Mary Or The Perils 0f Imprudence

by Catherine Bowness

  She stood up. “I should not like to sing at all,” she said firmly. “And I had better go back to the house before Mama becomes anxious.”

  “Yes, of course; but this is by way of being a music lesson without that odious maid fidgeting in the background. I will play a note and you shall sing it.”

  “I have already had my music lesson today,” she objected.

  “Indeed; but there is no harm in having another, is there? Or do you dislike music so much that you cannot contemplate it?”

  “I do not dislike it,” she said, not quite truthfully. “I am indifferent to it and, as I know that I am a poor performer, I am exceedingly reluctant to have more lessons than I was originally prepared to en …” She stopped abruptly.

  “Endure?” he asked. “Music lessons should not only be about your performing but also about promoting a love of music. I suspect that you have been deprived of the joy that music can bring and I would like to change your mind about that. I have been engaged to teach you and, to my mind, it is difficult for anyone to feel much joy in the presence of that maid. Her behaviour is distracting and infuriating. Will you try, Miss Porter? Will you permit me to make a musician of you?”

  She pulled a childish face of disbelief and disgust but said, “Is that the challenge you have set yourself?”

  “It is what your Papa is paying me to do.”

  “Oh, I don’t think he expects that much and, indeed, I do not believe Papa cares in the least. Mama would like me to play competently and to sing in such a way that it is not painful for anyone to hear or humiliating for me to perform, but I do not think she holds very high ambitions for me.”

  “Possibly not but we will surprise her, no? Come, will you not trust me to know of what I am speaking? It is, after all, my job and I wish to do it well.”

  “Oh, very well, if you insist, I will try this once, but I don’t doubt you will soon concede that the task you have set yourself is impossible.”

  And so he played a note and she attempted to sing it, without much success. But he persisted, singing it with her and praising her efforts, although she was certain there was little to praise.

  “You may stand up, if you prefer,” he said after they had essayed a few. “It is generally easier to sing if the diaphragm is unimpeded.”

  “It is usually easier to do almost anything if one has not caused oneself intense discomfort through eating too much,” she agreed, getting to her feet.

  “But if one does not eat one has no strength,” he pointed out.

  “No doubt, but there is some happy medium, I suppose, when it comes to eating, where one does not faint for lack of nourishment but neither does one’s stomach protest at being asked to hold too much.”

  “I wonder,” he said gently, “if you do not set yourself goals which are unrealisable. Were you used to exclaim, when you were a little girl, that you would never be able to walk and had no aptitude for it whenever you fell over?”

  She laughed. “You are trying to encourage me, which is kind; but everyone learns to walk if they have a pair of legs and a pair of feet. You will not convince me that everyone can sing if they are equipped with a pair of lungs and a set of vocal chords.”

  “Why not? It is so. Everyone can sing and it is perhaps the most natural way human beings express happiness – that and dancing.”

  “I cannot do that either,” she snapped.

  “Once again I am sure you could if you were not obliged to perform such exceedingly complicated steps out of context – and if you had not for some reason determined in your own mind that you will never be able to do it. While I respect Monsieur Lapideau and his teaching methods, I do find myself wondering why he has embarked upon the cotillion at this stage. It is a dance exceedingly hard to perform without the rest of the set to show you what comes next.”

  Susan shrugged. “There is no dance, so far as I am aware, that does not involve a great many other couples but I should not suppose that Lord Marklye would be agreeable to his servants spending an hour dancing every morning.”

  Signor Pontielli thought this highly amusing and began to laugh in an uninhibited manner, throwing his head back and exposing his throat with its quivering voice box whilst at the same time clapping his hands with delight.

  “You have a very fine sense of humour, Miss Porter. Tell me what else you can do better than others, although in truth it would not be such a bad idea to get that maid dancing – she would enjoy it and her fidgeting could be put to good use.”

  “I suppose we could partner her with one of the footmen. I will mention it to his lordship later – he might even want to join in himself. Did you know that he can play excessively well?”

  “No, I did not, but it explains why he has bought such a very fine instrument. I wonder where he learned. And I wonder, too, how you know that he plays well?”

  She smiled. “I have heard him when he thinks no one is listening. Of course, I do not know that he plays well, only that, when he does there is something exciting about it. I heard him last night, after we arrived, and poked my head around the door to see who it was. He was playing that sonata by Mozart which you told me when you first arrived was too difficult for me.”

  “It is at present but, you will see, by the end of the summer, you will play it as well as Lord Marklye. For the time being, I would advise you to stick to Clementi. You have not yet answered my previous question: what else do you do rather better than others? Better, for instance, than your mama?” he asked slyly.

  “Riding,” she answered at once. “I have not yet been to London and have spent my life in the country where riding is something you do every day. I have been used to go out with Papa but lately he has been horridly busy with his work, and has been away from home a good deal, so that I am forced back on to the things I am not good at, such as embroidery, which is quite odious and entirely pointless, and of course singing and playing. Mama is convinced that I will not find a suitable husband unless I can show some ability in feminine pursuits.”

  “Odd,” Signor Pontielli mused, “since men are not generally interested in embroidery and not much more in either music or dancing – with the exception, it seems, of Lord Marklye. He would probably not like to have a wife who approached a sonata as though it were a cushion cover.”

  “No,” she agreed, “but I do not seek to marry Lord Marklye. I have known him all my life and think of him as an uncle.”

  “I am glad to hear you say it.”

  “Why?” she asked, startled.

  “Because he is by far too old for a girl like you.”

  “Yes, of course he is.” Susan was beginning to wonder where this conversation was leading.

  “He has the look of a man who has once been a rake – you know what that is? – but is now reformed. I should imagine that he has been quite an adventurer at one time. How, I ask myself, did he come by such a large fortune? Who left it to him and why?”

  “Oh, I believe it was a woman.”

  “Indeed? Curious, is it not? Why did she choose a man to whom she was not related?”

  “I have no notion,” Susan admitted, losing interest. She had a fortune of her own – or would have one day – and did not find the provenance of her father’s friend’s wealth as fascinating as, evidently, Signor Pontielli did.

  Chapter 7

  It was some time later that Susan returned to the house, her mood much altered. She and Lord Marklye converged upon the front door step. He was coatless and somewhat dishevelled, particularly with regard to his hair, which appeared, rather oddly, to be wet. He carried his coat over one arm and what looked like his stockings balled up in his fist.

  “Why, Susan!”

  “My lord!” she said for she was not quite comfortable in addressing him by his Christian name; he seemed a little too grown-up.

  “Have you been for a walk by yourself?”

  “Yes,” she answered, blushing, for she was conscious that she was not quite telling the truth, although she had w
alked by herself.

  “I went for a ride,” he said. “I visited some tenants and, on the way back, I had such an extraordinary experience that I feel I must tell someone; if I do not, I am afraid that I shall begin to believe that I imagined the whole. While Mercury and I were ambling along in the sunshine, I heard a damsel calling for help.”

  She stared at him, her eyes opening wide. She thought he was making up a story to amuse her and wondered if he thought her still a child. “Did you ride to the rescue?”

  “Yes; and I found a maiden drowning in the river. I dived in and pulled her out.”

  “Was she very beautiful?” she asked, still thinking this a fantastical tale.

  “Yes, very. I took her home on the back of my horse but I have a mind to invite her here one day. Would you like to meet her, do you think? She is not very old, probably only a few years older than you. Her name is Mary Best.”

  “Have you made that up?”

  “No, indeed I have not. You mean because her name is ‘Best’ and she is the best water nymph I have ever met? No, she was – is – unless I am touched in the upper works – quite real. What did you do on your walk? Did you meet a handsome prince?”

  “No,” she said shortly, clinging as best she could to the fact that she had not met a prince – only her music tutor although she was beginning to wonder if he was in fact a prince in disguise. Somehow she did not think she could tell Lord Marklye about her encounter because, although nothing improper had taken place, she had met a man entirely on her own - by chance it was true - but then had lingered in the wood for an unnecessary length of time, without a chaperone.

  “And yet,” he observed, “you look quite flushed and agitated. I hope nothing untoward occurred during your walk.”

  “No, indeed. I intended to go as far as the lake but – not being sure how to get there - I simply wandered about aimlessly until I saw a little wood and thought it would be cooler amongst the trees. I did not hear the damsel crying. I was singing,” she added, pleased to be able to add a detail that was true.

  He smiled. “No, she was some way distant. It was fortunate that I was passing for otherwise I am afraid she would have drowned.”

  “How terrible! Do you know how she came to be in the water?”

  “She told me that she ventured down a steep bank to pick some flowers and fell.”

  “Goodness! But where did she come from? Is she the daughter of one of your tenants or had she wandered on to your land in error?”

  “No, she is my neighbour. She is Lady Leland’s companion. I don’t suppose that means anything to you but her ladyship’s land runs next to mine with the river between. She fell from her side of the water.”

  “And you rescued her from yours? To whom does the river belong?”

  “That is a very good question. I think it must belong to me because the lake is merely a part of the river which has been dammed - unless of course we share it. Do you think I should ask my man of business to ascertain its ownership?”

  “I am surprised he did not make that clear when you took on the property,” she said seriously.

  “Yes, I think it was remiss of him – and careless of me not to have asked. I see that you are not unlike your papa,” he added thoughtfully for Susan’s male parent was generally accounted a practical and sensible man. He had inherited nothing but had made his considerable fortune through his own intelligence and hard work.

  “I am told I resemble him closely,” she admitted with a notable absence of pride.

  “You mean because you are tall and you no doubt wish you were a little dab of a thing?” When she nodded, he went on kindly, “I believe we always wish to be what we are not. You have your father’s ability to pay attention to detail and to see the wood for the trees – as one might say. It is a rare ability and one not much encouraged in females, so far as I can see.”

  “You mean that, generally, we seem to lack that ability,” she said, turning down the corners of her mouth, “and concentrate upon the trees at the expense of the wood? I should have been a boy. I look like one, I am as rough and clumsy as one – and now you tell me I speak like one. What am I to do?”

  “Be yourself. But you have it all wrong, you know. You do not look in the least like a boy. And I feel I must defend my sex against the accusation that we are ‘rough and clumsy’. We are no more likely to be so than females are to be bird-witted. Both are inaccurate descriptions which lump us all together and make us feel uncomfortable if we are not just as the world expects us to be.”

  “I did not mean all men and, as a matter of fact, I did not say ‘men’ at all; I said boys.”

  “So you did. Perhaps we grow out of it, then. Do you know any boys of your own age?”

  “No. I just thought …” She stopped. “You will think I am demonstrating feminine hen-wittedness.”

  “I think you are looking for reassurance and I hope I have been able to give it to you.”

  “Yes, thank you; it is very kind of you,” she said humbly but her conversation with his lordship had had the opposite effect.

  She had returned from the copse in a state of euphoria only for Lord Marklye’s well-meant comments to puncture her dreams and remind her that she was not the sort of female whom men admired except, it seemed - if they were a similar age to her father - for their dull and unfeminine grasp of reality. She would vastly have preferred to have been the kind of dazzling beauty who fell into a river because she wanted to pick flowers; such behaviour seemed to Susan to be almost idiotic, relying as it did on the miraculous appearance of someone – presumably a man - to rescue her in the nick of time.

  “It wasn’t meant to be kind, merely accurate,” his lordship said, hearing the despondent note in her voice and wishing vaguely that he had had the wit to praise her for something she perceived herself to be deficient in rather than something which she knew perfectly well that she already possessed. “But I must go upstairs to change my clothes and find some dry stockings because, if your mama should find me here in such a dishevelled state, she might wonder if it had been altogether wise to bring you to such a ramshackle household. Can you swim?” he added, turning back as he set his foot on the first step.

  “No.”

  “Would you like to learn?”

  “I … yes, of course I would but I do not know that Mama would permit it.”

  “She might if Miss Best were to be with you all the time. She, after all, is some years older and must be accounted highly respectable on account of the nature of her job.” If he remembered Miss Best’s declaration that she had no reputation to lose, he either discounted the truth of this curious confession or chose to ignore it.

  Susan thought she saw whence this sudden desire to teach her to swim emanated: he was looking for a reason to spend a considerable amount of time in the company of the mysterious Miss Best. She wondered if he had already suggested this course of action to her and been rebuffed for the same sort of reason which she was certain her mama would advance: lack of propriety.

  “Do you wish me to chaperone Miss Best?” she asked bluntly.

  He grinned. “Well, yes, you have once again made your way with unerring accuracy straight through the trees. But I think you would enjoy it and I am certain you would both derive a good deal more pleasure from the exercise than either of you would by yourselves with a fidgeting maid to spoil your enjoyment.”

  Susan thought of how much more agreeable her music lesson had been in the wood without the restless maid hovering in the background but she was aware that a good deal more was involved in that pleasure than simply the absence of a servant and she wondered if Lord Marklye was feeling similarly about the Beauty he had pulled from the water.

  “But will her employer permit Miss Best to indulge in swimming lessons with the gentleman who lives next door?” she asked doubtfully.

  “I hope so. I intend to call upon her tomorrow to enquire after her companion’s health and will put the matter to her then. I have a mind to
invite them to join us for some form of entertainment - a card party perhaps – old ladies often enjoy such things.”

  A door opening at this moment, his lordship, with a final conspiratorial grin at Susan, ran lightly up the stairs without waiting to see who had come into the hall.

  Susan jumped guiltily when she saw that the person emerging from the saloon was her mother. She felt that she had followed up her decidedly clandestine lesson in the copse with a mysterious and not altogether proper conversation with his lordship.

  “Ah, there you are, my dear,” Mrs Porter said, advancing rapidly towards her daughter. “Have you only just come in? You have been out an age.”

  “Yes, sorry, Mama. It is such a lovely afternoon and I am afraid I walked farther than I intended. Did you want me for anything in particular?”

  “Only to tell you that your papa has been called back to London on account of some pressing business which he says can neither wait nor, apparently, be managed without his presence.”

  Mrs Porter was a woman in her forties whose proportions, apart from her height, were not unlike her daughter’s. The lack of inches had the effect of making these feminine attributes appear to be arranged somewhat randomly one on top of the other without that distance between the components which gives both dignity and beauty to the feminine form.

  In most respects – the height, the authoritative nose, the prominence and angle of the bones of her face - Susan resembled her father more closely than her mother and could, especially when on horseback, be described as a handsome young woman in spite of her excessive size. Unfortunately, her mama, perhaps only too aware of her own deficiencies, failed to see that her daughter’s height perfectly balanced the rest of her figure; she saw it, along with the definitive nose, only as a grave disadvantage.

  Susan had, however, inherited from her female parent as fine a pair of eyes as ever a young woman might hope to possess. They were large and fringed all about with an excess of thick, curling eyelashes – everything about the girl was oversized but only the eyes were accounted admirable, not so much in spite of their dimensions as because of them. If only the girl’s form had been a little smaller, she might have been considered pretty purely on account of those eyes. Mrs Porter had been – not for long, it was true, but in extreme youth - although she was not in any other regard well-favoured. She had been a dumpy girl and she was a dumpy matron but, as she was connected to the Earl of Redpale’s family on her mother’s side, she had helped to drag Mr Porter – whose antecedents were considerably less elevated – several rungs up the social ladder.