An Accomplished Woman (5 page)

‘Well. Certainly it adds
to my sense of responsibility’ Lady Eastmond rose and began to roam again. The
sunlight that had been filling the tall windows was suddenly gone, with that
plunge into darkness peculiar to fitful spring. The edges of the furniture
seemed to leap out in the gloom, bristling and inimical. ‘Mind, when your
mother and I first came out together I was a little envious of her, for all we
were good friends: she was so very handsome and graceful and as for me — well,
“
durable”
is the word Henry applied to me once, and he meant it in
compliment, bless him. But at least my eyes were not so inclined to be dazzled,
and so I wish I might have been a better friend to her then — oh, I did my best
after,
but you take my meaning. What she needed was a good, strong,
level head at her side. And that is what my ward needs also.’

‘And she is all the more
fortunate in her guardians, say I, and you know I do not run to flattery. You
have been the staunchest friend to George and me. I cannot conceive a better
protectress for such a girl as you describe — not that I know her, of course—’

‘But you shall,’ Lady
Eastmond said eagerly, ‘for that I must absolutely engage you, my dear. It is
my greatest wish, when we are all back in Lincolnshire, to present Phoebe Rae
to you. That I cannot do
now,
because I packed her off to Osterby just
the other day. I thought it best, as last week she was quite low with a fever —
nothing alarming, the town air I think — but once she was recovered, I decided
the country it must be, for the complete restoration of her health. I shall
follow, of course, once these
wretched
receptions are over. And then . .
.’

Lydia looked at her
godmother’s restlessly tapping, large, kid-shod foot. ‘Lady Eastmond, I think
you are not telling me the
entire
truth.’

‘My dear, you are quite
the lawyer, and I declare if I had to stand at the bar, or the bench or the
dock or whatever it is, and you were to rise from what I think is called the
well
of the court — and where
do
these terms come from, one wonders, they
seem to belong to the farmyard — I know I should be overpowered in a moment and
begin confessing to everything. Very well. Phoebe’s indisposition came
fortuitously, for I had been considering, at that very moment, how to get her
out of a scrape.’ Lady Eastmond breathed deep and smilingly, her eyes on a
miniature painting above the mantel depicting three fat underclad children
embracing a lamb and each other all at once. ‘A
sort
of scrape. What a
pretty picture that is!’

‘Yes,’ Lydia said,
glancing, ‘in a hideous, ghastly, repulsive way. What sort of scrape, Lady
Eastmond?’

‘Oh, bless you, nothing
of the serious sort, heaven forbid. Call it a tangle. To be plain, Phoebe has
received such particular attentions that she fancies herself at least half in
love.’

‘Well, if I know you,
she has attended every ball and rout and
soiree
going, and ridden in the
Park, and worshipped at the Chapel Royal, and gone to the theatre and the opera
and the Pantheon — and if she were
not
at least half in love with
someone at the end of it, I should think there was something wrong with her.’

‘Spoken with your
customary good sense,’ Lady Eastmond said, dashing back to her seat as if she
were playing at musical-chairs.

‘And I was certainly not
unprepared . . . But I had supposed so inexperienced a girl would only, as it
were, dip in a toe — perhaps wade — but not absolutely dive in. What a
regrettable metaphor that was. The fact is, my dear, Phoebe finds herself with
two admirers, and says she is in love with them both.’

‘Only two? Not a
creditable showing. Where have all the fortune-hunters gone, that a girl with
fifty thousand pounds is limited to two admirers?’

‘You dry thing.
“Admirers” is not perhaps the word — oh, there have been plenty of
that
sort,
and doubtless there will be more to come, but I have a very good eye at a
fortune-hunter, and they may expect short shrift from me. No, these are two
gentlemen she has met in society quite respectably: both, I believe, very much
taken with her — and not with her fortune. Though of course that must
weigh,
in any match. Such a ticklish question! I would rather she simply be giddy
and thoughtless and not even consider such things, at least until she is of
age, and even beyond then. But there is something a little intense about
Phoebe, for all she is the most good-natured girl in the world. She could talk
of nothing but these two gentlemen, before I sent her to the country — before I
took fright, to be frank. She inclines to both of them, it seems; and most
earnestly desires to know what she should do; and I hardly know how to answer
her.’

‘If she inclines to both
of them, then this is as much to say she inclines to neither of them,’ Lydia
said. ‘They must be very watered-down affections that can be offered about so
liberally. I’m sure you do right to remove her: a good dose of absence is the
best cure for the condition.’

‘Partly my thought . . .
but she
is
very serious, my dear, and that’s why I wanted to speak of it
with you. Phoebe, I fear, is not about to forget either of these gentlemen —
unless she is afforded some means of comparison, and given besides an example
of female sense and judgement. I have done my best, but I am an old woman, or
soon will be: and I have the greatest distaste for old people who pretend to a
sympathy with the feelings of the young. And so I wish — Lydia, I wish that you
would take my ward under your wing.’ Lady Eastmond slapped her own knees, as if
in self-congratulation: done it. ‘Now, take a little time before you answer, my
dear.’

‘I . . . Lady Eastmond,
I am flattered you should ask me,’ Lydia said: the usual reply one makes to an
unwelcome request. ‘But really I don’t think I have a wing, of the sort that a
young girl such as you describe would care to shelter under. In town, my
amusements are of the kind to make her yawn: at Heystead, even more so. And
thrusting enforced dullness upon Miss Rae would be the surest way to drive her
to the other extreme.’

‘My dear Lydia,’ Lady
Eastmond said, with a surprised look, ‘I have never heard you describe yourself
as dull. You, with all your taste, elegance and accomplishments—’

‘Dull for others,’ Lydia
said, faintly nettled, as she was probably meant to be. ‘I would never
apologise for the things that interest me, nor for the fact that I prefer to
talk of books rather than sprig-muslins. I mean that Miss Rae, as you have
described her, and just entering the world—’

‘Ah, but you don’t know
her, you see. There is something rather sweetly serious about Phoebe, in spite
of everything. I fancy she would welcome rather than reject guidance. She has
the most endearing way of asking me what she ought to do, in all ways — and
sometimes I am at a loss for an answer. Which is why I thought of you.’

It was Lydia’s turn to
roam now: she was alarmed. A noise just outside the street-door gave her the
pretext to go and look out of the window, though she knew what it was: the
coal-seller heaving a sack down to the basement. The familiar sounds of her
London stay: not unpleasantly familiar, but not loved either: not home. She was
always glad to leave, as she was always glad to arrive, and her mind before
Lady Eastmond’s entrance had been comfortably dwelling on her packing. So,
selfish then: you want just what you want and no more, as your response to this
perfectly civil request of Lady Eastmond’s shows. But . . .

‘But, Lady Eastmond, I —
forgive me, this is surely a heavy responsibility. If Miss Rae is to ask
me
what
she should do — that is, which of her two gentlemen she should choose, then . .
.’

‘Trust me, my dear, I do
not mean anything so bald and plain as that. My concern — my feeling is that
Phoebe thinks that after a London season she has now seen everything.’

‘“O brave new world,
that has such people in’t.”‘

‘I knew you’d have a quotation
for it, my dear — Shakespeare I would venture, for time was when Henry was
mightily fond of reading Shakespeare aloud to me in the evenings, but he
would
do all the voices, and when we got to the Three Witches I could hardly keep
my countenance. I seem to remember him at last throwing the book across the
room with exceptional force, for him . . .’

‘Who are these two
gentlemen?’ Lydia asked, with reluctant curiosity.

‘Well: one is certainly
quite eligible. Allardyce is the name. No
vast
fortune, but a good
family, and it seems he is quite the coming man — he is in the diplomatic
service, and has lately been at Vienna about the war-alliance, and has
connections in the government. I fancy, so well-travelled and cultivated as he
is, that Phoebe’s open, unspoilt quality is refreshing to him. There was great
decorum in his attentions, but they were together a good deal at several balls,
and afterwards he made his morning call in person each time, rather than
sending his servant. A very sensible, gentlemanlike man, I thought.’

‘Very well: Lady
Eastmond, you know I trust your judgement, and so I think Miss Rae cannot do
better than to marry Mr Allardyce directly.’

‘I fear I have put the
case rather too simply,’ Lady Eastmond said, with a meek smile. ‘If Phoebe does
have a preference — not that the margin is wide, for whenever she speaks of one
he is the most estimable man in existence, and whenever she speaks of the other
he is likewise — but my guess is that the other gentleman, this Mr Beck, has
the advantage.’

‘This
Mr Beck,’ Lydia said
sitting down. ‘I detect a twang of disapproval.’

‘He is, perhaps, an
oddity It is not that he is awkward in society, but he seems to care little for
it. Indeed his tastes seem to run rather more in your . . . That is, he is of a
literary bent. A little of a Radical too, though not to any shocking degree.
Really he would never have come in Phoebe’s way if it were not for Mrs
Mansfield. You will have heard of her, no doubt. Just lately, after years of
living at the very centre of fashion — and, between ourselves, on the very edge
of scandal — she has taken into her head to set herself up as a bluestocking
hostess. Terribly
vieux jeu
nowadays, of course, but there it is: she
surrounds herself with pet poets and dresses in drab stuffs and talks learning.
Which, really, my dear, would make
you
laugh, for even I can see the
sham. The latest
on-dit
is that she has been raving about Homer, and now
that she has read
The Odyssey
and
The Iliad
she can hardly wait,
says she, to read the rest of his works. But there, I have known her for years,
and she still lays on an exceedingly elegant reception, and so Phoebe and I
went, and the introduction was made.’

‘This Mr Beck is one of
her pet poets?’

‘He has written verses,
I think, and other things: and he has started some species of review or
periodical, and Mrs Mansfield likes to play the patroness to him. Not that he
is poor: I find, from asking about, that his father is a Bristol merchant with
a West India fortune, and I believe he may do much as he likes, and so she is
not above his touch. Not such a distinguished connection, perhaps: but Mr Beck
never struck me as ill-bred. Only rather odd and melancholy.’

‘I see. You have
pictured me an affected young poetaster fribbling away his slave-got money; but
again, if Miss Rae likes him, I do not think it should lie in anyone’s power to
dissuade her. There, now you see how unfitted I am for your task, Lady
Eastmond: I am choke-full of prejudices, and I deliver them without care for
the sensibilities of the hearer.’

‘Exactly as I hoped! It
is precisely that kind of downright and unimpressible character that Phoebe
needs to have about her. I am, as you well know, much too inclined to like
everybody.’

‘That, certainly, is one
failing I shall never own; but I must own to so many others that you will
surely be convinced at last that I am the least likely person ever to put Miss
Rae upon the right road. I believe, for instance, that love is an infection
best contracted and got over when one is young, like the smallpox; and then one
may rest secure from it and get on with life.’

‘Do
you, Lydia?’ Lady
Eastmond said, fixing her with her great grey eyes. Lydia was a little
discomfited: she had to remind herself that Lady Eastmond fastened the same
eager look on you when she was asking if you thought it might rain later.

‘What is today —
Wednesday? Well, I believe it on Wednesdays and Fridays. The rest of the week I
am an ardent romantic. And on Sundays I believe neither, I am then a mere
soulless, mindless vacancy, like one of the royal dukes. Really, Lady Eastmond,
I shall be very happy to meet Miss Rae when we are back in Lincolnshire: no one
to whom you are attached could ever be less than an object of friendly regard
to me, and I am already disposed to like her because you do. And when we walk
about the shrubberies of Heystead, or the lawns of Osterby, I shall try to
dispense wise saws as we go, but—’

‘Bless you, Lydia, those
aren’t the places I’m thinking of. Bath, my dear.’ Lady Eastmond slapped her
knees even harder: done it again. ‘I want to ask you if you will accompany
Phoebe to Bath.’