Friendship and Folly: The Merriweather Chronicles Book I (6 page)
Read Friendship and Folly: The Merriweather Chronicles Book I Online
Authors: Meredith Allady
It was as well that the Parrys did not make a practice of trimming their sails to suit their neighbors, for on this occasion the winds of opinion blew with such severity, in such wholly opposite directions, that any attempt to accommodate them could have led to nothing but a vast snarl of ropes and canvas.
There were the cool, censorious breezes led by Mrs. Northcott, who denounced Julia’s “coming out
en famille
,” and cast up their eyes when it became known that the Parrys expected to attend as many lectures as balls, and displayed more eagerness at the prospect of dining with their old friends from Clapham, than of nibbling on lobster patties in Willis’s Rooms. And opposed to these were the fewer, but more impassioned gusts of those who perceived the entire business to be a Fatal Compromise With The World, brought about by an Insidious Erosion of Principle. These faithful, alarmed souls, borne along by a sense of duty, were emboldened to speak with greater freedom than their opponents, and swept with earnest haste upon the imperiled couple, in person and epistle.
Mr. Parry had an excellent stomach for this sort of tempest, and merely found it tedious when gentlemen with whom he was more wont to discuss the methods of Walton or the letters of Newton insisted on “speaking as a friend” to him in his library; but Lady Frances, her own heart more than half in sympathy with the alarms of her callers, was rather troubled, until Mr. Parry advised her to refer all complaints to him. “Tell your visitors,” said he, “that your husband is a domestic tyrant, who forbids you to agitate yourself by listening to their disapproval of how we choose to deal with our children.” Whether she did so, or whether the critics sensed, as critics occasionally do, that the one whom they have been attacking has suddenly become equipped to reply to them in a way that must put them to rout, and withdrew of their own accord, was something only Lady Frances knew.
The last evidence of opposition they received, was that of a favorite aunt, less than a week before they were to depart from Merriweather. She wrote, in passionate and nearly illegible criss-crosses, that by taking Julia up to London, they were “deliberately tossing their daughter into a voracious whirl of petty Nothingness, in which the interests of true health are disregarded in an attempt to obey Fashion’s arbitrary decree, that every body must be acquainted with every body, together with that consequent, authoritative, but rather inconvenient clause that every body must go every where every night.”
There was a great deal more in this vein. Lady Frances, who had, influenced especially by the excitement of the younger girls, begun almost to look on the journey with complacency, was disquieted once more by doubts. Mr. Parry was annoyed. He took the letter, which she had been reading aloud, from her hand, and saying, “I will save you the trouble of replying, my dear: you may write this down as I go,” began to address it thus:
“My Dear Madam,
“Fashion, like her ador’d sister Pleasure, ‘that reeling goddess of the zoneless waist,’ is a mere synthetic deity, who must be upheld by the mindless obedience of her worshipers; left unsupported for an instant, and she will fall, impotent and ridiculous, by the wayside. Her decrees, therefore, while shrill and impertinent, are not binding on any save her followers, of whose number, I assure you, we are not. If you doubt this, you have only to address your concerns to our neighbors, Mrs. B______, Mrs. L-R and her elegant offspring, and Lord H______, all of whom, as faithful devotees of Dame Fashion, will repudiate with scorn any notion that we have any right to be ranked among their number.”
Lady Frances laughed, as she was meant to do, but wrote instead, more graciously, that she perceived her aunt had been reading Mrs. More’s delightful
Strictures
; and was it not a great pity, that the Prince did not appear to have taken any notice of that dear woman’s advice in regard to the raising of Princess Charlotte?
Eventually, as the good ship Parry remained unalterably fixed upon her charted course despite their best endeavors, the winds retired, some sorrowfully, some incensed, to darkly anticipate rocks and whirlpools in the incorrigible vessel’s near future.
The Parrys continued to make their preparations.
Now, it has been written that “piety from the teeth outward is an easy thing,” and the same might be claimed for a decision to take one’s family on a journey, if the family be large, the journey extended, and travelling an unaccustomed exercise.
A recitation of the miscellaneous trials which beset the Parrys, and which are common to all in such circumstances, is not my purpose. Let it suffice to record that Lady Frances and Mr. Parry had only to say to each other, “But think of those who must take a public coach!” or “What if we lived in Scotland?” to be instantly revived by the horror of these thoughts, to a cooler appraisal of their own difficulties.
Lord Meravon, discomfited by the arrangements his own meddling had set in motion, himself hastened to town some days before the opening of Parliament; he did not even trouble to mumble vague and unconvincing excuses, but merely announced one evening that since it was clear his presence at Merriweather was not required, he would be leaving in the morning. Lady Frances’s response was a look which spoke all the reproach her notions of filial respect would not allow her to utter, but as the Earl was not entirely without forethought, this look was neatly deflected by the covers of the
Gazette
which he had hurriedly taken up.
One difficulty the Parrys had, which they might have been spared, had solicitude for their own comfort and convenience been their foremost object. His name was Gerard Deauville, and he boasted a sallow and unprepossessing mien, intractable habits, eleven years, and the ardent friendship of Margaret Parry. In accordance with the best tradition of such things, he had attained the state of orphanhood at a tender age, and had even managed to repel the affections of his sole acknowledged relative, his maternal grandfather, Mr. Horace Deerbury, so that he was altogether as pitiful and romantic a figure as one could hope to find as a companion for one’s impressionable daughter. Alas, Gerard somewhat compromised this auspicious prologue, by a temper so sullen and uneven, that an astonishing number of people, instead of looking upon his disaffected grandsire with all the abhorrence appropriate for the villain of the piece, were actually inclined to feel no little sympathy for him. Only a family as forbearing as the Parrys, it was said, would have suffered such an unpleasant boy to partake of their home and affection; and only such an odd, unaccountable child as Margaret would have become so singularly attached to him.
So attached was she, indeed, that the thought of several months’ separation was enough to provoke her to a fit of something dangerously near the sulks, had it not been a proverb among the Parrys that “he that indulges in sulks shall not prosper; but whoso apologizes and forsakes them shall have his wishes considered.” Margaret read the truth of this in her father’s eye; her scowl wavered, half-formed; Mr. Parry gazed at her inquiringly over his spectacles; she swallowed and recovered command of herself. Pardon was begged, and granted, and forthwith it was agreed that Mr. Deerbury should be approached for permission to allow his grandson to accompany them to London. Mr. Deerbury made all the objections to this proposal that a man might be expected to make, when asked if he could bear to be relieved of an inflamed joint, or a putrid sore throat, and thus the affair was settled to the satisfaction of almost everyone.
Margaret was cast into triumphant raptures, which were in no way diminished by Gerard’s skeptical reception of the delights secured for him. He did not hesitate to rate London an odious, unfriendly place, based on three months’ sojourn, spent at a “genteel Academy for young gentlemen” in a mood of deep recalcitrance; and he was not to be persuaded otherwise by the assurances of a girl who had never been further south than Alcester. He saw not the slightest reason why they should not all remain in Merriweather, as they were.
Ann, also, continued to hope, right unto the end, that something might occur to keep them all at Merriweather. She had settled it in her own mind that the death of one of the Earl’s numerous siblings would serve admirably as a means of deferral. Not one whose passing the Parrys might in any way regret, of course; but there was one far-flung brother, in particular, whom Ann felt at liberty to dispose of, as he had no family, and even the Earl did not speak well of him. But Providence proved as uninterested in the fatal preferences of the daughter as of the mother, and despite one or two very favorable hindrances--for instance, the alarming discovery made about the effects of an enclosed vehicle on Idelette’s stomach--the day set for their departure arrived without any striking disaster.
What can be said of a journey crossing four counties in the dead of winter, encompassing three coaches and fourteen passengers, four of whom ranged between the ages of five and eleven, and one of whom suffered almost continually from carriage-sickness?
What can be said, save that it was at length accomplished?
**
Lady Thomasin St. Bees had been for many years the proud wife of an amateur chemist of note. She embraced Elements with her marriage vows, referred to him as “her own dear Newton,” and unavailingly pressed him to offer up her health as well as his own on the altar of Furthering Chemical Knowledge through the Tasting and Breathing of Unknown Materials. Then, as happened to so many, the year 1789 arrived, and brought with it a deluge that swept away the life they had known together. In that year Lavoisier’s
Traité élémentaire de chimie
was published, and shortly thereafter some careless acquaintance placed a copy of it into the eager hands of Mr. St. Bees. Two days later both volumes had been read, and the work of his life had become to him as flotsam and jetsam. Too honest to reject the author’s logic, and yet unable to accept his conclusions, Mr. St. Bees had immediately sunk into a chemical confusion of such profound depth that it was indistinguishable from disinterest. He banished Sir Isaac’s portrait to an unused bedroom, packed all his various experimental contrivances into trunks and sent them to Merriweather for the amusement and endangerment of his young nephews, and gave his bewildered wife a free hand with his social engagements, stipulating only that there be no mention of the word ‘caloric’ under his own roof. The ensuing years had seen but a partial recovery, for he still winced at any mention of the Royal Institute, and had been known to dive into the carriages of absolute strangers in his efforts to escape a chance encounter with one of the more violently anti-caloric of his former friends.
Lady Thomasin, though herself a loyal Plogistonist, was of a sturdier weave, and she continued to sit through lectures, and partake of discussions involving various opposite-minded persons, without the slightest hint of unraveling. It would, all who knew her conceded, require considerably more than mere logic and observable phenomena to shake any convictions held by Lady Thomasin--although, as her nephew, Major Merrion, once pointed out, she was herself not unlike one of the gaseous contraptions of the despised modern “pneumatic chemists”, since prolonged exposure to her influence tended to leave one feeling faint, giddy, or inclined to pace the room in a fit of indefinable restlessness.
Lady Thomasin hurried over to greet the Parrys the morning after their arrival at Merrion House. “Fanny, my dear girl! How pleased I was to hear of your coming! So many had begun to despair of ever seeing you in town again, but not I! And Arthur--how well you are looking! And this is Helen Robinson’s girl--Jane, is it?--Oh, Ann! Yes, of course, I remember seeing you two or three years past when Torial was just returned--Ha!---but I dare say you do not. Handsome boy--uniform most becoming, but then they always are--So, Fanny, at last you have returned to us--Ha! I knew it must come to this, sooner or later--you may ask St. Bees if I did not say, as early as last Christmas--not this past one, of course, but the one before that--if I would not foreswear turbans if I did not see Julia in town before hostilities resumed--Ha! I see you are going to point out that I was wrong, but of course I could not know that the Ministry would be so precipitate, and St. Bees is not one to hold me to a rash oath--Ha! Ha! Where is the girl?--I should like to see her above all things--What have you planned? Do you attend the Drawing-room next week? You will find the Court sadly changed, I fear. The company is quite indiscriminate, and every rag-tag fellow who calls himself a gentleman may come if he pleases--and bring his lady with him! One finds oneself pressed against the most inferior persons, for the crowd is shocking! But still, one must attend! Ha! Have your dresses been finished? Are they not diverting? Ann, what do you think of the hoop? You must wait until you try to fit them into a carriage! One must sit with them up about one’s ears--I always tell St. Bees that I feel just as though I were a puppy in a sack, with only my paws and eyes peering over the top! And you must above all things be careful when you go through doors, for one must tilt them up on one side or the other to get through, and it is so fearfully easy to show
too much underneath
! But you mustn’t worry, for I will show you the way of it! Ha! Ha! And you must watch that they don’t get torn to pieces in the hurly-burly! But enough, I must not discourage you!--Town is very thin of entertainment just now, nothing to do but improve one’s mind at the Institute--I must take you all--that young Davy is a charming talker, not an
air-bag
at all--he will quite convince you with his nonsense if you do not take care--Ha! Ha!--it is either that or of course one can go see that bothersome little Betty boy--Romeo, indeed! My dear! If he had but another five inches he would be nothing! It is my belief he is a good deal older than is allowed!--I was talking about it with Mrs. Spenhope just last night at the opera--Have you met the Spenhopes yet? Just a few houses up, you know--arrived this last week--bringing out their eldest, Marianne--got the family nose, poor thing, and a rather sharp eye, and a tongue to go with it, so I am told, which she will learn to disguise if she does not wish to frighten away all the gentlemen--Ha! Ha!--You must meet them, you will like them extremely—I shall have them to dine at Pettering--I just had the dining room papered--
Squiggles
, Fanny! It is all
squiggles
! The oriental mind is so strange!--Mr. Hope admires it tremendously--I have been telling Julian these many years that he needs to turn this house over to someone with Taste, but I see it still looks exactly as it did when poor North used to come here, and praise the carpet. But I did not really expect Julian to take any notice of what I said--the sky would fall if that ever happened, I expect, and I do not think his attendance upon my words worth that, I assure you! Ha! Ha! But you, Arthur, you ought to see if you can persuade him to do away with all of this old furniture and bring in some of that new Egyptian stuff--I have the cleverest little table--I ordered two, but find I only need one--it would go charmingly under that mirror, or perhaps--but no, definitely the mirror--I shall send it to you--Do you dislike crocodiles?--Well! and here is Julia! Ha! Beautiful! Splendid! just as I thought--let me see--are you going to cut your hair? No, well perhaps you are right--it would be a pity--and you hardly need--Ha! How they will weep! My dear--but I will not say a thing, for I know how strongly your parents feel about puffing up young heads--vanity of vanity, as they say, and I expect they have the right of it--so I shall just say that I am glad I have no daughters to bring out in your shade--poor Mrs. Spenhope--but then, she is a sensible woman, and I dare say will not regard it. Dear me, yes! Ha! Ha! And this is Kitty--how d’ y’ do--my dear Fanny, she puts me in mind of the Bessborough brat--but there, I am sure she would never throw tantrums--good gracious, girl, I am not going to bite you!--And where is Clive, the darling-sweet-rascally boy? I must see him--and tell him if he is in hiding he may just come out again, for I would not dream of leaving until I have seen him, and the little ones too, of course. Ha!”
After her departure Mr. Parry remarked that he had never heard his family so quiet and without opinion for such a length of time before, and that although he approved their modesty, in future he would wish them to make more of a push to exert themselves to liveliness, for their visitor had clearly felt all the awkwardness of having to maintain a conversation by her own unaided efforts.
“So kind of her to come round at once, as busy as she is,” said Lady Frances. No one disagreed, and, encouraged, she ventured, “A remarkable woman. To have such quickness of mind at her age! Her thoughts move so rapidly from subject to subject, it almost leaves one breathless.”
“That must be why she speaks so quickly,” said Julia. “Her tongue is trying to keep up with her thoughts.”
“Like a bat, darting around in the dark after a terrified insect,” added Clive, who had learned without gratification of the adjectives bestowed on him by his admiring relative.
The Parrys’ precarious gravity was not proof against this speech, and Kitty alone accorded the merriment no more than a perfunctory smile. She had few thoughts to spare for their recent visitor, being solely concerned to discover who the Spenhopes were, the likelihood of meeting them, and if they had a son of sufficient age to be suspected of future nefarious matrimonial intentions toward her sister.
Kitty’s anxieties were not allayed for a se’enight, at which time the promised dinner at Pettering House provided the necessary introductions, and elicited the happy intelligence that the only possible threat was safely contained at Oxford. Primed by the garrulity of their hostess, Lady Frances and Mrs. Spenhope began the evening with feelings of mutual curiosity and interest, and being both well-bred, good-natured women whose hearts delighted in their families, and whose husbands did not violently disagree with each other on political matters, they closed it well disposed to like each other. Miss Spenhope, though the nose could not be denied, had a piquancy to her speech that prevented her from being overlooked in any company. She and Julia met and assessed each other with less subtlety and more reserve than their parents, and after dinner talked together for some time, with animation and civility: Miss Spenhope animatedly describing persons and events in memorable, witty phrases, and Julia smiling and commenting with civility. Ann thought Miss Spenhope amusing and clever; Julia admitted them both, but mistrusted the spirit that made Miss Spenhope, at so young an age, so severe upon the foibles of others. “She makes one laugh,” said Julia, “but then sometimes one wishes one had not done so, and feels uncomfortable. If I cannot laugh without having to think, ought I? oughtn't I? then I had rather not be amused at all. Laughter should be without remorse.”
Ann, struck by the neatness of this concluding sentence, and thinking it sounded somewhat familiar, inquired if it was a quotation.
“I was under the impression,” replied Julia, “that the expression, if not the thought, originated in my head; but if you recognize it, doubtless I was wrong. It is very disheartening, the regularity with which one discovers that all one’s happiest phrases have been used before, and the plaudits for them already distributed.”
“In the words of Sheridan,” said Clive, “‘All that can be said is, that two people happened to hit on the same thought--and Shakespeare made use of is first, that’s all.’”
“Yes, but if the Bard had not been quite so lavish with his words, original wit would be a great deal more prevalent than it is. Shakespeare has left us a legacy of sloth; he shrivels enterprise. Why should one tax one’s brain for an apt and memorable phrase, when he has already preserved thousands of them and placed them ready to hand? It is like the farmer’s wife, who cannot be bothered to make her own cheeses, because it is so much easier to run across to the inn and purchase one whenever she needs it.”
“But perhaps the ones available at the inn are superior to anything she herself can make,” said Clive. “Would you have the poor woman condemn her family and friends to a mediocre cheese as an oblation to the great god Industry? Who is the better steward, the woman who says, ‘I slaved over this pitiful, inedible gray lump you see before you. It tastes rather like buckram wadding, but it is all my own,’ or the one who says, ‘I sent Johnny across to the
Swine and Garter
for it this morning. Do have another slice.’?”
Julia told him that he was obfuscating the issue by his attachment to a chance-cited cheese. He replied that he was perfectly willing to send Johnny out for a loaf of bread if she preferred, and she expressed regret that she had ever introduced food into the conversation at all.
And having, in their customary fashion, completely lost sight of the original subject under discussion, the question of the detrimental effects of the Bard’s genius upon the wit of subsequent ages (not to mention the housewife’s cheese) was pursued until some casual remark, in its turn, diverted them once again, carrying them ever farther and more rapidly away from the contemplation of Miss Spenhope’s possible imperfections.
**