by Janet Todd
‘Don’t let me disturb you, ma’am – a lady writing a letter is most decorously occupied.’
‘Then pray do not, Mr Manwaring.’
‘But I’m told that the fair sex can do many things at once, write, sew, play cards even while hearing every conversation in a room, so attuned are their minds to their world.’
‘I wonder who told you so, Mr Manwaring,’ she said putting down her quill, which rolled off the desk to the floor. Not a lot of writing was going to be done today. ‘Such secrets are not usually shared between the sexes.’
‘You forget, ma’am, that I am confined to petticoats here.’
‘Yet I fancy those details are divulged only in the most intimate relations.’
‘Ah,’ he replied, getting up and moving towards where she sat at the side table, ‘one has then to take every opportunity for learning.’
He was a foot or two from her when Miss Dawlish entered in search of Elizabeth Moxon’s cookery book. She had left it in the parlour and it had been put into the library by an untrained housemaid, instead of back in her own room. Her eyes at once took in the relative positions of Lady Susan and Mr Manwaring.
She greeted them both civilly, took the book from the shelf, opened it, then seated herself at the central table. A flush rose up her neck into her face as she looked down at the pages.
Manwaring picked up the quill Lady Susan had let fall, saying. ‘Thank you, Lady Susan, I am so clumsy with sharpening these things. When I’m in less of a hurry than today I will do the same for you.’
So saying he returned to his writing desk with her quill.
She had no desire to sharpen another implement nor to begin her letter. Smiling equally at Miss Dawlish and Manwaring she left the library.
During the next days she could not avoid feeling a new coolness of response among the ladies. Was she losing her touch? Or was she letting thoughts of Mr Manwaring influence her? There was something – what was the word? – mesmeric about him. She herself had not joined in the craze for mesmeric practitioners, although Lady Heton claimed one of them had cured her of a spasm in her face and a lowness of spirits after her husband died. French scientists mocked the idea of special bodily fluids which Mesmer declared he could control but even they had not doubted his powers over the imagination. If he could draw people towards him by holding their thumbs and looking into their eyes, then perhaps other men had these powers without being aware of them.
Lady Susan was amused at her efforts to account for her new electric sensations. Once she had delighted in Lord Gamestone’s secret glances in public, the presents, the jewellery, the embroidered handkerchiefs with little messages encoded, the enamelled boxes, the furtiveness, above all the attention, for he adored her. She liked the game of sex, she liked being pursued and ruffled. Here Jack Fortuny had been such fun, for he seemed to know so much about her affair and to want to talk about it with her. She had played coyly with Lord Gamestone, and she and Jack had laughed together over the trouble he had to take with her seduction. But the act, when it came among the sky-blue hangings was, she had to admit it, disappointing. He was too eager, too quick. Was she perhaps a little cold? She drew men easily, loved the influence, but this was not the first time she had not in the end received the pleasure she assumed would be hers beyond the chase.
Perhaps for women there was only the chase. She had to admit that, when it came to sheer pleasure, she’d had more from Alicia in school. Certainly she had as much excitement at the gaming table. As she played the cards she felt that looseness and pattering between her legs that men so rarely developed further in her. As a result she had not had quite as many lovers in the blue chamber as her detractors ascribed to her.
Something was new here, something peculiar to Manwaring. Perhaps it was the hazard of such an attraction burgeoning among so many watchers and such dangerous possibilities. Whatever its cause and result, it would, she now feared, have to go further. She must control the consequences, though she might, she realised, already be paying a price. She smiled into her glass and put her finger on her reflected lips.
During one early evening, Manwaring, his wife, Lady Susan, and the vicar played a gentle game of whist at one table while Sir James, Mary, and Miss Dawlish sat at another, moving dominoes round a square. Manwaring’s hand touched Lady Susan’s more than once. The action might have been inadvertent but the crushing weight of his foot on her toes beneath the table could not be so. When she felt it, a flicker of pleasure had lit her eyes and he must have seen it. For the rest of the night she avoided looking at him.
Next morning as she started down towards the breakfast room she found him lurking in the corridor. He was waiting to waylay her. She felt a surge of excitement. He stopped and pressed her arm. ‘Lady Susan,’ he said, ‘perhaps you would take a gentle stroll to the summer house after you have breakfasted.’
She inclined her head and passed on to the room where Frederica, Mary and Sir James, who had ridden back to Langford that morning, were eating a late breakfast of boiled eggs and cold meat. Sir James was happily talking nonsense about his visit and the wonderful counting horse he’d bought, but Lady Susan wasn’t listening. She saw that he glanced now and again towards Frederica, who was as usual silent, while Mary interrupted him trying to get his attention.
After breakfast as she was moving towards her rooms she paused on the grand staircase to look at one of the portraits of the dead Dawlish women. Sir James was passing and she turned to him. ‘It is wonderfully executed, is it not? I think it must have been painted in Italy.’
Sir James had nothing to say to this but he stopped to stand by her. Lady Susan put her hand lightly on his arm. He flushed crimson and stammered something she couldn’t catch. Clearly he was desperate for the female touch and Mary was too preening and self-absorbed to see it. If only Frederica would be pliant and make just a little effort.
Lady Susan smiled to stop the young man stumbling. ‘But you have not been in Italy.’
‘No, my dear mother died and …’ He paused, gurgled, and went on. ‘But when the war is over I will, I can … I have just the carriage and horses at home for a long journey. I—’
‘Of course,’ she interrupted. She turned back to the portrait. ‘Just a little touch of Frederica, I think, don’t you?’
And in truth the portrait in its blank sweetness did have something of her daughter’s look.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Sir James. ‘She is very pretty.’
Lady Susan decided to leave it unclear whether he meant the portrait or her daughter. She removed her hand, smiled again, and went lightly up the stairs to her dressing room to fetch her pelisse. Sir James was not difficult to play; the game was boring.
As Barton helped her into her outdoor clothes she thought of what awaited her in the summer house. How far should she let matters go? She had laughed at Alicia when they’d talked in London, and yet she was not unmindful of her friend’s warnings.
She walked at a moderate pace out of the house, through the knot garden, skirting the yew hedges, and to the lawns beyond. The day was dismal, dank, and even misty. So candles were lit in some rooms; they cast a flickering light out into the gloom but only for a little way. By the time she had come a short distance she would be only a shadowy shape from any window. Yet she fancied eyes fixed on her.
At the end of the lawns was the summer house. It was built of stone in the style of a rustic hermitage. Its door was artfully concealed by a holly bush, so that from the house it would not be clear, even to those with good eyesight, that a walker had not simply gone round the building and headed for the belt of trees beyond.
Lady Susan pushed the thick door, which opened easily: Manwaring was there.
Her coming told him that she accepted whatever would follow. He had taken a risk in asking her so blatantly and it argued no very high opinion of her character. Since he’d been more in London than his wife, presumably he’d heard rumours from which Mrs Manwaring had been shielded and of which he’
d not thought fit to acquaint her when Lady Susan was proposed as a house guest. His readiness to be at home when he usually felt obliged to be with his male friends or on ‘business’ in London suggested he’d been interested in her even before she arrived.
He came towards her out of the dimness. ‘Well now,’ he said, then took her arm and pulled her to him. Then he put a hand on her chest catching the swell of her breasts. He pushed it slowly, almost painfully over them.
It was absurdly fast. Lady Susan jerked back as if stung and slapped his face hard. He caught her by the wrist, grinned and pulled her to him again.
The slap accelerated them beyond any words, and Lady Susan felt a rapid surge of blood. She tugged a little to free herself but Manwaring held on to her wrists. Soon they were on the Turkish ottoman together caught in a mass of Indian shawls while he undid the silken fastenings, tearing some in his haste.
So things proceeded. It was far more impetuous than Lady Susan had anticipated – or than she had ever experienced. Yet she found she was not averse to this mastering – especially since she could share it. For the slap on his face was only the first of such chastisements she felt she must give to him, and the exertion of her own violence made her temperature rise.
Of course he muttered the right words – love, desire, desperation, raging blood, he’d never seen a woman like her, he thought of her every minute, and so on. He licked the licks and flicked his tongue, stoking her in a way she remembered from her time with Lord Gamestone, although with him it had been less overpowering. Now this force and commanding vulnerability took her breath away.
Nothing quite like it had happened to her before. She had had desires early on in school and knew well how to satisfy them but it was a long time since she’d wanted to pleasure herself. She felt disinclined to damp or kill the burgeoning feeling; it was focused quite clearly on Manwaring and the torturing joy he could give. She hadn’t known it was possible to experience such pleasurable pain in her body. It was new and thrilling, losing and winning at the same time.
Over the next weeks Frederica noticed nothing of her mother’s preoccupation though she felt she displeased Lady Susan less than usual. But she caught the increasingly strained look on Mrs Manwaring’s face. What puzzled her more was that Mary seemed miserable and now rarely giggled. Frederica once even saw her with a red nose and her small eyes glittering. Her friend no longer sought her out, no longer confided about her plans and her excitement about the new fashions and furnishings, no longer tittered over the fright her aunt was when dressed in her best frock. It saddened Frederica.
Her main anxiety was Sir James. What could he be about? She knew little of how a man should act when in love or nearly engaged, but this one did not at all fit her idea of a lover. Despite his chatter, he was not very attentive either to Mary or to her mother. Once she saw Miss Dawlish take him aside and say something particular. Neither was pleased by the talk and they walked off fast in different directions. Afterwards, Sir James was in a sulk. What had been said? A woman didn’t usually berate a man.
She’d found some relief from her worry in the Manwarings’ grounds, especially in the old knot garden where there were plants like camomile, rosemary and acanthus, which she delighted to sketch. But now she feared to become engrossed for she had always to be on guard, ready to gather up herself and her things to take a quick flight. For often Sir James would be heading towards her. He did this even though she sat retired with her sketchbook on a low stone wall, obviously intent on her drawing. If she saw him coming, she leapt up, grabbed her pencils and paper, then scuttled towards the house.
She hoped it was not Sir James’s unaccountable behaviour with her that had upset Mrs Manwaring and Mary.
One day he crept up on her before she was aware. She was tiptoeing down towards the hall in her outdoor clothes. She had taken a liking to one of the Manwaring mares – it had something of the same colouring as Spots and a kind look in the eyes – and she wanted simply to pat her soft nose; then she would go on and look at the plants in the garden.
Suddenly Sir James was there, his closeness startling her.
‘I have frightened you,’ he said and laughed his squeaky laugh. ‘My horse jumps like that when I crack the whip on his rump in the stable.’
Frederica could think of no reply: an unpleasantly vivid picture of Sir James striking a poor brute came into her head.
‘Miss Vernon, I will walk with you. Your mother said you are, you know, sad too. And I, my mama, you know, has passed … she was such a good lady, but … but … she …’ he stopped. ‘But,’ he went on, a new thought suddenly entering his head, ‘she didn’t always let me have my way, you know. She was quite strict about ale. But that’s all right because I don’t much like it, well, I like the light one a bit but not the heavy you know, though that’s more manly Ned says – that’s the coachman. So there you are Miss Vernon, we are alike.’
She didn’t care for the comparison but said nothing.
‘You must know, Miss Frederica, that is, Miss Vernon, that my mama always said I should marry a modest girl. She would like you very much.’
‘N-n-no indeed, Sir James,’ Frederica managed to stammer. ‘No, no she wouldn’t, not at all.’
‘There you see, you are so modest.’ He burst into laughter and went on laughing till his face was red and his mouth and eyes wet. Then abruptly he stopped. ‘She would though.’
Frederica walked faster, trying to lose him but he kept up. Of course he too was going to the stables. ‘You must come to see my counting horse, you must, Miss Vernon.’ Suddenly she jerked away, mumbled something about forgetting a book, turned and ran.
Although the episode with Sir James upset Frederica, she couldn’t claim that he’d actually said anything about love, not directly – he’d claimed his mama would approve of her but that was not at all the same thing – and he’d once held her arm too tightly, but nothing more.
Yet as she reflected, it seemed that this was unusual attention and it must be what had upset Mary and Mrs Manwaring.
She was reluctant to say anything to her mother – she would only be called simple again – yet she would have to screw up her courage. The slightly kinder expression towards her on Lady Susan’s face over the last few weeks emboldened her.
So one morning just before they set out for church, she broached the subject.
‘Mama, may I say something?’ she began when Barton had closed the dressing-room door.
‘Of course, speak,’ said Lady Susan, her eyes still on the triple glass and the arrangement of curls her maid had made round her cap and which she was by no means sure she approved. ‘Go on.’
‘Mama, I don’t know but it seems … I mean it might be …’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ interrupted Lady Susan as she looked towards her shrinking daughter. ‘Sit down if it will help. Just say it.’
Suddenly she smiled her transfiguring smile. ‘Be a dear and hurry up. We shall both be late for church and Miss Dawlish will not be pleased.’ She turned again to the glass. She was certain that the curls were too tight.
Frederica sat down, her shoulders hunched over so that they strained the layers of light material on her back. Lady Susan glanced again at her, then groaned inwardly.
‘Mama, it is Mary … Miss Manwaring’s … I mean it is Sir James. He … he’s behaving oddly.’
‘Well, if you mean he wanted to show you his counting horse, I know of it. A prodigy but hardly a cause for apprehension.’
‘No, but Mama, he seems to me—’
‘The horse or Sir James?’
‘Sir James, Mama, Sir James, he … he seems to be paying me attention, I mean not that I …’
Oh God, thought Lady Susan to herself, how did I beget such a simpleton?
‘I couldn’t presume that he is … but he seems to seek me out and—’
Lady Susan could bear it no longer. ‘And what, Frederica? You mean that a young girl is sought occasionally by a young man? And
this is the cause of your embarrassment and anxiety? You should be glad. I would have been at your age.’
‘No, but Mama, he is … he is … he is … well, nearly engaged to Miss Manwaring.’
‘Nearly is not really, Frederica, and engaged is not married. If this – eligible – young man is attracted to you – and I suppose this is what you are trying to say, is it? – then I suggest you be grateful. I doubt that anything of the sort happened to you in Norfolk.’
‘Oh Mama, you c-c-can’t understand. It is making poor Mary unhappy, I–I–I know it.’
Lady Susan looked directly at her daughter, then laughed aloud, throwing back her head and running her hand through the curls left on her neck to loosen them. ‘My dear Frederica,’ she said at last rising from her dressing table stool, ‘you are too ill versed in the way of the world to be able to judge anything of this kind. And certainly you know very little of other people. Go back to your weeds – for I assume that is what you are looking at so intently in the knot garden.’
And that was that.
About a week later, still in melancholy mood, she walked out into the shrubbery behind the house and turned down through a line of myrtles to approach a birch tree with a wooden seat around its trunk. There was Sir James.
How had he known she was coming? She looked up at the windows of the house on the west side. She thought she saw the outline of her mother but couldn’t be sure. Had he followed her, then slipped around the trees to be there ahead of her? Or had he lain in wait?
‘Oh,’ she gasped, ‘oh’, then turned hurriedly to walk away.
‘Miss Vernon,’ he cried, ‘Miss Vernon, please do stay awhile, do stay. I have something to say.’
Momentarily she stopped, then turned again to flee. But, as she moved off, he caught her wrist. His hand was pale and fat, moist on her thin glove; she pulled away but he held on. Despite his silliness, this time she grew frightened.
‘No, no, Sir James, please let me go. What are you doing? Let me go.’ She was almost crying. She feared there was some manner she knew nothing of and her mother would berate her roundly for her simplicity, yet that tight hand now on her wrist was too horrible to endure.