An Accomplished Woman (17 page)

‘Not by Papa’s
standards; but taken all in all he is a pretty well-read man — intelligent and
cultivated,’ Lydia conceded, ‘even if he chooses not to show it.’

‘Now you alarm me,’
Phoebe said. ‘I shall be surrounded by clever people.’

‘Ah, but Mr Durrant is
not so clever as he thinks he is,’ said Lydia. Phoebe looked interested, or
more interested even than usual; but the bustle of departure prevented further
speech.

They were to drive first
to the Vicarage-house, so that the two carriages could proceed together. Mr
Durrant’s venerable travelling-coach, as promised, stood before the gate, and
the Vicarage party were ready to climb in; but Mrs Vawser, if not quite in
marble mood, appeared disgruntled.

‘Oh, dear,’ Dr Templeton
said, ‘I fear it may be because Mr Durrant has done just what he said he would
— send his carriage to fetch them; but he has not come himself.

‘Oh, dear,’ echoed
Lydia. ‘I wonder how she will contrive to punish him for it. Perhaps she will
ignore him, and decline to speak a word to him all day. How he will hate that.’

Her father smiled. ‘I
fancy he will hide away in his study for the whole time in any event.’

The Vicarage party took
the lead. There were, as promised, many inviting views on the road to Culverton
— pockets of meadow lined with silver streams, expanses of green hills with all
the room in the world to roll and shelve and maze their way to the delicate
horizon; but though the Heystead carriage was slowed several times so that they
could look and admire, the other proceeded at a lick. Doubtless the beauty of
the countryside was useless without a barouche.

Culverton House came
stealthily into view on its gentle rise above the straggling stone village: a
great house without grand airs. Lydia had made extensive tours about the
country with her father in his younger years, and had yawned her way through
the stateliness of many a mansion: the vast halls that could have no reason for
being so large, except to make people feel small, the Blue Rooms and Red Rooms,
the fusty riot of gilt and ormolu, the allegorical paintings tumbling with
drapery and cupids. Half consciously she had measured them all against
Culverton. She had been often here as a girl, during the time of Lewis
Durrant’s father, a sociable man who liked to gather young people about him;
and in spite of certain intervening events, it remained one of those good
places under the sun that the mind can visit for comfort and refuge.

It was of much later
date than Heystead, built in ruddy brick faced with pale stone, and accordingly
more regular — but not too much so: no dull stare of multiplied windows. The
compact front, neat as the three panels of a folding screen, was offset by a
lower wing on the left side, which gave the pleasing notion of there being two
sides to every question. Smooth lawns and topiary flanked the drive up to the
house: but behind and beyond it the eye was beguiled by dense woods and the
lazy glitter of a lake.

Lewis Durrant was
waiting on the steps to receive them, and not hiding in his study — even though
he looked as if he wished to, when Mrs Vawser, recovering her spirits, began
captivating him the moment she alighted. Such a delightful place — in love with
it already — apologies for lateness, but such charming views along the way she
could hardly bear to get along — excessively kind in him to indulge her little
expedition. ‘And you see it has all come off rather well — nothing omitted,
everything arranged — but that is my way, I’m afraid — I must have things
perfect and to the letter. My friends absolutely laugh about it. “Penelope,”
they say, “is so thorough — such a stickler” — but you’ll acknowledge, Mr
Durrant, there can be no pleasure without preparation.’

‘I am perturbed, ma’am.
I had supposed a pleasure-party, not a military exercise.’

‘Oh! heavens above, nothing
so precise as that. Dear me no — there is nothing so odious as
over-preparation: consequences of this and that, and how and when and so on —
it quite takes away all enjoyment. Oh! Lord, you would have to search pretty
hard to find someone who deplores that sort of fussing more than me.
Spontaneity is the thing — indeed I would lay it down as a rule that there can
be no pleasure where there is preparation.’

Adopting two opposite
positions within a minute exhausted even Mrs Vawser’s energy: for now she was
content to pass on into the hall, and point things out instructively to her
sister, who was too polite, or tired, to reply that she had been to Culverton
before, and knew a great deal more about it than Mrs Vawser did.

‘Sir,’ barked the
Reverend Mr Paige, presenting his dogmatic smile, ‘allow me to express my
thanks for your receiving us here today. I find you well, I hope. Mrs Paige I
know joins with me in appreciation of your cordial welcome. It is always a
pleasure to see Culverton. Once again, sir, my thanks: please accept them.’

Reeling a little from
the bludgeon of Mr Paige’s courtesy, Mr Durrant welcomed the Heystead party,
and was introduced to Miss Rae. His manner was merely correct: but Lydia felt him
turn momentarily on her his sardonic gaze, like a hot spark from a sulky fire.
He was longing — she knew it — to say something about chaperons of mature
years.

They made the tour of
the principal rooms, Mrs Vawser in raptures about everything and taking in
nothing. Phoebe meanwhile reinforced Lydia’s good opinion of her by her just
appreciation of the qualities of Culverton House: the elegant proportion of the
rooms, airy but not lofty: the balance between the dark antique of the great
carved staircase and the freshness of the white plaster mouldings and niches:
the judicious collections. Mr Durrant’s father had been a great traveller, but
he had resisted the usual urge to load his house with curious lumber, and the
paintings, tapestries, and cabinets did not oppress the eye with abundance.

Lydia’s own admiration
of the place was seasoned with other emotions, the flavour of which it would be
hard exactly to describe. For this house might have been her home: she might
have dined daily at that great mahogany table, drawn up her evening chair to
that marble fireplace, and climbed that staircase so often that every carved
flower and festoon would have been as familiar to her as her own fingertips.
Perhaps because of the presence of Phoebe, a stranger here, the memories of
that time when her destiny was so nearly linked with Culverton were coming
strongly upon her. Not powerfully — for they certainly had no power over her
now: rather they appeared as scenes in an intriguing and instructive story.

Their tour ended at the
breakfast-room, where the housekeeper was supervising the laying of an ample
table, and where the French doors stood open to invite them to the gardens.

‘Mr Durrant, you
monstrous thing, I declare you have gone to a shocking amount of trouble for my
little party,’ Mrs Vawser cried. ‘You make me quite ashamed. Such quantities of
food — I must warn you I eat like a bird — absolutely like a bird — I am well
known for it. Often my friends beg me to eat. “Penelope—”‘

‘A pity — but I am sure
my other guests have healthy appetites.’

‘Oh! to be sure, no
doubt — but you must promise me faithfully, Mr Durrant, that next time you will
not put yourself out so.’

‘You have my solemn
promise, ma’am, that I shall not put myself out for you again. Will you see the
gardens?’

From the stone terrace a
flight of steps led down to the lawns and gravel walks — steps that Mrs Vawser,
in her irrepressibility, must scamper down with a squeal, as if they were an
exciting novelty. The sun was now strong enough for parasols, though Mrs Vawser
kept hers folded, the better to prod and tease Mr Durrant with.

‘What a very agreeable
man Mr Durrant is!’ Phoebe said.

‘Do you really think
so?’ Lydia said, amused. ‘Well, I suppose he has at least refrained from taking
an axe to Mrs Vawser, but there is still plenty of time.’

‘His look, perhaps, is a
little dark and severe. His manner also, and his way of talking—’

‘My dear Miss Rae, of
what then can his agreeability consist? Not that agreeability is a word.’

‘You are very good with
words. I wish I were. Sir Henry has Johnson’s
Dictionary
on his shelves
and the other day I was looking into it and I thought how sad it was that I
shall never use above half of them in my life. Perhaps one might use all of
them, if one really set oneself to it, but it would require a good deal of
forethought.’

‘One letter at a time,
perhaps. This month I am on the letter
b.
It might make one’s
conversation rather peculiar.’

‘No, but I do think he is
agreeable, though I can’t say precisely how. Just as one can tell whether a
strange dog is friendly or vicious.’

Lydia laughed. ‘I wonder
what Mr Durrant would make of your comparison.’

‘Oh, dear, I’m afraid I
— I really didn’t mean to be rude — especially as . . .’ Phoebe blushed. ‘Well,
especially as he is our host.’

‘You have not been rude
at all: I would guess that you never are. But you were going to say
especially
something else.’

‘This is dreadful — I
feel like the worst kind of gossip ... It is just that Lady Eastmond mentioned
to me that you and Mr Durrant — were once engaged.’

‘Ah, is that it?’ Lydia
smiled, pressing her arm. ‘My dear Miss Rae, this is no secret: everybody
hereabouts knows that, and no one minds it. And above all you should not think
it gives me a moment’s uneasiness.’

‘Oh, I’m glad of that.
That is — it is not a thing to be
glad
about, rather . . . Shall I stop
talking?’

Lydia laughed. ‘Lady
Eastmond is perhaps a little liberal in her phrasing, to say
engaged.
Mr
Durrant and I were much together, some years ago: our attachment was to a
degree an expected thing in the neighbourhood. And there was a proposal, which
I civilly declined. There was an interval of inevitable awkwardness, but
presently we carried on with our lives — as you must do in a country district
where the families are on close terms, and you will often find yourselves in
company together. There is nothing in the recollection to embarrass me — or, I
would say, Mr Durrant either.’

‘I am intensely
relieved,’ Phoebe said, the blush fading — but leaving a tinge of curiosity.

Lydia’s feeling, as they
passed into the shady walk of great holly hedges, was as mild and balmy as the
day. A fresh and present memory rose before her: strolling with old Mr Durrant
along this same path. He is telling her something about the depredations of
herons on his fish-ponds, but his humorous keen eye speaks of something else:
of the Grantham assembly where she and his son danced last week: of
expectation.

‘I beg your pardon? Oh,
yes — the door in the wall, there, that’s our way to the shrubberies . . .’

All this time Mrs Vawser
had attached herself perseveringly to Mr Durrant; as assiduous in asking him
the name of this plant and the antiquity of that tree as she was in not
listening to his answers. But her time was coming to an end. This was his own
ground, where Mr Durrant might do as he liked; and Dr Templeton growing tired,
Mr Durrant undertook to escort him back to the house, and see him settled in
the library. Mrs Vawser might protest all she liked at his desertion: he was
gone; and there was nothing for it but to put up her parasol and sulk until
they could return to the house.

Phoebe’s curiosity was
as perceptible as the hovering of a bee. ‘When—?’ she began, then faltered.
‘When were the gardens laid out, I wonder?’

‘When did Mr Durrant
propose to me, you mean? It was the year ‘ninety-one: the autumn. Truly, I
don’t mind in the least alluding to it.’

‘Ninety-one: across the Channel
the French King has tried and failed to flee the Revolution, and in Parliament
Burke and Fox are quarrelling over it. George Templeton has just moved to
London, and old Mr Durrant is planning a ball at Culverton House.

‘I was then a little
older than you, and very happily settled at Heystead. I had more than happily
left behind the young ladies’ seminary at Fulham — the stated aim of such
places, very appropriately, is to
finish
your education — and I had
accompanied my father on a tour of France, and all in all I was conscious of my
high degree of comfort and good fortune. At least, I hope I was conscious of
it, sufficiently to be grateful. My mother having died when I was a girl, I was
mistress of Heystead: mistress of my own time, which I had no difficulty in
filling: altogether I did not desire or seek any alteration.’

The ball-room at
Culverton House is tolerably filled for a country district. Lydia walks in on
the arm of her father, still spry, and still wearing hair-powder. Ladies’ gowns
have waists: the musicians wear wigs. She is aware, without looking, of the
tall lean figure advancing towards her.

‘However, I was a young
woman: it was expected that I should marry. What else is there to do? And the
Templetons being an old established family, it was expected that I should marry
suitably to my position. If I was no great heiress, I was still a very proper
bride for a gentleman of family and property. Did you ever see a coal-mine,
Phoebe?’