Grand Sophy Page 26

  He was a good deal shocked by her appearance, and found it difficult to believe Cecilia’s assurance that when the fever had passed the patient would speedily recover her lost weight. Nor could he feel that old Nurse was competent to have the command of a sickroom. Cecilia agreed to this, but comforted him by saying that it was Sophy who was in command.

  ‘Dr Baillie says that no one could manage better, and, indeed, Charles, you would not doubt it could you but see how good Amabel is with her! She has such resolution, such firmness! Poor Nurse does not like to force the little dear to do what she does not wish to, and then, too, she has old-fashioned notions that will not do for Dr Baillie. But our cousin, he says, may be trusted to obey his directions implicitly. Oh, you could not wrest her away from Amabel! It would be fatal, for she frets if Sophy is too long absent from her room.’

  ‘We are very much obliged to Sophy,’ he said. ‘But it is not right that she should be doing such work! Setting aside the risk of infection, she did not come to us to act as sick-nurse!’

  ‘No,’ Cecilia said. ‘She did not, of course, but – but – I don’t know how it is, but she seems to be so much a part of our family that one does not consider such things as that!’

  He was silent, and she left him, saying that she must go to their mother. When, later, he saw Sophy, and attempted to remonstrate with her, she cut him very short.

  ‘I am delighted you are come home, my dear Charles, for nothing could do Amabel more good. Your poor Mama, too, needs the support of your presence. But if you mean to talk in that nonsensical style I shall soon be wishing you a thousand miles off !’

  ‘You have your own engagements,’ he persisted. ‘I daresay I must have seen as many as a dozen cards of invitation on the mantelpiece in the Yellow Saloon! I cannot think it right that you should forgo all your amusements for the sake of my little sister!’

  Her eyes laughed at him. ‘No, indeed! What a shocking thing that I should be obliged to forgo a few balls! How shall I survive it, I wonder? How delightful it would be in me to be demanding my aunt’s chaperonage at parties with the house in this upset! Now, pray do not let me hear any more on this head, but instead of vexing yourself with such absurdities, try what you may do to divert my aunt’s mind! You know her nervous disposition, and how the least thing upsets her constitution! The charge of keeping her soothed and calm falls upon poor Cecy, for your Papa, if you will not be offended with me for saying so, is not of the smallest use in such a crisis at this!’

  ‘I know it,’ he responded. ‘I will do what I may: I can well imagine how arduous a task Cecilia finds it. Indeed, I was shocked to see her looking so fagged!’ He hesitated, and then said, a little stiffly: ‘Miss Wraxton, perhaps, might be of service there. I would not suggest her entering Amabel’s room, but I am sure, if she would sit with my mother sometimes it must be of benefit! The tone of her mind is such that –’ He broke off, perceiving a change in his cousin’s expression and said with some asperity: ‘I am aware that you dislike Miss Wraxton, but even you will allow that her calm good sense must be of value in this predicament!’

  ‘My dear Charles, do not eat me! I have no doubt it is just as you say!’ Sophy replied. ‘Try if she will come to this house!’

  More she would not say, but it was not long before Mr Rivenhall had discovered that his betrothed, while sympathizing most sincerely with his family on their affliction, had no intention of exposing her person to the dangers of infection. She told him, clasping his hand fondly, that her Mama had most expressly forbidden her to enter the house until all danger should be past. It was true: Lady Brinklow herself told Mr Rivenhall so. Upon learning that he had had the imprudence to visit Amabel, she became visibly alarmed, and begged him not to repeat the visit. Miss Wraxton added the weight of her own counsel. ‘Indeed, Charles, it is not wise! There can be no need for you to run such a risk, moreover. Gentlemen in sickrooms are quite out of place!’

  ‘Are you afraid that I may take the disease, and convey it to you?’ he asked, in his blunt way. ‘I beg your pardon! I should not have come to call upon you! I will not do so again until Amabel is well.’

  Lady Brinklow hailed this decision with obvious relief, but it was going too far for her daughter, who at once assured Mr Rivenhall that he was talking nonsense, and must always be a welcome caller in Brook Street. He thanked her, but took his leave of her almost immediately.

  His opinion of her was not improved by finding, upon his return to Berkeley Square, that Lord Charlbury was sitting with his mother. It soon transpired that he was a regular visitor to the house, and, whatever his motive might be, Mr Rivenhall could not but honour him for his indifference to the danger of infection.

  Another regular called was Mr Fawnhope, but since his only object in coming was to see Cecilia, Mr Rivenhall was easily able to refrain from succumbing to any feelings of gratitude towards him for his intrepid visits. But Cecilia was looking so worn and anxious that, with rare restraint, he curbed his bitter tongue, and made no reference whatsoever to her lover’s frequent presence in the house.

  Had he but known it, Mr Fawnhope’s visits were affording Cecilia quite as little pleasure as he could have desired. It was midway through the second week of Amabel’s illness, and that she was very seriously unwell Dr Baillie did not waste his time denying to her nurses. Cecilia had no inclination towards any form of dalliance, and no interest in poetic drama. She carried up to the sickroom a remarkably fine bunch of grapes, saying in a low tone to Sophy that Lord Charlbury had brought them for Amabel, having sent all the way to his country seat for them. He was said to possess some of the finest succession-houses in the country, besides a pinery which, he promised, should yield the best of its fruits to Amabel, as soon as they should become ripe enough to be eaten.

  ‘How very kind! said Sophy, setting the dish upon a table. ‘I did not know Charlbury had called: I had thought it was Augustus.’

  ‘They were both here,’ Cecilia replied. ‘Augustus wished to give me a poem he has written, on a sick child.’

  Her tone was non-committal. Sophy said: ‘Dear me! I mean, how charming! Was it pretty?’

  ‘I daresay it may have been. I find I do not care for poems on such a subject,’ Cecilia said quietly.

  Sophy said nothing. After a moment, Cecilia added: ‘Although it was impossible for me to return Lord Charlbury’s regard, I must always be sensible of the delicacy of his behaviour, and the extreme kindness he has shown us in our trouble. I – I wish you may be brought to reward him, Sophy! You are in general above-stairs, and so cannot know the many hours he has spent with my mother, talking to her, and playing at backgammon with her, only, I am persuaded, to relieve us a little of that duty.’

  Sophy could not help smiling at this. ‘Not to relieve me, Cecy, for he must know that the care of my aunt does not fall upon me! If a compliment is intended, you must certainly take it to yourself.’

  ‘No, no, it is mere goodness of heart! That he has an ulterior motive I will not credit.’ She smiled, and added quizzingly: ‘I could wish that your other beau would do half as much!’

  ‘Bromford? Do not tell me he has ventured within a hundred paces of the house! I should certainly not believe you!’

  ‘No, indeed! And I have it from Charles that he avoids him as though he too were infected. Charles makes a jest of it, but Eugenia’s conduct he does not mention.’

  ‘It would be too much to expect of him.’

  A movement from the bed put an end to the conversation, nor was the subject again referred to by the cousins. Amabel’s illness, reaching its climax, banished all other thoughts from their heads. For several days, the gravest fears possessed the minds of all those who continually saw the invalid; and old Nurse, obstinately refusing to believe in new-fangled diseases, brought on one of Lady Ombersley’s worst attacks of nervous spasms by confiding in her that she had recognized the complaint from the start as being typhus. It took the combined exertions of Lady Ombersley’s son, daughter, and phy
sician to disabuse her mind of this hideous conviction; while his lordship, to whom she had communicated it, sought relief in the only way that seemed to him possible, and, in consequence, not only had to be escorted home from his club, but suffered so severe a recrudescence of his gout that he was unable to leave his room for several days afterwards.

  But Amabel survived the crisis. The fever began to abate; and although its ravages left her listless and emaciated, Dr Baillie was able to assure her mother that, provided that there was no relapse, he now entertained reasonable hopes of her complete recovery. He handsomely gave Sophy much of the credit for the improvement in the little girl’s condition; and Lady Ombersley, shedding tears, said that she shuddered to think where they would any of them have been without her dearest niece.

  ‘Well, well, she is a very capable young lady, and so too is Miss Rivenhall,’ said the doctor. ‘While they are with Miss Amabel you may be easy, ma’am!’

  Mr Fawnhope, ushered into the room five minutes later, was the first recipient of the glad tidings, and instantly dashed off a little lyric in commemoration of Amabel’s emergence from danger. Lady Ombersley thought it particularly touching, and begged to be given a copy; but since it dealt more with the pretty picture of Cecilia bending over the sickbed than with Amabel’s sufferings it quite failed to please the person for whom it was intended. With far more gratitude did Cecilia receive an exquisite bouquet of flowers brought by Lord Charlbury for her small sister. She saw him only to thank him. He did not importune her to remain in his company, but said, upon her excusing herself immediately: ‘Indeed I understand! I had not hoped to have been granted even a minute of your time. It was like you to have come downstairs. If only I could be sure that I have not interrupted your too hard-earned rest!’

  ‘No, no!’ she said, scarcely able to command her voice. ‘I was sitting with my sister, and when your flowers were brought up to her room I could not help but run down to tell you of her delight in them. Too good, too kind! Forgive me! I must not stay!’

  It had been hoped that when the invalid began to mend the constant attendance on her of her sister or her cousin might become less necessary, but it was soon found that she was too weak to be patient, and became fretful if left for too long in the care of Nurse or Jane Storridge. Mr Rivenhall, softly entering the sickroom one evening shortly after midnight, was shocked to discover not Nurse but Sophy seated by the small fire that was kept burning in the grate. She was sewing by the light of a branch of candles, but she looked up when the door opened, and smiled, and laid a finger to her lips. A screen was drawn between the candles and the bed, so that Mr Rivenhall could only dimly perceive his sister. She seemed to be sleeping. He closed the door soundlessly, and trod over to the fire, whispering: ‘I understood Nurse was to sit up with her at night. How is this? It is not fit for you, Sophy!’

  She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, and began to fold up her work. Nodding towards the door that stood ajar into the dressing-room, she replied in a low tone: ‘Nurse is laid down upon the sofa there. Poor soul, she is knocked-up! Amabel is very restless tonight – has been so all day. Don’t be alarmed! It is an excellent sign when a patient becomes peevish, and hard to manage. But she has been so much in the habit of getting her own way with Nurse that she will not mind her as she should. Sit down: I am going to heat some milk for her to drink, and, if you will, you may coax her to do so when she wakes.’

  ‘You must be tired to death!’ he said.

  ‘No, not at all: I was asleep all the afternoon,’ she returned, setting a small saucepan on the hob. ‘Like the Duke, I can sleep at any hour! Poor Cecy can never get a wink during the day, so we have decided that she must not attempt to sit up at night.’

  ‘You mean that you have decided it,’ he said.

  She only smiled and shook her head. He said no more, but sat watching her as she knelt by the fire, her attention on the milk slowly heating on the hob. After a few minutes, Amabel began to stir. Almost before her feeble, plaintive cry of ‘Sophy!’ had been uttered, Sophy had risen to her feet, and moved to the bedside. Amabel was hot, thirsty, uncomfortable, and disinclined to believe that anything could do her good. To be raised, so that her pillows could be shaken and turned, made her cry; she wanted Sophy to bathe her forehead, but complained that the lavender-water stung her eyes when she did so.

  ‘Hush, you will shock your visitor if you cry!’ Sophy said, smoothing her tangled curls. ‘Do you know there is a gentleman come to see you?’

  ‘Charles?’ Amabel asked, forgetting her woes for a moment.

  ‘Yes, Charles, so you must let me tidy you a little, and straighten the sheets. There! Now, Charles, Miss Rivenhall will be pleased to receive you!’

  She removed the screen, so that the candlelight fell on the bed, and nodded to Charles to sit down beside his sister. He did so, holding the claw-like little hand in his, and talking to the child in a cheerful way that succeeded in diverting her until Sophy brought a cup of milk to the bedside. The sight of this at once made her peevish. She wanted nothing; it would make her sick to swallow any milk; why would not Sophy leave her in peace?

  ‘I hope you don’t mean to be so unkind as to refuse it, when I have come especially to hold the cup for you,’ Charles said, taking it from his cousin. ‘A cup with roses on it, too! Now, where had you this! I am sure I do not recognize it!’

  ‘Cecilia gave it to me for my very own,’ Amabel replied. ‘But I don’t wish for any milk. It is the middle of the night, not the proper time for drinking milk!’

  ‘I hope Charles has admired your real roses,’ said Sophy, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and raising Amabel to rest against her shoulder. ‘We are so jealous, Charles, Cecy and I! Amabel has such a fine beau that we are cast quite into the shade. Only look at the bouquet he brought her!’

  ‘Charlbury!’ he said, smiling.

  ‘Yes, but I like your posy best,’ Amabel said.

  ‘Of course you do,’ said Sophy. ‘So take a sip of the milk he is offering you! I must tell you that a gentleman’s feelings are very easily wounded, my dear, and that, you know, would never do!’

  ‘Very true,’ Charles corroborated. ‘I shall be thinking that you have a greater regard for Charlbury than for me, and that will very likely make me fall into a melancholy.’

  That made her laugh weakly, and so, between nonsense and coaxing, she was persuaded to drink nearly all the milk. Sophy laid her gently down again, but nothing would do but that both Charles and Sophy should stay beside her.

  ‘Yes, but no more talking,’ Sophy said. ‘I am going to tell you about another of my adventures, and if your interrupt me I shall lose the thread.’

  ‘Oh, yes, tell about the time you were lost in the Pyrenees!’ begged Amabel drowsily.

  Sophy did so, her voice sinking as the little girl’s eyelids began to droop. Mr Rivenhall sat still and silent on the other side of the bed, watching his sister. Presently Amabel’s deeper breathing betrayed that she slept. Sophy’s voice ceased; she looked up, and met Mr Rivenhall’s eyes. He was staring at her, as though a thought, blinding in its novelty, had occurred to him. Her gaze remained steady, a little questioning. He rose abruptly, half-stretched out his hand, but let it fall again, and, turning, went quickly out of the room.

  Fifteen

  Upon the following day, Sophy did not encounter her cousin. He visited Amabel at an hour when he knew Sophy to be resting, and was not at home to dinner. Lady Ombersley feared that something had occurred to vex him, for although his manner towards her was unfailingly patient, and he abated none of his solicitude for her comfort, his brow was clouded, and he replied to many of her remarks quite at random. He submitted, however, to the penance of a hand at cribbage with her; and when the game was interrupted by the arrival of Mr Fawnhope, with a copy of his poem for Lady Ombersley, and a posy of moss-roses for Cecilia, he was sufficiently master of himself to greet the visitor, if not with enthusiasm, at least with civility.

  Mr Fawnh
ope, having written some thirty lines of his tragedy the previous day, with which he was not dissatisfied, was in a complaisant humour, neither chasing an elusive epithet, nor brooding over an infelicitous line. He said everything that was proper, and, when all enquiries into the invalid’s condition were exhausted, conversed on various topics so much like a sensible man that Mr Rivenhall found himself quite in charity with him, and was only driven from the room by Lady Ombersley’s request to the poet to read aloud to her his lyric on Amabel’s deliverance from danger. Even this abominable affectation could not wholly dissipate the kindlier feelings with which he regarded Mr Fawnhope, whose continued visits to the house gave him a better opinion of the poet than was at all deserved. Cecilia could have told him that Mr Fawnhope’s intrepidity sprang more from a sublime unconsciousness of the risk of infection than from any deliberate heroism; but since she was not in the habit of discussing her lover with her brother he continued in a happy state of ignorance, himself too practical a man to comprehend the density of the veil in which a poet could wrap himself.

  He never again visited the sickroom at a moment when he might expect to find his cousin there, and when they met at the dinner-table his manner towards her was so curt as to border on the brusque. Cecilia, knowing how very much obliged to Sophy he thought himself, was astonished, and more than once pressed her cousin to tell her whether they had quarrelled. But Sophy would only shake her head, and look mischievous.

  Amabel continued to mend, although slowly, and with many set-backs, and all the irrational fidgets of a convalescent. For twelve hours nothing would do for her but to have Jacko brought to her room. Only Sophy’s forcible representations prevented Mr Rivenhall from posting down to Ombersley Court to bring back the indispensable monkey, so anxious was he that nothing should be allowed to retard his little sister’s recovery. But Tina, hitherto excluded, to her great indignation, from attendance on her mistress in the sickroom, made an excellent substitute for Jacko, and was only too content to curl up on the quilt under Amabel’s caressing hand.