At this point, Tina, who had been leaping up at him in an ecstasy of delight, began to bark, so he was obliged to acknowledged her welcome before he could again make himself heard. Sophy, laying a card delicately upon her structure, said; ‘Charles, this is too kind in you! Have you come to rescue me from the consequences of my indiscretion?’
‘No, to wring your neck!’
She opened her eyes at him. ‘Charles! Don’t you know that I have ruined my reputation?’
He took off his driving-coat, shook it, and cast it over a chair-back. ‘Indeed? In that event, I am quite out: I was ready to swear I should find the Marquesa with you!’
The ready laughter sprang to her eyes. ‘How odious you are! How came you to guess that?’
‘I know you too well. Where’s my sister?’
Sophy resumed her house-building. ‘Oh, she has driven back to London with Charlbury! I daresay their chaise may have met you on your way.’
‘Very likely. I was in no case to be studying the panels of chance vehicles. Did Miss Wraxton accompany them?’
She looked up. ‘Now, how do you know that Miss Wraxton came with Cecilia?’ she asked.
‘She was so obliging as to send a note round to White’s informing me of her intention,’ he replied grimly. ‘Is she here still?’
‘Well, she is, but I fancy she is very much occupied,’ said Sophy. She bent to pick up one of the ducklings, which, awakening from a refreshing slumber under Cecilia’s muff, had climbed out of the box again, and was trying to establish itself in the flounces of her gown. ‘Take this, dear Charles, while I pour you out a glass of sherry!’
Mr Rivenhall, automatically extended his hand, found himself in possession of a ball of yellow down. It did not seem to be worth while to enquire why he was given a duckling to hold, so he sat down on the table’s edge, stroking the creature with one finger, and watching his cousin.
‘That, of course,’ said Sophy serenely, ‘explains why you have come.’
‘It explains nothing of the sort, and well you know it!’ said Mr Rivenhall.
‘How wet your coat is!’ remarked Sophy, spreading it out before the fire. ‘I do trust you may not have caught a chill!’
‘Of course I have not caught a chill!’ he said impatiently. ‘Besides, it has not been raining this last half hour!’
She handed him a glass of sherry. ‘I am so much relieved! Poor Lord Bromford contracted the most shocking cold! He had meant to have called Charlbury out, you know, but when he reached us he could only sneeze.’
‘Bromford?’ he exclaimed. ‘You do not mean to tell me he is here?’
‘Yes, indeed: Miss Wraxton brought him. Ithinkshe hoped he might have offered for me, and so saved my reputation, but the poor man was quite prostrated by this horrid chill, which he fears may descend upon his lungs. It puts all else out of his mind, and one cannot be surprised at it.’
‘Sophy, are you trying to humbug me?’ demanded Mr Rivenhall suspiciously. ‘Even Eugenia would not bring that blockhead down upon you!’
‘Miss Wraxton does not consider him a blockhead. She says he is a man of sense, and one who –’
‘Thank you! I have heard enough!’ he interrupted. ‘Here, take this creature! Where is Eugenia?’
She received the duckling from him, and restored it to its brethren in the box. ‘Well, if she is not still brewing possets in the kitchen, I expect you may find her with Bromford in the best spare-bedroom,’ she replied.
‘What?’
‘Persuading him to swallow a little thin gruel,’ explained Sophy, looking the picture of innocence. ‘The second door at the top of the stairs, dear Charles!’
Mr Rivenhall tossed off the glass of sherry, set it down, informed his cousin ominously that he would deal with her presently, and strode towards the stairs, accompanied by Tina, who frisked gaily at his heels, apparently convinced that he was about to provide sport for her of no common order. Sophy went down the passage to inform the harassed Marquesa that although two of the dinner-guests had departed, another had appeared in their stead.
Mr Rivenhall, meanwhile, had mounted the stairs, and had, without ceremony, flung open the door of the best spare-bedroom. A domestic scene met his affronted gaze. In a chair drawn up beside a clear fire sat Lord Bromford, a screen drawn to protect his person from the draught from the window; both his feet in a steaming bath of mustard-and-water; a blanket reinforcing Sir Vincent’s dressing-gown over his shoulders; and in his hands a bowl of gruel and a spoon. Hovering solicitously about him was Miss Wraxton, ready either to add more hot water to the bath from the kettle on the hob, or to replace the bowl of gruel with the posset of her making.
‘Upon my word!’ said Mr Rivenhall explosively.
‘The draught!’ protested his lordship. ‘Miss Wraxton! I can feel the air blowing about my head!’
‘Pray close the door, Charles!’ said Miss Wraxton sharply. ‘Have you no consideration? Lord Bromford is extremely unwell!’
