MARY
OR
THE PERILS OF IMPRUDENCE
by
CATHERINE BOWNESS
Copyright © 2017 Catherine Bowness
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1546472391
ISBN-10: 1546472398
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
With love and gratitude to:
Sophy and Ben for invaluable technical and emotional support
as always
and to
Janis, Caroline, Lyn, Aysen and Victoria for their endless patience, helpful advice and continuing encouragement.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 1
Mary Best had been Lady Leland’s companion for more than ten years. Although she was grateful for the home which the old lady had provided at a time when most doors had been firmly closed in her face - and had indeed grown deeply attached to her ladyship – it would be idle to pretend that her life resembled in even the smallest particular that of which she had once dreamed.
Lady Leland had been a spirited young woman and still retained a good deal of what people were, now that she was old, inclined to describe as ‘sprightliness’. More than seventy summers had come and gone since she first opened her eyes upon the world. She had been a widow for many years when Mary came to enliven her life and had grown quite selfish, having only herself to please and a vast number of servants to carry out her every command.
Mary’s arrival, although at first viewed with a degree of dread, had, rather to her surprise, brought fulfilment and joy in its wake. She recognised in the headstrong young woman something of the girl she had herself once been. Recalling with a certain amount of romantic sympathy her own youth, she worried about the danger of the girl suffocating in such a dull household. Surely she must miss parties; certainly she must miss flirting and, undoubtedly, if she remained much longer, she would miss out on marriage and having her own children.
Having been a widow for so long, Lady Leland had forgotten that marriage is not always a recipe for happiness and that children come into the world with a great deal of pain and danger to their mothers, many of whom do not survive to see them grow up. Lady Leland had in this respect, as in many others, been fortunate. She had seen most of her children grow up, as well as her grandchildren, and now possessed a quiverful of great grandchildren.
It seemed to her, not troubled more than intermittently by the energetic presence of the great grandchildren, that poor Mary would have none of these joys to look forward to and, in addition, having no means of her own, would be obliged to find another position once she, Lady Leland, had gone to meet her Maker. As a consequence of this, her ladyship had determined to alter her will in her companion’s favour.
But even this measure, which would ensure Mary’s material comfort, did not altogether allay Lady Leland’s anxiety or fulfil her desire to provide for the young woman; money was one thing, but of much greater importance in the old woman’s eyes was the need to find her a husband. She wished, above all, to see Miss Best married and it was this which, from time to time, drove her to arrange some form of entertainment which might be supposed to provide an opportunity for a female still – just – within the time limit for contracting a marriage. Her efforts were not met with enthusiasm; indeed, Miss Best was wont to beg the old lady to desist from trying to arrange a match for her.
“It is very kind of your ladyship,” she said when Lady Leland, in her customary manner, began to agitate over making arrangements for what she called her Autumn Ball. “Am I to suppose that you have grown tired of my company and wish to be rid of me?”
“I could never grow tired of your company, my dear,” the old lady said at once. “But I should not be surprised if you have grown excessively tired of mine. This is no life for a young woman and the worst of it is that I am so rudely healthy that I cannot see you being released from drudgery for aeons. By the time I have at last departed for whatever place the good Lord sees fit to send me, you will be too old to make a proper, romantic sort of marriage; all that will be left will be to take on a widower and, no doubt, strings of tiresome, noisy children.”
“I was once a tiresome, noisy child,” Mary pointed out.
“Indeed you were,” her ladyship agreed, for she had known Mary in her infancy. “Now I think you have grown too quiet.”
Mary laughed at this. She said, “What I believe you are saying, Ma’am, is that the essentials of my character have not changed. I have always been tiresome, first because I was too noisy and now because I am too quiet. No wonder you wish to find some unfortunate gentleman to take me off your hands.”
“I would like to see you settled and happy before I shuffle off what people are pleased to call ‘this mortal coil’,” Lady Leland said, adding meditatively, “I have always thought that an ungrateful attitude to the gifts the Almighty has seen fit to bestow upon us.
“Now, since you are my companion and obliged to do what I say, I shall hold the ball as usual, whatever arguments you may advance to the contrary. The invitations must be written this afternoon and despatched tomorrow or we shall find that the more interesting people are already promised elsewhere. Pray sit down, take up your pen and begin to write. I suppose that is what you are for, is it not?”
“It forms part of my duties, yes. Running about fetching your scissors and your spectacles and so on takes up a certain amount of time. But you are not very hard to serve, my lady. You ask very little of me.”
“Would you prefer it if I asked for more?”
“It would depend to some extent upon what precisely you wished for but, yes, I believe I should not feel so useless – so superfluous – if you kept me busier. I sometimes feel that the balance between us is all wrong; I am paid to take care of you but I often feel that it is you who takes care of me.”
“You confuse running about on errands with being useful. I have servants to do that. What I require from you – indeed all I require from you - is your presence. I do not think that you are in a position to judge how valuable that is to me. Your face and your conversation are all I wish for but I would be a fool to suppose that mine is enough for you. You must frequently be bored to tears.”
“I assure you I am not,” Mary protested.
“Well, you should be,” the old lady answered tartly. “At your age you should be running your own household; you should not be growing tarnished from lack of proper employment – and it is not proper employment to be ministering to an old lady all the time. Now pray get on with your task without more ado.”
Mary sat down at the small walnut desk, picked up the pen and dipped it in the ink. She did not, however, set it to paper but waited, her hand poised. �
�To whom are the invitations to be addressed?” she enquired.
“Why – to the usual people, of course.”
“But, Ma’am, if you wish me to find a lover, that is not going to answer, is it? We have invited the same set of neighbours for the past five years and not one of them has evinced a lasting – or indeed more than a passing - interest in me other than to gaze, like a ninny, at my face; sometimes I own I feel more like a work of art than a person. Why should you suppose that this year will be any different?”
“No; you are, of course, in the right of it, although I cannot understand why. Are you uncivil to the young men or is there something the matter with them? In my day, young men would have been queuing up to take you riding or begging you to attend the assembly rooms. We must indeed widen our net a trifle. What is the name of the gentleman who has been doing so much work on his estate in the last few years?”
“Do you mean Lord Marklye? He spends most of his time in London so far as I can gather.”
“Yes, he is the very man I mean. He has a large estate, which was in a ruinous condition when it was owned by his predecessor – an appalling man in almost every possible respect. Fortunately, he did not marry and died without a direct heir; a very good thing too, if you ask me, because no doubt a son of his would have been inclined to behave in a similarly shabby fashion. This man, who, I understand, was fortunate enough to inherit a substantial fortune from someone else at much the same time, has at least the right ideas so far as the estate is concerned. If he spends all his time in London, I think we may safely assume that he is looking for a wife. He does not have one, does he?”
“Not so far as I know but he is not very young: perhaps he does not want a wife and, in any event, I can see no reason why his fancy should light upon me.”
“Do you not? But, my dear, sweet girl, you are still very lovely although I don’t suppose your looks will last much longer; but that is all the more reason to bestir ourselves. Why in the world should his fancy not light upon you?”
“We both know why,” Mary answered bluntly.
“That was years ago; it is almost entirely lost in the mists of time and really does not need unearthing; I do not think we need to give it another thought. In any event, if his lordship is not young, I daresay he will not be too nice in his requirements.”
Mary laughed. “You mean that, at his age, he cannot expect to have everything he desires. My clouded past will be outweighed, do you conjecture, by my still passable looks?”
“Yes; after all, he must have a past too, which might not bear close examination.”
“No, but then gentlemen’s pasts have an entirely different effect, do they not? They positively add lustre to a man.”
It was Lady Leland’s turn to laugh. “Indeed! In point of fact, you have not been entirely without beaux during the time you have been here, have you? What is the name of the unexceptionable young man whose eyes almost start from his head whenever he sees you? I am sure you could have him if you wished.”
“Sir Adrian Turnbull. I am afraid I would prove too much for him. I hardly dare to speak in case my voice should cause him to petrify or, alternatively, take to his heels and run. Why, in his haste to escape, he might trip and injure himself.”
“You are absurd; but you are quite right that he is a little lacking in spirit. But, still, my dear, you cannot be too nice in your situation; he is keen and shall be rewarded by being the first to receive an invitation. Write his name down, my dear.”
The list was eventually compiled and included Lord Marklye’s name as well as several other local grandees, who were begged to bring any young relatives they might have staying with them at the time.
“Should we not specify male relatives?” Mary asked. “It would be too mortifying if they brought a parcel of pretty females who could be relied upon to put my nose out of joint, not only with Lord Marklye but also with Sir Adrian.”
Lady Leland smiled. “I should think it would do you a power of good to have a little competition. You would be obliged to stir yourself, make an effort to appear pleasing. You seem curiously reluctant to try your hand at that.”
“I was never much good at pleasing; my forte was always displeasing. In any event, I cannot think that it is my place to try to please gentlemen. I have always seen my job as being to please your ladyship.”
“It will please me to see you dressed up and dancing and it would make me happier than you seem able to conceive to see you walk up the aisle. You have served your term of punishment and are more than due for release.”
Mary was inclined to agree with this but, since neither she nor her ladyship was in control of such matters and since they had had this argument several times before, each becoming more irate the more they spoke of it in spite of being ranged upon the same side, she saw no point in going over the iniquitous workings of Society.
“Would you like me to play something?” she asked, rising and moving towards the new pianoforte which her ladyship had bought especially for her companion to play.
“Yes, I would but, before you do, I would like you to take a walk; you have been cooped up here with me for far too long already.”
“Very well, my lady,” Mary said humbly and bent to kiss the old lady’s forehead. In return she received a squeeze of the hand.
Mary Best and Lady Leland had grown close over the ten years they had lived together. Each was deeply appreciative of the other’s character. When Mary had first arrived, she had been little more than a child and her ladyship had been an unusually energetic and independent old lady. Her friends – and indeed her family – had wondered why she felt the need for a companion and, if she did want one, why in the world choose such a young and flighty creature as Mary Best?
“I like to look at her,” her ladyship had said. “She is so excessively pretty – and flighty - that it is like living with a bird. She will be in a cage here but I promise that I shall always leave the door open a little so that, if she decides to fly away one day, she will be able to do so.”
But Mary had not flown away; when she first arrived it had been clear that she felt her wings had been clipped in some way or another for she seemed hardly able to walk sometimes, progressing with an awkward, lopsided gait which distressed the old lady. Over the years she had once more acquired the natural grace of the young and had, besides, grown so attached to her ladyship that she often kissed her spontaneously, although always respectfully.
There was one more way in which Mary Best resembled a bird and that was – or had been – her ability to sing. But that expression of joy, which had once been as natural as speaking, had withered and died since her wings had been clipped. She could no longer do so.
She played for her ladyship – and her playing had vastly improved with the constant practice – but she could not sing. The old lady could – and sometimes did – accompanied by Mary, but she was usually moved to apologise for her performance afterwards.
“But it gives you pleasure, my lady.”
“I cannot conceive that it gives you much, my dear, although I was used to be able to sing.”
“You can still do so,” Mary said gently. “You can still hit the right notes, so long as they are not too high, and your voice, although probably not so strong as it once was, has still the sweetness that must have charmed the very birds from the trees – as well as all the young men.”
“I am afraid most men are indifferent to those hideous performances which girls are, so far as I know, still obliged to give after dinner. They only endured it in order to have the opportunity of staring at us without censure; a young woman who sang stood up there in front of everyone and allowed herself to be gazed upon, gave, quite falsely in many cases, the impression that she was a bold piece; the pianists generally seemed more retiring, sitting there with a straight back and showing only one side of their faces. You could not be a mouse once you stood up to sing.”
“I do not suppose you were a mouse even before you stood up.”
>
“No – and neither are you. Unfortunately, in spite of that, you were caught by a cat and still bear the scars from the encounter. I wish you would try to sing. I am certain that you would find you could if only you would begin.”
“I cannot.”
Chapter 2
Released from her ladyship’s company on strict instructions to take a walk, Mary went to her room to find the correct clothing for such a venture. It was a warm day although not without occasional clouds drifting across the sky. She was wearing a blue cotton dress, cut simply with a round neck and short sleeves. Thinking it might turn chilly if the clouds should take it in their heads to increase, she put on a spencer fashioned from dark blue merino with pretty little pearl buttons, a pair of half boots so that she could stride out briskly without fear of her soft kid shoes becoming damp, and a chip bonnet, frivolously adorned with a large pink silk rose.
She set off across the lawn and, having passed through a couple of gates, proceeded through a small patch of woodland. Emerging from the shelter of the trees, she continued along the same path, now leading down to a river which flowed gracefully at the edge of her ladyship’s property; indeed the river marked the boundary of her land on that side.
As she walked, she could not resist picking a bunch of wild flowers. During the time she had been living with Lady Leland, Mary had grown increasingly fond of flowers; she had begun by picking a bunch in order to bring them home to the old lady, who loved them, but had soon found that she too took pleasure in such things on account not only of their colour – and sometimes scent – but also because of their ephemeral nature; their time on earth was so brief and so easily cut short that it seemed to her that they mirrored the vicissitudes of human life. Lady Leland always greeted her offerings with joy and a touching tenderness, as though these short-lived blooms were tiny creatures which must not only be taken care of but respected; they were evidence, she opined, of the essentially optimistic nature of life.
Mary Or The Perils 0f Imprudence Page 1
