A Conformable Wife: A Regency Romance with a spirited heroine

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  “No such thing. We’ll use my penknife, stupid. Now where’s the lemonade Matty smuggled in for us?”

  A small ewer was produced from under one of the beds. There were some exclamations of disgust when it was noticed that a few feathers from the pillows were floating on top of the beverage, but once again Charlotte hushed the group.

  “If you don’t take care, Minnie will be coming down! Oh, bother. We forgot to ask Matty to bring some cups! Now, what shall we use? I know: the hair-tidies!”

  One or two of the girls gasped, and one made so bold as to say she could not fancy drinking from a hair-tidy. The others regarded her scornfully.

  “Why not? They’ve been washed,” scoffed Anna Florey. “I tell you what, Sylvia. If you’re going to fuss over every little thing, you’d best get back into bed and not join in our feast at all!”

  This effectively silenced Sylvia; and after a moment she tried to re-establish her position by announcing that she had brought a plum cake. Someone else produced gingerbread, another boasted of cheese tartlets (though on inspection, these proved to be a trifle squashed), and others produced more or less intact contributions to what finally looked a well-spread board.

  The feasting began. Time and again during its course Charlotte was obliged to utter warnings about the fatal consequences of too much noise; and more than one girl was forced to smother her uncontrollable giggles in the nearest pillow. At last, when appetites were sated and at least one of their number was beginning to feel sick, the girls began to relate their various adventures during the holidays. These all seemed to Anna Florey pathetically tame. Having waited her turn and gained enough time for her creative impulse to do its work, she suddenly announced that she could tell them of the most splendid adventure.

  “Well, pray go on, then!” they urged.

  Anna, who knew just how to produce suspense in an audience, hedged, saying she was not sure if she ought.

  “Why not?” several voices demanded, impatiently.

  “We-ell, because,” said Anna slowly, “because for one thing it’s a secret. It wouldn’t do for my mama to know. How can I be sure that some of you may not let it out when she comes here to visit me?”

  “As if we would!” came the general chorus. “We’re no tell-tales; you know that very well, Anna!”

  “But you might let something slip without meaning to do so,” she insisted.

  “You haven’t anything to tell,” declared a thin girl, tossing her head scornfully so that her brown plaits whisked about her neck. “You’re just trying to gammon us!”

  “Yes, yes, that’s it,” agreed several others. “For shame, Anna Florey! You needn’t think you can hoodwink us in that way!”

  “I am not trying to hoodwink you at all, you stupid things. I really have got the most vastly exciting adventure to relate! Only —” she sank her voice so low that they all bad to gather closely round her to bear at all — “you must promise solemnly never to breathe a word of it to anyone, not even, not even under torture.”

  They promised eagerly, looking expectantly into her serious, now mysteriously withdrawn face.

  “It happened one day when I’d nothing much to do — nothing of interest, that is. Caro was away from home on a visit, and everything seemed flat and tedious.”

  They nodded in sympathy, often having experienced such moments themselves.

  “So I decided to go for a walk,” resumed Anna.

  “That isn’t very exciting,” put in the thin girl.

  “If you mean to keep on interrupting, Mary Brent, I shan’t say any more,” said Anna loftily.

  Several of the others informed Mary, in terms that would have deeply shocked their preceptress, that she could hold her tongue or else. She subsided, and Anna continued, enjoying the rapt expression on the faces surrounding her.

  “I walked to an old castle ruin about a mile from my home,” she said. “You must know of it, Caro: Farleigh Hungerford.”

  Caroline Bovill nodded. “Yes, I do. But surely your mama wouldn’t permit you to go there alone?”

  “She wasn’t at home, and I managed to dodge the others,” said Anna glibly. “When I reached the castle, I decided to poke about a bit, in case there might be something interesting to find —”

  “What kind of thing?” demanded a small girl with her head covered in curl papers.

  “Have you no imagination?” retorted Anna scornfully. “There’s no saying what one might not discover in a place of that kind. Perhaps a murdered body.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath from the group about her.

  “Anyway,” continued the narrator, pleased with the impression she had so far created, “I thought I saw a splendid hidey-hole just out of my reach, so I climbed up onto a ruined bit of wall to get to it. But I missed my footing and fell. I must have knocked myself senseless, for I don’t recall anything until —” she paused for effect, looking round into nine pairs of wide-open eyes — “until I found myself lying prone on the ground with the most handsome gentleman in the world bending over me!”

  “Oooh!”

  “He was just like the hero out of —” she paused, doubtful if some of her audience would have read Miss Burney’s Evelina — “out of the pages of a novel! And besides being as handsome as anyone you can think of, he was prodigiously gallant. He tried to help me to rise, but I had hurt my ankle and couldn’t manage it. And so, and so, what do you think?”

  “Anna! Never say that he lifted you up in his arms!” exclaimed Charlotte. “That would be vastly improper!”

  “But it would be most romantic,” another girl remarked wistfully.

  “That’s just what he did, and it was indeed romantic,” declared Anna emphatically. “Moreover, he lifted me on to his horse and rode home with me! It was far and away the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me, I can tell you. I shall never forget it; never!”

  A chorus of excited murmurs broke out, followed by a barrage of eager questions, which Anna was only too ready to answer. She must have gone too far on some points, for Charlotte, who had been watching her with narrowed eyes, suddenly declared that she did not believe a word of it.

  “I’m positive the whole is a figment of your imagination, Anna Florey!” she accused. “You may well say that this gentleman was like the hero of a novel, for that’s precisely where you found him. No such person exists in real life at all!”

  “He does, he does!”

  “Keep your voice down!” Charlotte hissed at her. “It’s of no use to protest, for none of us believes you. Your story is a farrago of nonsense!”

  This strong statement from their leader effectively broke the spell that had fallen over the group while Anna told her story. All except Caroline Bovill, whose loyalty to Anna kept her silent, voiced their agreement with Charlotte. They might not be certain what the word farrago signified, but they understood the sense well enough.

  “But he does exist, I tell you, he does! He’s the Honourable Julian Aldwyn, son of our neighbour Lord Aldwyn, isn’t he, Caro? And after that, I went riding with him — and with an older lady, Miss Melville, whom my family have known for ever — and then he came to Mama’s evening party, and talked to me for simply ages! Caro knows it’s so, for I told her of it when she returned from her visit, did I not, Caro?”

  All eyes turned upon Caroline Boville, who hastened to confirm what her friend had said; though with some uneasy inner reservations about the accuracy of the earlier part of Anna’s story.

  “Very well, then,” said Charlotte finally, “perhaps there is such a gentleman, since Caroline knows of him, but I take leave to doubt the greater part of what you’ve told us concerning your dealings with this Mr. Aldwyn. And it’s of no use to ask Caroline to bear witness to the truth of it, for she only knows what you’ve told her, after all. No —” the girl said firmly, as she saw Anna about to begin arguing again — “we don’t wish to hear any more. We must clear up now. Make haste and get back into bed, all of you, and for good
ness’ sake, do it quietly!”

  Anna’s mouth set into mulish lines as she bustled about with the others in setting things to rights. But after the candles were at last extinguished, and everyone had settled down to sleep, her last waking thought was that somehow or other she would show them.

  Chapter VIII

  From the first moment Henrietta arrived at the house in Pulteney Street, it was as though she and Louisa had never been parted. At once they loosed upon each other a flood of reminiscences about their old times together, laughing heartily over past escapades.

  “Oh, we had famous fun in those days!” exclaimed Henrietta, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes. Then she sobered suddenly. “But, poor dear, you’ve suffered grief enough since then. I was so distressed to learn from Almeria that you had been widowed, and then that your mother had died early in this year. I need not tell you of my deepest sympathy; I shall always have the kindest remembrances of Mrs. Randall.”

  “Poor Mama,” said Louisa quietly. “The saddest thing was that I did not arrive in Yorkshire in time to see her alive. The journey from Ireland took so long at that season. But her death was not unexpected, for she had been ailing some time. It was a welcome release from her sufferings.”

  For a few moments, they sat in silence. Henrietta was just about to ask a gentle question about Mr. Fordyce’s demise, when Louisa prevented her by taking up the conversation herself in a brisk, cheerful tone.

  “Let us speak no more of bereavement and melancholy affairs, my dear. Talking pays no toll, and one must try to leave the painful past behind. We shall make a pact to remember only the happy times. Is it agreed?”

  Henrietta perforce assented, though she could not help feeling some measure of disappointment that she was to learn nothing about the late Mr. Fordyce. But if her friend did not wish to speak of a marriage that had ended so tragically, Henrietta could scarcely persist in asking questions. Perhaps later on Louisa might feel better disposed to make confidences.

  “And why are you not married, Hetty?” demanded Louisa brightly. “Now that your sisters are off your hands and your brother has charge of the manor, you must have leisure at last to consider your own future.”

  “That is precisely what I intend to do, though I don’t think marriage will form part of my plans.”

  “Why not, pray? Surely it’s the natural outcome for a female, especially for one like yourself, who has all the domestic virtues.”

  Henrietta grimaced. “Have I indeed? It sounds monstrous dull! Well, perhaps marriage seems the natural outcome when one is eighteen or nineteen, but at more mature years, one is harder to please, don’t you agree? One becomes more wary, as the years go on.”

  “Oh, yes, how true that is!” exclaimed Louisa involuntarily. “I myself — but never mind that,” she added hastily. “Of course, I know how few eligible gentlemen there were in our part of Somerset when I was living there. But have you met with no one since those days? Surely you don’t mean to say that no one has ever offered for you? Not that you need tell me anything, my dear,” she concluded, in an apologetic tone, “if you do not choose.”

  ‘I haven’t the least objection to telling you, but I fear there’s very little to tell. No halcyon romances, that is. But I have in fact received two offers of marriage, and those quite recently.”

  “Two,” squeaked Louisa, her hazel eyes bright with mischief. “Upon my word, you are hiding your light under a bushel! And never a word about this until I particularly asked you! Now why in the world, dearest Hetty, are you not engaged to either one of these suitors? Were they so very unacceptable?”

  “No such thing. Quite the contrary, in fact. Both were agreeable, personable, and eligible from every point of view.”

  “Hetty, dearest girl! You must be wanting in your wits, if what you say is true! Why, oh why, did you not then accept one or other of them?”

  “Perhaps I am wanting in my wits,” replied Henrietta. “But the matter, you see, Louisa, is that I knew they wished to marry me for what I consider the wrong reasons. It was my domestic virtues, as you term them, and not myself that attached their interest. One gentleman, our local vicar — though you won’t know him as he has come into the neighbourhood since your time — wished to supply his children with a suitable stepmother. The other — oh, he wanted a conformable wife to preside over his household, give him an heir, and make no demands upon his emotions.”

  “Well, of all the cold-blooded propositions! Do you tell me that he had the effrontery to say as much directly to you? He must be a rare coxcomb, upon my word!”

  “No, I don’t think he’s that,” said Henrietta, reflectively. “But an unhappy incident in his youth has set him against entrusting his happiness to a love match. Instead, he wished to marry a woman such as I have described to you. Naturally he thought I would be such a one.”

  “Did he indeed?” cried Louisa indignantly. “Well, I trust you soon sent him about his business!”

  “I did refuse him, of course, but in the circumstances I did not feel insulted. You see, he doubtless thought that I should be glad to accept him, seeing that he is heir to a wealthy estate, while I am neither young, nor the kind of female to inspire a strong attachment in a man.”

  “Hetty, you shall not speak so of yourself! Any man would be so fortunate to have you!”

  “As a housekeeper, perhaps.” Henrietta smiled wanly. “But it’s no use in deceiving myself, my dear. I am not the kind of female to inspire a man with an undying passion. I doubt if any would ever cast me a second glance.”

  “I’ll wager they soon would, if only —” Louisa broke off, looking embarrassed.

  “If only what?” urged Henrietta, with an encouraging smile.

  “If only — oh, you may not like this, but for the sake of our old friendship, I feel I must say it! My love, you don’t even try to win second glances from the gentlemen. True and lasting attachments, I know, are founded on character. But what man will trouble himself to discover a female’s nobility of character, unless she first takes his eye by her looks? I refer to your mode of dress, my dear. You are doing yourself an injustice. If only you would take the trouble, you could look so charmingly, and quite turn the heads of every man in Bath! There, I have said my say, and if you feel that you must rush off to pack your trunk again and shake the dust of my threshold off your feet, I’m sure I can’t altogether blame you.”

  Henrietta held silent for a moment, until Louisa began to fear that she was indeed offended. But suddenly she laughed and affectionately hugged her friend.

  “Well, you have only said what Almeria had already hinted to me when she recently visited. I’ve never before considered such matters, but, somehow, lately —” She paused a moment to consider. “Lately, I’ve begun to desire a change, not only in my way of life, but in myself. My youth seems to have passed by without giving any of its promised delights: pretty clothes, balls and parties, flattering attentions from gentlemen. Is it too late, do you suppose, to enjoy a few of these frivolities before I am quite settled into confirmed old-maidhood? For so long I’ve been a sensible woman, I feel a little nonsense wouldn’t come amiss by way of a change!”

  Louisa gave a gurgle of delight. “Oh, now you are seeing things just as you ought! One cannot be serious all the time, you know. Without frivolity we should be dull creatures indeed. I tell you what, Henrietta, we will go shopping at once and purchase for you everything most modish! There is a capital modiste in Milsom Street; all the ladies of ton in Bath patronise her, but I’ve been a very good customer, and I think I can persuade her to give your order the most urgent attention. Of course, she’s expensive.”

  “Expense,” said Henrietta in the grand manner, “is of no consequence. But there is one more consideration, Louisa. Do you suppose we could avoid going into company until I have something more fashionable to wear? I have the most foolish, girlish fancy that a new Henrietta is about to emerge, and I wouldn’t wish your friends to meet the old one.”

  �
��A new Henrietta indeed! Only wait until I’ve persuaded you to abandon that hideous cap, and my maid has dressed your hair in a becoming style. I declare you won’t even know yourself, my love!”

  “In my present mood, I shall be glad to be quit of the old Henrietta Melville.” On a sudden impulse, she snatched the cap from her head and tossed it onto the fire. “There! I am burning my boats, as well as my headgear, and I declare I was never so well pleased at anything in my life!”

  For the next few days, she and Louisa spent all their time in the shopping streets of Bath, returning home each afternoon exhausted but jubilant. Captain Barclay found to his chagrin that the utmost vigilance was unable to reward him with more than the merest glimpse of his attractive neighbour as she whisked her newly arrived visitor each day into or out of her carriage. They were always accompanied by a maid loaded down with bandboxes and parcels, so he guessed easily enough where they had been. He wondered glumly how long this shopping spree was likely to last, and when he might hope to meet Mrs. Fordyce once again in the Pump Room and the Circulating Library. He contemplated paying her a formal morning call, as he had once done in the early days of their acquaintance; but although as a young lieutenant he had taken part in the bloody battle of Trafalgar, this simple social observance seemed to call for more courage than he could muster. Sooner or later, she would wish to take the other lady about a little to meet people; until then, he must resign himself to waiting patiently.

  To Henrietta, it was all delightful. It had been many years since she had gone shopping in Bath, for Pamela and Cecilia had been fitted out for their come-out by their aunt in London. Even in those far-off days when she had come to Bath for shopping, she had never stepped inside such a luxurious emporium as that of Madame Blanche in Milsom Street. At first she thought they must have strayed into some lady of quality’s parlour by mistake. The deep pile carpet, the delicate gilded chairs with their green and gold striped satin coverings, the Grecian statues standing in pale green alcoves, all suggested wealthy leisure rather than mundane commerce. Madame Blanche, herself, was quite as elegant as her salon; only her shrewd glance as she eyed Henrietta gave any indication that she was a businesswoman. Henrietta soon discovered that the glance had taken in not only her new customer’s measurements to the half inch, but also which colours and styles would be most flattering to her.