Enlightening Delilah

by Beaton, M. C.

  He soon found himself in her front parlour, sipping excellent tea and munching feather-light cakes.

  ‘And was your business in London successful?’ asked Mrs Cavendish after she had given him the latest village gossip.

  Mr Wraxall carefully put down his teacup and looked at her with worried eyes. ‘Very successful, ma’am.’

  ‘But something is troubling you? Sir Charles Digby is returned and he came here when your daughter was visiting.’

  ‘The deuce!’

  ‘Miss Wraxall did not seem in the slightest affected by his presence,’ said Mrs Cavendish. ‘There was a rumour, you know, that perhaps they might marry. That was a long time ago. Could it be that Miss Wraxall refused his suit? She has refused so many others.’

  ‘No, she did not refuse him. He, in a way, refused her,’ said the squire.

  ‘Oh, dear, dear, dear,’ said Mrs Cavendish. ‘Have some more tea. Very comforting thing, tea.’

  ‘Yes, I thank you.’ The squire hesitated. Mrs Cavendish’s round and rosy face was sympathetic. ‘The fact is,’ he blurted out, ‘that I believe Sir Charles’s rejection of Delilah was what first began to turn the girl into a flirt.’

  Mrs Cavendish searched her brain for the right thing to say to encourage him to go on. She sensed his need to unburden himself.

  ‘But you have been to London,’ she said. ‘Such a pity you could not take Miss Wraxall there for a little. A change of scene is what she needs. I always feel, you know, that she is too exotic a creature to be confined to our small world.’

  ‘That’s it!’ cried the squire. ‘You see, I have been making arrangements. There are two ladies who specialize in dealing with difficult cases. They introduce young ladies to society, and if there is any fault in their characters which is preventing them from finding a husband, then they set about eradicating that fault.’

  ‘These are, I trust, ladies of good ton?’

  ‘I only met the one, a Miss Amy Tribble, an excellent woman with great charm and strength of character. Gad, it was so easy to talk to her. Blessed if I can remember talking so freely to any lady since my poor wife died.’

  Mrs Cavendish all at once decided that this Miss Amy Tribble was a scheming hussy. The squire should be encouraged not to see such a creature again. But Mrs Cavendish’s kindness and common sense then came to the fore. Mr Wraxall was sorely worried about his daughter. Something had to be done.

  ‘And so you have made arrangements for Miss Wraxall to go and stay with them?’

  ‘Yes. And now I have the job of breaking the news to Delilah. She will be furious when she learns I am to send her to strangers, strangers who specialize in refining problem ladies.’

  ‘Then do not tell her,’ said Mrs Cavendish. ‘It is not at all necessary. Simply describe these ladies as friends and say they have offered to give Miss Wraxall a little holiday in London.’

  ‘That’s it!’ said the squire, slapping his knee. ‘I’ll go right away. You’ve taken a load off my mind.’

  ‘I hope these ladies will be kind to her,’ said Mrs Cavendish.

  ‘I have no doubt of it,’ said the squire. ‘Miss Amy is kindness itself. A real Trojan. Bless me, I have worried these years about the need for a sensible lady to befriend Delilah. I wish I had thought of this before.’

  Mrs Cavendish reflected on all the times she had worried about Delilah’s unmarried state, of all her kindness and friendship to the young woman and felt a little stabbing impulse to kick the squire on his backside as he left the room.

  The squire felt quite elated as he drove the last lap home. Amazing creatures, women! So sensible if one got to know them.

  Delilah welcomed him warmly. Now life could return to normal.

  The squire held back his news until they were having supper. He had already had dinner on the road at the country hour of four o’clock, which suited him better than the terrible London time of seven.

  ‘I have a surprise for you, Delilah,’ he began.

  Delilah surveyed him in sudden dismay. Her father looked happy and excited. Here it comes, she thought. A stepmother.

  ‘I may not have told you about the Misses Tribble,’ said the squire.

  ‘No, Papa, you never mentioned them. Who are they?’

  ‘They are spinster ladies I knew in my youth. Very kind. Live in London. Large house. Best part of Town. I called to see them. As you know, the Little Season is about to begin and Miss Amy Tribble kindly invited you to go and stay with them. Lots of balls and parties.’

  ‘And is it Miss Amy you plan to marry?’ asked Delilah.

  Her father looked at her in amazement. ‘Gad! I don’t want to get married,’ he said.

  ‘Why did you never mention these Tribble ladies before?’

  ‘Never thought of it.’

  ‘And when did you arrange for me to go?’

  ‘Next week.’

  ‘So soon?’

  ‘Why not?’ said the squire, beginning to become angry. Surely after all his efforts she was not going to refuse.

  Delilah put her chin on her hands. ‘This will take some thought,’ she said.

  ‘There is no question of thought,’ said the squire evenly. ‘I am ordering you to go.’

  ‘And if I refuse?’

  The squire thought furiously. Then he said, ‘If you refuse, I shall arrange a marriage for you.’

  ‘With whom?’

  ‘Mr Peter Massingham.’

  ‘Do not talk fustian, Papa. Mr Massingham is three years younger than I. He is spotty. He has a wet mouth. He laughs like water forcing its way down a leaf-choked drain.’

  ‘There’s always something up with ’em,’ howled the squire. ‘You go to London, miss, and do as you are told. You are not going to shame me by playing fast and loose with everything in breeches.’

  Delilah stormed out of the room.

  Never before had her father spoken to her so harshly. She could feel tears prickling behind her eyes. He was a man like all the rest, selfish and unfeeling.

  The next day, Delilah and her father avoided each other. The day was again sunny and warm, but the atmosphere in the house was as charged as if a thunderstorm were approaching.

  Delilah went out for a long walk, ending up at Mrs Cavendish’s cottage. That lady was as usual delighted to see her.

  ‘I hear you are going to London,’ said Mrs Cavendish. ‘How very exciting.’

  Despite her distress, Delilah could not help being amused. ‘How quickly you get the news,’ she said.

  ‘Mr Wraxall told me of your proposed visit on his road home last night. Such a good idea.’

  ‘I do not like it,’ said Delilah. ‘He ordered me to go. He was very angry. He said I could no longer stay here and play fast and loose with anything in breeches. So vulgar! So hurtful!’

  ‘But so true,’ said Mrs Cavendish. ‘Come, Miss Wraxall, you do have a terrible reputation as a heart-breaker.’

  ‘I have never broken anyone’s heart,’ said Delilah scornfully. ‘If the gentlemen choose to make cakes of themselves over me or anyone else, that is their affair.’

  ‘And did you not encourage them to do so?’

  Delilah got to her feet. ‘I did not expect you of all people to turn against me.’

  ‘I have not turned against you, Miss Wraxall,’ said Mrs Cavendish. ‘Do try to look at it from your father’s point of view.’

  ‘Why can’t he just leave me alone,’ cried Delilah. ‘I am happy here.’

  ‘Are you?’ asked Mrs Cavendish. ‘Are you really happy, Miss Wraxall?’

  ‘I was until everyone started saying nasty things about me,’ said Delilah.

  ‘You have been a trifle spoilt by great beauty,’ said Mrs Cavendish. ‘Your father’s only fault is that he should have checked you before.’

  ‘I thought you were my friend!’

  ‘Miss Wraxall, pray listen to reason. What is so very wrong and so very terrible about a trip to London?’

  Delilah looked at her mulis
hly. ‘I shall not go,’ she said.

  As she walked back home, Delilah’s furious pace began to slow. It is mortifying to discover that everyone has been talking about you behind your back and criticizing you. For Delilah rightly judged that if Mrs Cavendish had been shocked at her behavior, then it stood to reason that the less charitable members of the county must have been damning her behind her back for years. She had never once stopped to think about her own behaviour. She enjoyed going to balls and parties and she enjoyed the power her great beauty gave her. A sudden little bright memory surfaced in her brain. The vicar’s daughter, Penelope James, had been shyly interested in young Tom Edmonton, son of one of the more prosperous farmers. Tom had been away at Oxford and had written regularly to Penelope. On the day of his return from the university, he had attended a ball in the nearby market town. There, he had seen Delilah. Delilah had begun to flirt with him. She remembered the flickering candles in the ballroom as she laughed and danced with Tom Edmonton and then there came a memory of Penelope’s white and pinched face as she sat with the wallflowers and looked at Tom with her heart in her eyes.

  Delilah had quickly turned cold to Tom, but the damage had been done. Tom seemed quite smitten. A year later, Penelope had married someone quite different, a much older man who was solidly wealthy.

  Tom had left for London to study law. People shook their heads and said it was a great pity, for the young couple had seemed so ideally suited.

  ‘But it was not my fault!’ said Delilah aloud to a cow which stared at her placidly over a hedge. ‘If he really loved her, then he would never even have noticed me.’

  As she turned into the short drive that led to her home, she saw a light carriage tethered outside the door.

  She did not feel she could bear visitors and so she made her way around the side of the house, ducking her head as she passed the sitting room so as not to be observed. And then she heard her own name and stopped, crouching down among the bushes under the window.

  ‘And so what are your plans, Sir Charles?’ she heard her father asking.

  ‘Oh, to look about, enjoy myself, and then return to my duties on the land. Is Miss Wraxall not at home?’

  ‘No,’ came the squire’s voice. ‘I believe she is out walking.’

  ‘I am sorry to miss her,’ said Sir Charles. ‘She has become a very beautiful lady. I am surprised she is still unwed.’

  ‘My daughter is very choosy and nice in her tastes,’ said Mr Wraxall in a heavy voice. There was a silence and Delilah was about to move on when she heard her father say, ‘I must ask you again, Sir Charles: before you went to the wars, was there anything in your manner or behaviour towards my daughter which might have led her to understand your feelings towards her were of a warm nature?’

  ‘No, none,’ Delilah heard Sir Charles say.

  You kissed me! she screamed silently.

  ‘I did, I confess, spend a great deal of time in her company,’ Sir Charles went on. ‘I would be most upset if I thought she had misunderstood my attentions. She was so very young and naive, you see. I fear at that time I could not bring myself to regard her as anything other than a charming schoolgirl, a sort of little sister. She was, of course, not in the slightest interested in the Peninsular Wars, which at that time occupied my every waking thought. She preferred to prattle on about the gossip of the village, but she would nonetheless listen and I needed to talk aloud. I do have a confession to make. Before I went up to London to enlist, I am ashamed to tell you, sir, that I kissed your daughter; but that was all, I assure you. I knew I was going away for a long time and might not come back. I was not only kissing her, but everything about my home and the innocence of the village. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, I believe so,’ said the squire. ‘And yet, I would rather you had not. You, sir, know that you should never kiss a gently bred lady if your affections are not seriously engaged.’

  ‘Come, Squire,’ said Sir Charles, ‘and think back to your own youthful follies.’

  ‘Alas, I fell in love with my dear wife and never looked at any other woman. You must see, it looks as if you were playing with her affections. You should have thought of the consequences of your action.’

  ‘But it did not mean anything to her, surely?’ said Sir Charles.

  Do not betray me, Papa, prayed Delilah desperately.

  ‘No, not in the slightest,’ she heard her father say. ‘I doubt if Delilah will ever take anyone seriously.’

  Delilah had heard enough. She moved on and slipped into the house quietly and made her way up to her room.

  So that was that.

  She realized that she had always nursed a dream that he had really cared for her, that the reason he had gone off without proposing marriage was because he feared he might be killed. But he had seen her as a callow little girl who could only prattle on about village gossip while he worried about the danger to England from that monster, Napoleon.

  Delilah waited until she heard Sir Charles take his leave and then she went downstairs to tell her father she had decided to go to London.

  The Tribbles received an express from Mr Wraxall in which he explained he had told his daughter that they were both old friends of his.

  ‘Not very wise,’ said Effy, shaking her head. ‘Miss Wraxall is bound to find out the nature of our work sooner or later.’

  ‘I should think he had to tell her that to make her go,’ pointed out Amy reasonably. ‘Besides, I feel Mr Wraxall is an old friend. Such easy and amiable manners! I must go to Yvette. She is waiting to pin me.’

  Ma’m’selle Yvette was the Tribbles’ resident French dressmaker. Amy had discovered her among the impoverished French refugees who lived in Kings Cross. The dressmaker had given up trying to persuade Amy that the current craze for girlish muslins did not suit her and had been pleasantly surprised when Amy, immediately after the squire’s visit, had commanded Yvette to make two new gowns ‘which might please the eye of a country gentleman.’

  When she had gone, Effy drew forward a sheet of writing paper and began to make notes. They would have to find out the limits of Miss Wraxall’s accomplishments in order to learn which tutors were necessary. Miss Wraxall would need to be able to sing and play the pianoforte well enough to charm a roomful of London society. She would need to have a portfolio of water-colours to show visitors. She would need a knowledge of Italian and French. She must know how to dance the waltz and expecially the quadrille.

  Mr Wraxall had said his daughter was very beautiful, but fathers could not be trusted to view their daughters with a clear eye. If the girl were so very beautiful, thought Effy cynically, then she would most certainly have been married by now. No woman was that hard to please! Now Amy was going to complicate matters by becoming spoony over this squire. Certainly Mr Wraxall was very handsome, which was more than could be said for Mr Haddon, although Mr Haddon was very well in his way. He had all his own hair and all his own teeth. But although he was very rich, his clothes were very dull and sober and he still wore his pepper-and-salt hair tied at the nape of his neck with a black ribbon. So old-fashioned! Nor would be ever wear trousers, always knee breeches. He was also very slightly stooped, whereas Mr Wraxall had broad shoulders and carried himself with an air. Effy pushed the list she had been making aside and began to wonder what she would wear when he came to call.

  Mr Haddon could not remember the Tribble sisters being so excited or busy over the arrival of their two previous charges. They seemed to have no time for him. Amy was practically always absent when he called, being pinned or fitted for something. Usually good-natured and sensible, Mr Haddon began to entertain some petty feelings towards this country squire who had put the sisters in such a flutter.

  He felt unwanted. At last, a day before the squire was due to arrive in Town with his daughter, Mr Haddon announced he was travelling to Dorset to stay with an old friend. Amy, who was dashing through the drawing room with her hands full of swatches of silk and muslin, looked at him vaguely and said,
‘Oh, what a pity. You will not meet my squire when he arrives.’ And Effy started to criticize Amy for saying ‘my squire’ and did not appear to notice.

  Mr Haddon left, feeling very low.

  * * *

  Sir Charles Digby sat in the library of his pleasant country mansion and wondered what to do next. He had made all the necessary calls on old friends and acquaintances in the neighbourhood. His steward had turned out to be a good choice, for everything was in order. Too much in order. There did not seem much for him to do. After the years of fighting, he hated the novelty of being idle. But he had promised himself a short time of leisure and enjoyment.

  He found himself thinking of the Wraxalls’ sitting room and how pleasant it had been. There had been huge vases of country flowers, cleverly arranged, scenting the air. There had been an exquisite piece of sewing discarded on a chair and brightly coloured silks spilling out of a work-box. His memory of that room with its bright chintz curtains at the windows and the pretty furniture now made his own surroundings seem very gloomy and masculine. He had never got around to those redecorations he had planned with Delilah. The furniture which had served his father and grandfather now appeared massive and heavy, almost as if it absorbed the light. The curtains were of stiff dull red brocade, the colour of dried blood. There was no carpet on the well-sanded floor. The squire’s sitting room had boasted one of those flowery carpets, very jolly and cheerful.

  Sir Charles decided that what his home lacked was a woman, a wife. He would like sons and someone pretty to sit with and talk to in the evenings. How incredibly exotic and beautiful Delilah Wraxall had become! An orchid among the English flowers of Kent. He remembered her as she had been at seventeen, plump and pretty and ingenuous, her eyes as wide and innocent as those of a fawn. He remembered talking to her at length and occasionally becoming irritated when it seemed as if Napoleon and all his threat to England meant so much less to her than a new recipe or the latest fashion from London. She had changed outside, but he was sure her mind had not changed. He dreamt of a woman, not necessarily beautiful, but with a clever mind and a certain something to excite his senses. He had no intention of following the example of most of his peers and looking for love and recreation outside marriage. He would expect the wife of his choice to be equally faithful. He thought again of Delilah. Evidently, she had become a dreadful flirt. Sir Charles despised flirts.