A Summer in Scarborough

by Blake Smith

  The servants did all of the work, of course, and did their best to keep the vagaries of their efforts from disrupting the ladies’ activities, but as Anne could not abide the noise and smells that would waft up from the kitchen and scullery, and Georgiana wished to be out of the servants’ way, they did not linger.

  Walking to the shops was an infinitely more pleasant way to spend the day, Anne thought. The weather was cooler than the last few days, though sunlight still streamed down through a few puffy white clouds, and Anne mentioned to Georgiana that going in and out of the shops would be rather more pleasant than walking along the beach, where they would be exposed to the brisk wind blowing in from the east.

  Before Georgiana could respond, Mrs. Jenkinson poked her head between the ladies. “Are you chilled, Miss de Bourgh? Perhaps we should not have walked. Shall I run back to Number Twelve and order the carriage?”

  “No, thank you,” Anne said firmly, not liking to have the horses put to for an excursion of two or three furlongs.

  Mrs. Jenkinson dithered, but Georgiana put a stop to it by saying brightly, “If Anne begins to feel the weather, we shall simply have to purchase a shawl for her. I am sure Mrs. Mitford would be delighted to sell her one. There, that shop across the street,” she said, nodding toward one of the many glass-fronted shops that lay a little further on.

  Anne was thankful for her intervention, and linked her arm with her cousins. Not only out of affection; the street was growing crowded as they advanced on the shopping district, and it would not do to become separated. Most of the people were on foot, a bustling crowd of mothers and their pretty daughters, matronly wives escorted by their husbands, and groups of ladies out for a day’s shopping in the company of their friends- much like Anne herself. Every where she looked, she saw hats- ladies’ bonnets, gentlemen’s high-crowned beavers, spinsters’ caps, all in a riot of color that diverted her attention and caused considerable amusement whenever she happened to see a bonnet that was decidedly the wrong color for its owner’s complexion. Now and then, the sea of hats was broken by a carriage or a man on horseback making their ponderous way down the street, the rider or driver shouting, “Make way!” at the people in his path. Anne carefully kept close to the edge of the buildings. At least she would not be trampled under the horses’ hooves, though she was obliged to keep a sharp eye out for pushy matrons intent on entering that particular shop at that particular instant, uncaring of who might be in their way.

  And the shops! Anne thought she might be able to buy anything she wished; every object that was made by human hands appeared to be for sale. Living at Rosings, many of her things had been ordered from London, and the rest made or grown on the estate. But she could now step through a door and come away with shoes, gloves, jewels, fabric for a new gown, and any number of other items. As they passed a less genteel side street, Anne was able to see a chandler’s shop; the window of a tinsmith’s shop, gleaming with his wares; and a place that advertised itself as a soapmaker’s shop. She wrinkled her nose at the smells of the butcher, fishmonger, and tanner, and was thankful they did not stop in that area.

  Georgiana’s first object was the place of Mrs. Simpson, the modiste. “I shall need a new gown for Mrs. Hurst’s ball, and I believe Mrs. Simpson has replenished her wares of late. No doubt I shall find something suitable.”

  Anne assented to this. “Perhaps I should also see what she has for sale. I shall have to ask my mother’s permission to have a new gown made, but I can tell her what is available. Poor Mrs. Simpson should not be made to produce a gown within a day of the ball, if I can help it.”

  But upon meeting Mrs. Simpson, Anne discovered that the lady might, in fact, be able to stitch an entire gown in a day. A tiny, dark-haired woman, she flew about the shop with incredible speed, fetching delicate muslins and linens, examining the ladies’ complexions to determine what colors would suit them best, and all the while chattering about patterns and measurements. Georgiana wore a look of amused complacency, but Anne found it all rather overwhelming. How could anyone move so quickly, and with such unerring accuracy? It was all she could do to disclaim any need for a new gown, and direct Mrs. Simpson’s energies toward assisting Georgiana.

  Once the shopkeeper had been persuaded to bustle away in a new direction, Anne was able to examine the fabrics before her. Everything was of good quality, as far as she could see, though no doubt Lady Catherine would insist on purchasing any materials from the draper’s shop and bringing them to Mrs. Simpson for the actual dress-making process. Anne sighed. “You do not have to buy anything,” she reminded herself in a murmur too low to be heard by the others.

  But keeping to her resolution was difficult, particularly when she came upon a bolt of softest muslin in palest pink, a color that became her well. Anne knew herself to be slightly sallow, and though she was not overly fond of pink things, she had learned to wear it whenever possible, lest she look ill. She had once taken a fancy to a yellow morning dress, thinking it a cheerful color, only to be immediately sent to bed by Mrs. Jenkinson, who thought she must be sickening. Dr. Johnson had even been consulted, and once Anne realized why she was being treated as an invalid yet again, she swore never to wear yellow for the rest of her life.

  Georgiana, who looked wonderful in any thing, soon chose a gauze of pale blue that would go over a white dress. Anne heard her murmuring to Mrs. Simpson, promising to return for a fitting in four days, then, a little louder, “Anne, have you found anything you cannot live without?”

  “Only this,” Anne replied, running her fingers over the fabric. Georgiana came to examine it, and soon all of the ladies were saying how fine it was, and how lovely Anne would look wearing such a gown- reactions she fully expected from Georgiana, who was a loyal friend; and from Mrs. Simpson, who of course wished to sell a gown to her. But to hear Mrs. Jenkinson in raptures over the muslin- the scene was highly diverting to Anne, and it was with great difficulty that she contained her amusement long enough to explain that any purchases could only be made with Lady Catherine’s approval.

  Georgiana’s eyes gleamed as Anne tried to dissuade Mrs. Simpson from her purpose, and Anne was sure her cousin was laughing at her. But Georgiana only said, “I think you’re correct, Anne; Her Ladyship must be consulted. She has excellent taste in clothing,” which was not completely false. Lady Catherine could always be depended upon to dress in a dignified manner, and knew which styles became her well, but did not always understand that not everyone could wear the same styles without looking ridiculous. Anne was occasionally grateful that Lady Catherine considered her to be ‘on the shelf,’ and did not oversee her appearance as minutely as she had done when Anne was eighteen. The disaster of the olive green ball gown still lingered in Anne’s mind.

  But Mrs. Simpson knew nothing of Lady Catherine’s taste, and took Georgiana’s remark as it was intended, expressing her hope that the shop might be favored with a visit from Lady Catherine in the near future. Anne and Georgiana said everything that was civil, and managed to escape the shop without being further detained.

  They gained the sidewalk, and Anne burst into giggles behind her hand. “You wretch!” she teased. “Talking like that, when you know what my mother would think of that fabric. It was all I could do not to laugh in front of poor Mrs. Simpson.”

  Georgiana opened her eyes wide, though a smile hovered on her lips. “I have no idea what you mean,” she said, all innocence. “I respect Lady Catherine’s opinion in all matters, of course.” She gave a decisive nod. “She is the arbiter of fashion in society, and I cannot believe you would ignore the slightest hint from her on the subject.”

  This of course sent Anne into further gales of laughter, hastily muffled as they proceeded down the street. Their next destination was Mr. Hathorne’s haberdashery shop, a few doors down. But Anne’s amusement abruptly vanished when she glanced up and saw, through a gap in the crowd, none other than Sir Henry Thornton.

  Anne gasped. She must be quick; though he was walking to
ward them, his gaze was momentarily caught by something on the other side of the street! She seized Georgiana by the arm and dragged her through the nearest door, ignoring her cousin’s exclamation of surprise.

  The place turned out to be a jeweler’s shop, and Anne was devoutly thankful she’d not inadvertently stepped into a tobacconist or the workplace of a men’s tailor. She sighed in momentary relief and stepped further into the shop.

  “What is the matter?” Georgiana demanded, as Anne pretended to be engrossed in a display of worked silver jewelry.

  “It’s nothing,” Anne said quietly, aware that Mrs. Jenkinson was near, and the proprietor of the shop was looking at the ladies in some confusion. “I only saw a person I wished to avoid.”

  Georgiana’s look of annoyance changed to one of sympathy. “Sir Henry?” she murmured.

  Anne nodded, and found that her shoulders were unaccountable hunched and tense with worry.

  But Georgiana was a Darcy, and she drew herself up, her eyes alight with determination. “Come, Anne; look over here,” she said, drawing Anne to the display furthest from the window, where she would not be seen. Anne obeyed, then Georgiana patted her arm reassuringly and marched away to face down the proprietor of the shop.

  Anne could not hear their whispered conversation, and busied herself with appearing interested in the items on display, remarking on their beauty and design to Mrs. Jenkinson, who hovered, confused, at her elbow.

  Georgiana returned after only a moment. “There is a back entrance. Mr. Jameson’s shop boy will show us where to go. We can go directly to Mr. Hathorne’s, and no one will be the wiser.”

  Anne hesitated, not wanting to skulk in a dirty alleyway. “If he comes in here, we shall use the back entrance,” she decided. “But if he simply passes by, we shall slip out the front when he is not looking.”

  So they waited. Seconds ticked by, though each one seemed an hour. Anne carefully kept her eyes down so that she might glance at the door way every few seconds without attracting notice.

  Her companions were more impatient. “Miss de Bourgh, this is absurd,” Mrs. Jenkinson protested. “You cannot stand here all day. Surely whoever you wished to avoid has gone in the other direction.”

  So she hadn’t realized that Anne was keeping away from Sir Henry. Anne wondered if she should bring the older woman into her confidence; Mrs. Jenkinson, though often annoying and always smothering, was fond of Anne in her way, and though she wouldn’t go against an express order from Lady Catherine, might be willing to quietly assist Anne in her predicament. For Sir Henry seemed rather fixed in Scarborough for someone who had said he was merely passing through the town, and Anne was sure to meet him in the future.

  She opened her mouth to explain some of this to Mrs. Jenkinson, when the bell above the door gave a cheery tinkle and Georgiana hissed in warning.

  Anne had but a glimpse of Sir Henry’s stout figure as she fled to the back of the shop. The shop boy had also moved quickly, and Anne followed him down a narrow and dingy half-flight of stairs and through a workroom so crowded with tools of the jeweler’s trade that she held her skirts close to her body, fearing to sweep the materials along in her wake.

  They gained the alley after only a moment, and Anne paused to wait for her companions. And to rest for an instant; her heart was pounding with mingled fear and excitement. Was this what people meant when they talked of having an adventure? During her worst bouts of invalidism, Anne had longed for adventure, but now that she found herself confronted with the reality, she was not impressed. The alley was dirty and noisome with the refuse of tradesmen, she was fleeing ignominiously from man who disgusted her, and she owed her rescue not to a handsome knight on a white charger, but to Mr. Jameson’s shop boy, who couldn’t be more than fourteen and was only slightly cleaner than his surroundings.

  Georgiana was immediately by her side, then they had to wait a moment for Mrs. Jenkinson, whose rather old-fashioned clothing forced her to move with greater care. The good lady positively popped out of the door after squeezing her many petticoats through the narrow space.

  “Are we safe?” she asked. “Only I’m not sure I like all of this rushing about. Whoever are you hiding from, Miss de Bourgh?”

  Since Anne did not like to speak of such things in front of strangers, she only said, “I shall tell you later. Let us go; I think this young man wishes to return to his work,” nodding at the shop boy.

  So they slipped through the alley, holding up their skirts to avoid soiling them and breathing judiciously so they were not assaulted by odors. Hathorne’s seemed miles away, though it was really not more than thirty yards. They knocked at the back door, and were admitted by an astonished Mrs. Hathorne.

  “My heavens,” the lady exclaimed, “A pretty thing it is, when customers are made to run from one shop to another, and through such a place as this!” For though this section of the alley was a bit cleaner than the others, it was still crowded with stores- coal, barrels of who knew what, and so on.

  Anne hardly cared. She had escaped Sir Henry yet again, and could continue with her shopping. For she really did need a few things from Hathorne’s. “Thank you for your hospitality, ma’am,” she said as she stepped past Mrs. Hathorne.

  “We are sorry to trouble you,” Georgiana added.

  Perhaps she should have said something of the like, but Anne was growing weary and wished to finish her errands as quickly as possible.

  Hathorne’s proved to be an excellent haberdashery shop, and at another time, Anne might have stayed for an hour, looking over the wares. As it was, she found what she required and was finished in less than half an hour.

  Georgiana looked rather impressed as the items were made into a parcel. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a person finish her business at Hathorne’s in such good time.”

  “I’m wishing to be at home,” Anne admitted quietly. “I wasn’t expecting so much running about, and it has rather tired me.”

  “Shall I ask Mrs. Hathorne to call a chair?” Georgiana murmured.

  “Oh, no; I think I am well enough to walk back to Number Twelve.”

  Unfortunately, Mrs. Jenkinson heard the last bit of this exchange, and all of her feelings were roused by the news that Anne wished to be at home. “Oh, Miss de Bourgh, I knew this would be too much for you,” she exclaimed. “But you are always thinking yourself stronger than you really are.”

  “Really, ma’am, I am quite well,” Anne said with some asperity. “Had I not been obliged to escape out the back door of a tradesman’s workshop and run down an alley, my strength would have answered very well for our errands today. And I am well enough to walk home. I wish only that we do not delay.”

  Mrs. Jenkinson continued to express her worry for Anne’s health, and the dire consequences that would surely arise if she was foolish enough to walk all the way back to Brooke Street. Anne could not like this speech, though she acquiesced happily enough when Mrs. Jenkinson insisted that she, not Anne, should carry the parcels.

  Georgiana offered Anne a supportive arm but otherwise confined her assistance to sympathetically rolling her eyes at Mrs. Jenkinson’s remarks, when there was no chance anyone but Anne would see. It was in this manner that they gained Brooke Street, thankfully unaccosted by any acquaintance.

  CHAPTER eleven

  Having left Georgiana at Number Eight, Anne and Mrs. Jenkinson proceeded to Number Twelve. Her companion’s flutter of agitation was slowly abating, and Anne was able, without revealing her weariness of the subject, to say, “Thank you for your company this morning, ma’am. If you would take the parcels upstairs, I would be very grateful. I shall go to tell my mother of our return.”

  Mrs. Jenkinson went. Anne padded to the drawing room, thankful that Number Twelve was large enough to have both the dining room and drawing room on the ground floor. She had only seen smaller houses, never lived in one, and would have found it very inconvenient to go up or down the stairs every time she wished to move from one room to anothe
r. To have a bedchamber on the second or even the third floor would be intolerable. She could not understand how people lived in that way.

  But she was a de Bourgh, and was not obliged to live among the masses. The drawing room lay only a few steps away, and as Anne softly trod the patterned carpet, she heard voices within.

  One belonged to Lady Catherine, of course. Her stentorian tones were recognizable no matter where she might be or what she might be talking of. The other was a man’s voice. Anne paused in the corridor where she could not be seen. She was not eavesdropping, she told herself firmly, merely attempting to determine the possessor of the unknown voice, that she might decide if she felt equal to conversation.

  “Madam, I do not wish to appear overly forward,” the man said, more distinctly, and Anne gritted her teeth. It was Sir Henry. Of course he would pretend to be diffident while pressing his cause, what ever that may be.

  “Don’t be absurd,” Lady Catherine said, less testily than Anne had ever heard her say that favorite phrase. She wished she could also say it to Sir Henry, much more sharply than her mother had done. “Your acquaintance with Sir Lewis was of long standing,” Lady Catherine continued, “and had you not gone off to the Far East, you would have been counted among his friends for all of his life. Sir Lewis stood as an older brother to you; I distinctly recall him speaking of you in that manner. His judgment was good, and I have no objection to you renewing your acquaintance with all of my family.”

  “I am very grateful, Your Ladyship.” His tone changed slightly as he spoke; Anne thought he might be bowing. A regular Mr. Collins, was Sir Henry, and with only a fortune to make him even remotely respectable. “But Miss de Bourgh does not appear to look kindly on me,” Sir Henry added. “I cannot see that I have done anything to offend her, yet-”

  “Anne will do as she is told,” Lady Catherine interrupted. “She is an intelligent and well-mannered girl, but she is often ill with trifling colds, and I believe has been a little overset by the activity of the last week. I will speak to her. I abhor rudeness, when it is directed toward respectable people, and Anne shall know it.”