What Empty Things Are These

by Crozier, J. L. ;

  A whisper passed through my head as I watched the play at disinterested conversation between the inspector and Sobriety, for compliment and denial seemed set to continue for a while at least. I think we have a further complication to our lives here. There was a jolt beneath my ribs, small but distinct.

  At last, Mrs Staynes brought the tea rattling into us.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ladies—what of the world between us all?

  …One might, indeed, think on how much we ladies hold in common with our men, and how much with those of our own sex, not merely within our own class, but also among those who dwell at every level of our teeming, complicated society.

  It is we, ladies, who are designated the gentler of the two sexes; it is we who must look to harmony at home. We keep our hearth warm even while we look to the sterner sex for the means with which to do it.

  Since it is we who must regard the hearth as of the highest importance and the welfare of those about us as paramount, and it is natural in us to look beyond and find in ourselves a sympathy for our sisters, who…

  I laid down my pen and sank my chin into my hands. I stared a long few minutes at my writing. Still, I do not know where I am headed. I sighed and rolled the blotter over the ink. Surely, any reader would find risible my attempt at argument. I was no Ruskin, nowhere near it (my cheeks burned at this), nor yet Mrs Gaskell, nor… I held the paper and read it once more, before placing it back in my box, shaking my head.

  Cissy and Mrs Staynes maintained their strained discourse for the next two days; it was difficult not to notice. Their conversations were never so loud nor indiscreet that a word could be distinguished; yet the tone was there in their murmurings—a certain whining, with sometimes a raised insistence from Cissy; from Mrs Staynes, very evident attempts at a strict authority broken by exasperation. Away from Mrs Staynes’s censure, or continuing lecture, or reproof—or whatever it was that so exercised them both—Cissy did her work with a downcast air that fell just short of surly.

  When these two crossed my mind (seldom as that was) I was as glad, really, that the matter seemed to be between themselves only. It was irregular, and Gwendolyn would have spoken harshly on the matter of servants’ disagreements becoming audible to the rest of the house, but Gwendolyn (I breathed gently) was not here. To my question, ‘Is everything as it should be, Mrs Staynes?’, the housekeeper merely answered, perhaps too abruptly, ‘Yes, ma’am.’ I left matters there, for the thought of an evening with such superior folk as the Farquharsons, with music and dancing and an elegant supper, had turned me quite giddy, giddy as I had not felt since a girl a-tremble at the thought of my first ball. There was little space in my thoughts for matters other than the choice of gown and of its trimmings.

  On occasion, a shadow peeked from a corner of my mind, that girl wrapped in once-gaudy rags, pain seeping from her like cold from ice. That is, it reminded me of the cause of all this, but I would not acknowledge it. It is not to be helped: there are starvelings everywhere in London, and despite that, and apart from that, this party is occurring and is . . .

  and this invitation to it is to be celebrated.

  In any case, all the gaiety will be done and gone all too soon.

  But stubbornly my mind turned back a moment to what hovered there so doleful and hopeless. I recalled a trip taken once to London with my parents in their carriage. We had become lost somehow and wandered for a time in the narrow, poor, noisome reaches of the great city. Tenements tottered above us and dimmed the light; our wheels lurched in the holes created by stolen cobbles. The stench was rich and coated everything with a rot both fruity and fleshly; we passed an alley where ragged folk had built a fire from refuse and bent over it like lost souls in Hades, their shadows wavering against the filthy walls. We travellers were looking at these ragged few, when hands reached up in sudden supplication at the carriage windows. Some begged, some clawed—a long scratching accompanied by a kind of toneless wailing that seemed to have no source in the dark—and all of us within gasped. Papa said to Mama, ‘It is best to pay no heed.’ But she replied, in a whisper that perhaps only I, her youngest daughter, caught, ‘I am not certain of that.’

  The notion of the ball made up (a very little perhaps) for the note sent by Mr Thackeray regarding my short piece about the weather. ‘It was very kind of you to forward your thoughts to me. I sincerely

  regret…’ he wrote, and I writhed at the implication of inconsequence. He was scrupulous in his manners; the note was polite, and he could not be faulted on it, I knew. Yet perhaps this made it worse, that here was a sentiment well-wrought—because it was well-repeated to all those other dull folk who wrote about the weather. Foolishly, I had taken my cue from these. Pieces of this kind often filled a page or two in other journals, I thought in a flash of pique. On receipt of the note, I had spent some twenty minutes sitting in my morning room. I drooped thus first in dejection and then in what felt like despair. To these already weighty two was added humiliation—Mr Thackeray must have surely thought me some kind of ninny, an empty-headed housewife of no account (though then I realised he addressed me as Mr A. Hadley)—but drifted eventually to notions that were very nearly optimistic. At least, they drifted back to where I had begun, when I first took up my pen these last few weeks. That this was but one instance of rejection, and in any case, he was correct: the weather was no topic at all.

  In my thoughts, that shadow—never far away for long—peeped out once more, thin as a handful of twigs and its scarlet skirt filthy, near hidden by night, but I shook my head to chase it away. For now, brighter things held my attention.

  The blue—a light blue silk, modest enough for a married lady but glorious for a fair person, and edged as well as generally trimmed with fine black lace (Sobriety did this fine work throughout her sittings with Mr Hadley, and for many more hours besides). Sleeves to the elbow only, and a cape in black velvet; black lace and blue ribbon to dress the hair, and I would wear jet at my ears. There was a brief argument regarding the waist, for I fancied taking it in considerably, while Sobriety (who in any case always preferred not to tug too tight on laces) disapproved. ‘Breathlessness is only attractive in the very young,’ she said, and bit through thread.

  There was a silence at this, with myself indignant yet unsure whether I had a right to be, until I judged it perhaps a good moment to discuss the evening meal with Mrs Staynes. The housekeeper was just then coming from the kitchen, evidently in search of me for the same purpose. As the door swung to behind her, it was clear that Cissy now murmured urgently with Cook, her aunt.

  The business of the house took time enough to distract my mind from what an age it was for Dickie’s reply to come. Finally—it was already late afternoon, and but a day until the great party itself—the knocker sounded and Cissy fetched a small envelope from the boy at the door. She dipped as she handed it to me, her face telling me nothing. ‘Mum,’ she said. The girl’s brows were drawn together and she seemed hardly aware of her own gracelessness. I was, again or still, not inclined to discover the problem, while I did consider it may soon be my duty to do so. . . but in any case Cissy had already gone from the room. So I turned instead to Dickie’s note.

  This was long, considering its message. Dickie explained how he had thought he may be occupied tomorrow evening, but found he was not; and that his household was sufficiently settled for the moment—there were no sick children, for example—so that, yes (at last we come to it!), he was able to accompany me, his sister, although it did surprise him that this party should suddenly come to pass, and myself invited, and at such a time.

  Thus I sat my turn with Mr Hadley, with George (at whose collapsing face I confess I glanced only briefly), but could not settle my mind either to read Mr Collins, or find any part of a journal still unread, or pick up my pen and write something. George wheezed and rattled gently on. After a time, I did open the newspaper to peruse the fashions that were there
, but before long I was sighing in impatience. I ended by moving to the window to watch what small traffic there was in the street below. A fine drizzle, like mist become a slow spray, made men and women shrug closer into their coats and cloaks, and horses to hang their heads in endurance. I wrapped and unwrapped a blue satin ribbon about my finger.

  This enclosed life! See how it is at its hardest when we realise what has kept us so…limited…all this time. I stroked the ribbon against my lip. It is at its hardest when we consider there may, indeed, be some way to leave this behind us, even while we are not certain what that way may be. I let the curtain drop back in place and looked at the clock on its mantel. And that, in any case, nothing, when we have reached it, is assured of success.

  I wondered what it was that ragged urchins did on days like these, when rain fell like fine, insinuating silt over everything.

  Shaking my head against such thoughts, I imagined, instead, that I danced and danced until lights and music merged and blurred about me.

  I was surprised at my own appetite when the roast was served, though it did cool so very rapidly in the chill damp of the dining room.

  Breathless—although Sobriety had in the main got her way and the waist had not been very much taken in—I stepped from the landau. This took some time, as vehicles there were in abundance, with all having, as a matter of course, to set down their passengers in genteel fashion at the proper place. Yet for all this, I had not yet quite recovered my breath, nor indeed my equilibrium, for the drive itself had so served to heighten my anticipation that I barely noticed what the other traffic did—either here at the Farquharsons’ great house or on the streets coming here. It was just as well, I thought, that Dickie was with me, for I had kept my long story of the baby’s rescue and the Farquharsons’ gratitude from him until this night. Telling the tale to his exclamations was a very great satisfaction to me as we travelled, and I had had to retrace my descriptions more than once to remove exaggeration.

  ‘But I, too, have a tale involving Mr Farquharson!’ Dickie had said, which had the effect of startling me from my chatter.

  ‘No! How is this?’ I peered at him in the dark, streetlights jolting past, making with their glow a nimbus of the fine hair of his head. I could neither see his face nor guess his expression. ‘What has occurred?’

  ‘Oh, little sister, have faith!’ He pinched my arm lightly. ‘I am an investor now, and have already attached my small but earnest rope to Mr Farquharson’s shooting star.’

  ‘This is not cards, or horses, or some other form of gambling?’

  ‘No, no. No such thing. Already I have put in a small amount, and the accounting has it that there has been an increase of twenty percent.’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘Well, yes, dear.’ He kissed me on the cheek and I could tell that he smiled.

  ‘Well, at last something goes well!’ The tension fell away that had wrapped me around at the thought of the waters in which Dickie sometimes swam. I had always loved him best of my siblings for his pink-flushed enthusiasms, and yet also feared for him because of them. Still, if it was settled that there had been a real increase of his money, then all was well and all would be well. This was a happy thing, a most happy thing. What a grand night this is!

  When we finally drew to a halt, I felt the entire vehicle must thrum from my trembling, and was grateful for Dickie’s firm hand as I stepped to the ground. My breath misted in the thickened London air, all frostiness merging into foggy faerytale. Had I but worn glass slippers! I stayed a giggle.

  Every window of Mr Farquharson’s great mansion was ablaze, light pouring into the square that it dominated; the shifting, parting fog itself reflected this glory, this spectacle in every tiny droplet. The mansion was like a great, illuminated ship adrift in a mist-cloaked sea; and the carriages, that also parted this shining foam, were barques crowded in welcome about this grand vessel…

  It was a few steps to the portico, and then a queue of couples awaited entry at the great door. Mr Farquharson’s liveried men stood at attention by the columns at either side, their white-stockinged calves sturdy as posts. Other servants too did duty, dressed in a plain sort of formality—jacketed, and a smart, pressed trouser—with which they were uncomfortable, apparently, for these two or three such-dressed men shifted about in the shadows. One shrugged occasionally as if to make his jacket sit the better, and it was this that drew my mild interest, for otherwise they were for the most part silent. Perhaps they were there merely to keep an eye out.

  I had only a moment for gazing about myself, having entered, at last, and reached the top of the first flight of stairs that poured itself to the edge of the cavernous vestibule (this staircase wide enough, surely, for a public building! Two dozen at least could be accommodated there!). Colour sprang up everywhere—for every plaster fruit or flower (and there were many) was painted to outdo nature—and gilt glinted from the frames of vast paintings crowded upon the walls. Such scenes there were from the hunt; landscapes so large one could imagine the breeze or count the leaves in the canopy of overhanging trees; portraits in full pomp. Great fronds in heavy arabesques rose from fat pots, and doorways were wide and high as fantastical portals. Everywhere rustled an acreage of skirts of lace or satin, splendid with flounces and laces and bows, coifs with a complication of feather and jewelled combs, and dark-suited gentlemen upon whose chests purred snowy waistcoats beneath intricate cravats.

  Dickie sought directions from a liveried footman standing by a wall. Thus I was guided to the ladies’ cloakroom, and spent some minutes there in divesting myself of my cape, having my ribbons adjusted, and receiving my ticket. For a moment, I paused in all this bustle and felt myself pale and grow cold. Supposing Mrs Charles were among the throng? I felt myself beset by reactions to this notion—and what if she is? And she will think me degraded indeed to be thus disporting myself while Mr Hadley lies ill. And what if she does think so? And am I so low…and what of her?

  Dickie waited for me at the doorway when I emerged. ‘Shall we find our host?’ I could only nod, bewildered still at the cacophony of sight and sound. Mrs Charles was nowhere to be seen, so far at least, as I looked about myself at the sea of feathers and flounces and whiskers.

  Mr Farquharson stood very tall in the centre of the landing, head and shoulders above the rest and an echo, indeed, of the dimensions of his own house, though walls and arches soared well above his head. Folk standing nearby waited to bow, and bob, and smile into his face, and ribbons and rosebuds dipped as they bent their heads. He received them all with a distant grace, and with an air a little as if he gathered them to himself. Consequently, it was quite ten minutes before Dickie and I achieved Mr Farquharson’s presence.

  ‘Dear lady, how delightful.’ He looked about himself then, and gestured to a young woman, whom he introduced as Mrs Farquharson.

  This was a very small person, barely reaching to her husband’s shoulder, whose beribboned head of posies (perhaps too girlish for a wife) was fixed firmly to dark hair in a profusion of trembling ringlets. She had a nervousness about her, as if she could never decide if it were best to do this, or that, or step this way or the other. Beside her, her husband’s massiveness was as stone.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Hadley!’ The young woman spoke inaudibly in puffs (I wonder for how much longer this young person’s whispering will be attractive, I thought). ‘I have waited here especially to thank you, and to tell you how my little Steven does—’ Mrs Farquharson’s cheeks shone as if stretched. ‘For he is right as rain…and all because of you!’

  I could barely comprehend more than every second word or so, through a hubbub rising as each guest struggled to be heard above the others and above the efforts of a stringed ensemble playing somewhere. The music came, I fancied, from beyond a splayed plant that gestured hugely from its vast brass urn with leaves like great hands, a captive from some heated jungle. How does it survive? I wondered, and then thou
ght, Strauss, and then brought my unwilling mind back to little Mrs Farquharson. She had just finished with, I realised, ‘…all because of you!’ and waited there with her mouth a little open and her eyes round and shining.

  I replied with nods of my head and with graceful phrases.

  ‘In Mrs Farquharson’s eyes, there is no greater heroine than your dear self, madam. In which, of course, I concur, for you have rendered inestimable service to the house of Farquharson.’ Mr Farquharson’s voice was large, as he was large, while his wife’s whispering was like stirring tinsel. ‘Sadly,’ he continued, ‘I must attend my guests,’ he bowed to me and to Dickie, ‘and hope we may speak again later in the night. Please enjoy yourselves. Supper’—he indicated with his enormous hand a doorway where folk passed in and out—‘is through there.’

  Mr Farquharson surveyed his guests and the palace within which they swirled. ‘My wife will be happy to acquaint you with some of our friends.’

  Mrs Farquharson’s own head hesitated back and forth, ringlets and ribbons and posies all bobbing, apparently in search of acquaintances worthy of the introduction. She slipped her arm through mine to guide me, with Dickie following, to a nearby group of persons. Introductions were made—to a deacon and a marquis, a dowager Mrs Grimsby, and a young man whose name I missed entirely.

  Each bowed, and how-d’ye-dos said, but then silence fell over us all. The music, beyond that great tropical shrub or monstrous fern, ceased and then began again, and I could not help but turn my head toward it a moment. Mrs Farquharson’s arm was growing hot in mine (We all seem to steam in here!). I made my face pleasant, and thought, My reward will come. The silence between us continued and Mrs Farquharson, as well, seemed similarly affected and concerned by the awkwardness evident in this group; but she could do little other than simper and nod as if animated by some form of conversation, though there was none that presently involved her. It is true that two—oddly enough, the deacon and the marquis—did speak with each other, in desultory fashion, although from the profiles presented to us it was clear it was not to anyone else.