An American Spinster in Jane Austen's England

by Merry Christensen

An American Spinster in Jane Austen's England is the story of a Janeite who discovers Austen artifacts, is bopped on the head for them, and wakes up in Regency England. The spinster, Marianne Rasmussen, is an ugly ducking who, courtesy of transmmigration, wakes up in the body of a swan. Love follows

An American Spinster in Jane Austen's England

Chapter 1

I haunt antique stores and cruise garage sales. When I do, I pray to find a treasure. I had just done so when I went into Country Sara's Antique Mall on the sixteenth of December, my birthday – and as I always tell my students, Jane Austen's too. I was celebrating, and for more reasons than one. The sixteenth was also the day school let out for winter break. Winter break is an interesting case in semantics, as actually is Country Sara's Antique Mall because Sara's isn't owned by a Sara. It's owned by someone named Yana. And Yana is not from the country at all. But she calls her store Country Sara's probably because she thinks the words will lend honesty to her inventory.

I had not looked long when my eye saw something intriguing. It was on a shelf just below the ceiling. When I pointed to it Yana said, "I'm not getting that down unless you're gonna buy it." I stared. Yana knows customers can't buy in a blind. So, realizing she might lose a sale, she got up on a ladder, got the item in question down, and set it on the counter. It was a box. Plain, and hewn of dark wood, it had handmade dovetails and a simple, brass escutcheon. I could see it was old – Regency Period I believed – and I like Regency Period things so I was eyeing it with interest when Yana said, "It's locked, and unfortunately, the woman who sold it to me didn't have the key."

"That," I said, "is too bad. Because I'd like to open it and see whether or not it's fitted."

Yana said, "I'm making no promises, but…." She shook the box. There was a faint rubbing sound. "It probably is or you wouldn't hear that." I took the box. "It has lots of presence," she said, "Doesn't it? I almost hate to sell it to you. But I might let it go for sixty-five dollars." I suppose I look like I'll pay sixty-five dollars for anything – because dealers are forever quoting "sixty-five dollars cash" to me

I put it down. "Let me think about it," I said. And then I headed toward some other bric-a-brac: a small collection of skeleton keys which were hanging on hooks on a wall. I hoped one of them would open the box. If one did I would buy both for certain. On my way to them, I tripped over a footstool. It had white legs. I thought it was cute, and said so.

"Oh. That stool!" Yana said. "The one with bold legs. That came from Hearst's Castle." I figured Yana stole it on a tour there. She thought a moment and then said, "I think I could let you have the stool for sixty-five dollars cash."

I did some mental arithmetic. The chair and box would come to one-thirty so I figured Yana would take eighty for the pair. And if I could get the box for forty, I didn't care if it had a key.

I made my offer. Yana countered with a hundred. I claimed I only had eighty on me. The five twenty dollar bills my mother had recently sent me for my birthday were in my pocket so I pulled four of them out and laid them on the counter. In hopes of getting a hundred, Yana again mentioned the Hearst Castle provenance, and the fact that the box was really old. I started to pick the bills up off the counter and Yana took them.

Yana helped me out to my car. After opening the door opposite the driver's side I put the stool in the floor-well and after I'd pulled out of the way Yana put the box on the seat. I didn't have her wrap anything as I wanted to stare at both treasures all the way home. Every time I stopped at a light I tried to jiggle the box open.

Once I was in the house, I put the footstool at the base of the chair I was sitting in. Then, propping my feet onto it, I tried popping the box open, though to no avail. Well, after working with it for several days I decided to call my sister's son, Tommy. Now, I will not say Tommy has done time – because he hasn't. He was merely on probation after his brush with the law…. Frankly, I felt the infraction was minor. For his science project he detonated a homemade bomb, but in a neighbor's mailbox. Because the bombing involved the US Mail, and because it came so close on the heels of the bombing in Oklahoma, the local authorities didn't find the project prize-winning at all.

Admittedly, Tommy was not experienced with lock picking. He generally blew things open, but because he was somewhat knowledgeable about breaking and entering I gave him free reign. In about three minutes he had the box open with a bobby pin. When he flipped back the lid I could see it was empty. "Which is weird," Tommy said, "because it sounded as if something were inside." I was ready to take the box back to Yana because she'd practically guaranteed it would be fitted when Tommy added, "It still sounds like something's in there. Can't you hear it?" I could. Something was still rubbing around in the bottom of the box every time Tommy moved it. "And," he said. "Look how shallow it is inside. But from the outside it looks deep." That discrepancy was apparent. The box was a good, half foot high. But opened it looked to be only about three inches to the bottom. "I figure it's a false base?" said my nephew. "And my guess is there's a secret compartment."

"Well, if there's a secret compartment, I'll keep it – fitted interior or not."

Tommy began pushing at the base of the box so vigorously I figured he would break it. I shouldn't have worried. He popped one corner of the false partition down and up went the other. He grabbed the contents. I'm glad it wasn't money because Tommy would have taken it. But because it wasn't he said, "Aunt Marianne, it's just junk – old paper." Soon, I was alone with what I hoped would be a treasure.

I will tell you straight out that the box's compartment contained schoolgirl cutouts, a kind of silhouette. Schoolgirl cutouts aren't silhouettes of people. Instead, they're cutouts of foliage or buildings. There were seven mounted on old, watermarked paper – six were of large bouquets of flowers, and the seventh was a cutout of a small but charming church. I could tell it was small because the yew cutout next to the church dwarfed the church. Two initials, a "J" and an "A," were inked on the bottom of each cutout.

I was excited because I had always wanted a cutout, and now to have seven. I began thinking how I would frame them and where they would hang. My house was nothing fancy – I only taught middle school – but I did have tasteful things. I was thinking about putting the cutouts over the sofa when I looked back and saw another item in the box. Finding the cutouts had done nothing to prepare me for what it was: a letter. It had an old, broken wax seal and was folded, and it began like so. "My Dearest Cassandra, Bath is odious, Mother is tiresome, and Aunt Perrot has got a cold again." The letter went on to recount the price of strawberries; it gave a resounding description of a visit from someone named Fanny; and then it closed simply: "Yours affectionately, JA."

I should like to pretend here, that there was still some great mystery as to the box's contents. I should like to draw this out further, and pretend that I did not know the identity of those mentioned in the letter. But that would be false. I knew that Cassandra was the only sister of the letter's sender, that Perrot was her aunt, and Fanny her niece. I recognized even the handwriting from a facsimile I owned. When the author of my letter was a girl of sixteen she had handwritten a short history of England, which Cassandra, the sister I have already mentioned, illustrated. In the late Twentieth century a company called Algonquin Books had reproduced not only the words, but the illustrations and handwriting. I compared the two. And yes, both were Jane Austen's handwriting, and I now owned a piece of it.

Being a Janeite I had already tried to join The Jane Austen Society of North America, but when its president, a Canadian, did not return my call I gave up. I turned to her, though, with the letter and cutouts. "I have something of Jane Austen's, which might interest you," was the message I left on her machine. My previously sent message went something like so: "Hi, my name is Marianne Rasmussen, and I want to join the society. Would you give me a call?" My former message didn't interest Monica, the Janeite from Canada. But my subsequent message must have because she returned my call almost at once. I read the letter, described the cutouts, and she said she wished to meet me.

Monica taught English literature at the Univeristy of Winnipeg in Manitoba and she, too, was out for Christmas break. Because she was Canadian I figured her for a snowbird so I invited her to Escondido. She had an aging mother, though, whom she hated to leave. So, after notifying my sister, putting extra food out for my cat, getting my nephew Tommy to drive me to the airport, and putting the box – it was in a Target sack – under the seat directly in front of me, I flew into Winnipeg. Monica had agreed to pick me up from the airport. She had said, "I'll wear a red hat so you won't miss me. And you must stay with me at my house." I would rather have stayed at a hotel, but I relented.

As soon as we were at Monica's I was sworn in as a member of the Jane Austen Society of North America. It does seem weird, I think, for Canada to preside over a North American Society when Canada doesn't even have the word America in its name, but so be it. I was sworn in and then just as quick Monica said, "Oh, I must phone Dee Dee. She is my counterpart in England. Sadly, though," Monica said, as she checked her watch, "she will not be in as it is around midnight there. I know. You and I shall go to dinner," – it was almost six p.m. – "then we can turn in early so we can get up at four to place the call. We'll catch her at elevenses. That's her breaktime."

The restaurant, Palladin Mongolian Barbecue, had ok food. After eating Monica said, "I've got a stack of books on the back seat that I'd like to put into the University library's drop box." Because she wanted to we took an alternate route home. Since I was closest to the curb I, after reaching back for the books, got out of the car and slipped them into the box. As we started to drive off Monica asked me how many I had deposited.

When I answered, "Seven," she said,

"Oh. There's an eighth. See if it slid under the seat, would you?" She stopped. I got out of the car again, got in back, put my hand under the seat there, and fished out a slim volume called, Metempsychosis. As I walked back to put it in the drop box the snow crunched under my feet. After depositing the book and getting back into the car I asked,

"What does metempsychosis mean?"

"It refers," said Monica, "to the transmigration of souls."

"Reincarnation then?"

"Strictly, no. Riencarnation – at least, the way I see it – is a permanent state. Whereas transmigration is fleeting. Transmigratory souls float in and out of bodies and time. At least, that seems the case from my study of the subject."

Since we were already on an alternate route home Monica decided to swing by something else that was on it: the Louis Riel House. I thought it was a run down shack, but Monica, as we passed it by, said, "We Winnipegans are very proud of Real's home. Too bad it's after hours or I could take you in." When I wondered who Real was my hostess said, "Why, he is the man who led the uprising of the Metis against the Canadian government. I'm a Metis, just as was Riel."

"What are Metis?" I asked, when a definition wasn't forthcoming.

"We," she said, "are the offspring of Native Americans and the French Canadian trappers."

I turned to look at the snow.

When we got back to Monica's it was 8:30 PM. Because it was almost her bedtime she said, "Shall we turn in?"

With it only 6:30 in California, though, I begged off. "I think I'll read awhile," I said, "and turn in later." Her house had a kitchen, a front room, two bedrooms, and a bath, and since it was impossible to get lost in it I figured I could find my way around until I felt sleepy. I had a one-volume copy of Jane Austen's novels in my carry on and I hoped to curl up with it.

When I pulled it out Monica said, "So you like to read, eh?" She quickly disappeared from view only to reappear in almost an instant. "My new book," she said, "has just come out at the Cambridge University Press." Being involved with Austen as I now was, she assumed I wanted to read The Uses of Metonymy in Austen's Juvenalia.

"Gosh," I said, "thanks." I took it into bed with me, made sure it was upright, then slipped Jane Austen's novels behind it. I must have dozed off at some point in time, and into a regular deep sleep, because what I remembered next was Monica's creeping around. She came out of her bedroom, crept into the room in which I slept, grabbed the Target bag, then crept off with it to the kitchen where she had a wall phone. After she emptied my bag onto what I could see from my vantage point was the kitchen counter I heard Monica say," "Dee Dee, you will never believe it but the most delightful things have just dropped into my possession." When I heard those words my possession I resolved not to let Monica hold my papers overly long, but Monica did not realize my resolve and continued to speak as if my treasures belonged to her. "Yes, an American has brought them to me. Can you imagine? A box, a letter, and cutouts. They really are superb, and I think you will want to see them." Then, there was a pause during which I assumed Dee Dee spoke. Then Monica resumed. "Yes, Dee Dee. We have to authenticate, and Sir Oswald is the man. How lucky he's to be with you this Wednesday. Yes. I could be there by then with the artifacts."

After her good bye, I thought it best to get out of bed in order to remind Monica of my ownership. So I grabbed my robe, put it on as I went into the kitchen, and said, "I should be the one to show Dee Dee."

Monica stared. "But I am a member of the society – and as such it will pay my way."

I said, "What about your mother?" and then I then reminded her that I was a member too. Following which I said something about taking my treasures home if she would not let me present them. Well, because my find was so stupendous – nothing of Austen's had surfaced in close to a century – Monica finally gave way and asked if I had preference as to airlines. "The Concorde is really nice, and fast too, I am told." I suppose to show me, Monica booked me onto Air Canada, and then she made me take a shuttle to the airport. I changed planes in New York City. On that last leg of the flight I did not sleep at all. I'm such an anglophile that soon I began saying, "Great Britain! Great Britain! That royal throne of kings, that sceptered isle, that happy breed of men, that blessed plot, that earth, that realm, that…."

Until that woman sitting next to me whispered, "Will you kindly shut up, dearie, so I can get some sleep?" After that I could merely think about that teeming womb of royal kings. And so I just imagined England. Of course, I saw princes, lords, and kings at every stop. I had myself so wired, I thought the Queen would come to greet me. It was just a clerk from Chawton Cottage, though, holding what I knew to be – because I had seen her bend down to do so – a hastily written Marianne Rasmussen sign. Without even a hello she said, "Have you got them?" I pointed to the Target bag. When she saw its red logo she said, "What a handy bulls eye! Incidentally, do you have any other baggage?" As I had only carried on we were soon off to Chawton Cottage, Jane Austen's final home. It was there I would meet Sir Oswald.

I dared not sleep – knowing how light-fingered the Janeites were – so I kept at least one eye on the Janeite as she drove. It was a pretty day. The sun shone down on the fields we passed by, and even though it was winter and they were only stubble they were pretty in a decaying, yet bucolic way. As we passed through the town of Winchester I asked, "Isn't Jane buried here?"

"Yes. In the cathedral. But we haven't time to stop to pay our respects." The Janeite checked her watch. And then we took the sharp right which she said led to Chawton Cottage. It's a pretty place. It is made of a pinkish-red brick, and with six bedrooms upstairs and its large, public rooms down it's fairly large for someplace that's considered a cottage.

We went round the back way because that's where – as the British call it – the car park was located. I got out, walked to the back door – the bare bones of what would be a beautiful, climbing rose that next spring arched across the top of it – and was about to mount the step when the clerk cautioned me to, "Be careful of the rise because it is so dreadfully steep."

I was thinking how kind the Janeites were and was fantasizing that they'd let me sleep in Austen's bed when another Janeite brooked the corner. She wielded a black umbrella. Well, before I could say, "How are you?" she seethed, "An American shall not have our Jane." And then, bibbity-bobbity, she grabbed my bag and bopped me on the head with the umbrella. My body dropped, and then my head went blank….

Chapter 2

I came to in a strange bed. Not that it was strange looking. No, taken as furniture it was lovely because it was a four-poster. And its hangings were lovely too, and covered with fine crewelwork embroidery. But the bed was strange in that it was not my own.

I remembered nothing of the recent past, not the box, the umbrella, the Janeites, nor that I was last in England even, and so I wondered for a moment if I were not back at home, but in a strange man's bed. I gave that thought up, though, because I never get into that kind of bed. I'm too proper a spinster.

And when that word spinster popped into my brain the Janeites came back to me – they were pretty spinsterish too – and in particular, the one who wielded the umbrella. She came to mind again, and then I came to a wrong-headed conclusion. It was that the whopping was a mistake, and that the other Janeites had taken me in and put me in Austen's bed. I began fantasizing about the crewelwork being hers. I mean, what else could I do, given the circumstances? And oh, the thrill! Jane Austen's very bed. Her needlework. It was beautifully done, with soft colored yarn, which was expertly sewn. Of course, from my vantage point – I was inside the bed and the hangings were closed – I could only see the backside, but that was so neatly done I felt the front would look exactly like it. I had once tried to embroider a pillowslip but instead of making neat and hidden knots and then starting anew in the next section I carried the thread there so that the back side eventually looked so full of the kinds of lines one sometimes sees trailing behind airplanes on maps on the silver screen that my sewing looked exactly like it went from Albuquerque to Tunis, and then from there to cities throughout the world. As I looked at the embroidery I wondered what could possibly happen next. That's when I heard the voices. They were coming from without the curtain, and went something like this.

"Today will tell all. She will stay or go with the day."

"Yes, Dr. Fowle. I believe you are right. Today will tell all."

Those were the men's voices. There were two, and while I could hear both, I could not see the men at all. The curtain closed tightly to that side, but on the other, the hangings parted a bit. Through the slit I could see the backs of a pair of women who were dressed strangely. Like Napoleon's Josephine, the waistlines on their dresses came just below the bust. I believe they call that the empire style, although when I was a child I mistakenly thought my mom was saying, "umpire." Anyway, the women's dresses were long to the floor, muslin, and high waisted, and their hair was done up in Grecian style, and to top themselves off they wore fancy caps.

I decided someone had turned Chawton Cottage into a living history museum and that I would probably get to watch a ball later that night. I began fantasizing – seeing it in my head. The men had waistcoats; the women muslins or silk; and the room, the soft glow of candlelight.

The women outside the curtain brought me back to the present day. The one on the right said,

"I do not like Young Dr. Fowle."

"Indeed!" said the other. "Nor do I. He is most impertinent."

I listened to their hushed, agitated tones as I once again admired the crewelwork. Soon, I went back to thinking about living history. One of my sisters was working on a living history ranch in Cody, Wyoming where she played sharpshooter Annie Oakley in a Buffalo Bill show reenactment. I like living history – better yet, fantasy – so pretty soon I was back in the ballroom in my head. I felt guilty not letting the bystanders know I had come to, but I wanted to luxuriate a tad longer in that elegant Georgian age, especially because a cluster of redcoats milled in the recesses of the ballroom. I hoped one would claim me. When they partnered with other women I located the card room. A foursome of men whose combined age was probably something like four thousand sat at a table playing whist. I walked round the table, looked over their shoulders, and made mental notes of their hands. When the gentleman with the whitest hair played his two of clubs, since I'd heard whist was something like bridge and I thought he should played the seven, I left them to their devices and went to find some food. I hadn't eaten since the plane ride the day before, and I had just heard a couple passing mention something about a supper. When I found the table I circled it. One side had ices, hot house fruit, white soup in an uncovered tureen, a blanc mange, a trifle, and the other contained platters of pork cutlets and something looking like mutton, and then a few too many dishes swimming in ragouts. A multi tiered glass piece held cakes, fruit tarts, and candied nuts. Again, I was hungry so I said, "A fruit tart would taste good right now." I thought I was thinking it, but I must have spoken it – and quite loud indeed – because suddenly, the curtains flew back and four pair of eyes stared down on me.

"Marianne!" said one of the women.

"She speaks!" said the other.

"Do not jostle her," said the man closest to me.

But the younger man - I supposed him to be "Young Dr.

Fowle" because the other man was so dogged ancient – stayed silent.

I eyed the Janeites, the females I mean – Janeites are rarely male – and located the older, and therefore the one I deemed the superior of the two. She must be Dee Dee, I decided, the head Janeite, so I fixed my eyes onto her and said, "Dee Dee, so good to finally meet you."

My second complete sentence brought another flurry of exclamation.

"Ahh. She is quite out of her mind."

"No doubt!"

"She does not even recognize her own mother."

"Nor cousin."

"Nor family doctor."

But again, the younger man remained silent.

I was in a state of confusion, and didn't know quite what to say and so I said something stupid. "Family doctor? I don't have a family doctor. I belong to an H.M.O."

That brought another flurry of exclamation so I decided not to say anything because I remembered something my dad would say to me when I was small. It went:

A wise old owl sat on an oak

The more he saw the less he spoke

The less he spoke the more he heard

Why aren't we like that wise old bird?

I decided to be like the bird and listen.

Dee Dee, who was evidently not Dee Dee, spoke first. "Do you think cupping might help?"

"Or bleeding," said the younger of the two women. "I think bleeding most beneficial. Do you have any leeches, Aunt Diana?" And she directed this "Aunt Diana" to the woman I thought was Dee Dee.

So "Dee Dee" is a "Di Di." Yes! This is what comes of listening. Because it worked, I kept my ears open hoping to learn more names. I knew that the very in-charge older woman who mistook herself for my mother went by the name of Aunt Diana. I picked up on that, and then waited for my so-called cousin to be named. And I was rewarded, for soon my "mother" addressed her.

"Caroline, a capital idea. Get them, will you? I keep them in the buttery. And Dr. Symonds, will you heat the glass? You have your knife, I trust."

To that, the elderly doctor, now identified as Symonds, gave a nod.

Caroline then left the room with a flourish, and all the while the one I took to be Young Doctor Fowle remained silent.

Now, here I must expostulate somewhat on the value of the habit of listening. It's a good practice. I still believe so. And yet, one can listen with intent yet miss the better or more important part. That is what occurred. I listened so hard with regard to name that I forgot to listen to what was being said, and more importantly, forgot to consider what was happening: that Caroline was going for a jar of leeches, squirming creatures which siphoned blood. Or that Dr. Symonds was heating what looked like a small, shot glass, and that a tourniquet now encircled my arm. Oh, I basically knew that the two women talked about bleeding, and I faintly remembered some time-honored medical practice involving bloodletting, but frankly – I listened so hard for name, that I forgot to consider anything else. In short, I did not realize that old Dr. Symonds was sharpening his rusty, blood-spattered knife for me. And did not realize it until my very arm came to be down over that huge, family sized china basin and I saw wobbly Dr. Symonds coming at me with the heated glass and blade.

When he set the cup on me and the rim burned me, I shrieked. And then when he angled the blade, "Help me! Help me!" I cried. "I can't give blood. I weigh less than 110 pounds." That was a lie of course, but I was going to try anything, and then I looked pleadingly in Young Dr. Fowle's direction. I thought a young doctor would see this for what it was – an antiquated medical practice. But Young Doctor Fowle only came forward to palpate my pulse. Isn't that just like a doctor? Always taking a pulse. What does that ever do for a person?

But then, Young Doctor Fowle said something. Finally, the owl spoke. "Perhaps we should let her rest and bleed her later. She does look pale."

Doctor Symonds was all in agreement. "Yes, she is pale. Quite a shock, I am certain."

And I was beginning to feel hopeful until Aunt Diana cried out, "No. She must be bled. That will bring her back to her senses."

Then that suddenly returned and, as I could already see, good for nothing Cousin Caroline threw her opinion in. "Yes, bleed her. She does not even know her own mother. Cut her and put leeches on." She brought the leech jar forward. Made of creamware – which is white – it was urn shaped. And it would have been a very pretty piece had not the letters L-E-E-C-H-E-S been printed in so bold a black upon it. It had a reticulated, or hole punched top, which I thought was fitting. I used to punch holes in the tops of jars I put bugs into. Caroline held the jar close to my ear so I could hear the leeches scratching inside it. Suddenly, though, she moved it in front of my face and since it seemed to signal my doom I gave a second shriek, and then, when Dr. Symonds took my hand, because the blade was still in his other, I fainted. I came to, but played like I was still out. Almost at once I heard Young Dr. Fowle step forward, then say,

"She has slept for six weeks." I would later learn that I – and I use the pronoun I loosely – had been in a state of coma for a month and a half. "Because of her long sleep I fear that bleeding will prove too great a shock. Obviously, anticipating it has sent her into a sleep again. I believe that first sleep has made her forget, and that if she comes to again she will remember in time." Because Young Dr. Fowle was so convincing and soothing, I figured I was now out of danger. Why, he could have said, "Marianne, I'm going to have to flay you alive," and I wouldn't even have felt a need for anesthesia. Because of that excellent bedside manner I opened my eyes again. What a mistake. His calming words obviously had not soothed Caroline because she continued on with great vehemence, insisting on my blood. She was such a lousy sucker with that overbite and those prominent incisors.

I appraised the situation in a semi-rational way. I didn't know the women insisting on my blood from loads of coal, so they seemed quite surreal. But the knife coming toward me seemed very real indeed and so I did what any rational, red blooded, but needle-shy American girl would do in a similar situation. I reached my arms out toward Di Di and called out, "Mummy!" I was going to use Mommy, but upon remembering that I might be in England still I decided to stick with the English formatting of the word.

The elder woman descended on me and bathed me with her tears. "Marianne, my sweet. I had thought you lost, but now you are found. Marianne, Marianne, my own dear child." She fussed over me several hours. I'm not exaggerating. And all the while Cousin Caroline looked on, annoyed-like. I rather think she wanted to see a little of my blood spilled – at least.

Chapter 3

"Despair falls upon your heart drop by drop, and with that comes wisdom." Aeschylus said that. Well, actually, I'm not quite certain Aeschylus said it. It could have been some other Greek, or maybe even a Roman, but supposing Aeschylus said it, he could easily have been describing transmigration when he did say it because transmigration, or at least the realization that you have been transported by it, comes bit by bit. And it's the bit-by-bit part I'd like to address. It's the repeated, never ending oddities: they finally tell you you're not in Kansas anymore. Not that I come from Kansas. I just use America's heartland figuratively.

I mean, waking up to strangely dressed people is one thing – a bit of a shock. But it was nothing compared to what followed. I was kept in bed days, and the room was kept so dark visitors, even at noon, crept round it with candles. A fire at one end of the room kept me stifling hot. Not to mention the coverlet, which did so as well. Whenever I could, I tossed the coverlet off, and "Mummy," whenever she could, put it on me again. From the candle and firelight I could see a good-sized room. A large, figured carpet that was chocolate in color covered the floor. The walls were also covered in chocolate, a brown colored paper which had small, light dots on it.

A chair, which I longed to sit in, sat in front of the fire. Beside it was a candle stand. And to the fire's other side, but against the wall, stood a washstand. The hole in its top held a blue china basin which "Mummy" daily filled before bringing it to the bedside to sponge me.

When I asked "Mummy" why I couldn't yet get out of bed she indicated that Dr. Symonds had ordered my continued stay there to prevent a relapse. She said, "You are to stay in bed at least a month and have nothing but beef tea."

Beef tea. When I discovered it was made by boiling beef and asked, "Where is the beef? I feel like eating some," Mummy insisted it would make me ill.

After the tea, I graduated to gruel taken with barley water. And finally, I feasted on toast with plain water, which might have been palatable had the two been served side by side. For medicinal purposes, however, boiling water was poured over the toast, and when that concoction was cooled, I drank it. My diet, or rather, lack of one, made me docile, that and the laudanum Mummy continually spooned down my throat.

Dr. Symonds came several times a day and though he thought leeches to my chest were in order – to remove any latent congestion – he settled instead on blisters to my chest and hot baths to my feet. I had to put my feet into a very beautiful footbath – I would like to have had it at home – and then scalding water was poured over them. That hurt, especially because I had to keep both feet submerged until the water cooled. I also had pigeons clapp'd to the bottoms of both feet – for what purpose I never learned.

I was never alone. "Mummy" or Caroline were continuously about the room. Mummy mainly. And when she was about the room, because she so dominated people, I felt like I was playing a continuous game of Mother-May-I.

My only consolation was that Young Doctor Fowle came several times a day too. He almost made my bed rest worthwhile. During our visits I learned that I could ask him about anything. He never looked shocked, and instead would only smile at me, very pleasantly I might add, and answer if he could. And I could well rely on him for confidentiality. Oh, if I'd had herpes – I didn't – I could have told him, and he would have understood.

I soon learned to direct my questions to him. I tried at first talking with Dr. Symonds, but that was a no go. When I asked, "Could I use the phone?" he brought out the leeches again. But Young Dr. Fowle was different. He didn't think me crazed, and actually like my questions. He was inquisitive, and could have fit into any age.

"What is a phone?" he would wonder.

And then I would try to explain, and get as far as the dial tone, and the difference between landlines and cellular towers. And then he would smile again, and pat my hand, and offer to take any of my letters to the post. I did try writing once, and even put the zip, but the village postman – Mummy was in league with his wife – who spotted the letter, gave it back to her and I could not write again.

With the whole village spying on me I had to learn who I could trust. Young Doctor Fowle could keep a confidence, and I figured our maid, Nanny Littlewort, would too because she looked so fondly after and so tenderly at me. I also liked that, while she didn't talk a great deal, when she did, she was right. Because of this I had learned to trust not only her, but any information I could glean from her. So I was pleased that after Dr. Fowle came in to decree my bed rest over Nanny had been sent up to help me dress. I figured Nanny had been sent up because Mummy had gone down to confer with Dr. Fowle before she him on his way.

Nanny got me up. She washed my face, then she pulled out a long dress – only she called it a gown – and began undoing the buttons on its back. Because it was winter and Mummy was still worried about my becoming chilled, she had, according to Nanny, instructed her to put me into what was called a stuff gown. Stuff's a type of fabric that's made of wool. It's thick and coarse – so coarse that before it even touched my skin I could tell it was going to itch me. So I had already started scratching.

As she dressed me Nanny talked.

"Lord, you were sick. First you were weak as a mouse and could hardly even call out. Then you became feverish. You were so hot we could hardly touch you." She looked tenderly at me. "When the fever was at its peak, the spots from the measles came on. As soon as your skin was covered with them your hair fell out. But none of that was so as awful as when you lay there still." She looked really tenderly at me. "For close to two months you never moved. But now you've got your strength back and your cheeks are rosy again. And your hair's coming back too. Look, you see for yourself." Next, Nanny pulled a mirror out of her apron pocket and held it up to me. And this is what I mean by the drop-by-drop stuff. I clasped the mirror in my hands to look at my face more closely – only it wasn't my face at all. I stared, then touched with my free fingers the skin on my cheek. When I did, fingers touched the cheek in the mirror. I touched my nose, and a finger touched the nose in the mirror. I even pulled the short hair near my forehead and a hand pulled the very same hair in the mirror.

Now you must understand this, and I do not mean to make the following sound like a last will and testament, but I, Marianne Rasmussen, was of sound enough mind to know that when I left the United States, I was in possession of 34 years and average looks. My nose was not straight. It was crooked and pugged. My eyes were small, not large and luminous. My cheekbones were high, but so pudgy they offset any classical shape my bone structure might have had. And my face was rounder than oval. It was so round my hairdresser had trouble elongating it. But here was a beauty staring back at me. I could even say an exquisite beauty, or a great beauty, but I think you'll best understand my transformation if I tell you that I looked a lot like a young Grace Kelly, but with teensy short hair.

I gasped. Nanny thought I was gasping because of the hair, and ran for Mummy, who had, after saying goodbye to Dr. Fowle, decided to get breakfast underway. Breakfast was forgotten. Mummy ran upstairs and also assumed I was gasping over my hair. So after bathing me in caresses and tears she said, "I'm sorry, Marianne! I hadn't given your hair a thought. It will come round right, though. I promise." She looked at Nanny then said, "She shall have my wig. Comfort her, Nanny, while I find it. Did I last put it in the attic?" Nanny nodded to indicate she did. "Yes. My wig. That will be the thing. You will see. We can put it on and it will make you look as elegant as Lady Seaton."

Breakfast was further forgotten and instead Mummy ran to the attic, scurried around – I thought she sounded like a large mouse – practically fell back downstairs again, she was racing so, and burst in holding before her like a beautiful birthday cake what she swore was a wig. It looked more like white cotton candy. She placed the dusty mess so near my nose I sneezed. The dust and powder which I subsequently blew onto her made her look like a Christmas tree which was now flocked. Mummy was upset I'd sneezed on the wig. Nanny, though, declared the powdered wig outmoded, and my sneezing on it for the best.

Still fixated on a wig, Mummy decided that she would leave first thing in the morning for London where she'd buy something in the latest style, especially after Nanny also said, "Have you not realized, Ma'am, that people no longer wear powdered wigs."

Well, because Mummy decided I was now not fit-to-be seen, she tried to force me back in bed. But when she pushed, I screamed. "I will not get into that thing again. I must be up."

That frightened Mummy and so she called out, "Hurry, Nanny. If you run you can catch Young Dr. Fowle. He can't be too far from the rectory as he is on foot today. Catch him and bring him back, will you."

"Yes, bring Dr. Fowle back. I wish to speak to him too!"

But Mummy would not grant that, and went out in the corridor to speak privately with Young Doctor Fowle. And while I couldn't hear her, I could hear him, and all his answers to her. First Mummy talked quietly, and then I heard Dr. Fowle say, "It is most imperative that she get up and be allowed at least free reign in the house. You cannot keep her forever in her room." Then Mummy spoke again in hushed tones and to that Dr. Fowle answered, "Yes, that may be, but notwithstanding – tomorrow she must be let out of doors. The sunlight will prove beneficial."

And then I could finally hear Mummy because she was almost screeching. "Yes, but the wig, I must go to London for the wig, and if I'm gone, she might chill – there is so much snow on the ground." Dr. Fowle remained firm and insisted that I take a short walk, and even agreed to be present for it tomorrow.

And then I heard a second man's voice. It was that of my "father," Mr. Lamb. I had yet to see him and had only heard reference to him. I knew for instance that he was a clergyman, and I knew that he had a study, but that was all I knew until I heard him speak. Then I knew he had a voice. "Oh really, Diana – do let her go. Dr. Fowle will be here – as will I. Go to London for the wig. I assure you, all will be well."

For the remainder of the day I had free reign in the house. It was small but comfortable. There were rooms, which were more or less equal in size, sitting in the four corners of it, both upstairs and down. The second story housed the bedrooms, and the first, our more or less public rooms. I say "more or less" because I'm sure Mummy would never have let anyone but a servant into her kitchen. That was why it occupied a back corner of the house. I went in and out of the kitchen for cups of tea. My "father's" study, with its bow window, took up the second downstairs back corner – I went in and out of it to look at his books – and a front room and a dining room filled out the front portion of the home. I explored the entire house, including the attic. The attic contained a garret where Nanny, Henry, our male servant and Nanny's spouse, and the mice stayed.

Mummy did put me back in bed before sundown – even after I'd said, "Really Mummy, I do not think I will chill by the fire." But still I was put back into bed at 4:00 p.m. with a cap on my head, a shawl round my shoulders, and about sixteen hundred blankets pulled up by my chin. But then I did have the promise of tomorrow in the sunlight.

And what a glorious day it was – mainly because Mummy was gone. I woke early, dressed myself, headed toward the stairs, and then bounded down them two at one time. I could hear Father outside singing. The very air seemed changed. I ran to the dining room for breakfast, which Nanny had left for me on the side table. After eating it and putting the mittens and cloak on I had promised Mummy I would wear, I went outside to wait for Dr. Fowle. He had agreed to call at nine. Because it was not quite eight, I had plenty of time to explore the grounds around the rectory. Even though they were covered with snow they looked pretty. Nothing was yet in bloom, but Father, who saw me when I came out and who was now with me, said, "Because you are finally well, we shall look with happiness toward the blooming of the primroses and other beautiful flowers come spring." As he brushed the snow off one of the hedgerows he added, "Often, when you were ill, I remembered that you loved the bright yellow flowers on this laburnum hedge."

When we walked to the end of one side of the horseshoe shaped drive that fronted the house and looked back at the rectory I could see it was plain, yet imposing. Imposing, I think, because it jutted up so quickly. It wasn't particularly wide, but because the ceilings on the first and second floor were twelve feet high, and the house was iced with an equally high ceilinged attic, my parents' home looked as imposing as a lone peak. Flanking the right side of the circular drive in which we still stood was a stand of some elms, chestnuts and fir. As we looked at the trees Father reminded me – though I was really hearing it for the first time – that they'd come from seeds he'd garnered when I was no larger than a baby. When we walked to the backside of the house we saw more elms, two expanses of snow-covered grass, and what Father said would be strawberries come spring. Father indicated he could hardly wait to tidy the beds and plant some thorn and lilac along a west-facing bank. On the opposite side of the strawberry patch was a brick terrace. Shrubs ringed it, and it had a sundial.

We were to confine our walk to the grounds, but as soon as Dr. Fowle came Father let us walk down the road away from the rectory. He excused his violating Mummy's instructions by saying, "A little walk won't desecrate her law as you two will swell be within my sight if you stay to the main road and don't walk too far down it." As the doctor and I walked, the snow crunched under our feet. I had no fear of slipping, though, because the doctor had put my arm through his. What a sensation to walk arm in arm with a gentleman. Because I could see a village off in the distance I asked its name. I made the tone of my voice sound nonchalant to hide the fact that I was peeping around for phone wires or cellular towers.

"Sandition," said Dr. Fowle.

"Sandition?"

"Yes, Sandition."

"And what lies beyond Sandition?"

"Newton Priors, Lady Seaton's house."

"And beyond the Priors?"

"London, I suppose."

"You suppose? Have you never gone to London?"

"London, yes, I have been there a time or two. It was where I was born."

"And London, how far is London?"

"I would estimate a good 30 miles, to the outskirts at least."

"And what is in London?"

With his answer, I hoped Dr. Fowle would shed light on the scanty phone service in his part of the country, but not realizing my hope he answered, "Your wig?" And then he looked at me with such a smile that I practically forgot about telephone service.

Chapter 4

Despite the hints I'd laid about coming from another age Mummy, because she believed I belonged to hers, constantly made reference to the past, and then grew perturbed when these references drew blanks from me. Case in point: During a breakfast some five weeks after my awakening Mummy said, "As you are now well enough, Signor Cabrini shall come today so that you may resume your music studies."

As I stared at the tiles surrounding the fireplace – they were delft and religious in nature and the center one of the Baptist's head on a platter often dampened my appetite – I said, "Who is Signor Cabrini? And what type of music do I study?"

My mother, a carving knife in hand and an expression on her face grimmer than John the Baptist's executioner who was on the next tile over, said, "Marianne, your forgetfulness is tiresome."

"I should like to forget Signor Cabrini," said my father.

"That is because you've no taste."

Mummy's criticism stilled Father, but I guessed not hardly enough when she added, "William, must you breathe?"

He said, "I must. Every so often."

I almost laughed, but when I remembered the great strain Mummy was under – because she reminded us of it often enough – I stopped and tried to sit very mouse like until Mummy again broke the silence.

"Well certainly, William, I realize you must breathe – in general principle. But must you breathe while you chew?"

You see, Mummy wanted Father to breathe, but through his mouth, and only between bites because his nostril whistled. Father found that impossible, though, so he had to cease breathing altogether until Mummy again broke the silence.

"Look at the time." Fortunately I had not forgotten how to do that, and could see by looking at the pendulum clock hanging over the mantelpiece that it was now half past nine. "Signor Cabrini will be here at any moment. Marianne, you must finish dressing." She looked again at the time and then called out, "Nanny, I'm harried. Come help." I lost part of my breakfast. The toast I was just putting in my mouth fell to the floor as Mummy grabbed me by the arm to whisk me upstairs. Nanny picked it up, and brought me another. When the three of us were convened in my room Mummy said, "Hurry, get out of your wrapper." After I had taken it off and put it on the bed I held my arms up so that Nanny could help me out of my night shift. That left me standing naked before an audience. I hated dressing in such a manner, but it was the way it was done.

Before long Mummy held out what was no longer strange to me. The first time I saw it though …Ugh. It was a pair of crotchless drawers, or pantalets, as they were called. Because they looked different from any underclothing I have ever seen they are perhaps best described by calling them chaps because, like chaps, they had separate pieces for each leg. These separate pieces tied around the waist. They didn't hook together anywhere else though. Once they were on, the tie strings dangled down over one's naked tummy. Since they were peek-a-boo I couldn't see why a decent woman would wear them, but Mummy said they were proper.

Of course, I'm lying when I say I'd never seen anything other than chaps which were quite like them because once when I went to a wedding shower I watched the bride-to-be unwrap a pair of crotchless underpants. After I had my crotchless underpants on Mummy put a slip over them and then Mummy followed the slip with my stockings, which would be held up by the pair of knitted garters Mummy handed me. My stockings had to go on before my corset because once that was on I wouldn't be able to bend over and help at all. The wooden busk and stays in the corset would keep me absolutely erect. After the stockings were on – they were wool and black to keep me warm – and I had put my garters over them Nanny came around front and laid my corset across my chest. As Mummy caught the back edges and began lacing them together she sent Nanny downstairs to check the front room. Mummy was so fastidious she wanted everything perfect. As soon as I was dressed in another stuff gown she sent me downstairs too. I went into the front room and decided to follow Nanny around in it. And as long as I was in it I also decided to ask her about my music. "Which do I do, Nanny? Sing? Or play?"

As she picked a piece of lint off the carpet she said, "The latter." By the time she reached the windowsill and began wiping it down I asked her whether or not I played well. I could tell by the way she was clearing her throat she was stalling. After she cleared it four times without giving me a concrete answer I decided to ask her what I played. She pointed to something that looked like a small version of a piano. I say "small" because it had a short keyboard, only three octaves instead of four above middle "C" and only slightly over two below it. This shortened keyboard had been set into a small, wooden box that sat on spindly legs. A plate on the front of the piano indicated that it had come from London. Two candles flanked a built in music stand that jutted out of the top. Because the stand was empty I next said, "Where is my music, Nanny?"

Nanny got a book with a pasteboard cover out of a Canterbury on the floor. The music inside it had been hand copied, I supposed by me. As I surveyed the book I realized it was full of simple, country tunes. Nanny said, "You play these, Marianne. But not too well."

I appreciated her honesty. She wiped the keyboard with the hem of her apron and then left me alone to wait. I had hardly been alone for a moment when the bell outside the front door rang. Before another moment had passed I heard Nanny go to the door, open it, and say, "Signor Cabrini, will you wait rather than go straight in? Madam wishes to have a word with you before her daughter's lesson." I then heard Nanny leave the entryway and start upstairs, I assumed, to fetch Mummy.

When the Signor began speaking to someone before I'd heard my mother come down I realized he had not come alone. He said to this companion, "Miss Lamb is beautiful. But stupid. And this lack has kept her from excelling at her music. If you listen with your eyes, though, you will be pleased." When I heard deep voices laughing together I figured the signor's companion was male. To say the least, I was irritated that two men whom I did not know were laughing at my expense, and that I was considered a dimwit also annoyed me. Sadly, the original Marianne – as attested to by comments both my parents made – lacked some internal wattage. Well, the time had come to change that point of view. I wasn't going to have anyone laugh at me, so I resolved to play my best, even if I had to spend hours explaining why I suddenly could.

As I was gathering the momentum I would need to carry out my purpose I felt I could almost hear Mrs. Leona Sharp, a Canadian and my former piano teacher, say what she said during most of my lessons: "Marianne, your playing is practically brilliant. And you sight read well. If only you would practice." Actually, "brilliant" might not have been Mrs. Sharp's exact word, but I'm sure she said the part about the sight-reading. I could sight read well, and that would get me through Cabrini. I mean, hadn't I used it to get through worse? Book Seven of the Royal Conservatory of Toronto! And then when I considered my metronome work, and my interpretation of Forty Piano Favorites You Like to Play – well, that certainly prepared me for a lousy book of country tunes.

After Mummy spoke with the Signor he entered the room, bowed, took off this short, fur thing that looked like a matador cape – his colleague did the same with a plain black one – and then when both men had taken their capes off and put them, one on top of the other, on a chair, the Signor kissed my hand. When he did, I laughed because hand kissing is silly. He looked hurt, but before I could apologize he said – "Might I introduce my new assistant, Signor Fabrini."

"Oh, Cabrini, Fabrini. How will I – with my small brain – ever keep you two gentlemen straight?" When I said, "with my small brain," both men appeared to melt before me. Their melting was proof that men like feeling superior to women. After I adjusted the piano stool I sat down on it and started to play, one country tune, then another and another, until I had played the ex-Marianne's entire repertoire, and much to Signor Cabrini's satisfaction. At least I supposed I had satisfied him because after I'd played and he'd leaned over the music book and leafed through it a bit, he said, "An excellent execution on each piece, especially 'Old Robin Gray'"

Since "Old Robin Gray" was actually a duet he soon had suggested we play it together. Once he'd pulled a side chair over we did so. When we were finished Signor Cabrini said, "Miss Lamb, your illness has improved your playing. I shall recommend it to all my lady students."

Since I wanted him out of the house I feigned fatigue. "You will excuse me," I said. "I think I shall lie down. I tire so easily now, but do come again, and next time, bring something challenging, would you? Do you have any Bocherini, Signor Cabrini?"

I planned to go straight to my room – because I figured someone would eventually show the gentlemen out – but to help Nanny, when I saw a piece of lint on the carpet in front of the door I paused to pick it up. As I did I heard Signor Fabrini say, "I don't think her execution is bad at all."

After I had stood up Mummy came from behind, pushed past me, pulled open the door to the sitting room, called to the two gentlemen, walked them to the front door and when they were out of it and ear shot turned on me before saying, "Marianne, I do not pay out money to hear Signor Cabrini play. I want you to learn. So, in the future, don't let him touch the instrument during your lessons."

"But Mummy. He did not. Just once at the end." I was talking like a five year old, which is what I had been reduced to.

I had the hardest time convincing Mummy, probably because she was so familiar with my old self, that finally I had to resort to playing the tunes again, this time for her.

"I am all astonishment," Mummy said. "You are greatly improved."

If I had learned anything from Mummy it was that she was disappointed in her real daughter's intellect. She loved her beauty – and found it, "worth the first circle," as she said, but the other remained a source of disappointment. It's not that Mummy wanted an egghead, or even a wit, but she did want something in the way of intelligence, probably because, first, Mummy was herself, a bright, if not prickly woman. And second, because without smarts one cannot achieve excellence in music. And a daughter who did not excel in music was supposedly at a loss in the marriage market. At least, whenever women were out in public, men liked to hear them play. I likened such skills to the talent portion in a beauty pageant – not in large measure crucial to the crown. Though, now that I knew I had formerly had none of those sought after skills the melancholy looks which sometimes crossed Mummy's face when other women spoke about their daughters' accomplishments spoke volumes. How I longed to correct Mummy. How I longed to say, "Mummy, this face that I have inherited is all that I need." I mean, in the modern world my three years with Mrs. Sharp never got me a date. I do not mean to malign Mrs. Sharp. She was a fine teacher and did become – in 1982, I think – a naturalized U.S. citizen.

But I shared none of this with Mummy because Mummy was already into raptures over my new found skill – and so she began to plan my debut. "We must call Signor Cabrini back and you will work with him daily. Nuance, my dear. We must work on nuance. Nothing showy. Fluid movement. Nuance."

This woman is a stage mummy, I thought.

"The Basingstoke Ball, Marianne, you shall begin there. The Basingstoke Assembly Hall has a fine instrument and on it you will play between dances."

"Between every one?" My gosh, was I going to be paid?

"No, mainly between the third and fourth set – I think."

And so with that in mind, Signor Cabrini came back on a daily basis. And I had to put up with his fur cape and his assistant on the same. We polished and ground until I shone. Well, I might exaggerate some, but even I say I sparkled a bit. Mrs. Sharp was right. Practice did improve sound.

The long awaited day of my debut dawned and I awoke, but with a startling thought. I put words to it. "Mummy," I said – because I was remembering that it was a ball I was going to be going to – "Do you think I know how to dance?"

"Of course you do, Marianne. You are grace itself. No one can do the quadrille better."

"The quadrille? I have never danced the quadrille."

Mummy's face turned ashen, and I almost pitied her. She had been so proud of my progress at the piano that I hated to spoil it with a downside. But there it was. I couldn't remember how to do the quadrille because I had never done one. I was truly a double-edged sword. With my birth in another world I sometimes had the advantage, sometimes not.

Mummy tried to show me some steps. "Think!" she kept commanding, but when it seemed that nothing could spark my recall she called out for Nanny. "Oh hurry, Nanny. Please, run for Caroline." Great, I thought – that wicked Cousin Caroline. I shall be at her mercy again – as if Signor Cabrini hadn't been enough. "Beg my sister, her mother, to come as well," added my mother.

I had yet to meet my mother's sister Susan because she was usually sick and therefore at home. And whenever we visited her there she was so sick that only my mother went into her bedroom to speak with her. For this reason I knew her strictly by her ailments. And I had learned about them strictly through mountains of hearsay. I will give only one example in a long litany of conditions: For example, when Caroline would arrive for one of her all to frequent visits to our house she would say, "Mummy is so unwell today."

And then my mother would solicitously ask, "Is it her hands? Are they glowing again – do you think? Oh, I hope they're not glowing." I longed to see Aunt Susan's glowing hands, but as she and Caroline came driving up I ascertained they were gloved, and Susan, loathe to remove them, never did. They came in a curricle, which is a small vehicle with two seats. Caroline drove while her Mummy steadied the invalid chair which was strapped to the curricle's downed, cabriolet top. I supposed Nanny had to foot it back home. She was, after all, only a servant. Because they had hurried, Caroline arrived out of breath, but glowing – or I should rather say "gloating" over her ascendancy. And I could almost hear her think, well, yes, Marianne may be beautiful, and musical now, but she can't dance, can she?

I think Caroline rushed in ahead of her mother because she didn't want to help her mother out of the curricle. And so while that leach comforted mine, Father and I became the arms and legs for hers. "Get my chair out first," said Susan, "so I've got something to sit on." We unstrapped it from the cabriolet top, which I've already said was down. As we did so Aunt Susan said, "I hate driving with my head exposed to the air because I worry I'll chill. But to help Marianne we hadn't a choice. The chair wouldn't fit in the curricle with the top up. And it would have taken forever to harness the carriage." To counteract, or at least I supposed to lessen the threat of chill, Aunt Susan had come in a thick cape – about as thick as a horse blanket was – with numerous shawls underneath it.

Her chair was a modern wonder. Two wooden wheels at the front were balanced by a small one at the rear. The seat and backrest were cushioned. There was tray for her feet: it came up and the back went down. The contraption did not look entirely like a recliner chair, but it functioned like one. It even had a tray for her glowing hands. Once we had the chair off and up and Susan in it, Father wheeled her in. She was hardly through the door before she said, "I need to recline." So Father laid her out like Lazarus.

However, the moment Mummy said, "Susan, we need you to make a fourth for dancing," Lazarus rose. In fact, she almost looked spry as she said,

"I do like a dance now and then."

Mummy produced a book about dancing. It contained drawings of the figures dancers cut. These drawings consisted of lines, symbols and arrows. Well, because the lines reminded me of drawings I had seen on television of football plays I had the most insatiable urge to call out, "Hut one, hut two, hut three, hike."

Father opened the doors separating the principal rooms while Mummy went over the pre-dance stance I should adopt by using Caroline as her model. She pointed to Caroline as she said, "See how your cousin's arms and shoulders are relaxed." After looking at Caroline's I let mine drop like a pair of noodles. Mummy hollered, "No! Your upper arms must curve gently away from your torso. Not hang limp at your side." Flexing my elbows out didn't look relaxed to me.

As Daddy rolled the carpets in the rooms up, Aunt Susan said, "Look at this sore on my upper arm." She picked at it. "I don't know why it will not heal." She picked again. "It hurts like the devil." She picked again.

Mummy examined her sister's arm. "I, too, cannot imagine why it will not heal. It has been there weeks, has it not? So why the scab won't heal is a mystery to me as well." Unable to let it be Aunt Susan picked a fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth and ninth time.

I felt I had finally got my arms positioned correctly. However, I discovered I had not bent my elbows out far enough. When I bent them further – incidentally, to the actual angle which Mummy'd dictated – she pushed them in and said, "Now you've bent them out too far." Once my arms were bent at the proper angle I had to then turn my feet out just so – so that they were shown to their best advantage. After I had assumed what Mummy deemed the proper position – in holding it I looked like a scarecrow on a stick – I stood frozen in that tableau while Mummy and Daddy, and Caroline and Susan, partnered up to execute a mini form of the quadrille. Caroline playing the gentleman, my mummy letting Daddy play "the guy" too, the four of started out by doing a series of hop jump steps – that's the only way I can describe what was going on – and then they raised their right hands and clasped those of their partners', did the hop jump thing again, switched partners – at least they seemed to – did the hop jump thing yet again. And then, somehow, they had all changed places. I say "somehow" because I wasn't sure exactly how the four of them had done so. Which was unfortunate because Mummy next said, "Now, you try."

Caroline was to stand beside me, to show me my steps. I hated Caroline. So instead, I thought about Mrs. Whitchurch, my modern world childhood dance instructor. She coached me with respect to tap, acrobatics and ballet. I called that year of training to mind – because I was so desperate – but somehow, it didn't seem to help. I mean, I couldn't see myself breaking into a forward roll, and so I finally had to watch that obnoxious Caroline.

But I couldn't figure it out and the sun was sinking lower, so finally my mother said, "We will have to bandage your leg and you will have to limp, Marianne. You remember how to limp, I suppose." To help me, she demonstrated a graceful, yet convincing, hobble. "We shall simply say that you twisted your ankle this evening. We shall come late, you will play, and then we will return home early. Your plight will be sure to arouse sympathy, my dear." What else could I do except walk out to the carriage and be taken away?

We arrived at the start of the third set, and at its close I limped up to the piano. Lady Seaton was up front, and asked – I was later told – about my bandage. Mummy had been sitting by her and was so pleased with the sympathy expressed that she could hardly give adequate attention to the directing of my person. Lucky me. I went on with my debut alone. I stood up by the piano, then dropped into recital mode. The first step in recital mode was to turn the people into cabbage heads. This made the audience look so ridiculous it chased my nerves. After I was looking out over a sea of cabbages I said, "The piece I am about to play is titled, 'Mad Bess,' and it is by Henry Purcell." Mummy winced. She had asked that I leave the title out – as it was not graceful – but I was ignoring Mummy because she was now a cabbage head. After a small curtsey I sat down, positioned my fingers, and began to play. Mummy really should have been grateful for all she got. I know I mentioned "Mad Bess," but it could have been worse. Mrs. Sharp let us play popular tunes – when she wasn't plaguing us with the classics – and I could have really whipped on "Another One Bites the Dust," but instead, I played the melancholy, "Mad Bess." And then, although I hadn't okayed this with Mummy or Signor Cabrini, I decided to do an encore too. I played, from memory, "Bouree," by J. S. Bach. As I began Mummy looked concerned, and Signor Cabrini surprised – yet Mrs. Sharp would have been so pleased. She thought the "Bouree" my best piece and suggested I play it for the new piano teacher she assumed I would be getting when we moved. I never did get her, though, because my real mom refused to pay for additional lessons, probably due to my "no practice" policy.

I played well and then took my seat in the crowd. Mummy shot me a nod of approval and then the paid musicians started up, and the dance resumed. Partway through that set Mummy came to me. She said, "We cannot leave before the fifth set, Marianne. To do so would seem indelicate. So sit and enjoy yourself while I circulate."

I sat by myself and began tapping my toes, but unfortunately, I was tapping with the toes of my "affected" foot when Young Dr. Fowle came up to me. Because I didn't keep secrets from him I said, "My foot is not hurt at all. I just do not know the steps to the quadrille – to any dance here for that matter – so Mummy has bandaged my foot to buy herself some time."

"Buy herself some time? What an interesting expression." After staring at me a moment he said, "Miss Lamb, you are the only – other than Lady Seaton – unaffected woman I know. Only, your lack of artifice seems to be a new twist. Leastways, I never found you unaffected before." After staring at me a second time he smiled his trademark smile, following which he said, "My favorite patient has suffered such a nasty twist that I think I ought to come round tomorrow to more carefully examine her ankle."

What happiness. A visit from Dr. Fowle. As I sat with him I wished we could've danced because I would like to have had him touch my hands – even if it were only in the course of a quadrille. Not far into our conversation I wondered if I weren't wishing out loud because of the way his right hand so frequently touched mine. To be touched by so handsome a man was a thrilling sensation.

Chapter 5

According to Nanny, Lady Seaton, who lived a Newton Priors, had been widowed for seven years and of those seven she had been, since Phillipa, her daughter, died, childless for four. Phillipa was, as Nanny said, "dimwitted." (I had lost a compatriot before she was ever found!) Nanny also indicated that Philippa, in the year before she died, eloped with a fortune hunter. Though when I say they eloped I'm misrepresenting what happened because from what Nanny also said – after he spirited her off he refused to marry her. Lady Seaton eventually traced them to Cheapside in London and Nanny was the first, after my father, to know that Phillipa had been found because she had overheard Lady Seaton telling him.

When I wondered why Lady Seaton would have taken my father into her confidence Nanny said, "Your father is a clergyman whom everyone can trust. He is an excellent man, as you must know, so she has always confided in him, but she started to confide in him even more once she was widowed. In the instance of her daughter she came to him to ask him to go with her to London where he married Phillipa to the reprobate. Phillipa delivered her child not more than a week later and died while giving birth." When I wondered whether or not her child had survived Nanny said, "Have you never seen her?"

I supposed I had seen a small child riding, from time to time, in Lady Seaton's carriage. And I remembered seeing the same little girl in a shop now and then – always with Lady Seaton. She was delicate and pretty. And for a small child seemed to ask the most intelligent of questions. One day, for instance, I observed her handling a clock and wondering what made it sound as it did. And she was not yet five.

From Nanny, I further learned that the child was called Margaretta; that Lady Seaton doted on her; and that her father had been handsomely bought off. This made Lady Seaton her guardian now. Needless to say, Margaretta was Lady Seaton's heir and reason for living.

Nanny often gossiped like this as we dressed. Yes, Nanny or Mummy was still dressing me, and I still couldn't quite fathom it. I mean, I could see someone helping me with a zipper in back, but this business of someone holding open my drawers so I could step into them was awful. I told Mummy so.

She said, "Why – Marianne! You are a lady, and ladies never dress themselves." When Mummy said never one could not get away from it even with her gone, as she was that morning. What a relief. She was gone to see Aunt Susan, who was ailing again. Here is the back-story. "She has had six leeches," Mummy indicated the night before. "And yet, the pain persists. I must fly to her now that you are well enough. Unless you mind, Marianne. Do you mind?"

That was almost a stupid question on Mummy's part – for we all liked nothing better than to get rid of her – so I said, "Poor Aunt Susan. You must go to her at once. You must. Father and I shall manage… somehow." Mummy left before dawn. Her departure awoke me and since I was up so early I decided to put into practice a plan I had been formulating. I knew the road to London passed by our house so I planned to use it as my guide to see how far I could go by noon. Then I would turn back and follow that same course home. I wanted to see how close I could come to London in half a day's time. And I was still on the lookout for phone wires. On that very morning, with Mummy gone, I decided to try and change my lot in another way as well, and so I said, "Nanny, I really do hate having you help me step into my drawers." She answered she hated holding them out for me. Settled. She would never do it again.

"But," she said, "I don't see how I could forgo the rest." I agreed, she dressed me, and then I ran downstairs for my walk. I met Father as he came up the road. He had been called in the middle of the night to the bedside of one of his parishioners and was only now coming home. He asked my destination.

"No place in particular," I said. "Just a good, long walk. I plan to amble through the countryside all day long."

"I suppose, then, I shall see you this evening. Have a splendid day, dear."

That's what I liked about Father. He was entirely nonchalant. It's not that he didn't care, but that he trusted me – and the world. I could wander to Graves End and back and he wouldn't raise a brow. Of course, Mummy more than made up for his lack, but then Mummy was gone and Father whistled and breathed, and I could go for my walk without worrying, like Mummy, about the bands of gypsies that, "coursed through the countryside."

It was beautiful that morning. England is lush – and because of that – usually damp and gray, but that morning and the day it grew into was a postcard perfect one. The sun was out, the sky blue, the meadow rolling and green. Sheep were gamboling. It was now spring and so the flowers were blossoming – especially those on the hedgerows. I had taken a little luncheon with me. I carried it in my reticule, which is a sack like purse. I wasn't sticking to the main road, even though I knew it to be nearby, but was instead, traversing the fields which lay adjacent to it. I had passed Sandition and was heading toward Newton Priors, Lady Seaton's home, when I noticed, downhill – I was at the top of a small knoll - a pond fed by a stream. A picturesque bridge topped it. Fields surrounded it.

I planned to make for the pond because I wanted to drink the water. But before I could set out I noticed two figures, an adult and child, coming out of a copse on the far side of one of the fields surrounding the pond. Before the child disappeared into the tall grass which had rapidly shot up that spring, I could see it was Lady Seaton's granddaughter. Lady Seaton herself, rather than the child's nurse, had come out with her. I watched them – charmed. Margaretta ran through the grass like a lamb, with Lady Seaton, her shepherdess, trying to follow. Only, Lady Seaton soon lost track of Margaretta when Margaretta ran so quickly ahead into the grass. As I said, it had so quickly shot up that spring that it was already almost a foot taller than Margaretta.

Margaretta was soon next to the bridge, but Lady Seaton did not know so, because the grass had shot up. With my vantage point up on the hill, though, I could see that Margaretta had started across the bridge. When she was midway, because the bridge arched up like ones I had seen in Japanese gardens, Lady Seaton could finally see her, and so she called out a warning. It startled the child and she lost her footing and fell into the water. And then because she evidently couldn't swim, after she'd flailed a moment or two, her head went under.

I was not far off so I set out running. My narrow skirt hampered me so I pulled it up to my waist as I ran. Soon I had sprinted down the hill, onto the bridge, and had dived into the water. I swam to where Margaretta's skirts were floating up, lifted her head up out of the water, and pulled her to shore.

I checked to see whether she was breathing. She was not. She did have a pulse though. I turned her on her side – after pressing her abdomen – and when she had expelled the pond water she'd gulped with her gasping she naturally began breathing again. She hadn't been in the water long: I figured she had been submerged at the most a minute or two. The child's grandmother had reached me almost as soon as I had pulled her out of the pond, but I was so busy with my rescue efforts that I had done nothing but notice her presence. When Margaretta started breathing regularly again, though, I looked up at Lady Seaton and said, "All will now be well. See how her chest rises and falls. She's breathing easy once more."

It was then that I gave more notice to Lady Seaton. One look and I realized that when she had reached us she had flopped herself down in the mud. Consequently, the front, back, and hem of her gray silk day dress were smeared with it. Obviously, she had chosen the better part – her granddaughter – and the gray silk could go with the wind. What an excellent character and grand lady. I figured Mummy wouldn't have dirtied her skirts for me. But worse still, Mummy would never have handled things quite so well. If I'd been Margaretta, and Mummy she, she'd have taken over, fussed, asked too many questions, and probably smothered my chances for recovery. Lady Seaton, though, had stayed back – in the mud albeit – until my nonchalance assured her things were well. I again looked at her skirt and the mud covering it. And then I raised my eyes to her face. Several tears were inching down it. They drew attention to her features. The bones of her cheeks were high. Her eyes were a brilliant blue – not watery or faded. And her nose was small and not drooping like many of the women her age. Mummy and most of her friends looked hawk like because of their drooping snouts. But Lady Seaton looked more like a comely dove – one that was bedraggled for sure, but absolutely comely.

Once I decided Margaretta was stable enough to be moved Lady Seaton suggested we take her shawl and make a litter for her. What a good idea! Though I could just as easily have carried Margaretta myself, we doubled the shawl to give it strength, I placed Margaretta in the center of it, told her to lie still, and then we set off – like two children carrying a basket – through the copse. Newton Priors was on the other side of it. The copse was so small, though, and Margaretta was so light, and Lady Seaton so gloriously happy, that we hardly felt the strain.

When I finally saw Newton Priors I realized that it was as pretty as a chateau. Indeed, it was one, with its three stories made out of pink stone. A long drive, which joined to the road – that road I had been skirting – led up to it. No one was out, but again, Margaretta was so light and Lady Seaton so happy we could feel no strain. We proceeded up the steps of the Priors. When we were standing in front of the double doors I said something about ringing the bell. Over this, Lady Seaton laughed. It was her house so we could walk in. The door handle was a lever so I unlatched it with my hip.

When Lady Seaton realized her front hall was empty, too, we laid Margaretta down on the hall chairs – three oak ones with round backs sat so close together they could jest as well have been a settee – so Lady Seaton could reach for the bell pull. In moments, a man, whom Lady Seaton subsequently called McCallum, appeared. Lady Seaton, as I would later learn, had a house in Scotland, and McCallum was her steward there, but because she liked McCallum so well she had now made him her steward in both houses. He mustered her troops with a whistle.

Since I was immediately taken by a lady's maid for dry clothing I had no clue as to what happened next. I only know another strange woman was holding out some drawers for me, and only assumed that Lady Seaton went with her granddaughter to the nursery.

Unbeknownst to me, a doctor was called in. And yes, it was that very charming, and young, Dr. Fowle. He eventually came to my room, the one I temporarily occupied. As he stood in the doorway he slyly smiled, then said, "I understand you've been for a swim. Your mother shall be unhappy, I think. But I'll pronounce you well, to offset her worry."

As it happened, Lady Seaton broke the news to Mummy, and when such an august person as she explained my action with words like "quick thinking," Mummy was pleased. Really, no one had ever used the term "quick thinking" with me before and so Mummy had to be pleased. But let me get back to Dr. Fowle. He said, "I am to ask if you need anything."

I did. I wanted out. "I have been so shut up in bedrooms," I said, "that I hate being stuck in them now." After briefly taking my hands in his – he said his purpose was to see if they were chilled – he left to see what he could do to free me.

Lady Seaton soon arrived at my door. She was all gratitude and I tried to make small my part so as not to further indebt her. At the tail end of thanking me too many times she said, "Miss Lamb, I insist you forgive me. Obviously, I incorrectly assumed that you would want to lie down. But after speaking with Dr. Fowle I can see where lying down would be noxious. I would like to return to Margaretta. Even though I should by rights, since you are my guest, accompany you. As that is impossible, though, if you should want or need anything as you explore the house and grounds, I have instructed McCallum to be on the watch for you. So feel free to wander in safety."

I thought I ought to wander home. It was late and since it would take an hour or more to walk there I now said to my host, "I'm sure my father is wondering where I am. So wouldn't it be best if I started home?"

Lady Seaton answered, "The moment you were shown to your room, McCallum sent word to your father. And since that was an hour ago, he certainly knows you are safe, and also that I have asked that you dine with me. My carriage will take you home after we have eaten." She turned to go; then looked back – kindly at me, in my borrowed things. After a noticeable pause she said, "That gown is lovely on you. It was my daughter's, and you and she were of about the same likeness – in height, I mean."

Once she left my door I made my way outside. The grounds surrounding her home were enormous. For instance, I could see four vegetable gardens off at a distance. We had one vegetable garden at home. And beyond the vegetable gardens, fields for hay. A French parterre had been planted adjacent to the house so I began with a walk through it. Afterward, I stood a moment in the sun there before going into the adjacent greenhouse which was closest to me. After talking to a gardener about its exotic specimens I wandered out and down the allee that was formed by two huge hedges of yew. The large, lead statues of Greek deities lining it made it look like a gauntlet. I flew past Mercury with a pair of wings on his feet, Diana with a bow, Aphrodite with a crown of long, luxuriant hair, and numerous others. Though it was not the time of year when deer came foraging, one appeared. It blinked at me before it darted away. I sat for nearly an hour on a white metal seat with austere lines. It was the centerpiece of a small garden enclosed with yet another hedge. Lady Seaton probably owned half the yews in the county. A single opening in the hedge served as the entrance and exit. The grass inside the garden was soft, like a carpet. I was enjoying the quiet space and thinking how secluded it was when I noticed that I had a visitor, this time human. Margaretta had poked her head into the opening. I called, "Does your grandmother know that you have escaped, my dear?" She was as shy as a fawn and even though the tone in my voice was pleasant, when I spoke to her she looked frightened, so I went to her. She put her hand in mine, I think by way of saying thank you. "How did you escape?" I asked.

She said, "I closed my eyes until Grandma did, and once she did, I slipped away." When I asked her where she had left her grandmother she said, "Asleep in my nurse's chair."

As I looked up from her pale blue eyes and saw Lady Seaton rushing toward us I said, "Margaretta, I believe your grandmother is no longer asleep, my dear." We walked to meet her and then the three of us returned to the main house.

I thought I would have to speak in Margaretta's defense, but Lady Seaton was so mild and generous a parent that she merely said, "Shall you and I go back to the nursery, Margaretta?" Or was it I who most needed the sleep?" No chastisement on the lady's part was given. I found my way back to my room and waited there for the call to dinner.

Chapter 6

At home we ate a four p.m. to avoid using candles, but at Lady Seaton's dinner convened at seven. To prepare me for it, one of Lady Seaton's maids arranged my hair –my own, my wig was too wet – by pinning the longer strands at the back and sides up and then by curling and arranging the bangs and crown. As icing she put a sprig of flowers in the front part of my hair because wearing them like so was the fashion. I thought that the sprig looked like a horn, but the maid assured me it was stylish.

Because Lady Seaton's daughter wasn't old enough to have been "out" when she ran off, Lady Seaton, when she sent word to my father, sent it by way of yet another maid whose second charge was bringing me something of my own that I could wear. She must have conferred with Nanny because when she returned she brought not only a white dress, but a pendant my father had given me. Only Nanny would have remembered that I liked it. Once I was dressed in my own things the maid who'd fixed my hair led me to the small dining room. As we went she recited the evening menu.

Food interests me – I'll look at any menu outside a restaurant – but the fact that dinner would consist of white fish, asparagus and guinea fowl, paled before the sights before me. The passing rooms were so big I began to wonder about the "small" dining room's dimensions because nothing was small in Lady Seaton's house. It was all as big as a castle and as grand as one. Polished floors and fine carpets lay under our feet and brilliant chandeliers and imposing portraits sat over our heads. When we came to a beautiful oriel window I looked out it. In the garden beyond I watched an owl swoop down on its prey. The giant yew looming beside the owl looked black in the moonlight. I would like to have watched a moment longer, but the maid hurried me on.

Together we walked down additional halls which turned so many times I decided that without her I would have needed a map to get back to my room. I thought we would go on forever, but after one final turn we stopped at a vestibule where the maid handed me off to Lady Seaton. To my surprise, sitting with her was Young Doctor Fowle. I thought he would have gone home. He planned to spend the night in a room close to Margaretta's just as a precaution. He jumped up to greet me and Lady Seaton gave me a warm and gracious nod and then we went in to dinner.

The small dining room was, as I expected, large. It was paneled in dark wood that was covered with long portraits. The portraits were so lifelike I felt they were looking down at me rather than I looking up at them. The portrait of one man in particular scared me to death. When Lady Seaton caught me looking askance at him she said, "Please do not let my late husband's uncle Trevalyn frighten you. Though he did me when I was around your age. His severe looks were off putting. And I really should have his portrait moved because a sour face is never an aid to digestion."

"Like wine can be," said Young Doctor Fowle.

After taking another look at Uncle Trevalyn's frightening mien – his eyes and mouth were cruel and his nose sword like – Lady Seaton said, "Though it would be too disruptive to move his portrait now, we could. Let us take our plates to the opposite end of the table so that we are able to eat with our backs to Uncle Trevalyn." I worried that would've been almost as bad – a frowning lord staring over my shoulder, and probably picking food off of my plate. But I reached for my plate anyway. Before I could touch the rim, though, Young Doctor Fowle unobtrusively stopped my hand because he could see that Lady Seaton had turned to call to her butler. "Willoughby," she said, "will you have two footmen move our plates." Willoughby glided out, I supposed to the two footmen we had passed in the hall, and they came in and moved everything on the polished table downstream. This was all done without a commotion. So unlike home where, when Mummy wanted anything done, it was prefaced with agitation. Moving plates would have been catastrophic. "I don't know why Nanny has put them here. How will I have them moved?" It would have taken an earthquake and the theory of plate tectonics to move dishes and silver downstream at home. And I realized once again that at the age of thirty-four I was being mothered by a drama queen. No wonder the actual Marianne had gone comatose.

I was given the seat of honor, Lady Seaton sat to my right, and Young Doctor Fowle at my left. Lady Seaton, who now decided I might chill so far from the fire – she was like Mummy in some respects – had a beautiful screen put behind me. As it was put into place she said, "I painted this when I was a girl. Do you paint, Miss Lamb?" Before I said no I turned around to admire what was behind me. On the central panel Lady Seaton had painted a large home. It was gothic in style. After she pointed to it she said, "I lived here when I was a girl." The home had pointed gables and crenellation. The park surrounding it had been painted on the screen's side panels. A lone, red, bird fluttered in the sky above the park while a pair of perfectly matched black spaniels ran in its foreground. "Those were our family pets, Night and Ink," she said. "And they were as perfectly matched as I have painted them. And perfectly tempered. I have never since had pets their equal." I wondered how my cat was fairing.

Because the screen was well-executed – it was over eight feet high and painted actually on both sides – I again complimented its designer. Lady Seaton said, "Oh, the silly things we do when we are girls." I was glad she thought painting was silly because I couldn't paint worth anything and eventually told her so. In fact, just the year before, in a watercolor class that my sister Wendy'd talked me into taking with her it seemed that no matter what I had painted – mountains, sky, or trees – when our instructor looked over my shoulder she'd turn to Wendy and say, "Oh, I like what's happening on your paper here." And then she'd glance at my stuff and walk off.

Once I was settled behind the screen – which did a lot to protect me from Lord Trevalyn – but before Lady Seaton could motion the butler to begin serving dinner Margaretta's governess came in. After making her apologies she said, "Margaretta would like to say goodnight to you, Ma'am, even though she has done so several times already." Dr. Fowle and I were left alone when the butler took a candelabra to usher the two women out and up the stairs.

When they were gone I glanced over my should again, after which Young Doctor Fowle laughed. I love portraiture – albeit a scary mien antagonizes me – but for the most part it interests me, and far more than landscapes could. After doing a 360 to look at all the portraits I said, "Dr. Fowle, are any of these women Lady Seaton's daughter, Phillipa?" He pointed to a small drawing of a young girl. The drawing was done in chalk and its colors were soft and appealing. The child in it was pretty and had eyes as gentle as a fawn's. Dr. Fowle said, "It's a shame she didn't live long enough to have a formal portrait drawn. Although the lack of such a portrait is not the only shame in Philippa's early demise." I had gathered from my short time in the past that women generally did not have a formal portrait in oils drawn until they were married. For portraits of children pastels were used, I supposed to capture the softness of youth. "Her seduction," he said, "was unfortunate."

Because the Priors was so isolated I couldn't understand how someone from London found her there. "As remote as it is, I would think it an unlikely scene for seduction."

By way of explanation Dr. Fowle answered me, "Lady Seaton, though, often frequented her house in town." By town I assumed he meant London. "And he met her there. She was so childlike and so used to the country – this countryside – where she was petted and watched over, that a hawk could have taken her unawares." Because Lady Seaton returned we stopped our discussion.

The white fish wasn't bad. Nor the guinea fowl, so I asked that my compliments be taken to their cook. We conversed pleasantly. Lady Seaton and Dr. Fowle, at first, did most of the talking, and while they did I looked at the plate. What beautiful silverware and dishes! Being an antiques buff how could I not have looked at the table settings. And so the fact that the lady had silver saltcellars and huge silver platters that must have cost a mint struck me. Plus, her decanters sat in silver wine coasters. She also had exquisite silver spoons, forks, and knives. When I finished looking at her silver I turned my attention to her glassware. Aside from the glass decanters there were many goblets, rummers, and so on. Her finest piece was a salad bowl. It was pedastaled and had a flanged rim. I wanted to pocket it. Not really. But I was certainly fantasizing about owning one when Lady Seaton invited me back into their conversation.

"Miss Lamb, do you read?" Because I hadn't been paying attention I sputtered. And once I realized Lady Seaton had addressed me, and that the question involved reading I again sputtered. Mainly because I knew from talking to "Father" that my former self did not read at all. I knew it because when I walked into the family library to pick out a book to read "Father" almost fainted.

He said, "Marinanne, you never read."

"Well, there you have it, Father. I suppose it was the fever. I do now." And then I picked a book out and went away with it.

I worried about divulging too much as I prepared to answer Lady Seaton's question. I shouldn't have worried, though. She must not have known one way or another, or she wouldn't have asked. But like I said, I worried, and so I wondered if I ought to give a lengthy explanation about past dislikes, but new interests. In the end I decided to simply say, "I do." Lady Seaton and Dr. Fowle continued discussing their favorites. I knew from reading Jane Austen's letters that novels were held in disrepute and I also knew that Mummy didn't read them, so it intrigued me that Lady Seaton had just admitted reading one titled The Midnight Bell. When she promised to loan it to me I said, "Oh, I'd like that because Mummy only lets me read history or sermons." Dr. Fowle laughed.

Our conversation soon settled onto Shakespeare. Lady Seaton was listing her favorites – as was Dr. Fowle, and so in a matter of moments both of them wanted to know mine. "Miss Lamb, which comedy do you most prefer?"

"And tragedy?" Dr. Fowle wondered.

My gosh! Unlike the two of them I did not read Shakespeare for fun – one can be an English teacher without doing so – so I had to go with what I could remember from when I was in school. After I swallowed the bite I was taking I said, "I suppose my favorite tragedy is Lear, though I know Hamlet better."

"We prefer the familiar. Why then do you prefer Lear when you have spent more time with Hamlet?"

I didn't want Lady Seaton to know why I had read Hamlet so many times. It was simply because my tenth, eleventh, and twelfth grade teachers made me do so, and then several college professors had also made me read it. But how could I mention college? That was a give away. Regency women didn't go to college. And high school was out too. If I had mentioned it Lady Seaton would have considered me crazed. So I simply said, "I don't know why," and then I repeated that I liked Lear best.

Of Lear she said, "Why my dear?"

I thought for a moment and then repeated something a professor told me. It was that Cordelia was good, but strong too. "Shakespeare's women," I said, "were not often good and strong together. Take, for instance, Lady McBeth."

To this Lady Seaton said, "My dear, I like your thinking. May I borrow it as my own?"

"By all means," I said – because as I've already said, it wasn't mine. I don't mind loaning other people's possessions.

Eventually we got off Shakespeare and started to talk about Dr. Fowle and his parentage. "Lord Seaton and the doctor's father were at school together." I also learned that Dr. Fowle's mother and Lady Seaton had been especial friends, and further discovered that the Fowles were gone now, having died just three months apart the previous year. At their deaths Lady Seaton invited their only offspring to come and live near her. The reason she gave was that Dr. Symonds was of an age to retire. She wanted young Dr. Fowle to eventually take up his practice in Sandition. Sandition had acquired, of late, quite a reputation for being a health spa of sorts, and it was rumored that a person as august as the Prince Regent himself might vacate Brighton for Sandition. All these reasons were set forth to young Dr. Fowle, but already knowing a little about his character, I did not think that they were the reasons behind his move. I supposed he came because Lady Seaton had been his parents' friend, and that because of that he did not propose to disappoint her.

I supposed because she had been thinking about old friends Lady Seaton next turned to Dr. Fowle before she said, "What, if anything, have you discovered about my husband's old friend, Mr. Scruggs?" Mr. Scruggs was a gentleman close in age to my father who, in the past several days, had been bit by his pet and rabid fox.

The doctor said, "According to Dr. Symonds, two of Mr. Scruggs' maids, rather than see him suffer, smothered him with a pair of bed pillows." The lady shook her head and then said something about the sometime violent vicissitudes of this life.

Toward the end of the meal Dr. Fowle proposed several toasts. One was "to loved ones who are now gone." As he and Lady Seaton thought, no doubt, about their parents, children, or spouses, I wondered about my family back at home. Did they know I was gone? Was I? I certainly missed their company, and I certainly would have given anything to see them again: Wendy with her pleasant smile; my parents who, busy though they were, were never too preoccupied to visit; and Wendy's children who from Tommy on down had something engaging about them. Tommy's interest in science intrigued me. And his sister Annie was almost a bigger Anglophile than was I. And she was barely sixteen. I had high hopes for her. Even thinking about Stewart, who often criticized my story spinning ability, made me wistful. I guess because I told him stories at bedtime and that's the most peaceful moment in a day.

In the midst of that reverie I did not realize that the wind had picked up till Lady Seaton said, "Hear how it blows, and so suddenly." Branches began hitting the windows.

Dr. Fowle said, "I like a howling wind." From our seats we all looked out the largest window at the trees swaying. Almost at once a huge gust sounded. It was quickly followed by a crashing sound. In the commotion that followed – servants running out to see what caused the sound, the three of use running to the window – though I did not yet realize it, I had lost the small pendant that hung on my neck. It was suspended by a ribbon. Not too many moments passed before the butler, wind blown now, reentered and announced, "The old yew is fallen." Lady Seaton and I wrapped ourselves in our shawls, Dr. Fowle got his greatcoat, and the three of us followed the butler outside to survey the damage. McCallum and a team of others had already reached the tree. It was the tree I had seen through the oriel window. It was quite a spectacle to see a once mighty tree lying before us, broken limbed, in a heap.

In light of the storm still in play, after we had gone back inside Lady Seaton decided I should spend the night. "It would be unwise for you to travel. If our tree is down others may well fall. I shall send someone on horseback to advise your father." She immediately dispatched a servant. It was then that I noticed my pendant was gone. "I hope you did not lose it out of doors," said Lady Seaton. McCallum and some of the others, including Young Doctor Fowle, took candles to begin to search the floor and carpet in the room. It was a pretty pendant – a green, bloodstone heart. The flecks of red in the stone were striking. Unfortunately, because the stone was a dark green, and because the ribbon was black, I could have seen it blending into the surroundings forever. And if I had lost it outside – well, either way, I feared it was, like I said, gone forever. However, after ten minutes of searching Dr. Fowle said, "Here is the little fish." He had pulled it from one of the wells where the baseboard separated slightly from the wall paneling. That particular nook was just below the window to which we'd run when we heard the crash.

When the pendant was discovered Lady Seaton said, "I am so glad. Such a pretty thing. I was admiring it during our dinner." This was just another proof of her unassuming nature. She, with that rope of diamonds around her neck, admired my trinket. She tried to help me tie the ribbon back around my neck but after fumbling a moment she said, "My dear, my eyesight's poor and my fingers are no longer nimble. McCallum, ring for a maid."

Before McCallum could do anything Dr. Fowle stepped up. "If you will permit me." I held the pendant to my throat with my left hand until he had the ribbon ends securely in hand. As he fastened them I felt his fingers on the back of my neck.

Once the tree had been discussed – I learned it was two years shy of one-hundred – we walked through what was called the long gallery and into a saloon where we spent the remainder of the evening. Servants pulled a recamier and a pair of chairs up close to the fire so that the three of us could converse in comfort. Candles on small stands near us, and the fire before us, were the only lights in the large room. This limited my vision. But because the walls were white, I could tell they were largely covered in pictures or mirrors. I realize now I could tell this because most of the pictures were dark and the mirrors reflective.

In the course of our conversation I learned that Dr. Fowle had left London to study medicine at the Royal College of Physicians in Scotland, but that when he had completed his studies he had again made London his home. He had been building up a fine practice there and so his leaving it to satisfy the wishes of his mother's friend made me begin to understand the duty bound and constant nature of Dr. Fowle's heart.

Before the candles were snuffed and I was led to my borrowed room Dr. Fowle, on Lady Seaton's prompt, read to us – at first a pamphlet about cowpox, followed by a piece with the long title of Essay on the Military Police and Institutions of the British Empire. While listening to such pieces could never equal even lackluster programs on TV, there was something appealing and actually romantic to listening to a man with a good voice read. Dr. Fowle's speaking voice was in general soothing and when he put it to reading his voice took on such a sonorous tone that when the three of us finally parted to go to sleep his voice went with me and lulled me there. In fact, it stayed so with me I dreamed about Dr. Fowle. In the dream he was not dressed in the clothes of the day, but rather in the clothes of mine. A leather motorcycle jacket covered his buff, upper half, and in lieu of the tall hat he generally wore on his head he sported a baseball cap. He had button up Levis 501 jeans and a sloganned black T-shirt. He looked quite sexy and unsettling. So unsettling that when I woke I was glad I was going home – even though I was only going to be going home to someone irritating like Mummy.

After a large breakfast of too many odd dishes like kippers, widgeon, and damson pie, I climbed into Lady Seaton's carriage. When it had ferried me to my door the man in Lady Seaton's livery who was riding postilion sprang from his bench to hand me out. Mummy, fresh from Aunt Susan's, was ecstatic. I wished Caroline had been present to see my approach. In the end it was better she wasn't, though, because every time Mummy described Lady Seaton's coach its dimensions grew. In fact, I don't think Lady Seaton would have recognized her own coach because by the time Mummy had finished with it, it was practically made of gold, its horses were so quick they were winged, and it had an interior more spacious and lush than a black stretch limo's. But then Mummy was given to gross, hyperbole. Nevertheless, it was good to be back in her home.

Chapter 7

Much to Mummy's dismay, Dr. Fowle visited often after my heroics. At first he claimed he was coming to monitor my health: He was afraid I was going to develop a fever from my dip in the pond. But when I didn't, he came anyway. I hadn't any experience with men, but in spite of that, I could see that Dr. Fowle was growing fond of me because he came almost every day to sit with me. Or we would walk together out of doors. Sometimes he would visit with my father in the evenings. Both men were so learned I enjoyed listening to them, especially because they talked about subjects of interest. Their conversations were entirely different from Mummy's, Caroline's, and Aunt Susan's. Those three women could talk of nothing except Aunt Susan's ill heath, and good fashion. And their ideas about good fashion were somewhat ill.

One afternoon, as Dr. Fowle and I were walking on the grounds around my parents' house he wondered if I would be able to visit his house someday. Because I knew my parents' inclinations – Mummy did not like anyone who wouldn't bend to her dictates and since Dr. Fowle wouldn't, he was impertinent – I asked Father rather than her. Father said he would arrange it – somehow. But that I should keep mum about it until he could map out the logistics. Of course, we both understood he would have to come as my duenna. Single women couldn't go anywhere with a man unchaperoned. For instance, the farthest Dr. Fowle and I could get was down the road a piece.

Dr. Fowle lived on the other side of Sandition – between it and Newton Priors – as did Bishop Stanwix, father's superior. In fact, the Bishop's Palace – a red building with pepper pots – ran along the south side of Dr. Fowle's land. Since I had a neat hand, I served as Father's scribe. I mainly copied out his sermons so that he would have a legible version before him at the pulpit each week. Father's handwriting was so awful even he occasionally couldn't read it. So it seemed only natural, some two weeks later when Father was called to the Palace that I go too. He told Mummy I was coming to copy down directives from the Bishop. Mummy, as usual, balked. She had already decided that I would spend the day with Caroline, but since I would be going on matters related to the church she relented. Once we were in the carriage Father said, "This visit to the Bishop is strictly a social call, and it's something of a ruse – the prelude to your visit to Dr. Fowle – so you can put your writing box away." I had it out and was mending one of my pens.

The Bishop must have thought Father would come alone, the way he started when he saw my skirt as I was being handed out of the carriage. He later admitted, because he couldn't see who was behind the brim of my poke bonnet – the brim of a poke bonnet looks like a pair of huge blinders on a horse – he figured I was my mother. The way he winced when he said, "your mother" told me she wasn't his idea of good company. And from further listening to him I decided that his wife was good deal like Mummy. And that with her gone – she was at their daughter's for the day – he was doing what men who are suddenly freed from shrews do: whatever struck his fancy. He so relished even the slightest return to batchelorhood it was no wonder he started at the thought of Father bringing his wife.

After we drank tea and looked at the Bishop's new hound – the Bishop was an enthusiastic hunter – we left. It was the shortest visit on record. To make our subsequent visit to Dr. Fowle's look spontaneous, Father made it sound as if it were on the order of the Bishop. As we got into our carriage he offhandedly said something to Henry about Bishop Stanwix suggesting a visit to Dr. Fowle's because of the proximity.

Dr. Fowle's house was not as large as ours – though ours was by no means gigantic. With its large windows it felt spacious though. The grounds around it were manicured. A neat, boxwood garden sat on the south side of Dr. Fowle's house, a kitchen garden – its plants arranged in rows – sat in back, and a stand of trim looking conifers stood to the north. Taken together, the house, farmland, – Dr. Fowle, like Father, owned farmland – and garden were like a small, well faceted jewel that had been carefully set into a larger, haphazard, countryside.

Dr. Fowle's housekeeper, a jovial woman, whom Dr. Fowled declared was discreet – "She'll never let on to your mother you were here," – made us right at home. And Dr. Fowle's groom took Henry and our horses to the stables with him. Dr. Fowle had a new hunter and his groom wanted to show it off to Henry, our male servant.

We had more refreshments. I was already swimming in tea so I wasn't eyeing the teapot on the tray with any interest, but the cakes did look tasty. Dr. Fowle took the tray from the housekeeper, and as he set it onto the Pembroke table which he had already opened, Dr. Fowle said, "I take no cream in my tea, but here's a boat of it if one of you does." Father and I put splashes of it into our cups before I was given the honors of pouring out the tea. While we drank and ate, the two men talked at great length about their farms. Father admitted he visited his pigs the first thing each morning, Dr. Fowle said he'd just had the field farthest from his house sewn in lentils, and both discussed buying livestock at a soon to be held fair in Winchester. As the supposed object of Dr. Fowle's attention, I was feeling somewhat left out – even though he constantly stole glances at me. Whether or not he divined my feelings, Dr. Fowle soon said, "After tea I want you both but, Miss Lamb, you in particular, to see the two finest belongings I own, which are portraits of my parents." With his parents deceased I supposed their portraits were the closest I would come to meeting them. Once the tea tray had been removed we removed ourselves to the next room, which was the dining room. It had a gateleg table and the aforementioned portraits sat over that same table's nether end. As he pointed to the portraits Dr. Fowle said, "Both were painted near the time they married." True to portraits of the mid Georgian age, the doctor's mother had been painted with her hair down. And the bodice of her gown, also true to that age, was cut low and of simple styling. A small, and natural looking ruffle made of the same material as the gown, was all that adorned the dress or her neck. And that simple, long, flowing hairstyle was her face's sole adornment. Such portraits made women look comely. As I was wondering whether her character actually measured up to the portrait before me Dr. Fowle said, "My father always claimed that my mother was the most even tempered woman that he knew."

My father said, "I think I could say the same about my mother. But about my daughter too."

With a smile on his face the doctor said, "Since you are speaking in superlatives, only one can be. So which of the two women you have mentioned is actually most even tempered?"

My father had not been with my mother twenty years without learning to be politic. So he smiled back and said, "As my mother is now dead, and you ask which is best, that honor falls to the living." Dr. Fowle commended me for so faithfully carrying on a family trait.

Because we had been in the dining room solely to view his parents' portraits the doctor soon led us back into his parlor. Its furnishings were sparse, but fancy. Since I couldn't imagine such furnishings coming with so small a house I asked for their source. The doctor said, "They are from my late parents' house in London, which was sold upon their deaths. The pieces were so fine I couldn't imagine them coming from anything but a mansion. I refrained from saying something to that effect, though, because it would have been improper. My real mother always said, "Don't talk about money, religion, or politics. Supposing, though, that he'd left a home that imposing simply because Lady Seaton wanted him to, made him once more rise in my estimation. If only he were also rising in Mummy's. He'd gone up a bit when she'd learned about his connection to Lady Seaton. And his mother having been a "lady" – she was an earl's daughter – helped immeasurably too. But sadly, Mummy wasn't as keen on Dr. Fowle as was Father. Actually, I was learning that my parents were never keen on the same man and had begun to suppose it was the main reason I was single still. It was like they were singing in different keys. Whenever my father considered a young man outstanding, Mummy would answer, "Him? Why, he's not even a baronet, and with a face like hers, our daughter deserves at least a lord." Then, not to be outdone, Mummy would quickly mention any lord.

Her choice was usually well dressed, but slight of build, and her mentioning him would make Father rise up and say, "What a dandy. That man will never marry our daughter. Not if I have a say." I don't know if Father having married someone like Mummy made him a lion when it came to my future spouse, but he did seem to guard my future as best he could. At least he sounded inflexible on that point. On all others Mummy was given her way though.

Since the three of us – and by "three" I now mean Dr. Fowle, Father, and me – had spent many pleasant hours in my father's study Dr. Fowle eventually led us into his. A large desk under the window there held two neat stacks of paper. "One," said Dr. Fowle, "is my correspondence. The other, entries that I have made for my diary. At the end of every day I add to at least one pile, but usually both." The study also contained a table. It had two instruments on it – one medical, the other musical. The musical was a flute. When my father discovered that Dr. Fowle played the flute he asked if he would treat us on it. I hoped for something haunting, an Irish tune, but Dr. Fowle chose to play a quick-paced hornpipe. He was not very many bars into it when his male servant rushed in. Dr. Fowle stopped his solo after seeing the blood that was on his servant's hands and clothing.

The servant called, "Come, all of you. Your man Henry is hurt." Dr. Fowle put his flute down and followed his servant. And Father and I followed Dr. Fowle.

We found our servant Henry lying in a bed of straw. He was holding a blood soaked kerchief to the side of his head. Dr. Fowle's servant said, "As we were backing Crispin into its stall it reared. And when it came down its hoof caught Henry in the side of the head." Dr. Fowle had worn a costly coat, but without thinking about the blood that would get on it he got down on his hands and knees, lifted up the edge of Henry's blood stained kerchief, looked a moment, then almost talking to himself, he said, "My horse's hoof must have nicked a small vessel because Henry's blood is spurting with a beat. Quick, Roger," – Roger was Dr. Fowle's servant – "get my kit." While Dr. Fowle applied pressure his servant ran for the kit. Once Roger was back he changed places with Dr. Fowle. The doctor laid out a small bottle of laudanum, some gut, and a needle. While he threaded the needle Dr. Fowle asked me to give Henry several drops of laudanum. Which I did.

Once he had threaded the needle, but before he began, Dr. Fowle said, "The truth is, Henry, this will hurt. But don't flinch." Dr. Fowle then took a succession of deep but quick stitches. When he was finished he said, "It's through." Of course, that accident ended our visit, and with Henry in no state to drive us home Father had to, and since Henry was in no state to ride in the carriage – Mummy would have objected to Henry's clothes spotting the interior – Henry rode up top. And since I didn't wish to ride inside alone, I joined the other two on the driver's box. It would be fanciful to say we wondered how Mummy'd react because we somehow knew she'd ask, "Henry, how'd you get that gash?"

We also knew that when he answered, "From Dr. Fowle's hunter," Mummy would rear up like the hunter, and gash the three of us.

We expected a lecture. But after she sent Henry to bed she quietly went to her writing box, got two sheets of paper out of it and her blotter, went to the small circular table that functioned as her writing desk and at it wrote a letter out. Father and I spent the remainder of that afternoon and evening tiptoeing around her, and of course, wondering about the contents of the letter.

To our surprise, several days passed without Mummy mentioning the incident. So even though that was out of character for her, Father and I felt our lives had returned to normal. Her seemingly blasé attitude about the event made us hopeful. And we both began to think that Mummy liked Dr. Fowle.

However, three days hence when I was marking linens – I couldn't sew a stitch, but my round, even hand made me Mummy's right one – Mummy erupted. I had a long narrow sheet laid out on an equally long, narrow table, and was preparing to put our initials on it so that after it went to the laundress it would return to our home, when Mummy, a letter with a broken green wafer in hand, found me. "Marianne," she said, "I have finally received an answer from Mrs. Stiles to whom I wrote the day Henry was hurt. On my suggestion, she has been kind enough to invite you to Wingate, her home. It is a two day journey so prepare to go at once."

A two journey was longer than that to go to London. My father, who had come in from visiting his pigs, was against the journey and said, "I do not care for the Stiles' family. The reverend and his wife, and likely their daughters now that they are of an age, while they are not hypocritical, are too pharisaical for my tastes. They both follow the letter of the law to the spirit's exclusion."

To answer him Mummy said, "The two of you and Dr. Fowle would be wise to follow the law more closely. That you would help two young people arrange a clandestine meeting is inconceivable, William!" Mummy loved to make us feel like convicts. Her accusation led to a general tussle over Dr. Fowle's character, followed by evidence of another split between my respective parents' points of views. I thought the two sounded like a pair of dueling banjos. To start their duet off, Mummy plunked, "To save our daughter from that man's clutches, she must be removed. Out of sight is out of mind."

In answer, Father plunked, "I thought that absence made the heart grow fonder."

More plunking: "Hardly. Is not absence called the common cure of love?" As Mummy gathered her skirts up to climb the stairs, Father called to her, "Leave her stay. On the authority of Publilius Syrus, 'Familiarity breeds contempt.'" The fact of which my parents were living proof.

I was sent by coach to Wingate. Mummy was so anxious to see me on the road she was willing to part with her servants. Henry drove and Nanny served as my chaperone. Our linen was left unmarked.

Mr. Stiles was a clergyman. But he and his family did not live in a rectory. Instead, because Mrs. Stiles was a local heiress, they lived at Wingate, her ancestral estate. Wingate was isolated, or so we discovered at the last inn to which we came. Not only was it the last inn, it proved to be the last structure we saw before Wingate. We didn't even come across a cottage. Wingate was seven miles down the road from the inn and at the bottom of a sinkhole. Before I saw the hole I had hopes for Wingate because the terrain up to it was beautiful. But after seven miles of looking at it, we turned down into a pit, at the bottom of which was Wingate. Wingate was a large, medieval castle whose towers at its corners made it look like Folsom Prison to me. All it needed was rolls of concertina wire. I began marking the thirty days I was to stay there off on the cell wall in my head. Mrs. Stiles was so forbidding Henry and Nanny declined her wish that they stay the night. Instead, they rushed off, leaving me to the forebodings I already felt. I'm sure it was just my imagination, but I swear I heard an entire cellblock lock down as Nanny and Henry left. Mrs. Stiles assured me it was just her servants bolting the main door.

I was whisked from the anteroom to dinner. Before it, the reverend offered a lengthy prayer – during which we knelt on the stone floor beside our seats. We ate a supper of nothing more than gruel. I felt like I was Jane Eyre at Lowood, especially when, after dinner, Mrs. Stiles lit the work candles so that she, her daughters, and I could take articles from the workbasket to mend them. I could see by the look on her face that she was unhappy with my ability, especially when I pricked my index finger and it bled onto the bodice I was trying to fix.

I was to share a room with the "odd" sister – so called because she had been born third. When I wondered why there weren't two "odd" sisters – the Stiles had three daughters sitting before me – a dark pause ensued before Reverend Stiles said, "Our eldest, Elsie, died recently of the plague." I wondered whether Mummy knew.

When she was with her family the "odd" sister had nothing much to say so I figured I would at least be able to spend my nights thinking. I was wrong. Once we were alone she bubbled up like a spring, and like all true talkers, about nothing of consequence. "I have in the drawer of that dresser seven, no six, no, seven pieces of fine drawing paper. Do you draw?" Before I could answer she said, "No, I have six. Or, is it seven?"

I said – to help her move on – "Shall we say you have six to seven pieces of it?"

"No. Six. Or, is it seven."

The following evening when she wanted me to help her curl her hair, and she'd said, "So that you know how to space them, I have forty papers for curling," I thought for certain she would then say, "No. Forty-one. Or is it forty?" But how many curling papers she owned she knew cold.

In the mornings the Stiles' women typically did more work for the poor. They made them shirts, britches, stockings etc. When a slew had been completed Mrs. Stiles shipped them out, like license plates from Folsom. Since I could hardly take a stitch without pricking myself, and since I practically hung myself in the yarn with which Mrs. Stiles had tried to get me to knit, Mrs. Stiles gave me two alternate tasks. One was counting and marking down what had been sewn – I hoped my task had not formerly been the odd sister's – and reading aloud from the dreariest of books, something called Fordyce's Sermons.

Since Mrs. Stiles recognized that my sewing skills were sparse, as we worked she said, "I don't see as you will make a competent housewife. So you'd best marry for money."

"Mrs. Stiles," I said, "you and my mother are of a like mind." She took that as a compliment.

I slept on the "plague" side of the bed. And because of that – even though the weather was uncommonly hot – each time I woke up sweating I wondered whether I'd contracted a case of something awful.

I had been gone little more than a week when the reverend announced – it was bright and early in the morning, "Wife and daughters, in honor of our esteemed guest," – he looked at me – "tonight we'll have a special treat."

Because he was holding something behind his back his now eldest daughter went behind him, and when she had caught a glimpse of what it was, said, "Oh, it is one indeed."

With such a testament I expected a real treat. So imagine my surprise when, after pulling out a letter and announcing, "Charles Dundas, master of Balliol," – Balliol was one of the colleges at Oxford – "sent this to me. Let's see if you can unravel it," the reverend recited:

My first is what children delight in

Whenever they are at their ease.

My second makes holes in a stocking

Which poor housewives darn, if you please.

Taken together I spoke the same tongue

As the New Testament once was

Once I'm found you'll recognize

I'm not quite spelled how I sound.

After several minutes of silence, the "odd" sister said, "My, this is fun." The "evens" agreed. When thirty minutes passed with no one venturing a guess the reverend wondered whether he ought to repeat the charade.

In tandem with the odd sister saying, "Yes, do repeat it," I said,

"No need to. It's Plato." When I saw the long expressions on their faces I realized I had ruined the night's fun. Guessing was to have taken the evening long. To fill the gap Mrs. Stiles got the workbasket out and we started mending.

As she handed me a mass of tangled yarn, one of the "evens" said, "For you, since you are expert at unraveling." I took the Gordian knot from her hand and began analyzing it.

When another week passed and I was a fortnight away from completing my sentence who should appear but Mummy. After Mrs. Stiles expressed delight yet surprise at seeing Mummy, Mummy, by way of explaining why she had come sooner than she and Mrs. Stiles had planned, said, "What a piece of luck. Lady Mildmays has invited Marianne to Basingstoke for her ball."

The odd daughter's face brightened. I doubt she'd been to a ball. I felt sorry for her shut up as she was – like a princess in a fortified tower, so I said, "I think it would be nice if she could come too. Why couldn't she?" Her tail began to wag like a spaniel waiting before a closed door.

Mrs. Stiles, and I'm speaking figuratively here, pulled her daughter back like a woman would a dog by its collar. "Her duty is here."

Mrs. Stiles asked Mummy to stay the night. But, as Mummy said, "Since the dance convenes in less than a week, we'd best be on with it." We took off so fast it looked like we were racing in a derby. Once the carriage finished lurching and we were going at a steady clip Mummy reached inside her bodice, pulled out a letter, and said, "Have you ever seen a more elegantly worded invitation to a ball?"

Since I'd never seen one, I said, "Surely never."

After reading it through a number of times Mummy folded it ever so gently, eyed it ever so tenderly, and slipped it ever so slowly back into her bodice right on top of her heart. I had never seen her take such care with, or so gingerly regard, anything. Mummy was generally brusque and right to it.

To be shut up two days with Mummy in a carriage was tiresome. So, whenever my nerves were close to being shot, which was every moment or two, I suggested she again break out the invitation, and seeing Lady Mildmays' crest, crème-colored paper, and penmanship seemed to sooth Mummy. When she wasn't looking at it, she was referring to it, and to Basingstoke, the town closest to Vickers, Lady Mildmays' estate. Basingstoke wasn't a big place, but it was a crossroads. In consequence, Mummy said, "Gentlemen will come from miles around." Mummy looked out the window, then back again. "Some from as far away as Tunbridge Wells. And one of them might ask to meet you." Mummy made it sound as if every man in the whole depth and breadth of England would be at the ball. Since she was an aristocrat, though, I couldn't see Lady Mildmays inviting everyone – even if she did live by a crossroads, so I said, "Is this a private ball? Or given by subscription?" Because Mummy was making it sound as if, as at a swap meet, anyone who paid for a ticket could gain admission. I hated to ruin the dream castles she was building in the air, but I must have because she eventually said, "Though Lady Mildmays' acquaintance is wide and the ballroom at Vickers enormous, she will have to limit the number of men." Pretty soon Mummy had Lady Mildmays acting as my strainer. She would sift the wheat for me. Of course, Dr. Fowle was still part of the chaff. Chaff though he was, I hoped I would see him at Lady Mildmays'.

Now, because we were preparing for what was going to be an elegant ball – that meant nothing from a local merchant would do, so Mummy had someone named Charlotte send a pattern and some gauzy silk down from London. Mummy so endlessly referred to Charlotte by her first name that I did not realize until we were almost ready to start sewing on the gown that Charlotte was my father's sister. When I wondered why Mummy had not referred to her as my "Aunt" she said, "She's so much younger than your Aunt Susan, that I don't expect you to call her by the title of 'aunt.'" Whenever Mummy relented on a title she didn't like someone. And when she made veiled but disparaging remarks about Charlotte's character – they amounted to Charlotte's being headstrong about whom she'd married – I certainly knew Mummy did not care for her. But since I liked whomever Mummy did not, I decided to ignore her views of Charlotte, especially when I saw the elegant silk and dress pattern Charlotte mailed us from London. She might have been young, and foolish enough, according to Mummy, to have lost her husband to consumption, but I decided she was more savvy than Mummy's sister Susan who, incidentally, had practically moved in with us to help us sew my gown. Though how someone in an invalid chair, who was in need of constant attention could help us was beyond me.

The pattern had no frills, small short sleeves and a simple skirt. Mummy looked it over, gave a sort of perturbed sigh, then said, "If we expand the sleeves, Marianne, to here," and then she widened her arms about the width of the Red Sea, "I think it will suit you. The skirt needs ruffles, though, and at least six bows."

I said, "Mummy, that would look ridiculous. Haven't you ever heard the saying, 'Less is more?'"

Aunt Susan said, "Marianne, what can you mean? How can less be more?"

I said, "Look at Lady Seaton. Do you every see twenty bows on her, or sleeves out to the next county?"

"No," said Mummy. "But Lady Seaton dresses simply."

"Yes," said Aunt Susan, "because she is advanced in age. Bows look ridiculous on old women…."

"Unless," said Mummy, "we're talking big diamond bows."

"Mummy, bows look ridiculous on a woman, regardless of age. I'm not a child of ten, so I am not going for cute. See the pattern Aunt Charlotte sent." Mummy's eyes narrowed as I said Aunt. "Its lines go up and down. Long is elegant. So why do you want to spoil that beautiful effect with fat sleeves and horizontal bows? Both will make me look like a clown. I won't go unless we follow Aunt Charlotte's pattern. You asked her to send something because she lives in London and knows what's in vogue."

Mummy agreed to work from Aunt Charlotte's pattern.

Fortunately she turned out to be a great seamstress. If I'd had to sew the piece, I'd have bled to death.

The dress was made of white silk and it had a small amount of pink and green trim on its sleeves. When it was done and I had tried it on, Mummy said, "You still lack shoes, gloves, hat and a fan, Marianne. And they should be pink to match the trim on the dress."

"Mummy," I said, "that's too much pink, and against all this white. I think it will make me look too much like a lobster."

Aunt Susan, who was with us still, of course agreed with Mummy. "Oh pink. Yes! Nothing but pink. I can think of nothing but pink. It is such a good color against the skin. And since I have mentioned the subject of skin, how does mine look? I hope not bilious."

I said, "No. You look robust." And then I took a stand. "I won't wear it," I said. "And if I have to, I'd rather not go. I can stomach pink shoes and gloves, but my fan ought to be buff and I wish to wear a small white hat with a green feather." I had recently seen someone who'd worn that combination and I thought it looked elegant.

For some reason Aunt Susan backed my point of view. I think it was because she changed with the wind. "I would never have thought of green for a feather, Diana, but now I can think of nothing other. And buff is perfect too."

"Your fan shall have a pink ribbon though," said Mummy, "and your stockings shall be pink."

I said no to the pink stockings and insisted they be white.

"Then you'll knit them yourself. I shall only knit pink. The pattern and needles are in my workbox. I suggest that you start knitting at once, Marianne."

I was ready to hang myself trying when Aunt Susan said, "I'll knit your stockings for you, dear. Unless you think it would hurt my hands. Are they glowing?"

I don't know why Aunt Susan took pity on me. I supposed it was because she saw herself in me. Her daughter Caroline's disposition was more like Mummy's and mine like hers. Aunt Susan was mindless, but harmless, as was the old Marianne. Whereas Mummy and Caroline were smart, conniving and officious. I appreciated her help, regardless of her reason. Had I lifetimes, I could not have knit the toe of even one stocking.

The night before the ball Caroline and her mother changed places so that Caroline could come with us to the ball. What a drag to have her spend the night. She slept in my bed, couldn't lie still, and talked too much. She instructed me practically the night long about etiquette, in particular, how I should comport myself at the ball. The next morning when Mummy saw Caroline's gown, because it had twice as many bows and ruffles as Mummy had wished on me, she complimented Caroline's taste and sewing skills. "Caroline will make an excellent wife because she's handy with a needle."

Under his breath my father said, "A wife should be able to do more than sew with a needle."

As was the custom, the ball didn't start until late and so we didn't set off in the carriage until well past eight. A big moon lit our way. Lady Mildmays had decided to hold her ball in conjunction with a full moon because the extra light from the moon would help her guests find her door. And in the hope that men would come all the way from Tunbridge Wells, Mummy probably wished there were two moons glowing.

I sat across from Mother and Father, but next to Caroline. She wouldn't sit still. She kept working dance steps out onto the floorboards of the carriage. As she did she'd say, "Remember, Marianne, to put your right foot here, left there. Your forearms should be crossed, then uncrossed, now a curtsey."

After several minutes of instruction I said, "Oh, Caroline, please be quiet. I know all the steps cold." I knew them because when I couldn't learn from Caroline and her, Mummy had put me under the care of a dance master, and not just any dance master, but the best the county around.

"What a piece of luck," Mummy said, when she discovered he was Lady Mildmay's master of ceremonies. "We can apply to him for any introductions we seek." Mummy had a list her forearm long and was already discussing it with my former instructor when my eyes saw Dr. Fowle's. I decided I'd rather dance with him than a train of consumptives, and so almost as soon I'd got inside I let him lead me onto the floor. We danced a set, and then another, and another. After our third set together, Mummy pulled me aside. "Give some of the other gentlemen a chance. How can they take a turn with you if you're constantly occupied?"

Then Caroline pulled me aside. "Well brought up girls never dance twice with the same man in one evening. It stirs talk."

I said, "Oh well. Then I shall sit with him."

"No you won't. It will seem as though you are engaged to be married to him."

I planned to sit with him anyway when who should come to the rescue of my reputation but Lady Seaton. As she said, "Lady Mildmays wonders if the two of you will play cards. We need your hands for vingt un. I suppose we could play one another, but it would not be very sporting," she smiled at us.

Dr. Fowle answered his patroness, "When you say sporting it sounds as if you will play for money and I haven't brought a farthing – as I came only to dance." He looked at me. "I suppose you don't have any either."

Lady Seaton slipped us both several pounds and said, "Don't let a lack of money trouble you."

She took us into Lady Milmays' greenhouse – for the evening it had been turned into a card room – which was beautifully illuminated. The tables had candles on them, and lanterns or torcheres burned overhead. While cards are not as active as the dance, people do sometimes rise a bit to reach out and collect their winnings. I did my share of rising – I must admit. I collected several winning hands. In between losing to me Lady Mildmays talked about everyone in the card room, and then about those she happened to glimpse dancing outside it. Her greenhouse opened off the gallery which served as her ballroom and the archway between the two admitted a healthy view of the dance floor. I give you several examples of her observations. As she put down a losing hand she said, "That sad gentleman. His partner can't be light on her feet the way he's dragging her around like a sack of millet. And she's off the beat." Or with regards to another couple Lady Mildmays said, "He's too timid. And since he looks at his feet, she can't be enjoying herself." Of a third man she said, "He stomps and yanks his partner up and down by her hand like she's a water pump."

Lady Seaton looked at her friend, smiled at us, and said, "My friend, Lady Mildmays, gives balls so that she may critique her company. And she must prefer awkward company because when she saw the pair of you, and could find no fault with your movements, she had me invite you in here for a round of cards. I suppose because you could provide no entertainment for her on the floor."

Lady Mildmays said she had wanted to meet me, not because I'd failed as an object of ridicule, but because I'd saved Lady Seaton's granddaughter, Margaretta.

In the course of playing cards – we eventually switched from vignt un to snip snap – Lady Mildmays said, "I understand, Miss Lamb, your father is a clergyman."

I said that she was right.

We concentrated on our cards for a moment before Lady Mildmays said, "Lolly," – Lolly was the diminutive of Lady Seaton's given name – "you really ought to do something for your friend, Miss Lamb."

I wondered what the lady hinted at, but was in no position to come out and ask. I only knew that Lady Seaton's answer was, "I should. And shall."

We played cards the remainder of the night. And that remainder long Mummy skirted the card room in hopes of luring me out of it so that Lady Mildmays' master of ceremonies could introduce me to a host of men. However, since I was sitting with two of the county's queens, she could do nothing but lurk. She looked like such a shady character sliding around the walls I worried her lurking would arouse Lady Mildmays' ire. Lady Mildmays only said though, "Who's that shadowy female?" Dr. Fowle, Lady Seaton, and I gave her no answer.

Mummy was so peevish from having her hopes dashed that she made our ride home uncomfortable. "Gentlemen, all the way from Tunbridge Wells, and they had no chance with you because of that Dr. Fowle."

"Marianne could do a lot worse," said my father.

"Yes. But she might do a lot better, too."

I spent the ride listening to them volley. Father liked Dr. Fowle. Mummy saw him as blocking the countless marriage proposals that might be coming my way. I finally nodded off during the fracas. As I did I thought about Dr. Fowle accidentally touching my hand underneath the card table. Caroline, who hadn't danced once, was sullen and as soon as we had gotten into the carriage she had crawled up into her corner of it and quickly gone to sleep. In bed she was as still as a mummy. As I nodded off for that second time my mind ranged between thinking about Caroline wrapped like a mummy – the ace bandaging was especially thick across her mouth – and Dr. Fowle caressing my hand. Both provided me with enormous pleasure.

Chapter 8

The following week proved eventful. On Monday Father received a letter from his sister Charlotte which said:

My dearest brother,

I will get straight to it. Yesterday, as I was stepping down from a stool my ankle gave way and the upshot is I have broken the small bone in the lower part of that same leg. Since I cannot afford servants and since I hate to impose further on the friends who have already been of such help to me – one spent last evening here and promises to stay until help from my family arrives – could you send Marianne? Looking after my children would be her primary duty. Though, if Diana could show her how to make some simple meals, that, too, would be of assistance. I am in such a predicament.

As ever,

Charlotte

Because Mummy was so solicitous over her sister Susan's poor health I assumed I was on my way to London. Mummy's lack of sympathy, though, surprised me. "Your parents, Richard, should have long ago seen to your sister Charlotte's weak ankles. If she had been my child, I would have put her into Nankeen boots to cure them. Your mother let her wear dressy slippers, though. But then she was always too soft hearted and indulgent where Charlotte was concerned. Always letting her take her ease when she should have been weeding flaws like those weak ankles out. When we do not send Marianne to her, it will teach her a lesson."

"What lesson?" said my father. "That she cannot rely on her family. And how does one weed a pair of weak ankles out? You're confusing them with character flaws."

Mummy kept mentioning Charlotte's weak ankles, though, as if they were somehow connected to her character, and her zealous manner made me believe she could probably overturn something more overarching like fate.

Because her behavior troubled him Father said, "Diana, I cannot believe you would be so mean. I almost think you are spiteful. Why shouldn't Marianne go – with nothing at all keeping her here?"

Mummy rolled out a list of pending duties at the top of which sat, "Making black butter." After reciting her list she said, "You will have to write your sister, begging off." He refused to do so and promised to write Charlotte the truth. Mummy forbade him and indicated she would write her excuses first thing the following morning.

By the middle of that following morning, when Mummy had yet to write, Father said he would revert to his original plan because he did not wish to leave so important a matter pending: He believed Charlotte had a right to know that help would not be forthcoming and his aim was to write his letter so that it could catch the London Mail which passed by our house mid afternoon. With the threat of Father exposing her meanness Mummy took her writing box to the aforementioned circular table that served as her desk and prepared to write Aunt Charlotte. With her seemingly doing so, when Father's bailiff came, he agreed to ride out with him. They had, for sometime, planned to widen a narrow path which ran along the side of one of the meadows and the bailiff wanted to discuss, on site, the feasibility of such a plan. Before leaving, Father made it clear that Mummy should have her letter written, folded, and sealed by his return at noon and that if it were not, there would be no further reprieves. He would absolutely take matters in hand and write himself. As he and his bailiff rode away they stopped to tie the ribbon, which was the signal to the mail coach that we had a letter or parcel waiting, to the lowest limb of one of the two elms that were at the far end of our property.

Mummy staved off writing for half an hour but then grudgingly went back to the aforementioned small circular stand when who should appear at our door but Lady Seaton. When Nanny announced her, Mummy went into raptures. She ordered a fancy tea, insisting that its cakes were generally what we ate in the late morning. (Nanny and I gave her such a look.) While she waited for the tray to be brought in she was so moon eyed she sat practically dumbfounded. Lady Seaton's design in coming was to speak with Father, but she indicated she would take tea with us – especially because Father would not be back for nearly an hour.

By the time we were nibbling on our teacakes Mummy, some of her courage now back in hand, began fawning over Lady Seaton's jewelry. Lady Seaton was wearing a cameo parure consisting of a brooch and earrings. The cameos were carved out of bull mouthed conches. Of them Mummy said, "How much would such a set cost?" Mummy's behavior verged on the boorish at times. Lady Seaton said that because the parure was a family piece she hadn't any idea, just that its subject matter was Perseus, sword in one hand and the hair of the head of Medusa in the other. Since Mummy's character was somewhat Medusa-like I thought the set was apropos for a visit to our home.

When Lady Seaton discovered that Mummy had been about to write a letter and that it was to Father's sister, and over help she needed for a broken leg – Mummy neglected to say that she would not be giving Aunt Charlotte the requested help – Lady Seaton said, "By all means, write. And ignore me. I shall visit with Marianne while I finish eating my cake and drinking my tea."

Mummy was not going to replace something she wanted to do with something she wished to avoid so she said, "As soon as my husband comes I can write to his sister, but as for now, I shall attend to you – since you are our guest." Morning visits usually last fifteen minutes, which is wise, as they are usually excruciatingly dull. And so to have one last close to an hour, as did ours, was excruciatingly painful. Once tea was finished and Mummy had called for the removal of the tray she picked a piece of fancy work out of the work basket. She seemed to find it like a magnet would find iron filings. I say this because I had never seen Mummy pull anything but underclothes that needed mending from that basket. But – I supposed, realizing she could not mend our drawers under Lady Seaton's elegant eye, Mummy somehow lit upon that long white scarf the edges of which she began satin stitching with white cotton thread. She indicated that the piece was a piece of finery I had formerly been working, but that I had, since my recovery, somehow lost the knack for doing any type of stitch work. As she momentarily looked up from the piece, Mummy said, "Since her illness Marianne has changed in some pleasant and some not so pleasant ways."

Lady Seaton answered, "Even I can see that some type of change has come upon her since that fateful day." Before Mummy could focus on how I had changed for the worse, Lady Seaton added, "because she now seems especially perspicacious." I loved the way Lady Seaton phrased it. She was too well mannered to say that I formerly had been a dolt. So, instead, she made it sound as though I had always been somewhat perspicacious, just more so to date. Rather than talk about perspicacity, or some other intelligent topic, Mummy went back to lamenting my lack of sewing skill, probably because she had just received a letter from Mrs. Stiles, who had been predicting dire straits like spinsterhood for me because I couldn't handle a needle. As Mummy complained, I silently compared her to my new found father whom I'd already grown to like. But who wouldn't have – except Mummy, because he was kind, and everything else a daughter could ask for. After comparing his strengths to her faults I was tempted to help him get me to London. And when Mummy took a stitch, looked at my hands – which were folded neatly in my lap – and said, "Idle hands invite the devil," I set the trap.

I said, "It takes more than a needle to make a saint. That's why, to train me to be one, my mother is sending me to London so that I can help Aunt Charlotte who has recently broken her leg. I am to leave this very afternoon."

Lady Seaton's face brightened over my impending action – she did so like a woman who was charitable – while Mummy, who'd never plied a needle incorrectly, now pricked the tip of her middle finger. The glob of blood that formed on it quickly dropped on her work. As she tried to stop the bleeding and get the scarf out of the way, Mummy was so flustered she repeated several times that she had never made anything all white and that this must have been the reason why. "Now it is ruined," Mummy said. It was a tiny speck of blood but Mummy acted like it was the blood of every martyr to England. Once the scarf was off her lap, she pulled her hankie from a pocket, waved it in the air, pressed it to the tip of her finger, and bemoaned again that she had never made anything all white. Mummy could turn a tiny prick into a saber wound.

Into this scene of disarray, Father returned. After he and Lady Seaton had greeted one another Lady Seaton said, "I understand we are on the verge of losing your daughter, but to a worthwhile cause. I have come to depend on her society so I shall be sorry to see her go. But I am also sorry to hear about your sister's misfortune and think it admirable of Marianne to offer her aid." Lady Seaton then said that she, coincidentally, had come to talk to Father about me. That rekindled Mummy's interest – my mother had been sitting glumly, her only movement to lift the corner of her hankie now and then to check on the pinprick and see whether or not it was bleeding still. Reanimated, Mummy said,

"If, Lady Seaton, you have come on behalf of our daughter, Marianne, perhaps she should postpone her visit to London. Her aunt has numerous friends in town who have already proffered their help. In light of this, Mr. Lamb, should I delay my letter?" Mummy looked meekly at Father as she said, "should I delay my letter?" What a ruse, but since he did not wish to carry on their argument in front anyone whether or not I should go returned to a stalemate. He even said, "As you see fit." When Father understood Lady Seaton had come to speak with him he took her into his study, which was apt revenge because the study was out of Mummy's hearing.

The two of them stayed so long in the study Mummy began buzzing around the door to it like a fly. She could not hear anything though. "Just papers rustling." And to not know what was going on in her own house annoyed her. I recognized that had our visitor been anyone other than a person like Lady Seaton Mummy would have barged into the room. As it was, "They are both speaking so softly," she said, "that I cannot hear anything. And furthermore, I cannot imagine what business someone like Lady Seaton would have here, nor with you." Mummy must have said, "What could Lady Seaton want?" a hundred times.

Eventually, Mummy ran for a glass. I couldn't imagine what she planned on doing with an empty glass until she set it to the wall and put her ear to it. "Does that really amplify sound?" I asked her.

"Not when you're talking to me, Marianne." That was my cue to stop so that Mummy could continue with her spy work. She caught words such as "settle on" and "your daughter's person" but could not glean anything that made a meaningful whole. Because of this, as soon as Lady Seaton was out the door Mummy began to badger Father.

"What was her Ladyship's purpose? I cannot imagine what could be the meaning of her visiting us like so." I give only a fraction of her rambling, but believe me, she went on with so long a string of it, Father couldn't have worked an answer in if he had tried.

Finally, Mummy grabbed a long sheet of paper out of Father's hand. I could see that Lady Seaton's crest had been imprinted at the top of it. Mummy's face brightened as she took in each succeeding line. "I am all astonishment," she finally said. "Speechless!" The day Mummy grew speechless would be the day of reckoning. Mummy continued to babble. "Marianne, you are to be an heiress. Twenty-thousand pounds has been settled onto you. Astounding! Lady Seaton, your benefactress! Who would have imagined, Marianne, that you would engender such a legacy?" The amount was equal to three-hundred thousand dollars a year in my day's money. And apparently, Lady Seaton had bestowed that sum on me because I had saved Margaretta, her granddaughter.

Mummy planned to call on Lady Seaton in the morning to thank her until Father said, "Your call will have to wait until her return." Evidently, Lady Seaton went to Scotland every year at about this time, and, "In fact," said Father, "she will no doubt be on her way before tomorrow's sun. The only matter delaying her departure was this legacy. She wished to personally place it in my hands."

Mummy indicated then that she would go at once to make her call. Father managed to stall her by saying, "I thanked her so profusely she claimed to be embarrassed. So more expressions of gratitude would only harass her." Mummy saw some wisdom in Father's words and though she longed to see the insides of Newton Priors she settled for thinking about the money which would come from there instead.

There is an old saying that money marries money. And Mummy, knowing that she and Father had only three-hundred pounds per annum to settle on me whenever I married, were, in spite of my beauty, fairly uncertain I would marry well. With a mere three-hundred pounds per annum, my prospects would be limited. But a twenty-thousand pound sum now widened the view. Mummy fell into raptures over it.

"Marianne, you really can marry a lord. No, a viscount. More likely an earl. Or perhaps a duke."

I preferred a doctor to royalty. Landed gentry did not work. The late Georgian age was a crazy one. Why a shiftless bum who would lie around his estate perennially doing nothing was a catch when a working man was not was unsettling and I told Mummy so.

Mummy said, "Marianne, you are a dimwit. And do not deserve to marry. Though marry you shall, and you shall marry well. With all of that money from Lady Seaton dressing your beauty, titled gentlemen will line up in order to seek your hand. She turned to Nanny, who had just come into the hallway in which we still stood. Why, look at her profile. Look at it. Have you never see a profile more perfect?" Nanny admitted that she had not. Mummy raved on. "Many a young woman," she said, "is considered pretty straight on. But no one hides a defect in profile. A side view will expose the jutting chin, receding forehead, or protruding snout. Whereas Marianne's profile is something to gaze on, and will surely attract the gaze of some handsome, moneyed, duke.

While Mummy was counting my chickens Dr. Fowle came in. When he closeted himself with Father in the study for almost an hour Mummy began to worry. "What could they possibly be saying to one another?" I handed her the water glass. With it she thought she heard "hand" and "marriage." And so, certain now that Dr. Fowle was asking and getting permission for my hand in marriage, Mummy sent me up to my bedroom to get me out of sight.

Once the doctor had left and Father corrected Mummy's misperception by saying, "What you heard was Dr. Fowle telling me that a 'band' of gypsies had stopped a parishioner's 'carriage' Mummy sent Nanny to let me back down. I came into the midst of the following discussion.

"You mean to say that he did not once speak the word 'marriage?'" Father assured her that Dr. Fowle had come at the request of a fellow parishioner – the woman whose carriage had been stopped by gypsies – and that the doctor had indeed not once mentioned marriage. Mummy's breathing eased until Father added,

"Though his mentioning it in conjunction with Marianne would not surprise me. Would it you?"

"Not now. Now that Marianne has a fortune." I was astounded at the quickness with which Mummy had turned Dr. Fowle into a calumnious fortune hunter. And I wondered why she would call his interest in me calumny when he did not yet know about my fortune.

"And," I said, "when he does, why would his trying to marry me be calumny but yours in trying to marry me off to a lord or duke not?"

I should have kept quiet. To answer me Mummy said, "Marianne, what you say is true. He will learn about your fortune. And all too soon. And then, what will keep a proposal from coming from him? We will have to remove you from his grasp." She thought a moment, looked at Father, then added, "Our daughter shall go to your sister's in London." In this roundabout way my father got his. Mummy bundled my things together so that I could catch the Mail Coach.

It so prided itself on being punctual it hardly stopped long enough to let me on it. Because the day was so pretty all the coach windows were down. With them down Mummy could see that an enfeebled couple she knew from Sandition was inside the coach. All she had time to say was, "Watch over my daughter, will you?" Mummy then threw my fare up to the coachman, who once he'd caught it, slapped the reigns down on the horses' necks, and we were off. After our initial lurch I looked at my chaperones and figured they'd be as able to protect me from danger as tissue paper water. The man's eyes were clouded with cataracts and the woman's would hardly stay open. As he stared into oblivion, and she nodded off, the middle-aged gentleman to my side gave me a wink. I gave him one of Mummy's "Don't mess with me" looks and then I lay my parasol across my lap with the spiky end of it, pointed like a bayonet, toward him.

Compared to our carriage, which was pulled by four nags, the London Mail zoomed. Soon, the middle aged man who sat to my side tried to engage me in conversation. "The coach," he said, "of the London Mail keeps to a speed of ten miles an hour." After commenting on my youthful appearance and turning that into a lack of experience he added, "I presume you have never traveled at such top speeds."

I stared at his right hand, which was inching toward me, and then I whispered, "My mother's friends are blind, not deaf, and if you speak to me again, or deign to touch me, I shall scream." And then to make him believe I was off kilter enough to do so I added, "And actually, I have gone as fast as five-hundred miles per hour, but only when I've flown." At least I assumed jets went that quickly, but I was hoping he'd think I thought I was a witch.

Just before the town that marked the end of the stage we had just completed, the guard who rode shotgun blew his post horn to signal that we needed a change of horses. By the time we flew into town a team of ostlers, with the speed of a pit stop crew, changed our coachman's four-in-hand for another, and off we raced. I did not realize how fast the ostlers would work or I would never have gotten out of the carriage – especially as prior to the stop I had the seat by the door. But after it, the man beside me had it because he had stayed inside and slid over. I had to crawl over him when I got back in. But worse still, at the following pit stop, which included a break for dinner, my middle aged friend waited for my parents' friends to leave, and then as I followed them through the carriage door he pinched me on my bottom. I shoved my parasol back into his stomach.

Rather than eat with my parents' friends, which would have meant eating with him, I went to the table in the inn where the coachman, guard, and gentlemen who were traveling on the top of the carriage sat. The coachman indicated that they were riff raff and that I should sit with my kind, who were their betters. I decided to wait outside and forego eating. As I sat on a bench in front of the inn I thought about how misguided Mummy had been. To fulfill her vision of what was best for me I had slept in the bed of a recently deceased plague victim and was now falling prey to the not so subtle arts of a lecherous man.

My mother's friends brought me a beef sandwich with mustard on it, which I climbed into the carriage hoping to eat. One of the young men who was riding on the box took such a fancy to me that he tried to climb in after me. He still had both feet on the ground when the guard – in his royal livery – called, "Halt!" When this same man put a foot onto one of the steps which had been let down, the guard, rather than use a civilized form of communication, shot at the other. Since time was of the essence, I supposed that was the surest way to get the young man back on top.

Each time we came to the end of a stage the guard blew his post horn, and each time we came to a turnpike gate it – as if Aladdin had been calling, "open sesame," – magically opened. We hardly stopped, and when we did everything was done so quickly the stop seemed nonexistent. Once, a long line of carts, slowed by the incline of a hill, pulled over to hug the mountainside so that Mohammed could fly over it. We were, after all, the Royal Mail.

We passed through a small town on the outskirts of London just after dusk. A vendor, who had just finished stacking potatoes on his cart, had to restack them after the coach grazed the cart and ruined his perfectly made pyramid. At least I assumed he restacked his potatoes. But actually, I only saw him scurrying after them as the coach barreled on. Our rush was warranted, or so said my middle aged "friend." According to him, unless such corners were cut we'd never reach the Lombard Street Post Office on time. Once we did reach the post office in Lombard Street, my parents' friends saw me out of the carriage and into the hack chaise they hired. Even though Aunt Charlotte lived beyond their destination, they saw me safely to mine before doubling back. Aunt Charlotte's house was dark – so dark I couldn't even make out its outline – and everyone inside it was asleep. The driver of the hack chaise, with the help of his lantern, helped me find Aunt Charlotte's door. My knock on it roused her friend. After I had stated my identity, and asked her not to wake my aunt, she showed me to my aunt's bed – she was sleeping in the sitting room with my aunt – and glad for the safety of solitude, I went to sleep in it without even turning down the covers.

Chapter 9

I awoke at dawn and without the luxury of a servant was able to dress myself. Aunt Charlotte's friend, who the evening before had offered to finish out her watch that night, saw me from the sitting room as I came downstairs and invited me in. She was seated next to Aunt Charlotte, who was stretched out on the sofa. On the opposite side of the room I could see the bed the friend had made for herself. She had lined three chairs up together. No wonder she had got out of that contraption as fast as the sun rose. It looked highly uncomfortable.

Aunt Charlotte did too. Her long hair was unkempt and her face pallid. She managed a smile though. It, to use a word my real mother liked to use, prettified her. Even though she was under a blanket I could see that, unlike Mummy, there was nothing bony or sharp about her. Mummy was gaunt and full of angles. But everything about Aunt Charlotte was rounded. After seeing all that softness, especially the softness of the features on her face, I decided my beauty had come from Father's side of the family.

As I eyed my aunt, she eyed me. We had hardly been together another moment before she said, "There's something different, Marianne, to you now." I attributed the change to my hair length. But Charlotte, like Lady Seaton and others who tended to look deeper than the surface, said, "No. I believe it is something other." And then because Aunt Charlotte wasn't given, like Mummy, to making absolute judgments, she thought a few moments before she tentatively said, "It is your eyes, I think. There is something different to them. But I should not go on about your eyes when you are most likely hungry. Perhaps Mrs. Moulton can find us something to eat." Once Aunt Charlotte promised she would be fine on her own, her friend, Mrs. Moulton, took me to the small room that functioned as the kitchen. After rooting around in it, we settled on some buns she had bought the previous day and on a pot of chocolate. Both were carried back into and set before Charlotte. After which we propped Charlotte's head up on several pillows.

When we had eaten, Mrs. Moulton said, "You look too young, Miss Lamb, to be able to manage – what with caring for children and cooking on top of it."

"Not to mention, caring for me," said Aunt Charlotte. "I am practically helpless."

Mrs. Moulton took the chocolate cup from Aunt Charlotte, and as she did she said, "I wonder if I ought to stay another day, just to see you settled in." Had either of them been overweening like Mummy Mrs. Moulton would have. I tried to assure both of them all would be well. I did ask that Mrs. Moulton drop in later that afternoon, though, to check on us. The idea of a return visit eased her conscience and with it eased she took her leave.

I might have been inept with a needle, but I was adept in a kitchen, mainly because I had cooked since I was ten. Being the oldest and having a mother who worked meant I came home from school and eventually got dinner ready. Not that cooking was quite the same in the Georgian age. But I figured that the time I had spent in the kitchen with Nanny – mainly to avoid Mummy's attentions – had shown me any differences. For instance, a pot of stew or soup was set onto a trivet in the fire. Puddings and breads were baked in an "iron cupboard" to the side of it. And meat was roasted in a tin reflector oven. A tin reflector oven was a four legged, metal cylinder that sat in the fire. There weren't any stoves to speak of.

Because of my confidence I decided to make a joint of mutton. Not that Charlotte had one, but the city was full of vendors who had since just before dawn been hawking all kinds of wares. I could hear their calls through the windows. Plus, I figured Aunt Charlotte could point me in the right direction. She would obviously know the vendors and their haunts. After I got the joint I would slow cook it to perfection; I had seen some potatoes in the scullery and I was going to scrounge some parsley to parsley them; and I was even thinking about making mint jelly, even though I had no sense of how to. And for dessert I would make a pie. I decided on cherry when I heard a vendor call, "A croat a pound. Black heart cherries. Round and sound cherries." Marrying Dr. Fowle was at the center of my present desire to cook a huge meal because I figured cooking it would be practice for when I cooked for Dr. Fowle.

To turn my fantasy of cooking for a man into something of a reality I said, "Aunt Charlotte, where is the butcher's stall. I want to get a joint of mutton." Before I stopped talking I had laid out my entire plan.

After hearing it Aunt Charlotte said, "Mutton is sold at the end of Henrietta Street. And Henrietta Street is two blocks over." She paused, looked at me standing there, obviously wanting to go, then said, "Since when, Marianne, have you been so ambitious? I only ever remember you sitting with your feet on a stool working satin stitch." She again remarked on the change she had seen in the look in my eye. Before I freshened the water in her glass with some from the decanter she added, "As the children will be awake soon, and as I will soon be asleep once you measure out my laudanum, settle yourself on feeding us the rest of the beef Mrs. Moulton brought us yesterday. And do us all a favor and serve it to us cold. I assure you, there will be no time for cooking anything, let alone anything fancy. Have you ever rolled out the crust of a pie?"

"No, but I have seen our servant Nanny do so."

Before I could get out the door my cousin Georgie came down the stairs and said he was hungry. He was dressed in a long, white, night shift. I brought him the plate of buns and made another pot of chocolate. I had hardly got the pot heated before his sister came down. She wanted a bun too, but there weren't any because I wasn't watching when Georgie ate the three that were left on the plate. That left Fanny with none. Aunt Charlotte suggested I feed her some bread with butter. I gave her the heel. But now we didn't have any bread or buns. Just some cold beef and potatoes.

Over the next several days I came to fully admire mothers who wrestled with small children. To be honest, when Wendy, my sister's children were small, I had no clue as to the difficulties surrounding raising them. I just knew the job I had was difficult, and since it involved teaching 150 children every day I assumed handling two or even eight children would be less difficult. I was so assured of the fact than when I would stop by Wendy's house after work – my school day ended at three P.M. – and catch her, hair uncombed and still in her nightgown, I wondered what she did all day.

When my hair started looking worse than Aunt Charlotte's she said, "Marianne, why don't you bring Goody Two Shoes to me." As she said "Goody Two Shoes" she pointed to a small bookcase in the sitting room. I found the book in question and brought it to her. She called her children to her side and once they were there, sent me to the kitchen to wash my hair. The sound of her voice carried into the kitchen from the next room. It said, "When Mama needed milk, Goody Two Shoes went for it. And when Father needed help, Goody Two Shoes' feet were at his side too."

Fanny, Aunt Charlotte's youngest, was the first to take to me. After little more than a day she began tagging along behind me. She was pretty, but self-effacing. I had brought my writing box and she liked nothing better than looking through it. That was as independent as she got, but then she was barely three. For the most part, when I had a hand that was idle she set hers into it and wanted me to hold it.

Georgie was longer at warming to me. I think, mainly because his mother's predicament terrified him. He had been with her when she had broken her leg and the leg bone protruding through the skin, which he thought was a stick, frightened him. And then hearing the doctor say that severing his mother's leg was her only hope scared him equally well. She had refused to have her leg cut off, and though it was now mending, the splint and traction device added to his worry. Plus, unlike his sister, he was old enough to have memories of his father. And since his father took to bed two months before he died, his mother now being in one made him wonder whether she was also going the way of all the world. He became less clingy once his mother began to mend, and once she did, he began to take to me. We eventually got on friendly enough terms to make and name paper ships. But that wasn't for several weeks. In the meantime he shied away except when I was with his mother. Then he hovered – almost like Mummy – and questioned my every move, or rather, constantly cautioned me with admonitions as. "Don't hurt her."

On that first day that I was in London I finally got outside when Mrs. Moulton visited again in the afternoon. I knew from listening to Mummy gossip, that Aunt Charlotte lived in Mayfair, and that as far as location was concerned that Mayfair was acceptable. From her gossip, I further knew that Aunt Charlotte lived in a small house, but that large ones surrounded it. When I stepped across the street to look at Aunt Charlotte's place in relation to the others I had to agree with my mother's appraisal. Aunt Charlotte's house was so small it looked like a peninsula sandwiched between great continents.

Its three stories were covered with white stucco, and its front door, slender shutters, and ironwork were painted black. The contrast between the white stucco and the black trim was appealing because of its sophistication. Later, when I asked Aunt Charlotte how she had come by so happily situated a property, she said, "My husband Charles had an uncle name Theophilus, and when Uncle Theophilus died he bequeathed this property to us, along with his living. Both gave us the means to get on in the world. And if Charles had stayed well enough we would have done as well as anyone. With his death, the living, though, went to another relation. However, the house has stayed with me. So my children and I at least have this roof over our heads. I have often wondered if to supplement my income I ought to take boarders in. Though what would my neighbor to the south think of me if I did so? The house to the north of me is empty though, so to apply there for permission would be next to impossible."

I did not press Aunt Charlotte for further details about her situation because I knew already that Charles, her husband, had died of consumption. Plus, the way my parents had spoken about Charlotte had already told me a great deal about her financial straits. For instance, before I left home Mummy had given me ten pounds. As she did so she said, "Since Charlotte generally has nothing, you will need some pocket change." Ten pounds was more than pocket change – even for a lengthy stay – and Mummy's giving it to me gave me not only a window into Charlotte's predicament, but one also into a hither unseen portion of Mummy's character. She might have been overbearing, and she did degrade my father and his only relation, while promoting her own sillier or more officious ones, and she was willing to let Aunt Charlotte go without our aid. But I believe she was also exhibiting some generosity because as she handed me the money she also said, "This is for bits and pieces you might wish or need. Though you might see what Charlotte's straits are before you spend any of it. If they are what I fear them to be, parcel this out for food. Now don't be foolish and spend any of it unwisely. Ten pounds should be enough to feed you, Charlotte, and her children for six weeks." That was the tentative length of my stay. When Father took me aside for another spate of goodbyes he gave me twenty pounds. With parents slipping me money on all sides I was rolling in it, which was fortunate because I made use of a small part of it almost immediately.

I had not been in Aunt Charlotte's house two days before the postman knocked at her door. Since receivers paid the postage and since the letters were for me, having money of my own proved helpful. I paid the postman 3d for each letter. There were two: one from Mummy and one from Father. I opened Mummy's first. It said, "As Charlotte lives in such a fine area rub shoulders with her neighbors any chance you get." She next reminded me to be careful with my money. Other incidentals followed. Then, in closing, she said, "Charlotte's such a hand with a needle, get her to teach you to sew. It will occupy both your idle hours." Artful correspondence is making oneself feel present through a letter and it was artful the way Mummy stayed at the helm though miles away.

I opened my father's letter second. At least the return address contained our address and his name. As I opened it I could not fathom why he and Mummy had not folded their letters up together. Nor, why the letter from Father was not closed with his seal. Once I had it opened, though, I understood both of those discrepancies. The top two sheets of the letter were short notes from Father, one to Charlotte, one to me. The one to me explained that Dr. Fowle had asked for and been given permission to write to me, and the other to Charlotte documented the same. Father logically knew that his sister would not let me correspond with a man without his approval. Of course I did not have Mummy's approval. Nor did she know Dr. Fowle had asked and been given it, and Father's letters to me and Charlotte made this abundantly clear.

Dr. Fowle's letter lay underneath Father's so I guessed he had bben the one to fold everything up – envelopes had yet to be conceived – and drop the green wafer on the tongue where the sheets closed. He had obviously had pressed the wafer with his signet ring, and then cleverly used my parents' rectory as his return address. His letter to me said:

My Dear Miss Lamb,

It seems too long since we have met. (Does it seem so to you?) Though rationally, I realize it was only four days ago that we spoke with one another. Lady Seaton has gone into Scotland and without my visits to you and without her here to issue me invitations to dine I am a lonely man. Though my work does keep me occupied.

I understand you are nursing a patient so you must keep me a field of her condition. London is full of doctors both fine and ill. I hope she has one of the former. I shall now turn to my diary.

Yours respectfully,

Thomas Fowle

I wrote him back the following day. My letter gave him my opinion of Bowen, Aunt Charlotte's doctor. I believed that Dr. Bowen had spent too much time at the battlefront and that doing so had made him amputation crazy. At least, amputation popped up frequently in his conversations with my aunt. And it especially popped up as he looked at her fracture, and the way it was knitting together – or not as he would claim. And then it also popped up as he looked at the wound (which had come from the bone tearing the skin) and the way it was healing – or not as he would claim. On either of those occasions he would put his head together with whatever surgeon he had brought (to do the cutting), they would talk gravely, and wonder whether Aunt Charlotte had the putrid fever – I thought she felt cool enough – and then suggest immediate amputation. If Charlotte hadn't been adamant against it I would have been. There was no pus around the wound. Where it had been stitched, it was closed. No tissue had died. In fact, it all looked pink and healthy, and furthermore, her leg, taken altogether, looked as straight as an arrow. But Dr. Bowen, who had been trained on the battlefield – probably at Agincourt, judging from his age – insisted on field tactics.

After reading my letter Dr. Fowle wrote back and said, "You and your aunt must remain firm. Medicine is advancing, and will become even less of a blood sport once older practitioners like Dr. Bowen are gone. Give him his due, while steering your aunt clear of the hacksaw." I enjoyed getting letters from Dr. Fowle – and sending them. The leisurely give and take of letter writing suited me. And it also gave me a look into Dr. Fowle's soul.

Apart from our visits from Dr. Bowen and any surgeon he could carry in, we received many of Charlotte's women friends. They would call and stay for a quarter of an hour. So many of them called upon us I decided to wash Aunt Charlotte's hair by having her lean her head back over a basin. After it dried I might not have done what a hairdresser could do with a head of hair like hers, but I did make it look tidy. Since Charlotte was in mourning she wore black.

One afternoon, when her children were napping, a man called at the door. I took his card to Charlotte. She asked me to invite him in. From his card I knew that he was a clergyman and that his name was the same as that of the man who held the sinecure of the Mayfair Parish Church. I knew both facts from Mummy's letters, and from them I also knew that his living was a good one. Mummy always kept current with the world of the clergy, a world in which gossip traveled faster than the Royal London Mail. Mummy wanted me to rub shoulders with him, not for myself, but for Caroline. Mummy hoped I would make his acquaintance – he lived in Mayfair – and if I could, Aunt Susan would send Caroline in hopes she could make his acquaintance too.

The reverend, whose surname was Comeford, as soon as he got in the room, pulled a chair up to the head of the sofa, took Aunt Charlotte's hand, looked tenderly into her eyes, and as he did so, with a tremulous voice, said, "The harm that has befallen you, Mrs. Powlett, must seem torrential." His countenance was so grave I thought he was going to say the word amputate, and it was at least grave enough that I thought he would continue in his address to Aunt Charlotte. But after what I shortly thereafter realized were perfunctory words, he turned from Charlotte to me. "Miss Lamb, I understand that you, unlike your aunt, have been the recent beneficiary of good favor. What a patroness you have in Lady Seaton." I think he next meant to say, "What a fortunate turn of events." But he gave his real intent away when he added, "What a fortune!" Poor Caroline. I didn't know whether she would ever marry. But I did know that the reverend in question didn't hope to be her partner as much as he hoped to be mine. I wanted to say to Mummy, "When one digs a pit for one's neighbor, one sometimes falls into it oneself," because here I was assigned to hunt the reverend for Caroline. But it was he who hunted me.

When I inadvertently dropped my hankie he swooped it up so quickly I had no idea it was gone. And the look on his face when he held it before me was that of a man who was intent on pleasing me. I could hardly wait to show him out the door. That artery of gossip in the clergy ran both ways. At least he seemed to know about my fortune when a local like Dr. Fowle did not. I would have to avoid him when I took my cousins to church, which would not be difficult, as I understood he did not often attend services. But why should he when he had a rector who preached for him? The only pleasure I took from his visit was that he had read some of my father's sermons. A small book of them had recently been put in print. It was quite a coup for a country parson to have his sermons circulate in London. The reverend advised me they were widely read.

Because I missed my old life, and by old I meant that life in my other world I rejoined it through flights of fancy. Sometimes I made these flights of fancy into stories for Aunt Charlotte's children. I didn't realize how effective I had been in turning fancy into reality until I heard Georgie and Fanny talking about Kermit, Miss Piggy, Timmy, Lassie, Mr. Vader (first name Darth) and so on, as if they were people in the village of Sandition.

Everything was not fun and games because I had been put in charge of teaching my niece her letters and my nephew to read. We started with the "at" family and its cousins, words like: cat, bat, and so on. And then we went on to larger words. I even wrote down passages from Dr. Suess and pawned them off as my own. As to the alphabet, with the future at my fingertips, who could better teach a young child her letters? Fanny learned "A" through "Z" admirably.

In between lessons we went for walks – when we could. At first both children were somber and sedate, but as they warmed and left off worrying over their mother – her health was improving despite what Dr. Bowen said – they clowned, or raced one another. One afternoon I taught Fanny to skip. When we got back to the house, it was with a measure of pride that she showed her mother her new-found skill. I can't tell you how many times she skipped in and out of the sitting room.

As often as London's weather let us, we sat outside. Aunt Charlotte's house had a miniscule garden in back. So miniscule I laughed when Georgie, who had picked up a chestnut during a walk, planted it in a corner of the tiny yard. "Have you ever seen a full-grown chestnut tree?" He said of course he had and that they were as tall as the tower of London and just as thick. "Precisely. And this is why it will drown out all the sunshine in your mother's garden. Do you want to gloom it up?" He planted his chestnut anyway, but it was too late in the year. In fact, it was so late the chaffinches had disappeared.

Even though I was away from the nest Mummy did not neglect me. If you recall, she suggested I have Aunt Charlotte reteach me to sew. When I did not report in any of my letters that I had been doing so – simply because we were not following any of Mummy's instructions – Mummy wrote to Aunt Charlotte instead. Since Mummy had let me come to Aunt Charlotte's, and since, as Mummy had relayed in a letter to her, "at great sacrifice to me," Charlotte felt inclined to retrain me. At first, she set me to work darning. But when she discovered that my stitches were (as she put it) as long as the channel, she taught me fringe work instead. I wound beige yarn around and around a card, and then tied and cut it. Aunt Charlotte was fringing a pair of curtains.

Toward the end of my eighth week in London, when Charlotte was so well I was about to go home, Mummy wrote and asked that she help me relearn to knit. After realizing I might hang myself in the process Charlotte said, "Instead, it is time we had some fun." Since she was now up and able to walk without her crutches she wanted to go to the double hanging that was advertised.

Evidently, two arsonists were about to be hung near the scene of their crime and it was in Mayfair. "With it so close to home," she said, "how could we not?" Yes, indeed! Since hangings took place on Monday mornings and since they were the days we did the wash – Aunt Charlotte was too poor to send hers out – the "how could we not?" was, as questions go, rhetorical.

All hangings began at eight A.M. To get the best view possible we left two hours beforehand. Charlotte wanted to pay for seats in the stand which had been temporarily been erected. It looked like a set of bleachers at a racetrack. When I heard a man call from the upper window of his house, though, "A penny for a look from my balcony," we leapt at his offer. Charlotte let Georgie knock at the door, we were admitted, shown up the stairs, taken through several rooms and finally guided out onto the balcony where we stood with two other family parties who were so obviously proper they reminded me of "family pieces." Family pieces were life size paintings of families. Without knowing the names of any of the persons in question I titled the group to my right Captain Townshend and his Family. A cockade hat to his head, the man of the family had epaulettes to his shoulders, and his saber to one side while his wife and children stood to his other. She wore a gown of pure white, and her shawl was blood red. It had paisleys. Their small sons, who looked to be just recently put into trousers by the way they pulled at the legs of them, wore suits of indigo. They were all so stylishly dressed I thought they might have been a family who had hired a box at an opera.

I called the group to my left The Phipps Family at Tea – only I replaced tea with hanging – because the entire family seemed to be waiting for what was to come with as much genteelness as if they'd been waiting for their cups of tea. The father had somber streaks of gray at both his temples – he occasionally smoothed them – and the shock of white running through the top of the mother's crown served as her diadem of respectability. Both their daughters, though young, were equally sombre looking.

The way the crowd was milling below, and the fact that Charlotte's children were present, and that she was so recently off her crutches, made me think we were safest on high ground, especially with it being the seat of so much respectability.

At seven the procession from Newgate began. From our vantage point we could see the two prisoners being loaded into the dogcart. For a half penny a look we could borrow a spyglass from our host. I sprang for that too. My turn to put it to my eye came as the cart headed down Snow Hill and later when Georgie took his turn he saw it stop at Church Street. The cart was before us at a quarter of eight. The prisoners were out of the cart, hooded up, and on the horse drawn platform in a matter of minutes. Very close to eight calls of "Hats off" sounded. I thought the calls had been made out of respect, but soon realized that they had been made in an effort to improve the view when they were rapidly followed by ones of "Down in front." The two calls so reminded me of a sporting event I thought that the crowd below might break into "the wave." At eight, after the bells of the Holy Sepulchre tolled the hour, the hangman put the nooses on. With a signal from him, the horses were kicked. When they bolted they pulled the platform wagon behind them, which left the prisoners dangling. The hush that came just prior to the hanging dissipated, at first into a low roar. Soon vendors were calling, "Buy some ginger beer."

Since I had regaled my cousins with stories about the country, a countryside where pigs and frogs talked, they wished to know if I'd ever seen hangings there. "Gosh. Yes," I answered. When they asked for particulars I put some westerns together and from them described the supposed best hanging I'd ever seen. "In it, the condemned didn't die because he was rescued." They wanted to know how so I said, "With the help of two of his accomplices. One of them shot the rope in two – as the condemned man dropped while the other raced a spare horse up to catch him. The three of them rode off, shooting back at the sheriff and hangman."

One of the mothers on the balcony said, "Because your story is about the impenitent it is not fit for our children." I was appalled by her hypocrisy but said nothing further, and she turned away. Her pretending like hangings were lessons instead of entertainment was ludicrous.

Our visit to the menagerie at the Exeter Exchange was, in my opinion alone, the more child-friendly trip. Seeing a bear from there being led down Henrietta Street on a chain prompted the visit. We practically followed it to Wellington and the Strand to see the other animals of which none were out of doors. The monkeys, dromedary, elephant and so on were all housed in cages in rooms in the upstairs stories of an elegant looking building. Scenes mimicking the animals' natural habitats had been painted on the walls. They were so fake looking they reminded me of the murals my friends'd had painted on the walls of their children's bedrooms.

But, "Have you ever seen anything so real looking?" Georgie said. He supposed the countryside from which I'd come didn't have anything quite so life like. I was torn. Escondido is not far from the San Diego Zoo – where the animals live out of doors. So I almost corrected him. Except that I thought my aunt was beginning to think I was crazed so I told him I never had, and that what we were seeing had to be one of the Seven Wonders of the World. I did make a mistake later, though, when I said, "I have always liked looking at monkeys. Their antics amuse me."

Aunt Charlotte looked askance and said, "Since when, Marianne, have monkeys lived in Sandition?"

I told her that a band of gypsies had an organ grinder. And then I diverted attention from what I'd said by adding, "Look, I think the keeper's ready to feed the snakes. See, he's holding mice by their tails. Let's watch him." We looked with as much interest at the snakes working the mice down whole as we had at the hanging. On our way home we stopped at a pastry shop for biscuits.

That same week, which was the week before I was supposed to leave, tragedy struck. Mummy wrote saying that she had inadvertently learned from the wife of the postmaster that Dr. Fowle and I were carrying on in a clandestine correspondence. She insisted it stop. So for what I thought was to be my last week in London Dr. Fowle sent his letters to me – he wrote me every day – to one of his many friends in London, and from there they were forwarded on to Aunt Charlotte's. I directed my return letters to that same friend. Charlotte wasn't entirely happy about playing a part in our intrigue. "Except," she said, "that I've long felt your mother's notions and whims have made my brother's life needlessly unhappy – and since he sees no evil in the correspondence why should I?"

We were waiting that week for final word from Mummy as to my actual day of departure. So when a letter came on Friday we assumed it would be full of directives relating to my return. Imagine our surprise when Aunt Charlotte and I read:

As it is almost time for "the season" I have decided that Marianne ought to remain in London for it. My dear friend, Mrs. Selina Suckling, may be in London as early as the first of the year, and when she has arrived she has promised to squire her. She travels in the first circle, and has kindly agreed to introduce Marianne into it.

There was a tacit attempt at obtaining Aunt Charlotte's continued willingness to host me, but it was perfunctorily done as my having cared for Aunt Charlotte was in obvious need of recompense. I also realized Mummy expected her to host my continued stay as the letter included a large number of pounds, most of which were to be used for clothes for me. I was to have walking out gowns, ball gowns, riding costumes etc., and Aunt Charlotte was to make or arrange to have them made for me. I wrote Dr. Fowle with my disturbing news. He wrote back saying that he too was disappointed, but because there was nothing either of us could do we planned to continue our association with one another through our correspondence. Because I would be traveling under the armature of a woman who moved in the first circle Aunt Charlotte and I planned to visit Grafton's first thing the following morning.

Chapter 10

Grafton's was a drapers whose floor to ceiling shelves and drawers held ribbons, buttons, trim, and bolts of fabric of every type excluding silk. "For any silk," Aunt Charlotte said, "we shall have to stop at the mercers, but as it is near my house we shall stop there on our way home as I cannot see sense in carrying what we might buy there to Grafton's and back again."

Grafton's sat on the corner of Grafton Street and New Bond. And while getting there wasn't an extraordinarily long walk it was far enough away I thought we ought to hire a hack chaise. Aunt Charlotte, though, insisted the walk would do her leg good, and since we had the added incentive of fine weather I let her talk me into going by foot. We had also decided the previous night to leave as soon as we had eaten our breakfast because unless one got to Grafton's early one had to wait. We were true to our plan.

Mummy had sent me 200 pounds, which was a hefty sum for a wardrobe, though for one that would be seen in the first circle, probably not hefty enough, and along with it a hefty tome titled An Unfortunate Mother's Advice to her Absent Daughters. The tome was full of exhortations to women such as: Be honest! Be modest! Be virtuous! Be true! And yet, everything about what Mummy was wanting me to do: snare a rich and titled husband, was immodest, and moreover dishonest. I knew Aunt Charlotte had married for love, and that Mummy considered her marriage a mistake, so as we waited to be waited on (although we had been first through Grafton's door, the expensively dressed woman with liveried servant who trailed us was seen to before we were) I asked Aunt Charlotte why Mummy had been so opposed to her choice of a husband. She said, "Charles was sickly when we married – he had consumption – and your mother believed I should have chosen someone who was not in imminent danger of dying. He did not live as long even as I had hoped. Just long enough, as your mother believes, to saddle me with children. Though I do not think of them as saddles as both are in no way burdensome to me. In fact, they are my lifeblood." The children were with us as always – I had Fanny in hand, and Charlotte had Georgie, and they were so well behaved that if they were to be considered burdens they were light ones.

I found Aunt Charlotte's point of view intriguing because it was different. Children weren't curses – even to single mothers – and husbands weren't paychecks. Mummy, who was supposedly concerned about molding my character, had inadvertently sent me to someone with some. I wondered if Aunt Charlotte ever regretted flying so defiantly in the face of practicality. She said, "While my behavior could never have been construed as being shrewd, I felt it was right to marry solely for love. After all, this world is not a draper's shop where one chooses the richest fabric."

The woman who'd taken precedence over us had just chosen an elegant chintz and its glazed surface glinted in the sunlight which was coming through the front window. Her crimson pelisse was trimmed and lined with a brown fur, and she had a large fur muff to match. When the clerk had wrapped her chintz in tissue paper and he had tied the resulting parcel with some string she turned ever so slightly to give an almost imperceptible nod to her liveried servant. So as not to disturb his mistress with his presence, he silently glided up to scoop her purchase up and then he just as unobtrusively stationed himself at the door to open it for her. As she was so far our superior socially, it would have been rude for us to have said anything, or with our behavior to even ask that she somehow acknowledge our existence. We dared not look at her, and she left the shop without deigning to look at us. The clerk, I suppose by way of advertising for Grafton's, let us know that, "That excellent woman was the wife of the Earl of Twistleton."

After we had chosen our jaconet, had eight years of it wrapped, and had exited the door, Aunt Charlotte said, "Did you notice the shrewd look in her ladyship's eye. It tells me that she has never done anything not in her interests – it, and the fact that since we are nobodies, she didn't bother to acknowledge our existence. Had we been finely dressed, though, she would at least have given us a nod. But because we are not she acted as if we were untouchables." As we walked she further said, "Sometimes, Marianne, people are virtuous because not being so would be of detriment to their self interest." When I wondered exactly what she meant Aunt Charlotte said, "According to the Proverbs the children of another man will eat the adulterer's bread, or inherit his land. So I think, sometimes, shrewd men avoid adultery out of self- interest. And 'good' women are good from the same. Virtuous behavior feathers their nests. And while I'm not excusing flaws – perhaps, though, I am – people with them are usually genuine. Whereas, pictures of perfection generally are not. Bye the bye, the Earl of Twistleton regularly visits a mistress at a house he bought for her not too far from mine – and has done so now sixteen years. So how haughty should his 'true' lady be? Or rather, with such a longstanding mistress, which of his women is her true ladyship?" The children had skipped ahead or Aunt Charlotte would never have spoken so freely.

We passed many shops on our way to the silk mercers, Layton and Shear's, and the way Aunt Charlotte walked, so straight and without evidence of pain, told me her leg had mended well. At Layton and Shear's we bought some brown sarsenet and pink Persian. Aunt Charlotte carried half of our purchases and I the other. I wouldn't have had a liveried servant at the expense of part of my husband's affection for anything. Of course, I hadn't a husband so what did I know?

The following day we set out for a visit to Mrs. Moulton's I don't know if you remember the elegant pattern and the silk that Aunt Charlotte had sent for the gown which I wore to the first ball I danced at following my illness, but it had been "taken from" and by "taken from" I mean copied from, one of Mrs. Moulton's own dresses. This was because Mrs. Moulton and I were "of the same size," as Aunt Charlotte explained.

To "take" a pattern, one laid paper – newsprint was ideal – or fabric down, put the dress on top; or dress pieces if the dress was ready to be thrown to the rag bag and the seams had been previously ripped apart, and drew around the "pattern" with a piece of chalk. Women were possessive with their patterns because they didn't want anyone else dressed like they were – except, I guess, Mrs. Moulton. She didn't mind if we copied her gowns, which is what we planned on doing. She and Charlotte already had one of them in mind and we were going to take its pattern. Plus, I was going to look through the rest of her clothes to see what from them struck my fancy. Of course, Aunt Charlotte and Mrs. Moulton, who both had wonderful taste, would also confer.

Mrs. Moulton lived several streets over. Her husband, a captain of a ship, was away at sea. They were well to do, as the look of their house inside and out proved. It was made of red brick. And, three times as large as Aunt Charlotte's, it had, as she said, "Six up and six down. Though half of the rooms on each floor," continued Aunt Charlotte, "are tiny. Why, one downstairs is only an anteroom and two of the others are nothing more than closets for storage." After the servant who opened the door for us took us through the anteroom he showed us into a sitting room, which was one of the large, six "down" or downstairs rooms. Before we saw Mrs. Moulton, who was seated behind a screen, I could see that she had a pair of dachshunds, both of which were lying on a soft rug before the fire. "The rug," whispered Aunt Charlotte, "is made of needlepoint which was done by Mrs. Moulton's hand." The needlepointed rug had a paisley border and a central field with larger paisleys still. When I later remarked on its beauty, Mrs. Moulton said, "I took the pattern from a shawl my husband had sent to me from India."

Even though it was against the code of manners – one did not bring children to a morning visit – because we had no one with which to leave them, and because Mrs. Moulton was her old friend, Aunt Charlotte had brought Fannie and Georgie. I assumed they would rush up and pet the dogs, but they were so well-schooled, even at their tender age, or else so shy, they stayed at our sides. Even after we had disturbed the tranquil scene, the dogs – like every dachshund I knew – looked askance at us and then disregarded our presence. I'm sure if the children had petted one it would have growled.

Mrs. Moulton's younger children were up in the nursery and she planned to send Aunt Charlotte's there on our way up to her sitting room, which was attached to the room she slept in. It also functioned as her dressing room and would therefore be where we would find the gown, the pattern of which we were soon to take. She said, "I've taken the liberty of also laying out various gowns I think would suit your tastes. Though you are welcome to look through anything I own if what I've laid out strikes you as lackluster." I looked at Mrs. Moulton's morning dress. It had very simple lines and the cotton in it was printed with lively yellow dots on a ground of bold blue. It was so striking I thought trusting her judgment would do me better than relying on my own.

After we exchanged several pleasantries, she suggested we walk upstairs. As we were about to exit the sitting room to go into the anteroom which housed the stairs, we discovered, though, that the servant, who had answered a knock, had opened the front door. Three women stood framed in it – there, obviously, to wait upon Mrs. Moulton. It was the time of day when women made morning calls. Since it was impossible to have her servant claim she was not at home – because the women had seen her – Mrs. Moulton whispered, "Come back in and sit the visit out and after it we shall resume our business of taking patterns." We turned around, trailed back single file into the sitting room and sat down on some high backed chairs. The women, who were announced by the servant, followed almost on our heels. After she had spoken a moment to them, Mrs. Moulton presented the four of us to the older woman and what turned out to be her daughters. Both of the daughters were unmarried, probably because their faces were as plain as my actual one. The lines on their faces placed them near Aunt Charlotte and Mrs. Moulton's ages. However, they were dressed more like their mother: in somber colors, which made their faces looked drained, and in huge, old-fashioned mobcaps, the fussiness of which further aged them.

I had now become an expert on fashion even though six months before, when I was residing in the modern world, I often wore what my niece called "ugly, high-waisted, 'mom' jeans," which were, no doubt, the modern day equivalent of the old-timey mob cap.

After everyone had sat we discussed what one always discussed during morning visits: the weather, our respective families, and so on. When the visit was but half through and a silence had ensued we heard a knock sound at the front door. The same servant who had let us and the new visitors in answered, came to Mrs. Moulton's side, said something about a letter and parcel, was given a small amount of change to pay for them, went back to the door, traded the money for the goods, and then came back in with them. As he presented them he said, "As they are from Captain Moulton I supposed you would want to see them at once." She glanced at the parcel and letter, laid them aside, and then without further taking her eyes off her company, said to one of the daughters of the older woman, "I understand you paint, but in what medium? Oils? Or those newly popular watercolors?"

She answered, "I prefer the old-fashioned." (This did not surprise me because of the mobcap.) "But probably because oils are more forgiving. One must execute a watercolor almost as quickly as one must execute a hanging." The speaker's mother froze at such an unpleasantry. One did not mention unpleasantries – even ones which people were secretly fond of – during morning calls.

At this juncture the mother in the family scooted herself to the edge of her chair in preparation to rise, and then she said, "We shall leave you to peruse your letter and open your package. Such a long absence on the part of your husband," – Mrs. Moulton's callers and friends knew he had been gone a year – "must make you anxious to open them."

Without glancing the package or letter's way, Mrs. Moulton stayed her gaze on the woman before saying, "Please. I insist you finish your visit."

The older woman scooted back an iota, but kept her hand poised on the gold head of her walking stick. One moment and two pleasantries more, though, and she scooted back up, added, "We really must be going," after which she placed her elegant hankie on her lap, opened her card case, took out not one but two cards, picked the hankie back up, rose, crossed the room, presented one card to Mrs. Moulton, the other to my Aunt Charlotte, then said, "I take my leave, but we hope to see you, Mrs. Moulton; you, Mrs. Powlett; and you, Miss Lamb another day."

After Mrs. Moulton's visitors had left Aunt Charlotte said, "Do you suppose she really would like me to call upon her? With my income, I have nothing to offer anyone." Mrs. Moulton assured my aunt that the woman in question did not collect friends according to income.

Because Aunt Charlotte wanted her friend to open her letter and parcel in private she said, "Marianne and I shall come back another day." Mrs. Moulton insisted we stay, even though we'd only walked two blocks over and could just as easily have returned the following morning. When Mrs. Moulton again refused to open anything until later – our being guests precluded her diverting any attention from us – Aunt Charlotte said, "Unless you take your letter and parcel upstairs at once and come back down when you have had your fill of both we shall leave." Because they were old friends – and because Mrs. Moulton knew that Aunt Charlotte did not threaten anyone idly, she left us to our devices. She did, however, take Fanny and Georgie with her so that she could drop them off at the nursery.

When Mrs. Moulton returned she was wearing what was in the parcel. It was a bracelet that contained oval miniatures of her children. As she held her wrist out to display the piece she said, "According to his letter, Captain Moulton could not resist having this painted for me." The gold frames housing the oval miniatures had been joined together with fleur de lis shaped links and as she took her hand to move them around her wrist I thought I had never seen anything quite so pretty. "My husband," she said, "though he has not seen the children in a year, thinks that the gentleman who painted this has been skilled enough to capture our children's likenesses." I had been back in time long enough to realize, not every painter could. In fact, some were way off. When I finally saw Mrs. Moulton's children – she lined them up for us so we could compare them to their portraits – I had to admit the artist had done a remarkable job. Her oldest was a young man of fourteen. A girl of eleven followed, then two boys, and finally a girl again. The older four had, like Mrs. Moulton, slender features and faces, and their hair did not curl. The youngest, though, was plump with a mass of ringlets. We agreed that the likenesses were exacting. When I wondered how this could be – since the painter had had no access to her children – Mrs. Moulton said, "My husband had him copy them from portraits already in his possession." Captain Moulton, like most seafaring men, preferred having his family on board, but when this was not feasible – he was sailing on behalf of the king against Napoleon – he settled for a pack of miniatures. Obviously, the artist who had drawn the miniatures must have been phenomenal too because how could phenomenal copies be made from anything except exacting originals?

We did get to the pattern taking, though by the time we did it was late afternoon. Since we had had a number of interruptions, in order to get everything we had come for, Aunt Charlotte and I decided we would need to visit again. Before we could the Reverend Comeford called on us a second time. In the interests of wooing me he told me he was devoted to the fairer sex. "Especially my mother," he said. "She still lives with me. Though do not believe I am so devoted to Mother I could not admit another." As he said the word "another" he worked his face into what I'm sure he thought was a tender expression. It so sickened me, though, I turned away and left Aunt Charlotte to the job of conversing with him while I thought about Young Doctor Fowle. The quarter of an hour the reverend stayed with us seemed an eternity. When he left I started to malign the clergy by saying that they were obsequious gentlemen who wore stiff collars.

Because I was lumping everyone in with the Reverend Comeford Aunt Charlotte was right to chastise me. She looked up at me before she said, "The reverend in question is running after you in so obvious a way that it makes me laugh, and his purpose in having you – to get at your money – is so disreputable it saddens me. But all the same, clergymen are valuable members of society. Your father is one as was mine. Furthermore, we owe our education to men like them." I had to admit her point. As far as I had seen, the daughters of clergymen were more educated than the rank and file, and so once again Aunt Charlotte had won me over with her wisdom. Instead of being silly like Aunt Susan or opinionated like Mummy, she was reasonable, a real lady. Even today when I thing about the word reasonable I still see Aunt Charlotte.

The day after the reverend visited us we made our subsequent visit to Mrs. Moulton's and when we had settled on and had taken the patterns of several more of her gowns she invited the children to stay with her that evening so that we could go early and unencumbered back to Grafton's.

To get to Grafton's we had to cross Oxford Street. On the brink of doing so Aunt Charlotte and I saw some beautiful women walking, their arms entwined. Because of the way they were dressed – their breasts were actually exposed – and because of the street they were walking on – Oxford was known for its brothels, Aunt Charlotte guessed they were prostitutes. And when a man coming from behind them called up and asked if they were for sale Aunt Charlotte decided they were. I next watched the man who had called to them skip up and pick up the hem of the woman on the right's gown then say loudly, "Let me carry your Ladybird's, I mean, your Ladyship's train."

As they ducked into a nearby doorway and immediately disappeared Aunt Charlotte explained that "Ladybird" was a slang word for prostitute. With an expression on her face as tender as that of the reverend's – only Aunt Charlotte's was sincere – she added, "Do you suppose they are driven to their trade out of need?"

I said, "No doubt." And then added that I was fortunate to have two parents, plus Lady Seaton's money to sustain me.

She agreed that I was fortunate as far as my parentage, and even added, "When Charles died I might have become a ladybird excepting for your mother and father."

I doubted that were possible and said, "Aunt Charlotte, with your fine character you would never have sunk to their profession."

She answered me, "Supposing I had, would I have been the first widow to so do. We single women must often sing for our supper. And that I don't have to comes courtesy of a small annuity. And that your kind father sends money now and then. Your mother too. Though I suppose this will surprise you. Of course, instructions on how I should best use it accompany each farthing."

We laughed, and laughed again about Mummy's advice-ridden letters, when we came home to one. It was addressed to me and it said:

My dearest Marianne,

Mrs. Suckling fears she may not be in London as early as planned. However, she is going to try her best to be there as she has just discovered from reading the papers, Lord Drewes is to be in town as of the first and she would like to effect a meeting. She has also learned that Lords Hank, Doughty, Herlends, Edwards and Shift are to be in London around that same date. She travels in like circles as their parents and so she believes she could effect introductions to them as well. Obviously, such introductions would be of help to you. In the event she can come as planned, please hurry Charlotte with the sewing. Tell her to let your morning gowns wait, as the ball gowns must be finished as soon as possible.

Love to all,

Mother

Herlands, Hank, Doughty Edwards, Drewes, and Shift. They sounded like partners in a firm, and because they did it was hard to work up a lot of enthusiasm over meeting them. With my propensity for the fantastic, as I refolded Mummy's letter I began to envision them as four-eyed partners in an accounting firm. A large ballroom stood between the doors to their offices. After an orchestra struck up in it, Lord Herlands, dressed in a pinstripe, came out of his office and said, "The pleasure of this dance should be mine." His rival, in a Harris tweed plaid, after also coming out to claim me, threw his pocket protector on the floor instead of a gauntlet. The two of them then faced off, pistols in hand, for a duel. Before shots were fired Aunt Charlotte asked if I would read her my mother's letter. After I did so she spent the rest of the night sewing.

Chapter 11

Between the coming advents – Mrs. Suckling's and that of Christmas – we kept busy. I still spent a good part of my day cooking for my aunt and caring for her children. As I've said, one of my duties was to listen to my cousins read. When Mummy learned that I was doing so she wrote a note to Aunt Charlotte saying that I had not been sent to London to learn the governess trade, nor cooking for that matter. The note reiterated that Aunt Charlotte should teach me how to sew so that I could add sewing to my accomplishments. With it on my resume, if I ever got back home and couldn't get my old contract back I could always get a job in a sweatshop.

Since it would answer my mother's wishes Aunt Charlotte did teach me to do something beyond fringe work. Fortunately, with her patience and pleasant way of minimizing my faults while pointing them out me, she, unlike Mummy, had some natural talent as a teacher. For instance, when I did take a stitch a mile long she would say, "Though it's remarkably straight, could you shorten it, please?" And whenever she said "please" she said it so sweetly, I had to accommodate her. She was so positive she could have taught home ec in a middle school, except that because of budget constraints home ec had been removed from the Escondido curriculum.

She showed me the "running stitch" first. Only, when I demonstrated it back she suggested that I make it not, "run quite so, dear."

Had Mummy been teaching me she would have bludgeoned me with statements like, "Why can't you do it right?" – and then she would, no doubt, have grabbed the piece of work from me and finished it herself.

But Charlotte had that natural talent as a teacher that I have spoken of. She had good sense too. I could tell she did because the stitch she taught me first was impermanent and did not show. Once I learned it I took over basting, and only when I could baste perfectly did Aunt Charlotte show me how to backstitch. Backstitching made a permanent seam like a machine would – only it wasn't interlocked. Because it was solid, we used it for the side seams of the gowns we were making. It also did not show, but doing it correctly was highly important. Once I had learned those two stitches I was an integral part of our "shop."

We might have been busy, but we did not forget our duty to our friends. In the early part of the month of December we waited upon the mother and two daughters which we had met at Mrs. Moulton's. During our visit to them they promised to return ours, but not until Christmas and Boxing Day were through. The mother in the family, so we would not take the length of time between their visit and ours as in any way an insult – if you were considered anyone worth knowing your visit was returned in quick succession – apprised us that they were leaving London the following afternoon in order to visit her sister in the country, but that when they returned they would promptly return our visit. This timetable suited us. Charlotte's house was small. The only room which we could receive visitors in – it opened off the front door – was also the only room roomy enough in which to sew, and since we were sewing almost constantly it was usually not fit for receiving company. Plus, we ourselves were busy.

Not too busy, however, for Mrs. Moulton. When she decided to have an intimate party – which included just her family and ours – to celebrate the season, we responded favorably. Its highlight was a game she called "bullet pudding." To play it, a large pudding basin was put in the middle of a small table. The basin was not only filled with flour. The flour was molded into a mound which aped a conical shaped pudding. After the flour was molded a bullet was placed on top. "This bullet," said Mrs. Moulton, as she set it down, "comes from my husband's stock." When she went for a large knife I wondered how violent the game would be. But with it we only took turns "cutting" the pudding. The idea was to keep the bullet in place even though you were cutting away underneath it. I helped Fanny. Unfortunately, however, the bullet fell on our watch. Mrs. Moulton's youngest son proclaimed our fate as losers. "Now, you both will have to fetch the bullet." It didn't sound like a bad fate as I planned to pick it out with my fingers. However, when I started to do so Mrs. Moulton's eldest son said, "Not with your fingers, but with your teeth. And be careful not to laugh as breathing the flour in will probably choke you." A violent game after all. Choke me! My gosh. Bullet pudding was worse than pinning the tail on a donkey, or better still, it was worse than running up and sitting down on a blown up balloon in order to pop it. Ouch. As I poked my nose through the flour I wondered who thought up games for children.

I was going it alone as I had told Fanny I was to blame and would therefore suffer the consequences. This was the one instance where I wished I had my old nose. It was so long and turned up I think I could have scooped the bullet on it. Without it I poked forever through an amount of flour that seemed as much as what I conceived to be the snow in Siberia. When I finally found the bullet my face was so covered in flour my family and friends laughed – all except my loyal friend, Fanny. She put her hand in mine and told me not to cry. As I stood there, face covered in fine flour, Mrs. Moulton said, "My husband once described the revelers in Venice to me, and your face and hair match his description." When I wondered why the Venetians would be covered in flour she said, "Evidently, at Carnival they throw it at one another when they celebrate."

"What an interesting life your husband must lead," said my Aunt Charlotte. "I envy him his chance to see the world."

I silently compared the captain's life with ours and its cloistered nature. Our lives were so devoid of men they were nun like, but Captain Moulton, evidently, reveled at Carnival.

By the end of the evening we had all put our noses in the flour at least once. Several minutes before we were to leave, a rain started. With such a clear sky when we left home we hadn't come prepared for it. In order to keep us dry Mrs. Moulton loaned us a pair of umbrellas, which we promised to return when the rain stopped.

We did not realize how endlessly it would fall. The next morning, as Charlotte and I sewed, we watched it continuously drizzle down the windowpanes, and that night it so softly but steadily fell that I felt like the roof of Aunt Charlotte's house was a large keyboard which the heavens were constantly hitting.

The rain stopped a week later at about six A.M.

Because – even though Mummy said I should not – I was still cooking (I had to; Aunt Charlotte spent most of her daylight hours sewing for me) as soon as the rain had stopped I got out of bed. Because time was of the essence – who knew when the rain would start again – I grabbed the first gown I saw. I didn't bother to light a candle. Instead, I buttoned my gown up in the dingy light of the early morning, slipped into a pair of pattens so I could walk across the mud, and without bothering to comb my hair I set out for the butcher's stall at the end of Henrietta. We hadn't had anything fresh in almost a week and I wanted to purchase a joint of mutton. The wind was coming from the west, the clouds were low, and I feared it would not be long before it rained again. There was no time to lose. Most of the city, barring a few carts that were rolling, was still asleep. A servant or two swept the steps leading up to a house, but otherwise, the only city dwellers that were out were those who obviously had been bold enough to be out the night before and were now heading back home. I particularly noticed a tomcat a few feet ahead of me. He eventually hopped a flight of stairs, mewed loudly, and when the door was opened he slunk in. As soon as he had I saw a finely dressed, and I must admit, handsome man walking toward me. I could tell by the way he was dressed that he too was returning from a long, night out.

The code of manners which governed the street stated that a gentleman did not notice a lady unless she, by word, did so him. This man, though, rather than look away, kept his eyes right on me. And then to add to the insult, just as we were about to pass, he actually called over, "You're such a pretty ladybird, where do you ply your trade as I wish to come and call on you."

As I looked down at my feet in embarrassment I noticed I had not actually buttoned some of the buttons on the bodice of my gown. In consequence, much of my breasts were exposed. And the fact that I had not bothered to comb my hair must have made it look like I, too, was now returning from having been out night. My real mother's admonition that I make certain my underwear were clean in case I got into an accident came back to me as I buttoned the buttons on my bodice with one hand and waved the gentleman off with my other. Because of the circumstances surrounding our meeting, his face was one I would not likely forget.

Long before I got to the butcher I had buttoned up. Because I had been humiliated I quickly pointed to the joint of mutton I wished to buy. The butcher picked it up, put it on a sheet of newsprint, and then before he packaged the meat up and handed it out to me, he wiped his hands clean on his bloody, leather apron so that they wouldn't soil the packaging. He neatly tied the paper with a string. I took the meat and headed home with it. Later I would dress and cook it for dinner.

Needless to say I kept what had happened to me secret out of shame. Speaking of secrets – Fanny let me in on one, and her letting me in on it explained some of my Aunt Charlotte's recent and puzzling behavior. Aunt Charlotte was not one to secret herself away and so the fact that she had been spending large parts of the evenings now closeted up in her bedroom worried me. I feared she was isolating herself out of low spirits. The season was a family one and an important part of hers was now permanently gone. Fanny, in her innocence and wickedness, though, laid to rest my fears when, the week before Christmas day, when her mother had run to Mrs. Moulton's, she asked me if I wanted to "see" a secret. Since I love to see secrets I let her lead me, her hand pulling mine, up the stairs. She opened her mother's door, and still holding my hand, led me to the sewing stand, which sat under the casement window. She let go of my hand, opened the lid to the stand, and then pulled out an almost finished, hand netted reticule. I recognized its white silk thread as some Aunt Charlotte had insisted on paying for with her own money. Fanny said, "My mother is making this especially for you."

As I handled the reticule I felt shame. My Aunt Charlotte, who had very little money and a lot of worries and cares, had thought out and was now executing a gift for me and in contrast I had not given getting her or her children anything a thought.

I planned to rectify the situation when Aunt Charlotte returned. She was hardly in the door before I had gone out it. I headed toward Crook, Son, and Besford's, where I bought Aunt Charlotte a white silk handkerchief and an expensive pair of gloves. I chose a fur muff for Fanny because its diminutive size appealed to me, and a smart looking red coat – Georgie was fascinated with the military – for her brother. With such gifts to exchange we had a happy Christmas, though when Charlotte opened hers she said of my gloves, "I go nowhere fancy, but I am superstitious enough to believe these are propitious. Who thinks I shall eventually go someplace elegant enough to wear Marianne's gloves?" Fanny raised her hand, but Georgie was too busy pretending he was an officer in the guards to notice his mother's finery.

On Christmas Eve and day we took a break from our sewing, but in their aftermath we were at it again. Well, one morning in early January when the main room was typically cluttered – Aunt Charlotte had been cutting a dress out on the floor, another was being cut on the table, others in varying states of un finish were slung over the chairs in the room – a knock sounded at the door. To save Aunt Charlotte's knees – she hated getting up and down – I went to the door to answer it. Rather than open it wide up though, to hide our mess, I only poked my head out. A servant in livery stood on the doorstep. He held up a card. Mrs. Suckling's name was engraved on it. "Shall I say you are in?" the man who was obviously her servant wondered. As he waited for my answer he nodded to a woman who was seated in a barouche landau. A barouche landau was a long, low slung, graceful looking carriage which was the height of fashion because everything about it was expensive looking and sleek. The woman seated in the barouche landau wore a turban. The turban was almost as stylish as a barouche landau. In fact, they were so popular Aunt Charlotte had made me one, but without the fringe that was practically covering the face of the woman who sat before me in the street. Though I could not see the expression in her eyes – due to the fringe – I'm sure, because I had leaned out the door a ways that it saw mine. I told the liveried servant that I would present his mistress' card and he, by a subsequent slight gesture, conveyed this message to her. After I reached my hand out and took the card I shut the door. Since Mrs. Sucking would have taken our saying we were not at home as an insult, there was no way out of her visit. And since she would also take the condition of the room as an insult, we scurried in order to straighten it. We stuffed everything into the next room, which was the room that functioned as the kitchen. And then I sat down in a chair, looking for all the world like I hadn't been doing any work. And Charlotte, after ushering Mrs. Suckling in, sat in the chair opposite me.

She had come in like a harsh gust of air. And once in she took over. We had scarcely exchanged greetings when she began passing judgment on the two of us. Once she did so I could see why she and Mummy were friends. She said, "I see that the two of you are up to nothing. Women should always have pursuits." I guessed she objected to the fact that we hadn't any sewing in hand because afterward she said, "Don't you have embroidery hoops? Why, to sit all morning doing nothing is like…."

…Driving around in a barouche, I thought to myself.

Mrs. Suckling continued, "I have just waited upon Catherine Collins, who is working a sampler in silk. We must stay busy. And Mrs. Lamprose, whom I knew as a girl, is sitting at tambour work. Mrs. Hawkins – Hawkins is my maiden name, though she is no relation – is covering a footstool in worsteds. Why, I keep a purse I am netting for my niece, Augusta, inside my barouche so that I can work on it as I am driven through town." She had seated herself under the drapes I had fringed, and so as she talked down to us and as her eyes covered the room – I supposed to add up what was in it – I looked at her turban so long to compare the fringe on it to that on the drapes that she finally asked, "At what, Miss Lamb, do you stare?" I was shamed into silence and by a woman who had more fringe on her head than did the drapes at the window.

To relieve the awkwardness of the situation Aunt Charlotte asked after Mrs. Suckling's niece. "Is Augusta a family name?"

"Yes. My niece was named for her mother, my sister. And since my niece is coming this week to begin a long stay with me I shall introduce you to her." She went on to tell us what a model Augusta was when saying, "She almost has too many resources. Now, what are yours?" Since Mrs. Suckling had been adding up the contents of the room – Aunt Charlotte had a large dining table, several chairs, a long, lean sofa, two vases flanking the mantelpiece, and a crystal epergne – I thought she was talking about our assets and since it was rude to, I didn't know what to say.

Aunt Charlotte again rescued me. "Marianne's are many. She plays and reads. I have no instrument, though, and as you see, my library is very small – which is just as well because, what with the fittings and all, making her wardrobe has so absconded with our time she hasn't been able to devote anything like she should to her usual resources. They've had to wait."

"Wait! Without them we flounder."

I now understood that resources were synonymous with hobbies.

Even though she claimed to have many – "I sing, draw, and paint," – I deemed Mrs. Suckling a vacuous woman. She was vulgar to boot, dressed as she was in that loud red and bright green. She was silly enough, too, at her age, to wear a cape which closed with a frilly bow – not to mention a turban that had enough fringe to cover 5,000 exotic dancers. As I listened to her speak I realized she was so self-absorbed, she dropped names which had absolutely no meaning for others. Besides mentioning the Mesdames Collins, Hawkins and Lamprose she spoke about a Mrs. Huston, a Mrs. Husk, a Mrs. Falcon, and many more. Her cataloguing was epic and I was so bored with it I almost tuned her out. However, when she subsequently said, "The husband of my sister Augusta, the very reverend Mr. Elton, has just been appointed Bishop in Highbury," I almost screamed.

More of that noxious, drop by drop business. Mr. Elton! Mrs. Elton! Mrs. Suckling! Sandition! Highbury! Even the name Newton Priors should have tipped me off. Austen loved it. And as a Janeite I should have recognized it and the obvious others because they were people or places in Austen's world. Sandition was the setting for and title of Austen's final novel, and Emma was set in Highbury. And Highbury was peopled by the Elton's. And Mrs. Suckling was Mrs. Elton's sister and a woman whose husband was rich enough to own – yes – a barouche landau. Just the same Suckling and the term barouche landau should have tipped me off. My only excuse was the enormous unbelievability of the situation into which I'd been thrown.

I excused myself to lie down. As I was leaving I heard Mrs. Suckling say, "Is she growing up to be sickly like her Aunt Susan, do you think?"

Charlotte assured her I had not been sick since I had come.

So Mrs. Suckling ascribed my lying down to the excitement of her visit. "Though in the first circle in which I travel she will meet finer ladies than am I. Still, I suppose I should not have worn so much of my finery. Nevertheless, Marianne must inure herself to it. Do you believe she can withstand a tour in my barouche? I was hoping to take my niece and her to Bath with me. But if riding in it is too dazzling I suppose we could ride in my coach. We keep two carriages, you know."

Because I had left, Mrs. Suckling left shortly thereafter too.

When she did, I returned and went back to my sewing. Obviously, I could not tell Aunt Charlotte about my discovery, and she did not pry. Her reasonable nature and kind heart soothed me, and so I was glad that rather than sitting in my room alone I had sought her out.

We sat together without speaking. Charlotte had laid the length of cloth she had been cutting on back out onto the floor, put the paper pattern pieces back on it, and had silently resumed cutting around them. Even though she was down on the floor and simply dressed I realized that Aunt Charlotte was a true lady because she was letting what had passed pass without commenting negatively upon it. Mrs. Suckling had flown in like a twister, and so it was hard for me to look around and realize all she had disturbed without saying something. But, by taking Aunt Charlotte's behavior as my lead, I kept from doing so. In consequence, Aunt Charlotte had just demonstrated what the phrase well-mannered meant. As she finished cutting out a sleeve she said, "Gather the top, will you?" I got needle, thimble, and thread, and went to it. The bottom edges of the sleeves were later going to be trimmed with beads.

Because we took a walk every afternoon, and because London was so large and I couldn't help noticing the variety of its people, when we went out for our customary walk, I commented on them instead. I tried to keep my comments pleasant, though. I did not want to be critical like Mummy, nor pretentious like Mrs. Elton. So when I saw a woman pass by in a ridiculously high crowned hat, matching white muslin gown, and blood red paisley shawl I said nothing about the hat and instead said something about liking the contrast between the white of the gown and the red of the shawl. Aunt Charlotte's answer surprised me. "Of all the patterning in the world," she said, "I think I find the paisley most intriguing. Probably because it's foreign. Whenever I see it I think about Georgiana Moulton's fine paisley shawl. I am ashamed to admit it, but I am somewhat envious of her husband and her shawl. I do not envy her the captain's absence, but to have someone who sails away to curious places and returns home with part of them would interest me. Not to mention, men who have seen the world are so much more sophisticated than those who have not."

As we were about to enter the gate fronting Aunt Charlotte's property, Georgie and Fanny, who had early in the walk skipped head and then when we turned back, ran beyond us again, raced up. Georgie pointed and said, "Did you see that lady who had the hat that looked like a mound of flour?" Aunt Charlotte made him shoosh, and said that pointing was rude.

He asked for the house key and when he and Fanny had skipped up the walk with it Aunt Charlotte said, "Men, even young ones, never seem to find extremes in fashion appealing."

Before I went to bed that evening I thought about what Aunt Charlotte had earlier said. She obviously liked that men could come and go, and so as I went to sleep I wondered whether my freedom in the modern world would appeal to Aunt Charlotte. I certainly missed it, as I think any woman who had tasted it probably would.

Chapter 12

Well before we had to return Mrs. Suckling's call two events occurred. First, a package came from Sandition. It contained a miniature of Dr. Fowle. Among other things the short note accompanying the miniature said, "I am sorry that you will be receiving this later than I intended. It was to have been your Christmas gift, but the gentleman who painted it for me did not finish it by the date he had promised."

It was handsomely done, and an apt likeness. Dr. Fowle's deep-set eyes were exactly right, and though he, according to the custom of the day, wasn't smiling, I could, from the way his lips parted slightly, easily imagine his knowing smile. I stared at the piece the longest time. When I finally handed it to Charlotte she said, "I think your doctor's eyes are the color of the North Sea. It is a beautiful gray. Have your parents ever taken you to see it?"

Without wondering whether they had, I told her no.

Charlotte, as she looked at the miniature again, said, "and what is more, the atmosphere around it is calm, even when the weather is abysmal, and Dr. Fowle's countenance has that same calm air. I doubt anything would rattle him, and collectedness is an admirable trait in a man." Father and Charlotte, my two reasonable relations, liked Dr. Fowle. Whereas my mother, Caroline, and Susan, all of whom were hysterics, felt he was in the way. Plus, another worthy soul, Lady Seaton, who was my benefactress, thought well of him too. I couldn't help but think I was wise in hoping we would eventually marry someday.

When Aunt Charlotte put the miniature back in my hand I clutched it. Never before had I received a token of love. And on top of it, Dr. Fowle's token was beautiful. It had been painted on ivory which afterward was set behind glass. The surrounding frame was gold, and pearl encrusted. The pearls had a pretty luster. Of the piece, Charlotte said, "He's obviously put some money in it."

I agreed, especially when I read the rest of the note accompanying it. A later paragraph said, "I do wish I could have bought you a chain, but my finances would not permit it – I paid the artist too dearly. His brushwork, though, is known for accuracy. The pearls were costly too, but I do believe they will look beautiful on you."

I wanted to wear the miniature at once, so since I did not have a chain Aunt Charlotte got a ribbon, put the miniature on it, and tied it around my neck. As she made the bow she said, "When you look for a chain you ought to look for one long enough to allow you to hide the miniature in the bodice of your gown when you are out. Of course, later, when you and the doctor are married and you can safely let it show, you can do so by doubling the chain. Doubling it would put his miniature here." When Aunt Charlotte said here she pointed to the area between my breast and throat. Since I didn't want to hide Dr. Fowle's miniature I told Aunt Charlotte so. She said, "Well, you had better. Especially," she said, "as your mother wants you appearing unattached. Don't you suppose if she finds you have been wearing Dr. Fowle's miniature – and she will if Mrs. Suckling sees – she will mount opposition. If you do not appear in public in it, though, and save it for a better day, that better day will eventually come." When I continued to hesitate she said, "I know this advice sounds disingenuous and out of character for me, but I give it with the honest end of your marrying your love in mind." Over the next several days as I thought about her advice I decided to follow it, especially because Aunt Charlotte had managed to marry the man she loved.

The second event preceding our return visit to Mrs. Suckling began with a hasty visit the children, Charlotte, and I made to Mrs. Moulton's. Its purpose was to borrow a vase. One of the familiar sights – because it was prominently displayed – this vase had a bunch of hyacinths transfer printed in brown on it. Charlotte wished to borrow it to force a bulb which her neighbor to the south, a genteel old lady, had just given her. As the four of us approached Mrs. Moulton's, a carriage with a crest on its door pulled out. Since it was coming toward us, when it did, we looked in the window to see if we could see who had just been visiting Mrs. Moulton. It was a woman with a decidedly patrician air. Actually, her air might not have been patrician at all, but her carriage decidedly was. Her cape too. It was rich looking and befitted her age, which I judged to be around sixty.

When we got inside Mrs. Moulton said, "I have just had the honor of being waited on by Lady Anne, the Countess of See and Saw." We wondered if the countess was the woman we had seen drive off. When we described her cape, which was trimmed with ermine, Mrs. Moulton said, "They are one in the same."

When Charlotte asked, "What prompted her visit?" Mrs. Moulton, after she had picked up the hyacinth vase, which was waiting in its familiar spot on the table near the fire in the sitting room, and handed it to my aunt, said,

"Charlotte, you, in a way, prompted her visit." When Aunt Charlotte wondered how she could be the reason behind such a visit Mrs. Moulton said, "Shortly after you broke the bone in your leg, I wrote to my husband, the captain, whose lieutenant is the countess' youngest son, about your leg having been saved in spite of your doctor's wanting to cut it off. My husband put that information away, and when this same lieutenant sustained a bullet in his leg and the surgeon wanted, because of the bone it broke, to amputate, my husband showed him my letter and asked that he wait. According to the countess, who had it from her son, in arguing for patience my husband said, 'One can always cut. But once a leg's been cut it can't be pasted back on again.' The countess now attributes the saving of the leg to my husband, and to thank me she has not only waited on me. She has asked that I attend a party at her house this following month."

Before Mrs. Moulton could say another word, a ring sounded at the door. It was the countess who, when she had gotten further down the street and reached up out of habit to touch the cloak pins at her throat and found them gone, had doubled back to see whether they'd dropped off her cloak at Mrs. Moulton's. Cloak pins were not insignificant. They were often jeweled and made of gold as were hers. She said, "The head of each pin is set with a topaz." Without knowing what color a topaz was, Georgie, who considered himself more eagle-eyed than a guardsman with a spy glass, spotted the pins, which were joined together with a gold chain, lying behind the leg of the chair in which the countess'd sat during her visit. After he presented the pins to her she said, "You ought to be knighted, young man." Following which she asked to make our acquaintance. There was nothing in the manners of the day which dictated she should do so. Those who called upon a woman were generally not introduced to one another. They routinely passed like ships in the night, or better yet, like one hand of a clock passing the other. Neither hand bent in acknowledgment. The countess, though, even though we were far beneath her socially, was decent enough to want to meet us.

Once the introduction had been made she said, "I am devising a party to which your friend, Mrs. Moulton, has already agreed to attend and I am now in hopes you will as well." To get us to go she further explained that having us there would be her way – even though he was not there – of thanking Georgie for finding her pins. After she nodded in Georgie's direction she also said that if Charlotte and I went Mrs. Moulton would be able to come with a party of friends. And of her invitation to me she said, "Admittedly, it has a double purpose. Someone as pretty as you are should be seen."

She was so prompt with the written version that we had it well before we tried to return Mrs. Suckling's call. I say tried because we found her "not at home." Since it was strictly a duty call Aunt Charlotte, after writing my name on it too, happily left her card. I was conflicted. I was glad to dispense with the visit. As a Janeite, though, I really wanted to see more of Austen's characters, and since Mrs. Elton was my favorite, I could hardly wait to see her offspring.

I was heartily disappointed, though. She was small and thin and had long, thin hair, and a hooked nose that was, by the way, also long and thin. Her chin receded into nothing, her eyes were small, and the lips on her mouth thinner than razor blades. After she left I said, "How will someone as plain as she ever find a man?"

"With the large inheritance her aunt and uncle have settled on her." Evidently, the Sucklings were childless and with no one to leave Maple Grove, their estate near Bristol, to, they had early on promised it to Augusta, their niece.

Since Mrs. Suckling and her niece had returned our call, we had to return theirs. They weren't at home again. When they returned our call Mrs. Suckling said, "I apologize. We are hardly at home it seems." She gave as their excuse the huge circle of acquaintances they kept up, but more specifically a trip to the dentist she and Augusta made. Augusta, like my cousin Caroline, had a gigantic overbite which Mrs. Suckling's London dentist hoped to correct with the two teeth he had pulled. I silently wondered whether Georgian dentists used the small, long handled, angle headed mirrors modern dentists used. But before I could ask Augusta said, "Miss Lamb, your posture needs correcting. You should never sit so far back in your chair."

When she continued to be critical of me I could almost hear my real mother say, "You're never going to be pretty" – if mom could see me now – "so make yourself agreeable to others." And while following her advice didn't get me dates – I wasn't that agreeable – it was wise counsel, and advice even a great beauty ought to follow. We ought to be pleasant and kind. I decided I wanted to play Pygmalion with Augusta, and by doing so, turn her into an amiable woman.

While I was thinking about how best to do so Mrs. Suckling said, "According to the paper today, Lord Carbury and a large party of his friends are to be at a ball at Mrs. Mansfield's next month. Mrs. Mansfield is Mrs. Huston's friend. So perhaps I can obtain an invitation." She had spread her newspaper onto the tea table. It had an "announcement" section, which Mrs. Suckling was still scanning for names. When she found that Lord Windermere had taken a box at the theater, she said, "I suppose we should go. I shall check with the ticket office to see if we can somehow obtain seats close to him." A stalker could not have worked as methodically as was Mrs. Suckling. "And what! Lord Vester in town. What a fortune. Why, he has thirty thousand a year. That's worth something."

When she had somewhat mapped out, or at least made her list of victims, Mrs. Suckling left us. But not before trying to dictate what I should wear to our upcoming night at the theater. She wanted me to parade in my finery so that she could choose what I would wear. I was concocting an excuse – my clothes had been burned in a fire – when Charlotte, who, with her unassuming nature, seemed like a pushover, showed her true mettle. She stared at Mrs. Suckling and then said, "Thank you for your interest. But no. Now, if you will excuse us, Mrs. Suckling."

I could see how she had married for love.

Later that afternoon I asked her how she had got her way with Mrs. Suckling without resorting to some kind of lie. I told her that all I could think to say to her was that my clothes had been burned in a fire, "but you just told her no." I further explained that I had trouble keeping people like my mother and Mrs. Suckling at bay.

She said, "That is because you are young, Marianne, and have not yet learned how to maneuver in society, and moreover, that the number one rule in maneuvering in society is not to. One outmaneuvers one's foe when one stops maneuvering. Of course, you are not going to be able to say no to your mother – she must have your respect no matter the cost, and you can't really say no to her friend. But as a mother and their equal I may. When you are closer to my age you may say 'no' too. And when you do never follow your no's up with excuses. Once you give one you arm your foe. But if you say 'no' and 'thank you,' and say them pleasantly without adding on silly excuses which will make you look like a fool, you will disarm your foe and because of the manner in which you do so no one will be able to find fault with you." She further said, "mainly because when you say 'no' you will be saying it because someone else has overstepped the bounds of gentility. With what I said, I let Mrs. Suckling know that her request had been misguided."

What a lesson in courtesy. I wondered where Aunt Charlotte had learned it. She said, "When my mother was a young woman she was a governess to a noblewoman's children. And she learned about society and manners there. It was there, too, that she met your grandfather, my father. After taking orders he had been given a living in this same noblewoman's parish. I never did meet my parents' benefactress as I was a baby when she died, but both of them spoke so highly about her I cannot sometimes help but feel I somehow know her."

Heretofore we had only seen Mrs. Suckling's house from the outside: whenever we returned a call she was not at home. From this Aunt Charlotte deduced that Mrs. Suckling wanted one of those lopsided arrangements where she dictated and we conformed. Augusta was exactly like her. At least, one morning when she and her aunt called, Augusta abruptly decreed that she and I should go for a walk outside.

"Yes," Mrs. Suckling said, "just the pair of you, to better acquaint yourselves with one another." I pitied Aunt Charlotte. What should have been a fifteen-minute visit was now extended to who knew when. I got my pelisse, put it on, and we set out. I soon learned that Augusta was the type of person who cautioned others to be careful so they wouldn't trip while she inadvertently put her foot in front of theirs so they would. She stayed so close to me she was constantly underfoot. And then she had the nasty habit of darting into me, or away – which was just as bad because our arms were linked. With her pulling or pushing me, we weren't exactly a well-matched pair.

Before were were too far down the street Augusta said, "I have always wanted to see the Indians juggle in Pall Mall."

Since Augusta was also the kind of girl who considered herself an authority, even though she'd never been to London before, to get us to Pall Mall she went west – even after I corrected her and told her Pall Mall was actually east. Like her aunt, though, she would not be corrected. She pulled me in the direction opposite to where we should have been going.

She had heard it was a fifteen-minute walk so when we had walked twenty-five she stopped someone and said, "My friend has claimed that Pall Mall lies in this directions. Is she right?" When she said "friend" she pointed to me, and when she said the words "in this direction" her finger pointed in the direction in which we had been going. Now I was wrong. Once we were straightened out she continued to move like a puppy. First she went one way, then the other. And I was pulled down the street by her leash. Part of the time she skipped. And though it was cute when Fanny did so, to walk arms entwined by the side of a twenty-year old who did so was tiresome. We passed by interesting sights, venerable churches, the stonework of which was magnificent, shops with interesting trade signs, a park or two with magnificent stands of tress so ancient who knows what they had witnessed. But what Augusta chose to stop dead in her tracks to notice was an older woman's footwear. "Did you see," she said, "that woman in the pattens? Why wear pattens when the weather is so nice?" Not exactly existential questions. We had now spent close to an hour in vacuous conversation, so vacuous, I dreaded our walk back home. That we would not have to talk while we watched the Indian jugglers was my sole relief.

They had arranged themselves in a circle and were all colorfully dressed. Their pantaloon pants, silk sashes, shirts and shawls were red, blue, purple, or green and the turbans on their heads had elaborate fringe. The clubs they juggled were also brightly colored. Augusta Elton said, "Have you ever seen anything quite as daring?"

Even though I had seen the chainsaw juggler on the boardwalk at Venice Beach I answered, "No." When she spoke again I told her we had best stop talking. "Doing what they do," I said, "takes remarkable concentration. And concentration requires peace and quiet." We watched in silence from there on out. I particularly enjoyed watching how still the jugglers stayed. They stood as upright as the clubs they were tossing – and only let their eyes and arms move.

Augusta stayed quiet, and moreover, still – until our trip back home. Then she talked and stopped and pulled, and continued being an authority on whatever subject she mentioned. If I, on the other hand, happened to mention one it was disposed of as quickly as Augusta darted. As an authority, for instance, on music, she talked of it as if no one except she played. And she actually claimed to know more French than did native speakers.

Once we were again in front of Aunt Charlotte's she made an abrupt turn, which bumped me out into the street, where a carriage stopped just short of hitting me. When her aunt heard that this had happened she said to me, "You are a beautiful girl, Miss Lamb, but if one cannot carry oneself with grace, one is not entirely beautiful." In that case, Augusta was sunk.

Mrs. Suckling's visit ended with her admiring the house to the north. She said, "It is so beautiful, it ought naught be vacant. Do you happen to know if the house is for let?" When Aunt Charlotte said that she did not know Mrs. Suckling answered, "because if it happens to be so I believe I will rent it next season. If I do decide to, would you happen to know its owner?"

Charlotte answered "no," and added, "I only know that it has been uninhabited since my husband and I arrived." I supposed Charlotte, since she knew her neighbor to the south, could have offered to check with that genteel old lady, but thankfully she did not. I had to laugh when, after Mrs. Suckling left, Aunt Charlotte said, "Visits from her are somewhat tolerable, but to have her living beside me would be arduous." I equated that with having Augusta Elton underfoot.

Chapter 13

No sooner had we had our discussion with Mrs. Suckling about the house next door being vacant than it came to life. A servant removing the exterior shutters was the first sign it was breathing again. In quick succession other servants came out to shake out dustcovers or beat rugs. We imagined a similar commotion on the inside: brooms sweeping, rags polishing, and so on. The brigade of servants that worked next door to us was at it all week and though we were curious about them Aunt Charlotte did not like to pry – had she been Mrs. Suckling she would have stopped the servants and questioned them – and since her neighbor to the south was equally genteel, our long absent neighbor's identity stayed mysterious almost until the day he arrived. And if it hadn't been for the Navy's having a grapevine similar to the clergy's we might never have known. But from Mrs. Moulton we finally gleaned that the house to our north belonged to a widowed admiral named Blake who because of the peace of Amiens was so close to home that he had already docked at South Hampton.

An admiral! Not to sound childish, but I figured he'd have at least a spyglass. So imagine my disappointment when, in my first glimpse of him, he had a book in hand. Not that we had already become on intimate enough terms that I stumbled across him in his library. Instead, two days after he arrived I saw him sitting, a book in hand, in a chair on one of the two balconies that projected from the rear of his house. His age also surprised me. Since he was an admiral I thought he would be around eighty. He did have graying hair, but instead of being eighty he was, at the most, fifty – and virile looking. I supposed I thought he looked virile because of the black sling he had on his arm. According to Mrs. Moulton he wore it because of an injury he had recently sustained in battle. She further indicated that he had captured more privateers than King George had children, and that the prize money from them was rumored to be enormous.

A rich – albeit laid up – widower! I wanted Aunt Charlotte to meet him. But Aunt Charlotte refused to cooperate. Instead, she went about her business as if the house next door were still vacant. For instance, on a warm day three days after our neighbor arrived, when we were in the middle of carrying Aunt Charlotte's houseplants out for a spot of sun, I noticed that the admiral was again out on his balcony. Whether Aunt Charlotte noticed him or not, she drew no attention to herself. She glided out, quietly set a pot, and then silently slid back in for another. Such stealth when I wanted her to go back in, put on the gloves I had given her and the dress she'd made for our upcoming visit to the Countess of See and Saw's and come back out in them and twirl around like Julie Andrews did in the alps in The Sound of Music so that she could call attention to herself. She refused and said that she would look ridiculous in so much finery so early in the day. Of course, she was right. But she didn't have to look like a maid either. Even though she was dressed like one, I tried to make our neighbor notice her by setting the pots I was carrying down with vehemence. I also tried to make certain he knew Aunt Charlotte's name – by excessively using it. "Aunt Charlotte," I said, "I'm not sure, dear Aunt Charlotte, but where would you like me to put your mignonette, dear Aunt Charlotte." If I sounded like a stutterer, I did not care. Admiral Blake had the finest woman in England practically underfoot, and I wanted him to recognize it.

Georgie was as uncooperative as his mother. In fact, he was so in awe of the admiral, he wilted. I wanted him to take the ball from his cup and ball set and toss it over the wall between his home and the admiral's so that we would have an excuse to introduce ourselves to him. To avoid my demands, though, Georgie took to playing on the opposite side of the house. So I took to plotting with Fanny, but neither of us was able to devise anything other than that the admiral and her mother should meet.

We could not walk over and straightforwardly introduce ourselves. If he'd been married we could have called on his wife. But his having a wife would have ruined our interest in meeting him. I had one hope. Manners! As I think I already explained when I told you about my meeting the gentleman who mistook me for a ladybird – the manners of the day let a strange man speak to a woman if she, by greeting him, indicated her receptiveness. This type of greeting would then take the place of an introduction. Since we took walks each day I hoped we would pass him on one. Not that I thought Charlotte would raise as much as a brow in acknowledgment, and I supposed she would not do this out of deference to her late husband. But I planned to meet his gaze, after which I would say to him, "Good afternoon." Only he did not walk for pleasure. He did not seem to have time for doing much of anything for pleasure. He kept a carriage, got in it in the portico in back, and rode off in it all dressed up as if he were heading off to war. At any time from morning till night we might see him, cockade hat to his head, epaulettes to his shoulders, riding in his barouche down the carriageway that led out to the street.

From Mrs. Moulton we had learned that his epaulettes were pure gold and had been given to him for service to our nation. Mrs. Suckling saw one of the admiral's departures when she came to collect me (so that we could spy on Lord Windermere in his theater box). When she saw him, since Bristol was near the sea (of course, everything in England is) Mrs. Suckling decided that she would be, because of her knowledge of the sea, the perfect person to serve as hostess to the admiral. "I shall ask him to dine," Mrs. Suckling said to me. I certainly hoped she would not because we had also learned that Admiral Blake traveled in circles beyond the first. He was the Duke of Wellington's confident and as such was probably at that very instant riding toward some assignation at the house of a lord. I figured that an invitation from the wife of a country house owning, Bristol merchant visiting London wouldn't intrigue him.

Mrs. Suckling had come early to collect me so that I could dress at her house. Once we were there, her maid helped me arrange my hair, after which she helped me into my clothing. I had chosen a gun-metal gray silk gown with a long train. Once I had it on, of course I steered clear of Augusta for fear she would trample me. Augusta's dress was trainless and as such should have been simpler than mine, but the oversized "rouleau" at the hem of the dress, which looked like a row of puff pastry, outstripped mine for fussiness. The satin slippers on both our feet reminded me of "on point" ballet shoes and since we weren't on point we sort of clomped around in them. More reason to shy away from Augusta.

I sat "backward" in the barouche landau, which meant my hair was blown forward so as we got out I brushed it back with my hand. Once we got into the theater, though, Mrs. Suckling wanted to rearrange my hair. When I regarded hers I declined her offer. The hair on her head was as fat and high as a turban, and her bangs looked like fringe. To again avoid Augusta, as we climbed the staircase that led to the balcony tier that housed our box, I trailed her and Mrs. Suckling. The latter reminded us that she had rented the box directly across from Lord Windermere's. Since none of us knew Lord Windermere by sight, as we made our way to our box we speculated as to whether he was dark or fair. Augusta hoped he was a sandy-headed man because her hair, like mine, was light. But Mrs. Suckling appreciated a man with dark hair. And dark eyes. She said both were especially appealing. She was practically salivating at the thought of all that darkness. And here I'd thought that she only looked at a gentleman's bank account.

I had planned to sit where Mrs. Suckling suggested – which was dead center – but when I entered the box and realized that the handsome looking young man who had mistaken me for a prostitute was one of the young men in the box Lord Windermere had rented (indeed, he might have been Lord Windermere) I scooted myself back into the shadows and practically hid behind the curtains flanking the box. Mrs. Suckling kept trying to pull me forward but I stayed as far back as I could.

"Where is the good," she said, "in bringing you out in society when you thwart the effort?"

"Oh my gosh," I almost said to her, "will you please watch the play."

The awe Mrs. Suckling expressed over society – she had brought a teeny, fold out telescope called a "drip monocular" and with it was eyeing every woman in the room and then calculating the cost of her finery – made me question whether she traveled in the first circle she claimed to. Especially because she did not know a single person seated in the boxes before and around us. I did, though. But I wasn't ready to divulge that secret.

The play was titled The Abandoned Miscreant. It had plenty of kissing, and caressing. Its star, a woman named Harriet Edwards, had begun, according to Mrs. Suckling, her career in a brothel. Mrs. Suckling also told us that there were many prostitutes in the balconies and main gallery. Evidently, according to Mrs. Suckling, men came to the theater to engage them. With a gentleman who had mistaken me for a prostitute sitting opposite me I had all the more reason to stay hidden. As we watched the play I began to see what a piece of hypocrisy Mrs. Suckling was. Her eyes were glued to the star's every suggestive move yet Mrs. Suckling criticized that same star's sexual impropriety. How the sensationalism of the play titillated her. At least, I discerned a glint in her eye and a flushing in both of her cheeks.

After the play Mrs. Suckling wanted to visit the saloon in the lobby. I planned to go with her there, but when I saw the party in Lord Windermere's box heading for it as well I ducked out and said that it was stuffy and that I would wait outside. I exited the lobby and found a dark corner and loitered there. Because it was late and I was tired, I leaned against the wall. Soon I closed my eyes and drifted into a reverie which took me back home again. Being with Mrs. Suckling had made me miss everything about Escondido: the I-15 Corridor leading into it, the Taco Bell on Via Rancho Parkway, all my students at Del Dios Middle School – our mascot was the bear. I even missed the limitless graffiti and at that moment would have easily exchanged Lady Seaton's legacy for one tagger complete with an aerosol can. What I would have given to open my eyes and have seen "gangsta" lettering.

A gentleman's voice broke my reverie. It said, "I have walked Henrietta Street at least fifty times looking for you." I opened my eyes to see the gentleman I had met on my way to the butcher's stall. He asked for my card. In manners conscious England it was not uncommon for prostitutes to hand out respectable looking cards. I again waved him away. I was emphatic, and since his curricle had come – one of his friends was driving it and urging him to hurry – he nodded to me, motioned to his friend to slide over, and when the friend had, he got into the curricle and they drove off.

On the Friday before a holiday the principal at Del Dios Middle School, instead of flat out saying, "Go home early," used the euphemism "take your work to an alternate site." It allowed us, instead of staying till 3:15, to leave right after the students did. I so wanted to "take my work to an alternate site," but Mrs. Suckling stayed in the saloon so long two other men approached me for cards. I should have given them Augusta's, which she had asked me to hold.

Far too early that following day Mrs. Suckling came for a morning visit. She had wrangled an invitation somewhere – probably to a bear-baiting – only I wasn't listening and only heard Aunt Charlotte say that the bear-baiting, or whatever, fell on an evening when we were already engaged. Mrs. Suckling couldn't imagine with whom – unconnected as we were, so she practically fainted when she understood that we had been invited to the Countess of See and Saw's. She left shaking her head in amazement.

Mrs. Moulton planned to drive with us to the Countess' so on the evening in question she walked to Charlotte's house with her oldest daughter. The daughter had offered to sit with Charlotte's children. And since I didn't think I had ever seen so sober an eleven-year old I felt that Charlotte's children were in safe hands. While we waited for the hack chaise we had hired, and while Charlotte gave her children and the Moulton girl some instructions, I noticed by the lanterns that had been lit on it, the admiral's carriage coming down the carriage way. This carriage way was the dividing line between Aunt Charlotte's property and his. As I watched it approach and then pass the window I thought how nice it would be to drive in a carriage instead of a hack chaise – although our driver was respectable and accommodating. And I also decided that if there were any justice in this world someone as fine as Aunt Charlotte would keep twelve carriages to Mrs. Suckling's two. Though where Charlotte would keep twelve carriages on such a small plot of land was inconceivable. There was hardly room for one.

Between the wax candles she'd had lit, and the orange trees she'd had brought in, the Countess of See and Saw had done her rooms up beautifully. She and her husband were tall, and as interesting looking as a couple I had once driven past in what used to be Escondido's finest district. I loved to drive by the homes there – even though the neighborhood had deteriorated– because they were tall and stately. The one belonging to the couple in question was a large sized Craftsman. I often drove past it, wondering as I did, who had or presently lived there. One day, the day I actually drove past them, the couple that the count and countess made me think of appeared on the lawn. Because they were tall they reminded me of a pair of old trees. I immediately assumed they had been long rooted to the house they stood before because nothing about it looked remotely updated. Elderly people aren't ones for change.

The Count and Countess of See and Saw had that same solid look. Although "solid" isn't the right word. Their posture said "backbone." Though not the kind of backbone that was austere. The benevolent look in both their eyes suggested they were kindly.

As soon as we were inside, the Countess of See and Saw introduced us to her husband. We chatted politely for a moment or two, and then we excused ourselves because, with more than a hundred people invited, we knew that our host and hostess would have to "make the rounds." The evening was to consist of dinner and entertainment. For the latter, the countess had engaged a harpist, a man who would play harpsichord, several string musicians, a host of singers, and various men who would perform on woodwinds or horns. The music was to precede and follow dinner. As we tried – and not very successfully because there was such a crush – to find seats for the first set I noticed that our neighbor had entered the room. When he saw me and my aunt he smiled, but rather than come to us he abruptly disappeared. Moments later he reappeared, though, with the Countess of See and Saw on his arm. They made their way straight to us and then the countess – so obviously at our neighbor's request – introduced him to us.

Now, the crowd parted like the waters did for Moses and in this way we easily found seats. When he ushered us into the row he had chosen, though my behavior I'm sure was construed as rude, I ducked in behind Mrs. Moulton so that Aunt Charlotte had to walk in after me. This put her next to the admiral. He didn't seem to mind the spot he was in. In fact, in the half hour before the entertainment began he looked entirely in Charlotte's direction and never at Mrs. Moulton or me. And every time I glanced at him and my aunt they were speaking so freely to one another I was certain I had done them a service. And the delight in his eye when it was on her was further proof. After watching them I decided I was watching a pair of tall trees take root. Mrs. Moulton and I were such a pair of cupids we contrived to push them into a dark corner when the music was through. They could not stay long, though, because the dinner bell sounded. Upon hearing it the admiral led my aunt to the dining room. I was given the arm of an interesting old man – I later learned he was a duke – who kept me occupied with stories of his youth, the most entertaining of which had to have been the story he told me about making a drunken pass at a neighbor's daughter. "In retribution," he said, "her oldest brother, because he was a fop, instead of challenging me, made disparaging remarks about the cut of my coat. It was overly large, and floppy." As the savior of the countess' son, Mrs. Moulton sat next to the count.

We sat with the admiral again during the closing concert and after it, when he learned that we had come by a hack chaise, he invited us to come with him in his carriage. He even asked that Charlotte and I stay with him while he picked Mrs. Moulton's daughter up and transported her and her mother home. It was one A.M. before his carriage arrived at our front door that second time. After we went in and closed the door we ran to a window so that we could watch the admiral's carriage swing into the carriage way, and even though Aunt Charlotte pretended not to, she continued to watch the lights on the carriage until they had dropped out of sight.

As we had parted that evening the admiral had promised to call on us and, good to his word, he came several days later. He stayed, according to custom, a short period of time. During the fifteen or so minutes he sat with us he stared at Aunt Charlotte. She thought he was staring at me. I said, "I was never in his sights. For an ingenious woman you can be obtuse, especially when it comes to your own merits." Because she was widowed she saw herself now on a shelf – in part because she had put herself there out of love for her husband. I wanted to scream, "Get off it. And quick acting, in some ways, like you're dead."

He said, before he had taken his leave, "Which parish church do you attend?"

Charlotte told him Mayfair. We saw him there the following Sunday.

I took it as another sign of interest. But Aunt Charlotte said, "Don't you believe he was simply looking for someplace to worship?"

I practically said, "At your feet." Wasn't I becoming vulgar?

Several days later we returned the admiral's call. I enjoyed doing so, first, because during the visit Admiral Blake insisted on paying numerous courtesies to Aunt Charlotte. For instance, he steered her to a soft chair by the fire; I had a straight one by the door. And though it wasn't customary to serve food during a call, the admiral rang for tea and cakes. As he did so he asked Aunt Charlotte which type of cake – plain, or seed – she preferred. I believed it was all done for her comfort.

My second reason for enjoying our visit was somewhat selfish: I wanted to see inside the admiral's house. The outside was so elegant and I had looked at it so often, of course I would want to see it on the inside. It was many times larger than Mrs. Suckling's, and fitted up with elegant, though old fashioned, furniture. Of the pieces he said, "They were chosen by my late wife." Judging from their style – the pieces looked medieval – I decided she had been gone three-hundred years. Not even close. From listening to him talk to Aunt Charlotte I realized it was only seven. I didn't figure he would stay celibate – I'm using "celibate" here as a synonym for "single" – much longer because he was wooing Aunt Charlotte in some obvious ways: the chair by the fire, the pew behind her at church.

Before we left his house he said, "My sister and her husband are coming for a long stay. Would you agree to inaugurate it by dining with the three us?" Was this meet the family, or what? We settled on a date in the not too distant future.

That engagement, incidentally, aggravated Mrs. Suckling. How dare we venture out into society again without her as our escort. But since the purpose behind my continued stay in London was to meet rich men, what could Selina Suckling say, especially as she glanced out Aunt Charlotte's drawing room window at the admiral's mansion. It was three thousand times larger than hers, and a place so elegant she wouldn't have minded renting it.

As we sat at the admiral's table I thought about ours at Charlotte's. Our dinners there were ordinary and usually consisted of one course. Dinners which did were fronted by the then common phrase, "You see your dinner before you." As poor as Charlotte was, and as busy as we both were, we generally "saw our dinner before us." Even when I chipped in we never had enough money for multiple courses and fancy wines.

The phrase, "You see your dinner before you," though, could not have been used at the admiral's, with his servants serving up seven courses and several wines. The first course consisted of Scottish salmon. An oxtail soup followed. And then we had roasted fowl. We feasted on three other courses, at the end of which, the meal concluded with some cherry tart. The admiral's sister, whose name you need not know, served as his hostess. I sat beside her and was so pleased when she let the following slip. "My brother asked us to visit him so he would have occasion to receive your aunt." She then looked wistfully in Charlotte's direction before adding, "We all believe my brother has been alone far too long." I said that I had the same belief about my Aunt Charlotte.

After we had eaten we left the men in the room and went to another. When we were seated comfortably in it Admiral Blake's sister asked my Aunt Charlotte, "Do you play?" The piano in the corner of the room I'm sure prompted her question.

When Aunt Charlotte answered, "A little," the admiral's sister, after turning to me, said,

"If your aunt should play for us when my brother has returned we would consider it a treat"

Never having heard Aunt Charlotte play – there was no instrument in her house – I had no idea whether her playing would treat anyone or not, but I nodded and agreed, "Yes. Her playing would treat us, I am certain."

We discussed several topics, the weather being one; looked at a collection of prints – the admiral had a large one: Its agricultural prints alone numbered forty; and while we were looking at them, took several turns around the room. Aunt Charlotte wore what she'd worn to the countess's and looked elegant in it, so elegant that the admiral's sister complimented her.

When the men returned, Charlotte, from memory, sang and played some Scotch and Irish airs. Her voice had a bell-like quality and her playing was lively in places and poignant where it should be. What was especially pleasing about the situation was the way the admiral watched her from the moment she began. She treated us to the following: "Hunting the Hare," "The Handsome Couple," "Lulle me Beyond Thee," and "Thy Young May Moon," at the end of which the tallow candles in the brass sconces that were screwed into the board running vertical to the keyboard were replaced because they had burned so low they had started to sputter. Although I missed the convenience that came with electric lighting it could never have equaled the beauty produced by candle glow. Those burning before Charlotte made the skin on her face, arms, and breast look translucent, and it gave the silk on her body an added sheen. Charlotte had chosen to make her dress out of lavender because lavender symbolized half-mourning. It was her way of remembering Charles while coming out of the gloom. And though it was a color of mourning there was nothing mournful about its effects. The shade brought out the delicate tones in her skin and also looked pretty against her light brown hair. It was a soft shade which suited Charlotte's softness.

When she had, without this time announcing the title, finished playing the next song, the admiral's sister asked if she had just played a song called said, "All in a Garden Green?" "If you have, it was a song that was regularly played for kissing dances." When I asked what kissing dances were the admiral's sister turned and said, "After a group of dancers forms a circle a lone man holding a pillow enters it. He looks the women over as he dances around the inside of the circle. And when he finds someone to his liking he stands before her, after which he decrees that the dance cannot go on until she joins it. She, as part of the game, refuses to dance with him at least twice. When she does relent, though, he kisses her and hands her the pillow. They dance together until she finds a man in the circle she prefers. To signal her preference she lays the pillow at his feet. Since a gentleman may not refuse a lady, he picks the pillow up and salutes her. They then dance around the circle at least once, after which, he's free to choose a new partner."

"That tomfoolery," the admiral said, "continues until everyone is dancing."

"And then," said the admiral's brother-in-law, "the reverse occurs in order to clear the floor." When I wondered what he meant he said, "The man or woman who has last had the pillow invites a dancer off and that pattern continues until the floor is empty." From the discussion that ensued it became apparent that the admiral and his sister had never finished the dance in such a way. Instead, both asserted, it ended when the music did.

Charlotte found that method highly unfair because, as she said, "Those who are invited into the dance toward the end will hardly have had their turns on the floor. And to be invited in and only dance a short while is maddening." The admiral's brother-in-law was from Surrey so he and his wife, who was from Kent, chalked the differences in how the game was played up to differences in locale. I thought the dance sounded charming, regardless of how it ended. But before I could suggest we have one the admiral located a copy of one of his favorite tunes and brought it to Charlotte. When he had found it he laid it out on the stand and asked that she play it for him. Well, when she realized that it was several pages long she said, "Can someone turn the pages for me?" Since I was musical she turned to me. I started to drag my chair up next to her. When the admiral saw me, though, he swept it up, lugged it to Charlotte, put it beside her, and then sat on it.

Charlotte – and I could not tell whether she was playing dumb to flirt or just being plain dumb said, – "Oh, you are musical."

He answered, "Not one bit. If you nod when it's time, though, I'll know when to flip each page." Charlotte was skilled enough it wasn't a burden to look away from the page, and nod when she had to.

We finished the evening with a round of cards. When it was proposed Charlotte said, "Since my purse isn't big enough for a game of cards I think we shall see ourselves home."

The sister of the admiral said, "Though my brother plays at everything for keeps – to keep you from going I am sure he shall forgo wagering for the night."

I guessed his sister should have spoken for herself when the admiral immediately said, "I cannot give wagering up entirely. We shall play loo and if I win Mrs. Powlett and her niece shall dine with us a second time this week."

My Aunt Charlotte, whom I now decided had become a flirt, said, "I do think the cards are stacked in my favor."

When I won, no one knew what to do. I winged it. I invited the admiral, his sister, and her husband to Charlotte's to eat.

I guessed I should have spoken for myself because once we were home Aunt Charlotte said, "What are we going to feed them? I haven't the money to entertain in their style." I said I'd think. Though I really didn't think he would care. His attraction would be Aunt Charlotte, and not the food on her table.

Chapter 14

Good to her word, Mrs. Suckling, through her friend, Mrs. Huston, did finagle tickets to Mrs. Mansfield's ball. If you will remember, Mrs. Suckling had promised to do so, so that we could meet Lord Carbury and his friends. On the evening in question Charlotte helped me into the most beautiful dress I think I'd seen. The fabric which it had been made out of reminded me of dotted Swiss. Only the pills on it were large – about the size of small pearls – and more raised up. The lines of the gown were simple – a square neck, straight sleeves, and an equally straight skirt, which fell from an empire waist. Its only luxury was the long train which fell from my shoulders to follow me on the floor. I realized I would have to have someone help me pin the train up when Charlotte fastened a couple of fibula pins to the hem. "I have not," she said, "used these two pins in years."

We drove in Mrs. Suckling's barouche and had not gone three feet before Augusta, began criticizing me. "Your cloak is far too simple." It was plain, black velvet. "And with not a bit of fur. I do go in for trimming." Evidently! She had twenty pelts around her neck alone.

Riding in a barouche is not so grand as one might think. I bounced ridiculously high in it and had to hold on so tightly Mrs. Sucking finally said, "If you do not loosen your grip, you will never look elegant?" That this was coming from an on-the-late side of middle-aged woman whose bonnet had a huge bow that fastened under the chin was remarkable. I managed, despite my train, to get out of the barouche with ease. And I mounted the steps in front of the house we were going to go into in a graceful way too. After we rang the bell the porter let us in, and almost as soon as he had started to go back to stand at attention in front of his chair, I began to take in the anteroom. I could see our hostess and her son at the far end. At least I supposed that they were our hostess and her son because the two of them were greeting guests. In order to get to them we had to go past a series of prints with scenes of India. After we had walked past them, we stopped to speak with our hostess and her son. She had gray hair. His was black. They stood between two fainting couches, and in front of a pier table. As we spoke with them I caught my reflection in the mirror over the table and marveled over how good it looked. It was so "Grace Kelly," and because of that, very alien to me.

The main rooms of the home had been built upstairs. To get to them we would have to go up one of those winding, self-supporting systems that seemed to climb to heaven. But before we could, because we wanted to ascend the stairs looking like swans, we took our outerwear off below. To do so we went into a small room where a maid took our cloaks. Since there was one small mirror in it, we waited our turn at it. Well, because there was a wedge of swans behind me, I simply brushed my hair back and then moved out of the way so that Augusta could do what I soon decided amounted to damage control. She pulled her bangs out to make her nose look small, and then recovered her elephant sized ears with the rest of it. Driving forward in the carriage had blown her hair back, severely, and with its severe looking features her face needed every bit of softening she could muster.

I'd always wondered about Mr. and Mrs. Elton's physical appearance so while we were waiting for Augusta I said, "Mrs. Suckling, which of her parents does your niece most resemble?"

"I have always believed that she is the mirror image of my sister when my sister was about her age."

"Oh, lucky for her," I said.

When we left the cloakroom, Augusta, now having had a good look at my dress, sighed. After sighing she said, "Your dress hasn't any lace." Her dress had gobs of it. "I couldn't think of coming to such an elegant ball without lace." Because her dress had protruding sleeves – I think she had to go sideways to get through the cloakroom door – it reminded me of a wing chair, and with all the lace, a doily covered one.

Augusta, who took my hand as we went upstairs, only darted into me twice. I was so preoccupied with steering clear of her, and so enveloped in her lace, that I hardly noticed the "extremely handsome young man," who, also according to Mrs. Suckling, had been "staring up" at me. When I asked who he was – because he was the man who, twice now, had mistaken me for a prostitute, Mrs. Suckling's friend, Mrs. Huston, who had just approached us, said, "That gentleman, is the newly ascended Duke of Cadogen."

When I wondered what newly ascended meant – because he was still at the bottom of the stairs – Mrs. Suckling said, "Do not be quite so literal. It only means he has newly ascended to his dukedom." The duke stared at me a moment more and then walked to Mrs. Mansfield's son, nodded in my direction, and then asked the son a question – which, because he was staring at me, I assumed related to me. Mansfield answered and with his answer, since he'd just met me, I assumed he gave the duke my name. I wanted to go home, but Mrs. Suckling propelled me toward the dance floor. As we headed to it she, mainly to Mrs. Huston, said, "The Duke of Cadogen and his family own an estate not five miles from mine of Maple Grove." Then, turning to me, she said, "I shall have to write and tell your mother about my connection with the Duke of Cadogen." Since she didn't know the duke by sight, I again wondered if she actually traveled in the first circle – even when she added, "In the thirty-five years I have lived at Maple Grove his family has visited once and it was so long ago the present duke was most likely not yet born."

Once we hit the ballroom floor, Mrs. Huston spirited Mrs. Suckling off. This left me with Augusta, who was still pondering how I'd get partners without lace. "It's almost a necessity on the dance floor." Necessity or no, at that very moment, a gentleman, with the master of ceremonies in tow, approached me. After the master of ceremonies introduced the young man to Augusta and me, and after some quickly paced music started up, he turned his back to Augusta, and then addressing me, asked me to dance. After which he extended his arm. As I was about to take it I noticed a tear welling up in Augusta's eye. I already felt guilty about thinking she was ugly, and since I had been the ugly duckling too, and since the gentleman was hurrying me, and since my train would have to be pinned up, I said that I would sit the dance out and that as a favor to me he ought to dance it with Augusta.

He led her onto the dance floor. The lace at her neck looked like a big tag hanging out the back of a shirt. I so wanted to run out and tuck it in, but that would have been inelegant. Once they had begun dancing I pitied Augusta's partner. He was a graceful man, but she looked like one of those crazed birds who, when caught inside, plummet around a room. Or like a kamikaze pilot in a plane with lace wings aflutter. I should have known that someone who dressed awkwardly would dance in an awkward way too. Though, with the way she darted into me, nothing about her dancing was a large surprise.

I found the rest of the dancers mesmerizing, though. Their movements, along with the music, was almost hypnotic, so hypnotic I wanted to stay put and drift off. But after the gentleman returned Augusta, he importuned me.

The job of pinning my train up fell to her. I hoped she'd pinned one before. Not that I didn't think it was ridiculously easy. But because the pins Aunt Charlotte had loaned me looked quite a bit like diaper pins I figured pinning a train would be like pinning a diaper up – only easy after someone had done it several times. As I felt her fingers and the pins push against my back I hoped she wasn't catching more of the dress and train than the pins could handle because doing so would cause them to pop open. And my second fear was that she hadn't caught the dress at all, but when the train was no longer following me on the floor I decided, it must have been pinned to something.

Because the gentleman was hurrying her Augusta had done it in zero flat. And he was hurrying her because the orchestra had just struck up a fast paced dance called the Boulanger that he said he would hate to miss. And so as soon as Augusta had pinned me up he, to the beat, whisked me across the floor where we became a part of the general tide of dancers. We danced a minute or two and then, unbeknownst to me, the pins, because they had not been fastened right, opened up. Down came my train, the gentleman behind it stepped onto it, the drag on it shot me forward and I lunged over and fell flat on my face. The dancers on the floor were moving at such a quick pace no one had time to stop, and three additional couples fell onto me before the caller could stop the rest of the assembly. You should have seen the rubber-necking. But why not? A 4-couple pile up. Augusta, who was to blame, started to laugh, as did her aunt when she saw who had caused the pileup. I really could have cared less about the gawkers – I was at this ball under duress – so I planned to get up and sit the evening out. Before I could stand, though, the gentleman, the Duke of Cadogen, who had been looking so assiduously at me when I climbed the stairs, suddenly appeared, knelt down, and helped me up. I thought Augusta would faint.

When Mrs. Suckling saw that the Duke of Cadogen was standing before me she rushed over. Since the underarms of my dress had split open I said, "I think I had best be going." The duke suggested I take his carriage.

Mrs. Suckling, I guess, one, to inform the duke she was his equal, and two, to apprise him of our connection said, "Miss Lamb has come with me." And then she tossed her head before adding, "And I have a barouche landau."

His answer, "What bearing can your owning such a vehicle have on her predicament?" made me want to laugh.

But because I had learned to mind my manners from my superior, Aunt Charlotte, I refrained and instead turned to him and said, "If you truly are offering your carriage I should like to make use of it."

When Mrs. Elton insisted on driving me, because I'd had more than enough, I said to her, "I would not want to ruin the rest of your evening as I am sure I have embarrassed you enough with my fall on the floor."

Mrs. Suckling began parleying. She was certain my going alone at night with an unmarried man would break with precedence. To offset her worry the duke said, "I do not intend to drive with her. I am only loaning her my carriage." He then explained that Mrs. Mansfield's son was his friend and that he had promised to stay through the evening, therefore he could not accompany me home.

Her next round of parleying included, "But how can Miss Lamb drive alone?"

The duke said that he would ask Mrs. Mansfield to send one her maids with me. Finally! A man who was able to handle a woman like Mrs. Suckling.

Although he had made a promise to the son of our hostess to stay out the evening he did not intend to stay it out on the dance floor, at least not as long as I was present. So, after securing the promise of a maid from Mrs. Mansfield he walked me downstairs, deposited me on a fainting couch, approached the porter in his chair in the hall – it was made of wood and caning, and its back was shaped like an alcove – and ordered his carriage. After a pause, where he seemed to be weighing something in his mind, he came back, sat down next to me, and whispered, "I hope that you will forgive my having taken you for a prostitute." I thought about letting him off by saying something about its being an easy mistake – after all, my breasts having been exposed would have suggested that particular line of work – but I was too embarrassed over the rips under my arms and the resulting exposed crescents of flesh to say much of anything. Frankly, had everything been perfect, had I never met the man before, had I not fallen, even if I had just been part of some triumphal scene, I was too new a beauty to know how to proceed with something as simple as talking with a gentleman. Admittedly, with Dr. Fowle it was different. Had he been there my words, no doubt, would have freely flowed. But with someone who so obviously desired me I was mute. Make no mistake, it wasn't that Dr. Fowle didn't desire me. I am sure that he did. But his subtlety about it suited my shyness. With men, I was discovering I preferred a slow bend in the river to a right angle turn.

While we waited for his carriage the duke also said, "When I asked who you were, all Mansfield knew was that you had come with Mrs. Suckling."

"Too true," I said, after which I explained that she was my mother's friend.

Since I had mentioned my mother, he asked who my parents were. When he learned that my father was a clergyman he apologized anew for having offended me. Since he importuned me I told him all was forgiven.

Imagine Aunt Charlotte's surprise when I returned in a fine carriage, the doors of which had dukes' coronets painted on them. Intrigued, Charlotte wondered whose carriage I had borrowed. When I said, "Someone named the Duke of Cadogen," she said,

"Cadogen. I understand he has huge gaming debts. But not without plenty of income with which to pay them." I did not doubt he had debts from gaming as he told me he planned to go to the card room once I'd left, and I also did not doubt that he had the money with which to pay any incurred gaming debts because everything from the lining to the floorboards of his carriage was luxuriant. Not to mention, the four horses pulling it were magnificent.

I was so fagged from my fall, and from dealing with Mrs. Sucking, that I decided that letting Aunt Charlotte in on the rest of what had happened would have to wait until morning, and so after she helped me out of my gown I got into bed. There was nothing to tell anyway, just some personal embarrassment. And so Charlotte, who, unlike Mummy and Mrs. Suckling, respected my feelings, left me to myself – even though I'm sure she would like to have known how my dress got ripped.

As I drifted off to sleep I thought about the Duke of Cadogen and his two vices. Gambling and Sex! I had little experience with the first and with the second – forget it. Make no mistake, I was still intent on marrying Dr. Fowle. But a man with vices! And two vices. I could now slightly understand why my sister Wendy picked such awful men. For your information, she had picked as many as she had children. Tommy, her oldest, came from the proprietor of a meth lab, Anna from a biker, Stewart from a con, and so on. Wendy had five adorable children, and none of them (excepting Tommy) seemed to have inherited their father's characteristics. I used to wonder why Wendy went with such men, but now that I'd had such a man express an interest in me I could sort of see how men who lived on the wild side were sort of sexy.

Also, I had often compared Wendy who, aside from the men she consorted with, lived a life so ordinary it was tiresome, with my other sister, who was the sharpshooter. Since the latter had to keep pace with the likes of a wild man like Buffalo Bill – even though he was a wild man in name only – I thought she should've been the one to consort with bikers. Her husband, though, was one of Cody Wyoming's two, stereotypically, four-eyed accountants. The Duke of Cadogen was decidedly handsome. And the fact that he so blatantly desired me was decidedly unnerving. As I was thinking about how unnerving it was I suddenly remembered that we had not met Lord Carbury, nor any of Lord Carbury's friends. I laid the fact that Mrs. Suckling had not delivered on her promise aside and fell to sleep. Before long a dream in which I was mistress of a male harem enveloped me. There was nothing oriental about my harem. It was housed in a country house, which looked surprisingly like Ashley Wilke's place at Twelve Oaks. Gentlemen in southern dress – top hats and cutaway coats – crouched at my feet. All of them were begging to bring me barbecue. As soon as I said, "I think Charles Hamilton may. And don't put any pickles on my burger, please," my position changed and I was part of the harem now. Eunuchs in flowing robes guarded me and my bunkmates – until our lord, who was dressed in a top hat and cutaway coat, cast a fishing line. To do so he used an old fashioned, bamboo pole. When I was snagged, his line turned to a lash and his pole to a cane. With such an awful dream it is no wonder I woke up from it in a sweat. It was so disturbing, I lay awake a long time thinking about it before I could finally fall asleep again. And when I awoke at daybreak it was my first conscious thought.

Chapter 15

Mrs. Moulton visited us early the next morning, and when she learned that the Duke of Cadogen had sent me home in his carriage, said, "I do not pretend to know anything about the new duke, but about the old it was always said that he was a libertine. He slept with so many of his servant girls that his critics called them his harem."

"For a rich man to sleep with his servants is hardly news," Charlotte said.

"Yes, but he, rather than the duchess or housekeeper, engaged them. And when he engaged them he had a very specific sort of work in mind. His scullery maids were said to be some of the most beautiful girls in England. One of the young women brought an action against him for rape."

"The duchess must have found such a proceeding agonizing."

"I understand so – but that her family was nothing, and that because the duke had elevated her, he rarely regarded her feelings."

"Undoubtedly," Aunt Charlotte said, "If he did not let her choose her house servants."

I started to laugh because I assumed Aunt Charlotte was making a joke, but when she said that she'd earnestly meant what she'd said I checked myself and began apologizing – until Charlotte put her hand on mine, patted it, and added, "Sometimes even I can not resist a round of teasing."

In the middle of our give and take the bell at the door sounded. I responded to it. A liveried servant – I was getting so tired of liveried servants – presented a card. I thought it would be the duke's because his carriage was outside, but the block lettering engraved on it said, "May, the Dowager Duchess of Cadogen." I closed the door and carried the card to Aunt Charlotte. When she and Mrs. Moulton learned who was outside Aunt Charlotte prepared to rise and Mrs. Moulton – so the duchess would have it – got up out of Aunt Charlotte's best chair and moved to another. I then returned to the door to tell the liveried servant we were in. What a charade, and because the duchess had been something of a wife in name only a visit from her would have seemed more like a charade still had I not found her so engaging. Before she came in I assumed she would be, because she was aristocratic and her husband unfaithful, as haughty as the Earl of Twistleton's wife had been when our paths had crossed at Grafton's. And the idea that a respectable woman would, to keep her position in society, bolster such chicanery appalled me. But she was nothing like the wife of the Earl of Twistleton. An air of kindness, rather than haughtiness, surrounded her. And after we had talked for only a few moments I began to think it was because her husband had so humbled her. I didn't know whether he actually had humbled her, or if she was just kind from the start, but the effect I imputed to her husband's behavior almost wrung tears from me.

She was tall and sat so elegantly in the good chair I had led her to that I figured even Augusta would have given her stamp of approval because the duchess was neither too far forward nor too near back. And her gown, which was black for mourning, was, because it was not in the fussy style elderly women tended to wear, worthy of my approval too. I also saw that she wore no lace, nor jewelry. Because of the plainness of her dress and the kindliness of her character I rated her up with Lady Seaton and the Countess of See and Saw. The single element which separated her from Lady Seaton or the countess was her late husband's lack of discretion.

We were reluctant to address so noble a woman, so after she had seated herself in the chair a short pause ensued. Obviously, we had no idea what to say to someone of such standing. It is called the art of conversation for a reason, though. And the duchess before us was versed in all of its parts. To give me an opener she said, "How long, Miss Lamb, have you been in town?"

"Close to a month."

Before a silence could fall she asked whether I was enjoying society.

Since I hoped to dispense with it I said that I was not and that I'd rather go home. "And," I said, "after my mishap last evening I am absolutely determined to."

Supposing I wished to go primarily because of the embarrassment incurred – because this is what I had said – she told me not to let a tumble like the one I had suffered send me home. "When I was a young woman," she said, "Lady Bestwick's eldest daughter took a tumble when an officer who insisted on wearing his spurs on the dance floor stepped on the hem of her gown. The spur caught, and it pulled her over. And she was as beautiful as you. Oh, I do hope you will let London keep you, at least for the season." Following this, she addressed Aunt Charlotte. When she found she was a widow she said, "I too must wear widow's weeds." I was hoping, though, that she would tell Aunt Charlotte that Charlotte had worn hers out and ought to retire them for brighter colors. But I ought to have realized that with a nature as kind as hers the duchess would not dispense advice. Soon, she turned to Georgiana Moulton, and when she discovered that Georgiana was a mother of five she said, "That is a fine number for a family. I would like to have had a large brood, but heaven only sent me my son." I liked the give and take of her conversing. It made the visit lively as opposed to the often stilted visits through which I'd sat.

She stayed the requisite fifteen minutes and then, as she prepared to rise, she reached her hand out and patted mine. When she did she said, "You must, all of you, come to visit me. Promise me that you will?"

When a duchess wants you to visit, you do. So before a week passed we put on our nicest morning clothes, took Fanny and Georgie in hand, and walked to Mrs. Moulton's. She was going to come with us, and Aunt Charlotte's children were going to stay in her nursery while we were gone. As we made our way to Cadogen House we began noticing bigger houses and people who were more finely dressed.

Cadogen House was made of red brick and it occupied half a block. The white columns and pediments that surrounded its doors and windows relieved what otherwise would have been a mountain of red. I supposed a large kitchen and scullery occupied the lower strata of the house because we had to go up an enormously long flight of stairs to reach the main door. Everyone must have been apprised of our coming – or perhaps the duchess was receiving any and all callers because to say she was not at home during her mourning period would have been gauche. Regardless of the reason behind it, when we tried to present our cards the porter did not take them and say, "I shall see if Madam is within," and then close the door. Instead, after glancing at the names on our cards, he ushered us in, and then straight into a large salon. The duchess sat in one corner of the salon writing at a desk. After we had been escorted to some seats close to her, and she had risen to acknowledge our presence, and we had all seated ourselves, I could see – because we were so close – that she had been writing letters of thanks for visits which I supposed had been made to her by way of condolence. At least, the paper she was writing on was bordered in black. After we spoke a moment or two she rang a bell. When a male servant answered it she ordered "a collation." In short order, two trays carried in by two pretty maids appeared. We had been in Cadogen House all of three minutes and in those three minutes we had seen close to twice as many servants. I marveled at the dichotomy. When I lived back in Escondido I worked for a living. Aunt Charlotte worked hard too. Georgiana Moulton, even though she had her share of servants, could, when she was not entertaining us, be found marking linen, or sewing – usually clothing. And in Sandition women worked as well. Not someone sickly like Aunt Susan. But Mummy and Caroline and their friends, while they did not milk the cows, were not above making a cream cheese or boiling some kind of fruit for a jam. Her ladyship didn't have to, except voluntarily, raise a finger, though.

The silver trays had tea – I was asked to pour – venison pasties – it was late in the day and we actually were hungry – and a basket of fruit, along with some cakes and jellies, obviously none of which had been prepared by her ladyship. As I watched her eat I noticed she had a broad and honest face, and large eyes which were so easy to read I figured that they would reflect happiness when she was, and sadness when she was not. Even though she did not work she had busy hands. She mended her pen while she spoke to us, and I could see some needlework in a basket off to one side. Again, I'm sure that I read too much into her predicament, but I concluded she would have been happier with an honest man who, while seemingly giving her less, would actually have given her a good deal more.

I also marveled at the dichotomy between the duchess and her son. She was actually in mourning. She dressed the part and did not go out in society. Albeit, she had come to us. But I figured she came only at her son's request. He, however, had gone to and gambled at Lady Mansfield's ball, not to mention, he was on the very morning of our visit riding in St. James Park. The duchess obviously hoped he would return before we rose to go because she seemed to be listening for the approach of his horse. We said goodbye, though, without hearing it.

Morning calls were ridiculously tit for tat and could become so burdensome that one Nineteenth Century first lady refused to continue making them. When the dowager duchess returned our call her son came too. We had admirals and now dukes visiting. I couldn't say for certain whether Mrs. Suckling was spying on us, but I supposed she somehow was because she and Augusta managed to arrive on the duke and his mother's heels.

After entering the room Mrs. Suckling began trying to ingratiate herself. She pulled a chair up next to the duchess, and when she should have been passing her like a ship in the night, began commiserating with her over the loss of her husband. The duchess looked away and continued answering the question which Aunt Charlotte had previously posed to her. It had been an equanimous one about the weather, which had recently been fine.

When, by using a display of false concern over the dowager duchess' bereavement, Mrs. Suckling could not supplant Aunt Charlottes' right as the hostess, she tried to do so by dropping names. I thought she must have taken them from a book like The Baronetege because of the way she recited them in such idiotic alphabetical order. The duchess again ignored her. Meantime, the duke and I sat like two good children and let our elders speak. Augusta, though, had enough nerve to also address the duchess. When she asked if she planned on staying in London long, and the duchess – in between trying to speak with my aunt – had indicated that she and her son would, as they always did, leave London in the spring for Bath, Mrs. Suckling revealed that she, Augusta, and I would be visiting Bath too. The duke turned to Mrs. Suckling and said, "Around what date shall you remove to Bath, and in which part of Bath shall you stay?"

Mrs. Suckling was hazy about our departure date – due as I later learned to her wanting to tailor it to theirs. But with regard to our lodgings she said, "I always stay at No. 13 Queens Square. The rooms are large and from them I have such an unobstructed view of the square that I refuse to stay elsewhere." Those in the room who had been to Bath began discussing Queens Square. From their talk I gathered that it was a small park, complete with grass, shrubs, and trees.

Encouraged by their present interest in her, Mrs. Suckling returned to dropping names. But this time, rather than dropping names of people she dropped a place name. "Maple Grove, my estate," she said, "is not two miles from yours of Broome Park." (Formerly, it had been five.) Then, because she gathered that the Duke of Cadogen was anxious to further a connection with me – probably no more anxious than she was to further hers with him – she said, "Since it is so near Bath I should like to take our friend," – she stared at me – "for a short stay at Maple Grove before we retire to Bath." Retire to Bath! How long were we planning to stay.

The prospect of both visits suited the duke and Mrs. Suckling, and so soon, the two of them were psychologically shaking hands over what had now become a joint venture. The duke and his mother, and Mrs. Suckling, Augusta, and I, would depart on the first of the month for the country with plans to follow a short stay there with a longer one in Bath. We would caravan so that I could trade off riding with the Suckings and the duke and his mother. This arrangement suited everyone concerned except me. Since I was perturbed, as soon as our guests had left I wrote to Mummy. In the body of my letter I said that I did not want to go anywhere with Mrs. Suckling and that despite what anyone else might want, I also did not want to consort with the duke. Aunt Charlotte said that I was wasting paper and ink. Because, as she said, one: too much of my father's income had been spent on clothes for the season to let it end prematurely, and two: since Mummy's fondest desire was to see me well wed, and since duke said well wed, she would consider not staying my present sentence out ridiculous.

Mrs. Suckling was the type of person who, like Mummy, got her way by hoisting ahead. And what I did not realize was that she'd been hoisting – by way of letters to my mother – since she'd come to London. I came to this conclusion when, after I had written my aforesaid letter, my mother wrote back saying, "What? Return home? Why return home when Mrs. Sucking tells me you have the newly ascended Duke of Cadogen at your feet." I figured Mrs. Suckling must have written Mummy the night of Mrs. Mansfield's ball.

Back to Bath. I had always realized I would eventually go there with Mrs. Suckling because when Mummy had first extended my stay in London it was with the idea that it would culminate in such a visit. So a trip to Bath under Mrs. Suckling's wingspan had always been on the horizon. Only, that horizon had here to now been hazy and distant. Suddenly, though, I was being carried toward it in Mrs. Suckling's talons. I say "talons" because she had become, in my mind's eye at least, one of those fallen angels with a name like Beelzebub who, because of its leathery wings, looked more like a pterodactyl than a cuddly cherub.

In going with them I had much to lose – Aunt Charlotte, Georgiana Moulton, Fannie, Georgie, even the admiral – and hardly anything, as far as I could see, to gain. I dreaded leaving for Bath even though I could see a small silver lining to the cloud I was under. After my visit there I could go home and most likely marry Dr. Fowle. Of course, connected to that silver lining was another cloud. Once I went with Mrs. Suckling, Dr. Fowle and I could no longer correspond. I shall give you parts of the last letter he sent me. Although, some of it was no way a letter. I think I have told you that Doctor Fowle habitually turned to his diary after he had attended to his correspondance. At least I think I remember describing the two piles of papers he routinely compiled on the desk in his study. One was of letters, the other of leaves that would eventually be bound together into some type of book or diary. Well, with the final letter I received from him before I departed to Bath, I realized that some of the leaves from his diary had found their into the wrong pile and had eventually been folded up in correspondence to me. This final letter I received began:

Dearest Marianne,

I dined alone last evening and have dined alone or solely in the company of men so often of late that I look forward to your return, and not only because I dislike dining alone.

The rest of this letter contained references to Dr. Fowle's work and answers to questions that I'd asked in letters I'd written to him. It, like the other letters he had written to me, was a testament to Dr. Fowle's dutiful and constant nature. From his letters it was easy to see that he either worked or thought about me. And because of this, but moreover because of the leaves from his diary – which I next include – I felt especially deceitful going, even against my will, off with a man who was not the doctor.

The leaves from the diary went as follows:

Tuesday, March 8th, 1803 – thick fog last night which cleared by this morning. So at 6 A.M. I left on horseback for the Martin's farm as Roy Martin's wife is still indisposed. I gave her an emetic after which I had her woman make her burnt toast and tea. As I passed back through Sandition I noticed a criminal being taken up in leg irons to goal. I dined on mutton in the evening and after dinner I went to bed early because I was tired.

Wednesday, March 9th, 1803 – In company with Dr. Symonds – we were both on horseback – I rode to Mrs. and Mrs. John Stanley's. Mr. Stanley has a fever and Iwas to determine whether or not it was putrid. It was not, so after bleeding him, Dr. Symonds applied a plaster of mustard. Dr. Symonds is so feeble that he could hardly stay mounted on our way home. In light of this I shall suggest that subsequent joint calls be made by carriage.

Thursday, March 10th, 1803 – The young men in town regularly pass the time in horseracing. Today, for instance, a 5 horse race was won by a stallion named Fleet.

Friday, March 11th, 1803 – A race again today. At it, young Tom Easton, who was not the actual judge, had hollered, "Set off and go." Accordingly, the riders whipped their mounts. This false start resulted in laughter from the spectators and anger from at least one rider. He was so angry he struck Tom Easton in the eye and this blow put him out for a moment. I was called in to examine his head. Another rider was thrown, he scraped his shoulder, and it bled a good deal. I took a glass of wine this evening with my pork pie.

Saturday, March 12, 1803 – Rain and a good deal of lightning throughout the night. As a consequence, the causeway, which should have been raised higher, is now flooded. I dined with Lady Seaton who is returned now (from Scotland) as of last evening. She, too, wonders when Miss Lamb will return home.

Sunday, March 13, 1803 – I went to church twice. After evening services I walked a little but the damp air sent me in. I ate my dinner by the fire and then, after reading chapters 10 through 15 in The Mysteries of Udolpho I went to bed.

The Mysteries of Udolpho! I had no idea that Dr. Fowle read such trash. Gothic novels! I wondered if Dr. Fowle suspected that I was living in one. At least I seemed to be. As proof, I had a duke with wicked proclivities spiriting me off to his probably castle-like estate. And a woman and her niece who would poison me if given half a chance. To reiterate, I did not want to go, and couldn't see why simply because I was female I was being force into behavior which was not conducive to my nature. At least I assumed the guilt I felt over what I was about to do suggested it wasn't conducive to it. I mean, Dr. Fowle was living like a monk and I wanted to go back to living like a nun, at least until we were reunited. Why couldn't we women do as we pleased? And actually, some of us did. Mummy did, as did Mrs. Suckling. I needed some type of declaration of independence. However, it did not come before the 31st of the month did, and so with that date I realized that I would have to leave with Mrs. Suckling that following day. It was a mess.

Chapter 16

Country house visits are as dull as morning visits – only longer. Even the trip to the country was interminable. Augusta fidgeted so much I almost drew a line down the middle of the seat and said, "Augusta, you cross it, you're dead."

The carriages played leapfrog as they made their way to Maple Grove: sometimes the Suckling's carriage was ahead, sometimes the duke's. The only constant was that each time the carriages passed one another the duchess, head leaned against the window, had fallen asleep. Midway through the journey we stopped at an inn in a small town for something to eat. After the meal, I got into the duke's carriage. We had only ridden several miles when his mother fell back to sleep. The sun, as it came through the window, and the rocking of the carriage made me want to join her. However, when the duke crossed the lines of convention by grabbing my hand and I had pulled it back so violently it hit the carriage door, I realized that I should not drift off. Happily, the duchess, who must have been a light sleeper, bobbled her head up, opened her eyes, and said, "Miss Lamb, is anything amiss?" She must have been familiar with her son's tricks because she suddenly decided to stay up until both carriages reached Maple Grove.

The manor house at Maple Grove was not as big as a castle so I was somewhat disappointed. It was gloomy enough to be one though, the way it sat in the shadow of that small hill and to the side of that dark, tarn. The stone making up the outside was a drab gray so devoid of ornamentation I supposed the inside would be devoid of ornamentation as well. However, it, like every roadside café I've eaten at in the mountain west, was overly decorated with pieces of taxidermy. A huge, stuffed fox and a badger poised to attack it decorated the entranceway – both with lips furled back and fangs exposed. Similar monstrosities decorated the rest of the public rooms. When I supposed the Sucklings had confined these trophies to the dining rooms and salons Augusta said, "Not hardly. Luckily, Uncle Suckling has shot enough for the bedrooms too." There were fifteen, and each, rather than taking its name from the color of paint on the walls, had been called after the stuffed animal inside it. Augusta had already nibsed the rodent room. "Rodent" was the name I had affixed to it after she'd shown me the dome of glass that covered several mice running down an artificial hill: The piece was prominently displayed on a small table. I had my choice of the "red squirrel" or "white rabbit" room. Without seeing either piece I went with the latter. My piece, which lay on a dresser under a window, was a very sweet looking – if not slightly molting – white rabbit under glass. Its pink eyes were disconcerting and the fact that after twenty-five years of not doing so I was sleeping with a stuffed animal again, bothered me. But at least I had got the rabbit not the rodent.

We dined the first night at Maple Grove, but were invited to Broome Park on the second. When Mrs. Suckling received the duke's invitation – his servant rode over by horseback with it – Mrs. Suckling answered "yes" at once and then spent the rest of the hours leading up to our engagement riding in her barouche landau from house to house like the town crier so that she could, with great flourish, show it off. This left Augusta and me alone. Since the cat was away the "rodent" wanted to play. She said, "My parents' rectory is so small its staircase is hardly worth noting. Not near so long and twisting as Uncle Suckling's here." She was right. The main staircase was tortuous. As she stood on the bottom step Augusta said, "I know where Aunt keeps her silver trays. Shall we get two and ride them down the staircase?" For someone as treacherous as Augusta was on foot to suggest sliding down a stairway on a tray was inconceivable. And for me to have slid with her would have been like sidling up to a torpedo coming downstairs, only this torpedo's trajectory would not have been straight.

In light of this I said, "I am not feeling well and would like to lie down." From my room I could hear her careen from the wall to the balustrade. As she grazed the latter it sounded as if someone had put a pick into the spokes of a bike wheel. Clack-clack-clack-clack-clack-clack-clack.

Saying I felt ill had worked so well I thought I might try playing an Aunt Susan come dinnertime. But Mrs. Suckling was not going to have her link to the duke's society wrenched from her, so instead, she wrenched me out of bed. On our ride to Broome Park, which took almost three quarters of an hour, Mrs. Suckling constantly praised Augusta's charms. She, with her "pleasing face," (Oh Boy) and "graceful motions," (Right!) would necessarily be the center of any ball or fete. Mr. Suckling was quiet – as I supposed he was watching for game. (He had brought a pair of pistols and had them hidden under the seat.)

Broome Park, the sweep to which was marked by stone framed entrance gates, was palatial. And the fact that one, it was, in its enormity, so minor an estate no one from the duke's family had visited in thirty years, and two, only now being visited on account of me, gave me insight into how exponentially wealthy was this family. I had heard from the Sucklings that the duke's family had begun accruing land during the War of Roses and that a later connection with the East India Company had further augmented their coffers. With such a financial pedigree the insides of the house, though furnished in an antique style, gave off a composite air of old money. The salon we were immediately shown into had something for everyone. And every one of the Sucklings, like those who are truly nouveau riche, gushed over what struck their particular fancy. About a tall chinoserie vase with a trumpet top Mrs. Suckling said, "this must have cost you plenty,"

Before the duke or his mother could answer – not that I thought they would – Augusta said, "Not as much as the dowager duchesses' earrings, I would venture." (They were magnificently studded with obscenely large diamonds.)

Mr. Suckling walked to a far corner of the room, stomped on a tiger rug, then loudly said, "I should like to hunt a creature such as this. Only, I would have it stuffed."

"To hunt tigers," said the duke, "one has to live in India." After he had said so he walked to Mr. Suckling, put a hand on his shoulder, then said, "And you had best keep in mind, my man, tigers are ferocious, and keen hunters themselves."

"Then," said Mr. Suckling, "am I to understand you have hunted them."

The duke indicated that hunting was not one of his passions, but that his father's great grandfather, who'd shot the tiger on the floor, had left written testament to the animal's ferocity. Even though the duke had not hunted a tiger I could see him doing so because he, like men I had seen who were athletic, walked like one. Mr. Suckling, with his small stature, bow legs, and weak chin, would have been out of place hunting tigers, though, and was more at home shooting the rodents and weasels which he resembled. Since Mr. Suckling liked to hunt and fish the duke invited him to come and do both with him. Shortly thereafter one of the beautiful maids that seemed to surround the duke – many had been sent from London ahead of our party – rang the bell that signaled dinner. Mr. Suckling escorted the duchess, the duke Mrs. Suckling, and Augusta and I led ourselves in.

Our conversation at table centered around the sorry state of Broome Park's pond. The duke led it off by saying, that according to his mother, the pond had once been an object of beauty. After staring out the window in what she assured us was the direction of the pond, the duchess said, "It genuinely was, and was so clear it reflected like mirrored glass."

The duke then indicated that he, for his mother's sake – "She would like nothing more than to have it restored to its earlier beauty" – had decided to stay several days longer than planned to oversee the dredging of this pond his parent remembered with such fondness because it had been one of the scenes from the earliest days of her marriage.

This suited Mrs. Suckling. A longer visit where she could further show off her connection with the duke appealed to her. So she said, "I believe your are right in choosing to stay. And, by the by, if, over the years, your parent had made regular visits to this estate, its water features would never have so deteriorated." She then held her husband up as an example of competent husbandry. "My man, Suckling is such an integral part of everything at Maple Grove that it generally runs smoothly." Mr. Suckling shook his head in corroboration and then tried to make it sound as if he were religiously at work improving his grounds when what he most worked at was dredging them of all forms of wildlife.

The following day was the day scheduled for the dredging of the pond. And the fact that that was a form of entertainment was further proof that country house visits are dull. It wasn't that I hadn't watched reparation work before. Friends and I used to ride our bikes to housing projects and watch the workers lay new sewer pipes there, but that, again, was back when I was ten.

To get to the pond we had to walk a ways, but since it was over a large expanse of undulating grass, the walk was pleasant. A cluster of broad leafed, beech trees fringed one end of the pond and the limestone dam, which initially had created it, the other. The duke was eager to show Mr. Suckling the dam's "fish pass." Such a thing is a set of wooden slats which somehow let spawning fish through. I am sorry, but I am not of a scientific enough bent to have understood the technology. As he looked at the pond and at the weeds, which here and there rose above the surface, the duke said, "Though we shall surely snag some trout today, the rarer forms, along with the swans that used to glide on the water, are now choked out." When I looked into the pond and noticed the huge grotto of underwater weeds I figured the duke and Mr. Suckling would mostly snag them. Shortly, the duke produced a pair of bamboo poles that had wooden reels attached to them. Without pulling out the line on his, he practiced casting it. It whipped the air. As it did he added, "I do believe the stock in the pond will improve greatly when these nasty weeds have been dredged out."

"That is certainly so," Mr. Suckling said, as he also practice cast his pole. Only, when he did so he practically took the duke's top hat off.

To dredge the pond the duke's servants used a drag, which was actually an anchor. It was thrown out and once it had sunk to the bottom of the pond drug back in. As it was pulled, it pulled weeds up. Other servants used pond dredges, which were weighted bags fronted by wooden blades. These, too, were cast out, and once they'd sunk they were pulled back in. As they were, the blades scraped stones, weeds and mud into the bags. The bags were in turn emptied, cast, and submerged again.

While the men fished and the servants worked, I sat under a tree with Augusta, the duchess, and Mrs. Suckling. I believe the duchess would like to have visited singly with me, but between Augusta's predictions about what would be dredged – "There's sure to be a body or two," (None were found) and Mrs. Suckling's quizzing the Duchess about her connections so that she could drop their names when she met someone new – "You say Lady Atholl wears a wig," – we barely conversed.

When the dredging was finished, and we returned to the house we took tea on one of the terraces. Not to further lengthen the duke's present stay, but to insure that he'd returned again come fall, Mrs. Suckling suggested the duke consider overseeing the building of a billiards room. "If you knocked that wall out there," – this would have ruined Broome Park's symmetry – "you might put such a room on the west corner of the house." She paused, but before the duke could do anything like express an interest, or shoot her enthusiasm down, she said, "The game is so much the fashion that men everyplace are entertained by it." Broome Park didn't have a billiard's room because it had been built before billiards had become popular. Continuing, Mrs. Suckling said, "And fall is the perfect time for building." I didn't think so. Furthermore, I didn't think the duke would come back that fall. And I certainly would not. The length of time I had spent away from home was becoming ridiculous. As witness to it my father had recently written that Lady Seaton, now back from Scotland (but I knew that she had come back because of the last letter Dr. Fowle had sent to me) had actually commented on my protracted absence. And while Lady Seaton's commenting on it wouldn't be enough to bring me home today – I would still have to make that unwanted trip to Bath – it would prevent my staying with Mrs. Suckling beyond it.

I also figured that the duke figured – he was an astute young man – that since I did not like the Sucklings and was therefore sure to, in future, avoid their company – he would, if he were married to me, do likewise. And I also figured he figured, if I did succumb to his charm, money, etc., what we subsequently frequented would be his more preferred and imposing estates.

Broome Park was the departure point for two outings we took: the first was a visit the six of us made to St. Mary Redcliffe Parish Church in Bristol. We crammed into Mr. Suckling's barouche landau – the duke sat between his mother and me and Mr. Suckling between his wife and niece – and a wagon from Broome Park filled with servants and food followed us. As we trotted away toward St. Mary Redcliffe Parish Church, Mr. Suckling, who was so house proud it would naturally have extended to the environs around his home, said, "St Mary Redcliffe Parish Church has been called the fairest parish church in all of England."

The duke, before Mr. Suckling could speak another word, asked, "By whom?"

His mother put her hand on her son's, patted it, and answered, "I believe, Henry, that it was Elizabeth, the virgin queen." She then turned to Mr. Suckling before adding, "Was it not?"

"Indeed," said Mr. Suckling. "I do think what you say is true."

In my short stay in the past I had learned that the British were very proud of any monarch coming within miles of their homes. And though none had ever stayed at Broome Park the dowager knew of a visit Elizabeth had made to a larger estate near Bristol. The lord and lady of that manor had revamped a bedroom for Queen Elizabeth's use and discussions surrounding the bed which had been made and the carpets which had been laid for the monarch's visit occupied the rest of our carriage ride.

St. Mary Redcliffe Parish Church was more than pretty. And though it was called a parish church it was large enough to be a cathedral. Consequently, from clear down the road I could see its spire soaring. It, and the church it topped, was gothic in style. To further describe it, a hexagonal shaped porch sat in front, a clock sat in the tower, and corbels so intricately carved each looked like a jabot of lace hung under the eaves. When I told Augusta that the corbels looked like lace she told the others that I wore too little. As soon as Augusta had said so, Mrs. Suckling looked at the duke and me, smiled knowingly, and then said, "When a certain blessed event takes place – and it most likely will in the parish church that Miss Lamb's father oversees – her gown will have yards of it. And I shall certainly recommend so to her mother." I felt like a student who was being teased. And though my students Del Dios were too cool to use such old-fashioned taunts, the one ending in k-i-s-s-i-n-g came back to me. After we viewed the chapel we wandered through the churchyard. An epitaph on a newly cut headstone caught my eye: She sang the high song. Though I had not, in recent months, given much thought to transmigration, this woman who was dead made me wonder what was the actual case with me.

After we had spread ourselves out on the grass edging the graveyard, the servants served pulled legions of hampers from the wagon and began serving us. As I ate I thought about the cemetery at home and how it had signs forbidding picnicking, which everyone ignored come Day of the Dead. Obviously, I felt uncomfortable eating next to headstones. To do so was actually worse than eating under portraits of people who were gone.

After lunch, while we waited on that same grass that verged the graveyard, Mr. Suckling and the Duke went into the woods to shoot at birds. Suckling winged nothing, but the duke bagged six pheasants. He sent two back to Maple Grove with me. When he presented them to me I felt like I felt I was opening my back door to the sparrows my cat Jinx routinely killed and then left on the rush mat for me. To get dead birds is not entirely romantic – even when Mr. Suckling promised to have them stuffed for me.

The following day – it was the day before we left Maple Grove for Bath – we cozied up in the barouche landau to trot off again, this time to the Lower River Avon. England has about 7,000 River Avons so to distinguish one from another words like "upper" and "lower" are used. This particular River Avon was beautiful the way its curving banks were ornamented with lush grasses and overhanging trees. A ferry took us to the other side where, after we had explored a bit, we had, courtesy of the duke and duchess, a picnic like we'd had the day before. At the picnic the day before, I had mentioned liking a cold veal pie, so I figured the freshly made ones appearing today had come courtesy of my compliment. I knew from cooking for Charlotte, meat pies were hard to do, so I pitied the servants who had to whip them up, probably late at night and long after they had cooked the main dinner the duke and duchess had eaten. In light of this I dared not mention that I liked the strawberry tart I was eating beside the Avon for fear the duke would dispatch a servant – many, along with the food, had followed us in a wagon again – with a note ordering seven of them for the dinner we were to eat at Broome Park later that evening.

Speaking of servants, when Mr. Suckling wondered why so many of the fairer sex had come to serve us our picnic food – it was men who generally waited at table – the duke made reference to our picnic being a modern "bacchanal." Augusta, who despite her father's being a clergyman was not too well schooled, had no clue as to what "bacchanal" meant. When she asked about it, I overheard her aunt whisper, "I shall tell you later, my dear."

Though all the maids were beauties one was exceedingly so. Her dark hair was matched by large, round, dark eyes, and her fair white skin complimented by cheeks of red. I saw the duke look at her several times – the two of them even exchanged some sidelong glances – but I didn't think much of the duke's glances because his coachman, footman, and Mr. Suckling looked at her too – in much the same way men looked at me.

When lunch was through the duke, after borrowing a punting boat – a punting boat is a low, flat-bottomed boat approximately three times as long as it is wide – and I punted on the backs. The backs are the tranquil part of a river. To punt, one catches the bottom of the river with a pole. Each punt or push propels the boat forward. I leaned back against the bow while the duke, at the stern, punted. Although I did not care for the duke at all I could see why gliding across the surface of a body of water was often the image used to describe love because the feeling produced was relaxing and yes, sensuous. So sensuous, that as I leaned back and closed my eyes, I thought about Dr. Fowle. Hearing Augusta call, "Shall we shoot again today?" woke me.

When I saw her standing along the bank holding a pair of pistols I put my hand to my head and said, "Hurry ashore before she trips." Too late. Augusta lost her footing, lurched, and shot a hole through the middle of the boat. With my hands cupped together I bailed as best I could while the duke punted. So much for sensuousness. After we had returned to shore, and the duke paid for the boat, we rode home. His trousers and my skirt were soaked.

That day, which was, again, the day before we left for Bath, had been set up with the understanding we would eat dinner at Broome Park late in the evening. And since we could not eat dinner in morning clothes – one always "dressed" for dinner – Mr. Suckling had brought his cutaway coat, white waistcoat, gray breeches, black shoes with gold buckles, and silk stockings, and his wife, Augusta and I brought equally fancy gowns. These had been left at Broome Park – we would not go all the way back to Maple Grove to change – and had subsequently been taken to the rooms in which we would later dress. Each of us was assigned a servant who, if my experience was akin to the rest, drew a bath for us, helped us wash, laid our clothes out, helped us into them, dressed our hair etc. I'd been given the maid who, with the large dark eyes, was almost as captivating as was I. As I watched her watch me – as I dressed – I couldn't help but think she was scrutinizing my body, especially when she asked me if I knew I had a mole on my left breast. This was because that mole was so small to have seen it she would have to have been looking intently.

Large houses have staircases galore so when I had come down one, taken a hallway, and started up another, and I saw the hem of my maidservant's skirt on the upper landing, I planned to turn around and find the staircase I should use. But before I could, I heard the duke's voice coming from that same landing. It was saying, "And, Maggie, what is she like underneath her slip and gown?"

Maggie answered, "Sir, she has soft, fair skin, uses no padding and has a mole on one breast, which you will no doubt want to kiss."

Since she always called him "sir" I had assumed, even though I had noticed him looking at her, that the two of them had nothing more than a functional relationship: he was the employer, she his employed, but when I heard her skirts rustle and the two them bump into the wall together I recognized they were functioning "together" on a sexual level too.

Not that I was taking his advances seriously, but if I had been – oh, how could I have been? If he were so obviously untrue before marriage he would have been more so after. I snuck down the stairs and, because I had noticed the door creaked when I came in, I pushed it out very carefully. In retrospect, I shouldn't have bothered with stealth. The duke and his maid were so loud and blatantly oblivious to anyone but themselves I doubt they could've heard a bomb.

Toward the end of dinner the talk at the table turned to where the duke and the duchess would stay when they'd arrived in Bath. The duchess indicated that she had already leased the same apartments they'd leased the previous season. To this her son said, "Are you referring to the apartments in Paragon whose front closet leaks in the rain? I cannot abide leaking ceilings. Added to that the mantel in the principal room has a window as opposed to a wall over it, which is so awkward looking it makes my friends laugh." His mother reminded him that she had already leased the Paragon apartments, that they were near those of her friends, close to ours, and that the apartment's staircase and drawing room were highly extolled. Whereupon the duke again said no, this time with so much unnecessary vehemence it would have humiliated anyone. But when I remembered he was speaking, with what amounted to violence, toward his mother I was more than unimpressed. So much more so that when he suggested I stay the night so that I could begin the trip tomorrow in their carriage I forcefully declined. I would not sleep under the duke's roof and I certainly wouldn't let his paramour dress me again.

On our ride home, after she'd expressed her amazement over my refusal to stay over at Broome Park, Mrs. Suckling said, "Nothing is amiss, though, which shall not be mended. In Bath you and he shall have opportunities aplenty to be in one another's company." She put her fan in its case before adding, "I pity the gentlemen in Bath."

"Yes," said Mr. Suckling, "with two beauties such as you and Augusta on route the gentlemen in its environs are already, no doubt, down on bended knee."

I looked at Augusta. With that receding chin and long nose she resembled a rat. So that calling her a beauty was ludicrous. So ludicrous I began thinking that the Sucklings were in la la land. However, when I reviewed the way the duke had treated his mother and compared it to the Suckling's overreaching on their niece's behalf I changed my opinions and said, hurray for them. Husbands and wives ought to love one another, children ought to honor their parents, parents ought to adore their children, and an aunt or an uncle who did so with a niece or nephew ought to be praised rather than condemned. Mrs. Suckling might have been a social climbing witch, but as my hostess she was expending money on me…. I guess I'm just trying to say that however misguided were her methods her love for her family and her devotion to my mother, her friend, suddenly captivated me. And while the Sucklings were definitely nouveau riche, they weren't nouveau when it came to loyalty. And I felt the duke could learn from some of their old fashioned values. What did he live for? And moreover, what on earth was I living for – if I were in reality, alive? I decided that I, too, needed a healthy dose of pretty old-fashioned feeling. And if a trio of nouveau riche-comers could best a duke in that department then those with old money had better step off the path and make room for those who were up and coming and their betters.

Chapter 17

On our first morning in Bath, Augusta and I put on our chip bonnets – chip bonnets are straw hats – and went to the shops in Milsom Street. Since my epiphany, I'd come to accept Augusta despite her foibles, so in Smith's, a milliners, and the first shop we went into, when Augusta said to me, "Come on. Buy some lace? I cannot stand it, you looking like a pauper," I did. And when she admired a parasol so covered in the same it looked like a meringue I bought that too – then put it away so I could give it to her several days later. After she cried she said, "You have so touched my senses by making a present of this to me, and proved such a friend, that I shall divulge a secret. I am engaged to my father's curate and only pretend to hunt for a husband to answer my mother's wishes." One might think I responded to Augusta's confidence by taking her into mine, but I refrained.

Because her curate liked to ride, Augusta wanted to take it up. Her parents had forbid it though. Mr. and Mrs. Suckling had forbidden it as well. I should have, but when Augusta looked so plaintively at me – we had just overheard two women mention a riding house called Ryles (it was in Monmouth Street) I helped her sneak out of the house to achieve her dream. We claimed we were going back to Milsom Street. And did. Before we cut over to Monmouth.

I, at least, had been up on horseback. I had never ridden sidesaddle, though, and for someone who has always ridden astride… having both feet on the same side of the horse made me feel like a drop of water sliding down a pane. When Augusta tried to mount the horse, she overshot the mark and, like a gymnast, swung off the other side. When two attendants had finally hefted her into the saddle, I breathed easy. However, when we started out, her lurching made me nervous again. And when she started darting into me with her thousand pound horse I became more nervous still. I stuck by her, though, as she learned how to ride. I even went to Dash's with her. It was Ryle's competitor and situated in Montpelier Row. What it had over Ryles was a tennis court.

One evening, not far into our stay, the duke and his mother and the Sucklings, Augusta, and I walked in concert to Sydney Gardens where we planned to hear music and see a fireworks display. En route, I tried my best to avoid the duke. He dogged me, though, and after he'd paid the 2s6d for my admission he pulled my arm through his as we walked through the arched topped entrance gate.

The Kennet and Avon Canal, which meandered through the Gardens, added to their beauty, and the two cast iron bridges built in the Chinese style, which surmounted the canal, pandered to the age's fascination with all things Oriental. The gardens contained many walks, a labyrinth, and several grottos. Before we set off on one of the gravel walks for the labyrinth we stopped at "the tavern." The tavern was a large, elegant building, the walls of which had tall columnar windows which were recessed on the inside. After we sat at a table I had a sip of some orange wine. The duke, his mother, and Mrs. Suckling had flutes of champagne, while Augusta and her uncle drank small glasses of white wine. Obviously, nobody in our party was drinking to excess. A woman, whose name I will decline giving, whose acquaintance we had made the previous day, besotted herself, though, with ale, as did her husband. She had worn a brown hat with a huge feather in front and though the feather was meant to stand up straight, the more she downed, the more it drooped. And the ale made her cheeks look even more highly rouged. We tried not to listen to them, but they were disagreeing so loudly that we could not avoid it. That he wanted to go to the labyrinth and that she wanted to sit in a nearby grotto was the subject of their debate. The way in which they volleyed made them sound like Mummy and Daddy.

"Labyrinth."

"Grotto."

"Labyrinth."

"Grotto."

When he finally said he would visit the labyrinth without her she pulled his ear. After wrenching himself free he left, and when she followed him out into the park I assumed they were lost to it.

The labyrinth was made of yew. A ticket taker dressed in black breeches, black shoes with gold buckles, and a tall black hat took our three pence a piece admission. Before we stepped into the maze I had taken Augusta's right arm and planned to hold onto it for protection. After all, I was going into a maze with a man who was something of a satyr. But the corridors inside the labyrinth could only accommodate persons single file. To give you the lineup, Augusta had pulled in front of me, the duke was behind, and the Sucklings and the duke's mother, true to their ages, were talking more than walking. When Augusta disappeared around a corner I decided I was sunk. Especially after the duke came up behind me and whispered, "Now that we are alone…." There were three openings before me. Hoping it was not a blind alley, I chose the middle and disappeared through it. After turning two corners more I again faced an enfilade of openings. I chose the one whose passage looked longest. As I ran down it Augusta darted into me. I wanted to hug her, especially when she said she had discovered the way out of the maze.

When we turned into the final allee we noticed, up ahead, the man and woman who had had been drinking in the tavern. She was closing in on him. When she did, she reached out and grabbed for his collar. She missed it, though, lost her footing, and fell into the hedge. Being good girl scouts, Augusta and I helped her back up, whereupon she set out after her spouse again.

What a pleasure to see the open park. Once out in it, as I made my way back along the path running beside the Kennet and Avon Canal, I passed the sights on the opposing side with indifference. The secret grottos, the tree ringed bowling green, the cascading spring, couldn't make me linger. Instead, I walked with speed to the lights marking the half circle shaped stone pavilion on which the orchestra was setting up. I sat myself down on one of the ballroom chairs laid out before the pavilion and, refusing to move, did not do so until Mr. Suckling announced, "Hadn't we best go home."

The duke plagued me by night. But by day I was free of him and the Sucklings. The latter must have considered Bath so safe they let Augusta and me freely roam it. I generally did Augusta's bidding because to do so was easier than not. So, because she wanted to walk to Beechen Cliff, I did so. I like beeches. They're beautiful trees. In addition, three of Austen's characters had been on a walk to Beechen Cliff. So why not go? Especially because the walk did not look at all arduous. There are no mountains to speak of in England – I had once chaperoned a school group through the peak district without realizing it. So I readily set off on our stroll, which turned out to be more than a stroll. As we walked uphill – that there actually was an incline took me by surprise – Augusta jutted her head forward in a way which reminded me of a camel. In fact, she was so camel like, I wondered when we rested if she would kneel on her chest and knees. Only we never rested until we reached the summit. Once we had Augusta said, "This view from the top is something of a wonder." Instead of answering, I wondered why I had let her talk me into going. The hiker's rationale of seeing things more clearly at the top has never appealed to me. And actually, I'm afraid of heights. Just to give a nod to the picturesque, as we looked down in it, Bath, because of its architecture, looked like an intricate piece of petit point.

Two days after we went up Beechen Cliff we visited the Pump Room so we could taste the waters. The Pump Room, because it, like every place else in Bath, had columns – I don't know whether they were Doric, Corinthian or Ionic – looked as elegant as the Tavern House we had visited several nights before. The pump, or fountain, which served the waters, was equally elegant. It was urn shaped and had snake shaped spigots. Four bronze trout stood on their tails beneath the spigots to catch and recirculate the water. A larger than life statue of Beau Nash, Bath's master of ceremonies, which sat in a decorative niche on the south wall, offset the wall o French doors on the opposite side. The doors were thrown open to welcome customers.

As such, we stepped up to the counter, paid our 10s6d, which, by the way, was more than one would pay for gin, lavender water, or Dr. Johnson's dictionary. Augusta drank hers first. After two sips she said, "The water tastes lively." Lively! I hoped that did not mean it was parasite filled. After balking a moment, I downed the water that was reputed to be good for one's health.

Because it was, the Pump Room had now become largely filled with people who'd come in invalid chairs. The entire city was actually filled with people in them. Men with gouty feet predominated. In consequence, one could go into any shop and buy things like footbaths and gout stools. If I ever got back to Kansas (used figuratively in lieu of Escondido, California) and was able to bring something from the past with me I had recently decided it would be a footbath, in particular a Spode china one I saw which depicted an Asian scene. It was even prettier than the one Mummy had used to bathe my feet during my convalescence.

As popular as it was, the Pump Room, by the time Augusta and I tried to make our way away from the counter, had become a mob scene, what with gouty men in invalid chairs and elderly women who hadn't bothered to put their parasols down all trying to work their way up to the counter. When Augusta darted into the foot of a man with gout and he cried out in pain I wanted to get out before being seen with her. Luck was against me, though, because Augusta's victim was my father's friend, Bishop Stanwix. If you will remember, Bishop Stanwix's land bordered Dr. Fowle's. The Bishop said, "Miss Lamb, finding you here proves a notion I hold dear – that this world is a small stage." We had only talked a moment more when he added, "I knew you were not at home, but had been given to understand you were in London." Since Augusta was the reason I was in Bath, as I explained why I was there, I presented her. After she apologized profusely, the three of us spoke a moment or two more. In particular, Augusta wanted to know whether the Bishop knew her father, the Reverend Elton; he did not. Shortly thereafter we said our goodbyes and left the Bishop in line for his water.

We saw him again the following day at the baths. One did not just drink the water in Bath. One healed in it. As I looked out over the pool I could already see a number of men in suit coats, breeches, and tri-cornered hats wading chest high in it, along with almost as many women whose gauzy muslin gowns ballooned out in the water and then floated up.

The Baths – set into a building flanked courtyard – were open to the air and fed by natural, warm springs. Because the sides of the courtyard had column-flanked porticoes – again, I don't know whether the columns were Doric, Ionic, or Corinthian – the architecture surrounding the waters was highly classical, which was fitting because the baths had been built on ancient Roman springs. A long line of men in invalid chairs waited – like the great multitude of blind and halt folk did at the pool of Bethesda – to be lowered in.

The Bishop, whose swollen right foot was hot, shiny, and a dusty red, waited with them. Augusta, as the daughter of a clergyman, rushed up to pay her respects. As she did I swear I saw the Bishop raise his eyes in prayer to the statue of Triton enthroned in a niche that was shaped like a clamshell. I supposed he hoped Triton would blow on his conch shell, not this time to calm the ocean's waves, but Augusta's awkwardness. To guard his foot, which was stretched out on the footrest of his invalid chair, I positioned myself in front of it. I hadn't counted on Augusta going to the rear of the chair, though, where, after leaning on it, she practically rolled it into the water. My position in front of him was all that stopped the Bishop. After we spoke a moment or two, Augusta and I, because we had never planned to bathe – we only wanted to sight see – excused ourselves.

Since that trip to the baths ended our connection with the medicinal portion of Bath I supposed we wouldn't meet the Bishop again. However, when Mummy sent me a letter full of commissions – "Buy your Aunt Susan some hartshorn from the apothecary's in Milsom Street. And get her some beetroot, and a bottle of Dr. Prossilly's pox water too," – we ran into the Bishop again. I wondered if he'd divined we would be coming because he had his gouty foot sheathed in a metal cage to keep anything from knocking against it. After seeing me the Bishop said, "Miss Lamb, when do you plan to return home? As you are the apple of your father's eye I am certain he feels the loss of your company." I told him even though I was just as anxious as my father to again be at home, I had more than a month left in Bath. He asked after the Sucklings, since Augusta had mentioned that we were staying in Bath as their guests, and then Augusta, I think because the Bishop was not acquainted with her parents – and because of this her asking about her father's curate would never get back to them – said,

"Your highness," (Bishops commanded a lot of respect), "did you ever hear tell of a young man whose last name is Deane? He has recently become my father's curate."

The Bishop winked and said, "If his given name is Edmund I will once again say what a small stage the world is." Oh my gosh it was. Augusta went into raptures, especially when the Bishop added, "My old friend, Charles Dundas, who is – old coot – Master of Balliol still, has written to me about Edmund several times – as he believes Edmund is something of a scholar." Augusta started floating. "I hate sounding like a repeater watch," said the Bishop, "but what a small stage this world is." That very evening it became smaller still when we again stumbled across the Bishop.

The Assembly Rooms in Bath, like everything else, were housed behind a very classical façade. Columns on the outside of the building flanked the recessed entrance way and even the walls of the upper floor ballroom contained one-dimensional versions of these same columns. Its wooden floor gave off the same glare as that in a high school gym, though. Of course, there weren't any hoops and the ballroom had much fancier lighting.

The duke and his mother had brought us in their carriage. Once we arrived, the duke I saw some acquaintance he wished to greet and I indicated I would do the same with the Bishop whom I had recently seen. We had agreed that the duke, to whom I had promised the first set, would collect me when the music sounded. The Bishop, who, you will remember, lived in a palace, sat practically enthroned in his invalid chair. Surrounding him was a large circle of friends. After he introduced them to me, one of them, a newly appointed parish priest, asked if I'd dance the first set with him. As I was telling him that it was taken, but that he could have the second, the duke descended, took my hand and told him that I had formerly promised every set to him.

I wanted to say – you know that is not true. But before I could, the duke led me off. From our subsequent vantage point I could see Bishop Stanwix confer with his friends. As he did, he nodded in my direction. I then noticed that the Bishop, after saying something to his attendant, had himself wheeled to Mr. Suckling where he must have asked for a moment in confidence because Mr. Suckling subsequently wheeled Bishop Stanwix off to a quiet nook where they could speak out of earshot. Mrs. Suckling, who reminded me a lot of Mum when Mum had her ear to the wall of Father's study, could hardly contain herself. And when Mr. Suckling wheeled the Bishop back to his circle of friends and spent a few minutes conversing with them – all of them now looking my direction – I thought Mrs. Suckling would fidget out of her skin. Though she was right to have been concerned the way everyone was acting.

Once Mr. Suckling returned to his wife and whispered something in her ear, Mrs. Suckling approached the duke, told him that I must leave immediately, checked his remonstrance, took me in hand, and pulled me off. Whereupon she walked me to the dowager duchess – Mr. Suckling had found Augusta and they were now flanking her – our party paid our respects, and then Mr. Suckling, despite the agony I'm sure it caused his wife (because with two carriages at home to hire one was incomprehensible) went down and ordered a hack chaise. We followed him, after taking our leave of the Bishop.

Once we were home Mrs. Suckling said, "It is well known by everyone in the first circle that the duke, as Bishop Stanwix has just related to my spouse, has a case of French marbles."

Since I was imagining a wooden case filled with marbles I said, "What bearing can his case have on me?"

Realizing I did not understand what she meant by marbles Mrs. Suckling said, "In other words, he has the French disease."

When I still looked blank Mr. Suckling added, "Tell her, Mrs. Suckling, that the duke has got the French pox. Maybe the word pox will clarify matters."

"Yes," Mrs. Suckling said, "The duke has got the French pox. And may go blind in a madhouse." When I put it all together and realized that the duke had syphilis, I pitied him and his mother. Mrs. Suckling said, "You must go to your room and pack your trunk so that you are ready when Bishop Stanwix calls for you in the morning." The Bishop, who was slated to stay two weeks longer, had decided to leave in the morning so he could ferry me home.

Since I seemed to be part of a gothic romance I'd come to expect a daring world, one in which damsels in distress were saved by knights in armor, or at least by dashing men on horseback, or at the very least by a man with a pair of pistols in a duel. But come on! To be saved by an aging clergyman and an STD. The ignomy was overwhelming, and the only saving grace was that I would most likely be free to marry Dr. Fowle. To offset my disappointment I fantasized about our wedding as the Bishop and I rode home. I pictured the tables (they had nut cups), the chair backs (they had organza bows), the cake (it was ten-tiered), the wedding party (it had seven billion bridesmaids, and all of them wore the hideous outfits I had worn at their weddings). Furthermore, the sounds of luau music and feet stomping in a conga line filled the air – along with many toasts which expressed tender sentiments. I even heard a string old shoes and cans being pulled. As I watched the words just married float by, the Bishop saying, "Miss Lamb, you are now home," broke my reverie.

To say that my early return surprised my parents would be correct. Each met it in his way. My father was overjoyed, and my mother filled with irritation. "Has she been foolish enough to refuse the duke?" she said to the Bishop who'd accompanied me to the door. Not knowing I knew about the case of marbles, and wanting to protect the flower of my maidenhood – which was intact – the Bishop took my parents into my father's study. When the three of them came out, Mummy wanted to lie down. This made my homecoming pleasanter than it would have been. And the fact that the Bishop, on his way home, passed Dr. Fowle, who was out on rounds, and told him, "Hey ho, Miss Lamb has come home," insured that Dr. Fowle came to me the moment he was free. He lost no time in applying for and getting permission from my father my hand in marriage. Subsequently, Father, playing it smart now, posted the banns before Mummy could discover what he was about to do.

Incidentally, when Dr. Fowle told me that he had applied to my father without speaking first to me he apologetically said, "I realize I am breeching precedence, but with the time I would have lost, you might once more have been taken from me."

To steady my nerves I placed my left hand on the patience table in the front hall before I admitted that I had never had feelings for any man but him. I then lowered my eyes in embarrassment.

Dr. Fowle said, "May I again be bold?" Without waiting for my answer he put his finger under my chin and raised it. When he did, our eyes met. And then to quote John Donne, "our eye-beams twisted." Those are the only words I can use to describe what had happened. It was as if something had come out of our eyes and embraced. I've never experienced so exquisite a moment of emotion.

Mummy wasn't quite so thrilled, but in light of the danger her aspirations had put me in, she decided to give in, get off the ladder she'd been climbing on, and put on a wedding.

Chapter 18

The night before the ceremony took place, just as I was ready to get into bed, Nanny came to me. The way she held her hands behind her back told me she was hiding something. So, "Out with it, Nanny," I said. I figured she was sneaking me the piece of cake Mummy had denied me at the close of dinner.

Still holding whatever it was she had behind her back, Nanny said, "Do you remember the morning you awoke from your long sleep?"

Oh my gosh! How could I forget? So I said, "Of course I do." Nanny paused, looked at the ground, up at me, over at the window, stared at the ceiling a good long time, and only when I'd said, "Out with it," again, did she tell me,

"What no one knows – till I tell you – is that early that very morning, long before Caroline and the doctors came, long, even, before your mother had awoken, I stole into your room to look at you. I guess because I nursed you when you were born, and have so delighted in watching you grow, I could not help myself. Nor could I content myself with a simple look. The fire in your room had dwindled, so after I started it again and the air was still so cold, I set about pulling the covers up around you. Only, when I went to tuck them in at your neck I found this cotton bag encircling it."

Nanny pulled my passport bag from behind her back. It was blue and white checked, had a twenty-four inch handle so I could slip it under my sweater, and closed with a drawstring. After grabbing it I said, "Have you shown it to anyone?"

After Nanny crossed her heart three times she told me that she had not, "done as much as open the bag." She further said that finding it had so unnerved her she'd hidden it and was now coming to me in hopes I would do likewise when I got to Dr. Fowle's.

Once I was alone with my bag I opened it, and even though when I last had it'd held a fair amount of money, my passport, credit cards, and other ID, my driver's license was all which now remained. After staring at the license a moment I put it back in the bag and then hid both in the pocket of a gown that I subsequently returned to the bottom of the trunk Henry was about to carry downstairs for me. Very early the following morning he would haul it and three others to Dr. Fowle's so that I would have them waiting there for me.

Midmorning of that following day, when the local parts of my family had gathered at the house, we walked in concert to the church over which my father served as clergyman. It was a gray day, so gray Mummy said, "It should have been sunny and fair. A rainy or even gray day portends marital strife."

I said, "Mummy. Please. With as frequently as it rains, if there were any credence to your saying, three-fourths of England would be unhappily wed." As we approached the church – it was small and made of gray stone – I could see Lady Seaton standing patiently to the left side of the doorway while Dr. Fowle paced underneath the pointed arch that stood over it. All at once the large heads of the man and woman, which had been carved into the sides of the arch, came to symbolize the doctor and me and also the timeless tradition of joining men to women. Father went alone to the graveyard to get the key from where he kept it in the hollow of the old yew tree – this tree was almost a millennium old – and then we all gathered behind him while he used it to unlock the door. As I stood beside Dr. Fowle he said, "I can hardly believe my luck. Indeed, I have not believed till now."

After my father had given me away he read the service. Snatches of it – Early beloved friends, we are gathered together here, in the sight of God, to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony, which is an honorable estate, instituted of God in Paradise – often come back to me. After my father read the service and we signed the registry book, our party gathered at my parents' house for a breakfast of tongue (yuck), chocolate (good), rolls, eggs, buttered bread with jam, wedding cake, and a platter of boiled ham. After we had eaten our share Dr. Fowle and I rode home in his curricle. Mummy planned to serve more cake, along with a punch, that evening. At about the same time she was serving it – she said she would serve it at around 9:00 P.M. – Dr. Fowle and I, under the benevolent gaze of both his parents' portraits, sat down to eat the cold souse his housekeeper had laid for us. Along with it we drank some liquors. After doing do so, and as we ascended the stairs to the bedroom, Dr. Fowle said, "You are so much a part of me now, Marianne, nothing shall keep you from me."

I hate to say he was wrong. But he was. We had not been married a month when…. But I should back up. I had always been frank with Dr. Fowle. He, if you will remember, knew enough about my past to take my zipcoded letters to the post for me. So I wasn't averse to showing him my license. He found it the strangest looking miniature he'd seen and especially wondered about the type of "glass" which encased it. I told him it was not glass, but a process called lamination. Being of a scientific turn he wondered what lamination entailed.

I said, "Well, in my former state I was no scientist. So I can't explain exactly how it's done. In particular, I cannot explain what plastic is, but I do know that a type of it is melted on top of a card. The closest, though, I have come to the process is seeing it done at an Office Max." I should never have said Office Max, because after doing so I had to spend the longest time explaining the concepts "discount" and "superstore." The photograph on the license finally drug him away from those two trivialities.

"It is so detailed," he said.

I didn't bother saying, "Yes. Because it's photography," as I could not have explained that process, either.

My license was a wonderful starting point because after looking at it he began asking me questions. For instance, my home address of 487 Euclid - Escondido, California, prompted, "Where exactly are these places: Euclid, Escondido, and California?" I subsequently had to explain California, which was not yet a state. But as long as I did not have to explain hard science, I could explain magnificently, as I proved by prefacing California's statehood with colorful depictions of the gold rush preceding it. He found my birth date, the sixteenth of December, 1969, intriguing too. But what I thought he would question first – how different the picture on the license looked from how I presently did – was only discussed toward the end of our first month of marriage. When I wondered why he had not asked me about the discrepancy at once he said, "I never believed that this – and as he said this he pointed to my face and figure – was you."

I initially thought that he couldn't imagine me possessing the real Marianne Lamb's beauty because, having never been a beauty, I couldn't have known how to inhabit a real beauty's skin. It would have been like dressing for a part I could not play. He had been paring an apple, and when I had said as much, he put the knife down, looked up at me, and said, "How shallow you must find me."

During that first month of marriage I caught my spouse, who kept my driver's license in his vest pocket, stealing looks at it throughout the day. When I assumed he was staring at the lamination, and said as much, he again said, "How shallow you must find me." Apparently, he was looking at my license because he found my actual appearance appealing. He said my eyes were soft and beautiful (God bless the DMV), and that he actually preferred dark headed women to blonds. In my former state (of California) my hair was nearly black. When he also said he preferred plumper looking women I asked him why he'd married that Marianne at all? "I mean, why marry her when she had none of your specs?"

He said he hadn't married that Marianne at all. Instead, he said, "I do believe I've married a whose last name is that of Rasmussen."

Weddings seem to happen in multiples, and so when we had been married not quite a month we received word from Aunt Charlotte that she and the admiral's nuptials were in the offing. Charlotte would like to have had me, my husband, and my parents there – she especially wanted to be given to the minister at my father's hand – but Mummy insisted that she had black butter to make, and that Father had duties in the parish. She tried to make me stay home too. But Dr. Fowle and I would not have stayed away for anyone. And since I was now not under my mother's thumb we drove up to see them joined. I still think of the look on the admiral's face as he said, "I, John Blake, take, thee Charlotte Powlett, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us depart." Though we stayed with them long enough to see the admiral call Charlotte and himself an old married couple we did not fill the admiral's wish to stay out the month. With Dr. Symonds so feeble and my husband entirely devoted to the practice of medicine we felt it was high time we returned home to Sandition. As we were departing Aunt Charlotte said, "I have the oddest feeling I will not see you again. So, for my sake, be careful, will you?"

My husband said we would. The admiral, who hated to see us leave, wished us good speed home, especially because it was late afternoon. Since our plan, though, was only to drive as far as Oakley Haunts, which was four hours away, we did not think much of our late departure. Oakley Haunts was in our sights when an animal darted into the road. It spooked the horses, and they reared. Not anticipating the jolt I was thrown by it from our curricle. As my head hit the ground it went blank…. I came to in a strange bed. I hoped against hope it was one in the not too distant farmhouse I had seen. But when I saw the hangings surrounding it I figured I had traveled in time again because they were the typical green patterned ones found in hospitals. Bright, florescent lights shone down from overhead. Suddenly, a woman in white ripped the hangings open. After she said, "Miss Rasmussen, you are in hospital," I realized I was still in Great Britain. And when she added, "We wondered when you would come to. That was a nasty blow you got at Chawton Cottage," I assumed my transmigration had been a dream.

But later in the morning when, during grand rounds, who should come into the room but a dead ringer for Dr. Fowle – and he winked at me – I began to wonder. When he called me "Miss Rasmussen," though, I again believed I had been in a dream. Even though it had been, I wanted to hear him say Marianne. Other than the wink, though, he was strictly business. He, without a second look, asked "nurse" for her "pocket torch." With it he checked my pupils. And then, after ordering several neurological tests – again, without a single other signal he knew me – he left my room.

When I tried to get some personal info about him and all my nurse would say was, "He is relatively new in hospital. And even if he had been on staff forever my ethics would keep me from divulging the particulars of his personal life," I realized personal information about the doctor would not come from her. Especially when I also asked if he was married and she suggested I question him not her. The following day, I did.

He looked directly at me – again, no flicker of recognition – and then said, "No, I am not. I recently was though, and would not mind being so again some day." What an enigma.

I stayed in bed several days and when all the tests were declared normal I was released. The dead ringer for Dr. Fowle, whose name, curiously, was Dr. Fowle, as he signed my release orders, said, "I hope you will not think me a rake, but would you mind if I rang you?"

Rang Rang Rang. It seemed he wanted to call me on the telephone. I gave him the number at the hotel I was being put up in. I hardly expected to hear from a gentleman so nice looking, but I had hardly been in my room a moment before my phone rang. It was Dr. Fowle. He wanted me to meet him at a pub. (I hoped we weren't going to have to play darts when I saw a bulls-eye on the pub wall.) We had several drinks together. But again, there was no glimmer of recognition.

My family sent Tommy to retrieve me. I guess they figured he could best handle any subsequent shenanigans on the part of the Janeites. No need. They were as charming as they at first should have been. For instance, when Tommy and I made a day trip there before doubling back to fly out of Heathrow, Dee Dee, whom I finally met, - and who was very a pleasant woman despite the yards of tweed – congratulated me on my now authenticated find. She also profusely apologized for her underling's atrocious behavior. "She is a zealous woman and," she said, "we sometimes don't quite know how best to manage her."

I said, "For starts, you ought to keep her umbrella free." At that moment she was again wielding one.

After some negotiating I agreed to loan Chawton my recent finds. And I did stay long enough to see them enshrined. I wanted them in the main room, the twit with the umbrella wanted them "in the loo." However, neither of us was placated as they were placed along a long wall over the dining table.

"They provide quite a vista," I said. "Anything of Austen's creates one, though."

As to the new Dr. Fowle, before I had left my hotel room in London, he had asked for and had been given my US digits. I, also, when he had asked for my email, wrote out, "shopperhottieRAS ."

He repeated "shopperhottie" with a certain amount of amusement. Not unequal to my amazement at his rather stupid address, which began with the word neurodoc.

I hadn't been home a week before I recieved an email from Dr. Fowle. He wanted to see me. At least his email said: how r u? cud i visit? want to see euclid- escondido, california.

That should have tipped me off. But I stayed oblivious to his identity until one afternoon, three days into his trip, when we were downing two Mexican Pizzas at the Taco Bell on Via Rancho Parkway, and he said, "Miss Lamb, when will you let me again change your last name to mine of Fowle?"

"Lamb? From where have you gotten that name?"

He said, "In a little place they call Sandition." And then he handed me my laminated license. Over the next several days I came to believe him when he said, "I have followed you because I cannot imagine existing without you." When I wondered how he was able to come forward in time he said to me, "I am as incapable of explaining time travel as you are lamination." He did shed a little light on the subject, though, when he added, "I have discovered that with love, time is no more." And because that is the most romantic thing I've ever heard, allow me to finish with it.

The End

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American Spinster in Jane Austen's England