Cousin Kate Page 5

  ‘Oh, no, not a bit!’ replied Kate cheerfully. ‘After all, I’m not at all likely to be snatched up by a party of guerrilleros, am I?’

  ‘Extremely unlikely! Yes, that is the package, Ellen, but there is no need to enter the room as though you had been shot from a gun. My love, this is a shawl for you to put round your shoulders: I hope you will like it. I shall leave you now. When you are dressed, Ellen will show you the way to the Long Drawing-room.’

  She moved towards the door, and paused before it, looking at Ellen with raised brows. With a gasp, the girl scurried to open it for her, curtsying yet again. Having carefully shut it, she turned, gulped, and said: ‘If you please, miss, I haven’t finished unpacking your trunk!’

  ‘Well, you haven’t had time, have you? Oh, pray don’t keep on dropping curtsies! It makes me feel giddy! Have you found a pair of silk stockings yet? I think I should wear them, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh, yes, miss!’

  ‘I bought them yesterday,’ disclosed Kate, rummaging through the trunk. ‘My old nurse said it was a sinful waste of money, but I thought my aunt would expect me to have at least one pair. Here they are! The first I’ve ever had!’

  ‘Oo, aren’t they elegant ?’ breathed Ellen, awed.

  ‘Well, I think so! Tell me, how much time have I before dinner?’

  ‘Only half an hour, miss. Being as it’s half-past six, and dinner’s at seven. Generally it’s at six, but my lady had it put off, in case you’d be late. If you please, miss!’

  Kate laid her furs down on the bed, and began to unbutton her pelisse, glancing thoughtfully round the room. ‘It was very kind of her to make so many preparations for me,’ she said. ‘Are those blinds new?’

  ‘Yes, miss, and the bed-curtains, made to match!’ said Ellen, with vicarious pride. ‘Such a time as we all had with them, Mrs Quedgeley, which is my lady’s sewing-woman, saying as they couldn’t be made up, not under a sennight! So we was all of us set to stitching, and Mrs Thorne – that’s the housekeeper, miss – read to us, to improve our minds.’

  ‘Goodness! Did it improve your mind?’

  ‘Oh, no, miss!’ answered Ellen, shocked. ‘I didn’t understand it.’

  Kate laughed, tossing her hat on to the bed, and running her fingers through her flattened curls. ‘My aunt must have been very sure she would bring me back with her,’ she commented.

  ‘Oh, yes, miss! Everything always has to be just as my lady says.’

  Kate did not reply to this, possibly because she was trying to unfasten her dress. Seeing her in difficulties recalled Ellen to a sense of her new duties, and she hurried to her assistance, even remembering, once Kate had stepped out of the dress, to pour warm water from a brass can into the flowered basin upon the wash-stand, and to direct her attention to the soap, which, she said simply, was a cake of my lady’s own, from Warren’s, with ever such a sweet scent.

  Having washed her face and hands, Kate sat down at the dressing-table, in her petticoat, and vigorously brushed her hair, threading a ribbon through it, and twisting the ringlets round her fingers. Her handmaiden, watching with great interest, said: ‘Lor’, miss! Is it natural ?’

  ‘Yes, quite natural!’ Kate answered, amused. ‘Isn’t it fortunate for me? Now, if you will do up my dress for me – oh, and open the package my aunt gave me! – Good God, what a beautiful shawl! It must be Norwich silk, surely! – Where is my trinket-box?’ She dived into the trunk again, and dragged from its depths a small box, which she opened. After critically inspecting its contents, she selected a modest string of beads, and a posy-ring; and, having clasped the one round her throat, and slipped the other on her finger, disposed the shawl becomingly, and announced that she was now ready.

  ‘Oh, miss, you do look a picture!’ exclaimed her handmaiden involuntarily.

  Heartened by this tribute, Kate drew a resolute breath, and stepped out into the corridor. She was led down it to the hall, and across this to a picture-gallery, where brocade curtains shrouded no fewer than fifteen very tall windows. Wax candles flickered in a number of wall-sconces, but did little to warm the gallery. Kate drew the shawl more closely about her shoulders, and was reminded of a draughty château near Toulouse, where she and her father had had the ill-fortune to be billeted for several weeks.

  ‘This is the anteroom, miss!’ whispered Ellen, opening a door, and walking across the room on tiptoe to where heavy curtains veiled an archway. She pulled one back a little way, signifying, with a jerk of her head and a frightened grimace, that Kate was to pass through the archway.

  There were only two people in the Long Drawing-room, neither of whom was known to Kate. She hesitated, looking enquiringly from one to the other.

  Standing before the fire was a well-preserved gentleman of uncertain age; and lounging on a sofa was the most beautiful youth Kate had ever seen. Under a brow of alabaster were set a pair of large and oddly luminous blue eyes, fringed by long, curling lashes; his nose was classic; his petulant mouth most exquisitely curved; and his pale golden hair looked like silk. He wore it rather long, and one waving strand, whether by accident or design, fell forward across his brow. He pushed it back with a slender white hand, and favoured Kate with the look of a sulky schoolboy.

  His companion came forward, bowing, and smiling. ‘Miss Malvern, is it not? I must make myself known to you: I am Dr Delabole. Torquil, dear boy, where are your manners?’

  This was uttered in a tone of gentle reproof, and had the effect of making Torquil get up, and execute a reluctant bow.

  ‘How do you do?’ said Kate calmly, putting out her hand. ‘I shan’t eat you, you know!’

  Light intensified in his eyes; he laughed delightedly, and took her hand, and stood holding it. ‘Oh, I like you!’ he said impulsively.

  ‘I’m so glad,’ responded Kate, making an attempt to withdraw her hand. His fingers closed on it with surprising strength. She was obliged to request him to let her go. ‘Even if you do like me!’ she said, quizzing him.

  The cloud descended again; he almost flung her hand away, muttering: ‘You don’t like me!’

  ‘Well, I find you excessively uncivil,’ she owned. ‘However, I daresay you are subject to fits of the sullens, and, of course, I don’t know what may have occurred to put you out of temper.’

  For a moment it seemed as if he was furious; then, as he looked at her, the cloud lifted, and he exclaimed: ‘Oh, your eyes are laughing! Yes, I do like you. I’ll beg your pardon, if you wish it.’

  ‘Torquil, Torquil!’ said Dr Delabole, in an admonishing voice. ‘I am afraid, Miss Malvern, you find us in one of our twitty moods, eh, my boy?’

  She could not help feeling that this was a tactless thing to have said; but before she could speak Sir Timothy, with her aunt leaning on his arm, had come into the room, and Lady Broome had exclaimed: ‘Oh, you are before me! Torquil, my son!’ She moved forward, in a cloud of puce satin and gauze, holding out her hands to him. He took one, and punctiliously kissed it; and she laid the other upon his shoulder, compelling him (as it seemed to Kate) to salute her cheek. Retaining her clasp on his hand, she led him up to Kate, saying: ‘I will have no formality! Kate, my love, you will allow me to present you to your Cousin Torquil! Torquil, Cousin Kate!’

  Kate promptly sank into a deep curtsy, to which he responded with a flourishing bow, uttering: ‘Cousin Kate!’

  ‘Cousin Torquil!’

  ‘Dinner is served, my lady,’ announced Pennymore.

  ‘Sir Timothy, will you escort Kate?’ directed her ladyship. ‘She has yet to learn her way about!’

  ‘It will be a pleasure!’ said Sir Timothy, offering his arm with a courtly gesture. ‘A bewildering house, isn’t it? I have often thought so. I should warn you, perhaps, that the food comes quite cold to table, the kitchens being most inconveniently placed.’

  Kate gave a gur
gle of laughter, but Lady Broome, overhearing the remark, said: ‘Nonsense, Sir Timothy! When I have been at such pains to introduce chafing-dishes!’

  ‘So you have, Minerva, so you have!’ he replied apologetically.

  The dining-room, which was reached by way of the picture-gallery, the Grand Stairway, a broad corridor, and an anteroom, was an immense apartment on the entrance-floor of the mansion, panelled in black oak, and hung with crimson damask. Several rather dark portraits did little to lighten it, all the light being shed from four branching chandeliers, which were set at intervals on the long, rather narrow table, on either side of a massive silver epergne. The chairs were Jacobean, with tall backs, upholstered in crimson brocade; and in the gloom that lay beyond the light Kate could dimly perceive a large sideboard.

  ‘Not very homelike?’ murmured Sir Timothy.

  ‘Not like any home I was ever in, sir,’ she replied demurely.

  Torquil, overhearing this as he took his seat beside her, said: ‘Bravo! Cousin Kate, Mama, has just said that this is not like any home she was ever in!’

  Kate flushed vividly, and cast an apologetic look at Lady Broome, who, however, smiled at her, and said: ‘Well, I don’t suppose it is, my son. Your cousin has spent her life following the drum, remember! She never knew my home. What have you before you, Sir Timothy? Ah, a cod’s head! Give Kate some, but don’t, I do implore you, place an eye upon her plate! Considered by many to be a high relish, but not by me!’

  ‘Or by me!’ said Torquil, shuddering. ‘I shall have some soup, Mama.’

  ‘Which leaves the cod’s eyes to me, and to Sir Timothy!’ said Dr Delabole. ‘We don’t despise them, I promise you!’

  Since he was seated opposite her, Kate was now at leisure to observe him more particularly. He was a large man, with a bland smile, and sufficiently well-looking to make the epithet handsome, frequently used to describe him, not wholly inapposite. He had very white hands, and his mouse-coloured hair was brushed into a fashionable Brutus; and while there was nothing in his attire to support the theory, he gave an impression of modishness. Perhaps, thought Kate, because his shirt-points, though of moderate height, were so exquisitely starched, and his neckcloth arranged with great nicety.

  The cod’s head was removed with a loin of veal; and the soup with a Beef Tremblant and Roots. Between them, side-dishes were set on the table: pigeons à la Crapaudine, petits pâtés, a matelot of eels, and a fricassée of chicken. Kate, partaking sparingly of the veal, in the foreknowledge that she would be expected to do justice to the second course, watched, with awe, Dr Delabole, who had already consumed a large portion of cod, help himself to two pigeons, and eat both, with considerable gusto.

  The second course consisted of a green goose, two rabbits, a dressed crab, some broccoli, some spinach, and an apple pie. It occurred forcibly to Kate that Lady Broome’s housekeeping was on a large scale. She was not so much impressed as shocked, for as one who knew that one skinny fowl could, skilfully cooked, provide a satisfying meal for three hungry persons, and who had seldom had more than a few shillings to spend on dinner, this lavishness was horrifying. Torquil had eaten two mouthfuls of the crab before pushing his plate away, peevishly saying that the crab was inedible, and toying with his apple pie; Sir Timothy, delicately carving a minute portion of rabbit for himself, had allowed her to place a spoonful of spinach on his plate, and then had left it untouched; Lady Broome, having pressed Dr Delabole to permit her to give him some of the goose, took a small slice herself; and Kate, resisting all coaxing attempts to make her sample the goose, ended the repast with the apple pie and custard. Throughout the meal, Lady Broome maintained a flow of small talk, and Dr Delabole one of anecdote. Sir Timothy, his world-weary eyes on Kate’s face, talked to her of the Peninsular Campaign, to which she responded, at first shyly, and then, when he touched on battles that came within her adult memory, with animation. She drew a soft laugh from him when she described conditions in the Pyrenees, ‘when even Headquarters, which were at Lesaca, were – were odious !’

  Torquil said curiously: ‘Were you there?’

  ‘No, not at Lesaca,’ she replied, turning her head towards him, and smiling in her friendly way.

  ‘Oh, I meant in the Peninsula!’

  ‘Why, yes! You may say that I was bred in Portugal! Though, owing to the fact that I was only a child at the time, and was left with Mama and my nurse in Lisbon, I can’t tell you anything about the retreat to Corunna. Indeed, the first campaign of which I have the smallest recollection is that of 1811, when Lord Wellington advanced from the Lines of Torres Vedras, and drove all before him, as far as to Madrid!’

  ‘How much I envy you!’

  ‘Do you? It was very uncomfortable, you know! And sometimes rather dangerous.’

  ‘I shouldn’t care for that,’ he said, throwing a challenging look at his mother. ‘I bear a charmed life!’

  ‘You talk a great deal of nonsense, my son,’ she said shortly, rising, and going to the door. One of the footmen opened it for her and she passed out of the room, followed by Kate, whose instinct bade her thank the man, but whose judgment forbade her to do so. She achieved a compromise between self-importance and the sort of familiarity she knew her aunt would deprecate, and smiled warmly up at him. He maintained his air of rigid immobility, but later rendered himself odious to his peers by saying that he knew Quality when he saw it, and it didn’t depend on a fortune, not by a long chalk it didn’t, whatever ill-informed persons might suppose. ‘Sir Timothy’s Quality,’ he said, pointing his knife at his immediate superior, and speaking a trifle thickly, ‘which you won’t deny! And for why? Because he ain’t so stiff-rumped that he won’t thank you civil if you was to perform a service for him! And his lady ain’t! For why? Because she’s so top-lofty she don’t so much as notice any of us servants! And that Dr Delabole ain’t Quality either, for he notices us too much! But Miss Kate is !’

  Meanwhile, Kate, unaware of this encomium, had followed her aunt to the Yellow saloon, and was listening to her exposition of her son’s character. According to Lady Broome, he had been (owing to his sickly childhood) too much indulged, to which circumstance must be attributed his every fault. ‘You won’t heed him, I know, when he talks in that wild way,’ she said, with a slight smile. ‘I sometimes think that he would have made a very good actor – though whence he derives his histrionic talent I confess I haven’t the remotest guess!’

  ‘Oh, no! I shan’t heed him,’ replied Kate cheerfully. ‘Any more than I heeded my father’s subalterns!’

  ‘Dear child!’ purred her ladyship. ‘You have such superior sense! Torquil, I fear, has none at all, so you will be an excellent companion for him. I should explain to you, perhaps, that although it was found to be impossible to send him to school, I felt that it would be improper to admit him into our social life, and so set up an establishment for him in the West Wing, where he resides – or has resided, up to the present time – with Dr Delabole, and his valet, our faithful Badger.’

  A wrinkle appeared on Kate’s brow; she ventured to ask how old Torquil was. She was told, Nineteen, and looked surprised.

  ‘You are thinking,’ said her ladyship smoothly, ‘that he should be at Oxford. Unfortunately, his health is still too precarious to make it advisable to send him up.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t thinking that, ma’am. But – but he is a man grown, and it does seem a little odd that he should be kept in the nursery!’ said Kate frankly.

  Lady Broome laughed. ‘Oh, dear me, no! Not the nursery! What a notion to take into your head! The thing is that having been reared in the West Wing he chooses to remain there – using it as a retreat, when he is out of humour. He is subject to moods, as I don’t doubt you will have noticed, and the least excitement brings on one of his distressing migraines. These prostrate him, and there is nothing for it but to put him to bed, and to keep him in absolute quiet. Imposs
ible, of course, if his room were in the main part of the house.’

  Never having had experience of sickly young men, Kate accepted this, and said no more. When the gentlemen had come into the room, the backgammon table was set out, and Sir Timothy asked her if she played the game. She responded drolly: ‘Why, yes, sir! I have been used to play with my father, and consider myself to be quite a dab at it!’

  He chuckled. ‘Come and pit your skill against mine!’ he invited. ‘Did you also play piquet with your father?’

  ‘Frequently, sir!’

  ‘We’ll try that too. Delabole is no match for me, and Torquil holds all such sports in abomination. In which he takes after his mother, who can’t tell a spade from a club! Eh, Minerva?’

  She smiled at him, but rather in the manner of a woman who found little to interest her in the prattling of a child; and signed to Dr Delabole to sit beside her on one of the sofas. Him she engaged in low-voiced converse, while Torquil sat down at the piano, and strummed idly. Glancing up momentarily from her game, Kate was forcibly struck by the intense melancholy of his expression. His eyes were sombre, his mouth took on a tragic droop; but before she could speculate on this her attention was recalled by Sir Timothy, who said demurely: ‘I don’t think you should accept a double, should you, Kate?’

  Four

  The following morning was spent by Kate in exploration. Torquil was her guide, and since he seemed to have thrown off the blue devils, an agreeable one. He conducted her all over the house, not excluding his own wing of it, and entertained her with his version of its history. ‘And here,’ he said solemnly, throwing open a door, ‘we have the Muniment Room! Why don’t you bow profoundly? I warn you, my mama will expect you to do so! She has been at such pains to collect our records, and to store them here! I don’t think Papa ever troubled himself to do so – or to have a Muniment Room – but pray don’t tell her I said so!’ He cast her a sidelong look, out of eyes brimming with laughter. ‘Isn’t it odd that she, who was not born a Broome, should care so much more for them than Papa? She was ably assisted by Matthew – oh, Dr Delabole! I call him Matthew – who has also catalogued the library. Have you seen enough? Shall I take you out into the gardens?’