Lady of Quality

Chapter 12

It was long before Miss Wychwood was able to regain some measure of composure, and longer still before she could try to unravel the tangle of her thoughts. Never before had she been confronted with any question concerned with her life which she had experienced the least difficulty in answering, and it vexed her beyond bearing that a proposal from Mr Carleton should have so disastrously overset the balance of her mind as to have made it impossible for her to consider it with the calm judgment on which she had hitherto prided herself. The hardest question which had confronted her had been whether or not to remove from Twynham, and to carve a life for herself; but when she recalled what had been her sentiments on this occasion she knew that the only difficulty which had then made her hesitate had been a natural reluctance either to offend her brother, or to wound his gentle spouse. She had never had a doubt of her own sentiments, nor of the wisdom of her ultimate decision. Nor had she experienced the slightest heart-burning when she had refused the many offers of marriage which had been made to her, though several of them had been (as she remembered, with an inward but reprehensibly saucy smile) extremely flattering. Endowed as she was with beauty, an impeccable lineage, and a handsome fortune, she had taken the ton by storm in her very first Season, and might, at this moment, have been married to the heir to a dukedom had she been content to marry for the sake of a great position, and to have let love go by the board. But she had not been so content, and she had never regretted her decision to refuse the young Marquis’ proposal. Geoffrey, of course, had been shocked beyond measure, and had prophesied that she would end her days an old maid. That dismal prospect had not at all dismayed her: she was very sure that, comfortably circumstanced as she was, it would be far better to remain single than to marry a man for whom she felt nothing more than a mild liking. She was still sure of it, but she was well aware that there was nothing mild about her feeling for Mr Carleton. No man had ever before held such power to sway her emotions from one extreme to another, making her feel at one moment that she hated him, and at the next that she liked him much too well for her peace of mind. It was easy enough to understand why she should so often hate him; nearly impossible to know what it was in him that made her feel that if he were to go out of it her life would become a blank. Trying to solve this mystery, she recalled that he had told her not to ask him why he loved her, because he didn’t know; and she wondered if that was the meaning of love: one might fall in love with a beautiful face, but that was a fleeting emotion: something more was needed to inspire one with an enduring love, some mysterious force which forged a strong link between two kindred spirits. She was conscious of feeling such a link, and could not doubt that Mr Carleton felt it too, but why it should exist between them she was wholly unable to discover. They were for ever coming to cuffs, and surely kindred spirits didn’t quarrel? Surely there ought never to be any differences of opinion between them? No sooner had she put this question to herself than she thought, involuntarily: “How very dull it would be!” It made her laugh softly to picture herself and Mr Carleton living together in perfect agreement, and suddenly it occurred to her that it would make him laugh too—if it didn’t make him say How mawkish! which, in all probability it would.

She had begged him not to demand an answer from her until she had had time to think the matter over; she had told him that the step he was asking her to take was too big a one to be taken without careful consideration. It was true, but even as she had said it the realization had darted into her head that it was not the nature of her sentiments which required consideration, but other and more worldly matters which would arise if she married Mr Carleton. They might be relatively unimportant, but they were, in their degree, of some importance. Foremost amongst them was the knowledge that her brother would be most violently opposed to such a marriage. He would do all that lay within his power to dissuade her from marrying a man whom he not only disliked, but of whom he unequivocally disapproved. He would not succeed, but it was possible that he might sever all connection between his household and hers; and that was a prospect she found it hard to face. She had set up for herself because she had found that he and she were continually chafing one another, but she had been careful to do so without wounding him by betraying the real cause of her removal from Twynham. They were unable to live in amity together, but they were bound by ties of family affection, and although these might be loose they existed, and she knew that it would give her great pain if they were to be broken. One could not lightly cut oneself off from one’s home and one’s family. And if Geoffrey did cast her off, it must inevitably redound to Mr Carleton’s discredit, and that was a consequence she would find it very hard to bear.

Then there was the question of being obliged to give up her freedom, to turn her life upside-down, as he had himself said, to submit to his judgment, and how was she to know that he would not prove to be a domestic tyrant? He was certainly of an autocratic disposition. But then she remembered how well (and how unexpectedly) he had understood her jumbled thoughts, and with what sympathetic compassion he had refrained from pressing her to give him an answer, and she decided that however autocratically he might express himself he was no tyrant.

By this time she had reached the point where she was forced to own that she was in love with Mr Carleton, but for no discoverable reason. She thought, disgustedly, that she was behaving like a silly schoolgirl, and that it was a very good thing that he was going away. Probably she would find that she went on quite happily without him, in which case it would be a sure sign that she was not in love, but merely infatuated. So the wisest thing she could do would be to put him out of her mind. After which, she continued to think about him until Jurby came in to tell her severely that it wanted only ten minutes till dinner-time, and if she didn’t come up to change her dress immediately she would be late. “Which is not like you, Miss Annis! A full half-hour have I been waiting for you!”

Miss Wychwood said guiltily that she had been too busy to notice the time, thrust her accounts, on which she had done no work at all, into a drawer, and meekly went upstairs with her stern henchwoman. An attempt to dissuade Jurby from brushing her glowing locks, and pinning them up afresh, failed. “I have my pride to consider, miss, and permit you to go down with your hair looking as though you had come backwards through a bush I will not do!” said Jurby.

So it was ten minutes after the dinner-bell had sounded before Miss Wychwood hurried down to the drawing-room, where she found her guests patiently awaiting her. She apologized, saying, with her lovely smile: “I do beg your pardon, Amabel! So rag-mannered of me to have kept you waiting! I have been busy all the afternoon, and never noticed how the time was slipping by. I’ve been making up my accounts, and an errant shilling persisted in going astray!”

“Oh, and I interrupted you, didn’t I, dear Annis?” exclaimed Miss Farlow remorsefully. “I am sure it is no wonder that you should have lost count of your shillings! The only wonder is that you should be able to count them up at all, for I can never do so! I daresay it would divert you excessively if I were to tell you of the ridiculous mistakes I make in my addition. Not but what you had already been interrupted when I burst in on you, which, I hope you know me well enough to believe, I would never have done if I had known you had a visitor with you!”

“Yes, Mr Carleton called,” replied Miss Wychwood smoothly. “Good-evening, Ninian!”

Young Mr Elmore was wearing for the first time a new and beautiful pair of Hessians which had been made for him by the first bootmaker in Bath, and he could not resist the urge to draw attention to their shining magnificence, which he did by begging his hostess to forgive him for coming to dine with her in boots. “Which is not at all the thing, of course, but I thought you would excuse it, because I am engaged with a party of friends this evening, and it is not a dress-party.No ladies, I mean, or dancing, or anything of that sort!”

“I see!” said Miss Wychwood, twinkling at him. “Just a few choice spirits! Well, don’t get taken up by the Watch!”

He grinned, and blushed. “No, no, nothing of that nature!” he assured her. “Only a—a small jollification, ma’am!”

“Whatever brought my uncle here?” wondered Lucilla. “I thought I saw you talking to him in the Pump Room, ma’am!”

“Very true: you did!” responded Miss Wychwood. “But as he didn’t then know that he would be obliged to go up to London tomorrow, for a few days, he came to inform us of it. He was sorry not to find you at home, but I promised to make his apologies to you!”

Lucilla’s eyes widened in amazement. “Well!”she gasped. “Whoever heard of his being so civil?” She added shrewdly, and with a mischievous look: “If he really did say he was sorry not to find me at home, it was a great fib, for he never shows the least wish to see me, and I think it is you he always wished to see!”

“For the pleasure of picking quarrels with me, no doubt!” retorted Miss Wychwood, laughing. “Shall we go down to dinner now, Amabel?”

Lady Wychwood had looked up quickly at Lucilla’s saucy speech, as though struck by a sudden and by no means agreeable suspicion, and Annis was aware that her eyes were fixed on her face. For perhaps the only time in her life she was thankful to Miss Farlow for interrupting, even though Miss Farlow did so merely because she seldom missed an opportunity to give Lucilla a set-down. She said sharply: “A very odd thing it would be in your uncle if he were to leave Bath without taking leave of dear Miss Wychwood, to whom he has so much cause to be grateful! I am sure it isn’t wonderful that he should wish rather to see her than you, Miss Carleton, for gentlemen find girls only just out of the schoolroom excessively boring! Indeed, at your age I should never have expected a gentleman to wish to see me!”

Lucilla’s eyes flashed, and she replied swiftly: “How fortunate!”

Ninian uttered a choking sound, which he turned into a very unconvincing cough; and Lady Wychwood rose, and said with gentle dignity: “Yes, do let us go down, dearest, or we shall be in disgrace with your cook. Cooks always look black if one keeps dinner waiting, and one cannot blame them, for it must be dreadfully provoking to have one’s work spoilt!”

She then recounted a mildly amusing story about a French cook she had once employed, and Annis, grateful to her for bridging the awkward gap, laughed, and led her on to tell a few more anecdotes. Behind them, on the staircase, came Miss Farlow, muttering to herself. Not much of what she said reached Annis’s ears, but such overheard scraps as “pert minx .. . grossly indulged .. . shocking manners” were enough to give her fair warning that she would be forced to listen to Miss Farlow’s outraged complaints before the evening was out.

Lucilla and Ninian brought up the rear. Ninian whispered: “You abominable little gypsy! You dashed nearly had me in whoops!”

Lucilla jerked up an impatient shoulder, saying under her breath that she didn’t care; but at the foot of the stairs she caught up with Annis, who was standing aside to allow Lady Wychwood to precede her into the dining-room, and detained her by tugging a fold of her dress, and said in her ear, as Miss Farlow, in obedience to a sign from Annis, followed Lady Wychwood: “I’m sorry! I know I ought not to have said it! Don’t say I must beg her pardon, because I won’t!”

Annis smiled, but held up an admonitory finger, murmuring: “No, very well, but don’t do it again!”

Lucilla followed her into the room in a chastened mood, and for the better part of the meal remained largely silent. But by the time the second course was placed on the table a chance remark made by Ninian put her in mind of something she wanted to ask Annis, and she said impetuously: “Oh, Miss Wychwood, will you take me to the Dress Ball at the Lower Rooms on Friday?”

“Not without your uncle’s permission, my dear—and I doubt very much if he would give it.”

“But he isn’t here, so how can I ask him if I may go?” objected Lucilla. “Besides, even if he was here he would be bound to say that you must be the only judge of what is proper for me to do!”

“Oh, no, not a bit of it! He keeps a stricter watch over you than you think!”

“Well, he needn’t know anything about it!” said Lucilla, with something very like a pout.

“I hope you are not suggesting that I should try to conceal from him that I had allowed you to do anything of which I am very certain he would disapprove!” said Miss Wychwood. “You must remember that he has entrusted you to my care! How very shocking it would be if I were to prove myself unworthy of his trust! You are trying to get me into a scrape, and I beg you won’t!”

“No, but I don’t see why I shouldn’t go to the Dress Ball,” argued Lucilla. “I have been to several private balls, so why may I not attend a public one?”

“I daresay it does seem rather hard to you,” said Miss Wychwood sympathetically, “but there is a difference between the private parties you’ve been to and a public ball, believe me! The private parties you’ve attended have been informal hops, not balls; and have been got up for the entertainment of girls, like yourself, who are not yet out. Don’t eat me! but I am afraid that if your uncle asked me if it would be proper for you to go to the Friday Dress Ball I should be obliged to say that I didn’t think it would be at all the thing for a girl not yet out.”

“No, indeed!” struck in Miss Farlow. “A very off appearance it would present! In my young days—”

Miss Wychwood flickered a warning glance at Lucilla, and silenced her cousin by saying: “You sound just like my Aunt Augusta, Maria! That is what she was used to say whenever I wanted to do something she disapproved of. And I strongly suspect that it was said to her, and to you too, in your young days, and that you found it quite as provoking as I did!”

Miss Farlow opened her mouth to argue this point, but shut it again as she encountered a quelling look from Miss Wychwood which she dared not ignore. Lucilla was not so easily silenced, and continued to harp on the subject until Miss Wychwood lost patience, and said: “That’s enough, child! I daresay Harry Beckenham will be disappointed not to see you at the ball, but he will certainly not be surprised.”

“Yes, he will be!” Lucilla said, firing up. “I told him I should be there, when he asked me, because I never dreamed you wouldn’t take me—”

“Oh, do cut line!” interrupted Ninian impatiently. “You’re getting to be a regular jaw-me-dead, Lucy!”

Flushing scarlet, Lucilla prepared to give battle, but Miss Wychwood applied an effective damper by saying that if they wished to quarrel they might do so in the breakfast-parlour, but not at the dinner-table. Ninian, conscience-stricken, instantly begged pardon; but Lucilla was too angry to follow his example. However, she did not venture to pursue the quarrel, so Miss Wychwood was satisfied.

Ninian took his leave as soon as dinner came to an end; and Lucilla, having maintained what she believed to be a dignified silence, but which bore a strong resemblance to a fit of childish sulks, until she found that no one was paying the least attention to her, took herself off to bed before the tea-tray was brought in.

“Very pretty behaviour, upon my word!” said Miss Farlow, with an irritating titter. “Of course, I knew how it would be from the moment I set eyes on her! I said at the start—”

“You have said more than enough already, Maria!” interrupted Miss Wychwood. “I hold you entirely to blame for Lucilla’s miftiness, and wasn’t surprised that she lost her temper, and gave you a back-answer! No, don’t start again, for I haven’t the patience to listen to you!”

Miss Farlow began to cry, and to explain between sobs that it was her sincere affection for her dear Annis which had led her to offend her. “Not that I meant to offend you, but to see you being imposed on is more than flesh and blood can bear!”

Perceiving that Annis was far from being mollified, Lady Wychwood intervened, and applied herself to the task of soothing Miss Farlow’s injured feelings and succeeded so well that Miss Farlow soon stopped crying, accepted a cup of tea, agreed that she had a headache, and allowed herself to be persuaded to retire to bed.

“What a conjuror you are, love!” said Annis, as soon as Miss Farlow had departed. “You can’t think how grateful I am to you! I was within ames-ace of giving her such a rake down as I daresay she has never had in her life!”

“Yes, I could see you were,” replied Lady Wychwood, smiling a little. “Of course she shouldn’t have said what she did to Lucilla, but one can’t help feeling sorry for her!”

“I can very easily help it!”

“No, you only say that because she vexed you. Poor Maria! She is so dreadfully jealous of Lucilla! I think she feels that Lucilla has put her nose quite out of joint, and she is one of those who wants to be held in affection—to know that she is valued. And when she thinks you value Lucilla far more highly than you value her it makes her miserably jealous, and then she says foolish things which she doesn’t really mean.”

“Such as saying that Lucilla imposes on me!”

“Yes. Nonsensical, of course: Lucilla is just a spoilt child.” She paused, hesitating for a moment or two, and then said apologetically: “Will you be cross with me if I say that I do think you have indulged her rather too much?”

“No, how should I be?” said Annis, sighing. “I have come to realize it myself. You see, she had been kept so close by her aunt, never being allowed to go to parties, or to make friends of her own choosing, and never out of her governess’s sight that I made up my mind that I would do what I could to make up for the dreary time she had had ever since her mother died. You can’t think what satisfaction it gave me when I watched her huge enjoyment of things other girls think the merest commonplace amusements! I suppose I ought to have foreseen that it would go to her head a little. You’ll say I ought also to have foreseen that chaperoning a high-spirited and very pretty girl is not an easy task to undertake! I have a melancholy suspicion that Mr Carleton is odiously right when he says I am not a fit person to have charge of his niece!”

“It was uncivil and ungrateful of him to have said it, but I must own that I think it was the truth. I wish very much that he would place her in somebody else’s care.”

“Well, you may be easy, for that is what he is going to do. His purpose in coming here today was to inform me of it. I haven’t told Lucilla, I am afraid she will violently object to being taken away from me, so I am leaving her uncle to break the news to her. If she runs away, as it is quite likely she will—indeed, she might even elope with Kilbride!—it is Mr Carleton who will bear the responsibility, and not me!”

“Oh, I hope she won’t do anything so foolish!” said Lady Wychwood, in a voice of comfortable conviction. “I understand that you don’t wish to give her up, but you should reflect, dearest, that you would be bound to lose her when she comes out next spring, and the longer she lives with you the harder you would find it to part with her. So don’t let yourself be thrown into gloom, will you?”

“Good God, no! I shall certainly miss her, for she is a very engaging girl, and I have become attached to her; but to tell you the truth, Amabel, I do find the task of taking care of her rather more irksome than I had thought it would be. If Mr Carleton can discover, amongst his relations, one who is not only willing to receive her into her household, but one whom Lucilla will be happy to live with until her come-out, I shall be perfectly content to relinquish the child into her charge.”

Lady Wychwood said no more, and it was not long before she went away to bed, saying that she didn’t know how it was but that Bath air always made her sleepy. Annis soon followed her, but it was some time before she was able to get into bed, because while Jurby was still brushing her hair a knock on the door heralded the entrance of Lucilla, who stood hesitating on the threshold, and stammering: “I came—I wanted to say something to you—I will come back later!”

She had obviously been crying, and little though Annis wished for any emotional scenes that day she could not bring herself to repulse the girl. She smiled, and held out her hand, saying: “No, don’t do that! Jurby has just finished making me ready for bed. Thank you, Jurby! I shan’t need you any more, so I’ll bid you goodnight.”

Jurby went away, sharply adjuring Lucilla not to keep Miss Annis up until all hours: “For she’s fagged to death, as anyone can see! And no wonder! Racketting all over at her age!”

“At my age?” exclaimed Annis, with a comical look of dismay. “Jurby, you wretch, I’m not in my dotage!”

“You’re old enough to know better than to be on the jaunter from morning till night, miss,” replied Jurby implacably. “The next thing will be that we shall have people saying you’re a regular gadabout!”

This made Miss Wychwood burst out laughing, which had the effect of sending her sternest critic out of the room, saying darkly: “Mark my words!”

“I wonder which of her words I am to mark?” said Miss Wychwood, still laughing.

“She means that you are quite worn out with taking me about, and oh, dear Miss Wychwood, I never meant to wear you out!” declared Lucilla, on a convulsive sob.

“Lucilla, you goose! How can you be so absurd? Pray, how old do you think I am? Take care how you answer, for between you, you and Jurby have made me feel that I am dwindling into the grave, and if anyone else dares to tell me that I’m looking hagged I shall go into strong hysterics!”

But it would not do. Lucilla, having passed from the sulks into remorse and indulged in a flood of tears, was in no mood to deny herself the relief of pouring out her contrition into Miss Wychwood’s unwilling ears. It was long before she could be persuaded that her momentary lapse had been quite as much Miss Farlow’s fault as hers; and when she had at last been brought to accept the assurance that her regrettable, but very understandable breach of the canons of propriety in which she had been reared had not put her beyond pardon, it was only to fall into an orgy of self-blame for having been so forgetful of all she owed Miss Wychwood as to have teased her to take her to the Dress Ball, and to have behaved thereafter as though she had been born in a back-slum.

By the time Miss Wychwood had succeeded in sending her to bed in a more cheerful frame of mind, it was nearly an hour later, and she herself was feeling quite exhausted and was much inclined to crawl into bed without putting on her nightcap. That, of course, would not do at all, and she was tying the strings under her chin when another knock fell on her door, to be immediately followed by Miss Farlow, also in a lachrymose condition, and more than ordinarily garrulous. She had come, she said, to explain to her dear cousin how it had come about that she had allowed her feelings to overcome her. Annis said wearily: “Pray don’t, Maria! I am too tired to listen, and can think of nothing but my bed. It was an unfortunate contretemps, but too much has been said about it already. Let us forget it!”

But this Miss Farlow declared herself unable to do. She would not for the world keep dear Annis from her bed. “I shan’t stay above a minute,” she said. “But I shouldn’t be able to close my eyes all night if I didn’t tell you what my feelings are upon this occasion!”

In fact, she stayed for twenty minutes, saying: “Just one word more!” every time Annis tried to get rid of her; and might have stayed for twenty more minutes had Jurby not stalked in, and informed her, in forbidding accents, that it was high time she went to bed, instead of talking Miss Annis into a headache. Miss Farlow bridled, but she was no match for Jurby, and pausing only to press Annis to take a few drops of laudanum if she found herself unable to sleep, she bade her a fond goodnight and at last went away.

“There’s one that has more hair than wit, and a mouthful of pap besides,” Jurby said grimly. “It’s a good thing I didn’t go to bed myself, which I never meant to do, not for a moment, for I guessed she’d come fretting you to death! As though you hadn’t had enough trouble this day!”

“Oh, Jurby, hush! You shouldn’t speak of her like that!” said Annis weakly.

“Nor I wouldn’t to anyone but you, miss, but it’s coming to something, after all the years I’ve looked after you, if I can’t speak my mind to you. Next you’ll be telling me I’d no right to send her packing!”

“No, I shan’t,” sighed Annis. “I’m too thankful to you for having rescued me! I haven’t had anything to trouble me, but from some cause or another I’m out of temper—probably because my accounts wouldn’t come right!”

“And probably for quite another reason, miss!” said Jurby. “I haven’t said anything, and nor I don’t mean to, for you know your own business best.” She tucked in the blankets, and began to draw the curtains round the bed. “Which isn’t to say I don’t know which way the wind is blowing, for I’m not a cabbage-head, and I haven’t lived next and nigh you ever since the day you came out of the nursery without getting to know you better than you think, Miss Annis! Now, you shut your eyes, and go to sleep!”

Miss Wychwood was left wondering how many members of her domestic staff also knew which way the wind was blowing; and fell asleep wishing that she did know her own business best.

The night brought no counsel, but it did restore her to something not too far removed from her usual cheerful calm, and enabled her to support with creditable equanimity the spate of conversation which enlivened (or made hideous) the breakfast-table. For this, Lucilla and Miss Farlow were responsible, Miss Farlow being determined to show that she bore Lucilla no ill-will by chatting to her in a very sprightly way, and Lucilla being anxious to atone for her pert back-answer, by responding to these amiable overtures with equal amiability and the appearance of great interest.

In the middle of one of Miss Farlow’s reminiscent anecdotes, a note addressed to Lucilla was brought in by James, who told her that Mrs Stinchcombe’s man had been instructed to wait for an answer. It had been written in haste by Corisande, and no sooner had Lucilla read it than she gave a squeak of delight, and turned eagerly to Miss Wychwood. “Oh, ma’am, Corisande invites me to join a riding-party to Badminton! May I do so? Pray don’t say I mustn’t! I won’t tease you—but I want to visit Badminton above all places, and Mrs Stinchcombe sees no objection to die scheme, and it is such a fine day—”

“Stop, stop!” begged Miss Wychwood, laughing at her. “Who am I to object to what Mrs Stinchcombe approves of? Of course you may go, goose! Who is to be of your party?”

Lucilla jumped up, and ran round the table to embrace her. “Oh, thank you, dear, dear Miss Wychwood!” she said ecstatically. “And will you send someone down to the stables to desire them to bring Lovely Lady up to the house immediately? Corisande writes that if I am permitted to join the party they will pick me up here, on the way, you know! It is Mr Beckenham’s party, and Corisande says there will be no more than six of us: just her, and me, and Miss Tenbury, and Ninian, and Mr Hawkesbury! Besides Mr Beckenham himself, of course.”

“Unexceptionable!” said Miss Wychwood, with becoming gravity.

“I made sure you would say so! And I think Mr Beckenham is one of the most obliging people imaginable! Only fancy, ma’am! He arranged this expedition merely because he heard me telling someone in the Pump Room yesterday—I forgot who it was, and it doesn’t signify!—that I had not visited Badminton, but hoped very much to do so. And the best of it is,” she added exultantly, “that he will be able to take us inside the house, even if this doesn’t chance to be a day when it is open to visitors, because he has frequently been staying there, being a friend of Lord Worcester’s, Corisande says!”

She then sped away to hurry into her riding-habit, and before she reappeared Ninian arrived in Camden Place, and, leaving James to take charge of his borrowed hack, came in to tell Miss Wychwood that although he did not above half wish to join Mr Beckenham’s party he had consented to do so because he thought it his duty to see that Lucilla came to no harm. “Which I thought you would wish to be assured of, ma’am!” he said grandly.

It was difficult to imagine what possible harm could threaten Lucilla in such elegant company, but Miss Wychwood thanked him, said that she could now be easy, and that she hoped he would contrive to derive some enjoyment from the expedition. She was perfectly aware that he regarded Harry Beckenham with a jealous eye; and guessed, shrewdly, that seeing Lucilla came to no harm was his excuse for accepting an invitation too tempting to be refused. The guess became a certainty when he said, in an off-hand way: “Oh, well, yes! I daresay I shall! I own, I should like to get a glimpse of the Heythrop country! And it isn’t everyone who gets the chance to see the house in a private way, so it would be a pity to miss it. I believe it is very well worth a visit!”

Miss Wychwood agreed to this, without the glimmer of a smile to betray her amusement at the instant picture this airy speech conjured up of young Mr Elmore’s dazzling his family and his acquaintances with casual references to the elegance and the various amenities of a ducal seat, which he had happened to visit, quite privately, of course, during his sojourn at Bath.

She saw the party off, a few minutes later, confident that Mr Carleton in his most censorious mood would be hard put to it to find fault with her for having done so. And if he did find fault with her, she would take great pleasure in reminding him that when he had so abruptly left her rout-party he had said that since Ninian and Harry Beckenham were taking good care of Lucilla there was no need for him to keep an eye on her.

The rest of the morning passed without incident, but shortly after Lady Wychwood had retired for her customary rest, Miss Wychwood, again wrestling with accounts in her book-room, received a most unexpected visitor.

“A Lady Iverley has called to see you, miss,” said Limbury, proffering a salver, on which lay a visiting-card. “I understand she is Mr Elmore’s respected parent, so I have conducted her to the drawing-room, feeling that you would not wish me to say you was not at home.”

“Lady Iverley?” exclaimed Miss Wychwood. “What in the world—No, of course I don’t wish you to tell her I’m not at home! I will come up directly!”

She thrust her accounts aside, satisfied herself, by a brief glance at the antique mirror which hung above the fireplace that her hair was perfectly tidy, and mounted the stairs to the drawing-room.

Here she was confronted by a willowy lady dressed in a clinging robe of lavender silk, and a heavily veiled hat. The gown had a demi-train, a shawl drooped from Lady Iverley’s shoulders, and a reticule from her hand. Even the ostrich plumes in her hat drooped, and there was a strong suggestion of drooping in her carriage.

Miss Wychwood came towards her, saying, with a friendly smile: “Lady Iverley? How do you do?”

Lady Iverley put back her veil, and revealed to her hostess the face of a haggard beauty, dominated by a pair of huge, deeply sunken eyes. “Are you Miss Wychwood?” she asked, anxiously staring at Annis.

“Yes, ma’am,” replied Annis. “And you, I fancy, are Ninian’s mama. I am very happy to make your acquaintance.”

“I knew it!” declared her ladyship throbbingly. “Alas, alas!”

“I beg your pardon?” said Annis, considerably startled.

“You are so beautiful!” said Lady Iverley, covering her face with her gloved hands.

An alarming suspicion that she was entertaining a lunatic crossed Miss Wychwood’s mind. She said, in what she hoped was a soothing voice: “I am afraid you are not quite well, ma’am; pray won’t you be seated? Can I do anything for you? A—a glass of water, perhaps, or—or some tea?”

Lady Iverley reared up her head, and straightened her sagging shoulders. Her hands fell, her eyes flashed, and she uttered, in impassioned accents: “Yes, Miss Wychwood! You may give me back my son!”

“Give you back your son?” said Miss Wychwood blankly.

“You cannot be expected to enter into a mother’s feelings, but surely, surely you cannot be so heartless as to remain deaf to her pleadings!”

Miss Wychwood now realized that she was not entertaining a lunatic, but a lady of exaggerated sensibility, and a marked predilection for melodrama. She had never any sympathy for persons who indulged in such ridiculous displays: she considered Lady Iverley to be both stupid and lacking in conduct; but she tried to conceal her contempt, and said kindly: “I collect that you are labouring under a misapprehension, ma’am. Let me hasten to assure you that Ninian isn’t in Bath on my account! Do you imagine him to be in love with me? He would stare to hear you say so! Good God, he regards me in the light of an aunt!”

“Do you take me for a fool?” demanded her ladyship. “If I had not seen you, I might have been deceived into believing you, but I have seen you, and it is very plain to me that you have ensnared him with your fatal beauty!”

“Oh, fiddle!” said Miss Wychwood, exasperated. “Ensnared him, indeed! I make all allowances for a parent’s partiality, but of what interest do you imagine a green boy of Ninian’s age can possibly be to me? As for his having fallen a victim to my fatal beauty,as you choose to call it, such a notion has never, I am very sure, entered his head! Now, do, pray, sit down, and try to calm yourself!”

Lady Iverley sank into a chair, but shook her head, and said mournfully: “I don’t accuse you of wantonly ensnaring him. Perhaps you didn’t realize how susceptible he is,”

“On the contrary!” said Miss Wychwood, laughing. “I think him very susceptible—but not to the charms of a woman of my age! At the moment I believe him to be dangling after the daughter of one of my closest friends, but there’s no saying that by tomorrow he won’t be fancying himself in love with some other girl. I think it will be some few years yet before he outgrows the youthful gallantries which he is now enjoying.”

Lady Iverley looked to be unconvinced, but the calm good sense of what had been said had had its effect, and she said far less dramatically: “Are you telling me that he has cut himself off from his home and his family for the sake of a girl he never laid eyes on until he came to Bath? It isn’t possible!”

“No, of course it isn’t! Nor do I believe that he has the slightest intention of cutting himself off! Forgive me if I say that if you, and his father, had not set up his bristles by raking him down—really very unjustly!—when he returned to you, he would in all probability be with you today.”

Lady Iverley paid little heed to this, but said tragically: “I would never have believed he would have behaved so undutifully! He was always such a good, affectionate boy, so considerate, and so devoted to us both! And he hadn’t any excuse for leaving us, for his papa granted him every indulgence, and never uttered a word of censure when he was obliged to settle his debts! I am persuaded he has fallen under an evil influence.”

“My dear ma’am, it’s no such thing! He is merely enjoying a spell of freedom! He is extremely attached to his father, and to you too, of course, but perhaps you have kept him in lamb’s wool for rather too long.” She smiled. “I think he and Lucilla are suffering from the same complaint! Too much anxious care, and too little liberty!”

“Do not speak to me of that wicked girl!” begged Lady Iverley, shuddering. “I was never so deceived in anyone! And if it is her influence which has made my deluded child turn against us I shall not be surprised. A girl who could bring her poor aunt to death’s door would be capable of anything!”

“Indeed? I had no notion that things were as serious as that!” said Miss Wychwood, with a satirical smile.

“I fancy you do not understand what it means to have shattered nerves, Miss Wychwood.”

“No, I am happy to say that I don’t. But we must trust that the damage done to Mrs Amber’s nerves won’t prove to be past mending. I daresay she will feel very much better when she is assured that there is no danger of having Lucilla restored to her care.”

“How can you be so unfeeling?” said Lady Iverley, gazing reproachfully at her. “Have you no sympathy for the agonizing anxiety suffered by Mrs Amber, knowing that the niece to whose well-being she has devoted her life has left her to live with a stranger?”

“I am afraid I haven’t, ma’am. To own the truth, I feel that if Mrs Amber had been so excessively anxious she would have come to Bath to discover for herself whether or not I was a proper person to take care of Lucilla.”

“I see that it is useless to say any more to you, Miss Wychwood,” replied Lady Iverley, rising to her feet. “I shall only beg you to prove your sincerity by sending Ninian back to me.”

“I am sorry to be disobliging,” said Miss Wychwood, “but I shall do nothing of the sort! A most impertinent piece of meddling that would be! Ninian’s concerns are no bread-and-butter of mine. May I suggest that you speak to him yourself? And I think you would be wise not to mention this visit to him, for he would, I am certain, very much resent your having discussed his business with anyone other than his father!”