Chapter 6
I conceded that being Mr Humbleton’s supper partner had its advantages. He talked about nothing of consequence and in such great quantity so as to not require an intelligent answer in return. This meant I was fully able to enjoy the excellent supper with a ‘Mmmhmm’ or ‘You don’t say?’ inserted as a response.
The food was rich and plentiful, and the courses kept coming. After finishing the creamy pea soup, I availed myself of the baked stuffed pike and then a few slices of a most delicious roast haunch of venison with juniper berry sauce accompanied by various vegetables.
Mr Humbleton, I noticed, ate sparingly, taking only a little from each of the dishes. After he’d tasted a forkful from the modest dollop of mashed potato he’d placed on his plate, he cleared his throat to catch Mr Pringle’s attention on his right-hand side. Mr Pringle was wholly absorbed in conversing with Harriet and didn’t notice. Mr Humbleton coughed louder until, finally, Mr Pringle looked around, startled.
‘Sir, I simply must commend you’, began my cousin, ‘on the excellence of your mashed potatoes. Rarely have I encountered a vegetable as outstanding as this. Pray, from which field do they originate?’
Jane, on my other side, snuffled into her napkin; and oh no, I could feel a hysterical giggle welling. I mustn’t, couldn’t laugh! I pinched my nostrils, and my face went red with the effort of trying to keep it in. I happened to catch sight of Mr Fitzroy on the other side of the table, his eyes gleaming with amusement. If the question had been directed at him, his reply, I fear, may have been designed to prolong the spectacle.
Luckily, Mr Pringle had much better manners.
‘Ah, thank you,’ he said with no trace of guile. ‘I believe they come from here in Steventon, but I would have to check with the cook. I can do so later if you would like?’
Mr Humbleton nodded, appeased, and proceeded to take tiny forkfuls of potato and sigh in ecstasy as if he had been visited by the Rapture. He was so ignorant of his affectations that it was decidedly entertaining! But it was one thing to find one’s cousin amusing and quite another for him to be the subject of a man’s sport. I suspected Mr Fitzroy was just such a man, and I did my best not to look directly at him for fear of encouraging him to say something—a difficult feat when his mere presence drew my attention unwillingly. I watched surreptitiously as those elegant large hands of his deftly cut up a slice of venison with no sign of a tremor. If he did indeed have a nervous complaint, he was hiding it well. He paused to drink from his glass of wine, and his eyes met mine. Hastily, I returned to my own meal, my face flushing and a tight, breathless feeling rising in my chest. I refused to think that Mr Fitzroy had caused this sensation; it was no doubt a symptom of eating too much!
I laid down my knife and fork on the side of the plate and noticed Jane ploughing through a giant dollop of mashed potato with as much enjoyment as Mr Humbleton. Hmm, another plan took shape in my mind. Jane’s sister, Cassandra, could be the perfect diversion for his attention. She was more his age and would make an excellent clergyman’s wife. The timing was crucial, however. She needed to arrive before he left.
‘Jane, when is Cassie expected back?’ I enquired of her.
‘Next week,’ she replied. ‘Though her stay might be extended. They are having such excellent weather in Kent.’
This was frustrating news indeed. I could only pray for rain to drench southeast England to speed her hasty return and that I could throw Mr Humbleton off my scent meanwhile.
Supper concluded after a dessert of trifle and gooseberry tart (which no one could manage much of); and the men retired to smoke cigars, drink port, and whatever it was that men did behind closed doors. Finally, I was free of Mr Humbleton, and my shoulders and spirits lifted considerably. I tried not to think about what ridiculous things he was saying to Mr Pringle and Mr Fitzroy—and what they might think about him and, in turn, my family.
I focused my attention on Harriet instead. She, Jane, and I sat in the bay window, well away from Aunt and Mrs Austen, who were sharing village gossip on the sofa.
‘Tell us, Harriet’, said Jane, her voice brimming with curiosity, ‘how did you fare with Mr Pringle? He seemed most attentive to you during supper.’
‘Indeed, he was,’ Harriet replied, arranging her skirts. ‘I could not fault him for temperament nor manners. He was a most obliging host and insisted I had the choicest cut of venison.’
‘Oof, that venison was marvellous, as was the entire supper,’ I said, patting my stomach. ‘If you were to marry him, you may end up not being able to fit through the doorway.’
‘I am sure he does not eat like that daily, especially since he was so very delicious ...’
Jane and I looked at each other and giggled.
‘I meant to say “it”,’ said Harriet, correcting herself hurriedly, her cheeks fiery. ‘“It” meaning “the supper” was so very delicious.’
‘You can’t take it back now, dearest,’ I said with a smile. ‘Your feelings about our gracious host have been made known and in his own house no less.’
Harriet let out a groan.
Jane patted her hand. ‘Do not fret. At least it was only our trustworthy ears who heard the words.’
We glanced collectively over at Aunt and Mrs Austin, who were twittering away. If they knew Harriet thought Mr Pringle was ‘very delicious’, it would not take long for the information to reach the gentleman’s own ears, and who knew how receptive he would be to such prattle before he had made his own feelings known. Harriet might find herself passed over for a slip of the tongue!
When the men returned to the parlour an hour later, smelling of cigar smoke and strong liquor, Mr Humbleton’s countenance was animated. But Mr Fitzroy’s face was even stonier than usual. It was most curious. I wondered what had been discussed to create such a mood. I supposed I would never know!
‘Now could any of you young ladies be persuaded to entertain us on the pianoforte?’ enquired Mr Pringle with an encouraging smile. ‘I’m afraid it has been played only once by myself since we arrived and in a rather ham-fisted manner. But I do so enjoy a jolly tune. ’
To my relief, Harriet said she would be delighted to perform, and I fervently hoped that I wouldn’t be expected to play. Although we both had had lessons growing up, Harriet was the superior musician—mostly because she was more patient than I when it came to practising. I had much preferred to be outdoors or read a book than tinkle away on the ivory keys. As a result, my technique had suffered somewhat. I also suspected that I had a tin ear. No, Harriet could take up the mantle for the Blackburn sisters. I was content enough to enjoy the melody from the safety of the sofa.
After Harriet had finished her well-executed song, there was a round of applause, the loudest clapping emitting from Mr Pringle; and she smiled at him, blushed, and curtsied prettily. He did seem taken with her, if one could judge such things from enthusiastic clapping and calls of ‘Brava! ’
‘Who’s next?’ he asked, looking round expectantly at me and Jane from his chair. ‘Miss Austen, surely, you could oblige us with a tune? Your father told me you play very nicely.’
‘Father, you didn’t!’ Jane scolded him.
Mr Austen inclined his head towards his daughter and smiled. ‘I believe I did.’
Jane ducked her head. ‘Well, I suppose I could manage a song if my audience was a sympathetic one.’
We assured her that indeed we would not judge her for a bum note or two. But when she started, it was instantly obvious to everyone that Jane’s playing was decidedly on par and even, dare I say, superior to Harriet’s. She gave us a most rousing rendition of ‘The Irish Washerwoman’, and the upbeat tempo had our feet tapping in time.
Of course we insisted upon an encore, and she dutifully played ‘Over the Hills and Far Away’, which was equally as lively and earned a solid round of applause.
‘Jane, that was wonderful!’ I exclaimed as she returned to the sofa. ‘I didn’t know you could play so well.’
‘Neither did I,’ she replied modestly. ‘It is because I have been bored without Cassie and only have my writing to occupy me. Father has been encouraging me to play, so I’ve found myself practising for a couple of hours each day. I must have improved.’
‘I’ll say. Well done!’ I said, feeling a bit envious of her talent. But I pushed it aside. She had practised, and I could hardly be jealous when I hadn’t touched our pianoforte for years.
‘Miss Felicity, I believe it is your turn to regale us with a tune,’ said Mr Pringle, looking over at Jane and me from his chair.
‘Oh no—’ I began.
‘Come now, I won’t take no for an answer. ’
‘Mr Pringle, I play very poorly!’ I protested, determined to set him straight about my pianoforte skills.
‘We are all friends here,’ Mr Austen intoned. ‘Why not try at least?’
‘Oh yes, Flissy, do!’ said Jane. There were murmurs of agreement from everyone else, and I started to feel slightly panicked. I didn’t even have a notion of what tune I could play!
‘Ahem.’ I looked up, and Mr Humbleton was standing beside me with his arm proffered. ‘Do not fear, Miss Felicity. I will escort you to the instrument and remain by your side to turn the pages.’
Mr Fitzroy had said nothing throughout this discussion but was surveying the scene with a sardonic smile . It made me determined to wipe it off his face despite being unsure my pianoforte skills were up to the task.
‘Thank you, cousin. That is kind of you.’ I took his arm, and we promenaded over to the pianoforte for all the world as if I was going to be providing a stellar performance (which I knew I was not!). I sat down on the bench and arranged my skirt. My heart was thudding at having to play for so many people; my palms too were clammy, and my fingers stiff with fear.
Mr Humbleton picked up the music book and studied it intently for a time. ‘Might I suggest this tune?’ he said eventually and pointed to his chosen song. I looked at it: ‘The Lass of Richmond Hill’ . ‘It is, I think, the simplest of the lot,’ he added in a low voice intended only for my ears.
I was grateful for him choosing a song that I could not destroy too much in the playing, and indeed, it was one that I knew and had played before. Perhaps this would not be too much of an ordeal after all.
I poised my fingers over the keys ... and began.
From the outset, I knew I was in trouble. My timing was off, playing far too quickly for Mr Humbleton to realise I’d come to the end of the page, so I was forced to make up the missing notes until he turned it. It didn’t help that he was tapping his foot and humming under his breath, which really put me off my rhythm (what I had of it). Halfway through, to my horror, he decided he would help me out even further by singing the words!
This lass so neat, with smiles so sweet,
Has won my right good will;
I’d crowns resign to call her mine,
Sweet lass of Richmond Hill.
If Mr Humbleton’s singing was superior to my playing, it could have helped us considerably—sadly, he was off-key, compounding the sorry state of affairs. Even worse was him actually leaning in and singing to me as if I were his sweet lass!
My cheeks burned as his voice rose to a fever pitch on the chorus: ‘Sweet lass of Richmond Hiiiilllll ...’ and I crashed the final chords in an attempt to drown him out.
At the conclusion, I stood to a smattering of applause, relieved the hideous show was over. I risked a look at Jane and Harriet, and they were struggling to suppress their merriment. Mr Austen wore the face of someone in pain. Henry was smirking. Aunt and Mrs Austen were grimacing in sympathy, and Mr Pringle looked faintly horrified.
Only Papa, having bequeathed his tin ear to me, seemed to have enjoyed it and was creating the one-man applause. Then a slow clap joined him from the other side of the room.
I hadn’t dared look at Mr Fitzroy once during the performance, but I did so now, reluctantly. He was leaning forward in his chair with a mischievous smirk on his annoying face.
‘I enjoyed that immensely, Miss Blackburn,’ he drawled. ‘Can we have another? It was so very accomplished.’
I smiled thinly at him.
‘Unfortunately, I will have to decline, Mr Fitzroy. It takes a lot of passion to perform such a complicated piece, and I’m afraid I’ve rather overexerted myself. ’
‘I am sorry to hear that,’ he replied. ‘And what a pity, as your playing was such a pleasurable experience.’
‘I can only hope to give you the same pleasure at a future gathering.’
His lips twitched. ‘I look forward to it.’
I bowed, and he returned it with a slow nod. I took the arm of Mr Humbleton, who seemed rather confused at this exchange, and yanked him away from the pianoforte.
What a nightmare; thankfully, Mr Austen decided that everyone’s ears needed a thorough cleansing after my terrible playing and gladly took his seat at the instrument to play a sweet hymn.
I returned to my seat on the sofa next to Jane, and I could feel her quaking with laughter. ‘Oh, Flissy!’
‘Don’t,’ I whispered back miserably. ‘Just don’t!’
After that, the evening wrapped up remarkably quickly, with Mr Pringle pleading that he needed his beauty sleep. But as we were herded to our waiting carriage, he promised to call on Papa shortly to be measured for a new suit. I was hoping, for Harriet’s sake, that this was an indication of him wanting to deepen his acquaintance with her also.
Seeing her expectant air and knowing she was not able to ask for propriety’s sake, I suggested that perhaps he could be measured speedily and partake of tea and cake with us for the remainder of his visit. He replied that it sounded like a splendid idea, and Harriet immediately brightened and happily sprung into the carriage.
Mr Fitzroy had followed behind to see us off, out of politeness no doubt. But to my way of thinking, he need not have bothered. I was last to be loaded in, having hung back for as long as possible to breathe the cool night air, when a deep voice murmured by my shoulder, ‘Allow me to assist.’
I looked down to find one of Mr Fitzroy’s hands outstretched before me, as if in a peace offering. Hesitating a moment, I placed my ungloved hand in his, and he easily lifted me into the carriage. The touch and press of his warm skin against mine sent an electric thrill through my entire body.
‘Thank you,’ I said dazedly, and he inclined his head.
The carriage moved off with Mr Pringle, one hand held aloft, waving at us like he was the king. Mr Fitzroy stood beside him stern-faced and most decidedly not waving. But I watched carefully and saw again his hand, the one that had touched me, flex slowly just once. Then he walked away to the house without a backwards glance.