by Val Wood
She roused herself. ‘And so this was where you met Mr Dawley, was it?’
He looked at her, and, as she had thought when she saw his glazed expression, he had gone off on his own little trail of reminiscences, completely forgetting the starting point: the offer of marriage from an unknown suitor.
He sat up, flustered. ‘No, no! At least, yes – his father! Not the son, although young Dawley was old enough to join the club, which he did eventually.’
Well, that’s something to be thankful for, she considered. Although I was beginning to think that I might marry this unknown old man, for he would soon be in his grave and I would be my own mistress. She and her friends often had conversations about marriage, deciding that they would like to become old men’s darlings and subsequently rich and merry young widows.
‘Dawley is also in banking, but much higher up the ladder than I ever was or was likely to be,’ her father continued. ‘Private banking, you know. He told me that his son was looking for a suitable wife; not immediately, but a few years hence when he would come into an inheritance. I thought nothing of it at the time. This would have been about three years ago,’ he added, ‘when you were too young to consider.’
Is this how it works, Beatrix thought uneasily? Where does my mother come into this? Did she have an opportunity to meet a young man who might be suitable as a marriage partner for her daughter? Her only daughter, who would have been barely fifteen at that time. What was her mother trying to say as she’d whispered to her at the bottom of the stairs?
‘And how old is Mr Dawley junior?’ she asked. ‘Several years older than I am, I’m deducing, if he was old enough to join your club when you first met his father.’
Her father pursed his lips. ‘Oh, erm, he’ll be in his early thirties now, I would think. A good age for marriage; got over that first flush of youthful exuberance, I imagine.’
Old, then! Past the flush of youthful exuberance? Is thirty the end-point? Did my father ever have that? Did his father? My grandfather obviously didn’t spend much on excesses if he was able to leave so much to his son. Is that the whole point of life? Accruing money and property to pass on to the next in line?
She remembered her grandfather, although she hadn’t met him more than half a dozen times. He had left her five pounds in his Will. Her father said she couldn’t draw it until she was twenty-one. She had been mildly disappointed, for she had planned that when she was a little older she would buy some new dresses and perhaps a bonnet or two, and would meet friends for coffee and cake at a grand hotel.
But now she reconsidered. If she married anyone, not just this Mr Dawley, would her money then become his? Perhaps she should wait until she had celebrated her coming of age and could spend her money, her five pounds, as she wished.
‘I’m not sure if I’m ready for marriage yet, Father; and I would like a choice in the matter. I’d like to meet a young man and find that we each have some qualities that appeal.’
Her father’s forehead creased a little as he considered what she had said. ‘But isn’t that exactly what I have been doing on your behalf? I surely must know best what my daughter requires in a marriage, and believe me, m’dear, you won’t, as I said earlier, do better than young Dawley.’
‘But you haven’t told me of his attributes, Father! I don’t know anything of his manner, his kindness to others. Of how he makes a living, for instance, or his hopes for the future; only that he is due an inheritance, and that tells me nothing about him.’
Her father leaned towards her and lowered his voice. ‘It tells you, Beatrix, that he will become very rich; he is due to inherit a substantial country estate.’
‘But what does he look like?’ Her voice rose as she became even more uneasy. ‘Is he tall, short? Portly or thin, dark-haired or fair? Have you actually met him? What does he know of me? He surely wouldn’t wish to marry a stranger.’
‘His father and I have exchanged views, and yes, I met young Dawley on one occasion, and he has seen you. It seems that you were both at a coming-of-age party last year; you were not introduced but he asked who you were.’
Susannah Cummings’s party, she thought. There were so many people there it was impossible to be introduced to everyone; a total fiasco as far as I was concerned. I lost track of where any of my friends were and didn’t meet one single interesting person to talk to. Mother came with me. I must ask her if she remembers Mr Dawley.
She stood up. ‘I must ask you to excuse me, Father. I’m afraid I’m developing a headache.’ She fanned herself with her hand. ‘It’s uncommonly warm in here. I’ll leave the door open, shall I?’
‘Erm … oh, yes, very well. We’ll speak later. I realize it’s a lot to take in immediately. Needs some thought. Yes, definitely needs thought. For the best, though, I’d say.’
She opened the door and felt the rush of cool air from the hall come in. She turned. ‘Where did you say this country estate is?’
‘I didn’t say, did I? But it’s in the north of England. In Yorkshire to be exact. Somewhere overlooking the Humber.’
Beatrix sat on the bottom step of the staircase, considering. The north of England! I don’t even know where Yorkshire is! It’s where the mills and coal mines are, surely, so how can it overlook the Humber? The Humber is an estuary. I don’t want to live there; when would I see my friends? My mother? Would we have a carriage to come back to London or would we have to travel by train? Do they have trains in the north? Oh, I know! Miss Emily Brontë: she wrote about the area, as did her sisters. They lived somewhere on the moors. Wuthering Heights! That was it. Father said I shouldn’t read it. I borrowed it … oh dear, did I give it back? It belonged to Marianne Foster, I think. It was very bleak, I recall. So sad that the author has died. I believe there’s only Charlotte left.
The sitting room door opened and her mother peeped out; on seeing Beatrix sitting there a small smile touched her mouth and she beckoned her silently.
‘You used to sit on the bottom step when you were a little girl,’ she said softly. ‘You used to say you were busy thinking.’
Beatrix nodded. ‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘I called it my thinking step, for when I talked things through with myself. Things I didn’t always understand. Childhood can be very worrying.’
They sat opposite each other on either side of the fireplace. Neither spoke for a few minutes, and then her mother broke the silence. ‘You don’t have to agree to the … erm … suggestion, but there are reasons why you might wish to.’
Beatrix looked up from her contemplation of the gleaming fire irons. ‘Don’t I? What are the reasons? Am I allowed to know? It is my life in the balance, after all.’ Am I being melodramatic, she wondered when she saw her mother’s eyebrows rise and her eyes gleam?
‘Since when have women been allowed to determine what should happen in their lives?’ Mrs Fawcett asked between barely parted lips. ‘I beg your pardon, Beatrix; has something passed me by without my noticing? How very remiss of me!’
‘Mother?’ She was alarmed. Her mother was quiet, placid, and rarely gave her opinion even if asked for it, not that anyone did, apart from Cook or the housekeeper. ‘What is it? Do you know this man, Mr Dawley? Father must have told you about him and his proposal?’
Her mother stared into the smouldering coals of the low fire. ‘He did,’ she agreed. ‘Just this afternoon, when the second post arrived.’
‘You didn’t know before today! Was the subject never mentioned?’
‘Not to me. Your father and Mr Dawley senior have apparently discussed it at length for quite some time, and Mr Dawley’s son has been told that you seem to be the most desirable prospect so far.’
Beatrix was almost speechless, but recovered enough to say: ‘Father said that young Mr Dawley was at Susannah Cummings’s party last year. Do you remember him?’
Her mother shook her head. ‘There were far too many guests there for me to recall.’ She shuddered. ‘Such a dreadful occasion. We came home early, if you remember.
’
‘We did,’ Beatrix agreed. ‘I heard later that Susannah didn’t enjoy it much either. Her parents had arranged it. It was held for her to meet people.’
‘It was a search party for marriage prospects in the worst possible taste,’ her mother exclaimed. ‘Simply dreadful! However, what you must understand, Beatrix, is that your father is doing this with your best interests at heart. He is only doing what he is expected to do; it is how things are done. Like it or not, he is simply following a pattern laid down over decades – no, centuries – and there is really nothing that we can do about it.’
CHAPTER THREE
Beatrix began to weep. ‘I don’t understand,’ she sniffed. ‘I’m not ready for this. I thought that one day I’d be introduced to someone special and we’d fall in love.’
‘You’ve been reading too many novels,’ her mother remarked. ‘This is real life for young women like you, as it was for me too.’ She looked sad for a moment, before adding, ‘On the whole I’ve been lucky. Your father hasn’t been demanding; he has, I think, been satisfied with married life. He likes things to go well, doesn’t like a fuss or any upsets, and I have managed to deflect most things that might irritate or bother him.’ She hesitated for a second. ‘He realizes that it behoves him to make sure that you also have a safe and secure marriage, and that is why he has taken it upon himself to find you a husband who will meet his own exacting standards.’
She sat still, gazing, it seemed to Beatrix, into another realm. Had her mother had romantic dreams, she wondered, or had the situation been explained to her by her mother so that she was aware of what was to come? Beatrix couldn’t remember either of her grandmothers and so had no idea of what their standards might have been.
‘Your father is also making plans of his own,’ her mother went on. ‘You know, of course, that Thomas will have this house if, or when, anything happens to your father.’
‘You mean when he dies. Yes, of course.’ Beatrix blew her nose on a handkerchief she had retrieved from her skirt pocket. ‘It’s to be expected.’ She looked up. ‘But he’s not likely to die yet, is he? He’s not that old!’ Then she frowned. ‘Where would you live if he did?’
‘It will depend on what kind of legacy your father leaves me, and whether or not I can continue living here if Thomas should marry. That’s the crux of the matter, Beatrix. Would you prefer to be dependent on your brother and possibly a sister-in-law whom you may or may not like? Or to have a husband and a house of your own to run?’
Are those the only choices, Beatrix pondered? And do I have to choose now? Why such a rush? Surely when I’m twenty-one would be soon enough. She drew a breath. Perhaps I’ll think differently after I’ve met him.
‘I think you should agree to meet Mr Dawley,’ her mother added softly. ‘He might be perfectly acceptable, and his credentials are excellent, but that doesn’t mean he need be the only suitor you will have. If you don’t find him agreeable then I will arrange a party for you, something rather more discreet than your friend Susannah Cummings’s. We’re not so desperate to lose you yet.’
It seemed, in spite of every positive word her mother uttered, the prospect remained inevitable, and she didn’t want it. She wanted to enjoy her girlhood, meet her friends, go to balls; and once married, what then? If she married Mr Dawley she would be whisked away to a distant place and not know a single person. Would she be able to take Dora? She would need someone she knew. Would Dora want to go to the wilds of Yorkshire? Would there be household staff there already? Were there theatres, balls, art galleries or salons? She could not imagine for one moment that there would be. Heavens above! I have’t even met him yet!
Her father wrote to young Mr Dawley inviting him to call the following week on Tuesday morning at eleven o’clock, when his wife and daughter would be pleased to receive him. He had been primed by his wife to suggest that day as it would give her time over the weekend to ensure that the drawing room, which was on the first floor, was given an airing by opening the windows for an hour each day but no more, for fear of soot and dust entering the room; that the cream carpet was brushed, the furniture shiny without any residual smell of wax polish, and the odour of vinegar inseparable from the cleaning of windows given time to disperse, so that it would appear that they had not made any extra effort for his visit.
Importantly, it would also mean that after Mr Dawley’s departure Mr Fawcett would be able to have his dinner at the usual time of twelve thirty. Since retiring from the bank, he had requested that their mealtimes should change, as he preferred to eat at midday rather than at six o’clock as they used to when he kept office hours.
On the day before the visit, Beatrix had her hair washed, curled and parted down the centre with ringlets on either side of her face; at bedtime that night she wore a cotton cap over the curls pinned close to her head. The simple blue gown chosen for her to wear the next morning had been pressed and checked for any minor adjustments. Beneath it she wore a chemise and two wired petticoats but no corset, as she wanted to be comfortable during Mr Dawley’s call.
At eleven o’clock exactly a chaise driven by Mr Dawley himself drew up outside the door. The boot boy was dispatched by Mrs Nicholls, the housekeeper, who had been keeping watch from the basement window, to take charge of the horse, whilst Dora waited at the bottom of the kitchen stairs to run up and open the front door to the visitor.
Beatrix, sitting nervously with Mrs Fawcett in the drawing room, heard the boom of his voice as he announced himself, and turned to face her mother in some trepidation. Her father was in his study off the hall with the door open so that he might be the first to receive their guest.
Mr Dawley removed his top hat, handed it to Dora without looking at her and turned to greet Mr Fawcett.
‘Good day, sir. It’s a pleasure to meet you again.’
‘And you.’ Ambrose Fawcett shook his hand. ‘Shall we go up? The ladies are in the drawing room. Come this way.’
At the top of the stairs Dora appeared out of nowhere and opened the door for them, standing back as they entered and closing the door behind them.
Ambrose introduced their visitor to his wife and daughter, who had both risen from their chairs. Charles Dawley bowed as in turn they dipped their knees.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Dawley,’ Mrs Fawcett said. ‘Won’t you take a seat?’
He waited until they were both seated again and then took one of the hard-backed Chippendale chairs that had belonged to Mrs Fawcett’s parents. Beatrix’s father stood with his back to the fire.
‘The weather is much improved, is it not?’ Dawley said. ‘We have had considerable rain, but this morning my hopes for a fine day have been answered.’
Beatrix nodded. Why does everyone speak of the weather when first meeting someone, she wondered? Is it to break the ice? Then the absurdity of her unspoken comment, for they were in the middle of a wet summer, made her lips twitch. She turned it into a smile, and said, ‘I believe we have a mutual acquaintance, Mr Dawley?’
He raised his eyebrows questioningly. ‘We do?’
‘I understand you were at Susannah Cummings’s summer party last year.’
‘Miss Cummings! Yes indeed. I had not met Miss Cummings until that evening. I was invited through a friend of a friend who had received an invitation.’
Beatrix nodded. ‘I too,’ she agreed, although it was untrue. ‘So that is why there were so many guests; I found it impossible to speak to everyone.’
‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘I am not fond of such assemblies, I’m afraid. I much prefer something more select.’
Beatrix could tell that her mother was pleased with the remark, for Mrs Fawcett commented, ‘We are considering holding a small gathering in the autumn, Mr Dawley, no more than twenty invitations; perhaps you might like to join us if you are in London?’
He inclined his head. ‘Most kind,’ he answered. ‘I should be delighted.’ His glance took in both his hostess and Beatrix. ‘I am spending some of the s
ummer away from London, but will be home again at the beginning of September. That would be an event to look forward to on my return.’
Beatrix pondered. That means only two or three weeks away, as we’re already halfway through August. Oh, dear. Is the die cast? He’s rather handsome. I quite like fair-haired men, but I would guess that he is also arrogant, though perhaps I misjudge him. He must realize that he is being judged, just as I am, and we are all on our best behaviour. I at least can say yes or no if he should ask for my hand, I think, but once he asks he has to go through with it, and perhaps I do too unless I have a good reason to refuse him. I really would prefer to speak with him alone to find the real person, but of course that isn’t possible. How very ridiculous.
They chatted about insignificant matters, until Ambrose Fawcett brought up the subject of the Crimea and the two men began to discuss politics. After fifteen minutes Mr Dawley got up to leave, and turned to address Beatrix’s mother. ‘I am free for most of next week before I go away. I would deem it a great pleasure if you and Miss Fawcett would join me for afternoon tea one day of your choosing. I am rather fond of Browns in Mayfair, if that would be convenient, and agreeable to you?’
Mrs Fawcett considered for a moment. ‘Tuesday?’ she said. ‘Are you free on that day, Beatrix?’
Beatrix swallowed. ‘Yes, I think so, Mama. Thank you, Mr Dawley.’
‘My pleasure indeed.’ He smiled, and Beatrix thought his smile seemed genuine. ‘I will collect you at three o’clock.’ He gave a courteous bow. ‘Thank you for your hospitality.’
‘Well!’ Her mother, half hidden by the muslin drapes at the window, watched Mr Dawley drive away. ‘He exceeded my expectations. Oh, goodness, I’ve got quite a headache with the tension. Will you ring for tea, Beatrix?’
Beatrix pushed the bell at the side of the fireplace. Her father hadn’t yet come back upstairs after seeing their guest out. ‘Shall we go down, Mama? We can be more comfortable in the sitting room, and Father is sure to have something to say.’ The door opened and the other young maid came in and bobbed her knee. ‘Would you bring a tray of tea to the downstairs sitting room, please, Annie? And tell Cook that we shall be ready for dinner at twelve thirty as usual.’
