by Fiona Hill
Hampstead. Friday May 9th.
Dearest Angela,
We are arrived here at last, as you see by my note above, and I must say I am happier to be out of London for the moment (we return on Monday) than I had supposed possible. What a din is there! One remains unaware of it while in its midst, but in the quiet of the country it is remembered as a roar. The Hampstead House (so it is styled by my London relatives; it had no better name) is very lovely, though simple. Its furnishings are nothing so grand or elegant as those of Rucke House, but they are most of them a good deal more comfortable, and I for one am glad for the change. As I think you know, Lady Susan and her parents, Lord and Lady Safford, have accompanied us here; Sir Sidney Pettingill did his best to win an invitation too, and succeeded in being asked to join us tomorrow. My Lord Romby stopped in town, for he has no love of rusticating; all in all we are rather a small party, at least by the standards of the ton.
Windle, as you may imagine, is in constant raptures regarding the beauty of the countryside, the sweetness of the air, the freshness of the scenery, et cetera, et cetera. I myself have already joined her for a ramble on the Heath, which we are near, and which I found excessively invigorating.
Oh! Did I say Lady Beatrice was with us? Mr. Walfish too—her invariable companion. I am pleased with that: not only do I enjoy her ladyship’s discourse, but Mr. Walfish is generally extremely obliging about amusing Amy Meredith. Now that is a valuable gentleman!
I ought to pity Amy, I suppose. Poor thing, she has attracted not a single serious suitor as yet. The gentlemen buzz about her inquisitively, you understand, but only as bees do round an empty dish of tea: there is nothing for them there, they soon discover, and fly away. Both Mr. Arthur and Mr. John Lanham do, it is true, show her diligent attentions; but it is my feeling that if either cared deeply for her the other would bow out—or if both, that they would oppose each other more effectively. As it is, their banter about which stands highest in Amy’s favour is quite tame; it does not impress me as denoting any profound attachment.
What can be worse for a young lady just out than a lack of suitors? Some would say, nothing; but I daresay Amy’s own sentiments will bring her more misery than anything else could do. I have endeavoured, believe me, to pretend it was not so, but I am now come to the inescapable conclusion that Miss Meredith has conceived a tendre for Baron Mockabee, and intrigues with him when she can. Can you believe it? No grown woman but Amy could fancy him a suitable object for admiration! When I first suspected this circumstance I questioned her closely about it, and I think I did more harm than good that day, for she now imagines their liaison (to whatever extent it may exist) just that much more romantic and star-crossed. I ought to have realized that would be the result before I began; it was stupid of me not to. Now she will take my word for nothing about Mockabee: whatever I say, she adopts the opposite position. Tuesday night at the Opera we saw him sitting in Lady Embrey’s box, obviously flirting heavily with her, and since she is rather a gay, lovely woman, I pointed them out to Amy in hopes the sight would alienate her.
“What is that to do with me?” she inquired, shrugging her pretty shoulders. “There is nothing to disturb me in that scene.”
“I do not seek to disturb you,” said I, “but does it not interest you to find a man you hold in high esteem flirting openly with a married woman?”
She frowned. “If she is married, so much the less for me to fret over.”
I was distressed, but persisted. “Even so, you must surely own his conduct to be in questionable taste. Think of Lord Embrey!”
“Oh, as for that,” said she, cool as clay, “I suppose I shall flirt when I marry too, so I cannot object to it in them!”
All her shrugs and coolness notwithstanding, I saw her start to cry as soon as the curtain rose and she fancied she was unobserved. All in all she made a very sorry sight.
Dear Angela, sometimes I imagine Lord Seabury would almost marry her himself if he knew what was afoot. His sense of duty is so particularly strong. Of course, it has not obliged him to marry Lady Susan Manning yet, and so perhaps I am wrong.
Forgive me for giving so imbalanced an account of myself and Hampstead, but the bell rings to dress for dinner and I must fly. Tell Edgar I desired my best wishes to him—the Mockabee Revenge Scheme goes on very well, by the way—and kiss your dear mother for me.
Ever yours,
C.W.
Lady Caroline was already heartily sick of wearing rose, and would almost certainly have donned another colour if she had not been sure of meeting Lady Beatrice at the dinner table. Knowing herself to be under surveillance, however, she wearily slipped into a gown of light Indian muslin, deep rose in hue, and made her way to the drawing-room. Lady Susan and her parents were already there, Lord Safford discussing what had become of the Manchester Blanketeers with Lord Seabury. Susan and her mother stood by the window in quiet conference, the younger woman’s blond hair glinting dully in the fading light. Neither pair perceived Caro’s entrance into the room, nor did she feel sufficiently comfortable to announce her presence to them. She took a chair near the doorway and sat there quietly until Lady Beatrice arrived and joined her.
“Dear girl, this is a bad business, depend upon it,” were the marchioness’ first words to her protégée.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am?”
“Why, Baron Mockabee’s arrival!” said the other, much surprised. “I thought you had known!”
“But I did not, I assure you. What is this?” she questioned eagerly. “Mockabee here?”
“Indeed,” said her ladyship, nodding her grey head emphatically. “Arrived not half an hour ago, declaring Amy Meredith invited him, and no more sensible of the impropriety than a cat.”
“Or so he pretends,” Caro murmured.
“Precisely,” agreed Lady Beatrice.
“Oh dear,” was all Caro could think to add. Then, “I must confess, madam, I have sometimes thought of hinting to Lord Seabury that Mockabee’s attentions to Amy were not quite what one could wish for; but I must say this latest effrontery surpasses even what I suspected him capable of. Is he to be received as a guest, then?”
“Naturally,” she said. “What else could Seabury do, after all? Poor boy, he is the very soul of civility. It must have turned his stomach to be put in such a situation.”
Lady Caroline was silent.
“By the by, my dear, what did you do to displease him? I am really vexed with you.”
“I do not know what you mean,” Caro murmured.
“Oh, phoo! Certainly you do. My nephew took you out driving twice—or thrice, was it—and then, of a sudden, ceased to do so. Now, will you tell me why?”
“I am sure I do not know,” she said stubbornly.
“Provoking creature! It is all very well for you to simper and sulk, but in the meantime Seabury draws nearer every moment to offering for Susan.”
“Not really!” Caro said in spite of herself.
“Yes indeed,” said the marchioness, nodding her head wisely. “Depend upon it, Safford has finally reached the edge of his patience, and will begin to put the screws in this very night. I have seen more matches made, young lady, than you will ever do, and I smell one right now not ten feet from here.”
They had been speaking almost in whispers, and Lady Caroline was startled, when she looked up, to find Seabury himself bearing down upon them hastily. He bowed slightly and launched at once into a low-voiced, intense explanation of his mission. “I am sorry to bring disturbing news, dear ma’ams, but I think I must warn you that Baron Mockabee—I believe you are both acquainted with him?—will be joining us here. I am somewhat disturbed myself as to the manner of its coming about—”
“We know,” Lady Beatrice interrupted him bluntly. “My dresser heard it from a footman, who had it from the butler who admitted him.”
Lord Seabury frowned briefly at such a chain of rumourmongers. “How can such a thing have happened?” he asked after a moment. “I cann
ot believe Amy Meredith really invited him.”
“I am certain she did—” Caroline began, and blushed. It was strangely pleasurable to her to be included in this little consultation; still, she was not yet entirely at ease with Seabury.
“Are you?” he prompted, as she prolonged her pause. “How? Why?”
“My lord, I have sometimes wondered if you were aware—” she faltered. “I see now you were not…In any case, Amy is mad for Mockabee. There it is in so many words.”
“Mad for—you do not mean she is in love with him?” he exclaimed, forgetting for an instant to keep his voice low.
“Oh, as to that sir, no,” she answered. “Love, after all, is a sentiment requiring a certain ripeness of—well, anyhow, that is not quite what I mean. I believe she fancies herself in love with him; that is my interpretation.”
“And does he encourage this whim?” the viscount asked in growing consternation.
“I am afraid she requires very little encouragement, my lord.”
His lordship was quiet a moment, his brow deeply furrowed. “This is a bad business,” he said finally, unconsciously parroting his aunt’s assessment. “I am sorry I was not told sooner.”
“I did not like to distress you,” said Caro.
Lady Beatrice, who had been watching this exchange in thoughtful silence, chose this moment to speak. “Well, Seabury, now that you have been told—and now that Caroline has revealed her awareness—it looks very much to me as if the two of you ought to be able to think of a solution together. Surely two young persons of your parts can find a means to divide a baby from a rascal!”
Caroline, seeing at once that this proposal was made not so much to divide Amy from Mockabee as to throw Lord Seabury and herself together, blushed crimson and then grew a little angry. “I have no doubt but that Lord Seabury is well accustomed to dealing with such difficulties alone; though I should be honoured to give it, I suspect he stands in no need of my aid.”
Seabury, to everyone’s surprise (his included) suddenly blurted out a contradiction, however. “I should be extremely grateful for Lady Caroline’s assistance,” he said bluntly, “provided she is not unwilling to give it.”
Her fading colour making a rapid return, Caroline assured him she was his obedient servant. “Although I have not the least idea how to proceed,” she added.
It was now Lord Seabury’s turn to be diffident. “Of course, we must meditate upon the problem,” he offered stiffly. “I see Miss Meredith and the others coming now; possibly you and I may speak of this again later in the evening.” He then bowed, and went off to perform his devoirs as host of the party. He and Caro had no opportunity to meet privately, despite his hopes, until the following morning.
In the interim an unusual colloquy took place between Lady Safford and her daughter. Indeed, in order to know how very unusual it was, one must know first how excessively ordinary the conversation between these two women generally was. Customarily, it is true, the discourse between a mother and her daughter is not of any particularly original nature; on the contrary, it tends to follow quite predictable patterns. One may expect a good deal of chatter about matters of taste and fashion; not a little advice, and not a few instructions, are handed down from progenitrix to offspring; there may be a good deal of commiseration on the topic of grumpy papas, or thick-headed cooks; and after a certain age, one may be sure of hearing rather too much about gentlemen and marriage. Granting, then, that no mother and daughter can fairly be expected to grip the casual eavesdropper with compelling, riveting intercourse—granting this even before we begin, it must be recorded that the conversations normally shared between Lady Safford and Lady Susan were of a perfectly extraordinary and quite impressive dullness.
Still, on this occasion, the tedious tradition was, as I say, suffered to be interrupted for a moment. Lady Safford had something of interest to tell her daughter, something she had long considered, and frequently discussed with her husband. She began by bringing Susan into a quiet parlour some few hours before supper, pouring her a dish of tea (procured through the obliging Hedgepeth, who had come down with the party to Hampstead), and taking one herself.
“It is time you were married,” she pronounced, to begin with, and stopped.
In vain did Susan wait for an enlargement upon this theme. At the end of a full minute, she said, perplexed, “I should very much like to be married, Mamma, if it will please you; but I do not find the means of achieving that state.”
“Ah, the means!” cried her mother. “The very thing we must discuss tonight.”
“I am sorry, maman, but I do not quite perceive how our discussing such a subject can possibly advance the case.”
“Well, well, poor girl, it is no wonder you do not perceive it. Indeed, I should be ashamed of you if matters stood otherwise. Still, desperate straits call for desperate measures, and I fear your most becoming naïveté must be sacrificed upon the wide and bloodstained altar of necessity.”
Susan, who had not the least idea what Lady Safford meant, found this image rather alarming and requested some illuminating details.
“I mean, my dear, that you must go after Seabury in a more active way. I little thought to see the day when I would recommend such a thing, but here it is, and here am I, and—” Lady Safford faltered, really discomfited by what she was obliged to suggest. “Well we are none of us any younger than we used to be,” she finally brought out, “and you particularly have passed through quite a number of your child-bearing years, and since Lord Seabury will need an heir, something must be done at once.” Having said this much, her ladyship again made a long pause, during which she sipped her tea and felt exhausted.
“Dear ma’am,” Susan took up slowly, “you know, I trust, that I shall do my possible to serve you, whatever the occasion. Never have I refused or disobeyed you: I should think myself a monster of ingratitude if I had. However, I am a little apprehensive of my ability to pursue, as you put it, a more active course with regard to Lord Seabury. It is not, as you must be aware, in my nature to be forward—and I must add, what I hope you will not interpret as argument, that I do not imagine his lordship would care for it if I were.”
“I am afraid,” Lady Safford said as delicately as she could, “I am afraid you must be a trifle more than simply forward, dear Susan.”
The lady so applied to looked at her mother inquiringly.
“I am afraid, my dear, that we must make Lord Seabury the victim of a small, er, hoax.”
“A hoax?” exclaimed she, all uncomprehending astonishment.
“Exactly.”
“A hoax!” was repeated, this time incredulously.
“My pet, do not stare so. It is dreadfully rude.”
“Yes, but mamma, a hoax? A hoax, mamma?” she went on echoing in the same tone one might employ when objecting to the addition of mustard to a bowl of milk punch.
“Dear love, it is not as if I were suggesting something criminal, you know. You are taking this rather harder than I had anticipated. Many young women secure husbands in just such a way; it is scarcely—”
“Did you secure my father in just such a way?” she demanded.
“Well, no; but I might have had I needed to!”
Suddenly Susan did what was for her an extraordinary thing. Susan looked dubious; she looked unhappy. This freak display of emotion did not long endure, however, and a moment later she had reconciled herself completely to doing her parents’ will. Her countenance resuming its habitual piscine serenity (marred only by that troublesome squint), she apologized very prettily for having appeared to question her mother’s judgement, and announced her utter willingness to participate in any scheme deemed advisable.
“Well then! This is my dear Susan again,” cried Lady Safford, greatly relieved. “Really, it is not much of a hoax after all, and you will be far from the first young lady who has employed it. I shall contrive for you to walk out alone tomorrow with Lord Seabury—perhaps on the Heath, if you like—and you will p
retend to turn your ankle. You must confess, upon his solicitous inquiry, that it feels too poorly to support you; whereupon he will doubtless insist on carrying you home. Shyly, you submit to this inevitable procedure. Now we arrive at the one segment of the plan which you must devise as you see fit. Somehow, my pet, you must charm his lordship while he holds you in his arms—charm him past resisting. If you cannot, we shall be obliged to resort to even…cruder methods…so do try.”
Lady Susan engaged, once more, to do her possible.
“Good, then,” said her mother, rising to collect the young woman’s empty teacup. “It is all settled. Your father will be very happy to hear you are the same docile, sweet girl we have always known you to be. I am glad too,” she added, imprinting a dry salute on Lady Susan’s fair, unfurrowed forehead.
The interesting interview at a close, mother and daughter made their way back to the drawing-room, where they formed a whist party with Lady Beatrice and Mr. Walfish. Amy Meredith was engaged in a game of piquet with the baron (supervised, from a sense of duty, by Caroline) at the other end of the Saloon; Seabury had been cornered by Lord Safford, and shepherded by him down to the billiards room. Mrs. Henry and Miss Windle passed the chief part of the evening in a sort of competition to see who could appear the more industrious, Mrs. Henry working furiously with a netting-needle, Miss Windle equally zealous at her embroidery. These two ladies sat facing one another at either side of the drawing-room fireplace; though in their case the term “facing each other” is no more than a figure of speech, for it was a point of honour with each to look up as little as possible, and then only when certain of not being observed. To do otherwise would suggest a neglect of the work in their laps, and was therefore to be avoided. When their glances, as happened several times, met in spite of all precautions, four faded cheeks might have been seen to colour up at once, and four eyes to drop precipitately.