Kate was startled, but not alarmed. She had removed her dress before she settled down to her stitchery, and she now snatched up her dressing-gown, and hastily put it on before running along the gallery to her aunt’s room. There was no response to her first tap on the door, so she repeated it, rather more loudly. Then, as still there was no reply, she ventured to open the door, and to speak her aunt’s name. Even as she did so she saw, by the light of the lamp burning on the table, that the great bed was unoccupied, its curtains undrawn, and its clothing undisturbed. Since Lady Broome had declared herself to be dropping with sleep, and had certainly gone to her room after bidding Kate goodnight, this was surprising. Kate was wondering what to do next when she saw a light approaching up the secondary stairway which lay at the end of the gallery. That did alarm her for an instant, but even as she caught her breath on a gasp Lady Broome came into sight, carrying a lamp. She had put off her rubies, but she was fully dressed, and was looking exhausted. When she saw Kate, she said sharply: “What is it? What are you doing here?”
“I came in search of you, ma’am. There is a man in the garden: I saw him from my window!”
“Nonsense! What man?”
“I don’t know that: I had only a glimpse of him before he hid behind the yew hedge. I came to tell you! Should we rouse Pennymore, or, perhaps, Dr Delabole?”
“My dear child, I think you have been dreaming!”
“No, I haven’t! I haven’t been to bed!” said Kate indignantly.
Lady Broome shrugged. “Well, if you did indeed see someone it was probably one of the servants.”
“At this hour?”
“It is not so late, you know! It wants twenty minutes to midnight. Do, child, go back to your room, and to bed!”
“But—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t argue!” interrupted Lady Broome, with a flash of temper most unusual in her. She stopped herself, pressing a hand to her brow, and said in a more moderate tone: “Forgive me! I have the headache.”
The door at the end of the gallery which led into the West Wing opened, and Torquil came into the gallery. When he reached the light thrown by his mother’s lamp, Kate saw that he was considerably dishevelled, but in high good humour. He was chuckling a little, and his eyes were sparkling. He said: “I have had a fine game! Hide-and-seek, you know! I led them such a dance!”
“Where have you been, Torquil?” asked his mother. She spoke with customary calm, and compellingly.
He giggled. “In the woods. I heard them coming, Matthew and Badger, and I escaped over the bridge. Famous sport! They are still searching for me!”
He sounded unlike himself. Remembering the wine he had drunk at dinner, Kate came to the conclusion that he was a trifle foxed. His speech was not slurred, nor was his gait unsteady, but he seemed to her to be decidedly well and lively.
“Go back to your room, Torquil!” said Lady Broome coldly.
His mood changed. He stopped giggling, and glowered at her. “I won’t! I won’t be ordered about! I’m not a child! No, and I won’t be spied on! I won’t—”
“Torquil, go back to your room!” commanded Lady Broome, in a level voice.
Her stern eyes held his glittering ones for a few moments of silent struggle for mastery. It was Torquil who yielded. His angry glare shifted, and fell; as his mother advanced slowly towards him, he turned, and ran back into his own quarters, slamming the door behind him.
“You too, Kate,” said Lady Broome, her iron calm undisturbed. “There is nothing to alarm you: the man you saw was probably Dr Delabole, or Badger. Goodnight!”
“Goodnight, ma’am,” responded Kate, subdued.
Chapter VI
Torquil did not appear at the breakfast-table on the following morning. Kate was not surprised, for experience had taught her that when a man went bosky to bed he awoke with a splitting headache, and a general feeling of being quite out of curl. When Lady Broome apologized, rather stiffly, for the incident, she replied, with her engaging twinkle: “He was in very merry pin, wasn’t he, ma’am? No need to ask you in what sort of cue he is this morning!” She saw that her aunt was staring at her, and added: “No need to beg my pardon either! I have frequently seen men in their altitudes, as the saying is. He wasn’t more than half-sprung, you know!”
“No,” agreed her ladyship slowly. “He wasn’t, was he?” She smiled, and said: “I daresay it is unnecessary for me to warn you not to mention the matter to him?”
“Quite unnecessary, dear aunt!” Kate assured her. “I don’t suppose he will retain the least recollection of it!”
This, when Torquil rejoined the family circle before dinner, was seen to be true. He was lethargic, and his eyes, which had shone with such unearthly brilliance, were a little clouded. But he smiled sleepily at Kate, and seemed to be in an unusually docile mood, and with no remembrance of anything that had happened after dinner on the previous evening. Trying to recollect, he frowned, and gave his head a little shake, as though in an attempt to shake off the mists in his brain. Before he could succeed in doing so, Sir Timothy, who had been watching him in what seemed to Kate to be disproportionate anxiety, rose shakily from his chair, muttering: “I am unwell. I must go to my own rooms. Give me your arm, one of you!”
A footman was instantly at his side, but was ousted by Dr Delabole, who said soothingly: “Lean on me, sir! That’s the way! You will soon be better—soon be better!”
Torquil had dragged himself to his feet, looking bewildered, but Lady Broome, who had not left her seat, said, without emotion: “Sit down, my son! You can do nothing to help him: it is not serious! He has been in a poor way all day, thanks to last night’s party, but he would come to dinner!”
She smiled consolingly, and her optimism was soon justified by the return of the doctor, who said, as he resumed his seat at the table, and picked up his knife and fork again, that it was a mere faintness: he had given Sir Timothy a restorative, and had left him in charge of his valet.
The evening surpassed in dullness all that had gone before it. Lady Broome was abstracted, and Torquil sleepy, and it was left to Dr Delabole to provide entertainment for Kate. He did this by challenging her to a game of cribbage. He said gaily that he was no match for her at backgammon, or piquet, but that he fancied himself to be a bit of a dab at cribbage. He enlivened the game with a constant flow of persiflage, and Kate could only be thankful when her aunt broke up the party soon after the tea-tray had been brought in.
Nothing occurred that night to disturb her rest, but on the following morning the doctor reported that Torquil was a trifle out of sorts, so she was deprived of her daily ride. As though to make up for this, Lady Broome took her out in her barouche, to visit the indigent sick, an unexciting occupation which made her think longingly of a busier if less comfortable life. She found herself wondering how long it would be before she could bring her visit to an end, but it was evident that Lady Broome had no idea of her leaving Staplewood until the autumn, and no suspicion that she might be bored there. Kate had begun to realize that her aunt had very little imagination: she was not herself bored at Staplewood, and could not understand how anyone (least of all an impoverished niece) could wish to be otherwhere. She had surrounded Kate with every luxury; she had clothed her expensively; she had bestowed gifts upon her; and while she brushed off any expressions of gratitude she did expect, perhaps unconsciously, that Kate should repay her with a grateful adoration.