Friendship and Folly: The Merriweather Chronicles Book I (8 page)
Read Friendship and Folly: The Merriweather Chronicles Book I Online
Authors: Meredith Allady
But not the most harrowing ordeal can wholly prevent time from passing, although it can detain it to such an extent that one begins to think bitter thoughts of the servant who neglected to wind the clock, and of the jeweler who sold one this watch which has (apparently) ceased to operate with any exactitude; and the moment reluctantly arrived when those incomparable words “departure” and “late” aroused Ann from the discreet stupor which she had embraced as preferable to continual chagrin. Her cousins eventually drifted away on a wave of thanks and compliments and diffident smiles from the girls, leaving Ann with the certainty that the phrase, “When we were dining at Merrion House” would sound regularly in the ears of her cousins’ acquaintances for many months to come.
The door was shut behind them. It was borne upon Ann that Thursday had come and gone and she had survived. Feeling her knees suddenly weak, she sat down, not knowing where to look, or what to say. She, who knew so well the Parrys’ distaste for pretension and any form of insincerity, had been the means of inflicting both on them for endless hours, in an almost unadulterated form; and worse, by her own presence and friendship, she deprived them of their only possible compensation, that of laughing at it.
They began to speak, and Ann marveled that they could do so without word or hint of relief. Lady Frances first remarked on the pleasant originality of spending an evening at home, and praised the cook’s exertions in the matter of sweets, pleased to note that Mrs. Robinson had seemed particularly to relish the orange and almond cheesecake. Julia mentioned the prettiness of the Miss Robinsons, and the affability of their mother, and was supported by Lady Frances, who added her hope that Ann had enjoyed herself, and that she would not hesitate to arrange another visit with her cousins any time she wished. Mr. Parry, perceiving that every gracious thing that had the merit of truth had already been seized upon, spoke only to state his intention of retiring to bed, and recommend an early night for the rest of the household. Ann was only too grateful to comply.
It was Ann and Julia’s invariable custom, after a party or a dinner, to review the whole evening and appraise any incident of uncommon interest; but Ann had no fear of having to take part in a commentary on this particular evening. There are boundaries beyond which truth and tact must go singly if they go at all, and in any discussion of her cousins this border must be reached all too swiftly. In noting the blessings bestowed upon the female Robinsons in looks and temperament, Julia had come perilously close to it already, and she would not venture further unless Ann were to urge it.
Ann was not so foolish. It was her heartfelt desire that the Robinsons might be allowed to slip into that shadowy realm of Things Once Endured, in company with the smallpox, the breaking of her hip, and the time the dentist had taken three quarters of an hour to extract one of her wisdom teeth.
**
“If Julia Parry had a rich uncle who intended to make her his heiress,” said a certain good-natured young lady, herself of substantial fortune, “I should hate her with a complete and utter hatred, and have done with it. Or if she did not possess four sisters. As it is, her portion is said not to exceed six or seven thousand, so I suppose I cannot detest her completely.”
Many, of course, could not afford such charity; but of these Julia knew little, as their detestation was of the theoretical kind, and only thrived apart from her actual presence. Even those young ladies who were forced to watch half-snaffled swains amble away in a Juliaward direction, found bitterness hard to maintain in the face of her obvious innocence in the matter. One might as reasonably criticize the moon for having the attendance of the tides, as Miss Parry for pulling susceptible gentlemen to her side; and I dare say, if one could but ask it, one would find that the moon has as little use for the salty depths of the oceans, as Miss Parry had for her “Look-Greenly Club.”
The members of this club--so named by Clive, from their determined habit of “gasping out their eloquence” in praise of his sister--were an imposing assortment of lords, honorables, and hopeful misters, united only in the regularity of their assertions of timeless devotion to Miss Parry. Deprived of lances, swords, dragons, and other means of impressing the princess of the hour, they leapt to fetch glasses of insipid refreshment, as if bent on avenging a deadly insult to her honor, and vied fiercely with one another, in devising fulsome titles to present to her. If one designated her a seraph, the next must needs address her as “fair goddess”; if one likened her beauty to that of the luminescent moon, then another was sure to murmur something about a “bright, particular star,” leaving a third no choice but to argue the negligible display of the sun, when compared to the brilliancy of her eyes--or her smile, or whichever feature happened to strike him most vividly at the moment.
It must be confessed, that this in-some-way-celestial being was herself inclined to listen with rather inattentive indulgence on those who waxed metaphorical in her praise, and to recount their more improbable flights of fancy for the diversion of her family. Her wit, though of the kindly variety with which an adult laughs at the unintentionally comical statements of a small child, did not spare the dignity of her admirers, and in the younger Parrys, for whom “Love” and its attendant symptoms was still largely a matter of either indifference of derision, she found an audience to appreciate her efforts; but poor Kitty was often torn between relief that Julia was so far unmoved by her suitors as to find them a source of amusement, and sympathy for the infatuated gentlemen. One day she was even moved to suggest, in tones of gentle reproach, that these must assuredly be hurt and humiliated, did they know that the object of their devotion sat laughing impenitently over their most fervent tributes.
Before Julia could answer, Clive took it upon himself to observe, that as the Greenlings were “forever burbling” about their desire to serve Julia in some selfless fashion, it was grossly unfair of Kitty to question their sincerity, by thus implying that they could be anything but deeply gratified to know that they had at least been able to provide their beloved with a great deal of merriment.
Julia hushed him, and assured her sister, that she had not the slightest desire to humiliate anyone, “but if they wish for me to treat their pretty speeches seriously, they must construct them with more care, and not say the first thing that comes into their heads. It is the height of folly for Mr. Butler to be calling me ‘the Grosvenor Square Angel,’ when he must know as well as I do that angels always appear, at best, as men of fierce aspect, and at worst, as four-faced creatures all over wings and eyes. What could he expect but that I would immediately picture myself as some sort of gargoyle, frightening callers away from Merrion House?”
In vain did Kitty suggest that the gentleman had doubtless not been thinking in terms of Holy Writ, but rather of some vague Greek or Roman being, a beautiful woman with wings and long flowing robes.
“And how does that improve the matter, pray? I have not got wings, and if I had I do not suppose they would be in the least attractive--molting all over the floors, more than likely, and knocking people over whenever I turned about in a crowded room. And as for the robes--well, these dresses are said to be in a classical style, but I cannot say that I think they
flow
at all well. They merely hang there, looking limp and compliant, until one tries to go for a walk on a windy day, when they suddenly turn on one in the most traitorous fashion, and have to be taken home in a carriage.”
Even those “pretty speeches” that did not divert Julia by their absurdity, failed to find favor with her. The truth was, that having grown up with her looks, and that in a family in which physical beauty was not only customary but also regarded as of little temporal and no eternal weight, Julia was disposed to suspect the strength of any intellect that dwelt upon her appearance as something to be unduly prized. She confessed that the more fervent the accolades, the more Cowper’s lines addressed to an aging beauty ran through her head:
“The down that on her chin so smooth
So lovely once appeared,
That, too, has left her with her youth,
Or sprouts into a beard;
As fields, so green when newly sown,
With stubble stiff are overgrown.”
She had come to accept that compliments were inevitable, and as long as a gentleman did not persist in them beyond the first introduction she would not hold them against him; but those who, struck by her charms, made no effort to recover from the blow, and deemed their continued prostration and wonderment an acceptable topic of conversation, soon became the happily unconscious recipients of smiles prompted by courtesy rather than pleasure, and boredom conscientiously dissembled. Julia would not for the world have allowed them to sense her impatience, as her parents had very strict views on the compassion due those afflicted with feeble minds.
Accordingly, Ann was not at all surprised to observe her friend standing up for a second time with Sir Warrington Lenox, when that persuasive young man had but that evening been introduced, and had surely less claim on Julia than the faithful Greenlings, who stood gazing in disgusted resignation at the couple. It was Miss Spenhope who had made the introduction, doing so, with eyes full of an inward amusement, which was not explained until Sir Warrington, eschewing superfluous civilities, pleadingly requested a dance with Miss Parry, in an Irish accent so lush as to be almost impenetrable. Julia murmured assent to a question whose meaning she assumed rather than understood, and allowed herself to be led out on to the floor by her beaming conquest.
Sir Warrington’s features were regular, but Ann did not think him more than tolerably good-looking; but then, she did not admire fair hair, nor ruddy complexions, and was perhaps not strictly impartial in her judgement. And though he was certainly tall, his movements were entirely without grace, and his figure not of the best. Or perhaps it was merely that he wore his fashionable garments with so much an air of finding them a nuisance, that they had settled into retaliatory bulges and wrinkles. Ann could not help thinking of the description of the Vulgar Man, whose “clothes fit him so ill, and constrain him so much, that he seems rather their prisoner than their proprietor.” He walked, furthermore, at a slight angle, so that his shoulders preceded his feet wherever he went, and had a way of carrying his head, as if every moment about to duck it bashfully; only he never did. The requirements of the dance seemed to be a recurring trial to him, but his incompetence in this respect did nothing to impair his good-humor, and Ann saw that he talked to Julia almost without pause, and that her replies appeared to gratify him exceedingly. He smiled more broadly than ever, and missed his steps with ever-increasing aplomb.
Miss Spenhope had moved just far enough away to make it clear that she had no further interest in the matter; and having maintained a silence of sufficient length to foil any expectation of an immediate application, Ann at last permitted herself to turn, and seek the intelligence, which that young lady was plainly desirous of giving.
“Sir Warrington? A perfectly harmless creature, I assure you, and vastly entertaining. He is called ‘Edgeworth’s Essay,’” said she, with a rather sly smile. “I could not do less than present him to Miss Parry, for you must know he distinguishes only the prettiest girls with his attentions, and it was only a matter of time before he discovered her for himself.”
Though her words declared his respectability, her tone implied the absurdity of his “attentions,” forcing Ann to seek a further explanation.
“Respectable! Oh, highly so, Miss Northcott. It is a question if the poor man
could
be anything else! He is quite stupid, you know, not to mention quite dreadfully Irish, though I do not mean to imply that the two
invariably
go together. But he is always blessing either his body or soul at the least provocation, and he dances, as you can see, like a great unwieldy mannikin, hung upon wires--but perfectly respectable! As for his attentions, I am afraid Miss Parry must not allow herself to be swayed by his present enthusiasm. He admires
all
the ladies he dances with, but it is not lasting, and he soon moves on to the next one to catch his eye. Not long ago he was much attached to Miss Caroline P_____y and danced with her
three
times
---we all thought he was caught, for she is desperate for some sort of Burkean prefix, and played him very cleverly.”
She paused; for a long minute Ann weighed the satisfaction of disappointing such irritating confidence, against that of gratified curiosity; but having delayed long enough to instill a reasonable doubt of her continued interest, in the end Ann could not resist asking after the fate of Miss P_____y’s ambitions.
Miss Spenhope was amused, but her triumph was only a shade of voice as she replied, “A tragic one, I fear. She was presented to his brother, and all was at an end. Mr. Lenox is a great favorite with me, by the by. I have reason to believe that Sir Warrington finds my manner intimidating, if you can credit such a thing; but his brother is a sensible man, and capable of appreciating a young lady’s conversation, even if she does
not
agree with him on every point of interest. Besides, any one who can earn the enmity of such as Miss P_____y in a meeting of less than five minutes, must recommend himself to me as a matter of course.”
Ann, now completely vanquished by curiosity, requested particulars, but these Miss Spenhope was regretfully unable to provide.
“No one is quite certain just what
did
occur. The introduction was made, they both murmured the accepted phrases--and Sir Warrington never sought her out again. It was very disheartening for all the pretty young ladies, who had flattered themselves with the hope that his search had come to an end.”
Ann herself hoped, with misgiving, that Sir Warrington would not (though one could hardly blame him) decide that his search had ended with Julia. “Has no one told him,” she asked, “that one dance, or even two, is not commonly thought sufficient time in which to judge of a person’s merits?”
“It is clear,” replied her companion, archly, “that you have yourself not yet been privileged to dance with Sir Warrington. He has evolved his own method of eliminating the unfit, and puts his partner through such a rigorous catechism during that one dance, that he may be pardoned for feeling that he has nothing more to learn about her, and therefore no reason ever to meet her again. It begins the moment he has her fairly to himself--or as fairly as a dance permits. Do you like horses, Miss Nameless? Dogs? Cats? Catholics? Peep-o’-day Boys? Fishing? Riding? Hunting? Books? Dancing? Hens? Pigs? Ireland? The list ends only with the set, and if the lady is not altogether sure of her preferences, she is pressed to give a reason for her indecision, until she is convinced of only one thing: that whatever her sentiments on pigs and Ireland, there is no doubt of her hearty dislike of Sir Warrington!”
“He must indeed be an idiot!” said Ann, trying not to laugh. “Perhaps his family has never heard ‘How much a dunce that has been kept at home, Excels a dunce that has been sent to roam’! Such persons are much better kept decently in the country, where they cannot pester defenseless females with their notions of polite conversation.”
Ann was thinking only of Julia, forced to spend an endless half-hour struggling to disentangle English words from the undergrowth of Sir Warrington’s brogue, in order to answer a host of senseless questions; her bewilderment was great, therefore, when Miss Spenhope’s countenance, from showing the animation of a witty woman given the opportunity to exercise her wit, became at once closed and stern. She uttered a few chilly words of excuse, and then walked away, leaving Ann in a draught of disapproval. For such a person as Miss Spenhope to have taken offense, Ann knew her comments must have sounded cruel indeed, and she blushed deeply for the thoughtlessly spoken words.
**