Rondo Allegro

by Sherwood Smith

  Mrs. Squire Elstead was very much the queen of her overheated drawing room. Her youngest daughter Cecily, a fair-haired girl a little younger than Harriet, and newly returned from a select school in York, sat mumchance by her mother with some fine sewing on her lap.

  Harriet chose a chair on the other side of Cecily. The two girls exchanged a brief whispered greeting until a quelling glance by her mother silenced Cicely. Mrs. Squire Elstead talked steadily, touching on the coming memorial for the Glorious Admiral Lord Nelson, and repeating in lengthy superlatives what the newspapers had said.

  Anna’s attention showed a lamentable tendency to wander. The room was filled with a great deal of fine furniture. One end of the room was dominated by a full length portrait of Emily, which had to have been done when she was about the age of Harriet. She wore a gown with a long train in the Grecian style, with the heraldic appurtenances of a barony as part of the background. It was clear that Emily, or at least her marriage, was the pride of the house.

  The other end of the room was dominated by an extremely handsome long case clock with a white dial. When the clock bonged the quarter hour, Anna rose with alacrity. No wonder Frederick and Mary Elstead came so often to dine at the manor!

  They proceeded next to a fine house south of town, where dwelt Mr. and Mrs. Rackham.

  Mr. Rackham, a genial gentleman with snuff dusting his sleeve, greeted them on his way to his book room, asking mildly, “I trust we shall see Henry back among us soon?”

  Here we find the greatest contrasts. Anna was struck by the differing tones between Mrs. Squire Elstead and this gentleman, though the question was essentially the same: this man listened with an air of pleasure unlike the squire’s wife’s smile of suppressed bitterness.

  Outwardly, that is, perceivable only to us, there existed a contrast between the two Lady Northcotes: there was Emily’s contempt for fat Mrs. Rackham, gorgeously dressed in the silk and lace of ten years previous, when she could very well afford to keep the fashion; against that existed Anna’s sense of comfort as her hostess presided easily over an old-fashioned parlor with its striped paper, and delicate furnishings covered in pale blue satin, rather worn but kept painstakingly clean.

  On the other side of the room sat their son Thomas, a tall, thin young man just turned twenty, whose shirt points required him to stare straight ahead. His short-sighted sister Jane peered at the visitors, smiling when Harriet sat down by her.

  Thomas murmured, “Did you hear that Robert Colby is back?”

  “No!” Harriet exclaimed, and she put her head together with her old friends, talking in low voices as their mother carried over them with tranquil habit, commenting on the weather, the coming holidays, and Admiral Lord Nelson’s expected memorial.

  It was Emily who summarily cut short this pleasant conversation.

  Harriet smothered a sigh, reflecting that they were certain to drive to the Colbys next. She had not seen her old playmate for nearly four years. She was all the more curious now that he was come down from Oxford, after having spent a protracted time in London, and then with grand friends during the shooting season.

  Anna looked out at a sizable house of mellow Tudor brick at the end of a winding avenue of poplars, where lived the widowed baronet Sir Robert Colby. He appeared, made his bows in form—asked about Henry, “who I suppose I ought rightly to call Lord Northcote, though I knew him as a boy in short coats, ever talking of the sea”—then vanished, leaving them to his sister, a faded spinster who only became animated when the conversation touched on her many nephews and her young niece Georgiana.

  Emily suppressed yawns, Anna struggled to hear Miss Colby’s faint voice, and Harriet sat scowling, feeling a sense of personal insult that Robert had gone out riding instead of waiting to greet them.

  Well! She knew how to address that.

  After the requisite fifteen minutes, every second of which all three callers felt they had counted three times over, they proceeded to the north of town, where lay an enormous house built in the Tudor fashion, half of which appeared to be shut up.

  Here dwelt the Aubigny family, the only progeny still living at home consisting of two very lively boys in short coats, who were brought in by their nurse to make their bows, then straightaway taken out again. Anna could hear them hallooing and laughing as they escaped, reminding her of the midshipmen aboard the Aglaea. So strange—she had spent comparatively little time aboard the ship, compared to her life in Spain. And yet so many memories would intrude, costing her heart-pangs.

  But the visit took a turn for the better when Mrs. Aubigny, correctly interpreting the strain in her caller’s eyes, switched to the French she had learnt as a girl sent to a convent-school in Paris, before the destruction of the Revolution. She also asked after Henry, and reminisced about what a fine young man he was, and how proudly she had read of his doings in the great world.

  Now Harriet was bored, as the other three conversed about the new empire of France. The fifteen minutes ticked by, then Harriet jumped to her feet. In the general leave-taking, Harriet muttered to Anna that this would be an end, most probably; Anna would meet the others at some other time. Her glance over her shoulder, and roll of the eyes, adding meaning that Anna could not guess at.

  The carriage took them last to the parsonage, a rambling house built in an L, for a much larger family. Inside was cheer, the smell of baked apples, and warmth. After many hours of cold jolting over the roads, and sitting stiffly on chairs, it was a relief. The housekeeper, Mrs. Eccles, stayed to chat in a way that made it clear she knew everyone in the parish.

  As the carriage returned them to the Manor, Anna tried to capture and hold the idea that these might be the people she was expected to spend the rest of her life among.

  If . . . if.

  They all anticipated the return of Lord Northcote, though none as strongly as his wife.

  ‘Lady Northcote!’ It still seemed to denote someone else. Had been someone else. There were three Lady Northcotes living under that roof, one whose family had grown, the other who retained the title in courtesy but not the authority, though she betrayed by little signs that she would recover it if she could.

  Anna had noted during the calls that people had been careful to say ‘Lady Emily Northcote’ with a slight emphasis, which Emily accepted with that marble expression and politely modulated voice.

  o0o

  On Saturday, when Mary and Frederick Elstead once again joined them, Mary surprised them by offering to play at the harp. She had resumed practice, and offered them three Scottish airs.

  Anna was still debating permitting herself the pleasure of singing and the danger of discovery; on seeing Emily’s impatience with this new addition, and Harriet’s and Frederic’s honest indifference, she elected to remain in the background, reflecting that at least she was surrounded by music, even if her contributory role was limited.

  Sunday they woke to freezing sleet of such an intensity that there would be no church that morning. The dowager did not retire to her rooms with her hymn book as had been her wont. She played hymns on the instrument, with a power that sounded almost defiant to Anna’s sensitive ear. She sensed that the spectacles were still a topic of conflict. Harriet repaired to the schoolroom to play with the little girls, and Anna stole to the gallery to dance herself into warmth.

  Then Monday morning arrived after a sleety, windy night, and brought with it an express from Mr. Perkins, stating that the Right Hon’ble Lord Northcote would be traveling by gentle stages, and they might expect him by Wednesday latest.

  Everyone felt a sense of anticipation. The only outward sign was Mrs. Diggory, and the entire staff, throwing the house into a frenzy of cleaning suitable (Harriet remarked caustically, when she had been politely chased from three rooms) for the arrival of His Majesty, King George, and the entire royal family.

  o0o

  Tuesday brought the first snow of the season. No one would be expected that day, either from London or more close by. Anna was awar
e that in other circumstances she would have been enchanted to see snow for the first time, but she was aware of a disappointment so sharp that she yanked the curtains closed.

  The dowager sighed, and as she had for years that only she had numbered, suppressed her impatience to lay eyes on her son.

  Harriet shrugged. Henry would arrive when he arrived. She was off to visit Jane.

  Emily looked out, judged that it was not heavy enough yet to keep her inside, and sent orders for her park phaeton to be put to, with the back up. She went out, looked at John-Coachman’s silent face, and sensed his unspoken disapproval. He was invariably courteous, but she suspected he thought more highly of the horses than he did of their owners.

  “I have changed my mind,” she said. “I will ride to the Groves. Pray saddle my hack.”

  She left him to unhitch the team from the park phaeton and walked around, slapping her whip idly against her half-boot, until she happened to glance up at the paned windows of the gallery in the old wing. Was there movement behind that glass? It had to be a reflection. Or perhaps Mrs. Diggory had extended her efforts into the wing that no one entered.

  “Your ladyship’s hack is ready.”

  Distracted, she took the reins, was tossed into the saddle, and set out at a spanking pace. At the Groves, she handed off the heated horse at the stable, and walked in to discover her family sitting over a late breakfast, as often happened in winter. She did not apologize for interrupting, but said, “Henry should arrive tomorrow.”

  “Capital,” Frederick exclaimed. Then frowned. “Is he still wounded, do you think? I hope he has not altogether given up riding—”

  Their mother interrupted him. “If any of John’s hacks are left at the Manor, I would be surprised. Has that French woman sold them all off?”

  Emily knew her mother was very well aware that the only selling had been done by she herself, in her effort to stave off the most immediate creditors, after the disappointment of Amelia’s birth. This was her mother’s half-apology for their acrimonious last parting.

  “Nothing,” she said, “has been changed.”

  Frederick shot a glance from their mother to his wife, and as always, the two were in mutual agreement on retreat, Cicely following right behind Mary.

  Mrs. Squire Elstead frowned after them. He was so handsome, and Cicely even prettier than her sister, and for what? Neither of them had the least ambition. They might as well have been born ugly, and the money spent on that expensive school in York saved.

  Emily glanced at the head of the table. Her father had already gone, of course. “As for Ludovisi, I found out just yesterday that there is indeed a noble family by that name, but there is an infinity of cousins and children. All she’d get out of that connection would likely be a worn pair of shoes.”

  “Mother, that is vulgar.”

  The Squire’s wife jerked up her shoulder. “It is no more than the truth, and it is surprising to hear missish words from a married woman. A once-married woman. At all events, no one but shop girls dress that smartly. I notice,” she said, tapping her finger on her coffee cup, “that she does not wear a wedding band. I find that very significant, though your father insists that that is probably some outlandish French custom, their having got up to all manner of disagreeable capers during their revolt. I am going to find out who the mother’s people were.”

  Emily shrugged. The lack of a ring was immaterial. It was as likely someone pretending to be married could buy a band and put it on.

  “And further, I saw quite clearly that she waited for you to move at the end of your call. Does she give orders?”

  “No.” Emily wished that Lady Northcote would be found out to be a jumped-up shop girl, or something like, but she knew better. Shop girls from Paris would never speak so well, or move so elegantly.

  “It is different in France,” Emily said impatiently. She had heard enough about the freedom married Frenchwomen had, even before all civilized behavior was thrown out the window by the Revolution. Men and women mixed freely in their salons, where it was reputed that wit and style were as important as good birth. “Mother, I want you to give the Christmas ball. It is too soon for us, even if there were no Lady Northcote in question.”

  “Your father will quibble over the bother and expense,” Mrs. Elstead said.

  Emily ignored that out of long habit. When her mother misliked a notion, she always attributed the negation to her father.

  Sure enough, her mother followed up her remark with a sharper question. “Why should we be put to that trouble? What is to be gained?”

  Henry will see me presiding, Emily thought. Out loud, she said, “It will be a fine way to establish us on the old footing, of course. And you know Papa will want to settle things relative to his desire to serve as Justice of the Peace.”

  She could see that this was a hit. Her mother had been hinting broadly ever since John’s death. While the appointment brought nothing remunerative, it was a position of tremendous prestige, and her mother longed to print visiting cards with ‘J.P.’ after Father’s name, which was as close to a title as she would ever get.

  Mrs. Squire Elstead considered, then frowned. “At a ball?”

  “Mother, the ball will begin things. Then we will give our customary New Year’s party. If Lady Northcote knows nothing of such things, after years in France under that terrible government, I will put her in the way of it.”

  “And Henry will see you doing it,” Mrs. Elstead said.

  Emily flushed, but did not deny it. Her mother smiled. “Is she really so incapable?”

  Emily had been considering that very question. “She has given no orders, and yet . . . the household has changed vastly since her arrival. Not that I can blame her for putting it into my mother-in-law’s head that women of quality, even noble and royal women, wear spectacles. It might only have been conversation, after which it is as likely that Harriet talked her mother into it. Harriet has become increasingly pert, and though I cannot blame the woman for that, she does nothing to correct her. In addition to all else, Eleanor is suddenly prating of music lessons, as if she were another Mrs. Billington, which she is not, and that occurred after Lady Northcote went up the nursery and taught her a few notes. I cannot imagine why she would do that. Perhaps she only meant well.”

  “She might have been put in the way of it by Louisa Northcote,” Mrs. Squire Elstead stated. “She was always tiresome about that instrument. Of course it was the only accomplishment she had, so naturally the Dangeau family must puff it off.”

  Emily had long suspected that her mother had wished to marry the baron, old as he was, after the death of his first wife. But he had looked higher for a bride, and the Dangeaus had not only wealth and coronets aplenty but also ecclesiastical rank in their family tree.

  Her mother went on embroidering a favorite theme. “You watch out, Emily, or that fool Louisa Northcote will turn Eleanor into a bluestocking, and then you will be stuck with her on your hands the way they are with those spinsters out at Whitstead. A perfectly good house, which you might have had, instead thrown away on . . .”

  Emily shut out her mother, whose complaints about Penelope and Caroline were nothing new. Of more immediate necessity was regaining her own position in society. Even if Whitstead had been free, she had no intention of burying herself in a country village that made Barford Magna look the size of London.

  Her mother, noticing in Emily’s distant gaze that her daughter was not listening, halted mid-sentence. “Do as you will,” she said. “I will put Cicely to writing out the invitations. At least the child came back from York with superior handwriting.”

  Emily took her leave, and rode back to the Manor. She had gained her point. The Elsteads would give the Christmas ball, and her cheese-paring mother would see to it that it was very fine, as she had the newly-returned Henry to impress for her own purposes.

  But Emily could not talk to her mother about her own misgivings.

  She sensed that there was some
mystery; Lady Northcote vanished alone for hours. It was too much to hope that there was some sordid reason for those rambles.

  Emily knew the grounds well enough from when she and Henry had been young. There was little likelihood of mysterious French spies (what would they have to spy on?) or sinister Italian banditti (no one had reported so much as a missing hen in a parish where everyone’s business became known as soon as Mother laid ear to it), or even a German count who might appear to carry off the object of his desire, married surely on some whim by Henry. She might only be a very good walker.

  Emily had been calculating, and surely this Anna Ludovisi—impossible name!—could have been no more than sixteen when Henry had married her. She might not, feature by feature, compare with Emily herself (and Emily studied her mirror carefully for the least signs of age), but she conveyed an aura of beauty, and without any apparent effort. The way she crossed a room drew the eye; Emily could only be glad that apparently she had never thought to ride a horse, nor did she drive. There, she knew she would be superior. Further, if Henry was still tiresome about music, Emily had made certain that she was leading the musical evenings.

  The next day, she dressed in a fine gown that had just arrived from London before she was forced to put on black clothes, so she had never before had a chance to wear it. She might have turned twenty-seven this summer past, but nobody would know it to look at her.

  Henry had loved her once. All this past year, as she waited for the birth of her child, she had thought about Henry, and how even if she were disappointed of a son, nothing would stand in the way of her marriage with Henry, who surely could get dispensation from his uncle the bishop for marrying his brother’s wife. Either way, she would retain her position.

  Then there had come that shocking newsprint article, stating that he possessed a wife.

  She gave no sign of these thoughts as she joined the others. She had learnt by bitter experience that the flattery and deference of courtship ended with the wedding breakfast. Since then she had schooled herself to suggest, to hint, to encourage a hot-tempered, selfish husband in order to gain her point, and to reveal nothing that he might use against her later.