Chapter 4 Intentions Regarding Marriage
Chapter 4
Intentions Regarding Marriage
A week went by in which their days followed the same patterns – on dry days Frances collected shells while Lord Barrington and Mr Mowatt conversed. On wet days the gallery and library became their haunts, while Mrs Norris continued providing her excellent meals. But Mrs Pagington’s invitation loomed ever closer and on the appointed evening Laurence dutifully prepared himself to meet Margate’s society.
To a young man accustomed to the finer haunts of London, the Assembly Rooms of Margate in Cecil Square proved every bit as dull as he had feared. The ballroom itself was of a decent size, amply provided with large looking glasses and well-lit with five glittering chandeliers, but the card room was full of elderly locals who all knew one another and clearly held long-standing grudges over their ongoing games of Commerce, constantly referring to previous gambling success or failures such as to make any newcomer nearly bored to tears. The billiard room contained only those men who were reluctant to dance, and Laurence felt himself obliged to be sociable since he was representing his uncle. The dancing had not yet begun and the musicians, rather than playing something to make those already in attendance feel welcome, were still tuning up, a far from pleasant sound. The tea room was well provided however and Mrs Pagington, delighted at the sight of Laurence, would barely leave his side, introducing him to everyone in the room.
“The future master of Northdown House, you know, when our dear Lord Barrington is no longer with us,”
This information swiftly had the effect of all the local mamas lining up their daughters in what amounted to a parade of faces before him, each one hoping to be chosen for the first dance and thereafter to be shown favour throughout the evening.
“My daughter Miss Reid…”
“Miss Thrup, Miss Susanna Thrup and Miss Patience Thrup…”
“Lady Emilia…”
Mrs Pagington also saw it as her business to keep up a positive babble of instructions regarding etiquette to Laurence, as though she were the Master of Ceremonies and he had never attended such an event before.
“This will be one of our final assemblies, Mr Mowatt, for our social season runs quite contrary to London, since we are quiet in the winter and busy in the summer, nothing like the city! Now, the dancing will begin at eight , gentlemen are to change partners every two dances – so as not to show too much favour to one pretty face and have it remarked on, you know! The cotillion will be danced after tea, and we end promptly at eleven, even if we are mid dance ! It is quite late enough for a social gathering, do you not agree?”
Laurence, who rarely got home before three in the morning when attending a ball in London, nodded politely.
“And of course, every lady of precedence shall be entitled to her proper place at the top of the set, but once a dance has begun, any lady joining shall be obliged to take her place at the bottom of the set…”
Eager to escape the monologue, Laurence threw himself into the dancing, offering himself as a partner to most of the young women in the room. The locals blushed and giggled at the attention from the man who would one day become a viscount with an estate both here and in Surrey. The ladies visiting from London affected superior airs, implying that a titled gentleman would naturally prefer a more sophisticated bride. All of them were anxious to point out that they were not in Margate for their own health, far from it, they were only being thoughtful daughters, sisters and nieces to family members who suffered from one malady or another which would benefit from the sea air and the salt water. More than one mama mentioned their intention to call on “dear Lord Barrington” soon, indeed the very next day, perhaps, if he were at home.
Laurence, understanding full well that they had no interest in Lord Barrington until such time as he died and left his title and estate to an eligible bachelor, thought that he must devise some means of being out of Northdown House on most of the following days. He smiled and danced, danced and smiled, made polite conversation with as many local dignitaries as possible and was infinitely relieved when the clock struck eleven and, as promised, the music stopped mid-dance and he could escape back to Northdown House. It was odd to be so eager to escape a social occasion, but the society at a resort such as Margate was too limited for his tastes. He had no intention of marrying a local girl and it would not do, in such a small community, to form intimate acquaintances with married ladies, it would be far too noticeable in a place where everyone knew everyone else and had nothing to fill their days with but gossip.
He envied Lord Barrington and Miss Lilley for having avoided the entire evening and wondered whether his natural inclination to attend far more social occasions than was strictly required was in fact as diverting a path as it seemed. There were certainly evenings, like this one, where he would have preferred to stay at home. His parents had eschewed most such social obligations, preferring to keep their social circle more intimate, comprising their family and close friends, going to London only infrequently and, although good-spirited while there, always returned to the countryside with pleasure, saying that they had had enough of the city and its delights until the next year.
“Society is best in small doses,” his father was fond of saying.
Laurence, as a child, had never understood this statement, since London’s society was to him a place full of extraordinary delights and excitements, which he had certainly made the most of in the years since his mother had died, after he moved to Albany and took up life as a stylish young man about town. But tonight he understood his father’s view.
The next morning Frances was curled up on a sofa, hot chocolate clasped between her hands. She had come to breakfast early and eaten Mrs Norris’s buttery seedcake, half-hoping to hear Mr Mowatt’s description of the night before so that she could congratulate herself on having avoided the event entirely. But when the two men joined her Laurence ate heartily without much description of his outing at all, while Lord Barrington had dry toast and a cup of broth and seemed quieter than usual.
“I feel a chill coming over me,” he said. “Frances is eager to go down to Margate, would you accompany her, Laurence? I will follow in an hour or so, when I have warmed my old bones longer.”
“Of course, Sir.”
Frances was disappointed, but she supposed that an outing to find shells was better than staying at home, so when Mr Mowatt asked if she were ready to depart she only nodded and rang for Deborah to fetch her pelisse and bonnet, both in dark brown velvet and silk with fur trims. Deborah was additionally pressed into service as a chaperone and followed them into the carriage with a sulky countenance, since she disliked the chilly breeze that came in off the sea.
They walked along the soft sands, feet occasionally slipping in the sifting grains.
“You should walk where the sand is damp,” said Frances after a while, becoming annoyed by Deborah’s huffs of irritation as sand got into her shoes and Laurence’s taking odd zig-zag steps to try and avoid the worst of the slippage. Could they not see the darker sand, how much more compact it was? She wished she could have come alone, for being trailed by two unwilling attendants was an encumbrance she would gladly have done without.
“When do you return to London?” asked Laurence.
“My mama has written to me, telling me I should hurry back to London as there is a most eligible young man lately arrived in town,” she said. “I have told her I cannot possibly leave Lord Barrington when he has invited me personally. But in truth I have no interest in chasing after some young man when every young miss in London will be doing the same. The poor man must feel like a fox chased by the hounds. I shall stay here as long as possible. I am in no hurry for my fourth season.”
“I am sure there is still time for finding a suitable husband,” he said politely.
Frances suppressed a smile. No doubt he found her entirely unsuited to marriage. Excellent. The more men who thought so, the more likely her parents would give up and allow her the freedom she craved.
“I wonder you are not yet married yourself,” she said after a while, turning a white Cochlodesma praetenue or spoon clam over in her hands and then discarding it, since it was cracked. “Are you more of Lord Barrington’s bent?”
“No!” he said, looking shocked at the very suggestion.
She shrugged. “Do you prefer not to marry, then?”
“Of course I will marry,” he said. “My father is keen that I should be wed. He would like to be surrounded by grandchildren. I intend to secure a wife this coming season.”
She was intrigued. “You have already fallen in love then?”
“One does not need to be in love to marry,” he said stiffly. He seemed put out by her interest, as though he did not wish to discuss any intimate particulars of his life with her. “Of course, affection is to be hoped for in a marriage, but so long as there is respect between the parties, that is all that is needed. As I am sure you will one day find yourself,” he added, with a lecturing tone.
“I do not wish to marry,” she said, eyes still searching the sand.
“Perhaps not now,” he said, stooping to pick up a small pink-tinged shell and passing it to her. “But no doubt one day you will wish to marry and have children.”
“No,” she said. “I do not ever wish to marry.”
“You do not want children?” he asked, surprised. Surely all women wanted children.
“I would not object to children,” she said. She added a delicately pink Tellina tenuis to her basket, the two halves still together, so that it looked like a tiny butterfly instead of a shell. “But I would not wish to be obliged to carry out the other duties of a wife; to host or attend social gatherings, to be forced to spend a great deal of time in company. It would be both tiring and tiresome to me.”
He had known she was odd, but this was beyond what he had thought. “What would you propose to do with your life, then?” he asked, with an indulgent chuckle. “Collect shells, all alone?”
She turned to him at once, her face suddenly lit up. “Yes,” she said. “I wish to have a small house by the sea, with an income of my own and time to be alone. I would collect shells and walk by the sea and enjoy all that the natural world has to offer, its beauty and its mysteries. I would keep to myself and have a well-managed life, with things done as I wished them done. I would be happy, I think. But my parents do not agree with me, so I will have to wait until they have given up on my ever marrying.” She turned away again and continued along the beach, head down in her usual stance.
Laurence stood still watching her, drawn to a halt by her extraordinary statement. What could she mean by it? She did not wish to marry at all? She would forgo the desire to have children in order to live a strange solitary life by the sea, collecting shells for the rest of her days and speaking to no-one? He shook his head. Well, her parents were right to persevere in finding her a husband, it was absurd to let a young woman who knew nothing about the world make such a reckless choice. He looked behind him, back to where Uncle Barrington had arrived and was now following their progress from the promenade, his chair rolling along at a slow but steady pace. There were some steps nearby, where the beach led back to the promenade and now Laurence took them two at a time, reaching the pavement as his uncle drew abreast.
“May I walk with you, Sir? Miss Lilley is happy enough alone.” Happy alone, not just now but forever, was that truly her intention? There was something about the thought he found disconcerting.
Uncle Barrington gave a warm smile as he watched Frances continue down the beach, seemingly unaware and uncaring of whether Laurence were behind her or not. “Most certainly, my boy.”
Laurence walked for a few moments in silence, before his thoughts could no longer be contained. “Miss Lilley said she does not wish to marry,” he blurted out. “Ever.”
“Had you made her an offer?” inquired his uncle.
“No!”
“What made her say such a thing then?”
“I – I had made mention of wishing to find a wife this coming season.”
“Are you in love?”
“No, Sir. But it is my duty to marry soon and I intend to find a suitable wife.”
“Duty… suitable… would you not wish to find someone you truly love?”
Laurence thought of Lord Hyatt and how he had found a wife, despite his youthful connection with Lord Barrington. Had he felt anything for Lady Hyatt or had the marriage been one of convenience, his heart lying elsewhere? The thought seemed sad, but then Lord Hyatt had done his duty to his family and sired heirs, which Lord Barrington had not. Laurence was still unsure of whether his uncle’s path was acceptable. “Love is not required for a marriage, Uncle.”
“Is it not?”
“No, Sir. I would hope for affection, of course, and mutual respect.”
Lord Barrington sighed. “And do you have such a woman in mind? One who is suitable, who will afford you mutual respect and possibly affection?”
“Perhaps.”
“May I inquire as to her name?”
“Lady Honora Fortescue.”
The viscount thought. “Daughter of the Marquis of Halesworth?”
“Yes, Sir.”
A small smile twitched at the corner of Lord Barrington’s mouth. “An excellent woman,” he pronounced. “Practical. Well bred. Good-natured but not weak-willed with it.”
“Yes, Sir. We have known each other a long time.”
Lord Barrington stopped his chair and Laurence stopped with him. “Will you do your uncle a favour?”
“If it lies within my power, Sir, of course.”
“Do not marry this season. Next year, perhaps.”
“Why?”
“Only a whim of mine, to keep you young and free of duty, as you said, a little longer. Will you do that? Oh, by all means court whomever you like this coming season, but without obligation, without any understandings being entered into. Will you do that for me?”
“If you wish it, Sir. Although I do not understand why you would be reluctant for me to marry.”
“I am not reluctant for you to marry, far from it. But I would like you to marry for love, Laurence, and therefore I beg your indulgence; one more year for your heart to bloom. If it does not, then you have my blessing to marry whomsoever you choose, with or without love.”
Laurence shrugged. “As you wish, Sir, though I do not think I will change my mind on this subject.”
“Then it will not matter if you wait only one more year.” Lord Barrington gave his nephew a warm smile. “Now, perhaps you would be so kind as to push my chair for me. My arms grow tired and Miss Lilley, as you can see, is rapidly outstripping us, for all that she is walking on the sand, and we have a firm path beneath our feet. Let us make haste and follow her.”
“Yes, Sir.”
As he pushed the chair along the promenade, Laurence turned over Miss Lilley’s determination to remain a spinster in his mind. It was very odd, certainly, but there was something about the certainty of her vision that appealed. She had depicted the life she wanted with great clarity and seemed determined to achieve it. He half wished he had such certainty about his future – his images of married life were half-formed, with no true shape to the woman who might be his wife, only the knowledge that he should of course have a bride, one who would take her place one day as Viscountess Barrington. But that was all he could imagine for now: that she would be fit to take such a position. Nothing more. Miss Lilley was an odd fish, but at least she knew her own mind.
“Today I will go to the baths,” announced Lord Barrington at breakfast the next day. “There is a place on the seafront where they have heated baths with seawater, it is most convenient and brings the benefits of the salt water to those of us no longer able to enter the sea itself.” He smiled. “Shall you both join me?”
“Yes, but I will go into the sea,” said Frances.
“A brave woman indeed,” said Lord Barrington. “Laurence?”
Laurence could hardly settle for the warm baths provided for invalids if Miss Lilley was going to brave the cold of the sea. “The sea, of course,” he agreed.
“Excellent,” declared Lord Barrington. “Then we shall return home cured of all our ills this afternoon.”
The carriage deposited Lord Barrington at the warm baths close to the promenade, then took Laurence to the gentlemen’s part of the beach, before driving away to the next section of the beach, reserved for ladies, although the two were quite close.
The summer sun had lost its powers, showing only its pale autumn face. The sky was mostly grey, there was a chill in the air and the sea was downright cold, there was no two ways about it. Still, Laurence climbed the steps into the bathing machine standing waiting for him and undressed while it rocked along the beach to its destination.
“Ready for you, Sir!” called the attendant.
“Ready!” Laurence replied and the door was opened, revealing the steps down into the sea, the grey water sloshing against them, a few cold drops catching his bare legs. He braced himself for the impact, but still gasped as he dived in and the cold struck him. Spluttering, panting, he swam vigorously to and fro for some minutes, the activity bringing him enough warmth to bear the water at least a while longer. Now better able to withstand the cold, he struck out for a longer swim, heading away from the shore, inspired by the exhilaration which the sea had always brought him, the sensation of being very small and insignificant whilst also being at one with a vast untameable element. When he had swum some way out he turned, treading water, and looked back towards the beach, where he could see the tiny figures of the attendants and their bathing machines. He had come out further than he had thought, the bottom was quite untouchable, despite most of Margate’s shoreline being shallow. He would head back.
But something caught his eye to the left and a sudden shock took hold of him. A corpse! Then a secondary shock as he realised that no, it was a woman, floating on her back, eyes fully open to the grey sky above. Miss Lilley, clad only in her bathing dress, a heavy navy-blue costume which had drifted up her legs, now gathered at her knees. He had veered to one side as he swam out and now was too close to the female bathing section. He averted his eyes and made to swim away, but something made him want to look at her again. She had swum out as far as he had, which made her a strong swimmer. She was not gasping and spluttering or shivering, merely lying on her back gazing at the sky, as though on a comfortable bed, unworried by the cold, unconcerned by what must be the heavy weight of her thick blue dress, pulling her downwards. She looked peaceful, content. Laurence trod water a few moments longer, unable to take his eyes off her, then struck out for the shore, his mind entirely on Miss Lilley. He looked back from time to time, fearful lest she suddenly cry for help when he was already too close to the shore, but she did not move from her position, staring up at the sky.
The sky. Grey it might seem to the casual onlooker, but it was not such a flat colour. There were clouds layered upon clouds, with some patches darker, others lighter. Occasionally the sun would send hesitant, searching rays through the clouds, before they were lost again.
The gulls. They swooped overhead, calling out with their harsh voices, sometimes flying together, at other times entirely alone, wheeling on invisible eddies of air.
The sea. Cold seeping through to her bones yet oddly not unpleasant, its harsh salt smell all about her, in her nose as well as her mouth, but below her a gentle rise and fall, akin to her rocking chair, to the swing she was so fond of, the motion bringing her a deep calm.
She would have stayed for far longer, but she supposed, reluctantly, that she should head back to the shore. More than once, she had experienced concerned bathers dragging her back, all but submerging her in the process when she had been in no danger of drowning, or attendants calling for her in ever more panicked tones, despite her being entirely peaceful and happy. She turned onto her front and began the swim back to shore. The dress she was forced to wear for modesty’s sake was heavy, pulling her downwards, but Frances was a strong swimmer; the narrow but deep stream on the family’s estate had taught her well over the years.
She headed towards her bathing machine, which in her opinion there was entirely no reason for, why could she not stroll down the beach and walk into the water naked, as the men did? But social conventions were social conventions, so she obeyed them, knowing what a fuss people liked to make otherwise. It was not worth the energy it would take to withstand their protestations. Frances had long since learnt to keep her oddities to herself unless they were truly worth battling for, when she would turn intransigently stubborn. Back at the bathing machine, she gripped the handrail to pull herself up the stairs, her dress three times its former weight, pulling her back towards the sea. Turning her head as she climbed, she saw, not thirty yards away, Mr Mowatt, standing naked halfway up the stairs of his bathing machine, looking her way, an anxious expression on his face. Had he seen her out on the waves, fretted about her? If he had, he had shown remarkable restraint in trusting that she was happy, in not pulling her from the sea, and for that, she was grateful. She nodded to him and he looked away, as though uncomfortable at seeing her in her soaking wet bathing dress, not that there was much of her that could be seen in it. Long sleeves, a long hem, heavy fabric. It was absurd to go swimming in it. At home, she had been wont to swim in only her shift, and sometimes not even in that, to the consternation of the gardeners and the horror of her mother, who had eventually insisted, with dire threats, that Frances must only ever swim in a proper bathing dress.
Peeling off the wet dress with the assistance of her attendant, then carefully rinsed in fresh water, Frances emerged from her bathing machine tolerably well-dressed again, though her hair was still very damp, her ringlets nowhere to be seen.
“Did you enjoy your swim?” Mr Mowatt asked her, meeting her at the carriage, where they waited for Lord Barrington to join them.
“Yes. Thank you for not rescuing me,” she said.
His face flushed with embarrassment. “I did not – that is to say, I saw you but thought you seemed…”
“Content,” she said. “I was perfectly content, Mr Mowatt, and in no need of being rescued. I am grateful you saw that. Not many men would have done.”
Laurence had never had a lady thank him for leaving her alone before, but it was clear that she did not speak in jest and her words made him feel oddly proud that he had seen her strange behaviour and interpreted it correctly. “You are welcome,” he replied, feeling that an answer was called for. “You are a strong swimmer,” he added, meaning to repay the compliment.
She shrugged. “I am not afraid of the deep water. Indeed, further out it is usually less rough, the waves break on the shoreline while out at sea they are often gentler. One feels held by the sea, in no danger of drowning if you do not fight it. If you fight its nature, it is dangerous, but if you understand it and allow it to be itself you will be safe in its embrace.”
“You sound like Uncle Barrington, a true philosopher,” he said.
“He makes a study of human nature. He understands those around him far better than they understand him.”
He wondered if she meant it as a rebuke for his shock over Lord Barrington’s past love life, but she gave a small smile which indicated some degree of friendliness, which he returned.
“I shall be leaving in a day or two,” he said.
“So soon?”
“The Little Season is beginning and I have invitations which it would be rude of me to refuse.”
She looked away. “I have refused plenty, my mama says I am a hopeless case of rudeness.”
He could not help a small chuckle. “I do not think you care what the ton thinks of you, Miss Lilley. If you did, you would not be here, gathering shells, you would be fretting at your modiste to make you yet another ballgown.”
She looked at him with a serious countenance, before her lips twisted into a wry smile. “Why, Mr Mowatt, I believe you are beginning to know something of my character. First you do not rescue me from my sea bathing and now you know my secret: that I am only waiting for the ton to declare me a spinster once and for all, so that I may lead the life I wish to.”
He nodded, still surprised at her insistence on not marrying, but pleased that there seemed to be an amicable understanding developing between them. “If I know something of your character and you of mine, perhaps we are becoming friends, Miss Lilley.”
She tilted her head. “Do you have many female friends, Mr Mowatt?”
He thought of the married women with whom he spent his London nights, but they were not what he would call friends. He did not converse with them on any topic other than those which led to compliments and caresses. “No,” he admitted at last. “I believe you are my only female friend, Miss Lilley.”
Lord Barrington arrived and was swiftly made comfortable in the carriage by Andrew and Benjamin, ready for them all to go home.
On Laurence’s last day his uncle gave him a generous sum of money in addition to his usual allowance and followed him to the door, where the carriage stood waiting. “Now remember what you promised, my boy. No rash promises of marriage, not this year at any rate. Wait a while longer and have faith in providence. ‘There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ It may seem responsible, to marry for practical reasons, but I promise you that love, when it comes, is worth the wait.”
This advice, hopelessly romantic as it was, was well meant, and Laurence held out his hand to Lord Barrington, only to be pulled down for an enveloping fatherly embrace. “Go now, my boy, and enjoy yourself.”
“Yes, Sir. I hope your health will not suffer this winter.”
“That, I can always hope for. Goodbye.”
Behind him, Miss Lilley appeared in the doorway. She did not say anything, only watched him.
“Goodbye, Sir. Miss Lilley.” Laurence gave her a small bow and she returned it with a silent curtsey.