“Do you think it will rain? Dare I wear my new straw hat? I have a mind to flirt with Charlbury myself. I liked him.”
“I wish you may succeed,” said Cecilia, a trifle stiffly. “I do not think him a man at all given to flirting, however. The tone of his mind is too nice for such a pastime as that!”
Sophy laughed. “We’ll see! Do tell me which hat I should wear! The straw is so ravishing, but if it were to come on to mizzle — ”
“I don’t care which hat you wear!” snapped Cecilia.
Chapter 11
THE REST of the day passed uneventfully, Sophy driving Cecilia in Hyde Park in her phaeton, setting her down to enjoy a stroll with Mr. Fawnhope, encountered by previous arrangement by the Riding House, and taking up In her stead Sir Vincent Talgarth, who only deserted her when he perceived the Marquesa de Villacanas’s barouche drawn up beside the rails that separated Rotten Row from the carriage way. The Marquesa, who was attracting no little attention by the number and height of the curled ostrich plumes in her hat, welcomed him with her lazy smile, and told Sophy that she found the shops in London wholly inferior to those in Paris. Nothing she had seen in Bond Street that day had tempted her to undo her purse string. But Sir Vincent knew of a modiste in Bruton Street who might be trusted to recognize at a glance the style and quality of such a customer, and he offered to escort the Marquesa to her establishment.
Sophy knit her brows a little over this, but before she had had time to think much on the subject her attention was claimed by Lord Bromford. Civility obliged her to invite him to take a turn about the Park in her phaeton. He got up beside her, and after telling her how much enjoyment he had derived from the Ombersley ball, made her a formal offer of marriage. Sophy declined this, without hesitation and without embarrassment. Lord Bromford, disconcerted only for a minute, said that his ardor had made him too precipitate, but that he did not despair of a happy issue. “When your parent returns to these shores,” he pronounced, “I shall formally apply to him for leave to address you. You are very right to insist upon so much propriety, and I must beg pardon for having contravened the laws of etiquette. Only the strong passion under which I labor — and I must tell you that not the most forceful representations of my mother, a Being to whom I, in filial duty, tender the most profound respect, have had the power to alter my decision — only, as I have said, this passion could have induced me to forget — ”
“I think,” said Sophy, “that you should take your seat in the House of Lords. Have you done so?”
“It is strange,” responded his lordship, swelling slightly, “that you should ask me that question, for I am upon the point of doing so. I shall be presented by a sponsor no less distinguished for his high lineage than for his forensic attainments,’ and I trust — ”
“I have no doubt at all that you are destined to become a great man,” said Sophy. “No matter how lengthy, or how involved your periods, you never lose yourself in them! How charming the foliage is on those beech trees! Do you know any tree to rival the beech? I am sure I do not!”
“Certainly a graceful tree,” conceded Lord Bromford, patronizing the beech. “Hardly, however, to rank in majesty with the mahogany, which grows in the West Indies, or in usefulness with the lancewood. I wonder, Miss Stanton-Lacy, how many persons are aware that the lancewood supplies the shafts for their carriages?”
“In the southern provinces of Spain,” countered Sophy, “the cork oak grows in great profusion.”
“Another interesting tree to be found in Jamaica,” said his lordship, “is the ballata. We have also the rosewood, the ebony, the lignum vitae — ”
“The northern parts of Spain,” said Sophy defiantly, “are more remarkable for the many variety of shrubs which grow there, including what we call the jarales, and the ladanum bush, and — and — Oh, there is Lord Francis! I shall have to put you down, Lord Bromford!”
He was reluctant, but since Lord Francis was waving to Sophy, and showed every desire to speak to her, he was unable to demur. When the phaeton drew up, he climbed ponderously down from it, and Lord Francis leaped equally nimbly up into it, saying, “Sophy, that was a capital ball last night! What a lovely creature your cousin is, to be sure!”
Sophy set her horses in motion again. “Francis, does the cork oak grow in the southern provinces in Spain?”
“Lord, Sophy, how should I know? You was in Cadiz! Can’t you recall? Who cares for cork oaks, in any event?”
“I hope,” said Sophy warmly, “that when you have done with being the worst flirt in Europe, Francis, you will win a very beautiful wife, for you deserve one! Do you know anything about the ballata?”
“Never heard of it in my life! What is it? a new dance?”
“No, it’s a tree, and it grows in Jamaica. I hope she will be as good natured as she is beautiful.”
“Trust me for that! But, y’know, Sophy, it ain’t like you to be boring on and on about trees! What’s come over you?”
“Lord Bromford,” sighed Sophy.
“What, that prosy fellow you had up beside you just now? He told Sally Jersey last night how valuable guinea grass was for horses and cattle; heard him! Never saw poor Silence so silenced!”
“I wish she had given him one of her setdowns. I must put you down when we reach the Riding House, for Cecilia will be waiting for me.”
Cecilia and her swain were found at the appointed spot. Lord Francis sprang down from the phaeton, and it was he who handed Cecilia up into it, Mr. Fawnhope having become rapt in contemplation of a clump of daffodils, which caused him to throw out a hand, murmuring, “Daffodils that come before the swallow dares!”
Cecilia’s spirits did not appear to have derived much benefit from her meeting with her lover. His plans for their future maintenance seemed to be a trifle vague, but he had an epic poem in his head, which might win him fame in a night, he thought. While this was in preparation, he would not object, he said, to accepting a post as a librarian. But as Cecilia was unable to imagine that her father or her brother would feel any marked degree of satisfaction in giving her in marriage to a librarian, this very handsome concession on Mr. Fawnhope’s part merely added to her despondency. She had gone so far as to suggest to him that he should embrace the profession of politics, but he had only said, “How sordid!” which did not augur well for this excellent scheme. When he had added that since the death of Mr. Fox, ten years earlier, there was no leader a man of sensibility could attach himself to, this remark had only served to show her how very improbable it was that his politics would find more favor with her family than his poetic aspirations.
Sophy, gathering the gist of all this from Cecilia’s somewhat elliptical remarks, took up a buoyant attitude, saying, “Oh, well! We must find a great man who is willing to become his patron!” which gave Cecilia a poor notion of her understanding.
Sophy was able to restore to Hubert the scrap of paper that had fallen from his pocket before going down to dinner that evening. Until this moment she had not thought much about it, but his manner of receiving it from her was so strange that it set up in her head various speculations which he was far from desiring. He almost snatched it from her hand, exclaiming, “Where did you find this?” and when she explained, in the most temperate manner, that she thought it must have fallen out of the pocket of the coat she had mended for him, he said, “Yes, it is mine, but I did not know I had put it there! I cannot tell you what it signifies, but pray do not mention it to anyone!”
She could only assure him that she had no intention of doing so, but he appeared to be so much discomposed that some inevitable reflections were set up in her brain. These did not come to fruition until she saw him upon his return from his visit to his friend, Mr. Harpenden, when his demeanor was so much that of a man who had received some stunning blow that she seized the earliest opportunity that offered of asking him if anything were amiss. Mr. Rivenhall, who had left London twenty-four hours earlier for Thorpe Grange, the estate in Leicestershire which he had inherited from his great-uncle, had not yet returned to London; but Hubert made it plain to his cousin that even had his elder brother been in London, not the direst necessity would have induced him to apply to him.