by Nancy Moser
My mother orders a new bonnet, and so do I—both white stripes, trimmed with white ribbon. I find my straw bonnet looking very much like other people’s and quite as smart. Bonnets of cambric muslin are a good deal worn, and some of them are very pretty, but I shall defer one of that sort till Cassandra’s arrival. Black gauze cloaks are worn as much as anything.
All in all, this attention to fashion detail by the seamstress overwhelms me. I’ve never taken so much interest in costume—until now. Of course, Steventon is not so devoted to fashion as Bath. Whether I learn to appreciate such concentration remains to be determined.
Once home, Aunt beckons me. In spite of her cough and being deafer than ever (and Mother’s sudden cold), we are to have a tiny party here tonight. I hate tiny parties, as they force one into constant exertion. Miss Edwards and her father, Mrs. Busby and her nephew Mr. Maitland, and Mrs. Lillingstone are to be the whole of it. I am prevented from setting my black cap at Mr. Maitland by his having a wife and ten children.
Such is my lot.
*****
After having tea last week with Mrs. Busby, I realize I scandalized her nephew cruelly; he has but three children instead of ten—though one would obviously be too many for my purposes.
Purpose. I find I have little here. Yet in this place I’m not afraid of doing too little. It’s my inclination, as my vigor is lacking.
To expedite the matter, today I plan a walk with a new acquaintance, Mrs. Chamberlayne. As we are not that well acquainted, I would opt for another day in fuller company, but she presses the duet of just us two.
I am not completely comfortable with those I don’t know well. Small talk and chitchat can only take one so far until it becomes tedious. True friendship and confidentiality take time—and true effort. Neither of which has been procured by Mrs. Chamberlayne and myself. Nor—though I risk being unfair—am I entirely sure I wish the opportunity. First impressions are strong and hard to break, and my initial determination of Mrs. Chamberlayne’s potentiality as a bosom friend has been weak.
I pride myself on being a good walker. And Mrs. Chamberlayne . . . well, surely the stance of those we passed must have been agitated by our wake. Cassandra will surely be impressed when I tell her of our progress. We go up by Sion Hill and return across the fields. In climbing a hill Mrs. Chamberlayne is very capital; I could with difficulty keep pace with her, yet would not flinch for the world.
On plain ground I’m quite her equal. We post away under a fine hot sun, she without any parasol or any shade to her hat, stopping for nothing, and crossing the churchyard at Weston with as much expedition as if we are afraid of being buried alive.
That she can maintain conversation while traversing with such vigor is a feat to which I give her due credit.
Her choice of conversation is less laudable . . . .
“So. Miss Jane. You are not married. Why?”
I nearly trip. “I have not found the right gentleman.”
“Hmm.”
She has my interest. “Why do you say it so? ‘Hmm.’”
Her pace slows but a little. “You are not so young. So naïve.”
“I assure you, I am neither.”
“Then pray tell, what constitutes the ‘right one’?”
The answer seems obvious, but I offer it anyway. “The right one is the one you love. The one who loves you.”
She laughs, puts a hand to her mouth, then quells her amusement. “Surely you jest?”
“I do no such thing. Although I am aware of marriages made for other reasons—”
“Many other reasons.”
“I continue to hope for a marriage of love.”
“You will continue into spinsterhood.”
“So be it.” My words are more forceful than truthful.
“I hear your sister is older and is also unmarried.”
Before I can answer, she adds, “I remember you in Gloucestershire when you were both very charming young women.”
The comment appears a compliment yet owns a bite.
I move to answer her original query. She can belittle me but not Cassandra. “My sister loved fully and truly, but her fiancé died helping others while in the West Indies.”
She offers a slight bow of her head in acquiescence. “I grieve for her sorrow.”
“As do I.” I decide to take the offensive. “And you? How is your dear husband?”
We walk three paces in silence. Then she says, “Mr. Chamberlayne seems to think it strange that I should absent myself from him for four and twenty hours when he is home, tho’ it appears in the natural order of things that he should quit me for business or pleasure. Such is the difference between husbands and wives. The latter are tame animals whom the men always expect to find at home ready to receive them; the former are lords of the creation, free to go where they please.”
I know not what to say. For I have known such women and e’en placed such a situation in First Impressions, when Charlotte marries Mr. Collins and admits to Lizzy that she much prefers solitude to his company.
“So you see, Miss Jane, I—”
“I am sorry for you.” The words are presumptuous, and I wish I could take them back. “Forgive me, I shouldn’t have—”
“No, no,” Mrs. Chamberlayne says. “Sympathy and compassion soothe the inequity just a little.” She stops and takes a new breath. “Well, then. Shall we walk back through this park? It’s a shorter way.”
We walk in silence, each in our own thoughts and contemplations of the strange society of love and marriage.
After seeing what she is equal to, I cannot help feeling a regard for her.
As to agreeableness? She is much like other people.
And I—be it good or bad—am not.
*****
Mother is in heaven, her boredom summarily dismissed.
Between house hunting, Aunt’s entertaining, and going out, Mother lives in a state of anticipation. That it’s May and therefore not the true season frightens me, for my memories of more-to-do daunt me. Such excitement entices when one is on holiday but overwhelms when such frivolities happen with great occurrence near one’s residence. Plenty much is often too much.
This morning I go with Mother to help look at some houses in New King Street, but they are smaller than I expected to find them. One in particular out of the two is quite monstrously little. The best of the sitting rooms not so large as the little parlour at Steventon, and the second room in every floor only capacious enough to admit a very small single bed.
Our views on the Green Park Buildings seem at an end as we observe dampness still remaining in a house which has been only vacated a week, with reports of discontented families and putrid fevers being the coup de grâce. We now have nothing to view. When Cassandra and Father arrive, we will at least have the pleasure of examining some of these putrefying houses again. They are so very desirable in size and situation that there is some satisfaction in spending ten minutes within them.
We correspond with Father, reporting our findings, but Father in particular—who was very well inclined toward the Row before—has now ceased to think of it entirely. At present the environs of Laura Place seem to be his choice. His views on the subject are much advanced; he grows quite ambitious and actually now requires a comfortable and a creditable-looking house.
Then let him come find one.
It’s discouraging. In such a large place, one would think acceptable housing could be found. Yet . . . perhaps we will find none and go home to Steventon!
I cannot allow such thoughts. The door is closed. I’ve no recourse but to walk away . . . .
To add to our distress, news from home does not inspire confidence in our pilgrimage here. Father is not pleased with the money that has been raised through the selling of our possessions. Mr. Bent seems bent
upon being very detestable, for he values the books at only seventy pounds. Sixty-one guineas and a half for the three cows gives one some support under the blow of only eleven guineas for the dining tables—which are nearly new. Eight for my pianoforte is, alas, about what I expected to get. But ten shillings for Dodsley’s poems pleases me to the quick, and I don’t care how often I sell them for as much. When Mrs. Bramston has read them through, I will sell them again! Mary is more minute in her account of their own gains than in ours. I sigh to consider that the whole world is in a conspiracy to enrich one part of our family at the expense of another.
There is no quarrel as to which part is which.
Eleven
I walk.
A great deal.
It’s my only sanctuary and escape while I wait for Father and Cassandra to join us here. In this place. This awful place.
As I walk the streets I walked previously as a visitor, I’m struck by the metamorphosis of my outlook. How could I have viewed this regal place with pleasure on one hand, only to view it with utter disdain on the other?
’Tis not a hard question. As a visitor I’d had Steventon to return to. I’d had a home. Here, I have only Aunt and Uncle’s house as an abode, with viewings of all others a poor comparison to the comfort and familial ambiance of Steventon. How can any home replace it?
I fear it cannot.
How can any town replace the village of my youth? The country roads, the gardens, the people I knew—and who knew me. People from poor to wealthy, servant to gentry. I was known by them. I spoke with them. I knew of their lives. Our lives intertwined. The strands were neither perfectly made nor always tightly woven, but the bond was attempted and accepted in its attempt.
There seems to be no attempt to interweave here. I walk among grand new buildings, quickly built to fill the need of incoming residents and visitors. As we have seen in old and new, the quality is often poor. Slipshod. Many have a veneer of all things fine. Yet upon closer inspection . . . there are cracks in the veneer. Shaky foundations.
So it is with the people.
There is no Wilson family with six babes I can help with bread and blankets. Actually, this is not true. I know the poor must be here, but they are handily shoved in some dark corner where we don’t have to be bothered with them and where they don’t disturb the pristine ambiance of our fantasy world.
There is no mingling of classes as in Steventon. There is no glue of daily contact to bind us together as one entity. Yet e’en as the classes go to great lengths to keep separate, I feel a fragility surrounding me, as if the town holds its breath. As if it’s built as a house of cards, susceptible to a careless expulsion of one breath.
I pass a baker opening the door of his shop for business. He smiles and we exchange a “Good morning.” His amiable greeting reminds me that I am being harsh. There are good people in Bath. Good aspects. And to many—like my aunt and uncle and my parents—appealing aspects. Perhaps it’s only I who don’t appreciate what is here. Perhaps I’m ungrateful. Perhaps I see wrongly. Feel wrongly. Judge wrongly.
I hesitate in my walk and consider returning to the Paragon.
But before my mind can make such a distinction, my feet take up their pace once again and continue away.
I accept their dictate. It’s as good as any other.
*****
“You should not go out alone, Jane,” Aunt tells me as I untie my bonnet.
“Whyever not?”
She adjusts a footstool for my uncle’s aching legs. “Tell her, Perrot.”
He gives her a look, as if trying to discern what she would like him to say. I hear her whisper, “Big city . . .”
“Ah yes,” he says. “This is not Steventon, Jane. This is a big city with people from all over Europe.”
“Good people,” Aunt adds.
He gives her a quizzical look because I sense he was going to warn me about bad people—which her comment has sorely quashed. “There are certainly good people,” he says. “Bath has been quite victorious in quelling the petty crimes for which other cities of thirty-four thousand must endure. But the fact remains it’s a cosmopolitan city, Jane. And you, who are used to tiny Steventon . . .”
I am still unsure what they are trying to warn me about: the stray criminal or the cosmopolitan dandy who lies in wait for a wandering Hampshire maiden?
“You should have friends, Jane,” Aunt says. “It’s odd you go out on your own with such frequency.”
Ah. Here is the genuine reason for their disapproval. I am not social enough; I’ve found neither husband nor bosom friend within the city boundaries.
“Make some inquiries, Jane,” Aunt says. “And accept kind invitations.”
Is there such a thing as an unkind invitation?
Aunt tucks a blanket around Uncle’s legs and stands erect. “If you have trouble in such respects, I can do it for you.”
It seems I am doomed to trouble on all accounts.
*****
My morning begins as best it can, for I find a letter from my little brother on the table. I do so love hearing from Charles, as well as Frank—my sailor brothers.
I devour its content. Charles has received thirty pounds for his share of a privateer’s spoils and expects ten more. He says he is buying gold chains and topaz crosses for Cassandra and me. But of what avail is it to take prizes if he spends his profit in presents for his sisters? He must be well scolded.
His current ship, the Endymion, has received orders to take troops to Egypt—which I should not like at all if I didn’t have hope of Charles’s being removed from her, somehow or other, before she sails. He is uncertain of his own destination but desires me to write directly, as the Endymion will probably sail in three or four days. I shall write today to thank him, reproach him, and extend my continued prayers for his safety.
As I take out paper on which to make my reply, the servant Albert brings in a note. “For you, Miss Jane.”
It’s from Mrs. Chamberlayne. She wishes to walk this afternoon. I don’t wish to go, but then I hear Aunt and Uncle in the next room . . . .
“Have Jane take you up to the waters,” Aunt says. “She doesn’t mind and she has nothing better to do.”
Nothing better to do than sit in a house of my elders.
I call Albert back and write a quick note to be brought to Mrs. Chamberlayne, accepting her offer.
At least I will be out.
*****
On our walk, I am prepared to wind myself in order to stay abreast of Mrs. Chamberlayne’s hearty pace but find that today her rate is not quite so magnificent. It’s nothing more than I can keep up with without effort, and for many, many yards together on a raised narrow footpath I lead the way.
Our discussion today is less insightful and of little interest though plenty agreeable, as every time I say, “Isn’t that tree beautiful?” or “What a lovely day it is,” she agrees. I attempt more enlightening conversation, even offering some gossip about Charles’s ship.
“Would you like to hear a bit of royal intrigue?” I ask.
“If it’s interesting.”
Would I be sharing it if it were not? I continue. “This February, my brother Charles, who is on the frigate Endymion, had the King’s son, Prince Augustus Frederick, come aboard.”
“The Duke of Sussex?”
“The very one.” We turn past a row of yellow houses. “The ship was visiting Lisbon as apparently the climate there is a balm to His Majesty’s asthma. His presence was special enough, but interest was added in regard to the Prince’s companion.” I wait for her to ask.
She does not.
I consider halting my discourse but continue on, hoping she will spark to life at some point in its telling. “His companion was his wife, Lady Augusta Murray.”
“That’s nice
.”
I shake my head. She does not understand the ramifications. “She is the woman he married without asking the approval of the King or the Privy Council. The marriage was annulled soon after—even though they had a baby son.”
“My son is two next week.”
My pace slows from the shock of her transition. It’s my turn to give the dull answer. “That’s nice.”
We walk on in silence. Apparently she has no interest in the true love shown by the Prince in living on with his “amiable Goosey” in spite of government decree. I find such dedication romantic.
“We are leaving Bath in two days.”
I say what I’m expected to say. “I’m sorry to hear that.” Yet, in truth, I’m content to end our friendship, which ends as most friendships in Bath must end—with a departure. As such, these friendships, and all others I attempt here in Bath, pale with my true friendships with Martha or Anne Lefroy or Catherine Bigg.
It’s not that I expect a discussion of world events or life-and-death matters, but there must be a connection that delves into the open—open not closed—recesses of one’s thoughts and heart. I’ve seen my dearest friends at their best and worst, and they have also seen me and love me still.
And yet, I don’t fault Mrs. Chamberlayne for our lack of connection merely because of a dearth of meaningful conversation. Martha and I also banter about nothing quite successfully. The difference lies in our ability, and yea, even our shared anticipation of deeper dialogue. To have no chance of such give and take is as of little worth as a drop of rain fallen on the sea.
Our walk nears its end, and as we part and say our adieus, there is no regret or desire for another meeting.
There is no feeling at all.
*****
I am in a mood. A mood that the arrival of my sister will correct. Soon, Cass. Come soon and keep me from my wickedness.