Midsummer's Eve (65 page)

“It would be lovely,” I said. “We’d go into it together. Helena could take us both under her wing.”

Morwenna was looking alarmed.

“Well, I never did!” said Josiah.

“Would you like us to make inquiries?” I asked.

“I’d be that grateful. Think of it, Mother. Our little girl going to see the Queen.”

They talked of nothing else for the rest of the meal: what dresses would be needed; what we should have to learn to do.

“It will be fun,” I said, to cheer a worried Morwenna. “We will do it together.”

“Then, of course, there is the season,” Grace reminded us.

“Balls and parties and things,” I added.

The Pencarron parents exchanged excited glances. I could see that they felt this was hardly within their scope.

“It will all be in London,” I said. “I shall probably be staying with Uncle Peter and Aunt Amaryllis. My mother will surely be there. I might stay at Helena’s. Morwenna could be with me.”

Josiah could think of nothing to say to this glittering prospect and fell back on: “Well, I never did.”

When we rode home, Grace said: “The seed is sown. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if Morwenna went with you to London.”

“I hope she does.”

“I can hardly think she will be the debutante of the season. The poor girl is a little gauche.”

“Well, she has lived her life in the country. I don’t think she is as happy at the prospect as her parents are.”

“She has to do the hard work while they bask in the glory.”

“I’m not sure that it is such a good idea. I am not eager and Morwenna is far more retiring than I am.”

“Perhaps we shall hear no more of it.”

“I rather think we shall. Has it struck you that Josiah Pencarron is the sort of man who, once he has made up his mind he wants something, will make sure that he gets it? Well, I think that he has made up his mind that Morwenna is going to court.”

“We’ll wait and see,” said Grace.

It was as I thought. The seed had been sown in the minds of the Pencarron parents. Their girl was going to become a real lady; she was going to have all the advantages which had been denied them; and Morwenna and I went to London to begin the grueling process of molding us into young ladies of the court.

We had lessons in dancing and deportment from Madame Duprey. We walked round the room carrying a small pile of books on our heads. “Shoulders back. Draw yourself in below the waist. One foot in front of the other. No, not like that, Morwenna. Just slightly.” And then there was the dancing. Sometimes I took the male part, sometimes Morwenna. “It is
nécessaire
to know where your partner should be at every second. That is better, Angelet. No, no, Morwenna, to the right. To the right.
Ma foi,
you will disrupt the entire cotillion.”

Poor Morwenna! She did not take to it as easily as I did. She was in despair. “I shall never be able to do it,” she said.

“Oh yes you will,” I assured her. “It’s easy. You just worry too much.”

I would go through the steps with her in our bedroom, for we shared one in Helena’s house which was not as big as the one in the square.

Helena was very kind and sympathetic. I believed it brought back her own days when she had been put through her paces and had been, I fancied, rather like Morwenna.

“What I don’t want to do is disappoint Pa and Mother,” said Morwenna. “I am sure they are expecting me to marry a duke at least.”

“Dukes are sparse on the ground,” I told her. “We’d be lucky to get an Hon or a mere knight.”

I could joke about it because I did not have to worry. If nothing came of my entry into high society I would just go back to Cador and everything would be as it was before. My parents would not harry me into making a brilliant marriage. As for Morwenna: it was just that they wanted so much for her; but I told her again and again that what they wanted most was for her to be happy; and if her father knew how worried she was, he would stop the whole thing.

“I know,” she said. “They are such darlings and so good to me always. It is just that I should like to make them proud.”

And so we went on. It was amazing how much practice had to go into the perfect curtsy. We would do it correctly one day and the next day it did not work. We were the despair of poor Madame Duprey, who, I suspected, was really plain Miss Dappry or something like that and had never been nearer to France than Folkestone. But the French had a reputation for elegance and so from necessity and the success of her career she must become one of them, if in name only.

Then we had our singing master, Signor Caldori, for girls must be able to sing and play the pianoforte. One did not need to be a Jenny Lind or Henriette Sontag, but one should be able to trill pleasantly.

We must have elocution lessons. These were particularly difficult for Morwenna who had a slight Cornish accent which had to be completely eliminated; we had to be able to talk freely without embarrassment on any subject which might be raised, and yet not to be over-bold or force our opinions on the company. One must never try to ape the men; one must preserve one’s femininity in all eventualities.

Then, of course, there were the dressmakers and what seemed like endless consultations. Grace was very good and helpful; she often accompanied us to the dressmakers and even dared make a few suggestions there. Our court dresses were made by the most fashionable dressmaker. “I don’t want any expense to be spared,” was Josiah Pencarron’s comment. “Everything’s to be of the best. I don’t want my girl to go to the Queen looking any less well dressed than any of the others.”

So eventually we were on our way to the Queen’s drawing room in our court dresses each with its train three or four yards long which seemed to take a mischievous delight in getting into awkward and even dangerous positions and tripping us up if we were not careful. Our hair had been specially dressed by the court hairdresser, with three white plumes arranged in it, and we fervently hoped these would stay in place until the ordeal was over; we had been stuffed into our corsets and so tightly laced that we became breathless. It was not so bad for me because I was fairly thin but it must have been agony for Morwenna. She endured it stoically as she did everything else.

And there we were in the carriage with Helena, among all the other carriages on their way to the Palace. People looked in on us—some laughing at us, some envious. There were children without shoes or stockings. I could not take my eyes from their red chilblained feet and I felt ashamed.

Helena pulled down the blinds of the carriage but that did not shut them out of my mind. I thought then of the wonderful work Frances and Peterkin were doing and that I might like to join them.

But then we had arrived.

Into the Palace we went, and there was the Queen, a tiny figure, most elaborately dressed, diamonds glittering on her person and jeweled tiara on her head. There could be no mistaking her. Small she might be, but I had never before seen a more regal air. Beside her was the Prince, formidable, severity in every line of his once-handsome face. He looked strained and tired; and I remembered how the press had attacked him during the recent war. They did not like him because he was a German and they were not fond of foreigners. No people ever were. The French had hated Marie Antoinette because she was an Austrian, I remembered.

I was there before Her Majesty. I was thankful that my curtsy would have won the approval of Madame Duprey herself. I kissed the plump little hand, glittering with jewels; I received the benign smile and I walked backwards with ease … and it was all over.

I felt I had been weighed in the balance and found not wanting.

I was now fit to mix in English society!

Our first ball! It was given by Lady Bellington, one of the leading London hostesses, for her daughter Jennifer. The Bellington residence was a mansion which had a small garden beyond which was the Park.

Helena, with my mother, Aunt Amaryllis and Uncle Peter, accompanied us. My mother told me not to worry if I did not dance all the evening. If we were sitting out we should indulge in animated conversation and give the impression that we were not in the least concerned about not being asked to dance. It was hard to imagine Morwenna engaged in animated conversation and this only added to her worries.

“No one will surely want to dance with me,” she declared. “And if they did I should forget half the steps. I don’t know which will be worse … having to dance or sit out.”

“All things come to an end,” I told her philosophically. “Tomorrow it will be something in the past.”

I was quite looking forward to it. I loved dancing for one thing; and I did find it amusing to be among these people, to watch the ambitious mammas’ eyes on the most eligible of the young men, calculating, trying hard to push forward their daughters without seeming to.

I exchanged glances with my mother; she knew what I was thinking: and I had said to myself, It doesn’t matter. If I sit out the whole evening they love me just the same. I gave up a little prayer of thanksgiving for my parents.

At the top of the wide staircase Lord and Lady Bellington received us graciously, Jennifer beside them.

We passed on.

The music was playing. Two middle-aged gentlemen came up to us and asked us to dance. From Helena’s description of her coming out days I guessed they were needy scions of good family who were given an evening’s entertainment in exchange for services rendered to the unpreferred.

They whirled us round. I wondered how Morwenna was getting on. I thought she might find this a good baptism for the middle-aged gentlemen would do their duty which would surely include being affable and helpful to a shy young woman.

In due course we returned to our party. We had broken the ice. We had danced.

A young man appeared. He bowed before us, his eyes on me.

“May I have the pleasure …?”

I rose and put my hand in his; in a short time we were in the dance.

“Quite a crowd,” he said languidly.

“Yes.”

“It is always thus at Bellington affairs.”

“You attend them frequently?”

“Oh … now and then.”

We talked of the weather, the floor, the band and such matters which I could not find of absorbing interest; but we danced and, thanks to Madame Duprey, I was able to give a good account of myself.

And then I saw a face which was vaguely familiar to me. For a second I could not think where I had seen it before. He was looking at me with a kind of awestruck recognition. Then I knew. He was the young man who had come down to Cador with Jonnie to dig at the pool. I remembered his name: Gervaise Mandeville.

The dance led us away from each other but my thoughts had now turned from the band, the floor and the weather, and I was back in Cornwall. I was there at the pool, and it was all coming back to me, as it still did on such occasions, even now.

I was glad when I was returned to my party. Morwenna was still sitting out.

“Was that enjoyable?” asked Helena.

“He danced well,” I replied.

“I could see that,” said my mother. “Madame Duprey was a very good teacher.”

He was there almost immediately.

“Mrs. Lansdon … Mrs. Hanson, you remember me? Gervaise Mandeville?”

“Oh,” cried my mother. “Oh yes … you came down with …”

He understood. He did not want to raise painful subjects. “Yes,” he said. “For the dig. It was not very successful, I’m afraid. I came to ask Miss Hanson if she would care to dance.”

“This is Miss Pencarron,” I said. “She is being brought out with me.”

He bowed, smiling pleasantly at Morwenna.

“She comes from Cornwall, too. We’re neighbors,” said my mother.

Helena looked very sad. She, of course, remembered Gervaise as a friend of Jonnie’s. Gervaise knew this. I was to discover that he was very sensitive to the feelings of others.

He held out his hand to me. “Shall we dance?” And we were away.

“I couldn’t believe my eyes,” he said. “At first I wasn’t sure. It’s a long time ago. You’ve grown up since then.”

“You too are older.”

“An inevitable process, I’m afraid.”

“But you haven’t changed much.”

“Nor have you … now that I am seeing you at close quarters.”

He smiled at me, very friendly and with a hint of admiration in his face. I felt my spirits rising and the faint depression, which memory had brought, was fading.

“You have grown taller,” I said.

“And so have you.”

“Well, you would expect that, wouldn’t you? I was about thirteen years old I think.”

“Time passes. I liked that little girl very much. I am sure I am going to like the grown version as well … perhaps even better.”

“Don’t make rash judgments.”

“Somehow I think this is going to be one of my more sober ones. It will be rather fun to find out if I am right.”

“Tell me about yourself. Are you still digging?”

“No. I don’t think I have the aptitude for that kind of work.”

“You seemed enthusiastic.”

“Oh, that was special … that eerie pool and all the talk about those bells. By the way, have the bells been heard again?”

“Not recently. I used to think that people fancied they heard them, but when I thought I did myself …”

“It’s a good story. I was awfully sorry about …”

“Jonnie?”

He nodded. “I’m afraid seeing me must have brought it back.”

“Well, I suppose it has to be brought back every now and then … but it isn’t as bad as it was in the beginning.”

“Poor old Jonnie. He was made for martyrdom.”

“You did not go to the war, I suppose.”

“Not much in my line. I’m not the heroic type.”

“I often wonder what good it did in the end.”

“Ah, that’s the question. But at the time it seemed the right thing to do.”

“Do you remember Miss Gilmore … Grace Gilmore?”

“Oh yes, I do. She was a rather striking lady as far as I remember.”

“She married Jonnie.”

“Did she really?”

“Yes, she went out as one of Miss Nightingale’s nurses. They found each other out there and were married. She is here in London now. We see a great deal of her now she is a member of the family.”