The Unknown Ajax Page 3

  ‘Nothing at all!’ asserted the widow, looking ridiculously guilty. ‘Good gracious, as though he ever told me anything! How can you be so absurd?’

  ‘Now, that is trying it on much too rare and thick!’ said Richmond accusingly.

  ‘Foolish boy! You are as bad as your sister, and what your poor papa would think of you both, if he could hear you, I’m sure I don’t know! And you ought to be in bed, Richmond! You look worn to a bone!’

  At this, her masterful offspring converged upon her, Anthea sinking down on to a stool at her feet, and Richmond perching on the arm of her chair.

  ‘And we don’t know what poor Papa would think of you for shamming it so, dearest!’ said Anthea. ‘Grandpapa has told you all about the weaver’s son. Confess!’

  ‘No, no, I promise you he hasn’t! He told me nothing about him – well, nothing to the purpose! Only when I ventured to ask him if it had not been a great shock to him to learn of the young man’s existence, he said he had known of it for ever. My dears, would you have believed it? It seems that poor Hugh wrote to tell your grandfather of this Hugh’s birth, twenty-seven years ago! And not a word has he uttered to a soul until today! Unless, of course, he disclosed the truth to Granville, but I am positive he never did so, for your aunt Anne and I were the closest friends, and she must have told me, if she had known anything about it. Oh dear, poor soul, I wonder how she does? I wonder how it will answer, living with her daughter and her son-in-law? To be sure, Sir John Caldbeck seemed a most amiable man, and I daresay anything was preferable to Anne than continuing here – though I always used to think that Grandpapa was by far more civil to her than –’

  ‘Yes, Mama,’ interrupted Anthea. ‘But all this is fair and far off, you know! So Grandpapa has known from the start how it was, has he? We needn’t marvel that he said nothing about it while my Uncle Granville and Oliver were alive, but how can he have allowed my Uncle Matthew to suppose all these months that he was now the heir to the barony? It is a great deal too bad, besides being quite crack-brained! Did he hope the young man might be dead? He can’t, surely, have forgotten him!’

  ‘Well, I fancy, from something he said to me just now, that he had the intention of disinheriting him, if it might be done, only from some cause or another – but I don’t precisely understand about settlements, so – Or do I mean an entail? No, I don’t think it was that, and naturally I shouldn’t dream of asking your grandfather to explain, for nothing provokes him more than to be asked questions, though why it should I can’t conjecture!’

  ‘I didn’t know one could cut out the heir to one’s title,’ objected Richmond.

  ‘It seems to be established that Grandpapa, at all events, cannot,’ said Anthea.

  ‘Sequestration!’ suddenly and triumphantly exclaimed Mrs Darracott. ‘That was the word! I thought very likely it would come back to me, for very often things do, and sometimes, which always seems extraordinary to me, in the middle of the night! Well, that was it, only it can’t be done, and so Grandpapa feels that there is nothing for it but to make the best of this young man.’

  ‘Did he say that, Mama?’ asked Anthea incredulously.

  ‘Yes, he did,’ nodded Mrs Darracott. ‘Well, it was what he meant!’

  ‘But what did he say?’ demanded Richmond.

  ‘Oh, I can’t recall exactly what he said! Only he seems to think he might go off at any moment, though why he should I can’t imagine, for I never knew anyone so hearty! In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if he – Well, never mind that! Dear me, I have forgotten what I was about to say!’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise you if he outlived us all,’ supplied Anthea helpfully.

  ‘Certainly not!’ stated Mrs Darracott, blushing. ‘Such a thought never entered my head!’

  ‘Lord, what a rapper!’ remarked Richmond, palliating this undutiful criticism by hugging her briefly. ‘You’re trying to cut a wheedle, but if you think you can turn us up sweet, you’re a goose, Mama!’

  ‘Richmond!’

  ‘How many more times is Mama to tell you not to speak to her so saucily?’ interpolated Anthea severely.

  ‘You are two very silly, impertinent children!’ said Mrs Darracott, trying not to laugh. ‘And what your Aunt Aurelia will think of you, if you talk in that improper style, makes me quite sick with apprehension!’

  ‘We won’t,’ promised Anthea. ‘We will remember that a want of conduct in us reflects directly upon you, love, and we will behave with all the propriety in the world.’

  ‘If she stops trying to gammon us,’ amended Richmond.

  ‘Oh, that is understood! How does Grandpapa mean to make the best of our new cousin, Mama?’

  ‘Well, my dears,’ responded the widow, capitulating, ‘he seems to think that it will be necessary to lick the unfortunate young man into shape. At least, that’s what he said.’

  ‘Unfortunate young man indeed!’

  ‘I own, one can’t but feel a great deal of compassion for him, yet it can’t be denied that it is a severe trial for your grandfather to know that he must be succeeded by quite a vulgar person. I should be very much vexed myself, and heaven knows I don’t set half the store by my consequence that your grandfather does! Oh dear, how uncomfortable it will be! I did hope, when I learned that he is a military man, that he might be quite gentlemanlike, but your grandfather says that the army has grown so large, on account of the war’s having dragged on for such a time, that it is full of what he calls shabby-genteel officers – though how he should know that, when he never stirs from home, is more than I can tell! And to make it worse the poor man is in the wrong sort of regiment.’

  ‘What?’ ejaculated Richmond, kindling. ‘He’s in the 95th! A Light Division man! I should like to know what is wrong with that!’

  ‘Well, dearest, I don’t know anything about such matters myself, but Grandpapa spoke of its being newfangled, which, of course, would account for his not liking it.’

  ‘If that’s the way my grandfather means to talk he’ll make more of a Jack-pudding of himself than ever this cousin could, even if he is a rum ’un!’ declared Richmond hotly. ‘Of all the antiquated, top-lofty –’

  ‘Well, don’t put yourself in a passion!’ recommended his sister. ‘You cannot suppose that anything other than a cavalry regiment, or the 1st Foot Guards, would do for a Darracott!’

  ‘Balderdash!’ said Richmond. ‘I don’t mean I wouldn’t wish for a cavalry regiment myself, but if I can’t – couldn’t – join one, I’d as lief be a Light Bob as anything else. And if Grandpapa says something slighting – oh, lord, I shan’t know where to look! I wonder if this man marched to Talavera? Do you know that –’ He broke off, seeing his mother look quickly up at him, a stricken expression in her face. ‘Oh, well!’ he said, shrugging. ‘It’s of no consequence – only I do hope to God Grandpapa doesn’t make a cake of himself! Go on, Mama! How is our cousin to be licked into shape? Does my grandfather mean to undertake the task himself? The wretched victim will seize the first opportunity that offers of escaping from the home of his fathers!’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Mrs Darracott said. ‘That is – no, I am persuaded your grandfather doesn’t mean – He said something about Vincent’s being able to hint him into the established mode.’

  ‘Vincent! He won’t do it!’ said Richmond positively.

  ‘No, well – well, at least your grandfather seems to feel that we ought, all of us, to use the young man kindly!’ Mrs Darracott perceived that both her children were regarding her with a mixture of surprise and disbelief, and her colour rose. She began to rearrange the Paisley shawl she wore draped round her shoulders, and said, rather too airily: ‘I am sure it is greatly to his credit, and not at all what one would have expected! Poor young man! Your cousin, I mean, not Grandpapa! I daresay he will feel sadly out of place here, and we must try to make him welcome. I shall certainly do so, and I hope you will, too
, dearest Anthea. Grandpapa is – is particularly anxious that you should make yourself agreeable to him. Indeed, I don’t know why you should not! Not that I mean…’ Aware that two pairs of fine gray eyes were fixed on her face, she found herself unable to finish this sentence, and tried hurriedly to begin another. ‘Dear me, how late it is! Anthea, my love, –’

  ‘Mama!’ uttered Anthea accusingly. ‘If you don’t tell me precisely what it was that my grandfather said to you I’ll go to the library and ask him!’

  This dreadful threat threw Mrs Darracott into instant disorder. She scolded a little, wept a little, asseverated that my lord had said nothing at all, and ended by divulging to her children that my lord had conceived the happy notion of bringing about a match between his shabby-genteel heir and his only unmarried granddaughter. ‘To keep him in the Family!’ she explained earnestly.

  That was all that was needed to send Richmond into shouts of laughter. His sister, in general a girl with a lively sense of the ridiculous, found herself easily able to withstand the infection of his laughter. She waited in ominous silence until his mirth abated, and then, transferring her gaze from him to her mother, asked with careful restraint: ‘Does it ever occur to you, Mama, that my grandfather is a lunatic?’

  ‘Frequently!’ Mrs Darracott assured her. ‘That is – oh, dear, what am I saying? Of course not! Perhaps he is a trifle eccentric!’

  ‘Eccentric! He’s a mediæval bedlamite!’ said Anthea, not mincing matters. ‘Upon my word, this is beyond everything!’

  ‘I was afraid you would not quite like it,’ agreed her mother unhappily. ‘Now, Richmond – ! You will be in whoops if you don’t take care! Foolish boy! There is nothing to laugh at!’

  ‘Let him go into whoops, Mama! They may choke him!’

  Mrs Darracott was shocked by this unfeeling speech, but thought it wisest, after one glance at Anthea’s stormy face, to beg Richmond to go away. He did go, but it was a moment or two before Anthea’s wrath abated. She had jumped up from the footstool, and now took several turns about the room in a hasty, impetuous way which filled Mrs Darracott with foreboding. However, she soon recovered her temper, and, although still incensed, was presently able to laugh at herself. ‘I should know better than to fly up into the boughs for anything that detestable old man could say or do! I beg your pardon, Mama, but it puts me in such a rage when he behaves as though he were the Grand Turk, and we a parcel of slaves – ! So I am to marry the weaver’s son, am I? I collect that I have nothing to say in the matter: has the weaver’s son? Has he been informed of the fate that awaits him?’

  ‘Oh, no! That is – I did venture to suggest to your grandfather – But he said – you know his way! – that the poor young man would do as he was bid!’

  ‘And he will!’ said Anthea. ‘That’s to say, he’ll try! Wretched, wretched man! I pity him with all my heart! He will be miserably ill-at-ease, miserably out of place, and will arrive to find himself under fire! Grandpapa will overawe him within five minutes! Mama, it is infamous! Did you tell my grandfather that I shouldn’t consent to such a scheme?’

  ‘Well – well, I didn’t say that, precisely!’ confessed Mrs Darracott, in acute discomfort. ‘To own the truth, my love, I was so much taken-aback that –’

  ‘Then I will, and immediately!’ declared Anthea, going towards the door.

  She was halted by a small, anguished shriek. ‘Anthea, I forbid you – I implore you! – He would be so angry! He will say that he told me not to say one word to you about it, and he did!’

  Anthea could not be impervious to this appeal. She paused; and, pursuing her advantage, Mrs Darracott said: ‘My dearest, you have so much good sense! I know you will consider carefully before you – Not that I would urge you to marry him if you felt you couldn’t like him! I promise you I would never, never – But what will you do, Anthea? Oh, my dearest child, I’m cast into despair whenever I think of it! You are two-and-twenty, and how can you hope to receive a respectable offer, when you never meet anyone but the Family, or go anywhere, or – And here is your grandfather saying that you frittered away your chances when he was so obliging as to frank you to a London Season, and so you must now be content with a husband of his choosing!’

  ‘During my one Season,’ said Anthea, in a level tone, ‘I received two offers of marriage. One came from a widower, old enough, I conjecture, to have been my father. The other was from young Oversley, who, besides being next door to a moonling, had the fixed intention of continuing under his parents’ roof. Between Grandpapa and Lady Aberford I am persuaded there wasn’t the difference of a hair! I haven’t watched the trials you’ve been made to endure only to stumble into the same snare, Mama!’

  ‘No, and heaven knows, dear child, I must be the last person alive to wish to see you in such a situation,’ sighed Mrs Darracott.

  ‘I could, I think, have developed a tendre for Jack Froyle,’ said Anthea reflectively. ‘But he, you know, was obliged to hang out for a rich wife, and thanks to the improvidence for which the Darracotts are so justly famed my portion can’t be called anything but paltry. Does Grandpapa consider that circumstance when he talks of the chances I have frittered away?’

  ‘No, he doesn’t!’ replied Mrs Darracott, with unaccustomed bitterness. ‘But I do, and it utterly sinks my spirits! That’s why I can’t help thinking that perhaps you ought not to set your face against this scheme of your grandfather’s. Not until you have met your cousin, at all events, my love! Of course, if he should prove to be impossible – only, you know, he is a Darracott on one side!’

  ‘The side I should like the least!’ said Anthea.

  ‘Yes, but – but you would be established!’ Mrs Darracott pointed out. ‘Even if the young man is a coxcomb, which I do pray he is not, your position as Lady Darracott would be one of the first respectability. Anthea, I cannot bear to see you dwindle into an old maid!’

  Anthea could not help laughing at this impassioned utterance, but Mrs Darracott was perfectly serious, saying very earnestly: ‘How can you help but do so when no eligible gentleman ever sees you? Dear Anne was used to say that when Elizabeth and Caroline were off her hands she would invite you to stay in London, because she entered into all my sentiments on that head; but now that your uncle Granville is dead, and she has gone away into Gloucestershire, it would be useless to depend on her. Aurelia has still two daughters of her own to bring out, and although I could write to my brother –’

  ‘On no account in the world!’ exclaimed Anthea. ‘My uncle is the most amiable soul alive, but I would far rather dwindle into an old maid than stay for as much as two days with my aunt Sarah! Besides, I don’t think she could be prevailed upon to invite me.’

  ‘No, nor do I: she is the most disagreeable woman! So what, I ask you, is to become of you? When Grandpapa dies we shall be obliged to leave Darracott Place, you know. We shall be reduced to seeking lodgings, very likely in some dreadful back-slum, and eat black-puddings, and turn our dresses, and –’

  A peal of laughter interrupted this dismal catalogue. ‘Stop, stop, Mama, before you fall into an incurable fit of the blue-devils! We shall do nothing of the sort! With your skill in dressmaking, and my turn for making elegant reticules, we shall set up as mantua-makers. In Bath, perhaps, on Milsom Street: not a large establishment, but an excessively modish one. Shall we call it Darracott’s, to enrage the Family, or would it be more tonnish to call ourselves Elvira? Yes, I’m persuaded we should make a hit as Elvira! Within a year every woman of fashion will patronize us, because we shall charge the most exorbitant prices, which will convince the world that we must be top-of-the-trees!’

  Mrs Darracott, while deprecating such a nonsensical idea, could not help being strongly attracted by it. Anthea encouraged her to enlarge upon the day-dream; and soon had the satisfaction of seeing her volatile parent restored to her usual optimism. Not until they retired to bed was the unknown cousin again mentioned.
He came into Mrs Darracott’s mind as she picked up her candle, and she ventured to beg Anthea not to speak of the matter to her grandfather. She was much relieved when Anthea, kissing her, and giving her shoulder a reassuring pat, replied: ‘No, I shan’t say anything to Grandpapa. I am sure it would be quite useless!’

  Mrs Darracott, much cheered, was able then to go to bed with a quiet mind. She was too deeply occupied with household cares on the following morning to have a thought to spare for any other problems than which bedchamber it would be proper to allot to the heir; how best to hide from Lady Aurelia that there was not a linen sheet in the house which had not been darned; and whether the undergroom would be able to purchase in Rye enough lobsters to make, when elegantly dressed, a handsome side-dish for the second course at dinner that day. She, and Mrs Flitwick too, would have been glad to know for how many days my lord had invited five guests to say at Darracott Place, but neither considered for as much as a minute the eligibility of applying to him for information on this head. Nothing but a rough answer could be expected. My lord would be unable to understand what difference it could make to anyone. He would also be unable to understand why the addition of five persons to his household should make any appreciable difference to the cost of maintaining his establishment. As he would, at the same time, cut up very stiff indeed if fewer than seven or eight dishes were provided for each course, the task of catering to his satisfaction was one of the labours of Hercules. ‘For, ma’am,’ (as Mrs Flitwick sapiently observed) ‘I dare not for my life tell Godney to use up the mutton in a nice haricot, or toss up some oysters in an escallop: his lordship will want everything to be of the best.’

  It soon transpired that there was one thing which his lordship did not want to be of the best. When Mrs Darracott asked him if he wished Poor Granville’s bedchamber to be prepared for the reception of his successor, his reply was explosive and unequivocal, and carried the rider that the weaver’s brat would think himself palatially housed if put to sleep in one of the attics.