Bad Miss Bennet

by Jean Burnett

  Adelaide complained about the dangers of foreign food and perilous sea crossings. She could not appreciate that we were about to enter the acme of culture and fashion.

  ‘But they’re all Frenchies, madam!’ she wailed. ‘We was at war with them a year or so ago.’

  ‘And now they are conquered and perfectly agreeable. You should be grateful I am taking you along,’ I scolded. ‘Would you rather remain in dismal Derbyshire or boring Bath?’ Adelaide’s eyes filled with tears. I had forgotten her footman. Never mind; she will find plenty more in France. I bequeathed two of my old Pemberley gowns to her as a consolation. She will do very well with them.

  Before we left for Dover I made a last attempt to find my friends. I dragged an unwilling Adelaide from the hotel just before dawn, planning to be back before we were missed by Mrs Makepeace. We travelled by cab to Portman Square only to find the house empty and desolate. A bailiff’s notice fluttered disconsolately around the porch indicating that my friends had made a hurried departure.

  I peered through the window into the forlorn, dust-sheeted salon. Why had my friends not waited out the six months offered to them? Their financial affairs must have taken a turn for the worse. What I would have given at that moment to hear Miles calling for porter or Selena’s voice upbraiding us for our shortcomings. How long had it been since I had played cards seriously or filled my purse with hard won gold? Even the splendours of Paris faded into the background momentarily.

  I sat despondently on the cold stone steps and shed a few tears. Adelaide advised me that I was making a show of myself for the neighbours, as if any would be abroad at that hour. Morning had broken with ominous vermilion waves in the sky and grey cumuli scudding in from the west. The first trades people were entering the square calling their wares, milk panniers were clattering and the coalman with sacks on his back was shouting the need for small coals.

  Life was returning, but the whereabouts of Selena and Miles remained a mystery. Had they searched for me at all – and where was the Count? He must have been established in Paris for many weeks. I would have to locate the Austro-Hungarian embassy as soon as I reached the city. I dried my eyes and collected myself. With a loud sniff I gathered my cloak about me and returned to the cab.

  ‘Never mind,’ I announced to the world. ‘I am bound for Paris and a new life.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Paris, Summer 1817

  My employer, who loved her creature comforts, had arranged through her legal advisor to hire a private yacht for the channel crossing. We were not too discomposed but Wellington was violently sick for most of the journey and Mrs Makepeace required constant reassurance that we were not about to sink. Adelaide was prostrate for the entire time and in order to avoid being worn out with demands I too pleaded mal de mer and retired to my berth for the rest of the eighteen hour journey.

  It was not possible to disembark from our yacht at Calais pier. All ships must anchor offshore and the passengers transfer to small boats in order to reach the shore. Even then, the boat could not come right up to the shore and we suffered the indignity of being unceremoniously piggybacked to the pier on the backs of insalubrious Frenchmen of the seafaring class, who rolled their eyes and muttered French oaths as they transported us. The men carrying portly Mrs Makepeace, in particular, did a great deal of oath muttering.

  Adelaide, suddenly recovered from her sea sickness, found the whole episode hilarious. While I hung on grimly to my porter, the giddy creature shrieked with laughter and urged on her bearer in distinctly salacious terms, clasping him around the neck so tightly that the fellow could scarcely breathe.

  Once we had arrived on dry land we were soon able to embark on the travelling coach that my employer had purchased from a member of the aristocracy who was returning home. This large, lumbering equipage was fitted with every conceivable device for comfortable travel but the appalling French roads made any progress slow and disagreeable. Nevertheless, Mrs Makepeace was so pleased to be on terra firma that she declared she could easily become addicted to genteel vagabondising.

  Our journey overland to Paris was otherwise uneventful. I was consumed with excitement at the thought of seeing la belle Paris at last, but we arrived at night and I saw nothing. We retired to bed in the Hotel Meurice and I slept soundly.

  As soon as I woke I rushed to the window and drew back the draperies. The rue de l’Echiquier lay before me, full of elegant mansions, many of them occupied by the nobility. When I joined Mrs Makepeace she was enjoying chocolate and croissants and accosting the staff in shrill, heavily accented French. I could not wait to be out and about in the city but my employer announced that we should first pay our respects at the British Embassy on the Faubourg St Honoré where we might be presented to the rat catcher himself – I mean the Duke of Wellington.

  I wondered if the duke’s former mistress, Harriette Wilson, was in residence on the rue de la Paix. Such a woman of the world might be acquainted with the Count or know something of his whereabouts. All I needed was some time away from Mrs Makepeace. Wild thoughts rushed through my mind. Would she give me the use of her carriage so that I could make my enquiries? Would an excess of French brandy render her sufficiently somnolent for a few hours so that I would not be missed?

  As we passed No. 48 rue de L’Echiqier my employer told me that it had once been a pavilion where dances were held. ‘All gone,’ she sighed, ‘all gone.’

  Although the duke was not at home during our visit we were entertained splendidly by one of his aides, Captain Marshfield, who poured out a veritable treasure trove of gossip and information about Parisian life. Mrs Makepeace nodded amiably and addressed herself to the Burgundy while I listened all agog.

  ‘You will have noticed dear ladies that the streets of this city are very narrow and dark, except for the grand boulevards. They are even worse than London and equally dangerous. Do not venture out alone and on foot at any time.’ I nodded eagerly waiting for something more pertinent, such as a hint about fashionable society and where to find it. The captain continued in his own way.

  ‘The city is still full of occupying troops from various countries. They all hate each other, everyone hates the Prussians and the French hate us all. They insult us on the streets and constantly challenge us to duels. Napoleonic riffraff! Duelling is the principal mode of exercise in this city.’ I was concerned to hear this. Duelling inevitably led to fatalities, which would shrink the numbers of eligible men.

  ‘Gambling,’ continued the captain, ‘is an obsession with both sexes here. At the Salon des Étrangers in the Palais Royal vast fortunes are wagered and lost.’ I perked up at this point, as he added that rouge et noir and roulette were the games of choice. Paris was definitely to be my home from home.

  ‘I have heard that the Palais Royal is the centre of fashionable life here,’ I remarked.

  ‘All the great ladies and the not-so-great take their mocha and ices at the café Tortoni. The opera is also madly fashionable. Gambling, dancing and the pursuit of women – these are the universal preoccupations.’

  Mrs Makepeace appeared to be quite comfortable if not comatose at this point, so I agreed to accompany the captain on a tour of the beautiful house while he continued to advise me on matters Parisian.

  ‘The minuet, gavroche and monaco are the popular dances. You must obtain an invitation from the Princess Beauvau. She gives elegant dances in her hotel on the Faubourg St Germain.’

  As we drove back to the hotel I gaily informed my employer of this social gossip but she remained unimpressed saying that things were altogether finer in the old days.

  ‘Paris has sadly deteriorated,’ she sniffed, then to my horror she muttered something about not staying long. ‘I think it would be far more enjoyable in Venice.’ She continued in this vein for some time – everything was better in the old days and the world was going to the dogs.

  I almost choked with impotent rage. All my efforts in prising the old lady off her Bath sofa in order to reach
the city of my dreams – wasted! Still trying to relive her youth, she naturally found that things were not the same. As a mere employee I was powerless to do anything but agree. How I silently cursed my brother-in-law for putting me in this position. If my curses find their mark his fine teeth and hair will drop out overnight.

  Mrs Makepeace detected that I was much cast down by her remarks and had the grace to apologise.

  ‘Forgive me, my dear, I am simply a catastrophising grumbletonian.’ I was not sure of her meaning but my spirits rose a little when she commanded the coachman to drive us about the city from the Bois de Boulogne to the Tuileries Gardens and along the boulevards. However, the views were spoiled for me by the knowledge that we would be leaving so soon. On arrival at the hotel I was obliged to read aloud passages from La Nouvelle Heloise while I choked back tears of mortification.

  My disappointment was scarcely alleviated when Adelaide reported that fine jewellery could be obtained far more cheaply in Paris than in London. Now I would never have the opportunity to find out for myself. Adelaide did not believe that my employer was serious about departing for Italy.

  ‘The lady hates travelling too much for that,’ she declared.

  ‘You are wrong, her mind is made up.’

  ‘My eye in a bandbox!’ she retorted. I was not always sure of her meaning.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I remained aghast at Mrs Makepeace’s announcement: truly she was a veritable flippetygibbet, a weathercock in petticoats. I was occasionally able to take advantage of our circumstances by using the carriage when my employer was resting. Accompanied by Adelaide and occasionally escorted by Captain Marshfield, who made himself very agreeable to our household, we glimpsed more of Paris.

  The city was full of the English as well as crowds of foreign soldiery. In the Palais Royal the captain eyed his assembled countrymen. ‘John Bull gadding about,’ he said sardonically. ‘I wish they would all go home or depart for Florence, that other home from home for our people.’

  It was noticeable that the prostitutes in the Palais were doing great business and many of them sported jewellery of enormous value bequeathed by their patrons. As these ladies occupied rooms conveniently sited next to the gaming salons, the attractions were obvious.

  There could never be enough time to enjoy this great city. The captain agreed to escort me to the casinos, saying that he was amused by my daring behaviour. I had occasion for some good fortune at the roulette table – followed by an even greater streak of bad luck on another – but I saw no sign of dear Count Ferenc. I hoped to do so before we left the city. If only Selena and Miles could have joined me. How they would have loved everything.

  On several occasions I went with the captain to some places in the Palais Royal known as restaurants. These institutions were unknown in England and scarcely existed outside Paris. Members of the public paid to eat a meal together in one room which was prepared and served by strangers. In one of the most popular of these places – patronised by Wellington and his officers – we partook of soup and bifteck aux pommes frites. On another occasion I ate for the first time pieds de mouton gras double sur le gril. I could not imagine eating pig’s trotters in England but in the French style they were delicious. Indeed, everything seemed improved in the French language.

  My employer refused to eat in public but she delighted in ordering meals to be delivered to her rooms in a heated box. A garçon would appear with soup, a main course and a pudding. He would lay the table and serve the food – and all for a few francs. A bottle of wine was added for another franc or two. Restaurants were not respectable places, she declared, but she did not object when I visited them.

  I loved the Palais Royal above all. It was the only place in Paris that was well-lighted. I dared not walk alone in the dark and dangerous side streets and I could only walk in the Palais Royal when Captain Marshfield agreed to escort me. This was so tiresome, I would have given anything to be with the dear Count – or Miles and Selena. Nevertheless, all was dazzle and gaiety in that wondrous place. Everyone paraded in their finest clothes and jewels – great ladies, actresses, officers and ladies of the night together.

  The jewellers’ shops, cafés and casinos shone with light and warmth. Drinking and gaming were all around us. The captain complimented me on the Prince Regent’s necklace which I wore with my best gown when we visited the place. I had an uncomfortable idea that he knew or guessed how I had acquired it.

  Seven p.m. was the optimum hour to be in the Palais Royal. The captain pointed out the King of Prussia, and any number of dukes and princes among the strollers at that hour. They mingled casually with ordinary folk of all nations. If only my Count had been among them. Instead, I ogled Count Hunyady, excessively handsome and a notorious gambler, always dressed in the high kick of fashion. He was the talk of the town.

  ‘He will end badly,’ the captain remarked. ‘Gamblers always do.’

  As we strolled among this sparkling throng I passed several very tall ladies endowed like Greek goddesses, their height enhanced with ostrich plumes and lofty headgear. I have always been somewhat petite and I suddenly felt overshadowed, inadequate and quite unattractive, although I am not usually lacking in self-confidence.

  I tried to walk taller and I reminded myself that I had danced with the Prince of Orange and shared the Regent’s bed, although that particular prince was not known for his discrimination.

  ‘You are looking pensive, Mrs Wickham,’ my companion remarked. ‘Time for a little wine and refreshment, I think.’

  ‘And then let us try our luck again at rouge et noir,’ I insisted.

  My excursions into this heaven were all too rare. It was all very well for Mrs Makepeace. She knew Paris intimately, as she never tired of reminding everyone. She scorned the new king, ineffectual little Louis XVIII, remembering the glories of Versailles in the past. Neither was she impressed by the number of uniformed officers present, having lost all taste for anything other than ices and Napoleon brandy.

  ‘In my day,’ she declared, ‘one needed more than a few pairs of kid gloves and a foppish manner to enter the highest Parisian society. The city is full of mountebanks and officers without a penny to their names.’ It appeared that I would not wear my new white gauze gown with its pink satin underskirt on this occasion, after all.

  In fact, I had the opportunity to attend one soirée in the house of one of the nobility. I recall the white and gold panelled rooms and the creaking wooden floors. Once again accompanied by Captain Marshfield, wearing my white gauze and a soupçon of rouge, I was introduced to an elderly Duke who passed me on to a younger partner. We essayed a waltz and I was amused to see that the Parisian fashion was to dance on the balls of the feet while keeping one arm aloft. This made the dance so difficult that I was in danger of falling over many times. I was also disconcerted when my partner executed a pirouette or two; not a sight that would be seen in London. My journal, faithfully kept, grew more cosmopolitan by the day.

  When we returned to the hotel my employer said, ‘There, my dear, you have had your taste of Paris.’ Fortunately, the captain came to my assistance by warning her of the excessive cost of travelling through France and Italy. ‘Around eight guineas per day, I believe.’ He enlarged upon the filthy inns, the appalling roads and the lack of decent food. ‘Travellers of my acquaintance have been forced to subsist on tea.’ Mrs Makepeace, who seldom drank anything but alcohol, was not greatly disturbed by this last remark, but the captain’s words cast some doubts in her mind and we continued our stay while she thought the matter over. She went as far as employing a Parisian laundry woman and instructing the staff to unpack her mountains of luggage.

  When the time finally came to leave I gave vent to some sighs and tears as we repacked the household goods and chattels and set off on a journey of five weeks or more through the entire length of France and over the Alps into Italy. Eventually we would reach the Brenta canal, the traditional gateway to Venice.

  As we trun
dled out of Paris I took comfort in the letter hidden in my reticule. I received it only yesterday from an Austrian acquaintance made at the gaming tables and it informed me that the Count had been recalled to Vienna. Was Vienna anywhere near Venice? I wondered. If only I had listened more attentively when papa taught us the use of the globes. I enquired of my employer who waved a hand vaguely in the direction of Calais and said it was ‘quite near.’ This and the presence of Lord Byron in Venice offered me a few crumbs of comfort.

  I will not trouble you, dear reader, with a description of our travels save to say that they were the stuff of nightmare. Captain Marshfield, on orders from the embassy, kindly escorted us to the Swiss border with two outriders. France remained an extremely dangerous country for travellers with remnants of Napoleon’s defeated army marauding everywhere. Indeed, the captain had been so solicitous that I began to wonder if he was attracted to me. Surely he was not interested in my employer? She remained largely oblivious to the discomforts, being pickled in brandy most of the time.

  When we reached the Alps we found the Swiss to be a dull and surly people surprisingly unwilling to help us across their mountains despite the good living they made from this enterprise. Captain Marshfield told me they lived mainly on cheese and chocolate which must affect their disposition. The awful and terrifying ordeal of crossing the Alps resulted in the loss of many household items and of the coach itself which literally disintegrated like matchwood.

  I cannot imagine how the ancient general Hannibal conveyed elephants across these mountains. I remember papa telling us the story. Perhaps the Swiss were more obliging in those days. As soon as we were able to procure another vehicle we travelled on to the Brenta canal where we transferred to a horse drawn barge which was surprisingly comfortable and luxurious. The local people call them burchiellos.