Venetia

XVI

Three days later Venetia awoke, after a disturbed night, to the sound of a strident voice monotonously adjuring the residents in Cavendish Square to buy good silver-sand for their kitchens. Mrs. Hendred, installing her niece in the best spare bedchamber, overlooking the Square, had told her that she would find it wonderfully quiet, quite unlike rooms that looked on to a street. It was certainly quieter than the room Venetia had occupied in Newark, on the previous night, but to one accustomed to the stillness of the country it more nearly resembled Pandemonium than the quiet situation of the house-agents’ advertisements. It seemed as though no one ever went to bed in London; and whenever, during a lull in the apparently endless flow of traffic, she dropped off to sleep, she was very soon jerked awake by the voice of the watchman, proclaiming the hour, and the state of the weather. She could only suppose that the ears of Londoners had been bludgeoned into insensitivity and trust that her own would soon grow accustomed to the ceaseless racket; and, being a well-mannered girl, presently assured her aunt that she had passed an excellent night, and was feeling perfectly restored from the effects of her journey.

Her heavy eyes belied her. She had, in fact, enjoyed little sleep during any of the past three nights; and, since she was wholly unused to travel, a journey of nearly two hundred miles had left her battered, exhausted, and unable to believe, when she lay in bed, that she was not still being rocked and jolted down an endless post-road.

The expedition, once so longed-for, would live in her memory, she thought, only as a nightmare. At the start all had been bustle and distraction, with Powick to be interviewed, hurried arrangements to be made, keys, accounts, and memoranda to be handed over, warning reminders to be delivered; and a letter to be written to Lady Denny. Worst of all had been the leave-takings, for Nurse and Mrs. Gurnard and Ribble had wept, and had had to be comforted; and when, with her uncle standing by with his watch in his hand, she came to the final moment of parting with Aubrey she was so much overpowered that she dared not trust her voice, and could only hug him convulsively, unable to see his face for the tears that filled her eyes.

There had been no time for private reflection until she had left York, where an hour had had to be spent with Mr. Mytchett; but when she had signed the last of the documents spread before her, and answered the last of the careful questions put to her, there was too much. Mr. Hendred, resigning himself to an inevitable recurrence of his nervous tic, wrapped a shawl about his head, and leaned back in his corner of the chaise, resolutely closing his eyes; and his niece was consequently at leisure to indulge reflection. Her thoughts were not happy; unfortunately they were absorbing, so that instead of gazing eagerly upon an unknown countryside, and watching for landmarks of note, she looked at little but the bobbing forms of the postilions, and took only a faint interest in the various historic towns through which she passed. The first stage of the journey had been necessarily short, leaving a hundred and twenty miles still to be covered. She had acquiesced in her uncle’s decision to halt but one night on the road; but when at last the chaise drew up in Cavendish Square she was so tired that she could reply to her aunt’s solicitudes only with mechanical civility, and force herself to swallow no more than a few mouthfuls of the elegant supper provided for her refreshment. Nothing could have exceeded Mrs. Hendred’s kindness, or the expressions of warm affection with which she greeted the niece she had not seen for seven years. She fondled her, and pressed every attention upon her, herself escorted her to her bedchamber, stayed while her dresser waited upon Venetia, and did not leave the room until she had tucked Venetia into bed with her own hands, kissing her, and murmuring into her ear promises of much cosseting, and innumerable treats.

Mrs. Hendred was a very pretty woman of great good-nature and much less than commonsense. Her chief objects in life were to remain in the forefront of fashion, and to achieve advantageous marriages for her five daughters within the shortest possible time of having expensively launched each of these damsels, one after the other, into society. She had achieved an excellent match for Louisa that very year; and hoped to do no less well for Theresa in the following spring, provided that the treatment she was at present undergoing at the hands of the dentist proved successful, and she was not obliged to have three front teeth extracted, and false ones screwed to their stumps; and provided also that before the date of her presentation a husband could be found for her beautiful cousin. Theresa was a pretty girl, and would have a handsome portion, but Mrs. Hendred was under no illusion: Venetia might be handicapped by her five-and-twenty years, but she was not only so beautiful that people turned their heads in the street to stare at her, but she had more charm than all the Hendred girls put together. There were certain difficulties attached to the task of marrying her suitably, of which Mrs. Hendred was only too well aware, but that good lady’s optimism encouraged her to hope that with the assets of beauty, charm, and a considerable independence she might be able to contrive a very respectable alliance for her. But she did think it a sad pity that Venetia had not accepted Edward Yardley’s offer, for it would have been just the thing for her, since Mr. Yardley was a warm man, and had enjoyed her father’s favour. Sir Francis, in writing, years ago, to decline his sister’s offer to present Venetia, had informed her that Venetia’s marriage was as good as settled. It was not long before she had told Venetia of this circumstance, and great was her shocked dismay when she learned that so far from entertaining any notion of marriage Venetia had come to town with the fixed resolve of establishing herself and Aubrey in a house in a quiet part of the town, or even, perhaps, in the suburbs. She could not have been more aghast had Venetia announced her intention of entering a nunnery, and most earnestly did she beg her to banish all such schemes from her head. “Your uncle would never hear of it!” she said.

Venetia, who found her almost invariably comical, could not help laughing, but said affectionately: “Dear ma’am, I would not, for the world, distress you, but I’m of full age, you know, and I’m afraid it is not in my uncle’s power to prevent me!”

The most that could be got from her was a half-promise not to think any more about houses and chaperons until she had had time to grow accustomed to town life and customs. Itwould be churlish to make plans to leave her aunt’s house almost as soon as she entered it, she thought: as churlish as it would be to betray how little she cared for the delightful schemes made for her entertainment. Mrs. Hendred, to whom country life was abhorrrent, was so determined to make up to Venetia for the years she had spent in Yorkshire, and so sincerely anxious to do everything that might be supposed to give her pleasure, that gratitude as well as good manners made it impossible for Venetia even to hint to her that she longed only to be quiet, and alone. The least she could do, she felt, was to smile, and to appear at least to be happy.

She soon discovered that ease and enjoyment ranked only second in Mrs. Hendred’s creed to fashion. Knowing her to be the mother of a numerous progeny, Venetia had supposed that she would have been continually busy with maternal cares, and was at first astonished to find that anyone so overflowing with soft affection should be content to surrender her children to governesses and nursemaids. When she became better acquainted with her she was amused to perceive that although Mrs. Hendred had a kinder heart she was, in her own way, quite as selfish as had been her eccentric brother. While holding the members of her family and a large circle of friends in easy affection, her deepest feeling was reserved to herself. She was naturally indolent, so that half-an-hour spent amongst her children was as much as she could support without becoming exhausted by their chatter. Even Theresa, on the verge of coming-out, only appeared in the drawing-room, with her next sister, after dinner, when no company was being entertained, for Mrs. Hendred believed that there were few things more tiresome than households where girls not yet out were permitted to mingle with the guests. As for her three sons, the eldest was at Oxford, the second at Eton, and the youngest in the nursery.

Mr. Hendred, his ill-health notwithstanding, was seldom in Cavendish Square for many days together, but seemed to spend a large part of his time in posting about the country on errands either of private or of public business. It did not appear to Venetia that he took much part in the rearing of his offspring or in the management of his household, but he was held in great respect by everyone, his few commands being instantly and unquestioningly obeyed, and any of his reported utterances being accepted as clinchers to every dispute. Upon installing Venetia in his house, and telling her that she was to apply to him for such sums of money as she required, he left her to his wife to entertain, confining his attentions to the expression every now and then of his hope that she was enjoying herself.

To a certain extent she was enjoying herself. It would have been impossible for her not to have been diverted and interested on the occasion of her first visit to London, where everything was new to her, and so much was wonderful. Her aunt might wish that she could have taken her to the Opera, and to Almack’s, and say a dozen times in a week: “If you had only been here during the season—!” but country-bred Venetia was in a puzzle to know how any more amusements could be squeezed into days already crammed with engagements. London was rather thin of company, but enough members of the haut ton, who shared Mrs. Hendred’s opinion of country life, had flocked back to the metropolis at the beginning of October to constitute what to Venetia was a crowd; and a very respectable number of gilt-edged invitation-cards had been delivered in Cavendish Square. Even the shabbiest play was a treat to one who had never before been inside a theatre; a drive in Hyde Park could hardly be accomplished without Mrs. Hendred’s pointing out to her some notable figure; and a walk down Bond Street, the most fashionable lounge in town, was fraught with interest and amusement, since while on the one hand one encountered there Pinks of astonishing elegance, there were also surely the finest shops in the world to be gazed at. Nor was Venetia’s mind so elevated as to disdain fashion: she was possessed of natural good taste, and the dresses she brought with her from Yorkshire quite relieved Mrs. Hendred’s mind of its fear that she might be a dowd, and had even drawn from her dresser a few words of rare praise; but she was perfectly ready to add to her wardrobe, and, indeed, took a good deal of pleasure in rigging herself out in the first stare of the mode. In her aunt’s company, too, she found endless amusement, for, having lived with selfish persons all her life, she was not in the least alienated by Mrs. Hendred’s determination to let nothing interfere with her own comfort, but continued to think her comical, and to like her very well. But under her enjoyment there was a dull ache of unhappiness, never forgotten, and sometimes turning to acute anguish. She could not banish Damerel from her mind, or cease from thinking, involuntarily, of what she would tell him about St. Paul’s Cathedral, or how he would laugh when he heard of Mrs. Hendred’s conviction that by causing a plate of hard biscuits to be set at her elbow at every meal, while she partook of such delectable dishes as truffle pie and lobster patties, she was adhering to a strict and a reducing diet. Even as the mischievous smile quivered on her lips the recollection that she would never share a joke with him again, perhaps never see him again, would sweep over her, plunging her into such despair that she understood why people like poor Sir Samuel Romilly committed suicide, and envied them their escape from hopelessness. She lived for Aubrey’s infrequent letters, but they brought her little comfort. He was a poor correspondent; and such news as he sent her was mostly concerned with Undershaw. When he mentioned Damerel it was only to say that he had been out shooting with him, or had beaten him three times in succession at chess.

Hers was not a demonstrative nature, and she indulged in no floods of tears, or fits of lethargic abstraction. Only the stricken look in her eyes sometimes betrayed her, and made her aunt uneasy.

On the whole, she dealt very agreeably with Mrs. Hendred, and Mrs. Hendred was well pleased with her. She was an attentive companion; she dressed in admirable taste; her manners were graceful; and instead of being awkward and tongue-tied amongst strangers, as might have been expected, she was perfectly assured, and could converse as easily with a clever man as with a stupid one.

Mrs. Hendred had only one fault to find with her behaviour, and that was her incurable independence. Nothing could persuade her that it was unbecoming in her to think she could manage her life without reference to her seniors, and positively improper of her to walk about London by herself. In almost every other respect Venetia was ready to oblige her, and even to defer to her judgment, but relinquish her freedom she would not. She went shopping alone; she walked alone in the parks; and no sooner did she discover that her aunt visited historic monuments only with extreme reluctance, and was interested in no pictures but those which were painted by fashionable artists, than she formed the appalling habit of sallying forth in the afternoon, while Mrs. Hendred recruited her forces with a peaceful nap on her bed, and driving off in a hack to such places as Westminster Abbey, or the Tower of London, or even to the British Museum.

“Which, setting aside every other consideration,” said Mrs. Hendred tragically, “is enough to make everyone think you a blue-stocking! Nothing could be more fatal!”

This conversation took place at the nuncheon table, and Venetia, who had been watching in great astonishment the extraordinary grimaces her aunt made every time she took a sip of wine, exclaimed: “My dear ma’am, are you sure there is not something wrong with that sherry you are drinking?”

As she spoke she chanced to glance at the butler. He was a wooden-faced individual, but at Venetia’s words he betrayed a quiver of emotion. This was immediately explained by Mrs. Hendred, who said, with a heavy sigh: “Not sherry, dearest: vinegar!”

“Vinegar?” repeated Venetia incredulously.

“Yes,” nodded her aunt, eyeing it despondently. “Bradpole has been obliged to let out my lavender satin—the one with the French bodice, and the train with French double trimming, and lace net all round the neck—two inches! I am obliged to reduce, and there is nothing like vinegar for that. Vinegar and hard biscuits. Byron lived on that diet, you know, because he had a great tendency to put on flesh, and in that way he kept himself down.”

“I wonder that he didn’t kill himself! Aunt, he cannot have subsisted on such a diet!”

“You wouldn’t think so,” agreed Mrs. Hendred, “but I know it’s what Rogers told me. The very first time he dined with Rogers he would partake of none of the dishes set before him, but only ate hard biscuits—or was it potatoes? I am not perfectly sure about that, but I know that he had vinegar.”

“Not to drink!” protested Venetia.

“Well, he couldn’t have eaten it, so he must have drunk it!” pointed out Mrs. Hendred reasonably.

“Perhaps he poured it over what he did eat. He would have been shockingly ill if he had drunk it by the glassful!”

“Do you think that is what I should do?” asked Mrs. Hendred, somewhat dubiously considering the ratafia cream on her plate.

“Most certainly I do not!” said Venetia, laughing. “Do, pray, let Worting take it away, ma’am!”

“I must say, I think it would quite ruin this cream. Perhaps it will do as well if I take care to eat a biscuit. Worting, you may hand me the cream again, and then you may go, for I shan’t need anything more, except the macaroons, and those you may leave on the table. My love, I wish you will take one, for they are exceptionally good, and you have hardly eaten a morsel!”

To oblige her, Venetia took a macaroon and sat nibbling it while her aunt returned to the task of persuading her that solitary expeditions must never be undertaken by young ladies of ton. Venetia let her run on in her discursive way, for she could not tell her that she went sightseeing in a dogged attempt to occupy her mind, any more than she could tell her that she was never alone, because a ghost walked beside her, soundless and invisible, yet so real that she felt sometimes that if she stretched out her hand it would find his.

“... and it is so particularly important, my love, that you should behave with the utmost propriety!” pursued Mrs. Hendred.

“Why?” asked Venetia.

“Every unmarried lady should do so, and in your situation, Venetia, you cannot be too careful what you do! My love, if you knew the world as I do, which of course you can’t be expected to, and I daresay you haven’t a notion how spiteful people can be, especially when a girl is so very handsome, and so exactly—I mean, so striking!”

“Well, I don’t think anyone can say anything very spiteful about me only because I go out alone,” replied Venetia. “Nothing that I care for, at all events.”

“Oh, Venetia, I do beg of you not to talk in that style! Only think how dreadful if you caused people to say you were fast! You may depend upon it they are on the watch for the least sign, and will be ready to pounce on you, and one can’t wonder at it, after all! I daresay I should myself, not, of course, on you, dear child, but in another girl in your situation!”

“But what is there in my situation to make people ready to pounce on me?” asked Venetia.

“Oh dear, I wish you will not— You quite put me out! Your living with only Aubrey, I mean, with no chaperon, and—good gracious, Venetia, even you must know that it is not at all the thing!”

“I don’t, but I know better than to argue with you on that head, ma’am! I daresay there may be many who would agree with you, but how should anyone in London know what my situation has been? I am persuaded you can never have divulged it!”

“No, no, indeed I never did! But—well, such things become known, I’m sure I don’t know how, but you may believe that they do!”

But as Venetia found it impossible to believe that what happened at Undershaw could be known in London, she was quite unimpressed by her aunt’s dark warnings. Fortunately it was not difficult to divert Mrs. Hendred’s mind, so instead of arguing with her she seized the first opportunity that offered of introducing a fresh topic of conversation, and said that she had overheard someone saying, in Hookham’s Library, that very morning, that he had had it on the best of authority that the Queen was not expected by her physicians to live out the week. As it was Mrs. Hendred’s recurrent nightmare that her Majesty (whom everyone knew to be as tough as whitleather) would survive the winter, and ruin all Theresa’s chances by dying in the middle of the next season, this gambit was very successful; and in hoping, doubting, and wondering for how long a period the Court (and of course the ton) would go into mourning, Mrs. Hendred forgot, for the time being, that she had failed to extract from her wilful niece any promise of conformity.

The Queen died at Kew, in the small hours of the morning of the 17th November. Mr. Hendred brought the news to his wife, and it did much to raise her spirits, sunk very low by the outrageous behaviour of her dressmaker, who had delivered in Cavendish Square, instead of a promised promenade dress, a prevaricating note full of excuses for having been unable to fulfil her obligation.

The only fault Mrs. Hendred had to find in the news was that the Queen should have chosen to die on the 17th instead of the 18th November, for the 17th was the day fixed for the ball she was giving in Venetia’s honour. Few things could have been more provoking, for all the preparations had been made, and after having been put to so much exertion, arranging with the French cook about the supper, speaking to Worting about the champagne, deciding what she should wear, and showing Venetia how to direct the cards of invitation, it was a great deal too bad that it should all have been for nothing. However, after wondering what was to be done with the creams and the aspics and the stuffed birds, she hit upon the happy notion of inviting a few of the guests bidden to the ball to come to dinner instead, quite informally, of course, and to spend a quiet, conversible evening, with perhaps a few rubbers of whist, but no music.

“No more than half-a-dozen persons; for any more would give it the appearance of a party,” she told Venetia. “That would never do! My dear, that reminds me—black gloves! I daresay you have none, and they must be procured instantly! Black ribbons, too, and I think you should wear a high frock, not one cut low at the bosom—and I shall invite none of the young people. Just a few of my chiefest friends! What do you say to Sir Matthew Hallow? I daresay he would be charmed to dine here, and you like him, don’t you, my love?”

“Yes, very much,” replied Venetia absently.

“He is a most excellent person: I knew you would be pleased with him, and he with you! He admires you excessively: I saw that at a glance!”

“Well, as long as he doesn’t take to paying me fulsome compliments—which I don’t think he has the least intention of doing—he may admire me as much as he chooses,” said Venetia depressingly.

Mrs. Hendred sighed, but said no more. Sir Matthew Hallow, though not quite the ideal man for Venetia, had much to recommend him, and she had been very glad to see how friendly he and Venetia had become. He was rather too old for her, perhaps, and it was a pity that he should be a widower, but he seemed to have taken her fancy, and although he was popularly supposed to have buried his heart in his wife’s grave there was no doubt that he was struck by Venetia’s good looks, and found her company agreeable.

However, he was not the only possible husband Mrs. Hendred had found for her niece, so she was not unduly cast-down by Venetia’s lack of enthusiasm. She decided that Mr. Armyn also should be invited to dine: he knew all about Roman remains, or something of the sort, and might just suit a girl who spent three hours at the British Museum, and selected from the shelves of the lending library a book about the Middle Ages.

Venetia seemed to like Mr. Armyn: she said that he had a well-informed mind. She liked two other eligible bachelors, agreeing that one had very good address, and that the other was extremely gentlemanlike. Mrs. Hendred felt a strong inclination to burst into tears, and would probably have done so had she known that Venetia had abandoned sightseeing, and was devoting each afternoon to house-hunting.

She found it an exhausting and dispiriting task, but she had been living for a full month with her aunt, and not only did she feel that a month constituted a very reasonable visit, but she was increasingly anxious to form her own establishment. Perhaps, if she could be busy all the time, as she meant to be, she might not feel so unhappy; perhaps, in household cares, she could forget her love, or grow at least accustomed to desolation, as Aubrey had grown accustomed to his limp.

She returned one afternoon from one of these expeditions to be informed by the footman who admitted her into the house that a gentleman had called to visit her, and was sitting with Mrs. Hendred in the drawing-room. She stood rooted, feeling her heart miss a beat.

“A Mr. Yardley, miss,” said the footman.