The Youngest Miss Ward

  ‘I do not imagine she will. I hope not. Poor Aunt Polly looks fatigued to death. And Frances says that the Lady prefers to keep a close watch over Papa. Unless, of course, she and Lord Camber . . . Ned, is there time to go to the Kingdom? I have a poem that fidgets me.’

  ‘There’s not really time,’ said Ned. ‘Dinner will be at five, Mama told me, and anyway we are wearing our Sunday things – we had better not. But come into the conservatory.’

  This was a large, somewhat dilapidated dome-shaped glass structure, built against the high garden wall, which had suffered considerable neglect under the aegis of Mr Ward, who had a puritanical scorn for hot-house fruit and forced flowers and would not spend a penny on fuel to produce such luxuries. But some pots of bamboo left by previous owners of the place had grown to giant size in its shelter, and various evergreens and citrus bushes, untended but undaunted, flourished, so that its interior was a green jungle.

  Apart from the gardener’s occasional visits, few set foot in the place, but Ned and Hatty made use of it as a tolerably warm retreat when bad weather prevented their visits to the graveyard.

  ‘I’ve a thing to show you, Hatt – stay here a moment while I fetch it’ and Ned left the greenhouse and ran off across the kitchen garden.

  Hatty sat herself down on a comfortable pile of sacking, and pulled out the small notebook which lived at all times in a special pocket sewn into her petticoat. The day had been long and distracted, with many extra tasks relating to the entertainment of the two guests, and the menu for tonight’s dinner; Hatty had been called into service for picking over currants, peeling apples, sticking cloves into oranges, whipping cream, and making up posies for bedside tables. But all the while some lines, some words, had been buzzing and scuffling in her mind, noisy and insistent as a bumble-bee caught inside a closed window; now, at last, she had a moment in peace and silence to commit them to paper.

  She wrote, thought, wrote again; and then, hearing a step on the brick-paved floor, said: ‘I have started my new poem, Ned. Listen, and tell me what you think.’ And she read aloud:

  ‘Clouds are God’s toy –

  Having the first task done

  Having completed earth, moon, sun

  Landscapes and constellations, every one

  And seen the universe well begun

  He wove the clouds for joy, pure joy.’

  There was a silence after she had finished reading, and, in expectation of Ned’s comments, which were often highly critical, she waited a moment or two. No comments forthcoming, she looked up in surprise, and saw, gazing down at her, a wholly unfamiliar person, much bigger than Ned; indeed, this man was probably as tall as the towering Lady Ursula.

  ‘Oh . . .’ faltered Hatty, taking in the stranger, as it were, foot by foot. He had on a shooting-jacket and breeches, both well-worn; his cravat was loose and untidily knotted; his hair, of a faded foxcolour, must once have been bright red; it grew in an untended bush, thickly all over his head, and descended in side-whiskers, but his angular face was clean-shaven; his eyes were a bright, piercing blue, and his face was amazingly weather-beaten. ‘Crazed, like earthenware,’ thought Hatty, trying to find exactly the right words to describe his seamed, wind-tanned complexion. She wondered if he might be a gamekeeper. He had a wide, curving mouth, and many wrinkles, deep grooves pushing up his cheekbones and running out from the corners of his eyes.

  He looks, thought Hatty, as if he smiled more often than not.

  But he was not smiling now.

  ‘Read those lines again,’ he directed. ‘I should like to hear them a second time.’

  So Hatty read them again.

  ‘Did you compose them?’ said the stranger. ‘They are remarkable. At least I think so.’

  ‘I am not sure about the last line,’ said Hatty. ‘Should it be “made” the clouds, do you think, instead of “wove”?’

  He considered. ‘No, “wove” is better. That long “o” dignifies and strengthens the last line. Have you others?’

  ‘One that I made up this morning which I haven’t written down yet,’ said Hatty. She recited:

  ‘Morning brings labour

  Evening brings rest

  Morning’s my neighbor

  Evening my guest.’

  She added, ‘I believe there might be a second verse. But I can’t think of it. Perhaps it will come later.’

  ‘Do they just come like that? Out of nowhere?’

  ‘Oh‚ yes! And sometimes it is dreadful. If there is no chance to write them down – they just go again. Just vanish. Like leaves falling off trees. There is no finding them again, once they are gone.’

  ‘Yes. But perhaps,’ said her companion, ‘like fallen leaves, they fertilize the ground, so that other plants may prosper.’

  ‘Perhaps. I hadn’t thought of that,’ said Hatty, pondering.

  Ned came running in, flushed and cross.

  ‘I can’t find it anywhere. It was a squashed toad, quite dry and flattened out by the garden roller. Most remarkable! I had put it in a flower pot to show you, Hatty, but Deakin must have taken the pot and thrown out the toad – and now it grows late, I think we had better go back to the house—’

  He pulled up short in astonishment, for the first time observing the stranger.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir!’

  ‘No, no,’ said the newcomer, ‘mine is the fault. I had left my horse in the stable yard and walked round this way in search of Deakin, who used to be an old ally of mine when I was a boy visiting cousins at Gosport. You, I think, must be one of Mr Ward’s three sons.’

  ‘Edward,’ said Ned, nodding.

  ‘And you are . . . ?’

  ‘His niece, Harriet.’

  ‘Your father, then, will be the Mr Henry Ward who lives at Bythorn Lodge?’

  In her turn she nodded.

  ‘Oh, so then we are neighbours in some sort.’

  He smiled, and the wrinkles rayed out from the corners of his eyes.

  ‘I live in Wanmaulden Wood, near there, in the house that is called the Thatched Grotto. My name is Harry Camber.’

  IV

  Dinner that evening was not at all an easy meal.

  Mr Ward, later, received a rare trimming from his wife for having invited Lord Camber without giving notice to the household.

  He stoutly defended himself. ‘What else could I do, my dear? Meeting him – in the street, he staying at the Crown with no previous engagements – it was the barest civility to ask him to come and take his pot luck with us. No harm done that I can discern. He is such an easy, well-bred, conversible fellow – he had so much of interest to tell us about his scheme for the banks of the Susquehanna river – and the indenture system – and redemptionist agreements – and freedom dues – and the triangle trade – that the boys and even little Hatty were quite engrossed. Even Tom – I have never heard them ask so many questions, converse with such good sense and liveliness—’

  ‘But meanwhile poor Frances was quite paralysed with boredom. All I ever heard her say was, “Oh, la! I should not have liked that at all!” While as for Lady Ursula – I do not believe that she will ever forgive us. She looked as if she had swallowed an icicle. His appearance! She was so shocked! While you were still at your wine she said to me, “A common labourer would be better clad.’”

  ‘Well, he is the son of a Duke, he may dress as he pleases.’

  ‘I do not wonder that she retired to bed with a headache.’

  ‘Oh, pho, pho!’ said Mr Ward, annoyed. ‘What a piece of work about the man’s appearance. He has the manners of an aristocrat, of a gentleman, he behaved most civilly to you and to Frances – even to little Hatty – I heard him ask her what books she read. Is it my fault if Lady Ursula chose to behave like a frozen martyr? If she cast him looks like javelins? After all, who invited her to my house? She invited herself
. I should have thought she might be glad to see her old playmate again.’

  ‘Playmate!’

  ‘They grew up together as children, did they not? Continually in and out of each other’s households.’

  ‘For over a year – you may recall – they were as good as engaged to be married.’

  ‘Well,’ pronounced Mr Ward, ‘he is probably congratulating himself at this very moment that the engagement came to naught and is never likely to be resumed. Mind – I am sorry for it; her marriage to Camber would preserve my brother Henry from her clutches, and this family from the possible loss of the Bythorn estate.’

  ‘If that was why you brought him back to dinner, Mr Ward, it was a most ill-judged scheme!’

  Mr Ward said irritably, ‘Such a notion never came into my head. That was not my plan at all. In any case, she was bound to meet Camber at the funeral ceremony, was she not? I merely advanced the meeting by a day and a half. How long, pray, does the lady propose to remain in my house?’

  ‘Not above a few days, I believe. I hope!’ said Mrs Ward, who seemed unwontedly weary. ‘I understand that the lady has many and pressing engagements both at Bythorn Lodge and at Underwood Priors. And, in any case,’ she added irrefutably, ‘if your brother Henry does not marry Lady Ursula, what is to prevent his taking up with some other lady – now that matrimony is in his mind?’

  Mr Ward had no answer to that, but strode away, irritably, while his wife, sighing, pressed her fingers to her forehead.

  The day succeeding the arrival of Lady Ursula and Frances Ward was a Sunday, so, pursuing their usual habit, the family of Mr Philip Ward attended morning service at the Garrison Chapel and then, as the morning was a fine one, made their way up on to the ramparts for their regular weekly promenade, during which excursion Mrs Ward greeted her neighbours and exchanged local gossip, while her husband improved his relations with clients and hoped-for clients. Lady Ursula, who had accompanied the household to the service, at this moment made it known that she had yet another headache and proposed returning home directly.

  Mrs Ward, all solicitude, would have accompanied her guest, but with brusque lack of ceremony the lady declined the offer, acidly demanding to know if they thought she was in her dotage that she could not walk a quarter of a mile unescorted, and adding that the last thing in the world she desired was to be plagued by a series of unnecessary inquiries as to how she did. Mr Ward, however, insisted that it was out of the question for any guest of his, well or indisposed, to walk through the streets alone, and so told his son Sydney to escort the lady to Lombard Street.

  ‘I promise you, ma’am, Sydney shall not utter a single word, if that is your wish; but accompany you to my house he must and shall.’

  Lady Ursula shrugged and nodded, with an ill grace; Sydney silently bowed and took her arm, concealing whatever reluctance he may have felt for the mission under an impassive manner.

  Mr Ward chuckled as they walked away.

  ‘Ay, ay, Sydney has not forgotten that yesterday she called him a gawky hobble-de-hoy; he is bent on doing the pretty and showing her that when he chooses he can command all the air and address of a man-about-town. No matter for which, I plan that you shall all go off to Monsieur Lamartine’s class next week and learn to frisk and bow and foot it with the best; I’ll not have it said that my boys can’t comport themselves like gentlemen.’

  Ned and Tom pulled terribly long faces at this edict, but they knew there was no purpose in trying to dispute their father’s orders. Hatty, on the contrary, was quite pleased at the prospect. She had been used, when younger, to jump about and pirouette with her sister Fanny, to amuse their mother. She greatly enjoyed dancing, and had missed the exercise.

  ‘Never mind it, Ned, I will soon show you how,’ she whispered.

  ‘Dancing lessons will do the boys no harm at all,’ calmly agreed their mother. ‘Oh, see, Frances, there are the Price family – did you not say that the Parson’s wife at Mansfield Rectory is related to them?’

  ‘Yes, Aunt Polly, Mrs Chauncey is the sister of Mrs Price.’

  ‘I am a little acquainted with Mrs Price – your uncle transacted some matter of a loan with her husband, who is in a very respectable line of business – I forget what – it will be proper for us to bid them good-day.’

  The eye of Frances brightened wonderfully. She had dressed herself with much care for this first public appearance in Portsmouth, and had suffered no small disappointment at the meagre supply of admiring strangers which had hitherto been the reward of all her trouble.

  But the Price family – a plain but friendly-looking mother, respectable father, a young daughter somewhat below the age of competition, and, above all, two fine young men, both in uniform, instantly rekindled her hopes and her interest.

  Introductions were effected and the two families turned to walk together. The husbands had business matters to discuss, the wives compared notes on the ever-recurrent servant problem in Portsmouth – maids so flighty and always liable to have their heads turned by some handsome sailor – Frances walked happily between the two fine young men.

  Hatty and her boy cousins found themselves talking to the Prices’ daughter, whose name, she at once informed them, was Nancy, and her age fourteen years. She was a high-coloured girl, well-grown, lively, with black ringlets and an air of great self-possession. Indeed she chattered so incessantly to the two boys, and took so little notice of Hatty, that the latter, not at all put out by this neglect, for she was not especially taken with Miss Nancy, sauntered in the rear of the party, enjoying a peaceful reverie, happy to feel the spring sunshine, to watch the continual criss-cross of the ships’ masts bobbing at anchor, the blue sea beyond, and the pearly outline of the Isle of Wight in the distance. Gulls flashed and shrieked, the air was keen and salty. Words began to push their way into Hatty’s mind, as they so frequently did, when she had a few uninterrupted moments to herself.

  ‘Down the broad flood of light

  Birds scatter loose their songs, pent-up from night . . .’

  A man who had been leaning on the parapet turned round and caught her eye. He smiled. It was Lord Camber. But today he was dressed with perfect propriety in dark clothes; Hatty concluded that he too must have been attending divine service.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Hatty! Do I interrupt your train of thought? You look like a person in the throes of a composition.’

  ‘Well – yes, I was!’

  She smiled candidly back at him.

  ‘Would you prefer that I walked away and left you in peace? Or may I be allowed to hear?’

  She told him her two lines and added two more:

  ‘Daunted by solitude and hush, they cry

  All their small store of knowledge to the sky.’

  ‘I like that,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘You have a touch of Milton there, but Milton is no bad influence. Do you read him?’

  ‘I read Lycidas‚’ said Hatty. ‘I liked it.’

  ‘Which lines especially?’

  ‘“But oh, the heavy change now thou art gone, Now thou art gone and never must return.”’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he said in a kind tone. ‘Milton teaches us how to turn our troubles to good account. But then there are the “sweet Societies, That sing, and singing in their glory move, And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.” And have you read Andrew Marvell? “Where the remote Bermudas ride . . .”?’

  ‘Oh, yes! Golden lamps in a green night! Beautiful!’

  They exchanged eager smiles. Then his slowly faded and he asked in a hesitating manner. ‘Can you perhaps tell me – does Lady Ursula still remain at Mr Ward’s house?’

  ‘Yes, she was here with us at church this morning,’ Hatty told him. ‘But she wished to return home, she did not feel well. My cousin Sydney walked back to the house with her, while we came up on the ramparts.’

  ‘Ah, I am sorry. I had hope
d to see her again. Last night she seemed – ill-at-ease.’

  ‘Perhaps my uncle—’ began Hatty, but at that moment Mr Ward, looking back, caught sight of his noble client.

  ‘Why, bless my soul! Is that you, my Lord! Good morning, good morning!’

  He then, despite some admonitory glances from his wife, went on to invite his Lordship to come and eat his mutton in Lombard Street again, but Lord Camber, perhaps fortunately, had a prior engagement with some acquaintance at the Crown Inn. It was arranged, though, that they should all meet together to take tea after the funeral ceremonies on the following day.

  Mrs Ward scolded her husband on the way home. ‘How could you? Lady Ursula would never have forgiven us.’

  ‘But, confound it, my dear, there was nothing amiss with his appearance today. Perfectly unexceptionable. Except for his red hair, and the man can’t help that.’

  Frances said: ‘Aunt Polly, Mrs Price has invited me to go and stay with the family for a few weeks after the funeral. Is not that kind of her? May I go? Oh, may I?’

  ‘We will talk about it when we are at home, my dear.’

  The two families bade each other friendly adieux, Nancy pirouetting in front of the two boys, and calling, as they went their separate ways: ‘Until we meet at the dancing class! I shall soon teach you all the steps!’

  Back at home, in Lombard Street: ‘I do not see any objection to Frances passing a month or so with the Price family,’ pronounced Mr Ward after some thought, when the matter was referred to him. ‘They are entirely respectable. But perhaps we had best find out what Lady Ursula thinks of the scheme. When she has finished having her headache,’ he added drily.

  That lady, having perhaps ascertained that Lord Camber was not to be present with the family at Sunday dinner, had recovered quite speedily and made her appearance downstairs among the household. Mrs Ward at once began to consult her as to the propriety of Frances accepting the Prices’ invitation.

  ‘She is excessively desirous of going, ma’am.’

  Lady Ursula, having thought the matter over, gave her qualified approval to the scheme. ‘I do not think that Mr Henry Ward would object. The Price family, I understand, are worthy people enough – the two sons both naval lieutenants . . . humph . . . by no means such a superior connection as that of our dear Maria – but one cannot expect every sister to be equally fortunate. I must avow, I certainly should have hoped that Frances could do better for herself than a mere naval lieutenant – considering her looks . . . But it cannot be denied that she is a very dull-witted girl – Not that even Maria could be called intelligent. Agnes is the only member of the family with any brains – ’