'Why, you are musicians, I declare!' cried Mrs Williams. 'Violins—a 'cello! How I love music. Symphonies, cantatas! Do you touch the instrument, sir?' she asked Stephen. She did not usually notice him, for Dr Vining had explained that naval surgeons were often poorly qualified and always badly paid; but she was feeling well-disposed today.
'I have just been picking out this piece, ma'am,' said Stephen. 'But the piano is sadly out of tune.'
'I think not, sir,' said Mrs Williams. 'It was the most expensive instrument to be had—a Clementi. I remember its coming by the waggon as though it were yesterday.'
'Pianos do go out of tune, Mama,' murmured Sophia.
'Not Clementi's pianos, my dear,' said Mrs Williams with a smile. 'They are the most expensive in London. Clementi supplies the Court,' she added, looking reproachful, as though they had been wanting in loyalty. 'Besides, sir,' she said, turning to Jack, 'it was my eldest daughter who painted the case! The pictures are in the Chinese taste.'
'That clinches it, ma'am,' cried Jack. 'It would be an ungrateful instrument that fell off, having been decorated by Miss Williams. We were admiring the landscape with the pagoda this morning, were we not, Stephen?'
'Yes,' said Stephen, lifting the adagio of Hummel's D major sonata off the lid. 'This was the bridge and tree and pagoda that we liked so much.' It was a charming thing, the size of a tea-tray—pure, sweet lines, muted, gentle colours that might have been lit by an innocent moon.
Embarrassed, as she so often was, by her mother's strident voice, and confused by all this attention, Sophia hung her head: with a self-possession that she neither felt nor seemed to feel she said, 'Was this the piece you was playing, sir? Mr Tindall has made me practise it over and over again.'
She moved away from the piano, carrying the sheets, and at this point the drawing-room was filled with activity. Mrs Williams protested that she would neither sit down nor take any refreshment whatsoever; Preserved Killick and John Witsoever, able seamen, brought in tables, trays, urns, more coal; Frances whispered 'What ho, for ship's biscuit and a swig of rum,' to make Cecilia giggle; and Jack slowly began shepherding Mrs Williams and Stephen out of the room through the french windows in the direction of what he took to be the jasmin.
The true jasmin, however, proved to be on the library wall; and so it was from outside the library windows that Jack and Stephen heard the familiar notes of the adagio, as silvery and remote as a musical-box. It was absurd how the playing resembled the painting: light, ethereal, tenuous. Stephen Maturin winced at the flat A and the shrill C; and at the beginning of the first variation he glanced uneasily at Jack to see whether he too was jarred by the mistaken phrasing. But Jack seemed wholly taken up with Mrs Williams's account of the planting of the shrub, a minute and circumstantial history.
Now there was another hand on the keyboard. The adagio came out over the sparse wintery lawn with a fine ringing tone, inaccurate, but strong and free; there was harshness in the tragic first variation—a real understanding of what it meant.
'How well dear Sophia plays,' said Mrs Williams, leaning her head to one side. 'Such a sweetly pretty tune, too.'
'Surely that is not Miss Williams, ma'am?' cried Stephen.
'Indeed it is, sir,' cried Mrs Williams. 'Neither of her sisters can go beyond the scales, and I know for a fact that Mrs Villiers cannot read a note. She would not apply herself to the drudgery.' And as they walked back to the house through the mud Mrs Williams told them what they should know about drudgery, taste, and application.
Mrs Villiers started up from the piano, but not so quickly as to escape Mrs Williams's indignant eye—an eye so indignant that it did not lose its expression for the rest of the visit. It even outlasted Jack's announcement of a ball in commemoration of the Battle of Saint Vincent, and the gratification of being the first guests to be bespoke.
'You recall Sir John Jervis's action, ma'am, off Cape Saint Vincent? The fourteenth of February, ninety-seven. Saint Valentine's day.'
'Certainly I do, sir: but'—with an affected simper—'of course my girls are too young to remember anything about it. Pray, did we win?'
'Of course we did, Mama,' hissed the girls.
'Of course we did,' said Mrs Williams. 'Pray sir, was you there—was you present?'
'Yes, ma'am,' said Jack. 'I was third of the Orion. And so I always like to celebrate the anniversary of the battle with all the friends and shipmates I can bring together. And seeing there is a ballroom here—'
'You may depend upon it, my dears,' said Mrs Williams, on the way home, 'that this ball is being given in compliment to us—to me and my daughters—and I have no doubt that Sophie will open it with Captain Aubrey. Saint Valentine's day, la! Frankie, you have dribbled chocolate all down your front; and if you eat so many rich pastries you will come out in spots, and then where will you be? No man will look at you. There must have been a dozen eggs and half a pound of butter in that smaller cake: I have never been so surprised in my life.'
Diana Villiers had been taken, after some hesitation, partly because it would have been indecent to leave her behind and partly because Mrs Williams thought there was no possible comparison between a woman with ten thousand pounds and one without ten thousand pounds; but further consideration, the pondering of certain intercepted looks, led Mrs Williams to think that the gentlemen of the Navy might not be so reliable as the local squires and their hard-faced offspring.
Diana was aware of most of the motions of her aunt's mind, and after breakfast the next day she was quite prepared to follow her into her room for 'a little chat, my dear'. But she was quite unprepared for the bright smile and the repeated mention of the word 'horse'. Hitherto it had always meant Sophia's little chestnut mare. 'How good-natured of Sophie to lend you her horse again. I hope it is not too tired this time, poor thing.' But now the suggestion, the downright offer, wrapped in many words, was of a horse for herself. It was a clear bribe to leave the field clear: it was also meant to overcome Sophia's reluctance to deprive her cousin of the mare, and thus to go riding with Captain Aubrey or Dr Maturin herself. Diana accepted the bait, spat out the hook with contempt, and hurried away to the stables to consult with Thomas, for the great horse-fair at Marston was just at hand.
On the way she saw Sophia coming along the path that led through the park to Grope, Admiral Haddock's house. Sophia was walking fast, swinging her arms and muttering 'Larboard, starboard,' as she came.
'Yo ho, shipmate,' called Diana over the hedge, and she was surprised to see her cousin blush cherry-pink. The chance shot had gone straight home, for Sophia had been browsing in the admiral's library, looking at Navy Lists, naval memoirs, Falconer's Dictionary of the Marine, and the Naval Chronicle; and the admiral, coming up behind her in his list slippers had said, 'Oh, the Naval Chronicle, is it? Ha, ha! This is the one you want,'—pulling out the volume for 1801. 'Though Miss Di has been before you—forestalled you long ago—made me explain the weather-gage and the difference between a xebec and a brig. There is a little cut of the action, but the fellow did not know what he was about, so he put in a great quantity of smoke to hide the rigging, which is most particular in a xebec. Come, let me find it for you.'
'Oh no, no, no,' said Sophia in great distress. 'I only wanted to know a little about—' Her voice died away.
The acquaintance ripened; but it did not mature, it did not progress as fast as Mrs Williams would have liked. Captain Aubrey could not have been more friendly—perhaps too friendly; there was none of that languishing she longed to see, no pallor, nor even any marked particularity. He seemed to be as happy with Frances as he was with Sophia, and sometimes Mrs Williams wondered whether he really were quite the thing—whether those strange tales about sea-officers might possibly be true in his case. Was it not very odd that he should live with Dr Maturin? Another thing that troubled her was Diana's horse, for from what she heard and from what little she could understand, it seemed that Diana rode better than Sophia. Mrs Williams could hardly credit this,
but even so she was heartily sorry that she had ever made the present. She was in a state of anxious doubt: she was certain that Sophia was moved, but she was equally certain that Sophia would never speak to her of her feelings, just as she was certain that Sophia would never follow her advice about making herself attractive to the gentlemen—putting herself forward a little, doing herself justice, reddening her lips before she came into the room.
Had she seen them out one day with young Mr Edward Savile's pack she would have been more anxious still. Sophia did not really care for hunting: she liked the gallops, but she found the waiting about dull and she minded terribly about the poor fox. Her mare had spirit but no great stamina, whereas Diana's powerful, short-coupled bay gelding had a barrel like a vault of a church and an unconquerable heart; he could carry Diana's eight stone from morning till night, and he loved to be in at the kill.
They had been hunting since half past ten, and now the sun was low. They had killed two foxes, and the third, a barren vixen, had led them a rare old dance, right away into the heavy country beyond Plimpton with its wet plough, double oxers, and wide ditches. She was now only one field ahead, failing fast and heading for a drain she knew. At the last check Jack had a lucky inspiration to bear away right-handed, a short-cut that brought him and Sophia closer to hounds than anyone in the field; but now there was a bank, a towering fence, mud in front of it and the gleam of broad water beyond. Sophia looked at the jump with dismay, put her tired horse at it without any real wish to reach the other side, and felt thankful when the mare refused it. She and her mount were quite done up; Sophia had never felt so tired in her life; she dreaded the sight of the fox being torn to pieces, and the pack had just hit off the line again. There was a deadly implacable triumph in the voice of the old bitch that led them. 'The gate, the gate,' called Jack, wheeling his horse and cantering to the corner of the field. He had it half open—an awkward, sagging, left-handed gate—when Stephen arrived. Jack heard Sophia say 'should like to go home—pray, pray go on—know the way perfectly.' The piteous face wiped away his look of frustration; he lost his fixed 'boarders away' expression, and smiling very kindly he said, 'I think I will turn back too: we have had enough for today.'
'I will see Miss Williams home,' said Stephen.
'No, no, please go on,' begged Sophia, with tears brimming in her eyes. 'Please, please—I am perfectly—'
A quick drumming of hooves and Diana came into the field. Her whole being was concentrated on the fence and what lay beyond it, and she saw them only a vague group muddling in a gate. She was sitting as straight and supple as if she had been riding for no more than half an hour: she was part of her horse, completely unaware of herself. She went straight at the fence, gathered her horse just so, and with a crash and a spray of mud they were over. Her form, her high-held head, her contained joy, competent, fierce gravity, were as beautiful as anything Jack or Stephen had ever seen. She had not the slightest notion of it, but she had never looked so well in her life. The men's faces as she flew over, high and true, would have made Mrs Williams more uneasy by far.
Mrs Williams longed for the day of the ball; she made almost as many preparations as Jack, and Mapes Court was filled with gauze, muslins and taffeta. Her mind was filled with stratagems, one of which was to get Diana out of the way for the intervening days. Mrs Williams had no defined suspicions, but she smelt danger, and by means of half a dozen intermediaries and as many letters she managed to have a mad cousin left unattended by his family. She could not do away with the invitation, publicly given and accepted, however, and Diana was to be brought back to Champflower by one of Captain Aubrey's guests on the morning of February the fourteenth.
'Dr Maturin is waiting for you, Di,' said Cecilia. 'He is walking his horse up and down in a fine new bottle-green coat with a black collar. And he has a new tie-wig. I suppose that is why he went up to London. You have made another conquest, Di: he used to be quite horrid, and all unshaved.'
'Stop peering from behind that curtain like a housemaid, Cissy. And lend me your hat, will you?'
'Why, he is quite splendid now,' said Cecilia, peering still and puckering the gauze. 'He has a spotted waistcoat too. Do you remember when he came to dinner in carpet slippers? He really would be almost handsome if he held himself up.'
'A fine conquest,' said Mrs Williams, peering too. 'A penniless naval surgeon, somebody's natural son, and a Papist. Fie upon you, Cissy, to say such things.'
'Good morning, Maturin,' said Diana, coming down the steps. 'I hope I have not kept you waiting. What a neat cob you have there, upon my word! You never found him in this part of the world.'
'Good morning, .Villiers. You are late. You are very late.'
'It is the one advantage there is in being a woman. You do know I am a woman, Maturin?'
'I am obliged to suppose it, since you affect to have no notion of time—cannot tell what o'clock it is. Though why the trifling accident of sex should induce a sentient being, let alone such an intelligent being as you, to waste half this beautiful clear morning, I cannot conceive. Come, let me help you to mount. Sex—sex . . .'
'Hush, Maturin. You must not use words like that here. It was bad enough yesterday.'
'Yesterday? Oh, yes. But I am not the first man to say that wit is the unexpected copulation of ideas. Far from it. It is a commonplace.'
'As far as my aunt is concerned you are certainly the first man who ever used such an expression in public.'
They rode up Heberden Down: a still, brilliant morning with a little frost; the creak of leather, the smell of horse, steaming breath. 'I am not in the least degree interested in women as such,' said Stephen. 'Only in persons. There is Polcary,' he added, nodding over the valley. 'That is where I first saw you, on your cousin's chestnut. Let us ride over there tomorrow. I can show you a remarkable family of particoloured stoats, a congregation of stoats.'
'I must cry off for tomorrow,' said Diana. 'I am so sorry, I have to go to Dover to look after an old gentleman who is not quite right in the head, a sort of cousin.'
'But you will be back for the ball, sure?' cried Stephen.
'Oh, yes. It is all arranged. A Mr Babbington is to take me up on his way. Did not Captain Aubrey tell you?'
'I was back very late last night, and we hardly spoke this morning. But I must go to Dover myself next week. May I come and beg for a cup of tea?'
'Indeed you may. Mr Lowndes imagines he is a teapot; he crooks one arm like this for the handle, holds out the other for the spout, and says, "May I have the pleasure of pouring you a cup of tea?" You could not come to a better address. But you also have to go to town again, do you not?'
'I do. From Monday till Thursday.'
She reined in her horse to a walk, and with a hesitation and a shyness that changed her face entirely, giving it a resemblance to Sophia's, she said, 'Maturin, may I beg you to do me a kindness?'
'Certainly,' said Stephen, looking straight into her eyes and then quickly away at the sight of the painful emotion in them.
'You know something of my position here, I believe . . . Would you sell this bit of jewellery for me? I must have something to wear at the ball.'
'What must I ask for it?'
'Would they not make an offer, do you think? If I could get ten pounds, I should be happy. And if they should give so much, then would you be even kinder and tell Harrison in the Royal Exchange to send me this list immediately? Here is a pattern of the stuff. It could come by the mail-coach as far as Lewes, and the carrier could pick it up. I must have something to wear.'
Something to wear. Unpicked, taken in, let out, and folded in tissue-paper, it lay in the trunk that stood waiting in Mr Lowndes's hall on the morning of the fourteenth.
'Mr Babbington to see you, ma'am,' said the servant.
Diana hurried into the parlour—her smile faded—she looked again, and lower than she would have thought possible she saw a figure in a three-caped coat that piped, 'Mrs Villiers, ma'am? Babbington reporting, if you p
lease, ma'am.'
'Oh, Mr Babbington, good morning. How do you do? Captain Aubrey tells me you will be so very kind as to take me with you to Melbury Lodge. When do you please to start? We must not let your horse take cold. I have only a little trunk—it is ready by the front door. You will take a glass of wine before we leave, sir? Or I believe you sea-officers like rum?'
'A tot of rum to keep out the cold would be prime. You will join me, ma'am? It's uncommon parky, out.'
'A very little glass of rum, and put a great deal of water in it,' whispered Diana to the servant. But the girl was too flustered by the presence of a strange dogcart in the courtyard to understand the word 'water', and she brought a dark-brown brimming tumbler that Mr Babbington drank off with great composure. Diana's alarm increased at the sight of the tall, dashing dogcart and the nervous horse, all white of eye and laid-back ears. 'Where is your groom, sir?' she asked. 'Is he in the kitchen?'
'There ain't a groom in this crew, ma'am,' said Babbington, now looking at her with open admiration. 'I navigate myself. May I give you a leg up? Your foot on this little step and heave away. Now this rug—we make it fast aft, with these beckets. All a-tanto? Let go by the head,' he called to the gardener, and they dashed out of the forecourt, giving the white-painted post a shrewd knock as they passed.
Mr Babbington's handling of the whip and the reins raised Diana's dismay to a new pitch; she had been brought up among horse-soldiers, and she had never seen anything like this in her life. She wondered how he could possibly have come all the way from Arundel without a spill. She thought of her trunk behind and when they left the main road, winding along the lanes, sometimes mounting the bank and sometimes shaving the ditch's edge, she said, 'It will never do. This young man will have to be taken down.'
The lane ran straight up hill, rising higher and higher, with God knows what breakneck descent the other side. The horse slowed to a walk—the bean-fed horse, as it proved by a thunderous, long, long fart.