Rustication (23 page)

Like a rather stupid terrier with its teeth stuck in a bone and growling at anyone who tries to remove it, she was back on her favourite victim. Her husband had tried to prise the bone from her but she was too stubborn to let him. Only a brisk kick to the jaw would have any effect.

Effie rose to the defence of Mrs Paytress:
At least she cannot be guilty of both of those things
.
She cannot be writing the letters and besmirching her own character
.

Mrs Quance stared at her stonily. Her bluff had been called and she did not know how to respond.

It suddenly came to me: That is precisely what Lucy is doing. Without thinking, I said:
Why not? Whoever is writing these letters might have a good reason for doing precisely that
.

Mrs Quance stared at me:
Can you explain that extraordinary remark, Master Shenstone?

I said:
The writer might try to throw off suspicion by defaming himself or herself in such exaggerated terms that the allegations cannot be believed
. For once I was listened to.

To my dismay, however, Mrs Quance then said triumphantly:
That answers your objection, Miss Shenstone. The person we are speaking of has exaggerated the facts to the point where nobody will believe even
the truth
.

I was already regretting having given Mrs Quance this weapon against Mrs Paytress. My sister turned towards our common enemy:
Are you now saying
,
that the allegations are too grotesque to be believed?

In their most extreme form, yes. But the underlying substance is true
.

So you’re simply choosing which of the lurid charges against that lady to believe?

My dear girl
, Mother said warningly.

Seeing the way things were going, Mrs Greenacre stood up as the signal for the ladies to withdraw. As she rose from the table, Euphemia shot me a glare which was my reward for having suggested the idea.

As soon as the ladies had left there was a general relaxing of manners, language and even dress as buttons were undone while the port began to circulate. Greenacre said:
I believe that odd little man Fourdrinier was one of the first to receive an abusive letter
.

Quance said:
Yes, he showed it to me. It was about his trollop. That little chit he calls at different times his god-daughter or his ward because he forgets which lie he has told about her. He deceives nobody. She’s clearly a young strumpet he picked up from the streets
.

Is it known what was alleged in the letter?
I ventured to ask.

Quance smiled at the recollection and said: “
You should watch out for your whore, old man. A strapping young wench like that needs a stiff rod to stir her paint-pot and not a limp brush
.”

(So that explains the old fellow’s crazy speech to me!)

I wonder, Greenacre
, Quance went on,
whether my wife has hit on the truth about these letters. That there is a combination of an educated woman and an illiterate man at work here and it is that strange mixture of elements that has thrown us off the scent
.

What can you mean?
Greenacre demanded.

That the lady at issue—if we will bestow that term upon her—is writing the letters in collaboration with a cloddish male. Perhaps her servant
.

Greenacre laughed.
I know who you mean. My wife has mentioned that ripe morsel of gossip to me
. He shook his head and said:
If only mantraps and spring-guns had not been made illegal the blackguard wouldn’t dare to wander about in the dark
.

You’re right
, the Rector said.
A broken leg was a very effective deterrent to poaching
.

Greenacre said:
Have I ever told you the story of the poacher who was caught in a mantrap on my father’s land? He was gripped fast by the ankle. He knew he faced transportation if he was taken, so I’ll be damned if he didn’t cut his own foot off!

Quance laughed.

When we rejoined the ladies in the drawing-room we found our hostess and Mrs Quance discussing governesses once again—the deficiencies thereof, weaknesses of character, unreliability. Then, having damned the whole miserable tribe, Mrs Quance turned to Euphemia and said very sweetly:
I understand you are seeking a position of that kind?
(Heaven knows how she had learned that!)
I might be able to recommend you to a family of my acquaintance
.

Euphemia thanked her as if that were a well-meant offer. The evil old dragon began to quiz her about her skills as if she were interviewing her for a post herself. Mother looked on anxiously. We both know that Euphemia’s patience has limits.

When Effie admitted to playing the pianoforte, Mrs Quance invited her to perform now and that request (command?) was backed up by our hosts.

She went to the pianoforte and played a short piece by Mendelssohn.

When she had finished Mrs Quance clapped briefly and then said:
That was charming. Of course, my own daughters have had the advantage of the best tutors and consequently play to the West-end standard. And speaking of Mayfair
, she went on,
as it happens there is a family of my acquaintance in Grosvenor-square who are looking for a governess
. She turned to Mrs Greenacre as if to convene an
ad hoc
committee of public-spirited mothers:
However, to make such a recommendation would be a serious responsibility
.

Indeed
, said our hostess.
I have always made the most searching enquiries into the character of the young women I have hired
.

Yet that is not always enough
, Mrs Quance said gleefully.
I heard the most dreadful story the other week about a young woman whose character one might have expected to be above reproach. And yet her conduct had become notorious in the neighbourhood
. She paused and gazed round at each of her listeners. Then she enunciated slowly and in a dramatically lowered voice:
She had been seen late at night coming from the lodgings of a single gentleman
.

That old
canard
again.

With complete disregard for the consequences, Effie galloped, banners waving, into the Valley of Death and “charged for the Russian guns”
. She said:
I too have heard a most shocking story of that kind about a young lady belonging to a most respectable family then living in Bath. The family of a clergyman
. She smiled at Mrs Quance.

They talk of someone’s face hardening. In fact, hers softened. It collapsed, the folds of flesh dropping. Her breathing quickened. She reminded me of a rusty little shunting-engine standing in a station and quietly getting up steam.

One of the parishioners was a family whose only son was not merely wealthy but in line to inherit a title. The young man had every advantage except one. He was, to be blunt, mentally incompetent. Because of that his guardians were wary of fortune-hunters and they soon became suspicious of the vicar and his family. With the help of her parents, however, the young lady contrived to entrap the poor gull into an engagement
.

Any duel—boxers, fencers—is not merely a competition in skill and determination but in the ability to stay calm. Mrs Quance and my sister might have been equally matched in the first two respects, but in the last one Euphemia had the clear advantage. What was so clever was that any attempt by the Quances to stop her narrating the story would only point the finger at them. I saw the Rector keep his eyes warningly on his wife, trying to restrain her from interrupting.

His mother and sisters managed to spirit him away to Brighton but the girl’s family pursued them and eventually organised what was in effect an abduction. The young lady collected him late one night and took him to a church where her father was waiting to perform the marriage. Luckily the man’s family found out what was happening and managed to thwart this unscrupulous scheme and rescue the unfortunate heir
.

I saw for the first time in my experience that Mrs Quance was speechless.

What an appalling story
, Mrs Greenacre exclaimed.

Euphemia said coolly:
I assure you it is true. I had it on the very best authority
.

(
The story is extant, and written in very choice Italian
.)

This has been quite fascinating
, Mrs Quance declared with a bright smile. She turned to Euphemia.
I’m sure we could entertain each other by trading lurid stories until late into the night. Especially—alas!—tales of the misdeeds of clergymen which appears to be the theme of the evening. There is one in circulation in this very diocese about a man in a very elevated office who was accused of the most unspeakable offences. Would you care to hear it?

Euphemia said:
I’m sure you’ve told it too often to want to do so again
.

Oh, a good story is always worth telling. And I believe our hosts, who left Thurchester several years ago, are not familiar with it
.

I think it’s late enough
, her husband interrupted, placing his hand on her arm.

It will keep to another day
, Mrs Quance said to Mrs Greenacre. She turned to Mother.
Mrs Shenstone
, she said with a smile of the deepest insincerity,
meeting you this evening has allowed me to give you in person some bad news that I was afraid I would have to express in a note. I very much regret that my husband and I are unable after all to convey you and your daughter to the ball in our carriage
.

Mother looked anxiously at Effie whose face remained impassive.

I admire our enemy’s skill in one respect at least. It would have been wounding to have given no reason at all, but what was even more hurtful and insulting was to give one that was transparently absurd. This she now did:
My daughters have informed me that the boxes they will need to take to dress at the inn where we have engaged rooms will unfortunately occupy the seats that I had anticipated would be free
.

I understand
, Mother muttered.
It was kind of you to have made the offer
.

We decided to leave as well. We were thanking our hosts at the door as Mrs Quance and her husband got into their carriage. She lowered the window and said:
I do so regret that we are unable to give you a lift and you will have such a cold walk home, but if we tried to take you so far out of our way the coachman would give notice
.
His principal concern is for his horses
.

She slammed the window shut. Her words had the more force since we all knew that for at least the first mile we would be taking the same route as they.

As soon as we were clear of the house I said to Euphemia:
You provoked that dreadful woman and now that she has withdrawn her offer of a ride, we can’t use those expensive tickets so I hope you’re pleased with yourself
.

Yes we can
, Euphemia said.
I have money
.

From your employment
, I said bitterly
. Why didn’t you tell me the old woman is paying you?

Paying!
she repeated with contempt.
She gives me a little now and then. She can’t afford to pay me. She can barely feed herself and her servants and keep warm in that great ruin of a house
.

We walked on in silence, tramping in the cold and dark along a muddy lane and stumbling on frozen ruts. A few minutes later the Quances’ carriage came rumbling along with its dim lights flickering and we had to crush ourselves against a snow-covered wall to avoid its great metal-clad wheels as they clanked past a few inches from our feet.

When it had clattered out of earshot Mother said:
It’s not just a carriage we’d have to pay for. We’d need rooms at an inn to dress in and stay the night
.

Euphemia insisted she would pay for everything and so, very unwillingly, Mother said she would write tomorrow to make the arrangements.

Mother
, I said.
Let me go into Thurchester and do that. I can look at the rooms and the carriage and make sure everything is as it should be
.

At first Mother insisted it was too far to go there and back in one day but at last she agreed reluctantly and it was settled that I will make the trip on Monday.

That suits me perfectly. Several birds with one stone!

· · ·

When we got back I found Betsy in the kitchen. I held my hands behind my back and told her to close her eyes. She did so and, oddly, she raised herself on her toes. I put the ribbons into her hand and told her to open her eyes and she looked at my gift in surprise. I said:
I’ve done something nice for you. If I come to you tonight, will you be especially nice to me?

She gazed at me so strangely that I asked her if she was pleased. She said:
This ain’t what I meant
.

I said:
Well then what do you want?

She seemed upset and didn’t speak for a moment. Then she said:
What do you think I want?
I didn’t reply and she said:
I want money
.

I was shocked. So I hadn’t misunderstood her last night. I said:
I thought you liked me
.

She said:
And I thought
you
liked
me
. Then she turned and hurried out of the room.

Odd little episode.

2 o’clock.

I think Quance is right about “
wholy matrimoney
”. So if the author of those letters is not only pretending to be illiterate but is also defaming himself—or more probably herself—it could be any literate person. Lucy is the most likely suspect.

· · ·

This expedition to the ball is becoming more and more bizarre. We will lay out in one night what we spend on the household in two or three months! What lunacy is this?