by Joan Aiken
Miss Orrincourt, naturally, was outraged and shocked by this episode. If Mr Tregarron had not been such a particularly well-liked and capable teacher, with very superior connections among those of the highest consequence in Bath, he would certainly have been given his marching orders. But since the school’s high reputation depended largely on the excellence of its musical curriculum, of which he was the prime buttress and support, she found herself obliged, not precisely to condone the disgraceful affair, but at least to turn a blind eye, like the noble Nelson.
Mr Tregarron’s connections had procured the young ladies of the school choir a series of engagements in the weekly winter concerts held at the Assembly Rooms, which must add substantially to the prestige of her establishment; she therefore swallowed her indignation and contented herself with transferring many of his duties to myself. Indeed, I foresaw with gloom that in years to come, if I did not soon make some move to alter my prospects, I should find myself fixed for life as Senior Music Teacher at Mrs Haslam’s.
Fate, however, decreed otherwise.
A few of us were to sing solos at the concerts, and I was one of those so chosen. ‘Not,’ as Mr Tregarron kindly told me, ‘that your voice is anything out of the common, my dear Miss Fitz, but it is loud and clear and well-pitched; and that is all that the dyspeptic old grumblers in our audience will care about.’
You may be sure that Miss Nell Ferrars had plenty to say about this preferment, also; but just then, very fortunately for me, she received a greatly prized and much-laboured-for invitation to accompany her chiefest crony, the handsome but sour-tongued Lady Helen Lauderdale on a visit to the latter’s parents in London. Nell’s absence was, I must confess, no small relief to me and I heartily hoped (as no doubt she did too) that she might catch the eye of some eligible parti while under the Lauderdale roof in Berkeley Square.
Some of the young ladies chosen to sing alone were in a rare fright about it, others were as proud as peacocks; but I had no strong feelings in the matter, either way.
A childhood passed in Byblow Bottom carries this benefit: it engenders great fortitude and a wholesome indifference to mere social anxieties. Taking part in a public concert would be no especial ordeal compared with some episodes in my past; or, for example, with the indignities and misusages that poor Hoby had been suffering these last four years at Eton. (I had received some information about these, for he had in due course replied to my letters, not very often, but once or twice a year; and the tales he had to tell of dire doings in the Long Chamber, even conveyed in Hoby’s blotched, ill-written and mis-spelled orthography, were enough to make any normal person turn faint with horror.—Yet thanks to Fortune, Hoby seemed to be surviving, and even learning to give as good as he got. He wrote his approval of my being so creditably established in Bath. This interested me as of old he would probably have despised such a humdrum existence.)
Mrs Jebb and Pullett, on learning that I was to make an appearance at a public recital went into conference, and came to the unsurprising conclusion that my wardrobe was inadequate.
‘She has to do New King Street credit,’ Mrs Jebb declared. ‘Which, as matters stand, she emphatically does not. You cannot sing in public, child, wearing a five-year-old cast-off Sunday gown that once belonged to Nell Ferrars.’
‘The difficulty is, ma’am, that I have nothing better.’
To me, my wardrobe had never been a matter of much concern; so long as my things were not in actual holes, I was satisfied; and this was just as well, for it seemed that the funds assigned by Colonel Brandon, which had been used for my education and support, had begun to run low and had recently dwindled away altogether.
‘It appears that my brother-in-law quitted India, after he suffered a severe wound at the Battle of Gavilghar,’ wrote Elinor Ferrars. ‘But we are still wholly uncertain as to Colonel Brandon and my sister’s whereabouts. It seems most likely that they have been obliged to make a stay somewhere on their journey back to Europe, perhaps in order for him to undergo further medical treatment, or to pass some months in rest and convalescence.’
Or perhaps he has just died, I thought . . .
At the same time I had a letter from the lawyers.
‘We deeply regret, Miss FitzWilliam,’ wrote Mr Melplash, ‘that we cannot continue to authorize the allocation of funds for your educational requirements since the sum allotted for contingencies has been used up, and lacking any further direction from Colonel Brandon on the matter.’
Since by now a good three-quarters of my time at Mrs Haslam’s seminary was passed in teaching, my position at the school was not in jeopardy; Miss Orrincourt found me too useful for there to be any suggestion of her dispensing with my services. And, as I had begun giving a few private singing lessons in the city, I was able to continue paying Mrs Jebb a small amount for my board and lodging. New clothes I simply managed without; since I had arrived in Bath my height had not greatly increased, and the substantial wardrobe of cast-off clothes supplied by Mrs Ferrars, all the garments which were of heavy and durable stuffs, had survived being patched, let out, darned and periodically made-over by Pullett and myself. Nell Ferrars had long since grown bored with her own witticisms about them. But my only superior gown, a skimpy sprigged muslin with a blue trim, sadly worn and faded, though doubtless well-enough for evenings spent playing and singing to Mrs Jebb and her whist-minded cronies, would be but a poor advertisement for Mrs Haslam’s school.—Indeed Miss Orrincourt had expressed concern in the matter. She hoped I was provided with ‘something unexceptionable to wear, some suitable toilet’, and I had hastily assured her that this would be no problem.
‘If, ma’am,’ I said to Mrs Jebb, ‘you would be kind enough to wait for your week’s lodging money until Saturday – I understand the performers are to be remunerated for the concert –’
‘Tush, child, never trouble your head about that. Funds will be found.’ And she added drily, ‘I shall enjoy an excursion to Wetherells’. There no doubt we can find some suitable stuff and Pullett shall make it up for you.’ Catching a gleam in her eye and detecting also a faintly anxious look on the face of Pullett, I recalled that, when Mrs Jebb had been accused of stealing lace, Wetherells’ had been the draper’s shop in Stall Street where the alleged misdemeanour had taken place. No doubt my hostess enjoyed returning there at intervals to tease them.—Mrs Jebb, though she very seldom smiled, had her own bleak and dour sense of humour.
The trip to Wetherells’ began uneventfully enough. A piece of India muslin was chosen and purchased. It had a small black dot and a fine black trim.
‘In view of the colour of your hair and your complexion,’ Mrs Jebb observed with her usual dispassion, ‘you will do well never to indulge in bright or gaudy colours.’
‘So I have always understood, ma’am.’
Some pairs of gloves were inspected and discarded. Gloves were always a problem for me. ‘I daresay I can find an old pair of my own to lend you,’ said Mrs Jebb, who was never, at any time, lavish in her disbursements. ‘And your feet, at least, will be out of sight behind the piano, so we need not worry about shoes or stockings unduly.’
On the way home from Stall Street, Mrs Jebb stalked ahead with Pug. She had a curious, stately gait, setting each foot very firm and flat upon the ground, as if to prevent the paving-stones from rising up in rebellion against her. Following behind with Pullett, who carried the bundles, I murmured in her ear:
‘Pullett, the man from the draper’s shop is coming after us. Do you not think that is rather queer?’
Pullett looked round, and her hare’s eyes started in fright.
‘Oh, Miss!’ she breathed. ‘What ever can he be after?’
Now Mrs Jebb turned round.
‘What are you two mumbling about?’
She twitched on Pug’s lead, he set up a yapping, and she dropped the muff which she carried as well as an umbrella, for the usual chilly Bath drizzle
infused the atmosphere. I caught up the muff, brushing off a little mud, and restored it to Mrs Jebb just as the man from the draper’s shop came alongside of us and blocked the footway.
‘Well, sir, well?’ said Mrs Jebb. ‘What is this about? Why, pray, do you impede our passage? Did you perhaps discover that you over-charged me?’
‘No, ma’am’ – Mr Wetherell was a tallow-faced, nervous fellow, given to thrusting his hands in and out of his pockets, then rubbing them rapidly together; he did so now – ‘No, ma’am, but being uneasy in my thoughts I made so bold as to run after you, besides calling Mr Sunwill the constable of the watch’ – another man appeared, as if by clockwork, behind him – ‘being, you see, Missis, uneasy in my mind, I couldn’t think it right or proper to allow – er, that is to say, ma’am, not to allow –’
‘Not to allow what, you tiresome man?’ demanded Mrs Jebb impatiently. ‘Will you kindly stop jabbering at us, here in the wet, and permit me to proceed on my way?’
Mr Sunwill the constable, in top hat and shabby frock-coat, now spoke up. ‘Mr Wetherell, you see, ma’am,’ he said in a tone of apology, ‘he tells me that he reckons he saw you tuck a pair o’ black silk gloves into your muff – when it was laid down upon the counter of his shop back there, do you see. O’ course, maybe it was done quite accidental-like, these little occurrences do occur. So, you won’t raise any objection to our just taking a look, ma’am? In the muff ?’
‘That is a wholly nonsensical and outrageous accusation,’ replied Mrs Jebb with total calm. ‘And I do have the strongest possible objection to your making any such search.’
After which we all remained gazing at one another, at a stand, in the drizzle, entirely blocking the footway.
Pullett, casting me an anxious, frantic, imploring look, then addressed her mistress: ‘Ma’am, wouldn’t it just be simplest to do as the man says? In order to save time and bother, like?’
I judged that it was the moment for me to intervene.
‘There is unquestionably some foolish mistake here,’ said I. ‘Certainly we did look at a pair of black silk gloves in the shop, I remember them well’ – which I did, for I had tried them on; the left was a tolerable fit but the right one too small. And, of course, there was the finger difficulty – ‘but this person here, Mr Wetherell, then himself removed them from the counter. In fact, I seem to recall seeing him put them in his pocket.’
‘A likely story!’ said the constable. ‘Why in the world would he do that, Miss?’
‘I cannot imagine why, it struck me as very odd at the time.’
‘Ma’am, why not let them look in your muff, where’s the harm?’ implored Pullett. ‘It will save us all standing here any longer in the mizzle.’
Which by now had increased to a regular downpour.
So, with the utmost ill-will, Mrs Jebb handed the grey squirrel-fur muff to Sunwill. He with his large gnarled hands explored inside it – I observed Mrs Jebb give this process a distasteful glance – but he discovered nothing, save a small paper of brandy-balls.
‘Now,’ I said briskly, ‘perhaps Mr Wetherell will be so obliging as to turn out his own pockets.’
To which Mr Wetherell responded with a most indignant outcry.
‘A fine notion! Why should I do any such thing? It is my goods that were pilfered.’
‘Nay, but I think you should,’ remonstrated the constable. ‘After all, the lady allowed us to look in her muff. And no one’s said anything about pilfering.’
‘It ain’t right! It’s as good as making out I bore false witness –’
Without more ado, I stepped up to him and thrust my hands into his pockets. Sure enough, in the right-hand one was a pair of black silk gloves, fastened together by a short twist of black silk cord.
‘There, what did I tell you?’ I remarked mildly, handing them to the constable. ‘We all commit such absent-minded acts at one time or another. Without being aware of it, the man put them in his own pocket. Now, I trust, we can all be on our way.’
I moved past Mr Wetherell, contriving, as I did so, to kick him pretty sharply on the shin – a manoeuvre I had perfected years ago in Byblow Bottom where it was a necessity of life to conduct one’s attack unobtrusively and then remove oneself with the greatest dispatch.
I saw him turn white with pain and outrage as our little convoy proceeded smoothly on its way.
Afterwards, I was to regret this piece of foolish self-indulgence.
Mrs Jebb did not ever allude to that incident, then or later. But she lent me a handsome cashmere shawl to wear over the pretty black-and-white muslin dress which Pullett and I fashioned from the material we had bought. And Pullett herself crocheted me a pair of black net gloves, taking great pains to construct them with two fingers joined together, so that my deformity need not be too obvious.
My performance, on the first night of the recitals, was nothing out of the common way – or so I considered, and Mr Tregarron confirmed my opinion – (he, poor fellow, lacking a leg, had to be wheeled to the Assembly Rooms in a Bath chair) – but, for some wayward reason, I satisfied the public fancy, and was encored over and over. I had begun by singing a group of folk songs, and some verses from Shakespeare: ‘Come away, come away, Death’, which I had set to an air of my own. For my last encore, since the audience of richly dressed valetudinarians continued to cry, ‘Bis! Bis! More! More!’ I chose a song greatly beloved by Mr Sam and Mr Bill, in which I had joined with them a hundred times:
Oh, she looked out of the window, as white as any milk,
And he looked into the window, as black as any silk.
Hollo, hollo, hollo, hollo, you coal-black Smith
Oh, what is your silly song?
I never shall change my maiden name,
That I have kept so long . . .
It was plain that many of the audience knew it too, and all joined in. As the Bath Echo said next day, ‘It was an event unprecedented in the annals of the Winter Concert Season . . .’
Mrs Jebb grumbled, ‘I never bargained for this! All these old fellows coming to call – Lord Glastonbury, Lord Frome, and now the Bishop! Where am I to find biscuits and Madeira wine to feed them all?’ But in fact she was quite amused. For her it was like a return to the old days in Paragon. And besides, when the gentlemen came calling, I was generally off at my duties in Queen Square. This I did not in the least regret. Lord Glastonbury and the Bishop – a pair of whiskery seventy-year-olds – reminded me a little too forcibly of Dr Moultrie.
But soon I was to have an adventure of my own.
After several of the concerts I had noticed a group of young men staring at me very attentively, as if they would have liked an introduction. But this was not to be: Miss Orrincourt had been most stringent in her decree that the young ladies who took part in the performances must be escorted away from the Rooms the very moment that their part in the entertainment was concluded. Back to Queen Square we rolled in a hired conveyance; and from there, once the young ladies had been dispatched to their hard beds and their Napoleon blankets (with tapes attached, so that they could be worn as outer garments in the event of a sudden French invasion taking place in the middle of the night), I was graciously permitted to make the best of my own way home to New King Street.
Sometimes a party of young gallants would assemble near Mrs Haslam’s school to applaud our return there after a concert, but they were prevented from approaching us too closely by the school porter. And since I did not choose to walk the streets of Bath alone at night, being concerned not to endanger my hitherto unblemished reputation in Bath society, I had persuaded Thomas, Mrs Jebb’s manservant, to meet and escort me home on these occasions. This he very obligingly did for a weekly fee of sixpence, unknown to his mistress who from the outset had made it plain that I must not expect such services.
I was accustomed to slip away from the garden gate, where Thomas would be wait
ing for me, and had not so far been detected.
Of course the young ladies of the school giggled and sighed and languished over these fashionable admirers.
‘They are a group known as the Bath Beaux,’ explained Miss Cleone Artingstall. ‘Oh – they are all so handsome! Lord Edward Weatherspill, Augustus Link, Daniel Dane-Fotherby – but especially Lord Harry ffinch-ffrench!’
‘Come, Miss Artingstall, sing your scales,’ I suggested.
‘Nay, how can I be expected to sing scales when I think of Lord Harry? Have you looked at him, Miss FitzWilliam?’
‘No, I cannot say that I have.’
‘He is so romantic – with his tangled elf-locks and his flashing dark eyes! So like Lord Byron.—Oh, Miss FitzWilliam – have you read “Hours of Idleness”?’
I had, and considered Byron’s verses inferior in every way to those of my two friends.
‘The scale of C major, Miss Artingstall.’
‘He is the younger son of the Duke of Flint.’
‘C major.’
‘Oh, bother C major!’
‘Miss Orrincourt says that no young lady can expect to shine in polite society unless she has a mastery of the rudiments of music.’
So at last, sighing and grumbling, she applied herself.
‘I don’t know how you can be so hard-hearted, Miss Fitz. When I think of Lord Harry my heart melts inside me.’
My defence was not so much hardness of heart as lack of interest; the distant group of young beaux, with their smirks and murmured innuendoes, making eyes at the young ladies from the seminary, impressed me not at all. But one day I chanced to encounter Lord Harry on his own, and that proved a very different matter.
