Inheritance Feud

Chapter 34

Chapter 34

But as it was, all he could think of to say to her would probably concern Maddon; his stepmama's health, the factor's doings-one couldn't discuss the accounts, in which Paul in fact took an informed interest-or what was happening in the coverts he visited almost daily in company with Papa, the latter walking more slowly now he was getting to be an old man. On the way there, certainly, Sir Sander would hold forth, in an instructive manner, about what might be taking place on the Bench, or perhaps the doings of the London government, which Papa, in common with all thinking Scotsmen, thought less and less of as year followed year. It didn't follow, Sir Sander said, that men would keep the law unless the law was made more reasonable; and until Billy cut the tax on liquor and imported wines, smuggling in the north would continue to be profitable. All of it brought one back again to thoughts of Theon Doon; who, Papa had once said, would be a true son of his father Richard if they thought to hang him. Papa's face had grown bitter then, like it did when he remembered Peter; and Paul thought again how he himself, in order to try to remove that shadow from the old man's eyes, would do his best to copy his brother in every least way. It wasn't easy; he didn't resemble Peter physically, being shorter, darker, and not at all handsome, and with no aptitude for field-sports and such things. His own preferences would have been scholarly, if he could have been left to him

self; perhaps he'd have been a preacher or even a dominie. But to talk to Cousin Hermione was still difficult; her stan dards were exacting and finicky. He must make do instead with Cousin Godfrey. 

The thought of Godfrey's kindly, invalid presence at Baron today cheered Paul; he found it easier to take up the reins again and ride, having overcome his momen tary diffidence, towards the great house, with, safely in his pocket still, the sovereign herbal cure for migraines recom mended by his stepmama. While it was being made up today Paul had gone in, almost for the first time in his life without the tutor or Papa, to the Fleece taproom, and had encountered the queer personage there while he was ordering himself ale. The man had given him news, which he must not fail to relate to Godfrey and Hermione, about poor blind Theon.

Paul found the family, including Mrs. Bowes and Clairette,

drinking tea in the withdrawing-room at Baron, nearby the

great hearth above which, again dominating the place for

which it had originally been painted, there hung the portrait

of Philip Doon and his fair-haired wife Grace, with her lap

dog and her yellow gown. A low fire of logs burned in the

hearth, for it had been a cool day, though with as yet no hint

of rain.

The fact of Paul's long ride alone was commented on, and he was made welcome as befitted a young man; he placed his bow correctly, crossed the carpet-its alternate squared and floral patterns, yellow on white, were Chinese, he remembered hearing, and matched the well-hung portrait-bowed again, and kissed Cousin Hermione's hand. It was a white, fragile hand, scented faintly with some essence, orange-flower per haps, which gave her skin an additionally exquisite, rare quality like the fluted translucent china of the tea-cup she now handed him. Paul accepted the cup, his own fist seeming to him like a ham, holding it uncertainly; obsessed with a fear of dropping such delicate gewgaws-they had come from the East, no doubt, like much of the Baron gear-he hastily downed a mouthful of hot, scented tea. Manfully, he neither spluttered nor lamented his burned tongue; and looked about him, still shyly. There had been alterations since he'd last visited Baron; perhaps they would give him a subject for conversation. That plant, now, in the newly-installed long window, with beads of water still lying on its great waxed leaves-the gardener must have watered it, as there hadn't been rain-and bell-like showers of creamy blossom; what was it called?

He turned to Cousin Godfrey, as always now in his invalid chair. How transparent the poor fellow's flesh seemed! It was an accursed thing, the unknown disease which consumed him, leaving as it were only his mind untouched, so that the fire of intelligence shone like a kindly beacon behind the eyes. No

treatment availed for his cure. Paul asked him, for the sake of something to talk about, what the plant's name might be; and Godfrey smiled and said it was Solomon's Seal. "Why that?" said Paul, diverted with the name. His step mama had a plant named Diligent Eliza, which she grew indoors in pots. Perhaps the names of plants would afford a teatime topic; but still Paul's tongue stumbled. He looked rather wildly at Cousin Hermione, tastefully clad today in lilac stuff, with her hair done in the new fashion of side-curls, bunched out glossily above the ears. She lay on a Turkish sofa, as the doctor had said she must do for two or three hours each day, ever since the birth of little Sybilla some years ago had left her delicate. But Hermione only smiled, and raised a finger to induce them to listen to the faint, tinkling notes of the harpsichord struck up by Eliza Berry, who with her hus band was over at Baron as usual; and Paul looked for guid ance instead to Sybilla herself, aged six and a half, disposed, like an attendant cherub, by her mother on a small em broidered footstool. Sybilla was, Paul had often thought, a copybook little girl, all golden curls, blue eyes and dimples; not unlike his swarm of small half-sisters at Maddon, but prettier. She wore a tucked and frilled muslin gown, with a pale-blue ribbon high above the waist beneath her plump, rose-petal arms, revealed by the brief puffed sleeves of the gown's fashion. Her slippers were tiny, and made of matching satin. She was eating a cake. Paul wondered why she wasn't with her governess at this hour; no doubt they allowed her to come downstairs a great deal, for Cousin Godfrey adored her. Paul let his eyes rove again from the child to her mother; what an exquisite pair they made! If the effect was perhaps a little too artificial everyday, as though the first rough wind would disturb it, it didn't greatly matter, Paul decided; there were no rough winds at Baron now, and all of Cousin Hermione's days, as a rich man's wife, would be sheltered and tranquil. He heard Cousin Godfrey call out to Sybilla about the question Paul had asked concerning the plant, and she got up from her stool and ran over, fair curls bobbing. He heard old Mrs. Bowes, from her place across the room, call out, oblivious of the harpsichord, "My colour! My own golden colour; I had that same hair when I was a child." Sybilla was her favourite grandchild; she made the two statements often. "Tell Paul what I told you yesterday, about why the plant is called Solomon's Seal when there are no seals to be seen," commanded Godfrey. His expression as he watched the little girl was doting; he put out a finger and inserted it in one of her bright curls, as if to draw life from it. Sybilla laughed, and sidled up against him in his chair. "Papa, I half forgot," she confessed, and the dimple deepened.

"Then you have a brain like a butterfly, and can remember only sugared almond cakes and the like." He stroked her silken hair. "I will tell you again, sweetheart, because Paul is enquiring; perhaps he will remember if you do not. The seals are underground, on a creeping stem that grows there; each year there is a new scar, as though Solomon had impressed it."

"How could he, when he's dead?" said Sybilla practically.

They all laughed; Hermione frowned a little, and said they

were being uncivil to Edgar and Elizabeth, who were playing

for their diversion; had they not best listen?

"Shall we sing a Scots air?" called Edgar Berry from his place nearby the harpsichord. He and his wife made an inces sant business of visiting the great houses in the neighbourhood, and were believed hardly ever to dine at home; by way of singing for their supper, no doubt, they had a repertoire of musical pieces, sometimes rather indifferently played. But the Scots air was nostalgic, and prettily enough sung by the pair, while Elizabeth Berry showed off her fine white at the keys. It was early in the day for music; but, as Miss Clairette Bowes had been heard to remark in her acid manner, Eliza beth Berry had brought her Italian singing-master north with her on her marriage, and would have been at a loss for any other subject on which to converse.

Paul only half heard the Scots air, for on release from the necessity of polite talk his thoughts had flown back to the encounter in the ale-house that morning. Suppose he were to describe now, in this elegant, fragrant drawing-room, the rough character he had seen in the taproom? An impish urge, despite his shyness, impelled him to do so; Cousin Hermione's salon at Baron was the occasion of frequent sly hints from his otherwise placid, uncomplaining stepmother. "Had she her hands as full as I have, with five children and yourself and Sir Sander-" Cecily always, like a good wife of the old school, gave her spouse his full formal title- "there'd be less time for musical evenings, and card-playing and painting in water-colours." It was well known, Cecily then added robustly, treating Paul as already fully informed on such matters, that Godfrey and Hermione had occupied separate bedrooms since the birth of Sybilla.