Indiscretion (4 page)

Caroline could not entirely share his admiration. That mental picture of a Gorgon was growing more complete by the minute. But it was no use pressing her father for a more detailed portrait of her prospective employer. Captain Fortune, in his gallant way, liked all women, classing them as fine, damned fine, splendid or estimable. She must cultivate a fatalistic patience until the next morning, when she was to present herself to Mrs Catling. A hag-ridden night, in which various dimly seen but terrifying creatures pursued her down corridors with gaping jaws, drove her to an early waking; and before breakfast she spent a rather disconsolate time laying out her clothes, and wishing that she had a mother or sister to counsel her on what to choose from the modest array. The task was made more difficult by the small foxed mirror that was all she had to dress by. It was apt that Caroline was used to seeing only a dim, cramped, and partial reflection of herself; for while she did not lack a sense of her own merits, and had too much spirit ever to submit to being walked over, still she thought herself no more than tolerable-looking, and nurtured abysmal doubts about her ability ever to shine in company. She had a quick tongue, an active
fancy
and a turn for wit, but these she employed, in truth, somewhat as a shield behind which she could shelter.

As
for the figure in the mirror, which any observer must approve as tall, slender, and flexuous, she thought it gawky. To be sure, men paid it the tribute of glances, but she knew that went for any woman short of senility and lacking an absolute hump. Her hair, which was
of
a
dark chestnut, coiled at the crown and fringed on the brow with a few curls around the ears, she could just contemplate without bitterness. As to her face, the strongly arched eyebrows that had been the secret envy of her schoolfellows at the Chelsea seminary gave her, she thought, a ridiculously surprised look. The thinness of her nose displeased her: ‘cut cheese with it,’ was her murmur. And the waxy fairness of skin that her contemporaries sought in vain with buttermilk washes and powder of pearl-of-India she hardly noticed, except to mutter that she looked like a ghost as usual.

Frugality at least simplified her choices. If Mrs Catling was a stickler for correctness, then a morning-dress it must be, and of those Caroline had precisely two. They were the same two, in fact, that served her as afternoon-dresses, walking-dresses and carriage-dresses.

‘How much more simple could it be!’ she said to herself, with a laugh; and all at once passed from despondency to a peculiar lightheartedness. She was young, the June sun was streaming through the window and turning the dust to powdered gold, and her cream figured muslin, with the green spencer, would do very well.

This euphoria accompanied her all the way to Dover Street
—
as did her father: equally cheerful, yet somewhat nibbled by anxiety as they approached the house, and inclined to wonder whether the whole idea was a bad one after all. But this was no more than characteristic of Captain Fortune, the type of man who would jump gaily off a cliff and then experience second thoughts when he neared the bottom.

‘You need go no further,’ he said, at the area steps. ‘We may turn round, Caro, and go home, and forget all about it: the choice is yours.’ But she would not hear of that, having come so far. A curious truth about Caroline, whose whole chaotic life had been subject to the wayward vagaries of her father: she disliked uncertainty.

The house was imposing and, as Caroline saw when the footman admitted them, elegantly fitted out. Mrs Catling’s purse must be long indeed for her to be able to afford such a place as a mere lodging for a Town-visit. So her father proclaimed, in what could only be called a stage whisper, as they were conducted upstairs; and whatever the old lady’s infirmities might be, they plainly did not include deafness, for her voice came sharply from the drawing room: ‘Yes,
Fortune,
I’m rich enough, as no doubt you knew very well when you sought me out.’

The Captain composed himself into an apologetic attitude, and went
into the room bowing if not quite scraping; but the lady seated there in solitary state gave a snort of amusement when she saw him, and waved at him to desist.

‘Stop that mopping and mowing, man, you look ridiculous. Yes, very large and splendid the place is, for one old woman, and that is just how I like it. This is your daughter, I dare say’ Mrs Catling gave Caroline a short, hard, thorough look
—
it made her feel like a cushion briskly plumped up
—
and then extended a hand to her father. ‘Well, Fortune, I’ll say how d’you do again, and I may as well add that she’s as handsome as I’d expect from a pretty bandbox fellow like yourself.’

‘Mrs Catling
—
’
he bowed enthusiastically over her hand
—
‘you are all goodness.’

No, she was not, as anyone less chivalrous than the Captain would have perceived at once on beholding Mrs Sophia Catling. The relict of
the late Colonel ‘Devil’s-Eye’ Catling had herself a penetrating glance and a carrying voice that would have suited the parade-ground; nor was hers a face that promised a charitable disposition Or pleasant temper. And yet she was not the Gorgon for whom Caroline had been preparing herself. She was a solid and large-boned but by no means heavy woman: her Circassian turban and dove-grey
crêpe,
single band of pearls and silver gauze mantle spoke not only of fashion but of style. A dark, hawkish sort of handsomeness, heightened more than obscured by her sixty-five years, was offset by something shrewd and pawky lurking about her eyelids and lips
—
something strongly suggestive of
a sense of humour. And for that, Caroline was always prepared to forgive much.

‘Allow me to present, my dear madam, Caroline. My daughter
—
as you so justly observe. You’re like your late husband, Mrs Catling, nothing escaped him: I remember him saying to me, “Fortune” he said, “you must learn to take notice. Learn
—” ‘

‘If you behaved like such a fool with Colonel Catling, he would never have spoken a word to you. What is all this nonsense? You’re nervous, I think. You probably need drink to settle you
—
you have that look. There’s a tavern in Dover Yard. My coachman goes there, though he doesn’t know I know it. He’s sweet on the landlord’s daughter. He supposes her buxom: she is actually
enceinte
by the potman. I do indeed, as you may collect, take notice. Go there, man, go. We cannot talk with you standing by. I shall send her to you in thirty minutes: that’s all I will need.’

Captain Fortune, a great lingerer and ditherer, had never been so smartly got rid of. There was time only for a glance of mutual reassurance, and then Caroline was left alone with Mrs Catling in her lofty drawing room.

‘Well, he didn’t introduce me,’ her hostess went on, motioning Caroline to a seat on the other side of a great cold, swept, scrubbed marble fireplace, like a funerary monument domesticated. ‘But then you know who I am, of course. So, the chief question is, why do you want to be my companion?’

Mrs Catling put up her chin as she spoke, and stared Caroline down in a manner that had surely excoriated numerous drapers and ostlers. Caroline merely returned her look. She was anxious, certainly: conscious of a fateful moment presenting itself; but as for fear
—
well, the old lady was only
like
a dragon. She had, besides, a flash of intuition, telling her that Mrs Catling was actually rather shy. ‘I am in need of a position, ma’am. My father told me of this one, and I agreed that I would try for it. I know of you only what he has told me
—’

‘Which I doubt can be relied on.’

‘Just so
—
as you can know of me only what he has told you. So we are in like case, ma’am, and may both be wrong.’

Mrs Catling put her head on one side, studying her: a reluctant smile dawned. ‘I dare say. Oh, he has represented you to me as a prodigy, of course. All the virtues. But then he needs to find a place for you, does he not? I have made enquiries, and it’s common knowledge that he hasn’t a bean. Your late mother was a Perrymount, I find, from Huntingdon? A good family. Of course they won’t own
you:
it’s an old story
—
your precious father stole her away and spent all her money. And now he’s stuck with a grown girl, and no provision for her! Lord, what fools these mortals be. Men most of all; and of all men, soldiers. Dice, wine, and trollops is all they are good for.’

‘You would know them, of course, from your late husband.’
‘C
olonel Catling was the exception that proves the rule,’ the widow said, her chin going up again. ‘I will show him to you.’ Having known a gentleman who kept his favourite spaniel, after its decease, stuffed and uncased on his dining-table, Caroline experienced a momentary alarm at this proposed introduction. But Mrs Catling went to a bureau and took from a drawer a miniature portrait.

‘That is Colonel Catling,’ she said, placing the picture in Caroline’s hand. ‘What do you think of him?’

Caroline couldn’t be sure, but she didn’t think she had ever seen a
man
quite so red, fierce, cross-eyed, and mad-looking. ‘I wonder if the painter
—’
she began. ‘It is an excellent likeness.’ ‘A face of much decision,’ Caroline said, after a short struggle, offering the miniature back. Mrs Catling did not take it. ‘But not handsome?’ ‘I wouldn’t presume, Mrs Catling, to pass judgement on such a
matter;
I would be trespassing on sacred feelings
—’

‘Suppose I insisted? What then?’

‘Then
—
then I should think you were testing me out.’ Favouring her with the reluctant smile again, Mrs Catling took the miniature back.’Quite right. The fact of the matter is I have a horror of flatterers. On the other hand, I am a difficult woman and must have my whims pandered to. So you see, pleasing me will not be an easy task. However. At least you did not go into raptures over the late Colonel. Who was certainly not handsome, nor indeed charming. I emphasize this for another reason. I am not a sentimental or romantic woman, Miss Fortune: I was not so when I
became
a
bride, nor when I became a widow. Thus I am not a
lonely
woman
either, and it would be a very great mistake in you to suppose it
.
I seek a companion to make my life easier. Society is more a chaise than a sedan: it is built for two. A solitary woman cannot go about freely, or accept invitations or receive company, without a lot of fussing about her solitary state. Yes, society: that will be our sphere. You will not be required to sit doing poker-work in a wainscoted parlour, singing
Dr
Watts’
s
hymns. At least, if such is your desire, don’t ask me to join you.’

‘I confess that is far from my desire, ma’am,’ Caroline said, relaxing into a smile herself.

‘Hm: that’s no surprise. You don’t have
that
look about you. Well, what I do require is correctness. Form is my foible. You must know how to conduct yourself upon every social occasion: I will have no hoydens. Really that is why I considered your father’s application. He is a sad rake, but he has lived in the world, and so I imagine have you. I observe you know how to walk
—
and how few girls learn that nowadays!
—
and to deport yourself, and I dare swear you could dress well enough too, if there were any money. Plainly
that
is an old friend of yours,’ Mrs Catling said, with a sniff, indicating the figured muslin. ‘Well, on top of the stipend, there would be an allowance for dress, if I were to take you. This is not generosity: I simply could not bear to have a dowd about me. Do you read novels, verse, or improving literature?’

‘I read whatever I can get my hands on,’ Caroline answered honestly, ‘but I would choose for preference Lord Byron’s Eastern tales or
—’

‘Not a bluestocking, then
—
that’s a mercy. Nothing more vulgar than an over-cultivated taste. And you play, I hear, a little
—
which is meaningless. All young ladies play a little.’

‘In my case it truly is a little. If I play a lot, people begin throwing things.’

‘Hm. And you draw, no doubt.’

‘I do. I know that is traditionally the other accomplishment, but I actually do it for pleasure.’

‘Well, that I can approve. The good thing about a picture is that one can admire it for a few seconds, and then justice is done and
all
is over with. To pay the proper attention to some wretched sonata one must give up a quarter-hour of one’s life. Now, let’s see: suppose you
were to be introduced, at some rout or drum, to the Honourable Mr Jenkins, how would you address him?’

‘As Mr Jenkins. And I would think the Honourable rather strange, as it is not a title used socially.’

‘Good enough. Now let us fancy Mr Jenkins is young, and handsome, and makes a great fuss of you, and is forever holding your shawl and declaring you an angel. What then?’