Back Roads to Bliss

by Ruth Glover

  Third Class (Quincy knew it by heart) included clergy, doctors, bankers, merchants, and manufacturers of some importance.

  Second Class was made up of the exalted and envied baronets, knights, and those having large incomes and estates.

  Highest Orders included lords, great officers of state, peers above the degree of baronet, and, of course, the royals.

  Blessed, favored Classes One and Two! Quincy was sometimes tempted to gnash his teeth and curse the strict codes that consigned one to a certain class and made it so difficult to get out of it. Might as well be in India’s caste system, he deplored, for all the good his money and toil did him. The aristocrats looked down their long noses, bought his factory’s goods willingly enough, and flouted his presence at their tables and in their clubs.

  With Quincy’s money and flourishing factory, it might have been possible for a son to move into Class Two—if he were selective of his friends, emulated the aristocracy’s behavior, spent money lavishly (which Quincy would gladly provide), showed no inclination to soil himself with work, and chose a wife a little above him in class (if he had to settle for one with some blemish, such as being cockeyed, so be it).

  It was useless to continue to bemoan the absence of a son; he had two daughters. And one, Sarah, Quincy thought sourly, had no ambition whatsoever. But Allison, with her considerable graces, her wit, and her beauty—and with the large dowry he would offer—would make a marriage that would, once and for all, lift the name of Middleton from the plebeian to the peerage.

  Quincy, of a sudden, found hope springing up in his heart. Norville Flagle, with his thrice-removed connection with the aristocracy, was the key to Quincy’s ambitions. And Allison was of marriageable age.

  “I think,” Quincy said before he returned to his paper, and striking his wife speechless, “I’d like you to plan a ball of spectacular dimensions for Allison’s eighteenth birthday.”

  Beggin’ yer pardon, Mum . . .”

  “Yes, Becky,” Letitia said, turning her head to look at the little maid, “what is it?”

  Becky, not long in service and only recently advanced from scullery duties to chambermaid, twisted her red and callused hands, directing her words to Letitia while casting anxious glances toward her lord and master. But Quincy, having delivered his startling request for a lavish birthday celebration for his oldest daughter, had retreated behind his newspaper, leaving Letitia to grapple with his surprising announcement. From being a most careless, unconcerned father, Quincy was now showing remarkable interest in Allison.

  There had to be more to it than goodness of heart. Knowing her husband well, Letitia was aware of the reason: Quincy had come to the realization that Allison was a . . . well, a pawn in the game he played. With a father’s authority, he could command what her future should be; his whim could decide her destiny, the destiny of all of them. His caprice could change the course of their lives.

  Some small flicker of resentment, long thought to be dead, struggled to life momentarily. With a shrug of realism, Letitia snuffed it out; wasting time on what would never be was useless.

  It seemed clear, from their conversation, that Quincy had only just realized what a treasure he had in his daughter. And to think she had been right here, available for his using, all along. The fact of the matter was that Allison’s marriage to the right man would work the miracle Quincy had dreamed of, connived for, and almost despaired of.

  And it had taken the magic name of Norville Flagle to open his eyes. What possibilities! Quincy’s small eyes gleamed like burnished coins; the corners of his mouth twitched in a way Letitia knew meant satisfaction. Allison, like a goose ordered plucked and prepared for the table, was fated to be offered on the altar of Quincy’s ambition.

  Still—Letitia comforted herself in her helplessness—Allison would love a sumptuous party given in her honor. Whether or not she bowed readily to the inevitable assignation with Norville Flagle remained to be seen. Perhaps if it were made attractive enough . . . a large settlement, perhaps. Letitia sighed, realizing it would take some sort of miracle to turn the spiritless, foppish Norville Flagle into a man who would appeal to her imperious daughter. Allison would never settle into marriage as compliantly as had her mother. Letitia automatically lowered her lashes over the offending eye that had shaped her own decision, and another small sigh escaped her lips, to be heard by Quincy.

  His eyebrows raised. “A ball doesn’t meet with your approval?” he asked. “I thought you’d be delighted—a chance to invite all those relatives of yours, let them see that you live far better than most of them do. If you need help, you could hire Miss Hotchkiss—”

  “That’s not necessary,” Letitia said stiffly. After all, she was fully capable of doing what was required to entertain so august an assemblage. Immediately names and faces of long-neglected relatives rose in her mind, only to be jarred into oblivion by the maid Becky’s hesitant interruption.

  “Well, Mum, it’s Miss Allison.”

  “What about Miss Allison?” Letitia asked, fearing the worst where this headstrong child was concerned.

  “Her’s sick, Mum.”

  “Sick? What do you mean, sick? And where is she? And how long has she been indisposed?”

  “Her’s in her room, Mum, and I expect her’s been sick all night. Her’s tossin’ on her bed, moanin’ somethin’ fiercelike.” Becky rolled her eyes dramatically, as though to describe the symptoms of the afflicted Allison.

  “All right, Becky. I’ll go up. Thank you very much; you may return to your duties.”

  The little maid made her escape, to repeat the story in the kitchen, dwelling importantly on her part in the small household drama. “There I were,” she described breathlessly, “come into Miss Allison’s room jist to do the fire, an’ coo—I heard this groanin’ and moanin’. Like a banshee, it were—”

  “That’s enough, Becky,” cook said sternly. “When will you learn that what happens above stairs should not be bandied about below? Now get back to work, my girl.”

  Allison’s “moanin’ and groanin’,” abandoned in the interim, resumed when the door opened a bit later and her mother appeared. Letitia hastened to the bedside.

  “Allison! What’s wrong? Are you sick, dear? Do you hurt somewhere? Is it your stomach?”

  Allison groaned and put a hand feebly to her forehead. Her mouth sagged weakly, her eyes stared in a blank manner, her head rolled from side to side. Perhaps she went too far, for Letitia’s concern seemed to cool considerably.

  “Lie still, dear. Let me feel your brow,” she said. But Allison’s tossing head made it difficult to determine whether there was a fever and just how high it might be. The cheeks were red, however, and looked feverish. But cheeks could be pinched. “Water,” Allison croaked.

  Letitia spoke soothingly to her daughter and promised to send up a cold drink, all the while studying her with some skepticism; she’d been through these charades with Allison before, usually timed to escape something she didn’t want to do.

  “Your stomach’s not upset, then?” she inquired, and she was assured that only the head hurt; food, as well as drink, would be acceptable.

  “And medication,” Letitia pronounced, and noted that, in spite of the supposed headache, Allison’s fair forehead wrinkled with distaste. Positive Headache Cure it would be. For did it not guarantee relief within fifteen minutes of the first dose, with a second rarely necessary except in obstinate cases? No matter what the cause of the distress, whether from headache or stomach or a severe case of neuralgia, Positive’s guarantee covered it.

  Feeling considerably relieved (Positive Headache Cure had worked a miracle more than once, getting the malingerer on her feet before even a teaspoon was swallowed), Letitia turned to depart.

  “I’m afraid it’s toast for you today, my dear,” she decreed, adding, “unless, that is, you are up and on your feet and able to go calling. Then you’d want to partake of teatime, of course . . .”

  Allison’s moans incre
ased. Letitia could see it was going to be one of the protracted bouts, enduring the entire day but probably “cured” by the following morning when whatever was aggravating the child should be over and out of the way. She was able to leave with little or no concern for Allison’s welfare.

  “Well,” Quincy said impatiently when his wife joined him again, “what’s going on up there?”

  “Just a little malaise, dear,” Letitia reported. “Perhaps she indulged in too many cream buns yesterday. She’s at that age, you know—part child, part adult. Or girls that age,” she added delicately but implying much, “can have certain ailments—”

  “Well, it’s time she grew up and acted like an adult. Did you tell her about the birthday celebration?” Quincy asked, folding the newspaper, gulping one last swallow of coffee, and preparing to rise from the table.

  “I thought,” Letitia answered rather dryly, “I’d save that exciting and stimulating news for—when she’s feeling better.”

  “Tell her—that though there’s ‘a time to break down,’” Quincy quoted and felt the better for starting the day with Scripture, “there’s also ‘a time to dance.’ And now is that time. No doubt the news, had you shared it, would have gotten her up on her feet and out of these missish vapors in a hurry.”

  “She was hardly in a condition to consider dancing, Quincy. And there’s plenty of time. We have three months, you know,” Letitia said a little huffily. After all, didn’t she know the genteel thing to do—when to act and how to act?

  As was correct in society at the height of the season, Letitia would see to it that invitations went out, in paper form as was right and proper, three weeks before the occasion, and not sent by post but delivered by a servant. One-third more invitations would be sent than the rooms would hold; if they were crowded, so much the better. Though uncomfortable, the guests would be impressed and would refer to the evening as a crush.

  She would need to arrange for a cloakroom for the ladies, a hat room for the gentlemen. Arrange, too, for one of the men servants to fasten a brush to one foot and put a soft slipper on the other and dance over the ballroom floor for several hours, dance until a reflection could be seen. Care with the lighting must be taken—wax candles could drip onto the dancers below. As for the music, four musicians would be best—a piano and violin, perhaps a viola . . . certainly a flageolet would be less blaring than a horn. Fortunately, the waltz was no longer frowned upon, Queen Victoria herself having given her stamp of approval.

  And so ran Leititia’s thoughts.

  The village of Midbury, of course, did not boast an assembly room; the great hall at Middleton Grange would have to do. In spite of everything, “class” would be very much in evidence. To flout or disobey the unwritten laws of society would be a terrible breach of etiquette. Still—Letitia determined even now—no cord would be stretched across the ballroom as at some country balls, the upper end of the room being appropriated by the aristocracy, and lesser personages being relegated to the lower half. How embarrassing for Quincy, to be corded off from those he wanted to impress, and at his own gala, too. Unaccustomed perspiration beaded Letitia’s upper lip, though winter was far from over and the house was plagued by drafts in spite of its coal fires in every room.

  Moreover, Letitia wondered now, increasing her agitation, should the ball be preceded by a large sit-down supper, or would light refreshments be sufficient? Bother! This was more anxiety-laden than she had realized.

  “Better get that needlewoman of yours onto the job right away—” Quincy, having made his wishes known, prepared to go off to his day in the mill’s offices with a pleased expression on his rather heavy features; money could accomplish so much! But as yet, it had failed to get him what he wanted most of all—recognition by the aristocracy.

  “I will, Quincy. Everything’s under control,” Letitia said with a confidence she didn’t feel. “There’s no need for you to fret about a thing.” That was all she needed—Quincy puttering and fretting the entire three months.

  “What’s the matter?” It was Sarah, opening the door to Allison’s room, stepping in, coming to the bedside. “I saw Mama coming out of your room and I knew something was wrong. Are you sick, Allie?”

  “Am I ever sick?” Allison enjoyed marvelous health. Marvelous health, high spirits, a vivid imagination, and boundless energy.

  Sarah, not so endowed, was carried along on the tide of her sister’s enthusiasms many times and admired her greatly. Younger, milder, more colorless in looks and in personality, Sarah had not a single jealous bone in her thin, childlike body. But neither did she have the slightest smidgen of passion in her entire makeup and, consequently, observed her sister’s zeal for life with constant amazement mixed, at times, with trepidation.

  Now she asked cautiously, “So why are you in bed? Why did Mummy come up here?”

  Allison’s toast arrived at that moment, carried by Becky, now so caught up in the little drama as to be almost visibly vibrating with excitement.

  Allison looked at the tray with distaste. “Go back, Becky, and bring me a decent breakfast, eggs—” Allison loved coddled eggs, as Becky well knew.

  “Oh, no, Miss,” Becky gasped. “Missus told me this’s all I was s’posed to bring. No matter what her begs for, her said—”

  Allison muttered a word that would have turned her mother’s eyes cold. Sarah put a hand to her mouth; even Becky, accustomed to such exclamations, pursed her lips and looked severely disapproving.

  “Allison!” Sarah said. “And in front of Becky, too.” Becky managed to look properly affronted.

  Allison spluttered but restrained any further outbursts.

  Her day, having started out so well, was disintegrating into something aggravating, not filled with the fuss and frenzy that should happily mark wedding preparations. But then, no one knew, not even Sarah. Consequently, everyone went their usual way, fixing fires, carrying trays, dressing, eating breakfast as if nothing momentous were happening.

  “I’m sorry, Becky,” Allison, repentant, said now. “Just leave the tray, please.”

  Becky, mouthing the surprising word the young mistress had muttered in her frustration, scurried off down below, there to dare once again—in spite of cook’s stern glance—to embellish the account of life as it existed above, so different from her own as to seem magical.

  “I suppose you realize they’ll all hear about it downstairs,” Sarah said.

  “It’ll liven up their lives,” Allison said airily, flinging back the covers.

  “When did this sickness rise?” Sarah asked. “You seemed all right earlier.”

  “I told you, I’m not sick!” Allison said. “It’s just a smoke screen, for Mama’s sake.”

  “What are you up to now?”

  “Who said I was up to something? Can’t a person take a day off without being accused—”

  “Oh, come on, Sister. Why are you trying to fool Mama?”

  Allison was dressing herself casually. Later, when everything was in order and the time was right, she would dress with care. Glancing through the window, she shivered. Frost sparkled on the ground, and, yes—it was beginning to snow. Was even the weather going to be against her!

  No matter. The plan was made; Stephen, across town, would be working on his final arrangements; she would carry out hers. Now Allison’s shiver was from something other than the cold; a delicious tremor of daring, expectation, dreams come true, ran up and down her spine.

  Sarah noticed. “You’re shivering. Maybe you aren’t well, after all.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Sarah, quit acting like an old maid! Now then, I’ve got things to do—”

  “Can I help?” Sarah asked eagerly.

  Allison stopped, pondered, and nodded. “Why not? Listen; what I need to have you do is slip up to the attic and try and find a traveling bag of some kind—”

  “Traveling! Are you going somewhere, Allison?”

  Allison sighed. Little sisters were such a pain!

 
; “Can you keep a secret?” she asked abruptly.

  Sarah looked injured. “You know how many secrets of yours I’ve kept. Why would you have to ask?”

  “Because this is something . . . something . . .” Words failed. Allison sat back down on the edge of the bed, hugged her slim arms around her body, and said, eyes dancing and cheeks dimpling, “Sarah—I’m getting married!”

  Sarah was silent. Then, hesitantly, she said, “Well, so am I—someday. I hope.”

  Allison threw herself back on the pillows with a massive explosion of breath. “Not some day, silly! This day. Or, actually, day after tomorrow.”

  Sarah’s expression froze. “What . . . what do you mean? Oh, Allison, what have you gone and done now?”

  Sarah’s apprehensive cry rang throughout the room: “Allie! What have you done!”

  “Oh, hush, you silly goose! Do you want the whole house to hear you?”

  “But, Allie, you said—”

  “That I’m getting married. Is that too much to comprehend? People do it all the time.”

  “But not . . . that is . . . Oh, Allie! How can you!”

  “How? It’s very simple, really. You just declare yourselves married before witnesses—”

  “Allison! Be sensible!” But Sarah was a bit relieved; if Allison wasn’t serious, if this was her way of teasing . . .

  “If you know so much about it, why ask?” Allison responded, tossing her long dark hair not yet fastened up for the day.

  “You know what I mean. That type of marriage was banned in England—oh, years and years ago. I need you to answer me sensibly. That is, if you’re serious. You’re not, are you, Allie?” Sarah verged on being distraught. Such an announcement—and to be treated so lightly! Such a revelation—and then to tease about it!