Habits of the House

by Fay Weldon

  The lion of the evening was Henry James himself, haughty and dignified, up from Sussex. There was a most extraordinary story going the rounds that he remained unmarried because he had deliberately sat on a white-hot stove to scald himself and thus make himself unfit to be a husband. It was the kind of thing one heard at the d’Astis’.

  H.G. Wells affected not to recognize Henry James, rather unkindly asking who the hippopotamus was. Mr James for his part seemed to rather admire H.G. as one who cultivated the common touch, of which Mr James was incapable, seeming to have been born stately and incapable of a short sentence. Rosina noted how, while her mother liked to invite guests who ‘got on’, the Countess deliberately chose those whom she hoped would not. Rosina’s parents had declared themselves indisposed, which Rosina knew to be a lie. Arthur had simply not turned up. Rosina supposed he was off with his whore.

  But Mrs O’Brien and her daughter Minnie were present. Rosina introduced herself and was studiously pleasant and polite. The mother was just very Irish, with a loud voice, a red face and the cheerful air of the unthinking. She was nicely dressed, looking as good as her stout figure could allow, which presumably was because of Grace. Rosina herself was feeling rather under-dressed: none of the other women present seemed to want in the least to be valued for their minds. Minnie was smaller than Rosina had imagined, nice-featured, and a little frumpish in a dull bronze silk dress which did not particularly become her – perhaps Grace hated her. Nor was Minnie forthcoming on the subject of Arthur, beyond saying his mount had been the pride of Rotten Row, as hers was certainly not, and they had had to take shelter from the rain.

  But the girl was not fit to be a Hedleigh and bring the mother’s genes into the family, and heaven knew what the father was like. A meat baron, a stockyard king! A gangster! And – worse – Minnie proved she was just too intolerably American: she picked at Rosina’s velvet gown, and said what a beautiful colour and texture the fabric was. English ladies avoided touching one another if it could be avoided. Minnie was just hopelessly foreign.

  But her behaviour did give Rosina the opportunity of saying ‘It’s a Liberty’s fabric. I would be more than happy to show you their little shop. We could have lunch or tea together there perhaps, and get to know each other better.’

  And Minnie had said she would be delighted, she surely would.

  A Dinner in Preparation

  5 p.m. Wednesday, 22nd November 1899

  The Countess of Dilberne had resigned herself to proper consideration of the Prince of Wales dinner and now discussed it with her husband. The menu had been decided, she told him, the invitations sent out: it was to be for twenty-eight. The number of guests was dictated by the size of the table. She began to feel she needed a larger dining table, perhaps one in a paler wood. Maple, perhaps? Mahogany was beginning to look heavy and old-fashioned. The cost of the dinner? Only sixty pounds, perhaps, when the need to hire liveried footmen and a silver butler was counted in.

  ‘More like seventy-five,’ said her husband.

  ‘How did you know?’ she asked, surprised.

  ‘Whenever you say “only”, I know you have underestimated by a quarter or thereabouts, so as not to alarm me. It is the normal habit of the female.’

  ‘It is because men always say “outrageous” if one speaks the truth about expense,’ observed her Ladyship. Rosina, she added, had taken the opportunity to point out that this was twice what Grace earned in a year; Isobel had remarked that it was also a third of Rosina’s allowance for the year, at which Rosina drifted off, no doubt to feed her pet parrot its very expensive Brazil nuts.

  ‘I told the girl it really was an unkindness to keep a flying bird cooped up in a living room with its wings clipped, and horribly unhealthy,’ said Isobel. ‘And more, the servants have to waste time cleaning up after it.’

  Rosina had not bothered to reply, just raised her eyebrows. Goodness gracious, Isobel suddenly realized, the girl is jealous. She feels neglected because Grace is dressing Minnie O’Brien. Because she fears she is not attractive to men, and is too tall to be anyone’s instant choice, and too proud to admit it to anyone. She would rather drive men off than risk rebuff. And she blames me because I am her mother and have failed to bring her into a perfect world.

  She applied her mind to the dinner again. There were to be twelve courses: pheasant soup, caviar, tartlets of crayfish in a cream sauce, turbot with tartar sauce, grouse sautéed in sherry, ducklings foie gras with brandy and truffles, baron of lamb, a liqueur sorbet, salad, cheeses, fruit, and a gelée marbrée.

  Robert complained that twelve courses were perhaps not lavish enough for a royal dinner, but Isobel held firm, saying it was more than enough for a private dinner. Isobel murmured about the price but Robert said she should leave the worrying to him, inasmuch as after the next cabinet shuffle she might well find herself wife to a Minister of the Crown; and whoever had heard of a bankrupt Minister? This so relieved and pleased Isobel that she offered to add another course, of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and horseradish sauce, between the duck and the lamb, but Robert blenched and said she was probably right, twelve was more than enough. It was nearly the twentieth century, and probably by the end of it, the way things were going, and fewer courses becoming fashionable, just a tartlet, or salad and cheese with a College Pudding would satisfy even the grandest. Isobel went up on her toes and kissed Robert’s cheek, saying she was the luckiest and happiest woman alive, and truly feeling it.

  A Reconciliation Below Stairs

  7 p.m. Wednesday, 22nd November 1899

  Smithers reported the display of affection back to the servants’ hall, and a warm glow ran through the whole household. Cook stopped worrying about the cream sauce for the crayfish tartlet: she had tried and it was no easy matter keeping the pastry crisp when doused with a hot sauce. But no doubt on the night she would manage. Elsie received a letter from Alan her beau, saying he had taken the pledge, and now he could say with confidence ‘no hand that touches liquor shall ever touch mine,’ because he was a changed man and saving hard. She had to get Mrs Neville to read it to her, because she could not read. She had never let Alan know that this was the case. Mr Neville undertook to teach her.

  All agreed to forgive Minnie for the vulgarity of her mother, and for not being English; Master Arthur, they noted, had been very cheerful of late (‘Not surprised,’ remarked Reginald, and then quickly said ‘Sorry, Cook,’ so for once she decided to take no offence), so much generosity of spirit was attributed to Minnie. It must have been love at first sight, all agreed: things had moved so fast. What Dilberne Court needed was children to run around the garden again and cheer the place up. Miss Rosina was evidently not going to provide them, so the sooner the young Viscount’s wedding bells were announced, and an heir produced, the better. Cook said she had never tried her hand at a wedding cake; there would be a shortage of eggs until the hens started laying again, but she had heard that grated carrot made an adequate substitute, volume for volume with eggs. The other secret was twice the sherry that the recipes said.

  Rosina and Minnie Shop at Liberty & Co

  2.15 p.m. Tuesday, 28th November 1899

  Minnie was delighted when Rosina invited her on a shopping trip to Liberty & Co. It was a good sign; she was to be welcomed to the family. Rosina had never seemed particularly friendly, but she had learned from Stanton that people did not necessarily look as they felt. Rosina’s mouth would start twitching if she were feeling nervous, as Stanton Turlock’s had, and she had the same habit of looking not at you, but slightly away from you. But she understood that: it came from an excess of intelligence and anxiety mixed, which ebbed and flowed like the tide. Arthur trusted Rosina, so she would also. She wanted to be friends.

  Besides she needed a motoring hat, which meant a big scarf tied over the hat and under the chin, and Liberty’s, though she had never been to the store, was known to have the best fabrics in London. Tana lawn, named after Lake Tana in Ethiopia, was the finest, softest cotton
available anywhere.

  Arthur was to drive her down to Hampshire in the Arnold Jehu steam car. She both looked forward to the journey and dreaded it. She had inspected the automobile in Arthur’s garage, and it was certainly a graceful thing, and with its two large headlights like two bright eyes, had an almost human quality. She could understand his affection for it, though she feared it would be worse than a bony nag to sit upon for any length of time, while the large wheels rumbled on their thin white tyres, and the engine puffed and boiled behind them. A bolting horse seemed a lesser danger. But Arthur loved it, so she would learn to.

  Arthur had said, ‘She’s fine going uphill, but used to be a little heavy going down: so now I’ve put in condenser in and fitted a different flash boiler which should really improve matters. She’ll manage the Devil’s Punchbowl now with no trouble. I’ll just make sure that by the time we’re on the top of the hill we’re low on water to reduce weight. She’ll still pick up a good head of speed but you won’t mind that. I’ve seen you on horseback. We’ll be grand.’

  She loved him so she did not even demur. She must try not to tell Arthur she loved him. Nothing frightened men more than a declaration of true love; Tessa had told her so, and her friends lamented that it was true. Yet she had told Stanton Turlock she loved him, and it had not put him off, rather it had spurred him on. But then he was an artist and perhaps she hadn’t really loved him. The initial sexual excitement which had carried her away and led her to ‘give up all for love of a genius’, a deed which she now regarded with embarrassment and horror, had faded quickly, even as Stanton’s had, to be replaced by his low moods and bad temper. His professions of undying love had stopped; next thing he shrank from her touch. Then he had been seized by the Devil’s own energy, ceaseless sex had replaced the hurtful indifference, and he’d start shouting, waving an old sabre, and threatening to slash the works of his rivals, convinced that Minnie was in league with them. ‘I warned you,’ Tessa had told her. ‘These artists are just plain pesky.’

  ‘Pesky ain’t the word for it,’ Billy had said. ‘He’s loco. A pig with a demon inside, trampling pearls. Go off and find yourself some better breeding material. And don’t come back until you have.’

  At least Arthur was not crazy. Madcap, but not gloomy, hurtful crazy.

  Liberty’s, a little shop off the sweep of Regent Street, was even smaller than she expected, but inside was all beauty. Everything seemed to glow. Fabrics hung gracefully, delicate flimsy furniture – little pieces placed here and there, suitable for the smaller town houses of London, Rosina explained, not like the ponderous family pieces she herself had been brought up with. Strange dull copper and brass pieces from Asia and Arabia whose use you couldn’t even imagine, fabrics designed by William Morris himself, smocked dresses in smoky velvets which showed rather a lot of leg but had high, cluttered necklines, the kind of thing Rosina herself favoured. It was all enchanting, and had a special smell rather like the incense they used at mass, which she supposed was designed to drug you in some way, so you didn’t notice how high the prices were. And they certainly were.

  Yet it all seemed to Minnie slightly decadent, on its way out, a shrine to the past, an altar to the gods of greenery-yallery as the old century died. She had a sudden pang for the wide open spaces, the prairie and the lakes and the sweep of sky above, and the lowing of cattle as they were herded and the crack of the cowboy’s whip, and the coyote’s yelp and her father’s kindly, if brutish, common sense. He funded an Art Institute but left the art to his wife, who valiantly aspired to discrimination but could never quite get there.

  Minnie did not want to be the child of some effete English painter, though she accepted that she might well be. She wanted to be Billy’s daughter. Surely a child belonged to whoever brought her up? She had no wish to seek out her natural father. Supposing it occurred to her mother to leave her husband and take up with Eyre Crowe? She was quite capable of it. If she, Minnie, had run off with Stanton Turlock, a rather inferior painter, might not her mother run off with a better one?

  ‘A penny for your thoughts,’ said Rosina.

  Not on your Nellie, thought Minnie. She longed to tell someone, but it was for her mother to tell, not for her. Her mother had already been indiscreet. The news of her illegitimacy would probably be with the Dilbernes already. But they were like her father, interested in breeding and the inheritance of characteristics, and would probably prefer the blood of an English gentleman to run through the Dilberne veins, to that of a crude Irish peasant whose only merit was that he had managed to grow rich.

  ‘You’re very silent. Mama says your mother is the opposite.’

  Tact was clearly not Rosina’s strong point, but at least she was honest and straightforward. Minnie decided she liked her.

  ‘She is very noisy but she has a good heart, and I love her very much,’ said Minnie. ‘I may be noisy too, but I’m struck dumb by the beauty of this store. Also by the prices.’

  ‘I am surprised that you are troubled by the cost,’ said Rosina. ‘I thought the whole point of you is that you are rich.’ She is so like Stanton, thought Minnie. She can’t help but speak the truth as it occurs to her.

  ‘I am rich enough,’ said Minnie, ‘but I’m just remembering that the workers who make these things probably get paid indecently little.’ She guessed this was an opinion which would endear her to Rosina, and found that she had read the girl rightly. Rosina beamed and in the gentle light of the shop, looked almost lovely. If only she could learn to stand proudly upright and not stoop, and look others in the eye, she could be almost a beauty.

  Minnie went in search of a Tana lawn scarf and found a very pleasant one, all peacock tails, in (the label troubled to say, and the store seemed very proud of it, whatever it was) Mr Arthur Silver’s recent Hera design, all greens and blues, colours that everyone knew ‘never went together’. She hoped it would prove popular but feared it wouldn’t. It would do well enough to tie under her chin. And Hera was the Greek goddess of love and marriage so Minnie made up her mind almost at once. It would bring good luck.

  Rosina suggested they had tea and cakes in the little restaurant, where they sat upon little spindly chairs designed by Charles Voysey, who had just designed H.G. Wells’ house.

  ‘I do so admire Mr Wells,’ said Minnie. ‘So young and so clever.’

  ‘But he squeaks when he speaks,’ complained Rosina, and pointed out that H.G. had been present at the d’Asti party and expressed surprise that Minnie had not been introduced.

  ‘You mean the little man with the crowd of women around him? The one who upset Henry James by calling him a hippopotamus? Well, I suppose we must forgive him. He did write The War of the Worlds, after all. Such a diverting novel.’

  ‘Diverting?’ enquired Rosina. ‘Hardly. Alarming, I should say. Wells points out that just as we overwhelm the poor Africans with our weapons and our scientific inventions, the same thing could very well happen to us.’ Minnie observed that it was a great pleasure to find herself in a place where books were discussed and not just what a good hog could fetch in a competitive market. That too went down well with Rosina. They would be friends. Rosina’s brow ceased to crease in such an alarming way. She was looking positively pretty. They ordered saffron tea. Rosina said it was good for the eyesight and for the complexion. It was made from crocuses which grew in Persia.

  The Earl Makes a Mistake

  3.30 p.m. Tuesday, 28th November 1899

  Even as Minnie raised the cup of saffron tea to her lips and smelled its strange odour of damp pencils, so her Ladyship raised a cup of more familiar China tea to her lips in the House of Lords; she admired the view of the Thames, flowing slightly murkily, it was true, but certainly no longer stinking, as it had when she had visited London as a child. The London sewers had been finished and the city had much benefitted from the network, though it turned out that smell itself was not the culprit, but a polluted water supply. The Earl had invited his wife to listen to the third reading o
f some proposed legislation she might find interesting, since her charity At Homes were in support of St Joseph League for the Mother and Child. The Bill was to oblige all practising midwives to be licensed by the General Medical Council. The debate was fierce – male obstetricians arguing that women should not be seen as professionals – even though the death rate from puerperal fever was rising and much of it due to simple lack of hygiene on the part of untrained midwives.

  Private member’s bill after private member’s bill had been flung out, though after the pattern of these things, it would eventually become law. Not probably this year. Isobel had been delighted to come along. You never knew whom you might meet, and it was quite an event to meet her husband where he worked. He had slipped out of his own meeting with a sleeping Salisbury and various more alert and younger members of the War Office, to join his wife for a cup of tea. The cups were too delicate for their own good, small and too thin, with a pretty flowered pattern. Rather, his Lordship felt, like his wife herself, sitting like some delicate tea rose in this very solid stone male maze.

  It seemed she had not been paying much attention to the debate. She had been brooding.

  ‘This Flora of Arthur’s,’ she said, ‘how do you come to know so much about her? That she has aspirations to being a courtesan, and dresses very agreeably, and you can recognize her at Pagani’s? This common harlot?’

  ‘Oh, that’s all over,’ he said, without thinking, ‘a long time ago.’

  She gave a little scream, and jumped to her feet, and stood, her arms across her chest, like some wronged stage heroine, her eyes wide and horrified. Fortunately the restaurant was almost empty. No wonder men went to such lengths to keep women out of male establishments. Women, even the best of them, made scenes.