Джорджетт Хейер - Cousin Kate

When she left her room, Sidlaw was hovering in the gallery, and moved a few steps towards her, holding herself very stiffly. She said, in a wooden voice: “I am afraid, Miss Kate, I took a liberty which you did not like in opening the door to Pennymore without your leave. I hope you will be so kind as to overlook it.”

“Why, of course!” said Kate, with her swift smile. “You are in a great worry about her ladyship, aren’t you? I shan’t think of it again! But pray don’t let yourself be thrown into gloom! Depend on it, my aunt will feel very much more the thing tomorrow. I have only once in my life had influenza, when I was ten years old, but I recall that for the first twenty-four hours I felt so ill that I told my nurse that I was dying!”

Sidlaw showed some signs of relaxation, and even tittered, but Kate’s next words, caused her to become rigid again. Kate said: “I hope you won’t hesitate to tell me, when you would wish to be relieved for a little while: I should like very much to be of use to my aunt, and can very well sit with her while you rest.”

“Thank you, miss,” said Sidlaw, in arctic accents, “I do not anticipate the need to ask for assistance.”

Kate had expected to be snubbed, so she did not press the matter, merely nodding, and going down the stairs.

Kate had not previously penetrated to the East Wing, but when she passed through the door which shut it off from the Great Hall, and was met by Tenby, who conducted her to the saloon that was known as The Master’s Room, she knew, after a quick glance round, that Sir Timothy, allowing his wife a free hand in the rest of the house, must have prohibited her from laying a finger on his own apartments. The room was not shabby, but it was rather over-furnished, as though Sir Timothy had crammed into it all the pieces for which he had a fondness, and cared nothing for the formal arrangements dear to Lady Broome’s heart. He was seated in an old-fashioned wing-chair when Tenby ushered Kate into the room, talking to Dr Delabole, but he rose, and came forward, murmuring, as he saw the appreciative look in her eyes: “More homelike, Kate?”

She laughed. “Yes, indeed, sir! Good evening, Dr Delabole! I learn from Sidlaw that my aunt has contracted the influenza which is running so much about, and is feeling very poorly. I hope you don’t expect any prolonged indisposition?”

“Oh, no, no!” he replied reassuringly. “It is a severe attack, you know: very severe, and we must expect her to be pulled by it, and must endeavour to persuade her not to exert herself prematurely: she must resign herself to being in a tender state for at least a sennight. We shall be hard put to it to do it, if I know her ladyship!” He laughed gently. “I daresay you won’t credit it, but when I revived her from her faint, she tried to struggle to her feet, and insisted that there was nothing amiss! And when our good Sidlaw told her that she had fainted she snapped her nose off, saying: “Nonsense! I never faint!” However, she soon found that she couldn’t stand without support, so we were able to carry her up to her bed, and mighty glad she was to be there, for all she wouldn’t own it! I have just been telling Sir Timothy that I have given her a soothing draught, and that she is now asleep. I shall visit her during the night, but I fancy she won’t wake for some hours. And Sidlaw will be with her, you know: she has had a truckle-bed set up in the dressing-room, and is entirely to be relied on.”

“Oh, yes! There can be no doubt of that,” said Kate. “She has been giving me a sharp set-down for offering to lend her my assistance! I knew she would: so would my own old nurse if anyone offered to help her in the same situation!”

“Oh, I shouldn’t go into her room, if I were you, Miss Kate. It is a very infectious complaint, and it would never do if you were to be ill!”

“I don’t think it at all likely that I shall be,” answered Kate. “I know it’s fatal to say that, but I was lately in a house positively stricken with influenza, and between us the cook, and the second housemaid, and I nursed the mistress of the house, her three children, and two other servants, and the cook and I were the only ones who didn’t take the infection! So I’m not afraid.”

He laughed heartily at that, and said that he now expected to be summoned to her bedside; advised her not to go to her aunt for a day or two; and archly warned Sir Timothy that he should warn my lady that she must not take ill again, if she did not want her lord to console himself by flirting with a pretty young lady.

Sir Timothy accorded this witticism a faint, cold smile, and inclined his head courteously. Daunted, the doctor laughed again, not so heartily, and said that he must hurry away to seek his own dinner, or Torquil would be growing impatient.

Sir Timothy smiled again, very sweetly, and the doctor bowed himself out of the room. Sir Timothy’s eyes travelled to Kate’s face of ill-concealed disgust, and amusement crept into them. “Just so, my dear! An intolerable mushroom! Or do I mean barnacle? He keeps me alive, for which I must be grateful—or ought to be! Will you drink a glass of sherry with me?”

“Yes, if you please, sir. But if you mean to talk in that style you will be sorry you invited me to dine with you, because I shall sink into the dismals, and become a dead bore!”

“Impossible!” he said, with his soft laugh. “You have a merry heart, my child, and I don’t think you could ever be a dead bore.” He poured out two glasses of sherry as he spoke, and came back to his chair, handing her one of them with a slight, courtly bow.

“I don’t know that, sir: I do try not to be a bore, at all events! As for a merry heart—well, yes! I think I have a cheerful disposition, and—and I own I delight in absurdities! But that’s not at all to my credit! I always laugh at the wrong moment!”

The door opened just then to admit Pennymore, followed by the first footman, carrying a tray of dishes. When these had been set out, Pennymore informed Sir Timothy that he was served, and Sir Timothy formally handed Kate to the table, saying, as he did so: “I had meant to invite Philip, to make it more amusing for you, but the silly cawker has gone off to dine with young Templecombe. He sent up a message from the stables. You must accept my apologies for him!”

“Not at all, sir! Isn’t there a proverb that says one’s too few, and three’s too many?”

“Very prettily said!” he approved. “You’ve a quick tongue and a ready wit: that’s what I like in you, Kate. If I had a daughter, I should wish her to be of your cut. But I daresay she would have been a simpering miss, so perhaps it’s as well I have no daughter. What are you offering me, Pennymore?”

“Compote of pigeons, sir, with mushroom sauce. Or there is a breast of fowl, if you would prefer it.”

“With a bechamel sauce!” said Kate. “I know all about that! It ought to have been sweetbreads, but I am very glad it’s not, because I don’t like them!”

“Why, isn’t it sweetbreads?” he asked, rousing himself from the melancholy which had descended on him with the thought of the daughters who had died in early childhood.

Very willing to divert him, she gave him a lively description of the effect Lady Broome’s fainting fit had had upon Mrs Thorne’s sensibilities, and the chef’s excitable temperament; and of the analogy Ellen had discovered in an attack of influenza, and the palsy-stroke which had laid one of her aunts low. He was a good deal amused, and the rest of dinner passed happily enough. When the covers were removed, and Pennymore set the port and brandy decanters before his master, he was moved to bestow an approving glance upon Kate, and, later, to inform Tenby that he hadn’t seen Sir Timothy so cheerful this many a day. To which Tenby replied: “He hasn’t much to make him cheerful, Mr Pennymore : as we know!”

Pennymore shook his head sadly, and sighed, looking in a very speaking way at the valet, but not giving utterance to his thoughts. Tenby echoed the sigh, but maintained a similar silence.

Left alone with his guest, Sir Timothy offered her a glass of port, which she declined, saying, however, that she was very content to nibble a fondant while he lingered over his wine. “Unless you would prefer me to withdraw, sir?” she said, her fingers poised over the silver dish in front of her. “Pray don’t say I must! It is so cosy here—quite the cosiest evening I’ve spent at Staplewood!”

“You haven’t much taste for formal pomp, have you, Kate?”

“No,” she said frankly. “Not every day of the week, at all events!”

“Nor have I, which is why I prefer to dine in my own room. But I don’t permit Pennymore to wait on me in the general way. Only when Minerva is away from home, or indisposed. To deprive her of the butler would be rather too much!”

She ventured to say: “I fancy Pennymore would prefer to wait on you, sir.”

“Yes, he is very much attached to me. You see, we were boys together. He has been with me through some dark times: a true friend! He’s fond of Philip, too, and so am I. It’s a pity Philip and Minerva dislike one another, but I suppose it was bound to be so: Minerva doesn’t care for children, you know. And I’m bound to own that when they first met he wasn’t at all a taking boy! He was a sturdy little ruffian, tumbling in and out of mischief, and impatient of females.” He stared down into his wineglass, a reminiscent smile playing round his mouth. “Disobedient too. I never found him so, but I’m afraid he was very troublesome to Minerva. She resented my affection for him—very naturally, I daresay; and he resented her being in his aunt’s place. He was very fond of my first wife: the only woman he was fond of in those days, for he was barely acquainted with his mother. Anne was very fond of him, too, and never jealous, as God knows she might have been, when she saw him so stout and vigorous, and had the anguish of watching her own son die. We lost all our children; two were still-born; and only Julian lived to stagger about in leading-strings. Both my little girls died in their infancy—faded away! They were all so sickly—all of them, even Julian! But nothing ever ailed Philip! Some women might have hated him, but not Anne! She thought of him as a comfort to us.” He looked up at the portrait which hung above the fireplace. “That was my first wife,” he said. “You never knew her, of course.”