her servants never to leave a gate or a door unlocked! One of the gardeners, supposing us all to have gone back to the house, locked the gate into the wood. Gaston had the key; here it is!”

A bend in the gravel walk brought the gates into the wood within view. Miss Wraxton was standing by them, and it was plain to the meanest intelligence that she was in no very amiable humor. Behind her, seated upon a bank, and absorbed in metrical composition, was Mr. Fawnhope, to all appearances divorced from the world. As Mr. Rivenhall fitted the key into the lock, Sophy said, “I am so sorry! It is all the fault of Sancia’s absurd terrors! Are you very bored and chilled, Miss Wraxton?”

Miss Wraxton had endured a trying half hour. Upon finding herself shut into the wood, she had first asked Mr. Fawnhope if he could not climb over the fence, and when he had replied, quite simply, that he could not, she had requested him to shout. But the ode that was burgeoning in his head had by this time taken possession of him, and he had said that the sylvan setting was just the inspiration he needed. After that, he sat down on the bank and drew out his notebook and a pencil, and whenever she begged him to bestir himself to procure her release, all he said, and that in a voice that showed how far away were his thoughts, was “hush!” Consequently she was in a mood ripe for murder when the rescue party at last arrived on the scene and was betrayed into an unwise accusation. “You did this!” she flung at Sophy, quite white with anger.