Venetia (2 page)

The humorous gleam sprang to her eyes as she glanced at Aubrey, still lost in antiquity. She said: “Aubrey! Dear,
odious
Aubrey! Do lend me your ears! Just
one
of your ears, love!”

He looked up, an answering gleam in his own eyes. “Not if it is something I particularly dislike!”

“No, I promise you it isn’t!” she replied, laughing. “Only, if you mean to ride out presently will you be so very obliging as to call at the Receiving Office, and enquire if there has been a parcel delivered there for me from York? Quite a
small
parcel, dear Aubrey! not in the
least
unwieldy, upon my honour!”

“Yes, I’ll do that—if it’s not fish! If it is, you may send Puxton for it, m’dear.”

“No, it’s muslin—unexceptionable!”

He had risen, and walked over to the window with his awkward, dragging step. “It’s too hot to go out at all, I think, but I will—Oh, I most
certainly
will, and at once! M’dear,
both
your suitors are come to pay us a morning-visit!”

“Oh, no!” exclaimed Venetia imploringly. “Not again!”

“Riding up the avenue,” he assured her. “Oswald is looking as sulky as a bear, too.”

“Now, Aubrey, pray don’t say so! It is his
gloomy
look. He is brooding over nameless crimes, I daresay, and only think how disheartening to have his dark thoughts mistaken for a fit of the sulks!”

“What nameless crimes?”

“My dear, how should I know—or he either? Poor boy! it is all Byron’s fault! Oswald can’t decide whether it is his lordship whom he resembles or his lordship’s
Corsair.
In either event it is very disturbing for poor Lady Denny. She is persuaded he is suffering from a disorder of the blood, and has been begging him to take James’s Powders.”

“Byron!” Aubrey ejaculated, with one of his impatient shrugs. “I don’t know how you can read such stuff!”

“Of course you don’t, love—and I must own I wish Oswald had found himself unable to do so. I wonder what excuse Edward will offer us for this visit? Surely there cannot have been
another
Royal marriage, or General Election?”

“Or that he should think we care for such trash.” Aubrey turned away from the window. “Are you going to marry him?” he asked.

“No—oh, I don’t know! I am sure he would be a kind husband, but try as I will I can’t hold him in anything but esteem,” she replied, in a comically despairing tone. “Why do you try?”

“Well, I must marry someone, you know! Conway will certainly do so, and then what is to become of me? It wouldn’t suit me to continue living here, dwindling into an aunt—and I daresay it wouldn’t suit my unknown sister either!”

“Oh, you may live with me!
I
shan’t be married, and I shouldn’t at all object to it: you never trouble me!”

Her eyes danced, but she assured him gravely that she was very much obliged to him.

“You would like it better than to be married to Edward.”

“Poor Edward! Do you dislike him so much?” He replied, with a twisted smile: “I never forget, when he’s with us, that I’m a cripple, m’dear.”

A voice was heard to say, beyond the door: “In the breakfast-parlour, are they? Oh, you need not announced me: I know my way!”

Aubrey added: “And I dislike his knowing his way!”

“So do I, indeed! There is no escape!” she agreed, turning to greet the visitors.

Two gentlemen of marked dissimilarity came into the room, the elder, a solid-looking man in his thirtieth year, leading the way, as one who did not doubt his welcome; the younger, a youth of nineteen, with a want of assurance imperfectly concealed by a slight, nonchalant swagger.

“Good-morning, Venetia! Well, Aubrey!” said Mr. Edward Yardley, shaking hands. “What a pair of slugabeds, to be sure! I was afraid I shouldn’t find you in on such a day, but came on the chance that Aubrey might care to try his luck with the carp in my lake. What do you say, Aubrey? You may fish from the boat, you know, and not suffer any fatigue.”

“Thank you, but I shouldn’t expect to get a rise in such weather.”

“It would do you good, however, and you may drive your gig to within only a few yards of the lake, you know.”

It was kindly said, but there was a suggestion of gritted teeth in Aubrey’s reiterated refusal. Mr. Yardley noticed this, and supposed, compassionately, that his hip was paining him. Meanwhile, young Mr. Denny was informing his hostess, rather more impressively than the occasion seemed to warrant, that he had come to see her. He added, in a low, vibrant voice, that he could not keep away. He then scowled at Aubrey, who was looking at him with derision in his eyes, and relapsed into blushful silence. He was nearly three years older than Aubrey, and had seen much more of the world, but Aubrey could always put him out of countenance, as much by his dispassionate gaze as by the use of his adder’s tongue. He could not be at ease in the boy’s presence, for besides being no match for him in a battle of wits he had a healthy young animal’s dislike of physical deformity, and considered, moreover, that Aubrey traded on this in a very shabby way. But for that halting left leg he could have been speedily taught what civility was due to his elders. He knows himself to be safe from me, thought Oswald, and curled his lip.

Upon being invited to sit down he had assumed a careless pose upon a small sofa. He now found that his fellow-guest was steadfastly regarding him, and with unmistakeable reprobation, and he was at once torn between hope that he presented a romantic figure and fear that he had a trifle overdone the nonchalant attitude. He sat up, and Edward Yardley transferred his gaze to Venetia’s face.

Mr. Yardley, with no wish to appear romantic, would never have been guilty of lounging in a lady’s presence. Nor would he have paid a morning visit dressed in a shooting-jacket, and with a silk handkerchief knotted round his throat, its ends untidily worn outside his coat. He was dressed with neatness and propriety in a sober riding-coat and buckskins, and so far from training a lock of hair to droop over one brow he wore his hair rather closer cropped than was fashionable. He might have served as a model for a country gentleman of solid worth and modest ambition; certainly no stranger would have guessed that it was he, and not Oswald, who was the only child of a doting and widowed mother.

His father having died before Edward had reached his tenth birthday he had at a very early age come into the possession of his fortune. This was respectable rather than handsome, large enough to enable a prudent man to command the elegancies of life and still contrive to be beforehand with the world. A sprig of fashion, bent on cutting a dash, would have thought it penury, but Edward had no extravagant tastes. His estate, which was situated rather less than ten miles from Undershaw, was neither so extensive nor so important as Undershaw, but it was generally considered to be a snug property, and conferred upon its owner the acknowledged standing in the North Riding which was the summit of his ambition. Of a naturally serious disposition he was also endowed with a strong sense of duty. Frustrating all the efforts of his mama to ruin his character by excessive indulgence he early assumed the conduct of his affairs, and rapidly grew into a grave young man of uniform virtues. If he had neither liveliness nor wit he had a great
‘.
deal of commonsense; and if his masterful nature made him rather too autocratic in his household his firm rule over his mama and his dependants was always actuated by a sincere belief in his ability to decide what would be best for them to do on all occasions.

Venetia, feeling that it behoved her to atone for Aubrey’s scant civility, said: “How kind in you to have thought of Aubrey! But you shouldn’t have put yourself to so much trouble: I daresay you must have a thousand things to do.”

“Not quite a
thousand,
”
he responded, smiling. “Not even a
hundred,
though in general I am pretty busy, I own. But you must not suppose me to be neglecting any urgent duty: I hope I needn’t charge myself with that! What was pressing I was able to attend to when you, I’ll wager, were still asleep. With a little management one can always find time, you know. I have another reason for coming to see you, too: I’ve brought you my copy of Tuesday’s
Morning Post,
which I believe you will be glad to have. I have marked the passage: you will see that it is concerned with the Army of Occupation. It seems certain that the feeling of the French against our soldiers’ continuing there is growing very strong. One cannot wonder at it, though when one remembers—however, that is of less interest to you than the prospect of welcoming Conway home! I believe you may have him with you before the year is out.”

Venetia took the newspaper, thanking him in a voice that quivered on the edge of laughter, and taking care not to meet Aubrey’s eye. Ever since Edward had discovered that the Lanyons were dependent for news on the weekly
Liverpool Mercury
he had made the sharing with them of his own London daily paper an excuse for his frequent visits to Undershaw. He had begun by coming only when some startling piece of intelligence, such as the death of the old King of Sweden and the election to the throne of Marshal Bernadotte, was announced; and during the spring months the journals served him nobly, with a spate of royal marriages. First there had been the really astonishing news that the Princess Elizabeth, though somewhat stricken in years, was betrothed to the Prince of Hesse Homburg; and hardly had the descriptions of her bridal raiment and the panegyrics on her skill as an artist ceased than no fewer than three of her middle-aged brothers followed her example. That, of course, was because the Heiress of England, poor Princess Charlotte, had lately died in childbed, and her infant with her. Even Edward owned that it was diverting, for two of the Royal Dukes were over fifty, and looked it; and everyone knew that the eldest of the three was the father of a large family of hopeful bastards. But since Clarence’s nuptials, in July, Edward had been hard put to it to discover any item in the journals which was at all likely to interest the Lanyons; and had been obliged more than once to fall back on reports that the Queen’s health was giving the Royal physicians cause for despondency, or that dissension had reared its head amongst the Whigs over Tierney’s continued leadership of the party. Not the most confirmed optimist could have supposed that the Lanyons would be interested in such rumours as these, but it was reasonable to expect them to hail the prospect of Conway’s homecoming as news of real value.

But Venetia only said that she would believe that Conway had sold out when she saw him walk in at the door; and Aubrey, after giving the matter frowning consideration, added, on a regrettably optimistic note, that there was no need to despair, since Conway would probably find another excuse for remaining in the Army.

“
I
should!” said Oswald. He then realized that this was decidedly uncomplimentary to his hostess, fell into an agony, and stammered: “That is, I don’t mean—that is, I mean I should if I were Sir Conway! He’ll find it so devilish slow here. One does, when one has seen the world.”

“You find it slow after a trip to the West Indies, don’t you?” said Aubrey.

That drew a laugh from Edward, and Oswald, who had meant to ignore Aubrey’s malice, said with unnecessary emphasis: “I’ve seen more of the world than you have, at all events! You’ve no notion—you’d be amazed if I told you how different it all is in Jamaica!”

“Yes, we were,” agreed Aubrey, beginning to pull himself up from his chair.

Edward, with the solicitude so little appreciated, at once went to his assistance. Unable to shake off the sustaining grip on his elbow Aubrey submitted to it, but his thank you was icily uttered, and he made no attempt to stir from where he was standing until Edward removed his hand. He then smoothed his sleeve, and said, addressing himself to his sister: “I’ll be off to collect that package, m’dear. I wish you will write to Taplow, when you have a moment to yourself, and desire him to send us one of the London daily journals in future. I think we ought to have one, don’t you?”

“No need for that,” said Edward. “I promise you I am only too happy to share mine with you.”

Aubrey paused in the doorway to look back, and to say, with dulcet softness: “But if we had our own you wouldn’t be obliged to ride over to us so often, would you?”

“If I had known you wished for it I would have ridden over
every day,
with my father’s copy!” said Oswald earnestly.

“Nonsense!” said Edward, annoyed by this as he had not been by Aubrey’s overt ill-will. “I fancy Sir John might have something to say to that scheme! Venetia knows she can depend on me.”

This snubbing remark goaded Oswald into saying that Venetia could depend on him for the performance of far more dangerous services than the delivery of a newspaper. At least, that was the gist of what he meant to say, but the speech, which had sounded well enough in imagination, underwent an unhappy transformation when uttered. It became hopelessly involved, sounded lame even to its author, and petered out under the tolerant scorn in Edward’s eye.

A diversion was just then created by the Lanyons’ old nurse, who came into the room looking for Venetia. Finding that Mr. Yardley, of whom she approved, was with her young mistress she at once begged pardon, said that her business could wait, and withdrew again. But Venetia, preferring a domestic interlude, even if she were obliged to inspect worn sheets or listen to complaints of the younger servants’ idleness, to the company of her ill-assorted admirers, rose to her feet, and in the kindest possible way dismissed them, saying that she would find herself in disgrace with Nurse if she kept her waiting.