An Accomplished Woman (31 page)

Interval, and Mr Allardyce
coming into his own. Tea to be had in the Octagon Room: Mr Allardyce
undertaking to brave the crush and get some, and Phoebe, displaying what must
have been for Mr Beck a disappointing interest in such soulless conventions as
eating and drinking, going to help him. Juliet, in her strong-minded way,
walking off to talk technicalities with the pianist. Mr Beck left alone with
Lydia, and making the most of the opportunity.

‘Well, Miss Templeton.
Well, well.’ He gave the sort of skewed, distant smile that those who do not
understand irony suppose to be ironic. ‘A very agreeable evening, indeed.
Certainly a revealing one. I am glad I came: it has opened my eyes to what is
going on. My appearance on this occasion, I fear, must have been an unpleasant
surprise for you.’

It was in Lydia’s mind
to say that Mr Beck’s appearance on any occasion would be an unpleasant
surprise for her, even if she were at the bottom of a well and he were at the
top with a rope; but she held her peace.

‘As I told you,’ he
pursued, ‘I knew of Mr Allardyce. I accept him. I have nothing to say against
him. I hope I have nothing to say against any human creature. But I see now
that I am indeed — as I put it to you the other day — out in the cold. Plainly
this party was formed at your instigation. Plainly you are seeking to throw
Miss Rae in Mr Allardyce’s way as much as possible. Plainly, in every moment of
my absence, you are seeking to favour him: to further his cause: to influence
Miss Rae’s mind in accordance with your own ideas. But I am not put out, Miss
Templeton: not at all! You may spin your webs all you like.’

‘Well, that’s what we
spinsters do, you know,’ she said: absolutely weary of him, and despairing of
rational argument having any effect. ‘How do you like the music?’

‘Artificial,’ he
snapped, ‘miserably artificial,’ and he stared away: leaving Lydia to the
interesting philosophic exercise of imagining what music with no artifice would
sound like. A man falling off a step-ladder, perhaps, as long as he did it
spontaneously, and with no soul-destroying preparation.

Re-emergence from the
crowd of Mr Allardyce. Not only tea secured but seats — Miss Rae was guarding
them — this way. Awkward squeeze of five people around a little table, awkward handing
of lukewarm cups: discovery that there were only four, and Lydia without: Mr
Allardyce promptly surrendering his to her: Mr Beck, a frowning moment later,
deciding to do the same, which left her with two cups that she did not want,
and a faint feeling of being a nuisance. Juliet attempting to make conversation
with Mr Beck: he all prickly suspicion — another conspirator. Bell ringing:
crush back into the concert-room. Unforeseen variation on the seating: Juliet
so intent on pointing out something in the programme to Lydia that she ended up
sitting next to her, leaving Phoebe symbolically placed between her two
suitors. Juliet at last glancing up at Lydia’s distracted expression: a
measured smile and whisper: ‘Oh, let them get on with it.’ Lydia wondering
whether Juliet — level-headed, observant — might perhaps be consulted, to clear
some of her difficulties. Were Robert Allardyce’s definite
attentions
indicative
of definite
intentions?
Was that face, of which the profile was
currently presented to her — elegant concave cheek, alert grey eye — the face
of a man in love? Difficult to raise such a question, though, against the
concert-room babble: might place her also in exactly the position Mr Beck
accused her of adopting — projecting, meddling: finger on the scale.

Music again, to put an
end to her fretting — yet failing to do so. Envy of Juliet, seated at ease,
following the words — the endless caras and sospiros — in the programme, all
contented concentration. That used to be me.

End of concert: audience
as thrustful in getting out as they had been in getting in. Phoebe in the
Octagon Room managing her pair of leopards very well: all ingenuous gratitude
for their company — delightful evening — assurances sought that they would all
make a party again at the gala evening in Sydney Gardens. Mr A cheerfully
compliant — perhaps a little narrow wryness in his glance? — Mr B with the look
of a man girding on armour. Return to Sydney Place, Lydia absently replying to
Phoebe’s effusions, mind guiltily reverting to the waiting decanter: reflection
that Bath, supposed to cure the liver, would end up putting hers out of order.
Curtain, until the next performance.

‘I declare you are
becoming quite as much a fixture here as Beau Nash’s statue,’ Lydia said,
coming upon Mr Durrant in the Pump Room.

‘The place exerts a
dreadful fascination. Daily attendance makes the stupidest matters important. I
gape at a new face, however commonplace. I am troubled by absences, or
alterations in habit. Old Sir Barton Scrimbleshanks, over there, takes a glass
of the waters every day at eleven without fail — but today he has omitted it:
what can it mean? My mind, or what is left of it, reels with speculation.’

‘Sir Barton — dear me,’
Phoebe said, ‘what an unfortunate name.’

‘It would be, if it was
his real one,’ Mr Durrant said readily. ‘I make up the names to suit them. I’ve
been deliberately avoiding an introduction to Sir Barton, to avoid
disappointment. People are much more tolerable as fictional characters.’

‘How very singular!’
Phoebe said — smiling, but with reserve, as at something doubtfully moral.

‘What about those two
rather languid ladies, over there on the rout-bench?’ Lydia asked.

‘Miss Fannaway and Miss
Henrietta Fannaway. Their brother has a country place in Kent called Groynes.
It isn’t very nice. The gentleman with the young hair and the old face,
plucking up courage to speak to them, is Captain Overbold, Retired.’

‘I wonder what names you
would have thought of for us, if you hadn’t known us already’ Lydia said.

His eyes lit mockingly
on hers for a moment. ‘Ah, that is one of those things that can never be told.
Now, over there by the gallery you’ll see —’ he caught his breath ‘— Mrs
Vawser.’

‘Oh, Mr Durrant, surely
that doesn’t count,’ Phoebe exclaimed, ‘for we know a real Mrs Vawser.’

‘We do indeed,’ Lydia
said, through her teeth, ‘and there she is.’

There she was, very
fine, very sweeping in silk pelisse and feathered hat, strolling the Pump Room
like a queen amongst subjects, and on her arm a consort — an abbreviated man
with more neckcloth than neck, a square head like a box, and small features
like holes in it. They were spotted: Mrs Vawser and her appendage bore swiftly
down on them. There was no possible escape, short of climbing on to the
window-sill behind them, and plunging into the King’s Bath below — a
possibility Lydia saw flicker vividly across Lewis Durrant’s face before he
surrendered to the inevitable.

‘Well, and here we all
are! Is it not the most —? Was there ever anything so —? Lord, I was just remarking
to Mr Vawser that if we met any
more
of our acquaintance, I should be
almost fatigued with it — arrived in Bath just yesterday, and nothing but
greetings and invitations from that moment to this! But how do you do — Miss
Templeton, Miss Rae — and Mr Durrant, I declare!’ — this with a very airy look.
‘I must be my own master of ceremonies and introduce my spouse — mind, I am
used to that, all my friends will tell you, “Penelope”, they say, “you are a
perfect Beau Nash . . .”‘

Mr Vawser, bowing as much
as his starch would allow him, declared himself enchanted, but looked only
conceited. This then was the perennial betrayer and destroyer of Mrs Vawser’s
happiness — but for the present, at least, plainly the rake reformed and
forgiven. Her arm tenderly gathered in his, Mr Vawser basked in his wife’s
smiles, seeming to concur in her opinion that she was the most fortunate of
women.

‘You will be mightily
wondering how we come to be in Bath,’ Mrs Vawser went on, ‘and you will laugh
when I tell you. I had hardly returned to town from Lincolnshire — dear sleepy
Heystead! — one cannot help but be fond — before Mr Vawser declared: “My love,
I fear you are mopish.” “My love,” said I, “I fear you are mopish too. What
shall we do?” And so we fell to laughing, and agreed we needed a change, and I
saw to the packing at once. No dallying — all my friends will tell you: “Oh,
Penelope — no dawdling for her — that’s not her way” — and only then did we
consider, where is it to be? Oh, you would have laughed to see us.’

‘Her, her, her,’
remarked Mr Vawser. For a moment Lydia took this as an ungallant if accurate
reference to Mrs Vawser’s habit of talking about herself, until she saw that Mr
Vawser’s negligible eyes had all but disappeared in creases of mirth; and
realised he was laughing.

‘We turned it over —
Brighton — Lyme — Bath. Now we are both excessively fond of Bath — but then, of
course, it is
hardly
the fashionable season,’ pursued his wife. ‘And
then we laughed again, and said: “What does it matter? Can it hurt us to live
for a time without a little fashion? Shall we not survive? Then let us be off!”
Oh, you would have died of laughing, Miss Templeton, to hear how we went on.’

Lydia offered a smile
that, while polite, was a good way off hilarious expiry; and said: ‘I hope you
were able to find comfortable accommodation, at such short notice.’

‘Oh, as to that, it was
only a matter of sending a letter ahead of us, to our dear woman at Marlborough
Buildings who always provides us with the most excellent lodgings — it is positively
embarrassing, I dare swear she would turn anybody out on the street rather than
let us down. Quite the best air in Bath up there, you must know. I have heard,
of course, from poor Emma about
your
being settled at Sydney Place —
which is not at all a bad air, all things considered.’

‘You say “poor Emma”,’
Lydia said. ‘Is Mrs Paige not well? I thought—’

‘Oh, well enough: but
Emma’s temper, you know, is her trouble — nervous, and over-sensitive, though I
have always tried my best, as a sister, to brace her up. Well! I said to Mr
Vawser, “I shouldn’t wonder if we run into Miss Templeton and Miss Rae” — but I
am very much amazed, Mr Durrant, actually to see
you
here — you who
never go anywhere.’ Again her look was lofty, even cold, and she made a great
business of affectionately toying with her husband’s fingers.

‘Oh, I was mopish too,
ma’am,’ Mr Durrant said. ‘So, like you, I was off: in fact I came to Bath even
before
I had packed, which caused me some difficulty afterwards.’

‘Her, her, her,’ said Mr
Vawser.

Mrs Vawser thinned her
lips in a smile. ‘I am amazed nonetheless. Setting up in Bath quite alone, and
I dare say not knowing a soul — for you must know, my love, in Lincolnshire Mr
Durrant makes quite a point of shunning society, and even
I
was forced
to give up bringing him out as a bad job. Where are you staying, Mr Durrant?’

‘Edgar Buildings, ma’am.
I don’t know whether it’s a good air there: I just breathe it in and hope for
the best.’

‘This way of his, Miss Templeton!’
Mrs Vawser sighed. ‘Really we shall have to try and cure him of it, for while
it may do in the
country . . .
Lord, my love, only look there, I do
believe those are the people we ran into at Cheltenham — do you recall? — I
declare we really will not have a moment’s peace.’

‘Where?’ said Mr Vawser,
essaying the difficult operation of turning his head.

‘Oh, they’ve moved on
now.’

‘Talking to Sir Barton
Scrimbleshanks, I think,’ Lydia said, craning. ‘And isn’t
he
a wonder
for his age? I know everyone says so, but still one marvels.’

‘Oh, indeed — everyone
knows Sir Barton — and I might tell you a tale or two on that score,’ agreed
Mrs Vawser, with roguish vivacity. ‘We are sure to see something of each other
in Bath, of course — that is, you and Miss Rae: as to Mr Durrant, who knows? I
am sure you are quite the hermit, sir — but all the same, I know Mr Vawser will
join with me in wishing to help you to a little company. We are already engaged
to be part of a large party at the gala night at Sydney Gardens — and I can
positively vouch for there being no difficulty, at
my
recommendation, Mr
Durrant, in including you also. One more can hardly make any—’

‘There you place Mr
Durrant in a difficult position, as he has already promised to join our own
party for the evening,’ Lydia interrupted her. ‘Not a large party — exclusive
rather — but I fear we must claim first rights upon his company.’

Phoebe eagerly seconded
her: Mrs Vawser shrugged and pouted: Mr Durrant only looked neutral. Lydia was
not sorry to have spoken. Mrs Vawser’s behaviour was comprehensible — it was
that implacable malice we always show to those who have seen us at our most
foolish — but that did not mean it was to be easily forgiven. Only when the
Vawsers, with much farewell laughter, mutual caressing, and self-consequence,
had moved away, did it occur to Lydia that Mr Durrant might suppose her guilty
of pitying him. She was pained: she had felt many things about him, most of
them disobliging, but never that.

However, he merely
filled his chest with air, as if he had been submerged in water for an
uncomfortable period; and said: ‘A kind thought, Miss Templeton — more than
kind, indeed, as it stopped her talking. But I am quite capable of telling Mrs
Vawser to go to blazes myself.’