An Accomplished Woman (30 page)

Lydia gathered up her
mantle. ‘Plainly you have not listened to anything I have said, Mr Beck. So I
will not even address the question of why you should suppose me an advocate for
the other gentleman, or any gentleman — except to remark that you must think me
sadly lacking in things to occupy my mind.’ She rose. ‘Unless you suppose I do
it for a fee?’

His arms went out.
‘There you are, you see—’

She spared his head:
instead walking smartly away from him. The parasol would probably have bounced
off anyway.

‘Lydia. Oh, Lydia, I
have a confession to make.’

Phoebe was waiting — all
pale solemnity — all wax, ivory and marble — in the hall at Sydney Place. It
was no wonder, Lydia thought, that the young were so inclined to tragedy: they
looked so beautiful in it. Their elders just couldn’t wear it, and had to don
serviceable cheerfulness instead.

‘I cannot bear it any
longer,’ Phoebe went on. ‘I must tell you — but I am afraid you will think very
badly of me . . . But no, I am not afraid, because you would be
right
to
think badly of me; and we should never fear what is right.’

Such a mixed dose of
romance and Calvin was rather much to swallow when you had scarcely taken off
your bonnet and had an urgent appointment with the decanter.

‘My clear Phoebe,’ Lydia
said, taking her arm and propelling her upstairs, ‘if we are to consider
ethical questions before dinner, let us at least do it in comfort. And besides,
unless this confession refers to a body in the dining-room with a knife between
its shoulder-blades, I think I know what it is to be, and really it is nothing
so very dreadful.’

Phoebe’s mournful look
suggested otherwise, but Lydia meant what she had said: her opinion of Phoebe
had not been very much lowered, and this spontaneous admission had gone a long
way to restoring it. It was an open question, of course, whether Phoebe would
simply deceive her again, and confess it afterwards; but a glass of canary
convinced her to let the question lie.

‘It is to do with the
abbey, I presume,’ she said. ‘Yes, I have seen Mr Beck, and spoken to him about
it.’

‘Oh — so
he
told
you. Oh, that is so very like him. His nature is so frank and open, he cannot
bear any sort of concealment—’

‘Not Mr Beck. You were
observed, Phoebe. It was by Mr Durrant, as it happens, which is why I credited
it at once, as he considers himself much too important to gossip. But really,
it might have been anyone. The whole point of Bath, you know, is that it has no
sequestered spots. Here you live life as publicly as poor Louis XIV, putting on
his nightcap in front of a crowd of courtiers.’

‘Well, in a way I am
glad,’ Phoebe said, looking very forlorn. ‘It is right that your sin should
find you out.’

‘Come, if we are talking
of sin, then there must be a good deal more to this than either Mr Durrant or
Mr Beck said. But I am sure there is not. If anything it is a matter of
propriety or etiquette, for which I hope I am no great fanatic. I was only
puzzled, Phoebe, as to why you should feel it necessary to — to go behind my
back, even to a little degree.’

‘Oh, Lydia. That is
exactly why I did not want to do it. But there’s a prevarication, because I
did
do it.’

‘Mr Beck pressed you, of
course.’

‘Oh, yes — and he is so
very earnest and persuasive. Not that that is any excuse.’

‘My dear Phoebe, I am
not seeking excuses. I only want to know that you do not see me as a sort of
enemy, whose surveillance must be evaded. Very well if that is how Mr Beck sees
me — we have had our talk out on that subject — but I cannot be happy to bear
such a character in
your
eyes.’

‘Oh, no! And that is
precisely what I said to him: that this must be the
only
occasion, and
that I was being very unfair to you in giving in to it. I told him that there
was nothing to prevent our meeting in the proper fashion: that it could never
be misconstrued: that it was what Lady Eastmond would wish.’

‘And what is due to you
as a woman whom, I hope, he respects as well as adores.’

‘I did not think of
that.’

No, she wouldn’t: a
thousand pities!

‘Did Mr Beck—’ Phoebe
wincingly hesitated. ‘Was he — amenable?’

‘We had a frank talk.’

Phoebe looked less than
reassured. ‘What he wanted to do, you see, was to be sure that I knew of his
profound, his unalterable attachment. It has been some time since London — and
affections, as he said, have been known to cool; but I must know, before we
renewed our acquaintance, that it was not so in his case — that he brought to
Bath an undimmed and ever-lambent flame.’

That certainly sounded
like Mr Beck, Lydia thought, with an inward sigh. Perhaps if the flame got too
hot, he could dip it in his lacteous bucket.

‘And so I said very well
— I understood, and was very flattered

but now we must conduct
ourselves properly. There would be ample opportunity to meet in Bath — indeed
you heard me mention the concert to him the other day, did you not? And then
there is the gala night at Sydney Gardens: there, I suggested, we might go
together — that is, make up a party . . .’ She looked timidly at Lydia. ‘Was
that wrong?’

‘Not in the least,’
Lydia said gathering herself: she was only envisaging the prospective effect on
her nerves of fireworks and Mr Beck in one evening. ‘Very sensible. And now
that he has, as you say, made his flamings — I mean feelings known, there is no
reason why he should not be sensible also.’

‘I do not at all mind
you thinking badly of me,’ Phoebe said, with her mistiest gaze, ‘well — that’s
not true, I do, because everyone wants to be thought well of; but what I mean
is, I know very well the fault was mine, not Mr Beck’s.’

Lydia smiled. ‘Well,
I’ll say no more: except that he is very lucky to have you as his defender.’

She had nearly said
‘advocate’. No, Mr Beck, she thought, as she went up to dress for dinner, I am
not Mr Allardyce’s advocate. If anything, I prefer to think of myself as a
member of the jury, who has not the responsibility of pleading or passing
sentence. But certainly in the case of Mr A versus Mr B, I am finding Mr A’s
case much the most convincing.

Presenting daily at
BATH, a new Comic Opera, entitled THE SUITORS, or THE DUENNA DISTRESS’D.
Principals, Miss RAE, Mr ALLARDYCE, and Mr BECK: with Miss TEMPLETON in the
celebrated comic role of the Duenna, All new scenes, costumes and decorations.
Patrons are respectfully requested to take their Seats before the Commencement
of the Performance.

Thinking of it in this
way helped, Lydia found, a little. It was better, at least, than trying to make
any sense of her current life.

Thus: a morning call
from Robert and Juliet Allardyce. Much pleasant talk. Juliet agreeably dry on
the subject of the Prince of Wales’s debts, and how curious it was that a man
went to prison for owing fifty pounds, whereas if he owed a hundred thousand
they gave him a palace by the sea. Mr Allardyce transfixing Phoebe with an
account of snowy midwinter in Vienna, and the grand ladies taking their
exercise in horse-drawn sleighs in the shape of swans and scallop-shells. Then,
an invitation to dine at Queen Square on Saturday. Phoebe luminous with
pleasure. Lydia drawing conclusions: suggestion that exclusive Mrs Allardyce did
not often give dinners: much meaning in the compliment. Before that, however,
there would be the concert at the Upper Rooms this evening: agreement to make a
party. Lydia and Juliet talking of the featured singer — known for the Italian
repertoire — not
all
Handel they hoped, those endless
da capo
arias.
Mr Allardyce looking on in alarm: beseeching Phoebe to take pity on him
tonight, and give him a nudge when there was something very fine, and requiring
that peculiar staccato
Br-vo!
that sounded as if you had been stuck with
a pin. Exit of visitors, warmth all round, Phoebe in bright, buoyant, Allardyce
mood.

Soon afterwards
(suspiciously soon — had he been loitering in the street, observing, waiting?)
entrance of William Beck. Visible effort at being cordial to Lydia, hindered by
sighs, frownings, evidence of unconquerable resentment. Phoebe a little
constrained after late confession of her own delinquency, but soon relaxing and
easing into Beck mood: devoted attention to anecdotes of his childhood (bitter-sweet
innocence, moments of poignant revelation, sensibility, loneliness, attachment
to inevitably dying cage-bird) and, when allowed, anecdotes of her own, with
much breathy amazement at their coincidence of feeling. Mr Beck eagerly seizing
on Phoebe’s remark that they would be walking to the Pump Room presently: he
would accompany them: be their escort and protector against the savage beasts
of Bath (with his exasperated laugh). All along Great Pulteney Street, more
visible efforts at not leaving Lydia out: walking beside her for several paces
at a time, remarking frequently, ‘Isn’t it so, Miss Templeton?’, and even,
occasionally looking at her: the total effect being to make Lydia feel like a
child being given an old half-full pack of cards to play about with while the
adults got on with their whist.

In the Pump Room, much
company: including that very same viscountess and her honourable son who had
left a card, and now, presuming on rank, introduced themselves with the air of
conferring a great favour. Speculative, hard-up glint in glaucous eye of
viscountess, all skin and rouge. Honourable son a gaping duffer, probably as
deep in debt as the Prince of Wales. Mr Beck torn between lofty amusement and
jealous scowling: adoration of Phoebe apparently not unqualified, when it came
to her unfailing politeness to other people. A little relief for Lydia in Mr
Durrant’s entering the room, and talking apart with her under the great tompion
clock, and making disgraceful comparisons between the viscountess and a plucked
pullet. Retreat at last of viscountess and duffer, defeated but in good order:
Mr Beck’s mood now requiring a good deal of soothing. Phoebe mentioning again
the concert at the Upper Rooms: Mr Beck angrily laughing, and declaring that he
had had enough of social insipidity — long walk into the country more his line
— renew himself — necessary to him sometimes — untied a sort of knot within —
not a knot though — difficult to explain. Phoebe: ‘Oh, do try’ Explanation
lasting all the way back to Sydney Place, whither he had, unprompted, chosen to
escort them: and where he would surely have invited himself back into the house
if Lydia had let him.

Evening: concert at the
Upper Rooms. Scantiness of summer entertainment bringing a vast deal of company
to gather beforehand in the Octagon Room, where Lydia and Phoebe waited to meet
the Allardyces. Crowd exacerbated by that incorrigible tendency of people at
busy social occasions to consider, against all the evidence of their senses,
that just to the rear of them was a great open space, and to step loungingly
backwards as they laughed at their own jokes, and glance with surprised
annoyance at the person they had just trodden on. Arrival of Robert and Juliet
Allardyce, their look of sprightly intelligence pleasantly conspicuous amongst
so much well-dressed vacancy. Mr Allardyce brushing a few speckles of water
from his sleeve, and remarking that it was coming on to rain — and what an
extraordinary expression
that
was — no one spoke of its coming on to be
sunny or windy, and why not? because no one had started to do so: ‘Miss Rae, we
must begin it tomorrow, and then we may change the course of history, at least
as far as speech goes: our descendants in future ages will say, “Dear dear, it
is coming on to thunder”, all unknowing that we first struck that path’. Bell
ringing: movement towards the concert-room: sudden appearance at Phoebe’s side
of Mr Beck, ignoring everyone else: declaring that he was here, yes, he was
here after all, her persuasions had worked and he was here — inclined indeed to
go on congratulating himself on the fact, until aroused to unpleasant awareness
of the rest of the party.

Phoebe delighted, but
her delight not uncomplicated. Lydia, unkindly perhaps, leaving it to Phoebe to
perform the introductions. Phoebe, with her limitless goodwill, actually doing
it very well: Juliet Allardyce smilingly unreadable: Mr Allardyce easy and
polite: Mr Beck, inevitably, understandably, not doing well. So here it was,
the meeting of the rivals. Lydia wondering mightily what Phoebe was feeling:
appreciation at last of the absurdity of it? Sudden realisation, on seeing both
of them together, of where her heart really lay? Sheer exultation at having two
eligible gentlemen in train — somewhat like a pagan queen with a pair of
leopards on the leash? Scarcely time to assess the evidence, as the awkward
party must be moving into the concert-room. Question of seating arising.
Delirious vision, for Lydia, of a sort of desperate game of musical chairs (Mr
A and Mr B pouncing either side of Phoebe, comfortably ensconced old ladies
being elbowed on to the floor) but in the end Mr Allardyce quite content to
take his place on the bench between Lydia and his sister. Lydia amused at his
wondering aloud, as he contemplated the stage, why a large, dusty potted plant
was always deemed so necessary to a public musical performance: trying
meanwhile to eavesdrop on Mr Beck, who was whispering to Phoebe in a dark,
rapid, urgent flow as if he had taken a bet that he could not tell the whole story
of
Hamlet
in two minutes. Evident irritation on Mr Beck’s part at having
to stop talking for the music: on Lydia’s part, enjoyment heightened by relief
at everyone’s having to stop, just for a while, being so insistently
themselves.