by Dorothy Eden
‘Lay out my grey silk. No, not that. That’s blue. Where are your eyes? The crinoline. Put it on the bed. Now come and lace me. How strong are you?’
Dora looked at her skinny arms. She was undergrown, plain, with crooked teeth, and only fourteen years old. She had just been promoted to the upstairs after two years of washing dishes and scurrying hither and thither for cook in the kitchen. The mistress had asked her if she were fond of children and she had said yes, because how could you say anything else? Anyway, it was true. There were ten brothers and sisters in the cottage on the moors and she found she had missed them painfully when she had come to the big house. She had been pleased and excited to be told that if she wished she could move upstairs and help to care for the new arrivals from far-off China.
But she hadn’t known that would bring her to do anything so terrifying as lacing the mistress.
‘I’m very wiry, ma’am,’ she said nervously.
Louisa had found the new fashion of the crinoline much to her liking. The only drawback was that it necessitated a neat waist, and that she had not got.
‘H’mm,’ she said to Dora sceptically, ‘We’ll see. Take these two ends and pull. Oh, good gracious, girl, you haven’t the strength of a fly. Amelia, is that you?’ There had been a tap at the door. ‘Come and help this incompetent creature.’
Amelia came bursting in, and promptly began to giggle.
‘There’s no need for impertinence, miss.’
‘I’m sorry, Mamma, but you do look funny. Do you really want these awfully tight? You know it makes your face flush.’
‘I shall have only six courses at dinner,’ said her mother. ‘Then I shall be perfectly comfortable. You know we have Sir Giles and Lady Mowatt coming.’
‘They’re so dreary,’ Amelia complained. ‘The governor of a prison. Uh!’
‘Sir Giles is a man of, importance. Your father likes him.’
‘Papa! But when is there going to be someone for me to like? Someone young. Doesn’t Papa realise I’m grown-up.’
‘Of course he realises it. Don’t be so stupid.’
‘He never seemed to notice Fanny was. He never did anything about her. And now she’s getting old.’
‘Dora,’ said Louisa, ‘give me the hairbrush. I shall do my own hair. Miss Amelia will help me. You may go.’
Dora bobbed thankfully and withdrew. Louisa turned crossly to her daughter.
‘Haven’t I told you before not to discuss family affairs in front of the servants?’
‘Oh, Dora,’ said Amelia. ‘She won’t gossip because no one listens to her. And Mamma, it’s true what I said. Fanny has hardly ever met a young man, and now I’m seventeen I don’t intend that to happen to me.’
Louisa surveyed her daughter with mingled indulgence and criticism. It was a pity she wasn’t ravishingly pretty. But her skin was good and she had animation. She would never be left sitting silent in a corner. Her fair hair tied in ringlets on either side of her face was quite charming. Being a little over-plump suited her style. She was a presentable daughter. There was only one trouble and that was one her father refused to admit or understand. Her looks faded to insignificance beside Fanny’s. Fanny, when her emotions were aroused, had a way of looking incandescent. She reduced Amelia’s chatter and smiles and fluttering lashes to the gauche tricks of a schoolgirl.
It was all very well for Edgar, with his exaggerated sense of fairness and responsibility, to insist on the girls being treated like sisters. But Edgar was a man, and men were blind to the subtler points of feminine behaviour. He had to be made to realise that this was Amelia’s year, and Fanny must be kept in the background.
For instance, that extravagant unnecessary gift to Fanny of the sapphire pendant had been an error of major importance. It would only serve to make the girl flaunt her looks even more. Edgar refused to see that. But then Edgar always had been stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid; thought Louisa, the comb snapping in two in her clenched hands.
Amelia sprang towards her.
‘Mamma, have you hurt yourself?’
‘Of course I haven’t.’ Louisa laid down the broken comb calmly. ‘I was only wondering why you compare yourself with Fanny. The circumstances are entirely different. Your father and I will certainly make it our business to see that you meet plenty of young men, if not here, then in London.’
‘London, Mamma!’
‘It occurred to me we might open our house there for your ball. But that will depend on your father.’
Amelia clapped her plump small very white hands. (Some day someone would say to her, ‘You have very little hands like water lilies, see, just curving open.’ And then he would bend his head and kiss her palm.)
‘Papa will do anything for me!’
‘Will he, indeed. You know I won’t permit him to spoil you. And don’t be too confident. We have so much worry with George now, and these wretched children arriving are another problem.’
‘Fanny will look after them,’ Amelia said blithely. ‘George will help her. He’ll love it. His adored Fanny!’
Louisa frowned. ‘Don’t speak like that. I won’t have this stupid infatuation of George’s encouraged. It’s nothing but an aspect of his illness. I’d ask you to remember, Amelia, that you are not the only person in the world whose happiness has to be considered.’
‘Oh, Mamma! It will take so little to make me happy. Just a ball in London, and a husband I truly love. And a little money, of course, and jewels, and—and—’
Amelia had her face pressed to the window. The moors, dark fold on fold, stretched away to the edge of the earth. The sky was colourless, like river water. There was the far-off cry of a bird. A heron from the lake, perhaps, or an owl. Or the trapped bird in the chimney that Grandmamma was always talking about.
Suddenly Amelia shivered. At dusk she hated the moors, she hated the thought of the grim grey prison ten miles away in its bleak setting. She hadn’t minded so much when the prisoners had been French. That had seemed romantic. She had imagined them singing La Marseillaise and wanting to die for their country. But now the cold dank cells were occupied by the riff-raff from the streets of London and Liverpool, thieves, forgers, would-be murderers…Sometimes one escaped and the countryside was in terror, with the hounds baying in the mist—for an escaper always chose a time of thick mist when his capture would be doubly difficult. Amelia would imagine she saw the bearded desperate face at her window, and would be torn between terror and a terrible fascination. If it ever happened that a prisoner did appear at her window, would she scream, or hide him beneath her bed and temporarily have the violent creature at her mercy? She didn’t know why such thoughts came into her head. She only knew that they made her long to get away from here. She would marry and have six children and live in London where one could go to the theatre or a dinner party every night. And there would always be lights, and no lonely night wind.
‘Mamma!’ she turned slowly, her voice intense, ‘I would do anything to get those things.’
Her mother was clasping her topaz necklace—good enough for the governor of Dartmoor prison—round her plump neck.
‘What woman wouldn’t! It’s always been her aim in life, a good husband and security.’
‘You got them, Mamma. You must be very happy.’
Louisa’s mouth went down at the corners. Happiness didn’t consist of a house full of servants, a wardrobe overflowing with expensive clothes, a warm bed, and a husband beside her who sometimes, but not now so frequently, woke to fumble beneath her nightgown. No, that wasn’t happiness, she realised. But just as her mother hadn’t pointed out that fact to her, she had no intention of pointing it out to her daughter.
‘Of course I’m happy. Don’t look so worried, child. You’ll acquire all these things. But the effort will be as much mine as yours. I still have connections, even though I’ve been buried in the moors for so long. I’ll do what I can with your father. Now run along and see if Grandmamma is coming down to dinner. If she is, see that
she’s wearing her cashmere shawl, and that her hair is tidy. Sometimes I believe she deliberately makes herself look like a scarecrow.’
Amelia, her spirits recovered, giggled. ‘She does. She’s naughty. George is the only one who can make her do things.’
Louisa frowned again, remembering the many ways in which her mother spoiled her handsome grandson. But she merely said sharply, ‘Amelia, don’t gallop out of a room like that. Learn to glide along quietly and gracefully.’
Amelia paused. ‘Like Fanny, Mamma?’
‘Nothing of the kind! I have never advised you to model yourself on Fanny.’
‘I never have,’ said Amelia blithely. ‘Anyway, Fanny can dash about when she’s in a temper. You ought to see her then. Oh, Papa—I’m just going.’
Edgar came into the room, scarcely noticing Amelia’s departure. He was deep in thought.
‘My dear, you haven’t begun to dress. You must hurry. You know what a stickler for punctuality Sir Giles is. I suppose it comes from running a prison—’
‘Louisa, don’t chatter! Can’t I have a little peace.’
Louisa looked at him in surprise. He was normally a good-tempered and placid man.
‘What’s the matter? Has something happened?’
‘Only a trivial but worrying thing. My brother’s attorney from Shanghai is seeing fit to pay us a visit. I must say I regard that as a little nosey-parkering. Probably he imagines me as improvident as Oliver. But even if I were, there’s nothing he can do about that. My brother’s last instructions must be carried out.’
‘How old is he?’
Edgar stared at his wife perplexedly. He had never been able to understand the way a woman’s mind worked, and had come to dismiss the whole process as unworthy of serious attention.
‘Whatever has his age got to do with it?’
‘Is he married? Or perhaps unaccompanied by his wife?’
‘What are you thinking of?’
‘What you should be thinking of, my love. Had you forgotten Amelia comes out this year? We shall require every eligible man possible if we are to have successful parties. Don’t men ever think of these things?’
‘Don’t women ever think of anything else!’
‘Now, Edgar, please don’t get irritable. Amelia is your daughter and you must do your best by her.’
‘Confound it, I’ve promised her a very generous marriage settlement.’
‘So you have, love.’ Louisa gave his hand a perfunctory caress. ‘But a marriage settlement is of little use without a husband. I really think we must open the London house—’
‘No! That’s out of the question.’
‘But, Edgar—’
‘Don’t argue with me. I say it’s out of the question.’
‘Oh dear. Amelia will be so disappointed.’
‘Have you been discussing it with Amelia? Without consulting me?’
His wife’s full eyelids drooped slyly.
‘I’m afraid we shall need to be persuaded that there are advantages in having a ball here.’
‘The London house hasn’t been lived in for years. You’d find that everything needed re-decorating and refurnishing. As it is, Murchison lives there and keeps a couple of rooms available for me, and that’s all that’s necessary. Advantages! My dear Louisa, it would only be a matter of several thousand pounds more to have the ball in London.’
‘Then,’ said Louisa, smoothly, ‘Amelia and I will expect a much more generous allowance for our wardrobe. Amelia needs several new gowns, and as for me—’
‘Stop it,’ said her husband harshly.
‘Stop it! Please don’t speak like that to me! I am merely asking for one small fur tippett.’ Louisa’s full mouth pouted, reproachfully. ‘Only it must be of white ermine. Lady Mowatt has something similar, but of muskrat. Ermine is a much more rewarding fur. And really it is to be such a summer, with these strange children foisted on our household—why I meekly put up with them, I can’t imagine—and then the utter fatigue of Amelia’s coming-out. But it’s the children who are worrying me so much. Your brother’s after all, and it’s scarcely my fault that he turned out to be such a waster. I don’t see why I, or Amelia, poor child, or any of us should be so put about—’
Again Edgar held up his hand to interrupt. He recognised the familiar grievance in his wife’s voice. He knew that the ermine tippet would naturally extend to being a cloak costing a great deal more than he cared to think about. He also knew that life wouldn’t be worth living until the cloak hung in Louisa’s well-filled wardrobe.
‘My dear Louisa, will you listen to me a minute? When I said that it would be out of the question to re-furbish the London house, I meant it. Money’s short at present. I’ve made one or two bad investments lately and it’s left me short of cash.’
Louisa was alarmed.
‘Edgar, it’s nothing serious?’
He laughed easily. ‘Good gracious, no. It will right itself in time. Something else will come up. But in the meantime I’d be glad if you’d exercise a little economy in the house.’
This was not amusing. Louisa pouted again.
‘That won’t be easy with two extra mouths to feed and extra servants. Though it would be the least Fanny could do to offer some help. I hope you will speak to her, Edgar. And this, I might say, was certainly not the time to give her an expensive present. Why, that sapphire would have kept the children for a year, or—’
‘Bought your ermine tippett?’ Edgar observed. ‘This was exactly the time to give it to Fanny, if we expect her cooperation. Besides, the child deserved it. Remember, she didn’t get a ball, as Amelia is going to.’
‘She’ll share Amelia’s. She can’t expect more than that.’
‘A very different kettle of fish, my dear. As Fanny would be the first to realise. Well, I suppose I must dress.’
Nevertheless, he sat heavily on the edge of the bed, making no move to go to his dressing room. He was sunk in thought.
‘Edgar, what is it about this man from China that upsets you?’ asked his wife shrewdly.
‘Eh? What are you getting at?’
‘Something’s worrying you, and I know all that talk about money is merely a disguise.’
‘Oh, you do, do you?’
Edgar surveyed his wife. She was laced into her stays and hooked firmly into her crinoline. The neck of the bodice was low and displayed a too generous amount of white flesh. Her hair style, with its tight sausage curls liberally flecked with grey, was more fitting to Fanny or Amelia than to a middle-aged matron. Her cheeks were flushed, and the tip of her nose swollen and bulbous. She had already arranged her face into the animated expression that would last until her guests left. After that, the pouting lips and the look of grievance would return.
When he was in his early twenties, Edgar had fallen deeply in love with a delicate and nymph-like girl called Marianne. He had laid his heart at her feet and she had laughed at him. She had said in her clear laughing icy voice, ‘But, Mr Davenport, you look so exactly like a frog!’
Seven years later he had met Louisa who had not laughed at him. She hadn’t been pale and nymph-like, but she was the granddaughter of an earl. Edgar had decided that ambition was a much more satisfying object to seek than love. Although he was not beyond expecting that Louisa’s ample flesh might be pleasant. And so it was, if grudgingly given. Also she ran his house well, and for all her propensity to be a rattle, was shrewd. She had earned her diamond earrings and perhaps her ermine tippett. It was not her fault if he always saw Marianne’s pale shadow behind her, and heard that cruel laughter.
‘If you must know,’ he said, ‘I expect Hamish Barlow to arrive with a list of my brother’s debts. It must be something serious to bring him so far. In honour bound, I shall have to try to settle them.’
‘How vexing!’ Louisa cried. ‘Couldn’t your brother have made a little money. I understand business people in China have.’
‘Not Oliver, you may be sure.’
‘W
ell, don’t worry about it now,’ Louisa said briskly. ‘It’s late and we must go down. Why don’t we have a little music tonight? That always cheers you up. Amelia will play the piano. And next month Amelia and I must have a few days in London shopping. I shall have to find some reliable woman to make her ball gown. She will need a great many things’—Louisa swept up to kiss the top of her husband’s head—‘and we may look at furs, too.’
‘You haven’t listened to a word I said.’
‘Oh, indeed, to too many.’
Edgar made haste in dressing, hoping for ten minutes alone in the drawing room with a glass of sherry before his guests arrived.
In this, too, he was disappointed, for he found Lady Arabella esconsed in his favourite chair. Wrapped in her fleecy white shawl with her stiff black skirts spreading about her, she looked cosy and gentle and half asleep.
‘Well, Edgar,’ she said in her husky voice.
‘Good evening, Mamma.’ His voice was hearty, easy. He had quickly overcome the irritation of finding her in his chair, and the room not empty.
‘It was so chilly, I had the fire lit. The summer’s late as usual.’
‘Good idea. Nice and cheery. Are you dining with us tonight?’
‘I thought I would. I miss Fanny. She reads to me.’
‘Doesn’t Amelia?’
‘Oh, Amelia. That harum scarum.’ The old lady’s voice was indulgent. ‘I’m looking forward to the new children. They’ll help me to pass the time. Fancy, Edgar! Such skeletons in your family.’
‘Hardly skeletons, Mamma. My brother had a past, I admit. But that’s no business of the children’s. We won’t have any of this sins of the father rubbish. I’m a broad-minded man.’
‘And wise and tolerant,’ Lady Arabella approved. ‘You know, I once thought my daughter was making a mistake in marrying you. But you’ve astonished me.’
‘Thank you, Mamma. I hope I have been a good husband.’
The old lady smiled gently. Her eyes stared myopically into the fire.
‘Giving her this splendid home, too. Do you know, I’ve discovered a new pastime since the children have got too old for stories. I’ve been delving into the history of Darkwater. If I had been a man I should have been an historian. These old tales fascinate me. Darkwater has quite a history, you know.’
