Dennison’s countenance stretched. Nancy Ann’s mother’s words had utterly amazed him. He had been prepared for a fight on his hands against a long engagement, with the Parson suggesting two years, even three. But he wouldn’t have had that: he would have beaten him down to a year, enough time to have the house refurbished to his bride’s taste and the wedding preparations put into motion. Yet here was the mother suggesting June.
He forced the look of surprise from his face and kept his tone flat as he said, ‘Yes, indeed, June is a good month,’ only to be slightly dismayed when Nancy Ann put in on a surprised note, ‘June? But Mama, that is not time…’ But she stopped as she stared at the thin face lying in the hollow of the pillow, and a great sadness overwhelmed her. She knew why her mother had proposed so early a time for the wedding and she wanted to fling herself onto her breast and cry out, ‘No! No! You will have much longer than that, so much longer.’ But her grandmama was deciding things for her: ‘Yes, I agree with you, Rebecca, June is the right month for a wedding,’ she was saying, and then she turned to Dennison: ‘Are you in agreement, sir?’
‘Yes. Oh, yes. That is, if it’s agreeable with Nancy Ann.’
And Nancy Ann returned his look, saying, ‘Yes, I’m quite agreeable.’
When Rebecca let out a thin long sigh, Jessica said, ‘Away with both of you now, and go and tell the girls.’
‘Oh, yes’—Nancy Ann smiled—‘we must tell the girls. They won’t believe it.’ And she glanced at Dennison and repeated, ‘They won’t believe it, but we must tell them.’
In the hall, Dennison drew her gently to a stop, saying, ‘The girls. Who are the girls?’
‘Oh.’ She pulled in the left corner of her lip as she was wont to do when secretly amused, and now she said, ‘The maids. We have three: Peggy the cook, Jane her assistant, and Hilda the housemaid.’
The quirk to her lips disappeared as he said, ‘Well, my dear, you go and break my glad news to them, I’ll have a word with Peter.’ He pointed. ‘I can see him in the sitting room.’
‘Very well.’ She stepped back from him, then walked slowly towards the kitchen door. It was understandable, she supposed, that he wouldn’t want to meet the maids; he had a house full of servants, some of whom likely he couldn’t recognise…And she was to be mistress of them. The thought daunted her. Would she be able to go into the kitchen and chat with them? No, never; at least she supposed not, from what she had seen of them at the ball.
Peggy had been scraping the frame of a chicken, preparatory to mincing the bits and pieces to make patties for the evening meal, and those would be preceded by soup derived from the carcass; Hilda had been preparing vegetables, while Jane had been pulling up a wooden clothes horse on which she had just hung some wet tea towels. But now they were all gathered round her. Peggy, wiping her greasy hands on her apron, was indeed reacting in the way Nancy Ann had forecast to Dennison: ‘I’ll never believe it,’ she was saying, ‘that you’re going up there to be mistress of that place. I’ll never believe it.’
‘Nor me,’ cried Jane. ‘You’re much too young for it,’ which brought a sharp rebuke from Peggy, ‘Shut your mouth, you!’ while Hilda said, ‘Miss. Miss. ’Tis like a fairy tale. I wish you all the happiness in the world.’
‘And me an’ all, miss, and me an’ all,’ Jane put in.
‘Oh, yes, I wish you happiness. We all wish you happiness. Don’t we, Cook?’
Her face unsmiling now, Peggy nodded, saying somewhat sadly, ‘Aye, Miss Nancy Ann, that’s what we all wish you, happiness, long life, a big family, and happiness.’
‘Oh, aye, a big family, ten of ’em.’ Jane grinned now, and Hilda, pushing her, said, ‘Shut up, will you!’
‘I must go.’
‘Is…is he still here?’ asked Jane now, who was always quite undaunted by her superiors’ rebuffs.
‘Yes, yes, he’s still here.’ Nancy Ann smiled at her.
‘When d’you expect it to happen, miss?’ Hilda asked, and when Nancy Ann answered, ‘June, towards the end,’ they all exclaimed loudly, ‘June! So soon?’
Her face straight now, Nancy Ann answered quietly, ‘Yes; Mother would like it in June.’
‘Oh, aye. Aye.’ Peggy nodded at her.
‘Well’—Nancy Ann backed from them—‘I’ll be seeing you shortly.’
‘Yes, miss. Yes, miss.’ They nodded at her, then sent more good wishes to her as she walked up the kitchen. But once the door had closed on her, they looked at each other and Peggy said, ‘June. My God! And she not yet turned seventeen and he old enough…Well, he’s old enough to be her father.’
‘And with a name like he’s got.’
This time Peggy did not silence Jane, but it was Hilda who said, ‘Black sheep or white, under the skin I think there’s good in him, and if there is she’ll bring it out.’
Two
Nancy Ann did not see her intended husband the following day, but in the early evening when it was already black dark, the coach drew up at the door and the footman delivered a very large cardboard box covered in fancy paper with a letter attached to the bow of coloured tape tying the box.
Nancy Ann took the box to her mother’s room, and there, in the presence of her father and mother and grandmother, she untied the tape, leaving the letter aside for the moment, and after lifting the lid and parting the layers of fine paper, she stood gaping down at the articles of fur lying there. It was her grandmother who prompted, and in no small voice, ‘Well, take them out, girl! Take them out. See what they are.’
There was a sable three-quarter length cape, a matching hat, and a large muff. The hat had a crown but the back was shaped like a bonnet and fell over the collar of the cape, and from it there dangled four strips of fur; the same trimming was on the front of the muff.
When she was attired in the outfit, her mother smiled and moved her head backwards and forwards on the pillow as if in amazement. And her grandmother’s eyes glowed. Only her father showed no appreciation.
Jessica, fingering the collar of the cape, said in awe, ‘Sable. Pure sable. Look at it, John Howard.’
‘I can see. I can see.’ And John Howard looked into his daughter’s face bedecked with the fur hat and framed by the round fur collar, and he knew he should be happy for her. And he wished he could be. And in this moment he told himself, he must try, he must try. Perhaps, as Rebecca had said, their daughter could be the making of the man. He had already shown a form of courage in coming to church, for he must well know that this would have held him up to ridicule by many of his friends. Yes, he must, as his dear wife said, try to see the good in the man. And so now he smiled at his daughter, saying in as light a tone as he could muster, ‘Your vanity will no doubt be increased when everyone acclaims your beauty to be enhanced.’
The compliment was precise, but nevertheless it was a compliment. Forgetting about her fine apparel, she flung a hand from the muff and her arms around the tall thin man; and he held her to him for a moment. Then, pressing her from him, he said, ‘It’ll all be crushed.’
‘Fur doesn’t crush, Papa.’
‘No, it only goes shiny and bald.’
They all laughed now at Jessica’s remark. And when she added, ‘Open the letter and see who it’s from, girl,’ the laughter rose.
The letter was short.
My dear one,
This, my first gift to you, I hope you find suitable.
I shall call for you tomorrow about three o’clock, with the intention of taking you to the House and introducing you to the staff and the rest of your future home.
The letter ended,
The library you are well acquainted with. If it complies with your wish I shall have a certain piece of furniture removed from there and set in your boudoir.
Ever your loving and grateful Dennison.
She folded up the sheet of paper and returned it to the envelope. It was her first love letter. She had the desire to press it tightly to her, but she told herself that would be silly, for she
wasn’t as yet in love with him. Yet what was love? Was it this excitement which the gift had filled her with? And more so, the tone of his letter? She liked him. Oh, she did…But tomorrow, having to meet the staff.
She looked from one to the other, saying now, ‘He wishes me to go tomorrow to the House to…to see what is to be done and to meet the staff.’ She shook her head, then added, in a small voice, ‘I’ll…I’ll be scared, so afraid. I…I won’t know how to react.’
‘Don’t you be so silly.’ It was her grandmama speaking again. ‘You will react as you always do, sensibly, with your shoulders back and your head held up.’
The door opened as Jessica finished speaking and Hilda said, ‘Parson, Mr Mercer has called. He’d like a word with you.’
‘Oh, yes. Yes.’
It seemed that John left the room with relief, and his greeting of Graham Mercer was hearty. He held out his hand, saying, ‘This is a pleasant surprise, Graham.’
‘I hope I am not disturbing you at this hour.’
‘Not at all. Not at all. You could never disturb me. Come in. Come in.’ He led the way into the sitting room and immediately went to the table and turned up the wick of the lamp, then said, ‘Sit down, my friend. Sit down.’
‘I won’t stay long. I…I just want to ask you a question, even while I already know the answer. Is it true that…that your daughter has become engaged to Harpcore?’
It was a moment before John answered him, for he was staring at the man whom he saw was agitated. And this was strange, because his manner could usually be called sedate, even more so than his own. And so it was quietly that he answered, ‘Yes. Yes, that’s so.’
‘Why have you allowed it?’
Again he was taken aback, albeit slightly, by the forthright question, and it flummoxed him for a moment. However, before he could give an answer Graham said, ‘You know what kind of a man he is: he’s an inveterate gambler, besides which…well, there are other things, but his gambling has made him notorious. He is, I know, a member of Tangents in Newcastle, a very unsavoury club. He also goes up to town, to London, where he is a member of one which is an absolute byword. And then there are the…’ His head drooped forward and the words now seemed to come from between his teeth as he demanded, ‘Why did you do it? Why did you allow it?’
John was totally nonplussed now; yet there was a light dawning in his mind, and he said quietly, ‘Sit down.’ And when Graham shook his head, he appealed, ‘Please.’
When they were seated opposite to each other at either side of the fireplace, it was Graham who spoke. ‘I’m…I’m sorry, but it came as rather a shock,’ he said. ‘If…if only I had known. You see, she is so young. I considered her so young. I was a fool, a slow fool. I’ve always been a fool.’ He raised his head and looked at John. ‘Right from the beginning of my life I’ve been a fool.’
‘Oh, no, no.’ John drew himself to the edge of his chair and put out his hand, saying, ‘You are no fool, Graham, but a gentleman of rare quality. My sons have always esteemed your friendship. No, never call yourself a fool.’
‘Then I can say I am fated never to know happiness because I never go about things in the right way: I always walk when I should leap; I remain dumb when I should speak. As you well know I hid myself away because I couldn’t face life after one disappointment.’ He bowed his head, and John said, ‘I’m sorry. I can say this in all truth, I am sorry that you walked instead of leaping in this instant and remained dumb when you should have spoken. Yes, indeed, I am sorry.’
A silence ensued between them for a moment; then Graham, raising his head, said, ‘Is she happy?’
‘How can one say? To me she is still a child, but the womenfolk would impress that she is no longer a child but a young woman. And I suppose they are right because next week she will be seventeen years old. What she really feels, I must admit I don’t know.’
‘She must care for him in some way.’
‘There are different shades of caring, and, as we all know, this period in a young person’s life is made up of values that are often questionable. It is only later when one looks back one is amazed at having escaped the consequences of such wrong thinking. My dear Graham, I can honestly say at this moment I am sad as to the future of my daughter, but I would not have felt this in any way if I could have seen her future joined to yours.’
‘Thank you.’ Graham rose to his feet and John did likewise, and as they looked at each other Graham said quietly, ‘You will not, of course, give her any hint of this?’
‘No. No, never,’ John answered.
‘Thank you.’
Together they walked down the room and out into the hall, there to see Nancy Ann about to go upstairs. She was carrying the fur cape, muff, and hat across her arm. Turning, she smiled widely at the visitor, and, taking a few steps towards him, she said, ‘Good evening, Mr Mercer.’
‘Good evening, Nancy Ann.’
He was looking at the furs across her arm, and she looked down at them too, and, as if apologising for them, she said, ‘They…they are a present.’
‘Yes, yes, a present.’
Now she looked at her father before returning her gaze on Graham Mercer and to ask quietly, ‘Did Papa tell you?’
Graham slanted his eyes towards John, then said, ‘Yes, yes, your papa told me, and…and I wish you happiness, Nancy Ann. I shall always wish you happiness.’
She watched him turn away and pick up his hat from a side table. She too turned away and went slowly up the stairs. What was the matter? What had they been talking about? He looked sad, different. She liked Mr Mercer. The boys thought the world of him. He had wished her happiness, but it hadn’t sounded right. She hoped nothing was wrong with him. She had always liked him; he was such a nice man, a good man.
She laid the furs on her bed and as she stroked the muff her thoughts left Mr Mercer. They were so beautiful. He…he must have gone out today and bought them for her. He was kind. She did like him; yes, she did.
It had just begun to snow when the carriage drew up at the foot of the House steps. The doors were open and two footmen stood on the terrace, and when Dennison shouted, ‘Bring an umbrella,’ one of them disappeared, to reappear within a few seconds with a large umbrella, which he pushed up as he ran down the steps. And as Dennison helped Nancy Ann down from the coach the footman held it over her, and she smiled at him whilst checking herself from saying, There was no need for this, I’m quite used to snow, for the man’s actions immediately brought back to her all her grandmama had said earlier on this morning.
‘Now I am not saying you should be stiff-necked with servants,’ she had said, ‘but that lot up there aren’t like those three in our kitchen. They have been with you all your life: they are connected with the family, they seem part of it and you are familiar with them, too familiar at times. But now you are going into a different world, and those up there will likely all be lined up in the hall. And whatever you do, don’t attempt to shake hands, or stop and speak to any individual one. And as for your countenance, keep it pleasant, but don’t smile. Somebody, likely the housekeeper or the butler, will call out their names and give you their positions. Incline your head if it’s necessary, but that’s all. Now remember that. And if any of the upper hierarchy take a high hand with you, walk up the steps of your position and look down on them. You know what I mean?’
Oh, she knew what her grandmama meant all right, but she was going to find great difficulty in carrying out her instructions, especially the last piece of advice: she didn’t like the idea of looking down on anyone; in fact, it was against her papa’s teaching. Of course, he also said that God had placed each and everyone of us in a certain position in life and we had to act in that position according to our capabilities. God expected nothing more of us.
She was inside the hall now, and the warmth struck her immediately, causing her to glance towards the roaring fire set in the deep stone fireplace at the end of the room. It was deep enough for suits of armour to be placed i
n the alcoves at each side of it.
The butler was taking her cloak and muff and woollen gloves. She knew that the woollen gloves didn’t really match the fur, but they were her best one, as was her plain grey winter coat, and only yesterday she had turned down the cuffs because her arms had grown too long for the sleeves. It was a very nice coat, made of Melton cloth, which her grandmama had bought for her two years ago. It was the nicest coat she had ever had, and she liked it, at least she had up to this moment. But now, divested of the furs, she glanced down at herself. Her whole body looked thin and long.
Having now unbuttoned her coat, she let the butler take it. She then smoothed down the front of her blue alpaca dress. She had always thought that this was pretty, but of a sudden, like her coat, it, too, felt dowdy set against the colours of the menservants’ livery and the carpets and drapes in this hall. Somehow she was noticing things more now than she had done on the night of the ball.
‘Come, my dear.’ Dennison took her by the elbow, saying in an aside to one of the menservants, ‘We will have tea in the pink drawing room. I shall then ring when I want you to assemble them.’
He led Nancy Ann across the hall, down a broad corridor, and into a room, where she saw immediately why it was so called: the drapes at the window were pink velvet with deep tasselled pelmets; the carpet, too, had once been a bright pink but was now faded in parts; as was also the upholstery of the two velvet couches and small chairs arranged here and there. But it was a lovely room, so warm and welcoming.
He drew her towards the couch that was placed opposite the fire, another large one, not so large perhaps as the one in the hall, but piled high with burning logs and coal, which she knew immediately was an extravagance because you shouldn’t burn logs and coal together: coal didn’t last half as long when it was mixed with wood…Why was she thinking like this?
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