Flirtation & Folly Read online

  “You seem a little out of sorts, Miss Mowbrey,” Mr Hearn said. He was not looking at her, but was rather serving himself a section of sauced fish with an unnecessary degree of attention.

  “If I told you why, you would think me a very shallow creature.” She finally abandoned rubbing the silk of her gown and picked up a piece of crusty bread.

  “You are unhappy because your dress has no sails upon it.” The humour in his tone was mild, but Marianne had to struggle not to take offence anyway.

  “I knew Miss Emily had told you about that dress. You can laugh. Everyone does.” She bit off the words even more sharply than she bit into the slab of bread in her hand. For once she did not care if she looked ladylike.

  “I cannot laugh very hard, as I have never seen the gown in question.” He was still careful not to look at her, and seemed even more careful not to take offence himself. “But is that really the matter—you miss your old clothes? Miss Emily seems to exult in your transformation.”

  Marianne could not help but throw a glance in Miss Emily’s direction. The young woman’s hair was swept back with a jewelled comb, and her neat gown displayed a proper degree of bosom—enough to entice without appearing immodest. She was laughing at something the captain had said, and their heads were companionably close. She looked the very image of the sophisticated, witty debutante every London maiden wished to be. Only Marianne had wished to be something even more—not merely beautiful and worldly, but original and dazzlingly creative. Not merely someone who matched the height of fashion, but one who set it in careering directions wildly different from what had come before.

  “It is not that I miss the old gowns, exactly,” she said, sighing. “I know they did not suit. But these new ones do not suit me, either. I look so ordinary.”

  “Is that so bad?”

  “It is for me. My sister Belinda is unbearably beautiful—ˮ

  “Unbearably?” Mr Hearn was looking at her now. He bit his lip, but was unable to hide the smile threatening to escape; surprisingly, Marianne felt warmed by it rather than annoyed.

  “Well, it is unbearable to me,” she said, smiling back. “And Miss Emily is rich and pretty. An ordinary-looking young lady has no chance. She has to have something to catch people’s attention and show—well, show that she is something out of the common way.” Even though she felt she had not made her case clearly, Marianne felt better for having tried.

  “I’m not sure being ordinary is as horrible as you seem to think it,” Mr Hearn replied.

  Marianne could hardly explain that ordinary young women had little hope of marrying in one Season and avoiding a life of drudgery in a rectory, so she remained silent.

  “In my experience, ordinary people are quite nice. They make no insistent demands on one’s attention. They are not tiresome. They are polite, well-behaved…” As he continued, however, a tension wound in her chest and began drawing more and more taut. He appeared to notice something in her face, although she had struggled to contain it. His tone turned puzzled. “Miss Mowbrey?”

  “Have you ever felt like your true self cannot get out?” she blurted. The tension in her chest released, as if the one moment of vulnerability had satisfied the pressure of a river behind a dam—a bursting forth, a surrendering explosion. She felt near tears, and was sure she looked it.

  “I suppose everyone feels that way, sometimes,” Mr Hearn said. He ignored Marianne’s obvious distress, scraping his fork under his fish as if they were having an idle conversation. She did not know whether to thank him or hate him. “We imagine there is some real self underneath what we present, that we are something more than the things we do in public. And perhaps we are, a little bit—there are always some things a person does in private but never publicly. But I think the idea of a true self hidden away is largely a mirage. We are what we do.”

  “But you might want to do something, and be something, you can’t yet show yourself doing.”

  “Then you are not yet that thing. That thing is not your true self.”

  She huffed in frustration. “Suppose there is a tailor who longs to paint. He wants to paint, he is born to paint, but he cannot do it yet because he must earn money by tailoring clothes. Surely his true self is the painter, and the false self is the tailor, what he must pretend to be when he is at heart something much more artistic.”

  Mr Hearn settled back, contemplating. He seemed to take the conversation as a merely theoretical exercise. “But he is actually a tailor. Perhaps he would like to change, but he has not done so yet. The painting idea is the pretence—the false self, if there is one—because he does not try to act on it.”

  “My case does not warrant such criticism. I am trying to act on my inner self.”

  His eyes drifted up to meet hers. “I did not realise we were speaking personally, Miss Mowbrey.”

  She knew he was lying, but she let it pass. At least he was trying to help her, in his own way. Even if he was following the social pretences demanded by good society, he was letting some authenticity dribble through—which was more than she could say for Captain Pulteney today. Did the captain have any real romantic interest in any of the women he flirted with? Her heart ached to know, but she told that unruly organ it should not matter anyway. She was finished with the captain. It was too bad Mr Hearn was bent on burying himself in the country. She would have to find a new suitor to pursue, and she had met few gentlemen.

  “I suppose you are glad Mr Lowes did not come along to pester you,” she said. At the sight of Mr Hearn’s lip curling in distaste, she felt obliged to drop the topic. Floundering from one subject to another, she tried to regain her sense of dignity, feeling sure that she could make something positive of the evening if she kept trying. But she was all too aware of Miss Emily’s laugh carrying down the table like the sweet notes of a nightingale, and Miss Stokes turning her head languorously this way and that, almost birdlike in her own slow way. Even Lady Angela appeared perfectly at ease, her dainty hands flitting over the tableware without hesitation or awkwardness. Her upright back paralleled the mahogany chair-back in a style of deportment that Marianne knew from practice required a great deal of effort. The effect was supremely ladylike and impressive. Marianne thought it a hard lot to envy the impoverished, haughty, ill-looking Lady Angela for anything.

  When Aunt Harriet rose from the table to signal the ladies to retire, Marianne vaulted to her feet with an embarrassing haste. She had not shone much during dinner, but there was always the quiet conversation of the ladies in the drawing room while the men sat over their port—and better yet, music afterward when the gentlemen rejoined them. She could salvage the evening yet. After all, as Aunt Harriet’s niece, she was part hostess herself. That had to constitute an advantage.

  The drawing room, like all of Aunt Harriet’s rooms, displayed superb refinement. The walls and ceiling were painted a pastel yellow—nothing terribly remarkable in itself, but perfect for allowing the plasterwork scallops and medallions ornamenting the planes to garner full admiration. Aunt Harriet had chosen a fitted carpet in green, and japanned tables marshalled around the wide, cream-coloured sofa pushed back from the pianoforte and harp. Several smaller chairs in various damasks of cream and yellow, or green, stood in lines at an appropriate distance for listening to performances. Although the fabrics of the chairs did not match exactly, they all complemented one another and were plush with good stuffing.

  The female guests arranged themselves in the attitudes they thought suitable—Miss Stokes lounging on the sofa, Lady Angela seating herself upright like a well-driven nail into a shield-back chair, Miss Emily leaning over the pianoforte and thumbing through the music placed atop it, and the other ladies seating themselves in the cream-and-yellow chairs nearby.

  Marianne approached Miss Emily, her limbs moving jerkily even though—or perhaps because—Marianne longed to move gracefully now more than ever. It was silly to be nervous, and the stab of anger she felt remembering Miss Emily’s remarks about her clothes
deserved to be suppressed out of Christian forgiveness. Of course Miss Emily was proud of having helped transform Marianne’s wardrobe. Why should she not boast a little of her success to the captain? And of course, for proper boasting, one had to exaggerate how bad things were pre-transformation. She had probably not intended to hurt Marianne’s feelings. I ought to forgive her. But she ought to be a little more thoughtful, too.

  “There is much more music in the canterbury,” Marianne said, gesturing at the little wooden box behind Emily. With its thin, vertical slats and knobby feet, the canterbury looked like a tiny crib crammed with pages and books instead of a peacefully nested infant. “Perhaps I could help you choose something to play? A Haydn sonata, perhaps.”

  “Oh, I grow so tired of those. Every foolish country girl can play those, nowadays,” Miss Emily said listlessly. “Have you anything more—whimsical?” She knelt with Marianne next to the canterbury. “A little French air—something light. Or an Irish ballad.”

  “Irish?” A sense of unease came over Marianne. “I suppose we can find something.” She hunted out a few French songs, but Emily passed them over in favour of an Irish song about a maiden abandoned by a faithless lover.

  “This one is very popular in Ireland, so they say,” Miss Emily said, fingering the pages. “Shall I play first?”

  “If you like.” Marianne drew out the music she had chosen for herself. Her skill with the harp was not good enough for display yet, but she had practiced a piece by Bach she could play on the pianoforte. She had never played in front of anyone but her family and the music master, but surely it would not be that different. At any rate, she had to do it. If she let the Stokes sisters do all the entertaining, Marianne would slide into the shadows.

  Tea and the gentlemen arrived at the same moment, which stirred the indolence of the ladies into the busy, happy familiarity of renewing conversation and preparing and passing thin china teacups full of hot tea. Mrs Stokes sipped her tea with decided appreciation, and Marianne reasoned that the lady was reaping the rewards of suggesting a gift for Aunt Harriet—now, she did not have to drink dirt anymore. Admittedly, Aunt Harriet herself seemed pleased with the better quality, so perhaps it was genuinely a gift that benefited all.

  When everyone had been served and the gentlemen had planted themselves in chairs amongst the ladies, Miss Emily glided to the pianoforte. As she played, the notes of the ballad crept out of the piano all sonorous and mellow, and Marianne could imagine them as tiny field mice, slowly coaxed forth by something pleasing and rare. The polite lapse in conversation that ordinarily occurred at such parties seemed instead the hushed silence of a forest glade, where all the animals willingly pause to hear a birdsong especially sweet. When Miss Emily’s voice joined the melody and began the story, it was as if the awaited bird had alighted and poured forth its song.

  The tale in the lyrics happened to be rather trite—yet another foolish maiden bewailing the fickleness of men—but the sweet pathos in Miss Emily’s voice gave it new life. Marianne found herself forgetting her own woes in the simple cry of despair of the maiden. The experience was oddly soothing. She felt sad for the maiden in the song, so clearly brimming with beauty and love as Miss Emily made her appear, yet the sorrow was sweet and reflective.

  Marianne dwelt in a reverie until an awkward cough broke it. It was the strained, uncomfortable cough of repressing emotion, and it had come from Mr Hearn, who had lowered his head and shaded his eyes. The balm of feeling the maiden’s sorrow dwindled away. Marianne supposed Mr Hearn had heard the song before, and doubtless associated it with his home in Ireland. For some reason, the recollection soured her mood.

  Light applause followed Miss Emily’s performance. She regally retreated to a seat near Martha, who happened to be sitting near Mr Hearn and in front of the captain. Mr Hearn spoke a few hoarse words in an undertone, but despite straining her ears Marianne could not make them out. Miss Emily’s reply matched his volume, using instead a smooth, sultry tone Marianne had not heard from her before.

  “Dear Miss Stokes, perhaps you would regale us now,” Aunt Harriet said, throwing a glance at Marianne as she led Miss Stokes to the pianoforte. Marianne realised her aunt had probably wanted her to manage the invitations to perform, but she had been too distracted by the Irish song and its after-effects. Martha was talking volubly—and loudly—to Miss Emily, who merely nodded her appreciation of the Irishwoman’s compliments. Marianne had forgotten—of course Martha would have liked hearing an Irish song as well. Was that why Miss Emily had sat next to Martha, when she disliked the Irish cousin so? To obtain praise for her music? Miss Emily had never seemed to care for Martha’s approval before.

  The high energy of Miss Stokes’s piece rattled the keys of the pianoforte with gusto, peppering the air with quick, short notes well executed by the lady’s flying fingers. It was as if an enchantress had bewitched the two sisters to trade characters for the musical part of the evening. Miss Emily had somehow wound up with her sister’s languor, and now Miss Stokes was firing off a boisterous staccato with a restless pace better suited to her sister. Miss Stokes made good use of it, however, and the applause that met her was just as fulsome as that for Miss Emily. She must have enjoyed it, because Miss Stokes began a second piece after the first in much the same manner.

  That is hardly polite, Marianne thought as she watched Miss Emily and Mr Hearn speaking in hushed voices as Miss Stokes played, his shoulder brushing hers. Next to Miss Emily, Martha wriggled in her chair to try and have her share in the conversation, but apparently without success. Miss Emily ought to listen to her sister play, and not let her attention wander off to her neighbour. It was several minutes before Marianne realised her own attention was just as negligent as Miss Emily.

  However distracted by the two she had been, Marianne was forced to focus when Miss Stokes kindly entreated her to play next. Marianne approached the pianoforte with hesitation. She did not fear the audience—much—but she found it more difficult to shrug off her uneasy watchfulness of Miss Emily. Settling her music on the stand, Marianne sat down and took a deep breath. Devotina in The Italian Count made people weep with the keen intensity of her music, and other heroines were likened to sirens in their sweet melodies. Emotion, emotion! Marianne reminded herself. Her music master had scolded her a hundred times over for the stolid insensibility of her playing. He said she played like a butcher chopped meat: expertly, vigorously, but without even a hint of feeling. The notes were correct, but not impassioned. Marianne had to do better this evening.

  The piece began ill, a woodenness suffusing not only her fingers, but the entire mood of the Bach prelude. Emotion! Unfortunately, she had no earthly idea what sort of emotion was supposed to be revealed in the piece, and the only one present in her heart was a sullen distaste of Miss Emily’s singing Irish songs and leaning close to Mr Hearn. Emotion! Playing angrily would not do. Angry opera singers in a scene of retribution were all very well, but sullen pianists did not exactly charm the ear or eye. Marianne supposed sadness was the easiest proper emotion to fake. She affected a pained expression, closing her eyes and lifting her hands from the keys in dramatic fashion, intent on bringing out the sorrow of the tune. We weep, we weep!

  At last the piece ended, and Marianne rose to the muted sound of polite clapping. The unenthusiastic response that trailed off before she returned to her seat gave no illusions of sincerity. To crown her humiliation, she could see Miss Emily giggling behind her hand and whispering something to Mr Hearn, who merely gave a nod in Marianne’s direction instead of praise. Marianne’s chest burned as she sat through a few songs from Martha, Miss Stokes again, and Miss Emily. The smouldering inside cast a baleful glow over the proceedings, as if some infernal energy had suffused the pale yellow drawing room and waited to lick fire over its walls.

  As Miss Stokes and Uncle Cartwright hunted out a duet they could sing together, other guests got up to mingle or refresh their tea-cups. Martha hopped into the seat next to Marianne, and much a
s Marianne liked her, she could not help but think of an imp jumping into mischief.

  “Marianne, what a pleasant evening! I do wish Emily and Mr Hearn would speak up properly; they talk and talk, but I cannot make out two words together. I can make out two words separately, though, and those are ‘Ireland’ and ‘music’. I daresay I have just as much to say about both as they do! Miss Emily never cared about Ireland before, and I am from there.” Martha huffed a sigh and hugged herself, which did nothing to dispel the image of an imp.

  “It is a pity.” Marianne could not explain why their camaraderie inspired annoyance, but she no longer even tried to deny it. “Do you remember Mr Hearn talking about Hearn Hall, and how the person who owns it is in London?”

  “Of course.”

  “What do you think he meant when he said that he is not exactly going to buy it?” It had been a small remark, but Marianne could not help pondering it.

  “Probably that he will go to law about it,” Martha said. Her arms squeezed herself tighter, like the possessing imp was expressing how ineffective she thought that would be.

  “But he said there was not an entail.”

  Martha shrugged. “How can I tell? But as I was saying—ˮ Uncle Cartwright and Miss Stokes were finally beginning their duet. At the pressure from Marianne’s hand, Martha let their conversation drop, and by the time the song had ended, Martha had forgotten all about her grievance and gambolled over to Uncle Cartwright to congratulate him on his performance. Her red hair shone as she passed a candelabra, lighting up her head with a glow as if the imp had caught fire.

  In the desultory conversation and movement among the guests following the song, Marianne found herself next to Mr Hearn. He had at last moved away from Miss Emily’s companionable whispers and seemed inclined to talk to Marianne instead. “Will I have the pleasure of seeing you at Sir William’s ball next week, Miss Mowbrey? I suppose I should call it Mrs Appleton’s ball, but we all know who is the real force behind it.”