Curricle & Chaise (7 page)

Lydia had been surprised to learn that she was to be included in the Churchmans’ dinner party, particularly as her presence would make for an awkward seventh at the table. On the few occasions that Mrs Abdale had received visitors since her arrival it had been made quite clear to her that she should not expect to be introduced, or to join in the conversation in any way. Not that she minded. Mrs Abdale’s acquaintance were nothing to her and Lydia considered that she probably derived much more amusement from observing their affectations than they themselves did from taking part.

The Churchmans were awaited in the grey saloon, a large, south facing room with views over the park. It was exquisitely decorated in cool pink-grey marble and a warm gold and grey Axminster carpet (most obviously a new acquisition), with sparkling crystal chandeliers reflected for ever in gilded mirrors. The grey velvet curtains were drawn against the darkness outside. It all seemed very splendid to Lydia and despite her lack of a gown anything like as elegant as her cousin’s she was looking forward to the evening with some anticipation.

It was not too long before a bustle in the hallway announced that the guests had arrived. Mrs Abdale rose to greet them.

‘My dear Mrs Churchman,’ she could be heard saying as the party arrived at the door. ‘How delightful to have you amongst us again – and looking so well, if I may make so bold…and Mr Churchman … Edward – more than pleased to welcome you, too, though you are quite regular visitors to Abdale nowadays – it is not to see me, I know, but we need say no more about that…!’

Mrs Abdale gave her chief guest a knowing smile, which Mrs Churchman failed to notice. She leaned quite heavily on her son’s arm.

‘… and here is Julia, looking prettier every day, so Mr Abdale says – but there, one must indulge the fondness of a father – not but that I must agree with him, of course – and more like me when I was younger than ever you might imagine.’

Lydia decided that her imagination must be far more limited than she had previously realised, for she found herself totally incapable of seeing any likeness between the two of them at all. She privately considered that any similarity between Julia and her gentle mama would be
somewhat
unl
ikely to endear her to
Mr Churchman. But before she could savour the comparison any further she found Mrs Churchman approaching her and asking to be introduced.

Mrs Abdale acceded to the request with evident reluctance.

‘Oh, this is my sister Barrington’s girl, Mrs Churchman,’ she said, with what Lydia could only interpret as a sour look. ‘Lydia will be living amongst us at Abdale from now on. You may remember me telling you that my sister died a year or so ago. If Mr Abdale had not been so good as to offer Lydia a home I dread to imagine what would have become of her.’

‘Well, I can only say that I am very pleased to make Miss Barrington’s acquaintance. It is not every day that we are fortunate enough to find an addition to our society hereabouts.’

Lydia smiled gratefully as she bobbed a curtsy to the speaker. Mrs Churchman was small, pale and almost girlishly slim. She spoke with a slight Irish lilt which Lydia found particularly attractive. She walked only with difficulty and had to be assisted into a chair but her dark eyes were as bright as buttons and seemed to take in her difficult position in the household immediately.

‘You are too kind, ma’am. My aunt and uncle have made me most welcome at Abdale. I consider myself to be very fortunate to have been offered a home with them.’

She was conscious of Mr Churchman’s eye upon her as she said this, and blushed.

‘Do please take a seat next to me, Miss Barrington,’ continued Mrs Churchman. ‘My sons have mentioned you a number of times and I have been longing to get to know you. Unfortunately I am not able to get out as much as I would like, or I should have called on you before.’

Henry and Edward, having made sure that their mother was quite comfortable, stood together by the fire and listened to the rather one-sided conversation being indulged by their hostess. Mrs Abdale seemed determined to destroy any notion that Mrs Churchman might have had of a tete-a-tete with Lydia and they were soon forced to give up the unequal fight and listen to her instead.

‘I am sorry that Mr Abdale is not yet down to meet you, Mrs Churchman,’ she was saying. ‘He was called away by his bailiff at the very last moment and had to hurry off with him. Most impolite of him, of course, and I can assure you that I shall scold him most shockingly when I get him alone tonight, although you are now such good friends of ours that I know you will forgive him and of course business is business and sometimes it will not wait … such a responsibility, managing all these estates, is it not, Mrs Churchman? I am thankful that I have a husband to do it. I’m sure I could not cope by myself, we have so much to look after nowadays – although, of course, you have sons to see to such things and we have a good legal man (although I never have anything to do with him, of course)…’

Both Lydia and Julia were taking the opportunity provided by this discourse to compare the brothers at the fireside. Edward was looking elegant in his rather careless way, his long tailcoat undone at the front to reveal a plain white waistcoat and ruffled shirt beneath. Julia allowed herself more than a few admiring glances whenever her mama’s attention seemed elsewhere. But it was Henry who attracted Lydia’s gaze. Julia had told her that he was a Corinthian. Lydia was none too sure about that. He did not look the type to brawl over females of dubious reputation, although she could hazard a guess that he would stand up for himself quite sturdily if the need arose. Despite his lack of good looks, however, she could quite imagine a number of females fighting over
him
. Certainly he looked supremely elegant in buff pantaloons and fashionably-tied cravat on a snow-white ruffled shirt, and he leaned against the mantle with the unconscious air of a true gentleman. She allowed hersel
f to wonder how Julia could possibly
prefer his brother to him. True, Edward had a charming, open manner, which Henry lacked, and which recommended him more immediately to strangers, and he was by far the more handsome of the two. But it was very apparent to her that Henry had much the greater style and much the greater depth.

Mr Abdale appeared at last, a little out of breath, with apologies for being late.

‘Wretched poachers again,’ he muttered, to no-one in particular. ‘Can’t seem to keep them away at this time of year. Still, a few more man-traps should do it. Old Bill Bailey’s got another think coming if he thinks he can help himself in my coverts…’

Mrs Abdale rang the bell and the whole party proceeded into the dining room next door.

The dinner was a fine one. Several dishes of soup were followed by a boiled leg of lamb with spinach, fricassee of chicken with innumerable varieties of sauce, partridge baked in red wine (at least a few birds apparently having escaped the best endeavours of poacher Bailey), cherry pie and, finally, a fine assortment of sweetmeat and fruit preserved from the Abdales’ own orchards. In spite of herself, Lydia could not be other than impressed by the range of dishes on offer, which was far in excess of anything she had been able to muster at home.

‘It is a great treat for me to be able to enjoy fruit at this time of the year,’ she confided to Edward, who was seated next to her. ‘I am particularly fond of fresh fruit but it was extremely difficult to acquire at Bradbury in the winter.’

‘And what would you say was your favourite, Miss Barrington?’

‘I like all fruit, to be honest, although I am particularly fond of early summer fruits – cherries and strawberries. They are synonymous with the sunshine, I find.’

‘Henry grows a good range of fruits in our great-aunt’s garden at Foxwell Castle – there are some immense green-houses there and a large kitchen garden which is well sheltered from the wind. Perhaps he will send you some next summer.’

‘Perhaps he will. I should certainly enjoy it.’

‘Yet I see that your plate is sadly lacking at the moment. I am sure that Mrs Abdale will not begrudge you a second helping of her excellent cherry pie,’ (Lydia was less sure about this, but she wise
ly decided not to mention it) ‘
– or perhaps some stewed plums?’

Lydia was well placed to watch her companions from her position at the centre of the table. She had a good view of Henry and Julia across from her and watched them narrowly. They scarcely exchanged a dozen words all evening. Indeed, if anything, Henry seemed more interested in her own conversation with Edward than in entertaining the companion placed especially at his side. Luckily for Julia, Mrs Abdale was unable to superintend her daughter’s conversations in quite the same way without an awkward twisting of the neck, but Lydia could see that she was more than satisfied with Edward’s attentions to
her
.

The conversation turned to the war with France.

‘I can understand your delight in good food,’ Edward was saying. ‘As a soldier it was never certain that a good meal would ever be forthcoming. It was generally quite reasonable in the town billets, but much more difficult to get supplies when we were chasing the enemy from pillar to post.’

‘I wonder when the war will ever end,’ said Lydia, chasing her final morsel of cherry pie around her plate. ‘Papa was a soldier – and yet he hated war. He told me quite a lot about the hardships involved – of the battles themselves and the want and perils associated with them.’

‘Aye,’ agreed Edward. ‘The discomforts of bad weather, the difficulty of marching in rough terrain and the inability, at times, to keep sickness and illnesses at bay – these often pose greater perils than the battles themselves.’

‘Yet, hating war as he did, my father was always eager to fight for his country.’

‘It is odd, is it not? I know not how we can bear to go to war and leave our loved ones behind. Thinking of it now, in the comfort of this room, I can scarcely imagine a more horrible existence. It seems that you are for ever either cold or tired, hungry or in danger. Half the time you are even ignorant of where you are. Yet when the time comes you are more than ready to be off – straining to get at the enemy. I would wager that there is not a man in the army who would prefer to be elsewhere when there is a battle to be won.’

‘Well at least their homes are left in good hands, Edward,’ broke in Henry, crumbling some bread between his fingers. ‘And there are plenty of farmers to grow the food they need, even if the army is unable to distribute it properly. The real menace comes when we start wars in our own countryside – eh, Mr Abdale? – wars with those very farmers, by taking away their lands.’

‘My brother talks of the enclosures,’ explained Edward, as Lydia looked somewhat bemused. ‘Our cousin in Somersetshire has enclosed his lands for raising sheep and some of the locals have been put off. There is a tremendous profit to be made – yet Henry here refuses to do the same at Grantham for fear of an uprising or some such nonsense.’

‘Not at all, brother,’ countered Henry, good humouredly, ‘although I would rather avoid an uprising if I could. But just think about it for a moment. Our tenants have farmed our land for generations. Some have doubtless been here for longer than our own family. How can I, with a clear conscience, turn them off just so that I can make even more money, which I do not need? I cannot do it, Edward – I could not justify it to myself. My cousin, on the other hand, feels quite easy about it – and I know that Mr Abdale feels the same. That is his privilege. I doubt that we will ever agree on it.’

‘Aye,’ said Mr Abdale. ‘Many's the time we two have talked over the benefits of our various ways – and neither convinces the other. Maybe we are just stubborn.’

‘But surely these people are not just turned out, with no warning?’ asked Lydia. ‘Are they not compensated for losing their lands?’

‘Yes, they are. But they lose a great deal more than their lands, you see. For a start they have nowhere for their pigs to forage, and no means of obtaining firewood. They lose their independence as their skills are no longer required. In short, they are left with a few coins in their pockets with which to drink themselves under the table and no real means of earning a proper living. Their only option is to move into town, and quite often they fail to find work even there. So hence they make war on their landlords, and quite understandable it is to boot.’

‘I should be very glad if Bill Bailey were to move into town,’ put in Mr Abdale. ‘Do y’know, Churchman, I’ve lost lord knows how many rabbits to that man in the past few years and I’m damned if I can ever get him caught red handed.’

‘Mr Bailey has a very large family to keep. Perhaps if you offered him a decent job he would have no call for poaching?’

Mr Abdale seemed inclined to argue, but before he had time to say any more about it a sudden bustle in the hall, and the throwing open of the dining room door, and the hasty appearance of a tall figure in a massively caped greatcoat and beaver hat interrupted everyone’s thoughts and conversations and sent all eyes immediately to where he stood.

Mrs Abdale rose up with a cry.

‘Charles, my dear – how wonderful – such a surprise – I was not expecting you home this se’ennight…’

‘Yes, mama, here I am – how are you all? You are quite a party, I see.’

Charles suffered his delighted mama to throw her arms around his neck for a moment before shaking her off with an irritable shrug.