03 | New Scenes and (Well-known) Faces
No one would talk much in society if they knew how often they misunderstood others.
(Johann Wolfgang von Goethe)
Lady Verinder proved every inch as amiable as Mrs Clack had made her out to be. While the three of them were sitting around a good fire waiting for tea to arrive, the lady of the house pleasantly inquired after their journey and about their London lives.
Eventually, when the parlour maids came in with tray and kettle, she checked her watch. "It appears that Rachel and Mr Blake have forgot the time... Please go and tell them that our visitors have arrived, Elsie," she told the maid.
"I had no idea that Franklin was already here," Mrs Clack exclaimed. "How exciting to have him back after all these years abroad! Has he been here for long?"
"Since the beginning of the month," Lady Verinder replied, "And with the weather so indifferent of late—" There had been quite some rain but no cold spell as yet, she informed them. "—the two young people are mostly in and about the house—causing mischief, some might say, although the worst they have come up with to date is decorating the inside of the door to Rachel's private parlour. This is what they are about at present... Do you paint, Miss Hale?"
"I used to paint in watercolours... although not so much lately," Margaret admitted. "I had tutors whilst growing up in London, and I loved to do scenes and landscapes in the New Forest where my parents lived at the time. I'm afraid, I'm not very good with street scenes and faces—"
At this moment the door was pushed open and a young woman rushed in, closely followed by a gentleman.
"I am sorry, mamma," the girl exclaimed. "We hadn't forgot about tea, but Penelope had to excuse herself—she still doesn't take kindly to the solvent we're using—so we had to clean the brushes ourselves before we came down, or else they would be spoilt." She stepped forward and kissed Mrs Clack, who had risen from her seat, on the cheek. "How are you, cousin Drusilla?"
This was when Margaret caught her first proper view of the young gentleman who had entered the library after Miss Verinder—and she positively started.
The young man looked just like her brother Frederick! She blinked, staring at him. Yes, the resemblance was uncanny, so much so that she was doubting her eyes... He was about five or six-and-twenty, slim, of middling height, and with auburn hair—it all fit! A beard and mustachios obscured the lower part of his face, and only when his eyes fixed on her with a curious, slightly disconcerted expression—obviously he had felt her close scrutiny and was wondering at it—she saw that they were different.
"Miss Hale?" Miss Verinder's voice rang out. The daughter of the house was standing right next to her, and Margaret suddenly realised that she must have been addressed repeatedly without her noticing before.
She turned towards the girl with a vague smile, still a little dazed. Miss Verinder's own smile was fading as she cast a quick look first at the gentleman then back at Margaret again.
"Are you well, Miss Hale?" Miss Verinder inquired suspiciously.
"Why, thank you, yes... quite well," Margaret replied. Except for seeing a ghost. "So pleased to meet you—"
"May I introduce my nephew, Mr Franklin Blake," Lady Verinder chimed in.
Mr Blake held out a hand with a mumbled, "Delighted." In his eagerness to learn what had caught Margaret's attention, it was now on him to hold on to her a little too long. "Do we know each other?" he inquired.
"I shouldn't think so," Margaret replied, reclaiming her hand. Returning to a semblance of her usual composure, she became aware that her every word and move was being observed—by Miss Verinder. "For a moment you did, however, very much remind me of an acquaintance of mine—"
"I see," he said with a smile. "Then you must tell me all about my Doppelgänger on occasion." Having received parts of his education in Germany—as Margaret remembered Mrs Clack telling her—he did, of course, speak the language.
Margaret smiled noncommittally. She had no inclination to discuss her brother, exiled in Spain these last few years, with a bunch of strangers. As it was, not even Mrs Clack knew about Frederick—
Once they were all settled and with a cup of tea in hand, their conversation turned to the forthcoming arrangements at Christmas Day and the ensuing celebration of Miss Verinder's eighteenth birthday. Apparently, there was to be a big dinner party for the latter...
"... of course Godfrey and the girls will already arrive at Christmas Eve to spend the holiday with us," Lady Verinder said. "However, while we are planning only for a simple family luncheon on Christmas Day, you, Drusilla, will be pleased to hear that there shall be many familiar faces around for Rachel's birthday party. The Rector of Frizinghall and dear Mrs Threadgall will be amongst them—both of whom you haven't seen in a while, I believe—but there will also be a particular guest; the celebrated Indian traveller, Mr Murthwaite..." Mr Murthwaite who, at risk of his life, had penetrated in disguise where no European had ever set foot before, had given a highly acclaimed lecture at the Royal Geographical Society the other month and had been the toast of London society since then.
Margaret refrained from singling out Mr Blake whenever she addressed one of the party. But she couldn't prevent her eyes from wandering towards his place, in particular as he was singularly restless, fidgeting in his chair and nervously tugging at his sleeves and lapels. Now that she had had some time to get used to his similarity with her brother, she noticed that he looked exhausted; his complexion was pale, and there were dark rings underneath his eyes.
She might have been glancing at him for a little too long again because Miss Verinder suddenly said in a pinched voice, "I see that you are engaged to be married, Miss Hale." She pointedly looked at the ring on Margaret's finger.
"I am indeed," Margaret replied, likewise looking at her ring and smiling fondly. "My fiancé Mr Thornton lives in Milton. He will be coming to Frizinghall the day after Christmas."
"Then he must come to my birthday dinner!" Miss Verinder exclaimed. "I absolutely insist... Will he be staying in town?—and for how long?" Her relief at the existence of a fiancé, to prevent Miss Hale from giving any undue attention to Mr Blake, was blatantly obvious.
"For four days, I believe," Margaret replied. "But we won't intrude on your hospitality, Lady Verinder... I shall go visit him in Frizinghall, or he may come by to meet me for a walk..."
Lady Verinder interjected. "My daughter is perfectly right; we shall be pleased to have Mr Thornton to dinner... And whenever you wish to see him in town, don't hesitate to make use of the carriage."
"Mr Thornton is a manufacturer," Margaret ventured. She wondered if the lady of the house might regret her offer in the light of this.
"My brother-in-law is a banker in Frizinghall," Lady Verinder informed her calmly, "and we are much the better for the connection—both as a family and as a society—I should say."
Later, when all the company went upstairs to change for dinner, Margaret noticed something peculiar; one of the housemaids, a plain thing with a hunched shoulder, was hiding behind one of the pillars that flanked the stairway, watching Mr Blake as he came upstairs. There was a painfully enraptured expression on her face.
"How are you settling in, Dixon?" Margaret inquired as Dixon did her hair in front of the dressing table mirror.
"It is a grand house, to be sure," the maid replied. "It reminds me of Oxenham where your poor mother grew up... This place here is well run, with plenty of servants both upstairs and below. Old Betteredge—he's both the steward and the butler—runs a strict regime, but he seems to be a fair man, and well liked. His daughter, Penelope, is Miss Verinder's personal maid."
"Is Miss Verinder already out in society?"
"Not yet, from what I heard downstairs... Apparently, Lady Verinder's not keen on spending the Season in London and has deferred Miss Rachel's presentation at court for another year. But, now that the young lady's eighteen, I daresay she will be out after summer."
"Actually, when I came upstairs, I happened to notice one of the maids by the stairs." Margaret went on to describe the maid's looks. "Is there anything the matter with her? She struck me as strangely absentminded."
"That must have been Rosanna, the second housemaid," Dixon mused. "She sure is a peculiar girl, from what I've heard... She has those fainting fits, and she keeps herself very much to herself. The lady brought her back from London after the summer... The others say that the girl gives herself airs, but then, this may simply be because she speaks proper English rather than the local dialect." Dixon, a southener herself and proud of it, looked smug for a moment.
"How is Millie comporting herself?"
"She's rather awestruck, I'm afraid," Dixon huffed, "which makes her even clumsier than usual; but Penelope has volunteered to keep an extra eye on her. Bright as a button, that maid is, if you'd ask me... Now, would you rather like the coral hairpins or the mother-of-pearl combs, miss?"
"Let's make do with the combs tonight, and leave the pins for one of the grander occasions."
Dixon fiddled for another moment affixing the combs, then stood back and sighed contently. "You're looking very well tonight, Miss Margaret," she observed.
At this moment the gong sounded downstairs. Margaret gave her trusty maid a bright smile before heading out of the door.
Outside Mrs Clack was already waiting, thus saving Margaret the inconvenience of finding the dining room on her own. Although a widow of fifteen years past, Mrs Clack had never entirely done away with her widow's weeds, but unlike Mrs Thornton, who still wore the blacks and jet of deep mourning, Mrs Clack mostly stuck by the softer greys and purples of half-mourning, and combined them with the odd pieces of slightly old-fashioned jewellery, most likely family heirlooms.
They were six at table. In addition to the party who had assembled for tea, Dr Candy, the Frizinghall surgeon, had arrived to—as he laughingly remarked—even out the numbers and support Mr Blake against a supremacy of ladies. He obviously was an old family friend who could afford to make such jests.
The meal consisted of two seafood courses—a prawn salad as a starter, and sole after the soup—not surprising in winter and this close to the sea, followed by fillet of pork, and with a chocolate and pear charlotte for dessert. This was rather more sumptuous than the meals Margaret was used to on a weekday, and especially during advent, but after a day of mediocre railway food she found it thoroughly enjoyable.
After the meal the ladies retired to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their smokes and port. But be it from not having much to say to each other, or from a lack of fondness for after-dinner drinks, both gentlemen came to join the ladies in the drawing room within a quarter of an hour.
"... you may want to think about it, Blake," Dr Candy said upon entering the room after the younger man, "to stop smoking so abruptly plays havoc with the nerves—as well I can see has been the case with you! Tell me, when have you last slept soundly?"
Blake's only reply was an indifferent shrug. It appeared that he didn't want the matter discussed in front of the ladies.
Unconcernedly, Dr Candy continued, "I should strongly recommend a dose of laudanum before going to bed at night..."
"Not laudanum," Blake said tersely. "It makes me dull and gives me nightmares."
"Fiddlesticks!" the doctor exclaimed. "If there are nightmares they are a product of your overwrought nerves. A course of medicine will do you a world of good—"
"If it's all the same to you, sir, I'd rather not." Standing a few steps inside the room, Blake turned fully around, irritably frowning at the little doctor who was following him. "You know what?—a course of medicine, and a course of groping in the dark, actually means, in my estimation, one and the same thing..."
"I daresay, it is you, young man, who is groping in the dark—groping after sleep," Dr Candy huffily interrupted, "and in my opinion nothing but medicine can help you find it."
"I have often heard of the blind leading the blind, and now, my good doctor, for the first time I know what it means..."
"Gentlemen, if you please," Lady Verinder calmly curtailed their heated exchange. They looked up guiltily from their bickering. "Come and join me and my daughter, Dr Candy," she continued, pointing at the armchair next to their sofa.
Mr Blake stood irresolute for a moment, then came over to where Margaret and Mrs Clack were seated. But instead of taking the proffered chair, he kept standing next to it, tapping his fingers on the backrest. He really was a singularly jittery young man.
To the best of Margaret's knowledge there was only one reason for a man with a bad smoking habit to stop so abruptly, and regardless of the debilitating side effects: A person close to him—someone he very much cared for—hated the smell of cigar smoke. In this instance Margaret's best guess was on Miss Verinder... and telling by said young lady's reaction during tea earlier in the day, the gentleman might not be the only one harbouring particular feelings.
The following day—it was Christmas Eve—Mr Godfrey and his sisters were to arrive from London by the evening train. With their parents travelling on the Continent and the Ablewhite family home in Frizinghall locked up for the winter, Lady Verinder had kindly offered to accommodate her nephew and nieces over the holidays.
The day was overcast but mild, with a promise of clearing up later, and Margaret and Mrs Clack spent much of their time outside walking. There were indeed many pleasant walks in the vicinity, some of which Margaret was determined to revisit with John later in the week, but in the end Mrs Clack piqued Margaret's interest by telling her about a mysterious local phenomenon—the Shivering Sand.
Walking through the fir plantation east of the house for about a quarter of a mile, they eventually reached some sand hills sloping all the way down to a bleak little bay in between two rocky protrusions to the north and south of it, reaching out into the sea. It was close to the turning of the tide, and the water was low. The whole place was eerily deserted; not even seabirds gathered on its shores.
Mrs Clack looked at her watch. She pointed at a patch of grey sand that, during high tide would be entirely submerged by water. "The tide must be turning any minute now... Keep looking at this grey expanse of sand, and you will see."
And, indeed, after only a minute or two the weirdest thing happened. The surface of the sandy patch started to shudder and shiver, as if there was a force within, stirring it.
"What is this?" Margaret asked, aghast.
"Quicksand," Mrs Clack replied. "The fishermen from Cob's Hole never come here. They say it is like a bottomless pit, and will never again release anything that has been sucked into it... I once saw Sir John throw a stone into the middle; it was swallowed by the quicksand within moments."
"This is a gruesome place," Margaret said, turning on her heel. "Now I'm almost sorry for having given in to my curiosity... I don't think I should ever want to visit this particular part of the estate again."
Seeing that it was almost time for lunch they quickly made their way back to the house. Half way through the plantation a maid came their way. But instead of giving them a message, as one might have expected, the girl passed them with a shy nod before walking on towards the coast. Up close Margaret saw that it was the second housemaid, Rosanna.
But what would she be doing all alone in that desolate place?
Everyone seemed to be a little listless at lunch, and there was a general lull in conversation. Both Margaret and Mrs Clack felt languid after the exertions of the morning; Miss Verinder and Mr Blake dropped by for as short a time as common politeness allowed before heading off again to resume their artistic endeavours, a task they were determined to complete by Miss Verinder's birthday, and Lady Verinder... well, the lady of the house, be it from the general bleakness of the winter season, be it from all the planning ahead of a large house party, looked as if she was feeling a little out of sorts.
When asked by her guests she denied that anything was amiss. But soon after lunch she also begged to be excused and was not seen again until tea was announced.
Margaret and Mrs Clack spent the afternoon quietly in the library, the latter doing some knitting, all the while Margaret was immersed in her copy of Dante's Purgatorio. Her Italian was of the bookish kind; she read it quite well but hardly spoke it, and was frequently unsure how to pronounce the words. She had started with the second part of the Divina Commedia shortly after moving to Milton with her parents, but with one thing or another she had never been able to finish it. During the afternoon she made good progress and as a result was well pleased with herself; she occupied the small ladies' writing desk by one of the windows and, besides the book, had a dictionary and writing pad laid out in front of her, both of which she liberally used.
The company was a little more lively both through tea and dinner, mainly because Miss Verinder and Mr Blake had stopped painting now that they had lost the daylight, and therefore were in no rush to be off again. Lady Verinder once more looked rested and her usual self. Dinner saw just the five of them and was a much simpler affair than on the day before. To make up for it there would be a late supper after the arrival of the young Ablewhites.
Remembering that he had received parts of his education in Italy, Margaret sought out Mr Blake after dinner and quizzed him about some linguistic peculiarities that had defeated her during her studies in the afternoon. She made sure to include Miss Verinder in their conversation, and to give the young man opportunity to shine in front of her—a chance he put to great effect by recounting some amusing anecdotes about his Italian travels.
All-in-all the evening passed by quickly and enjoyably, and soon enough the footman announced the arrival of the young Ablewhites. There was a bit of a commotion as they all bustled into the drawing room, and Margaret saw immediately what Mrs Clack had meant by the term 'bouncy' in describing the Miss Ablewhites. They were cheerful enough for twenty, jabbering away ceaselessly as they rushed from one to the other to greet them. They were nearly as big as their brother—spanking, fair-haired, rosy girls—and bursting from head to toe with health and spirits.
Everything they said—and they said a lot in a very short time—started with a big, drawn-out "Oh".
Mr Ablewhite remained in the background at first, smiling indulgently at his vivacious sisters; and yet, at over six foot tall, he was hard to ignore.
Margaret remembered him well from the one time she had heard him speak at the Kensington meeting. Unlike the rest of the audience, who had fairly swooned over him, she had been taken neither by his appearance nor his manners.
He was very tall, to be sure, but lanky, and his pale colouring made his complexion look washed-out. While Margaret couldn't admire his looks, she gave him credit for the fact that he couldn't help them; she found, however, equally little to admire in his conduct. There was something effeminate and aloof about him, furthered by a nasal voice... but most of all, upon listening to his speech at the time, Margaret had come to the sneaking suspicion that he was wont to take credit for achievements not entirely his own—and in the case of said meeting it had been the Kensington Ladies' Committee's endeavours he had been appropriating even as they cheered him.
Earlier in the day Dixon had informed her mistress that, according to those below stairs, Mr Godfrey Ablewhite was expected to become Miss Rachel's acknowledged suitor ere long. Apparently all the servants thought so, except for Penelope who strongly believed that Mr Blake was in a fair way of winning her young mistress's heart; and Margaret, from what she had seen of the young people thus far, was inclined to agree.
Christmas Day dawned brightly; but even before the sun was up, Margaret was woken by a muted commotion in the downstairs hall. Assuming that it was the servants putting up the Christmas decorations, she turned around again in her bed and closed her eyes, pleasurably anticipating the magical transformation of the house that was about to take place.
Later, as she was heading for the breakfast room, Margaret stopped for a moment in the hall to admire the servants' effort. The first floor banister was festooned with garlands of holly and mistletoe, twined with broad red ribbons, two side tables held tall conical displays of ruby apples and gilded nuts interspersed by greenery, and tall silver candelabra in every corner of the hall cast the entire space into a festive light.
While she was still admiring, Mrs Clack joined her.
"Lady Verinder still prefers things the old way," the elder lady remarked. "Therefore there's no Christmas tree, and presents only for the servants and children—" Always thoughtful, Mrs Clack had informed Margaret of this beforehand. "—but as there are no children at present, it will only be the servants' turn right after breakfast."
"The hall looks splendid, and I like it very much," Margaret said. "Besides, I never had a Christmas tree in any of the places I've stayed over the holidays—although I assume that the Lennoxes may have one this year—so I shan't miss the sight of one here in this hall."
"Word has it that even the three Magi have arrived..."
"Aren't they a little early?" Margaret laughed.
"Well, I have it on the best authority—Penelope's—that three Indian gentlemen, supposedly jugglers, have been spotted in Frizinghall by the footman out on an errand this morning," Mrs Clack said. It appeared that Millie had kept her ears open while spending time in the servants' hall in the morning, and had passed on the news to her mistress without delay. "Penelope has been quite put out by this because, apparently, rather than being a benign presence, said Indians were in the neighbourhood before, on the day of cousin Franklin's arrival—and they were overheard taking about him at the time. It all seemed quite ominous!"
Margaret was in two minds of what to think. On the one hand she remembered her father's words about different people having different ways—and what was true for southerners and northerners applied in equal measure, if not more, to people from foreign parts. But on the other hand, just being foreign, or foreign-looking, said precious little about anybody's good, or bad, intentions—
Unlike the day before, breakfast was a noisy affair. The Miss Ablewhites saw to that; they bounced in just as Margaret had finished her first cup of tea and was about to help herself from the buffet. Within moments they were followed by Miss Verinder. Lady Verinder was, of course, taking breakfast in bed.
For a short while it was an all-female breakfast table chattering about all-female concerns, until the entrance of Mr Blake and Mr Ablewhite brought an abrupt end to their lively conversation.
"Continue, ladies, by all means," Mr Blake laughingly called out into the sudden lull.
Mr Blake helped himself to coffee and then quickly took the empty seat next to Miss Verinder. Mr Ablewhite, still musing over the serving dishes on the buffet, looked up from his as yet empty plate, realising with a frown that he had been outsmarted. He rallied admirably though and, after filling his plate, took a seat on Margaret's far side.
"Miss Hale," he said after a few bites, "I'm afraid we didn't have much time to talk last night... I understand you are from London—" He let the question hang in the air.
"Indeed I am," Margaret replied without much enthusiasm. "My relatives reside in Harley Street. Captain Lennox is my cousin-in-law... or, perhaps you may be acquainted with my aunt, Mrs Shaw." She was quite sure that—with none of them being great philanthropists—he was unlikely to know them.
"I see... But I understand that you are staying in Bayswater with Cousin Drusilla—"
It occurred to Margaret that, apart from herself, everyone around the table were cousins, and had probably known each other all their lives. And yet, at least as appeared to be the case with the gentlemen and the daughter of the house, they were willing to seek their romantic partners within their familiar sphere; and she thought that—in spite of the hardship and heartache—she was grateful for having had her beliefs challenged by moving to Milton. If anything, the old Margaret would never have opened up to a man like John Thornton—and it would have been her eternal loss!
How narrow those cousins' world suddenly appeared, despite the privilege of wealth...
After breakfast the servants assembled in the hall and Lady Verinder, with her steward Betteredge by her side, gave out neatly wrapped Christmas gifts to each and every one of them. Margaret had brought a present for Dixon with her from London. After years of tight household budgets, Margaret had begun to gift the loyal maid in the previous few months with small luxuries to complete her attire which she knew a lady's maid would value and cherish. This time it was to be leather gloves to replace the knitted mittens she had worn when shopping in Milton, and a shawl of modest colour but woven from the finest lambswool.
Then it was announced that the coaches were waiting to take them into Frizinghall to attend the Christmas service at their parish church.
Upon their return luncheon awaited, which was more sumptuous than at other days because in the afternoon the majority of servants would have a half-day off to spend the holiday with their nearby families. There would be punch and sweets, followed by a cold dinner, later in the day.
In the evening there was to be music and singing in the drawing room, and although Margaret didn't play an instrument—and thereby showed a lamentable lack of accomplishment—she was graciously saved by the Miss Ablewhites who outdid themselves to perform. In the end Margaret found herself standing between those two singing a popular Christmas song—and if she didn't always hit the right note, who was to notice with the sisters carolling at the top of their voices to the right and left of her?
When finally in bed at close to midnight, there was nothing left for Margaret but to dream of the following day—when she would run into Frizinghall at noon to meet John at the station.
A/N:
... and now the scene is set; and—starting with the next chapter—the plot is about to thicken.
A big 'thank you' goes out to all you lovely people who are showing their support for this story by favs, follows and, most of all, by your reviews. Much, much appreciated!
I hope that the introduction of so many new characters in this chapter hasn't been too tedious and confusing, but by now we have, of course, entered crossover territory. Any ideas yet as to where this is heading, anyone? Just one tip: We shall remain firmly within the 19th century, so it's nothing as recent as 'Shadow and Bone' ;)
