A London Season

by Anthea Bell

  “No. I suppose I should be in the most dreadful disgrace again,” agreed Persephone, sadly. “But two months! If not more! It is too long—how can anyone bear it? If only,” she continued fretfully, as her grievances took a new direction, “if only one were a man instead of a young lady, nobody would make one go about with one’s tiresome family, and one might travel alone, or in what company one pleased, and never mind stuffy notions of propriety.” Propping her chin on her hands, she gazed gloomily at the pretty gold and white striped paper on the wall. “Though all things considered,” she added after a while, “I had as lief not be a young man, for who is to know but that I might then have had quite an ordinary voice, nothing out of the common run at all?”

  Since Persephone so patently regarded her singing voice as an entity separate from herself, this speech was disarmingly free from self-conceit. She was a resilient creature, thought Elinor, although easily swayed by the overpowering emotion of the moment, and sure enough, in a little while she added, far more cheerful now, “Well, thank you for saying you will take our part and try what you can do with Cousin Edmund. And perhaps,” she continued, brightening yet further, “it is not so very bad after all, for if you can’t help us, I dare say other people will.”

  Elinor’s mind leaped back, most disagreeably, to her recent conversation with Grenville Royden. Could he possibly—but to what conceivable end?—have offered already to connive at an elopement? Oh, surely not! And yet she could not put it past him, after what he had said. Drawing a deep breath, she said carefully, “Persephone, please understand this: you must not think of running away with Mr. Walter, even if you could persuade him to do it, or do anything of that kind which you know you ought not to. You would only regret it bitterly! Believe me, I know what I am talking about, for I was once in a situation a little like yours myself.”

  She had been thinking rapidly but carefully, and decided just what part of her own story she should now tell Persephone. Charlotte had become a close friend of them both: while she would dearly have liked to set Persephone on her guard against any suggestions that might come specifically from Grenville Royden, she did not want to mention him by name, for fear of the story’s going farther and even, perhaps, damaging Charlotte’s brilliant marriage prospects. She did not think Conington would care what her brother had done, years ago, but his parents might have very strict notions of propriety, and in any case she did not wish Charlotte, who had nothing whatever to do with her misconduct, to run the least risk of suffering. Besides, naming names seemed too much like tale-bearing, and was distasteful to her. She therefore omitted them entirely from her tale, making it appear, without actually saying so, that her seducer had not been any part of the household at Royden Manor, but had lived in a large country house a little way off.

  She did not, however, spare herself anything in the telling, but resolutely described the whole wretched little episode in a level voice which shook only when, at the end, she said: “And naturally I have regretted it ever since. So you can see what comes of giving way to one’s impulses in such a matter. I ought, of course, to have told Sir Edmund the whole of this when he asked me to come and bear you company, and I did try, but—well, he is so kind that he would not let me, and I was so glad to come here, too. However, you know, the world would say I was not a fit person to look after you. And the world would probably be right,” she said firmly.

  The recital of Elinor’s story had certainly taken Persephone’s mind off her own troubles; she had been sitting there open-mouthed with amazement, but at this she exclaimed, “Oh, nonsense!”

  “What?” said Elinor, startled.

  “I said nonsense!” repeated Persephone, adding indignantly, “I never heard of anything so shabby in my life as that man’s behaviour! How could he leave you so? That is what I think is shocking! Very shocking! I can’t think how you ever came to fall in love with such a person.”

  “To tell you the truth, nor can I!” said Elinor, a good deal moved by such staunch partisanship from Persephone.

  “Well, I call it the most shameful way for him to have gone on—and his papa too! Robert, of course, would never act in such a manner, but,” she said thoughtfully, “I can quite see that that is beside the point, because if I were to run off with anyone at all, even Robert, people might say that you had not instilled proper principles into me, which would be monstrously unfair!”

  “I—I suppose so!” said Elinor, not quite knowing whether to laugh or cry. “Though I—I hadn’t looked at it exactly like that.”

  “Oh, Elinor—pray don’t cry! I won’t do anything to distress you, truly I won’t. I won’t run away, even if Robert would let me!”

  But, to Miss Radley’s considerable surprise, she discovered that her tears would come, and it was her turn to find herself clinging to the younger girl and weeping her heart out.

  It was fortunate that the evening was to be that rarity, a quiet one spent at home, for both young women were pretty well exhausted by the emotional upheavals of the afternoon, and very ready to retire to bed as early as seemed proper. Touched by the embrace that Persephone gave her as they said good night, Elinor could at least reflect that her confession had probably served its deterrent purpose, if not exactly in the way she had intended.

  Thanks to Miss Grafton’s kind offices, a yet more nerve-racking interview was in store for her, but luckily she was not to know that, and so she slept long and deeply, and was surprised, when at last she woke, to see the sun streaming into her bedroom at an unwonted angle as the maid drew back the curtains and poured hot water into the basin. “Good gracious, what can the time be?” she exclaimed.

  “Past ten o’clock, miss, but Miss Grafton said you had the headache and wasn’t to be disturbed.”

  Well, she had certainly been glad to have her sleep out, and was glad too, on passing the door of the Yellow Parlour as she went down stairs, to hear Persephone carolling happily as she sat at her instrument, obviously much recovered. Walking into the breakfast parlour, however, Elinor was brought up short by the unexpected sight of Sir Edmund sitting in an easy chair by the window, reading the newspaper.

  It was far too early an hour for anyone but a member of the family to call, but the informality of Yoxford House made it easy for Sir Edmund to stroll in and out as he liked, and having seen his Austrian minister safely dispatched to Dover the previous evening, he had repaired to Upper Brook Street as soon as he felt he decently could. The interview he had promised himself with Miss Radley was, he thought, very long overdue, and he was impatient to see her. However, he had been met instead by Miss Grafton, up and dressed, lying in wait for him, and eager to unburden herself of a tangled confession in which she profusely and penitently begged pardon for the trouble she had given, adjuring him frequently not to blame Elinor for anything. By the time he had got from her a reasonably coherent account of what it was for which Elinor should not be blamed, he was quite as indignant on her behalf as Persephone, but since he was a good deal better at controlling his feelings, he suppressed the forcible expressions which rose to his lips, contrived to soothe and reassure his ward, and sat down to await Miss Radley, aware that the task before him might be more difficult than he had hoped.

  He rose as soon as she entered the room, saying in answer to her look of surprise, “Yes, I know: a shockingly early hour to call, but I have been so busy, and have missed seeing you so much, that I had to come at the first opportunity. Have you slept well?”

  “Oh, yes!” she said, feeling slightly breathless. Missed seeing you, he had said. But of course it would be the family he had meant, not her!

  “You still look tired,” he said with quick concern, studying her face. “Which is hardly to be wondered at, from what Persephone tells me.”

  She went absolutely white as paper, and had to sit down. “What Persephone tells you?” she repeated, voice faltering. “What—how much did she say?”

  “Well, that child does nothing by halves, does she?” said he, with some
amusement. “After a period of total absorption in her own romantic affairs, she is now overwhelmed by remorse for the trouble she has caused you, and in a most salutorily penitent spirit, nothing would do for her but to make a clean breast of the whole.” Keenly aware of the distress in Miss Radley’s face, he kept his tone very light, on purpose to reassure her.

  “The whole?”

  “Or so I suppose. Of course, she had no business to be telling me anything of what you had said to her in confidence, but—”

  “Oh, dear heaven! What must you think?” she said, almost in a whisper. “Oh, I did want to tell you, and I have known all along I should have done, only—”

  “Only I prevented you! My dear girl, I almost wish I hadn’t, for then I could have assured you earlier that you were exaggerating the thing out of all proportion. As for what I think—well, let me merely say I would happily murder the fellow, if you would tell me his name and I could but lay hands on him!” he said rather grimly, but then resumed his light tone. “Though I suppose that would hardly do, which is a pity! Here—you had better have a cup of tea.”

  He gave her one, with so encouraging a smile that, to her own surprise, she managed a faint smile in return, and said weakly as she sipped the hot liquid, “You—you seem to take it very calmly!”

  “Why not?” said Sir Edmund, briskly. “Unlike Persephone, you know, I am not much given to falling into strong hysterics—and you my dear cousin, while not in general a hysterical female, are certainly refining far too much upon an unhappy incident of the past.”

  “Refining too much upon it?” She attempted another smile, and said, “I don’t seem able to do anything but repeat what you say! But—well, you don’t mean you still think me a—a fit person to have the care of Persephone?”

  He was glad to see that the tea appeared to be doing her good; a little colour had returned to her cheeks. “Of course I do,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Indeed, a particularly fit person, in that you have a great deal of sympathy for her, and some experience of what her own present feelings must be like—now, what in the world have I said to overset you?” he demanded, as she put down her cup and quietly began to weep, for this was all rather too much for her. She was provided with his own large, clean handkerchief—what a great lending and borrowing of handkerchiefs we are all indulging in, she thought irrelevantly—and soon managed to control herself.

  “Dear me,” she said then, voice rather stronger, “how very mortifying it would be to discuss such a matter with anyone who was not such—such a very kind friend as you have been to me!” And she turned to look out of the window, feeling the treacherous prickle of tears behind her eyelids again.

  Irrationally, Sir Edmund found that he did not at all care to be described as a kind friend. He had hoped to be something more, and had come to Upper Brook Street with the fixed intention of declaring his feelings, only to find Persephone intent on making a great song and dance about hers. It was many years since he had even thought of making an offer of marriage, and practised diplomat as he was, he found himself now, ridiculously, at a loss for words. He decided to turn the course of this conversation into another direction, until Elinor should be feeling better, and said, with that end in view, “Another thing: I’m persuaded you have been unnecessarily anxious about young Persephone. She won’t come to any harm, precisely, with her young musician, you know.”

  “Oh, I do know!” agreed Elinor fervently, turning to look at him again. She could not say it was because of Grenville Royden she had been concerned, but seeing her chance to make a first attempt to intercede on behalf of the young couple, as she had promised Persephone to do, she said earnestly, “I know you said it would not do—and I thought so too—but they are most sincerely attached, and I don’t believe he cares a bit for her fortune.”

  “No,” agreed Sir Edmund, smiling, “but he does for her voice! Angelina, indeed! I wonder if they would ever have become so attached without it?”

  “You see,” pursued Elinor, “it did seem like a passing fancy at first, but I now believe it is not. And if not, what is to be done? I—well, you are right, I do understand what it is to love someone in that way. A lasting passion, once formed, is very hard to shake off.”

  For some reason, he had become remarkably still where he stood at the window. “You mean, you believe from your own experience that one may never recover from it?”

  She thought, briefly; she had recovered from her silly, girlish infatuation with Grenville Royden, but saw little hope of her present feelings for Sir Edmund changing. He was so—well, she was not going to let herself dwell upon his virtues. That would be fatal to her peace of mind. She was only sure that the case, now, was very different with her. “Yes, I know what it is like not to recover from such a thing,” she said quietly, her whole heart in her eyes if he would but have looked that way.

  But he did not. So his hopes, he was thinking, were well and truly dashed before he even embarked on his declaration. She was still attached to the memory of that fellow, scoundrel as he was! He might have known, he thought ruefully, that constancy would be among her qualities. Just as well, perhaps, that he had not begun to tell her of his feelings; they were both saved from embarrassment. He said only, looking out of the window, “I know it, too.”

  His voice gave nothing away, but remembering what Isabella had told her of his wife, Elinor thought: he is still mourning for his Catherine. She wished she could find words of sympathy, but nothing seemed appropriate. And so they remained in silence for a little while, until at last he roused himself to say, without great enthusiasm, “Yes, well, Persephone! I must think what is best to be done. One thing I do beg you, though: don’t let her plague you!”

  And with that he turned, rather abruptly, and was gone from the room, leaving Elinor gazing after him, a prey to her conflicting feelings.

  16

  It had really been a most agitating interview: one from which Elinor could not quickly recover. Kind and considerate as Sir Edmund was, she found it quite impossible to compose her spirits when she thought of all Persephone had seen fit to tell him. Him, of all people! She wished most heartily that the heiress’s indignantly partisan friendship had not carried her to such lengths. But there, it was done now, and she was in no position to reproach Persephone! Her old aunts, and Lady Emberley, and Samuel Spalding would all have said she had only herself to blame, and she was much inclined to think they would have been right.

  And while Sir Edmund might seem to make light of the matter, she could not help but notice a subsequent coolness in his manner towards her. That was hardly surprising, and it was surely most unreasonable in her to feel regret. Things could not be otherwise! When he went out of town again she told herself that she was glad of it, for the sake of her own peace of mind. She wished she were not so illogical as to miss him, all the same.

  She would have been amazed to learn that it was his own chagrin at the dashing of his hopes concerning herself that took him away, although a visit to his property of Waterleys on the borders of Hertfordshire and Essex was certainly overdue. He had had no leisure to go there since his return to England, with so much business over the Grafton estate and Lady Emberley’s property to be settled, and he hoped that in his childhood home he could, to some extent, put Elinor out of his mind—though he was far from sure or it, for he was as little confident as Miss Radley herself that time would heal this particular wound.

  Quite soon, however, Elinor found she had not much time left for brooding over her own troubles. She would have been quite glad, but for the fact that the cause was something which once again cast Persephone into great affliction. Suddenly, and without a word, Robert Walter had ceased to call in Upper Brook Street. Persephone bore it cheerfully on the first day; on the second, she took to wandering to the window whenever she heard the slightest sound in the street below, and would stand there a long time tapping her foot impatiently; on the third day she became openly fretful, wondering aloud and at frequent intervals what c
ould be keeping him; on the fourth, when the dressing bell rang in the evening, and there could be no hope of anyone else’s paying a social call that day, she flung herself on Elinor’s breast and wept as though her heart would break.

  “Oh, my dear, don’t cry so!” Miss Radley begged her. “I can’t help it!” sobbed Persephone. “He—he hasn’t even sent a note, or anything! Oh, where can he be?”

  “In his lodging, I expect, quite absorbed in the process of composition!” said Elinor. “I believe that when persons of an artistic turn of mind become visited by inspiration, they are quite oblivious of all else.”

  “He would never be oblivious of me!”

  “Depend upon it, he has no idea how time is passing! I dare swear that, once he has finished this piece of music and realized how long it is since he saw you, he will be amazingly contrite.” Oh dear, thought Elinor, I am positively encouraging her, when I ought instead to be glad of Mr. Walter’s absence. Yet she herself could not believe that he had suddenly tired of the adoring Persephone and walked away from her without a word. Indeed, she would have sworn that his affections were almost as deeply engaged as Miss Grafton’s, and she sincerely felt for Persephone’s distress. Did she not feel much the same herself over the absence of Sir Edmund—although she was denied the luxury of relief in such copious tears as Persephone could shed, and of course it was ridiculous for her to be downcast. She should be very grateful for Sir Edmund’s equable reception of the tale of her youthful follies; she might well now have been searching hopelessly, because without references, for some other post as governess or companion, and then her situation would have been a desperate one indeed. Instead, she was to spend the summer months in what sounded like the most delightful country residence, she knew that Isabella hoped she would remain permanently with the family—what could there be in any of that to destroy her comfort? Well, she knew very well what, even if it was ungrateful of her, and so her sympathy went out wholeheartedly to Persephone.