Love & Friendship

by Whit Stillman

  “Good afternoon, my dear,” Charles said. “I hope you are well.”

  Frederica curtsied and seemed to blossom, as a flower might, though more daisy than rose.

  “Thank you—it’s so good to see you!”

  “Frederica,” her mother said, “why don’t you go and get your music? Select something charming to show your aunt and uncle what you’ve studied.”

  “With pleasure,” Frederica replied with a bow and left.

  “Mind your head,” Lady Susan warned Charles, who was exceptionally tall, as they entered the drawing room; he, fortunately, took the precaution, ducking in time. Concern for the welfare of others was habitual with Lady Susan and, perhaps for that reason, insufficiently appreciated, which I have sought to correct here.

  “You will see the strides she’s making,” Lady Susan said. “Frederica plays all the new music: Haydn, Hummel, Bernardini*… Cherubini**… Please, do sit down.”

  The Vernons made themselves comfortable on the large sofa of neo-classical design.

  “So, you are happy with her progress?” Charles asked.

  Lady Susan considered the question. “Yes,” she said finally. “Only in a city such as London, I believe, could she have had such instruction.”

  This intelligence depressed the Vernons’ hopes; Charles turned to Catherine.

  “If Frederica is making such good progress in London—well, that complicates matters…”

  “What complication would that be?” Susan asked.

  “We had hoped Frederica might return to Churchill,” Charles said.

  “She’s greatly missed,” Catherine added. “By the little ones especially—”

  “What a moving sentiment of cousinly regard! My concern, my obligation, is to see the defects in Frederica’s education repaired.”

  “Could we invite one of her teachers to Churchill to continue her lessons there?” Charles asked.

  “What a kind thought,” Susan said. “These, however, are not teachers but rather London’s most sought-after masters; no invitation to a country retreat, even such a delightful one as Churchill, is likely to be in their power to accept.”

  “Perhaps a private tutor then—”

  “I must confess something,” Lady Susan said. “Frederica and I have become such great friends I would find it hard to part with her. You might have noticed that, for a time, there was a strange tension between us. That has now happily disappeared. You can imagine how pleased I am—”

  Catherine seemed to slump in her seat.

  “Excuse me, are you well?”

  “I’m sorry—we had so set our hearts on Frederica’s return.”

  “I understand completely. She’s turned into an agreeable companion—even her tendency towards extreme quiet I have grown to find soothing.” Glancing first towards the door, Lady Susan added: “One factor does concern me: Do you think she looks quite well?”

  “Oh, yes,” Charles replied too quickly, his habitual agreeableness closing off a possible line of argument for Frederica’s return to Churchill.

  “That was your impression?” Susan asked. “London’s vaporous air is not, I worry, quite healthy for her. Doesn’t she seem pale?”

  “She does,” Catherine said. “The London air, these smoky gases, cannot be salutary for a girl her age. Fresh, country air is what the young require.”

  “Yes… How curious they are.”

  “Let her come visit then—”

  “I’m not able to express my sense of such kindness—yet, for a variety of reasons, I’m reluctant to part with her.”

  For a moment an awkward silence descended, broken by Charles.

  “But,” he said, “does not the town’s dank air favour the spread of influenza?”

  “The influenza? In London?” Lady Susan asked, alarmed.

  “Several cases have been reported—it is, after all, the season for it.”

  “Of all the disorders in the world the risk of an influenza contagion is what I most dread for Frederica’s constitution,” Lady Susan confessed.

  “Shouldn’t we consider then removing her from that danger?” Catherine asked.

  “What you say gives me pause… But it would be such a hardship to lose my daughter’s companionship just as I’ve come to rely on it—and of course her studies…”

  Among the carriages kept by the Johnsons was a charming two-horse landau which Alicia preferred for travel within London. This now pulled up before Lady Susan’s door on Upper Seymour Street with Susan shortly leaving the house to join her friend. As Susan took her seat opposite Alicia, the coachman gave the order for the horses to start and, with a jolt, the carriage pulled away.

  “Congratulate me, my dear! Frederica’s aunt and uncle have taken her back to Churchill.”

  “But I thought you had grown to enjoy Frederica’s company so.”

  “Comparatively. A bit. But I am not so self-indulgent as to want to wallow in the companionship of a child.”

  “Alas,” Alicia said. “I fear this is our last meeting—at least while Mr. Johnson is in life. His business at Hartford has become extensive. If I continue to see you he vows to settle in Connecticut forever.”

  “You could be scalped!!” Susan exclaimed. “I had a fear that the great word ‘Respectable’ would one day divide us. Your husband I abhor, but we must yield to necessity. Our affection cannot be impaired by it and, in happier times, when your situation is as independent as mine, we will unite again—for this I shall impatiently wait.”

  “I also.”

  Susan took Alicia’s hands in hers.

  “May Mr. Johnson’s next gouty attack end more favourably!”

  The carriage pulled to a stop near the palatial archway leading to the Hampshire gardens. A tall, handsome man stood in its shadow waiting for them—he now approached them: It was Lord Manwaring.

  “Adieu, my friend,” Lady Susan said as she stepped from the coach.

  The months passed, the weather warmed, the rains paused. Amidst Churchill’s shrubbery and blooming flowers Reginald now walked with a lovely and radiant Frederica rather than with her far more beautiful mother. They spoke of Cowper, Thompson, Addison, and Steele. For both of them the great Pope was a particular favourite.

  In the main hall Charles Vernon asked Catherine if she knew where Frederica might be. “Lady Susan has written her.”

  Taking the letter, Catherine went to look for Frederica and, not finding her, called her name.

  “Coming!” Frederica replied as she and Reginald were just then returning from the garden.

  “A letter has come from your mother.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Catherine. What does she write?”

  “She has written to you herself.”

  Frederica took the letter and sat to cautiously break its seal. What was the intelligence that she feared to learn? Frederica read silently for a few moments until a look of surprise altered her countenance.

  “My mother and Sir James Martin have wed!”

  “What?!” Reginald exclaimed. “How could that happen? How could they possibly marry?”

  “To what do you refer?” Charles Vernon asked. “Both were free to do so: he a bachelor, Susan a widow.”

  “Sir James Martin is a fool!” Reginald said.

  “Well, a bit of a ‘rattle,’ perhaps,” Catherine conceded.

  “A bit of a ‘rattle’? He’s a complete blockhead.”

  “There are three possible explanations as I see it,” Charles said. “First, perhaps Sir James has more merit than we have allowed—”

  “No,” Reginald replied.

  “Second, perhaps, in order to secure your future, Frederica, your mother thought it necessary to make a prudent match herself.” Charles looked to Frederica for agreement—which she provided.

  “That could be the case,” she said, thoughtfully. “Mother has always been concerned for my future.”

  “And the third possible explanation?” Reginald asked.

  “That she… ca
me to love him,” Charles said. “There is a saying—‘the heart has its strangeness,’ or words to that effect. The heart is an instrument we possess but do not truly know. Human love partakes of the divine, or at least has in my case.”

  Charles looked to Catherine, who responded with a sweet, though deceptive, smile. Turning to Reginald he continued: “You will find it in writings of Rousseau—Julie, or the New Heloise, I think. I will confirm the citation if you’re interested.”

  “I just find it incomprehensible that so brilliant a woman could marry such a pea brain… or peas brain.”

  “It happens all the time,” Charles replied; Catherine smiled.

  “It strains credulity,” Reginald persisted.

  “Certainly—as has been said—Sir James is no Solomon, but if he can give Lady Susan the happiness and security of which the sad events of recent years have deprived her, then he is someone that I and all of us should value.”

  “I very much agree, Uncle,” Frederica added. “We all should—I wish them every happiness in their life together!”

  In London, at Edward Street, Alicia Johnson faced the daily struggle of contending with her older and difficult husband. He delighted in threats to return her to her native Hartford in the valley of the Connecticut River,* the upper reaches of which were a wilderness area where Indian attacks had been frequent. It is widely known, I believe, that many of our countrymen have a taste for cruelty. Rather than shame, some even boast of this proclivity. Causing pain, humiliating others, making them squirm is keenly enjoyed. In Spain this passion of our compatriots for pain-causing even has a name, “El Vicio Ingles”—the “English Vice,” they call it. A posture of superiority or dominance is sought; citizens from other lands, or even our own colonies, are deprecated (which to me, it seems, is somewhat similar to those parents who delight in maligning their own children). For Mrs. Johnson the oppressiveness of her domestic situation was severe; it was marvellous that she was able to maintain her cheerful, humourous manner in the face of it but, then, she was Lady Susan’s friend and both women had the genius to remain charming in the least charming circumstances.

  When my uncle, recently married, paid her a call that spring, one would have thought her without a worry of any kind. Sir James was in exceptionally good humour as he joined her in her drawing room, decorated in the exquisite style which Robert Adam made famous.*

  “Congratulations, Sir, on a match I long favoured,” Alicia said amiably. “There’s a rightness to your being together—not that any man could really deserve Lady Susan.”

  “I agree most heartily… And I’ve the pleasure of adding that double congratulations are in order.”

  “What?”

  “The most beautiful woman in England—present company excepted—will soon be the most beautiful mother. Yes, I am to be a father.”

  “Marvellous! You certainly don’t delay matters… Congratulations, Sir!”

  A footman brought in the elaborate tea service while Alicia herself took charge of mixing the tea leaves in their canister.

  “Yes,” Sir James said. “The very morning after the wedding Lady Susan hinted at the happy news—which was shortly confirmed.”

  “How truly marvellous!”

  My uncle’s high spirits and good humour were rather infectious.

  “I am as proud as you can imagine.” The sound of a wheezing sob from another part of the house attracted his attention: “What’s that?”

  “Such a burden,” Alicia whispered. Sir James leaned forward to catch her words. “When Lord and Lady Manwaring separated, Mr. Johnson—who was Lucy Manwaring’s guardian—invited her to live with us.”

  “Really?” Sir James asked. “What upsets her?”

  “The separation still. She goes on about it.”

  “What?”

  “All this carrying on about a marriage that ended weeks ago. If a woman fails to please her husband—why go on about it, advertising one’s failure? Why announce to the world that the man who knows you best would rather be with someone else?”

  “It seems,” Sir James observed, “as if Lady Manwaring has failed to consider the difference between the sexes. For a husband to wander is not the same as vice versa. If a husband strays, he is merely responding to his biology—that is how men are made. But…”—the idea made Sir James smile—“… for a woman to act in a similar way is ridiculous, unimaginable. Just the idea is funny: hew, hew, hew… hew, hew.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, quite funny…”

  They both sat.

  “I rather blame Lady Manwaring’s scene-making for driving her husband away,” Sir James said. “But her loss has been our gain. As a result of all the trouble her solicitors caused, we have had Manwaring with us these past weeks.”

  “That’s not inconvenient?”

  “Not at all! Capital fellow. Couldn’t get on better—loves to hunt, small and large game. Excellent to have a guest and the talk which comes with it. Of course Lady Susan’s sharp, but it’s easier to talk with a fellow, particularly one who shares one’s interests… Before long we’ll have another guest.”

  “Frederica?”

  Sir James laughed. “No! Of course, the baby.”

  At precisely this moment the door burst open; Lady Manwaring, distraught and dishevelled, entered.

  “Manwaring? Manwaring? Have you seen my husband?” Lady Manwaring asked in a tone of feverish passion, her voice breaking. “What have you been saying, Sir?! Tell me. How… is he?”

  “Well, Madam, very well, I believe. Couldn’t be better.”

  Unable to bear this happy report, Lady Manwaring sobbed and left the room. While Sir James and Mrs. Johnson certainly had sympathy for her distress they were too polite to show it.

  “Tea?” Alicia asked.

  “Quite,” Sir James replied, resuming his seat.

  A Wedding

  My own first visit to Churchill was to play a highly visible role in Frederica and Reginald DeCourcy’s wedding. After her engagement, when Frederica came to Martindale to visit her mother (Reginald thought it best to absent himself from this trip), she asked whether my brother and I might be part of the wedding party as flower boys or, rather, train-holders, or some such. It seems to me that the young children included in a wedding party are there in an essentially decorative mode; the actual work is not hard.

  The Churchill church was, as has been mentioned, more chapel-than church-like; it was not far from the Churchill house but obscured from the road leading to it by a wood, a high stone wall, and a discrepancy in the terrain’s elevation. The wedding was small and the first guests already arriving when Sir James’ carriage pulled up, then rolled back, almost knocking down an elderly couple passing behind it. “Careful!” the man called angrily to the driver; it is true that such sudden movements can lead to dismemberment or death.

  My uncle stepped down from the carriage, followed by Lady Susan, large with child at this time, as well as Lord Manwaring.

  Sir James was delighted to finally see the Churchill church—missing which had so disoriented his first visit, leading to the eternal, cruel mocking of the DeCourcys. “So—here’s the Church!” he said with his characteristic ebullience. “But, where’s the hill? Don’t see it.” He looked around, squinted and looked further. “There doesn’t seem to be one—strange. Odd.”

  The young curate of the Churchill church conducted the wedding with distinction. Frederica Vernon and Reginald DeCourcy were wed and nearly everyone appeared pleased, though it was certainly Reginald who had the better half of the bargain. Afterwards, as the wedding party passed under the garland arch, little Charlotte Vernon called out, “God bless you all!” Her cordial spirit suggested she was her father’s rather than her mother’s child. I was jealous that I had not thought to call out something similarly striking; in any case she came to a bad end.

  The wedding was followed by a delicious wedding breakfast at Churchill’s main hall. While the other children ran about inanely outside I remaine
d within, closely observing what went on, as well as sampling the dishes. I as yet had no idea that I would one day write this book, so I cannot claim to have specifically overheard these conversations; but I do have Frederica’s wedding memory book to draw from as well as my own extraordinary (as Mrs. Johnson called it) ability to imagine just how everything was, even in those circumstances when I could not have been present (though in this case I was).

  First, Charles Vernon suggested to Frederica that Lady Susan “must be very proud” of her.

  “I am enormously grateful to her also,” Frederica replied. “Without my mother’s efforts I would not have found such happiness.” She glanced to where her mother, splendid with child, stood speaking with Sir James and Lord Manwaring; the conversation in that group was reciprocal.

  “You must be most proud of Frederica,” Sir James offered.

  “I would not say ‘proud,’” Lady Susan specified. “That is not a word I favour. I will say that I am glad that I was able to attend to Frederica’s education. My daughter has shown herself to be cunning and artful—I could not be more pleased: A Vernon shall never go hungry.”

  Elsewhere Catherine Vernon spoke with the young curate of the Churchill church. “And bearing false-witness?”

  Could it be that a consciousness of guilt and pang of regret stirred in a DeCourcy breast? “That would be the Ninth,” the young curate replied.

  So, it turns out that those who so mocked my uncle for misconstruing the commandments did not know them well either. “And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?” (Matthew 7:3–5). To my knowledge no DeCourcy has ever answered that question.

  Meanwhile Lady DeCourcy urged Charles and Sir Reginald to help her convince Frederica to sing. “That would be delightful,” Charles said. “The ‘Surrey Songbird,’ we call her.”

  “What? No!” Sir Reginald exclaimed. “She’s the ‘Kentish Nightingale’—always call her that. ‘Surrey Songbird’—nonsense, rubbish… ridiculous!”

  As Wilson, the butler, announced the wedding couple, the guests turned to where Reginald and Frederica stood on the set of steps leading to Churchill’s “new” wing, built two centuries before.