by Maria McCann
‘Wound you?’
‘One doesn’t keep a dear friend at arm’s length.’
‘You aren’t a dear friend, Hetty, you’re my dearest friend – apart, that is, from Edmund. Some ladies become more reserved upon marriage.’ She can’t resist adding, ‘We may have our reasons, you know.’
‘Do I? It’s all I do know. I’ve so looked forward to this visit, Sophy. To meet as brides ―! I was sure we should open our hearts to one another.’
‘Please, Hetty dear, let’s not quarrel. What earthly reason could I have for wounding you?’
‘I don’t know.’ Hetty bites her lip and Sophia can see what her cousin will be at forty, pouchy about the chin. ‘Mr Zedland must be handsome indeed.’
‘Let’s not quarrel,’ Sophia repeats. ‘Believe me, Hetty, you are always the object of my tenderest esteem. Now, shall we rejoin Mr Letcher and take a turn in Marylebone?’
*
In the past the cousins would have strolled together, too well bred not to include a third party in their talk but always more interested in each other’s sayings and doings than in those of anyone else. Today, however, they arrange themselves on either side of Josiah Letcher.
Hetty’s blameless husband, thus accompanied, presents a faint resemblance to a man of honour swaggering out, a mistress on either side. Sophia, who has recently begun to observe such swaggerers with interest, finds herself unconcerned. Anybody approaching near enough to recognise her could not fail to see how chastely Mr Letcher supports her arm. Besides, nobody knows her – she has given up hoping that anyone in London, apart from these two and Edmund, ever will – and where one is not known, one ceases, for all practical purposes, to exist.
But what is she thinking? She trembles, almost stumbles, at the direction in which her unchecked reflections have been leading, so that the attentive Mr Letcher turns in concern. Not known, when her most secret thought is open to One whose worth infinitely outweighs that of mere human society? Not known, when the Benign Lawgiver, the Tender Father is ever present, though unseen? She is under a loving protection that constitutes Man’s chief comfort – though its contemplation, for some reason Sophia is unable to fathom, only deepens the oppression of her spirits.
The sky is all of one colour, a featureless expanse of steel-grey cloud beneath which Marylebone Gardens, shorn of their summer gaiety, show trivial and uninviting. Of course the place is not equal to Ranelagh, she is not so unreasonable as to expect it, but she privately resolves that when Hetty next visits they shall go to the theatre or the menagerie, anywhere likely to provide food for conversation. For what is there to talk of, here? Hedges, bowling greens and gravel walks? Sophia had all of these things at her parents’ home, and peacocks to boot. As a girl she disliked their continual skirling but now, as Mr Letcher solicits her admiration for yet another oak tree, she would gladly be interrupted by an entire ostentation of peacocks, rending the air with their harpy screams. Perhaps it is the memory of those parading birds, perhaps the strolling in company, but she is curiously reminded of Bath: strange, when that vulgar, promiscuous, provincial city so entranced her, that she can take no pleasure in this scene of innocent English amusement. Consider how much our modern elegance owes to their inspiration. Who said that? Ah yes, she remembers now: Edmund championed the imitators of the classical, while she upheld the native English style. She pictures, as from a great distance, their boat suspended upon the glittering surface of the lake: the rower and the woman watching him, August raging all around them, unmeasured depths beneath. Her own face, which at the time she could only glimpse by leaning over the water, now comes close, poignantly open to her and transfigured by guileless adoration, while Edmund’s is blurred.
O, for the innocence of that day! It seems that since then she has almost come to prefer the artful and the dishonest; no doubt if they went to Ranelagh she would scorn the honest English songs and give ear only to the warbling bel canto.
‘Moving the cardoons was just such a whim,’ Mr Letcher is complaining to Hetty. ‘When a man has served as long as Tichborne, he should be left to his business.’ Sophia is at a loss until she grasps that Mr Letcher’s mother and her interference in the garden are again under discussion. She directs her gaze at the ground, half-listening to the conversation of her companions: how Mama is full of ill-judged projects that only serve to give the domestics extra work and how she fancies herself a second Mrs Delany, with none of the ability of that celebrated lady.
‘She lacks occupation since the death of your papa,’ Hetty murmurs.
‘Indeed. There’s something pitiable, I always think, in the spectacle of a wife without a husband. Ivy with no supporting tree.’
There follows a sound like the clearing of a throat. Sophia can picture Hetty’s exasperated frown.
‘Shall we turn in at the Rose?’ suggests Mr Letcher with unabashed cheerfulness. ‘Something warm would be a welcome restorative.’
‘Is it respectable?’ Sophia wants to know.
‘Lord, Sophy, he wouldn’t take us there otherwise!’
Sophia blushes. ‘No, of course not.’
‘In a place of resort one can never be sure of one’s company,’ Mr Letcher concedes with more honesty than power to reassure. ‘Not even at Ranelagh. But I believe Marylebone is generally considered respectable.’
‘The middling sort,’ Hetty warns, in case Sophia should expect people of fashion.
The Rose of Normandy, towards which the three are now advancing, is the oldest part and the very rootstock of the garden, from which all the rest has sprung: the bowling greens first of all, then the gravel walks, the paths between the trees and the Great Room and orchestra. No architect, evidently, had any hand in the design of the Rose, but its thick walls and small windows present a stout defence against cold weather. Despite her misgivings, Sophia’s heart lifts at the sight of smoke billowing from its chimney.
Behind the front door there is a flagged passageway. The room into which it leads them is also flagged, and completely empty.
Hetty laughs. ‘We shan’t be troubled by unruly companions, at any rate.’
‘Perhaps they are not open for business.’ Sophia watches as Mr Letcher goes to the counter and pulls on a rope, setting off a bell somewhere in the depths of the tavern.
The room is furnished with oak tables, benches and settles of the antique English pattern: this place certainly aims no higher than the middling sort, if so high. It appears clean, however, and the prospect of a warming glass is a powerful attraction after such a cold, damp walk. They make their way towards the inglenook in the furthest wall, where a faint gleam lingers among the cinders, and settle themselves at a table close by, Sophia and Hetty commanding a view of the empty tables and Mr Letcher, less careful of his complexion, facing the fire.
‘How perfectly Gothick,’ Hetty says.
Sophia expects the host to appear from behind the counter like an actor making an entrance upon his accustomed stage. Instead, he arrives via a heavy door at the opposite end of the room, through which issues, during the few seconds that it stands open, a faint hum of conversation.
‘It seems all your company is through there,’ Mr Letcher says pleasantly as the man approaches. ‘Is this part of the inn shut up?’
‘Not at all, Sir, and it is the most comfortable apartment for ladies.’
‘Then kindly bring us more coals,’ replies Mr Letcher. The landlord looks as if he thinks the room is quite warm enough, but his expression changes to one of gratified complaisance when they order hot bishop, a dish of stewed pigeons and some almond cheesecake.
‘By comfortable I suppose he means not full of rowdies,’ whispers Hetty as the man departs. ‘What comfort can one find on a wooden bench?’
‘A cushion, perhaps,’ suggests Sophia. ‘What sort of company is in the back room, I wonder? What do you think, Mr Letcher?’
‘Some clubmen, I fancy. Not bad fellows, you know, but they like to have a place to themselves.’
‘I hope they won’t come through here.’
‘O no, why should they? Don’t be nervous, Mrs Zedland. They’ll be drinking long after we’ve quitted the premises.’
‘It’s my cousin’s nature to be nervous. Do you remember, Sophy, when Radley first put you on Diamond? I thought you’d faint.’
‘Did I really look as afraid as that?’
‘O, my dear! I told him you’d never learn and Aunt heard me. She said, I’ll have you know, young lady, that Sophia Buller unfailingly performs her duty. I laughed – insufferable chit I must’ve been – but you learned, just as she said. I’ve often thought one can’t be truly brave without fear.’
‘Condemned out of your own mouth, my love,’ remarks Mr Letcher, ‘for I’ve never seen you afraid of anything.’
Sophia smiles to show that she has long forgiven Hetty’s superiority – not difficult, since she has no recollection of her cousin’s presence. What she recalls is the discomfort of perching sideways on the saddle, her terror of sliding off, the treacherous dip and sway of the pony. Radley led the beast forward, insisting on its gentleness. She suffered untold humiliation from his impatience; he had the terrible briskness, the ill-concealed contempt of all strong and practical people obliged to serve weaklings. What was she learning all those years ago? To overcome her fear of the animal, or to perfect her obedience to her mother? Boys are taught how to strike off shackles, girls how best to bear them.
But this is dreadful: she has begun to think like a bluestocking, or is it a libertine? She doesn’t know; she doesn’t know what she thinks. She is so over-tired, these days, and so unsettled: nervous hardly covers it.
The bishop is brought and she drains a glass almost at once. There seems to be fresh company inside the back room: laughter swells until it washes under the door.
‘I wonder who they can be,’ says Mr Letcher. ‘What sort of club.’
Hetty purses her lips. ‘Evidently one for noisy people.’
‘I might just look in.’
‘You said they wanted the place to themselves.’
‘They won’t grudge me one peep.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t, Letcher. Suppose they should be quarrelsome?’
‘Come, my dear, they seem a very good-natured company.’ Mr Letcher, with the courage taught to boys, takes up his glass of bishop and strides down the room to disappear through the far door, leaving his womenfolk alone.
‘If they bring the meat,’ grumbles Hetty, ‘I shan’t go in there and call him out.’
‘I’m sure he’ll be back directly.’
Left alone with Hetty, she cannot help recalling their recent tête-à-tête in the house. Sophia hopes her cousin is no longer offended. It would be a great comfort to be reassured of this by Hetty herself, but how should she reopen the conversation? An ill-chosen word might suggest to Hetty that she is willing, on consideration, to sacrifice the secrets of the marriage bed on the altar of feminine friendship, and then there would be the whole awkwardness to go through again. Perhaps if she ―
Hetty breaks into her thoughts. ‘What’s the matter with your black?’
‘Titus?’
‘You said he was unsatisfactory.’
‘He talks oddly.’
‘O, they all do that. Unless they are bred over here.’
‘I know, but Titus’s speech makes him ridiculous.’
‘A pity. He looks well.’
‘You think me extravagant,’ Sophia observes.
‘Not at all, but I confess myself puzzled. You live in a modest way, and then – this boy!’
‘I had nothing to do with his coming into the house.’
‘Ah,’ says Hetty knowingly. ‘Could you employ a master to correct him?’
‘I doubt Mr Zedland would consent to the expense. Besides, instruction wouldn’t precisely answer the case. There’s an insolence about Titus.’
‘Does he answer back?’
‘I can’t quite explain to you what I mean. One feels a lack of respect.’
‘Hum! There are graver faults, no doubt, but dumb insolence is the most infuriating.’
‘I don’t know that I should prefer the pert variety. I’d gladly be rid of him but my husband defends Titus and the boy trades on it.’
‘Gentlemen shouldn’t meddle in these things. Once a servant perceives ―’
‘I’ve taken steps, however. I won’t be braved in my own house.’
‘By Titus, or by Mr Zedland?’
‘Titus, of course. Gracious, Hetty, you make me sound a perfect virago!’ The cousins appear to be undergoing a transmutation of souls, for Hetty is in earnest while Sophia meets her cousin’s gaze with the prettiest and most inconsequential of laughs.
‘But why does your husband defend this boy?’
Sophia hesitates. ‘I don’t know that he’s ever witnessed – I mean, Titus conducts himself tolerably well when Mr Zedland is present, in fact ― ’
‘In fact, you suspect Mr Zedland of putting him up to it.’
Hetty had always this unnerving trick of leaping at things, Sophia recalls. Perceptions at which others arrive only after prolonged mental labour are hers in an instant. Her mother used to refer to Cousin Hetty’s intuition, but that word is at present too delicate-sounding for what Sophia experiences as a grave failure of politeness. While meaning no harm, Hetty lays bare what one would prefer to leave hidden. In one so amiable, it is an unamiable quality.
A faint masculine roar escapes from the inner room.
‘Here come the refreshments.’ Sophia resolutely directs her gaze towards the opening door. The landlord, accompanied by a pleasant young woman (who, judging by her features, must surely be his daughter), sets before them a dish of pigeons, one of stewed dried peas, a plate of sliced bread and something resembling buttered cabbage. The daughter refills their glasses with smoking bishop, curtseys and returns through the door, letting in another burst of merriment.
‘O, I can’t eat garden thrash,’ says Hetty, eyeing the cabbage. ‘I simply can’t bear it.’
‘Your mother was too indulgent. Thanks to my famed obedience and courage, I can eat anything green provided there’s melted butter.’ Sophia’s manner is sprightly: no husband of hers would set a servant to bait her, nor could any friend imagine such a thing. ‘Shall we wait for Mr Letcher?’
‘What do you say, Sophy? Consult our comfort and convenience, or sit while the food grows cold?’ For a second Hetty seems about to return to their earlier conversation. ‘Wait for him by all means, if you wish. I shan’t.’ Yet she makes no move to help herself but sits sulkily twining her fingers in her lap. Sophia wonders at her. Such a very mild trial of Hetty’s patience, yet how she frets under it!
It would appear that the landlord has dropped a word in Mr Letcher’s ear, for the erring spouse reappears directly, flushed and smiling.
‘I trust you entertained yourselves while I was away?’
Hetty raises her eyebrows. ‘We can always entertain ourselves. But you did wrong, Letcher, to leave us. Only fancy if some of those clubmen had come in and found us alone! They might have mistaken us for quite another kind of female.’
‘I am sure nobody could make such a mistake,’ says Mr Letcher, seating himself at the table. ‘Your air, your manner must surely prevent it.’
‘Even if they were drunk? No, Sir, you should have remained to protect us.’
‘Some of those unhappy creatures are so elegantly turned out,’ Sophia puts in, ‘that they are taken for ladies.’
The other two stare at her. ‘Well!’ says Hetty. ‘It seems you are au fait with some London ways, at least.’
‘I read the newspapers like anyone else. And I have seen women in carriages, very grand carriages, who did not appear respectable.’
‘Some of the highest in the land are not respectable in your sense of the word,’ observes Mr Letcher, spearing a juicy morsel of pigeon. ‘I could name a duchess or two.’
‘Of whom we do not choose to speak,’
retorts his wife. ‘What of your clubmen? Are they as jolly as you hoped when you abandoned our society for theirs?’
‘They are indeed, but not everybody present is a clubman. There is yet another room within that one, with a bank, and tables.’
‘Gaming?’
‘Aye, and deadly serious.’
‘Did you stake anything?’
‘My love, I merely looked over the company. I hope that is permitted.’
‘Of course. I only question whether it is agreeable.’
‘What should offend me? The stock in trade of the professional gamester, Mrs Zedland, is to pass for a gentleman. Most of the time, he’s ignorant as a savage – engage him in a discussion of politics or law, and he’s lost. Look no further than dress and manner, however, and he’s the most charming creature in the world.’
Hetty snorts. ‘Like certain duchesses.’
‘Of whom we do not choose to speak.’
Sophia could scold them for bickering. They were so affectionate earlier; can they not conduct themselves better, and permit her to order her thoughts in peace? Their talk of gamesters is exquisitely distressing to her. She would gladly leave the inn as soon as manners permit and, in order to achieve this end, attacks her pigeon with an appetite she is very far from feeling.
‘Uncle Buller says the age is corrupt,’ Hetty says, pushing bone and gristle to the side of her plate, ‘but I wonder, were our forefathers always so very virtuous? What do you think, Sophy?’
‘I don’t know, I’m sure,’ she says, hoping that by closing down the conversation, she will induce them to eat. Mr Letcher turns towards her, an earnest light in his eye.
‘For myself, I believe our time to be peculiarly adapted to deceptions.’
‘Your proof?’ says Hetty.
‘I speak merely of opinion. I have a notion, Mrs Zedland, that our society is more promiscuous than formerly. You need only consider the easy, natural air which is so admired. Such an air can be acquired by any man of capacity, not irredeemably vulgar, if he will only take pains over it. Everywhere one goes, one sees men of the middling kind conversing with gentlemen.’
‘But surely not on equal terms,’ Sophia objects.
