"Eleanor, if you don't hurry, there will be trouble, do you hear?"
The shrill voice of my aunt rang up the stairs to my bedroom, as loud and clear as though she were standing in the room with me. I liked how I had found myself referred to as "Eleanor" which happened mostly when I was in trouble, or when my aunt was feeling particularly formal or important. I had been known as "Nellie" for as long as I could remember. My aunt's call still ringing in my ears, I sighed and made a face at the reflection in the mirror of my dressing table. The pale, dark-haired girl made a face back at me. I had just spent the best part of half an hour staring at myself in the mirror, and was no closer to accepting the person that stared back at me.
This had become a regular occurrence over the past few years, ever since my aunt had requested my presence at her weekly dinner parties, in which she entertained guests with her lavish supplies and luxurious upholstery. These little "get-togethers", as my aunt referred to them, had been happening every Friday evening for as long as I could remember, most likely ever since I had come to live with my aunt at the age of six, when my father passed away. I had never known my mother, for she died in childbirth—a tragedy that was not uncommon during the autumn of 1894.
But only since I turned thirteen had I been required to sit at the table with rich, elderly guests whose life stories bored me to death over dinner week in and week out. And this evening would be a special occasion, I had been told. It was a few days after my eighteenth birthday, and I was quite sure my aunt was planning something I was unlikely to be thrilled by.
I knew that there were many young girls who could only dream of living a luxurious lifestyle such as my own, with new dresses every week and a bedroom bigger than some people's whole houses. But to me, the dresses were merely items of restraint, the grand bedroom a vast, lonely space to retire to.
It was ungrateful to view things in such a way, but years of being fussed over and forced to make idle conversation with people three times my age had left me feeling rather bitter about everything.
"Nellie! Get down here this instant!"
Sighing again, I gave my reflection one final despairing glance before departing my bedroom. With as much elegance and dignity as one could muster while wearing several layers of silk and lace, I made my way down the main staircase, to where I could see my aunt. The wonderful Lady Eglantine, frills galore, stood looking stern as ever.
"Eleanor Dean, I have never known a young lady take so long to get ready as you, dear girl! Our guests are due to arrive any moment." I liked how she referred to them as "our" guests, when I doubted very much whether anyone who came to our residence this evening would remember my name.
"And, oh!" my aunt gasped as she took in my appearance properly. "You have not even powdered your face! And—dear God!" She was cut off as the shrill ting of the doorbell rang through the house.
"Good lord, they're here," she said, hurriedly smoothing down her many skirts. "Well, let's just be thankful that you are naturally pale. Now, places, people!"
She bustled off into the entrance hall, leaving me feeling as melancholy as I had been up in my bedroom. Taking a deep breath, I braced myself for another evening of boredom and food and followed my aunt through the glass doors.
x-X-x
"Mr Pamellson-Brown, you've met my darling niece, Eleanor?"
"Of course, of course!" boomed a large, beefy man with a rather red face. "Pleasure as usual, Miss Eleanor. How are the horses?"
"Horses, sir?" I enquired, but there was no point. Mr Pamellson-Brown had already bustled off, glass of red wine clutched tightly in his fist.
Greetings were often made in this way. Men and women alike would make curious comments to me, most likely thinking me somebody different, or else their memory impaired by years of wealth and luxury.
"Mr Doonan and Mrs Doonan, what a pleasant surprise. I am delighted that you came again. You remember my niece, Eleanor?"
"Yes, yes," said Mr Doonan, his long curly moustache quivering as he spoke.
"You are the ballet dancer, are you not?" said Mrs Doonan, leaning toward me in an interested fashion.
"N-no," I said, "not me!"
"No, no," interjected my aunt quickly. "No ballet for my dear Nellie. The girl's always been far more interested in reading! Now, have you seen this 18th century vase over here, quite a remarkable piece..."
My aunt led the Doonans across the room, gesturing to me discreetly that I should walk around and appear interested in people, at least until dinner was called.
Looking about the rather crowded room, I searched for something that would make me feel slightly less awkward. Spotting Maisie, my dress maid, hovering near the glass doors, I hurried over. At least she wouldn't sway the conversation to topics of money.
"Good evening, Miss," said Maisie, curtseying when she saw me. "You are looking lovely this evening, I must say."
"Yes, yes," I said, hating compliments of any sort, "thank you."
There was a pause for a moment, while we both surveyed the scene in front of us.
"Your aunt is looking dazzling tonight, is she not?" said Maisie. My aunt was in the middle of the room, surrounded by people, and seemed to be literally radiant. Perhaps it was due to the shining beads on her skirts, or maybe confidence and elegance really were the keys to a good appearance.
"Indeed," I said. "You don't happen to know what she's got planned for this evening, do you, Maisie?"
"No, Miss. None at all. But I'm sure it will be something most pleasant for your eighteenth."
"Hmm," I said, not convinced.
A bell tinkled from the other side of the room, and one of our smartly dressed footmen, Jenkins, I think, though it was hard to tell from so far away, announced that dinner was ready to be served.
I found myself propelled forward with a general throng of people, including my aunt, toward the revolving doors that lead to the dining room.
"Nellie, dear, you'll sit up next to me. Yes, there. Next to Mr and Mrs Hartley."
The massive dining table that stretched practically to the full extent of the room groaned under a galore of food, drink, and table decorations.
I was glad, for the most part, that the food provided a convenient distraction that saved me from dull conversation with the Hartleys. After all, it's unladylike to talk when one's mouth is full.
The main course was cleared away and dessert was brought out in a flurry of footmen, dishes, and meringue. When the dessert plates too were cleared away, and a lull in the chatter of the evening showed that our guests were pleasantly full and tired, my aunt stood up and tapped her glass delicately with her knife, indicating she was about to address the whole party.
This was not unusual. She often chose to make long speeches after dinner, particularly if she had drunk copious amounts of wine. They would tire people even more through their sheer length, if not with their uninteresting content.
"My dear friends," she began, "I thank you all deeply for coming tonight. The evening has been most pleasant, and I do hope you have enjoyed yourselves."
There was a murmur of agreement around the table.
"However," continued my aunt, "I believe there is one more thing that must be said before you all depart homeward. As I'm sure you are all aware, it was my darling niece Nellie's eighteenth birthday just a few days ago, which, of course, was a very special occasion."
My aunt gestured towards me, and then, resulting in my immense embarrassment, the people around the table applauded. I wasn't really sure why; turning eighteen didn't really seem like something that required congratulating on.
"And," continued my aunt, when the clapping had subsided, "because this is a special occasion, I feel it deserves a special announcement."
My aunt paused for dramatic effect.
"As many of you know," she continued, when she was quite sure that everyone was on the edges of their seats to hear what she had to say, "I am most well acquainted with Robert and Cora Crawley, Lord and Lady Grantham of Downton Abbey."
There was a murmur of awe and agreement. I wasn't really sure where this was going. Though I barely recognised the name "Grantham", this was not unusual. As my aunt was "well acquainted" with so many people, it was sometimes hard to keep up.
"And, they have invited myself and Nellie to stay at Downton Abbey, in celebration and honour of Nellie's eighteenth."
There was a united gasp around the table, while some guests took their reactions to the extreme and clasped a hand to their mouth.
"But Downton Abbey is one of the most renowned homes in Britain!" stated a skinny man with a high pitched voice and hordes of curly brown hair.
My aunt nodded, basking in the superiority.
"Your stay will be quite the experience," murmured a lady in awe, whose hand was still partially raised to her red lips.
"How long will you be staying?" piped up somebody else.
"Well," said my aunt, pausing as though considering this at great length, "as long as seems right, I think." At this, she gave a curious smile at me, which I understood nothing from.
"If I were to stay at Downton Abbey, I doubt I should ever wish to come home!" exclaimed Mr Pamellson-Brown. "Even if my home were as nice as this one!"
x-X-x
When the guests had dispersed, all claiming the evening as "marvellous", and a team of staff cleared up the debris, I found myself alone in the deserted lounge, which felt very flat and deflated now that it was empty.
I picked my way across the room, stumbling over abandoned glasses and furniture, to the doors on the other side that led out onto the patio. Despite the evening October chill, I unlocked the doors and stepped into the cold night. The moon was bright in the dark, crisp sky, reflecting down upon the water fountain on the lawn and the strings of garden lights strung in the bushes that illuminated the entire garden. I surveyed the scene and sighed.
I knew I should feel excited, overjoyed, in fact. The leaving guests, as they shook me warmly by the hand and congratulated me once again on nothing in particular, had told tales that promised me nothing but the most lavish luxury when I arrived at Downton Abbey. What young girl wouldn't jump at the chance to enter into such a world, greater than I had already known?
But I could not help an inexhaustible feeling of dread. The stifling atmosphere of Larkford House was bad enough; how would a house rumoured to be several hundred times larger and grander be even bearable?
There was something else, too. The reasoning behind the smile my aunt had shot at me during her speech had now become all the more clearer. I had reached the age of eighteen, the age that signified the passing into adulthood, responsibility, and marriage.
Of course, it would have been almost too good to be true to expect Aunt Eglantine to organise a trip as grand as this for purely recreational purposes. She was intending, I was now quite sure, to set me up with some rich man, a relative or friend of these Crawleys of Downton Abbey. Although I usually decline from passing judgements on people prior to acquainting myself with them, I could not help supposing that I was unlikely to find anyone stimulating enough to want to marry. Though, of course, what did want and desire come into it at all? If Aunt Eglantine should find someone that she wished me to wed, I was certain I would have no option but to accept. I sighed again, life suddenly seeming a lot more complicated.
"Nellie?" my aunt's voice made me jump violently; I had been so caught up in my own thoughts. "What are you doing out here in the cold?"
"I was just..." I waved my hand to the garden by way of excuse.
"Yes," said my aunt, agreeing with I wasn't sure what. "It is beautiful."
"What? Oh, yes, yes. Quite," I hurriedly agreed, realising our subject had turned to the garden.
"I do hope you are looking forward to our trip," my aunt said.
"Of course," I answered, "I am most excited." Whether my tone matched the words, I wasn't sure, but my aunt didn't seem to be listening anyway.
"They are most wonderful," she said. "The Crawleys. They have three daughters, not much older than yourself. It will be so good for you to spend time with other women of your own type. I worry about you upstairs all day by yourself."
At this, I said nothing. I knew my aunt considered me a bit of a loner, often seeking my own company rather than that of others. But this was hardly my fault; who can blame a young girl for wanting to spend time with herself instead of middle-aged men and women who knew nothing about her? I wasn't sure, either, that I liked the sound of these "three daughters". I had never had to associate with others my own age before, and could already envisage it being a social disaster on my part.
"And lots of young men, too," said my aunt, continuing as though she hadn't expected me to say anything anyway. "That will be good for you, Nellie."
I muttered something nondescript, though my aunt obviously gathered its meaning.
"Oh, come now, Nellie. All young ladies are in want of a husband; it's just what is done. You should know that by now. The estate is entailed. To my cousin." she sniffed disapprovingly. "He only lets us live there because we pay an outrageous rent and he has no interest in land management. When I am dead, you will have nothing, unless you marry his son Charles, and knowing George, that is not at all likely."
Closing my eyes, I prepared for another lecture about the all-important entail. George was my aunt's cousin; as he was the next in line after the late Mr. Dean, the Dean estate, such as it was, belonged to him legally. It wouldn't do to cast off one's cousin-in-law, but after Aunt Eglantine was gone, we all knew George wouldn't hesitate to throw me out. As my aunt said, he was "odiously middle class." (Never mind that she was rather middle class herself.) He had a son by the name of Charlie, whom Aunt Eglantine had hoped would marry me, but no such luck. In a letter sent some years back, George Dean had made it uncomfortably clear that his son was no sacrificial lamb. How rude, I had thought with a sardonic smile. Even Mr. Collins had the decency to propose to Elizabeth.
I repeated my tired mantra. "But Aunt, if we practiced economy—"
"And nothing," she hissed, narrowing her eyes at me. "Everything I do is for your benefit. I've told you again and again. George won't let Charles marry a castoff, so you must have a well-off husband. To have a well-off husband, you must move in well-off circles."
Oh, yes, I know that, I thought, as we retired back inside, closing the patio doors against the cold wind outside, but that doesn't mean that I have to go along with it willingly.
