Flirtation & Folly Page 13

  “Yes, my aunt and I are going.”

  “It should be enjoyable,” Mr Hearn said. He seemed inclined to go on, but at that moment Miss Emily joined them and gently placed her hand on his arm; all her attention, however, was focused on Captain Pulteney, who was chatting with her sister.

  “Mr Hearn, I have thought a great deal about what you said, and I am determined to find a book of Irish songs. There is nothing suitable here, but I am sure I can purchase something that will charm us all into imagining we are strolling bonny green hills.” She laughed and removed her hand from his arm, as if mindful of how long a ladylike touch might be permitted as mild flirtation, and just how much would look vulgar. Marianne watched it all with the same feeling of sullen, sour annoyance that had plagued her ever since Miss Emily sang. It occurred to her that an independent observer might describe that sensation as…jealousy.

  Of course it was ridiculous. She had no earthly desire to immure herself in the country when she still had the chance of shining with the brilliance of a meteor in London. Mr Hearn likely made his fortune in India, but now he seemed to have no occupation, and she had no idea how long his resources would sustain a profligate lifestyle in London. Perhaps Miss Emily deemed him a reasonable consolation as a husband if she could not catch Captain Pulteney.

  And why should Marianne care if Miss Emily did pursue Mr Hearn? She should be happy for her friend, not seething with a senseless resentment. Everything her conscience advised, and her prudence suggested, pointed to forgiving Miss Emily’s raillery of Marianne and wishing her the best in her endeavours. So Marianne thought, and yet she struggled to master herself. A few insults about her appearance could be forgiven—was not Marianne herself generally dissatisfied with how she looked? Miss Emily had only been stating what Marianne had often thought herself. But the lady’s new-found interest in Mr Hearn galled.

  “Of course I would enjoy whatever sad old Irish ballads you can unearth,” Mr Hearn told Miss Emily. “As a boy I used to visit the tenants and hear them all, usually while devouring sweetmeats or hugging some shockingly dirty hound. When I was sent to school, I still hardly know whether I missed my mother or those wild, carefree musical visits more.” Miss Emily laughed at his words with the appropriate level of ladylike appreciation.

  “It’s very pleasant to feel nostalgia sometimes, I suppose,” Marianne said. Despite the effort Marianne made to sound polite rather than irritated, Miss Emily seemed to sense her discomfiture.

  “Miss Mowbrey has not the least bit of nostalgia in her,” she said with a smile. “Why, you must look at some of her pictures, and you shall see she never pines over sweet family portraits, or sighs over wistful scenes of groves and blossoms. Hers is quite a different taste.” The smile never wavered, but as she turned to Marianne, Marianne could sense an underlying tension.

  “Where is your sketchbook, Miss Mowbrey? I must show it to Mr Hearn at once. He will see exactly the sort of young lady you are. It is really quite astonishing, Mr Hearn.” When Marianne protested—quite falsely—that she did not know where the book was, Miss Emily swam out of the room to find Jeannette. A few minutes later she returned, holding the book aloft in triumph. Marianne had little hope of escaping the humiliation to come, but she made a weak effort.

  “It is really nothing to look at,” she said to Mr Hearn. “I would much rather you did not.” He took the book from Miss Emily, however, and soon began studying its pages with a curiosity that made Marianne uncomfortable.

  Little Harriet’s strawberry-stained face stared up from one page, and the puddle in the middle of a Wrumpton road dappled another. Mr Hearn examined the dusty children playing, the gaggle of geese, the meat pie cart, and the street children kicking sprays of snow. The delight on his face puzzled Miss Emily and startled Marianne into relief.

  “Is this the unbearably beautiful sister?” Mr Hearn asked, tapping the picture of Belinda with amusement. At Marianne’s nod, he returned to turning pages, sometimes flipping back to re-examine one he had seen before, sometimes progressing forward to something new. That he was intrigued was clear. “Is this a self-portrait, Miss Mowbrey?” He had stopped at the sketch of the beetle climbing on a leaf.

  Miss Emily tittered.

  Marianne’s heart began to sink, but she forced her voice to sound calm. “What do you mean?”

  “You seem to me like this beetle, throwing yourself over into an abyss.”

  She was relieved he did not mean her appendages were spindly or that she was as ugly as an insect, but she could not reply.

  Miss Emily hid well her disappointment that the remark had not been an insult. She simply took the book from Mr Hearn’s fingers. “You must not keep all Miss Mowbrey’s treasures for yourself,” she said lightly. “Others must have their enjoyment.” Turning, she left to circulate the book amongst the others. Lady Angela shuddered at the beetle and declined viewing the rest of the book. Mrs Stokes regarded the pictures with an unflappable, cold politeness. “How very skilled Miss Mowbrey is. Such charming pictures.” She passed the book along to the captain, and her daughters quickly joined him in thumbing through the pages and exclaiming over them.

  “Have you ever seen such ugly children?” Miss Emily asked. She and the captain sat so close together that nothing of the cream-coloured damask of the sofa could be seen between them. Even her green-ribboned slipper rested tantalisingly close to the captain’s polished boot.

  “Miss Mowbrey did not make any error.” The captain laughed. His voice displayed no indication of romantic sensibility, but a smug smile twitched at his lips, and his boot pressed closer to Miss Emily’s foot. “I know I have seen such hideous little creatures all about. She is merely holding up the mirror to life, as they say. And I daresay we three would look as dusty and ragged, if we danced about in a ploughed field.” The conspiratorial smile he gave Miss Emily and Miss Stokes was visible even across the room. Marianne could not like that smile, but she did not think her aversion due to jealousy, this time at least.

  Miss Emily’s ladylike decorum was powerful, but the delight she took in joking with the captain now threatened to overthrow it. She clearly cares for the captain much more than Mr Hearn. She realised Miss Emily’s positioning had had a special object: sitting next to Martha meant being in front of the captain and sharing confidences with Mr Hearn before the captain’s gaze. Her intent must have been to inspire Captain Pulteney with a fiery jealousy; instead, she had inspired Marianne with such. It seemed to be evidence that people were generally very awry in their pursuits and effects.

  Perhaps the best reason for chagrin was Marianne’s relief when she realised Miss Emily did not have any serious intentions towards Mr Hearn. I am at as many cross purposes as the rest, I suppose. She hoped Mr Hearn would not be too disappointed when he realised he had only been used as a foil to the captain. She studied his expression as he watched the Stokes sisters and Captain Pulteney make jokes over the sketches. His lips pressed together in dissatisfaction of some sort, but was it jealousy of the captain over Miss Emily’s affections, or simply disapproval of their reactions to the pictures? Marianne determined to find out.

  “You seemed to like my drawings better than my musical performance,” she said. It was not a very diplomatic remark, but she found herself oddly preoccupied with his opinions.

  Mr Hearn looked embarrassed. “Ladies’ drawings are generally very much the same,” he said. “Dull watercolours of green pastures, or a beach with a few boats. It should not be surprising that I enjoyed seeing something different.” He carefully did not comment on her piano piece, but Marianne forgave this in the pleasure of hearing him express any admiration of her art. “It makes me wonder what some of the natives in India would have said about those street scenes, and the old barn. I brought a few drawings of England to show them what it looks like, but they were all the ordinary landscapes one customarily sees in drawing rooms. It did not show them much of what England is really like for a person.”

  “You really w
anted to show them England? Are they so curious about it?” Marianne did not know why they should not be, but somehow she had always imagined that the people living in exotic places must be more than satisfied with their own locale, and serenely indifferent to other places.

  “They are about as curious as the English are about them. That is to say, some of them are wild about it, others care not at all, and most are in-between.”

  “Do they know English, then? Or did you learn their language in India?”

  “Language?” Mr Hearn smiled. “They have not one language, but many. I could not learn them all, but I learned a little of two of them. Enough to buy and sell, hire workers, and assist in the management of supplies for His Majesty’s forces. More than that would require more study than I had leisure for. But in exchanging pictures, we were able to communicate on a few more of the finer ideas of life. I wish I had had that picture of a meat pie cart in India. They would have loved seeing what our own mercantile methods are like.” He laughed, and Marianne’s heart warmed.

  “I am glad someone finds something interesting in my sketches,” she said. “It is too dreary to be always tracing meadows with daffodils. And even when I draw a family member, I find it tedious to form them into the usual pretty, polished memory. Miss Emily was right enough. I do not care much for nostalgia.”

  “But surely the past has a magnetic draw to it. All the things you have seen, the pleasing and familiar shapes of old rooms and abandoned toys… The boys and girls you played with turned into solid, respectable men and women—yet you can spy the same wicked winks or wrinkling of a nose in their expressions.” Mr Hearn sighed with a not unpleasing melancholy, but here, Marianne could not sympathise with him.

  “Perhaps if I had had a more carefree upbringing, I would have more to regret,” she said. “I certainly was not mistreated as a child, but all I can remember is drudgery and noise. I am not anxious to recall dirty linen, squabbling children, and wearing the same dingy dress three years running.” Her hands instinctively smoothed the proper ivory silk of her dress. The purity of its colour, unmarked by jam stains or grease, soothed her. “Do you think you will ever return to India?”

  “I don’t know.” He looked dissatisfied, but Marianne could not tell if he was unhappy because he thought he would or because he thought he would not. Before she could ask, Martha approached with Marianne’s sketchbook in hand.

  “I am returning your book, Miss Mowbrey. I fear I got a little candle wax on it as I was looking at it,” Martha said. Her sheepish expression bore a blush almost as red as her hair. Marianne took the book from her and carefully removed the small spot of wax.

  “I always read too close to the candle,” Martha admitted. “It would have been a great deal worse, only Emily noticed it was dripping on the paper and bade me move. Shall I sit down? What were you speaking of?”

  While Mr Hearn obligingly informed Martha of the topic and begged her own opinions, Marianne stroked the tiny, softened space on the page where the wax had been. Miss Emily was such a mixture of agreeableness and mischief, kindness and hauteur. She thought she was beginning to understand the impulses that governed her friend. When uncertain of the captain’s regard, Miss Emily maligned her friends to raise her own standing. When suffused with the captain’s attentions, she willingly saved her friend’s book from further harm. It seemed that when the young lady felt in control, she could be generous and inclusive, but anything that threatened her social superiority—like Marianne garnering male attention or Martha’s bumbling vulgarity—demanded to be instantly quashed. As soon as order reigned again (as Miss Emily saw it), she could return to a reasonable friendliness. Even now, as her tiny doll-like mouth pressed into a perfect bow of happiness, Marianne could feel the appeal of her superiority slowly wear down Marianne’s distrust. Miss Emily’s gown, jewellery, mannerisms, conversation, and confidence renewed Marianne’s enthralment, hopelessly in service to the friend she felt sure could open the magical gate into genuine standing in the ton.

  But something remained to mark the vexation Marianne had undergone. If Miss Emily still appeared the queenly figure of enchantment Marianne worshipped, there lurked about her skirts the shadow of another version of Miss Emily: girlish and petulant, bitter and ineffective, sliding in and out of notice depending upon her volatile moods. When the evening came to a close, and Captain Pulteney gallantly escorted Miss Emily to the Stokeses’ carriage in the clammy cool of the March night, the lamplight illumined a smiling young lady who, for the moment, appeared angelic. It was only the remembrance of her friend’s flippant unkindness that caused Marianne to doubt the woman would succeed in claiming the captain as her own.

  With the image of Captain Pulteney helping Miss Emily into her carriage still fixed in her mind, Marianne ascended the staircase and went to her room. Jeannette soon joined her there, but the sly compliments she paid to Marianne soured quickly. Jeannette could hint at the captain’s attentions all she wanted; Marianne knew the truth. He was merely flirting.

  “Just help me with my gown, Jeannette, and go to bed. I want to be alone,” Marianne said. The maid’s lips pursed in annoyance at her gossip being curtailed, but she did as she was bid, and soon Marianne lay in the darkness, her whole being sleepless and melancholy.

  Although it was already quite late, somehow she could not settle into slumber. Her thoughts returned to every moment of triumph she had had with the captain—his greeting of her at church, his gentle teasing of her and her aunt, the press of his hand, his seemingly significant smiles. She went over each one the way a child might bid a solemn goodbye to each toy she placed in a charity basket. What a fool she had been! And yet, how sweet each memory was. She had felt like a belle whenever Captain Pulteney smiled at her.

  Of course, there had always been so much effort involved. In some ways, it was a relief to know that she need not continue her relentless endeavour to impress the captain. To always look beautiful (or as near it as she could approach), to perpetually have a witty remark at hand, to avoid every appearance of ill nature or dissatisfaction—it was hard work, to say the least. There was an artificiality in it that Marianne was beginning to distrust. Now that I think of it, Miss Emily is so often artificial. She says so many things I know she does not mean. No, it’s more than that. She pretends to feel things she doesn’t. The next thought came as something of a shock. And the times when I am surest she is sincere are the times when she is disagreeable! What sort of a person is she, really?

  Somehow talking with Mr Hearn, although often provoking, had not felt so false and fake. If only Mr Hearn was determined to settle in London rather than a country estate! She genuinely liked the man—even if he was not as handsome and dashing as the captain—and he was not a bad catch, she supposed. But consigning herself to a large country house with little company to admire her was hardly her vision of a heroine. It would be like living at the rectory, only without the trial of managing a houseful of children on very little income. It would be peaceful, no doubt, but dull.

  Hours of rumination clarified nothing more than she had already determined: she must give up hope of winning the captain’s affections and seek some new person as a husband. After tossing this way and that on the bed, Marianne finally gave up hope of sleep as well. She padded to the window and shifted the curtains. A beam of moonlight, almost solid-looking in its clear delineation from the curtained shadows, fell on the carpet. In its light the room looked solemn and still. The slight curls of wayward threads in the fabric of the carpet glowed with the moon’s focus, each wisp of thread unnoticeable by day but proudly individual and fascinating by night. The mahogany bedposts slipped away from the light as they tapered upwards into shadow. However dispiriting her thoughts of the future might become, Marianne could not help but love her life in London. Even the moonlight felt more magical here.

  The moonlight revealed an unfamiliar shape along with the more recognisable ones. On her dressing table, a strange white spot proved itself to be an envelope
with Marianne’s name scrawled across it. Marianne lifted it and examined it, her heart pounding. The captain might have sent her a billet-doux—that would be so exactly what would happen in a novel! Hero and heroine crossed with misunderstandings, a moonlit letter revealing his true feelings. Marianne’s hands trembled as she angled the page into the moonlight. The rays did not illumine the sweet confessions of a man lost in love; instead, the supposed billet-doux was a note from Aunt Cartwright.

  Dear Marianne,

  Come to me at once. We are all in an uproar! I have been most cruelly used, and if I have not your sympathies and assistance this minute, I cannot say what will become of me. Do make haste and give me aid in this emergency. The most dreadful thing has happened, simply dreadful.

  Yours affectionately,

  Mrs Matilda Cartwright

  Marianne went to the door and threw it open, expecting to charge down the hallway in search of her aunt or Jeannette, but instead, she discovered a yawning housemaid whose startled eyes met hers. Changing her plan, she bade the housemaid to fetch Jeannette and shut the door firmly. Of course, it was too early for most of the household to be up. Poor Aunt Harriet would be sleeping soundly after all her efforts at the party. Marianne had not been much help to her then. Her skills as a hostess had needed prompting and correction throughout, and now Aunt Cartwright was in some sort of trouble.

  Why had she not written to Aunt Harriet, who knew so much more of the world? But perhaps she found Aunt Harriet too stern for whatever sort of emergency it was, or perhaps it had something to do with money. She doubted Aunt Harriet would rescue her sister if her trouble was financial. But if it was, what could Marianne hope to do for her? Her thoughts whirled until Jeannette finally entered.