Sophy having waved a last farewell from the porch, turned back into the house, where she found Miss Wraxton awaiting her an alarming state of frigidity. Miss Wraxton, apprehending, she said, that no assistance from the Marquesa need be expected, desired to be conducted to the kitchen, where proposed to brew a posset, used in her family for generation as a cure for colds.
Not only did Sophy lead her to the kitchen, but she also quelled the Marquesa’s protests and commanded the Claverings to set water on to boil for a mustard foot bath. The unfortunate Claverings, laboring up the back stairs with coals, blankets, and cans of hot water, were kept fully occupied for nearly half an hour, at the end of which time, Lord Bromford was tenderly escorted upstairs a to the best spare bedroom, divested of his boots, and his coat, coaxed into the dressing gown Sir Vincent had had the forethought to pack into his valise, and installed in a winged chair by the fire. Sir Vincent’s protests at having not only his dressing gown but also his nightshirt and cap wrested from him were silenced by Sophy’s representations that she herself was relinquishing to Miss Wraxton her portmanteau, with all the night gear which it contained. “And considering how unhandsome your behavior has been, Sir Vincent, I must say that I shall think it excessively shabby of you if you demur at rendering me this small service!” she declared roundly.
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “And you, Sophy? Will you not be remaining here for the night?” He laughed, seeing her at a loss for an answer, and said, “In a previous age you would have been burnt at the stake, and rightly so, Juno! Very well. I will play your game!”
Within half an hour of this passage, Sophy, seated at the able in the hall, which she had drawn into the inglenook by the fire, heard the sound for which she had been waiting. She was engaged in building card houses, having found an aged and grimy pack in the breakfast parlor, and she made no attempt to answer the imperative summons of the bell. Clavering came into the hall from the back premises, looking harassed, and opened the door. Mr. Rivenhall’s decisive accents pleasurably assailed Sophy’s ears. “Lacy Manor? Very well! Be good enough to direct my groom to the stables! I’ll announce myself!”
Mr. Rivenhall then shut the aged servitor out of the house and stepped into the hall, shaking the raindrops from his curly-brimmed beaver. His eye alighted on Sophy, absorbed in architecture, and he said with the greatest amiability imaginable, “Good evening, Sophy! I am afraid you must have quite given me up, but it has been raining, you know, the moonlight quite obscured by clouds!”
At this point, Tina, who had been leaping up at him in an ecstasy of delight, began to bark, so he was obliged to acknowledge her welcome before he could again make himself heard, Sophy, laying a card delicately upon her structure, said, “Charles, this is too kind in you! Have you come to rescue me from the consequences of my indiscretion?”
“No, to wring your neck!”
She opened her eyes at him. “Charles! Don’t you know that I have ruined my reputation?”
He took off his driving coat, shook it, and cast it over a chair back. “Indeed? In that event, I am quite out. I was ready to swear I should find the Marquesa with you!”
The ready laughter sprang to her eyes. “How odious you are! How came you to guess that?”
“I know you too well. Where’s my sister?”
Sophy resumed her house building. “Oh, she has driven back to London with Charlbury! I daresay their chaise may have met you on your way.”
“Very likely. I was in no case to be studying the panels of chance vehicles. Did Miss Wraxton accompany them?”
She looked up. “No, how do you know that Miss Wraxton came with Cecilia?” she asked.
“She was so obliging as to send a note round to White’s informing me of her intention,” he replied grimly. “Is she here still?”
“Well, she is, but I fancy she is very much occupied,” said Sophy. She bent to pick up one of the ducklings, which, awakening from a refreshing slumber under Cecilia’s muff, had climbed out of the box again, and was trying to establish itself in the flounces of her gown. “Take this, dear Charles, while I pour you out a glass of sherry!”
Mr. Rivenhall, automatically extending his hand, found himself in possession of a ball of yellow down. It did not seem to be worth while to inquire why he was given a duckling to hold, so he sat down on the table’s edge, stroking the creature with one finger and watching his cousin.
“That, of course,” said Sophy serenely, “explains why you have come.”
“It explains nothing of the sort, and well you know it!” said Mr. Rivenhall.
“How wet your coat is!” remarked Sophy, spreading it out before the fire, “I do trust you may not have caught a chill!”
“Of course I have not caught a chill!” he said impatiently. “Besides, it has not been raining this last half hour!”
She handed him a glass of sherry. “I am so much relieved! Poor Lord Bromford contracted the most shocking cold! He had meant to have called Charlbury out, you know, but when he reached us he could only sneeze.”
“Bromford?” he exclaimed. “You do not mean to tell me he is here?”
“Yes, indeed. Miss Wraxton brought him. I think she hoped he might have offered for me and so saved my reputation, but the poor man was quite prostrated by this horrid chill, which he fears may descend upon his lungs. It put all else out of his mind, and one cannot be surprised at it.”
“Sophy, are you trying to humbug me?” demanded Mr. Rivenhall suspiciously. “Even Eugenia would not bring that blockhead down upon you!”
“Miss Wraxton does not consider him a blockhead. She says he is a man of sense, and one who — ”
“Thank you! I have heard enough!” he interrupted. “Here, take this creature! Where is Eugenia?”
She received the duckling from him and restored it to its brethren in the box. “Well, if she is not still brewing possets in the kitchen, I expect you may find her with Bromford in the best spare bedroom,” she replied.
“What?”
“Persuading him to swallow a little thin gruel,” explained Sophy, looking the picture of innocence. “The second door at the top of the stairs, dear Charles!”
Mr. Rivenhall tossed off the glass of sherry, set it down, informed his cousin ominously that he would deal with her presently, and strode toward the stairs, accompanied by Tina, who frisked gaily at his heels, apparently convinced that he was about to provide sport for her of no common order. Sophy went down the passage to inform the harassed Marquesa that although two of the dinner guests had departed, another had appeared in their stead.
Mr. Rivenhall, meanwhile, had mounted the stairs, and had, without ceremony, flung open the door of the best spare bedroom. A domestic scene met his affronted gaze. In a chair drawn up beside a clear fire sat Lord Bromford, a screen drawn to protect his person from the draught from the window, both his feet in a steaming bath of mustard and water, a blanket reinforcing Sir Vincent’s dressing gown over his shoulders, and in his hands a bowl of gruel and a spoon. Hovering solicitously about him was Miss Wraxton, ready either to add more hot water to the bath from the kettle on the hob or to replace the bowl of gruel with the posset of her making.
“Upon my word!” said Mr. Rivenhall explosively.
“The draught!” protested his lordship. “Miss Wraxton! I can feel the air blowing about my head!”
“Pray close the door, Charles!” said Miss Wraxton sharply. “Have you no consideration? Lord Bromford is extremely unwell!”