by Tracy Rees
‘Indeed. Delightful place. The fields, the river, the . . . yes, excellent.’ He glances around, gesturing vaguely at the wonders of Twickenham, then returns his blue gaze to my face. It is upturned like a daisy, he is so tall. ‘And now our paths cross once again. I confess, I have more than once felt remiss for not escorting you that day, Miss Snow. King Street is no place to leave a lady alone. But you obviously found your friends.’
‘You were most courteous and helpful, sir. But yes, I found them. May I introduce Miss Madeleine Wister and her sister Miss Priscilla Wister?’
‘Charmed.’
The girls curtsey, subdued by his illustrious manner, but Priscilla bubbles up again very quickly.
‘I am plagued to choose a chain, sir. Do you consider a belcher chain or an oval link to be more stylish? I do not wish to be unfashionable; I wish to choose something truly Victorian.’
I clasp my hands together to stop them flying up to cover my face. I cannot imagine a man like Mr Garland, steeped in the concerns of business and national progress, to have an opinion about ladies’ necklaces. Yet he inclines himself to the cabinet and appears to study the question with consummate gravity.
‘Priscilla, Mr Garland does not want to think about your necklace!’ breathes Madeleine in horror.
But he is not to be rushed. When he turns to us again, we look at him as though awaiting a pronouncement from an oracle.
‘The oval link,’ he beams, ‘will be quite the thing for a beauty as delicate as yours, Miss Priscilla. It is hard to imagine any adornment looking ill on one so lovely, yet you are quite right to choose something modern and fresh. Is there a special occasion?’
Priscilla is too overcome to answer.
‘There is to be a dance at Lowbridge House in Richmond next Saturday,’ Madeleine explains.
‘And a finer occasion it will be for your attendance, ladies. Now if you will excuse me, I must take my leave. I am pleased to meet you again, Miss Snow. Good day.’
We are left, all three, gazing after him, like ducklings in a row. The excitement of shopping for a ball was polished to a high shine by the addition of Mr Garland to the experience. With his departure, the gleam is dulled.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Despite my absorption in the enchanted kingdom that is Mulberry Lodge, I have not forgotten Aurelia, nor the old days in Hatville, nor the trail of letters. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that they will not forget me.
For the most part, my manner has grown easier and more confident. I converse readily now and I have not once disgraced myself. But sometimes I find myself scrutinizing an accepting face and mistrusting courtesies. Are they wrong? Should I be persecuted? For if not, why did the Vennaways feel so differently? For all those years, why? The question pursues me like a sigh.
Mostly, however, I am happy indeed. This at last is my own dream come true: family, good cheer, hearth and home, domestic bliss. Oh, I know it is not my family, and not my home. But I like to fancy that by experiencing it here, now I am shaping the possibility somewhere in my future. When Aurelia’s quest is finished with me, I shall remember this time, perhaps create my very own Mulberry Lodge somehow, with people of my own.
My favourite refuge is the conservatory, the ultimate demonstration of Constance’s taste for the exotic. If I had a home of my own, I would have a conservatory just like this. A whole room made of glass! Filled with plants! The conservatory is like a garden within a house. In fact, it is like a jungle in a house.
Tall palm trees sweep the ceiling. There is a hammock as well as several sofas, and a wrought-iron bench painted white. There are orange trees and orchids. The Wisters own two parrots, Solomon and Xerxes, whose spread-winged, long-tailed shapes cast gliding shadows. Their cries make me shiver with delight both at the thought that far-off, tropical places exist and that I am not called upon to visit them.
It is a very wet, very English day when I receive an unimagined visitor. Bessy brings him to me in the conservatory and so I am alone with Quentin Garland for the few moments it takes her to run for reinforcements.
‘Good heavens!’
My astonishment bests my manners at first. I cannot imagine what he is doing here and I am horrified to be happened upon so. I am sketching the parrots, with the puppy Clover dozing in my lap and Cavendish spread across my slippers. I spring to my feet, sending dogs scattering.
‘Mr Garland! I hope you are well? What an unexpected honour!’
He looks immaculate, despite the rain. He wears his habitual powder-blue cravat but his riding jacket is burgundy with a collar of pale-pink velvet. It would look flamboyant on anyone else, but Mr Garland is not flamboyant. He is elegance personified. I have sometimes wondered if he employs a whole staff simply to dress him. I have fine clothes now but I am still a mortal girl within them. Still I can stumble and bump and still a breeze untidies my hair. Mr Garland, by contrast, could be skating on glass, inside a protective crystal cabinet. Beyond these, admittedly fanciful, suppositions, I have been able to imagine nothing of what Mr Garland’s life is actually like. The migration and nesting habits of a rare bird, fleetingly and memorably glimpsed, could not be more alien to me.
‘My apologies, Miss Snow.’ He bows, deeply. ‘I should perhaps have sent a card, only I was passing and the day is so inclement – the prospect of seeing you again and taking shelter for a few moments were together too tempting.’
The prospect of seeing me was tempting? That seems unlikely. It is almost as if he . . . but no – that is too outlandish a thought. ‘I am delighted to see you. However did you find me?’
‘I had some business with Ashleigh Charlton. He mentioned the Wisters in passing and I remembered meeting your charming friends in town. I told him that I had met their young guest and asked where I might find you.’
Why on earth should he do such a thing? Yet I find I cannot ask. ‘A small world,’ I murmur.
Madeleine and Priscilla then burst in, to my great relief. The responsibility of entertaining a gentleman alone, even for the accustomed fifteen minutes, feels daunting. We are still standing awkwardly. I had not even offered him a seat! Madeleine rectifies this and we all sit, I rather heavily, like dough being flung onto a table, Mr Garland like butter melting in a pan. Cordial greetings all round. Madeleine offers light refreshment, and Mr Garland declines, while I sit quietly in some bewilderment. The prospect of seeing me was tempting! Despite my discomfort, I glow.
‘Do you live nearby, Mr Garland?’ Madeleine asks with her lovely smile, rescuing the conversation.
‘No, I live in Chiswick. My business, however, brings me out here fairly frequently. I often stay with friends – it saves me travelling back and forth all the time. This morning was so pleasing I set out for a ride.’ He laughs and shakes his head ruefully. ‘When the weather turned, I wished I had thought better of it.’
‘Will you attend the ball at Lowbridge while you are here, Mr Garland?’ asks Priscilla, fidgeting like a marionette. She has been full to the brim of the ball for days now. ‘You helped me choose my chain for it, after all.’
‘I remember! And I should like nothing better than to see you wear it. I will attend if I can, although most likely I shall need to be back in town by the end of the week.’ He frowns, as though deeply disappointed, although I cannot imagine he suffers from a dearth of invitations to balls.
We go on to talk of inconsequential things, and when he leaves, we all leap up to show him to the door, gently jostling each other in our eagerness to grant him every attention. He vanishes into the rain, whereupon Priscilla squeals and jumps up and down and gloats that even her famously sociable grandmother has not met Mr Garland.
I slump back onto the chaise, frowning. I cannot tell why I am so unsettled by his call when his manners were, as ever, gentlemanly in every particular. I have a sense, rightly or wrongly, that he was verifying an impression. Perhaps he is unused to conducting conversation in a conservatory stuffed to the gills with flora and parrots. Pe
rhaps he disapproved of Bessy’s bringing him to me instead of asking him to wait in the drawing room. I saw the gleam in her eye when she announced him; I will hear about this come next bath day.
But I am uneasy, I cannot deny it. I shoot up again, restless, and go to the mirror in the hall to check that it is not I who am surprising in some way. My hair is surprisingly tidy beneath a white cap and I am wearing an apple-green gown. The sleeves are not over full and the skirt is not excessively wide; I am a little reassured. Perhaps I am merely unused to being treated civilly by fine folk.
Or perhaps it is just that he is so gleamingly handsome.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The much-anticipated ball is upon us at last. Priscilla almost weeps when I refuse to wear the red dress.
‘But Mr Garland may be thinking of courting you! He may be there tonight! He is used to consorting with the most sophisticated of ladies! Oh, Amy, why won’t you?’
‘Priscilla dearest, I am not the most sophisticated of ladies! To wear such a dress would take far greater confidence and panache than I possess. And please do not talk of Mr Garland that way! I am absolutely sure his intentions are not what you are imagining.’
I am not being coy. The thought has crossed my mind more than once since the day in the conservatory; it is a persistent nuisance. But it simply cannot be, I am quite sure of that. It would be a compliment too far. To be sure, I look very different than I did when we met. I am no longer a shabby, pinched goblin. If I were a generous friend looking at Miss Snow, I would say she was an average-looking girl, with some pleasing features, who is making the best of herself. But that is not the sort of girl for Quentin Garland of Chiswick. For heaven’s sake!
‘Then why did he call on you?’
I cannot answer that. Nevertheless, I veto the red dress absolutely. I feel next to naked in any one of my evening gowns. The red and the purple are the most daring. I look far older than I am and ready for . . . well, they are not modest. The silver is beautiful but it is the colour of a bride, or a princess, or a celestial body fallen to earth, and I am none of those. Shivering in my silk slip, I favour the more subtle apricot muslin. Priscilla pushes me to compromise with the pink tarlatan, and I clamber into it at last.
Madeleine dresses my hair for me, with pink and white roses and a subtle pink ribbon woven through the dark mass. It is not tame, but it is decorated. I have a fine cream shawl with pink embroidery and cream kid slippers with pink roses. I feel like a child playing dress-up, but with no one to seize me and drag me back to the kitchen.
I am self-conscious as we climb into the carriage, together with Constance, Edwin, Mrs Nesbitt and Michael. Michael complains at having to go to a dance while his brothers are building a fort in the dining room. But Edwin says no man should be made to escort five ladies alone and what is the point of having sons if not to share the burden of social obligation?
Despite the soft pink silk and my bare, snowy shoulders, I fear that everyone will somehow see that I was reared in a kitchen, and laugh. Even so, I cannot help but gasp as we cross Richmond Bridge. The shining black depths of the Thames reflect the lights of the tall houses at the water’s edge, displaying an elegant world that I marvel to be part of, even for a night.
At Lowbridge Hall, braziers flare in long parallel lines to usher guests to the door. The long drive is an open expanse, busy with carriages coming and going; I have no chance to flee like Cinderella.
As if Priscilla would let me! She grasps my hand as we walk to the door, as we are announced, as we greet our hosts, and as we step into the great swirling ballroom. It is only when Michael and Edwin have found seats for us all that she lets go.
And by then the ball has claimed me. I think I have never seen anything so beautiful. I know that everyone here must have their own history of joys and disappointments, that behind the happy façade any quantity of bitterness or pain might lurk. But for one night these burdens have been laid aside, along with dusty day dresses and sensible shoes. For one night I have stepped into a shimmering illusion. It is not just the spectacle that enchants me but the feeling in the room, such a buoyancy and a brimming as to make me forget all my worries. I long to run onto the floor and spin around, all by myself if necessary.
I do not.
I sit primly, sipping my punch and listening to Mrs Nesbitt’s commentary on who is who and what they are about and why ever are they wearing that?! She knows everyone, of course.
‘There is Mr Gooch, the registrar, and Mr Figg, the beadle. There is Meg Pawley – I met her years ago at Mr Dickens’s house in Ailsa Park. She was Meg Fellowes back then, of course.’
I look at Meg Pawley with interest, wishing fervently that I could meet Mr Dickens, but Mrs Nesbitt has already told me that he is not currently in Twickenham. The great man’s friend is a pretty woman in a lemon-yellow dress, and she is conversing with a statuesque dark-haired matron in a striking gown of jade green, with every ruffle and flounce piped in brilliant snowy white. She looks vaguely familiar; she must be a neighbour of the Wisters, I muse, as Mrs Nesbitt runs on:
‘There is her sister Meribelle, never married. Unsurprising. She’s a dear girl but has the gift of doing and saying absolutely the wrong thing in any situation! What man would take the risk? Now, why on earth do you suppose Mr Elms over there has seen fit to wear straw-coloured gloves? And is that embroidery on his necktie? Do not catch his eye, dear, for if he asks you to dance you will not want to offend, but those gloves are not the thing at all.’
I am fascinated. I do not intend to start judging men by the presence or absence of embroidery on their neckties, but I had no idea that gentlemen might need to dress just as carefully as we do. I have never given much thought to the social challenges of men at all.
I glance at Michael, tugging miserably at his own gloves (exemplary white) and realize that he is being schooled. His hair is carefully groomed with the curls suppressed a great deal – I know not how. I promise myself that I will take him to the river tomorrow, just the two of us. And if he should choose to leap directly from the bank onto Tam Marks the waterman’s boat, or take a swig from Tam’s father’s water flask (which I gravely doubt contains water), I shall say nothing about it.
In any case, he is quickly bored and abandons us for the banquet tables, justifying himself by bringing back thoughtful compilations of fowl, ham and tongue. There are so many guests, and so much food, I cannot help but spare a thought for the kitchen staff, who must have spent the whole day, at least, carving the meats and tying the slices into convenient bundles with ribbons. I am too excited to eat much, but a little jelly or tipsy cake can never be unwelcome.
I offer a fervent thank you to Aurelia for teaching me to dance. Thanks to her erratic yet passionate tutelage, behaving like a lady is so much easier for me than it might have been. I dance with a great many gentlemen, young and slender, old and heavy-set. Despite Priscilla’s urging, I do not think of beaux, not least because I know I will not be here long enough to foster any meaningful connections. Then there is my grief, which will be waiting for me in the morning.
Besides, I am not be ready for beaux just yet. If a courtship were ever to unfold, how might I explain my background? I am not confident anyone could love me in that way, were they to learn all that is obscure and shameful about me. So I am happy to dance and smile, to say little of myself and be quietly agreeable. As a result I am a great favourite!
There is no sign of Mr Garland, who is surely back in the city now. Once or twice I imagine I glimpse Henry Mead in the crowd, but of course I must be wrong. By now he will be back at his studies, submerged once again in the dreaded medical textbooks.
The highlight of my evening is meeting Mr Renfrew, adored of Miss Madeleine. It is not only because he is a pleasant-looking gentleman with a most agreeable temperament. And it is not only because he is a divine dancer and dressed to perfection in a fashionably tapered coat with a plaited shirtfront. Seeing him dressed so finely made her laugh out loud.
‘I am usually covered in mud,’ he tells me. ‘I believe she thought me incapable of civilized dress.’
‘I never said so, Daniel! I mean, Mr Renfrew,’ she objects, provoking a sharp glance from her papa.
No, the reason Daniel Renfrew delights me so very much is because as we dance, he confides in me a plan he has been forging for some time. Of course, it is to propose marriage to Madeleine. He has thought of it for some months, he explains, but does not feel he has enough in the way of material comforts to offer a young lady like Miss Wister. But now he has been offered a commission by one of the many dukes who live hereabouts to create a splendid landscape in the gardens of his mansion. The project will be extremely well paid – the opportunity of a lifetime.
‘Imagine, Miss Snow! A whole landscape, in a garden!’ And he tells me with great enthusiasm of his ideas for a gentle treatment to favour the particularity of the site, which is a little hilly and sweeps down to the river at its far end. He imagines lush lawns and an orchard of cherries and limes, a spiral garden ornamented with obelisks and hedges of hornbeam, and a grapery.
I am fascinated. My early experiences in Robin’s wheelbarrow have given me a great appreciation for gardens, though I do not mention this.
Our second dance draws to its conclusion and I promise not to say a word before he formalizes the agreement with the duke.
We are returning to the unsuspecting Wisters when a lady of middle years hails me. I noticed her earlier, in her fine jade-green gown with its brilliant white piping.
Mr Renfrew bows and takes his leave, not realizing that he is leaving me with a stranger. But I am so happy and light, my head such a whirl of cherries and grapes, that I think only with pleasure of making a new acquaintance and smile happily at her.
She is Mrs Ellington, she informs me. A name that, like her face, is somehow familiar to me. At second sight, I am sure I have not met her in Twickenham.