William and I joined in all the fun of this gay summer. We were often over at Kinrara, the Duchess having perpetual dances, either in the drawing room or the servants’ hall, and my father returning these entertainments in the same style. A few candles lighted up bare walls at short warning, fiddles and whisky punch were always at hand, and then gentles and simples reeled away in company till the ladies thought the scene becoming more boisterous than they liked remaining in; nothing more, however, a highlander never forgets his place, never loses his native inborn politeness, never presumes upon favour. We children sometimes displayed our accomplishments on these occasions in a very prominent manner, to the delight, at any rate, of our dancing master. Lady Jane was really clever in the Killie callum and the ‘chantreuse’, I little behind her in the single and double fling, the shuffle and the heel and toe step.5 The boys were more blundering, and had to bear the good natured laugh of many a hard working lass and lad who, after the toil of the day, footed it neatly and lightly in the Ballroom till near midnight. Lord Huntly was the life of all these meetings; he was young, gay, handsome, fond of his mother, and often with her, and so general a favourite, that all people seemed to wake up as it were when he came amongst them. Kinrara had to us come in lieu of Castle Grant. There had been some coolness between my father and Castle Grant about Election matters; the Chief and the Chieftain differed in politicks, and had in some way been opposed to each other, a difference that very foolishly had been allowed to influence their social relations. Many and many a family jar was caused in those times by the absurd violence of party feeling.
We were now to travel back to London in the sociable, rather cold work in cold autumn weather. We had to drive unicorn, for one of the gray horses was gone; the other therefore had the honour of leading the equipage, a triangular style not then common and which ensured us an abundant amount of staring during our journey, a long one, for we made a round by ‘the west countrie’ in order to pay two visits. My Uncle Leitch had bought a pretty place near Glasgow, and made a very handsome house out of the shabby one he found there by adding to the front a great building in very good taste. We two were quite astonished with the first aspect of Kilmerdinny. Large, wide steps up to a portico, a good hall, and then a circular saloon the height of the house, out of which all the rooms opened, those on the upper floor being reached by a gallery which ran round the saloon. Fine gardens, greenhouse, hothouses, hot walls, plenty of fruit, a lake with two swans upon it—and butter at our breakfast!—made us believe ourselves in paradise! There was a beautiful drawing room and a sunny little parlour, and a window somewhere above at which more than once our handsome aunt appeared and threw out pears to us. We were sorry to go away, although there were no children to play with. The house was full of company, but they did not interfere with us, and when we did see any of these strangers they were very kind. But the day of departure came, the sociable was packed, and we set off for Tennochside in Lanarkshire, near the Clyde, and near to Hamilton, about eight miles from Glasgow.
Uncle Ralph, my Mother’s second brother, had been bred to the Law; he had entered the office of a friend, Mr Kinderley, an Attorney of repute in London, but he never liked the business, and on one of his visits to Aunt Leitch, an acquaintance of old standing with the heiress of Tennochside suddenly blazed up into a lovefit on her part, which he, vain and idle, could not resist, and they were married. My poor Aunt Judy, a good excellent woman, not the very least suited to him, plain in person, poor in intellect, without imagination or deep feeling or accomplishment, she had not money enough to make up for the life of privation such a man has had to lead with such as her. He was certainly punished for his mercenary marriage. Still, in an odd way of their own they got on, each valuing the other, though not exactly agreeing, save in two essential points—love for Tennochside and their two children. Eliza, the elder, was at this time nearly five years old, Edmund, still in arms, a mere baby. Here we had no fine house, but a very comfortable one, no finery, but every luxury, and the run through the woods or by the river side was something like our own dear home to us. We did not like our cousin Eliza, though she was a pretty child, and seemingly fond of us; she was so petted, and so spoiled and so fretful, that she teased us extremely. The night that I danced my chantreuse—in a new pair of yellow slippers bought at Perth on our way for the purpose—she cried so much because she could not do the same, that she had to be sent to bed. Next day therefore I was called to help my Aunt Judy in the storeroom, where she made all the sweet things for the second course at dinner, and she had a great cry again; a lesson that did neither of us any good, for I was conceited enough without any additional flatteries, and she only ran away to the low parlour where her great Aunt old Miss Jopplin always sat, and who petted her up into a sort of sulky good humour again. We did not leave Tennochside with as much regret as we had quitted Kilmerdinny.
Aunt Mary and our two little sisters were in Lincoln’s Inn Fields to receive us. How we flew to them, Jane and William were in extasies—they had always been inseparable playfellows and were overjoyed to be together again. Mary did not know us, at which I cried. She was amazingly grown, quite a large child, as tall almost as Jane and stouter, quiet, silent, heavy yet loved by all of us. Jane and William had a deal to say. She really was a boy in all her tastes. She played top, bat, leapfrog, fought, boxed, climbed trees, rode on the sofa and the rocking horse astride, and always put on her spencers and pinafores the wrong way to make believe that they were jackets. I was forced to turn to Mary, who became very dear to me and who in her quiet way understood my quiet plays with my doll, her dress, and meals, and visitors. I daresay we were as happy as were our more boisterous companions, who, indeed, sometimes tamed down to associate with us, for we all in the main agreed very well together. We were loving and happy children.
For the next three years we lived entirely in England. My father went north during this time once, if not twice, to look after the various matters; none of us went with him. Our winters were all passed in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, our summers at Twyford in Hertfordshire, which place my father rented of my Aunt Lissy, having let his own, Thorley. We were also one spring again at Tunbridge Wells, the bracing air and the steel waters being necessary for my Mother, whom I never remember well for long together. I don’t see how she could be, she sat up very late, she laid in bed a great part of the morning, she took no exercise but in her carriage and that not regularly. She had no occupation of any particular interest. She visited very little and she saw very little of my father. She ordered dinners, paid the weekly bills, read the newspapers or a novel. She did a great deal of plain work, but when in London she very seldom got up off the sofa in the back drawing room, a dark dull place looking on the back windows of a low commercial hotel in Serle Street, the near neighbourhood of which obliged her always to keep the blinds down. The front drawing room was cheerful, large, airy, light, looking to the Square, one of the largest open spaces in London, with the gardens belonging to the Inns of Court on one side instead of a row of houses. It was prettily furnished in the untasteful style of the day, and kept for company, never entered except upon occasion of the three or four solemn dinner parties, which repaid the eating debts of the winter; dismal days for us, McKenzie and Mrs Lynch both too busy to be plagued with us, my Mother less disposed for noise than ever; and on the melancholy day itself we were dressed so early to be ready that we had to stay still in all our finery a full hour, till the formal circle invited had been seated long enough to be glad of such a break in the stately proceedings as the introduction of four timid children, who, after a bow and three curtseys at the door, had then to make the round of the awful circle.
In the cold, empty looking best drawing room there were chairs, tables, sofas, lights, looking glasses, and the company. How the evening was passed I know not. When they went down to dinner, we went up to supper, a miserable meal, for we were tyed up to our chins for fear of spilling the milk on our dresses. We appeared again at dessert, to give annoy
ance by having room made for us, and to be hurt ourselves by flattery and sweetmeats. When the ladies left the gentlemen, we accompanied them to the drawing room door, when we bade good night, and after some kissing were let away to bed, a little sick and very tired. These formal inflictions apart, my Mother had little society, the large family connexion to whom ours was certainly a home house, not affording many brilliant companions. It must have been often dull for her. When she was well enough she diversified her sober life by taking us to the Play, and me to the Hanover Square and other Concerts. She very rarely went out to private parties. Once I remember sitting up to help her toilette on a grand occasion—a rout at the Duchess of Gordon’s; the hours were then more rational than they now are, she was dressed and off by nine o’clock, very little later than my bed time. Her appearance has often recurred to me, for she was very lovely; her gown was white satin trimmed with white velvet, cut in a formal pattern, then quite the rage, a copy from some of the Grecian borders in Mr Hope’s book,6 she had feathers in her hair and a row of pearls on her neck, from which depended a large diamond locket. The gown was short waisted and narrow skirted, but we thought it beautiful. A touch of rouge finished matters and then Mrs Lynch taking up a candle, preceded her lady downstairs. My Mother stooped to kiss me as she passed, and to thank me for holding the pins so nicely, an unusual attention it must have been, it so delighted me.
One candle carried away, there remained another lighted, which had been moved from the toilette to a small table close to the wardrobe where Mrs Lynch had been searching for some piece of finery wanted. A book lay near it, I took it up. It was the first volume of the Letters of Lady Hertford and Lady Pomfret,7 the old edition, good sized print and not over many lines in the octavo page. I read a line, some more lines, went on, sat down; and there, heaven knows how long afterwards, I was found tucked up in the arm chair absorbed in my occupation, well scolded of course—that followed as a matter of necessity for wasting the candle when every one supposed me to be in bed. Why my nurse did not see that I was safe there she did not explain. I was half afraid to allude to my book in the morning, but finding no complaints had been made, took courage and asked permission to read it, which being readily granted, many a happy hour was spent over those delightful volumes. They were read and read again, and my father, finding I understood them, and could give a good reason for preferring Lady Hertford’s charming way of telling her home news to the more exciting letters of her travelling correspondent, gave me Lady Mary Wortley Montagu.8 We were also introduced this spring of 1805 or 6, I am not sure which, to Miss Edgeworth’s Parent’s Assistant,9 and the Arabian Tales. I somehow mix up the transactions of these three years, recollecting only the general progress we made and confusing the details. The three winters in London are all jumbled together somehow, the summers stand out more prominently.
My Mother’s large family circle was now reduced to three brothers and three sisters, my Uncles John and Edmund having both died in the West Indies, and my Uncle Gilbert while at College. My father had one only sister, but the cousinhood on both sides was extensive, and we saw so much of so many of these near relations, that on looking back to our London life, I do not think my Mother could have found it as dull as she fancied afterwards when talking of it; gay, it was not, but she was far from being lonely. In the spring of 1805 four highland cousins, the orphan children of Glenmoriston, came to London to my father’s care. He was their joint guardian, with their Uncle James Grant, a Writer to the Signet in Edinburgh, and as he wished to educate them in the best manner, he determined to put them to school in the south. Patrick and James, who were the youngest, were placed with a Dr Somebody at Kensington, Harriet and Anne at a school of reputation in the same neighbourhood; their holidays they sometimes spent with us. There was also a pretty Annie Grant, whose parentage I shall allude to again.10 She had been apprenticed to the Miss Steuarts, the great dressmakers in Albemarle Street; generally passed her Sundays with us. Sometimes, when work was slack, she got leave to come on a week day, and her short summer holiday was always spent with us while we remained in England. She was a nice dear creature, very popular with every one, she played highland reels delightfully, we liked no music so well to dance to. Miss Bessy Maling, a first cousin of my Mother’s, was another of the home circle. Her father was a man of fortune in the Houghton neighbourhood; his first wife, my Mother’s Aunt, died in giving birth to this, their only child—he had married again and come to live in London with his second wife, a clever woman and a fine musician. She brought him two or three sons and many handsome daughters—Mrs Welch, Mrs Ward (Tremaine), Mrs Hunter, Lady Warre, Lady Jackson, Lady Mulgrave—who had all so well connected themselves that they would have been great additions to my Mother’s society, had not adverse politicks prevented intimacy. Politicks were ‘war to the knife’ in those bickering times. Bessy Maling, however, kept clear of them. We had Cousin James Griffith too, a clergyman, son of the Welsh schoolmaster, who drew in every sort of style beautifully. He had a small Living which he held along with a Fellowship at Oxford, yet often contrived to spend a good deal of time with us, both in town and country, particularly if Aunt Mary was to be met with. There was also a clever and very queer clergyman, cousin Horseman, and an old sailor cousin Nesham, whom we did not like, he found so much fault with us. Another sailor cousin Raper was a favourite, with his merry Irish wife and two sons who were great allies of ours; a spoiled daughter we did not approve of. Young Harry Raper, who was determined on a sea life, brought us Robinson Crusoe, the charm of many an after hour. He thought it would determine William to fix his affections on the Navy, but no such thing. William was not adventurous—Jane was much more impressed by Harry’s book and Harry’s enthusiasm, and had she been a boy, might have been tempted even to a desert island in such company.
Besides these occasional companions, we children had a large acquaintance in the Square. We played at every game that ever children tried, in large merry bands, seldom watched by our attendants; indeed we were so safe when locked within those creaking iron gates, there was no need for other care, all sides being upon honour to keep faith. Our nurse Mrs Millar used to signal for us when we were wanted. She was a very respectable woman for her class, though I did not like her. She could see that we learned our lessons, she taught my sisters and me to sew; and she sang, with a voice that Mrs Billington11 could have equalled, so clear, and so full and sweet it was though quite untaught, all the old English ballads about Robin Hood, all the favourite English opera songs of the day—‘Bonny tawny Moor,’ ‘When the hollow drum,’ ‘Betsy Blowsy,’ etc. Above all, Dibdin’s sea songs,12 ‘All in the downs,’ ‘A sweet little Cherub sits up aloft,’ ‘By the deep nine,’ and a hundred others—with the inspiration of a sailor’s wife—widow, poor thing! for her young husband, whose long black curls and merry eye and love for her we almost daily heard of, had been drowned at sea many years before, soon after their early marriage. I could not like Millar, for she was not just to me. She thought my father and my Aunts spoiled me. I had been six months in Scotland almost my own mistress, away from her, and did not bear quietly returning under controul. I was too quick too, and too pert, for a servant to manage. She took very good care of us, better than any one we had had about us before, although her temper was imperfect. Mr Thompson came as before. In addition to writing and cyphering, we now learned geography, astronomy, and History with him; to my mother we read and spelt—a part of education unwisely given up now—those arranged columns of words alike in sound, black, hack, track, etc., were great helps to memory. Mr Jones taught me musick. Mr Foothead began William with Latin. Good old Mr Beekvelt was our French master. One way or another we picked up a good deal. As my Mother’s health improved we were more with her, and tho’ she took little trouble with us herself, she was never alone, and as our eyes and ears were always open, we made the most of our advantages in this respect.
Our principal London pleasure was the play, to which we went frequently, generally at Covent
Garden, which we soon learned to consider as more decidedly our House. We had the Duke of Bedford’s private Box, sometimes meeting the Duchess of Gordon there,13 which we liked above all things, for then we had ices, fruits, and cakes in the little ante room adjoining—in spite of all these amusements, the first note of preparation for the country caused a sort of delirium in our nursery; it was as if we had been prisoners expecting freedom, so much more natural to the young are green fields and shady lanes than the confinement of a city.
In the spring of 1805 we went for a few weeks to Tunbridge Wells, while some of the servants were getting Twyford ready. We lodged in a gloomy house near the pantiles, with no garden, merely a court yard before it, which got very slippery in showery weather. But Mr Beekvelt was with us and took us long wandering walks over the heath, and to the rocks, and up to Sion Hill, and as happy as we were ourselves, as much a child too. He laughed and chattered French, and ran and climbed and gathered flowers as we did, always in the tight nankins,14 with the snuff box and the powdered hair. I know not what he had been before the revolution in his own country—only a bourgeois he told us—but he was a dear, kind old man, like the good fathers or tutors we read about in L’ami des enfants. He brought some Contes de fées down with him to Tunbridge, with which we got on very quickly; we made, however, greater progress in Le boulanger, which we danced on the heath like witches, screaming out the chorus like possessed things; the people must have thought us crazy when any passed our magick circle. I think the Phipps’s were here at this time with Lady Mulgrave. I recollect meeting and speaking, and nothing more, so I fancy the two families had not commingled. They were very plain, all but Henry, the present Lord Normanby.
Memoirs of a Highland Lady Page 7
