Authors: Ann Barker
At that point, she came in sight of Woodfield Park and saw the carriages waiting outside. One was the barouche in which she and her father had travelled to the church. With a sinking feeling, she recognized the other as being an equipage belonging to Mr and Mrs Morrison, her errant bridegroom’s parents. Clearly everyone was intending to chew the whole matter over and start trying to apportion blame. She had never felt so humiliated in all her life before, and she did not know how she was going to begin to face anybody. The only thing that she wanted to do was to creep up to her room and lick her wounds in secret.
She entered the house with that very intention, and handed her borrowed cloak to the butler, who simply said, ‘I’m very sorry, miss.’ This brief expression of regret from a man she had known all her life threatened to reduce her to tears when she had remained dry-eyed throughout the scene in the church and since then until now.
‘Thank you, Cumber,’ she said, and headed for the stairs. She even had her foot on the bottom step when she heard the sound of raised voices proceeding from the drawing-room. No doubt Mr and Mrs Morrison would take great delight in blaming her for Morrison’s defection. She was sure that her mother and father would defend her admirably. Then a voice deep inside her seemed to say, why should they? Pride came to her aid as she stiffened her spine and walked to the drawing-room door, dismissing Cumber, who had been about to open it for her. It would do those Morrisons no harm to see her in her wedding dress. On hearing
her mother’s voice, she paused briefly outside the door. Lady Hope had raised that powerful instrument to the volume which Eustacia had always privately called ‘rear stalls level’.
‘I repeat, where is the wretched boy?’ her ladyship demanded, rolling her r’s on the word ‘wretched’ and thus giving it added emphasis. ‘He belongs to you, does he not? Surely you must have some idea where he is?’
‘The same might be said of your daughter, ma’am,’ retorted a voice that Eustacia recognized as belonging to Mr Morrison senior.
‘My daughter’s whereabouts are irrelevant, sirrah,’ said Lady Hope haughtily. ‘She, after all, has not just left someone standing at the altar.’
‘But she must take her share of the blame,’ replied Mrs Morrison.
Judging that to remain outside the room any longer could be construed as eavesdropping, Eustacia pushed the door further open and walked in.
‘She drove him to it,’ quavered Mrs Morrison, pointing at Eustacia with a short, plump, trembling finger.
Eustacia had intended to be quietly respectful and sympathetic to Mr and Mrs Morrison who, after all, had suffered as severe a shock as had she. Instead, she found herself saying tartly, ‘No doubt I planned to get myself jilted from the very beginning.’
This response had the effect of making Mrs Morrison dissolve into tears, whilst Lady Hope raised a hand to her brow and stalked across to the window, where she stood gazing out across the meadow towards the church from which they had come so recently.
Sir Wilfred, who until now had kept silent, left his position at the fireplace with his foot on the fender, encouraged his daughter to take a seat with a sympathetic smile and a warm grip on her shoulder, and approached Mr Morrison, holding out his snuff box. ‘Whatever may be our own feelings on the matter, there is no sense in coming to cuffs about it,’ he said pleasantly, waiting for the other man to take some before doing so himself. ‘Today’s events
were not of my contrivance, nor were they of yours.’
‘No indeed,’ agreed the other man, hesitating briefly before taking a pinch. He looked at Eustacia in rather an embarrassed way. ‘They were not of yours either, my dear. I’m very sorry for what I said just now. I spoke in haste. I’m also very sorry for what has happened today, and my wife will be too. Just now she is overwrought.’
Eustacia nodded her thanks. As before, this expression of
kindness
almost overset her, and she could not trust herself to speak.
Sir Wilfred nodded. ‘It might be better to postpone further discussion until we are all cooler,’ he said. ‘Of one thing I am certain, however: I have no desire to give the neighbourhood any kind of entertainment by being at odds with you.’
Mr Morrison being in agreement, soon bore his stricken wife away with him.
‘I think I will go to my room,’ Eustacia said, after the couple had gone.
Neither her mother nor her father sought to detain her. ‘Now what?’ asked Lady Hope after a short silence.
‘There’s a lot of food to eat,’ her husband remarked.
‘Heavens,’ declared his wife turning towards him and throwing her hands in the air. ‘It will all be wasted.’
‘Not quite all of it,’ her husband replied mildly. ‘We have to eat, after all, and so do the servants.’
‘Poor Eustacia,’ said Lady Hope. ‘Do you think that I should go to her? It is at times like this, my dear, that we need our loved ones to cherish us.’
‘Very true,’ agreed Sir Wilfred. ‘But I have a feeling that Eustacia might like to be left alone, at least for a time.’
Upstairs, Eustacia allowed her maid to help her off with her wedding gown. It was very strange, but although she did not seem to have done a great deal, the emotional turmoil of what had taken place had left her feeling very tired.
Like the butler, her maid Trixie looked very sympathetic and, as she helped her mistress into bed and laid a light cover over her, she said quietly, ‘He wasn’t good enough for you, miss, and that’s a fact.’
Eustacia did not join the family downstairs again that day. To her surprise, for she had thought that she would choke on just one mouthful, she managed to eat a small portion of the chicken that Trixie brought to her room, accompanied by a large glass of wine, with Sir Wilfred’s orders that she was to drink it all.
That night, she found herself quite unable to sleep. Eventually, in the early hours of the morning, after she had gone through the entire scene in the church several times and come to the reluctant conclusion that however she might have behaved, she would still have ended up looking ridiculous and pathetic, she decided to go to the library and find something to read. She would normally have had several books in her room, for she was a voracious reader, but all her things had been packed away ready to be taken on her honeymoon.
On reaching the library, she went at first to the shelf on which the novels could be found. After a moment’s hesitation, however, she decided that the antics of fictitious persons held no interest for her at present. She could, she thought, tell a tale far more compelling than any of theirs.
In the end, she picked up a copy of Mary Wollstonecraft’s
A
Vindication of the Rights of Woman
. Its title seemed to promise the kind of book that would be in keeping with her present mood.
Her mother had purchased it whilst she and Sir Wilfred were in the throes of one of their rare disagreements. Her ladyship had swept off to York, with an air of affronted dignity, taking Eustacia with her. After a very tiresome shopping outing during which Lady
Hope had not been pleased by anything, she had eventually
spotted
the book through a shop window and had pounced upon it eagerly. ‘I will show this to him, Eustacia,’ she had declared,
brandishing
it before her daughter in the carriage as they returned home. ‘
Then
he will see that I am not a woman to be trifled with.’
Eustacia had accepted what her mother had said in silence. Indeed, she could not imagine anyone ever supposing for a moment that Lady Hope was to be trifled with.
On their arrival home, Sir Wilfred had been waiting on the steps with a huge bouquet of his wife’s favourite blooms. ‘Forgive me, my dear,’ he had said, his hand on his heart, thus proving that his wife was not the only one of the family with an instinct for drama.
‘Wilfred, my darling, of course I will,’ Lady Hope had replied, giving him her hand. Eustacia had brought the forgotten book in from the carriage, and put it in the library. Now, she took it upstairs with her. Once back in bed, she began to turn the pages. Written and published just two years before in 1792, the book seemed to be saying things that were personally directed to her.
Destructive, however, as riches and inherited honours are to the human character, women are more debased and cramped, if possible, by them, than men, because men may still, in some degree, unfold their faculties by becoming soldiers and
statesmen
.
‘Oh yes indeed,’ she said out loud in bitter tones. ‘I wonder what he would have said if
I’d
sent a note to
him
, saying that I was joining the army!’ She read on.
But the days of true heroism are over…. Our British heroes are oftener sent from the gaming table than from the plow; and their passions have been rather inflamed by hanging with dumb suspense on the turn of a die, than sublimated by
panting
after the adventurous march of virtue in the historic page.
‘If I
ever
find that he was not joining the army but just looking
for an excuse, I’ll kill him with my bare hands!’ She declared savagely.
The following morning, she woke up with a start, having
eventually
fallen asleep after having heard the clock in the hall chime four. It took her a moment or two to recall the events of the
previous
day. Then the humiliation of what had happened swept over her once again. How could he have done it, and in such a way? Even a letter sent to the house to arrive before they had started for the church would have been better than that. Before she could start brooding in good and earnest, she rang her bell and asked Trixie to bring her hot chocolate, and some water for washing.
What a very peculiar day, she thought to herself as she dressed. It was a day that should not have happened – at least, not in this form. She should have begun this day as Mrs Morrison Morrison. Yet here she was, still Miss Hope. What should she do now? A week ago, her days had been packed with fittings, last minute visits, sending and receiving letters and opening gifts. Now, she supposed that she would have to undertake all the various tasks involved in informing people that the wedding had not taken place. Then she would settle down again to being Miss Hope, 22, unwed, unsought, and now tainted with scandal.
As she had expected, she breakfasted alone. Her mother never ate breakfast and seldom appeared before eleven o’clock. Her father would have eaten long since and gone for his morning ride. The last time that she had accompanied him had been three days ago. She sighed. Although she had slept poorly, she could almost wish that she had gone with him. It would at least have given the day some semblance of normality.
Very conscious of the sympathetic gaze of the servant who waited upon her, Eustacia ate her breakfast of toast and marmalade, drank some coffee, and forced herself to read the paper which her father had left behind him. In it, she read about the latest excesses taking place in France as the revolution there proceeded on its bloody path. If she did not follow the stories therein with quite her usual attention, the exercise did at least have
the effect of reminding her that there were other things going on in the world apart from her own woes.
Arming herself with these thoughts, she determined to begin packing any gifts that she had received so that they could be returned to the donors. She had also intended to write a short letter to go with each gift, but this small task proved to be far more time-consuming than she had expected. She simply could not think what to put. ‘My fiancé has thought better of it’, seemed to be the most honest thing to say, but she could not bring herself to write it. It made her sound so second rate. In the end, she contented herself with a brief note in the third person stating that the marriage between Miss Hope and Mr Morrison would not now take place for private reasons, and thanking the donor for his or her kindness in remembering them.
She was saved from further reverie by the entrance of her mother. Lady Hope was clad in peach and cream and looking as delectable as always. If Eustacia closed her eyes, she could picture the fatuous expression that had adorned Morrison’s features as he had looked at her elegant mother. Every man of their
acquaintance
, apart from Sir Wilfred, seemed to lose half his wits when her mother was about.
Before she had become engaged to Morrison, she had gone with her parents to visit Harrogate. There, they had attended a number of assemblies, where a handsome gentleman had seemed to be very smitten with her. It was only after she had admitted to herself that she was beginning to like him very much, that she had discovered he had only pursued her so that he could get close to her mother. Remembering that humiliation, and adding it to the total sum of her experience of men, she resolved never to marry unless she could find a man who could face the full barrage of her mother’s beauty, charm and authority unmoved.
‘How are you today, my love?’ Lady Hope asked her daughter, bending to bestow upon her a scented kiss.
‘Keeping myself busy, as you see,’ Eustacia replied, gesturing towards the neatly wrapped parcels. She had been feeling quite composed until that moment; but it was as if bringing her voice
into use required more effort than she was capable of. To her surprise, she found tears pricking at the back of her eyes.
‘Oh, my dear child!’ exclaimed Lady Hope. ‘Come to Mama!’
‘Your gown,’ murmured Eustacia, hesitating.
‘A fig for my gown,’ declared her ladyship with a dramatic snap of her fingers before taking her tearful daughter in an extravagant embrace. Those who did not know her well, suspected that her theatrical manner was a symptom of insincerity. They were completely wrong. There was, and no doubt always would be, something of the actress about the former Miss Delahay; but her affections were sincere, and her loyalty fierce. Eustacia never doubted either for a moment.
‘That Morrison!’ Lady Hope declared, when her daughter’s tears had subsided. Her consonants were becoming more pronounced. ‘I could wring his neck with my bare hands! Oh, what a crowning pity that Charlie is not here to take matters in hand!’
Eustacia, knowing how deeply moved her mother was by this reference to the son that she had never had, said reassuringly, ‘Not even Charlie could have stopped Morrison from deserting me.’ She took a deep breath. ‘To be perfectly candid, Mama, I have no wish to be married to a man who would much rather be doing something else.’
Although her mother agreed, Eustacia had the distinct feeling that she did not quite understand. Probably no gentleman had ever been in company with Lady Hope while at the same time wishing that he was doing something else.
‘Shall we take a turn about the garden?’ her ladyship suggested. ‘You and I can have a cosy chat while Papa is out of the way.’
‘Yes of course, Mama,’ Eustacia replied, although to be truthful she could not imagine a conversation with her overpowering mother ever being cosy.
Lady Hope tucked her hand into her daughter’s arm, and drew her out of the French doors and into the garden. It was a glorious day, the weather refusing to be affected by the dismal nature of the previous day’s unfortunate events.
‘We must also decide what you ought to do now,’ her ladyship went on.
‘Do?’ Eustacia murmured. Her mind had not taken her beyond returning the wedding presents.
‘Certainly,’ her mother answered. ‘I am sure that you would like to get away from this neighbourhood where every eye must be upon you, for instance.’ Eustacia looked at her mother in surprise. Lady Hope laughed. ‘You think that I cannot possibly understand after my experience of being on stage; but I do, I promise you. The feeling of being observed when one is unprepared, for example, is excessively unnerving.’
Eustacia eyed her mother keenly. ‘You fainted on purpose, didn’t you – so that everyone would stop looking at me?’
Her ladyship gave a little laugh. ‘My faints used to be legendary,’ she mused. ‘I was quite noted for them. I flatter myself that no one in the church, except perhaps for your father, realized that I was acting. As for your present situation, I have been giving it quite a lot of thought, and I have come to the conclusion that you should go to Agatha.’
‘To my godmother? But did she not send apologies for my wedding?’
‘Indeed she did, and very properly, for she is still in mourning,’ Lady Hope replied in tones of approval. ‘I do not see why you should not pay her a visit, however. It will help to lift her spirits. You will go at the end of the week.’
‘So soon?’
‘It cannot be soon enough for your reputation, I think.’ Eustacia knew from the way in which her mother had referred to her life in the theatre that she must think that the case was desperate. She never alluded to her former career except in situations of dire emergency.
‘Had you not better write to her first?’ suggested Eustacia
tentatively
.
‘I should not dream of sending you without that courtesy,’ her mother replied, in her most magisterial of tones. ‘There is no need to wait for a reply from her, however. If she is well, she will be
delighted to welcome you.’
‘And if she is ill?’ ventured Eustacia.
‘If she is ill, then you may make yourself useful. If she is dead—’
‘Mama!’ exclaimed Eustacia, shocked.
‘Well these things happen; you cannot deny it. If she is dead, then, grievous though such a situation would be, it would at least mean that you would be on hand to help to arrange the funeral. No, on second thoughts, if she is dead, you must come home immediately. Ashbourne, reprobate though he is, would never sink so low as to miss his own sister’s funeral. Upon no account must you meet Ashbourne.’
‘Very well, Mama,’ answered Eustacia. She knew better than to ask why. It had always been drummed into her that the Earl of Ashbourne, Lady Agatha’s younger brother, was a rake and not to be trusted. He had been one of the court that had flocked around Claire Delahay in her acting days. At that time he had not yet inherited the earldom, and had the courtesy title of Viscount Ilam. Unlike Sir Wilfred, he had made a dishonourable proposal, and had been firmly repulsed.
‘If Agatha is there and still alive, he will not come anywhere near the place, so you will be quite safe,’ her ladyship went on in satisfied tones.
‘Why not?’ asked Eustacia curiously.
‘Because they are not upon good terms,’ her mother explained. ‘You may be obliged to see Ilam, I fear. He is Ashbourne’s son, and his residence is in the village where Agatha lives. I have no idea as to his character, but as he is Ashbourne’s son I suspect the worst, so you must be on your guard. I cannot say too strongly, Eustacia, that given your present unfortunate situation, you must above all avoid the company of rakes. Believe me, I have had experience of them and I know how cunning they can be!’
‘Yes, Mama,’ replied Eustacia, but she could not help thinking of Morrison Morrison and reflecting that he had managed to do her plenty of harm, despite his blameless reputation.