A London Season (24 page)

“Do you?” Persephone
’
s voice was pathetically small and unhappy. “Oh, Elinor, I
cannot
live without him!” Even her reddened eyes could not quite dim her sorrowful beauty as she sat there, clutching
Mr.
Walter
’
s wet handkerchief like a treasure. “Do you really understand?”

Elinor
’
s heart was decidedly wrung. “Yes,” she said, assuming a mater-of-fact tone, “and what is more, Persephone, I have come to believe that if all other circumstances were equal, you and
Mr.
Walter might well be happy together.”

“Only other circumstances
aren
’
t
equal!” said Persephone mournfully. “I only wish I had no fortune, and so does Robert too, for I suppose it is only because of that Cousin Edmund will never agree.”

“Well, you know, Cousin Edmund is far from being an ogre.
I
think,” said Elinor warmly, “he is the kindest person I ever met. But the thing is, he is very much aware of his duty, because he was so much attached to your papa. Well, he would be neglecting that duty sadly if he let you marry, at eighteen, quite out of the sort of circles where your family is used to move. It is only natural that he should be wary of persons desirous of getting their hands on your fortune.”

“As if
Robert
—
” Persephone began, But Miss Radley firmly interrupted her.

“Now, my dear, will you listen to me for a few moments? Of course I cannot promise you anything, but I
’
ll tell you what I
will
do: I
’
ll speak to Sir Edmund
—
”

“Oh, yes!” cried Persephone, a watery radiance returning to her face. “He will listen to
you
, because he thinks the world of you!”

“Does he?” Elinor was a good deal startled, but it was not the time to enquire further into this surprising item of information. “Well, when I find a convenient moment, I will speak to him, and
—
represent to him what I think is the strength of your mutual affection. He has remarked, himself, on your shared interest in music, which
I
think does make it more likely that your attachment would endure.”

“Of course it will!” said Persephone, fast recovering her spirits.

“Only naturally, you would have to be patient, Persephone. Even if Sir Edmund were to say that eventually you might be married, you would have to wait quite a long time, I am sure, to prove your constancy.”

This was not quite so pleasing, and Persephone said, “I don
’
t need to prove it. Nor does Robert. We
know
!”

“Then why,” asked Elinor reasonably, “are you so dreadfully upset by the notion of spending a couple of months away from him in the country?” A reproachful glance from Persephone told her that to any young girl, the prospect of going so much as twenty-four hours without a sight of her beloved seemed an age; it had been so with herself, and she had to own that even now she felt very low when she could not see Sir Edmund for some days on end. But she must not go too easily with Persephone. “For I suppose
that
is what put the idea of an elopement into your mind. I may say, it does
Mr.
Walter great credit that he would not entertain such a notion
—
but I shall not tell Sir Edmund about any of that part of it.”

“No. I suppose I should be in the most dreadful disgrace again,” agreed Persephone, sadly. “But two months! If not more! It is too long
—
how can anyone bear it? If only,” she continued fretfully, as her grievances took a new direction, “if only one were a man instead of a young lady, nobody would make one go about with one
’
s tiresome family, and one might travel alone, or in what company one pleased, and never mind stuffy notions of propriety.” Propping her chin on her hands, she gazed gloomily at the pretty gold and white striped paper on the wall. “Though all things considered,” she added after a while, “I had as lief not be a young man, for who is to know but that I might then have had quite an ordinary voice, nothing out of the common run at all?”

Since Persephone so patently regarded her singing voice as an entity separate from herself, this speech was disarmin
g
ly free from self-conceit. She was a resilient creature, thought Elinor, although easily swayed by the overpowering emotion of the moment, and sure enough, in a little while she added, far more cheerful now, “Well, thank you for saying you will take our part and try what you can do with Cousin Edmund. And perhaps,” she continued, brightening yet further, “it is not so very bad after all, for if you can
’
t help us, I dare say other people will.”

Elinor
’
s mind leaped back, most disagreeably, to her recent conversation with Grenville Royden. Could he possibly
—
but to what conceivable end?
—
have offered already to connive at an elopement? Oh, surely not! And yet she could not put it past him, after what he had said. Drawing a deep breath, she said carefully, “Persephone, please understand this: you
must
not think of running away with
Mr.
Walter, even if you could persuade him to do it, or do
anything
of that kind which you know you ought not to. You would only regret it bitterly! Believe me, I know what I am talking about, for I was once in a situation a little like yours myself.”

She had been thinking rapidly but carefully, and decided just what part of her own story she should now tell Persephone. Charlotte had become a close friend of them both: while she would dearly have liked to set Persephone on her guard against any suggestions that might come specifically from Grenville Royden, she did not want to mention him by name, for fear of the story
’
s going farther and even, perhaps, damaging Charlotte
’
s brilliant marriage prospects. She did not think Conington would care what her brother had done, years ago, but his parents might have very strict notions of propriety, and in any case she did not wish Charlotte, who had nothing whatever to do with
her
misconduct, to run the least risk of suffering. Besides, naming names seemed too much like tale-bearing, and was distasteful to her. She therefore omitted them entirely from her tale, making it appear, without actually saying so, that her seducer had not been any part of the household at
Royden Manor, but had lived in a large country house a little way off.

She did not, however, spare
herself
anything in the telling, but resolutely described the whole wretched little episode in a level voice which shook only when, at the end, she said: “And naturally I have regretted it ever since. So you can see what comes of giving way to one
’
s impulses in such a matter. I ought, of course, to have told Sir Edmund the whole of this when he asked me to come and bear you company, and I did try, but
—
well, he is so kind that he would not let me, and I was so glad to come here, too. However, you know, the world would say I was not a fit person to look after you. And the world would probably be right,” she said firmly.

The recital of Elinor
’
s story had certainly taken Persephone
’
s mind off her own troubles; she had been sitting there open-mouthed with amazement, but at this she exclaimed, “Oh, nonsense!”

“What?” said Elinor, startled.

“I said
nonsense
!”
repeated Persephone, adding indignantly, “I never heard of anything so shabby in my life as that man
’
s behaviour! How
could
he leave you so?
That
is what I think is shocking! Very shocking! I can
’
t think how you ever came to fall in love with such a person.”

“To tell you the truth, nor can I!” said Elinor, a good deal moved by such staunch partisanship from Persephone.

“Well, I call it the most shameful way for him to have gone on
—
and his papa too! Robert, of course, would never act in such a manner, but,” she said thoughtfully, “I can quite see that that is beside the point, because if I were to run off with anyone at all, even Robert, people might say that you had not instilled proper principles into me, which would be monstrously unfair!”

“I
—
I suppose so!” said Elinor, not quite knowing whether to laugh or cry. “Though I
—
I hadn
’
t looked at it exactly like that.”

“Oh, Elinor
—
pray don
’
t cry! I won
’
t do anything to distress you, truly I won
’
t. I won
’
t run away, even if Robert would let me!”

But, to Mis
s
Radley
’
s considerable surprise, she discovered that her tears
would
come, and it was her turn to find herself clinging to the younger girl and weeping her heart out.

It was fortunate that the evening was to be that rarity, a quiet one spent at home, for both young women were pretty well exhausted by the emotional upheavals of the afternoon, and very ready to retire to bed as early as seemed proper. Touched by the embrace that Persephone gave her as they said good night, Elinor could at least reflect that her confession had probably served its deterrent purpose, if not exactly in the way she had intended.

Thanks to Miss Grafton
’
s kind offices, a yet more nerve-racking interview was in store for her, but luckily she was not to know that, and so she slept long and deeply, and was surprised, when at last she woke, to see the sun streaming into her bedroom at an unwonted angle as the maid drew back the curtains and poured hot water into the basin. “Good gracious, what can the time be?” she exclaimed.

“Past ten o
’
clock, miss, but Miss Grafton said you had the headache and wasn
’
t to be disturbed.”

Well, she had certainly been glad to have her sleep out, and was glad too, on passing the door of the Yellow Parlour as she went down stairs, to hear Persephone carolling happily as she sat at her instrument, obviously much recovered. Walking into the breakfast parlour, however, Elinor was brought up short by the unexpected sight of Sir Edmund sitting in an easy chair by the window, reading the newspaper.

It was far too early an hour for anyone but a member of the family to call, but the informality of Yoxford House made it easy for Sir Edmund to stroll in and out as he liked, and having seen his Austrian minister safely dispatched to
Dover the previous evening, he had repaired to Upper Brook Street as soon as he felt he decently could. The interview he had promised himself with Miss Radley was, he thought, very long overdue, and he was impatient to see her. However, he had been met instead by Miss Grafton, up and dressed, lying in wait for him, and eager to unburden herself of a tangled confession in which she profusely and penitently begged pardon for the trouble she had given, adjuring him frequently not to blame Elinor for
anything.
By the time he had got from her a reasonably coherent account of what it was for which Elinor should not be blamed, he was quite as indignant on her behalf as Persephone, but since he was a good deal better at controlling his feelings, he suppressed the forcible expressions which rose to his lips, contrived to soothe and reassure his ward, and sat down to await Miss Radley, aware that the task before him might be more difficult than he had hoped.

He rose as soon as she entered the room, saying in answer to her look of surprise, “Yes, I know: a shockingly early hour to call, but I have been so busy, and have missed seeing you so much, that I had to come at the first opportunity. Have you slept well?”

“Oh, yes!” she said, feeling slightly breathless.
Missed seeing you,
he had said. But of course it would be the family he had meant, not her!

“You still look tired,” he said with quick concern, studying her face. “Which is hardly to be wondered at, from what Persephone tells me.”

She went absolutely white as paper, and had to sit down. “What Persephone tells you?” she repeated, voice faltering. “What
—
how much did she say?”

“Well, that child does nothing by halves, does she?” said he, with some amusement. “After a period of total absorption in her own romantic affairs, she is now overwhelmed by remorse for the trouble she has caused you, and in a most salutorily penitent spirit, nothing would do for her but to make a clean breast of the whole.” Keenly aware of the
distress in Miss Radley
’
s face, he kept his tone very light, on purpose to reassure her.