“I’m not unmoved,” responded Abby crossly. “I am most deeply moved—with a strong desire to give Fanny the finest trimming of her life! I’d do it, too, if I didn’t fear that it would encourage her in the belief that she is a persecuted heroine!”
In this noble resolve to abstain from gratifying her desire she was strengthened by Fanny’s reception of the only piece of advice she permitted herself to give that love-lorn damseclass="underline" that she should not wear her heart on her sleeve. Chin up, eyes flashing, flying her colours in her cheeks, Fanny said: “I am not ashamed of loving Stacy! Why should I dissemble?”
Quite a number of pungent retorts rose to Abby’s tongue, and it said much for her self-control that she uttered none of them. Intuition had made Fanny suspect already that her favourite aunt was ranged on the side of Stacy Calverleigh’s enemies; she was slightly on the defensive, not yet hostile, but ready to show hackle. No useful purpose would be served by coming to cuffs with her, Abby thought, and therefore held her peace.
Chapter III
Mr Calverleigh did not reappear in Bath that week, nor did he write to Fanny. Abby began to entertain the hope that a mountain had indeed been made out of a molehill, and that he had merely been amusing himself with a flirtation; and could have borne with tolerable equanimity Fanny’s wilting demeanour had it not been disclosed to her by the amiable Lady Weaverham that her ladyship had received a very proper letter from him, excusing himself from dining with her on the following Wednesday, but stating that he would certainly be in Bath again by the end of the next week, when he would call in Lower Camden Place to proffer his apologies in person.
This piece of news applied a damper to Abby’s optimism. Her spirits were further depressed by the announcement by Selina, in the thread of a voice, that she had contracted a putrid sore throat, accompanied by fever, a severe headache, and a colicky disorder. She had not closed her eyes all night, and could only hope that these distressing symptom did not presage an illness which, if not immediately fatal, would leave her to drag out the rest of her life between her bed and a sofa. Abby did not share these gloomy apprehensions, but she lost no time in sending for the latest practitioner to enjoy Selina’s favour. She begged him not to encourage the sufferer to think herself hovering on the brink of the grave. He promised to reassure Selina, and very nearly lost his most lucrative patient by telling her, in hearty accents, that nothing worse had befallen her than what he was tactless enough to term a touch of influenza.Before he had time to prophesy a speedy recovery he realized that he had fallen into error, and, with a dexterity which (in spite of herself) Abby was obliged to acknowledge, retrieved his position by saying that, although he would ordinarily consider the illness trifling, when it attacked persons of such frail constitution as Miss Wendover the greatest care must be exercised to ensure that no serious consequences should attend it. He recommended her to remain in bed; promised to send her within the hour a saline draught; approved of such remedies as extract of malt for a possible cough; goat’s whey, to guard against consumption; laudanum drops in case of insomnia; and a diet of mutton-broth, tapioca-jelly, and barley-water, all of which she had herself suggested; and left the sickroom tolerably certain that he had restored her wavering faith in his skill. He told Abby, apologetically, that neither these remedies nor the depressing diet would do any harm, and with this she had to be content, resigning herself to the inevitable, and deriving what consolation she could from the reflection that for some days at least there was no danger that while she danced attendance on her sitter Mr Calverleigh would be strengthening his hold on Fanny’s youthful affections.
The eldest Miss Wendover showed every sign of enjoying a protracted illness, for although the fever soon abated she maintained a ticklish cough, and, after an attack of heart-burn, threw out so many dark hints to her entourage about cardiac nerves that Fanny became quite alarmed, and asked Abby if poor Aunt Selina’s heart had indeed been affected.
“No, dear: not at all!” responded Abby cheerfully.
“But—Abby, I have sometimes wondered if—Abby, does my aunt like to be ill?”
“Yes, certainly she does. Why not? She has very little to divert her, after all! It makes her the centre of attention, too, and how unkind it would be to grudge it to her! The melancholy truth is, my love, that single females of her age are almost compelled to adopt dangerous diseases, if they wish to be objects of interest. Not only spinsters, either! You must surely have observed how many matrons, whose children are all married, and who are so comfortably situated that they have really nothing very much to do, develop the most interesting disorders!”
Her eyes as round as saucers, Fanny asked: “Do you mean that my aunt will lie on a sofa for the rest of her life?”
“No, no!” said Abby. “Sooner or later something will happen to give her thoughts a new direction, and you will be surprised to see how quickly she will recover!”
In the event, this happened rather sooner than could have been expected. Shortly after noon one day, Abby entered her room to find her seated bolt upright on the day-bed, to which, support-ported by her maid, she had tottered an hour before, eagerly perusing the crossed sheet of a letter just delivered by the post.
“Oh, dearest, whatever do you think?” she exclaimed, in accents startlingly unlike those with which she had greeted her sister earlier in the day. “The Leavenings are coming to spend the winter in Bath! Good God, they may have arrived already! Mrs Leavening writes that they mean to put up at the York House while they look about them for lodgings, and depend upon us to advise them, for they were never in Bath before, you know! I wonder if the lodgings the Thursleys hired in Westgate Building—but they are in the lower part of the town, of course, and though it is a broad street—and anything here,or in Pulteney Street, or Laura Place, might be above their price—not that Mrs Leavening tells what is the figure they have in mind, but I shouldn’t suppose Mr Leavening’s fortune to be more than genteel, would you?”
“My dear, since I haven’t the least guess who the Leavenings may be, I can’t answer you!” replied Abby, her eyes alight with laughter.
Miss Wendover was shocked. “Abby! How can you have forgotten? From Bedfordshire—our own county! Almost our neighbours! He had a wart on his left cheek—such a pity!—but in all other respects quite unexceptionable! Or am I thinking of Mr Tarvin? Yes, I fancy it was he who had the wart, which makes it even more delightful, for there is something about warts, isn’t there? Dearest, I wish you will go to York House this afternoon! So unfriendly not to welcome them immediately, and I wouldn’t for the world have Mrs Leavening suspect that we had forgotten her! You will tell her how happy I am to hear of her arrival, and explain how it comes about that I am unable to visit her myself—not but what I am a great deal stronger today, and I daresay I may be able to come downstairs tomorrow. And if you were to walk up Milsom Street, Abby, you could pop into Godwin’s, to discover if they haven’t yet received that book Mrs Grayshott told me I should enjoy. It is called the Knight of something or other—not, of course, that I am an advocate for novel-reading. Perhaps Mrs. Leavening would come and sit with me for a little while tomorrow. What a lot she will have to tell us about our old friends, which James and Cornelia never do! I declare, it has put me in spirits only to think of it! We must hold one of our evening-parties, dearest! I shall occupy myself in making out a list of the people to be invited while you are in the town.” She added kindly: “Such a fine afternoon as it is! It will do you good to take a walk, dearest. You have been cooped up with me for too long.”