Flirtation & Folly

by Elizabeth Rasche

  “Well, then,” she said, dismissing her anger with an ease that Marianne envied. “Are you going to the opera tonight?”

  “I think we are to dine with Aunt Cartwright.”

  Belinda laughed. “What a bother! She invited us, too, but I told her we had other plans. Lady Sweetser invited me to sit in her box with her daughter and her. Oh! I must tell you how I got into Lady Sweetser’s set. Emily and I were shopping in Bond Street—ˮ

  A pang struck Marianne’s heart. “You went shopping with Miss Emily?”

  “Yes, yesterday. Do listen, Marianne. I am trying to tell you something funny. Emily and I were standing outside a shop, waiting to get in, and there was this awful draggle of a woman—ˮ

  “What is a draggle?”

  “Do not catch me up on my words. I just mean that it was a poor woman, very smelly and old, and she was waiting on the street, too. Emily kept crowding me, scooting right up next to me so that she would not touch this person. I suppose she was afraid her gown would get soiled, for the woman was dreadfully dirty. Emily was nearly mauling me, trying to keep her distance from the creature.” Belinda laughed.

  Marianne tried to attend to the story, but she was distracted by Belinda’s calling Miss Emily by her first name. They had only just met!

  The rest of Belinda’s story did her a sort of halfway credit. “So I said, ‘Stop shoving, Emily! It won’t hurt you to stand next to an old woman’. Not particularly genteel of me, I know, and I was rather snappish, too. But Lady Sweetser happened to be there, and she overheard me and quite approved of my defending the poor old creature. She asked me my name, and we made introductions, and then she scolded Emily up and down, and invited me to her box any day I chose. I chose today, of course, for who could wait even a minute to be in Lady Sweetser’s box? She’s ever so fashionable.” Belinda sighed with happiness.

  “Did she really scold Miss Emily?”

  “Oh, not really scold, but it makes a better story. She simply said Emily ought to have a more Christian heart for the poor. Imagine! All those years of visiting the poor to please Papa, and it has finally paid off. I am not scared of being pressed up against a smelly old woman, and now I am in Lady Sweetser’s good graces. What a coup!” Her laughter rolled out in enthusiastic bellows, far too unladylike to be demonstrated in public, but safe in Marianne’s bedroom.

  “I could have gone with you, yesterday,” Marianne said, her voice hesitant.

  “I assumed Emily had invited you as well. Did she not?” At Marianne’s silence, Belinda sighed. “You must not mind it, Marianne. In London, everyone is busy all day long. She probably just assumed you were occupied with something else.”

  “You are much busier than I, and she asked you,” Marianne said.

  “Well, so what if she did?”

  “She is my particular friend. Sort of.” Although her pride would have better liked discretion, Marianne made another effort at sisterly confidence. “I suppose she does not think I am fashionable enough, or lively enough, or something like that.” Once she had shared one burden, the rest came pouring out. “People have laughed at me so much since I came here, Belinda. And I am trying so hard to be pretty and charming! But no one seems to think much of me.”

  “Nobody thought much of you in Wrumpton, either, Marianne, and that never bothered you. Why should you care now?”

  Marianne shook her head with impatience. “Because now I am really trying. Back home, there was never any point in trying to impress anyone; everyone had already decided you were the pretty one, and I was the responsible one. But I wanted to be something different in London.”

  She wanted to be herself, but a more glamorous self. It frustrated Marianne to no end that her sister did not seem to understand, and she dared not make her words any plainer. She had already humiliated herself enough.

  Belinda picked up her reticule, examining it for spots. “You only have to be charming enough to get married, Marianne. I daresay not shopping with Emily Stokes one time will not interfere with that. Simply look very coolly at her the next time you see her, and be indifferent and polite, and she will beg you to come next time.”

  Marianne had no doubt that strategy worked for Belinda, but it did not seem promising for her. She did not have Belinda’s attractions.

  Belinda finally looked up from her bag, just long enough to give Marianne a hug and a pat. “I must go. The coachman is likely cursing my name, for I told him I should visit but a few minutes. Poor old fellow!” She laughed and swept open the door, nearly pirouetting to take a last look at her sister and give a little wave. It was effortlessly charming, the kind of motion Miss Emily could have practised for weeks and still not made natural. “Remember to wear that silly dress to the concert later this week, and I shall make it right.”

  Belinda traipsed down the hallway, and Marianne heard her sister’s light-hearted tones bantering with Aunt Harriet’s stern ones further down the hallway. Marianne moved the pile of gowns on the bed so that she might sit down. She felt tired and dull, almost her old rectory self. Belinda was making a success of things, just as her mother and everyone else had predicted. All she needed to do was arrive in London, and the ton had embraced her. Even Miss Emily had swallowed her initial disinclination for Belinda in favour of being seen with a beautiful, stylish debutante. What had Marianne gained since her arrival? A few new gowns and baubles, and a great deal of unpleasant experience.

  Spread across the dressing table lay the latest bauble: the cream silk fan Belinda had given her. The scaffolding of slim, straight sticks braced the expanse of bare silk. The fan was plain, but of good quality, and Marianne was sure she could paint it to be something special. She already had a few ideas sifting aimlessly in her head. It would be a lovely accessory, but the remembrance of how Belinda came by it soured her reflections and plans.

  March 1812

  Aunt Harriet’s carriage came from the livery stable and, though it had none of the polish of Mrs Stokes’s carriage, Marianne felt a pleasant sense of patronage that compensated for the lack of luxury as she beckoned Martha in to sit beside her. Martha clambered up with an unseemly hoist from George, the footman, who looked more like he was heaving a sack of flour than assisting a genteel young lady into a carriage seat.

  Aunt Harriet watched with a bemused expression, as if she could not decide whether Marianne was at last choosing a friend of more substance than fashion—or had simply deteriorated into the vulgar, since there did not seem to be much substance to Martha’s mind, however substantial her physical frame might prove to George.

  Aunt Harriet barely got a greeting out before Martha’s enthusiasm manifested itself.

  “We shall have such fun! I have told Emily and Augusta everything we intend to do. I am sure they would go to pieces with envy, if they were not going to be with Lady Sweetser today.” Today, the March sunlight cast flecks of gold into Martha’s red hair. Her bonnet shielded most of the fiery frizz from view, but the curls arranged around her brow looked quite presentable. Indeed, Martha’s gown looked uncommonly neat and tidy, every green ribbon tied in symmetrical bows…even her green nankeen boots looked recently cleaned. Marianne felt touched and embarrassed at the same time. Did the trip mean so much to Martha? She dared not confess the invitation had been extended in large part as a favour to Miss Emily.

  “I am so glad you could come,” Marianne said, relieved that she could mean what she said. As the carriage began to roll over cobblestones and picked up a pace suitable for London streets, Martha squeezed closer to Marianne and giggled at nothing in particular. Then she launched into an enthusiastic recital of everything she was looking forward to in voluble detail. The Irish lilt which hung like an airy mist over Mr Hearn’s voice saturated Martha’s voice like a downpour. Marianne found it pretty, but she could not deny that most of the London folk she knew would consider it inexpressibly vulgar.

  The thought made her sad. She supposed Martha often got rejected by the same society Marianne sought, and for wors
e reason. Marianne could almost picture how Miss Emily’s eyebrows would lift in silent agony at hearing Martha rattle away.

  “And if we stop at Gunter’s, we can have ices—although perhaps it is still a bit too chilly for any such thing. I do not know that I want to freeze my bones. Of course, it is so much warmer today, is it not? Truly spring-like. But the air does have a little chill in the air—chilly air is spring, too, you know. I do not know that I want any ices. But we could have buns, or tarts, or any number of other things there, and they will be nice and warm. If they are freshly made, I suppose. Otherwise they might not be. Which do you prefer, Marianne, ices or buns?”

  Marianne smiled, amused at Martha’s exuberance and relieved at the pause in the flood of talk. “I think I would like a bun.”

  She could think of one way to redirect Martha’s chatter, which would please the Irishwoman as well. “But Martha, I have wonderful news. I am to give a ball!” She delivered the news with a blend of fierce dignity and a crow of delight.

  “A ball!” Martha’s wide eyes and inability to speak more than this properly honoured the announcement.

  “Well, really Aunt Harriet is giving it at one of the assembly rooms. But I am to determine everything—the invitations, the decorations, the music, and everything. We thought to have it at Aunt Harriet’s house, but the rooms would be too small for all the guests to dance even if we opened up one of the interior walls—ˮ

  “What she means,” Aunt Harriet said, “is that she wanted a much bigger guest list than any reasonable person of our level ought to desire, and my very reasonable house wouldn’t suit. But never mind. It is Marianne’s only Season in town, and I am willing to indulge her a little.”

  Marianne’s gaze fell to her lap. She had done what Aunt Cartwright advised against: she had asked Aunt Harriet if she might stay longer, perhaps for another Season. Although Aunt Harriet had not scolded her with such vehemence as Aunt Cartwright seemed to expect, she had been painfully clear and firm. Marianne was welcome to pay day visits if she found another place to live in London, but otherwise, Aunt Harriet did not expect to see her niece again when Miss Westcott returned in June. She had supported Marianne long enough, and she longed to get back to her peaceful way of life.

  Upon hearing this, Marianne had acknowledged the decision was only fair—if depressing—and Aunt Harriet had ministered a cordial in agreeing to the idea of Marianne’s ball. It would be one enormous feat of excellence that could attract a suitable husband—or one sweet, solemn remembrance to take with her if she had to return to the rectory unmarried.

  Perhaps Aunt Harriet sensed Marianne’s discomfiture, for she did the only things that might have soothed her: she reached across the carriage to give Marianne’s hand an affectionate pat, and contrasted her favourably to Belinda. “We have had a lovely visit, have we not, child? The ball will crown it all. You may not know it, Miss Brophy, but I wanted the most sensible of my sister’s daughters to come and stay with me awhile, and everything was arranged for Belinda to come. Belinda! That flirt with more curls on the top of her head than brains inside it!” She threw up her hands in disgust and turned to Marianne. “Of course, I asked your fool of a mother which was the most sensible child. I should have asked who she thought the least of.”

  Marianne had to smile. “She still would have tried to send Belinda, Aunt. She would have done anything to have her in town.”

  “She wants to get her married well, I daresay. I cannot blame her for that,” Aunt Harriet said.

  “Miss Belinda is ever so pretty, Marianne. But why shouldn’t you marry well, too?” Martha’s loyalty pushed her to say what was not ladylike. “There’s that Mr Hearn, for instance. He seems to think well of you.”

  Marianne’s flush did not protect her from further discussion, for Aunt Harriet was quick to have her say. “I hope you are not thinking seriously of Mr Hearn, Marianne. I had the greatest respect for him when he first came to London. Such good business sense! He gave me some very good advice, which is hard for a gentleman to do, and he took some very good advice from me, which is harder still. But now I hear that he is throwing away his money left and right for no reason at all.”

  “I fear he is melancholy, Aunt.”

  “He shall not feel any more cheerful when his pockets are empty. Do not think of him.”

  Marianne was more nettled by the command than she had any right to be. “I was not thinking of him, I assure you. He wants to live in Ireland, and—ˮ Suddenly she remembered Martha sitting next to her. It would not do to call Ireland dull in front of her. “That would not suit me.”

  Aunt Harriet seemed satisfied, and the subject dropped along with the step for the carriage door. They had arrived at a milliner’s shop, and George helped each of the ladies out.

  As this was a less popular shop, the shopfront had only one small window, where a short young woman with huge eyes stood gazing fixedly out at the street. Although she appeared more like a doll positioned for children’s idolatry, they discovered this woman was the milliner’s assistant, running the shop while her mistress was ill. Her clothes were neat and crisp, but a little too large for her, adding to the impression of a doll treated to a new dress. Aunt Harriet engaged the shopwoman in conversation while Martha wandered among the displays of ribbons.

  “Are you looking for anything in particular, Martha?” Marianne asked. Martha’s thick fingers occasionally dove into a box of ribbons and tangled them about. Marianne plucked aside a few of the gnarls and laid the ribbons flat or in their proper coils.

  “Only some new blue ribbons to spruce up my old blue sarsenet. Aunt Stokes says we are to visit Mrs Redding. Lord, how I hate her!”

  Marianne’s lips twitched with amusement. “Which? Your aunt or Mrs Redding?”

  “Toss them up and take which you like.” Martha grinned.

  “I wonder that you are so eager to improve your gown for them, then.”

  Martha pushed aside a few bits of lace to get a better look at the blue silk ribbons beyond them. “Oh, it is not for them. Mrs Redding has a brother.” She threw a sidelong glance at Marianne and giggled. “How tired I am of courting hateful old women for the sake of their brothers, or sons, or cousins, or whatnot! My sister says I must stick with it and do the best I can for myself this Season, but I am sure I shall be left on the shelf.”

  It might be indiscreet to talk of such things so plainly, but it was also refreshing. Marianne tried to ignore the presence of the shopwoman and her aunt, still conversing near the counter. “Why should you think so?”

  “Oh, I cannot rub off the Ireland in me, you know, and Aunt Stokes hates me with a passion. She marches me about to all the proper places, I grant her that much, but she sneers at me all the while. I am not pretty enough to take well at the places she patronises.” An eruption of laughter escaped her. “But I daresay if I were very pretty, she would hate me for the sake of her daughters. Augusta really ought to be married by now. Emily has time, but she has a bit too much venom for most gentlemen.”

  “You know I am very fond of Miss Emily,” Marianne said. It was hard to defend Belinda—a lifetime of jealousy pricked every effort—but Miss Emily was a friend she had made herself. “I am sure she is not venomous.”

  Martha shrugged.

  “May I help you ladies?” The tiny doll of a millinery assistant stopped next to them, her smile uncertain. She had been watching the two customers like a child watching a top spin, anxious that it should go on as long as possible without tipping over. Martha described what she wanted, adding a dozen unnecessary details that the assistant very competently ignored. She plucked out a coil of dark blue ribbon from one of the display boxes Martha had tumbled about and presented it to her. “Something like this, perhaps?” The shopwoman’s wide eyes distracted from her competency with a childlike appeal. Marianne did not know whether to applaud her for fastening on a solution so quickly, or to reassure the poor girl that she would not be scolded and sentenced to tea without jam for some
childish affront.

  “Oh, that is just it!” Martha said. “How clever you are. I was sure I looked in that box.”

  Indeed, anyone could be sure Martha had looked in that box; it bore the trampled look of a millinery visited by a stampede. Martha purchased her prize, and the three ladies strode out of the shop, leaving the millinery assistant to resume her position of vacant staring through the shop window.

  “Was she a child, or a doll?” Marianne asked as the carriage pulled away with a rattle. The shopwoman’s eyes did not follow the vehicle, even though Martha was nearly hanging out the window to stare at her.

  “A doll, surely. A child would look more excited, and she certainly would have waved, or stuck out her tongue or something, when she saw I was staring after her,” Martha said. She pulled her head back in, and Marianne could see Aunt Harriet sigh with relief at not having to order the Irishwoman to sit properly. How trying it must be for Aunt Harriet! She dearly loved to scold, but she also wanted to be a good hostess. Martha was probably the most problematic of visitors for her.

  “Perhaps when she sits down, her legs go straight out, like they have not knee-joints.” Martha giggled.

  “And she has a wee bed in the back, with a wee little strip of cloth for a blanket,” Marianne added.

  “And her mistress rouges her cheeks with strawberry jam.”

  “Oh, I did that!” Marianne said, remembering the pale forehead and strawberry-ruddy cheeks of her doll at the rectory. It was there still, only duskier with years of dirt and additional applications of jam. It was little Harriet’s doll now, or perhaps it belonged to Matty by this time. It did seem a pity neither girl had ever seen the doll in its fresh-faced beauty, since the doll had belonged to Belinda and Clementina after Marianne had tired of it, years before they had grown old enough to feel any interest in it.

  “Me, too. That is why I thought of it,” Martha said, and they both laughed.