Paying Guests

by Claire Rayner

  The linen was not the only thing that was perfect. The glass and the china and silver sparkled with Lucy’s loving attention and the three housemaids themselves, ranged along the wall beside the sideboard waiting to be told when to commence serving dinner, were as clean and shining as any of the objects in the room, with perfect crisp aprons and hair tucked well away under their caps. Tilly was suddenly very aware of the way she had dressed her own hair, in the current modish manner, with a frizzed-out fringe over her forehead, and wished she had not done so. She must look frivolous in the extreme, and she didn’t feel at all frivolous.

  The guests were coming in to take their places as the gong, which Eliza had banged with her usual gusto in the hall, shuddered into silence. First, as always, the Misses Knapp and Fleetwood, with Miss Barnetsen close behind them. The older ladies were rather plumper than they had been when they had first come to 17 Brompton Grove, but Miss Barnetsen, who had arrived as thin as a tent peg and with eyes as bulging as any frog’s, had not changed an iota. She still behaved like a flibberty bit of a girl, though she must be forty if she were a day, flirting with a fan and teasing her two friends outrageously as they vied for her attention. It was an odd trio, and Tilly had long given up wasting any energy in trying to understand them. Their emotions and their relationships with each other and Miss Barnetsen were none of her affair.

  They were followed in swift succession by Mr Oswald Gee, who was always punctual for his meals and devoted all his time in the dining room to eating, never deigning to waste his energies on any conversation apart from a brisk ‘G’d evening, Mrs Quentin’ to his hostess and ‘Yes please’ to the serving maids; and Mr and Mrs Grayling who, in contrast, never stopped talking. They managed to eat a considerable amount, however, never missing either a word or a mouthful, and were sprightly company who saved the table from ever falling into silence. Not that it was likely to do so when Mr Hancock and Mr Cumming were dining; the former was eating his dinners at the bar and the latter was a young surgeon walking the wards at St George’s Hospital up near Apsley House, the Duke of Wellington’s home. These two were great jokers, and much enjoyed teasing each other over the shortcomings of their respective professions, with Mr Hancock accusing Mr Cumming of smelling quite disgusting (and indeed the young doctor did seem sometimes to bring the horrid air of the sickroom into the house with him) and Mr Cumming telling his tormentor with equal attack that he clearly had ink in his veins instead of blood and obviously no heart at all.

  Tonight they made a beeline not for their usual places, but for those opposite the most recent arrivals at Quentin’s, a group of visitors from abroad. The party included two young ladies who, though not of the most immediately pretty sort, had the advantage of being much the same age as the two young men, which made them seem a great deal more attractive than they were. Tilly watched them greet each other with sly giggles (the girls) and bluff compliments (the men) that were clearly to be the order of the evening, as their elders, the aunt of Miss McCool and the parents of Miss Lampeter, watched them cautiously. They would need no attention from their hostess tonight, Tilly told herself with relief, and turned her attention to the remainder of her table, calculating who was present and who absent as they took their places.

  Miss Baker and Miss Duke, the rather dim and very quiet schoolteachers who had been recommended to Quentin’s some five years ago by the Misses K and F and yet who never spoke to their sponsors (not that they spoke much to anyone else either, Tilly had to admit) arrived next, bringing the total to – she counted them with swift glances round her table – fifteen. Just Mr Hunter and Mr Graham to come: they were young men who taught at the St Aloysius College for Boys in Kensington and who had been living at Quentin’s this past two years and showed every sign of intending to stay as long as the female teacher guests, much to Tilly’s relief. Regular guests were far easier to deal with than drifting occasionals like the visitors from America now so busily flirting with Charles Hancock and Melville Cumming. But just as she wondered whether to wait any longer for them, Mr Hunter and Mr Graham arrived and took their places, and she lifted her hand to signal to Lucy that the service could begin. The table was complete, since Duff was not to dine. (‘Don’t think about that,’ a secret voice whispered in her ear. ‘Don’t think about Duff!’) So they could start dinner.

  Lucy looked blankly at her signal and Tilly was a touch irritated; it was not like Lucy to be so obtuse. She lifted her hand again and still Lucy looked dumbly back at her and did not move and then the door behind her opened again and Silas Geddes came in.

  ‘Oh, dear, am I last?’ he said. ‘I beg everyone’s pardon. I heard the gong but was not quite ready. Good evening, Mrs Quentin.’ As he slid into his place down the table she bent her head to acknowledge his arrival, hoping her embarrassment didn’t show. She had managed to forget him completely in her checking of her guests; how very remiss and how inefficient – and how very odd, since she’d spent so much time talking to him earlier.

  She looked again towards Lucy to signal to her yet again, but Lucy hadn’t waited. She was already moving around the table with Rosie and Dora, in well drilled concert, in their places too serving the Brown Windsor soup. A faint ‘ahem’ behind Tilly’s chair told her that Rosie was there waiting for her to move her shoulders so that her plate could be set in position; she obeyed, glad to know her staff were so well trained, but feeling herself flustered and irritable as well. She who was usually so calm and sensible to be thrown into confusion because she had forgotten one of her guests? How absurd she was being.

  The clatter of dishes and the sound of desultory chatter gave way to a contented silence as soup was taken with gusto by all (except, perhaps, by Tilly herself, who found her appetite oddly capricious tonight). Eliza’s Brown Windsor was a soup of rich depth of flavour as well as being most nutritious, unlike the sort peddled by some less careful establishments, and was a great favourite. It was not until they were all well into the next course and were eating Mr Jerryman’s excellent turbot, which had come to table most elegantly dressed with its rich shrimp sauce and smelled delectable, that any of them had the time for much real conversation. But as the level of the flasks of Chablis which Tilly had chosen to accompany the fish went down, the noise of chatter and laughter rose to match.

  The four young people laughed a great deal and showed small interest in their other neighbours, not that that mattered since the the elder Mrs McCool and Lampeters senior were happy enough talking to each other in low voices (‘probably comparing what we do with what they do at home,’ Tilly thought a little sharply as she looked at them, for she had already been treated to some of their animadversions on the British as compared with the American way of plumbing) and in turn ignored their other neighbours.

  But here again this caused no offence, for they were the Misses Baker and Duke, who never spoke in more than monosyllables anyway. Opposite them, however, the Misses K and F were in sprightly conversation with Mr Hunter and Mr Graham.

  ‘I cannot see,’ Miss Priscilla Knapp said, ‘why young ladies should not study biology. If it is suitable for the young male mind, then the young female mind can encompass it too.’

  ‘It is not the female ability to comprehend the subject to which I object.’ Mr Hunter was a thin man with a drooping eyelid on the right that gave him a totally unjustified rakish air. He was the soul of probity and very concerned always to be completely comme il faut. ‘It is the effect on their more delicate constitutions that concerns me. Botany is enough for the female, I am convinced. When other higher life forms are being studied there is no need to disturb them with it. As for the study of human anatomy –’ He almost shuddered. ‘I would prefer if that were studied only by those young men who have to, in order to be doctors. Though I have to say,’ and he looked across the table sharply as Melville Cumming let out a peal of even louder than usual laughter, ‘that I fear it has a sadly coarsening effect on them. I never yet met a doctor who was also a gentleman of refinement, and
so I tell you.’

  ‘Then you have been unfortunate.’ Silas Geddes lifted his head from his plate on which Lucy was setting a serving of macaroni, somewhat to the surprise of his immediate left-hand neighbour, Mrs Grayling. ‘I know of several who are excellent ambassadors for their vocation. And one in particular who is a gentleman of the highest probity and sensitivity, though I have to admit he is not a doctor of medicine. He is a true scientist, however, and has studied all aspects of life in great detail. His knowledge, far from coarsening him, has refined his mind and his conversation to a degree that is quite remarkable.’

  Mr Hunter looked at him and his drooping eyelid seemed to twitch. ‘Indeed,’ was all he said, and he looked away towards Miss Priscilla Knapp again. But she had switched her attention across the table to Mr Geddes.

  ‘Do tell me more, Mr Geddes. Who is this paragon of virtue? And would he agree with me that there is no reason why young ladies should not pursue the same studies as young men?’

  ‘I would be amazed if he thought otherwise. Indeed I think I can speak for him and say I am sure he would agree that all young people should embrace study of all the sciences in great depth. He is Dr Thomas Henry Huxley, Miss Knapp.’

  He said it with a sort of pride and lifted his chin with an air of defiance; and it was needed. Several of the other diners turned to stare at him and the talk died away, even that between the four young flirtatious ones.

  ‘Dr Huxley?’ It was Cynthia Barnetsen who spoke first and she trimmed her speech with a trill of breathy little giggles. ‘Isn’t he that dreadful man who said Darwin is right and that we are all descended from the monkeys? How can you regard such a one as being anything but thoroughly coarse?’ And she giggled again.

  ‘Cynthia, I beg you not to speak of matters you do not comprehend,’ Miss Fleetwood said briskly and smiled a wide yellow-toothed smile at Silas. ‘So you know Dr Huxley, Mr Geddes? That must be a considerable privilege. I am a great admirer of both him and Bishop Wilberforce.’

  ‘Oh, of course Mr Wilberforce is a good man,’ Cynthia Barnetsen said with another foolish giggle, ‘for all I have heard – did he not end slavery?’

  ‘That was Mr William Wilberforce,’ Silas Geddes said and, to his credit, Tilly thought, there was not a flicker of amusement on his face. ‘He died a great many years ago, Miss Barnetsen. This is Bishop Samuel Wilberforce. He is also a good man, and a supporter of Mr Darwin together with Dr Huxley.’

  ‘Well, for my part I cannot understand how any person of refinement can ever say we are descended from monkeys,’ Mrs Grayling burst out, looking as though tears were about to appear in her round, rather foolish eyes. ‘I am sure the very idea is quite disgusting, don’t you agree, my dear?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Mr Grayling said, not lifting his head from his turbot. Since he always agreed with all his wife said, this was of small surprise to any of the company.

  ‘And I can’t believe that any bishop could ever support such a shocking notion,’ Mrs Grayling continued. ‘Why, it is quite –’

  ‘I do assure you it is so.’ Silas sounded a little sharp, Tilly thought and began to wonder if she should try to deflect the conversation. Generally she left her guests to their own conversational devices unless there seemed to be problems brewing and she certainly had no wish to join in this discussion. Her own views were not yet fully formed, and she could make no decision either way, but to say as much would offend everyone at the table. Mrs Grayling would think her monstrous for not agreeing with her, and the Misses K and F would despise her for her poor support.

  But she did not need to intervene. A rescue came from a most unexpected quarter. Mr Melville Cumming, at last distracted from his flirtation with Miss Lampeter (who to tell the truth did little more than giggle at his sallies, which made it difficult for him to get very far), raised his voice.

  ‘I think there must be much in what Mr Darwin says,’ he offered. ‘I have his book – his new one, don’t you know – The Descent of Man and hope to start reading it properly soon, but what I have seen – I have skimmed it a little you know, just skimmed it – he says there’s little to choose between us. And I have to tell you that when I have done dissections on animals I, too, have found there is little to choose between ‘em for their internal arrangements, and now I am dealing with human subjects, why I have discovered the same is true.’

  ‘Oh!’ Mrs Grayling leaned back in her chair and began to fan herself with great vigour. ‘Do give over, Mr Cumming! You make me feel quite qualmish, indeed you do, with such talk! It isn’t proper at the dinner table, now is it, Mrs Quentin?’ And she looked appealingly at Tilly, who sighed and glanced at Mr Cumming.

  ‘I think perhaps this might be left for another time,’ she murmured. ‘Now, Mrs Grayling, Eliza, I know, would warmly welcome your opinion of her baked beef. She told me herself that she much admires your understanding of culinary matters and would be most grateful for your consideration.’ She glanced at Lucy who collected her silent instructions at once and hurried round the table to offer Mrs Grayling some baked beef.

  Silas glanced at Tilly with his brows slightly raised and, without meaning to, she shook her head at him in the most minute of signals and he let his lips quirk in a half smile and subsided. Oh, the wretched man, she thought. Wretched man. He has made me into his supporter and conspirator with that look. And there was I, trying to remain impartial. I shall have to tell him.

  ‘Tell him what?’ her secret little voice jeered. ‘That you rather like the look of him and would enjoy more conversation with him? For you would and you know it. He is interesting and amusing and anyway, he stops you thinking about Duff. Is that not why he interests you?’

  She ignored the question and concentrated on the meal, as the boiled chickens went round and then the lettuce salad and the baked tomatoes together with sundry other vegetables, and everyone became more relaxed and contented. Not another word was said about Mr Huxley or the propriety or otherwise of teaching young ladies about biology, and Tilly drew a breath of relief. The last thing she needed was controversy at her dinner table.

  When the dishes had been cleared for the third course, Eliza arrived at the dining-room door, very handsome in her black housekeeper’s dress (not for the world would she have been seen above stairs in an apron) bearing in her own hands the tray on which rested her own special offering, the puddings. The damson tart was large, golden and glittering with the sugar on its crust, and the Exeter pudding was magnificent, sending tendrils of butter and rum-scented steam into the warm atmosphere of the dining room, where the candles had lifted everyone’s cheeks to a bright rosiness and some of the men to an actual dampness about the brow, which they mopped with large white handkerchiefs. How the women managed to escape the same fate it was impossible to say.

  She was greeted with approval by all, especially the young quartet, and even the collection of schoolteachers made it clear that they admired Eliza’s efforts. The remainder of dinner passed harmoniously with a great deal of the tart and the pudding vanishing, though Tilly noticed that Eliza had quietly kept back a sizeable portion of the former, once she had made a swift study of the people at the table and realized that Duff was not among them. Her darling wouldn’t miss his special treat, Tilly thought, not if Eliza could help it. Would he love me better if I made the damson tart, I wonder?

  Again she dismissed the thought and signalled with her eyes to Lucy, who nodded and set out for the kitchen to fetch the tray of coffee with which, in the daring modern manner, Tilly chose to end her dinners. It was not customary at Quentin’s for the men to sit over port after dinner, and not because Tilly was meagre in her provision of wines. She was not. They had enjoyed an excellent claret as well as the Chablis with the turbot and sherry with their soup. It was simply that she had never wished to separate her male and female guests, feeling that to do so would smack of over-fashionable behaviour. Quentin’s was a good solid lodging house for people of the middling sort, not the private home of a member of th
e aristocracy, and she was never going to pretend otherwise.

  So now her guests followed her out of the dining room, some to accompany her to the drawing room where the coffee would be served, and others, like Mr and Mrs Grayling, to repair to their own rooms, where they would be fetched a tray of old-fashioned tea which they preferred, and could rest with their feet up and, in Mrs Grayling’s case, their stays comfortably loosened. The American visitors went too, somewhat to the chagrin of Mr Hancock and Mr Cumming, to go to a theatre, and the two young men, after a little disconsolate hanging about also went out, clearly intending to spend their time in more convivial company than that of the clutch of schoolteachers now clustered in the big drawing room, where Tilly dispensed coffee.

  Mr Geddes was one of those who remained, however, and he settled to a long and quiet conversation with the Misses Knapp and Fleetwood, at which Miss Barnetsen took some umbrage and flounced off to her room. Usually they would have gone after her to coax her out of her sulks, but tonight they stayed with Mr Geddes, quite entranced by his conversation; and Tilly was left to sit over her coffee tray watching Mr Hunter and his companion Mr Graham playing piquet and listening to the buzz of the others’ voices.

  She was content enough, she told herself. It would have been better still had Duff been at dinner and had come to sit here with her afterwards, but that was not to be. She must accept what he had told her, that he was grown up now and had different needs and different activities to those that she chose.

  And then the drawing-room door opened and Duff came in. He was wearing a well cut evening suit and looked very dashing. He smiled around at the company, then at Tilly and said simply, ‘Hello, Mamma, I am back early and thought I might take some coffee with you. I hope there is some left for me?’