An Accomplished Woman (23 page)

Lydia said: ‘You have
lately been at Vienna, I think, sir?’

‘Yes, I was attached to
the British Ministry there: a fortunate posting.’

‘Is it not rather
dangerous,’ Phoebe asked earnestly, ‘with the war, and the French armies and
everything?’

‘No more dangerous than
anywhere else in Europe just now, I would judge,’ he said. ‘And, after all,
Juliet accompanied me, and I would never see her exposed to peril — not that I
could stop her if she set her mind to it.’

Lydia experienced a
feeling like a nasty rasping tongue that went from her nape to the crown of her
head, and which she identified after a moment as pure envy. ‘Vienna,’ she said,
‘that must be — there must be a great deal to see, and hear . . .’

‘To hear especially —
you are musical, Miss Templeton?’ Mr Allardyce asked, with civil interest.
‘Certainly it is a great city for music: Juliet may tell you more of that than
I. We were often at the opera, but I am old-fashioned and tend to stick at
Handel. But we are in the way, I see —’ glancing over his shoulder, and drawing
closer to Phoebe ‘— at least I assume that rather large gentleman, by glaring
and snorting at us, intends a suave hint to that effect. Are you for the Lower
Town? — Shall we go together?’

Much as he might have
wished to, Mr Allardyce was too well-mannered to relinquish his sister’s arm
and take Phoebe’s, let alone take both and leave Lydia stranded. (Not that she
supposed herself likely to fall over sideways without a gentleman’s arm: but
the politeness was felt.) Still, as they all walked on together he contrived to
give Phoebe a great deal of purposeful attention, without leaving anyone out: memories
of their time in London were tactfully revived, and future prospects discreetly
invoked, including a wish that he might introduce her to his mother, on whom he
laughingly said he had been unjust. By the time they parted at Milsom Street,
the Allardyces having an engagement at the Paragon, the deep satisfaction on
both sides at the meeting was as evident as their reluctance to end it.

Left alone with Lydia,
Phoebe was a little quiet for a time, in a way that did honour to her good
sense. Some girls would have shrieked, giggled, and professed themselves about
to die on the spot: still others would have retreated into a high dramatic
silence, from which the common claims of social intercourse could not reclaim
them. The sun was strong now, bouncing mercilessly off the endless stone: Lydia
was overheated, and proposed ices at Molland’s the confectioner’s; and still
Phoebe restrained herself until they were seated in the dark, cakey-scented
interior.

Then: ‘Oh, Lydia, what
do you think of him?’ burst from her; and Lydia was obliged to push aside the
growing tendrils of a headache, and properly consider the question.

‘Well, I am very glad to
have met him: and glad for you too, as this was, after all, a great part of our
purpose here. Of course, all I can give you are the impressions of a very
short, a very superficial introduction. But he appears agreeable, his manners
wholly unexceptionable and pleasing, his air good . . .’ She wilted for a
moment. Really she could not do this: it was too much of a responsibility, and
nonsensical besides: if the girl liked him, then let her get on with it . . .
But a glance at Phoebe’s eager, solemn, trusting face restored her; and she was
forced to admit besides that after this encounter the notion of Mr A, the
interchangeable cipher, would not do. He seemed a sensible man — and indeed,
did she really suppose that Phoebe, with all her truly valuable qualities,
would fall in love with a mere dummy in a complicated cravat? — and there had
appeared much to like about his sister also. No, she must be honest. ‘Yes,
Phoebe, thus far I am very well inclined to Mr Allardyce; and it is clear that
he is exceedingly well inclined to you. But, really, I am alarmed at the idea
of your being influenced by me in these matters.’

‘Oh, but, Lydia — I
want
to be influenced by you.’

‘Flattering — and even
more alarming. For the time being, Phoebe, I insist that you regard me as a
sort of accompanying statue — no, not even that — a figure in a frieze on the
wall, in the background, looking stern in profile. Trust me, as soon as there
is anything in Mr Allardyce that I very much dislike, or that seems to threaten
your happiness, I shall step down from the wall, and influence you like
anything.’

Phoebe appeared
satisfied; but Lydia was less than content with her own hyperbole. If the idea
of offering benevolent encouragement was alarming, how much more so was the
notion of advising her
against
an involvement, of whatever degree: it
was fairly watering the ground for the seeds of reproach and recrimination. Not
that she could imagine Phoebe turning very viciously upon her, or upon anyone:
but still her young friend was a sharer of human nature, which had an
invincible tendency to resent being told not to put its hand in the fire, and
to maintain that if only it had been allowed to, the sensation would have been
very nice.

No, Lydia must confine
herself to the sympathetic ear, the temperate approval: not a finger would she
lay upon the scales of decision. Anyone who could undertake such a thing must
be confirmed in the most monstrously high opinion of themselves. Indeed the
only person she could conceive capable of it was Lewis Durrant: which was
sufficient warning in itself.

The call was paid: and Lydia
thanked heaven for Miss Allardyce’s coming too. She feared she could not have
endured with patience the role of mere auntlike observer, while the lovers’
armoury of looks and nothings was deployed. She must have wanted some other
occupation than benignly smiling — not her forte in any case — through their
eager nods, ready agreements and stifled sighs; and not being a sewing woman
(‘But where pray is your
work?’
Miss Beaumont had once demanded, in
Lydia’s own parlour) she would have been hard put to it for an alternative that
combined mild attention and manual occupation. It might have been a good time
to learn juggling. (‘Don’t mind me!’) She had often fancied juggling.

Fortunately there was
Miss Allardyce to take a share of the conversation. And if Lydia were honest,
Mr Allardyce and Phoebe might have comported themselves a good deal worse. The
consideration of the gentleman was not overcome by the absorption of the
suitor; and Phoebe was constitutionally incapable of making anyone feel ignored
or unwelcome. (Part of the trouble, Lydia reflected.) Still, it was a relief to
let them feel they had paid her enough attention, and have some talk apart with
Juliet Allardyce.

For some reason Lydia
felt that Miss Allardyce would be very formidable when she was old: she would
walk indefatigably without a stick, and suffer no fools gladly, and stooping
urchins would drop their handfuls of mud at one glance. Her strong-boned
beauty, emphasised by hair cropped to the nape and enclosed in a bandeau, was
more striking than amenable: there was a good deal of style about her, but few
could have carried off the severity of that dark grey gown and mantle. Absolute
self-possession: such, without the least haughtiness or unfriendliness, was the
impression she created: that there were places within her strongly and securely
fenced off

‘I wished very much to
go,’ she said, talking of her accompanying her brother to Vienna,’and held to
my wish, against all opposition.’ A slight, salty smile. ‘We had rather a bad
sea-crossing to Hamburg — so bad, that the decks were awash, and there was a
good deal of praying, and I thought for a moment that here was a just reward
for my pig-headedness.’ She renewed the smile. ‘Only for a moment.’

‘She ate a good dinner,’
put in Mr Allardyce, in a marvelling tone. ‘Not only was she not sick, she ate
a hearty dinner of salt beef and capers.’

‘Are you not a good
sailor, Mr Allardyce?’ Lydia asked.

‘I like to consider
myself so. I keep my groans to a decorous volume, and refrain from calling on
the Almighty too insistently; and when I reach dry land I do not fall down at
once and kiss it. I wait a few minutes.’ He turned his look to Phoebe. ‘Is this
not, Miss Rae, as much and more than a man need claim, to call himself a good
sailor? It is, after all, unnatural to us to bob about on the waves in a giant
nutshell: we are creatures of the solid earth, not finned or winged. Is not a
man who boasts of his sea-legs really demonstrating his monstrosity?’

‘I was never on the sea
in my life,’ Phoebe answered, with a smile, ‘but I should dearly like to be.
Whenever I have seen it, I have longed to know what was on the other side. I am
sure I should not mind a little sickness. Mountains too: I would give a great
deal to see some real mountains.’

‘Ah! the Alps — I had
hopes of an Alpine excursion when I was at Vienna, but it came to nothing. But
Scotland, now — if there are no Alps, there are assuredly mountains: I have
heard much of the grandeur and beauties of Scotland, and now you can tell me if
they were exaggerations . . .’

Their harmony was so
complete, their ability to interest each other so well developed, that Lydia
could comfortably direct her conversation again to Juliet Allardyce, and to her
own fascination: the music at Vienna.

‘Well, as to the opera,
the Italians still reign, though there have been attempts to foster a native
German style. Some of the best music is to be heard in the houses of the
nobility; though of course people will still talk through it. I think they
should be knocked on the head at once.’

‘And Haydn is still at
Vienna?’ Lydia asked wistfully. ‘I saw his concerts at the Hanover Square Rooms
in ‘ninety-five: I wish he would return.’

‘I fancy his travelling
days are done. He has turned to oratorio now — that last infirmity of noble mind.
I heard some extracts.
“Und Gott spracht”
this and
“Und Gott spracht”
that: a great bore. But I brought a deal of music back from Vienna, of all
sorts, and have hardly begun to look through it. You play, I am sure?’

‘The pianoforte, and the
harp,’ Lydia said: liking and respecting Miss Allardyce, and so with no reason
to hear that faint sword-clash of competition.

‘Then you must indeed
borrow as much as you like. When you come to us, as you surely will —’ with a
flicker of her cool grey eyes at her brother and Phoebe ‘— let us investigate
it thoroughly, and—’

‘You are very kind; but
we are only lodging here for a short time, and I am without an instrument, and
so it would be more of a torment than an enjoyment.’

‘Ah. You play for
pleasure — not to
please,’
Miss Allardyce said, with her smiling
crispness. ‘All the better. You assuredly must come, and make use of our
pianoforte. It would make me very happy — Robert too. Robert is an excellent
listener. At least, he never taps his foot or says, “Splendid,” at the
penultimate chord.’

‘I think I hear myself
faintly praised,’ Mr Allardyce said, turning, ‘and I must be grateful for it. I
require only a reciprocal gratitude: for while you, my dear Juliet, and Miss
Templeton, I collect, are proficient in music, may I not claim the credit of
being proficient in admiring it — and admiring, moreover, without the least
practical understanding? I can hum along with a tune, and even remember a good
one, but your music-sheets are to me perplexing hieroglyphics, and I tremble at
the mention of scales and arpeggios. And yet I love to hear you play: so when I
applaud you, I really think you should applaud me back.’

‘Fie, Mr Allardyce,’
said Lydia, laughing, ‘is this admiration, or simply gaping wonder?’

‘With respect, Miss Templeton,
I must question the distinction. When we gaze up at a lofty cathedral, do we
not simply wonder at how such a magnificent thing could ever have been raised,
and feel it to be quite beyond us? And if we thoroughly understood engineering,
and elevations and whatnot’ — he appealed to Phoebe — ‘would our emotion not be
a little hampered — a little deflated?’

‘Oh, the world would be
dull indeed without mystery,’ Phoebe said, with her most heartfelt gaze. Very
warm, soft and rich her looks appeared beside Mr Allardyce — slender, pared, a
little angular in his refinement: but the wedding-portrait, Lydia thought,
would work beautifully, and the children of the combination would be
irresistible.

‘Besides, in music an
innocent appreciation is all that is required of we men, domestically at
least,’ he pursued. ‘Men who sing well, or play the flute, are for some reason
always deemed socially a little suspect — unless, of course, they are entire
professionals like Mr Haydn.’

‘And women,’ Lydia said,
‘are always commended for such accomplishments: but if they seek to become
entire professionals like Mr Haydn, they are shockingly unsexing themselves.’

Mr Allardyce regarded
her with interest. ‘Yet there are women whose profession is music. Singers—’

‘Oh, but if a woman is a
singer,’ put in Phoebe, ‘it means that — whatever her virtues — still she must
parade herself on the public stage.’

‘And yet what does this
amount to?’ Lydia said. ‘Exposing herself to the regard of many male eyes:
which is precisely what every girl’s mama intends for her, when she dresses her
up for the assembly ball.’

Mr Allardyce looked his
unobtrusive amusement. ‘True: but I fancy the mama’s reply would be, that at
the ball she can be sure of the spectators, whereas in the concert-room it is a
matter of that most direful phrase, “all and sundry”. You know, Miss Rae, I
should never like to belong to
sundry. All
at least has a sociable
sound; but I can see a nightmare vision of two doors, and a demonic entity
sternly pointing me to the other one that is marked “sundry” . . .’