Chapter Ten
Letter No. 19th
Wednesday, 13th June, 1804
My dear Julia,
Will you think me a most fair-weather friend, if I admit that my first impulse upon learning that Miss Barr would be unable to come to the pump-room today, was an inward sigh of relief? It was as if I faced the prospect of a walk to Kingsmead in the rain, only to be told at the last moment, that someone had summoned a chair for me.
Mind you, it is not her company in itself that I have begun to find burdensome, but rather the weight of my own expectations, which every day seem to grow heavier, as I contemplate past failures, and the intractable bashfulness of my heroine. I know I have several times compared her to Kitty, but I think now, that this is unfair to Kitty, for she has in the past demonstrated some consciousness that shyness is not actually listed as one of the virtues, and strives to overcome its more violent manifestations, at least on those occasions when she is convinced that to allow them free reign would reflect ill on her family. Miss Barr, on the other hand, seems unaware that there exists any alternative to following her natural inclinations in this respect; and I am very sure, that if someone were so obliging as to introduce turtle-shells as acceptable garb for gentle-bred females, Miss Barr would don one with pleasure, and instantly retract all her appendages within, whenever she was menaced by any extraordinary danger, such as the possibility that she might be addressed civilly by some person previously unknown to her.
So, as I said, I was very far from being cast into despair, when, as I sat talking with Mrs. Warren this morning, Mrs. Barr suddenly appeared before me, looking both anxious and relieved, and pressed upon me a much-folded paper, accompanied by the hurried words, “Miss Northcott! I feared I should not have time to find you—Charlotte awoke this morning with a sore throat, and begged me to tell you she is very sorry she would be unable to see you today, and to give you this note. You have been so very kind to her—she could not bear the thought that you might believe she was merely amusing herself elsewhere today, without bothering to tell you of her plans.”
I did not immediately recognize Mrs. Barr, having only once spoken to her face to face, and could only hope that my momentary confusion was read by her as an emotion more appropriate for the situation than the lightening of spirits I actually felt. I accepted the note with thanks, and would have asked for details of Miss Barr’s condition, save that as I opened my mouth to do so, an impatient voice, raised over the general murmurs, came to both our ears: “Edith! What are you about? They are making up the tables!” Mrs. Barr gave me an apologetic look, and with a last whispered “I beg your pardon! Thank you!” hurried to catch up with The Benefactress, the top of whose turban could barely be seen, standing at the door to the card-room, and turning angrily about in search of the delinquent Edith.
Unfolded, Miss Barr’s note repeated almost verbatim the message given to me by her mother, sprinkled with about a dozen requests for forgiveness, as if Miss Barr imagined I should hold her responsible for daring to become ill after I had gone to the trouble of befriending her. Clearly, I would have to write a reply in order to reassure her, lest she waste any more time worrying over my supposed indignation, instead of enjoying the opportunity she had at last been granted, of remaining at home with only her books for company. Thinking gratefully of the earl’s granddaughter who had pressed upon me a new pocket-book before I left for Bath, I extracted both it and my pencil, only to be confronted with a point so dulled as to be useless. Mrs. Warren, who had been employed ever since Mrs. Barr’s departure in commiserating with me on my friend’s illness, was now given a new object for her sympathy, and the frustration of inferior pencils which were either too hard or too soft, or broke off when one needed them most, immediately became her topic of choice; for you understand that my own stupidity in failing to remember to renew the tip could never be an acceptable theme for one of my ladies.
Resigning myself to the inconvenience of having to arrange for a note to be delivered to Miss Barr later—I had hoped to be able to give it to her mother to take to her—I put away my writing implements and prepared to smile and agree and nod for Mrs. Warren’s benefit, even though I could not quite see why I should take any particular joy in speaking ill of German pencils, which have never done me any particular harm. After the first few minutes, I ceased to really attend to her words with any care, and so was rather startled when she suddenly exclaimed, “Oh! But there is that kind Mr. Grayson! He is certain to carry one—scholarly gentlemen always do, you know!”
Since I scarcely liked to confess that I had not been listening to her, and thus had no notion of why the sight of poor Mr. Grayson, unwisely choosing to pass by at that moment, should arouse such joy in her breast, I could make no sensible objection as she summoned him over, her singularly penetrating voice making no difficulty of the business. The mystery was soon solved, as she poured the sad tale of my dulled pencil into his ears, my anxiety to write to my suffering friend, and her own certitude that he, being a ‘scholarly gentleman’ would be able to fix the problem by producing a pen-knife. I would not have blamed him for producing a politic equivocation instead, and then retreating in all haste, but he merely smiled at Mrs. Warren as if she had amused him, and having retrieved from his pocket a small and unexpectedly elegant example of the required tool, he good-naturedly sat down, accepted my worn little pencil, and sharpened it with careless efficiency. Receiving it back with thanks, I could not help blushing a little when he murmured, “I trust this will in some measure atone for the unwelcome nature of my first offering, Miss Northcott.”
Happily, Mrs. Warren was too busy extolling the virtues of the purest plumbago to take any notice of this remark, and after I had responded with a somewhat confused, “Certainly!” he took pity on me and returned his attention to my companion, who had begun to comment with satisfaction on the fate of the French, who by murdering their king and queen and going to war against every body had condemned themselves to the use of the most wretched pencils, and that whatever might be claimed on the subject, no one could convince her that clay was an acceptable medium. She spoke with such authority on the subject that the thought crossed my mind, that perhaps her family name had been Middleton [Editor’s Note: Middleton was a noted 18th century ‘brand’ of pencil]; this unworthy suspicion was quickly dismissed, however, upon the recollection that my mother would never have entrusted the care of even so unsatisfactory a daughter as myself, into the hands of one tainted by the odor of black lead and cedar shavings.
Mr. Grayson appeared to find nothing reprehensible in her knowledge of the common details of pencil-making, and entered into the conversation she was having with herself so kindly, that she soon abandoned her abuse of French ingenuity, and remembered to ask after the health of his aunt. It was as she exclaimed in gratification at the favorable report—for Mrs. Warren takes as great a pleasure in hearing of the success of Bath waters, as if she were herself responsible for infusing them with the proper minerals, and had lit the subterranean fires with her own hands—that I was visited by a most wonderful recollection of the fact, that Mr. Grayson possessed a recently-widowed aunt. My heart actually leapt with excitement, so engaged have I become in my quest to find happiness for my heroine and her mother. I at once became more mindful of the discussion taking place beside me, but though I was in time to smile and nod in order to show my pleasure in hearing of his aunt’s improvement, and utter an agreeable sound signifying nothing when appealed to by Mrs. Warren, to support some point she was making about the private baths, I was unable to turn the conversation into any useful channels, before Mr. Grayson took his polite leave of us.
This was a blow, but only a light one. It was an easy enough matter to persuade Mrs. Warren to continue on the subject of Mrs. Grayson and the benefits of Bath, and a slight hint that I would not be adverse to meeting her, and perhaps receive some encouragement concerning my own condition, was all that was required. Mrs. Warren immediately received th
e idea as a most excellent one, and I knew that before the day was out, she would have arranged the matter, if Mrs. Grayson was at all willing (it is one of Mrs. Warren’s most reliable characteristics, that she cannot abide a delay).
Let me say at once, that Mrs. Grayson is one of the plainest women I have ever met: her eyes are small and of an undistinguished hue, her nose and chin both are over-large for beauty, and her mouth is of the thin and uncompromising sort usually attributed to stern schoolmistresses who look upon children as small evils necessary for the continuation of their income. And yet, once she smiled and began to speak, her expression became so pleasant, and her demeanor was so kind and her conversation so lively and intelligent, that I could not recall when I had last met any woman whom I instantly liked as well, unless it may have been your mother, when first you took me to meet her, and she called me Miss Northcott as if I were a young lady grown, and offered me strawberries and seedcakes. Thus unexpectedly charmed by Mrs. Grayson, after no more than ten minutes’ discourse I found that I had made the decision to tell her of the Barr’s unhappy circumstances quite frankly, and without any other thought in my head, than the conviction that if she could help them in any way, she would be more than eager to do so; any attempt to manipulate her into doing as I wished, would have been both unnecessary, and an insult to her character. In this, too, she reminded me of Lady Frances, whom I can easily imagine, even suffering from ill-health and recent bereavement, as being still eager to turn her thoughts toward assisting others, with no notion of doing anything in the least remarkable.
One thing only did I find at all discouraging, and this was the cool gaze of Mr. Grayson, which, for the most part, he kept fixed upon me as I spoke with his aunt. It was far less cordial, than any look he had bestowed upon me in our two previous encounters; nor was it explained until near the end of our conversation, when Mrs. Grayson, having firmly stated her intention of helping Mrs. Barr and her daughter, amended her avowal with the words “always supposing that my dear nephew approves.” This was accompanied by a laughing glance in the direction of the nephew in question, who returned only a lift of his brow, and a faint smile which proclaimed that, though she might choose to make light of the notion, his approval was by no means assured. After a moment, perhaps feeling that I deserved fair warning that all my plans might yet come to naught, he returned his gaze to me and said, “You should know, Miss Northcott, that my aunt is the quintessential Good Samaritan. She is forever rushing to the aid of the wounded and destitute, and generously pouring out both her compassion and her coins, undeterred by the fact that on occasion those she has helped have later proven to have more in common with robbers, than with victims travelling innocently down from Jerusalem. For many years my uncle made it his business to keep an eye on those who appealed to her charity, and sought, with varying degrees of success, to escort her firmly to the other side of the road, whenever he judged certain scenes of affliction to be lacking in verisimilitude. Now that he has passed on to his reward, it appears that I, however unsuited to the task, have inherited this singularly thankless mantle.”
Poor Mrs. Warren was rendered almost incoherent with horror at this implication that I would ever support the pretensions of anyone of inferior character, and could scarcely form her objections, which were, for once, uttered in an almost fainting voice; but Mrs. Grayson seemed only to find her nephew’s speech amusing, for she reached over and patted his hand, and smilingly reassured him that she had every confidence that he would prove ‘a veritable Solomon’. She then leaned toward me, and added in a lowered, but perfectly audible tone, “My dear husband always let me do just as I wished in such matters, and only intervened afterward, if anyone began to be a little troublesome.” She then set herself to the task of soothing Mrs. Warren’s outraged feelings, and persuading her that Mr. Grayson had not the least intention of impugning my judgment. For myself, I was not convinced of this, and kept a wary eye on the fellow; but though he had cast his eyes briefly toward the heavens when his aunt likened him to Solomon, he said no more, and when he caught my eye on him, permitted his face to relax into the sort of half-amused curl of the lip, for which the word wry was probably invented. I was not encouraged, as it was an expression that seemed to promise nothing, save that he would do as he thought best.
I am sure I do not know why anyone, even the scholarly Mr. Grayson, should raise any objections to my Barr ladies; but the very possibility that he could, and that he might advise against his aunt’s charitable impulse for some whim or prejudice of his own, has brought an anxiousness to my thoughts, which they never had before. I want to believe nothing but good of him, and yet, what do I truly know of him, save that he is at least occasionally kind to elderly ladies, and carries a pen-knife which I covet? For all I know to the contrary, his kindness may be of the sort that shrivels at the first hint of inconvenience to himself, and assisting his aunt to take on the burden of a penniless widow and her daughter, is, after all, asking a good deal more of a man, than either fetching a glass of water, or sharpening a pencil.
Yours, full of affection and anxiety, Ann Northcott