Kate was grateful, but she could not love her aunt. In spite of her kindness, and her generosity, there was something in Lady Broome which repelled her. She more than once suspected that under the facade lay a cold and calculating nature; and tried to recall just what it was that her father had said about his half-sister. Something about her ambition, and how she was ready to go to all lengths to achieve it—but he had said it jokingly, not as though he had meant to disparage her. “She married Broome of Staplewood,” he had said, and had laughed. “Not a peer, but pretty well for Miss Minerva Malvern!”
But Papa had not known how proud his sister had become of Staplewood, and the Broome heritage. To Kate, it seemed as if this pride had become an obsession: nothing, in her aunt’s esteem, ranked above it. She had taken Kate to the Muniment Room, and had shown her its contents, and Kate had dutifully admired, and marvelled, and said all that was proper. But she could not share her aunt’s enthusiasm. It did not seem to her that the unbroken line was of so much importance, but since it was made plain to her that Lady Broome considered it to be of the first importance she did not say so. Only she did wonder that her aunt should bestow so much more of her loving care upon Staplewood than upon her husband, or her son.
She was for ever talking about it, trying, as it appeared, to inspire Kate with something of her own feeling for the place. When she had discharged her errands of mercy, and had rejoined Kate in the carriage, she gave the order to drive home, and told Kate that few things afforded her more pleasure than to pass through the lodge-gates, and up the long, winding avenue to the house. “When I compare it to other people’s houses, I realize how superior it is,” she said simply.
The sublimity of this statement surprised a choke of laughter out of Kate, for which she immediately apologized, saying that she supposed everyone considered his own house to be superior.
Lady Broome put up her brows. “But how could they? Be it understood that I am not speaking of great houses, such as Chatsworth, or Holkham—though both are too modern for my taste! I daresay there may be some who admire them, but for my part I prefer the antique. I like to think of all the Broomes who have lived at Staplewood—for it dates back beyond the baronetcy, and although succeeding generations have added to it, nothing has ever been destroyed. That is an awe-inspiring thought, is it not?”
“Most sobering!” agreed Kate, a little dryly.
Missing the inflexion, Lady Broome said: “Yes, that is what I feel.” After a pause, she said dreamily: “Sometimes I wonder whether my successor will share my feeling. I hope so, but I don’t depend on it.”
“Your successor, ma’am?”
“Torquil’s wife. She will be a very fortunate young womans won’t she?”
“Why, yes, ma’am! I suppose she will.”
“Position, wealth, Staplewood, a house in the best part of London—” Lady Broome broke off, sighing. “That was a sad blow to me, you know: being obliged to shut it up. Before Sir Timothy’s health failed, we were used to spend several months in London, during the Season. I won’t conceal from you, my dear, that I enjoyed those months excessively! I don’t think there can have been a single ton party given for which I didn’t receive a card of invitation. I was famed for my own parties, and have frequently entertained the Prince Regent, besides other members of the Royal Family. You may readily conceive what it meant to me to be obliged to give it all up! But the doctors were insistent that London life would never do for Sir Timothy. His constitution has always been delicate. Even when we were first married, he was used to become exhausted for what seemed to me to be no cause at all. He was bored by the balls, and the drums, and the race-parties, and the Opera-nights of which I could never have enough, but because he knew how much I enjoyed that way of life he concealed his boredom from me. And I was too young, and perhaps too much intoxicated by my success, to realize it.” She smiled faintly. “I was successful, you know!” My parties were always amongst the biggest squeezes of the Season! But, naturally, when Sir Timothy suffered his first heart attack, and the doctors warned me that a continued residence in London would prove fatal, I perceived that it was my duty to abandon the fashionable life, and to devote myself entirely to Staplewood. I’ve accustomed myself, but I do, now and then, envy Torquil’s wife!”
Rendered vaguely uneasy by this speech, and acutely aware of the footmen standing rigidly behind her, Kate tried for a lighter note. “You should consider, Aunt Minerva, that Torquil’s wife may not share your sentiments! For anything you know, he may fall violently in love with a country-bred girl who would shrink from the town diversions which to you are so desirable!”
The barouche, having passed through the lodge-gates, was now bowling up the avenue. After a moment’s silence, Lady Broome said abruptly: “Would they not be desirable to you, Kate?”
Since she had never considered the question, it took Kate aback. She took time over her answer, and, as the house came into sight, replied hesitantly: “I don’t know. They might, I suppose.”
Lady Broome seemed to be satisfied, and said no more. In another few minutes, the barouche drew up, and the ladies alighted from it. As they entered the house, Kate was impelled to say: “Knowing myself to be quite ineligible, I have never permitted myself to think how it would be to become a fashionable lady. Which is just as well, perhaps, since I’m almost an ape-leader now!”
“What nonsense!” replied Lady Broome, amused. “Is there no gentleman for whom you feel a tendre?”
“Not one!” replied Kate blithely. “Oh, in my salad days I fancied myself to be in love with several dashing officers—and with one in particular! I’ve forgotten his name, but he was very handsome, and, I regret to confess, a very ramshackle person! I have heard that he married a woman of fortune—that, of course, was always an object with him!—and is now the father of a hopeful family!”
“I hope you don’t mean to tell me that you have no admirers! That, I must warn you, would be coming it very much too strong!”
“No, ma’am, I don’t mean to tell you that,” replied Kate, “but my admirers, owing to my want of fortune, think of me as an agreeable flirt, not as a wife. Only one of them ever made me an offer—and he was the most odious little mushroom!”
“Ah, the brother of your late employer! You told me about him, and very diverting I found it! But it is a sad fact, my love, that the lot of a single female who has no fortune is not a happy one. While she is young, and able to earn her bread, it may be supportable; but when one is old and unwanted—oh, let us not dwell upon such misery! It makes me shudder even to think of it!”
It made Kate shudder too, but inwardly. It was as though a cold hand had closed over her heart; and although, with the optimism of youth, she shook it off, it made her remember her unavailing search for employment, and ask herself if boredom was really so great a price to pay for security.
But the feeling that she was being enclosed in a silken net grew upon her during the following weeks; and, when she scolded herself for being so stupid, it occurred to her that she had very little money left in her purse, not enough to pay for the coach fare to London, and something akin to panic seized her. She might write to Sarah, begging her to come to her rescue, but Sarah had answered none of her letters, and the seed sown by Lady Broome had borne fruit. She did not doubt Sarah’s affection, but she had certainly been a charge on her, and it was possible that Sarah was thankful to be relieved of it. Things had changed since the days when Sarah had been her nurse: she was married now, and, besides her husband, she had his father and his nephews to care for. And even though she would probably still extend a welcome to her nursling, Kate recoiled from the thought of foisting herself on to her again, and for heaven only knew how long a period.