The Determined Bachelor (26 page)

“Perhaps not, Nicole. You see, it is not so much the book which I wish to keep secret. Of course I wish everyone to read it, and to delight in it as much as I delighted in writing it. Nothing could give me more pleasure. But for the moment, I should rather that neither Sir Basil nor anyone else know about it. You see, it is not thought very proper sometimes for ladies to write novels.”

Nicole pondered this idea for several seconds.

“Why not? Lady Cardovan writes books, and she is a lady.
And Mrs. Radcliffe, and that other lady Mr. Carlysle mentioned——”

“Jane Austen. Yes, but in the case of each of them, there is some reason why they may be accepted from the general rule. Lady Cardovan is—well—she is not the common run of ladies. And she is so exceptional a person that no one could find fault with her for doing anything. Besides, she does not write novels, but histories, and there is a great difference. Mrs. Radcliffe is a widow, and therefore must support herself by some means, just as I support myself by teaching
you
. In her case it is not thought very bad, for she is older than I am, and besides, does not care much what people think of her. And Miss Austen, of course, was a genius. A genius will always be excused from the general rule. And even she wrote most of her books anonymously. That means,” continued Anne, seeing the puzzled look upon her pupil's face, “without using her own name, just as I have done. For a young unmarried woman, it is thought better to keep one's identity a secret.”

“How queer!”

“Yes, it is, rather, isn't it? Very queer. But I do not make the rules of society, but only live by them, just as we all must.”

Nicole was twiddling with her spoon, seemingly immersed in thought. After a moment, she looked up, and with a grave little face demanded what she most wished to know:

“What did he mean, Miss Calder, when he said you ought to go back to the country? You shan't go away, shall you?”

“No, no, my dear,” responded Anne quickly, though this was the very question which was uppermost in her own mind and which was as yet unresolved. But there was no point in upsetting Nicole before she was even sure herself of what she ought to do.

“I shan't go away. Not for a long while, at any rate. But—what difference can it make? In a month, you shall be in France, and have so much to occupy your thoughts that there shan't be a moment left to think of me!”

“You are not coming to France, then.”

It was a declaration, rather than a question, and made with such a reproving little look that Anne felt instantly penitent.

“Why, does it make so much difference to you?” she inquired softly.

But Nicole would not reply, nor meet her gaze. She stared
into her lap and shook her head with a stiff little motion which was an exact contradiction of her feelings.

“If you had rather go home, Miss Calder, than I shouldn't want you to come with me.”

“My dear!” Anne reached out her hand and touched the child's wrist. “Dear little Nicole! I do believe you like me a little bit, do you not?”

Neither of them spoke. Anne saw the child making a brave effort against her tears, and would not interfere with that courageous heart. Poor child! She had lost so much within so short a time! Another loss—slight as it must be—must frighten her sadly. Anne watched her pupil gather hold of herself again and smile up into her eyes.

“I never liked anyone so well in all my life! Except Papa, of course.”

“Well! I never liked anyone half so well as you, either. You shall be my dearest little friend so long as I live. But, what are we speaking of! I wish you had not made me say so much, Nicole, for I am really not at all settled in my own head. It is a rather complicated matter, and must require some time to consider.”

“Please come with us!”

“Well, well—we shall see. Have you finished your chocolate? Come along, then. We had better hurry back before Sir Basil gets home, or he shall ask no end of questions—and we have got a great secret, have we not?”

Nicole nodded, eager to be included in the scheme, though it had presented possibilities she had not foreseen nor liked even to think about. But for the moment she had made up her mind to be as brave as possible, and determined only to offer up several prayers a day that her governess might stay with them. She had in her head, as well, something a little better than a prayer, or so she hoped. But grown-ups were sometimes so very peculiar that one hardly knew what they might do next. All she could do was hope, and being of a very optimistic turn of mind, she possessed a good deal of that.

Chapter XIX

Sir Basil, having partaken of a pleasant luncheon in the soothing male environs of his club, having dispatched his little errand of charity, and feeling altogether satisfied with himself, returned to his house in Regent's Terrace that afternoon in a very happy frame of mind. The unpleasant thoughts he had had in the morning about the idiosyncrasies of the female brain had vanished with the clouds. What had begun as a thoroughly miserable day had been transformed between his breast of partridge under glass and the braised pears in champagne, into a brilliant winter day. Drops of moisture sparkled upon the cobblestones still, as he walked (forsaking his carriage) up St. James's Street and past the great stone steps of the Cathedral. But as he turned into Bond Street, for the short cut to the Terrace, he noticed that all signs of the morning precipitation had disappeared. He had neatly avoided being glimpsed by his sister-in-law and the awful Miss Newsome only a moment from his own door. Evidently immersed in their own gossip, they had vanished chattering into one of the shops before they had spotted him, darting behind a lamp post. The whole world seemed to be out in full swank. Even the dandies parading up and down in their absurd get-ups did not bring the usual snort of contempt to his lips. Somehow everyone and everything looked better than usual this afternoon. Perhaps it was the beneficial effects of knowing he had performed (or at least arranged to perform) a great service for a poor invalid. Perhaps he should do this kind of thing more often. In any case, he was in a splendid state of mind. He practically skipped up the steps to his door and rat-a-tat-tatted upon the knocker very gaily.

But the occupants of the house were evidently not in a mood to match his own. The butler responded to the knock with a very dour look, and when he was asked if anyone had called, only proferred the silver salver with three cards upon it.

“What has got you in such a gloom, Squibb?” inquired Sir Basil, glancing at the names upon the cards. Lord Duff had been, to inquire yet again, no doubt, into his position upon the Slavery Question, and his sister-in-law had called (thank heaven he had not been imposed upon by
her
) and there was also a card inscribed with the Princess Lieven's name.

“The cook is indisposed, Your Excellency, and has determined to make our lives miserable.”

“Why, what did she do? Poison the soup?”

“No, Sir Basil. She has been ranting and raving about the pantries all morning.”

“Well, you had better speak to Miss Calder about it. Miss Calder will know how to deal with her.”

“Yes, Your Excellency. But Miss Calder is not at home.”

“No? Why, where has she gone?”

“I do not know, Sir. She and Miss Lessington went off together an hour or two ago. They did not say where they were going.”

“Ah, well—suppose they are off on some errand or other. Wonderful creature, Miss Calder. When they return, ask her to come in and see me, will you? I shall be in my library.”

“Very good, Sir.”

Sir Basil proceeded forthwith into the aforementioned room, dropping the cards onto the salver as he passed. There, comfortably established in an armchair, he stretched out his legs before the fire and recommenced the little novel he had borrowed from Lady Cardovan. Such moments of leisure were very rare in his life, and he took a secret pleasure in the knowledge that the House of Lords was at that moment reconvening without him. Blessed little good it did in any case, when he
was
there! The old dotards would have their say, eulogizing endlessly the merits of a proper stance against the French trade, and all the while happily pocketing the difference between the cost of free trade articles and the slave industry across the Channel. In the long run, in any case, the matter would not be in their hands, but in his own, the Regent's, and of course the French Royal House's. Those few intermediaries, like himself, who would have any real influence in the matter, never spoke before Parliament. It was an
unwritten rule that those who
did
were silent; those who didn't (or couldn't) gabbled happily away, oblivious to the fact that no one paid them any mind.

Happy in the knowledge that he was escaping the droning voices of half the peerage, therefore, Sir Basil immersed himself again in his book, and found that upon the second perusal, it had not lost its power to amuse him. Half its merit, of course, lay in the fresh and easy style, a style so down-to-earth and unbeguiled by the sway of self-consciousness that he suspected yet again it had been written by a man. He said as much to Miss Calder, when she looked into the library, following his instructions.

“Ah! Miss Calder!”

“Sir?”

She stood tentatively in the doorway, obviously uncertain whether to come in or stay where she was. Sir Basil rose and gallantly drew forth a chair for her. With a grateful look, she settled down, and the Baronet, returning to his own armchair, could not but notice the glow in her cheek, no doubt a result of walking in the fresh air. The glow belied her rather humble mien, which was unusual. Miss Calder generally marched in like a young Diana, with her head held high and her shoulders back. It was one of the things he had first remarked about her. Today, her whole countenance was softened by something—sadness, perhaps? Ah, and well he knew what the cause of it might be!

“You have been out?” he inquired, rather redundantly, considering that he had been twice informed of the fact.

“Yes, Sir. Nicole and I have been upon an errand.”

“Satisfactory, I hope?”

“Yes, Sir—perfectly.”

“Ah!” Sir Basil gazed at her intently, but she would not meet his eyes, seeming almost to flush. She looked very comely: very. That fine pale blue whatever-it-was became her very well, set off the high colouring of her cheeks and lips, and brought out the sparkle in her eyes. There was something about her that reminded him of a high-bred filly, a spirited and naturally elegant young animal.

“I hope you have not had some bad news from home?”

Now she looked surprised. Aha! Had he hit the nail upon the head? Her surprise, however, was quickly concealed, as he noticed and she turned her face a little away from his gaze.

“No, Sir.”

Really! One could never believe a woman! He must keep in mind the one general rule to use in interpreting their remarks: reverse 'em completely.

Well, well. I have been amusing myself with a novel, Miss Calder. I highly recommend it to you. I do not go in for novels much myself, as a rule, but this one is particularly apt. You must have it when I am through. A most fresh wit, a lively tale—just the thing to distract you from your present distress.”

“Sir?”

Now the poor young woman looked doubly dismayed. Well, he should not press the point, nor give any hint of what steps he had taken to remedy the situation. Let that come as a surprise. Oh, how he should love to see the look upon her face when she discovered!
Then
, perhaps she should form a higher opinion of him. The glow of anticipated gratitude made Sir Basil smile.

“Come, come, my dear Miss Calder. I hope you have learned to think of me as a friend. You may trust me, you know.”

The young woman smiled, a delightful smile, artless and humourous at once. Did he detect the trace of a blush upon her cheek?

“I do, Sir,” said she earnestly. “I am most grateful to you for all you have done for me, when really I deserve none of your kindness.”

“Ah, well! haven't done anything much, you know. Only what any man would. And
you
, Miss Calder, have done a great deal to make my own life happier. Certainly you have been more than kind to Nicole. The child dotes upon you.”

Miss Calder smiled and peered into her lap, where her fingers were twining and untwining rather nervously.

“I am very glad of that, Sir.”

Now there came an awkward silence, during which Sir Basil wondered what he could say next. He supposed the book was a safe enough subject, however, and finally clearing his throat, he said:

“I highly recommend this little novel to your attention, Miss Calder. I should like to hear your opinion of it, for it is very much along your lines, I think. All about a country clergyman, you know, and his insipidity. Lively view of that spectrum of life.”

He did not notice her start.

“And so well written,” continued he, oblivious to her sudden
change of colour, for he was lifting up the volume and weighing it in his hands thoughtfully, “that although it is said to have been written ‘by a lady,' I can only believe that in point of fact it was not, but written by a man.”