“What hideous children,” Miss Stokes murmured, catching a glimpse over her sister’s shoulder.
“Indeed, they are ugly. Whatever possessed you to draw them?” Miss Emily did not wait for an answer, though, and quickly turned more pages. At one she threw back her head in peals of laughter. “Look at this wretched insect, Augusta. Have you ever seen anything more disgusting? It really is very lifelike, Miss Mowbrey. I do give you credit.” She giggled. “Augusta, what if we thrust this picture right under Martha’s nose? I daresay she would shriek.”
“You had better not try it,” said Miss Stokes.
“I suppose I shall not. She is loud enough already.” She continued flipping through the pages, only pausing when she arrived at a sketch of a young lady. With a sweet bow-shaped mouth, hair in cascading ringlets, and a smooth, almost doll-like face, this young lady was the proper subject of a sketch. “Who is this?”
“It is my sister Belinda.” Marianne had long been tired of enduring their examination, but now she felt even more annoyed. Miss Emily clearly admired the beauty of the picture.
“Is she really your sister?” Miss Stokes leaned over her sister. “I do not see any resemblance.”
Miss Emily shook her head. “No resemblance at all. Look at this little doll of a creature! I daresay she is sixteen and already pulling beaux in her train. I never saw anyone so beautiful.”
People were always misjudging Belinda’s age, thinking her so much younger and prettier than Marianne. “She is twenty, not sixteen,” she said heatedly, only then to realise she had inadvertently condemned herself.
Miss Emily’s eyes widened. “Twenty? Surely not! Why, you said you had two younger brothers between the two of you. That would make your age at least…” She trailed off with an expressive lift of an eyebrow, and Marianne flushed.
Miss Stokes apparently had compassion on her, because she took the book and closed it firmly, then handed it to Marianne. “There you are, Miss Mowbrey,” she said. “I am tired of pictures. Let us make our plans for shopping.”
Miss Emily’s mouth twisted into a frown, but she gave up her teasing and negotiated a date for the trip with her mother.
When they had gone, Marianne hugged the sketchbook to her chest and began the long walk up the stairs to secure it in her room. She felt both shame at the ridicule her sketches garnered and at her own longing to be accepted by the Stokeses. It had been her own fault, really, for leaving it lying around when visitors had come. Naturally people would expect they were to look at it, and naturally they would find the subject matter strange for a young lady—aside from the painfully exact portrait of her sister. Most people found no beauty in egg-shaped puddles of rainwater or snow gathering on the rocks of a stile.
It’s not as though I care about being a great artist. Her fingers stroked the rough binding as if to comfort it, and the faces of the portraits on the walls looked over her shoulder in a way that felt compassionate. I want to shine in society. I want to be rich and beautiful and elegant. It does not matter what they think of my sketches. It just matters that I marry well and shine. Of course, she had still not quite figured out how to be the belle she longed to be, especially since the gowns she had chosen seemed to make things worse rather than better. Pausing at her doorway and glancing at the portraits lining the hall, she felt suddenly a kinship with them, as if she too was suspended in life.
As if the wayward Fates had declared themselves as much in favour of Marianne’s situation at table as they had been against it before, she found herself seated between two young men at Aunt Cartwright’s dinner. As one of those men was Captain Pulteney, Marianne’s bliss knew no bounds. The other young man was Frederick Lowes, an anaemic-looking gentleman with nut-brown hair stiff with pomade, a trim, clocked waistcoat, and a careless manner. Although the dinner table had been forced to expand for three guests more than the previous visit—Martha Brophy, Frederick Lowes, and Lady Angela—there seemed to be just as many eatables spread out along the table, as well as the occasional candelabra or well-stocked épergne. There were even small folded bits of coloured paper fashioned into flowers, fans, and jewel shapes delicately arranged among the dishes.
“Shall I congratulate you on your position at table, Miss Mowbrey? Or would that be self-congratulation?” Captain Pulteney said. The gold trim of his regimentals caught the light in a way that made Marianne’s heart giddy. As handsome as he was when she first saw him, he looked even better in regimentals.
“I am always pleased to dine at my aunt’s,” Marianne said, proud of herself for avoiding too particular a reply. As the captain invoked the usual topics of conversation, she felt delightfully at ease, and much more the gracious lady of elegance she wanted to be. Captain Pulteney’s admiration made her feel beautiful and charming.
Glancing down the table, she saw Mr Hearn not far from them, chewing on roast chicken with a solemn air, and Miss Emily further on. As loud as Miss Emily could be with her family, she was decorum itself at dinner in society. Her voice never rose above a murmur, and Marianne could make out nothing of what she said to Mr Hearn. Every once in a while, Miss Emily threw a hard look in Marianne’s direction, but Marianne thought it likely simple envy, not anything personal. Miss Emily seemed eager to please the captain when she could, and Frederick Lowes seemed no small catch himself.
At least, he was no small catch from a worldly perspective. From a more personal view, Marianne could not say that she liked him. Mr Lowes’s demeanour had a studied indifference that she suspected was anything but genuine. His slight body looked too weak to impress anyone, but he held himself with confidence. In her judgment, his confidence was more the false bravado of a child, rather than the genuine self-assurance of an adult. Mr Lowes’s expression seemed to show little interest in others, but he scrupulously attended to his table manners in a way that suggested he was anxious to avoid reproach. Stranger still, Mr Lowes had the oddest way of throwing remarks across the table in a pointed way, as if trying to communicate something to Mr Hearn without addressing him directly.
“I hear you are from the country, Miss Mowbrey,” Mr Lowes said. She was glad his tortoise-shell-handled quizzing glass remained tucked into his waistcoat, because the attention of his unaided eye was unpleasant enough. Glittering seals and fobs dangled self-importantly from his watch-chain, and she found it hard to school her attention between them and his rapidly changing expressions. He had accompanied his claim that she was from the country with a sneer, and then pasted a smile on his face as he spoke her name.
“Yes, my father is a rector—ˮ
“Oh, a clergyman. I cannot say I envy him for that. But a country estate—ˮ He leaned over his plate, and Marianne could not help but think he was trying to attract Mr Hearn’s attention with his raised voice. “I adore country estates. They are my particular pride. The prettiest of them are in Ireland, I would say. Have you ever been to Ireland, Miss Mowbrey?”
“I regret I have not.” Marianne tried to focus on Mr Lowes, but she, too, found herself staring at Mr Hearn, who listened to the conversation with a grimace. She did not understand what sort of allusion Mr Lowes was trying to make. Was he twitting his friend for being half-Irish? She could not see why Mr Hearn would choose a friend prejudiced against the Irish, but whatever the allusion, clearly Mr Hearn was angry. He was digging into his chicken with a ferocity that ill became a fashionable dinner party.
Mr Lowes continued, seemingly unaware of Mr Hearn. “I have several places in Ireland. I pick them up here and there, from people without the sense to hang onto them. There is always a risk associated with them, of course, but I never mind that. Are you afraid of risk, Miss Mowbrey?”
Marianne’s brow furrowed. “I suppose I am, a little. I never had much of it at home. There were always my siblings to take care of. Risking anything of myself would have meant putting them at risk.” She gave him a puzzled look, and then looked across the table at Mr Hearn, only to see a scowl on his face.
“Now, I adore
risk. Life is nothing but a gamble.” Mr Lowes roared with laughter at this, and Marianne began to wonder if he had had too much to drink. There had not been much wine served, but perhaps the gentleman was delicate. It was with relief she realised Captain Pulteney was trying to attract her attention again, and she turned to her other side.
“Here is something I know you will like,” the captain said, serving her from a small cut-glass dish of olives. The dish had been sitting close to a steaming hot plate of turkey, and a thin flush of condensation had crept up one side of the glass as if to shroud the delicacies within. “Mrs Cartwright had them secured for tonight’s meal for your particular indulgence. Miss Adams told her how much you like them.”
Marianne obediently put an olive in her mouth. The pungent taste was unlike anything she had had before, that was certain. She cursed herself for a fool, telling Aunt Harriet she liked them best.
“What is it? Is there something amiss with them?” Captain Pulteney served himself a few and popped one into his mouth. “They seem all right to me.”
“They are lovely,” Marianne said, forcing herself to finish the serving. The olives were not awful, but she did not like them. Down the table, she spied Miss Emily pick up one of the paper fans and lean in towards Mr Hearn, showing it to him and speaking in a low tone. Marianne could not hear what she was saying, but the sly smile on Miss Emily’s face gave her a hint.
Marianne’s face flushed. She smoothed the skirt of her pale blue gown underneath the table. This one had no pleats of fan-shaped fabric attached to it, only heavy embroidery in a Greek key design around the neckline, but she had no doubt Miss Emily could help Mr Hearn visualise her white muslin gown. I did not look anything like a man-of-war.
It took all of Captain Pulteney’s charm to melt away her gloom and make her feel confident again. To Marianne’s relief, Mr Lowes buried himself in his food and entertained himself by laughing whenever he happened to glance at Mr Hearn. Even when the ladies rose to leave the table, Mr Hearn’s baleful stare remained fixed on his cup of Madeira. Marianne could not understand why he had brought Mr Lowes if he felt so ill at ease with him.
But then, friends were not always an unmixed blessing. Miss Emily joined Marianne the instant she appeared in the drawing room. She moved with suppressed energy, as if her body was yearning to dance or run, but was held tight in her control. “Miss Mowbrey, what a pity you had to sit so far away from Mr Glass this evening. Luckily you had two young gentlemen beside you as consolation.”
Marianne knew Miss Emily held no real belief in her liking for the apothecary, but it was less certain whether Miss Emily was playfully teasing, or less playfully needling her. As she considered whether to defend herself, her eyes fell on Miss Emily’s wrist, circled with a lovely gold bracelet. Miss Emily’s brunette hair was gathered up expertly into a bun high on her head, displaying a snow-white neck. Her posture claimed the attention and admiration a well-polished young lady ought to demand. Marianne reflected that the sight of Miss Emily’s wealth and elegance might intimidate even a seasoned lady. Whether it was a failure of courage or a resurgence of patience, Marianne could not counter her.
“How was your outing to Richmond Park, Miss Emily?” she asked instead, feeling dissatisfied with herself.
Miss Emily’s archness melted away into companionable chattiness. “What a delight! I cannot tell you how kind Lady Sweetser was to us. Such condescension! Augusta and I rode in her carriage with her, and she told us all about her last trip to Italy. No one shows as much taste and wit in description as Lady Sweetser. I don’t suppose you have ever heard her relate one of her travels?”
“I have never met Lady Sweetser,” Marianne said. Probably Miss Emily already knew that, but perhaps she had forgotten.
“Of course. We made her acquaintance at Almack’s last year. Are you going to Almack’s, Miss Mowbrey?”
Marianne nearly bit her lip in frustration. Aunt Harriet had been unable to acquire tickets to Almack’s Assembly. “No.”
“Whyever not? It’s exactly the place to meet fine gentlemen and ladies.” Miss Emily leaned in, and her voice softened almost into a whisper. “Some call it a marriage market, but of course you never need mind that, Miss Mowbrey. No one will think you are looking for a husband if you go.” She smiled, and although Marianne thought the smile was meant to be sweet, she felt an odd lurching sensation in her gut. It sounded almost as if Miss Emily was suggesting no one would think Marianne was husband-hunting because she was already too old.
You must not think the worst of people, she scolded herself. Miss Emily and her sister had been her only friends since her arrival in London, and it was unjust to imagine they were slighting her all the time.
“Emily, will you not play Speculation with us?” Martha Brophy interrupted their tête-à-tête with her loud Irish accent and a grin. She waved a pack of cards at her cousin—or cousin’s daughter, or whatever convoluted relationship Emily had described. Marianne could not remember, but she liked how Miss Brophy’s green eyes crinkled up when she grinned. Freckles dotting the area around her eyes drew up and overlapped in the crinkles, like raindrops pooling together into puddles. “Oops, I mean Miss Mowbrey, too. Anybody, really. Does anybody want to play Speculation with us?” she called out to the other ladies in the room.
Disgust crossed Aunt Harriet’s face before she turned back to the chess game she was playing with Aunt Cartwright. Miss Stokes gave a loud sigh from where she sat on the sofa—presumably, she was the ‘us’ Miss Brophy was referring to. Lady Angela glanced up at the Irish girl but said nothing.
“I suppose I could play, a little,” Miss Emily said, “if it means you will stop shouting at the room, Martha.” She walked over to her sister, who lounged in listless expectation of a dull game, and sat bolt upright next to her. She patted her bun, as if to comfort herself with the fact that she did not have bright red hair like her cousin.
“What about you?” Miss Brophy asked Marianne. She gestured in what was intended to be a gentle welcome, but her figure did not make any such movement appear genteel. She had a stocky body not very well hidden by her cheap muslin dress, and her arms possessed the same restiveness as Miss Emily’s—only less controlled. The gesture wound up looking more like Miss Brophy was attempting to drive a wayward pig than encourage a shy maiden. Marianne could not help smiling.
“I do not know the game, but I will watch, Miss Brophy,” Marianne offered, following her to a seat near the sofa.
Miss Brophy giggled. “Call me Martha, and my cousins will think I must have behaved like a genteel young lady pretty well—to cozen somebody like yourself into counting the likes of me a friend.”
“Are you so wild, then?” Marianne asked, her smile broadening.
“I never thought so, but my cousins say I am, so what’s there to do? I wish I was still with my sister.” The last sentence was whispered, as Martha seated herself near her cousins and began the game.
Martha did behave much as the Stokeses described: laughing noisily, talking rapidly, and making no effort to hide her Irish origin. Marianne’s reckless brother Harry would have called her a fine, romping girl. Marianne’s prim brother Edward would have called her a tiresome hoyden. Perhaps both were a little true. Marianne tried to sympathise with the Stokeses—surely so much chatter would indeed become wearing day after day—but she could not help liking Martha and her liveliness.
I suppose she would not really do for a friend of a heroine, she thought, a little sadly. Martha was not silly or poor enough to play the role of a buffoonish servant girl in the tales, nor was she refined and well-educated enough to play the role of the bosom friend of the main character. She was simply herself, and Marianne had trouble categorising her into her much-loved novels.
After a few games, the gentlemen entered. Miss Stokes sat up straighter on the sofa, and Miss Emily’s eyes sidled from the game to Captain Pulteney without turning her head. Mr Glass and Uncle Cartwright went to the fireside to warm themselves and c
hat about a patient, while the captain and Mr Lowes attended the ladies. Mr Hearn threw himself in a wingback chair as far from the fire and company as he could get.
“Speculation!” Captain Pulteney said, as soon as he had leisure to sit next to Marianne. “You must work me in. Lowes, you must play as well. Get Hearn over here.”
“Oh, Hearn will not play. He is saving his lucky cards for another game.” A mysterious smile played over Mr Lowes’s lips. He glanced back at Mr Hearn, who stared at him almost with hatred. Marianne dropped her gaze from the man quickly.
“Never mind, then. Will you assist me, Miss Mowbrey?” Captain Pulteney’s eyes met hers and shared a warmth that spread all over her body. She nodded, wishing she could think of something witty to say. Looking over the captain’s shoulder, she could enjoy the card game without actually playing. Sometimes she stretched out a hand to gesture at a particular card, and Captain Pulteney’s gaze always travelled slowly up her arm, admiring her body until he reached her eyes and smiled. The manoeuvre made Marianne’s heart pound.
A few rounds of the game—and Captain Pulteney’s admiring gaze—soon brought Miss Emily to a state of irritation. “Really, Miss Mowbrey,” she said, her tone sharp, “if you are not going to play, you had much better shove back from the table. I am quite squeezed.” She did look a little squashed, since Martha, her neighbour, was a little too free with her arms. Marianne repressed a sigh and rose from her seat. Although Captain Pulteney threw a commiserating glance at her, he settled in closer to the table and began teasing Miss Stokes about her gameplay.
Her aunts were still playing chess. Aunt Cartwright moved her chess pieces with subtle motions, almost as if an errant breeze had stirred them, while Aunt Harriet’s pawns clacked down on the table with authority. Mr Glass and Uncle Cartwright continued their chat at the fireside. The cracks and snaps of the blaze covered the sound of their conversation, but Mr Glass looked content and comfortable for once. Marianne decided not to disturb them.
Flirtation & Folly Page 7