Miss Darcy's Diversions

by Ronald McGowan

  What the old Parade might have been is no easy matter to tell, but in its present state, and in this improving age, it has little to boast of in respect to elegance, or even cleanliness, and in rainy weather it is a mere swamp; the greatest part of it lies between a noisy stable-yard, well furnished with manure, and the common sewer of the contiguous market-place, as well as all the lower part of the old town, which frequently yield up the most ungrateful exhalations and unsavoury smells to those who choose to regale themselves in this delicious neighbourhood.”

  Cecil-square he allowed to be well built; as are the houses in Church field; but he castigated both locations as turning “their backs to the sea, the sight of which one would suppose to be one of the principal attractions which bring summer-visitors to this place.”

  The narrow passage, leading from High-street to Cecil-square, and the Assembly-rooms, which I found to be a useful short cut and charmingly picturesque he characterises as “dangerous both to foot-passengers and to those in carriages, and serious accidents have often happened there.

  Darling Ethalia had assured me that all these defects had since been put right, but it was with no high expectations that I followed her up from the harbour.

  I was agreeably surprised, however. It cannot be denied that the most important amenities of a resort town, after the pump room and bathing rooms, are first the Assembly Rooms, second the libraries, and third the theatres. Margate, I was relieved to see, was not wanting in any of these facilities.

  We walked first along the new stone jetty which leads to the Parade, both of which I found to be delightful places for walking, with views of both sea and town, and gentle breezes coming in from the Channel, or, rather, the North Sea, strange as that may seem, for the Channel does not begin until Dover.

  The Parade itself was perfectly clean and tidy, with many elegantly dressed persons making use of it to take the air. I noticed no particularly ‘ungrateful exhalations’, but we did turn off quite soon to go to Were’s Library.

  Mrs Younge had been quite effusive in her praise of this establishment, holding it up as far superior to the much more convenient library we had passed on Cecil Square itself on our way out. When we got there, however, we found that the establishment, while still open for business, was now under new management, a sign above the door now proclaiming it to be Bettison’s. It certainly looked elegant enough, in that odd seaside style, with verandas and domes, for which the Prince Regent may take so much credit.

  “Oh!” said Mrs Younge. “Mr Were must have retired, or sold out. What a pity. He was always most attentive. Still, we are here now, and may as well go in, since Garner’s and Pallister’s are so decidedly inferior.

  We entered, therefore, and found an excellent shop and library, forming together a square of some forty feet, of a proportional height, with a spacious dome in the front department, giving light and ornament to the whole structure; from the centre of which is suspended a beautiful glass chandelier. The shop contained an excellent assortment of stationery, jewellery, cutlery, hardware, silver and plated goods, &c. Nearly across the centre of the room was a range of Corinthian columns, which not only served to support the roof, but seemed designed to separate the shop from the library. On the cornice of each of the book-cases were busts of the poets. The side-walls and ceiling were most richly ornamented with figures and flowers; as was the chimney-piece with the nine muses. Over the fire-place there was a fine reproduction of Minerva; and in the different compartments there were other figures well executed.

  The library itself contains a choice selection of several thousand volumes, the reading of which, together with the privilege of walking the room, the use of newspapers and other periodical publications, are on very reasonable terms. We closed with those terms immediately, especially when we heard that assemblies were also held there in the evenings.

  Mr Bettison seemed very friendly and courteous, and assured us that –

  “The assemblage at the Libraries during the season, especially in the evening, is very grand; and must be peculiarly pleasing to a contemplative mind, who beholds in it an association of all orders and degrees, where every idea of precedency appears to be thrown aside.”

  I was not so terribly convinced that I liked such a very democratic idea myself, and I was sure that Fitzwilliam would detest such proceedings.

  It must be admitted, however, that the disadvantage of any sort of public assembly is the danger of being obliged to mix with the public, especially at a watering places where all classes and conditions congregate, and one’s rank cannot easily be perceived.

  This was even more apparent at our next port of call, the Assembly Rooms.

  In fact, we had intended to call at the Theatre Royal next, since it was just across the square from the library, but found to our disappointment that it was all closed and shuttered, although a bill upon the door promised its reopening soon with a performance in aid of the Royal Sea Bathing Hospital.

  “Oh dear!” was my cicerone’s reaction. “How everything has changed? Are the Assembly Rooms still open, I wonder?”

  They were, but not where Mrs Younge had left them. We had walked the entire length of the Parade and failed to discover the establishment my trusty guide recollected before we gave up and came upon them quite by chance on the way back to our lodgings.

  How we had failed to remark upon them before, I have no idea, since they were on Cecil Square itself, on the corner with Cecil Street, and, indeed, Mrs Younge had a view of them from her bedroom window.

  The building itself was such as should not have escaped notice had we not been intent on other things, the largest on the square, with a sort of covered colonnade at the front, which would serve very well for a sheltered walk during wet weather.

  A bill beside the door proclaimed that “Balls, during the season, are twice a week, with public tea drinking every Thursday : a band of music attends and plays, every day Sundays and Wednesdays excepted, from twelve till one in the assembly room, for the entertainment of the subscribers.”

  We entered, signed the book, and paid our subscriptions, which at half a guinea were surprisingly reasonable.

  Mrs Younge made quite sure I was aware of this.

  “We are doing very well, my dear. In Bath the subscription is fourteen shillings, you know, and in Weymouth they have the nerve to demand a whole guinea.”

  We were introduced to the Master of Ceremonies, who was very minute in showing us around the premises.

  The ground floor was somewhat marred by the accommodation being shared with the Royal Hotel, but behind that was a large room given over to cards and refreshments.

  The ballroom itself was upstairs, rather more than twice the size of Bettison’s, richly decorated with mirrors and busts and painted swags, somewhat after the manner, I imagine of the French King;s palace at Versailles. Light was provided by floor-length windows and five large glass chandeliers.

  Our host was also very minute in pointing out the list of rules posted just inside the doorway.

  These immediately made clear why the initial subscription was so reasonable, since subscribers were also required to pay for admission on three days of the week, albeit at the reduced rate of 6d while non-subscribers would be charged a shilling on Sundays and four shillings on Mondays and Thursdays. Tea, and cards, were also extra, and staying one after two in the morning was charged at sixpence an hour.

  Why anyone should wish to stay so late is questionable, since another rule stated that balls were to “begin at eight o’clock, and finish at twelve precisely, even in the middle of a dance.”

  There were many other rules, mostly to do with attire and conduct, and precedence in the dancing and so on, but I did not attend beyond the first few.

  Having resisted our host’s blandishments to join him in paying a shilling for a sixpenny pot of tea, we finally made our escape, but not before promising to attend the next ball on the following Saturday.

  Meanwhile we continued to sample the
delights of the town. The necessary trial was made of the bathing machines, of which they are inordinately proud, in spite of the way that customers are obliged to wait for them. In fact, the local people claim that the bathing machine was invented in Margate, by a local Quaker, a Mr Beale. The experience, alas, was very little like my childhood memories of South Port, and even less like swimming in the lake at Pemberley.

  The beach at Margate is restricted to a narrow strip of sand between the piers. There can be no question of separate areas for the sexes because of this limitation, and great emphasis is therefore placed on preserving the modesty of the bathers.

  Hoods upon bathing machines reaching down into the sea so that the bather may enter the element unobserved are very well established now, but this was the first time that I had seen them.

  They serve very well for the preservation of modesty, rendering the bather not only unseen by anyone else, but also completely depriving her of any view herself, and also of any opportunity of doing anything much more than jump up and down on the spot while the waves surge about her. This may be very well for invalids prescribed such exercise, but for those engaging in the practice for entertainment, it makes very poor sport. The only consolation is that one does not have to wear the usual scratchy, heavy blanket provided as a bathing gown unless one wishes to exit the hood.

  Mrs Younge positively declined to leave its protective shelter, and was scandalized when I asked for it to be raised, but such tame sport did not suit me and I determined to swim around the bay at least, before retiring. I had reckoned without the weight and drag of that accursed blanket, however, and had to give up after a few strokes, fortunately while I was still within my depth.

  I resolved to have my own bathing gown made, of finest white lawn, as light as might be found, before making a second attempt, and gave orders at a dressmakers on the way back to Cecil Square.

  This did not answer, however, for, although for the purpose of swimming it proved quite satisfactory, I discovered, on mounting the steps back to the bathing machine, that the water had rendered the fine cotton almost entirely transparent, and I had the pleasure of scandalizing Mrs Younge once more.

  Bathing was banned after that, and although I could have insisted, and taken Hannah with me instead of my recalcitrant official companion, where would have been the fun in that? Besides, my second excursion had revealed the other great disadvantage of the beach at Margate. The piers which shelter it also form the harbour, so that when the tide is in, the bather must share the space with all the comings and goings of the ships from London and all along the east coast. The intrepid swimmer may avoid the boats going to and fro, but it is almost impossible to avoid the filth and ordure they constantly throw overboard. The locals, and habitués seem oblivious to all this, but I fear that I have not the stomach to share my bathing space with floating excrement.

  The other attractions of the town were quite adequate, however, for a time, and, all in all, I was quite content with our choice of watering place, until the important evening came that was to usher us into the ball at the Assembly Rooms.

  My hair was cut and dressed by the best hand, my clothes put on with care, and both Mrs. Younge and my maid declared I looked quite as I should do. With such encouragement, I hoped to make a tolerable entrée into Margate society.

  As for admiration, it was always very welcome when it came, but I did not depend on it.

  Fond, foolish hope!

  In one respect Mrs Younge was admirably fitted to introduce a young lady into public, being as fond of going everywhere and seeing everything herself as any young lady could be. Dress was her passion. She had a most harmless delight in being fine.

  On this occasion she was so long in dressing that we did not enter the ballroom till late. The season was full, the room crowded, and we were obliged to squeeze in as well as we could, and though by unwearied diligence we gained even the top of the room, their situation was just the same; we saw nothing of the dancers but the high feathers of some of the ladies.

  Still we moved on--something better was yet in view; and by a continued exertion of strength and ingenuity we found ourselves at last in the passage behind the highest bench. Here there was something less of crowd than below; and hence we had a comprehensive view of all the company beneath us, and of all the dangers of our late passage through them. It was a splendid enough sight, and I began, for the first time that evening, to feel myself at a ball: I positively longed to dance, but we had not an acquaintance in the room.

  Mrs. Younge did all that she could do in such a case by saying very placidly, every now and then, "I wish you could dance, my dear--I wish you could get a partner."

  For some time I felt obliged to her for these wishes; but they were repeated so often, and proved so totally ineffectual, that I grew tired at last, and would thank her no more.

  How had the mighty fallen! I, who had so recently been the toast of London, was now spend my first night at the Rooms in Margate without a single dancing partner. There can be no better illustration of the fickleness of reputation, and of its local nature.

  I did not see it that way at the time, of course, and when the second night was no better I began to wonder about the reliability of my companion, and her memories of a town supposedly so familiar to her.

  Chapter Nineteen :New Friends and Old Faces

  We had already been an entire week in Margate, and still were constrained to lament to each other our complete lack of acquaintance there. For myself I should not have minded so much. There was so much else to see and do that I found I could quite easily do without much in the way of conversation.

  Mrs Younge, unfortunately, was one of those people who must be talking all the time. She had, to do her justice, nothing to say, but she said it at great length, continually and repeatedly. Even when she paused to draw breath, the best one could hope for was da capo al punto. It was never al fine, for there was never an end.

  In the absence of anyone else, it was I who was doomed to endure her addresses, and this constant stream of repeated statements of the obvious was beginning to reach the point where I could no longer turn my mind elsewhere, but must explode against it or burst.

  Just at this juncture, my companion found herself addressed in the street one morning by a very personable young man of gentlemanly appearance and bearing.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, with just the air of slight diffidence appropriate to the situation, “but are you not Mrs Younge? Do you not remember me, ma’am? We met at the Berties’, last Easter.”

  “Of course I remember you, sir, in fact I preserve the fondest recollection of that time. How fortunate to meet like this! But let me introduce you, that we may all be on the correct footing. Miss Darcy, may I present my dear old friend, Mr Wick…”

  “..Low,” continued the young man, interrupting Mrs Younge like a very dear old friend indeed. “George Wicklow at your service ma’am.”

  “How very opportune that we should meet like this, Mr Wicklow,” said Mrs Younge. Was it my imagination, or did she stumble slightly over the name? “I was just this very minute lamenting to Miss Darcy that we have no acquaintance here in Margate, and how inconvenient it is to be so situated.”

  “I agree with you whole-heartedly, my dear Mrs Younge, for I have very little in the way of that sort of thing myself, but that little it would be my very great pleasure to share with you and your charming young friend, if you can steel yourselves to appearing in public with such an undeserving fellow as I am.”

  “I know you far too well, Mr Wicklow, to believe that you really consider yourself undeserving, and, in any case, if we all had our desserts, where should we be?”

  “I should be delighted to take your arm as far as the library, Mr Wicklow, and I am sure Miss Darcy would make no objection to taking the other. And while we walk, you may recount to us all that we have been missing of the social life of Margate.”

  Placed as we were, it was inevitable that the newcomer and I sh
ould engage in conversation, especially as Mrs Younge seemed more intent upon the shop windows than on anything that either of her companions might say. I must admit I thought it rather remiss of her, having practically commandeered this young man’s escort in the first place, to be so careless of it when acquired, and felt myself bound to make up for her neglect.

  We very soon exhausted the weather, the delights of sea bathing, the crowds and the theatre programmes. As far as I knew, we possessed no mutual acquaintances apart from Mrs Younge, and I could therefore not make use of any of them as a subject. Eventually, therefore, for want of anything better to say, I found myself enquiring into his origins.

  “Is not Wicklow, an Irish name?” I asked, “and are you then an Irish gentleman, Mr Wicklow?”

  He laughed.

  “I dare say the Wicklows must have come from Ireland at one time, but I have never even seen its shores, and have no great desire to do so. As for your second question, Miss Darcy, a man’s forebears my have been born in a stable, but I do not believe that makes him a horse.”

  It was my turn to laugh, and I found myself warming to this new acquaintance, especially after he made such a point of requesting the first two dances I might have available for the assembly that evening.

  “I hardly dare to hope that your card might still have room for such a wretch as me,” he said. “The young men of Margate must be queuing onto the street to engage such a lovely and charming partner.”

  “The young men of Margate are doing no such thing. In fact, I do not believe I have spoken to one since we arrived. It is quite true that we have no acquaintance here, you see.”

  “My dear Miss Darcy, pray do not mock me so. The situation you describe is perfectly incredible! Are the young men of Margate really so blind, so insensible to all the merits of beauty and intelligence, of spirit and of sensibility? Have they no eyes, no ears?”

  “I believe they are much the same as other young men, sir, much given to consulting their own ease and convenience, and it is much easier and convenient for them to associate with old friends than to make new.”