It stood open, as it always did in summer-time, during the daylight hours, and the inner door, leading from the lobby into the hall, was on the latch. She let herself softly in, without, however, much hope of being able to run upstairs unobserved. Lady Broome insisted that one or other of the footmen should keep a watch on the door, and be at hand to bow her, or any visitor, in, and to relieve the gentlemen of their hats and coats. But on this occasion no one came into the hall, and Kate, who had more than half expected Pennymore to meet her, charged with a reproachful message from her aunt, thankfully darted up the stairs, to fling off her crumpled walking-dress, and to hurry into the evening-gown she trusted Ellen would have laid out in readiness. She thought, fleetingly, that it was odd that neither of the footmen had been lying in wait for her; but she was not prepared to be greeted by the news, conveyed to her by Ellen, in awe-stricken accents, that the household was in an uproar, because my lady had fainted clean-away an hour after Miss had left the house, and had been carried up to her bed in a state of total collapse.
‘And they say, miss – Mrs Thorne, and Betty, and Martha – that her ladyship has never fainted in her life before, and Betty says as her aunty was just the same, never having a day’s illness until she was struck down with a palsy-stroke, and never rose from her bed again!’
Without attaching much weight to this story, Kate was surprised, for it had not seemed to her that Lady Broome was on the brink of a palsy-stroke, although, looking back, she remembered thinking that her aunt was out of sorts when she had sent her on a useless errand. She said, in a disappointingly matter-of-fact way: ‘Nonsense, Ellen! I expect she has contracted this horrid influenza, which is rife in the village. Quickly, now! Help me into my dress! I’m shockingly late already!’
Ellen obeyed this behest, but said that everything was at sixes and sevens, on account of her ladyship’s being very ill, and Mrs Thorne’s having given it as her opinion that it was a Warning: a pronouncement which had operated so powerfully on the cook’s sensibilities that he had ruined the cutlets of sweetbread ordered for the Master’s dinner, and had been forced to boil a fowl, which he proposed to serve with béchamel sauce, being as the Master couldn’t seem to stomach rich meats.
While privately thinking that the chef had seized on Lady Broome’s sudden indisposition as an excuse for having over-cooked the cutlets, Kate realized that it must be a very rare occurrence, for it had clearly disorganized the establishment.
She discouraged Ellen’s ghoulish desire to cite all the examples of fatal collapse which had, apparently, carried off half her aunts and uncles and cousins, and repeated her belief that Lady Broome’s disorder was merely a severe attack of influenza.
In the event, she was justified, greatly to Ellen’s disappointment. Just as she was about to leave her room, and to go in search of Sidlaw, a perfunctory knock on the door was instantly succeeded by Sidlaw’s entrance. She said immediately: ‘Come in! I was just going to see if I could find you. What’s this I’m hearing about her ladyship? Has she caught this horrid influenza that is going so much about?’
She was well aware that the dresser regarded her with mixed feelings, being torn between jealousy and a reluctant admiration of her sartorial taste; and had long since come to the conclusion that she owed the grudging civility paid to her by Sidlaw to her aunt, who must, she guessed, have laid stringent orders on her devoted attendant to treat her niece with respect. She was not, therefore, surprised when Sidlaw sniffed, and said she was sure she was thankful Miss had come home at last.
‘Yes, I’m late,’ agreed Kate. ‘I’m sorry for it, since I apprehend her ladyship was taken ill suddenly.’
‘There was nothing you could have done, miss!’ said Sidlaw, instantly showing hackle. ‘Not but what –’
‘I don’t suppose there was, with you and the doctor to attend to her,’ interrupted Kate. ‘What’s the matter? Is it the influenza?’
‘Well, that’s what the doctor says, miss,’ Sidlaw replied, with another sniff which indicated her opinion of the doctor. ‘What I say is that she carried a bowl of broth to that hurly-burly creature – for Female I will not call her! – that lives in the cottage all covered over with ivy, not two days ago, and, say what I would, I couldn’t hinder her! She only laughed, and said that I should know she never caught infectious complaints.’
‘Yes,’ interpolated Ellen, unable to restrain herself. ‘And Miss Kate was with her, Miss Sidlaw, and she hasn’t caught the influenza as you may see for yourself !’
‘That’s nothing!’ said Kate hastily, to save Ellen from annihilation. ‘I am not prone to succumb to infectious diseases! And it must be remembered that I didn’t enter the cottage! You may go now!’
‘She’ll never be worth a candle-end!’ said Sidlaw, with gloomy satisfaction, as the hapless Ellen withdrew. ‘I told my lady how it would be if she took a village scrub into the house!’
Kate thought it prudent to ignore this, and asked instead if she might visit her aunt. To this, Sidlaw replied with a flat veto, saying that the doctor had given a dose of laudanum to my lady, to send her to sleep. ‘She told me, miss, that she felt as though she’d been stretched on the rack, and had all her joints wrenched, and she isn’t one to complain! As for her head, she’d no need to tell me that was aching fit to burst, because I could see that from the way she kept turning it from side to side on the pillow! And nothing I could do eased it: not even a cataplasm to her feet! So I was obliged to send for Dr Delabole, for all she kept on telling me she’d be better presently! I knew she was in a high fever!’
A second knock fell on the door; Sidlaw, ignoring Kate, opened it, and said sharply: ‘Well, what do you want?’
Kate, having caught a glimpse of Pennymore, said coldly: ‘That will do, Sidlaw: you may go!’
Sidlaw turned white with anger, and shut her mouth like a trap. Paying no further heed to her, Kate smiled kindly at the butler, and said: ‘What is it, Pennymore?’
It was beneath Pennymore’s dignity to betray even a flicker of triumph. To all appearances he neither saw nor heard Sidlaw as she stalked, snorting, out of the room. He said, with undisturbed calm: ‘Sir Timothy sent me to enquire, miss, if you would do him the honour of dining with him. In his own room, miss.’
‘How very kind of him!’ said Kate. She had not been looking forward with much pleasure to an evening spent in Torquil’s and the doctor’s company, and she spoke with real gratitude. ‘Pray tell Sir Timothy that I am very much obliged to him, and will join him directly!’
Pennymore bowed, and said: ‘Sir Timothy’s dinner will be served immediately, miss. We are a little behindhand this evening. Her ladyship’s sudden indisposition has, I regret to say, quite upset certain members of the staff.’
‘So I’ve been given to understand!’ said Kate, twinkling.
An almost imperceptible quiver of revulsion crossed Pennymore’s face. He said: ‘Yes, miss. It is unfortunate that Mrs Thorne’s nerves are so easily irritated. The maids naturally take their tone from her, and if the housekeeper falls into a fit of the vapours one can scarcely blame her underlings for behaving in a deplorably theatrical way. And the cook, of course, is a foreigner,’ he added, not contemptuously, but indulgently. He then bowed slightly, and withdrew.
It had not taken Kate many days to realize that the senior members of the staff were split into two factions: those who owed allegiance to Sir Timothy, and those who were Lady Broome’s supporters. Pennymore, and Tenby, Sir Timothy’s valet, were at the head of the first faction, and were followed by the two footmen, the coachman, and the head groom; while Sidlaw and Mrs Thorne, both of whom had come to Staplewood with their mistress, were Lady Broome’s worshippers. Whalley, Kate thought, was certainly one of Lady Broome’s chosen servants, and possibly Badger as well. The leaders of each faction lived in a state of constant warfare, which was not the less bitter for being concealed, in genera
l, by a cloak of exquisite civility. Kate, nettled by Sidlaw’s insolence, could not help chuckling inwardly at what she knew would be Sidlaw’s rage at having been betrayed into speaking so roughly to Pennymore. Then she scolded herself for being uncharitable, knowing that Sidlaw, who really did love her mistress, was overset by anxiety.
When she left her room, Sidlaw was hovering in the gallery, and moved a few steps towards her, holding herself very stiffly. She said, in a wooden voice: ‘I am afraid, Miss Kate, I took a liberty which you did not like in opening the door to Pennymore without your leave. I hope you will be so kind as to overlook it.’
‘Why, of course!’ said Kate, with her swift smile. ‘You are in a great worry about her ladyship, aren’t you? I shan’t think of it again! But pray don’t let yourself be thrown into gloom! Depend on it, my aunt will feel very much more the thing tomorrow. I have only once in my life had influenza, when I was ten years old, but I recall that for the first twenty-four hours I felt so ill that I told my nurse that I was dying!’
Sidlaw showed some signs of relaxation, and even tittered, but Kate’s next words caused her to become rigid again. Kate said: ‘I hope you won’t hesitate to tell me, when you would wish to be relieved for a little while: I should like very much to be of use to my aunt, and can very well sit with her while you rest.’
‘Thank you, miss,’ said Sidlaw, in arctic accents, ‘I do not anticipate the need to ask for assistance.’
Kate had expected to be snubbed, so she did not press the matter, merely nodding, and going down the stairs.
Fourteen
Kate had not previously penetrated to the East Wing, but when she passed through the door which shut it off from the Great Hall, and was met by Tenby, who conducted her to the saloon that was known as the Master’s Room, she knew, after a quick glance round, that Sir Timothy, allowing his wife a free hand in the rest of the house, must have prohibited her from laying a finger on his own apartments. The room was not shabby, but it was rather overfurnished, as though Sir Timothy had crammed into it all the pieces for which he had a fondness, and cared nothing for the formal arrangements dear to Lady Broome’s heart. He was seated in an old-fashioned wing-chair when Tenby ushered Kate into the room, talking to Dr Delabole, but he rose, and came forward, murmuring, as he saw the appreciative look in her eyes: ‘More homelike, Kate?’
She laughed. ‘Yes, indeed, sir! Good-evening, Dr Delabole! I learn from Sidlaw that my aunt has contracted the influenza which is running so much about, and is feeling very poorly. I hope you don’t expect any prolonged indisposition?’
‘Oh, no, no!’ he replied reassuringly. ‘It is a severe attack, you know: very severe, and we must expect her to be pulled by it, and must endeavour to persuade her not to exert herself prematurely: she must resign herself to being in a tender state for at least a sennight. We shall be hard put to it to do it, if I know her ladyship!’ He laughed gently. ‘I daresay you won’t credit it, but when I revived her from her faint, she tried to struggle to her feet, and insisted that there was nothing amiss! And when our good Sidlaw told her that she had fainted she snapped her nose off, saying: “Nonsense! I never faint!” However, she soon found that she couldn’t stand without support, so we were able to carry her up to her bed, and mighty glad she was to be there, for all she wouldn’t own it! I have just been telling Sir Timothy that I have given her a soothing draught, and that she is now asleep. I shall visit her during the night, but I fancy she won’t wake for some hours. And Sidlaw will be with her, you know: she has had a truckle-bed set up in the dressing-room, and is entirely to be relied on.’
‘Oh, yes! There can be no doubt of that,’ said Kate. ‘She has been giving me a sharp set-down for offering to lend her my assistance! I knew she would: so would my own old nurse if anyone offered to help her in the same situation!’
‘Oh, I shouldn’t go into her room, if I were you, Miss Kate. It is a very infectious complaint, and it would never do if you were to be ill!’
‘I don’t think it at all likely that I shall be,’ answered Kate. ‘I know it’s fatal to say that, but I was lately in a house positively stricken with influenza, and between us the cook, and the second housemaid, and I nursed the mistress of the house, her three children, and two other servants, and the cook and I were the only ones who didn’t take the infection! So I’m not afraid.’
He laughed heartily at that, and said that he now expected to be summoned to her bedside; advised her not to go to her aunt for a day or two; and archly warned Sir Timothy that he should warn my lady that she must not take ill again, if she did not want her lord to console himself by flirting with a pretty young lady.
Sir Timothy accorded this witticism a faint, cold smile, and inclined his head courteously. Daunted, the doctor laughed again, not so heartily, and said that he must hurry away to seek his own dinner, or Torquil would be growing impatient.
Sir Timothy smiled again, very sweetly, and the doctor bowed himself out of the room. Sir Timothy’s eyes travelled to Kate’s face of ill-concealed disgust, and amusement crept into them. ‘Just so, my dear! An intolerable mushroom! Or do I mean barnacle? He keeps me alive, for which I must be grateful – or ought to be! Will you drink a glass of sherry with me?’
‘Yes, if you please, sir. But if you mean to talk in that style you will be sorry you invited me to dine with you, because I shall sink into the dismals, and become a dead bore!’
‘Impossible!’ he said, with his soft laugh. ‘You have a merry heart, my child, and I don’t think you could ever be a dead bore.’ He poured out two glasses of sherry as he spoke, and came back to his chair, handing her one of them with a slight, courtly bow.
‘I don’t know that, sir: I do try not to be a bore, at all events! As for a merry heart – well, yes! I think I have a cheerful disposition, and – and I own I delight in absurdities! But that’s not at all to my credit! I always laugh at the wrong moment!’
The door opened just then to admit Pennymore, followed by the first footman, carrying a tray of dishes. When these had been set out, Pennymore informed Sir Timothy that he was served, and Sir Timothy formally handed Kate to the table, saying, as he did so: ‘I had meant to invite Philip, to make it more amusing for you, but the silly cawker has gone off to dine with young Templecombe. He sent up a message from the stables. You must accept my apologies for him!’
‘Not at all, sir! Isn’t there a proverb that says one’s too few, and three’s too many?’
‘Very prettily said!’ he approved. ‘You’ve a quick tongue and a ready wit: that’s what I like in you, Kate. If I had a daughter, I should wish her to be of your cut. But I daresay she would have been a simpering miss, so perhaps it’s as well I have no daughter. What are you offering me, Pennymore?’
‘Compôte of pigeons, sir, with mushroom sauce. Or there is a breast of fowl, if you would prefer it.’
‘With a béchamel sauce!’ said Kate. ‘I know all about that! It ought to have been sweetbreads, but I am very glad it’s not, because I don’t like them!’
‘Why isn’t it sweetbreads?’ he asked, rousing himself from the melancholy which had descended on him with the thought of the daughters who had died in early childhood.
Very willing to divert him, she gave him a lively description of the effect Lady Broome’s fainting fit had had upon Mrs Thorne’s sensibilities, and the chef’s excitable temperament; and of the analogy Ellen had discovered in an attack of influenza, and the palsy-stroke which had laid one of her aunts low. He was a good deal amused, and the rest of dinner passed happily enough. When the covers were removed, and Pennymore set the port and brandy decanters before his master, he was moved to bestow an approving glance upon Kate, and, later, to inform Tenby that he hadn’t seen Sir Timothy so cheerful this many-a-day. To which Tenby replied: ‘He hasn’t much to make him cheerful, Mr Pennymore: as we know!’
Pennymore shook his head sadly, a
nd sighed, looking in a very speaking way at the valet, but not giving utterance to his thoughts. Tenby echoed the sigh, but maintained a similar silence.
Left alone with his guest, Sir Timothy offered her a glass of port, which she declined, saying, however, that she was very content to nibble a fondant while he lingered over his wine. ‘Unless you would prefer me to withdraw, sir?’ she said, her fingers poised over the silver dish in front of her. ‘Pray don’t say I must! It is so cosy here – quite the cosiest evening I’ve spent at Staplewood!’
‘You haven’t much taste for formal pomp, have you, Kate?’
‘No,’ she said frankly. ‘Not every day of the week, at all events!’
‘Nor have I, which is why I prefer to dine in my own room. But I don’t permit Pennymore to wait on me in the general way. Only when Minerva is away from home, or indisposed. To deprive her of the butler would be rather too much!’
She ventured to say: ‘I fancy Pennymore would prefer to wait on you, sir.’
‘Yes, he is very much attached to me. You see, we were boys together. He has been with me through some dark times: a true friend! He’s fond of Philip, too, and so am I. It’s a pity Philip and Minerva dislike one another, but I suppose it was bound to be so: Minerva doesn’t care for children, you know. And I’m bound to own that when they first met he wasn’t at all a taking boy! He was a sturdy little ruffian, tumbling in and out of mischief, and impatient of females.’ He stared down into his wineglass, a reminiscent smile playing round his mouth. ‘Disobedient too. I never found him so, but I’m afraid he was very troublesome to Minerva. She resented my affection for him – very naturally, I daresay; and he resented her being in his aunt’s place. He was very fond of my first wife: the only woman he was fond of in those days, for he was barely acquainted with his mother. Anne was very fond of him, too, and never jealous, as God knows she might have been, when she saw him so stout and vigorous, and had the anguish of watching her own son die. We lost all our children; two were still-born; and only Julian lived to stagger about in leading-strings. Both my little girls died in their infancy – faded away! They were all so sickly – all of them, even Julian! But nothing ever ailed Philip! Some women might have hated him, but not Anne! She thought of him as a comfort to us.’ He looked up at the portrait which hung above the fireplace. ‘That was my first wife,’ he said. ‘You never knew her, of course.’