by Joan Smith
"Your own grammar does not need correcting, Mr. Williams. I recall the first time I met you, you were reading John Milton. With such elevated literature, you must be perfectly aware of proper speech."
"I remember our first meeting very well, miss! You gave me a lesson in behavior I did not forget in a hurry."
"I come to think it is time for another! But let us proceed with these students’ lessons first."
"Just what is it you are doing?” he asked, picking one up at random and perusing it. “Correcting the spelling and so on?"
"Everything—spelling, punctuation, the sense of it."
"Ah—I never could speak in semicolons,” he admitted, “but I am an expert at sentences and question marks."
"We do not aspire to semi-colons, Mr. Williams."
He picked up another paper and read it through, silently, without making any corrections, then picked up another. It too was set aside without using his pencil. “You are either a very undemanding marker, or have got hold of some other papers than the set I am working on. Don't tell me there isn't a correction to be made on either of these two."
"What is this the students are writing?” he asked, frowning pensively.
"You suspect me of being a Jacobin, I suppose? The assignment was to write what they would do if they had ten pounds. It is interesting, is it not?"
"It is heartbreaking. Listen to this one. Spelled abominably, and highly ungrammatical, but the content! ‘I would buy my mammie a new dress a bright red one coz she likes pretty things and has no nice clothes I would buy pa a pipe coz he broke his and I would buy a bone for Fritz with real meat on it.’ Doesn't that wrench your heart?"
"Unselfish—not a thing for himself."
"It's a girl—Mary Morrisey. That would be the family I had to refuse credit."
"They are very poor. I believe Mrs. Morrisey is in an interesting condition again. They have pulled Sally out of school, in any case, and that usually augurs an increase in the family."
"The other paper, the first, the fellow said he would buy glass for his window to keep out the wind but still be able to see the sky. He can't see the sky through the oilskin. Are the people really that poor? I did not get the impression when I was at the Slacks’ or the Turners’ they were destitute."
"Some are less poor than others,” I answered, not liking to mention the word smuggling.
"Morrisey and Slack both go out on the fishing boats. Both make a shilling a day according to Andrew."
"There are other ways of making a little extra money."
"Smuggling, you mean?"
"Possibly. I believe Mrs. Turner takes in washing as well. Fine washing for the gentry—linen tablecloths and such things that want careful pressing."
He sat on, lifting up another paper and reading, still without making a mark with the pencil. “I begin to see why they do it,” he said at last in a very reluctant voice. “My God, I thought my family was poor till I read this."
"With a patron so generous as Lord Hadley seems to be, I cannot think you have experienced real poverty at all, Mr. Williams."
"I have not often gone to bed hungry, but I know what it is to be looked at askance by the richer boys at school, who wore finer jackets. I come to think my problem was pride, not poverty."
"It is very hard for these people, and some of them have quite large families of youngsters too. Have you brothers and sisters?"
"No. Still, the law is the law, and smuggling, especially of brandy, is no solution. The government ought certainly to institute some make-work program here at Salford, though. Something must be done."
"Oh pooh—about that law—smuggling—we are not so strict here."
"If they break one, they'll have no respect for any of them."
"I never hear you speak against poaching. That is also illegal. Do you feel so strongly about it as well?"
"It is less harmful than smuggling, in my opinion, but ought also to be discouraged."
"You speak like a soldier, all discipline and obedience."
"You may imagine how impossible it would be to lead an army if commands were not obeyed."
"You have the instincts of an officer, have you?” I asked lightly, as though I had no idea he had been one.
"And am working to acquire the instincts of a gentleman. I believe I am sinking myself in a paradox here."
"It is not to be wondered at. I often find myself spouting gibberish after too long an exposure to the writings of the students. But alas, I must show the instincts of a schoolteacher, and set a red pencil to these paragraphs, however heart-wrenching they may be."
He too set himself to the task, sometimes frowning over one, which I made sure to read later myself and sometimes pointing out that the instruction in mathematics was sadly neglected if a boy thought he could buy a carriage and team of four for ten pounds, and still have money left over for a castle on the side.
"Ten pounds is as high over their heads as ten thousand. Had I said ten pennies, they would have had a clearer idea."
When the chore was finally done, we arose to join Edna and Andrew before the fire in the grate.
On another occasion, Edna was in the kitchen, working with Cook, trying to impart to her the secret of a light pastry. Under Edna's tutelage, Cook was coming on. She occasionally served a piece of meat that did not bounce, and was slowly being weaned away from the notion that potatoes to be eaten at six need to be put on to boil at four. With our Christmas party approaching, the lessons increased. Andrew was called to his office to discuss parish business, leaving Williams and myself alone. Being a gentleman, he realized this was not quite the thing and began shifting in his chair, disliking to leave as he had just arrived, and disliking to stay lest I thought it bad manners on his part. “Perhaps I should return later,” he suggested uncertainly.
"If you cannot behave yourself, Mr. Williams, by all means do so,” I replied, smiling at his dilemma.
"Oh, I trust myself,” he answered quickly.
"It is my forward behavior that puts you on edge, is it?” I teased him.
"No, Mab, your reputation. A concern for it, I mean. I would not want anyone gossiping about your entertaining a man alone."
"Especially a man notorious for his way with women."
"I no longer flirt with the girls,” he told me blandly. This was not quite accurate, but certainly he had curbed his Don Juanish activities.
"In that case I must be safe with you, must I not?"
"You may feel safe from flirting. As to more serious intentions, you will know better than I whether you stand in any danger from me."
I felt an uncomfortably warm flood at the serious look that accompanied his speech. Here was I being told he wished to court me, and I had determined I would not lead him on. I could not meet his eyes. I looked to my lap, where my fingers clutched at my skirt.
"Mab, you know I...” he began, all in a rush.
Edna was at the door to save me. “We've just baked up a batch of these cream buns. Won't you try them for us, Mr. Williams, and see if you think they would do for the party?"
He was all smiles and easy conversation again, complimenting her on the cream buns, and partaking of two—a heroic feat, considering the consistency of the pastry. He stayed for some time, chatting to both of us as though it were an ordinary visit, but still the little dab of lovemaking had taken place, and I had not turned aside his ardor as I should have.
I felt perfectly wretched when I went to my bed that night. Wretched at misleading him, worse that I could not accept his advances as I wanted to. My aunt's first reply to my letter, when it arrived the next morning, threw me into consternation. She was not personally acquainted with the Wicklows, but the reputation the family wore in those parts was unsavory. The father an out-and-out drunkard who had all but lost his estate, and the son a ne'er-do-well who had been turned from his ancestral door at an early age for some unspecified misconduct. I was saddened at the news, but being infatuated, had soon twisted it around so that all the discre
dit was heaped on the father. The son, I knew, had made his own way in the world.
A man of Wicklow's age, still in the twenties, to have been a Colonel—obviously he had straightened out remarkably. Certainly there was no fear of the son's turning dissolute from drink, for he drank very little. That would be in reaction to the father's bad example, of course. A young man who had seen his inheritance dwindle close to zero because of drink would naturally be against it. And equally against the persons who brought the most pernicious of all drinks into the country. Here was a new dimension to my problem. If Wicklow considered his job in the light of a moral crusade, there was no hope left. I thought the situation could not be worse, till I received her second letter the very next day.
The first page of it cheered me enormously. She had been a little misinformed regarding young Wicklow. The papa, to be sure, was no better than he should be, but he was dead, and the son busy re-establishing himself to fortune and respectability. The fortune was still uncertain, but the respectability was well in hand. He was in the process of becoming a son-in-law to a neighbor and friend of my aunt, Lord Hadley. This was to come about through the person of Lady Lucy, the lord's daughter, who, it was generally understood, was promised to Sir Stamford.
There were a dozen questions as well as to how I knew him, and why I had inquired after him, but this was routine stuff. The interest of the letter for me was that so far from being attracted to me, Sir Stamford was using me as he used all the other girls. He was promised to Lady Lucy, a great heiress, no doubt—he with his fine talk of a man not caring whether a lady had a fortune.
It solved my immediate problem. I could flirt with him to my heart's content without a fear of bruising his feelings. Lead him down any primrose path I chose, without a single qualm of conscience, as he was doing the same to me. Lord Hadley's “good offices,” his efforts on Wicklow's behalf—how clear it all was now. Naturally he would want his daughter's husband to do him credit. My fingers shook with anger as I quickly finished up the letter. The Hadleys were going to London for Christmas, to remain till mid-January. Collecting a trousseau, very likely.
I wondered that Mr. Williams-Wicklow should remain behind for the concert, with his fiancée so close by. Never mind, I would keep him entertained with the flirtation of his life, if that was his game, to wile away the country hours with the local belles. Some prize Lady Lucy was catching for herself. One could almost pity her. Almost.
I wasted no time in getting on with the game. I stopped in at Owens’ on Tuesday after school and spent a coquettish half hour selecting ribbons for my recital party, outstaying even Meggie Turner, the most determined shopper ever to have appeared anywhere.
"It is a pretty shade of blue I want, Mr. Williams,” I told him, running a look over his wares.
"Cornflower blue, to match your eyes, Mab?” he asked. I need not say we had got rid of Meggie Turner by this stage. Williams, while a villain of the worst sort, had some residual instincts of a gentleman, and would not compromise me by such a speech before one of the Turners.
I batted my lashes at him like a common trollop and smiled hard enough to bring out my dimple, which is a stubborn thing that does not show except when I indulge in laughter. Actually a smile does not do it. He was adept enough at appreciation of a lady's appearance that he noticed it at once. “When did you grow that charming dimple?” he asked.
"I sleep on an acorn every night, Mr. Williams. You must recall I am bent on finding myself a wealthy parti, and wish to be in best form when I meet him. A lady without a dimple must settle for a solicitor. I am after a magistrate, like my papa."
"From using my eyes in business the past months, I have become a good assessor of value, I calculate that dimple to be worthy of better than a magistrate.” He touched the spot, and looked at me with the eyes of a lover. We were behind the drapery racks, so that the street was denied a view of this dalliance. We were neither of us so lost to appearance as to be doing all this in the full glare of Tommie Barr, who had his nose flattened against the pane out front.
"Now isn't it a shame I hadn't a pair of them, and I might aspire even to a baronet,” I answered mischievously. The “Sir” that precedes his name indicates a baronetcy, if I failed to mention it earlier. He was not just a knight.
I understood very well that little secret smile that crept into his eyes, but must show no understanding. I proceeded to business. “Well now, are these faded sky-blue ribbons the best you have to offer? Mr. Owens was used to do better. He kept special ribbons for me, a little deeper shade of blue."
"What color is your gown to be?” he asked.
I rather wished my new gown to be a surprise for him. You must realize without being told it was my intention to make him really fall in love with me, to show him a lesson. The gown was one step in my conquest. I had picked up the material in London on my visit and had made it up myself. It was grand beyond anything I normally wore—blue velvet in fact, and with it I had a white lace collar, whose price nearly equaled the velvet's. The ribbons were no more than an excuse into the shop. I had no notion of wearing them. “Blue,” I answered.
"You want blue ribbons with a blue gown?” he asked.
Angry at my mistake, I took it out on him. “You are turning modiste, Mr. Williams! If your career is to take a downward trend, would it not be more proper for your talents to be directed at tailoring?"
"Not modiste, connoisseur,” he replied unfazed.
"The ribbons are for my coiffure,” I retaliated, giving back French for French.
"Ah, the hair! I have something much prettier. Let me show you the new combs I ordered last week. I had you in mind when I bought them. They are above the touch of most of the women in the village. Cost three shillings a pair, I'm afraid."
"Bring them on. I begrudge no expense in garnishing myself, Mr. Williams. By all means let us see these extravagant combs."
I did not go to the counter with him, but made him return behind the racks for more teasing, which he did at a lively pace, I might add. “Here we are,” he said, opening a box that held a pair of very pretty combs, with little rows of pearls along the tops.
"They would look lovely on a brunette. I cannot believe a connoisseur selected these with my hair in mind. Come now, confess it was Lucy you were thinking of when you bought them.” It was no coincidence that I managed to pull a Lucy out of the air to roast him with. There was a Lucy in our town, a very common girl, Lucy Henderson, who was not one of his flirts at all, nor a brunette either actually, though her hair was a shade darker than my own.
He looked at me, startled into silence for a moment, while a guilty pink rose from his collar. “Lucy?” he asked.
I let him stew a minute, while I gave him a bold, knowing smile. “Lucy Henderson, of course! Who did you think I meant? Why, I think I have caught you out in a new affaire, Mr. Williams. For shame."
"No! No, I—I didn't recognize the name at all. I don't believe I know Lucy Henderson.” He fumbled with the combs, pulling one out to set it in my hair, then stepped back to regard the effect judiciously. “You're right. The pearls were a poor choice. I suppose I only bought them because I like to see pearls on a lady."
A vision of my pearl necklace from Mama hopped into my head. I had not planned to wear it with the lace collar, but I would do so now. “No doubt you will have the pleasure of seeing the combs on a lady ere long. Stick them in the window, sir. Your salesmanship is sadly lacking."
"Yes, that is apt to happen, when one becomes diverted from business,” he answered, turning it into a compliment by his tone and the admiring glance he bestowed on me.
"With the Christmas season coming on, there will be someone willing to pay three shillings to primp herself up."
I began pulling on my gloves preparatory to leaving. He reached out and took my right hand, which was still bare, and held it a moment. He did not say anything, or do anything more than look at me in a way an engaged man should not have looked at any woman other than his fia
ncée. Something more might have happened had the door not opened at just that moment to admit Mrs. Dustan, in quest of a packet of pins.
Chapter Nine
Our deliveries were usually on a Friday, but with our revenuemen both to be accounted for so handily on the Thursday with the organ recital, I arranged through Jemmie to have the brandy landed on Thursday, and very nearly came a cropper. The first part of our evening was a great success. Andrew got through his six Christmas tunes without many errors, and Mr. Williams performed beautifully. For an hour the strains of Bach and Haydn swelled through the church.
The reason we heard Haydn being performed on the organ, not the instrument for which he composed, was a direct compliment to myself. Williams had arranged a piece of his Creation oratorio especially for the organ, as I had once expressed admiration for it. It seemed odd not to be up in the gallery.
Afterward the select of the parish came to us at the rectory. There were no Turners or Slacks or Hendersons in this exalted gathering. We had decided, in the interest of providing a good number of young girls, to call Miss Trebar a lady for the evening, but she was as low as we went. I would have left her out had I been sure Miss Simpson planned to attend from Felixstone, but that latter young lady did not trouble her head to reply to my invitation. She did come, however. She was the daughter of a wealthy independent farmer from that area, a pretty girl with reddish curls, famous for her tiny waist, which any gentleman could span with his two hands. I believe most of the local fellows had confirmed this fact for themselves. A flirt, in other words.
It was not to be supposed she would pass up Mr. Williams. She may have been misled into thinking him better than a merchant when she saw him at the rectory, but even after his secret was made known to her by a solicitous Miss Trebar, she did not lessen her pursuit in the least. He sat on the sofa, pinned between them, and not looking too unhappy either, till Squire Porson entered the door.
Had I bothered to think of it, I suppose I must have known he could not well do otherwise. In any case, Porson stepped in, wearing a hideous brown jacket with a shiny yellow waistcoat and canary-yellow inexpressibles. With that crest of red hair, he looked very much like a bloated bird of some sort, whose name eludes me, but I have often seen the bird perched in the apple tree in spring, before the leaves are fully out. Some kind of an oriole I think it is. His brown eyes toured the room. As soon as he spotted me, he was off in hot pursuit. Never did I put in such a night. He made it clear to the whole assembly that he was dangling after me. “Ye've done a grand job of fixing up the little rectory, lass,” he praised in a booming voice.