An Accomplished Woman (14 page)

It was plain that Mr
Durrant’s interest in changing Mrs Vawser, except perhaps into a toad, could
not have been less: so he merely helped her to the mutton.

‘You, of course, Miss
Templeton, will have seen Culverton,’ she went on. ‘In a country district
everything of course is known, and talked over a hundred times, for want of
anything else. But you must allow for the curiosity of the visitor. Now I
remember my sister saying it is not very far off — but exactly
how
far
off, Mr Durrant, is the question that must be settled, before we make a plan.’

Mr Durrant looked so
chillingly appalled at the word ‘plan’ that Lydia felt she had better answer
for him. ‘Culverton House is about eight miles north of here, by the Sleaford
road.’

‘Ah! and a very good
road, I dare say, if it leads to dear Culverton,’ Mrs Vawser said, with a
sentimental look. ‘And I dare say many pretty views along the way — my sister
tells me it is only to the west that the country grows rather flat and dismal.’

‘Even the flatter parts
hereabouts do not lack beauties,’ Mr Durrant said, pricked by local pride into
speech. ‘But Culverton lies, yes, among the gentle slopes, in a fine country.’

‘Then really, you need
persuade me no more — nothing could be pleasanter, now that the weather has
turned at last, especially as you have such beautiful grounds there — everyone
says so. Yes, an expedition to Culverton it must be,’ said Mrs Vawser, with
satisfaction; and then, loudly to her sister: ‘Emma, my dearest, do you hear? We
are to make an expedition to Culverton House — Mr Durrant invites us — it is
all settled.’

Though no such offer had
been made, Mr Durrant could hardly say so, at least without disrespect to Mrs
Paige — which, to do him justice, he would never show. To Lydia’s silent
amusement, he must make the best of it: though hope flickered in his eyes, as
Mrs Vawser addressed the practicalities of the scheme.

‘But how are we to get
there? And who is to be of the party? Here, have I been running on, in the way
I do, without stopping to think of these things! Dear me! — my friends would
laugh, they assuredly would, for that is always my way. For of course a party
there must be. I cannot go anywhere, of course, without Emma —’ her voice
became low and confiding as she leaned towards Mr Durrant’— not merely because
I am a visitor here, but because she would feel dreadfully left out: she does
attach herself to me so. You, Miss Templeton, will surely be a third, for your
time must be absolutely at your disposal. And then perhaps Dr Templeton — I do
think it a great pity that he stirs so little, and if only—’

‘Dr Templeton does as he
chooses, and requires no one’s pity,’ Mr Durrant said coolly.

‘Oh! very well — you
shocking bear, you — then Miss Beaumont perhaps, whose position one must
surely
pity. Here are four already: how are they to be conveyed? For Mr Paige
keeps no carriage.’

This was true, though he
had lately been talking of setting one up, probably for the pleasure of denying
himself the use of it on the sabbath. Dr Templeton kept a gig that seated Lydia
and himself comfortably, but no more. Mr Durrant sighed at the inescapable
conclusion. ‘Of course my own carriage is at your disposal.’

‘Oh, Mr Durrant, that is
excessively obliging of you. Do you hear, Miss Templeton? This shocking bear is
actually going to bring his own carriage for us. What do you drive, Mr
Durrant?’

‘Drive, madam, I drive
nothing. I have a travelling-coach.’

‘Oh, but you don’t mean
a closed carriage — Lord, what is the good of that, when we wish to enjoy the
fine weather, and take in the sweet views? You must have something else in your
coachhouse, something light and open. You are a bachelor after all: every
bachelor keeps his tilbury or curricle.’

‘Bachelor I may be, but
feather-headed coxcomb I am not.’

‘Oh, come, I don’t mean
one of those fragile high-perch affairs: to be sure, that would never do in a
rough country. But a barouche, now — that is the very thing. Every woman loves
to make an exploration in a barouche: every man shows to advantage driving a
barouche. You cannot do better, Mr Durrant, than to set up a barouche: I can
recommend a very good coach-builder — in London, to be sure, but—’

‘I have no thought of a
barouche, or any such contraption. I pay my coachman a good wage for doing what
he is good at, which is driving. I see no reason for alteration.’

‘Why,’ Lydia said, ‘if
you drove, you could show yourself a good hand at the ribbons.’

He stared at her for a
moment as if she had dropped into Hebrew: then burst out laughing, for the
first time since his arrival. Laughter made him look very much younger, which
was perhaps why he avoided it.

‘Good God, yes — and
a
famous whip
too, no doubt. Was there ever such idiotic nonsense talked?’

‘I take it you don’t
wish to be thought a great swell, then.’

‘Swell. So much for the
language of Shakespeare and Milton. At the first sign of my swelling, Miss
Templeton, I urge you to shoot me.’

Mrs Vawser looked
without favour on this shared amusement: for a moment the shadow of tantrums
flickered across her face. But then she blasted the two of them apart with a
laugh of her own, declaring: ‘Oh! yes, dear me yes, the town slang, it can be a
monstrous bore — indeed no one dislikes that fashionable way of talking more
than me. Sometimes I am so severe on it my friends are amazed: “Penelope,” they
say — but still, a barouche, you know, Mr Durrant, is the very thing, the only
thing—’

‘Ah, if it is the only
thing that would make the expedition a pleasure to you, madam, then really we had
better give it over altogether,’ he said, with grim hopefulness.

But he was not to be let
off so easily. Mrs Vawser was determined on a party to Culverton — quite as
determined as if she cared anything about the place: the closed carriage was
accepted, and it only remained to arrange the day. ‘You may leave that to me:
we ladies shall discuss it after dinner. I am very well accustomed, you know,
to making arrangements: somehow it always falls to me. My friends often remark
on it . . .’ Having secured her victory, Mrs Vawser stemmed her flow of spirits
a little, and Mr Durrant was allowed to finish his dinner distracted by nothing
more than the occasional swipe with a handkerchief, stifled shriek, and loud
whisper that she never knew a more shocking flirt.

Still, the prospect of
Mrs Vawser’s vivacity in the drawing-room made Lydia wish, when the time came
for the ladies to retire, that she could stay at the table with the gentlemen
and drink port. But even before the tea-things were set, something happened to
alter Mrs Vawser’s mood. Impossible to tell what it was, or who it came from —
a word, a look, an omission: perhaps one of these that had happened a week ago,
and had been insufficiently brooded on. But something mortally offended,
wounded and dejected her, so that she took a seat apart, and donned her veil of
dolefulness. Emma timidly asked her whether she did not want to discuss the
party to Culverton; but as her only answer was a suffocated mumble that she did
not care a hang about it, now or ever, it was plain that Mrs Paige’s duty for
the rest of the evening must be to sit at her sister’s side, sympathising and
cajoling. Lydia had to endure nothing worse than Miss Beaumont’s strictures on
the shortcomings of her neighbours, which required only mechanical assent.
Meanwhile her thoughts hovered again about Lady Eastmond’s letter.

She was returning to
Osterby the day after tomorrow; and as soon as she was settled, she would come
over to Heystead, bringing her ward with her.

You need not suppose, my
dear, that I have abandoned my scheme of Bath — not I! But I shall say no more
till then — indeed not then — Phoebe’s sweet and amiable character shall speak
for me — and I have no doubt of its swiftly overcoming that unwarranted modesty
— you dear thing! — that makes you suppose yourself unfit for the task . . .

Lydia had a sensation of
doors closing with an emphatic boom. Spoiled and selfish. Canidia would do
better to confine her attentions to her proper sphere . . .

‘And yet they
continually leave that gate open. The dogs wander at will, and altogether it
presents a most slovenly appearance. I have told them . . .’ Miss Beaumont
frowned. ‘My dear Miss Templeton, if you find the subject tedious, have the
goodness to say so.’

‘Oh! here come the
gentlemen,’ Lydia cried with relief, making for the tea-table.

Not even the appearance
of Mr Durrant could rouse Mrs Vawser from her funereal state; but for this
Lydia was selfishly thankful. Having done the duties of the tea-table, she
could invite Mr Durrant to a place by her on the sofa, and satisfy her
curiosity.

‘Am I safe?’ he asked,
with a suspicious glance at his late persecutor. Wine, rather than making him
flushed, turned his bony face paler.

‘For now, I think. Mrs
Vawser is not in spirits. They will eventually return, mind: the scheme to
Culverton will not be forgotten, Mr Durrant.’

‘I did not suppose it
would be. Hey, well, it must be borne. The day had better be soon fixed,
however: I expect to be gone from Culverton within a fortnight.’

‘To London, to order a
barouche?’

‘A different kind of
folly — though with, I hope, a useful end. I shall take up my Clifton friend’s
offer.’

‘Then you are really
going to do it! You are really going to Bath, to—’

‘Yes, the prize bull,
all of that. You have already expended sufficient wit on the matter, Miss
Templeton. But why so surprised?’ He folded his arms. ‘I always do what I say I
will do.’

‘Just as you always make
the commonest things sound like some wonderful virtue in you. No, my surprise,
Mr Durrant, is only a sort of continuation of my initial astonishment. You
found nothing hopeful, then, at Melton Mowbray?’

‘I found four silly
women, who have even been subsidising Hugh’s extravagances out of their own
limited income. I found a heap of bills and promissory notes, all drawing on
his expectations from me, in the most careless and insolent manner. Curious
that we have been talking of carriages: for I found also that my nephew has
ordered one of those same high-perch absurdities, for a hundred guineas — the
security for the sum being, of course, Mr Durrant of Culverton. I think indeed
that was what decided the matter for me. That young imp will
not
be my
heir. I have another resource. I shall employ it.’

‘Indeed: and when you
put it with such bewitching tenderness, who can doubt your success? What young
woman would not melt and tremble at being called an employable resource?’

‘I do not seek a woman
who melts and trembles, as you call it. She sounds like a fool.’

‘Still, you know, you
may have to converse with her — you may have to overcome your abhorrence, and
actually talk — rather than simply setting out your terms like a contract for
tenancy.’

‘The wife I would choose
would not be forever talking: quite the reverse.’

‘Ah. Then I am afraid in
going to Bath, Mr Durrant, you do not go sufficiently far afield. You had
better send to the Grand Turk, to see if there is a spare harem-wife going,
preferably with her tongue cut out.’

‘You women are very
odd,’ he said, in a neutral, considering tone. ‘You fire up at what you consider
the least insult to your sex: and yet amongst yourselves you are absolutely
merciless to one another. Any woman who walks into a room containing six others
may be assured of being hated by most of them at sight.’

‘Ah! I see what you are
doing. You are giving me a sample of those graceful compliments to the female
sex that will be a feature of your courtship.’

‘I have always supposed
a woman likes to hear herself praised, not other women.’

‘Very well: what are these
praises to be? What other accomplishments, besides continual silence, do you
look for?’

‘No, you will not
persuade me to answer that: you do not wish to know: you wish only to be
satirical. Let me question you instead. Yesterday your father mentioned some
scheme of Lady Eastmond’s to send you to Bath with her ward. What does this
mean?’

‘It means only that the
girl is young, and untried in society, and so Lady Eastmond seeks a companion
for her.’

‘Ah, a chaperon. But are
they not usually married ladies, or ladies of mature years?’

‘I will not answer that,
Mr Durrant, as you wish only to be satirical. Though I may as well add that I
find nothing to dislike in the idea of being of mature years — quite the
reverse.’

‘Hm. Well, why you? Why
not Lady Eastmond herself?’

Reluctantly, and as
briefly as she could, she explained. She half expected some such reproach as
her father had made — or rather, as he had so delicately not made, only
clearing a space where her own conscience could operate. Mr Durrant’s first
remark when she had finished seemed to confirm it. ‘And so you refused?’

‘I — thanked her for the
compliment she paid me, in thinking me a fit person for what she proposed; but
I strongly doubted my suitability.’