Flirtation & Folly

by Elizabeth Rasche

  Whether it was Marianne’s placidity or the change in subject, Aunt Harriet’s anger was soothed away. “Captain Pulteney is a very pleasant fellow,” her aunt said, her tone returning to that of natural conversation. “I have no doubt he flatters you, Marianne, but do not let him turn your head.”

  Marianne remembered her aunt’s laughter at the dinner party, and how she had hung on Captain Pulteney’s every word. She found her own anger melting away as well. “I rather think he has turned your head, Aunt,” she said, smiling.

  Aunt Harriet laughed. “The man knows how to charm, no doubt, but that does not mean he is a suitable person to court you. If you like him, I will inquire in the City about him, but I do not have high hopes. Captain Pulteney is all very well as a dinner companion. As a companion for life, I think he would be rather a trial.”

  She rose from the table and flipped over a few letters with one hand. “Here is a letter for you, Marianne. Your mother’s writing, I believe. If she asks for money, do not give her any hopes.” She handed the letter to Marianne as she strode out, and Marianne took it with reluctance. The handwriting was indeed the flailing, thin scrawl of her mother.

  Suddenly the morning felt heavy. Marianne left the table, telling herself she went so that the servants could clear it, not because of an instinct to hide. Although she felt a pang of defensiveness when her aunt criticised her mother, Marianne could not help admitting some of her aunt’s criticisms were just. Marianne’s mother was too indolent to write often, so Marianne was unsurprised it had taken her a month to respond to her daughter’s letters. She had not minded, seeing as even the thought of home made her stomach clench with guilt. When she had carefully shut herself away in her bedroom, she broke open the envelope.

  Dear Marianne,

  I am so pleased that your aunt was willing to take you in Belinda’s stead. Of course I knew how it would be. She dared not turn you away from her very door-step! And I am so happy you have had a whole month to enjoy the fruits of London.

  Marianne’s sensation of dread intensified. A whole month? She was told she would have the whole Season—perhaps even to July.

  Things here have not gone on as we had hoped. I confess, Harriet and Matty have grown quite wild. I do not understand why they never seem to mind me. The boys are a thousand times worse. We still plan for Roger to enter the Navy next year, and John is afire to go with him even though he is full a year behind Roger. They are so noisy and unmanageable that I do not see how any ship could take them. Higgins must go back and forth from the kitchens to the other rooms, constantly, to try and keep everyone in check. I have been overwhelmed with mending and have barely been able to creep downstairs a few hours before the noise drives me back up again. I am sure you can see that things cannot go on in this way. Clementina does what she can to help, but she does not have your experience in handling all the little ones.

  Since Belinda of course cannot be spared from London, I thought it might be wise for you to hint to your aunt—just a hint—that you might need to return home a bit sooner than expected. I would not offend my sister for the world. Of course if she is in need of companionship, we will do our best to assist her. Belinda could come to her after Mrs Walters leaves for Brighton this summer, if she has not had an offer by then. In the meantime, I daresay my sister can make do by herself while you are back where you belong. Higgins and I cannot do it all ourselves. Just give a gentle hint to your aunt that you may need to leave soon, and let me manage the rest.

  In love and affection,

  Mama

  P.S. Your father gave Belinda a twenty-pound note before she left for London, but we forgot to make the same agreeable contribution to your own reticule. Perhaps you could ask your aunt to supply the deficiency? We do so want you to have an enjoyable time.

  Marianne sat with the letter folded in her hands. Her fingers stroked the creases of the water-stained paper. It was silly to be angry. There was nothing new in her parents’ favouritism of Belinda, nor in the rampant mismanagement that made the household chaotic and unpleasant.

  Her mother meant well, in her own way. Could she really be faulted for questioning whether Marianne was doing any good by staying in London? Perhaps Marianne should have made up some ardent suitors in her letters; maybe then her mother would have seen some reason to let her stay. She supposed her mother was right in assuming Marianne could do more good at the rectory than she could here. That was what had made London so alluring—it had been an imagined fairy realm of no responsibilities, no hardships, no duties. It had been all selfishness from beginning to end.

  But did it have to end? If Marianne did not answer her mother’s letter, Mrs Mowbrey would simply write to Aunt Harriet and explain that her daughter had to be returned. Marianne could write back a suitably obedient epistle and bow to her fate. Little Harriet and Matty would be overjoyed to see her, after weeks of having no one to play games with them. Roger would remember some rudiment of civility while he waited out the year to join the Navy as a cabin boy. Higgins could return to cooking rather than chasing after a houseful of children. There was no doubt Marianne’s presence would make a difference. She would be dutiful and pliant. And desolate.

  Something in her chest squeezed uncomfortably. She could not tell if it was the warning of wrong-doing or the unexpected sensation of hope. She could put her mother off. Eventually her mother would communicate with Aunt Harriet, and Marianne would be forced to submit to the drudgery of her old life, but that might take months, if she generously sprinkled her letters with falsehoods. So long as she bought time, Marianne would have an opportunity to win a suitor, and then they would not press her to return to the rectory. She just needed time, and then London would be hers forever.

  Her chest squeezed again, but this time it felt a mixture of resentment, exultation, determination—and, most of all, an unwillingness to play the role of an under-appreciated, responsible daughter any longer. Marianne drew out pen and paper, paused, and then began to write.

  Dear Mama,

  I am so sorry, but Aunt Harriet is quite determined that I stay here for the full Season. I think I may be able to bring her round, but you must rely on my discretion wholly, and not irritate her with letters of your own. Your way of writing sometimes offends her. It will take some time, but I think I can manage to persuade her to cut the visit short by a small degree…

  The Stokeses’ carriage was not, as Marianne had imagined, painted white and lined with blue silk, but it was lacquered in an imposing black and strewn with wine-red velvet cushions. As she climbed inside, she felt like the refined gentlewoman she longed to be, although the illusion was somewhat marred by having to cram herself into a seat. With one side of the carriage occupied by Mrs Stokes and Miss Stokes, and the other side by Miss Emily, Martha, and Marianne, there was very little room.

  “Martha, your elbow is like a chisel. Stop jabbing me,” Miss Emily said, not long after the wheels had begun to spin and the carriage began its gentle roll. Although the winter air was frosty even at midday, the compact assembly of ladies provided more than enough heat.

  “I can’t help it. There’s no place to point my elbows.”

  “Do not point them at all, then. Keep your arms straight.” Without missing a beat, Miss Emily’s voice dropped into a honeyed tone. “Dear Miss Mowbrey, we are so pleased you were able to join us. I can see you wore one of the frights Madame Renault made. She will have to beg your pardon when she sees what errors she has made. We will stop there after we do a bit of shopping further along Bond Street.”

  Marianne glanced down at the white muslin gown she had chosen, half hidden by her open pelisse. She had been unable to avoid wearing the dress with fans of pleats—she only had so many gowns—but she felt sure whichever of her gowns she had chosen, Miss Emily would have criticised it. The fans of fabric attached to her shoulder and hip still looked appealing to her, but she had given up trying to make others see it. Too many strangers had chuckled and gossiped for her not to realise t
hat her taste was deficient. There was no way to continue allowing Madame Renault to take the blame, however, if they were truly going to her today.

  “It is not Madame Renault’s fault,” she said. With all the ladies so crowded in the carriage, her subdued voice carried easily. “I confess it was my own design. And I chose the yellow silk you dislike, and the Greek key embroidery, and probably everything else that is in bad taste.” She waited for their reaction, feeling like a penitent novice about to be reprimanded by a host of sturdy, stern-faced nuns.

  “Your own design!” Miss Emily exchanged looks with Miss Stokes. Before, those looks were unreadable, but Marianne was beginning to understand them. They were laughing at her without ever making a sound.

  “It is not so ugly as all that,” Martha said, in her own manner of defending Marianne. The defence did not lift her spirits much.

  “At least it means that Madame Renault may still be trusted,” Miss Stokes said, leaning against her mother like a drooping rose.

  “Indeed, she can be part of the solution now,” Miss Emily said. She reached across her cousin to adjust Marianne’s bonnet. “Do not worry, Miss Mowbrey. I will take you in hand.” The young lady, despite being several years Marianne’s junior, appeared genuinely friendly now that her dominance had been assured and Marianne crushed into the dust.

  “Emily does have excellent taste.” Mrs Stokes’s smile only showed a hint of pride, but Marianne suspected more underneath. “Both my girls have a natural flair for such things. And who can say? Perhaps your aunt was hoping you might obtain a little of their polish on our outing today.”

  “Perhaps,” Marianne said doubtfully.

  “Acquainting oneself with ladies of good manners and natural taste is so important,” Miss Emily said. “Why, we have benefited so much from our acquaintance—I may say, friendship—with Lady Sweetser. She has invited us to Richmond again, only this time we are all to go on horseback. Captain Pulteney is coming, and even Lord Sweetser will ride—you do not know Lord Sweetser, do you, Miss Mowbrey?”

  “No.” Marianne’s heart leapt at the mention of Captain Pulteney. She could picture herself on a ride to Richmond, skilfully handling the reins of a mane-tossing mare while laughing at one of the captain’s gallantries. Never mind that she had had few opportunities to ride and might not be so skilful as she imagined—the trip would be heavenly, no doubt.

  “We seldom see Lord Sweetser, because he is a very important person in Parliament, and he is always busy reading blue books and writing reports and making speeches,” Miss Emily said. “Lady Sweetser often says, ‘My husband is off doing something unpleasantly parliamentary’. Is that not funny? Unpleasantly parliamentary!ˮ Miss Emily laughed.

  The worst of it was that Miss Emily did indeed believe the joke was uncommonly amusing—and would have been equally convinced it was dull, had it fallen from less fashionable lips.

  “Mr Hearn is coming, too,” Martha said. Oddly enough, the idea of Mr Hearn being there made the trip less appealing to Marianne, though she could not have said why. “I like him. He is never ashamed of Ireland, and he always speaks to me. More than a how-do-you-do, I mean. That’s more than your captain ever does.”

  Miss Emily fluttered. “He is not my captain, Martha.” She adjusted the collar of her pelisse as an excuse to turn her face downwards, but she could not disguise her elation. “Anyway, we are to have a picnic at Richmond, if it is warm enough.”

  “I daresay it will not be,” Martha said.

  “So much the better! Then we shall stop in at an inn and pretend we are travellers, or wait and sup with Lady Sweetser at her house in town.” As Miss Emily went on and on about the trip, Marianne settled back in her seat and endured Martha’s elbow stabbing her side. She could not deny the Stokes sisters dressed well, but she did not think it in good taste for them to talk so much of an outing to which she was not invited. Mrs Stokes eventually smiled at her daughter and quieted her with finesse.

  “You are so lively today, my dear. I can see Miss Mowbrey’s company does you good.” Mrs Stokes smiled at Marianne as well. “Now, Miss Mowbrey, here we shall exit the carriage and stroll from shop to shop.”

  Mrs Stokes led the way out and spoke a few words to the coachman. Marianne turned her face up to the clouded sky. For a moment, her thoughts felt captured by the cool, still air. The sky had a faraway solidity to its whiteness, as if Marianne was gazing at the smooth interior of a shell from a distance. It made her life feel suddenly arrested in time, her thoughts spaced far apart from one another, like slow waves crashing upon a misty shore. When Mrs Stokes rejoined Marianne, it was hard not to feel jarred by her bright, over-cheerful voice.

  “Your aunt is very good to keep you for a Season, is she not?”

  “Oh, yes, Mrs Stokes.” Marianne turned her gaze from the sky to the older woman. Disappointment at losing the shell-like colour dissolved as she remembered that today was a day of frivolity and girlish company. It was a day to enjoy herself.

  “Perhaps you might like to make a gift to her. I doubt you have many opportunities to shop without being under her eye.” She smiled again, but Marianne began to feel uneasy.

  “A gift? I would not know—ˮ

  “Tea is a very acceptable present for a lady like your aunt, and they have very fine teas here.” She led Marianne and the other girls past a glazed window and beyond a lightweight wooden door into a confined tea-shop. “I am sure everyone who visits your aunt would be benefited, as well. It is difficult to obtain unadulterated tea, sometimes.”

  “Mama says your aunt’s tea is like watered dirt!” Miss Emily said, mischief sparking in her eyes.

  Her mother frowned, before her face smoothed into a pleasant expression as she looked at Marianne. “I am sure your aunt would be pleased you thought of her while you were out.”

  Marianne considered her words. It did seem like a nice gesture to buy Aunt Harriet a gift, but it also felt a bit odd, considering all her ready money was, in fact, Aunt Harriet’s own, and that the purchase would mean her aunt would have to resupply what was spent. It was forcing her aunt to buy herself a gift, really. Still, with Mrs Stokes’s cool presence filling the tea-shop and Miss Stokes watching her every move, Marianne felt obliged to make a purchase. While Martha giggled and flirted with the shop attendant, Marianne chose a fine China tea to be wrapped up and sent to her aunt’s home.

  Strolling to the next shop meant walking in a fashionable train, with Mrs Stokes in the lead, the two sisters sauntering behind their mother, Martha bumping elbows with Marianne behind, and a footman trailing at the end. While the other women seemed preoccupied with scanning shop windows, Martha blew out a long breath.

  “Lord! They say I talk, but Emily can chatter twice ’round me when she wants to. I thought I’d never get a chance to talk to you properly, Marianne,” she said, hanging back a little from the others. Her red hair had been plaited then wrapped into a bun, letting stray fiery hairs stick out a little from the joints of the plait, like embers sparking off her head. Her freckled face made a moue, and Marianne stifled a laugh.

  “She did seem very talkative today.”

  “It’s that Lady Sweetser that does it. Every time she gets to go out with her, she must describe every expectation of delight in advance, and then detail how much better everything was than she expected afterward.” Martha took her arm, and they tried to imitate the saunter of the sisters walking in front of them. Try as she might, Marianne could not make her glide as regal as either of them. “Augusta is a little nicer than Emily, don’t you think?” Martha asked. The sisters were far enough away to be out of earshot, but she had lowered her voice anyway. “My sister says it’s because Augusta is one year older and hasn’t as much time to catch a husband, so she has to be cautious and polite. But I think Augusta is just less high-spirited. Aunt Stokes has let Emily run a little too wild.”

  “I think they would tell me you are the wild one.” Marianne smiled at her, and Martha grinned back. Before she
could reply, Miss Emily cried out, and they hurried forward to see what was the matter.

  “I have found you the perfect subject for your sketches,” Miss Emily said. She was too polite to point, but a smooth, open-handed gesture indicated the object of her attention. A lame veteran crouched across the street, altering the placement of his crutch. His clothes were threadbare around the elbows and shoulders, and his grey hair lay matted in an unkempt mass on the top of his head. “Is that man’s crutch ugly enough to merit a portrait, Miss Mowbrey?”

  “Really, my dear, you must not cry out like that,” her mother said. Her disapproving gaze flitted to the veteran and back to her daughter. “I thought you had turned your ankle at least.”

  “I am sorry, Mama,” Miss Emily said, and something of contrition did show in her voice. It soon melted away again as she smiled back at Marianne. “Well, Miss Mowbrey? Congratulate me on capturing your artistic inclinations.”

  “The subject is a little too sad for my tastes,” Marianne said quietly.

  “I shall try again. No doubt I will understand you in time,” Miss Emily replied. Her cheerful and careless tone showed it was all a joke to her. She took her sister’s arm and began to move down the sidewalk again. Marianne followed with Martha. Although the wind still had a bite to it, the snow had melted into wide puddles, gleaming with slicks of oil and refuse. The trim shutters, colourful displays, and brightly polished doors of the shops contrasted with the nasty squalor of the street itself. That would make a more interesting picture: London in its mercantile glory, with the stench and slime that lies underfoot. There was no point in giving Miss Emily more material to tease her with, however.