The Season

by Charlotte Bingham

  Perhaps Richard could be better in time for our ball, here?

  It was a silly thought, but such an exciting one that it made Portia pull her pillow up tighter under her chin and smile at the holland blinds some yards away that were flapping gently at the windows, while outside the house, London walked and trotted past the front door in all the glory of the summer weather and the heat and hustle of the new London Season. Portia started to dream of Richard Ward, quite recovered, perhaps even waltzing her round the ballroom below, once the rest of the guests had left.

  Meanwhile further down Mayfair, closer to Piccadilly and the Ritz and Mr Selfridge’s new emporium, Emily too lay staring at the holland blinds flapping gently against her bedroom windows. Next door, she thought, lay Edith, doubtless hoping against hope that she would have enough partners at the ball that night, whereas her mother was lying wondering whether or not to meet Captain Barrymore Fortescue, a young man at least ten years younger than herself, out riding in the early morning in Rotten Row.

  It was unthinkable of course. She was a married woman, and her husband an invalid back in Ireland. No lady would contemplate riding out with a younger man in such circumstances, would they? Most especially not Emily who, while she had always been more than dashing on a horse, had also been more than proper when off one. It was all fine and fair to receive fulsome compliments from foolish young men, and, it had to be faced, to be quite pleased by them, but to take them seriously would be foolishness indeed, and to activate the wishes of foolish young men, madness.

  No, there was no point in beating about the bush. There was no going back to the girlish days of riding out on over-groomed hacks hoping to meet up with passionate young men, because of course one never did, not even in the dim days of one’s youth, and so there would be even less chance of such a romantic occurrence now. Indeed, there was no supposing that life would be any different now from the way it had been then, however much couples might these days be shocking the world with the tango and the Bunny Hug. No, she would be sensible, she would not meet Captain Barrymore Fortescue, not at any time, not at any livery stables near to the barracks. The very idea was preposterous.

  For a start they would have to meet so early that no-one at Medlar House, least of all Minnie or young Edith, would know of Emily’s leaving the house and making good her escape, possibly by hackney, to the Park. And then there would be the problem of returning unseen, perhaps when the women were breakfasting in their rooms and all the men downstairs enjoying a leisurely four-course breakfast over newspapers and coffee. It would indeed be more than a little difficult to arrive back in one’s room in one’s riding habit, unbeknownst to anyone.

  On the other hand, of course, if one were going to do it one would merely leave Minnie a note that one was not to be disturbed and then return before the appointed hour when one had said one was to be disturbed. And of course if one locked one’s bedroom door no-one would know, if one took the key, which side the door had been locked from, which meant that one really might remain undisturbed.

  Even so, if it was out of the question, then it was out of the question, and no more to be said or thought on the matter. And if there was no more to be said or thought on the matter, then one simply must not speak or think, even to oneself, about it. It would have to be a forbidden subject.

  Like Portia, although she did not know it, Emily now hugged her pillow tighter as she thought of Captain Barrymore Fortescue’s darkly glowing eyes, and of his passionate adoration of her seat on a horse. It had been flattering. That was all, she told herself, her pillow now doubled and held even tighter to her face. It had been flattering, and very kind in its way, of course. To compliment an older woman in such an extravagant manner was kind and flattering, but it was also rather endearing.

  Yes, that was the word, ‘endearing’. The way he had recalled her seat’s being as light as a feather, the glowing reference to her hands, had been very flattering, but now she must forget about it, or else she would be in danger of having her head turned, and that, after all, for a mother and a wife such as herself would be quite, quite absurd.

  But even as she shut her eyes and allowed herself to drift off into one of the loveliest sleeps that she had enjoyed in a long while Emily could hear Captain Barrymore Fortescue’s rich rounded tones saying, and so persuasively too, You will ride with me tomorrow, will you not? You will love Brass Buttons—

  She always did have a weakness for a horse called Buttons. She remembered her first pony, Bright Button, and then there was that lovely Buttons at home, a strapping bay gelding – he had been such a ride. Remembering him was a joy.

  Seconds later Emily was fast asleep and when Minnie came to wake her preparatory to dressing her for dinner and later a ball, she thought that she had never seen Lady Emily look lovelier. Her long white hair, once such a deep auburn, streaming down her back, seemed suddenly to be more blonde than white, and her skin as young as that of any girl enjoying her first London Season.

  ‘You could pass as a debutante yourself, Lady Emily,’ Minnie said as she raised her curling tongs to feel the heat, and Emily tied her tea gown around her once more. ‘Sure you’re as beautiful as any of ’em, and I dare say always will be more beautiful than they will be at your age. No-one would take you for being more than eighteen, I’d say, that’s how beautiful you’re looking since you came to London and left all your cares behind you, in Ireland, where let’s face it cares seem to have come thick and fast of late, what with the politics, and the people determined to be rid of the likes of us, and houses set on fire, and horses stolen, not to mention Mr O’Connor’s being so poorly with his bad back, and I know not what.’

  Of a sudden the ‘Mr O’Connor’ to whom Minnie was referring seemed as remote from Emily as he must do from her maid. Emily loved Rory, of course she did, but she could not remember him as she should. She could remember that she was married to him, and that they had children, but she could not remember him as he was, or had been. Emily closed her eyes. She must bring Rory to her, she must remember how delightful he was, bring him back, before it was too late, and she did something foolish.

  The Tradescant family doctor was about to begin examining Richard Ward with his usual I’ll-be-the-best-judge-of-this doctorly expression.

  Unable to bear his company for longer than was strictly necessary, Portia left him to it, closing the bedroom door behind him and traversing the sitting room next to it. As she did so she noticed a copy of The Pickwick Papers left to one side of Richard’s chair. She picked it up and opened it at the bookmark. When they were young she had always teased Richard that he did not read, but such, obviously, was the tedium of staying upstairs locked in his room, day after day, slowly recovering his senses, that he had obviously taken to reading out of both boredom and perhaps desperation.

  ‘Did you bring this book in to the Vice Admiral, Evie?’

  Evie, who was busy polishing the pictures around the room, shook her head, uninterested.

  ‘Oh no, Lady Childhays. I haven’t got on to proper long books yet, you knows that better than anyone. No books yet, I haven’t. I’m still just learning words.’ She turned back to her dusting with a pitying expression.

  Portia replaced the book, at the same time making a mental note to ask Richard if he was enjoying reading at long, long last. Whether he was or not, there was no doubt at all that the fact that he was reading meant that he must be getting better, more alert, more aware of his surroundings, and that was good.

  ‘Lady Childhays.’ Dr Bentley cleared his throat. ‘The Vice Admiral is a great deal better. He has passed a point that I had hoped to see him pass in, say, another month’s time, a point where the body has ceased to call on certain elements to provide its energies and now started to build up its own reserves—’

  ‘You mean,’ said Portia calmly, ‘that the alcohol has passed out of his system?’

  ‘Not necessarily …’

  ‘That the energy created by the alcohol has passed out of his
system and he has now begun to make his own energies?’

  ‘Not necessarily …’

  ‘What do you mean then, might I ask, Dr Bentley?’

  ‘I mean that the Vice Admiral is beginning to respond to the process of isolation and a good diet, and that he is going to be able to live a normal life quite soon, just as long as he never touches, er, ahem.’

  ‘Alcohol?’

  ‘Not necessarily just alcohol, anything at all with any kind of stimulus in its contents. Even, say, Christmas pudding, or a brandy snap, or certain cough mixtures. They will all cause the craving to return, and once he is drunk I am afraid that we would once more be facing this more extreme treatment, the isolation, and the strict diet of meat and vegetables, fruit and custards.’

  ‘I see.’ Mentally Portia found that she had now changed Dr Bentley’s name to Dr Not Necessarily. His obvious loathing of any suggestion or addition to his monologue made her wonder, as she allowed him to continue with his generalisations uninterrupted, what sort of life, if any, his wife might enjoy. She imagined their day-to-day dialogue.

  His wife might say, Breakfast is a good meal to start off the day, my dear.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ would come her husband’s reply.

  Are we not lucky to have two healthy children?

  ‘Not necessarily, my dear.’

  Fresh air is good for us, would you not agree?

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  What on earth could a poor Mrs Not Necessarily make of such a man?

  Since he was finishing his lecture now, and had presumably every intention of leaving, Portia hoped, she only half heard his recommendation that Richard be allowed downstairs in another week, providing that he maintained his good progress.

  Even so, Portia, with an unquestionable feeling of relief, followed him, until at long last they were both in the corridor outside and could lock the door behind them, leaving the key, as usual, in the lock for the convenience of the servants arriving with meals and newspapers and other items.

  It was as they made their way downstairs again that Portia turned and looked back up at Dr Bentley, unable to contain a mischievous curiosity.

  ‘Are you married, by the way, Dr Bentley?’

  ‘No, Lady Childhays, I am not.’

  There was a small silence as they continued on their way, and then Portia, unable to resist further temptation, turned once again. ‘Probably just as well, considering how busy you are, what with one thing and another. I suppose you have a very busy practice?’

  Dr Bentley paused. Portia waited until, the pause having grown to a positive hiatus, she thought she must resign herself to final disappointment.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ the doctor pronounced at last, bringing on, without his knowing it, an uncontrollable fit of the giggles from Lady Childhays.

  To cover the moment, she hastened away with a strangled excuse, leaving Aunt Tattie to settle his account, and make the usual observances that people find it so necessary to make to doctors – endless thanks, and appreciations, just as if they were not paying for the services of the wretched man, just as if he was not doing his job, executing his professional occupation in precisely the same way that everyone else executed theirs. Except, with regard to the other professions, no-one seemed to bother to be so fulsome in their thanks or so craven in their attitude. Why, sometimes, the way people treated them, it was as if doctors were gods, and not just professional men.

  Still, as Portia hurried off to find the steward and talk over his instructions for the ball, not to mention suggesting to him the idea of taking Richard to be fitted with some evening clothes, she could not help feeling elated.

  Richard was going to get better! They might even dance together at the ball in a fortnight’s time. It did not seem possible, but even as she sang a little ditty that they had used to sing together as the boat sailed safely home towards Bannerwick in the dear old days, Portia knew that she was not pinning false hopes on the future.

  After all, Evie had said, and many times, that the Vice Admiral did nothing but talk about ‘Miss Tradescant’. It seemed that just as Portia had not forgotten Richard Ward, he too had not forgotten her.

  That night, at the ball which followed the inevitable dinner, Emily sat among the usual set of dowagers and chaperons knowing that she looked as she felt, positively radiant.

  Edith too was looking really rather splendid, and was, Emily was glad to see, much sought after by all the young men, and this despite the fact that she was no beauty, in her mother’s opinion, although there was no doubt that she had an attractive air about her, and looked sparkling and vivacious when spoken to. However, although all the young men sashayed over to her and insisted on writing their names in her card, their enthusiasm only seemed to last for one dance. Not that anyone was permitted more than two dances anyway, but even so, no young man seemed over-enthusiastic when it came to putting his name down for the second. What was worse, no-one ever, ever returned to place his name in her card on another evening. It was too galling for words.

  Tonight this was particularly noticeable, so on their way home Emily decided to tackle her daughter.

  ‘What kind of questions do you allow the young men you dance with to ask, Edith, dear?

  ‘Oh, just the usual you know, the usual things that young men always talk about.’

  ‘You will oblige me by giving me an example,’ Emily insisted, despite the fact that Minnie was present and pretending to stare out of the window.

  ‘They always ask me where I live and I always say “Ireland”, and when they say How too too or some other silly reply, I say, “Yes and I wish I was back there rather than dancing here with such a dull Englishman as you!”’

  Emily half closed her eyes, and then opened them again.

  ‘I think, my dear, we had better have a talk with each other, and soon, really I do. Obviously Lady Devenish’s tuition and attentions extended to everything except the proper kinds of conversations for a young woman to be having while dancing. You must flatter young men, Edith, really you must. You must learn to flatter young men, especially English men.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t care, Mama, really I do not. I don’t like England. I wish only to be back in Ireland with Valencia and you and Papa, dancing in the hall with all the servants.’

  ‘Ah yes, we all remember that day, do we not? That was a grand sort of day, the day of the storm, and the ceilidh in the hall at Glendarvan.’

  This, accompanied by a sigh of pleasure, came from Minnie in the corner of the coach, which made Emily immediately want to rap her maid over the wrists with her fan.

  ‘It may be what you feel about England and dancing, but conversations, socially, should never reflect one’s feelings. Never, ever, do you hear, my dear Edith? Why, if all conversation did reflect people’s feelings, people everywhere would be coming up to people everywhere else and saying such things as “My, you look mighty ugly today”. Or “Whatever made you buy that hideous little hat?” Or “What a stupid face you have!” No, no, no. Tomorrow we must practise together making proper conversations, and you will please pay attention, and thereby I trust gain the devotion of some poor young man, somewhere. Or at least encourage one of them to dance with you twice! Great heavens, Edith, it is becoming quite noticeable that you only ever enjoy a dance once with one young man. It will be the talk of the town soon, really it will be, if you do not learn to flatter in your remarks, and soon.’

  Edith said nothing in reply, but turned her uneven profile towards the window. Her lower lip protruded, an ominous sign, Emily knew.

  Staring at her briefly, and feeling as she did her usual frustration as far as Edith was concerned, Emily suddenly did not care. She suddenly did not care one single little sigh if anyone danced with Edith once, twice or even a dozen times, no, she was quite, quite sure she did not even so much as half a sigh. Tomorrow she would go riding with the Captain Barrymore Fortescue, in her very best and most beautifully cut Busvines riding habit, and she would not c
are a hoot, let alone a rap, or a perch.

  Captain Barrymore Fortescue was going to be allowed to admire her equestrianism, and she was going to enjoy showing it off to him too. She had not enjoyed any of her time in London with Edith, and her daughter’s reluctance to behave as a nice girl should or could was enough to make her mother feel that she could not and would not tolerate any more. Instead Emily would ride out on Brass Buttons, and let the world think what it would. She would, for once, do as she wanted, just as Edith was always intent on doing whatever came into her head. Two could play at that game, and as far as Emily was concerned two were going to play at that game too.

  ‘What was that you said, Mama?’ Edith turned her cool, almost arrogant gaze on her mother.

  ‘I said nothing.’

  ‘Oh, really? I thought you said “humph”.’

  ‘Why on earth should I say such a thing, Edith? I have better manners than you, my dear, I do assure you. Only a hoyden and a frump would make such a sound, believe me.’

  Edith dropped her eyes. They both knew that Emily had indeed said ‘humph’ and quite loudly too. But why she had said it, like so much in their lives, in everyone’s lives, was a secret.

  Intrigues

  Things were not going well for Daisy. She was the first to admit this to the most important person in her life, namely herself. For a start Mrs Hartley Lambert would not be held back any more, and this was proving a disaster for poor Sarah.

  Mrs Hartley Lambert would not be held back for the simple reason that she wanted to witness her daughter’s great success for herself. She had become perfectly tired of being kept, as it were, behind drapes, and really, considering how much she was laying out in monetary terms for her daughter to do the London Season, no-one, least of all Daisy, could blame her.