“Welcome, Frederica! We have longed to know you… My brother, Reginald DeCourcy.”
“Hullo,” Reginald nodded. “Pleased to meet you.” A certain coolness could be detected; he had already heard much in Frederica’s disfavour.
Frederica was left facing her mother.
“Good afternoon, Frederica.”
“Good afternoon, Mother.”
Suddenly Frederica burst into tears and ran from the room. All looked startled except Lady Susan, who maintained an exemplary composure:
“It is as I had feared… Excuse me, I must go to my daughter.”
Lady Susan—patient, graceful, compassionate—left to find her child.
“What was that?” Reginald asked. “Extraordinary.”
“Poor Frederica,” Catherine said, already her ally.
“Poor mother of Frederica!” Reginald replied.
“What?”
“The daughter is, I understand, a… troubled girl.”
“I only saw fear.”
The tension between brother and sister had grown like a black cloud from which, at any moment, lightning might strike. Wherever Lady Susan was concerned, opinions clashed—neither thought the other reasonable. This often happens when people disagree.
“Frederica hasn’t had tea,” Charles said. “It could be lack of nourishment.”
Catherine left to have a second tea service prepared.
“Charming girl—though quiet,” Charles said when he and Reginald were left alone. “Have always appreciated that. Gives one the chance to think.”
Valuing Friendship Highly
Frederica’s arrival posed another conundrum: Where was she to stay? Mrs. Cross already occupied the logical spot, the small room connected to Lady Susan’s suite. The castle’s South and East wings were still in disrepair, leaving the servants’ wing the only practical alternative. The Brown Room there, though small, was actually quite pleasant, and Lady Susan considered it entirely adequate for Frederica’s comfort, while recognizing that such decisions were properly the Vernons’.
Years later an aged Churchill retainer described to me the “ashen look on Mrs. Cross’ face” as she and her small trunk were removed to the new location. (When I visited Churchill I was myself lodged in the Brown Room and am certain no slight or disrespect was intended.)
The worry over the rooms turned out to have been needless. Within the fortnight Mrs. Cross would depart Churchill. Lady Susan stood at the window of Churchill’s great hall watching as Mrs. Cross’ small trunk was carried to the carriage. One can imagine the poignancy of her feelings as her friend and confidante departed. Charles Vernon joined her there as the carriage pulled off.
“Poor Mrs. Cross has been obliged to accept a paying position in Buckinghamshire,” Lady Susan lamented. “As there was an element of friendship involved I realized that the paying of wages would be offensive to us both.”
“You value friendship highly,” Charles remarked.
“Yes. I hope I was of some help to her.”
A Preposterous Situation—Entirely of Our Own Making
Frederica’s arrival did not curtail Lady Susan’s and Reginald’s daily walks, it made them even more welcome: In the open air they could comment on matters of mutual concern out of earshot of those whose views did not accord with their own.
“One loves one’s family,” Reginald remarked, “but listening to someone’s constant complaints and petty criticisms grows wearisome…”
“I agree entirely,” Lady Susan said with a smile. “Life is a gift the Lord has given us—it is incumbent upon us to find the delight in it, not just the inconveniences. But I am grateful to your sister for her hospitality.”
“Yes—perhaps it is rather me who is petty to complain of it.”
“Not at all. You are highly observant; I admire such perceptivity—not to mention perspicacity.”
Such distinctions and verbal niceties would perhaps have gone over Reginald’s head as, in candour, they do mine. But was such language, verging on the pretentious, truly Lady Susan’s or rather invented by the spinster authoress who, as will be shown, was no stranger to pretension and presumption?*
Reginald nevertheless took the remark as a compliment, though avoiding any direct acknowledgement of the flattery as any gentleman should.
The handsome couple was then approaching the side of the castle where Frederica and Lady Susan were lodged.
“Where is Frederica now?” Reginald asked.
“In our rooms, practising the pianoforte.”
“She practises quietly.”
They both listened for the notes—but heard none. Susan glanced up and back quickly.
“Don’t look—Frederica is watching us.”
“‘Watching us’?”
“Yes, at the window—don’t look.”
“How odd… to be spied upon.”
“That’s the parent’s lot! We bring these delightful creatures into the world—eagerly, happily—and then before long they are spying upon and judging us, rarely favourably. Having children is our fondest wish but, in doing so, we breed our acutest critics. It is a preposterous situation—but entirely of our own making.”
Susan spoke not in exasperation but with a charming laugh.
“I marvel at your good humour.”
“What alternative have we? It’s the way of the world. We must accept it with a smile.” Whereupon Lady Susan showed Reginald the smile that had caused half of London—at least the male half—to fall in love with her. “Of course when the little ones are very small there’s a kind of sweetness which partially compensates for the dreadfulness which comes after…”
“You worry for Frederica’s future?”
“I worry for her present”—she said cheerfully—“acknowledging that the responsibility for securing her future rests with me…”
Reginald admired Lady Susan’s capacity for treating even distressing or discouraging subjects, such as the disloyalty of younger generations, with a thoughtful lightness. It was, in his view, delightful.
Less delightful were the strategies the female DeCourcys used to undermine her, such as so warmly and quickly embracing her disobedient, recalcitrant daughter.* Reginald was the particular target of his sister’s remarks. They were sitting in the Gold Room, Catherine occupied with her needlework, he reading The Gentleman’s Magazine, when she commented, “Frederica is quite prettier than I ever imagined.”
“Pretty?” Reginald replied. “You think so?”
“Yes. You don’t?”
“No… Quite the grey mouse, isn’t she? In any case, beauty matters little: It is vivacity and lively conversation that one looks for, even from the young.”
“You don’t recognize what that is?”
“Yes: a lack of vivacity and conversation.”
“No, Frederica’s afraid of her mother.”
Reginald smiled. “Impossible!”
“What?”
“The cunning of the girl—”
“Cunning?”
“Representing herself the victim—”
“Her mother says that?”
“No—like most mothers Lady Susan has the tendency to indulge her child.”
“I have seen no such tendency!”
“Perhaps your ideas of what’s indulgent, and what’s not, are not entirely typical.”
“What do you mean?”
A carriage and horses could be heard entering the forecourt, but the distraction was not sufficient to rescue Reginald from the disastrous path he had begun down: that of questioning, even to the minutest degree, how a mother raises her child.
“Any mother,” he said, retreating, “having undergone the rigours of childbirth, has the right to her own view of child-rearing.”
“What’s wrong with my view of child-rearing?”
“Nothing wrong…”
“But not ‘typical’?”
“Well, you’ll admit you let them run a little wild. Lady Susan, raised at a stricter
time, has different views—”
Just then there could be heard a commotion in the front hall and the sound of an unfamiliar, piercing male voice. Catherine rose as a distraught Frederica burst in, out of breath.
“Oh, I’m sorry! Excuse me—” Embarrassed to find Reginald, she halted. “I beg your pardon!”
“What is it, my dear?” Catherine asked.
“He’s here! He’s come! Sir James is here!”
Neither brother nor sister knew of whom she spoke; both were surprised at the extent of her discomposure.
“Excuse me. I’m sorry—” Frederica said, leaving to flee up the stairs.
“Frederica! Miss Vernon!” Sir James Martin called after her. Then, entering the room with Lady Susan, he continued: “So sorry to come like this. I suppose you didn’t expect me.”
Lady Susan did not reply, proceeding coolly to the introductions:
“Catherine, let me introduce Sir James Martin. Sir James, my sister-in-law, Mrs. Catherine Vernon, and her brother, Mr. Reginald DeCourcy.”
“Hullo,” Sir James said with a wide smile.
“How do you do?” they replied.
Sir James, surprised by the question, took some time to consider it. A broad smile passed over his face. “Excellent!” he replied, delighted by their interest. “Truly very well, thank you…
“Excuse my hurry in coming,” he continued, “the lack of notice beforehand, et cetera. Truth is, I forgot to write—then it was too late. Now I’m here. Took the liberty of a relation, hoping to be one soon,” Sir James nodded in the direction Frederica had gone. The others remained mute, as if bewildered. The spinster authoress describes Sir James as punctuating each phrase with a laugh; this is a common, low tactic of disparagement. The purpose: to make an honourable gentleman seem a “laughing fool.”
“I must say, you looked surprised,” Sir James said, turning to Lady Susan. “You were astonished to see me. No? Not? Well, that’s how it looked.”
“Yes, I was astonished—and still am.”
Sir James then addressed Reginald: “An impressive establishment you have here, Sir. Congratulations. Immaculate.”
“Mr. DeCourcy is Mrs. Vernon’s brother—” Susan explained.
“Very good!”
“It is her husband, Mr. Vernon, who has Churchill.”
“Churchill? That’s how you say it? All-together that way?” Sir James then pronounced the word very quickly, all-together: “Churchill… That explains a great deal. I had heard ‘church’ and ‘hill’—but I couldn’t find either… All I saw was this big house.” He laughed* again, then addressed Reginald.
“Fine name: ‘Churchill.’ Marlborough,** right? The general. He showed the French!” Sir James laughed. “You must be very proud.”
“No connection,” Reginald said.
“But I believe I have heard it spoken of.” Sir James turned to Susan: “I think you mentioned it—‘Churchill’—yes, I believe you did but what I heard was ‘church’ and ‘hill.’ Couldn’t find them for the life of me!” Sir James smiled—his high spirits and good humour should have been contagious, but good humour and high spirits were alien to the DeCourcys; their demeanour was wholly chilly.
“Mr. DeCourcy,” Lady Susan began, “would you be so kind as to take Sir James to see Mr. Vernon? Sir James, I believe you will find Mr. Charles Vernon well versed in the advanced agricultural methods in which you’ve taken such an interest.”
“Oh, yes!” Sir James said. “Advanced agricultural methods—very much so. Collins, who supervises Martindale for me, speaks of them often. The landowner of the present day must know all sorts of things—that’s our role. ‘Hullo, Collins’—I say—‘what advanced methods have we today?’ Excellent!”
The others regarded Sir James with surprise, perhaps due to his unusual enthusiasm for innovative agricultural techniques, a subject upon which our landed aristocracy has traditionally been recalcitrant.
A Family Matter
Perhaps this is a convenient juncture for me to touch on my own connection to the story. Sir James Martin was my uncle, my mother’s beloved elder brother. Our Uncle James—or “Uncle Sir James” as we sometimes called him (or “Sir Uncle James,” as Frederic, my younger brother, had it)—was a man who, under whatever titular form, brought only joy and good feeling into the world. Part was the affirmative pleasure of knowing someone always enthusiastic, always kind, always interested and pleased; part was the negative, nasty pleasure others found in mocking and ridiculing a man who would not conform to their icy mores. Prime among this latter group would, of course, be the DeCourcys—and that anonymous authoress who made herself their acolyte. The derision so unfairly directed at my uncle came largely from this quarter. In one of the supposed “letters” (no. 9) which the spinster lady concocted for her slanderous account, she has Mrs. Johnson write Lady Susan that Sir James “laughed heartily” and was “as silly as ever.” This phrasing suggests a continuum of being “silly”—“silly as ever”—as if both women considered Sir James silly long before this meeting with the assumption that he would continue being silly afterward, not that there was just one particular moment when he was silly.
(Might we not acknowledge that all of us might be considered “silly,” if only for brief periods? Who is so proud as to say, “I have never, even for a moment, been silly?” What utter nonsense, what arrogant rot. Though, on reflection, it is true that the DeCourcys might well have been just that arrogant. “I have never been silly”—yes, it is possible to imagine Reginald DeCourcy, Lady DeCourcy, or Catherine née DeCourcy Vernon saying or thinking just that, despite the utter absurdity of such a prideful boast.
In letter number 20, perhaps the crucial one, the spinster authoress has Catherine Vernon write that “Sir James talked a great deal,” that he mixed “more frequent laughter with his discourse than the subject required,” “said many things over & over again,” “told Lady Susan three times,” and “concluded by wishing, with a laugh…” The strategy of deprecation employed here is familiar to those who have studied the subject: “Constant repetition” is a characteristic of imbeciles, as is “frequent and inappropriate laughter.” A fine picture she paints of a good and honourable man!
Then, revealing her scandalous malice, she has him termed a “fool” (letter no. 23), a “Rattle” (no. 20), and “no Solomon” (no. 22)—this reference being to the wise king in the Bible. How fair can it be to compare anyone of recent times with such a Biblical wise man?
The excess of propriety and formality in our day has sadly deprived our language of many of the fertile and resonant words which the Englishman of prior centuries had at his disposal. “Argufy” is one such; the dictionary defines it as “to argue or quarrel, typically about something trivial.” Certainly we have all seen occasions where innocuous subjects are “argufied”; an excess of drink is often involved, though, in my opinion, an excess of coffee or tea can lead to argufication also. The analogous “speechify” one still hears, though it cannot be considered elegant. Most useful, though less known, is the venerable “despisefy.” Despisefy, or despisefying, is when a mass of people is led to despise someone or something for little or no reason.*
This is precisely what was done to my uncle. He was a good man, certainly nothing justified the deprecation to which he was subject, but by widely circulating the notion that he was silly and ridiculous he was left discredited in the circles influenced by the DeCourcy clique. Then, these circles influenced other circles. Soon, everyone was guffawing about Sir James Martin!** Yet if any of this great mass of gawfers had been pressed to explain why they were laughing, they would have been unable to do so. Sir James had been “despisefied.”
But what of Frederica? The question, posed earlier in our account, here becomes especially pertinent. After Frederica’s hurried departure from the Gold Room, a lively concern for her daughter’s well-being and perhaps even sanity pressed heavily upon Lady Susan’s heart. As for any mother, her greatest concern was always the
welfare of her child.
While Reginald DeCourcy and Sir James Martin left the house to search out Mr. Vernon, Lady Susan went to look for Frederica, going first to their rooms.
“Frederica? Darling?” she called softly. “Where are you?”
The passage between their rooms was dark, as was Frederica’s room itself, all the curtains closely drawn. Lady Susan stepped carefully to avoid stumbling while she allowed her eyes to adjust to the gloom.
“Are you hiding here, my sweet?… Don’t be afraid—let me hear from you… Oh, there you are! Were you asleep?”
“No, Mother.”
“Well, what then? Were you hiding from me?… Please explain.”
Once again nearly faint with worry for her daughter’s welfare, Lady Susan sat on the small chair next to the bed where Frederica lay, her face buried in her pillow.
“You’re a strange girl. What were you up to back there? Rushing out before Sir James entered the room…”
“I couldn’t bear to see him.”
“‘Couldn’t bear’? What an ungenerous manner of speech!”
Frederica neither moved nor responded; she continued lying face down on her bed, practically motionless.
I challenge anyone to argue that such behaviour or posture was either polite or respectful, or that in tolerating or indulging such behaviour Lady Susan was not putting at risk the character of her child as, unfortunately, so many mothers do; the consequences are never favourable.
“Frederica dear, Sir James Martin is a kind-hearted young man whose only offence seems to be wanting to provide you a life of comfort.”
She waited for a response; there was none.
“Have you nothing to say?”
Frederica shook her head.
“Dearest, our present comfortable state is of the most precarious sort. We don’t live—we visit. We are entirely at the mercy of our friends and relations, as we discovered so painfully at Langford. Here you seem to have won your aunt’s affection; I think I served you well there, for I believe she would do anything to spite me. But such a dynamic cannot continue forever.”
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