Chapter 3 #2
“Yes,”
she said, without any indication of embarrassment at being found out. “Was it more to your liking?”
He could not help it, he chuckled. “Not really,”
he confessed. “I thought it would be but now I think I would prefer you to speak of the navy and their odd practices rather than a topic in which you have clearly been schooled, yet have no real interest in.”
She gave a short nod. “I would prefer that also,”
she said. “Have you ever slept in a hammock, Mr Mowatt?”
He shook his head.
“Frances enjoys rocking motions,”
Lord Barrington said. “She is fond of both swings and rocking chairs, I have had both installed for her at Northdown. I was not surprised when she confessed to liking the motions of hammocks. She would make an excellent wife to an admiral, for she could travel with him.”
Laurence raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I thought sailors objected to having a woman aboard.”
Frances nodded. “They think it brings bad luck,”
she said, lifting up her cup of syllabub and taking a spoonful.
“A shame,”
said Lord Barrington. “Think how many shells you could collect if you were to travel the world, Frances.”
She shook her head. “I do not need shells to be from far off climes,”
she said. “I am content with the many specimens available to me here.”
“Do you have a wide collection?”
asked Laurence politely.
“She has thousands of them,”
said Lord Barrington.
“What do you do with them all?”
asked Laurence.
She put down her spoon, the syllabub unfinished, and turned her frank gaze on him again, the grey of her eyes almost slate blue in the afternoon light. “I decorate with them.”
Laurence nodded. He had seen such items as she was referring to. “Turning them into flower petals and suchlike,”
he said. Some ladies painted shells in pretty colours, and then stuck them together so that they took on the appearance of baskets of flowers or added them to the frames of looking glasses.
“No,”
she said and there was a sharpness to her tone.
He raised his eyebrows. “No?”
“They look ridiculous when painted. Their natural patterns and the subtle variations between specimens are beautiful as they are. People who paint them do not understand anything about them. They might as well be painting pebbles or little scraps of paper. It would be better if they stuck to quilling.”
He tried again, surprised by her vehemence. “How do you decorate with them then?”
“I lay them out in patterns which make the most of their existing colours and similarities or contrasts. It accentuates what is naturally present without lending them artifice they do not possess.”
“Do you collect shells daily while in Margate?”
Laurence inquired, ostensibly addressing Miss Lilley but hoping for his uncle to declare that they would not be doing any such thing.
But his uncle seemed entirely happy with the idea, nodding vigorously. “We do indeed. We will return here tomorrow, and perhaps on one of the days after we can visit Botany Bay as well, we can work our way along the coastline. We spend most days on the beach when Frances is here.”
Laurence quietly resigned himself to the idea of spending most of his time here on the beach, but at least he would be able to talk with his uncle while the odd Miss Lilley collected her shells, and the weather was fine. So be it.
A pale sunset of pink and gold saw them return to Northdown House after several more hours of Miss Lilley gathering shells and Lord Barrington alternating between speaking with Laurence and occasionally dozing off, during which moments Laurence watched the sea slowly creeping up the beach as the tide came in, no doubt depositing more shells for Miss Lilley’s collection, whose cheeks looked pink from the sun, despite her bonnet.
“Miss Lilley, you are catching the sun again,”
fretted Deborah that evening, ineffectually dabbing a cold cream on Frances’ cheeks. “Your mother will scold me when she sees you with brown skin like a farmer’s daughter.”
Frances retied her stocking ribbons, which had grown loose. “You were not on the beach, how could you have stopped me?”
“Then she’ll say I should have walked beside you with a parasol.”
“I would not have liked that, I wanted to be alone. It is bad enough that Mr Mowatt joined us.”
She poked her toes into her evening slippers and Deborah knelt to tie them.
“He’s a very handsome gentleman,”
said Deborah, bringing out a blue silk evening dress. “He might be a first-rate match for you. Imagine your mother’s face if you came away to Margate and got a husband here instead of in London!”
“I have no interest in Mr Mowatt. I wish he would go away,”
protested Frances from within the blue silk as it was drawn over her head.
Deborah sighed. “The sooner you get married, the sooner your mother will stop twitting you about not being married,”
she said. “And you don’t need to see your husband all the time. Lord and Lady Lilley don’t spend more than an hour a day together.”
It was not clear from her tone whether she approved of this or not, but at any rate she was correct.
Lord and Lady Lilley dined together each day and sporadically crossed paths in the drawing room, but other than that they lived their own lives, with the occasional visit to Lady Lilley’s bedchamber when Lord Lilley chose to make use of his conjugal rights.
“Now your hair,”
said Deborah as she finished dressing Frances in the blue silk.
Frances sank onto a chair and waited for Deborah to fuss about with hot tongs to ensure neat ringlets, her mind elsewhere.
She wanted more oyster shells but they were in short supply in Margate.
In Whitstable, there would be mounds of them everywhere, for many people went to Whitstable expressly to eat them.
Perhaps she could ask for the carriage to drive there one day. It might give her some respite from Mr Mowatt.
“Done,”
said Deborah with pride, for Frances had sat unusually still and for once her hair was a credit to the maid.
Reluctantly, Frances made her way down to the dining room.
Dinner was served, during which Lord Barrington mostly spoke about philosophical texts he had been reading while both Laurence and Frances nodded along and turned their attention to the food.
Mrs Norris, Lord Barrington’s cook, was a woman who knew how to please guests, providing a meal which made the most of both their seaside location and Northdown’s fine orchard, with cod in oyster sauce, roast lobsters and fried whitebait all making an appearance, as well as plum puffs, apple pie with a rich custard and some dainty jellies made with her own bottled elderflower wine.
As the meal came to an end, Frances abruptly stood up, forcing Laurence to do the same.
“I suppose I should retire so that you can drink port and talk about whatever it is you men talk about when there are not ladies present. I shall be in the library, in my rocking chair.”
Laurence watched her as she left the room.
Andrew the footman placed port and cigars on the table.
Laurence filled the two glasses and shook his head at the cigars, while Lord Barrington lit one and leant back in his chair.
“What delightful company I am to enjoy. First Frances, now you, joining me here. How are you getting on with my goddaughter?”
Laurence sipped his port. “She is… a little odd in her manner, Sir.”
Lord Barrington chuckled. “She is indeed. She speaks her mind as she sees it and she does not suffer fools. She follows her heart’s wishes, and I admire her for it. She claims she does not want a husband, that she would rather be a spinster all her days, but I think the man who sees her true beauty will be a lucky fellow.”
“I think a husband might wish to change some of her ways, Sir.”
“Ah, I hope not. I love her as she is and hope a man who feels the same will claim her as his bride one day. We do not change those we truly love, Laurence, we see their strange ways and their little faults and we love them all the more.”
“Even if they do not meet the expectations of those around us, Sir?”
Lord Barrington gazed into the fire for so long that Laurence thought he might not be going to answer at all. At last he sighed, looked up and gave him a small smile.
“When we love someone, we forgive the pain they may cause us, for we cannot stop loving them once we have been bound together.”
It seemed an odd speech from a man who had never been married, Laurence thought, but perhaps Lord Barrington had had his heart broken in his youth, possibly on the Grand Tour he always spoke of with such fondness, some French or Italian beauty he had never forgotten.
His uncle was a romantic, that much Laurence had always known.
His mother had been wont to tease her brother, lovingly calling him a romantic fool.
The visit would be dull compared to life in London, but Uncle Barrington was a kindly fellow and Laurence was prepared to make an effort for him.
Once done, he would return to London, and it would be some time before he would feel obligated to return.
And as for Miss Lilley and her odd ways, well that was none of his business.
He would be civil but no doubt she would spend her days on the beach while he discoursed with his uncle on matters unlikely to be of interest to a lady.
They need not spend much time together, only meals, and that would not be too taxing.
But the next morning it was raining, a grey steady rain that looked unlikely to stop and Lord Barrington shook his head over breakfast.
“I know you would go to the beach even in the rain, Frances, but your mama would never forgive me if I allowed you to catch a chill. Come, we shall walk in the gallery instead, one of my favourite parts of the house. Do you remember it from when you were a boy, Laurence?”
Laurence dimly recalled a room full of light and colour, of statues and echoing walls when he ran or laughed, his mother telling him to be quiet and respectful but Uncle Barrington only smiling indulgently and saying that a joyful child should never be disciplined, that there was not enough joy in the world as it was. “I recall parts of it, Sir.”
Lord Barrington waved at the door and a footman opened it. “It is where I keep all my treasures from my travels.”
“From the Grand Tour, Sir?”
“Indeed. It was the happiest time of my life. Venice, Florence, Rome, Naples, then on to Athens and Istanbul before we came home. My father was astonished at how much art travelled home with me, sculptures, paintings, even masks and chandeliers. Most of them I keep here at Northdown as a real-life memory palace.”
Frances paused in the doorway of the gallery, looking about the vast space. Even with a grey sky outside, the room was full of light from the large windows along one wall, while the other walls were adorned with paintings. Sculptures and statues sat on plinths where the light might best illuminate them. “What is a memory palace, Uncle Barrington?”
“It comes to us from the Greek poet Simonides of Ceos. In order to memorise something, you place it within an imaginary space in your mind. So you might imagine a house with many rooms and in each room of that house you place an object that reminds you of something you wish to remember. Usually it is all imaginary, but here in my gallery I could take you on a journey which recalls the Grand Tour I undertook with Lord Hyatt in our youth.”
He pointed to a painting close to the door, showing a landscape of snowy mountains. “We crossed the Alps and were snowed in for a week by an unseasonable snowstorm, staying in a wretched little inn we had intended to avoid altogether, but we had little choice.”
He moved along past a sculpture of a young man asleep, a rose held in his hand, then gestured to a cabinet of Venetian masks, bright with colour and gilding, faces both beautiful and horrible in their aspects. “Venice was our first real glimpse of the beauty available to us on the Grand Tour. Hyatt and I attended the Carnival, we stayed there longer than we had planned, enjoying all the city could offer.”
He looked upwards, to where a magnificent chandelier hung. “Venice lit up my heart and my life, I was never so happy before or since.”
“You travelled with Lord Hyatt?”
asked Laurence. He remembered the name being mentioned in connection with Lord Barrington, but had not known the two men had travelled together.
“Indeed. He was not in possession of the title yet of course, neither was I of mine, we were young men, free of any ties or responsibilities. We travelled for over a year before we returned to London where we lived in adjoining apartments close to St James’ – something like your Albany is today for young gentlemen who wish to spend their time in the city. We were there for another two years before his father died early and he came into his title.”
A small sigh left him. “After that of course he had many responsibilities – the management of the estate, securing an heir. He married and had children, after which we saw each other less frequently.”
“Where was his estate?”
“In Kent, close to Margate. He would visit me here at Northdown, which I built when I came into my title. It allowed us to see one another as often as possible, when he had time.”
“Is he still living?”
Lord Barrington shook his head. “He was lost to us ten years ago, before his time, like his father before him. His children must be your age by now, grown up and out in the world.”
“Do you still see Lady Hyatt?”
A shadow passed over Barrington’s face. “Lady Hyatt and I were not always the best of friends. She wanted her husband at home, naturally enough, not off visiting his old companion.”
He sighed again, then pointed beyond the cabinet of masks to a large painting of a naked woman with long golden hair, standing on a giant shell, surrounded by the sea.
“That is from when we moved from Venice on to Florence and I first saw Botticelli’s Venus. Legends tell us that the goddess of love, known as Aphrodite in Greek, was born from the waves, aphros meaning foam, and that she came ashore on the island of Cyprus. Because of her origins, she was also considered the goddess of the sea. Here Botticelli shows her arriving on a giant scallop shell, blown ashore by the winds. It is only a copy of course, made by a local artist, it does not have the true delicacy of the original, but I could not resist bringing her home to better recall my time in Florence.”
Frances was peering out into the gardens, where the rain was slowing to a drizzle. “Your mulberry tree still has some fruits on it,”
she said, surprised.
Lord Barrington wheeled himself over to the window beside her. “That tree is a wonder. It positively pours down fruits every year, Mrs Norris can barely keep up with it. But you are right, those ones are very late.”
He smiled. “The orchard is my delight. I have planted many trees in my years here. Lord Hyatt was always the one for sweet pastries and fruit drinks, so many of the trees were there to satisfy his desires. Quinces, apples, cherries… it was our Eden.”
He was silent. “I am weary,”
he confessed. “I have grown lazy in my old age and now often allow myself the indulgence of a nap in the late mornings. Will you both excuse me? The servants are at your command should you require anything and I will trust that you are not in need of a chaperone.”
“Of course, Sir,”
said Laurence, surprised at his uncle’s tiredness. He was weaker than when he had last visited, some four years ago. “May I assist you?”
“No, no, I can manage, dear boy.”
When Lord Barrington had gone, Laurence turned back to Miss Lilley, somewhat dreading the duty of staying by her side and making polite conversation. But to his surprise she was already tugging on the stiff handle of the door which led outside.
“Let us go into the gardens,”
she said, the door opening, a chilly breeze entering the room.
“It is still raining,”
objected Laurence.
“The walkway will keep our feet clean,”
she said. “And the swing is set under a vast oak, the canopy will keep us dry.”
She looked round at him. “You need not accompany me if you do not wish to,”
she added. “I will be quite all right by myself.”
It was an easy escape, he could nod and make his way to the library to read in front of a warm fire, but Laurence felt that Frances had been left to his care in his uncle’s absence and that it would be ungentlemanly of him to leave her to get wet and cold outside. “Allow me to fetch an umbrella to at least take you to the swing,”
he managed although by the time he had gone to the hallway and back, now armed with a large umbrella, she was already out of the door and he had to hurry to catch up to her, carefully holding the now open umbrella over her as they made their way along the walk.
She was right, the wooden planks kept their feet away from any mud and they soon reached the swing, where Frances took her seat, and began to swing herself back and forth, her eyes closed and her lips curved into a peaceful smile.
Laurence stood under the umbrella and watched her for a few moments, but it seemed as though he were witnessing too intimate a moment, almost as though they were together in a bedchamber, a thought which startled him, considering how unlike she was to the women he had bedded over the years.
Flustered, he turned away and looked out over the orchard, which boasted a fine array of pears, apples and quinces.
The view reminded him of his uncle’s words, which had confused him at the time.
“What do you think Lord Barrington meant by this being an Eden for himself and Lord Hyatt?”
he asked, turning back to Miss Lilley.
She did not open her eyes. “That they were lovers and this was their paradise,”
she said, as though this were an obvious interpretation.
“I beg your pardon?”
said Laurence, truly shocked. She could not possibly have said what he thought she had said, nor be referring to the Italian Vice, jokingly referred to amongst his racier friends when in their cups.
She opened her large grey eyes and fixed them on him, still swinging to and fro.
“Lord Barrington and Lord Hyatt were lovers in their youth. They went on the Grand Tour together and lived close to each other in London. That is why they spent so much time here away from their families and why Lord Barrington never married. It is why Lord Hyatt used to visit him here alone after his marriage. It is why Lord Barrington speaks of him with such sadness and spends much of his time here, even though his proper estate is in Surrey. Northdown House is the place where they were happy together. Surely you knew that?”
Laurence stared at her in silence. How could this young woman know such a thing and not be shocked by it? She seemed entirely unperturbed about such a scandalous matter, her feet still kicking the ground in a gentle rhythm which kept her swing moving evenly back and forth.
“You’re very quiet,”
she observed at last. “Have I said something to shock you?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I suppose I must have done. Is it that you did not know of their liaison, or that you consider it scandalous? Or both?”
She made a face. “Or is it that you think I should not know about it?”
Laurence cleared his throat. “I am surprised,”
he began, sounding pompous even to his own ears, “that a young lady should…”
he trailed off.
She nodded. “Oh, it is me, then, not that you did not know or consider it scandalous yourself?”
“I did not know.”
“And it bothers you?”
“Does it not bother you?”
She gave a small shrug, still swinging smoothly back and forth. “It does not concern me with whom Lord Barrington was or is in love,”
she said. “It would concern me if I were his wife, I suppose, which is probably why Lady Hyatt did not care for my godfather. And why Lord Barrington never married. But otherwise… what has it to do with me?”
“To associate with…”
She regarded him calmly. “Lord Barrington is the kindest man I know,”
she said.
“He has always been good to me, he has never chastised me for being odd or different, for failing to meet the ton ’s expectations of me, which everyone else in my life most certainly has. He has always tried to help me. I am here now because I wrote to him and asked him to invite me, for I could not bear the thought of my fourth season and all the whispers that will accompany me wherever I go.”
Laurence was still disconcerted by what she had said, even though he was beginning to glimpse the truth of it.
Lord Barrington had never married, which was odd enough, but on top of that he had always spoken fondly of Lord Hyatt and indeed of the importance of loving and being loved.
There were several portraits of Lord Hyatt about Northdown, both alone and with Lord Barrington on the Grand Tour from their youthful days.
The truth had been there for all to see, it was not very well hidden, yet it had taken this slip of a girl, this odd creature, to point it out as though it were common knowledge, and not only common knowledge but also entirely acceptable, which it most certainly was not by polite society.
He was unsure of how to proceed.
Yet Uncle Barrington had also always been kindness itself and Laurence’s mother had loved him dearly.
Now that Miss Lilley had brought the matter up, he recalled a time, some ten years past, when he had accompanied his mother to Northdown House for an unexpected, extended stay.
He remembered entering a room where his mother was embracing Uncle Barrington who was sobbing on her shoulder, his confusion and bewilderment, her gentle smile and gesture to close the door, to leave them alone.
Had that stay, then, been occasioned by the death of Lord Hyatt, had his mother come to comfort her brother in his grief at losing his beloved? His muddled thoughts were interrupted by the footman, Andrew, appearing in the doorway to summon them for the midday meal.
Miss Lilley rose promptly from her seat and went indoors without a backward glance, leaving Laurence to join them at the table, still trying to decide how he felt about this new information.
They were joined by Lord Barrington, who was in fine spirits.
“Now that I am rested, we will eat and then we can play cards in the drawing room or Frances can play the harp for us, though she will have to spend some time tuning it.
The sea air is no friend to the harp, I am afraid, they are very sensitive instruments.”
Laurence nodded politely.
“I have also received word that there is to be a ball next week at the Assembly Rooms, and one of my neighbours, a Mrs Pagington, has forcefully insisted that I attend – I told her I am not well enough to do so and have instead suggested you go in my stead. She is an amiable woman,”
he added indulgently. “A pillar of local society here and means well. She was delighted at the idea of making your acquaintance, since you will be a man of some importance in these parts in the future, when Northdown is yours.”
Laurence, having just taken a mouthful of sliced beef, was not able to answer, so he only nodded again.
“Excellent. I am indebted to you for this kindness. Frances and I will stay at home, as she does not care for such events and, unlike her mother, I am of the opinion that her preferences should be honoured. Frances is more comfortable amongst select friends than at vast gatherings, are you not, my dear?”
Frances looked up from buttering her roll. “Yes,”
she said. “Mrs Pagington is too loud and never stops speaking. She gives me a headache.”
Lord Barrington chuckled. “They are not a comfortable match at all,”
he said. “Frances can barely say a word in her company. I see her growing pale with the strain within an hour of being there. We will be content here alone, while you stand in our stead, Laurence, since you are a man who can conduct himself well at balls.”