Fourteen
The notion of writing a tragedy having taken strong possession of Mr Fawnhope’s mind, he appeared to banish from it any immediate plan for seeking remunerative employment. On several occasions he arrived in Berkeley Square, quite impervious to Mr Rivenhall’s brutal snubs, carrying in his pocket the latest instalment of his play, which he read to Cecilia and to Sophy, and once even to Lady Ombersley, who complained afterwards that she had not understood a word of it. He seemed to spend a good many afternoons at Merton as well, but when Sophy questioned him about Sancia’s other guests he could never remember with any clarity who had been present. But Sir Vincent, when he came to call in Berkeley Square, made no secret of the fact that he was very often at Merton. Sophy, a blunt creature, told him roundly that she mistrusted him, and would thank him to remember that Sancia was betrothed to Sir Horace.
Sir Vincent laughed gently, and pinched her chin, holding it an instant too long, and tilting up her face. ‘Will you, Sophy?’ he said, quizzing her. ‘But when I offered to run in your harness you would have none of me! Be reasonable, Juno! If you reject me, you cannot expect me to respond docilely to your hand on my rein!’
She put up her hand to grasp his wrist. ‘Sir Vincent, you shall not serve Sir Horace a backhanded turn!’ she said.
‘Why not?’ he asked coolly. ‘Do you think he would not do the same to me? You are such a splendid innocent, adorable Juno!’
Since Mr Rivenhall chose this inauspicious moment to walk into the drawing-room Sophy was unable to say more. Without embarrassment, Sir Vincent released her, and moved forward to greet his host. His reception was frosty; he was given no encouragement to prolong his visit; and no sooner had he taken leave, and parted, than Mr Rivenhall gave his cousin, without reserve, the benefit of his opinion of her behaviour in encouraging a notorious rake to practise familiarities with her. Sophy listened to him with an air of great interest, but if he had hoped to abash her he was disappointed, for all she said in reply was: ‘I think your scolds are capital, Charles, for you are never at a loss for a word! But would you call me an incorrigible flirt!’
‘Yes, I would! You encourage every scarlet coat you have ever met to haunt the house! You set the town talking with your shameless conduct in keeping Charlbury dangling after you, and not content with that you allow a fellow like Talgarth to behave to you as though you had been an inn-servant!’
She opened her eyes at him. ‘Charles! is that what you do? pinch their chins? Well, I was never more astonished! I don’t think you should!’
‘Don’t try my temper too far, Sophy!’ he said dangerously. ‘If you knew how my hands itch to box your ears, you would take care!’
‘Oh, I am sure you never would!’ she said, smiling. ‘You know Sir Horace did not teach me how to box, and how unfair it would be! Besides, why should you care a button what I do? I am not one of your sisters!’
‘Thank God for it!’
‘Yes, indeed, for you are the horridest brother, you know! Do stop making a cake of yourself ! Sir Vincent is a sad case, but he would never do me any harm, I assure you. That would be quite against his code, for he knew me when I was a little girl, and he is a friend of Sir Horace’s. I must say, he is the oddest creature! Sancia, it is perfectly plain, he does not hold to be in the least sacred.’ Her brow creased. ‘I am much afraid of what he may do in that direction. I wonder if I ought to say I will marry him after all?’
‘What!’ exclaimed Mr Rivenhall. ‘Marry that fellow? Not while you are under this roof !’
‘Yes, but I cannot help thinking that perhaps I owe it to Sir Horace,’ she explained. ‘I own, it would be a sacrifice, but I am sure he trusts me to take care of Sancia while he is away, and I don’t at all perceive how I am to prevent Sir Vincent from stealing her affections, unless I marry him myself. He has so much address, you know!’
‘You appear to me,’ said Mr Rivenhall scathingly, ‘to have taken leave of your senses! You will scarcely expect me to believe that you would entertain the thought of marriage with that man!’
‘But, Charles, I find you most unreasonable!’ she pointed out. ‘Not a week ago you said that the sooner I was married and out of this house the better pleased you would be, but when I said perhaps I might marry Charlbury you flew into a passion, and now you will not hear of poor Sir Vincent either!’
Mr Rivenhall made no attempt to answer this. He merely cast a darkling glance at his cousin, and said: ‘Only one thing could surprise me, and that would be to learn that Talgarth had offered for you!’
‘Well, you must be surprised,’ said Sophy placidly, ‘because he has done so a score of times. It is become a habit with him, I think. But I know what you mean, and you are right: he would be very much disconcerted if I took him at his word. I might, of course, become engaged to him, and cry off when Sir Horace returns, but it seems rather a shabby thing to do, don’t you think?’
‘Extremely so!’
She sighed. ‘Yes, and he is so clever that I daresay he would guess what I was about. I might, I suppose, remove to Merton, and that would certainly make it awkward for Sir Vincent. But Sancia would not like that at all, I fear.’
‘She has my sympathy!’
Sophy looked at him. Under his amazed and horrified gaze, large tears slowly welled over her eyelids, and rolled down her cheeks. She did not sniff, or gulp, or even sob: merely allowed her tears to gather and fall.
‘Sophy! ’ ejaculated Mr Rivenhall, visibly shaken. He took an involuntary step towards her, checked himself, and said, rather disjointedly: ‘Pray do not! I did not mean – I had no intention – You know how it is with me! I say more than I mean, when – Sophy, for God’s sake do not cry!’
‘Oh, do not stop me!’ begged Sophy. ‘Sir Horace says it is my only accomplishment!’
Mr Rivenhall glared at her. ‘What! ’
‘Very few persons are able to do it!’ Sophy assured him. ‘I discovered it by the veriest accident when I was only seven years old. Sir Horace said I should cultivate it, for I should find it most useful.’
‘You – you –’ Words failed Mr Rivenhall. ‘Stop at once!’
‘Oh, I have stopped!’ said Sophy, carefully wiping the drops away. ‘I cannot continue if I don’t keep sad thoughts in my mind, such as you saying unkind things to me, or –’
‘I do not believe you felt the slightest inclination to cry!’ declared Mr Rivenhall roundly. ‘You did it only to set me at a disadvantage! You are, without exception, the most abominable, shameless – Don’t start again!’
She laughed. ‘Very well, but if I am so horrid, perhaps it would be better for me to go to stay with Sancia.’
‘Understand this! said Mr Rivenhall. ‘My uncle left you expressly to my mother’s care, and in this you will remain until such time as he returns to England! As for these nonsensical notions about the Marquesa, you are not to be held responsible for anything she may choose to do!’
‘Where the well-being of the persons to whom one is attached is concerned, one cannot say that one is not responsible,’ said Sophy simply. ‘One should make a push to be of service. Yet I do not perceive what I should do in this event. I wish it had been possible for Sancia to have stayed in Sir Horace’s own house!’
‘At Ashtead? How should that serve?’
‘It is not so near to town,’ she pointed out.
‘Sixteen or seventeen miles only, I daresay!’
‘More than twice as far away as Merton, however. But it is useless to repine over that. Sir Horace says the place is in disrepair, quite unfit to live in. He means to set it all to rights when he comes back to England. I only wish it may not be too late!’
‘Why should it be too late?’ asked Mr Rivenhall, wilfully misunderstanding her. ‘I assume Lacy Manor does not stand entirely empty! Does not my uncle leave some servants in charge?’
‘Only the Claverings, and, I suppose, a man to look after the gardens, and the farm. But that, you know very well, is not what I meant!’
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‘If you take my advice,’ said Mr Rivenhall, ‘you will not meddle in the Marquesa’s affairs!’ He added caustically: ‘Or in anyone else’s! – And spare yourself the trouble of telling me that you do not mean to take my advice, for that I know already!’
Sophy folded her hands in her lap, and began to twiddle her thumbs, so absurd an expression of docility on her face that he was obliged to smile.
But as the season advanced he smiled less and less frequently. Since she had not yet been presented at Court, Sophy was not invited to the Regent’s grand fête at Carlton House, but there was scarcely another society event which she did not grace. In honour bound, Mr Rivenhall accompanied his mother and her two charges to many of these functions, but as he was obliged to spend a considerable part of his time watching his sister dancing with Mr Fawnhope, and his cousin flirting outrageously with Charlbury, it was scarcely surprising that he should have been goaded into saying that he would be thankful when July saw the Ombersley household safely bestowed at Ombersley Court. He also expressed the wish that Sophy would choose between her various suitors, so that he might one day return to a house empty of visitors. Miss Wraxton said hopefully that perhaps Sir Horace would not be much longer absent from England, but as the one letter so far received from this erratic gentleman had not mentioned any prospect of a speedy return from Brazil, he was unable to set much store by this.
‘If,’ said Miss Wraxton, casting down her eyes in pretty bashfulness, ‘she should still be with dear Lady Ombersley in September, Charles, I think I must beg her to be one of my bridesmaids. It would be only civil!’
He agreed to it, but only after a moment’s pause. ‘I trust that by then my uncle may have returned. God knows what mischief she will find to plague me – us – with at Ombersley, but no doubt she will discover something!’
But when July came there was no question of Ombersley. Mr Rivenhall, fulfilling an old promise, took his three younger sisters to Astley’s Amphitheatre to celebrate Gertrude’s birthday, and within a week of this dissipation Dr Baillie had been called in to prescribe for Amabel.
She had begun to show signs of ill-health almost at once, and although the doctor repeatedly assured Mr Rivenhall later, that there was no saying where she might have contracted fever, he continued obstinately to blame himself. It was evident, that the little girl was very ill, her head aching continually, her feverishness increasing alarmingly at night. The dread spectre of typhus raised its head, and not all Dr Baillie’s assurances that Amabel’s complaint was a milder form of this scourge, neither so infectious nor so dangerous, could allay Lady Ombersley’s fears. Miss Adderbury, with Selina and Gertrude, was sent off incontinent to Ombersley; and Hubert, staying for the first few weeks of the Long Vacation with relatives in Yorkshire, warned by express not to venture near Berkeley Square until all danger should be past. Lady Ombersley would have banished Cecilia and Sophy too could she have prevailed upon either of them to have listened to her prayers, but they were adamant. Sophy said that she had had much experience of far deadlier fevers than Amabel’s, and had never caught any worse infection than the measles; and Cecilia, hanging affectionately over her mother, told her that nothing short of force would detach her from her side. Poor Lady Ombersley could only cling to her, and weep. Her constitution was not strong enough to enable her to support with fortitude the illnesses of her children. With all the wish in the world to tend Amabel with her own hands, she could not bear the sight of the child’s discomfort. Her sensibility overcame her resolution; the very sight of the hectic flush on Amabel’s cheeks brought on one of her worst spasms, so that Cecilia had to help her from the sickroom to her own bed, and to send her maid to beg Dr Baillie to visit her before he should leave the house. Lady Ombersley could not forget the tragic death under similar circumstances, of the little daughter who had followed Maria into the world, and from the start of Amabel’s illness abandoned hope of her recovery.
It was felt to be unfortunate that Mr Rivenhall should also have gone to stay with his aunt in Yorkshire, for his presence always exercised a calming effect upon his mother in times of stress; and Amabel, as the fever waxed, often cried for Charles to come to her. It was hoped that a man’s voice might soothe her, so her father was introduced into her room, and tried clumsily to coax her into rationality. He was not afraid of infection, the doctor having told him that it was rare for an adult person to contract the disease, but although he was much affected by the sight of his little daughter’s condition, he had never paid much attention to his children, and now failed to quiet her. Indeed, his tears flowed so freely that he was obliged to leave the room.
Dr Baillie, dubiously eyeing old Nurse, shook his head and sent Mrs Pebworth to Berkeley Square. Mrs Pebworth, a voluminous female, with a watery eye, and mountainous bonnet, smiled fondly upon the two young ladies who received her, and bade them, in a husky voice, to have no fears, since the little dear would be safe in her charge. Within twelve hours of her arrival, she was addressing vituperative remarks to the closed door of the mansion, having been, at the orders of Miss Stanton-Lacy, shown off the premises by the redoubtable Jane Storridge. A nurse, Sophy bluntly informed Dr Baillie, who refreshed herself continually from a square bottle, and slept the night through in a chair by the fire while her patient tossed and moaned, they could well dispense with. So, when Mr Rivenhall, posting south immediately on receipt of the tidings from London, arrived in Berkeley Square, it was to find his mother suffering from nervous palpitations, his father seeking relief at White’s or Wattier’s, his sister snatching an hour’s sleep on her bed, and his cousin in command of the sickroom.
When trouble descended upon the household, Lady Ombersley forgot all Charles’s disagreeable ways, and was much inclined to think him her only support. Her joy at seeing him walk into her dressing-room was only alloyed by her fear that he might catch the typhoid. She was reclining on the sofa, but heaved herself up to cast her arms about his neck, exclaiming: ‘Charles! Oh, my dear son, thank God you are come! It is so terrible, and I know she will be taken from me, like my poor little Clara!’
A burst of tears ended this speech, and for some minutes he was fully occupied in soothing the agitation of her spirits. When she was calmer, he ventured to question her on the nature of Amabel’s complaint. Her replies were disjointed, but she said enough to convince him that the case was desperate, and the illness contracted perhaps at Astley’s amphitheatre. He was so much appalled that he could say nothing for several moments, but got up abruptly from the chair by the sofa, and strode over to stare out of the window. His mother, wiping her eyes, said: ‘If only I were not so wretchedly weak! You know, Charles, how I must long to be beside my child! But the sight of her, so wasted, so flushed, brings on my worst palpitations, and if she recognizes me at all she cannot help but be distressed! They will scarcely allow me to enter the room!’
‘It is not fit for you,’ he said mechanically. ‘Who nurses her? Is Addy here?’
‘No, no, Dr Baillie thought it wiser to send the other children off to Ombersley! He sent us a dreadful creature – at least, I never saw her, but Cecilia said she was a drunken wretch! – and Sophy sent her packing. Old Nurse is in charge, and you know how she is to be trusted! And the girls help her, so that Dr Baillie assures me I need feel no uneasiness on that head. He says that dearest Sophy is a capital sick-nurse, and that the disease is running its proper course, but oh, Charles, I cannot persuade myself that she will be spared!’
He came back to her side at once, and devoted himself to the task of comforting her alarms with more patience than might have been expected in one of his hasty temper. When he could escape, he did so, and went upstairs to find his sister. She had just got up from her bed, and was coming out of her room as he reached the landing. She was looking pale, and tired, but her face lit up at sight of him, and she exclaimed in a hushed voice: ‘Charles! I knew we might depend upon your coming! Have you been to my mother? She has felt the need of your presence so much!’
‘I have this instant come from her dressing-room. Cilly, Cilly, she tells me Amabel began to ail within a few days of that accursed evening at Astley’s!’
‘Hush! Come into my room! Amabel is in the Blue Spare-room, and you must not talk so loud just here! We thought that too, but Dr Baillie says it could hardly be so. Recollect that the other two are well! Addy sent up word only yesterday.’ She softly closed the door of her bedroom. ‘I must not stay above a minute: Mama will be needing me.’
‘My poor girl, you look fagged to death!’
‘No, no, I am not! Why, there is hardly anything that I do, so that it chafes me dreadfully sometimes, when I see Sophy and that good, kind maid of hers carrying all the burden on their shoulders! For Nurse is growing too old to be able to manage, you know, and it affects her sadly to see poor little Amabel so uncomfortable. But if one of us is not continually with Mama she frets herself into one of her spasms – you know her way! But now you are here you will relieve me of that duty!’ She smiled, and pressed his hand. ‘I never thought to be so glad to see anyone! Amabel too! She so often calls for you, and wonders where you can be! If I had not known that you would come, I must have sent for you! You are not afraid of infection?’ He made an impatient gesture. ‘No, I was sure you would not think of that. Sophy is out walking – Dr Baillie impresses on us the need for exercise in the fresh air, and we are very obedient, I assure you! Nurse sits with Amabel during the afternoon.’
‘May I see her! It would not agitate her?’
‘No, indeed! It must soothe her, I believe. If she is awake, and – and herself, would you care to come to her room now? You will find her wretchedly altered, poor little thing!’
She led him to the sickroom, and went softly in. Amabel was restless, and very hot, fretfully rejecting any suggestions for her relief, but when she saw her favourite brother her heavy eyes brightened perceptibly, and a faint smile came into her little flushed face. She held out her hand, and he took it, and spoke gently and cheerfully to her, in a way that seemed to do her good. She did not wish to let him go, but at a sign from Cecilia he disengaged his hand from the feeble clutch on it, promising to come back again presently if Amabel would be a good girl, and swallow the medicine Nurse had ready for her.