‘My love! Young ladies never – ! Why, I myself have never entered your uncle’s bank in my life!’ said Lady Ombersley, deeply moved.
‘No?’ said Sophy. ‘Perhaps he prefers to settle all the bills himself ? Nothing teases Sir Horace more than to be for ever applied to for money! He taught me years ago to understand business, and so we go on very happily.’ Her brow wrinkled. ‘I hope that Sancia will learn to manage for him. Poor angel! He will very much dislike it if he must study the bills, and pay all the wages.’
‘I never heard of such a thing!’ said Lady Ombersley. ‘Really, Horace – But never mind that! Dear child, you cannot possibly need to draw funds while you are with me!’
Sophy could not help laughing at her aunt’s evident conviction that Hoare’s Bank must be a haunt of vice, but she said: ‘Indeed I shall need funds! You have no notion how expensive I am, ma’am! And Sir Horace warned me most particularly not to allow myself to be a charge on you.’
Cecilia, her eyes round with wonder, asked: ‘Does your Papa set no limit to what you spend?’
‘No, how could he do so, when he has gone quite out of reach, and can have no notion what I might suddenly need? He knows I shall not outrun the carpenter. But I did not mean to tease you with my affairs! Only, in what part of the town is Hoare’s situated, if you please?’
Fortunately, since neither of the other ladies had the smallest idea of the locality of any bank, Mr Rivenhall came into the room at this moment. He was dressed for riding, and had merely looked in to ask his mother if she had any commissions she might desire him to execute in the City, whither he was bound. She had none, but did not hesitate (in spite of his probable disapproval) to divulge to him Sophy’s extraordinary wish to be directed to Hoare’s Bank. He took this with equanimity, and even bore up wonderfully under the disclosure that she was at liberty to draw on her father’s account. He said: ‘Unusual!’ but he seemed to be more amused than disapproving. ‘Hoare’s Bank is at Temple Bar,’ he added. ‘If your need is urgent, I am driving into the City myself this morning, and shall be happy to escort you.’
‘Thank you! If my aunt has no objection I shall be glad to go with you. When do you wish to start?’
‘I shall await your convenience, cousin,’ he replied politely.
This civility augured well for the expedition, and made Lady Ombersley, always inclined to be optimistic, nourish the hope that Charles had taken one of his rare likings to his cousin. He was certainly predisposed in her favour when he found that she did not keep him waiting; and she, for her part, could not think very badly of a man who drove such a splendid pair of horses in his curricle. She took her place beside him in this vehicle; the groom swung himself up behind, as the horses plunged past him; and Sophy, herself no mean whip, preserved a critical but not unappreciative silence while Charles controlled the first ardour of his pair. Reserving her ultimate judgement until she should have seen him with a tandem, or a four-in-hand, she yet felt that she could safely repose confidence in his ability to aid her in the purchase of carriage-horses for her own use, and said presently: ‘I must buy a carriage, and don’t know whether to choose a curricle or a high-perch phaeton. Which do you recommend, cousin?’
‘Neither,’ he replied, steadying his horses round a bend in the street.
‘Oh?’ said Sophy, rather surprised. ‘What, then?’
He glanced down at her. ‘You are not serious, are you?’
‘Not serious? Of course I am serious!’
‘If you wish to drive, I will take you in the Park one day,’ he said. ‘I expect I can find a horse – or even a pair – in the stables quiet enough for a lady to drive.’
‘Oh, I fear that would never do!’ said Sophy, shaking her head.
‘Indeed? Why not?’
‘I might excite the horse,’ said Sophy dulcetly.
He was momentarily taken aback. Then he laughed, and said: ‘I beg your pardon: I had no intention of offending you! But you cannot need a carriage in London. You will no doubt drive out with my mother, and if you should wish to go on some particular errand you may always order one of the carriages to be sent round to the house for your use.’
‘That,’ said Sophy, ‘is very obliging of you, but will not suit me quite so well. Where does one buy carriages in London?’
‘You will scarcely drive yourself about the town in a curricle!’ he said. ‘Nor do I consider a high-perch phaeton at all a suitable vehicle for a lady. They are not easy to drive. I should not care to see any of my sisters making the attempt.’
‘You must remember to tell them so,’ said Sophy affably. ‘Do they mind what you say to them? I never had a brother myself, so I can’t know.’
There was a slight pause, while Mr Rivenhall, unaccustomed to sudden attacks, recovered his presence of mind. It did not take him very long. ‘It might have been better for you if you had, cousin!’ he said grimly.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Sophy, quite unruffled. ‘The little I have seen of brothers makes me glad that Sir Horace never burdened me with any.’
‘Thank you! I know how I may take that, I suppose!’
‘Well, I imagine you might, for although you have a great many antiquated notions I don’t think you stupid, precisely.’
‘Much obliged! Have you any other criticisms you would care to make?’
‘Yes, never fly into a miff when you are driving a high-couraged pair! You took that last corner much too fast.’
As Mr Rivenhall was accounted something of a Non-pareil, this thrust failed to pierce his armour. ‘What an abominable girl you are!’ he said, much more amiably. ‘Come! We cannot quarrel all the way to Temple Bar! Let us cry a truce!’
‘By all means,’ she agreed cordially. ‘Let us rather talk about my carriage. Do I go to Tattersall’s for my horses?’
‘Certainly not!’
‘Dear cousin Charles, do you wish me to understand that I have the name wrong, or that there is a superior dealer?’
‘Neither. What I wish you to understand is that females do not frequent Tattersall’s!’
‘Now, is this one of the things you would not like your sisters to do, or would it really be improper in me to go there?’
‘Most improper!’
‘If you escorted me?’
‘I shall do no such thing.’
‘Then how shall I manage?’ she demanded. ‘John Potton is an excellent groom, but I would not trust him to buy my horses for me. Indeed, I would not trust anyone, except, perhaps, Sir Horace, who knows exactly what I like.’
He perceived that she was in earnest, and not, as he had suspected, merely bent on roasting him. ‘Cousin, if nothing will do for you but to drive yourself, I will put my tilbury at your disposal, and choose a suitable horse to go between the shafts.’
‘One of your own?’ enquired Sophy.
‘None of my horses are at all suitable for you to drive,’ he replied.
‘Well, never mind!’ said Sophy. ‘I shall prefer to have my own phaeton-and-pair.’
‘Have you the smallest notion what you would have to pay for a well-matched pair?’ he demanded.
‘No, tell me! I thought not above three or four hundred pounds?’
‘A mere trifle! Your father, of course, would have not the least objection to your squandering three or four hundred pounds on a pair of horses!’
‘Not the least, unless I allowed myself to be taken in like a goose, and bought some showy-looking animal for ever throwing out a splint, or a high-stepper found to be touched in the wind at the end of a mile.’
‘I advise you to wait until he returns to England, then. He will no doubt choose you the very thing!’ was all Mr Rivenhall would say.
Rather to his surprise, Sophy appeared to take this in perfectly good part, for she made no comment, and almost immediately desired him to tell her the name of the street they were driving down. She did not refer again to the phaeton-and-pair, and Mr Rivenhall, realizing that she was merely a little spoilt a
nd in need of a set-down, palliated the severe snub he had dealt her by pointing out one or two places of interest which they passed, and asking her a few civil questions about the scenery of Portugal. Arrived at Temple Bar, he drew up before the narrow entrance to Hoare’s Bank, and would have accompanied her inside had she not declined his escort, saying that he would do better to walk his horses, for she did not know how long she might be detained, and there was a sharp wind blowing. So he waited for her outside, reflecting that however unusual it might be for a young and unattached lady to do business in a bank she could not really come to any harm there. When she reappeared, in about twenty minutes’ time, some senior official of the Bank came with her, and solicitously handed her up into the curricle. She seemed to be on terms of considerable friendship with this personage, but disclosed, in answer to a somewhat sardonic enquiry made by her cousin as they drove off, that this had been her first meeting with him.
‘You surprise me!’ said Mr Rivenhall. ‘I had supposed he must have dandled you on his knee when you were a baby!’
‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘He didn’t mention it, at all events. Where do we go now?’
He told her that he had some business to transact near St Paul’s, adding that he should not keep her waiting above five minutes. If this was a shaft aimed at the length of time she had spent in the Bank he missed his aim, for Sophy said in the most amiable way that she did not mind waiting. This was a much more successful shaft: Mr Rivenhall began to think that in Miss Stanton-Lacy he had met an opponent to be reckoned with.
When he presently drew up in a street beside St Paul’s, Sophy held out her hand, saying: ‘I will take them.’ He therefore put the reins into her hand, for although he did not trust her to control his spirited horses his groom was already at their heads, so that there was no likelihood of any mishap.
Sophy watched him walk into a tall building, and pulled off one of her lavender kid gloves. The east wind was blowing quite strongly: certainly strongly enough to whirl a lady’s glove, tossed to it, into the gutter on the farther side of the road. ‘Oh, my glove!’ exclaimed Sophy. ‘Please run quickly, or it will blow quite away! Don’t fear for the horses: I can handle them!’
The groom found himself in a quandary. His master would certainly not expect him to leave the grays unattended; on the other hand, someone must rescue Miss Stanton-Lacy’s glove, and the street was momentarily deserted. Judging by what he had been able to hear of the lady’s conversation, she at least knew enough about driving to be able to hold the grays for a minute. They were standing quite quietly. The groom touched his hat, and strode across the road.
‘Tell your master that it is too chilly to keep the horses standing!’ Sophy called after him. ‘I will tool the curricle round the streets for a few minutes, and come back to take him up when he is ready!’
The groom, who was stooping to pick up the glove, nearly fell over, so swiftly did he spin round. He had an excellent view of Miss Stanton-Lacy driving at a smart pace up the street. He made a gallant but belated attempt to catch the curricle, but it swept round a corner just as the wind blew his hat off, and sent it bowling down the street.
It was nearly half an hour later when the curricle again came into sight. Mr Rivenhall, awaiting it with folded arms, had ample opportunity to observe with what precision his cousin rounded the corner, and how well she handled the reins and whip, but he did not appear to be much gratified, for he watched the approach of the vehicle with a scowl on his brow, and his lips tightly gripped together. Of his groom there was no sign.
Miss Stanton-Lacy, pulling up exactly abreast of Mr Rivenhall, said cheerfully: ‘I beg pardon, I have kept you waiting! The thing is that I do not know my way about London, and became quite lost, and was obliged to enquire the directions no less than three times. But where is your groom?’
‘I have sent him home!’ replied Mr Rivenhall.
She looked down at him, her expressive eyes brimful of amusement. ‘How very right of you!’ she approved. ‘I like a man to think of everything. You could never have quarrelled with me really well with that man standing up behind us, and overhearing every word you uttered.’
‘How dared you drive my horses?’ demanded Mr Rivenhall thunderously. He mounted into his seat, and snapped: ‘Give me the reins at once!’
She relinquished them, and also the whip, but said disarmingly: ‘To be sure, that was not very well-done of me, but you will own that there was no bearing your conduct in talking to me as though I were a silly chit scarcely able to drive a donkey.’
Mr Rivenhall’s impatient mouth was once more set so rigidly that there seemed to be no likelihood of his owning anything at all.
‘At least admit that I am able to handle your pair!’ said Sophy.
‘Well for you that I had taken the edge off them!’ he retorted.
‘How ungenerous of you!’ said Sophy.
It was indeed ungenerous, and he knew it. He said furiously: ‘Driving about the City, with not even a groom beside you! Very pretty behaviour, upon my word! It is a pity you have not a little more conduct, cousin! Or are these Portuguese manners?’
‘Oh, no!’ she replied. ‘In Lisbon, where I am known, I could not indulge in such pranks, of course. Dreadful, was it not? I assure you, all the cits were staring at me! But do not put yourself into a pucker on that head! no one knows me in London!’
‘No doubt,’ he said sardonically, ‘Sir Horace would have applauded such behaviour!’
‘No,’ said Sophy. ‘I think that Sir Horace would have rather expected you to have offered to let me drive your horses. Just so that you could have judged for yourself whether I was capable of handling a spirited pair,’ she explained kindly.
‘I let no one – no one – drive my horses but myself !’
‘In general,’ said Sophy, ‘I think you are very right. It is amazing how swiftly a clumsy pair of hands will spoil the most tender mouth!’
Mr Rivenhall almost audibly ground his teeth.
Sophy laughed suddenly. ‘Oh, don’t be so out of reason cross, cousin!’ she begged. ‘You know very well your horses have taken no sort of hurt! Will you put me in the way of choosing a pair for my own use?’
‘I will have nothing whatsoever to do with such a mad project!’ he said harshly.
Sophy took this with equanimity. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Perhaps it would suit you better to find an eligible husband for me. I am very willing, and I understand that you have some talent in that.’
‘Have you no delicacy of mind?’ demanded Mr Rivenhall.
‘Yes, indeed! I daresay it would astonish you to know how much!’
‘It would!’
‘But with you, my dear cousin,’ pursued Sophy, ‘I know I need have no reserve. Do, pray, find me an eligible husband! I am not at all nice in my notions, and shall be satisfied with the barest modicum of virtues in my partner.’
‘Nothing,’ stated Mr Rivenhall, showing his cousin, as he swirled round the corner into the Haymarket, how to drive to an inch, ‘would afford me greater satisfaction than to see you married to some man who would know how to control your extraordinary quirks!’
‘Very creditably performed!’ approved Sophy. ‘But how would it have been if some dog had strayed into the road, or a poor soul have crossed the street at that moment?’
Mr Rivenhall’s sense of humour betrayed him. He was obliged to bite back a laugh before replying: ‘I find it a marvellous circumstance, cousin, that no one has yet strangled you!’
He found that he had lost his cousin’s attention. Her head was turned away from him, and before he could discover what object of interest had caught her eye she had said quickly: ‘Oh, if you please, would you stop? I have seen an old acquaintance!’
He complied with this request, and then saw, too late, who was walking down the street towards them. There could be no mistaking that graceful figure, or those guinea-gold locks, revealed by the doffing of a curly-brimmed beaver. Mr Augustus Fawnhope
, perceiving that the lady in the curricle was waving a hand in his direction, halted, took off his hat, and stood with it in his hand, gazing enquiringly up at Sophy.
He was indeed a beautiful young man. His hair waved naturally from a brow of alabaster; his eyes were of a deep blue, a little dreamy, but so exquisitely set under arched brows, of such size and brilliance as to defy criticism; his mouth was moulded in curves to set a sculptor groping for the tools of his art. He was of moderate height, and exact proportions, and had no need to live upon a diet of potatoes steeped in vinegar to preserve his slender figure. Not that it would ever have entered his head to have done so; it was not the least of Mr Fawnhope’s charms that he was utterly unconcerned with his appearance. It might have been supposed that he could not be unaware of the admiration this excited, but as he was preoccupied with his ambition to become a major poet, paying very little attention to what was said to him, and none at all to what was said about him, even his ill-wishers (such as Mr Rivenhall and Sir Charles Stuart) were forced to admit that it was very likely that this admiration had not as yet pierced the cloud of abstraction in which he wrapped himself.
But there was more than abstraction in the gaze turned upward to Miss Stanton-Lacy’s face, and this circumstance was not lost on Mr Rivenhall, interpreting correctly the doubtful smile hovering on Mr Fawnhope’s lips. Mr Fawnhope had not the faintest idea of the identity of the lady stretching down her hand to him in so friendly a fashion. However, he took it in his, and said How-do-you-do, in his soft, vague voice.
‘Brussels,’ said Sophy helpfully. ‘We danced the quadrille at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, do you remember? Oh, are you acquainted with my cousin, Mr Rivenhall? You must know that I am staying with my aunt, in Berkeley Square, for the season. You must come to call upon us: I know she will be delighted!’
‘Of course I remember!’ said Mr Fawnhope, with less truth, than good manners. ‘Enchanting to meet again, ma’am, – and so unexpectedly! I shall certainly do myself the pleasure of calling in Berkeley Square.’