Feral Park (15 page)

That evening Anna could not eat. She ran her fingers along the contour of her lips and recollected their employment three hours earlier. For the present, her mouth seemed set for only one purpose, which had nothing to do with taking sustenance. Her father expressed concern over how she poked and picked at her roast partridge—a favourite, and freshly killed only that afternoon by Sparks, the Feral Park gamekeeper. “Are you ill, my dear?”

“No, Papa. I am quite well, although I must speak to you about two matters, each of which weighs heavily upon my mind.”

“Speak, dear daughter. We have only three evenings left to converse in undisturbed intimacy before the arrival of your Aunt Samantha and her companion Miss Pints. And then only days later comes Dr. Bosworthy. Feral Park will be a bustling inn for the duration, depend on it.”

Anna nodded and then said in a soft tone,“I am a fool, Papa. Everyone was correct who questioned my interest in Mr. Waitwaithe.”

“And why do you say this?”

“Because I realise now that all the time I have been looking at him I have only been seeing the man that I
wished
to see—the man I had composed within my own hopeful imaginings. He will prove a blockhead or a boor, to be sure. What am I to do? I have invited him to dine with us—this man whom I do not truly know except that he may drool at table, and all those in attendance will think me ridiculous for having invited him.”

“First, my daughter, we do not know that he will drool or that he will do any other thing to bring you to mortification. You have thought of him for so long as paragon amongst men that now in correction you push your stilluntested assessments in entirely the opposite direction. I think, instead, that he resides somewhere between the two extremes. How do you know that he will not prove to be a most amiable and agreeable young man when finally you have the chance to exchange more than a nod with him in the street?

“You are right, Papa. I have no idea
what
sort of man he should be. But am I not wrong to be seeking
him
or indeed in setting my cap at
any
man? Should it not be the other way round?” Anna recollected the five kisses in the wood—the first taken by herself, the second requested by Tripp, the third sought by herself in return, the fourth which came without incitement on the part of either, and the last, which, whilst instigated by Anna, erelong incorporated an itinerant wandering of the hands on the part of her fellow osculator which brought the session to its swift conclusion. Although Tripp had been fully receptive to the kisses from the beginning (and even more so toward the end during which his hands had begun to redefine the experience to Anna’s sudden discomfort), it had been
her
decision to kiss
him
which had started it all, and it was, she had to admit to herself, devised upon the moment for one purpose and one purpose only: to experience the pleasure in a kiss (or five), the recipient being a man whom she had fancied herself kissing. There would perhaps be no other opportunity for kissing Tripp, but she would not be in the least bit regretful. Anna had sought what she sought and now that she had partaken of that which she had sought, she would seek no more. She had found Mrs. Taptoe’s groom most attractive, and though he was rough and somewhat primitive, her aim was met and even surpassed. Indeed, had Tripp been more kempt and more of a gentleman—had he been more similar to John Dray (should John have been a man) or even to Mr. Waitwaithe, smelling, she imagined, of bindings and papers and mould and must—there would have been no animal passion whatsoever behind the kiss. And that was the chief of it—the thing which she sought in the rain and in the wood: a moment (or five) of unalloyed animal passion. But Tripp was certainly no candidate for attachment. Tripp was a lusty moment in Tatter Wood. Anna trembled and hoped that her father did not notice.

“There is much truth to what you just spoke, dear daughter. Indeed, things work best when the male is the pursuer and the female the pursued. From the first of your telling me of your fascination for Mr. Waitwaithe, I had supposed that your interest in him would cool quickly if he turned out to be anything less than your imagination limned him. But, alas, the card of invitation has already been sent and he has this very day accepted, and so we shall have to endure him, if endurance it be. My guess is that he will prove to be shy and of few words, yet will not, I predict, dribble and drool even once at table. And within the week, one, if not
all
, of the Alford brothers will be standing upon our doorstep and asking you to a picnic.”

“Papa, you are so droll. But you have made me feel better. I must ask you about another matter, however, this one far more serious.”

“Yes, daughter?”

“Mrs. Taptoe has received a letter from her son.”

“From Mr. Mallard?”

“No, Papa. From Mr. Taptoe.
Maurice
Taptoe, the child who left her fifteen years ago.”

“He has written?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Good mercy!”

“Yes, it is strange to think that after all this time he is now to return to his mother by Michaelmas.”

“Where has he been?”

“In America.”

“For what reason has he been in America?”

“I do not know why he has chosen that place for his lengthy sojourn, Papa, but I thought that perhaps you would know why he left Payton Parish to begin with.”

Mr. Peppercorn turned away.

“What is it? What is the matter?”

“I do not know why he left. We had best discuss something else, for I will be unable to expound upon this particular topic.”

“As you wish, Papa.”

“It is indeed what I wish. Eat your partridge. Female prospects for marriage are not permitted to resemble winter willows. That is the rule.”

After services on Sunday Anna and her friend Gemma drove themselves in a curricle to Moseley Manor. Gemma had been used to taking herself about in such an independent manner and felt no scandal in it. Anna, though she thought it slightly improper, allowed herself nonetheless to delight in the adventurous pleasure of such an outing and the picture it presented: two young women of the parish riding about its roads without a man to command the horses! It had been Anna’s plan to go to the manor, for she wished to speak with the Misses Henshawe, and Gemma, being the niece of Mrs. Quarrels had proper pretext for coming along. What was to be discussed with the Misses Henshawe and their mother was a scheme which had come to Anna’s mind only that morning: she would give a ball at Feral Park—a private ball to which the sisters would be special and honoured guests.

“It is a commendable objective,” replied Gemma, with a shake of the reins. “But if it is for the sole purpose of finding appropriate attachments for the young women, what gentleman of the parish will attend once he learns the identity of the three for whom the ball is to be given?”

“Ah, but here, Gemma dearest, is the beauty of the thing: invitations will
not
go to every unattached young man in the parish—for you are right; a good many will
not
come—but only to those whose looks match those of the Misses Henshawe in unfavourability.”

“My Lord, Anna, do you jest?”

“I do not.”

“You are to have an
ugly
ball?”

“I am indeed. And only the most
un
handsome of the parish will be asked

to attend—unattractive young men and women who do not often find one another in the villages or upon the downs for, if they be women, they are all too often closed up in dark and solitary rooms, attending to their carpetwork or to their screen-painting, weeping lonely tears over that cruel fate which has delivered them disagreeable looks; or if they be men, they are consigned by their unsightly features to work only amongst the farm animals or backwards of the shops where their countenances will not offend the customers.”

“I did not know this.”

“Depend on it. For a good many of these poor creatures my ball should be the only one to which they have ever been invited.”

“I think, Anna, that it is a capital idea! I do not know why
I
did not think of it first!”

“It is not important
who
thought of it first—only that we will work together to make it all possible.”

“Perhaps we should have the ball at Thistlethorn, rather than at Feral Park, for there is more room in my mother’s saloon for dancing.”

“Aye, a little more room. However, a private ball at Thistlethorn, dear Gemma, would require the submission of an invitation to your wicked aunt and cousin, would it not?”

“To be sure it would be an obligation, in spite of the difficulties between our two families.”

“Whereas, I may have only those whom I wish to Feral Park, for I have no relations within the parish—other than my father—to which to obligate myself.”

“And I take it, then, that your father approves of the scheme?”

“I have yet to speak to him of it. He was quite troubled last night and queerly so. I felt it best not to engage him on
any
topic this morning.”

“And may I know what was the subject that so disturbed him?”

“Of course you may. I believe that I have told you of Mrs. Taptoe’s son’s return—”

“Yes, yes.”

“
There
is the troubling item.”

“But why should he object to a young man’s return to his family? Such a homecoming should be a joy to all who hear of it.”

“I do not know whether he
objects
, Gemma. I know only that he exhibited no joy last night when I made mention of it. He asked that we terminate our discussion of the event, and that was the end of it.”

“There is more about this which you should discover, but perhaps it is best to wait until a later time to press him on it. For the present, it works to your benefit.”

“And how do you mean?”

“I wager that he will be amenable to discussing and endorsing
any
thing you present to him so long as it does not bear upon
that
delicate subject—the ugly ball being a good example.”

“Ah, yes. For one whose own father has long departed the vale, Gemma, you offer excellent counsel on father-and-daughter relations!”

“And shall I be invited to your ball, Anna, even though I do not consider myself unattractive?”

“My dear Gemma, I should like you to be the mistress of ceremonies for the entire evening!”

“Upon my word, Anna! Has ever one of our sex held such a lofty position of merrymaking within the parish?”

“I think not, but if it is true that it has never before been done, it becomes even more necessary that
you
should be the one to do it! Whoever heard of an ugly ball in the first place? I should make it a masquerade so that we may break with every convention whatsoever!”

“But a masquerade would certainly defeat your purpose. The men must see the women as they truly are, and the women the same. Nothing should hide the countenances of the members of this special species from one another.” “To be sure.”

Anna was happy that her friend was seated beside her in the curricle (and, la, how well Miss Jehu handled the horses!), for Moseley Manor sometimes frightened her. It was dark and stony and had a foreboding air, which unsettled the viewer at very first glance. The place seemed lacking in even the smallest measure of cheer. (Even the plantings seemed morose in their drooping and spindly appearance.) But the atmosphere had an additional reason for its tenebrousness; four of the manse’s sad and disprized tenants could not speak and walk easily about when either the master or his mother was home, for he was always studying their behaviour within and without and making small, yet demeaning corrections, and
she
was always watching them and making
large
and pointed and overtly hateful corrections.

Moreover, Mrs. Quarrels had in recent days taken to circumscribing the movements and placements of her sister-in-law and her three nieces in dreadfully denigrating ways. The most recent act of humiliation, which Gemma related with disgust to her friend Anna (it having been told to her in Berryknell by the daughter of the steward of the manor, Bella), involved the placement by Mrs. Quarrels—to be justified by the aunt as an economizing measure—of all three of the Misses Henshawe into the very same bedroom, and the mother as well. The room had previously belonged only to the youngest—Gemma’s favourite: Eliza Henshawe—and it was the smallest. The other beds were brought in and set side by side except for the one belonging to Nancy, the oldest, which was situated against the wall at an angle (for there was no room left to place it flat upon the floor), such an arrangement making for difficult sleeping. After one slumberless night of sliding from the bed and onto the cold floor and a second night of tying herself to the mattress and then spending the next day wearing chafes upon the skin from the cinch, Miss Henshawe entreated her younger sister Sophia to speak to Mr. Quarrels about the difficulty borne by the configuration.

“And do you know, Gemma, what came of the interview? Did the Misses Henshawe and their poor mother win back their rooms in some temporary holiday from heartlessness by Mr. Quarrels?”

“Alas, only Nancy was given leave from the room, for she was the most incommoded by the arrangement. It is asking much, do you not think, to be made to sleep half-standing up?”