“Deluded girl! He’s been hoaxing you!”
“Yes, he tried to hoax me into thinking he had only been trifling with me, and if it hadn’t been for my aunt’s letting the truth slip out he would have succeeded! That—that is why I’ve come to see you, ma’am! You could help me—if you would!”
“I help you?” Lady Steeple laughed, not this time so musically. “Don’t you know better than that? I could more easily ruin you, let me tell you!”
“I know you could,” said Venetia frankly. “I’m very much obliged to you for saying that, because it makes it much less awkward for me to explain it to you. You see, ma’am, Damerel believes that if he proposed marriage to me he would be doing me a great injury, because between them he and my Uncle Hendred have decided that I should otherwise make a brilliant match, while if I married him I should very likely be shunned by the ton, and become a vagabond, like himself. I should like that excessively, so what I must do is to convince him that instead of contracting a brilliant match I am on the verge of utter social ruin. I’ve racked my brains to discover how it can be done, but I couldn’t find any way—at least, none that would answer the purpose!—and I was in such flat despair—oh, in such misery! And then, last night, when my aunt told me—she thought I should be aghast, but I was overjoyed, because I saw in a flash that you were the one person who could help me!”
“To social ruin! Well, upon my word!” cried her ladyship. “And all to marry you to Rake Damerel—which I don’t believe! No, I don’t believe it!”
But when she had heard the story of that autumn idyll she did believe it. She looked oddly at her daughter, and then began to fidget with the pots on the dressing-table, arranging and rearranging them. “You and Damerel!” she said, after a long silence. “Do you imagine he would be faithful to you?”
“I don’t know,” said Venetia. “I think he will always love me. You see, we are such dear friends.”
Lady Steeple’s eyes lifted quickly, staring at Venetia. “You’re a strange girl,” she said abruptly. “You don’t know what it means, though, to be a social outcast!”
Venetia smiled. “But thanks to you and to Papa, ma’am, that’s what I have been, all my life.”
“I suppose you blame me for that, but how should I have guessed—”
“No, indeed I don’t blame you, but you will allow, ma’am, that you haven’t given me cause to be grateful to you,” Venetia said bluntly.
Lady Steeple shrugged, saying with a pettish note in her voice: “Well, I never wished for children! I told you so.”
“But I can’t believe that you wished us to be made unhappy.”
Of course I did not! But as for—”
“I am unhappy,” Venetia said, her gaze steady on that lovely, petulant countenance. “You could do a very little thing for me—such a tiny thing!—and I might be happy again, and grateful to you from the bottom of my heart!”
“It is too bad of you!” exclaimed Lady Steeple. “I might have known you would only try to cut up my peace—throw me into an irritation of nerves— What do you imagine I can do to help you?”
Sir Lambert, venturing to peep into the room half an hour later, found his daughter-in-law preparing to take her leave, and his wife in an uncertain temper, poised between laughter and vexation. He was not surprised; he had been afraid that she might find this meeting with her lovely daughter a little upsetting. Fortunately he was the bearer of tidings that were bound to raise her spirits.
“Oh, is it you, Lamb?” she called out. “Come in, and tell me how you like my daughter! I daresay you have been flirting with her already, for she is so pretty! Isn’t she? Don’t you think so?”
He knew that voice, rather higher-pitched than usual, full of brittle gaiety. He said: “Yes, that she is! Upon my soul, it’s devilish hard to tell you apart! I fancy you have the advantage, however—ay, you ain’t quite the equal of your mama, my dear—and you won’t mind my saying it, because she has perfect features, you know. Yes, yes, that was what Lawrence said, when he painted her likeness! Perfect features!”
Lady Steeple was seated at a small writing-table, but she got up, and came with a hasty step to stand beside Venetia, pulling her round to face a long looking-glass. For a minute she stared at the two mirrored faces, and then, to Venetia’s dismay, cast herself upon Sir Lambert’s burly form, crying: “She is five-and-twenty, Lamb! five-and-twenty!”
“Now, my pretty! now, now!” he responded, patting her soothingly. “Plenty of time for her to grow to be a beauty like her mama! There, now!”
She gave a hysterical little laugh, and tore herself away. “Oh, you are too absurd! Take her away! I must dress! I abominate morning callers! I look hagged!”
“Well, I can tell you that you don’t,” said Venetia, tucking a sealed letter into her reticule. “I was used to think, you know, when I was a little girl, that you were like a fairy, and so you are. I never was made to feel so clumsy in my life! I wish I knew how to walk as if I were floating!”
“Flattering creature! There, kiss me, and be off to seek your fortune! I wish you may find it! You won’t, of course, but don’t blame me for it!”
“Going to seek her fortune, is she?” said Sir Lambert. “So you have set up a secret between you? But here is your woman, my pretty, on the fret to make you ready to receive I know not how many people sent round from Roberts’s!”
“Oh, my new riding-habit!” exclaimed Lady Steeple, her face lighting up. “Send Louise in to me directly, Lamb! Dear child, I must bid you goodbye—I positively must! No Frenchman can make a riding-habit: Roberts has made mine ever since I came out! That’s why I came with the Lamb! I hate London—and in November, too!”
Once more Venetia was given a soft, scented cheek to kiss; she said: “Goodbye, ma’am—and thank you! You have been very, very kind to me!”
She curtsied as Lady Steeple made a wry mouth at her, and then Sir Lambert ushered her out of the room, saying as he closed the door: “That’s a good gal! I’m glad you said that to her! She feels it, you know—gets into the dumps! Not as young as she was! You didn’t object to my saying you wasn’t her equal?”
Venetia reassured him; he then said that he would take her downstairs to her maid, and, upon her disclosing that she had come alone, declared his resolve to escort her back to Cavendish Square. She begged him not to put himself out, saying that she was used to walk alone, and meant to do a little shopping in Bond Street, but to no avail.
“No, no, it will not do! I wonder at Maria Hendred, upon my word, I do! A lovely gal walking by herself! Ay, and all the Bond Street beaux ogling you, the rascals! You must give me the pleasure of escorting you, and no need to be in a worry that your mama might not like me to go with you. I promise you she won’t take a pet, for,” said Sir Lambert simply, “I shan’t mention the matter to her.”
So, as soon as Sir Lambert’s man had eased his master into his overcoat, handed him his hat, his gloves, and his walking-cane, Venetia sallied forth in his company, not ill-pleased to demonstrate to as many of her aunt’s acquaintances as she might be fortunate enough to meet that she stood on the best of terms with her disreputable stepfather. Sir Lambert’s was an impressive figure, and since his corpulence made rapid movement impossible to him their progress was slow. By the time they had turned into Bond Street they were fast friends, and Sir Lambert, besides behaving in a very gallant manner to his fair companion, had regaled her with several anecdotes of his youth, which made her laugh in a way that delighted him very much, and encouraged him to confide several rather warmer anecdotes to her. He accompanied her into a linen-draper’s shop, and was of the greatest assistance to her in choosing muslin for a dress; and when they came out would have carried the parcel for her had she not tucked it into her muff, telling him that she had never yet seen a Pink of the Ton carrying anything so dowdy as a parcel tied up with string.