Elisabeth Kidd (2 page)

“Mrs Hannah More’s
Practical Piety
,” Isabel replied, sinking Antonia s
heart to her slippers. It was a long leap from the fervent Mrs More to the fashionable round of a London season.

“Oh, dear—is that all you could find to amuse you? Or have you come
to the end of Papa’s library at last?”

“Oh, no—in fact, Imogen lent it to me. She knew Mrs More, she says,
in her tragedy-writing days. Mrs More’s, that is.”

“Remind me to have a word with Imogen about her acquaintance,”
Antonia said, none too charitably inclined toward her best friend just at that moment. But recalled to her engagement to meet Imogen in Melton
Mowbray that afternoon and bring her back to take dinner at Wyckham, she let the subject drop and rose to change into her grey merino walking dress. Isabel watched critically as, dissatisfied with their effects, Antonia
then discarded one shawl after another; none suited the grey. At last she settled on a lace fichu that had the merit of softening the severe lines of the gown. She then stared reflectively into the mirror until Isabel broke
the silence.

“I like your hair done in that fashion,” she remarked. “Is it one of
Esme’s creations?”

“Yes, she claims it is the very latest mode—in Leicestershire, at any
rate.”

She turned back to Isabel then and, abandoning any notion of presenting
her case cautiously, blurted it out. “Isabel, should you like to go to
London in the spring? You know that your godfather, Mr Kenyon, has
been saying forever that he would sponsor you when the time came, and
today I have had a letter from Charles—that is, written by Charles at your
Uncle Philip’s request—inviting us both. And it seems such a good time to go, for although he is perfectly able to frank such an undertaking, we
do have that little extra money—or at least, our credit has been restored—so
that we need not be too much of a burden on him and can indulge in
some lovely new clothes as well.”

She came to a slightly breathless halt and looked to see how Isabel
would take this suggestion, but her niece only lowered her eyes and said,
“I thought you were going to spend it on new bed linen.”

Antonia mentally apostrophised herself for her loose tongue, but laughed and sat down on the sofa again to hug Isabel. “There—you see
how sadly frivolous I am still! I would much rather buy us both new
bonnets and sleep in darned and redarned sheets. But the point is, love, that we both need a little change, and we should seize the opportunity.
Don’t you agree?”

When Isabel said nothing, Antonia cast out the lures she had previously
prepared as most likely to appeal to her serious-minded niece. “Think of
the museums we might visit,” she coaxed her, “and the concerts and
plays we might attend! Should you not like to see the great Edmund Kean
perform Shakespeare?”

Isabel replied that her curiosity to see Mr Kean was outweighed by her suspicion that he could not be half so wonderful as everyone said he was,
but she did confess to a desire to visit Dr Johnson’s house and to gaze
upon Lord Elgin’s famous marbles.

Antonia wondered momentarily if there might not be more stages necessary to this persuasion than she had anticipated, but she put on a
bright smile and exclaimed, “And why should you not see them! I
daresay they will be most enlightening.”

Isabel smiled serenely, in a way she had that always made Antonia feel herself
particularly superficial, and said, “What about you, Antonia? I have
often thought that you must miss all the gaiety and excitement of the season, hidden away here in our quiet little life.”

“Well, perhaps I do—a little,” Antonia said, snatching at any straw to
convince Isabel of the delights she would be missing. “There is some
thing for every taste in London—indeed, you must remember Dr Johnson’s
maxim that says if a man is tired of London, he is tired of life.”

“A lofty recommendation. Have you any other such in your pocket,
Antonia—for future arguments?”

Antonia saw that Isabel was teasing her, and felt even more as if she
were the younger and sillier of the two—not that Isabel had ever been silly, but Antonia occasionally wished that she had provided a more
uplifting example. But then Isabel surprised her by leaving off her
teasing and saying, with perfect composure, “You need not try so hard to
cajole me, Antonia. I know why you would like us to go to London, and I
am perfectly willing to try.”

“Try what, darling?”

“To find a rich husband, of course. I know that one of us must do so in
order to provide for the others and to bring Wyckham back to its former prosperity, and I do not mind, Antonia, truly. At least, I shall not mind if
he is not old or unkind or
...
unintelligent.”

Antonia’s first coherent thought on hearing this remarkable statement—
delivered so calmly!—was that far from being a bad example to Isabel,
she must inadvertently have provided all too potent a one. What else but
her aunt’s folly could have persuaded this innocent child that such a
sacrifice was necessary on her part?

“But, Isabel!”

“No, you need not try to persuade me, either, that such a marriage is
not for me. I have thought about it and decided that it will suit me quite well to be married to a gentleman who will expect of me only that I run
his household well—for I am quite capable of that, you know—and who
will otherwise allow me to do as I please. I understand that most
fashionable marriages are just such arrangements, with none of the
muddled emotions that accompany romantic love to interfere, and that seems to me a most sensible way to go about it.”

This effectively removed Antonia’s remaining powers of speech, so
that she did not even reply to Isabel’s calm “Good morning” as she went off to continue her daily round in, no doubt, the same eminently practical spirit in which she had delivered her modest proposal. Her bemused aunt
sat down on her sofa again for a moment to collect her wits.

“Well!” she exclaimed to herself finally. “What is one to make of
that?” She stood up and addressed the question to Balthazar, but he had
no answer either. “Then I shall have to consult with Imogen. Thank
heaven she has more sense than any of us foolish females here!”

Antonia gathered up her cloak and muff and set off in a spirit quite as determined as Isabel’s. However, she had no sooner descended the stairs
into the front hall than she was confronted by a further setback in the
person of her formidable housekeeper, Mrs Medwin, who stood firmly in
her path with her black brows knitted in concern and her thin lips set in disapproving lines. She was listening to something being said to her by
the butler, but Belding spoke so low that Antonia was unable to overhear any of it.

“Good morning!” she said cheerfully, breaking into the tête-à-tête. “I
see by your long faces that some new disaster has befallen the household
since last evening. I wonder what it could be?”

Belding, whose lugubrious mien would have been alarming if it had not been habitual, was accustomed to his young mistress’s unorthodox sense of humour and took no offence at her interpretation of what he
considered the proper demeanour for a family retainer of his age and
dignity.

“Pardon me, Miss Antonia, but I desired merely to enquire what wine
you wish to have served with dinner this evening?”

Antonia assured him that he himself was the best judge of that, and
that she would leave the matter entirely in his hands.

“However, I know that Mrs Curtiz is very partial to the Madeira my
brother laid down in her honour. We will have some of that after dinner, I
think. Will you be so good as to bring up a bottle, Belding?”

“Yes, Miss Antonia.”

Her butler bowed stiffly and took his leave, and Antonia turned to Mrs
Medwin. Given the floor, the housekeeper launched into a lengthy
catalogue of the tribulations she had overcome since rising that morning. Antonia listened attentively, standing erect with her head slightly bowed and her hands folded in her skirt, an attitude which Mrs Medwin took as encouragement to emphasise the weight of every word she uttered, but
which in fact concealed Miss Fairfax’s lamentable tendency to smile at
her housekeeper’s earnest catechism.

Mrs Medwin had no small number
of words to expend on the treachery of a new housemaid, who had broken
one of the Sevres teacups, thereby disrupting the entire set (the maid
being infinitely more replaceable), as well as sundry other deficiencies in
other members of the household staff. These she concluded with a recital of the inexcusable (but unspecified) sorties by Cook into Mrs Medwin’s
area of jurisdiction, with the result that Mrs Driscoll had grossly neglected
her own duties and, in short, there was no fish course for dinner.

Antonia attempted to relieve her housekeeper’s gloom by expressing a joking reluctance to drive all the way home from Melton Mowbray with fresh fish in a very small gig, but Mrs Medwin was not to be so easily diverted by her mistress’s cajoling tongue as was Belding, and Antonia
finished with a solemn promise to have one of the bailiff’s sons go out and catch their dinner.

“As for the teacups—oh, good morning, Baskcomb!”

This last was directed at the groom, who had come into the house at that moment in search of her, carrying his hat in his hands and bringing with him an unmistakeable odour of stables. Mrs Medwin sniffed
conspicuously and Antonia hastened to remove her from the scene.

“Thank you, Mrs Medwin, that will be all. Pray do not take Betsy any
further to task over the breakage. It is of no significance. Baskcomb, have
you the gig ready? Thank you!”

She smiled at the groom, not because she was any more partial than
Mrs Medwin to horsey odours in her front hall, but because she liked Baskcomb and would have been sorry to think he dared not venture into her house at all.

Baskcomb’s broad, weather-beaten face broke into a wide grin and, still
holding his hat to his belt, he followed her outside. It was a bright, crisp
day, the first break in a long, cold winter that would yet freeze the
Thames at London and bring hardship upon the rest of the country. But
Baskcomb was an optimist after his mistress’s heart.

“Fine day, Miss Antonia, if I may say so!”

“It is indeed, Baskcomb. We are fortunate to have such weather this time of year. Do you think it will hold?”

“Ay, I’d give it another fortnight,” the groom replied large-mindedly,
helping Antonia into the gig and handing her the ribbons. “You would
not wish me to go with you, Miss? Dolly here has been cooped up for a
week, and she’s feeling a mite skittish this morning.”

“Dolly and I understand each other perfectly, Baskcomb, but thank
you all the same.”

Baskcomb, accustomed to Miss Fairfax’s habit of jauntering about the
countryside in no company but her own, made no further attempt to intrude himself, and wagged his head paternally as she drove away.

Dolly set off at a brisk pace, but she had not yet reached the edge of the
park surrounding Wyckham when Antonia perceived a horseman coming through the gate in her direction. She recognized her bailiff, Ned Fletcher, and brought Dolly to a halt. Ned was in the act of closing the
gate behind him when he heard the gig and looked around.

“Good morning, Miss Fairfax!” he called to her.

“Good morning, Ned.”

She was occupied for a moment in quieting Dolly, who was clearly
disappointed at being checked before she had got into her stride. Ned
rode up to the gig and had a quiet word in Dolly’s ear, which seemed to
appease her. Ned Fletcher was a tall, angular man, who sat his horse with
an awkwardness that belied his considerable equestrian ability. He took
off his black slouch hat when he addressed Antonia, revealing dark
features and a lopsided, wry smile, which lengthened as they conversed.

She sighed feelingly and said, “It seems I am not to escape so easily
after all.”

Ned raised a sympathetic brow. “Mrs Medwin, I suppose. Or was it Mrs Driscoll this time?”

“Both!” said Antonia vehemently. “And Belding!”

“You bring it on yourself,” Ned reminded her. “You will retain all
these faithful servants and you will pay their wages before you think of
spending anything on yourself—and they know it!”

He smiled, but Antonia saw the truth of this. “I am reminded of how,
as a child, I was used to burrow into the bedclothes on winter mornings.
Working free of my loyal household staff is rather like working one’s way
free of layers of quilting, which are warm and comforting, but
suffocating when one most desires to get away!”