Venetia (39 page)

The evening began well. No sooner did the
maitre d’hotel
realize that the gentleman from the country was entertaining that well-known epicure and leader of the
ton,
Mrs. Philip Hendred, and a perfectly ravishing young female, dressed in the first style of elegance, than he revised his previous plan, and bowed the party not to a secluded table in one corner of the room, but to one reserved for the most respected patrons, and himself presented Mr. Yardley with a large bill of fare. Between them, he and Mrs. Hendred selected a most succulent meal, which Mrs. Hendred was able to partake of without the smallest misgiving, because she had met Mr. Rogers that very day, and he had set her right about Lord Byron’s reducing diet: his lordship had not drunk vinegar, but soda-water, and what regimen could be easier to follow, when one was not particularly partial to wine? So the dinner passed off very successfully, and if Venetia contributed little to the conversation at least she responded with her lovely smile to any remark that was addressed to her. Probably Mr. Yardley was satisfied, for he had so much to impart to his guests about the various places of historic interest which he had been visiting that neither lady had much opportunity to say more than: “Indeed!” or: “How interesting, to be sure!”

Mrs. Hendred’s town coach conveyed them to the theatre. Edward had procured a box, and Mrs. Hendred was glad to see that Venetia accepted with sweet, if slightly absent, complaisance all his solicitous efforts to secure her comfort. Venetia was, in fact, considering a new and extremely daring scheme, and throughout the first act of the play she sat wondering whether she could summon up the courage to present herself boldly to the eldest of Damerel’s aunts, disclosing all her story, and begging for her support. It was a desperate plan, and by the time the curtain fell a great many objections to it had presented themselves to her. She came out of her deep reverie to find that Edward was asking her how she liked the play. She returned a civil answer, and then sat looking idly round the house while he delivered himself of his own considered opinion.

Her attention was almost immediately attracted to a box on the opposite side of the theatre. It had been empty until after the curtain had risen, but it was now occupied by a lady and gentleman of such modish appearance that many more eyes than Venetia’s were turned towards them. Neither was in the first blush of youth, the gentleman, indeed, bearing a strong resemblance to the Prince Regent. He had very much the same protuberant blue eyes, and florid complexion; he wore a coat of exaggerated cut, a splendid waistcoat, and his pantaloons were smoothly stretched across a stomach of noble proportions. He had levelled his quizzing-glass at Venetia, but after one cursory glance at him she had transferred her gaze to his companion.

If the gentleman was magnificent, the lady was the more striking of the two. A hint of brass in the colour of her exquisitely dressed curls might betray the hand of an expert
coiffeur,
the delicate blush on her cheeks might have issued from an expensive jar of rouge, but her figure, tantalizingly revealed by a very low cut gown of silk so soft and diaphanous that it clung like a cobweb to her form, owed no more to art than did her large, brilliant eyes, her classically straight nose, or the lovely line of her jaw. Diamonds hung from the lobes of her ears, flashed on her white bosom, and on her arms; an ermine cloak had been flung carelessly over the back of her chair, and she was leaning a little forward, her gaze, like her companion’s, directed towards Venetia. There was a slightly amused smile on her tinted lips; she was slowly waving to and fro a fan spangled with diamond chips, but as Venetia stared at her she lifted the other hand in a tiny gesture of salute.

Mrs. Hendred, somnolent after her sumptuous repast, had dozed peacefully through the first act of the play, and was now listening sleepily to Edward’s measured discourse, and wishing that the curtain would rise on the second act, and so allow her to drop off again. Edward’s voice was monotonous enough to make it hard for her to remain awake, but she was saved from sliding back into sleep by Venetia’s saying suddenly: “Aunt, who is that lady in the box over there?”

There was a sharpened note in her voice which startled Mrs. Hendred enough to rouse her, and drive away the fog of drowsiness. She straightened herself, giving her plump shoulders a little twitch, and said: “Which lady, my love?” in a slightly thickened voice, but with an assumption of bright interest.

“Almost directly opposite, ma’am! I can’t point to her, because she is watching me. She has been doing so these past ten minutes, and I— Aunt Hendred, who is she?”

“My dear, I’m sure I don’t know, for I saw no one in any of the boxes with whom I am acquainted. Which box do you say—” She stopped with a gasp, and ejaculated in a stunned tone: “Good God!”

Venetia’s hands were tightly clasped over her folded fan; she said: “You know her, don’t you, ma’am?”

“No, no!” declared Mrs. Hendred. “Good gracious, no! As though I should know any female who wore such a dress! The most indecent— Dear child, don’t seem to notice them! Such impertinence, staring at you like— Hush, my love, the curtain is going up and we must not talk any more! Dear me, how I long to discover what will happen in this act! An excellent first act, was it not? I don’t know when I have enjoyed a play more! Ah, here is the comical man, and his valet! We mustn’t talk, or we shall miss the diverting things they say!”

“Only tell me, ma’am—”

“ ‘Sh,” uttered Mrs. Hendred.

As this sibilant command was endorsed by the party in the adjoining box, in an even more menacing manner, Venetia relapsed into silence. Mrs. Hendred was agitatedly fanning herself; and instead of joining in the burst of laughter which greeted one of the diverting things that was said on the stage she seize the opportunity to tweak Edward’s sleeve, and, upon his bending towards her, to whisper something in his ear. Venetia, who had not joined in the laughter either, but who was sitting bolt upright, an expression on her face compound of incredulity and bewilderment, did not hear what was said; but in another minute or two Edward whispered to her: “Venetia, your aunt is feeling faint! You will not object to removing from this box? It is very stuffy— I am conscious of it myself, and believe Mrs. Hendred will revive if she can but be got into the air!”

Venetia rose with alacrity, and, while Edward led the afflicted lady out, she flung her own cloak over her shoulders, caught up her aunt’s, and slipped out of the box, to find two of the attendants solicitously reviving Mrs. Hendred with smelling-salts, vigorous fanning, and drops of water sprinkled on her brow. Her colour seemed a trifle high for a lady on the brink of a swoon, but when Edward, who was looking very grave, told Venetia, in a lowered voice, that he thought they should take her home as soon as she was a little recovered, Venetia at once agreed to it, and recommended him (since Mrs. Hendred’s coachman would not bring her carriage to the theatre for another hour) to go at once to summon a hackney. He went off immediately, to confer with the door-keeper; and Mrs. Hendred, allowing herself to be supported by the two box-attendants to the stairway, said, in failing accents, that she feared her unfortunate indisposition was due to the evil effect upon her system of woodcock a la Royale. “Or, perhaps, it was the
croque enbouche aux pistaches,
but I would not for the world say so to Mr. Yardley!”

Venetia replied to this with remarkable calm, making no attempt, either then or when she sat beside her aunt in the somewhat malodorous vehicle procured for their conveyance, to repeat the question which had played so large a part in throwing Mrs. Hendred into queer stirrups. But when Mrs. Hendred, upon arrival in Cavendish Square, announced her intention of instantly retiring to bed, she said, with more amusement than concern: “Yes, if you wish, ma’am, but I warn you I am not to be so easily fobbed off! I’ll go with you!”

“No, no, dear child! I can feel one of my spasms coming on! That is, I can’t imagine what you can possibly— Worting, why do you not send to fetch Miss Bradpole to me, when you can see how unwell I am?”

Before Worting could remind his mistress that she had granted her dresser leave of absence until eleven o’clock, Edward, who had accompanied the ladies into the house, intervened, saying heavily: “I believe, ma’am, upon consideration, that the wisest course
now
will be for you to inform your niece of the circumstance which made it unhappily necessary for us to quit the theatre before the end of the act.”

“You may depend upon it that it will be!” said Venetia. “Do you take my aunt upstairs to the drawing-room, while I mix a dose of hartshorn and water for her! That will make you feel very much more the thing, dear ma’am!”

She ran lightly up the stairs, as she spoke, heedless of the protesting moan that pursued her.

When she presently entered the drawing-room, it was to find her aunt sunk into an armchair, her expression that of one resigned to the worst bludgeonings of fate. Edward, his countenance preternaturally solemn, was standing on the hearth-rug; and Worting, having lit the candles and made up the fire, was preparing to take his reluctant departure.

Mrs. Hendred distastefully eyed the potion her niece had prepared, but accepted the glass with faint thanks. Venetia glanced over her shoulder to be sure the door was firmly shut behind Worting; and then said, without preamble: “Who was that lady, ma’am?”

Mrs. Hendred shuddered; but Edward, who had apparently taken the conduct of the affair on himself, replied with deliberation: “She is Lady Steeple, my dear Venetia. She was accompanied, Mrs. Hendred informs me, by her husband, Sir Lambert Steeple. I am aware, however, that these names can convey but little to you.”

“An understatement, Edward!” Venetia interrupted. “They convey nothing whatsoever to me, and I wish very much that you will allow my aunt to answer for herself! Ma’am, when I first caught sight of her I had the oddest feeling— But I knew it to be impossible, and thought it was just one of those resemblances for which there is no accounting. Only she stared at me so hard, and directed her husband’s attention to me, and lifted her hand, not quite waving to me, but—but as though she meant it as a sign of recognition! It cannot be so, of course, but the most fantastic notion shot into my brain! I—I thought she was my mother!”

Mrs. Hendred moaned, and took a sip of hartshorn and water. “Oh, my dear child!”

“Your quickness of wit, Venetia, has made it easier for me to discharge the unpleasant duty—for such I feel it to be under these unforeseen circumstances—of divulging to you that she is, in fact, your mother,” said Edward.

“But my mother is dead!” exclaimed Venetia. “She has been dead for years!”

“Oh, if only she
had
been!” Mrs. Hendred set down the glass she was holding, and added bitterly: “I said it at the time, and I shall always say it! I
knew
she would never cease to afflict us! And just
now,
when we thought she was fixed in Paris—! I shouldn’t wonder at it if she came back on purpose to ruin you, my poor child, for what has she ever done but make trouble, besides being the most
unnatural
parent!”

“But how is this possible?” demanded Venetia, looking, and, indeed, feeling, quite stunned. “Mama
—Lady Steeple
?
Then—”

“I don’t wonder that you should find it difficult to understand,” said Edward kindly. “Yet I fancy that a moment’s reflection will inform you of how it must have been. Let me suggest to you, my dear Venetia, that you sit down in this chair, while I procure a glass of water for you. This has been a shock to you. It could not be otherwise, and although the truth must have been divulged to you it has been my earnest hope that this need not have been until you had become established in life.”

“Well, of course it has been a shock to me! But I don’t wish for any water, thank you! Only to have the whole truth told me, and
not,
Edward, such portions of it as you consider suitable! I collect my parents were divorced. Good God, was it the same as— Did my mother elope with that man?”

“I think, Venetia, that it is unnecessary for you to know more than the bare fact,” said Edward repressively. “Indeed, I am confident that when you have a little recovered the tone of your mind you will not wish to know more. The subject is not an edifying one, nor is it one on which I can venture to enlighten you. You must remember that at the time of that very unhappy event I was myself still at school.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Edward,
must
you be so Gothic?” she demanded indignantly. “Aunt,
did
she elope?”

Mrs. Hendred, now that the news was out, had begun to revive. She sat up, straightening her elegant cap, and replied with tolerable calm: “Well, no, my love! No, she didn’t
elope,
precisely. In some ways, one can’t help wishing—not that I mean—only it wasn’t the first time, which seemed to make it worse, because people had been talking for
years,
which made everything so disagreeable, though she was so discreet to begin with that I’m sure I had not the least guess—not, that is, until the affair with— Well, never mind that! It is not at all to the purpose, for the General was alive then, poor man, and he persuaded Francis to condone it, for he
doted
on her! There was never anything like it, for I don’t believe she cared the snap of her fingers for him, or anyone! A more heartless—”

“Wait, ma’am, wait!
What
General?”

“Good gracious, Venetia, her father, of course—your grandfather, though naturally you can’t remember him! General Chiltoe, such an amiable, delightful man! Everyone liked him: I did myself. She was his only child, and he thought nothing too good for her, for his wife died when she was quite an infant, which I daresay accounted for it. She was so spoiled and indulged that anyone might have foretold how it would be, and I can assure you that poor Mama— your dear grandmama, my love—begged and implored Francis not to offer for her, but all to no purpose! He was utterly out of his senses, and in general, you know, his understanding was most superior, and I assure you that if Mama introduced
one
eligible female to his notice she must have introduced a score! His affections were never in the least animated—and, you know, my dear, though I should not say so to you, his disposition was
not
warm!—But no sooner did he clap eyes on Aurelia than he fell violently in love with her, and wouldn’t listen to a word anyone said to him!” She heaved a gusty sigh, and shook her head. “I never liked her, never! I daresay she was very beautiful—everyone thought her
ravishing
!
—but
there was always something about her that I couldn’t quite like. And I wasn’t the only one, I promise you! A great many of my friends thought the fuss and to-do that was made over her was positively nonsensical, but of course none of the gentlemen could see the least thing amiss with her! She had them all dangling after her in the most absurd way—and no fortune, mind you! That was what made it so particularly— However, I must own that it was a great triumph for your father to have won her, though heaven knows he would have done better to have married Georgiana Denny—Sir John’s sister, my love, that afterwards married Appledore’s eldest son—for you know what he was, dear child, not
hard-fisted,
but
careful,
and from the very start there was trouble, because she hadn’t the smallest notion of economy, besides being
fatally
addicted to gaming! The dresses she used to have made for her! The jewels she coaxed out of Francis!—My dear, those diamonds she was wearing tonight! I never saw anything so
vulgar—
And that gown, with not a stitch under it but one invisible petticoat! I wish I might know how she has contrived to keep her figure! Not but what she looked exactly like—” She broke off in some confusion, as Edward cleared his throat warningly, and added hastily: “I’m sure I don’t know
what
she looked like, except that it was not at all the thing!”