by Cecily Ross
Perhaps Anna Laura will accompany me when I next go up to London—although her cough has returned, and Mrs. Harral is rather strict about her stepdaughter’s comings and goings. Still, I am dying to show her Westminster Abbey, where cousin Rebecca took me on my last visit. A Gothic miracle.
Agnes, Kate and I have been asked to dine with the Harrals this evening as Mr. Harral says he has an important announcement.
JUNE 16, 1827
The Harrals are moving to London. Mr. Harral is to become editor of a new magazine called La Belle Assemblée, which he described to us over an excellent dinner of roast lamb as a “fashionable journal devoted to literature and the royal court.” This is sad news for Suffolk society but a tremendous opportunity for Mr. Harral. He pushed his chair back and stood, glass of wine in hand, and made a modest little speech, trying, without success, to conceal his immense satisfaction at the appointment. Mrs. Harral was not at the table. Anna Laura says her stepmother prefers to take most of her meals in her room, claiming the excitement affects her nerves. But I am certain she cannot bear the presence of my sisters and me. Mr. Harral appears not to notice. He has promised there will be ample opportunity for all of us to publish our poems and stories within his magazine’s pages. He particularly singled out Agnes as a potential contributor because of her social connections and her growing interest in the aristocracy.
I am beginning to feel as though my life, my real life, has finally begun.
We returned home to find Mama sitting up and reading aloud to Jane and Sarah. At long last: a letter from Tom. We have heard nothing from our little brother in nearly six months, not since his ship, the Helena, became becalmed off Gibraltar en route to the Azores. Mama has been frantic with worry, but thank God, all is well. He was only fifteen when he left to join the Merchant Marine. It is hard to believe that the baby of the family is now a man of twenty. Of Sam and his adventures in the wilds of Upper Canada, there is much news in the monthly letters he sends, extolling the wonders of pioneer life. In the two years since he sailed for the New World, my former comrade in mischief has married and become a widower in a tragically short space of time. And while we are saddened to realize we will never meet poor Emma, his late wife, the widowed Sam is now father to a little son, Mama’s first grandchild. I wonder if we shall ever meet him, or see either of our brothers again.
JULY 25, 1827 (NEWMAN STREET, LONDON)
I have been keeping company with a certain Mr. William Mingay, whom I met at Cheesman’s, where I have been staying since a week ago Tuesday. The visit with my cousin has been an adventure, I must say. Dressed in his signature uniform of paint-splattered smock and felt chapeau, he presides over a perpetual clutter of books and musical instruments and half-finished paintings with a restless and infectious glee. At his cramped rooms, an atmosphere of benign frivolity prevails, and the premises are frequented by all manner of literary rakes and artists. It is here that I encountered the aforementioned William, a rather handsome poet possessed of an admittedly impetuous nature. Within minutes of being introduced (and under the influence of a generous bowl of claret), he was speaking to me of his undying love.
And so, we have been walking out together. As with all men, I have learned not to take too seriously his fine speeches, but William does have a particular energy and charm that appeals to my vanity. I am not immune to such encomiums coming from so fair a person, and so I am inclined to bask in the light of his admiration while there is still something about me to admire. And as my financial circumstances allow me little hope of marriage, surely a harmless flirtation should be permitted.
Yesterday, we strolled around Bloomsbury for most of the afternoon. We were hardly unchaperoned, as it seemed all of London was out enjoying the fine summer day. The shaded benches of Bedford Square were occupied almost exclusively by young lovers such as ourselves taking advantage of whatever modicum of privacy such a public garden could afford. Romance, like the buzzing of bees in the buddleia blooms, was in the air, and though I was fully aware that I was toying with a young man’s affections (and he with mine), I’m sure we were both carried away by the beauty of the day and our surroundings. Oh, how lovely to be young and admired!
Next week, I move to cousin Rebecca’s to join Kate and Agnes, who are coming up to London from Reydon Hall.
AUGUST 1, 1827 (BEDFORD SQUARE, LONDON)
I know what this is about. This morning, when I took cousin Rebecca her daily breakfast of warm milk and toast, she at first feigned sleep though it was well past nine o’clock. When she finally roused herself, instead of engaging me as she usually does in a lively discussion of the previous evening’s events (one of her sparkling Bedford Square literary soirees), she merely reached a limp hand from beneath the counterpane and dismissed me with a flutter of her fingers.
It is quite apparent that my cousin does not approve of my acquaintance with Mr. Mingay of Claremont Square, the young poet who has expressed an interest in both my person and my poetry. I have been expecting this. Yesterday, when I returned from my walk with William, my sister Agnes drew me aside and, in a stern and parental tone, said that I had “been seen exchanging intimacies” (a little hand holding, a chaste kiss—nothing more, I assure you) with a young man of questionable repute, and that she had reported the matter to our cousin, who then took to her bed in the middle of the afternoon. That evening at the soiree (which I have just described as “sparkling,” though “flat” is perhaps more to the point), one or two of the gentlemen guests paid me more attention than I am sure was necessary, and emboldened by my afternoon adventure and irritated by my sister’s spinsterish disapproval, I allowed myself to be charmed, and though truly I am almost sick of their flattery, the laughter and blushing that ensued enlivened the evening considerably.
Despite the luxurious accommodations at Bedford Square, I am beginning to miss the less constrained atmosphere at Cheesman’s. Here, a pinched air of propriety governs even the most banal daily events. When we visit, my sisters and I are expected to dress for lunch and dinner, a hardship for penniless country girls like ourselves that the wealthy Mrs. Leverton nevertheless insists upon. Cousin Rebecca is constantly coaching us in matters of comportment and etiquette, and while Kate and Agnes accept her attentions with good grace, I chafe at what I consider to be useless affectations. But in an effort to remain in my cousin’s good graces, I deliver a breakfast of hot milk and toast to her rooms each morning I am here. While I greatly enjoyed provoking Agnes, I do regret that I am likely the cause of the coolness with which Rebecca bid me good night, and of this morning’s rejection.
Two of my poems and a brief sketch of rural life will appear in the February 1828 issue of La Belle Assemblée, my first appearance in Mr. Harral’s august publication. I am very excited. Although my meagre earnings will never make me wealthy, when they are combined with my sisters’ efforts, we have at least been able to provide some relief to Mama’s situation, surely all we can ask.
AUGUST 2, 1827
Today when I delivered my cousin’s breakfast, she was ready for me, sitting up amid a cloud of pillows and reading a prayer book. (Although she is a faithful churchgoer, I had not been aware until then that her literary tastes ran in that direction.) When I entered the room and placed the tray on a low table, she put down her book, looked up at me over her spectacles and, sighing with weary condescension, asked me to sit on the edge of the bed.
“My dear Susanna,” she began, “it pains me to have to say this, but your behaviour has caused much consternation in this household.”
At this, I tried to protest, but she placed her hand gently over my mouth to stop my words. “I have not finished. You must hear me out.” She pulled herself up and leaned forward slightly. “You know perfectly well it is not proper for a young woman of your background to draw attention to herself in this way. Those men—”
“But, cousin, they merely wished to discuss my poems and stories. You do not think for a moment I would encourage improper advances.” (I was bei
ng somewhat disingenuous here, for I had felt their eyes upon me almost as keenly as I had felt William’s caresses earlier in the day.)
“Susanna, do not toy with me this way. I am only too aware of your passionate nature. And while I appreciate and indeed celebrate your spirit, you must not misinterpret my sympathy for permission to misbehave. A woman in your situation has nothing but her good name to recommend her. Do not squander your most important asset. Beauty and intelligence are nothing without virtue. Indeed, beauty soon fades and a show of intelligence is not the prerogative of the fairer sex. I agree it is unjust, but there it is. I have consulted with Agnes, and we have agreed that you will return to Reydon Hall and remain in Suffolk until your infatuation with this young man has cooled, and the recent spectacle—”
“Spectacle!” I cried. “But I did nothing more than laugh and accept their—”
“Hush!” She raised her hand. “Until the recent spectacle in my drawing room has receded from memory.”
With that, I was dismissed. I wish I could have told her that I am not a fool, nor was I born yesterday. I do not take Mr. Mingay’s protestations of eternal passion seriously (though I rather hope his admiration for my poetry is genuine).
OCTOBER 23, 1827 (REYDON HALL)
I do miss London, but my rural exile has not been unproductive. I have devoted myself to writing more poems and sketches for La Belle Assemblée. I will also have stories in the Suffolk Chronicle and a London annual called The New Monthly. They are by no means my best work, being overburdened with the sentiment and effusions of valour and romance that are so much in demand these days. Still, they should, God willing, yield a few shillings so Mama can replace her bonnet, which is so tattered and torn that she refuses to leave the house for fear the neighbours will mistake her for a common farmer’s wife.
Agnes continues to curry Rebecca’s favour, rather shamelessly in my opinion, and has been invited to stay for another fortnight. Mama received a letter yesterday from Agnes saying that our dear cousin has offered to finance the publication of another volume of poetry, Worcester Field. She (Agnes) boasted of meeting her hero, Sir Walter Scott, at a recent literary evening. She marched right up to him and introduced herself, and he, the great man, shook hands with her and complimented her on her poems! How bold she is. I should never attain such confidence in a million years.
My current project is a children’s novel, The School Boy’s Friendship, a cautionary tale about a boy who unwittingly associates with criminals. I hope that, like Spartacus, it will rival Kate’s successes in the realm of books for children. Mr. Harral has read my nearly finished draft and pronounced it eminently publishable, though he expressed some reservations about the “dark” nature of the subject matter. It’s true. I do have a fascination for the malevolence that is within us all. Katie finds my interest in such matters “disturbing” and has urged me to “look for goodness and light and to celebrate all God’s miracles” lest I be dragged into the slough of despond by my oppressive imaginings.
Mr. Harral continues to inspire and encourage my sisters and me in our literary ambitions. I admit, though, that I find him rather conservative, a stalwart Anglican and fervent supporter of King George, especially regarding the Catholic question. (“We must keep the papists out of Parliament at all costs,” I overheard him declare to Agnes once.) I do value his opinions and admire the strength of his convictions. But would it be sacrilege to suggest that surely one church is no better than another? I have been reading John Bunyan and I find I am in sympathy with his spiritual turmoil and his struggle to find a simpler way to worship God than through the hierarchical traditions of the Anglican Church. These matters occupy my mind rather more than I would ever have thought possible mere months ago.
Nevertheless, I realize how fortunate we are (in particular Agnes) to enjoy Mr. Harral’s enthusiastic mentorship. Kate has just returned from a visit to London, where she reports she spent a “pleasant afternoon” with Francis Harral. They are not betrothed, but Anna Laura has written from London to say she is certain their union is imminent. When I suggested as much to Agnes this afternoon, she raised her dark eyebrows and muttered, “We shall see.”
As for my own romantic inclinations, Mr. Mingay is completely forgotten. I was nevertheless amused to learn from Eliza that he is reported to have eloped with the daughter of a prominent bishop, and the couple has taken lodgings in Bath. I have assured both her and Agnes that I was never in danger of succumbing to such a fate.
APRIL 5, 1828 (BEDFORD SQUARE)
Francis Harral and my sister Kate are to be married. Kate is keeping her elation in check as it may be some time before the marriage can take place. Francis has plans to become a doctor first, and a medical education is lengthy and expensive. To no one’s surprise, Mrs. Harral is not in favour of the match. However, her husband, Kate says, continues to overrule his wife’s objections. “He says it matters not that we are penniless. The Stricklands are well-established members of the Church and the community. He has given Francis and me his blessing.”
What a joy to see dear Anna Laura again. We met today for the first time since our parting last winter, and how changed she is from the pale, sad thing who waved to me then from the departing carriage. I do believe London life suits her. Her skin glows with well-being, and her person—well, country girl that I am, I never knew she possessed such style. I fussed over her hat with such enthusiasm that she took me straight to her milliner, a tiny shop with a brightly painted front window, tucked away on a narrow street near her family’s new home, and ordered one just like it for me in pale blue; hers is green. We spent the rest of the afternoon walking around Bloomsbury in the sunshine, and Anna Laura chattered on about “the literary life.” She is most keen to introduce me to a Scottish poet called Pringle.
APRIL 6, 1828
I have met the most fascinating individual, and after just one evening spent in his company, I am as a child wandering in the woods who, thinking she has been on the true path, finds instead that she has lost her way and yet stumbles blindly on. Oh, my restless imagination. Oh, my crass and craven soul! To think that I once wasted selfish hours agonizing over the state of my dress and the opinions of frivolous young men when there are such injustices in the world!
Mr. Thomas Pringle of Finsbury and Hampstead Heath is a poet after my own heart, a Scot who recently worked as a newspaper editor in Cape Town, South Africa, from whence he was compelled to leave before his outspoken views on that country’s shameful treatment of its indigenous people, the poor oppressed Negroes, landed him in jail or worse. Here in London, he is secretary of the Anti-Slavery Society, a group I have resolved to join. At dinner last night at the spacious new townhouse in Claremont Square where Mr. Pringle and his wife, Margaret, reside, the table—which included Agnes, Kate and Francis, Anna Laura and me—sat rapt as our host condemned with quiet passion and restrained anger the terrible institution as it is practised in the American colonies and the Indies. His singular mission is to draw attention to the inhumanity of the traffic in human flesh, which, although illegal these past twenty years, continues anyway and will go on until governments such as our own ban slavery in our colonies once and for all. For the Pringles, this cause is more than mere rhetoric. Indeed, they have taken into their household a former slave from the island of Antigua called Mary Prince. I was so overcome with emotion that I asked Mr. Pringle if I might meet the woman whom they call “Black Mary,” and without hesitation, she was summoned from the kitchen. Wearing a simple navy dress with white collar and cuffs, the middle-aged woman answered my questions about her impressions of England with quiet dignity. After she left, Mr. Pringle turned to me and suggested that perhaps the next time I come up to London, I might hear more of Mary Prince’s story.
“I should like that,” I replied.
(La Belle Assemblée has accepted two more of my stories, “The Little Quaker” and “I Will Be My Own Master”!)
APRIL 23, 1828
I have dined twice t
his week with the Pringles at their country house in Hampstead. With no children of their own, they have embraced me as a surrogate daughter, and I admit the attentions of dear “Papa” Pringle fill a void in me that has gaped since the death of my own dear father. Agnes disapproves of many of Mr. Pringle’s views, which she describes as “going against much that we hold dear,” and of the fact that he is a Methodist. But I find his denunciations of “Tory smugness” refreshing. No doubt, it helps that he praises my poems extravagantly. Even so, Papa (I shall call him that from now on) applies a razor-sharp attention to the smallest detail and is teaching me to rid my work of cliché and lazy diction.
“Every word must matter,” he says, “and in poetry, as in life, convention is your enemy.” He is also very well connected and full of advice on how to approach publishers. As well, he asked me last night if I would undertake to transcribe Mary Prince’s story of her life as a slave, with the intention of shaping the woman’s own words into a narrative for publication. I have agreed.
JUNE 12, 1828 (REYDON HALL)
The calibre of Reverend Rouse-Birch’s sermons continues to deteriorate alarmingly, and attendance at St. Margaret’s on Sunday has gone down, it seems to me, in direct proportion to the growing inanity of his weekly message. Only a handful of the still hopeful continue to attend services in search of Christian solace, where little is to be found. Empty pews provide silent censure and are testimony to the shameful neglect of our once-vibrant Anglican parish. May God forgive me for casting aspersions on one of his servants, but at this morning’s service, not only was the Reverend R-B (a nephew of the baronet of Langham, in whose possession our precious church lies) a quarter of an hour late for the nine o’clock mass, his person bore unmistakable evidence of the previous evening’s post-hunt celebrations. In addition to his sour breath and a cassock so hastily donned that one corner remained tucked into his riding boot, the good reverend assaulted us with a sermon on the delights of “huntin’ and fishin’” with nary a single allusion to the peril to which the souls of his parishioners are subject without spiritual comfort. I fear I cannot tolerate the situation much longer. I have made my dissatisfaction known to a recent acquaintance, the Reverend Andrew Ritchie. An old friend of Papa Pringle’s, Mr. Ritchie urges me to consider the Congregational church in Wrentham, where he is pastor to a group of simple farmers and their families seeking spiritual solace in an environment free from cant and hierarchical dogma. Mr. Ritchie has been dropping by Reydon Hall every week, and we have enjoyed many enlightening conversations concerning the nature of faith. I am certain his views on the abuses of the Anglican Church would cause my staunch and proper sister Agnes to turn as purple as the English thistle. How I should like to witness that.