“Never mind that!” said Sophy, relieving Charlbury of the necessity of answering. “Why are you here, Sir Vincent?”
“That, my dear Juno,” he replied, his eyes glinting at her, “is a long and delicate story. I might, you know, ask the same question. I shan’t, of course, because explanations are apt to be tedious, and what is teasing me more at this present is the far more important subject of dinner. I fear you may not have been expecting so large a party!”
“No, I was not, and heaven knows what we shall find to eat!” Sophy admitted. “I think, perhaps, I should go into the kitchen and discover what there may be in the larder. For it is very likely, I must tell you, that my cousin Cecilia will arrive to dine here. And more than probably Charles also!”
“Oh, Miss Sophy, if only you’d have given us warning!” exclaimed Mrs. Clavering distressfully. “I’m sure I don’t know how to contrive dinner, not for the likes of you, miss, for I am not accustomed, and there’s nothing ready but a pig’s cheek, which Clavering fancied for his supper!”
“It is evident,” said the Marquesa, removing the plumed hat from her luxuriant curls and laying it down on a chair, “that this moza de cocina knows nothing, so that I must exert myself a little. That is bad, but worse, infinitamente, that we should starve! And you will remember it, Sophie, and be grateful to me, so that you do not quarrel with me! For I must tell you, de una vez, that I think it will not suit me to be married to Sir Horace after all, for he is very restless, and Brazil I should not like, but, on the contrary I will remain in England, but an English cook I will not have! So I have married Sir Vincent, and I am now not the Marquesa de Villacanas, but Lady Talgarth, which is a name I cannot pronounce , but no matter! One must accustom oneself.”
This speech not unnaturally stunned her audience into silence for several moments. Sir Vincent drew out his snuffbox and delicately inhaled a pinch of his favorite mixture. It was he who broke the silence. “So the murder is out!” he remarked. “Do not look so aghast, Sophy! Remember that our dear Sancia is to cook the dinner!”
“This,” suddenly announced Mr. Fawnhope, who had not been attending to a word of the conversation, “is a singularly beautiful house! I shall go all over it.”
He then picked up the lamp from the table, and bore it off toward one of the doors that opened on to the hall. Sir Vincent took it from him and restored it to its place, saying kindly, “You shall do so, my dear young friend, but take this candle, if you please!”
“Sir Vincent,” said Sophy, a martial light in her eye, “if I were a man, you should suffer for this treachery!”
“Dear Sophy, you shoot better than nine out of ten men of my acquaintance, so if anyone of us had the forethought to bring with him a pair of dueling pistols — ?”
“No one,” said the Marquesa, with decision, “shall shoot a pistol, because it is of all things what I most detest, and, besides, it is more important that we should prepare dinner!”
“I suppose,” said Sophy regretfully, “that that is true. One must eat! But I now perceive how right my cousin Charles was to warn me to have nothing to do with you, Sir Vincent! I did not think you would have served Sir Horace such a backhanded turn!”
“All is fair, dear Sophy, in love and war!” he said sententiously.
She was obliged to bite back the retort that sprang to her lips. He smiled understandingly and moved toward her, taking her hand, and saying in a lowered voice, “Consider, Juno! My need is far greater than Sir Horace’s! How could I resist?”
“‘Amor ch’a null’amato amar perdona,’ “ dreamily remarked Mr. Fawnhope, whose peregrinations about the hall had brought him within earshot.
“Exactly so, my poet!” said Sir Vincent cordially.
“I need Miss Wraxton to translate that for me,” said Sophy, “but if it means what I think it does it is no such thing! However, there is nothing more foolish than to be making a great noise over what cannot be helped, so I shall say no more. Besides, I have more important things to think of!”
“Certainly that is so,” agreed the Marquesa. “There is a way of preparing fresh-killed chickens, so Vincent shall at once kill me two chickens, for chickens this woman tells me there are in abundance, and I shall contrive.”
She then withdrew with Mrs. Clavering to the kitchen premises, her demitrain of mull muslin sweeping regally behind her over the floor and picking up a great deal of dust on the way. Sophy and Sir Vincent followed her; and as Mr. Fawnhope had by this time discovered the library and had gone in to inspect the books by the light of his tallow candle, Lord Charlbury was left alone. He was soon rejoined by Sir Vincent, who came back into the hall bearing a crusted bottle and some glasses. “Sherry,” he said, setting down the glasses. “If the slaughter of chickens is my fate, I must be fortified. But I trust I shall prevail upon the retainer to commit the actual deed. How did you hurt your arm?”
“Sophy put a bullet through it,” replied his lordship.
“Did she indeed? What a redoubtable female she is, to be sure! I suppose she had her reasons?”
“They were not what you might be pardoned for imagining!” retorted Charlbury.
“I never indulge commonplace thoughts,” said Sir Vincent, carefully wiping the neck of the bottle and beginning to pour out the wine. “Not, at all events, in relation to the Grand Sophy. Here, try this! God knows how long it has lain in the cellar! I collect I don’t drink to your elopement?”
“Good God, no!” said Charlbury, almost blanching at the thought. “I am devoted to Sophy — quite and unalterably devoted to her — but heaven preserve me from marriage with her!”
“If heaven did not, I fancy Rivenhall would,” observed Sir Vincent. “This wine is perfectly tolerable. Don’t finish the bottle before I come back, and don’t waste it on the poet!”
He strolled off again, presumably to oversee the execution in the hen roost, and Lord Charlbury, rendering up silent thanks for his wounded arm, poured himself out a second glass of sherry. After a short interval, Mr. Fawnhope emerged from the library, bearing a worm-eaten volume in his hand. This he reverently displayed to his lordship, saying simply, “La Hermosura de Angelica! One never knows where one may light upon a treasure. I must show it to the Marquesa. Whose is this enchanting house?”
“Sir Horace Stanton-Lacy’s,” replied Charlbury, in some amusement.
“Providence must have led me to it. I could not imagine what brought me here, but it doesn’t signify. When I saw Sophy standing in the open doorway, holding aloft the lamp, the scales fell from my eyes, and all doubts were resolved. I am engaged to dine somewhere or other, but I shan’t regard it.”
“You don’t feel that you should perhaps ride back to town to keep your engagement?” suggested his lordship.
“No,” replied Mr. Fawnhope simply. “I prefer to be here. There is also a Galatea, but not an original copy.” He then sat down at the table and opened the book, poring over it until interrupted by Sophy, who came in with a bundle of candles tucked under one arm and a shallow wooden box held carefully between her hands. Beside her, a mixture of curiosity and jealousy, pranced her little greyhound, from time to time springing up to reach the box.
Mr. Fawnhope leaped to his feet and held out his hands to take the box from her. “Give it to me! An urn you might bear but not a sordid box!”
She relinquished it, saying practically, “Mrs. Clavering will bring that presently, but it is not yet time for the tea tray, you know. We have not dined! Careful! Poor little things, they have no mother!”
“Sophy, what in the world — ?” exclaimed Charlbury, perceiving that the box contained a brood of yellow ducklings. “You do not mean to cook these for dinner, I do trust?”
“Good gracious, no! Only Mrs. Clavering has been rearing them in the warmth of the kitchen, and Sancia complains that they will run under her feet. Set the box down in this corner, Augustus. Tina will not harm them!”