During the following week she had plenty of cause to feel grateful, and strangely oppressed, for Lady Broome showered benefits upon her. Her gifts ranged from trinkets unearthed from her jewel box to ribbons, or scraps of lace. None of the things she gave Kate were very valuable, but they made Kate uncomfortable. It was never possible to refuse them. “My dear, I have been going through my lace drawer, and came upon this set of collar and cuffs. Do you care to have them? They are of no use to me, but they would look very well on your fawn-figured dress, don’t you think?” would say her ladyship, and how could you reply that you didn’t think so? How could you say, when a necklace of seed pearls was clasped round your neck, and your aunt told you that she was too old to wear it herself, that you preferred not to accept it? It wasn’t possible even to refuse a new riding-habit, made by a tailor in Market Harborough, for Lady Broome pointed out, very gently, that her old one was woefully shabby. “We shall have everyone thinking me a shocking pinch-penny not to provide my only niece with a new one!” she said.
“If that is so, I need not ride, ma’am!”
“That’s being foolish beyond permission. What would Torquil say, I wonder? When he looks forward so much to the daily rides in your company! I must tell you, my love, that you have done Torquil a great deal of good, so, if you wish to repay me, continue to ride with him!”
“I do wish to repay you, ma’am, and surely there must be more I can do for you than ride with Torquil?” said Kate imploringly.
“Why, certainly! You can be my aide-de-camp, if you will, and attend to all the details which I neglect! I shall get you to write my letters for me, to arrange the flowers, and to keep the servants up to their work. You will soon be wishing that you hadn’t offered yourself as quite so willing a sacrifice!”
Kate had to be satisfied, but as it did not seem to her that her aunt neglected any detail, and was far from being a sad housekeeper, she found little to do, and was obliged to content herself with such unexacting tasks as gathering and arranging flowers, dusting ornaments, and playing cards with Sir Timothy, whenever his health permitted him to emerge from the seclusion of his own apartments. This, as she discovered, was not often. Dr Delabole was in constant attendance upon him, and watched him without seeming to. She was made aware of this when Sir Timothy suffered a slight seizure one evening, after dinner. Before she had realized it, the doctor, who had been talking to Lady Broome, was at his side, reviving him with strong smelling-salts, and lowering him to a recumbent position. Dismissed with Torquil to the billiards-room, she ventured to ask him what ailed his father, and was considerably daunted by the reply. “Oh, I don’t know!” said Torquil indifferently. “He’s been in queer stirrups ever since I can remember. I believe it’s his heart, but no one ever tells me anything!”
After this, Kate added a postscript to the letter she had written to Mrs Nidd: My cousin Torquil is the strangest boy, with the face of an angel, and the coldest of dispositions. I don’t know what to make of him.
This was not the first letter she had written to Mrs Nidd, but so far she had received no response to any of her previous missives. She was beginning to feel worried, and a little hurt. Since Sir Timothy was not a Member of Parliament, she had been unable to get a frank; but it seemed very unlikely that Sarah had repulsed her letters because she grudged the postage; nor, in a city, was she obliged to collect her letters from the receiving office: indeed, Joe Nidd even paid to have his mail delivered early each morning. It seemed even more unlikely that she could be ilclass="underline" Sarah was never ill. And if she had been taken suddenly ill she would surely have scribbled a few lines, or instructed Joe to do so? When Kate had written her first letter, she had taken it to Lady Broome, and asked diffidently if it might be dispatched. Lady Broome had replied: “Yes, dear child, of course! Put it on the table in the hall! Pennymore arranges for the letters to be carried to the Post Office in Market Harborough, and it will go with mine.”
Kate had obeyed these instructions; but when no answer was forthcoming she asked Pennymore if her letters had in fact been taken to the Post Office. He said that if she had placed them on the table in the hall they had certainly been posted; and further disclosed that the incoming post-bag was always delivered to her ladyship, who sorted and distributed the letters it contained, most of which were directed to herself.
So when Kate had sealed her fourth letter to Sarah, she hesitated for a few moments, and then went in search of her aunt. She found her writing at her desk, and upon being invited, with a kind smile, to tell her aunt what she wanted, said frankly: “To own the truth, ma’am, I am in a worry! I haven’t heard from Sarah—from Mrs Nidd—though I’ve written to her several times. I can’t help wondering whether—” She stopped, finding herself quite unable to continue, and tried again. “I collect, ma’am, that she hasn’t written to me? I mean—you would have given me any letters that were directed to me?”
“But of course!” said Lady Broome, raising her eyebrows.
Thrown into a little confusion, Kate said stammeringly: “Yes. Well, of c-course you would, ma’am! Only it does seem so odd of Sarah…’
Lady Broome gave a soft laugh. “Does it? You must remember, my dear, that persons of her order find writing a great labour.”
It was true that Sarah did not write with ease. Kate agreed doubtfully. Lady Broome continued in a smooth tone: “If you have given her an account of yourself she knows that you are well, and—I trust!—happy, and she feels, no doubt, that you are off her hands. So much as she must have to do!” She smiled. “After all, you haven’t been here for very long yet, have you? I shouldn’t get into a fidget, if I were you!”
“No, ma’am,” said Kate meekly.
She turned away, and was about to leave the room when Lady Broome said: “By the way, my dear, I am giving a dinner-party tomorrow, so tell Risby to send suitable flowers up to the house in the morning! For the hall, the Crimson saloon, the staircase, the Long Drawing-room, and the anteroom. I suppose we had better have some for the gallery as well.”
“Yes, ma’am, but I had liefer by far pick them myself! Risby’s notions of what is suitable are so—so nipcheese!”
“As you wish,” said her ladyship. “Don’t fag yourself to death, however!”
“I won’t!” promised Kate, laughing.
She went off, heartened by the prospect of a party to relieve what had begun, very slightly, to be every evening’s boredom. She had been surprised to find her aunt leading almost the life of a recluse at Staplewood, for she had assumed her to be a woman of decided fashion, and knew that she took pleasure in being the great lady of the district. She supposed that Sir Timothy’s ill-health accounted for it, but it did seem to her that a few small parties of young persons need not disturb him, and would have done much to reconcile Torquil to his lot. Then it occurred to her that Torquil had no friends, other than the Templecombes, and she wondered whether there was perhaps a dearth of young people in the neighbourhood. She ventured to ask Lady Broome if this were so, and was told that there were very few of Torquil’s age. “He doesn’t make friends easily, and I must own that I am glad of it,” said her ladyship frankly. “He is somewhat above the touch of most of the people who live within our reach. Mere smatterers, my dear, to put it in straight words! Much given to romping parties, too: I daresay you know what I mean. I dislike such affairs, and they would not do for Torquil at all. He is so excitable, and his character is as yet unformed. You must have noticed that he suffers from unequal spirits: either he is in alt, or sunk in dejection! The one state invariably follows hard on the other, and although he is in a way to be very much better, Dr Delabole considers that he should still lead a quiet life.”