Bad Miss Bennet

by Jean Burnett

  ‘The poor man disliked company and by the time he died I had lost contact with any agreeable society. I take solace in novels and my deceased spouse’s excellent wine cellar.’

  She had lost the urge to venture into the centre of Bath. An occasional perambulation on the downs provided some exercise, but the staff attended to her daily needs. For this reason I was sometimes sent into the city on various errands – to borrow library books or to obtain gloves and lace on Milsom Street.

  My employer was not unduly troubled by religious scruples and rarely attended church on Sundays. I convinced her that I needed to attend services at the abbey for the good of my soul. This gave me ample opportunity to survey the congregation, noting any interesting newcomers, although I had no means of meeting any of them. I became lost in a reverie, gazing at the beautiful ceiling of the abbey with its carved palm trees. I am not sure that Mrs Makepeace believed my protestations of virtue. She was quite shrewd underneath her absurd eighteenth-century mannerisms. The alcoholic mists frequently parted to reveal a mind sharp enough to detect hypocrisy and dissimulation.

  ‘Tell me more about your life before you were widowed, my dear, and pray make it sensational,’ she urged. I would try to oblige by describing my early married life, embroidering when necessary. I endeavoured to convey the boredom of life in army quarters with a husband whose diversions seldom included the company of his wife. Mrs Makepeace understood perfectly.

  ‘I feel for you, my dear. I know what it is like to be shackled to a boring and dissolute spouse although my Hereward, poor love, was merely boring, not having the wit or the energy to be dissolute.’

  When I described the ball on the eve of Waterloo she was entranced. ‘How I would have loved to attend such an historic event. Did I ever tell you of the ball I attended at Versailles in the old king’s day? I mean Louis XVII of course.’ I was amazed to hear that this old lady, wedded to her chaise longue and the sherry bottle, had such an interesting past – and in Paris, too. My envy must have communicated itself to her.

  ‘Yes, I was in Paris with my parents – this was during the ancien regime, of course. Before that wretch Napoleon came along and ruined everything.’

  I pointed out that there had been a revolution before Napoleon came along.

  ‘Yes, yes, it all went wrong so quickly. I was presented to poor Marie Antoinette, you know. She was charming – so gracious. I cannot describe the clothes, the luxurious display on that occasion.’

  ‘Please try,’ I begged. Mrs Makepeace drew a deep breath and closed her eyes.

  ‘The queen wore a magnificent gown of gold tissue overlaid with cream organza swags and covered with embroidery – sequins, beading and jewels. She wore fine diamonds and a towering headdress of white feathers.’ My employer sighed, recalling these past glories.

  ‘And what did you wear for such an event?’ I asked. ‘Your gown must have been very special.’

  ‘Oh, it was raspberry pink silk taffeta, if I recall, with fine pleating and tulle flowers. I had heard that pink was the queen’s favourite colour and, indeed, she complimented me on it. Me! An obscure little English girl! The fashions were so wonderful then, not like these skimpy Grecian-style gowns you young things are wearing. What was good enough for the ancient Greeks is definitely not good enough for us! The event was marred only by my introduction to my future husband. My parents thought him very suitable, but my preference was for a French Vicomte. If I had married him I suppose our heads would now be in a basket. I often wonder what happened to the poor fellow.’

  ‘I would give anything to see Paris,’ I sighed. But my employer was eager for more revelations.

  ‘Why has your prominent family cast you off?’ she asked. ‘Oh, yes, I can read between the lines. Your brother is a very wealthy man, is he not? Yet here you are – a lady’s companion. What heinous crime have you committed, Mrs Wickham? Come, tell me everything.’

  I flushed indignantly. ‘Mr Darcy is not my brother, merely my sister’s husband. My own family is far from wealthy and I was accused of bringing disgrace on my relatives. I own that I can be impetuous on occasions, but I could have removed myself permanently from this country had not my brother-in-law intervened. He has no affection for me.’

  For a long time I resisted telling her about the Count and our ill-starred relationship but she wheedled it out of me. Her appetite for scandal was insatiable.

  ‘I can only live vicariously, my dear. Tell me more.’ She was impressed by my description of the Count. I think she would have pursued him herself if she could have dragged her body from the couch. ‘I would give you leave to run off and find the man, my dear, but I find I cannot manage without you.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Her words echoed mournfully around my head as I dragged the odious Wellington across the downs on his velvet leash. I had rashly remarked that the dog would suffer an apoplexy if it did not take some exercise and this was my reward, a daily walk in all weathers. Perhaps I should not traduce the unfortunate animal too much: after all, he was the reason that I met Vincente that chill and otherwise dreary morning.

  Wellington had slipped his leash and had skittered across the grass, only to skid to a halt almost in the jaws of a low-slung beast with a truculent expression.

  ‘Turk! Turk!’ cried the beast’s companion, an unusually tall man with striking looks wearing a dark green frock coat and a buff-coloured waistcoat. I noticed these things only in passing because I was mesmerised by a pair of large, dark eyes, glittering with joie de vivre.

  The man bent down and seized his dog’s collar. Wellington was crouched down in an imploring manner silently begging to be rescued.

  ‘I am extremely sorry, madam,’ the stranger said. ‘My Turk is a faithful dog but none too fond of other canines.’ His voice had a foreign lilt.

  ‘You are not a native of this city, sir?’ I ventured. He swept me a low bow – not easy when restraining a fierce dog.

  ‘I am from Rome, madam, but this fair city has been my home for many years.’ I resisted an urge to commiserate with him. ‘My name is Vincente Randaccio.’ I introduced myself, smiled brightly and explained my role as Wellington’s escort. ‘I cannot imagine why we have not met before, madam. I’m sure I would have remembered so vivacious a lady.’ The dark eyes glittered at me as he smiled and offered his arm. I found myself walking across the heath with the Italian stranger, the dogs dragging behind us.

  I discovered that Vincente was one of the most famous singers in Europe and, as I later found out, the most sought after music teacher. He had settled in Bath in order to become musical director of the Assembly Rooms.

  ‘I am also a castrato,’ he glittered at me again. ‘So you are quite safe with me, my dear!’

  I stopped in my tracks, struck dumb for a moment. Vincente turned and gave me a cynical, amused smile. I had heard of castrati but I scarcely believed such creatures existed. Then I recalled how my father had described hearing the exquisite voice of Farinelli while on his continental travels. My late husband had once made a ribald reference to the procedure involved in making someone a castrato. He had been drunk at the time.

  I shuddered and my companion laughed aloud showing remarkably good teeth. ‘Do not pity me, my dear. Life has been good to me. My parents were poor and my life would have been a hard one – and probably short. Instead, I have had a wondrous career. I have sung for kings and popes – and I have not been short of female admirers!’ Again, I recalled papa saying that Farinelli had hordes of female followers.

  It was impossible not to smile in Vincente’s company. By the time we had arrived back at Widcombe House, where he raised his hat and bade me farewell, my heart felt considerably lighter. He expressed the hope that we would meet again soon and I found I was blushing like a sixteen-year-old.

  I lost no time in telling Mrs Makepeace of my adventure but she was less impressed than I expected. She had heard of Signor Randaccio. But she was not a great music lover and seldom went to concerts.


  ‘If you are so taken with him, my dear, we must invite him to call upon us. She was as good as her word and Vincente duly visited and charmed us both.

  Naturally, I continued the daily walks with Wellington with some enthusiasm. I knew that Vincente would exercise Turk on a regular basis and that our paths would cross. My acquaintance with him over a few months was a joyous interlude in an unhappy period of my life. I spent hours walking and talking with him while he spun incredible stories and described his fascinating life. Although he was now in his fifties there was a strange allure about him which I can scarcely describe. I had never met anyone like him.

  He described to me how he had been summoned to the eccentric, Gothic masterpiece called Fonthill Abbey by its equally eccentric owner, William Beckford, the richest man in England.

  ‘Nobody visits him,’ Vincente explained. ‘His alleged sexual perversions have made him a social outcast. However, he is a man of great taste. I was invited to sing for him for a very generous fee. As I am by way of being an involuntary sexual perversion myself, I felt quite at ease. The centrepiece of the abbey is a vast staircase that winds in several directions. Beckford’s evil smelling dwarf stood at the bottom of the staircase as I sang, perched on a higher level.’ I explained that I had read and enjoyed Beckford’s novel, Vathek. Vincente laughed again. ‘It is full of excesses and cruelties, is it not? Just like my own life.’ Then he told me how the ‘change’ had come about.

  ‘I was twelve years old when my parents sold me for a castrato. I was taken to the barber surgeon, drugged and placed in a hot bath while the deed was done. When I was healed I went to sing in the choir of the Sistine Chapel.’

  I lost count of the hours I spent listening to Vincente’s stories during those long months in Bath. We wandered many times near the great estate of Prior Park with the dogs, or visited the abbey churchyard, he in his green coat and me in my country mouse grey. He could transport me to another place with a few sentences. Especially, he could conjure up Italy.

  ‘One day you will see my country for yourself, my dear. You will appreciate its beauty.’ At that moment I saw little prospect of ever reaching London again, let alone journeying to the continent. Where were my friends … why had I heard nothing?

  To add to my aggravations Adelaide had taken a violent dislike to one of Mrs Makepeace’s housemaids. The theft of a box of ribbons was mentioned and violence ensued. I returned from a walk with Vincente one morning to discover the two women fighting at the back door, wielding mops.

  After I had separated them Adelaide was in such a gumbustion that she was purple and almost speechless. When she recovered a little she remained venomous.

  ‘The very teeth in your head are not safe in Bath if you sleep with your mouth open!’

  Vincente’s company inspired me to try again to coax Mrs Makepeace out of her lethargy. If only I could persuade my employer to leave the house on a regular basis for some light exercise. Who knew where that might lead? I needed to reignite her lust for life and for going into society. She would make an ideal chaperone for me, although my family would assume that I was escorting her. With a sigh I slipped back into the house, noting yet again that there was no mail for me.

  ‘Is that you, dear?’ Mrs Makepeace called from the music room. ‘Do come and read a portion of the Times to me.’ She no longer asked me to play something for her. My attempts were too painful for both of us, even on occasion causing the dog to howl in derision. I brushed the mud from my hem, handed the muddier dog to the footman, and entered the music room. My employer was again seated on the primrose sofa wearing another of her plum coloured ensembles.

  ‘Pray read only the more entertaining extracts,’ Mrs Makepeace directed, as if there was anything entertaining in that publication. She meant, of course, read only the social and court news varied with details of the occasional homicide. This time my eye was attracted to a short piece quoting the king’s own physician, no less.

  The man responsible for attending to our poor, mad sovereign announced that his majesty’s condition had greatly improved by following a strict regime of daily exercise in the fresh air, cold baths, simple food and the occasional glass of red wine. His melancholia had lessened and his faculties were less distracted.

  I wondered whether I could persuade my employer to adopt a version of this regime. She was not, of course, insane, and I feared that the cold baths and lack of alcohol would be rejected out of hand, but if I could approach her in the right way … The dog was returned to the room suitably freshened up and an idea struck.

  ‘Wellington’s constitution is much improved by the exercise and fresh air,’ I told her. ‘We occasionally meet other dogs en route and he enjoys some canine socialising.’

  ‘Excellent, I am delighted,’ replied Mrs Makepeace gazing out of the window in an abstracted manner.

  ‘I cannot help but think that a similar activity would be beneficial to you, madam.’ I refrained from adding that the action of lifting a glass to her lips could not be counted as exercise. Mrs Makepeace remained staring out of the window. ‘I know I should make an effort, my dear,’ she said, wistfully, ‘but I fear I have lost the will.’

  ‘Nonsense, madam,’ I replied briskly, ‘You will feel much happier and more alive if you go into society again. Just like poor little Wellington,’ I added for good measure. Indeed the porcine pug was attempting to climb on to a couch at that very moment, something he would not have contemplated before his exercises began.

  ‘The society of Bath is seldom worth an effort,’ she continued. ‘Even the theatre here can be tedious. I believe they are giving another of Mr Loder’s dreary subscription concerts this week.’

  ‘Signor Randaccio is acquainted with Mrs Sarah Siddons, the celebrated actress. She lives in retirement in the Paragon. Perhaps we could call on her?’ I suggested hopefully. My employer shook her head sadly. ‘That would not be proper, my dear. Actresses, even if famous and in retirement, are not accepted in polite society.’ I recollected that the Prince Regent and the Count had no qualms in that direction.

  I could hear the devil whispering in my ear. I would not be buried alive any longer. I would not continue playing tedious games of whist or accompanying a dog for walks. I launched into a vivid description of my visit to Drury Lane and the delights of the Beggar’s Opera. Naturally, I omitted all reference to Jerry and Mr Getheridge and the outcome of that evening.

  This was the first of my storytelling episodes in which I endeavoured to entice my employer back into the world. I fancied myself as Scheherazade in One Thousand and One Nights, telling stories to save my life. For if I could not escape from this house I might as well be dead. I enlisted Vincente’s help and he agreed to call frequently to regale us with his stories of musical and theatrical life on the continent.

  Little by little I drew Mrs Makepeace out of the house, leading her across the downs recounting Gothic tales and dragging Wellington in the rear. I had read so many of these stories that I was able to embroider my own versions. Sometimes I would recount my adventures in London and elsewhere, carefully adding and subtracting incidents where necessary, and sometimes Vincente would accompany us both at my request.

  I talked, walked and read aloud until I was hoarse and weary. My employer continued to ply me with far more alcohol than decency dictated.

  I succeeded better than I knew. Within another month I had convinced her to leave Bath. One morning as we drank our chocolate Mrs Makepeace declared that she never did anything half-heartedly.

  ‘If I am to go from complete seclusion to giddy gadabout, let us go the whole hog and take a tour to the continent, my dear!’ I stared at her in amazement. The walls of the morning room began to close in upon me and I felt a little faint. ‘The continent, madam … did you say the continent?’

  ‘Yes, yes of course. We shall see Paris and Rome … and Venice. I have always had a longing to see the Water City.’ Venice, the present home of my hero Lord Byron! Was it possible that o
ur paths might cross finally?

  For many days we discussed travelling clothes, itineraries, the effects of travel upon Mrs Makepeace’s digestion and the welfare of the dog. Vincente called frequently to advise us on all matters Italian. She herself declared that she was au fait with every detail of Parisian life. I returned to my French studies with renewed vigour.

  My employer was a most amiable woman and we had become quite close in a short space of time. I regarded her as a more sensible version of my own mother. My spirits began to rise a little. I would finally get to Paris, but before that we would be in London where I could attempt once again to contact my friends and discover the whereabouts of the Count. No doubt he had already departed for Paris. I had a great deal to write in my journal which suddenly lost its melancholic note and became full of the joys of life.

  In preparation for our great adventure to the continent I decided to shed some excess weight. I was not in any way portly, dear reader, but I coveted a more sylph-like frame. For one week I subsisted entirely on soda water and Dr Oliver’s biscuits, varied with a little Cheddar cheese. This had the desired effect and I would be able to try on my new wardrobe with some satisfaction. I had heard that Lord Byron followed a similar regime to preserve his own slender figure.

  We journeyed to London in Mrs Makepeace’s carriage with everything necessary for her comfort which included half the household contents and several servants – all of whom would accompany us across Europe. Vincente had waved us off assuring us that we would be fascinated by continental life.

  ‘You will love my beautiful Italy,’ he promised us. I vowed to write to him regularly while we were away. I had grown very fond of him and I hoped to meet him again in more favourable circumstances. By that, dear reader, I meant a change from my lowly position as a companion.

  In London we lodged at a hotel for a few days while fittings were arranged for suitable gowns. My employer was most generous in these matters. Putting aside the sober outfits I had brought from Pemberley I acquired more colourful pelisses and paler evening gowns which were the high kick of fashion. My bonnets were somewhat more outrageous than before. I was embarked on a new life and I was confident that I would not remain a companion for very much longer.