Unbidden, Kitty’s laugh succeeded in escaping her lips in a stifled form as her fellow guest hurried away. Mr. Turner's own mirth broke through, although it was evident that he attempted to resist.
“As the village physician, in practice if not in name, such is my lot on these occasions,” he said, lips forming a good-natured grin. “I have no doubt that such matters were of grave concern to Mr. Harris also in his practice; only he has had the good fortune to escape them by absconding to Brighton.”
His genial expression was greatly enhanced by the bright blue of his eyes, Kitty could not help but notice. She was momentarily without any form of reply; but was saved the trouble of finding one by his speaking again.
"Wordsworth," he said. Resuming their former subject as if no interruption had occurred beforehand. "His verse is a particular favorite of mine. And yours, I should hope, Miss Phillips," he added, his tone perfectly serious although she detected a gleam of merriment in his eyes.
"The lines 'she dwelt among the untrodden ways', sir." she answered. "They are among his best, I think."
The intrusion of Mr. Hooker, however, put an end to the conversation before more could be spoken of the poets.
“Come, come, Miss Phillips,” said the barrister, “we cannot have you standing about when there are places where you might have a seat and be comfortable. Here is a place on the sofa which is close by Mrs. Giles.” He escorted her towards a large horsehair sofa, where she was placed between her sister and a young girl whose bright red hair was poorly dressed in a series of limp curls.
The girl, she was informed, was a niece of Mrs. Servennia’s, who had been sent to the family some months ago. A pale complexion beset by faint freckles across her nose and favoring one cheek more strongly than another, so that her face seemed unbalanced. Beyond that, she had the form and manners of one unnoticed in society.
“And so you are from London, Miss?” The sound of a voice beside her called her attention to her companion, the young red-haired girl.
“I am,” said Kitty. “Are you acquainted with the city, Miss Foster?” she asked, kindly.
“Not me, Miss,” Lucy shook her head. “My mother was, once. She went to a ladies’ finishing school there. Then she and Pa were married in Shropshire; then she died.”
“Ah,” said Kitty, softly. The girl’s face lifted to her own with a look of shy interest.
“Is it ... very grand ... living in London?” she asked. “Your dress is very fine. Miller’s carries only a little silk at a time, unless it just before the Season. So few ladies from Beiberry are in real society, you know.”
For a moment, Kitty’s face dimmed. “It is a very busy place,” she answered. “However, there are many people there who are not as fine as their clothes.” This reply seemed to check Lucy’s curiosity on the subject, as if she interpreted this reply as chastisement.
“Where is your home, Lucy?” asked Kitty, when the girl fell silent. “You are not from here, I understand. Did you reside in Shropshire until recently?”
“No, Miss. I lived with my aunt in Cheshire. She was in the millinery trade and couldn’t keep me any longer.” She spoke this answer simply, as if the incident had not been one which changed her life altogether.
“So you were sent to your aunt in Essex,” ventured Kitty, “and here you shall remain for some time?”
“Until I am grown,” answered Lucy. “Which I am, I suppose, Miss. Then I must take up something to occupy myself in the world.”
She did not say what it would be, so Kitty could only guess.
“Would you tell me something of London’s diversions, Miss?“ the girl asked. “I know you are tired of talking of them, perhaps. But I have never seen even a review, although my uncle once promised to take me to the theater in Bath.”
Kitty smiled. “On that subject, I can enliven you,” she said. “For I have been to many plays and operas–when I was your age.” For it was true that the number had been few in years past; she had scarcely seen the inside of a theater box, nor heard a mezzo soprano who was not performing at a party.
“Then you have seen Mozart’s operas on the stage?” Lucy’s eyes widened. “I heard about one of them from Mrs. Giles. But you’ve seen newer operas, perhaps.”
“I have heard a piece from a new one,” said Kitty, doubtfully. “From... Fra Diavolo. A comic opera from Paris.”
“Was it good, Miss?” Lucy asked. “I don’t suppose you know a bit of it. Something to play or sing.”
“A little of one of its songs,” Kitty admitted. “I should be happy to show you another time. It would not do for here, I think.” Indeed, she did not think her voice capable of singing impromptu in a strange drawing room.
“I can’t play or sing,” the girl answered. “I never had the training.” Her meekness returned with this remark; she seemed no longer interested in conversing, but merely listened to the sound of Mrs. Giles’s lively remarks to her hostess. They were in the midst of discussing the plight of a neighbor, Mrs. Allgood, whose sufferings Mrs. Giles declared to be a great shame.
“Of whom are they speaking?” Kitty asked Lucy. “Is Mrs. Allgood a relation of your aunt?” Even now, the woman was spoken of in such a way to give Kitty the impression of a charitable case dependent upon her neighbors for assistance.
“Mrs. Allgood is no relation to anyone here except the Littlewoods,” said Lucy. “And nobody here should think of them as anyone except country cousins. They are farmers and laborers, you see.”
“She is poor?” asked Kitty. “When I chanced to visit her home, the door was answered by a woman who was not attired as a house servant.”
“That’s old Mrs. Josephs, her companion. Mrs. Allgood has a bit of money, they say, but she’s dreadfully afraid to spend it. And her servants all got old and died or went away. They cannot get anyone else to go to her now, for the house is dreadfully quiet and there’s talk of haunting.”
At length, she spoke to Kitty again, asking in a quieter tone if she might bring a sheet or two of music when she called, for she would like very much to see them even if she couldn’t play. Only her “gentle” cousins would understand them and would no doubt delight in copying any new pieces she might possess.
It was thus that Miss Phillips made her acquaintance with Beiberry Mile. She was introduced, spoken to, spoken about, and subjected to a great many veiled glances of curiosity in between. She wished to say more in response to their polite remarks, but could think of nothing, except that she might have spoken further of Wordsworth, had Mr. Turner asked for her opinion on his other verses.
When Lucy Foster left her side, she stirred herself to listen to Mrs. Jenner‘s fervent explanations of all the citizenry not present at the party. The busy widow’s tongue was the primary source of conversation in Beiberry society, she had begun to realize, punctuated by Mr. Hooker’s wit from time to time in this setting.
“You had better give thought to your practice, Mr. Turner,” he cautioned the surgeon as the young man prepared to leave. “The good ladies of Beiberry fear your solitude more than they do your knife, good sir. You had better marry a sensible, honest girl so that they leave off their fears.”
A smile of embarrassment appeared on the young man’s face in response. “I dare not resist the ailment nor agree to the remedy at this moment, sir,” he answered.
Hat in hand, he made his farewell to his host and Mr. Hooker, then to the room at large before departing. There was a hearty laugh from the two men once the young surgeon was gone, a sound which provoked a self-conscious blush in more than one young lady present–but not in Lucy Foster.
“Well, what did you think of Beiberry’s society?” Mr. Giles asked Kitty, once they had made their farewells and were inside the carriage again. “It must be very little, I assume, for I do not think you spoke to anyone except Mr. Turner and little Lucy Foster, the Servennia’s ward. Such a queer creature she is, hardly speaking a word herself most times.”
“I did not speak to Mr. Turner above five min
utes, I am sure,” protested Kitty, disconcerted by this observation by her brother-in-law. “And Miss Foster was very companionable and wished to know of London. They were all very kind–it is only that I was tired.”
Her dismay grew with each word, as if the excuses made for the first accusation must be met by a greater emphasis on the latter. The wrinkles of unhappiness which furrowed her brow were invisible in the darkness of the coach, although the sound of Anna’s merry laugh only deepened them.
*****
Once the carriages had rolled away, Mrs. Servennia was content enough with her evening’s entertainment. Having snuffed her candles and dimmed her lamps, she oversaw the removal of the remaining cake.
“I think it was a triumph,” she admitted to her husband. “I must say, I was hoping the squire’s sister was a great deal more interesting–she was without a word for the whole evening–but having her and Mrs. Giles in the room adds a touch of elegance compared to old Mrs. Thompkins’s widows’ weeds.”
“She was charming,” said Mr. Servennia, with a yawn. “All the ladies of England are charming enough.” Behind him, Lucy paused in the act of helping the servants clear the tea table.
“She was only afraid of saying something wrong to us. Being a stranger in Beiberry,” she said.
“Enough of that sort of nonsense, child. Afraid, indeed!" said Mrs. Servennia. "As if a woman of her standing would have any reason to believe her conversation should not please the small sphere of Beiberry. If you can say nothing more interesting upon the subject than that, you had best go to bed.”
Lucy took this warning to heart and abandoned her task, moving towards the stairs. When she was out of sight, Mr. Servennia spoke again to his wife, although he took care to lower his voice so it should not be heard by anyone else.
“Do you think the surgeon might have a fancy for Lucy, given time?" he asked. "I heard Hooker suggest as much today when he was here. He says she has become a little more promising these past few weeks and her dialect is much improved.”
“Our Lucy?” repeated his wife, greatly shocked. “Surely you would not consider such a thing. Lucy has no money, of course–and little breeding, as we know–but she is not so low as to be fit for a surgeon’s station.”
“I suppose not,” answered Mr. Servennia, with some disappointment.
“If he had been a true physician, of course, that would be another matter. If he had only been a physician, he would be a fair prospect for any girl of genteel relations,” continued Mrs. Servennia. “But a surgeon has cut up the dead, you know. He has been ... tainted.” She did not elaborate any further on what this might mean, rather than shudder over the mention of blood or other bodily horrors.
It is true that a surgeon is not a physician’s equal: that is to say, unlike a true doctor, he is obliged to labor with his hands. Blood and bone, sinew and flesh may be severed by his effort; his clothes may be sullied and his muscles wearied and cramped from effort. In his chamber are housed the dreadful tools which make the squeamish like Mrs. Servennia shudder with loathing. Saws for bones, knives for the flesh, forceps for bringing a child into the world when it does not come by natural means.
“He shall make a nice husband for a local farmer’s daughter, perhaps,” she suggested. “A good honest country girl of common sense and a little aspiration. She would feel the benefits of a marriage to one who is almost a gentleman.”
In response, her husband snuffed a candle upon the mantel and betook himself to bed.
Chapter Ten
“Rain puts one in such a melancholy mood.” Hetta stood before the windows of the Evertons’ parlor. “It never ceases when one wishes desperately that it would.”
“A cup of tea shall cheer you splendidly,” said her hostess, who was bringing one with its saucer. “You must not be so languid, Miss Harwick, for there is an opera tonight, you know.”
“I have thought of not going,” said Hetta. She had fixed her attention on her cup of tea, it seems, as if to remain unaware of Mrs. Everton’s shock over these words.
“Not go? But how could you avoid such an opportunity? It is not that everyone else is going–but after this afternoon of diversion with Mozart’s Die Zauberflote and La Sonnambula from our beloved Bellini’s pen–to miss tonight’s performance now would sully such an impromptu performance.”
Hetta smiled. “Perhaps you will share my box if I should decide to go,” she said.
“Gladly, my dear Miss Harwick, only we are already engaged for the evening. Mr. Everton has accepted an invitation from Lord Hollinsworth. Prompted, no doubt, by Herr Scheimann.”
“Then he will join you, also,” surmised Hetta. There was a troubled note in her voice with this statement, which caught the ear of her hostess.
“My dear, I should suspect that you are disappointed,” she said. “Come, come; we shall step across and speak to you during the intermission. And you shall be at our dinner afterwards–you shall have the seat across from my own, Lady Hollinsworth or no.”
“You are too kind, Ma’am.” Hetta’s color had returned during this rambling reassurance by Mrs. Everton, although one who knew her well would recognize that she had but half-listened to the woman’s reply.
“Mr. Everton would be greatly disappointed not to see you; for he has been telling Lord Hollinsworth what a charming woman you are, possessing the voice of a splendid bird of Paradise. They are all quite wild to hear you play tonight.”
“A poor performance indeed after Bellini’s splendid scenes,” said Hetta. “I think–if Herr Scheimann is present–that I must fear all my flaws will be exposed to the public at large.”
“I am sure that Herr Scheimann recognizes musical genius when he hears it. No doubt he shall praise your voice as loudly as I do, when properly pressed.”
Hetta placed her cup of tea upon the nearest table, its contents barely touched. “Then he is to be present also? Here, to dine, after the performance,” she clarified. “Such a great honor for your guests, to be in the presence of such rising talent.”
“Certainly. We should not have proper musical entertainment if our operatic genius was not among us. He is fretting about his writing, of course; and no doubt about the funds for the theater. I must remind him upon every occasion that he shall have no trouble securing the patronage of anyone in London.”
“It is a generous city,” replied Hetta. A smirk of contempt, although faint, was present on her lips with these words.
“My own thoughts upon the subject, Miss Harwick,” answered Mrs. Everton.
In the end, Hetta decided in favor of the opera; all of London present at the Royal Opera House could see the outcome on display in a box during the performance, for the lady in question sat foremost in the lamplight, her gold gown and ornaments glittering with each faint movement as she watched the scenes below.
Her eye was fixed upon the druid’s circle of Norma, with the mystical ceremonies of mistletoe and priestess’s chants in the dark forest of Bellini’s imaginings. Her lips moved almost imperceptibly with the words of Pollione’s confession of infidelity; tears were visible in her eyes, forming, then rolling softly down.
While her gaze was thus occupied with the performance, the occupants of the box across from hers were engaged in the same activity with varying degrees of devotion. Among them were the Evertons and their hosts from the noble house of Hollinsworth. Neither his lordship nor ladyship was particularly inclined towards the opera in the same manner as their enthusiastic guests, for music was a matter of public form to them, but they endeavored to appear its true patrons whenever possible.
As for the future Lord Hollinsworth, his boredom with the performance was alleviated by the act of observing others present at the entertainment. His curiosity was made evident when he leaned towards Mr. Everton’s ear.
“Do you know the splendid woman seated with a party in the box across from us? There– in the front–the golden goddess who wears the headdress of Aurora herself, perhaps.” He lowered his opera
glasses and indicated Hetta’s figure, whose curls were dressed with a number of gold and pearl combs forming an elaborate headdress.
“That is Miss Harwick,” Mr. Everton whispered in reply. “She is an intimate acquaintance of ours; lately come to London from Germany.”
“The Miss Harwick of whom you spoke so warmly before,” said young Lord Alfred, a knowing smile on his face with this reply. Beside him, Herr Scheimann stirred, no longer listening to the music but to the conversation taking place beside him.
“She shall dine with us tonight, if you wish an introduction,” said Mr. Everton. “I confess I have been eager to have you know her; for she is quite a charming creature.”
“I believed myself to know everyone worth knowing in London; but upon seeing your Miss Harwick, sir, I must plead myself ignorant yet upon the subject.” He glanced at the composer.
“What say you upon the subject, Herr Scheimann? For I know you cannot be listening to such somber music when there is a pretty woman worth gazing upon but across the way.”
“I have met Miss Harwick, sir,” Herr Scheimann answered, stiffly. “I am afraid that her subsequent appearance holds no further novelty.” This remark dissuaded the insipid young heir from further query.
Nevertheless, he glanced at her after these words were spoken, with a dark eye which then turned away again.
“I shall introduce you when the act is concluded,” whispered Mrs. Everton. Lord Alfred looked pleased; the current Lord Hollinsworth merely arched his brow in reply, as if it would not do to show his personal inclination to meet the expatriate heiress across the auditorium.
His guest did not keep her promise, however, for the crush of moving bodies was heavy indeed between acts, as if everyone of importance migrated from box to box to pay their notice to someone else. The introduction was delayed until the dinner afterwards.
There were a great many guests invited, for it was the first formal entertainment of its scale hosted by the Evertons, who were eager to please a great many acquisitions of social importance. Candles were lit in abundance, meat was carved and fish was served, along with a great salad constructed in such a manner as to resemble the landscape of the Isle of Wight according to a poet seated near the foot of the table.
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