Lady Susan Plays the Game (15 page)

Lady Susan yawned. She could reasonably now conclude. She would be with her dear relatives – the nearest on earth to her dear dear departed Frederick – within three days – unless she heard otherwise. This last sentence would prevent them from making excuses. She would not put it past Charles's wife to try to head her off, if given time for an exchange of letters.

She had, she considered, written enough and in the right vein. Her brother-in-law was too simple to need much winning over and she doubted that any number of pages would entirely succeed with Mrs Vernon. But she reckoned on her powers once she was at Churchill. Such a woman would be all mother, and some petting of the eldest child would bring her to the proper attitude. The mother would dote on the firstborn unless it was peculiarly unprepossessing. Lady Susan wished she could remember what exactly they had had, boys, girls, both?

One last visit to Alicia and she'd be off. She arrived in the drawing room, her presence lighting everything up as her friend noticed. They chatted while tea was being brought in; then when alone they were both momentarily silent.

‘I shall miss you enormously,' resumed Mrs Johnson.

‘And I you. Think of me buried in the country with disapproving relations.'

‘They won't disapprove for long.'

‘They shall not,' replied Lady Susan jerking herself into a more energetic tone. ‘And I must secure Sir James for Frederica. He has to wait until she's coerced into a proper state of mind. That inordinately expensive boarding school should do my work.'

Madam Dacre's Academy for young ladies was in Wigmore Street not far from their previous lodgings. So discreet were the joined houses that Lady Susan, who must have passed them in her chair on several occasions, had never realised that their double fronts contained a girls' establishment.

Promptly at two in the afternoon, just before dinner was to be served there, Lady Susan brought Frederica and her box in a hired Charing Cross coach to the doors. The headmistress met them with an encouraging smile that stayed only on her lips.

They proceeded to business almost at once. Some money had to be put down now, the rest of the fee should arrive at intervals. Behind her own gracious expression Lady Susan was wondering how to avoid the second and all subsequent payments while keeping Frederica barracked away.

Her own father had not paid the Bury school fees – possibly the reason why his daughter had never been taught the pianoforte, which was an extra. But she'd been the belle of the establishment, the one on display for prospective parents with her dancing and ‘postures'. There'd been another factor which Lady Susan had not mentioned even to Alicia: she had once seen the headmistress rather worse for wear coming through the front door; she'd followed her into the study where the older woman stood swaying, then tried to sit, then fell. Their eyes had met as Susan helped her to her feet. Nothing had ever been said.

At Madam Dacre's, parents were encouraged to make specific requests, prepare girls for a type of suitor perhaps, conform to an image desired by the parents or learn to shine in a particular drawing-room accomplishment. If required, girls could write a letter home each week under supervision – to make sure the grammar and spelling did credit to the instruction. Lady Susan had no such requirement.

‘Deportment of course,' said Madam Dacre as they were seated in her private parlour. ‘Indeed,' said Lady Susan. ‘My daughter will be round-shouldered by thirty if she continues to shrink into herself.'

Madam Dacre's smile was charming. ‘The girls are instructed in deportment by the dancing master. Shall we go to see him at work?'

The two older women walked down a corridor with Frederica following behind. They entered a large bare room in which various small girls were parading with books on their heads. They had long rulers down their backs between their gowns and chemises to pull their shoulder blades together. Some were mounting a construction of three steps without railings placed in the middle of the room, then descending by three steps on the other side. While the ladies watched, no book fell off a head.

The dancing master who was teaching the girls these skills came over. Lady Susan had a good ear for accents and doubted he was French but he affected the mode. ‘I show the young ladies 'ow to dance and curtsey and enter ze room.' The accent amused Lady Susan, as did Madam Dacre's name – she suspected neither had claim to such foreignness – indeed she detected an Essex flattening of vowels in the headmistress.

Madam Dacre turned to her new charge for a response but Frederica could not summon a smile.

‘Perhaps Miss Vernon has no need of such training at her age.'

Frederica remained silent. In some irritation Lady Susan answered for her. ‘I think my daughter will benefit from all you have to offer.'

‘I am glad,' said Madam Dacre. ‘We keep part of an old carriage in the back rooms purposely so that our girls can practise getting in and out of it in a most elegant manner.'

Next they went to the ‘library' where matching volumes lay on shelves in glass cases. They seemed glued together.

Frederica stirred herself to speak. ‘What books shall we read here, ma'am?'

Madam Dacre gave her a queer look. ‘We read mainly in French, of course.'

‘Ah yes,' said Lady Susan, ‘I have tried to shield her from the sad events in that misguided country.'

‘Certainly, your ladyship,' rejoined Madam Dacre, whose enquiries had told her that Lady Susan's sister and brother-in-law had met the guillotine.

‘None the less it will be good for Frederica to polish the language. I am with you there, Madam Dacre. But I'm especially concerned with manners, dancing and the like. Poor
Frederica has had little chance to develop in these areas – she has been brought up quite isolated in the country. Her father's ill health, you know.' She lowered her voice and smiled again at Madam Dacre.

‘And work, Lady Susan? Does the young lady require instruction in fancy needlework?' Madam Dacre had quite given up addressing her new pupil.

‘I believe so. I fear Frederica is but a sorry needlewoman.'

Frederica blushed. ‘I enjoy plain work,' she said. ‘Papa encouraged me to sew for the poor.'

Lady Susan smiled. ‘I think Madam Dacre has in mind more elegant work. It's a skill you can surely develop.'

‘Music?' Madam Dacre went on. ‘The lessons would be extra, of course. The pianoforte or perhaps the harp. It's a very fashionable instrument now and shows off a young girl's arm and foot to perfection. It's most useful when a lady begins her displays.'

‘The pianoforte is enough, I think,' replied Lady Susan, ‘and Frederica is already proficient there – though she needs instruction in raising the hand from the keys. It's important not to over-perform.'

‘Of course,' agreed Madam Dacre with just a glint of steel in her eyes. ‘And elocution?'

Lady Susan inclined her head. ‘Certainly elocution. To articulate well is essential. My daughter has a tendency to stammer or become a little confused when nervous. I'm sure you will easily cure her of the habit.' And again she smiled benignly at her companions.

Frederica resolved not to burst into tears. She disliked the place and Madam Dacre. But anything was preferable to being hunted by Sir James with his piggy eyes and slobbering lips. She dug her nails into the palms of her hands and her eyes stayed dry.

‘I shall leave you to say your adieus in private. Miss Vernon, we dine at half past three,' said Madam Dacre and swept out.

Lady Susan followed soon after. Having had a few further private words with the headmistress, providing her with some particular and pertinent instructions as to what she intended for her daughter, she left, quite satisfied with the arrangements.

On Madam Dacre she had made a mixed impression. Her manner and demeanour were impressive and titles were always welcome in parents. She just hoped that there was enough income or jointure to cover the cost of keeping this graceless child.

Frederica was to share a bed with Anna Leigh, a solid girl of fourteen who grinned broadly when they first met. She seemed disposed to be friendly, finding her new bedmate an improvement on the old one who'd kept the bed too warm with her fevers. The day before Frederica arrived she'd been anxious since sixteen-year-olds tended to lord it over younger ones, making them mend their bonnets and run errands. But she saw at once that the new girl would not be like this.

Frederica unpacked her box, laying out her possessions on her bed, her few books, including the poetry of Cowper and the volume of Hill's
Vegetable System
. When her belongings were arranged, Anna Leigh came round the bed to look at them. She picked up the books, glanced at them, shrugged and put them down again.

Her action startled Frederica. She'd been used to privacy. There'd been people around in Someyton. Mrs Baines had been there and a maid had helped her dress and undress every day, while Nanny had clucked round her and Miss Davidson had wheezed in sometimes to tell her of the travelling ballad man who'd been seen in the lane. But she'd had her own closet, her own private place. Nobody just entered and handled her special things. Here all the intimate activities had to be done before others.

The six girls who slept in the room along with herself and Anna showed interest when she first appeared: they questioned her, looked at her clothes and books, mocked her a little, then judged her wanting in one way or another. She possessed one good fashionable outfit in the new double muslin but not much else and she could not answer their cheeky talk with anything amusing. So they soon returned to their own chatter.

To Frederica's embarrassment they spoke openly about everything – of the monthly flowers, and how they coped with them, the pains and the general mess, what rags were better to stanch the flow. They complained about tight stays and the effect they had on parts of the body she'd been taught it impolite to name in front of others. They discussed the new fashion for leaving stays off altogether, and the two fat girls said that, as far as they were
concerned, they did very well with them and they could be as tight as ever for all they cared. So what if they made you fart.

Then they chatted of beaux and how to attract them in church. They were pleased to be noticed by any man or boy, it seemed, from the brothers of their fellow pupils to the middle-aged dancing master to Joe, the taciturn but well-made lad who ran errands for Madam Dacre and the under-teachers. Was this the adult world? Or the world of these particular girls? They were all younger than Frederica but already more knowing.

She thought often of her father and their amiable times together, when they'd read poetry to one another sitting by the apple trees near the house if the weather was mild or cosily by the fire on wintry days – she recited the lines to herself as she lay in bed:

Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,

Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,

And, while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn

Throws up a steamy column, and the cups,

That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,

So let us welcome peaceful ev'ning in.

With her father's voice sounding in her head she let the world expand in memory, for only there did the sky spread out vast overhead, high and deep in blueness, and the fields stretch away forever. Only in her head now did the low autumn light fall through the trees and dim windows making patterns on the lawn and fraying carpets.

Out of Lady Susan's presence she thought more and more about her father's life. Had he known he was dying? Her mother had alluded to a long illness that kept him in the country, but Frederica had known nothing of it. Was his gentleness due to pain? she now asked herself. With a pang she realised that, although she'd read to him often and made him comfortable in the evenings by bringing a footstool or a shawl when they sat out in the garden, she'd never really considered whether there might be anything seriously the matter or asked him about himself in that way. She had thought him immortal. Now she ached to feel his kindly hand on her arm and his loving eyes on her face.

He'd suggested she paint but she'd not been good at it and he didn't insist. ‘Your drawings are marvellous, dear,' he'd said, ‘so intricate, you can feel the leaves unfurling.' Now when she saw these sketches the tears rose to her eyes. Sometimes she dreamed that the two of them were united again in some loving huddle in a place that was always spring.

The sadness of separation overwhelmed her and she found herself bathed in tears at night. On the first occasion her companion had been sympathetic but on subsequent nights Anna, who habitually took up more than half the bed and was a light sleeper, had grown cross. ‘Everyone loses a papa at some time,' she snapped as the gentle sobbing roused her yet again. She herself had a robust attitude to parents. Hers were alive and she cared for neither. In fact, she was relieved to be at Madam Dacre's where the severity was general rather than particular and where, since the headmistress had not received specific instructions to change her character or physique, she could spend much of the day chatting of imaginary admirers instead of dawdling round Twickenham with her overdressed mother.

‘Did your papa hunt much?' asked Anna one night.

‘No, not much,' replied Frederica. ‘He sometimes used to join the Kimberleys nearby. But I never went with him. We used to ride round the meadows together and along the bridle paths above Wymondham.'

This wasn't what Anna wanted to know and the talk fizzled out.

Frederica found she couldn't describe her father in any state of activity. Her emotions were too strong and her words inadequate. It was better to be silent.

Did the headmistress especially dislike her, she wondered after a few weeks had passed. It seemed so. She did her best but her best was not enough – just as with her mother. The French mistress grew impatient, the drawing master spoke gruffly, and the dancing teacher, who had paid compliments on her appearance when first she came, declared she lacked what she'd thought ‘grease' until Anna Leigh translated it as ‘grace'. She associated the word with Mrs Baines and the road to Heaven. Her lips quivered even now when she thought how hard she tried to please and how little she seemed to do so.