The Ladies (15 page)

They could not have foreseen that Harriet's enthusiasm for their ‘sweet repose,' as she described it to her friends, would occupy all her conversation for weeks to come. Despite the hardships of communication, bad roads, infrequent post, word about the Ladies, their beautiful garden and shrubberies and most of all, the curiosities they themselves appeared to be, was transmitted from her in all directions. Stories about ‘the fair recluses' spread throughout the countryside, were conveyed by travellers on the stage coach to London, survived the stormy waters and shaky packet to Dublin to travel south to Kilkenny, to Woodstock, indeed the length of the country to Waterford, following the full round of the Ladies' own fateful journey years before. Everyone heard of their odd ménage, and speculated about it. Many spoke of them as a deserving oddity, worthy of a stop on a journey to London, like Mt. Snowden and Valle Crucis. Aristocratic hunters who came in their own chaises from England to North Wales for the fine grouse moors, the pheasant, and the rough shooting for snipe and partridge, as well as fishermen who sought salmon in the Dee, walked the Ladies' road as far as the gate, but came no closer to the two curiosities they had hoped to see. Sarah was horrified at the sight of hunters. She closed the shutters when she saw them approaching, their ‘shoots' (as she called them) on their shoulders. She had devised many thickets in the low, rough spots of their Place to protect game birds against poachers and hunters.

Eleanor wrote: ‘Some times I believe my Beloved sympathizes so with hunted beasts and fowls because she considers them related to us in situation and spirit. Plas Newydd is a thicket, affording cover for us, two Lady birds.'

Visits started slowly, with polite notes penned to the Ladies for permission to view what the writer had heard were ‘sublime Shrubberies.' To all such requests Eleanor wrote a cold refusal. The new vow they had taken together, framed by Eleanor, and seconded meekly by Sarah, was ‘no creature without names and certainly not without manners' would be permitted entry to their grounds or the house.

To the discomfort of the English aristocracy, who were known to enjoy the spectacle of peculiarity, Eleanor became almost savage, selecting among them only those she considered to be
visites distinguées.
If the name was not of highest title, or the letters were in the least demanding, or assuming and lordly, she denied the writer admission. Her temper was turned upon those who applied without acceptable crest and seal. It became even fiercer when the Civil List was published, containing the Ladies' names and the amounts of their grants: twelve pounds the quarter, each of them. Their expectations had been far higher.

Eleanor attributed the paltry amounts to revenge by the Secretary, Lord Steele, who was related to her family. Sarah suggested in a low voice: ‘It may be due to our unusual way of life which is counter to others on the Pensions List.' This suggestion sent Eleanor into fresh fury. She went upstairs to a small room off the master bedroom where she often hung her aeolian harp before the open window. Under the influence of its toneless twangings, she brooded about injustice and their poverty.

The second visitor ‘from the world outside' was a Mr Edmund Burke. The gentleman wrote to say he was travelling to Dublin in April and would be most honoured if he were permitted to see their ‘much-praised legendary surroundings.' He reminded the Ladies of his ‘place,' The Gregories, and stated he would be eager to learn from their experiences with Plas Newydd some of the secrets of their evident success. His letter accompanied a pamphlet he had written about his opinions on the peoples' revolt in France. Before the Ladies responded, they read his
Reflections on the French Revolution.

‘In every respect he is right,' said Eleanor. In this proclamation Sarah understood that Eleanor meant that his anti-gallicism matched hers to her satisfaction.

‘Burke. Burke,' Eleanor continued. ‘He must have been Dublin-born. I wonder what his thoughts are on the troublesome Irish rights question. Well. No matter. Shall we invite him to stop?'

Mr Burke was all that Eleanor hoped he would be: charming, witty, eloquent, aristocratic in his tastes and manners. He was a little older than Eleanor, the Ladies guessed, but he had retained his youthful looks and figure. He had been travelling with his school friend, Richard Shackleton. Burke was prudent; he did not bring his friend unannounced to luncheon but walked to Plas Newydd to ask permission, a procedural delicacy Eleanor found both proper and endearing. Then he walked back to the Lion to fetch his friend.

Luncheon was a success. Burke praised the cheese and the peppered ham. Richard Shackleton was enthusiastic about the fresh fruit and clotted cream. Sarah explained the sweetness of the plums and peaches as a function of the fan-shaped trees she had trained, permitting the fruit full exposure to the sun. Mr Burke admired her ingenuity in shaping the trees to a purpose and asked for instructions on how to do the same at The Gregories. They both expressed astonishment at how Sarah achieved a ‘wild quality' with her cultivated gardens. She acknowledged she had been aided in the accomplishment of her ‘effects' by Eleanor's willingness to rent land for her new arrangements on both sides of the Cuffleymen, the little brook that ran along the bottom of their land. From the east side of their house they had planted an avenue of birches leading to the brook, over which Mr Lewis had constructed a rustic bridge. Sarah explained proudly that in return for two kegs of their home-brewed beer, some strong villagers had moved large, well-shaped stones into place on each bank, in an organised arrangement dictated by Sarah's meticulously drawn plan. Mr Jones had piped water from the brook to allow it to trickle slowly over the stones. Now dark green moss and light, airy ferns grew on the banks among the stones. Sarah called these growths ‘romantic accretions.' In every direction the vistas created were picturesque, as Mr Burke graciously remarked.

Mr Burke and Mr Shackleton were impressed beyond words, they said, with everything they saw. Eleanor was so taken with Mr Burke that she did not rush the two men away, as Sarah had expected. They all sat into the evening on a knoll bordered with rose bushes, at the center of which the brook made its exuberant way over the rough stones.

‘How many kinds of roses do you have, would you say?' asked Mr Burke of Sarah.

‘Forty-four, I think it was, last time we counted. We send everywhere for them. And of course we buy the bushes directly if we are fortunate enough to find them at the fairs.'

They talked on about their Place and about Mr Burke's, about the art of creating corners of evocative sentimentality by embedding funeral urns and obelisks into beds of Snowden pinks and gentianella. Sarah was emboldened to explain her future plans: to hang on their trees pithy and instructive—even elevating—sayings in Italian, French, and German as well as in English and Welsh. After they had all suggested appropriate epigrams the conversation turned to politics. Mr Burke expanded upon his pamphlet. Unanimous agreement was expressed with his views. Seated among the carefully plotted artificialities of the Ladies' gardens, they talked of the effect of the beauties of the natural world upon the integrity and health of the soul. Happily separated from the rough world of the village, the county of Cymru and its rude inhabitants, they spoke of achieving an air of cultivated and thoughtful melancholy for their landscape.

The conversation turned to matters of reading. The Ladies spoke of their admiration for Jean-Jacques Rousseau's novel, which they were now re-reading. Mr Burke expanded upon Marcus Tullius Cicero:

‘At Trinity I read Cicero for the first time. He has had the greatest influence upon my life. I vowed to myself that I would model my behaviour upon his example. I would try to achieve his eloquence, his high ethical standards, his philosophy, indeed, his very character.'

For once, Eleanor was almost dumb with admiration. ‘How noble and how useful, to have chosen a model so early in life! Did you attempt to emulate Cicero's prose as well?'

Mr Burke laughed. ‘I would have, I'm sure, had I felt adequate to so elevated an example. No, I find now I most admire the essays of Joseph Addison. I should be honoured to be counted among his literary followers.'

Eleanor made a mental note to send for a volume of Joseph Addison's essays.

In the afternoon of a fine day in late spring, 1790, the yipping of their dogs and the loud mooing of Margaret drew the Ladies to a part of the garden they reserved for ‘pensive sitting,' as Eleanor termed it in the day book. On their usual resting bench sat a young man writing in a notebook. Flirt ran in circles around his legs, barking wildly. The young man looked up, startled by the Ladies' sudden appearance. They looked as he had been told they would, two aging women in riding habits and high hats. Their bushy hair was cropped short and snowy white with powder. Yet, in person, they looked more absurd than he had been led to expect.

‘Who may you be?' Eleanor asked imperiously. Sarah stood close, her hand resting on Eleanor's arm, frightened as she always was before strange men, but determined not to leave Eleanor unprotected.

‘I am Ian Corwin, correspondent to the
General Evening Post.
I am sent to write a report about your excellent gardens.'

At this announcement of intention Sarah was inclined to relent. But Eleanor stood still, rigid with anger.

‘You have not been invited here. Leave at once.'

The young man smiled cheerfully. He stood up and extended his hand to Eleanor. She paid no heed and turned her back on the correspondent, slapping her crop ominously against her leg. The Ladies left together, entered their front door, and locked it behind them. Trained to take advantage of opportunity, the young man followed them at a distance, and when they had entered the house, peered into a library window. Through one of the few clear panes he saw Lady Eleanor stride through the hall and toss her hat at a peg ‘with the air of a sportsman,' as he was to write. Sarah Ponsonby was not in his sight. But in a moment, as he stood fascinated, inspecting what he could see of the ornate furniture and the numerous books on the wall shelves, she appeared, accompanied by a huge, forceful-looking woman who carried a heavy walking stick.

Mr Corwin retreated quickly, tripping over a yew bush planted close to the house. Mary-Caryll appeared at the front door. The journalist took one look at Molly the Bruiser and ran as fast as he could. He took the gate with a leap and ran until he was out of sight of the house. Only when he stopped to dust off his trousers did he find that he had dropped his notebook under the window, probably among the damned bushes, he thought.

‘Oh well, no matter,' he told himself. ‘I'll remember what I've seen. To be sure, I'll never be able to forget it.'

A fortnight later the
General Evening Post
in its second page, entitled ‘The Home,' published his story. The headline was
EXTRAORDINARY FEMALE AFFECTION
and the subtitle read
Lady Hermits:

Miss Butler and Miss Ponsonby have retired from society into a certain Welsh Vale.

Both Ladies are daughters of the great Irish families whose names they retain.

Miss Butler, who is of the Ormonde family, had several offers of marriage, all of which she rejected. Miss Ponsonby, her particular friend and companion, was supposed to be the bar to all matrimonial union. It was thought proper to separate them, and Miss Butler was confined.

The two Ladies, however, found means to elope together. But being soon overtaken, they were each brought back by their respective relations. Many attempts were renewed to draw Miss Butler into marriage. But upon her solemnly and repeatedly declaring that nothing could induce her to wed any one, her parents ceased to persecute her by any more offers.

Not many months after, the Ladies concerted and executed a fresh elopement. Each having a small sum with them, and having been allowed a trifling income, the place of their retreat was confided to a female servant of the Butler family, who was sworn to secrecy as to the place of their retirement. She was only to say that they were well and safe and hoped that their friends would without further enquiry, continue their annuities, which has not only been done but increased.

The beautiful above-mentioned vale is the spot they fixed on where they have resided for several years unknown to the neighbouring villagers by any other appellation than the Ladies of the Vale!

Miss Butler is tall and masculine, she wears always a riding habit, hangs her hat with the air of a sportsman in the hall, and appears in all respects as a man, if we except the petticoats which she still retains.

Miss Ponsonby, on the contrary, is polite and effeminate, fair and beautiful. In Mr Secretary Steele's list of Pensions for 1788, there are the names of Elinor Butler and Sarah Ponsonby, for annuities of fifty pounds each. We have many reasons to imagine that these pensioners are the Ladies of the Vale; their female confidante continues to send them their Irish annuities beside.

They live in neatness, elegance and taste. Two females are their only servants.

Miss Ponsonby does the duties and honours of the house, while Miss Butler superintends the gardens and the rest of the grounds.

Always alert to opportunities for correspondence, Harriet Bowdler sent the Ladies the newspaper clipping for July 20, 1790, containing Ian Corwin's report, together with her usual placatory comments. But the paper had already arrived at Plas Newydd by subscription. This time Eleanor did not read the piece aloud but passed it to Sarah without comment. Sarah read it, waiting for the explosion she knew surely would come from Eleanor.

‘Replete with lies and innuendo. The fool cannot even spell my name correctly.'

‘Don't be angry, my love. No one will read or bother with such claptrap.'

‘
No
one?
Everyone
will read it and believe it. We will be overrun with curiosity-seekers come to see the freakish women of “extraordinary affection.” They will tramp about in our garden like … like vermin, like the baker's cockroaches.'