Indiscretion (3 page)

This was problematic. Her father’s circle of acquaintance, though it included a number of well-born swells and pinks of the
ton,
was more racy than respectable. The natural person was the proprietress of the Seminary in Chelsea, but the fact that that lady was among her father’s creditors cast an unpromising shadow over any application. However, Caroline concluded that the sooner she was helped to a remunerated position, the more chance there was of her father’s finances improving, and hence of the proprietress some day getting her money. Admittedly it was not a great chance even then. But she set herself at once to composing the most artful letter within her power, and had just despatched Marriner to the post-office with it when her father came home with news that changed everything.

She could not read his face at first. By now he had accepted that there was no opening for him in the companies based in London, and he had spoken of trying the provinces, or even Dublin. But he had not done anything about it: he had begun to look chop-fallen again, and Caroline suspected his thoughts of turning riverward. He had taken in the last couple of days to lingering about his old haunts, Tattersall’s and Jackson’s and the Burlington Arcade, as if in wistful farewell. When he came in that afternoon, breathing hard from negotiating the steep, narrow stairs, and with a pained, wondering look about his brow, she supposed at first that he was sunk back into melancholy reflections, and that she would soon be called upon to perform her usual office of cheering him up. But he surprised her by refusing any liquor, by disdaining a wish for any particular delicacy for dinner, and by not wailing or declaring the world a vale of ashes and clinker.

Instead he called her to sit down by him and, after studying her in
the most dreamy and perplexing way for some minutes, said:
‘C
aro, how would you like to be a rich woman?’

Mrs Catling: such was the name of the person who was to be the agent of this spectacular change in Caroline’s fortunes. ‘Miss-is
Catling!
’
as the Captain impressively pronounced it, with such a mingling of respect, admiration, warmth, and sheer wonderment that Caroline felt almost shamed by her admission that she had never heard of her.

‘Mrs Catling,’ her father said, ‘is a splendid woman. Mrs Catling is all that is estimable. There is not, I think, a more excellent woman to be found in London
—
in the whole kingdom. I do not base this judgement upon personal acquaintance,’ he added, with a faintly superior look, as if that would be mere crudity. ‘I have never met her
.
But she is very familiar to me nonetheless. Her late husband was colonel of my regiment. You’ve heard me talk of old Devil’s-Eye Catling, perhaps? Magnificent fellow. Everyone was terrified of him. At Torres Vedras he would turn out of a morning and go hunting poisonous snakes with nothing but a soda-bottle. Fierce as a yard-goose. But there was one thing, and one thing only, that he was afraid of.’

‘Mrs Catling?’

‘Aye! “The commander-in-chief” he used to call her,’ Captain Fortune said, with a reminiscent chuckle. ‘They used to say Devil’s-Eye Catling could stare down old Douro himself, but to his wife he
always deferred. Well, he’s been dead above a year now: the gout did
what the Frenchies couldn’t; and there’s Mrs Catling a rich widow without any children, past sixty, quite alone. She lives mainly at Brighton, for the air, but she’s been staying in London for the past month, seeing to some legal business. It was Stanton of Ours who told me this. I ran into him again, at Tattersall’s. And it was he who very thoughtfully put the notion in my head.’

‘What notion, Papa?’ Rackety as he was, he had always remained faithful to the memory of her mother, and disdained any thought of marrying again; but perhaps his desperate straits had brought him to the point. ‘Do you mean
—
do you mean Mrs Catling as a wife?’

‘A wife
—
dear God, whatever made you think of that? She is above sixty, I tell you
—
and besides, that is not it at all. ‘The Captain sniffed: he had felt the insult to his vanity rather than his fidelity, and had made it too plain. ‘Hearken to me, my dear
—
you girls
will
be talking — listen, I say, to what Stanton told me. Mrs Catling was a true army wife, as loyal to the colours as the Colonel. Now as a widow it’s her way always to look kindly on anyone connected with the regiment, in his memory, and help them where she can. There’s an old corporal of Ours that she lately found a job in the Excise, through a word in the right ear, so I hear; for she’s pretty well connected. Old Devil’s-Eye was cousin to Lord Dereham, and a rich man in his own right, besides what he raked off: so all in all she’s comfortably situated. Except in one regard, my dear
—
she’s solitary. She’s in need of a companion.’

Caroline, feeling from her father’s benignly smiling pause that she was expected to make a remark, asked if the widow had no relations.

‘She does! And here, as Stanton pointed out to me, is the most interesting circumstance of all
—
she has quarrelled with them! There are, I understand, a nephew and a niece, who presume on their expectations from the old lady. But she and they do not agree. It is not a congenial family Mrs Catling is now minded to look elsewhere for company to cheer her solitude, to comfort her infirmity, and to be perhaps
—
who knows?
—
what she cannot find in her ungrateful kin: a worthy heir.’ The Captain took Caroline’s hand in both of his, patted it, and appeared momentarily preoccupied with the shape of one of her nails as he added: ‘Or heiress.’

‘Papa,’ she said, staring at the top of his lowered head, ‘I can hardly mistake your meaning. But what can we have to do with this lady, and why
—?’

‘Her business in Town is not only legal. She has been seeking a companion also
—
but has not found one to suit. Now you cannot fail to follow me, my dear.’

Indeed she could not; but it was with perplexity, and some heartsinking, that she contemplated the path her father was throwing open. Besides governessing, acting as a paid companion was one of the few occupations open to the unprovided woman; and it was true that she had thought of it. But instructing children was at least making herself truly useful; whereas the profession of toad-eating, as it was unflatteringly called, often amounted to nothing more than placating the capricious temper of a rich old woman who could not purchase companionship at any lower rate. The dependence she must face in any event: the sacrifice of dignity she could face if need be; but what Caroline doubted she could manage was the self-control demanded by a situation in which you could never, ever answer back.

‘I know what you are thinking, Caro,’ said her father, who so very seldom did. ‘You are thinking, what is this turn-about? Did not my wretch of a papa set himself against my taking up any post whatsoever, and engage to secure my future by means of a triumphant and lucrative return to the stage? Is he not a lying, stinking, contemptible
varlet?’

‘Now, I draw the line at varlet. And you know, Papa, as to my taking a post
—’

‘It is an abomination. Yes. But there are two provisos. One, my triumph is not yet achieved. Were you not so admirably loyal, you might voice a doubt that it ever will be. It will: the day will come; but I must accept the fact that it will be a little time yet. You know I am nothing, my dear, if not a realist. Two, though I could not with equanimity see you enter a situation of a demeaning or degrading character
—
and indeed could only erase the reproach of such a sight by a swift descent from Westminster Bridge
—
there are other situations, very few, very rare, that may be considered golden opportunities. This is one such. And it may be
—’
for an instant there was a dimming in his eyes, of sadness and self-knowledge
‘—
it may be the last thing I can do for you, my dear.’ He shook himself. ‘Now, what do you say? I have assumed your consent. I may be wrong. The notion may not appeal: it may appal. If so, say the word, and I am silent on the subject for ever more.’

‘Well — I hardly know what to say. This comes as a great surprise
..
. You said you have never met this Mrs Catling?’

‘Not beyond giving her a bow from a distance
—
but I shall soon repair the omission. I took the liberty of sending a little note in to her house at Dover Street, asking if I might wait on her tomorrow, and I received a favourable answer. Now, this commits us to nothing, Caro. Mrs Catling’s is an acquaintance I would cultivate in any event, in tribute to my old colonel. But you see the advantage. There’s she, disposed to favour the families of the old regiment: there’s she, seeking a young lady companion to solace her twilight years of widowhood: there’s she, with a great deal of money, and no one to lay it out on. And here
—
well, damn me for a dunce if I’ve added the sum wrong, but here’s you!’

Caroline, wanting space to think, went to the window and looked out. It was a lively enough scene: more perhaps to entertain than to please the eye. Carts and wagons coming away from the market at Covent Garden jostled with carriages heading for the fashionable milliners, glovers and button-makers in its purlieus: piemen and sausage-vendors wailed out their wares; whilst directly across the way the linen-draper stood out on his doorstep and gossiped gravely with the apothecary next door, each with his hands tucked in the pockets of his tight white waistcoat. But a down-at-heel young drab, far gone in gin and supported on the arm of a very young and idiotic-looking buck, served as a sharp reminder that this was a harsh world for the unlucky and unprotected. And what was more, Caroline realized after a moment that she was, all unconsciously, lurking behind the curtain, and running a practised glance over the men in the street in case any of them were duns come to demand a debt.

Revealing.

She turned back to her father. ‘Here am I, as you say, Papa. And I am very willing to consider anything that may
—
well, in short, I will consider anything. But tell me
—
is Mrs Catling amiable, do you suppose?’

‘Amiable isn’t in it!’ her father exclaimed. This meant, of course, that he did not know, but his choice of words was discouraging. ‘My dear, I am delighted with you. Not because you have fallen in with
my notion — nothing like that: if you told me to go to the devil I would happily surrender; no, I am delighted because you have embraced your golden opportunity!’

‘Well, but, Papa, I’m not going to think of it as such — the golden part
,
I mean. That’s my one condition. If I am to put myself up for this position, it must only be on the same terms as if I were applying for a
governess post — that is, employment, and no other expectations. Do you see? I can be as shameless as the next girl, heaven knows, but I cannot step into such a place and begin angling for legacies.’ ‘My dear, I said nothing of angling,’ her father said solemnly. Nothing could be further from my intention. I speak only of probabi
li
ties. And what could be more probable than that an elderly widow, estranged from her relatives, but supported by a deserving young companion, should choose to bestow on that companion her wordly wealth and
—’

‘No, no! That is precisely what I cannot entertain. I think I could be very fond of worldly wealth, believe me, if I got it. But I won’t be a vulture, Papa. Don’t ask it.’

‘Very well!’ He sighed, with shining melancholy eyes. ‘I expressed myself poorly perhaps. I only thought of you getting your deserts at last, my dear
—
all the good things of life you should have had, but for your futile old father!’

‘In any case,’ she said, ignoring that, ‘Mrs Catling may not take to
me!
’

‘O
h, pooh, how could she not? There is nothing to take against.
You
have only to be yourself, my dear Caro, no more nor less! Of
course
when you do meet her there is absolutely no need for you mention how your education ended, or to use any slang-words, or give your opinions. Marriner! I’ll have my coat brushed
—
I think I’ll step across to Offley’s. Well, my love, don’t wait up. I shall put your case before Mrs Catling, when I call on her tomorrow
—
and you know, I really have the strongest presentiment of success!’

Mrs Catling would, of course, be a Gorgon. It was so very much in the nature of things that an elderly widow seeking a companion would be a tyrannical monster that Caroline, turning the matter over in bed that night, took this as an unalterable given. It was the other aspects of the case that exercised her mind: what would it be like to live at Brighton? Could she learn to counterfeit an interest in the spiteful prosings of old invalid tabbies? And what would it be like to be parted, at last, from her father?

From this she anticipated some tears; but the pangs of the parting must be softened by the apprehension of its mutual benefits. No longer would her father have to struggle to provide for her. And no longer would she have to witness the struggles
—
a selfish consideration, perhaps. But they tell.

The morning brought a letter that, short as it was, weighed heavily in the balance of decision. The proprietress of the Chelsea seminary, in a few violet-inked lines, declined altogether to furnish a testimonial to Miss Caroline Fortune. Her former pupil’s unpaid fees had produced a shortfall in her accounts, as a result of which she had been obliged to put herself into the hands of moneylenders, with such painful sensations that merely to pen her former pupil’s name was to invite an apoplexy.

Perhaps, then, it was fate: so Caroline thought, as she watched her father, a little seedy from his late night, set off for his appointment at Dover Street. He was very soon back: when she heard his limping foot on the stair, she supposed he must have been shown the door, and felt a disappointment that surprised her.

But no: he was jaunty.

‘Ah, she wastes no time, Mrs Catling! Estimable woman! She knew my name at once
—
she remembers the name of every officer who served under her husband. She said she was glad to see me, and no doubt I wanted something from her, so out with it and she would see if she could oblige.
Very
plain speaking! I was struck all of a heap; but I got it out somehow. I started to describe you, my dear, and how well I thought you’d suit, but she cut me off and said she would judge for herself. When she said she’d see you at the earliest opportunity, I suggested this afternoon
—
like a fool! She
soon
put me in my place with that one. She does
not
receive visitors in the afternoon, says she, very high
—
which, of course, she don’t! I should have known that. She’s a true stickler, that’s what: and I
admire her for it!’