An Accomplished Woman (42 page)

‘My dear Lydia, you
should know that Mama talks of taking me to Tunbridge Wells next season, just
the proper sort of people to be found there, it seems: genteel assemblies —
promenades — the right company. Now can you doubt that I am set on going with
my brother?’

‘Tunbridge Wells is a
spur to action indeed ... I merely wondered if there were nothing here to hold
you back.’

‘Oh, I see nothing at
present,’ said Juliet: handsome, smiling, and impenetrable.

Lydia watched Mr
Durrant, and trouble stirred in her again. Suppose he did have Juliet in view —
not just as the nearest solution to his difficulty, but seriously? Surely not:
yet she must do him the justice to admit that he was not a frivolous man when
it came to the great issues of life: far from it. If his heart were taken —
well, that could not be; but if his heart were in danger of being taken, then
he might be heading for a disappointment, and that she would not wish to see.
Yes, she had spoken to him of men needing the odd blow to their pride — but
that was between them: they always talked so, and there was nothing in it.
Again she felt the need to say something to him, and the impossibility of
saying it.

I had better be careful,
she told herself: my success as a chaperon is going to my head, and soon I
shall be settling everyone’s affairs for them, like the worst sort of meddlesome
old maid. And then she suffered a momentary protest of the spirit: yes, other
people’s affairs, and what about my own? The protest seemed to echo back at
her, as if from some great hollow vast as the valley below, yet horribly
within. Even thinking of Heystead and her father could not quiet it. Only by
sternly admonishing herself that she was turning into Penelope Vawser did she
regain her composure.

Juliet pressed her arm.
‘Fagging, isn’t it?’ she said, though she looked fresh enough. ‘Country picnics
always
sound
nicer than they are. I think we should just have the idea
of them, and be pleased with it, and then not go. The only true pleasures are
indoors, artificial, and untainted with healthiness. Which reminds me, Robert
has tickets for us all to the Dress Ball on Monday. Will you come?’

‘Certainly — that is,
Phoebe and I. Mr Durrant I cannot answer for.’

‘Oh, he is coming: I
have already asked him.’

Just then the
Allardyces’ manservant came up to tell them that the picnic was laid out, and he
was afraid in this weather it would soon spoil. Such an example of plain good
sense could not go unchallenged by Mrs Allardyce, who loudly upbraided him for
his nonsense, declared that a little heat brought out the savour in cold
viands, and proposed that they walk as far as the village. But she was firmly
overruled by Mr Allardyce, who observed that Miss Rae looked tired, that he
certainly felt it, and that the food was there to be eaten.

‘Very well — Lord, you
see how he tyrannises me, Miss Rae! Here, I yield you to him. Juliet, help me
with my shawl, it’s all in a tangle. Jane did not set it on right. Time was
when servants knew their business . . .’

Lydia walked back to the
copse with Mr Durrant. She repressed the immediate urge to ask him how he liked
his future mother-in-law, and remarked instead: ‘I understand we shall see you
at the Dress Ball. I am glad — but I should warn you that Hugh Hanley spoke of
going also.’

‘Yes, I shouldn’t
wonder. Well, let him come. He may follow my trail all he likes: he will find
no satisfaction at the end of it.’ Before she could answer, or interpret his
look, he went on: ‘Well, I have had an interesting talk with your Miss Rae, and
I salute you: your task cannot have been easy, for she is a thoroughly romantic
creature.’

‘Was she — was it Mr
Beck she was talking of?’

‘No, not at all, or not
in so many words. But it is plain she is choke-full of sentiment, one way and
another: a girl who must always be falling in or falling out of love. One meets
many such.’

‘I see. Meaning she is
not like, for example, Juliet Allardyce.’

‘She is not at all like
Juliet Allardyce,’ he replied calmly. ‘But I was about to salute you again: for
in spite of all that, she does have a modicum of sense too, and at the risk of
making you excessively pleased with yourself, I conclude that you put it
there.’

Though she was pleased,
she would not show it: and fairness to Phoebe made her say: ‘I have always
known she had plenty of sense. I have done nothing except, perhaps, to
encourage her greater reliance on it. But yes, her feelings are very
susceptible: all the more reason to have a care about where they may lead her.’
The ground at the foot of the slope was uneven with old dried cart-tracks, and
she chose her words as carefully as her steps. ‘To be in love with love — that
is a dangerous state indeed. I can hardly think of a more dangerous one —
unless it be a determination, from whatever motive, to will oneself into being
in love, in the absence of any true feeling.’

He gave her a flat,
puzzled stare. ‘What? No one can do that. Either the feeling is there, or it
isn’t.’

Something — inattention
— a struggle to think of an answer — made her clumsy: her foot jarringly struck
a ridge of sun-baked earth, and she would have fallen if Mr Durrant had not caught
her and held her up.

‘Thank you. And this is
before we get to the Madeira . . .’ She winced in pain.

‘You have hurt yourself.
Here, let me carry you—’

‘Certainly not,’ she
said, laughing distressfully. ‘It would look ridiculous. Besides, it is not very
bad — just a little jolted.’

‘Set it down very slowly
and gently,’ he said, still holding her, ‘just a little weight at first. That’s
well. One can never be too careful. Even a sprain . . . Does that hurt?’

‘No,’ she said, with
almost complete truth, taking a step and then another. ‘No, it’s nothing. Not
that I shall refuse the Madeira.’

He watched her
carefully, released her at last, and shook his head, wryly smiling. ‘How like
you to consider that it would look ridiculous. What would you do if you had to
be rescued from a fire?’

‘Put on a veil and
resign myself to mortification. What were we talking of?’

‘Impossibilities. Ah,
they have put out chairs. Sit down at once, and if Mrs Allardyce proposes
another exploration, ignore her. You will not be able to dance at the Dress
Ball otherwise, which would be a great shame.’

‘Would it? Do you mean,
Mr Durrant, you have set your heart upon my granting you the first pair of
country-dances?’

‘No: I mean that you
will have to sit by the wall all evening, and be an object of general pity.’

Well, this was the kind
of answer she felt at home with, at any rate: there was a reassurance of
normality in it, like the diminishing twinges in her foot as they entered the
copse, where welcome bottles were being uncorked. Welcome, too, was the sight
of Mr Allardyce helping Phoebe to a seat in the deepest shade, and plying her
with the best cuts of cold meat: likewise the faint metallic tang in the
breeze, and stealthy mustering of cloud, which told of the storm coming: and even
Mrs Allardyce could not for long oppose her stupidity to her son’s simple
declaration that after their luncheon they should go home.

If there was less
satisfaction to be found in Juliet’s inviting Mr Durrant to the seat beside her
— knowing, or divining from what she had said today, that Juliet’s affections
were really not engaged — still it must be borne. He was, after all, a
difficult man to help. It was a curious fact, Lydia reflected, that a person
could be intelligent, cultivated, independent of mind even to the point of
stubbornness — and yet still blind to the direction of their true interests,
and intent on following a path where they must stumble and come to grief. She
could almost have cursed Hugh Hanley for the perilously false position in which
he had placed his uncle; and resolved that at the Dress Ball she would find a
way of warning Mr Durrant of his danger.

This was the voice of
disinterested benevolence — much more to be listened to than the selfish cry
that had rung through her a few minutes ago. A glass of wine — well, two — the
manservant was so prompt to refill — and she was soon picturing a pleasant
return to Heystead, and her modestly admitting to her father that in Bath she
had indeed bestowed Phoebe Rae’s hand on the most suitable of gentlemen, and
had prevented Mr Durrant from making a terrible mistake into the bargain. Add
to that the winning of her wager, and there was so much prospective contentment
that the first rumble of thunder sounded to her merely like the beginning of
one of Mr Haydn’s symphonies, with a great deal of enjoyable harmony to follow.

It was long since Lydia
had been excited by the prospect of a ball — the days of girlhood, when the prospect
of a few hours in the Assembly Rooms of Grantham or Stamford, with a rather
languid band, a smell of chalk, and a glass of tepid cordial at the interval,
was enough to set the pulses racing for a week beforehand. Even then, she liked
to think, her excitement had not equalled that of her contemporaries: she could
enter the hallowed doors with pleasure rather than transports, and could admire
the couple leading off the dance without feeling they had reached the summit of
human ambition. She was content to talk of the event for only a few days
afterwards, rather than a fortnight; and she could never quite contain her
surprise at hearing a girl who had visibly had a dismal evening, with few and
stupid partners, torn lace, and a sick headache, declare that it had been a
famous ball, and she could hardly wait for the next.

But excitement there had
been, and it was curious to find a measure of it returning now, at the serene
heights of thirty, as she and Phoebe entered the Bath Upper Rooms on Monday
evening. There might be no smell of chalk, but it was likely to be a sedate
enough entertainment — no stronger stimulation than tea, and a sharp conclusion
to the entertainment at eleven o’clock, an hour at which she was usually
beginning to feel lively. The reason must be simply that, like the Lincolnshire
maidens of years past, she had great hopes of the evening. Not for herself— and
what a saint, she thought, being a chaperon made you — but for Phoebe. In the
glowing looks and eager chatter of her friend Lydia found her first
satisfaction of the evening; and in the banishing of the last shade of trouble
from her beautiful eyes, and the restoration of their brilliancy, she looked
forward to her triumph.

And yes, here was Mr
Allardyce in the Octagon Room punctually greeting them, his elegant slenderness
perfectly attuned to cream breeches and pumps.

‘Tolerably well filled
for a subscription ball out of season — in fact, quite filled enough. In
November there is often a sad squeeze. I have seen a lady have her headdress
knocked askew in the crush, and snatch the feathers from the hair of the lady
nearest her in a wild impulse of revenge. Will you come and see my mother? And
indeed, do you suppose you have a choice?’

Grand in silver and
gauze, Mrs Allardyce was ensconced in the ballroom on the bench nearest the one
reserved for peers, with Juliet at her side. Juliet, however, was quickly
dispensed with: Phoebe was to take her place.

‘I must have you by me
for a little, Miss Rae: there is rather a mixed set here, I see, and I can
point out to you just who is worth knowing and who is to be avoided. I shall
surrender you in time for the dancing. My son, of course, engages you for the
first pair.’

‘Of course,’ he said,
with a slight bow. ‘But if you intend playing the master of ceremonies, Mother,
had you not better dispose of all the other couples in the room?’

‘I should do it very
well, if I chose. I would begin by ensuring that that young man by the door
should
not
be favoured with any introductions: his coat is light grey:
corbeau is the only colour for dress. Ah, but here is Mr Durrant — how do you
do, sir? — you see I am planning the disposition of the first dances, and you I
am sure will claim my daughter for the first pair.’

‘With pleasure — if the
lady herself is agreeable,’ said Mr Durrant, who had a peculiarly noiseless
tread for such a tall man, and had given Lydia a slight start when he appeared
at her side.

Juliet smiled.
‘Certainly’

‘Oh, what has a lady to
do at a ball, but be agreeable?’ chuckled Mrs Allardyce, obviously in what she
considered fine fettle. ‘Now as to the second pair—’

‘As to the second pair,
I consider they should be at our own disposal, as you have dictated quite
enough,’ Mr Allardyce said, with a shake of his head. ‘Miss Templeton, I hope I
may claim the honour.’

‘Thank you.’ She did not
care to be pitied, but this was done with his usual delicacy.

Mrs Allardyce shrugged.
‘Now, Miss Rae, was there ever such an undutiful son? I quite despair — oh, now
look there — there is a thoroughly elegant young man. Everything he should be —
quite a reproach to that creature in grey. I detect the London mode. I wonder
who he is . . .’

Mr Durrant, turning,
announced bleakly: ‘My nephew, ma’am. Mr Hugh Hanley Never fear, you shall have
an introduction: he will see to that.’

Hugh Hanley was
immediately amongst them, and Mr Durrant was making the introductions, with the
air of a judge reading out the names of the condemned. Mrs Allardyce was much
impressed: though it would have required only the superfine coat and marcella
waistcoat, with nobody inside them, to achieve that, even without his ease of
manner and address. He spared no one his compliments — but it was on Juliet
that his eye lit with real interest; and he took advantage of a moment when Mrs
Allardyce was pointing out the instructive sight of a demi-train at least a
year out of fashion, to ask with a bow: ‘Miss Allardyce, I cannot doubt that
the first pair of dances has already been secured, but may I venture to hope
for the second?’