The second visitor ‘from the world outside’ was a Mr Edmund Burke. The gentleman wrote to say he was travelling to Dublin in April and would be most honoured if he were permitted to see their ‘much-praised legendary surroundings.’ He reminded the Ladies of his ‘place,’ The Gregories, and stated he would be eager to learn from their experiences with Plas Newydd some of the secrets of their evident success. His letter accompanied a pamphlet he had written about his opinions on the peoples’ revolt in France. Before the Ladies responded, they read his Reflections on the French Revolution.
‘In every respect he is right,’ said Eleanor. In this proclamation Sarah understood that Eleanor meant that his anti-gallicism matched hers to her satisfaction.
‘Burke. Burke,’ Eleanor continued. ‘He must have been Dublin-born. I wonder what his thoughts are on the troublesome Irish rights question. Well. No matter. Shall we invite him to stop?’
Mr Burke was all that Eleanor hoped he would be: charming, witty, eloquent, aristocratic in his tastes and manners. He was a little older than Eleanor, the Ladies guessed, but he had retained his youthful looks and figure. He had been travelling with his school friend, Richard Shackleton. Burke was prudent; he did not bring his friend unannounced to luncheon but walked to Plas Newydd to ask permission, a procedural delicacy Eleanor found both proper and endearing. Then he walked back to the Lion to fetch his friend.
Luncheon was a success. Burke praised the cheese and the peppered ham. Richard Shackleton was enthusiastic about the fresh fruit and clotted cream. Sarah explained the sweetness of the plums and peaches as a function of the fan-shaped trees she had trained, permitting the fruit full exposure to the sun. Mr Burke admired her ingenuity in shaping the trees to a purpose and asked for instructions on how to do the same at The Gregories. They both expressed astonishment at how Sarah achieved a ‘wild quality’ with her cultivated gardens. She acknowledged she had been aided in the accomplishment of her ‘effects’ by Eleanor’s willingness to rent land for her new arrangements on both sides of the Cuffleymen, the little brook that ran along the bottom of their land. From the east side of their house they had planted an avenue of birches leading to the brook, over which Mr Lewis had constructed a rustic bridge. Sarah explained proudly that in return for two kegs of their home-brewed beer, some strong villagers had moved large, well-shaped stones into place on each bank, in an organised arrangement dictated by Sarah’s meticulously drawn plan. Mr Jones had piped water from the brook to allow it to trickle slowly over the stones. Now dark green moss and light, airy ferns grew on the banks among the stones. Sarah called these growths ‘romantic accretions.’ In every direction the vistas created were picturesque, as Mr Burke graciously remarked.
Mr Burke and Mr Shackleton were impressed beyond words, they said, with everything they saw. Eleanor was so taken with Mr Burke that she did not rush the two men away, as Sarah had expected. They all sat into the evening on a knoll bordered with rose bushes, at the center of which the brook made its exuberant way over the rough stones.
‘How many kinds of roses do you have, would you say?’ asked Mr Burke of Sarah.
‘Forty-four, I think it was, last time we counted. We send everywhere for them. And of course we buy the bushes directly if we are fortunate enough to find them at the fairs.’
They talked on about their Place and about Mr Burke’s, about the art of creating corners of evocative sentimentality by embedding funeral urns and obelisks into beds of Snowden pinks and gentianella. Sarah was emboldened to explain her future plans: to hang on their trees pithy and instructive—even elevating—sayings in Italian, French, and German as well as in English and Welsh. After they had all suggested appropriate epigrams the conversation turned to politics. Mr Burke expanded upon his pamphlet. Unanimous agreement was expressed with his views. Seated among the carefully plotted artificialities of the Ladies’ gardens, they talked of the effect of the beauties of the natural world upon the integrity and health of the soul. Happily separated from the rough world of the village, the county of Cymru and its rude inhabitants, they spoke of achieving an air of cultivated and thoughtful melancholy for their landscape.
The conversation turned to matters of reading. The Ladies spoke of their admiration for Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s novel, which they were now re-reading. Mr Burke expanded upon Marcus Tullius Cicero:
‘At Trinity I read Cicero for the first time. He has had the greatest influence upon my life. I vowed to myself that I would model my behaviour upon his example. I would try to achieve his eloquence, his high ethical standards, his philosophy, indeed, his very character.’
For once, Eleanor was almost dumb with admiration. ‘How noble and how useful, to have chosen a model so early in life! Did you attempt to emulate Cicero’s prose as well?’
Mr Burke laughed. ‘I would have, I’m sure, had I felt adequate to so elevated an example. No, I find now I most admire the essays of Joseph Addison. I should be honoured to be counted among his literary followers.’
Eleanor made a mental note to send for a volume of Joseph Addison’s essays.
In the afternoon of a fine day in late spring, 1790, the yipping of their dogs and the loud mooing of Margaret drew the Ladies to a part of the garden they reserved for ‘pensive sitting,’ as Eleanor termed it in the day book. On their usual resting bench sat a young man writing in a notebook. Flirt ran in circles around his legs, barking wildly. The young man looked up, startled by the Ladies’ sudden appearance. They looked as he had been told they would, two aging women in riding habits and high hats. Their bushy hair was cropped short and snowy white with powder. Yet, in person, they looked more absurd than he had been led to expect.
‘Who may you be?’ Eleanor asked imperiously. Sarah stood close, her hand resting on Eleanor’s arm, frightened as she always was before strange men, but determined not to leave Eleanor unprotected.
‘I am Ian Corwin, correspondent to the General Evening Post. I am sent to write a report about your excellent gardens.’
At this announcement of intention Sarah was inclined to relent. But Eleanor stood still, rigid with anger.
‘You have not been invited here. Leave at once.’
The young man smiled cheerfully. He stood up and extended his hand to Eleanor. She paid no heed and turned her back on the correspondent, slapping her crop ominously against her leg. The Ladies left together, entered their front door, and locked it behind them. Trained to take advantage of opportunity, the young man followed them at a distance, and when they had entered the house, peered into a library window. Through one of the few clear panes he saw Lady Eleanor stride through the hall and toss her hat at a peg ‘with the air of a sportsman,’ as he was to write. Sarah Ponsonby was not in his sight. But in a moment, as he stood fascinated, inspecting what he could see of the ornate furniture and the numerous books on the wall shelves, she appeared, accompanied by a huge, forceful-looking woman who carried a heavy walking stick.
Mr Corwin retreated quickly, tripping over a yew bush planted close to the house. Mary-Caryll appeared at the front door. The journalist took one look at Molly the Bruiser and ran as fast as he could. He took the gate with a leap and ran until he was out of sight of the house. Only when he stopped to dust off his trousers did he find that he had dropped his notebook under the window, probably among the damned bushes, he thought.
‘Oh well, no matter,’ he told himself. ‘I’ll remember what I’ve seen. To be sure, I’ll never be able to forget it.’
A fortnight later the General Evening Post in its second page, entitled ‘The Home,’ published his story. The headline was EXTRAORDINARY FEMALE AFFECTION and the subtitle read Lady Hermits:
Miss Butler and Miss Ponsonby have retired from society into a certain Welsh Vale.
Both Ladies are daughters of the great Irish families whose names they retain.
Miss Butler, who is of the Ormonde family, had several offers of marriage, all of which she rejected. Miss Ponsonby, her particular friend and companion, was
supposed to be the bar to all matrimonial union. It was thought proper to separate them, and Miss Butler was confined.
The two Ladies, however, found means to elope together. But being soon overtaken, they were each brought back by their respective relations. Many attempts were renewed to draw Miss Butler into marriage. But upon her solemnly and repeatedly declaring that nothing could induce her to wed any one, her parents ceased to persecute her by any more offers.
Not many months after, the Ladies concerted and executed a fresh elopement. Each having a small sum with them, and having been allowed a trifling income, the place of their retreat was confided to a female servant of the Butler family, who was sworn to secrecy as to the place of their retirement. She was only to say that they were well and safe and hoped that their friends would without further enquiry, continue their annuities, which has not only been done but increased.
The beautiful above-mentioned vale is the spot they fixed on where they have resided for several years unknown to the neighbouring villagers by any other appellation than the Ladies of the Vale!
Miss Butler is tall and masculine, she wears always a riding habit, hangs her hat with the air of a sportsman in the hall, and appears in all respects as a man, if we except the petticoats which she still retains.
Miss Ponsonby, on the contrary, is polite and effeminate, fair and beautiful. In Mr Secretary Steele’s list of Pensions for 1788, there are the names of Elinor Butler and Sarah Ponsonby, for annuities of fifty pounds each. We have many reasons to imagine that these pensioners are the Ladies of the Vale; their female confidante continues to send them their Irish annuities beside.
They live in neatness, elegance and taste. Two females are their only servants.
Miss Ponsonby does the duties and honours of the house, while Miss Butler superintends the gardens and the rest of the grounds.
Always alert to opportunities for correspondence, Harriet Bowdler sent the Ladies the newspaper clipping for July 20, 1790, containing Ian Corwin’s report, together with her usual placatory comments. But the paper had already arrived at Plas Newydd by subscription. This time Eleanor did not read the piece aloud but passed it to Sarah without comment. Sarah read it, waiting for the explosion she knew surely would come from Eleanor.
‘Replete with lies and innuendo. The fool cannot even spell my name correctly.’
‘Don’t be angry, my love. No one will read or bother with such claptrap.’
‘No one? Everyone will read it and believe it. We will be overrun with curiosity-seekers come to see the freakish women of “extraordinary affection.” They will tramp about in our garden like … like vermin, like the baker’s cockroaches.’
Eleanor sat down to her desk and wrote with many angry flourishes for a few moments. She cancelled their subscription to the Post ‘for essential reasons,’ as she put it.
She wrote a second letter to their new acquaintance, Edmund Burke: ‘My dear Sir: Tell us, please, by return post, how we may clear our reputations of these calumnies. Think of our families’ feelings on reading these innuendos. What will those who are charged with forming the Pensions List believe of us? Can this wretched writer, who intruded upon our property and our privity, be brought to law? If we should instigate a legal action, would this be a costly procedure for us?’
Sarah read the two letters and made no comment. She handed them back to Eleanor, whose eyes, she noticed, were now half shut. Eleanor pressed her temples with her fists. Sarah recognised the signs of approaching migraine and knew it was now hopeless to prevent the sick unpleasantness of the next few days. She sighed deeply.
‘Why do you sigh? Is there something not right in the letter to Mr Burke?’
‘I am wondering … If we bring the newspaper to book for printing this … this story, will we not be drawing further attention to ourselves?’
Eleanor coughed, a deep catarrhal rumble sounding in her throat. She started towards the stairs.
‘My head is very bad, my dearest. I must go to bed.’
Sarah sighed again, this time suppressing the sound. ‘I will come with you.’
Having made Eleanor as comfortable as she could, setting her nightcap securely about her ears, placing a cool cloth across her forehead and eyes, and darkening the room, Sarah came into the bed beside her and placed her arm gently under Eleanor’s neck. Eleanor did not stir. She seemed paralysed and blinded with pain.
‘My beloved,’ said Sarah, almost in a whisper. ‘It is not a matter of great moment. But before we think of appearing before an English court, should we not consider …’
Sarah hesitated. Eleanor could not summon the strength to question her.
‘Consider that while we wish it had not been said in the paper …’
Eleanor grunted, a deep anonymous sound.
Sarah went on softly: ‘Even so, my love, most of it …’ Again she hesitated. Eleanor made a low throat sound and then coughed. Sarah reached for the pewter bowl and held it close to Eleanor’s mouth as she vomited into it. Despite Eleanor’s pressing physical needs, and even despite the evident pain she was in, Sarah felt compelled to continue.
‘Most of it … is true.’
She waited for Eleanor’s wrath. She could not see her eyes under the cloth. She watched her heavy, soft breasts moving beneath her night dress. There was no sound except for Eleanor’s laboured breathing. She was asleep. Sarah went on speaking to herself: ‘“Extraordinary Female Affection.” “Her particular friend and companion, Miss Ponsonby.” “A fresh elopement.”’ Then she smiled, remembering “fair and beautiful.” Moving closer, she stretched her body along the length of Eleanor’s. The warm, still firm flesh melded to her and she felt herself descending into sleep. Beautiful, she thought, that at least is not the truth, and then joined Eleanor in oblivion.
Mr Edmund Burke concurred with Sarah’s doubts. A sophisticated and sensitive man, more literary than legalistic, he still wrote as a lawyer to the Ladies, telling them of his belief that the law would not censor the press on such a matter, as it surely well deserved. He wrote that he felt indignant at the clear injustice the article had done them. But he was careful to add that he thought it would be very difficult to get redress from the courts.
‘Your consolation must be that you suffer only by the baseness of the age you live in, that you suffer from the violence of calumny for the virtues that entitle you to the esteem of all who know how to esteem honour, friendship, principle, and dignity of thinking.’
As they circled their Place one late morning during a cool August the Ladies read Mr Burke’s letter. Sarah was secretly relieved that the matter was now at an end. Eleanor’s cough had grown worse and Sarah was more concerned for her beloved’s health than for the world’s good opinion. As they walked, the catarrh in Eleanor’s chest seemed to hamper her breathing. They walked at a slower pace to allow her to take short breaths. The cough had forced her voice into a deeper register than it usually occupied.
‘So Mr Burke despairs of the law for us. It means that in his heart, beneath his professed sympathy and indignation, there resides the belief that we have not been maligned. Of course. That is what the letter means.’
Sarah did not reply. Eleanor coughed, bringing up into her mouth a ball of phlegm. She turned her head and rid herself of it into the garden border. Sarah felt faint. Before her eyes rose the picture of the soiled Woodstock fountain and then the stained corner of the sitting room and Sir William.… She swallowed with difficulty. Then she said: ‘Oh my love, not in the laburnum bed.’
Of such small remonstrances are the silences made that batter at the walls of human relationships. Eleanor said nothing then or throughout their supper. She spent more time than was customary with her accounts and the day book, in which she was careful to note the receipt of Mr Burke’s epistle. She followed that with a memorandum: ‘Permit few visits and no stopovers.’
In bed that night they did not indulge in their customary talking out of ‘sweet sorrows’ but lay side by side separa
ted by a significant inch of paillasse, by thoughts of Mr Burke’s desertion, by Eleanor’s defilement of Sarah’s sacred weeding place, by ordinary occurrences that gradually work their way into all unions, like termites, sometimes making them vulnerable later, to larger, more damaging assaults. In every respect, theirs was a true marriage.
Sarah had found a staunch shield against her lifelong tendency to sadnesses, a new sphere for fantasy that occupied much of her reading and thoughts: Methodism. Her Protestant spirit had always been stronger than Eleanor’s long abandoned Catholic principles. Sarah cherished her letters from churchy Julia Tighe. Her responses to them were filled with references to God, morality, faith and works, and Methodist theology. In turn, Mrs Tighe ventured to wonder if it would be convenient for Mr John Wesley to call upon the Ladies.
Eleanor would have nothing to do with John Wesley. When Sarah opened her prayer book Eleanor moved to a chair at the other end of the room, as though aware of a noxious aura of religion surrounding all such objects and the words within them. To her, prayer was an admission of weakness, a denial of the camaraderie between them, a confession of cowardice, an acknowledgement of the failure of sacred human will. She saw Sarah’s faith as an abdication of personal, private power to an unseen, mythical figure whose worth, whose very existence, she argued with poor Sarah. During Eleanor’s secular diatribes Sarah remained silent. Her Christianity had few sectarian bounds: she searched at Valle Crucis for the pieces of the True Cross said to be embedded in one of its ruined walls and was hurt when Eleanor ridiculed her efforts.
Each Sunday, Eleanor accompanied Sarah as far as the door of the Church of St. Collen in the village. While Sarah worshipped, Eleanor walked the stark fields behind the village in all directions, returning in haste if she spied a bull in the next field—or even if there was the possibility of the presence of a bull—while Sarah prayed, offering her sins to the mercies of St. Collen, once Abbot of Glastonbury, a noble Briton who, in his youth, killed a pagan knight in defense of his faith.
The Ladies Page 12
