Authors: Jude Morgan
Not too fanciful also to pursue the sound of that name, and remark that Brighton is also brisk, breezy, brilliant
—
and, for those of a more conservative disposition, a little brash. You can put that down to the Prince Regent, whose patronage has made the town,
and
whose principal creation rises above it all, strange and splendid and gargantuan like an architectural expression of his own fabulous bulk: the Royal Pavilion, still unfinished, a cheese-dream of domes
and
minarets.
You may detect that near-presence of absurdity in the great concourse of carriages, riders and walkers parading along the Steyne. Fashi
on
flaps and flares in the briny air. Here, parasols are hoisted over bandeaux and coiled curls, bosoms thrust up above the high waistlines and the filmy and shimmering silks with their flickering glimpses of slender sandal shoes. Last year Waterloo closed the twenty-year
account of war that temporarily turned the nation of shopkeepers into a warrior race, but the military imprint is still to be see
n
in male modes, not just in the swagger of uniforms, scarlet and blue, but in braided and frogged and Prussian-collared coats, worn by gentlemen who have only ever gone into battle against pheasants. High-perch carriages bowl along, phaetons and barouches and landaus
—
and it is right that their names are a little fantastical, for these vehicles are only for going from one end of the town to the other in, whilst being looked at.
And yet absurdity is just held at bay: if these people, this place are not all they think they are, still they are not contemptibly far off their ideal of elegance; and any shortfall is made up for by an abundance of life. Which is greeted with a shudder by Mrs Catling, when Caroline remarks on the number of people.
‘Aye — the town is most shockingly full of company,’ the widow sniffs; revealing herself to be one of that not uncommon class of people who choose to live in attractive places, and then deplore anyone else doing so.
Mrs Catling’s house in West Street has this in common with its owner, that it is substantial, handsome in a severe way, and dominates those around it. Old compared with many of Brighton’s gingerbread villas: but within, all convenience and cleanness. This latter is confirmed by its mistress, whose first action on entering the hall is to sweep a white-gloved finger along the surfaces of a table, a Chinese bowl, and a picture-frame. The platoon of servants drawn up at rigid attention evince no surprise at this; but Caroline sees twitches of alarm at Mrs Catling’s next proceeding. She takes a straight-backed chair, places it next to the door to the dining room, and instructs Caroline to step up on to it.
‘Run your finger along the top of the lintel. Stay — let me see your glove first. Good. Now, up you go.’
Caroline does as she is bid. With dismay, she finds the finger of her glove coming away black, but there is no hiding it or wiping it with Mrs Catling below watching intently. She steps down: Mrs Catling’s eyes sparkle at the sight of her glove. ‘Dear, dear,’ she intones, and taking Caroline by the other hand as if they are beginning a dance, leads her ceremoniously over to the servants, and urges her to display the offending finger.
‘I cannot suppose you were not expecting me, as I wrote you wit
h
every detail,’ Mrs Catling says, addressing her household as her late husband might have addressed a regimental parade. ‘Nor can I suppose you unaware of my strong objections to living in a sinkhole or cess-pit. The only supposition remaining is that you care neither for my opinion nor for your situation, and would gladly forfeit both. Do speak, if so: allow me only to add that with the character I shall give you, your prospects of alternative employment in
Brighton at least will be slender to the point of emaciation.’ Mrs Catling smiles blandly at the pained silence that ensues. ‘Well, well. I .am in indulgent mood, for I have been fortunate enough as you know to find a companion
—
she is Miss Caroline Fortune, and here she is, and you are to answer to her as you would to me; and so I am pretty well contented, and will overlook the dereliction
—
this
once
.’ She turns to Caroline and adds, ‘You had better put the glove aside to be laundered, my dear. You are thinking that next time you will simply make a pass with your finger without touching the surface, but believe me I will
know.’
As this is precisely what Caroline is thinking, she can only gape in a vanquished manner, just like the servants. But Mrs Catling is all of a sudden in genial spirits, and ordering a maid to show Caroline to her room, cordially hopes she will like it, and urges her to mention anything that is missing for her comfort. Nothing is: the room is admirably fitted out, if more formal than homely. Caroline turns to the maid, thanks her, and assures her she isn’t going to investigate the lintel for dust; but she gets no answering smile from the girl, who scuttles away as if Caroline has offered her
some
terrible temptation.
‘
Well,’ breathes Caroline, facing the room and her future, ‘I wonder how I shall get used to this.’ A domestic tyrant — that her new employer was, to be sure; and Caroline’s first days at West Street offered many further evidences of it. But she found, to her slightly guilty relief, that her own duties were light, and her own treatment by Mrs Catling fair and even generous. She would not have blamed the servants for resenting her over this, but they seemed too cowed even for that much independence of mind; and if anything unspeakable was done to her soup or her coffee, she never detected it.
Eating and drinking, indeed, was a signal pleasure at Mrs Catling’s house, for she kept a good table, and had no finicking notions of continence. This again was a relief to Caroline, who had long striven without success to cultivate the dislike of sustenance proper to young ladies. Probably her appetite had been quickened by the habits of her father’s household, where lobster-salad and champagne one day would be followed by a week of bread and cheese. So she dined well, and slept well also
—
Mrs Catling being no friend to early rising, nor exercise of any kind.
‘You may try it if you choose,’ she remarked one afternoon on the sea-front, of the bathers issuing into the surf from the bathing-machines in their voluminous capes. ‘It is wet and cold and salty, and that is all there is to be said about it.’
Caroline, who thought the sea a very fine thing in its place, which was a long way from her body, was happy to decline. Nothing more strenuous was required of her than taking her employer’s arm on these daily airings along the Marine Parade, and even they were liable to culminate in jellies and tarts at Dutton’s, the celebrated confectioner’s. There might be a look-in at the circulating-library, or the fashionable shops in Poplar Place; but Mrs Catling’s chief amusement consisted in observing and satirically commenting upon the people they passed. She knew everybody, resident or visitor; and there was no one of whom she did not know something discreditable.
‘Now
she
has just turned down an offer for her daughter’s hand,’ Mrs Catling told Caroline, in reference to a lady with whom she had just exchanged the most cordial of greetings, ‘from a highly eligible man. She says she cannot approve his morals, as he has an acknowledged by-blow with an actress. And yet her own husband has done the same half a dozen times. In truth she is holding out for old Lord Lissard, who is waiting for his current wife to die, of the malady he gave her. Uff! Such hypocrisy! But then the girl is a minx, whom no one could care for, so we may save our tears. And now over there is a gentleman who
should not
wear tight pantaloons. You will see when he turns around. There.
That
is why ...
’
Caroline had prepared herself to be bored: she had not prepared herself to be amused and entertained, even so disgracefully. Indeed, in writing her first letter to her father
—
which she anxiously hoped he would have the eightpence to pay for
—
she could find very little to complain of in her new position. Her time, beyond one half-day a week, was not her own, but it passed agreeably enough even indoors. Mrs Catling was grown short-sighted, and Caroline took charge of her correspondence, as well as reading out loud to her from light novels and verse. It was true that these had to be very light to retain Mrs Catling’s attention: any hint of abstruse thought or, worse, deep feeling, and she would snort and demand the book be closed.
‘Take up
La Belle
Assemblée,’
she would say, ‘or the
Lady’s Monthly Museum,’
directing Caroline to the periodicals with their engraved fashion-plates, which showed ladies in morning-dress looking at engravings of ladies in morning-dress
—
and so on
ad infinitum,
Caroline thought, with a queasy feeling. So she would read out these undemanding texts instead, with their diligent accounts of the latest Parisian headdresses, and Mrs Catling would murmur her surprise that Provence roses were in fashion as an ornament again. And this was when Caroline did feel a little discontent, and wonder whether there wasn’t more to life; and often she would smuggle the offending book to her own room, and finish it by candlelight.
Mrs Catling relished society and cards, as she had told Caroline on their first meeting; and these between them disposed of most evenings. Piquet and vingt-et-un filled the hours between dinner
—
which Mrs Catling took fashionably late
—
and supper, whenever they were alone at home; but that was not frequent. At least once a week Mrs Catling had company to dine, entertaining her guests politely, feeding them royally, and after they were gone satirizing them comprehensively. Then there were the assemblies
—
a ball at the Old Ship every Thursday, and card-parties on Wednesdays and Fridays
—
besides concerts, promenades, and the theatre. Mrs Catling’s appetite for all these amusements was indefatigable.
So was her attention to Caroline’s conduct.
‘You are a young woman alone, and I as your employer am in some degree responsible for you. What this does
not
mean, my dear, is that I stand
in loco parentis
to you. You’ll agree that I am the least motherly person that ever breathed: don’t even for a moment allow yourself to forget that useful fact, and begin supposing that there can be latitude on your side or indulgence on mine. I take a very particular interest in how you look and how you behave, because these things reflect on me. For instance that
coquelicot
shawl is quite the thing for walking-dress, but it will not do for this evening: you must have the black gauze. Now, as to this evening, there will be dancing, and I expect that pink-faced ensign will be after you again. You are not to give him any encouragement, or to stand up with him unless expressly desired to by the Master of Ceremonies.’
‘As I cannot remember any pink-faced ensign, ma’am, I do not fear giving encouragement.’
‘Pooh, you won’t catch me with such a bare hook as that. You danced the third and fifth with him last week.’
‘I remember dancing
—
but only with your leave.’ Caroline was permitted a ration of dances, rather like her dress allowance, for the look of the thing. ‘And I’m sure I gave no encouragement, or any kind of sign whatsoever, beyond the blankest indifference.’
‘Ah, I’m glad you make the admission. Well? Don’t you know that blank indifference is the most unequivocal signal you can make to a man, short of throwing yourself at his feet? Of course you do. Oh, you can’t give me the bob, my dear
—
I have you!’
Though Caroline truly could not remember any pink-faced ensign, and certainly did not like the sound of him, there was nothing to be done but bow to Mrs Catling’s injunction. The old lady had entrenched herself in the position of being
undeceivable;
and like most dogmas, this one exacted absurdity as the price of assurance. Caroline had more than once seen her turn down a genuine bargain in a shop, through attributing all sorts of cunning subtleties to the innocent shopkeeper’s mind.
As for the dances themselves, the assemblies and card-parties, she liked them very well. If her status as Mrs Catling’s dependant, whose first concern must always be her employer’s comfort, her mantle or her iced-water or her fire-screen, meant that she was always more looker-on than participant, she was not dissatisfied with this, for she had always taken pleasure in observing people. Indeed nothing could have suited such a habit of mind better than the position of a lady’s companion, who was often treated as some insensible object like a hat-stand or dumb-waiter, and in consequence often witnessed the instructive spectacle of how people behaved when they supposed no one was watching them. Which, she found, was seldom well.
But Caroline was twenty years old, and could have been forgiven more sighs than she allowed herself, at the prospect of forever creeping along in the craggy shadow of Mrs Catling: of never standing up to dance with a man because she liked the look of him, or accepting a glass of wine without first looking to her employer for approval, or even going into a giggling huddle with other twenty year olds and making solemn appointments to meet at the milliner’s tomorrow and tell all.