The Trellised Lane, page 2
Now, Miss Piffin was a woman of many virtues (industry not the least of them, as has been seen), and no one, including Julia, had any cause to wish her ill. Nonetheless, Julia had great difficulty in contemplating the prospect of her companionship with any composure. Miss Piffin spoke little, she preserved what she considered a proper and well-mannered reserve, and had in any case few ideas and little, consequently, to say. When she did speak, however, she had a most irritating habit of doing so at the top of her voice, in order that no one within fifty feet of her might miss a word that passed through her lips, whether they wished to or not. This she did in consequence of having been taught during her own childhood to speak up clearly if she had anything to say, and also out of a dread for the rudeness of whispering. These principles she had drilled into Julia and Fitzgerald when they had been in her charge, fortunately with less success than that of her own teachers. Julia, however, retained a lively horror of any sign that Miss Piffin might be about to utter a few words; and the vision, easily conjured up, of Miss Piffin informing her that such-and-such had £500 in the three-per-cents in the presence of that very such-and-such evoked in her a vivid dread that fueled her discussions with Lady Edgehampton on this head. Eventually, however, the Countess won her point, and Julia conceded, merely remarking that she hoped there might be a truckle bed or two for her brother and herself after all the staff had been accommodated.
Now that the question of servants had been resolved, it remained for Julia to replenish her wardrobe, which was large enough but had fallen quite behind the times, due partly to Julia’s ignorance of the most recent London modes, and partly to her disinclination to worry more than was absolutely necessary about clothes. Fortunately, Lady Edgehampton, having been but lately in town, was aware of all the new fashions and was able to be of immense service to Julia in this enterprise—one that her Ladyship had previously felt required attention, anyway. Banished, therefore, were the straight skirts of her gowns, along with their puffed and slashed sleeves, and stiff grosgrain.
Julia soon found herself drowning in yards of blue satin, fine white muslin, sarcenet, and lawn. Bonnets were fashioned for her; shawls of crape and cashmere were selected. During an introductory lesson, Lady Edgehampton nearly despaired of her stepdaughter’s ever learning how to drape a shawl properly, but after three weeks of frequent sessions, Julia finally succeeded in this difficult art. She was provided with a new pelisse and several spencers, one of which was fur-lined and thus rendered practical for winter. Mercifully (in Julia’s opinion), Lady Edgehampton decided to dispense with courtdress, as Julia had no desire whatever to be presented; besides, the court was still in black for Queen Charlotte. Indeed, Julia felt herself quite harried enough with all this unwonted attention to her attire: She complained one morning of having had a nightmare in which an immense white muff erupted like a volcano, spewing out a mass of Pompeian red, under which she nearly perished. This had the happy effect of stopping Lady Edgehampton from urging that particularly modish hue on her stepdaughter, but nothing could dissuade her from pressing ivory fans, embroidered reticules, eardrops, and antique jewels and lace upon the embarrassed young damsel. Julia finally stemmed the flow by intimating gently that she would have to stop from home above a twelvemonth to have occasion to wear each of her new adornments. After that, the tide receded, leaving only a small residue of parasols, gloves, and mittens.
It is not to be imagined that Fitzgerald was untouched by all this uproar. He, in fact, was more eager than Julia to learn the new London modes. Lady Edgehampton was pleased to find his wardrobe in a less scandalous condition than his sister’s, and was very sorry to be unable to inform him of the latest methods of tying a cravat. Mr. Donning conferred with the countess, and a tailor was found who could passably fit Fitzgerald’s coats to his waist. Cloth and buckskin breeches were procured, and a short argument with Lady Edgehampton ended with Fitzgerald’s victory and the purchase of a pair of “Petersham Pantaloons.” Julia was amazed to find this streak of vanity in her brother, who had hitherto eschewed dandyism. On one occasion she surprised him in his bedroom and found him before the mirror, practising how to use a quizzing glass with a look of elegant ennui. She was horrified and warned him that if he ever peered at her through that nasty little thing she would crush it under her own foot. She continued to tease him with this until he cautioned her that one more word of her plaguing would leave her with no escort at all, which threat silenced her taunts until they were in the carriage and on their way.
Naturally, Julia’s father also felt a need to involve himself in what was going forward, and he sent for his children a few days before their departure. The Earl of Edgehampton was at heart a very quiet man, and if he had lived in less difficult times he might have been a very happy man as well. History, however, had not been content to let him enjoy his life thus peaceably, and his conscience, always sensible of the responsibilities of his title, was every day wounded by the injustices that surrounded him.
Had the earl been a staunch Tory, and a man of less compassion, his position might have suited him very well; had he been born to a less ancient family, and felt more lightly the requirements of tradition, he might have been a zealous and uncompromising reformer. Unhappily, neither of these fates had been his, and the earl found himself in the exceedingly uncomfortable position of upholding a personal position that was repugnant to his political philosophy. Unlike his more daring countryman, Sir Percy Shelley, the earl was unable to renounce entirely his birthright and heritage, but neither was he able to countenance the gross abuses of power so common among his peers. The result had been a patchwork compromise between principle and circumstance, a compromise that in his younger days had sickened the earl and given him something of a disgust of himself, but to which he had grown accustomed over the years. Thus he showed to his tenants an unusual degree of liberality, even guaranteeing the farm labourers a minimum wage to relieve the town rate-payers of the insupportable burdens the Poor Laws would otherwise have imposed upon them. Yet, these things were done of his own free will, and paid for from his own pocketbook. He could not bring himself to exercise the power he might have had in Parliament to change the ruinous laws themselves; and so he observed, with a sorrowful eye, his county prosper while his country foundered.
Julia was in some degree sensible of the conflict that had been caged so long within the earl, and though she had no very clear idea of the politics involved, she knew that her father was a good man, and shared his sense of hopeless outrage whenever news reached them of a bread riot or an attempted insurrection. Fitzgerald too felt the trouble abroad in the country, and was, sadly, on the brink of just such a compromise as had subdued and discouraged his father, although he was not yet quite convinced of its necessity. At three and twenty, he had not made a decision, and his father was content to carry the burden alone a little farther, that Fitzgerald might be free of it longer than he had been himself.
Because the earl’s uncertainty of his own principles, his advice to his offspring on the occasion of their departure was somewhat vague. It was easy enough to inform them of how and where they might obtain such money as they would need, and to warn Fitzgerald against gaminghouses and questionable company; there was no difficulty in adjuring Julia to remember that country ways could prove scandalous in town, and that she must attempt to regulate her passions and her needs, as befitted any lady—indeed, he had no real doubt of her judgement; but when he came, at length, to treat of the main subject of his lecture, he found it difficult to proceed.
“I know, Julia,” he said, “that the main object of your sojourn in London will be to find a husband.”
Here he paused. Julia, who was eager to learn what her father might have to say on this head, endeavoured to prompt him by saying “Yes” several times, but the earl had begun to walk up and down the room, and this activity seemed to absorb his attention for quite some time. Julia exchanged a puzzled look with her brother, who shifted uncomfortably in his chair, until at last their father chose a position by the fireplace that seemed to suit him, although his face was to the flames and Julia could hardly see it.
“You are aware,” he continued, to the relief of his daughter, “that we have spoken but little on this topic.”
Here he hesitated again, and seemed in danger of stopping. Julia spoke to cover the awkwardness, saying that marriage had but lately become of interest to her.
“Yes,” said her father. “Indeed. Indeed, it has lately become of interest to all of us, but I shall not quiz you on what connexion might exist between my recent wedding and your projected one. To be quite frank,” he continued, staring ever more intently at the fire, “I do not think I wish to know. That is all as it may be. What is important to me now has to do with both my marriages, in fact, with any marriage.
“You know, of course, that the present Lady Edgehampton comes from an excellent family; the lineage of her late husband also was impeccable. Your own mother, too, came from a fine old house, and though it was an Irish house and thus afforded my father some consternation, the Edgehamptons came to accept her family as being beyond reproach, though I do recall,” he said, with an edge of bitterness, “they were not delighted when she gave our firstborn her maiden name.”
At this point, Fitzgerald, who had been trying to devise a means of escape from this uncomfortable discussion, felt a sudden rush of friendliness for the forebears who had tried to alter his Christian name. He listened to his father with renewed attention.
“What I mean to say, Julia, is that it would be most congenial to me if you chose a husband whose family and breeding are something equal to ours. I am aware it is no easy thing to regulate the direction of one’s attachments; in finding two women whom I could both respect and love, mine has been the greatest good fortune. On the other hand, an unequal match brings with it problems that are not always evident to the young, and you must try to consider this in bestowing your affections. Still, I would not have you marry where you do not love. In short, Julia, what I wish for above all is your happiness, and if you find that your happiness requires a match that would normally be considered ineligible, I will trust your judgment a great deal more than most fathers would do, and in all likelihood consent to your choice.”
The earl seeming to have put a period to his remarks, Julia replied that she was all gratitude for his care, and for his trust in her discretion; that she hoped it would not come to any such unpleasantness, and that she would try to justify the confidence he placed in her.
Fitzgerald had been somewhat astonished by the tone of his father’s speech, and the earl, turning at last and noting his surprise, addressed a few more words to him.
“I wish, Fitzgerald, that I could place the same easy yoke upon you as I have on Julia, but your position is different from hers, and you will do well to remember that. The privileges you will some day exercise as Earl of Edgehampton carry with them a great deal of obligations—obligations that might be severely hindered by a foolish marriage.”
Fitzgerald took advantage of a brief pause to disclaim any interest in nuptials for himself, but his father was determined to continue.
“You are young enough yet, but you will some day be thinking of taking a wife, and this journey to London may hasten that day, though you do not look for it. For the moment, I instruct you only to be sensible of these facts as they regard your own future.”
Fitzgerald thanked him for his kind precautions, but the earl had yet more to say.
“I commend your sister to your care, Fitzgerald; her happiness and protection will be your constant obligation. She is a wealthy and a handsome young lady, and it is your responsibility to keep her from fortune hunters and disreputable fellows. This is no light duty, and—Julia,” he said, interrupting himself, “why are you smiling so?”
“You would do better, sir,” said his ungrateful daughter, half bursting with laughter, “to commend Fitzgerald to my care, for I think these last few weeks have proven him a good deal sillier than I will ever be.” Fitzgerald chafed at the criticism, but the earl saw the justice of Julia’s remark and, laughing and gathering his children to him, declared the conference at an end.
Their departure had been fixed for 16 March. The servants had been sent ahead in the carriage that Julia would use in Hampstead. She and her brother were to travel in Fitzgerald’s own curricle, most of their luggage having been sent ahead by stage. Julia herself saw to the arrangements made for the transportation of her pianoforte, and so efficiently did she manage the rest of her duties that on the evening of her departure she found herself with next to nothing to do. She had retired after tea to her bedchamber to supervise the packing of what few effects she would carry with her to London but, finding that task the work of half an hour, she was happy to respond to a soft knock on her door.
It was Stephen, the nine-year old whose derivation, whether heavenly or satanic, had frequently been discussed by his two step-siblings.
“Julia,” he said, after bouncing for a moment on her bed, “Mamma says that you and Fitzgerald are to go away tomorrow. Is that true?”
“Yes,” answered his stepsister.
“But Julia,” he said, with reproach in his voice, “we’ve only just come—I mean Mamma, and Kathryn, and Elizabeth, and me.”
“I,” she corrected.
“Yes, I,” he said, quite gravely. “I’ve only just met you. Are you certain you wish to leave just now?”
“I am afraid so,” replied Julia. “This seems to be the best time for me to go.”
“Because,” said Stephen, “I should not like for you to do any thing you are not certain you wish to do.”
“Well, perhaps I do not really wish to go, but we do not always do what we like best.”
Stephen was silent for a few moments, watching her as she moved about the room, picking up objects and then laying them down again with an abstracted look in her eyes. Soon, however, he finished his meditations and addressed her again: “Julia, shall you be a married lady when you return?”
Julia sat down by him on the bed. “Should you like for me to be?”
“No indeed I should not,” he affirmed stoutly. “Indeed, I should not like it above half.”
“That is a cant expression, and not to be used by young boys,” said Julia, with little conviction. “Why should you dislike it?”
“Well,” said Stephen, with a considering air, “I think if you were a married lady, you would not live with us any longer, and I like to live with you.”
“And what if you were to come and visit me?”
“Well,” said Stephen, thinking even longer this time, “Mamma is a married lady, and though she is quite nice and I do love her very much, she is not nearly so jolly as you are. And so I think even if I went to visit you it could not be quite the same.”
Julia assumed a gravity to equal her stepbrother’s. “I believe you are quite right, Stephen, but I fear there is no remedy for it. Sooner or later nearly everybody grows up and moves away from home.”
“Now, that is what I will never do,” Stephen asserted, a trifle indignantly. “I think it would be most unmannerly, and even unkind, to insist upon leaving those people I most dearly love merely because I have grown up. What would Kathryn and Elizabeth do if they had not their brother to protect them? I shall never go away,” he repeated stubbornly, “and we shall be happy together always.”
Julia was quite conscious of the unfavourable comparison he was making between his behaviour and hers, and she submitted to his strictures without complaint. “Still,” she said, “the truth is that I may very well be married before I come home, or at least engaged, which is very much like being married. I shall endeavour, though, to be jolly in spite of all that, and this I promise you.”
Stephen received this oath with an air of great solemnity, and consented to be led into the nursery and tucked into bed. Julia was left to ponder their discussion, and in such contemplation she engaged herself until quite late into the night.
In the morning she and Fitzgerald said their adieux to the rest of the household. The next evening found them in Hampstead.
Chapter III
Their arrival was attended by a mixture of joy, disappointment, and confusion. To begin with, Julia was somewhat out of charity with Fitzgerald, whose annoying and unwise habit of springing the horses every now and then merely to alleviate tedium she had protested to no effect. Fitzgerald took great delight in crashing along the highway at a neck-or-nothing pace, and especially in frightening his sister and those luckless farm carts that happened to be upon the road before them, and he had refused to even listen to his sister’s frantic objections. By the time they swept up the drive to Heathedge, Julia was torn between a determination to preserve a dignified and (she hoped) awful silence until the next day, and a burning desire to deliver the series of well-framed and cutting remarks that she had been compiling and organising during the last eight miles on the road. In the end, neither of these fearful punishments was inflicted upon her brother, for Julia’s dismay at the state of both house and household delayed both intentions until they were past usefulness.
