The Loving Seasons

by Laura Matthews

  Lady Bradwell munched thoughtfully on a piece of shortbread. “I wonder. My dear child, you must consider my ramblings as naught. I shouldn’t clutter your head with my useless observations.”

  Emma set down her cup and regarded her aunt with puzzled eyes. “No, please. What is it you are trying to tell me, Aunt Amelia?”

  “That a silent, insidious bargain has been struck. The ladies have agreed to give their men the upper hand in exchange for a set of rules of the ladies’ making. The men may do as they wish on the sly, but in company they are constrained to act ‘civilized.’ Of course, some men are content with the simpering platitudes of the social setup, but others are not. Take wigs, for instance. When I was a child, men wore wigs. Now where was the sense in that? Imagine your own blond curls shaved off to be covered by a bland white wig of someone else’s hair. Is there anything more ridiculous? And consider, Emma, if a man lost his nightcap during the night! Bald or with a fuzz of hair no longer than the tip of your finger. Their heads look like eggs,” she muttered with an involuntary shudder. “I remember seeing my father once.

  “So why did men go to such hideous lengths? Because it was the mode, and the mode is set by the ladies. And the only reason they stopped wearing wigs was in rebellion against the powder tax. I tell you, Emma, men are virtual prisoners to fashions—in dress, behavior, activities, everything—which women have set.”

  “I can’t feel a great deal of pity for them, my dear aunt,” Emma said dryly. “They hold the purse strings.” She swung her tiny shell-shaped reticule by its strap in demonstration.

  “Yes,” her aunt declared, triumphant, “That is the other side of the coin. I think it would be difficult to say which came first. It is rather a union of misery, is it not? The men are stronger, and see a superiority in themselves. They are made to rule! But just who is the ruler when they must kowtow to every whim of feminine fancy? No one is satisfied, but no one will give any ground. Which brings me back to the rakes, just when you probably thought I had forgotten them."

  "Ah, yes, where do the rakes fit in?”

  Lady Bradwell’s eyes were dreamy. “They are the free spirits skirting on the edge of the acceptable. They do what they wish, with just enough regard for the rest of society to keep it in sight. A minimum of adherence to convention, a maximum of independence. Now, heed me well, Emma. Few men have the courage to skate on such thin ice and even fewer can do so with impunity. The secret is personal charm. To stray so far from the norm, one must have that special ingredient or one loses acceptance. But those who succeed— why, they are the admirable men, the men one may trust to make life worthwhile.”

  “But one could not trust them to allow a woman a like degree of freedom,” Emma protested.

  Her aunt sighed. “No, I suppose not, my love, but that is more the fault of the other side of the bargain, the ladies’ rules. I have been lucky in my situation, there is no doubt of that. Lord Bradwell hasn’t the least interest in what I do in town, and I go very much my own way. I visit him twice a year for a month at a time and I promise you he is as glad to see my heels as I am to show them to him. And do you know why? Because when I am with him I remind him of all the social inhibitions which he can ignore in my absence. I give teas for the local gentry, and dinner parties and occasionally a ball of sorts. Poor Felix must leave off his country clothes and don satin breeches, give up his field sports (you must know I always make one of the visits in winter), and bring out his rusty social patter. On the other hand, once I’ve left he has the satisfaction of knowing he has done his duty for another year, or half year, and he can feel quite free to pursue his own pleasures again.”

  “And he allows you to expend what you wish in London?”

  “He would rather I spent it here than there. Felix is not a mean man; he's very openhanded, in fact, and I brought a sizable dowry when we wed. His country living is not vastly expensive, and since the estate will go to a nephew, he’s in no mind to expand his holdings.”

  “Could you not have ... children?” Emma asked hesitantly.

  Lady Bradwell made an awkward gesture with her hand. “There was one—stillborn. It was a difficult labor and the doctor said I was unlikely to have others. He has proved to be correct. A heavy price to pay for my freedom.”

  A shadow of sadness passed over her aunt’s face and Emma sat perfectly still, not wishing to intrude on her reminiscences, but convinced that Amelia had more to tell her.

  The teacup trembled slightly in her aunt’s hand and was set down carefully on the fret-bordered top of the stand beside her chair. After gazing for some while at the empty hearth she said softly, “I wanted to have babies, and of course Felix wanted an heir. The child would have been a girl, and she looked so very perfect, but she wouldn’t breathe. I don’t know what happened to me then—the doctor called it a nervous disorder. For months I ate very little and slept poorly, hardly got out of my bed. It’s strange, but I don’t remember how Felix took it all. I know how I expected him to take the loss of the child and the impossibility of having others, but I’m not sure that I didn’t read into his long silences what I thought he was feeling, and not what he really felt. Perhaps his concern was for me and not for the end of his line, but he was inexpert at expressing himself.

  “When I recovered sufficiently, the doctor suggested Bath as place of recuperation. Felix did not come with me, which hurt me deeply. There may have been reasons for his staying at Thorpe Arch. If there were, he did not inform me of them. I felt very alone, and wretchedly unwanted, useless. Bath was very gay then and I was not quite twenty years of age. Probably I was still a bit unhinged from the lying-in. There was a very attractive gentleman there who was extraordinarily kind and sympathetic to me. I was so vulnerable.”

  Lady Bradwell glanced at her niece, briefly, and smiled. “You see, my dear, therein lies a woman’s only real freedom. I could not have children. To me, a few months previously, it had been a disaster. Presumably it was the same for my husband. And now, it meant that I really had nothing to fear if I had an affair. No illegitimate child to bring shame on me; no fears for the life such a child would be forced to live. And I thought, too, that I would give Felix an opportunity to divorce me, if he wished, so that he could remarry and have an heir. He was not such a stickler as to be alarmed by bringing an action before the Ecclesiastical Court and a petition before the Upper Assembly. You’ve heard of them: So and so being of a loose and abandoned disposition, and being wholly unmindful of her conjugal vow et cetera, did contract and carry on a lewd and adulterous conversation with such and such. And it was not as if he didn’t know about it; his sister was in Bath at the time and sent off periodic expresses to Felix.”

  “But he didn’t do anything?” Emma asked, fascinated.

  “He wrote one letter asking me to be more discreet.” Lady Bradwell’s eyes sparked momentarily with anger, and then she let out a little breath of exasperation. “Dear Felix. He suggested that any man of honor would gladly give his word not to breathe a whisper of the affair, and might be relied on to adhere to it, no matter what the provocation. His advice has served me well.”

  “And when you met him again? Didn’t he say anything then?”

  “No, nothing. He acted as though the whole episode did not exist. We resumed our marital relations and the following spring when I broached the possibility of our going to London, he said I should go and enjoy myself. And that is how it has been ever since, more or less. I have always been discreet, and any tales you will hear of me are undoubtedly exaggerations. Though I have any number of gentleman friends, I am not entirely ‘loose and abandoned.’ My first friend and two others over the last eighteen years are the only ones who have been lovers, the rest are enjoyable companions—and camouflage. Do I shock you by being so blunt, Emma?”

  Her niece had flushed slightly but vigorously shook her head. “Of course not. I’m not missish. What you do is your own affair.”

  “Pray remember that, my dear. Don’t try to fight ba
ttles for me, or explain me to your friends. What I have told you is in confidence and not to be shared with anyone else. I think,” she said, musing, “that I have told you all this because you will need to know, Emma. You are more spirited than I and you are like to wish to go against convention. I don’t want you to think that I would encourage such behavior. Your position is entirely different from mine. Fortunately you are not likely to be intimidated by the old tabbies who will try to make you blush for my reputation. But you must see that any outrageous conduct will give them ammunition, and if you have a wish to settle well in life, you will have to keep a clean face to the world. All these roistering young men want virgins for brides.”

  “How nice for them,” Emma said ruefully. “And are there gentlemen of your acquaintance, Aunt Amelia, who would like a young lady with some spirit?”

  “I’ll have to think about it.” Her aunt smiled. “Run along and freshen up, my dear I want to discuss your wardrobe before dinner.”

  * * * *

  The instruction Anne received from her mother was rather different from that Emma received from her aunt. Lady Barnfield was one of the best-liked society matrons in London, and her circle of friends was wide and eclectic. Despite her glamorous position, she was not haughty or exclusive, never acted the role of grande dame as some of the patronesses of Almack’s were known to do. Above all she was kind and amiable, practical and intelligent. Her children loved and respected her, as they did their father. Jack and Will and Anne were so accustomed to their tight-knit family that they scarcely gave it a thought. Anne’s return from school was the occasion for a private family celebration, a sumptuous meal from which the marchioness eventually led Anne to the drawing room, leaving the men to their port.

  After a moment of studying her daughter, Lady Barnfield smiled. “You are going to make me very proud, Anne. And please don’t think I refer to your beauty, which is certainly admirable. It is the combination of your looks and your conversation and your thoughtfulness which will see you well established. Not that I am in any hurry to get you married off! I am hoping you will enjoy yourself and give yourself an opportunity to choose wisely. But your charm does not rely on youth alone, and I envision more than a little interest the moment you appear in society.”

  “You flatter me, Mama,” Anne protested, laughing. “I haven’t nearly the beauty of my friend Emma, nor her vivacity. Will is already captivated.”

  Lady Barnfield’s eyes danced. “Excellent. It won’t do the least harm for him to have an interest which will keep him in town for the season. But you aren’t to compare yourself with your friends, my dear. Each of you is unique and has something original to offer, I’m sure. There are men who are intimidated by too great a beauty or intelligence, just as there are men who will not so much as glance at a young lady who does not possess a striking loveliness. A reasonable man will consider a number of factors: countenance, companionability, position, dowry, intelligence, attitude. But in the long run, my dearest Anne, his heart will sway his head every time, because the heart speaks a language that is wholly one’s own.”

  “You believe that one should marry for love, don’t you, Mama?”

  “Oh, definitely. But love is a deeper, more abiding sentiment than most people recognize. Infatuations such as those Will continually suffers are commonly thought to be love, but they bear only the faintest resemblance to the real thing. No one has ever adequately described love, but I am convinced that you will know it when you experience it. If you are filled with doubts while experiencing a euphoria, I am inclined to believe you are feeling only the pangs of infatuation. For there to be a lasting love, there must be a respect which cancels the doubts.”

  Anne met her mother’s eyes steadily. “Did you never feel any doubts with Papa?”

  The marchioness laughed. “Only of my own worthiness, love. He was and is such a sterling figure that I could not bring myself to believe that I deserved him. I should tell you frankly, Anne, that there are not all that many gentlemen who come near his standard. You will learn to distinguish between those with merit and those aimless souls with no substance. I would willingly wager that you will form no long-standing affection for one of the latter. I don’t say that you may not be attracted for a moment by some consummate charmer who sets his mind to wooing you, but in the end you will have the sense to see him for what he is. I have enormous faith in your perception of worthiness.”

  “Mama, will they all know how large my dowry is?”

  A rueful nod answered her blunt question. “I’m afraid so, my dear. Not that any of us would speak of it, of course, but these matters are somehow common knowledge. There will be fortune-hunters, and there will be aristocrats fallen on hard times. Don’t let them disturb you. Just as your situation is known, so will theirs be. And it is not necessary that the fortunes of husband and wife be perfectly equal in any case."

  “Did men pursue you for your dowry?” Anne asked, curious.

  “Certainly.” The marchioness smiled reminiscently. “Some very charming men who were vastly amusing. I remember one fellow who could make me laugh just by opening his mouth. He was intrepid enough, too, to jest about the difference in our fortunes, but my brother, all unconscious of my interest, I think, mentioned that this particular fellow was addicted to gambling. Very few things are as ruinous to one’s life. Not just to one’s fortune, either. Such an addiction eats away at the bond between husband and wife as surely as wood rot. One cannot be certain of one’s financial position from day to day, nor of one’s standing in the other’s affections. The gambling addict is devoted to play, not to his wife. His lack of constancy generates a lack of trust on her part. It is a never-ending spiral of despair.”

  Fascinated, Anne asked, “But how can you tell someone who is addicted from someone who simply gambles for the entertainment? Almost everyone gambles.”

  Her mother shrugged. “True. It is a matter of degree. Some people develop a compulsion to gamble, but you aren’t always aware of it. Nor is it the only addiction of which you must beware. Almost any compulsion—to drink, to associate with low company, to cheat—is ultimately destructive. Lord, I seem to be stressing all the unacceptable types of behavior. Truly, my dear, you are not likely to meet all that many gentlemen with such appalling habits!”

  But in the days that followed she met a remarkable number of men, nonetheless. She went shopping with Emma and Lady Bradwell or her mother most mornings, but in the afternoons and evenings there were small entertainments to which she accompanied her family, and “morning” calls, which she almost came to dread.

  A typical morning call made to the house in Grosvenor Square consisted of some aristocratic lady with her son in tow, coming expressly to make Anne’s acquaintance. The correctly attired gentleman would cast a hasty glance at her, and then not infrequently withdraw his quizzing glass for a more thorough inspection, as though she were on display. Then he would address her in hearty tones, saying something remarkably witty such as, “So you are out of school now, are you, Lady Anne?” or “My, but you’ve grown since last I saw you when you were knee-high to a grasshopper!”

  Such deadly starts to conversation were almost invariably overlooked by Anne. She learned immediately to turn the topic to one of general interest to the group—a new play at Drury Lane or the current interest in the Midlands. Almost always she found that the gentlemen would tolerate this general discussion for only a while before they managed to draw her into private discourse. Their topics then were her own charms or their own prowess in whatever activity currently held their interest.

  There was Sir Arthur Moresby, who fancied himself quite as good a boxer as Gentleman Jackson, and who sported his fives at number 13 Bond Street regularly. There was Lord Langham, who had a racehorse that was the envy of all the other owners, or so he said. There was Lord Brackenbury, who had more than a passing interest in the most outrageous men’s fashions, and wore them with a notable lack of finesse. And there was Captain Midford, who regrette
d the end of the hunting season with something akin to depression.

  “You must understand, Lady Anne,” he said earnestly, “that I don’t at all mind doing the pretty in town during the season. Dunn keeps the most splendid beasts in his stables here as well as at Knowle Park. But a ride in town, or even in the surrounding countryside, cannot compare with the excitement of the chase. It’s a great pity the hunting season is so short! I’ve only time to stay with one friend each for rides with the Quorn, the Pytchley, the Cottesmore, and the Belvoir. And sometimes the weather turns so rotten that you miss a day’s hunt.”

  “Quite regrettable,” Anne murmured. “My brother Will has lamented the same disappointments.”

  “Then you understand!” His relief was apparent. “I assure you it’s not at all common to find a lady who does. Why, at the house parties, they sit around all day just waiting for us to return, and they expect us to take the greatest interest in their card games and dances in the evenings! I’m sure you know that the evenings are the times when we have a chance to go over each run to consider its merits. There’s hardly the opportunity when you’re out! I’ve known the fellows to outsit the ladies just so they could relax over a good glass of brandy and discuss the day’s sport in peace.”

  “What do you think the ladies should be doing while you’re out hunting?” Anne asked, trying to sound neutral.

  Captain Midford looked surprised, as though he’d never considered the matter. “Well, I don’t know. Doing embroidery, I suppose, or writing letters.”

  “And if there were no dances or card games in the evenings, I suppose they could write letters about the progress of their embroidery," she teased. “Since they are not encouraged to hunt with you, they could not describe the runs. Since you would have the men congregated together to discuss their sport, they could not write of their impressions of the company. Perhaps you think the ladies would do better not to attend the house parties at all.”