‘Mrs Wardle-Penfield is a friend of yours?’ Lydia
enquired.
‘Well...’ Aunt Camilla chose her words carefully. ‘She is
a neighbor, and one of the - the pillars of Diddlington
society.’
A little more coaxing and Lydia deduced that the lady in
question was a managing female who had practically
bullied her aunt into using her carriage so that the
generous bounty of Mrs Wardle-Penfield could be trum
peted with perfect truth to all the surrounding country
side.
‘It was most kind of her,’ Lydia commented.
‘Oh, she is always ready to offer help to those in need,’ Camilla said, rather too quickly.
‘No doubt she is well known in the village.’
‘Indeed she is,’ Camilla said emphatically, giving the impression that the woman could empty the high street by
her mere presence there.
* * * *
By the time they reached her aunt’s house, Lydia’s imagination had formed a fair portrait of her aunt’s world. Her
acquaintance comprised perhaps two dozen families.
Beyond that, there were the servants and tradesmen, the
vicar and the apothecary, and their attendant children
and relations. London was a place which everyone knew
of, but few had actually seen. All was quiet and
uneventful.
Still, Lydia looked forward to meeting these various
inhabitants of Diddlington, and felt perfectly satisfied with
her lot. Louisa’s giddy round of parties and her determined
efforts to climb the Jacob’s Ladder of society would not
have pleased her half as well, nor would a rented house in
London have been so inviting.
Aunt Camilla’s cottage, while not precisely a
commodious residence, was more than adequate for a spin
ster and her niece, with three very comfortable
bedchambers. Two of these, of course, were scarcely ever
occupied. There was a large parlor, which received plenty
of light through two south-facing windows, and a small
but neat kitchen. Her aunt boasted only two servants: a
nearsighted housekeeper, Mrs Plumpton, and Charity, a
maid of all work who did not live in but divided her duties
between Aunt Camilla and Mrs Isherwood on the next
street.
Lydia’s bed was soft and warm, and most conducive to a
night of uninterrupted sleep. She was certainly much better off where she was. If it offered no excitement, at
least her memories of her brief season here were likely to be pleasant ones. No tread of violence could disturb this
tranquil English idyll.
Lydia was one who generally arose early in the morning.
This was just as well, as she soon found that country hours
were different from those in town and in the village of Shepperton, just on the edge of London, where her family
resided. ‘Early to bed and early to rise’ was the maxim
here.
By nine o’clock the next morning, she had breakfasted
and dressed with the help of her aunt’s maid. She then
accompanied Aunt Camilla on a promenade along the high
street. This, it seemed, was a ritual which all the most
prominent citizens followed.
Lydia counted some twenty pedestrians as they made their way toward the haberdashery where her aunt meant
to purchase some ribbons to trim a hat which wanted that
special something to make it stand out among the
chapeaux
of her acquaintance. Twenty persons could be considered a crowd on the streets of Diddlington, Lydia
supposed.
However, her aunt was eager to assure her that the town
was rising in prominence these days. This was due to its
favorable location on the banks of the Ouse between Piddinghoe and Tarring Neville. With easy access to both
Lewes and Brighton for the popular races, the Golden
Cockerel Inn had become quite the fashionable place for
gentlemen to deposit those ladybirds whose plumage might
be too colorful and attract unwanted attention in the
larger towns. Aunt Camilla did not, of course, put things
quite so crudely to her young charge. Unfortunately, Lydia
was perfectly capable of gleaning as much with very little
effort.
Still, on this occasion, the only persons they encountered
were all very well known to Camilla. Jeremiah Berwick,
the farrier, nodded and smiled a greeting, and several other
gentlemen doffed their hats and gave an appreciative
glance at her aunt’s trim figure.
They entered the haberdasher’s, which was actually
quite large and well stocked for a country establishment,
and soon found the ribbons which they sought - in a shade
of blue to match her aunt’s eyes. Lydia was more interested
in a small display of powders and salves used to polish
riding boots.
They had just concluded their purchase when the sound
of the door opening and a distinctive voice hallooing
attracted their attention.
The new patron was, in fact, Mrs Wardle-Penfield herself.
She was a woman with a definite presence. Her personality
was so strong as to be almost palpable, and she did not
merely enter a room but seemed rather to invade it and
take its inhabitants captive at once.
Poor Aunt Camilla was quite overcome, stammering out
her eternal gratitude for the unparalleled kindness and
condescension of her would-be patroness in permitting the
use of her carriage. Lydia, upon being introduced, added
her own more quiet thanks.
‘Nonsense!’ Mrs Wardle-Penfield barked at them.
‘What use have I for the carriage in this town? If I didn’t need it to visit my brother in Hampshire now and again, I’d have sold it years ago. Not that my precious brother
ever puts himself to the trouble of visiting
me,
mind
you.’
‘Oh, indeed—’ Camilla began, apparently feeling the
necessity for some comment. She need not have bothered,
however, for the lady paid not the least heed to her.
‘How many times,’ she cried, her voice resounding
through the shop as if she were singing an aria at Covent
Garden, ‘I have told my husband that the carriage is a
ruinous waste of money, I do not know. After all, one can
hire very fine vehicles at reasonable rates for the occa
sional jaunt. But the poor dear is so old-fashioned. He
insists that our standards should not be lowered to that of
cits and assorted mushrooms.’
‘I think you are very wise, ma’am,’ Lydia said sweetly, ‘to
draw attention to your superior station. If you did not, who
would ever know of it?’
Mrs Wardle-Penfield frowned, not certain whether or not
she should construe this as a compliment. In the end she
evidently decided that it could be nothing else, and
continued with her soliloquy.
‘I am sure, my dear Miss Denton,’ she said with a pointed
look, ‘that you will want your niece to become acquainted
with the most unexceptionable members of our little
community. You shall both attend my card party on Friday
next.’
This was not an invitation, but a command. The lady
proceeded to enumerate the pleasures which awaited them
at her residence. By the time she had passed from the
quality of her refreshments to the weave of the carpet in
her drawing room, Lydia was quite exhausted and Aunt
Camilla no longer even bothered to nod her assent at every
word, but merely stared stupidly at her tormentor, aban
doning the struggle.
From this social purgatory they were rescued by the
arrival of a large and rather awkward young gentleman, who seemed curiously impervious to the mesmerizing
power of the older woman. This was a trait which endeared
him to Lydia at once.
‘Good morning, ma’am!’ he called jovially to Mrs Wardle-
Penfield. ‘How d’ye do, Miss Denton?’
‘You are very cheerful this fine morning, my lad!’
‘Nothing to mope about, Mrs P,’ he answered the old
lady, who seemed none too pleased at being thus add
ressed.
‘Have you been introduced to Miss Denton’s niece?’ Mrs Wardle-Penfield enquired.
‘No,’ he answered, ‘but I don’t mind if I do now.’
Aunt Camilla performed this necessary office, and Lydia
received a hearty handshake from the gentleman, whose
name was John Savidge. She judged him to be about her own age, with sandy hair cropped fashionably short and
wide-open brown eyes. His suit was well-cut, though prob
ably not by a London tailor. It was just a trifle too
comfortable-looking for that.
‘How does your grandmother get on?’ Aunt Camilla
asked him. ‘She still lives in Piddinghoe, does she not?’
‘Yes indeed, ma’am.’ He gave a devilish grin. ‘Not a day
goes by that she doesn’t threaten to cock up her toes, but I tell her she’ll live to dance on all our graves.’
The young man’s irreverent manner clearly did not suit
Mrs Wardle-Penfield, who soon spied another victim
passing outside the shop window and took herself off in
pursuit of fresh sport.
Lydia and her aunt followed her outside, but mercifully
their path led in the opposite direction. They were soon
joined by Mr Savidge, who had concluded his own purchase
and whose long strides easily bridged the short distance
between them.
Almost as soon as he came up beside them, Lydia caught
sight of a very distinctive physiognomy across the street
from them.
‘It’s Nose!’ The words came out before she could stop to
consider.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Aunt Camilla turned to her with a
look of wonder.
‘Whose nose?’ Mr Savidge asked, equally surprised, but
apparently not so apprehensive of her sanity as her aunt
clearly was.
Despite herself, Lydia blushed.
‘The gentleman across the street,’ she confessed, being careful not to point or stare.
The other two directed their gaze to the opposite side of the high road. Nose was engaged in a conversation with
another man who was certainly much better-looking and
quite a few years younger.
‘It is Monsieur d’Almain!’ Her aunt seemed suddenly
rather breathless, the color rising to her cheeks.
‘I think, ma’am,’ Mr Savidge said with a smile, ‘that she
is referring to the other gentleman.’
‘Oh.’
‘He was in the seat opposite me on the Mail,’ Lydia
informed them hastily. ‘I - well, I could not forget his
face.’
‘I should think not, indeed!’ John Savidge agreed. ‘With
that great big thing stuck in the middle of it.’
Lydia found it difficult to suppress a fit of giggles at his
words, which so exactly corresponded with her own
impression. However, while she struggled to retain
command of herself, Nose bowed to the other gentleman - Monsieur d’Almain, it would seem - and proceeded along the pavement. At that moment, d’Almain became aware of
their presence, doffed his own hat and bowed toward
them. He did not attempt to join them, but turned and
walked away.
‘Not a bad fellow, for a Frenchman,’ Mr Savidge
commented. ‘Keeps to himself most of the time, but a real
gentleman.’
‘Indeed he is,’ Aunt Camilla said, with what Lydia
deemed a degree of fervor quite disproportionate to the
subject.
‘Well, I must be off,’ John said gaily. ‘Good day, ladies.’
So saying, he entered the inn by which they were
passing.
‘Who is he?’ Lydia asked when he had left them.
‘John?’ Aunt Camilla asked, somewhat distracted.
‘Yes.’
‘His father owns the inn,’ her aunt explained.
‘He seems very pleasant.’
‘Most good-natured,’ she agreed, glancing behind them
and to the left, where the two gentlemen had so recently
been standing. ‘Quite wealthy too. It’s a pity that his
family’s fortune is acquired from trade.’
‘What fustian!’ Lydia dismissed this social blemish in
two disdainful words.
‘Perhaps.’
Lydia eyed her aunt curiously. She was hardly attending
to what was being said, lost in a strange reverie. It was not difficult to connect this with the appearance of Monsieur
d’Almain.