An Accomplished Woman (25 page)

‘Nor I,’ Phoebe said,
with equal parts warmth and restraint. ‘Good day, Mr Beck.’

At least she had
eschewed the drama of
goodbye;
but she was in a visible and, when she
took Lydia’s arm again, palpable flutter. Lydia waited until they had gone on
as far as Cheap Street before suggesting: ‘If you folded that, it might go in
your reticule.’

Phoebe looked at the
sheaf of papers under her arm. ‘Oh! yes. I suppose I must look rather like a
lawyer’s clerk
. . . Do
you think it a good title, Lydia?’

‘Before properly deciding,
I should have to read the contents.’

‘Oh, yes, to be sure —
and I hope you will. Mr Beck will be very glad to have your opinion.’

Mr Beck having done his
best to reduce her to invisibility, Lydia rather doubted that.

‘It was very curious Mr Beck
seeing us like that, was it not?’

‘I don’t know: if he had
taken up lodging in a lonely lighthouse, our passing before his window might
have been a marvel indeed; but in the busiest thoroughfare in Bath, there is
rather more of probability than curiosity.’

‘I am intensely relieved
that he is here — that there was nothing amiss, I mean, that prevented his
coming. I confess I was growing a little concerned ... It
is
strange he
should mention that evening at Mrs Mansfield’s,’ Phoebe said, turning on Lydia
her most dazzling look of happy discovery, ‘for I was thinking of it just the
other day. Mrs Mansfield gave literary evenings, you know — and she read out
some Cowper, and a very disagreeable gentleman said it was poor stuff, and Mr
Beck rose up full-armed. I cannot remember half the things he said, but they
were very powerful. And it was such an interesting evening, we hardly wanted it
to end, and when Mrs Mansfield said that the servants would be wanting to clear
away Mr Beck said they must go to bed, and we would take the tea-things down to
the kitchen ourselves — and so we did — only in the kitchen there was the
biggest tom-cat you ever saw, and not knowing us he spat and menaced us quite
like the fiercest guard-dog, and we could hardly stop laughing . . . Are you
fond of Cowper, Lydia?’

‘I admire him very much,
and wish I could love him — but his habitual melancholy gets in the way. I
could wish him a little more spirited.’

‘Could you? Oh, for my
part I think there is ample spirit — and then there is such beauty in his
melancholy . . .’

Lydia had a strong
feeling that it was no longer Cowper they were talking about. But she was
relieved to find Phoebe sinking into the abstracted silence of recollection, as
it saved her for now from the question that must come: what was her opinion of
Mr Beck?

Judging by first
impressions was an odious practice, of course: indeed there was nothing to be
said for it — except that everyone did it, and they were usually right. But
Lydia doubted that further acquaintance, no matter how long or intimate, could
alter her estimation of Mr Beck’s character. There was that degree of
fascination with his own feelings, which was surely incompatible with attention
to the feelings of others: there was a great show of disdaining the conventions
of social intercourse, which seemed less like independence of mind than a
simple desire of having his own way; and as to the business of the tea-things
and the kitchen, she longed to ask whether Mr Beck’s egalitarianism had
extended to staying there to wash up, make the fires, and empty the
chamber-pots, or whether he had gone comfortably back to a hotel just as
expensive as the Christopher.

Nor could she like the
slighting way in which he had referred to his father. Then, remembering that Mr
Beck senior was a Bristol sugar-merchant whose wealth came from slave
plantations, she wondered if he deserved slighting: but no — there was still a
place for filial feeling. Altogether, there was so much to say against Mr Beck
that his uncivil manner to
her
hardly figured in the account.

She would say none of
this unbidden, however: even if Phoebe were to ask her the question, she was
resolved to be moderate in her expressions, as she feared that if anything
could magnify Mr Beck’s attractions in Phoebe’s eyes, it would be to hear him
disapproved. But there was one matter she felt she must mention.

‘Well, I cannot help but
remark that we have now run into both Mr Allardyce and Mr Beck. Exactly the
kind of encounters that Bath is made for, of course — people come because they
know they
will
run into their acquaintance. But it does set me to
wondering about any future occasion at which both Mr Allardyce and Mr Beck may
be present.’

‘Lord, yes,’ Phoebe
said, not uncomfortably, ‘whatever shall I do? Well: introduce them, I suppose.
Mind, Mr Beck does know of Mr Allardyce.’

‘Does he? How?’

‘Well, in London I spoke
of him to Mr Beck. Simply that — there was another gentleman who was particular
in his attentions. We were very open with each other in that way: somehow you cannot
be otherwise with Mr Beck. He sets a high value on candour: I think that is one
of his admirable qualities.’

‘But Mr Allardyce does
not know about Mr Beck?’

‘No,’ Phoebe said
readily, ‘but then it is different again talking to Mr Allardyce. He is not at
all pressing: you feel you are allowed to say just as much or as little as you
like. And that is one of
his
admirable qualities.’

Phoebe smiled. They had
to stop at that moment to allow a dray to come lumbering out of Bear Inn Yard;
the delay allowing Lydia to muster up a smile in return, and the noise of the
iron-shod wheels covering up her small, heartfelt sigh.

Mrs Allardyce lived in a
pillared corner house on the grander north side of Queen Square — old, for
Bath, and unimpeachably respectable. Phoebe, who had been lost in thought again
for the remainder of their walk hither, licked her lips a little nervously as
they mounted the steps. Lydia was not displeased to see that: to be nervous
was, after all, to be conscious of important issues at stake; and Lydia’s own
thoughts since Cheap Street had been rather severely fixed on Phoebe’s
seriousness, or lack of it.

Her sheer affection for
Phoebe, her pleased surprise at her many excellent qualities, had led her
perhaps to forget the girl’s youth, inexperience, and naiveté. Today had
furnished a reminder that while Phoebe had a fund of good sense, it was not the
whole extent of her mental capital: she had ample reserves of silliness as
well. The Miss Rae who could talk and behave with such understanding and
discretion was also professedly in love with two men at the same time; and in
the case of one of them showed less than creditable judgement.

Still, direct comparison
could do much. Surely Phoebe must feel all the force of contrast, in being greeted
in the drawing-room by Robert Allardyce — cheerful, civilised, and not at all
inclined to open his eyes so that the whole pupil showed like the centre of a
target.

He was prompt and eager
to introduce them to his mother — his glance, as he did so, seeming just to
graze Lydia with a little wry plea for indulgence.

Mrs Allardyce was a
neat-figured, well-preserved woman, some way past fifty, but showing in her
fashionable dress, her spangled turban and coral bracelets, that she was not
ready yet for caps and mittens. There was nothing haughty or remote about her:
her unrouged face had a certain dewy softness that was rather inviting; but her
small pebbly eyes were anything but soft, and Lydia saw a long-moulded
sharpness in her lips.

‘Ah, so here you are,
Miss Rae — how d’you do? — I have heard so much about you, without seeing you,
that it is almost like meeting a fabulous monster at last. A pretty monster,
mind: decidedly pretty: Robert, why did you not tell me Miss Rae was so
handsome? Men have no idea of
describing
a person. “Oh, Mother, I met an
old acquaintance of yours in town,” says he, “only I have forgot her name.”
“Well, what does she look like?” “Oh,” says he, “she has brown hair.”‘ She
snorted. ‘No, I will tell people what you are like, Robert: you know me, I
don’t care.’

Her greeting to Lydia
was polite, but without such marked interest — as was natural, there being no
prospect of Lydia’s shortly becoming her near relation. However, when Juliet
rose with her cool smile and suggested that Miss Templeton, as she had
proposed, might like to come to the pianoforte and look over her new music, Mrs
Allardyce snapped: ‘What is this? Nonsense, we don’t want to be fussing with
that. Sit down, Juliet. I want to talk to my visitors, not hear a lot of jingle-jangling.’

‘Your visitors will have
little enough to say, if you persist in trying to frighten them,’ Mr Allardyce
said, seating himself close to Phoebe: smiling on his mother, and quite at
ease.

‘You need not give me
that look, as if I were a curious exhibit,’ Mrs Allardyce said, frowning,
pursing her lips, yet all enjoyment. ‘You see I do not hesitate to tell him
what I think of him, Miss Rae: that’s my way.’

‘As I return the
favour,’ he said, ‘and always tell you when you misbehave shockingly — which is
a good deal of the time.’

‘Was there ever such a
son? What do you think, Miss Rae? What do you think of us?’

‘I think ... it is the
kind of freedom that proceeds from strong affection on both sides,’ said Phoebe
— to Lydia’s admiration: she felt that if she had been confronted with such a
question, posed with Mrs Allardyce’s piercing, pouncing look, she could have
done nothing better than whistle like a parrot.

Presently, when Mr
Allardyce and Phoebe were engaged in a mutual reminiscence of London — Juliet
putting in a word here and there, but apparently content to inhabit her usual
circle of self-possession — Mrs Allardyce beckoned Lydia to draw her chair
nearer.

‘Now, Miss Templeton,
you must tell me of yourself. It may sound impertinent, but that’s my way. You,
I collect, are Miss Rae’s companion.’

Lydia bridled a little
at that, thinking of the paid companions who trailed their browbeaten way after
the superannuated dragons of the Pump Room. ‘I am happy to call myself Miss
Rae’s friend,’ she said, ‘and her companion, during our stay in Bath.’

‘And a very sensible
notion of Lady Eastmond’s I call it, to place a woman of mature years at Miss
Rae’s side: I approved it at once when my son told me about it. I know, of
course, about Miss Rae’s position: her orphaned state: her substantial
expectations. There is a great need of protection. I see far too many giggling
chits in Bath, walking arm in arm: no decorum: no one to teach them it.’ Mrs
Allardyce directed a speculative, not displeased glance at Robert and Phoebe.
‘I never knew the Raes — but I hear that Sir Alexander Rae was a model of
probity: besides being very rich.’

Her expression seemed to
convey that the latter virtue carried more weight with her. ‘Yes, Miss Rae
always speaks with great respect of her late parents,’ Lydia said blandly.

‘Let him in, Jane, let
him in,’ Mrs Allardyce cried, as the door was nosed open by a pug-dog, with a
maid in pursuit. ‘He is missing his mistress, I think. Come here then, you
droll creature. You won’t mind, of course,’ she added to Lydia as the pug, with
much snuffling and scattering of moisture, jumped on her lap. ‘In the country,
I suppose, you keep numerous dogs.’

‘Not one,’ Lydia said,
‘though many of our neighbours do.’

She thought she had
spoken agreeably: but Mrs Allardyce did not seem to like her supposition being
contradicted. ‘I am not fond of country retirement,’ she said, with a shrug,
and a look away. ‘The late Mr Allardyce kept only a London establishment — and
a very good one: but in his later years he took a fancy to purchase a place in
the country. It was not at all my fancy: I told him so. “Bath,” said I, “is the
only place.” That was how we were. I have always been plain-spoken, and I don’t
care who knows it. Now my son, in time, may wish to make such a purchase — but
that time, if it comes, must be
much
later in his career.’

‘To be sure — in the
foreign service, he must always be going from place to place, and so—’

‘My dear Miss Templeton,
you have taken up a very wrong idea. There can be no reason for entering the
foreign service except what it may lead to — high office at home.
There
is
my son’s future. It is what his father always designed for him: it is
particularly suited to his talents. When that comes, a good town establishment
is the first necessity. A public man must entertain, he must keep up a certain
style. When he marries, his wife must understand that. She will have an
exacting role as hostess and helpmeet. Taste, even fashion there must be — but
no flighty, self-willed notions.’ She scratched the pug’s head punishingly ‘I
suppose you are not fond of London.’

‘I spend a part of every
season in London, and like it very much.’

Mrs Allardyce sniffed.
‘That is a very elegant gown Miss Rae has on. Bath-made, I suppose.’

‘From London, I
believe,’ said Lydia, growing weary of these suppositions, which had the effect
of making her appear continually contrary, ‘though I cannot pretend to an
intimate knowledge of all Miss Rae’s wardrobe.’

‘People have an entirely
wrong idea about attention to dress. Within due bounds, it is not vanity: for a
woman of any standing, indeed, it is an absolute requirement. At the theatre
last month I saw an extraordinary creature in the next box. There she sat, in
public, in the evening, in the drabbest day dress that you might at a pinch
have put on to inspect your stores and closets. Some people might have
contained themselves: I could not: that’s not my way. I could not help but
stare and exclaim, though my son tried to call me to order. Very shocking in
me, but I can’t help it. Such affectation, such impudent flouting of decorum
demands to be challenged.’ Mrs Allardyce leaned close and fierce, so that Lydia
could see a little peachlike bristle of whisker on her upper lip. ‘It
reveals
something about a person. I don’t miss such things, Miss Templeton: not I.
Oh! Lord, I see my daughter is still fussing about that music. You had better
go and oblige her.’