Rondo Allegro

by Sherwood Smith

  Anna sat on the lower hammock. “I want him to be well, to talk to me, to decide together if we are truly man and wife. After that, I can look to the future.”

  “You are man and wife,” Parrette said. “But a marriage is not the piece of paper you signed. That began it. A marriage, a good one gets made and remade every day.” Her voice trembled.

  Anna studied Parrette’s steady gaze, knowing that Parrette had had the worst of marriages, and yet she had done her best. Anna knew she had nothing to complain of, except fear of the unknown. And that was everyone’s fear during wartime.

  “Then we are off to this Yorkshire, wherever that may be, to await his recovery,” Anna said, and felt guilty when she perceived the tension easing from Parrette’s brow.

  23

  The next morning, as the sloop sailed with slanted deck before a driving wind, Parrette made Anna put on her second-best silk day gown, a soft silver-gray, from which Parrette had unpicked the green and crimson embroidery, and removed most of the lace.

  After breakfast she went to the little cabin where she found Lady Lydia sitting propped on pillows in the cabin. Lady Lydia looked less green than she had the previous evening.

  Her maid, a silent woman hovering in the background, had managed to dress her hair with a fresh ribbon, and she wore a bed jacket of ribbon-threaded lace.

  “Good morning, Lady Northcote.” Lady Lydia eyed her visitor with an expression not unlike a discontented pout, before she forced a smile, twining a curl fretfully around a finger. “This illness puts me all out of patience. It is by rights supposed to be worse in the mornings, but I am plagued with it all through the night. You ought to be grateful you are not in child while being tossed unmercifully by the billows, is all I can say.”

  Anna murmured a sympathetic politeness, to which Lady Lydia replied with a sigh. “At all events, I know it is ill-bred to tender congratulations. Charles told me this morning that no one aboard Aglaea — no one in the fleet—had actually known that Lord Northcote, the previous baron, had died Christmas last year. And here I’d thought Duncannon had had scruples about using the title until he should find out if the baby was a boy. At any event, I am now to discover that Emily Northcote was not delivered of a boy, and I must say—but no, I am not to indulge in commérage, Charles says. So I will say nothing about her, but I believe I can say that I pity Miss Harriet Duncannon with all my heart, as she was to be presented to society last spring, as I was.”

  Commérage. The English word was ‘gossip,’ as if using French mitigated the meaning. Lady Lydia became absorbed in untangling the ribbons tying her bed jacket, and Anna caught the last of a sidelong glance, and shifted the subject. “Pray, if you would be so kind, I must consult your advice on a point of English etiquette.”

  Lady Lydia’s face flushed with pleasure. Few people disliked being asked for advice. “Your accent is so charming! Let us speak in French,” she said, switching to that language. “Then we are less likely to have the servants prating all over, whatever we might say.” Her French was good, if stilted—probably, Anna thought privately, as stilted as her own English.

  “As you wish,” Anna replied in French, which was a relief, as she had been puzzled how to get the wording right without lying, yet come at the problem that she faced. “It is this. It is possible that my husband’s family knows nothing about my existence. Do I write them to announce my existence? I cannot think of any way that would be considered well-bred. Yet it seems wrong not to apprise them.”

  “Ah,” Lady Lydia exclaimed.

  Anna intuited from that exclamation that she had answered a question that no one wanted to ask directly. So the captain kept our marriage as secret as I did? Moreso, she thought, remembering her drunken confidence to Hyacinthe, and the result.

  “You need not put yourself to the trouble,” Lady Lydia stated. “In this very ship, there is with the dispatches a letter writ by the admiral himself, going to the captain’s family.” She added quickly, “It is to be hoped that he recovers, but in case, well, the admiral felt it his duty to write to all the families of the wounded officers under his command. Charles is to carry these, and official dispatches, straight to the Admiralty. In that letter, there will be formal thanks for the service you rendered. He wrote that way for us all, I had it from one of the middies who helped in copying and sealing the letters.”

  “That is very good. And yet my question remains: I know I ought to write to them once I am in London, to say when I am coming. What is the etiquette of this letter?”

  Lady Lydia’s smile vanished. She had a general notion, of course, but even stronger was her immense dislike of one of the members of this family. “I can assure you, they will be looking for you in every post chaise that comes up the road.” And at Anna’s doubtful expression, “You must realize that you are now the principal woman in the family. It is they who ought to be waiting upon you. Nothing, I assure you, looks more particular than to trouble them with letters, nothing so odd, so quite out of the way. You perhaps do not perceive your importance, now that Captain Duncannon—Captain Lord Northcote—inherits.”

  She plucked at the ribbon in her bed jacket. “In truth,” she said in a low voice, “since Charles is to inherit nothing of note, I’d as lief be bearing a girl. You can dress girls, whereas boys? Nankeen and broadcloth, and then they go off to Eton. They go off to Oxford. You only hear of debts and larks, and then they are off to war, or worse. A girl . . . a girl is at home, and there is all the world of fashion when she comes of age.” She sighed. “That gown you have got on is very elegant. Was you ever in Paris?”

  “During the Peace,” Anna said, determined to say as little about her life as possible.

  “And so was Lady Bessborough, sister to the Duchess of Devonshire! Did you meet?”

  “We did not. I did not travel in such circles.”

  “Of course—you were a mere Mrs. then. Did you ever meet Josephine Bonaparte?”

  “No, but I did see her once or twice, at the opera and the theater.”

  “Oh! Was she as beautiful as they say?”

  “Very,” Anna said honestly.

  “Josephine Bonaparte! Gowns from Paris! You will no doubt find our English fashions hideous to the worst degree . . .”

  When Captain Neville appeared a while later, and found his wife talking animatedly, Anna caught such a grateful look from him that she determined how to be useful on this journey: she must entertain his wife.

  As a result, Captain Neville was so pleased with his elegant guest that he insisted upon Lady Northcote accompanying them after they landed at Falmouth. “I will be expected at the Admiralty as soon as may be,” he said. “But I promise the White Hart is a fine hostelry—my wife will be able to rest there, until I am granted liberty. And you will find it much easier to find your way from there, rather than the dockside.”

  A crowd of the curious waiting for news gathered expectantly when the Mermaid floated up to the wharf, sails thundering as they spilled air. They were gratified not only by the sight of the young captain shouting, “Dispatches!” as he hurried down the side and away up the wharf, but by his being accompanied by two young and pretty ladies, one being supported by maid-servants, and the other, exceedingly elegant, interestingly clad in a French gown in colors of half-mourning.

  No one quite knew how the news got about, but before Lydia and Anna were installed at the White Hart, it was known that the mysterious Parisienne in half-mourning was none other than Lady Northcote, whose husband was one of the Cape Trafalgar captains, now recovering from wounds in Gibraltar.

  From thence their party was conveyed to London, and once Anna and Parrette were established at Grillion’s Hotel in Albemarle Street, they parted with mutual good will.

  As soon as they were alone, Anna said to Parrette, “How long do you think we ought to stay?”

  Parrette said firmly, “Until you have a wardrobe fit for a lady. An English lady.”

  When Anna grimaced slightly, for she’
d glimpsed some examples of what she assumed to be English fashions on the journey into London, Parrette said, “You will have to become accustomed to covering your head at all times. Frenchwomen of rank did, also, before the Revolution. In England, there are also gloves whenever you go out of doors. But the gowns . . . I will not entirely throw away what I learned from Le Roy in Paris. I’ve seen nothing here that drapes as well. But this is a cold climate, it wants more covering, and you are going to require a set of kerseymere spencer jackets to your gowns, and a fur-lined pelisse. And stays,” she added firmly. “They will think you indecent if you do not wear them.”

  Anna sighed at the prospect of stays, remembering her mother lacing herself tightly. But warmth, that sounded very well. Two months ago Anna would have claimed that her exquisite cashmere shawls would be enough, but that was before experiencing the bone-aching cold winds as Mermaid sailed around Ushant toward the Channel.

  Gratefully Anna conceded, thinking that given extra time she could return to dancing. Sitting in the carriage, she had become aware of her stiff neck and back, her arms and legs all awry. Sometimes it felt as if the ground still heaved beneath her, and she had to catch hold of something to steady herself.

  “Thank you, Parrette,” she said. “As for my part, though Lady Lydia assured me there is no need to write, I shall put my question to the hotel people. I am certain they can direct me to a respectable bookseller where I might find a book of etiquette for my letter. I will copy it so I make no mistakes. And that means we must settle on a date for them to expect us. I am thinking we have not enough money from the captain to stay long at this expensive hostelry and to buy new clothing.”

  Parrette agreed. “This is why I must get myself to the warehouses. You will be able to sew the long seams, while I see to the cut, the fit, and the trim.”

  Anna had no objections to that. Since neither of them had the least notion that Anna was now a wealthy woman in her own right, they calculated carefully how much they could spend on fabric and accouterments, hotel, and carriage hire to the north.

  Anna’s laboriously written letter—it required a dozen sheets of paper, and a twice-mended pen before she was satisfied—was copied from a book by a Reverend Trusler (a name Anna could not pronounce, which gave her misgivings), with only names and circumstances changed.

  After the letter was added to the post collection at the hotel, Anna felt very much like a cannon had been armed, the slow-match lit, and was only waiting for the order to fire.

  She was committed. Now she must prepare herself as much as she could. The cries of English voices in the streets were ever-present reminders of how inadequate was her comprehension of the language. She could understand little of anything they said.

  So she skimped on meals enough to purchase two novels, with which she hoped to improve her English: The Modern Griselda, which the bookseller promised was written by a popular writer, and The Wonder of the Village, by another popular writer. Anna hoped by the first to learn something of what she might expect of a modern Englishwoman, and what she might expect from English country life.

  They bought every newspaper, both aware of the luxury of not having to hide their interest. There was a great deal more about the glorious defeat of the French off Cadiz, and the sad news of more deaths, but by the time they left, no mention of the captain. Anna hoped that post with promising news might await her in Yorkshire.

  By the time of their departure, Anna had made little headway in one book. It seemed to be a story about a poor young man who kept encountering unlikely adventures that proved to show how prodigiously thrifty, moral, and studious he was. Anna laid it by in favor of the next.

  Their decision to go by post rather than the stage, or even the Mail (which only traveled at night) sufficed to empty the captain’s purse, save a few shillings, but at least they both had the satisfaction of knowing that the trunks strapped on the back contained the smartest clothing Parrette’s clever fingers could contrive. She had found out what a superior lady’s maid wore, knowing that her own entry into this new household was as important as Anna’s.

  In Anna’s trunk, in addition to all the other necessary garments, lay lace caps suitable for a married woman. Parrette had refused to even think about a widow’s cap, that being, she reasoned, nothing but an invitation to ill luck at the most, and perhaps even sin.

  The advantage of hiring the post chaise was not having to be crammed in with other passengers, especially those who regularly rode on the rooftop and frequently entertained themselves with noisy drumming on the roof of the equipage, and rocking it worse even than the road ruts. They had experienced enough frights during their long journey from Naples to Paris that neither wanted a repeat of the experience if they could avoid it.

  The chaises apparently ended their journeys at inn-yards. At Barford Magna, the coachman assured them, they were sure to be met by someone from the manor to carry them the rest of their journey.

  Their chaise stopped at every second posting inn for change of the horses, enabling them to step out and refresh themselves. There were enough shillings left for a small meal for each, and for the douceur the coachman expected. Between these stops, Anna read aloud and Parrette sewed.

  Anna sometimes paused to laugh, but the farther she got into the story, the more dire was Parrette’s frown. At length she put down her sewing and scowled. “A more contrary example of a wife would be difficult to find. Is this book a good example of a marriage?”

  Anna smiled. “I believe the idea is comedy. She is very like Katharina, although the husband is nothing like Petruchio!”

  “Petruchio,” Parrette repeated, and scowled again. “Commedia dell’arte is low. You ought not to be reading such a book! What will they think in Yorkshire?”

  Anna laughed. “Katharina and Petruchio are characters from an English play. You remember? Mama had me read it, oh, when I was ten. She translated it into French so that I would understand it.” She laid aside the book. “I have promised never to talk about my days in Dupree Company. You were right, too, if Lady Lydia is anything to judge by. Lord This, Lady That. But if I am to hide my tastes and opinions altogether, what kind of a life is that? I am strongly tempted to tell them everything at the outset to get it over.”

  At Parrette’s look of dismay, she relented, and said, “I will not. You know I will try very hard to please them, and to be polite, and, in short, play my role as a titled lady.” And when Parrette gazed out at the bleak countryside with a troubled expression, Anna said, “Perhaps I have not thanked you enough. Perhaps I am seen to be taking your goodness for granted, and all your arts—”

  Parrette waved her hands. “No, no, I need not hear that. I know you are grateful, and that you appreciate what you call my art. And it is art,” she amended, in a different voice, permitting herself a small smile. Then she was earnest again. “But to hear you saying that you play a role, it mislikes me much.”

  “You and I, we were agreed I must play a role,” Anna said, surprised. “That was when I was a mere Mrs., and this time with Lady Lydia convinces me that even more is expected from a titled wife.”

  Parrette said, “I do not like to hear you talk of roles, as if there is a false seeming expected.” Her black eyes narrowed.

  Anna smiled as she laid aside the book. “False seeming? It seems strange, that I am told the marriage vow is sacred, and yet all around me the reasons for marrying are not sacred at all. My own marriage? Was to gain information. Yes, I remember what you said once about how a marriage is made after the wedding.”

  Parrette looked down at the thick skin on her left thumb, rough from years of needle-pricks, and said slowly, “The Captain is a good man.”

  “Was he in question?” Anna asked.

  Parrette made a quick, impatient movement. “He is everything your dear mother wanted. Everything! I think . . . perhaps I can put it best by saying, I trust and pray that the time comes, soon, when you are not playing a role. That you will know yourself as the Engli
sh lady she wanted with all her heart and soul.”

  It was Parrette’s turn to gaze out at the brown, muddy ground and the gray, tumbling rivers reflecting the low steel-covered sky, and presently she shook her head. “When we met, your mother took me at my word. She could have been justified in thinking about me what many did, that I was a mere camp follower, that I was a thief, and no good. And there were things I did to survive while I followed Bonaparte’s army to Italy, that I regret. Oh, of the most bitter, my regrets.”

  She faced Anna. “I played a role, when following the army. It was a dreadful role, but it kept me alive, and in hopes of finding my Michel. I played another role when she hired me. I made myself into what she expected, but then . . . you see? She believed in the truth of it. Never questioned. I lived that truth. I pray most earnestly every night that your role will become your truth.”

  24

  Barford Magna was by anyone’s definition a very small town, but the signs of prosperity were there in the well-kept buildings and the paved street. It lay along a meandering river through excellent land kept in good heart by its landowners and farmers.

  Crowning the highest point of High Street was the church, with the vicarage a short walk away, discreetly sheltered by an avenue of yew planted in Queen Anne’s time by the vicar’s gently-born wife.

  The other end of High Street was dominated by an equally prosperous posting inn, named the Boar and Eagle. To the locals, it was The Pig, shortened version of “The Pig in a Wig,” an ancient joke having to do with a certain style of full-bottomed wig called the Eagle, and an unpopular judge during the Restoration. The inn had been handed down through several generations, the owners wisely catering not just to the traveler with enough money to want the comfort of well-aired beds and good food, but to the local merchants and laborers who provided steady custom.

  The common room that opened onto the stable yard was where Northcote Manor’s John-Coachman and his apprentice Noll waited, the latter stiff and self conscious in his seldom-worn livery.