“That’s a fact, for so I did!” said Mrs Floore. “Though whether your ladyship would condescend to speak to me was more than I could tell! Not but what I’ve been watching you close, and for all you’re so tall and high-stepping, my lady, you’ve a friendly way with you, and you don’t look to me to be so haughty you hold your nose up at ordinary folk!”
“Indeed, I hope not!” said Serena, laughing.
Mrs Floore poked a finger into the ribs of a mild-looking man seated in a chair beside her, and said: “I don’t know where your wits have gone a-begging, Tom Ramford! Get up and offer your place to Lady Serena, man!”
In great confusion, Mr Ramford hastily obeyed this sharp command. His apologies and protestations were cut short, Mrs Floore saying kindly, but with decision: “There, that’ll do! You take yourself off now!”
“Poor man!” said Serena, as she seated herself. “You are very severe, ma’am! Pray, how do you come to know my name?”
“Lord, my dear, everyone knows who you are! I’ll wager you don’t know who I am, though!”
“You would lose, ma’am. You are Mrs Floore, a resident, I believe, of Bath,” Serena retorted.
The old lady chuckled richly, all her chins quivering. “Ay, so I am, and I’ll be bound you know it because you asked someone who the deuce that old fright could be, dressed in a gown with panniers!”
“I did ask who you might be, but I did not so describe you!” instantly responded Serena.
“Lord, I wouldn’t blame you! I’d look a worse fright if I was to stuff myself into one of these newfangled gowns you all wear nowadays, with a waist under my armpits and a skirt as straight as a candle! All very well for you, my lady, with the lovely slim figure you have, but I’ll tell you what I’d look like, and that’s a sack of meal, with a string tied round it! Ay, that makes you laugh, and I see that it’s quite true about your eyelids, though I thought it a piece of girl’s nonsense when I was told about it: they do smile!”
“Good God, who can have told you anything so ridiculous, ma’am?” demanded Serena, colouring faintly.
“Ah, that’s just it!” said Mrs Floore. “I daresay you’ve been wondering what made me wishful to become acquainted with you. Well, I’ve got a granddaughter that thinks the world of your ladyship, and by all accounts you’ve been mighty kind to her.”
“A granddaughter?” Serena repeated, stiffening suddenly in her chair. “You cannot mean that you are—But, no! Surely Lady Lale—the person who springs to my mind—was a Miss Sebden?”
“So she was,” agreed Mrs Floore affably. “Sebden was my first, and Sukey’s papa. I’ve had two good husbands, and buried ’em both, which is more than Sukey can boast of, for all the airs she gives herself!”
“Good gracious!” Serena exclaimed, wishing with all her heart that Rotherham could have been present, to share (as he certainly would) her own enjoyment. “Well, then, I am very happy to know you, Mrs Floore, for I have a sincere regard for little Emily Laleham. She has often taken pity on our dullness this winter, you know. We—Lady Spenborough and I—missed her sadly when she went to London.”
Mrs Floore looked gratified, but said: “That’s just your kindness, my lady, that makes you say so. I don’t deny I’m uncommonly partial to Emma, but I ain’t a fool, and I can see who it was that took pity, even if Emma hadn’t talked so much about you I was in a fair way to hating the sound of your name! Sukey—for Sukey she’s always been to me, and always will be, let her say what she likes!—sent her to spend the New Year with me, and it was Lady Serena this, and Lady Serena that till I’d very likely have had a fit of the vapours, if I’d been a fine lady, which I thank God I’m not, nor ever could be!”
“What an infliction!” Serena said, smiling. “I am astonished you should have wished to become acquainted with me, ma’am! I think, you know, that when she was only a child Emily thought me a very dashing female, because I was used to hunt with my father, and do all manner of things which seemed very romantical to her! I hope she may be wiser now that she knows me better. I fear I’m no model for a young female to copy.”
“Well, that, begging your pardon, is where you’re out, my dear!” said Mrs Floore shrewdly. “You’ve done Emma a great deal of good, and I don’t scruple to tell you so! She’s a good little soul, and as pretty as she can stare, but she hasn’t a ha’porth of common sense, and between the pair of them, Sukey, and that piece of walking gentility which calls herself a governess and looks to me more like a dried herring in petticoats, were in a fair way to ruining the poor child! But Emma, admiring your ladyship like she did, had the wit to see the difference between your manners and the ones her ma and that Miss Prawle was trying to teach her! Prawle! I’d Prawle her! “Grandma,” Emma said to me, “Lady Serena is always quite unaffected, and she is as civil to her servants as to Dukes and Marquises and all, and I mean to behave exactly like her, because she came over with the Conqueror, and is a great lady!” Which,” concluded Mrs Floore, “I can see for myself, though what this Conqueror has to say to anything I’m sure I don’t know!”
“Oh, no! Nor anyone else!” uttered Serena, quite convulsed.
“I promise you, I took no account of him,” said Mrs Floore. “The Quality have their ways, and we have ours, and what may be all very well for high-born ladies don’t do for the parson’s daughter, as you may say. All I know is that Emma will do better to copy the manners of an Earl’s daughter than her ma’s, and so I told her!”
Serena could only say: “Indeed, she need copy no one’s manners, ma’am! Her own are very pleasing, and unaffected.”
“Well, to be sure, I think so,” said Mrs Floore, beaming upon her, “but I’m no judge, though I did marry a gentleman! Oh, yes! Mr Sebden was quite above my touch, and married me in the teeth of his grand relations, as you may say. You might not think it to look at me now, but I was very much admired when I was a girl. Dear me, yes! Such suitors as I had! Only I took a fancy to poor George, and though my Pa didn’t like the match above half, George being too idle and gentlemanly for his taste, he never could deny me anything I’d set my heart on, and so we were married, and very happily, too. Of course, his family pretty well cast him off, but he didn’t care a button for that, nor for turning me into a grand lady. Mind you, when Pa died, and left his whole fortune to me, the Sebdens began to pay me a lot of civilities, which was only to be expected, and which I was glad of, on account of Sukey. Yes, I thought nothing was too good for my Sukey, so pretty as she was, and with her Pa’s genteel ways and all! Ah, well! I often think now that her brother wouldn’t have grown up to despise his ma, however much money had been spent on sending him to a fashionable school!”
A gusty sigh prompted Serena to say: “Indeed, I didn’t know you had had a son that died! I am so sorry!”
“Well, I didn’t, not exactly,” said Mrs Floore. “Not but what I sometimes feel it just as much as if he had died, for I’m sure he’d have been a good, affectionate boy. The thing was I always longed for a son, but the Lord never blessed us with more than the one child. No. There was only Sukey, and everything that money could buy she had. She went to a grand school in London, and made all manner of fine friends there, I warrant you! So, when poor George died, and the Sebdens offered to bring Sukey out, I let them do it, and the next thing I knew was she was engaged to marry Sir Walter Laleham. Between you and me, my lady, he never seemed to me any great thing, though I’m bound to say I didn’t know then what he was going to cost me, first and last! Not that I grudge it, because this I will say: he may be a gamester and he may drink a deal too much, but he ain’t ashamed of his ma-in-law, and if it weren’t for Sukey I might go to his house, and welcome!”
Staggered by these extremely frank confidences, Serena could think of nothing better to say than: “I believe Sir Walter is generally very well liked. My father and he were at Eton together, and afterwards at Oxford.”
“Ay, were they so? Oh, well, it’s a fine thing for a man to be of the first rank, but it’s
a better thing to have a bit of sense, if you’ll pardon my saying so! And what with offering for Sukey, who, he might ha’ known, would rule the roost, even if he’d been a Duke, and never having the wit to back the right horse, he’s my notion of a silly noddy! But, there! I shouldn’t be saying so, and no more I would have, only that there’s something about your ladyship I like, besides knowing you was kind to Emma. What’s more, says I to myself, if you’ve been living in the same place as Sukey it’s not likely I could tell you anything you didn’t know about her, because it’s my belief those airs of hers wouldn’t deceive a new-born baby! Now, would they?”
“I assure you, ma’am. Lady Laleham is—is everywhere received!”
“I know that well enough, my dear, and many’s the time I’ve enjoyed a laugh over it. For though I don’t deny it was marrying Sir Walter that took her into the first circles, it’s me that keeps her there!”
Meeting frankness with frankness, Serena said: “I don’t doubt it, ma’am. Even had I not guessed as much from things Emily has said, it is common knowledge that Sir Walter—as the saying goes—married money.”
Mrs Floore chuckled. “I’ll go bail it is! Ah, well! If it weren’t for the silly fellow getting knocked into horsenails so often, and him and Sukey not daring to provoke me for fear I might leave my fortune away from them, let alone providing for Emma’s coming-out, I daresay I should never see anything of either of ’em, nor my grandchildren neither, so maybe its all for the best. It suited Sukey very well when I married Ned Floore, because who’s to know I’m her ma, unless I tell ’em, which in the general way I don’t? What’s more, Floore was a very warm man, with never a chick nor child of his own, and every penny he had he left to me, and no strings tied to ’em! So whenever I feel low I tell Sukey I’ve taken a fancy to pay her a visit in her fine London house. It’s as good as a play to see how many excuses she’ll make up to put me off, never dreaming that I do it only to tease her! I never had any taste for grand company myself, but Sukey has, and you can say that’s my doing, for having sent her to a smart school. So she needn’t be afraid! I can’t help laughing at her, but I’ve got no notion of embarrassing her: no, nor Emma either!”
“I am very sure, ma’am, that Emma at least you could not embarrass. She speaks of you with so much affection!”
“Bless her heart!” said Mrs Floore. “All the same, my lady, it wouldn’t do her a bit of good if I was to go around telling everyone I’m her grandma, so I beg you won’t mention it. I’ve been letting my tongue run away with me, like I shouldn’t, but you’re one of those that can be trusted, that’s certain!”
“Thank you! If you wish it, I will not mention the relationship to anyone but Lady Spenborough, and her you may also trust.”
“Poor young thing!” remarked Mrs Floore. “Such a sweet face as she has! It quite goes to my heart to see her in her weeds, and she no more than a baby. There! The General is taking his leave of her, and she’ll be looking to see what’s become of you. You’d best go, my lady, for I daresay she wouldn’t think it a proper thing for you to be sitting chatting to me.”
“Not at all,” said Serena calmly, making a sign to Fanny. “If you will allow me, I should like to make you known to her, ma’am.” She smiled at Fanny, as she came up, and said: “Fanny, I wish to introduce Mrs Floore to you, who is Emily’s grandmama.”
Fanny, however astonished she might be, was far too well-bred to betray any other emotions than civil complaisance. She bowed, and held out her hand, which, after heaving herself on to her feet, Mrs Floore shook with great heartiness, saying that she was honoured, and only wished Sukey could see her.
“Which, however, it’s just as well she can’t. And if ever you should find yourselves in Beaufort Square, that’s where I live, and a warm welcome you’d have from me—and no offence taken if you don’t choose to come!”
“Thank you, we should like very much to visit you,” replied Serena.
“So kind!” murmured Fanny.
Mrs Floore beamed all over her face. “Then I’ll tell you what you should do, my dears: just you send your footman round to tell me you mean to pay me a call, and if it should happen that there’s company with me I’ll send ’em packing, because for one thing it wouldn’t be seemly for you to be going to parties, and for another my friends ain’t just in your style, any more than I am myself, the only difference between us being that I shan’t holler at you across the street, or go prating about you all over Bath, which one or two I know might!”
With these reassuring words, she shook hands again, blessed Serena’s lovely face, and waddled away.
“Serena!” breathed Fanny. “What an extraordinary creature!”
“Yes, but quite delightful, I promise you!”
“But, Serena, she is dreadfully vulgar! You cannot really mean to visit her!”
“Certainly I mean to, and I shall think very poorly of you if you don’t accompany me!”
“But, dearest, do you—do you think your papa would have permitted it?” Fanny ventured to say.
That made Serena laugh. “My dear Fanny, you know very well Papa never interfered with me, or thought himself too grand to rub shoulders with the rest of the world!”
“Oh, no, no, I never meant—only I can’t help feeling that everyone would say I ought not to let you become acquainted with vulgar persons, and in particular your Aunt Theresa, though how she thinks I can prevent you from doing exactly as you choose when she could not, I’m sure I don’t know!” said Fanny despairingly.
7
The call was paid, though without the suggested prelude; and the welcome accorded to the ladies was so good-natured and unaffected that Fanny was brought to acknowledge that however vulgar Mrs Floore might be she had a great deal of drollery, and was certainly no toad-eater. She declined a civil invitation to return the visit, saying, with paralysing candour, that it was one thing for their ladyships to visit in Beaufort Square whenever they felt so inclined, and quite another for them to be entertaining her in Laura Place, and very likely making all their acquaintance wonder what kind of company they had got into.
Since this was very much what Fanny had been thinking she instantly turned scarlet, and stammered an inarticulate protest, which made her hostess tell her very kindly that there was no need for her to flush up, because facts were facts, and no getting round them, and in any event she was grown so stout that it was as much as she cared to do to walk to the Pump Room and back. “And as for calling a chair, I give you my word I never do so without I expect the poor fellows carrying me to drop down dead between the shafts, which would be a very disconcerting thing to happen,” she added.
Serena laughed. “Very well, ma’am, it shall be as you wish! But pray believe we should be happy to see you in Laura Place!”
This won her a glance of decided approval from their fellow-guest, a gentlemanly-looking young man of some thirty years of age, who had been sitting with Mrs Floore when they were announced. It was to be inferred, since he had not been sent packing, that Mrs Floore considered him worthy to meet her distinguished visitors. She introduced him as Ned Goring, the son of her late husband’s business partner, who had ridden over from Bristol to pay his respects to her; and it soon transpired that the redoubtable old lady had inherited, besides two fortunes, considerable interest in her father’s soap factory, and her husband’s shipyard. Young Mr Goring, a junior partner in the latter, evidently regarded her with respect and affection; and when, in the course of conversation with him, Serena said something about her liking Mrs Floore so much, he replied in his blunt way: “Everyone must who knows her, I think. I never knew anyone with a kinder heart, or a sounder understanding.”
She warmed to him, knowing the world well enough to realize how many men in his position, having achieved through education a greater gentility than was aspired to by their fathers, would have found it necessary to have excused a friendship with one so frankly vulgar as Mrs Floore. That lady being fully occupied with Fanny, Serena
took pains to draw Mr Goring out. She very soon discovered that he had been educated at Rugby and at Cambridge, and liked him the better when he replied, in answer to an inquiry: “Yes, I am pretty well acquainted with George Alplington, but since I entered my father’s business our ways have lain apart. How does he go on? He is an excellent fellow!”
“Very expensively!”
He laughed. “Ah, I was used to tell him he would end up a Bond Street beau! Then, of course, he would make some opprobrious mention of tar, that being the only commodity to be used in my trade which he knew of, and it was a chance if either of us emerged from the argument without a black eye!”
At this point, Fanny rose to take leave, and the party broke up, Serena shaking hands with her new acquaintance, and expressing the friendly hope that they might meet again. As she walked back to Laura Place beside Fanny, she observed: “I liked that young man, did not you? There was something particularly pleasing about his manners, which I thought very easy and frank. He has an air of honest manliness, too, which, in these days of fribbles and counter-coxcombs, I own I find refreshing!”
A new terror reared itself in Fanny’s head; the weekly letter to Mama was painstakingly inscribed, and contained no reference to Beaufort Square.
However, nothing more was heard of Mr Goring. Serena’s friendship with Mrs Floore prospered, but in a mild way that resolved itself into an occasional call, and frequent meetings in the Pump Room, when sometimes conversation was exchanged, and sometimes no more than cordial greetings. The next occurrence to enliven the routine of Bath life was an unexpected visit from Rotherham. Fanny and Serena, coming in one sunny afternoon in April, after walking for an hour in the Sydney Gardens, were greeted with the intelligence that his lordship had been awaiting them in the drawing-room for some twenty minutes or more. Fanny went to take off her bonnet and pelisse, but Serena chose to go immediately to the drawing-room, and entered it, saying: “Well! This is a surprise! What brings you to Bath, Rotherham?”
Bath Tangle Page 9