by Joan Aiken
“Excellent address!” she sighed. “And so romantic in appearance. And there will be a title for Mr Dixon, in due course, when his uncle Lord Kilfinane dies. But what a pity poor Mr Sam is so sickly.”
“An Irish title!” sniffed Mrs Fitzroy. “What use is that? And only a little scrap of an estate — all bog, no doubt.”
Nothing could recommend the Dixons to Mrs Fitzroy. She found them encroaching — affected — puffed up with affectation and nonsense — and then, Dixon! What a name. “It smacks of the grocer’s counter — that is all you can say.”
Meanwhile Rachel and Jane got along with the boys very comfortably. Somehow the term “boys” came naturally to mind when referring to them, though Matt was twenty and Sam nineteen. Matt was at Cambridge; Sam, because of his various illnesses, had not yet applied to enter a university but hoped to do so perhaps next year. Matt, in course, would inherit his uncle’s estate and title; “That’s if I don’t do anything to annoy the old crotchet; the title I am bound to come in for, but he can cut me out of his will if he so chooses, and would do so, I’d take my affidavit, at the drop of a pin, if he took the fancy, for he has all sorts of quirks in his head, and don’t like me above half.” Sam was destined for the church, as soon as he could throw off his inconvenient weakness of the lungs. His mother, that cheerful, carefree lady, seldom allowed herself to be troubled for too long by anxieties and perplexities, but even she found cause for concern in his state at present; the family had come by sea from Cork to Weymouth and had, unfortunately, encountered quite severe gales off Land’s End; poor Sam had been wretchedly ill and had coughed himself into a haemorrhage; but the good air and sea bathing of Weymouth would be bound to restore him very soon. Mrs Dixon was of an unconquerably optimistic turn of mind. It was too bad that, after his morning dip in the sea, the poor boy was so fatigued he had to lie down upon a sopha until noon, but he would soon feel more the thing. In the meantime Sam did not allow a little physical debility to quench his spirits — he was as gay as could be, and throve on company; almost every day he contrived to persuade the group of young people to repair to the house in Trinity Road, where Mrs Dixon, a devoted mother, had hired a very fine piano. Both her sons adored music, Matt loved to sing and had a beautiful tenor voice. Sam played the fiddle and loved to sing also, but it made him cough. Rachel and Jane participating, they could manage an immense variety of glees, duets, trios, and quartets; Sam was overjoyed to find in Jane such a superior performer, and the house, as Mrs Dixon often said, “sounded like a nest of humming-birds all day long.” In the afternoons Matt and the two girls hired horses and rode out into the surrounding countryside; sometimes Frank Churchill accompanied them; he too, with his uncle and redoubtable aunt, had now arrived to take the waters at Weymouth. But Frank, compared with the eloquent, imaginative, brilliant Dixon brothers, appeared like a kind, friendly, but rather dull young man; he was not often invited to the house in Trinity Road.
Mrs Fitzroy could and did complain that her granddaughter spent far too much time with those Irish hobble-de-hoys, but Colonel Campbell had no objection, so long as Mrs Dixon or Mrs Consett sat with the young people.
“But they are not making the acquaintance of any of the right society of Weymouth!” was Mrs Fitzroy’s daily complaint. “There are Lady Pytchley’s girls — and the Dalrymples — and Miss Acton — all from a really elevated level of society — from whom Rachel could pick up a little manner, a little address — instead of which, all she does is sing Irish airs and go flying about the countryside acquiring more freckles!”
“Possibly so, ma’am, but she is decidedly less nervous than she was, and seems at last to be conquering her stammer just a trifle.”
This was true. What all Signor Negretti’s exercises had failed to achieve was brought about by laughter, enjoyment, and time spent in congenial company. After two or three hours’ singing with the boys, Rachel could talk with less constraint, almost without the painful locking, or having to struggle with her breath. Sometimes the group played charades, or verse games, declaiming and reciting; it was remarkable how well Rachel managed those too. All the cheerful conversation and friendly companionship did wonders for her self-confidence. And her looks, Jane thought, were improving visibly, day by day: her nose was not so pink, the regular applications of bandoline had certainly helped her hair; and just the fact that she spent so much of her time laughing added immeasurably to the animation of her countenance!
Frank Churchill’s aunt, a professed invalid, was seldom to be seen about the town; she had hired a handsome house in Augusta Place and mostly remained indoors, receiving doctors and masseurs. She never ventured her person into the sea, but took, instead, expensive daily hot and cold baths in the establishment set up for that purpose upon the quay. Her husband, on the other hand, rented one of the one-and-sixpenny umbrella bathing vehicles (with guide) and was to be seen every morning at seven scurrying from his sedan chair up the steps of the umbrella machine and into its sandy recesses; the machine was then drawn into the water until a sufficient depth had been reached; the horse would be unhitched and led away so that the bather could descend from the seaward end of the apparatus and take his dip, under the umbrella, with or without the help of the attendant. Finally the horse would be re-harnessed to the shoreward end, so that the bather could be restored to dry land.
Colonel Campbell, after trying a bathing machine once, voted the whole process “far too fiddling, jolting, and devilish bone-shaking”; he much preferred to swim in the sea without all that nonsense. Accordingly he and Matt Dixon and Frank Churchill would betake themselves to a northerly part of the bay, near the barracks and half a mile out of town, where they could splash and swim away from the eyes of females without the need to worry about anybody’s modesty.
Jane and Rachel greatly wished that it were possible for females to do likewise; they agreed that the bathing machine routine was very joggling and uncomfortable; moreover the attendant always returned long before one was ready to come out (there were only about forty bathing machines for the whole beach, so these were always in brisk demand). Still, they enjoyed the bathing; “and c-certainly the s-sea was d-doing wonders for Papa’s lame leg,” Rachel said.
Mrs Fitzroy, now in her mid-seventies, had become acutely rheumatic while the Campbells were in the West Indies, and now walked very lame with a stick. She often accompanied Mrs Churchill into the hot bath, and, as well, swallowed numerous potions and mineral waters. The remainder of her days were passed in elegant company, playing whist and cassino and commerce for small points, and acquiring information. Mrs Churchill, whose temper was quite as difficult as report had ever made out, possessed no friends and few intimates; but still, she considered Mrs Fitzroy to be a tolerable sort of creature, and did not disdain, now and then, to discuss the affairs of the young people with her, while the ladies were taking the bath together.
It was agreed between the pair of them that a match between Mrs Fitzroy’s granddaughter and Frank Churchill would be an excellent arrangement. Frank (supposing his aunt so chose) would be very comfortably situated, and Rachel would have her twelve thousand. That, said the ladies to one another, would make for a decent, well-settled establishment. And if Frank, it must be admitted, was just a touch volatile, just a trifle too light and unreliable, Rachel’s seriousness and good bottom would soon sober him down.
“For she is, I won’t conceal from you, ma’am, a thoughtful, clever gal; takes after her mother in that respect; and also, like Cecelia, I don’t doubt she’ll make a sensible, affectionate wife. Unlike my other granddaughter Charlotte who is a sad flirt! I only wish that Rachel could be detached from that Fairfax creature, tiresome chit; the sooner she is sent packing, the more comfortable we shall all be.”
“Does your son-in-law dower Miss Fairfax also, if she should marry?” inquired Mrs Churchill, who took an almost professional interest in all such arrangements.
The two ladies were at that moment partaking of tea and wafer cakes in Jo
hn Harvey’s Library after (with considerable disfavour) watching the Dixon and Campbell families depart, in three curricles, to make the circuit of Radipole Lake.
Mrs Fitzroy was on the point of answering in the negative when a military band, outside, struck up such a deafening rendition of “Rule Britannia” that all conversation was temporarily suspended: and while the noise lasted she was given time to consider.
The result of her cogitation was that when Mrs Churchill, again with the most single-minded wish for information, repeated her question: “Is it your son-in-law’s intention to give that girl a portion, should she be so lucky as to receive an offer of marriage?” Mrs Fitzroy had a reply prepared and could say, “As to that, ma’am, I cannot, of course, answer for his intentions. He does not open his mind to me. But he is excessively attached to the girl, that I do know. Such a thing is not at all out of the question …”
For something she had heard, earlier in the day, about the Dixon brothers, had suddenly put into her head a notion for queering the Fairfax girl’s pitch — not, of course, that Mrs Fitzroy would ever employ such an ungenteel expression.
“I had understood the young lady was destined for a teaching career.”
“That, indeed, was the original purpose, ma’am. But my son-in-law grows so fond of the young person that her quest for a post has been continually postponed.”
Here, Mrs Fitzroy did not exaggerate. Jane had several times, since reaching the age of eighteen, represented to the Campbells that it was high time she became independent, that she should not be a burden on them any longer, that it was almost robbing Rachel that she should continue to be a charge on the household; but both the Colonel and his wife had replied that they could not possibly consider parting with her yet. If — when — Rachel was settled in the world, had left the nest, then, of course, such a step must be taken; but, in the meantime, poor Rachel would be utterly wretched at the thought of parting from her crony. “She is so much more animated and at ease when in your company, my dear Jane,” insisted Mrs Campbell. And in this matter Jane had, though with considerable private reservations and doubts, acquiesced; it was undoubtedly true that Rachel was more at ease on social occasions when her friend was by, and might therefore be thought more likely to receive an eligible offer (which, of course, was everybody’s secret wish for her); but, after all, thought Jane, sooner or later she must learn to do without me, and meanwhile I am living in a kind of fool’s paradise, growing to depend on pleasures and treats that I am not entitled to, and that will most likely never come my way again. The Campbells do not consider my side of the matter. — When Colonel Campbell had finished with his daily newspaper Jane regularly scanned its advertisement columns with a cold, terrified distaste; only that morning, doing so, she had read: “Wanted, Young Person of excellent education & unimpeachable references to take charge of a Fine Family of six children & instruct them in Languages, Drawing, Mathematics, Use of the Globes, Music, & Deportment. Salary £10 per Half Year.” She recalled the grim and dismal scene in the Wigmore Street office. That, she thought, is what I shall have come to in a year or so; and for a moment she was filled with a frantic urge to cut herself immediately adrift from the Campbells, to plunge away and commit herself at once to the bleak life of drudgery that awaited her. She had few illusions as to the lot of a governess in however elevated a family: socially distanced from her employers, disliked, more often than not, by the spoiled children of the family, regarded as a kind of upper servant, the instructress lived a solitary, bat-like existence with no assigned place in the household, and with duties that might and often did range from teaching Euclid and Latin to bathing the baby and formidable quantities of household needlework. The life of Miss Winstable or Miss Taylor had been luxury indeed compared with other females employed by families on visiting terms with the Campbells. — Jane had once asked Mrs Campbell if there were no other form of employment in which a well-educated girl might hope to earn her living — Mrs Campbell, mixing so much in public affairs, must surely know of something? But the lady had shaken her head.
“Nothing that pays, my dear Jane; all the ladies with whom I associate perform on a strictly voluntary basis; that is why only the rich can afford to be social reformers.”
(Privately, both of Rachel’s parents thought that Jane, even lacking a dowry, could not fail of attracting some eligible young man, with her handsome looks, musical endowments, and her striking poise and elegance. This was the prime reason why her request to establish herself in a post was continually deferred.)
All these considerations rose and subsided, like troubled tides, in Jane’s mind. Today, forming one of a party of pleasure to make the tour of Radipole Lake, she decided that since she was positively instructed to enjoy herself, she might as well do so, for however short a time. Let somebody else be found to take charge of the fine family of six children! And she gazed around her with unaffected interest at the lake and the enormous number of swans apparently resident upon it.
The excursionists had been accommodated in three open one-horse chaises, hired from the Royal Hotel, of which Frank Churchill drove the first, with Rachel and Mrs Consett as his passengers; Colonel Campbell was in charge of the second, with Sam and his mother; and Matt Dixon drove the third, with Mrs Campbell and Jane. Mrs Campbell could very rarely be persuaded to take part in such excursions, and, indeed, on the present occasion, had brought along the annals of some learned body set up to report on the prevalence of lung-disease in the china clay industry, which she read intently, ignoring the scenery and paying only desultory attention to the talk of her companions.
Matt was telling Jane about his home, Baly-Craig.
“I wish you could see it, Miss Fairfax! So beautiful it is! The mountains sweep right down to the lough, and at evening, or sunrise, they turn all manner of colours, from lavender to indigo to brilliant gold; words cannot describe those hues! And the little homesteads are white as pearls, down by the water’s edge; indeed it breaks my heart to go away to Dublin, every time, it does.”
“And have you spent much time in Dublin?” Jane wanted to know. “Is Dublin a handsome city?”
“The grandest in the world, sure it is! With all the bridges, and its fine streets, and beautiful river; some talk of Venice, but, for my part, I think Dublin far superior.”
He ran on at length, extolling the beauties of Dublin; and then they talked of books, for they had discovered many tastes in common, and of music, and reminded one another of favourite airs, and tried to remember others which lay forgotten, just beyond memory. “Sam knows the one I mean,” Matt said, referring to a theme by Corelli, “he will be able to sing it for you in a moment.” That led on to Sam’s state of health. “Poor fellow! It is a thousand pities he is so pulled-down by the journey, for my mother hoped that the summer here would set him up for next winter. I worry about him: this morning he declared that he will never marry, for his constitution is such that he feels no woman should be called upon to look after him; but it is a terrible pity, upon my word it is, for he is the best-natured creature in the world, and worth fifty of me! When he goes into the church, as he plans, he will become a saint, entirely.”
“You and Sam are very fond of your home,” said Jane thoughtfully. “You are both deeply attached to Ireland. And yet you come away. When you are here, do you not miss your own place?”
“Faith, Miss Fairfax, we do! Some days the thought of Baly-Craig is like a continual sorrow at the back of my mind. A hurt that can’t be healed, or ignored. The greenness of the place, and the shape of the hills, and the sound of cattle lowing, and the call of the plover on the hillside; I can tell you truly there’s no minute of the day when some part of me isn’t missing it.”
“And yet you come away from it all? You come here to England. I wonder why?”
“Ah, now you put your finger on it, Miss Jane.” He turned his dark, lively, intelligent face to look at her. “I come away. Why? Because there is not enough in Baly-Craig to content a man like me
.”
Jane sat quietly. Her look encouraged him to continue.
“I love the place, ma’am, as dearly as my right hand, but what can I do there? Fish the river, go out sailing down the coast in my little boat with one or two of the lads, spend the day on the hills after snipe, or out on the bog — what kind of a life is that, for a man of education? I am to be a writer, I need others of my kind to brush minds with. Sometimes I think my father should never have sent me to Cambridge, he has ruined me entirely! I need talk, clever talk, the life of the mind, I need to see the wheels of the world go round.”
“And perhaps a little female society as well, hmnn?” inquired Mrs Campbell, emerging suddenly out of her learned report.
“That too, ma’am, faith!”
“Perhaps if you had a clever, conversible wife, she would reconcile you to the solitude of Baly-Craig.”
“And perhaps if I had a clever wife she’d go melancholy mad alongside of me in the deep silence of the place!”
“Wives have a trick of supplying a man with a whole tribe of children — and then there’s an end to your solitude and silence!” said Mrs Campbell.
“As to that, ma’am, perhaps I’d sooner be left in my desolation!” But he laughed.
Mrs Campbell returned to her pamphlet.
“It is queer that you should feel like that about your home,” Jane remarked thoughtfully. “For I understand the feeling so very well. I was born and brought up in a little village — oh, nothing like so remote as Baly-Craig — and yet it lies distant enough so that you may not see a stranger ride along the street from one week’s end to the next — especially in winter. I am truly attached to my home and all the country that lies around it — as I think any person of sensibility must be, to the place of their birth — and yet, now, when I return home, I find that it does not entirely satisfy me. I miss the things I have come to depend on in London — books, music, conversation, even the sight of faces other than the familiar neighbours of every day.”