Cousin Kate

gallery to Lady Broome’s bedroom.

She reappeared a minute later, carrying a vase of wilted flowers, and told Kate, ungraciously, that she might go in to sit with my lady. “And you’ll please to remember, miss, that she’s in a poor state!”

“I’ll remember,” promised Kate.

Sidlaw dumped the vase down, and went before her to open Lady Broome’s door. “Miss Kate, my lady!”

“Come in, Kate!” said Lady Broome. “That will do, Sidlaw!… Dear child, come and sit down where I can see you!”

She held out her hands, and, when Kate took them in hers, pulled her down to kiss her cheek.

She was reclining on a Carolinian day-bed, drawn across the foot of the great four-poster, and wearing one of her elegant dressing-gowns. At first glance, Kate did not think that she looked ill, but when she studied her more closely she saw that the lines on her face were accentuated, and her eyes rather strained. She said, with a smile, and a gesture towards the fresh roses, which had been placed on a small table beside her: “There has been no need for Sidlaw to tell me who has kept my room supplied with flowers every day! Thank you, my love! Such a refreshment, their scent! So tastefully arranged too!”

“I think roses arrange themselves,” said Kate, sitting down on the low chair by the day-bed. “Are you feeling better, ma’am? After such a violent catching, I expect you are sadly pulled.”

“A little,” Lady Broome acknowledged. “It is a judgement on me for boasting that I am never ill! I am keeping my room today, but I shall leave it tomorrow. What a shockingly bad chaperon I’ve been to have left you alone! I am afraid it must have been awkward for you, my poor child.”

Kate stared at her in patent surprise. “Good God, ma’am, how should it have been?”

“One young female in a household composed of gentlemen? Fie on you!” said Lady Broome playfully.

“But one of the gentlemen was Sir Timothy,” Kate reminded her.

Lady Broome laughed. “To be sure! I wish he may have known that he was a deputy-chaperon, but I doubt it! One would have supposed that Philip would have seen the propriety of removing himself when his hostess was taken ill—though why I should have supposed it I don’t know! He has never yet shown the smallest consideration for anyone but himself. When does he mean to take himself off? Has he said anything about it?”

“Not to my knowledge, ma’am.” Kate rose as she spoke, and went to draw one of the heavy brocade curtains a little way across the window. She looked over her shoulder, and asked: “Is that better, ma’am?”

“Dear Kate!” sighed her ladyship. “Always so thoughtful, so quick to perceive a need! The sun was dazzling me a trifle. Do you know, ever since you came to Staplewood, you have made me forget that I have no daughter? You are so exactly what I should have wished my daughter to be like! Indeed, I find myself thinking that you are my daughter—and so, I know well, does Sir Timothy! You have even been managing all the household affairs, to the manner born, Delabole tells me!”

Considerably embarrassed, Kate stammered: “There has been very little to manage, ma’am. I only wish there had been more! I am conscious—deeply conscious!—of—of how much I owe to your kindness!”

“Yet you will not do the only thing I have ever asked of you!” said Lady Broome, with a melancholy smile.

Kate had been about to return to her chair, but at these words she checked, and stiffened. She said, in a constrained voice: “If you mean, ma’am, as I believe you do, that I won’t marry Torquil, I beg you will say no more! It is too much to ask of me!”

“Is it? I told you to think it over, Kate, but I’m afraid you haven’t done so. You have only perceived the evils of such a marriage: not its advantages. Believe me, these are very real! You are no longer a girl, dreaming of romance: you must surely be considering your future, for you don’t want for sense. Sit down!”

“Aunt Minerva, pray say no more!” Kate begged.

“Don’t argue with me, girl!” Lady Broome said, with a flash of temper. “Sit down!” She controlled herself with a visible effort, and forced up a smile. “Come! I have something to tell you—something I have never told anyone, not even Delabole!” She waited until Kate had reluctantly resumed her seat, and then held out a coaxing hand. “Don’t hold off from me!” she said caressingly. “That would quite break my heart, for I have come to love you dearly, you know.” Her fingers closed round Kate’s hand, and held it. “There! That’s better! You are the only comfort left to me, child—the only hope! Do you think me a happy woman? I’m not. Life has used me harshly, I think: everything I most wanted has been denied me! I wonder what sins I can have committed to have made fate punish me so cruelly?”

“Oh, don’t say so, dear ma’am!” Kate interrupted. “You are not yourself! This is nothing but a sick fancy!”

Lady Broome sighed, and shook her head. “No, alas, it is the truth. I have put a brave face on it, but I’ve failed in everything I set out to do. I hope you will never know how bitter a thing that is.”

“Now, how can I tell you civilly that you are talking nonsense?” said Kate, in a rallying tone. “If the effect of my visit is to cast you into dejection I shall be in hot water with Dr Delabole, and Sidlaw too, and very likely I shall be forbidden to come near you again! Tell me, if you please, if you failed when you set out to make Staplewood beautiful?”

’Ah, you don’t understand!” said Lady Broome. “I only did so because I realized, when I was obliged to give up all that I most enjoyed, that unless I could discover something of interest to keep me occupied I should mope myself to death. You must remember that I was still a young woman when I knew that I must bring Sir Timothy here, not for a visit merely, but for the rest of his life. That was a severe blow. I have grown accustomed, but in those days I detested the country. Your father told you how ambitious I was, but I don’t think he knew that my most passionate ambition was not to marry a duke, but to escape from the intolerable boredom of my home! My father—your grandfather, my love—was not of a sociable disposition. In fact, he was excessively untoward, and he had my unfortunate mother quite under his thumb. Had it not been for his sister, I should have found myself buckled to the Squire’s son before I had been allowed even a glimpse of London! She, however, offered to bring me out, and to frank me for one Season. She was married to a man of birth and property, and moved in the first circles. She had married her daughters to men of fortune and consideration, and said she would do the same by me. But she reckoned without my lack of dowry.”

Kate blinked. “But surely, ma’am—I mean, when my grandfather cut Papa out of his Will, you must have been heiress to all his property!”

“I was, but he was never wealthy, and he suffered some bad reverses on “Change. I was used to think him a shocking pinch-penny, until my mother explained matters to me. Well, that’s past history: I’ve told you only that you may understand why I married Sir Timothy. I had many admirers, but the only offers I received were from men I could not like well enough to marry. My aunt said I was a great deal too nice, and I knew she wouldn’t invite me to spend a second Season in Mount Street; indeed, she told me that if I threw away my chances she would wash her hands of me. And I knew that if I went back to my home at the end of the Season I should never see London again. I can tell you, I was in such despair that I could almost have brought myself to marry any man who could give me position, and the means to live up to it! But then Sir Timothy proposed to me, and I became engaged to him.” She saw that this story was winning no response, and pressed Kate’s hand, saying with a faint smile: “Ah, you are thinking that I was very mercenary, are you not? I wish you had known Sir Timothy twenty years ago: one of the most charming men imaginable! So handsome, too! He fell in love with me as soon as he saw me. It was at the Opera. He came up to my aunt’s box, and begged for an introduction.”

“And you, ma’am? Did you fall in love with him?”

’No, no! I liked him very well, but I had no notion then that he would one day propose to me. He is twenty years older than I am, you know, and in those days that seemed very old indeed to me. I respected him, however, and gladly accepted his offer. My aunt told me that it was indelicate of me to show joy at my engagement, but Sir Timothy didn’t think so: it made him very happy, for he was afraid that he might be too old to make me happy. The Broomes said he was infatuated. His sister Mariaan odious woman!—told him that he would soon become a cuckold if he married a girl young enough to have been his daughter. So vulgar! I have always been glad that she didn’t die until she had been forced to acknowledge that she had wickedly misjudged me. But they all disliked me, and Philip, of course, positively hated me! He was the most disagreeable boy: as self-important then as he is today! But we were married in spite of them, and I became most sincerely attached to Sir Timothy. He wanted an heir, and when Torquil was born he thought nothing too good for me. His first wife had not cared for London, so the Broome town house had been disposed of, but because I