The Smile of the Stranger (9 page)

“Lord, child, if your grandfather will not tell you, it is best I should not! Besides, the tale is hardly fit for your ears. Your mother tossed her bonnet over the windmill with a vengeance. Prospered exceedingly for a time, too. But I believe she ended up in Queer Street. Found herself at Point Non Plus.”

“Where is she now, ma’am—do you know?”

“Haven’t a notion, child. She was established in Paris for some time, that I do know. But I daresay when the Revolution came she was obliged to decamp, like all the other English.”

No further questions from Juliana could elicit any information from Miss Ardingly; she said, “Now that
’
s enough on that head, child, don’t tease me. I certainly shan’t give you details which your grandfather thought improper to impart. Wait till you are married! ... But tell me about this work of your fathers. What is it, pray, and who are his publishers?” This Juliana was very ready to tell her, and she listened with acute interest.

“A life of Charles the First, hmm? Had your papa written other books?”

“Oh yes indeed, ma’am, a life of George Villiers, and one of Thomas Wentworth
.
”

“Strange that I never came across them. I read a great deal of history. He did not write under the name of Paget?”

“No, ma’am, he assumed the nom de plume of Charles Elphinstone.”

“Elphinstone, why did you not say so before? Lord yes, I have read all his works, any time these last six years
!
He wrote very well, very well indeed. But did your grandfather not know this?”

“I do not think so, ma’am. My grandfather was—is very reluctant to listen to anything at all concerning my father’s writing. My father may have written to him about it—I am not certain.”

“I’d not wager my diamond eardrops on it,” remarked Miss Ardingly. “I knew your father when he was a young man—the dreamiest, most head-in-the-clouds young fellow I ever came across
!
He was no more fit to look after himself than a cherub on a tombstone! No wonder he—eh well, that’s all water under the bridge now. And as for your grandfather—the most obstinate, cross-grained old curmudgeon. Deaf to all he does not choose to hear! ... And so who
w
as your father’s publisher, miss?”

“Mr. John Murray, ma’am. I was in hopes that my aunt or one of my cousins would tell me how to find my way to his offices in Albemarle Street.”

“Tilly-valley, child, they’d not thank you for dragging them to such a fusty spot
!
I can just imagine those twins’ faces in a room that was all filled with books. It is as much as they can do to read the words of a song. But I don’t mind giving you my company there—’tis but a step to Albemarle Street, and I can buy myself a new pair of mittens on Bond Street on the way back.”

Accordingly, when Juliana had fetched her precious manuscript, now all rewritten in her most exquisite handwriting, and Miss Ardingly had provided herself with her pattens, her
parasol, and her calash (a most amazing structure of silk and whalebone, carefully disposed over her high-piled hair, which was dressed in the old-fashioned manner with powder), the two ladies set out together.

Juliana was all interest, as she gazed about, and found herself bound to admit that the elegant shopping streets of London were quite the equal of the Ponte Vecchio or any of Florence
’
s most fashionable thoroughfares.

Mr. Murray himself was not in his office that day, when they reached the publishing house in Albemarle Street, but an elderly clerk, who introduced himself as Mr. Twining, greeted the arrival of the manuscript with evident delight
.

“Mr. Murray will be overjoyed—overjoyed!” he said several times, gazing at the title page as if a lost child had been returned to him. “We were so afraid that possibly the script had been destroyed—these troubled times, you know, such dreadful happenings in France—and Mr. Murrays last letter to Mr. Elphinstone was returned to us with the words
‘
The English gentleman has gone away
’
written across the superscription. I do sincerely trust that no misfortune has overtaken Mr. Elphinstone?”

“I am afraid it has,” said Juliana sadly. “The journey to England, after all the hard work on his book, was too much for my father. He is no more, sir.”

Mr. Twining
’
s face conveyed his sincere sorrow and shock at this. He expressed his deep sympathy with Juliana.

“Mr. Murray will be very grieved, very grieved indeed
...
And so this is Mr. Elphinstone
’
s last work,” he said mournfully. “Well, we must do it justice in our production. The very best gilding and binding! You will be your father
’
s executor, miss, I daresay? You were his only child, I apprehend? Then Mr. Murray will be communicating with you presently as to terms. Perhaps you would be good enough to give me your direction?”

Juliana felt that it might be imprudent to give Lady Lambou
rn’
s residence as her direction; she had a presentiment that her aunt would not be in the least degree gratified to have such low-class persons as publishers sending communications to her house.

“I am paying a visit to my aunt in Berkeley Square at present, sir, but I believe it will be better if I give you my grandfather
’
s address; pray, therefore, write to me in care of Sir Horace Paget, at Flintwood Manor, Hampshire.”

She then bade Mr. Twining a civil good day, and he assured her of his best attention and respects at all times.

“You have some sense, I see,” commented Miss Ardingly when they were again in the street, Juliana with a sense as of an immense load off her heart. “Your aunt Caroline is a very silly woman,” the old lady went on. “Still, she can
’
t help but see that you take the shine out of those hen-faced gals of hers;
I’ll
wager she soon finds some excuse to ship you back to Flintwood, unless she is able to marry you off in the next six weeks. I would place small dependence on her hospitality, child!”

The old lady s tone was so tart that Juliana remarked thoughtfully, “Since your opinion of my aunt seems to be so low, ma
’
am, I wonder that
you
choose to avail yourself of her hospitality!”

“So you
’
ve a tongue in your head, miss, have you?” retorted Miss Ardingly, not ill pleased. “That was well said—at least you are no mincing mouse. Sometimes you have a look of your grandfather. Well, child, when you are at your last prayers, as I am, a roof in town and a chance to see my old friends and mix with the
ton
is not to be sneezed at. And Caroline is glad enough to have me stay with her; she knows I can be depended on to chaperone those silly chits to Almack
’
s when she has an invitation to a house where the entertainment is too lively for young girls; Caroline has a great fondness for the gaming tables, as you will find out; and I don
’
t sit in her pocket, but take myself out a fair deal; so we contrive to brush along. But you, I fancy, will soon find yourself uncomfortable enough in her house
...
Now, here is Poltagrue
’
s. I mean to buy myself a new cap for tonight
’
s Assembly at Lady Bethune
’
s. We are all bidden there, you as well.”

“Who is Lady Bethune?” inquired Juliana as they stepped into the milliners shop full of silks and gauzes and smirking, finical assistants.

“Lady Bethune? Married to Lord Bethune
—
Tom Ellesmere. He was one of the Carlton House set—the most good
-
natured fool in town. His sons and daughters are mighty close with your cousins because they are all as dull as each other
...
Now you may give me the benefit of your advice, if you please!”

This request, Juliana soon discovered, was intended as the merest formality; what Miss Ardingly really wished was to have her own taste endorsed, which, as she persisted in preferring a spangled headdress adorned with a profusion of imitation fruits and puce-colored feathers, could hardly be done with truth. Juliana contented herself with saying, “You must be the judge, ma
’
am; I prefer this charming Valenciennes lace.”

The old lady darted a very shrewd glance at her. “Well, well, you are an honest chit! But you must know that when a female reaches my degree of years, the only way to attract notice is by eccentricity. It answers delightfully”—and she bought the cap with the purple feathers.

This done, they returned to the house in Berkeley Square, where Juliana received a trimming from her aunt, now taking breakfast in a satin wrapper and a fretful temper.

“Here have I been this half hour waiting to escort you to a silk warehouse to buy you something for Lady Bethune
’
s Assembly—for if I am to take you about you must dress fit to be seen—and what do I find but that you are gone jauntering off heaven knows where, without any consideration for
my
convenience.”

Juliana was somewhat surprised, since her aunt hardly looked dressed for an excursion to a silk warehouse, but she apologized very humbly.

“Well, it is too late now,” said Lady
Lambourn
. “You must wear the dress you put on last night, for the girls and I are engaged to go to an auction this noon.”

Juliana said she was sure it could be of no consequence what she wore, since she was acquainted with nobody in London. But this reply did not please Lady
Lambourn
.

“Certainly it is of consequence, miss! You forget that you are
my niece
!”
and she departed to dress for her auction, leaving Juliana to regret the solitude and tranquillity of Flintwood.

She soon found that the servants in Lord Lambourn
’
s house treated her with ill-concealed contempt; she was made to feel the evils of being a poor relation at every turn. If she rang the bell in her room, nobody answered it; no coals were brought to replenish the miserable fire in her grate, and her washing water, tepid when it arrived, remained unemptied for half the day; no nuncheon was brought her, her aunt and cousins being out; and in the evening, when Partridge came, obviously at her mistress
’
s bidding and with the utmost reluctance, to help her dress for the Assembly, she showed her dislike and scorn by frizzling Juliana
’
s hair with unmercifully hot tongs, pulling and tweaking it, and jerking her into her dress as if she would have liked to throttle her. The dress itself was plainly a surprise to Partridge, for Juliana had passed some more hours of the afternoon at work on it, altering it to a better fit, removing most of the ugly trimmings, and moderating its harsh colors by an overdress made from a length of gauze bestowed on her by Miss Ardingly.

“Thank you, Partridge, that will do,” Juliana said at length. “I am sure my cousins have need of you,” and Partridge withdrew, giving her a malevolent look. Juliana surveyed herself doubtfully in the glass. The dress was now well enough, but it seemed to her that the maid had turned her into a figure of fun, by teasing her dark-gold hair into a beehive erection, supported on woolen pads, which looked lamentably old-fashioned. I fear I shall be a laughingstock, thought Juliana, and she did her best to reduce the high tower
of hair, taking out some dozens of black pins and the cushion that Partridge had inserted, brushing back the hair, and finally pinning on a charming fall of lace which Miss Ardingly had also brusquely given her that morning. The result seemed to her a decided improvement, and she wrapped herself in her shabby pelisse, and ran down to join her aunt and cousins. The latter greeted her with cries of derision.

“Why, cousin, what in the world have you got on your head? You look a fright—does she not, Mama? People will take you for a quiz—they will wonder where in the world you came from!”

Juliana could not see that their headdresses were in any way superior: their lank brown tresses were elaborately tortured and frizzed up into Grecian crowns, interspersed with ribbons and feathers, which only served to emphasize the awkward configuration of their jaws and teeth. However, dressed alike in striped sarsenet with embroidered sashes and Norwich shawls, they were evidently quite satisfied with their appearance.

Lady
Lambourn
only said, “Well, it is too late to remedy Juliana
’
s hair now, for Thomas coachman has been waiting these ten minutes; therefore let us be off without any more delay,” bestowing an irritable glance upon her niece.

The ball at Lady Bethune
’
s house in Grosvenor Square was, Juliana soon realized, a very grand affair. Bethune House had its own courtyard, and they were obliged to wait quite fifteen minutes while their coach crawled along in a waiting line of other vehicles, until they arrived at the awninged and carpeted front steps. When they had ascended the stairs that led to the Assembly Rooms, a succession of brilliant saloons lay open to view.