Contrary Cousins Page 3

  “The angel Bentley!” breathed Antonia, as the carriage started through the streets. “I wonder if he was of woman born, or did he simply descend from Heaven, complete with starched shirtfront? Somehow, I cannot quite picture him a small child.”

  Much relieved, Serena only smiled in reply. With many halts—for the streets were thronged with every sort of vehicle—the carriage made its way slowly through the dirty old City, past the centers of commerce and banking, trade and marketing. Through throngs of men and women, from every walk and station of life, past shrill hawkers of flowers and muffins, chestnuts and cider, it jostled, at length drawing out upon a broader avenue, unpaved, and less crowded than the city streets.

  The cousins, who from their own experience of American cities, had not expected so lengthy a journey to the west side of London, at first exclaimed at everything they passed. But after awhile, when it was evident that none of those landmarks they had been told to look out for were within view, they settled back to converse.

  “What do you suppose,” asked Antonia, slipping off her gloves and smoothing them down upon her lap, “Aunt Winifred shall do with us? I suppose she won’t try to hide us away—and yet there must have been some controversy raised over our coming!”

  “Oh, do you think so?” demanded Serena with a pained look. “I do hope not! I should so hate to be any trouble! You don’t suppose they will all hate us, do you?”

  “I should think so,” responded Antonia, gazing off into space. “On the whole, I should think they will all loathe us, at least at first. But after a little, when they see we are a most lovable pair of young ladies, I hope they shall come round.”

  “Oh, Tony!” cried her cousin, very much upset. “But—but surely Aunt Winifred would not have invited us, if she had thought—oh, dear!” Her voice trailed off, and her expression was one of utter misery.

  Antonia glanced at her, smiling. “Oh, tosh, Rena!” You don’t suppose Aunt Winifred asks permission for everything she does, do you? But don’t whimper, dear. You’ll see—I think it shall all come out right in the end.”

  Serena, however, was not to be consoled. The mere idea that their visit might prove disagreeable to anyone was more than she could bear. How perfectly horrifying to think that they might be unwelcome! This was not the supposition with which she had set forth from Baltimore. Indeed, had she suspected such a thing, she should certainly never have accepted her uncle’s invitation to accompany himself and his daughter to the Continent. Certainly, had not Aunt Winifred, in a most warmly phrased letter, not impressed her with the importance of a visit to England at the end of their tour, she would not have dreamed of setting foot in this country! With a horrified glance, she begged Antonia not to tease her. Her cousin turned upon her that gaze which Serena regarded as the most frightening of all her repertoire of looks—for it so combined defiance, amusement, and a heartfelt welcoming of adventure, that the more timid Serena was reduced to a mute trembling.

  “Come now, Rena,” said Antonia in a more soothing voice, “I promise you—it shall come out right! We have only to prove what Aunt Winnie counts upon—that we are a credit to the family, and not a bane. Why, you wouldn’t want to disappoint her, would you?”

  Serena shook her head, a little doubtfully.

  “Well, then! We shall be as charming as possible, we shall compliment them till they are green in the face, and let them know, what’s more, that we are not to be sneered at. A little difficult, I admit—but the whole family cannot be as obstinate as our grandfather was. Why, years have passed, and even if there is still some prejudice amongst them for their ‘American cousins’ it cannot hold out long against the regimen of charm we’ll feed ’em. Now, Rena, cheer up, look me straight in the eye—there you go! And don’t dare for a moment to look so downcast as you just did. Else they may think us a dreadful pair of bores, and be correct into the bargain. Now, promise?”

  A very faint “I promise” sounded from the other side of the carriage, accompanied by a still fainter smile.

  Antonia regarded her cousin severely for a moment, and then smiling brightly, patted her arm. “Brave girl! And it is all in a good cause, remember. We don’t want our children growing up to think half their relatives are hateful, do we?”

  “I suppose not,” said Serena softly. She was grateful for the shadow upon her face, for it hid her blush. What children would she have to bring up, one way or the other? The idea of matrimony, once a tempting possibility, had long since passed out of her thoughts. Even the suggestion of it now, brought a twinge of pain—oh, not so strong as once, to be sure! And yet she believed it would be there always, no matter how many years passed, to remind her of that time, not so very long ago . . . With a little straightening of her shoulders, she attempted to shrug off this dark mood, which had so unexpectedly, and unwelcomingly, intruded itself into her thoughts. She would be happy, she told herself, to do her duty. And how gratefully did she now look upon any call to that infallible sense of what she owed her friends! It kept her out of mischief: out of mischief with herself. Unaware of the keen eyes regarding her sideways, she mustered her courage, and thinking of children, even if they were not her own, said, “Do you think it will really do any good? Our coming like this, I mean?”

  “How could it help but!” exclaimed Antonia, relieved. “It is so much more difficult to hate those one knows, my dear! However easy it may be to hate us in theory, I believe—and I believe Aunt Winifred counts upon it—that persons in the flesh are not easily loathed without reason. And how could anyone loathe you, Rena dear? They may all think me odious, but you—! Why, you shall undo the evil work of our ancestors, with one of your mild looks!”

  “Oh,” said Serena disparagingly, “I don’t think anyone will notice me—not when they get a glimpse of you.”

  Antonia opened her mouth to protest, then shut her lips firmly. What good was it, always contradicting Rena? Sometimes it was quite irritating, all this self-condemnation, which required so much constant contradiction. Who was it who had said that the greatest egotist in the world was the man who hated himself without ceasing? “Mustn’t think that! No one could be less egotistical than Rena. Still, it did get awfully tiring . . .”

  And with a little frown, directed more at herself than at her cousin, Antonia stared out the window at the view of fields and farms, only intermittently broken up by a villa glimpsed behind high walls and trees, or the occasional knot of meager huts, crowded around a pig sty. The distance was all but obscured by a heavy cloud of fog, which made their progress seem like floating, rather than driving.

  “Heaven,” sighed Antonia after a little, “I shall be glad of a real bed, and a hot bath! I wonder what Aunt Winifred’s house is like? Tiny and crowded, like herself, or vast and dark and echoing, as I imagine all London houses to be? Cadogan Place! Lovely name!”

  “Isn’t it?” concurred Serena eagerly. She had been vexed at herself for making her cousin uncomfortable, and was determined to match Antonia’s own cheerfulness as much as possible. “What shall we look at first? I am awfully eager to see the museums!”

  “First the shops,” said Antonia firmly. “I shall not let you set foot in society in that horrid brown thing! You may protest as much as you like, dear, but I think if you are really determined to win over our English cousins, you will do me the favor of letting me choose you a new gown. It may do very well in Baltimore, that drab old stuff, but I promise you, they shall think we are two scullery maids, if we do not gad up a little.”

  Serena was so determined to please her cousin, that she did not demur. However little she was convinced that a new gown would suffice to make her look the thing, she said nothing.

  At that moment, the jostling of the carriage grew more pronounced, and the light coming in at the window darkened. The carriage had entered that part of London which was all the London the Misses Powell wished to know; where the houses were large, the parks commodious, the streets narrow, and the carriages and passersby fashionable. The
fog was by now so dense that it was with difficulty that the ladies discerned the towers of St. James and Buckingham. They saw the gates of Hyde Park go by, wrapped in wisps of smoke like cottonwool, and only a moment later thought what it was. By now the streets were growing a little wider again, and paved with cobblestone, but the houses, which were more nearly mansions, rose up on either side so close together that no space ran between them. The carriage turned into Bond Street, that mecca of fashion, and drew up at a crossing. The sounds of hawkers could be heard again, and a little down the street, a man was turning an organ. Even in the damp, dark afternoon, with the chill of approaching winter in the air, a festive mood seemed to have descended over them. That cheerfulness, which is only to be felt when driving through a street crowded with fashionable men and women, passing shops displaying artfully the most luxurious niceties to be found anywhere, and with that bustle and din of much ado which forms the background of any major metropolis, crept into the carriage and animated the cheeks and eyes of the American Misses Powell.

  “Why, there is the Regent’s Terrace!” exclaimed Serena. “It is only half finished, but how nice it looks! I think Mr. Richard Nash is the architect—he is very well regarded by the Prince, who lets him have his head in everything.”

  “Why, it all looks perfectly Roman! How odd, to be imitating the design of ancient buildings!”

  “Not more odd, Tony, than what we have got at home. After all, your papa’s house in Philadelphia is only an imitation of the English Georgian style. And a high waist, which our mothers thought so modern, is nothing but an imitation of the ancient toga. But it does seem peculiar, does it not? Look at those reliefs! I believe they are stolen from the Colisseum. Only the ladies are a little better covered up.”

  Antonia peered up at the relief in question, and giggled. “What an absurdity! Still, I suppose they would do the same at home!”

  “More so, probably. I have heard Americans are regarded as a very provincial, puritanical lot in Europe. Do not you remember the décolletage we were shown in Paris? I thought your papa would expire, when you said you liked it!”

  Antonia smiled at the memory. “Yes. He said he should leave us then and there if I so much as thought of taking it. And I did like it! I think it is so nice to see a little bosom. I am fed up with close collars and tight wrists. Aunt Winnie, perhaps, will be a little less strict.”

  The mention of this lady was timely, for the carriage at that moment turned off the main avenue, and into a little cul de sac lined on either side with mansions. The horses slowed to a halt before one of these.

  The young ladies were given no time to exclaim, nor even to examine the facade, for in an instant the postilions had jumped down, the door was swung open, and they were being handed to the pavement. A servant having been set to watch for their arrival, not a second was lost before the main door of the mansion swung open, and a string of footmen, in the same brilliant canary livery so much favored by their mistress, ran down the steps to collect the trunks. These having been left behind at the dock, they turned around together, as if their departure had been choreographed, and filed up the steps again. Antonia was just smiling at this show of disappointed efficiency, when there appeared in the doorway a small fluttering figure, rather overloaded from the bosom upward, waving her hands and uttering an incomprehensible stream of remarks.

  Chapter III

  “So delighted! Enchantin’ to see you! Journey very bad? ’Course it was, poor things! Well, come up, come up! Ooh, la, la! There now, don’t trip, Serena, dear. Yes, there—haven’t got any smaller, have you? Bend down, let me have a look. Antonia, my pet! What a pretty shade of red! My favorite color, don’t you know! Oh, Lord, what excitement! Bentley take care of everythin’ for you? Yes, he is, ain’t he? Pretty frightenin’, poor thing, at first. Grows upon you, and yes—well!”

  Lady Pendleton ceased with a little puff, and stared back and forth between her “young Americans,” as she had come to think of them. So tall, both of them! Quite had to crane back to see the Baltimore one. Oh, dear, what a dreadful-lookin’ gown that was, to be sure! Still, they were foreigners, must make them feel at home.

  “Starvin’, poor creatures? Of course you are! These ships, so borin’! Never give one more than a nibble! Well, but there’s a proper tea whenever you like. But of course, you shall want to see your chambers, and wash up a bit. Maids stay behind? I shall lend you mine. There, now, better shut the door, James. And, James, see that tea is brought into the small drawin’ room.”

  “I should be grateful for a wash,” said Antonia, when it was possible to get a word in edgewise. “And you, Rena?”

  Serena nodded, blinking about her.

  “ ’Course you would. James, call my dresser. Tell her to show these ladies their apartments. Mauve one for Miss Serena, pink for Miss Antonia. And bring up some hot water!”

  The footman bowed and hurried off, and Lady Pendleton seized Antonia’s hand.

  “Dyin’ to have a good chat! Well, dear! I did so enjoy comin’ to Philadelphia! No one will believe what a stylish city it is! But they shall, as soon as they lay eyes upon you! Now then, hurry along—and when you come down, third door on the left, down that corridor.”

  Antonia, reaching her suite of chambers, found the same profusion of color and style she had glimpsed in the entrance hall. A high bedstead, as massive as the banquet table in her father’s house, was canopied over with pale raspberry and green brocade. The same colors adorned the high, wide windows, and an ornate Persian rug bedecked the floor. Everywhere were little incidental tables, tiny stools, sofas, and chairs. Even the little wash-stand in the corner was painted with gold leaf and watched over by a pair of peculiar-looking cupids. The ceiling was heavy with reliefs, and every inch of wall hung with Chinese silk. The remainder of the apartments—consisting of a little sitting room and a small bedchamber, evidently for her maid, was decorated in much the same flamboyant style. Antonia stifled her laughter, thanked Lady Pendleton’s young and comely French maid, and refused her services after she had seen the basin filled full of warm water. Her ablutions were brief, however, and having rearranged her hair a little, smoothed down her traveling gown, and washed her hands and face, she descended the two flights of stairs to the small drawing room. She paused with her hand upon the doorknob, surprised by the sound of a masculine voice.

  “. . . have you done, Auntie?” the voice was saying. “Can’t fathom what you’ll do with ’em. The tall one—never saw such a creature! D’you suppose she’ll pass at Almack’s? The other’s right enough—dashed pretty, in fact. Only caught a glimpse, of course, through the window. But the other—she’ll never do! Puts me in mind of an old witch!”

  “Hush, Freddy!” came the voice of Lady Pendleton. Antonia heard her sigh. “Antonia is such a pet—quite a charmin’ girl. But that Selina—Serena, rather—you’re quite right. I had forgot how lanky she was. Poor thing!”

  “Well,” came the voice of the gentleman again, “rush her over to your dressmaker’s at once, Auntie. You don’t want them to make fools of themselves straightaway. I can just imagine what they’ll say all over town if she goes about like that. Old brown thing—looked like a sack!”

  Antonia coughed rather loudly, and giving them a moment to end their conversation with some grace, turned the handle and walked in. Her aunt, as always, looked startled. She was perched on a small brocade-covered sofa behind a huge tea service, busying herself with arranging the cups. But Antonia’s attention was chiefly fastened upon the other figure in the room. The young man known as Freddy had jumped up upon hearing her come in, and now stood regarding her with interest. She noticed at once that he was a tall, well-built man, with long legs and the easy, open attitude of one who is used to finding himself welcome in a drawing room. For all his amiable expression, and charming slow smile, he had the look of one who has been up all night. Beneath his brilliant blue eyes, which, Antonia could not help but note, were extremely keen and humorous, were dark circles,
and an unhealthy pallor robbed his cheeks of color. He seemed to start at any sudden sound, and looked unnaturally nervous, as if he had the headache. Had she not been predisposed to think ill of anyone capable of finding fault with her cousin, she might have noticed, further, that he had a strong, and rather stubborn chin, deeply clefted, a straight, rather sensitive nose, and the high, wide, ingenious brow of a man incapable of telling an untruth. His features were what were generally referred to as “regular”—a term which more often than not tends to rob the object of scrutiny of any character. Freddy, in fact, was possessed of a good deal of character, though of that kind which, being neither mean, nor closed, nor cruel, is sometimes taken for granted by the observer. His expression, at the moment, was slightly peevish, for he was a young man accustomed to being treated very well by the Fair Sex, which generally regarded him as charming, and in the last fortnight he had been treated very ill by one of its members. This may have accounted for the fact that Antonia, on coming into the room, and giving him little more than a cursory glance, decided that he was probably spoiled, besides being rather rude.

  “Oh!” said Antonia, contriving to sound as surprised as possible. “I supposed you were alone, Auntie.”

  “Only Freddy, dear. Freddy, say ‘How d’you do’ to your American cousin. Miss Antonia Powell, Mr. Frederick Howard.”

  “How do you do?” said Freddy, obediently. He stepped forward rather quickly, and grasped Antonia’s hand with some fervor. “How d’you do? So pleased to make your acquaintance! Heard so much, you know, and all that!”

  “Have you indeed?” Antonia smiled very brightly back at him. “I hope you have not heard anything very bad.”

  “Oh, no! Bad! Heaven—only glowing praise. Auntie was full of compliments when she came back from—Philadelphia, is it?”