Friendship and Folly: The Merriweather Chronicles Book I

by Meredith Allady

  They stood gazing after him for several seconds, and then turned with one accord, and resumed their progress toward Julia’s home.

  “’And at the sight, truth reared its drowsing head; and roused, ran howling at his heels e’en as he fled,’” observed Julia, after having taken precisely twelve steps without speaking.

  “Are you, then, so confident that it cannot be true?” asked Ann, who had been counting.

  “How can it be? A London Season? A roundabout of balls, routs, presentations, and other means appointed to shipwreck ‘honor, dignity and fair renown’? I should think my parents would more readily arrange for me to attend a cockfight.”

  Ann admitted that this was in her mind as well, but before she could give voice to any of the other questions arranging themselves on her tongue, they had reached the house, and Julia was asking of a servant the whereabouts of her mother.

  Lady Frances was quickly discovered, and as soon as she had ascertained from them the physical and spiritual state of all those whom they had been visiting, Julia was at liberty to satisfy her own curiosity, which she did, by asking, was her mother acquainted with Grandfather’s plans for the new year, which he had just been explaining to them?

  She was answered at once by Lady Frances’s face of consternation; what Lady Frances saw, in turn, in her daughter’s countenance, Ann could not see, from being a trifle behind her friend--but it was enough, to check whatever may have been the first impulsive words of her heart, and elicit instead the mild inquiry, “Did she, then, wish to go?”

  Julia’s reply was, again, an eloquent look of some sort, which prompted her mother to make a small putting-away gesture with her hands, and defer the matter, to a time when Mr. Parry should be at home, and the three of them might speak of it together. She then went on to talk of other things, and Ann, for whom no detail or development of the Parry household was a minute enough to be held in indifference, was thrown back upon the dry crusts of unverifiable conjecture until the next afternoon.

  **

  Chapter VI

  Julia greeted Ann the next day with some laughing remarks on being agreeably surprised at seeing her friend return all in one piece: for having seen her depart the day before, “seeping curiosity in ever-widening trickles, like a dike whose capacity has been strained to the uttermost,” she had (said she) been in some expectation of hearing that Ann had cracked apart during the night.

  “I might indeed,” returned Ann, “had I not taken the precaution of binding up my head with bandages before I lay down; but you see I have been forced to remove them, for appearance’ sake, and am of this moment held together only by my hat, which I warn you I am about to untie as well; so, as you love this carpet, I advise you to tease me no more, but tell me at once, if it is true?”

  “It is true,” said Julia, smilingly, “that grandfather wishes me to go up to town this spring, and astonish the Queen’s Drawing-rooms with the unexampled wit, grace, and beauty of my mind and person; it is true that he has settled it in his head, that I shall parade triumphantly through Society, sweep aside all rivals, and attach every eligible gentleman; and that having broken every available heart and caused the gnashing of any number of maidenly teeth, I am then to return meekly home, leaving London to recover its stunned senses as best it might; it is true that he has generously proposed to fund this display. And it is also true that it does not recommend itself to my parents as having either sense or profit.”

  “And you?”

  “I? Ann, you have known me for years, and can you doubt of my preference? I am all amazement. Has it not always been my ambition to spend iniquitous amounts of money on garments for which I will have little use, that I might with greater facility achieve the unhappiness of various persons who never did me any harm?”

  “To be sure. I had forgotten. Pray excuse me; I fear my wits have seized the opportunity of escaping from my head through the chinks enlarged by curiosity. I shall go and look for them by and by. But in the meantime, take pity on my sadly depleted brainbox, and remind me of why it is that your excellent parents should have been lending their support to a scheme that meets with their entire disapprobation?”

  “Oh, they have not!” replied Julia, beginning to be serious. “That was all Grandpapa, as we thought.” And she went on to explain how it had come about, that he had been permitted to disseminate his illusions abroad. What she could not explain, at least to Ann’s satisfaction, was why Lady Frances and Mr. Parry, so set against the notion despite all the Earl’s urging and zeal, should have begun to look on it with more favor, merely because their daughter displayed less aversion to the idea, than perhaps they had expected.

  “’Less aversion’? Oh, Ann, I think we may classify it more positively than that. It is not, as I told Papa, that I care for being Presented (I understand it to be an uncomfortable business, and the requirements for dress are absurd); but I have not been to town for years and years, and though Mama may be of the opinion that once to have been there is enough to suffice anyone, I would very much like to visit the Tower, and Westminster, and to see a review, now that I am of an age to bring away from such experiences more than a fragmentary impression that the ceilings are very high, the drums very loud, and that every body and every thing in the world is conspiring to prevent the day from ever coming to an end, that Papa might buy me an Italian ice as he promised.”

  “But what,” said Ann, “of the balls and assemblies, the vanity and vexation of the whole fanfaronade, so feelingly decried by Lady Frances?”

  “Well, I suppose there will be time enough for all that as well as for the other! I admit I have not done much calculation on the subject, but I see no reason why one may not win a heart or two, and perhaps see a disappointed rival started on a fatal decline, all within the space squeezed between a visit to the Zoo and a display of fireworks. No, no, do not beat me! I will be serious! In truth, I hope the vexations may have been exaggerated, for Mama was excessively shy as a young girl, you know, and disliked dancing, which cannot have greatly contributed to her appreciation of the place; whilst I am not, and do not.”

  Ann’s next question was, why her friend had said nothing of this before, but left every one to imagine that the thought of being Presented had never entered her head, or had done so only to be turned out with scorn.

  “Why, I was not aware that I had. I never spoke of it, and indeed, scarcely thought on it, because, I suppose, I had no expectation of it ever happening. And I assure you, I did not grieve over it; nor will I repine, if Papa decides I am not to go now. I am entirely happy as I am. But, the opportunity being offered to me, the only reason to assume a dislike of it, would be from the belief that to do so would be pleasing to my parents; and I scarcely think, that they would be at all gratified by the knowledge that one of their children had chosen to lie to them, rather than admit to a preference somewhat contrary to expectation.”

  Ann, who could not count the number of times when she had assumed this or that response, entirely on the basis of which was the more likely to win her the most approval from those she admired, could not immediately think of a reply. She was grateful when Julia did not seem to notice her hesitation, but after a moment herself continued, “Besides, if there is something reprehensible about wishing to visit London, I should naturally desire to discover it as soon as possible, that I might rid myself of it while it is as yet no more than an inclination, the dislodgment of which would be easily accomplished.”

  “My dear Julia,” said Ann, recovering from her confusion, “this will never do. How can you hope to spend hours striving to repudiate a forbidden passion, or bedewing your pillow with tormented tears of regret, if you mean to heed advice, and behave with prudence? I suppose next you will claim that you would prefer to be told that the young gentleman who has caught your fancy has murdered his guardian and mastered the Black Arts, before you have occasion to become violently attached to him.”

  “Well, I do think I might have a better chance of achieving d
omestic happiness, if I were fully apprised of such facts at least a day or two prior to the wedding ceremony, do not you? But I imagine the danger of so unsuitable a gentleman gaining access to my affections is remote indeed. I have noted, that in those novels where the heroine disposes of her heart indiscreetly, it is generally because the author has failed to provide her with an immediate family of even moderate goodwill--the only seeming alternatives to an early and tragic decease, being derangement, or depravity. It is my belief, that the introduction of a handful of sensible relations would see an overthrow of three-quarters of the plots now in circulation. If a gentleman has a tendency toward necromancy, or fecklessness, or even combs his hair in an eccentric fashion, one may always depend upon a kindly relation to draw it to one’s attention.”

  Ann expressed wonder, then, that her friend dared go to town without her family. Who was to appraise each new acquaintance, and guide her taste with gentle ridicule?

  Julia first gazed at her in astonishment, and then recommended that she replace her hat with all speed, pull it down very snug, and make the bow tight. “My poor Ann! I must certainly come help you recover your fugitive wits! What can you have been thinking? I, go to London without my family? Where would be the enjoyment in that? A deaf man attending a concert--soundless fury, signifying nothing! Oh no; if Papa decides that I am to go, it will naturally be for all of us. And it is by no means certain, you know, that he will so decide.”

  But Ann, unaware, as yet, of her mother’s contrivance, and imagining for herself the barren vista of Parryless months, was sinkingly persuaded, that he would shortly do so.

  He did; within a week, Ann was listening to Kitty’s mournful listing of the terrible consequences likely to arise from this inexplicable decree, and her sympathy with one sister fell short of full agreement, only out of loyalty to the other. Kitty did not notice the slight reticence; her beautifully ordered life was being loosed from its moorings, and she feared for its survival on the high seas. She foresaw the whole progress of the tragedy awaiting her sister with dreadful prescience, and her heart, always notable for its tenderness, was wrung. Horror sounded in her gentle voice, and faltered upon the description of a kind of Beauty’s Progress, worthy of the brush of Hogarth: Julia would present herself to London--London would gasp, and fall in love with her--she would be plagued by suitors--hordes of gentlemen would throw themselves at her feet in the faint hope that she might tread on one of them in passing--moved by her ready compassion and worn down by the importunities of some desperate swain, she would become engaged--and lastly, a euphoric and completely unworthy lord (or more probably duke) would lead her to the altar, and she would thus be separated Forever from everyone and everything she loved best in the world, and who loved her.

  This was a grim picture indeed; but Julia merely laughed at it, and in her turn sketched a portrait of their stay in town, more suited to adorn the pages of an illustrated guide to Famous Historical Sites; a thing not to be wondered at, as she spent hours reading guide-books and histories, and used them to urge the attractions of London on her reluctant siblings. The youngest Parrys were easily persuaded to eagerness, but galleries and parks held little appeal for Kitty, from her certainty of the suitors lurking in wait behind every bush and column; and Clive could not be brought to believe in the merit of any journey, taken for the express purpose of acquiring new and impractical apparel, and “prancing about in it for the diversion of as many people as possible.”

  Julia’s protestation that she liked both new clothes and new acquaintances, was met with all the scorn of one who liked neither. He warned her that Londoners led very unnatural, dissipated lives, and expected every one to stay up all night dancing, and eat breakfast at mid-day; that they took exercise only so that others might see how well they looked doing it, and that they wasted countless hours getting in and out of carriages, and to and from doors, only to arrive, in the end, weary and bedraggled, back at their own homes, which they had done better never to have left in the first place.

  He paused, and Julia advised him not to forget to mention the deafening noise made by the constant application of door-knockers, the dangers from footpads and falling bricks, and, of course, the very real possibility of another Great Fire sweeping through the city whilst they were there.

  Perceiving, from this retort, that she was determined to look on the excursion with favor, he shook his head, and declaimed in a tone of great sadness,

  “The beau monde called; she answered it

  With reckless, spaniel haste,

  Panting to exchange grass for stone,

  And diamond for paste.”

  “Dr. Johnson,” replied Julia, “said that to be tired of London is to be tired of life.”

  Clive was not moved. He replied that the good doctor had also claimed that a ferret was a rat with red eyes, and that a man imposed upon by one delusion, was easy prey for another.

  Julia, abandoning such fallible support, next turned hopefully to Ann, and despite Clive’s soto voce remark about “Arguments ad Verencundiam,” solicited her opinion on the subject. But Ann, having been to town only twice in her life, once to have a tooth drawn, and once to visit some cousins as relentlessly prying as any dentist, had little to offer by way of encouragement. When pressed, she could only be brought to say, that she did not see why the Parrys should not take as much pleasure in town as they did in every thing else, since their happiness was not dependent upon where they were, but on each other.

  This speech unexpectedly brought all dispute on the matter to a close, not because they were all instantly overwhelmed by the truth of it, but because Kitty was assailed by the hideous prospect of yet another Change In Her Life, and cried, “But what of Ann? We cannot leave Ann!”

  “Of course not,” said Julia. “Ann must come too. We could not do without her.”

  Ann knew that they could do very well without her; but the words brought an instant lifting of her spirits, for she could imagine nothing more certain than her mother’s approval of any scheme that promised the company of the haute ton, an expanded assortment of single gentlemen, and the distance of several counties between herself and Ann. Waiting only to gain the confirmation of the elder Parrys to the invitation of the younger, Ann hurried home with the agreeable consciousness that she had news to impart concerning herself, that would, for once, be heard with pleasure rather than forbearance.

  Mrs. Northcott was, naturally, more than pleased: she was triumphant. Being apprised of the success of her stratagems by a breathless daughter, who had not the least idea of owing her precious invitation solely to the cleverness of the one whom she addressed, Mrs. Northcott could not long be content to keep her admiration for that cleverness all to herself. Ann, halted in her eager explanations by one gracefully uplifted hand, was at last privileged to hear of the nice calculations, the intricate means, by which her invitation to London had been achieved. From the moment of illumination in the carriage, to the careful playing of the Earl, Mrs. Northcott was generously willing to expose them all; and perhaps it was fortunate, that she assumed her daughter’s appreciation, and only perceived in Ann’s silence, a reverential gratitude that sought in vain for the words to declare itself.

  So immense was Mrs. Northcott’s satisfaction on this occasion, that the Parrys were even allowed some credit in its accomplishment. She admitted to being agreeably surprised at their giving Julia their consent so readily, and divulged to Ann, that she had been quite certain of their “resisting the notion to the uttermost, and acquiescing, in the end, only with every display of self-righteous ungraciousness.” She could only speculate that they had come to recognize the folly of crossing Lord Meravon, and she was once again moved to admire her own sagacity in having enlisted him in her cause; but though assured of his ultimately prevailing with the Parrys, she had not “envisioned them acknowledging defeat with so little fuss. It argues a degree of good sense which she did not at all expect of them.”

  She did not, however, find hersel
f placed in the uncomfortable situation of having to revoke all previous disapproval, but was soon able to condemn their decision to “encumber the poor girl with every member of her immediate family. Carrying the nursery along like that--so unsuitable!” It was, in fact, a violation of Lord Chesterfield’s beloved Decorum, a demonstration of the Parrys’ continual disregard for Bienséance which quite disgusted her. “I suppose it is their attempt to insure that she does not become entirely taken up with the novelty of conversing with cultivated and witty persons, who know a bon mot from a beet-root, and are not forever breaking forth into some dreary hymn or other!”

  When Ann was at last able to retire from her mother’s presence without provoking remark, she attempted to find comfort in the remembrance, that Julia was actually pleased, and the younger children not adverse, to be going to London, however it may have come about. But against this was Lady Frances and Mr. Parry, and Clive, and poor Kitty; and she felt it to be nearly intolerable, that the Earl should have been tricked, and all the Parrys subjected to this needless disruption, merely so that she herself, who had no right nor claim on them, might be conveyed to town, without inconvenience or embarrassment to her parents.

  A heroine might have gone at once to Merriweather and confessed all, dutifully spreading consternation at the bidding of her conscience; or she might have returned to the drawing room and, braving maternal disdain and retribution, announced her resolve to have nothing to do with an affair conceived in selfishness, and brought forth in deceit. Or perhaps her delicate, heroine-like sensibilities would have succumbed to the horror of her dilemma, and in doing so delivered her from it, by causing her to fall into a decline, or become completely distracted.