The Lonely Wife

by Val Wood

  Downstairs, Mr Fawcett joined them and sat in his usual easy chair opposite his wife. The maid brought in the tea tray and put it on a small table next to Mrs Fawcett, and as she closed the door behind her he humphed a little, cleared his throat and said, ‘I thought that went very well. No awkwardness or blank pauses, don’t you agree?’

  His question was to his wife, not to his daughter, and Beatrix looked from one to the other. Was she not going to be asked her opinion, or would it be her mother’s responsibility to make a decision on her behalf?

  Her mother repeated her view as she’d given it to Beatrix. ‘Better than I anticipated,’ she said. ‘There was no strain, and he appeared to be a dignified gentleman with manners.’

  So that is my mother’s role, Beatrix thought. She must be sure that he is courteous, not at all boorish, and knows how to behave in company and therefore, she must hope, also towards his wife. It must be difficult to judge, although Mother will perhaps remember how it was when my father was chosen for her.

  She suppressed a small sigh. It still doesn’t seem quite right. He could be putting on a show, and yet why would he? Is he under pressure to seek a wife? He’s over thirty, so why hasn’t he married already? What if he wants to marry someone else, who isn’t considered suitable?

  ‘What opinion did you come to, Beatrix?’ Her mother’s words broke into her thoughts. ‘A pleasant disposition, would you think?’

  ‘Under the circumstances, yes,’ Beatrix answered. ‘It can’t have been easy for him to be under scrutiny, any more than it was for me to meet a gentleman who might or might not ask me to marry him.’

  ‘He asked you to meet him again,’ her father broke in rather brusquely. ‘That must surely have given you the confidence to realize he was serious.’ He frowned, his shaggy eyebrows coming together like a fringe. ‘I must tell you, Beatrix, that he is a very worthwhile figure, and after being made aware of you has singled you out. I have assessed him and his expectations and I can assure you that I do not know of any other with his credentials or prospects. Not only is he to come into an estate in Yorkshire,’ he dropped his voice, ‘but he is expecting an inheritance of five thousand pounds a year.’

  Beatrix’s mother drew in a gasping breath, and Beatrix licked lips which had quite suddenly become very dry. That was a very serious amount of money. She would definitely be expected to accept his proposal if he should ask.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Beatrix and her mother had several discussions during that afternoon and the next day; her father had given them more details about Charles Dawley’s inheritance, as far as he knew them at this stage. The Yorkshire estate had been left to him by an unmarried great-uncle, and was described as substantial, with land and farmsteads; it was situated in East Yorkshire with views over the Humber estuary and within an hour’s carriage drive of the port and shipping town of Hull.

  Her father had looked on a map and explained to them that the area wasn’t as isolated as they had supposed. There were other country towns in the vicinity, such as Beverley and Brough, with villages nearby.

  This news didn’t give Beatrix much joy; she had been born in London and was used to stepping out of their front door into city streets, to take a walk around Russell Square gardens or hire a cab if she wanted to go shopping, although she had to agree with her mother when Mrs Fawcett pointed out that that was not always possible as of course she couldn’t go alone.

  ‘You might find that you have more freedom than at present,’ she had said. ‘If you have extensive grounds, for instance, you might perhaps enjoy creating a flower garden. Of course, there will probably be lawns and shrubberies already where you can walk without having to be escorted, and as a married woman you will be allowed to visit, with perhaps just a maid to accompany you.’

  Beatrix knew her mother was guessing. She too had been born in London and now lived no more than a mile from her original home. She had known nothing else. Beatrix’s spirits sank even further. I’m eighteen, she pondered miserably as she sat in her room; and I haven’t yet had time to enjoy myself with parties and balls. I’ve only recently left school; it’s only a month or so since my mother asked if I’d like to consider finishing school, and I said no. But I’m not ready for gardening! I don’t know anything about plants, even though I love flowers. What is Mr Dawley going to do all day? Is he a city gentleman? Has he visited this estate in Yorkshire? Is that where he is going when he says he will be away from London? I must ask him when we meet. Am I supposed to know that he is going to inherit a fortune? Where does he live now?

  She jumped up from her chair and hurried downstairs to knock on her father’s study door. She opened it when he called out and reeled back as tobacco smoke covered her in a choking haze.

  ‘Father,’ she said, covering her nose and mouth. ‘That can’t be good for you!’

  He coughed and spluttered. ‘What?’ he said. ‘The smoke? Nonsense. I give a good cough and it clears my throat and chest. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Father, where does Mr Dawley live now? Is he a London man?’

  ‘His home is still with his parents in Hampstead, though I understand he has a town house of his own somewhere where he mostly stays during the week. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I only wondered if he knows the country, and what he will do all day once he moves to the Yorkshire estate.’

  ‘I have no idea,’ he said bluffly. ‘But with the kind of inheritance he will receive, there will be little he needs to do.’ He stroked his beard and said thoughtfully, ‘Although not having any employment is not necessarily a good thing for a youngish man; idle hands and all that. But I’m sure if it’s a flourishing estate he will have to make sure that it continues to prosper.’

  ‘What does he do now?’ she asked cautiously. ‘Does he have some kind of employment?’

  ‘Banking.’ Her father nodded. ‘Like his father and the rest of their family.’

  Beatrix walked slowly back upstairs to her room. I hope we get on, she considered, for it seems to me that we might be breathing the same air for most of the time. I hope he doesn’t smoke a pipe.

  The following Tuesday afternoon Beatrix and her mother waited in the sitting room for Mr Dawley to arrive. Her father didn’t keep a carriage, for, he was fond of saying, what was the point? They had no stables, coach-house or mews for horse or vehicle, and then he would have to hire a groom which would be a waste, for he rarely went anywhere except to his club. That was within walking distance, and it was easy enough to send a boy to whistle for a cab if the weather wasn’t conducive to walking. He never gave a thought to the fact that perhaps his wife or daughter might like the convenience of having one.

  ‘What might we talk about?’ Beatrix asked her mother. ‘Please don’t mention the weather.’

  Her mother smiled. ‘We could remark on Browns and the lovely cakes. Browns have been preparing afternoon tea for almost twenty years since it became fashionable. It has expanded greatly in that time.’

  ‘Have you been, Mama? I haven’t. If Sophia and I or other friends meet for tea we go to a little place just off the Strand, near Covent Garden. Such a heavenly smell of flowers, although sometimes rotting vegetables and other odours.’ She laughed. ‘I love the hustle and bustle of it.’

  Her mother didn’t answer the question of whether or not she had been to Browns, but only remarked that Beatrix was certainly a young woman of London. ‘But you must be careful,’ she added. ‘And really, I’m not terribly happy about your being in that area. It’s a working location, but there are also people without means there, so dress appropriately and don’t flaunt your affluence.’

  She didn’t ban her from going, however, although the implication of vulnerability was clear. Instead, she changed the subject. ‘We might get the opportunity of asking Mr Dawley about Yorkshire,’ she said. ‘There are most certainly many questions to be answered, but we must take it slowly and not rush into anything.’

  ‘Really?’ Beatrix asked. ‘Meaning …
?’

  Whatever her mother meant would have to wait, for the doorbell rang and they both rose to their feet to greet their escort, who guided them to a smart brougham and took the reins himself. When he handed them down outside Browns, Mrs Fawcett thanked him and asked, ‘You prefer to drive yourself, Mr Dawley?’

  ‘Oh, every time,’ he said, and lifted a finger to summon the boy to stable the horse. ‘I prefer my own carriage, but I realize it is not quite as comfortable as this one, which belongs to my father.’

  ‘I hope we’re not depriving him?’ Beatrix chipped in.

  ‘No, not at all,’ he said as he escorted them through the door. Beatrix was surprised to see that Browns was only a small hotel. ‘He rarely uses it in the summer, as he prefers to walk. Good afternoon, Mary.’ He greeted the woman who came towards them to take the ladies’ coats and gloves and his grey top hat. ‘I have reserved a table.’

  ‘Yes, we have it ready for you, Mr Dawley.’ She smiled at Mrs Fawcett and dropped her knee. ‘If you would follow me, ma’am – miss.’

  She led them through into another room where there were only two tables, one of them not set for tea. At the other, which was laid with fine china, she pulled out a chair for Mrs Fawcett whilst Mr Dawley performed the same office for Beatrix, leaving the facing chair for himself. He handed his gloves to Mary, and then, turning to Mrs Fawcett, asked, ‘Would you like me to order, Mrs Fawcett? How do you like your tea?’

  ‘Light, please, with lemon.’

  ‘I will have the same, thank you.’ Beatrix looked around. There was a fresh floral centrepiece on the other table. Too large to leave in place should anyone else wish to come for afternoon tea. I think Mr Dawley has booked the room, she thought, and not just our table. It’s lovely and very private. A perfect place for a tête-a-tête. Just as well I’m with my mother.

  ‘You’re obviously a regular here, Mr Dawley,’ Mrs Fawcett said. ‘I used to come, but I confess I haven’t been for a while. It is as nice as ever it was, though I suspect much busier.’

  ‘Indeed, it is rare to get a table without booking, and I have heard rumours that they might be expanding. I hope that if they do it won’t lose its special atmosphere.’

  How polite we are; Beatrix gave a small sigh. It must be the English way, or perhaps this is a prelude to speaking of something more serious. A run-up, or an overture or a prologue. Whilst her mother and Mr Dawley mused over various cafés and coffee shops they had known, she contemplated the various descriptions that could be used for the situation they were currently in.

  Then something struck her, and without thinking clearly enough she leaned forward, saying in a whisper, ‘I hope I’m not being very forward, Mr Dawley, but you and my mother seem to know some of the same places.’ She dropped her voice even lower to ask, ‘Would it be very rude if I asked your age?’

  ‘Beatrix!’ her mother gasped in a shocked undertone. ‘Whatever are you thinking of!’

  Charles Dawley blinked and then laughed heartily. ‘I would say that your mother is years younger than I. That is the good fortune of ladies who are perennially young.’ He put his hand over Mrs Fawcett’s on the table. ‘Don’t be cross with Beatrix, Mrs Fawcett – I may call you Beatrix, mayn’t I?’ he asked, looking directly at her. ‘I am thirty-one, having had my birthday in June.’

  ‘Ah, so you are thirteen years older than me,’ Beatrix told him. ‘My birthday was in July, and Mama is – I’d better not say or she’ll be very cross with me.’

  ‘Indeed I will, and rightly so.’ Mrs Fawcett was interrupted by two maids who came in with trays laden with teapots, sugar bowls, and cake-stands displaying tiers of finger sandwiches, cream cakes, bonbons and various other confections. ‘Shall I pour?’ she asked, picking up a teapot. ‘And now that the ice has been broken, so to speak, I am given to understand that you will shortly be moving north, Mr Dawley. How do you feel about that, being a gentleman of London birth?’

  She passed a cup and saucer across to him, and then a small jug of milk, before pouring another for Beatrix and passing her a plate of lemon slices. Beatrix looked at her in awe. So that is how it is done when serving tea for guests or strangers, she thought. She too served tea when at home but only for the family, and now she saw that a certain flair was needed: the skill required to be sure that no tea dripped on to the saucer, and the ability to make small talk at the same time. It was an art she had yet to learn, and she wondered if her lessons were about to start.

  She caught up with the conversation when Mr Dawley said, ‘… and so I will travel to Yorkshire at the end of the week. I visited when I was a boy, and quite often since, and I remember having the freedom to roam over the meadows quite high above the Humber, and being able to see ships, coal barges, schooners and other types of shipping travelling in both directions, and the county of Lincolnshire on the other side of the estuary. The Humber is not at all like the Thames, at least not the London end, as it runs through countryside rather than a town.’

  ‘And do you like it?’ Beatrix asked. ‘Will it feel like home?’

  She thought that he hesitated for a second before answering. ‘I love it, although it might take a while before it feels like home. Anywhere would, don’t you think?’ He turned to Mrs Fawcett for her opinion, and she nodded. ‘For a short while,’ he went on, ‘I will need to return to London quite frequently as I have business interests here, and will therefore keep on my own London town house, so as not to intrude on my parents.’

  Oh, Beatrix thought, that’s a good idea. It will be a convenient sort of toe-hold for coming back to town; it must be quite boring in the country. That could influence my decision if he should make me an offer.

  ‘You might like to come and visit,’ he suggested, looking first at Mrs Fawcett and then at Beatrix. ‘Beatrix? Not yet, as I must see how habitable the house is. A housekeeper is looking after it; she’s been there for many years in my great-uncle’s employ. If it is in good order we could perhaps make up a house party, if Mr Fawcett is willing?’

  ‘Perhaps so,’ Mrs Fawcett answered, though Beatrix thought that she wasn’t showing very much enthusiasm. ‘After our end of summer gathering, perhaps? Plans are under way for that.’

  Are they really, Beatrix reflected? No one has told me! Are my mother and Mr Dawley playing some kind of game that I know nothing about?

  ‘Of course, of course,’ Mr Dawley replied. ‘Early September, I believe you said?’ He smiled. ‘That should work out admirably.’

  Mrs Fawcett smiled back. ‘Indeed! Excellent,’ she remarked. ‘May I pour you more tea? And what about another of these delicious cakes? Beatrix?’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Mrs Fawcett had decided that they would book rooms at an exclusive hotel for the small party. All Beatrix’s friends were invited, along with their brothers and parents, and canapés and wine, champagne and non-alcoholic drinks were served. Not all the fathers came, giving their excuses as was expected, but some of Beatrix’s friends’ brothers brought along their friends, so that there were more young men than young women. All eyes turned when Charles Dawley, who was one of the last to arrive, came through the door, everyone realizing that here was a guest who didn’t fit into any slot, being younger than any of the parents but older than the other young men.

  Beatrix, who was nearest the door, moved gracefully towards him, knowing she was looking her best in the new evening gown her mother had insisted she should wear. The white embroidered muslin with its low neckline, puff sleeves and deep pointed bodice waist on a full skirt showed off her petite figure, and her hair was coiled at her neck and tied with white lace. At her throat she wore her gold necklace.

  She dipped her knee to Charles Dawley and he in turn bowed and took her hand, and pressed it to his lips. ‘How lovely you are, Beatrix,’ he murmured. ‘What colour is your hair? Not quite blonde, not quite red? Gold, I think, would be a worthy description?’

  She blushed slightly and thought that it didn’t matter; the blush would enhance
her appearance. She kept hold of his hand and led him over to her mother and father, who were speaking to Sophia’s parents, and saw the look of approval on their faces.

  So this is what it’s about, she contemplated. We all put on a show to give the right impression. She saw Sophia standing to the right of her mother with her eyes opened wide, her lips apart and a look of astonishment mixed with envy on her face, and had to admit to herself that Charles Dawley cut a fine figure of a man, being a head taller than most of the other men and wearing a fine wool black frock coat and narrow striped grey trousers with a dark red waistcoat. He had visited his barber since their last meeting and his fair hair just brushed the back of his collar.

  ‘We’re so pleased that you could come.’ Her mother gave him her hand and lowered her head but didn’t dip her knee on this occasion, whilst Beatrix’s father shook his hand and introduced him to the people who were standing near them. Then Mrs Fawcett and Beatrix took him round the other guests, and as most of them knew each other they were soon all merrily chatting and laughing. Charles Dawley, Beatrix noted, was obviously quite used to socializing and didn’t find it difficult in the least to talk to people he didn’t know.

  After they had done the rounds of introductions he drew Beatrix discreetly to one side under the pretext of getting her a glass of lemonade from the tray being held by a hired manservant, and murmured, ‘You have a very merry group of friends, Miss Fawcett. Have you known them long?’

  ‘The young ladies, yes. I was at school with some of them, but I didn’t know all of the gentlemen until this evening, except for the brothers of my friends.’

  ‘And are some of them suitors?’ he asked teasingly. ‘Are they vying for your hand?’