fact, my love, that the lot of a single female who has no fortune is not a happy one. While she is young, and able to earn her bread, it may be supportable; but when one is old and unwanted—oh, let us not dwell upon such misery! It makes me shudder even to think of it!”
It made Kate shudder too, but inwardly. It was as though a cold hand had closed over her heart; and although, with the optimism of youth, she shook it off, it made her remember her unavailing search for employment, and ask herself if boredom was really so great a price to pay for security.
But the feeling that she was being enclosed in a silken net grew upon her during the following weeks; and, when she scolded herself for being so stupid, it occurred to her that she had very little money left in her purse, not enough to pay for the coach fare to London, and something akin to panic seized her. She might write to Sarah, begging her to come to her rescue, but Sarah had answered none of her letters, and the seed sown by Lady Broome had borne fruit. She did not doubt Sarah’s affection, but she had certainly been a charge on her, and it was possible that Sarah was thankful to be relieved of it. Things had changed since the days when Sarah had been her nurse: she was married now, and, besides her husband, she had his father and his nephews to care for. And even though she would probably still extend a welcome to her nursling, Kate recoiled from the thought of foisting herself on to her again, and for heaven only knew how long a period.
Meanwhile, nothing happened at Staplewood to relieve the monotony of its ordered days, the only variation being Church-going every Sunday. The family attended Divine Service in the village Church, which was conducted by the Vicar, a middle-aged cleric, with obsequious manners, who stood in unbecoming awe of Lady Broome, and preached long and very dull sermons. To these, however, the occupants of the Broorne pew were not obliged even to pretend to listen, this pew being screened from the rest of the congregation by walls of carved oak, dating from Jacobean times, and reminding Kate irresistibly of a loose-box.
To reach it, it was necessary to walk in procession down the aisle; and, since his infirmity made Sir Timothy’s progress slow, and Lady Broome inclined her head graciously whenever she perceived a known face, this was so like a Royal Visitation that Kate was torn between embarrassment and an improper inclination to giggle.
Driving to Church in the first of the two carriages which set out from Staplewood, with his lady beside him, and the two footmen perched up behind, seemed to be the only expedition Sir Timothy ever took beyond his gates; and although Kate suspected that he would have been pleased to have lingered in the porch, after the service, greeting friends and tenants, he was never permitted to do so, Lady Broome discouraging any tendency to loiter, either because there was a sharp wind blowing, or because to stand about was what his doctor particularly deprecated. In this she was ably seconded by Delabole, who insisted on Sir Timothy’s taking his arm, and conducted him tenderly back to the barouche. The party then drove back to Staplewood at a sedate pace, the second carriage being occupied by Kate, the doctor, and, when he was well enough to be dragged unwillingly to Church, Torquil.
But when the warmer weather came it brought with it a mild diversion, in the form of two al fresco parties, one being held at Staplewood, and the other at Nutfield Place, the residence of the Dunsters, where Kate was surprised to see Gurney Templecombe. He at once came up to her to ask how she did. “But no need to ask, Miss Malvern!” he said gallantly. “I can see you’re in high bloom!”
“Thank you, but how comes this about, sir? I had supposed you to be in London, escorting your sister to Almack’s!”
“No, no, I’m held to have done my duty, and have escaped! She’s engaged to be married, you know: notice will be in the Morning Post next week.”
“What, already?” she exclaimed.
He nodded, grinning. “Quite a triumph, ain’t it? Mind you, I knew how it would be: even I can see she’s a taking little thing! Amesbury popped the question before she’d been in town above a sennight! He’s a friend of mine: a very good fellow! Of course, m’mother said they must wait, but anyone could see she was in high croak! Well, what I mean is, it’s the best marriage she’s made for any of the girls—not that she did make it: they fell head over ears in love with each other!”
Kate disclosed this information to her aunt, as they drove back to Staplewood. Lady Broome laughed, and said: To Lord Amesbury! Well,—I’m sure I wish her very happy. I must own that I have the greatest admiration for Lady Templecombe: how she contrived to find eligible husbands for four daughters, and all in their first seasons, really does command applause! They are no more than respectably dowered, too: I should doubt if they have more than ten thousand apiece, and I shouldn’t have said that the elder girls had beauty enough to figure in London.”
“That can’t be said of the youngest, ma’am!”
“No, very true: Dorothea is remarkably pretty,” agreed her ladyship. “A lovely little pea-goose!”
Kate hesitated for a moment. “Mr Templecombe told me that the engagement won’t be announced until next week, but I thought you would wish to know of it earlier, in case—in case you think it wise to warn Torquil, Aunt Minerva.”
“My dear child,” said her ladyship, mildly amused, “have you lived with us for several weeks without discovering that, with Torquil, it is
Kate’s brow was wrinkled. She said: “Why didn’t you, ma’am? It seems to me such a suitable alliance!”
“I have other plans for Torquil,” replied her aunt lightly. “So, as is seen, had Lady Templecombe for Dorothea!”
Whatever Kate may have thought of this ruthless management of her son, she very soon saw that Lady Broome had exactly gauged the effect of the announcement on him. It did, at first, wind him up; and he talked, in a theatrical way, of Dolly’s having sold herself to the highest bidder; but he then fell into the mops, in which state of mind he was at outs with everyone, ripping up grievances, and subjecting his entourage to Turkish, treatment, as Kate roundly informed him. It seemed, for a moment, that he would take violent exception to this reproof, but after staring at her for a blazing instant he suddenly burst out laughing, snatched her into his arms in a breathtaking hug, and exclaimed: “I like you! Oh, I
“Well,” said Kate, disengaging herself, “I don’t know why you should, but I’m very much obliged to you!” She saw that this rebuff had brought back the lowering look to his face, and added: “Now don’t try to come the ugly with me, Torquil, for you’ll be taken at fault if you do!”
He looked at her, queerly smiling. “Not afraid of me, are you, coz?”
“Not in the least!”
There was a spark kindling in his eyes; he said softly: “Shall I make you afraid? No, I don’t think I will. And yet—and yet!—” His smile grew; he took her face between his slim, strong hands, and turned it up. An indefinable change came into his own face; his eyes grew brighter; his fingers slid down to her throat, and she felt them harden, and quiver.
From the doorway, a stern voice said imperatively: “Torquil!”
Torquil’s hands fell; he lifted them again, but to press them over his eyes. Kate, flushing, found herself confronting a stranger, who looked her over rather contemptuously, and then transferred his gaze to Torquil. He seemed but just to have arrived at Staplewood, and to have come from some distance, for he was wearing a long, caped driving-coat, which brushed the heels of his top-boots, and he was carrying his hat and gloves in one hand. He was a tall man, with broad shoulders, and very regular features; and Kate judged him to be about thirty years of age.
A sigh broke from Torquil; he uncovered his eyes, and turned, blinking at the stranger. “Why—why—Philip!” he exclaimed, starting forward with every sign of delight.
The stranger smiled at him. “Well, bantling? How do you do?” he said, holding out his hand.
Torquil clasped it eagerly. “Oh, famously! But how is this? Did we expect you? Have you come to stay?”
“For a day or two. No, you didn’t expect me. Am I unwelcome?”
“You will be, with Mama!” said Torquil, giggling. His eyes fell on Kate; he said: “Oh, are you there, coz? This is Philip, you know! Philip, this is Cousin Kate!”
She was too much surprised by his unaffected pleasure in his Cousin Philip’s arrival to take more than cursory note of the artless surprise in his voice when he saw that she was still in the room. When she recalled how viciously he had spoken to her of Philip Broome, she could only marvel at him, and congratulate herself on not having believed his accusations.
