The Smile of the Stranger

by Joan Aiken

  Next morning she found herself alone in the breakfast parlor with Miss Ardingly; the other ladies were still sleeping after a late night, it seemed.

  Miss Ardingly, after again thoroughly scrutinizing Juliana through her glass, at once opened fire: “So, miss, you have come to London to catch yourself a husband, hey?”

  “I do not know if that was my grandfather’s intention for me, ma’am,” replied Juliana, helping herself to chocolate, “but it certainly was not mine.”

  “What was your intention, then, child, in heaven’s name?”

  The old lady’s tones, though brisk, seemed not unfriendly, and Juliana replied, “My purpose was twofold, ma’am. I wished to deposit my father’s last work at his publishers’—and I was in hopes of finding myself some congenial remunerative occupation, since I do not at all wish to be a charge upon my relatives.”

  “Hey-dey! What kind of remunerative occupation could a gel like yourself find to do, pray? No—no—take my word for it, that is not to be thought of. In any case, now that I see you I am certain that Caroline will not have the slightest difficulty in making a good match for you—despite all that old tale about your mother! Nobody will give a rush for that. I daresay it will be best for Caroline to marry you off directly, so as to get you off her hands—for sure she won’t wish to take you about for longer than she can help it alongside those two plain wenches of hers, showing up all their imperfections!”

  And the old lady let out a malicious cackle.

  Startled and dismayed at this sharp estimate of her situation, Juliana nevertheless felt her curiosity aroused by one part of Miss Ardingly’s remark.

  “Pray, ma’am, what was the tale about my mother? What did she do? And—and where is she now? My grandfather will tell me nothing on the subject—and nor would my father. He promised to do so before he died—but then—but then—”

  Juliana was obliged to come to a stop.

  “Lord, child, if your grandfather will not tell you, it is best I should not! Besides, the tale is hardly fit for your ears. Your mother tossed her bonnet over the windmill with a vengeance. Prospered exceedingly for a time, too. But I believe she ended up in Queer Street. Found herself at Point Non Plus.”

  “Where is she now, ma’am—do you know?”

  “Haven’t a notion, child. She was established in Paris for some time, that I do know. But I daresay when the Revolution came she was obliged to decamp, like all the other English.”

  No further questions from Juliana could elicit any information from Miss Ardingly; she said, “Now that’s enough on that head, child, don’t tease me. I certainly shan’t give you details which your grandfather thought improper to impart. Wait till you are married!—But tell me about this work of your father’s. What is it, pray, and who are his publishers?”

  This Juliana was very ready to tell her, and she listened with acute interest.

  “A life of Charles the First, hmm? Had your papa written other books?”

  “Oh yes indeed, ma’am, a life of George Villiers, and one of Thomas Wentworth.”

  “Strange that I never came across them. I read a great deal of history. He did not write under the name of Paget?”

  “No, ma’am, he assumed the nom de plume of Charles Elphinstone.”

  “Elphinstone, why did you not say so before? Lord yes, I have read all his works, any time these last six years! He wrote very well, very well indeed. But did your grandfather not know this?”

  “I do not think so, ma’am. My grandfather was—is very reluctant to listen to anything at all concerning my father’s writing. My father may have written to him about it—I am not certain.”

  “I’d not wager my diamond eardrops on it,” remarked Miss Ardingly. “I knew your father when he was a young man—the dreamiest, most head-in-the-clouds young fellow I ever came across! He was no more fit to look after himself than a cherub on a tombstone! No wonder he—eh well, that’s all water under the bridge now. And as for your grandfather—the most obstinate, cross-grained old curmudgeon. Deaf to all he does not choose to hear!—And so who was your father’s publisher, miss?”

  “Mr. John Murray, ma’am. I was in hopes that my aunt or one of my cousins would tell me how to find my way to his offices in Albemarle Street.”

  “Tilly-valley, child, they’d not thank you for dragging them to such a fusty spot! I can just imagine those twins’ faces in a room that was all filled with books. It is as much as they can do to read the words of a song. But I don’t mind giving you my company there—’tis but a step to Albemarle Street, and I can buy myself a new pair of mittens on Bond Street on the way back.”

  Accordingly, when Juliana had fetched her precious manuscript, now all rewritten in her most exquisite handwriting, and Miss Ardingly had provided herself with her pattens, her parasol, and her calash (a most amazing structure of silk and whalebone, carefully disposed over her high-piled hair, which was dressed in the old-fashioned manner with powder), the two ladies set out together.

  Juliana was all interest, as she gazed about, and found herself bound to admit that the elegant shopping streets of London were quite the equal of the Ponte Vecchio or any of Florence’s most fashionable thoroughfares.

  Mr. Murray himself was not in his office that day, when they reached the publishing house in Albemarle Street, but an elderly clerk, who introduced himself as Mr. Twining, greeted the arrival of the manuscript with evident delight.

  “Mr. Murray will be overjoyed—overjoyed!” he said several times, gazing at the title page as if a lost child had been returned to him. “We were so afraid that possibly the script had been destroyed—these troubled times, you know, such dreadful happenings in France—and Mr. Murray’s last letter to Mr. Elphinstone was returned to us with the words ‘The English gentleman has gone away’ written across the superscription. I do sincerely trust that no misfortune has overtaken Mr. Elphinstone?”

  “I am afraid it has,” said Juliana sadly. “The journey to England, after all the hard work on his book, was too much for my father. He is no more, sir.”

  Mr. Twining’s face conveyed his sincere sorrow and shock at this. He expressed his deep sympathy with Juliana.

  “Mr. Murray will be very grieved, very grieved indeed… And so this is Mr. Elphinstone’s last work,” he said mournfully. “Well, we must do it justice in our production. The very best gilding and binding! You will be your father’s executor, miss, I daresay? You were his only child, I apprehend? Then Mr. Murray will be communicating with you presently as to terms. Perhaps you would be good enough to give me your direction?”

  Juliana felt that it might be imprudent to give Lady Lambourn’s residence as her direction; she had a presentiment that her aunt would not be in the least degree gratified to have such low-class persons as publishers sending communications to her house.

  “I am paying a visit to my aunt in Berkeley Square at present, sir, but I believe it will be better if I give you my grandfather’s address; pray, therefore, write to me in care of Sir Horace Paget, at Flintwood Manor, Hampshire.”

  She then bade Mr. Twining a civil good day, and he assured her of his best attention and respects at all times.

  “You have some sense, I see,” commented Miss Ardingly when they were again in the street, Juliana with a sense as of an immense load off her heart. “Your aunt Caroline is a very silly woman,” the old lady went on. “Still, she can’t help but see that you take the shine out of those hen-faced gals of hers; I’ll wager she soon finds some excuse to ship you back to Flintwood, unless she is able to marry you off in the next six weeks. I would place small dependence on her hospitality, child!”

  The old lady’s tone was so tart that Juliana remarked thoughtfully, “Since your opinion of my aunt seems to be so low, ma’am, I wonder that you chose to avail yourself of her hospitality!”

  “So you’ve a tongue in your head, miss, have you?
” retorted Miss Ardingly, not ill pleased. “That was well said—at least you are no mincing mouse. Sometimes you have a look of your grandfather. Well, child, when you are at your last prayers, as I am, a roof in town and a chance to see my old friends and mix with the ton is not to be sneezed at. And Caroline is glad enough to have me stay with her; she knows I can be depended on to chaperone those silly chits to Almack’s when she has an invitation to a house where the entertainment is too lively for young girls; Caroline has a great fondness for the gaming tables, as you will find out; and I don’t sit in her pocket, but take myself out a fair deal; so we contrive to brush along. But you, I fancy, will soon find yourself uncomfortable enough in her house… Now, here is Poltagrue’s. I mean to buy myself a new cap for tonight’s Assembly at Lady Bethune’s. We are all bidden there, you as well.”

  “Who is Lady Bethune?” inquired Juliana as they stepped into the milliner’s shop full of silks and gauzes and smirking, finical assistants.

  “Lady Bethune? Married to Lord Bethune—Tom Ellesmere. He was one of the Carlton House set—the most good-natured fool in town. His sons and daughters are mighty close with your cousins because they are all as dull as each other… Now you may give me the benefit of your advice, if you please!”

  This request, Juliana soon discovered, was intended as the merest formality; what Miss Ardingly really wished was to have her own taste endorsed; which, as she persisted in preferring a spangled headdress adorned with a profusion of imitation fruits and puce-colored feathers, could hardly be done with truth. Juliana contented herself with saying, “You must be the judge, ma’am; I prefer this charming Valenciennes lace.”

  The old lady darted a very shrewd glance at her. “Well, well, you are an honest chit! But you must know that when a female reaches my degree of years, the only way to attract notice is by eccentricity. It answers delightfully”—and she bought the cap with the purple feathers.

  This done, they returned to the house in Berkeley Square, where Juliana received a trimming from her aunt, now taking breakfast in a satin wrapper and a fretful temper.

  “Here have I been this half hour waiting to escort you to a silk warehouse to buy you something for Lady Bethune’s Assembly—for if I am to take you about you must dress fit to be seen—and what do I find but that you are gone jauntering off heaven knows where, without any consideration for my convenience.”

  Juliana was somewhat surprised, since her aunt hardly looked dressed for an excursion to a silk warehouse, but she apologized very humbly.

  “Well, it is too late now,” said Lady Lambourn. “You must wear the dress you put on last night, for the girls and I are engaged to go to an auction this noon.”

  Juliana said she was sure it could be of no consequence what she wore, since she was acquainted with nobody in London. But this reply did not please Lady Lambourn.

  “Certainly it is of consequence, miss! You forget that you are my niece!” and she departed to dress for her auction, leaving Juliana to regret the solitude and tranquillity of Flintwood.

  She soon found that the servants in Lord Lambourn’s house treated her with ill-concealed contempt; she was made to feel the evils of being a poor relation at every turn. If she rang the bell in her room, nobody answered it; no coals were brought to replenish the miserable fire in her grate, and her washing water, tepid when it arrived, remained unemptied for half the day; no nuncheon was brought her, her aunt and cousins being out; and in the evening when Partridge came, obviously at her mistress’s bidding and with the utmost reluctance, to help her dress for the Assembly, she showed her dislike and scorn by frizzling Juliana’s hair with unmercifully hot tongs, pulling and tweaking it, and jerking her into her dress as if she would have liked to throttle her. The dress itself was plainly a surprise to Partridge, for Juliana had passed some more hours of the afternoon at work on it, altering it to a better fit, removing most of the ugly trimmings, and moderating its harsh colors by an overdress made from a length of gauze bestowed on her by Miss Ardingly.

  “Thank you, Partridge, that will do,” Juliana said at length. “I am sure my cousins have need of you,” and Partridge withdrew, giving her a malevolent look. Juliana surveyed herself doubtfully in the glass. The dress was now well enough, but it seemed to her that the maid had turned her into a figure of fun, by teasing her dark-gold hair into a beehive erection, supported on woolen pads, which looked lamentably old-fashioned. I fear I shall be a laughingstock, thought Juliana, and she did her best to reduce the high tower of hair, taking out some dozens of black pins and the cushion that Partridge had inserted, brushing back the hair, and finally pinning on a charming fall of lace which Miss Ardingly had also brusquely given her that morning. The result seemed to her a decided improvement, and she wrapped herself in her shabby pelisse, and ran down to join her aunt and cousins. The latter greeted her with cries of derision.

  “Why, cousin, what in the world have you got on your head? You look a fright—does she not, Mama? People will take you for a quiz—they will wonder where in the world you came from!”

  Juliana could not see that their headdresses were in any way superior: their lank brown tresses were elaborately tortured and frizzed up into Grecian crowns, interspersed with ribbons and feathers, which only served to emphasize the awkward configuration of their jaws and teeth. However, dressed alike in striped sarsenet with embroidered sashes and Norwich shawls, they were evidently quite satisfied with their appearance.

  Lady Lambourn only said, “Well, it is too late to remedy Juliana’s hair now, for Thomas coachman has been waiting these ten minutes; therefore let us be off without any more delay,” bestowing an irritable glance upon her niece.

  The ball at Lady Bethune’s house in Grosvenor Square was, Juliana soon realized, a very grand affair. Bethune House had its own courtyard, and they were obliged to wait quite fifteen minutes while their coach crawled along in a waiting line of other vehicles, until they arrived at the awninged and carpeted front steps. When they had ascended the stairs that led to the Assembly Rooms, a succession of brilliant saloons lay open to view.

  Once having paid their respects to Lady Bethune, a tall gray-haired personage with a magnificent pearl tiara and an absent eye, Lady Lambourn made directly for the card room, and Miss Ardingly for some cronies of her own, while the twins were greeted by Lady Bethune’s daughters, the Misses Ellesmere, whom they hailed as if they had been parted for untold years, though in fact, as Juliana discovered, they had all met at the auction and were in the habit of meeting almost every day.

  “Oh, by the by, this is our cousin Juliana,” Kitty introduced her casually. The young ladies favored Juliana with very cursory glances and slight bows, then turned back to Kitty, who was exclaiming, “My dearest Jane! Where did you find that gauze? It is beyond anything sweet, it becomes you vastly. I declare if I can’t get one just like it I shall die of disappointment.”

  Rather ill at ease, Juliana glanced about her, wondering if she should join her aunt, and, as the four chattering girls took no further notice of her, she presently went in search of that lady, whom she found seated at a card table playing silver loo with some other ladies and gentlemen.

  Juliana positioned herself nearby until Lady Lambourn looked up peevishly and remarked, “Pray, Juliana, do not tease me by hanging over my shoulder. Why do you not divert yourself with the young people? There is no sense in coming to a ball to dawdle in the card room all evening.”

  Thus adjured, Juliana went off with some reluctance to seek her cousins again, but the orchestra had now begun to play and dancing had commenced; she could not find them.

  At this moment a voice in her ear said, “Pray, my pretty miss, will you favor me with the honor of your hand for this set?”

  Juliana turned, and saw an elderly man regarding her in a somewhat quizzing and supercilious manner. He was dressed very foppishly in a gray satin coat and smallclothes, striped stockings, a pink embroide
red waistcoat, and very elaborate lace ruffles at his throat and wrists; his hair was heavily powdered, unlike that of the younger men, who wore theirs plain; his skin was red-mottled and patchy, deeply pocked here and there, which imperfections were disguised very imperfectly with a kind of paste, painted red over the cheekbones. His eyes were moist and rheumy, his lips were cracked, and the numerous large flashing rings he wore served merely to draw attention to the palsied shaking of his hands. There was something feverish and rather avid about his air and manner which did not at all suit Juliana’s taste. She therefore replied politely, “Thank you, sir, but I believe you must hold me excused. I am not acquainted with you, moreover I do not intend to dance at present.”

  “What? Come to an Assembly and not dance? Here is a piece of absurdity! Do not be so cruel to the male sex, I beg of you!” And he poured out a profusion of compliments which were as flowery as they were insincere, ending, “As for being acquainted, I know that you are Caroline Lambourn’s niece Miss Paget, for it was Caroline who sent me in search of you—a vastly rewarding search by heaven!” and he continued urging and pestering Juliana to dance with him, eyeing her meanwhile in a most disagreeable way, until she was fain to return to her aunt, finding no other help at hand—for she now perceived her cousins dancing with a red-faced young man apiece, from their resemblance evidently the brothers of the Ellesmere girls.

  “What, child, is it you again?” exclaimed Lady Lambourn, not at all pleased. “What is it now? Cannot you find a partner?”

  “There is a gentleman pestering me to dance with him, aunt—I need not if I do not wish to, need I?”

  At this moment the gray-satin gentleman arrived in pursuit.

  “Hey-dey, Caroline! Will you not make intercession for me with this hard-hearted young lady of yours?”