Friendship and Folly: The Merriweather Chronicles Book I (3 page)

Ann liked Lord Merivale very well--as he belonged to Merriweather, she could not do less--but she often, in herself, deplored his coming. Until he had returned, flaunting his eligibility before her, Mrs. Northcott had at times seemed almost to accept the likely perpetuity of her daughter’s single state, only referring to it on those occasions when the inequities of life pressed upon her with unusual vigor. But then came Lord Merivale, with his gentle manners, and his open, affectionate temper, captivating the neighborhood mamas with his readiness to dance with even the plainest of their daughters. Little wonder if hope and ambition stirred in the humblest parental heart; and Mrs. Northcott, her own heart unhampered by any trace of such a vulgar, Methodistical virtue, had moved quickly from hope to near certitude. His youth and good nature, plus an almost feminine amount of compassion, had marked him out in her mind as a prize easily won by any young lady equipped, as was Ann, with both the warm approval of his family, and a limp.

And perhaps he might have been. Had Ann made the least attempt to engage his pity, there is no saying but he might have stepped straightway into the shackles. Mrs. Northcott certainly had no doubt of it; and as soon as the first shock of his defection had lessened, she retrieved his character from the dust into with she had flung it, brushed it off, and discovered (without undue surprise) that her daughter was wholly to blame for--everything. Ann had often played the pianoforte at Merriweather in the evenings--had she arranged for Lord Merivale to turn the pages for her? No. They had all gone riding together--had she held back because of her injury, that he might feel obliged to keep her company while the others rode on ahead? Not at all! She had kept pace, and been entirely knocked up the next day in consequence. And the picnic--that matter of the stream, in particular, had been disgracefully mismanaged! Had she no conception of the importance of small attentions? She had known it must be impossible for her to jump across it as the others did--why had she not made sure he would be at hand to assist her?

“What, to lift me across? But Mama, we are nearly of a size. It would have been silly and unkind of me to make such a request of him--what if he had dropped me in? And besides, Major Merrion was right there!”

It was an interview at once disheartening and enlightening. Mrs. Northcott was forced to the conclusion that her poor daughter had not the first suspicion of how to turn an ailment to good account. She seemed, if anything, to be persuaded that her whole duty, as an invalid, consisted of contriving that those around her be reminded of her disability as little as possible. That this was, in most cases, a very proper belief, Mrs. Northcott could not refute; what alarmed her, was Ann’s failure to mark the difference between, for example, inconveniencing one’s parents by a request for frequent stops on a journey, and appealing to a prospective suitor’s sense of chivalry, by discreet reminders of one’s frailty.

When Mrs. Northcott’s conscience was young and tender, she had taken it so firmly in hand, that now, in her maturer years, it gave her very little trouble; but on this occasion, it roused itself sufficiently to suggest, that if a child be ignorant and confused as to its duties, such a circumstance may frequently be traced to some negligence on the part of its parents. Mrs. Northcott, even in her vexation, was forced to acknowledge a fragment of truth of this. Her ambitions for Ann may have clouded her judgement--she could not deny it. Pleased by the girl’s acceptance into an earl’s family, and thinking only of the prestige of the connection, she had failed to take sufficient heed of the dangers inherent in a close association with such a singular, notional household. She had allowed Ann, at a susceptible age, to become the constant companion of persons known throughout the county for the quaintness of their ideas--of those who refused to allow their servants to say they were not at home, if they were--who cared nothing for going to town--who paid their bills before there was any necessity to do so!

And what had been done to countermand the damage? Little enough, she feared. All was not lost, however. Ann was still young, her character was not yet fully formed; something might yet be done to retrieve the mistakes of the past. But it was certain to prove a most tiresome business. One could not, after all, expect the silly girl to contribute to her own reformation, persuaded, as she was, that the Parrys embodied every domestic virtue. Why, when Mrs. Northcott recalled her daughter’s many attempts to cite the advantages of this or that Parry practice to her, she wondered that it had taken her so long to perceive the dangers of their influence! No, she need expect no help from that quarter. All efforts at correction must come solely from herself. She did not flatter herself that it would be easy, but hers was the fault, and hers must be the reparation, no matter the cost.

In this praiseworthy spirit of self-abnegation, Mrs. Northcott resolved that Ann should accompany her on her next pilgrimage to Bath.

Little need be said of this venture, as Mrs. Northcott’s hopes for it were not realized. Ann uttered no protest when informed of the rearrangement of her summer, but sadly, the journey took such a toll on her frame, that she was for some days unable to go out at all, and when she did, her limp was so pronounced, that she could not walk into the pump room without assistance. This cannot have been precisely how Mrs. Northcott had pictured Bath Society’s first glimpse of her daughter, but perhaps she was cheered by the observation that Ann had clearly taken her strictures to heart, and far from making any attempt to mask her discomfort, looked so pained as she hobbled about, that elderly ladies rose at her approach and begged her to make use of their chairs: a sacrifice that naturally entitled them to hover about afterward, full of questions and advice. Dear, sympathetic souls! How thoughtful were their attentions! How tireless were their efforts to ensure that Mrs. Northcott felt to the uttermost all the disadvantages of her daughter’s condition!

Neither time nor the baths brought noticeable improvement, and there was no possibility of Ann being able to dance, or ride, or even walk about the parks. She spent most of her days reclining on a sofa, and either reading novels, or writing long letters to the Parrys. Mrs. Northcott bore the disappointment of her scheme as well as she might, resisting the despondency that might otherwise have overtaken her, by immersing herself in those elegant diversions for which Bath is justly famous--gossip and cards, and complaining of the waters. But disappointment and inconvenience were not the only results of Ann’s relapse; there were other evils attendant upon it, of which Mrs. Northcott became aware only gradually. She had previously enjoyed all the deference usually accorded those endowed with wealth, a gallery full of ancestors, and a consciousness of their own superiority. Her daughter’s appearance changed this. Respect became tainted with pity, that leveling emotion that dares to see even monarchs as nothing but mortal men, shuffling inexorably dust-ward through a common veil of tears. At first she refused the suspicion, repelling it with a haughty stare; but having overheard herself described (and that by a woman whom she had never troubled to notice) not as “Mrs. Northcott of Hellwick Hall,” but as “the mother of that poor girl,
you know
, the crippled one,” there remained no more possibility of denial, only a certain agitated looking for of trunks and bandboxes, a speech of fiery reproach, and a carriage to devour the road between her humiliation and Hellwick Hall.

I come now to the crux of this extended digression. A subtle and civilized crux, it passed, unrecognized as such, by both occupants of the carriage--the one mistaking it for a brilliant notion, the other, for an unexpected ending to a oft-heard harangue. It is curious to think, that a book might have prevented it. Had
Lord Chesterfield’s Letters
, Mrs. Northcott’s chosen companion on all her journeys, not been carelessly packed away during the fury of their departure, she might have found diversion in his lordship’s scrupulously unprincipled advice, subdued her indignation, and this noble history of mine might never have been. On such whims and trifles do the destinies of men and authors appear to turn.

Mrs. Northcott, thus deprived of congenial companionship on all fronts, had no choice but to ruminate continuously on her own thoughts, and found them bitter indeed. Scorning to seek oblivion in slumber, she faced the journey with a backbone supported by the strength of her feelings, and a gaze fixed straight ahead--which attitude necessitating the steady contemplation of her daughter, only resulted in the worsening of her temper with every milestone. Relief did not come until after the first stage, when Ann was ill-advised enough to break her silence with a comment on the antiquity of the postboy. Some might have found a slight difficulty in moving from such a subject, to the one that pressed upon her own heart, but Mrs. Northcott experienced none. They had not departed from the inn yard, before she had been ten minutes enumerating the injustices committed against her.

She did not claim to be wholly blameless in the affair. Not at all. Her folly in attributing Ann’s deficiencies, even in part, to an inadequate performance of her own duties, was roundly condemned; as was her simplicity in imagining, that, at this late date, there was any thing to be done about them. Having spent nigh on a month in the girl’s company, there was no question in her mind, that Ann was irremediable. Distillation would probably discover, that she was no more than one part Northcott to three parts Parry, and that one part in so weak a form as almost to disguise the superiority of the vintage. The Parrys, Mrs. Northcott declared, had rendered her daughter unpalatable to all but themselves, without sparing a thought for any one who would later have the thankless task of seeing her properly established.

Now Ann could support with equanimity the comparison of herself to a kind of second-rate punch, but she could not hear the Parrys abused, even so frivolously, without attempting some defense. In the slight pause between the ending of one grievance and the beginning of another, she ventured her assurance, that had they any intention of introducing Julia into Society, they would readily have engaged to introduce her (Ann) as well. But, said she, one could scarcely expect them to do for a neighbor’s daughter, what they had no desire to do for their own. She spoke without any expectation of being attended to, and was exceedingly surprised when she was.

Attendance, however, is not agreement; and though Mrs. Northcott heard Ann’s words, she heard them after her own fashion. Ann believed herself to be arguing that her friends could not be censured for failing to advance her in a society of which they themselves had no opinion; Mrs. Northcott derived, that they must be made to do so. It struck her at once, that Justice demanded it: demanded, that those guilty of diluting the punch, should be made to see to its disposal. True, the juxtaposition of Ann and Julia must inevitably dim the former’s prospects, but this disadvantage was greatly countermanded by the possibility that one of Miss Parry’s rejected suitors might very well turn to the more attainable Miss Northcott, as solace for his granulated hopes.

If, at this point, anyone is visited by the suspicion, that in reasoning so, Mrs. Northcott was influenced by any sordid pecuniary considerations, then I have failed to properly delineate her character. Although she had for some years had no thought of presenting Ann herself, it was not because she begrudged the expense. Indeed, she would gladly have done so, had there been the slightest probability of the girl justifying the expenditure. Two circumstances, however, bespoke the futility of it, both of them to be found in Ann’s person. It was not that Ann was plain--she was not, compared to anyone other than a Parry--but pleasantly undistinguished features, unlike beauty, must needs be accompanied by a desire to please; and spend she never so wisely, no fashion or furbelow purchased by Mrs. Northcott could force success on one determined to resist it. What incentive had Ann to make herself agreeable to a strange gentleman, however eligible, when his proposals could only result in that which she dreaded above all things, her removal from the vicinity of Merriweather?

But Ann’s reluctance, while irksome, was by no means decisive, and you may be sure that had there not existed a second and more potent objection to the scheme, a continual application of reproaches would eventually have worn away such foolishness. The second objection, however, was not to be overcome by such tactics. One could impose on a will, and weaken a resolution, but a distorted limb could not be gainsaid. Miss Northcott, in the guise of either tolerably pretty crippled daughter, or whey-faced crippled friend, could not be anything but a painful embarrassment to those who accompanied her. Mrs. Northcott’s pride, with that tenderness for its own comfort at which pride ever excels, had from the beginning warned her of how it must be for anyone seen in her daughter’s company. The trip to Bath, fixed upon in an hour when pride’s credit was low, had cruelly demonstrated the accuracy of its warnings, and restored it to its former place of honor.

However, as long as Mrs. Northcott’s pride remained inviolate, as long as she did not herself have to witness the inevitable comparisons, to receive the looks, either pitying or disdainful, there could be no objection to Ann’s Presentation; that Ann would have to do so did not bother Mrs. Northcott at all--almost the thought pleased her. Not that she wished her daughter ill, no indeed! Did she not plan and maneuver for the girl? Did she not diligently seek out the most fashionable patterns, the most innovative hairstyles for the improvement of Ann--and as regularly despair? Had she not been sincerely gratified when the news reached them of William Merrion’s decease? (And that, of course, must all have been for Ann, since he had not been in a position to inconvenience
her
by his continued existence.) Was she not, even now, doing her utmost to insure that the tiresome girl might be comfortably settled in life?