‘I know that: but the
trouble with Mrs Vawser is, she won’t go there even when she’s told. To think
of that ridiculous woman proposing to take you under her wing!’
‘And the only relief her
husband’s sparkling wit: a shocking prospect. But come, I hope you have not perjured
yourself on my account, and that your party on Friday is a real one.’
‘It is,’ Phoebe said,
‘and our pleasure would be very real, if you were to join it, Mr Durrant.’
This was spoken with all
Phoebe’s instinctive warmth. Mr Durrant studied her as if seeing her for the
first time.
‘Bearing in mind, of
course,’ Lydia could not help adding, ‘that you are not
obliged
to.’
‘If you want me to come,
I shall,’ he said, looking into the distance; and English being English, there
was no telling whom he meant by ‘you’.
Vauxhall came back
vividly to Lydia on entering Sydney Gardens for the gala night. There was more
gentility here, if less vitality — no Dark Walks, no roistering bucks, and no
prostitutes, or if there were, they were discreet in true Bath fashion — but
there were the same groves and strings of coloured lanterns, the same arbours
and grottoes, the same smell of bruised grass. Since coming to Bath she had
hardly thought about that last night in London: Hugh Hanley lounging in their
box, Susannah smiling in poisonous innocence, George getting drunk on
rack-punch and talking his blundering nonsense about all head and no heart. Yet
the fact that every detail presented itself to her mind so clearly suggested
that she had, perhaps, been thinking about it without knowing it.
Then, of course, the
Bath project had been newly proposed by Lady Eastmond, and she had been in a
state of violent opposition to it. Now here she was, and — well, was it so bad
after all?
Not bad, but not pleasant.
Where she had feared dullness, she was finding increasing perplexity. The
duenna was distress’d indeed. The party that gathered outside the Sydney Hotel
was a strained one, and she saw no prospect of its being otherwise.
Well-meaning and guileless Phoebe might be — though Lydia had not forgotten the
abbey — but still she had created an infernally complicated situation; and
Lydia was afraid that such knots and tangles, such lashings and tightenings,
could not be undone without some pain to someone.
But then tonight no one
seemed to be in spirits — herself included. From the beginning she was put
quite out of patience by Mr Durrant’s failing to meet them, at the time
arranged, outside the Sydney Hotel. The Allardyces and Mr Beck were here — Mr
Beck, indeed, giving the appearance of having solidly planted himself at the
spot since daybreak; the strains of music could be heard beyond the gates,
through which a stream of people was already passing. They waited, Phoebe
murmuring her concern that Mr Durrant might be unwell; but it was Lydia at last
who said they should go in, and let Mr Durrant find them. Having been in
charity with him lately, she had barked her shins against his old capacity to
frustrate and annoy, and surprise made her more vehement. He is not ill, she
thought — he is merely being Lewis Durrant: capricious, and supposing himself
above the normal claims of society: liking the idea of being waited for, so
that his arrival would give him the supercilious pleasure of conferring a
favour.
However, she kept these
thoughts to herself, and the general low spirits of the party must be
attributed to other causes — though the abstention of Mr Durrant at least
highlighted one of them. They were lop-sided. Mr Allardyce, naturally enough,
did not wish to be always giving his arm to his sister: Mr Beck, more mulishly,
would not do so at all. Juliet meanwhile, perhaps in protest at either of them
being turned into the superfluous woman, tended to walk with Lydia. The result
was a straggle, with no one at ease. The gardens had been decorated very
prettily — that was the word, and quite right in the context: no one entered a
Bath pleasure-garden looking for rugged sublimity. But where Phoebe was
inclined to admire the illuminated cascades and Chinese bridges, and Mr
Allardyce to smile on them with tolerant amusement, Mr Beck could not or would
not stifle his disgust. ‘A waterfall! Was there ever such a gimcrack travesty?
And what have they done to that splendid tree? Festooning it like that — as if
it has its hair in curl-papers.’
‘The illumination is a
little excessive,’ Mr Allardyce ventured, ‘but it does prevent that unfortunate
hazard of dark nights — falling over.’ Mr Beck only gave a triumphant snort, as
if he considered himself fully vindicated. (‘There you are, you see.’) Mr
Allardyce kept his composure, but he seemed to retreat a little further into
that inner distance. Phoebe, in turn, appeared uncomfortable: frequently the
exquisite neck turned, as if appealing for Lydia’s help in her distresses.
This Lydia was no more
willing than able to supply. If the sheer impossibility of her situation was
striking Phoebe, then Lydia felt it was high time. Youth, naiveté and
romanticism were all very well, but surely they need not be so closely allied
to folly. Then she remembered, with a curious start, Mr Durrant’s saying
something very similar at Heystead; and then, more sombrely, she remembered the
fate of her mother.
Perhaps, indeed, she
should be
more
the chaperon. Phoebe had actually said she wanted advice,
after all; and Lydia had no such low opinion of herself, of her own mind,
experience, and taste, as would hinder her from offering it. If anything tended
to prevent her, it was that propensity of people who asked your advice to act
upon it, and then blame you if it went wrong. But just now the evils of that
seemed negligible, compared to a continuance of this indecision, which could be
tending to nobody’s happiness.
A shriek of laughter
made her turn her head in alarm; but there was a genuine note in it, which
reassured her that it did not proceed from Mrs Vawser. The place was so well
filled, indeed, that they stood a fair chance of escape from her. A fair chance
also, she thought as she scanned the faces, that Mr Durrant would not find
them; and from anger with him she shifted to a sudden disquiet. Suppose, after
all, that he
was
ill, or that some accident had befallen him? Raging
torrents and wild bulls were admittedly scarce in Bath, but still she would be
easier if he appeared — if only that she might give him a set-down.
‘What does he look
like?’ Juliet said in her ear, startling her.
‘Who?’
‘This missing gentleman
— Mr Durrant.’
‘Oh . . .’ She found it
curiously difficult to answer. ‘Tall — very tall. Gentleman-like, but rather
dark and grim.’
‘You make him sound like
the very devil. And I feel like the very devil tonight. Shocking language, I
know. Mama would be horrified. Though not surprised . . . That’s why both
Robert and I are a little out of sorts, Miss Templeton — a certain familial disharmony.
Are you equal to that greatest of bores, a confidence?’
‘Certainly’ Lydia
answered: for she doubted that with Juliet Allardyce these were either
habitual, or trivial; and she was curious.
‘I had better start with
the usual high-minded things about Mama meaning no harm, and so on. Indeed, I
am quite prepared to believe them, now I have cooled a little. But the fact is
we did get thoroughly at cross today, and the occasion of it is not likely to
go away. It concerns my future — our future. Robert is to return to London in
September, and expects thereafter — depending on the war news — to be
dispatched again to the ministry at Vienna. I made the assumption that I would
be going with him again. To London certainly — he has very decent lodgings
there, which I have shared these past few seasons — and then abroad. It is what
I very much wish.’
Lydia, thinking of Mrs
Allardyce, could entirely understand that.
‘Mama, it transpires, is
set against this plan. It was with the greatest difficulty that we persuaded
her to my going to Vienna last time. And now I learn that that was enough of
indulgence — that I should have got that nonsense over with: in short, that I
should settle to a regular life, and make a good marriage.’
There was enough that
was familiar in this to bring a wry smile to Lydia’s lips. ‘And even London is
not to be considered?’
‘Well, Robert is not
expected to be there long — this is Mama’s reasoning — and so it is hardly
worth the stir of removal — and of course I cannot remain in town alone — and
furthermore, as Mama is careful not to say, once I am in London there is
nothing to prevent me skipping off abroad with him.’
‘I see. Mr Allardyce,
presumably, agreeing to . . .’
‘You are looking for a
delicate way of asking, what is Robert’s position? Excessively difficult. In
essence, he is on my side, and will do everything he can to help me. But on the
other hand his impulse is always to humour Mama, of whom he refuses to think
ill; and he is after all the man of the family, and must weigh its responsibilities
and so forth. And then, as Mama is kind enough to remind him, there is his own
future to think of. He promises great things, and I believe deserves them; but
in the meantime he must be prudent. Papa was more distinguished than greedy,
and Robert’s fortune is not great — at least—’
‘Not so great that it
should be burdened with the maintenance of an unmarried sister,’ Lydia put in.
‘Somehow I knew you’d
understand,’ Juliet said, tapping Lydia’s arm in her brisk way. ‘So, time for
Robert to forge ahead with his destiny, and for me to accept mine. I sound like
the most miserable carper and complainer, don’t I? Over-educated, my dear, too
many high-flown notions. I didn’t give in, of course. Neither did Mama. The
decisive battle is yet to be fought. Queen Square is rather like Europe in
miniature just now. Hence the clouded brows. I fancy Robert suffers the most,
because he always wants to please both sides.’
In that he certainly
resembled Phoebe, Lydia thought; but Juliet’s words had prompted further reflections,
and in an unexpected direction. She began to wonder whether Mr Allardyce
honourable though he undoubtedly was — were not a little influenced in his
partiality to Phoebe by her considerable fortune. Certainly Mrs Allardyce
seemed to approve her for that very reason. And indeed if he were so
influenced, why not? It was surely a very nice thing if the person you loved
had fifty thousand pounds: indeed it seemed a positive incitement to devotion.
Still, she felt that if she were to be an active chaperon, she ought to examine
the question — ensure that in the sum of her attractions, Phoebe’s sweet
nature, charming manner, soft eyes, lithe figure, and money should be ranged in
due proportion. And she had to admit that, distasteful as she found Mr Beck, no
such suspicion of his motives was allowable. He was all too sincere. That was
his trouble.
The question was all the
more urgent in that Mr Allardyce must surely be settling his affairs before his
departure in September. She wished she might ask Juliet where, in her opinion,
Phoebe fitted in with her brother’s plans; but this seemed carrying confidence
too far. Nor could she easily state her own opinion, that Phoebe might well be
ready to accept whichever gentleman asked her first: somehow it placed no one
in a flattering light.
For now she could only
commiserate with Juliet — for whom her sympathy was very real: though the tilt
of Juliet’s determined chin suggested that there was only so much sympathy she
required or would accept. Meanwhile the ill-assorted party had drawn near one
of the two stages, where a small orchestra was playing. Dissatisfaction with
themselves and with each other could be for a time dissolved or masked in
listening, or pretending to listen.
The time was short. Mrs
Vawser found them. She was dressed like a shepherdess of expensive, even exotic
tastes, and she did a great deal of carefree laughing and fond gathering of her
husband’s arm while the introductions were made. Her eyes were busy; and
presently she found an opportunity to draw Lydia aside.
‘Well, well, Miss
Templeton, here is a happy report for me to send to poor Emma! When next I
write, I may assure her that she need fear no dullness for Miss Templeton and
Miss Rae in Bath — for how prettily situated the two of you are, with your
attendant beaux!’
Lydia suffered a start,
in which several unpleasant emotions were mixed. ‘Pray write nothing of the
kind, Mrs Vawser — you have taken up quite a wrong idea.’
‘Oh, you needn’t be coy
with a married woman like me, Miss Templeton — you may be assured, I know a
little of the world. And whatever you do, don’t mistake me for one of those
narrow-minded people who suppose that only very young girls take pleasure in
having a beau. I dislike that sort of prejudice excessively. It is never too late,
I say; and even if it comes to nothing in the end, what woman can resist a
little admiration if it should come her way? — especially, you know, if her
life has been rather retired. It would be
too
inquisitive of me, I
suppose, to wonder which of the gentlemen—’
‘Neither, ma’am, just as
I told you.’
‘I see what you are
about — you are wanting me to hazard a guess. Well, I warn you, I am a very
good eye at such things — all my friends will tell you—’
‘Mrs Vawser, as I see
nothing will convince you that neither of these gentlemen is my beau, it would
be even more futile to say that I do not want a beau at all.’