Coronation Summer

by Angela Thirkell

  ‘Out with Hal,’ said Ned. ‘I say, Fan, Hal is a famous good fellow. He has been with the governor all afternoon, he and Tom here, going into his affairs, and he has taken him off to see his lawyer.’

  Noble, noblest Darnley!

  ‘And is Mr. Harcourt really ruined?’ asked Emily, with what was, I think, not so much want of tact as a sincere wish to find Ned penniless and totally dependent on her.

  ‘It is difficult to say how he stands,’ said Mr. Tom, ‘but it might be worse. It looks as though he would have to sell his estate, and if he does he will be in a position to pay off his debts and have a small income.’

  ‘It’s a cursed shame for my mother and you, Fan,’ said Ned with a wry face. ‘William and I can make our own way, and when my mother dies you know we inherit a small sum from her settlement; and that the governor luckily can’t touch. Look here, Fan, when Em and I are married you can come and stay with us at the Rectory, but I’ll have to take orders first, of course, and then we must wait for Em’s father — ahem.’

  ‘Thank you, Ned,’ I said, ‘But you are speaking as if you were certain of having Tapton Rectory.’

  ‘So I am,’ said Ned. ‘Hal has promised it. He’s a famous fellow.’

  Emily expressed her satisfaction, and I tried to show the pleasure that I truly felt, but how difficult is it to join in the rejoicing of others when one’s soul is steeped in misery and despair. Another proof of Darnley’s noble and disinterested conduct, and my fatal loss!

  As Emily and Ned were now carrying on that kind of amorous bickering which is so very uninteresting to all save the parties concerned, Mr. Tom Ingoldsby drew me to the window.

  ‘Dear Miss Harcourt,’ said he, ‘I am not an old man, but I am a good deal older than you, and I am going to take advantage of this position to speak as a friend, or an elder brother with rather more experience than Ned.’

  ‘You are very kind,’ said I, not taking much notice.

  ‘Ned is right about your father’s affairs,’ he continued. ‘I was with Darnley and your father this afternoon, and it is true that he will be a poor man when his debts are paid. He has acted very wrongly, almost criminally, but it is not for me to judge him. You ought, however, to know two things. It is Darnley who will purchase your father’s estate. This is not to be generally known, for Hal is the last man in the world to make his good deeds public. The world will only know that a buyer has been found. Darnley will put a steward in to manage the estate and ask your father to live in his own house as a tenant if he so wishes. If Ned cares to buy it back later with his wife’s money, he can do so. If not, Hal will probably leave it to one of his children.’

  ‘Is he then to marry?’ I faltered.

  ‘That I am not at liberty to say,’ replied Mr. Tom. ‘The other thing which I think you should know is that Darnley is presenting the living of Tapton not so much to Miss Dacre’s husband as to Miss Harcourt’s brother.’

  My head was in a whirl. Darnley, whom I had treated so ill, the benefactor of our family! Darnley presenting a living, of whose reversion he might have disposed for a large sum, to Ned, because he was my brother! Such nobility, such generosity filled my heart so full that I had to turn my face away to hide the tears that trickled down my cheek.

  ‘Poor little Fanny,’ said Mr. Tom, putting his arm round me in such a kind and brotherly way that I felt no resentment, ‘dry your eyes and be a good girl.’

  His droll way of speaking made me laugh and I was soon able to converse with the others. My father shortly returned. He refused to discuss business till he had dined, and Mr. Tom obligingly stayed to dinner, where by his jokes and puns he kept my father’s spirits from being too low. After dinner we gathered in the sitting-room, and my father, with real remorse, told us the position of his affairs, which was much as we had heard already.

  ‘Darnley has been a good friend to me,’ he said. ‘He may be a Radical, but if all Radicals were like him I would shake hands even with Hume. His lawyer is going to see to the selling of the place, and I may be able to stay on as tenant, if I can bear it without the horses and dogs. It would break your poor mother’s heart to go, Fan, else I’d go and live in a cottage somewhere. By God, to live in my own house as another man’s guest will be the worst of my punishment. There’s no fool like an old fool. And I’ve some bad news for you, Fan.’

  ‘What,’ cried I, ‘nothing, I hope, has happened to Mr. Darnley?’

  ‘Darnley?’ said my father. ‘Not that I know of, unless he has met with an accident since I left him an hour ago, and I hope he hasn’t, as he is to come here at nine o’clock with some papers. No, no, my poor girl, it’s about some one quite different.’

  Our curiosity was roused, and we begged to know what this mysterious piece of news might be.

  ‘Darnley’s lawyer told us,’ said my father, avoiding my glance, ‘that he had to-day received instructions to prepare marriage settlements for that damned Frenchified Vavasour, and Lady Almeria What’s-her-name, and they are to be married as soon as possible.’

  ‘Sooner he than I,’ said Mr. Tom. ‘From what I have seen and heard of her ladyship, she will wear the breeches, and lead him a pretty dance into the bargain.’

  ‘I hope she’ll comb his hair with a three-legged stool,’ cried Ned, in one of his vulgar phrases.

  ‘And he will have to know that shocking Mrs. Norton,’ said Emily.

  ‘I think it an excessively good match,’ said I coldly. ‘Where there is a complete absence of heart on both sides, and an equality of fortune, we may expect the kind of marriage which the world calls happy.’

  ‘Good girl!’ cried my father, ‘there’s a spirit! I thought a girl of mine couldn’t care for such a sneaking puppy, and I told Darnley so. Depend upon it, Darnley, I said, she’d got her head stuffed with some romantic nonsense because the fellow has greasy curls and a fine waistcoat. Depend upon it, I said, her heart’s in the right place if she’s her old father’s daughter, as her mother says she is.’

  I threw up my eyes to heaven at my father’s coarseness, but no one noticed me, as Matthews at this moment came into the room to say that one of the grooms from home was waiting below with an urgent letter for my father. A presentiment of evil seemed to strike us all. The man was shown up — it was the same groom who had ridden for the doctor when my mother was taken ill — and touched his hat to my father, who rose to take the letter.

  ‘Read it, Ned,’ said my father, sitting down again heavily. ‘By God, I’ve had all I can stand to-day.’

  The letter was from our family physician to tell my father that my mother had been taken suddenly and violently worse, and that her recovery was impossible. While urging my father to return at once, he did not disguise his fear that my mother would probably have ceased to breathe. Ned handed the letter to my father, who sat as one stunned. At last he said, ‘Thank God the poor creature won’t know that I have ruined her children. Come down, Ned, and get this fellow to tell me what he can. Fan, you had better pack your things. We must go to-morrow morning.’

  He and Ned, followed by the groom, then went downstairs, leaving me with Emily and Mr. Tom.

  ‘Let me express my sympathy,’ said Mr. Tom in his kindest manner, ‘and my hopes that Mrs. Harcourt may be spared to see you before the end. Emily, if you can pack your things in time, you had better come back with us tomorrow; there is a seat in the carriage. For to-night, Miss Harcourt will be glad of your company and sisterly affection.’

  ‘I will pack now,’ said Emily, ‘if you will stay with Fanny, and I will also tell Fanny’s maid to see to her things, and explain the situation to Mrs. Bellows.’

  So saying, she embraced me warmly and departed.

  ‘Please, Mr. Ingoldsby, do not talk to me,’ said I.

  ‘Indeed I won’t, child,’ said kind Mr. Tom. He sat by me at the window, holding my hand, while I endeavoured to collect myself; but it was in vain; tears poured from my eyes.

  ‘That’s right, poor little Fanny,’ said
he in his droll way, ‘a good cry is the best medicine, and then you will feel much better.’

  With true delicacy he looked out of the window while still holding my hand, so that I could cry undisturbed. Presently I heard a ring at the bell and people talking at the door. A voice that I knew only too well was telling Matthews to give a packet of papers to Mr. Harcourt, and Matthews was telling him the sad news from home.

  ‘Excuse me for a moment,’ said Mr. Tom, and letting go my hand he darted from the room and downstairs. I was too weak with unhappiness to take much notice, or care what happened, and when I heard the front door shut, I could not cry any more bitterly than I had been doing. The drawing-room door reopened, footsteps crossed the floor, my hand was again held. A manly voice, thrilling with emotion, the voice I most loved and worshipped in the whole world, said in my ear, ‘The Zegri Ladye weeps.’

  ‘Mr. Darnley!’ I faltered, rising to my feet. ‘Oh, can you forgive me?’

  ‘Nay, it is you that must forgive me, my Fanny,’ said he drawing me to his bosom. ‘I was hasty. But let us forget all that is past. Mine be it hence forward to console and support my Zegri Ladye.’

  Our lips met. My senses swooned.

  When the first transports were over, ‘We must not forget that good fellow Tom Ingoldsby,’ said my Darnley, for so I now could call him, ‘who is waiting outside to hear the news. Had it not been for his kindness I should have gone away without seeing you again.’

  Together — oh, rapturous word! — together we looked from the window. Mr. Tom was leaning against the railings on the opposite side of the road, conversing with a potboy from whom he had obtained a mug of beer.

  ‘Tom, my dear fellow,’ cried Darnley, ‘you are a trump, and I am the happiest of men.’

  ‘Dear little Fanny,’ said Mr. Tom, coming below the window and raising his hat to me, ‘are you good and happy now?’

  ‘I am, I am indeed,’ I said earnestly.

  ‘Then,’ said Mr. Tom, ‘I shall go to bed. Good-night,’ and waving his hat he walked up Queen Street and disappeared round the corner.

  Postscript

  There is little to add to my narrative. My poor mother had breathed her last before we could reach her side, and was sincerely mourned, if not deeply regretted. Owing to my unprotected condition I persuaded my father to allow my marriage to Mr. Darnley to take place a month after her death. My little Victoria was born on the anniversary of her namesake’s coronation. My father, as I think I mentioned before, has a competence sufficient to maintain him, but I have not seen him since my marriage.

  I am the happiest of wives and mothers, and have no secrets from Mr. Darnley save those which expediency dictates. There was a great to-do about the missing copy of the Ingoldsby Legends, but as Mr. Darnley is an excellent customer, the bookseller agreed that the mistake must be his and sent another copy, whereupon I gave the unfortunate original to Emily. The Ingoldsby family flourish and Mr. Tom is in a way to become quite famous with his book. Should my expected child be a boy we intend to call him Thomas in gratitude to him. I hear that our Queen is also about to become a mother, but her child, though swathed in purple, can be no dearer to her than our offspring are to us. Emily says she cannot conceive why I spend so much time in the nursery.

  ‘It is quite proper, my love,’ said I, when she had made this remark more often than I could bear, ‘that you should not yet know the joys of motherhood. Wait till you and Ned have been married for a year.’

  ‘A year!’ cried Emily. ‘Lassy me, I hope I shan’t wait as long as that.’

  I sometimes wonder how I ever came to make a friend of Emily.

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  Appendix with Notes

  Och! the Coronation! what celebration

  For emulation can with it compare?

  When to Westminster the Royal Spinster,

  And the [1]Duke of Leinster, all in order did repair!

  ’Twas there you’d see the New Polishemen

  Making a skrimmage at half after four,

  And the Lords and Ladies, and the Miss O’Gradys

  All standing round before the Abbey door.

  Their pillows scorning, that self-same morning

  Themselves adorning, all by the candle light,

  With roses and lilies, and daffy-down-dillies,

  And gould, and jewels, and rich di’monds bright.

  And then approaches five hundred coaches,

  With [2]Giniral Dullbeak. — Och! ’twas mighty fine

  To see how asy bould [3]Corporal Casey,

  With his swoord drawn, prancing, made them kape the line.

  Then the Guns’ alarums, and the [4]King of Arums,

  All in his Garters and his Clarence shoes,

  Opening the massy doors to the bould Ambassydors,

  The [5]Prince of Potboys, and great haythen Jews;

  ’Twould have made you crazy to see [6]Esterhazy

  All jew’ls from jasey to his di’mond boots,

  With [7]Alderman Harmer, and that swate charmer,

  The famale heiress, Miss Anja-ly Coutts.

  And Wellington walking with his swoord drawn, talking

  To [8]Hill and [9]Hardinge, haroes of great fame;

  And [10]Sir De Lacy, and the [11]Duke Dalmasey,

  (They call’d him Sowlt afore he changed his name,)

  Themselves presading [12]Lord Melbourne, lading

  The Queen, the darling, to her Royal chair,

  And that fine ould fellow, the [13]Duke of Pell-Mello,

  The Queen of Portingal’s Chargy-de-fair.

  Then the Noble Prussians, likewise the Russians,

  In fine laced jackets with their goulden cuffs,

  And the Bavarians, and the proud Hungarians,

  And Everythingarians all in furs and muffs.

  Then [14]Misthur Spaker, with [15]Misthur Pays the Quaker,

  All in the Gallery you might persave,

  But [16]Lord Brougham was missing, and gone a fishing,

  Ounly crass [17]Lord Essex would not give him lave.

  There was [18]Baron Alten himself exalting,

  And [19]Prince Von Swartzenberg, and many more,

  Och! I’d be bother’d, and entirely smother’d

  To tell the half of ’em was to the fore;

  With the swate Peeresses, in their crowns and dresses,

  And Aldermanesses, and the Boord of Works;

  But [20]Mehemet Ali said, quite gintaly,

  ‘I’d be proud to see the likes among the Turks!’

  Then the Queen, Heaven bless her! och! they did dress her

  In her purple garaments, and her goulden Crown;

  Like Venus or Hebe, or the Queen of Sheby,

  With eight young Ladies houlding up her gown.

  Sure ’twas grand to see her, also for to he-ar

  The big drums bating, and the trumpets blow,

  And [21]Sir George Smart! Oh! he play’d a Consarto,

  With his four-and-twenty fiddlers all on a row!

  Then the [22]Lord Archbishop held a goulden dish up,

  For to resave her bounty and great wealth,

  Saying ‘Plase your Glory, great Queen Vict-ory!

  Ye’ll give the Clargy lave to dhrink your health!’

  Then his Riverence, retrating, discoorsed the mating,

  ‘Boys! Here’s your Queen! deny it if you can!

  And if any bould traitour, or infarior craythur,

  Sneezes at that, I’d like to see the man!’

  Then the Nobles kneeling to the Pow’rs appealing,

  ‘Heaven send your Majesty a glorious reign!’

  And [23]Sir Claudius Hunter he did confront her,

  All in his scarlet gown and goulden chain.

  The great [24]Lord May’r, t
oo, sat in his chair too,

  But mighty sarious, looking fit to cry,

  For the [25]Earl of Surrey, all in his hurry

  Throwing the thirteens, hit him in his eye.

  Then there was preaching, and good store of speeching,

  With Dukes and Marquises on bended knee;

  And they did splash her with raal Macasshur,

  And the Queen said, ‘Ah! then, thank ye all for me!’ —

  Then the trumpets braying, and the organ playing,

  And sweet trombones with their silver tones,

  But [26]Lord Rolle was rolling; — ’twas mighty consoling

  To think his Lordship did not break his bones.

  Then the crames and the custards, and the beef and mustard,

  All on the tombstones like a poultherer’s shop,

  With lobsters and white-bait, and other swate-meats,

  And wine, and nagus, and Imparial Pop!

  There was cakes and apples in all the Chapels,

  With fine polonies, and rich mellow pears,

  Och! the [27]Count Von Strogonoff, sure he got prog enough,

  The sly ould Divil, underneath the stairs.

  Then the [28]cannons thunder’d, and the people wonder’d,

  Crying, ‘God save Victoria, our Royal Queen!’

  Och! if myself should live to be a hundred,

  Sure it’s the proudest day that I’ll have seen!

  And now I’ve ended, what I pretended,

  This narration splendid in swate poe-thry,

  Ye dear bewitcher, just hand the pitcher,

  Faith, it’s meself that’s getting mighty dhry!

  Note

  In 1840 the Reverend Richard Barham brought out the first series of Ingoldsby Legends, pretending that they were the work of a Thomas Ingoldsby, Esquire. Mrs. Thirkell has invented a young married woman, the neighbour of a genuine Mr. Thomas Ingoldsby; and this young lady’s mystified reading, upon its first publication, of the supposed work of her acquaintance, including Mr. Barney Maguire’s Account of the Coronation of Queen Victoria, recalls to her mind her own visit to London for the Coronation festivities. And so in this book we have London (and Epsom, and Eton) as they were when his present Majesty’s great-grandmother was crowned.