The Admiral's Daughter (9 page)

Lord Ramblay cast his cousin a curious glance, almost smiled, and said nothing. Miss Ramblay, too, seemed to have exhausted all her powers of conversation. She sat with her eyes cast down upon her hands, fiddling at a ribbon in her frock, her cheeks pale. Lady Ramblay was plainly bridling, but she seemed at last to lose interest in the subject.

“Whatever your strength,” said Lord Ramblay now, “you must be pretty well exhausted after so long a journey. If you will excuse us, ma'am—” with a bow to his mother—“I shall take Miss Trevor away to have some refreshment.”

Lady Ramblay nodded her consent, dismissing Maggie with a nod, and in a moment was lecturing the young people around her once more.

There was silence between Maggie and her cousin as they walked back across the room, on the part of one from such a mixture of emotion that she knew not what she
could
say without openly insulting her hostess to the lady's son, and on the other side, from some unreadable determination to be silent. Lord Ramblay did steal more than one glance at his relative as he led her back to the pianoforte, but his dark eyes were veiled, and if there was a hint of pain in them, it was no more than a hint. He might, at this
moment, have redeemed all the ill that had been thought of him—unbeknownst, it is true, to himself—by making some apology for his mother's incivility. Maggie almost longed to hear him make such an excuse, for she had unaccountably softened toward him. His words, spoken on her behalf a moment before, though not an absolute contradiction of Lady Ramblay's insult, and though lacking something of that passionate cry for justice which had made Maggie instantly love his sister, had seemed to spring from a real desire to blunt the point of his mother's tongue. If only now he would speak out, would make some sign that he knew her feelings and was sorry for them! If so, Maggie's natural generosity of spirit might have erased her former ill opinion of him. Such an apology might even have inclined her to discredit Captain Morrison's story, or at least to think of it with an open mind.

But no apology came, and though Lord Ramblay did once open his mouth as if to speak, he shut it again at once with an almost imperceptible shake of his head. His silence, when he might so easily, so naturally have spoken, only hardened Maggie's determination to dislike him, and if that dislike now owed as much to her pride's having been twice wounded at his hands, it was perhaps even stronger than an unprejudiced opinion might have been.

“By Jupiter!” cried Mr. Whiting, as they came up beside him, “are you escaped so soon, then? I should have thought there would be a great to-do of kissing and long-lost female cousin chatter between you!”

Maggie was prevented from replying by Lord Ramblay's quick interjection, in a biting tone, of, “My mother and Miss Trevor had never met before, Whiting.”

Whiting looked taken aback and said no more. The young lady at the pianoforte was in the midst of a song—a real one this time—and Maggie noticed with amusement that both her animation and her voice improved the instant Lord Ramblay had come into view again. The song was finished with a little trill, and the young lady accepted her applause with smiles and laughter. Whiting and his friend declared her the best thing since Mrs. Siddons, to which she responded in a teasing voice—

“Silly things! You know I have not more than a little creaking voice, and that my fingers are made of wood,
though I do hope I have not so frightful a countenance as she!”

The gentlemen all roared with laughter at this sally, and protested hotly the first point, while heartily agreeing to the latter. But the young lady was soon tired of the other gentlemen's admiration, and turning to Lord Ramblay, cried:

“Percy, you are quite uncivil! I have not been introduced to your cousin yet!”

The oversight was instantly amended. Maggie learned that the Honorable Miss Montcrieff—or Diana, as she begged to be known—was at Ramblay Castle with her brother, who was “not in evidence at the moment. You know he is swooning over that perfectly divine Miss Haversham.”

It appeared Maggie ought to have known this Miss Haversham, but when it came out she did not, Miss Montcrieff turned with wide eyes to Lord Ramblay.

“Why, Percival! Where on earth do you keep your poor cousin? 'Pon my word, it is amazing to meet someone who has never even
heard
of Blanche Haversham!”

Maggie explained with a smile that she probably did not know anyone she ought to know, as she had been all her life at Portsmouth with her father. Her further admission that she had never been to London save once, when she had been a little girl and too young to remember anything, brought a smile to Miss Montcrieff's lips. It was not altogether a kind smile. Indeed, it had more than a little sneer in it, and when the young lady exclaimed at Lord Ramblay's having any cousin who did not frequent London regularly, and commenced teasing him upon the subject to secure his attention to herself, Maggie determined that her first efforts at amiability had been hypocritical. It was all “Why! And have you many other pretty cousins, Percy, whom you are keeping hidden in the wilds? Lud! How is a girl to trust you, when you are always keeping some secret to yourself, and such comely ones, on top of everything!”

Miss Montcrieff was the sort of young lady who, when she will, can be as charming as a June day. Her eyelashes, which were long and black, fluttered up and down over her teasing eyes; her lips, curled into the prettiest smile in the world, and her long neck, which was as white and slender
as a swan's, bent attentively toward whomever she addressed. Miss Montcrieff in this state was as sweet as honey, but the instant she was displeased, or if for a moment she lost the attention of every man about her, her eyes grew dark and moody, her mouth formed into a pout, and her sweetness turned to petulance. She was one of those ladies who has been formed from birth to please men. She knew from instinct, as well as education, how to make them think they were the center of the earth, and any man who has ever known such a woman will attest to the irresistibility of such a creature, be she ever so homely.

All this was evident to Maggie after seeing Miss Montcrieff for barely half an hour. Miss Montcrieff was a disappointment, and her two swains, Whiting and his friend, were very little better. The hope that the rest of the company might reveal some greater minds and hearts was quickly dashed, for the serving of late tea, shortly thereafter, opened the way for her to converse with everyone in the party. Miss Montcrieff's brother was a very well-looking man, with fine features and a handsome figure, but these were all marred by the same petulance about the mouth and eyes, and the same whining voice, that characterized the sister. He had little to say to Maggie, for his attention was all directed at Miss Haversham, a tall, haughty-looking beauty with a cold smile, who only opened her lips twice all the evening, and attended to her suitor's continuous string of jokes and anecdotes with a distant, disinterested look. These two seemed perfectly content in each other's company, however, and if the sight of them made Maggie smile, the boredom of the one and the foolishness of the other apparently satisfied their different ideas of conversation.

The rest of the company was composed of married people, but the wives had as little to say to their husbands as the husbands to the wives. After they had, from courtesy, mingled about the tea table for a quarter of an hour, devoting the chief part of their interest to the lobster and cakes, they disposed themselves again much as they had been before, with the men all around the mantle boasting to each other about their day in the field, and the ladies gossiping in another part of the room. This monotony seemed to please everyone, for the distraction of a newcomer was barely noticed. Upon hearing that Miss Trevor
did not hunt, the gentlemen were all silent, apparently at a loss for what to say to her, and the ladies, when they discovered she knew none of their friends and had no great expertise in the field of fashion, turned away with smiles.

For a while Maggie contrived to join in their conversations, but soon discovering that she had as little to say to them as they did to her, she contented herself with wandering about the room admiring the wealth of handsome artifacts disposed on every table and in a variety of cabinets.

The party had removed, after tea, to a drawing room of ample size, but not, as Maggie noticed from peering through a doorway, the chief one of the castle. It was long and narrow, with groups of chairs and sofas arranged to allow for several conversations going forward at once. On the walls were tapestries, one of which depicted a medieval hunting scene with a band of riders circling about a doe. An arrow had evidently just struck the beautiful creature, for she had fallen down upon her forelegs, and her delicate head on its noble neck was turned in bewilderment toward her murderer. Her great eyes were wide with pain and amazement, as if she could not believe she had really been struck, making an awful contrast to the expressions of pleasure on the faces of her pursuers. One of the hunters had his head back in laughter. Some others were conversing together, probably boasting of their conquest; but the one who rode in front, and who had actually killed the doe (for his arrow was still poised against his bow), had no expression upon his face at all. His eyes were dark and impenetrable, and only a tiny thread of light, which seemed to connect his own gaze with the poor creature's, gave a clue to his feelings. It was a depiction, as clearly as could be conceived, of man's arrogance, and Maggie, staring at the murderer, could not help but remember Captain Morrison's tale of her cousin's marriage.

“Do you admire it?” sounded behind her suddenly. Lord Ramblay's voice was unmistakable, and coming, as it did, in the midst of the thought she had been forming, it made her start violently. But the Viscount's face, when she turned around, was lightened by a smile. This expression changed his countenance remarkably, making him seem ten years younger than he had looked before and actually changing the color of his eyes. Maggie noticed with astonishment
that these eyes were not black, as she had thought at first, but rather hazel, like her own, and with an even greater range of coloration. When they had stood in the hall together, his eyes had been dark and ominous, but now they were a mottled shade of green and ocher. She thought fleetingly that they looked like eyes that had seen a great deal, but whether of their own pain, or the pain of others, she would not hazard a guess.

“It is a remarkable piece of work,” she replied.

“Oh! The needlework is exceptional, to be sure. I believe it was worked in Flanders some two hundred years ago. One is always amazed at the steadfast patience of those women, who could labor over such a thing tirelessly, for year upon year. But it is not the needlework that astounds
me
, so much as the sensibility of the artist. Is not it a moving study of a hunt?”

“As to that, Cousin, I could not say, or rather, my opinion would be of no value, for I have never hunted. But it is most certainly a moving study of
life
—and of death.”

“And what can you know of death, Miss Trevor?” inquired Lord Ramblay, with a smile. “You, who seem so full of the very soul of animated life.”

Maggie was a little discomfitted by these words, accompanied by a searching look. Was he mocking her? His eyes held her own steadily, but he seemed to be looking through her, almost as he had done on their first meeting. No doubt he had a very low opinion of women, and of women's capacity for serious thought, if he admired Diana Montcrieff as much as he seemed to do. The thought made her, unaccountably, wish to persuade him that she was not merely a scatterbrained female.

“I have known something of death, my lord,” she replied with a challenging look. “I should have thought
you
would not forget that. I lost a mother once, as you lost a cousin.”

Now Lord Ramblay pleased her by looking a little shamefaced. But his dignity was recovered at once, and he said:

“And I wish I had known what a loss I suffered by that death. Your mother was much loved in this house, and I believe, everywhere she went.”

Maggie said nothing in reply, fearing that, if once the subject were opened, it could not help but lead to an
argument. Lord Ramblay, it seemed, had the same idea, for he said, after a moment:

“They are setting up tables in the card room, if you will make a hand at whist. But perhaps you are too tired to play. Don't hesitate, if that is the case, to retire when you like. We observe hardly any formality at these parties. Indeed,” he added softly, “I have very little say in what is or is
not
observed.”

Maggie glanced at his face in surprise, wondering who had the authority to command here, if the master of the house did not, but she saw his look change instantly, and that rigid formality which had hitherto characterized his manner, return. With a little bow, and replying to her plea for an early retirement with a nod, he wished her good night and walked away.

Almost instantly she regretted that she had not taken advantage of his unguarded mood to inquire what he had been doing at the posting house in Dartmoor that very afternoon. She watched him cross the floor to Miss Montcrieff, who greeted him with a high, tinkling laugh, and a teasing look, but glancing in some annoyance at herself for having robbed her of her lover's company so long. Maggie smiled to herself. Miss Montcrieff had nothing to fear from
her.
Even had she not been his cousin, she could never have felt any love for Lord Ramblay. So much formality, such a guarded manner, was exactly opposed to her idea of amiability in a man. It is true that in that second when he had seemed to relax his guard, she had very nearly liked him. But the return of his former manner reminded her of what she knew of him, and even more, of what Captain Morrison had hinted.