Flirtation & Folly

by Elizabeth Rasche

  “I daresay it is not more difficult than managing supply trains,” he said with humour. “I will pick it up.”

  “Then begin now. There must be someone you can visit in the countryside. See if you can spend time with some country gentleman, get to know his pursuits, his habits, his leisures.”

  “I need to keep my eye on Lowes.” His gaze fixed on the man strolling in front of him.

  Lowes’s pomaded hair remained motionless despite glancing back and forth in search of Belinda. Marianne hoped she had not looked so obviously preoccupied earlier when looking for Mr Hearn. Her gaze crept back to the man beside her. He was still holding his stride in check to amble companionably with her, but his brow had furrowed with an intensity ill-suited for a stroll in the park. At least he was not despairing at the moment. Would it last?

  Perhaps growing uncomfortable with Marianne’s steady gaze, Mr Hearn nodded towards Mr Lowes. “What do you think of him, Miss Mowbrey?”

  Marianne considered. “Have you read Delphine, Mr Hearn?”

  “Another book improper for a rector’s daughter,” he said, amusement saturating his tone. “Yes, I have read it.”

  “Then I will quote it. ‘He is a man who finds out from other people whether or not he is happy.’ Mr Lowes wants Belinda because he is sure every man will envy him if he has her. He thinks his money is delightful because everyone tells him so. His friends applaud him, and so he is satisfied.”

  “There are many who do not applaud him.”

  “I suppose that is what bothers him so. He can never win your approval. You will always be the black spot in his life, suggesting that his life is not worth being happy over.”

  Before Mr Hearn could answer, Lowes had disengaged himself from Miss Emily and turned back to the pair. He stretched out a gloved hand to Marianne, and the tiniest space of sickly white flesh showed between his sleeve and his glove, like the white underbelly of a monster. “I’m cutting you out, Hearn,” he said cheerfully, taking Marianne’s hand and folding it into his elbow. “Go and walk with Miss Emily, if she will have you.”

  Miss Emily smiled her complacent, middling smile for a man of middling mark. “Oh, certainly. I can tell you all about a new piece my sister picked up for the pianoforte. It claims to be a ballad with lyrics from an old Irish story, but I fear my sister has been woefully misled.” She laughed as Mr Hearn bowed to Marianne and then paired with her friend.

  Marianne felt the exchange a poor one. Mr Lowes’ smiling face was still over-animated, and his gaze swept back and forth in a mindless search for Belinda. His conversation, she soon discovered, was similarly disappointing. Whether it was the fresh air or the desire to nettle Mr Hearn and overshadow him, Mr Lowes talked like a rattle. He said half a dozen improbable things, followed by a few meaningless compliments to Marianne and a few sincere compliments of Belinda. Then he boasted of the circle he had joined in London.

  “Of course Lady Sweetser is very select, but I have found that no one with a high tone really objects to a man of sense and information,” Lowes said, his manner both confiding yet patronising. “Her at-home evenings are on Thursdays. You should come.”

  “Does Lady Sweetser entrust her invitations to you?” Marianne said, a touch of wryness entering her voice.

  “I am sure there would be little objection, especially if you brought your sister.” Marianne winced, but Mr Lowes continued without seeing it. “Mr Hearn goes there, you know.”

  “Lady Sweetser may like rich, handsome young men as additions without caring for poor ladies,” Marianne said.

  Mr Lowes laughed. “You are extremely polite, calling him handsome.”

  The scent of his pomade hung heavy in the spring air, a cloying reminder of artificiality and society in the freshness of unfurling green leaves and streaks of sunlight. If Mr Lowes was as superficial as Marianne thought, perhaps she could prompt him into doing the right thing—given the right motive. It was interfering, she supposed, but the temptation to help Mr Hearn was strong.

  “Mr Hearn mentioned he wishes to buy his family home from you,” she said. Mr Lowes tensed, adjusting the glove on one hand. “He is very adamant about taking his position there. He wants to erase the bad memories people have of how his father behaved, and restore his family honour.”

  “He seems to care more about behaving well now than he did as a boy,” Mr Lowes said, his tone short.

  “He told me how badly he behaved towards you at school. He regrets it a great deal now.” When Mr Lowes did not respond, a note of entreaty entered her voice. “Did you know he had just lost his mother? That is hard on a boy.”

  “At least he had a mother who loved him. How many boys at that school had parents who did not care a tuppence about them? And me—I had been an orphan for years before I met Robert Hearn. Do you think he cared that I had no mother, either?”

  Taken aback, Marianne tried another tack. “I suppose I see your point. He wants to claim the estate as if he had a right to it, and that is all pride.” She paused. “But imagine how humbling it would be to him, to have to accept it from someone as a favour. To only be permitted to buy it by the liberality of a friend, who might otherwise hold it for himself. Everyone would know you had triumphed over him.”

  Mr Lowes digested this for a moment. “An interesting thought…but I doubt it would dent his pride for long. No, I will keep hold of Hearn Hall as long as I like, Miss Mowbrey. I am sure you are very good to interest yourself in my affairs, and no doubt Mr Hearn was very discreet in choosing an objective party for a confidante.”

  His insinuation was clear, and although Marianne felt oddly pleased that Mr Lowes thought there was some romantic interest in the matter, she supposed it was only fair to disabuse him of the notion. “The information was imposed on me by circumstance,” she said, but Mr Lowes took this as maidenly decorum.

  “No doubt, no doubt,” he said, his tone intended to mollify. He dropped his arm, causing Marianne to release his elbow, and made a quick bow. “I think Hearn and I are late for a dinner. Give my regards to your sister, Miss Mowbrey.” He strode over to Mr Hearn, who released Miss Emily with more politeness, and the two men sauntered off, Mr Hearn attempting his brisker stride, but with the seemingly chummy hand of Mr Lowes weighing on his shoulder as they wound out of the park.

  Sketches were scattered over the japanned tables and cream-coloured sofa of Aunt Harriet’s drawing room, dusting nearly half of the room in a chunky white snow of paper. This time, however, none of the sketches were the idle recordings of random city moments. They were the practical, hard-nosed efforts of Marianne’s vision for her ball—at least, they seemed practical to Marianne. She had sketches of complicated tiers of cakes and desserts and intricate festoons of silk to hang from the assembly room ceiling. Marianne was sifting through the piles and weighing the merits of various ideas, almost as if she was a poky badger nosing through the snow for something interesting. Miss Emily’s notations graced several of the sketches and delineated those appropriate for a properly stylish ball, but Marianne kept pulling restlessly at the ones Miss Emily had discarded—No, I asked her help for a reason—forcing herself to let go of the wilder visions. The whole point is to do it properly, so that I can get a husband before the Season ends. She had even penned a heartfelt plea to Belinda, begging her sister to come up with an excuse not to attend the ball. “You certainly won’t draw attention for yourself with your sister there,” Miss Emily had said, and Belinda agreed to feign illness. The ball would be the perfect display of Marianne’s suitability as a London wife: her elegance embodied in practical arrangement and fitting décor, with nothing and no one to distract from it.

  “Gracious, Marianne, I thought you had decided all that,” Aunt Harriet said as she strode into the room. She held a wrinkled piece of paper in her fist, and at first Marianne suspected it was one of her more outlandish plans. But the paper was creased from a multitude of folds, and she could spy her mother’s handwriting curling over the bends.

&n
bsp; Marianne’s stomach lurched. “Miss Emily and I have mostly settled what to do,” she said, attempting to stack sketches and merely causing avalanche after avalanche. “I just wanted to review a few things.” In other words, her heart clamoured for another look at the designs she had created herself rather than the ones carefully copied from magazine descriptions by Miss Emily.

  “Mind you clean it all up,” Aunt Harriet said. She waved the letter in her hand. “I want you to look at this letter, Marianne. Has your mother gone mad? She writes as if I am holding you captive.”

  Marianne’s lips parted to speak, but her throat seemed to close on her words.

  “She says you have longed to go home for weeks! And that I have been selfish in keeping you in London when you are so much needed at home.” She stared in disbelief at the letter, and then at Marianne. “Do you really long to go home?”

  “N-no, Aunt.”

  “You must explain yourself better than that, child. What have you been telling her?” Aunt Harriet stuffed the letter into Marianne’s hand. Marianne glanced down at the scrawling words, but she could not focus enough to catch more than a few of them: dreadful, suffering, cruelty. Marianne met her aunt’s eyes.

  “I am terribly sorry, Aunt.” Why was Marianne always getting into scrapes, annoying the people around her? Her aunt had done her every manner of kindness, and Marianne had taken advantage of her again and again. The lure of finding a settled life in London seemed weaker and weaker as a justification. “My mother was always complaining about how much she had to do while I was here in London. She wanted you to send me back.” Marianne swallowed. “But I do not want to go back! I never want to be there again. I am tired of always managing the house and minding my little brothers and sisters. And she does not ask Belinda to go back, only me.” Her words spilled out faster. “What if I had found a husband by now? She’d have to do without me anyway, then. But she assumes I never will, so she thinks there is no point to my staying when she’s realised how hard it is to do all those things herself.” Aunt Harriet’s lips tensed, and Marianne hurried to complete her explanation. “I did not want to tell her, so I lied and said you were very adamant that I stay. I blamed it all on you.”

  Aunt Harriet threw up her hands. “What nonsense! All this fuss because you did not want to go home. You should have just told her you were staying.”

  Marianne shook her head. “She would have written one pleading letter after another, and I would have felt guilty, and—ˮ

  “And that’s what I call nonsense,” Aunt Harriet said. “Suppose she did write silly letters? You could have ignored them, or asked me to help you. I hope you do not think I am likely to be swayed by your mother’s pleading.” A hint of a smile crossed her lips.

  Marianne found herself wanting to smile back despite her embarrassment. “No, Aunt. I know you can be…firm.”

  “You have to learn to speak up for what you want, Marianne, without excuses. And certainly without using your poor old aunt as an excuse without her knowledge or consent.” Aunt Harriet’s face was a strange mixture of crossness and amusement. “I suppose it will ease your mind if I tell you that your mother has apparently decided to send two of your brothers to the Navy. That’s bound to make her life easier.”

  “Two of them? I thought Roger would go soon, but John is a year younger—ˮ

  “No doubt he is a little young, but your mother has a powerful motive in cramming him in alongside his brother. Somebody will grease a palm and make it straight. You seem to think her whole life depends on you being there to manage things, child, but it isn’t so. Left to herself, she will figure something out.” Aunt Harriet huffed a little as she took back the letter from Marianne’s hand. “That neighbour of yours, the one who brought Belinda to London—ˮ

  “Mrs Walters.”

  “She has a governess at home for her little girl, does she not?” At Marianne’s nod, Aunt Harriet continued. “I shall tell your mother to find out if she can send her little ones to take lessons with the Walters girl every now and then, or find some other teacher. That will get them out of the house for a bit.”

  “Mama would not likely do that,” Marianne said.

  Aunt Harriet gave her a wry smile. “I think you will find she exerts herself for a solution when the alternative is looking after your sisters every day. Have a little faith! Unless you truly want me to send you home to wipe chins and mumble the alphabet.”

  It was strange to think of life at the rectory changing, shifting the pieces to account for Marianne’s absence. It made her feel hopeful, but also disconcerted. She had assumed she was necessary to her parents. However dreary and tedious, however dull and resented, her efforts there had been invaluable—hadn’t they? Or had her family always been capable of making do without her? The thought was deflating. She thought her sacrifice had been adding something of incontrovertible merit, even if it was distasteful to her. Now it looked as if she was not as important as she had thought.

  Before she could fully digest this, her aunt delivered another blow. “Now that that is settled, we can discuss Jenny.”

  “Jenny?” The shift of topics jolted Marianne, but her aunt apparently misunderstood.

  “Jeannette, then, if you choose to call her such. Indeed, it does not matter what you call her now, for she is gone.”

  “Gone?” Marianne’s first thoughts were of kidnappers or elopements, but the matter turned out to be much more mundane.

  “She has given notice. She was quite pert about it, and so I said she might just as well leave now as wait out her time, so she packed up her things and strutted out like a goose. Apparently Lady Angela has hired her as an out and out lady’s maid, and all the better. I cannot abide servants with such airs. And it was half your fault!”

  “Mine!” In her astonishment, Marianne seemed condemned to utter only one word at a time.

  “Of course. Calling her Jeannette, and teaching her French, and giving her your new muslin, and saying she should be a proper lady’s maid when you got married. Prideful little thing!” It was unclear whether Aunt Harriet meant Jenny or Marianne. “If she had only waited a little, then you might have been married and…ˮ

  She faltered to a stop, and from the unusual awkwardness of her speech Marianne realised what she had been thinking. Jenny must have decided Marianne’s chances of a fine marriage in London were none so good, and preferred the less pleasant bird in the hand of Lady Angela’s stingy pay but full status of lady’s maid to the bird in the bush of a possible position with Marianne in the future. Marianne could not fault Jenny’s ambition, but she felt a pang of betrayal at Jenny’s lack of faith in her. And worse, Jenny had left without so much as a farewell. Apparently Jenny had not viewed their relationship as anything worth bidding goodbye to.

  “I wonder if Lady Angela will call her Jeannette,ˮ Marianne murmured as her aunt retreated from the room. Did Jenny know what she was getting into? Lady Angela was poor and bad-tempered—but then, Marianne supposed there would be a great deal of gossip to delight in with such a mistress. Lady Angela seemed to know all the on dit, including somehow knowing Marianne had been out walking at night.

  A new thought stung her. Who had told Lady Angela, if not Jenny? Jenny had relished talking scandal to Marianne. If the maid was so willing to repeat the secrets of others, it was unlikely she would keep those of this household. Marianne felt even more disgusted and foolish. If Marianne had not been so full of pride herself, she might not have fostered such a fake friendship, one that subsisted mostly on flattery and gossip.

  She wasn’t really my friend at all. She didn’t care about me. She was just out for what she could get. Anger at Jenny swiftly shifted to a realisation that rattled Marianne. How could she care about the real me? How could anyone? I have spent most of my time in London pretending. She had been just as eager to climb into a higher status as Jenny, and just as fake in putting on airs. And although Marianne had grown to detest Miss Emily’s deviousness and emphasis on superficial thin
gs—I have been just as devious and superficial, only in a different way. The only glimmers of her real self seemed to come when she was with Martha or Mr Hearn, when she was too relaxed or too angry to try to mould herself into a heroine.

  The stack of sketches slid back down into chaos. Miss Emily’s simple festoons of gauze poked out over Marianne’s sketch of sprawling arrays jumping from pillar to pillar in an assembly room. It is too late to show my real self, anyway. I have to be practical, like Jenny, and just pretend until I get what I need. The ball needed to be perfect in order for her to win an eligible suitor. Miss Emily knew what to do. But do I even want the kind of man those proper designs would impress? Do I even want to get married, if I cannot express myself in the most frivolous of ways? The resentment building inside her felt strangely freeing. This is supposed to be my ball, my big moment. I have been turning it into an homage to the unnamed social arbiters of London. But it did not have to be that way. She could make it her ball again.

  Sifting through the pile of rejected ideas, she pulled out a sketch of untamed bursts of gauze. It may not win me a husband, but at least I will have a moment to shine the way I like.

  Perhaps that was the real reason she came to London, anyway.

  May 1812

  The press of bodies and glitter of hundreds of candles removed any hope that a breath of cool night air would enter the assembly rooms, despite all its windows and a few of the doors being thrown wide open to coax any slip of breeze inside. Violins strained in a keening version of a minuet, sweeping high enough in tone to carry over the gabble of voices. The scent of sweets filtered in from the supper room and mixed with the perfumes of ladies clustered to chat alongside the ballroom walls. Feet slipped in the wax coating the dance floor, recovered, and launched into another figure.

  Based only on the number of invitations accepted, Marianne’s ball would have been a jubilant success. The mad crush of guests seemed to move from room to room as a mass, occasionally spitting out a lady here and there to escape into the tiny pavilion outside when her faintness grew too oppressive. The din hammered into Marianne’s ears. As she mingled with her guests, Marianne saw gentlemen arguing cheerfully over politics, cursing each other’s stubborn opinions, or leaning over ladies to deliver blandishments into shell-like ears. She smiled on them all, feeling almost maternal in providing them with such a setting to play in. The ladies gave her equal contentment as she watched them crow over their triumphs of silk and beads, complain about the turgid heat, and exchange gossip with a pride that swelled her heart. Thus far, the ball appeared very much like any other successful entertainment.