Venetia (40 page)

“Like a Bird of Paradise,” supplied Venetia obligingly. “I thought so myself. But—”

“Venetia,” interposed Edward, in a tone of grave reproof, “do not let your sportive tongue betray you into saying what is not at all becoming, believe me!”

“How did it come about, ma’am, that Papa divorced her?” demanded Venetia, ignoring this interruption.

“That,” declared Mrs. Hendred, with a shudder, “nothing shall ever prevail upon me to discuss! If only Francis had not allowed the General to reconcile him to her, after the Yattenden affair! But so it was—and the way Aurelia could twist men round her thumb—! Well, it would have been better for everyone if he had remained adamant, but he let her coax and cajole him, and then Aubrey was born, and such a pet as she fell into when she found she was increasing again—! And then that dreadful Sir Lambert Steeple began to cast out lures, so that anyone could have known how it would be! His father had just died, and left him that
immense
fortune, and of course he was excessively handsome, but the most shocking profligate, besides being— Well, never mind that, but he wore the Prince’s button—for he wasn’t the Prince Regent
then—
and a more
improper
set than the Prince’s people I daresay never existed! And don’t, I beg of you, my dear niece, ask me to tell you how it was that your father was obliged to divorce her, for it makes me feel vapourish only to think of the scandal, and the way even one’s closest friends—I am quite overpowered! My smelling-salts!—Oh, I have them here!”

Venetia, who had listened to this in amazement, said slowly: “So that was why Papa shut himself up at Undershaw, and wouldn’t let anyone mention her! Of all the
mutton-headed
things to have done— But how like him! how very like him!”

“Hush, Venetia!” said Edward sternly. “Remember of whom you are speaking!”

“I shall not hush!” she retorted. “You know perfectly well that I never held him in affection, and if you think that this is a suitable moment for me to pretend I loved him you must have windmills in your head! Was there ever such a selfish folly? Pray, how much affection had he for me when, instead of taking care I should be brought up as other girls so that everyone might have been well-acquainted with me, he buried me alive? Why, for anything that is known of me I might be as like Mama in disposition as I’m held to be like her in appearance!”

“
Exactly
so
,
my love!” corroborated Mrs. Hendred, replacing the stopper of her vinaigrette. “It is why I am for ever telling you that you cannot be too careful not to give people the smallest cause to say you
are
like her! Not but what I for one couldn’t blame your poor papa, though your uncle, of course, did his utmost to persuade him that he would be making the greatest mistake, for he is very strong-minded, and never pays the least heed to gossip. But Francis was always such a high stickler, never passing the line, and holding himself so very much up! He could not bear to be so mortified, and I’m sure it wasn’t to be wondered at, for instead of hiding herself from the world, as one might have supposed she would, Aurelia—your mama, I mean, and how very dreadful to be speaking to you of her in such terms, but I do feel, dear child, that you should know the truth!—well, she positively
flaunted
herself all over town, though not, of course,
received,
and only think how degrading for Francis it would have been! No sooner did Sir Lambert marry her—and the wonder is that he did marry her, when it was an open secret that she was his mistress, and costing him a fortune, too!—no sooner did he marry her than she became perfectly outrageous! Nothing would do for her but to put us all to the blush, and set everyone staring at her! She used to drive a high-perch phaeton every afternoon in the park, with four cream-coloured horses in blue and silver harness, which they say Sir Lambert bought from Astley, just as though she had not been his wife at all, but something very different!”

“Good heavens!” said Venetia, on a tiny choke of laughter. “How—how very dashing of her! I see, of course, that that would never have done for Papa. Poor man! the last in the world to be set dancing to the tune of
Cuckolds All Awry
!”

“Well, yes, my dear, though I do beg you won’t use such improper language! But you do perceive how awkward it was? And particularly when it was time for you to be brought out, which your uncle insisted I must urge your papa to consent to. And no one can say I didn’t offer to present you, but when your papa declined it—well, only think what a quake I should have been in, for they were then living in Brook Street—the Steeples, I mean—and Aurelia was always so capricious that heaven only knows what she might not have taken it into her head to do! Why, she had the effrontery to wave her hand to you this very evening! I shall never cease to be thankful that there was no one I’m acquainted with to see her! Oh, dear, what in the world has brought them back to England, I wonder?”

“They don’t live here now, ma’am?”

“No, no, not for years, though I fancy Sir Lambert come? every now and then, for he has a very large property in Staffordshire. It’s my belief Aurelia thought that because she entertained the Prince Regent, and
that
set, the
ton
would receive her again, but of course it was no such thing, and so Sir Lambert sold the London house—oh, six or seven years ago!—and I believe they went to Lisbon, or some such place. Lately—since the Peace, I mean—they have been living in Paris. Why they must needs come to London at this moment—and your uncle away from home, so that what’s to be done I cannot think!”

“My dear ma’am, nothing!” said Venetia. “Even my uncle can’t be expected to drive them out of the country!” She got up from her chair, and began to walk about the room. “My head is in a perfect whirl!” she said, pressing her hands to her temples. “How is it
possible
that I should never have heard so much as a whisper of this? Surely they must have known—? Everyone at home—Miss Poddemore, Nurse—the villagers!”

“Your papa forbade anyone to speak of it, my dear. Besides, it is not to be supposed that they knew the whole at Undershaw, for it was very much hushed up—your uncle saw to that!—and in any event I am persuaded Miss Poddemore—such an excellent woman!—would never have opened her lips on the subject to a soul!”

“No. Or Nurse, or— But the maids— No, they all held Papa in such awe: they wouldn’t have dared, I suppose. But later, when I grew up—”

“You forget that until Sir Francis’s death you were acquainted only with the Dennys, and with my mother and myself,” said Edward. “By then, moreover, several years had passed. I do not say that the scandal was
forgotten,
but it was too old to be much thought about in Yorkshire any longer. It was not at all likely that you would ever hear it mentioned.”

“I never did. Good God, why could not Papa have told me? Of all the infamous— Does Conway know?”

“Yes, but Conway is a man, dear child! And of course he had to know, when he was sent to Eton, but Papa forbade him
ever
to speak of it!”

“Gothic! perfectly Gothic!” said Venetia. Her eyes went to Edward. “So
that
is
why Mrs. Yardley doesn’t like me!” she exclaimed.

He lifted his hand. “I assure you, my dear Venetia, you are mistaken! My mother has frequently told me that she likes you very well. That she did not, for some time, wish for the connection is—I know you must agree
—understandable,
for her principles are high, and anything in the nature of scandal is repugnant to her—as, indeed, it must be to anyone of propriety.”

“Such as yourself?” she asked.

He replied weightily: “I do not deny that it is not what I like. Indeed, I struggled to overcome what I felt was an attachment I ought never to have allowed myself to form. It would not do, however. I became persuaded that there was nothing in your character, or your disposition, that made you unworthy to succeed my dear mother as mistress of Netherfold. You have sometimes a trifle too much volatility, as I have had occasion now and then to hint to you, but of your
virtue
I have no doubt.”

“Edward, this encomium un—
unwomans
me!” said Venetia faintly, sinking into a chair, and covering her eyes with one hand.

“You are upset,” he told her kindly. “It is not to be wondered at. It has been painful for you to learn what cannot but cause you to feel great affliction, but you must not allow your spirits to become too much oppressed.”

“I will put forth my best endeavours not to fall into flat, despair,” promised Venetia, in a shaking voice. “Perhaps you had better go now, Edward! I don’t think I can talk about it any more without becoming hysterical!”

“Yes, it is very natural that you should wish to be alone, to reflect upon all you have heard. I shall leave you, and in good hands,” he added, bowing slightly to Mrs. Hendred. “One thing, which occurs to me, I will say before I go. It may be that—er—Lady Steeple will seek an interview with you. You will not, of course, grant such a request, but if she should send a message to you, do not reply to it until you have seen me again! It will be an awkward business, but I shall think it over carefully, and don’t doubt that by tomorrow I shall be able to advise you in what terms your reply should be couched. Now, do not think you must ring for your butler to show me out, ma’am, I beg! I know my way!”

He then shook hands with his hostess, patted Venetia reassuringly on the shoulder, and took himself off. Slightly affronted, Mrs. Hendred said: “Well, if anybody should advise you how to reply to Aurelia I should have thought— however, I am sure he meant it kindly! Poor child, you are quite overset! I wish to heaven—”

“I am quite in
stitches
!”
retorted Venetia, letting her hand drop, and showing her astonished aunt a countenance alive with laughter. “Oh, my dear ma’am,
don’t
look so shocked, I do beg of you! Can’t you see how absurd— No, I see you can’t! But if he had stayed another instant I must have been in whoops!
Painful
news? I never was more overjoyed in my life!”

“
Venetia
!”
gasped Mrs. Hendred. “My dearest niece, you
are
hysterical!”

“I promise you I am not, dear ma’am—though when I think of all the nonsense that has been talked about
my
reputation, and
my
prospects I wonder I am not lying rigid on the floor and drumming my heels! Damerel must have known the truth! He
must
have known it! In fact, I daresay he is very well acquainted with my mama, for she looked to me precisely the sort of female he
would
be acquainted with! Yes, and now I come to think of it he said something to me once that proves he knows her! Only he was in one of his funning moods, and I thought nothing of it. But—but why, if he knew about my mother, did he think it would ruin me to marry him? It is quite
idiotish
!”

Mrs. Hendred, reeling under this fresh shock, said: “Venetia, I do
implore
you—! It is precisely what makes it of the very first importance that you should
not
marry him! Good gracious, child, only think what would be said!
Like mother, like daughter
!
How many times have I impressed upon you that your circumstances make it
imperative
that you should conduct yourself with the greatest propriety! Heaven knows it is difficult enough—though your uncle says that he is confident you will receive very eligible offers, for he holds, and Lord Damerel too, I make no doubt, that when you are seen to be an unexceptionable girl—not at all like your mother, however much you may resemble her, which, I must own, it is a thousand pities you do—no man of sense will hesitate—though the more I think of Mr. Foxcott, the more doubtful I feel about him, because—”

“Don’t waste a thought on him!” said Venetia. “Don’t waste a thought on any of the eligible suitors you’ve found for me, dear ma’am! There is more of my mama in me than you have the least idea of, and the only eligible husband for me is a rake!”

XIX

when she was in London, Mrs. Hendred’s breakfast was invariably carried up to her bedchamber on a tray, but it was Venetia’s custom, like that of many other ladies of more energetic habit than Mrs. Hendred, to rise betimes, and sally forth, either to do a little hum-drum shopping, or to walk in one of the parks. Breakfast was served on her return in a parlour at the back of the house, and such was the esteem in which she was held in the household that it was Worting’s practice to wait on her himself, instead of deputing this office to the under-butler. Worting, like Miss Bradpole, had recognized at a glance that Mrs. Hendred’s niece from Yorkshire was no country miss on her probation, or indigent hanger-on unexpectant of any extraordinary civility. Miss Lanyon was Quality; and it was easy to see that she was accustomed to rule over a genteel establishment. Moreover, she was a very agreeable young lady, on whom it was quite a pleasure to wait, for she was neither familiar nor high in the instep. She could depress a pert London housemaid with no more than a look, but many was the chat Worting had enjoyed with her in the breakfast-parlour. They discussed such interesting topics as Domestic Economy, Town Life as contrasted with Country Life, and the Changes that had taken place since Worting had first embarked on his distinguished career. It was he who was Venetia’s chief guide to London, for she did not at all disdain to ask his advice. He told her what places were considered worthy of being visited, how they were to be reached, and what it was proper to bestow on chairmen, or the drivers of hacks.

On the morning following Edward Yardley’s unlucky theatre-party she did not go out before breakfast, nor did she wish for information about any historic monument. She wanted to know which were the most elegant hotels in town, and she could scarcely have applied to anyone more knowledgeable. Worting could tell her something about them all, and he was only too happy to do so, reciting, with a wealth of detail, a formidable list ranging from such hostelries as Osborne’s Hotel, in Adam Street (genteel accommodation for families, and single gentlemen), to such establishments as the Grand, in Covent Garden (superior), and (if one of the First Houses was required) Grillon’s, the Royal, the Clarendon, the Bath, and the Pulteney, all of which (and a great many others besides) catered exclusively for the Nobility and the Gentry. He was himself inclined to favour the Bath, on the south side of Piccadilly, by Arlington Street: a rambling house, conducted on old-fashioned lines, and patronized by persons of taste and refinement, but if Miss had in mind something generally considered to stand at the height of the mode, he would recommend her to enquire for her friends at the Pulteney.