Chapter Sixteen
Letter No. 29
Tuesday, 3rd July
My dear soon-to-be-seen Julia—
Yes, it is true—my gaoler is turning the key, and my prison door is about to be flung wide: we are leaving Bath and returning to Hellwick, just as soon as all our goods may be crammed into trunks and boxes, and ourselves stuffed into the carriage. Not even the prospect of a miserably uncomfortable journey in company with a parent in a state of high fury can dampen my spirits, for at the end of it there awaits for me all of my dear Parrys—Parries?—like Shining Ones at the gates of the Celestial City, ushering me in to eternal rest—or at least eternal in the sense that I believe it will be many, many years before my mother is again willing to risk her reputation by forcing me to accompany her anywhere outside the circle of our own Warwickshire friends, who are already well-aware that my flaws and eccentricities are due only to my own obstinacy.
You wonder how this miraculous release came about—I should make you wait until I arrive, but as I have already established that the wisest course right now is to stay as far away from my mother as possible, and as all my books have already been packed away, I have no other means of occupying myself save to write what I hope is my very last letter to Julia Parry for the rest of our lives. (I have mentioned, have I not, that when you eventually marry, I mean to come and live in a cottage nearby, and play the role of eccentric-but-beloved-spinster-aunt to all your offspring?)
It happened in this wise: Unbeknownst to me, ever since my mother had become aware of my acquaintance with Mrs. Grayson, she had quietly made it her business to discover what she could of the family, apparently no longer trusting in the integrity of my own report on the subject; though how she fancied any man could be a danger to her ambitions for me, when he was busy voluntarily removing himself across the country, is beyond my comprehension. In any event, my mother’s inquiries bore entirely unexpected fruit—as if she had shaken a pear tree, and a pineapple had fallen onto her head—for she ultimately found herself in conversation with a lady of some consequence, who was familiar with the Northumberland Graysons for many generations past. The intelligence thus gained gave my mother furiously to think, and brought about a frank interrogation of myself just yesterday, concerning both my encounters with the Graysons, and the present relation in which they stood with Mrs. Barr and her daughter. Since she had already a very good notion of how matters stood with the Barrs, having read Mrs. Grayson’s letter, I thought it would be foolish to conceal anything but my useless attempts at matchmaking for Miss Barr, and the precise details of Mrs. Smithton’s accusations in that extraordinary tirade. As I had then no idea of my mother’s new knowledge concerning the Graysons, or of the direction her thoughts had taken, I was briefly mystified by the ill-humor that settled over her at the end of our exchange; but as it is by no means a new thing for her to respond to my conversation thus, I easily dismissed it once we reached the house; and as she dined with friends, and I remained at home with the remnants of my cough, I quickly forgot the whole matter.
This morning I was reminded of it, of course; but the concentrated nature of her ill-temper had passed, leaving behind the more stoic disappointment that I was accustomed to observe in her whenever I had displayed in some fresh way my unsuitability to be Helen Northcott’s daughter. We separated upon reaching the rooms as usual, and the morning progressed in the customary way, until I looked up from chatting with Mrs. Warren and Mrs. Belmar, to discover my mother bearing down upon me like the Speedy upon a hapless enemy gunboat. A few words summoned me from my companions, and, much bewildered, I soon found myself standing in the portico beside the personification of maternal displeasure. At a genuine loss as to how I might have provoked this particular manifestation of it, it seemed to me best to remain silent until she chose to explain it to me. As it happened, I had longer to wait than I had supposed, for her lips remained tightly compressed until we were returned to the house and she had swept into the drawingroom without even turning her head to be certain I followed. As I did so, I felt renewed pity for Mrs. Barr, who had similarly followed in the wake of an outraged relative, and had not, as I do, the comfort of knowing that even if for some reason my father and my mother cast me off, then the Parrys would take me up.
Do you wish for a recital of all my sins? Never mind if you do; it would be even more tiresome to me to enumerate them, as it was to listen to them. They encompassed my habitual transgressions—undutifulness, ingratitude, perversity, intractability, inconstant curls, failing to be born a son—and only after about twenty minutes grew particular enough to catch my interest, for she began to abuse my stupidity in regard to Mr. Grayson, who was, she had learned, not a lowly Cantab at all—or not only a Cantab—but also the sole heir to his uncle Harold Overton Grayson, who had owned the upper half of England, all the mines in Newcastle and Borrowdale, and probably the crown jewels as well, since no doubt the Prince of Wales has had them secretly sold and replaced with paste copies in order to settle his debts. What? You think I exaggerate the matter? Perhaps. I do, however, know that the extent of my folly was truly enormous: I had been in his company, by my own confession, at least three times, and still it had been left for some whey-faced widow to have the wit to insinuate herself and her pathetic daughter into his life and now they had all gone off together and she would undoubtedly have the fellow saying vows by Michaelmas. Mrs. Barr, unlike other persons present in the room whom my mother could not bring herself to mention by name, had plainly embraced the truth that the affections of most gentlemen can be infallibly stirred up by an appeal to their chivalry, and a subtle implication that a pretty young woman stands in need of their aid and protection. Mrs. Barr, my mother was sure, would not fail to continue to display the most appealing show of weakness, until Mr. Grayson was firmly caught.
Now, I was tolerably certain that poor Mrs. Barr had had no more notion of the Graysons’ true circumstances than I did; moreover, as I felt moved to point out, she had approached the aunt for help, not the nephew, and what Mrs. Grayson possessed was compassion for those truly in distress, not mindless chivalric instincts. My defense did not precisely fall on deaf ears, but my mother returned me a look that intimated I had just shattered her last lingering hope that my brainbox contained anything but a few pebbles rolling about in it. ‘Mrs. Barr’s very flight had condemned her: she knew where to find the Graysons, that they resided in the Crescent, ergo, like any woman with a grain of sense, she would have deduced the existence of considerable wealth. As for the aunt’s vaunted compassion, my mother’s source of intelligence had made it very clear that Mrs. Grayson thought so highly of her nephew, that she refused to move hand or foot without his approval, and would certainly have turned away such a useless pair if he had commanded it.’ I thought my mother’s Northumberland gossip had a very poor notion of the affectionate regard that seemed to exist between the two Graysons, but by this time I had recovered from the irrational fit that had prompted me to try to defend Mrs. Barr, and retired into my more usual silence.
The longer my mother spoke, however, the more I began to wonder why, if she had learned of the Graysons’ resplendent fortune yesterday, it had taken her four-and-twenty hours to grow so enraged at the depth of my folly. I do not deny that bitterness is only too happy to continually double its size with only the slightest encouragement, but though a rich Daughter Grayson must be more acceptable to her than a Spinster Daughter, base coin is not the same as a title; nor has my mother ever been an admirer of those women possessed of sons-in-law whose wrinkles keep pace with their own. Reflecting on these inconsistencies, I thoughtlessly lowered myself into the chair that I had been standing beside, and was startled when my action at once halted my mother in mid-declamation, so that she could glare at me afresh. That was when the nature of my most egregious offense against her began to be revealed: All these weeks I had been limping about the assembly rooms, leaning on the arms of garrulous old busy-bodies, and making no attempt to improve
my appearance, but rather sitting around pretending to sip the dreadful waters and looking wistful, as if I were a true invalid instead of an artful, self-willed girl with a minor injury that was entirely due to my own foolishness and a propensity for catching colds which she was not at all certain was not deliberate, etc, etc. Somewhere in the midst of these interesting animadversions on my character, I learned not only why she was so infuriated, but why, eventually, she saw no other recourse, than for us to return immediately to Hellwick.
But I must end my letter to you here, for I have several other notes I must write as well before we depart. You, I will see in but a few days, d.v.—but I may never again see my solicitous old ladies, and for their efforts on my behalf they deserve every token of gratitude and respect I can pay them. What faithful allies they turned out to be, after all! I am ashamed of the many times I despaired of them, when their circumspection seemed almost specifically designed to thwart my most cherished, De Retzian plan. I will send farewell letters to all of them, though of course I cannot openly thank them for their most valuable service, which was their persistence in praising the sang-froid of Mrs. Northcott, and commending the fortitude and grace with which she endured the trial of having such a sickly daughter as her only child. I only wish it were similarly possible to send a note expressing my gratitude to that gloriously ill-natured matron, whoever she might be, who failed to sufficiently lower her voice as she described my mother to Lady So-and-so not as “Mrs. Northcott of Hellwick Hall,” but as “the mother of that poor girl, you know, the crippled one.”
Triumphantly yours,
Ann Northcott
PS. Upon consideration, I anticipate a very quiet journey home, for surely my mother has emptied her budget of insults against me, and who else is there to blame for this sad debacle? She will take what comfort she can from Lord Chesterfield, while I celebrate my impending freedom with some nonsensical trifle. The Rivals would be apposite enough, for one departing Bath; but perhaps it should be Love à la Mode. On that head, I confess I never once thought of casting Mrs. Barr in the role of heroine, though I do not say I am entirely against it. I suppose, if he now owns half of England, Mr. Grayson can very well afford to give up his fellowship for a wife, without there being any danger that he will afterward be forced to appear in an inferior coat.
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To the kind reader who has perservered to the end:
If you wish to discover if Mrs. Northcott was indeed ready to concede defeat and allow her daughter to lead a quite and peaceable life with her friends, look for the continuation of Ann and Julia’s story in Friendship and Folly: The Merriweather Chronicles, Book One, now available in print and as an ebook.
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