Curricle & Chaise (26 page)

In her more reflective moments Lydia, in common with most young ladies, had fondly imagined what it would be like to receive a proposal of marriage. And indeed, many of the elements were there – the sunshine, the spring flowers, the anxious lover. Yet she felt strangely removed from the situation. It was, after all, a declaration that she had expected (and tried her best to avoid) for a good many weeks and it was in the manner of it alone that she was taken by surprise. They stood in silence in the bright May sunshine, the last yellow daffodils trying bravely to outshine the sun in its bright, ethereally blue sky. For a moment it seemed that time stood still, that Lydia was looking down on the scene from above. She knew that the sunshine, the daffodils, the bluebell, herself and Sir John would be etched in her memory for ever. But in another second she became aware that he was still looking at her, expectantly, and was awaiting some form of reply. She drew a breath in an attempt to find something – anything – that she could say that would not instantly destroy him.

‘Thank you, Sir John – thank you from the bottom of my heart for your offer – and for the manner in which you have made it. I am deeply conscious of the very great honour that you have done me in offering your hand – and the great generosity that you have shown by your offer of a situation with Judith should I find that I cannot accept. I can do no less, sir, than to return your kind consideration and take up your suggestion of taking some time to think over your proposal. As you say, it is not an easy decision but I shall consider the matter fully, just as you have explained your own feelings towards me.’

Sir John bowed, kissed the hand which he still held in his, touched a curl that was escaping the confines of her bonnet and then, seeming to remember himself, directed her towards the orchard, ablaze with white and pink blossom, promising a bumper crop to come.

Viewed objectively, Sir John’s proposal offered a number o
f advantages which sh
ould make it all but impossible to refuse.
In the privacy of her little attic room, the magic of the spring  sunshine now replaced by the dull reality of rain, Lydia had to acknowledge the very great honour that Sir John had bestowed upon her by asking for her hand. To aspire to be the wife of Sir John Ferdinand, to be mistress of Netley Court and all its land, to have her own horse and carriage and a husband who, though neither young nor fashionable, at least was well respected in the neighbourhood and had an honest heart – she was only too aware of how eligible the match must seem. For one thing (as Sir John himself had pointed out) it offered a level of certainty for the future that her occupation as companion would fail to provide. Whether Judith recovered or not, the role and status of a companion was far less secure than that of a wife. Should the employment come to an end she could well find herself thrown back onto the kind offices of her uncle and aunt yet again. For another, it meant a level of material comfort that Lydia was unlikely to experience anywhere else. True, Netley Court was not at all to her taste, but she could not deny that it was warm, comfortable and – if his earlier conversation was to be believed – she might well have the opportunity of replacing some of the more objectionable items with some modern new furniture of her own. Lydia was not naive enough to expect that she should be given a free rein at Netley Court. He had hinted as much already. Indeed, she was totally ignorant of the state of his finances even in allowing such a venture, but she felt reasonably convinced that he would at least allow her to decorate her chamber in her own way. In addition to this, it was unquestionable that Sir John himself felt some regard for her, and Lydia had no doubt that he would try to be kind. He had behaved most generously to her all along and shown her exemplary consideration in the manner of his proposal to her. And finally there would be the novelty and status of becoming Lady Ferdinand – she did not lack the vanity to be averse to a title –
indeed, what young lady would
? In fact, being brutally honest with herself, she had to admit to feeling just a little gratified that it was she, in preference to everybody else, whom Sir John had selected to become his future wife.

All these things pointed in the same direction – that Lydia should grasp the opportunity she had been offered and agree to become his wife. Just one small impediment remained. She did not love him, and did not believe that she ever could. Lydia was romantic enough to feel that this one slight difficulty was sufficient to override all of the obvious advantages. She felt that she would rather have to make her own way in the world than enter into a loveless marriage for the sake of comfort and convenience. Sir John had been generous enough to suggest that the offer of employment would remain open to her should she decide to decline his proposal. Although this did not provide quite the advantages that marriage would do it still sounded preferable to the alternative. But Lydia also knew that her own wishes were not the only consideration. Of all the things that Sir John had said to her one, and one alone, kept returning to mind. He had told her that Susan could join them. What had he said? – ‘Can bring that sister of yours as well.’ Poor Susan. It was unthinkable that she would ever have the chance to marry anyone. She was scarcely able to function effectively even in the safe and loving environment of the vicarage – how much worse would it be were she ever to have to seek employment elsewhere? Lydia had been thrown the lifeline that would secure her sister’s future for ever more. How could she ignore it in the forlorn hope of something better? Susan would remain close to her aunt and uncle, in a district that she was becoming accustomed to. Her presence at Netley Court would free up the space so badly needed at the vicarage and Lydia would be able to take responsibility for her as she felt she ought. All the other advantages of the match were as nothing to her. The status, the comfort, the security – none of these could possibly induce her to accept a man she did not love. But Lydia knew, as she wrestled with acknowledging it, that it was her duty to accept Sir John’s offer for the sake of her sister, and to subordinate her dreams to the cruel realities of life.

The decision made and Sir John far away Lydia determined on trying to settle back into the routine of vicarage life and forget about the future until he should return. Fanny’s plans had been a little vague but a sojourn of fourteen days had been mentioned. She decided not to mention the proposal to her uncle or aunt in the meantime. She was not inclined to examine the reasons for this piece of subterfuge too deeply. Instead, she rationalised it to herself by determining that as the conversation had been started between Sir John and herself alone it was only right that it should be concluded between the two of them as well.

The two weeks passed by inexorably. The spring gradually merged into summer as May reached its end. Lydia spent the final morning visiting a sick parishioner, doing what she could to make things a little more comfortable for her in the hovel she called home. She was uncertain of Sir John’s exact travel plans but she estimated that if they were indeed returning home today he and Fanny would definitely be back by three. So at a little after three she slipped out of the house and waited at the roadside until she could cross the turnpike in safety. She vaguely noticed that there was even more traffic on the road than usual that day. She managed to cross it eventually, however, made her way up the now familiar driveway, took a deep breath to stem her nerves, and rang the creaky bell as firmly as she dare.

The door was opened by the little serving maid.

‘Good day to you, Jane. Is your master back from Town?’ she asked her.

The little maid bobbed her a curtsey.

‘Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I don’t believe him to be coming back today. I seem to think the housekeeper had a letter saying he was staying in London a while longer. Do step in and I’ll find out for you.’

This was a blow. Having taken the decision to accept him it was frustrating that her resolve to impart the good news to Sir John as soon as possible should have to wait a while longer.

The elderly housekeeper came hurrying up from the nether regions of the house.

‘Ah, Miss Barrington,’ she wheezed. ‘Jane tells me that you were hoping to find Sir John? I hope it is nothing particular, for I received a letter on
ly this morning to say that he c
ould be another fortnight away
, give or take
. He has been detained by some business in Town which is taking rather longer than he had hoped.’

Another fortnight. Lydia could have screamed with vexation. Fate, circumstance – all seemed to be ranged against her. But it was not the housekeeper’s fault. So she gave her a wintry smile, assured her that it was nothing of consequence, and let herself out of the house.

All was calm at the vicarage. Susan was out in the yard. Elizabeth was in the kitchen, the back door open, singing softly to herself as she made some baby clothes out of a worn out robe. She smiled happily at Lydia when she appeared. Everything seemed fresh to Lydia’s senses – the quiet rustle of new leaves, the constant tut-tutting of a nearby Robin. The world of the vicarage was warm and benign, with everything at peace within.

Then ... crash!

Without warning the mood of quietness was destroyed by the commotion of an incident outside. Lydia leapt to the window. In the road everything was in turmoil – people shouting, horses whinnying – all was bustle and furore. It seemed that a post chaise had shed a wheel directly outside the vicarage and a crowd of rough-looking men, seemingly on the way to some prize fight or other, had gathered around the vehicle in the apparent hope of helping themselves to any valuables they might discover inside. A small boy pushed his way out of the crowd and made off down the road, followed by anguished feminine cries of ‘Stop! Thief!’ from the passengers in the chaise.

The crowd was starting to look a trifle ugly but just then Thomas Bridger happened to return from a visit elsewhere. He was in the midst of the crowd in an instant. With a commendable show of strength which impressed his watching niece immensely and probably surprised himself he shoved the roughest looking man aside with a heave of his shoulder and then landed a punch on another with such force that his victim instantly fell to the ground.

‘Enough, enough,’ roared Thomas, clouting a somewhat unpromising looking youth on the back of his head. ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, acting the ruffians like this.’

The crowd ignored the buffeting and pressed more tightly around the stricken coach.
Thomas, however, was not to be put off.

‘Stop this folly at once,’ he thundered, taking a youngster by the scruff of his neck and tossing him unceremoniously across the road. ‘At once, I say. Hey, you, man – what do you think you’re doing, kicking at the carriage like that?’

A big man, at least twice the breadth of his adversary, swung round with an oath as Thomas elbowed him in the back.

‘And who the hell are you to order us all about?’

‘I am a man of the cloth, my man, and would thank you to leave these wretched folk in peace.’

He was not immediately heard above the noise of the crowd.

‘Be gone, the lot of you, before someone is murdered. Make way this instant, I say, if you’ve not got it in you to lend these folk a hand.’

‘Aye, do what the parson says – ‘ the postilion had recovered sufficiently to lend Thomas his support. ‘Take yourselves off before I murder you all.’

Probably more from the realisation that the chaise contained very little of any worth than all the combined threats that Thomas and the somewhat aged postilion could muster, the crowd slowly quietened down a little and gradually started to melt away. A couple of the older men, a little ashamed by the conduct of their associates, stayed behind sheepishly to lend a hand whilst the postilion at
tempted to quieten the terrified
, kicking horses, and Thomas went to assess the extent of the damage to the passengers within.

There were just three passengers, much frightened, half lying in a heap in the corner of the stricken carriage. Thomas managed to wrench open the door – no mean feat in
itself, as the carriage was tilt
ed at
a jaunty angle away from him – and lean in to assist a small girl and a young lady to clamber out. The small girl was weeping uncontrollably whilst the young lady – apparently her sister – winced as she attempted to stand with her by the carriage and console her. Though sadly crumpled and seemingly in some pain she was still most obviously a lady, elegantly dressed in feathered bonnet and leaf-green pelisse. Lydia, the main danger now over, ran over to her from the house and offered her some help.

‘I think I can manage tolerably well, thank you,’ was the quiet but confident reply. The girl’s clear blue eyes fell on Lydia for the first time. ‘If only I could sit down for a moment and rest my ankle I am persuaded that I shall be fully recovered in no time.’

Lydia offered an arm. By the look on her companion’s face she was far from convinced that she felt ‘tolerably well’ but at least a rest on Elizabeth’s comfortable sofa would give her the opportunity to recover herself and escape the stares of the few men who still lounged about at the side of the road.

‘Allow me to help you indoors,’ offered Lydia. ‘I feel sure you will recover more quickly out of the sun.’

The young lady looked at her a trifle anxiously.

‘Would you mind?’ she asked. ‘I am sorry to put you to so much trouble. And my sister and mama – perhaps they could come inside as well?’