“Your views are very much those of Mary Wollstonecraft, the authoress of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. Her notions are considered prodigiously shocking, but I find they contain a good deal of common sense.”
“I do not know the work,” Amanda admitted.
“Perhaps one would hardly expect to find it on a clergyman’s bookshelves, even such a liberal-minded one as Mr. Somerby,” replied Maria. “But in brief, the author finds the dependence of women a matter to be deplored. She advocates educating boys and girls together in similar courses of study, so that females may be equipped to take a part in the work of the world and develop a healthy independence.”
Amanda considered this in silence for several minutes. “Certainly Theo agrees that girls should develop their intellects besides acquiring the more usual feminine accomplishments, and so he intends to give Helen a grounding in the Classics, later on. He says there’s no finer mental discipline. And I try to allow her as much freedom as possible, myself, for I always detested to be too much constrained — but I don’t need to tell you that!” she added with a laugh. “All the same, I would not wish her to grow up without any feminine graces, or entirely to flout acceptable social behaviour. I think perhaps your Mary Wollstonecraft’s notions would require a vastly different world from the one in which we live, don’t you?”
Maria sighed. “I daresay you are right. But I sometimes think that I would have fitted better into that kind of world.”
In spite of all that could be accomplished by doctors and a trip to Bath to take the waters and at the same time visit her mother-in-law, Maria’s health continued to deteriorate over the following two years. She made a strong effort to rally on the brief occasions when Anthony was home from school for the holidays; but she always paid for this afterwards by renewed spells of fainting fits and general weakness. Amanda became seriously alarmed, and even went so far as to urge Lord Alvington to attempt something more to aid his wife.
“What would you have me do, ma’am?” he asked impatiently. “Already Maria has consulted the foremost medical practitioners, and to no purpose. They say she must not overtax her strength, and yet every time that boy comes home, she is constantly exerting herself to please him! There’s no sense in it, none whatever!”
Yet another medical consultation took place, however, with no better result. Commenting on this one day at the breakfast table when James was home from school, Amanda noticed that the boy was listening and she fell silent.
“Mama,” he said presently, “did you say that none of the doctors can cure Lady Alvington?”
“You shouldn’t be listening to my conversation with your father,” she reproved him. “It was not intended for your ears.”
James reddened.
“I beg your pardon, Mama. I don’t listen in general, you know, but that subject is especially interesting to me, because I mean to be a doctor myself one day. And then perhaps I may be able to make Lady Alvington well again.”
Amanda sighed, between a tear and a smile. But Maria was unable to wait for the day when her young friend might perhaps come to her aid. She sank lower and lower, until in the autumn of 1805 she died in the arms of her faithful Jenny. Her son’s name was the last word on her lips.
The boy stood among the mourners at the graveside, his bright auburn hair accented by the sombre hue of his funeral garb.
He had been fetched from school yesterday. His father had not bothered to come, but Mr. Somerby had been waiting for him in the Headmaster’s room. That sudden summons to the sanctum had set him feverishly going over in his mind any recent offences for which he might be called to account. He had been late for chapel a few days ago, and there had been a mill with Smythe minor to resolve some dispute; but these were minor peccadillos which had already been dealt with at a lower level, not of sufficient seriousness to warrant an appearance before the Beak. Otherwise, things had been going rather well this term. His classics tutor had expressed satisfaction with his work, and the man was not easy to please. Anthony racked his brain but could think of nothing.
And then, surprisingly, the Beak had spoken to him kindly, saying that he feared Mr. Somerby had some bad news to deliver. After that, it was all blurred.
He could not believe it was his mother in that box they were bearing to the freshly dug grave. He knew he had lost her, would never see her more, would never again find an affectionate welcome at his home. But surely a bright, lively mind and a loving heart did not die with the body? There must be something that would live on, somewhere. The Rector said she lived on in Heaven. Where was Heaven? Could he believe there was such a place? Mrs. Somerby said that his mother lived on in the mind and heart of her son. Anthony found that less difficult to understand. But for the moment everything was too difficult; he needed to get away on his own somewhere, to think out these things.
After the service was over and the mourners had returned to the Hall for the customary cold collation, Anthony was missing. His grandparents enquired for him with loving concern; and when they learned that he was nowhere to be found in the house, sent a message over to the Rectory to see if he had gone there. Amanda, her heart too full to face the family gathering, had returned straight home from the churchyard; and they knew that Anthony had always regarded the Rectory as a second home and Mrs. Somerby in the light of a special kind of Aunt.
The young Viscount was not at the Rectory, however, and Mrs. Somerby was unable to suggest where he might be. Wherever it was, she felt convinced that for the present the poor lad would do better to be left alone. She reflected with tears in her eyes what a dreadful shock it must have been to the child — yes, he was a child still to her, even though he had now attained his fourteenth year — to receive a summons of such gravity in the familiar hurly-burly of what had until then been a normal school term. His loss was great indeed, all the greater because he had no affectionate, understanding father to share and soften his grief. So if he chose to creep away to nurse his hurts in solitude for a while, she would not be the one to force him back. Later, he might come voluntarily to her; she rather thought that he would.
But if her mother did not know where to find Anthony, Helen did. Creeping into the kitchen, which was at present deserted, she went over to the box where Bess lay with her four puppies before the fire. They were only three weeks old, soft, warm, roly-poly creatures with moist noses.
She took up one of them, wrapping it in a soft shawl which she had brought with her for the purpose. Bess looked up anxiously for a moment, but she did not make a fuss. She trusted Helen, knowing that the puppy would be safely restored presently.
With the little creature clasped tenderly in her arms, Helen stole quietly from the house and through the garden into the wood. Lightly as she trod, the fallen leaves crisped beneath her feet, a carpet of yellow, red, gold, and brown. They were still fluttering down from the trees as she passed, lighting for a moment on her hair or brushing against her cheek.
Presently she came to the spot she sought, the hollow near the oaks which in happier times had been the children’s hideout. And there was Anthony, as she had known he would be.
He lay curled up in the hollow, silent and motionless, his bright hair blending with the autumn leaves scattered around him.
He did not stir at her approach, and she stood still for several minutes, surveying him doubtfully. Then she climbed down to him and twined an arm about his neck. She spoke no word, but she laid her soft, cool cheek against his with infinite compassion.
He flung away from her with a quick movement, burying his face deeper into the leaves, and striking at the ground with clenched, impotent fists. She saw that his shoulders were shaking.
She knew then that there was no more she could do for him. Presently, perhaps, he would come to Mama and Papa, and they would help him. But now she must leave him alone with his sorrow.
She stood up, turning to go.
Then she hesitated. She pressed a kiss upon the puppy’s soft, warm head, gently laying
her bundle down within the shelter of Anthony’s outstretched arms.
PART II
London
1815-1816
“Yet heavens are just, and time suppresseth wrongs.”
— WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Henry VI
CHAPTER XIV
On a warm afternoon in June, 1815, Helen Somerby was walking with three of her schoolfellows in the secluded gardens of Mrs. Cassington’s Select Seminary for Young Ladies in Kensington.
Kensington was a pleasant, healthful village which had originally consisted solely of farms, riverside inns, and cottages; but in the days when King William III had moved his court there, new houses had sprung up suitable for occupation by the Gentry. Although Kensington Palace had since fallen out of favour with Royalty, King George III preferring Buckingham House as his London residence, the village remained a fashionable locality for the aristocratic and wealthy.
A young lady needed to be both of these to gain admittance to Mrs. Cassington’s superior establishment. The fees were one hundred and fifty guineas a year, with a long list of extra subjects. In her advertisements, the Principal undertook to provide Board and Lodging for Young Ladies of Refinement together with instruction in English Writing and Grammar, Arithmetic, History and the use of the Globes; in addition, they might acquire Proficiency in the French and Italian tongues, the Art of the Dance, playing upon the Harp and the Pianoforte, Drawing, Painting, and Needlework. She also promised that Parents and Guardians might depend on the Utmost Care being taken of the Young Ladies’ Manners and Deportment, and that a Particular Tenderness would be shown to their persons. How far her educational claims were justified might perhaps have been judged by the gratifying number of young ladies who left her care to enter upon the London social scene and eventually to make advantageous marriages. And as this was undoubtedly the aim of most parents who placed their offspring in Mrs. Cassington’s establishment, there could be no doubt that, in spite of the high fees she charged, the lady performed a most valuable service.
As far as the physical well-being of her pupils was concerned, Mrs. Cassington’s establishment was undoubtedly superior to most others of the kind. Visitors to the school, who were led by a liveried servant to an elegant sitting room with damask draperies and fine lustres fitted to the walls, and furnished throughout in the style of a wealthy private home, at once formed a gratifyingly favourable impression; this was further enhanced by a conducted tour of the school. Many other boarding schools crowded their pupils into cramped, airless dormitories, frequently requiring them to sleep two in a bed. At Mrs. Cassington’s establishment separate dormitories were provided for each age group, with no more than eight beds a side, every girl having a bed to herself. Each dormitory was under the supervision of a schoolmistress who slept in the same room. Moreover, in the senior girls’ dormitory personal privacy was ensured by white curtains draped around each bed to form a kind of cubicle.
The food was good, wholesome fare. Breakfast consisted of porridge, tea and toast; a light nuncheon of cold meats, bread, and fruit was offered at noon and a substantial dinner in the evening. Since children will always find something to grumble at in school meals, the complaint most often voiced here concerned lack of variety. Even the youngest among them soon learned that Monday would bring roast beef, Tuesday broiled mutton, Wednesday pork, Thursday roast mutton, Friday stewed beef and dumplings and Saturday cold beef or mutton with pickled walnuts. Sunday was poultry day and usually looked forward to by all, if only as a change from meat. The range of puddings was even more limited — either boiled suet, with or without currants, or else plain rice pudding, rarely a favourite. The Principal always insisted, however, that young ladies’ likes and dislikes should not be taken into account at mealtimes. Unless a girl was genuinely unwell, she would be expected to eat most of what was set before her. Another of her rules was that meals must be eaten in strict silence, unless it was necessary to ask for anything on the table to be passed; such requests were to be made in low tones, and any girl voicing them too frequently would be suitably reprimanded. It was scarcely surprising that as a result of this rule, some of the more timid girls developed a lifelong abstinence from certain condiments and sauces, which had habitually chanced to be placed out of their reach during their first year at the Seminary.
As Mrs. Cassington preferred to think of her Seminary more as a Finishing School for Young Ladies than an establishment for the elementary education of little girls, she never accepted a pupil, however highborn, under the age of eleven. Although most of her pupils had left her care by the time they reached sixteen, some few remained with her longer. These were the “parlour boarders,” accorded the special privilege of being permitted to take their meals with the teaching staff in the private parlour, instead of sitting down with the rest of the school in the communal dining room. The parlour boarders enjoyed other privileges, too; discipline was somewhat relaxed in their favour, they were able to have more free time and occasionally even to dine elsewhere, provided they were in the company of an approved escort, such as a close relative.
Even for those who never claimed this last privilege, the parlour dinners were a distinct improvement on the general school meal. This was not so much because of the food provided, which was unchanged in essentials, but because of the greater social ease prevailing. Guests were often present, and conversation of the kind suitable at an elegant dinner party was encouraged. Once a week Mrs. Cassington decreed that nothing but French should be spoken over the dinner table, thus ensuring that her young ladies should eventually enter the Polite World sufficiently versed in the tongue of that nation — with which regrettably the country had for many years now been engaged in warfare, but which had in the past contributed much to culture.
The strident dressing bell at seven o’clock was the signal for the girls to embark on the day’s activities. Dashing the sleep from their eyes, they made haste — especially in winter, for the dormitories were unheated even in this superior establishment — to wash and dress in the brown cambric muslin considered practical for everyday wear. Their toilet completed, they assembled downstairs for prayers before going in to breakfast at eight o’clock.
The meal over, lessons began. Much of the work consisted in learning by rote or copying extracts from approved textbooks. The teacher in English Grammar relied a great deal on a book by Miss Murry entitled Mentoria, or The Young Ladies’ Instructor. This took the form of educational conversations between Mentoria and two of her highborn pupils on such oddly assorted topics as Elocution and Geography, the Use of Grammar, or Politeness and Gratitude.
Another publication much in favour was Miss Richmal Mangnall’s Question and Answer book, especially the one dealing with History. Doubtless, it was hoped that by learning the answers to the questions posed, the pupil would gain a sufficient knowledge of the subject to sustain her throughout the intellectual rigours of a London Season.
After nuncheon there would be a walk in nearby Kensington Gardens if the weather proved suitable, or a period of needlework and Improving Conversation, should it be inclement. Afternoon sessions consisted of music, drawing, dancing and the all-important lessons in manners and deportment. These aimed to instruct a young lady in such vital matters as how to enter and leave a room with decorum; how to sit, rise, and make a curtsey gracefully; how to greet an acquaintance either in the street or the drawing room; how to pay and receive calls in the approved style and to write gracious letters of compliments, condolences, or thanks.
A coach was available in the stables so that the young ladies might learn how to enter and dismount from a vehicle without any awkward movements or an immodest display of ankle.
From four until five o’clock, a period was set aside to enable them to complete their preparation for the following day’s lessons or to fulfil any tasks set them as disciplinary punishment. By the time the clock struck five they were all thankful to conclude the day’s work and change into their regulation white muslins in readiness for dinne
r. The day ended with prayers, and candles were extinguished in all but the senior dormitory by eight o’clock.
The four young ladies at present taking exercise in Mrs. Cassington’s gardens were shortly to leave the lady’s care for good, this being their final term. They were all about eighteen years of age, dressed similarly in simple white muslin gowns with sashes of different colours to give a note of individuality.
They made an attractive group. Cynthia Lydney and Helen Somerby had fulfilled the promise of their childhood and become pretty girls, each in her own way. Cynthia was tall, dark, and elegant with provocative eyes that would later wreak havoc in the London ballrooms. Helen had a slim, well-proportioned figure, and her delicately boned face held all the liveliness and charm of her earlier days.
The third girl, Melissa Chetwode, was shorter than her companions and at present inclined to be plump, a fact which caused her much heartburning in spite of Helen’s friendly assurances that it was merely “puppy fat” and would fine down before long. She had a round, piquant face, melting brown eyes and a crop of rich chestnut curls. Catherine Horwood, on the other hand, was a trifle angular. Occasionally she expressed a wish for some of Melissa’s “comfortable padding,” but her lack of it did not detract from the pleasing impression made by her candid blue eyes and good-humoured, intelligent countenance.
“So we’re to have company at dinner again this evening,” remarked Cynthia in a cynical tone. “Nobody under the age of forty, I daresay, exactly as usual. Lud, how sick I am of Old Catty’s odious dinner parties! Thank Heavens, we shall soon be done with all that and may look forward to entertainments of a vastly different stamp — balls, routs, shopping in Bond Street — I can hardly wait!”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Helen, with a twinkle in her eye. “Surely you’ll miss the games of backgammon, Cynthia?”
A Regency Scandal Page 15