Flirtation & Folly

by Elizabeth Rasche

  “Fond of flowers, are you?” he asked. Contrary to her expectations, Sir William Clogg looked nothing like the round, balding sort Marianne had imagined. Instead, he was a short, compact man in his fifties, with silvered temples and the relaxed, composed demeanour of a gentleman old enough to know what he liked. Although he was of an age with Aunt Harriet, he had merely afforded her a polite greeting and seemed better pleased to be seated next to Marianne, chatting with her about his farms, coal interests, and nephews. Marianne knew little about coal, but she could keep up with the discussions of country life and sympathise with Sir William’s proud recital of his nephews’ standings at Oxford. It was a good start in charming a gentleman.

  “I’m fond of everything, today.” Marianne felt her face turning up towards the sky, just like the people outside earlier. Unpacking had not taken long once the footman cut the cords on her trunk, and now Marianne was wearing the best of her country dresses to dine with her aunt. Her aunt did not seem impressed, however, and she felt positively shabby when seated near Sir William’s widowed sister. Mrs Appleton said little to any purpose and seemed muddled most of the time, but her gown was stiff with good silk and starched lace. All that good material was of especial use in the winter; the leather seat of her mahogany chair chilled Marianne’s legs through the thin muslin of her dress. Her gaze swept the room and collected all its features: the gold brocade, the thick white candles lit with wobbling flames, the steaming dishes placed by servants who passed with silent efficiency.

  “Pray, do not stare about like some greedy street urchin,” Aunt Harriet said. “I daresay you have been to nicer places than this.” She spoke the words oddly, as if expecting to be contradicted and reassured.

  Marianne did not disappoint her. “Oh, no, Aunt. Never. I went to the Walters’ home, once, but that was years ago. They have an enormous chandelier and huge hallways, but—ˮ She suddenly wondered if it was in bad taste to criticise a past host. If it was, Aunt Harriet seemed willing to forgive it, because she pressed her to go on. “But the chandelier was choked with wax, and the hallways had draughts where they were in need of repair. This house is just as beautiful and much better kept.”

  The pleasant smile she had seen before returned to Aunt Harriet’s face. “As draughty as it was, I’m sure there was no great objection to returning there,” she said good-humouredly. “Why did you only go once, then? Did the Walters take an aversion to dining with parsons?”

  “Oh, no. Mr Walters invites Papa to dine every few weeks, and of course Mama goes, too. But someone has to stay at home to look after my brothers and sisters, and the housekeeper cannot manage them all herself.”

  Guilt washed over Marianne, closing up her throat. The housekeeper would have more than she could rightly handle while Marianne was away. But if I didn’t leave the rectory now, when would I ever get a chance? I have one Season. One chance at being the person I want to be. Surely, that’s not too much to ask?

  “Ah, yes, all those brothers and sisters.” A note of dangerous satisfaction crept into Aunt Harriet’s tone. “How many are there, now?”

  “I have four sisters and five brothers.”

  “Ten children altogether! That’s a full quiver.” She took a careful sip of her soup. “Of course, a quiver can get so full of arrows that they won’t all fit. Then there is trouble.” She threw a look at Marianne, but Marianne was unable to interpret it. “I get two kinds of letters from your mother. One kind is a full page, twice crossed, telling me how wonderfully beautiful your sister Belinda is. The other kind asks for money.”

  And if my mother is to be believed, you never give it. After years of no assistance from her sister, Marianne’s mother had been both delighted and mystified by Aunt Harriet’s offer to give one of her daughters a Season in town. The mystery had been partly dispelled at learning that Miss Westcott had gone away, but Mrs Mowbrey still felt awed and eager that her sister was willing to lend any sort of aid to her family. Harriet Adams kept a tight grip on her purse, while Mrs Mowbrey scarcely knew that her purse could close. Marianne’s mother and two aunts had all been given a small fortune—for the two that married, the money had been given as dowries, while Aunt Harriet’s sum had been delivered into her own hands. The sisters had gone in different directions since then. Aunt Harriet’s modest sum had somehow spiralled into a hefty fortune, Aunt Cartwright sailed serenely but unimpressively on the same level as her parents, and Marianne’s mother had sunk to an embarrassing degree. Marianne wished her aunt would not discuss such things in front of guests, but Sir William and the lawyer Mr Bates seemed to take it in stride, while Mrs Appleton appeared to have no idea any conversation was taking place.

  “It must be a great hardship for most ladies, having a beautiful sister,” Sir William said, a twinkle in his eye. “But I am sure you, Miss Mowbrey, have nothing to fear from her.” His compliment might have been somewhat awkward, but it pleased Marianne immensely.

  “You are very kind, Sir William. Wherever my sister is in London at this moment, she has reason to envy me my company.” There! It was not so difficult to flirt as she had supposed. A flush of elation warmed Marianne’s cheeks. Although the idea of being Lady Clogg had its appeal, Marianne hoped she could aim higher than delighting an elderly gentleman from the country. There was no reason not to dazzle him at the moment, however. The heroines in novels always had half a dozen swains dogging their steps.

  Sir William’s smile showed his appreciation for the attention, but Aunt Harriet quickly restored the conversation to good sense. “Is she as lovely as your mother claims?”

  “Belinda? Yes, Aunt. She is very beautiful.” Marianne was careful to let no hint of resentment show in her voice. It was easier than usual, thanks to Sir William’s compliments.

  “Then she will do very well in London, if she has any sense at all. Mrs Walters will muster her an array of suitors.” The conversation paused as the next course was brought in, but when the servants had retreated, she continued. “What about your sister Harriet? Is she pretty?”

  It was natural enough for Aunt Harriet to be curious about the child who was her namesake. Marianne’s mother had named her for her aunt in the hopes of soliciting Aunt Harriet’s favour, but all it had produced was the gift of a prayer book and a guinea for the little girl each Christmas. Later, when Matilda was born, Mrs Mowbrey had named her after her other sister, not for any hope of assistance by then, but more likely because after ten children she had lost her enthusiasm for naming them.

  Marianne helped herself to roast mutton while she deliberated upon the virtue of honesty and the expedience of flattery. Honesty won the day. “I’m afraid she is not very pretty, Aunt. Little Harriet is clever, but difficult to manage.”

  “Clever?” Aunt Harriet leaned forward. “What is she interested in?”

  “Sweets, mostly. She is always figuring out how to get more out of the cook or finding where she hides them. I fear it has not improved her figure, but she is only eleven. She will grow out of it all.”

  “Wonderful. I am namesake to a fat thief.” Aunt Harriet straightened, and Marianne ducked her head to avoid her aunt’s annoyed gaze. “Why don’t you prevent her from misbehaving, if the cook cannot?”

  It was easier to talk at the plate in front of her than meet her aunt’s eyes. “I do my best, Aunt. Since I am the oldest, I have to look after all my siblings—ˮ

  “All of them, Miss Mowbrey?” Sir William sounded impressed.

  “Well, not Edward or Harry, not anymore. Edward has taken orders as a clergyman, and Harry is about to. And I suppose no one really looks after Belinda because she is almost as old as Edward and Harry. But the little ones—I look after all of them. It takes all my time.” She could not help a whine coming into her voice at the last, despite the presence of guests. Marianne dared to look up.

  The glint of candlelight on the taut curve of a serving-dish looked hard and bright, but the glint in Aunt Harriet’s eyes was harder still. “Sir William,” she said, “
I will not ask why my sister does not mind her own children. I know very well what the answer is. Tell my sister to do anything taxing, and she will sigh and say it is much too much for her, that she cannot comprehend it all, that no one could expect her to do more than she does.” She turned to Marianne. “Your Aunt Cartwright is just as lazy, but at least she has the excuse of ill health.”

  Marianne’s cheeks burned. She carefully set down her fork. “My mother does what she can.”

  “She sits upstairs and mends, I suppose.”

  “There is a great deal of mending, Aunt Harriet.”

  “No doubt.” Something in her tone told Marianne her aunt held her own opinion still, but the woman dropped the subject in favour of serving herself some mutton. Silence swallowed up the table. The sauces on the savoury dishes thickened as they cooled, their spices muting gently as they did so. Marianne took several mouthfuls and watched the footman. His smooth face showed no trace of any distasteful conversation; every movement he made was simple and free of emotion. There were not so many servants at the rectory, of course, and the few that did slave there talked back incessantly, propped up in their incivility by years of wages owed and constant commotion in the household. Here in Aunt Harriet’s household, wealth smoothed any nettles away. The footman did not simply weather her aunt’s prickliness. He nullified it, as though it had never existed.

  Encouraged, Marianne tried a new subject. “You ought to have seen all the people when I arrived in London today, Sir William. They were all beaming at the sky as if they saw angels. It was marvellous. I think it must be a sign of good fortune.”

  He gave her a tolerant smile. “The fog in London is very thick and persistent. Today was the first time everyone was able to see the blue sky in a while, that is all.”

  Aunt Harriet snorted. “And you clearly ought to read your Bible more. People who see angels are generally terrified, not delighted. A rector’s daughter ought to know that.” She chewed a mouthful of mutton with vigour, nodding to herself.

  Marianne repressed a sigh. It still might have been a sign, I suppose…but the magic of it was gone. Aunt Harriet went on to explain her own views on family prayers and Biblical subjects until the dinner felt much like one of the occasions when Marianne’s father invited a curate to dinner. Marianne agreed to everything Aunt Harriet said, while Aunt Harriet drifted from surprisingly apt interpretation of scripture to occasional sharp sallies at the vicar of her own church. From what Marianne could tell, the vicar was strict enough in his views, but not so precise as her aunt would wish. Marianne did sometimes disagree with her father’s sermons, but she had never been audacious enough to admit it aloud. She did not know whether to feel admiration or dismay at her aunt’s freely-spoken criticism.

  “But you will judge him yourself when you hear him speak on Sunday,” she said, patting Marianne’s hand. A pang shot through Marianne as she realised new gowns would not be ready in time for church, either. Another dream demolished! In the bouncing discomfort of the carriage ride to the city, she had imagined every future scene: bowing gentlemen welcoming her to Almack’s, an earnest vicar impressed with Marianne’s piety beckoning her to a private pew, ladies of fashion pausing in their strolls to admire Marianne’s faultless attire. She supposed her first visit to church would not be much like what she imagined if she had to attend in an outmoded dress and sit next to her opinionated aunt, who probably glared at the vicar every time he made an ecclesiastical error.

  “Here is the last course.” Aunt Harriet nodded at the servants bearing a jelly decorated with raisins and a dish of almonds. “I was going to have the cook bake a cake especially for you. Your mother mentioned that you love almond cake—ˮ

  “That was Belinda.” Marianne tried not to sound sour. “Belinda loves almond cake.”

  “That’s right. That was when I thought Belinda was the one coming.” Her aunt scooped some almonds onto her plate. “It is just as well, then.”

  Aunt Harriet paused, her wrinkled hands fumbling slightly with the nuts. Marianne followed the pale skin up her aunt’s arms, to the neat trim of her dark grey evening gown, up its sleeves and high neckline to her aunt’s slightly pained expression. She felt a growing sense of shame at her own ingratitude. In an awkwardly kind tone, her aunt said, “Next time, I will ensure the dinner has something just for you, Marianne. What sort of treats do you care for?”

  “I like olives, Aunt.” It was not quite true, not yet. The heroine of The Italian Count had supped on olives and turtle, and Marianne intended to be just like her…even if she had never tasted either. Yet. But her aunt would no doubt lend herself to assist in Marianne’s transformation, making her the heroine she always dreamed of being. London was Marianne’s chance to change everything about herself, and she was eager to begin.

  Marianne tugged at the edges of her gloves. The trimming brushed her wrists, but not solidly enough to provide real warmth there. Snowflakes whirled and careered into her aunt’s light-grey pelisse, leaving wet smudges of charcoal grey. The snowflakes in London were all burdened with grains of dust and ash, and faint discolouration remained as they melted onto light-coloured fabric. It almost made Marianne glad that her new clothes were not ready for this walk to church. Almost.

  Back home in Wrumpton, the church was visible from miles away; but in London, Marianne had no notion they had arrived at the church until they stood before it. The grey stone stretched up in a momentous enough way—it looked heavy and cold, as if it had soaked up the winter that the pellets of snowflakes carried with them. But in the shroud of fog, one could almost stumble over its door-step without any notion it was near.

  Marianne paused to examine it, despite the frosty numbness of her wrists. She liked the grey stone, so rough and crumbly, with its thin lines of mortar in-between. The lanterns hanging outside the door should have illuminated a wide expanse of sidewalk, but the fog pressed in from all directions, muting the light and blurring it. The scene ought to have made her feel chilled and dismal, but Marianne found herself appreciating the gloom. It felt stark and powerful.

  “Do go in, child, or we shall freeze,” Aunt Harriet said. Her voice held a constrained testiness that Marianne knew well from her father. It was the I am irritated, but dare not express it on a Sunday morning sort of annoyance. The prospect of delivering a sermon made her father especially conscientious, but did not prevent the ordinary vicissitudes of life with ten children from raising his ire. On Sundays, he did not scold, but Marianne could always sense the struggle of holding back lying just beneath his skin.

  “Shall Aunt Cartwright sit with us?” she asked as she passed through the church doors and beneath the spreading curves of the vaulted ceiling. They took their seats in a pleasantly padded pew, while her aunt’s servants filed in more noisily and sat in the rear of the church. Marianne glanced back and spied Jenny giggling among them.

  “Heavens, no. Matilda is too much an invalid to come to church. She rarely goes anywhere.” Her aunt sniffed. “You will meet her in a few days. She is having an evening party then.”

  “With music?” Marianne chewed her lower lip in concern.

  “Probably not. She prefers cards.” Aunt Harriet studied her. “Why are you making that face, child? Do you dislike music?”

  “No, but—ˮ Marianne decided the topic was safe enough in church. Her aunt could not scold her here. “My mother said you would help me with lessons. I can ride a little and play the pianoforte a little, but neither very well.” Judging her aunt to look reasonably amenable, she rushed on to say, “I thought perhaps you would let me take riding lessons, and piano lessons, and harp lessons, and French and Italian, and drawing and—ˮ

  “Good heavens! You’d have time for nothing else, and my house would leak tutors in every direction.” Aunt Harriet looked more puzzled than annoyed.

  “But I must become an accomplished young lady, Aunt, in order to—well—ˮ She could not confess the truth even in church: in order to attract a rich husband.

&n
bsp; “Choose three. I will permit three studies. I will not pay for a horde of masters.”

  Marianne considered. She had learned to ride as a child, back when her mother’s dowry still remained to be drawn upon and there were not many children at the rectory yet. She had a vague memory of being lifted onto the broad back of a horse, and an uncomfortably clear memory of the terror at being perched there alone. It had felt like too much of her childhood: being placed too young atop something far bigger and stronger than she was, and being expected to manage it. Improving the skill did not seem pleasant. Besides, her aunt only hired carriages from the livery stable rather than owning any horses, and Marianne had no servant or friend who could ride with her yet.

  The harp was impractical—they had no harp at the rectory, nor at Aunt Harriet’s—but would not the elegance of graceful plinking outweigh the expense of buying a harp and towing it about? French was a must; Marianne’s sounded too much like a schoolgirl. Years of teaching beginner’s piano and French to her younger sisters instead of practising more difficult endeavours herself had stunted her skills.

  An image of her sketchbook, its worn edges and ruffled pages preventing it from sliding neatly into the bookcase with the other books, flashed through Marianne’s mind. She did love to draw, but the pictures she liked to draw did not exactly frame her as a proper young lady. A drawing master would only teach her to make portraits of blank-faced women and landscapes of dull English countryside. “French, I suppose. And the harp and piano. Unless they can count together as one study of music—ˮ