Honoria Or The Safety 0f The Frying Pan Page 14

  “I am persuaded he would prefer to know how to indicate that the horse is galloping or jumping or something,” Cassie said, hearing her name and blushing again, but this time for a different reason.

  During this discussion no one paid any attention to Fräulein Brunner, who was still hunched over her handkerchief and engaged in making a variety of noises which Cassie guessed were supposed to indicate a prolonged coughing fit.

  “I assume you have withdrawn from the discussion on account of your reluctance to translate something I said, deeming it uncivil to his lordship,” Cassie said a little sternly. “I think we have managed to negotiate that difficulty by ourselves so that you are now free to return to your duties as interpreter.”

  The Count, hearing Cassie’s tone, looked from one woman’s face to the other - Fräulein Brunner’s still concealed – rose and refilled the young teacher’s cup. He accompanied this gesture with a short but equally severe remark to the effect that he was not deceived and, although he was grateful for what he supposed to be an attempt at tact, he would infinitely prefer it if she would simply do her job and allow him to be the judge of his guest’s comments.

  The teacher put away her handkerchief, raised a red face to her pupils and apologised in both languages.

  Soon after this Cassie took her leave, saying, “I hope you will come to me next time when we will speak in English.”

  “I shall look forward to it,” the Count replied.

  Chapter 17

  Honoria went to bed in a state of seething fury. She undressed hurriedly, cast her beautiful new dress across a chair, dragged on her nightgown, washed her face and hands in cold water, jumped into bed and pulled up the covers with a sort of suppressed violence. She turned on her side, hunching the uppermost shoulder as though to ward off her relatives’ selfish ambitions and, thus prepared, set herself to fall into a dreamless sleep from which she fully expected to wake in the normal way at the normal time when things were bound to look better.

  Unfortunately, rage and tension rarely lead to sleep, dreamless or otherwise. After spending some time lying in the same position with every muscle tensed, refusing to allow herself to think about what had just passed or what had led inexorably to the recent dénouement, she was, several hours later, no nearer either sleep or tranquillity.

  She sat up abruptly and lit the candle beside her bed. It was somewhere between three and four in the morning, an hour when demons are wont to emerge in even the most well regulated minds.

  She was not a person given to pointless rumination; that is not to say that she did not indulge in introspection from time to time but, essentially, she was a young woman who strove to make the best of any situation.

  She pulled a blanket off the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders for it was cold that dark night in December and she knew that shivering miserably was not conducive to sensible thought or intelligent decision-making.

  What should she do? Her birthday was a scant six months’ distant but at present she had not a penny piece in her possession. Why should she have? She never went to the shops and, indeed, that morning she had not taken a purse with her to Tunbridge Wells; even her aunt, in charge of the expedition, had only a few coins with which to defray the cost of the refreshments; the bill for the dresses must be sent to Lord Charles. Was it he who, by disbursing nothing to either his daughter or his niece – and clearly very little to his wife - kept them all so close? They could not do much independently if they had no money.

  Now, sitting huddled beneath her blanket, Honoria wondered if she would be able to winkle any portion of her fortune from her uncle’s closed fist even when her birthday came. He would, she suspected, find some excuse not to come across with so much as a farthing; even the promised new bonnet would probably have to be bought in the same manner as the dresses – by means of a bill sent in at a later date.

  She could see now that the remainder of the Christmas vacation – the best part of another month – would most likely be spent in fending Frank off, in arguing with Helen and in soft-soaping her aunt. Her uncle would refuse to be drawn so that Honoria, for the first time in her life, felt completely helpless. Of course she realised that she had in fact been powerless all along but she had not perceived that she was and had thus not thought to complain about it; even the isolation, which so irritated Helen, had not troubled her particularly, perhaps because she had always intended to follow Horatio out of the family home as soon as she was able.

  Now that she knew herself to be at the mercy of these more powerful people, all of whom were ranged on the same side, she felt herself truly to be an orphan. She was afraid that the Lenhams, by dint of assuring her of their enduring love and their earnest wish that she should be safe and comfortable, would in the end wear her down.

  This evening she had very nearly given in to Frank. He could be extremely persuasive, employing a combination of teasing affection and sheer physical power. The teasing, while it generally provoked a lively response from her, nevertheless wore her down imperceptibly; she found it hard to resist an argument that seemed both rational and light-hearted. She knew the reasoning was not unsound, that she might well find herself happier married to Frank than to anyone else – as yet unknown – but she was irritated by the way he drew her in to agree with him by means of gently reiterated jesting, pitched at a level which he knew would appeal to a girl to whom he was exceedingly close. The other prong of his attack was, if anything, even more powerful. The connexion between them was not only one of blood but also of temperament; they had always got along famously. Now, after some years of increasingly long absences from the family home – beginning when he had been despatched to Eton - he had somehow succeeded in making her aware of him as a man; she was sure she had never thought of him that way before – he had simply been a member of her family to whom she felt unusually close on account of their shared good humour in the face of Lady Charles’s volatility and Helen’s tendency to fly into a pet. Showing her how delightful his kisses could be had been a masterly - and underhand – trick. She felt it as a betrayal for how was she to resist him now?

  And Helen, on whom she had believed she would have been able to rely, had taken his part in spite of generally having little time for her brother.

  The whole family was united against her and she feared that, if she remained in the same house with them, she would end by not only agreeing to marry Frank but actually doing so. In spite of this being by no means a horrifying thought, she hated the idea of being overridden to such a degree; nothing would change except that she would have to deal with Frank from the position of wife rather than cousin – and she rather thought that might be more difficult. If she could not have her own way with him before she belonged to him body and soul, she did not rate her chances of doing so once she had ceded all power to him. The thought of remaining here as a married woman, who provided the money but had little choice about how it was spent - for surely Aunt Julia would remain in charge – was dispiriting.

  No, the only way to avoid such an outcome was to leave at once. It was unfortunate that it had come to a head six months before she would have any means at her disposal; on the other hand, she doubted whether her uncle would hand her the money she possessed – if he had not spent it all – either on her birthday or at any other time. She was convinced he intended to retain control over it which, she supposed, he believed he would be able to do if she married Frank, for he was unlikely to demand that his father hand him the purse strings.

  Having decided to flee, she played with the idea of going back to bed and leaving in the morning but she knew this would be impossible. How could she set off when everyone was up? They would prevent her. She could have her horse saddled and insist on taking a ride by herself, which would enable her to leave the estate and set off somewhere, but they would soon notice her absence. And it would be impossible to take any baggage with her for someone – anyone who saw her – would question her – and once again stop her from going. No, she
must go now when all the servants would still be abed, when there would be no footmen standing in the hall and no grooms or stable boys to notice her. She could saddle her horse herself, she could even – with difficulty – mount it if she led it to the block in the stableyard; lastly, she supposed she could dress herself in her habit, although she had never done so.

  She knew she should not travel entirely unaccompanied but could see no alternative since she did not know precisely where the maids slept and, in any event, had no desire to engage in what would very likely turn into an altercation, which would hold up her departure until it was too late to leave unnoticed. Having decided to go, she was determined to do so at once, before anyone was about.

  To this end, she jumped up, cast off the blanket and began to pack a small valise with what necessaries she could squeeze into its less than generous proportions. She would need thick clothes, which took up a lot of space, but she would be wearing the largest garment – her riding habit – and would have her boots upon her feet.

  When she had crammed the valise so tightly that she could barely close it, she turned her attention to dressing. It was not easy to put on a riding habit without help on account of the volume of material it comprised as well as the complicated way it was designed, but she managed it, sitting down on the bed again to pull on her riding boots.

  She bundled up her hair without paying much attention to how it looked, comforting herself with the thought that, since it would be beneath a hat, nobody would notice how incompetently it was arranged, picked up the valise and took a last look around her childhood bedroom. She did not think she would be returning – certainly, if she did, it would be under duress and no doubt she would be subject to an even tighter degree of imprisonment than that which she had endured all her life.

  She had not yet decided where to go but thought that, since time was running out and the servants would be rising only too soon, she would leave that decision until she was mounted and outside the perimeter of the estate.

  The only remaining difficulty was that she had no money, not even a single penny piece, but she was fairly certain that she would find some in her uncle’s desk. He must keep money somewhere. She would take whatever he had – probably it was hers in any event – and she would leave him a note explaining her reasons and promising to return it in due course – when she had reached her majority.

  She crept down the stairs as quietly as she could, the valise in one hand and the candle in the other, and made her way to Lord Charles’s study. She closed the door quietly and lit more candles to make it easier to search.

  Her first guess that he might have some in the desk proved to be wrong. She looked around the room in search of the sort of place where he might put it and saw that there were a number of pieces of furniture of one kind or another equipped with drawers. She started at one side of the room and opened each one without success until she came to one which was locked. No doubt this was where she would find what she was seeking. She hoped he did not keep the key about his person but assumed it would be in or on the desk.

  She heard the clock in the hall strike four and told herself that, if she could not find any money soon, she must abandon her flight for the time being as the servants would be beginning to rise within the hour and she still had to saddle the horse. But her efforts were rewarded sooner than she had hoped; she found a small key in the top right hand drawer of the desk and almost shouted with joy when it fitted one of the locked drawers on the other side of the room. She was still prepared for disappointment when she slid the drawer out but this time her luck was in for there, stacked neatly in bundles, was a large quantity of money. She did not stop to count it but took the lot, pushing as much of it as she could into her reticule. The rest – there was a great deal of it – she forced into the already bulging valise, removing a Norwich shawl and wrapping it around her neck to make room.

  When she had done, she relocked the drawer, put the key back where she had found it, sat down at the desk, drew a sheet of paper towards her and dipped her uncle’s pen in the ink.

  She wrote, “Dear Uncle Charles, Please forgive me for taking all your money,” she crossed out ‘your’ and substituted ‘the’, “I have been able to find. Please think of it as an advance on my inheritance. I have decided to leave because I cannot bear the pressure which you are all exerting upon me to marry Frank, of whom I was, until now, extremely fond, although not in the way of wishing to become his wife. Thank you for your care for all but the first week of my life; I was happy here until I discovered what you planned. Now that I know, I cannot bear to remain another minute. Pray do not attempt to find me. I shall be perfectly safe and will continue to conduct myself in the manner in which I have been brought up. Please give my love to my aunt – and of course to Helen and Frank. Yours etc., your loving niece, Honoria. PS, I will be in touch again when I have attained my majority, at which point I will let you know the direction of my bank so that you can arrange the transfer of my funds – minus that which I have taken today.”

  She folded the letter and, lacking any means of sealing it, placed it under the pot of ink.

  Then, feeling more confident now that she had money, she left the room and the house and made her way, still by the light of the candle, to the stables.

  She knew that the most junior stable boy slept above the horses and was afraid that the animals would give her away for they began, as soon as she arrived, to whinny in greeting.

  “Hush, pray hush,” she whispered, stroking one nose after another until she came to her own horse, a grey mare called Blossom. In point of fact, she did not belong exclusively to Honoria, none of the horses did, but it was Blossom whom she generally rode and it was Blossom whom she intended to ride for the first part of her journey. She had still not given much thought to which direction she would take but intended to leave the horse at whichever posting house she found whence she could take the stage. She would request that the mare be returned to her home stables within a couple of days – not too quickly because it would be obvious which way she had gone once the direction of the coach she took was known.

  The horse saddled and no one having appeared to question her, Honoria led it to the mounting block and, first placing the valise behind the saddle and tying it on as securely as she could with the Norwich shawl, threw herself into the saddle. There was no sign of dawn yet and no sign, at least here at the stables, of anyone rising but she thought it likely the servants would already be up in the house. They would not, probably, go into the study for some time and would be unlikely, even when they did, to notice her letter. No one would attempt to rouse her for several hours yet and she did not think her uncle would see her letter for even longer. The first thing he would do when he was dressed was to open his newspaper.

  Chapter 18

  In spite of her suspicion that she was under an obligation to confirm the arrangement for the Count to come to her house, Cassie did not do so.

  Certain that she had said things that she should not – for why otherwise would the teacher have refused to translate and subsequently spent more than ten minutes engaged in an obviously artificial paroxysm of coughing? – she was too ashamed to pursue the acquaintance.

  When Fräulein Brunner arrived the following day, Cassie made no mention of the visit but knuckled down to her instruction with an air of concentration. It was not until the end of the lesson that the teacher raised the matter.

  “Are we expecting Count von Krems this morning?”

  “Not so far as I know,” Cassie replied icily. So haughty was her demeanour and frosty her reply that the teacher said nothing further and the pair spent the last hour conjugating another verb.

  Apart from the teacher’s daily visits, Cassie received no more callers until Lord Waldron knocked upon the door towards the end of the week. She was glad to see him.

  “I do not need to ask how you are,” his lordship began, “for I can see for myself that you are much better.”

  “Do you
think so?” Cassie asked, disbelieving.

  “So far as your nose is concerned, yes; but I do not, of course, know whether you feel well enough in other respects to make your first foray into Viennese society. I had thought that a concert might be an outing you would enjoy – and it would have the advantage of providing you with an opportunity to see others, and for them to see you, without either side having to engage in prolonged conversation.”

  “I suppose everyone will stare at me because I am with you.”

  “They may stare at you but I should think it would be more likely to be on your own account.”

  “They will think,” Cassie said bluntly, “that you have at last found yourself a bit of fluff and they will wonder why in the world you have chosen one who is old enough to be your mother.”

  “Nobody who looks upon your face – even with your nose a little over-powdered – would wonder for a moment why I had invited you to sit beside me but I think it most unlikely they would judge you to be any such thing. I suppose you will dress respectably – not display yourself in a diaphanous gown; in any event, I cannot imagine that a bit of fluff – no matter which dear relative had departed – would accompany a new protector dressed entirely in black.”

  “No, I shall make certain that I look as stuffy as possible. It is my age that will make people wonder and speculate. Are you making up a party?”

  “I was not thinking of doing so. Would you prefer it if I did? I shall introduce you as my cousin, recently widowed, who has come on a visit to Vienna to help her recover from her loss. You see, there is nothing in the least remarkable in that. Would you like me to invite von Krems to be one of the party?”

  “Von Krems?” she repeated, startled.

  “Yes. He, too, is taking his first steps back into Society and would no doubt appreciate being one of a party of which you are a member. Have you seen him again?”