The House in Grosvenor Square

by Linore Rose Burkard

  Frederick and two maids entered, carrying trays of tea and a coffee service, as well as biscuits, seed cakes, and grapes. They sat and chatted contentedly while sipping from delicate cups and enjoyed the ‘damper’ on the trays. The only person who did not seem content was Mr. O’Brien, who had fallen into a brown study since entering the house.

  He ought never to have thought seriously of winning Miss Forsythe, he supposed. Yet to see her, to hear her lovely voice, made it impossible to give her up entirely from his thoughts. Miss Forsythe had made her choice, it was true. But being in the house only bore that truth down upon him like a weight upon his heart.

  Frederick, meanwhile, had allowed a footman to carry in a stack of pattern books from the shopkeepers, showing the newest styles of furniture, silverware, and ornaments. Ariana could bespeak new draperies, wallpaper, tile, or any number of things. Soon some of the tradesmen crept in, naughtily sneaking from belowstairs.

  Lavinia reached for a book and began flipping through the pages. “Ariana, look at these beautiful things!”

  Ariana took a cursory look, but said shortly, “I haven’t seen the house fully, yet. I’d like to admire what Mr. Mornay has, not pine for things he has not.”

  “Oh, but let us look just for amusement. Mamma never enters these shops, so I seldom get to peek at such catalogues.”

  Beatrice had sat beside Mr. O’Brien and his mamma, but at sight of the pattern books came over in a flurry of curiosity. “I saw such books in the village once, when our mother was in want of a new tea kettle! Please let me look, too!”

  They leafed through page after page of furniture, all attended with the uttermost sighs of admiration from Beatrice, and praises of “How elegant!” or, “So commodious!” from Lavinia. Even Ariana had to admit the modern styles of furniture, whether black, japanned tables or intricately carved chairs, plump sofas and settees—were all luxurious and fine. And what an astonishing variety of pieces available. Grecian couches, desks with innumerable drawers, cubicles, and nooks; a vast assortment of mahogany chairs, of satinwood or rosewood, all rich with decoration.

  Another pattern-book was from a masonry shop, and opened to numerous plasterwork motifs of the popular Greco-Roman mold. They saw figures, cartouches, vignettes, and busts. Greek nudes, barely clad Roman women, figures dancing, playing instruments, holding torches. Cherubs, pagan gods and goddesses; decorations that were all the rage, evident in the Romanesque pilasters and cornices and roundels in the very room where they sat.

  “Does it not seem, Lavinia, that the Greeks and Romans were shockingly pagan?”

  “´Tis true,” she said.

  “Imagine the beauty of these designs if they were to incorporate heavenly themes.”

  Lavinia gave an appreciative look at her friend. “What a novel thought! I wonder that there is no pattern book of such ideas.”

  “I suppose it would not be considered Greco-Roman, which is the ideal nowadays.”

  “You would no doubt re-decorate if there were such a book,” Lavinia said, with a smile. Ariana gazed off at nothing. Why should there not be such decorations? Why could there not be elegant winged angels in place of pagan nymphs? Or the twelve apostles instead of the Greek pantheon?

  Suddenly it occurred to her that here was the very thing she could leave in the house—some small evidences of herself. Nothing too drastic, or expensive—just a few small influences for Christianity rather than mythology. Surely Mr. Mornay, with his newfound sense of religion, could only approve.

  A door of new possibilities opened before her. Grosvenor Square was indeed a magnificent place—but all classical, all based on Grecian and Roman designs. If she could incorporate Judeo-Christian artistry, might it not please Mr. Mornay? With a new excitement, Ariana looked around as though she had never really looked, before. It must have been Providence which had spurred Mrs. Bentley to send for the tradesmen. Ariana would be able to demonstrate an ability to manage a fine house. Beginning with plasterwork, she would make a few alterations. The Mornay establishment would be famous for them in time. She could hardly wait to begin.

  Chapter Three

  When Mrs. Bentley returned to the drawing room, it was only after she had taken a solitary quick gander at many the bedchambers—and had only praise for what she had seen. They were finely appointed—nay, inspired—even to her tenured eyes. Unlike some houses of the wealthy, nothing was overdone here. All was tasteful; bits of opulence, small accents of gold filigree, a bust or painting exactly where it should be. One felt surrounded by excellent quality, but not overwhelmed by it.

  Mrs. Hamilton came to lead the party for the tour. Still excited with ideas, Ariana trailed her with bright eyes.

  “We shall begin at the top of the house,” the housekeeper announced in a reedy voice, “and work our way down.”

  “Your plan is fine, Mrs. Hamilton,” Mrs. Bentley said. She was too used to being the one in charge, and hadn’t thought to allow her niece to give her approval.

  “This is so diverting!” Lavinia gushed, in a passionate whisper. “Did I not tell you when we first met that you would be snatched up directly? But who could have thought, then, that you would make the most brilliant match? And after we collided into Mr. Mornay! Do you recall?” She laughed at the memory.

  Ariana smiled. “Could I ever forget that?”

  They climbed a second flight of steps. This floor, appearing as the third level from the street, held the servant’s quarters, including a fine large chamber for the housekeeper, and a suite of two adjoining rooms for the butler. They peeked into one, then the other. Ariana inquired of the housekeeper whether she was comfortable in her chamber.

  Mrs. Hamilton’s interpretation of the question was that Miss Forsythe wished to know how her housekeeper would like it. Thinking quickly, she answered, “We try not to mind the cold, ma’am; and the mattresses are as fine as any servant’s, I warrant. I am certain all mattresses must be exceedingly hard on a body.”

  Lavinia and Ariana exchanged surprised glances. Mrs. Bentley’s face puckered into thought.

  The group moved on, peeking into rooms for the common servants, where two or three shared the same chamber. There was nothing unusual, but Ariana had never seen communal servants’ quarters, and said, “It must be difficult to sleep with the beds so close together.” Mrs. Bentley, with narrowed eyes, returned, “They are tired from a day’s work, my dear; servants fall right to sleep, I assure you.” She gave Mr. Pellham a look as if to say, “The nonsense from this child!” while Ariana reflected that her statement was sadly all too true.

  She would endeavour to be the kindest of mistresses. Not so much that the servants would be emboldened to take advantage of her, but she would allow them what little acts of mercy she could, while maintaining decorum and propriety. She might speak with Mr. Mornay regarding the comments Mrs. Hamilton had made, too. Why would he, so wealthy as he was, not allow his servants more comfortable furnishings? She supposed he must be unaware of such conditions.

  They skipped the garret, for Mrs. Hamilton said it was mostly used for storage, and descended the narrow servants’ staircase to the ground floor. They had to go single file, and made a bit of racket on the wooden steps, but were all in good spirits when they reached their destination.

  Here they swept past a beautiful library, Mr. Mornay’s handsome study, a business office, an armoury, the butler’s closet, the wine cellar, and reached the servants’ hall and kitchens. Then, back to the first floor. Here were rooms which held the finest luxuries: fine art, rich draperies, exquisite wallpapers, plush and beautiful furniture. They passed through a sitting room, a parlour, and gallery. As each room’s beauty unfolded before them, Ariana’s eyes fluttered with surprise and delight.

  Mr. Mornay was wealthier, even, than she had imagined. She lingered long in the gallery, admiring the paintings. Mrs. Bentley had to say, “You will have plenty of time in future for study.” Farther down the hall were the bedchambers, at which Mrs. Hamilton stopped, he
r hand upon the knob. “This is the Master’s bedchamber,” she said, beginning to turn the handle. Ariana’s heart beat strongly. “Are we not,” she said, “intruding on Mr. Mornay’s privacy?”

  The lady turned with a bland expression. “The Master instructed me to show you the entire house, ma’am.”

  “You will wish to see this room, my dear,” said Mrs. Bentley.

  Mrs. Hamilton opened the door, and then stepped to the side as she did throughout the tour. She was not forthcoming with facts about the house or any of its possessions, and Ariana wondered at her lack of enthusiasm. There was no affection in her tone or manner, also surprising. It was not unusual for upper servants to feel as if the house they served in was their own, and many would display all due pride when showing it. But not so Mrs. Hamilton.

  Thoughts of the housekeeper fled as Ariana pulled in her breath when she entered. In addition to watered-silk wallpaper and a large and glossy mahogany bed, the ceiling had a huge painted roundel. Against a rich blue sky with light puffs of clouds there were heavenly angels and cherubs with musical instruments, surrounding a centre of light in bright hues of yellow and gold and white. It was heavenly. It was glorious. It was–religious! Just the sort of thing she was envisioning for the house.

  Mrs. Bentley, watching her reaction, had a little smile on her face. Miss Herley grasped her hand. “I should never have a poor night’s sleep in such a room. You must endeavour to sleep here, Ariana, as much as possible!”

  Mr. O’Brien did not turn to look at them, but cleared his throat. The two girls looked at each other. Lavinia, with one hand to her mouth, stifled a giggle.

  Beatrice had rushed about the room, saw the adjoining dressing room, and came back to say, “I think Mr. Mornay is as rich as the Regent! Or perhaps richer! For the prince, I heard our father say, is always in want of money.”

  Ariana was in awe herself, and offered no reply. She had hoped to discover more about Mr. Mornay by seeing his house—and she had—that his wealth was vastly greater than she’d imagined. He was already easily intimidating, and his recent disinterested attitude towards her only made him seem more so now. He was from a background that was superior to hers, in a worldly reckoning.

  She took a final look at the ceiling. Angels looked serenely back at her. Next they passed through a communicating door to the next bedchamber, which was no less impressive. Whoever had designed the house had evidently understood that people liked to occasionally spend time in their bedchambers. A beautiful escritoire sat invitingly off to one side, and there was an adjoining dressing room here as well. It was lovely, indeed, but—separate bedchambers?

  At home, her parents shared one room. She looked back at the communicating door and felt an odd emptiness; indeed, a pang. Instead of feeling closer to the man she was going to marry, this day seemed to be accenting a lack of closeness. Did Mr. Mornay not hold to the idea of a single bedchamber for the master and mistress? Despite her natural shyness of what the marriage bed represented, she felt disappointed.

  Meanwhile, Mrs. Herley and Mrs. O’Brien were in raptures, moving slowly around the perimeter of the room exclaiming and looking over everything as if in a museum. Mrs. Herley stopped and whispered fiercely to Lavinia, “This is precisely what I wanted for you! If only that Lord Antoine had been a respectable nobleman!”

  Lavinia looked mortified. In an equally fierce whisper she cried, “Please, mamma! Not here.”

  Mrs. Hamilton, stiff and silent, watched everyone coldly.

  Ariana wondered if the house would ever really feel like home. The wedding was two weeks away, yet she had no feeling of belonging here.

  They went quickly through the remaining guest bedchambers, and then circled back to the parlour. Ariana now noticed many pagan designs that she thought might be altered—but should she think of changing anything in such a dwelling? She remembered the roundel in the master bedroom, and knew that she would feel more comfortable with less pagan designs surrounding her elsewhere. Despite Mr. Mornay's recent reticence, his newfound sense of religion surely would only be gratified by her changes.

  He would welcome them. Just as he was welcoming her.

  The merchants came eagerly into the room. “May I suggest, ma’am,” said one man, coming at her with a stare as though he was a hunter settling upon prey, “a lighter wallpaper in this room?” Another said, “A new carpet is the thing needed here. An Axminster, I’d respectfully suggest, ma’am.” Each remark was met by Ariana with an expression of consideration, but she remained silent as she moved on, followed closely by the tradesmen.

  Her heart beat palpably. This is to be my home. With that thought in mind, she told herself she had every right to bespeak a few new things for the house. The bevy of merchants followed her every move while suggestions rang out regularly, but she ignored them.

  A huge painted panel on the wall caught her eye and she stopped before it. It was a masterfully executed pastoral scene, but the theme was an abundance of barely-clad wood nymphs and a satyr. A picture of the Garden of Eden came to her mind. What a pleasing contrast it would be to this godless design. “Let me describe for you what I envision here,” she began, and two men jumped forward, pencils and pads in hand, prepared to take notes.

  Half an hour later, the O’Briens left with Beatrice happily in tow. As they said their goodbyes, Beatrice rushed at her sister for an effusive hug. Aunt Bentley said, “That’s enough, Miss Beatrice. You will give your sister an ague!” When the Herleys had also gone, Ariana slowly circled the first floor again, with the merchants eagerly following. She had no wish to make extensive alterations, of course, just a few touches here and there would do. An artisan jotted notes whenever she stopped to suggest a new theme for a bit of statuary, or bit of plasterwork—there were more nudes and pagan scenes than she had formerly realized. Each of her suggestions was greeted with the utmost gravity and approval.

  Mrs. Hamilton trailed along, determined to remain with this upstart and observe her doings. She wished to know of any impending changes in her domicile—the master’s domicile to be precise. It offended her mightily that the lady was evidently authorizing alterations in a dwelling that was already perfect. Moreover, she wasn’t even the mistress, yet!

  In the dining room, Ariana noticed medallions alongside the windows, all of which bore similar romanesque carvings of goddesses in flimsy robes.

  “I have just the thing to replace these,” one man said, picking up on her taste. “The same style of elegance and craftsmanship, but with a decorated wreath surrounded by ornament and little cherubs.”

  “As long as the figures are properly draped, sir. I do not countenance”--and she had to choose her words, here--”an absence of clothing, except in the case of cherubs.”

  “Very good, ma’am.” He made a note on his pad. “Shall we replace all four of these panels with the new design, then?” He eyed her expectantly. “You do of course want uniformity.”

  “Of course,” she said, sagely, though uniformity had never before occupied her thoughts.

  “Ma’am, I have just the designer to meet your needs,” said another man, stepping forward. “Tell me which figures are acceptable to you; Moses, King David, or members of the Holy Family, perhaps?”

  “Yes, yes, they all sound fine to me,” she said, with relief.

  Eagerly, he added, “My man does freestanding sculptures as well! Pointing to a corner that held a Roman bust of a soldier on a columnar pedestal with its style of peculiarly blank eyes, he continued, “Shall we say a bust of the head of St. Peter, here?”

  “Make it Mary Magdalene,” she replied, without having known that she would have such a preference. My, but this was interesting. She was discovering her own tastes.

  A loud crash from the hall interrupted them. When they turned to see what had happened, they saw that Mrs. Hamilton, with a set mouth, was already investigating. Without missing a beat, the merchant added, “We can replace that broken piece with a very good bust of the Mother of God.
Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Did she agree? The mother of God? He meant Jesus’s mother, Mary. She saw no cause to object and mumbled, “Yes, fine.” The shopkeepers were making it all quite easy for her. “Very good, ma’am,” was the standard reply.

  Of a bas-relief roman soldier in a chariot, she asked, “Can you make this Elijah in a chariot of fire? You need only add some flame effects, remove the helmet and add hair and a beard.” The man jotted furiously into his pad, nodding his head.

  In the study, he suggested, “perhaps the huntress Diana with the two hounds, here,” while pointing at a relief panel on one wall. Ariana looked thoughtfully at the area.

  “Make it Nimrod.”

  “Nimrod—the hunter? Oh, excellent, ma’am!” He eyed her with admiration.

  Where there were cupids, or eros, or mythical beasts, she asked for angels. All her decisions were met with praises of the highest regard; her taste was splendid; her choices remarkable. The house would be a masterpiece, and supremely fitting for the Paragon and his bride.

  When Mrs. Bentley approached, Ariana asked, “What was the loud crash, Aunt Bentley?”

  The older lady sniffed. “A bust, I’m afraid. Some soldier or statesman of Rome, I warrant. Beatrice is too young for town, I was right on that account.”

  “I thought she'd gone, already,” Ariana said.

  “Still about; rushing around like a hoyden this house! Mr. Mornay, I daresay, is bound to be out of countenance.”

  But Ariana had gone back to the pattern-book before her, as though unconcerned.

  “Does it not concern you?” her relation asked. “A fine sculptured bust, ruined?”

  Ariana look up briefly. “We have just the thing to replace it.”

  “We?” She gave the merchant a shrewd look, which he steadfastly ignored. “Hmmm.” She studied her niece thoughtfully. “I maintain it must be acceptable for a lady to make a few changes in her future abode, but pray, do not forget whose house you are in. Mr. Mornay should no doubt be consulted before you institute any grand—”