“You cannot wish to go to Merton!” said Lady Ombersley, very much put out, and hoping that Charles would not put her to the blush by saying something cutting to this tiresome young man.
“Yes,” said Mr. Fawnhope. “There will be verdure, and that, I think, is what my soul craves. I, with my fair Cecilia, to Merton now will go, Where softly flows the Wandle, and daffodils that blow — What an ugly word is Wandle! How displeasing to the ear! Why do you frown at me? May I not go with you?”
This sudden change from rapt poet into cajoling boy threw Lady Ombersley off her balance, and she replied in a mollified voice, “I am sure we should be pleased to take you, Augustus, but we are going to visit the Marquesa de Villacañas, and she will not be expecting you.”
“Now there,” said Mr. Fawnhope, “is a beautiful name! Villacañas! It is most rich! A Spanish lady, with ‘garments gay and rich as maybe, Decked with jewels had she on!’”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” replied Lady Ombersley crossly. Sophy, much amused by Mr. Fawnhope’s utter imperviousness to hints that he was not wanted, said laughingly, “Yes, pearls worth a king’s ransom. She even loves an English man, my father!”
“How splendid!” said Mr. Fawnhope. “I am so glad I came!”
Short of ordering him point-blank to get out of the carriage, there seemed to be no way of getting rid of him. Lady Ombersley cast her eldest son a despairing glance and Cecilia an imploring one; and Miss Wraxton smiled in a reassuring way that was designed to show him how perfect was her comprehension and how firm her resolve to keep an eye on Cecilia.
“Who is this Adonis?” Sir Vincent asked Mr. Rivenhall. “He and your sister, seated side by side, quite take one’s breath away!”
“Augustus Fawnhope,” replied Mr. Rivenhall curtly. “Cousin, if you are ready, I will hand you up!”
Lady Ombersley, gathering that she had received a tacit consent to Mr. Fawnhope’s presence, told her coachman to start, Sir Vincent and Hubert fell in behind the carriage, and Mr. Rivenhall said to Sophy, “If this is your doing — !”
“I promise you it is not. If I thought that he had the smallest notion of your hostility, I should say that he had rolled you up, Charles, foot and guns!”
He was obliged to laugh. “I doubt if he would have the smallest notion of anything less violent than a blow from a cudgel. How you can tolerate the fellow!”
“I told you that I was not at all nice in my ideas. Come, don’t let us talk of him! I have sworn an oath to heaven not to quarrel with you today.”
“You amaze me! Why?”
“Don’t be such an ape!” she begged. “I want to drive your grays, of course!”
He took his place beside her in the curricle and nodded to the groom to stand away from the grays’ heads. “Oh, that! When we are clear of the town, you shall do so.”
“That,” said Sophy, “is a remark calculated, I daresay, to make me lose my temper at the outset. I shall not do it, however.”
“I don’t doubt your skill,” he said.
“A handsome admission. It cost you an effort to make it, perhaps, and that makes it the more valuable. But the roads are so good in England that not much skill is required. You should see some of the tracks in Spain!”
“Deliberate provocation, Sophy!” said Mr. Rivenhall. She laughed, disclaimed, and began to ask him about hunting.
Once beyond the narrow streets he let his horses lengthen their stride, and overtook, and passed the landaulet. Miss Wraxton was seen to be conversing amicably with Mr. Fawnhope, while Cecilia was looking bored. The reason was explained by Hubert, who rode beside the curricle for a little way and disclosed that the subject under discussion was Dante’s Inferno. “And this I will say for Fawnhope!” he added handsomely. “He knows that Italian stuff much better than your Eugenia, Charles, and can go on at it for hours, never at a loss! What’s more, there’s another fellow, called Uberti, or some such thing, and he knows him too. Sad stuff, if you ask me, but Talgarth — I say, he’s a bang-up fellow, isn’t he? — says he’s devilish well read. Cecilia don’t like it above half. Jupiter, I should laugh if Eugenia were to cut her out with the poet!”
Receiving no encouragement from his brother to expatiate on this theme, he fell behind again to rejoin Sir Vincent. Mr. Rivenhall handed over the reins to Sophy, observing as he did so that he was glad not to be sitting in the landaulet. She refrained from making any comment, and the rest of the drive passed very pleasantly, no controversial topics arising to mar the good relations between them.
The house procured for the Marquesa by Sir Horace was a spacious Palladian villa, prettily situated in charming gardens, and with a bluebell wood attached, which, though fenced off from the pleasure grounds, could be reached through some graceful iron gates, brought from Italy by a previous owner. A few shallow steps led up from the carriage sweep to the front door, and this, upon the’ approach of the curricle, was flung open, and a thin man, dressed in black, came out of the house, and stood bowing on the top step. Sophy greeted him in her usual friendly fashion, and at once asked where Mr. Rivenhall could stable his horses. The thin man snapped an imperative finger and thumb, rather in the manner of a conjuror, and a groom seemed to spring up out of nowhere, and ran to the grays’ heads.
“I’ll see them stabled, Sophy, and come in presently with my mother,” Mr. Rivenhall said.
Sophy nodded, and walked up the steps, saying, “There are two more in the party than you were expecting, Gaston. You won’t mind that, I daresay.”
“It makes nothing, mademoiselle,” he replied grandly. “Madame awaits you in the salon.”
The Marquesa was discovered reclining upon a sofa in a drawing room facing the south lawn. The April sunshine was not overpowering, but the blinds had been drawn a little way across the windows to exclude it. As these were green, like the upholstery on the chairs, a sub aqueous light dimly lit the apartment. Sophy immediately flung back the curtains, exclaiming as she did so, “Sancia, you cannot go to sleep when your visitors are almost at the door!”
A faint moan came from the sofa. “Sophie, my complexion! Nothing so injurious as sunshine! How often have I said it?”
Sophy walked over to her and bent to kiss her. “Yes, dearest Sancia, but my aunt will think you quite odd if you lie there in darkness while she gropes her way to you by guess. Do get up!”
“Bien entendido I get up when your aunt approaches,” said the Marquesa, with dignity. “If she is at the door, it shall be now. I grudge no effort.”
In proof of this statement she disentangled a singularly beautiful embroidered shawl from about her feet, dropped it on the floor, and allowed Sophy to help her to rise. She was an opulent brunette, dressed more in the French style than the English, and with her luxuriant black locks covered only by a mantilla, draped over a high comb. Her gown was of gauze over satin, drawn in tightly below her full breasts, and revealing a good deal more of her shape than Lady Ombersley was likely to think seemly. This, however, was slightly concealed by the various scarves and shawls which she draped round herself as protection against treacherous draughts. The mantilla was pinned to her low corsage by a large emerald brooch; more emeralds, set in massive gold, dangled from the lobes of her ears; and she wore her famous pearls, twisted twice round her throat, and hanging almost to her waist. She was extremely handsome, with large, sleepy brown eyes, and a creamy complexion, delicately tinted by the hand of an artist. She was little more than thirty-five, but her plumpness made her appear to be older. She did not look in the least like a widow, which was the first thought that occurred to Lady Ombersley when she presently entered the room and took the languid hand held out to her.