The Ladies (8 page)

Later they were to think it curious that they felt no desire to consider for their settlement the alien world of Wales. In their first contact, the people seemed to them uncouth, small, too dark. The coarse bracken and heavy heather on the hills looked inhospitable, the precipitous mountains uncultivated, rude. A friendly coach driver (was not everyone they met
too
friendly, they wondered, especially the members of the serving class?) proudly pointed out to them great mounds that appeared to crop out of the Pembrokeshire hills, cromlechs of great antiquity and inexplicable heathen significance. Many believed they were stone monuments to the ancient Welsh dead. He told them legends surrounding those still-haunted megaliths, some of whose blue stones arranged in circles, he said, had been
carried
by Welshmen to Stonehenge. For five days they walked and drove about the area, listening gravely to alarming druidic myths. Merlin, the natives claimed, had made these stones dance and so ever after they were able to dance alone. The Ladies shuddered at the thought of a landscape so unreliable, so given to movement and impermanence, but they walked dutifully over the wet, windy hills and fields.

They believed very little of what they heard. But they felt it urgent that they continue to move towards England, a fertile and pleasant place, they expected, where the tongue spoken was civilised and the weather less capricious and wild. These gregarious and brutish Welsh, leading superstitious lives on their unruly landscape, made them uneasy. Mountains infested by bog and mists, lowlands rutted by dark, wooded dingles, wild streams, rivers pouring down precipitous slopes like cataracts, depthless brooks: what could two gently reared Irish Ladies find among such violences to appeal to their cultivated sensibilities? In all that rugged wasteland and great-bouldered fierce countryside (for there seemed to be almost no cities), was there a haven for them?

Finally they reached Birmingham and found a congenial inn. At once, Sarah sent word to Sir William and Lady Betty of their address, reminding them of the allowance due, for their funds had fallen low during their month of wandering. Eleanor made no effort to inform her relatives, remembering the demeaning terms of her promise.

Comfortably lodged, but without presentable clothing, Eleanor decided they must find a tailor. Sarah wondered about the expenditure, but her companion told her they could no longer appear in public in their travel-worn and inappropriate clothing. A month had passed since their ‘elopement' (as Mrs Tighe had named it to her Kilbride friends), or their ‘retirement' as the Ladies themselves called the event from which they dated the beginning of their new lives. Eleanor still wore her borrowed men's outer-garments and Sarah a gown she had donned on shipboard and for which she did not possess a change.

They found a fine tailor, D. D. Sutton & Son Ltd., whose windows opened on High Street. It looked to be elegant, tasteful, and, no doubt, costly. Eleanor strode into the establishment first, Sarah a step behind. The proprietor, who introduced himself as Mr. Sutton the son, was well used to providing ladies with riding habits, worn by English gentry for travel by coach or horse. He greeted the two Ladies, heard their desires, and sent his sewing mistress into the disrobing room with them to take their measurements. While they were thus occupied, he set out on his broad display table the materials they might choose among. The sewing mistress fitted the Ladies for the full, plain long skirts and tight spencer jackets for which the Sutton tailors were noted. Then she suggested they step out to select their cloths.

This enterprise was to be Eleanor's, they had decided before entering the shop. Sarah agreed to wear whatever Eleanor chose for her, for it was clear from the first that Eleanor wished them both to have the same materials.

Eleanor said: ‘We shall require habits and all the accoutrements. Do you provide shirts and stocks, such things?'

‘For ladies? No, my lady, but there is a fine ladies' place a square distant from here that—'

‘No matter. We prefer those made for men, in suitable sizes, of course,' said Eleanor firmly.

‘For ladies, yes. Of course,' said Mr Sutton the son, sounding dubious.

He gestured the Ladies back into the disrobing room. They donned plain and ruffled shirts and tried stocks and ascot neck scarfs of a variety and size suitable ordinarily to male anatomy. The sewing mistress, mystified but agreeable, made the necessary adjustments. When they returned, Mr Sutton wished to know their preference in cloth for the habits. They looked carefully over his thick bolts of black, blue, deep green, and russet worsteds, rough woollens, and fine velvets, fingering each one carefully.

Then Eleanor told Mr Sutton: ‘We will have three for each of us, four in this dark blue material, two in black velvet.'

‘
Six,
do you mean, my lady?'

‘Six, yes. And we require cloaks, in black, of this smooth Irish tweed cloth.'

‘Yes. Yes,
indeed.
It will take some time, but …'

‘We are in no hurry except for the first sets of clothes, which we shall require when we travel soon from Birmingham. Those you may send to us at The Lark on Brewster street. We shall pay for all the work in advance. I trust you will send the remainder to us when we notify you of our permanent address.'

‘Very good,' said Mr Sutton. His bland English face betrayed nothing of his delighted astonishment at the size of the order. Never before in his memory (and he intended to ask his father, now in retirement, if
his
memory contained any such a thing) had a lady ordered more than one set of travelling clothes at a time. These ladies were … well, indeed, they were … odd.

‘Riding gloves with gauntlets. Do you have those?'

‘Oh yes, indeed we do.'

They each chose two pairs of fine leather gloves and then inspected Indian muslin cravats. Mr Sutton saw how things were progressing. This time he was better prepared to maintain a countenance that betrayed no surprise when Eleanor chose six for each of them. He offered them silver-tipped crops of excellent leather. They ordered two, smiling to each other at the useless but handsome acquisitions. They realized that to refuse the crops would reveal their true intentions. So they said nothing.

They were being ushered across the sill of the shop when Eleanor remembered something more.

‘Hats,' she said to Mr Sutton the son.

‘
Hats
, my lady? Of what variety?'

‘Top hats, of beaver or silk. Perhaps both.'

A further half hour was spent discovering the Ladies' sizes and fitting to their slender heads the hats made of curved brims and high round shining tops. Four such items of headwear were ordered, two in smooth brushed beaver, two in black silk. Once again they turned to the door.

Two weeks were agreed upon as a reasonable time for the first delivery. Eleanor gave the tailor her name, preceded naturally by the title she was not entitled to, and Sarah's, the Honorable Sarah Ponsonby. She paid from the purse that held their combined resources and they left Mr Sutton's place, arm in arm, elated at their purchases, even though Sarah's hands shook at the thought of their extravagance. For the moment Eleanor could not concern herself with the state of their finances, so pleased was she that they had found a comfortable and satisfying costume that they could wear on all occasions, suitable, and acceptable, she was sure, to the world at large. That they meant to expand this dress to morning, afternoon, and evening use while never mounting horse or entering carriage again (for Sarah was sick of travel and fully intended when they settled to stay still in that place forever) was not revealed to the tailor.

They walked toward their inn. ‘Is it possible there will be word from Woodstock about my allowance?' Sarah asked. Such an addition to their funds would go far toward mitigating the huge expenditure they had just so blithely made. Eleanor had never given the presence or absence of money a thought; she considered Sarah's concern unworthy.

A letter for Sarah waited at the innkeeper's table, from Mrs Tighe:

‘Y
^r
letter of July the twelfth arrived the day after my mother's sad demise. I regret to inform you further that my father departed this life three weeks before my beloved mother. There can be no immediate thought of monies to you until the estate, devolving upon me and my children, is determined. Woodstock will be sold. I am sorry to send you this news, but of course you have chosen y
^r
path and must now walk upon it. Obediently y
^rs
. Julia Tighe.'

They departed from Birmingham in their new clothes. Again they were in search of lodgings. They thought they might try a town on the English border, Shrewsbury in Shropshire, where, they had been told, society was warm towards Irish aristocracy. Soon after they arrived, Sarah thought to call upon Molly Hinton, who lived on High Street. She was an Irish acquaintance from Miss Parke's, where she had been, as Sarah recalled, an excellent penman. Sarah was told at the door that her old acquaintance was not at home. She left a card. They waited but received no word in return. The Ladies decided to make a last try. This time they were met at the door by the mother of Molly, who invited them in to tea and said her daughter had gone abroad to make the Tour with her great aunt Hinton. Then, somewhat abruptly, she asked if there was something she could do for Miss Sarah. The presence of Lady Eleanor and Sarah Ponsonby resplendent in royal blue velvet riding clothes and black silk beaver hats, and both clearly on foot, so stunned the mother of Sarah's schoolmate that she was not able to summon her customary amiable manners. Sarah carried with her the small greyhound, who would not be quieted without a generous helping of tea cakes.

‘I am so sorry,' said Sarah. ‘He is usually very well behaved.'

Mrs Hinton made no reply. Her eyes strayed to the tall hats that the Ladies had removed and placed beside them on nearby chairs. The room in which they sat was very cold, there was no fire since no guests had been expected, yet it was October. How can it have grown so late in the year, so close to winter, Eleanor wondered, sipping her tea, feeling frantic now at not being settled anywhere. Sarah occupied herself by holding Frisk's muzzle to keep him from the cake.

‘How are your parents?' Mrs Hinton knew nothing about Sarah's life but assumed a young woman of her age and social status must surely be endowed with at least one parent.

‘They are both dead,' said Sarah politely.

‘Oh, I see. I
am
sorry. Under whose care do you live?'

‘In recent years with Sir William and Lady Betty Fownes of Woodstock. Sadly they are this spring deceased.'

‘That
is
sad. Will you remain in England or return to our dear country?' Mrs Hinton's conversation was pointedly directed to Sarah, nonplussed as she was by the unexplained presence of the lordly Lady Eleanor.

‘We are not sure. We are deciding upon a place to settle, a home, before the winter quite sets in.' Sarah's eyes sought Eleanor's, asking her silently to intervene somehow in these explanations. Bored with Mrs Hinton, Eleanor sat in what seemed to Sarah to be disapproving silence.

‘Shrewsbury,' (she pronounced it ‘Shrosebury') said Mrs Hinton, ‘can be very pleasant in the spring. It is of course not Dublin. There is nothing like Dublin in the spring, but we are on the road to it, so we see our friends on their way to London.'

‘How many miles is “Shrosebury” to London?' asked Eleanor.

‘I'm not quite sure. Two days' journey by coach I know.'

‘Do you go often to London?' asked Eleanor. ‘Is Molly well?' asked Sarah. The Ladies spoke at once, one on top of the other.

‘Very well. She is to be married in the spring to Mr Colwin Grant-Morris, who is an English barrister but very nice, very thoughtful, very well established in his profession. Her great aunt wished to give her the Tour of Europe before she settled down in London.' Mrs Hinton's complaisance at being able to communicate this news was clear to the Ladies.

‘How very nice.' Sarah's small store of conversation was close to depletion. Eleanor recognized the symptoms and decided, valiantly, to try again.

‘Do you go often to London?' she asked.

‘Seldom. The roads, as you must have discovered, are atrocious. Everywhere we are in danger of footpads. The stagecoach is slow but safer, so we rarely use our carriage.'

Eleanor's patience was at an end. She had had enough of Mrs Hinton. She stood up, placed her cup resolutely on the tea-table, offered her hand to Sarah, who took it and also rose. Together they presented a perplexing tableau to Mrs Hinton. ‘Thank you,' Eleanor said to Mrs Hinton, who watched, fascinated, as the two Ladies restored their silk hats to their cropped, powdered heads. She led them to the door, mumbling something about telling Molly of their visit when she returned from Switzerland. Sarah thanked her.

‘A terrible, terrible bore,' said Eleanor. ‘We shall not make such visits again.'

‘No. I regret I thought of Molly Hinton. At school she seemed somehow …'

‘And what is more, we shall not settle in … in Shrosebury.'

Sarah laughed and pressed Eleanor's arm in agreement. They walked back along High street, their footsteps in unison, as always.

Once more they went on the road, travelling in a northerly direction towards Ellesmere. To save wear on their new clothes, and because it was not conceivable to them to save money by riding outside, they paid the extra two shillings two pence and obtained inside seats.

English stages were commodious. Ten persons shared their interior, rather more on top, and six horses moved the vehicle. The Ladies were assessed for every thirty miles of their trip because their luggage was so heavy. To this cost Eleanor raised aristocratic objections, but the drivers were adamant and collected the tax.

At Ellesmere they stayed at the inn where the coach stopped to change horses. Sarah was weary. Eleanor decided they should rest in their room for two days, asking for their meals there. Sarah slept badly because, she said, she was disturbed by her dreams. For some time, Eleanor had noticed an odd fact: Sarah's dreams often extended into waking hours. Now, seated at the table before the window, looking out over the green wooded hills that ringed Ellesmere and the large mere to the east of their windows, Sarah's face was wet with tears. Eleanor watched her covertly, seated beside her and composing a letter to Lady Adelaide, who, she had now decided, must be reached concerning the depletion of their monies.