Persistence of Memory

by Winona Kent

“Then let this occasion mark the official end to your mourning, my dear. I am certain your memory will recover once you have danced a set or two with our Mr. Deeley.”

  Three musicians were seated at one end of the great hall, a violinist, another who played the flute, and a third the pianoforte.

  “Is that the one who three years ago lost control of an embarrassment of his bodily functions?” Charlie inquired, impishly.

  “Happily not. Although we may yet discover him underneath a table at midnight, sampling the claret. He is known for his fondness of drink. But as his family is well-acquainted with Monsieur Duran, he must continue to invite him, or risk being ignored at similar social occasions himself.”

  The activity on the chalked wooden floor reminded Charlie of a long country linedance. It began with the ladies and gentlemen all facing one another. And then one couple met up at the top end of the two lines, and danced down to the bottom end. The entire process was then repeated, in turn, for the next gentleman and lady, and so on.

  “It seems a very merry exercise,” Charlie remarked. “Although one does need some semblance of coordination in order to carry it off well. I’m not sure I’m able to manage this without falling over.”

  “Watch what I do,” Mr. Deeley suggested, “and you will not put a foot wrong.”

  “And make certain that you write Mr. Deeley into your card for the final dance,” Sarah advised, “as I understand there is to be a grand supper at midnight, and the ladies are always escorted in by their partners.”

  This, Charlie did, with the pencil and card she had been given as they’d entered. It was slightly tricky as she wasn’t used to the long white gloves that were apparently mandatory to prevent contact from sweaty hands.

  A portly gentleman whose breeches were a trifle too tight in all the wrong places approached Charlie, Mr. Deeley, and Sarah.

  “Mr. Deeley, would you do me the great honour of an introduction to the ladies?”

  “Certainly,” Mr. Deeley replied, turning to Sarah and Charlie. “Mr. Montagu desires to be presented to Mrs. Foster and Mrs. Collins. Mrs. Foster and Mrs. Collins, allow me to introduce Mr. Montagu.”

  “Of the Bournemouth Montagu’s,” the portly gentleman added, with a slight bow. “Delighted. Would you honor me with the next dance, Mrs. Foster?”

  Sarah’s face briefly showed a hint of doubt, but since Regency manners forbade her to refuse unless she was tired or otherwise spoken for, she was obliged to accept Mr. Montagu’s invitation.

  Not to be outdone, and perhaps fearing that his opportunity might be delayed by another interested gentleman, Mr. Deeley addressed Charlie.

  “And would you do me the great honor…?” he began, very formally.

  “Of joining you for the next dance?” Charlie finished. “Yes, of course.”

  The exercise involved a good deal of clapping and skipping, and turning and hopping. And then another good deal of clapping and turning and skipping and hopping, all accompanied by a great amount of laughter. It ended up taking at least half an hour to complete, and finished with all of the ladies and all of the gentleman returning to their straight rows, bowing deeply to one another, and then applauding their approval.

  Charlie had to admit that she was, in fact, enjoying herself, as was Mr. Deeley, who was quite an excellent dancer.

  Disengaging herself from Mr. Montagu, Sarah returned to Mr. Deeley and Charlie.

  “Who is the fair-haired gentleman that I see in the corner,” she asked, curiously, “engaged in conversation with the lady with the impossibly large feathers?”

  “That,” Mr. Deeley replied, “is the greater Monsieur Louis Augustus Duran. Will you allow me an introduction?”

  “I would be very pleased if you would, Mr. Deeley.”

  Charlie and Sarah followed Mr. Deeley to the far side of the Great Reception Hall, where Augustus Duran was listening to an intensely dull discourse, delivered by Mrs. Montagu (of the Bournemouth Montagu’s), on the state of the country’s cotton mills.

  “Do excuse me,” he interrupted, as Mrs. Montagu asserted, for the third time, that 13-year-olds were much more easily trained for mill-work than 16-year-olds. “Monsieur Duran, may I present Mrs. Foster. I believe you have already been acquainted with Mrs. Collins.”

  “Hello,” Charlie said, with one of her small waves.

  “Mrs. Foster, Monsieur Duran. The elder.”

  “I am not quite so ancient, Mr. Deeley,” Augustus replied.

  “Indeed,” Sarah agreed. “You are not.”

  “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Foster. Mr. Deeley has spoken very highly of you.”

  Sarah smiled. “And I am pleased to make your acquaintance also, Monsieur Duran. Though I suspect by now your son has mentioned me in rather less glowing terms than Mr. Deeley.”

  Augustus laughed.

  “My son has mentioned you, yes, a number of times. However I have not heard anything which could be construed as negative. Indeed, Louis’ praises have consistently approached the superlative. But I now believe his words have failed to do you justice, Mrs. Foster.”

  “This gentleman is as charming as his son is revolting,” Sarah whispered, behind her hand and not unkindly, to Charlie, who was quite unable to remove her eyes from the man who was destined to become her ancestor. He looked exactly like the individual in the painting Nick had sent her.

  “Shall we join the next dance?” Augustus inquired. “I have not undertaken my constitutional today, and my spleen is looking forward to an energetic diversion.”

  “I would be happy to join you,” Sarah replied.

  “You must instruct your cousin to ensure the greater Monsieur Duran is pencilled into her card for the end of the evening, and supper,” Mr. Deeley said, to Charlie, amused.

  “I must do more than that,” Charlie replied. “What would you say to a picnic, Mr. Deeley, tomorrow, after church? During which my cousin and your employer’s father might further the friendship begun here tonight?”

  “Mrs. Collins, I do believe you are dabbling in the fine art of matchmaking,” Mr. Deeley teased. “Have you also a friendship in mind for me?”

  “I do indeed, Mr. Deeley,” Charlie replied. “Shall we dance?”

  The next half hour was happily passed in the Great Reception Hall, during which Sarah, Mr. Deeley, Augustus and Charlie danced several reels, though not necessarily with one another, as etiquette dictated a frequent changing of partners.

  During the last of these dances (a Quadrille in Reel time which involved a good deal of crossing and meeting and turning together) Charlie observed rather alarmingly that the lesser Monsieur Duran had contrived to position himself as close as possible to Sarah.

  “We must watch over Mrs. Foster with care,” she said, to Mr. Deeley, at their next opportunity of meeting up.

  Mr. Deeley had noticed the same thing. “He changed places at the last moment with a gentleman who owns a nearby estate and is secretly enamored with Mrs. Montagu.”

  “You keep an eye on your employer,” Charlie said, “and I’ll look after Mrs. Foster.”

  “Agreed,” said Mr. Deeley, as he turned, and continued the steps with a well-endowed young woman who had turned out to be Mrs. Montagu’s unmarried eldest daughter.

  The dance ended, and Charlie retired to a chair against the wall to catch her breath.

  Sarah, however, had decided to continue, and was, Charlie noted, again happily partnered with Augustus for the set.

  Charlie leaned her head back against the wall and shut her eyes. She was altogether exhausted. It might not have been Regency etiquette, but then most ladies from Jane Austen’s time hadn’t just travelled two hundred years from the future.

  She let her mind drift as she listened to snippets of conversation from Mr. Deeley, who was standing nearby, discussing the best oil for leather saddles with Mr. Montagu.

  And then, she was being coaxed awake.

  “Mrs. Collins.” It was Mr. Deeley. “Mrs. Collins, forgive me
. I seem to have misplaced my employer. And, more inopportunely, Mrs. Foster seems also to have vanished.”

  She opened her eyes. Some time seemed to have passed. Had she been dozing?

  “How have you misplaced him, Mr. Deeley?” she asked, trying to clear the haze from her mind.

  “He was occupied by Miss Montagu during the dance. And Mrs. Foster was in the company of the greater Monsieur Duran. And then, when I looked again, the dance had ended, and my employer had abandoned Miss Montagu, and Mrs. Foster was nowhere in sight.”

  Mr. Deeley was joined by Augustus.

  “My son insinuated himself into our conversation, and then they both withdrew. I considered it very bad manners on Louis’ part; however he has always been one to flout polite convention.”

  “Did you see where they went?” Charlie asked, now wide awake and trying not to be alarmed.

  “Alas,” Augustus replied, “I did not.”

  Charlie was on her feet. “Then we must find her. Quickly.”

  The search was led by Augustus, who was far better acquainted with the upstairs floors of the manor than Mr. Deeley.

  Discreetly, and with a better understanding than Charlie had previously credited him with, Augustus began with his son’s bedroom. It was, to their very great relief, unoccupied.

  Several other bedrooms were investigated, again to no avail.

  “There is a small library,” Mr. Deeley said, thinking. “It is situated in the west wing of the manor, next to the dining room. I was taken there once, when the lesser Monsieur Duran wished me to see a sketch of a horse in one of the books.”

  The Great Reception Hall occupied the center of the second floor of the manor, and it was necessary for Charlie, Mr. Deeley and Augustus to negotiate their way back through its foyer in order to access the lavishly decorated west wing.

  The door to the library was shut, but from within, very distinct voices could be heard.

  “I do not consider this an appropriate conversation at all, Monsieur Duran.”

  It was Sarah.

  “Nonsense.”

  Unmistakably the lesser Monsieur Duran.

  “We are not the innocent and foolish young, requiring the chaperone. I wish to engage you in conversation, not in marriage. Though it is my hope the former will lead in brief time to the latter. Please, do sit.”

  “The intimacy of this room does not appeal to me, sir. I shall remain standing.”

  “If I may make a proposal…”

  “I wish you would not, Monsieur Duran,” Sarah interrupted. “I have not agreed to anything, although your imagination may have convinced you otherwise.”

  “You are wearing the gown. Which was presented by me.”

  “A presentation that was not anticipated, and which I accepted with the understanding that there would be no understandings,” Sarah countered. “Did your maid not return my message to you? No future obligation upon my part, nor upon yours.”

  The lesser Monsieur Duran was clearly annoyed.

  “Then what is the purpose of you attending here?” he countered, with impatience.

  “I was invited,” Sarah replied, “by Mr. Deeley. And encouraged by Mrs. Collins, who was anxious that I make the acquaintance of your father.”

  “Mr. Deeley,” the lesser Monsieur Duran said, the irritation apparent in his voice. “And my father. These two persons persistently cause me undue vexation.”

  Mr. Deeley and Augustus exchanged a look.

  On the other side of the closed door, there was an ominous silence.

  And then: “Madame Foster, you have kept me in suspense for far too long. I am pleased that you have agreed to attend the ball. But I am displeased by the delays caused by your refusal of me. The gown suits you well. It would suit me much better to see it removed.”

  It was at that point that Sarah screamed, rather loudly. And there was a very loud thud.

  In quick order, Augustus attempted to fling open the library door, only to discover it locked.

  And then, employing a well-placed and solid kick, Mr. Deeley rendered the door both unlocked and open.

  Augustus, Mr. Deeley and Charlie rushed into the room to discover the lesser Monsieur Duran crumpled on the floor beneath a small table, groaning and holding his head.

  Sarah stood over him, a large leather-bound World Atlas at the ready, in the event he should recover his senses sufficiently to approach her again.

  “Are you in need of assistance, Mrs. Foster?” Augustus inquired.

  “No assistance is required,” Sarah replied, “although, Monsieur Duran, I would be happy for you to escort me back to the dance.”

  She considered his son, underneath the table.

  “I take my leave of you, sir. The conversation was not altogether engaging, and any agreements you may have anticipated as a result are not, I think, likely.”

  Chapter 24

  It was Sunday, and nearly noon.

  A late morning mist was lingering in the nearby trees as Sarah made her way up Manor Rise, followed, in order, by Tom, and then Jack, and lastly, Charlie, holding Mary’s hand. The children were also in possession of three home-made kites, gleefully retrieved following that morning’s sermon by Reverend Hobson, and promising a far more interesting occupation.

  They negotiated the tricky bit in the curving cart track which always seemed to be muddy, in spite of there not having been any rain for nearly two weeks.

  As the cart track meandered around the face of the hill for a second time, all of Stoneford became visible below, as well as the sea in the distance, and the manor above. And, under the shade of a spreading beech just ahead, two gentlemen appeared, both on their feet, both greatly anticipating the arrival of the small procession.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Deeley,” Charlie said. “And Monsieur Duran.”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Collins,” Mr. Deeley replied, with a welcoming smile.

  “It is a lovely day, Mrs. Collins,” Augustus acknowledged, “and what a pleasure it is to make your acquaintance again, Mrs. Foster.”

  “It is Monsieur Duran’s father!” Mary shouted, rushing forward to demonstrate a perfect headstand, which, in turn, revealed a pair of handsome white pantaloons.

  “Mary!” Sarah exclaimed. “Goodness! Manners!”

  “There is no impropriety,” Augustus assured her. “Only the exuberance of adventurous childhood. I have two sons and neither could ever be convinced to stand on his head. Your children, Mrs. Foster, are enchanting.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur Duran.”

  The two gentlemen had obviously been busy, as a grand luncheon had been laid out on a large white linen cloth. There were slices of ham and chicken, and asparagus with butter, and glazed carrots. There was a green salad and a fruit salad. And there were breads and cheeses, and lemonade and cake, all of it left over from the midnight supper.

  “And do you judge the Grand Summer Ball to be a success?” Sarah inquired, sitting beside Augustus on a second linen cloth.

  “A glorious success,” Augustus replied, “in spite of the notable disappearance of my progeny, partway through the evening.”

  “It was whispered among the servants,” Mr. Deeley supplied, “that he was put to bed by the butler, after suffering the ill effects of one too many bottles of fine French wine.”

  “If that is what Mr. Arrowsmith’s very weighty Outlines of the World has come to be known as below the stairs,” Sarah laughed.

  She glanced at the book which Augustus had been reading just prior to her arrival, and which he had placed, face-down, on the cloth beside the chicken.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed. “It is Pride and Prejudice. One of my favourites. But surely, Monsieur Duran—not one of yours!”

  Augustus smiled. “I admire the individual and passionate nature of The Anonymous Lady’s heroines. As I admire the realism, social commentary and individual character of the author herself. It is a shame she left us at such a middling age.”

  Sarah’s eyes lit up. “What
unusual qualities you possess, Monsieur Duran. A true appreciation for women of independence. And the wit of a philosopher! I was devastated to learn that she is with us no longer, for I had not been party to this knowledge. Yet you come equipped with the most recent information, all the way from France!”

  Charlie joined Mr. Deeley, who was lounging on his back on the grass, his hands tucked behind his head as he studied the high, wisping clouds.

  “What an amazing coincidence,” she said, quietly, and not without humour, “that the greater Monsieur Duran is such an ardent follower of Jane Austen and her work.”

  “It is unaccountably fortunate,” Mr. Deeley agreed, also with humour.

  “Have you read the novel?”

  “I have not,” Mr. Deeley admitted, “although I am at liberty to tell you that the greater Monsieur Duran was awake very early this morning, and was, according to Martha, very much taken with The Anonymous Lady at breakfast.”

  “How fortunate that your employer’s library is so well-stocked.”

  “Indeed,” said Mr. Deeley. “Although I suspect a large part of the collection remains unread. The lesser Monsieur Duran not being known for his proficiency with the written word.”

  There followed a sojourn of some forty-five minutes, during which the cold ham and chicken, the asparagus with butter, the glazed carrots, the salads and breads and a great deal of cheese were consumed, along with the lemonade.

  Sipping from her glass, Sarah tilted her head towards the greater Monsieur Duran.

  “I am most impressed with your mastery of English, Monsieur Duran. Unlike your son, who manages to insult the language at every opportunity.”

  Augustus took Sarah’s hand, and held it with delicacy.

  “I speak many languages,” he assured her. “Fluently.”

  Sarah contemplated her three children, who had run into the meadow to fly their kites, while nearby, a consortium of sheep nibbled grass alongside mauve cranesbills and brilliant white yarrow.

  “May I say, Monsieur Duran, that I am very pleased to discover you do not remotely resemble your despicable son in any way, shape or form?”

  “You may say, Mrs. Foster,” Augustus replied, graciously. “And I am, in turn, very pleased that you have made this fortunate discovery. I have myself known about it for some years. Although, I confess, I have not, to this point, been able to use it to any great advantage.”