Cousin Kate

her letter to Sarah into his hand, for although Sir Timothy went away to bed, escorted by Dr Delabole, before the tea-tray was brought in, Torquil remained, and it was not many minutes before the doctor returned. This had the effect of making Torquil invite Kate to walk down to the bridge with him, to see the moonlight on the lake. The arrival of the first footman, carrying in the tea-tray, provided her with an excuse; she added that she was rather tired, trusting to Philip to divert his wayward mind. This he did by proposing a game of billiards, but not before Torquil had announced his intention of going down to the lake by himself.

Kate was thus left to sustain the burden of Dr Delabole’s conversation, which was largely concerned with Lady Broome’s state of health, but interspersed with anecdotes, of which he seemed to have an inexhaustible fund. It struck her that under his cheerful manner he was concealing anxiety, but when she asked him if he thought Lady Broome’s condition more serious than he had divulged to Sir Timothy, he quickly denied it, assuring her that her aunt was on the mend. “It was a severe attack, though soon over, and it has pulled her—there’s no denying that, as I told her, when she was determined to get up. She bit my nose off, but that’s a sign of convalescence, you know!” He chuckled reminiscently. “How it did take me back! I daresay you would find it hard to believe that she could ever have had a temper, but I promise you she had! Oh, dear me, yes! Quite a violent one! I have been acquainted with her since she was twelve years old—watched her grow up, you might say. Ay, and watched her bridle her temper, until she had it under such strict control that I had almost forgotten how passionate she was used to be until she flew at me for saying she must remain in bed! That brought the old days back to me! Not that I mean to say that it was more than a spurt of temper, but it put me on my guard!”

“But didn’t you say that it was a sign she was on the mend?” asked Kate, raising her brows.

“Oh, yes, and so it is! Yesterday, when the fever was so high, she felt too ill to be cross, or obstinate: that caused me to feel considerable anxiety!” He cast an arch look at Kate. “I fancy I have no need to tell you, Miss Malvern, that she is very, very strong-willed! Once she is determined on a course, it is a hard task to turn her from it! I should have preferred her to remain in bed for another day, but if she is of the same mind tomorrow I shan’t attempt to argue with her, for I know it would do more harm than good. She is suffering from considerable irritation of the nerves, and must be kept as calm as possible, if she is not to have a relapse into another attack of colic. That might indeed be serious!”

He went on talking in this strain until the tea-tray was removed, and Kate felt she could excuse herself without incivility.

She passed a peaceful night, and woke with a sensation of well-being. Only one fence remained to be jumped, and although it was likely to be a rasper she had no doubt of clearing it: Sir Timothy’s blessing had removed her scruples, and beyond that last obstacle a happy future awaited her.

But she did wish that Lady Broome had not fallen, ill at just this moment. To remain at Staplewood while her aunt was ignorant of her engagement to Mr Philip Broome did not suit her sense of propriety. She felt it to be double-dealing, and was too honest to offer her conscience the sop of Sir Timothy’s request to her not to divulge her engagement until Lady Broome was sufficiently recovered to withstand what he plainly felt would be an unpleasant shock. Nor could she persuade herself that Lady Broome might not be so very angry after all: for the niece whom she had so generously befriended to fall in love with the man she most hated and mistrusted would be seen by her as an unpardonable piece of disloyalty—if she did not see it as treachery, which she was very likely to do, thought Kate ruefully, wishing that the ordeal were behind her. It had not needed Dr Delabole’s reference to Lady Broome’s girlish furies to convince her that under her iron calm Lady Broome concealed a temper, and she wondered, quaking a little, just how violent it would be if her aunt allowed it to overcome her, and what effect it might have upon her health. It would be a shocking thing to make her seriously ill: infinitely worse than to keep from her, when she was barely convalescent, news that would certainly upset her. Philip had said that she owed her aunt nothing, because it had been to serve her own ends that Lady Broome had been kind to her; but however selfish her motive had been, the fact remained that she had been kind, and had continued to be kind when Kate had told her that under no circumstances would she marry Torquil. She had certainly hoped that Kate would change her mind, but she had put no pressure on her. Her only unkindness had been to try to sever the link that tied her niece to Sarah Nidd. That had been unscrupulous, but Kate was inclined to believe that she had not supposed herself to be inflicting more than a passing sadness. It would be incomprehensible to Lady Broome, whose exaggerated notion of her own consequence Kate had long thought to be one of her least amiable faults, that her niece could hold her nurse in more than mild affection. If she had known that Kate actually loved Sarah, she would have deplored such a sad want of particularity, and might even have considered it a kindness to wean her from her predilection for what she herself called Low Company.

Philip, of course, would say that she did not care a straw how much pain she inflicted when scheming to achieve her own ends; but Philip disliked her too much to do her justice. It was strange that so level-headed a man could be so deeply prejudiced. Kate could understand dislike, but not a prejudice so bitter that it led him to believe that her aunt, knowing Torquil to be mentally deranged, meant to entrap her into marrying him. That shocked her, for it seemed to be a discordant note in his nature, making him, for a disquieting moment, almost a stranger to her, an intolerant man, without pity or understanding. But she knew that he had both. His affection for his uncle had not blinded him to the weakness in Sir Timothy’s character, but he understood, far better than she did, the circumstances which had worn his uncle down, and would never, she knew, abate one jot of his sympathetic tenderness. He had said that though he could no longer respect Sir Timothy he could never cease to love him, and these were not the words of an intolerant man. The thought that he was kind only to those whom he held in affection occurred only to be dismissed. He did not hold Torquil in affection, but that he pitied him was shown in his treatment of him. A man who could let his prejudice govern him might have been expected to have extended his hatred of Lady Broome to her son, “but this, plainly, Philip had never done. He must always, Kate thought, remembering Torquil’s joyful greeting when he had arrived at Staplewood a week ago, have been kind to Torquil, even when he was a schoolboy, and had probably wished a tiresome small boy at Jericho. Torquil had told her, in one of his melodramatic moods, that Philip had made three attempts to murder him. How much of that lurid tale had been due to a fantasy in his brain, and how much to his undeniable love of play-acting, she could not know, but she suspected that someone had put the idea into his head that his cousin was his enemy. It was not difficult to guess who had done it, for only one person at Staplewood had a motive for attempting to turn Torquil against Philip: Lady Broome, who hated Philip as much as he hated her, and made no secret of the fact that his visits were unwelcome. Philip believed that she was trying to keep him away because she feared that if he saw too much of Torquil he would discover what she knew to be the truth about him; to Kate’s mind, it went to prove that she did not know the truth. For Lady Broome to have sown poison in what she believed to be a sane mind was bad enough; to have done so, knowing that Torquil’s hold on sanity was precarious, and that when in the grip of mania he was homicidal, would have been unpardonable.

It seemed to Kate, bearing in mind her aunt’s domineering disposition, that Lady Broome saw in Philip a threat to her absolute authority over Torquil; perhaps feared that he would support Torquil in his burning wish to break away from her rule. That he had given her no reason to suspect him of any such subversive ambition probably weighed with her not at all: he could not do right in her eyes.

She said that she deprecated his influence: the truth was, Kate thought, that she was jealous of Torquil’s affection for his cousin, for what little influence Philip possessed over him was good; and bitterly resented Philip’s tacit refusal to allow her to reduce him to the position of a mere guest at Staplewood, dependent on formal invitations for his visits. He came when he chose: it could never be too often for Sir Timothy. Pennymore had told Kate that Sir Timothy became quite like his old self when Mr Philip was at Staplewood; and this, she guessed, was another cause of Lady Broome’s resentment. She could perceive how galling it must be for her aunt to see Sir Timothy’s eyes brighten when Philip came into the room; to know, as she surely must, that Philip was much dearer to him than was his son; and to be powerless to bring about an alienation between them. That, Kate thought, was at the root of the trouble: Lady Broome wanted always to be in command of every person at Staplewood, and of every situation that might arise; but she had not been able to command that situation. Nor had she been able to kill Torquil’s affection for Philip: he had only to come face to face with him to see in him, not an enemy, but the indulgent big cousin of his childhood. And Philip she could not command at all, having neither power nor influence over him. He was quite civil to her, never seeking to interfere with her arrangements, but he went his own way, perfectly at home at Staplewood. This might have been expected to have made his visits more acceptable to her, for she was not obliged to entertain him, and he made no demands on her. In fact, it was an added offence: she called it “behaving as though Staplewood belonged to him’. Really, Kate thought, when it came to imputing evil there wasn’t a penny to choose between them: neither could see good in the other.