Venetia (44 page)

She awoke in darkness, and to hear the Minster clock chiming the threequarters, and started up in dismay, groping for the bell-rope that hung beside the bed. When the chambermaid appeared, bearing a candle, she was somewhat relieved to learn that the hour was not quite so far advanced as she had feared. It wanted ten minutes to seven. The chambermaid, a kindly soul, said that she had taken a look-in at her at four o’clock, but had thought it would be a shame to rouse her. She suggested that Miss must be ready for her dinner, which was now being served in the coffee-room; but Venetia, though ravenously hungry, merely begged her, as she scrambled into the clean dress she had earlier unpacked from her portmanteau, to run downstairs to the landlord, and to bespeak on her behalf a chaise-and-pair, or any other available vehicle, to convey her immediately to Elliston Priory.

It had been her intention, after the refreshment of half an hour on that treacherous bed, to have stepped round to Mr. Mytchett’s place of business, for after buying her ticket on the mail, paying for the breakfast she had had no time to eat, and tipping the guard, her resources had dwindled to no more than would enable her to defray the charges at the inn. She was just able to do that; and presently climbed up into the job-chaise in reduced circumstances, but heartened by the reflection that someone at the Priory—Aubrey, or Damerel, or Imber—could defray the postboy’s charges.

But Imber, opening the door to this wholly unexpected visitor shortly after half-past eight, merely goggled more than ever at an airy request to pay off the postboy, and repeated in such stunned accents: “Pay off the postboy, miss?” that Venetia said, impatient of further delay: “Oh, never mind! His lordship will give you the money! Where shall I find him? Is he in the library?”

Still staring at her with dropped jaw Imber slowly shook his head. A numbing fear clutched her heart; she stammered: “
G-gone
?
Imber, has he left Yorkshire? Don’t stand there gaping at me! do you take me for a ghost? Where is his lordship?”

He swallowed, and replied: “He’s in the dining-room, miss, but—but he’s eaten Hull cheese. Miss Venetia! You hadn’t ought—
Miss—
!”
But as this excursion into the vernacular was quite incomprehensible to Venetia, she paid no heed to the note of urgent entreaty in Imber’s voice, but went quickly down the hall towards the dining-room. Opening the door, she stepped into the room, and stood on the threshold, hesitating a moment, because suddenly, mingled with the longing to see her love again, she was aware of shyness.

All the way north she had pictured this meeting, wondering what Damerel would say, and how he would look, what she herself would say to him. It had not occurred to her that he would neither speak nor look at her, or that their actual meeting would be so wholly unlike anything she had imagined.

He was alone, sprawling in the carved armchair at the head of the table, one arm resting on the table, and the fingers of that hand crooked round the stem of a wineglass. The covers had been removed, and a half-empty decanter stood at his elbow, its stopper lying beside it. He was always rather careless of his appearance, but never had Venetia seen him so untidy. He had loosened his neck-cloth, and his waistcoat hung open, and his black hair looked as if he had been in a high wind. He sat immobile, his shoulders against the high chair-back, his legs stretched out, and his brooding gaze fixed. The harsh lines of his face seemed to be accentuated, and his sneer was strongly marked. As Venetia moved softly forward into the candlelight he at last turned his eyes and looked at her. She stood still, shyness and mischief in her smile, and a hint of enquiry. He stared uncomprehendingly at her, and then, startling her, lifted his hand to his eyes, to shut her from his sight, ejaculating in a thickened voice of repulsion: “O God!
No
!”

This entirely unexpected reaction to her arrival might well have daunted Venetia, but as she had by this time realized that his lordship was, in the common phrase, extremely well to live, she was undismayed, and even rather amused. She exclaimed: “Oh, Damerel,
must
you be foxed just at this moment? How
odious
you are, my dear friend!”

His hand fell; for one instant he gazed at her incredulously, then he was on his feet, knocking over his wineglass. “Venetia!” he uttered. “
Venetia
!”

Two hasty, uncertain strides brought him round the corner of the table; she moved towards him, and melted into his arms as he seized her.

He held her in a crushing embrace, fiercely kissing her, uttering disjointedly: “My love—my heart—oh, my dear delight! It
is
you!”

She had flung one arm round his neck, and as he raised his head to devour her face with his eyes she tenderly smoothed back the dishevelled lock of hair from his brow. Whatever qualms or doubts had assailed her had vanished; she smiled lovingly up at him, and said, turning the word into a caress: “
Stoopid
!”

He gave a laugh like a groan, kissing her again, tightening his arms round her until she could scarcely breathe. Then he seemed to recollect himself a little, and slackened his hold, exclaiming shakily: “I must reek of brandy!”

“You do!” she told him frankly. “Never mind it! I daresay I shall soon grow accustomed to it.”

He released her, pressing his hands over his eyes. “Hell and the devil! I’m jug-bitten—drunk as a wheelbarrow! I can’t—” His hands dropped, he demanded almost angrily: “What brings you here? O God, why did you come?”

“The mail-coach brought me, love, and I’ll tell you why presently. Oh, my dear friend, I have so
much
to tell you! But first we must pay off the chaise. Imber seems not to have any money, so will you let him have your purse, if you please?”

“What chaise?”

“The one I hired in York to bring me here. I hadn’t enough of my own money left—in fact, I am run quite off my legs, and must now hang on your sleeve! Damerel, do, pray, give me your purse!”

He dived a hand mechanically into his pocket, but apparently he was not carrying his purse, for he brought it out again empty. His love, apostrophizing him affectionately as a castaway pea-goose, turned from him to go in search of Aubrey, and found that Imber was standing in the doorway, his face a study in disapproval, curiosity, and astonishment.

“Marston is paying the postboy, miss,” he said. “But, begging your pardon, if he’s to be sent back to York—Miss Venetia, you don’t mean to
stay
here?”

“Yes, I do,” she responded. “Tell Marston to send the chaise away, if you please!”

This seemed to penetrate to Damerel’s somewhat clouded brain. “No!” he said forcefully, if a little huskily.

“No, my lord,” agreed Imber, relieved. “Shall I tell him to rack up for a while, or—”

“Pay no heed to his lordship!” said Venetia. “Surely you must be able to see that he is
not
himself! Send the chaise off, and then, if you don’t wish me to drop into a swoon, do, I implore you, fetch me some supper! All I’ve eaten since yesterday is one slice of bread-and-butter, and I am
famished
!
Tell Mrs. Imber I beg her pardon for being so troublesome, and that some cold meat will do very well!”

Imber looked for guidance towards his master, but as Damerel was occupied in an attempt to marshal his disordered wits, and paid no attention to him, he went reluctantly away to carry out Venetia’s orders.

“Venetia!” said Damerel, raising his head from between his hands, and speaking with painstaking clarity. “You can’t remain here. I won’t let you. Out of the question. Not so top-heavy I don’t know that.”

“Nonsense, my dear friend! Aubrey is all the chaperon I need. Where is he, by the by?”

He shook his head. “Not here. Gone—forgot the fellow’s name—some parson! Grinder.”

“What, is Mr. Appersett home again?” she exclaimed. “I
knew
I dared not wait another hour! Has Aubrey left you already? Oh, well! It can’t be helped, and, to own the truth, I don’t care a rush!”

He frowned. “Not left me. Gone to dine at the Parsonage. Appersett. Yes, that’s right. He came home yesterday—or the day before. Can’t remember. But it doesn’t signify. You can’t remain here.”

She regarded him with a sapient eye. “Yes, I see how it is,” she remarked. “I daresay it is the same with every man, for I recall that whenever Conway was in the least disguised he would take some notion into his head, in general an
idiotish
one, and hold to it buckle and thong!”

He repeated, very creditably: “ ‘Idiotish’!” A laugh shook him. “I thought I should never hear you say that again
¹
”

“Do I say it a great deal?” she asked, and then, as he nodded: “Oh dear, how very tiresome of me! I must take care!”

“No. Not tiresome. But,” said his lordship, sticking to his guns, “you can’t remain here.”

“Well, I warn you, love, that if you cast me out I shall build me a willow cabin at your gates—and very likely die of an inflammation of the lungs, for November is
not
the month for building willow cabins! Oh, good-evening, Marston! Have you paid the postboy for me? I am very much obliged to you!”

“Good-evening, ma’am,” said the valet, with one of his rare smiles. “May I say how very happy I am to see you here again?”

“Thank you—I am very happy to be here!” she replied warmly. “But what is to be done? Here is his. lordship threatening to turn me out of doors: not at all happy to. see me!.”

“Just so, ma’am,” said Marston, casting an experienced glance at Damerel. “Perhaps if you would care to step up to Mr. Aubrey’s room, to take off your bonnet and pelisse—? There is a nice fire burning there, and I have instructed the housemaid to carry up a can of hot water, if you should wish to wash your hands. Also your portmanteau, ma’am.”

She nodded, and crossed the room to the door.

“
No
!”
said Damerel obstinately. “Listen to me!”

“Yes, my lord, in one moment!” replied Marston, ushering Venetia out of the room, and pulling the door to behind him. “The room next to Mr. Aubrey’s shall be prepared for you, ma’am. I should perhaps explain that Mr. Aubrey has driven over to dine at the Parsonage: but he will be back presently.” He added, in a reassuring tone: “His lordship will very soon be himself again, ma’am.”

“Marston, has he been getting foxed often?” Venetia asked bluntly.

“Oh, no, ma’am! He has been dipping rather deep, perhaps, but only when Mr. Aubrey has gone up to bed.” He hesitated, and then added, in his expressionless way: “It is always a sign of trouble with his lordship when he makes indentures, if you will pardon my saying so, ma’am.”

She looked frankly into his impassive countenance. “Has he been in trouble, Marston?”

“Yes, ma’am. In worse trouble than I have ever known him to suffer.”

She nodded, and said with a little smile: “We must see what can be done to cure that.”

“Yes, ma’am: I should be extremely glad,” said Marston, bowing slightly. “May I suggest supper in—about half an hour?”

She was so hungry that it took considerable resolution to enable her to suppress an instinctive protest; but she managed to do it, and even to acquiesce graciously, since it was evident that he wished her to keep out of the way. She went upstairs, and was rewarded for her docility as soon as she caught sight of her reflection in the looking-glass in Aubrey’s bedchamber. In the indifferent light provided by the one candle brought in by the chambermaid at the inn she had dressed by guess, and had done no more than drag a comb hastily through her curls before tieing on her hat; but Marston had caused two branches of candles to be set on the dressing-table, and in their relentless light Venetia saw with horror that she presented almost as dishevelled an appearance as did her castaway host. All thought of supper forgotten, she ripped off her hat, flung her pelisse on to the bed, and set about the urgent task of making herself once more fit to be seen. By the time this had been accomplished rather more than half an hour had elapsed. She disposed a very handsome zephyr shawl across her elbows, in the approved mode, took a last, critical look at her reflection, blew out the candles, and went downstairs again to the dining-room.

Here she found matters much improved, all traces of debauch having been removed, the table freshly laid, the fire made up, and Damerel, his disordered attire set severely to rights, miraculously sobered. He was in the act of draining a tankard when Venetia entered the room. She looked a little doubtfully at it, but whatever its contents had been they seemed to have exercised a beneficial effect upon his system, for he said in a perfectly clear voice, as he handed the empty tankard to Marston: “That’s better! Bread-and-cheese, and I shall do.” He turned, and smiled at Venetia, saying lightly, but with a glow in his eyes that warmed her heart: “Quite starving, my poor child? You shall be served immediately! Come and sit down—and let me set your anxious mind at rest! I won’t drive you from my roof: we have hit on a better scheme—or, to be honest, Marston has done so!
My
head isn’t yet capable of devising schemes. You have come here to consult with Aubrey on some important matter—don’t forget that!—and I am going to remove to the Red Lion. Thus we observe the proprieties!” He pushed in her chair, as she seated herself at the table, and added, still in that light tone: “You are doing your hair in a new way: very smart!” She realized that he was going to be difficult, but she was not much perturbed. Whatever his tongue might utter, his eyes betrayed him. She said chattily: “Do you like it? I hope you do, for I’m assured that it’s all the crack!”