“According to my father, just about everything, short of murder! Nettlecombe cast him off when he eloped with Cherry’s mother, but what forced him to fly abroad was being found out in Greeking transactions. Took to drinking young ‘uns into a proper state for plucking, and then fuzzed the cards.”
Simon opened his eyes very wide. “Nice fellow!” he commented. “What has become of him?”
“Nobody seems to know, but since nothing has been heard of him for some years he is generally thought to be dead.”
“Well, it’s to be hoped he is,” said Simon. “If you don’t mind my saying so, dear boy, the sooner you palm the girl off on to her grandfather the better it will be. You haven’t a tendre for her, have you?”
“Oh, for God’s sake—!” Desford exclaimed, “Of course I haven’t!”
“Beg pardon!” murmured Simon. “Only wondered!”
Chapter 7
Before the brothers parted that evening Simon had tucked into his pocket the Viscount’s cheque, and had asked him in a soft, mischievous voice if he meant to go to Newmarket, for the July Meeting. The Viscount answered that he had meant to go, but now saw little hope of it. “Ten to one I shall still be hunting for Nettlecombe,” he said. “But if you are going I rather fancy I can put you on to a sure thing: Mopsqueezer. Old Jerry Tawton earwigged me at Tatt’s last week, and he’s in general a safe man at the corner.”
Simon gripped his hand, smiling warmly at him, and said: “Thank you, Des. Dash it, you are a trump!”
Slightly surprised, Desford responded: “What, for passing on Jerry’s tip? Don’t be such a gudgeon!”
“No, not for that, and not even for this,” said Simon, patting his pocket. “For not reading me any elder-brotherly jobations!”
“Much heed you would pay to them if I did!”
“Oh, you never know! I might!” Simon said lightly. He picked up his hat, and set it at a rakish angle on his fair locks. He hesitated for a moment, and then said: “I shall go back to London tomorrow, and shall be fixed there until I go to Newmarket. So, if you do find yourself in a hobble, and think I might be able to help, come round to my lodgings, and—and I’ll do my best for you!” He added, returning to his insouciant manner: “You’ve no notion how nacky my best is! Goodbye, dear boy!”
The Viscount left Inglehurst some twenty minutes later relieved of at least one of his worries. Lady Silverdale, thanks largely to her dislike of Lady Bugle, and in some measure to Cherry’s modest demeanour, seemed inclined to look favourably upon her uninvited guest. It was perhaps fortunate that she did not think Cherry more than passably pretty. “Poor child!” she said. “Such a pity that she should be a little dab of a thing, and dress so dowdily! Hetta, my love, it would be only kind, I think, to make her rather more presentable; and I have been wondering whether, if you gave her that green cambric which we decided was not the colour for you, she might make herself a dress. Just a simple round dress, you know! And she must have her hair cropped, for I cannot endure untidy heads.”
Henrietta being very willing to encourage her parent in these charitable schemes the Viscount took his leave of both ladies, and went away feeling that, at least for the present, her hostess would treat Cherry kindly.
When he left the house Cherry was sunk in profound slumber, from which the noise of his chaise-wheel under her window, and the trampling of hooves on the gravel, did not even disturb her dreams. She was so tired after the exertions and the agitations of the day that she hardly stirred until one of the housemaids came in to draw back the curtains round her bed, expressing, as Cherry opened her drowsy eyes and stretched like a kitten, the hope that she had slept well, and informing her that it was a beautiful morning. In proof of this statement she drew back the window-blinds, making Cherry blink at the sudden blaze of sunlight that flooded the room. Cherry sat up with a jerk, remembering all the events of the previous day, and asked to be told what time it was. Upon hearing that it was eight o’clock, she gave a gasp of dismay, and exclaimed: “Oh, goodness I Then I must have slept for twelve hours! However did I come to do such a thing?”
The housemaid, perceiving that she was about to scramble out of bed, told her that there was no need for her to hurry herself, since my lady never came downstairs to breakfast, and Miss Hetta had given orders that she was not to be disturbed until eight o’clock. She then set a burnished brass can of hot water down beside the little corner washstand, begged Miss to ring the bell if there was anything else she required, and went away, pausing in the doorway to say that breakfast would be served in the parlour at ten o’clock.
Cherry was left to take stock of her surroundings. She had been too much exhausted when Hetta had put her to bed to pay much heed to them, the only things which had impressed themselves on her having been very soft pillows, and the most comfortable bed in which it had ever been her lot to lie; but now, hugging her knees, she stared about her in awe and wonderment. She thought it the most elegant bedchamber imaginable, and would have been amazed had she known that Lady Silverdale was most dissatisfied with the hangings, which she said had faded so much that they now looked detestably shabby. Her ladyship had also detected a slight stain on the carpet, where some careless guest had spilt some lotion. But Cherry did not notice this, or that the hangings were faded. Miss Fletching’s Seminary for Young Ladies had been furnished neatly but austerely; and at Maplewood Cherry had shared a room with Corinna and Dianeme, who were not considered by their mama to be old enough to justify the expenditure of any more money on them than was strictly necessary. Consequently, their room was furnished with a heterogeneous collection of chairs and cupboards which had either been judged too shabby for the rooms where they had originally stood, or bought dog-cheap in a saleroom. And even Aunt Bugle’s bed was not hung with curtains of silk damask, thought Cherry, almost fearfully stroking them.
She slid out of bed, and made a discovery: someone had not only unpacked her portmanteau, but had also ironed the creases out of the two dresses she had brought with her. This seemed to her such a dizzy height of luxury that she almost supposed herself to be still asleep and dreaming.
When she entered the breakfast-parlour, conducted to it by Grimshaw at his most stately, she found Henrietta making the tea, and was greeted by her in so kind and friendly a way that she lost the terror with which Grimshaw had inspired her, and said impulsively: “I think I was so stupid last night that I didn’t tell you how very, very grateful I am to you, and to Lady Silverdale, for being so excessively kind to me! Indeed, I don’t know how to thank you enough!”
“Nonsense!” said Henrietta, smiling at her. “I lost count of the times you thanked me last night! I think it was the last thing you said, when I blew out the candle, but as you were three parts asleep I might be mistaken!”
By the time they came from the table Henrietta had succeeded in charming Cherry out of her nervous shyness, and had won enough of her confidence to make her feel sincerely sorry for her. It was plain that she had not been encouraged to confide in her aunt; and although she spoke affectionately of Miss Fletching Henrietta did not think that their relationship had been closer than that of kind and just mistress, and grateful pupil. Cherry answered her questions with a good deal of reserve, and seemed at first to expect to be snubbed; but when she realized that she stood in no such danger she became very much more natural, and chatted away as easily as she had done on her journey to London. But much persuasion was needed to prevail upon her to accept the length of green cambric, and when she did at last yield, it was on condition that she should be allowed to pay for it—not with money, but with service. “I have been used to being employed,” she assured Henrietta. “So pray, Miss Silverdale, tell me what you would wish me to do!”