The Sins of Lady Dacey Page 2

  “Calmly, Mrs. Goodham,” said her father. “Honoria, we have momentous news for you. You are to go to London next week to stay with your aunt, Lady Dacey.”

  Honoria looked bewildered. Her speech about Mr. Pomfret died stillborn on her lips.

  Instead she said, “My aunt?”

  “My sister,” said Mrs. Goodham. “She is the Dowager Countess of Dacey and she wishes to bring you out. You will have a Season in London. Clarissa, your aunt, says you could marry a duke.”

  She picked up Lady Dacey's letter and scanned it again.

  Honoria's mind worked rapidly. Obviously this offer had just arrived and snobbery had defeated the pretensions of Mr. Pomfret, the mill owner. So she was not even going to mention Mr. Pomfret. Deliverance had arrived!

  “Your aunt does not wish us to go with you.” Mrs. Goodham gave a deprecatory little laugh. “She was always given to whims and foibles, but we must indulge her as she is being so generous. But naturally we could not let you go without a chaperon. Mrs. Perryworth is to accompany you.”

  Honoria had always considered Mrs. Perryworth a quiet, colorless woman. But it could have been worse. They could have engaged some sort of female dragon.

  “I am most grateful to Mrs. Perryworth,” said Honoria meekly, quickly deciding, although she did not know it, to behave like her new chaperon in a quiet and chastened way until she was free.

  But she could not help asking, “Why have I not heard of this aunt before? I did not even know you had a sister, Mama.”

  “Oh, I must have said something,” said Mrs. Goodham hurriedly. “You are such a forgetful child. But to more important things. Lady Dacey says she will furnish your clothes as what you have or can get made here will no doubt be considered sadly provincial in London. But you must be equipped for the journey.”

  Despite her determination to appear calm and modest, excitement bubbled up in Honoria. “I should at least put my hair up, Mama, for Lady Dacey will find me schoolgirlish.”

  “I wish her to see you as you are,” said Mr. Goodham repressively, “pure and unsullied by vanity.”

  Unlike you, thought Honoria with uncharacteristic rebellion. What is Mr. Pomfret compared to a titled relative?

  “Perhaps it would be a good idea if you were to pay a call on Mrs. Perryworth and thank her,” said Mrs. Goodham.

  “Yes, of course.” But Honoria felt that sinking feeling she always had when a visit to the vicarage was suggested. The vicar was such a chilly personality, and the vicarage itself was so meanly fired that Honoria always felt cold inside and out when she went there. Still, all her young life had been glued together by duty, “stern daughter of the voice of God,” and she went upstairs to put on her bonnet and cloak.

  As the vicarage was only a short walk away, there was no reason for a maid to accompany her. Honoria hardly ever went out alone, being accompanied about the village on calls by her mother. The wind had strengthened to a gale and was tossing the bare branches of the trees up to the angry heavens. Once she was out of sight of her home, she picked up her skirts and began to run, flying before the buffeting wind, feeling she was running toward a glorious future which did not contain Mr. Pomfret.

  So that when she nearly collided with him, she shrank back in horror.

  His heavy face was dark with anger. “So I am to be cast aside—” he sneered “—because your mama has rediscovered that trollop of a sister.”

  “How dare you speak of my aunt in such a way.” Honoria gasped.

  “Because it's true. We all remember Clarissa Ward as she was, flirting and ogling the redcoats. Ran away with one o’ them, didn't she? Aha! Never told you that, did they?”

  “Let me pass.” Honoria looked at him haughtily.

  He glanced around quickly and then gave her a slow smile. “Reckon as I'll sample a bit of the wares that's going to Lunnon.” He reached for her but she darted back.

  “Honoria!” called a sweet voice. Mr. Pomfret swore under his breath and strode on as the vicar's wife came hurrying up.

  “I am so glad to see you,” said Honoria. “That man!”

  “You need never see him again,” said Mrs. Perryworth.

  “No,” said Honoria simply, and then she began to cry.

  “Come with me. What did Mr. Pomfret do or say? This is dreadful. I shall get Mr. Perryworth to speak to him.”

  Honoria shook her head and dried her tears. “I am crying with relief.”

  Mrs. Perryworth, mindful always of her husband's rigid views, said, “Well, you must not blame your parents. They thought they were doing the best they could for you.” Honoria flashed her a disappointed look. For one moment earlier, Mrs. Perryworth had seemed to come to life. Now she was once more colorless and correct.

  Over the tea tray in the vicarage, Mrs. Perryworth told Honoria that her sister Amy, married to a lawyer, lived in Lincoln's Inn Fields in London, and that she had not seen her for a long time. Her voice began to become animated again. Then she sprang to her feet and said with a guilty little laugh, “I have two fashion magazines hidden in the bottom drawer of the bureau. They are five years old. Do you think fashions will have changed so very much?”

  “How can I say?” Honoria laughed as well and held out the skirt of her simple girlish gown. “I never wear anything fashionable.”

  Mrs. Perryworth found the magazines, and they bent their heads over the plates. “How beautiful the ladies look!” she sighed. “And so very tall! Do you think London ladies will all be so tall, Honoria? I shall feel like a dwarf. And surely you will now be allowed to put your hair up.”

  “Papa wants me to arrive looking pure and unsullied,” said Honoria in a sudden mocking imitation of her father's rather mincing voice.

  Mrs. Perryworth laughed. At that moment the door opened and the vicar stood there. One of the irritating things about him, thought Honoria, as the laughter died on Mrs. Perryworth's lips and her face lost all animation, was that he didn't walk into a room, he stood on the threshold in a rather intimidating way, like a stern parent looking for trouble.

  He is going to ask, “Why are you laughing?” in that reproving way he has, thought Honoria, and the vicar did just that.

  “Honoria has brought me two fashion journals,” said the vicar's wife, “and is asking my advice.”

  “Indeed!” The vicar walked forward and held out an imperious hand for the journals which, having taken, he then scanned, his face registering distaste for the wordly vanities of women.

  “I am surprised, Miss Goodham,” he said, “that your parents should allow such vanities in their home.”

  Honoria sensed the sudden frightened stillness inside Mrs. Perryworth and in a split second knew that the vicar was probably looking for some excuse to stop his wife from going, that he already regretted having given his permission. “I came through the village on my way here,” she said lightly, “and was given these by Mrs. Battersby. She is a frivolous lady, I admit, but very kind, and I did not like to disappoint her. Besides, as I am to have a Season, it is important to know what I am expected to wear.” And, she thought, I will now have to go through the village on the way back and call on Mrs. Battersby and beg her to say she gave me the journals, for the vicar will ask her if she did. He is that kind of man. Always looking for faults.

  But she was glad she had lied, for she sensed the gratitude in the vicar's wife.

  “We must discuss the best way for you to travel to London,” said the vicar, dropping the journals on the table in front of them. “Too many common people travel by the stage. I think you should travel post. I will suggest it to your father.”

  He nodded to them both and left, closing the door slowly and quietly behind him. There was no sound of retreating footsteps. He is listening at the door, thought Honoria.

  She raised her voice. “We will not trouble our heads over these fashions anymore, Mrs. Perryworth. I am sure my aunt will be able to arrange everything for both of us. I have just received a vastly interesting book of sermons b
y the Reverend John Simms. I could pass the tedium of the journey by reading them to you, if you so wish.”

  “That would be most kind of you,” said Mrs. Perryworth. The footsteps at the other side of the door could then be heard retreating.

  We are now conspirators and friends, thought Honoria, smiling at Mrs. Perryworth. I might be going to have some fun for the first time in my life. But Honoria's religious training had been rigid, and she immediately felt wicked. As if Mrs. Perryworth had had the same thought, the vicar's wife made tepid and colorless conversation for the rest of the visit.

  * * * *

  Two days before they were due to depart, the wind, which had been roaring in from the west, suddenly veered round to the north and brought on its wings the metallic smell of threatening snow.

  The villagers scanned the sky and said the roads would soon be blocked. Honoria and Mrs. Perryworth began to feel frightened, knowing from experience that a bad winter might mean they would not be able to travel for weeks.

  Honoria and Mrs. Perryworth grew quiet and anxious. Mr. Perryworth seemed to his wife to delight in saying several times a day, “Well, my dear, it looks as if you will not be going after all.”

  But the day of their departure dawned still and fair with frost glittering among the furrows of the brown winter fields.

  The post chaise with its taciturn driver arrived from the nearest town. The vicarage groom and the Goodhams’ groom were to ride on either side. The vicar drove his wife over to the Goodhams', his eyes occasionally cast up to the sky as if hardly able to believe that the weather had turned fine.

  Both Honoria and Mrs. Perryworth were wearing drab traveling dresses and cloaks and depressing bonnets, each instinctively knowing that any sign of happiness or excitement might cause the whole journey to be canceled.

  Honoria, during the days of waiting, had not mentioned Mr. Pomfret's name. She had not dared ask anything about her canceled engagement in case her parents might change their minds again and decide he was a better prospect than the risky one of her finding some noble in London.

  Seated at last in the post chaise, Honoria took Mrs. Perryworth's hand and held it tight. The carriage lurched forward over the frost-hard road. Mrs. Perryworth waved her handkerchief to the vicar, who was standing on her side of the carriage, and Honoria, to her parents, who were on the other.

  Bolt upright they both sat, staring straight ahead until the carriage climbed up the rise leading out of the village and began to traverse the wild moors.

  Honoria sank back in her seat.

  “It looks as if we are going to London after all, Mrs. Perryworth.”

  The vicar's wife smiled like a young girl. “Pamela. Please call me Pamela.”

  Chapter Two

  THE FIRST DAY of their journey was pleasant. Pamela gained new confidence from handling the money at each stop for their refreshment and change of horses. By the time they stopped for the night, both felt like world travelers, happy and confident and still bouyed up by a heady feeling of release.

  The dent in their newfound confidence was caused by Honoria when she ordered a bottle of wine at supper. Pamela looked surprised, knowing that the Goodhams believed in temperance as did her own husband, but did not like to spoil the occasion with any protest. It only seemed right to join Honoria and finish the bottle and then to round off the meal with several glasses of old port.

  Giggling happily, they went to bed together, Honoria, who was a good mimic, even going so far as to do a marvelous impression of the vicar's chilly, admonishing, fault-finding voice.

  The room in which they slept was well-fired but close and stuffy, and both of them awoke on a bleak morning feeling decidedly ill. And when they looked out of the window, blinking painfully in the light, it was to face a steel-gray day where a cold wind was whipping tiny pellets of snow around the inn yard.

  It was very hard to separate spirituality from superstition, and both were beset at the same time with a vision of a punishing God. Had they not drunk the night before, had Honoria not done her malicious impressions, had Pamela not laughed so loudly at them, then the weather would have remained fine.

  So two very subdued ladies got into the post chaise, and when Pamela took out her Book of Common Prayer and began to read, Honoria asked her meekly to read aloud.

  They stopped for a meal at one o'clock, and the driver and outriders confronted them and suggested they should all stay at the inn in which they found themselves, for the weather was worsening.

  But Honoria and Pamela began to panic. They were not yet far enough from home. “Just let us try a little farther,” said Honoria, and when the driver gloomily shook his head, Pamela said sharply, “You will continue to do what you are being paid to do.”

  Determinedly they turned a blind eye to the whipping, freezing, driving snow as they got in the carriage. “We are still high up here,” Pamela called to the driver. “When we start to descend you will find the snow has changed to rain.”

  The snow fell heavier and heavier, and the light failed quickly. The driver cursed the folly of his passengers, peering into the storm, trying to keep his horses on the road, and yet wondering which was road and which was ditch. He rounded a bend, and then the carriage gave a creak and overturned.

  Shaken, Pamela and Honoria were helped out, finding themselves standing up to their knees in snow. “There is a light over there,” Pamela shouted to one of the grooms. “See if it is a house.”

  They crouched down in the shelter of the overturned carriage. The carriage horses had been cut free and the driver stood beside them, telling them quite clearly what he thought of silly women who put the lives of men and horses at risk. The groom returned with a small bent man carrying a lantern. “We're at the hunting box of the Duke of Ware,” he said. “This is the lodge keeper. You ladies had better mount and make your way up to the house, and we'll follow with the baggage.”

  Honoria and Pamela were thrown up into the saddles of the outriders’ horses. Numb with cold, clutching the reins with their wet gloves, they urged the horses through a large gateway and through the snowdrifts of a long drive.

  At last they could see the lights of a large house flickering through the snow.

  Honoria slid off her mount under the welcome shelter of the portico and rang a large bell that was hanging from a rope beside the door.

  “They cannot turn us away,” said Pamela, coming to join her.

  The door was opened by a butler. Honoria and Pamela walked past him and into a large square hall, not wanting to stand out in the cold and argue their case. “We are Miss Honoria Goodham and Mrs. Perryworth,” said Honoria, conscious of her bedraggled clothes and her hair hanging down under her bonnet in two pleats. “Our carriage overturned in the snow, and we are come to beg for shelter.”

  “I will inform His Grace of your arrival,” said the butler, and Pamela Perryworth was conscious of the servant's eyes flicking expertly over them, debating whether to send them to the kitchen or keep them abovestairs. Honoria looked back at him and raised her eyebrows haughtily.

  “If you will wait in here,” said the butler, throwing open a door.

  “Our coachman and outriders will be arriving shortly,” said Honoria, walking into a long saloon and making straight for the fire.

  The butler bowed and left.

  “It is very magnificent for a mere hunting box,” said Pamela, joining Honoria in front of the fire, stripping off her wet gloves and holding her hands out to the blaze. They looked around. There were several fine pictures, modern furniture upholstered in striped gold and white satin, marble and gilt tables, tall candelabra, and a fine French carpet in a design of pink and gray.

  A footman in red and gold livery came in and placed a tray of tea and cakes on a table in front of the fire, bowed, and withdrew.

  “Well, this is better,” said Honoria loudly—loudly for she was intimidated by the richness of their surroundings.

  They sat down. Pamela poured tea into eggshell thin c
ups. She was tired and bewildered and only wanted to go to bed. She wished they were in some impersonal inn and not in a duke's home, pleading for shelter.

  The butler came back in, followed by a housekeeper. “His Grace's compliments,” he said. “He begs you to accept the shelter of his house. The housekeeper will show you to your rooms. The maids are attending to your baggage.”

  Honoria found her voice. “And when may we have the pleasure of thanking the Duke of Ware in person?”

  “I am afraid that will not be possible, miss. His Grace is indisposed. He has the fever.”

  “Dear me, has the doctor been called?”

  “His Grace's instructions are that he will do very well if left peacefully to recover. Now, if you are ready?”

  They followed him up an oaken staircase to the bedrooms. They were, said the butler, to be given a suite of apartments on the second floor. The bedrooms, one for Honoria and one for Pamela, were divided by a sitting room and had obviously been kept ready for female guests, for they were prettily and daintily furnished, the toilet table in each bedroom being laden with bottles and lotions. Pamela dismissed the maids, saying faintly they would look after themselves, the reason being that she was all too conscious of her coarse, darned cotton underwear and did not want to expose it to the view of these ducal servants, only realizing when she went through to her own bedroom that they had already seen the rest of it, all her trunks having been unpacked and the clothes put away. She began to shiver uncontrollably and then let out a loud sneeze.

  Honoria came in and looked at her with concern. Pamela's face was flushed, and her eyes were glittering. “You must go to bed immediately,” cried Honoria. “Oh, why did we ever drink that wine and behave so foolishly?”

  Pamela weakly allowed herself to be undressed and put to bed. Honoria sat beside the bed, holding her new friend's hand until Pamela fell into an uneasy sleep.

  Honoria went to her own room and brushed her hair and braided it and changed into a clean gown. She must do something good to placate this God who was so angry with her for drinking. There was one thing she could do. Her host was ill. She could see to his comfort as she had seen to the comfort of many of the sick people of the village.