It had taken Damerel three days to bring Nurse round his thumb: cutting a wheedle, Aubrey called it, when he had almost brought the trap down on him by going into stifled laughter at hearing Damerel agreeing with her that it was of no use to muffle all the furniture in holland covers, and hope to keep the moth away by such means; that indeed the chairs and the tables and the cabinets in the disused saloons ought to be well polished; that he would be only too glad if the whole house could be set in order. That had been quite enough for Nurse, never permitted at Undershaw to encroach on Mrs. Gurnard’s ground. But Mrs. Imber was a feckless, humble creature, who did as she was bid, and was grateful for advice and instruction. Nurse, who had gone to the Priory with the utmost reluctance, was enjoying herself enormously, and did not mean to leave it until, with the assistance of the Imbers, the gardener’s wife, and a Stout Girl from the village, she had (as Imber resentfully phrased it) turned the house out of doors. For the first time since the days when she had reigned over the nursery at Undershaw she held undisputed sway, and just as soon as she had decided that there was nothing to be feared from Damerel she relaxed her vigilance, and trotted about the great, rambling house, harrying her slaves, so deeply absorbed in housewifery that she neither noticed the glow in Venetia’s eyes nor suspected that when she supposed her to have gone home she was with Damerel, perhaps sitting in the garden, perhaps strolling along the river-bank, or allowing him to escort her back to Undershaw by the longest possible route.
Damerel’s groom and his valet both knew, but Nidd did not tell Nurse how many hours were spent in the Priory stables by Venetia’s mare, or the cob she drove in the gig; and Marston did not tell her, when she asked him if Venetia had gone home, that she had done so in his master’s company.
Nidd thought it was a queer set-out, but when he said as much to Marston he won no other response than a blank stare. But Marston thought it queer too, because it wasn’t like his lordship to throw out lures to innocent young ladies, much less sit in their pockets. He was loose in the haft, but not as loose as that. Or maybe he was too fly to the time of day to meddle with virgins of quality: Marston did not know, but he did know that in all the years he had served his lordship he had never seen him dangling after such a lady as Miss Lanyon. He had never seen him behave to any of his loves as he was behaving to her, either; or known him to stay so quiet and sober. He had not been as much as half-sprung since the day he carried Mr. Aubrey into the house, and that was a sure sign that he wasn’t bored, or in one of his black moods. He wasn’t even restless, yet he hadn’t meant to remain at the Priory above a day or two. They had been on their way to Lord Flavell’s shooting-lodge, but they were not going there after alclass="underline" he had told Marston that he had written to cry off. Were they going back to London, then, when Mr. Aubrey had left the Priory? His lordship had made no plans, but thought he should remain in Yorkshire for a while.
It might be that he was amusing himself with a new kind of flirtation, but in any other man it would have looked remarkably like courtship. If that was it, Marston wondered whether Miss Lanyon knew what sort of a life his lordship had led, and what that elder brother of hers would have to say to such a match.
He would have been shocked had he guessed how much Venetia knew, and how much she was entertained by some of Damerel’s more repeatable adventures; and he would have been considerably astonished had he known on what terms of easy camaraderie this very odd couple stood.
They were fast friends: a stranger might have supposed them to be related, so frank and unceremonious were their interchanges, and so far removed from mere dalliance. Accepting, as a matter of tactics in the game few knew better than he how to play, the role of fidus Achates thrust upon him, Damerel soon found himself advising Venetia on knotty problems arising out of her stewardship of her elder brother’s estates, or discussing with her the peculiar difficulties presented by her younger brother’s apparent determination to allow his powerful mind to wear out his frail constitution. He gave her better advice than he had ever put into practice, but told her bluntly that there was little she could do to divert Aubrey from his devouring passion. “He has been too much alone. If it had been possible to have sent him to Eton he would no doubt have formed friendships there, but as it is he seems to have only two friends: yourself, and his old grinder—this parson he talks about: I forget his name. What he needs is to rub shoulders with sprigs of his own age and tastes—and to overcome his dread of being pitied or despised.”
She gave him a speaking glance. “Do you know, you are the first person ever to have perceived that he hates his lameness in that way? Even Dr. Bentworth doesn’t properly understand, and I can only guess, because he doesn’t speak of it. But he has talked to you, hasn’t he? He told me the thing you said to him—that if you were offered the choice between a splendid body or a splendid mind you would choose the mind, because it would long outlast the body. I know he was a good deal struck, for he would not else have told me about it, and I was so grateful I could have embraced you!”
“By all means!” he said promptly. “Do!”
She laughed, but shook her head. “No, I’m not funning. You see, it was exactly the right thing to have said, and that he talked to you at all about it showed me how much he likes you. In general, you know, he is very stiff with strangers, and when people like Lady Denny enquire after his health, or Edward helps him to get up out of his chair, he becomes quite rigid with fury.”
“I should imagine he might! Is that what that gudgeon does?”
“Yes, and say what I will to him he persists! It is all kindness, I know, but—”
“Much that graceless scamp cares for kindness!”
“That’s what I told Edward, but he thought it nonsensical. And your sort of kindness he does care for: I don’t mean entering into what interests him only, but roasting him, and calling him rude names, and threatening to do the most brutal things to him if he won’t swallow that horrid valerian!”
“Is that your notion of kindness?” he asked, in some amusement.
“Yes, and yours too, or you wouldn’t do it. I expect it makes Aubrey feel that he is just the same as any other boy—or, at any rate, that you don’t care a rush for his lame leg. It has done him a great deal of good to be with you— more good than I could ever do him, because I’m only a female. A sister, too, which makes it even harder.”
“You are a good sister. I hope you may have your reward—but strongly doubt it. Don’t let him hurt you! He’s fond of you, but he’s an egotist, my dear.”
“Oh, I know that!” she said cheerfully. “But he’s not as bad as Papa was, I assure you, or Conway! Aubrey would very likely put himself out to oblige me, if he ever thought of it, but Papa would not, and as for Conway, I don’t think he can think of anyone but himself!”