Rondo Allegro (43 page)

“As you wish,” Anna replied in French, which was a relief,
as she had been puzzled how to get the wording right without lying, yet come at
the problem that she faced. “It is this. It is possible that my husband’s
family knows nothing about my existence. Do I write them to announce my
existence? I cannot think of any way that would be considered well-bred. Yet it
seems wrong not to apprise them.”

“Ah,” Lady Lydia exclaimed.

Anna intuited from that exclamation that she had answered a
question that no one wanted to ask directly.
So the captain kept our marriage as secret as I did? Moreso,
she
thought, remembering her drunken confidence to Hyacinthe, and the result.

“You need not put yourself to the trouble,” Lady Lydia
stated. “In this very ship, there is with the dispatches a letter writ by the
admiral himself, going to the captain’s family.” She added quickly, “It is to
be hoped that he recovers, but in case, well, the admiral felt it his duty to
write to all the families of the wounded officers under his command. Charles is
to carry these, and official dispatches, straight to the Admiralty. In that
letter, there will be formal thanks for the service you rendered. He wrote that
way for us all, I had it from one of the middies who helped in copying and
sealing the letters.”

“That is very good. And yet my question remains: I know I
ought to write to them once I am in London, to say when I am coming. What is
the etiquette of this letter?”

Lady Lydia’s smile vanished. She had a general notion, of
course, but even stronger was her immense dislike of one of the members of this
family. “I can assure you, they will be looking for you in every post chaise
that comes up the road.” And at Anna’s doubtful expression, “You must realize
that you are now the principal woman in the family. It is
they
who ought to be waiting upon
you.
Nothing, I assure you, looks more particular than to trouble
them with letters, nothing so odd, so quite out of the way. You perhaps do not
perceive your importance, now that Captain Duncannon—Captain Lord
Northcote—inherits.”

She plucked at the ribbon in her bed jacket. “In truth,” she
said in a low voice, “since Charles is to inherit nothing of note, I’d as lief
be bearing a girl. You can
dress
girls, whereas boys? Nankeen and broadcloth, and then they go off to Eton. They
go off to Oxford. You only hear of debts and larks, and then they are off to
war, or worse. A girl . . . a girl is at home, and there is all
the world of fashion when she comes of age.” She sighed. “That gown you have
got on is very elegant. Was you ever in Paris?”

“During the Peace,” Anna said, determined to say as little
about her life as possible.

“And so was Lady Bessborough, sister to the Duchess of
Devonshire! Did you meet?”

“We did not. I did not travel in such circles.”

“Of course—you were a mere Mrs. then. Did you ever meet
Josephine Bonaparte?”

“No, but I did see her once or twice, at the opera and the
theater.”

“Oh! Was she as beautiful as they say?”

“Very,” Anna said honestly.

“Josephine Bonaparte! Gowns from Paris! You will no doubt
find our English fashions hideous to the worst degree . . .”

When Captain Neville appeared a while later, and found his
wife talking animatedly, Anna caught such a grateful look from him that she
determined how to be useful on this journey: she must entertain his wife.

As a result, Captain Neville was so pleased with his elegant
guest that he insisted upon Lady Northcote accompanying them after they landed
at Falmouth. “I will be expected at the Admiralty as soon as may be,” he said.
“But I promise the White Hart is a fine hostelry—my wife will be able to rest
there, until I am granted liberty. And you will find it much easier to find
your way from there, rather than the dockside.”

A crowd of the curious waiting for news gathered expectantly
when the
Mermaid
floated up to the
wharf, sails thundering as they spilled air. They were gratified not only by
the sight of the young captain shouting, “Dispatches!” as he hurried down the
side and away up the wharf, but by his being accompanied by two young and
pretty ladies, one being supported by maid-servants, and the other, exceedingly
elegant, interestingly clad in a French gown in colors of half-mourning.

No one quite knew how the news got about, but before Lydia
and Anna were installed at the White Hart, it was known that the mysterious
Parisienne in half-mourning was none other than Lady Northcote, whose husband
was one of the Cape Trafalgar captains, now recovering from wounds in
Gibraltar.

From thence their party was conveyed to London, and once Anna
and Parrette were established at Grillion’s Hotel in Albemarle Street, they
parted with mutual good will.

As soon as they were alone, Anna said to Parrette, “How long
do you think we ought to stay?”

Parrette said firmly, “Until you have a wardrobe fit for a
lady. An
English
lady.”

When Anna grimaced slightly, for she’d glimpsed some
examples of what she assumed to be English fashions on the journey into London,
Parrette said, “You will have to become accustomed to covering your head at all
times. Frenchwomen of rank did, also, before the Revolution. In England, there
are also gloves whenever you go out of doors. But the gowns . . .
I will not entirely throw away what I learned from Le Roy in Paris. I’ve seen
nothing here that drapes as well. But this is a cold climate, it wants more
covering, and you are going to require a set of kerseymere spencer jackets to
your gowns, and a fur-lined pelisse. And stays,” she added firmly. “They will
think you indecent if you do not wear them.”

Anna sighed at the prospect of stays, remembering her mother
lacing herself tightly. But warmth, that sounded very well. Two months ago Anna
would have claimed that her exquisite cashmere shawls would be enough, but that
was before experiencing the bone-aching cold winds as
Mermaid
sailed around Ushant toward the Channel.

Gratefully Anna conceded, thinking that given extra time she
could return to dancing. Sitting in the carriage, she had become aware of her
stiff neck and back, her arms and legs all awry. Sometimes it felt as if the
ground still heaved beneath her, and she had to catch hold of something to steady
herself.

“Thank you, Parrette,” she said. “As for my part, though
Lady Lydia assured me there is no need to write, I shall put my question to the
hotel people. I am certain they can direct me to a respectable bookseller where
I might find a book of etiquette for my letter. I will copy it so I make no
mistakes. And that means we must settle on a date for them to expect us. I am
thinking we have not enough money from the captain to stay long at this
expensive hostelry and to buy new clothing.”

Parrette agreed. “This is why I must get myself to the warehouses.
You will be able to sew the long seams, while I see to the cut, the fit, and
the trim.”

Anna had no objections to that. Since neither of them had
the least notion that Anna was now a wealthy woman in her own right, they
calculated carefully how much they could spend on fabric and accouterments,
hotel, and carriage hire to the north.

Anna’s laboriously written letter—it required a dozen sheets
of paper, and a twice-mended pen before she was satisfied—was copied from a
book by a Reverend Trusler (a name Anna could not pronounce, which gave her
misgivings), with only names and circumstances changed.

After the letter was added to the post collection at the
hotel, Anna felt very much like a cannon had been armed, the slow-match lit,
and was only waiting for the order to fire.

She was committed. Now she must prepare herself as much as
she could. The cries of English voices in the streets were ever-present
reminders of how inadequate was her comprehension of the language. She could
understand little of anything they said.

So she skimped on meals enough to purchase two novels, with
which she hoped to improve her English:
The
Modern Griselda
, which the bookseller promised was written by a popular
writer, and
The Wonder of the Village
,
by another popular writer. Anna hoped by the first to learn something of what
she might expect of a modern Englishwoman, and what she might expect from English
country life.

They bought every newspaper, both aware of the luxury of not
having to hide their interest. There was a great deal more about the glorious
defeat of the French off Cadiz, and the sad news of more deaths, but by the
time they left, no mention of the captain. Anna hoped that post with promising
news might await her in Yorkshire.

By the time of their departure, Anna had made little headway
in one book. It seemed to be a story about a poor young man who kept
encountering unlikely adventures that proved to show how prodigiously thrifty,
moral, and studious he was. Anna laid it by in favor of the next.

Their decision to go by post rather than the stage, or even
the Mail (which only traveled at night) sufficed to empty the captain’s purse,
save a few shillings, but at least they both had the satisfaction of knowing
that the trunks strapped on the back contained the smartest clothing Parrette’s
clever fingers could contrive. She had found out what a superior lady’s maid
wore, knowing that her own entry into this new household was as important as
Anna’s.

In Anna’s trunk, in addition to all the other necessary
garments, lay lace caps suitable for a married woman. Parrette had refused to
even think about a widow’s cap, that being, she reasoned, nothing but an
invitation to ill luck at the most, and perhaps even sin.

The advantage of hiring the post chaise was not having to be
crammed in with other passengers, especially those who regularly rode on the
rooftop and frequently entertained themselves with noisy drumming on the roof
of the equipage, and rocking it worse even than the road ruts. They had
experienced enough frights during their long journey from Naples to Paris that
neither wanted a repeat of the experience if they could avoid it.

The chaises apparently ended their journeys at inn-yards. At
Barford Magna, the coachman assured them, they were sure to be met by someone from
the manor to carry them the rest of their journey.

Their chaise stopped at every second posting inn for change
of the horses, enabling them to step out and refresh themselves. There were
enough shillings left for a small meal for each, and for the douceur the
coachman expected. Between these stops, Anna read aloud and Parrette sewed.

Anna sometimes paused to laugh, but the farther she got into
the story, the more dire was Parrette’s frown. At length she put down her
sewing and scowled. “A more contrary example of a wife would be difficult to
find. Is this book a good example of a marriage?”

Anna smiled. “I believe the idea is comedy. She is very like
Katharina, although the husband is nothing like Petruchio!”

“Petruchio,” Parrette repeated, and scowled again. “
Commedia dell’arte
is low. You ought not
to be reading such a book! What will they think in Yorkshire?”

Anna laughed. “Katharina and Petruchio are characters from
an English play. You remember? Mama had me read it, oh, when I was ten. She
translated it into French so that I would understand it.” She laid aside the
book. “I have promised never to talk about my days in Dupree Company. You were
right, too, if Lady Lydia is anything to judge by. Lord This, Lady That. But if
I am to hide my tastes and opinions altogether, what kind of a life is that? I
am strongly tempted to tell them everything at the outset to get it over.”

At Parrette’s look of dismay, she relented, and said, “I
will not. You know I will try very hard to please them, and to be polite, and,
in short, play my role as a titled lady.” And when Parrette gazed out at the
bleak countryside with a troubled expression, Anna said, “Perhaps I have not
thanked you enough. Perhaps I am seen to be taking your goodness for granted,
and all your arts—”

Parrette waved her hands. “No, no, I need not hear that. I
know you are grateful, and that you appreciate what you call my art. And it
is
art,” she amended, in a different
voice, permitting herself a small smile. Then she was earnest again. “But to
hear you saying that you play a role, it mislikes me much.”

“You and I, we were agreed I must play a role,” Anna said,
surprised. “That was when I was a mere Mrs., and this time with Lady Lydia
convinces me that even more is expected from a titled wife.”

Parrette said, “I do not like to hear you talk of roles, as
if there is a false seeming expected.” Her black eyes narrowed.

Anna smiled as she laid aside the book. “False seeming? It
seems strange, that I am told the marriage vow is sacred, and yet all around me
the reasons for marrying are not sacred at all. My own marriage? Was to gain
information. Yes, I remember what you said once about how a marriage is made
after
the wedding.”

Parrette looked down at the thick skin on her left thumb,
rough from years of needle-pricks, and said slowly, “The Captain is a good
man.”

“Was he in question?” Anna asked.

Parrette made a quick, impatient movement. “He is everything
your dear mother wanted. Everything! I think . . . perhaps I can
put it best by saying, I trust and pray that the time comes, soon, when you are
not playing a role. That you will know yourself as the English lady she wanted
with all her heart and soul.”

It was Parrette’s turn to gaze out at the brown, muddy
ground and the gray, tumbling rivers reflecting the low steel-covered sky, and
presently she shook her head. “When we met, your mother took me at my word. She
could have been justified in thinking about me what many did, that I was a mere
camp follower, that I was a thief, and no good. And there were things I did to
survive while I followed Bonaparte’s army to Italy, that I regret. Oh, of the
most bitter, my regrets.”