The Admiral's Daughter (24 page)

In the flickering candlelight, she could see the Viscount's lips curl into a contemptuous smile.

“I dare say you did not,” was pronounced in tones of the heaviest sarcasm. “But I am rather more interested in your present employment than in your calculations of the time of my return. If it is not asking too much, perhaps you would not mind explaining what you are doing?”

“What—what I am doing, Cousin?”

“I see your hearing has not suffered greatly. I hope your tongue is equally unimpaired.”

“Ah!” Maggie emitted a little sigh of absolute defeat. There was no point in caviling, she saw at once. Lord Ramblay's expression mirrored his absolute contempt of her,
and in truth she could not much blame him. With a self-denigrating smile, she straightened her shoulders and stared straight into his eyes.

“There is certainly no point in trying to convince you that I meant no harm, Lord Ramblay. You will no doubt only think the worse of me for trying to defend myself.”

“Defend yourself?” repeated the Viscount, the lines of his mouth beginning to show a trace of real amusement. “Why, what should you defend yourself against? It is no crime to go in search of a warming brick, which I assume is what you are after. Only, I should have thought it a great deal easier simply to ring for a maid, who would have brought it to you gladly—and warm, besides. I myself am not very fond of cold bricks in my bed, but perhaps our tastes are different. Oh! I see by your look that is not the case. Remind me, if you will, Cousin, to reprimand the servant in question. I am sure it has always been the custom of this house to provide guests with every article of comfort they may require, that they may be saved the trouble of ransacking the place in the middle of the night.”

Now Maggie's cheeks were perfectly scarlet, and her throat constricted with anger at this cruel baiting. All desire for caution, all capacity for calm flew out the window, as she cried out—

“Pray, Cousin—if you wish to torture me, why do not you have done with it? You know perfectly well I was not searching for a brick, nor any other article for my
own
comfort! I came in search of—of——”

“Of?” repeated Lord Ramblay helpfully.

But here Maggie was rather at a loss. She did not know herself exactly what she had hoped to find. Certainly she could not accuse him, without any evidence, of what she had so long suspected, and yet neither could she allow him to punish her like this when
he
was the one who ought to be interrogated. In an agony of humiliation and doubt, she stood her ground and eyed him warily.

Lord Ramblay waited patiently for a reply, but, when he saw what difficulty his cousin was put to for one, he remarked softly, “Of something, certainly. I have no idea what you were in hopes of finding here, Miss Trevor, and yet I have a notion of what you
might
find, if you persisted. Shall I tell you what it is?”

Maggie nodded dumbly, uncertain if she was still the
target of his wit or if he intended to be serious. Lord Ramblay's face, so far as she could see, was perfectly grave, but then she had long ago lost any faith in the outward movements of his features as an accurate indicator of his real sentiments.

“You might—and, as I have just heard, already
have
found—one small child, incapable of speaking. That is very sad, is it not? A child of six years old, who cannot—and may very likely never—speak, laugh, even cry?”

“Very, very sad, your lordship,” murmured Maggie, feeling more humble than she had ever done in two and twenty years.

“Oh! I am glad to hear you say so, ma'am. It was my unhappy belief that you considered it the height of naturalness.”

“What!” cried Maggie, unable to believe what she was hearing. “However could you think so?”

“Because,” replied Lord Ramblay in a flat voice, which struck the listener as twice as awful as the heaviest irony, “I have just come from seeing my son. In truth, my early return—which seems to have inconvenienced you so much—was precisely on account of him. I was called back from London by the news that he had taken a turn for the worse. His nurse—a woman with a kind heart, if lacking something in sense—was at first too wracked with sobbing to tell me what had happened. But at last I was able to coax out of her an explanation. It seems my son suffered a dreadful shock today, and feeling she had been in part responsible, she was loath to tell me of it. She had failed in her chief duty, which is to see that the child is not disturbed, that he has the benefit of absolute quiet, and is not frightened or excited by anyone. Miss Trevor, I do not know if I can expect you to understand my position; that child has been the center of my existence for the past five years. At huge expense, and at the cost of any trace of peace I have remaining in my life, I have been at pains to ensure that he has the best medical care to be found in Europe. The most distinguished physicians from this kingdom and others have attended him, and now, in one ignorant moment, just when we believed a little progress was being made, you have ruined all of it! Do not mistake me—I am convinced you meant no real harm. But you have wrought it just the same. Out of a blind and
ignorant belief that you knew better than anyone, you have forced your way into a situation that you can have no understanding of.”

Maggie could only gape in disbelief. Never in all her life had she felt more mortified, more chagrined, more humbled before another human being. She could not believe the child had really suffered from seeing her—and yet here was the proof, put in such certain terms that no power of rhetoric could have disputed it. What had she done? Merely smiled at the child, petted him, played a game with him—and yet here was his father, accusing her of the most vile kind of cruelty!

Lord Ramblay stared at her for a moment in disgust, and then, with a quick intake of breath, turned to go. He had almost covered half the distance of the passageway before Maggie found her voice.

“Pray listen to me a moment, sir! It is true I did not mean any harm—oh, how true! I only meant to help him. But, if I have done any damage, pray let me help to cure it!”

“There is nothing you could do
now,
Miss Trevor,” was pronounced with the most awful iciness. “I believe you have done quite enough.”

There was nothing Maggie could reply to this, but an awful rage, partly at herself and partly from the belief that her cousin's accusations were false, made her exclaim,

“That is true, Lord Ramblay. But what is my crime, in comparison to yours? I only played with your son for half an hour, and as gently as you can imagine. But what have
you
done to put him in this state in the first place? What must he have seen, to be incapable of speaking? What must he see every night, when he sleeps, that has made him unable to laugh like other children?”

Maggie could hardly believe she had said so much, but saw her cousin's back stiffen suddenly with a feeling of satisfaction. In a very different tone, a tone which showed her she had struck home at last, he said.

“That can be no concern of yours, Cousin. You have already meddled where ignorance and an impassioned spirit, without the benefit of either experience or wisdom, have led you. I could not prevent you doing so
then,
but I had rather be damned to eternity than let you pry into my affairs any further.”

And with this, the Viscount turned on his heels and would have strode off, had not he been detained once more.

“I—I shall leave in the morning, your lordship,” declared Maggie, driven by anger and humiliation. “I cannot stay any longer where my presence is so distasteful.”

“As it happens, I have already arranged for your departure. You are to go earlier than planned to London with my mother and sister. I cannot let you go back to your father until my promise to him has been fulfilled. I shall not see you again, however—my son's condition demands my presence here.”

Maggie had no time to argue, for her cousin had passed through a door and closed it behind him before she had time to speak.

Eighteen

WHATEVER PLEASURE MAGGIE
might have taken from her first glimpse of London was marred utterly by the quarrel with Lord Ramblay. Not a peaceful night was passed in that first fortnight. Her head was wracked and her heart burdened by the thought of what she might have done to her cousin's little boy, and the fact that the damage had been all unwitting could not ease her conscience. She had not even the comfort of knowing the extent of the injury, for no word was received from Essex, and neither the dowager Viscountess nor her daughter seemed aware that Maggie had had any part in the child's illness. No doubt from some sense of honor, Lord Ramblay had kept the fact from them, and for this Maggie was doubly grateful, and doubly humbled. No mention at all was made of the little boy, in fact—Maggie realized she might never have heard of his existence had it not been for her stumbling intervention.

For one thing, at least, she had cause to be grateful. Had Lady Ramblay any more reason to hate her, her life should have been even less bearable than it presently was. The Viscountess's instinctive dislike was sufficient to torment the young lady as it was; any real proof of her relative's worthlessness might have brought out untold horrors. Maggie would have welcomed even that, however; to be punished by anyone else, tormented by a force other than her own guilt and shame, might have been a relief. Even without this knowledge, Lady Ramblay took a thorough delight in reprimanding her at every turn. Maggie's dress, Maggie's dancing, her conduct in and out of Society, her musical ability and conversation, were all held up against the higher standard of Diana Montcrieff. Maggie was forced to smile to herself at the ignorance that must have driven the Viscountess's abuse, for it was clear she feared Maggie might be a threat to her plans to see Miss Montcrieff become her
daughter. Maggie could not know how solidly that fear was founded, for she had not been privy to one or two conversations between mother and son, in which Lady Ramblay had accused the gentleman of admiring his cousin more than his betrothed. Lord Ramblay had only half-heartedly defended himself against these charges, and now his mother was more than ever set against Miss Trevor. But even Lord Ramblay's admitted admiration for his cousin, even his frank opinion that Maggie's eyes were finer than Miss Montcrieff's, that she had a head upon her shoulders while the other did not, and even the most flagrant, though subtle disobedience to his mama, in finding in his cousin something so delicious and intoxicating that he did not often close his eyes without thinking of her, could not make up for the argument they had had that evening, nor for the bitter contempt which had been born in the nobleman's mind against that young lady, and which he was certain nothing could ever alter.

Maggie could not have known how much her cousin had admired her
before,
and so she could not have guessed what a radical change had come over him since. She was only aware that she had lost forever the good opinion of a man whose respect was worth having, and as her own mind turned under the scrupulous eye of her conscience, she began more and more to regret the fact. It was a very grave young lady who now walked, sometimes for hour upon end, in Hyde Park, oblivious to the parade of fashionable horses and chariots about her. Most deeply did she lament the willfulness that had led her into doing harm to an innocent child, and to imagining all kinds of evil of his father. For Maggie was more and more convinced that Lord Ramblay was incapable of the kind of villainy she had begun to imagine. Whatever his other faults—and she did not deny that he did have some awful ones—he was too much of a man of duty to be capable of any outright cruelty. His anger had really offended her, but the more she thought of it, the more inclined she was to sympathize with him. Should not
she
have treated anyone who harmed her child with a similar contempt? It was clear her cousin had had reason on his side, and clearer still that she had harmed him terribly. That wrong grew daily in her own mind, until her greatest ambition became to somehow make it up. She knew not how this
could be managed, but that she should, someday, atone for her rash action, was a certainty.

London, meanwhile, with its cavalcade of glittering men and women, its balls and breakfasts, dinners and card parties, passed before her almost like a dream. She went obediently wherever she was invited, but without any real joy. The wonder she felt on looking up at the noble arches of St. James's or walking down John Nash's visionary sweep of avenues to Windsor Castle, was overshadowed by a constant sense of guilt and dread that she might have caused some real injury. She heard the music of Brahms and Mozart performed by the most expert fingers in Europe, attended Sheridan's new play, and even was a guest at one of Lady Devonshire's salons, where the most brilliant conversationalists of the day disposed of reputations with a single flick of a witty tongue. The constant round of balls struck her as dull and rigid; what amusement could be had at a dance, where no one thought of anything but the business of their friends? The gentlemen all seemed vain, foolish, and ignorant, while the ladies were only vain. She derived some pleasure, it is true, from seeing Fanny Ramblay made much of by an ardent circle of admirers, but for the admiration she saw reflected in men's eyes for
her,
she cared not a fig.

Maggie would have given much to have had the benefit of Miss Haversham's friendship at this time. To her, she felt, she might easily have confessed her troubles and depended upon the other's good sense and kindness for advice. But upon arriving at Grosvenor Square, she found a letter waiting for her. Blanche Haversham had gone to Scotland for a fortnight, to visit Mr. Montcrieff's parents, the Earl and Countess of Linley. “Congratulate me, my dear friend,” she wrote, “for it seems I have been approved by the Earl. Is not that a great thing? And yet I dare not think of it too much, for it only serves to remind me how soon I must make my confession, and then I dare not hope for any charity. I do not think Monty himself will mind, for he is surely the dearest, kindest man upon earth, but for his father, I believe my birth and rank will weigh heavily, and a connection with my brother will not strike anyone as beneficial. However, let us not think of such things
now.
I shall see you within a fortnight, and then perhaps shall have need of that
help I once mentioned to you.
”