CHAPTER SIX
Lady Chalford, when told of the forthcoming outburst of poetry, and Elizabeth’s consequent reluctance to be present, responded in a way that Elizabeth found most unsympathetic.
‘Not attend Emily Cowper’s soirée, when she has been so kind this Season? Nonsense.’
‘This is a very particular thing, Aunt. I shall be a laughing-stock. I am sorry, for Lady Cowper has been kind to you, as her friend, and to Amelia, but …’
‘You are part of this family, Elizabeth, and you will act as such.’ Lady Chalford waved away Elizabeth’s remonstrance.
‘You may not like it, indeed I know you cannot, but I assure you that not being present when Mr Escott delivers his verses will only ensure that they are repeated to you until you are heartily sick of them.’
‘I am after one perusal, Aunt.’
‘You would be the more so if everyone you met for the next week quoted them at you, but if you hear them first 77hand, then that will not happen.’ She paused. ‘At least,’ she amended, ‘not nearly as much.’
Elizabeth groaned.
‘Perhaps,’ offered Amelia, ‘he will have gone over his lines again and, er, improved upon them.’ She did not sound hopeful of this.
‘Or made them even worse.’
‘It might not be clear that he means you, Elizabeth.’ Lady Chalford joined her daughter.
‘Oh, it will, ma’am, since he alludes to me by name.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘And compares me to Queen Elizabeth.’
‘He does? Was not she the one who had lots of people burnt at the stake? Hardly felicitous.’ Lady Chalford’s history was sketchy.
‘No, that was her sister. Queen Elizabeth was the one whose sailors defeated the Spanish Armada. She is also famed for not having married, so why, other than the name, he picked upon her—’
Her ladyship interrupted. She did not applaud her niece’s erudition, but rather warned her against sounding too bookish.
‘It is better to err on the side of ignorance, my dear, especially in something such as history, which everyone knows is about the past, which is best left to itself, being full of violence, immorality and peasants in misery.’
This comprehensive dismissal of the subject left Elizabeth so much at a loss that Lady Chalford was able to introduce an entirely new topic of conversation and refuse, steadfastly, to return to Elizabeth’s forthcoming lauding in verse.
78It was with a sense of impending doom that Elizabeth prepared for Lady Cowper’s soirée, which she would otherwise have had a reasonable expectation of enjoying.
Whilst she did not sing at such functions herself, and considered herself a mediocre pianist, she did enjoy the sound of both the piano and the human voice, excepting when that voice was Mr Escott’s reading his poetry.
She resolved to sit out of his line of sight, lest he address the verses directly at her, and strive to remain impassive.
Lady Godmanchester was present, but her lord was not in attendance.
‘He has strong views upon “caterwauling by amateurs”,’ she whispered to Elizabeth, and giggled. ‘He has sought refuge with Lucius Radstock for dinner and a quiet evening of piquet. Poor dear.’
‘Well, at least they will not be present to hear me thoroughly embarrassed by the Awful Escott.’
‘Oh, he isn’t reading, is he?’
‘Yes. And he sent me a copy of the verses that I might be the first to see them. I only wish I could be the last. They are truly terrible.’
‘If they are then they will be shown up by others. I know Miss Campsey is singing, for her sister told me so, and she has a delightful voice, and Sir Oswald Tiverton writes the most diverting ballads, treating things like losing a button in the grand histrionic manner. Last time I heard him my eyes watered.’
‘They may do so at Mr Escott’s offering, but it will be from pain at hearing poetry mangled. At least he is not opening the proceedings.’
79A harp was being placed in the centre of the space set aside for the performances.
Elizabeth folded her hands in her lap and tried, valiantly, to concentrate merely upon the music.
After a while she did relax a little, and when Mr Escott had not appeared by the time that refreshments were being served, she had even begun to hope that he might have lost his voice, or suffered an attack of nerves and bolted.
This was not, however, the case, and as everyone settled for the next performances, Amelia dug her cousin in the ribs.
‘He has come, Elizabeth, after all, and goodness me, what has he done with his neckcloth?’
Mr Escott was formally attired as befitted an evening party, but was advertising his bohemian credentials with an arrangement of muslin that he considered ‘original’.
‘It is perfectly ridiculous. It is lopsided, limp and looks likely to collapse at any moment. I would swear it is not fully starched. Well, if he looks a figure of fun, perhaps people will not actually listen to what he says.’
However, after a very melodic Italian aria, Mr Escott was ushered to the front. He had in his hand a scroll of vellum, from which, after clearing his throat three times, he began to read in his heavily accentuated manner.
‘My Queen thou art, as Gloriana named,
As Faerie Queen to this poor Spenser stand.
Let my poor lips address thy soft white hand
And offer thee my poet’s heart inflamed.
Elizabeth, such syllables alone …’
‘If he has an inflammation of the heart, he ought to consult a physician,’ whispered Elizabeth to Amelia from 80behind her fan, as that damsel fought to control a fit of the giggles.
‘You should be flattered, Cousin.’
‘No, he should be flattened. There are sixty lines of this pretentious drivel to sit through, and I have already seen Hyacinthe Consett smirking at me. I shall never live it down, never.’
‘He looks like a town crier, holding his poem like that.’
‘What a pity he is not in a town somewhere far away, like Truro.’
There was a stifled snigger, which turned into a gasp of pain as a young lady received a rap across the knuckles from her mama’s fan, and then Elizabeth noticed Lady Rendlesham.
She was smiling, not at Mr Escott, but at her, and it was the smile of one enjoying her acute discomfort.
Elizabeth fought the rising blush, and her hands gripped each other tightly as if for mutual support.
Lady Godmanchester, seeing this, placed her own hand lightly upon her friend’s arm.
‘It will soon be over and forgotten, you know.’
‘Yes, by all except those who wish to recall it for their own ends. Oh, Helen, this is ghastly.’
It seemed interminable, but eventually he drew to a close.
‘… And at your feet, for nimble dancing formed
I lay my vocal tribute thus, and part.’
There was silence, and then Lady Cowper applauded, encouraging her guests to a polite but not over-enthusiastic response. Mr Escott beamed, and bowed as if he had just performed Hamlet.
81‘I think,’ muttered Elizabeth, ‘I would rather have a tooth drawn than listen to him again.’
‘You know, I am not at all sure he will get further invitations to perform his verse in public, Elizabeth. Lady Cowper is a connection of his mother’s, and must have thought it a generous act, but …’ Lady Godmanchester gasped. ‘Oh dear, he is coming this way.’
Mr Escott was indeed threading his way towards them, and made his bow with an exaggerated flourish. ‘As I said, O Muse, I lay my offering at your feet.’
‘Where I may tread upon it. How convenient.’ Elizabeth’s lip curled.
‘Fair Cruelty, you do not mean it. Your Words are Barbs, but I see your Intent, which is to spur me to better and greater things. You are right. A Poet must always be seeking Perfection and not rest upon His Laurels. I think I strained a metaphor in the fifth stanza.’
Amelia dropped her fan, and bent to pick it up, thus concealing the biting of her lip.
‘Do your … efforts take you many hours, Mr Escott?’ Lady Chalford feared that even one as confident of his self-worth as Mr Escott might realise he was being laughed at by her daughter and insulted by her niece.
‘Dear ma’am, I am Inspired by the Moment, but perforce Refashion and Sculpt the lines until they sit Felicitously upon the Page. When I am Unhappy at the Result I may lose my Appetite for a Whole Day. It is most Distressing.’
‘I wonder at it that you are not thinner, Mr Escott,’ Elizabeth murmured, but he remained lost in his own thoughts, and only when addressed once more by Lady 82Chalford did he emerge from the contemplation of his own sacrifice to Poetry, and withdrew as a mezzo-soprano began to sing.
Elizabeth did not sleep well, tossing and turning between dreams in which mocking laughter followed her through a series of wildly improbable scenes.
When she did waken fully she felt jaded, and greeted her maid rather blearily.
Ditcham was, however, forcefully cheery, and adjured her mistress to make the best of what was a bright morning.
‘Though the breeze is easterly, and that is always a chill one, Miss Elizabeth, so do not forget your tippet. You can take Miss Amelia for a walk in the park. It will do you both the power of good.’
‘You make her sound like a lapdog, Ditcham,’ murmured Elizabeth, yawning. ‘However, fresh air may well clear my head, and walking early may avoid encounters with persons liable to spout poetry at one.’
Ditcham found this remark somewhat cryptic, but nodded in agreement nonetheless.
Elizabeth rose and dressed, and knocked upon Amelia’s door to see if she was prepared to face the day.
Untroubled by nightmarish dreams, Amelia was feeling quite energetic, and perfectly happy to accompany her cousin to see the spring flowers coming into their full glory.
They breakfasted together, and then set forth to Hyde Park, tippet-wrapped.
It was impossible for Amelia not to comment upon the previous evening, but she tried to do so in a way that might make Elizabeth feel better.