by Joan Aiken
“I shall hear all about it in the morning,” promised Mrs Campbell.
In the morning, however, she received by the mail such an exceedingly gloomy report on the working conditions of mantua-makers that she had no leisure to bestow on her daughter.
But directly after breakfast Charlotte and her brother came round from the White Hart Inn.
“We have arranged a party to Corfe. Come along! These affairs are no fun unless there are plenty of people — numbers are everything. We have your friends the Dixons — and Mr Churchill — and several more. Come along!”
Very reluctantly, Jane and Rachel were obliged to join the excursion. Indeed, during the next week they found themselves continually in the company of Charlotte Selsea and her brother; not from any wish of being so but because, without open discourtesy, there seemed no way to evade these unwelcome incomers. Charlotte and her brother and friend indefatigably arranged picnics, promenades, sightseeing excursions, bathing parties; it seemed plain that the two males followed this programme because that was their chosen way of leading their lives, in continual pursuit of amusement; they must be entertained, even if it bored them. Charlotte, it was equally evident, was after more definite game. On all of their outings, Matt Dixon was her escort; she rode at his side, sat by him on rocks or fallen trees, peered through the telescope he held for her, searched for shells and fossils with him, picked wild-flowers with him. And all the time she continually talked to him in her flat chirping little monotone, telling him tales of doings in high society; amazingly dull, insipid tales they seemed to Jane, if she should chance to overhear a phrase or two, but Matt listened as if entranced.
She has put a spell on him, Jane thought. She has bewitched him.
Rachel seemed utterly stricken at the defection of her dear friend; so much that Jane did not dare discuss the matter with her. It was too painful. She grew pale, and much thinner; her appetite declined; her stammer returned.
“Make haste!” cried Charlotte, coming in one morning before breakfast was done. “There is no time to be lost! We are all going to Abbotsbury and the Chesil Bank. Robert has bespoken a carriage for you at the hotel, and he will drive you; I daresay your companion-lady will not object to sitting bodkin? Or perhaps Miss Fairfax may prefer to remain behind?”
“Going to Abbotsbury? Pray, whom do you mean by ‘we all’?” dourly demanded the Colonel. His niece airily replied,
“Oh, Robert and I, and Tom Gillender, and your friends the Dixons and their mother and Mr Churchill. Matt and Tom and Mr Churchill ride, and Mr Sam Dixon drives his mother.”
“I should prefer to ride also,” said Rachel with some glint of spirit, but her father told her to put any such notion out of her mind.
“All the way to Abbotsbury? It is five miles at least, very likely six. And the weather most unpromising. And I certainly do not find myself well enough to accompany you; my hip today plagues me abominably —”
It was plain that he was within a hair’s breadth of forbidding the whole outing and Jane, who had a curiosity to see Abbotsbury and the Chesil Bank, said quickly,
“Perhaps Mrs Campbell may herself like to take part in the excursion? I have heard her express an interest in old monastic foundations.”
Mrs Campbell decried any such wish, however. “If Mrs Dixon and Mrs Consett ride with the young people I see no occasion for my presence;” and she returned to her reading.
Jane noticed with interest that Charlotte today wore a new and dashing riding costume, blue velvet, in better taste than her usual dress; also her hair, piled under a feathered shako, was in a style copied from that of Rachel at the Assembly.
“Well, M-Mamma, what d-do you say? Sh-Shall we go?” Rachel asked dispiritedly.
“Oh, by all means, dear child, if you wish it. But do not linger too long. The Grants dine with us, if you recall; it would not do for you to be late for dinner. And you and Jane had better put on warmer gowns; the wind freshens.”
“Oh, do not let them stay to dress up, or I daresay they will be hours prinking and pranking!” struck in Robert. “A warm pelisse or a wrap apiece will be all they need. There will be rugs in the carriages, I daresay.”
In the event, Rachel drove with her cousins, while Jane and Mrs Consett squeezed in with Mrs Dixon and her younger son. The other gentlemen rode on horseback.
Jane was happy to see Sam Dixon looking rather better, and congratulated him on feeling well enough for the outing, after a week spent indoors. She always felt comfortable with Sam Dixon; he had inherited his mother’s easy lack of ceremony and simple unaffected goodness. And the journey was entirely delightful: for a considerable part of it, they were bowling along a ridge road, high above the sea, which gave a magnificent view of Chesil Beach, that remarkable shingle bank, sixteen miles long, extending in an unbroken curve from Abbotsbury to Portland, with a lagoon on its inner side.
“I should not wonder, though, if the weather worsened,” said Mrs Dixon, her tone a little less carefree than it had been at the start of the trip. “See how the waves whiten. We must make sure not to remain too long in Abbotsbury. I do not trust those feathery strips of cloud along there to the west.”
“Mamma is a famous weather-diviner,” Sam said teasingly. “The elders in Baly-Craig always defer to her opinion if there is any dispute. But let us hope that this time her anxieties are unjustified.”
Abbotsbury, with its wide main street, raised footpaths, and thatched cottages, was pronounced completely charming, and a luncheon was bespoken at a modest inn; after this refreshment the party strolled about inspecting the swan-lake, the ancient remains of the Abbey, the immense tithe-barn, and the chapel of St Nicholas. The group had dispersed in twos and threes while exploring; Jane remained with Mrs Dixon and her younger son.
While his mother was inspecting some stained glass in the chapel — “What a contrast, is there not,” Sam said to Jane, “between Rachel and her cousin. They are not at all alike, are they? There is so much sincerity and candour about Rachel — whereas, although Miss Selsea converses with great ease and chatters very amusingly, I do not find her straightforward. There is a lack of true spontaneity.”
“Yes,” agreed Jane slowly, “I know what you mean. I suppose it is the result of upbringing. Rachel has spent her life in all kinds of wild places, while her father was on active service, and so had no chance of mixing with clever society people; she has retained a kind of simplicity which I suppose is rare in adults. Whereas her cousin has from an early age lived in the midst of London society.”
“Very true! And here we see the results.”
Jane liked him the better in that he did not then go on to disparage Charlotte Selsea; instead he praised Rachel, speaking of her in terms of such gentle warmth that Jane, with a queer pang, thought, Sam loves Rachel! He loves her deeply! Oh dear, I wonder if she is aware of this? Poor fellow! He is such a good, kind person!
— Somehow, although she had a great kindness towards Sam, indeed, felt more warmly towards him than almost anybody else she knew, she could not imagine any very prosperous outcome for this love of his. She was certain that Rachel, though fond of him, felt towards him only as a friend.
Yet, she thought, after all, what do I really know about him? Or about Rachel? Why exercise my spirits over two people who should be perfectly capable of conducting their own affairs?
And she paid heed, instead, to Mrs Dixon, who, having inspected the reredos and a plaster tunnel-vault, strolled out of the chapel and said bluntly, “Miss Fairfax, how much longer do these Selseas remain in Weymouth? I own that I cannot take to Miss Selsea. She seems a vain, heartless kind of girl, and a designing coquette. How very different from dear Rachel!”
“I do not believe they will stay here very long,” said Jane. “They will soon have had enough of Weymouth. They are used to a more entertaining society.”
“My son Matt seems hugely taken with her.”
“He finds her talk amusing. She knows so many prominent people in Londo
n society.”
“Knows! Hah! She has heard each of them utter one bon mot at a party — or has heard somebody else who has done so! All her gossip comes at second-hand!”
Jane reflected that this was probably true. “Yet she brings it out with such an air of confidence. One cannot but be entertained.”
“I can!” said Mrs Dixon. “Speak for yourself, Miss Fairfax. Though I notice she never addresses herself to you.”
“Oh no, I am far below her notice.”
“Well,” said Mrs Dixon, her pleasant brow creased with unwonted dislike and disapproval, “I wish she may soon find some likelier prey than my son Matt. — Why not Frank Churchill? He will be heir to a considerable fortune, they say.”
“Oh, ma’am, but Mr Churchill is just the sort of gentleman that Miss Selsea has been accustomed to meet — a young London society gentleman, polite, cheerful, agreeable. But Mr Matt Dixon is so much more than that. Miss Selsea has probably never come into contact with such a mind in her life!”
“Miss Fairfax, you are a shrewd one!” cried Mrs Dixon, turning on Jane a look of remarkable friendliness and intelligence. “They do think well of him at Cambridge. So you can understand my concern about him — my estimate of his value.”
“Indeed I do, ma’am. But I am sure that because — because Mr Dixon is so far above the lady in real worth of character and — and intelligence — he will not for long be deluded by her apparent charm.”
At this moment they were disconcerted by the sudden onset of a shower: large cold drops of rain commencing to fall on them with most unwelcome heaviness and frequency.
“Lord bless me, how very unfortunate! Now, what are we to do? Miss Fairfax, you and Sam had best hurry back to the inn; I know that you, too, are subject to bad colds. And to get a wetting is the very worst thing in the world for my poor boy,” cried Mrs Dixon, casting her eyes about for Matt and Miss Selsea, who had last been seen climbing over a stile between two cottages. “Now, where are those others gone? Oh, Mr Churchill —” to Frank, now encountered with an umbrella, gallantly escorting Rachel in the direction of the hostelry — “will you, pray, go in search of my son Matt and Miss Charlotte? We must leave for Weymouth at once, without delay, before the storm worsens; it has come on very much faster than was to have been expected —” casting a harassed and disapproving glance at the heavens, which were indeed very black and threatening.
Frank obligingly gave over his umbrella to Sam.
“I think I know just where the others are to be found: there is a ruin or small chapel on that eminence over there, and they were last seen posting in its direction; Miss Selsea expressed a wish to see it. I will summon them.”
The ladies returned with Sam to the inn, which, fortunately, was only a few steps farther along the street. There they found Mrs Consett, leisurely taking a cup of tea, and commissioned with the message that Mr Gillender and Mr Selsea had ridden off (Robert Selsea appropriating Frank Churchill’s hired horse for the purpose) in order to attend what they had been informed would be a famous cock-fight at the village of Sherton Abbas inland.
“Well! Upon my word!” exclaimed Mrs Dixon with some indignation. “That’s cool! Poor Mr Churchill! How is he supposed to return to Weymouth?”
“Mr Selsea said he might have his turn at driving the ladies.”
The two errant young gentlemen had been gone at least twenty minutes, so there was nothing to be done but wait in the parlour for the rest of the party to make their appearance. Rachel was pale and silent. She sat staring at the rain streaming down the windowpanes. Mrs Dixon became increasingly anxious about her son Sam.
“To be obliged to drive back in this downpour! It is above all things unfortunate! I would suggest that you remain here at the inn overnight, my dear boy, but the bedrooms all seem to be wretchedly damp; you would take just as much harm from the beds here, I daresay, as from the storm.”
“Oh, beyond doubt! Besides the fact that I have not the least wish to remain overnight in this rustic spot!” said Sam with an affectionate smile for his mother’s worries. “In any case, ma’am, you forget that I shall be needed as a driver.”
“But where in the world can those others be?” fretted his mother.
It was yet another twenty minutes before the trio made their appearance; Charlotte, it seemed, continually in quest of “a better prospect” had persuaded Matt farther and farther along the ridge beyond the chapel, and Frank had been obliged to walk nearly a mile before he caught up with them. The young lady, sheltered by the umbrella, was cheerful and reasonably dry, whereas both young gentlemen were tolerably wet, and Matt appeared in decidedly low spirits, though Frank Churchill, talkative and gay as usual, took with equanimity the news that his rented horse had been commandeered and that it would be his task to drive some of the ladies back to Weymouth.
As the storm continued unabated and showed no sign of lessening, it was thought best to set off, Sam driving Charlotte and Rachel in the carriage that was supplied with a hood, and Frank in charge of Jane and the two older ladies, all the females and Sam being protected by such additional wraps and umbrellas as the inn was able to provide.
The journey was a silent one, the lashing downpour rendering it impossible for the travellers to see any of the coastal view which had delighted them on the outward trip; while the spirits of all were quenched by the sharp drop in temperature and lamentable change in the weather; and those of Mrs Dixon, in particular, afflicted by much self-blame in ever having agreed to the outing.
Chapter 8
Charlotte came hastening round to see her cousin next morning. The storm had raged all night, but dropped with daybreak, and although great white breakers still rolled in commandingly all round the bay, a bright sun shone on wet pavements and on the beach, piled high with driftwood and weed.
“What, are you all still frowsting indoors?” cried Charlotte exultingly. She seemed in particularly high spirits. “Why, Tom and Robert and I have been out this hour! They are outside. Half the town is on the Esplanade. Will you not join us, with your friends?”
Mrs Campbell, who had heard with great disapproval how, on the previous afternoon, Charlotte’s lack of thought for others had subjected the rest of the party to prolonged and hazardous exposure to the weather, greeted Charlotte coldly and expressed the hope that no excursions to far-distant hilltops were under consideration today?
“No, ma’am, no,” returned Charlotte, quite indifferent to her aunt’s unwelcoming demeanour. “Tom and Robert and I are out enjoying the sight of the surf this fine day, and hoped that my cousin might accompany us; and the Mr Dixons and Mr Churchill if they are here?”
Her face fell when informed that the latter gentlemen were not at present under the Campbells’ roof, but, soon recovering her spirits, she exclaimed,
“There! I had made certain they must be here, since they are not abroad. However it’s of no consequence! Do, pray, get your bonnet, Rachel. I daresay they will soon join us if we are all seen walking in a party together.”
Mrs Campbell offering no objection to this, if Mrs Consett accompanied the girls (Jane’s company had not, of course, been requested by Charlotte, but Rachel said, “You’ll come, will you not, Jane?” to Charlotte’s evident chagrin) the young ladies ran to put on bonnets and pelisses, for the wind was still blustery.
The young ladies with hats on joined the young gentlemen (who had been throwing pebbles to disturb a flock of gulls in dispute over the carcass of a large fish on the beach) and the whole party turned to walk southwards towards the older part of the town, the two cousins ahead with Rachel (Charlotte continually casting her eyes about in search of the missing gentlemen) while Jane found herself in the rear, accompanied by Mr Gillender and Mrs Consett. The latter was no walker, for her elegant nankeen half-boots, a size too small, gave her continual discomfort, and she lagged farther and farther behind. Jane was in no hurry to commence a conversation, for she had long ago formed a very low opinion of Mr Gillender’s tastes and
mental attainments; but she was perfectly content to enjoy the fresh sea breeze and admire the spectacle of the great white waves casting themselves in majesty upon the sand. Her mind, moreover, was greatly preoccupied by thoughts of the Dixon brothers: a deep anxiety about Sam, and a hope that their absence from the sea-front this morning was not caused by yesterday’s experiences. Rachel had related to Jane, with strong indignation, after they arrived home, how Charlotte had, on the return journey, by her continued complaints and lamentations, obliged Sam to give her almost all his own protective coverings, and the umbrella which was the only screen he had from the downpour, “although,” said Rachel disgustedly, “she had quite enough wraps of her own already and is in any case as s-strong as a m-mule. I only hope the poor boy has not taken a terrible chill.”
“So, Miss Fairfax,” began Mr Gillender, after some ten minutes of strolling, “is not this a fine sort of morning? ’Pon honour, who would have reckoned it would turn out so bright last night when Selsea and I were slogging it back from that cock-fight — which, by the by, turned out to be a confounded hum, the most cursedly shabby affair, not worth going five minutes out of one’s way for, nor spending sixpence to see; it was a most wretched take-in.”
Politeness obliged Jane to offer a few words of sympathy for the young man’s disappointment, though in truth she felt how much better it would have been if they had remained with their party, returned home at a reasonable hour, and not deprived Frank Churchill of his horse.
However her reply seemed to delight Mr Gillender, who turned to her with a wide, red-faced grin, and exclaimed, “’Pon my word, Miss Jane, you and I appear to think alike upon just about everything in the world! Do we not — hey? Have you not observed it? Why, the other day, when you made some devilish clever remark about France, I said to myself, That young lady has took the very words out of my mouth! ’Pon honour, it was so! I never in all my life encountered a gal who had such a knack of knowing what I might be about to say, and then saying it first! It is the most famous thing! Upon my soul, I begin to believe we was made for one another; I do indeed!” And, before she could prevent him, the young gentleman was pouring into Jane’s startled ears a fervent proposal of marriage, couched in the most immoderate language: “He was sure, upon his soul he was, that she was the finest creature in Dorset; hang it! for all he knew, in the whole world; for handsome looks, cleverness, ladylike ways, and amiable disposition, her equal was not to be found in the kingdom, no, by G — it wasn’t; so he had told Robert, over and over, and so he proposed to tell the Colonel, that grand, good-hearted old fellow, just as soon as they returned from the promenade. Yes! by Joseph, before the day was out, he hoped to have the Colonel’s consent to the knot being tied, and then, by Jove! the whole town should know it, soldiers, sailors, and fishermen too for all he cared!”