An Accomplished Woman (11 page)

To see her dear friend,
after such a wretched passage in her life — and after such a loss of honour as
even dauntless Lady Eastmond, in her secret heart, had feared must degrade her
for ever — respectably and comfortably settled, with a man whose large views
and generosity of mind inclined him to disregard her past, and whose steady,
uneffusive character must offer her just the repose she needed: and to see her
settled moreover close at hand in Lady Eastmond’s own country — there could be
nothing better. Lady Eastmond could admit no impediments.

To be sure there was the
disparity of age — some fifteen years: but she was far from considering that a
drawback. The recklessness of youth had already played such a baleful part in
Rosina’s life as must throw the discretion of maturity into the best possible
light. More seriously, perhaps, there was an imbalance of attachment that even
Lady Eastmond’s optimism could not deny. It became clear to her that Dr
Templeton, for all the grave restraint of his manner, was very much in love
with Rosina; and quite as clear that Rosina loved him — that is, warmed to him,
admired him, and felt able in his company to talk, laugh, and be herself again
— without entirely being
in love,
as the term was generally understood.
But this likewise Lady Eastmond refused to see as an insuperable obstacle. As
she found an excuse once again to excuse herself from the drawing-room at
Osterby where Rosina and Dr Templeton were deep in talk, she firmly believed
that the match she was promoting was a good thing: good in itself, and not to
be cheapened to the price of second-best. She saw opening a prospect of, at the
very least, reasonable contentment for two people who deserved it; and the
heartening change in Rosina from the pale, awkward, frosty figure who had first
come here was reward in itself

The interest aroused in
the neighbourhood by Miss Holdsworth’s arrival, and which had sunk so markedly
when she did nothing shocking, was briefly revived by the news of her
engagement to Dr Templeton of Heystead. Surprise was the general first
reaction; but as no one likes to admit their failure of observation, the event
was swiftly transformed into something that had been plain all along. One
extreme wing of opinion said that a woman with such a history could only have
come here to trap a man by the surest way: others, more moderate, reminded each
other that town ladies could manage to put these things behind them, and that
she was still after all a pretty young woman with a fair fortune — in that
respect, quite a desirable match for Dr Templeton, past his youth and a little
dry. The entering of Edmund Templeton and Rosina Holdsworth into blameless
matrimony, very quietly at Heystead church, rendered the couple uninteresting
once more. Lady Eastmond could congratulate herself on her success; and
Heystead Priory, after a long interval, accustomed itself again to the chancy
enterprise of a family.

For Lydia, thenceforth,
the story became dimly and haltingly her own. The carefully collated historical
figures of Edmund Templeton and Rosina Holdsworth became her parents, and
George’s, and everything swarmed with the sharp yet scattered detail of memory.
And as a child, of course, even a young girl, she had known little or nothing
of what came before. She had always felt, perhaps, that there was something
different about her mother, and when later her adult mind could receive the
truth, by gentle steps, from her father and from Lady Eastmond, she had chiefly
felt a sort of unsurprise. Her mother had never, for Lydia, been entirely
present. Even at cheerful family occasions — Christmas, George coming home from
school — she had seemed to perform her role with a faint constrained
bewilderment, like a trusted governess or nurse called down to make up the
numbers. Loving her and admiring her, still Lydia had always looked to her father
as one looks instinctively at the clock:
that
must be right. That will
tell me where I am.

Then when Lydia was ten
her mother died: her illness was slow and yet swift: there seemed time only to
register the oddness of her busy, frowning, twitching mother becoming the flat,
solemnly watching woman in the bed before all was over. George, who was also
present, seldom referred to this afterwards: Lydia never. Like her he learned
the whole history in adulthood, and he had at last fortified himself with a short,
round lesson: ‘Sad business: horribly sad: and yet not, you know, because she
met Father, and there was a good happy time before she was taken from us.’

Half concurring, Lydia
envied him his wholeness of sentiment. She had reflected on the story time and
time again — sadly, wryly, with worldly cynicism, with stern morality — but had
never been able to reconcile all the things she thought and felt about it.
Which was not to say it had not affected her. She was prepared to admit, as she
hugged her knees and blinked at the peopled darkness of her room, that it had
affected her more than anything in her life.

But it was harder to
admit how much she owed Lady Eastmond — because that meant admitting that the
debt really ought to be paid.

Oh, Lydia, I am glad you
are come — I am so very concerned about Charlotte, and I know you will be
truthful with me. Look.’ Emma Paige thrust the shawled milky-smelling bundle
into her friend’s arms. ‘Now look. The whites of her eyes — is there not a
faint, a very faint yellowish tinge?’

‘It must be very faint
indeed. She looks to me the picture of health, and twice the size she was when
I went away. And that, I believe,’ said Lydia, as the baby gave her finger an
experimental suck, ‘is another tooth coming.’

‘Where ... So it is. Ah,
now that explains a great deal. Dear, I only hope
she
will not begin
biting, like Sophie. The other day she bit my sister, quite hard, and in
public’

‘That shows sense, if
not discretion. And so, where is Mrs Vawser? How long have you had her and,
more importantly, when does she leave?’

‘She is a — a little
indisposed, so she is taking a late breakfast in her room. Oh! that reminds me
— I forgot to ask the maid about Mrs Vawser’s coddled egg.’

‘Her coddled egg.’

‘Yes — only I am afraid
it was not quite soft enough for her yesterday, for it must be just right . .
.’ Rising, Emma turned. ‘Lydia, what are you doing?’

Lydia had taken her
pencil and tablets from her reticule, and was writing it down. ‘There. Now, my
dearest Emma, let me read it back to you. “Mrs Vawser’s coddled egg ... I am
afraid it was not quite soft enough for her yesterday ...” Shall I go on?’

‘No, you tormenting
creature. Perhaps I do fuss over her a little. And here
you
are — my
dear Lydia, I have asked you nothing - how you are, and your brother in London
and the children—’

‘Ah, Miss Templeton!’
The Reverend Mr Paige burst in like a draught. ‘I thought I heard your voice.
You must pardon me for intruding upon your tête-à-tête.’ He pronounced the
French with breezy condescension, as if quoting baby language. ‘You must pardon
me also for paying my
very
brief respects to you as I am on my way to an
urgent parish visit.’ He bowed. ‘Ma’am, your servant: I hope I find you well,
likewise your excellent father: your family in London also. They flourish, I
hope?’

Yes, thank you, Mr
Paige: I was very glad to see them, and I am glad to see old friends again. And
as I was about to say to Emma, I bear an invitation: my father would be very
happy if you were able to dine with us at the Priory tomorrow. Your guest Mrs
Vawser also, of course.’ Lydia glanced sidelong at Emma, who gave a grimace of
thankfulness.

‘Tomorrow, ma’am,
certainly — we have, my dear, I believe, no engagements; and indeed it would be
hard to think of one that could not be willingly put aside to enjoy the
hospitality of Dr Templeton. And that of Miss Templeton, of course, our
excellent hostess upon such occasions.’ He gave another of his crisp bows. Mr
Paige was full of these pointless punctilios, which left you floundering for a
response. He was a robust, unresting man with a round, sleek head and a
perpetual close-lipped smile — not of cheer but a sort of professional
assertion, as if defying anyone to be impiously miserable.’ If I may venture to
say so, Miss Templeton — in my pastoral capacity, call it — I do not think you
in your best looks. I believe I have the reason. London. The air of the modern
Babylon is not conducive to health. This is, I suspect,’ he added, with a
significant nod at his wife, ‘the source of poor Mrs Vawser’s trouble. Miss
Templeton, I have not, I hope, offended: I speak from solicitude: and in the
absolute confidence that country air will effect a swift restoration.’

As so often with Mr
Paige, there seemed no appropriate reply, beyond diving under the table, or
bursting into song: so Lydia made do with thanking him.

‘I wonder, Miss
Templeton,’ he went on, slapping his gloves against his potent thighs before
putting them thrustfully on, ‘did you observe, during your late stay in the
metropolis, much evidence among the populace of continued disaffection — of a
rebellious and insubordinate temper? — But of course I cannot stay to give your
answer the attention it merits: you must tell me at dinner tomorrow: till that
time I am full of anticipation.’

‘What am I to say?’
Lydia protested, when he had whisked out.’ After all I am disaffected,
rebellious and insubordinate myself

‘Hush,’ Emma said,
listening for the boom of the front door, ‘you know Mr Paige does not care for
that sort of jesting.’

Mr Paige did not care
for any kind of jesting — alas for him, and still more alas for his wife, Lydia
thought.

It was nine years ago
that the young vicar of Heystead, as energetic a huntsman as a moral reformer,
had gone in quest of a bride, and brought back from his own county of Kent his
pretty, kind-eyed, neat-figured quarry; and in the course of their friendship
since then, Lydia had seen Emma Paige grow each year more worn — or, rather,
more smudged and indeterminate, like one of Lydia’s own drawings when she could
not leave it alone. Besides being wife to an exhaustingly dutiful clergyman and
bearing his over-frequent children Emma had also taken on the burden of Mr
Paige’s elderly mother, bedridden and, it was reliably reported, mad as Ajax.
If questioned on the matter, of course, Emma would have said with painted
sincerity that her life was supremely happy. Lydia would have rejoined,
silently, that her friend’s contentment was that of the prisoner who has
forgotten what the world beyond his cell is like.

‘Well, now tell me of
your sister,’ Lydia said, as Mr Paige’s unstoppable figure passed the parlour
window. ‘Is it the London air — or is it the old trouble?’

Her husband being gone,
Emma permitted herself a sigh. ‘The latter. Good Lord, I have never said “the
latter” before — you only read it in books and even then I always have to look
back to see which was the former and the latter — and now I can’t remember what
came first—’

‘Never mind: I can tell
it is the old story. And suspecting that it is proving somewhat tedious, my
father hopes that a dinner at the Priory will help, at least for one evening. I
think we can only muster eight: but eight may take the
edge
off Mrs
Vawser, I hope.’

‘I confess she has been
a
little
trying this time. But that, you know, is her grief: poor
Penelope has been sorely misused again!’

‘Let me see, wasn’t it
an actress last time?’

‘Of a sort. A
tightrope-dancer, from Sadler’s Wells. Though apparently it seems she was very
handsome.’

‘Especially in tights.’

‘After that, you know,
Mr Vawser made the solemnest of promises to my sister — she would not have
returned to him otherwise — and that is why she is so very desolated now it has
happened again. This time —’ Emma lowered her voice ‘— it is a Frenchwoman who
makes papier mache.’

‘Good Lord, does he
consult a directory of curious trades whenever he feels his appetite grow
jaded? I hardly know which is the greater marvel — his tastes, or his wife’s
forbearance.’

‘This is the fourth
time, to my certain knowledge,’ said Emma, sadly, ‘and still she will go back
to him. Of course, my dear Lydia, you understand that I speak in confidence —
even excluding parties very near at home, if you understand me.’

‘Mr Paige still does not
know why your sister periodically descends on you?’

‘I maintain the fiction
of her health requiring a cure in the country — which Mr Paige, as you saw, is
very ready to believe. Normally I would never countenance falsehood —’ Emma
winced in apology ‘— but Mr Paige is strict in some of his views.’

‘Ah.’ Meaning that in
such a case Mr Paige would always blame the wife, who must have brought her
troubles on herself by lack of that proper submission, domestic competence, and
diligent exercise of feminine charm, which must always prevent a man straying.

‘I think,’ Emma resumed,
‘she is a little improved in spirits. She will eat, sometimes, and she does not
give that alarming laugh quite so much. The first fortnight,’ she added, with
an inward look and a reminiscent shudder, ‘was the worst.’

Lydia could only press
her hand in reply. The trouble was that no amount of female solidarity could
get over the fact Penelope Vawser was an intolerable woman.

‘And now that’s about
enough of me, I think,’ Emma said, with a timid, tender look. ‘My dear Lydia,
Mr Paige expressed himself rather baldly, perhaps — but I must confess you seem
just a little pale. I do hope you are in health.’

‘Oh, I slept poorly,
that is all — missing the nocturnal sounds of London, no doubt. There is no
lullaby like the rattle of the night-soil cart, and three drunken men having a
fight beneath your window . . .’

No, Lydia thought,
coming away from the vicarage, I have no ordinary indisposition: no ague or
fever. Only an inflammation of the conscience — most wretched of afflictions.
Oh to be an Emma Paige, whose conscience was as superbly developed as a
coal-heaver’s muscles. Instead, Lydia felt, she had a weak, susceptible one,
which would not function without careful treatment. The moral equivalent of a
liver complaint.

And yet I don’t ask for
much, she thought — only to do just what I like, and still have people think
well of me. But the ghosts of last night were not impressed by this levity, and
fixed on her the same stare of reproach.

At the Priory an old,
square, heavy, unfashionable carriage, like a great trunk on wheels, stood
before the leaded porch. Though its owner seldom used it, she recognised it at
once and with an emotional sip of vinegary anticipation. As Mr Lewis Durrant
made it a rule to think poorly of her in any case, there would be a kind of
paradoxical relief in his needling presence. Besides, she had her encounter
with Hugh Hanley to tell him about: and the passing on of unwelcome news is
always refreshing.

The summer parlour was
stony-cool as a buttery despite the bars of strong sunlight thrown by the great
oriel window. Dr Templeton, sitting at ease in his Windsor-chair, appeared
small as a benevolent gnome beside his companion. Mr Lewis Durrant, not at all
at ease, stood before the fireplace in all his overpowering and somehow
unnecessary height: one booted foot tapping restlessly at the fender, arms
crossed, one hand gripping his hat — for it was his idiosyncrasy, or, Lydia
thought, his affectation, never to look settled but always on the point of
leaving.

‘Ah, my dear, I hope you
found Mrs Paige well. Here is another old friend to welcome you back, you see.’

Mr Durrant uncoiled
himself sufficiently to deliver a short bow. ‘Miss Templeton. I trust you had a
pleasant stay in town.’

‘More than pleasant,
thank you, Mr Durrant. The Thames is still gently smoking from my presence.’

‘Mr Durrant and I were
just talking of the new income-tax, my dear; and I was wondering what George
makes of it.’

‘He groans over it, but
will not hear anyone else do so, because it is Mr Pitt’s measure and he
venerates Mr Pitt - almost as much as you detest him, Mr Durrant.’

‘Violently dislike,’ he
grunted, ‘not detest.’

‘Aren’t they the same?
Oh — is that the new
Universal Review?’

‘
The carrier just brought
it,’ her father said, with a wry smile, ‘and you will find, my dear, that your
contribution to the debate on the new translation of Horace has produced a
lively response.’ Lydia, with her greedy appetite for things of the mind, had
long acted as willing amanuensis to her father in his scholarly researches; and
with his initial encouragement, and later under her own volition, she had
explored other avenues of learning with fascination. She was rare among women
in knowing Latin: the headmistress of the Young Ladies’ Academy at Fulham, when
she discovered that Miss Templeton was learning such a thing from her father,
had recoiled as from an impropriety.

Horace was a favourite;
and lately an aristocratic gentleman of letters had produced, with much puffing
in the periodicals a new translation of the
Odes,
on which Lydia had
seized with interest, and then disbelief. Turning them into rhyming couplets
seemed a dubious enterprise from the start: but when the verse had all the
smoothness and ease of a higgler’s cart traversing cobbles, she could not help
but protest. In a critique sent to the last
Universal Review
she had
suggested, quite temperately she thought, that the translator was a pedantic
dilettante with a tin ear, signing herself
Canidia.
The unequivocally
female pseudonym, she now saw, had sealed her doom. Reading the rebuttal, and
knowing that Mr Durrant was watching her, she strove to present a face of calm,
detached amusement; but it was difficult.

‘Your nostrils are flaring,
Miss Templeton,’ he observed. ‘A spirited response, but full of inaccuracies, I
thought,’ her father said.

‘Please, Miss Templeton,
do read it out,’ Mr Durrant said.

‘Oh, I won’t weary you
with it, it is very long.’

‘A judicious selection,
then.’

She glared at him, then
back at the journal. ‘Well, here is the anonymous gentleman’s peroration.
“Canidia would do better to confine her attentions to her proper sphere — the
domestic: the only regularity of measure that should concern her is the quiet
music of the turning spinning-wheel, the only rhymes those lisped by children
at the knee of their mother, who will be much more reverenced as the cheerful
goddess of home than the shrieking priestess of petticoat learning.”‘