A London Season (25 page)

“
The
whole
?”

“Or so I suppose. Of course, she had no business to be telling me anything of what you had said to her in confidence, but
—
”

“Oh, dear heaven! What must you think?” she said, almost in a whisper. “Oh, I
did
want to tell you, and I have known all along I should have done, only
—
”

“Only I prevented you! My dear girl, I almost wish I hadn
’
t, for then I could have assured you earlier that you were exaggerating the thing out of all proportion. As for what I think
—
well, let me merely say I would happily murder the fellow, if you would tell me his name and I could but lay hands on him!” he said rather grimly, but then resumed his light tone. “Though I suppose that would hardly do, which is a pity! Here
—
you had better have a cup of tea.”

He gave her one, with so encouraging a smile that, to her own surprise, she managed a faint smile in return, and said weakly as she sipped the hot liquid, “You
—
you seem to take it very calmly!”

“Why not?” said Sir Edmund, briskly. “Unlike Persephone, you know, I am not much given to falling into strong hysterics
—
and
you
my dear cousin, while not in general a hysterical female, are certainly refining far too much upon an unhappy incident of the past.”

“Refining too much upon it?” She attempted another smile, and said, “I don
’
t seem able to do anything but repeat what you say! But
—
well, you don
’
t mean you still think me a
—
a fit person to have the care of Persephone?”

He was glad to see that the tea appeared to be doing her good; a little colour had returned to her cheeks. “Of course I do,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Indeed, a particularly fit person, in that you have a great deal of sympathy for her, and some experience of what her own present feelings must be like
—
now, what in the world have I said to overset you?”
he demanded, as she put down her cup and quietly began to weep, for this was all rather too much for her. She was provided with his own large, clean handkerchief
—
what a great lending and borrowing of handkerchiefs we are all indulging in, she thought irrelevantly
—
and soon managed to control herself.

“Dear me,” she said then, voice rather stronger, “how very mortifying it would be to discuss such a matter with anyone who was not such
—
such a very kind friend as you have been to me!” And she turned to look out of the window, feeling the treacherous prickle of tears behind her eyelids again.

Irrationally, Sir Edmund found that he did not at all car
e
to be described as a kind friend. He had hoped to be something more, and had come to Upper Brook Street with the fixed intention of declaring his feelings, only to find Persephone intent on making a great song and dance about hers. It was many years since he had even thought of making an offer of marriage, and practised diplomat as he was, he found himself now, ridiculously, at a loss for words. He decided to turn the course of this conversation into another direction, until Elinor should be feeling better, and said, with that end in view, “Another thing: I
’
m persuaded you have been unnecessarily anxious about young Persephone. She won
’
t come to any
harm
, precisely, with her young musician, you know.”

“Oh, I do know!” agreed Elinor fervently, turning to look at him again. She could not say it was because of Grenville Royden she had been concerned, but seeing her chance to make a first attempt to intercede on behalf of the young couple, as she had promised Persephone to do, she said earnestly, “I know you said it would not do
—
and I thought so too
—
but they
are
most sincerely attached, and I don
’
t believe he cares a bit for her fortune.”

“No,” agreed Sir Edmund, smiling, “but he does for her voice! Angelina, indeed! I wonder if they would ever have become so attached without it?”

“You see,” pursued Elinor, “it did seem like a passing fancy at first, but I now believe it is not. And if not, what is to be done? I
—
well, you are right, I
do
understand what it is to love someone in
that
way. A lasting passion, once formed, is very hard to shake off.”

For some reason, he had become remarkably still where he stood at the window. “You mean, you believe from your own experience that one may never recover from it?”

She thought, briefly; she had recovered from her silly, girlish infatuation with Grenville Royden, but saw little hope of her present feelings for Sir Edmund changing. He was so
—
well, she was not going to let herself dwell upon his virtues. That would be fatal to her peace of mind. She was only sure that the case, now, was very different with her. “Yes, I know what it is like not to recover from such a thing,” she said quietly, her whole heart in her eyes if he would but have looked that way.

But he did not. So his hopes, he was thinking, were well and truly dashed before he even embarked on his declaration. She was still attached to the memory of that fellow, scoundrel as he was! He might have known, he thought ruefully, that constancy would be among her qualities. Just as well, perhaps, that he had not begun to tell her of his feelings; they were both saved from embarrassment. He said only, looking out of the window, “
I
know it, too.”

His voice gave nothing away, but remembering what Isabella had told her of his wife, Elinor thought: he is still mourning for his Catherine. She wished she could find words of sympathy, but nothing seemed appropriate. And so they remained in silence for a little while, until at last he roused himself to say, without great enthusiasm, “Yes, well, Persephone! I must think what is best to be done. One thing I do beg you, though: don
’
t let her plague you!”

And with that he turned, rather abruptly, and was gone from the room, leaving Elinor gazing after him, a prey to her conflicting feelings.

16

I
t had really been a most agitating interview: one from which Elinor could not quickly recover. Kind and considerate as Sir Edmund was, she found it quite impossible to compose her spirits when she thought of all Persephone had seen fit to tell him. Him, of all people! She wished most heartily that the heiress
’
s indignantly partisan friendship had not carried her to such lengths. But there, it was done now, and
she
was in no position to reproach Persephone! Her old aunts, and Lady Emberley, and Samuel Spalding would all have said she had only herself to blame, and she was much inclined to think they would have been right.

And while Sir Edmund might seem to make light of the matter, she could not help but notice a subsequent coolness in his manner towards her. That was hardly surprising, and it was surely most unreasonable in her to feel regret. Things could not be otherwise! When he went out of town again she told herself that she was glad of it, for the sake of her own peace of mind. She wished she were not so illogical as to miss him, all the same.

She would have been amazed to learn that it was his own chagrin at the dashing of his hopes concerning herself that took him away, although a visit to his property of Waterleys on the borders of Hertfordshire and Essex was certainly overdue. He had had no leisure to go there since his return to England, with so much business over the Grafton estate and Lady Emberley
’
s property to be settled, and he hoped that in his childhood home he could, to some extent, put Elinor out of his mind
—
though he was far from sure or it, for he was as little confident as Miss Radley herself that time would heal this particular wound.

Quite soon, however, Elinor found she had not much time left for brooding over her own troubles. She would have been quite glad, but for the fact that the cause was something which once again cast Persephone into great affliction. Suddenly, and without a word, Robert Walter had ceased to call in Upper Brook Street. Persephone bore it cheerfully on the first day; on the second, she took to wandering to the window whenever she heard the slightest sound in the street below, and would stand there a long time tapping her foot impatiently; on the third day she became openly fretful, wondering aloud and at frequent intervals what could be keeping him; on the fourth, when the dressing bell rang in the evening, and there could be no hope of anyone else
’
s paying a social call that day, she flung herself on Elinor
’
s breast and wept as though her heart would break.

“Oh, my dear, don
’
t cry so!” Miss Radley begged her. “I can
’
t
help
it!” sobbed Persephone. “He
—
he hasn
’
t even sent a note, or
anything
! Oh, where can he be?”

“In his lodging, I expect, quite absorbed in the process of composition!” said Elinor. “I believe that when persons of an artistic turn of mind become visited by inspiration, they are quite oblivious of all else.”

“He would never be oblivious of
me
!
”

“Depend upon it, he has no idea how time is passing! I dare swear that, once he has finished this piece of music and realized how long it is since he saw you, he will be amazingly contrite.” Oh dear, thought Elinor, I am positively encouraging her, when I ought instead to be glad of
Mr.
Walter
’
s absence. Yet she herself could not believe that he had suddenly tired of the adoring Persephone and walked away from her without a word. Indeed, she would have sworn that his affections were almost as deeply engaged as Miss Grafton
’
s, and she sincerely felt for Persephone
’
s distress. Did she not feel much the same herself over the absence of Sir Edmund
—
although she was denied the luxury of relief in such copious tears as Persephone could shed, and of course it was ridiculous for her to be downcast. She should be very grateful for Sir Edmund
’
s equable reception of the tale of her youthful follies; she might well now have been searching hopelessly, because without references, for some other post as governess or companion, and then her situation would have been a desperate one indeed. Instead, she was to spend the summer months in what sounded like the most delightful country residence, she knew that Isabella hoped she would remain permanently with the family
—
what could there be in any of that to destroy her comfort? Well, she knew very well what, even if it was ungrateful of her, and so her sympathy went out wholeheartedly to Persephone.

Miss Grafton eventually consulted her as to the propriety of approaching the other members of the Lark Quartet for news of
Mr.
Walter, and Elinor thought there could be nothing wrong in a friendly inquiry. A note, duly dispatched to their lodgings, brought Franz to call at Yoxford House. He seemed at first to think he must have been summoned for musical purposes; all of the Lark Quartet were ready and able to play upon more than one instrument, and producing the parts of a clarinet from his pocket, Franz began to fit them together in a businesslike manner. But once the ladies had managed to convey to him their real reason for asking him to call, he bent his mind to the problem. Their conversation was rather laborious, although his command of English was a little better than that of Josef and Johann, and ended disappointingly in the discovery that Robert Walter
’
s friends had no more notion than Persephone of his whereabouts. As they had no immediate professional engagements together, Franz indicated, they were not particularly surprised at his having gone out of town without letting them know.

“He is, perhaps, into the country gone?” Franz suggested.

“Yes, to compose further passages of his opera, do you think?” said Elinor.

“
Ja,
ja
!”
Franz thought this a happy notion, and beamed cheerfully at both ladies. “
So
ist es ganz sickerlich
!”
Aware at least that this signified assent, Persephone said, miserably, “But without a word to me? Without even writing, Franz?”

H
e could only shake his head helplessly, and offered, “Shall I to his rooms go?”

“Oh, yes!” said Elinor. “And we will come with you; why not?” So the party set forth to take the air, and a silent little party it was, for as well as the language difficulty, there were thoughts of their own to keep both Elinor and Persephone busy. Nor did anything much come of the expedition:
Mr.
Walter
’
s landlady in West Brompton, an amiable, motherly soul, could only say that yes, the young gentleman
had
left, in a great hurry (though paying his shot first), and no, she didn
’
t remember him saying when or even whether he would be back. But there, she added indulgently, that was
Mr.
Walter
’
s way!

“Did he take his things with him? I mean, did it
look
as if he were coming back?” Elinor asked.

As to that,
Mrs.
Jenkins could not say either, seeing as
Mr.
Walter preferred to travel light, so to speak, barring that precious fiddle as he seemed to carry everywhere with him, and he hadn
’
t brought much baggage to her house in the first place. However, she said kindly, she wouldn
’
t be letting
Mr.
Walter
’
s rooms to any other gentleman yet awhile, in case he should be back.

Persephone did not look as if there were much in this to console her. And yet perhaps, on reflection, she had found a modicum of comfort in the good lady
’
s words after all, for on the evening of the day after their visit to West Brompton, she suddenly cheered up considerably. Elinor was glad of it, though a little afraid that Persephone might be clinging to too tenuous a hope.

Had she known of the incident which really raised Miss Grafton
’
s spirits, she would have been seriously alarmed, but she remained in happy ignorance of this event. Miss
Merriwether the governess was indisposed, so that Elinor had been in the schoolroom amusing the younger children while Persephone had her singing lesson. At the end of the lesson, Signor Pascali had recollected something, and said vaguely, as he left, that he fancied there was a gentleman wishing to see her: a gentleman who had spoken to him in the street, asking that she would remain in the Yellow Parlour after her lesson, when he
—
this gentleman who had accosted Signor Pascali
—
would come up to her. Having carefully discharged this message, he was gone, leaving Persephone full of sudden, delighted anticipation, for who could it be but Robert?

She did not stop to reflect that it was unlike him to make such a secretive rigmarole about calling, as if on purpose to find her alone, or indeed that it was she who had contrived their occasional
t
ê
te
à
t
ê
tes
, such as the one into which Elinor had walked just in time to take Robert
’
s side. Her face therefore fell quite ludicrously when there came a tap on the door, and an interested parlourmaid ushered in not Robert Walter, but Grenville Royden.

“You!” she exclaimed, in undisguised disappointment. “Oh,
I’
m sorry to sound uncivil,
Mr.
Royden, but
—
”

“But you were expecting, or hoping, to see someone else? Well, set your mind at rest, Miss Grafton!” said
Mr.
Royden. “For
I
am that person
’
s emissary!” he dramatically announced. And he closed the door carefully after him.

When he left thirty minutes later, Persephone
’
s demeanour was quite remarkably changed. It was with an effort that she suppressed her elation before Elinor, who must not know of the news her caller had brought. But suppress it she did, for had she not been bound to complete secrecy by Robert himself, through the agency of
Mr.
Royden? Recollecting all Elinor
’
s kindness, she did not like to keep such good news from her
—
but an awareness that her friend might not necessarily think the news as good as she did helped her to keep her promise of silence, and Miss Radley remained unaware of anything in particular that could have occasioned the obvious improvement in her spirits. No doubt, thought Elinor a little ruefully, the young were simply more resilient.

Poor Miss Merriwether continued indisposed. The weather was at present rather hot, even for early June, and the governess, who had taken to her bed with a feverish cold, was further debilitated by the course of Blue Pills and quinine draughts prescribed for her, and found that the oppressive heat delayed her recovery. Isabella felt the heat too, and sympathized. She did not mind bearing her part in the care of her younger children while the governess was ill, but confessed that she was glad to have Elinor there, ready to take much of the burden from herself and Nurse. How delightful, in such weather, that her old school friend Jane, now Lady Darsham and widowed young, but with a comfortable jointure, should have invited them to spend the day! For Lady Darsham lived in Richmond, quite close to the Park. “So the twins may romp about there, and work off some of those high spirits. And Edward can play with Jane
’
s little boy Richard, who is just his age, and it will be so pleasant for the rest of us. Dear Jane
’
s house is a very pretty
cottage orne
,
Elinor; you will like to see it, and so will Persephone.”

Elinor was not so sure of the last part of this proposition, but to her relief Persephone assented to the expedition willingly enough, and did not seem inclined to remain in Upper Brook Street instead, in the secret hope of receiving some word of
Mr.
Walter, from whom nothing had been heard for nearly two weeks now. The party consisted of the ladies of the household and the schoolroom contingent, along with Peggy the under-nursemaid. The Yoxford family carriage was required to transport so many people, even if some of them were not very big, and it transported them at a sedate pace to Richmond, where Lady Darsham, a pleasant woman of Isabella
’
s age, made them welcome with an elegant cold collation. The house was certainly a pretty one, and the children all seemed ready to enjoy themselves. In the afternoon, they repaired to the Park, where the little boys all played, and Persephone and Elinor helped Maria
’
s chubby fingers to create a daisy chain, while the two mamas rested comfortably in the shade at the end of Lady Darsham
’
s garden.

But perhaps the sun was rather too strong for Maria, or perhaps it was that her bonnet had slipped to one side a little: at all events, after a while she became fretful, and began to sneeze and complain that her head hurt her. “Oh, poor darling!” exclaimed Isabella, when Maria was brought back to her and clambered into her lap, where she sat contentedly enough, though still sneezing every now and then. “Can she have caught poor Miss Merriwether
’
s cold, I wonder? No, I think not, for
that
is a feverish cold, and Maria
’
s forehead is quite cool
—
but what can be making her sneeze so?”

“I think it may be the pollen from the grasses,” suggested Elinor. “It does take some people in that way.”

“Yes, you are very right; so it does. Oh, dear me, Elinor, what should we do? Ought we to leave now? What a shame, when I can hear the boys enjoying themselves excessively, and Edward is so pleased to see his friend! But perhaps, Jane, we
should
go
...
I really do not know!”